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Chapter Text

"...and then I looked him straight in the eyes and said: 'Mr Williams, you've been cheating on your wife for eight years with four different women, and now you're crying in my office because she wants your yacht?'" Priya Sharma rolled her eyes theatrically, spilling a bit of wine on her silk blouse. "Oops. Third stain this week."

Hermione giggled, sinking deeper into the sofa. Her cheeks were flushed from the wine, her eyes slightly hazy. Two empty bottles already stood on the coffee table, and a third was half empty.

"How do you do it?" she mumbled. "Every day you meet all these rich, desperate men..."

"And sometimes I take them to bed," Priya finished with a devilish smile. "Not the married ones, of course. I have standards. I wait at least a week after the divorce."

"Priya!" Hermione tried to appear outraged, but her laughter betrayed her amusement.

"What? I'm not London's best divorce solicitor for nothing. I know human hearts..." Priya dramatically placed her hand on her chest, then slid it lower, "...and other body parts."

Her glossy black hair contrasted with her pale skin as she tilted her head back, laughing at her own joke. The mini dress under her unbuttoned blazer rode dangerously high as she shifted position in the armchair.

"And you, my darling, are withering like an unwatered fern. Your cupcakes are divine, your bakery is thriving, but your love life is like sugar-free brownies – supposedly healthy, but completely tasteless."

"I don't need a man to be happy," she protested, trying to sound convincing.

"Of course you don't," Priya agreed, waving her hand. "You need him for sex. For laughter. For sharing those weird facts you read in your books when you think no one's watching."

Before Hermione could protest, Priya was already rummaging through the recesses of the sofa.

"I've got something for you. And no, it's not a vibrator, although you could use one of those too."

She pulled out her phone and tapped on the keyboard for a few moments, squinting to focus her vision.

"What are you doing?" Hermione asked suspiciously.

"Setting up your SoulScript account."

''What is this?''

"SoulScript. A regular dating site," Priya explained, rolling her eyes. "Right, I'm almost done. I used your middle name – Jean G. Mysterious and elegant. Now we need a photo," she announced, browsing through Hermione's gallery. "Christ, what's this? Pictures of... cupcakes? And that flat-faced cat of yours is staring at me from at least twenty photos."

"Crookshanks doesn't have a flat face!" she protested. "He's just... unique."

"Like you," Priya muttered. "Fine, no options here. We need to do a photo shoot. Now."

"Now?" she looked down at her loungewear and tousled hair. "I'm drunk and I look like a scarecrow."

"That's precisely why it's the perfect moment," Priya stood up unsteadily, refilling both their glasses. "You're too uptight when sober. You need that bit of... wine-courage."

"That's the worst pun I've ever heard," Hermione giggled, but accepted the glass.

"Right, take off that horrible loungewear," Priya directed, rummaging through Hermione's wardrobe. "Christ, woman, where are your sexy clothes? Everything looks like school uniforms!"

"I'm a bakery owner, not a porn star," she protested, but obediently removed her hoodie, remaining in a simple vest.

"Every woman has a bit of a porn star in her," Priya pulled out a silk blouse from the depths of the wardrobe. "Oh, this. And take off that granny bra."

Twenty minutes later, Hermione was standing by the window in a white shirt that Priya had extracted from the depths of her wardrobe. Underneath she wore a black bra, a relic from her Hogwarts days, definitely too small – her breasts nearly spilled out with each deep breath. Her lips were painted an intense red, and her cheeks were flushed both from the alcohol and embarrassment.

"I can't believe you talked me into this," she mumbled, trying to fasten one more button on the shirt.

"Leave it," Priya swatted her hand away. "Men love suggestion, not the finished product. Now, lean against the windowsill and gaze into the distance as if you're thinking about something profound."

"I'm profoundly thinking about how much I'll regret this," she muttered, but obediently struck the pose.

"Perfect. Now bite your lip gently. Yes, just like that," Priya took photo after photo. "Now turn your back, but look over your shoulder. Yes, with that hair you look like a wild lioness."

Hermione giggled, getting more into the role. The wine circulated in her veins, relaxing her with each minute.

"Now sit on the bed. No, not so stiffly. Imagine you're waiting for someone... special," Priya instructed, crouching to capture a better angle.

"Who? The plumber who's come to fix my pipes?" she snorted.

"If that's your fantasy, then why not," Sharma laughed. "Right, now undo two more buttons."

"More? I'll be practically naked soon!"

"That's precisely the definition of 'practically'," she rolled her eyes. "Come on, no one will see this except us."

Sighing, she undid two more buttons, revealing more of her décolletage and a glimpse of the black bra.

"Perfect," Priya murmured, taking more photos. "Now lie down and imagine you're in a perfume advert. Mysterious, sensual, unapproachable."

Hermione lay on her side, propping her head up with her hand and trying to look "mysterious," which triggered another burst of laughter.

"What? I'm doing what you told me!"

"You look like you're about to check someone's homework," her friend giggled. "Right, last photo. Maybe just take off the shirt? Stay in your bra, it'll be sexier."

"Absolutely not!" she immediately sat up straight, pressing the shirt to her body. "Are you mad? I'm not taking half-naked photos!"

"Come on, it's just for us," Priya insisted. "So you can see how truly beautiful you are."

"I said no. Line crossed. The shirt stays on."

Priya sighed theatrically, but smiled.

"All right, Ms Conservative. We've got brilliant photos anyway. The bloke who chooses you will be lucky... and surprised when he discovers what's hiding beneath that professional facade."

Priya flopped onto the bed beside Hermione, still holding the phone. "Now for the best part – filtering through candidates!"

For the next twenty minutes, the room was filled with squeals, laughter and exclamations as they scrolled through profiles of potential admirers.

"Oh my God, no, he's got a photo with a fish! Who takes a picture with a dead fish?!" Priya exclaimed, swiping left so energetically she nearly dropped the phone.

"What about this one? He looks quite decent," Hermione pointed to the profile of a man wearing glasses.

"'I enjoy long walks through bookshops and short walks to the fridge,'" Priya read. "Hmm, at least he reads. But look at his shoes. They're... practical."

"What's wrong with practical shoes?" Hermione protested.

"Nothing, if you're eighty!" she scrolled further. "Oh, what about this one?"

"He's got photos with five different women. That's a red flag, isn't it?"

"Or proof he's not a serial killer," Priya shrugged. "Left or right?"

"Left!"

"Right, next... Oooh!" Priya suddenly sat up straight, staring at the screen. "What do we have here?"

The screen displayed a photo of a male forearm in an elegant, dark blue shirt with rolled-up sleeve. An exclusive watch gleamed on the wrist, and the hand rested on a dark, wooden desk.

"Is that all? Just an arm?" Hermione tilted her head.

"Not 'just an arm', my ignorant darling. That's a Patek Philippe!" she practically spilled her wine, pointing at the watch. "This little beauty costs more than your bakery and all my suits put together."

"So what, I'm supposed to date a watch now?" she giggled.

"No, silly. You're dating the man who can afford such a watch," Priya slid her finger across the screen, checking the profile. "He might be as ugly as sin, but at least you'll have dinner at a restaurant where a single glass of wine costs as much as your weekly flour supply."

"Priya! I'm not going to date someone for money," Hermione protested, though the corners of her mouth twitched.

"Not for money, for the experience," she corrected. "Think of it as... field research. How the other half lives."

"The other half?"

"The rich one," Priya winked and swiped right. "Good, saved for later. Now next... Oh no, this one has a photo with a guitar. I bet he plays 'Wonderwall' at every party."

"What about him?" Hermione pointed to a handsome brunet.

"Hmm... 'Entrepreneur, travel enthusiast, adventure seeker.' Translation: unemployed, lives with his parents and wants you to pay for his trip to Thailand, where he'll cheat on you with the first barmaid he meets."

Hermione snorted wine through her nose, dissolving into laughter.

Suddenly, the phone buzzed, signalling a new message.

"Oh! You've got a message!" Priya squealed, opening it immediately. "From someone called 'LondonTiger88'."

"What does it say?" she tried to peek over her shoulder.

Sharma cleared her throat and read in a dramatic voice: "'Hey beautiful, are you a baker? Because you look sweet and I'd love to taste you.'"

A moment of silence fell, after which they both erupted into uncontrollable laughter.

"Oh my... that is... the worst... chat-up line... ever..." Hermione spluttered between fits of laughter.

"Wait, wait! I'll answer him!" her friend was already typing. "'Thank you, but my bakes aren't for everyone.'"

"You can't send that!" she tried to grab the phone, but Priya was quicker.

"Done!" she announced triumphantly. "Let's see what he replies."

The reply came almost immediately: "'I can show you my own hot bun, if you want. It's really steamy.'"

"Ewww!" they both groaned simultaneously.

"Right, blocking him," she rolled her eyes. "Seriously, some blokes should be banned from using the internet."

She had barely managed to block "LondonTiger88" when the phone buzzed again.

"Another message? You're popular," she murmured, opening it. "This one's called 'ArtGalleryOwner42'. Sounds pretentious, but at least he has a job."

"'Hello Jean, Your profile caught my attention. Do you like art? I've just opened a new exhibition near Covent Garden. Perhaps you'd like to join me for coffee, and afterwards I could show you the gallery?'" Priya read. "Hmm, that sounds quite... normal?"

"Check his profile," Hermione instructed, intrigued.

"Thirty-six, gallery owner, enjoys wine and travel..." she scrolled through the information. "Looks quite decent. Will you reply?"

"Well... I suppose so?" she bit her lip. "What should I write?"

"Something simple. 'Hi, thanks for your message. Coffee sounds great, I'd love to hear more about your gallery.'"

The reply came almost immediately.

"'Brilliant! But instead of coffee, why don't we meet directly at my gallery? I've got my car parked round the back, we can chat more... privately there. Fancy a quick shag? I'm free in 20 minutes.'"

Hermione choked on her wine.

"What a prick!" Priya exclaimed, blocking the profile. "See? This is why I'm a divorce solicitor. I know men. First they're charming, then they're suggesting sex in the back seat after five minutes of conversation."

"Maybe this isn't a good idea," she sighed, pulling a blanket over herself. "Clearly I'm not cut out for online dating."

"Nonsense," Priya waved her hand. "That's just two wankers. Come on, let's keep scrolling. Somewhere out there is a bloke who will appreciate your intelligence, your carrot cake, and won't propose sex before you learn his name."

Suddenly the phone buzzed again.

"Another message," Priya murmured, opening the notification. "Oh, it's the watch guy! His name is... 'SilverHeir'."

"Sounds pretentious," Hermione giggled, reaching for the phone.

Her friend moved it out of reach and cleared her throat to read the message.

"Hi. You have a gorgeous smile. I'd love to choke you sometime."

Hermione almost choked on the wine she was drinking. Her eyes widened in shock, and her face turned a shade of intense red. Still coughing, she stretched out her hand for the phone, determined to immediately block this disgusting character.

Before she could do so, the phone buzzed again.

SilverHeir: "CHAT. I'd love to chat sometime. Oh god."

And before she could react, another message came through:

SilverHeir: "I just completely ruined my first impression, didn't I? This is what happens when I type too quickly."

"Oh my..." Hermione stopped coughing, looking at the screen with a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

"Please," Priya rolled her eyes with a broad smile. "That wasn't any autocorrect. This bloke knew exactly what he was writing. He just didn't want to be too forward at the beginning, so he's pretending it was a mistake."

"You think?" she looked skeptically at the screen.

"Of course! It's the oldest trick in the book," Priya began gathering her things. "You write something raunchy, then pretend it was an error. That way you've already started talking about choking, but his hands are clean."

"That's... that's..." she couldn't find the right words.

"Brilliant?" Sharma suggested, putting on her blazer. "And you know what? I've got to dash. I have a case tomorrow morning with a client who caught her husband in a situation far more compromising than a typo about choking."

"You can't leave me now!" she protested. "What am I supposed to reply?"

"Whatever you want," she winked. "But if I were you, I'd be careful. The bloke has an expensive watch and knows his way around wordplay. That could be a dangerous combination."

Fifteen minutes later, she sat alone on the bed, staring at the phone screen. Priya had left, leaving her with a glass of wine to finish and a dangerously intriguing message on SoulScript.

If she hadn't already been quite tipsy, she probably would have just deleted the app and forgotten about the whole thing. But the alcohol circulating in her veins gave her the courage – or perhaps foolishness – to consider a reply.

"Well, at least he honestly admitted his mistake," she muttered to herself, tapping her finger on the screen.

She began typing: "Your autocorrect has rather specific ideas."

She grimaced and deleted the message. Too formal.

She tried again: "Choking on the first date? I usually require dinner at the very least."

"Oh God, no," she groaned, deleting that too. What was she even thinking?

"Haha, these things happen. Autocorrect can be treacherous."

She deleted it. Too neutral, too boring.

She sighed deeply, drained her wine in one gulp and quickly wrote:

Jean G.: "That's quite an extreme way to start a conversation. Usually a simple 'hello' suffices."

Before she could overthink it, she pressed "send".

She stared at the phone with a mixture of terror and excitement. The wine must have gone to her head more than she'd thought. She'd just replied to a stranger whose only photo was a forearm with an expensive watch, and whose first message was a suggestion about choking.

The phone lay on the bed like a ticking bomb. Hermione watched it for several long seconds, then suddenly grabbed it to check if her message had actually been sent.

"Delivered" – read the small text beneath her message.

She tried to occupy herself with something else – she checked her emails, scrolled through social media, even started reading an article about new baking trends – but every few seconds her gaze wandered back to the SoulScript app.

Five minutes later the phone vibrated.

She almost jumped, reaching for the device. A new message from SilverHeir glowed on the screen.

SilverHeir: "Deserved. Though in my defence, 'hello' would never have been noticed in the sea of other messages you presumably receive. And despite my catastrophic typo, I've at least managed to capture your attention, haven't I?"

She raised an eyebrow. The man had cheek, she had to give him that. She thought for a moment before replying.

Jean G.: "Your strategy is supposedly a choking typo? Original, I'll admit. Though I'm wondering if it really was a mistake, or rather a clever way to stand out from the crowd."

The reply came almost immediately.

SilverHeir: "Intelligent and perceptive. If I were more cunning, I could claim that was my plan all along. But honesty is supposedly a good conversation starter, so I'll admit – it was an authentic communication disaster. Though effective, wouldn't you say?"

Hermione hesitated, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. There was something disturbingly appealing about this stranger's confidence. She ran her thumb along the edge of the phone, considering her response. The room suddenly seemed more intimate – the bedside lamp cast a soft light, and the silence intensified the feeling that she was having this conversation with someone sitting right next to her.

Jean G.: "Effective, without a doubt. I'm just wondering if you often employ such extreme methods to get attention."

She put the phone down on the duvet, watching it like a dangerous animal. She shouldn't have replied. And she certainly shouldn't continue this conversation. The answer came faster than she expected.

SilverHeir: "Only when it's worth it. And I rarely meet someone who is truly worth the effort. Most people are predictable."

She bit her lower lip. She sensed a subtle compliment in this message. But there was also a provocation – as if he was testing her reaction.

Jean G.: "And you're obviously the exception to this rule? Unpredictable, mysterious stranger with dangerous autocorrect?"

When she sent the message, she realised that against her better judgment, she wanted to continue this exchange. Something in the tone of his words aroused a curiosity in her that she couldn't suppress.

SilverHeir: "I'm exactly as predictable as I need to be. And as unpredictable as you want me to be. That's part of the charm of talking to a stranger – you can project all your expectations onto me."

Jean G.: "Projections are dangerous. Reality rarely lives up to them."

SilverHeir: "Or perhaps that's precisely why you keep replying? Out of curiosity, to see if reality can be better than imagination?"

Hermione pursed her lips. He was right. She was responding out of pure curiosity – and that annoyed her. She never gave in to impulses, always analysed the situation. And now she was having an ambiguous conversation with a stranger who hadn't even shown his face.

Jean G.: "Maybe I'm replying because I have nothing better to do on a Friday night. Or perhaps the wine I've been drinking has weakened my usually flawless nonsense filtering system."

She felt satisfaction with this response – direct, but with a hint of sarcasm. She was regaining control.

SilverHeir: "Wine? Interesting. Red or white? Dry or sweet? One's choice of wine says a lot about a person."

Hermione hesitated. She hadn't expected such a turn. Instead of continuing the ambiguous exchange, he'd asked about something as mundane as wine.

Jean G.: "Red. Merlot. Medium-dry. What does that tell you about me, according to you?"

SilverHeir: "That you value balance. You don't like extremes – neither too sweet nor too bitter experiences. You prefer depth and complexity, but with a note of accessibility. I wonder if this balance applies to all aspects of your life."

She felt her throat tighten slightly. This analysis was surprisingly accurate. And disturbingly intimate.

Jean G.: "Impressive deduction based on wine choice. Did you study psychology or do you just often use this trick in conversations with women?"

SilverHeir: "Neither. I simply... observe. I notice details. And details often say more than words. For instance, the fact that you're still talking to someone who started with a typo about choking suggests you enjoy risk. At least intellectual risk."

She took a deeper breath. The conversation was shifting back towards ambiguity. She felt a rush of adrenaline – a familiar mixture of anxiety and excitement that she usually felt before exams or important presentations.

Jean G.: "You talk about boundaries and risk, but the biggest risk in this situation is that I'm talking to someone who's hiding his face. I might be flirting with a sixty-year-old stalker, a wanted criminal, or – even worse – my former professor."

SilverHeir: "I assure you I'm neither your statistics professor nor a wanted criminal. As for age, I'm closer to yours than to sixty. I don't show my face for professional reasons. In my world, discretion is a currency more valuable than money."

Jean G.: "Mysterious and evasive. Very convenient. How do I know you're even real? That forearm photo with the watch could have been downloaded from any website."

SilverHeir: "Reasonable distrust. I appreciate healthy scepticism. Especially for you..."

Hermione waited for several long seconds until the next message arrived – a photo. It showed a male hand holding today's newspaper, the same expensive watch visible on the wrist. The face still remained out of frame.

SilverHeir: "Real enough? Photo taken two minutes ago, specially for you. Note the date on the newspaper."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Again the same hand, the same watch. As if that was the only thing he wanted to show her.

Jean G.: "A hand and a watch. Impressive. I see you like showing off your accessories. Or is that the only part of you that you consider worth displaying?"

She waited for the answer, feeling satisfaction from her sharp remark. Maybe it would discourage him, maybe he'd take offence. Or maybe...

SilverHeir: "I like your temperament. As for showing more... since you're asking so directly."

The phone vibrated again. A new photo. She took a deep breath and opened it.

This time the shot was wider – a man standing in front of a mirror in an elegant bathroom. He was wearing a black shirt with one sleeve rolled up, revealing a muscular forearm. One hand rested on a marble countertop, the other held the phone. The watch gleamed in the light. The photo included his entire figure from feet to neck – tall, slim, but well-built. His head was cut off by the upper edge of the photo.

SilverHeir: "Satisfied? This is the best I can offer before meeting. I hope you appreciate the gesture of goodwill."

She felt her throat go dry. The shirt looked perfectly tailored, emphasising his athletic build. The elegant bathroom in the background suggested a luxury hotel or a very expensive flat.

Jean G.: "Better, though you're still avoiding showing your face. I must admit you have good taste, at least when it comes to clothes and interiors. I wonder if your personality matches your aesthetic standards."

SilverHeir: "You can judge my personality tomorrow. As for aesthetics, that's just the outer layer. What's hidden beneath the surface is more interesting, don't you think? Both in the case of interiors and people."

Jean G.: "A philosophical approach to interior design? Interesting. Though in your case, the surface seems meticulously crafted. I wonder how much effort you put into hiding what's underneath."

She sent the message, feeling a strange mixture of irritation and fascination. This man was like a puzzle – each exchanged message revealed a new element, but the whole remained elusive.

SilverHeir: "Hiding suggests something negative. I prefer to think of it as selective revealing. Like a good book, it doesn't give everything away on the first page. The best stories develop slowly, building tension page by page."

Jean G.: "But even the best book eventually reveals its ending. Otherwise the reader might grow impatient and put it back on the shelf."

SilverHeir: "Patience is a virtue, Jean. And the best things come to those who can wait. But if you want extra incentive not to put this particular book down..."

Another photo appeared on the screen. Hermione held her breath. This was a much more intimate shot than the previous ones – a close-up of a male torso. The top buttons of the black shirt were undone, revealing a fragment of skin and the outline of a muscular chest. The line of his neck was visible, transitioning into a sharply defined jaw, but the picture ended just below the chin. One of his hands was visible at the collar, as if he was about to undo another button.

SilverHeir: "I hope that's sufficient incentive. You'll discover the rest in person."

She felt her cheeks heat up to a bright red. The photo was suggestive but sophisticated – showing enough to stimulate the imagination, but still maintaining an aura of mystery.

Jean G.: "Interesting move. Moving from intellectual wordplay to more direct methods of persuasion?"

She tried to sound nonchalant, though her heart was beating much faster than a moment ago.

SilverHeir: "Just another layer of narrative. Mind and body don't have to be separate chapters of the same book. The best stories engage all senses, don't you think?"

Jean G.: "Clever. Though I'm wondering if you're trying to distract me from the fact that you still haven't shown your face. Perhaps you're not so confident about all your assets?"

SilverHeir: "My assets? I assure you, I'm very confident about all of them. But the best discoveries are made in person, not through a phone screen. Tomorrow you'll see for yourself whether it was worth the wait."

She raised her eyebrows, reading his message. Typical – he assumed she'd already agreed to meet. Men and their confidence.

Jean G.: "I see you've already planned our meeting. Interesting, because I don't recall ever saying I want to meet you. And certainly not tomorrow. Do you always assume women will be ready to jump into your exclusive calendar after a few messages?"

She smiled with satisfaction. Let him not think he can manipulate her so easily. The answer came after a longer pause than usual.

SilverHeir: "Touché. I rushed too much. It's unusual for me... I typically have more patience. Clearly our conversation is affecting me more than I'd like to admit. Allow me, then, to ask officially: would you honour me with your company over coffee? I can adjust the place and time to your preferences."

Jean G.: "Better. Though I'm still wondering if meeting a man who began our acquaintance with a mention of choking, and then consistently refused to show his face, is a sensible idea."

SilverHeir: "Sensibility is overrated, don't you think? But I understand your reservations. What can I do to convince you? Apart from showing my face – I'll save that pleasure for our meeting, should you decide to accept."

She stared at the phone screen, feeling her breathing become shallower. Only now, after several minutes of intense message exchange, did she realise she was sitting in semi-darkness, fingers gripping the edge of the duvet, her body responding to this conversation in a way she hadn't at all anticipated.

She was absolutely, undeniably aroused. From a conversation with a stranger. From a few suggestive photos and a series of sophisticated messages.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. This was absurd. She shouldn't be reacting this way. It must be the wine. Or the stress of recent weeks. Or simply too long without romantic excitement.

Jean G.: "Your confidence is simultaneously irritating and intriguing. I'll consider your proposal. But for now, I'd prefer to continue our conversation here, where I can simply turn off my phone at any moment."

SilverHeir: "Now I'm wondering if I shouldn't be the cautious one. Behind your profile could just as easily be a forty-year-old overweight man sitting in a basement, fantasising about the intelligent conversations he lacks in reality."

Hermione snorted with laughter, surprised by his directness.

Jean G.: "Really? I have my photo on my profile. Unlike a certain mysterious owner of an expensive watch who shows everything except his face."

SilverHeir: "A photo? Yes, charming. But these days it could just as easily be a picture of some little-known model. Too beautiful to be a real woman flirting with a stranger on a dating site."

Hermione froze, staring at the screen. A compliment hidden within an accusation. Clever.

Jean G.: "Manipulation through flattery? Nice move. Though I assure you, I am a very real woman, not a forty-year-old man in a basement. Nor a model."

SilverHeir: "And I am a very real man, neither a serial killer nor a professor. So perhaps it's worth risking this meeting after all? At worst, you'll have an interesting story to tell your friends over wine."

She shook her head in disbelief. He persistently maintained his mystery, yet expected her to simply trust him.

Jean G.: "'A very real man' – says someone who could just as easily be a group of teenagers pretending to be a mysterious businessman for fun. Hard to believe in someone who exists only as a fragment of text on a screen and a piece of forearm in a photo."

She put down the phone, satisfied with her retort. She waited for a reply, anticipating another sophisticated verbal exchange. Instead, she received a voice message.

For a moment she hesitated. Listening to his voice seemed like crossing an invisible boundary, as if this conversation was suddenly about to become more real, more intimate. On the other hand, she was unbearably curious.

She glanced at the closed bedroom door, then brought the phone to her ear and pressed "play".

"Jean..." – a male whisper resonated from the speaker. "Do I seem more real to you now? I want you to know that every word I've written to you comes from me, not from a group of teenagers, but from a man who is surprisingly intrigued by a woman met by chance, through an absurd spelling mistake."

She held her breath. The whisper had something hypnotic about it, soft, controlled, with a sophisticated accent suggesting good education. The way he pronounced her middle name, as if savouring each letter, sent a shiver down her spine.

It was a strangely intimate experience, as if he were leaning into her ear in a crowded room, sharing a secret only with her. She felt as if they had crossed some invisible boundary, and the conversation had suddenly become more real, more personal.

Jean G.: "Clever move. Though I must admit, a whisper is an unexpected choice. Do you talk like this with all your internet acquaintances, or only those who show scepticism?"

She tried to maintain nonchalance, though her heart was beating decidedly too fast.

SilverHeir: "Only with you. I had to whisper. It's late, and the walls in these luxury apartments are surprisingly thin. Besides... a whisper creates a certain intimacy, don't you think? Your turn, Jean. I'd like to hear your voice."

She placed the phone on the duvet, staring at its blue glow. Absurd. Complete absurdity. She wasn't going to send voice messages to a strange man after midnight. Especially one who had been manipulating her since the first message.

She turned off the screen and rolled onto her side, squeezing her eyes shut.

Three minutes later the phone was back in her hand.

"It's just an experiment," she thought, pressing the record button. "I'm testing my boundaries."

She hesitated, then exhaled and whispered into the microphone:

"Satisfied? My voice. My whisper. You won't get anything more. At least not today. And you know what? Your voice doesn't sound like a serial killer's at all. That's something, I suppose."

She sent the message, immediately regretting her decision. She swiped her finger across the screen, checking options – was it possible to delete a voice message already sent? Of course not.

SilverHeir didn't respond. Two minutes. Five. Eight.

Hermione threw off the duvet, feeling growing irritation. Was he ignoring her? Had he fallen asleep? Or was he just playing her message on repeat, analysing every note in her voice, every catch in her breath?

When her phone finally vibrated, she wasn't prepared for what she saw. Not text, not a voice message. A photo.

A close-up of a male hand clenched on a sheet. Knuckles white with tension, veins visible beneath the skin. In the corner of the photo, a fragment of wrist with the same elegant watch.

And underneath, the text:

SilverHeir: "This is what your voice does to me. Consider meeting if you want to see what else you can provoke. Goodnight, Jean."

She felt something twist inside her, a mixture of excitement, alarm, and something she couldn't name. She stared at that photo much longer than she should have.

She put down the phone as if it had suddenly become hot. What was she doing?

She stared at the ceiling, feeling her heart still beating too fast, her thoughts swirling chaotically. This wasn't how her Friday evening was supposed to go. She was going to read a few chapters of a new novel, maybe watch an episode of a series and go to sleep early.

Instead, she lay wide awake, with the image of a clenched male hand burned beneath her eyelids.

She rolled onto her side. Then onto her back. Then onto her other side again. She adjusted her pillow. She threw off the duvet because she felt too hot. After a moment, she pulled it back up.

Fifteen minutes later she still wasn't asleep. Thoughts of the mysterious man, his whisper, his hand clenched on the sheet – it all whirled in her head, giving her no peace.

"Fuck you, Priya!" she suddenly shouted into the void, surprising herself with this burst of frustration.

It was all Priya's fault. If it weren't for her, Hermione wouldn't be lying awake now, thinking about a stranger who had begun their conversation with a typo about choking.

Finally, exhausted by the emotional rollercoaster of the evening, she fell into a restless sleep.

She dreamt of a male hand. Elegant, strong, with an impossibly expensive watch, doing impossibly indecent things.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke up with a throbbing headache and a hazy memory of an intense dream. She needed a moment to get her bearings. Saturday. Day off. And... a potential meeting with a mysterious stranger. Potential. She hadn't decided anything yet.

She reached for her phone and saw a cascade of notifications. Most from Priya.

[07:23] Priya: Are you alive? How was the date?

[07:45] Priya: Hello? You didn't stay up all night because of that app bloke, did you?

[08:12] Priya: HERMIONE GRANGER ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW

[08:15] Priya: If you don't respond within the hour, I'm calling the police

[08:31] Priya: Okay, I'm joking about the police, but seriously, give me a sign of life

Hermione sighed and quickly typed a response.

[09:17] Hermione: I'm alive. There was no date. Not yet.

The phone vibrated almost immediately.

[09:17] Priya: NOT YET???? Tell me EVERYTHING!

She quickly summarised the course of the night's conversation, sending screenshots of key messages and the photos she'd received – the elegant forearm with the watch, the torso shot in an unbuttoned shirt, the hand clenched on the sheet.

[09:28] Priya: HE SENT YOU A VOICE MESSAGE???

[09:29] Priya: AND YOU REPLIED???

[09:29] Priya: AND YOU'RE MEETING HIM???

[09:30] Priya: TODAY???

Hermione rolled her eyes. Typical Priya – enthusiastic to excess.

[09:31] Hermione: I don't know if I'll go. It's madness.

[09:32] Priya: WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON'T KNOW??? Of course you're going!!! But not alone! I'll sit two tables away for safety!

[09:33] Hermione: I don't even know what he looks like.

[09:34] Priya: BUT HE KNOWS WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE!!! Blue dress, right? Take the new one, the one with the neckline!

[09:35] Hermione: I'm not going to dress up for him.

[09:36] Priya: Dress up for yourself, darling! 💅 I'm calling in 10 minutes and you'll tell me everything in detail!!!

Hermione put down the phone and dragged herself out of bed. She needed coffee. Lots of coffee.

In the kitchen, she poured water into the French press and reached for a mug. No message from SilverHeir. Silence. As if their night exchange hadn't happened. Maybe that was better? Perhaps upon waking he realised he'd gone too far?

She pressed the plunger in the coffee pot when the phone vibrated on the counter. Her heart leapt to her throat.

A new message. From SilverHeir.

SilverHeir: I usually wake up with a clear mind and a precise plan for the day. Today, however, I find myself returning to thoughts of your voice. I'm wondering if you're still considering our meeting, or if daylight has dispelled night-time impulses? I hope your coffee is strong and good. I suspect we both might need it today.

She replied, trying to maintain the same tone – slightly distant, but with a hint of interest.

Jean G.: Night-time impulses tend to seem less sensible in the light of day. But the coffee is indeed strong. And necessary. Do you always so effectively bring chaos into the lives of strangers, or is this just my special privilege?

SilverHeir: A special privilege, I assure you. Most of my conversations are predictable. You are refreshing. As for bringing chaos – sometimes the most interesting discoveries emerge precisely from disorder. I wonder if today at 4:00 at Chapter One we'll discover something interesting? Are you still planning to come?

Hermione bit her lip. It was Saturday, she had the day off, and the prospect of meeting the mysterious man was tempting. But the rational part of her mind was still sounding the alarm.

Jean G.: I must admit, I still have doubts about your reality. It's so easy to pretend to be someone else. I'll pass on today's meeting. But I'm not saying "never" – if you don't get tired of proving your existence, perhaps another time.

The answer came after a longer while. She'd managed to drink half a mug of coffee, wondering if she'd offended him with her caution.

SilverHeir: Disappointing, but understandable. Reality often seems less attractive than fantasy. Perhaps that's precisely why I've delayed showing you my face for so long. As for my reality...

The next message contained a photo. A cup of coffee – not a mug, but an elegant glass with a double wall – sat on a dark, wooden countertop. You could see the reflection of light on the surface of the beverage and a fragment of a male hand at the base of the glass. Next to it lay a folded copy of the "Financial Times".

SilverHeir: In real time. The same beverage as you, though I suspect my coffee is weaker. A pity we can't compare our tastes today.

She felt an irrational thrill of excitement. He was responding to her in real time, with a photo. For a moment she stared at the picture, then, not knowing why, she began to zoom in.

Wasn't there a face reflected on the glass surface? She zoomed in even more until the picture became grainy. There was something there – some indistinct reflection. Were those glasses? Or maybe a necklace? The shape was blurred, indistinct.

"What am I doing?" she suddenly thought, realising the absurdity of the situation. She was sitting in the kitchen, with now-cold coffee, analysing reflections in a stranger's glass, trying to discern details that probably weren't there.

Jean G.: Impressive presentation. "Financial Times" is an interesting addition – a deliberate status signal, or do you just read it daily?

She decided not to mention her detective-like zooming in on the photo. That was too embarrassing.

SilverHeir: A daily source of information, though I admit, I didn't have to include it in the frame. Perhaps subconsciously I wanted to tell you more about myself. Is it working? Am I beginning to take shape in your imagination, Jean?

Jean G.: Slowly. Fragment by fragment. A male hand with an expensive watch, a glass instead of a mug, "Financial Times", an expensive apartment. You're creating a very coherent image. But still – just an image.

SilverHeir: Perhaps it works both ways? You could also show me something that would allow me to build a fuller picture of you? Something beyond the profile and that one photo on SoulScript. Something private, but not necessarily personal.

Hermione frowned, considering her response, when suddenly she felt a weight on her knees. Crookshanks jumped onto her, demanding attention. As usual, he appeared exactly when he was least needed – and simultaneously most useful.

She took a photo showing a fragment of her jeans and knee, with Crookshanks comfortably sprawled on top. With one hand she was gently scratching him behind the ear; her nails were visible – short, without varnish. On the edge of the frame was the corner of a book lying on the table – "One Hundred Years of Solitude" by Márquez.

Jean G.: Here's a fragment of my world. Crookshanks – my flatmate and harshest critic. He despises strangers, has refined literary taste, and can judge a person faster than I can. Usually accurately.

SilverHeir: Fascinating. A name suggesting physical imperfection, which paradoxically makes him unique. An interesting choice. And Márquez on the table – magical realism. Do you like stories where reality mingles with fantasy?

Hermione smiled. He noticed the book, even though it was barely visible in the photo.

Jean G.: I like stories that show that reality itself is unusual enough to seem magical – when we simply stop taking it for granted. And you? Do you read anything besides Financial Times?

SilverHeir: Usually I have a broad spectrum of reading material, but today I discovered that the only text that can truly maintain my focus appears in notifications with your name. Irritating.

Hermione felt her cheeks growing warmer. He was direct, but in that sophisticated way that made a compliment sound like an intimate confession. She looked at Crookshanks, who was narrowing his eyes as if judging her reaction.

SilverHeir: Unfortunately, I must now attend to several far less interesting business matters. Pity I won't see your smile in person today at Chapter One... Perhaps at least in a photo? I'd like to know if I provoke the same effect in you that you do in me. Until evening, Jean.

She bit her lip, staring at the message. Maybe one photo wouldn't hurt? After all, he'd already seen her profile on SoulScript.

She raised her phone and began taking selfies. The first – too serious. The second – forced smile. The third – strange angle. The fourth – unnatural pose.

"This is hopeless," she sighed, reviewing the freshly taken photos in her gallery. None looked good. Perhaps she had some taken on another occasion?

With Crookshanks still sprawled across her lap, she began browsing through photos, including those from yesterday. Suddenly she stopped at one – one that Priya had taken in her bedroom. She didn't remember it at all; the wine must have done its work.

Hermione on the bed, wearing just a white shirt with three buttons undone, revealing a fragment of black bra. Priya had taken the photo from above, and she was looking straight at the camera, gently biting her lip, with her hair spread across the pillow. She looked... well, definitely not like a bakery owner.

"Pathetic," she muttered, swiping her finger to see the next photo.

At that moment, Crookshanks suddenly decided he'd had enough of sitting on her lap. He jumped off abruptly, bumping her hand. She felt her finger touch the screen in the wrong place. Instead of swiping to the next photo, she accidentally clicked the wrong icon.

Before she could react, "sending" appeared on the screen.

"No, no, no!" she cried, frantically trying to cancel, but it was too late.

"Delivered" – the merciless confirmation appeared beneath the photo.

She froze, staring at the screen in horror. She had sent him that photo. THAT photo. The photo where she was lying on the bed in an unbuttoned shirt, with exposed bra, looking up with an expression that could only be interpreted one way.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," she began muttering, trying to figure out how to fix this disaster. Maybe write that it was a mistake? That her cat accidentally... No, that sounded absurd, even if it was true.

Crookshanks looked at her from the floor, completely unaware of the drama he had just caused.

"This is your fault!" she hissed at the cat, who merely tilted his head in response.

With trembling fingers, she opened the conversation with SilverHeir. The photo was there – provocative, intimate, definitely too personal. Beneath it was a small notification: "Seen".

He had seen it. But he hadn't responded.

Hermione stared at the screen, feeling seconds stretching into eternity. Suddenly a notification appeared that SilverHeir was typing... and then it disappeared.

After a moment, the situation repeated itself. He was writing something – and then stopped again. She felt her cheeks burning. In panic, she reached for her phone and wrote to Priya:

[10:47] Hermione: DISASTER!!! I just accidentally sent him THAT photo. The one you took of me yesterday on the bed. IN THE SHIRT. WITH BUTTONS UNDONE. Kill me.

Priya's response came instantly:

[10:47] Priya: WHICH ONE??? The one with the décolletage???

[10:48] Hermione: NO! The worse one! On the bed, in the white shirt, with the black bra!

[10:48] Priya: 🔥🔥🔥 WONDERFUL! How did he react???

[10:48] Hermione: He didn't react! He saw it and nothing! ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!

[10:49] Priya: He's probably picking his jaw up off the floor! That photo was DIVINE!

[10:49] Hermione: What do I do now???

[10:50] Priya: Do nothing. Let him pull himself together. If he has an ounce of sense, he'll soon write something that will make you want to spend more time with him than just a coffee outing.

Hermione groaned, throwing her phone onto the sofa. She couldn't believe Priya was pleased with this situation. Her friend clearly didn't understand the gravity of the disaster.

The phone vibrated. Priya again?

No. SilverHeir.

She felt her heart stop for a moment. She stared at the notification as if it were a venomous snake, ready to strike. For a long moment, she couldn't move, paralysed by fear and shame.

Finally, with hands trembling so much she could barely hit the screen, she picked up the phone from the sofa and unlocked it. Her finger hesitated over the message icon. She took a deep breath and clicked.

The message opened, revealing her own photo – too intimate, too suggestive – and beneath it, SilverHeir's response.

SilverHeir: Bloody hell, Jean. I just had to step out. Your photo has made it impossible for me to focus on anything else. Or think rationally. I admit, I'm completely distracted. My imagination has just exploded in a thousand directions. And they all lead to you.

She felt heat spreading throughout her body. This wasn't the polite, measured response she'd expected. It was a raw, honest admission that his reaction was... physical.

Before she could recover, another message appeared.

SilverHeir: If I'd known that declining to meet would result in such a photo, I would have asked you for coffee much earlier. I don't know if this was an intentional move or an accident, but the effect is devastating. In the best possible way. Whoever claimed white shirts are boring clearly never saw you in one.

She stared at the message, her cheeks burning with a vivid flame. How was she supposed to respond to that? Should she admit it was an accident? Or perhaps maintain this unexpected aura of mystery and seduction?

Before she could decide, loud tapping on the window made her cry out in fear, spilling the rest of her coffee on her trousers. An owl was sitting at the window – an elegant barn owl with light feathers, a letter tied to its leg.

She placed her hand over her heart, trying to calm its wild beating. First accidentally sending that photo, and now an owl? This day was getting stranger by the minute.

She approached the window and opened it, simultaneously trying to restrain Crookshanks, who in the blink of an eye had appeared beside her, fur bristling and paws ready to pounce.

"No, you beast," she hissed, pushing the cat away with her foot. "This is not your dinner!"

The owl patiently extended its leg, allowing her to untie the letter, then flew into the flat and perched on the back of the sofa, evidently waiting for a reply. Crookshanks followed it with an intense gaze.

Hermione unrolled the parchment. She immediately recognised Ginny's neat handwriting:

Hermione!

Time for another BBB! Today, 5:00 pm, we meet at the Leaky Cauldron. Pansy has found a new shop with rejuvenating potions that supposedly actually work.

P.S. Pansy says she won't take no for an answer. If you don't come, she'll send you another batch of those self-erupting bath bubbles that flooded your bathroom last time.

Kisses,

Ginny

Hermione smiled involuntarily. BBB, or "Bitch, Buy, Bye" – a ritual evening invented by Pansy so long ago that she couldn't even remember when. The first hour was "Bitch" – complaining about everything and everyone over a drink; the second was "Buy" – shopping in a slightly intoxicated state, which usually ended in acquiring completely unnecessary items; the third was "Bye" – final drinks and dramatic farewells, as if they weren't going to see each other for years, not just a week. Sometimes the goodbyes were literal, when one of them had to be apparated home, completely unconscious.

She grabbed a piece of parchment and quickly scribbled a reply:

I'll be punctual. But please, without Pansy's "revolutionary" potions. The last one still makes my eyebrows glow in the dark.

See you soon!

H.

She tied the response to the owl's leg, which immediately soared into the air and flew out the window. Crookshanks let out a disappointed meow.

She closed the window and looked at her phone again. The message from SilverHeir still awaited a response. But perhaps this invitation from her friends was exactly what she needed – an opportunity to detach from this intense online flirtation and think everything through soberly.

On the other hand, she couldn't simply ignore his message, especially after what had just happened.

She hadn't heard any notification for a new text message, but an attachment icon was visible on the screen. SilverHeir had sent her a photo.

For several seconds she stared at the notification, feeling her heart accelerate again. Did she really want to see this? What could it be? After what she had accidentally sent, his response could be... well, anything.

With that thought, she clicked on the attachment.

The photo loaded and Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. For a moment she was certain her heart had simply stopped.

In the photograph he stood – in front of a bathroom mirror. He was wearing an unbuttoned shirt, revealing a perfectly sculpted chest and flat stomach with defined muscles. His right hand – the one with the watch – was holding the phone, concealing his face. His left hand was not visible, either positioned behind his back or hidden in shadow. His trousers were unfastened at the top, revealing a fragment of underwear and the outline of muscles running downward.

The photo was perfectly framed, showing exactly enough to provoke a reaction, but still leaving much to the imagination. There was something dangerously appealing about it – as if the man knew exactly what effect this image would have.

Beneath the photo was a simple text:

SilverHeir: Balance has been restored, hasn't it? I hope I'm not being too bold.

She stared at the photo, completely stunned. Her cheeks were burning, and her heart was pounding so hard she was sure even Crookshanks could hear it as he watched her suspiciously from the floor.

The phone slipped from her trembling fingers and fell onto the sofa. She had to take several deep breaths to calm herself. What had just happened? An innocent (well, perhaps not entirely innocent) mistake caused by her cat had led to a stranger sending her a photo of his half-naked body.

And worst of all – or perhaps best? – she liked what she saw. Very much.

She couldn't deny that SilverHeir had a body that immediately brought to mind Greek sculptures. Perfectly sculpted, but not excessively muscular. Elegant. Aristocratic.

Her phone vibrated again. Another message.

SilverHeir: I've just realised I may have crossed a line. If so, I apologise. Your photo put me in a state in which I rarely find myself – deprived of complete control over my reactions.

She swallowed. He was behaving like a gentleman, which was quite surprising after such a bold photo. She had the impression she was balancing on the edge of something dangerous and exciting simultaneously. She felt a sudden rush of courage. Since she had accidentally found herself in this situation, perhaps she should stop being so cautious? Perhaps she should allow herself a bit of madness?

With a racing heart, she began typing a response:

Jean G.: That was... unexpected. And no, you didn't cross a line. Honestly, I wasn't expecting such a response to my photo (which, though you may not believe it, was sent accidentally). But I can't complain about the effect.

She put down the phone, unable to believe she'd just written that. Had she really admitted the photo was accidental? And had she really suggested that she liked what she received in return?

The reply came almost immediately.

SilverHeir: Accidental? Really? And here I thought it was a calculated strategy to throw me off balance before an important meeting. If it was an accident, then it's the luckiest one in my life. And probably the most distracting.

She felt her lips involuntarily forming a smile. Before she could respond, another message came.

SilverHeir: Since we're talking about accidents... I wonder if you might "accidentally" agree to a meeting? I promise I'll be wearing more clothes than in the photo. Unless you'd prefer otherwise.

Hermione stared at the message, and a sudden thought hit her like a bolt from the blue. They had exchanged semi-nude photos, carried on suggestive conversations, and she didn't even know his name. A completely absurd situation.

Jean G.: I've just realised something absurd - I've seen your half-naked body, but I don't even know your name. Don't you think we should start with the basics, SilverHeir?

The answer came after a longer moment, as if he were hesitating.

SilverHeir: You're right. It's quite an unconventional order. My name is Dray. And you? Is Jean your real name, or just a pseudonym?

She hesitated. Dray. Short, elegant, with a hint of mystery. It suited him.

Jean G.: Jean is my middle name. I use it to maintain a certain privacy. After all, you never know who you might encounter on the Internet, right?

She wondered for a moment whether she should give him her first name. But something held her back. This game of cat and mouse had its charm.

SilverHeir: Clever. And prudent. Though I must admit, I'm now even more curious about your first name. Is it as elegant as Jean? Or perhaps more unique?

She smiled at the phone. His inquisitiveness was both irritating and charming.

Jean G.: Let's say it's quite distinctive. And no, you won't find out until we meet. If we meet.

SilverHeir: "If"? I'd prefer "when". But I understand your caution. What can I do to convince you of this "when"?

Hermione bit her lip, thinking about the BBB planned for this evening. Perhaps it was a good sign? She could consult the whole situation with her friends.

Jean G.: Wait, didn't you mention you had some very important matters to attend to? I even thought you'd already said goodbye to me.

SilverHeir: Impressive memory. Yes, I had a meeting. And yes, theoretically I still do. But it turns out I've suddenly fallen ill with a mysterious ailment that requires an immediate return home. Strangely, the symptoms appeared exactly when I saw your photo. My colleagues will have to manage without me.

Chapter Text

Hermione arrived at the Leaky Cauldron a few minutes before the appointed time. The smell of butterbeer, firewhisky and roasted meat hit her as soon as she crossed the threshold. The pub was crowded as usual, full of wizards and witches of various sorts, laughing, gossiping and clinking tankards.

In the corner of the room, she spotted Ginny and Pansy. The Weasley girl was wearing a loose green blouse that accentuated her athletic figure, while Pansy looked like she'd stepped off the cover of Witch Weekly – a perfectly tailored little black dress, stilettos, and jewellery that certainly cost as much as Hermione's monthly rent.

"Finally!" Ginny called out, waving to her. "We've almost finished the 'Bitch' part and we're moving on to 'Buy'."

She sank into the empty chair, brushing hair from her face.

"Sorry," she sighed. "I had a small crisis. The new employee mixed up salt with sugar in a batch of cupcakes. I had to intervene."

Pansy gave her an appraising look, slowly sipping her explosive martini. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and a cunning smile appeared on her lips. For a moment she said nothing, allowing Hermione to settle in and order a drink.

Only when the waitress walked away did Pansy lean over the table, piercing her with that all-knowing gaze of hers.

"All right, Granger. Who are you shagging?"

Hermione choked on air, and Ginny dropped her fork, which clattered against the plate.

"WHAT?!" she exclaimed, nervously looking around. "Are you mad? I'm not... doing that with anyone!"

"Bullshit," Pansy leaned back in her chair, smiling with satisfaction. "I know that look. That gleam in your eye. That specific blush that's spreading down your neck right now. You've been properly shagged within the last 48 hours, or I'm a bloody Hufflepuff."

"Pansy!" Ginny hissed, but there was more amusement than outrage in her voice. She looked at Hermione with newly awakened interest. "Although now that you mention it... There is something different about her."

She felt heat rising to her face. She tried to remain calm, but the blush completely betrayed her.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said stiffly, grabbing the glass that the waitress had just brought. "I just... had a good day, that's all."

"Good day, or good night?" Pansy raised an eyebrow, her smile becoming even more feline. "Because you look like a woman who's rediscovered what her body is for besides wearing those horrible corduroy trousers."

"Merlin's beard," she groaned, hiding her face in her hands. "Can we change the subject?"

"Absolutely not," Parkinson replied immediately, leaning in closer. "Who is it? Do we know him? Or is it a her? I always suspected that you and Luna..."

"No!" Hermione abruptly raised her head. "It's not Luna!"

Silence fell. Hermione froze, realising what she had just said. Pansy let out a triumphant squeal, and Ginny covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes widening.

"So there IS someone!" Parkinson was practically bouncing in her chair. "I knew it! I knew my sex radar never fails!"

"I... no... it's not like that..."

"Come on, spill everything," Ginny leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "Who is it? Do we know him? If not Luna, then who? Wait... it's not Ron, is it?" she added with sudden concern.

"For Merlin's sake, NO!" she almost shouted. "It's no one you know. And I haven't slept with anyone, alright? I just... talked."

"Talked," Pansy repeated in a tone suggesting she'd just heard the world's funniest euphemism. "Of course."

Hermione took a deep breath, mentally counting to ten. There was no point in denying it further.

"Yes, I met someone. But it's just conversations. And... and he's a Muggle," she finally admitted.

The reaction was immediate and exactly what she expected. Pansy let out a groan of disappointment so dramatic it was as if she'd just been told Christmas was cancelled, and Ginny sighed heavily, leaning back in her chair.

"A Muggle? Seriously, Granger? Of all the available men, you chose a Muggle? What can he offer you? Evenings together in front of that box with moving pictures?"

"Television, Pans," Ginny corrected her, having learned a bit more about the Muggle world. "But really, Hermione... a Muggle? Don't you think that complicates things?"

She felt irritation rising within her. What hypocrisy! So many years had passed since the war, and some wizards still looked down on Muggles – perhaps no longer with hatred, but with patronising condescension, which was hardly better.

"Listen," she said, sitting up straight in her chair. "First of all, there are no 'things' to complicate, because it's just a few online conversations. Secondly, I really couldn't care less whether someone's a Muggle or a wizard."

She looked directly at Pansy.

"He could be without a drop of magic and still be a thousand times more fascinating than half the wizards I know. Intelligence, wit, character – that's what counts. Not whether he waves a wand."

For a moment, Pansy looked as if she was about to snap back, but instead she raised her glass to her lips, hiding a smile.

"Well, well," she murmured. "This Muggle must be special if you're defending him like that."

"I'm not defending anyone," she replied, though she knew that was exactly what she was doing. "I just can't stand that kind of prejudice."

"All right, all right," Ginny raised her hands in surrender. "No one here has anything against Muggles. But admit it, Mione – hiding from him that you're a witch will be a challenge if things progress further."

She sighed. She'd been thinking about that too. If she ever got to a real meeting with Dray, she'd face an awkward conversation about her... alternative lifestyle.

"That's not a problem I need to worry about right now," she finally said. "As I said, it's just a few conversations."

"What kind of conversations?" Pansy leaned in, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Please tell me you've at least exchanged some spicy correspondence. Because if you've been talking to him about books or politics, I'll officially declare you a hopeless case."

Hermione felt her cheeks warming again. Pansy immediately caught on.

"Ha! I knew it!" she exclaimed triumphantly. "You've got stories to tell, Granger, and you'd better start from the beginning. Don't skip any juicy details."

The next few hours turned into a veritable marathon of detailed explanations. The planned short "Bitch" stage stretched endlessly as Hermione – under the pressure of relentless questions and meaningful glances – capitulated point by point. It began with explanations of how she ended up creating an account on a dating site (here an accusatory finger pointed at Priya), through the absurd story of the accidentally sent photo (Pansy snorted so hard that wine came out of her nose), to the bold responses of the mysterious Dray and the exchange of messages that definitely went beyond polite conversation.

Every so often she had to remind Pansy that no, unfortunately she couldn't show Dray's photos, firstly because phones didn't work in magical places like the Leaky Cauldron, and secondly, even if they did, Muggle photographs would remain motionless anyway, which was apparently a concept difficult to grasp for the pure-blood Slytherin.

With each successive glass, the story became increasingly detailed. Hermione, to her own surprise, realised that sharing this story gave her a strange satisfaction. Something that had begun as an embarrassing incident had, in Pansy and Ginny's telling, transformed into a fascinating adventure – a mysterious stranger, spicy message exchanges, hidden identities.

