As promised, here is the second installment displaying the Malfoysian struggles of Grangerly Park. Enjoy.

.o&o.

"Granger?"

Granger blinked owlishly up at him from where she had landed, which was conveniently on top of his devilish secretary. Her face reflected his astonishment in a rare moment of agreement.

"Draco Malfoy?" she squeaked incredulously, and Draco was immediately reminded why he had found her so irritating. "Wha-what happened?"

Draco stood from where he had been thrown against the shelves and straightened his robes imperiously. "I should ask the very same of you, Granger."

The two entangled bodies –an entrée of long limbs and fresh skin that he couldn't help but appreciate—began the process of undoing themselves. Draco noted the fiendish look in Diana's eyes and quickly hopped around the ladies to open the closet door. Sweet, bright light poured a pathway towards the struggling figures.

"Oh, I am sorry…I just don't know what happened…"

"Get…OFF me!" There was a yelp, probably from Granger, as she was tossed off of his angry attacker.

"Well, no need to be so rude." Draco could clearly determine Granger's domineering tones by the unladylike snort that preceded it. "It was an accident, after all."

Draco watched in stony-faced amusement as both women huffed and puffed their way apart. In the comfort of his rather spartan office, Draco finally felt in control of the situation. Here, in the light, he could not be trapped against a shelving unit and groped. And though he couldn't really conjure the proper terms for it (certainly not gratitude), Granger's sudden appearance did add a measure of security. He quietly slipped his wand into his pocket and patted it.

As the two women emerged from the dusty closet, Draco stepped aside. He smirked at Granger's crumpled appearance, but quickly swallowed his amusement at the sight of Doreen. She was no longer smoldering. Instead, her usually confused expression was filled with wrath as she limped from the closet on her broken stiletto heel.

"Ms. Delia," he began coldly, no longer caring what he called her, "you are fired. Please pack up your desk. And do leave behind those extra quills for the meeting this afternoon."

Draco supposed he should have expected the slap, but the sobbing was quite unbearable.

"You absolute bastard! After all these months, and all the work I've done? You don't even know my name! And you just toss me away? Me? Because I couldn't find your bloody quills?" she sobbed into her hands, mascara loyally clinging to her eyelashes. Then she stopped abruptly, eyes glinting prettily with unshed tears. "You will regret this, okay? I hope you drop dead and…and die!"

Draco could feel the dragon of annoyance rise up in his chest. He was probably going to Azkaban for some stupid Dark Arts antiquities, his underling secretary had physically ravaged him in his own closet, and now Granger was here to witness it all. He could barely handle the numerous insults. Enough is enough.

"Firstly, that's a tautology. It is impossible for one to drop dead, and then die again. Secondly, I have never cared to know your name, Danika, and will live in perfect contentment without it. Thirdly, you are a terrible secretary with the brains of an pigeon and would have been fired in a few days anyway. Lastly, you—" Draco remembered Granger, who was glaring fiercely at him, and spoke sotto voce, "—practically assaulted me with undesired affection. As I said: you. Are. Fired. Remove yourself immediately."

With another howl of anger and —what Draco thought was unjustified— pain, Dorothy limped hurriedly out of his office. He took the sounds of banging and slamming as positive signs of her acquiescence, and smiled slightly in relief before turning to Granger.

"Looks like you owe me a secretary," he drawled cleverly. Draco would never tell her how currently thankful he was for Granger's habit of getting in the way. But oh Merlin, was he ever.

Granger met his smile with an unattractive snarl. "How could you treat her like that?"

Draco was inwardly shocked. It had been a while since so many women had attacked him for doing absolutely nothing wrong. But he responded with his usual impressive wit and composure. "I'm Draco Malfoy, remember?"

Granger was practically foaming at the mouth. Keeping his smirk in place, Draco met her red-faced fury with icy eyes. Freeze burn, Granger. "I know you take up the causes of the most hopeless of mammals, but really. That woman does not need your pity."

