13

Chapter Thirteen

Monday 24 February: AM

"Oh, Ms Granger – it's the most marvellous thing! Come see, quick!" Marilda Sandore all but drags Hermione out of the lift and into the atrium on Level Two of the Ministry. Her low heels clatter impatiently as they whip through the foyer, Hermione bobbing helplessly in her wake like a small dinghy tethered to a yacht.

"Marilda - Mrs Sandore - let's slow down, please –" Hermione has never seen her supervisor so animated. Not without a few brandies under her belt at the annual office Christmas shindig, anyway. Marilda is fit to bursting with infectious excitement; Hermione cedes defeat and lets herself be towed in the general direction of her own small cubicle in the Wizengamot Administration Services division.

As they round the final corner, Marilda careens to a halt, dramatically flinging out her hand in a sweeping gesture of revelation.

"Look – just look!" she squeals, clapping her hands together in a very un-Marilda-like fashion.

What on earth? Hermione can do naught but gape moronically at the bizarre tableau currently crowding her minimal office space.

Flowers. Roses. So many roses, she thinks dazedly. One huge bunch of orange and yellow blooms… and a lesser bouquet of coral buds, interspersed with smaller flowers Hermione isn't yet close enough to identify.

Marilda is talking nineteen to the dozen beside her. "I took the liberty of placing them in vases when they arrived – goodness knows, I didn't want to risk them drying out before you'd even seen them, my dear! There's a note attached to each… I didn't peek – of course not – but I will admit that I'm simply dying to know who sent them…"

You and me both, sister… Hermione advances incrementally, mind officially boggled by the anomalous floral spectacle. The multitude (two dozen, perhaps?) of tiger-orange and butter-yellow roses are almost full-blown and powerfully fragrant, a few petals already scattered across her desktop; they seem cheerfully conscious of their flamboyant beauty. The coral blossoms are uniformly perfect, half-opened and dewy-fresh. Peeping around their delicate petals are sprigs of dark apricot witch-hazel, and four variegated peach/white tulips.

'- and you may not be aware that I am well-versed in floriography – that's the language of flowers, Ms. Granger; I'd be delighted to tell you what each posy signifies, if you like?" Marilda's exuberant offer breaks through Hermione's stupefaction.

"Uh, right… Huh?" Hermione mumbles, her shapely fingers reverentially caressing the plump, downy petals of the smaller nosegay.

"Oh! Since you insist, I don't mind if I do," Marilda barrels on delightedly. "Orange roses denote enthusiasm and passion; the modern take on yellow roses is tender love developing from friendship. However, traditionally yellow roses meant jealousy and infidelity – fascinating, isn't it?"

"Quite intriguing," Hermione assents distractedly. "And the other arrangement?" she prompts her manager.

Marilda leans in, gazing wistfully at the profusion of harmonious colours and textures on Hermione's desk.

"Coral roses embody desire… flagrant desire. Then you have the variegated tulips, which convey 'You have beautiful eyes'. And the witch-hazel – " she nods at the kinked apricot clusters – "they say, 'You have cast a spell on me'."

Sighing theatrically, Marilda eyes Hermione admiringly. "You're a lucky lady, Ms Granger, to inspire such depth of feeling, and thoughtfulness."

"Oh, no," Hermione baulks at the idea. "Perhaps they were sent here by mistake."

Her hands fumble to locate the small envelopes attached to each bunch with colour-corresponding ribbons. But there can be no error attributed to either delivery – each envelope distinctly bears her name. The mixed posy bears a bulky, over-sized card, with 'Ms. Hermione Granger' neatly printed on it. The smaller missive (belonging to the bigger bouquet) simply has "HERMIONE' scrawled across the front in a messy, familiar script.

Hermione is torn between absurd amusement and perplexity. Ron's writing is easily recognizable and exemplifies his personality: bold, carefree, lively and untidy.

I suppose I should be glad he didn't address it to 'Mione'; but what is he about, after the telling-off I gave him on Friday night? The over-the-top gesture is confounding.

And the other bunch? Could it be... from Draco? But why? He left her in no doubt on Saturday morning of his disdain and aversion to 'romantic entanglements'. Gracious, is there a sex thing hiding in the chunky envelope? Hermione's eyebrows rocket upward in alarm. She needs to distract Mrs Sandore – and fast.

