Caught in a bizarre middle ground between frowning and grinning, Hermione reread the meeting summons in her hands. Was it anxiety-inducing or thrilling? Perhaps a little of both. This was the kind of moment, one of few in her life, that made her yearn for companionship. She didn't miss Ron, not specifically, but she did miss having someone to talk through her day with, to share a bottle of wine and a bit of intimacy after long days spent at the office. Or, when the culmination of years' worth of work looked like it might finally come to fruition.

Hermione was ambitious, not a robot. Her Ministry career was picking up speed; her standardization proposals for pre-magical education would hopefully soon find their way to magical Ministry desks all across Europe. Despite that professional progress, she certainly had her moments, more frequently as of late, where she wanted to share her successes with someone.

She refused to believe wanting something like that made her any less of a modern, professional witch.

With a glance at her clock, she rose and headed for her supervisor's office, ready to learn the final word on whether her reforms would find an international audience.

She mentally prepared herself for one of the two eventualities. Either her travel proposals had been greenlit and Hermione would soon be meeting with foreign Ministry officials to further promote her standardization efforts, or her work wasn't strong enough to justify the expense of sending her abroad to lobby its value.

Hermione hadn't prepared for—and really, how could she have even begun to prepare for something this absurd—Draco Malfoy sitting in her supervisor's office.

Hermione hadn't been in the same room as Draco Malfoy for years. At most, they shared polite eye contact and an occasional nod when passing each other in the Ministry corridors. According to many of her colleagues, he was a perfectly respectable employee, matured and mellowed from the snippy child and teenager he'd once been.

She didn't even know which department he worked for, just that she sometimes saw him about.

As such, finding Draco Malfoy in her four o'clock meeting regarding what was hopefully her robust travel schedule for the next several months came as quite the shock.

"I understand you and Mr. Malfoy are acquainted," her supervisor said as a greeting, ushering Hermione to take a seat.

"We were," Hermione said, "years ago."

She glanced at where Malfoy sat beside her.

With the surprise of his presence having fully processed, Hermione's focus caught on other, equally unusual things about him.

He wore a three piece suit like they were attending a gala, not a midday meeting on a Thursday afternoon. He was wildly overdressed.

Aggravatingly, he wore it well. His deep navy suit jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a crisp French blue button up beneath his matching navy waistcoat. With one leg casually crossed over the other, ankle resting on his knee, it appeared Draco Malfoy was the kind of man who matched his shoe leather to his belt. It wasn't surprising in the slightest, though it had an interesting effect on Hermione's heart rate. A rush of appreciation for a well-tailored suit.

"Mr. Malfoy will be accompanying you to Portugal next week. Congratulations Hermione, the Portuguese Ministry would like to know more about your proposals."

What should have been heart-swelling pride caught on a fresh wave of surprise, cresting white caps of confusion.

"He's—why?" Her tone probably could have stood to sound a little nicer.

"He'll be acting as your interpreter."

Hermione blinked and finally tore her eyes from the deep navy button sitting undone near Malfoy's collarbones. "What about translation spells?"

Malfoy cleared his throat. "Translation spells lack much of the nuance that live language interpretation offers. And it's my understanding that you'll be spending some time in the Muggle world—scouting blendable locations for pre-magical education opportunities, was it?" Malfoy directed the tail end of his question at Hermione's supervisor, who nodded. "Muggles don't respond particularly well to translation charms; they're off putting and tend to raise suspicions."

Hermione marveled at the assuredness with which Malfoy spoke, his apparent familiarity with Hermione's supervisor, and the irritating logic in everything he said.

Her supervisor smiled and added, "I have high hopes for this project, Hermione. You've put in far too much work for something as silly as a finicky translation spell to jeopardize your meaning. Mr. Malfoy will be a tremendous asset to the project."

"I—thank you," she said, remembering that manners and professionalism should have a place somewhere amongst her bafflement. She'd had no idea Draco Malfoy spoke Portuguese. Surprise had completely fogged over her higher thinking skills, dousing her in a terribly unprofessional stupor.

