Chapter One

Late one rather strategic Friday in the middle of summer, Francesca Nutile, Head of Being Resources for the Ministry of Magic, sent out a memo. In it, she reminded employees on all levels, but particularly those in Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, that erecting henges in the hallways and lighting bonfires in the kitchenette bins were safety hazards, not appropriate Midsummer celebrations. She also reminded employees on all levels, but particularly Dina Vavome of the Magical Transport, that the Ministry dress code existed for a reason and that triage services were available near the Atrium's security office for any and all wardrobe-related injuries.

At the bottom of the memo, below the point at which most veteran Ministry personnel had stopped reading, was a sentence that spelled doom for the mostly rookie Ministry personnel, who were still in the habit of reading every missive they received in its entirety.

Due to the unanticipated success of our Spring Spree, Levels Two, Four, and Five will be condensing operations, effective immediately.

Anyone with half a brain could muddle the truth from beneath the business jargon: the full cubicles and cushy offices, which the new hires from the Ministry's Fall Frenzy and Winter Whirl currently enjoyed, had an expiration date.

Francesca left it to the respective department heads to share the details with their underlings, and so, early the following Monday, Gawain Robards - the head of operations on Level Two - stood before them and read Ministry-approved verbiage from a scroll he had received just minutes before.

"The addition of new employees marks a time of excitement and energy we can all enjoy," Robards read in a monotone, "and the rapid expansion of the insert department name here - oh, Department of Magical Law Enforcement - reflects an increase in the public's trust. It is a testament to the exemplary effort of our employees and the steady serenity of our leadership teams."

His blue eyes flashed up from beneath his thick, graying brows as he scanned the room for any employee thick enough to believe that tripe. Finding nothing but annoyed stares and petulantly crossed arms, he gave a satisfied grunt and turned back to his script.

"To accommodate the upcoming influx of talented individuals, we will be rearranging the office space and seating arrangements." Even though they knew it was coming, the gathered group let up a chorus of groans and complaints. Robards' eyes flicked up once again, his icy glare quelling the mob.

"The following individuals will be paired in offices: Potter and Weasley, Zabini and Oakes, Granger and Malfoy. Sharing cubicles will be O'Riordan and Murphy, Hargrove and Cha, Nafus and van Gog. We are confident," Robards continued, voice raised over the renewed mutters and traded glares from those unhappy with their assignments, "that these changes will result in beneficial outcomes including, but not limited to, forming close relationships with your colleagues, strengthening intradepartmental communication, fostering a community of" - Robards' expression twisted into one of distaste - "psychological safety, and creating value-add synergy."

He tossed the scroll away. It burst into flame as soon as it left his fingers, and flakes of char and ash drifted to land on his scuffed dragon hide boots. "Questions?" He swept the room with a final, hard gaze, as if daring people to answer in the affirmative; no one did. "Good. New seating assignments are on your old desks. Move your effects and get back to work."

The crowd dispersed, but only some did so with the intention of following Robards' orders. Blaise Zabini, for instance, followed Draco Malfoy back to his old office, number 237. It was prime real estate at the back of the workspace, away from loo and kitchenette traffic, adjacent to a charmed window, and the furthest point from both Weasley and Potter. Blaise detoured to his own desk and picked up his new seating assignment on the way.

He caught up with Draco just in time to see the man collapse into his chair, an unreadable expression playing over the sharp features of his face. Blaise leaned a hip on his desk. He turned the sealed assignment over in his fingers and searched the office for his very attractive new seatmate, June Oakes. Instead, he saw Hermione Granger staring in their direction. Her curly hair was pulled back in a tidy bun, and a frustrated little moue pulled at the corners of her mouth.

Blaise gave Draco a side-eyed glance; he, too, had seen Granger, and was staring so intently that Blaise was momentarily afraid the girl might burst into fire.

"Could be worse," Blaise noted with a raised eyebrow and half a grin.

The comment seemed to wake Draco, who sat up and spun toward his desk. With a few sharp gestures of his wand, he transfigured a blank piece of parchment into a box with uneven sides and very pointy corners.

"Could be worse," Draco mocked.

Blaise heaved a sigh and let his head fall back, giving the ceiling a long-suffering look. He immediately regretted the comment.

"Could be worse," Draco continued, "in that it could be Weasley with whom I'm paired. Could be worse, in that I don't have a position at all. Could be worse, in that I could work for a well-run business-"

"Like the one your father offered you and you refused?" Blaise remarked to the off-white tiles.

"-instead of a moderately functional government. If Robards had even a shred of sense about avoiding personnel conflict, he would've assigned you and me to an office and left Granger to deal with… with -"

"Art Nafus?" Blaise suggested.

Draco scowled at the name and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Art-fucking-Nafus," he muttered in what Blaise thought was a half-hearted way. "Let him deal with Granger's moronic friends, insufferable need to be right all the time, sensible shoes, and stupid hair."

Blaise grinned and said lightly, "Methinks the Slytherin doth protest too much."

Draco turned his scowl to his friend. "Methinks I have reason to protest."

"Oh please. You and Granger have been making eyes at each other for weeks. Stir the potion or get out of the lab, mate."

