AN: Thank you all for the lovely reviews once again! There may only be this one update this week as I'll be away this weekend and likely won't have time to work on the next chapter.

Enjoy!

She thinks she might fancy Malfoy.

And she's also entirely aware how insane and reckless and awfully stupid that sounds, considering the circumstances- the, well, the fact that they have been entangled in several precariously intimate positions recently. And the fact he's Draco sodding Malfoy.

No, what Hermione means is that she might really, really like him.

Not just in an entirely physical sense.

She'd tossed and turned all night thinking everything through, and she'd resolved to simply pretend it didn't happen again, to gloss over it and ensure they both got on with the case like they damned well should be-

But then he'd burst into her office just before nine (precisely four minutes ago, now), an unbridled, unhindered look of intense accomplishment on his features, his movements slightly erratic, off-kilter for him as he practically threw his satchel onto the chair opposite her.

Startled, her eyes had shot up to him, a question already on her lips about what in Merlin's name he was doing barging into her office like he owned the place-

And then he'd explained, or rather he'd sharply announced without stopping once, that he'd found something, that he'd delved deep enough and found their missing piece of the puzzle.

He'd been so enigmatic, so competent and eloquent as he'd explained how he'd gotten to his finding, planting himself on her side of the desk, a hair's breadth away, that Hermione had felt light headed, breathless.

This is where she presently finds herself, heart beating erratically-

Malfoy's broad, tall frame towering over her. He's leaning with his hands on the table, spread out as he flicks through the files he'd dumped on her desk, his athletic muscles going taut along the bare skin of his lower arms. His lip is slightly upturned, his eyes brimming with enthusiasm.

Everything from his entrance to his posture, the way he's currently carrying himself and the way he looks-

It's sending an awful amount of butterflies to flutter inside her stomach.

He looks at her, then, his eyes still brimming with enthusiasm and he must have found what he wanted to show her because he's nudging a file in front of her, but she finds it incredibly stupidly difficult to tear her eyes away from his.

Yes, she thinks she might-

"Oh," she says, as she reads the parchment on top of the pile in the file he'd nudged in front of her, "Malfoy- Malfoy this is-"

"A link, the link between all of the victims that we've been missing," he says, and Hermione feels so elated she thinks briefly about kissing him, but then she's eliminating that thought process entirely because now is most definitely not the time.

"All of the victims were working on a research project five years ago under the Ministries supervision, in coordination with the Department of Mysteries," he continues, looking away from her and back to the file on the desk, "with the unspeakable, as the deputy lead of the project."

"What was the subject of the research project?" she asks, frowning because she's sure it isn't listed on the parchment he'd handed her.

"I hadn't actually gotten that far," he admits, his slate grey eyes skimming over her briefly, "I came over the second I found it."

His arm is almost touching her then, as he moves to pull the file closer to himself and he quickly skims a few pages ahead.

Malfoy pauses, then, and she watches as his demeanor changes entirely, suddenly. His posture stiffens, his face going incredibly, sharply blank and she realises a second too late that he's-

"Why are you occluding again?" she asks, and she realises this is the first time she's ever, ever mentioned it out loud, finds that she can't stop herself from continuing, "why are you always occluding?"

His eyes, entirely unreadable now, meet hers, brown on grey, and he shakes his head lightly, expression stern.

"Later," he says, and she doesn't argue, doesn't try to push it, mainly because she can tell, from his demeanor, the sudden shift in it, that something is wrong, something entirely serious.

Waits for him to continue, to explain what is so bad that he's felt the need to occlude so heavily that even his normally half expressive eyes are blank-

But he doesn't, not for a good number of seconds, and so Hermione pulls the file an inch over to read it for herself.

As she reads, she feels herself growing cold, an overbearing sense of terror clinging to her spine.

"No," she barely manages, "this can't be-"

"If it's a Death Eater, we know what they're trying to do," his voice is distant, hard.

Hermione feels like she can't breathe. Like a heavy stone has suddenly been dropped right onto her chest, crushing her. And her brain feels like it's come to a complete halt, frozen half way between a thought-

Because all five of the victims had worked on the veil.

They'd all worked on research of the veil, of death itself.

They were investigating ways to negate the effects of death.

And according to the document in front of them both-

The research had been successful.

Hermione doesn't realise she's reaching for him until her hand is on his arm, his skin warm and entirely too comforting. She's not sure why she has- why she's doing this, why she feels a prickle against her skin from where they're touching, why she has this overwhelming urge to comfort him, but she does.

The only indication on his face that something is amiss in this moment are his eyebrows, furrowed inwards, the rest of his face completely unreadable. And his eyes- his eyes are troubled, and it makes something uncomfortable squirm in her stomach.

