16

Chapter Sixteen

Friday 28 February 2003: AM

Hurrying from the elevator, Hermione checks her wristwatch and allows herself a little self-satisfied nod. It is just shy of eight o'clock, and she is confident that Harry will already be in the building… since she owled him last night asking to meet before work proper began for the day.

Malfoy needn't think his tyranny is limitless. By the time Draco arrives for his 8.30AM appointment with Harry, Hermione will have had ample opportunity to brief Harry on the situation. Her nod firms to a smile as she considers his probable reaction to her mild under-handedness: frigid seething or outraged affront? 'Twill be interesting to discover which.

Her cocky smile vanishes like vapour as she spots a familiar head of flaxen hair bent over the coral and peach bouquet on her desk. Malfoy senses her approach and spins lazily, grinning like the proverbial cat that got the cream.

The dirty, shifty, supercilious rat… Draco played me like a fiddle.

The disgustingly smug grin on his face is insanely infuriating; Hermione can hear her blood pressure skyrocketing as she bustles to her cubicle.

She opens her mouth to commence a tirade – but Malfoy beats her to the punch.

"What an unexpected surprise, Granger! It reflects well on your professional ethic – arriving a good thirty minutes early. Such a reliable buzzy worker bee," Draco gleefully comments.

"Are you done?" Hermione changes tack. Judging by the miffed expression on Draco's dishy phiz – it was the right call.

"We may as well get this over with, Malfoy – Harry's waiting."

Not waiting for Draco's reply, Hermione moves to charge past him toward the Auror's Office. He snakes out his left arm and draws her back to his front, his breath ruffling the top of her brunette curls.

"Hey. I was just kidding. Thought it might lighten the mood," Draco murmurs, sounding contrite. "Are you up for this, Granger?".

Her traitorous inner siren longs to lean back and basically scent-mark herself all over Malfoy; he smells divine, and Hermione's pulse is jack-hammering from being pressed intimately against his long, sinewy body. The multiple layers of clothing between them merely serve as an irritating barrier; she wants to be skin-to-skin again with the maddening man in the worst (or best) possible way.

"Granger? Have you zoned out on me?" Draco prompts. There is a note of concern in his voice as he gently rotates her to face him.

"No! No, I'm good. I mean, I'm well. I'm up for this – yes, yes I am." Hermione winces at how flustered she sounds. She adopts a wide, toothy smile in an effort to demonstrate her capable composure.

Draco recoils. "Salazar's side whiskers! What was that – a clown suffering a seizure?".

"Stuff it, Malfoy," Hermione glowers. "It's not my problem you're so under-exposed to smiles that you fail to recognize one on my face."

"You're quite nasty in the early morning, aren't you, poppet?" Draco genially observes. "Shame we don't have time to turn that frown upside down with some furious snogging in an empty broom closet, eh?".

He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, hamming up a lecherous leer.

Hermione laughs reluctantly, her animosity dissolving at the silly picture he presents.

"You're a goose – and I have not – nor will I – ever 'snog in a broom closet' at my workplace," she confidently states.

"Challenge accepted." Draco stalks toward her like a hungry snow leopard.

Hermione bangs her hip on the edge of a desk as she dodges away. "Ouch! Stop it, Malfoy – we don't have time for this," she hisses, trying not to giggle.

"Hermione? What's going on here?" The stern voice behind her is horrifyingly familiar.

Oh no. How long has Harry been standing there? Hermione freezes as her mind blanks.

Draco has already assumed his regular aloof expression with lightning speed, she perceives with relief.

Forcing her stiff muscles to comply, Hermione turns to greet her best friend.

"Hi, Harry." He is staring at them suspiciously from a few feet away, his black hair already disordered and clumping upright. Hermione moves in to give him a quick hug; Harry returns the cuddle but continues to view Draco with marked disfavour.

