Bound

000

Draco Malfoy couldn't help himself. Like a common muggle, he stopped to watch the scene unfolding in the Ministry hallway that fateful Monday morning. Malfoys never ambled, dawdled, or gawped. They strolled or strode with purpose and perhaps a smidgeon of drama, shoulders back, gaze steady. But she had brushed by him so rudely in the corridor and then immediately bumped into someone else, and papers had gone tumbling everywhere. She had begun to pick up the papers – her own, and those of the other witch – and this was at the point when he had paused to watch.

Hermione Granger had finally done something about that damned hair, teasing or smoothing it back into a very adequate French plait, which hung professionally down her back. It had draped over the side of her neck as she bent down to pick up the papers. Her face, young and soft-cheeked for such a high-ranking employee, was clear and smoothed over with concentration. He saw the precise moment that she picked up the Daily Prophet, which incidentally was not the property of Hermione Granger at all, as it had been dropped by the other woman. Ruddy streaks of heat shot up that cool, pale neck, and Granger shot up out of her crouch, words exploding from her mouth.

"Of all the lily-livered – that kneazel-brained, flobberworm scum of the earth," she hissed, eyes blazing into the distance. "Bloody bollocks of Godric Gryffindor, may a poltergeist follow him to Merlin's bleeding grave on the battlefield of – I'll hex him to oblivion and then reincarnate him so I can torture his eternal soul. That toe-rag of a blasted—"

Draco stared at her. He'd never heard a witch use language like that before. It simply wasn't done. She had a mouth like a common fishmonger. Like a mudblood. He didn't even know some of the obscenities she mouthed. So he watched her, as the red flush mounted to purple, swelling into her face like a septic infection, and a single curl popped loose from her braid, obscuring one of her eyes.

Granger had taken the article from the other witch, who was watching in utter astonishment, and had begun barreling down the long hallway of the ministry in the direction of the elevators, hissing the whole way. Her indiscriminate glare took in everyone she saw, but she was apparently so consumed with rage she didn't even notice Draco, as her look passed over him with none of the particular fury she seemed to reserve for a Malfoy.

Those eyes: eyes the golden-brown consistency of maple syrup, framed by gauzy spun caterpillar-silk lashes, deep with knowledge and the self-satisfaction of universal comprehension. He hates them. He knows them. He cannot stand them. He cannot look away.

He heard one last line as the elevator doors closed around her form, another curl springing free. She slammed her hand, newspaper and all, into a button, almost shouting, "thrice-damned Voldemort's son," before they shut. He had to bite off a choke at the last one, and several other people had now stopped stare at the empty bay where Hermione's elevator had just been. One simply did not say Voldemort's name, even now. Draco remained for a moment longer, his head buzzing. He felt rather like he had just witnessed some sort of spectacular natural disaster bowl through the countryside. The status of her blood not withstanding, Hermione Granger certainly was a spectacle.

Remembering himself, he strode off in the direction of the fountain of magical creatures. He was here on business, after all, and Malfoys did not make spectacles of themselves.

Somewhere inside of him, somewhere very, very deep, buried and repressed for all those years – somewhere he would never acknowledge, a feeling he would never admit to – somewhere inside him, he felt a small twinge of pity for whomever was about to suffer Hermione's wrath.

0000

Ron's secretary tried to bar her entry to his office, and before she even knew what she had done, Hermione threw the idiot man in a Full Body-Bind and blasted the door open with a nonverbal spell fueled by pure rage. She had one brief moment to contemplate how awfully, ironically feminist of Ron to have a male secretary, before her eyes focused on the man before her.

He sat at his desk, face colorless with shock as he stared at the smoking frame which, one second ago, had been the nutmeg-colored counterpart to his lacquered door.

"You coward," Hermione spat at him. The paper in her hands burst into flame. She tried to take a deep breath, to regain control, but the anger surged through her in a torrent, and a folder on Ron's desk started to smoke ominously.

Ron hastily stood up to face her, looking torn between anger and fear, and glancing nervously at the smoking folder. Hermione wondered idly what she must look like. Her cheeks held a deep heat, and her hair, almost free of her braid now, seemed to crackle around her face like a living thing.

