AN: Thanks for reading thus far! This story will be four chapters total, which I'll update once a week.
Motto1995: Glad you like it; I hope Draco and Hermione's antics this chapter are equally amusing! I took title inspiration from your review :)
Jess84w: Thanks! Hope you like this second installment.
It took Draco three hours to figure out how to remove the handwriting jinx she'd placed on him. She'd done it quite cleverly, placing the jinx not on his quill (as determined by its persistence when using other writing implements) or his person (as determined by its persistence after a shower with Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes Extra Strength Hex and Jinx Removal Soap and Shampoo) but rather on his watch. Once he figured out where it was (at hour two and half) it had taken him a good half hour to unstick it. And then another hour to sign all the paperwork that had accumulated during his working time with Granger and then the time he'd wasted trying to rid himself of her hex.
After he'd penned his signature to the last paper, he penned a quick note to his newfound nemesis.
Evil Witch,
Nice handwriting hex. Only took me three hours to figure out where you'd hidden it and how to get rid of it.
-DM
P.S. If you are reading this, it is too late. You'll see what I mean when you look in a mirror.
He only hoped she touched the parchment before she noticed the hair color charm he'd placed on it.
*** OOHL ** OOHL ** OOHL ***
Draco was rewarded the next morning when a he saw a very frizzy poof of turquoise hair bobbing down the corridor. He snickered a bit; he'd mixed the standard color charm with a slight variant of a Permanent Sticking Charm, so she'd have to wait three days before it could be removed. He guessed the extra frizz was from her attempts to get the color out to no avail. Any other witch might have worn a wig or placed a glamor to hide it, but Granger wore it like a battle wound. He placed extra wards around his office before shutting the door to start on the day's work and confidently re-adjusted the tally. Round 2 to Malfoy.
Sadly, or fortunately, he wasn't sure entirely which, Hermione did not seek him out or surreptitiously hex him (as far as he could tell). After three days, she was back to her own brown, bushy hair, and he quickly forgot about the whole incident, as his own work piled up again. Meetings with the Peruvian envoy, negotiations with the Zambians… an intercepted shipment of Acromantulas a number of countries tried to pin on each other… life was back to normal. Every once in awhile he thought about the potty matchmaker and her words about Hermione, but he was well on his way to forgetting about that too. He even resolved to ask a pretty dark-haired Unspeakable out for coffee next time he ran into her in the halls.
*** OOHL ** OOHL ** OOHL ***
Several weeks later, Draco had indeed asked and taken the pretty Unspeakable out for coffee. Ophelia, as she turned out to be named, was bright and easy to talk to. She read and travelled widely and was, like Draco, fluent in French, which meant they could discuss whatever delightful, wicked topics they wanted without (much) fear of eavesdropping. After their delightful coffee date, he'd asked her first to one dinner, and then to several more after that. He asked her to be his date for the annual Ministry Charity Ball and was looking forward to the event for the first time in several years. Once, as she snuggled into his arm on his couch, he thought about how wrong the matchmaker had been; this witch was ten times better than Astoria Greengrass, and she hadn't even made the list! He huffed an internal sigh of relief at his proof that the so-called professional had been completely and utterly wrong.
*** OOHL ** OOHL ** OOHL ***
In retrospect, Draco should have realized that Granger did not let anyone get the last laugh. He supposed he should have paid more attention to the rumors that she'd been responsible for that Edgecomb girl's face. Or those canaries that had chased Weasel around the castle for an hour. But he hadn't thought any of those things and had forgotten about her turquoise hair, thinking perhaps that her Gryffindor sense of honor had deemed them even.
Hermione, however, had not forgotten, and she did not consider them even. But she was patient, a skill she'd learned well over the last six years at the Ministry. She had lulled Draco into a false sense of security, and she had awaited the suitable time for her revenge.
The night of the annual Ministry Charity Ball dawned. Draco wore his bespoke dress robes with silver trim that matched Ophelia's glittering, floor-length dress. She looked like a modern day princess, and Draco smirked when they turned heads and set photographers' bulbs blazing.
