Chapter Text
Every day at exactly 10:25am, Draco Malfoy stood up from his desk, stretching out his cramped legs that barely fit underneath the Ministry issued desk, and walked out of the office that he shared with his infuriatingly brilliant coworker who had absolutely no business being so fucking pretty.
He marched down the halls, scowling at anyone who made eye contact with him. He found he rather preferred preemptive hostility -- better that than suffer the embarrassment of smiling, only to be met with the inevitable disgust that came from being Draco fucking Malfoy.
It didn’t matter that he wore his hair short and flopped over to one side in the latest Muggle fashion. Or that he wore gray Muggle suits. Or that the majority of his body was covered in Muggle tattoos depicting everything from barren trees to flowers of personal significance to lyrics to Muggle songs.
It seemed there was nothing he could do to fully rid himself of the past.
At the coffee cart, he brusquely paid for an English breakfast with milk and five sugars for himself and a black coffee for his coworker. His frustratingly lovely coworker who he was finally going to ask on a bloody fucking date even if it killed him.
He knew that he was undeserving of a witch of her caliber, half suspecting her to laugh in the face of his request. All signs pointed to his failure, and yet he had to ask, unsure if he could survive another day in the excruciating limbo of not knowing.
Armed with their beverages, he retraced his steps, hovering for a moment outside of the open door. He huffed a breath from his nose, straightened his posture, and walked in.
“Granger,” he said, placing the coffee down upon the only open space on her cluttered desk.
Hermione Granger looked up from where she was hunched over a stack of parchment, wide brown eyes blinking up at him. “Oh, thank you, Malfoy,” she said, like she was somehow still surprised that he’d brought her coffee even though he’d done the same thing every day for the past three years.
He nodded, just like he always did. But rather than returning to his desk and returning to his work, he stayed, hovering awkwardly beside her desk, unable to take his eyes off of her.
It was silly, really. Completely foolish. Falling for Hermione Granger was quite possibly the most stupid thing Draco Malfoy had ever done in his twenty-five years of being alive on the earth. He’d been known to be a part of some colossally stupid endeavors throughout his life, but since they’d begun working together at the Ministry four years prior he’d been worthless to resist her.
How was he supposed to ignore the curls that tumbled over her slender shoulders, or the generous swell of her bosom that peeked out from the blouses she wore? Or the way her pink lips parted when she was lost in thought, or the freckles that danced over her button nose?
An idiot. He was a bloody idiot.
He cleared his throat. “Granger,” he said again. When she looked up again, he forced himself to hold her eye contact, to not run from the way her gaze threatened to carve out the contents of his chest and leave him flayed wide open. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“Oh!” Hermione appeared startled, but set down her quill and sat back in her chair. “Alright.”
Draco was so not prepared for this. Whatever momentary courage he’d been feeling earlier seemed to have abandoned him. “Right,” he began. “Well. Um.”
Hermione’s brows knit together. “Is everything alright?”
Draco managed to nod.
“Do you need help?”
“Help?”
“Whatever you need, Malfoy, I’m here for you,” she said, her face so earnest and sincere that Draco felt like he might faint. Or vomit. But of course the bloody witch wasn’t done. “I consider you a friend. And friends do that. Help, you know.”
Draco was quite certain that he did not, in fact, know. “I do?”
“Yes! Helping.” Hermione was smiling now, revealing the dimples that Draco had a terrible habit of imagining kissing. Well, kissing and licking and biting, if he were to be honest. “It’s what people in amicable relationships do.”
His gaze lingered on her lips, and his chest constricted painfully. It was the quality of her smile. The smile on her face was the same smile he’d seen her give to the bloody savior of the world whenever his bespeckled arse came to visit. The same smile that a successful bill summoned.
Fuck me . That smile did not bode well. He felt his courage slipping from his grasp, but he managed to ask, “Amicable relationship? Is that…what we have?”
Again, that bloody smile. “I certainly think so.”
Draco had well and truly gotten off track. Focus, Malfoy . “You are a very beautiful woman, Granger.”
“Oh,” she said softly. Red bloomed on Hermione’s cheeks. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
Right , Draco thought. This is good. Blushing is good. He was finally on the right path. “And your blouse. It’s lovely. The color -- it suits you.”
Now Hermione appeared confused, brown brows knotting together. “Malfoy, what is happening right now?”
