Chapter 2

-oOo-

"What am I supposed to do now, then?" Draco asked the empty breakfast room, setting fire to the letter from Hannah, regretfully explaining Hermione had declined to participate in the survey.

His probation officer had spoken at length about the importance of staying in touch with one's feelings – surely she would be proud to see him find a 'healthy outlet'. Mrs Price probably would not have expected him to use a fireball spontaneously generated from his hand, but then she was a woman of little imagination.

Draco sighed and buried his hands fist-deep in his hair. Surely, there must be a way to find out what Hermione liked without dosing her with Veritaserum and Obliviating her afterwards? While he wasn't under any illusions that she returned his regard, she did at least not curse him on sight at the moment.

There had to be a way, there had to be a way...

He sat bolt upright, hands momentarily free from hair.

There was a way.

It was quite similar to his least preferred method, but with the advantage that he wouldn't be deceiving Hermione. Fortunately for his probation status, it was also entirely legal. He could thank his ancestors for that – generations of Malfoys had fought hard to keep illicitly obtained Polyjuice ingredients legal.

A stray hair here, a broken nail there, and one could impersonate most of Wizarding Britain if one so desired – and people wondered why Slytherins were paranoid...

Fortunately for Draco, he had got paid while he had collected his Polyjuice library.

He even had one of Hermione's curly hairs. His hand hovered in front of the envelope containing it as he weighed up dozens of scenarios where using it could go horribly, horribly wrong. It would be safest to destroy it. It was what a sensible man would do.

Draco sighed again.

He was a Veela, not a man, but he was still a Malfoy and they were certainly not sensible. The hair would stay because he might need it one day, and Malfoys never let morals curtail their survival.

Instead, he pulled out another envelope, containing a single brown hair. It was entirely undistinguished, much like its owner.

"I didn't realise you're writing the articles now as well – the Prophet must be on its knees!" Weasley laughed a lot longer than the feeble joke deserved.

Draco forced his unfamiliar lips into a smile, checking the mirror behind Weasley to make sure it looked like merriment rather than a death grin. "This is for Witch Weekly, actually – guess they're not going to win any writing awards this year either."

Weasley took a long sip of his pint, already casting an eye at the bar to get a second one lined up. "What do you want to know, then?" he asked, not ungraciously.

Draco relaxed; he hadn't been sure how well Weasley knew Dennis Creevey, but so far he seemed to have pulled it off. "I've got a list here..." He pulled it out of his pocket and put it down on the table for the two of them to peruse.

"Favourite flower?"

"Haven't a clue. Go with roses, surely all women like them."

Draco stared at him pityingly before he remembered it was hardly in character for the role his was playing. "Roses, sure," he said, making a show of jotting it down.

"Favourite drink?"

Weasley took another sip, wiping his mouth with his hand afterwards. "Tea, I guess. Or wine?"

"Which wine?"

"Red?"

Draco nearly didn't bother Obliviating Weasley afterwards; it was a mystery how the man managed to get himself to work in the mornings. Merlin knew how his relationship with Hermione had lasted for more than a year after the war – it must have been the shared trauma.

Draco's probation officer had a lot to say on that subject, too.

After all his effort, Draco was back to square one – beyond books, cats, and clever magic, he had no idea what Hermione's tastes were. How was he supposed to make her happy if he didn't even know what she liked?

At least she has decent coffee in the cubbyhole that passed for her office (after Malfoy Manor and Hogwarts, what the Ministry considered adequate working space was far from Draco's definition).

Wait a minute – maybe he was onto something there?

"What the hell is going on here?" Hermione got her wand out just in time before the cloud of sawdust descended on her desk. She managed to save her working papers but her robes succumbed, the pale dust settling on her shoulders like particularly malevolent dandruff.

The workman hovering some five feet above ground didn't even stop his hammering. "Security department identified some structural ward problems. The whole office has to be rebuilt."

