The Politician\'s Wife

Author: pir8fancier
Title: The Politician's Wife, Chapter 3, Copy Me
Pairing: Draco/Hermione, yes it's the dreaded het fic once again.
Rating: NC-17 (eventually, like WAY down the road, you perverts)
Warning: Het fic AND Draco/Hermione. Please don't say you weren't warned.
Status: Chapter 3 of maybe 6?. Just not sure.
Disclaimer: For fun not profit
Betas: kirashapedgirl, alliekatgal, ordinary_magic (your Brits picks much appreciated!), my stalwart beta snottygrrl (great catch on the Cezanne/Monet thing!), and, of course, my dear friend zeldaohzelda. They make it better. Trust me on this one.
Author's Notes: This story is dedicated to my friend zeldaohzelda.


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“How were your holidays, Granger?”

There were so many things wrong with this scenario, I didn’t know where to begin.

Draco Malfoy was sitting in my office, the office I had warded no fewer than sixteen times, some of the spells dating back to the thirteenth century.

Draco Malfoy was not only sitting in my office, but he was sitting at my desk. In my chair. Rifling through my inbox. Rifling through the confidential post in my inbox. A cigarette dangled out of his mouth. He’d already transformed the paperweight into an ashtray, and what had been a fresh pack of Players lay on the desk. He must have been there for some time because several butts littered the ashtray, and I could barely see him through the smoky haze. With one hand I cast a Smoke-Be-Gone charm, and with the other I picked up the cigarette wrapper and threw it in the dustbin. Which was filled nearly to the top with my discarded post.

“Have a lie-in? You are,” he looked at his watch, “three minutes late.”

How did he enunciate so perfectly with that nasty fag hanging out of his mouth? The disconnect between fair and foul was only heightened by his usual grace as he turned his wrist to peer at his watch.

“I’ll be sure to make it up at lunch.”

Ignoring my sarcasm, he shook the memo in his hand; the parchment crackled.

“I didn’t get this memo. Why didn’t Parker copy me on this?”

“Don’t be thick, Malfoy. It isn’t a giant leap to assume that he didn’t want you to see it.”

He looked it over again. “Unlikely. Must have been an oversight.” He frowned and placed it in one of the three neat piles on top of my desk.

Picking up yet another memo, he scanned it for two seconds, sighed, and pitched it in the dustbin. The back of my neck, which had only unraveled its maze of kinks on the ninth day of the holiday, balled back up into a tight, unforgiving knot the size of a walnut. From experience, I knew that this knot that had no bloody hope of loosening until the Christmas holidays.

I hated him. Normally I had a week’s grace before that goddamn knot came back. I hadn’t been back at work for more than five minutes and already my neck was balled up sixteen ways to Sunday.

I slammed my briefcase on the desk. He didn’t flinch one centimetre, just kept on reading. “Let’s ignore for one minute the fact that you broke into my office, are rifling through my confidential post, and have pitched most of it into the rubbish. Shall we start with first things first? Do you mind if I sit down?”

He waved his hand in the general direction of the seat opposite and snapped his fingers. The antique Spode tea set made its appearance. In addition to the two cups, creamer, sugar, and silver tongs for the sugar cubes, two perfectly rolled croissants sat on matching plates, together with pats of butter, and small pots of raspberry jam, whose sweet, fruity aroma filled the office. “Be your guest. Tea’s probably ready. Milk, no sugar.” He added absentmindedly from behind the memo. “Help yourself to a croissant.”

“I meant my own seat, you annoying prat,” I barked.

He looked up and waggled a finger at me. “Ah, ah, ah. If you’re not nice to me for at least one day upon your return, I won’t approve your vacation request next time…”

“You do not approve my vacation requests,” I sputtered.

“Not yet, but I will.” He said this with so much conviction I had to remind myself this was typical Malfoy arrogance, not tidings of things to come. The idea of Malfoy as my supervisor was enough to make me contemplate throwing myself down the lift shaft. “Your mantra for the next twenty-four hours, Granger: Nice to Malfoy. Nice to Malfoy. I’d suggest saying it on your knees in total supplication, but that’s probably asking too much.” He picked the nearly spent fag from his mouth and stubbed it out in the ashtray. Then making a great show of standing up, he bade me sit with an elegant roll of his hand. “Your wish is my command, my lovely Hermione.”