Unknotting the ribbons, Hermione safely stows both envelopes in her jacket pockets, before grabbing the large orange and yellow rose cluster with both hands and pushing it towards Marilda.

"Mrs Sandore, would you please keep these in your office for me? In fact, do what you wish with them. I don't have room enough for both, and I'd be most grateful if you'd take them off my hands. Please," she tacks on.

"My dear, I couldn't possibly! And you haven't divulged the identity of your suitor – or is it suitors?" Marilda's face is wreathed in fervid curiosity.

Hermione cultivates an expression of solemnity. She whispers, "I'd rather not go into details right now, Mrs Sandore… it's a tricky situation; but I would appreciate your assistance, and discretion. I know I can trust you with this."

Marilda looks thrilled to be offered the role of floral co-conspirator; she purses her lips together and nods staunchly. "Of course, Ms. Granger. I understand completely."

I'm glad someone does, Hermione can't help thinking wryly.

"I'll pop these in my office straight away, and then take them home tonight. It won't do Mr Sandore any harm to wonder if I have a secret admirer of my own!" Marilda gleefully trills. She takes possession of the proffered posy and hustles into her office.

Momentarily relieved, Hermione sags into her desk chair, pushing the remaining flowers to the rear of her small desk. Their scent is delicate and whimsical: subtler than their sunny cousins, but no less alluring. Having assured herself that no one is watching, Hermione empties her pockets of the florists' envelopes and quickly slices open each one with her paper knife.

She chooses Ron's card first.

'My darling Hermione,

I'm sorry I've taken you for granted.

I've been a selfish plonker but I heard what you said and I'm going to change to be the man you need me to be.

Please give me another chance. You won't be sorry.

Love, Ron.

Ps. Mum said you should come to Sunday dinner.'

He should've placed a comma after 'plonker', Hermione automatically corrects. Shit! This isn't his homework. Except… it feels like she's set Ron to work fixing his latest Charms essay and he has dutifully written out her instructions.

'I'm going to change to be the man you need me to be'. Ron may claim to have heard what she said… but Hermione doesn't wish for him to be anyone other than the best, truest version of himself. Not a different person, simply to please her.

And the prosaic, post-scripted invitation to the traditional Weasley Sunday dinner… Hermione shakes her head dispiritedly. A year ago, she would've fallen on the grandiose flowers and lacklustre invitation with blind hope and defiant optimism. Anything would have been an improvement on Ron's previous hasty offerings of limp convenience store flowers and bargain bin chocolates. 'Last-minute love tokens' as Hermione had despairingly dubbed them.

What's that Andy Warhol quote? 'As soon as you stop wanting something, you get it'?. Hermione pouts in aggrieved solidarity. Also, a cynical tract of her mind suspects that Ron's precipitous wooing may be traced to some encroaching caveman jealousy at the thought of Hermione with another man.

I can't deal with Ron right now, she decides. It's Monday morning, for crying out loud. And she's only had one hasty coffee. She reaches for the remaining envelope with an edgy fervency, sliding out a card and a… Kit Kat?

Hermione tips back her head and laughs throatily, uncaring of the odd glances she is no doubt attracting from her nearby colleagues. Mystery solved. And no crotchless knickers or nipple clamps to worry over.

'Granger –

Eat the chocolate at your leisure: I have more for Wednesday evening.

You'll need the energy boost.

Come by Floo and bring work clothes for the morrow.

I want you in my bed all night.'

Unsigned, but patently written by Draco Malfoy. Had Hermione not already remembered the beautiful, backward-slanting copperplate penmanship from his apology letter - the preeminent tone of arrogant assertiveness is a clear Draco hallmark.

Why does Malfoy's high-handed dominance turn me on so much? Hermione nibbles at her bottom lip as she broods over the conundrum. Is it the novelty? Her core body temperature rises as she thinks about Draco's last sentence. The damnably sexy devil has her all in a lather with a few autocratic words. How is she meant to ignore the now-constant yearning for Malfoy's touch on her skin? Rather than sating her animalistic passions – having sex with Draco has ignited a veritable forest fire of breathtaking, uncontrollable eroticism.

And the beautiful flowers – is Draco disporting himself with her? Is it simply an odd coincidence that he chose those especial blossoms? Hermione thinks it more likely that Ron picked out the particular colours of his roses because they were the brightest ones available, rather than sending her a deliberate message about enthusiastic passion or jealousy. I certainly haven't been unfaithful - if Ron was having a dig about infidelity.

