25.

The weekend passed both too fast, and with a horrible slowness. Hermione spent most of Saturday worrying about Rose, and Scorpius, and Malfoy, as she cleaned the house with a mixture of magic and elbow grease. Her hair scraped back in an untidy, firm bun, in her oldest vest top and leggings, her feet bare as she cleaned the empty house from top to bottom, noticing where it was getting old and worn. Paint losing its finish, and wallpaper peeling at the seams, the bannister on the stairs scarred and in need of stripping back and redoing, the kitchen benches marked.

Hermione felt a little like the house. Tired, run-down, and empty.

She wondered if she should talk to Ron about selling as she used a charm on the shower tile grout, trying to bring it back to pristine white. They'd bought in the area because it was a fantastic address in greater London, in a good school catchment zone; which they no longer needed. The children would be away at Hogwarts most of the year, and Ron was gone, and Hermione didn't need to be in London. It would probably make sense to sell, Hermione thought sadly. They might get as much as 1.8 million pounds for it, prices had sky-rocketed so much. And then Hermione could buy somewhere nice outside of London far, far cheaper.

Such prosaic thoughts. They made Hermione feel oddly depressed – that their life together had boiled down to this. An empty house they'd spent nearly two decades working to own and now that they did, all that was left was to sell it.

On Sunday, Hermione visited her father. She still hadn't told him she and Ron had separated. She wasn't sure why. It just seemed too real, and she didn't want to have that conversation with him. The emotion, the stress. The endless explaining, and the hint of shame – that she'd failed at something. At one of the most important things a person could undertake. She'd failed marriage. And quite honestly, Ron was the last person on her mind right now anyway. Hermione was busy thinking about boring practicalities, when she wasn't worrying about Rose, Scorpius, and Malfoy.

So Hermione let her dad think Ron was just overseas coaching, as she used magic to whip up a quiche and salad for lunch while she talked to her father about selling up and moving out of London, framing it implicitly as something both she and Ron were thinking of. She nearly slipped up a few times, but thought she covered herself okay. And then after lunch, and a long chat about what her father was up to – he casually dropping in a mention of a new female friend he'd met at poker nights, Karen – Hermione told her dad about Rose and Scorpius, as they sat in his cosy sitting room, the TV on mute on the sports.

"She's like you," her dad said with a wry grin, a cup of tea in hand. "She sees the underdog and can't bear to walk away. She has to stick up for them. Although I think she gets the rushing in and cursing people from her dad."

Hermione laughed. "True. I'm not angry at her, I just wish I knew why James was picking on Scorpius, so we could figure the issue out. Rose and James get along great, usually. I hate that she's stuck in the middle on this. Torn between her cousin and her friend."

"Well, she doesn't sound too torn from what you've said. It sounds like she's figured out what's right in her mind, and she's sticking to it," Hermione's father pointed out, a hint of a smile playing around his lips. She'd worried him and her mother so much as a child and teenager – the obliviate particularly had been very hard for them to forgive, and move past – and Hermione imagined he was a little pleased to see her experience a taste of that worry.

"Mm. She certainly seems to. She's defending Scorpius like a mama dragon."

"Funny," her dad said lightly, "how you hated the father so much, and now Rose adores the son."

Hermione blushed. She couldn't help it; she thought of Malfoy and just how little she hated him now, and her cheeks blazed hot. She tried to hide it behind her cup of tea, but her dad's eyes glinted – he was getting on in years, but he wasn't stupid.

"Very strange," he said, his eyes gimlet sharp, and Hermione made an inarticulate sound of agreement, mouth full of tea.

Malfoy was nowhere to be seen on Monday, at the Ministry. Hermione thought she might go insane. Every knock on her door frame, every tall man who stepped on the lift, or whom she approached with her head in her papers – every one of them made her hope it was Malfoy. And none of them were. She nearly broke and went to find his office, but she kept chickening out, worried that he wouldn't want to see her, or that he wasn't there, or that she'd only start up the gossip mill again.

She felt like a coward as she let the Ministry at 7pm that night, having hung around two hours late in case Malfoy turned up after hours looking for her. On the way down to the atrium she jumped off on the fifth floor, and found Malfoy's office; one of a group of six who all shared the same secretary, it seemed. No one was there. When she tried his door handle, it was locked, and no one answered her knock. Hermione hadn't really been expecting him to be there but her stomach sank in disappointment anyway, and she felt oddly fragile as she made her way out of the Ministry, to her dark and empty house.

The idea of just apparating to Malfoy's and flinging herself on his mercy was horribly tempting.

