It is nearly five years later when he is parachuted in out of nowhere to be Granger's boss at the Ministry, despite having no prior work experience. He does not know until later that his job had been expected to go to her, the hardest-working employee in the department—in fact, he does not even choose the job. He merely decides that he wishes to do something new to occupy his time; and according to his ever-faithful connections, it just so happens that a suitable post is available in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

So when he waltzes into the office as the new head of their Wizard Rights subdivision, he does not expect to see her there—though it occurs to him later that he should have known she'd have chosen that field. And he certainly does not expect her to brazenly follow him into his office after his introductory meeting with his team. For someone who spent their last year of school together conscientiously taking great pains to avoid even looking at him, she is remarkably pulled-together as she stands across from him with a fierce glint in her eye, as though she has been waiting for this moment and is not in the least surprised by its arrival.

He is about to say something snotty when she slams her hands down on his desk, looks him dead in the eye, and says,

"You don't deserve this job."

It catches him off-guard. "Excuse me?"

"I said, you don't deserve this job. It should have been mine. And I intend to get it back."

She turns and walks out before he can respond, slamming the door as she goes.

sixth year (five years earlier)

Unfortunately for Hermione, she did not notice when Fred surreptitiously slipped something into her glass of pumpkin juice at breakfast. She did not notice, either, how he and George could not seem to stop snickering every time they saw her that morning. Nor did she notice the smug looks they gave her and Ron as they bade their siblings goodbye at the train station.

What she did notice, however, was the curious sense of restlessness that came over her halfway through her ride on the Hogwarts Express.

"You all right, Hermione?" Harry asked from the seat across from her, and she nodded absent-mindedly. "You look a bit distracted."

She turned to face him then, and she suddenly noticed—as if for the first time—just how much Harry had grown. She thought of the little eleven-year-old boy she had first met on this very train, and she marvelled at how different he looked now: tall, lean, almost roguishly handsome…

Handsome? Panic overtook her—had she really just thought that Harry looked handsome?—and she quickly looked away.

"Hermione, what's wrong?"

Harry rose to move to the seat next to hers, and she grew alarmed at how excited she felt to have him beside her. She tried to ignore it, to fight the feeling by not looking him directly in the eye; but she could not deny the warm, tingling sensation that was beginning to spread through her body at the knowledge that he was mere inches away. Against her will, her eyes wandered over his chest and she couldn't help imagining moving her hands across it.

Worried, he reached out to touch her arm, and a jolt of electricity sparked through her body at the physical contact. Heat flooded over her, and she struggled not to lean into him: he was so close that she could smell him, and the scent was comforting, inviting, almost addictive. With great difficulty, she pulled herself off of her seat and moved away from him.

"I'm feeling—I'm feeling a bit odd," she stammered. "Will you excuse me?"

She rushed hurriedly towards the next car and nearly crashed into Ron on his way back to their cabin.

"Hey, where are you going?" he asked, clutching a handful of Chocolate Frogs.

They were stuck between the two cars, standing extremely close, and it was taking Hermione an abnormal amount of willpower not to inch even closer. She resisted the urge to look up at him, to let her eyes drift to his lips—it would be so easy to just pull him to her and kiss him— Merlin, what was wrong with her this morning? She shook her head as if to clear away her thoughts.

"I just need to get some air." She turned and fled, resolving not to stop until she was as far away from him as possible.

"In the next car?" Ron called after her, bewildered.

She did not make it more than a few yards before running into Neville. When she found herself wondering what Neville's body might feel like against hers, she knew beyond doubt that there was absolutely something wrong with her. Horrified, she ignored first his friendly "hello" and then the wounded look on his face as she practically sprinted away from him without a reply.

Stumbling upon what appeared to be a cabin safely full of girls, Hermione plopped down into an empty seat and exhaled. She could not understand what was happening to her—she had never had these kinds of thoughts before, and certainly not about Neville—but she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed to every deity she could invoke that it was just a passing confusion.

When she opened her eyes, she saw a tall, sturdy-looking Gryffindor boy she recognized as a seventh-year staring down at her.

"All right there?"

She nodded, hoping desperately that she wasn't blushing.

"Hermione Granger, right? Cormac McLaggen. I'm a Gryffindor, too."

He extended a hand, which she took reluctantly. His grip was strong, and his hand felt snug and pleasant around hers as he gave it a firm shake. When he started to draw his fingers back and accidentally dragged his thumb gently across the back of her hand, she could barely think straight. Forced by the laws of decency—and her desire to maintain some semblance of dignity—to let go, she clasped her hands together tightly in her lap and focused on breathing normally. Noticing how flustered she was, he gave her a cocky smile. As he opened his mouth to speak, she seized the opportunity to end their conversation (before she could do something incredibly stupid, like reaching out to touch those impressively broad shoulders) and ran into the next car down.