He was only slightly peeved when the Golden Trio waltzed in and stole all said attention (although he quickly quashed that feeling; he reminded himself that they deserved that attention and he shouldn't begrudge them the limelight, or at least he could try not to). The trio was there with their dates-Weaslette, Looney, and… Wait, was that Zabini? Draco almost jumped when he saw the tall man lean down and whisper something in Granger's ear. Definitely Zabini. Granger wasn't typically his type, but Draco grudgingly acknowledged that she looked lovely and her smile and joyful bearing made her a tiny bit entrancing. She giggled and smiled at Zabini before the whole group descended en masse as if they were the saviors of the planet. Well, most of them were, he supposed.
Draco and Ophelia were seated several tables over from the noisy Golden Gaggle, as Draco had renamed them to include their beaus. Their table was filled with laughter and what looked like a drinking game (that Ron seemed to have started, although it could have been the one-eared redhead who'd joined them later too). Draco's table, in contrast, was filled with very polite conversation among the scions of important families, including the Parkinsons, Notts, and Greengrasses. Well, pureblood definition of polite conversation, which meant that it sounded polite and could be defended as such before the Wizengamot, but was often cutting and laced with subtext. Draco faintly wished his own parents, or at least his mother were there. However, she refused to be seen in public without Lucius, who still languished in Azkaban. He figured she considered it a form of protest; society was deprived of her presence as long as it had the gall to keep her husband locked up. That, or she secretly hated the posturing and backstabbing that occurred amongst this crowd and had clung to the first excuse to avoid them. Knowing his mother, either was equally likely. She was an enigmatic woman who would likely take her reasoning with her to the grave.
The salad course passed without anything more contentious than the new tax on trust funds (really, who did the Ministry think they were, depriving poor children of their justly deserved inheritances!), but by the time the entrees popped onto the table, Mr. Greengrass had imbibed two glasses of wine, which was apparently just enough for him to "forget" to reign in his nasty, manipulative streak.
"Draco, my boy," the old man rumbled. "When are you going to start looking to settle down?"
Draco huffed a fake laugh at the portly man's comment; the Greengrasses had been angling for a match between Astoria and Draco for the last two years, so Draco didn't see this conversation going anywhere productive.
Before he had a chance to steer the conversation in another direction, the man continued, "You should at least start courting someone. Sowing wild oats is fine, now, but you're already several years older than your parents were when they married."
Draco stiffened. He fully understood the implications of the man's statements; Ophelia was not "someone," she was merely part of the "sowing wild oats." He was confident that Ophelia also fully understood what the odious man was saying. The downsides of dating intelligent women, he mused with a sort of detached, morbid horror.
"You are too comical, Mr. Greengrass," Draco responded cooly, making sure his tone lacked any hint of mirth. "I am already courting Miss Ophelia Graham." He held Ophelia's hand up and kissed it lightly, never letting his eyes leave Mr. Greengrass. Mr. Greengrass bellowed with laughter, while Astoria and her mother nervously tittered along.
"I said 'courting,' not 'tupping,' dear boy! Can't court a woman who you can't even introduce to the family-" Mr. Greengrass' diatribe was cut short by a Langlock jinx from Draco, which hit at the same time as an Aguamenti (from Ophelia, stealthily cast under the table) doused his lap in water. The man's eyes bulged as he silently recused himself from the table, followed by his wife. Silence reigned over their party, a sharp contrast to the laughter and shouts that emanated from the Golden table.
Draco was mortified. He should have put in a request for different table-mates; he hadn't thought about how his usual company might react to his half-blood girlfriend. He should have Langlocked Mr. Greengrass the instant he started speaking. He should have hexed every other person at the table for not contradicting anything Mr. Greengrass had said. He analysed each moment and found many in which he could have forestalled or mitigated that disaster. Nothing further was said once the elder Greengrasses rejoined the table.
The moment the band started playing, Draco pulled Ophelia up. She sketched a half-hearted smile as he led her to the dance floor that was rapidly filling with happily full witches and wizards. He led Ophelia into a slow waltz and felt her relax in his arms. Maybe he could redeem this evening after all.
Several songs later, Shacklebolt took the stage along with band. "Ladies and gentlemen, it is now time for our inaugural dance competition!" He waited for the applause to die down. "The head of each of our Ministry's departments will hit the dance floor and bust their best moves."
Widespread snickering flashed like wildfire through the crowd at the Minister's attempt to use popular Muggle slang. Draco sighed; he'd forgotten all about this silly "tradition" the Minister was trying to institute the minute the memo had gone into his trash bin. He should have warned Ophelia about this. He shot her an apologetic smile and mouthed "I didn't know!" She nodded, less warmly than before. Or maybe it was his imagination.