"Is he harassing you, Hermione?" Harry shifts, safeguarding her behind him as he advances towards Malfoy. Draco holds his ground and his air of bored insouciance.

Hermione grabs Harry's arm before the situation escalates.

"Harry, Malfoy's not hassling me. He's here to help me, actually." The disbelieving astonishment on Harry's face is not encouraging, Hermione thinks glumly.

"Help you? With what? Bruising yourself on the furniture?" Harry queries sarcastically.

"Patience, Potter. All will be revealed soon enough," Draco drawls. "But that's never been your strong point, has it? You've always suffered from a dearth of impulse control."

It speaks to Harry's improved maturity and trained discipline that he doesn't visibly react; although Hermione sees his hand flex near his robe pocket. Like a gunslinger itching for his pistol.

This could quickly turn pear-shaped. Hermione's unease rachets to alarm.

"Stow the misplaced machismo – both of you. Harry, is there somewhere we can speak privately, please?" Hermione hooks her arm through Harry's and hauls him out of hexing distance.

"I've booked one of the interrogation rooms for my eight thirty appointment – but that doesn't leave us much time," Harry rumples his hair as he contemplates a solution.

"I am your eight thirty meeting, Potter," Draco coolly points out. "Slower than a snail," he adds under his breath.

Hermione slings him a quelling look, hoping Harry doesn't get his hackles up again. Harry's chary gaze is bouncing between her and Draco like a spectator at Wimbledon. But he doesn't resist as she chivvies him toward the interrogation rooms around the corner.

Draco prowls behind them as Harry opens the door to Room Two. The interior is sparse and windowless, apart from a large mirror shining on the back wall; Hermione supposes it is a one-way device allowing observation by unseen watchers (much like Muggle cop dramas). Harry points his wand at it to turn it opaque.

"Right. Now that we're guaranteed privacy: which of you wants to enlighten me first?" Harry's viridian green eyes narrow as he witnesses Draco attentively seating Hermione in the hard-backed 'interviewee' chair, before Malfoy drags over a similar seat from the corner and angles it right beside her.

Hermione jumps in. "Harry – a little under two weeks ago, I was poisoned with a 'roofie' potion while I was out at a pub for a date. I ended up unconscious on Malfoy's doorstep."

She precludes Harry's angry expostulation by continuing in a rush, "I know it sounds fantastical – and it is – but Malfoy took me inside and looked after me. I... I spewed up most of the potion on him when I initially came to. And I made him promise not to seek medical attention or involve the Ministry."

Harry's vexed wrath softens as he asks sorrowfully, "Why didn't you come straight to me, Hermione? You know I would have dropped everything to keep you safe."

"Harry, I couldn't contact you – whatever they doped me with deadened my magic. And then, later… I was phobic about becoming the unwilling star of a sensational scandal. I thought I could manage it myself. I know it was selfish, stupid, and short-sighted. I'm sorry." Hermione's guilt and misery soars.

Harry shakes his head. "Look, Hermione, I understand where you're coming from; but your safety is paramount. Always."

He glares at Draco, leaning threateningly toward the taller man. "Are you absolutely certain Malfoy wasn't involved?".

"Fuck you, Potter." Draco pronounces the words with arctic contempt, before making a grand production of casually lacing his hands behind his head. His mist-hued eyes flash with constrained spleen.

Rising to her feet, Hermione plants her hands flat on the pitted metal table as she counsels, "Harry - If you can't accept that Malfoy has done naught but protect and support me through this horrible ordeal, we're wasting our time speaking with you."

"Hermione, stop. Alright, I'll leave that avenue of enquiry alone. Please, sit down and tell me exactly what happened that night," Harry urges, pulling fresh parchment, quills and ink from his capacious pockets.

"Well, I recently joined a Muggle dating website…" Hermione launches into a detailed recounting, pausing occasionally when Harry's zippy scribbling struggles to keep up. Early in the piece, Draco slips from the room to return with a glass of water for her; she thanks him with a grateful smile, sipping slowly in between her monologues.