I wanted to slap him, but sat down instead.

“Malfoy, do I need to remind you for the four thousand and tenth time that those ridiculous blandishments do not endear you to me? It might work on those idiot girls in Accounting or that utter tart in the Auror Division, but it is wasted on me. In fact, your obvious insincerity only underscores my abiding hatred for you.”

He tsked-tsked as he made his way to the other side of the desk. “Surely, abiding hatred is going a bit too far.”

“I was candy-coating it, actually.” I reached over to grab the remaining memos out of his hand.

He deftly removed them from my reach. “I don’t think so,” he cooed. “Your inbox is far too fascinating.” Sitting down in the chair opposite me, he smiled at me. “This chair is much more comfortable anyway. An Iron Maiden would be kinder on my arse than your chair. Of course, you have a much more padded arse than I do.” He careened his head to the side as if trying to catch a glimpse of my backside. “Quite a nicely padded arse to be honest.”

“My arse is none….”

“You should at the very least transfigure yourself a pillow. Something in silk with stripes? Yes, nice deep purple and gold stripes. You’re partial to purple, aren’t you? And perhaps a pillow for your back, hmmm?”

He scanned the next memo, narrowed his eyes, murmured, “Fucking bitch,” pitched it into the rubbish bin, and began perusing the next. “You were gone two weeks, weren’t you? So was I. All I had in my inbox were six requests from mailing to contribute to their Quidditch pool and four memos from Halverston asking me if the Ministry could use Malfoy Manor for their Christmas party again this year. I immediately fired off an owl reminding him of my outstanding requests for remuneration for the damage done to our parquet floors last Christmas.”

“Malfoy…”

“Yes, I find Halverston's lack of response pretty lax, too. You left before the Highland Fling contest. Smart woman. Pleaded headache, I believe. Those Aurors are certainly a frisky bunch. Never again tell me that Slytherins are the depraved house. Ex-Gryffindors all. Complete and total animals.” He raised his eyebrows in question. “Weasley did confess all, didn’t he?”

“Of course,” I said with as much cool as I could muster. That furious blush every time Ron sees someone wearing a kilt was beginning to make sense.

“All those dress robes transformed into kilts.” He shuddered. “Enough garish plaid to last my poor battered eyeballs a lifetime. I’ve always suspected one could overdo plaid, and I was very sorry to have been proven right. I really do not understand what McClure is about. Does he really have the I.Q. of a celery stalk or is he merely faking it to pull the wool over our eyes? Although to what purpose eludes me. One should really find out in the interest of science, but then you’d actually have to talk to him, and he’s stupid and boring.” He threw the memo into the rubbish and picked up another.

“Malfoy, the wards…”

“Wards? Of course, I had to take down the wards for the party. Took me fucking hours, and what thanks do I get? And then Pansy—she can be such a little devil—insisting that for the contest to have any credibility, the men had to spell away their briefs ala the Scots. Was a little surprised at how readily everyone agreed to that, Potter leading the charge.” He balled up a memo, threw it with some force into the rubbish, and grabbed another.

“Malfoy…”

“If it’s the last thing I do, I’m moving heaven and earth to get that twit Carstairs fired. He’s menace to the Ministry, never mind society. Think he must go commando all the time—Potter, not Carstairs—because I can’t recall that he spelled away anything.” He frowned and kept scanning the memo. How could he talk and read at the same time? “Must admit your Weasley has quite impressive bits. I certainly couldn’t compete with him on that score. I was most disappointed to note that Potter and I seem to run neck and, well, neck in that department. Although, it’s hard to tell... Ahem. I am absolutely going to stand firm on this floor issue. You wouldn’t believe the damage. The high heels were especially brutal. Not that your husband was wearing high heels. As I recall, he wasn’t wearing much of anything by the end of the evening.” He balled up another memo and threw it away. “Oh, did I mention I had a memo from the Minister telling me I’d gotten a raise. Job well done. All that jazz.”

“You got a raise?” I tried not to shriek this, but wasn’t very successful. The knot convulsed in on itself and actually did a backflip. A first.

“Yes, quite a nice one. Totally unexpected, I assure you.”