"But I've got a report due the day after tomorrow!" Hermione almost wailed

"Sorry, love." He leant backwards, presumably to inspect his handiwork. "Malfoy said it'll be at least another two weeks."

"Two weeks?"

Malfoy didn't even have the grace to fake some sympathy, the bastard. He had his feet on his desk, leaning backwards on his chair.

"Don't do that, you could break your neck if you fell," Hermione snapped.

"Wouldn't you heal it for me?" He fluttered his eyelashes at her.

She looked away on principle, but not before noticing they were very pale. "Well, yes, but that's not the point!"

"Seems pretty relevant to me."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake! I'm not here to discuss your neck or any other portion of your anatomy." Hermione ploughed on before he could descend into innuendo. "Why has my office turned into a building site?"

Malfoy glanced at his watch – a surprisingly Muggle contraption for him to use. "Have you only noticed now? Bit late to arrive for work after eleven, even for a war hero. Potter clocked in at eight this morning."

"I had a site visit," Hermione announced in glacial tones before she remembered that the man before her was the key to completing her report on Centaur habitats before the next Wizengamot hearing. "Can't they stop working just for one day?"

Malfoy seemed to enjoy the situation far too much for her liking. "Unfortunately there is a major security issue affecting your area – someone must have fallen asleep on the job during the 1870 renovations. We have to remove the inner ceiling to recast the wards."

"But if nothing has happened for the last hundred and thirty-odd years, does it really have to be done this afternoon?"

"Can't you just work from home?" Malfoy being reasonable took Hermione by surprise.

"To complete my report I need to use some of my reference books. There are hundreds of them, a significant minority of which are fiercer than The Monster Book of Monsters."

They both winced at the memory.

"I don't know which ones I'll need, and in any case, I don't have security clearance to bring them home," Hermione explained as if he were Ron or Harry (albeit more literate). Miraculously, it seemed to work.

"I'll see if I can get you a temporary office. Can you get the books transferred within the Ministry?"

Draco knew he had gone too far.

He should have let Hermione finish the report or obtained clearance for her to bring whatever she needed home, but the temptation had been too great. Instead, he had let her transfer her paraphernalia to the office next to his, setting her up so he would have to pass her door several times a day.

Being exposed to more of his company did not change the fundamental basis of their interactions.

He was still Draco Malfoy and she was Hermione Granger – finding out that Draco was a Veela and she was his mate was unlikely to fill Hermione with joy, assuming she didn't curse him on sight. It was better if she never found out; at least she wouldn't have yet another reason to avoid his company.

Well, it was done – there was no point beating himself up over a fait accompli. Draco bounced off his chair to go down to the canteen for some lunch. It was purely by coincidence he happened to pass by Hermione's office.

"Granger?"

Ever since Hermione had evacuated her reference books to the makeshift office down by Security, Malfoy had been like a jack-in-the-box, appearing at her door at the slightest provocation. He must be very bored; she had to admit having an intelligent co-worker nearby was a vast improvement on Whittlewaite. She didn't even know what Malfoy was supposed to be doing, so she didn't get annoyed when he wasted time either.

As far as Hermione was concerned, she reckoned she was owed a little time to waste – her report had gone off to be reviewed on time, and the revisions were minimal.

"Yes?" she asked, putting her quill down in anticipation of another discussion on the theory of Charms, or why Libatius Borage had been a poorer Potions brewer than Severus Snape.

Alas, it wasn't to be.

"There's someone here with a delivery for you."

"Oh, right." Hermione got up, trying to remember if she had got that Flourish and Blotts order sent to work instead of home. She could do with a bit of light reading material – she had almost finished Sauntering With Centaurs – A Critical Deconstruction Of Three Millenia Of Anthropoid Bias.

A gigantic bouquet of peonies walked through her door, the staggering delivery wizard beneath almost invisible.

"What on earth?" She pointed to her desk, thankfully noticing the flowers came equipped with a vase. More of an urn, really.

"Can you sign here, miss?"