Remembered feelings of terror and panic jeopardize her composed retelling when she speaks of hiding in the oak tree in the park and groggily scuttling through the murky streets. Draco doesn't hesitate to enfold her hand in his, interweaving their fingers as they rest upon her knee. Hermione takes renewed strength from his comforting gesture and holds tight to Draco's warm hand as she recommences her tale.

"Hermione, how is it that you remember these details, given the potion's pervasive side effects of memory loss and disorientation?" Harry quizzes.

"I guided her through a controlled Legilimency session," Draco contributes. "And before you flip your lid, Potter: I know what I'm doing. It was a doddle," he arrogantly assures.

Malfoy releases Hermione's hand to unearth a slim roll of vellum and a small vial from the inside pocket of his superbly tailored three-piece sloe-black suit. He hands both to Harry, explaining, "This is a sample of Granger's vomit, and the likenesses of the two scumbags who lured her to the Wonky Donkey."

Untying the scrap of ribbon around the scroll, Harry shuffles the drawings apart and smooths them flat. Hermione leans over the table, curiosity piqued. She gasps in wonderment; even from her upside-down vantage point, the pencil sketches are rendered almost photo-realistic in detail and accuracy. Draco's rare artistic ability has perfectly duplicated her borrowed memories, although the wrong-smelling 'drink-bumper' is less meticulously detailed than her 'date'; she'd hardly got a look at him before he'd faded back into the crowd.

Harry is scrutinizing Draco as though he's grown horns. "You drew these, Malfoy?".

"I won't dignify that redundant question with a response, Potter," Draco scornfully retaliates.

Hermione reaches over for Draco's hand this time. She ignores Harry's wide eyes.

"Malfoy, these are brilliant. Thank you. You've an amazing talent," she praises.

The top helices of Draco's ears pink as he declines Hermione's commendation. "Being filthy rich has its benefits, Granger. Such as - private tutors. For anything you can conceive an interest in."

He produces a page-sized rectangle of parchment from another jacket pocket, laying it beside his illustrations.

"This is the analysis of the potion ingredients. Although I assumed you'd want your own boffins to officially confirm same." Draco twines his fingers through Hermione's again without looking at her.

"Why aren't you working for the Ministry, Malfoy? I had no idea of the scope of your expertise." Harry's expression is stuck somewhere between admiration, bafflement, and lingering wariness.

"I have zero interest in being a cog in the machine, Potter." Draco dismisses the question, shrugging irritably.

He grapples with accepting sincere compliments, Hermione realizes. Always quick to mock and deflect. Interesting.

"Harry, do you have anything else to ask me? I'm feeling rather drained," Hermione admits. Talking about her tribulation has triggered a raft of negative emotions; she is longing to escape the forbidding, spartan environ of the interrogation room and hole up somewhere quiet and private for some rest and reflection.

"Sorry, love. I tend to get caught up during an investigation," Harry apologizes. "Just a few more things: I assume that Malfoy has told you about the other victims? And that my team is vigorously pursuing all leads?".

"Yes. I truly regret not coming to you sooner, Harry. I realize that burying my head in the sand has potentially set back your timeline." Hermione bows her head, eyes smarting as she wills away hot tears. "And I've probably endangered other women by not having the courage to deal with it sooner."

Harry hastens to rise and come to her side, but Draco thwarts the move, pulling Hermione into a one-armed side-hug.

"Come on Granger, you're indulging in unwarranted martyrdom now," he reproaches, without any genuine censure. "You're coping amazingly well with a frightening and traumatic situation. Buck up, Golden Girl."

Hermione hiccoughs a sob-slash-laugh, dabbing blindly at her wet eyes with the black silk handkerchief Draco has pushed into her hand. She looks up as Harry kneels on her other side.

