Monday

Draco walked down the Ministry corridors towards the (now hidden) lift that served only the Department of Mysteries – a new security measure added after the events of the war.

His daily path from the main lifts to the hidden one was simultaneously joyful and torturous, for on his way he had to walk by the Post-War Amendments Department – a.k.a. Her department. And She was hardly ever inside her office at the time he usually walked by it, and even if she were, her door was never closed.

Draco turned left and readied himself for what would come in the next corridor, wondering as usual if She did that deliberately or if it was just a coincidence that every morning around half past eight She decided to open her door or talk to her assistant, taunting him with her presence, her eyes filling with indifference when they met his briefly as her lips bid him a good morning.

She usually kept her curls tamed in a bun on the back of her head, her choice of hairdo fully exposing the curve of her neck, teasing him with the skin he dreamed of laving with his tongue and marking with his teeth; and her curves were always clad in muggle-style clothing.

The memory had him groaning internally.

Muggle fashion was one of the best things muggles had ever invented (second only to the telly).

No billowing robes that hid everything.

No.

Muggles had a preference for tighter clothes that showcased a woman's curves or a man's fit physique.

Draco himself had foregone wizarding robes after finding out about three-piece suits and trenchcoats. The only wizarding item he still favoured was dragonhide shoes – the bovine equivalent that muggles sold just didn't have the same quality.

And female muggle clothing was something straight out of the realm of male dreams!

She, in particular, favoured tight pencil skirts and button-down blouses, with either black or skin-coloured sheer tights and high heels.

Fuck, those high heels of hers.

Draco had had many (many) dreams with Her in nothing but those high heels.

And at the end of every week, in the recent Ministry adoption of the muggle tradition known as Casual Fridays, She usually wore jeans and pretty jumpers.

And trainers.

Draco never thought he'd be panting after a woman in fucking trainers.

But Friday had become his favourite day of the week – he could admire Her in all her petite and curvy glory then.

She was more than a head shorter than him, and seeing her in trainers made him realize her head would fit perfectly under his chin, on his chest, his hands around her waist.

He turned into the next corridor, seeing the open waiting room where Her assistant sat at a small desk; he could already tell She wasn't outside of her office.

"Good Morning, Mr. Malfoy." Greeted her assistant when he slowed his pace and stopped beside her desk.

He cleared his throat discretely before replying politely: "Good morning, Miss Fawcett." He glanced into the office through the ajar door. "Is she busy already?"

"As always, sir." The girl giggled.

Draco nodded and then his eyes located Her standing near a large bookcase, looking for a book; and he immediately took notice of her choice of attire that day:

Black pencil skirt and a dark-green button-down, skin-coloured sheer tights and black high heels.

He found himself moving into Her office, before he could find a reason not to.

If she were mine I'd slam this door shut, pick her up, sit her on top of her desk and just-

"What are you doing here?" She coolly asked not even raising her head to look at him.

Draco had no idea how she knew it was him when she hadn't glanced his way.

"Morning, Granger. Bad day already?"

"It just got worse." She muttered, her eyes on a large book hovering open in front of her.

Draco lifted one eyebrow at her, "It doesn't surprise me Weaselbee only last two months. Cousin Luna is much more pleasant."

She glared at him, "If you don't have anything to do this morning, Malfoy, I can find you some work. Harry needs someone to chase down a couple of criminals – you know, people your father would call friends. Fancy seeing Uncle Rodolphus?" she sneered.

But he wasn't affected by her attempted taunt, he just tutted twice. "First, we've already established that this is not how we greet colleagues, Granger." He pointed at her unwelcoming stance, "Second, I'm must congratulate you on properly managing that mane you call hair, it looks presentable this morning." He saw her scowl at him, "Lastly, I'm not running after death eaters in dragonhide shoes."

"What do you want, ferret?" her voice heavy with annoyance.