She snapped out of it.

"Thank you, Draco," she said, turning to him with what she hoped was her best no-nonsense-but-not-too-cold expression. "I—well, I suppose I'll see you there."

—

She knew she was being ridiculous, but Hermione spent far too much time picking out clothes for her Lisbon trip.

For the first time in a very long time, she spent an afternoon in Diagon Alley shopping for something other than books or gifts. She came home with three new sheath dresses, a new pair of shoes, and a new lingerie set because there was very little in the world that gave her the strange, unassuming power of knowing she was coordinated from head to toe.

Malfoy probably had a monogram on his underthings. If she was going to keep up and not be outshined in her own meetings, she needed to play the part. It was ridiculous, but the sense of competition kept her from poring over her proposals for what could only be described as an unhealthy length of time.

Landing in Lisbon via portkey, Hermione refreshed the cushioning charm on her new heels and thanked her foresight to opt against hosiery. It was dreadfully hot and humid.

She saw neither hide nor hair of Draco at the hotel and could only assume he planned to meet her at the Portuguese Ministry.

He did, standing at the visitor's entrance in a deep chocolate, double-breasted suit. His gold suit buttons matched the hardware on his belt, his watch, and the sunglasses peaking out of his breast pocket. He was obscenely well coordinated and Hermione had never felt so strangely relieved in her life that her bra matched her knickers.

"Portkey arrived alright?" Draco asked in greeting, handing over a visitor's badge he'd apparently acquired for her.

"It did, thank you." Hermione smoothed the front of her peach-colored dress. If she focused on her outfit, silly and superficial as it was, she didn't feel quite so overwhelmingly nervous.

"You look dressed to impress," he said, nodding in the direction of a corridor beside them. "Shall we?"

His compliment had a stronger effect than the weather, heating her from the inside out. Delivered so casually and with such nonchalance, it had to be sincere. Hermione received praise for her professional work on a regular basis. It was surprisingly refreshing to be complimented on something more personal, even if it was just her ensemble.

Just like that, three days passed in a blur of intense work discussing education, reform, and standardization practices, all through the lens of two different governmental bureaucracies. All the while, Draco Malfoy spoke easily, beautifully even, in a language she did not know. He spoke for her and to her, a single fulcrum on which her entire project balanced.

It required a strangely intimate level of trust, assuming he wouldn't willfully mistranslate her, that he accurately interpreted a conversational ebb and flow.

It was irritatingly fascinating too, having him focus so acutely on her every word, pause for a beat, and then spin her intentions into a different language. If Hermione allowed herself the moment of indiscretion, she might have described it as a rush. A completely inappropriate rush, but a rush all the same.

By the time their last meeting concluded, after a never ending procession in board rooms and restaurants and over potential real estate opportunities, Hermione had almost grown used to the way Malfoy's voice sounded in a language foreign to her own ear.

Her Portuguese counterparts ended their final meeting with only positive things to say about Hermione's work. It left her feeling hot and flushed in the late summer heat, but also undeniably pleased, thrilled with a sense of accomplishment. Her first international proposal had gone startlingly well. She beamed at Draco as he relayed their colleague's satisfaction with her work.

"I noticed a wine bar," Draco started, suit jacket slung over his shoulder because apparently it was too warm even for Draco Malfoy's impressive sartorial choices. "It's near our hotel. We should celebrate, don't you think?"

Hermione said yes with disturbing quickness, already drunk on her own success, and disproportionately interested in the way Malfoy's dark sunglasses hung from the unbuttoned vee of his shirt collar, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, and offering to celebrate her successes.

He was a completely different person from the version she'd once known. Or perhaps just older. Separated from a war by time and maturity and a literal body of water.

Some days, Hermione felt like an entirely different person too.

Maybe they could be different people together.

—

"I didn't know the Ministry hired interpreters," Hermione said over her second glass of a Spanish red she'd let Draco order for her. He spoke the language after all. It was a big wine, heavy, blooming on her tongue and warming her palate. It was nice. Everything about her evening was turning out quite nice.

