Roses are red

Violets are blue

I don't own Harry Potter

This is sad, but true

Alpha and beta love goes to littlered1992! I can't believe I was able to get this chapter out on time…If it weren't for her dedication and encouragement, I think I'd still be slaving over a keyboard with a document of 600 words lol.

Enjoy! :D

For the remainder of the day, Hermione stayed shut up in her office and worked continuously until six o'clock. Around lunch time, she briefly wondered why Blaise hadn't shown up, before remembering that he had a meeting in Scotland with potential investors.

It was with a heavy sigh she finally put down her quill, collected her robes which she had shucked earlier that day, and made her way down to the Floos.

She landed in the Malfoy sitting room a little after six and was greeted by Miksy.

"Master is waiting for you in the dining room, Miss!" Miksy slipped her hand into Hermione's and wasted no time in dragging her down the hallway. Hermione smelt dinner before they had reached the French doors of the dining room; hints of turmeric suggested something Indian.

As they rounded the corner, Draco's platinum hair came into view. He was standing at the far end of the room, setting the table. His head was bowed as he lay cutlery either side of solid gold plates which sat on the white linen table cloth, sparkling in the light cast from the chandelier overhead. Hermione stopped in the entryway, her hand still clutched in Miksy's grasp, and watched as the blond frowned down at the fork he had just placed, and moved to straighten it. Warmth bloomed within her chest, and Hermione couldn't help the smile that spread across her face.

"Master Draco!" Miksy tugged on Hermione's hand and skipped merrily towards the object of her fascination. "Miss Hermione is here, Sir!"

Draco's head snapped up, his grey eyes immediately locking on to Hermione's face. She watched as the steeliness melted slightly, and the corner of his mouth lifted.

"Granger," he greeted softly. "Welcome."

"Thank you," she stepped towards him.

He reached for her first, his hands finding her waist to pull her to him. She sighed as her arms slid around his middle, hugging him back.

"Rough day?" He murmured into hair.

"No rougher than usual," she replied.

He bent down swiftly to place a chaste kiss on her lips; Hermione melted into him for the brief duration that their lips were connected, and was surprised to note how she longed to deepen the kiss as he pulled away.

"Dinner is ready," he murmured, resting his forehead against hers. "I want to hear all about it."

Hermione had to work hard to hide her shock when Draco told her that he had cooked the meal – butter chicken – with no help from the house elves. He told her that he had been learning how to cook and bake over the past six months, and his efforts were rewarded when Hermione placed a mouthful of steaming chicken and rice in her mouth and moaned in a way that made him feel hot under the collar.

After dinner and dessert (a delicious chocolate mousse), Draco wiped his mouth on his napkin before standing abruptly and offering Hermione his hand.

"I want to show you something," he said with a smile.

Hermione accepted his hand and allowed him to lead her from the dining room and through enough corridors for her to become disorientated.

Her hand rested in his comfortably until they reached a large archway leading to a grand ballroom. Hermione felt her breath catch as she moved to stand in the middle of the space. Her heels slid across the highly polished wood of the floor, and she had to curl her toes to ensure she didn't fall. She began to spin around, trying to commit the intricate detail of the wallpaper to memory; though she had never been the type of girl to get giddy over a dance area, Hermione had to admit that this room was simply breathtaking.

She jumped slightly as she felt Draco move up behind her. His breath was warm on her neck as he slid his hands around her waist, and she leaned back into him, enjoying the embrace for a moment before she turned and met his gaze. His eyes bored into hers, an emotion dancing within them Hermione could not name. She began to smile at him in return, but then he dropped into a graceful bow before standing straight once more and offering her his hand.

"May I have this dance?"

Hermione snapped her mouth shut and clasped her hand in his, albeit tentatively. "I'm not very good…"

Draco scoffed. "Please," he pulled her against him, "I watched you at the Yule Ball."

"You did?" Hermione tried to keep the shock from her voice and failed. From her position under his chin, she missed the way he smirked.

"Of course," he said. "You were with Krum."

Hermione rolled her eyes but did not respond. Music suddenly swelled from an invisible source and Draco began to lead them across the floor in a simple waltz. His hand resting on her waist pressed warmth through her blouse and her skin tingled beneath his touch. Her heart pounded in her chest, though she suspected it had nothing to do with the physical exertion of dancing. Draco's scent wafted over her and befuddled her brain; being this close to him was having an interesting effect on her physical wellbeing.

