Well, I certainly cocked that up, he thought to himself as he stepped out of the Floo, sweeping a hand down his face in frustration. His earlier words echoed in his head, voice acerbic and filled with loathing. "Your methods for crime reduction have clearly been effective." Instead of the civil (if detached) conversation he'd planned on having with her, he'd lashed out at the slightest provocation. Apparently, he was utterly incapable of shutting off his defence mechanisms around her.
"I'm a sodding idiot," he said to no one in particular, in his empty London apartment.
Having nothing else to do today (he'd cleared his schedule in order to be at the Ministry), he wandered to his bedroom to change into something more casual, snagging a deep green jumper from the closet. Draco rubbed his temples, amazed at how he'd managed such a mess of the situation in so short a time. It must be a record, even for him.
He had never intended the healing sessions with his friends to be anything formal; he'd simply wanted to help them. While in America, he'd spent time studying psychology and had briefly considered continuing his education to earn a more advanced degree; however, since he wasn't planning on working professionally, he hadn't seen the point. So, when Shacklebolt had approached him about his healing sessions several weeks ago, Draco had been hesitant. The Minister had heard about the sessions through Zabini (one of only a few of his friends to have come through the war with their reputation largely unscathed) and wanted to know more. After listening to Draco's unorthodox approach for helping recovering blood purists, he scheduled time for them to talk further about a new Ministry program he wanted to launch.
Over the next week, Draco met with the Minister several times to outline the basics of the program and determined that he could partner with the DMLE to identify program participants. The DMLE had access to the data Draco would need in order to identify young adults affected by the war who were at higher risk of destructive behaviours or delinquency.
They would then prioritise the identified wizards to receive treatment services, providing more effective support for those who needed it most. The rates of unemployment for those who'd graduated around the same time as the return of the Dark Lord— Voldemort, he mentally corrected himself— were quite startling. People on both sides of the war had been seriously affected in unique ways.
After signing a six month consulting contract, he had requested Neville Longbottom as his internal contact. Longbottom was a pureblood and perfect for the assignment; he understood the culture and how challenging the work ahead of them would be. He'd also suffered several personal losses in both wizarding wars, which would be an asset in identifying potential triggers and early distress symptoms in others. There were rumours that Longbottom was planning to leave the DMLE within the next year, as he was (understandably) tired of fighting and couldn't stomach the work any longer. He'd assumed that Longbottom would jump at an opportunity to extend his time at the Ministry while excusing him from traditional Auror work and was confident that Longbottom truly had the right background to help shape the healing program. Everything was coming together nicely — until it all went to hell.
When he'd received an owl from Shacklebolt notifying him he'd be working with Hermione Granger, he'd nearly lost his bloody marbles and Floo'd to the Ministry immediately. Unfortunately, Shacklebolt was adamant that it had to be Granger. Apparently Potter had already had a row with him over it, and if the Golden Boy hadn't been able to get his way, there wasn't much chance of Draco changing his mind. Still, he'd tried. Shacklebolt's mind was set; the chance for a new publicity campaign was too tempting. On his way out of the office, he'd heard the Minister's PR team dreaming up headlines: "Muggle-born War Heroine and Reformed Death Eater Create Breakthrough Program Under Minister's Direction." Draco just shook his head. He knew that most newspapers would not be complementary toward anything involving him.
Public sentiment was not on his side, and Granger didn't need to get pulled into the pile of rubbish that was Draco Malfoy's life. It wasn't her responsibility to fix anyone.
Granger had given everything in the war. It was clear to him that Potter and Weasley wouldn't have lasted half a year without her. He had seen her tortured by his aunt and heard secondhand about the other things Granger had endured during the war. Through it all, she had refused to break. He was quite confident that the swotty witch had been the driving force behind Dumbledore's Army as well, without which the war might very well have been over before it even began.
Maybe he should have pulled out of the project. He'd been a right prat to Granger at school — bullied and harassed her for years. His behaviour in school was despicable; the fact that it was well known and been broadly tolerated was truly disturbing. Draco could only hope that following the war, behaviours like his were no longer allowed at Hogwarts.
He'd thought he was ready to face her again — he was wrong. When she'd marched through that door this morning with Potter, eyes blazing and chin held high, he'd been stunned. Somehow she managed to look just the same as he remembered, while appearing completely different at the same time. She'd grown into her hair. It was still curly and wild, but now it appeared intentionally cultivated, instead of the frizzy unmanageable mop of hair he recalled. It was no surprise to him that she wasn't wearing a robe (despite most Ministry employees wearing at least a casual robe), having always preferred more casual fashions. Her tight jeans were tucked into pragmatic combat boots and she wore a simple knit jumper. It should have been unprofessional — but it worked on her.
She'd glared at him until Potter left the room, and then kept staring. It was obvious that she still hated him. Briefly, he'd thought that perhaps he should just record the information on the proposal and go, allowing her to review it later. He had fully expected her to leave the room. But instead, she'd asked, "How are we going to do this?" Gryffindors never backed down. He shouldn't have expected any other outcome. If she was going to be forced to work with him, the least he could do was let her lead, so he'd asked her to share her research. Despite only understanding about three quarters of what she said (maths never being his strong suit), he followed enough to understand that it was brilliant — she was brilliant.
Of course, she'd taken his compliment as an insult to the Golden Boy and Weasley. Well done, Malfoy… Then, at the end, he had been an absolute knob. What must she think of him? He honestly didn't want to know.
Once he'd changed into more comfortable clothing, he poured himself a healthy measure of bourbon, picked up his copy of Broken Balls: When Fortunes Turn Foul, and settled onto the leather couch to read. It was difficult to focus on the pages, and his thoughts kept shifting. His mind repeatedly conjured pictures of a young Hermione Granger sitting in their Divination classroom, swearing quietly under her breath. Draco recalled how he'd watched her with a sense of satisfaction; relishing the knowledge that he'd finally bested her in something — even if it was a nonsense class.
Maybe he should read something else.