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Assistant: Title: Once More, With Feeling
        Author: wetpretzel wetpretzel 
        Chapter: 1/12 
        Summary: As she looked around her living room - at the green velvet ottoman she didn't remember purchasing, the 14th century Wizarding texts on her bookshelf, the hideous and obnoxiously ostentatious grandfather clock that could only belong to a Malfoy - she pictured the toothbrush next to hers on her bathroom counter, the old Slytherin quidditch jersey she regularly tripped over in her bedroom, and the mint chocolate chip ice cream in her freezer - a flavour she abhorred, but that a particular, pale, pointy faced aristocrat sat across from her had a tragic fondness for. 
 
  Her chest burning, as if she drank a barrel of bubotuber pus, Hermione turned to him with narrowed, accusing eyes. "Malfoy...are we dating?" 
 If there's one thing Hermione Granger knows, it's that she simply doesn't have time to date. Draco decides to date her, anyway.
        Contents: Chapter 1
    

    


  

  
  
    
    Pansy Parkinson was in her office.  Not just in her office – but sat looking rather at home, in Hermione’s armchair, tapping her stilettos against the side of the desk as she casually flipped through the manila folder Hermione had received earlier that day. The confidential folder Hermione remembered with a jolt, hurrying forward to her desk and snatched it away from Pansy’s manicured talons.  “Miss Parkinson,” Hermione greeted with a smile she hoped was more welcoming than her actions, “My apologies, I must have forgotten we had a meeting.” They did not have a meeting. Hermione was resolutely certain Pansy Parkinson had absolutely zero interest in the regulation and control of Magical Creatures. Judging by the perfectly sleeked, raised eyebrow Pansy gave her in return, her unwanted visitor shared the same sentiments. “Spare the formalities, Granger. As titillating as it was to read your proposal on liberating the oh-so-oppressed Cockatrice,” Pansy drawled, eyes flashing in amusement at the irritated look Hermione must have failed to conceal, “I’m here for pleasure, not business.” Pansy Parkinson was in her office for personal matters? Hermione resisted the urge to look outside her window for flying pigs.  “Oh. Right. Yes, of course,” Hermione said, extremely self-aware she was still awkwardly standing up in her own office. She looked pointedly at her chair with a jerky nod, silently asking for her chair back. With a mild sigh, like she was doing Hermione a favour, Pansy rose, walking around and placed her right hip against the edge of the desk, one leg elegantly crossing over the other, as she leaned back, fingers tapping rhythmically on the leather embossed panel. Hermione wondered if it was an inherited trait, or through years of etiquette training that gave these aristocratic Purebloods the ability to look graceful yet casual in any given place. Probably the latter, and Hermione subtly glanced at the mirror near her desk, making sure she was not slouching in her chair.  “So, um...how’s things?” Hermione lamely asked, when the silence had extended just past socially acceptable.  Bl@@dy hell, even Pansy’s snort sounded graceful. “I do hope you’re more charming at your Ministry functions, Granger. Merlin help your networking skills,” Pansy reached into her robes pocket, pulling out a silver embossed envelope, and holding it out to Hermione expectantly.  “What’s this?” “That’s kind of the idea of envelopes, Granger. Open it up, and you’ll find out.”  Hermione took it with a restrained huff, not too dissimilar to the way she’d taken the folder from Pansy’s hands a few minutes prior, ignoring Pansy’s quiet chuckle as she peeled the flap open, eyebrows lifting towards the ceiling as she read the elegant navy-blue stitching. 
   Dearest Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger,  

   You are cordially invited to the celebration of Miss Pansy Parkinson and Mr Theodore Abraham Nott’s engagement, on the 25th June 2006   

   RSVP no later than 12th April 2006.  

   Location to be confirmed privately upon RSVP  
Hermione blinked once, twice, and then a third time, as she stared at the invitation in front of her. She was, of course, aware Pansy and Nott were dating but hadn’t realised it had reached such milestones.  “Er, congratulations,” Hermione said, carefully placing the card back into the envelope. Weddings were hardly her forte, and she wasn’t quite sure what to talk about with the bride-to-be. “Er, do you- so is – er, do you have a dress?” Hermione internally winced. Merlin help her, indeed.  “My wedding dress has been designed since the day I could say 'husband', Granger,” Pansy said, dismissively, her nails playing with the frayed stitching of the leather desk top. Hermione had to sing the Hogwarts school theme in her head to resist the urge to smack her hands away. Pansy looked up at her with a viper glint to her eyes, and a smirk to match. “Don’t worry, only a couple hundred House Elves will have been harmed in the making of it.” 
   Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts  

