"An Unspeakable?" Hermione repeats, her heart skipping a beat.
Malfoy says nothing, but simply nods. An Unspeakable- That is entirely too worrying to comprehend. Someone who has access to some of the most secret magical experiments, of knowledge from the very depths of the Ministry itself. In fact, it could be even more worrisome depending on what-
"Do we know their name? What area were they working in?" she feels as if her head might explode.
"No name, classified, of course," Malfoy says, bitterly, "but we do know they were working primarily in the Death Chamber."
Her eyes flick up to meet him and she hears herself exhale loudly.
"That is- that's honestly perhaps the most concerning of them all," she replies, biting into her bottom lip.
Hermione is a flurry of movement then, of ink on parchment and discussion as she runs through a mental catalogue of every question that springs to mind.
An Unspeakable who specialises in the Death Chamber. Perhaps they- whoever has control of these Mosps- was trying to use the Unspeakable to get access to their research. It wouldn't be the first time they'd tried to get down there, and likely won't be the last.
But why then, would they kill the Unspeakable? Why would they get rid of their only link to the Department of Mysteries, of the Death Chamber?
Perhaps their goal isn't the chamber then, and she can hardly think of the Unspeakable as a culprit. Each Unspeakable goes through rigorous training, rigorous testing, background checks, the works. If there had been any hint of them not being loyal or in sound mind they would never have been given Unspeakable status in the first place.
So, this faceless culprit, this murderer, couldn't have been working with the Unspeakable. Which leads both herself and Malfoy to the following conclusion. This faceless murderer is using the imperius curse, or some kind of mind control to get to the victims, or at least this victim- the unspeakable.
Wouldn't have known they were an unspeakable until after they'd gotten a hold on them. But still, it doesn't add up, she thinks. Not at all. Why kill someone who would be so useful?
Their discussion dwindles off with the notion that they must delve deeper into the unspeakable, as well as the use of the Mosps, how do they have such control over them, for example. Alongside going through Harry's case, all of his reports, lists of Death Eaters that might fit the description, the means, the motive to carry it out.
A pleasant sort of silence settles over them, and Hermione rather thinks it's quite nice. Working with Malfoy. Because he's not incompetent, at least not all of the time. In fact, he's really rather useful for bouncing ideas off of, and she's reminded rather rudely how difficult it is to find such a quality in either her department or the DMLE.
Finds herself looking at him, observing him as he flicks through a number of scrolls in front of him on the desk. He's rolled his sleeves up again, another glamour firmly in place on his forearm, and he's leaning over the table, taller than her even as they sit. The paleness of his hair is a stark contrast to the dimness of the Ministry Archives, and even though his hair is immaculately styled, a few strands have come loose and are resting against his forehead.
Thinks this style suits him. Thinks it looks rather good on him, if she's being honest. Thinks his features are strikingly sharp, and his face looks more than good right now. With a carefully composed, thoughtful, competent expression-
"Like what you're seeing, Granger?" he asks suddenly, his voice a low rumble. His slate grey eyes meet hers, and she immediately busies herself with pulling more parchment out of her bag. Feels heat rising on her cheeks, feels embarrassed at being caught- well, caught staring at him.
"Not at all," she replies quickly. A lie. An absolute bloody lie. And she can almost feel Malfoy's smirk from across the table, because he must have seen right through it.
Hermione switches tactics, then.
"I've been thinking- the Mosps, what if their venom has been modified too?" her words come out in a rush, and she knows, she knows he'll see she's trying to change the subject. Bugger. She keeps messing with her bag, avoiding his gaze.
Malfoy raises an eyebrow rather delicately, then.
"I'm quite surprised you didn't bring an apple with you this time," he comments, and she pauses in her ministrations to glance up at him. She hadn't expected this response. His face is molded into something placid, (occluded again, then), but the left side of his lip is upturned, a minimalistic lopsided grin, she supposes.
"I'm almost a little...disappointed at the lack of peace offering today."
His tone is the same teasing one he has used before, the same one he employs to rile her up. But something about it is different, something more, perhaps. Or, perhaps she is wrong, misjudging because of the oddity this encounter rests upon- the tiff they'd had earlier, maybe.
