A/N: A fun little story for you, which I wrote as a break while I continue to work on book two of my Intertwined series. I hope you enjoy! This work is meant to be two chapters, and the second chapter will include a cute bit of fluff and smut, so I've reflected the tags accordingly. Would love to hear what you think of this first chapter!

It started with a blouse.

Royal blue. Silky. Satin buttons down the front. It wouldn't have mattered if she had kept on her blazer, but it was August, after all. She had a harassed look about her eyes. It must be a busy day.

But Merlin, was that shirt thin. Ruinous, the way it pooled around her bosom and gathered at her waist.

Draco swallowed.

"Curse Breaker—" she looked up at him from the appointment book, as if to check, "—Malfoy. What is it this time?" Her lips twisted into a smile that belied her annoyed tone.

He stepped up, tooling his features. "Just a simple portkey."

Hermione huffed. "It's never simple if they've sent you to me. Tell me." She was leaning over the massive appointment tome still, writing in the notes column. Just enough buttons on her blouse were undone to give Draco an outstanding view of her cleavage.

"Just a cross-continental. Basic. Routine." He heard himself say and threw in a smirk for good measure.

She cocked her head to the side. "Which continent?"

"Asia."

Her eyes narrowed. She straightened up, set her jaw, and he tried and failed not to let his gaze sink to that betraying button, which delighted him with a hint of her perfectly round—

"Fine," he blurted out. "It's within the Arctic circle."

"I see."

Of course she did. She was the resident charms expert at the Ministry for a reason. She likely knew instantly that he needed a portkey that would withstand extreme temperature, electromagnetic interference, and magical degradation from the unstable vortices at the pole.

She eyed him up and down. His robes were immaculate, he knew. He checked them before coming in.

"One of these days, Malfoy, you're going to come here and ask for something not even I can do." She paused.

He frowned as the pause stretched on.

"Luckily for you, that day isn't today. Come back in an hour."

"Granger, I'm on rather a tight schedule—"

"As am I, but that doesn't make the permit arrive any faster. No permit, no charm." She smirked and crossed her arms over her chest, blocking his glorious view.

He rolled his eyes then withdrew a pink slip from his breast pocket. He held it out to her and waited. There was a glint there—something, something, in the slant of her eye and the flick of her lash.

She snatched up the slip and turned away muttering about wasted time.

Were she not wearing a skirt that hugged her hips and backside in all the right ways, he may have had a retort. Instead, his tongue turned leaden. His throat tightened for good measure, making sure when he tried to to speak, only an odd clicking sound came out.

"I get it," Hermione snapped without turning, "you're busy. Give me a Godric forsaken second."

Draco, not sure what else to do, hummed in acknowledgement. Hermione had chosen that exact moment to bend over and begin rifling through a drawer. He sucked in a sharp breath through the nose. His view felt indecent, even though her outfit was the picture of demure. A gentleman would not be staring. He licked his lips but did not lower his eyes.

Finally, she found what she was looking for. Hermione spread a large roll of parchment over the desk and peered at it. Her fingers danced across the page erratically. A map? She tapped a particular spot, straightened up, and pointed her wand at some small object. The room glowed blue.

Nonverbal, huh. He wanted to whistle at the complexity and was almost surprised she didn't do it wandless.

She turned around and levitated a small package wrapped in brown paper to him.

"There. Now, was that so bad? See what a little patience can do?"

"Granger," he growled, "I have patience like you've never seen." He had no idea what he was suggesting, but he hoped to the gods she understood.

She scoffed. "Right." With that, she turned on her heel and headed around the corner into what he had always assumed was her private office.

Rooted to the spot, Draco ran his fingers through his hair. Get a sodding grip, he told himself. He made his slow, winding way out of the Ministry and across town to his office, not once letting the thought of thin, blue silk slip from his mind.

