11.
That night Hermione fell into bed half-dressed, dropping off seconds after her head hit the pillow, and her sleep was dreamless and deep. When she woke the next morning at the chime of her alarm, the night before came rushing back. The talking, the laughing, the drinking, the kiss. And she wanted to do it again. She did. There was no way to deny it. Oh Merlin, what was she doing? What was wrong with her? She was supposed to be more sensible than this.
Hermione groaned and rolled out of bed, groggy and internally panicking as she got ready for work. She was not the sort of woman who let other men kiss her. She and Ron might be on a break but that didn't mean it was all right for her to be unfaithful. Flirting with Malfoy was one thing, but kissing – even a chaste kiss like that? That was unacceptable. She had crossed a line. And worse, she wanted desperately to cross it some more.
She drank her coffee standing at the kitchen bench and staring unfocusedly out the window, trying to think about the hearing, and only able to think of Malfoy. Of how much fun she'd had, quite apart from the sexual tension. She never felt like that with Ron – what she and Ron had was a comfortable sort of familiarity. They had nothing in common save their years at Hogwarts, and their children. No interests, no ambitions, no personality traits. They were as unalike as could be, and while the children had always given them common purpose, now with the children off at Hogwarts, Hermione was seeing things the way they truly were.
What did that mean for the future? Right now, Hermione didn't think it was very hopeful for her and Ron, regardless of the flirtation with Malfoy. But the hearing was at eleven, and Hermione didn't have time to stand about and mope; she needed to review her notes. She gulped down the rest of her coffee, shrugged a light cardigan on over her navy shirt dress, slipped on a pair of low heels, and grabbed her handbag, heading through the floo with a flare of green fire.
There was a rap at Hermione's office door shortly after ten that Hermione recognised as Mariska's, and she called for the younger woman to come in. Mariska looked altogether too smug when she slipped through the door, closing it quietly behind her. Hermione arched a brow, making her expression stern. She wasn't in the mood for silliness.
"Mr Malfoy is here with your coat, Ms Granger-Weasley," Mariska said, and then pressed her lips together tightly, clearly trying not to grin madly. Hermione's blood ran cold, and she resisted the urge to sink her head into her hands. Clearly she was incapable of any kind of discretion, and Malfoy wasn't exactly trying to be discreet either, just turning up in her damned office with her Merlin-damned coat. She smiled sweetly at Mariska.
"Send him through, would you please, Mariska."
"Of course, Ms Granger-Weasley. And I don't want to over-step, but...I can't blame you," Mariska said confidentially, her tone the verbal equivalent of a wink as she hovered by the door, her hand on the doorknob. "After Mr Weasley's behaviour, and all."
"Oh god, Mariska, it's not like that at all, honestly," Hermione protested, but her cheeks went hot and she was rather certain her secretary wouldn't believe her. "I went around to his for a couple of drinks after work last night, that's all."
"Oh. Yes. Of course," Mariska said apologetically, clearly not believing a word of it. "I'll send him through." And then she ducked out the door with a small grin, leaving it ajar. There was a brief murmur of talk audible before the door swung open again – just enough time for Hermione to check that she didn't look like a fright. She looked tired around the eyes, but presentable, her hair tamed into waves today and pinned back at one side, long enough to fall down just past her shoulders and not too fluffy.
"Good morning, Granger," Malfoy said lightly as he entered: "You forgot this, last night." He shut the door behind him, her coat draped over his arm as he dragged his eyes over her. "You look none the worse for wear this morning. Got plenty of beauty sleep after all?"
"Oh my god." Hermione found it quite impossible to contain her mortification. "Malfoy, you do realise that now everyone is going to think we're having an affair!" He shrugged, smirking a little as he hung her coat up and crossed the room to sit in the chair opposite hers, unbuttoning his suit jacket with a twist of one hand.
"They already thought that, Granger. And they're still wrong about it." His smirk grew. "So far."
Hermione's breath stuttered, and she couldn't help the way her teeth caught at the corner of her bottom lip, and her eyes slid coyly away from his. God. So far. The effect he was having on her was positively ridiculous. She forced her face into some semblance of normality, and met his eyes again, trying for sternness.
"That's true," she opened with, purposely vague and noncommittal, unable to supress her smile altogether despite her best efforts. So far. She wouldn't encourage or dismiss that – not now, at least. "But I'd rather not provide them with grist for their rumour mill. It will make my life far more difficult if Ron hears about it. Especially right now, with things...how they are." A flash of what looked like genuine repentance crossed Malfoy's face.
"Shit. I'm too used to a marriage where neither person particularly cares what the other does, so long as it isn't splashed all over the papers. I apologise, Granger. I should have thought of that." Malfoy sounded sincerely apologetic, sitting uncomfortable in the chair now, as though he wasn't sure whether he should stay or go. Hermione hesitated a moment, and then caved in the face of his obvious remorse, waving a hand and brushing off the incident.
"It's not a big deal I suppose, Malfoy. It's not your fault that people jump to conclusions, and that Ron is on a hair trigger. Just please...next time this sort of thing happens, remember that I don't have the same freedoms you enjoy."
He grinned. "Next time?"