"Perhaps not, but she deserves to be treated with basic decency. And from what I have seen, she has not received any of that for a while." Hermione felt her anger bubble at Malfoy's continued smirk. Yes, the woman was a rude tart— and wore enough makeup for all of the witches of UK— but she surely didn't deserve to be shagged, fired, and insulted all in the span of five minutes.

Malfoy's eyes sparked dangerously. His smirk, however, remained admirably firm. "Granger, I am sure that if you were privy to all that I have had to endure, you would be directing your renowned pity towards me."

Hermione rolled her eyes. All men were masochistic, chauvinistic pigs in one way or another. Malfoy just had the misfortune of being a pig in all ways. As a result, she engaged in a rarity: she did not think. She just spewed.

"Please, don't tell me that that poor secretary deserved what she got? You practically assaulted her, and then you fire her because she couldn't find quills? I don't need to be cognizant of all the details to know that you are clearly in the wrong. I am quite sure that Minister Shacklebolt will be most appreciative when I report this to him."

Hermione whipped around with the momentum of righteous fury and headed towards the racket of banging drawers. She was going to at least talk to the poor dear, maybe help her litigate the legal waters as she prosecuted Malfoy for his malicious acts of—

"Granger. Granger! Wait."

Hermione told herself she only stopped because of the wretched desperation in his velvet voice.

She turned slowly. "What?" she hissed, anger at his blatant cruelty still boiling.

Malfoy still stood where she had left him. His smirk was gone, replaced by a tight expression. He clenched and unclenched his jaw. "I believe," he started carefully, "there has been a misunderstanding."

The unladylike snort burst out of her like a fat man in children's swimming trunks. "Likely there has been. You're an innocent bystander, is that it?"

Malfoy ran his hand across his face and grimaced. "You have no idea."

Two snorts and three eye-rolls later, Malfoy and Hermione were sitting across from each other at his desk. Hermione had even stopped hissing everything. It was, Hermione realized with a start, rather civilized conversation. Considering, of course. "So, your secretary was fired today because of unprofessional misconduct on her part?"

"That, and her complete incompetence with the English language and basic witchcraft," Malfoy muttered. Hermione glared. As expected, it had no effect on the man. He merely smirked and raised a silvery eyebrow.

"It didn't look like the unprofessional misconduct was only on her part when I landed on you two," Hermione challenged sourly.

"Yes, well, maybe if you looked a bit closer at the situation, you would have seen my back against the wall, and her extremities pulling me closer." If she hadn't known it was impossible, she would have said that Malfoy squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. As it was Malfoy, she just assumed he was getting comfortable.

"Speaking of your landing, Granger, how the hell did you get here?" Malfoy asked in what could be considered exasperated gratitude. That is, if it weren't Malfoy, of course.

Hermione laughed a little uneasily. "Truthfully, I am not sure. I was cleaning up at the Weasley's when—" At Malfoy's cough, Hermione could feel a heated flush spreading across her face.

"Still cleaning up after Weasley, are you?" Malfoy's smirk grew. So did Hermione's annoyance.

"That's really none of your business, and if I were, there wouldn't be anything wrong with it!" she snapped, half-rising from her chair. Draco held out his hand, as if to pacify her. She sat down again, still thoroughly annoyed and, Hermione was shocked to discover, slightly embarrassed. And why should she be? There was nothing wrong that she was finally with Ron Weasley, and so what if he had asked her to help clean the stuffy attic in the middle of the summer? And the fact that he had wandered off to enjoy a game of Quidditch with Harry had not bothered her one bit, either.

"Right. Well, whatever flicks your wand, Granger. So, you were cleaning and then…?"

Surprised that Malfoy would pass up a chance to riddle her with insensitive insults, Hermione continued after clearing her throat. "Well, I was just going through some of Mr. Weasley's old work junk, when I touched a teapot and then…ah."

Malfoy raised his eyebrows in surprise. "A portkey?"