As the music faded to nothing, Draco brought them to a stop on the edge of the dance floor. Even Hermione knew that it was customary for partners to bow and curtsey at the end of the dance, but as she moved to step back, Draco's hold on her tightened. With a sharp inhale she glanced up to find him staring down at her, his eyes liquid pools of silver; they reminded her starkly of a pensieve.

"Hermione," he murmured, his gaze dropping quickly to her lips and back up again. "I haven't had the chance to properly thank you for what you're doing, for my mother."

"Of course," Hermione replied. "She doesn't deserve Azkaban."

Draco winced slightly. "Thank you," he said softly. "I know it hasn't been easy…" he trailed off and licked his lips. Hermione felt her cheeks heat but she maintained eye contact. "Well, I mean, with us." He finished lamely.

"Draco, you don't need to thank me," she smiled. "I'm not working to free your mother out of a sense of loyalty to you; it's my job."

"I just wish I could support you more," his hold on her tightened and Hermione's eyes fluttered shut at the way her skin tingled from being pressed against his front. "I know it's better for Mother's case if I stay away from you, but I still feel guilty."

"Don't," Hermione urged, bringing her hand up to cup his cheek; he leant into it. "You're doing enough behind closed doors."

At that Draco smirked and allowed his gaze to drop to her lips again. His fingers pressed into the small of her back and he lowered his head, intent on bestowing a hot kiss on her lips. He was less than a centimetre away when the door to the ballroom opened and sharp footfalls forced the couple apart.

"Blaise." Draco scowled at his Italian friend.

"Draco," Blaise nodded stiffly. "Hermione." He did not smile and Draco felt his frustration for the intrusion ebb away.

"What's wrong?"

"Have you seen the Evening Prophet?"

"No," Draco snorted. "I haven't exactly got around to renewing – "

"Here," Blaise ignored him, handing the folded paper to Hermione.

Draco moved to stand behind her, one hand on her waist as she unfolded it. Hermione gasped, and Draco swore as the picture on the front page swam in to view.

It was them – Draco and Hermione – in the middle of Diagon Alley on the day of his release; snogging. Hermione watched, rage rising in her like a tidal wave, as the photograph versions broke apart, smiling at each other. In any other circumstance, she may have thought the picture a sweet memento of their first kiss, but this – this only spelled trouble.

"That vile witch," Hermione hissed between her teeth. "I'll have Rita Skeeter for this, I'll – "

"Easy there, Golden Girl," Blaise said dryly. "The last thing we need is a media coup on top of everything else."

Hermione snapped her mouth shut and glowered at the grim-looking Italian wizard. She knew that he was right, of course, but she couldn't help the overwhelming desire to break out her bug-collecting gear that threatened to consume her.

"What do we do, then?" Draco looked between them, his gaze cold. "What does this mean for my mother?"

Hermione puffed out her cheeks and exhaled forcefully. "Nothing," she shook her head. "We keep going as we have been, and hope to Merlin that Ginny can get through to Harry about the damn vial."

She folded her arms across her chest and looked up at him; he refused to meet her gaze.

"Okay," he nodded once, turned on his heel, and stormed from the room.

Hermione deflated.

"Don't take it personally," Blaise shrugged, his gaze fixed on the doorway Draco had just exited through.

"Easy for you to say," Hermione sighed and blinked against the prickling feeling at the corners of her eyes.

"Trust me, Granger; he doesn't want you to see him in this state – the fact he left without screaming or throwing something speaks volumes of his feelings for you. Expect his owl."

With that, Blaise held out an arm and Hermione obliged him, stepping into a one-armed hug before he turned them to escort her from the Manor.

Hermione tossed and turned that night, finally falling into a fitful sleep around three in the morning. She woke, slightly disorientated at six, when a soft tapping at her window preceded her alarm. The owl was instantly recognisable; the proud looking eagle-owl was definitely from Draco. Feeling more awake than she should given her lack of rest, Hermione scrambled from her bed to take the letter from the bird.

It hooted once before taking flight; he obviously wasn't expecting a reply. Hermione tried not to feel disappointed at that and concentrated instead on opening the note.

Dear Hermione,

I'm sorry for storming away last night. I recognise that it was an immature move on my part, and a rather awful way to end what was, otherwise, a perfect night. I could give you a list of excuses, but I won't because I'm sure you already understand them, and they do not make up for my poor behaviour.

Please know that I deeply regret not sticking around for a proper kiss; I hope I can make it up to you soon. However, given what has transpired, I think it is best that we limit our contact to letters until Mother's trial. I will be counting down the hours until I can see you again.