Hermione strode through the Ministry determined; on a mission, a bouquet of moss rosebuds clutched in one hand, her heels clicking on the floor. The buds were beautiful. A rich, delicate pink, with the sepals – the little leaves cradling the unopened bloom – strangely mossy in appearance, and sticky to the touch, with the scent of fresh pine needles and lemons. They were unlike any rose she'd ever seen. Hermione had bought them from a flower peddler in Place Cachée, the French magical high street equivalent, in the hopes of some discretion.

And now she was heading back to Malfoy's office at 9am, having dropped Mariska's coffee off at her office, as well as her own coffee, her handbag, and coat. She approached the corridor that led to the hub that Malfoy's office was attached to with her heart in her throat. She'd dressed for it; in heels, her new black pencil skirt, and a lightweight silk blouse in a soft dusty pink. Not quite as sheer as chiffon, the silk still felt delicate, and the unbuttoned neckline exposed more than Hermione was used to showing, the necklace Malfoy had given her hanging around her throat. Her hair however had refused to behave, so she'd tucked it in a low bun at the nape of her neck. She'd even worn a slick of tinted lip balm for once, and a lick of mascara.

"Can I help?" Malfoy's secretary was a witch in her mid-30s who looked immaculately groomed and slightly frightening, as Hermione stopped in front of her desk. She peered over a pair of diamante-encrusted spectacles at Hermione, her eyebrow raised and her lips pursed, a quill in her hand.

"I'm here to see Mr Malfoy," Hermione said awkwardly, holding the rosebuds down by her side, resting the urge to hide them behind her back. Too late; the secretary had spotted them, and a cool smirk shaped her face. Merlin, this was excruciatingly embarrassing.

"He's asked not to be disturbed," the secretary said, as if she took pleasure in saying it. Hermione lost patience.

"So he's in then? Good," Hermione said briskly, and walked across to Malfoy's door as the secretary protested behind her, flustered. She opened it without knocking, slipping inside and shutting it behind her in one quick motion. Malfoy sat behind his desk scratching away on parchment with a quill, in a white shirt with the sleeves turned back to the elbow, and a grey and black pinstriped vest and his tie with the golden snitches on it. She could see the shadow of the Mark on his arm, an echo of the past.

"What –" Malfoy began, annoyance in his voice. He looked up – dark shadows under his eyes, and halfway to a proper, blond beard – and saw Hermione there, standing nervously against the door with the flowers half behind her. "Granger?" He said her name with an honest confusion, brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of her presence. He stood. His eyes ran over every inch of her slowly and possessively, a dark, greedy kind of look on his face. As if he wanted to devour her. Hermione shivered under his gaze, the weight of it almost physically tangible.

"Hi Malfoy."

"You look beautiful." He crossed his office, stopping only a few paces away from her. This close she could see the way his pupils swamped his irises, his desire outweighing his bewilderment. His cologne was faint on the air; spices and a hint of something that smelt like forest. "What're you doing here?"

"I brought you flowers," Hermione nearly whispered it, as she held out the moss rosebuds to Malfoy, her cheeks heating. She felt strangely shy, and stupid. His eyes dropped to her hand, and he swallowed hard as he took the bouquet, uncertainty hovering around him. He looked up at her, questioning. "They're moss rosebuds." Hermione answered Malfoy's unspoken question, and she saw the wrinkle between his eyebrows as he tried to think of what they symbolised. She licked her lips nervously. "Do...do you need to know what they mean?"

His eyes darted to hers. "Yes," he said hoarsely, taking a step closer so that she had to look up to meet his eyes.

"A confession of love," Hermione said very softly, and then her shoulders hit the door with a thump as Malfoy backed her up against it fast and predatory, his mouth slanting hot and needy over hers, one hand at her waist and the other at her jaw. The roses were forgotten as thrills ran straight through Hermione's core, liquid and hot, making her body thrum with life, and want, and sheer magic in the Muggle sense. Her lips parted as she tipped her face up to his, her tongue licking a stripe over his and oh her knees went weak. Her hands slid around his neck.

"Mr Malfoy?" came faintly through the door and Malfoy stiffened and growled under his breath, pulling away from Hermione.

"I'm busy," he snarled back, and then went back to kissing her with a single-minded focus.

The sound of the door locking penetrated Hermione's brain as Malfoy pulled away from her mouth again for a second. "Merlin, I love you, Granger," he said low and hoarse against her cheek, his lips brushing her skin, his hand in her hair, her bun fallen down, hair fluffing everywhere. "I love you so fucking much. You frustrating, infuriating, inconvenient witch." He sounded caught between awe, amusement, and annoyance, his voice rough, uneven – filled with an overflow of emotion that made Hermione's own feelings rear up sharp and overwhelming.