Immensely disturbed by her own attraction to what seemed like nearly every male in sight, Hermione retreated into the girls' bathroom and did not emerge until she was certain that the train had stopped. Why was she acting like this? She pondered whether it might be her adolescent hormones kicking in, but she somehow found that unbelievable. She'd been surrounded by boys the whole morning—and she hadn't experienced anything out of the ordinary until mere moments ago. She put a hand to her forehead to see if she was ill, but despite feeling intensely feverish, her skin was cool.

She was no closer to figuring out what had caused her temporary madness when she finally alighted from the train behind all her friends, hoping not to be spotted. She crept slowly along the very back of the crowd, hiding behind some fourth-year Ravenclaws in her attempt to remain undiscovered, until someone bumped forcefully into her from behind.

She whirled around to find Draco Malfoy standing behind her, appearing just as surprised to see her as she was to see him. He glanced around shiftily, wearing a somewhat guilty expression. "What are you doing lagging behind the underclassmen?" he asked brusquely.

Although nothing short of Veritaserum could have made her admit it, Hermione had always been inexplicably attracted to Draco Malfoy. She hated him—hated everything about him—and yet could not help being mesmerized by his unfairly winsome looks. It was unjust, really. His eyes were cool and knowing in a way that, when they happened to land on you, was embarrassingly thrilling; and his sharp features were elegant and innocently boyish in a way that was deceptively at odds with his ruthless personality. He was despicable and utterly obnoxious, of course, but you would never know it from looking at him. More than once, Hermione had caught her gaze drifting over to him in class and forced herself to stop gawking at his well-defined form.

Now, with all her senses more heightened than they'd ever been, that secret attraction she had kept hidden was violently consuming her.

Her heart was pounding so fast that she thought it might burst out of her chest, and it felt as though every part of her were on fire. No longer capable of coherent speech, she simply stared at him as though spellbound, unable to stop herself from openly ogling him. She was hypnotized by the silvery mirrors in his eyes, the sharply cut angles of his jaw, the way his robes draped over his shoulders; and the only fully formed thought that managed to float through the fog in her mind was that she wanted him.

Some nagging part of her clouded brain told her to turn and walk away, but the ache inside of her was overwhelming: she could feel the heat emanating from his body, and she wanted to draw closer, to envelop herself in the tantalizing warmth that he was radiating. She was finding it harder and harder to suppress the uncontrollable urge to throw herself at him and find out what those lips felt like under her tongue.

He gave her a strange look and began to walk past her when she suddenly lunged at him and kissed him wildly.

She was unable to keep track of where her lips were or what they were doing—all she knew was that she was desperate to taste him; and once she did, it was intoxicating. She pressed herself against him like a crazed woman, overpowered by her own desire, and clutched haplessly at his arms and chest, gripping his sides as though trying to feel him through his robes. She was so caught up in her own passion that she barely noticed when, in spite of his immense shock, he began to kiss her back.

Draco didn't understand what she was doing or why, but he found himself rather unwilling to question the situation as his hands slid eagerly around her waist. Encouraged by the contact, she moaned into his mouth and began to wrap a leg around his, pushing herself as close to him as humanly possible. Her hands went to the clasp of his robes and were just slipping inside when suddenly, as if jolted awake by the touch of his bare skin, she gasped and flung herself back in horror.

He looked deliciously disheveled: he was flushed and panting, and she had never seen his hair mussed like that before—but Hermione steeled herself and pried her burning fingers off his clothing. Reality came crashing down around her as she realized exactly what she had just done. How had she let this happen? Her instincts told her to run and hide, but her legs were like anchors rooting her in place; she was too humiliated to summon the strength to move. She could never look Malfoy in the eye again. For that matter, she would most likely have to transfer out of Hogwarts. The story would be all over school by dinnertime, and she would never be able to face her classmates after this shameful lapse into insanity—let alone handle Malfoy laughing at her with his fellow Slytherins, armed with the knowledge that she was pathetically attracted to him. Even before, he had always made fun of her; with this new ammunition, she was terrified to imagine what sort of inventive cruelties he would unleash next.

They stood there in silence for a moment, both of them speechless and gasping for breath, before she turned and ran to catch up with the crowd of students ahead of them.

"Wait," she heard him call behind her, but she was too lost in her own embarrassment to notice the lack of derision in his voice as she fled the scene.

Draco relived the kiss at least twenty times that night. He told no one about what had happened, mainly because he was still unsure what exactly had happened. Had Granger harbored some sort of secret crush on him that she had finally decided to act upon? Or was this all a cruel joke—an attempt to get him to respond so that she and her loathsome friends could mock him? Based on the way she had acted afterwards, he was inclined not to believe the latter; but he still had no idea what to make of her perplexing behavior.