Hermione slammed the ledger shut with a huff. Reviewing every cursed object that the various teams of Aurors collected was just one of her many side projects. Making challenging portkeys was another. As was correcting and filing mountains of paperwork. In fact, she reflected, more and more of her day was being filled with side projects no one else had the charms skills, analytical skills, or working pace to handle. Being brilliant was exhausting.

"I need a drink," she muttered to her office walls. Ginny and Harry had both been begging her to come round to The Leaky Cauldron for weeks. Their extended group of friends had a standing Friday night meet up, which she joined in about once a month. She checked her watch: 8 o'clock.

A sigh huffed out as Hermione realized her decision was already made. The food wasn't great, but it was warm, and the alcohol was effective. It took her several minutes to lock everything away in her office then take the lift back up to the Atrium. After that, she was just a short floo ride away. There was a straight connection between the Ministry and The Leaky, so she didn't bother with stopping at home first like she usually would. Her business suit would stick out like a sore thumb with the evening crowd, but after the exhausting day she had, she hardly cared.

The world spun harshly until Hermione landed on two feet. She vanished a few specs of ash off her clothes. Familiar sights and sounds surrounded her in comfort. Why did she always avoid these gatherings?

"Hermione!"

She was engulfed in a bear hug. Ron. She returned the hug just as tightly. Judging by the smell of firewhiskey on his breath, he was already a few drinks in.

"I can't believe you came! We're over here."

Ron took her by the hand and led her to a table where Harry, Ginny, Seamus, and Dean were already seated.

"Thank Merlin you're here," Ginny said with no preamble. "I'm sick of this sausage fest. It's nothing but quidditch, broomsticks, and pissing contests over here."

"Oi!" said Seamus. "You're the one who keeps bringing up quidditch!"

"So? I want to talk about something girly, like fashion or periods."

"Godric's saggy left nut, Ginny! I don't want to hear about your monthly," Ron bellowed.

"What's wrong, Ronald, not comfortable with a woman's body?"

"No! Just not yours. Ech!"

Harry chuckled as Ron and Ginny continued. He leaned in towards Hermione. "You doing okay?" he asked in a hushed tone.

Hermione started. "Yeah, of course I am. Why do you ask?"

He poked her shoulder pad. "I've just never seen you come straight here from the office. Don't you have a lecture on comfort you like to give?" He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Ohh, right," she looked down at her suit and shrugged off her blazer. "I just really need to eat. I skipped lunch. Save my seat, will you?"

Harry nodded and shooed her off in the direction of the bar.

A chorus of cheers erupted to her left as she made her way up. Tom's latest unfortunate hire delivered a round of free drinks to a nearby table—evidently the wrong table judging by the shouting from other side of the room. Tom rushed about pouring new drinks then cuffed the lad across his ears before handing him a new tray and pointing towards the shouting patrons.

"What'll it be, Miss?" Tom turned and asked her with a strained smile. Hermione had told him to use her first name a dozen-dozen times, yet still he called her "Miss."

A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "Whatever you've got that's hot to eat and a mug of spiced mead, please, Tom."

"Right you are, Miss. We've got a—"

The door opened, Hermione glanced up, and her mind stuttered to a halt. Tom's menu, the din of the crowd, and even the music was drowned out by the pounding in her ears. Making their way in was a now-familiar trio: Draco, Theo, and Blaise. They had been present at many of the Friday nights, and after a while, they all had acclimated to the addition of sharp humor, expensive drinks, and stuffy pureblood clothing. Except tonight. Draco had changed from his formal work attire and was wearing a simple button up, no tie, cuffed sleeves, and Muggle jeans. Hermione had never seen him dressed so casually—not even at Hogwarts. He wore it like a second skin, like each piece was made just for him (which she later reflected they probably were), and the result was breathtaking. Literally. She had to remind herself to breathe. The room grew to sweltering, and she moved to shrug off her blazer when her fingertips met only soft silk. She looked down at her royal blue blouse, then back up to Draco whose eyes had locked onto her.