By the time they reached the third bottle of Firewhisky, the discussion had inexplicably turned towards the idea of a professional photo shoot – not an ordinary, Muggle one, but one with truly magical, moving photographs. Pansy, in a flash of inspiration amplified by alcohol, decided that Hermione needed something "classy, but with edge" – something that would make the mysterious Dray fall to his knees when he finally discovered that his internet fascination was actually a witch.

It was then that the conversation veered into the dangerous territory of identifying potential candidates for the session – which effectively meant considering which wizard in their circle would be attractive enough to provoke jealousy in her online admirer.

"What about Neville?" Ginny suggested, resting her chin on her hand. "He's really become handsome lately, since he started working with those exotic plants. Those muscles from lifting plant pots..."

Pansy grimaced as if she'd swallowed something exceptionally sour. "Longbottom? Seriously? Next suggestion."

"What about Blaise? He's handsome, has style, and that look..."

"Ugh, no," Pansy waved her hand with such energy that she almost knocked over her glass. "He's too narcissistic – the whole session would be about him, not you."

"Dean Thomas?" Weasley continued. "Or Seamus? Oh, imagine Seamus without a shirt, with those tanned arms from working outdoors..."

"Too boyish," Pansy dismissed. "We need someone who looks like a man, not like an overgrown teenager."

Ginny straightened up as if she'd just accepted a challenge and began counting on her fingers:

"Right, what do you say to: Oliver Wood? George? Bill, though he's married, but just for photos? Charlie and his muscles from handling dragons? Maybe one of those Aurors who work with Harry? That new one, what's his name..."

"Malfoy," Pansy interrupted, smiling with satisfaction.

Hermione choked on the wine she was drinking. "What?"

"Draco Malfoy," she repeated, clearly relishing the shock painted on her friend's face. "He'd be perfect."

"Malfoy's back in England?" Hermione blinked in astonishment. "I haven't seen him for about seven years."

"He's back," Pansy reached for an olive from the cocktail bowl. "He mentioned something about a position at the Ministry."

Hermione felt every muscle in her body suddenly tense, and the effect of three glasses of Firewhisky disappeared in an instant. She was terrifyingly sober.

"At the Ministry?" she repeated, trying to make her voice sound neutral. "In which department exactly?"

Pansy shrugged, chewing the olive with irritating nonchalance.

"I don't know exactly. I only saw him once, for a brief lunch. He's too busy to devote time to old acquaintances — managing his fortune, investing in some mysterious projects between worlds. He mentioned something about international cooperation and Muggle business, but honestly? I was more focused on how fantastic he looks in that suit."

Ginny snorted, shaking her head.

"I still can't believe Malfoy is involved in anything related to Muggles. It's like Hagrid running a shop with delicate porcelain figurines."

Pansy immediately picked up the topic, engaging with Ginny in a discussion about the metamorphosis of their former schoolmate, but Hermione was no longer listening. An alarm was sounding in her head.

Malfoy. At the Ministry. Potentially in a department related to Muggle-wizard relations. Precisely where she consulted two, sometimes three days a week, when she wasn't busy with the bakery.

The prospect of regularly seeing Malfoy at work made her feel nauseous. It would be the end of her peace — the only space where she could fully utilise her knowledge and skills, contaminated by the presence of a man who for years had been the embodiment of everything worst in the wizarding world.

Admittedly, after the war their paths had barely crossed. She had only seen him at the trials, where she testified in his defence — not out of sympathy, but from a sense of justice. Then he disappeared from England, and she could forget about him. Until now.

Over the years she had managed to build a life balancing between two worlds — a bakery in Muggle London and advisory work at the Ministry. Now she felt that this balance could be disrupted. She would have to constantly watch herself, control every word, every gesture. Be on the defensive again, as in their school days.

"...right, Mione?"

She realised that Ginny was saying something to her.

"Sorry, I was lost in thought," she admitted. "What were you saying?"

"I was asking if you still consult at the Ministry on those matters related to Muggle contracts?" she repeated, and a flash of understanding appeared in her eyes. "Oh bloody hell, does that mean you could be working together?"

Hermione felt her stomach tie itself into a knot.

"That would be ironic, wouldn't it?" she grimaced. "Seven years of peace, and now I'd have to endure Malfoy at the desk next to mine."

* * *

Hermione returned to her flat well after midnight, in a state that could euphemistically be called "relaxed". The reality was that after the ritual BBB with Pansy and Ginny, she could barely fit her key in the lock. Somewhere between the fifth and sixth glass of Firewhisky, the discussion about Malfoy and the crazy photo shoot idea, she had completely lost track of how much she'd actually drunk.

Stumbling, she kicked off her shoes in the hallway and, not bothering to change her clothes, collapsed onto the bed. The world was spinning pleasantly, and thoughts about potential encounters with Malfoy at the Ministry were beginning to blur under the influence of fatigue and alcohol.

She was already on the verge of sleep when she suddenly opened her eyes. Her phone. She hadn't checked it all evening. In fact, she hadn't had it in her hands since leaving home.

With effort, she rolled onto her side and felt around for her bag lying on the floor. After a longer-than-it-should-have-been struggle with the clasp, she pulled out the device. The screen lit up, revealing a notification.

One new message from SilverHeir.

With her heart beating slightly faster (though this could equally have been caused by the amount of alcohol in her blood), she opened the app.

SilverHeir: Jean? I've started to worry. You haven't responded for many hours. I hope it's not because of that last photo... Perhaps I went too far? If so, I apologise. I didn't want to scare you off. I was hoping you were just busy and would reply when you found a moment. But if you've lost interest in our conversation, I understand. Though I must admit, I would be disappointed. There's something unique about you that's hard to find in today's world - intelligence combined with a sharp tongue and that fascinating hint of shyness. Let me know if we still have something to talk about.

Hermione stared at the screen, surprised by the sincerity of his words. Somewhere in the sober part of her mind, which was currently a very small part, came the thought that she absolutely shouldn't reply. She was even more drunk than the previous evening when she'd sent him the voice recording. Whatever she wrote now, she would probably find it mortifying in the morning.

And yet her fingers were already sliding across the keyboard.

Jean G.: Sorry for the silence. I was meeting with friends. A tradition I couldn't break. And no, your photo didn't scare me off. On the contrary, it was quite inspiring.

She read the message and grimaced. "Inspiring"? Really? But before she could think it through, her finger had already pressed "send".

She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling and feeling the room spinning around her. This was a mistake. A complete mistake. Tomorrow she would regret this.

The phone vibrated almost immediately.

SilverHeir: What exactly did it inspire you to do?

The short, direct question hung on the screen like a challenge. Hermione felt her cheeks burning, and not just from the alcohol. A kaleidoscopic mixture of thoughts appeared in her head – some definitely too bold to admit to a stranger. Or to anyone.

She placed the phone beside her on the pillow, staring at the blinking cursor. Part of her – the sober, rational part – was screaming for her to put the device down and simply go to sleep. But another part, warmed by wine and excited by this strange, new relationship, wanted to take a risk.

"What have I got to lose?" she muttered to herself, grabbing the phone again. "I'll never meet him anyway."

Jean G.: To think about what our conversation would be like if we were having it face to face, rather than through phone screens.

She pressed "send" and held her breath, wondering if her response was ambiguous enough to maintain this strange game they were playing, but not so direct that she'd regret it in the morning.

SilverHeir: An interesting perspective. Our face-to-face conversation would probably be full of unexpected tensions. I imagine you would be equally brilliant in person, but I wonder if you would maintain the same courage in your responses if you were looking into my eyes.

Hermione smiled involuntarily. She sensed a challenge in his message.

Jean G.: You're very confident. What makes you think I would be the one to lose courage? Perhaps it's you who, looking into my eyes, would forget all those clever remarks?

SilverHeir: There's always that possibility. There's something in your words that suggests you might be intimidating in person. But I must admit, that only increases my curiosity. I rarely meet someone who can intrigue me so much.

You sound different tonight. More spontaneous. The meeting with your friends must have been successful. Wine?

Hermione hesitated, looking at the screen. How exactly was she supposed to explain to a Muggle what Ogden's Firewhisky was, which literally smokes when you drink it and makes you feel fire in your veins for a moment?

Jean G.: Not this time. Whiskey. Hence my directness.

SilverHeir: Whisky? My favourite. Though I rarely meet women who appreciate its taste. Another thing that intrigues me about you. But don't change the subject, Jean. Let's return to this vision of our face-to-face conversation. What else do you imagine?

"Bloody git," she muttered, feeling the corners of her mouth rising despite herself. She had the impression that this guy could see her through the screen – penetrating all her barriers with a single sentence.

She rolled onto her back, holding the phone above her face. Her shirt rode up with this movement, exposing a bit of her stomach, but she was too relaxed by alcohol to do anything about it. Ogden's Firewhisky was still pulsing in her veins, warming every inch of her body and dissolving all the inhibitions that usually kept her in check.

Jean G.: I imagine a dark corner of some bar. Music loud enough that no one can hear our conversation. You sitting too close to me - not enough to touch, but just enough that I can feel the warmth of your body. And I wonder if you'd dare to close that distance, or if you'd just keep talking, as usual.

Her thumb hovered over the "send" button. The alcohol whispered: "go on, send it", while the last shreds of sobriety shouted that she would regret this. The alcohol won.

SilverHeir: Do you always imagine distance between us? Intriguing. As if you're testing whether I'll dare to overcome it. So let me answer: in that dark corner of the bar, I wouldn't sit beside you. I would sit opposite, so I could look into your eyes when the blush creeps onto your cheeks. So I could observe how your chest rises faster when my words hit a sensitive spot.

Hermione felt her body responding to these words against her will. A sudden contraction in her lower abdomen, quickened breathing, skin suddenly sensitive to the touch of the duvet. She turned onto her side, as if trying to escape these sensations, but only made matters worse – the phone was now closer to her face, the words almost hypnotic.

Jean G.: You think your words affect me like that? That a few suggestive sentences and I'll melt? Maybe I would sit unmoved, watching YOU struggle to maintain control.

SilverHeir: Oh, Jean... That's precisely why you're so fascinating. That resistance of yours, that need for control. I don't want you to "melt". I want to see you exactly like this - fighting, strong, challenging. Tell me, if we were sitting in that bar, you unmoved, me desperately trying to maintain control... what would you do? How far would you go to break me?

The pulsing between her thighs became almost painful. She turned again, throwing off the duvet because she suddenly felt hot.

Jean G.: This game is becoming dangerous. Continuing it while I'm lying alone in bed after midnight isn't the most sensible idea.

She hesitated before sending. The truth was that sense had little say at the moment. Firewhisky and something much stronger – desire – were dictating her words.

SilverHeir: I was going to ask exactly where you are, but you've just told me. In bed. Alone. After midnight. I admit, this information won't help me sleep. Now my imagination will be working at full capacity.

But you're right - it's a dangerous game. Especially when the line between words and action is so thin. I wonder which of us would cross it first, if we actually met in that bar.

She felt electricity running along her spine. There was something hypnotic about his confidence, in the way he balanced on the edge between suggestion and provocation.

Jean G.: I think you know very well it would be you. You're too impatient, too determined. I can wait.

A lie. A complete lie. She was just as impatient as he was. Maybe even more so. The evidence was her body, which was responding to mere words with an intensity she hadn't experienced since... actually, she couldn't remember since when.

SilverHeir: You're wrong. I can be very patient when I know the reward is worth it. And you, Jean, are worth every second of waiting. You would break first. I'm curious how you look right now, lying in that bed, talking to me. Is your hair loose?

She shivered, because he'd guessed perfectly. Her hair was indeed spread across the pillow.

Show him.

The thought came from nowhere, absurd and tempting at the same time. The alcohol whispered in her ear: Go on, send him a photo. Nothing major. Just your face. Or perhaps a bit more...

She raised the phone above her head, switching on the front camera. The sight of her own face on the screen – flushed, with sparkling eyes and hair spread across the pillow – made her hold her breath. She looked... different. As if she wasn't herself. Or perhaps she was more herself than ever before.

"This is madness," she muttered, but her finger was already pressing the shutter button.

She looked at the photo. It was suggestive, but not vulgar. Her face was visible, her shoulders and a small fragment of décolletage – her top had slipped slightly, revealing more than she'd intended, but still leaving more to the imagination than showing.

Delete it. You're drunk. You'll regret this.

That was the voice of reason, the last bastion of self-control. But the Firewhisky effectively drowned it out.

Send it. You'll never meet him anyway. What difference does it make?

Jean G.: Yes, it's loose. And if you were here now, you could check for yourself whether it's as soft as it looks.

She attached the photo before she could change her mind. She felt a strange mixture of panic and euphoria when the app showed "sending", and then "delivered".

Seconds stretched like hours. She stared at the screen, wondering whether she'd made the biggest mistake of her life, or had just done something excitingly unpredictable.

The reply came after almost a minute – the longest minute of her life.

SilverHeir: You have incredible eyes.

She felt warmth spreading throughout her body. She couldn't remember the last time a compliment had affected her this way. Perhaps it was the alcohol, or perhaps this strange, electrifying bond that had formed between them.

Jean G.: Now it's your turn. Show me your face. I want to know who I'm talking to.

SilverHeir: You still insist... Persistence is one of your many virtues. But as I've said, you won't see my face through a phone screen. That's something I'm saving for our meeting.

She snorted with frustration. This man was impossible. Manipulative. Irritating. And damn attractive in his mysteriousness.

Jean G.: Unfair. You've seen my photos, you know my name and my cat, and I still don't know who you really are.

SilverHeir: You know me better than most people who have seen my face. You know my thoughts, my desires. What I look like is the least interesting part of me. But I understand your frustration. Tell me, what exactly would you like to see? My eyes? Lips? What intrigues you the most?

She hesitated. This was manipulation, an obvious stalling tactic. But also a challenge she couldn't ignore.

Jean G.: Everything. I want to see your whole face. The eyes that supposedly see me so clearly. The lips that speak all these words. The whole, not fragments.

SilverHeir: Your enthusiasm is charming. But as I've said – that's a privilege reserved for a face-to-face meeting. Not for a phone screen.

Through the haze of alcohol, a disturbing thought began to emerge. What exactly was preventing him from showing his face? He claimed it was professional matters, discretion... but did that really make sense? After all, she had already sent him her photo. She had revealed herself. And he was still hiding.

Maybe he was just terribly ugly? Maybe his face didn't match this sophisticated, confident voice and elegant hands at all? Or perhaps... perhaps it was something much worse. Maybe he was someone she knew? Someone married? Someone famous?

The alcohol was suggesting increasingly absurd scenarios. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, her fingers began tapping on the keyboard again.

Jean G.: You know what I think? That you're either hideously ugly, or you have a wife, or you're some celebrity whose face I would recognise immediately. Because honestly? These excuses about "professional discretion" sound like complete nonsense. Nobody protects their face so carefully without a reason.

She sent the message before she had time to consider the consequences. Alcohol was giving her courage, but at the same time turning off the filters that usually protected her from saying everything that came to mind.

SilverHeir: Interesting theories. Especially the one about being "hideously ugly" – there's a certain poetic irony to it. But allow me to clarify: I'm not married, I'm not a celebrity you would recognise. As for ugliness – well, that's subjective, isn't it?

My reasons are exactly as I stated. Some people protect their cars, others their art collections. I protect my privacy. It's a currency I don't trade recklessly.

But if this makes you uncomfortable, I understand. We can end this conversation. Although that would be disappointing.

Hermione bit her lip. His response was calm, almost amused by her outburst. It both calmed and irritated her at the same time.

Jean G.: I'm sorry. That was unnecessary. Whisky makes me more direct than usual. And less polite. But you must admit, this mysteriousness is at least unsettling.

SilverHeir: Don't apologise for honesty. It's refreshing. And yes, I understand that my reluctance to show my face might seem suspicious. But I assure you – the reasons are prosaic. I simply prefer that the first impression be in person.

Hermione stared at the screen, feeling the alcohol loosening her thoughts. Her fingers began typing a message before she had time to consider the consequences of her honesty.

Jean G.: And what if the problem won't be your first impression, but mine? What if we meet and it turns out I'm not as attractive as in the photos? That I'm more boring in person? That all this, this electricity between us, only exists through phone screens?

She sent the message and immediately felt a pang of shame. Too honest. Too exposed. Bloody Firewhisky. Her phone vibrated almost immediately, but instead of text, a voice message notification appeared.

With a racing heart, she put the phone to her ear.

It was a pure whisper, so quiet that she had to hold her breath to hear every word:

"God, Jean... That photo... your hair spread across the pillow... You have no idea what you're doing to me. I'm lying here, staring at the ceiling, thinking only about how your skin tastes... I want to hear how you hold your breath when my lips touch your neck... Your first impression will definitely be stunning."

Hermione held her breath, feeling her body react immediately, involuntarily. The pulsing between her thighs suddenly became so intense that she had to press her legs together. Heat spread through her stomach, chest, neck, up to her burning cheeks.

His voice was raw, unpolished, as if he was saying things he hadn't planned to say. This honesty, this desire that she heard in every syllable, was more arousing than the most carefully chosen words.

She knew she shouldn't respond to him. Not in this state. With sudden determination, she threw the phone towards the foot of the bed, where it landed with a soft thud on the duvet. She rolled onto her side, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to ignore the pulsing need his voice had awakened in her.

Chapter Text

When Hermione woke up the next morning, her first instinct was to reach for her phone. A headache – the consequence of Firewhisky – throbbed dully behind her eyes, but curiosity was stronger than discomfort.

No new messages.

Memories of the previous night hit her with full force. The photo she'd sent. His whisper. All those things they'd written to each other... Sober, in the light of day, she felt simultaneously embarrassed and amazed by her own boldness.

She opened their conversation, looking at the last message – the voice one – that he'd sent her. She wanted to listen to it again, but she refrained. She remembered all too well what reaction that whisper had provoked in her. And she wasn't sure if she wanted to experience that while sober.

She didn't know what to reply. Every word that came to mind seemed either too formal or too... direct. How to continue a conversation after something like that? After a whisper that had ignited her body more than any physical touch?

Throughout the day she checked her phone, waiting for some sign from him. But he remained silent. Maybe he was offended? Maybe he'd taken her lack of response as rejection? Or perhaps he was simply giving her space, understanding that yesterday's conversation had gone further than they'd planned?

She tried to distract her thoughts by immersing herself in a book – a new crime novel she'd been promising herself to read for weeks. But the words swam before her eyes, not forming coherent sentences. Her thoughts kept returning to Dray, to his voice, to their unfinished conversation.

In the afternoon she called Priya. She needed a normal, down-to-earth conversation that would pull her out of this strange trance. When she returned home in the evening, there was still no message from SilverHeir. But there was a Ministry owl sitting by her window – a letter asking if she could come to work tomorrow, Monday, as an exception. An urgent matter required her attention.

She frowned. Tomorrow was her day at the cafe-bakery. But if the Ministry was asking... she had no choice. She quickly called her employees, informing them they would have to manage without her. She hung up and looked at her phone again. Still no message. For a moment she wondered whether to write to him first. But what would she say? "Sorry I didn't respond to your sexy whisper because I was too embarrassed"?

With a sigh, she put down the phone and went to take a shower. Tomorrow morning she needed to be ready for whatever the Ministry wanted from her.

On Monday she woke up early, dressed more carefully than usual, and at eight o'clock sharp crossed the threshold of the Ministry of Magic. The Atrium was already full of wizards and witches hurrying to their departments, but she paid them no attention. Her thoughts were still circling around yesterday, the silence from SilverHeir, and her own indecisive reaction.

She headed for the lift, wondering what urgent matter could require her presence. And whether she would be able to focus on work when her mind was completely occupied by a man whose face she had never seen, but whose whisper she knew so intimately that she felt it on her skin.

The lift stopped at the seventh floor. The Department of Interdimensional Magical Innovations – her kingdom, her sanctuary, the place where she usually left all private dilemmas behind. Today, however, even these familiar corridors didn't bring her usual peace.

She turned left, heading towards her office at the end of the corridor. And then she saw him.

He was leaning against the wall next to her door, absorbed in reading some document. Seven years. Seven years since she'd last seen that platinum hair, those sharp facial features, that characteristic Malfoy posture that seemed to say "I'm better than everyone around me".

But... something had changed.

This Malfoy looked different from the man she remembered. Yes, he was wearing elegant, dark trousers and a shirt that probably cost more than her weekly salary. But the sleeves were carelessly rolled up – one higher than the other, revealing pale forearms. Suspenders – was Malfoy really wearing suspenders now? – were askew, and his hair, instead of being perfectly slicked back, fell loosely across his forehead.

But the most surprising addition was on his face – glasses. Simple, with thin black frames that somehow softened the sharp contours of his face, adding an intellectual look she had never seen in him before.

She straightened up involuntarily, smoothing her clothes. She felt her skirt ride up slightly and with a quick, nervous movement pulled it down. Why of all days did she have to choose the shorter one today? And why, by Merlin, did she care how she looked in front of Malfoy?

She approached with quick steps, chin held high. If he thought he would unsettle her with his unexpected presence, he was wrong. She was now an important ministry official. A successful woman. Not the same insecure teenager he remembered from Hogwarts.

"Malfoy," she said coolly, stopping two steps away from him. "I'd say it's nice to see you, but we both know that would be an absolute lie."

He looked up from the document. Slowly raised his gaze.

The corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile that made her stomach do a strange flip. Rather unpleasant. He folded the document he was reading and slipped it into his trouser pocket.

"Granger," he replied, his voice – deeper than she remembered – sounding strangely gentle. "Charming as always."

Hermione eyed him from head to toe, stopping at the glasses. She raised an eyebrow in an ironic gesture.

"Glasses, Malfoy? Could it be that those famous pure-blood genes weren't as perfect as your father always claimed? Or is it just a new, intellectual image to make people think you actually have something in that platinum head?"

She expected this to irritate him, to see that familiar flash of anger in his eyes. Instead, he laughed – genuinely and openly – which made her momentarily forget what she wanted to say next.

"You always hit the mark, Granger," he said, taking off his glasses and turning them in his hands. "This is a souvenir from my last research project. I was experimenting with ancient protective runes from Mesopotamia. It turned out that when you mistranslate the symbol for 'shield' as 'clarity', the effect is... well, rather blinding."

He put the glasses back on, shrugging with a nonchalance that didn't fit the Malfoy she knew at all.

"The best healers at Mungo's threw up their hands. Apparently ancient runic magic doesn't like being corrected by modern spells. So..." – he gestured to his glasses – "...I have this. They say they add intellectual charm. What do you think, Granger? Do I look like someone you could have an intellectually stimulating conversation with?"

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, eyeing him coolly. She wasn't going to be drawn into this strange, almost friendly exchange. Whatever he was planning, this was certainly not a chance meeting.

"You look like someone who definitely shouldn't be standing outside my office on a Monday morning, Malfoy," she replied sharply. "Especially without warning. And especially when I've been called to the Ministry on my day off."

He raised an eyebrow above his glasses frame, and that irritatingly self-assured smile she remembered all too well from Hogwarts appeared on his face. He tilted his head slightly, as if she'd just said something immensely amusing.

"What a coincidence, Granger. It seems you're not the only one honoured with being called to work on a Monday morning. The Ministry evidently doesn't respect either of our days off."

Hermione snorted, not hiding her scepticism.

"And why would anyone summon you to the Ministry? As far as I know, you've spent the last seven years travelling the world conducting some dubious research. The Ministry is hardly your natural habitat."

"And yet," he replied, straightening up and adjusting his crooked suspenders in one fluid motion. "I've been summoned to officially take up a position in the Department of Interdimensional Magical Innovations."

For a moment she stared at him in complete astonishment. Then, to his evident surprise, she burst out laughing – loud, somewhat hysterical laughter of a woman who had just realised that her Monday had gone from "terrible" to "surreal".

"You? In my department?" she managed between fits of laughter. "Really, Malfoy, I thought you'd come up with something more credible."

Without waiting for his response, she drew her wand and opened the door to her office. She went inside, turning to him over her shoulder.

"If you're going to waste my precious time, you could at least do it in more comfortable conditions. Come in and tell me why you're really here. And please, think of a better story than working in my department. Even after a seven-year gap, I know you well enough to know you wouldn't lower yourself to working under my management."

He stood in the doorway for a moment, with an expression she couldn't read – a mixture of amusement and irritation.

"Your confidence is as charming as ever, Granger," he said, looking around her office with undisguised interest.

And then, before she could even blink, Malfoy pulled his wand from his trouser pocket. One fluid wave, a second, a third – and her perfectly organised office exploded into chaos of moving furniture.

The desk that stood by the window – her beloved mahogany desk with drawers full of meticulously organised documents – rose into the air like a leaf in the wind and gracefully landed against the opposite wall. The bookcase moved two metres to the left. The extra chair she kept for visitors flew to the newly positioned desk. A stack of papers, which Malfoy seemingly conjured out of thin air, landed on its surface.

"What the..." she stood open-mouthed, watching as her carefully arranged space transformed into... a two-person office?

"MALFOY!" she screamed when the initial shock passed. "HAVE YOU COMPLETELY LOST YOUR MIND?! RETURN EVERYTHING TO ITS PREVIOUS STATE IMMEDIATELY!"

Malfoy, unfazed by her outburst, calmly put away his wand, walked to "his" desk and sat behind it, leaning back in the chair with such ease as if he'd been sitting there for years. He put his feet up on the desk – on THE DESK! – and began browsing through the stack of documents which, as she could clearly see, were completely blank.

"MALFOY! Do you hear me?! This is my office! MINE! You can't just rearrange it without my permission! And get your bloody feet off the desk, you arrogant, selfish..."

The office door opened violently, interrupting her tirade mid-word. Bertram Hughes, the Head of Department, stood in the doorway with the expression of a man who had just swallowed a particularly sour lemon drop.

"Granger," he said stiffly. "A word, please? In the corridor?"

Hermione threw one last murderous glance at Malfoy, who responded with the most innocent smile she had ever seen, then followed her superior, leaving the door wide open. If Hughes thought she was going to leave Malfoy alone in her office, he was sorely mistaken.

Through the open door, she could see him still pretending to read blank documents, occasionally nodding with an expression of deep interest. She knew he was doing it deliberately to irritate her. And the worst part was that it was working.

"Granger," Hughes lowered his voice, though he was clearly agitated. "I understand your... surprise. But you must understand that the decision to hire Malfoy was made at the highest level. His research on Mesopotamian runes and their application in interdimensional space is groundbreaking. We need him."

Hermione stared at her boss, wondering if everyone around her had gone mad, or if this was just a particularly malicious version of Monday.

"Mr Hughes," she began, trying to remain calm. "With all due respect, Malfoy has just rearranged my office without asking for permission, and now he's pretending to read blank sheets of paper. And you're telling me he's a groundbreaking scientist?"

Hughes glanced over his shoulder at Malfoy, who at that moment, as if sensing he was being observed, frowned with an expression of deep concentration and began making notes in the margin of non-existent text.

"Eccentricity often goes hand in hand with genius, Granger," Hughes said with a sigh. "Just... try to work with him. That's an order."

She looked at her superior with the expression of a beaten dog. For seven years she had been building her position in the department, earning the respect of colleagues through hard work and professionalism. And now she had to share an office with Draco bloody Malfoy?

"Mr Hughes," she said pleadingly, lowering her voice to a feverish whisper. "You know very well what he'll be like. Terrible. Insufferable. Impossible to work with."

She waved her hand towards her office, where Malfoy was now playing with her favourite magical owl figurine, which she had received from Luna for her birthday. "Look at him! He's already provoking me!"

Malfoy, as if sensing he had become the subject of their conversation, looked up from the desk. Their eyes met – hers murderous, his amused. A broad, absolutely insincere smile blossomed on his face, then he waved cheerfully at her.

Hughes sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses.

"I know you have... history," he said, looking at Malfoy, who was now innocently putting the owl back in its proper place. "But that was years ago. You're both adults now, professional wizards. I'm sure you'll find common ground."

Hermione snorted under her breath. Professional? Malfoy? The man who was now rearranging her book collection by cover colour, rather than alphabetically, as she always arranged them?

"Mr Hughes," she tried once more, attempting to sound calm and rational. "Isn't there another office? Anything? A broom cupboard? A potion storage? Anything that isn't my office?"

Hughes shook his head with the determination of a man who had made a decision and wasn't going to change it, even if the world were to collapse.

"The decision has been made. Malfoy will work with you. In your office. On a joint project."

She blinked. Had he just said...

"Joint project?" she repeated weakly.

"Yes," Hughes nodded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Research on Mesopotamian runes and their application in interdimensional space. Your theoretical knowledge and his practical experience. The perfect combination."

Hermione turned slowly towards the office. Malfoy was now sitting with his feet on the desk, twirling her favourite quill – the one she had received from McGonagall – between his fingers and smiling at her with an expression of pure satisfaction on his face.

This Monday had officially stopped being the worst day of her life. It had become the beginning of the worst period of her life.

She returned to the office, slamming the door behind her with such force that the framed diplomas on the walls trembled dangerously. Malfoy didn't even flinch, still sitting with his feet on her – HER! – desk, playing with her favourite quill.

Without a word, with pursed lips and a murderous gleam in her eyes, she drew her wand. One sharp wave – and the desk immediately moved back to its place by the window, leaving Malfoy in an absurd position, with his legs hanging at waist height in empty space.

For a split second, genuine surprise appeared on his face as gravity did its work and his elegant boots made of the most expensive dragon skin hit the floor with force. He wobbled, almost losing his balance, but at the last moment grabbed onto the chair.

She didn't even look at him. With her head held high, ignoring his presence as ostentatiously as if he were invisible, she sat at her desk and reached for the first folder of documents that came to hand.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Malfoy straightening in his chair, as if the change in position had been his own idea, not the result of her sudden teleportation of the furniture. Then, with a calmness that had to be feigned – no one could be so composed after such humiliation – he drew his wand.

A flash of light, a complicated wrist movement – and the vase that stood on the shelf transformed into an elegant, dark desk. An inkwell and a stack of documents appeared on it.

She clenched her teeth, silently promising herself she would recover her vase, even if she had to spend all night reversing this transfiguration. But outwardly she showed no reaction. She pretended to be completely absorbed in her reading.

Only after a few minutes, when her pulse had calmed somewhat and her murderous desire had slightly abated, did she realise what she was actually reading. Or rather – what she wasn't reading.

The page was completely blank.

She narrowed her eyes, turning the page. Blank. Next – blank. The entire file she had been studying with such dedication was a stack of clean paper.

She looked up to see Malfoy watching her with that irritating half-smile, as if he knew exactly what she had just discovered.

"Fascinating reading, isn't it, Granger?" he asked in a conversational tone. "I particularly like the passage on the third page. So revealing."

She sighed deeply, putting the blank sheets aside. For a moment she considered the possibility of continuing to ignore Malfoy – perhaps if she pretended he wasn't there, he would magically disappear? – but she quickly dismissed the thought. Sooner or later they would have to have this conversation. Better to get it over with.

"All right, Malfoy," she said, turning in her chair to look him straight in the eye. "Perhaps you could explain exactly what this project is that we're supposedly working on? Because oddly, no one bothered to inform me about it. And what, in Merlin's name, do your Mesopotamian rune studies have to do with it?"

He smiled, as if he'd been waiting for this question. He removed his glasses – this time more carefully than when he'd shown them earlier – and wiped the lenses with the edge of his shirt. This unassuming, ordinary gesture seemed strangely out of place for someone like him.

"You see, Granger," he began, putting his glasses back on, "for the last five years I've been studying the runic systems of ancient Mesopotamia. I discovered that these runes possess a unique property that no one had noticed before."

"What property?" she asked, curious despite herself.

"They can mimic concepts," Malfoy replied, leaning slightly forward. "It's not about making Muggle objects work in the magical world. That's impossible – magic and electricity will always conflict. But these runes can... capture the essence of a Muggle invention and create its magical equivalent."

Hermione frowned, trying to understand what he meant.

"So you're saying we could... create a magical version of a telephone? Something that works like a phone, but on magic rather than electricity?"

"Exactly," he nodded enthusiastically. "It wouldn't be a telephone in the literal sense – it wouldn't have batteries, microphones, or speakers. But it would be a magical object that serves the same function – instant long-distance communication, without using owls or the Floo Network."

He leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully touching his glasses.

"The problem is that when I tried to activate these runes, attempting to create the first prototype... well, let's say I underestimated the power of conceptual transfer." He pointed to his eyes.

"And that caused you to lose your sight?" she asked, unconsciously leaning towards him.

"Not completely," he shrugged. "But enough that these..." – he touched his glasses – "...became necessary. The healers at Mungo's said it's not an ordinary physical defect."

She felt a strange pang in her stomach. It wasn't sympathy – certainly not for Malfoy – but something more... professional. Recognition of a similar problem. Because the truth was that for two years she had been working on something very similar.

Her project at the Department of Interdimensional Magical Innovations focused on adapting Muggle communication devices for use in the magical world. After months of painstaking research, she had managed to create an experimental system that allowed mobile phones to work within the Ministry space. Key word: experimental.

The system was far from perfect. It required countless modifications to each device – complex protective spells, special runes engraved on the casing, adjustments every twelve hours. The coverage was so poor that conversations between floors often cut out. And most importantly – despite her enthusiasm – the project had met with complete lack of interest from other wizards.

"Why do I need a Muggle telephone when I have the Floo Network?" – they asked, shrugging their shoulders. "Owls have always been good enough" – others said. No one saw the potential that she perceived.

The result? Despite months of work and significant technical achievements, her project was considered a curiosity at best in the Ministry, and a waste of time and funds at worst. Only Hughes, always open to innovation, still supported her research, though even he was beginning to express doubts about its practical application.

And now Draco Malfoy sat before her, talking about ancient runes that could achieve exactly what she had been working on – creating magical equivalents of Muggle technology. It wasn't about forcing electrical devices to work in a magical environment, but about creating new, magical devices inspired by Muggle concepts.

"You're talking about conceptual transfer," she finally said, breaking the silence. "That's interesting, because I've been working on something similar for two years."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

"Really? And how's it going?" he asked, with genuine interest in his voice.

She hesitated. Admitting failure to Malfoy wasn't something she wanted to do. But on the other hand, if they were actually going to work together...

"Honestly?" she sighed. "Technically, I've achieved success. Muggle phones work in the Ministry. But practically? It's a complete failure. The coverage is terrible, maintaining the system requires constant work, and most importantly – nobody wants to use it."

She shrugged resignedly.

"Wizards are... attached to tradition. They don't see the need to change a communication method that has worked for centuries."

She reached for one of the folders on her desk, browsing it for a moment, then looked back at Malfoy.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to see your research later. Those Mesopotamian runes sound interesting," she admitted reluctantly. "But for now, you should probably spend your first day getting acquainted with the Ministry. Hughes has surely planned some introductory meetings for you, paperwork to fill out, all that bureaucratic circus for new employees."

She gestured towards the door.

"Meanwhile, I need to attend to my duties. Inventions are only part of my work here. I also deal with regulations concerning wizard-Muggle communications, coordination with the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Department, and a host of other things."

She picked up her quill and began reviewing the documents in front of her, clearly signalling the end of the conversation. She waited to hear the sound of the door closing when Malfoy finally left.

But the sound never came.

After a few minutes, she looked up and saw that Malfoy was still sitting at his improvised desk. He wasn't doing anything specific – just flipping a quill between his fingers, watching her with that irritating mixture of amusement and curiosity. His grey eyes tracked her every move.

She decided to ignore him. She returned to her documents, trying to focus on work. She signed several forms, made notes in the margin of a report, sent two official owls. All this with full awareness that she was being observed by a pair of grey eyes.

Finally, when the silence became unbearable and her irritation reached boiling point, Malfoy spoke up:

"Granger."

She didn't raise her head, pretending to be completely absorbed in reading the report in front of her. She turned the page with exaggerated attention, as if it contained information capable of changing the fate of the wizarding world.

"Granger," he repeated, a bit louder this time.

With a heavy sigh, she finally looked up, putting down her quill with such precision as if this small gesture required all her self-control not to throw it at his irritatingly satisfied face.

"What, Malfoy?" she asked in a tired voice.

He tilted his head, studying her with that irritating mixture of amusement and curiosity that seemed to be his default expression in her presence.

"I heard from Hughes that you run some kind of bakery in the Muggle world," he said in a conversational tone, as if they were discussing the weather, not prying into her private life. "An intriguing hobby for a witch of your calibre."

Hermione raised her eyebrows, surprised by the direction of the conversation.

"Yes, I have a bakery. Actually, a café with a bakery. And what of it?"

He smiled slightly, turning the quill between his fingers.

"The same Hughes also mentioned that you're known for bringing brownies to work. Legendary ones, apparently. Something about a secret ingredient that makes even the gloomiest Ministry employee smile like they've taken an Elixir of Euphoria."

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. What was Hughes telling Malfoy about her? And why were they even discussing her baking?

"Yes, sometimes I bring brownies. And again – what of it?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

He leaned back in his chair, his smile growing wider.

"Give me some," he said simply, extending his hand towards her.

She blinked, completely surprised by the directness of the demand. For a split second, she glanced towards her bag standing next to her desk – the bag in which there was indeed a box of brownies she had baked the previous evening, planning to share them with colleagues during lunch.

But something in Malfoy's self-confident smile, in that outstretched hand and expectant look, made her feel a sudden surge of defiance.

"I don't have any brownies today," she lied smoothly, maintaining eye contact.

He raised an eyebrow, and his smile didn't disappear – on the contrary, it seemed to deepen, as if she had just said something extremely amusing.

"Really, Granger? Because I could have sworn that when you entered the office, a smell of chocolate and... were those nuts? Pecans, perhaps? was emanating from your bag."

She felt her cheeks flush slightly. Of course they were pecans. It was her special recipe – brownies with pecans and salted caramel.

"You must have imagined it," she replied coolly, though she knew her lie was as obvious as the nose on her face. "Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do."

"Granger."

She didn't raise her head, pretending to be completely absorbed in the document in front of her. She dipped her quill in the inkwell and began meticulously making notes in the margin, though she was actually writing the same sentence over and over.

"Granger, please have mercy and give me that brownie," his voice took on a tone she had never heard from him before – almost pleading. "I'm so hungry. Transfiguring furniture is hard work."

She looked up and gazed at him with a mixture of irritation and disbelief. Draco Malfoy, heir to a fortune, pure-blood aristocrat and long-time tormentor, was looking at her with the eyes of a beaten puppy. It was so absurd that she almost laughed.

"The Ministry cafeteria is on level minus two," she said dryly, pointing her quill towards the door. "The house-elves serve lunch from eleven o'clock."

"And do they have brownies there?" he asked hopefully, raising an eyebrow in that irritating way.

"No," she replied shortly, returning to her documents.

This time she really focused, ignoring Malfoy's presence as effectively as if he were one of the pieces of furniture he had transfigured. She read two reports, prepared a response to an inquiry from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, and had almost forgotten about his presence when suddenly something landed on her documents.

A small, perfectly folded paper airplane.

She looked at it, and then at Malfoy, who was pretending to be intensely studying his own fingernails.

With a sigh, she unfolded the paper airplane. In the middle was a neat, elegant handwriting:

Granger, please, give me a brownie.

She rolled her eyes, crumpled the paper into a ball and demonstratively threw it into the waste basket standing next to her desk. Then she returned to her documents, pressing her lips together so tightly that they formed an almost perfect straight line.

This was going to be a very long day.

And an even longer year, if she really had to work with Draco Malfoy on Mesopotamian runes. The mere thought gave her an approaching headache.

Five minutes later, another paper airplane landed on her desk. This time bright pink.

She ignored it.

Three minutes later, an emerald green one joined it.

She ignored both.

Over the next quarter hour, the collection grew to include blue, purple, orange, rainbow, silver, gold, and black paper airplanes. Each was intricately folded, each landed perfectly in the middle of the document she was currently working on.

Not once did she look up. With clenched teeth, she moved the paper airplanes aside and continued working, pretending that Malfoy was an invisible, immaterial entity whose presence in her office was merely an illusion caused by too much caffeine.

But when the eleventh paper airplane – this time in intense fuchsia – hit her directly in the forehead, something inside her snapped.

"ENOUGH!" she shouted, jumping to her feet.

Malfoy, who was apparently in the process of folding a twelfth airplane (in tartan pattern), looked at her with the expression of an innocent caught in mischief.

"Something wrong, Granger?" he asked in a sweet tone that made her want to turn him into a toad.

Instead of answering, she dove her hand into her bag, pulled out an elegant box of brownies and hurled it at Malfoy with all her might, aiming directly at his irritatingly satisfied face.

To her immense frustration, his Seeker reflexes hadn't rusted over the years. He caught the box with one hand, with such ease as if he had just performed the most basic catch at Quidditch practice.

"Granger, you're absolutely the best," he said with a broad smile, immediately opening the box. "I knew that deep down you're a compassionate and generous person."

"It's not compassion or generosity, Malfoy," she growled, falling back into her chair. "It's pure self-defence. Either I give you that damn brownie, or I'll go insane before lunch."

Malfoy, already with a piece of brownie in his mouth, looked at her with an expression of almost religious ecstasy.

"Merlin, this is divine," he muttered, closing his eyes. "Granger, if I'd known you baked such things, I would have made a truce with you years ago."

She snorted, but the corners of her mouth twitched slightly.

"Do you really run a bakery?" he asked, reaching for a second piece. "You, Hermione I'm-the-best-student-in-Hogwarts-history Granger, spend time baking cakes for Muggles?"

"A café-bakery," she corrected him automatically. "And yes, it's my way of disconnecting from work at the Ministry. Some of us have lives outside the magical world, you know?"

He studied her for a moment, as if trying to solve a complicated puzzle.

"Fascinating," he finally said, putting the empty box on the desk. "You really are full of surprises, Granger."

"And you're full of..." she began, but stopped, shaking her head. "Never mind. You've eaten your brownie, now let me work. Some of us actually have responsibilities in this Ministry."

Malfoy smiled his irritating half-smile.

"Of course, Granger. I wouldn't want to interfere with your intense ignoring of my presence."

For the next three hours, Hermione witnessed the most unproductive behaviour she had ever seen in an adult. Malfoy did absolutely everything except what a new employee should be doing on their first day at work.

First, he carefully examined all her diplomas and certificates hanging on the wall, commenting on each one in a half-voice.

"'Outstanding achievements in interdimensional adaptation'... what a surprise," he murmured, walking along the wall. "'Morgana Award for Innovations in Theoretical Magic'... of course, how could it be otherwise... 'Honorary Member of the International Association of Magical Space Researchers'... is there any association you don't belong to, Granger?"

Then he began browsing her books, pulling them from the shelves and rearranging them in a completely random order, which drove her to internal fury because she knew she would have to organise them later.

"'Adaptation of Elemental Magic in Non-Magical Space'... sounds fascinating and completely useless... 'Ancient Magical Communication Systems'... oh, this might actually be interesting... 'Interdimensional Transfiguration for Advanced Users'... Merlin, Granger, do you have any normal books? Crime novels? Romance? Anything that doesn't sound like the title of an academic paper?"

She ignored him as best she could, focusing on the stack of documents that required her attention. She pretended not to see Malfoy playing with her owl figurine. She pretended not to hear him humming some irritating melody that she couldn't recognise. She pretended not to notice him trying to open her drawers (thankfully, all were magically secured).

Instead, she allowed her mind to drift for a moment to something much more pleasant – her last exchange of messages with SilverHeir. She wondered if upon returning home she would see a message, or if she would have to write first.

"Granger, is this a miniature model of the galaxy?" Malfoy's voice pulled her from her thoughts.

She looked up and saw him holding her magical model of the solar system – a gift from Harry for her last birthday.

"Yes, Malfoy, it's a model of the solar system," she replied dryly. "And I would greatly appreciate it if you would put it back exactly where you took it from."

"Fascinating," he muttered, turning the model in his hands and completely ignoring her request. "You know, the ancient Mesopotamians believed that the arrangement of stars and planets influenced the workings of magic? Their runes often reflected the configuration of celestial bodies at key moments of the year."

Hermione involuntarily felt a prick of interest, but quickly suppressed it. She wouldn't give him that satisfaction.

"Malfoy, could you just... engage in something constructive?" she asked, trying to sound more tired than irritated. "For example, prepare some materials about your research? Or fill out forms for the personnel department? Or, I don't know, go to lunch?"

"Lunch!" he caught on enthusiastically, putting down the model (in a completely different place than where it originally stood). "Great idea, Granger. Will you join me? I heard they serve quite good..."

"No," she interrupted him firmly. "I have too much work. And you should too."

He sighed dramatically, but to her relief he actually left the office, giving her at least an hour of blessed silence.

Unfortunately, he returned with lunch. For her too.

"I didn't know what you liked, so I took a bit of everything," he announced, spreading on her desk enough food to feed the entire department.

She opened her mouth to protest, but her stomach chose that moment to growl loudly. She had no choice – she had to accept his offer. Especially since her favourite salad with goat cheese and pomegranate was among the dishes brought.

"How did you know?" she asked suspiciously, reaching for the salad.

"I asked your assistant," he replied with satisfaction. "Very helpful young lady."

"I don't have an assistant," she said, narrowing her eyes.

"Oh," Malfoy shrugged, completely unfazed. "It must have been someone else's assistant. In any case, she knew your food preferences surprisingly well."

She decided not to pursue the topic. Instead, she ate the salad and returned to work, trying to ignore Malfoy, who spent the rest of the afternoon transfiguring various objects in her office into miniature versions of animals. By the end of the day, her desk was surrounded by a small army of silver swans, golden phoenixes, and bronze hedgehogs.

When the clock on the wall struck five, Hermione put down her quill with a sigh of relief. The first day of sharing an office with Malfoy had come to an end. She had survived. Barely, but still.

She packed her things into her bag, including the empty brownie box.

When she stood up to leave, she was surprised to notice that he was also getting up and taking his elegant briefcase.

"Are you leaving too?" she asked, unable to hide her surprise.

"Of course," he replied, as if it were obvious. "First day at work, very exhausting. I can't wait to get home and rest."

"Exhausting?" she repeated incredulously. "Malfoy, you literally did nothing all day!"

"Not true," he protested, looking genuinely offended. "I ate your brownie. I analysed all your diplomas. I learned the layout of your office. I created a small army of metal animals to keep you company. And I brought lunch. It was a very productive afternoon."

She shook her head in disbelief, but headed towards the door, with Malfoy on her heels.

When they emerged into the corridor, he did something she completely didn't expect – he threw his arm around her shoulders, as if they were old friends.

"You know what, Granger? You're really a fantastic colleague," he announced loudly, so that several passing Ministry employees turned to look at them in surprise. "So patient, so understanding, so professional. If I had to choose a person to share an office with for the next year, you would absolutely be at the top of my list."

She stopped abruptly and removed his arm from her shoulder, looking at him suspiciously.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" she asked directly.

He placed his hand over his heart, adopting an innocent expression.

"You wound me, Granger. Can't I simply appreciate my new, wonderful colleague? A woman of extraordinary intellect, unparalleled work ethic, and amazing culinary skills?"

She crossed her arms over her chest, still looking at him suspiciously.

"Spit it out."

For a split second it seemed he wanted to continue his charade, but then his face lit up with a broad, almost boyish smile.

"All right, you caught me," he admitted, raising his hands in surrender. "I was wondering if you could bring more of those divine baked goods. Preferably something with chocolate. Or fruit. Or nuts. Or all at once."

She blinked, not knowing whether to be amused or irritated.

"Really? That's what this was about? More cakes?"

"It was... a transcendental experience," he replied with complete conviction. "Like the first flight on a broomstick, only better. Like catching the Snitch in the final match, only sweeter. Like..."

"Enough, I understand," she interrupted, raising her hand. "And no, I won't bring you more baked goods. I'm not your personal baker."

"What if I'm very good?" he asked, tilting his head with an expression that reminded her more of Theodore, her neighbour's cat, than an adult wizard. "What if I really tackle those Mesopotamian runes? What if I deliver a complete set of my research by the end of the week? What if I say 'please'?"

She sighed deeply, feeling that she was losing this battle.

"If you actually do something productive over the next few days, then MAYBE, but only MAYBE, I'll consider bringing something on Friday," she finally said.

Malfoy's face brightened so much that she almost felt guilty for her earlier tone.

"You're an angel, Granger. A goddess among mortals. The patron saint of hungry rune researchers. The queen of bakers."

"That's enough," she interrupted him, but the corners of her mouth involuntarily lifted in a slight smile. "Until Thursday, Malfoy."

Chapter Text

When Hermione returned to her apartment, she threw her bag onto the sofa and sighed deeply. The first day of sharing an office with Draco Malfoy had been exhausting in a way she hadn't experienced since her NEWT exams.

She went to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of wine, and sank onto the sofa. With one lazy flick of her wand, she lit a fire in the fireplace. She was about to reach for a book when her eyes fell on her phone.

She felt a pang of anxiety mixed with excitement. She hadn't replied to his last message from Saturday – the one that had made her cheeks burn all through Sunday. Was he irritated by her silence? Disappointed? Impatient?

With slight hesitation, she reached for her phone. It unlocked at the touch of her finger, and the SoulScript icon flickered gently, signalling an unread message.

She bit her lip and opened the app. Their conversation was at the very top – the last message from him, sent no more than an hour ago.

SilverHeir: Good evening, Jean. Your silence throughout the day has been telling. I thought perhaps my Saturday message crossed some boundary. Or maybe you simply decided I wasn't worth your time. In any case, I had a crazy day, but I still thought about you. About your photo. About that smile. Tell me something good from your day. Anything that will make me forget about all those irritating people I had to deal with today.

She felt a strange warmth spreading through her body. Not only had he written first, but he also wasn't pushing, wasn't reproaching her for her silence. He was... understanding.

She put her thumbs to the phone screen and began typing:

Jean G.: Sorry for the silence. Your Saturday message... well, let's say I needed time to cool down. And then Monday attacked me with full force. New co-worker - a nightmare from the past who suddenly appeared in my office and acts like he owns it.

She didn't have to wait long for an answer. The phone vibrated in her hand after just a few seconds.

SilverHeir: Sounds terrible. This day apparently spared no one. But I've just realised something absurd - I never asked where you work. What do you do on a daily basis? Where did this blast from the past have the audacity to appear?

Hermione hesitated, staring at the screen. It was a good question. She bit her lip, thinking intensely. She couldn't tell him she worked at the Ministry of Magic. But on the other hand, she didn't want to lie to him outright.

Jean G.: I run a café-bakery. It's my passion and business in one. But additionally I work as a consultant in a government agency dealing with... let's say, intercultural innovations. Sounds impressive, but in practice it's a lot of paperwork and meetings with people who don't understand that some traditions are worth preserving, while others should be modified. That's where my new "colleague" appeared today.

Jean G.: And you? You never mentioned what you do.

She watched as three pulsating dots appeared on the screen, indicating that Dray was writing a response. After a moment it came:

SilverHeir: Similar to you, I divide my time between two occupations. The first is my private consulting company - mainly investments that don't require much more from me than occasionally showing up at some meeting and signing a few documents. The second involves a lot of paperwork, but at least my co-worker isn't a walking nightmare. On the contrary - she's brilliant, competent, and has surprisingly good culinary taste. Though I must admit, she's not as intriguing as you, Jean.

She felt a strange twinge in her stomach. Something between jealousy and irritation. A brilliant, competent co-worker? While she was stuck with Malfoy?

Before she could stop herself, her fingers were already typing a response:

Jean G.: Sounds perfect. Maybe we should switch? You take my nightmarish co-worker, and I'll take your brilliant colleague. Though I wonder if she's really that competent... or perhaps she just looks good in an office skirt?

She froze, staring at what she had just written. Where did that last part come from? It wasn't like her - that note of jealousy, that slightly flirtatious tone. She wanted to delete the last sentence, but it was too late - the message had been sent.

The reply came faster than she expected:

SilverHeir: Oh, do I detect a hint of jealousy? I assure you that my co-worker, though undoubtedly capable, doesn't arouse in me the same interest as the mysterious bakery owner who sends me photos with her hair spread across the pillow. And as for the office skirt - I'm very curious what YOU wear to work, Jean...

She looked down at the navy pencil skirt she hadn't yet had time to change out of after returning from work. She still had elegant heels on her feet. She ran her finger along the edge of the phone, considering her response. She could simply describe her outfit... or she could do something bolder.