It was so unlike Granger, too—she was the most uptight swot that he had ever met in his life, and he would never in a million years have imagined how much hidden fire had been lurking underneath that excessively prim exterior. It was baffling, really. She had been so passionate, the way she had practically pounced on him—Pansy had certainly never kissed him like that—and he could not stop remembering the feeling of her body thrust up against his.

He woke up the next morning still obsessing over it and knew at once that he wanted more than anything to kiss her again.

She had skipped dinner the night before, but she was at breakfast that morning, sandwiched as usual between Potter and Weasley. His curiosity piqued, he watched her intently, though she was clearly doing everything she could not to look at him. She seemed distracted and uneasy; and to Draco's irritation, Weasley appeared to be trying to impress her with some sort of story. His attempts were unsuccessful, however, and he looked rather put out by the fact that Granger was obviously barely listening as she stared down into her porridge.

When she rose to leave the Great Hall early, without her friends, Draco jumped up from his seat and followed.

He cornered her in a hallway, and he was annoyed to see a look of revulsion cross her face, as though she were about to be sick. She was determinedly looking at anything and everything but him, and it seemed that no matter how she'd felt yesterday, today she would rather have kissed a Hungarian Horntail than touched him ever again.

"Before you say anything, Malfoy," she began crisply, cutting him off, "you should know that I was under the influence of a lust potion, and I would never have—"

"Lust potion?" he repeated dumbly.

"Yes. So, you see, I—"

"Why the hell did you take a lust potion?" he asked, bewildered, and she flushed angrily.

"I didn't take it on purpose, Malfoy!"

"Someone gave it to you?" he gaped in astonishment. Then something clicked in his brain and he asked, "Was it Weasley?"

"No!" Hermione cried indignantly. "It was—it was Fred and George, if you must know, and apparently they were trying to sneak me one of their love potions that they've been developing for their shop, because they thought it would speed things along between me and Ron; but Fred forgot that it reacts with pumpkin juice in a funny way and by the time George owled me—" She broke off, looking mortified.

Clearing her throat awkwardly, she went on, "Anyway, it turned into a lust potion, and I would have… reacted that way with anyone. So you should know that I was not myself, and I would never have touched you otherwise."

With that, she thrust her nose haughtily into the air.

Draco was furious with himself. How had he not thought of this possibility? How had he even hoped for something else? Of course he should have known; he had even noted how uncharacteristic Granger's behavior had been. The idea that she might have been attracted to him was preposterous. After all, in spite of being a terribly plain-looking Mudblood, she had dared to act for years as though he were somehow beneath her.

The thought incensed him further. Who did she think she was, anyway? And how dare she insult him with her insinuations that she was somehow revolted by what had transpired?

"You should be grateful that I haven't sought retribution after the disgusting way you threw yourself at me," he snapped. "My skin's still raw from the hours I had to spend scrubbing myself clean in the shower."

Hermione bit her lip angrily. "Rest assured that I in no way enjoyed—"

"I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you, Granger. You're lucky that I even let you touch me."

"Well," she replied coldly, "seeing as we've both survived, I hope we never speak of this again."

"Don't worry," he spat bitterly. "I wouldn't damage my reputation by spreading it around that a Mudblood laid her filthy fingers on me and lived to tell the tale."

Blaise bursts into his office with a huge grin on his face.

"Draco, mate—you're going to want to see this."

He follows him down the hall and into the conference room, where he finds Granger looking extremely uncomfortable and sitting next to a half-dressed man whose shirt buttons are all undone. It takes him a second glance to recognize the man as Terry Boot, and it takes him a third to realize that Granger's skirt is crumpled around her thighs and that her top is on inside out. Suddenly registering why her hair looks even more ridiculously messy than usual, he lets out a disbelieving laugh.

"I found them on my way in for a meeting," says Blaise, struggling to contain his own laughter. "Gave Atkins quite a shock. Anyway, I thought—since you're her superior—you're the one who ought to handle it." He claps Draco on the back. "Happy Christmas," he says with a wink, before exiting.

Granger has never looked so miserable.

"Well," Draco says, "I don't think there's any need for you to stay, Boot."

Terry looks uncertainly in her direction before rising. "I'll see you later, then. Bye, Malfoy."

They sit alone in silence for a full minute before he speaks again. She doesn't meet his gaze the entire time.

"So is this typical for you?" he asks with amusement. "As your boss, I'd like to know if this is going to be a—"

"It's after hours," she interrupts, her voice pained and pitiful as she stares at the table. "I didn't know anyone would be here."

"Is that a yes, Granger?"

