You've all heard of Draco Malfoy, right? Platinum blond adonis, sex god, Slytherin prince? Former Death Eater? Any of this ringing a bell?

Well, let me tell you, the fantasy of him can't compare to the reality. I've heard that there are stories written about him all over the internet, linking him with men and women alike — even linking him with me or Harry! Some crazy person decided that it would be fun to write Harry's story into children's books for Muggles, and the Muggles see him as some kind of tortured bad boy who had no choice… I mean, I don't disagree with their personification of Malfoy, but I can't see Harry and Draco shagging in any universe, nevermind my real one! And me with Draco — the idea is just as laughable. How they manage to make me fall in love with my childhood bully over and over again, I have no idea.

But I digress. In person, the actual Malfoy… Merlin… he's so fucking gorgeous. He smiles and women anywhere in his vicinity swoon. Except for me. Instead of swooning, I get overwhelmed with the desire to punch his perfect face again. I don't know if it's our shared past, the knowledge that he's way out of my league and a total manwhore, or what. I just don't find myself attracted to him at all.

Somehow, the fact that I hate Quidditch and don't want to jump his bones made me qualified to be his traveling companion and personal security for the upcoming Quidditch World Cup. Yes, that's right — on top of being physical perfection, he's also a professional Quidditch player. Apparently, Harry had just been his Achilles' heel at Hogwarts; he never lost a match that wasn't against his archnemesis. Malfoy plays Seeker for England and, although he's been forgiven by the vast majority of witches and wizards in our home country, the rest of the world doesn't know his whole story. Several groups have made threats against him, saying that a former Death Eater shouldn't be celebrated as a professional athlete.

This is where I come in. I work for the DMLE as a security expert, and I've been loaned out to ensure Malfoy is safe while abroad.

Much to my surprise, I'm dispatched to a flat in Muggle London to pick him up. I had been preparing myself to head to Malfoy Manor, and I'm so relieved I won't be falling to pieces in front of my new charge. I don't need to be a shattered pile of post-traumatic emotions when Malfoy sees me for the first time. That definitely wouldn't bolster his opinion of me.

The doorman of the building guides me to the lift and informs me that Mr. Malfoy lives in the penthouse. Of course he does. Where else would Draco Malfoy live? He taps his wand in an intricate pattern on the controls before stepping out, sending me to the very top of the building.

When the lift doors open, I find myself in a modern flat, complete with large windows and minimalist decor. Glancing around, I notice that there are no photos or any type of personalization — not even a single speck of Slytherin green anywhere. In fact, the penthouse is sleek and modern, everything shiny and new as opposed to the ornate and historical decor that had been present in Malfoy Manor all those years ago.

A house-elf pops into view and greets me. "Ms. Granger! Master Draco is almost ready. He is just finishing up with his shower. Please sits on the couch and make yourself comfortable!"

I smile at the little creature. "Thank you. What's your name?"

"Doll!" she squeaks. "My name is Doll!"

Well, that's certainly unexpected. Malfoy named his house-elf Doll?

"It's wonderful to meet you, Doll. I'll just wait for Draco, then," I reply.

With a smile, she bustles off, returning a few minutes later with a tea service for me. Although I'm not hungry or interested in tea, I prepare a cup and nibble on a biscuit, not wanting to offend Doll.

While I'm lost in my own thoughts, Malfoy enters the room. "Granger," he drawls, his silver eyes settling on me. "I hear you're here to guard my body."

I look up and I'm met with a very different Draco Malfoy than I'm used to. When we were at Hogwarts, Malfoy was always dressed formally. It didn't matter if it was a weekday or a weekend; he wore an Oxford and slacks at the very least. Usually, he wore a suit jacket when he was not in his school robes. The man before me — and yes, Draco Malfoy had definitely turned into a man — is wearing a pair of dark jeans and a tight-fitting white t-shirt. His skin is a bit darker than it was in school, but his hair is the same bright blond shade.

But the t-shirt he's wearing? Sweet Salazar. It should be illegal to make a plain white t-shirt look that good. Trying to be discreet, my eyes roam up his forearms to the place where the edge of the short sleeve hugs his bicep. From there, I quickly examine his torso. It's clear that he's quite fit, which I already knew from the photos I've seen of him in magazines and newspapers. Somehow, he looks so much better in person. I barely even notice his Dark Mark. Like the memories and scars from the war, it's faded with time, but it's still present.

After what probably seems like forever, I meet his eyes. Have I really never noticed how startlingly silver they are until now? They're absolutely gorgeous.

"Granger," he says, sounding just as bored as he had at age fifteen. "I'm pretty sure you've seen me before. If you're not careful, I might think that you're checking me out."

I clear my throat. "Definitely not checking you out, Malfoy. I just didn't expect to see you wearing Muggle clothes. It caught me off guard."

