7.
"Ms Granger-Weasley?" Mariska popped her head into the office, dark eyes sparking with a glee that immediately made Hermione suspicious. "Ms Granger-Weasley, Mr Malfoy is here...and he says you have a lunch date."
"Oh shit." Hermione's shoulders slumped and she dropped her quill to the long scroll of parchment she had been scribbling case notes on, massaging her aching wrist. She had forgotten all about Malfoy's presumptuous lunch arrangements, Merlin damnit. "Come – come in, Mariska, and shut the door," she said hastily, flapping a hand in her secretary's direction. The younger woman did so, standing in front of the door with hands clasped in front of her, waiting expectantly for instructions. Her eyes still glinted with amusement. "So you're telling me he's lurking out there right now?"
"Yes, Ms Granger-Weasley, he is. Would you like me to tell him that you're...unavailable?" The thought should be tempting, but somehow it wasn't. Hermione rationalised that Malfoy was right – with Scorpius and Rose being best friends, it probably was a good idea for the two of them to set the past aside, and attempt to become...friendly. She was, however, fully aware that her rationalising was just that. If Hermione was honest, Malfoy intrigued her, and flattered her, and actually she would rather like to be taken out to a delicious lunch at an extravagant restaurant, without having had to arrange it all herself. Ron loved to bring home takeaway for them both on their occasional romantic evenings, but he would never think of taking Hermione out to a half-decent restaurant without her all but forcing him into it.
"No, Mariska. No. Um. Actually." Hermione took a deep breath and tried to dismiss the vague, niggling feeling that told her she was potentially treading on dangerous ground. "Tell him I'll be out in a moment, if you would, thanks." Mariska smirked.
"Of course, Ms Granger-Weasley." Hermione saw Malfoy briefly through the open doorway as Mariska slipped out; leaning casually back against Mariska's desk, fiddling idly with his wand. He was in a Muggle suit without a robe draped over top, and there was something about him that made prickles thrill up and down her spine. Maybe it was the sense of controlled alertness to his relaxed pose, and how when their eyes met over Mariska's shoulder for the briefest second, his were somehow...predatory. Hermione ducked her head swiftly as her cheeks blazed up hot, shuffling briskly with the parchments on her desk and clearing her throat, telling herself to stop being silly. What on earth was wrong with her? It was his fault – Malfoy was trying to...well, flirt? That was ridiculous and utterly impossible, but whatever his game was, it seemed enormously inappropriate despite ostensibly being none of the sort.
He was still leaning up against Mariska's desk when Hermione emerged from her office a few moments later, having pulled herself together and straightened her clothes and hair. He was chatting easily to Mariska, who seemed a little flustered and amused at once. But when Hermione shut the door behind her with a click, he looked up and smiled at her, pushing off from Mariska's desk and shoving his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels.
"You look smashing, Granger," he said loudly enough for Mariska to hear, damn him, his smile transforming into a lopsided grin. Hermione could see her secretary react with glee to the compliment in her peripheral vision – no doubt the technically meaningless comment would be all over the Ministry by end of day, transformed into whispered gossip about the affair Malfoy and Granger were having. Hermione would be lucky if the news wasn't all over by the Ministry by the end of the week. She assumed the best poker face she could, smiling coolly in return and inclining her head in acknowledgement of the compliment.
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Malfoy," Hermione informed him, but her lips twitched into an almost smile as she spoke, belying her words. She did like it actually, but then who could blame her? She was about to hit forty, she hadn't even tried to lose her holiday weight, and her marriage was a mess – of course she appreciated a harmless compliment, even if it was from Malfoy, who couldn't really mean it. He grinned again, and strode forward, so that she had to tip her head back to meet his gaze. He ducked his head, lips by her ear and breath hot, the scent of cologne hanging subtle around him.
"We'll see," he murmured, and then straightened, his face transforming with a smirking sort of mischief as he looked down at her. He was just teasing her, clearly – trying to rile her up – and some of the tension that had been winding Hermione's muscles tight evaporated at that, leaving her loose-boned and feeling unexpectedly light and warm. Almost relaxed. She arched an eyebrow, allowing a knowing smile to flicker at the corners of her lips.
"I'm sure we will." Hermione stepped around him neatly then, stopping by Mariska's desk and tapping her nails on it, to get the young woman's attention. She leant down, pitching her voice low enough that Malfoy would have to strain to hear it. "If I hear a single word about this lunch from anyone in the division, I will be very displeased, do you understand? This is a friendly lunch because our children are friends, and I am not in the right place to be dealing with rumours of an affair right now. I expect confidentiality from you, Mariska." The younger woman looked a little wide-eyed at that – Hermione would never normally speak so harshly with her – but she nodded swiftly, and Hermione believed she would hold her tongue – or at least not make the gossip out to be romantic when she retold it.