"I need your department's assistance in a case. There has been word of ancient magical objects showing up at muggles' pawn shops again. Muggles have been injured already and, before you ask: yes, I'll be visiting some pawn shops afternoon."

"Have you warned the Aurors and the Muggle Relations Department?" She asked with a quickly glance at him.

"Not yet. I know how important it is for you to ensure we maintain a healthy relationship between muggle and magical communities. I believe-"

"You believe," She interrupted him with an annoyed sigh and the sound of her heavy book snapping shut, her eyes hard as she stared at him, "that once more, such ancient objects have come from some Twenty-Eight household and that such misplacement of heirlooms" her voice dripped sarcasm. "was done on purpose, but you don't want to investigate your own friends and have them arrested."

Draco just smiled, choosing to not point out to her that she had reached the conclusion she wanted to and that it was a far cry from the truth.

She gave her back to him and walked to her chair with the heavy book she had been reading in her hands.

Don't look at her arse. Draco mentally ordered himself. Don't look at her- fuck. He looked, feeling like a teenager who had never seen a woman in person before in his life as he admired the sway of her hips as she walked.

Such a perfect arse, so round, and those hips- he dreamed of holding on to them as he fucked a couple of babies into her.

"Malfoy?"

Shit.

She was speaking – and he had daydreamed in front of her.

"Oy!" She snapped her fingers in his direction, frowning. "Malfoy? Are you feeling alright?"

Draco cleared his throat and spoke as if nothing remotely embarrassing had happened. "Yes, Granger. I'm the epitome of health. Don't worry about me."

"I'm not worried about you!" she scoffed at that absurdity. "You can drop dead for all I care."

"Wow." He touched a hand to his chest dramatically. "You wound me, Gryffindor Princess."

She rolled her eyes. "As if you don't already know I wouldn't piss on you, were you on fire."

"Thankgoodness." He theatrically exhaled. "Not one of my kinks."

Draco Lucius Malfoy would be dead right then if glares could kill.

"Not interested in your kinks, ferret." She retorted.

"Now," he chose a patronizing tone that would annoy her further. "don't you worry that big brain of yours, Granger; swots don't really do it for me. You can keep your blouse buttons fastened – as hard as it seems to be for them not to pop open on their own."

She rolled her eyes, "The amount of times you bring up my blouse buttons makes me wonder why are you looking at them, Malfoy, since they offend your pureblood sensibilities."

"Kind of impossible not to look, Princess." He controlled the urge to lick his lips as he imagined popping each of those buttons open. "Anyway, as much as I'd like to make my preferences clear to you." He continued, "I have more pressing matters that need your attention. The case."

"Send me the file," she said, lowering her eyes to the papers on her desk, "once you finally reach your office, that is; after greeting your fans on your way down."

"Ah, so you're a fan? I knew it." He winked and immediately felt the surge of angry magic in the air, but he wasn't done with her yet: "Well, Granger." He went on. "I can't just give the case file to anyone. I'll need you to follow me and get it yourself."

"Nope. You can bring it to me before lunch." She replied, her eyes still on her papers.

"No can do." He shook his head.

"Interdepartmental envelopes then."

"Not possible, the file is too heavy for those. C'mon, Granger." Draco called, going to the door and patting his leg as if she was a stubborn pet. "Come with me."

The narrowing of her eyes let him know she was considering the consequences of hexing him right then.

Draco knew she wouldn't do anything – not inside the Ministry anyway.

So he silently watched as she accepted defeat and slowly stood up, her hands smoothing her skirt before she walked past him, not waiting for him to guide her to his office – she knew the way.

It wasn't the first time Draco had made her walk there to retrieve papers he could send her via interdepartmental envelopes – there were no weight limitations to those since they worked on (can you guess it?) magic.

But he wouldn't waste the chance to spend a few more minutes in Her presence, having her eyes on him – even if in anger.

"The Meddling Medallion?" She read out loud on the report Draco gave her.