"No! I'm just saying that I—"

"Because based on our limited interactions, it really seems that you might have a problem. I've only been here a couple months, of course, but already you've managed to get yourself in trouble." He leans against the door frame and smirks, enjoying how defeated she looks, how mortified. He wishes that he could capture the moment in a photograph: Granger shamed, dishevelled, and completely at his mercy.

"And then there was that time at school," he goes on, his voice deceptively casual. "You know, I believed you about the potion back then; but now I'm inclined to think otherwise. Maybe you're simply unable to control yourself around men."

Her head jerks up then, and her eyes are wide with rage. "This is completely different, Malfoy—Terry is my boyfriend—how dare you—"

"Anyway, so long as you apologize about the incident—you know, see the error of your scarlet ways and all that—I don't think any disciplinary action will be necessary. What do you think, Granger?"

She glares at him with hatred before clenching her teeth and gritting out, very quietly, "I'm sorry."

"What was that? I couldn't hear you."

"I'm sorry," she repeats, looking as though what she means is that she's sorry she can't stab him in the throat and get away with it.

He smiles wickedly at her. "Well, in that case, I think it's for the best that we forget all about this little mishap."

What Draco can't explain is why he's suddenly so jealous of Terry Boot.

He watches Granger at work, remembering what she looked like that one time in sixth year, and he can't get the image out of his head. He keeps seeing his memory of her when she was completely uninhibited—when, instead of spite or contempt, she looked at him with desire burning in her eyes. He can't forget how dark and heated they were, as though every inch of her were burning and she wanted nothing more than to devour him.

He would give anything to see that look again.

But short of feeding her another lust potion, he doesn't see any way to make it happen.

He learns to spot when she has a date with Boot. On those days, she saunters into the office with her hair neater than usual, wearing robes that have absolutely no business being worn to work. He knows that it is petty and pathetic, but he starts keeping her at the office late on those days, giving her extra assignments at the last minute so that she'll have to cancel.

She is always impetuous when she argues with him, shouting about abuse of power and injustice and plans for that evening; but work is everything to her, and she always relents. She fumes angrily as she finishes whatever projects he throws her way, but she finishes them nonetheless. He stays late when she does, and it's worth whiling away the extra hours in his office just to spend that time with her, waiting for her to leave, content in the knowledge that she is alone and just a few doors away. When she drops by his office at the end of the night to resentfully fling her completed work onto his desk, he always hopes for a split second that her ire will give way to passion—but, of course, it never does. It is only in the movies that love and hate are so easily interchanged as to be almost indistinguishable.

His paltry attempts to sabotage her relationship fail, unsurprisingly. One day, he overhears her telling a co-worker that the perfume she wears—the one that he finds so addicting, like a drug—the one that he sometimes finds excuses to stand close to her just to sniff—was a gift from Boot.

After that, he tries to stand as far away from her as possible, so that he never has to smell it again.

McLeod suddenly quits his job and moves to Australia to be with a woman that he met only a month ago. It's the juiciest gossip the office has seen in years, and the entire division crowds around the break room during lunch to share their opinions on the development.

"I never knew McLeod had it in him," remarks Gallagher. "He didn't seem like the spontaneous type."

"I think it's romantic," swoons Elsie Osmond, one of the administrative clerks.

"Romantic? It's bloody stupid!"

"Nonsense—more men should be so impulsive."

"Just once, I'd like to be in love like that, you know?" Sinclair says wistfully.

"That kind of love doesn't last," Roger Davies replies dismissively, but Sinclair is undeterred.

"That doesn't mean it's not worth feeling. I just want to experience that rush—you know, when you see someone and your heart goes a million times a minute, and—and—"

"—and you feel like you're on fire," Osmond chimes in. "When you can't think of anything but that one person, and you're not yourself around them…"

"Load of crock!" says Quentin Stump. "That only happens in the movies."

"It does not!" Osmond replies indignantly. "I've felt it—"

"So have I."

"What about you, Hermione?"

She looks surprised that the questioning has fallen on her, but she replies nonetheless. "Once."

"Did it last?" asks Davies, and she seems thoughtful.

"I don't know," she says slowly. "I don't know if it ever really goes away—the feeling you have around a certain person."

Stump gives a snort. "Granger's still in love with her boyfriend, but that doesn't prove anything about love. If you ask me, McLeod's made a terrible mistake. He'll be begging for his job back before the year's out."

"You ever been in love, Malfoy?" asks Sinclair.

He is still bitter from hearing Granger's answer; and when he speaks, it comes out sounding contemptuous. "Not according to your ridiculous description of love, Sinclair. It sounds like you're describing someone who's gone mad."

Sinclair shrugs. "Love is merely a madness," he quotes. "What is love, if not temporary insanity?"

"You're dressed like a trollop."

Hermione stifles a sigh of exasperation. "Is that what you called me into your office to tell me?"

