Note: A bonus early chapter! I so enjoyed writing this one – I hope you enjoy reading it!

22.

"Higgins?" His office was cluttered with bookshelves and tapestries, and what looked like half an antiques shop, and dimly lit besides – several lamps were dotted about but none of them threw off more than a soft glow. The wizard himself was nowhere to be seen. "Higgins?" Hermione smoothed down her cream blouse and adjusted her cuffs as she stepped nervously inside the room. It stank of aniseed. His secretary had waved her through without a word, just a long-suffering look.

"Sir?" There was a noise. A rustle of paper, and then Higgins popped up from the floor behind his desk, bald pate shining beneath his wispy comb-over, a bag of sweets in hand.

"Ms – Ms Granger-Weasley! Hello! Good morning!" He went from a frenetic, nervous energy to a sudden more jovial mood, and scrambled up into his seat with a wide, unnerving smile. "Come in, come in! Would you like a Zebra Hoof?"

"Erm..." Hermione picked her way over to Higgins desk, dodging stacks of books and papers. "Thank you. That would be lovely?" she hazarded, accepting the wrapped black and white striped sweet he passed her across the desk with sticky fingers. She didn't mention that he'd apparently been camping under his desk. At least he was wearing proper day robes. But she suspected that he wasn't going to be any help. He should probably retire sooner than the end of next year, considering the state of his office, but there was no way to force retirement on him.

"How can I help you, my dear?" Higgins was bright-eyed and perky, seeming pleased that Hermione had accepted his aniseed sweet. She paused, not sure how to begin. "Please, take a seat." He swept a hand toward the unoccupied chair in the room, which wasn't quite unoccupied, but rather held a stack of files coated in a thick layer of dust. Hermione moved the stack with a charm rather than by hand and then perched on the very edge of the chair, brushing her hands over her new favourite skirt, the charcoal fabric having picked up lint and dust already.

And then Hermione took a deep breath and endeavoured to explain her situation, as Higgins watched her with a bright but vacuous eye.

Some mail arrived after lunch, delivered by Mariska with an awkward, sympathetic smile. A Witch Weekly, and an interdepartmental memo from Malfoy.

"Mail from Mr Malfoy," she said. "And I bought the new Witch Weekly on my lunch break and I think you should have a look. Page 17."

"Oh no," Hermione moaned. "Merlin-damnit." Higgins had been rather unhelpful – flippantly dismissive – and her cramps had arrived with a vengeance as her period kicked off. Hermione had read that a heavy, painful period was a possible side effect of the morning-after-pill, and it seemed she had it. She'd already had to sort out her mooncup twice at work today and it was only 4.30pm. In short, she was in a bad mood.

"Thanks, Mariska," she said miserably, holding out her hand for the memo, flapping weakly in her secretary's grip, and the rolled up magazine. "Can you close the door on your way out?" Uncharacteristically quiet, Mariska vanished with just a murmur of acknowledgement, the door clicking quietly behind her.

Hermione unsealed the memo and it ceased its flapping, but she put it aside without looking – it was the magazine she was more interested in. Oh no. This was terrible.

The entirety of page 17 was dedicated to the state of Hermione and Ron's marriage. The top half had a magical photo of Ron with his arm around a slim young woman with waist-length dark hair. They were on the balcony of a hotel room, other people visible inside the room – an after-match party probably. The young woman was in a tight, short metallic dress that showed off everything and was laughing, a slightly over-wide gap-toothed thing, as Ron murmured in her ear. It was clearly a romantic situation. Hermione was surprised by how little she cared, aside from distaste at how young the woman looked, and anger that Ron had been photographed.

"LOVE IS IN THE AIR?" The headline read, followed by: "Is Quidditch Coach And War Hero Ron Weasley Wooing Mystery Beauty?"

But then there were two photos of Hermione and Malfoy on the bottom half that dragged her attention away from the speculation that Ron was screwing the 'mystery beauty'. The first was an older photo from a few weeks ago at The Old Shades, a Muggle pub near the Ministry in Whitehall – Hermione remembered the day. It was close enough that they'd walked there from the Ministry. Hermione had ordered the beer battered haddock; Malfoy the Barnsley lamb chop. He'd been in the Council at a hearing of hers first thing that morning, regarding alleged illegal dragon breeding. He'd voted in favour of the accused, telling her blandly – with the faintest hint of a teasing smile – that she just hadn't made a good enough argument. She'd been secretly pleased that he'd been honest rather than humouring her, or worst, being biased in her favour.

