Hermione spent the rest of that week berating her fool self for letting her guard down before Malfoy and preparing for the upcoming battle with the man.

Monday afternoon, after leaving his office, she'd replayed the meeting in her head, re-examining it from all angles. Yes, Draco had seemed sincere in his apology and in his protestations that he hadn't been implying anything sexual between them. However, there at the end of their meeting, he'd totally blown his act, in her opinion. Stepping into her, holding onto her hand, giving her a warm, rich smile with the clear intent of creating intimacy between them… He'd wanted in her knickers. Any girl with any sense could see that.

Needless to say, the rest of that day had been a wash, as she'd spent it stewing in her tiny office in the law library, plotting how to best tell the young, handsome Minister that she was on to his game and wouldn't be suckered in. She'd penned note after note attempting to disabuse him of the notion that such behaviour was considered professional, much less polite. Each one had tried a different tactic and tone to get to that point across, but none of them had seemed the perfect way to drive home her point without giving the impression that she'd been reprimanding, boasting, or worse, sounding as uptight as he'd accused her of being. Her wastebasket had been filled with crumpled-up paper as a result, and by five o'clock, nothing had been sent to the man. She'd gone home in disgust at that point, sleeping on the problem.

Tuesday, she'd decided to skip her attempt to be Malfoy's moral compass, and instead had railed at the ugly fact that he'd been playing her for a jape all along. Pretending to be legitimately interested in her grievances and apologetic for his past behaviour had clearly been a sham to temper her anger and win her over. The rotten weasel!

That's why, at one-thirty that afternoon she'd patently ignored his Interdepartmental Note that scratched and sniffed around her door. Only when the blasted thing's whimpering got on her last nerve had she finally relented and let it in her office.

.

Good afternoon Ms. Granger,

My secretary informs me that you haven't yet had an opportunity to set-up that meeting we discussed for Friday afternoon. Seeing as how the problem of pre-existing gender-discriminatory laws is an issue of the gravest importance to my administration, I've taken the initiative and booked an appointment with your supervisor to come down to your office instead around one-thirty in the afternoon. I hope you won't think that too forward, but this issue is, as you pointed out on Monday, of the utmost importance and needs immediate redress.

Looking forward to our discussion on Friday,

Draco Malfoy, Your Humble Minister of Magic

.

Humble? Just whom did that man think he was fooling? There wasn't a humble bone in any Malfoy body, living or dead. The whole lot of them were born and bred to believe themselves superior to the masses. They spoon-fed conceit to their children with their breakfast cereals, for Merlin's sake!

Feeling her blood pressure rise to dangerous levels and a persistent throbbing begin behind her left eye, Hermione had made an executive decision at that point: she'd locked the door to her office, transfigured a chair into a chaise lounge, dimmed the lights, and spent the rest of the afternoon trying to recoup from the migraine from Hell. She'd justified the medical rest as necessary to her health, and alleviated any guilt she might have felt about literally lying down on the job with the firm mental reminder that since her appointment in her current position, she'd worked an average of fifty-seven hours a week.

A day later, Hermione had been feeling much better about the situation, and had been actually looking forward to locking horns with Malfoy. She'd missed the great debates of Geneva's arena; months of taking her Healer's advice and toning her life down had left her in a funk, craving the non-stop, wheeling and dealing on the international political scene. Wednesday, though, she'd felt bout of productivity, and in only four hours had caught up with all of her work from the previous missed day, as well as finished all of her work for that day. She'd spent the rest of the afternoon pouring through old law books, finding every instance of gender-discrimination and noting it with a Dictation Quill.

On Thursday, armed with an entire stack of pertinent notes and a well-prepared cheat sheet for debate, she'd had an opportunity to relax and mull over how she intended on physically preparing for the conversation with the Minister. In her mind, she'd picked an appropriate outfit, and fixed her hair and make-up so that she'd make the most professional of impressions. She'd even decided to put on her Muggle glasses, rather than wear the contacts she always preferred, believing they would lend her a more credible air.

It was with some amusement that she played again over the idea that Draco Malfoy had behaved so flirtatiously with the likes of her on Monday. That from the man who had once professed to despise any witch of less than pure-blood descent. There was plenty of comedy to be found in that irony.

That night, she debated over the merits of heels versus flats to wear with her outfit the next day.

Now, here it was Friday, and she was tapping her fingernails on her desk, fully prepared and waiting, watching the magical clock on the far wall. Was it her imagination or hadn't the hands shown it to be thirty-eight minutes past twelve more than five minutes ago?

Blast, but where was the man?

Another of her greatest peeves was having nothing to do. Watching the seconds tick by was the worst kind of torture, as far as Hermione was concerned. She needed to keep busy. She should tidy up that corner of her office over there while she waited…

No, she sharply reprimanded herself. She would was just going to sit here and try to keep her heart rate calm. She would take these minutes to enjoy the peace and quiet around her, and to re-centre her mental and physical energies. Her Healer had been crystal clear that she couldn't afford another episode like the one she'd suffered months ago. He'd cautioned her to take life slower. Her Muggle therapist had concurred. In fact, they had both insisted that she learn to unwind and stop trying to control everything around her. Her compulsive need to constantly show some sort of achievement (even one as small as neatening a corner of her office) was, in the words of her psychiatrist, "overly-ambitious" and "a destructive behaviour".

So, no cleaning, no de-cluttering, and definitely no organizing for her. She was just going to sit here, with her eyes closed and focus on every breath, picturing the soothing image of ocean waves rolling over and retreating from a white sand beach.

The beach scene in her head reminded her of the pictures she'd seen of Maui. That's where she would go someday for a honeymoon… if she could ever find a fellow to fit the bill.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Author's Notes:

Short chapter this time, but filled with some sneaky plot bunny. Please review!