Hermione's attention is diverted from her worrisome contemplation of her undisciplined lust for Malfoy when a different Slytherin ex-classmate cruises into her line of sight.

Blaise Zabini. Exiting the Auror Division and strutting casually through the Ministry like he runs the multiplex organization in his spare time. What is it with Snakes and their vainglorious 'King of the World' attitudes? Hermione sniffs in derision.

Unfortunately, her small gesture catches Blaise's roving attention; he fluently changes direction to head straight for her.

Oh, bugger. Hermione ducks her head, pretending she's dropped a pen on the floor; but her ruse proves ineffective. Blaise zeroes in, slanting his tall form against the side of her piddly cubicle with insolent grace.

"Good morning, Hermione," he hits her with the full force of his winsome smile. He even has dimpled cheeks, Hermione notices, grudgingly conceding Zabini's undeniable comeliness.

"Good morning, Mr. Zabini," she politely replies, emphasizing the formal term of address. "What brings you down to our humble level?". Hermione propels back her chair to gain some much-needed distance; she's developing a crick in her neck from trying to maintain eye contact.

"Oh, this and that, Hermione," Blaise lyrically stretches out the syllables of her name as he thoroughly examines her workspace. "Gorgeous flowers… nearly as beautiful as you."

He favours her with a practised wink.

"Do women actually fall for that poppycock?" Honestly, does he think I'm a babe in the woods? Hermione fumes.

Blaise is undaunted. "Is it your birthday?"

"No. Look, I'm rather busy – and you must have more pressing matters to attend to – "

"Anniversary, then? I thought you finally washed your hands of Ron Weasley last year?" Blaise brushes his long index finger through the scattered rose petals on her desktop; his eyes flick to the consequent trail of debris along the carpet that Marilda inadvertently created when she rushed Ron's rejected posy into her office. The sunshine-coloured selection is just visible through Marilda's open door. Hermione stifles a groan.

"Zabini, this is none of your concern – do go away and bother someone else," Hermione instructs scathingly. She turns her back on the pestilent man and pretends to be engrossed in some dry-as-dust Wizengamot court manuals.

Hermione's hopes that Blaise will leave her in peace are dashed when he thoughtfully comments, "It seems I'm not the only man to have noticed your abundant charms of late, Hermione… or am I mistaken in my observation that you've received two separate flowery tokens today?"

Merlin, give me strength! Hermione pincers the bridge of her nose in frustration.

"If I tell you, do you promise to immediately leave and go far, far away? Or at the very least, back to Level Five?" Hermione hisses.

"Cross my heart," Mirth bubbles in his espresso-brown eyes as Blaise slowly drags his index finger across his chest.

Probably deliberately accentuating his well-defined pectorals, Hermione thinks crossly. She schools her face into wide-eyed innocence as she beckons Zabini closer. He complies, bending down until his ear is level with her mouth.

Stage-whispering into Blaise's left ear, Hermione reveals, "Mind your own fucking business, Zabini. Piss off before I hex you. I'll grant you a count of five."

Slipping her wand out of her jacket sleeve (she'd impulsively hidden it there when she'd seen him approaching), Hermione holds it a hair's-breadth from Blaise's clean-shaven square chin. Despite her threat, he breaks into a huge grin.

"Five."

"The little Lioness has claws, hmm?"

"Four."

"I like a woman with spirit to spare."

"Three."

"Nothing sexier than a bit of danger."

"Two."

Blaise finally dislodges his muscly body from her cubicle wall, holding up both hands in counterfeit surrender.

"Stand down, Hermione – I'm leaving," he chuckles as he backs away, turning only when she lowers her wand.

"Enjoy your roses, Golden Girl!" Zabini singsongs, blowing her a cheeky kiss just before he disappears.

Smarmy blighter. Hermione wonders if she should feel ashamed that a not-so-small part of her is disappointed at the missed opportunity to transfigure Blaise into a donkey. Or at least, a horse's behind.

She indulges in a secret smile and a last caress of the glorious blooms brightening her dull little cubicle… and snaps off a single bar of her Kit Kat before knuckling down to work.

Monday 24 February 2003: PM

The sound of repetitive, rhythmic knocking on the front door of his townhouse finally registers; on the third floor, Draco's busy hands still as he listens intently, hoping whomever it is has admitted defeat and left the premises.

