With a forceful crack, Hermione lands directly outside of Malfoy Manor.
In the cool, fresh air, she feels intensely more inebriated than she had been back at her flat.
"You can do this," she says to no one but herself as she straightens, smoothing over the front of her coat.
And she must, because her head is brimming with a torrent of theories and potential notions that could really be very helpful in the case and it can't wait because more lives could be at stake-
Hermione's eyes linger on the looming expanse of Malfoy Manor through the wrought iron gates.
Perhaps he's not even here, perhaps he's busy. It's a Friday night, for Merlin's sake. She should wait until Monday, when it is far more appropriate to pester him-
A pop somewhere in front of her jolts her from her thoughts.
"Greetings, Miss," comes a squeaky voice.
Looking down, Hermione sees the outline of a small House Elf, one that is holding up a small lantern it seems.
"Mippy is wondering what Miss is doing outside of Malfoy Manor at such an hour, Miss," and Hermione sees now through the dim light of the dark that the House Elf is wearing a set of cream, miniature robes.
"Oh, yes, I'm here to- Is- is Mr Malfoy in, at all?" she asks tentatively, half wishing he isn't.
The small elf looks up at her, appraising her for a moment with big intense eyes. Finding what she must have been searching for, the elf- Mippy, she'd called herself, steps back.
"Yes, Master Malfoy is home, Miss, but he is not expecting you," she says, her voice low, questioning, "Who is Miss and what is Miss here for?"
"Tell him that Hermione Granger is here to see him, it's- about a case we're working on," Hermione replies, and suddenly, coming here feels entirely silly and a little impulsive.
Mippy nods, briefly.
"Miss must stay here," she says, and with another small pop, she's gone.
In the sudden silence, aside from the light August breeze brushing through her curls, Hermione berrates herself. She purposely avoids looking directly at the Manor in the distance. This was really not an appropriate time to be here. In fact, now that she's had a moment to think it over, she'd rather not be here at all. Ever.
Wonders only briefly if she leaves right this second, then perhaps- No, no, she will not run away, she will not flee. This is important.
Mippy arrives back again with a third pop.
"Miss is to follow me," she instructs, and unclicks the manor gates. They swing open, and although clearly made of heavy metal, the movement is entirely light and silent. Of course.
Hermione follows the House Elf up to the front of the Manor. Can't help but feel her pulse beginning to reverberate inside her veins, the sound almost deafening in the quiet. A rush of both anticipation and downright fear curls over her spine.
Mippy leads her up the steps and Hermione focuses her attention on keeping her steps straight.
They both enter through the huge double doors, into the main foyer. It is much brighter inside, delicate, aged decor and wall sconces lit up.
Squaring her shoulders, she takes a deep, shuttering breath. Avoids looking to her left, knowing all too well what set of doors she will see.
Perhaps she is imagining it, but her scar, faded and yet never, ever gone, tingles painfully. She blinks. Once, twice, keeping them closed on the third. Takes another deep breath, aware that Mippy has just said something- no, asked something-
"Hermione Granger, what a pleasure it is to see you."
Eyes snapping open, her gaze lands on the languid figure of Blaise Zabini. He is leaning against the banister of the main staircase, a tumbler half emptied of amber liquid. His cheekbones are high, a crease in his laughter lines as he gives her a tight lipped smile.
There is something about his tone that suggests he does not find her appearance to be a pleasure at all.
"Blaise Zabini," she says curtly, sharply, "It's been a while."
Mippy is looking between the two of them suspisiously, or perhaps in confusion.
"Indeed it has, although I suppose there's very little reason for you to visit Magical Sports and Games anymore," he replies, voice smooth and yet entirely jagged at the same time, "tell me, how is Weasley?"
The inflection in his tone has her pointing her nose into the air, straightening her back. More of a prat than Malfoy, she thinks.