"Hermione, I didn't strictly do anything," he began, and she cut him off.

"My entire legislation was predicated on your support," she shouted, gesticulating with the smoldering article in her hand. "And then I find that the bill hasn't passed, because you've been fraternizing with reporters and hinting that it's a rubbish piece and that you don't support it, and then," she heaved a breath, "and then I see that when they ask you to clarify, you say you have no comment. NO COMMENT," she shouted, and the words flayed across her skin like acid, booming through the stagnant air. The folder on his desk began to burn in earnest, sending off toxic, plastic fumes. Hermione wondered if she was going to set him on fire next.

"How dare you, Ron Weasley? How dare you? How dare you lie to my face," she growled, "and endanger my work while doing so?"

He stared at her, and Hermione stared back, unblinking, her dark eyes glittering as her hand entered her robes.

Withdrawing her wand, Hermione levelled it at him. "Unless you give me a straight answer, I will transfigure you into a rat and feed you to Crookshanks." Her voice was perfectly calm. Rational. She meant it to her very core. This was the last straw.

Ron didn't respond. He was staring at her like she had grown a second head, or just announced she was engaged to Malfoy. Now that was an odd metaphor, Hermione thought. Why had that popped into her head? Shaking off the thought, Hermione waved her wand threateningly at Ron and was satisfied when he jumped a little. "You know I could. I'm the only one in our class clever enough to become an animagus, and it's so-o much easier to transform someone else. I could transfigure you and you'd be stuck as a rat, Ron, wouldn't you, because you never did figure out how to be an animagus. Isn't that right?"

"Listen, Hermione," he began, his tone placating, calming, just like in school. So smarmy. Crazy witches – right? Can you believe it Harry? What a nutter. She tuned out his words. She had seen Draco Malfoy in the corridor, maybe that was why. He'd looked very interested in the papers on the floor; he'd been looking at them while she muttered over the newspaper. Hermione shook herself, returning to Ron's speech in time to catch the bitter end.

"And then, you know, Hermione, it just happens sometimes. I didn't even know this house elf bill was so important to you. I thought you'd moved past the whole spew thing, you know…"

And that was when she hexed him.

0000

Later in the evening, his business at the Ministry concluded, Draco saw Blaise strolling in a purposeful manner, allowing that ever-so-slight billow of his cloak when he took a sharp turn. It was something Draco and the other boys had caught each other practicing in the dormitory mirrors from time to time. An unspoken Slytherin code – one of the many they shared – not to mention it. But a smile nearly pricked his lips, all the same. Surely when Draco did it, his twitch of the fabric didn't look quite so gauche. There was just something a little too practiced, a little too studied about Zabini's manner. Perhaps that was an apt description of Zabini in general. Draco's theory was that it came from his mother.

"Zabini," he called as he drew closer, and the other man turned. If the years following the war had been reasonably fair to Draco, they had seemed to spare Blaise entirely. His young face was flushed from walking, and his dark eyes snapped within his finely carved features, thick eyebrows lending expression and character to the angularity of his cheekbones.

Blaise's lips curved in a mocking half-smile, and he nodded. "Malfoy," he said, "what ails you?"

"So now I need to be sick to be at the Ministry?"

Blaise smirked again. "That's certainly the impression you gave me, the last time I asked."

They walked together in silence for a moment, then the curious incident from this morning swelled up inside Draco, and he blurted out: "Anything strange in the news today? I watched Hermione Granger have kittens in the atrium this morning."

A huffed cough that may very well have been a hastily-muffled laugh emanated from the other man, and Draco eyed him in outright surprise. Blaise choked again, then finally seemed to regain control. Draco watched him coolly, curiosity beginning to toy with the edges of his disciplined willpower.

"Funny you should mention it, really," Blaise said. "As it almost concerns you."

"Merlin save you, should I go buy a damn prophet or will you spit it out?" Draco growled.