Her finger hovered over the camera icon. A photo? That would be quite bold of her. On the other hand, what was wrong with a photo of an office outfit? It wasn't anything inappropriate. Just a skirt and heels. It was nothing compared to that complete slip-up.

She switched the phone to camera mode and for the next five minutes felt absolutely ridiculous, trying to position her legs at the most flattering angle. She moved her foot to the right, then to the left. Extended her leg. Bent her knee. Crossed her legs. Uncrossed them. Pulled her skirt up a centimetre higher, then back down.

She looked critically at the tenth unsuccessful photo. This was absurd. She was behaving like a teenager, not like an adult woman with a career.

But she would never meet this man. It was just a game, a bit of fun, harmless entertainment. He probably lived somewhere far away, maybe even in another country. He would never find out who Hermione Granger really was.

She was thirty years old. Surely she could have a bit of fun in life? Her social life in recent years had shrunk to occasional meetings with Priya, weekend BBBs, and endless hours of work – whether at the Ministry or at the café. When was the last time she did something just for herself? Something reckless, spontaneous?

It was just a photo of legs.

With new resolve, she placed the phone on the table in front of her, tilted it at the right angle, and crossed one leg over the other, showcasing her slender calves and the tips of her black heels. The skirt hugged her thighs just above the knees, suggestive but still decent.

She clicked. Looked at the result. Not bad. Actually... it was quite good.

Without further deliberation that might cause her to change her mind, she opened their conversation and sent the photo. As soon as the message was sent, she felt a rush of adrenaline – a mixture of excitement, embarrassment, and something else... something that felt like a sense of power.

The reply came faster than she expected - as if he had been waiting with the phone in hand. Three dots appeared and disappeared several times, as if he was writing, deleting, and writing again.

SilverHeir: Well... I was going to reply with something intelligent about your day and relaxing with wine, but that photo effectively cleared my mind of all coherent thoughts. I must admit that navy blue is definitely your colour. And those heels make me wonder what you would look like standing right in front of me. Would you be shorter? Or perhaps perfectly at the height of my lips?

She felt her cheeks burning. She ran her finger along the edge of the phone, considering her answer. His question was direct, but asked with such finesse that it was hard to take offense. Quite the opposite - she felt a pleasant warmth spreading throughout her body.

Jean G.: When I last checked my height, which was quite some time ago, I was 5'3". In these heels I'm probably closer to 5'7". I'd still be shorter than you, I assume? Or are you one of those men who prefer flat heels because they don't like when a woman towers over them?

SilverHeir: 6'2". You could wear the highest heels in existence, and you'd still have to tilt your head up to look me in the eyes. As for flat heels - quite the contrary. There's something fascinating about a woman who knows how to move in high heels. Besides, I like watching a woman's face light up when she stands on her tiptoes to tell me something. As if she's sharing a secret thought that's only for my ears.

She put down her phone for a moment, gathering her thoughts. She was beginning to have more and more information about him - he was tall, wealthy (judging by his watch and other subtle references), well-built (at least from the fragments he'd shown), and undoubtedly intelligent. And yet he still refused to show his face.

Something about all this didn't add up. What kind of man with such assets would need a dating app? And why was he so stubbornly hiding his face if he really wanted to meet someone?

Jean G.: I must admit, with each message I learn more about you. Tall, eloquent, evidently well-off... I wonder what a man like that is doing on a dating app, especially if he's so carefully hiding his face. Could it be you have something to hide?

SilverHeir: Your attempts to see my face are becoming increasingly sophisticated, Jean.

Jean G.: I had to try. You can't blame me for curiosity. Especially after you've been so willing to show other parts of yourself.

SilverHeir: That's precisely the point - I show what I want to show. I control the narrative. Isn't that better than a simple swipe left or right based on first impression? Besides, if you saw my face, would you lose interest in this conversation? Or is it perhaps this mystery that makes you return to your phone, checking if I've responded?

Hermione read the message several times. His confidence was both irritating and... intriguing. And the worst part was that he was right. She checked her phone decidedly too often for someone who considered herself a sensible thirty-year-old woman.

Jean G.: Your confidence is both fascinating and somewhat annoying. What makes you so certain that I'm so eager for your response? Maybe this is just one of many conversations I'm having on SoulScript?

She sent the message, knowing full well she was lying. She wasn't having any other conversations. In fact, since she started writing to Dray, she hadn't been interested in any other profile.

The reply came almost immediately:

SilverHeir: If you were actually talking to others, you wouldn't be spending your Monday evening sending me photos of your legs in heels. I appreciate that gesture, by the way. More than I can express in this short message. But let's get back to you - how was your first day with the new "blast from the past"?

Hermione hesitated. His change of subject was skillful - he diverted attention from himself, directing it back to her. And yet... there was something endearing about it. He was asking about her day, her problems. As if he were genuinely interested.

Jean G.: Honestly? Work is the last thing I want to think about right now. I spent eight hours with that irritating man, I don't intend to devote another minute of my evening to him. I'd prefer to hear something more... stimulating.

The answer came almost immediately:

SilverHeir: "Stimulating"? Interesting choice of words. Do you always use such ambiguous terms, or is it specially for me? Or perhaps I just have an exceptionally improper mind that finds innuendos everywhere.

Jean G.: Freud would have a field day with you. You really can transform the most innocent word into something inappropriate. Could it be that beneath that elegant, corporate shell lies the mind of a fifteen-year-old?

SilverHeir: A fifteen-year-old? Please. My mind is definitely more sophisticated. Let's say seventeen. With very good education. And considerable life experience. And since we're analyzing our statements - your tendency to use ellipses is fascinating. As if you always want to leave something unsaid, a gate through which you can slip away. Cautious even in virtual conversation?

She bit her lip. He was definitely too perceptive.

Jean G.: Ellipses provide space for interpretation. Not everything needs to be stated explicitly. Some things are more interesting when they remain in the realm of conjecture, but I must admit that your analysis is disturbingly accurate. Have you always been so insightful, or is this a special skill reserved for late-night conversations with strangers?

SilverHeir: It's both a gift and a curse. To see more than people want to show. To notice those small details they try to hide. Like the fact that you probably read this message at least twice before answering. That you're wondering if you're revealing too much. That you're hesitating between curiosity and caution.

Jean G.: Now you sound like some aristocratic vampire from Gothic novels. "It's both a gift and a curse." Really? Next you'll tell me you only wear black because it reflects the state of your soul.

SilverHeir: You've hit the mark perfectly. Right now I'm sitting in my dark tower, drinking wine from a crystal goblet and contemplating my eternal suffering. I'm wearing a black silk robe, of course, and Chopin is playing in the background. Isn't this every man's standard Monday evening?

Despite herself, she snorted with laughter.

Jean G.: Of course. That's exactly how I imagine your life. Though, honestly, with that watch and those elegant shirts, you really could be some decadent aristocrat. Or at least pretend to be one on weekends.

SilverHeir: "Pretend"? You wound my aristocratic feelings. I come from a family that can trace its roots back to... well, far enough to have a superiority complex and an unjustified sense that the world should bow before us. Doesn't that sound like true aristocracy?

Jean G.: Sounds like someone who had a valet to tie his shoes as a child. Tell me, do your parents still choose your clothes for you, or do they already allow you to match your socks to your trousers by yourself?

SilverHeir: Please. I have a private sock stylist. His name is Consequence of My Own Mistakes. After I once wore white socks with black shoes, my father considered disinheriting me. They say he turned so pale that for a moment he was almost transparent.

Jean G.: Poor thing! Your traumatic childhood experiences explain so much. No wonder you avoid showing your face. You probably still have PTSD.

SilverHeir: Exactly. Add to that the "Improperly Tied Tie Scandal" and the "Wrong Wine with Fish Catastrophe" and you have a complete picture of the psychological scars that shaped my character. Life among the aristocracy is a string of afflictions.

Jean G.: My heart bleeds. And I thought I had it tough because they called me a bookworm at school. Meanwhile, you were dealing with real problems. How do you cope with daily challenges, like grocery shopping? Do you have a special person for pushing the cart?

SilverHeir: Grocery shopping? Is that the strange activity where people walk between shelves and collect food that someone else put there earlier? I've heard about it. Sounds fascinating, like a safari for commoners. Maybe I'll try it someday, out of pure anthropological curiosity.

She didn't even notice how quickly several hours passed. The absurd exchange about aristocratic habits, elegant cufflinks and shocking the butler with inappropriate socks drew her in more than she was prepared to admit. Each of his replies brought a smile to her face, every message made her forget about tomorrow morning at work.

It was only when she accidentally looked at the clock in the top corner of the screen that she froze with her fingers over the keyboard. Midnight? How was that possible? She hesitated, looking at the screen. She should simply write goodnight and go to sleep. That would be sensible. Responsible. Adult.

Instead, she wrote one last message:

Jean G.: I have to go, it's late, and I have work at the bakery in the morning. But before I go... maybe you'll show me your face after all? Just a fragment? I feel I've earned it after all these hours of listening to your aristocratic nonsense.

She sent the message, then began preparing for bed, trying to ignore the irrational feeling of excitement at the thought of his reply. She was already in bed when the phone buzzed.

With a racing heart, she reached for the device. A new photo. She opened it and held her breath.

Black and white. Artistic. Intimate in its simplicity. A close-up of a male face, though most remained hidden behind an elegant hand. Fingers with perfectly trimmed nails were arranged in a characteristic gesture, leaving only one eye visible. Intense, surrounded by distinct, masculine eyelashes. The gaze had something hypnotic about it – a combination of confidence with subtle amusement, as if the owner of this eye found the whole situation amusing, but also intriguing.

The black and white contrast highlighted every detail – the shadow cast by the hand on the cheek, subtle wrinkles in the corner of the eye suggesting a smile. On the wrist, between the hand and a fragment of an elegant shirt, the familiar watch gleamed metallically even in the monochromatic shot.

Beneath the photo was a message:

SilverHeir: The rest is only for those who have the courage to meet in person. Sleep well, Jean. And don't analyze this photo too carefully – some mysteries are better discovered gradually.

She ran her finger across the screen, as if wanting to touch that face, to know the contours hidden behind the hand. Who was he really? Was he truly that sophisticated, sardonic aristocrat he portrayed himself as? Or did that mask hide someone completely different?

She put the phone on her nightstand, but she could still see that gaze behind her eyelids. One eye, looking straight into her soul, as if it saw more than she would like to show.

With that disturbing thought, she fell into a shallow, restless sleep, in which grey eyes watched her from every shadow.

Chapter Text

The next day, Hermione stood behind the counter of her bakery, fighting against her drooping eyelids. She tried to focus on decorating cupcakes, but her usually precise movements were clumsy and slow today. Twice she made mistakes when giving change, and when a customer asked about ingredients in the gluten-free cookies, she stared at him for a good minute, completely forgetting the recipe she had developed herself.

"Hermione, is everything alright?" Rose looked at her with concern. "You look like you're about to fall asleep standing up."

"I'm just a bit tired," she answered, stifling a yawn. "I didn't sleep well."

Rose raised an eyebrow doubtfully. "'Didn't sleep well' is the euphemism of the year. You look like a zombie. Maybe you should sit down for a moment? I can handle the customers."

Hermione was just opening her mouth to protest – she couldn't leave Rose alone during the morning rush – when the bell above the door jingled, announcing the arrival of a new customer.

"You look like death on vacation," declared Priya, approaching the counter. She was wearing a perfectly tailored grey suit, and her long black hair was styled in an elegant bun. She looked like a million dollars, which only emphasized the fact that Hermione felt like one crumpled pound. "What happened? Did someone die, or did you just discover the internet's nightlife?"

She sighed, feeling a blush creeping up her cheeks.

"Maybe I should take a break," she muttered to Rose, who gave her a knowing smile.

"Go. Take a break. Drink some coffee. Eat something," the younger woman said, already taking her place behind the counter. "And maybe drink some water. You look dehydrated."

"Come on," Priya took her by the arm, leading her to a small table in the corner. "We have a lot to discuss."

"We don't have anything to discuss," Hermione protested weakly, but allowed herself to be guided. At that moment, her phone buzzed in her apron pocket.

Priya immediately grabbed her wrist, eyes gleaming with excitement.

"It's him! Show me what he wrote! Show me what he wrote!" She pulled Hermione to the most remote table in the corner of the bakery.

"How do you know it's 'him'?"

"Please," Priya snorted, rolling her eyes. "You look like a teenager after a first date. Sleep-deprived, flustered, and red as a beet as soon as I mentioned messages. So? Will you show me, or do I have to forcibly take that phone from you? And believe me, I've done it in court before, so don't think I'll hesitate."

Hermione sighed, taking out her phone.

"I swear, you're worse than the Inquisition. It's probably just some stupid message..."

Priya had already snatched the device from her hand, unlocking it and opening the SoulScript app.

"'Good morning, Jean. I hope that despite the short night, your morning is bearable. I was just wondering if the coffee you're drinking now matches the one roasted during the full moon by virgins in white gloves?'" she read aloud, then looked at Hermione. "Virgins in white gloves? What the hell were you two talking about last night?"

She felt her face burning. With lightning speed, she snatched the phone from her friend's hands, almost knocking over the coffee cup on the table.

"That's private!" she hissed, putting the phone back in her apron pocket. "And completely taken out of context. We were just joking about his... aristocratic habits."

"Aristocratic?" Priya raised an eyebrow. "Are you dating some lord? Earl? Or maybe a prince in disguise? I must admit, virgins roasting coffee is a new level of extravagance even for me."

"I'm not dating anyone," Hermione rubbed her temples, feeling a growing headache. "It's just a conversation. An innocent, fun conversation. Which happened to... go on until midnight."

"Until midnight?!" Her friend almost shouted, attracting glances from several customers. She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. "Hermione Granger, you incorrigible liar. 'Innocent conversation' doesn't last until midnight. Tell me everything. Immediately."

With a heavy sigh, she gave in and spent the next few minutes summarizing her late-night exchange with the mysterious SilverHeir. She talked about his sophisticated sense of humor, intelligence, how they joked about his aristocratic habits and her life as a bakery owner. She mentioned his elegant shirt, expensive watch, and tall height. Each time she tried to downplay the significance of this conversation, Priya raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"...and yes, he sent me this black and white photo of his eye. Just one eye, the rest of his face covered by his hand," she finished, sipping her now cold coffee.

Priya sat in silence for a moment, processing all the information. And then she began her discourse.

"You absolutely, categorically, and unconditionally must meet him," she declared in the tone she used in the courtroom. "First, the guy is evidently intelligent, since he can keep up with you in conversation for several hours. Second, he has a sense of humor. Third, he's wealthy, which isn't necessary, but is a pleasant bonus. Fourth..."

Hermione tried to interject a few words, but Priya was on a roll.

"...I haven't even seen his face! It's like buying a pig in a poke!" she finally protested when her friend momentarily paused to catch her breath.

"Ninth," the lawyer continued as if she hadn't heard, "that's exactly the point! Mystery! Intrigue! When was the last time you did something spontaneous? Something unpredictable? Something that wasn't planned in your small, orderly world of cupcakes and books?"

Fifteen minutes later, when Priya finally concluded her impassioned speech, she felt overwhelmed. Before she could defend herself, her friend grabbed her phone and opened the photo of the mysterious eye.

"Let's see what we have here," she muttered, zooming in on the image with her fingers. "Grey eye, but well, that could be any color. Slight wrinkles in the corner - so not a teenager, thank God. The picture is a bit blurry, but it seems he has a strongly defined jawline."

"Come on, Priya. You can't tell anything based on one eye!"

"Nonsense. Eyes are the windows to the soul, and I'm an expert at analyzing people. This guy is confident, intelligent, there's something... familiar about him."

"Familiar?" Hermione felt her heart quicken.

"Yes... as if I've seen that look somewhere before." Priya tilted her head. "Hey, did he send you any other photos? Maybe something that could give us more clues?"

Reluctantly, she showed her the photo of an elegant hand holding a coffee cup.

"Oh! Look!" Priya pointed at the shiny surface. "There's a reflection! Maybe it's part of his face?"

For the next half hour, two adult, educated women leaned over the phone screen, analyzing the blurred reflection in the coffee cup like a pair of amateur detectives. They zoomed in, zoomed out, changed the contrast, even turned the phone at different angles, as if that could magically sharpen the image. Hermione didn't admit that she had done this for ten minutes after receiving the photo.

"This is hopeless," Hermione finally sighed. "You can only see some indistinct shapes. It could literally be anyone."

"Or someone you know," Priya suddenly said, putting down the phone.

"What?"

"Think about it. A guy who doesn't want to show his face? Who seems to know quite a bit about you, despite only just meeting? Who writes as if he knows you? What if it's someone you know in real life? Maybe even a customer at your bakery?"

Hermione felt the blood draining from her face. "That's... that's impossible. I didn't give him the address of my bakery. I didn't even mention its name!"

"But you wrote that you're a baker. That's not such a common profession. If he lives somewhere in the area, he could have found you. Maybe he even comes here regularly for coffee?"

Hermione nervously looked around the premises. Several men were sitting at the tables - an older gentleman with a newspaper, a young student with a laptop, a middle-aged businessman reviewing documents.

"Priya, stop. You're making me paranoid."

But her friend was already analyzing every male customer.

"This old man is out, unless his retirement savings are enough for a Patek Philippe," Priya stated, discreetly nodding toward the older gentleman reading the newspaper.

"Stop!" she groaned, but involuntarily began examining the customers. "Besides, the photo was black and white. You can't even determine what color his eyes are."

"But we know he's tall. And that he has slender, well-groomed hands. And expensive watches. And well-tailored shirts. That's something."

"That could be practically any man who takes care of himself and has a good job," she noted, but still glanced at the man in a suit sitting by the window. "That one's too short. And he's wearing a wedding ring."

Priya looked at her with appreciation. "I see you're paying attention to details after all. What about the one who just came in?"

Hermione discreetly turned toward the door. An elegant man in a grey coat entered the bakery. Tall, slim, with his hair slicked back.

"Too..." she hesitated. What did she actually know about Dray's appearance? "I don't know. He doesn't look like someone who would spend an evening writing to me about coffee brewed by virgins."

"How do you know? Maybe it's his secret passion," Priya giggled, then added more seriously: "You know, he might have deliberately sent that black and white photo. So you couldn't determine anything. To maintain the mystery."

The bakery door opened again and another man entered – this time in a sports jacket, with short hair and glasses.

"That one?" Priya whispered.

"Too short," she replied automatically, then added defensively: "And his shoes are tied crookedly. I don't think SilverHeir would ever allow that."

"My God, you really have fallen," Priya giggled. "You know him better than some of your long-time acquaintances."

"It's not like that," she protested, but her cheeks betrayed the truth.

Then the bell above the door jingled again, and both women instinctively looked in that direction. A tall, slim man in a dark coat and scarf that partially covered his face entered. He was wearing elegant glasses, and the cuffs of a snow-white shirt with visible cufflinks protruded from under his coat. An expensive watch gleamed on his wrist.

Hermione froze, holding her breath. The man approached the counter, where Rose was serving customers.

"Is it him?" Priya hissed, squeezing her arm so hard that she probably left bruises.

"I don't know," she whispered, feeling her heart pounding wildly. "I can't see his face clearly..."

The man ordered something from Rose, who nodded and began preparing coffee. He slowly turned around, looking around the premises. His gaze slid across the tables, paused momentarily on Hermione...

...and moved on, without any trace of recognition.

"It's not him," she sighed with relief, though somewhere deep down she felt a strange pang of disappointment.

"How do you know?"

"I just know. He would have recognized me. And this guy has... I don't know... a different aura? SilverHeir seems more... intense."

Priya shook her head in disbelief. "Listen to yourself. You're analyzing the 'aura' of a guy you only know from a few messages and one partially covered photo. You're completely fascinated by him."

"I am not!" she protested, but her eyes involuntarily tracked every new customer entering the bakery.

"Admit it. And meet him. Worst case, he turns out to be a serial killer and you'll be my last client," Priya joked, then turned serious. "But seriously, Hermione. I can see how this conversation affects you. You light up when you talk about him. Even when you're sleep-deprived and irritated, you have that spark in your eye. This guy intrigues you. And you haven't been intrigued by anyone for years."

"It's just ordinary curiosity," she muttered, playing with her spoon.

"Curiosity is the first step to hell. Give him a chance. Meet him in a public place. What could go wrong?"

"Everything?" she suggested, but her voice no longer sounded so convincing.

"Or nothing. Or everything could go very, very well," Priya smiled, finishing her coffee. "Now I have to go. I have a client who claims his wife cheated on him with a yoga instructor. Spoiler alert: he was also cheating on her with a Pilates instructor. Poetry of hypocrisy."

When Priya left, Hermione was left alone at the table, with her phone in hand and SilverHeir's message still unread. She bit her lip, wondering what to reply. Maybe Priya was right? Maybe she should give this strange, virtual acquaintance a chance?

Before she could decide, the bakery door opened once again. And this time Hermione really froze.

Malfoy.

In an instant, all her suspicions about SilverHeir, all the paranoia and fascination with the mysterious stranger – all of it evaporated from her mind. Only irritation remained, which immediately boiled over and transformed into pure fury.

She jumped up from her chair, knocking it over in the process, and headed toward the door. Malfoy, with that irritating half-smile of his, was just looking around the interior of the bakery, as if evaluating her life choices.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed, grabbing him by the elbow and pulling him toward a small alcove by the door leading to the back room. Her voice was quiet but intense – like the hiss of boiling water. "Are you following me? Isn't it enough that you occupy half of my office? Now you've decided to ruin my second job as well?"

Malfoy looked at her hand clenched on his elbow, then shifted his gaze to her face.

"Granger," he said calmly, though the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. "Is this the standard way you greet all customers, or just those you particularly dislike?"

"Don't play innocent," she growled, glancing over her shoulder to make sure their conversation wasn't attracting too much attention. Fortunately, most customers were too busy with their own conversations or phones. "What are you doing in my bakery?"

"Your bakery?" he raised an eyebrow. "And I thought it was a public establishment. A café. A place where people come to drink coffee. If only Ministry customers are welcome, tell me right away, I'll hang a sign on the door."

Hermione clenched her teeth so hard she could almost hear them grating. "Stop. Just... stop. This can't be a coincidence. The Department of Interdimensional Magical Innovations is on the other side of town. There's no logical reason why you would be here, unless..."

"I wanted more of those brownies," he interrupted her, with an expression suggesting the explanation should be obvious. "I didn't feel like waiting until Friday, so I simply came."

She blinked, completely thrown off. Of all possible explanations, this was the last one she would have expected.

"You came... for brownies?" she repeated slowly, as if making sure she heard correctly.

"Yes, Granger. For brownies," he answered with that irritating half-smile of his. "The ones you brought to the office were... acceptable."

"Acceptable?" she snorted. "You ate the whole box. By yourself."

"I was examining the consistency. From a scientific perspective. I needed a large sample." He shrugged nonchalantly, looking around the bakery. "So this is your kingdom outside the Ministry? Cozy. Not as pretentious as I expected."

"Sorry to disappoint you," she replied dryly. "Next time I'll order gold chandeliers and velvet curtains to meet your aristocratic expectations."

"I appreciate sarcasm in the early morning. No one serves it as well as you, Granger."

Before she could respond, Rose called her from the counter:

"Hermione! We're out of those special cups we keep for VIPs. Could you bring more from the back room?"

"VIPs?" Malfoy looked amused. "You have special cups for important customers? How very... exclusive."

"It's for regular customers," she muttered, trying to get past him. "And you definitely don't qualify."

"Not yet," he replied, following her toward the counter. "But who knows? I might become a regular. These brownies might be worth even your company, Granger."

Hermione rolled her eyes and headed to the back room for the cups, feeling his gaze on her back. When she returned, Malfoy was already at the counter, talking to Rose, who looked absolutely enchanted. The young girl was giggling, blushing, and looking at him as if he were the eighth wonder of the world.

"...so I told the boss that if he really thinks those old symbols can be interpreted without proper preparation, he should go back to first-year studies," Malfoy was saying, gesturing elegantly.

"That's so fascinating!" Rose sighed, resting her chin on her hand.

"Rose," she cleared her throat meaningfully, "perhaps you could serve this gentleman and return to other customers?"

"Oh, I've already served him," she replied, not taking her eyes off Malfoy. "He ordered a large black coffee, an espresso on the side, and two pecan brownies."

"Two?" Hermione raised an eyebrow.

"One for now, one for later," he explained, as if it were obvious. "Though I'm wondering if I should take a third. As a... sample for colleagues from work."

"I didn't know you had friends."

"Colleagues from work, Granger. I said 'colleagues from work.' Although..." he paused, looking at her with a strange gleam in his eye, "maybe I just like having a stash of sweets for a rainy day."

Rose placed a cup of coffee in front of him – one of those elegant ones they did indeed keep for regular customers. The girl gave Hermione an apologetic look when she noticed her furrowed brows.

"You look terrible, by the way," he observed, taking a sip of coffee. "Rough night?"

Hermione felt her cheeks flushing again. How dare he mention her sleepless night, when it was because of him – or rather, because of the memory of their absurd office situation – that she couldn't fall asleep? Well, not only because of that, but he didn't need to know that.

"Some of us work two jobs, Malfoy," she replied coolly. "Not everyone can live off a family fortune."

"Ah, yes. I forgot that you're a walking example of workaholism." He nodded with feigned understanding. "Office, bakery, probably some additional projects after hours? Impressive, Granger. Truly impressive."

She looked at him suspiciously. Was that sarcasm, or did she actually hear a note of genuine appreciation in his voice?

"Some of us like to be... productive," she said cautiously.

"I see." He broke off a piece of brownie and put it in his mouth, then closed his eyes with an expression of almost indecent pleasure on his face. "By all that's holy, this is even better than what you brought yesterday. What do you add in there? Some secret ingredient?"

"Regular ingredients," she replied, unable to suppress a slight smile at his reaction. "Though your theory about a secret ingredient would explain why Rose looks like she's about to faint with delight."

Rose, who was just passing by with a tray full of pastries, gave her an indignant look.

"I simply appreciate handsome customers with class and good taste," the girl muttered, heading toward another table.

"See, Granger?" Malfoy smiled with satisfaction. "Your employee has good taste."

"My employee is twenty years old and has zero experience with men of your type."

"My type? And what type is that exactly?"

Hermione sighed, leaning against the counter. "Sophisticated, wealthy, handsome, and perfectly aware of all those traits. A dangerous combination for a young, naive girl."

It was only after the words left her mouth that she realized what she had said. She had called Malfoy handsome. Out loud. In front of him.

His smile widened, and his grey eyes flashed triumphantly.

"Handsome, you say? Granger, are you actually paying me a compliment? Should I mark this in my calendar as a historic event?"

"An objective statement of fact," she replied quickly, straightening up. "Just like stating that you're an irritating, arrogant jerk."

"More compliments. I'll start blushing soon."

She rolled her eyes, but couldn't suppress a slight smile. There was something... amusing about him. When he wasn't hurling insults about her heritage and not actively trying to ruin her life, Malfoy could be almost... charming? No, that wasn't the word. Tolerable. Yes, that was a better description.

"I really can't believe you came to my bakery just for brownies," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"And I can't believe you run a Muggle bakery," he replied, looking around again. "Although, looking at it from another angle, you were always the one who wanted to prove she could do everything."

"I don't run it to prove anything," she answered, suddenly feeling the need to defend her choice. "I do it because I like it. It's simple."

Malfoy tilted his head, and his glasses slid slightly down his nose. He fixed them with a quick, precise movement of his index finger.

"They really suit you," she blurted out before she could bite her tongue.

"What?" he asked, blinking in surprise.

"Those glasses," she explained, feeling her cheeks flush. "You look less... sinister in them."

Malfoy burst out laughing, genuine and surprisingly pleasant to the ear.

"Sinister? Did you just suggest that without glasses I look like a villain from a cheap horror movie?"

"Well, with that white hair and pale complexion..." she began, then stopped, seeing his expression. "I'm joking! It was a joke, Malfoy."

"Oh, so Hermione Granger can joke? Note the date, Rose," he turned to the employee who was just passing by. "It's a historic moment."

Rose giggled, looking with interest from Hermione to Malfoy.

"Sorry, but I need to get back to work," she said, stepping back. "Some of us are actually engaged in something productive."

"That was productive!" he protested, pointing to the empty plates that had held brownies. "I provided you with invaluable feedback on the quality of your baked goods. For example, the second piece was slightly moister than the first, which would suggest uneven heating in the oven."

Hermione stopped mid-step, completely surprised. "How did you... that's true. We have a problem with the oven."

Malfoy smiled with satisfaction. "See? Invaluable information. Besides, I've always had a good sense for details."

"Which actually explains why Hughes assigned you to my project," Hermione muttered, more to herself than to him.

"Our project," he corrected her, removing his glasses and wiping the lenses with the corner of his shirt. "And yes, my meticulousness might prove useful when we analyze those notes of yours."

"My notes are perfectly organized!" she protested, feeling a familiar twinge of irritation.

"Indeed," he agreed, putting his glasses back on. "But completely incomprehensible to ordinary mortals. Really, Granger, you write as if each sheet of paper cost a fortune. Those microscopic letters, those abbreviations..."

"Those are standard scientific abbreviations," she defended herself, crossing her arms over her chest.

"VWRM is a standard scientific abbreviation?" he raised an eyebrow. "Or perhaps MVAF?"

Hermione felt her cheeks flush.

"It's... Vibrational Wards of Runic Mesopotamia and Magical-Visual Adaptation Field," she admitted reluctantly.

"Of course, how could I not have guessed," he nodded with feigned gravity. "Well, we'll have to work on your notation system if we're going to work together on this project. I can't keep asking you what each mysterious acronym means."

"We won't be working on anything," she said firmly, though she knew it wasn't true. "It's still my project. You're just... a temporary consultant."

"Really?" he smiled condescendingly. "Because Hughes seemed quite convinced that it's our joint venture. Actually, he used the words 'inseparable duo'."

"Inseparable...?" she felt her stomach twist. "Impossible."

"And yet," he shrugged. "Besides, those runes were completely my idea. So one could say it's MY project, and you're just a temporary consultant. Either way, we'll have to learn to work together, Granger. Whether you like it or not."

He was right, of course. She knew that. But the awareness that for the next few months she would have to share her space, her research, and her time with Draco Malfoy still seemed surreal.

"Anyway," he added, standing up and brushing invisible crumbs from his perfectly tailored trousers, "it's not so bad, right? It seems that since yesterday we've managed to have at least two civilized conversations without casting spells or hurling insults. That's progress."

"Yes, I suppose that could be called progress," she agreed reluctantly, watching as he adjusted his shirt cuffs. "Though I still wonder how, of all the rune experts in the world, they had to hire you specifically."

"Maybe because I'm the best?" he suggested with that irritating half-smile of his. "Or maybe because my theory of conceptual transfer perfectly complements your research on signal adaptation? Or maybe destiny simply decided that you deserve a colleague with a similar level of intellect?"

"Or karma decided to punish me for some past transgression," she muttered, but without real anger in her voice.

"Possible," he agreed lightly. "In any case, see you at the office, Granger. And you'd better prepare an extra copy of those notes of yours. With translations of the acronyms. And brownies. Lots of brownies."

Before she could respond, Malfoy nodded to her, left a generous tip on the counter, and headed toward the door.

"Was that the horrible co-worker?" Rose asked, approaching her with a broad smile. "Because if so, you might need to redefine the word 'horrible'. That man is absolutely charming!"

"He's absolutely irritating," she corrected her, returning behind the counter. "And manipulative. And arrogant."

"And handsome," Rose added with a dreamy expression. "And funny. And he has those eyes that look straight into your soul..."

"Oh, for goodness' sake..." she sighed. "Rose, he's not for you. Trust me, I've known him since school. He's not a guy you'd want to date."

"Then who is he for?" she asked with a sly smile. "For you?"

Hermione felt her cheeks burning. "What? No! Absolutely not! Never! That's... that's ridiculous!"

"Mmhmm," she murmured, clearly unconvinced.

When she returned home, she collapsed onto the sofa, kicking off her shoes and letting fatigue overtake her body. It was one of those days that seemed to drag on forever.

Only after a long, hot shower and a snack consisting of yesterday's dinner leftovers did she reach for her phone. The notification from SoulScript was still waiting for a response.

SilverHeir: "Good morning, Jean. I hope that despite the short night, your morning is bearable. I was just wondering if the coffee you're drinking now matches the one roasted during the full moon by virgins in white gloves?"

She smiled, remembering their late-night exchange.

Jean G.: "Sorry for the delayed response. The day was interesting. And unfortunately, my morning coffee didn't have even a trace of the quality we discussed. Employees in white gloves? Yes. But their marital status leaves much to be desired, and the moon was in its quarter rather than full."

The reply came almost immediately:

SilverHeir: "How is it possible that even when writing about coffee, you can be so adorably pedantic? Quarter instead of full... only you would pay attention to such astronomical precision."

Hermione felt her lips stretching into a smile. There was something pleasant about how Dray noticed and appreciated her tendency toward precision, rather than considering it a flaw.

Jean G.: "I apologize. Sometimes my inner perfectionist takes control. But at least you can be sure that if we ever met for coffee, I would find a place with the best possible quality-to-price ratio."

Hermione immersed herself in the conversation, absently stroking Crookshanks, who appeared from nowhere and jumped onto her lap, demanding attention. The cat purred quietly, nestling into her hand, while she responded to SilverHeir's subsequent messages, forgetting about the fatigue and frustration of the day.

This is how her Monday passed, and then Tuesday and Wednesday. Each evening she promised herself she would finish earlier, that she needed sleep, that she shouldn't sacrifice precious hours of rest for a conversation with a man she had never seen. And then her phone would buzz with a notification, and she couldn't resist reading "just one" message, which turned into two, five, twenty...

When she appeared at the Ministry on Thursday morning, with shadows under her eyes and a cup of strong coffee in hand, she felt she would need to implement her own communication project into her life. As absurd as it was, she missed those brief, intelligent exchanges, his sharp humor and unexpected compliments.

She made a decision – on Friday she would take her phone to work. She would violate her own rule of separating professional life from personal, but well... sometimes rules need to be broken, right? Especially when the longing for messages from someone you theoretically don't know becomes stronger than attachment to routine.

When she entered the office, she was greeted by silence. Malfoy wasn't there. His desk – still transfigured from her favorite vase – stood empty, with no trace of papers, quills, or paper airplanes.

She immediately felt lighter. She exhaled the air she had unconsciously been holding and felt the tension leaving her shoulders. The entire office suddenly seemed larger, quieter, more... hers.

She sat at her desk, smiled to herself, and got to work. For the next three hours, she worked more efficiently than she had all week. Without Malfoy constantly commenting on her every move, without his irritating questions and even more irritating (because often accurate) suggestions, she could finally fully focus on her research.

And Malfoy still hadn't appeared.

"He probably doesn't give a damn as usual," she muttered to herself, reviewing another report. "Typical. The grand return of Draco Malfoy to wizarding Britain, and he can't even show up to work on time."

Around noon, her stomach growled loudly, reminding her that quite some time had passed since breakfast. She decided to go down to the Ministry cafeteria.

As soon as she crossed the threshold, she heard a familiar sound. Laughter. Loud, uninhibited laughter that she would recognize anywhere.

She instinctively turned her head toward the sound and saw them at a table by the window.

Malfoy. His fair hair gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the window, and his face wore an expression of genuine joy that she had never seen on him before. And opposite him...

Pansy Parkinson. Pansy, who didn't work at the Ministry.

She paused for a moment, surprised to see her friend in the Ministry cafeteria. Pansy, with her typical lack of subtlety, was loudly telling Malfoy something, gesturing vividly and laughing in that characteristic, slightly too high-pitched way that always attracted the attention of every man in the room.

"And then I told him – darling, if you think I'm going to wear THAT to meet your mother, you must have snorted too much Erumpent horn powder!" Pansy concluded her story, and Malfoy snorted with laughter.

She approached their table, not quite sure if she wanted to interrupt their meeting, but Pansy immediately noticed her.

"Hermione!" she shouted, waving energetically. "Look who I found! Our lost Slytherin prince! He looks divine, doesn't he? Those glasses add such intellectual sex appeal!"

"Thanks, Pans. You can always be counted on for subtle compliments."

"Subtlety is overrated," Pansy replied, moving over to make room for Hermione. "Sit down, I was just telling Draco about my catastrophic third dating weekend with that dragon guy."

"Third?" she raised an eyebrow, sitting beside her friend. "Last time you mentioned the second."

"Because that was a week ago, darling," she waved dismissively. "Keep up. Anyway, it turned out he had an obsession with his mother. Literally! He had her photos in his wallet, in his apartment, and even a damn locket with her hair! Hair, Hermione!"

"That's... disturbing," she admitted, glancing at Malfoy, who was watching their exchange with amusement.

"So, no BBB this weekend," Pansy sighed dramatically. "Unless..." her eyes gleamed dangerously, "Draco, what are you doing Saturday evening?"

Malfoy raised his hands in a defensive gesture. "Oh no, Pans. I remember what happened the last time I let myself get dragged into one of your ideas. I woke up the next day on the roof of the French embassy, in a shirt that definitely didn't belong to me, with the phone numbers of three different women written on my forearm."

"It was a beautiful evening," Pansy sighed dreamily. "But I understand, you're not as fun as you used to be. Seven years of studying dusty runes has taken its toll."

"Absolutely not," Hermione interjected firmly, shaking her head. "Malfoy will not be coming to any of our BBBs. That's ours, Pansy. Sacred tradition. We don't need any... men there." She spoke the last word in a tone as if referring to a particularly troublesome species of insect.

Pansy pouted in an exaggerated grimace. "But Hermione..."

"No," she repeated firmly. "Our BBB is sacred. Just us, drinks, and shopping we regret the next day. No men. And especially not..." she made a general gesture toward Malfoy, "...this man."

Malfoy, who until now had seemed quite content with being excluded from their ritual gatherings, suddenly straightened in his chair.

"Actually," he said slowly, adjusting his glasses on his nose with that irritating half-smile, "this BBB sounds fascinating. When you say 'no men,' Granger, is that an official rule, or just your personal preference?"

"Official rule," she answered immediately.

"It's absolutely not an official rule," Pansy denied simultaneously, grinning. "Hermione just doesn't want you to see what she looks like after four glasses of champagne, when she starts talking about her fantasies with..."

"PANSY!" she practically shouted, feeling her cheeks burning fiercely. "Stop. Immediately."

"Oh, now I really want to come," Malfoy rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward with an expression of absolute fascination on his face. "Fantasies, you say? Granger has fantasies? About whom?"

"About nobody," she growled. "About nothing. Pansy is joking. And you are NOT coming to our BBB."

"He is coming," Parkinson declared with satisfaction. "This Saturday. Standard procedure – first The Enchanted Snake for drinks, then shopping on Diagon Alley, and finally Tipsy Pixie for even more drinks. We start at seven."

Malfoy looked as if he had just received the best Christmas present of his life. "I'll be punctual," he promised, looking directly at Hermione with a gleam in his eyes that made her want to sink into the ground. Or turn him into a toad. Or both.

"No, you won't," she tried once more, already knowing she had lost this battle. "Pansy, I'm serious. This is a bad idea. A very, very bad idea."

"The best ideas always seem bad at first," she replied philosophically. "Remember how you thought it was a bad idea to go shopping with me for the first time? And now? You can't wait for our trips!"

"That's completely different," she protested weakly.

"Don't worry, Granger," Malfoy looked at her with amusement. "I promise I'll behave perfectly during your little... ritual. I won't divulge any of your secrets. Or fantasies."

"There are no fantasies!" she hissed, feeling her face reaching a temperature close to boiling.

"Mhm," Malfoy murmured, clearly not believing her. "And I don't have a collection of Muggle comics hidden under my bed."

Pansy snorted with laughter. "You have comics under your bed? Draco Malfoy, full of surprises!"

"That was irony, Pans," he sighed. "Of course I don't have comics under my bed. I keep them on the shelf, like any self-respecting collector."

Hermione looked from one to the other, unable to believe how quickly this conversation had spiraled out of control. She had planned to quietly eat lunch, and instead she had just been forced to spend Saturday night with Draco Malfoy. At their BBB. Where after a few drinks, Pansy would start telling the most embarrassing stories from their friendship, and she herself might inadvertently reveal too much.

"Fine," she finally gave in, standing up from the table. "But if you ruin our BBB, Malfoy, I swear I'll turn you into a ferret. And this time, no one will stop me."

"Threats of violence at the Ministry, Granger?" he raised an eyebrow. "Very unprofessional. But don't worry, I'll be a gentleman. I always am."

Pansy snorted loudly at this last statement, and Hermione simply shook her head, wondering in what universe this could have seemed like a good idea.

Though on the other hand, perhaps Malfoy would see what their BBBs were like, get bored after an hour, and never try to invite himself again. Yes, that was the plan. Let him come, let him see how boring their girls' nights were, and he would never want to participate again.

Chapter Text

As soon as Hermione crossed the threshold of her apartment, she threw her bag onto the sofa and immediately reached for her phone. All day she had been wondering if SilverHeir had written, curious about how he was doing. Their conversations had become a small addiction for her – something she looked forward to every evening.

A notification was flashing on the screen.

SilverHeir: I saw the most absurd advertisement poster today - a woman holding a pineapple trying to sell shoes. What connection do pineapples have with shoes? Is this some new trend?

SilverHeir: I was just wondering if cats really have nine lives, or is it just a metaphor for their agility? And if they do, do they remember their previous lives in each one? Does a cat falling from a height think "relax, I still have seven lives left"?

Jean G.: They definitely aren't aware of their nine lives, otherwise my Crookshanks wouldn't be such a coward.

SilverHeir: I was wondering if you've become convinced that I'm a real person and not a psychopathic murderer? Because if so, perhaps you'd like to meet? This Saturday, for example?

She froze, staring at the phone screen. An invitation to meet. Just like that, thrown in between jokes. Her heart quickened, and her hands suddenly became moist.

Meet SilverHeir. See the face of the man she had been talking to almost daily. The man to whom she had told more about herself than to most of her acquaintances.

But Saturday... she had BBB with Pansy on Saturday. And with Malfoy, who had wormed his way into their girls' night.

She probably wasn't ready for this, after all.

Throughout her time writing to him, there had always been a safe barrier – the phone screen, distance, anonymity. It gave her the courage to write things she would never say to someone face to face. To flirt, to share her most private thoughts, to be... herself. Without a filter, without inhibitions.

And now she was supposed to look him in the eye? After all those suggestive conversations? After sending him THAT photo?

She had been telling herself the whole time that she would never meet him. That it was just a game, a safe, virtual relationship that would never enter the real world. That's why she could be so honest with him, so bold in her confessions.

Jean G.: Meet? That's a very tempting offer, but I already have plans for Saturday - an unfortunate girls' night out. My friend would kill me if I didn't show up, especially since she invited my co-worker and I promised to make sure he doesn't ruin our tradition.

SilverHeir: What a shame... I really wanted to finally see the woman who has been haunting my thoughts for weeks. But I understand - duty calls. Perhaps another time?

Jean G.: The truth is that I'm probably not as brave as I thought. You know, writing to you is easy - I don't see your face, I don't know how you react to my words. But meeting is something completely different. Especially since I still don't know what you look like. I still don't have your photo, I don't know who to look for in a crowd. It's... quite terrifying.

SilverHeir: And I thought you liked challenges, Jean. Wouldn't it be exciting if you had to look around a café, wondering which of the men is me? Is it the one in the corner who's looking at you too intensely? Or perhaps the one at the bar, pretending to read a book?

Jean G.: Now you're deliberately trying to intrigue me! But it won't work. Because the fact remains that I've told you things I've never told anyone else. I've confessed fantasies I would be ashamed of if you could see my face when you read about them.

SilverHeir: And you think I would be disappointed in reality? Quite the contrary, Jean. The opportunity to see the blush on your cheeks when we remember THAT message about the library... that would be fascinating. To see how your eyes avoid my gaze, how you nervously bite your lip... No, I definitely wouldn't be disappointed.

Hermione groaned aloud. Of course he had to mention that. That one message she had sent after three glasses of wine, describing in detail her old fantasy from school days - about being pressed against a bookshelf.

Jean G.: DON'T remind me! I was under the influence of wine then and definitely too honest. And that's exactly the point - if we met, every time I looked into your eyes, I would wonder if you were thinking about all those things I told you.

SilverHeir: Of course I would think about them. Every word of yours is etched in my memory. Especially the most vivid fragments. But that doesn't mean I couldn't behave like a gentleman. At least until you yourself wanted me to stop being one.

* * *

Hermione, in line with yesterday's decision, took her phone to work, carefully hiding it in an inner pocket of her bag. Before leaving home, she checked her messages once more – no new ones from SilverHeir since last night. She couldn't decide whether she felt relief or disappointment because of this.

When she entered the office, Malfoy was already there, sitting at his desk with a cup of coffee and a smirk that she immediately recognized as a harbinger of trouble.

"Good morning, Granger," he greeted her in an exaggeratedly cheerful tone. "How are you feeling before the big BBB? Mentally prepared to introduce me to your secret female rituals?"

She rolled her eyes, putting her bag on the desk.

"Good morning, Malfoy. I see you've decided to start irritating me from the very beginning of the day. Very efficient."

"I try," he replied, raising his cup in a toast gesture. "I even bought a new shirt for the occasion. Silver. Matching my eyes. Pansy approved it."

"Wonderful," she muttered, taking documents out of her bag and trying to ignore the phone that weighed in her pocket like forbidden fruit. "Maybe you should also buy yourself earplugs, because most of our conversations during BBB are complaints about men."

He put his hand to his heart in a gesture of indignation.

"Granger, you wound me! Do you really think I'm that delicate? I can take constructive criticism."

"This won't be constructive criticism. It will be ruthless crushing of the male ego in general, and yours in particular, if you behave like you are now."

"And how am I behaving?" he asked, tilting his head with feigned innocence.

"Like a typical man who thinks everything revolves around him," she replied, sitting at her desk.

"Ah," he sighed dramatically, "so that's what you talk about during BBB. About us, poor, imperfect men whom you can't understand. Or maybe..." he leaned in conspiratorially, "you talk about your secret fantasies? Those you would never admit out loud if it weren't for alcohol loosening your tongues?"

Hermione felt her cheeks beginning to burn. At the mere mention of "fantasies," her thoughts immediately wandered to SilverHeir and their late-night conversations.

"Don't be absurd," she replied, perhaps too quickly. "BBB is just... girl talk. Nothing exciting."

"Then why are you blushing, Granger?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Have I hit a sensitive spot? Perhaps this facade of a serious ministry employee hides a much more interesting person than everyone thinks?"

"I'm blushing with anger, Malfoy," she replied, focusing with all her might on the documents in front of her. "And if you really think I'm going to tell you what we talk about during BBB, then you're even more naive than I thought."

"You don't have to tell me," he shrugged, smiling widely. "I'll find out for myself tomorrow. I'm coming armed with my most charming smile and a promise that I won't comment, even when Pansy starts talking about her craziest dates."

"Oh, you will comment," she replied dryly. "That's exactly what you do. Always. You can't help putting in your two cents on every conversation."

"Not true!"

"True. You're doing it even now. I'm trying to work, and you have to comment on every word I say."

"I only do it because your reactions are so amusing," he admitted shamelessly. "Especially when you wrinkle your nose like this – yes, exactly like you're doing now!"

She immediately tried to relax her face, which only made Malfoy laugh loudly.

"See? Priceless. I can't wait to see how you react after a few drinks. Did Pansy mention something about dancing on a table during the last BBB?"

"She WHAT?" she almost shouted, then immediately lowered her voice, looking around nervously. "I didn't dance on any table! That's complete nonsense!"

"Hmm, defensive reaction," Malfoy noted, clearly amused. "That's always a sign there's a grain of truth to it. Maybe you didn't dance ON the table, but BY the table? Or maybe you danced for someone else? For that bartender Pansy mentioned?"

"There was no bartender!" she hissed, though of course there was. A very handsome bartender with tattooed forearms who had been giving her meaningful looks all evening.

"So there was one after all," he clapped his hands triumphantly. "Granger, Granger, who would have thought. And you always seemed so... restrained."

"MALFOY!" she stood up, placing her hands on the desk. "Could you please focus on work for five minutes? We have a project to finish, and you're acting like... like..."

"Like who?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Like a typical, irritating, nosy man who thinks that everything women do revolves around them!"

"Ah, so we're back to square one," he nodded, as if he had just solved a complicated puzzle. "All right, Granger. I'll be good. For the next..." he looked at his watch, "five minutes."

And to her amazement, he indeed fell silent, focusing on the papers in front of him. Hermione used this moment of peace to discreetly check her phone. No new messages. She sighed quietly, wondering if perhaps SilverHeir had taken offense at her refusal to meet.

"What are you checking with that expression?" Malfoy's voice pulled her from her thoughts. "Could it be some mysterious messages?"

She almost jumped, quickly hiding the phone. "It's only been three minutes, Malfoy," she replied, trying to sound calm.

"Indeed," he nodded. "But your face was so expressive. As if you were waiting for something important."

"It's nothing," she assured him quickly. "I was just checking the time."

"Mhm," he murmured, clearly not believing her. "You know, you can have your secrets, Granger. You don't have to tell me everything."

"How magnanimous of you," she replied ironically.

"Isn't it?" he smiled broadly. "I'm exceptionally understanding. For example, I won't ask you if that was a message from a mysterious admirer, who might be the reason why you've been looking so distracted lately."

She felt her face burning. "There is no mysterious admirer!" she protested decidedly too vehemently.

"Of course," he nodded, his smile growing even wider. "Just like there was no bartender. Or dancing on the table."

"Exactly!" she confirmed, crossing her arms over her chest.

"In that case," he continued, resting his elbows on the desk and leaning forward, "you won't mind if I ask Pansy for more details from your previous BBBs. I'm sure she has many fascinating stories to tell."

"Don't you dare!" she almost growled. "Pansy has an overactive imagination and zero restraint. Half the things she tells are complete fabrications!"

"And the other half?"

She opened her mouth to respond but realized she had fallen into his trap. Admitting that part of Pansy's stories were true would only confirm his suspicions.

"Enough of this," she sighed resignedly. "I have work to do. And you should too."

"You're right," he unexpectedly agreed, reaching for his quill. "We should be professional. After all, we're on duty, in a workplace where we absolutely shouldn't be dealing with private matters. Like checking personal messages on phones. Which shouldn't even work in this place."

Hermione clenched her teeth, knowing he had caught her red-handed. "I was checking the time," she repeated stubbornly.

"Of course," he nodded, not hiding his amusement. "And I'm a descendant of Merlin. You know what, Granger? I can't wait for tomorrow. I have a feeling it will be an exceptionally educational experience."

"Educational?" she repeated suspiciously.

"Yes," he confirmed, playing with the quill between his fingers. "I'll learn more about you during one BBB evening than during an entire week of work. Isn't that exciting?"

"It's terrifying," she replied honestly. "And if you think I'll let you use anything you learn against me at work, you're sorely mistaken."

"Granger, you wound me!" he protested, placing his hand over his heart. "Do you really think I'm that vile? That I would use your weakness for caramel martinis and tendency to sing Celestina Warbeck songs after the third glass against you?"

Hermione froze. "How do you know about caramel martinis? And about Celestina?"

Malfoy smiled triumphantly. "I didn't know. But now I do."

"You..." she began, feeling growing frustration. "You are... impossible!"

"Thank you," he replied, looking genuinely pleased with himself. "I try."

She shook her head, wondering what she had done in a previous life to be punished with sharing an office with Malfoy. It must have been something truly terrible. Perhaps burning down a library? Or high treason?

"You know what?" she finally said, standing up. "I'm going for coffee. Without you. And when I return, I expect you to behave like a professional, not like... like..."

"Like someone who can't wait to see what you look like after a few drinks, singing 'You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me' in the middle of a bar?" he finished for her.

She gave him a murderous look.

"If you mention Celestina even once tomorrow, I swear I'll do something much worse to you than turning you into a ferret."

Her tone must have been threatening enough, because Malfoy raised his hands in surrender. "All right, all right. No mentions of your secret love for Celestina. I understand."

She left, slamming the door so hard that the portrait of Merlin in the corridor fell off the wall.

When she returned half an hour later, with a cup of coffee and a somewhat calmer attitude, she found Malfoy sitting behind... a fortress built of books. Literally – he had arranged all the volumes from the shelf into a high wall between their desks, so that only the top of his blond hair was visible.

"What is this supposed to be?" she asked, unable to suppress her amusement, despite all her frustration.