Now, you idiot . He took a step closer, the hard edge of her desk digging into his thigh. “I would like to go on a date,” he began.
Hermione blinked up at him. “Oh?”
“Yes.” Draco leaned over, resting his palms on the surface of her desk as he leaned into her space. Was he imagining the way her eyes brightened and her breath quickened? He bit back his self-deprecating laugh. Of course he was bloody imagining it. “You see, Granger, there’s a witch that I fancy. Quite a lot, really, and it’s reached the point where it is rather inconvenient.”
“Oh,” she murmured, her eyes dropping from his and something that he swore looked a lot like disappointment crossed her face.
Oh gods, he thought. She knows and she’s trying to figure out how to say no. Probably trying to be kind about it, bloody Gryffindor . Quickly, determined to push through no matter what the cost, Draco continued. “The funny thing is that she’s --”
“I’ll help.”
Draco paused, mouth open. “Pardon?”
Hermione nodded, shuffling the parchment that covered her desk, still not looking at him. “I get it,” she said, her voice carrying a detached brightness that made Draco frown. “You need help with the whole ‘wooing a witch’ thing. I understand perfectly.”
“What?” What in the fuck was happening?
Finally she looked back up at him, but the smile on her face and the angle of her dark brows looked forced. “Could you please clarify which part of the process you’re needing support in? I’m afraid that flirting is not my strong suit, but perhaps I could be of service in some other way? Contrary to what Harry and Ron seem to believe, I am a woman.”
“I…what?”
“You know, the female gaze is an underutilized resource when attempting to attract the attention of a witch.”
“The female gaze?” Draco wondered if perhaps he was trapped in a nightmare, one where his words had no meaning and he was doomed to live in an endless loop of miscommunication with the woman of his dreams for eternity.
But Hermione soldiered onward, completely unaware of the proverbial cliff she’d just tossed him off of. “Yes,” she was saying. “It’s the idea of catering one’s presentation to showcase the things that actually attract women.”
Well now Draco couldn’t help but be curious. If he was going to fail in his mission to ask Hermione Granger out on a fucking date, the least he could do was glean whatever possible information she was currently sharing with him. He tilted his head. “Such as?”
He watched the elegant line of her throat bob. “Hands,” she said, and he couldn’t help but notice that the blush had returned to her cheeks. “Men don’t think about their hands, but well-presented hands can truly change everything.”
Draco frowned down at his hands, at the runes tattooed on his fingers and the silver rings he’d taken to wearing. At his nails that he couldn’t stop biting -- a nasty habit he’d picked up during his six month stint in Azkaban in the wake of the war. “Interesting,” he said quietly, swallowing around the lump in his throat as he imagined the kind of hands a woman like Granger probably favored.
She’d be drawn to hands that were bare of ink and scars, surely. Soft, well-groomed hands, the hands of a man who had a history of charitable giving and unsolicited kindness, the skin tanned from hours spent outside engaging in friendly quidditch matches.
Not hands like his.
Not him .
“How about this,” Hermione said, and Draco knew immediately that whatever came out of her mouth next was going to be the death of him. “Why don’t you ask this witch on a date, and then I’ll come to your place beforehand and we can pick out an outfit for you that is best suited to capture the female gaze?”
Draco was well and truly speechless. How had he fucked this up so badly? But he was a hopeless sod, and so he opened his godsdamned mouth and responded in the only way he could. “Sure, Granger.”
“Lovely.” The smile she sent him was missing something, but he couldn’t put a finger on what. “Let’s get through the Petterson amendment so that we can get it submitted by the end of the day.”
And with that, there was nothing Draco Malfoy could do but walk woodenly back to his desk and get back to work.
********
Draco collapsed onto an empty barstool, tossing his jacket on the back before rolling up his shirtsleeves.
Blaise Zabini, Draco’s ex-classmate, roommate, and the proprietor of The Metro, a newer pub in Diagon Alley, leaned against the bar dressed in his customary black silk shirt that was unbuttoned to reveal a stack of jeweled necklaces that Draco found quite gaudy. But Blaise was like family, and his establishment had become the gathering place of the Slytherins in the years since the conclusion of the war. It was a place where the kids who’d barely escaped the terrible decision-making of their parents could be in peace.
“So. Did you ask her?”