"At each table there are jars for each Department, color coded to the robes of the team, in case you forget." With a swish of his wand, a set of colored jars popped into existence at each table; with another flick, the robes of each Department Head and his or her date changed to match the appropriate jar. Draco scowled. He and Ophelia were now clad in bright red. Granger and Zabini looked smug in royal eggplant robes, while Potter and Luna wore deep green robes that were probably chosen because they complimented his eyes. Blatant favoritism.
Shacklebolt continued. "Place Galleons and Sickles into any jar as votes for a particular couple and Knuts against that couple. The winner will be chosen based on the value of the Galleons and Sickles minus the value of the Knuts in their respective jars. All donations will benefit St. Mungo's Hospital." A smattering of applause greeted his words as the brightly garbed Department Heads and their dates took the floor. Potter walked up to Draco and shook his hand, murmuring "good luck, mate" before joining Looney. Draco followed Potter with his gaze, a bit confused by the interaction; Draco didn't care if he won-he was only participating because it was mandatory. And, if he did care, he wouldn't need luck from Potter; he'd been dancing since he was six!
The band started playing a lively swing number. Dean Thomas, Head of Magical Games and Sports, was spinning his partner, Seamus Finnegan, on his finger to whoops and cheers from much of the audience; the cacophony seemed to be accompanied by the clinking of Galleons into the orange jar that corresponded to the energetic couple. Draco had just swung Ophelia into a deep dip when his cheeks started to itch madly. He ignored it and continued to lead his partner in a lively swing. He hoped he wasn't having some sort of allergic reaction to the food.
The music transitioned into an upbeat pop number and the dancers quickly followed suit. Granger and Zabini were bopping around like demented bobble heads, while Potter and Weaslette were making strange hand and arm motions that probably came from some silly Muggle dance. Draco spun Ophelia around, trying to decide how best to put his more ballroom dancing skills to use. Suddenly, he felt the skin on his arms and legs tighten in a vaguely familiar way, while his bones felt like they were tingling. He bopped up and down, wracking his brain for when he had last felt this and trying to ignore the strange sensations until the music transitioned to a slow-song.
Draco pulled Ophelia close to him and they swayed gently. Most couples were doing the same, although Potter and Weaslette were doing some sort of weird interpretive dance that they seemed to find immensely entertaining (if the Galleons being dropped into the forest green jar were any indication, the crowd agreed). The last strums were fading when suddenly Draco felt himself pop into a different form, and he recalled suddenly, when he'd felt that strange pull on his skin and tingling sensation in his bones. He glanced at himself with his much smaller head to confirm. Yup, he was a ferret.
*** OOHL ** OOHL ** OOHL ***
The night only got worse from there. The Department of International Magical Cooperation ended up winning the dance competition due to his little transformation, and Shacklebolt had considerately shrunk the medal so it could be placed around his tiny neck. Ophelia graciously held him while this occurred. The Golden Gaggle was laughing so hard that at least Granger, Weasley, and Zabini-the traitor-were crying. Potter had winked at him, which reminded Draco of the odd handshake Potter had given him at the outset. He must have transferred Granger's jinx when he was close to him. Sneaky bastard.
After the awards ceremony, a still giggling Hermione, eyes puffy from her laughter induced tears, had lazily waved her wand and changed him back. Adding insult to ignominious incantation, she had leaned and whispered "Granger 2, Malfoy 1" before sweeping away with a sniggering Zabini.
But Draco's misfortune wasn't over yet. When he and Ophelia Apparated back to his flat, she had tearily informed him that she wanted to take "a break." She really liked him, she assured him, but didn't think she was up for the drama of his pureblood community. He had tried to convince her otherwise, but apparently she rather agreed with Draco's internal assessment at the table that he could have done more to protect her from the vitriol of his caste. She informed him that she wasn't really looking for a serious commitment right now, and dealing with pureblood dramatics put the relationship into an effort category she wasn't ready for.
She assured him she'd had a fun time otherwise and that he made a cute ferret. Great.
She Apparated away with a resounding pop, and Draco was left alone with his gloomy thoughts.
Granger 3, Malfoy 1. He wasn't sure he wanted to play anymore at all.