Kink Bingo 2011
Sep. 30th, 2011 07:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
worksofstoneRating: T
Pairing: Dramione
Notes: Rough, rough drafts. Will get beta'd and britpicked later. For the Virginity / Celibacy square.
These days, Hermione's office was his sanctuary. It was an odd sort of sanctuary for a Malfoy; a tiny, cramped office in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, but it was one of the few places he could go without flinging women and occasionally men out of his lap.
Their meetings had their own routine; he walked in unannounced, the door closing behind him with a click as he maneuvered himself into the sole spare chair. Her office was tiny, barely more than a glorified broomcloset. She'd said that she didn't feel right asking for more space than the typical junior Ministry employee, but Draco thought she was daft for not throwing her war-hero status around. The office's sole occupant wasn't visible, as she was twisted over at the waist, fishing for a something on the floor, but she waved absently at him nonetheless. Draco waved back and then felt foolish; it wasn't like she could see him. He sat back and waited, which was far less of a chore than he'd ever admit; her office was tiny and cramped, but it somehow always felt more comfortable than his rooms at Malfoy Manor.
“Found it!” She chimed as a file hit the top of her desk. Hermione sat up, shoving her hair out of her face, and adjusted her robes. To Draco's dismay, she was again wearing a sensible blouse and an utterly dull tweed skirt under her official robes, waging some kind of sabotage-campaign against her own good looks. Muggle fashion had so many options, it was almost distressing to see Hermione stuck permanently in whatever era 'dowdy' had been handed out. Still, she was good-looking enough that one could overlook her unfortunate taste. Draco might have been the part-Veela, but after working with Hermione for over two years, he'd been surprised that she didn't start her mornings by beating gentleman-callers off her door. Not that he was really complaining.
“Alright, Malfoy. How have you been?” She asked. Draco liked it when she asked, because she actually meant it.
“As well as can be expected.” He shrugged and absent adjusted his gloves. Lately, he'd taken to wearing Muggle clothes, sharply-tailored three-piece suits, great cloaks and accompanying accessories. He'd expected his parents to kick up a fuss, but after the whole Veela-thing, the lord and lady of Malfoy Manor had found other things to worry about than their only child's habits of dress.
“Any luck?” She sounded hopeful.
He shook his head. Hope vanished under disappointment. She even leaned across the desk to pat his hand. Draco took the opportunity to peek down her blouse.
“Don't worry, I'm sure it'll happen soon.” She sat back and started leafing through his file. “This has got to be some kind of record.” She muttered. Draco thought it was rather cute, the way that she'd furrow her brow as though his file were Hogwarts homework.
If it was homework, it was homework that was overdue and possibly lost. Draco knew what was supposed to have been recorded in his file by now, thanks to Hermione's lengthy lectures and voluminous notes. In all Ministry-tracked cases, part-Veelas found their mates within a few years after coming into their heritage. The mate – although all of Hermione's publications refereed to the mate as the 'willing complimentary partner' – when encountering a Veela's magic-laced pheromones was supposed to have their own pheremones react in some special way. At which point the Veela would joyfully pick up the scent of their 'willing complimentary partner' and presumably they went off together to do the kind of thing that required privacy. If no privacy was to be found, there had been records of not only tremendous public embarrassment, but also one case in 1962 of Ministry Obliviators having to be called.
Draco was beginning to think the whole mate-thing was a load of dragon-dung, although perhaps that was just bitterness speaking; his 'willing complimentary partner' seemed nowhere to be found.
Hermione, initially assigned to help him transition into his heritage, had been helping him search for his 'willing complimentary partner' in some kind of ad-hoc international magical being dating service. Once a week he dropped by her office for tea and biscuits, and they talked about his search. Although, lately, he'd been asking more about her own lack of love life. Not that it seemed that way to her, but being a trusting Gryffindor, she'd let drop more than she probably thought. For starters, he knew that she wasn't seeing anyone. Hermione and Weasley had flamed out after a brief post-war fling, but he also knew that she was more disappointed than she'd let on. The red-headed git was still counted among her friends, but Hermione apparently chalked up the relationship's crumbling to dust, adding it to whatever invisible mountain of guilt she carried around on her back. Highly selective guilt, Draco noted. Remarkably absent when it came to violating certain Ministry-regulations on information sharing and record access, if it would help her cases, but all too evident when it came to her friends.
Which, after all, was why Draco had made absolutely no attempt at setting her up with anyone that he knew. Hermione in guilt-fest after a minor dust-up with one of her friends was bad enough; she'd probably start looking haggard and tired if she had one with a boyfriend, as well as dumping her guilt on everyone else around. The thought was enough to send sharp tendrils of discomfort through Draco's chest; no, Hermione not dating anyone was better for everyone around. He'd even subtly discouraged a couple of his friends who'd sent interested looks her way. At least Draco thought that he'd been subtle; he wasn't sure if telling them that Hermione was in a long-distance relationship with someone in Brazil counted as subtle, but he hadn't been called out on it yet.