"A defensive wall," he replied from behind the stack of books. "Since the sight of me irritates you so much, I decided to be magnanimous and spare you this nightmare. Now you can pretend you're working alone."

"That's the most childish thing I've ever seen," she stated, shaking her head.

"Thank you," replied the voice from behind the books. "I tried."

Hermione sighed, sitting at her desk.

"You know," she said, taking a sip of coffee, "if you put even half the energy you devote to irritating me into our project, we would probably have finished it long ago."

"But then I wouldn't have an excuse to spend so much time with you," he replied. "And that would be a real loss."

She opened her mouth to respond, but realized she had no idea what to say.

Hermione discreetly leaned out from behind her desk, making sure that Malfoy's book fortress effectively concealed him. She could only see the top of his platinum hair, and when she heard the rustle of turning pages, she assumed he was actually engaged in something constructive. Or at least pretending convincingly enough.

She quickly pulled out her phone, shielding the screen with her hand, just in case. A new message from Dray made her heart beat faster:

SilverHeir: I keep thinking about yesterday's conversation. I know you're right - meeting could complicate everything. But that doesn't stop me from wondering what if.

Hermione glanced over the books. Nothing. She quickly replied:

Jean G.: Working! But yes, I've been thinking about it too. I partly regret refusing. And partly I'm glad. It's complicated.

SilverHeir: Complicated is my middle name. How's your day going with your irritating co-worker?

She smiled, glancing at the book wall.

Jean G.: He built a fortress of books between our desks because he's sulking. Like a five-year-old who wasn't invited to a birthday party.

SilverHeir: Seriously? Sounds like someone desperately trying to get attention. Maybe he just likes you?

She almost snorted with laughter.

Jean G.: YEAH, RIGHT. This guy spent seven years at school picking on me at every turn. Now he's just continuing the tradition, just in a more sophisticated way. Anyway, I don't want to talk about him. What about you? Are you working too?

SilverHeir: Sort of. Hard to focus. Someone keeps interrupting me.

Jean G.: Sorry! I don't have to reply right away!

SilverHeir: It's not about you, silly. It's about the person I work with.

SilverHeir: Ready for tomorrow's meeting with your friend and that irritating guy?

Jean G.: Not at all. I have a bad feeling. Pansy is unpredictable at the best of times, and after alcohol she becomes completely unfiltered. She'll definitely say something that will embarrass me.

SilverHeir: Like what, for example?

Hermione thought for a moment.

Jean G.: Like the fact that I'm obsessed with a guy I've never seen, but write messages to every day?

This time the answer took a longer moment, which made Hermione nervous. Had she gone too far?

SilverHeir: Are you? Obsessed with me, that is?

She bit her lip, glancing nervously at Malfoy's fortress. His head was now invisible.

Jean G.: Maybe. A little. And you?

SilverHeir: Totally. To the extent that I'm considering showing up at your bar tomorrow to "accidentally" run into you.

Hermione felt her heart quicken.

Jean G.: You wouldn't do that.

SilverHeir: What if I did?

Jean G.: I'd die of embarrassment. Or curiosity. One of the two.

SilverHeir: Worth risking to find out which.

From behind the books came some noisy shuffling, as if Malfoy had accidentally knocked something off his desk.

"Everything all right?" she asked, peering over the books.

"Perfect," he answered, though his voice sounded strangely choked. "Just... dropped my quill."

Hermione rolled her eyes and returned to her phone.

Jean G.: Better not do it. My irritating co-worker is already enough of a problem for tomorrow. If I had to worry that YOU might show up there too, I think I'd go crazy.

She put down the phone, feeling a strange tingling on the back of her neck. She looked suspiciously toward the book fortress, behind which Malfoy was suspiciously quiet.

"You know what, Malfoy?" she suddenly spoke up. "I hope that wall of yours is solid. Because I swear, if you do anything tomorrow that embarrasses me, you'll need much more protection than a stack of books."

His head appeared above the books, his expression as innocent as an angel's. "Do what?" he asked. "Granger, you wound me with these accusations. I'll be a model of good manners."

"Sure," she snorted. "And I'm Queen Morgana."

She didn't get to hear his response because at that moment the phone in her hand vibrated. She looked at the screen, expecting to see a new message from SilverHeir, but instead saw only a flashing signal search icon. Damn. Not again.

Her experimental communication system between the magical and Muggle worlds was malfunctioning again. There were always problems with it at the Ministry – too much magic in one place interfered with the signals, even with additional protective runes engraved on the casing.

She glanced at Malfoy, who fortunately had hidden behind his literary fortress again. Only the rustle of turning pages could be heard. Perfect.

She discreetly moved with her chair slightly to the right, closer to the window. No improvement. The signal search icon continued to flash maliciously, as if mocking her efforts.

She pressed her lips into a thin line. This wasn't the first time her system had failed at a crucial moment. Usually she had to stand by the window or even go out into the corridor to regain coverage. But how could she do that without attracting Malfoy's attention?

"Need something from the shelf, Granger?" his voice came from behind the books when he noticed her moving toward the window.

"No, just... better light for reading," she answered quickly, wondering how unnatural that sounded.

"Mhm," he murmured, not sounding convinced. "Interesting that you need better light to look at your phone, not your documents."

She froze. So he had noticed. Of course he had noticed.

"It's... it's not a phone," she lied, though she knew how senseless it sounded. "It's my... new notebook."

"That vibrates?" he asked, amusement evident in his voice.

"It's a reminder spell," she answered quickly. "New feature. Very useful."

Malfoy didn't respond, but she could have sworn she heard stifled laughter.

She sighed quietly and, making sure he couldn't see her from behind his wall, discreetly extended her arm with the phone toward the window. Still nothing. Damn coverage. Damn experiment. Damn Malfoy and his damn book fortress, which forced her into these idiotic maneuvers.

For a moment she considered going out into the corridor under the pretext of going to the bathroom, but then he would definitely suspect something. Especially if she came back after a minute, staring at her phone.

She tried once more – moved the desk a few centimeters toward the window, pretending she was just adjusting her work position. The chair scraped loudly across the floor.

"Granger, are you moving furniture?" Malfoy's voice sounded genuinely amused.

"I'm adjusting the desk position," she replied stiffly. "It was always crooked."

"For seven years?"

"As it happens, I just noticed it now," she replied, feeling her cheeks grow warm.

"What a coincidence," he muttered.

At that moment, the coverage icon on the phone finally stopped flashing and showed two bars. At last!

A message immediately appeared:

SilverHeir: Don't worry, I had no intention of disrupting your girls' night. I just like your reactions when I tease you. I imagine you furrowing your brow as you read my messages, exactly as you probably do with your irritating co-worker. By the way, what does he look like? Maybe I know him.

Hermione looked at the tower of books looming before her and at the top of platinum hair visible above it. How was she supposed to describe Malfoy to someone who might know him? After all, Dray was a Muggle – she was sure of that. And Malfoy? A pure-blood wizard from a lineage going back several generations. There wasn't the slightest chance they would know each other.

Jean G.: Impossible that you'd know him. He works in a... very exclusive environment. Totally cut off from the world. Tall, slim, blond hair, grey eyes, irritating smirk stuck to his face. And glasses that add an absurdly intellectual look, though I doubt he actually needs them – he probably wears them just for effect.

After sending the message, the coverage started weakening again, but this time she just sighed and put down the phone. She did have real work to do after all, and her experimental communication system could wait for further improvements.

"Finished with your fascinating correspondence, Granger?" Malfoy's voice came from behind the books, clearly amused.

"Yes," she replied stiffly. "And have you finished pretending to work behind your childish fortress?"

"Absolutely not," he replied. "This fortress isn't childish. It's essential for my peace of mind. And my safety. After all, I was threatened with physical violence."

"Malfoy, you're thirty years old. Don't you think building forts out of books is a bit... beneath your dignity? Even for you?"

His head appeared above the book tower again, this time with an expression of feigned indignation on his face.

"First of all, Granger, I'm twenty-nine, not thirty. I'm younger than you, so please don't age me prematurely."

"That's really a generational gap."

"Second," he continued, ignoring her sarcasm, "a book fortress is a completely mature and rational response to threats of violence from a co-worker. I could file an official complaint with HR, you know? 'Hermione Granger threatened to transfigure me into a ferret.' Can you imagine the scandal?"

"The scandal would be if I actually did it," she replied, raising an eyebrow. "And if someone caught me."

"See?" he pointed at her accusingly. "Another threat! My fortress is completely justified. It's not childishness, it's self-defense."

She sighed deeply, but the corners of her mouth involuntarily turned upward.

"All right, young man. Keep playing with your fortress. I'll do something constructive in the meantime."

"Like writing mysterious messages on your experimental phone?" he asked innocently.

"Like working on our project," she replied, giving him a warning look. "Something you should be doing too, instead of playing builder."

"I am working!" he protested, raising a thick book. "I just found a fascinating passage about Mesopotamian signal runes. They could be the key to stabilizing your communication system."

Hermione looked at him in disbelief.

"Really?"

"Really," he confirmed, and his voice suddenly became more matter-of-fact. "The ancient Mesopotamians used special runic signs for long-distance communication. Not as advanced as your phone, of course, but the operating principle was similar – they created a magical equivalent of a physical signal."

She felt a sudden surge of interest, momentarily forgetting her irritation.

"Show me."

Malfoy hesitated, looking around theatrically at his fortress. "Hmm, it's complicated. To show you, I would have to demolish part of my defensive structure. And that would expose me to potential danger."

"I promise not to transfigure you into anything crawling for the rest of the day. Satisfied?"

"And tomorrow?" he asked suspiciously.

"Tomorrow I promise nothing," she replied honestly. "That depends entirely on your behavior during BBB."

Malfoy sighed dramatically but began carefully dismantling part of his book fortress, creating something like a gateway in it.

"See?" he asked, pointing to a page in the book he was holding. "These signs here. According to my research, they connect with specific energy points in space, creating something like a magical network. A bit like the Internet."

"That... that could actually work. If we modified the protective runes on the phones and added these Mesopotamian symbols..."

"...we could create a stable magical network that wouldn't conflict with typical ambient magic," he finished, nodding. "Exactly what I was thinking."

For a moment they looked at each other in silence, both surprised by this sudden moment of intellectual synergy.

"Well, well," he finally said with a slight smile. "It seems I can be useful after all, even from behind a fortress."

"Apparently," she agreed, also smiling.

Before he could react, she reached out and snatched the book from in front of his nose, ignoring his protests.

"Hey! What are you doing, Granger?" he called out indignantly as she retreated with the valuable tome to her desk.

"Checking your sources," she replied, already absorbed in analyzing the runes. "I can't let you mistranslate another symbol and blow up half the department, can I?"

Malfoy straightened up, his face assuming an expression of wounded dignity. "Mistranslate? Me? Never in my life! It was a deliberate experiment that produced unexpected results!"

"Mhm, and those 'unexpected results' forced you to wear glasses," she muttered, not taking her eyes off the book.

"You know what, Granger? This is exactly why I need this fortress," he declared, energetically rebuilding his book wall. "So you don't steal my ideas and research! You think I don't know what you're up to? You want to take all the glory for solving the interdimensional communication problem and get that well-deserved promotion that Hughes has been promising for months!"

Hermione looked up at him in disbelief.

"Promotion? What are you talking about?"

"Oh, please," he snorted, arranging the books. "Everyone in the department knows that Hughes is planning to create a new position - Chief Coordinator of Interdimensional Innovations. And everyone knows that you're the main candidate."

"Really?" she asked, genuinely surprised. This was news to her.

"Yes, really," he confirmed, placing another book on top of the tower. "But now that I'm here, with my Mesopotamian runes and groundbreaking research, you're no longer the only star of this department, right?"

"Not everything revolves around promotions and competition, Malfoy."

"Says the person who just stole a key piece of my research," he replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I didn't steal it, I borrowed it," she corrected him, returning to her reading. "And if it really works the way you say, it might indeed be a breakthrough for my communication system."

Malfoy muttered something unintelligible and finished rebuilding his fortress, now even taller and wider than before. For a few minutes, relative silence reigned in the office, interrupted only by the rustle of turning pages and the occasional creak of a chair.

She was deeply immersed in reading when her phone vibrated in her pocket. She discreetly took it out, making sure that Malfoy was safely hidden behind his wall.

SilverHeir: A disturbing thought occurred to me... What if we meet someday and it turns out I'm as irritating to you as your co-worker? After all, you don't know me in real life. Maybe I build book forts too?

Hermione smiled and quickly replied, not thinking too deeply about her words:

Jean G.: Impossible. You and he are complete opposites. Trust me, even if you tried very hard, you couldn't be like him. With you I want to talk all night, and with him... well, even in my wildest dreams I wouldn't think about sleeping with him.

She clicked "send" and at the same moment realized what she had just written. She was suggesting that with Dray... that she would with him... OH MERLIN!

She immediately began writing a clarification, but then the coverage icon started flashing. Not now! She looked at the screen - the message had been sent, but the new one was stuck in place. Her phone was desperately trying to catch a signal.

"No, no, no," she muttered under her breath, lightly shaking the phone as if that could help.

She glanced toward the book fortress. Malfoy was quiet, probably still sulking. Perfect. She stood up and discreetly moved toward the window, pretending she was just stretching after sitting for too long.

The phone still showed no coverage. She needed a better signal - and immediately - before SilverHeir drew the wrong conclusions from her message.

"Awfully hot today, don't you think, Malfoy?" she asked loudly, approaching the window.

"The weather is terrible, Granger," came his muffled voice from behind the books.

"Yes, well, you know... these radiators," she improvised, opening the window. "The Ministry always overdoes it with the heating."

Malfoy didn't respond. Perfect.

She leaned slightly out the window, holding the phone in her outstretched hand. Two bars! But as soon as she started typing a clarification, the coverage disappeared again.

"Damn," she hissed under her breath, leaning out further.

The London wind lashed at her face. Seventh floor. She should be afraid, but the thought that Dray might think she wanted to sleep with him... that was worse than a potential fall.

"Come on, come on," she murmured to the phone, practically hanging from the windowsill now. A bit more, just a few more centimeters...

"GRANGER!"

Malfoy's shout startled her so much she almost lost her balance. Strong hands grabbed her by the waist and pulled her back, into the office.

"Have you completely lost your mind?!" he was now standing in front of her, holding her firmly by the shoulders, and his face expressed a mixture of fury and... fear? "What are you doing?!"

"I was just..." she blinked, suddenly realizing how this must have looked. "Trying to get a signal?"

"A signal?" he repeated in disbelief. "You were hanging out of a window seven floors above the ground to get a signal for your phone?!"

"It's an important message," she muttered, feeling her cheeks burning.

Malfoy looked at her as if he wasn't sure whether he should shake her or call a healer. "What message could be so important that you risk your life?"

"That's none of your business!" she responded defensively, trying to break free from his grip.

But Malfoy didn't let go. Instead, he looked at the phone she was still holding in her hand, with the screen still visible. Oh no.

"'With you I want to talk all night, and with him... well, even in my wildest dreams I wouldn't think about sleeping with him?'" he read aloud, his eyebrows rising.

Hermione felt as if her face had burst into flames. She pulled the phone out of his field of vision and wrenched herself from his grip.

"That's a private conversation!" she hissed. "You have no right to read my messages!"

"No right?" he repeated in disbelief. "I just saved you from falling from the seventh floor! I think I deserve some explanation!"

"I don't have to explain anything to you!" she replied, putting the phone in her pocket. "And I wasn't falling. I had everything under control."

"Yes, I noticed," he snorted. "That's why you almost jumped out the window when I shouted."

Hermione opened her mouth to respond but realized she had no sensible explanation. Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest and looked at him defiantly.

"Thank you for your help," she said stiffly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll get back to work."

"You know what, Granger?" he didn't move, studying her. "Maybe instead of devoting so much energy to your phone and mysterious romances that make you risk your life, you should focus on what you're really good at."

"And what am I supposedly good at, Malfoy?" she asked suspiciously, raising an eyebrow.

"Baking," he answered without hesitation, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a slight smile. "Instead of hanging out of windows, consider whether you could bring those cupcakes Pansy mentioned. Apparently, your lemon cupcakes with meringue can end wars and bring peace to the world."

Hermione blinked, completely thrown off.

"You talked to Pansy about my cupcakes?"

"Of course," he confirmed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "When she said she was inviting me to BBB, the first thing I did was conduct an interview about your culinary specialties. Strategy, Granger. I always need to know what I can count on."

"So you saved me in order to persuade me to bring you cake?" she asked in disbelief.

"Granger, you wound me!"

"You're impossible, you know that?"

"So I've heard," he nodded. "Multiple times. From you. But if that means you'll consider those cupcakes..."

"I'll think about it," she replied, shaking her head in amusement. "And now I really need to get back to work."

Malfoy nodded and began returning to his fortress. However, he stopped halfway and turned with a slight smile on his face.

"By the way," he added, his eyes flashing mischievously, "if that mysterious 'he,' who even in your wildest dreams you wouldn't think about sleeping with, happened to hear such a confession... he would probably be mortally offended."

And before she could respond, he disappeared behind his book fortress, leaving her with burning cheeks and a strange feeling in her stomach.

The phone in her pocket vibrated, signaling a new message. The coverage had apparently returned.

SilverHeir: So you're saying you'd like to sleep with me? Interesting confession. Now I'll be wondering what else is hidden in those "wildest dreams" of yours.

Hermione stared at the phone screen in horror, frantically wondering how to get out of this catastrophe. Maybe she should write that it was a joke?

"Granger!" Malfoy's voice pulled her from her thoughts.

"What?!" she snapped, jumping and almost dropping the phone.

"You really wouldn't sleep with me?" he asked, peering out from behind his book fortress. "Not even in those 'wildest dreams'?"

She felt her cheeks burning scarlet.

"OF COURSE NOT!" she exclaimed, indignant. "How can you even...! It's completely...! Never in my life!"

Malfoy disappeared behind the books. For a moment, a deathly silence reigned in the office, broken only by her accelerated breathing.

"What about after two Firewhiskies?" his voice came from behind the books again.

"NO!" she hissed. "Not after two, not after ten! There's not enough alcohol in the world, Malfoy!"

Silence again. She hoped that this time he understood and would let it go.

"And yet you said I have sexy glasses," he stated after a moment in a matter-of-fact tone.

"What?!" she squeaked, completely thrown off. "I never said you have sexy glasses! I've never in my life used the word 'sexy' in reference to anything associated with you!"

Malfoy leaned out over the books, adjusting the mentioned glasses with a satisfied smirk. "Not literally. But you said they add an intellectual look to me. And we all know that 'intellectual look' is code for 'looks sexy, but I'm too stubborn to admit it'."

Hermione took a deep breath, closing her eyes and counting to ten in her mind. Calm down. She wouldn't let herself be provoked. She wouldn't stoop to his level. She was an adult, professional witch, not a teenager at Hogwarts. So she didn't respond, demonstratively opening the book of runes and immersing herself in reading. Determined to maintain professionalism, she reached for her quill and began taking notes, as if she were alone in the office.

For the next fifteen minutes, blessed silence prevailed. Malfoy had apparently also returned to work – from behind the fortress came only occasional page turning and quill scratching. Hermione began to relax, convinced that her strategy had worked.

"Hey, Granger?"

She clenched her teeth but didn't look up.

"Granger, I have a theoretical question."

Silence.

"Completely hypothetical."

Still silence. She tightened her fingers on the quill, leaving a blot on her notes.

"What if I were the last man on earth?"

The quill in her hand broke in half.

"MALFOY!"

She grabbed the first thing that came to hand – a small owl figurine that had somehow returned to its place – and hurled it over the book fortress. She heard a muffled cry, then laughter, which only fueled her anger.

"Enough!" she growled, standing up and gathering her things. "I'm going home. I've had enough for today."

"But you didn't answer my question!" he called, still laughing.

She paused at the door, turning one last time. The sight of Malfoy, peering out from behind the book fortress with her owl figurine in one hand and crooked glasses, was so absurd that it almost – ALMOST – brought a smile to her face.

"If you were the last man on earth, Malfoy," she said coldly, "the human species would face extinction. Goodbye."

And with those words she left, slamming the door behind her hard enough to make the figurines on the walls tremble. The last thing she heard was his laughter – genuine, uninhibited laughter, which for some reason caused a strange tingling in her stomach.

Tomorrow, BBB. Malfoy outside of work. And nothing good could come of it.

Chapter Text

Hermione stood in front of the mirror, critically examining her reflection. Dress number four of the night – navy blue, with a subtle neckline – looked just as bad as the previous three. Or perhaps not so much bad as... inappropriate. Too formal? Too casual? Too Muggle? Not Muggle enough? She had no idea how to dress, since Malfoy would be there. She didn't even know exactly what they would be doing during this BBB besides the traditional complaining, shopping, and drinking.

She needed fashion help, and urgently. She glanced at her phone, wondering if she should call Priya. Her friend always knew what was appropriate for every occasion. Besides, she was the only one of her Muggle friends who knew about the magical world – she had confided in her a few years ago, breaking absolutely all Ministry rules regarding secrecy. But Priya was a lawyer, she understood the value of discretion. And she was also the only person Hermione could fully trust in this bizarre situation.

The sound of the doorbell interrupted her deliberations. A moment later, Priya burst into her bedroom, with a bag full of clothes and cosmetics, her black, glossy hair waving behind her like a dark flag.

"I got your twelve messages about your fashion crisis," she announced instead of a greeting. "And I've taken matters into my own hands. You need professional help."

"Priya!" Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. "How did you know I was this desperate?"

"Please," she snorted, unpacking the bag on the bed. "You sent me photos of fourteen different outfits in an hour. That screams 'desperation.' Besides..." she gave Hermione a meaningful look, "you wrote that Malfoy would be at this BBB. The same Malfoy who, according to your stories, was the worst kid at school, and now has suddenly become your co-worker who builds book forts and begs for cupcakes. Of course you're desperate."

Hermione collapsed onto the bed, pressing her hands to her face.

"This is going to be a disaster, isn't it? What if he's still the same prejudiced jerk, just pretending to be nice for some devious plan?"

"Or," Priya raised a finger, "what if he's really changed and is actually a funny, intelligent guy who just likes your baking? And who happens to look good in glasses, according to your own words."

"I never said he looks good in glasses!" she protested. "I only said they add an intellectual look to him."

"Mhm," her friend murmured with a smirk. "And 'intellectual look' is code for 'looks sexy, but I'm too stubborn to admit it'."

Hermione blinked, hearing almost exactly the same words that Malfoy had spoken the day before.

"Do you all have some secret dictionary that I don't have access to?"

"Yes, it's called 'normal human interactions,'" Priya replied, browsing through Hermione's clothes. "Now, stop panicking and focus. We need to find an outfit that says: 'Yes, I'm the same Hermione Granger, but now I'm a confident, attractive woman who happens to be able to make you regret every bad word you've ever said to me'."

"That's quite a complicated message for one outfit."

"That's why you need me," Priya replied, pulling out a red blouse with ties at the back. "What do you think of this? With those black pants – the tight ones, not the loose ones – and your tall boots."

Hermione examined the proposed combination.

"Isn't it too... eye-catching? Red is so..."

"Perfect," Priya finished firmly. "Not flashy, but noticeable. Elegant, but with character. And those ties at the back? They'll drive him crazy because he'll never figure out how it unties."

"Priya!" she threw a pillow at her friend. "I don't want him wondering how to untie my blouse!"

"No? What about SilverHeir? Would you let him untie this blouse?"

Hermione felt her cheeks growing warm.

"That's... complicated. He's... just different."

"Different because you don't know him," she observed, handing her the blouse. "And you've known Malfoy for more than half your life. Maybe that's why he irritates you so much – because you can't place him in a safe, distant, internet category like SilverHeir."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but instead sighed and began trying on the blouse.

"When did you become so wise in matters of the heart?"

"I've always been wise," she replied with a broad smile. "You were just too busy with books to notice. Now, try this on and tell me I'm not right."

Hermione stood before the mirror, unable to believe she had let herself be talked into this. After an hour of trying on, discussing, and vehement protests, Priya finally left, leaving her in an outfit that definitely exceeded her comfort zone.

The blouse – if it could be called a blouse – consisted of two wide strips of burgundy material that crossed in the front, covering strategic places, then tied at the back, leaving her back almost completely exposed. Priya had insisted it was "elegant and sexy, but not vulgar," but Hermione still felt as if she were about to go out in just her underwear.

To this, black leather pants that Priya had found deep in her closet – purchased during one of the craziest BBBs last year and never worn. They clung to her legs like a second skin, highlighting every contour of her body.

"You look phenomenal," Priya insisted. "Since you stood your ground with those flat boots instead of heels, I have to at least raise the temperature a bit with this top."

And indeed, she had categorically refused to wear the heels her friend had tried to push on her. Instead, she had on her favorite black boots – the only element of the outfit that gave her a sense that she was still herself.

Her hair, tamed with Priya's smoothing oil, now fell in soft waves onto her bare shoulders, instead of the usual turbulent chaos. The makeup was stronger than usual – emphasized eyes, highlighted cheeks, and dark red lipstick, which according to Priya was "absolutely necessary."

"I can't believe this," she said to the mirror, turning to see how she looked from behind. Her back was practically naked, except for a thin strip of material at the tie. "I'll freeze to death."

But she had to admit, albeit reluctantly, that she looked... good. Different. As if she were someone bolder, more confident. Someone who doesn't spend most of their time buried in books and documents.

The phone vibrated on the dressing table, pulling her from her thoughts. A new message from SilverHeir. Hermione felt a sudden surge of guilt, as if the mere thought of Malfoy was some kind of betrayal toward her internet friend. Which was absurd – neither SilverHeir nor Malfoy were anyone special. Especially Malfoy.

SilverHeir: I wonder how you look tonight. Probably stunning. Maybe you'll send me a photo? It's been ages since the last one.

Hermione bit her lip, looking at her reflection in the mirror. Finally, she followed her usual rule of 'I'll never meet him anyway'.

She stood in front of the mirror, looking for the right angle. The first photo came out too formal, the second too provocative. For the third, she positioned the phone so that she was visible from the shoulders up, with a gentle half-smile and a gleam in her eye. The crossing strips of material on her décolletage were visible, but it didn't look vulgar – rather suggestive.

She hesitated for another moment, then sent the photo, adding a short message:

Jean G.: Special occasion. I have to go now. Have a nice evening!

She stared at the screen for a few seconds, wondering if she should wait for a reply. But she looked at the clock and groaned quietly – she was already late, and Pansy absolutely hated when someone was late for BBB. "Punctuality is a sign of respect, Granger," she always repeated with that aristocratic accent of hers.

Besides, there was no point in taking the phone with her. Outside the Ministry and her apartment, the device didn't work in the magical world anyway. Her system was still imperfect – another reason why Malfoy's research on Mesopotamian runes could be groundbreaking.

She slid the phone into a drawer, grabbed a small clutch with her wand and a few galleons, then focused on her destination. One turn, a feeling of constriction in her stomach, and she was standing in front of the entrance to "The Enchanted Snake" – an exclusive wizarding bar that Pansy had recently favored for their BBBs.

She looked around, adjusting her coat. The place was trendy yet discreet – the entrance hidden in an alley, visible only to wizards, the interior decorated in an art deco style with a touch of magical splendor. Silver snakes coiled around columns, and crystal chandeliers floated in the air without any visible suspension.

To her surprise, there was no one yet in the arranged booth. Pansy late? That was practically unheard of. Hermione sat down, removing her coat and placing it beside her. She immediately felt exposed – the burgundy top with crossing strips attracted glances from several wizards sitting at the bar.

She ordered Firewhisky to give herself courage and looked around discreetly. She didn't know most of the patrons – this was one of those new, exclusive establishments that had sprung up after the war, when young wizards from wealthy families began experimenting with Muggle trends in fashion and entertainment.

"Well, well, well, Granger. I must say, I'm impressed."

The familiar voice almost made her spill her drink. She turned abruptly and saw Malfoy, standing at her table with that irritating half-smile of his. But this time that smile was somewhat... different. More authentic. And his eyes – those grey, cool eyes – traveled slowly over her exposed shoulders and décolletage before returning to her face.

He was wearing black pants, a dark green shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and the same glasses he wore at work. But outside the office, he looked more casual. More approachable. And – though she hated to admit it – more attractive.

"Where's everyone else?" she asked, ignoring his comment and that strange feeling in her stomach when their eyes met.

"Pansy will be late," he replied, summoning a waiter with a gesture of his hand. "She said something about a fashion crisis that she needs to resolve immediately. Knowing her, she'll show up in about half an hour."

Hermione froze. Half an hour alone with Malfoy? In this outfit? This was definitely not part of the plan.

"Scotch," Malfoy ordered, not taking his eyes off her. "And another Firewhisky for the lady. Looks like we'll need drinks, Granger."

She sat with stiff shoulders, not quite knowing what to do with her hands. Place them on the table? Fold them in her lap? Or perhaps just hold her drink like a shield in front of her? She brushed her hair from her face with a nervous gesture, aware that Malfoy was still watching her.

She glanced at her watch. Pansy late by fifteen minutes? That was completely unlike her. And where was Ginny? She always came punctually to BBB as well, especially since she started her campaign of "female punctuality as a form of feminism."

"Strange, isn't it?" she finally asked, unable to bear the silence. "Pansy is never late. Neither is Ginny."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

"Fascinating how quickly your mind forms conspiracy theories. I can almost see the gears working behind those chocolate eyes."

"I'm not forming any conspiracy theories," she replied too quickly. "I'm just stating a fact."

"Mhm," he murmured, receiving their drinks from the waiter. "And this fact doesn't happen to lead you to the conclusion that they did it on purpose? Left us alone?"

Hermione felt her cheeks growing warm. That's exactly what had come to her mind. Pansy and Ginny, conspiring to leave her alone with Malfoy when she was wearing this absurdly skimpy top and leather pants. It was all too obvious.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, though her voice sounded less convincing than she had intended. "Why would they do that?"

Malfoy raised his Scotch in a toast, smiling that irritating, confident smile.

"Well, I can't speak for Weasley – I never fully understood Gryffindors, too many noble motives for my taste," he said, taking a sip. "But Pansy? Pansy Parkinson is the most cruel, most devious, and most wicked woman I know." He said this with a note of clear admiration in his voice. "Trust me, tormenting people is her favorite pastime. And if she can play matchmaker in the process? That's like Christmas and birthday rolled into one for her."

Hermione took a large sip of Firewhisky, feeling the alcohol burn her throat. It was a set-up. From the very beginning.

"I'll kill them," she muttered into her glass.

"I don't blame you," he nodded with amusement. "But before you proceed to murdering your friends, perhaps we should make the best of the situation? Since we're already here, alone, with drinks..."

"What are you suggesting?" she asked suspiciously, glancing at him over her glass.

Malfoy spread his hands in a gesture that was probably meant to be disarming.

"A truce? One night without talking about work, without mutual jabs, without reminding ourselves how horrible we were to each other at school?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

"You were horrible. I was simply defensive."

"See? You're starting already," he sighed theatrically. "How about this – one evening pretending that we're just two attractive, intelligent wizards who met for a drink? No history, no prejudices."

"Attractive?" she repeated, unable to suppress a slight smile.

"Well, I certainly am," he replied, adjusting his glasses with feigned modesty. "And you... I must admit, that outfit is definitely a step in the right direction. Even if it looks like you want to seduce someone and then murder them."

"All right," she finally agreed. "One evening without history. But I warn you, Malfoy, if you try to provoke me, I have my wand with me and I remember how to cast the Bat-Bogey Hex."

He raised his hand in a theatrical gesture of surrender. "I swear on the Malfoy honor that I'll be a gentleman." He smiled slightly. "At least as long as you're a lady."

Their glasses clinked together, sealing the agreement. Hermione stopped being a lady surprisingly quickly. Wanting to occupy her hands and mouth with something, so as not to say something she might later regret, she grabbed the glass of Firewhisky and emptied it in one long gulp. The alcohol burned pleasantly in her throat, spreading warmth throughout her body. She put down the empty glass with more force than she had intended, noticing Malfoy's raised eyebrow and his amused look.

"If that's how you start the evening, I can't wait to see how you'll end it," he murmured, his grey eyes gleaming behind his glasses.

Before she could come up with a cutting retort, the air was pierced by a dramatic cry:

"DEAREST HERMIONE! BELOVED DRACO! I am UNFORGIVABLY late!"

Pansy Parkinson burst into the booth like a tornado, in a cloud of expensive perfume and a flowing black dress with a slit to the thigh. Her short, dark hair was perfectly styled, and her makeup flawless, despite the "dramatic rush" she was supposedly in.

"An absolute CATASTROPHE with this outfit, you won't believe it!" she announced, collapsing into the seat next to Malfoy and immediately summoning a waiter with a gesture of her hand. "I felt like I would never get here! Merlin, how TERRIBLY sorry I am that you had to wait!"

Her gaze slid from Hermione to Malfoy, then to the empty glass standing in front of Hermione. A barely noticeable, satisfied smirk appeared on her face.

"I see, however, that you haven't been wasting time," she added with exaggerated innocence in her voice.

"No thanks to you," Hermione muttered, giving her a murderous look.

"Sorry I'm late!" a new voice joined their company. Ginny Weasley, dressed in an emerald gown that perfectly accentuated her fiery red hair, moved to their table. Behind her, with his hands in his pockets and the same disheveled appearance that had accompanied him since Hogwarts, stood Harry Potter.

"Harry?" Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise. "I didn't know you'd be joining BBB."

"Neither did I," he replied with an awkward smile, glancing at Ginny. "But somehow... it worked out that way."

Hermione exchanged a knowing look with Pansy. This was the third time this month that Harry and Ginny had "somehow worked out" together, despite their last, supposedly final breakup just two weeks ago. For almost a decade, they had been functioning in this strange cycle of getting together and breaking up, to the frustration of everyone around them.

"Well, nice to see you, Potter," Malfoy spoke up, extending his hand. "Even if your timing is as terrible as always."

Harry looked at the extended hand in disbelief for a moment, then shook it briefly.

"Malfoy. I heard you're working with Hermione now."

"And I'm as delighted about it as she is," Malfoy replied with his characteristic half-smile.

Pansy clapped her hands, interrupting their exchange of glances. "Enough with the pleasantries! BBB is just beginning, and I desperately need a drink!"

The waiter, as if sensing her need, appeared immediately with a tray of colorful cocktails.

"So," Pansy leaned over the table when everyone had taken their seats and the drinks had been distributed, "who wants to complain first? Whose life is currently most worthy of pity?"

"I'll start," Malfoy almost shot up from his seat, dramatically raising his hand. "My life is an absolute, complete nightmare."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but the others leaned in with interest. Pansy clapped her hands with excitement.

"Go on, Draco. Get it off your chest," she encouraged him, refilling his glass.

"First of all," he began, leaning back in his chair with the air of a martyr, "I returned to England after seven years of self-exile to discover that my favorite café in London has been turned into an herb shop. AN HERB SHOP! As if there weren't enough herbs in the Magical Herb Repository on Diagon Alley!"

"Tragedy," Hermione murmured, hiding a smile behind the edge of her glass.

"Secondly," he continued, ignoring her sarcasm, "my mother has decided that since I've returned, it's high time I got married. MARRIED! Can you imagine? She sends me three owls a day with proposals of candidates. Yesterday I received a portfolio – A PORTFOLIO, by Merlin! – of a girl who just graduated from Beauxbatons. It had her measurements, interests, and, note this, OWL RESULTS!"

"You don't mean to say that Narcissa Malfoy treats marriage like a business transaction?" Harry raised an eyebrow with feigned surprise. "I'm shocked. Really."

"Laugh, Potter," Malfoy gave him a sidelong glance. "But I swear, if I see one more witch with 'perfect manners' and 'a love for family traditions,' I'll cast Avada on myself."

"You could always date a Muggle," Ginny suggested, giving him a mischievous look. "That would really give your mother reason for hysteria."

"And thirdly," Malfoy raised his finger dramatically, "I've been assigned to work with the most irritating, stubborn, perfectionist witch in the entire Ministry!"

All eyes turned to Hermione, who felt her cheeks growing warm.

"You're exaggerating," she muttered, reaching for her drink.

"Exaggerating?" Malfoy looked at her with theatrical disbelief. "Granger, you numbered the paper clips. PAPER CLIPS! According to size and color!"

"It's practical," she protested. "That way I always know where to find what."

"You have bookmarks in books!" he continued as if he hadn't heard her. "And not ordinary bookmarks. Oh no. These are color-coded bookmarks with CATEGORIZATION!"

"It's a logical system," she interrupted him, but Harry was already laughing, and Pansy looked like she had received an early birthday present.

"And she arranges her quills according to nib hardness!" Malfoy turned to the rest of the company. "Who does that? Who even pays attention to quill nib hardness?!"

"Hermione Granger," Ginny and Harry answered in unison, then looked at each other and burst out laughing.

"Traitors," she muttered, but couldn't suppress a smile. "All right, maybe I am a bit... organized."

"A bit?" Pansy raised an eyebrow. "Darling, I've seen your planner. It has color codes for different types of meetings. And tiny stickers. STICKERS, Granger!"

"It's practical!" Hermione protested. "And you wouldn't be laughing, Malfoy, if you'd seen what was happening in that department before I arrived. Chaos. Absolute chaos."

"Speaking of chaos," Harry interjected, shaking his head, "have you seen George's latest invention? Transforming Tiaras – you put them on as normal headgear, and after an hour they change into a random animal and escape. The Aurors had a report last week about a plague of ferrets in the Ministry."

"Ferrets?" Malfoy paled slightly, and Harry gave him an innocent smile.

"Yes, strange, isn't it? Though some were quite adorable. They were bouncing everywhere and..."

"Potter," Malfoy interrupted him, pointing a finger at him. "If you say one more word about ferrets, I swear I'll..."

"You'll what?" Harry smiled broadly. "Bounce over to me?"

Hermione snorted Firewhisky through her nose, which triggered a wave of laughter at the table. Even Malfoy, after a moment of feigned indignation, joined in the general merriment.

"All right, Potter," he conceded with a reluctant smile. "Point to you. But only because I'm being magnanimous today."

"And speaking of magnanimity," Pansy leaned over the table, her eyes gleaming dangerously, "perhaps you'll tell us, Draco, what REALLY brings you back to England after seven years? Because somehow I don't believe this story about 'groundbreaking research on runes'."

Malfoy shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "It's true. My research is..."

"Groundbreaking, yes, we've heard," she interrupted him, waving her hand dismissively. "But I've known you since first year at Hogwarts, Draco. And I know when you're hiding something."

"I'm not hiding anything," he protested, but even Hermione noticed that his ears had turned slightly pink.

"Oh, come on," Ginny joined the interrogation. "We were convinced you'd never return to England. What happened? Broken heart? Financial problems? Or are you running from some enraged father whose daughter you seduced?"

"None of those things!" Malfoy now looked genuinely irritated. "I returned because... because..."

"Because?" Pansy pressed, her smile now resembling the Cheshire cat.

"Because I missed it, all right?" he finally spat out. "I missed this cursed, rainy country. The English pubs. Quidditch at a proper level. Even your irritating faces, though Salazar knows I tried to forget them!"

Silence fell at the table. Pansy looked genuinely surprised, Harry amused.

"Awww, Malfoy," Ginny murmured, nudging him with her elbow. "That's the sweetest confession I've ever heard from you."

"Shut up, Weasley," he muttered, but without real anger in his voice.

"All right," Pansy clapped her hands, taking control of the situation. "Now that we know Draco has a heart – which is a shocking discovery in itself – shall we move on to the next person? Who wants to complain?"

The next hour passed with complaining, laughter, and surprisingly relaxed conversation. Hermione had to admit that BBB with the addition of Malfoy and Harry to the lineup was even more fun than usual. Empty glasses piled up in the middle of the table, and their voices grew louder with each successive drink.

Ginny was just telling about a catastrophic interview with the captain of the Chudley Cannons when Pansy suddenly straightened up like a string, and her eyes gleamed with a predatory glow.

"Oh Merlin," she whispered, fixing her hair with a theatrical gesture. "Just look who just walked in."

Everyone turned their heads toward the entrance, where stood a tall, dark-haired wizard with olive skin and striking facial features. He was wearing a shirt of the latest cut, and his nonchalant confidence was almost palpable.

"Who is that?" asked Hermione, not recognizing the man.

"Marco Zabini," Pansy quickly explained, not taking her eyes off the newcomer. "Blaise's younger brother. He just returned from Italy, where he was studying experimental transfiguration. And apparently..." she smiled predatorily, "...he's looking in our direction."

Indeed, the handsome wizard nodded in their direction, then began making his way through the crowded bar.

"Pansy Parkinson," he said, stopping at their table. "The last time I saw you, you were trying to convince my brother that Slytherins should wear green scarves even in summer."

"Marco!" Pansy almost squealed with excitement. "What a surprise! When did you return? And why wasn't I informed about this joyous event?"

"Two days ago," he replied with a smile that revealed perfectly white teeth. "And as for the lack of information – I wanted to make it a surprise." His gaze slid over everyone at the table, lingering a moment longer on Malfoy. "Draco. I heard you've also returned from exile."

"Marco," Malfoy nodded, his voice suddenly becoming cooler. "Still as subtle as ever, I see."

Marco laughed, ignoring the tension.

"Can I buy you a drink, Pansy?" he asked, returning his gaze to the dark-haired witch. "For old times' sake?"

"Absolutely!" Pansy literally jumped up from her seat, then, to everyone's surprise, grabbed Malfoy by the arm and unceremoniously pushed him out of the chair beside her. "Draco, be a dear and make room for Marco. You've been monopolizing my attention for too long anyway."

"But I–" Malfoy began, but Pansy was no longer listening, chattering enthusiastically to Marco about how much she liked his new clothes.

Malfoy now stood at the table, offended and confused at the same time.

"I think you've been demoted," Ginny murmured, sipping her drink with a smirk.

"More like thrown out like a used tissue," Harry added.

Malfoy snorted, looking around for a free seat. The booth was full – to Hermione's right sat Ginny and Harry, and the place to her left was occupied by a velvet bench adjacent to the wall.

"You can sit here," Hermione finally said, pointing to the empty space beside her. "Unless you prefer to stand for the rest of the evening."

Malfoy hesitated, his grey eyes measuring the narrow space on the bench next to her.

"It will be... tight," he observed, glancing significantly at her bare shoulders and back.

"Then stand," she shrugged, suddenly very aware of her provocative outfit.

With a heavy sigh, Malfoy squeezed onto the bench beside her. The space was indeed limited – his thigh was pressed against her thigh, and his arm brushed against her bare back each time he moved.

"So," said Marco, sitting in Malfoy's place and placing his hand on the back of Pansy's chair, "what brings such an... eclectic group to 'The Enchanted Snake'? As I recall, this place has always been rather Slytherin territory."

"BBB," Pansy replied, leaning toward him with a gleam in her eye. "It's our little tradition."

"BBB?" Marco raised an eyebrow, his lips stretching into a smile that he probably considered seductive.

Pansy began enthusiastically explaining the details of their weekly ritual, leaning increasingly closer and completely ignoring the rest of the company. Her laughter became progressively louder, and her hand landed more and more frequently on Marco's shoulder when he told some joke that no one else at the table could hear.

Hermione looked at Malfoy, who was sitting so close she could feel the warmth of his body on her exposed shoulder. He looked strangely tense, his jaw slightly clenched as he observed Pansy and Marco absorbed in their own world.

"Does she always act like she's the only person in the room?" he asked quietly, leaning toward her so as not to disturb the laughing Pansy.

"Only when she meets an attractive man she hasn't conquered yet," Hermione replied, also lowering her voice. "So... yes, basically always."

The corner of Malfoy's mouth twitched in a slight smile.

Suddenly Ginny jumped up so abruptly that she almost knocked over her glass.

"I need to go to the bathroom," she announced, giving Harry a meaningful look. "I'll be right back."

Before anyone could respond, Ginny was already squeezing between tables toward the corridor with the toilets. Harry followed her with his eyes, then returned to his drink, looking extremely interested in the ice cubes floating in his glass.

Hermione looked suspiciously at her friend, then shifted her gaze to Potter, who had suddenly started fidgeting in his chair.

"Everything all right, Harry?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, yes," he replied too quickly. "It's just..." he began, looking at his watch, then at the corridor where Ginny had disappeared. "You know what? I need to use the bathroom too."

"Right now?"

"Well... yes," Harry stood up, not meeting her eyes. "It must be... something I ate. Or drank. Yes, definitely that last drink. I'll be right back!"

And he was gone, leaving Hermione and Malfoy alone at the table. Well, technically, Pansy and Marco were there too, but those two were so absorbed in each other that they might as well have been on another planet.

"Did they..."

"Are they just..."

They started speaking simultaneously, then stopped, looking at each other with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment.

"Ladies first," Malfoy made a slight gesture with his hand.

"I was just going to say that this is probably the most obvious trick in history," she sighed, shaking her head. "Do they really think we won't figure out what they're up to?"

"Well, subtlety was never a Gryffindor strong suit," Malfoy noted, smiling crookedly. "And as for Pansy... she simply doesn't care about being subtle."

An awkward silence fell between them. Hermione took a sip of her drink, suddenly very aware of how close they were sitting.

"So," he cleared his throat, rotating his glass in his hands, "how do you like BBB with the additional male element? Better or worse than usual?"

"Honestly?" she considered for a moment. "It's surprisingly... not bad. I didn't expect you and Harry to be able to spend more than five minutes in the same room without hexing each other."

"People change, Granger," he replied, shrugging slightly. "Seven years is a long time."

"Yes," she agreed quietly. "Though some things remain the same."

"Like what?" he raised an eyebrow, looking at her with interest.

"Like how irritating you can be," she answered, but her tone was more playful than accusatory.

"Really?" he smiled with that crooked half-smile of his. "And I thought I was being exceptionally charming all evening."

She snorted, but couldn't suppress a smile.

"That's exactly what I mean. That confidence of yours. You've always been convinced you're the most fascinating person in the room."

"Am I not?"

"Well, at this particular moment..." she glanced at Pansy and Marco, who were now sitting so close they were almost touching noses, "...probably yes. But only because the competition is busy trying to devour each other."

Malfoy laughed – a genuine, open laugh that seemed completely incongruous with his usually sarcastic personality. Hermione discovered she liked that sound.

"But seriously," he said when his laughter subsided, "what do you think about our collaboration? Besides the fact that I'm irritating."

She looked at him, surprised. She hadn't expected such a question.

"Honestly?" she thought for a moment. "I think your research on runes is truly fascinating. And if it really works the way you claim, it could be groundbreaking. But..."

"But?"

"But I'm still not convinced we can work together," she admitted. "We have... very different work styles."

"Oh, definitely," he agreed with a playful gleam in his eye. "You're a rigid perfectionist, and I'm a creative genius."

"I am organized and methodical," she corrected him, nudging him lightly with her elbow, "and you're a chaotic mess who builds towers of books instead of reading them."

"Not towers," he protested. "Fortifications. Very strategic fortifications."

She rolled her eyes, but smiled despite herself.

"Anyway, to answer your question – I'm... cautiously optimistic about our collaboration. Provided you stop transfiguring my paper clips into miniature animals."

"Never," he replied with absolute seriousness. "Those paper clips look much better as ferrets."

"Ferrets?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Well," he shrugged, "I'm trying to work through my fourth-year trauma. My therapist says it's a healthy way of dealing with the past."

"You have a therapist? You?"

"Of course not," he admitted with a smile. "But if I did, he would certainly advise me to transfigure more paper clips into ferrets. It's very therapeutic."

An awkward silence fell between them. Hermione played with her glass, and Malfoy watched her from the side, as if he wanted to say something but was holding back. Pansy and Marco were so absorbed in each other that they might as well have been sitting on another planet.

"I'm back!" Harry suddenly announced, appearing at the table with slightly crooked glasses and his hair in even greater disarray than usual.

"Me too!" Ginny joined a few seconds later, approaching from the completely opposite direction. "I met a friend at the bar."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, looking at Harry meaningfully, then discreetly touched the corner of her own mouth. Harry frowned, not understanding, so she repeated the gesture, more firmly. Finally he understood, quickly wiping away a red smear in the corner of his mouth.

"It's... uh... from the drink," he muttered, avoiding her gaze. "Some new cocktail."

"Of course," Malfoy smiled crookedly. "Would this 'cocktail' happen to be called 'Weasley'?"

Ginny choked on her drink.

"Anyway," Malfoy smoothly changed the subject, turning to Harry, "I heard the Tutshill Tornados have a new seeker. Supposedly he's fast but poor at diving."

Harry immediately picked up the topic, enthusiastically describing the advantages and disadvantages of various seeker tactics. Ginny, wiping her mouth from the spilled drink, also joined the conversation, defending the playing style of the Holyhead Harpies.

Hermione sat quietly, suddenly feeling oddly isolated. She observed them all – Ginny, who lived life to the fullest, sometimes being with Harry, sometimes with random wizards met in bars; Pansy, now flirting avidly with Marco, though a week ago she had seen her making out with a French model at a Ministry party; Harry, who despite eternal breakups with Ginny, never seemed truly lonely.

And her? A thirty-year-old successful woman, condemned to the company of Malfoy of all people. Her thoughts involuntarily wandered to Dray. Their conversations, sometimes funny, sometimes deep, always intellectually stimulating. The photo she had sent him before leaving.

Maybe she should stop hesitating. Go on a date with him. See if that virtual chemistry would translate into reality. It was downright absurd – she, Hermione Granger, who had faced Voldemort, was afraid to meet a man she'd met on the internet.

"Granger? Earth to Granger?" Malfoy's voice pulled her from her thoughts.

"Hmm?" she blinked, returning to reality.

"I was asking if you want another drink, or if you've had enough for today?" he repeated with a smirk.

"Oh," she cleared her throat. "One more. Definitely one more."

The next drink turned out to be a mistake. Hermione felt the world around her beginning to spin in a pleasant, though slightly disturbing way. She had the impression she would completely skip the second part of BBB and go straight to "Bye," most likely landing on the floor the moment she tried to stand up.

She didn't even notice when Pansy and Marco disappeared. They were still here just a moment ago, right? Or was that an hour ago? Time lost meaning after... how many drinks? She'd lost count.

"This is absolutely unacceptable!" Malfoy's voice pulled her from her stupor. "The Chudley Cannons don't stand a chance this season, Potter. None!"

"They have a new coach and an excellent chaser from Brazil," Harry pounded his fist on the table, spilling a bit of his drink.

"And their keeper lets the Quaffle through more often than he breathes!" Malfoy leaned toward Harry, placing his hand on the backrest behind Hermione.

"My brother has been a Cannons fan for years," Ginny joined in, just as fiercely. "And even he admits they're hopeless!"

Hermione felt the warmth of Malfoy's arm behind her back. He wasn't touching her, but he was so close that she could lean against him if she just tilted back a few centimeters. This thought caused a strange feeling in her stomach. Or maybe it was just another drink.

Malfoy leaned in even more, practically bending over her to more forcefully present his argument to Harry. Now she had a direct view of his fair hair, which in the dimmed light of the bar seemed almost silver.

"Statistics don't lie, Potter!" he nearly shouted, waving his hand to emphasize his point. "Twenty-seven goals conceded in the last three matches!"

"Those were exceptional circumstances!" Harry replied just as loudly. "A storm during the match with the Harpies, and their keeper had an injury in—"

"Excuses!" Malfoy interrupted him, slamming his hand on the table.

People from neighboring tables began turning in their direction. Several wizards whispered among themselves, pointing discreetly – or rather, trying to be discreet – at Harry and Malfoy.

Hermione felt a sudden and undeniable need. All those drinks she had poured into herself were now demanding attention. The problem was that she was practically trapped between the table and Malfoy, who apparently had no intention of interrupting his Quidditch tirade.

"Um, Malfoy," she tried, gently nudging him with her elbow. "Excuse me, but..."

He didn't react, too absorbed in proving to Harry why his beloved Cannons were doomed to failure.

"Malfoy," she repeated louder, this time nudging him harder. "I need to get through."

"What?" he looked at her, confused, suddenly aware of how close to her he was. "Oh. Sorry."

He didn't look particularly remorseful, but at least he moved aside, allowing her to get out of the bench.

"I need to... um... go to the bathroom," she explained, standing up somewhat unsteadily. "I'll be right back."

As she tried to get out, Ginny and Harry suddenly stopped discussing Quidditch, moving on to a more personal exchange.

"Maybe you'll tell me why I saw you yesterday with that blonde from the Department of Sports?" Ginny crossed her arms over her chest.