In response to his comment, she dips back into her satchel and pulls out the pack of sugar quills. He watches with slate grey eyes in silent amusement as she snaps the seal open and pulls a light green quill from it.
"I am terribly sorry for such an omission," she replies, her lips tugging into a smirk, "perhaps this apple flavoured sugar quill will suffice?"
She holds it out to him, and her eyes search quickly for any sign that she has misstepped, been too informal, too intimate. Feels like she is tiptoeing that same line again- the one they tiptoed at Ginny's Birthday.
The silence from him is quite deafening, and she scolds herself, for overstepping, possibly with the book, or presently, with the quill, pulling her arm back in defeat-
Malfoy laughs.
It is sharp, and short lived. But it is a laugh, and Hermione doesn't think she has ever heard it before, not quite like this. There is a tinge of pink on his pale cheeks. Malfoy had not meant to laugh.
He leans forward, his broad torso crowding, even with the table between them, shirt becoming taut over his toned arms, his chest, and he takes the quill from her. His slender fingers brush hers briefly, and she is startled by the heat she feels from him. It has her heart beginning to thrum inside her chest, making her feel erratic.
Malfoy puts the end of the quill into his mouth, trying it. And Hermione feels rather-
Well, she feels rather flustered, actually.
She quickly busies herself by flipping her journal open, dragging her eyes down to it in the process.
"So, what do you think?" she asks, and she has to bite the inside of her cheek in order to not look up again as Malfoy pulls the end of the quill from his mouth with a pop.
"Well, it doesn't taste as good as the real thing," he replies, timbre low, "tastes quite synthetic, actually."
It's Hermione's turn to laugh, then.
"I meant about the Mosps," she clarifies, chancing a quick glance at him over her notes, the pink on his cheeks apparent even in the dimness of the room, "what do you think?"
If he is embarrassed, he does not show it. He sits back against the chair, looking thoughtful.
"I think you may be right, you did say the venom looked unusual," he replies, leaning forward on to his elbows, "In what way do you think it's been modified?"
Hermione nods, and flips open her journal to a fresh page. Malfoy places the sugar quill on to the desk.
"Well, I'm waiting on a report back about the venom sample itself, but we may be looking at the control thing all wrong," she says, flipping open a tome she'd picked up earlier.
"How so?" he asks, his tone low.
"What if the killer isn't using imperio, or a spell on the victims? What if the venom is the control?" Hermione murmurs, and then pauses to gauge his reaction.
Malfoy's looking at her, carefully. He nods once, "is that possible? For the venom to be capable of holding those properties?"
Hermione picks up the sugar quill and begins making some notes on some parchment.
"Yes, entirely possible," she replies, jotting down several ways it could be done, "all through genetic engineering, of course."
She keeps writing until she's satisfied with the list, and Malfoy watches in silence as she does so. He moves the scrolls he'd gone through to the side of the table, leaning closer, as if trying to see what she's jotting down.
Hermione sucks on the end of the sugar quill and finds herself agreeing with Malfoy. It does taste rather synthetic.
She glances up from her notes to relay everything she's scrawled down-
Malfoy is looking at her with a decidedly weird expression.
Half stricken, amused, and perhaps a little astonished.
"What?" she asks, pulling the quill from her lips.
"Tell me, Granger, what is the point of a peace offering if you end up eating the damn thing yourself?"
Wha-
Oh. Oh.
Hermione looks at the light green sugar quill in her hand. The one she'd just had in her mouth. The one that she'd given Malfoy-
The one he'd had in his mouth.
She scoffs, loudly, hastily trying to cover up the furious blush that's now working its way across her cheeks.
"It's just a sugar quill, Malfoy," she replies with dismissal, her voice wavering only slightly, "plus a peace offering is meant to be shared."
"Shared?" he says the word as if he's never heard of it before- as if it's foreign.
"Yes," she says, holding it out to him, "to be shared, like we did with the apple pie yesterday."
If he feels disgusted, affronted, he doesn't particularly show it. He just stares at the quill in her hand intently, guarded.