"A cheap trollop, at that. Where'd you find those robes, anyway? I didn't know they had second hand stores for call girls."

"I wouldn't know what call girls wear, Malfoy, but I'm not surprised in the least that you do."

"And your hair. You know there are spells for that, right?"

"Are we done here?"

"Actually, maybe it's not your fault. You were brought up by Muggles, after all—though your hair makes it look as though you were brought up by wolves. Maybe no one's ever taught you any basic grooming spells."

"Forgive me if I have better things to do with my time than spend hours obsessing over how I look, unlike certain people I know."

"Based on those robes, Granger, it looks like you did spend some extra time getting tarted up this morning." He leans back in his chair and cocks an eyebrow challengingly. "You're not, by any chance, trying to impress Higgins, are you?"

For a moment, she is extremely still. "How'd you find out about my meeting?" she asks, trying to appear unaffected.

"Please," he snorts. "You can't hide your scheming from me. I have the entire Ministry wrapped around my finger—Higgins included. So tell me, what were you planning on discussing with our department head at lunch? Future goals, perhaps?"

"That's none of your concern."

"Or," he says pointedly, "could it possibly be the unsatisfactory job performance of your new superior?" His eyes narrow. "Looking towards the next step of your career trajectory, are we?"

She hesitates for the briefest of moments before tossing her hair back nonchalantly and replying, "You know what, Malfoy? You're right. I am going to tell Higgins how completely unqualified you are for your position, and how hard I've been working my arse off ever since I started at the Mi—"

"Or maybe you're just tired of all the work I've been giving you. Can't handle the extra responsibility, Granger?" he asks, his voice dripping with venom. "If it's too much for you, I'd be happy to lighten the load. Of course, I'll have to let Higgins know how overwhelmed you were by the burden of a couple long nights at the office—can't imagine how you'd handle being in charge of an entire subdivision—"

"A couple of long nights? I can't remember the last time I saw sunlight—"

"It's not my fault if you can't get your work done quickly. Every second that I don't have to spend in your presence is like a breath of fresh air; why would I want to—"

"I know what you're trying to do, Malfoy," she hisses, stepping closer to his desk. "You want me to leave, and you're trying to make my life a living hell until I quit because I can't take it anymore. But you're wrong. You can't force me out just by making my life miserable. No matter how awful you are to me—how many nights you force me to spend at my desk—I'm not going anywhere."

He blinks a few times. "Is that what I'm trying to do?" he says, his voice strangely hollow. He looks away, his jaw clenched. "In that case, I'll be sure to give you all the extra work you deserve."

When she arrives at Higgins' office for lunch, he is already there: seated comfortably on the sofa and looking as though he owns the place.

"Miss Granger!" Higgins exclaims. "Good to see you. Malfoy here was just dropping off some Tornados tickets, so I invited him to lunch. That's all right with you, isn't it?"

"Yes, of course," she says, fighting to keep her voice airy and pleasant. "Going to the game tomorrow?"

"Yes, well, apparently Malfoy had some extra tickets to the match, and he was kind enough to think of me."

"Unfortunately, something's come up and I won't be able to attend," says Malfoy, his voice repulsively smooth. "Thanks again for taking them off my hands, Henry."

They spend the entire lunch discussing Quidditch. Malfoy smiles innocently at her throughout the meal, and she can think of nothing else except hexing that infuriating smirk right off his pointy face.

He knows she's working on a project that she hasn't told him about. Higgins mentioned it by accident in one of their conversations, obviously unaware that she's kept it a secret. He praised her for taking the initiative to go above and beyond her job description, but he didn't say much else—and Draco, not wishing to reveal that he had no clue what Higgins was talking about, was unable to press for more details.

She's gunning for his job, and he has to stop her somehow.

He's figured out that the project has something to do with the Dementor's Kiss and the imprisonment of the falsely accused. Someone like Granger would most likely be against the use of the Kiss as a punishment, so his best guess is that she's researching the question of whether it's necessary or even justifiable. He wants to know for sure, though, so he buys an Extendable Ear from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and eavesdrops on her weekly tea with Potter.

To his surprise, however, they aren't talking about work.

"How's Ginny?" he hears her ask.

"She's great," says Potter. "Tired from training, though. She's been asking me about you lately."

"I know, I haven't seen her in ages. I really should owl her or something, but work's kept me so busy recently…"

"How are things going with Terry?"

She makes a clicking noise with her tongue. "They're good."

"You know, I'm surprised the two of you have lasted as long as you have. No offense or anything, but…"

"No, I know what you mean. It was only a rebound at first. But then… I don't know. We have so much in common, and we get along really well, and—frankly, after Ron, it was nice to be with someone who actually shares my intellectual interests."