   Teach us something please  
Hermione smiled tightly at her, regretting her decision to re-arrange her afternoon meeting that day. What she’d give to currently be sat opposite Horrace Jorkins - the sleezy, ageing Cockatrice breeder who spent every previous meeting staring at her br@@sts, making not-so-subtle innuendos on how welcome she was to come and pet his Cockatrices, anytime, anywhere.  “I’m sure their blood, sweat, and tears will glitter like diamonds on your train,” Hermione replied, wryly.  “Nonsense,” Pansy waved airily, “They’d never show up under the actual diamonds,” she finished with a wink. 
   Whether we be old and bald,  

   Or young with scabby knees  
The addressee on the invitation sprung to Hermione’s mind. “Why did you deliver this to me, by the way? Why not just owl it to Draco?”  True, Hermione had had the misfortune of spending more than a few dinners with Pansy and Theo over the last few months, certainly against her will at first – but once Draco had pointed out that acquainting oneself with the Sacred Twenty-Eight was a great way to gain financial support for her latest proposal schemes, Hermione supposed there was no harm in interacting with the snakes every once in a while. And when Draco insisted on joining her for the dinners, ("They are my friends, why wouldn't I join them for dinner?" and  “Granger, you’ll have much better luck letting me be the one to manipulate my friend’s bank accounts.” ), Hermione had struggled to come up with an excuse not to go.  The things she did for her career.  But a few business dinners didn’t explain why Pansy was currently in her office, personally handing her an invitation, with her name embroidered in blue silk on it. ‘Draco Malfoy Plus One’, Hermione could understand, but to be personally – in this case, quite literally – invited? “Sure, if I wanted the RSVP by next winter, I’d have happily owled it to him, but I’m sure you understand why it’s far more time efficient to come to you.” Hermione blinked at her, but Pansy carried on, seemingly oblivious. “-s not like he responds to our owls half the time anyway these days, evidently helping you save the animal kingdom one deadly beast at a time is far more stimulating for him,” Pansy paused, scanning Hermione quickly, and took a moment to pointedly stare at Hermione’s br@@sts – hmm, maybe Hermione should introduce Pansy to Mr  Jorkins - “Well, I guess there is one thing – oops, I mean two,” she grinned salaciously, “making it worth his while.” To Hermione’s credit, she didn’t think she blushed too deeply. At the very least, she successfully fought the urge to cross her arms above her chest.  “I’ll be sure to pass on the message,” Hermione said, with a tone hopefully indicative of finality.   “Oh, do please ensure it. I was so hoping to count on the Golden Girl,” Pansy stood, wandlessly charming away the small creases in her robes. She turned to leave, but not before she tapped delicately on the envelope still in Hermione’s hands. “Twelfth of April, Granger.” Pansy’s eyes scanned the forever untamed mass of curls haloing Hermione’s head, her lips thinning for a fleeting moment in obvious disdain.  “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you it’s a formal occasion.” Hermione was at least seventy percent certain Pansy was talking directly to her hair, and couldn’t stop the self-conscious brush through with her hand.  
   Our heads could do with filling  

