21.

"Mariska," Hermione said briskly as she strode into the office at five to nine, coffees in hand. She sat one down in front of her secretary with a smile that hid her discomfort; her period had indeed come on, at around 6am. The cramps were a pain, but at least she wasn't too heavy. So far. "Can I look at your Witch Weekly with the flower meanings in it?"

"Good morning, Ms Granger-Weasley. You look nice this morning. And of course." Mariska shuffled through her stack of magazines and pulled one out, passing it to Hermione. "Can I ask why, or would that be nosy?" Mariska sounded cautious as she raised a dark, perfectly groomed brow, but there was a mischievous spark in her eye. Her secretary was irrepressible. Hermione didn't mind her nosiness this morning though, as it didn't involve Malfoy.

"Thank you, Mariska. You too," Hermione said to her always stylish secretary as she put her coffee down and opened the magazine on Mariska's desk, perching on the edge of the chair in front of the desk and smoothing her black linen trousers – wide-leg and drapey, they were comfortable and practical. She'd paired them with a silk blouse she'd spotted in the back of her wardrobe – a birthday present from her mother not long before she'd died, it was Boden, and lovely.

But after her mother died it had just made Hermione sad, and then Ron had been silly about the fact that it was white with wide vertical 'Slytherin green' stripes, so Hermione had never worn it much. Now though, she shrugged it on. It was bright and different, and looked nice with her hair tamed into a thick fishtail side-braid.

Yes, Hermione was worried about threatening bouquets, and her train wreck marriage, and what the hell to do about Malfoy, and how she looked was hardly important – but sometimes it was just nice to look pretty. And get a compliment from another woman.

"And yes, you can ask. I actually got an anonymous bouquet of flowers at my home a few days ago, and I want to know if the flowers have a meaning." Hermione shrugged off her black coat; it was too warm in the office. "They were orange lilies with cypress. I already found out the cypress is death, but the book M–" Hermione nearly gave herself away, stumbling as she paged through the magazine "– my book doesn't have orange lily."

Mariska's eyes widened. "I'm sure I've seen orange lily. It's like...anger, or something?"

But Hermione had already found it. "Hatred," she said aloud, softly, the word swimming in her vision.

"Hatred and death?" Mariska looked uneasy. "If your anonymous sender meant there to be a meaning, Ms Granger-Weasley, that isn't good."

Hermione stared at the page, feeling fear crawl icy up her spine and pool in her belly. "No," she agreed quietly. "It really isn't." And what was the likelihood it was a coincidence? The chance of that had to be incredibly low, because cypress was not a common choice for bouquet greenery. It seemed too deliberate. Her first guess would be that it was a threat from someone she'd sent to Azkaban, or maybe someone whose trial was upcoming. Although they'd need an accomplice on the outside to organise it. And that person on the outside might also be the one to escalate from warning bouquets, to violence.

Hermione shivered.

"Do you think it's a warning from someone you've sent to Azkaban?" Mariska asked as if she'd read Hermione's mind, going on before Hermione could answer. "You should talk to Mr Higgins about it, just in case."

Hermione wasn't sure going to the head of the department would help; Higgins was well-meaning, but he'd been in the job the past ten years after a prior forty years of working in the Improper Use of Magic Office – first as an intern, then as an Investigator, alongside Mafalda Hopkirk. He was old and tired, hence his retirement next year, and frankly wasn't invested in the department anymore. More than once he'd shown up to work in his pyjamas. Hermione didn't forsee him being much help.

"Perhaps I will," she said neutrally, standing and scooping up her coat and coffee. "Thank you, Mariska. I'd better get to work, though. I have a hearing at 10am, don't I?"

Mariska checked quickly. "You do. 10am, Courtroom 6, with the Council of Magical Law. The case with the –"

"Rock laying chickens, yes, I remember now," Hermione sighed. She'd never get used to the cases here. Sometimes she wondered if Muggle barristers felt the same way. Probably not. She doubted they ever dealt with a chicken farmer whose birds who had been broken by a neighbour's careless spell. It would cost him more than the birds were worth to have the curse lifted, and so he was seeking damages. It might sound ridiculous, but he'd lost his livelihood.

She moved through to her office with another sigh, and settled down to work.


After the hearing – which she won – Hermione had some free time, which she decided to put to good use. She wrote a list of everyone she'd been responsible for sending to Azkaban in the past two years, and was shocked by how long it was. Some of the sentences were only for a few months, and others a lifetime. Of course, she realised two years really wasn't a long enough time. She'd been working in the department since Hugo was four, which meant she had seven years of cases that she should probably look through as well. Especially recent releases. There might be wizards or witches who were sent away five years ago who'd just gotten out, and were seeking revenge.