I gave that the snort of derision it deserved.

“Why does everyone send you all these memos?” he grumbled.

“Perhaps because I actually work.” He raised one eyebrow. “Yes, work. Which you do not. You spend ninety percent of your time seducing women and the other ten percent at meetings you can’t wriggle out of,” I reminded him.

“Nonsense,” he protested and picked up another memo. “I only spend fifty percent of my time seducing women. How much time do you spend seducing women? Does Weasley know? Hello, what’s this? If I’d known you swing that way, we could have a threesome… fucking idiot Fairchild is at it again… that bint in Accounting is into that sort of thing. Not a particular kink of mine, I prefer one on one, but once in a while… Fairchild’s nuts are so going to be mine.” He placed the memo in the second pile and gave it a sharp smack with the flat of his palm, as if the poor parchment deserved to be beaten for Fairchild’s deviousness. “The tea, Granger,” he reminded me and went back to reading my post.

He was like a wind-up toy gone berserk, with no way to stop it short of whacking it repeatedly with a ball-peen hammer. You just hoped the batteries wore down or it self-destructed. I looked at my quill and wondered if I could transfigure it into something resembling a club and then beat him into silence.

No, the sooner he had his tea, the sooner he would leave. And frankly, I could use a cup of tea myself. Ron and I overslept, and breakfast had been nothing but a wish and a prayer as we’d rushed out the door. I was famished and hopefully a cup of tea would assuage the hunger pangs until the rolling cart came around. I poured his tea first and then my own, pointedly ignoring the croissants. Although I might drink his tea, somehow the idea of eating his croissant seemed like crossing some sort of Rubicon. I would not, absolutely not reach for one of those croissants. Not even if I was starving. Which I was. I hadn’t had any dinner last night. Wentworth in Portkey was going to get a piece of my mind. We’d ended up stumbling into a post office in Moscow, necessitating a lightning fast Obliviate on all the patrons, and then had to Apparate our arses across Europe in order to get home in time for work today. I pressed my stomach to make it stop emitting the most disgusting growling noises, because clearly it knew a delicious croissant when it smelled it, and did I mention I am very partial to raspberry jam? Bugger.

“So, you didn’t answer my question. Holidays nice?” he asked from behind a memo.

“Malfoy, how did you get through my wards?” I demanded, trying to look everywhere but the direction of the tea service. And the croissants.

“That whore Harlock. How dare he?” Malfoy brandished a memo in my face. “He knew I wouldn’t let him get away with his little backdoor antics. He waited until I went on holiday. Well,” he tilted his chin, and gave me one of his evil little smiles. “I have news for that utter shitebag…”

“Malfoy!” I banged my cup down. “How did you get through my wards?”

“Oh, that,” he sniffed and put the memo into the pile farthest from him. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I am a Malfoy, Granger. My first word was ward. Anyway, don’t bother answering my question; I can see that you had a perfectly brilliant time. You look relaxed, tan, fit. Two weeks on a Greek beach agrees with you. Imagine that husband of yours pounded you into the mattress every night.”

I blushed and not for the reason Malfoy must have been thinking. Dear god, we hadn’t had sex once, and the worst part about it was that I hadn’t even thought about it.

Ron and I had a rather lovely sex life for many years after we got married. And then, then, I have no idea what happened. My work schedule, Ron spending most of his free time at Harry and Ginny’s, which all boiled down to very little action lately, and I didn’t quite know why. This was the beginning of July, and the last time we… the last time. February. Valentine’s Day. Both of us were recovering from the flu, and it was more a case of “if you don’t shag on Valentine’s Day, you might as well owl the divorce lawyers” sort of feeling as opposed to actually wanting it. As I remember, we were both more relieved than anything when Ron had finally gotten off. I couldn’t even bother to fake it decently. In between my lackluster panting, I kept thinking about stepping into a hot shower and letting the steam loosen my chest, then swilling down a glass of brandy and going to sleep for fourteen hours.

Not that I had any intention of telling Malfoy this.

“Yes, it was quite nice.” I pointed at the briefcase. “I got a tremendous amount done.”

