Malfoy was waiting for her the next morning. He was lounging irreverently in a conjured armchair, looking for all the world like she had just wandered into his office.
"Good morning, Granger. I'm glad you could finally make it."
Her eyes darted over to Luna's fish bowl clock. Its longest hand indicated only a few minutes past 9 o'clock; admittedly later than her usual arrival time (she preferred to be at least ten minutes early), but certainly nothing to sniff at. She couldn't help a scowl from curling her lips as Malfoy closed the door behind her with a brisk flick of his wand.
"Please, have a seat." He nodded to the chair on the other side of the desk. Her chair.
"This is my office, Malfoy," she replied tartly, frustrated that, in order to sit, she had to comply. Her handbag hit the floorboards with a dull thud that was not nearly satisfying enough.
Malfoy simply regarded her over the top of his papers as though she were a first year in to see the Head of House. "Do you want to hear what I've uncovered, or not? I suppose if you're not interested, I could always leave the investigation to you…" He began to rise meaningfully from the plush armchair, and Hermione swallowed her pride. It went down like a spoonful of cinnamon.
"Go on."
A show was made of straightening his papers, every movement dripping with smugness. Hermione felt her eyelid begin to twitch.
"Graham Montague is still in St Mungo's, having suffered permanent brain damage after that little prank the Weasel twins pulled on him. Let's see… Nott and Flint's homes are both abandoned, but they're likely with the Death Eaters."
"What makes you say that? Perhaps they've been kidnapped."
Malfoy withdrew a handful of pamphlets with a flourish and slid them across the desk towards her. She picked one up and turned it over, confusion etched on every one of her features.
"... Madame Glossy's Silver Polish? I don't understand."
He snatched the parchment back and pointed impatiently to a stylised drawing of a cloth, which was bewitched to move in small, cleaning circles on the face of an already spotless candelabrum. At her continued expression of bemusement, he scoffed and muttered something under his breath.
"Yes, I can read," Hermione snapped, plucking it from his fingers and laying it flat on the desk between them. "It must be charmed. Revelio."
Like a spreading puddle of water, the pamphlet's concealment was stripped away. Hermione's stomach was a stone in her abdomen as the words Pureblood Protection League replaced the whimsical illustration.
"But why couldn't you see it before? When I touched it, the pamphlet-"
"It must only be activated when touched by a Pureblood," she said calmly, and Malfoy went abruptly quiet. Glancing up, Hermione saw him eye the pamphlets uneasily, and shift in his ridiculous, Slytherin-green armchair. Their eyes met— she thought that his were an oddly pale grey as instant, grim understanding passed between. Malfoy was the first to avert his gaze. He rose and walked stiffly over to the chalkboard, which was decorated by several new notes and photographs.
"I went to Pansy's house, but someone else lives there now. Muggle, not magical." Arms crossed, Malfoy refused to meet her eyes, even when she came to stand beside him facing the board. She watched him for a few moments— a muscle worked in his jaw, but other than that, he appeared unruffled. "Most Slytherins kept a low profile after the War, so not being able to find many doesn't concern me. I hope you'll take my word for it that Blaise Zabini isn't involved."
"He's too successful to risk it all on joining the Death Eaters," Hermione agreed, eyes flitting up to his photograph. A dark skinned, handsome young man peered down his nose at her, looking nearly as contemptuous as the real Zabini. "We were in the Slug Club together, briefly. I never thought he would develop such a passion for stationery."
"Blaise has a passion for Galleons," Malfoy said with a faint twitch of his lips. "But aside from the long chain of quill shops across Great Britain, he's recently bought Scrivenshaft's."
Hermione hummed lowly and reached up to remove Zabini from the investigation board. In doing so, she brushed against Malfoy, who let out a sharp hiss.
"What is it?"
"Nothing." Malfoy had clapped a hand over his forearm. His grey eyes held a resolute glitter in them, replacing his previous grimace of pain, and the look stirred Hermione's very stubborn inner lioness. "Let's just keep working."
"Show me your arm." She even went so far as to hold out her hand, but Malfoy merely drew further away.
"I said, it's nothing."
Who would win, between the lion and the snake? Malfoy's features were hewn from ice— cold and imperious, exactly as she remembered him at Hogwarts. Unbidden, a thought sprung to mind of him staggering backwards, having just been slapped across the face by her in third year. She flexed the fingers of her slapping hand.
"This will be much easier for you if you just-"
At that moment, the office door slammed open, cutting off Hermione's sentence. Harry stood in the doorway, beaming from ear to ear and looking slightly out of breath.
"Hermione! There's someone here you may want to see." He left as quickly as he had entered, leaving the other two in a silence fraught with tension.
"This is not over," Hermione vowed at last. She had flounced from the room before Malfoy had a chance to respond, and therefore missed his sneer.
The shock of red hair in the corridor was what drew her attention first. Then the freckled face, lanky frame…
"Ron! When did you get back to England?"
"Just this morning." Ron smelled warm and familiar as he enveloped Hermione in a friendly hug, and she couldn't help the swooping feeling in her stomach. "How are you, 'Mione? It's been ages!"