   With some interesting stuff  

   For now, they’re bare and full of air  
With a twinkling wriggle of her fingers, Pansy turned on her heels, and headed towards the door. “It’s good manners to respond post haste, Granger,” she stopped, one foot planted in the hallway, and Hermione imagined wandlessly slamming the door in her face.  Only for a second.  Or three.  As if reading Hermione’s thoughts, Pansy cast her eyes down to the manila folder, and smirked. “I presume I’ll be informing Gringotts of a sizeable donation to your department soon enough, no?”  With a final quirk of her brow, Pansy disappeared around the corner, and left Hermione to wonder if getting the final word in was also part of a Pureblood’s etiquette training.  The aroma of spices and trace amounts of floo ash flooded Hermione’s senses as she stepped foot into the living room of her flat that evening.  Crookshanks meowed and weaved around her legs in greeting, and she bent down to stroke her old familiar. “Hello Crooks,” she crooned softly. “Not been giving him too much trouble, have you?” He only purred, rubbing his head into her palm, as a poignant scoff sounded out from the kitchen.  “I think you might want to owl Potter, and let him know he might have missed a Horcrux.” Hermione snorted, as a blond head poked around the corner; cheeks flushed red, forehead lined with perspiration caused by exasperation, no doubt due to the furry companion still nuzzling against her.  An accusatory finger jabbed in the cat’s direction, Hermione watched in amusement as Draco glared menacingly at him, looking not at all dissimilar to the bratty, poncy eleven year old Hermione met on the Hogwarts train all those years ago. “That thing made me burn myself – twice! And he knocked over the pan, so I had to start all over again.”  Hermione looked down and quirked a brow questioningly at her familiar. Crookshanks simply blinked lazily at her, though his eyes held a hint of triumph and satisfaction, before sauntering off towards the corridor, head tilted high in what Hermione could only assume was a mockery of Draco’s own rather standoffish posture.  Draco scowled after him, turning on his heel and stalked back into the kitchen, muttering under his breath.  “Not even Nagini...basilisk when you need... long can one bl@@dy cat live anyway...” was all Hermione was able to grasp, as she removed her robes, hanging them up on the hook.  She let her nose lead her feet, following after Draco into the kitchen, where he was rather aggressively stirring- “Paella, again?” “Don’t worry, I remembered to thaw out the prawns this time,” Draco cast a wry grin over his shoulder. “As charming and graceful as you are with a spout of food poisoning, I don’t feel like receiving Howlers for the rest of the week. Awfully inconvenient on the co-workers, and all that.” Hermione scowled; her chin jilted upwards. “You throw up for three days, let’s see how jovial you are.” Draco shrugged dismissively, his focus firmly on picking up the Cayenne Pepper shaker, not the cinnamon. Merlin knew they didn’t need a repeat of the enchiladas incident. “You needed the break.” “I don’t have time for breaks from work, Draco. I’m meeting with the Wizengamot in two weeks!” Draco looked back at her, his eyes wide in surprise. “I thought the Cockatrice hearing wasn’t for another nine weeks?” Hermione glared at her kitchen tiles – if she squinted, she could see tiny grains of rice Draco must have missed in clean up, following Crookshank’s earlier alleged sabotage. “Evidentially, the Wizengamot finds my proposal exceedingly important, I must not need the extra time to put my case together, I surely have all the evidence I need,” she paraphrased, through gritted teeth, the memo she received the day before. A memo she had great satisfaction in Incendio ’ing from the safety of her rubbish bin.  Draco raised a brow in question, tapping his wand to turn the pot to a simmer, and walked over to her, his hand stretched out to twirl a rebellious curl between his fingers. “You think they’re sabotaging you, like the Manticore case?” He murmured, lightly tugging the curl and watched as it sprung back up.  Hermione huffed. That buggering Manticore case. Four months of research, over a dozen all-nighters in her office, two emergency trips to St Mungos following – minor – disagreements with a particularly stubborn Manticore (admittedly, Draco had not been the most supportive in this particular case, and the gloating “I told you so’s” he tossed her way, when rewrapping her wounds, or administering her potions, was more insufferable than her being bedbound for a week) - only to arrive on the day of the hearing to be turned away at the door.  
   Oh, hadn’t Miss Granger gotten the memo? The hearing had been pushed forward twenty-four hours. Oh, what a shame, it must have gotten lost in transit, we wondered why you didn’t show up yesterday. Not to worry, Miss Granger, you can refile in eighteen months, per Wizengamot policy.   