He let out a sharp grunt of disgust. “My faith in Weasley’s utter inadequacy as a husband has been restored. Not even fucking you silly every night compensates for this. Thank god. I’d hate to think well of him.” He lit a cigarette, sucked on it, and blew the smoke out the side of his mouth with a rush. “Do you mean to tell me that he let you haul this briefcase to Greece, filled to the brim no doubt, with stupid memos from stupid people, if the current crop is any indication, which do not deserve a reply because it will only encourage them in their stupidity?” He pointed his cigarette in the direction of the dustbin. “The man might physically have the balls the size of grapefruits, but in reality….”

“Shut it,” I demanded. If the ‘t’s had been any more clipped, I would have sprayed him with spit. “What my husband and I do on our holidays is none of your business.”

In fact, I looked forward to this trip every year because it’s the only time I do catch up. For fifteen years, we had rented a secluded beachfront villa in a small wizarding enclave in northern Greece with Harry, Ginny, and their children. Whatever Weasleys were interested joined us as well. It was something of a free-for-all. I’d become an expert on healing charms for sunburns—Weasleys and sun are a lethal combination; Ron is one giant freckle by the end of every holiday. And while everyone else swims and lounges, I sit on the beach, firmly protected by an anti-wind and sand charm, and I clear my desk. It’s absolutely lovely. We normally go in August, but with the wedding, we decided to push it forward by several weeks and left the Monday after the ceremony.

“Only you would call clearing your desk a ‘nice’ holiday.” This was said with a sneer and another fierce drag on his cigarette. “If your current inbox is any indication, no wonder you work seventy hours plus a week and look exhausted all the time.”

“How dare you?” I hissed. “I doubt your holidays would stand up to much scrutiny. Two weeks in Milan devoted to clothes. Any more vacuous and it would be difficult to tell you and your wife apart from the mannequins.”

Although I never read them, Pansy Parkinson-Malfoy’s minute-by-minute account of the summer fashion shows in Milan were famous among the upper echelons of wizarding society. How anyone could devote thousand of words to gawking at anorexic models decked out in ridiculous garments that were, in reality, expensive versions of Halloween costumes remained an utter mystery. The fact that The Prophet’s circulation goes up twenty percent every time her column is published depresses the shit out of me.

“Oh, let’s hear it for ‘productive’ holidays,” he said in his icy, I-hate-you-Granger voice. “As usual, the rest of us have it wrong. Silly me. I thought a holiday was when you didn’t work. For the record, you are woefully misinformed. I do not spend two weeks getting fitted for clothes or attending the fashion shows. I spend one day, then I take off, leaving Pansy to rub her Armani-clad shoulders with Milan’s fashionistas. I visit my art dealer, I attend a few art shows; fortunately, they run concurrently with the fashion shows. Believe it or not, considering what a low opinion you have of me, I spend an inordinate amount of time in museums. I visit churches. The art and architecture of Catholic churches are something of a passion of mine.”

He stopped and took a deep breath.

“We are being perfectly foul to each other, and, not withstanding our usual enmity, I think it’s because we’re hungry. Please have a croissant. I am famished. As are you. I’ve been successfully ignoring the noises your stomach has been broadcasting for the last ten minutes, but this is getting ridiculous. If they get any louder, we will need to start insulting each other in sign language. Manners forbid me from eating if you do not.” He handed me a plate containing a croissant and let go, so that I had to accept it or the plate would drop on the desk. “Thank you,” he said in a curt tone, and began slathering his own croissant with butter and jam. I poured him another cup of tea, which he acknowledged with a nod. “After I do the Milan art circuit, I pop down to Venice, sit in St. Marco’s Square for hours on end, drink iced espresso, and visit my great aunt, who has a palazzo on the canal. Dom and Lily were visiting her while I was there. They send their love.”

I nodded back, and we ate in silence.

I was somewhat chastened by Malfoy’s description of his holiday. Which, truth be told, was dead on the sort of holiday that I’d have booked for myself if I’d had my druthers. I’d learned to look forward to the weeks in Greece, but a part of me wondered if I brought work with me because I was so bored. I could never get Ron into a museum. His idea of art was framed Chudley Cannons posters.

Malfoy was right. As soon as we’d eaten, the tension in the room vanished. At least to the point where we could be civil to each other.

“Lily is doing well?”