"I hate to say it – but Malfoy's right, Hermione," Harry says softly. "We all react differently to extreme stressors. Go easy on yourself, sweetheart." He stands up and holds out his hand to help her up. Draco rises with them.

"Come see me later, OK? I want to make sure you're alright. And discuss tightening your personal security," Harry requests.

She gives a subdued nod. "I'll find you. Thanks, Harry." Hermione presses a light kiss to his cheek before she makes for the door, Draco hot on her heels.

"Malfoy, a word?" Harry's tone brooks no opposition.

Hermione whips back her head in alarm. Harry correctly interprets the cause.

"Don't worry, Hermione. I promise – no violence. Just a quick chat. Wands will remain in pockets," Harry grins mischievously.

"Speak for yourself," Draco mutters sourly. He bends his head to Hermione's. "I'll see you before I leave, Granger. There's a Kit Kat in the top drawer of your desk. Eat it." His pitch is low enough that Harry cannot eavesdrop.

He's slaying me with his singular kindnesses. Hermione dips her head and bolts through the open portal before she starts weeping in earnest.

The door snicks closed behind her.

Ten minutes passes damned quickly while you're indulging in a good crying jag in the toilet, Hermione decides as she blubs her last snivel and blots her swollen eyes with the thin sandpaper that the Ministry has the gall to label toilet paper. Draco's handkerchief is a sodden lump in her cardigan pocket; its limited absorbency was no match for her steady flow of tears.

She hoists herself off the closed lid of the loo, plodding to the vanity and studiously avoiding her woebegone reflection as she quickly washes her hands and face. The bout of quiet sobbing has left her feeling spent but cleansed. Dwelling on the terrible fate that she narrowly avoided ten days ago is confronting.

Wending her way back to her cubicle, Hermione keeps her gaze trained on the carpeted floor and works loose a few more springy acorn ringlets from her low ponytail to cover more of her puffy face. She slots into her chair and checks the top drawer: Draco has indeed left her a chocolate bar. Hermione pries it open and nibbles contentedly.

She is absently pleating the empty wrapper in her fingers when a shadow falls across her desk. The dawning smile on her face falls as she looks up into Ron Weasley's flinty face. His aqua eyes are vacillating between the coral bouquet and the Kit Kat packaging in her hands.

"Hello, Hermione. I came to give you these – " he flourishes a box of Beech's Turkish Delights from behind his back and drops them ungently on her desk – "but I see that you're already covered in the chocolate department. And all set for flowers, too." Ron looks daggers at her blooms.

"Didn't you get my roses? I've been waiting to hear back from you all week!" Ron's petulant voice rises to an uncomfortable volume.

Could this day get any worse? Hermione wants to crawl beneath her desk and start crying again. She closes her eyes briefly as she rapidly mentally shuffles through the most effective and discreet method to defuse Ron's simmering surliness. This is her place of employment, for goodness' sake. She stands to speak.

"Ron, I told you at Harry's that I am not interested in a romantic relationship with you. My feelings haven't changed because you sent me some nice roses and a passive invitation to your family's Sunday luncheon." Hermione strives to keep rancour from her tone.

"No. You never said we couldn't try again, Hermione – you told me that you wouldn't allow me to take you for granted anymore," Ron argues.

Replaying the scene at Grimmauld Place, Hermione is dismayed to realize Ron has the right of it.

I didn't explicitly tell him we didn't have a future. Buggeration! I'm such a Dorcas. Hermione slaps her palm against her forehead with a groan.

"What more do you want from me, Hermione? I'm said I was sorry for not treating you right – and I'm trying to change for you." Ron leans in to tuck a loose curl behind her ear; Hermione automatically flinches away before he can complete the familiarly affectionate action.

Her instinctual rejection inflames Ron's sulky ire. "Can't bear for me to touch you now, eh, Hermione? That's lovely, that is." He casts another baleful glare at her nosegay.