Time shifted, and the pub froze around them. In unison, their eyes raked down the other's body, then back up to meet once again. She had no doubts that the heat in his eyes was reflected in her own. She felt drawn to him, physically, like he had figured out a way to cast Accio on a living person, and his magic was compelling her to move towards him. And apparently vice versa, as Malfoy surged forward, then tripped.

Their eye contact broke. Hermione's ears filled with laughter, scraping chairs, shouts and jeers, and the roaring fire. Draco righted himself and turned to glare at Theo, who was laughing at something Blaise had said. She took her chance to escape and rushed back to their table before the Slytherin trio could reach her at the bar.

What the hell was that?

Hermione shook her head to clear it and reflected she must be tired indeed to have her heart rate fluttering because of Draco sodding Malfoy, prat extraordinaire and ruiner of perfectly good afternoons with his rude quips and outlandish requests. He really was a thorn in her side whenever he showed up at her department. Whatever he needed always meant very complex charms (which were a bit fun, if she were being honest) that were likewise accompanied by a stack of paperwork to file or legal hoops to jump through or, more often, both. All of which, she knew, were granted with exception because of Malfoy money and influence at the Ministry.

She scowled and sunk into her chair beside Harry.

"FINE," Ginny shouted at Ron. "I'll keep my non-quidditch topics to fashion only." She practically spat the last word in his face. Then, she turned to Hermione with a look so fierce that Hermione shrank back. "Tell me about this beautiful blouse you're wearing and why I've never seen it before." The question would have been welcome if it weren't said through gritted teeth.

Hermione blinked. "Oh. Er. It's a gift from my—"

A mug of spiced mead was plunked down directly in front of her as the chair on her other side pulled back.

"—mum."

Draco filled the vacant seat and had apparently bought her a drink.

"How did you know?" she couldn't stop herself from asking.

He turned to face her, and her stomach gave a little jump. "Know what?" he asked with one quirked brow. One perfectly arched brow that made the rest of his face look just a little bit mischievous and all too full of suggestion.

No—not suggestion—prattiness.

"My order," she supplied in a breathy way that made her grimace inside.

His face transformed into a delighted smirk. "Why, Granger, how deep in are you that you could order yourself a drink and forget about it less than a minute later?"

Hermione felt a flush heat her cheeks. "Prat," she mumbled as she took her mug and turned towards Harry, someone she actually liked.

"Sorry, didn't catch that."

Her blood pressure started to rise. Harry's eyes flicked between hers and Draco behind her. "Oh boy," he muttered, then he clamped his lips into a thin line. Harry was a smart man. Draco was not.

She whirled around. "I said you're a prat. No, I'm not drunk, Malfoy. Someone occupied my entire afternoon with a ridiculous portkey request that clearly must not have been urgent after all if you're here, but regardless resulted in tonsof paperwork for me, making me miss my lunch break if I wanted to leave at any reasonable time on a Friday night. Which, by the way, I did not! Instead, I had to work late to catch up on the rest of my responsibilities, and now I'm here in my work clothes, tired, hungry, and waiting to get my first meal and drink of the day. Because. Of. YOU."

Hermione punctuated the last point with a poke to his chest. She took a deep breath and found she was leaning in so close to Draco that their noses were inches away from brushing. He didn't pull back or protest. Instead, he looked like he might want to lean in closer. No, that can't be right.

She could feel her magic crackling under her skin. She shifted back just in time for the fumbling waiter to miss her head and set down a dish of warm stew on the table in front of her. Next came a roll with a thick slab of butter.

Draco's eyes had blown wide, but as she watched him, they narrowed and hardened.

"Gringott's rescheduled my departure one hour ago. I don't waste people's time." He said this as if it was a satisfactory reply, and his tone left no room for further discussion. He turned away from her.

Hermione frowned.

"Harry, what about you? You in for the Cannons game— i-in two weeks?" Ron's voice faltered at the end, apparently just noticing the tension on the other side of the table.

"Not on your life," replied Harry jovially. "Ginny's playing that weekend, too, and I wouldn't miss her game for all the galleons in the world."

Ginny threw him a spectacular grin.