"It's a small group of us. Bit old fashioned, because you were right, translation spells work well enough most of the time." His posture shifted in the small booth they'd snagged near the back of a dim wine bar. He faced her more fully. "But for a Hermione Granger project? Only the best."

Her grip tightened around the stem of her wine glass. An unwelcome self-consciousness flooded her.

"Are you making fun of me?" she asked, well past the phase of her life where she minced words or ran with assumptions.

"Not at all. I'm the best, you see. Can't insult you without insulting myself too. And as I'm sure you can imagine, I would never."

Relief was instantaneous, known in a single chuckle through a sip of her wine. "You're the best, are you?"

"I speak five languages. Read a few more."

"Five?"

"Five. It's ironic, actually. You're out here helping to reform how the Wizarding world looks at early education and here I am, a product of some of those very old fashion ways."

A loaded pause followed.

"I didn't mean—" he started, tabling his wine. He turned even more fully towards her, close in a cramped booth. "I didn't mean—not those ways. Though yes, I suppose those, too."

"No, I know. I know what you meant."

"While you were probably learning about maths and grammar and what have you, I was learning languages and genealogies. There exists a bit of a pureblood premium on polyglots, you know."

"That's a strangely specific thing."

"Makes for easier marriage matches, I'm told."

"Oh gods. And here you are, putting those marriageable skills to use for the government. How subversively bureaucratic of you."

Draco smiled, reaching for his wine again. "My parents are quite literally appalled." His statement carried with it a far-too-pleased gleam of mischief. He smiled like the idea delighted him.

Hermione let herself relax into the crushed velvet booth, let herself enjoy that she'd just had a triumphant week of work in a beautiful city with a surprisingly pleasant companion.

In what world did Hermione Granger enjoy Draco Malfoy's company?

A foreign one, literally.

"So what are the five?" she asked, spearing and olive from their charcuterie spread.

"The five?"

"Languages. Dumb doesn't suit you. I know very well you're clever."

"Hermione Granger complimenting my intelligence? What a week this has been."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but clinked her wine glass to his in a cheers anyway. "What a week, indeed. And don't distract. What are they? English and Portuguese obviously. What are the other three?"

Draco's grin was sly, shadowed in dim lighting and backtracked by the soft swell of jazz music floating through overhead speakers. Hermione hadn't realized this was a Muggle bar before Draco brought her here. She shouldn't have been surprised by his willingness to patronize it, but couldn't deny the small shock all the same.

"I'm sure you'll find out eventually," he said.

"Seriously? You're not going to tell me?"

That devilish grin only grew, introducing her to Draco Malfoy's dimples. "I certainly can't tell you now. Not when you want to know so badly."

"That's obscenely childish." She hoped her huff sounded annoyed, above his little game.

"It's delightful. I can't imagine a better position than to be the object of a mystery Hermione Granger wants to get to the bottom of. I have a few tattoos, too. Don't think I'll tell you about those either."

Hermione's jaw opened and closed, hinging in such an unbecoming manner that she had to reach for her wine just so she had something to do with her mouth.

Alternative things she might do with her mouth, now that the wine had settled in her system, included pressing it to Draco's pulse point just over his unbuttoned, relaxed collar. Maybe trying to spot one of those alleged tattoos.

Hermione searched herself, expecting revulsion, or at the very least confusion, over such a lustful jolt hijacking her higher thinking; she found none. Draco had been lovely and pleasant and productive all week. He picked out an excellent glass of wine and was presently looking extremely fit.

Hermione required conversation to keep her thoughts solidly above board. "You know, the more I think about it, the more I think I like the idea that the Ministry still employs interpreters."

"Delighted to have your stamp of approval."

"Don't push your luck, lest I be forced to reconsider my opinion. Did you know translation spells are really difficult for those who are hard of hearing or deaf? I work with another Muggleborn on financials for my proposals. You might know her, Mabel Butler?"

