The manor was much less daunting than Hermione remembered. Gone were the peacocks and the veil of untouchable regality that used to surround the house. In fact, Hermione could add that the dishevelled home was the coziest-looking place in the black of the night right now: with its little lights glimmering in the windows and the smell of something sweet trailing from the doorway. A thin cloud of smoke swirled up from the chimney as she slopped through the puddles on her way up the pathway past the shrubbery.

She handed it to Malfoy—the lack of care for the pristine house made it more approachable, like one of those old houses in the Muggle movies where an old crone gave you bonbons on Hallow's Eve.

Then again, some crones lured you with sweets to fatten you and then fry you in their oven.

Cold and wet, her hand arthritis acted up again, and she rang the doorbell. The rainwater nipped her skin, sending shivers down to the bone.

The doorbell echoed through the marble halls. Hermione expected a House Elf to open the door but nearly fell off the steps at the sight of a tall, dark male figure with silken hair down past his shoulders. He caught her by the waist and led her inside.

He was only a head taller, but his cloaked figure towered over her as he led her into the cloakroom—away from the cold.

She should have been frightened half to death, hand on the wand, wand to his neck, but this unusually kind and chivalrous act rendered her numb. This was not the Lucius Malfoy she'd expected but was certainly glad that this was the one she got.

"Good evening, Miss Granger," he said softly.

"I'm fine." Hermione came to her wits and pulled herself out of his embrace. "Those steps are rather slippery and you should charm them. I know a few good anti-slip charms."

His smile was the kind she wished had an inkling of poison inside. It held a glow so heartfelt as if he were greeting a long-lost friend and not a filthy little Mudblood. He shook her hand, his palms heating her knuckles.

It was true. Lucius Malfoy smiled, really smiled for her and she had no choice but to smile back because, Gods, he really was, for lack of a better word, beautiful. And not in a purely masculine way, with a rugged dark appearance and muscles that keep his shirt taut against his arms, a sliver of hair peeking out of the collar. There was that hint of androgyny; him with his long hair—silken and grazing his shoulders— he was ethereal, almost angelic like he was not from this earth. Touching him at that moment felt like holding a star: not fearing he would do anything to hurt her and at all costs wanting to continue feeling the warmth radiating through her body.

Whatever her mouth was doing, it was not scaring him away. In fact, her blabber appeared to be amusing him as a wistful expression continued to graze those soft lips, like a cupid's bow, sharp at the tips, full in the middle. Hermione now understood what was meant by the expression 'approval from the enemy was that much sweeter than from a friend'.

"You seem to know a vast deal about home ownership," he said, guiding her into his home. "Please-"

"You… are-"

"-dying of curiosity to know more. Best discussed over tea, I think."

So that was what Hermione had been going off about? She was surprised she could string two words together, mute as she felt, gawking at the attractive man. He was still a criminal and her suspect. She reminded herself she was on business. But his dwelling was so warm and inviting and her arthritis was making her fingers stiff and sore. She'd gone this far without a collision with death. A cup of tea and a short discussion about Narcissa's hysterical dream, and she'd be out of the Malfoy Manor for what she hoped would be a very long time.

So she sank into one of his expensive chaises in front of the fire as the man prepared tea. The tea was the worst she'd ever drunk, and she made certain not to mention it to him in fear of blowing a perfectly amicable sit-down. Instead, she stirred two giant spoonfuls of sugar and added a glug of milk to the cup. The tea was cold, but at the very least drinkable. For all his Pureblood antics, Lucius Malfoy could have learned to brew a hot cup of tea with his Bourgeois fingers during his lifetime.

"It is very difficult to make this….concoction," Lucius admitted after taking a sip of his own tea, wincing and then spilling the contents into a nearby plant pot. "Never been able to master the art."

"I'm sure you never had to," Hermione said.

"Being wealthy has its setbacks."

So, Lucius brought out the whiskey; it would be difficult to spoil a small tulip of the finely brewed liquid from his cellar. He poured them two glasses with the flick of his wand and waited until she accepted hers. "Certainly, you can sympathise with my plight?"

Hermione debated drinking but rationalised that if the man wanted her death, he would have had her laying in the grave years ago.

"It's a common misconception that Ministry workers earn far more than anyone else in the magical realm," she said, taking a cautious gulp.

"Not if you do your job right." Lucius winked and took a connoisseur's sip. "After all, what is employment, but a means to support a good life? Let me ask you a question: do you live to work or work to live?"

Hermione had never considered the query posed that way. "I'd like to be able to say I work to live, but if you ask my friends it's very much the opposite."

Lucius refilled her glass, leaned back, as though really taking in the full view of her body in that armchair, and hummed. "Truly?"

And then, the conversation flowed with the emptying decanter and the trays of hors-d'oeuvres. Flowing perhaps too freely as Hermione, hair released of her work bun and her fingers clutching the glass giggled and revealed, "Once, I passed a regulation without any consent from the Wizengameot."

"How naughty," Lucius quipped. "You must tell me how you managed to do so under their noses. I don't imagine the Minister is a terribly patient individual."

"If I were to answer that question, I'd need another drink."

"Oh dear, I might need to retrieve another bottle." Lucius' laugh became as untangled as a yarn on a hastily cast spool of yarn; he Summoned a plate of small caviar tarts to the side table. "You may have to wait until I return before you continue your story."

Lucius came back with two more bottles floating beside him. They were of a deep rouge colour, and they smelled exquisitely sweet. Lucius said it is Wild Cherry, but the taste had made Hermione's tongue so weak and her brain so woozy that she swore it was laced with Hellebore.

He held the bottles aloft for inspection. "They seem adequate. You're not above an 1950-"

"-why are you doing this?" Hermione asked, eyeing the bottles which multiplied by the second in a hazy mist. She was not here to consume alcohol with a man twice her age who might be involved in stalking one of her clients.

He smiled indulgently. "I hope our conversations have not been too dull?"

"I mean... It's... not that I'm not enjoying your company, but there is a reason I've barged into your evening routine and I'd like to address it."

"Not to bother. The manor is not a popular haunt in this day and age." He waved his hand in a laissez faire fashion, taking a sip from the tulip. "Though if your presence here tonight should ensure I keep my wits about me, then I'm afraid I must disappoint you."

Hermione frowned. "I was in contact with Miss Black, and truth be told, I only Apparated here tonight to ask you if you've been in contact with Narcissa. She said you've recently visited her to leave her a message."

Lucius shook his head. "We haven't spoken since she left me. Why do you ask?"

"Because she seems concerned," Hermione said. "Concerned that you are not honouring the agreement to keep your distance from her and Draco since the hearing at the Wizengamot."

"And what would worry her enough to ask you to investigate?"

"That's exactly what I don't know," Hermione replied. "Have you visited her last night?'

"No. She must have some other motive for suspecting me." There was a tone of worry in his voice.

Hermione probed cautiously. "She did not give any indication she wished to disregard the arrangement. However if you wish to share -"

"I could never," Lucius snapped. "Although I am appalled by her past actions, it doesn't mean I don't respect her wishes."

Lucius looked distraught, and for a second, all the blame for him and his condition left Hermione's head. Whether it was the whiskey or Barnaby's words, her hand found its way to rest on his shoulder. It was a small gesture and it made Barnaby's words sting less. Hermione Granger was not a heartless bitch who put organisational values above people. Hermione Granger cared for others. That was why she was in the Ministry and that was why she was the head of her department. Lucius Malfoy would be her first step to proving Barnaby was full of lies.

"No, of course not," Hermione whispered.