Objectively, he's physical perfection, everything a hot-blooded twenty-something female should want in a partner. Despite the ogling I've just done, my pulse isn't racing and my knickers are still dry. I'm still not attracted to him in the least bit, which makes this job so much easier. I'm able to focus on the fact that I'd rather slap him than ride him like he's a Nimbus 2008.

He shrugs and his hands move to his pockets, looking a little self-conscious. "Things change. I'm pretty sure you know that better than most since you went from thinking you were a Muggle to finding out you were a witch in a split second."

I nod, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from retorting. I'm determined to keep things professional and peaceful between us. Malfoy is a job, not the total arsehole who made my teenage years a living hell.

"So, how'd you get stuck with this assignment, Golden Girl?" Draco asks, and I wonder if he's just used some very gentle Legilimency on me. "I'm sure there are plenty of blokes within the DMLE who would've been more than thrilled about free World Cup tickets."

"Ah, yes, I'm sure there are. However, they wouldn't be keeping their eyes on you, Malfoy," I reply.

The grin that spreads across his face would likely make other women drop to their knees and beg him for one night together. "You've already proved adequate there, Granger. Your eyes were definitely on me when I walked out of my bedroom."

I glare at him. "Don't worry. It won't happen again. I was just seeing if the rumours were true."

"Rumours? There are rumours about me?"

I sigh, unable to stop putting my foot in my mouth. "Of course there are, you dolt. I've heard the phrase 'platinum blond god' thrown around."

"And are the rumours true?" he teases, smiling widely.

I glare at him and say, "Oh, please. You know what you look like, Malfoy. You must spend half your life in the gym." I'm not willing to admit he's the fittest bloke I've seen in quite some time; it'll only inflate his already over-large ego. I can't believe I already slipped up and mentioned the rumours.

Malfoy grabs a small duffel bag that had been sitting on top of the dining table and slings it over his shoulder. "Well, that's a shame. It would've been quite an ego boost to have the Gryffindor princess lusting after me."

I scoff. "That will never happen. It wouldn't even be an issue if you were the last man on Earth."

He raises an eyebrow at me, but our banter comes to a screeching halt. I start walking towards him and his eyes roam over my form. I'm wearing a standard issue DMLE polo shirt and some black pants with knee-high black leather boots. No heels, no glamour involved. I'm just comfortable and ready to work.

"So how are we getting to France, sugar quill?" Draco inquires.

Did he just call me sugar quill? What in the name of Merlin….?

"You know my name, Malfoy. Please use it. We've already determined that I'm not one of your groupies," I reply calmly, looking at my watch. "We're going to be taking a Portkey. I have it in my purse. It leaves in about ten minutes and will deliver us directly to our hotel suite."

" Our hotel suite?"

"Yes, I'm required to share a suite with you in every country. There will be two beds or two bedrooms in each suite, so we won't be sharing a bed or anything sordid like that."

He rubs his eyes with one of his hands. "Seriously, princess? We're sharing hotel rooms all bloody week?"

I nod affirmatively. "I'm not supposed to leave you to your own devices. If you, uh, need alone time, I have to stand outside the door and you cannot put up any Silencing Charms."

He laughs and rubs his hands together. "Oh, goody! What a fun trip we're about to have!"

I reach into my beaded bag and remove the Portkey before gesturing to his duffel. "Is that all you're packing, Malfoy?"

I see him biting his cheek, likely taking my words and twisting them into innuendo since he's still mentally seventeen. He's actively trying to resist retorting, but it doesn't work.

"Oh, you want to see what I'm packing, Golden Girl? I mean, you could've asked me to strip while you were eye-fucking me," he taunts.

"I was NOT eye-fucking you!" I screech, choosing to ignore the condescending nicknames he's using and focus on the larger issue at hand.

He scoffs. "There are a few things you need to accept before we go on this trip, princess. One, the sky is blue. Two, Quidditch is the most amazing sport ever and is meant to be watched. It's not just background noise for reading. And three, all straight witches want their turn to ride the dragon, Granger. It's just a fact. So, if you're female and interested in men… I know you want to shag me."

I snort out a laugh. "Right, Malfoy. No straight female has ever said no to you, especially when you refer to sex as 'riding the dragon'."

His eyes narrow. "It's a turn of phrase! Any female that I want would shag me."

"Ah! That's the loophole then. You would never want me. That must be why I'm immune to your supposed god-like body and perfect hair," I quip.

He stays silent and reaches for the Portkey, connecting us through the trinket that will bring us to France — a small replica Eiffel Tower.

"Plus, if I was actually interested in shagging you, this conversation would be going much differently. When I'm around a guy I feel physically attracted to, I usually ramble and retreat when he looks at me like I'm a crazy person. It's really quite embarrassing," I admit.

"What about Weasley?" he asks, though it's clear he hadn't meant to actually let the words leave his lips. "You always talked to him."

"That's true, but that was a childhood crush. Ron never really got my, uh, cauldron bubbling, if you know what I mean," I answer before the Portkey turns blue, taking us away from England.