Draco liked her company, preferably guilt-free and plentiful, although he wouldn't admit it short of torture. He watched her flip through his file as something like fondness curled itself in his chest; she was sharp, level-headed and devoted, and it was quite heady to have someone like that pay so much attention to him. She'd also started taking Veela pheromone-suppressant potion since she'd been given his case, so she'd never swooned at his feet. Not that she ever had in the first place, even back at Hogwarts. Technically, he'd swooned at her feet once, but that was due to blood-loss from when she'd hit him in the face, so that didn't count.
There was a knock at her office door, interrupting his reminisces and causing her to look up from his file. Draco squelched a surge of irritation.
“Come in!” she called out.
Their meetings weren't confidential, but lately it seemed as though every one has been interrupted by one of her incompetent colleagues, who all believed that the Ministry would collapse without her immediate aid. The door creaked open and Draco resisted the urge the turn around.
“Hermione, I just need a few requisition forms signed – oh. Afternoon, Draco.”
Unfortunately, Draco knew that voice very well. “Afternoon, Theo.”
Go away, Theo. Draco felt almost embarrassed that he used to think Theo was a decent fellow back at Hogwarts, because after seeing the man at the Ministry, it was obvious that Theo's an utter skirt-chasing bastard. Well, at least an utter skirt-chasing bastard when it came to one woman, who was currently sitting across from Draco at her desk.
“Sure thing, Theo. Deadlines and all.” She looked at Draco apologetically. “I'm sorry, this will just take a minute.”
Hermione apologized for the interruption, Draco noted with pleasure. Unlike Theo, that smarmy bastard, who seemed to think that he was the only with with any rightful claim on her time. He'd been claiming increasingly large chunks of that time, a though which caused Draco's fingers to curl into claws. Draco tried to focus. He didn't want to ruin yet another pair of gloves by popping his talons through the stitching. Although Theo was making that awfully fucking hard, standing next to Hermione as if he really needed to lean in close to watch her sign a form.
Hermione reached for her quill, but Theo pulled out a Muggle pen in an absolutely transparent attempt to score points. It was a bloody embarrassment to the House, seeing a Slytherin resort to such obvious tactics.
“Here, try this.” Theo offered the pen with a terrible attempt at a charming smile. Hermione gave him an utterly disarming smile in return. Seeing her smile at such terrible, unsubtle attempts caused Draco's stomach to churn. Theo had to go, for Draco's health at the least. Possibly also for the continuation of Theo's own.
It would be so much easier if Hermione, naïve Gryffindor du jour, realized that she was the target of a very unsubtle campaign. Theodore Nott, walking around brandishing Muggle pens? A kneazle kitten wouldn't even fall for this, but Hermione seemed to think that Theo was actually genuinely interested in Muggle things. Other than divesting her of her pants.
Theo passed the pen to her, and Draco was pretty sure that Theo's fingertips pressed against hers for a moment longer than necessary. Neither Hermione or Theo had any inconvenient magical-being heritage running through his veins, so Theo just did it because he was an arrogant prat. A pure-blood arrogant prat, at that. After Draco nearly died on his twenty-first birthday, his parents had gotten the news that their only son was not technically a pure-blood, but wasn't even completely human; a resurgence of dormant Veela genes, the specialist had said. His parents had practically dueled each other, each accusing the other of corrupting the family line. When the magical tests had come back, his mother had crowed for a week while his father sulked. Draco's heritage had not come from the most noble and ancient house of Black; it was hidden about four generations back in the Malfoy line. The end result was what had turned out to be a wretchedly inconvenient aura of attraction, a tendency to tear through gloves whenever he got upset, and occasionally waking up to feathers on his pillow. The entire mate-thing was a debacle of an entirely different order, which Draco was technically working on fixing, if only Theo would stop trying to touch Hermione and get out of her office.
Theo smiled at her again, that absolute wanker, and proceeded with his absolutely shameless campaign to try and get in her pants. As she signed the form, she didn't even seem to realize that her colleague was looking at her like he wanted to bend her over and shag her on her desk. If a Malfoy were still in charge of things at the Ministry, there would be no such grossly inappropriate flirtations happening around Ministry desks. Theo would be fired. Highly, highly fired. He was only working to find women to flirt with on paid time; he didn't need the money, he was filthy rich, just like Draco. Plus, it would keep naïve witches like Hermione out of Theo's claws. Getting Theo fired would probably be some kind of public service, possible even rating an Order of Merlin, Third Class.
Hermione finished signing the papers and handed them to Theo. Draco was pretty sure that their fingertips brushed, and he did his best not to bristle in his chair. He could feel his claws poking through the leather of his gloves. That'd be the third pair he'd ruined this month. He should really send a bill to Theo, because it was all his fault. It was utterly shameless of Theo to think that he could carry on such blatant flirting in the Ministry's halls.