"I think we both know you're far more inclined to know than I," she sniffs, turning rather sharply toward Mippy. "Mippy, where is Mr Malfoy? This is quite pressing-"
"I'd really rather hope there won't be any pressing," Blaise replies, his tone flecked with meaning, "We've only just finished dinner, you see, and I'd like to keep the roasted oysters down."
Hermione's cheeks heat, and she is content to blame the three large glasses of wine she's had, content to entirely ignore whatever troublesome meaning Zabini has just suggested.
"Blaise, when I ask you to greet a guest, I mean for you to do so without being an ill-mannered prat," and Malfoy is swiftly stalking into the room, hair falling across his forehead, the doors to the right of the foyer clicking shut behind him.
"You really should have been more specific, Draco," Zabini retorts, a devious grin plucking at his lips, "besides, I was eager to learn why Gryffindor's Golden Girl has shown up outside of work hours."
Malfoy appraises her, then, as if Zabini's statement has reminded him of how unprofessional her impromptu visit is.
"I'm here about the case," she explains, steadying her gaze on his sharp face.
"So we've already gathered, Granger," he replies, a hint of annoyance carrying in his plummy voice, "I'd like some specifics before I decide whether we continue this conversation or not."
He raises a similar glass as Zabini's to his lips, the same amber liquid almost emptied. Hermione's cheeks heat further, although she is resolutely sure that this time it's because of rising anger.
"I've had a thought-" she says, and Zabini gives a tiny little cough that is clearly supposed to indicate amused scepticism. She ignores him and pushes on, "about the species of Mosp- because the patterns, everything, it doesn't add up. What if, for argument's sake, these aren't ordinary Mosps. What if they've been bred to be different, express different behaviours. What if they're mutated-"
And Malfoy's indifferent expression is becoming increasingly more interested as she makes her way through her monologue. He downs the rest of whatever is in his glass (firewhiskey, Hermione reckons), and begins heading for the stairs, his long, robust legs carrying him away intensely.
"Come, Granger," he orders, and Hermione can't quite bring herself to be annoyed, not when Malfoy is giving her an out- a way to get as far away from that room as possible, "Mippy, please bring a bottle of Ogden's and a bottle of Pinot Noir to the library-" A quick pop indicates that Mippy is already gone-
"-and Blaise," he turns quickly as he meets the second step of the staircase, looking down over the dark haired wizard, "You are free to join us so long as you keep quiet, and if you don't think you can manage that, I'd really rather you find somehow else to amuse yourself."
Zabini looks affronted, but stalks towards the doors Malfoy had come through earlier with a muttered "Merlin," under his breath. And Hermione is confused, because Malfoy is clearly drinking Firewhiskey and yet he'd asked for wine? The same wine she'd just been drinking, wonders how in Merlin's name he knows-
"Hurry up, witch," Malfoy says from the top of the stairs, "we don't have all night, and I'd quite like to get back to my previous engagement."
Witch?
Hermione scowls.
The Malfoy library is absolutely breathtaking.
Any contempt, any worry or unease she'd felt about being here, in this place, with all the awful memories- all of it disappears the second Malfoy leads her into the magnificent space.
Feeling entirely too giddy (she'd like to pretend it's the wine, again, but who is she kidding, it's all this library), her eyes take in every nook, every cranny of the deep mahogany rafters, the neat, elegant layout of the bookshelves, all categorised properly.
Most of the books look old, very, very old, and as she passes one aisle leading into the centre of the space, her brown eyes catch on 'Tewix Tragron's Complete Guide to Tinctures'- an original, first print tome, and Hermione thinks that perhaps, perhaps the Malfoy library is even better than the Hogwarts one.
In the middle of the library is a sitting area, contained before a huge fireplace. Decorated cosily, there are a few expensive looking armchairs, and two couches across from each other, an elaborate coffee table nestled between.
Malfoy takes a seat on the left hand couch, and is pouring himself another Ogden's- Mippy has already deposited a tray of his requested beverages, it would seem, and the little House Elf is nowhere to be seen.
Hesitating, Hermione lingers by the side of the sitting area.