So she asked Mariska for a cup of departmental coffee – strong, bitter stuff – took some more ibuprofen, and owled Floriblunders Florist, asking who had ordered the bouquet. And then she bent over her desk, scribbling away with quill to parchment making lists, sleeves rolled up to protect them from ink smears as she organised the people likely to seek revenge on her, starting with Caritas Usbourne.

Realising she'd have to sort through seven years of files, Hermione shifted her attention to the most likely candidates, and organised them by violent crime (imprisoned), violent crime (released), and awaiting trial for violent crime. It was times like this that she was thankful that she kept impeccable records, sorted by month and year, Wizengamot or Council, and alphabetically ordered. But still, it would be a project that took Hermione some after-hours work. She couldn't really work on it during work hours in good conscience. But it was nearly lunch, and after lunch she'd set it aside and get back to work, she told herself. She may as well finish up what she was doing.

Oddly, she didn't feel overly frightened, like she had last night. Instead she felt focused. Productive. Driven. It felt weirdly good to have a mystery to focus on – it was the kind of thing she enjoyed about her Interrogator work, but with an added difficulty that just made it more absorbing. Cataloguing, combined with unravelling loose threads, and following up on leads. She would have to track down where released convicts were now, and what they were doing. She'd have to –

"Granger?" Malfoy stood unannounced in the doorway in an outfit that was as dashing as it was Edwardian; grey pinstriped trousers, black morning coat, dark blue vest, and a palest blue shirt with a silvery grey ascot. A faint smile decorated his lips and his eyes were clear and rapt as he looked at her. "Good morning. You look...fantastic. That green suits you." He gave a smile that was almost a smirk but too sweet to quite make it. "You should wear it more."

Hermione felt suddenly like Anne Shirley under Gilbert Blythe's amused, desiring gaze. The Gilbert from the 1985 mini-series she'd loved as a child. All charm and teasing, with eyes that seemed to hold unspoken depths. With a sudden twinge of amusement, Hermione realised Gilbert had tormented Anne when they were young too. It wasn't even close to the same, but it made Hermione smile anyway.

"Malfoy. Good morning. Or...afternoon?" She checked her clock. "Oh. Afternoon. Merlin, where did the time go?"

Hermione felt suddenly flustered. This was the first time Malfoy laid eyes on her since she'd left his house yesterday morning after a night in his bed. Naked. Moaning and panting with pleasure.

"Erm, thank you. The blouse was a gift. From my mother, many years ago. Oh, and thank you for the flowers," she remembered to say, as Malfoy shut the door behind him and crossed to her desk. "And the coffee."

"Well, it was my fault you were late. And your mother has good taste." His features barely shifted – a slight curve of his mouth, and a crinkle at the corners of his eyes – and yet somehow he communicated his remembered pleasure and amusement perfectly. It made Hermione's thoughts scatter like startled birds, leaving only a stupid longing to wrap herself around him and slant her mouth teasingly across his. Perhaps luckily, that longing was dampened by thoughts of her mother.

"She did, yes."

"Did?" His expression changed; taut with an anticipatory sympathy, mouth pulling tight. Hermione nodded and shrugged helplessly. It still did hurt, her mother's death. The lack of her. Although she'd long since moved past immediate grief and into occasional pangs, most often during important moments of her life. Like now, with her marriage disintegrating and Malfoy doing his best to court her. Her mother's advice would've been nice.

"She died nine years ago."

"I'm sorry, Granger. That's awful." His eyes were pellucid, his tone soft and grave. Hermione gave him a sad smile, and then attempted to move the conversation on.

"She did have good taste though," she said more brightly, and then widened her smile. "You look good too." It was sincere, and he actually looked the tiniest bit flustered by the compliment, running his hand through his hair, his cheeks pinking faintly.

"Your secretary told me to just come through. She said you'd been so absorbed in work that you were bound to forget about lunch if someone didn't remind you. Which sounds like you." Malfoy's mouth tipped up into a fond, dry smile as he strode around Hermione's desk, hand planting on the surface as he bent down and kissed the cheek she offered him. Oh. His lips brushed her cheek lingeringly, plush and gentle and electricity sparked through Hermione's nerves, her stomach flip-flopping and a sudden arousal obliterating her attempts at self-control. She grabbed a handful of his coat lapel and held him close when he went to pull away, turning her face into the kiss, her mouth catching his.

He made a low, satisfied sound, almost a growl, and it sent thrills through Hermione's bones, her insides clenching pleasurably instead of painfully as he parted his lips on hers. The kiss was delicate and demanding at once, Malfoy's hand shaping to cradle the back of her head as he leaned down, tongue teasing flares of hot pleasure out of her, his lips impossibly soft and lush. Hermione whimpered as he licked into her mouth, her thighs pressing together. An insistent, heavy arousal made her very aware of her clitoris and vulva, which almost throbbed in a pointless anticipation.