Even Draco didn't stoop that far, these days. He'd entered some kind of pseudo-celibate state, which he devoutly hoped wouldn't be for life, since there was a continual low-grade frustration which burned at the back of his mind. It was sad, but these days, the only witch he found himself eyeing up was sitting across from him, and she didn't even notice. Not that even if she had, Hermione could even have conceived of doing something so unprofessional as respond in kind. It was all rather depressing, but Draco preferred to think of it being less than ideal. 'Less than' meant it could eventually be ideal, a state which would likely involve a lot less Theodore Nott and a lot more time with Hermione. A Hermione who was looking over his files, of course.
Theo finally left with what the man probably imagined was a suave farewell and a promise to meet Hermione for tea. Draco only managed to avoid rolling his eyes because Hermione would see. At last, Hermione turned back to him. Draco managed to tuck his claws in just in time, although now that Nott's very presence wasn't causing a tension-headache, the whole process was a lot easier.
“Sorry about that.” She smiled at him sheepishly. “Now, where were we?”
Draco stopped thinking dark thoughts about Theo, instead feeling inordinately pleased that she was finally paying attention to him again. Like she should.
“So, tell me about your week?” She said and pulled out a quill and parchment.
“I went to the tailor's. Picked up a new suit.” Draco brushed non existent lint off of the midnight black wool of his suit, drawing attention to the fine cut and fabric. He'd paid a pretty sum for it, too. Hermione had mentioned at some point that she'd always thought he looked rather dashing in black.
“It looks very nice, Draco, but have you heard any responses to your queries?” She spoke chidingly.
Draco deflated a bit. Maybe he'd misremembered. Maybe she'd said something along the lines of 'I've yet to see you look dashing in black.' Or maybe 'yet another dashing Black.' He'd always heard that Sirius was something a fashion hound in his youth. Aunt Andromeda certainly turned out in style whenever she took Teddy around town. He'd stuff this suit in the back of his wardrobe, that's what he'd do. Then he'd go down to the tailor's and demand to know what the bushy-haired bookworms liked. If he had to, he'd bribe Pansy for gossip. It was simply infuriating that week after week went by without Hermione paying more than a jot of attention to his outfits. Why, just last week he'd overheard her complimenting Nott on his scarf, and it was just the same old ratty thing from Hogwarts that they all had at home.
If that was what it took to get a compliment out of Hermione, Draco'd show up in full Hogwarts robes and make a bloody point, that's what he'd do. He'd show Theo a thing or two about those cheerful school memories, possibly with a Trip Jinx if the opportunity—
“-listening to me, Draco? Have there been any responses from abroad to your queries?” Hermione was looking at him with more than a touch of concern. Blast. He'd lost track of the conversation at some point. She was looking at him expectantly and smiling. She was wearing that same damn scent as usual, the one which smelled so nice.
Draco scrambled for the conversational thread, which was unfortunately lost. He smiled at her.
“Sorry, could you repeat that again? I've been a touch distracted.”
She sighed. “I said, have you heard from any of your queries abroad? I'm almost entirely certain that your partner must have been someone you met while you were young.” She shuffled through her paperwork. “We've got over everyone from Hogwarts, and Wizarding Britain is quite small, so maybe it was someone you encountered once as a child, who then went abroad?” She continued on about forms and paperwork, looking frazzled and tired.
Perhaps he should hire her to work on the Malfoy funds. Then he'd give her a new job, one where he could drop in on her at any time and she'd only have to relax and let her minions do her work. Maybe that could be her entire job, just to sit there and smell nice. And occasionally smile at him. And talk with him. And go to breakfast, lunch and dinner with him. And, since he was paying her salary, maybe just be there whenever he wanted. Maybe he could get her to move into the Manor. Every since his parents had decided to permanently vacation in southern France, Draco had found himself talking to the paintings for company. Well, more so than usual. Heck, he could giver her an entire wing.
Draco thought about telling her his brilliant plan. Then he thought about her likely reaction, even tempered with the promise of full access to Malfoy Manor's library, and decided that he liked his internal organs where they were. There was no way she'd live at Malfoy Manor and he ruthlessly squelched his thoughts.
“—international conference in Paris. So, should I go ahead and do that? Draco?” She sounded irritated. He had no idea what she'd said.
“Sure. Forms. That sounds fine.” Hopefully he hadn't just agreed to anything too dire.
She chewed on her lip. “Hang on a minute, I've run out of forms. I'll be right back.”
She stood and inched by her desk. After squeezing past it, she pressed against Draco's chair as she opened the door. It was all he could do to not crane his neck to follow her as she squeezed past. He practically squirmed in his seat, trying not to give in. Merlin, he wished he knew what perfume she wore. Draco'd never smelled that particular scent anywhere else, and he was pretty sure that he could recognize most of the commonly-worn perfumes. Post-transformation, his senses were far sharper. He was sure it was magical, something that attuned itself to people's preferences, because she always wore the same one, but each time he met her it smelled even better.
Draco looked idly around her office. It was rather boring without his favorite occupant. A scrap of color on the floor caught his attention. It was her scarf, some gauzy silk thing; she must have knocked it off her coat stand when she walked past.