"Of course, Ms Granger-Weasley – I would never…" Actually she would, but Hermione couldn't blame her. It was natural for people to want to gossip, especially when the subject of gossip was their bosses and other higher-ups, like she and Malfoy were.
"Thank you, Mariska. Have a nice lunch," Hermione told her secretary in a louder voice, and then looked back toward Malfoy expectantly. He nodded to Mariska and bid her good day politely, but amusement creased his face, and Hermione knew he must have strained to hear Hermione's stern word of caution to the younger woman. In fact he'd probably eavesdropped deliberately, she thought, with wry humour instead of the annoyance that should have been present.
"Well, come on then, Malfoy – we'd best be off. I don't usually take long lunches."
"Of course you don't," he answered, the four words somehow packed with meaning, but there was fondness there, buried beneath the amusement, and the snarkiness, and Hermione found herself smiling as she swept out of the office, Malfoy following – rather satisfyingly – in her wake.
"Shut up, Malfoy."
"You're not exactly dressed for lunch at The Veela's Folly," Malfoy observed hesitantly as they headed for the lift, side by side. Hermione glanced sharply up at him, suddenly feeling self-conscious in her neat black trouser suit. It was crisp and simple and extremely practical, but with a white silk blouse, heels, and an apparently on-trend necklace Rose had bought for her, Hermione had felt stylish. She suddenly felt rather unsure of that, although she didn't show it. She'd never been good at looking anything but underdressed, or dowdy.
"I thought I looked smashing?" she asked with a bare hint of acid to her tone, as they stepped into an empty lift. She didn't like compliments being retracted; it was… What did Muggle pop culture call it...? Negging, that was it. An insult disguised as a compliment, and if he was doing that then he could go to hell.
"Oh, you do. Absolutely," Malfoy answered immediately and honestly; enough sincerity to nip Hermione's rising wariness of his intentions in the bud. "But I think I know enough about the average woman to know that isn't a lunch date outfit." He smirked infuriatingly down at her as the lift door rattled shut, and then they jerked downwards in the lift car. Hermione leaned back against the wall to balance better in her heels, as the lift shot through the Ministry's depths.
"Date?" she queried archly, folding her arms across her chest beneath her breasts, and for a worrying moment rather liked the way 'date' sounded. She liked the thought of it; being wooed, even by Draco Malfoy. Especially? She wasn't sure right now, if she was honest with herself. "I thought this was a friendly lunch?"
"Even for a friendly lunch. You would have worn that skirt you love so much," he pointed out, standing very close to her, with his fingers shoved in his pockets. "The pencil one that hugs your hips just –" He pulled his hands out of his pockets and outlined the swell of hips in the air with his hands, grinning in just the right way so that the flirtation could be passed off as a joke. Hermione blushed slightly, at both the fact that Malfoy had eyed and admired her body, and at the general observation. She didn't like the idea that she had an obvious favourite 'go to' skirt, and that Malfoy – and Merlin knew who else – noticed it. Clearly she needed to go shopping.
"It's very flattering," she defended – stupidly, because Malfoy wasn't criticising her choices if his blatant admiration for her hips was any indication, just pointing them out.
"Oh, it is. Very," Malfoy agreed easily, with a dark kind of emphasis, and Hermione felt the conversation spiral out of her control entirely. "As is this –" He waved at her trouser suit. "– But very...business-like."
"Since when did you become a critic of women's fashions, Malfoy?" Hermione avoided neatly, eying his body within his no doubt criminally expensive, tailored suit – a perfect marriage of Muggle and Wizarding fashions. He was rather a metrosexual man, she supposed with an inward smile, with his neatly manicured nails and perfect skin, and always impeccable suits.
"Oh, it's always been a hobby," he said airily, and then: "Admit it. You forgot about lunch, didn't you?" He leaned in a little as he asked, one hand bracing up against the lift wall near her shoulder, and his voice was all dark humour, and the faintest scent of cologne wafted off him, deliciously. Hermione tried to cover the flustered reaction his proximity aroused, staring at the knot of his tie and keeping her breathing dead even. Alone in the confines of the lift, Malfoy was far too tempting altogether – especially when her last conversation with Ron sat sour and unpleasant in the corner of her mind.