"My my," Blaise drawled. "Seems the mudblood isn't the only one having kittens today. What's got your dress robes in a twist, Drakey? Astoria holding out on you again?"

Draco felt his cheeks light up as he avoided the other's gaze. "Never mind then. I'll find a newsstand."

"Well it's all about house-elves, really," Blaise said as Draco made to turn. "Freeing them, giving them rights and what-not. We lost our elves ages ago, so I haven't been following it that closely, but really, Malfoy, I'm surprised at you. Never thought Draco Malfoy would stoop so low as to be ill-informed."

"Everyone know the Prophet is rubbish half the time," he snapped. "I don't make a habit of regularly reading rubbish."

"Can't say I agree with you," Blaise all but purred. "Can't say I agree at all, in fact." He paused expectantly.

"Oh really?" Draco said in a dry monotone, unwilling to play along. "And why is that?"

" It's had new leadership for the past year, which I suppose you'd know if you were…better informed. Granger's handprints are all over it, actually, which makes it doubly funny, really, that article today…"

Draco sighed, and then took the bait. "Alright. So maybe I'll rethink a subscription. Now tell me what the article today was before I light you on fire like Granger's probably doing right now to whatever poor sod made her take the Dark Lord's name in vain."

Blaise did look surprised at that tidbit, but handled it smoothly. "Anyways, as I was saying before you interrupted me, Granger had something to do with the management overhaul at The Prophet. You know how it was right after the war – it was true rubbish, so I guess one of her little projects was to finally corral it into being a proper source of news. Fat load of good it does, in the end, but about a year ago the director changed and suddenly they started reporting on court cases and the laws the Wizengamot's been considering and instances of blood prejudice and counting days free of prejudice against muggleborns, that sort of actually real tripe that people care about."

Draco sucked in a breath through his teeth. Trying to hurry Blaise at this point would only prolong the telling.

Eyes twinkling, Blaise went on. "She's bulled quite a few anti-prejudice laws through the ministry, and even managed to curtail an ill-timed marriage law the minister suggested, something about preventing squibs from marrying wizards. Her most recent equality crusade has been house elves, and she seemed positioned for a vote from the Wizengamot on freedom and wages for elves, with a universal ban on punishment. The real clincher was when the Department for Magical Games and Sports threw their weight behind her and said that they wouldn't use them for cleanup after the World Cup anymore. But today," Blaise said, "there was a big spread on it. Seems Ron the Weasel has gone and lived up to his name."

Draco blinked. He certainly hadn't been expecting that.

"Oh yes," Blaise nodded, seeing his expression. "Quite a nasty shock. Seems he got a bit too drunk and starting running his mouth off about elves. And then when asked to confirm the department's position, he was noncommittal. The bill was meant to be voted on today, and now there's almost no chance it'll pass. He practically ridiculed it."

Before he knew what he was doing, or who it was for, Draco winced in sympathy. For Granger's bill or Weasel's fate, he could not have said. Staring determinedly ahead, he clamped his jaw shut and walked toward the fireplaces with Blaise. The dark haired man appeared not to notice Draco's breach of the old Slytherin values, and only a crinkle at the corners of his eyes might belie that assumption. As they shook hands and headed to separate grates, Draco realized that the only lines on Blaise's face were from smiling.

The floo took Draco back to his home, though to call it a flat would have been to stretch the truth. It was a five story town-house under an Unplottable spell, close to Diagon Alley and with enough Muggle repellant charms to repel the entire city. It was not that he strictly disliked muggles, but his family had funded the place, and, well – certain expectations had to be met.

He idly supposed he could remove them now if he wished. Lucius was under ten feet of earth somewhere in Wiltshire, and Narcissa locked up in that manor certainly wouldn't care if he invited muggles to live with him, much less see the exterior of his home. But he was tired, and didn't need to change anything at the moment.

With a flick of his wand, he disabled his wards, temporarily lifting the Apparition ban he maintained when away from the apartment. He didn't mind guests when he was home, but it was the ones who wished to come when he was away that Draco preferred to prevent.