Draco did the gentlemanly thing and Accio'd it off the floor. He started to place it on the coat stand, but stopped. It was just a little scrap of silk, barely enough to qualify as a scarf. But it was heady with her scent, and something in the back of Draco's mind whispered that he should just bend his head and bring it close while he could. It seemed like an incredibly intimate thing to do, but then again he'd been utterly foxed at his attempts to identify her perfume. He'd be damned if he flat out asked. But sneaking the information behind her back was a very Slytherin thing to do, so it was all right.
Draco bent his head and inhaled. Bloody hell, it was like being in the same room with her, but so much more intense. To his utter embarrassment, he moaned. Oh gods, but he couldn't help it. It smelt so fucking good. But it was a little strange, because he wasn't detecting any of the fragrance notes that he'd have expected. Whatever it was, it didn't stop it from smelling incredible – no, addictive.
And Draco realized he's had two significant problems: first, there was absolutely no way he could explain things if she walked in while he's had his face planted in her scarf; second, he had the type of problem that made him wish that he'd worn robes instead of pants.
Draco awkwardly shuffled his cloak onto his lap. It wasn't a solution, but at least it was some kind of temporary fix. It was the kind of thing he hadn't had to do since he was sixteen and so hormone-addled that he was randy all the time. His original problem was far easier to solve: all he had to do was put the scarf back on the coat stand while he still had some hope of exiting this situation with his dignity intact. He intended to do so. He was actively visualizing reaching over, putting the scarf on the coat stand, and letting go.
His hand hadn't moved an inch. His fingers maintained their death-grip on the scrap of silk. Draco's keen sense for incipient personal humiliation was wailing an alarm, but it was losing against the part of him that absolutely refused to let go.
Maybe, he thought desperately, he could give it back to her later. It fell on the floor, it probably got dirty. He could take it home, have the house elves wash it, and then bring it back to her. He could tell her that he found it somewhere in the Ministry halls and remembered that it belonged to her. She'd be pleased. She'd probably even give him one of those utterly charming smiles. Perhaps she'd reach forward and put her hand on his and look into his eyes and—and—
Draco shook his head and tried to clear his thoughts.
That seemed to be an acceptable compromise to whatever part of him had a death-grip on the silken scrap. He slowly tucked the scarf into the inner pocket of his vest. As he patted his vest and checked that it wasn't not visible, the door swung open behind him. It was all he could do not to jump.
“I've got the forms!” She said brightly, brandishing them like they were an unexpected surprise. She scooted her way past his chair, and Draco tried not to squirm. He stifled a groan. His trouser-related problem, which had started to abate, returned.
She sat down and starts to shuffle through her files, finding the matching paperwork for the forms that she'd brought back.
“Oh, I ran into Mimble. He says that they've entered the final stages of research on a new Veela pheromone suppressant that lasts for a whole month, instead of just one week. Won't that be nice?” She looked up at him and seemed so pleased; whatever part of mind that was still functioning melted in happiness. “We're going to make a presentation about it at the end of the month, at the International Magical Creatures and Beings Conference. I'll make sure to bring your forms with me while I'm in Paris. I'm so glad that it moves, the weather in Belgium was terrible. I've always wanted to go back to France, because when I was little, my -”
Draco sat there with his cloak clutched on his lap, her stolen scarf tucked in his vest, listening to the chatter of the one person he knew was on Veela pheromone-suppressants, and for the first time really took a look at how he was acting. He may not have been top of his class at Hogwarts, but he wasn't a fool; with the right pieces, the whole picture lurched into view. Hermione kept on chatting and shuffling through papers, completely oblivious to the fact that Draco's entire world-view was cracking and reforming right before his eyes. Everything he knew was unreliable and his life was spinning out of control, but then she said something so utterly horrible that it derailed his incipient panic attack.
“- we'll have to cancel our meeting at the end of this month, because since we're joint-delegates to the conference, Theo and I are going to Paris together.”
Paris. Conference. A week with Theodore Nott, the skirt-chasing bastard with the overly familiar hands and poorly concealed pick-up lines. It was all Draco could do to grin sickly at her while visions of choking the life out of Theo rose up before his eyes. Bloody hell, he was not sure how he felt yet about the whole Hermione-being-his-mate issue, but he'd be damned if he let Theo's mate-stealing plans fly.
His family had a respectable mansion in Paris' third arrondissemont; if he issued the orders today, he should be able to have it fully opened up in time. After all, what could be more appropriate at a conference on magical creatures and beings than a part-Veela impromptu ambassador from one of England's oldest wizarding families? He was sure that Theo had plans, but that bastard'd never dealt with a Malfoy when something that they both wanted was on the line.
He stood up resolutely, keeping a very tight grip on his strategically placed cloak, and she looked at him in confusion.
“Got to go, Granger. Urgent meeting, nearly forgot.” He very carefully stepped around his chair, opened the door and shuffled out of her office.
“Wait, you haven't signed the forms!” She called out behind him.
“Be by next week, Granger.” He said over his shoulder, shuffling down the hall.