"That was a business meeting!" Harry defended himself. "What about you and that reporter from the 'Prophet'?"

Classic Ginny and Harry – from sports discussion to jealousy in less than ten seconds.

Trying to get around Malfoy, she practically had to step over him, balancing between the table and his knees. The world was spinning before her eyes more than she expected. One careless step and she lost her balance, landing right on Malfoy's lap.

"Oof!" he grunted in surprise.

"Sorry," she muttered, trying to get up, but the room suddenly started spinning even more. "Oh Merlin... I think... I need to stay here for a moment."

She rested her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes.

"Granger," his voice sounded strangely soft right by her ear, "you're really very drunk."

For a moment she seemed to drift away, the world around became pleasantly blurred, and the warmth of his body soothingly stable amid the spinning room. Suddenly she felt his breath on her ear when he whispered:

"You smell nice, you know?"

Those words acted like a bucket of cold water. She sobered up abruptly, realizing what she was actually doing. She was sitting on Malfoy's lap. In a public place. With his hand on her back. And his lips dangerously close to her ear.

"Bathroom!" she exclaimed, jumping to her feet, ignoring the dizziness. "I was going to the bathroom."

She swayed slightly, but this time managed to maintain her balance, avoiding his gaze.

"I'll be right back," she muttered, heading quickly toward the toilets.

When she came out of the bathroom, feeling somewhat refreshed after splashing cold water on her face, it suddenly hit her that she couldn't remember at all where their table was. The bar now seemed filled to capacity, and all the tables looked identical in the semi-darkness.

She stood in the middle, looking around confused. Which way? Near the bar? Or closer to the window? Were they even sitting by a window?

"Lost, beautiful?" a deep voice interrupted her chaotic thoughts.

Next to her stood a tall wizard with dark hair and gleaming eyes. He was wearing an elegant shirt and was smiling at her in a way he probably thought was seductive.

"Um, I'm looking for my table," she replied, trying to sound sober.

"Maybe you're looking for company?" he suggested, moving closer. "I'm Adrian. And you must be the most beautiful witch who has ever crossed the threshold of this bar."

"That's very nice," she replied stiffly, "but I really am looking for my table. My friends are waiting."

"I'm sure they won't mind if you join me for one drink," he insisted, placing his hand on her shoulder. "You look like you could use a bit of excitement in your life."

Hermione looked at him, blinking slowly. Her drunk mind began suggesting unexpected thoughts. Maybe she did need a bit of spontaneity? She was always that responsible, predictable Hermione. Maybe this was that moment in her life when she should do something crazy, impulsive?

Adrian smiled more broadly, apparently taking her silence as consent. His hand slid from her shoulder to her back, leading her confidently through the crowded bar.

"I have a special place," he said, leaning to her ear. "More... private."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, noticing that they weren't heading toward the tables at all, but somewhere to the side, behind the bar. Part of her mind – the more sober part – began to sound the alarm.

Chapter Text

"Get your hands off her," an icy voice cut through the bar's noise.

Malfoy stood a few steps away from them, quickly removing his glasses and putting them in his pants pocket.

"Get lost," Adrian growled, tightening his grip on Hermione's shoulder. "Can't you see we're busy?"

"I see you trying to take advantage of a drunk woman," Malfoy replied, approaching with confident steps. "I'm asking politely for the last time – let her go."

Adrian released Hermione, pushing her slightly to the side. She staggered, landing on the nearest chair. The world was spinning before her eyes as she watched Adrian swing his fist at Malfoy.

To her surprise, Draco not only blocked the blow but immediately responded with his own – a quick, precise strike straight to Adrian's solar plexus. The man doubled over but quickly regained his balance and lunged at Malfoy.

Both fell to the floor, knocking over the nearest table. Glasses shattered with a crash, and bar patrons, instead of fleeing or separating the fighters, began to form a circle around them, cheering them on with shouts.

Hermione sat as if hypnotized, unable to react, watching with an open mouth as Malfoy fought like an experienced street boxer. His movements were quick and precise, as if he had done this hundreds of times.

Adrian managed to hit him in the face, splitting his lip, but he didn't even flinch. He responded with a series of blows that made the crowd erupt in wild cheers.

Hermione's world narrowed to this duel. She saw drops of sweat running down Malfoy's face, his focused gaze, blood on his split lip. She saw how his fists hit with precision points that made Adrian weaken with each second.

Adrian made a desperate swing, trying to hit him with a bottle grabbed from the table, but Draco was faster. He caught his wrist, twisted it painfully, and delivered the final blow – a powerful right hook that hit the man straight in the jaw.

He staggered backward and collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

The bar erupted in cheers and applause. Someone patted Malfoy on the shoulder, someone else pressed a drink into his hand. He paid no attention to it, however. He reached into his pocket for his glasses, put them back on his nose, and headed straight for Hermione.

He stood over her for a moment, breathing heavily, with a split lip and a reddened cheekbone that would certainly turn into a bruise tomorrow.

"Come on," he said, extending his hand to her.

"Malfoy..." she groaned, trying to focus her gaze on his face. The world around her was spinning, and her legs felt like cotton.

"Don't whine, just come," he growled, still holding out his hand, from which droplets of blood from split knuckles were dripping.

"I don't think I can stand up," she muttered, trying to rise from the chair only to fall back. "Everything's spinning."

Malfoy sighed heavily, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand. He looked around as if searching for another solution, then without a word bent down and lifted her from the chair, surprisingly gently for someone who had just knocked a man down with one blow.

"What are you doing?" she muttered as her head fell onto his shoulder.

"Saving you. Again," he murmured, forging a path through the crowd, which parted before them with the respect due to a victor.

"First and last BBB I ever agreed to," he muttered under his breath, carrying her through the crowded bar. "What possessed me? 'It'll be fun, Draco.' 'You'll meet new people, Draco.' Sure, I met someone's fist up close. And a Muggle brawl. And a drunk Granger. Wonderful evening. Really unforgettable."

Hermione mumbled something unintelligible into his shoulder, too dazed to actually listen to his complaints.

When they finally reached their table, Malfoy stopped abruptly.

"Of course," he sighed, looking at the empty seats. "No one's here anymore. Fantastic."

"Where's Harry? Ginny?" Hermione raised her head, looking around in confusion. "Pansy?"

"Apparently they decided that since we disappeared for half an hour, it was a great time to vanish," he replied, gently lowering her onto a chair. "You look terrible, Granger. I need to get you out of here. Can you apparate?" he asked, examining her critically. "Or will it end with splinching and throwing up dinner simultaneously?"

Hermione felt her face burning with shame. Malfoy had seen her in various situations, but never so pathetically drunk and helpless. She nervously smoothed her hair, suddenly painfully aware of her condition.

"In that case, I'll find you other transportation," he sighed, looking around the bar.

"No," she protested, trying to maintain the remnants of her dignity. "I'm fine. I just... need a phone. I'll call my friend. She'll pick me up."

"A phone?"

"Yes," she nodded, standing up unsteadily. "Let's go outside."

He put his arm around her, stabilizing her, and led her toward the exit. The cool night air sobered her up somewhat, but she still felt as if the world was swaying under her feet.

"Phone..." Malfoy muttered, looking around. Suddenly his face brightened. "Wait here."

He left her leaning against the wall of the building and approached a group of Muggle teenagers standing a few meters away. Hermione watched in disbelief as he carried on a casual conversation with the group of Muggle kids. After a moment, he returned, holding a smartphone in his hand.

"Here," he said, handing her the phone. "I told them your phone died and you urgently need to call a taxi. You have five minutes."

"How did you...?" she began, taking the phone in disbelief.

"I told you I traveled for seven years," he shrugged. "Not always among wizards."

She looked at the phone, trying to type in Priya's number. Her fingers were shaking, and the numbers on the screen seemed to blur and double. After three failed attempts, Malfoy sighed heavily and simply snatched the device from her hand.

"For Merlin's sake, Granger. Dictate the number to me before you completely lose it."

She blinked in surprise, watching how confidently he held the phone, as if he did it every day.

"Eight... seven..." she began uncertainly.

He started efficiently typing in the digits.

"You... know how to use a phone?" she asked when they reached the end of the number.

Instead of answering, Malfoy pressed the green button and pressed the phone to her ear.

"It's ringing, Granger. Focus."

She wanted to say something, to comment on how surreal the situation was, but then a familiar voice came through the speaker.

"Hello? Who's speaking?" Priya's voice sounded suspicious.

"Priya!" Hermione immediately perked up.

"Hermione? Whose phone is this? Is everything okay?" Priya's voice sounded both surprised and concerned.

"Borrowed," she muttered. "Listen, I need help. I'm... a bit... you know... and I need to get home. Can you pick me up?"

"A bit drunk, you mean," Priya sighed into the phone. "Fine, where are you? Give me the address."

"Address..." she looked around helplessly. The street was swaying before her eyes, and the names on the signs were blurred. "Um..."

She turned to Malfoy, pressing the phone to her chest.

"Malfoy, what's the address?" she asked, feeling the words slightly tangling on her tongue.

He rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched in a slight smile.

"Red Hippogriff, Chancery Street 43, London," he replied, pointing to the sign above the entrance to some Muggle bar.

Hermione repeated the address into the phone, adding apologies for the trouble.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," Priya assured her. "Don't move from there. And drink water, if you can."

She hung up and returned the phone to Malfoy, who took it back to the group of teenagers, exchanging a few words with them and – as she noticed – handing them something that looked like a banknote.

When he returned, he found her sitting on the curb, her head resting on her hands.

"Twenty minutes," she muttered. "Sorry you have to stay here with me."

"You think I'd leave you alone in this state?" he asked, sitting beside her. "After what just happened? Wait here."

Before she could protest, he disappeared back into the bar. He came out a few minutes later, holding a glass of water and a damp paper towel.

"Drink," he instructed, handing her the water. He gently applied the damp towel to her forehead. "Your friend was right. You need hydration."

Hermione obediently took a sip, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. In the streetlight, she could see his split lip and the beginning of a bruise forming on his cheekbone.

"Your face," she noticed quietly. "Does it hurt?"

"I'll survive," he shrugged. "It's not the first time."

"How do you know how to fight like that?" she asked, straightening up a bit. "And use a phone? And... in general... be among Muggles as if it were something normal?"

He was silent for a moment, staring at the space in front of him.

"People change, Granger," he finally said. "Seven years is a long time. Especially when you spend them trying to escape who you were."

"Where were you? All these years?"

Malfoy sighed, removing his glasses and wiping them with the edge of his shirt – a gesture she was beginning to recognize in him.

"Everywhere," he replied, staring at the night sky. "First France. Then Egypt. India. I spent almost a year in Japan, studying their approach to runic magic. Peru. Mexico..." he hesitated. "The United States, where I learned boxing from a Muggle trainer who had no idea I was a wizard."

"Boxing?" she repeated, trying to imagine Malfoy in boxing gloves.

"Yes," he nodded, smiling slightly. "It turns out that hitting a punching bag is an excellent way to deal with... well, with everything."

Hermione tilted her head, looking at his profile in the lamplight.

"With everything?" she repeated.

"With the past," he specified, looking at her. "With the war. With who I was. With what I was part of."

Silence fell. Hermione felt the alcohol in her veins making her braver than she would be sober.

"And what did you find?" she asked. "On the other side of the world?"

Malfoy was silent for a long time, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet, almost intimate.

"Myself," he said simply. "A version of myself I don't hate when I look in the mirror."

Their eyes met, and for a moment Hermione felt as if she were looking into the eyes of a complete stranger. The arrogance she remembered from Hogwarts was no longer there. Instead, she saw fatigue, experience, and something she might call peace.

"And you decided to come back," she murmured, leaning slightly against his arm. The world was still spinning, and his presence was strangely stabilizing.

"Yes," he nodded. "Because escaping isn't the same as changing. Sooner or later, you have to return and face what you were running from."

"And how's it going?" she asked, feeling her eyelids becoming heavy.

"Well," he laughed quietly. "This workday ended with a bar fight and sitting on a curb with a drunk Hermione Granger. I'm not sure if that's a good sign."

"Definitely interesting," she muttered, resting her head on his shoulder. She was too tired and drunk to care about what she was doing.

"Granger," his voice suddenly sounded very close to her ear. "Don't fall asleep on me here."

"Mmm," she murmured. "Just for a moment. You're comfortable."

She felt his body tense slightly, then relax. After a moment's hesitation, his arm encircled her, stabilizing her.

"Your friend will kill me if she finds you sleeping on my shoulder," he said, but he didn't move away.

"Priya is great," she muttered, with her eyes closed. "She has beautiful, black hair. Shiny. She's a lawyer."

"Fascinating."

"You know what?" she suddenly perked up, lifting her head from his shoulder and looking at him with blurred vision. "I could set you up. You and Priya."

"What?"

"Yes!" she nodded eagerly, which made the world start spinning again. "She's really very pretty. Like... you know... your type."

"My type?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Mhm," she nodded with drunken certainty. "Elegant. Intelligent. She has such long, black, shiny hair. And legs. Long legs. And she's a lawyer! A Muggle lawyer! Can you imagine? You and a Muggle lawyer. It would be perfect!"

Malfoy looked at her in silence for a moment, then burst out laughing.

"Granger, are you actually trying to set me up with your friend?"

"Yes!" she confirmed enthusiastically, grabbing his arm. "It will be perfect! She's single, you're single..."

"How do you know I'm single?" he interrupted, still amused.

"Because... um..." she hesitated, furrowing her brow. "Because... I assumed? Are you?"

"This isn't a conversation we should be having when you're drunk," he answered evasively, shaking his head.

Car lights suddenly illuminated their silhouettes, interrupting the awkward conversation. An elegant black car stopped at the curb, and Priya got out from the driver's seat.

"Hermione!" Priya called, approaching with quick steps. She stopped, seeing Malfoy. "And...?"

"Draco Malfoy," he introduced himself, standing up and helping Hermione rise from the curb. "We work together."

"Aaaah, THAT Malfoy," she said meaningfully, measuring him with a careful gaze from head to toe. "Hermione mentioned you... a few times."

Hermione felt the blood draining from her face. Of all the friends she could have called, she chose the one she had told about Malfoy. About how insufferable he was at school. About their shared history. About how irritating he was at work.

"Priya," she groaned quietly, giving her a pleading look.

"What?" Priya innocently raised her eyebrows. "I meant she told me about your return to the Ministry. About how you now share an office." Her smile became somewhat predatory. "And other things."

Malfoy shifted his gaze from one woman to the other, apparently sensing the tension.

"I hope not all the stories were negative," he said cautiously.

"Oh, they were... fascinating," Priya replied, still with the same smile. "Especially the recent ones."

Hermione wanted to sink into the ground.

"I think we should go now," she muttered, desperately trying to change the subject.

"Of course," Priya agreed, opening the car's back door. "Please, get in."

As Malfoy helped her into the car, Hermione swore to herself that she would never drink another drop of alcohol. And that next time she needed help, she would call anyone else. Preferably someone who didn't know her most embarrassing secrets.

The entire ride, Priya chatted non-stop, as if it weren't the middle of the night but an ordinary afternoon coffee. She spewed words at the speed of a spell shot from a wand, jumping from topic to topic with dizzying speed.

"...so I told my boss that there was absolutely no way I'd take that case, and he said that I was the best in the firm at divorce cases, and I replied that yes, but not with clients who are trying to hide assets in seven different countries. And by the way, Hermione, do you remember that restaurant I told you about? That new Vietnamese one? I was there yesterday with Marcus from work, they have absolutely amazing spring rolls..."

Hermione nodded, not hearing even half of what her friend was saying. She felt that she wasn't any less drunk than before getting into the car. Quite the contrary – the warmth of the car and the steady sound of the engine only deepened her daze.

Her thoughts began to wander around what they were actually serving in that pub. Was it regular Firewhisky? Or something stronger? Some strange, international liquor that Pansy had brought from one of her exotic trips? The last drink had a strange, purple color and tasted like... like...

"...right, Hermione? Hermione, are you listening to me at all?"

She started, pulled from her thoughts.

"What? Yes, of course," she muttered automatically.

"So you agree that you should go out more often and meet new people?" Priya gave her a meaningful look in the rearview mirror.

"I... um..."

"Are we here?" Malfoy interrupted, pointing to the building outside the window.

Hermione blinked in surprise. Indeed, they were at her apartment building. The door beside her suddenly opened, and she felt hands gently pulling her from the car. Malfoy helped her stand on wobbly legs, holding her by the elbow.

"I'll probably need a key," she muttered, searching for her purse, which had apparently been hanging from her shoulder the entire time.

Priya lowered the window and called out: "Make sure she gets to her apartment safely!" then drove away with screeching tires, leaving them alone on the sidewalk.

Hermione approached the entrance to the building with unsteady steps, fumbling in her purse for the keys. The world around her was spinning, and her fingers were clumsy and uncertain.

"They're always here," she muttered, leaning forward.

Suddenly she lost her balance and staggered backward. Instead of the hard sidewalk, she felt a warm, solid body behind her. She leaned her back against Malfoy's chest, who automatically caught her by the shoulders, stabilizing her. Their bodies were suddenly very close together, precisely pressed against each other, and his breath brushed against her neck.

A strange feeling spread through her stomach – warm, tingling, completely unexpected. Through her alcohol-fogged mind flashed the absurd thought that she must start having sex, if MALFOY was causing some strange anomalies in her.

Malfoy hissed quietly and froze. For a moment they stood like that, frozen in a strange, intimate embrace, and the tension between them thickened to the point where it could almost be touched.

Then, as if making a sudden decision, he snatched the purse from her hands.

"Give me that," he said hoarsely, moving away slightly, though still supporting her with one hand.

He began methodically searching through her purse, much more effectively than she had. After a moment, he triumphantly pulled out the keys.

"You have a very disorganized purse for someone so organized," he observed, handing her the keys.

Hermione giggled, accepting the bunch of keys and trying to fit the right one into the lock. The key slid over the metal surface, completely missing the target.

"It's not as easy as it looks," she muttered, squinting in concentration and trying again. On the third attempt, the key hit the door frame, not even coming close to the lock.

Malfoy sighed heavily, leaning against the wall beside her.

"For Merlin's sake, Granger, you're a witch," he said in disbelief. "And you've been trying to open these doors for like fifteen minutes."

Hermione immediately turned to him, putting a finger to her lips in a dramatic gesture.

"Shhhhh!" she hissed, looking around nervously. "Muggles live here! You can't just... announce it to the whole world!"

"Yes, because at two in the morning on an empty street, someone is definitely eavesdropping on us," he muttered, but his lips twitched in an amused smile.

He extended his hand. "Give me those keys before you wake up all the neighbors with your noise."

After several clumsy attempts to pass him the keys, Malfoy finally opened the door and led the swaying Hermione inside. They had barely crossed the threshold when something red and fluffy shot toward them from the depths of the apartment.

Crookshanks attacked them with the force of a tiger, weaving between their legs and emitting loud, accusatory meows.

"Go away," Hermione muttered, trying to push the cat away with her foot. In doing so, she lost her balance and swayed dangerously, saving herself only because Malfoy caught her by the elbow.

"Your cat is still as friendly as I remember," he muttered, closing the door behind them.

But Hermione wasn't listening to him anymore. Completely forgetting that she wasn't alone, she moved with unsteady steps through the apartment, dropping her purse and coat on the floor along the way.

She fell onto the bed, still in her boots, with her arms spread out, as if she had just performed some bizarre dive.

Malfoy stood in the bedroom doorway, clearly uncertain what he should do. After a moment's hesitation, he came closer.

"Do you want me to take off your boots?" he asked, pointing to her elegant boots, which were clearly not meant for sleeping in.

"Absolutely not," she muttered, still not looking at him. "No way. You'll be reminding me about this at the Ministry for the next two centuries. 'Hey, Granger, remember when you were so drunk I had to take your boots off?'"

"I'll probably remind you about how you tried to set me up with your friend," he replied with amusement, then, ignoring her protest, squatted by the bed and reached for her left leg.

"What are you...?" she began, trying to sit up, but the world was spinning too much, so she fell back onto the pillows.

"Lie still," he instructed, turning her leg to find the zipper. "Where is this... ah."

He noticed the decorative buckles on the side of the boot and began carefully unfastening them. His fingers moved confidently over the leather material, but when he reached the last buckle, he brushed her calf.

She felt an unexpected shiver run through her body. His touch was warm and sure, even through the material of her pants. Something warm and strangely pleasant spread in her stomach.

Malfoy finally conquered the complicated system of buckles and pulled off one boot, placing it carefully on the floor. Then he reached for the other leg.

"You don't have to do this," she muttered, but it sounded weak even to her own ears.

"I know," he replied simply, tackling the second series of buckles.

This time his fingers seemed more confident, more methodical. And this time, when he touched her calf, it was a touch that couldn't be accidental – his fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary.

Hermione held her breath, suddenly very aware of the situation: her, lying on the bed; Malfoy, kneeling at her feet; his hands on her leg. An image that never, ever would have occurred to her as a possible scenario in her life.

The second boot slid off her foot, and Malfoy set it beside the first. She felt her cheeks burning, as if they had just done something scandalously intimate, not simply removed her boots. Her drunk mind, however, decided this was the most appropriate moment to start going wild.

"Thank you," she muttered, trying to sit up while simultaneously pulling down the strips of material that had ridden dangerously high.

As a result, she performed a series of uncoordinated movements that almost caused her to slide off the bed.

"Careful," Malfoy caught her by the arm, stabilizing her.

"Everything's fine," she assured him feverishly, fixing her hair with a gesture that was meant to be nonchalant but ended with her nearly poking herself in the eye. "Completely fine. Just, you know... it's late and I'm... a bit... well..."

"Drunk?" he suggested, raising an eyebrow.

"Tired," she corrected him.

Malfoy shook his head with amusement.

"You're really a fascinating person, Granger," he said, standing up. "You should lie down. I'll bring you a glass of water."

Before she could protest, he left the bedroom. Hermione fell back onto the pillows, feeling everything spinning. Why had she reacted like that? It was just removing boots, for goodness' sake! Not some... not some... whatever that strange moment between them was. She definitely needed a man in her life. And that man certainly wasn't Malfoy. She decided she would meet with Dray.

She tried to convince herself that it was simply the effect of alcohol and fatigue. And the fact that she hadn't been with anyone for a very, very long time. And that Malfoy, though she hated to admit it, had very nice hands. Strong. Confident. With long fingers that so efficiently handled those buckles...

Stop it immediately! she scolded herself mentally. It's MALFOY, for goodness' sake!

She heard his footsteps returning to the bedroom and desperately tried to assume a pose that would suggest "I am completely composed and definitely wasn't just having strange thoughts about your hands." The effect was rather poor - she lay stiff as a board, with her hands folded on her stomach like a mummy.

He entered the room with a glass of water and stopped, seeing her pose.

"Is everything all right?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "You look like you're preparing for a funeral ceremony."

"Just resting."

He came closer and handed her the glass, which she accepted, trying to sit up. She succeeded only on the third attempt.

"Thank you," she muttered, taking a careful sip. "For everything. For saving me from that... guy. For escorting me home. For... the boots."

"You're welcome," he replied, standing awkwardly beside the bed. "I should go now. It's late."

"Yes," she agreed, looking at him over the rim of the glass. "Very late."

Neither of them moved.

"Will you be all right?" he finally asked.

"Of course," she assured him firmly. "I'm an adult. I dealt with Voldemort, I'll deal with a hangover."

The corners of his mouth twitched in a slight smile.

"It's not the same thing."

"True. Voldemort didn't make me want to throw up," she replied, then immediately felt her face burning. "Not that I'm planning to throw up. Absolutely not. I'm in full control of my... um... digestive system."

"Good to know," he murmured, his smile becoming somewhat wider.

She realized she was staring at his lips and quickly shifted her gaze to the water glass, as if it had suddenly become the most fascinating object in the universe.

"I really should go now," he said, backing toward the door. "I'll leave you to... rest."

"Yes," she nodded eagerly, which made the world start spinning again. "Rest. That's a good idea."

She heard him walking through the apartment, then the soft sound of the closing door. She fell back onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling.

What the hell was that? Why had she suddenly started perceiving Malfoy as... someone attractive? It must have been the alcohol. Or something Pansy had added to those drinks. Or... maybe she had just been alone for so long that even Draco bloody Malfoy was starting to seem interesting.

She should have listened to her friends long ago, when they persistently insisted that she "just sleep with someone." But no, she, Hermione "I Always Know Better" Granger, had ignored them all. The result? She was getting aroused by practically every man who came within arm's reach. Malfoy had barely touched her calf, and she was already having thoughts that... well, that were neither professional nor appropriate.

It's pathetic, she thought, still staring at the ceiling. Absolutely pathetic. She needed to do something about it. But not with Malfoy. For heaven's sake, never with Malfoy.

Suddenly her foggy mind registered something she had completely forgotten. Before leaving home, the photo. She had to check if he had replied.

She sat up too abruptly, and the world spun before her eyes. Where was her phone? Not in her purse, she hadn't taken it with her. Not on the nightstand. Not on the bed.

With determination worthy of a better cause, Hermione began methodically searching the apartment, swaying and stumbling along the way. Finally, after a good ten minutes of searching, she found it, triumphantly grabbed the device, and returned with unsteady steps to the bedroom, falling onto the bed with the phone in her hand. With trembling fingers, she unlocked the screen and opened the app.

SoulScript loaded slowly, and her heart beat faster with each second of waiting. Finally, their conversation appeared – and indeed, there was a new message from SilverHeir.

SilverHeir:* That photo just made my evening decidedly more interesting. That blouse... I must admit, I'm having trouble concentrating since I saw it. I can't stop thinking about what's between those two strips. I hope you're having a good time. And that you'll think of me when you get home.*

Hermione stared at the screen, and an intense blush covered her cheeks. She read the message over and over, each word evoking that strange, warm feeling in her stomach. Especially that last line... "And that you'll think of me when you get home." Well, that at least had come true.

She hesitated. Should she respond? She was completely drunk, and writing in such a state usually didn't end well. On the other hand... he had been waiting for her response for several hours.

She tried to compose some elegant reply, but her fingers were too clumsy and her thoughts too tangled.

However, after such a message, the pressure between her thighs only intensified. The alcohol circulating in her veins was turning off the part of her brain responsible for rational thinking. Hermione Granger, always sensible and cautious, suddenly ceased to exist. There was only Jean, who was absolutely, completely drunk and wasn't thinking about what she was doing.

Jean G.: Thosee strips are exceptionallyy unstable yknow??x

Before she could think about it, her fingers were already sliding across the phone screen, opening the camera. She sat up on the bed, a bit straighter, brushing hair from her face. For a moment she hesitated, looking at her reflection on the screen.

What am I doing? crossed her mind, but the alcohol quickly silenced that voice of reason.

She took a photo, not undressing completely of course, but framing it to expose more than she intended. It was definitely the boldest photo she had sent him so far. Something she would never do sober.

Without a moment's hesitation, she sent it, then threw the phone onto the pillow beside her, as if it had suddenly started burning her hands.

She waited, but no response came. One minute. Two. Five.

He's definitely asleep , she thought, feeling a sudden surge of disappointment. It's the middle of the night. Normal people sleep at this hour. They don't sit drunk, sending provocative photos to strangers from the internet.

She put the phone on the nightstand and tried to sleep. She closed her eyes, but the world was spinning under her eyelids. She turned on her side. Then on the other. Then on her back. Then on her side again.

Sleep wouldn't come. Instead, she felt increasing tension throughout her body. That pressure between her thighs, which had appeared when Malfoy touched her leg, then intensified after SilverHeir's message, had now become almost unbearable. She felt like she might explode from frustration and a need she couldn't – or perhaps didn't want to – name.

That's when her phone vibrated.

She grabbed it so violently that it almost fell to the floor. With trembling fingers, she unlocked the screen.

SilverHeir: If I had any plans for sleep, you've just effectively destroyed them. You have no idea what you're doing to me. I wonder if you're aware of how much I wish I were there with you right now, instead of staring at a phone screen. You've shown me exactly enough to ignite my imagination, and exactly too little for me to sleep peacefully.

She held her breath, feeling her heart quicken. She imagined Dray – this mysterious man she knew only from conversations – staring at her photo in a dark room. She wondered what he looked like. How his voice sounded when he wasn't whispering. What it would be like if he were actually here with her.

For some reason, her mind presented an image of Malfoy kneeling by her bed, with his hands on her leg. She shook her head, trying to banish that thought.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. What should she reply? Part of her – the sober, rational part that somehow still existed somewhere – said she should stop, go to sleep, and be grateful that tomorrow she probably wouldn't remember this exchange of messages anyway.

She thought for a really long time, trying to compose a response that wouldn't sound too desperate or too reserved. But before she could write anything, the phone vibrated again.

SilverHeir had sent her a photo.

Hermione held her breath. On the screen appeared an image of a man standing in a steamy bathroom. He was wearing only a towel, hanging loosely from his hips, revealing a muscular torso and flat stomach. His face wasn't visible – the frame only included his body from the neck down. One arm must have been resting on something outside the frame, because only the other was visible, resting freely along his body.

Droplets of water glistened on his skin, and the steam rising in the bathroom gave the photo an almost surreal, misty character.

She felt her lips involuntarily parting. She stared at the screen, unable to tear her eyes away from the man she knew only through words, who had now shown her... this.

Of course, she still couldn't see his face. But the rest... the rest was all too real and tangible.

She threw the phone onto the bed and pressed her face into the pillow, muffling a cry of frustration. How stupid she was! Really, absolutely stupid! For so many days she had been exchanging messages with him, building this bond, this closeness, and when he proposed meeting, she always found some excuse.

And yet, for goodness' sake, she was a witch! Even if he turned out to be a serial killer (which seemed unlikely, given his eloquence and sense of humor), she could simply apparate away from the meeting place or hit him with a stunning spell.

Instead, she was now sitting alone in her apartment, staring at a photo of a man who could have been with her if only she had dared to say "yes." Looking at that photo – at those arms, at that torso, at that towel hanging so tantalizingly low – she felt she had missed out on really, really a lot.

She must have been lying with her face in the pillow for quite some time, because suddenly she heard the phone vibrate. She jumped up, grabbing the device again.

SilverHeir: I hope this photo didn't make you faint... though I must admit, the thought of you lying breathless on the bed after seeing me is intriguing. Tell me, Jean, what are you really thinking?

What was she supposed to answer? That yes, she almost fainted? That after that photo, her imagination was working at full capacity, presenting her with images that made her feel hot?

She stared at the message, not finding words. Her mind was completely blank. What does one reply in such a situation? How to continue a conversation that has taken such an intimate turn? She started regretting again that she had absolutely zero experience in such obvious flirting with men. As a result, she was sitting drunk in her bed, staring at a photo of a half-naked man she had never seen in person, and had no idea what to write back.

Her phone vibrated again. She wanted to check if it was another message, but the device vibrated once more. And again. She suddenly realized it wasn't a message – he was calling her.

Dray. He was calling her. Now.

With trembling hands, she answered the call and put the phone to her ear. For several seconds she heard only her own accelerated breathing and silence on the other end.

And then came the whisper. So quiet, so intimate that she felt a shiver running down her spine.

"What are you afraid of, Jean?"

His voice was barely audible, more like a breath than words. Low, melodic whisper that seemed to envelop her like velvet. She couldn't recognize the timbre of his voice, as usual, but there was something hypnotizing about it.

"You sent me a photo and disappeared," he said just as quietly. "You left me with my imagination working at full capacity."

Hermione swallowed, feeling her heart quicken.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't know what to say."

"After something like that, words are overrated. I was wondering what you're thinking, looking at my photo."

She closed her eyes, allowing his voice to envelop her in the darkness.

"I think it's unfair," she admitted quietly.

"What is?"

"That you're so far away."

A soft, low murmur on the other end made her feel warmth spreading throughout her body.

"Distance is relative, Jean," he whispered. "Especially when you close your eyes."

Obediently, she closed her eyelids, immersing herself in darkness and his voice.

"Imagine that the world beyond your room doesn't exist," he continued. "Just you, your bed, and my voice."

"All right," she whispered, feeling the tension that had been building in her body since the beginning of the evening intensify.

"Tell me what you desire," his voice was now so quiet that she could barely hear it.

"You," she answered without thinking, surprised by her own honesty.

"I'm here," he assured her. "Maybe not physically, but in every other way."

She slid deeper under the covers, the phone pressed to her ear, her free hand moving over her body. This wasn't her – this was Jean, brave, spontaneous Jean, who allowed herself things that Hermione Granger would never think of.

His whisper guided her through the next few minutes, words full of warmth and desire, intimate without vulgarity, suggestive without being literal. He didn't need to be explicit – the intonation of his voice alone, the way he suspended certain words, how he paused at appropriate moments, was sufficiently expressive.

Her hand moved under her nightshirt, her skin covered with goosebumps. The alcohol in her blood gave her courage she had never had before – courage to touch herself in ways she usually denied herself. Not as Hermione Granger, always composed and rational, but as Jean – passionate and unashamed.

"Yes," he encouraged her, as if seeing her every movement. "Exactly like that."

With each moment, she felt the tension building, and her breathing becoming increasingly uneven. Her fingers moved more boldly over her body, finding places that made soft sighs escape from her lips. Just his voice – that mysterious, velvety whisper – was enough to make her feel pleasure she hadn't experienced for a very long time.

Her hips rose slightly, her hand moved lower, under the material of her underwear. When she finally touched that most sensitive spot, she let out a quiet moan she couldn't suppress.

"Jean," his whisper broke the silence that fell after her sigh. "You're amazing."

For a fraction of a second, she had the impression that she had heard that voice before. Something in his intonation, in the way he pronounced certain words, seemed strangely familiar. Déjà vu – so sudden and intense that it almost pulled her out of her trance.

But that feeling was immediately displaced from her mind when she heard the breathing on the other end also quickening. His whisper became deeper, more broken, and the awareness that he too was on the edge pushed her toward her own fulfillment.

What she felt afterward washed away all thoughts from her mind – about the familiar voice, about who he might be, about everything that went beyond this moment. A wave of pleasure engulfed her entire body, leaving her trembling and completely exhausted.

She didn't hang up. She didn't have the strength for that. She lay with the phone pressed to her ear, listening as their breathing slowly calmed. Her eyelids were becoming heavier. She tried to say something, but only a soft sigh escaped her lips.

The last thing she remembered before falling asleep was his whisper:

"Sleep well, Jean."

Chapter Text

When Hermione woke up the next morning, for the first time in a very long time she regretted not living in the magical part of London. If she did, she could simply send an owl to the nearest potion shop. Instead, she had to drag herself out of bed, walk unsteadily through the living room, and search through her medicine cabinet.

Fortunately, she was always prepared. She drank two hangover potions one after the other, grimacing at the unpleasant taste. It took a few minutes before the fog in her head began to clear.

She returned to the bedroom and reached for her phone. The first thing that caught her eye was a message from Priya.

[11:25] Priya: OMG Hermione, call me AS SOON AS you wake up! You have to tell me EVERYTHING about last night.

Hermione frowned, trying to piece together fragments of last night. The bar. Drinks. A lot of drinks. She suddenly remembered herself sitting at the table, talking much too loudly. And... Malfoy? Yes, Malfoy was there, looking at her with that irritating half-smile of his.

And then... oh God. He had escorted her home. She remembered how he supported her as she searched for her keys. How he led her inside. How he helped her lie down on the bed and... took off her boots? Yes, he definitely took off her boots.

What else did he do? No, no... it seemed he simply left after making sure she had safely reached home. But it was embarrassing nonetheless. Draco Malfoy had seen her completely drunk, babbling nonsense.

With a sigh, she opened SoulScript, wondering if she had written something stupid to SilverHeir in her drunken state. And then she froze.

On the screen, instead of the expected list of text messages, was a record of a voice call. Lasting over thirty minutes.

"No," she whispered, as her face flushed crimson. "No, no, no..."

Fragments of memories began returning – his whisper, her own sighs, what she had done during that conversation...

"I want to die," she groaned, covering her face with a pillow. "I just want to die right now."

At that moment, the thought of sinking into the ground was very tempting. What was she thinking? What must HE think of her now? How could she ever return to normal conversation with Dray after something like that?

The phone vibrated in her hand – a new message. With great hesitation, she looked at the screen.

SilverHeir: Good morning, Jean. I hope you slept well. Last night was exceptional. I must admit, I didn't expect such a turn of events, but I don't regret a single second.

She covered her face with her hands, feeling her cheeks burning fiercely. Fragments of memories from the previous night came back to her now like flashes – his photo in a towel, her drunken boldness, his velvety whisper on the phone...

"Oh Merlin," she groaned, tightening her fingers on the phone. "What have I done?"

The phone vibrated again.

SilverHeir: I hope you don't regret it either. Though I understand if reflection came in the morning. We can talk about it if you want. Or we can pretend nothing happened. The choice is yours.

With hesitation, she began typing a response, deleting it and starting over several times. Every word seemed either too formal or too personal.

Before she could make a decision, the phone rang – this time it was Priya. Hermione sighed, setting SoulScript aside. That conversation would have to wait. Now she faced an interrogation from her friend, who certainly wanted to know every tiny detail of her drunken escapade with Malfoy.

"What are you punishing me for, universe?" she groaned, answering the phone.

After an intense conversation with Priya, in which she of course omitted the later events with Dray, which she had no intention of mentioning to anyone, Hermione decided to return to SoulScript.

She decided that the best strategy would be to simply change the subject. Instead of referring to what had happened between them, she wrote about a book she had recently read. To her relief, he didn't object. He answered her question about literature as if their last exchange had been about reviews of recent publications, not... what had actually happened.

And so Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday passed relatively calmly. She worked in her café, replied to messages from Dray (carefully avoiding any references to that night), and in the evenings composed detailed responses to letters from Pansy and Ginny, who also needed to know exactly what had happened that night.

But Thursday was to bring a real tragedy. The day she had been dreading since the weekend – returning to work at the Ministry. Returning to the office she shared with Malfoy.

Hermione stood in front of her office door, staring at the handle as if it were the gateway to hell. She sighed loudly, mentally preparing herself for meeting the man who had seen her in a state of complete intoxication.

"Breathe in, breathe out," she muttered to herself, then opened the door and went inside.

To her misfortune, Malfoy was already there. He was sitting at his desk, reviewing some documents, perfectly straight in his immaculate shirt with rolled-up sleeves and those absurd suspenders of his.

She decided to employ a proven strategy – total ignorance. She just threw a short "good morning" into the air (not even looking in his direction) and began setting up her things. She hung up her coat, arranged her documents, prepared her quills and inkwell. All in complete silence.

Finally, she sat at her desk, looked at him sharply, and said firmly:

"Not a word."

Malfoy raised his eyebrows, looking at her with a mixture of amusement and consternation.

"But I wasn't saying anything," he replied, spreading his hands in a gesture of innocence. "But now that you've started the conversation..."

"I said: not a word," she repeated emphatically, then turned away demonstratively and began reviewing documents that had arrived during her absence.

There was quite a lot – three reports on improper use of experimental communication spells, an application for funding research on magical equivalents of smartphones (which brought an involuntary smile to her face), and a note from Hughes reminding her of the upcoming deadline for submitting a progress report on work with Mesopotamian runes.

She tried to focus on reading, but all the while she felt Malfoy's intense gaze on her. She didn't raise her head, but from the corner of her eye she could see him watching her from above his documents. Whenever she glanced in his direction, he immediately pretended to be completely absorbed in his work, only to stare at her again when he thought she wasn't looking.

After twenty minutes of this irritating game, a small, perfectly folded paper airplane landed on her desk.

She raised her head and looked at Malfoy with an expression that could freeze hell.

He just shrugged with an innocent smile, then began showing something in mime – he put his finger to his lips, then pointed at her, and then made a gesture reminiscent of locking lips with a key.

"Really?" she hissed. "How old are you? Twelve?"

He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness, then pointed to the airplane, encouraging her to open it.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but after a moment's hesitation reached for the paper airplane. She carefully unfolded it, as if expecting some malicious charm to be lurking inside.

On the paper were Malfoy's elegant, slanted letters:

Granger, I've prepared my notes on Mesopotamian runes as you asked. Full documentation is waiting in the cabinet next to your desk. PS: Bring brownies tomorrow, as promised. I've earned them with my exemplary silence.

She looked at him with a mixture of irritation and surprise. Had he really done what she'd asked? Prepared documentation?

"I didn't promise any brownies."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow and ran his finger across his lips, making a zipping gesture. Then he reached for a clean sheet of paper, quickly wrote something on it, and sent another airplane in her direction.

"If you actually do something productive over the next few days, I might consider bringing something on Friday. Your words, Granger. Not to mention that it was supposed to be last Friday."

Hermione pressed her lips together. Indeed, she had said something like that. Which meant that Malfoy had actually listened to what she was saying to him. And apparently he had kept his part of the deal.

With a sigh, she opened the cabinet next to her desk. Indeed, there was a thick folder with "Mesopotamian Runes - Research and Applications in Interdimensional Space" carefully calligraphed on the cover.

"All right," she finally said, turning to Malfoy. "You can speak now. And thank you for the documentation."

He smiled triumphantly, stretching his shoulders.

"You're welcome, Granger," he replied smoothly. "I always keep my promises. Especially those concerning work. And silence."

Hermione opened the folder and began browsing through the contents. To her surprise, the research was extensive, detailed, and... actually impressive. Charts, hand-drawn runes with precise translations, historical analysis, theoretical applications...

"This... this is very good," she admitted reluctantly, turning the pages. "Really impressive research."

"You don't have to sound so surprised," Malfoy muttered, but there was a note of satisfaction in his voice. "I was always good with ancient runes."

"Yes, but this is much more advanced than anything we learned at Hogwarts," she replied, stopping at a particularly complex diagram. "How long have you been working on this?"

"Five years," he replied.

Hermione sighed and reached into her bag. She pulled out an elegant box of cupcakes that she had intended to bribe him to keep quiet about that fateful evening – but he might as well get them now. She waved her wand, sending the box to his desk.

"What's this?" asked Malfoy, looking at the unexpected gift.

"Cupcakes. With caramel cream and roasted nuts," she replied, feigning indifference. "I was going to give them to you tomorrow as a reward for your work, but you might as well have them now."

He opened the box with an expression of childlike excitement on his face.

"Granger, you're starting to be my favorite person in the entire Ministry."

"Only because I feed you sweets."

"Exactly. The way to Malfoy's heart is through his stomach," he admitted without embarrassment, taking his first bite. "Mmm... this is... divine."

"Don't exaggerate," she muttered, though the corners of her mouth twitched slightly.

She returned to reviewing documents, trying to focus on work, not on Malfoy, who was enjoying her baked goods with childlike enthusiasm. She immersed herself in reports, analyzing data and making notes in the margins, trying to catch up with the backlog created during her absence.

When she glanced in his direction some time later, she blinked in astonishment. The cupcake box stood open, but completely empty. All ten cupcakes – gone. There wasn't even a crumb.

"Malfoy," she said in disbelief. "Did you just eat ten cupcakes in..." – she looked at the clock – "twenty minutes?"

Malfoy looked at her innocently, brushing invisible crumbs from his shirt.

"Possibly," he answered evasively. "They were really small."

"They weren't small! They were normal!" she protested. "And there were ten of them. Ten! They were supposed to last you all day!"

"Granger, when something is so perfect, one cannot restrain oneself," he replied with a smile that strangely reminded her of the Cheshire cat. "Besides, it's your fault. If you made mediocre baked goods, I could eat them slowly, without enthusiasm. But these were..." – he made a gesture with his hand, as if searching for the right word – "...irresistible."

"You're impossible," she sighed. "And you're going to have a terrible stomachache."

"It was worth it," he replied with absolute conviction, then added with hope in his voice: "And will there be any new baked goods tomorrow?"

"Really? You ate ten cupcakes in twenty minutes and you're already planning tomorrow's meal?"

"Planning is the key to success, Granger," he replied seriously. "Besides, good baked goods are like a good book – when you finish one, you immediately think about the next."

"That's the most absurd comparison I've ever heard," she shook her head. "And no, there won't be any baked goods tomorrow. These were supposed to be a reward for the documentation. If you want more, you'll have to earn them."

Malfoy rested his chin on his hand, looking at her with an intriguing gleam in his eye.

"And what would I have to do to deserve... say... an apple pie? I heard from Hughes that your apple pie makes grown men cry with happiness."

"Hughes really needs to stop talking about my baking," Hermione muttered. "It's almost unprofessional."

"Don't change the subject," Malfoy smiled cunningly. "What about that apple pie? Should I develop a full implementation project for the runes? Test them on a prototype? Or maybe just be exceptionally nice and helpful all day?"

"I have a better idea," she said, resting her elbows on the desk. "Shut up for at least three hours and let me work. Complete silence. No questions, no paper airplanes, no comments about my baking or anything else. Three hours of productive silence."

Malfoy opened his mouth to say something, but Hermione raised her hand, silencing him.

"I start counting from now," she added firmly. "Three hours. Not a minute less."

For a moment he looked as if he wanted to protest, but then he just smiled, made a gesture of zipping his lips, and with exaggerated theatricality turned to his documents.

Hermione sighed with relief and returned to work, wondering if he would really manage to remain silent for three hours. Although if the reward was apple pie... well, apparently her sweets were a more powerful motivation than she had ever suspected.

The next three hours were a true blessing. The office was filled only with the rustle of turning pages, the scratching of quills, and occasional tapping of a cup on a saucer when one of them reached for tea. Malfoy, to her surprise, was keeping to the terms of the agreement with admirable discipline. He didn't say a word, didn't send any paper airplanes, didn't even try to get her attention through coughs or sighs. He worked in concentration on his runes, occasionally reviewing her research documentation.

Hermione managed to review all the overdue reports, respond to three urgent owls, prepare a preliminary budget plan for the next quarter, and even sketch a new approach to the problem of phone reception in the Ministry. Her mind, undisturbed by Malfoy's constant comments, worked with the old efficiency she had missed so much lately.

Finally, she glanced at the clock to check how much time remained of this blissful silence. The hands showed exactly three hours from the moment she had given Malfoy the ultimatum.

In the same second that she looked at the clock, she heard his voice:

"You know what, Granger..."

She buried her face in her hands, wondering what sins the universe was punishing her for with Malfoy's company.

* * *

The next day, Hermione stood in front of the entrance to the Ministry of Magic, holding an elegant box containing an apple pie. Contrary to her earlier declarations, she had decided to bake the pie – she'd even gotten up an hour earlier to stop by her café and use the professional oven. He had kept his word down to the second, and that deserved recognition.

The Atrium was crowded as usual – wizards and witches hurrying to their departments, owls circling beneath the ceiling delivering morning mail, and enchanted paper airplanes with official memos darting between columns. Hermione headed toward the elevators, balancing the pie and a folder of documents.

However, she hadn't even managed to press the button summoning the elevator when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Before she could react, she was practically pushed into the elevator that had just opened its doors.

"Malfoy!" she hissed, trying not to drop the box with the pie. "What are you doing?"

"Good morning, Granger," he replied with a broad smile, completely ignoring her indignation. "Is that what I think it is?" he added, glancing at the box in her hands.

The elevator was crowded – besides them, there were five other people: two wizards from the Department of Magical Transportation, a witch from the Department of Magical Games and Sports whom she knew by sight, and two people she didn't recognize.

"Yes, it's apple pie," she answered quietly, hoping no one would pay attention to their conversation. "And stop pushing me."

But Malfoy clearly had no intention of being discreet. Quite the contrary – he looked as if he had been waiting for such an opportunity.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he suddenly said, addressing the other elevator passengers, who looked at him in surprise. "Do you know that you have the honor of traveling in an elevator with the most talented employee of the Ministry?"

Hermione felt her cheeks beginning to burn. "Malfoy, stop it," she hissed, trying to discreetly step on his foot.

He skillfully avoided her shoe and continued enthusiastically:

"Hermione Granger, not only a war heroine and the most talented witch of her generation, but also a genius in the field of interdimensional magical innovations! Her research on adapting Muggle communication technology for use in the wizarding world is absolutely groundbreaking."

The wizards in the elevator looked from Malfoy to Hermione with a mixture of amusement and consternation. The witch from the Department of Magical Games and Sports smiled shyly, and one of the wizards from Magical Transportation muttered something that sounded like "Ah, so she's the one with the telephones."

"Furthermore," Malfoy continued, completely unfazed by her murderous look, "Miss Granger is also a talented baker! This unassuming package she holds contains the most perfect apple pie ever created in Great Britain – both in the Muggle world and the wizarding one."

"For Merlin's sake," Hermione groaned, trying to disappear, though it was physically impossible in the crowded elevator.

"Such a magnificent apple pie deserves fanfare and a red carpet," Malfoy continued orating, gesturing theatrically with his free hand. "But the modest Miss Granger is content with merely our admiration and gratitude. This is an example of her extraordinary generosity – a trait that equals only her intellect, which, I must add, is absolutely impressive. During our brief collaboration, she has managed to surprise me at least seven times with her brilliant observations and..."

"Level five, Department of International Magical Cooperation," announced a cool, feminine voice as the elevator stopped and the doors opened with a metallic screech.

The witch from the Department of Magical Games and Sports and one of the wizards Hermione didn't recognize exited, not without giving her sympathetic looks. The elevator continued, and Malfoy carried on with his tirade as if no one had left:

"...her ability to combine magical theory with practical applications is virtually legendary in research circles. And have I mentioned her baking? Her brownies could make house-elves go on strike out of pure jealousy. Her caramel cream cupcakes are so perfect that after tasting them, one might experience an epiphany..."

"Level six, Department of Magical Transportation," announced the voice, and the two wizards in blue robes left the elevator, one of them winking conspiratorially at Hermione.

There were only three of them left – her, Malfoy, and the unknown wizard, who looked as if he were in the process of making an important life decision: whether to get off at the next floor or continue this fascinating journey.

"...her contribution to the development of magical communication will probably not be appreciated by contemporaries, but future generations will erect monuments to her. Mark my words, one day every wizard in Great Britain will be using a magical equivalent of a telephone, and all thanks to the exceptional abilities of Miss Granger, who..."

"Level seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports and Department of Interdimensional Magical Innovations," announced the voice, and Hermione practically jumped out of the elevator, dragging Malfoy with her, who still hadn't let go of her arm.

The unknown wizard remained in the elevator, apparently determined to continue the journey to a higher floor, though she could swear there was an expression of disappointment on his face that the show had come to an end.

As soon as the elevator doors closed, she broke free from Malfoy's grip. They now stood alone in the corridor leading to their department, and she was breathing heavily, as if after a long run.

"What. The. Hell. Was. That?" she hissed through clenched teeth.

Malfoy smiled broadly, absolutely unfazed by her anger.

"I was just informing our esteemed colleagues of your numerous talents," he replied innocently. "You deserve recognition, Granger."

"I deserve peace and quiet," she growled, then noticed that his hand was still resting on her shoulder. "And get your paws off me."

But Malfoy only smiled more broadly, not letting go.

"Granger, as your devoted colleague, I feel obligated to..."

He didn't finish. Hermione, maintaining a stone-faced expression, slipped a finger under one of his suspenders with her free hand, pulled it back a few centimeters, and released it.

SNAP!

The suspender hit his chest, making a satisfying sound. Malfoy jumped, more from surprise than pain, and finally let go of her arm.

"Ouch!" he protested, rubbing the spot where the suspender had hit him through his shirt. "That was completely unnecessary, Granger."

"In my opinion, entirely necessary," she replied calmly, adjusting the box with the apple pie, which had miraculously survived all the commotion. "And if you ever do something like that again, next time I'll use my wand instead of your suspender. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

She headed down the corridor toward their shared office, leaving Malfoy, who was still rubbing his chest with the expression of an offended child.

"But I'll get a piece of apple pie, right?" he called after her. "Granger? Granger! That was a compliment! Everything I said was true!"

Hermione didn't turn around, but the corners of her mouth involuntarily turned upward. This man was absolutely, completely impossible.

And, though she would never admit it, a little amusing.

When they reached the office, she wordlessly placed the box with the apple pie on Malfoy's desk. He stood in the doorway, looking at her with a mixture of surprise and excitement.

"Really?" he asked, as if not believing his own eyes. "After what I did in the elevator?"

"Baking the pie took me an hour," she replied matter-of-factly, taking off her coat and hanging it on the hook. "I'm not going to waste it just because you're behaving like a five-year-old."

Malfoy approached the desk and opened the box with almost reverent awe. The scent of cinnamon, apples, and warm pastry immediately filled the office.