With the way he was bent over her and her head was tipped back, Malfoy controlled the kiss. Controlled her. His fingers were firm on her scalp, his lips tugging and pushing at hers as his tongue teased hers first so delicately and then with an almost rough heady demand, in some obscene kind of dance. His other hand found her throat and then slid down just beneath the open neck of her blouse, sliding under her necklace chain; his thumb settled between her collarbones, his little and ring fingers spanning over the top of her breast and brushing the edge of her bra. Slipping beneath, stroking dangerously close to her nipple. Oh Merlin. Hermione made another muffled, needy sound into Malfoy's mouth, pressing upwards greedily, her lips and tongue urgent.

Heat and lust set Hermione on fire, burning out all sensible thought, and if Malfoy had pushed everything off her desk and laid her on it and taken her right there in her office she would've let him. Except for her period, which made that appealing, idle fantasy impossible. Shit. That stray thought lodged in Hermione's mind, and brought her back down to reality a little.

As if he felt that shift in her, Malfoy gentled the kiss, and then with one last soft press, pulled away. He was slightly breathless and his lips were reddened and kiss-swollen, his cheeks flushed with colour and his eyes silver-bright and molten hot as he stared down at her. Hermione felt just as breathless. More breathless. The neck of her blouse was pulled all askew, and her chest rose and fell hard as she met his gaze, feeling glazed and hot.

"The things you make me want to do," he muttered darkly, cheeks flushed with colour as he stared down at her. And then he reached into the neck of her blouse with his index finger and hooked up the felix felicis that hung from the delicate chain.

"You're wearing it," he said as if surprised. There was something in the depths of his tone; satisfaction and adoration mingled, along with something deeper that made Hermione shiver, her skin tingling. She remembered the way he'd said I love you as if it were carved in stone, and her heart lurched as he settled the vial carefully back against her skin and took a half step back, hands finding their way into his pockets as he looked down at her with heavy-lidded eyes.

Hermione's gaze slid down too; to the crotch of his trousers, where his arousal was evident. She found herself smirking as she straightened the collar of her blouse, and rolled down her sleeves and buttoned them, patting at her hair – mentally and physically putting herself back in order. Malfoy followed Hermione's gaze down, and his expression turned wry rather than embarrassed, a self-deprecating amusement in his eyes.

"Hmph." He half-turned away, trying to adjust himself with as much delicacy and discretion as possible, and Hermione snickered, eyeing him blatantly as he sucked in his already flat abdomen and slid his hand into his trousers, rearranging his erection. "Don't mock me," he said, mouth twitching into a smile. "This is your fault, Granger."

"Oh, I'm not mocking you, Malfoy." Hermione grinned, loving the way he made her feel after the busy stress of the morning. Heady and light. Almost gleeful. It was marvellous. "I'm just appreciating the view."

"Mm, as am I. Although sometimes your professional integrity leaves me wanting." He moved back to the chair across the desk from Hermione and sank into it, adjusting his morning coat and vest. "I wish I could unbutton that blouse all the way down."

"I think that might be pushing the bounds of professionalism, yes," Hermione said, the naked longing in his voice making her feel wobbly in the best way. "We are in the Ministry, after all."

"In your private office," he pointed out, raising an eyebrow and giving the locked door a meaningful look – but without any real seriousness to his words. Lazy and relaxed, his arousal dialed down to a simmer beneath the surface.

Hermione sorted through some of the lists in front of her to try to clear some space, shooting him a quick smile. "I don't know what you get up to in your office, Malfoy, but –"

"Thinking about you," he said softly with a dangerous weight to his words, shifting in his chair. He put her in mind of a big cat; relaxed and coiled at the same time. She gulped. The air was filled with a frisson, making it feel heavy, as though a thunderstorm were looming. Ozone and electricity, and his eyes were suddenly lightning sharp. And then he smiled, sweet and unexpected, and the tension fell away. "I can see you're definitely thinking about work, though. What is all this? An upcoming case?"

Malfoy gestured to her desk. Rolls of parchment everywhere, the curling ends weighted down with ink wells and paperweights alike – Rose's brown glass otter in the mix. Stacks of case files written on wizarding parchment but stuffed into the Muggle manila folders she favoured. Lists, and notes, and rolls of unused parchment; Hermione's desk was a disaster zone.

"Actually, no. It's about the flowers."

"The flowers?" He was puzzled.

"The ones you didn't send me." Hermione felt her cheeks flush. "The orange lilies and cypress."

"Ohh." Malfoy's eyes went cloudy with distant, faraway thought and Hermione knew what he was thinking of. She was remembering it too – what happened after the flowers. When they'd left them scattered on his foyer floor. Her clothes suddenly felt too constricting, perspiration breaking out as she grew hot. "Yes. I remember those flowers." His eyes were amused. "What about them?"

