Author's Note: Every time I get a review, I dance inside. I'd dance for reals, but there's a pretty reasonable chance that someone would see me.

Sorry about the slight delay. I'm staying at my dad's house for the weekend, and I was wrangling my three- and five-year-old brothers… Riley was playing what seemed to be a very vague imaginary game that involved walking a long way down the street, and I didn't want to stifle his creativity. Aren't I charitable.

Anyway.

Chapter Nine

Deliciously Scandalous

Although she might have liked holding a grudge and forcing Malfoy to do some high-quality groveling, Hermione was feeling better by the time she returned to her desk. It was very possible that Helicane had simply overlooked the evident preeminence of her work and would soon come around and promote her repeatedly. Of course. Surely that was the reason.

She wished she didn't know better.

But it was all right. She was ready to apologize to Malfoy for yelling in his face and harassing him and blowing out his eardrums, and she was certainly ready to do it over a bit of ice cream—even though it was only about nine-thirty, which was a bit early for a dessert food, all things considered. That was okay. She'd make an exception today.

She half-glanced up when Malfoy returned to stand in front of her desk.

"What happened to the ice cream?" she inquired, trying not to betray her disappointment.

Malfoy didn't answer.

"Well?" she prompted.

Then she glanced at him all the way, and she discovered that he looked positively traumatized.

She felt her jaw drop and was powerless to stop it.

"What happened?" she demanded.

"Window," Malfoy said in a strangled sort of voice. "Newspaper. Imminent death." He covered his face with his hands. "Pastel yellow footed blanket sleepers!"

He sat down in his chair and kept his hands over his face for some time. When he withdrew them, he had apparently recovered.

"Sorry about the ice cream," he said.

Hermione stared.

He nodded to the pile of papers on her desk. "Can I help?"

Ever obliging, she handed him a generous sheaf. She did aim to please, after all. Especially when aiming to please entailed less drudgery for her.

A few minutes later, he said, "Can I have some paper?"

"What for?" Hermione asked.

"To write back."

Somehow, that had never really occurred to her. She just read them, summarized them meticulously, and gave the summaries to the people for whom they were meant.

She passed Malfoy a bit of paper and a pen, and he was off, scribbling industriously.

Shortly, he passed the paper back, and now it was covered in a blue-inked, untidy scrawl.

Dear Whiny Bitch, it began.

I regret to inform you that your worthless complaint to the Ministry was forwarded to the Department of Abrasive Sarcasm. The bad news is, we will be using your letter as a template for how not to write. The good news is, we all had a damn good laugh at your expense.

To make some sort of token effort to address your invalid and, furthermore, incredibly stupid concern, no, the Ministry is not ineffectual. Rather, you are ineffectual. In addition, you seem to be incapable of sustaining a flow of decent and comprehensible English for more than a sentence and a half. I would direct you to the nearest kindergarten teacher, but upon meeting you, she would likely either (a) retire immediately, or (b) run screaming down the hall and throw herself out the first available window. In either case, you are clearly not worth it.

However, we at the Ministry like to be as fair as possible, even to baboons who have somehow inexplicably gained a rudimentary ability to string words together, such as yourself. To that effect, please rest assured that the Ministry will attempt to ameliorate the situation as soon as possible.

That means we'll try to fix it, if you were wondering.

Now you can shut the Hell up and get back to figuring out which end of the banana is easier to peel.

Sincerely,

Hayden U. Becauseyourestupid

Hermione laughed so hard that people started to stare again.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Five o'clock came remarkably fast.

"I'm going to see if I can snag another free frozen yogurt before we go, if that's all right with you," Malfoy remarked. When Hermione offered her acquiescence, he strolled away in the direction of the cafeteria.

Just as Hermione finished packing up her things and was standing by her desk to wait for Malfoy, the Hesperides descended.

"You still haven't told us his name," the brunette persisted.

"He's living with you, right?" the blonde one squeaked.

"How deliciously scandalous," the redhead purred.

Hermione's hand crawled across the desk behind her, searching for her letter opener.

"Yes, well," she began futilely. "You know."

"But we don't," the blonde cried.

"Enlighten us, won't you?" The brunette raised sculpted eyebrows, the corners of her perfect lips curling upwards.

The redhead nodded emphatically.

"Um," Hermione started. They focused on her intently, all wide, mascara-fringed eyes and rapt attentions.

Then, quite without warning, they were focusing on something over her shoulder.

Hermione's skin tingled as Malfoy wrapped his arm around her waist. Graciously he smiled at the trio of gawking girls.

"Terribly sorry to interrupt this worthwhile conversation, ladies," he said, "but Hermione and I have other…" He paused deliberately and held it out. "Activities… planned."

The stares became a little more astonished, a hot blush burst like fireworks in Hermione's cheeks, and Malfoy winked at the girls and steered her out of the Ministry building. Only when they were safely outside did he release her.

"Sorry about that," he commented airily. "Figured it would shut them up for a bit."

Hermione tried to reply and found that her voice was not cooperating. She settled with nodding. Nodding was a good start.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Hermione was ready to do some laundry. She was ready to do that laundry real good. She was going to show that laundry who was boss. She was going to make that laundry wish it had never been born. She was going to rock that laundry so hard its laundry mother would feel it.

It was no use. Laundry was still boring.

The latest newspaper in his hands, Malfoy lay sprawled across the couch, Sparky curled up on his chest like a very large, prominent, and disturbingly furry tumor. Hermione paused on her way out. "I'm going to go do the laundry," she announced.

"Okay, great," Malfoy said without looking up.

Hermione turned away. The unconcerned nonchalance of it reminded her of things she was trying very hard to forget.

That was the thing about brains, she thought as she tramped her way down the stairs, the laundry bag bumping along behind her. You were stuck with yours for life, and there was nothing you could do to curb its fierce independence. Trying to focus on other things worked sometimes, but there was always a nagging voice in the back, taunting you mercilessly like a grade-school bully. No, the brain did what the brain wanted, and the brain had a bad sense of humor.

And if you beat it with a stick or kicked it, you just made things worse.

Obligingly, one of the ancient washing machines on the ground floor ate her coins and proceeded to soak her—and Malfoy's—clothes with soapy water.

Hermione watched the maelstrom of spinning clothing for a few seconds before hopping up on top of the machine and perching there. It was what she usually did. Sitting atop the thrumming contraption was reasonably similar to reclining in one of those massage chairs they had at the mall, except that this, omitting the cost of the laundry, was completely free. Hermione had taken a liking to free things. They made you feel like you were doing something intelligent—or even getting away with something.

Well, for someone like Hermione, they did, anyway.

The clothes were halfway done in the dryer when Malfoy walked into the laundry room, climbed up onto the bank of machines, and sat next to Hermione.

"So," he said.

"So," she replied slowly, utterly unaware of what it was supposed to mean.

"Good," Malfoy decided. He jumped down, straightened the piteous, much-abused jeans that served him as pajama pants, and wandered away.

Hermione stared after him bewilderedly. Draco Malfoy was a mystery wrapped in an enigma, liberally coated with puzzle, sprinkled with a bit of conundrum, with a riddle on top.

Plus he was just bloody insane.

As she wrangled the heaps of warm clothes out of the dryer, Hermione reflected that she wasn't really one to talk about being bloody insane, given that she had just elaborately compared a human being to an ice cream sundae.

How deliciously scandalous.