Hermione flushed hot at her slip, biting her lip as she turned her face away – trying and failing to hide the blush and what it revealed. Caught in the act, so to speak. She hadn't wanted to appear eager, or as though she expected last night to happen again. She had wanted to leave the matter entirely until Malfoy extended another invitation, whereupon she could casually accept, with suitable nonchalance. Let him be the one showing interest, not her, the staid, married woman. Well that had gone out the window entirely, hadn't it? Oh god, how horribly embarrassing.
"I have a hearing soon, Malfoy. I really should be brushing up on my opening," she said briskly, flipping open a file that actually had nothing to do with the case this morning. She glanced up at Malfoy, who sat stretched out in the chair still, a smirk on his lips, and Hermione couldn't stop remembering what they had felt like against hers. Soft and warm, and very gentle, lingering but not long enough. Not enough. She suddenly felt extremely warm and breathless; to be fair, it had been quite some time since she and Ron had sex that actually satisfied her. Hermione wasn't surprised that she was...extremely interested. She had needs, after all. And oh god that sounded just awful.
She turned her eyes hurriedly back down to the file in her hands, completely unaware of a single word scrawled on the parchment, all of it a blur. She was not some horny teenager.
"Lunch, then?" Malfoy asked, and Hermione's gaze flew back to him, wide and startled. He wasn't even trying to moderate his interest in her – he couldn't be any more blatant if he tried. And Hermione had to admit, that was extremely flattering. "To celebrate what will no doubt be a successful hearing?"
"I..." A dozen different things flew through Hermione's head, the foremost of them being: what on earth would Ron say about it if he found out? Which was not that unlikely, Hermione realised now, with office gossip being the way it was. She nibbled on the inside of her cheek for a moment, eying Malfoy speculatively, and then caved, like she'd known she would from the moment he'd asked her. "Where would we go?"
He grinned, victorious, straightening in his seat. "Well, there are a few options. A lovely little Wizarding café in France that I frequent now and then, especially when I'm on the continent," he begins. "A cheerful little pub in Holyhead, or..."
"Or?" Hermione prompted, raising a brow. She suspected she knew what was coming, an exasperated smile twitching around her lips.
"Or my place. By which I mean, my place for a rather lovely spread of food and a glass or two of wine, not my place for..." he clarified, expression wickedly mischievous, and Hermione rolled her eyes.
"I realise that, Malfoy, thank you very much," she said primly, a hint of scolding in her tone, that both she and Malfoy knew perfectly well was only teasing. "And I must say, as appealing as cosy café in France sounds, the idea of going somewhere that we shan't be spotted by nosy members of the media is rather more so, today."
"Excellent," Malfoy said, with just a hint of relief in his tone. Had he truly been worried she would turn him down? The idea of that is rather sweet, and far too flattering. "Would half past twelve suit you? I could meet you here, or –"
"I think we'll skip stoking the rumour mill any further, and I'll apparate directly to your front doorstep, shall I?" Hermione interrupted, and Malfoy capitulated with a nod, standing and buttoning his suit jacket. He looked like he could be in the pages of some damn fashion magazine, if not that he was a little old for modelling, Hermione thought with an internal swoon. The man certainly knew how to dress himself; the cut and style of his clothing was an impeccable melding of Victorian and modern elements, and the dark charcoal of the frock coat was his colour – flattering his pale complexion, and making his grey eyes steely and clear.
"I'll see you at twelve-thirty then, Granger. Good luck with the hearing," he said smoothly, and then he was gone, striding out of her office and pulling the door to behind him, leaving Hermione in flustered silence, pressing the cool backs of her hands to her hot cheeks.
Lunch was a spread of cold meats, cheeses, and other sandwich makings, paired with a bottle of Daisyroot Draught, and finished with a fresh fruit salad Malfoy had made himself.
When she arrived, Hermione kicked off her heels at the door, uncorked the Daisyroot Draught herself and poured them both a glass, browsed Malfoy's bookshelves critically, pronounced the private back garden she discovered he had through the French doors in the lounge 'delightful', and about the time they were sitting outside under a striped lawn umbrella on a rug to eat their delicious spread al fresco, realised that she was probably entirely too comfortable, and she wasn't sure how it had happened.
She paused midsentence – they were talking Muggle authors that Hermione thought Malfoy might appreciate – and stared at him a moment. In shirtsleeves, his suit jacket and waistcoat abandoned inside, sprawled propped up on an elbow gazing at Hermione in absorption as he picked at the food and listened to her talk. Hermione gulped. This was...this was nothing like she had thought she would ever do, and it terrified her that she wanted to keep doing it. Like a junkie who needed a fix, she wanted to keep seeing Malfoy again and again – to be listened to, and bantered with, and fed delicious things by a man who seemed to know how to romance a witch.
"Granger?" Malfoy prompted curiously, after licking a smear of mayonnaise off his knuckle. She blinked and dragged herself back to the present – to the sunny skies and the pleasant company, and no kissing anywhere in sight. It was all just perfectly fine. No need to be concerned at all, she told herself firmly.
"Sorry. Off with the fairies."
"Is that...a Muggle saying? For...being distracted, yes?" he asked uncertainly, and Hermione laughed and nodded, and let the conversation segue.
Before she left – late for work and with flushed cheeks, happy and light – Malfoy gave her a rectangle wrapped in blue and green striped paper, with a gold ribbon tied about it that fell in shiny curls. It was a book, clearly. She went to open it, and he shook his head, laying his hand over hers and stilling it.
"Open it in your office, Granger," he told her, and then placed a kiss on her pinked cheek, and opened the front door.