“Splendid. Do you mind if I smoke?” He didn’t wait for a reply, but lit up, conveniently ignoring the fact that he’d had been smoking in my room for hours. The curtains would require several cleaning charms. Dammit. “Although it'd only been a week since the wedding, her stomach had poufed out in the most adorable way. Great Aunt Delizia was quite taken with her. Dom is well too.” He gave me a cautious smile. His rapprochement with his son was proceeding apace. “I… I was so jealous of them.”

“Jealous?” I couldn't imagine Malfoy jealous of anyone. He seemed to have the world in the palm of his hand. Certainly, he had my inbox in the palm of his hand. Literally.

He stared off into a far corner of the office. “They’re so in love. It’s like a mist around them—that tangible. And carefree…” The fag rested between his fingers, untouched. “The most pressing concerns in their life are whether their respective in-laws can restrain themselves from physically attacking each other and what to name their first born child. What were your pressing concerns at that age?”

When I was nineteen and twenty the war was at its nadir. We had more people in hospital beds than able-bodied.

It must have showed on my face.

“Exactly,” he said, so quietly he almost whispered it. “Do you know what I did every day when I got up, assuming I’d been to bed that night? I’d look at myself in the mirror and tell myself, ‘You are not dying today, Draco Malfoy. I forbid it.’ Silly, I know. Like I was commanding myself to stay alive, when really it was a half-arsed prayer. And then I would pray, really pray. Get down on my knees and beg a god I didn’t believe in that that day’s Fates wouldn’t pit me against my own father. That I wouldn’t have to kill him. I was actually grateful in some ways when Potter did it. Once I turned, I’d always assumed it was going to be me.”

My morning ritual in those dark days was slightly different. While brushing my teeth I’d repeat over and over: “You will not let Harry or Ron die today.”

“Harry had no choice, you know that,” I said, defending Harry.

His voice hoarse, he snapped, “Yes, Granger, I know that. I was there for christ’s sake. Potter apologises whenever he gets drunk. Like I need reminding that my father was an evil bastard and that someone had to kill him.”

I thought of Lily and Dom’s wedding and how drunk Harry was, and whether Malfoy’s hiding out in the garden was not so much a retreat from the other guests as a way of avoiding Harry’s rambling apologies.

I remember the glee on Lucius Malfoy’s face as he came upon me and Ron in that clearing, Ron felled by some horrible curse that caused his pores to ooze blood, me bending over him casting the counter curse, both of us at Malfoy’s mercy. Although it happened so fast that none of us could react, in my memory, it’s in slow motion and mostly in black and white. Like some over-stylized 1920’s horror movie.

Malfoy Sr. sees us, smiles, sneers, aims his wand, and drawls, “Too easy.” Harry comes crashing through the bushes from one direction, Malfoy Jr. comes crashing through the bushes from the other, both of them screaming, “No!” The signature green light and curse from Harry’s wand lights the clearing, the first of only two Avada Kedavra’s he will ever cast in his life.

To this day, I am not sure whether Malfoy’s agonized “No” was directed at his father or at Harry.

“Yes, choice,” he repeated bitterly. “Something else neither of us had much of. Do you…do you…I wonder if things would have been…” He brought the cigarette back up to his mouth and savoured the drag. I wondered if this was a standard way for him to gather his thoughts. A ten-second window.

“Would have been?” I prompted.

He placed the cigarette back in the ashtray with great care.

“Didn’t you ever wonder what our years at Hogwarts would have been like if the war hadn’t been waiting for us to grow up? If we hadn’t been polarised from day one into those who supported Dumbledore and those who supported Voldemort? If we’d been allowed to be the children we were. You and I might have been friends.”

I stared at him.

“Come on, Granger. It’s not that far-fetched. You were brilliant in potions and arithmancy. So was I. We actually had a lot in common.”

“Oh yes,” I agreed. “We both loved taunting other students by calling them Mudbloods.”

I half-expected him to storm out. He didn’t; he picked up the cigarette for one more leisurely puff.

“Rather horrible of me, but then I was being groomed to be my father’s successor as Voldemort’s key lackey, whose tolerance for mixed bloods, his own heritage not withstanding, was limited to say the least. I’m not apologising Granger, I am merely saying that I was a pawn like everyone else. Like the three of you were Dumbledore’s pawns.”