"Granger, sit down," Malfoy says, his voice smooth, unbothered. He doesn't look up at her, just finishes pouring himself three inches of Firewhiskey.
She sits carefully onto the other couch, biting her lip, opposite Malfoy.
There is a thickness in the air, she thinks, and she's not entirely sure if it's because of the history she has with this place, the history between them, or something else entirely, but it feels heavy, taut with tension.
Flipping her satchel open, she pulls a number of files out, as well as her journal.
Supposes it must be because of who they are, in the place where-
"Wine?" Malfoy asks, and Hermione studies the bottle on the table. It looks expensive, significantly more so than the bottle she had opened with Ginny earlier. Curiosity gets the better of her and she feels herself nodding slowly.
Malfoy uncorks it in an admittedly impressive display of wandless magic and pours her a glass. Hermione thinks- no, she knows that this is the first time Malfoy has done anything like this for her. An entirely infinitesimal act, but one that is significant, at least for them.
She takes a sip, swirling the wine around the glass and she can't help the delighted murmur that escapes her. It tastes perfect.
Malfoy's lip tugs at the corner, the phantom of a smirk.
"I take it you like it, then?" he asks, taking a sip of his own drink.
Hermione nods, taking another quick sip, before placing it carefully onto the table.
"So, what do you think?" she asks, studying his face. His grey eyes are flecked with minute swirls of silver in the hue set by the lanterns around them, face placid, but still interested.
"I think it's plausible," he says, "it wouldn't be the first time someone has meddled in the breeding of magical creatures."
"Like Pygmy Puffs, except they don't tend to be so deadly," she says, picking up her quill and making some furious notes, "but from what I've seen about Vampyr Mosps, what is known about them, this seems the most plausible answer- it's a shame we have no eye witness reports that suggest what they looked like, we could determine if they are genetically modified-"
"Based on that theory, it narrows down the case, premeditated, specific, we could look into anyone in the area that's known for experimental genetic research-" Malfoy has sat forward now, resting his elbows on the table, deep in thought.
"True, it might help to get a specialist in, as well, someone who can confirm my suspicions about their behaviour not being normal- confirm it without a doubt." Hermione nibbles on her bottom lip, looking over her notes.
"What? You don't trust your own judgement?" he asks, tone slightly mocking.
She narrows her eyes. Leans forward so he can definitely see her exasperated look.
"No, I am certainly sure I'm correct, but having a second opinion is always beneficial, especially during a trial-"
"Right, right, of course," Malfoy says, and then he pauses, "I'll send an owl tonight, have something arranged for Monday so we can get a head start."
Hermione nods quickly.
"But there has to be more we can do in the meantime-"
"Agreed, so what do we know- what are we missing?" Malfoy leans forward across the table, his shirt going taut over the expanse of his chest. Hermione's eyes treacherously linger on the spot at which his creamy flesh peaks through his shirt.
Her mouth feels dry. Definitely the wine, she thinks.
She clears her throat, nibbles at her lip again and glances at her journal.
"So, what we're clear on so far in the case," she begins, leaning forward to double check her notes, "is that the victims have very little in common, aside from having worked, or were currently working at the Ministry, appears to be no real enemies or anyone with a grudge against any of them, at least from the familial visits the field team carried out-"
Realises that Malfoy is so close to her that she can smell him- Whiskey and apples, and she rather thinks that mixture is far too festive, too comforting-
"-not allergic to Vespidae, including Mosps, but we're waiting on the report from the lab regarding the exact makeup of the venom, and from that we might be able to discern if the Mosps are genetically modified, or even if they're Mosps at all."
Malfoy nods, and Hermione pushes on.
"So we have a few lines of investigation here, we look into the genetic makeup, investigate anyone known for experimental modifications, and we have the potential for ministry sabotage because the victims' main commonality is having been employed, but we don't know why. None of them worked in the same department, two were retired-"
"Maybe we need to look at their pasts more, what they did before their last role," Malfoy says, "there has to be something we're missing, something we're not seeing."