Draco cast a sideways glance at Pansy Parkinson, who perched on the edge of her seat in black robes of the latest fashion, watching him from under her perfectly sculpted brows.
Groaning, he buried his face in his hands and slumped forward onto the bar. A dull, throbbing ache had taken up residence in his stomach in the hours since the fated conversation with his coworker that morning.
“Draco.”
He cracked open one eye to look at his best friend and other roommate, Theodore Nott, who sat perched on top of the bar with his long body sprawled out like he was in his own home and not in a public establishment.
Theo cracked a wide smile. “You know that I love you, but I can’t pretend that there isn’t something deeply amusing about watching you make a colossal fool of yourself.”
“Probably all of the prattery we had to endure from him over the years,” Blaise chimed in.
“Yes, yes, the prattery,” Theo parried. “You’ve really brought this upon yourself.”
Draco scowled at the two of them. “Yes, I’m very aware that I’m a terrible person who spent years being an unforgivable twat. Thank you for the reminder.”
A soft hand rested on his arm. He looked over at Pansy, who had the decency to look concerned. “What happened?” she asked.
Draco shook his head. “I tried. I really tried, but have you seen her eyes? They’re big and brown and she got confused and then I got confused, not like she would’ve said yes anyway, and now she’s invited herself over to the flat to help me pick out a bloody outfit for a hypothetical date with a woman that I fancy.” He huffed out a breath. “Oh, and I forgot to mention that she has no fucking idea that the woman in question is her.”
Theo, the little prick, burst out into laughter. “Truly,” he gasped, wiping tears from his eyes. “I couldn’t have written it better myself.”
“Wait,” Blaise said, walking over to lean on the bar in front of Draco. “Help me understand how in Salazar’s name you managed to fuck up the simple question: Will you go on a date with me?”
“It’s Draco,” Theo interrupted. “Nothing’s simple.”
Draco made a crude gesture at Theo before turning to Pansy. “Why am I friends with them?”
Pansy shrugged, tucking her perfectly straight black bob behind one ear. “Because they keep showing up and they put up with you.”
“They’re wankers,” he muttered, shoving a hand back through his hair, dislodging the last remnants of the hair potion he applied every morning. Of course she was right, but he didn’t want to admit that the three of them were more of his family than the past residents of Malfoy Manor had ever been. That in the wake of it all, he was more grateful than he could ever put into words that he got to go home to a flat with the two wizards who’d also lost everything -- wealth, reputation, family. They were his brothers, forged by time and loyalty, if not by blood.
Blaise slid a tumbler of firewhiskey across the bar toward. “And you’re an asshole, Malfoy,” he said, flipping a clean, white towel up and over his shoulder. “It all evens out.”
“So,” Pansy said, arching a brow. “What are you going to do now?”
Draco took a long drink, relishing the burn of the liquor in his throat. It did nothing to curb the pain in his stomach, but at least the heat served as a temporary distraction. “It would appear that I am going to invite Granger over to the flat on Friday.”
Theo’s high-pitched laugh filled the otherwise empty bar. “Yes,” he cried, throwing his hands up into the air. “This day keeps getting better and better. A little lion coming to the flat, you say?”
“And you two prats need to be somewhere else,” Draco said, looking between Theo and Blaise. “Quite literally anywhere else. Preferably another country, if you don’t mind.”
Blaise flashed him a bright smile. “Not a chance in hell I’m missing this, Malfoy.”
Draco once again dropped his head into his hands. “Please don’t fuck this up for me,” he pleaded, his voice muffled.
“Fuck it up?” Theo let out another laugh. “You mean more than you tricking the woman you’re mad for into thinking that she’s helping you pick out clothes for a non-existent date? Mate, I think you’ve fucked it up just fine all by yourself.”
“Fuck off,” Draco said half-heartedly, resigning himself to the fact that he was fucked, the entire situation was fucked, and that any chance he had of convincing Hermione Granger to go on a date with him was, well, fucked .
********
By the time that Friday afternoon came around, Draco Malfoy’s state of being could be most accurately summarized as comparable to that of a properly crushed sopophorous bean: smashed, wrung dry, and lifeless.
He’d managed to choke out a lie on Wednesday morning, informing Granger that yes, he had gotten up the courage to ask the witch out on a date and please, would she come to his flat on Friday to help him make himself presentable. Merlin . What an absolute cluster-fuck.