"Yes, but how? Portkeys have timers on them, and are useful only once…and doesn't the Ministry have magical restrictions against that?" Hermione forgot herself for a moment, there in Malfoy's office, as she beamed delightedly at the puzzle before her. She once again became aware of Malfoy's stoic face, and flushed. Why did he have to be so damn cold? Made her feel somewhat unhinged.

Malfoy leaned back in his chair, caressing the leather wings in thought. "Well, I recall Father always mocking that Weasley for his silly inventions…like the flying car that Potter and Weasel..ley" (Hermione was proud to notice that her glare worked at least once) "crashed into the Weeping Willow in second year. Maybe he twiddled a bit more with illegal magical items, such as unauthorized portkeys."

Hermione had to admit: she was simultaneously impressed with Malfoy and ashamed that she hadn't thought of it first. She knew the man, for Merlin's sake. "I suppose I shall just ask him when I see him next."

They both drifted into an uncomfortable silence, Hermione glancing at her watch and Draco watching her glance at her watch. Hermione was sure this uneasy truce was bound to break at any moment; even four years of maturation couldn't take the Slytherin out of Draco Malfoy's silk robes. She decided to take her leave while they both had their vital organs.

"Well," Hermione began in a professional, clipped tone, "it's been…er, lovely to catch up with you, Malfoy. Best of luck with your next secretary. I think I'll just head over to the Museum next door and finish up some work at the exhibit." She stood, brushing her loose hair behind her ear. Then, she stuck out her hand, immediately resisting the urge to grimace at the awkwardness of it all.

After a painful moment, Malfoy stood and shook her hand firmly, his own hand warm and calloused.

Must be from Quidditch.

The thought came unbidden, but Hermione couldn't shake the image of a trim Malfoy handling his broom with expert ease at his empty, echoing estate. Hermione didn't like the pang of pity that hit her. It was quite unwarranted. She threw in a few crying children and dead puppies into the image and felt much better.

With one last glance at the standing Malfoy, his expression indecipherable, she nodded and turned to go.

She heard, "Give my regards to the Weasel" in his deep, lilting voice, just before shutting the office door behind her.

Really, the man was incorrigible.

Draco sank into his chair, exhausted from his many ordeals. Merlin, to be nice to Granger had chaffed him horribly. Especially when she gave him the perfect ammunition: Weasley. Really, that boy was easier to mock than Luna Lovegood's pet squirffle bat.

But the most exhausting ordeal was the realization that had struck him as Granger mumbled her awkward goodbyes (don't Muggle-borns receive any sort of lessons in manners?): she worked at the Museum of Wizarding Antiquities.

He had forgotten that Granger was somehow in charge of its newest exhibit, the Relics of the Dark Arts. From what the Daily Prophet had reported, it was a comprehensive exhibit on the history of the Dark Arts, with a focus on the rise of Dark Lord. However, and most importantly to Draco, the exhibit had been collecting artifacts of the Dark Arts.

With this unpleasantly helpful realization, he glanced at his silver pocket watch and groaned. The undesired shenanigans with difficult women (really, could a wizard catch a break?) had wasted this immaculately dressed person's valuable time. With a will that he did not know he possessed, he dragged himself out of his chair to attend the dreary departmental meeting. Besides informing his superior that he required yet another secretary, he'd have to get that nagging thought out of his mind.

He wearily suspected that his terrible idea could not be forgotten. His mother had always said that his mind was a fertile planting ground that clung to anything that passed through. Most likely, he'd toss and turn in his silken sheets in the strenuous effort to forget the [illegal] part Granger could play in his freedom, to no avail.

But he'd be damned if he wouldn't try with the help of his favorite bottle of Firewhiskey.

.o&o.

Like it? Hate it? Confused? Comatose? Can't know what you think if you don't tell me! I'd love to hear your thoughts. Let's play, like the Londoners and Dickens did in the good ol' days. Ready, set, go!

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