He hasn't looked at her, not since he'd spoken, not even after she'd put her hand on his arm, although he hasn't pushed her away, pulled his arm away, and Hermione considers that a positive, at least. His grey eyes are carefully controlled and on the parchment before them, unwavering.

"Malfoy," she says, and he doesn't respond, doesn't reply. For a moment, she wonders if he's even breathing. Can't imagine what he must be thinking- what he must be feeling.

Merlin knows she feels like she's been hit by a freight train, and she only has the one set of direct trauma to attribute it to.

They've never discussed what happened at Malfoy Manor a handful of years ago, although Hermione has always suspected that they would, that they will. It's an inevitability she's considered, and she's not at all prepared for it.

But she knows Malfoy went through so much, perhaps even more trauma than the rest of them, during the war. Knows because she'd been there, at his trial, even if she'd only been there to support Harry, she'd heard all of the things that had happened at the Manor, happened to him.

Can't imagine what it must have been like to have him- to have Voldimort living in Malfoy's home, a place that is supposed to be intrinsically safe.

No, she doesn't know exactly how he must be feeling, but she does have an inkling. A small piece of understanding.

The thought has her standing, now, and he's still not looking at her, still hasn't moved.

She briefly thinks of what a disturbing contrast this- his stone like, troubled appearance is, as compared to the enigmatic confidence and sureness he'd exuded earlier. A stark, disturbing contrast.

"Malfoy," she says again, her own voice wavering.

Finds herself leaning forward, prying his hand from the top of the desk. Finds that he lets her, even as his limbs are stiff and unwavering. Finds herself gripping his hand in her own, and his hand is so, so much larger that it practically envelops hers, but she rather thinks his feels entirely more fragile right now, as if it's made of glass and she might shatter it if she grips it too hard.

He looks at her, then. Or rather, he looks down towards where she's entwined their hands, his milky skin a rather interesting contrast to her deep tan. His slate grey eyes rove up then, and lingers on her forearm.

It takes her half a second to realise he's looking at the spot her scar is. Where it lingers, puckered and tarnished under her shirt sleeve.

Malfoy takes a stuttered, barely there breath then and Hermione thinks it's perhaps the first full breath she's seen him take in the last several minutes.

"Now isn't the time," he says, voice entirely careful, entirely controlled, "and we'll have to revisit this soon, but just know that I'm sorry."

And he doesn't have to explain, doesn't have to elaborate. Because she knows immediately what he means, what he's saying sorry for, and he's right, they will revisit it. Hermione has a lot to say on the matter, a lot to express, and wants to tell him that he doesn't need to be sorry, that none of it, her arm, the torture, any of it was really, truly his fault.

But she doesn't, because now isn't the time.

"We need to inform Humphries and Sturgis," she replies, eyes scanning back down to the document, "and maybe even Kingsley-"

"We need to figure out if there's anyone left of that research team, they'll be at risk," Malfoy says, voice definitive, "we need to ensure they're under surveillance if so."

Hermione nods in agreement. Malfoy pauses briefly.

"Or they'll be a suspect, because they'll have some motive, will have known all of the current victims-"

"And figure out how the Mosps are involved," she adds, pursing her lips, "how do they play into all of this? Just to kill? There has to be more to it."

She thinks briefly that Harry- oh Merlin, Harry will most definitely want to be told about this, will most definitely be a wreck and she knows he'll cut his holiday short. And she will tell him, but first they've got very many pressing things to handle, things they can sort before Harry gets back-

And then the moment is broken, shattered by the weight of the situation, of what they've found. They're in motion once more, and her heart is beating erratically, they have so much to get done before, before-

She doesn't allow the thought to manifest.

They continue their discussion as she grabs her robes and Malfoy picks the folders up with his left hand. About their plan, about what needs to be done, that they need confirmation of what these Mosps can do, of who else was working on that team, a list of those interested in creature modification, all of it.

Making their way down the corridor towards the lift in a determined rush, side by side, Malfoy appears to be in a more stable mood. Or at least more put together, glossed over by their task ahead, and briefly Hermione admires him for his tenacity, for his strive to push forward, even if this case is turning out to be incredibly nightmarish, a struggle for them both.

As they near the lifts, Malfoy lets go of her hand to push the button on the panel beside it and the absence of warmth is both immensely striking and uncomfortable all at once.

Realisation dawns on her then-

That they'd held hands this entire way, that Malfoy hadn't let go of her hand, that she hadn't let go of his-

A blush begins to rise steadily on her cheeks as she looks down at her hand, the lift dinging into life, her skin where they'd touched tingling.

Yes, she thinks she might fancy Malfoy.

And it truly, utterly terrifies her.

The rest of the day is a whirlwind of intensity and activity and Hermione barely has a second to herself, let alone to think over the morning's occurrences.