Hermione was captured grinning as she reached out and stole one of Malfoy's pinkfur potato pieces in revenge. Malfoy was watching her from across the table, leaning back with an expression of vague amusement on his face that failed to hide the adoration in his eyes.

The other photo was from the day before yesterday. The morning after. It was Hermione on Malfoy's doorstep, her hair a fright fluffing out around her head, wearing her ratty grey t-shirt and leggings, her feet bare and wand in hand. It showed her mid-step with the door still open behind her and Malfoy barely visible in the foyer, and then the moment she disapparated, the door closing.

"Merlin-fucking-damnit," she hissed vehemently, tears springing to her eyes.

The headline read: "TANTALISING TRYSTS?" It followed on with the subheading: "Married War Heroine Hermione Granger-Weasley Caught Canoodling With Ex-Death Eater Draco Malfoy"

It went on to summarise their various relationships, family members, and employment, to cover Malfoy's estrangement from Astoria, recount Ron's recent indiscretions with multiple women including this most recent one, and then salaciously wonder whether Hermione and Malfoy were carrying on an affair.

Hermione wanted to cry. This was the last thing she needed. She set it aside, shoving it under a sheaf of parchment, and took a moment to collect herself before she looked at Malfoy's note.

Granger,

Have you spoken to Higgins yet? Or do I need to come up there myself, and go through the degrading indignity of talking to Potter in order to make sure someone knows you're getting death threats? Because if you won't look out for your safety, I will. You know how I feel about you.

Malfoy

Shit. If he did that, Hermione would have to murder him. At the same time, the fact that he would do that for her – and the mention of how he felt about her – made her heart squeeze tight and her lungs feel too big for her chest, her skin prickling hot. Hermione buried her head in her hands for a moment. How was it possible that Hermione Granger was falling in love with Draco Malfoy? Because she was. And as the piece in Witch Weekly illustrated, it was ill-advised, inconveniently timed, hugely indiscreet, unfaithful, and impossible.

At least until she and Ron officially separated. In about three months time. Which felt like forever. Hermione sat up straight and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she reminded herself that she couldn't go all gooey over Malfoy. She had responsibilities, and obligations, and her reputation affected the children; that stupid, awful gossip piece in Witch Weekly could do so much damage. It probably would. That second photo all but confirmed an affair; in order to try to combat that, they'd have to eliminate any further possibility of indiscretions.

This was a disaster. An utter disaster. If Ron saw the article, or it was mentioned to him by the team, or his family, he'd hit the roof. And if the students at Hogwarts saw it, or the children themselves... Merlin. And they were all but guaranteed to see it; Witch Weekly was popular with all ages. Hermione groaned miserably. What was she going to tell the kids? Shit. This just wasn't going to work. Hermione needed to talk to Malfoy seriously about how she wasn't free to repeat the other night – or indeed anything close to it – until after Christmas. She needed to be beyond reproach from now on.

Part of her also still wanted to ask Malfoy about the things Ron had brought up. It probably wouldn't be productive, or helpful, but what Ron had said in his texts had wormed under her skin like a parasite, and she hadn't yet succeeded in dislodging it. Hermione wanted to know how Malfoy would react. She rubbed her left arm through her thin sleeve unconsciously and then caught herself doing it and swore, yanking her hand away.

"Focus, Hermione," she told herself, and pulled out her favourite quill. Her feelings were chaos.

Malfoy,

Don't you dare! If you tell Harry, I'll hex you into next week, I swear to Merlin. But thank you. For caring. For the way you feel.

And yes, I did speak to Higgins. Although I'm not sure what good it'll do because he didn't seem very interested – he humoured me, but I think he thought I was overreacting to coincidence. He said he'd have an Investigator look into it, though. Besides, you don't have to worry so much. I'm perfectly capable of defending myself, you know.

Also, you need to check page 17 of the new Witch Weekly. There's a gossip piece on us.