"If I recall correctly, I never actually agreed to lunch in the first place, Malfoy," she told him, deliberately pert, not quite flirtatious.
"So you forgot." He smirked fleetingly, still standing too close. The lift banged to a halt then, and Hermione pulled herself straight and composed immediately; she couldn't see past Malfoy to know if anyone was getting on, and he was infuriatingly slow in stepping away from her. They probably looked like they were about to kiss, the way Malfoy was leaning braced over her. Oh Merlin, this was not what she needed right now. She didn't need Mariska to spread gossip; she was taking care of that herself. God. Panic seized her and made her act stupidly.
"Yes," she snapped brusquely and sidestepped to get away from him, not missing the flutter of hurt that crossed his face. Annoyance surged up in her when she saw there was nothing in the doorway but an interdepartmental memo. Oh damn. She tried to compose herself, looking up to meet Malfoy's eyes, annoyance seething toward him, because it was his fault for standing so inappropriately close. "I forgot. I have a great deal on my plate, Malfoy, between my work, my marriage, and my daughter getting into trouble thanks in part to your son – so no, a friendly lunch with you that I never even agreed to, wasn't a priority."
Silence fell, after she finished speaking, broken only by the lift rattling into life. Malfoy's shoulders dropped and his smirk faded, and he looked nothing other than utterly deflated. Hermione felt absurdly guilty.
"I apologise, Granger. If I had any idea I was being an inconvenience to you…" he seemed sincere but this time, Hermione didn't believe him at all.
"You would have continued to ride roughshod over what everyone else wanted, and do exactly what you pleased and damn the consequences, as you've always done?" Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, arms still crossed, willing the lift to hurry up and deposit them at the Atrium. At this rate, if lunch even happened, it was going to be a disaster. And yet she still couldn't stop thinking about how close he was standing, just to the left of her – if she stepped forward her left shoulder would meet his arm.
"That's unfair, Granger."
"Why?" she shot back, feeling prickly and angry. Men. Ron was a useless lump, Malfoy was an arrogant prat, and she was stuck having to deal with them both whether she liked it or not. How had this happened? Anger bloomed like a hothouse flower. "You harass me in the corridors, you send me flowers, you ask the secretarial pool about me, you turn up on my office doorstep, you railroad me into going to lunch – why should I think you'd care about consequences?" Malfoy's face drained of what little colour it had, as Hermione spoke, and by the end of it, he'd taken a step back, his face ashen and mortified.
"It wasn't – I didn't…" It had been a long time since she'd seen Malfoy lost for words, but now he was stuttering over sentences, inept and near speechless, blood returning to his face as an embarrassed blush. In hindsight, she rather wished she hadn't mentioned his pestering the secretaries. "I apologise. Again. Deeply. I had no idea that you felt harassed." It seemed to pain him to say the word, and he looked away from her. "I'll get off at the next stop, and leave you well alone from now on. Except for when we may have to communicate about the children, of course."
Oh Merlin. That wasn't what Hermione wanted at all, actually. She reached out as if to grab his wrist when he moved away from her, and he halted, cocking his head to the side and watching her very gravely. A blush flooded her cheeks.
"No, don't," she said, and then pulled her hand back and looked down at the toes of her high heels for a moment, trying pointlessly to hide her blush. "I'd like lunch, Malfoy. I'm the one who should be sorry. That was entirely inappropriate of me. I just...things haven't exactly been great right now, at home," she admitted, shocking herself with her own openness as she looked up into Malfoy's grave stare. "Ron and I are on a break." The words hung in the air between them, and Hermione saw something on his face change, but she didn't know what. Was it relief? "I shouldn't take that out on you, though."
"Take it out on me as much as you like, Granger," he said with a smirk that was there and gone in a fleeting second, and then: "Really though, I'm sorry to hear that you're unhappy. You deserve to be...appreciated." Chills ran all over her at that, coming from him in a low, sincere drawl, his eyes drifting over her face and down, and Hermione suddenly felt very, very aware of every part of her. And then he smiled and sighed, the moment passing on undisturbed – the tension snapping and dissipating, and Hermione was nearly disappointed.. "I think this is good excuse for ordering extra boozy drinks at lunch – and you can bitch at me about Weasley as much as you like. I promise I won't mind."