"I love you too. Malfoy." She gasped his name like a prayer as he nipped at her throat, before laving it with his tongue. Tingles and tickles and jolts skittered down her spine, and her insides clenched, her words coming out weird and distorted on a shivering moan. "God, I love you."

"Salazar's sake," he groaned, coming to pieces under her words and her hands – yanking his shirt out of his trousers so that she could slide her hands up underneath, over the soft, silky-heated skin of his torso. It felt so right. So good. He was hard against her lower belly; a stiff bar pressing into her, and oh Merlin, she wanted it in her. To straddle him as he sat on his office chair – her skirt rucked up around her waist and her knickers on the floor – and sink down onto his cock. She was desperate. Thirsty for him, and for the way he pushed his way insistently into her body, stretching her and filling her up, a blunt, consuming invasion that she surrendered to.

Malfoy's fingers found the small buttons of her blouse, and nimbly they all slipped undone under his touch as he kissed her mouth in a skilful, delicious onslaught. Her blouse parted, his hands splaying over her ribcage below her nude bra, rays of hard warmth, fingertips denting her flesh. His teeth found her throat and her head fell back against the door with a hollow thunk, a moan sliding out of her, shivers lighting her up and her fingers flexing on his stomach. Hermione was thoughtless, gone in the heady madness of desire, love blotting out everything but him. Only him. Nothing else held any meaning right now.

He bit and sucked his way down her throat to the swell of her left breast, his hands gripping her like she was clay in his hands; malleable, and she was, shifting eagerly in his arms as he moved and adjusted her, her hands clenching fistfuls of his white-blond hair, her breath coming in a tiny whimpers. There was a fire between her legs – the blood rushing through her, her clit aching for the slick of his hot tongue. "Please," Hermione gasped as he scooped her breasts from the unpadded cups of her bra and bent to them, swirling his tongue over first one nipple – following with a soft, wet suck – and then the other, sending sparkles of pleasure firing through her on a fast track to her cunt. "Oh god, Malfoy, please."

He straightened and put his mouth to her ear. "What, Hermione," he said low and honey-dark, "you want me to fuck you right here? To lift your skirt up, and pull your wet panties aside, and push my cock into you?"

"Oh my god. Oh–" Hermione's hands went from his hair, down his back, finding their way under his shirt again. "Yes. Ye-es I do," she said wildly as he kissed his way along the jut of her jaw, his nimble fingers teasing her nipples now, her hips tipped out so that his erection snugged against her belly, his stubble prickling over her skin; it was so perfect, so insanely, blissfully good. Hermione would let Malfoy do whatever he wanted right now. Anything. Everything. "I do."

"Really?" he croaked as her words penetrated his skull, jerking back from her slightly and staring at her wide-eyed and shocked. He searched her face, and whatever he saw in her panting, lust-drunk expression convinced him that she meant it. "Merlin, Granger. You're serious."

"Deadly."

"Oh fuck." His mouth went to hers as his hands went to her skirt, sliding it up her thighs, the cool air hitting her skin like a shock, his fingers contrastingly hot. Hermione's arms hooked around his neck as she kissed him thoroughly. Urgently. Her skirt was rucked up around her hips when he withdrew a hand, the clinking of his belt buckle sounding, and a maddened want slammed through her. Oh god. Oh Merlin, they were really going to do this. The snick of his zipper, and then with an abrupt movement he hooked her slick-damp lace trimmed cotton pants aside with a finger, as someone knocked on the door.

Hermione stifled a squeak of terror, her whole body tensing and every bit of lust and desire vanishing in an instant. Her hands flew to Malfoy's shoulders, pushing him back and shoving her skirt down. Jesus Christ. Her heart felt like it was about to beat out of her chest. Rosebuds were scattered at their feet. Malfoy swore harshly under his breath, and then held up a finger to Hermione, either telling her to be quiet, or still, or both. He leaned in, his mouth soft beside her ear. "It's locked," he murmured. "Don't panic, Granger."

Then loudly: "What, June?"

"You have a hearing in fifteen minutes, Mr Malfoy. I thought I'd better remind –"

"Thank you, June. Consider me reminded," Malfoy snapped shortly, and then let out another string of swearing in a barely audible mutter, taking a step back from Hermione and zipping and buttoning his trousers before running his hands through his hair, looking dishevelled and dazed. His breath came hard and his cheeks were flushed as Hermione rearranged her bra and began buttoning her shirt with shaking fingers. The small, dainty buttons proved difficult, and upon tucking his shirt back in, Malfoy looked over at her struggle and laughed quietly.