Draco frowned. "As if you and Oakes haven't been doing the same dance."

Blaise's grin turned predatory, and he once again searched the office, eyes coming to rest when he spotted his buxom, blonde seatmate packing up her paperwork. She looked up and, when she noticed him staring, smiled. Her blue eyes sparkled from behind her square-rimmed glasses. Blaise returned her smile and, though it was difficult to tell from across the office, he thought she blushed. "June and I are experienced adults," he said, "unlike you two, who can't seem to get over a silly childhood grudge."

"I think you're underselling our history a bit," Draco groused, but he didn't deny the point. He nodded to the parchment. "Where's your new seat?"

Blaise slid a finger beneath the seal and barked a laugh. He tossed it onto Draco's desk so his friend could read the number for himself: 237.

"I expect everything moved in one hour," Blaise announced as he sauntered away. "And do give it a wipe down, won't you?"

Draco scowled at his friend's retreating back, then aimed carefully. With a small twist of his wrist, the word "Prat" appeared in gold sequins across Blaise's shoulder blades. And he hoped very much that Blaise liked that shirt, as, with an extra jab, a permanent sticking charm sealed his handiwork.

Mischief thus managed, Draco turned back to the onerous task of packing up his office. His thoughts, however, were not entirely focused on the task. He couldn't help but think of his new office-mate.

He hadn't been lying when he'd listed off Hermione's negative qualities to Blaise; he honestly found fault in each of them. However, he had failed to mention their redeeming features. Her hair, while unmanageable most days, couldn't detract from her evolutionarily lovely face, symmetrical and freckled, with whiskey eyes and pink lips that made him think thoughts inappropriate for the workplace. No better was the temptation to take a handful of that hair and pull it ever so slightly as he bent her over a desk and whispered, in minute detail, what he would like to do to her. Her shoes - invariably flats in black, brown, blue, or grey - were an indelible part of that fantasy. He would remove those first and journey north to her business-casual trousers and Oxford shirt, making liberal use of his teeth. Her intelligence could be both intimidating and grating, but how much of that was due to his own insecurity about not being the smartest person in the room and how much of it was due to her actually being obnoxious? Probably fifty-fifty, maybe forty-sixty. Regardless, he had been with quiet women and was convinced that one with a wit and a vocabulary like Hermione's would make for exciting conversation inside and outside the bedroom.

There was no true palliative measure for her choice of bosom friends. However, her actual bosom, which was quite choice indeed, helped.

Overall, there was much to look forward to in sharing a space with Hermione for forty hours a week. He wouldn't have traded that wanker Art-fucking-Nafus for all the Galleons in Gringotts.

He arrived at their shared office first. It was markedly smaller than his previous one, subject to frequent foot traffic due to its proximity to the kitchenette, and did not have a charmed window. He edged between the desks, noting the height to be perfectly crotch-level for him, and took the one on the left. Hermione arrived a few minutes later. Their gazes locked as she stopped at the door, and for a moment, Draco felt as though all of the air had been removed from the room. Her eyes were bright, and Draco wished, not for the first time, he had paid as much time to Legilimency as he had Occlumency. To him, Hermione looked excited, and it brought him to his feet.

The collision of his chair with the wall broke whatever magic had been kindling between them. Draco cleared his throat as Hermione looked away from him and about their new office. She frowned.

"This is smaller than my old one," she remarked.

"Mine, too. And no window."

They shared a commiserating glance, and Draco retook his seat just in time to watch Hermione edge between the desks. She performed the maneuver just as he had, with her front facing her desk and her rear facing his. He smiled as she passed, but managed to school his expression into benign neutrality before she turned to sit.

They unpacked in companionable silence and worked in the same until just before noon, when Weasley came to fetch her for lunch.

"Rotten luck, being seated with this rodent," the ginger git said loudly. "You should talk to Robards about getting a transfer."

"Ron." Hermione's tone was heavy with warning, which her friend ignored.

"I'm sure Nafus would trade. He hates van Gog."

"Enough about Nafus," Draco muttered, earning raised eyebrows from Hermione and a satisfied grin from Weasley. "And bugger off, won't you? Everyone knows you shoved your nose up Robards' arse to get your office assignment, not to mention your missions -"

"Malfoy!"

He ignored Hermione's reprimand. "But I prefer to earn my rewards."

It was not his best work. In fact, it was patently false. But it did the trick. Weasley's ears reddened.

"Robards gives work to the agents he trusts to get it done," Weasley said, his tone brittle.

"Between you and Potter, whom do you think Robards trusts more? The Boy Who Lived, or the Boy Whose Only Remarkable Attribute Is Having a Famous Friend or Two?"

Weasley lurched towards his desk. Draco launched to his feet, the chair once more crashing against the wall with the sound of a shot. Hermione sidled between them and grabbed Ron's arm before they could do more than exchange threatening glares.

"We're going to lunch now," she announced. With a shove, she forced Ron from the office and punctuated her own exit by kicking the door closed.

Draco leaned forward on his desk and sighed, staring at the door. He knew at least one thing he wanted from Hermione. He also knew that he'd never get it if their rodent problem continued. Something had to be done.