Half a second ticks by, and he doesn't take it. Hermione wants to roll her eyes, and she wonders if she's simply trying to cover up the way her heartbeat is hammering inside her chest, covering up the redness she feels in her face.
Malfoy takes a sip of his coffee, then slowly takes the quill from her, careful this time not to touch her.
Hermione's mouth feels dry.
Malfoy puts the quill into his mouth and Hermione thinks her heart may have skipped a beat. Because this is different, she thinks. This interaction, the sharing, all of it is different. Entirely different. This kind of sharing is not at all like when they'd shared the pie. This is intimate, very much so.
There's tension in the air, between them, and it is palpable. His eyes flicker to her lips and she suddenly feels an intense need to either flee or lean across the table and kiss him.
Both of these thoughts have her stricken, because neither of them are things she does. Not at all. Hermione Granger does not flee. Hermione Granger does not simply give into carnal temptations. And yet she's presently considering both.
In fact, she finds herself standing, abruptly, pushing the parchment across the table for Malfoy to view. Hears herself making an excuse, something about looking for that map, and then her feet are carrying her away, from the table, from him. She is fleeing, she realises. Running away.
Is reminded of the previous night with Malfoy's words ringing in her ears.
"Am I right in believing, Granger- that you're essentially running away?"
Yes, yes she bloody is. Can't decide if she hates herself for it, at this moment. For fleeing him. Finds herself in the stacks, her breathing uneven, pulse erratic and pounding inside her veins.
Busies herself with looking through the tomes for a section they haven't gone through yet, and she's struck with the realisation that she's been a fool. A fool because she may have fled him, but that wouldn't stop him from coming after her. A fool because she has essentially trapped herself here, between the bookcases, a dead end on the other side. A wall.
A fool because of course he's coming after her, and she can hear his casual footsteps on the marbled floor getting louder, coming her way. She takes a deep breath.
"Granger, I've been thinking," he says, and his voice is a low rumble. It sends an involuntary shiver cascading over her spine.
"Thinking about what?" she finds herself asking, glad her voice hasn't wavered. She can't see him as he approaches, keeping her eyes firmly on the books in front of her. Can't help the curiosity burning in her veins, the excitement she feels, the anticipation as his footsteps falter less than half a metre away.
"About what you said," he replies, and she does look at him now, if only because she feels the need to see his face, his expression, "about sharing the peace offering."
Having not expected this to be his response, she finds herself turning bodily towards him, her brow lifting in question.
Malfoy's lip quirks up in a slight smirk, and he is suddenly crowding her again, his tall frame barricading her in, between his warm body and the bookcase. Has to tilt her head up to see his face properly. He looks rather amused, she thinks. Amused and heated, the latter of which has heat rising further onto her cheeks.
"I was wondering if you'd like another taste," he says, and Hermione is thrown off entirely. Mostly because she doesn't understand what he means, but also because his tone is entirely salacious and low. He's holding the green apple-flavoured quill between them, she realises, and she stares at it for a long, long moment.
Can't help but think that this thin quill is the line, this line they're tiptoeing across. That if she accepts it, if she takes it from him, she's choosing something, choosing to take a broad step over that line. Not just tiptoeing any longer.
In this enclosed, small space, the scent of apple is wafting between them, from him, from the quill. It envelopes her senses, blankets her. He's watching her intently, his eyes so, so dark in the dim light of the stack.
Finds herself nodding. A response.
Hermione reaches for the quill at the same time that he reaches for her. And she realises, a second too late, that he hadn't meant the quill.
His hand is cupping the back of her head, his lips crashing onto hers in an instant. This kiss is different, she thinks. His ministrations more urgent, more demanding. Feels intense, heady, and she's absolutely giddy with it. He tastes like apples, apples and coffee, an entirely overwhelming and yet familiar taste, comforting at the same time.
Finds herself responding in earnest, her hands finding purchase on his perfectly pressed shirt. Pulling him closer, pressing against his warm chest. His lips feel firm, molding against hers. Barely registers the sound of the sugar quill hitting the marbled floor as he let's it fall from his fingers, distracted entirely by the way he moves them to grip at her hip, by the heat of them bleeding through her robes.