Draco shook his head, focus entirely fixed on Hermione as she spoke. It was thrilling, having a devoted conversational partner. She felt herself flushing, a rush beneath her skin she hoped wasn't visible. "Anyway," she continued, "she's said she prefers sign language a lot of the time, especially because it's more familiar to her. So. Yes, I think it's good the Ministry doesn't rely exclusively on translation spells. They can't do everything."

"No," Draco started slowly. "No, they can't. Perhaps you ought to invent a better one. Put me out of a job."

"But then wouldn't your parents be so pleased? I've had enough wine to admit I'm still holding a bit of a grudge there. I'd hate to do anything that made them happy."

"And what about me? Still holding a bit of a grudge for me too?" His tone lowered, gaze drifting from Hermione's face to his wine glass.

Hermione didn't hesitate, entirely honest with her response. "Not at all."

His gaze remained fixed on his glass a moment longer. "I'm glad to hear it," he finally said.

Hermione smiled; she was glad too.

—

Eventually the wine bar closed, and the night seemed insistent on enforcing an expiry on what had been a lovely evening, yawning late with rich wines and richer conversation.

Hermione walked with Draco back to their hotel, winding through the streets of Lisbon while experimenting with unfamiliar bursts of affection and attraction. She had no outlet for these things beyond stolen glances and lingering touches. With wine buoying her confidence, she indulged: letting her fingers trail along Draco's hand as they walked, leaning into him when they paused before crossing a street, winding her arms around his waist when he did the same to hers.

Such indulgences were how she found herself kissing him beside a lovely fountain, trickling water as a soundtrack for when she threaded her fingers through his soft hair.

When she indulged more, wine-stained lips pressed to his, drunk on something entirely different, she learned the effort she'd put into her wardrobe for this trip had thoroughly paid off. At least, she presumed as much from the way Draco's fingers wandered, slipping up and down the soft fabric, tracing her spine, daring to dip lower. He mumbled something about lean legs and short dress against her lips.

She informed him that her wardrobe was perfectly within Ministry attire guidelines while she dragged her hands down the front of his crisp shirt, memorizing the muscles beneath.

What should have been a five minute walk between the bar and their hotel turned into a sprawling twenty-five, with periodic pauses when the want for touch became too strong to withstand.

Hermione sighed against her hotel door, body pinned by Draco's sure and strong form.

"I'm very tempted to invite you in," she said, dragging her hands through his hair again. He looked distinctly disheveled, unkempt. A surge of pride told her she'd done that to him; Hermione owned that ruddy bloom on his lips, had coaxed it there with her own.

"I'd be very tempted to take you up on it if you did," Draco mumbled against the skin just beneath her ear, lips and tongue and teeth still working her up into a warm, languid mess. His fingers skimmed her ribs, seemingly choosing points at random to add pressure, to knead and flex against her waist.

"We've had quite a lot of wine."

"We have," he agreed. "And my return portkey leaves first thing tomorrow." His hands slowed, mouth too. He was still all over her, overwhelming her, but in a slower way that suggested an eventual cessation.

"You should probably get some sleep then," Hermione said, finding herself staunchly in opposition to the suggestion even as she made it.

"I should. You should too."

Neither of them moved. They lingered close, dosing themselves with small but greedy touches.

Hermione kissed him again when he began to pull away, seeking just a bit more. In another world, another country, she might have been embarrassed by the way her hips canted against Draco's thigh, pinned to her hotel door where any other guest could spot her. But as it stood, kissing Draco transported her to a different world, one that favored kissing over breathing, over dignity.

When he finally left and Hermione let herself into her hotel room, she required a moment to catch her breath, to take her pulse, to assess the raw, irritated skin on her chin from such prolonged kissing with a man well past a five o'clock shadow.

She slid into bed, slipping her fingers into her knickers, and gave into an orgasm bound to the memory of Draco's touch, of how surprising and delighting it had been.

The next morning, Hermione found a note slid beneath her hotel door. She wasn't personally familiar with Draco's handwriting, but could only assume the neat, narrow script belonged to him.

Querida, it said. That was the best night I've had in years. Thank you.