TWs: Please see end of chapter for TWs and heed accordingly.

Hermione feels sick.

Insanely, abruptly and dizzyingly sick.

She is not prepared- was not prepared for arriving at the scene, the "incident", as Humphries' had termed it.

Always thought she'd developed a good stomach for these things, mainly due to the war and everything that came with it- the gore, the scent of death as it lingers in the air. And she had, really. No other case has made her feel unease in any way.

Until now, that is.

It's horrific, she thinks, as she stares wide-eyed at the scene. It's not particularly the scene itself, though.

It's the body. Or what was once a body, before- well before all of this.

A putrid, lingering smell has settled over the space, the abandoned lift, to be exact, rotted quite quickly in the damp, wet conditions of being underground, the mass of flesh entirely swollen from head to wherever in Godric's name the toes are.

The swollen state is not due to decomposition, though. No, it is because the body is covered entirely in stings- Mosp stings.

She knows this for a fact, because they are entirely distinct, especially compared to wasp or bee stings. For a start, the sheer size of the sting itself is several times larger, as opposed to the tiny, pinprick size of a bee sting. These sting marks could be likened similarly to what an icepick might leave. And each one is oozing a particularly potent, green venom.

No, definitely Mosps, she thinks, and she has to look away, move away before the apple pie she'd consumed earlier decides to make a reappearance.

They arrived here less than five minutes after getting the patronus from Humphries. Here being an underground car park underneath a disused and abandoned building complex in Bromley.

It is dirty, musty and stupidly cold. She rubs the length of her arms to keep from shivering- she didn't have time to change before they apparated here.

"Here," comes Harry's voice, and he's holding out his jacket. It is a light, formal coat, but it's better than nothing. She takes it and gives him a thankful smile in return.

"Have we gotten identification yet?" she asks, as he comes to stand beside her at the entrance.

"Not yet, unfortunately," Harry replies, helping her slide her other arm into the coat, "but we reckon it's another Ministry employee, so we're running through any officials that may have gone missing in the last week or so."

Hermione hums in response, keeping her eyes locked firmly on where Humphries is talking to Malfoy and decidedly away from the horrifying sight inside the lift.

"And why exactly did Humphries call for you to be here?" she asks, glancing at him from the corner of her eyes, "You should be on holiday for a start, not to mention the fact you're on a completely different case-"

"Well," Harry says, his face becoming slightly more grim, "they reckon our cases are crossing over."

His response makes Hermione pause as she tugs his coat around her.

"What?" she says, abruptly, "you're saying that Death Eaters are responsible for these attacks?"

Harry nods, his glasses glinting under the barely there lighting of the underground carpark.

"They found this," he says, holding up a Ministry-standard, magically sealed clear box. Inside is a broach, with a particularly familiar design- a skull, with a snake emerging from it, entwined. The Dark Mark.

Hermione's eyes slide over to where Malfoy is still talking with Humphries in the distance. Really, she's tried not to, because she knows now is not the time, not the place, but everytime her eyes have landed on him since they've arrived, all she can think about is how his lips had felt on hers, the way his hands had gripped at her waist, the taste of him, as it still lingers on her tongue, even now-

"Hermione? You okay?" Harry asks, his tone soft, worried.

"Oh, yes, Harry, I'm fine, just thinking, that's all" she replies, broken from her reverie, cheeks heating.

Harry looks unconvinced, and his hand comes to rest under her elbow, tugging her into the corner, away from the rest of the staff on the scene.

"I just- I wanted to check in with you, after what happened with Ron," he continues, his lip forming into a thin line, "He was a right prat, and I came back after to check on you, but Ginny said you'd run off, that Malfoy had gone after you-"

Bugger. Ginny saw Malfoy coming after her?

"Ah yes, well I'm fine, Harry," she says, waving him off, "Thank you, but I'm fine. Ron is always a prat, nothing I've not heard before-"

"Was Malfoy a prat, too?" he asks, and Hermione stares at him, confused. "It's just that, well- you looked awfully out of it before we apparated here, like you were troubled and I just wondered if something had happened-"

"No, no, he wasn't a prat," she says quickly, shutting Harry off, "Not as much as normal, anyway. He just made sure I didn't walk off too far, that's all."

And she hopes she's convincing, because she knows she's bloody awful at lying. Harry doesn't look thoroughly convinced, but he nods, letting it go. At least for now. She puffs out a breath.

"Anyway, the case," she says, her chin dipping towards where the rest of the field team are working, "please don't tell me they've asked you to stay."

When Harry doesn't say anything, she looks at him, her eyes narrowing.