Storm out my arse, I was going to throw him out.

“We were not Dumbledore’s pawns…”

“Oh please,” he said bitterly. “Just like I wasn’t my father’s pawn or Voldemort’s pawn. But what if the events leading up to the war hadn’t brought the three of you together? Just didn’t happen. They were perfectly horrible to you in the beginning, don’t deny it, I was there. Together, the three of you were much stronger than any of you alone. Potter’s reckless streak, your brains, Weasley’s… to this day, I don’t know what Weasley provided in terms of the dynamics. But in the beginning, if there hadn’t been a war…” his voice trailed off.

I couldn’t help but remember how beastly Ron and Harry had been to me the first few weeks of school until the incident with the troll. And the troll never would have entered the castle if Quirrell hadn’t been trying to get the Sorcerer’s Stone. What if there had been no troll? Ron and Harry constantly sneering at me behind my back in such loud tones that it wasn’t really behind my back at all. Well, Harry not so much, just lots of eye-rolling, but Ron, well, he could be downright cruel.

“Anyway, I sat there drinking coffee in Aunt Delizia’s drawing room, Lily and Dom holding hands while she regaled them with amusing anecdotes of her affair with Mussolini, and I was jealous and horribly sad and… I just wondered. Oh well.” He hitched up the corners of his mouth in what was meant to be a smile. “Aunt Delizia and Pansy loathe each other; it’s best if I visit by myself. Pansy’s not just a little terrified of her. Afraid she might poison her. Or something along those lines.” He frowned. “A possibility, I must admit. The Italian branch of the Malfoys are a rather bloodthirsty lot. Well, small wonder. Borgias originally. On the wall of her dining room there’s a stunning portrait of Cesare I’ve coveted for years. We have the same mouth.” He pursed his lips for emphasis. "Pops up in someone every third generation.”

“You're related to Cesare Borgia!” I squawked. “But his father was a Pope. And a Muggle.” It all made too much sense.

“Yes, Granger. Well spotted about the Pope thing. Of course he wasn’t a Muggle, you silly woman. The French branch was a result of that massive migration of Italian wizards who followed Catherine di Medici to France when she got married. She was a witch, too. Muggle history is always wrong. Anyway, minor Borgias married quite well situated Malfoys, and we probably would have stayed in France if it weren’t for that irritating French revolution, which prompted the Malfoys to settle in England. However, the Italian ties were maintained. Father somewhat broke with tradition by marrying my mother. Normally, the English Malfoy males marry either French or Italian purebloods. Anyway, the Borgias were never content with ruling just the wizarding world. They insisted on ruling the Muggle world as well. Hello, Voldemort? Some pointers here on being successful a megalomaniac. Anyway, I visit her and dote on her and take her for ices and gondola rides, and generally ingratiate myself with her.”

“I imagine there’s money involved? Enough to make a trip to Venice every June somewhat mandatory,” I said dryly.

“Buckets of it, Granger,” he drawled. “Dear Aunt Delizia is loaded. It’s twice a year, by the way. I stop by on my way to Gstaad when we go skiing. I’ve always wanted a palazzo in Venice…”

“…What every rich wizard needs. A palazzo.”

“Before you sneer, you should see it. Stupendous place. More tea?” I nodded. “Right on the canal. The Italian Malfoys have always had a foot in both the Muggle and wizarding world. They weren’t too happy with father’s support of Voldemort and his Muggle hatred. Exquisite art in every room. It’s really the art I have my beady little eyes on. I have so much money that more would be pointless…”

“Lucky you…”

“Fuck off. But the art…” he sighed, inexplicably a happy sound. “And it shall all be mine.” He grinned. Positively grinned. “Can’t say her grandson’s very happy with the way the will fell out. I have to watch my back around him. I imagine she’ll relent at some point and leave him a trust, but look what happened the last time she included him in her will. Frankly, he has only himself to blame,” he clucked.

“His fatal mistake?” I made a rolling motion with my hand for him to continue.

“Portkeying her to the Siberian tundra in the dead of winter, clad only in a negligee and a pair of silk mules. Idiot. Malfoys always carry a spare Portkey. More tea?”