To hell with the forms. Draco had bigger fish to fry.
Pairing: Dramione
Notes: Rough, rough drafts. Will get beta'd and britpicked later. For the Virginity / Celibacy square.
These days, Hermione's office was his sanctuary. It was an odd sort of sanctuary for a Malfoy; a tiny, cramped office in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, but it was one of the few places he could go without flinging women and occasionally men out of his lap.
Their meetings had their own routine; he walked in unannounced, the door closing behind him with a click as he maneuvered himself into the sole spare chair. Her office was tiny, barely more than a glorified broomcloset. She'd said that she didn't feel right asking for more space than the typical junior Ministry employee, but Draco thought she was daft for not throwing her war-hero status around. The office's sole occupant wasn't visible, as she was twisted over at the waist, fishing for a something on the floor, but she waved absently at him nonetheless. Draco waved back and then felt foolish; it wasn't like she could see him. He sat back and waited, which was far less of a chore than he'd ever admit; her office was tiny and cramped, but it somehow always felt more comfortable than his rooms at Malfoy Manor.
“Found it!” She chimed as a file hit the top of her desk. Hermione sat up, shoving her hair out of her face, and adjusted her robes. To Draco's dismay, she was again wearing a sensible blouse and an utterly dull tweed skirt under her official robes, waging some kind of sabotage-campaign against her own good looks. Muggle fashion had so many options, it was almost distressing to see Hermione stuck permanently in whatever era 'dowdy' had been handed out. Still, she was good-looking enough that one could overlook her unfortunate taste. Draco might have been the part-Veela, but after working with Hermione for over two years, he'd been surprised that she didn't start her mornings by beating gentleman-callers off her door. Not that he was really complaining.
“Alright, Malfoy. How have you been?” She asked. Draco liked it when she asked, because she actually meant it.
“As well as can be expected.” He shrugged and absent adjusted his gloves. Lately, he'd taken to wearing Muggle clothes, sharply-tailored three-piece suits, great cloaks and accompanying accessories. He'd expected his parents to kick up a fuss, but after the whole Veela-thing, the lord and lady of Malfoy Manor had found other things to worry about than their only child's habits of dress.
“Any luck?” She sounded hopeful.
He shook his head. Hope vanished under disappointment. She even leaned across the desk to pat his hand. Draco took the opportunity to peek down her blouse.
“Don't worry, I'm sure it'll happen soon.” She sat back and started leafing through his file. “This has got to be some kind of record.” She muttered. Draco thought it was rather cute, the way that she'd furrow her brow as though his file were Hogwarts homework.
If it was homework, it was homework that was overdue and possibly lost. Draco knew what was supposed to have been recorded in his file by now, thanks to Hermione's lengthy lectures and voluminous notes. In all Ministry-tracked cases, part-Veelas found their mates within a few years after coming into their heritage. The mate – although all of Hermione's publications refereed to the mate as the 'willing complimentary partner' – when encountering a Veela's magic-laced pheromones was supposed to have their own pheremones react in some special way. At which point the Veela would joyfully pick up the scent of their 'willing complimentary partner' and presumably they went off together to do the kind of thing that required privacy. If no privacy was to be found, there had been records of not only tremendous public embarrassment, but also one case in 1962 of Ministry Obliviators having to be called.
Draco was beginning to think the whole mate-thing was a load of dragon-dung, although perhaps that was just bitterness speaking; his 'willing complimentary partner' seemed nowhere to be found.
Hermione, initially assigned to help him transition into his heritage, had been helping him search for his 'willing complimentary partner' in some kind of ad-hoc international magical being dating service. Once a week he dropped by her office for tea and biscuits, and they talked about his search. Although, lately, he'd been asking more about her own lack of love life. Not that it seemed that way to her, but being a trusting Gryffindor, she'd let drop more than she probably thought. For starters, he knew that she wasn't seeing anyone. Hermione and Weasley had flamed out after a brief post-war fling, but he also knew that she was more disappointed than she'd let on. The red-headed git was still counted among her friends, but Hermione apparently chalked up the relationship's crumbling to dust, adding it to whatever invisible mountain of guilt she carried around on her back. Highly selective guilt, Draco noted. Remarkably absent when it came to violating certain Ministry-regulations on information sharing and record access, if it would help her cases, but all too evident when it came to her friends.
Which, after all, was why Draco had made absolutely no attempt at setting her up with anyone that he knew. Hermione in guilt-fest after a minor dust-up with one of her friends was bad enough; she'd probably start looking haggard and tired if she had one with a boyfriend, as well as dumping her guilt on everyone else around. The thought was enough to send sharp tendrils of discomfort through Draco's chest; no, Hermione not dating anyone was better for everyone around. He'd even subtly discouraged a couple of his friends who'd sent interested looks her way. At least Draco thought that he'd been subtle; he wasn't sure if telling them that Hermione was in a long-distance relationship with someone in Brazil counted as subtle, but he hadn't been called out on it yet.