But no. The banging restarts, more insistent than before. Draco lets fly a few pithy swears as he hurriedly wipes his hands on a clean rag before stuffing it into the back pocket of his worn jeans and clattering down two staircases. It never rains but it pours, he ponders disgruntledly. And it's extremely unlikely to be Granger at the door – she must have received his card by now and knows to use the Floo. He'd opened the Floo network for her usage after the first night she'd stumbled onto his doorstep… not that Hermione needs to know the specifics of that decision.

Rat-a-tat-tat!

"Keep your bloody hair on!" Draco shouts as he descends the last few steps. He detests being interrupted while he's working; and he'd been thoroughly engrossed in his employment before the bothersome knocking had infiltrated his deep concentration.

Flinging open the door, Draco's mien of intolerant peevishness intensifies at the identity of his unexpected visitor.

"You!"

"Hallo, mate," Blaise Zabini cheerily greets. "What took you so long? Your mother assured me you'd be home at this hour – she reckons you're more of a shut-in than she is." Blaise ambles inside without waiting to be asked, his intelligent eyes casing the interior with a few swift looks.

What fresh hell is this? Draco roughly clamps his teeth together as he battles to keep his temper even.

"What are you doing here, Zabini? Which part of 'owl me' was unclear yesterday?" Draco spits out the words like venom from a king cobra. "And why have you been in contact with my mother?"

Blaise is undeterred by Draco's blatant animosity. He meanders into the lounge room and eases himself into his unwilling host's favourite armchair with a satisfied sigh.

"Had to get your address, didn't I? So I Floo-called Narcissa, told her how we'd recently reconnected but I'd forgotten to get your contact information. She was delighted to furnish me with the details. Oh, and Theo and I are coming to dinner with you at the Manor this Friday night… as a favour to your lovely mother. To help make things a little less awkward for you, she said."

Blaise continues, "Found out a couple of interesting titbits at the Ministry today – figured you'd want to hear them quick sticks, so here I am. Gracing you with my illustrious presence and bringing some much-needed brio into your ho-hum world. You're welcome." He makes a theatrical swirling gesture with his right hand.

Stay calm – you know Zabini loves to shit-stir. Draco tightens his Occlumency defences and silently counts to five. No, better make it ten.

"Any chance of a cup of tea, Malfoy? An Earl Grey would hit the spot nicely," Blaise interrupts Draco's numeration.

"No. Say your piece, then leave." Draco remains standing, folding his arms across his chest as he glares at his old friend. Bold as brass and just as shiny.

"Don't get your wand in a knot, Malfoy. Very well then – since you insist so politely…" Blaise trails off, grinning hugely as a muscle jumps spasmodically along Draco's clenched jawline.

"I paid a visit to the Auror Division today. Potter himself confirmed that the Ministry is tracking a small gang of Neo-Death Eaters who attempted to stalk and abduct a foreign witch, using a tempered lust-slash-sedative potion. Here's the kicker – there's evidence of a practice run on Muggle women, using their computer network… the internet?"

Blaise's words slam into Draco like a punch to the gut; he calls upon all his cloaking skills to keep his visceral reaction from Zabini's canny eyes.

"What happened to the women?" Draco's voice rasps despite his preventative efforts.

"The two Muggle women were double-dating these sleazebags, and they managed to stumble to the bar together and ask for help from waitstaff before they passed out. The only reason the Aurors know about them is that Potter cross-referenced unusual druggings from the British police's database and found the common ingredients for lust potions, etcetera," Blaise gravely discloses.

"And the witch?" Draco speaks over the gorge threatening to rise into his throat.

"The victim was French – she was approached at a Parisian bar, then hustled outside to a back alley while she was barely conscious. One of the chefs heard her crying when he came outside for a cigarette; they had her up against the wall. The chef shouted and they Disapparated before he could get a decent look at them."

Dread slithering through his belly, Draco doesn't want to ask but must know: "Did they… did they rape her?"

"No. They wanted to terrorize her first; she hazily remembers them saying she'd never see her family again… that they were going to keep her captive and breed her. Fucking pigs." Blaise's usually genial pitch is heavy with disgust and fury.