H Granger

Maybe she should have said more than that brief, terse addition about the article, but for some reason the words wouldn't flow from her quill. The thought of committing a proper explanation to parchment made her feel ill; Hermione would just tell Malfoy the details when she saw him next. She set her quill aside, folded up the note and charmed it to fly straight to Malfoy, and set it free out her office door.

Malfoy turned up in her doorway half an hour later.

Hermione looked up at the sound of someone in the open doorway, thinking it was Mariska – she'd left work a few moments ago, while Hermione had elected to stay and finish up the trial notes she was working on. But it was Malfoy, in another impeccable suit, his cheeks flushed and his eyes heated with intent, looking as if he'd rushed up here. Her note was clutched in his hand.

"That's not good enough," he said, holding up the crumpled note as he stood in the doorway. He wasn't angry exactly, but he did seem displeased. "Higgins is clearly useless. I meant what I said about telling Potter, you know." He sounded arrogant and overbearing, but an aching concern ran beneath his words and was written all over his face, and Hermione didn't know whether she wanted to kiss him, hug him, or snap at him.

She settled for making a sound of frustration. "What can they do about one bouquet of flowers? It's hardly much to go on. I've owled Floriblunders – what else will Harry be able to do?" She shrugged and threw her hands up helplessly. "All I can do is be extra careful." Hermione knew she wasn't wrong, and it seemed Malfoy did too, as much as he didn't like it. He sighed, nodding as he stepped into her office, shutting the door behind him.

"I guess that'll have to do for now," he allowed. "Your secretary wasn't in, so I let myself through," he said belatedly. "I didn't interrupt, did I?"

"No. I mean, nothing that can't wait. Just some notes for a trial next week." And then a sharp cramp grabbed at her. Ouch. Hermione tried to centre herself, meeting Malfoy's eyes as he seemed to consider rounding the desk and kissing her but then thought better of it, sinking into the chair opposite. Relaxed and indolent now, but his eyes were cautious; darker, the blonde lashes lowered as he eyed her carefully, reading something on her face that Hermione wasn't aware she was broadcasting. Her discomfort, maybe? Or trying to figure out how sincere she was about being careful.

Merlin, her cramps were getting worse. She scooped up her handbag and began digging through. Malfoy eyed her with a bland curiosity. "Sorry, hang on. I just need to find some ibuprofen."

"I-bu-pro-fen?" He sounded it out carefully, questioning.

"It's a Muggle pain killer. Anti-inflammatory, technically, but also an analgesic," Hermione explained distractedly as she finally found the blister pack floating loose in between her purse and a travel pack of tissues. She glanced up to see Malfoy frowning in confusion and concern.

"What's wrong? Why don't you just take a potion?" Then before she could answer, "I can run out and fetch you one, if you need," he offered immediately and gallantly, and Hermione winced and told herself that there was no need to prevaricate; Malfoy was married and had a child. More than one, she reminded herself with a pang of empathy; it was just that only Scorpius had lived. He had to know about the female reproduction system, surely.

"It's my period," she said bluntly, her cheeks heating. "I have cramps."

"Ohh," he said, understanding clear in his eyes, followed by more curiosity. "Do Muggle methods work on them, then? Tori always had problems with her monthlies. I suppose she still does." There was a momentary silence as Malfoy realised what he'd just said without thinking, and then both of them processed the casual mention of his wife's periods.

"Um, yes," Hermione said faintly at last. "Much better than magical methods."

"Sorry, Granger, I shouldn't have –"

"No, it's fine. Honestly. Maybe Astoria should try Muggle painkillers. Muggle medicine is excellent, really." Her shock gone, Hermione decided to continue with the bluntness and honesty. It would be a good way to ease into the rest of the talk she needed to have with him, and was determined to go through with. "In fact, I, ah, forgot to cast a contraceptive charm –" Hermione enjoyed two seconds of Malfoy going ashen before he remembered she had her period, so couldn't be pregnant "– so I used a Muggle method."

"Oh." It was his turn to sound slightly faint. "Um. Could I ask – how it works?" He looked as if he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Hermione tried not to feel embarrassed, discussing something so private.