Humphries had managed to pull up the list of researchers on the team. Three names had presented themselves- Wendell Nelda and Harriott Clemence, both deceased.

Unsurprising, then, that only one remained. An older wizard by the name of Norman Niphels, whereabouts currently unknown, was last seen working as a researcher at St. Mungo's. Humphries had said he would locate the wizard as soon as possible and the conviction in his tone had added to Hermione's hope that they'll locate him before the killer does.

A team had been dispatched to his location in order to retrieve him for both questioning and for his safety. Aurors had been positioned by all of the old, decommissioned entrances as a precaution and she'd floo'd Harry to let him know the situation.

She'd tried to be subtle, downplay the seriousness so that neither he nor Ginny worried, but he'd heard the brief details of the research they'd conducted on the veil and he'd been off like a shot, a look of absolute horror on his features.

Meanwhile, she'd produced a list of all wizards and witches known to be involved in the genetic modification of magical beasts and creatures. Malfoy had decided to run through Harry's case files himself, just in case they'd missed anything.

Hermione doesn't believe she has, not a single Death Eater in the file had the skills nor the capability of doing this, not at all, but she is immensely glad Malfoy is competent enough to double check anyway- and perhaps, she thinks, he'll know more than her. He was one of them some time ago, after all. A fresh perspective never hurt anyone, especially not with such a high profile case ongoing.

The two of them had worked well into the evening, looking over every facet of the case, trying to see what they might be missing.

"We know what the motive is, what they're ultimately trying to achieve," she ponders as Malfoy plops two cups of coffee onto the desk and yet another tray of mini apple pies along with them, "they're going to try to bring someone back from the dead, and it's plainly obvious who that individual is-"

She doesn't mean to see it, doesn't mean to look at Malfoy as she's speaking, but she does, and so she sees it. Sees the ripple of tension run over his shoulders, over his arms- sees him flinch at her words, just barely.

But she's been spending so much time with him that she's becoming intensely attune to his behaviours, to his tells. And so she sees it, and she doesn't comment on it.

Instead she averts her gaze, and continues her train of thought.

"But we don't know exactly how, or what they need in order to achieve it," she says, nibbling at her bottom lip. A lurch of anxiety hurtles through her stomach, "when did Humphies say he could get the detailed research report to us by?"

Malfoy sits back down into his chair across the table, folding his arms as he does so.

"Tomorrow," he replies quickly, precisely, "said it's a big ask since it was essentially an unspeakable project, but the circumstances should allow him to speed up the process."

Hermione feels herself nodding as she fiddles with her quill, and then she feels stumped, at a loss. Because they'd covered everything they possibly can at this point, and it feels entirely frustrating that everything they need is at least a day from delivery.

The only thing they can possibly do is continue researching, which she's already been doing for hours now, and what she has is certainly not enough to compare notes. At least not yet.

And so she pulls out another directory on researchers practicing in genetic manipulation and begins to read, to cross reference.

It isn't long before her earlier thoughts are weeding themselves back through her weak attempt at occlumency and she's considering the fact she might fancy Malfoy once more. That they had held hands, even, as her traitorous eyes flicker down to where his hands are gripping a quill and parchment respectively, subtle lines of his veins popping out against his creamy skin.

She turns her attention back to the directory, although she's entirely sure she's read this same name three times over now. Bugger.

And she wonders, really, she does- if Malfoy might possibly like her back, fancy her back. Her brain demands to overthrow this line of thought, because really, honestly, there should be only one response to such a notion- to laugh at how absurd it is.

But it's not absurd, is it?

He'd kissed her, first of all. He'd come after her, he'd been the one to suggest it wasn't a mistake, to instigate more of these- these salacious moments. And he hadn't let go of her hand. He'd held it for far too much time to be considered an accident.

Again, her brain urges her to be logical, that none of the previous thoughts actually make sense. Because he's Malfoy, and she's Hermione Granger, and none of the above should be considered, not them together, not at all. But she is. Wonders if he is-

Her brown eyes are back on him once more, simply just observing. He's paying her no mind, entirely engrossed it seems in the work in front of him, blonde hair tousled from where he's been running his hands through it repetitively. A stressful day. She has no doubt her own hair is a bird's nest at the present moment.

It's not an absurd notion, at all.

He could, perhaps, like her back.

Or, her brain declares with significance. Or, perhaps this is a long con. Malfoy has been known as a tyrant when it comes to messing with her, playing with her emotions and riling her up until she explodes.

Maybe, perhaps, he's just doing the same, except now he's found an entirely new way to mess with her, to draw raw and unhindered emotions from her.

This thought has her heart clenching heavily in her chest, because she really does not like the notion. Not at all.