"Harry, you can't-"

"I don't have much choice," he replies, solemn, "the evidence is there, Hermione, Death Eaters did this, they're likely behind all of it, we need to stop them, and figure out why-"

"No, no," she says, coming to stand in front of him, "you haven't had a break since you got rid of Voldemort, you've been planning this break with Ginny for months, you can't just drop it all for the case."

Harry sighs, closes his eyes, but doesn't say anything, so Hermione pushes on.

"Look, leave all your paperwork, all your notes on your case here for me," she says, her words coming out passionately, rushed, "I'll go through it all, and me and Malfoy will work on the case until you're back."

His green eyes are on her face, assessing her.

"I promise you, if anything happens, anything too much, I'll contact you," she continues, "Ginny wants you there, she's been looking forward to this Harry. You both need a break, both of you."

Harry runs his hand through his dark hair, another sigh leaving him.

"Fine," he says, "I'll pass off the case, pass it onto you, but you have to tell me if anything-"

"Yes, yes, you know I will."

He gives her a smile then, and it fills her heart.

"Thanks, Hermione."

Bugger.

Hermione can't find it. Can't find the damn thing she knows she's seen in the Ministry archives- the map.

She's taken apart her own personal collection of tomes and scrolls at home. She's been through most of the first half of the Ministry stacks and still, nothing. Zilch. Nada.

Making a terribly frustrated groaning sound, she flops over the top of the desk. Feels deflated. Deflated, tired, exhausted, the whole nine yards.

After yesterday's rather intense occurrences, she's been holed up in the Ministry archives, searching.

Been searching through tome and scroll, after tome and scroll, since dawn, actually, having not wanted to sleep once she'd gotten home. The imagery of the body from the abandoned lift has been permanently etched into her mind, and so here she is, several hours later.

The archives are empty, save for herself, (it is a Sunday, after all), and it's quite refreshing. Especially after having been around people from noon until the early hours of the morning. Or, well, it had been refreshing when she'd arrived hours ago.

Now, now she just feels bothered, frustrated, and useless. Had thought a few times about asking Malfoy for help, but-

But she would not. Will not.

She can't bear to face him, not after yesterday. Groaning again, she rubs at her face with her hands. How will she be able to work with him? After he saw her in such a state? After he- well, after he kissed her-

And she bloody kissed him back.

Bugger. Fuck. Bugger.

She's tried to rationalise it (she can't), and so far she's come to the following conclusions.

Firstly, she's pretty peeved. Peeved at Malfoy, for kissing her in the first place, for kissing her, of all people. For kissing her, at all.

But she's also peeved at herself. For letting him kiss her, for kissing him back, and mostly, ultimately, she is peeved because she'd enjoyed it.

There's no other way of expressing it, no other way of twisting it to suit her. She'd liked it, and she's even considered doing it again-

No, no she most certainly has not- will not.

Peeved because he hadn't even looked at her after he did it. Not when they'd traveled to the incident, not during the investigation, not even when Humphries had asked them to report their progress so far. No, his face had just gone entirely placid, unreadable, and she just knows he was occluding-

Which leads her to her next conclusion.

She's upset, because she can't occlude. Not like Malfoy, not at all like him. And so he just gets to block it out, neatly pack it away whenever he chooses and she has to sit here, wallowing in a vat of boiling emotions? It is entirely selfish of him. Entirely bloody unfair.

Thirdly- well he's Malfoy, a stupid, disgustingly rich pureblood. The same boy who once tormented her, who once fought on the other side of a war, a war designed to eliminate her existence. And so she is confused, because although she has suspected that he puts significantly less stock in blood puritism now- that doesn't mean he's always felt that way, not at all. A proverbial elephant in the room is what this is.

At the end of it all, Hermione has no idea where she stands with him, where they stand.

Hasn't been able to stop thinking about it, pondering it. Can't stop thinking about finding him, demanding he explain himself. Because she can't explain it, and it is driving her insane. Even after having thrown herself into her work for almost her entire Sunday, here she is, head still burning with thoughts about his stupidly handsome face-

She just thought of him as handsome.

She-

Wants to scream.

Crushing a spare piece of parchment into a ball, she flings it across the room with a small shriek, smacking her head back down onto the desk.

Takes a deep breath in.

Stupid, bloody wizard-

"Granger?"

-Who's just interrupted her completely fruitless, useless research session-

Her eyes snap up, knowing full well that he'll see the blazing anger, even from across the stacks, and she stands, abruptly, her chair skidding sharply backwards.