"You chucked out my expensive roses, ignored my invite and haven't even said thank you for the chocolates," Ron hotly accuses. "I'm making a big bloody effort here and as usual, it's not good enough for Little Miss High and Mighty. You want to watch yourself, babe – I won't put up with this rot forever."

Lividity rushes to Hermione's head faster than a speeding Zouwu. Rage temporarily strikes her mute as Ron folds his arms with a long-suffering sigh. Hermione's fury-boggled eyes fall on the box of chocolates Ron has oh-so-magnanimously gifted her… and then had the chutzpah to whinge that she hasn't thanked him properly.

Tapping her forefinger in an angry tempo on the harmless choccies, Hermione hits Ron with both barrels.

"Do not call me 'babe'… or 'Little Miss High and Mighty' ever again, Ronald Weasley. Let me remedy my earlier oversight – we are done. DONE. I don't want your flowers; I don't want to have dinner with your family - not while you're in attendance, anyway; and I don't want your poxy chocolates."

"I abhor Turkish delights – it speaks to your life-long condition of 'head-stuck-up-your-own-arse' that you managed to choose my absolute least favourite confectionary. Ooh, but of course! You picked it because you like Turkish delights."

"But I've seen you eating Turkish delights before! I know I have!" Ron's injured tone is yet another red rag to Hermione's raging bull.

"No, you didn't! You witnessed me chewing the milk chocolate off the outside of the damned squares before spitting their pink guts back into the tray! Because I had my period, I was feral, and I would have eaten chocolate-coated cockroaches if you'd brought a box over!" Hermione growls. "But all I had in the flat was your rotten Turkish delights!".

Hermione is seething so fiercely that she nearly misses hearing a new voice contribute to their painfully public drama.

"Are you aware your lovers' tiff has attracted quite the audience?" Draco silkily interjects. "Schedule it properly in future and charge admittance; I'm certain you could use the extra Galleons, Weasel."

Oh, hell no. Hermione frantically spins her head to the left; Draco is standing in the passageway, wearing a smile of cool amusement that doesn't reach his stony eyes. And yes – at least half a dozen of her Administration Services colleagues are riveted to her and Ron's noisy spectacle.

Ron lunges forward, vibrating with belligerence.

"Fuck off, Ferret. This is none of your business," he snarls pugnaciously.

Draco chuckles mirthlessly, haughtily tipping down his patrician nose to sneer at Ron.

"Ever the wordsmith – glad to see you're still the same blundering boor that I fondly remember besting at… well… everything."

"You wanna have a go, you gutless git?".

Ron appears ready to engage in vicious fisticuffs in the middle of the office, Hermione realizes with mounting horror. And Draco is just as willing, judging by his clenching fists and ticking jaw.

Hermione has had enough. Of the interminable morning, the embarrassing public scenes, and especially the two testosterone-fuelled idiots currently shaping up to brawl beside her cubicle.

"Get out of my way, both of you," she snaps. "If you're determined to behave like a couple of common goblins beside my desk, I won't stick around to watch it. Don't be here when I return."

She charges past the fools and makes for the break room, steaming with incensed humiliation. The bare-faced effrontery! Of them both!

A hot cup of coffee from her favourite red mug works marvels in restoring Hermione's equilibrium. Plus, she hasn't heard any sounds of masculine aggression or pain, nor has anyone run into the room screaming, "Fight, fight!".

Approaching her cubicle cautiously, Hermione exhales in relief. Her furniture and possessions remain whole and intact; Ron's chocolates have vanished off the desktop; and neither aggravating man is in sight. The sole variance in the appearance of her workspace is an origami butterfly fashioned from plain parchment, tucked into the coral roses. She plucks it from the bunch and flips it over: one delicate wing is inscribed in bold copperplate lettering.

'Owl me, ma petite.'

Hermione thunks her head against her desk in befuddled exasperation.

This is undoubtedly a 'Turkish delight' type of day.