"Honestly I'm not sure. I just know I took a pill, and got a headache, felt slightly ill, and now I have my period several days early." She swallowed down two ibuprofen with a swill of coffee.

"Oh," he said again. And then he frowned. "I'm sorry. It's my fault you're in pain."

Hermione huffed a laugh. "Well, I guess. But I'm hardly writhing in agony –" She broke off, suddenly thinking of the Manor. Malfoy watched her, his eyes tightening. "Malfoy. We, erm. We need to talk. About us. This...thing." She waved her hand between them.

"Well shit," he said mildly, but Hermione could see the tension in his shoulders as he shifted in his chair, his features going carefully blank. "That doesn't sound good. Is it about that Witch Weekly article you mentioned?"

"Have you seen it? I only knew because my secretary bought it. And the photos are bad," she added tightly, digging out the magazine and passing it across the desk, still open on the article.

"I haven't seen it, but I can imagine what they're saying." Distaste crossed his face as he scanned it, along with a flash of rage that vanished as quickly as it came. "Shit. Weasley pulled her?" he said, crass for him, and Hermione flinched at the implication that Malfoy agreed the – admittedly beautiful – young woman was indeed beautiful. And then he looked down at the photos of them. "Merlin. That's worse than I was expecting. The bastards. Staking out my house?" And then unexpectedly a tiny, wistful smile hovered at his lips. "You look beautiful, though," he said, almost sadly, looking up at Hermione. "In both pictures. You do now, too." The smile fell away and he looked back down at the article. At the photos. "This is...not great." He met Hermione's eyes, a steady, searching gaze. "Do you regret it?"

"No, I don't regret it," Hermione said almost indignantly, and he watched her carefully, his shoulders relaxing a fraction as she spoke. "But this is awful. Ron's going to be furious with me despite his own bloody indiscretion. And the children will be devastated. And I don't know how to explain it to them so that it doesn't look as if I was doing the fucking walk of shame. Because I was." Malfoy looked confused at the mention of the walk of shame; the Muggle term didn't translate to the wizarding world. "What am I supposed to say?" she demanded, tears standing in her eyes, frustration gripping her.

"We can come up with something, Granger," he tried, but he didn't mention any ideas. Hermione shook her head.

"I don't know what, Malfoy. And I don't think you know either. How do you explain that away believably?" She gestured at the magazine, sick of it all, tone rising as she went on. "I hate this. I just want to be able to see you whenever I like, and do whatever I like, and not have to worry about the press, and Ron, and what the kids will think. But things are..."

"Complicated?" Malfoy suggested, expression suddenly tired and worn. It made him look older and vulnerable at once, and Hermione's heart twanged helplessly. She wanted to erase that; to restore his usual charming, perfectly composed look, almost always edged with a kind of superior amusement that should have been irritating but just made her want him to do terrible things to her.

"Yeah," she agreed instead. "They are. I have damage control to figure out. But first we need to talk about – about what we're doing. And where this is going." She gestured between the two of them.

"Is it going somewhere, then?" Malfoy asked tightly, as if he hardly dared to hope, his features schooled to a shaky neutrality. "Or did this –" he tapped the article "– kill that chance? Because I really hope not, Granger. I meant what I said the other night." He didn't say it, except with his hopeful, worried expression. He didn't tell her 'I love you' aloud into the prosaic, cluttered space of her office. Hermione was rather glad. It would've felt out of place, somehow.

"Yes! I mean – no," Hermione said, flustered under the weight of his gaze, and the unspoken words. "It didn't kill it. I want this to go somewhere. I want...I want you," she said softly, an admission. He jerked in a short breath, eyes darkening and pupils expanding at her words. "But – we can't do anything yet. Not yet. We can't. Ron and I agreed, and I told Rose and Hugo that we were all going to have Christmas at the Burrow together. As a family."

"Oh." He mumbled something under his breath that sounded like, 'that was stupid' and Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, frustrated.