His owl, whimsically named Moses, sat at his desk on the main floor, surrounded by scattered treats. Moses hooted rather reproachfully at Draco, eyeing the treats with distaste, and Draco frowned at him, reminded of the day Blaise had chosen the muggle name just to be irritating, and took the parchment tied to the owl's talon. He penned a quick note, grabbed a few galleons from a purse on the desk, and dropped the coins into a small leather pouch. Attaching the lot to Moses he then, perhaps a little forcefully, tossed him out the window.

"I'll get that Prophet subscription, Blaise, if it matters so damn much."

That done with, Draco surveyed his humble abode. The floo network let him in to the main living room, with a grand and somewhat austere fireplace surrounded by a network of couches and armoires. Two walls of the expansive room were nearly covered with windows, the third taken up by the fireplace, and the last dominated by a hallway leading to the kitchen.

Hunkering down on one of the sofas, Draco lit a fire with a neat flick of nonverbal magic, and propped up his feet, feeling pleasantly relaxed. His sofas on this floor were a softly oiled Italian leather, the perfect texture and very slightly overstuffed, so that a wizard might just recline and sink into them after a long day.

Probably not wizard work, he reflected. The fire was very warm, and his thinking seemed to be ever so slightly woozy. He couldn't really remember where he had purchased them. Details about who made what had started to blur after the war, and somehow it hadn't really seemed important at the time. Draco hadn't needed a wizard-made Italian leather sofa, he had just needed an Italian leather sofa that perfectly matched the woodwork on his mantle. He supposed muggles probably had made it, and that was why he couldn't recall its origins.

Muggles. He yawned to himself. Why was he thinking about them so much? It was Granger, seeing her like that today. He couldn't get that image out of his brain, the way she had sworn so angrily. Her hair had seemed like a living extension of her, flaring with her wrath. The sort of people he surrounded himself were always so cool and professional. It was rare to see such vigorous displays of anything, and her raw passion had flattened him. He wondered if there was anything in his life he cared about as much as Hermione Granger cared about the rights of one tiny measly house elf.

Merlin, he thought. She probably cares about how much sugar is in her coffee more than I care about anything.

He was surprised to realize that he was drifting towards sleep, comfortably stretched out in front of the fire. Perhaps a quick nap before dinner.

Oddly, the last thing he would remember thinking before sleep clouded his brain completely, was that Hermione Granger certainly wouldn't take her coffee with sugar. No, he decided, she would take it plain, but probably with a dash of milk. It wasn't until the next morning, waking up with a horrible crick in his neck from sleeping on the couch, that he realized that was how he took his coffee.

Now why would he go and think a thing like that?

0000

Why had she said that?

Hermione sat on the edge of her bed, the palms of her hands pressing deeply into her eyes. She wanted to squash that image of Ron, all smug innocence and idiotic dismay, straight out of her retinas. But her brain kept replaying the memory, dredging it from whatever depths of her hippocampus held it, the feedback from her amygdala pouring the emotional significance over it like chocolate over a sundae. She lifted her head from her hands, trying to get a grip. She'd been reading too many muggle texts on neuroscience lately.

But why had she said that?

Ron had been his usual self, intolerable, and she'd just been so angry. So, so angry. She'd hexed him, and then he'd tried to hex her back (and he'd failed, obviously), she smiled a little bit at that part of the memory, and then he'd just had to drag their relationship into it.

"Hermione, please, is this how you want to treat your ex-boyfriend?" He'd asked, a last ditch effort to appeal to her humanity, she supposed. "Hermione, you broke up with me. If you want to get back together, all you have to do is ask." And then he smiled all condescendingly, and rage at had last fundamentally superseded every last grain of reasoning in the monumentally large frontal cortex of one Hermione Jean Granger.

"RON WEASLEY," she had shrieked, her voice climbing an octave with each syllable, "RON WEASLEY," steam was likely pouring from her ears like she'd had a defective draft of the pepper-up potion, and she could feel an artery racing in her temple, and wondered if she was about to rupture it and hemorrhage to death, "I would rather marry Draco Goddamn Malfoy than ever touch you again."