Breed her? Is that what they had planned for Hermione? A hitherto-untapped dark well of ferocious, violent rage floods every cell in Draco's body. He is grimly glad that Blaise hasn't lifted his brooding glaze from the floor; Draco is incapable of masking his present state of murderous savagery.

"Potter believes that the incapacitating potion wasn't yet fine-tuned – that the targeted women were essentially 'trial runs'. The Auror team followed a few leads to Belgium, but it turned into a dead end. There's a chance these parasites holed up somewhere to perfect their sick potion."

Draco frowns. "Hold on – how did you get all this information from Harry Potter? And how have these vermin been identified as Neo-Death Eaters?".

"They told the French witch that 'her children would carry on the great glory of the Dark Lord's legacy'. And as for Potter – I bluffed my way into his office this morning and told him I had important information pertaining to his current case." Blaise looks obnoxiously pleased with his ingenuity.

"What the actual fuck, Zabini! You've dropped me right in it already, haven't you?" Draco's hands are involuntarily convulsing with the urge to throttle Zabini where he sits.

"No – but I have promised Potter that my witness will meet with him by the end of the week," Blaise cautiously comes clean. Rearing back in alarm, he hastily placates, "Come on, mate – you were always going to have to get the Ministry involved! I've just accelerated the process a smidgeon."

Son of a Bludger! Foregoing counting to control his temper, Draco instead visualizes the grisly cells of Azkaban. His short stay at the infamous wizard prison whilst awaiting trial was long enough to have him vow to never return to the ghastly penitentiary.

"Are you done?" he barks at Zabini.

"Short on gratitude as well as temper?" Blaise unwisely pokes the bear.

"Get out. Now." Hawthorn wand in hand, Draco runs a swift inventory of all the spells he knows that can hurt Zabini without leaving him permanently scarred or Transfigured.

Melofors? No. A pumpkin-headed Blaise is sure to attract negative attention from his neighbours.

Engorgio Skullus? Same issue – and Zabini is fat-headed enough already.

Draco has finally settled on Steleus (continuous involuntary sneezes) when Blaise languidly rises to his feet and paces to the front door.

"It's funny, Malfoy – you aren't the first person to threaten me with a wand today," Blaise muses, ostentatiously straightening the lapels of his charcoal robes. "Hermione Granger held one to my chin this morning, after I asked about the two floral offerings on her desk."

"Two?" Draco blurts loudly, before he can stop himself.

"Mmm. A pink bunch, and a gargantuan yellow and orange bouquet that she gave away to her manager."

Blaise grins impishly as he adds, "She's a beautiful woman – and as feisty as a pillowcase stuffed with garden gnomes. I'm thinking of throwing my hat into the ring; I enjoyed our little flirtation this morning."

"LEAVE HER THE HELL ALONE," Draco presses his left forearm into Blaise's corded neck in a flash, snarling the words through gritted teeth.

Despite the strong arm impeding his airway, Blaise laughs uproariously. "I knew it! Still obsessed with Granger, hmm? After all this time…" Blaise marvels, slowly shaking his head in an approximation of benign pity.

Breathing harshly and blinking rapidly, Draco drops his arm and steps away. "You're delusional, Zabini. I've no idea what you mean." He infuses his denial with as much scorn as he can muster.

"Leave it out, Draco – you were on Hermione's every move at Hogwarts like bowtruckles on Doxy eggs," Blaise jeers. "I seriously considered stealing a lock of her voluminous hair and gifting it to you for your birthday one year… but I decided not to enable your self-deceitful fixation." He tsk-tsks like a disappointed parent. "Will you ever get your shit together, one wonders?".

"It's amazing how your lips are moving while you're talking out your arse," Draco glacially responds. "The sole point I was making is that Granger is far too astute to fall for your bollocksy brand of bullshit."

He pushes Zabini through the front door, ignoring Blaise's continuing cackles. "Decline Friday's dinner invitation and forget where I live. Off you fuck."

Succumbing to his anger and humiliation, Draco slams the door shut and secures the lock, Blaise's smothered laughter still ringing in his reddened ears. He thumps his back irately against the closed portal and slides to the floor.

Why has my life become such a sodding circus? Complete with clowns and fortune-tellers?

Draco allows himself five minutes to wallow in self-pity before he clambers to his feet and returns to work.

I should have made the townhouse Unplottable. To Muggles and wizards alike, Draco bellyaches as he slowly ascends the stairs.