"I have no clue who they're from, and I don't know why anyone else would be sending me flowers –"

"Not Weasley?" Malfoy said the name with distaste.

"No. Ron's never – well, never mind. My point is it's not Ron. Or Harry. And I'm sure any of my friends would have attached their names anyway. There's no reason for it to be anonymous." Malfoy nodded, following along; one leg up with his ankle resting casually over his knee, his hands folded loosely in his lap. Hermione went on. "So last night I thought of it. And I wondered if maybe it was a message. Flower language." Malfoy smirked, eyeing the blue periwinkles still on her desk. "So I looked them up. There wasn't anything on orange lilies in the book you gave me –" she tapped it, where it lay in the desk half hidden by parchment "– but cypress meant death."

All the lazy flirtation fell away from Malfoy, leaving him sharp-edged and alert, his eyes intent as he sat forward a little. "And the lilies? You said there was nothing in the book. Did you find a meaning elsewhere?"

"I did, actually. Mariska's Witch Weekly had it," Hermione said with a wry smile, although she felt colder now with Malfoy's worried gaze on her – reigniting her own fears, which had faded somewhat in the cosy safety of her office. Last night's fear had seemed very distant, but not anymore. "Orange lilies mean hatred." She fidgeted with her quill, feeling oddly nervous. Malfoy went cold; icy, his eyes hard steel and his mouth thinning as a muscle in his jaw twitched and jumped, his posture stiffening.

"Shit. That doesn't sound like coincidence, Granger."

"No, not really."

"Have you told anyone? Higgins? The Investigation Department?" He paused, then added with a note of distaste, "Potter?"

"I haven't had a chance," Hermione said, which wasn't strictly true. Despite all her research, part of her still hoped that she was just reading something into nothing. That it really was just a coincidence. Reporting the incident would be to acknowledge that someone was really threatening her. It would make it real in a way Hermione didn't want to face. Malfoy gave her a look; a cock of an eyebrow and a twist of his mouth that spoke volumes. Disbelief, irritation, and a deep-seeded worry.

He tapped a parchment on her desk. "You have time to do all this – whatever it is – and you don't have time to walk down the corridor and speak to someone about the fact that you received a death threat at your home?" His voice was barbed, and Hermione saw a flicker of an old Malfoy in his frustration. It was strange to see it from another perspective; not aimed at her, but rather out of concern for her.

"We don't know that!" Hermione insisted. "It could just be a coincidence, Malfoy. I don't want to jump to conclusions and make a big deal out of nothing."

His expression was mildly scathing. "Come on, Granger. Your best friend is an Auror."

"I'm not really talking to Harry right now," she said uncomfortably

"Oh?"

"He keeps inserting himself in my marriage," she said tartly. "Making excuses for Ron. Defending him. Making things worse. I'd rather not mention this to him. He'd just tell Ron, and it'd be a whole thing..." Hermione trailed off, shaking her head. She could imagine it – Ron would insist on turning up at home, full of bluster, saying she needed him there to protect her. From what was most likely a non-existent threat. No thank you, she thought decidedly. Malfoy accepted that with an impatient nod.

"Fine. Understandable. What about the Investigators Department, then?"

"It'll just get back to Harry immediately."

"Higgins?" he tried, exasperated, running his hand through his hair, a muscle in his tensed jaw still twitching as he stared Hermione down. She looked down at her hands; still fidgeting with the quill, running her fingers along the soft barbs repetitively. She had no real excuse. Anger swelled up under her skin, making her feel stretched and taut. Strung out and neurotic. Merlin, she needed a break.

"I just – I don't need this right now, Malfoy. I don't need to have some crazy stalker threatening me on top of everything else!" Hermione gesticulated wildly, tears threatening, and that angered her more than anything. She hated crying like this – it made her feel weak. Stupid.

"Granger." Malfoy said her name softly, expression gentling. "You know, if that is what's happening, not telling anyone doesn't change it."

"But it does! Then Harry will get involved, and Ron, and –"

"Just tell Higgins," he cut in, leaning forward, grey eyes earnest as he tried to persuade her. "He won't think to tell Potter, and he can flag it up with someone in the Investigator Department discreetly. Give them strict orders not to leak it. Come on, Granger. You've got no excuse not to." The tension was slowly winding back through him again; he was all elegant hard angles in his suit, his eyes begging and demanding at once. "You can't just bury your head in the sand and ignore the problem. If this is a real threat, ignoring it won't make it go away."

Hermione slumped back in her chair, thinking. He was right. There was no real reason not to tell Higgins. "Fine. Okay. I'll tell Higgins. I'll make an appointment to see him tomorrow."

"Good." He sat forward, tapping a stack of parchment on her desk again. "Now show me what you've been doing