"Have it your way. Hermione?"

She looked up. "Really? You want me there?"

"Course I do! You're my best mate, too."

"Can I bring a book?"

The aghast look on his face was the exact reaction she had hoped for. Ron erupted into a lecture on the importance of paying attention during a quidditch match. Funny, she thought, how Ron lectured more than she did when he drank.

Hermione smiled and tucked into her meal.

After a few minutes and several good bites of stew—seriously, either Tom's food is improving, or I was way hungrier than I thought—the headache Hermione never realized she had lifted, and the room brightened. She took a long pull of her mead, and as she set down her mug, her arm brushed against Draco's resting on the table beside her. To her surprise and complete wonderment, neither of them pulled away.

Tuesday afternoon found Draco at the Ministry of Magic again, registering his haul from his Arctic trip.

"Mr. Malfoy, sir, I don't understand," the clerk was babbling at him.

"What's the confusion?" he snapped. "I need every form you sad sods have to file related to this registry, not just the normal initiation form."

"But, sir, we don't require you to fill those out—"

"Well, someone does."

"Yes, of course, but we have assigned Ministry workers just for that occasion. A curse breaker such as yourself—"

"Enough." Draco's blood was beginning to boil. This clerk was too thick for his own good. Draco knew he was going to regret this. He grit his teeth and asked, "Do any of these forms cross the desk of Hermione Granger, or do they not?"

"M-miss Granger?"

Draco wanted to slap the stutter right out of the man's mouth. "Yes. Hermione Granger: war heroine, beloved member of the Golden Trio, and a women whose time is far more valuable than mine. Ring any bells?"

The attendant swallowed. "Every curse-related paper crosses Miss Granger's desk, sir."

Draco sighed. She had been right after all. "Give them to me," he said with sharp command. "I'll handle it myself."

It took several apology-filled, nerve-grating minutes, but Draco finally held a stack of forms three-quarters of an inch high. He groaned. This many forms for one magical artifact? Granted, it was a before-undiscovered Viking relic with entirely unknown magical properties, seemingly straight out of legend, and requiring significant testing before it would be fully cleared for sale. The curse breaking he had already handled for himself (obviously), and his frown deepened as he flipped through to a curse breaking tracker that needed a mind-numbing level of detail.

Fuck me. I should just leave this all to Granger.

The clerk looked even more alarmed, if that were possible, when he asked to be led to a vacant desk to complete the paperwork. After the man stuttered his way through Draco's request to his supervisor, Draco was led to a small private office "usually for foreign ministry visitors or ambassadors," as the clerk explained. He was then left in peace with his mountainous stack. Choosing not to stand on ceremony, he pulled off his robes, leaving him in just his trousers, dress shirt, and tie, and got to work.

After three neck-breaking hours, Draco stretched, stood up, collected his packet, and returned to the clerk's desk. Of course the man had left for the day. Draco growled aloud, his frustration bubbling over. Looking down at his neat stack, he thought over his options: either find a place to leave the forms now, or return and deliver them later himself. Possibly straight to Granger herself? His mind wandered as he imagined Hermione receiving his stack in a neatly labeled folder, just like she liked it. Her eyes would widen, her lips would part in wonder, and her breath would hitch. Maybe, when she got a look at his impeccable penmanship and grammar, she would flash him a dazzling smile and lean over to share in a low, conspiratorial voice that his forms were better than any Ministry worker's. That he was better. Of course he was. Perhaps he would tell her the many other things he was skilled at and offer to show her more over a bottle of wine.

A crash sounded behind him. Draco whirled around, wand in one hand, fresh folder in the other (When had he pulled that out of the clerk's desk?), and robes still draped over his arm.

A ministry janitor in his blue uniform jumpsuit stood, back to Draco, levitating trash from the small bins in the room into his larger one. Draco looked down at his stack of papers, then to the folder still held out in front of him, then back to the bins. Ignoring his own folly, he grabbed a pen off the clerk's desk.