Potter chuckles. "That makes sense, I suppose. So it was the intellectual bit that won you over?"

"I don't know. I guess it's just that, well—Terry's the nicest guy I've ever met. How could you not be happy with someone like that?"

For the first six months that they worked together, Malfoy was even more insulting and rude to her than he had been at Hogwarts. So when he suddenly starts making an effort to be polite, Hermione is first surprised, then suspicious.

No longer does he give her near-impossible deadlines and excruciatingly tedious menial tasks. Gone are the scathing remarks about her looks, her wardrobe, her heritage. Now, when she disagrees with him on something, he does not make heavily disguised references to her embarrassing mishap in the conference room, lording the incident over her like blackmail.

He still keeps her late at work quite often, and he does somehow manage to always ruin her plans with Terry; but he stays late too, so she almost can't complain.

Once, when she knocks on his door to hand him her latest report and he does not answer, she enters his office and finds that he is fast asleep. Resting peacefully in his chair, with his head tucked into his arms on his desk, he looks harmless—even angelic. His hair, pale and soft in a way Hermione always thought unique to children, falls over his eyes and flutters with his every breath.

She knows she should drop the report and leave, but she is entranced by this illusion of vulnerability, and all of a sudden she is back at Hogwarts, staring at Malfoy in spite of herself and struggling to stop. Hermione clings to the moment, watching him for longer than she should, and when she finally slides the report gently onto his desk, his eyes snap open and she flinches.

"How long have I been asleep?" he asks hoarsely.

"I—I don't know," she stammers.

He looks at her for a long time, then glances down at the report. "You're leaving."

"Yes."

He is still staring at the report when he says, in an oddly tight voice, "Well, I won't stop you."

She's never seen him so out of sorts, and it's vaguely unsettling. "I'll see you tomorrow, then," she says awkwardly.

He does not answer. As she retreats from his office and walks towards the lifts, hearing each of her steps echo through the empty hallway, she can't help feeling a peculiar sense of loss.

Gallagher storms into her office to argue with her about her report. It's irresponsible, he shouts. She never knew that Gallagher, typically so calm, could be this emotional. His father was murdered by a serial killer, he says, and his only solace is the knowledge that his killer is rotting in Azkaban a shell of his former self, the soul sucked out of him by Dementors. Justice must be served. Who is she to try and interfere?

He only grows more agitated when she tries to defend herself by bringing up the many cases where innocent witches and wizards fell prey to the system. His cries become louder. Doesn't she know that the Kiss is the only safe way to properly incapacitate a dangerous and competent criminal? How dare she try and abolish an institution that's been in place for centuries? What does she know about wizarding society?

She doesn't realize that Malfoy is listening—or that he even knew about her secret project—until he sweeps into her office, his usually expressionless eyes blazing.

"She knows more than you do, Gallagher," he says fiercely, "so I'd be careful not to question her credentials again."

Hermione stares at him in disbelief. Gallagher, looking equally shocked, opens his mouth to respond but is cut off.

"I commissioned that report," Malfoy goes on, "and if you have a problem with it, then I suggest you pack your things and leave this office immediately."

"I was just saying that I—"

"Let me be clear. Do… you… have… a problem… with Granger's report?"

Gallagher's face is contorted with anger, but he bites his tongue. "No."

"Good. Then get out of her office. And Gallagher—if I ever catch you talking to a colleague like that again, you'll be out of this department faster than you can say Evanesco."

Hermione wants to speak to him. She wants to ask him why he lied. But as soon as Gallagher hurries out of the room, Malfoy turns and follows without so much as a glance in her direction.

Granger gives her presentation on the unseen costs of the Dementor's Kiss, and Draco sees the look on Higgins' face and knows what it means. Higgins is impressed, and he listens with rapt attention as she outlines possible alternatives.

Draco's job is in danger.

The truth is that Draco could not care less about wizard rights or about his work, and there is no way that he could ever compete with the over-zealous fireball that is currently lighting up the conference room. She is intense and serious and animated, the way she always gets when she talks about something she cares passionately about, and it's riveting to watch. He realizes that his job, which he merely fell into by accident, means more to her than he could ever know or understand.

But if he cedes it to her now and walks away, he might never get to see her light up a room like this again.

He drinks too much at the Ministry's annual Halloween party. The room is spinning and all he can think about is the fact that she's on the other side of it.

She's chatting with Potter and Weasley, gesturing excitedly with her hands as she talks, and a little elderflower wine splashes out of her glass each time she makes a point particularly emphatically. His vision starts to blur, and it's taking more self-control than he has at the moment not to stare at her. So he leaves. He stumbles towards the lifts, goes upstairs, and collapses on the floor of the dark and deserted hallway outside his office door.