Hermione laughed at that – out loud and easy, and then bit her lip as she smiled, feeling girlish and light, hand going to her throat and fiddling idly with the top button there. "Oh, I know you wouldn't. And...perhaps I will, at that." It was a tempting thought, to confide in Malfoy of all people, because she knew she wouldn't have to worry about being nice, or fair, or polite, like she would with Harry, or Ginny, or even her other old school friends. She could be as rude as she liked, and Malfoy wouldn't shoot her a disapproving look and make her feel guilty. It sounded rather dangerously fun. "Maybe I will."
By the time they reached the restaurant – disapparating from the Ministry to the small outlook in the wilderness that The Veela's Folly was located at, and wandering up the path to the elegant building – Hermione had discreetly undone her top two buttons. Because why not? She was still perfectly decent, with her soft, full cleavage framed gently by the white silk. Most of the women at work her age and under arrived with plenty of cleavage on display. Hermione was just prone to bouts of prudishness when it came to her own garb, and she could readily admit it. But today she felt like being less prudish. She would show off her cleavage while out to lunch with Malfoy if she liked, and Ron could go to hell.
The wind whisked her breath away and did its best to destroy her neat bun – to no avail thank Merlin – and Malfoy took her elbow in a gentlemanly fashion halfway up the path, and she allowed it with a small smile of thanks. It was brisk and cold in the wilderness The Veela's Folly was situated in – in the south-west of England, on the cliffs overlooking the sea. The air was salt and the wind was rough, and Hermione was glad of Malfoy's steadying grip. They stopped at the entrance to the building – a beautiful large balcony, which would be lovely to eat on in the middle of summer with the brilliant view across the Channel, but wasn't quite so lovely now.
Hermione walked across to the balcony rail despite the biting wind, casting a warming charm on herself, the tension and shivers easing out of her as the warmth radiated from her core and the wind became little more than a minor annoyance. Malfoy joined her, standing close enough that their bodies brushed together warm and firm when the wind gusted and she swayed with it a fraction. They stared out at the sea, raging up in frothing churns and swells, crashing noisy against the cliffs beneath the sweep of cloud-filled sky.
"It's beautiful," she said softly, the wind snatching the words from her mouth and whisking them away into silence, but he heard..
"Bleak," he observed in return, low and neutral, standing so close now that they no longer touched when the wind pressed against them. They just touched.
"I would have thought you would have liked the bleak aesthetic," Hermione said inanely, looking across and up at him, and he smiled, shaking his head in the negative.
"No. Although I don't blame you. That kind of reputation seems to go with the Malfoy name. But no. I like soft things. Lushness, and warmth, and the luxury of comfortableness, and the beauty in things that are wild and strong, and not cultivated carefully." And they both knew perfectly well that he wasn't talking about anything other than her. Hermione swallowed hard, absorbing the words.
"A friendly date?" she said, because she didn't feel there was any point in beating about the bush, and he shrugged in return, not trying to deny that the compliments had been for her.
"It seems my appreciation for you is out in the open, thanks to the secretarial pool, so I see no point in trying to hide it. Unless of course it makes you uncomfortable." He was very blasé and matter-of-fact, and it was surprisingly disarming, and she shook her head no – it didn't make her uncomfortable, honestly. "We may both be married and unavailable, but there's nothing wrong with a little harmless flirtation at lunch, Granger." Hermione questioned that, very much. But considering Malfoy seemed about the last thing from happily married, and she was on the brink of separation…
"Temptation is the spice of life, Granger." His eyes glinted mischievously.
"Temptation? I'm fairly certain it's variety, Malfoy," she said, and he chuckled, turning away from the view and leaning his weight back against the rail, as though it wasn't a long fall into the sea directly behind him. It made her stupidly nervous.
"Oh no – I'm fairly certain it's temptation." His gaze grazed light and smiling over her; lingering at her breasts, and she knew with a hot flush of something good that he'd noticed the buttons she'd undone. And then he pushed away from the railing, holding out his arm for her to take.
"Well then – shall we go in?" She paused, gaze flitting questioningly from his arm to his face. She didn't want to attract unwanted attention over nothing. "Don't worry," he said, sensing her trepidation. "The staff here are paid not to spread silly rumours."
So Hermione hooked her arm through Malfoy's, and they went in together, her heart feeling tight in her chest. It felt like a betrayal of Ron to do this – just to flirt and eat with Malfoy, in a perfectly public, if discreet, place. With the way Ron felt about Malfoy, even if Malfoy wasn't attracted to her, something like this becoming public knowledge could so easily end Hermione and Ron's failing marriage. And Hermione realised with something that felt like a muddle of nausea and wild freedom, that she didn't particularly care if Ron found out.