Feels herself moaning almost silently against him at the contact, feels his tongue flick lightly at her bottom lip, seeking more. She parts her lips against his, conceding the heated battle to him, a low rumble in his chest sounding as he begins to devour her.
Her back meets the edge of the bookcase, and she feels entirely crowded, overcome as he places himself between her legs, the full length of his body against hers. It feels perfect, she thinks, feels like she's needed contact like this for a while, yet never allowing herself to acknowledge it.
Feels liberating, freeing, even as Malfoy suddenly presses her more harshly against the bookcase. Briefly hears a few of the tomes toppling onto the floor beside them, but at this moment she can't bring herself to care. His lips leave hers, then, and she groans in frustration at the missed contact, at the missed taste of him. He chuckles against her throat as he moves his lips there, the vibrations sending warmth spreading through her, his broad hand at the back of her head tilting her, positioning her just right-
"Oh," is all that comes out of her mouth as he leaves several, hot, open mouthed kisses against her throat, her neck.
Heat is pooling in her abdomen, warming her, increasing the feeling of need, need for more, more, more. She cants her hips towards his, letting him slip his leg between hers, pressing his thigh against her intimately, her skirt having ridden up her thighs. The pressure, the friction of it has her biting back a moan, and she feels him, the hard length of him pressing against her stomach.
It surprises her. Not the fact she can feel him, not the thought that he- Malfoy is currently aroused and pressing against her, kissing her into oblivion, but the need. Her need, the sudden desire to feel him inside of her, to give up all control, give into him, for- for more. It surprises her, terrifies her.
Has her pushing against his chest lightly, creating space between them. Because she knows, she knows that if they do not stop right this minute, she might let it- let them go too far, a point of no return they can never come back from. Knows deep down that Malfoy will let this go as far as she allows it, and she is bewildered, entirely baffled as to why. Why does he want this from her? Of all people? Of all the witches he could have-
He's kissing her again, and her thoughts die inside her head at the contact. Feels his lithe, hard chest under her hands, pulls him closer once more so she can feel-
No, no.
"We have to stop," she whispers against his lips, taking a deep breath in. Pushes with more pressure against his chest, pushing him away. Malfoy obliges, albeit slowly.
"Why?" he asks, his voice thick, low, head dipped down towards hers.
Hermione knows she can't lie, he'll know if she does. But the truth has her flushed cheeks deepening, heat spreading. She tilts her head to meet his eyes again.
"If we go further, I don't think I'll be able to stop," and she means it, her voice stuttering. She takes another breath, feels as if her lungs are burning, "we've also got a meeting with Humphries and Sturgis in fifteen minutes."
This seems to appease him, bringing him back to reality as well. He clears his throat, running a hand through his hair. Hermione keeps her eyes on his face, and decidedly away from dropping lower, at where his trousers are quite clearly strained.
"Yes, right," he replies, his voice strained, smoothing his rumpled appearance out with a quick flick of his wand. He pockets his wand once more, and Hermione's eyes are drawn very briefly to the unmistakable bulge in his trousers.
Bugger.
She averts her gaze, instead preoccupying herself with picking up the wayward books they'd knocked off of the shelves. Sees Malfoy leaning against the bookcase next to her, pressing his forehead against the dark wood of one of the shelves. He's breathing deeply, in and out, his hand clenched onto it next to him, as if frustrated. Wonders if he's already regretting it- what they'd just done. Likely does, what with him being himself, and her being- well, being her.
Finds herself looking away again, trying to focus on something other than the lingering taste of him on her tongue, of the anxiety she feels, the worry that he's going to change his mind, regret the two kisses they've shared. She keeps picking up the tomes, piling them neatly, one atop the other.
As she picks one up, one with a dark green leather cover, recognition floods her.
"Malfoy," she says, rising on slightly shaky legs from where she'd bent to pick the tomes up. He's there beside her in an instant, the flicker of a frown on his face, as if he's worried, or possibly due to the sudden change in her tone, perhaps even the regret she's worried he feels. Definitely one of the latter two, she thinks.
"What is it?" he says, his grey eyes darting down to the book in her hands. She takes a deep, stuttering breath and looks up at him.
"We've found it- the map."