He was more tanned than Hermione remembered (then again, a year in Brazil would do that), and he had grown a short beard. Hermione pulled away to smile up at him, and that's when she noticed it. Cherry-red, lacquered nails on his forearm. They were attached to slender fingers, that led up a bronzed arm… finally, Hermione's eyes landed on the face of perhaps the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, aside from Fleur Weasley. Almond shaped eyes crinkled at the corners as the woman smiled towards Hermione with lips that were perfectly plump.
"Olá," she greeted brightly.
"Oh, yeah." Ron's face was tinged pink as he wrapped an arm around the woman's waist. "This is Alessandra… my fiancée."
"Fiancée," Hermione repeated with a weak laugh. "Wow… uh, congratulations!"
Fiancée?
Draco halted in the doorway where he had been… not skulking, for he was far too refined for that, but rather lingering as he waited for the scene to unfold. He was left momentarily speechless while Granger gave a curiously high pitched laugh that sounded anything but genuine.
It was strange— everyone in the Wizarding world knew about Potter and the lives of his little friends. He was engaged to Weaslette, Granger to Weasel, and they were all going to live happily ever after in matching cottages where their hordes of children could play in the front garden. So why was it he hadn't heard of a split through his mother, who read Witch Weekly religiously?
"She saved me from a group of Curupira in the Amazon. Bloody things caught me taking toucan eggs, and they would have made me lose the guy I was tracking if Ally here hadn't stepped in. She was bloody brilliant! Stunned the first one, got another right in the eye with a Furnunculus…"
Weasley was talking animatedly about how he finally caught the Dark wizard on the outskirts of a magical village, but went abruptly silent as Draco sauntered from the doorway with his hands in his trouser pockets. Mouth in a comical O, eyes wide, Draco hoped that he had fallen temporarily or permanently mute.
No such luck.
"What the hell is he doing here?"
No one said anything for a few moments until Granger stepped forwards. Her bushy brown hair was a loose cloud around her shoulders, and she kept tucking it nervously behind one ear as she said, "Malfoy has agreed to help us in the Death Eater investigation. Harry will be able to brief you-"
"I read the file." Draco fought back a disbelieving snort, earning him a glare from Weasley. "I read the file," he repeated, "And nothing in there said anything about a Death Eater being allowed to work in the Ministry."
"We can't exactly have Aurors walking up to suspects, Ron. They'll either get suspicious and run, or worse. We need Malfoy to be the one to approach them, because-"
"Because he's a ruddy Death Eater!"
"Actually, the Ministry cleared me of all charges," Draco drawled, his eyes lighting up with wicked delight when Weasley took an aggressive step forwards. His face was steadily becoming the same shade as his hair, body shaking like a kettle coming to the boil.
It took some soothing from Weasley's beautiful fiancée (whose name Draco had already forgotten) before the wizard's bristling posture subsided.
"I don't like it, 'Mione. The things he's done, the thing's he's called you… How do you put up with him?"
Draco's shoulders stiffened. Did the Weasel not realise that he was right there? He glanced at Potter, but the Auror seemed to be trying to sink into the wall behind him, leaving Granger to do all of the explaining. Typical.
"We're all adults, here, Ron," she was saying placatingly, with both hands raised as though trying to calm a startled horse. "I'm perfectly capable of being professional for the sake of this investigation, as is Malfoy."
They were all looking at him. Draco realised with a start that he was expected to say something, some sort of sign of agreement or cooperation— he caught Granger glaring at him, with pointed flicks of her eyes towards Potter and Weasley. The Weasley-to-be had been forgotten for the moment, clinging to her fiancé's arm and glancing between them as though they were all a few Knuts short of a Sickle.
"Perfectly capable," he parroted, with a short, mocking bow of his head.
Weasley's face was still puce, but Draco refrained from commenting that it was a rather fetching colour on him. Somehow, he figured that it would only inflame the situation again, and he was far more interested in interrogating Granger. For although she broke the tense silence by warmly introducing herself to the Weasley-to-be, he couldn't help noticing that her smile didn't quite reach her eyes in the same way it did when she spoke to her insufferable friends. In fact, when she turned away to return to her office, Draco reckoned that she seemed almost… sad.
"Well, what a lovely reunion." Draco's smile was bitingly sarcastic as he snapped the office door closed behind them. Potter had taken Weasley and future-Weaslette off to the main Auror Headquarters, leaving him and Granger to continue their side of the investigation— though he couldn't for the life of him remember where they had left off.
"Don't be sarky, Malfoy."
"I'm not being sarky!" Draco feigned offence, striding across to the enchanted chalkboard. "I greatly enjoyed that." And he had, though not for the sake of actually seeing them again. Getting under Weasley's skin just by being in the Ministry had put him in a rare good mood, and by the looks of it, Granger was put out by his sudden jubilance.
"Just… explain what else you found at Nott's house."
"Tell me, Granger," Draco began with a languid smile, ignoring her request. "Why is it you're not the one that's hanging off Weasley's arm? From my memory-"
"Not that it's any of your business, Malfoy," Granger said nastily, shutting him up with a black glare. "But our separation was mutual. Now show me what else you found."
At least she wasn't harping on about his arm anymore.
A/N: I don't really like Dramione fics that Ron bash, making him out to be either an abusive arsehole or a lovesick idiot who's only response is "Grrrrr Malfoy!" I thought it would be an interesting take if it was Hermione who still had some feelings, but let me know in a review if you'd like to see more of that! Every time I get a review it motivates me to write more/write faster :)