She should ask.

No, no, that sounds like a dreadfully awful idea. No, she'll just have to analyze the situation, discern if he really means any of these things he's said, these things he's done.

Yes, she will-

"Are you having fun there, Granger?" he says, eyes not leaving the work before him, "I can practically hear the gears turning in that stupidly big brain of yours- what is it?"

And she's a rush of feelings, of embarrassment because yet again he'd caught her staring, of anger because he must have been watching her in order to know this, and unhinged, because she can't seem to control her mouth-

"Just thinking about the fundraising event," she blurts, quickly, sharply, the ghost of a blush intensifying to the point of being extremely obvious, "do you intend to go?"

Malfoy pauses, as if he hasn't expected these words from her (she definitely didn't expect it herself), and then he's leaning back into his chair again, the epitome of calm and casual.

"I hadn't planned on it," he says, voice slow, languid, and Hermione tries desperately to ignore the elaborate drop in her stomach at his words, it's not like she'd wanted him to come, of course, "what about you?"

"Oh," she replies at first because she's not sure what else to say, she hadn't even banked on starting this conversation, "Ginny is making me go- it's not exactly my kind of scene usually."

There is a brief pause then, and she can feel Malfoy's gray eyes on her face, studying her. It makes her feel as if she's under a spotlight, as if he'll know every single one of her embarrassing thoughts by just looking at her.

She ignores the pull to look away from him, to avert her gaze.

"Why don't you plan on going?" she asks, breaking the silence. He looks thoughtful, if only for half a second before a miniscule frown is gracing his lips.

"It's not my kind of place, those events," he explains, a mirror of her own response, and before she can open her mouth to question this, he continues, "before you ask, I am very aware of my heritage, of my mothers previous and current activity within these events, but I personally think they're boring and useless."

"Useless?" she questions, sitting forward in her seat, a short flare of indignation flooding her blood stream, "I can agree with you on the boring notion, but useless? These fundraising events raise millions for good causes-"

"Let me articulate better," he replies, tone sharp, yet still somehow entirely collected, "I mean to say these events are pretentious in the very worst way. None of those donors truly care about the causes they're raising money for, not at all. In fact I'd bet you several galleons they don't give a rats arse about any of them-"

And as he says this, he almost grins at her, but it is unequivocally bitter.

"I'd rather find another solution to these issues, to find a permanent fix instead of simply fundraising money every now and again. They do it for the status, Granger. For appearances sake, I'd really rather spend my time doing absolutely anything else than cavorting around with them."

Hermione feels- well, she isn't at all sure what she feels when he finishes off his sentence. Perhaps awe because she'd thought he might like such events, maybe even admiration for how eloquently he gave his side of things, even if some of it is entirely wrong.

But-

"I agree," she responds, voice sincere, "they can be quite pretentious, although I do think they do a lot of good regardless, they practically keep some of our departments open."

Malfoy's lip quirks then, just barely.

"Don't you need to bring a date for these?" he asks, voice entirely nonchalant.

Hermione finds herself staring at him, jaw slack.

"What?" she says, eyes wide.

"Mother mentioned it being a requirement- to have a plus one?" he continues, somehow leaning even further backwards in his chair, "did you want to ask me to go with you Granger?"

Hermione's brain snaps through the entire day, the realization she quite likes him, the hand holding, the thought that he might like her back, the fact he's bringing this up right now-

The thought still terrifies her, more than most things ever have. The emotions, the plausibility of any of this- and so she does the one thing she can think of.

"No, not at all," she responds quickly, flushing intensely red. Malfoy quirks his eyebrow at her again, a smirk playing at his lips as if he doesn't believe her- not at all.

She grabs one of the apple pies from between them and pops it into her mouth, resolving to say nothing.

Malfoy's smirk only grows.

"I might consider saying yes, you know," he says, twirling a quill in his hand, which she notes is actually one of hers, "if you were asking, that is."

Hermione can feel her cheeks heat further.

"Not at all," she says again, waving her hand in the air dismissively, "I really don't think I need to bring anyone, and besides, I might not even go, not with everything going on now."

He seems quite entertained by this, if the slight look of smugness on his face is anything to go by. And normally, rationally, she'd be aghast, enraged at him playing with her, for distracting them both from the horrifying reality the case is turning out to be- but his face, how sharp his features are, the glint of mischievousness in them instead has her considering how much she prefers him like this than to the cold, occluded man she'd seen earlier. Has her thinking that perhaps they both needed this moment of feeling, a back and forth after an entire day of seriousness and stress.

Or perhaps he's clouding her judgement and she's being entirely juvenile when she should be focusing on the task at hand-

Has her heart stuttering, stomach flipping, face reddening.

Bugger.

She really fancies Malfoy.