"Of course, of course you'd bloody turn up here-"

Did she just say that out loud? Merlin, what is he doing to her? She's becoming a mess, unravelling.

She does, however, feel spurred on by the slight widening of his eyes as she speaks. He's shocked, then.

"I work here, Grange-"

"I am well aware of that, Malfoy," she retorts, gripping the edge of the table, "I mean here, right now, right this fucking minute-"

Her eyes travel over his form. Right now, she rather thinks his appearance is amusing, staggering. Because Malfoy, usually firmly, cleanly pressed and not a hair out of place, currently looks rumpled, tired, even worse for wear than even she does. He's still wearing the same clothes from yesterday- from last night. He hasn't been back to Malfoy Manor, and if it weren't for how frustratingly angry she is, she might have been curious, intrigued as to why-

"Well, I went to see Potter before he left for his annual leave," and the blood in her veins thrums more dangerously, because Malfoy is entirely unreadable once more, the barest hint of annoyance filtering through his features, "And he said I might find you here."

Her back stiffens slightly as he speaks.

"What?" she asks, narrowing her eyes slightly, "You went to see Harry? What for? And why exactly are you looking for me?-" and she's aware she is rambling once more, "- and why in Merlin's name are you wearing the same clothes from last night? Where have you been? Why are you at the Ministry so late-"

"I could ask you the same exact questions, Granger," he says, indicating with his pointed chin towards Harry's jacket that she's still wearing over her dress, the desk on which several piles of tomes and a few scattered, empty coffee cups are littering the surface, "but instead, I am simply going to get straight to the point-"

"Oh, please do," she says, if only to interrupt him. Her knuckles are white from where she's gripping the table. Wants to figure out what he's really thinking- what he's really feeling, because he's entirely too calm, too placid to not be occluding right here. Wants to put a nice crack in his mask, take a peek and see what's underneath- because he hasn't looked at her properly, nor acknowledged what happened, and it's burning a hole through her head-

Malfoy sighs, and he swiftly moves to put a satchel on the other side of the desk. He stops, on the other side, and he closes his eyes briefly. His mouth twitches, barely, as if debating something.

"Granger, do you have something you'd like to talk about?" and his voice is quiet, almost strained.

"Not at all," she retorts, waving one hand abruptly in the air, the mass of curls on her shoulders rippling with the movement, "do carry on-"

"Do not give me that," he says coolly, his eyes roving from where her fingers grip the table and up to her eyes, "You're quite clearly upset, and I need you to be focused for what I have to say, so if you could kindly tell me what is bothering you-"

"Bothering me?" she hisses, leaning forward, "Bothering me- you, Malfoy, you're bothering me-"

And he is looking at her now, assessing her, scrutinising her expression, her face. Her heart stutters in its ministrations, and she finds that her words have died in her throat. Feels intensely more angry, more perturbed. Because she knows exactly what she wants to say, what she must say, and yet- yet the words just don't seem to want to come out. Finds that she can't bring herself to say them. To discuss that they'd- that he'd-

"How so?" he asks, and he's leaning forward, across the table between them. His expression is curious, she thinks, yet there is a flicker of devious intent perhaps, and she finds she can't keep looking at his face. Instead, she looks at his crumpled shirt- again, she's looking at his stupid chest again-

Hermione can't take this. She's never backed down, never not had the words to say, and suddenly she's intensely flustered by him, by his presence, and it is downright disconcerting. She- She can't allow this, letting him have power, any power, over her. Have her teetering back and forth between anger and whatever she is now. She clears her throat and meets his eyes again.

His eyes are molten grey in this light, and it makes her heart stutter again. She stamps it down, grits her teeth.

"Look," she finds herself saying, her voice only faltering once, "What happened at Ginny's party. I don't pretend to know what the hell that was, in fact I'm incredibly fucking baffled, but I'd really like to put it behind us."

She is still struggling for what to say. For Godric's sake. Finds herself taking a deep breath. In and out-

"It was...It was a mistake-" Hermione says, and it does feel that way, because she's suddenly an absolute mess, and it's all his fault, "- yes, a mistake-"

"A mistake," he echoes, and it sounds rather distant, as if he's not even in the room with her, as if he's not presently standing across the table from her.

"Yes," she continues, "And I think we both rather know that. And, well, the case comes first, and as you said, we really should be focused- on the case-"

"You're saying you'll be able to focus if we just, what? Forget about it?" And Hermione is rather stumped, because his face is a cool mask of indifference, a notch short of entirely unreadable, but his voice- he sounds almost resigned.