"Malfoy!" Hermione's heart was still racing and adrenaline had flushed her system, along with a sense of shame that she'd been so carried away so fast. One touch from Malfoy and she'd been putty in his hands, ready to do anything. It was a little disconcerting, along with the heady deliciousness. He was grinning; ear to ear, like the cat that got the cream.

"Allow me," he said and then he was in her personal space again smelling faintly of cologne, redoing her buttons with a quick, gentle touch, dropping a kiss on her cheek when he was done. And then he grinned at her again, tongue caught between his teeth. He looked more boyish and carefree in that moment than Hermione had ever seen him look, even as a boy.

"What?" she asked as she tucked her blouse back into her skirt and tried to smooth her hair down, smiling despite herself, his expression infectious.

"You love me," he said, ridiculously pleased as he buckled his belt and ran his hands through his hair again. He was almost smug, and that reminded her of the old Malfoy. Hermione found it was actually quite endearing when he wasn't being a git to her. She leaned back against the file cabinet beside the door, mirroring his grin, her ankles crossed as she eyed him.

"According to the flowers strewn at my feet, yes. Yes, I do."

Malfoy laughed again and grabbed his wand off his desk, charming the flowers back into a neat bouquet in his hand with a flourish, before shoving them in a – hopefully empty – coffee mug on his desk and filling it with water with a tap of his wand. "There. Perfect."

"Perfect," Hermione echoed, her gaze on him. Still worn and exhausted looking with dark hollows under his eyes, but some of the strain and stress had fallen away from him. For now at least.

"What?"

"I was just thinking you might look nice with a beard," she said, a segue, and he chuckled and shook his head, rubbing his jaw.

"No. No, I don't think so." He made a face. "Merlin, I really do need to shave." His expression slipped, smile falling away, and Hermione could've kicked herself for being the cause. "I haven't been... I've been at Hogwarts a lot, the past few days. And took a quick trip to Spain on Sunday, to see Tori, but –" He caught himself. "But I don't want to talk about that, Granger. I want to think about happy things. Like you, here right now."

"Well, unfortunately it sounds like you have to be not here, shortly."

"Shit." He frowned and held out a hand to Hermione. She stepped forward and took it, and he drew her into a hug, wrapping her up and burying his face in her hair. "If you tell me this is the last time you can see me until after Christmas, I swear to Merlin I will kidnap you, Granger. I will take you, and I will chain you to my bed, and then keep you there indefinitely."

Hermione snorted against his chest. "God, Malfoy, that's dark." She smiled to herself. "Chained to your bed? What exactly would you be planning on doing with me?

"Oh, nothing improper," he assured her, and she could hear the smile in his voice. That controlled amusement. "I just don't have anywhere to attach chains to on my settee. And I don't think you'd want to be chained to the toilet."

"The bed it is, then." Hermione paused a moment, just enjoying the feel of him, and then sighed. "In seriousness, though –"

"Oh Salazar..." he mumbled brokenly.

"– I don't want to go without seeing you, Malfoy." He clutched her momentarily tighter and mumbled something unintelligible into her hair, relief in his voice. "But we have to be...careful. Tactical. We'll need to talk about it. After your hearing, I suppose."

He drew back from her, visibly mentally putting himself back together at the mention of the hearing; his control returning piece by piece, and his features smoothing to a tired neutrality. "That sounds reasonable. In your office? At lunch?" His tone was hopeful. Hermione nodded, smoothing her own clothes down a little more.

"Yes. But you're buying," she told him, lightness buzzing through her. He smiled, faint but sweet as he rolled down his sleeves.

"Fine. I'll see you then." He brushed a kiss over her cheek and then unlocked the office door and opened it, letting the world back in.

Notes: A little housekeeping update. Currently, I have 42 chapters and 156,000 words of Fascination pre-written, and am about three-quarters done story-wise. I anticipate it should wrap up at around 200,000 words max.

I've been focusing nearly exclusively on getting Fascination written at the moment, so I can then focus solely on Crumple, but I'm also 63,000 words into Crumple's sequel, Aftermath, which will be dropping September 1st, Friday NZT, (Saturday for most everywhere else).

I'll start off with twice weekly chapters, (Fridays and Tuesdays NZT,) until I get to the end of the pre-written chapters – and then depending on my writing flow, I may need to drop back to once weekly. So wish me good creative luck! Haha.

Thank you again to everyone reading, favouriting, following, commenting, and sharing!