June 12 th , 2004
He forgets he kept the door open to his office and can only blame himself when she walks past his doorway and then backtracks, knocking on the frame and pulling on a (genuine) smile the way others might pull on a jumper. "Oh, hey there Malfoy," she says, her previous annoyance with him forgotten once she heard he'd taken the job.
"Good morning, Granger," he says stiffly, reaching over to take a sip of his water and mentally crossing his fingers that she will leave.
"I've got the Harrington case," she tells him, holding up a file folder jammed with documents. "Wanna come by my flat and look over it?"
He nearly chokes on his water. Her flat? Her flat?
"Or we can go to yours, if that's alright. Or, we don't even have to go to anyone's flat. There's a nice park about two blocks away from the Ministry if that's what you prefer. I just want to get out of this building. It's a lovely day out and looking through an enchanted window really isn't the same," she explains.
He wants to say no so badly. It's there, hanging on for dear life on the tip of his tongue. No. But that's not what comes out of his mouth.
"Sure."
And before he can process it, Draco's gathering his briefcase together, stuffing papers and a few pens and his wand inside while Hermione simply smiles. Always smiling. He bets she can count the number of times she couldn't bring herself to smile on one hand.
Hermione is right—as per usual. It is a nice day. The sun is grinning and the clouds have all been chased away by the ferocity of its smile, and the sky is the purest shade of blue Draco can remember since the previous summer. They agree on the park, and the walk there is awkwardly silent.
She leads him to a large willow tree, not unlike the Whomping Willow back at Hogwarts (excluding the fact that it was not magical in the least and very friendly because of it). Hermione sits down on a relatively flat knot of roots and leans back against the trunk, kicking off her shoes and pulling off her jacket. The sunlight filters through the verdant foliage and dapples her face.
Draco sits down (gingerly) on the ground across from her. The last time he had sat on the grass was perhaps eight or nine years ago, before the war was in full swing and he still had some sort of innocence still clinging to his person. Hermione closes her eyes and sighs, and he wonders at her, and the way she is so easily content.
"Okay, time to get to work," she says, lifting her eyelids and sitting up.
They discuss the case for several minutes, easily slipping into an animated conversation (surprisingly so) and taking notes. They bounce ideas off each other and fill in the holes the other unknowingly forms. Once they peel away the first layer of awkwardness and unfamiliarity, their exchange flows quickly and effortlessly, like water. Perhaps this always would have been the case, had one of them only thought to switch on the tap.
The pair runs out of fuel too quickly, though, and soon the discussion transforms into dribbling droplets, falling slow and unsure from the very corner of the faucet.
"...it all comes back to the idea that Harrington had no business or rights or even the financial backing to be in possession of that dragon egg in the first place, and—" Draco says, but is interrupted by a loud yawn on Hermione's part.
He glances up, more startled than offended.
"Oh, sorry," she says, covering her mouth as her face flushes red. "I think we did well, better than I thought we would. Do you think we could take a bit of a break? I didn't get a very good night's sleep last night," she explains.
"Alright," he concedes hesitantly, and she smiles, leaning back against the trunk again and closing her eyes. His back slumps slightly, and a tingle reeking of awkwardness clambers up his back.
And then she surprises him by speaking. Her eyes are still shut as her lips part and words flood out.
"Why don't you ever smile anymore?"
"What?"
He's alarmed, to say the least.
"I mean, whenever I see you, you look so gloomy. Even when Parkinson's jabbering away in your ear and trying as hard as she can to make you laugh or smile or even react. She's in love with you, you know. It's obvious."
He's conscious of the fact that Pansy feels more affection for than he should allow, but he's never heard it said aloud so... blatantly. Nor while using the word "love".
"I don't reciprocate her feelings," he says, and he attempts to make it clear he wishes to steer the conversation away from this particular subject. Either she doesn't understand, or she understands and ignores it.
"You don't reciprocate much of anything," she mutters so softly he barely even catches it, and before he can even open his mouth to respond, she's talking again.
"That still doesn't explain why you're so unhappy all the time. I mean, I don't think I've ever seen you truly, genuinely joyful, but you used to smile at school. It was almost... nice. You had a decent smile," she informs him, and Draco thanks a deity he doesn't believe in that her eyes are still closed, and she can't see him blushing. What sort of Malfoy blushes, for Christ's sake?
An almost-lie slides from his throat, half-formed and weak-sounding. "I guess I just don't like throwing my smiles around," he says. The statement is true, but it's not the answer to her question.
"How do you mean?"
"Your gratitude, your happiness, your affection... you toss them around, and people get the wrong idea. They either think you're easy to please, or they expect it from you all the time. I would prefer people think neither of me."
"Well who gives a rat's arse what people think of you," she says, and her eyes finally open. She sits up. "It's their fault they assumed anything in the first place. You know what happens when you assume?"
"Hm."
"You make an ass out of you and me."
He stares at her blankly for a long moment before he gets it. A joke. And a pretty good one, at that. He's impressed, and tells her so.
"Don't give me any credit. It's a muggle saying. Yes, Malfoy, muggles are capable of having a clever sense of humour, too," she tells him before he can say anything else.
"I think you're the one who's assuming, now," he says, and it almost sounds like banter. She shifts, so her back is facing away from the willow trunk. She lies down on the grass and a few coffee-coloured wisps brush his knee.
"Well, we all have our faults," she says, and her eyes are fluttering shut again. Maybe even Hermione Granger needs a break from the world.
He snorts, and it does not go unnoticed.
"What?"
"You're admitting it," he says. "That you have faults."
"Well of course I have faults! Who doesn't? Definitely not you."
He ignores the jab.
"What, did you think I thought I was perfect?" she demands, and he wonders how she could sound and look so commanding with her eyes zipped up.
"Everyone thought you were perfect."
"Even you?"
"In a sense."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
He leans back on the heels of his palm and looks up at the leaves, swaying slightly in the cool June breeze.
"Well, I knew you were bossy and stubborn and annoying and a know-it-all and you had a knack for getting on people's nerves. And you were very self-righteous." She doesn't stop him, so he continues. "But it was like you could do no wrong. Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age, perfect marks, champion of house-elves and the downtrodden, and, of course, one-third of the ultimate goody-two-shoes brigade. And then there was your blood, obviously, and the fact that you were all that and muggle-born. You were everything, and nothing, all at the same time," he says, his voice retreating to a whisper once he realises he'd said too much. Let go too much.
"And I was absolutely maddening," she adds for him, and he can tell by the way she says it that she's grinning.
"You most definitely were," he agrees reluctantly.
"You spoke in past-tense. Has it changed now, Malfoy?"
"You damn well haven't," he says, and comes out more condescendingly than he would have liked. "Still stubborn and annoying, still freakishly smart, still trying to make the world a better place, one house-elf at a time."
"Hey, that's a nice slogan."
He barely hears the phrase, because he realises that he's right. She hasn't changed. Not one bit. In reality he shouldn't be feeling this... this... affection and attraction for her at all. He should still dislike her, he should still want to infuriate her, and he should still not want to even touch her. She is still the Muggle-Born (he can't even think the other word any more, Merlin help him) Extraordinaire, perfect in all the ways he's come to value and imperfect in all the ways he was taught to loathe.
She's still over-bearing, annoyingly persistent, and maddeningly self-satisfied.
And it makes him wonder.
Maybe it's him that's changed.