"This is my life. And as much as I want a repeat of the other night," she said shortly, heart in her throat as she admitted it, "I can't risk anything that will give the papers or gossip mags more fodder than they already have with that." She pointed at the copy of Witch Weekly again. "I won't have my behaviour impact on Rose and Hugo any more than it already has. You understand that, don't you? I want to give them one last normal Christmas before –" There were tears in Hermione's eyes when she broke off, her voice strained. Malfoy nodded, his own features tight with empathy. Hermione imagined he was thinking of his own family's situation. She didn't imagine Christmases were fun in the Malfoy household. And she knew he understood a parent's reputation impacting on the child.

"Yeah," he said. "I can understand that, Granger." And then he looked her in the eye. "But I want you now." The words made her shudder like a plucked violin string, the desire to give into the combined force of their desire for each other making Hermione sway forward unconsciously.

"I know," she whispered. "So do I."

The smile that curved Malfoy's mouth was surprisingly sweet. "Good," he said, settling back in his chair, radiating a soft kind of smugness, as if they'd been playing a game and he'd won. "But I can wait until after Christmas to take you to bed again," he said, an oddly old-fashioned turn of phrase that didn't stop Hermione from feeling a delicious curl of arousal in her belly that rippled through her body, making her hair stand on end and the breath catch in her throat.

But Hermione didn't need flirting and banter right now. She needed serious conversation. "Good. Because you'll have to," she shot back, sitting up straighter and trying to shake off the lust that darted through her core and sparked along her nerve endings. Desire couldn't plaster over practicalities. Hermione took a deep breath. "I think we need to...press pause on things," she made herself say, hating it.

Malfoy frowned then, with genuine displeasure. "Press pause? What does that mean, Granger? Because it sounds like more than just not having sex again. Or not kissing again until after Christmas which I can also manage, although I'd hate it."

"Slow things down. Take a step back," Hermione said swiftly, nerves jangling. They clearly had very different ideas of what not taking risks meant. "It means you can't keep turning up in my office. And sending me flowers. And taking me out to lunch where someone might see us."

He stared at her blankly for a moment and Hermione felt horrible, listing off everything he'd done that she loved so much, and telling him that it had to stop. He pressed his lips together tightly. "And what does that leave, Granger?" he asked, voice strained. "Am I allowed to look at you if we meet in the lift, or should I avert my eyes?"

"That's not fair."

"Answer the question, Granger. Really. What are the parameters for the next three months?" Malfoy was angry and hurt, and trying to hide it. And failing. A vein in his temple pulsed and his mouth acquired the echo of a sneer, his tone clipped.

"I don't know!" Hermione's chest felt tight, her pulse racing. She hated that sneer, and the hurt-laced contempt in his tone. She told herself that he was only lashing out because he was upset. It didn't help. "I've only just seen the article! I haven't exactly figured out a plan, yet."

"I thought plans were your thing." He was ashen except two red spots burning high on his cheekbones, grey eyes cold and contemptuous.

"Don't be a fucking git, Malfoy," Hermione snapped back before she could think.

"Can I say hello to you in the corridors?" he asked, and he sounded calmer but still taut. "Send you a memo occasionally? Have coffee in the Ministry cafeteria with you?"

"I don't know. I know I can't go to your house again. And we can't go out for lunch again, I don't think. Maybe you could come by after work sometimes? I don't think we'd be likely to be caught in here. But Merlin, I just don't know."

"You're right," Malfoy said coldly. "This is complicated. Too complicated." Hermione's stomach lurched. No. An unwanted, horrible fear gripped her. He couldn't be bothered with her. Shit. She told herself to get a hold of herself; she didn't need him. But panic seized her anyway; Hermione might not need him but she wanted him, so very badly. He'd brought a spark and a joy into her life that she hadn't even realised she was missing. She stared at him, breathless and sick. Malfoy stood and slapped the Witch Weekly down on the desk. "I've waited this long for you," he said shortly. "I suppose I can wait a little longer."

"What?" Hermione didn't understand. She sat frozen in her office chair, stomach doing flip-flops, not sure what he was saying.

"I'm not hanging around you like a dog hoping for crumbs, Granger," he said coolly, and then strode to her office door, yanking it open. "I can't do it. Just... Let me know when you're free, if you still want to. It'll be better for us both, that way." And then before she could find any words to say he was gone, shutting the office door quietly behind him. It felt like a punch in the gut. Hermione stared at the closed door for a long moment, tears sliding down her face. Merlin, she hated this.