It is not long before the lift doors open and he hears the familiar announcement: "Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement." Before he can peel himself off the carpet, Granger steps out and sees him.

"Malfoy?" she asks, peering through the darkness. "Is that you?"

He nods.

"Are you locked out?"

She moves closer, and he drags himself up off the floor. "What are you doing here?" he asks, ignoring her question.

"I'm here to get my cloak. Are you drunk?" She sounds appalled.

"I might be," he tries to say loftily, but it comes out slurred. "Where's your boyfriend, Granger?"

She looks at him strangely. "He's—I don't know. Why? How much have you had to drink tonight?"

The alcohol has emboldened him, and he takes a brave step in her direction. "A lot. A lot, Granger. I had—" He trips, and she reaches out to steady him with both hands. "I'm quite tipsy."

"I can see that," she scoffs, but he notes hazily that there is amusement hidden behind her disdain. "Shouldn't you go home?"

"No, I'd rather not," he murmurs.

She is quite close now, with one hand holding up each of his arms, and he finds himself unconsciously leaning towards her until he can feel her breath blowing softly onto his face. Her lips are pink and impossibly perfect, and it is a battle not to lean forward the rest of the way and erase the distance between them. When he senses her starting to pull back, he reaches out and grabs her elbows.

There is shock in her eyes, but he is pleased to find no disgust. She draws in a sharp breath, and he says, in his best attempt at a reassuring tone, "Don't worry, I won't fall."

Up close, the wisps of hair that frame her face look so soft that he wonders idly what they feel like. Why didn't he touch her hair when he had the chance years ago? Cursing missed opportunities, he sways forward and Hermione steps back.

"You really need to lie down," she says uneasily.

He grips her more tightly. "Tell me something. Are you really in love with him?"

She freezes. "What?"

"I don't believe that you're really in love with him. Your boyfriend."

"Terry?" she asks, her voice incredulous and very quiet.

"If you were in love with him, you wouldn't ask. Admit it, Granger."

They are silent as they clutch each other in the darkened hallway. An indecipherable emotion flickers behind her eyes before she, unbelievably, starts to nod. "You're right," she says slowly, warily. "I've never really been in love with Terry."

And for the first time in his life, Draco experiences magic.

The weight of his tipsiness evaporates, and he feels so light that he might float away, like a feather, if he just stretched his fingertips up towards the skies. The words sound like a melody played on a gilded harp from heaven itself. He is enchanted. He wants to crush his lips to hers. Before he can stop himself, he breaks into a giddy smile—

—and then it occurs to him. If she was not talking about Terry, who was she talking about?

Who is she in love with?

He suddenly remembers her telling Potter that Terry had been a rebound. The memories hit him like one wave crashing after another: the time someone mentioned that she dated Weasley for years after Hogwarts, the conversation he overheard where she expressed her disapproval of Weasley's new girlfriend, her effervescence as she spoke to him downstairs. When she spoke of love, she never meant Terry at all. He has been climbing a hill that does not exist.

His euphoria is over as quickly as it began. He feels sick, and he pushes her away as he staggers backward.

"I need to go home," he says. She looks confused but says nothing as he backs away from her, fighting the growing nausea in his stomach. He retreats into his office, closes the door, and listens for the sounds of her departure.

He waits for what feels like hours until he finally hears her footsteps disappearing down the hall.

He quits his job. It means nothing to him, after all. He never really enjoyed it, and he stayed longer than he would have under different circumstances—for reasons that he isn't prepared to admit to himself.

She walks in as he's gathering his things and appears dumbfounded. "So you're really leaving."

"Yes," says Draco stiffly, without looking at her. "You win."

"I win?"

"Yes, well, you'll be getting my job, won't you?"

He continues packing as though she's not there. There is an awkward pause before she says, "I heard you recommended me for the position."

When he doesn't respond, she clears her throat and changes the subject. "I broke up with Terry, by the way."

Of all the things he might have expected her to say, that wasn't one of them. He can't help glancing up at that, and her eyes are surprisingly serious as they meet his. "You were right," she goes on. "I wasn't in love with him, and… I shouldn't have been with someone that I wasn't in love with."

It should feel like a victory, but the knowledge is meaningless. Draco almost wants to laugh, thinking back on all the nights that he struggled to find reasons to hold her at the office—as if he were accomplishing something by keeping her off those dates. For months, he has been fighting a ghost; and he has never felt more like a fool. If anything, he's probably convinced her to go back to Weasley.

"Good," he says, with difficulty. "Glad to have helped."

They say goodbye, and he does not see her again for months.

Hermione's desk reminds her of him.

She thought that it would go away after a few weeks, but it doesn't. Every time she sits at her desk, she remembers what he looked like sitting behind it.