"Brilliant idea," she says, jotting notes down.
After a brief moment, Hermione has another sip of wine. Feels fuzzy inside, and contemplates how easy it has been for them to "get along" tonight. Strangely, Malfoy was having some really introspective ideas, really quite helpful ones, in fact. Feels a bubbling of something in her chest, a warmth-
"How did you know what wine I wanted?" she finds herself suddenly asking, and Malfoy smirks at her.
"Just...a hunch," he says with a glint in his grey eyes, almost misses the flick of them towards her- towards her mouth. It makes Hermione want to push the subject further, and so she does.
"That can't be the truth," she says, pressing her hands onto the table, "you have no plausible way of knowing what my drink of choice is, and even then, the exact type I was just drinking?"
Hermione leans forward then, her face just inches from his.
"How did you know?" she asks again, when he doesn't reply. He fully smirks, then, and he leans further onto his elbows. An inch or two closer.
"It's written all over your face," is his response, and he is so close the warmth of his breath tickles her nose.
Wonders if they're suddenly playing a game of chicken, wonders why they are, if they are, wonders why her heartbeat is thudding painfully in her chest-
Malfoy leans back, breaking whatever-this was, whatever they were just doing, his eyes most definitely drifting to her lips again briefly. In the haze and warmth of the wine, she can't understand what it means, can't possibly figure it out. Wants to touch her lips, understand what the issue is.
His expression becomes explicitly unreadable. Occluded.
Decides she'll investigate all of this later.
"I think I've seen something like the map of the locations before, but for something else," Hermione says, trying to keep herself from lingering too much on the warmth radiating from his side of the table, "On another map."
"In a library, or-"
"No," she says thoughtfully, "I think I've seen it at the ministry- in the archives."
And so it's decided, their next step is to go through the archives.
Hermione hopes her hunch is right.
Malfoy leads her towards the fireplace they use to floo.
It is chilly, now that it is late, very late, even in the August heat. Hermione feels less warmth in her chest, but she knows she is still inebriated. Knows for definite because she keeps catching herself gravitating towards him as they walk.
Feels the warmth of him every time she slips closer, and it makes her skin prickle. Makes her feel even more giddy than she already does.
Chides herself for such behaviour, because it is Malfoy and she is in the Manor on important business and-
He stops abruptly in front of the fireplace and she very nearly careens into his back. Instead she manages to halt her steps quickly enough that only her sleeve brushes against him.
She steps around him, hastily plucking out an apology.
Malfoy only looks amused, though, and that makes it all worse. Makes the stuttering in her chest worse. She needs to leave. Now.
Her eyes scan for the floo powder, but she can't see any pots by the side of the hearth. His hand comes up, moving past her face to reach for an ornate bowl on the mantel, and he smells even more potently of whiskey now. It's almost intoxicating.
Her heart feels like a hummingbird in her chest, and she whips around to wish him a goodnight and flee-
"Goodnight, Granger," he murmurs, voice gruff from the whiskey. And Hermione knows she is drunk, then, because his voice, his voice seems to spread through her like wildfire.
And she has never felt so intensely frantic, alarmed.
So she flees, quickly and without sparing him another glance.
Her heart didn't stop thrumming against her chest, even as she arrived back at her flat, even as she briefly acknowledges her flat is lacking a certain redhead.
Even as she changes carelessly and clumsily into her pyjamas.
Even as she brushes her hair, heading to her mirror-
She catches sight of her reflection.
Her lips are stained, an intense red from the wine she had been drinking- and possibly was before she had shown up at Malfoy Manor. No, now she sees it, she realises that they must have been- that this must have been how Malfoy knew.
There's a swell to her bottom lip from where she had nibbled on it thoughtfully, and realises that she looks-
Well she looks like she's been thoroughly kissed.
Mortification fills her.
AN: My main platform is AO3, so I tend to update there first and then update on here. Username is the same: /works/35083774/chapters/87391645