"Pretend it never happened," she replies, unlatching her hands from the table. Decides that this may be easier if she busies herself. And so she begins picking up the scrolls carefully, keeping her eyes trained on the desk, and can see Malfoy's hands splayed on the table in her peripheral vision.

She turns and begins filing the scrolls away into their respective places.

"Am I right in believing, Granger," he says, slowly, carefully, and he somehow still sounds as if he's off in the distance, "that you're essentially running away?"

Hermione scoffs, keeping her attention rather intensely on the scrolls in her hands as she puts them back where they belong.

"I've not run away," she says, curtly, "I am admitting what we both know to be true."

Something in her itches for her to keep her eyes on him, but she can't bring herself to look at him, not right now.

"I think I ought to remind you, Granger," and his voice is much more present now, closer, she thinks, "That you do not speak for me."

Her hands place the last scroll in their spot, and she knows she'll have to turn around- face him, at least to get the tomes.

"Are you saying, Malfoy, that it wasn't a mistake? That you- you don't think it was?" the words are out before she can stop them, and she turns, firmly crossing her arms over her chest defensively. Is surprised to find that he's moved much, much closer than she had thought. How had she not heard him?

He's barely a metre away, not at the table any longer. His eyes are on her, intensely, and she finds it rather unnerving, feeling her heart beating like a drum once more in her chest.

Malfoy seems to be debating internally, and he pauses in his movements, in talking. She thinks she might be anticipating, waiting, wondering what he might respond, because there's simply one logical answer-

"Yes," he says, and it makes her heart stop entirely. It is not at all the response she'd been expecting, "I know for a fact that I intentionally kissed you, Granger."

She has no idea what to respond to that, and feels incredibly like she is frozen in place. He takes a step towards her. And then another, until he is close enough that the tips of his perfectly polished shoes meet the tips of her own- the ones she'd worn to Ginny's birthday.

The free fall she'd been in since he'd kissed her before? Still there, she thinks, falling and falling, feels entirely out of control. Feels the need to scrape some of it back.

Finds her eyes meeting his, as if in silent defiance of his advance into her space. He looks right back, his breath ghosting across her skin like a wave. And he leans in, then, her breath catching in her throat.

Thinks that he's likely going to kiss her, again, and she knows- knows that she won't stop him. Not at all. Feels something bubbling rather intensely inside her.

"Tell me not to," he says softly, his lips barely an inch from hers, "tell me you don't want me to."

She almost tries to take a step back, to pull away from him, but he has her backed against the bookcase, his tall form crowding her. Finds her head tilting ever more, angling for him, she knows. Wonders why he still smells like apples, like the apple pie they'd eaten many, many hours ago.

"Tell me Granger," he whispers, his hands coming up to bracket her in, "that you don't want me to kiss you."

She can't.

"Tell me," he says, with an urgency in his tone, his lip just barely touching her own, "that it's a mistake."

She- she can't. Doesn't. Doesn't say a word.

Malfoy seems entirely satisfied, then, his eyes glint in triumph. Because he's won, she knows. He's won in this moment, and she finds herself in anticipation of him claiming his prize- wonders why he hasn't kissed her yet-

"This," he says, voice a low rumble, inflected with meaning, "we'll come back to this later." Makes a shiver involuntarily slide over her spine. She wonders immediately what he means, this as in a kiss? Or this as in this tension brimming between them? Or possibly he means something entirely too salacious-

"Because you were also right," he continues, softly, and Hermione finds herself blinking in confusion. Blinking away the rampant questions, wild thoughts in her mind. He's suddenly leaning back, away from her, his lips moving out of reach. Finds herself entirely too bloody disappointed, frustrated. What-

"The case comes first," and he's moving swiftly over to the table, to his satchel. As he moves, another waft of apples descends into the air. The loss of his warmth in her space feels suddenly alarming. Her throat feels dry as she swallows thickly, and he pulls a piece of parchment out of his satchel, "and I've had some thoughts about these attacks, something is different about this recent one-"

"Why do you smell like apples?" she asks abruptly, unable to stop herself as he's laying parchment out across the table. He stops, and then his lips curve up at the edges, a slight smirk.

It makes her heart skip a beat. Merlin, what is happening to her?

"I almost forgot," he says, and he pulls out a small tray- one of Molly's decorative pie trays, she notes, from inside his satchel. Inside the dish is half of an apple pie, still looking entirely delicious.

"A peace offering."

TWs:

Death, Dead Bodies, Crime Scenes, Gore, Nausea, Sickness, Description of Wounds / Crime scene. Please heed accordingly.