"Granger, this is a work of art," he said admiringly, looking at the perfectly baked, golden apple pie. "I swear, for this I'll behave exceptionally well today."

"Somehow I doubt that," she muttered, sitting at her desk and taking documents out of her folder. "But at least while you're eating, your mouth will be occupied."

He smiled broadly, reaching for a fork.

"You know, that almost sounds like a compliment."

She rolled her eyes and immersed herself in the documents, ignoring the sounds of delight Malfoy made with each bite of her pie. It was almost comical how exaggeratedly he reacted to her baking – as if he had never eaten anything sweet before.

"Merlin, this is the best thing I've ever eaten," he said after a few minutes, putting down his fork. "How do you do it? Seriously, do you use some special spells?"

"I already told you, no magic," she answered, not looking up from her papers. "Just traditional, Muggle methods."

"Fascinating," he murmured, leaning back comfortably in his chair and watching her through his glasses. "Muggle baking methods, Muggle communication technology... You really have a weakness for non-magical things, don't you, Granger?"

"Not everything non-magical is inferior," she replied, glancing at him. "Some Muggle solutions are very practical."

"Like my glasses, for example?" he asked, adjusting them on his nose with a characteristic gesture. "Actually, I must admit, I've begun to appreciate them. They add intellectual charm, don't you think?"

Hermione snorted, returning to her documents.

"Don't start again, Malfoy."

"What?" he feigned innocence. "I'm just asking for your opinion. After all, we spend a lot of time together, your opinion is important to me."

"My opinion is that you should focus on working on the prototype, not on your appearance," she replied dryly.

"But you've thought about it, haven't you?" he persisted, leaning toward her with a playful smile. "I remember you saying something about my glasses at the bar. Something about them being..."

"Malfoy!" she interrupted him warningly.

"What? I just want to hear what you think of them," he smiled innocently. "They're just glasses, Granger. I'm not asking for an assessment of my character or blood purity."

Hermione sighed heavily, putting down her quill. She knew he wouldn't leave her alone until he got an answer.

"All right," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "I think those glasses are... quite appropriate. They suit your face."

"Appropriate?" he repeated with feigned disappointment. "That's all? What about what you said in the bar? Something about them being..."

"I don't remember what I said in the bar. I was drunk, in case you forgot."

"Oh, but I remember perfectly," he smiled even more broadly. "You said they were sexy. Your exact words were: 'Those glasses are absurdly sexy, Malfoy. You should wear them all the time.'"

Hermione felt her cheeks growing hot.

"I absolutely did not say something like that," she protested.

"Yes, you did," he insisted, clearly amused by her embarrassment. "And then you started saying something about how they make me look like a professor who could..."

"All right!" she interrupted him, raising her hands in a gesture of surrender. "If I say your glasses are sexy, will you leave me alone and get back to work?"

"Absolutely," he promised, folding his hands over his heart. "Malfoy's word."

She took a deep breath, as if preparing to jump into ice-cold water.

"Your glasses are sexy," she said in an emotionless tone, looking him straight in the eye. "Happy now?"

"Very," he replied with a smile of satisfaction. "But you could put a bit more conviction into it, you know? That sounded like you were reciting a list of ingredients for a potion."

"Malfoy," she began in a warning tone.

"All right, all right," he laughed. "I'm getting back to work. Thank you for the compliment and for the apple pie."

Hermione was sure he would keep talking, but to her surprise, he actually returned to work. He bent over a piece of parchment and began sketching some complicated runes. She breathed a sigh of relief and returned to her documents.

That relief, however, was short-lived.

After a few minutes, he took off his glasses with a theatrical gesture, wiped them with the edge of his shirt, and put them back on his nose, emitting an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction. Hermione raised her eyebrows but didn't comment.

A moment later, he adjusted them with his index finger, making the gesture with such exaggeration that he looked like a caricature of a professor.

"Is something wrong with your glasses?" she finally asked, unable to help herself.

"Not at all," he replied with an innocent smile. "I'm just making sure that these... what was it again? Ah yes, sexy glasses are properly displayed."

"I regret ever saying that."

Malfoy just smiled more broadly and lowered his glasses to the tip of his nose, looking at her over them with an expression that was probably meant to be seductive but just looked absurd.

"Professor Malfoy, expert on Mesopotamian runes, at your service," he said in a low voice, then pushed his glasses back into place with one finger.

"For Merlin's sake," she groaned. "Could I take back that compliment?"

"Absolutely not," he replied, now completely amused. "A compliment once given is like a magical contract – binding and irrevocable."

For the next half hour, she witnessed the most absurd "glasses modeling" show in the history of the wizarding world. Malfoy constantly removed his glasses, put them on in different styles, looked over them, under them, from the side. He tilted his head back and looked through the lenses at the ceiling, pushed them to the end of his nose and pretended to be a stern librarian, and even put them on upside down, asking if "they're still sexy this way."

"This is going to be a very long day," Hermione muttered, hiding her face in her hands.

Chapter Text

Saturday arrived like salvation. Hermione stretched lazily in bed, smiling to herself. Finally! Two days free from Malfoy, his absurd glasses, and childish antics. Actually, counting the weekend and additional days she spent at the café, she wouldn't see him until Thursday. Almost five days without Malfoy was a gift from fate that she absolutely deserved.

She prepared herself a strong coffee, took a warm shower, and with mug in hand sat by the window, enjoying the morning sun. She reached for her phone to check if Dray had written. Indeed, a notification about a new message was flashing on the screen.

SilverHeir: Good morning. I hope you're having a better morning than I am. I just realized I bought decaffeinated coffee. That should be illegal.

Jean G.: I'm currently drinking my second coffee, with a double espresso. I could teleport to the moon right now without using a wand.

She always had to be careful not to use too many magical references, but this small allusion to teleportation could pass in the context of a joke. Muggles used such metaphors too.

SilverHeir: Cruel. Bragging about coffee to a man in need. That's like eating cake in front of a child.

Jean G.: You're a grown man. Can't you just go out and buy proper coffee?

SilverHeir: Theoretically I could. Practically it would mean getting dressed, going outside, and interacting with other people. On a Saturday morning. Does that sound like something a reasonable person would do?

She laughed out loud. This man, whoever he was in reality, had a similar approach to mornings as she did.

Jean G.: Point taken. In that case, I'm mentally sending you some caffeine. Feel it flowing through the ether.

SilverHeir: Hmm... I don't feel anything. You might need to try harder. Or send me real coffee by express mail.

Jean G.:* In your dreams! By the way, do you have any plans for the weekend?*

SilverHeir: Mostly work. But tonight I'm meeting friends for drinks. You?

Jean G.: I'm planning to do absolutely NOTHING. Well, maybe bake something as an experiment. I'm thinking of a creamy cheesecake with raspberries.

SilverHeir: Stop immediately. I already feel terrible about the lack of coffee, and you're finishing me off with visions of raspberry cheesecake? Where is your heart, woman?

She smiled broadly. Conversations with Dray always improved her mood. They were light, funny, and at the same time – in some inexplicable way – deeper than ordinary chats. Even when they joked about something trivial, like coffee or baking, she felt comfortable with him.

It was so refreshing – talking to someone who didn't know her past, didn't know about her role in the wizarding war, didn't associate her as Harry Potter's friend or a Ministry employee. For Dray, she was simply Jean – a girl who likes books, bakes cakes, and has a tendency to over-analyze everything.

The day was looking really wonderful. No obligations, no Malfoy (she rolled her eyes at the mere thought of him), just peace, a book she had been planning to read for weeks, and maybe that raspberry cheesecake.

And then, as if on cue from fate, which loved to ruin her perfect plans, an owl flew to her window. An elegant, black owl with a small letter tied to its leg.

Hermione sighed and let the bird in. She recognized the characteristic, expensive quill – the letter was from Pansy. Apparently, her friend couldn't wait until the next BBB to share the latest gossip.

She opened the envelope and unfolded the parchment, expecting Pansy's usual complaints about her newest admirer or invitations to some fancy event.

But what she read nearly made the coffee she was drinking come back through her nose.

"Dear Hermione,

I'm hearing VERY interesting rumors from the Ministry. Is it true that you told Draco his glasses are SEXY? Because if so, we need an immediate meeting, not waiting for BBB. This requires explanation and several drinks.

Eagerly awaiting your response,

Pansy

P.S. I always knew there was something more hidden beneath that facade of mutual hatred. I've been telling Blaise this for years!"

Hermione stared at the letter with an open mouth. How, in all powers, did Pansy know about this incident? Was Malfoy walking around the Ministry telling everyone that Hermione Granger thinks his glasses are sexy?

"I'll kill him," she muttered, crumpling the letter in her fist. "This time I'll really kill him."

It was supposed to be her day off. A day without Malfoy, without his irritating smile, without those absurd glasses and childish behaviors. And yet, two hours later, Hermione was standing in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic, with a wand in one hand and Pansy's crumpled letter in the other.

Saturday. The Ministry was almost empty, only a few of the most dedicated (or most unfortunate) employees milling about the corridors. Hermione knew, however, that Malfoy would be here – he had mentioned something about weekend work on the prototype, boasting about how dedicated he was to the project.

She headed straight for the Ministry cafeteria. It was lunchtime, and if there was one thing she was certain about regarding Malfoy, it was the fact that he never missed meals, even in the name of work.

She was right. He was sitting at a table in the corner, bent over some papers, simultaneously drinking coffee and eating a croissant. His platinum hair gleamed in the light of the lamps, and those unfortunate glasses rested on the tip of his nose.

She moved toward him, not paying attention to the surprised looks from a few employees who recognized her despite her weekend, informal attire.

"Malfoy," she said loudly, standing over him with her arms crossed over her chest.

He looked up from his documents, and the expression of surprise on his face quickly changed into that irritating, self-satisfied smirk.

"Granger! What a pleasant surprise," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Could you not endure a weekend without my company?"

She threw the crumpled letter on the table in front of him.

"What is the meaning of this?" she growled. "Why is Pansy Parkinson asking me if I told you that your glasses are sexy?"

Malfoy looked at the letter, then at her, and his smile widened even more. And then he did something she completely didn't expect – he burst into loud, theatrical laughter.

"Oh, Granger, you are absolutely PRICELESS!" he exclaimed so loudly that several people sitting at nearby tables turned in their direction. "I always knew you had a wonderful sense of humor!"

Before she could react, he jumped up from his chair, threw his arm around her neck, and pulled her close in what to outside observers might have looked like a friendly embrace.

"This is the funniest thing I've heard all week!" he continued loudly, still embracing her with his arm. "We absolutely must tell Hughes about this at Monday's meeting!"

Hermione stood stiffly, completely disoriented by his reaction. This wasn't what she had expected. Where was the patronizing, irritating Malfoy she knew?

"Come, we need to talk about this," he suddenly said much more quietly, leaning to her ear. "But not here."

And before she could protest, he pulled her along with him, still embracing her with his arm, toward the exit from the cafeteria, leaving his documents and unfinished lunch on the table.

As soon as they were in an empty corridor, away from curious eyes and ears, Malfoy released her and stepped back, and his face took on a much more serious expression.

"All right, Granger, now we can talk," he said, looking around to make sure they were alone. "And believe me, this conversation is as necessary for me as it is for you."

Hermione felt a sudden unease. Malfoy's face was serious, almost stern. Had something really bad happened? Could there be something more behind all this than just his usual childish behavior?

"What's going on?" she asked, involuntarily lowering her voice.

Malfoy looked her straight in the eyes with an expression that could be mistaken for concern, if she didn't know him better.

"Granger," he began seriously, "you can't just burst into the Ministry cafeteria and shout such things out loud."

"What things?" she asked, confused.

"About my glasses!" he replied, as if it were obvious. "About you thinking they're... you know... sexy. For Merlin's sake, can you imagine what would happen if everyone in the Ministry found out that Hermione Granger thinks Draco Malfoy has sexy glasses?"

She blinked in disbelief, trying to process what she had just heard.

"Are you joking with me?" she hissed through clenched teeth. "YOU were the one who blabbed to Pansy! That's why I came here!"

"Me?" he placed his hand on his chest with the face of an innocent. "Not at all! You're lucky I managed to save the situation there in the cafeteria. My quick reaction prevented the entire magical London from gossiping tomorrow about your... eyewear preferences."

She closed her eyes, counting to ten in her mind. No, to twenty. Maybe to a hundred.

"Malfoy," she finally said, opening her eyes and fixing him with a murderous look. "Pansy wrote me a letter asking if it's true that I told you your glasses are sexy. How, in all magical creatures, could she know about that if not from you?"

"Maybe Hughes told her? Or that nice lady from reception? Or perhaps one of our colleagues from the department? They heard you say it in the office," he suggested innocently.

"No one heard it because we were alone!" she exclaimed, then immediately lowered her voice, remembering they were still in the Ministry. "Admit it, Malfoy. You told her."

Malfoy sighed dramatically, as if he carried the weight of the whole world on his shoulders.

"All right," he finally admitted, spreading his hands. "Maybe I did mention it to Pansy. But it's not my fault!"

"Not your fault?" she repeated in disbelief. "How can relaying my private conversation not be your fault?"

"Because I met her yesterday on Diagon Alley, and she started saying how bad my glasses look and that I should get rid of them!" he explained, as if that explained everything. "I had to defend myself! I told her that not everyone shares her opinion, and that some people, including a very intelligent witch working at the Ministry, consider them..." – he lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper – "...sexy."

Hermione rolled her eyes so hard she almost saw the back of her head.

"And of course you had to mention me by name," she stated, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Not right away," he replied with the face of an innocent. "Only when she started insisting that I give the name of this 'very intelligent witch.' You know Pansy, she has to know everything."

"So you let Pansy Parkinson think that I have some strange obsession with your glasses?"

Malfoy blinked, as if that thought hadn't occurred to him.

"I didn't say you have an obsession," he clarified. "I just repeated your compliment to her. She's the one who drew... far-reaching conclusions."

"What conclusions?"

"You know..." he wiggled his eyebrows in a way that was meant to be suggestive. "That maybe beneath that facade of mutual hatred lies something more."

Hermione looked at him with a mixture of disbelief and resignation.

"Do you even realize what you've done?" she asked, rubbing her temples. "Now Pansy will be convinced that something is sparking between us."

He raised one eyebrow and took a step toward her. Suddenly the space between them became decidedly too small for her taste. He tilted his head and looked down at her with that irritating half-smile.

"And is something sparking between us, Granger?" he asked in a quiet, suggestive tone. "Is that why you're so worried about what Pansy will think?"

She stepped back, feeling her cheeks beginning to burn against her will.

"Don't be absurd," she replied, trying to sound firm. "The only thing sparking between us is mutual irritation. And I'm absolutely not worried about what Pansy thinks. I'm worried about what everyone else will think when she spreads her theories."

"Mhm," he murmured, still not taking his eyes off her. "Are you sure that's it? Because you look quite... nervous."

"I'm nervous because you ruined my perfect day off with your childish behaviors," she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. "And stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" he asked innocently.

"You know how," she replied, feeling her irritation growing with each second. "Through those... glasses of yours."

Malfoy smiled even more broadly, and his eyes gleamed with amusement. With a slow, almost theatrical gesture, he took off his glasses and began cleaning them with the edge of his shirt.

"These glasses?" he asked innocently. "The same ones you consider... what was it? Ah, yes. Sexy."

"Stop repeating that!" she hissed, looking around nervously, though the corridor was still empty. "It was a one-time comment, forced by your insufferable behavior."

"Forced?" he repeated, putting his glasses back on his nose and adjusting them with one finger in a way that – as he well knew – drove her crazy. "No one forced you to compliment my appearance, Granger. You did it completely voluntarily."

"It wasn't a compliment!" she protested. "It was a... tactical concession. To make you leave me alone."

"A tactical concession," he repeated, nodding with feigned gravity. "Of course. Because if you really thought my glasses were sexy, that would be... what? Unacceptable? Dangerous? Too... tempting?"

With each word, he took a small step toward her, until they were uncomfortably close again. Hermione felt her heart quicken – from irritation, of course, nothing more.

"It would be absurd," she replied, raising her chin. "And completely unprofessional."

"But we're not at work now," he observed, leaning slightly. "It's Saturday. Theoretically, we're now... private individuals."

She felt a strange twinge in her stomach. It must have been irritation. Or hunger. Yes, she was probably just hungry.

"We're in the Ministry," she reminded him. "And you're having this absurd conversation just to divert attention from the fact that YOU are spreading silly gossip about my supposed fascinations with your appearance."

Malfoy assumed an expression of innocent surprise so exaggerated that it could have competed with pantomime performances on Diagon Alley.

"What gossip, Granger?" he asked, spreading his hands. "I only told Pansy that you like one minor element of my appearance. That's hardly a crime, is it?"

Hermione felt her patience – the thin thread she had managed to maintain throughout this absurd morning – finally snap.

"What gossip?!" she repeated, her voice dangerously rising. "The gossip that makes Pansy think something is sparking between us! The gossip that has me here, on a SATURDAY, instead of enjoying my day off! The gossip that started from one stupid, forced compliment!"

Malfoy put a finger to his lips, looking around nervously.

"Lower your voice, Granger, people might hear."

That was one comment too many. Something inside Hermione exploded.

"LET THEM HEAR!" she shouted, raising her hands in a gesture of complete resignation. "I THINK YOUR GLASSES ARE SEXY, MALFOY! DOES THAT MAKE YOU HAPPY?!"

Her voice echoed off the walls of the empty corridor – or at least the corridor that was empty until three wizards in elegant robes emerged from around the corner, apparently returning from some weekend meeting. They stopped abruptly, looking at her in surprise.

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face, then immediately return, flooding her with a blush so intense she could have competed with the setting sun.

Malfoy reacted instantly, with social grace she would never have expected from him.

"She's just joking, gentlemen," he called to the wizards, laughing freely. "We're trying a new communication strategy in our department – shouting absurd compliments. Builds team spirit!"

The three wizards exchanged glances, smiled uncertainly, and moved on, faster than necessary, muttering something about "strange practices in the Department of Innovations."

As soon as they disappeared around the corner, Malfoy leaned toward Hermione with a triumphant smile.

"See? That's how I defend you. Pretty good, right?"

She stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then wordlessly turned on her heel and headed toward the elevators.

"Granger!" he called after her. "Come on! That was quite funny! And it relieved the tension, didn't it?"

She didn't answer, continuing to walk at a brisk pace, her shoes clicking on the marble floor.

Hermione didn't slow down for a moment. On the contrary – she accelerated, heading straight for the elevators. Her mind was working at full speed, analyzing all possible spells she could cast on Malfoy if they weren't in the Ministry. Perhaps something that would make those glasses of his permanently stick to his face? Or better yet, change to bright pink every time he uttered her name?

The sound of his footsteps behind her only fueled her anger. Why couldn't he just leave her alone? Was his entire purpose in life to drive her crazy?

"Hermione!" he called, using her first name, which was so unusual that she almost stopped. Almost.

She reached the elevators and energetically pressed the button, as if the force of pressure could speed up its arrival. She prayed silently for the elevator to appear immediately, before Malfoy caught up with her.

But fate was apparently in league with the platinum-haired irritant. Malfoy stood beside her, slightly out of breath, just as the elevator doors opened.

"Hermione," he repeated, more quietly this time. "I'm really sorry. It was supposed to be an innocent joke."

She entered the elevator without a word, pressing the atrium button and praying for the doors to close before he could enter after her. Unfortunately, Malfoy was too quick. He slipped inside at the last moment, nearly getting his sleeve caught.

They stood next to each other in silence as the elevator started moving. Hermione stared stubbornly at the doors, ignoring his presence.

"Granger," he began after a while, clearing his throat nervously. "Listen, I'm really sorry. It was supposed to be an innocent joke."

She remained silent, pressing her lips into a thin line.

"Seriously," he continued, running his hand through his hair. "I'll do anything so you're not angry with me. Whatever you say."

Hermione glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, measuring him with a cool look.

"Anything?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Absolutely anything," he confirmed, placing his hand on his heart.

"In that case," she said slowly, "you could try harder with that apology. Really try."

He blinked, apparently not expecting such a response. For a moment, he looked as if he were considering various options, then that familiar gleam appeared on his face – a mixture of audacity and determination that always spelled trouble.

"You want a real apology?" he asked with a gleam in his eyes. "You'll have it."

And before she could react, Malfoy dropped to one knee, grasping her hand in his with theatrical exaggeration.

"Hermione Granger," he began in a sonorous voice, sounding like a cross between a Shakespearean actor and an operatic tenor. "Brightest star of the Ministry, queen of Mesopotamian runes, ruler of magical innovations!"

"Malfoy!" she hissed, trying to pull her hand away. "Stand up immediately!"

He ignored her, continuing his elaborate speech.

"I, unworthy Draco Malfoy, kneel before you to beg forgiveness for my unforgivable transgressions! For spreading gossip about your complimentary preferences, for violating your privacy, for ruining your Saturday morning!"

"The elevator is about to stop," she warned him, feeling growing panic.

"I swear on my pure-blood pride, on my glasses – the same ones that you, in your infinite wisdom, described as sexy – that I will never again commit such a shameful act!"

The elevator slowed, approaching the atrium. Hermione felt her face burning and her heart accelerating with nervousness. "Malfoy, STAND UP!"

"Do you accept my most sincere apologies?" he asked, raising her hand with a dramatic gesture, as if intending to kiss it. "Will you forgive me, oh great Granger, for my pitiful misconduct?"

At that moment, the elevator doors slid open, revealing the Ministry atrium – and directly opposite them stood a group of wizards, among whom was a "Daily Prophet" journalist with a camera, apparently documenting some Ministry event. A flash lit up the elevator, immortalizing the scene: Draco Malfoy on his knees before Hermione Granger, holding her hand and gazing at her with the expression of a pleading admirer.

Time seemed to stop for a second as everyone present in the atrium froze, staring at the unusual sight. And then the camera flashed a second time.

"Wonderful," she whispered through clenched teeth, yanking her hand from Malfoy's grip. "Just wonderful."

Malfoy slowly stood up, and his face displayed a mixture of consternation and – what irritated her most – barely concealed amusement.

"Should I add 'endangering your reputation through public apology' to my list of transgressions?" he asked in a low voice, adjusting his suspenders.

"I'll kill you, Malfoy," she replied just as quietly, with a smile pasted on her face as journalists began to approach them. "Slowly and painfully. And then I'll resurrect you and kill you again."

"But you accept my apology?" he asked with that irritating spark in his eye.

"Don't you dare fall asleep tonight," was her only response as she pushed through the growing crowd of onlookers, leaving Malfoy to face the consequences of his theatrical performance alone.

* * *

On Sunday morning, Hermione sat at her kitchen table, slowly sipping her first coffee and enjoying the last hours of freedom before returning to work. She planned to spend the day reading a new book on advanced transfiguration spells that she had bought last week. No Malfoy, no glasses, no absurd situations.

A tapping at the window interrupted her peaceful musings. A brown Ministry owl with the Sunday edition of the "Daily Prophet" waited patiently behind the glass.

Hermione sighed and let the bird in. She paid five Knuts, took the newspaper, and poured some water for the owl into a small bowl she always kept on the windowsill. She unfolded the "Prophet," expecting, as usual, boring political commentaries and a few articles about upcoming changes in magical law.

She froze. The coffee she was just drinking caught in her throat.

On the front page, taking up almost the entire surface, was a photo from yesterday's incident at the Ministry. Malfoy on his knees, holding her hand, with his face raised up and a pleading look. Her, standing over him, with cheeks burning red and an expression of complete surprise on her face.

But it wasn't the image itself that was the worst – it was the headline that made her feel the blood draining from her face:

"LOVE IN THE MINISTRY: WAR BETWEEN WIZARDING VETERANS HERMIONE GRANGER AND DRACO MALFOY ENDS... WITH ENGAGEMENT?"

"What?!" she exclaimed, almost dropping her cup. "ENGAGEMENT?!"

With growing horror, she began to read the article:

"Exclusive photos from the Ministry of Magic atrium reveal a shocking turn in the relationship between two of the most famous veterans of the Second Wizarding War. Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy fortune and former Death Eater, was caught on Saturday kneeling before Hermione Granger, war heroine and close friend of Harry Potter, in a gesture that eyewitnesses describe as 'undoubtedly romantic'.

'He was holding her hand and looking at her as if she were his whole world,' reports one witness, who wished to remain anonymous. 'And then the elevator opened and everyone saw it.'

According to our sources, Malfoy recently joined the Department of Interdimensional Magical Innovations, where Granger has held a high position for several years. Working together has apparently allowed the former enemies to discover deeper feelings.

'There was always some tense energy between them,' claims another Ministry employee. 'But no one expected them to go from arguing to... well, to public declarations so quickly.'

The question that all magical London is now asking itself: has Hermione Granger, known for her fight for the rights of the oppressed and unfairly treated, really decided to link her life with a man whose family represented everything she fought against? Is it a political alliance, true love, or perhaps... something even spicier?

'He wears glasses now,' reveals one of the employees. 'And I heard Granger saying they are absolutely sexy.'

The "Prophet" editorial team is awaiting an official comment from the Ministry spokesperson, but for now one thing is certain – this unexpected romance will be the main topic of conversation in the coming week."

Hermione stared at the newspaper, unable to believe her own eyes. Her mind was working at full speed, trying to process this complete absurdity. Engagement? ENGAGEMENT?! Who, in all magical creatures, could think that Malfoy was proposing to her?!

And then she saw the signature under the article and everything became clear: Rita Skeeter.

She heard another tapping at the window. This time it was an elegant, black owl, carrying a small envelope that she didn't even need to open to know who it was from.

On the envelope, written in elegant, aristocratic handwriting, were only four words:

"Do you forgive me?"

Chapter Text

Sunday, which was supposed to be a day of relaxation and peace, turned into a nightmare that Hermione hadn't experienced since her Hogwarts exams. From the early morning hours, owls of all sizes and colors circled over her apartment, delivering an endless stream of letters, cards, and even several Howlers, which she had to open immediately to prevent them from screaming.

"HOW COULD YOU GET INVOLVED WITH A FORMER DEATH EATER?!" screamed one of the Howlers in the voice of an elderly witch whom Hermione didn't know.

"I always knew you'd end up with someone from the aristocracy!" wrote Lavender Brown on a pink card that smelled of sickly perfume.

"I hope you know what you're doing" - a laconic letter from Harry.

"IS THIS SOME SICK JOKE?!?!" - from Ron, of course in all capital letters.

"Congratulations, darling. I always saw potential in him" - from Pansy, with a postscript: "I can't believe you didn't tell me first!"

There were also letters from complete strangers - some with congratulations, but most expressing outrage, disappointment, or disbelief. Some even contained marriage proposals ("If you're looking for a pure-blood husband, I'm a better candidate than Malfoy!") or threats ("Traitor! Think twice before leaving your house!").

Noon found her sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by a sea of parchments, her hair in even greater disarray than usual, with a sense of complete helplessness.

"I hate him," she muttered, crumpling another letter and throwing it toward the already overflowing trash can. "I hate, hate, HATE him!"

The irony of the situation didn't escape her notice. For a brief moment, for those few days in the office, she had begun to think that maybe - just maybe - there was a chance for some positive relationship with Malfoy. Not friendship, of course, but at least civilized coexistence. Sometimes he could be funny. Sometimes, like when he brought her lunch, even nice. And his enthusiasm for her baked goods was... well, flattering.

But as usual, it turned out that Draco Malfoy was simply a source of misfortune in her life. An inexhaustible source.

The worst part was that deep down she knew he hadn't done it deliberately. That absurd theater in the elevator was supposed to be his way of apologizing, not a public spectacle. But that didn't change the fact that because of him, she now had to deal with this chaos.

Around six in the evening, when the number of arriving owls finally began to decrease, she made a decision. She grabbed a fresh piece of parchment and began writing an official letter to the "Daily Prophet" editorial office, addressed to Rita Skeeter herself.

"Dear Ms. Skeeter,

In response to your article in today's edition of the 'Daily Prophet,' I categorically deny all insinuations regarding an alleged romantic relationship between myself and Draco Malfoy.

The incident you described was an unfortunate misunderstanding. Mr. Malfoy and I work together on a research project in the Department of Interdimensional Magical Innovations, and the situation you photographed was merely a humorous scene resulting from a professional disagreement.

I am not engaged, I am not planning to get engaged, and my relations with Mr. Malfoy are purely professional.

Please publish a correction immediately and cease spreading these absurd rumors.

Sincerely,

Hermione Granger

P.S. I remind you that I still possess certain information regarding your unregistered Animagus abilities that might interest the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."

She wrote the last sentence with a certain satisfaction, knowing that Rita remembered their old agreement well.

As she was finishing sealing the letter, she heard the characteristic notification sound from her phone. She glanced at the screen and for the first time that day felt a slight smile on her face. A message from Dray.

SilverHeir:* How's your day going? I hope better than mine. I just discovered that my favorite sweater has been shrunk in the wash. A worldwide tragedy.*

She put down her quill and reached for the phone, feeling a sudden need for a normal, casual conversation. Someone who didn't know about all this commotion with Malfoy, about the absurd article in the "Prophet," about the hundreds of letters.

Jean G.: Trust me, my day trumps yours. I'd say it's a long story, but it's not even a story - it's some absurd nightmare.

SilverHeir: Sounds intriguing. Do you want to talk about it, or would you rather distract yourself and hear more about my catastrophes?

Hermione hesitated. On one hand, she needed to vent to someone who wasn't involved in the whole situation. On the other - how was she supposed to explain all the magical aspects to a Muggle? After brief consideration, she decided she would simply adapt the story to Muggle realities.

Jean G.: Actually, I think I need to vent. Remember that nightmare co-worker I wrote to you about? On Friday I had a small argument with him. He wears these pretentious glasses and I was joking about them, but then I unfortunately said they look... well, good on him. He of course repeated this to a mutual friend, who began spinning absurd theories.

SilverHeir: That doesn't sound so bad yet. A compliment is a compliment, even if unintentional.

Jean G.: That's just the beginning. Yesterday I went to the office (on Saturday! my day off!), to clear this up with him. We argued, and then in the elevator he started dramatically apologizing to me. And not normally - he knelt before me, holding my hand, delivering some absurd, theatrical speech.

SilverHeir: Sounds like a scene from a romantic comedy. Or horror, depending on perspective.

Jean G.: Horror is the right word. The elevator opened at exactly the moment when he was on his knees, and downstairs stood a corporate photographer who was taking pictures for some event. And of course he captured THAT moment. Today in the company bulletin, which is sent to EVERYONE in the industry, there was our photo with a headline suggesting we got ENGAGED.

Hermione omitted the part about the Daily Prophet, the Ministry of Magic, and Rita Skeeter, but the essence of the story remained the same.

SilverHeir: Oh no... That's really a bad situation. How did people react?

Jean G.: The phone won't stop ringing. Messages are coming non-stop. Friends, family, co-workers - everyone is asking if it's true. Some congratulate, others are furious that I didn't tell them, still others express disappointment with my "choice."

SilverHeir: Did you write a correction?

Jean G.: I just finished writing an official letter to the editorial office. But the damage has already been done. On Thursday I'll have to show up at the office and face it all in person.

She waited for a response longer than usual. The screen showed that Dray was typing, stopping, typing again. Finally, the message came.

SilverHeir: I know you're probably furious, and you have every right to be. But may I suggest something from the perspective of an uninvolved person?

Jean G.: Please, any advice is welcome.

SilverHeir: Maybe this co-worker didn't do it on purpose? The elevator, the photographer, the publication - it all sounds like a series of unfortunate coincidences. His apologies, though exaggerated, seem to be sincere.

Hermione frowned, surprised. She hadn't expected Dray to defend Malfoy.

SilverHeir: I'm the last one to suggest "turning the other cheek," but maybe for the good of both of you it's worth getting off the warpath? You'll have to work together, and constant conflicts will only make things worse. Maybe this incident is a good time to start fresh?

Hermione put down the phone, considering his words. Did Malfoy really not do all this on purpose? His apologies in the elevator, though absurd, seemed sincere. And indeed, he couldn't have predicted the photographer or Rita's article.

Jean G.: Maybe you're right. Constant war makes no sense, especially since we have to work together. I'm not saying we'll become friends, but maybe it is worth trying a more... peaceful approach.

SilverHeir: I'm glad you think so. And I'm sure he'll appreciate your maturity. And if he starts behaving like a jerk again, you can always go back to the "kill him and bury the body in the forest" plan.

Hermione laughed, feeling some of the tension leaving her body.

Jean G.: Don't worry, that plan always remains in reserve. Thanks for listening and for the advice. You're surprisingly sensible for someone who holds funerals for sweaters.

SilverHeir: What can I say? I'm a man of many talents. Now, since we've solved your crisis, can I go back to mourning my cashmere?

Hermione smiled at the phone. Dray was right. Maybe it really was worth giving Malfoy one more chance. After all, as she herself said, sometimes she saw in him the potential to be someone better.

Unfortunately, her newly found optimism didn't even survive until Monday morning.

Dressed and ready to leave, with a bag slung over her shoulder and a cup of coffee in hand, she was standing by the door of her apartment when she heard the familiar tapping on the window. The brown Ministry owl with the morning edition of the "Daily Prophet" was waiting patiently behind the glass.

"Everything will be fine," she muttered to herself, letting the owl in and taking the newspaper. "Just ignore whatever they wrote, and go to work. Stay calm and professional."

Her resolution lasted exactly as long as it took her to unfold the newspaper.

"DRAMA AT THE MINISTRY: MALFOY HEIR REJECTS GRANGER! 'THERE WERE NEVER ANY ENGAGEMENT'"

Hermione felt her stomach tying itself in knots. Under the headline was the same photo from the elevator, but this time cropped to show mainly her face - with an expression of surprise that in this context looked like painful humiliation.

Forcing herself to read the article, she felt her face burning with an increasingly stronger blush with each sentence.

"According to our sources, Draco Malfoy firmly denies that Saturday's incident at the Ministry was a proposal. 'It was just a joke,' he allegedly told close friends. 'Granger and I work together, but that's all.'

Has the war heroine been publicly rejected by the heir to the Malfoy fortune? Were her feelings one-sided? According to our informants, Granger has long expressed admiration for Malfoy's physical attributes, particularly often complimenting his new glasses as 'extremely attractive.'

'She's always been crazy about him,' claims an anonymous source. 'Even at school. All that hatred was just a cover.'

The editorial office has not received an official comment from either party, but Malfoy's close friends emphasize that 'he was never interested in Granger in that way' and 'is amused by the whole situation.'

Will the proud Hermione Granger cope with this public humiliation? Read tomorrow for an exclusive interview with her former partners about her history of romantic failures."

The article was, of course, signed by Rita Skeeter.

"You nasty, lying, manipulative..." Hermione whispered curses under her breath that she wouldn't use even in her worst moments of frustration. Her hands were shaking so hard that the newspaper rustled as if moved by the wind.

She apparated straight to her café, making sure no one noticed her. The morning turned out to be a complete disaster. She burned two batches of cupcakes, in her fury not even noticing that she had set the timer for three times longer. When trying to fix the situation, she knocked over a pot of coffee, spilling it on a customer in an expensive suit. When Rose gently suggested that maybe she should go home, Hermione yelled at her so harshly that the girl stepped back with pain written on her face.

At that moment, Hermione realized she couldn't work. Neither at the Ministry nor at the café. She took off her apron, muttered apologies, and went home. There, still shaking with anger, she wrote a letter to Malfoy – the most brutal, most venomous letter that had ever come from her pen. She poured everything into it – from school humiliations to the current situation. Every word dripped with venom and contempt. When she finished, even she herself was surprised by the level of vitriol she had produced.

To make matters worse, Dray didn't reply to her all day. She checked her phone every few minutes, desperately needing a normal, casual conversation that would divert her thoughts from all this commotion. But the screen remained painfully empty.

Not knowing what to do with herself, she finally called Priya. Her friend listened to the whole story without interrupting, although she probably didn't understand half the words Hermione used.

"And I sent him a letter in which I literally wrote that I would rather share an office with a Hungarian Horntail, because it has better manners and a more pleasant breath," Hermione concluded, now more resigned than angry.

"Strong," Priya admitted with a note of admiration in her voice. "But was that really wise?"

"Of course not!" groaned Hermione. "But I was so angry..."

"I understand. In your place, I'd want to strangle him too. Or better - cast a spell on him that would make his precious glasses turn pink and covered in glitter every time he saw you."

That absurd vision elicited Hermione's first genuine laugh in two days. For the next two hours, they both invented increasingly elaborate ways to get revenge on Malfoy, from classic curses to complicated plans that would require the help of house-elves, several centaurs, and a time-turner. Plus a few things that didn't exist in the wizarding world, but she didn't have the heart to tell her friend who was so enthusiastic.

"Of course," Priya said at one point in a completely serious tone, "if you're planning to kill him, you must sleep with him first."

"WHAT?!" Hermione almost spat out the tea she was drinking.

"What? You can't waste such a specimen before death. It would be like... an ecological crime. A waste of resources."

"You're crazy," Hermione stated, but she was laughing so hard that her abdominal muscles hurt.

When on Tuesday morning she heard the characteristic tapping on the window, she didn't even get out of bed. The Ministry's "Prophet" could lie on the windowsill until the end of the world - she wasn't going to read another word about herself and Malfoy. She'd had enough. From today, she would focus on her work, her café, and normal life.

Of course, easier said than done.

She lasted exactly forty-three minutes before finally giving in and approaching the window. The owl was already gone, but the "Prophet" was lying on the windowsill, rolled up perfectly. For a moment, she stared at the newspaper like it was a venomous snake ready to strike.

"They're just words on paper," she said to herself, reaching for the newspaper. "What worse could they write?"

The answer came immediately when she unfolded the front page. She stared at it in disbelief, her stomach performing a painful somersault.

"EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW: DRACO MALFOY BREAKS SILENCE - 'I WAS THE ONE REJECTED'"

Below the headline was a large photo of Malfoy sitting in an elegant armchair in some exclusive interior. He looked like the embodiment of aristocratic suffering - with his face contorted in an expression of feigned sadness, constantly adjusting those cursed glasses of his, as if wanting to make sure everyone noticed that "sexy" accessory.

"Draco Malfoy, heir to one of the most respected wizarding families in Great Britain, has finally agreed to tell his version of events regarding the high-profile incident at the Ministry of Magic.

'I was the one rejected,' he claims, sighing dramatically. 'I've always admired Hermione's intellect, her determination. I tried to get closer to her on professional grounds, to show that I've changed. Unfortunately, my reputation still precedes me.'

Asked about the elevator incident, Malfoy claims it was a desperate act of contrition, an attempt to repair a relationship that - as he admits - 'never had a chance to bloom.'

'I knelt before her, begging forgiveness for my past transgressions. I was ready to do anything to show how much I regret our difficult past. Unfortunately, it was misinterpreted as a proposal.'

Interestingly, Malfoy does not directly deny speculation about his romantic feelings toward Granger.

'Was I interested? Maybe. Did I hope for something more? Who knows. But Hermione made it clear to me that she would never see me as anything more than a former enemy. And I must respect that, even if it is... painful.'

Throughout the conversation, Malfoy constantly adjusts his glasses - the same ones that, according to our sources, were described by Granger as 'sexy.'

'Yes, I heard about that comment,' he admits with a pale smile. 'It was probably a joke. Hermione has a specific sense of humor.'

When asked if he intends to continue working with Granger, Malfoy nods with an expression of martyred determination.

'Of course. I am a professional. And I still believe that someday Hermione will see me as more than just "that Malfoy."'

Does this mean that the door to a potential romance remains open?

'Some doors are never completely closed,' he answers enigmatically, adjusting his glasses one last time.

The author of this article must admit they really are absurdly sexy."

Hermione stared at the last sentence, reading it over and over, as if expecting the letters to arrange themselves into a different, more sensible configuration.

It was all surreal. Absurd. Completely unprofessional. Malfoy... had sacrificed himself for her? Instead of continuing the narrative about "rejected Hermione," he presented himself as the rejected one. He removed from her the burden of being the abandoned, hurt, unwanted one – and took it upon himself.

Why? It made no sense. Draco Malfoy, who had always cared primarily about his own image, about the reputation of the Malfoy family, voluntarily presented himself in a light that was... well, maybe not negative, but certainly vulnerable. As someone who had been rejected.

By her.

Hermione sat down slowly on the couch, still clutching the newspaper. She tried to understand Malfoy's motives, but each potential answer seemed more implausible than the previous one.

Perhaps he just wanted to end the commotion? But he could have done that in many other ways. He could have issued a brief statement denying everything. He could have ignored the matter until it died down. He could have...

Well, he could have done anything but this.

Hermione spent the rest of Tuesday and all of Wednesday analyzing the situation. She tried to work at the café, but her thoughts kept drifting back to Malfoy and his mysterious interview. She considered writing him a letter, but after the venomous one she sent on Monday, she didn't have the courage. Priya advised her to simply wait until Thursday and talk to him in person, but the mere thought of that meeting caused nervous stomach cramps.

Dray finally replied on Tuesday evening, apologizing for his absence and asking how she was feeling. Hermione wanted to tell him about the whole situation, but how was she to explain to a Muggle that her co-worker had given an interview to a magical newspaper in which he admitted he had been rejected by her, though there had never really been anything between them? So she replied with generalities, assuring him that everything was fine and she just had a lot of work.

When Thursday came, she woke up feeling as if she had an exam she wasn't prepared for. She dressed with special care – a simple but elegant navy blue dress, subtle makeup, hair pinned in a neat bun. She didn't want to look like she was trying too hard, but she also didn't want to give Malfoy a reason to comment on her appearance.

She apparated to the Ministry earlier than usual, hoping to avoid crowds. But even at this hour, the atrium wasn't empty. Several wizards were talking by the fountain, and when they noticed her, their voices immediately quieted. Hermione straightened up and headed toward the elevators with her head held high, pretending not to hear the whispers behind her back.

"...poor Malfoy, did you see that interview?"

"...always so haughty, no wonder she rejected him..."

"...honestly, he deserves it, after what his family..."

The elevator was almost full, and when she entered, an awkward silence fell. Hermione stood motionless, staring at the doors and praying for the journey to the seventh floor to end as quickly as possible. She felt the gazes of other passengers on her – some sympathetic, others curious, still others decidedly unfriendly.

When the elevator doors opened on her floor, she breathed a sigh of relief and quickly stepped out into the corridor. Walking toward her office, she heard more whispers:

"...she really rejected Malfoy? I thought it was just rumors..."

"...I always thought she was too focused on her career..."

"...he's changed, everyone can see that, and she still..."

Hermione quickened her pace. She preferred these comments to the alternative – people thinking that she had been rejected, that she wasn't good enough for Draco Malfoy. But still, each whisper was like a small dagger being stabbed into her pride.

She stopped in front of her office door, taking a deep breath. What would she say to Malfoy? How would she behave? Thank him for the interview? Pretend nothing happened? Or should she be honest and ask him directly why he did it?

She had no idea, so she decided to improvise. She opened the door and went inside.

He was sitting at his desk, bent over some document. At the sound of the opening door, he raised his head and looked in her direction. He was perfectly dressed, as always – dark pants, a light shirt with rolled-up sleeves, those characteristic suspenders of his. But something was different.

"Good morning, Miss Granger," he said formally, straightening up in his chair.

She blinked, surprised by this official tone. Since when did Malfoy call her "Miss Granger"? It had always been "Granger" or some irritating nickname.

"Good morning... Malfoy," she replied cautiously, approaching her desk.

She observed him out of the corner of her eye as she hung up her coat and arranged her things. He had returned to work, bending over the document so low that he almost touched it with his nose. He seemed completely absorbed in his tasks, as if he didn't notice her presence.

This was... strange. Where were his sarcastic comments? Where were the jokes about her appearance? Where were the requests to bring more baked goods?

She sat at her desk and also got to work, but she couldn't concentrate. Every few minutes she glanced at Malfoy, who was still sitting stiffly upright, with his face so close to the parchment that it looked almost comical.

And then she noticed it. His eyes. Malfoy was squinting, as if he had trouble clearly seeing the text. He was running his finger along the lines, as if it helped him maintain concentration. Every so often he rubbed his temple, as if he was starting to get a headache.

He didn't have his glasses.

The same glasses he wore all the time, which he adjusted in the interview for Rita Skeeter, which – according to his own words – were necessary due to vision damage caused by an experiment with Mesopotamian runes.

Malfoy was working without glasses. And he was clearly suffering because of it.

She felt her heart doing a strange flip. Why wasn't he wearing glasses?

"Malfoy," she spoke suddenly, before she could stop herself.

He raised his head, but didn't look directly into her eyes, which was another novelty. Usually, he looked at her with that irritating half-smile and challenging gleam in his eye.

"Yes, Miss Granger?" he asked with the same formal tone that was beginning to annoy her.

"Where are your glasses?" she asked directly.

For a fraction of a second, something appeared on his face that could have been surprise or embarrassment, but he quickly replaced it with a mask of indifference.

"I decided they aren't essential," he replied stiffly.

"Aren't essential?" she repeated in disbelief. "But you yourself said that without them you can barely see. That it's a side effect of the experiment with runes."

Malfoy shrugged slightly, still avoiding her gaze.

"I exaggerated. I'm managing."

"Managing?" she snorted. "Malfoy, you're practically kissing that parchment. You'll get a migraine from all that squinting any minute now. This is absurd."

"It's my business," he replied coldly. "May I return to work, Miss Granger?"

She stared at him in disbelief. What was happening? Who was this stiff, formal man, and what had he done with the irritating but always authentic Malfoy she knew?

"Why are you suddenly calling me 'Miss Granger'?" she asked, ignoring his question.

He sighed quietly, as if this conversation was causing him physical pain.

"I decided that a more professional approach would be... more appropriate. Given recent events."

"Recent events?" she repeated. "You mean your interview for Rita Skeeter? The one where you talked about how you were rejected by me?"

For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to deny it, but instead, he simply nodded.

"Among other things."

She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling growing frustration.

"Why did you do it, Malfoy? Why did you give that interview?"

For a long moment, he was silent, as if considering various possible answers. Finally, he looked at her – really looked, for the first time that day – and Hermione saw fatigue in his eyes that she hadn't noticed before.

"I thought it would be better," he said quietly. "For you."

"For me?" she blinked, surprised. "What does that mean?"

"Skeeter was planning to write another article anyway. I know because she sent me an owl with questions. She planned to continue the narrative about how Hermione Granger was rejected by the Malfoy heir. How she pathetically tried to gain my interest, and I laughed at her."

Hermione felt her cheeks burning with embarrassment at the mere thought of such an article.

"So I decided to get ahead of her," Malfoy continued. "I offered an exclusive interview. I dictated the terms. And I reversed the narrative."

"Why?" she asked quietly, still not understanding. "Why would you care how Skeeter describes me in her articles?"

He looked at her for a moment with an expression she couldn't decipher.

"You know, Granger, for someone so intelligent, you can be surprisingly dense," he said, and in his voice appeared a note of that familiar sarcasm, which – to her surprise – she almost missed.

"Excuse me?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"I did it because it was my fault," he explained, as if talking to a child. "I started this whole mess by kneeling before you in that damned elevator. I exposed you to Skeeter's attacks and gossip. So I should be the one to bear the consequences."

She looked at him in disbelief. It sounded... logical. And noble. Two traits she would never have expected from Malfoy.

"And what about the glasses?" she asked, changing the subject because she didn't know how to respond to his explanations. "Why aren't you wearing them?"

Malfoy grimaced slightly.

"I thought it would be better."

Hermione couldn't help herself – she burst out laughing. This whole situation was so absurd that it exceeded the boundaries of her comprehension.

"So you'd rather suffer and risk permanent eye damage than put on glasses?" she asked in disbelief.

"It's not that simple," he muttered, clearly embarrassed.

"No, it's exactly that simple," Hermione replied, shaking her head. "Where are those glasses, Malfoy?"

For a moment he looked as if he wanted to continue insisting, but finally he sighed and reached into the pocket of his jacket that was hanging on the back of his chair. He took out the familiar, black-framed glasses.

"Happy now?" he asked, putting them on his nose.

She watched as his face immediately relaxed – clearly the relief for his eyes was instantaneous. She had to admit that Rita Skeeter was right – those glasses really did look good on him. Too good.

"Yes, happy," she replied, returning to her desk.

Observing him out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that despite putting on the glasses, he still sat stiffly upright, as if he had swallowed a broomstick. His movements were measured and precise, completely unlike the casual, sometimes even nonchalant Malfoy she knew.

This formal version of Malfoy was not only irritating – it was disturbing. As if in one moment he had lost his entire personality, replacing it with some polished, ministerial facade.

Without thinking further, she blurted out:

"And don't take them off again. They're absurdly sexy."

The words left her mouth before she could stop them. For a fraction of a second, she couldn't believe she had said that. Malfoy also looked completely surprised – he froze with a quill in his hand, and his eyes widened comically behind the lenses of his glasses.

"I beg your pardon?" he finally asked, his voice a mixture of disbelief and... something else she couldn't identify.

Hermione felt her cheeks growing warm, but she wasn't going to back down. Since she had already said it, she might as well go all the way.

"I said they're absurdly sexy," she repeated, shrugging with feigned nonchalance. "Rita Skeeter was right, for once in her life. So stop acting like you have a stick up your ass, and go back to being the normal, irritating Malfoy. This formal version is unbearable."

For a long moment, he looked at her in silence, and his face went through a whole range of emotions – from shock, through disbelief, to... amusement?

And then, to her great relief, that familiar, irritating half-smile returned to his face. This time wider, more genuine than ever before.

"So you really do think my glasses are sexy, Granger?" he asked, leaning somewhat toward her across the desk. "That's fascinating information. I wonder what other opinions about my appearance you hide behind that disciplined facade."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but couldn't suppress a smile. There he was – her irritating, arrogant, but at least authentic co-worker.

"Don't push your luck, Malfoy," she warned him. "One compliment per decade is all you can hope for."

"One compliment from Hermione Granger?" he replied, tilting his head with the same irritating half-smile. "That's more than most wizards receive in their entire lifetime. I shall cherish it like the most precious treasure."

She snorted with laughter, shaking her head. "Just get back to work. And put on those damn glasses if you need them. I'd rather listen to your irritating comments than watch you struggle with reading."

"Your wish is my command," he replied with a theatrical bow, adjusting his glasses on his nose with that irritating gesture. "And as for those irritating comments... I have a whole bunch of them stored up. Especially about how much you like my appearance in glasses."

"Malfoy..." she began in a warning tone.

"I'm already silent, Granger," he replied, but his eyes still gleamed with amusement. "Already silent."

He returned to work, bending over his documents, occasionally adjusting his glasses with a gesture that now seemed almost theatrical. Hermione observed him for a moment, and suddenly she was struck by a thought – Malfoy would never take off those cursed glasses again. After what she had said, he would wear them for the rest of his life, just to constantly remind her of that one unfortunate compliment that had slipped out.

This vision – Malfoy at eighty years old, still wearing the same glasses and reminiscing about this moment – was both amusing and terrifying. No, she couldn't allow him such a victory. She had to regain the advantage in this strange game they were apparently both playing.

Suddenly an idea came to her mind. She took a clean piece of parchment, dipped her quill in the inkwell, and quickly sketched a message:

"How much did you have to pay Skeeter to write in a public article that your glasses are 'absurdly sexy'? Was that part of the deal for the interview, or an additional fee? I'm wondering if the Prophet's editorial office knows that their star journalist accepts bribes for compliments..."

She folded the parchment into an intricate paper airplane – not without satisfaction recalling how Malfoy had bombarded her with similar ones during their first day working together. With a precise flick of her wand, she sent the airplane toward his desk.

Not waiting for his reaction, she grabbed her bag and several documents that she needed to take to the archives anyway.

"I need to check something in the department library," she said hastily, heading for the door. "I'll be back in an hour."

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed him catching the airplane that had just landed on his documents. She felt her lips forming into a playful smile as she closed the door behind her, imagining his expression when he read her message.

She was already halfway down the corridor when she heard his voice behind her:

"GRANGER!"

She quickened her pace, unable to suppress a wide smile.

Chapter Text

The next few days passed surprisingly peacefully. No new articles in the "Prophet," no whispers behind her back, even Malfoy was behaving... tolerably. True, he was still irritating, still making those theatrical gestures of adjusting his glasses whenever he caught her looking, but at least he was working. Really working. Even Hughes was impressed with his analysis of Mesopotamian runes.