It doesn't help that now, as the newly single head of the Wizard Rights subdivision, she is spending more time at work than ever. She is living at her desk—and so, somehow, living with Malfoy.

Her friends are a blessed escape; but as soon as Ron hears about her split with Terry, he complicates things by leaping to ask her out again. "We were brilliant together," he argues, but she reminds him that, had they been truly brilliant, they would never have broken up. When he begs her to give it a second chance, she blames her job.

Somehow, the whole mess results in less quality time with Ron and more quality time with her haunted desk.

Draco is investigating the open bar at Adrian Pucey and Padma Patil's wedding when Blaise approaches. "Let me ask you a question, mate. Did anything ever happen between you and Granger while you were working together?"

"What?"

"Because she's been staring at you non-stop since you've gotten here."

He spins around, and sure enough, she is standing across the room, resplendent in dark blue robes that shimmer in the light, watching him. It's the first time he's seen her since he left the Ministry, and the wound feels fresher than it should. He'd forgotten how good she looks in formal attire, when she bothers to make the effort. He is suddenly reminded of seeing her at the Yule Ball years earlier.

"No," he says, turning back, "of course nothing happened."

Blaise eyes her thoughtfully. "Strange," he murmurs. "Never really thought you were her type."

Thankfully, Pansy arrives at just that moment and saves him from a potentially nightmarish conversation. "What are you two talking about?" she asks, rummaging inside her clutch for a cigarette.

"Are you smoking again?" Blaise asks disapprovingly, and she rolls her eyes.

"What are you, my father?"

He leans over and snatches the purse out of her hand. "It's a dirty habit, Pansy. And a Mudblood habit, at that."

"I know," she sighs. "But Bole got me started on them, and they're impossible to quit."

"Do something else with your hands," Draco suggests. "That's how Davies said he quit. Here, take this." He hands her his glass of red currant rum, and she sets it down on the bar disgustedly.

"Are you trying to get me to replace tobacco with liquor?" she demands, and he shrugs carelessly. "All right. If you're not going to give me my purse back, Blaise, one of you's going to have to dance with me."

"Draco's a much better dancer than I am," Blaise says quickly, and Draco panics.

"I'm not in the mood to dance. You do it, Blaise."

"Oh, come on, Draco—"

"This conversation is very flattering," Pansy interrupts wryly, "but Blaise is right." She extends a hand. "Draco?"

There is no way to decline. So he leads her out to the dance floor, feeling Granger's eyes on him the whole time. He can barely breathe properly, but he tries to focus on talking to Pansy and, somehow, makes it through an entire song. When it's finally over and he escapes to the courtyard outside, he is not alone for long.

"Malfoy," she says softly, and he turns.

His throat constricts, and he can't seem to form words. When he doesn't say anything, she looks down and fiddles with her robes. "How are you these days?"

"Fine," he manages to get out.

She nods. "What do you do with your time now?"

It's too much for him—conversing with her and pretending that everything is fine, that he hasn't humiliated himself completely. So he says curtly, "It's none of your business," and walks past her to return to the reception.

She leaves with Weasley that night, and he can't sleep.

What he should do is apologize, but he is a coward—he always has been. So he goes to Knockturn Alley the next week and buys an unreasonably expensive bottle of Felix Felicis from a disreputable potioneer. Draco's father once told him that all the exceptionally rare potions sold in the Alley are fake, but he doesn't care. He is a coward, and this is his only option.

He does not know where she lives, so he marches into what used to be his office and kisses her before she has a chance to protest.

It is even better than he remembered.

He tangles one hand into her curls—resolved to find out, this time, what her hair feels like between his fingers—and pulls her flush against him as he kisses her with abandon. The potion, fake or not, is coursing through his veins; and he is drunk with triumph when he finally pulls away and leaves her breathless. Then, because he is a coward, he swallows his unsated yearning and flees before she has time to react.

He stays up all night wondering whether it was the Felix Felicis that made her kiss him back.

She shows up at his flat the next day.

"How'd you find out where I live?" he asks.

"Zabini," she says.

He is surprised; but then again, she is not a coward. She never has been.

Draco offers her a seat, but she ignores him. "What was that about, yesterday?"

It takes a long time before he can bring himself to answer. He searches unsuccessfully for the right words and then settles on ones that he's heard before.

"I was under the influence of a potion," he tells her truthfully.

She stares at him blankly as he tries to explain.

"You were… under the influence," she repeats.

"Yes."

"And are you now?"

He is about to ask her what she means, but the question dies on his lips as she steps forward and kisses him. He imagines that this is what spontaneous combustion must feel like. His heart is beating so fast that, under any other circumstances, he would have been afraid of its exploding—but as her hands slide up to cup his face, he is no longer himself; and he forgets everything except the way she feels. He is no longer afraid.

He is no longer a coward.

the end