It certainly hadn’t helped that Granger kept sending him sweet, encouraging little smiles, like he was a bloody child who needed her encouragement. Well, he did need her, but not for fashion advice. No, Draco Malfoy needed Hermione in ways that he barely dared to let himself imagine.
“So I’ll head to your flat in an hour?” Granger was saying, her pink lips forming words and taunting him with what he couldn’t have.
“Sure, Granger,” he rasped, handing her a slip of paper with the address on it. “I’ll leave the Floo open for you.”
His fingers brushed the soft skin of her palm, her hands so small, so deceptively delicate when he knew the lethal force that her wand could command. Suppressing a shudder, he withdrew his hand.
The smile she gave him was forced. “Right. Well, I’ll see you soon, Malfoy.” And with a flick of her thick curls, she walked out of their office.
Fifty-eight minutes later, Draco was scrubbed clean, with his usual cocktail of hair potions keeping his pale hair flopped artfully over to one side of his head. He’d opted for Muggle sweats and a t-shirt, unsure of what Granger was planning for him. He sat on the sofa -- elbows braced on his bouncing legs, unable to still his body.
Right on the hour, Hermione stepped through the Floo. A wave of her wand had the dust disappearing from her body.
Gods. Oh gods he was done for her. Her jeans were loose down her legs, but hugged her hips and arse like a second skin. She wore a flowing blue blouse with the buttons undone enough that he could see the swell of her breasts, and Draco thought that he might die.
Standing up, he raised his hand in a wave. “Hello.”
Hermione approached him, bright eyes surveying the space. “Hi. Lovely place.”
Draco nodded. “Thank you.”
“Hermione Granger!”
Draco braced himself as he looked back over his shoulder, a feeling that immediately morphed into disbelieving horror as his two roommates came into view.
Theo’s chestnut curls were more gravity-defying than usual, sticking out at odd angles from his grinning, freckled face. However, it was his attire that had Draco wishing he could retreat to a distant cave and never be seen again.
A floor-length dressing gown in a plum-colored velvet hung from his bare shoulders, and it looked like the only clothing he was wearing were some garish yellow briefs that made Draco’s eyes burn. Perched on his nose were yellow-tinted sunglasses with star-shaped lenses. The ensemble was completed by the fragrant joint that hung from the corner of his mouth.
Merlin .
Of course Blaise followed behind, dressed to the nines in a perfectly pressed black tuxedo complete with cumberbun and pocket square. He held a silver tray in one hand, while the other was tucked behind his back. On the tray were three precariously balanced bottles of wine and two empty glasses.
“Welcome to our humble abode, Miss Granger,” Blaise said, bending low in a bow while somehow keeping the tray from toppling. “May I interest you in a beverage? Wine has been known to soften the side-effects of prolonged proximity with one Draco Lucius Malfoy.”
Draco opened his mouth to curse the men he used to consider his friends into another dimension, but Hermione beat him to it.
“And what are the side-effects,” she asked, an amused smile teasing the corner of her pink mouth.
It was Theo who responded, each word sending plumes of fragrant smoke pouring from his mouth. “Known side effects are vertigo, an inflated sense of self-worth, a rather concerning obsession with one’s father, and a tendency to forget silencing charms when wanking.”
“Theo, I swear to Salazar --”
Theo placed a hand on Draco’s chest, his face the perfect picture of reassurance. “Relax, Draco darling. Something tells me that Hermione here knows a thing or two about your praise ki --”
It was desperation, really, that led Draco to launch himself at Theo, arms outstretched with no goal beyond getting the insufferable little prat to keep his fucking mouth shut. And it worked. A bit too well, if Draco was honest.
Theo tipped back with a grunt, and Draco wrapped his arms around Theo’s waist, tackling them both to the ground.
“Fuck,” Theo groaned as Draco’s full weight landed on his chest. “If you wanted to take me for a ride, all you had to do was --”
“Theo,” Draco spat, slapping his palm over the other man’s mouth. “Shut. The fuck. Up.”
Somewhere above them, Draco heard Blaise clear his throat. “Miss Granger, perhaps now is a good time for that drink?”
“Thank you, Mr. Zabini,” he heard Hermione reply. “That would be lovely.”