Within seconds, Draco was striding across the Atrium, stack of forms secured in its labeled folder, all tucked neatly under his arm.

This place will be the death of me.

Draco lamented for the days when coming to the ministry gave him no feelings beyond the annoyance of a chore. Or better yet, the days when he didn't even have to step foot in this wretched—

THWACK!

Someone pummeled into him. Draco careened to one side, slipped, almost toppled. Papers flew everywhere.

After two stuttering steps, he planted his feet. Hundreds of sheafs fluttered to the ground and settled around him. Draco took a deep, steadying breath. Then, he rounded on them, this monumental idiot who, in a matter of seconds, destroyed several hours of hard work.

"What is wrong with you!? Can't you look where you're going!?" A strangled cry followed this, which surprised Draco mostly because none of it came from his mouth.

"What?" he asked stupidly.

"Oh," she gasped.

Hermione.

Shit.

The mess of papers around him was far too much to have come from his single folder. He stifled a groan at the realization of what would come next.

With the speed and confidence that could only belong to Hermione Granger, she whipped out her wand and cast, "Accio Hermione's forms."

His heart sank. Every page flew into the air, organized itself in the right order with its companions, and landed in an overlarge stack in Hermione's waiting arms.

She hesitated, eyeing the stack and bouncing her arms to test its weight.

"Did you— No, you can't have," she muttered to herself.

Of course he knew her confusion. She had summoned her own forms, and why on earth would Draco be carrying her forms? Only if he were an idiot, making a needless gesture that he now realized he had no good way of explaining. Should he leave and just allow his forms to be mixed in with the others? They would end up with her eventually. He wasn't looking for credit.

"Apologies, Granger, I didn't even see you walking."

She pinched the corners of her significantly larger stack and ignored him.

"I'll take my leave then, if you're all right."

She had begun flipping through the stack at random. Her teeth sunk into the flesh of her lower lip, and Draco wondered what it would be like to do that himself. He loosened his tie.

"Malfoy," her brow was taught, but she kept her eyes on her page, "did you… fill out my forms?"

His eyes snapped to her current page, which was covered in his handwriting. Panic reared up inside him.

"What kind of a question is that?" he asked with a pathetic imitation of his old sneer.

"Is this your writing? All the rest of these I did myself. But, I don't understand. Why would you be doing these?"

She looked at him, then around at the Atrium, then back at him with a small start.

"What are you doing here so late? We don't allow visitors past business hours usually."

Draco sighed. This was clearly a last resort scenario.

"I don't like wasting people's time," he said evenly.

The look on her face was a thing to behold as her features rearranged from confusion to realization to shock to indignation in the span of two heartbeats.

"I am perfectly capable of doing my own job!"

He set his jaw. "Obviously."

"Then what gives, Malfoy?"

He ran his hands through his hair, then regretted it as her eyes tracked his movement. He knew better than to muss up his hair. "Control your movements," his mother had always said, "Occlumency is for the mind, but you have control of your body." He was never very good at suppressing nervous ticks.

"It was a thank you, for the portkey and the," he waved his hand inarticulately, "extra work."

"That's my job," she said through gritted teeth. "I don't need anything besides my pay to do it."

"Your job. And, how many others do you cover?"

"That's beside the—"

"It's exactly the point. Why are you upset to receive a little gratitude and help?"

"Because I didn't ASK for it. Your presumption that I need help is unwelcome."

"Fine. Consider it a one-time thing."

"Fine."

"Fine," he echoed needlessly.

Her lip quirked up into that stifled smile he liked so much.

His eyes traced down her body. She was wearing a smart pantsuit today—grey pinstripes with a burgundy blouse. Her hair was pulled back into a low bun with curls escaping in all directions, but her clothes were as fresh as if they had just been pressed. He wondered how wrinkled they might get piled on his floor.

His smirk came naturally. "I need a drink. How do you do this every day?"

She smiled a crooked smile at him. "Drinking helps."

Confidence surged through him. He reached out and hefted her stack of forms from her arms. "Well, then. First round's on me."