The formalities completed, both wizards left her office and Hermione remained with more peonies than in a large garden. They were lovely – right on the cusp of exploding into large balls of petals, the scent discernible but not overpowering.

She was rather surprised at Malfoy not hanging back to get a few choice comments in – maybe he was busy.

As she had no clue who had sent her more flowers than she had received in her whole life so far, she was grateful he had absented himself while she had a fumble for the card. It was more like a flower arrangement than a bouquet, really, with lots of potential hiding places.

Hermione remembered she was a witch. "Accio card!"

Ron and Harry's postcard from last summer's trip to Bognor Regis was not what she had in mind. She put it back in her temporary desk drawer and considered who could be sending her flowers anonymously.

Thankfully, Malfoy had swept them before they had been brought into her office and there was no curse on them, which ruled out quite a few of the potential senders. It left a few (very few) exes, a list that was whittled down even further when she considered how likely they were to send her flowers.

Ron, for example, never had even when they were going out together – he was hardly going to start now, several new girlfriends later.

She caught her breath at a horrifying possibility. Surely – surely, not?

No, Hermione decided: even Ron at his most obtuse was too clever to head down the same road twice, hoping for a different outcome. Two weeks ago, he had been happy with Sarah Fawcett – the jump from there to trying to woo Hermione into giving him a second chance was too wide.

Besides, Ron would have made damn sure she knew who had stumped up a fortune at the florist.

There was a thought – maybe the flower shop could tell her who the sender was? Unfortunately, she drew a blank there, too – there was no label or anything else with a logo in sight.

Hermione was stumped.

Admittedly, she was stumped and surrounded by a profusion of her favourite flower, which wasn't the worst thing in the world. The report on the Merpeople at Hogwarts and their persistent issues with the Giant Squid wasn't going to write itself – she had better get cracking.

Hermione stole one last look at the pink loveliness parked on a small side table, threatening to topple over beneath the weight.

Perhaps it was sad that she couldn't think of anyone who would go to the expense and trouble to send her something like that.

Perhaps she should concentrate on her work.

"Oi, Hermione!"

"Ron. What an unexpected surprise." Hermione tossed her quill aside; she had made some progress, at least, and even Merpeople had lunch.

"I hear you're getting flowers – Wow! Those must have cost a fortune!"

The rumour mill at the Ministry was even worse than the Gryffindor common room. "Who told you that?"

"Oh, this and that," Ron said vaguely, clearly not listening to her. He had got his wand out and was prodding her peonies.

She glared at him. "Stop that! They've been screened, so you can put that wand away and follow me down to the Atrium. I thought we'd get some fresh air today."

"Bet you did, with that monstrosity polluting the air in your office."

"It's not –" Hermione reminded herself Ron was much smarter than he let on. "It's a nice day. How did you get on with the Twickenham case?"

He was not above jumping at a chance to tell her all about his latest case, however, so Hermione escaped further scrutiny without too much trouble.

She wondered, however.

She wondered even more when the next offering showed up: a woven basket containing a mouthwatering selection of sushi. Hesitating a long time, she eventually called in Malfoy to check her detection spells had not missed anything.

It was funny – it was only as he was scanning the basket with mystery sushi that Hermione realised she actually trusted him. To a limited extent, of course – if push came to shove, he would act in his own interest, but she did not believe he had any interest in her succumbing to food poisoning. Somehow, he had grown into his role to protect the Ministry and those who worked there so seamlessly that even former enemies believed his good faith.

It was quite an achievement for someone who had started every second sentence with "My father..." only ten years ago.

"All good to go. Or eat, in this case," Malfoy said as he put away his wand.

Hermione's heart was hammering like she was about to face a dragon; she would have to take herself to task for overreacting later. "Thanks, Draco."

He stopped midway to the door, his back turned so she could not see his face. "You're welcome, Hermione."

Draco resumed his path to the doorway, but his step seemed lighter somehow. Hermione sighed: now she was delusional as well. There had better not be anything in the sushi – things were bad enough already.