She’d stormed through the Ministry halls in a wild rage, only vaguely noticing her hair giving off sparks that had landed and shocked quite a few employees. Hermione hadn’t even noticed where her feet had taken her, until she was pushing a rather shocked, but all too willing, Draco into his desk chair, just barely of sound enough mind to cast a silencing charm around his office, as she unleashed her anger and frustrations riding his lap. Afterwards, both spent, sweaty, and gasping for breath, Draco – like approaching an injured, wild animal – had quietly asked how the hearing went.  Hermione would later blame the intense @rg@sm and residual anger for the way she suddenly burst into tears, her vulnerable mind making her weep and cuddle into Draco’s side for the rest of the afternoon. She could only thank Draco’s gentleman stature for the way he patiently let her cry it out for hours, his hand stroking her back in a soothing manner, with no complaints, despite the pile of paperwork sitting on his desk. Ever the aristocrat, he’d even escorted her back to her flat, and tucked her in bed, and when she’d woken up the following morning - with a blinding stress induced migraine – a glass of water was sitting on her bedside table next to a pain relief potion.  We’ll get them next time – was the simple note scribbled underneath the potion bottle.  Hermione made sure to send him an owl apologising for her behaviour the previous day; thanked him for the medicine, that she’d endeavour to work on her professionalism, and could he meet her in her office that afternoon to discuss the appeal?  Together, they spent the entire afternoon writing up an appeal, and archiving Hermione’s research, so that she wouldn’t have to go ‘fraternizing with those bl@@dy Manticores again’, as Draco had grumbled once they’d finished, before he rounded the desk, got on his knees, and spread her legs.  Minutes later, he was pocketing her knickers, wiping his mouth, and asked if she wanted Thai or Italian that evening.  Hermione eyed the pan bubbling behind Draco. “The rice is sticking at the bottom,” she pointed out. With a string of French curses, Draco rushed over, quickly stirring the contents. “Anything else happen at work today? Oh, you b@st@rd, you better not be overcooked,” he glared at the prawns, which looked suspiciously shrivelled.  Silken navy blue ran through her mind. “Pansy Parkinson was in my office when I came back from lunch today,” Hermione started, her brow furrowing when Draco’s back curiously stiffened.  Draco looked back at her, face open, but grey eyes hesitant. “Oh?” She reached into her bag, and pulled out the embossed envelope. “Did you know Pansy and Theo were engaged?” “He's my best mate, Granger. So, obviously not.”  Hermione snorted, tossing the gaudy slip onto the kitchen counter, as she went to stand next to Draco.
  Hmm, those prawns did look overcooked. 
“The invitation is for both of us,” Hermione frowned, her teeth creeping forwards to gnaw on her bottom lip. “Why do you think they put my name on it?” Draco’s lips quirked into a private grin as he stirred the rice. “Why indeed, Granger?”  Hermione frowned, feeling like she was missing out on some private joke – it must be a Slytherin thing. “Do you know something I d- mmphf!” Her words cut off by the spoonful of rice shoved not too gracefully into her mouth. Draco looked at her expectantly.  She let the rice sit in her mouth for a moment, the savouriness overpowering her tastebuds. “You forgot the white wine,” she critiqued after a moment.  He scowled, turning his head and glaring into the empty corridor. “I didn’t the first time,” he huffed, reaching for the bottle.  “Dinner’ll be another ten minutes,” Draco cocked his head towards the cupboard where her crockery was kept. “Be a dear, and set the table?” He cooed at her with a smirk. Hermione rolled her eyes at the mocking endearment. “With any luck, you’ll be the one vomiting this time,” she muttered, but reached up to grab the plates.  As she headed to the table, Hermione could have sworn she heard him mutter, “As if I’d ever harm you, Granger.” The echo of her second @rg@sm still hummed through her veins as she sat on the toilet, cleaning herself up. She stood, her thighs only slightly trembling as she flushed the chain. Washing her hands, she heard Draco moving through the living room, casting the nightly wards as he shut off her fireplace.  Back in her bedroom, she wrinkled her nose at the stench of sweat in the air, and crossed the room to lightly crack open the window.  Somewhere in the corridor, she heard Crookshanks meow and whine.  “For the dozenth time, you furballed Demon, you’re not sleeping in our bed,” Draco grumbled, and her lips twitched as Crookshanks hissed in response. “Merlin’s boll- this is exactly why you’re not coming in. Be grateful I don’t need any potions requiring cat eyes, because I know where I’d stop first,” Draco appeared through the door frame, closing and warding the door. As Hermione climbed into the bed, he strode over, placing a glass of water on her bedside table.  Ooh, wonderful.  She had been waking up extremely thirsty lately.  Draco plopped down next to her with about as much grace as a Blast Ended Skrewt. “Granger, I hate your cat,” he muffled into the pillow.  “I’m sure the feeling’s mutual,” Hermione said dryly, her eyes appreciatively trailing down the taut muscles of his back, all the way down to his wonderfully plump- “Please, Granger, my eyes are up here.” Hermione looked up to see Draco tiredly grinning at her. “Honestly,” he pouted, shuffling to rest on his side, “I feel so objectified.” She eyerolled in response, and turned her back to him to lay down, snuggling her head into her pillow. Barely a beat later, and she felt him shuffle towards the middle of the bed, his arm reached around her waist to tuck her closer.  Hermione laid there for a few minutes, lost in her thoughts. She had no idea how she was going to complete the paperwork for her hearing in two weeks. She had no idea if it was possible to get food poisoning from overcooked prawns. She had no idea why Pansy thought the quickest way to tell Draco of her engagement party was through her.  But as Draco’s breaths slowed, and she felt a sleepy, lazy, kiss at the nape of her neck, and him murmur a barely audible, “Goodnight,” she at least was sure of one thing. She was not dating Draco Malfoy.'
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