Yours,

Draco

Hermione was unsure of whether she wanted to laugh or cry; his letter was a relief in that he obviously wasn't angry at her, but at the same time…Narcissa's trial was still twelve days away. The thought of not seeing Draco in the lead up cause a hard lump to form in Hermione's throat, which she desperately swallowed against. Surely it wasn't normal to feel so disappointed so early on in their…relationship?

Sighing, she threw the letter on to her side table and turned towards her bathroom. She would head into work early, Hermione decided, and work herself into the ground until she was too exhausted to dwell on the blond who had gone from being the bane of her existence to….well, the bane of her existence.

Unfortunately, she was accosted before she could reach her office.

"Granger!" Dewsong greeted her the following morning.

Hermione jumped and turned to face him as she unlocked the door to her office. He had a half-eaten muffin in his hand, and some vanilla crumbs on his bottom lip. Hermione had to actively stop herself from recoiling.

"Mister Dewsong. What can I do for you?"

"In my office," he snarled. "Now."

A sinking feeling settled into Hermione's stomach, only deepening as she followed meekly behind Dewsong.

As she entered his office, her boss took his large leather chair behind his desk and gestured vaguely for Hermione to perch in one of the two, considerably less comfortable, chairs on the opposite side.

"So," he began, steepling his fingers over his large belly. "Is there anything you wish to tell me?"

Hermione frowned. "No, sir?"

Dewsong ground his back teeth together and waved a hand; a copy of yesterday's Evening Prophet dropped on to the desk in front of Hermione; her blood ran cold.

"Explain," he spat.

Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes. This man was her boss, and the last thing she wanted was his ire; the Malfoy case was already balanced on a knife edge, and she wasn't prepared for him to chop it completely. But his rudeness was uncalled for, despite what the paper suggested.

"It's hype," she said calmly. "Rita Skeeter has made a living by embellishing the truth."

"I'm not interested in the tripe Rita has to offer," Dewsong growled. "I want the truth; from you."

"Fine," Hermione said through gritted teeth. "I kissed Draco Malfoy; that is the truth."

"Are you dating him?" Dewsong asked sharply.

"No," Hermione shot back. "But if I was, it would no one else's business."

Dewsong made a noise of dissent in his throat. "It is my business, Granger. You do realise how this looks to the Wizengamot?"

"Yes," she huffed. "But it shouldn't; regardless of my feelings for Draco, Narcissa Malfoy is innocent."

"And Lucius? What of him?"

Hermione sucked her lower lip into her mouth and averted her eyes. "The evidence should speak for him. Besides, Narcissa is ill; my plan is to request a temporary release, if necessary, so that he can be by her side."

"You said you had a memory?"

"Had, being the keyword."

"Well, get it back," Dewsong thumped his desk and Hermione jumped. "You must realise what this looks like, Granger." Hermione squirmed under his accusatory gaze but did not respond. "You're spreading yourself too thin," he slapped the paper. "I would hedge my bets on the Wizengamot calling your relationship with young Mister Malfoy into question; be prepared for that."

"Yes, sir."

"And," Dewsong's eyes narrowed as his mouth curled into a vicious smile, "should you lose this case, you can kiss your job goodbye."

Hermione nodded once before scurrying towards the door. On the other side, she took a moment to lean against it and collect herself. If she lost the case for Narcissa, she could not picture a scenario in which Draco would forgive her.

It was too early to put a label on what they were, but whatever it was, Hermione wasn't ready for it to be over. With that sobering thought, her eyes flew open and she pushed herself away from the entrance to Dewsong's office.

She returned to her own desk and instantly began filling out a stack of paperwork which would hopefully culminate in the release of the memory from the Auror department. Why they had agreed to keep it there rather than passing it on to the proper authorities, Hermione could only guess, though she was certain her guess was correct; Harry was holding out to ensure she would not have the evidence required at Narcissa's trial.

Despite the churning unease in her gut, Hermione worked through until one o'clock, when there was a sharp rapping at her door. She had sealed it shut upon entering earlier that morning, and so far her employees had thought better than to disturb her.

At the sudden noise, she jumped, ready to snarl at whoever was on the other side to leave her alone, but then…

"Granger!" It was Blaise. "Merlin above, have you sealed the door?"

There was a swish of a wand, a mumbled spell, and the door flew open, banging against the office wall.

Hermione glared. "I was just about to unlock it."

Blaise arched an eyebrow at her tone, but otherwise ignored the statement. "Let's go," he motioned with his head for her to get up. "I'm starving."