The weekend – a wonderful forty-eight hours without magic, without the Ministry, and above all, without Malfoy – was exactly what she needed. She spent Saturday at the café, experimenting with new recipes, and Sunday reading a book in the park, enjoying the last warm days before the arrival of autumn.

On Monday morning, she felt refreshed and full of energy. No Ministry, no runes, no complications – just her, her café, and her favorite part of the job: creating. That day she decided to prepare mini raspberry cheesecakes – her latest experiment, which turned out so successful that Rose convinced her to add them to the permanent menu.

The sun streamed through the large front windows, casting warm patches of light on the polished floor and glass display cases full of cakes. The air was filled with the scent of freshly ground coffee and vanilla. This was her world – simple, predictable, satisfying.

"Rose, could you hand me the tray of cheesecakes?" Hermione asked, standing behind the counter and adjusting the display in the refrigerated showcase.

The girl handed her a silver tray on which lay perfectly formed mini cheesecakes with raspberry centers.

"They're absolutely beautiful," Rose sighed with admiration. "How do you do it? Mine always turn out either too dry or they collapse."

Hermione smiled, carefully transferring the sweet works of art to the display case.

"The secret is in the consistency of the cheese mixture," she explained, arranging the cheesecakes at perfectly even intervals. "And in the temperature – you need to cool the oven very slowly after baking."

"I tried, but..." Rose broke off as the entrance door opened, letting in a new customer. Her face immediately brightened with a wide smile. "Good morning! You're back!"

Hermione, focused on placing the last cheesecake, froze. That voice Rose had just used to greet the customer – that excited, almost dreamy tone – she had heard it only once before, when that handsome model from the neighboring advertising agency entered the café.

Slowly she turned around, though she didn't need to. She knew perfectly well who was standing at the door.

Draco Malfoy, in all his irritating splendor, entered her café as if it were his own living room. Without a jacket, with rolled-up shirt sleeves, in those cursed glasses of his that Rose had described as "absolutely dazzling" during his first visit.

"Good morning, Rose," he greeted with a polite nod, then shifted his gaze to Hermione. "Granger. Nice to see you outside the office."

"Malfoy," she replied briefly, putting down the spatula. "What are you doing here? Again?"

Before he could answer, Rose jumped out from behind the counter, smiling so widely that Hermione feared her face might crack.

"Should I prepare the same as last time for you? Or perhaps a vanilla latte and a piece of our chocolate cheesecake?" she asked enthusiastically. "Or would you like to try something new? Hermione just added these wonderful mini raspberry cheesecakes to the menu."

Malfoy smiled at Rose with that charming smile she only saw when he was trying to charm someone at the Ministry.

"Well, Rose," he began, leaning casually against the counter and studying the contents of the display case with the intensity of a connoisseur in an art museum. "I'll have a large vanilla latte, Earl Grey tea, two mini raspberry cheesecakes, a piece of that chocolate brownie – the one with nuts, if possible – oh, and those almond croissants look promising, I'll take two. Is that lemon cake as good as it looks? Let's add one piece, for balance."

Rose wrote everything down with enthusiasm, her cheeks taking on an increasingly deep shade of pink. Hermione stood beside her, watching in disbelief as Malfoy ordered half the contents of her display case.

"Is that all?" she asked when he finally finished his enumeration.

"For now, yes," he replied with that irritating half-smile. "But I'm keeping the option open to supplement my order."

It was too much. Hermione had to get him out of there as quickly as possible before he ordered the entire café and convinced Rose to give him the keys to the place.

"I'll handle this," she said, taking the order card. "Can you serve table number four? Mrs. Jenkins is waiting for a tea refill."

Rose looked slightly disappointed but obediently headed toward the elderly customer sitting by the window. Hermione turned to Malfoy, trying to maintain a professional tone.

"Quite an order," she observed, reaching for the largest takeout box. "Shall I pack it all for you? You're probably in a hurry."

This was her subtle attempt to get rid of him – suggesting that the order was to go, that he should return to his important, aristocratic affairs, anywhere else.

He watched as she arranged the pastries in the box, then slowly shook his head.

"Oh, no, thank you," he replied with that irritating calmness, as if he knew exactly what she was trying to do. "I'll eat here. I have exceptionally plenty of time today."

She clenched her teeth, but professionalism won out. Without a word, she transferred the pastries from the box to elegant plates, prepared the coffee and tea, and arranged everything on a tray.

"Here you are," she said, handing him the tray piled high with sweets. "Enjoy."

"Thank you, Granger," he replied, taking the tray with such grace as if he carried weights in expensive suits every day. "Your customer service is as perfect as your baking."

And then, to her absolute astonishment, Malfoy completely ignored her. Without another word, without even a glance, he turned and walked through the entire café, choosing a table in the farthest corner of the place – so far from the counter that she could barely see him through the decorative plants and furniture arrangement.

She stood behind the counter, completely bewildered. Had he just... had he just walked into her café, ordered half the menu, made her employee nearly faint with delight, and then simply ignored her?

"What an... unbelievable..." she muttered under her breath, watching as Malfoy arranged his sweets on the table.

Rose approached her, also observing the distant table.

"He's really charming, isn't he?" she sighed in a dreamy voice. "And those glasses... Oh, and he has such wonderful manners. Last time he left a tip bigger than the order price."

A group of students from a nearby university entered the café, talking loudly and laughing. Hermione gratefully accepted this interruption of the awkward conversation and moved to serve them.

For the next hour, she was too busy to pay attention to Malfoy, sitting in his distant corner. Only when the café emptied somewhat did she allow herself to glance in his direction.

To her astonishment, he was still sitting there. An open notebook lay before him, in which he was meticulously writing something, occasionally adjusting his glasses with that characteristic gesture of his. His plates were almost empty – apparently he had really eaten everything he ordered.

What was he doing? Why had he been sitting in her café for over an hour? And what, in Merlin's name, was he so diligently noting down?

Hermione felt a pang of curiosity but immediately suppressed it. No, she wouldn't give him that satisfaction. If he wanted to sit in her café all day, that was his business.

Despite her resolution, she couldn't help glancing in his direction as she served other customers. She noticed how Malfoy began rummaging in his elegant leather bag, apparently searching for something with intense focus. His hand plunged deeper and deeper, suggesting that the bag might be magically enlarged on the inside.

She discreetly moved toward the espresso machine, trying to get a better view of his table, but he was sitting with his back to her, effectively shielding the contents of his bag with his body.

The vibration of her phone in her apron pocket diverted her attention. She pulled it out discreetly and saw a notification from SoulScript.

SilverHeir: ...so ultimately I had to admit that pumpkin cream can really be better than traditional French bisque. Who would have thought? My culinary convictions lie in ruins.

She smiled involuntarily. Their conversation had been going on for some time – she started it during a short break when Rose took over the counter. Today they were discussing cuisine and favorite restaurants, which was a nice change from everyday worries.

Jean G.: I'm glad you've broadened your culinary horizons! Next time you must try creamy roasted garlic soup – sounds weird but it's absolutely heavenly.

SilverHeir: Noted on my list. And what about you? Are you working today in that mysterious café of yours?

Hermione raised her head from the phone to check if any customers were waiting at the counter. Her gaze automatically wandered to Malfoy's table, and then she saw something that made her freeze with her fingers above the screen.

Malfoy took a laptop out of his bag. A LAPTOP.

Not some wizarding device resembling a computer. Not a magically modified Muggle device. It was a genuine, latest model MacBook, as thin as a sheet of paper, with a shiny, silver apple on the case.

Hermione stared with an open mouth, forgetting about the message she had started. Draco Malfoy was sitting in her café using a Muggle laptop with such ease as if he had been doing it for years.

She watched as he opened the computer, turned it on with one fluid motion, and began typing something at a speed that suggested considerable practice. What's more, he pulled ordinary, Muggle wireless earbuds from his pocket and placed them in his ears, tapping his finger on a phone screen – another Muggle device whose presence she hadn't noticed before.

She felt her world spinning. It was impossible. Absolutely impossible. Malfoy using Muggle technology? And not in a clumsy, experimental way, but with the fluidity of someone who does it every day?

The phone vibrated again in her hand.

SilverHeir: Hello? Did I lose you somewhere between garlic soup and my unexplained fascination with pumpkin cream?

She looked at the screen, then back at Malfoy, who now, with headphones on, bent over his laptop, looked like any other young professional working in a café.

She couldn't leave it like this. Absolutely not. It was too incredible, too absurd to simply go back to work and pretend she didn't see what she was seeing. Draco Malfoy, using Muggle technology with such ease as if he had been born with a smartphone in his hand? This required an explanation.

She made a decision in a split second.

"Rose," she called to her employee, taking off her apron. "You're taking over the counter for five minutes. I'm taking a short break."

Without waiting for a response, she prepared herself a coffee – double espresso, no milk, no sugar – and with determination headed toward Malfoy's table. Each step was deliberate, as if she were walking to a duel.

Malfoy, immersed in work on his laptop, with music in his headphones, didn't notice her until she stood directly at his table. When he looked up and saw her, his reaction was lightning-fast and intriguing – with one fluid motion, he slipped the phone into his pocket, as if afraid she might see its screen.

Pretending she hadn't noticed anything, she pointed to the empty chair at his table.

"May I?" she asked with a forced smile.

He removed one earbud and looked at her with a mixture of surprise and... something that looked almost like panic?

"Granger? What are you doing here?" he asked, then immediately corrected himself. "I mean, I know it's your café, but..."

"I'm taking a break," she replied, sitting down without waiting for his consent. "Five minutes of rest from the counter. I think I deserve it, don't I?"

Malfoy looked around the café, clearly noticing numerous empty tables – at least six or seven, all clean and ready to be occupied.

"And you decided to spend this break... at my table?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. "Despite the fact that practically the entire café is empty?"

She shrugged, taking a sip of coffee.

"This table has the best light," she lied smoothly. "And the most comfortable chairs. After all, it's my café, I know all the best spots."

He looked at her for a moment, as if trying to read her true intentions. Then he slowly closed his laptop, not turning it off, but covering the screen.

"In that case," he said cautiously, "how can I make your break pleasant, Granger? With a fascinating discussion about the weather? Or would you prefer to talk about the rising prices of baking ingredients?"

She took a sip of coffee, pretending to consider her answer, though her gaze involuntarily wandered to the closed laptop lying in front of him.

"Actually," she began in an innocent tone, "I noticed you have quite... interesting equipment."

He looked at her, then placed his hand on the laptop in an almost defensive gesture.

"Ah, this? It's just a... research tool," he replied evasively. "Useful for... cataloging ancient runes."

"Really?" she raised an eyebrow with polite disbelief. "I didn't know MacBooks had special functions for analyzing Mesopotamian symbols. Fascinating."

He coughed slightly, adjusting his glasses.

"Technology has made enormous progress, Granger. Even in fields you have no idea about."

"Of course," she nodded, tilting her head. "And do these advances also include wireless earbuds? Do they also help with studying runes?"

"Earbuds?" he touched one of them, as if he had just remembered he still had it in his ear. "They're... for muting the surroundings. You know, for better concentration."

"I see," she smiled sweetly. "And presumably the phone you so quickly hid when I approached also serves research purposes?"

He visibly tensed, though he tried to mask it with a nonchalant shrug.

"It's standard equipment for a modern rune researcher," he stated with feigned ease. "I thought someone of your intellect would be more... open to innovation."

"Oh, I am extremely open to innovation," Hermione assured him, leaning slightly over the table. "Especially when it comes from someone who, even at Hogwarts, couldn't pronounce the word 'electricity' without grimacing."

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

"People change, Granger."

"Undoubtedly," she agreed. "The question is, how much? Enough to not only use Muggle technology but do it with such proficiency as if it had been part of your daily life for years?"

He looked at her for a longer moment, as if considering how much he could tell her. Finally, he sighed heavily.

"Are you going to let this go if I tell you it's none of your business?"

"Absolutely not," she replied immediately with a broad smile.

"That's what I thought," he muttered, then looked around discreetly, making sure no one was eavesdropping. "Listen, Granger, it's... complicated."

"I have time," she replied, taking another sip of coffee. "This whole break is mine."

He rolled his eyes but gave in.

"Fine, if you must know... I run a business. In the Muggle world."

She raised her eyebrows, not expecting such a direct answer.

"A business? You? In the Muggle world?" she repeated in disbelief. "What kind of business?"

"Consulting," he answered briefly. "For companies dealing with..." he hesitated, then finished with evident discomfort: "...technology."

Hermione snorted with laughter, unable to help herself.

"I'm sorry, but am I hearing this correctly? Draco Malfoy, heir to one of the most pure-blood families in the magical world, runs a consulting firm for Muggle technology companies?"

"Lower your voice!" he hissed, looking around nervously. "This is not information I'd like to share with the entire world."

"But how? When? Why?" questions poured from her like a cascade. "And how, in all magical creatures, did you learn to operate all these devices?"

Malfoy sighed, looking around discreetly, as if afraid someone might be eavesdropping.

"Remember when I mentioned my travels? Those related to research on Mesopotamian runes?"

"Yes..." Hermione nodded slowly, beginning to understand.

"Well, they were partly related to runes. But also..." he rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment, "...I traveled around the world, meeting with Muggle entrepreneurs, investors, programmers. And between meetings about runes and visits to ancient libraries... I attended technology conferences and closed investment meetings."

He was silent for a moment, then added with a note of pride:

"And as for operating devices – I hired a teacher. A Muggle expert who thought I was an eccentric aristocrat raised in complete isolation from technology. Which, let's be honest, wasn't far from the truth."

Suddenly his face changed expression – from confident to increasingly concerned. He leaned over the table, lowering his voice almost to a whisper.

"Granger, listen, this really has to stay between us. Absolutely no one can find out about this. Especially... especially Pansy."

Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"Pansy? But why... oh," understanding appeared on her face.

"If Pansy finds out, the entire magical London will know. And I'll have to listen to it at every social gathering. Every lunch. Every ball. For the next fifty years!"

He ran his hand through his hair, which now stuck out in different directions, giving him a somewhat crazy look.

"'Draco, remember when you were playing Muggle?' 'Draco, maybe you could show us how to use that little computer?' 'Draco, tell Daphne what it was like when you were selling Muggles their own inventions?' I'd have to change my identity and flee to Brazil!"

She couldn't suppress a smile at the sight of his dramatic reaction.

"In that case," she began slowly, "if you're so keen on keeping this a secret... then why, in Merlin's name, did you come to my café with a laptop, phone, and headphones? To a café where I work? Where anyone could see you?"

Malfoy stopped mid-gesture, clearly surprised by this logical question. For a moment, he looked as if he was wondering about the answer himself.

"I... well..." he frowned. "I just wanted to eat something sweet. And work in a pleasant environment. How was I supposed to know you'd suddenly take such an interest in me? Usually, you completely ignore me!"

Hermione raised her eyebrows, and a slow, dangerous smile appeared on her face. She folded her hands in front of her and bowed her head in a parody of a courtly bow.

"Oh, I understand perfectly, Lord Malfoy," she said in an overly sweet tone. "How inappropriate of me to dare disturb Your Excellency's peace while working on Muggle inventions. I beg forgiveness for this unforgivable impertinence."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes.

"Granger..."

"But no, please allow me to finish, Your Highness. I am absolutely delighted that the heir to the Malfoy line, descendant of the noblest pure-blood wizards, has honored my humble, Muggle café with his dignified presence. And with a MacBook Pro! The latest model! What a revolutionary paradigm shift!"

Malfoy looked around nervously, checking if anyone was eavesdropping.

"Granger, for Merlin's sake, stop," he hissed.

"Oh, have I offended the delicate feelings of the Noble Lord?" she put her hand to her heart in a gesture of feigned horror. "Perhaps I should call a house-elf to bring a pillow for Your Lordship's noble feet? Or maybe a blanket of acromantula silk to cover aristocratic shoulders while browsing... what was it called? Ah, yes, Twitter?"

"This isn't funny," he growled, though his cheeks took on a slightly pink shade.

"On the contrary, Most Illustrious Lord," she smiled sweetly. "It's absolutely hilarious. Should I notify the Daily Prophet editorial office? I'm sure Rita Skeeter would be delighted to write an article titled 'Malfoy Fortune Heir Plays Muggle – Exclusive Photos!'"

"You. Wouldn't. Dare." he pronounced each word with emphasis, and his face lost all traces of amusement.

She looked at him, suddenly becoming serious.

"Relax, Malfoy. I'm not going to tell anyone. But you have to admit, it's... an unusual situation."

"Unusual?" he snorted. "It's a potential disaster. If anyone finds out..."

"No one will find out," she assured him, this time without sarcasm. "But maybe next time you come to my café with Muggle equipment, choose a less visible spot? This table is perfectly visible from the street."

Malfoy looked toward the window and grimaced, apparently only now realizing this fact.

"Point taken, Granger," he admitted reluctantly.

She stood up, adjusting her apron.

"I need to get back to work. Rose will start wondering what I'm doing on my 'short break' for so long."

Malfoy nodded, returning to his laptop.

"Of course, Granger. I wouldn't want to interfere with your... proprietorial duties."

She rolled her eyes and returned to the counter, where Rose greeted her with a curious look.

"What was that?" she whispered as soon as Hermione put her apron back on.

"Nothing special," she replied, busying herself with arranging freshly baked pastries in the display case. "Just a conversation with... a work colleague."

Rose looked as if she wanted to pursue the topic, but the bell above the door announced the arrival of new customers. Hermione gratefully attended to a young couple with a child, taking their order and preparing a cappuccino with extra foam for the woman and an espresso for the man. At that moment, she received another message from Dray and completely forgot about Malfoy.

* * *

Thursday afternoon at the Department of Interdimensional Magical Innovations was coming to an end. Most employees had long since left their offices, and the Ministry corridors were emptying with each passing minute. However, light and muffled voices still came from the office at the end of the hall.

Hermione and Malfoy had spent the last four hours on a project that just a few weeks ago neither of them would have thought they'd be working on together. Malfoy's Mesopotamian runes, combined with Hermione's existing research on adapting Muggle technology in the magical world, proved to be the perfect combination.

Just when Hermione was about to suggest finishing the work the next day, Malfoy took a small, black box out of his desk drawer.

"I have something for you," he said, sliding the box toward her with a mixture of pride and uncertainty in his eyes.

Inside was a smartphone – at first glance ordinary, though a new and advanced model. However, when she took it in her hand, she immediately felt the difference. The device emanated a subtle, warm energy, so different from the cold, mechanical presence of ordinary electronics. Delicate symbols were engraved on the case, which she recognized as modified Mesopotamian runes.

It was the first working prototype of their joint project – a phone that was not only resistant to magical interference but actually used magic as its main source of power and data transmission.

Hermione spent the next two hours testing the device with Malfoy. With disbelief, she observed how the phone easily sent messages, even when they were in the deepest, most magic-saturated parts of the Ministry, where normally no electronic equipment had any right to work.

But the most important thing was the stability of the system. Hermione's previous attempts always ended with the need for constant adjustments and recalibration – the magical protective field around the devices required renewal every dozen hours or so. However, Malfoy's runes, with their unique ability to maintain magical flow in a closed circuit, solved this problem.

It was long after midnight when they finally finished the tests. Hermione, excited by the results, proposed something that just a week ago would have seemed absurd – applying the same technology to her private phone. Malfoy initially hesitated, concerned about the security of the experimental technology, but eventually yielded to the force of her arguments.

They worked on her phone for another hour, adapting the runes to the existing device, creating a new, hybrid system that utilized both magical and electronic transmission paths.

On Friday morning, Hermione brought her modified phone to work, safely hidden in the pocket of her robe. Even Hughes didn't know about their breakthrough yet – they wanted to be absolutely sure everything worked correctly before presenting their discovery to the department head.

She sat at her desk, glancing toward Malfoy, who was already in the office, as usual bent over an ancient text about Mesopotamian runes and the phone prototype. She decided to test the phone in practice, telling herself that it was part of the research work.

"I'll be testing our prototype in different parts of the Ministry," she announced, pulling out the phone. "I'll check the signal stability and device heating."

He looked up from his notes and nodded.

"Good idea. Record all anomalies, especially fluctuations in the magical field around the protective runes."

Hermione opened the SoulScript app, feeling slight butterflies in her stomach.

Jean G.: Good morning! I'm testing a new communication technology at work. How are you?

Pretending to focus on documents, she observed Malfoy out of the corner of her eye, who was analyzing some ancient symbols with amazing intensity and comparing them with those on the case. She returned her gaze to the phone, waiting for the message that soon appeared.

SilverHeir: Good morning. Testing new technology sounds fascinating. Does this mean we can talk while you're at work? This opens up interesting possibilities.

Hermione noticed that the phone was heating up slightly – not alarmingly, but enough to note it. She recorded the observation in her research notebook, while feeling her cheeks color at the tone of the message. SilverHeir was starting to flirt again, something he had carefully avoided since that night.

Jean G.: Yes, it's a breakthrough in communication. I no longer have to lean out of the window on the seventh floor to catch a signal.

She glanced at Malfoy, who seemed completely absorbed in studying the ancient text. He had furrowed brows and occasionally jotted something down quickly on the parchment beside him. Typical Malfoy in work mode – intense, focused, almost absent in spirit.

She stared at the phone screen, and it vibrated again.

SilverHeir: I'm glad your invention works. Now we can talk at any time of day... and night. I've been wondering lately if we should finally address the topic of that night. I sometimes think back to it.

Hermione felt her heart quicken. Of course, he hadn't forgotten. She hadn't forgotten either.

The phone heated up again, this time more strongly. She discreetly modified a few runes using her wand, muttering a stabilizing spell. The device immediately cooled down.

"Everything all right?" Malfoy suddenly asked, not even looking up from the prototype.

"Yes," she answered quickly, trying to sound normal. "Just slight heating during data transmission. The stabilizing spell we developed works great."

Malfoy muttered something in response and went back to work, but for a fraction of a second, Hermione had the impression that the corner of his mouth twitched in a slight smile. It must have been her imagination.

Jean G.: I was in a different state of mind then. After a few drinks.

She wrote, trying to diplomatically remind him why it happened. She didn't want to discourage him, but she wasn't ready to admit how often she thought about that experience.

SilverHeir: Alcohol doesn't create desires, Jean. It merely releases those that already exist. Have you never wondered what it would be like to repeat that experience? This time completely consciously?

Hermione swallowed, feeling a sudden dryness in her mouth. She looked around the office, as if seeking rescue from this conversation that was heading in a dangerous direction. Her gaze stopped on Malfoy, who was again absorbed in reading, completely unaware of her inner turmoil. Or maybe aware – why did he suddenly seem to be so carefully avoiding her gaze? Was it so obvious what she was thinking about? No, it must have been her imagination.

Jean G.: Sometimes I wonder. But I'm not sure if it's a good idea.

She finally wrote, trying to be honest but cautious. The truth was that since that night, she had fantasized many times about that whisper, though she barely remembered it. But this was one of those experiences that should remain a one-time indiscretion, right?

Malfoy suddenly stood up from his desk, stretching slightly.

"I'm going for tea," he announced. "Should I bring you something?"

"No, thank you," she replied, feeling an unexplained relief that she would be alone for a moment.

As soon as the door closed behind him, her phone immediately vibrated.

SilverHeir: I understand your caution. But I think about you, Jean. About your voice, about your reactions to my words. About how I imagine your body when you follow my guidance. I would like to hear you again.

Hermione felt a wave of heat that had nothing to do with the phone heating up. Her fingers trembled slightly as she replied.

Jean G.: I'm at work right now. With a colleague. This isn't an appropriate moment for such a conversation.

SilverHeir: And yet you're responding. That makes me wonder what you would do if I sent you a voice message right now. Would you listen to it, sitting at your desk, trying not to show how I affect you?

She put down the phone, feeling her cheeks burning. This was madness. She couldn't have such a conversation at work, especially when Malfoy could return at any moment.

As if on cue, the office door opened and Malfoy entered with two mugs of what looked like lemonade.

"I know you said you didn't want anything," he said, placing one of the mugs on her desk. "But you look like you need to cool down. Is everything all right? You're all red."

"Yes, yes," she replied quickly, avoiding his gaze. "It's just... hot in here. Thank you."

Malfoy smiled slightly and returned to his desk, immersing himself in work on the runes again. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. It was absurd – feeling this way because of messages from a man she had never met, while sitting in an office with her former school enemy, now colleague.

Her curiosity won out. She opened the phone, and the message that appeared on the screen made her feel a sudden rush of heat.

SilverHeir: I wonder what you look like right now. Sitting at your desk, with flushed cheeks, trying to hide that you're reading my messages. I wish I could see you at this moment.

Hermione almost dropped the phone. She quickly put it down on the desk, screen facing down, as if just touching it burned her fingers. She reached for the documents she should be reviewing, but the words flowed before her eyes without meaning. All she could think about was that message and the feeling it evoked.

After a minute of fruitless attempts to focus on work, her gaze wandered back to the phone. She picked it up, staring at the screen with a mixture of anxiety and excitement.

It was complete madness. She was sitting in a Ministry office, working on a breakthrough project, and instead she was considering whether to respond to a stranger's flirtation.

But was he really a stranger? After weeks of conversations, she knew his opinions, his sense of humor, his thoughts on many matters.

She shook her head, trying to chase away these thoughts. She shouldn't even be thinking about this. This was work time, and she was a professional. Besides, did she really want to cross that boundary again? Go beyond the safe zone of a friendly relationship? That night was special, brought on by Firewhisky and a momentary weakness. Repeating it would be a conscious choice that she wasn't sure she was ready for.

On the other hand, the thought that he might whisper to her again, this time so she could remember it exactly?

She was so lost in her contemplations that she completely failed to notice when Malfoy got up from his desk. She didn't hear his footsteps on the carpet. She didn't feel his presence when he stood right behind her.

It was only when he leaned in, resting one hand on her desk and the other on the back of her chair, practically surrounding her with his body, and whispered right by her ear: "Jean," that she realized she wasn't alone.

She jumped with such terror as if he had caught her in the midst of performing a forbidden spell. The phone shot from her hand into the air like a startled snitch. In a panicked reflex, she lunged to catch it, knocking over the mug of lemonade that Malfoy had brought her earlier.

She caught the phone at the last moment, centimeters above the growing puddle that was now spreading across her documents. Her heart was pounding like mad, and only one thought hammered in her head: "He read it. He saw. He knows."

She turned abruptly, still sitting, which made her face dangerously close to his. Their noses were only centimeters apart.

"What?" she gasped, feeling panic constricting her throat. "What are you..."

Instead of answering, he simply pointed to a document lying on her desk – one of the few not drenched by lemonade. It was her own report from yesterday's tests, signed with her full name: Hermione Jean Granger.

"Jean," he repeated, this time in a normal voice, moving away slightly. "I didn't know that was your middle name. Interesting."

"Malfoy," she began, trying to control the tremor in her voice. "Could you, if you please, NEVER sneak up on me like that again? I nearly had a heart attack!"

"I wasn't sneaking," he replied with an innocent expression, though she saw a gleam of amusement in his eyes. "I just came to see what you were working on so intensely. You looked very focused."

He glanced at the phone, which she was still clutching like a most precious treasure, and then at the spilled tea.

"Though I'm not sure if 'work' is the right word," he added with that irritating half-smile of his. "It looked more like deep... contemplation."

"I was testing the phone," she replied quickly, putting the device on the desk, screen down. "I was checking the connection stability."

"Of course," he nodded, though his tone suggested he didn't believe her one bit. "And how are the results of these... tests?"

Without waiting for an answer, he drew his wand and with one fluid motion removed the spilled lemonade, drying the documents.

"The results are... surprising," she replied, trying to regain a professional tone. "The connection is stable, even in places with high magical concentration."

"Fascinating," he murmured, still standing uncomfortably close. "And who were you communicating with during these tests? Someone... interesting?"

"That's none of your business, Malfoy," she replied coolly, regaining her composure.

Despite her seemingly controlled tone, she suddenly felt a wave of heat flooding her entire body. Her skin was burning as if someone had cast a heating spell on her. The combination of SilverHeir's flirtation, Malfoy's unexpected whisper in her ear, and the adrenaline associated with almost being caught – all of this made the temperature in the office seem unbearable.

"It's horribly hot in here," she muttered, standing up abruptly.

She walked to the window, trying to ignore the feeling that Malfoy was watching her every move. She yanked the handle with such force that the old window creaked in protest, but eventually yielded, letting in a gust of cool London air. She took several deep breaths, resting her hands on the windowsill and staring at the city panorama.

"Get a grip," she whispered to herself. "They're just messages. It's just Malfoy. Pull yourself together."

She allowed herself a few moments of this solitude, feeling her pulse slowly returning to normal. When she finally felt she had regained control, she turned to go back to work.

And then she saw him.

Malfoy was sitting in HER chair, at HER desk, with HER phone in his hands. He wasn't reading messages – at least that's what she thought – but was manipulating the device's casing, apparently modifying the runes engraved on its surface.

"What are you doing?!" she exclaimed, approaching with quick steps. "That's my phone! And my chair!"

He didn't even look up, continuing his work with irritating calmness.

"I noticed the device overheats during data transmission," he replied matter-of-factly. "I'm modifying the arrangement of cooling runes. This should solve the problem."

"I don't care what you're doing – get off my chair. Now!" she demanded, standing over him with her hands on her hips.

He finally looked up, and that characteristic, irritating half-smile appeared on his face.

"Your chair? I don't see 'property of Hermione Granger' written anywhere. Or should I be looking for 'property of Jean Granger'?"

"Malfoy," she growled, losing patience. "Get. Off. My. Chair."

"I'll make you say 'please,'" he replied, making himself even more comfortable, which only fueled her irritation.

"In your dreams!"

"You frequently visit them, Granger," he retorted with an innocent expression. "Though usually we're not arguing about furniture."

That was the last straw that tipped the scales. Acting on an impulse she later wouldn't be able to explain, she grabbed the armrests of the chair and yanked, trying to physically pull Malfoy out of the seat.

"Get. Off. My. Chair!" she emphasized each word with another tug.

Instead of yielding, he grabbed her wrists, trying to stop her attacks on his temporary throne. The tussle lasted a few seconds, during which Hermione demonstrated surprising strength – the effect of years of carrying heavy tomes from the library – and Malfoy showed equally impressive stubbornness.

At one point, the chair, which wasn't designed for such acrobatics, wobbled dangerously. Hermione, losing her balance, performed a desperate maneuver to avoid falling. A maneuver that for some inexplicable reason, instead of moving her away from Malfoy, caused her to land straight on his lap.

For a moment, absolute silence reigned in the office. Hermione, with disheveled hair, breathing heavily, was sitting on Draco Malfoy's lap, who looked as surprised as she was.

"Well, well," he finally spoke, regaining his composure faster than she did. "If I'd known you wanted to sit on me so badly, Granger, I would have offered it a long time ago."

"I didn't..." she began, trying to stand up, but his hands, still holding her wrists, effectively prevented her escape. "Let me go, you impossible..."

"Why? This arrangement doesn't bother me," he interrupted with a smile that made her want to strangle him. "It's quite comfortable."

"Malfoy, if you don't let me go immediately, I swear I'll..."

"You'll what? Squirm? Please, don't hold back."

She felt her cheeks burning – with fury, of course, only with fury – and decided to change tactics. Instead of fighting, she relaxed, seemingly accepting her position.

"Fine," she said with false calmness. "Let's sit like this. No problem. I can work from any position."

Before he could react, she performed a maneuver he didn't expect. Still sitting on his lap, she raised her legs and placed them straight on the desk, right in front of his hands, effectively blocking his access to the phone, documents, and everything he might work on.

"Oops," she said sweetly, crossing her legs at the ankles. "Am I in the way?"

Their faces were now dangerously close, which meant she could see every detail of his gray eyes, which gleamed with a mixture of irritation and – was that amusement?

"Granger," he began in a low voice. "If you think this will discourage me..."

He wasn't allowed to finish the sentence because the office door opened without warning, and none other than Harry Potter, dressed in Auror robes, stood in the doorway.

"Hermione, I thought we could..." he began, then broke off, blinking several times, as if not believing his own eyes. "What... What's going on here?"

The scene must have looked absolutely absurd. Hermione Granger, known for her professionalism and composure, was sitting on Draco Malfoy's lap, with her legs stretched out on the desk, hair in disarray and blushes on her face, while he held her wrists in a grip that from this perspective might have looked... intimate.

"Harry!" she exclaimed, trying to stand up, but Malfoy, as if to spite her, still wouldn't let her go. "It's not what you think!"

"I'm not thinking anything," Harry replied quickly, clearly embarrassed. "Absolutely nothing."

"Potter," Malfoy greeted him with irritating calmness, as if the situation were completely normal. "What brings the Chosen One to our humble office? Another dark wizard to defeat?"

"Malfoy, let me go immediately!" she hissed, trying to pull her wrists from his grip.

"But you've just gotten comfortable," he replied innocently. "It would be rude to interrupt such a productive work session."

Harry looked from one to the other, clearly not knowing how to react.

"I just... thought we might have lunch together," he finally said. "But I see you're... busy."

"I AM NOT BUSY!" Hermione shouted, making another desperate attempt to stand up, which this time only resulted in a change of position – now she was facing Malfoy, practically straddling him, which only made the situation worse.

"Hermione," Harry began cautiously, as if speaking to someone mentally unstable. "If you need help..."

"I need help murdering Malfoy and hiding the body," she growled. "Do you have any experience in that field?"

"Unfortunately, we don't have a procedure for such a situation in the Auror Office regulations," Harry replied, and the corners of his mouth twitched suspiciously. "But I can ask Robards if something can be done about it."

"Potter, don't be selfish," Malfoy interjected, still holding her in an iron grip. "Don't you see we're working on a breakthrough project? These runes won't test themselves."

"What runes?" Harry asked, looking at their intertwined hands and strange position.

"MALFOY!" Hermione exclaimed, her patience having just run out. She broke free from his grip, jumped off his lap, and stood in the middle of the office, fixing her clothes and trying to regain at least some dignity.

"I'm sorry for this display, Harry," she said, trying to sound professional, despite her hair sticking out in all directions and her cheeks burning scarlet. "Malfoy stole my chair and refused to give it back, so I was forced to... take drastic measures."

"Drastic is putting it mildly," Potter muttered, but amusement gleamed in his eyes. "Are all your joint projects this intense?"

"Only those requiring deep integration," Malfoy replied, still sitting on the disputed chair, with the expression of a cat that just ate the canary.

She gave him a murderous look.

"Harry, give me a minute. I just need to..." she glanced at her phone, still lying on the desk, with partially modified runes on the casing. "...grab a few things."

She grabbed the phone and her purse, giving Malfoy one last warning look.

"When I return, Malfoy, I expect my chair to be free. And if you did anything to my phone..."

"I just improved it," he replied, raising his hands in a gesture of innocence. "Now it will work even better. You can thank me later."

"The only thing I could thank you for is your absence," she growled, then turned to Harry. "Let's go before I do something I might regret. Or not."

As they left the office, she could have sworn she heard Malfoy's quiet laughter behind her.

Harry walked beside her in silence, for which she was unspeakably grateful. No questions, no comments, no raised eyebrows – just friendly, supportive silence. Such behavior was one of the reasons why Harry remained her best friend for so many years. He knew when to speak and when to simply be there.

It wasn't until they turned into the corridor leading to the elevators that Harry cleared his throat lightly, breaking the silence.

"You know, Hermione," he began in an innocent tone that immediately aroused her suspicions, "he looks quite different in those glasses."

She stumbled slightly but quickly regained her balance.

"What?" she asked, trying to sound indifferent.

"Malfoy," Harry explained, and a dangerous gleam appeared in his eyes. "Those glasses really change his appearance. I heard some people say they're... what was it? Ah, yes – 'absolutely sexy.'"

Hermione stopped abruptly, as if she had hit an invisible wall.

"What did you just say?" she choked out, feeling her cheeks coloring again.

Harry smiled innocently, but amusement lurked in his eyes.

"Oh, nothing special. Just quoting an article from the Daily Prophet. The same one where they write about your alleged engagement. One of the 'anonymous sources' claimed they heard you saying his glasses are 'absolutely sexy.' Of course, that must have been nonsense made up by Rita Skeeter, right?"

Hermione stared at him with a mixture of disbelief and horror.

"Harry James Potter," she began in a dangerously low voice. "Are you actually joking about this horrible situation? About that absurd, completely fabricated article?"

"Me?" Harry put his hand to his chest with an innocent expression. "Never in my life. I just noticed that Malfoy indeed wears glasses, which confirmed at least one element of that article. And I was wondering if perhaps other elements are also... partially true?"

He looked at her meaningfully, and then at the door of the office they had just left.

"Harry," she growled, "if you value your life and our friendship, stop immediately. What you saw was... it meant nothing. Malfoy stole my chair, I tried to get it back, the situation got out of control."

"Of course," he nodded with a gravity that would have been convincing if not for the twitching corners of his mouth. "I completely understand. A fight over a chair. A classic office conflict. Although I must admit, that was one of the more... creative methods of dispute resolution I've seen."

Hermione groaned, covering her face with her hands.

"Please, can we just go to lunch and never return to this topic?" she pleaded.

Harry laughed quietly and put his arm around her in a friendly gesture.

"Of course. But only on one condition."

"What?" she asked suspiciously.

"You have to honestly tell me..." he paused for dramatic effect, "...do you really think those glasses are 'absolutely sexy'?"

If looks could kill, Harry Potter would have fallen dead on the floor of the Ministry of Magic.

Chapter Text

On Saturday night, something happened to Hermione that had become extremely rare – she dreamed about Voldemort.

She woke up abruptly, her heart pounding in her chest and her nightgown stuck to her sweaty body. For a moment, she lay motionless, staring at the ceiling, trying to calm her breathing and remember where she was. Her bedroom. Her apartment. Safe. Voldemort is dead. For many, many years.

With trembling hands, she brushed damp strands of hair from her forehead. It was so strange – through years of therapy, meditation, and hard work on herself, she had managed to process the trauma of war almost completely. She no longer woke up screaming every night, as in the first months after the Battle of Hogwarts. She didn't flinch at the sound of slamming doors or sudden bangs. She no longer carried a wand tied to her forearm, ready for immediate use.

And yet sometimes, at completely random moments, when her life was proceeding at a normal, peaceful rhythm – when there were no special anniversaries, no stressful events, no obvious triggers – Voldemort returned in her dreams. As if some part of her mind wanted to remind her: "Don't forget. This happened. It was real."

Hermione sighed deeply and got out of bed. There was no point in trying to fall asleep again. She knew this state too well – adrenaline circulating in her veins, her mind working at full capacity, analyzing every detail of the nightmare, every face, every scream.

She threw on a robe and walked barefoot to the kitchen. Without turning on the main light, just a small lamp above the kitchen counter, she took out a glass and a bottle of red wine that she kept for such occasions. She poured herself a generous portion, knowing she needed something to help relax her tense muscles and dampen her hyperactive mind.

With glass in hand, she went to the living room and sat in her favorite chair by the window. The moon was almost full, casting silver light on the quiet streets of London. Hermione took a sip of wine, allowing the tart taste to spread across her tongue.

The dream was still vivid in her memory – she was no longer in Malfoy Manor, not at Hogwarts during the final battle, but in some strange, non-existent place that combined elements of both. Voldemort stood before her, but his face constantly changed – sometimes it was his serpentine, pale physiognomy, sometimes Bellatrix's face, then Lucius Malfoy's again... Only the eyes remained the same – red, merciless, penetrating to the soul.

"It's just a dream," she whispered to herself, taking another sip of wine. "Just a dream."

But deep down she knew it wasn't just a dream. It was an echo of the real terror she had experienced. An echo of the pain, fear, and uncertainty that would forever remain part of her history.

She wondered if others had such moments too. Did Harry still dream of Voldemort? Did Ron still wake up sweating, remembering his imprisonment in the Malfoys' cellar? Did Neville still feel the phantom pain of the Cruciatus on his skin?

They rarely talked about it. Everyone had moved on, building new lives, new careers, new relationships. The wizarding world had rebuilt itself, wounds had healed – at least the visible ones. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, the past returned to remind her that some scars never fully fade.

Hermione looked at the clock – it was approaching three in the morning. Too late to write a letter to any of her friends. Too late for anyone who might understand her nightmares without lengthy explanations.

Her gaze fell on the phone lying on the table. The thought came suddenly, almost irrational – to write to Dray. To a man she had never met, whose face she didn't know, but with whom over the past few weeks she had shared more thoughts and emotions than with many long-time acquaintances.

This is absurd. What would I write to him? 'Hey, I had a nightmare about a snake-faced dark wizard who tried to kill all my friends'?

She took another sip of wine, put down the glass, and reached for the phone anyway. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe the need for human contact, or maybe just the intuition that he might understand – whatever it was, her fingers were already typing a message.

Jean G.: Sorry for writing at this hour. I can't sleep. Nightmare. I feel silly bothering you.

Almost immediately after sending it, doubts overtook her. What is she doing? Waking a stranger in the middle of the night because of a dream? But before she had time to properly feel embarrassed, the phone vibrated with a response.

SilverHeir: Don't apologize. I'm not sleeping either. Nightmares are familiar. Do you want to talk about it?

Hermione blinked, surprised by the immediate response. Was he not sleeping either? At this hour?

Jean G.: I didn't think you'd reply. I thought you'd be sleeping like a normal person.

SilverHeir: I never claimed to be normal. So... the nightmare?

She hesitated. How much could she tell him? She couldn't mention Voldemort, the wizarding war, the tortures she had endured. But maybe she didn't need to go into details.

Jean G.: It's hard to explain. I dreamed about a man who once did a lot of evil. To me and my friends. He's gone now, it all happened years ago, but sometimes he comes back in dreams. I feel silly that it still affects me.

She put down the phone and took another sip of wine, wondering if she had said too much. Would he think she was strange? Too burdened with baggage from the past?

SilverHeir: There's nothing silly about it. Traumas don't disappear on command. Sometimes they return when we least expect them. I have such nightmares too.

She felt a sudden surge of warmth. There was something incredibly comforting in knowing that someone else was also struggling with demons from the past.

Jean G.: Really? You also have nightmares about... difficult experiences?

SilverHeir: Yes. About mistakes I made. About people I hurt. About times when I was someone else. Someone I don't like to remember today.

This answer was so honest, so raw in its simplicity, that Hermione felt a pang in her heart. Who was this man? What had he done in the past that still haunted him? Was that why he hid his face?

Jean G.: How do you cope with it? With those memories?

A longer moment passed before he answered. She wondered if perhaps she had gone too far, touching on a topic that was too painful for him.

SilverHeir: I try to fix what I can. To be a better person than I was. To learn from my mistakes. But there are nights like this when the past returns and reminds me of who I was. And then... well, I usually sit alone with a bottle of something stronger.

Jean G.: I'm sitting with a glass of wine right now. I guess we have more in common than I thought.

SilverHeir: It seems so. Though your demons are probably less dark than mine.

Hermione smiled bitterly. If only he knew... If only he could see the scar on her forearm, from Bellatrix's knife. If only he knew about the Horcruxes, about hunting Voldemort, about the friends she lost in the fight.

Jean G.: I wouldn't be so sure about that. But maybe that's what connects us? These invisible scars?

SilverHeir: Maybe that's it. You know, I'm glad you wrote. Really.

She smiled at the phone, feeling the tension slowly leaving her body. It was strange, but she felt safer with him than with many people she had known for years. Maybe because he didn't know her history, didn't have expectations of her, didn't see her as a war heroine or the brightest witch of her generation? Maybe because for him, she was simply Jean – a woman with a nightmare in the middle of the night?

Jean G.: I'm glad too. Thank you for not thinking I'm crazy for writing at three in the morning.

SilverHeir: At three in the morning, we're all a little crazy. But it's a good kind of crazy. The kind that allows us to be honest.

They talked for another hour – about nightmares, about fears, about things that haunted them. Of course, she had to avoid specific details, replace "Voldemort" with "bad man," and the "Battle of Hogwarts" with "difficult event from the past." But despite these omissions, she felt that he understood her. That perhaps he too carried a burden that was difficult to explain to someone who hadn't experienced it.

When the sky began to brighten and the first ray of sunlight came through the window, she felt a sleepiness that had long eluded her. Their conversation, the glass of wine, and the awareness that she wasn't alone with her demons – all of this brought her the solace she needed.

Jean G.: Thank you for this conversation. I think I'll finally start falling asleep. You should rest too.

SilverHeir: I'm glad I could help. And thanks for trusting me. It means more than you think. Goodnight, Jean.

Jean G.: Goodnight, Dray.

She put down the phone and wrapped herself in a blanket, feeling her eyelids becoming heavy. Her last thought before falling asleep was a strange feeling that perhaps Dray understood her nightmares better than she might have expected. As if he himself carried similar demons. As if he too lived with the weight of a past he couldn't change.

On Sunday afternoon, Hermione received a call from Priya, who categorically refused to accept any excuses.

"You need to unwind," she declared in a tone that brooked no opposition. "I'm not accepting 'no' for an answer. There's a new cocktail bar in South Bank, they supposedly make the best martinis in town."

After a sleepless night full of nightmares and an emotional conversation with Dray, Hermione's first instinct was to refuse. But after a moment's consideration, she decided Priya was right – sitting at home and dwelling on the nightmare wasn't a good idea. Maybe she did need an evening full of laughter and a good drink.

"All right," she agreed, surprising even herself. "But no crazy adventures. One, maximum two drinks, and I'm going home."

Priya just laughed, as if she knew perfectly well that Hermione's plans rarely proceeded according to her original intentions.

The bar turned out to be a charming place with a view of the Thames – full of designer lamps, soft armchairs, and an atmosphere that balanced perfectly between elegance and casual comfort. Hermione quickly found that the rumors about exceptional martinis were not exaggerated.

"So," Priya began, after the waiter brought them a second set of drinks, "how are things with the mysterious Dray?"

"Don't start that again."

"What? It's a normal question!" Priya protested. "You talk to this guy every day for weeks. You said he sends you messages that make you blush. And you still insist it's just friendship?"

"It's complicated," she sighed, playing with the olive in her drink.

"Life is complicated," her friend replied. "But sometimes the solution is simple – meet him. What do you have to lose?"

"Everything?" she suggested. "What if it doesn't work? What if he's completely different in person? What if..."

"What if he's exactly as he seems?" she interrupted. "What if this is the beginning of something wonderful? What if you're sitting here, making up excuses, while your happiness is literally waiting for one 'yes'?"

Hermione sighed, knowing that Priya had a point. Especially after last night, after their conversation about nightmares and demons from the past, she felt that Dray understood her in a way she couldn't fully explain.

"Maybe," she admitted reluctantly. "I'll think about it."

Priya raised her glass in a gesture of triumph.

"Just don't think about it for another few years!"

Hermione laughed, feeling the tension of the past few days slowly leaving her. Maybe Priya was right. Maybe it was time to take a risk and meet Dray in the real world.

After a few hours of conversations, laughter, and yet another drink (contrary to her earlier assurances), they decided to walk along the river, enjoying the mild evening air. They turned into a park, where the last rays of the setting sun broke through the tree crowns, creating a mosaic of light and shadow on the paths.

She was just listening to Priya's story about her latest disastrous date when she suddenly noticed a familiar silhouette on a bench across the path. Draco Malfoy, with that characteristic platinum hair, sat hunched in conversation with some man. Something in the stranger's features seemed strangely familiar to Hermione.

She instinctively slowed her pace, hoping Malfoy wouldn't notice them. The last thing she needed after a sleepless night and three drinks was a collision with his ironic remarks and that irritating half-smile.

"...so Max and Olivia are organizing a small party at their place," Priya was saying meanwhile, apparently moving on to a new topic. "Nothing big, maybe fifteen people. I thought we could drop by later, if you feel like it?"

"Mmm, sure," she nodded, only partially listening, while most of her attention was focused on discreetly avoiding Malfoy. "Sounds great."

They had almost managed to pass the bench without drawing attention to themselves when Priya suddenly stopped mid-step.

"Wait," she said, squinting and staring in the direction of the bench. "Isn't that your Malfoy?"

"He's not 'my' Malfoy," she hissed, grabbing her friend by the arm and trying to pull her along. "And yes, it's him, so let's go before he notices us."

Priya looked at her with surprise.

"But you work together! He recently walked you home."

"Quiet!" she looked around nervously, checking if anyone could hear them. "And that's precisely why we should keep going, before—"

It was too late. Priya, apparently completely ignoring her desperate escape attempts, waved enthusiastically toward the bench.

"Hey! Malfoy!" she called, as if they were old friends.

Hermione closed her eyes, wishing the ground would open up beneath her feet. When she opened them, Malfoy was looking straight at her, with an expression as surprised as her own.

"Come on," her friend grabbed her hand and practically pulled her toward the bench, ignoring her whispered protests. "Don't be silly, he's already seen us."

Hermione had no choice but to let herself be dragged toward the bench, where Malfoy was already standing up at the sight of them, and his companion turned to look at them.

"Malfoy! What a surprise to see you here," Priya called with a smile, as if bumping into a pureblood wizard in a Muggle park was the most normal thing in the world.

"Priya, if I remember correctly?" he nodded, with that characteristic half-smile of his. "Granger," he added, shifting his gaze to Hermione. "I didn't expect to meet you here."

Hermione, who was desperately trying to look as if she hadn't been planning an escape at the sight of him, suddenly recognized the other man. As soon as she looked at his face up close, all the elements fell into place.

"Nott?" she asked in disbelief.

Theodore Nott – for it was indeed him – smiled slightly, rising from the bench. He looked completely different than in school days. Instead of a thin, introverted boy, before her stood a confident man with shorter hair than before and the look of someone who had found his place in the world.

"Granger," he greeted her. "Nice to see you again."

"You know each other?" Priya asked, shifting her gaze between them.

"From school," Hermione explained quickly. "Theodore was... in the same year as us."

"Oh! So another wizard!" her friend stated cheerfully, then immediately put her hand to her mouth, realizing what she had just said.

Nott blinked, clearly surprised, and looked questioningly at Malfoy, who just shrugged with an expression saying "don't look at me."

"She knows?" he asked, nodding toward Priya.

"Kind of..." Hermione began, feeling a sudden surge of embarrassment. "I mean... Priya is my closest friend, and... well..."

"Granger loves breaking rules," Malfoy interjected. "The Statute of Secrecy? For her, it's just a suggestion."

"It's not like that!" she protested, giving him a murderous look. "Priya is a lawyer, specializing in minority and discrimination cases. I needed her help working on new regulations concerning house-elf rights, so I had to explain... certain things to her," she lied smoothly.

"And since then she knows about the entire magical world?" Nott asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Not the entire world!" she denied quickly. "Just the... basics."

"Enough to recognize a wizard when she sees one," Malfoy muttered.

"Hey, I'm right here," Priya chimed in, lightly hitting his arm. "And it's not my fault that you wizards always look like you stepped off a movie set. Especially this one," she pointed at Malfoy. "With that hair? Seriously?"

Malfoy looked as if he couldn't decide whether to be offended or amused. Ultimately, he chose the latter.

"My hair is perfectly normal by wizarding standards," he said with feigned superiority. "It's you Muggles who don't appreciate classic elegance."

"If you're done discussing Malfoy's hair," Hermione interjected, desperately trying to change the subject, "perhaps you could explain what you're actually doing in a Muggle park on a Sunday evening?"

"Professional consultation," Nott replied, pointing to a folder lying between them on the bench. "Draco needed help with a certain text, and my library is just around the corner, so we met here."

"Theo is an expert in ancient languages," Malfoy explained, which clearly surprised Hermione.

"Really?" she looked at Nott with new interest. "I didn't know that was your... specialty."

"People change, Granger," he replied with a slight smile. "After the war, we all sought new purpose."

A brief, awkward silence followed, broken by Priya clapping her hands.

"Right! Since we all know each other now, I have a proposal," she said enthusiastically. "Hermione and I are heading to a house party at a friend's place. Nothing big, maybe fifteen people, good music, drinks. Want to join?"

She looked at her friend in disbelief. Had her friend just invited two former Slytherins to a Muggle party?

"I'm sure they have other plans," she said quickly, giving Priya a look that said "what are you doing?"

"Of course we'll come," Malfoy replied at the same moment.

Not giving her a chance for further protests, he unceremoniously took her by the arm and set off with confident steps, as if he knew exactly where he was going. His grip was firm but not painful – strong enough to make it clear that the discussion was over. Too surprised by this sudden takeover of control, she allowed herself to be led, while Nott and Priya followed behind them, exchanging amused glances.