Draco liked her company, preferably guilt-free and plentiful, although he wouldn't admit it short of torture. He watched her flip through his file as something like fondness curled itself in his chest; she was sharp, level-headed and devoted, and it was quite heady to have someone like that pay so much attention to him. She'd also started taking Veela pheromone-suppressant potion since she'd been given his case, so she'd never swooned at his feet. Not that she ever had in the first place, even back at Hogwarts. Technically, he'd swooned at her feet once, but that was due to blood-loss from when she'd hit him in the face, so that didn't count.
There was a knock at her office door, interrupting his reminisces and causing her to look up from his file. Draco squelched a surge of irritation.
“Come in!” she called out.
Their meetings weren't confidential, but lately it seemed as though every one has been interrupted by one of her incompetent colleagues, who all believed that the Ministry would collapse without her immediate aid. The door creaked open and Draco resisted the urge the turn around.
“Hermione, I just need a few requisition forms signed – oh. Afternoon, Draco.”
Unfortunately, Draco knew that voice very well. “Afternoon, Theo.”
Go away, Theo. Draco felt almost embarrassed that he used to think Theo was a decent fellow back at Hogwarts, because after seeing the man at the Ministry, it was obvious that Theo's an utter skirt-chasing bastard. Well, at least an utter skirt-chasing bastard when it came to one woman, who was currently sitting across from Draco at her desk.
“Sure thing, Theo. Deadlines and all.” She looked at Draco apologetically. “I'm sorry, this will just take a minute.”
Hermione apologized for the interruption, Draco noted with pleasure. Unlike Theo, that smarmy bastard, who seemed to think that he was the only with with any rightful claim on her time. He'd been claiming increasingly large chunks of that time, a though which caused Draco's fingers to curl into claws. Draco tried to focus. He didn't want to ruin yet another pair of gloves by popping his talons through the stitching. Although Theo was making that awfully fucking hard, standing next to Hermione as if he really needed to lean in close to watch her sign a form.
Hermione reached for her quill, but Theo pulled out a Muggle pen in an absolutely transparent attempt to score points. It was a bloody embarrassment to the House, seeing a Slytherin resort to such obvious tactics.
“Here, try this.” Theo offered the pen with a terrible attempt at a charming smile. Hermione gave him an utterly disarming smile in return. Seeing her smile at such terrible, unsubtle attempts caused Draco's stomach to churn. Theo had to go, for Draco's health at the least. Possibly also for the continuation of Theo's own.
It would be so much easier if Hermione, naïve Gryffindor du jour, realized that she was the target of a very unsubtle campaign. Theodore Nott, walking around brandishing Muggle pens? A kneazle kitten wouldn't even fall for this, but Hermione seemed to think that Theo was actually genuinely interested in Muggle things. Other than divesting her of her pants.
Theo passed the pen to her, and Draco was pretty sure that Theo's fingertips pressed against hers for a moment longer than necessary. Neither Hermione or Theo had any inconvenient magical-being heritage running through his veins, so Theo just did it because he was an arrogant prat. A pure-blood arrogant prat, at that. After Draco nearly died on his twenty-first birthday, his parents had gotten the news that their only son was not technically a pure-blood, but wasn't even completely human; a resurgence of dormant Veela genes, the specialist had said. His parents had practically dueled each other, each accusing the other of corrupting the family line. When the magical tests had come back, his mother had crowed for a week while his father sulked. Draco's heritage had not come from the most noble and ancient house of Black; it was hidden about four generations back in the Malfoy line. The end result was what had turned out to be a wretchedly inconvenient aura of attraction, a tendency to tear through gloves whenever he got upset, and occasionally waking up to feathers on his pillow. The entire mate-thing was a debacle of an entirely different order, which Draco was technically working on fixing, if only Theo would stop trying to touch Hermione and get out of her office.
Theo smiled at her again, that absolute wanker, and proceeded with his absolutely shameless campaign to try and get in her pants. As she signed the form, she didn't even seem to realize that her colleague was looking at her like he wanted to bend her over and shag her on her desk. If a Malfoy were still in charge of things at the Ministry, there would be no such grossly inappropriate flirtations happening around Ministry desks. Theo would be fired. Highly, highly fired. He was only working to find women to flirt with on paid time; he didn't need the money, he was filthy rich, just like Draco. Plus, it would keep naïve witches like Hermione out of Theo's claws. Getting Theo fired would probably be some kind of public service, possible even rating an Order of Merlin, Third Class.
Hermione finished signing the papers and handed them to Theo. Draco was pretty sure that their fingertips brushed, and he did his best not to bristle in his chair. He could feel his claws poking through the leather of his gloves. That'd be the third pair he'd ruined this month. He should really send a bill to Theo, because it was all his fault. It was utterly shameless of Theo to think that he could carry on such blatant flirting in the Ministry's halls.