"Oh, I can't…" Hermione looked down at her desk, the grain no longer noticeable under the sheets of parchment spread over the top, and then back up at Blaise; at his frown, she trailed off.

"Get. Up." He enunciated. "I will not let you sit here all day. You need food."

"I can conjure a sandwich," Hermione huffed.

"Draco would kill me," Blaise deadpanned. "Up."

"Fine," Hermione grumbled, though now that he mentioned it, her stomach was feeling decidedly empty.

They traced their usual path down to the Atrium and then out into the grey September day. It did not take them long to reach their destination; a small café on the corner. The waitress greeted them as they made their way up the small path, and they took their usual table in the courtyard.

"How are you feeling?" Blaise asked.

"Great!" Hermione answered automatically.

Blaise quirked an eyebrow at her over the top of his menu. "Granger," he prompted.

"Sorry," she sighed, setting down the laminated piece of cardboard. "I forgot who I was talking to." He smirked slightly, but did not press her. "I'm really worried," she said softly. "I haven't heard any more from Ginny, and I'm sure Harry is doing everything in his power to stop the memory being transferred to the Department of Mysteries…the vial may not be ready for the trial. And I swear to Merlin," she lowered her voice to a whisper and leant forwards, "if one more Wizengamot witch sneers at me in the hallway, I'll hex them."

Blaise's eyebrows shot up and he placed the menu in front of him.

"I know," Hermione huffed. "I shouldn't – "

"No," Blaise cut her off. "Behind you."

Hermione twisted in her seat and scanned the street, her gaze finally landing on an irate looking red headed wizard marching towards her.

"Ron," she blinked. Ron Weasley stopped in front of their table, one arm loosely around the waist of his wife. Vivienne looked much the same as she always had; robes that wouldn't have looked out of place in a fashion magazine, and a snobby expression that could repel a lesser being far more effectively than pepper spray.

Hermione's back stiffened. "Vivienne."

The blonde witch did not acknowledge her, and Hermione was pleased to see the brief flash of panic in her eyes as Vivienne's gaze slid to the Italian wizard in the opposite chair.

"You get around nowadays, don't you?" Ron sneered, his gaze trained on Blaise.

Hermione's mouth fell open. The audacity of her ex-fiancé was still a source of shock for her. He had always been crass, fiery, and had never mastered the ability to think before he spoke, but before the war ended she had never thought of him as cruel. There was no other description for him now.

As Hermione narrowed her eyes and poised herself to retaliate, Blaise stood. The metal legs of the chair scraped against the uneven pavement and he buttoned his jacket as if he was about to take the stand.

"Good to see you again," he offered Vivienne a dazzling grin. Hermione bit down on her lower lip as a warm flush spread across the blonde's cheeks, her eyes wide. "I almost didn't recognise you with clothes on."

Slowly, seductively, Blaise dragged his full lower lip in to his mouth and sank his teeth into the flesh. If this had been any other witch, in any other situation, his prey would have been under his spell immediately. Vivienne only choked.

Hermione watched Ron; the tips of his ears had turned red and his fists were balled at his sides. He looked from Blaise to Vivienne, and back again.

"What, mate?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Blaise drawled lazily. He turned his attention to the seething wizard. "Did she not tell you? How odd…" he tapped his index finger against his chin in a mock expression of deep thought. "She definitely told her cousins because they're avoiding me like the plague; I just assumed you would have heard as well." He flashed a cold smile at Ron, before throwing a lewd wink at Vivienne.

The latter looked incredibly green and Hermione suddenly wondered if they were safely out of the splash zone, should Vivienne lose her lunch.

For a moment, the scene appeared as a tableau from the outside, but then Ron moved. He swung his arm back, his hand curled into a white-knuckled fist. Hermione didn't think; she pulled out her wand and pointed it at the man she once loved but no longer recognised.

Ron caught the movement of her arm out of the corner of his eye and a fleeting look of recognition crossed his face; he remembered what had happened last time she had pulled her wand on him, in Azkaban. Ron's fist stopped mere inches from Blaise's face before it fell like a deflating balloon, back to his side.

His gaze fell on Hermione and stayed there, but the brunette witch had placed her attention on Vivienne, who had moved during the exchange, her hands now covering her mouth as her eyes darted from one wizard to the other.

For a moment, nobody moved, but then Blaise broke the tense silence. "I think it's time to take your garbage away, Greengrass." He wrinkled his nose as he glanced over at Ron.

"Fuck you, Zabini!" Ron spat as he brought his attention back to the Italian wizard.

"Well, why not?" Blaise deadpanned. "It'd make you even with your wife."