I shook my head. Clearly, the sins of Granger family, the most egregious being the time Aunt Valerie stole the famous shrimp dip recipe from Aunt Claire and tried to pass it off as her own at the church fete, paled in comparison to Borgias poisoning their rivals and grandsons Portkeying their rich grandmothers to Russia to die of exposure.

Malfoy’s repeated, “I’m a Malfoy fill-in-the-blanks” made sense now. A family whose experiences and ambitions were so out of the scope of normal that the usual rules of civilised behaviour didn’t really apply. It didn’t excuse them, but it certainly explained them.

“While I was visiting her, I picked up a little something for your office. Done?” He motioned toward the tea pot.

“Yes, thank you. For my office?” I narrowed my eyes.

He snapped his fingers and the teapot and its accoutrements disappeared. “You are the only thing of any beauty in this entire room. How you function in such a sterile environment is beyond me. Do you know you have the distinction of having the most utilitarian office in the entire Ministry? Hospital rooms at St. Mungo’s are more inviting.”

“Is that how you have your fingers in every pie? You dismantle the wards on people’s offices and read their in-house memos?” I accused.

“Only in a pinch,” he admitted. “Usually a few pints at the Leaky or lots of flowers suffice. I have an owl dedicated solely for florists. That’s something else you could use in here. Some roses would…”

“Cover up the smell of smoke?”

“Possibly. Anyway, Aunt Delizia was more than happy to part with it. I’m not much for anything before Jackson Pollock, but this has a certain charm, and you strike me as someone who would like the Impressionists.” He waved his hand at the wall to the right of me.

God knows how I missed it. I’d been so focused on him reading my mail that I was clearly blind to every thing else. My mouth dropped open.

“Malfoy, it’s a M.M.Monet,” I stuttered. “Tell… tell me it’s a copy,” I begged.

“A copy?” he snorted. “You couldn’t possibly insult me more. Granted it’s a minor water lilies. Early. I suspect that Auntie had an affair with him but she won’t admit it. Ended badly, I think. Muggle-wizard romances are doomed from the start. Anyway, she practically begged me to take it. It’s rather nice if you like that sort of thing. Come, look at the brush work; it’s very fine.”

I shook my head and walked to the far corner of my office to study the whole of it. The greens, blues, the brush strokes somehow miraculously creating the movement of the water. Oh, it was exquisite.

“Come, look at the brush work,” he repeated in a soft voice.

I made my way over to the painting. Standing side by side, we gently traced the whorls and ridges of the painting with two fingers, vicariously imitating the arc of Monet’s brush. The knot in my neck began to gradually unwind as we covered every inch of the canvass. Our fingers occasionally touched. And when he put his hand on my shoulder and returned me to the far corner of the room so that we could study it together, I didn’t flinch or wrest my shoulder away from his hand. I let it rest there and found myself leaning into it as I studied the painting again, savouring the easing of the last kink in the knot as the beauty of Monet’s genius worked its magic on me.

I loved it. I wanted it to stay here on my wall. And as beautiful as it was and as much as I loved it, and I did want, god did I want it, I knew I couldn’t take it. Because there was always a price with Draco Malfoy, and he bargained in currency I couldn’t possibly afford.

”I… I…” said to my feet.

He removed his hand.

“If you refuse it, I will be here every morning before you. I will force you to have tea with me. I will continue reading your post. Every day. If you complain, I will say you’re not cooperating with me. Flying in the face of the memo the Minister put out last spring about interoffice unity. Now, you have a choice. You can keep the painting or you can suffer having breakfast with me every morning. I think the choice is clear.”

“And how will you explain breaking through my wards?” I demanded.

“I won’t have to break through your wards,” he smiled. “I’ll just stand in your hallway and wait for you to arrive. Or perhaps I’ll wait for you in the lobby, and we can catch the lift together. Hmmm?”

Bloody bastard. As if I was going to let the Ministry gossips have a field day speculating as to why Draco Malfoy was waiting in the lobby for me every morning.

He continued. “To relieve you of any guilt or the idea that you have to recompense me for it, think of it as a thank you.”

“Thank you for what?” The internal alarm bells began to go off.

“Helping me with Jenkins, of course. Let’s chat, Granger.”

*******************

TBC