Even Draco didn't stoop that far, these days. He'd entered some kind of pseudo-celibate state, which he devoutly hoped wouldn't be for life, since there was a continual low-grade frustration which burned at the back of his mind. It was sad, but these days, the only witch he found himself eyeing up was sitting across from him, and she didn't even notice. Not that even if she had, Hermione could even have conceived of doing something so unprofessional as respond in kind. It was all rather depressing, but Draco preferred to think of it being less than ideal. 'Less than' meant it could eventually be ideal, a state which would likely involve a lot less Theodore Nott and a lot more time with Hermione. A Hermione who was looking over his files, of course.
Theo finally left with what the man probably imagined was a suave farewell and a promise to meet Hermione for tea. Draco only managed to avoid rolling his eyes because Hermione would see. At last, Hermione turned back to him. Draco managed to tuck his claws in just in time, although now that Nott's very presence wasn't causing a tension-headache, the whole process was a lot easier.
“Sorry about that.” She smiled at him sheepishly. “Now, where were we?”
Draco stopped thinking dark thoughts about Theo, instead feeling inordinately pleased that she was finally paying attention to him again. Like she should.
“So, tell me about your week?” She said and pulled out a quill and parchment.
“I went to the tailor's. Picked up a new suit.” Draco brushed non existent lint off of the midnight black wool of his suit, drawing attention to the fine cut and fabric. He'd paid a pretty sum for it, too. Hermione had mentioned at some point that she'd always thought he looked rather dashing in black.
“It looks very nice, Draco, but have you heard any responses to your queries?” She spoke chidingly.
Draco deflated a bit. Maybe he'd misremembered. Maybe she'd said something along the lines of 'I've yet to see you look dashing in black.' Or maybe 'yet another dashing Black.' He'd always heard that Sirius was something a fashion hound in his youth. Aunt Andromeda certainly turned out in style whenever she took Teddy around town. He'd stuff this suit in the back of his wardrobe, that's what he'd do. Then he'd go down to the tailor's and demand to know what the bushy-haired bookworms liked. If he had to, he'd bribe Pansy for gossip. It was simply infuriating that week after week went by without Hermione paying more than a jot of attention to his outfits. Why, just last week he'd overheard her complimenting Nott on his scarf, and it was just the same old ratty thing from Hogwarts that they all had at home.
If that was what it took to get a compliment out of Hermione, Draco'd show up in full Hogwarts robes and make a bloody point, that's what he'd do. He'd show Theo a thing or two about those cheerful school memories, possibly with a Trip Jinx if the opportunity—
“-listening to me, Draco? Have there been any responses from abroad to your queries?” Hermione was looking at him with more than a touch of concern. Blast. He'd lost track of the conversation at some point. She was looking at him expectantly and smiling. She was wearing that same damn scent as usual, the one which smelled so nice.
Draco scrambled for the conversational thread, which was unfortunately lost. He smiled at her.
“Sorry, could you repeat that again? I've been a touch distracted.”
She sighed. “I said, have you heard from any of your queries abroad? I'm almost entirely certain that your partner must have been someone you met while you were young.” She shuffled through her paperwork. “We've got over everyone from Hogwarts, and Wizarding Britain is quite small, so maybe it was someone you encountered once as a child, who then went abroad?” She continued on about forms and paperwork, looking frazzled and tired.
Perhaps he should hire her to work on the Malfoy funds. Then he'd give her a new job, one where he could drop in on her at any time and she'd only have to relax and let her minions do her work. Maybe that could be her entire job, just to sit there and smell nice. And occasionally smile at him. And talk with him. And go to breakfast, lunch and dinner with him. And, since he was paying her salary, maybe just be there whenever he wanted. Maybe he could get her to move into the Manor. Every since his parents had decided to permanently vacation in southern France, Draco had found himself talking to the paintings for company. Well, more so than usual. Heck, he could giver her an entire wing.
Draco thought about telling her his brilliant plan. Then he thought about her likely reaction, even tempered with the promise of full access to Malfoy Manor's library, and decided that he liked his internal organs where they were. There was no way she'd live at Malfoy Manor and he ruthlessly squelched his thoughts.
“—international conference in Paris. So, should I go ahead and do that? Draco?” She sounded irritated. He had no idea what she'd said.
“Sure. Forms. That sounds fine.” Hopefully he hadn't just agreed to anything too dire.
She chewed on her lip. “Hang on a minute, I've run out of forms. I'll be right back.”
She stood and inched by her desk. After squeezing past it, she pressed against Draco's chair as she opened the door. It was all he could do to not crane his neck to follow her as she squeezed past. He practically squirmed in his seat, trying not to give in. Merlin, he wished he knew what perfume she wore. Draco'd never smelled that particular scent anywhere else, and he was pretty sure that he could recognize most of the commonly-worn perfumes. Post-transformation, his senses were far sharper. He was sure it was magical, something that attuned itself to people's preferences, because she always wore the same one, but each time he met her it smelled even better.
Draco looked idly around her office. It was rather boring without his favorite occupant. A scrap of color on the floor caught his attention. It was her scarf, some gauzy silk thing; she must have knocked it off her coat stand when she walked past.