"Yes. And the Wailing Watch. To name a few." he nodded. "Both have already caused a lot of damage to unsuspecting muggles who had no idea why they suddenly felt like controlling their friends' lives when wearing that necklace or burst into tears every time they opened that pocket watch to check the time."

"And whose were them?"

"Bulstrodes'." Then he added: "Not my friends – if you don't remember – but they're still an influential family within the Ministry-"

"Only because we have been unable to prove their involvement in the war." She glared at him as if that was his fault.

"Yes, Granger," Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and spoke in a monotone: "I'm sorry I've never witnessed Maurice Bulstrode torturing anybody. If I had paid more attention to the torturing sessions happening in the Manor I'd have had the necessary incriminating memories to give the Aurors."

She closed the file she held and looked at him in visible discomfort.

"I understood what you mean," she said, no hints of annoyance in her tone anymore. "It wouldn't be wise to launch a full-on investigations against them."

"Brightest Witch title wasn't wasted on you." Draco smirked.

She let out a long sigh and nodded, refusing to take that bait. "I'll talk to Harry about working with St. Mungus to put together a team to control the damages these items have caused and be prepared for future cursed items. And also to, discreetly, open an investigation." She held the file to her chest and stared at him. "Concerning the objects themselves, I'm sure you're capable to deal with them on your own."

"Your faith in my abilities humbles me, Granger." He nodded but kept the smirk on for he knew she found it infuriating, "I have already worked with similar cursed objects, as you know; nothing a little ancient runic knowledge can't break."

She slowly nodded and he noticed a small change in her eyes as she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth – something she always did when she wanted to ask him something.

Draco tried not to laugh in satisfaction, for he lived for those moments – revelling in how her passion for knowledge far surpassed her desire to leave his presence.

"What is it, Granger?"

"Which runic alphabet do you usually choose to break non-malignant curses? I already know you use the Carpathian Alphabet to break those."

"Yes." His smirk changing into a small smile. "But when dealing with curses that were created only cause chaos, without the intention to murder or permanently harm their victims, I think that the Lycian Alphabet does a great job."

"Lycian?" she frowned. "Where is it from?"

That's my beautiful swot. He fondly thought.

"Lycian" he explained. "was an Anatolian language spoken in what is now the Antalya region of Turkey; it began once the Lycians adopted the Greek language as their own, it is even considered and adaptation from an archaic version of the Doric Greek Alphabet."

"Sounds like a simple runic alphabet."

"Yes." He agreed. "But it's very useful for spell casting when one needs but a few simple curses broken."

"Why not just use the Futhark one?"

He felt like laughing again, Look at her lovely know-it-all-ness making her question everything.

But he controlled himself, "You already asked me that a while ago, Granger." He crossed his arms and leaned back against his desk. "Don't you remember my answer?"

She immediately quoted him in that swotty way of hers he found absolutely adorable: "Futhark used to be the chosen runic alphabet for curse-breaking, but the church messed with it when they latinised it in the 19th century – since then, it's hard to use it for different studies say different things about the translations of each rune."

"Exactly." He nodded once.

Then they were both silent, just looking at one another for a few seconds.

Draco found it impossible to tear his eyes away from her, his heart beating faster – which it usually did whenever they talked about shared interests and no spells risked being cast for a few moments.

"All our differences apart, Granger," he spoke after a while. "It's nice to discuss things with someone who truly listens."

She nodded slowly. "It's good to hear someone speak from knowledge and experience."

He couldn't let that one go unmocked; so he faked a gasp. "Was that- a compliment?"

"No." She quickly replied with an eye roll. "I'd never risk adding to your already inflated ego – it might explode and I'd have a mountain of paperwork to fill up explaining the cause of your death to the Ministry – not to mention to your mother." She waved her wand to make copy of the case file and threw the original on his desk. "Have a good day, Malfoy." And she walked out, leaving the door open.

Draco watched her walk away, down the long corridor, his eyes fixed on her arse.

And those fucking hips!