Draco did the gentlemanly thing and Accio'd it off the floor. He started to place it on the coat stand, but stopped. It was just a little scrap of silk, barely enough to qualify as a scarf. But it was heady with her scent, and something in the back of Draco's mind whispered that he should just bend his head and bring it close while he could. It seemed like an incredibly intimate thing to do, but then again he'd been utterly foxed at his attempts to identify her perfume. He'd be damned if he flat out asked. But sneaking the information behind her back was a very Slytherin thing to do, so it was all right.
Draco bent his head and inhaled. Bloody hell, it was like being in the same room with her, but so much more intense. To his utter embarrassment, he moaned. Oh gods, but he couldn't help it. It smelt so fucking good. But it was a little strange, because he wasn't detecting any of the fragrance notes that he'd have expected. Whatever it was, it didn't stop it from smelling incredible – no, addictive.
And Draco realized he's had two significant problems: first, there was absolutely no way he could explain things if she walked in while he's had his face planted in her scarf; second, he had the type of problem that made him wish that he'd worn robes instead of pants.
Draco awkwardly shuffled his cloak onto his lap. It wasn't a solution, but at least it was some kind of temporary fix. It was the kind of thing he hadn't had to do since he was sixteen and so hormone-addled that he was randy all the time. His original problem was far easier to solve: all he had to do was put the scarf back on the coat stand while he still had some hope of exiting this situation with his dignity intact. He intended to do so. He was actively visualizing reaching over, putting the scarf on the coat stand, and letting go.
His hand hadn't moved an inch. His fingers maintained their death-grip on the scrap of silk. Draco's keen sense for incipient personal humiliation was wailing an alarm, but it was losing against the part of him that absolutely refused to let go.
Maybe, he thought desperately, he could give it back to her later. It fell on the floor, it probably got dirty. He could take it home, have the house elves wash it, and then bring it back to her. He could tell her that he found it somewhere in the Ministry halls and remembered that it belonged to her. She'd be pleased. She'd probably even give him one of those utterly charming smiles. Perhaps she'd reach forward and put her hand on his and look into his eyes and—and—
Draco shook his head and tried to clear his thoughts.
That seemed to be an acceptable compromise to whatever part of him had a death-grip on the silken scrap. He slowly tucked the scarf into the inner pocket of his vest. As he patted his vest and checked that it wasn't not visible, the door swung open behind him. It was all he could do not to jump.
“I've got the forms!” She said brightly, brandishing them like they were an unexpected surprise. She scooted her way past his chair, and Draco tried not to squirm. He stifled a groan. His trouser-related problem, which had started to abate, returned.
She sat down and starts to shuffle through her files, finding the matching paperwork for the forms that she'd brought back.
“Oh, I ran into Mimble. He says that they've entered the final stages of research on a new Veela pheromone suppressant that lasts for a whole month, instead of just one week. Won't that be nice?” She looked up at him and seemed so pleased; whatever part of mind that was still functioning melted in happiness. “We're going to make a presentation about it at the end of the month, at the International Magical Creatures and Beings Conference. I'll make sure to bring your forms with me while I'm in Paris. I'm so glad that it moves, the weather in Belgium was terrible. I've always wanted to go back to France, because when I was little, my -”
Draco sat there with his cloak clutched on his lap, her stolen scarf tucked in his vest, listening to the chatter of the one person he knew was on Veela pheromone-suppressants, and for the first time really took a look at how he was acting. He may not have been top of his class at Hogwarts, but he wasn't a fool; with the right pieces, the whole picture lurched into view. Hermione kept on chatting and shuffling through papers, completely oblivious to the fact that Draco's entire world-view was cracking and reforming right before his eyes. Everything he knew was unreliable and his life was spinning out of control, but then she said something so utterly horrible that it derailed his incipient panic attack.
“- we'll have to cancel our meeting at the end of this month, because since we're joint-delegates to the conference, Theo and I are going to Paris together.”
Paris. Conference. A week with Theodore Nott, the skirt-chasing bastard with the overly familiar hands and poorly concealed pick-up lines. It was all Draco could do to grin sickly at her while visions of choking the life out of Theo rose up before his eyes. Bloody hell, he was not sure how he felt yet about the whole Hermione-being-his-mate issue, but he'd be damned if he let Theo's mate-stealing plans fly.
His family had a respectable mansion in Paris' third arrondissemont; if he issued the orders today, he should be able to have it fully opened up in time. After all, what could be more appropriate at a conference on magical creatures and beings than a part-Veela impromptu ambassador from one of England's oldest wizarding families? He was sure that Theo had plans, but that bastard'd never dealt with a Malfoy when something that they both wanted was on the line.
He stood up resolutely, keeping a very tight grip on his strategically placed cloak, and she looked at him in confusion.
“Got to go, Granger. Urgent meeting, nearly forgot.” He very carefully stepped around his chair, opened the door and shuffled out of her office.
“Wait, you haven't signed the forms!” She called out behind him.
“Be by next week, Granger.” He said over his shoulder, shuffling down the hall.
To hell with the forms. Draco had bigger fish to fry.