Only after several dozen meters did Priya gently clear her throat and point in the opposite direction, at which Malfoy stopped, frowned, and then with the air of someone who hadn't made a mistake at all, turned on his heel and led them in the right direction. His confidence didn't waver for a moment, despite the obvious navigational failure.

When they arrived at the location – a modern apartment in a stylish building – Hermione felt a surge of anxiety. The party was already underway, music coming from inside, and laughing people chatting in small groups. Priya immediately took on the role of hostess, introducing Malfoy and Nott as "Hermione's friends from her old school" – which technically wasn't a lie, though the term "friends" was stretched to the limits.

Priya introduced them to her acquaintances – a group of young professionals working mainly in law and medicine, whose names Hermione couldn't remember in the flood of impressions. Everything seemed so surreal – Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott, shaking hands with Muggle lawyers and doctors, accepting bottles of beer from the host who was praising some local, craft brewery.

When the initial commotion of greetings passed, all four found themselves on a comfortable couch in the corner of the room, each with a bottle of beer in hand. Priya, after making sure they were relatively comfortably seated, excused herself for a moment and disappeared into the crowd, supposedly to greet someone she had just noticed.

And so Hermione Granger found herself at a Muggle party, sitting between two former Slytherins, with a bottle of craft beer in hand and an absolutely surreal feeling that reality had just undergone some fundamental distortion. Malfoy, sitting so close that she could feel the warmth of his arm, looked around the room with curiosity. Nott, more reserved, studied the label of his beer with such intensity as if it were an ancient runic text.

At that moment, Priya returned, leading a petite blonde who looked slightly younger than them. The girl wore a simple black dress and smiled uncertainly, clearly intimidated by the new faces.

"Look who I found!" Priya called out, shouting over the music. "This is Sophie, she works with me at the law firm. Sophie, these are my friends – Hermione, whom you already know, and Draco and Theodore, friends from Hermione's school."

"Hello everyone," Sophie greeted, taking the space that Malfoy made for her. "Nice to meet you."

For the first few minutes, the conversation was awkward and forced. Malfoy responded monosyllabically, Nott tried to pretend he was perfectly familiar with Muggle topics, and Hermione sat stiffly, observing this bizarre situation with a mixture of amusement and horror.

"So... where exactly did you go to school?" Sophie finally asked, trying to break the ice.

"A boarding school in Scotland," Malfoy answered quickly, before she could come up with a credible excuse. "Very... traditional."

"Oh, something like Eton?" Sophie looked interested.

"Yes, only much older and more... eclectic," Hermione interjected, giving Malfoy a warning look.

"Fascinating," Sophie murmured, clearly losing interest in the topic. "And what do you do now?"

"Draco and I work on a research project concerning ancient languages and their application in modern communication," Hermione answered, before either of the men could come up with something absurd.

"Sounds... intellectual," the girl smiled, moving a bit closer to Malfoy. "And you, Theodore? Are you a researcher too?"

"Theo is an expert in dead languages," Priya interjected, before Nott could answer. "He was just telling me about Sumerian texts he was translating. Absolutely fascinating."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, because Nott certainly hadn't had time to say anything on the subject yet, but Priya was already continuing:

"Could you tell me more about that ritual you found in those texts? The one related to... what was it?"

"The lunar cycle and its influence on protective spells?" Nott suggested, clearly surprised by her interest, but also seemingly pleased.

"Exactly!" Priya moved closer, completely ignoring the rest of the company. "That sounds fascinating. I've always been interested in those ancient practices."

While Priya and Nott delved into a conversation about ancient rituals (with Nott carefully avoiding too many magical details), Sophie focused all her attention on Malfoy.

"And you, Draco? That's quite an unusual name," she said, tilting her head. "Does it have any special meaning?"

"It's a constellation," he replied, taking a sip of beer. "My family has... a tradition of naming children after stars and constellations."

"How romantic," Sophie sighed, moving even closer. "I've always liked looking at the stars. Perhaps someday you could show me which one exactly is yours?"

"I'm afraid Draco isn't a single star," Hermione interjected, unable to help herself. "It's an entire constellation. The Dragon."

Sophie gave her a brief, cold look, then focused on Malfoy again.

"Dragon? That fits," she said with a smile, brushing her fingers against his forearm. "There's something... dangerous about you."

"I assure you, my dangerous days are behind me," he replied with a smile that suggested quite the opposite.

"That's a shame," the girl pouted slightly. "I've always had a weakness for bad boys."

"In that case, you should talk to Nott," he interjected, pointing to his friend. "He was definitely more mysterious than me at school."

But Sophie seemed completely uninterested in Nott, who was now gesturing vividly, explaining something to Priya.

"I prefer blonds," she replied, smiling significantly. "Especially those with a mysterious past and an intellectual approach. Those glasses are really... sexy."

Hermione choked on her beer, which elicited an amused look from Malfoy.

"Everything all right, Granger?" he asked, ignoring Sophie for a moment.

"Great," she choked out, wiping her mouth. "It just... went down the wrong way."

Suddenly, the space beside Hermione filled up as an unfamiliar man in a flannel shirt heavily sat down on the couch, pushing himself between her and the armrest. He had light stubble and tousled hair, and in his hand, he held a bottle of beer.

"Priya!" he called out, completely ignoring the fact that he had nearly crushed Hermione. "I think I'm definitely too sober for that crowd."

He nodded his head toward the other end of the apartment, where a group of people were sitting in a circle on the floor. In the middle lay an empty wine bottle, and currently a couple – a tall man in glasses and a redheaded girl – were kissing with such engagement as if they were alone in the room.

"Josh!" Priya smiled broadly. "I thought you weren't coming. Meet my friends – Hermione, Draco, and Theodore."

Josh nodded to them, then focused again on the spectacle on the other side of the room.

"Max and Amber probably don't need spin the bottle as an excuse anymore," he commented as the couple finally separated, eliciting applause and whistles from the other participants.

"Spin the bottle?" Nott asked, frowning. "What kind of..."

"Oh, it's a party classic," Priya quickly interrupted, giving him a warning look. "You really didn't play this at school? You spin the bottle, and then kiss the person it points to."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, and that characteristic, irritating half-smile appeared on his face.

"Fascinating," he murmured, glancing at Hermione, who felt a sudden rush of heat to her face.

"Hey, that's a great idea!" Josh clapped his hands, completely unaware of the tension that had suddenly appeared in their group. "We should play too!"

"Absolutely not," Hermione said firmly, simultaneously with Priya, who called out: "Of course we should!"

They looked at each other.

"It's just innocent fun," Priya added, though in her eyes lurked a gleam that had nothing to do with innocence. "What, are you afraid?"

"I'm not afraid," she denied automatically, though her stomach did an unpleasant flip at the thought of the potential consequences of such a game. "I just think it's childish."

"Maybe we could modify the rules?" Sophie suggested, perching on the armrest of the couch. "Since most of us barely know each other, kissing might be a bit... awkward. What do you say to dares instead of kisses?"

Hermione looked at her with evident gratitude in her eyes.

"That's a great idea," she said quickly, grasping at this proposal like a drowning person at a razor. "Much more... appropriate."

"Dares?" Josh repeated, clearly considering this option. "Like in 'truth or dare,' but without the truth part?"

"Exactly," the girl nodded. "You spin the bottle, and the person it points to must perform the dare you give them."

"Well," Malfoy sighed theatrically, though amusement gleamed in his eyes. "I must admit I'm somewhat disappointed at losing the chance to kiss..." he paused, looking around the company, "...any of you. But dares can be equally interesting."

"Definitely more interesting," Nott agreed, to Hermione's surprise. The quiet, introverted Theodore Nott she remembered from Hogwarts never seemed the type of person who would enjoy party games. "I've always been fascinated by Mugg... I mean, ordinary social games."

"Then it's settled!" Priya clapped her hands. "Spin the bottle, dares version. Josh, we still need that bottle."

As Josh went to look for an empty bottle, Sophie took a seat next to Malfoy, offering him a sip of her beer. Priya moved closer to Nott, apparently continuing her strategy of cornering him, and Hermione felt both relief and a strange twinge of... what? Disappointment? No, that would be absurd. She certainly wasn't disappointed about missing the opportunity to kiss anyone present, especially not Malfoy.

"Thanks," she whispered to Sophie when Josh returned with an empty wine bottle.

"No problem," the blonde replied with a smile. "I saw you were tense. Besides," she added more quietly, glancing at Malfoy, "I prefer to get to know him a little better before any... physical interactions."

Hermione felt a strange cramp in her stomach at these words, but attributed it to the late hour and too much beer.

"Who starts?" Josh asked, placing the bottle in the center of the small coffee table around which they had all gathered.

"As the hostess of this chaos, I volunteer," Priya announced, leaning forward to spin the bottle.

Everyone held their breath, watching as the bottle spun, gradually slowing down, until finally it stopped, pointing directly at...

Draco Malfoy.

Priya let out a triumphant cry, clapping her hands. She was already visibly tipsy, as evidenced by her shining eyes and slightly too loud laughter.

"Yes! Draco, my new favorite... friend of Hermione's!" she called out. "I have the perfect dare for you."

Malfoy, who himself already had a slightly foggy gaze after several beers, raised an eyebrow and smiled with carefree confidence.

"Bring it on," he said, spreading his arms. "I'm ready for anything."

Priya tilted her head, pretending to be deep in thought, though her sly smile revealed she already knew what challenge she would give Malfoy.

"Alright," she finally said. "Your dare is... to dance to the next song. But not just any way! You must show us your most... aristocratic dance."

"Aristocratic dance?" he repeated, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

"You know," Priya waved her hand, spilling some beer in the process, "something very... dignified. Like from those old movies. With bows and all that."

Sophie giggled, moving closer.

"And you need a partner!" she added enthusiastically. "Every aristocrat needs a dance partner."

"In that case," Malfoy stood up, slightly less stable than usual, and extended his hand toward Hermione, "may I have this dance?"

She felt her cheeks growing hot, and not just from the alcohol.

"Absolutely not," she protested, though her voice sounded less firm than she had intended.

"Come on, Hermione!" Josh laughed loudly. "It's part of the game! You can't back out!"

Hermione sighed deeply, knowing she wouldn't win this battle. With reluctant resignation, she gave her hand to Malfoy, who immediately pulled her to her feet.

"Don't step on my toes," she muttered as he led her to a small area between the sofas that could serve as an improvised dance floor.

"Never," he replied with surprising seriousness. "I'm an excellent dancer."

Josh turned on music on his phone - fortunately it wasn't a modern club song, but something more classical, with a distinct rhythm that could actually suit a formal dance.

Malfoy bowed with exaggerated elegance, almost losing his balance in the process, which elicited laughter from their observing friends. Hermione curtsied in response, also somewhat unsteadily, feeling absolutely absurd.

And then he put his arm around her waist, took her hand, and began leading her in something resembling a waltz, though in a much less formal version. To her surprise, he really could dance - even under the influence of alcohol, his movements were fluid and confident.

"Where did you learn to waltz?" she asked quietly as he turned her in an elegant figure.

"Pureblood upbringing," he replied with a crooked smile. "Dance lessons from the age of five. Mother insisted."

"That's... surprising," she admitted, trying to keep up with his steps.

"Surprising that I can dance?"

"Surprising that you're good at it," she answered, unable to suppress a smile.

When the song ended, he finished the dance with a spectacular turn and a deep bow, holding Hermione so she wouldn't lose her balance. Their faces were dangerously close, and she could smell his cologne - something citrusy with a note of sandalwood.

"Thank you for the dance, Granger," he said quietly, with a smile that seemed almost... genuine.

"You're welcome, Malfoy," she replied, quickly moving away because suddenly she felt very hot.

They returned to their seats amid applause and playful comments.

"Now it's your turn, Draco," Sophie reminded him, pointing to the bottle. "Spin."

Malfoy, with that irritating half-smile of his, quickly leaned forward and spun the bottle with such force that it danced across the table like crazy. Everyone watched with tension as it gradually slowed down, until finally it stopped, pointing straight at Nott.

Sophie couldn't hide her disappointment – her shoulders dropped, and her lips formed a barely noticeable grimace.

"Theo, my old friend," he smiled broadly, clearly pleased with the bottle's choice. "I have an absolutely fascinating dare for you."

Nott, who was already visibly tipsy, raised an eyebrow in anticipation.

"Your dare is," he made a dramatic pause, "to bring us all another round of beer."

"Seriously?" Nott looked at him in disbelief. "Of all the creative dares you could have come up with, you're making me be a waiter?"

"It's a very important task," Malfoy replied with feigned gravity. "It requires dexterity, strength, and... uh... good taste."

Nott sighed theatrically, rising unsteadily from the couch.

"And I was hoping for a kiss," he muttered, heading toward the kitchen. "Completely wasted evening."

Priya giggled, and Sophie looked as if she was considering following him to "help," but ultimately stayed in place.

Nott returned after a few minutes, carrying six bottles of beer in front of him, skillfully holding them between his fingers.

"Voilà," he said, distributing the beers. "Challenge completed. And I didn't spill anything, which in my current state deserves extra points."

When everyone had received their drinks, Nott took his place again and reached for the bottle.

"My turn," he announced, spinning it energetically.

The bottle spun for a longer moment, finally stopping to point straight at Hermione. Her eyes widened slightly as she realized that now she would have to perform a dare.

Nott narrowed his eyes, clearly thinking of something appropriately... interesting.

"Granger," he finally began, "your dare is... to recite the alphabet backwards."

"That's it?" she asked in disbelief, almost disappointed by the simplicity of the task.

"Oh come on, people," Priya groaned, rolling her eyes. "You absolutely don't know how to have fun. The alphabet? Seriously, Theo? You could have come up with something much more... exciting."

Nott looked at her, and an unexpectedly sly smile appeared on his face.

"You're right," he agreed, and a dangerous gleam appeared in his eyes. "In that case, I'm changing the dare. You must sit on the lap of the person to your right and stay there until the end of the game."

Hermione automatically looked to the right – where Josh was sitting, who at the sound of this dare raised his eyebrows in surprise, and then smiled broadly.

"I'm waiting," he said, patting his knees in an inviting gesture.

She felt her face burning. Her mind was working at full speed, searching for some excuse, a way to get out of this situation without complete humiliation.

"I..." she began, but didn't get to finish.

Suddenly Malfoy stood up with a grace that was surprising for someone who had drunk so much beer, and in one fluid motion pushed himself between her and Josh, practically shoving him to the edge of the couch.

"What are you doing?" she asked, blinking in surprise.

"Saving you from having to sit on the lap of a complete stranger," he replied, leaning so close that she could smell his cologne. "Now I'm the one on your right."

"Hey, that's cheating," Josh protested.

"It's not cheating, it's a strategic position change," Malfoy replied with a smile that suggested he was very pleased with himself. "The rules mentioned the person on your right. They didn't specify that this person couldn't change. So? The dare still stands, Granger."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but had to admit she preferred sitting on Malfoy's lap than Josh's, whom she barely knew. With a sigh of resignation – and with the help of a considerable amount of alcohol circulating in her veins – she moved and awkwardly sat on Malfoy's lap.

"Happy?" she muttered, trying to ignore the strange feeling in her stomach as his arm wrapped around her waist to stabilize her.

"Extremely," he replied with a smile that she couldn't see, but could perfectly hear in his voice. "Now it's your turn to spin the bottle."

She leaned forward, trying to ignore the fact that she was practically cuddled up to Malfoy, and spun the bottle, wondering how, in all magical creatures, her Sunday evening had turned into... this.

For the next several minutes, they continued the game, but enthusiasm gradually waned with each subsequent dare. Josh began telling some anecdote from work, Priya engaged in an animated discussion with Nott about the differences between the British and Indian legal systems, and Sophie occasionally glanced with interest at Malfoy, though she had clearly lost her initial enthusiasm for flirting. The bottle game was forgotten, giving way to the tangled conversations of people connected mainly by alcohol and a chance meeting.

Hermione, still obediently sitting on Malfoy's lap, felt a familiar discomfort. She had never been fond of such parties – too many people, too little structure, too many unpredictable social interactions. At Hogwarts, she was always the one who slipped away early to the dormitory with a book while others partied in the common room. Now, as an adult woman, she hadn't changed much.

Trying to find a more comfortable position, she moved slightly on Malfoy's lap. And then she felt it – something hard pressing into her backside. She immediately froze, her body tensing like a string, and her face burning with a blush. Oh Merlin. What now? Stand up? Pretend she hadn't noticed? All options seemed equally embarrassing.

Malfoy must have sensed her sudden stiffening, because he leaned in and whispered in her ear:

"Relax, Granger, it's just a phone. Don't flatter yourself."

She tried to focus on Priya and Nott's conversation, but now she was too aware of Malfoy's every movement beneath her. The way his chest rose and fell with each breath. The warmth of his body penetrating through the material of her dress. The scent of his cologne – citrusy with a note of something sharper, more herbal.

Suddenly she felt his face definitely too close to her neck – his nose almost grazing the spot just below her ear. The shiver that ran through her body was so intense she almost jumped.

"What are you doing?" she asked in a whisper, turning her head slightly to look at him.

His eyes, gray and unreadable behind his glasses, met her gaze. He was so close that she could see small, lighter spots in his irises.

"I have no idea," he replied quietly, and in his voice was a note of sincerity that surprised her. "I absolutely have no idea what I'm doing."

Something about the way he said it – as if he himself was surprised by his behavior – made her heart beat faster. For a moment they looked at each other in silence, trapped in a strange, tense bubble that neither of them could – or perhaps didn't want to – break.

Only Josh's loud laughter pulled them out of their trance. Hermione turned her head, feeling her cheeks burning. Malfoy gently moved away, though his arm still rested loosely around her waist.

"I think I've had too much to drink," he finally said, and his voice sounded strangely hoarse. "Muggle beer is... stronger than I expected."

"Yes," she agreed quickly, grasping at this excuse like a drowning person at a straw. "That must be it. The alcohol."

She jumped to her feet, almost stumbling in her haste. She felt a sudden, desperate need to get out of this situation, out of this apartment full of people, out of this strange, electric atmosphere between her and Malfoy.

"I think it's time to go home," she stated firmly, trying to hide the trembling in her voice. "I have to go to work tomorrow."

Malfoy also stood up, adjusting his glasses, which had slid down a bit on his nose.

"Indeed, it's getting late," he agreed. "I should be going too."

"I'm staying," Nott stated, not even trying to move from his spot.

Only now did Hermione notice how close he and Priya were sitting – her friend was practically snuggling into his side, and his arm rested on the back of the couch right behind her shoulders. Priya's face bore that characteristic, blissful smile that Hermione knew perfectly well – the same one that always appeared when her friend met someone who really interested her.

"But we just started having fun," Sophie protested, standing up and placing her hand on Malfoy's shoulder. "Stay a little longer. We could open the bottle of wine I brought..."

"We can't," he replied, deftly slipping away from her touch and standing next to Hermione. To her surprise, he put his arm around her waist in a gesture that seemed surprisingly... protective. "I promised Hermione I'd walk her home. I know her well enough to know that without this, she'll be unbearable at work tomorrow."

"I'm not at all..."

Malfoy squeezed her hip so hard that she almost squeaked in surprise. She looked at him reproachfully, but in his eyes she saw something – some danger, a warning – that made her fall silent.

"Of course," he finished for her, smiling with that irritating half-smile. "Of course you want to leave now. You're tired, and it's been... an intense evening."

Priya giggled, as if she had just heard something extremely funny, and exchanged a look with Nott that spoke more than a thousand words.

"Yes, exactly," she agreed, still feeling the warmth of Malfoy's hand on her hip. "An intense evening. We'll talk tomorrow, Priya."

"Of course," her friend waved, not taking her eyes off Nott for even a moment. "I'll text you tomorrow. Or the day after. Anyway, sometime."

The goodbyes were quick and awkward – mainly because Sophie was still trying to convince Malfoy to stay, and Josh was already too drunk to participate sensibly in the conversation. Eventually, however, they managed to get out of the apartment and found themselves in the hallway, where Hermione immediately freed herself from Malfoy's grip.

"What was that?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, leading her toward the elevator.

"I had no intention of staying there a minute longer," he replied, pressing the button. "That blonde was definitely too desperate. And definitely too young."

"Too young?" she raised an eyebrow. "She didn't look much younger than us."

"Mentally," he specified, leaning against the wall as they waited for the elevator. "The way she behaved... it was like fifth year at Hogwarts. And I have definitely outgrown teenagers trying to prove something to their friends."

The elevator arrived with a soft chime, and they both entered. Malfoy pressed the ground floor button.

"Besides," he continued as the doors closed, "I needed an excuse to get out of there, and you looked like you desperately needed the same. Two owls, one spell."

Hermione couldn't deny that. She did want to get out of there, especially after that strange moment on the couch.

The elevator stopped on the ground floor, and they stepped outside. The cool night air was a blessing after the stuffy apartment full of people. Hermione took a deep breath, feeling the alcoholic fog in her head somewhat dispersing.

"So," Malfoy looked at her from the side, "which way?"

"To the left," she answered, pointing to the street.

They walked in silence, their footsteps echoing in the empty night street. Street lamps cast soft, orange light on the sidewalk, creating long shadows. The air was cool but not cold – perfect for an evening walk after a few beers.

"You look exhausted," Malfoy observed after a few minutes. "And I'm not just talking about this absurd party."

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temple.

"I haven't been sleeping well," she admitted reluctantly. "Nightmares. Stupid, really, but..."

"Nightmares?" he repeated, glancing at her with interest. "About what?"

She stopped for a moment, looking at him suspiciously.

"Do you really think I want to talk about that? With you?"

Something flashed across his face – offense, perhaps disappointment – but was quickly replaced by a familiar, ironic smile.

"Ah, I see," he said, moving forward again. "We can work together, we can drink together, we can dance together at a Muggle party, but a real conversation is too much for the great Hermione Granger."

"That's not it," she protested, speeding up to catch up with him. "It's just... it's personal."

"And I'm someone you would never entrust with anything personal," he finished for her. "Thank you for the clarification, I now understand our... parameters."

"Parameters?" she repeated in disbelief. "What are you talking about?"

"About the boundaries of our relationship, Granger," he replied coldly. "Apparently I can be a colleague, I can even be someone you'll have a beer with, but a friend? Someone you trust? Never."

"Come on, Malfoy," she snorted. "You can't expect me to suddenly start confiding in you about my nightmares just because we spent one evening without arguing."

He stopped abruptly, turning toward her. His eyes flashed with anger behind his glasses.

"I don't expect us to suddenly become best friends," he said quietly. "But I thought that maybe, after everything we've been through – after the war, after we've both been trying to rebuild our lives – we could at least try to... I don't know, start over?"

She stared at him in silence, surprised by the sudden sincerity in his voice.

"Start over," she finally repeated. "After seven years of silence, after you disappeared without a word, after everything that came before... you think it's that simple?"

"I didn't say it was simple," he replied. "I said we could try."

They stood facing each other, two steps apart, the tension between them as thick as fog.

"Start over?" she repeated, her voice suddenly becoming sharper. "I don't recall you ever apologizing."

"For what exactly?" he asked, though something in his eyes suggested he knew perfectly well.

"For calling me a mudblood for years," she said quietly, but with a force that made him step back slightly. "For watching as your aunt..." her voice broke, and her hand involuntarily moved to her forearm, where under the sleeve of her blouse lay a scar that could never be completely removed.

Malfoy turned pale, his face becoming almost as white as his hair in the lamplight. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His eyes, gray and suddenly full of pain, stared at the spot she was touching.

"Do you think we can just pretend none of it happened?" she continued, her voice now trembling with emotions she had tried to hold back for years. "That one evening of drinking beer and joking erases years of... all that?"

"Granger, I..." he began, but trailed off, as if words had failed him.

For a moment he looked so fragile, so human, that she almost felt pity. But then the memories returned - his laughter when he called her that word, his fearful but inactive face at Malfoy Manor as she screamed in pain.

"I can't," she said finally, shaking her head. "I can't just forget."

"I'm not asking you to forget," he replied quietly. "I'm asking... I'm asking you to give me a chance to show that I'm a different person."

She stood for a moment in silence, looking at him, at the man who both was and wasn't the boy she once knew.

"Maybe someday," she said at last. "But not today. I'm not ready yet."

She turned and walked away, leaving him alone in the shadow of a street lamp. This time he didn't call after her, didn't try to stop her. Maybe he understood that some wounds need more time to heal. Maybe he realized that some words can't be taken back with a simple "I'm sorry."

Or maybe he simply didn't know what to say to a woman whose suffering was partly his fault.

Chapter Text

Thursday at the Ministry was exceptionally tense. Hermione and Malfoy sat in their shared office, each immersed in their own work, pretending the other person didn't exist. The silence between them was so thick you could cut it with a knife – interrupted only by the rustle of turning pages, the scratching of quills on parchment, and occasional sighs.

After two hours of this unbearable silence, Malfoy finally put down his quill and cleared his throat.

"Granger, listen," he began, his voice sounding unusually uncertain for someone who always emanated arrogant self-confidence. "About Sunday..."

"There's nothing to talk about," she interrupted him quickly, not even looking up from her documents. "I was drunk, I'm sorry I got upset. It was a long time ago, everything is fine."

Her tone suggested exactly the opposite – everything was definitely not fine. The words were stiff, spoken with the forced politeness of someone desperately wanting to end an uncomfortable conversation.

"But..." he tried again.

"Really, Malfoy," she interrupted him again, this time glancing at him for a brief moment. "I have a lot of work."

They returned to silence, even more awkward than before. Malfoy opened his mouth several times as if wanting to say something, but each time he gave up, seeing how intensely she pretended to be absorbed in her work.

When the clock announced the end of the workday, she almost jumped out of her chair. She arranged the documents into a neat pile, threw a few things into her bag, and headed for the door without a word of goodbye.

"Granger, wait," Malfoy stood up, knocking over an inkwell in the process, which he completely ignored despite the ink spilling over his documents.

But she was already in the corridor, walking quickly toward the elevators. She didn't look back, pretending not to hear his footsteps behind her.

When the elevator arrived, she jumped inside, pressing the atrium button and praying for the doors to close before he could join her. But of course, fate was never on her side.

Malfoy slipped into the elevator at the last moment, looking as breathless as he was determined. They were alone, trapped in a small space that suddenly seemed even smaller.

"I'm sorry," he said before she could protest. One word, spoken with such sincerity that it momentarily left her speechless.

"What?" she asked stupidly, not sure if she had heard correctly.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, looking her straight in the eye. "For everything. For calling you... that word. For every time I made you feel inferior because of your heritage. For standing and watching as my aunt..." he swallowed hard, "...tortured you. For being a coward. For not apologizing sooner."

She stood petrified, unable to look away from his face, which showed such genuine remorse that it almost hurt to look at.

"I don't expect forgiveness," he continued quietly. "I don't deserve it. But I want you to know that there isn't a day when I don't regret who I was and what I did. Or rather, what I didn't do when I should have. I was a terrible person, Granger. A spoiled, frightened kid who thought his name and blood status made him better than others. And there's no excuse for my actions. But I swear to you that every day I try to be a better person. Someone who could... if not fix the past, at least not repeat the same mistakes."

For a long moment, she didn't respond, just looked at him.

"I don't know what to say," she finally admitted.

"You don't have to say anything," he replied, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a pale smile. "I just wanted you to know."

Hermione also smiled, shyly and uncertainly, as if her face had forgotten how to do it in his presence. This small gesture – so simple, yet so meaningful – seemed to break some of the tension between them.

The elevator began to slow down, approaching the atrium level. Malfoy looked at her with a mischievous gleam in his eye, which completely didn't match the seriousness of their earlier conversation.

"If you want," he said suddenly, "I can kneel."

"Absolutely not!" she exclaimed, grabbing his arm with such force that he almost staggered. "Don't even think about it, Malfoy! Don't you dare!"

"What's wrong, Granger? Don't want another article in the Prophet? 'Ministry Lovers: Pregnancy or Secret Wedding on the Way?'"

"That's not funny," she hissed, looking nervously around as if Rita Skeeter might be lurking behind every column in the atrium. "Do you know how many letters I've received since that article came out? Molly Weasley sent me recipes for strengthening potions for pregnant women!"

Malfoy snorted with laughter, and then, to her horror, began slowly bending his knee.

"Malfoy!" she screamed, grabbing him by the shoulders and forcibly keeping him upright. "Stop! Immediately!"

The elevator doors opened, and several Ministry employees stopped to observe them with curiosity. Hermione realized how this must have looked – her, clutching Malfoy's shoulders tightly, with terror painted on her face, and him, smiling with the satisfaction of a man who had just gotten his way.

"Is everything all right, Miss Granger?" asked an elderly wizard from the Department of Magical Transportation, examining them over his glasses.

"Yes!" she answered too quickly and too loudly. "Malfoy just... had dizzy spells! Yes, dizzy spells. I had to hold him so he wouldn't fall."

"Dizzy spells," he repeated with feigned gravity, although his eyes still gleamed with amusement. "Exactly. It's because of... enchantment. I'm completely enchanted."

She kicked him discreetly in the ankle, which only made his smile widen.

"Well, take care of yourselves," said the wizard, walking away, though not without giving them another suspicious look.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Hermione released Malfoy's shoulders and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Pleased with yourself?" she hissed, though the corners of her mouth twitched suspiciously.

"Very," he replied with satisfaction. "Your face was priceless. Almost as good as when I actually knelt."

"That wasn't funny."

"It was absolutely hilarious," he disagreed. "Especially the part where the Minister asked me if we were planning to hold an engagement party at the Ministry because 'it would be a wonderful symbol of unity after the war.'"

She covered her face with her hands, letting out a groan.

"Please tell me you're joking."

"I wish," he replied, shaking his head. "He stopped me on Monday. I told him we would have to discuss it with my parents. My father still has problems accepting Muggle wedding traditions."

"You... you..." she couldn't find strong enough words, so instead she waved her hand in a gesture of helpless frustration.

"Calm down, Granger," he laughed, leading her toward the fireplaces. "If it comforts you, my mother also sent me an owl. She asked if I really intended to deny her the privilege of organizing her only son's engagement."

They reached the fireplaces, where Hermione stopped, still shaking her head in disbelief.

"You're impossible."

"It's part of my charm," he replied, giving a slight bow that elicited an involuntary smile from her. "Until tomorrow, Granger. And I promise I won't kneel before you in public. Unless you ask very, very nicely."

Before she could respond, he jumped into the fireplace and disappeared in a swirl of green flames.

Chapter Text

In the following week, their work finally bore fruit. The prototype of the magical phone, combining Mesopotamian runes with modern magic, worked perfectly – stable connection, one hundred percent signal, no overheating. Hermione and Malfoy spent three consecutive nights at the Ministry, refining every detail, every rune, and every protective spell before deciding to present the device to Hughes.

They were now sitting in the conference room of the Department of Interdimensional Magical Innovations, watching their superior examine two identical, black, rectangular objects, resembling Muggle smartphones, though made of a material that more closely resembled polished obsidian than plastic or metal.

"I must admit," Hughes finally said, putting one of the prototypes down on the table, "this is really good work. Exceptionally good, considering how short a time you've been working on it."

Hermione couldn't suppress a wide smile.

"Complete connection stability?" asked Jenkins, one of Hughes's assistants, leaning over the table to get a better look at the devices. He was a tall, thin man with glasses so thick that his eyes appeared twice their actual size.

"We tested them from different points in the Ministry," Hermione replied. "Even from the level of the Department of Mysteries. Zero disruptions, zero magical interference."

"Impressive, Mione," interjected Caldwell, the second assistant, leaning nonchalantly against the wall. He was the complete opposite of Jenkins – short, stocky, with a bushy red beard and a constant, overly familiar smile. "I always knew you were brilliant, but this exceeds all expectations."

Malfoy straightened in his chair, and his expression immediately hardened.

"Granger," he said with emphasis, as if correcting Caldwell, "applied an exceptionally complicated combination of protective runes, but this is just the beginning of this system's capabilities."

She gave him a quick, surprised look. He rarely emphasized her contribution to the project, especially in front of others.

"Malfoy modified traditional Mesopotamian symbols to adapt them to contemporary needs," she added, reciprocating the gesture. "Without his research, we would never have achieved transmission stability."

Hughes nodded, still turning one of the prototypes in his hands.

"Well, your collaboration is clearly producing extraordinary results," he said with a smile. "And I have interesting news for you. There's an International Meeting of Ministers of Magic and Heads of Innovation Departments in Switzerland. This year's theme is 'Magic in the New Era: Adapting Tradition to Contemporary Challenges.'"

"Sounds perfect for our project," Hermione noted, feeling growing excitement.

"Exactly," Hughes smiled wider. "Minister Shacklebolt personally suggested that you two present the invention. It could be the ideal platform to introduce this system to the international arena."

"Switzerland," Malfoy murmured, looking thoughtful. "So a trip to the Alps awaits us."

"Geneva, to be precise," Hughes specified. "The meeting is taking place at the International Center for Magic and Diplomacy. Three days, a full program of lectures, workshops, and of course, unofficial meetings over good wine."

"That sounds like a fantastic opportunity," she said, her mind already planning the presentation, materials, key points to discuss.

"Too bad you can't stay longer, Mione," Caldwell interjected again, smiling meaningfully. "Geneva is supposedly beautiful this time of year. Perfect for... sightseeing."

Malfoy cleared his throat loudly, and his fingers drummed a nervous rhythm on the table.

"I think Granger will have enough work preparing the presentation," he said coldly. "Unless you're planning to take over some of her duties, Caldwell?"

"Oh, I'd be happy to help Mione with anything she needs," the wizard replied with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

A short, awkward silence fell. Hughes coughed.

"Anyway," he continued, "you'll have your own panel – thirty minutes for the presentation, fifteen for questions. It's a prestigious spot in the program, right after Minister Shacklebolt's main address. The Department will cover all travel and accommodation costs, of course."

"Will we be able to view the conference room in advance?" she asked, trying to steer the conversation back on track. "I'd like to make sure our devices will work in that magical environment."

"That might be a problem," Hughes admitted. "The schedule is tight; you'll probably have access to the room only an hour before the presentation."

"That will be enough," Malfoy stated confidently. "Our runes are designed to adapt in various magical environments. Geneva shouldn't pose a problem."

"Great," Hughes clapped his hands. "So it's settled. You leave Monday morning, international portkey from the Ministry at 8:30. Accommodation at Hotel Magique Royal, presentation Tuesday at 8:00."

"Hotel Magique Royal?" Caldwell whistled admiringly. "Nice luxury. Mione, if you need someone to carry your luggage, you can always count on me."

"Thank you, but I think I'll manage," she replied, giving him a polite but distant smile.

"Granger has me to help her," added Malfoy, standing up from his chair. "And now, if you have no more questions, we need to get back to work on the presentation."

"Of course, of course," Hughes also stood up. "Jenkins, Caldwell, let's leave them to prepare. And again – really good work, both of you. The Ministry is impressed."

When they returned to their office, Hermione immediately threw herself into her notes, full of energy and enthusiasm. Their project had been recognized, and now they were going to present it to an international audience! It was everything she had dreamed of since starting work on magical phones.

"I think we should start by preparing a presentation outline," she said, pulling out a clean piece of parchment. "First a historical introduction – briefly about the difficulties in adapting Muggle technology to the magical world, then your research on Mesopotamian runes, then my modifications..."

"Sounds sensible, Mione," Malfoy replied, deliberately drawing out the last word.

She froze with the quill in her hand. Slowly she raised her eyes, measuring him with an icy gaze.

"Don't call me that," she said firmly.

"Call you what, Mione?" he asked innocently, leaning against the desk with that irritating half-smile of his.

"Exactly that!" she hissed. "It's a disgusting diminutive that I hate. My name is Hermione. Her-mi-o-ne. Not 'Mione,' not 'Hermi,' not any other grotesque version."

"But Caldwell called you Mione," he observed, feigning surprise. "You didn't seem particularly irritated."

"Because we were in an official meeting and I didn't want to make a scene," she replied, rolling her eyes. "Besides, he is... well, he's just..."

"An annoying jerk who's trying to flirt with you in the most embarrassing way?" he helpfully suggested.

She sighed heavily. "Never mind. Just don't call me 'Mione.' That's an order."

"As you wish, Hermy," he replied immediately, his smile widening even more.

"Hermy?!" she exclaimed. "That sounds like a name for a house-elf!"

"You're right," he agreed readily, tapping his finger on his chin as if intensely thinking about something. "We definitely need something more... sophisticated. How about Mimi?"

She looked at him in disbelief.

"Do you think I'm a five-year-old girl? Or perhaps a French ballerina?"

"Hmm, indeed it doesn't fit," he admitted, then brightened up. "I know! Minnie! So classic, yet cute at the same time."

"Minnie," she repeated flatly. "Like that mouse from cartoons?"

Malfoy frowned.

"What mouse? Never mind," he waved his hand. "I see it doesn't appeal to you. What about Ermy? Sounds so... serious and professional. Like the name of someone who could run their own department in the ministry."

"Ermy sounds like someone with stomach problems," she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. "Try again, and I guarantee that this prototype," she pointed to the magical phone lying on the desk, "will be used as a weapon against your aristocratic head."

"Threats of violence? Really, Miney?" Malfoy shook his head with feigned disappointment. "And I thought we were already past that stage in our relationship."

"Miney?!" her voice rose an octave. "That sounds like some kind of mine! 'Let's go to Miney to see the dwarves!'"

"I admit, not my best idea," he agreed, then immediately brightened. "But I have something perfect! Hermsie! Elegant, distinguished, with a slight flavor of mystery..."

She stood up abruptly, her patience clearly exhausted. She grabbed the nearest object – a heavy dictionary of ancient runes – and raised it threateningly.

"Malfoy," she said very calmly, which made her tone even more terrifying. "If I hear any diminutive of my name one more time, I swear on all the books in the Hogwarts library that you'll need more than glasses to fix what I'll do to you."

He looked at her for a moment, as if assessing the level of threat.

"All right," he finally said, raising his hands. "I see that none of these names suit you. I understand, I really do."

She lowered the dictionary but still looked at him suspiciously.

"Seriously?"

"Absolutely," he nodded. "I've understood that you need something more... formal. Something that reflects your professionalism and seriousness."

"Exactly," she agreed cautiously, slowly sitting back down.

"In that case," he smiled, "from now on I'll call you Jean."

Hermione froze. The blood drained from her face, and her hands, which were just arranging documents, became motionless mid-movement. Jean. Of all possible names, he chose that one.

Jean. The name she only used in one context. Her second identity, more daring, more direct, freed from the burden of being Hermione Granger – war heroine, exemplary Ministry employee, always rational and composed.

Jean was a woman who flirted with a stranger on the internet. Who sent photos and received whispered voice messages. Who allowed herself fantasies and desires that Hermione would never voice aloud.

"Something wrong?" he asked, noticing her strange reaction. "I thought the formal use of your middle name would be an acceptable compromise."

"I..." she began, then cleared her throat, trying to regain her voice. "No, it's not... I would prefer if you didn't do that."

"Why not?" he frowned, clearly intrigued by her reaction. "It's your real name after all. Not some silly diminutive."

"Just... no." Hermione tried to find some sensible explanation that wouldn't reveal the truth. "That name is... reserved."

"Reserved?" he repeated, his eyebrow rising even higher. "By whom? Do your parents call you that?"

"No!" she answered too quickly. "No, they always called me Hermione. It's just... it's..."

"Jean is for someone special?" he asked, and in his voice appeared a note she couldn't identify. "Some mysterious admirer I don't know about?"

Hermione felt her cheeks burning. For a fraction of a second, she wondered if he suspected something. Did he know about SilverHeir? Did he guess that she was leading a double life online? But that was impossible. She knew that Malfoy, despite his adaptation to new times, was still a traditionalist in many ways. She couldn't imagine him using Muggle dating sites.

"It's not..." she began, then sighed deeply. "I just prefer people to use my first name, okay? It's not complicated."

Malfoy looked at her for a long moment, as if trying to read her thoughts. Finally, he shrugged, but that spark of curiosity didn't disappear from his eyes.

"Alright, Granger," he said, returning to formality. "As you wish. Though I must admit, your reaction only increases my curiosity."

"There's nothing to be curious about," she replied quickly, returning to her notes with the determination of someone desperately wanting to change the subject. "It's just... a personal preference. Now, back to the presentation..."

"Of course," he agreed, though it was clear the topic wasn't closed for him. "Let's get back to work... Hermione."

The way he pronounced her name – slowly, with emphasis on each syllable – gave her a strange shiver down her spine. As if he was testing how it sounded in his mouth after all those playful diminutives.

For a few minutes, they worked in silence, but she knew it wouldn't last long. Malfoy never endured silence for long – as if the very concept of not voicing aloud every thought that came to his mind was physically painful for him.

And indeed, less than five minutes later...

"You know what, Hermione," he spoke up, placing special emphasis on her name, "I have a name too."

She looked up from her notes, meeting his expectant gaze.

"Really? And I thought your parents just tattooed 'Malfoy' on your forehead on the day you were born and decided that was enough," she replied dryly.

"Very funny," he muttered. "But seriously, don't you think that since we'll be working together, traveling to Switzerland, and generally spending more time with each other than with anyone else, we could move to a more... personal form?"

"No," she answered immediately, returning to her notes.

"No?" he repeated in disbelief. "Just like that, without thinking?"

"Exactly like that," she nodded, not looking up. "Without thinking, without hesitation, without discussion. I will not call you by your first name, Malfoy."

"Why not?" he asked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "It's just five letters. A child could pronounce it."

"The last time I made a concession to you," she said, looking him straight in the eye, "half of magical London thought we were engaged."

"Ah," a smile of satisfaction appeared on his face. "It's about the 'sexy glasses,' isn't it?"

"Of course it's about that!" she hissed, looking around nervously as if expecting Rita Skeeter to jump out from behind a closet. "One compliment, just one! And suddenly we're the main topic of the Daily Prophet!"

Malfoy snorted with laughter, clearly amused by her indignation.

"It's not my fault my glasses are so irresistibly attractive," he said, adjusting them with a theatrical gesture. "But seriously, Hermione, one little 'Draco' won't cause another scandal."

"No," she replied firmly. "Absolutely not. I'm not going to risk it. Today 'Draco,' tomorrow the Prophet writes about our secret wedding in Switzerland."

"Hmm," he pondered, resting his chin on his hand. "Indeed, Switzerland would be an ideal place for a secret wedding. Romantic Alps in the background, snow, hot chocolate..."

"Are you even listening to me?!" she exclaimed, hitting the table with her hand.

"I always listen to you, Hermione," he replied, placing special emphasis on her name. "Notice that I have no problem using your name."

"That's different," she grumbled, returning to her notes.

"How so?" he pressed, leaning toward her.

"Because..." she began, then hesitated. "Because you're not... oh, come on, Malfoy. We need to prepare the presentation."

"Say it," he insisted, ignoring her attempt to change the subject. "Say 'Draco.'"

"No."

"Come on, just once," he tempted. "I promise I won't tell Rita Skeeter."

"No."

"I'll tell Caldwell you call me by my first name behind my back," he threatened with a mischievous gleam in his eye.

"I don't care what you tell Caldwell," she replied, rolling her eyes.

"I'll shout 'Hermione loves me!' every time we pass the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes," he continued, clearly amused.

"Just try it, and I'll turn your elegant suspenders into live snakes," she retorted, though the corners of her mouth twitched slightly.

"Okay, different approach," he changed tactics. "If you say my name – just once – I promise I won't try to call you Jean anymore."

She looked at him suspiciously.

"Never?"

"Never," he confirmed, raising his hand in a gesture of oath.

She hesitated, considering the proposal. It was tempting – to eliminate the risk that he would ever again use that name which was so strongly associated with her secret online life.

"Come on," he urged. "One little 'Draco' in exchange for eternal peace."

She sighed deeply, as if preparing for an extremely difficult task.

"Alright," she finally said. "But I have a condition. I will say your name, but only when we're alone, in this office, with the door closed and a silencing charm."

"Are you so afraid someone will hear you calling me by my name?" he asked in disbelief.

"Yes," she answered without hesitation. "Exactly that. You don't appreciate the power of Ministry gossip, Malfoy."

"Fine, let it be," he agreed, getting up and heading for the door. He closed it carefully, then cast a silencing charm. "Satisfied?"

"Almost," she said, also standing up. She went to the closet and looked inside, as if checking whether Rita Skeeter was hiding there. Then she checked under the desks. "Now yes."

Malfoy looked at her with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

"You are absolutely amazing, you know that?" he said, shaking his head. "The most paranoid witch I've ever met."

"It's not paranoia if they really are all watching you," she replied, standing in front of him. "Okay, let's do this."

She took a deep breath, as if preparing to jump into icy water.

"Draco," she said quickly, almost swallowing the word.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear that," he said, putting his hand to his ear. "Could you repeat?"

"Don't overdo it," she growled. "You heard perfectly well."

"I really didn't," he insisted, smiling broadly. "I must have misheard. It sounded almost like my name, but you said it so quietly and quickly..."

"Draco," she repeated louder, gritting her teeth. "Happy now?"

"Almost," he replied, mimicking her earlier response. "Say it one more time, but this time without grimacing as if you just swallowed a lemon."

"That wasn't part of our agreement," she protested, crossing her arms over her chest.

"The agreement mentioned one time, but didn't specify the quality of performance. And I think the quality was well below standards."

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Draco," she said, looking him straight in the eye.

For a moment they stood in silence, as if that single word had changed something in the atmosphere between them.

"See? It wasn't so bad," he finally said, though his voice sounded a bit different than usual.

"No," she agreed quietly. "It wasn't."

For a moment they just looked at each other, suspended in the strange new space they had just created.

"And now," she finally said, breaking the moment, "let's get back to work, Malfoy."

"Of course, Hermione," he replied.

They returned to their desks, to notes and presentation plans. Hermione quickly immersed herself in work, reviewing documents about the history of magical communication throughout the ages.

"Malfoy," she said after a few minutes, not looking up from the parchment, "do you have those notes on adapting runes to different magical environments? I think we should include that in the presentation."

From the other side of the room came a dramatic, deep sigh.

She raised her head, looking at her colleague with slight surprise. He was bent over his desk, but nothing in his posture suggested that he had just emitted that theatrical sound.

"Is everything all right?" she asked, frowning.

"Of course," he replied cheerfully, handing her a file of documents. "Here are the notes you asked for, Hermione."

"Thanks," she muttered, accepting the papers and returning to work, though she still felt somewhat confused.

About a dozen minutes later, she looked up again.

"Malfoy, have you already checked how our devices handle anti-teleportation barriers? This could be important in the conference center."

This time the sigh was even more dramatic, resembling a dying swan in the last act of a ballet. It was even accompanied by a light hand slap to the forehead.

"Something wrong?" she asked, this time more firmly.

"No, no, everything is absolutely fine," he replied with exaggerated enthusiasm. "I checked our devices near anti-teleportation barriers two days ago. They worked flawlessly, Hermione."

Again that special emphasis on her name. And again that sigh after...

Oh.

She narrowed her eyes, suddenly understanding what was happening.

"Good to know," she said slowly, returning to her notes.

A few minutes later she decided to test her theory.

"Hey, Malfoy," she called, deliberately using his surname. "What do you think about adding a section on potential applications in medicine?"

The reaction was immediate and incredibly exaggerated. Malfoy not only sighed – this time he leaned back in his chair, put his hand to his heart, and looked at the ceiling with the face of a martyr suffering unspeakable tortures.

"Are you in pain?" she asked innocently. "Perhaps you should visit a healer?"

"No, it's nothing," he replied, straightening up and again adopting a professional tone. "Just... a small cramp. Nothing worth worrying about, Hermione."

"Are you sure, Malfoy?" she pressed, watching his face carefully. "You looked like you were suffering unspeakable agony."

This time the sigh was combined with a quiet moan, as if he was experiencing the deepest disappointment of his life.

"It's really nothing," he assured, though his tone suggested exactly the opposite. "Medicine is a great idea. Our magical phones could revolutionize how healers communicate in emergencies."

"You're absolutely right, Malfoy," she said, deliberately emphasizing his surname.

The reaction exceeded her wildest expectations. Malfoy not only sighed – now he literally slid off his chair and fell to his knees, raising his hands to the sky in a gesture of absolute despair.

"Oh gods of magic!" he called out theatrically. "For what sins? What have I done to deserve such cruelty?"

She couldn't help but burst out laughing.

"You are absolutely ridiculous," she said, shaking her head with amusement.

"And you are cruel," he replied, standing up and dusting off his pants. "You know what you're doing. And you're doing it deliberately."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she retorted, struggling to suppress a smile. "I just prefer formality in professional relationships."

"Professional?" he snorted, approaching her desk. "Do you really think that after all this our relationship is just professional? Hermione, we're engaged!"

"Those weren't real engagements!" she protested, also standing up. "It was complete nonsense made up by Rita Skeeter!"

"Details," he waved his hand, leaning over her desk. "The point is that everyone thinks we're a couple anyway. What difference does it make if you call me by my first name?"

"A huge difference!" she exclaimed, also leaning in, so that their faces were now only about a dozen centimeters apart. "Because I don't want to give people more reasons to gossip!"

"Or maybe you're just afraid to admit that you're starting to like me?" he asked, raising his eyebrow challengingly.

"Me? Like you?" she snorted. "That's absurd!"

"Really?" he narrowed his eyes. "Because it seems to me that we get along quite well when no one is looking."

"It's just... professional cooperation," she muttered, suddenly aware of how close they were standing.

"Professional cooperation," Malfoy repeated, tilting his head. "Do you always repeat my name during professional cooperation?"

"That was a one-time incident," she replied, feeling blushes on her cheeks.

"And you think I'll believe that you don't want to repeat it... Hermione?" he asked quietly, deliberately lowering his voice.

"I..." she began, but stopped when she noticed that the parchment with their notes was sliding off the desk straight to the floor. "Watch out!"

They both simultaneously lunged to catch the documents. Malfoy lost his balance, grabbing the desk, which tilted dangerously. Hermione, trying both to catch the parchments and stabilize the desk, slipped on one of the sheets.

The next few seconds were pure chaos. She bumped into Malfoy, who lost his balance and fell to the floor, pulling her with him. In a desperate attempt to grab onto anything, she caught his suspenders, which – making a sound like a whip crack – tore away from his pants.

They landed in a completely absurd position – Malfoy on his back, Hermione practically on top of him, holding in one hand the torn suspenders, and in the other a crumpled sheet of parchment, while the rest of the documents swirled around them like a snowstorm.

And that's when the door to their office opened without warning.

Hearing the creak of the hinges, she didn't even turn to check who had entered. She was too embarrassed, too irritated, and too aware of the fact that she was practically lying on Malfoy with his suspenders in her hand.

"FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE!" she exploded, still not turning her head. "IS NO ONE IN THIS CURSED MINISTRY RAISED WELL ENOUGH TO KNOCK ON DOORS?! DO YOU, PERKINS, REALLY THINK YOU CAN ENTER SOMEONE ELSE'S OFFICE WITHOUT WARNING?!"

Malfoy beneath her froze motionless, his eyes widened comically, and his face took on a shade that Hermione had seen on him only once – when Moody turned him into a ferret in fourth year.

"THAT DOCUMENTATION YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO DELIVER WAS NEEDED TWO DAYS AGO!" she continued her tirade, trying to get up, which only worsened their position when her knee hit a rather sensitive spot, and Malfoy groaned in pain. "AND NOW YOU BURST IN HERE LIKE A STORM WITHOUT KNOCKING AND WHAT DO YOU SEE? TWO PEOPLE TRYING TO COLLECT DOCUMENTS THAT SOME IDIOT – PROBABLY YOU TOO – ARRANGED BADLY!"

Malfoy began frantically shaking his head and tried to tell her something with his lips, which only irritated her more.

"DON'T EVEN TRY..." she began, but in desperation he grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her so she could see who was standing at the door.

Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt, in his full official robe, with an unreadable expression on his face, was observing the entire scene.

She felt the blood drain from her face, and then return with redoubled force, flooding her cheeks with scarlet.

"M-Minister," she stammered, still clutching the suspenders in her hand. "I... didn't know..."

Kingsley cleared his throat, apparently trying to maintain his composure, though the corners of his mouth twitched suspiciously.

"Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy," he said with admirable composure. "I see you are... busy preparing for the conference in Switzerland."

"It's not what it looks like!" she exclaimed, finally jumping to her feet, still wielding the suspenders like a war trophy.

"Of course," Kingsley politely agreed. "It never is."

Malfoy also stood up, trying to maintain the remnants of dignity, which was a challenge considering that his pants, deprived of the support of suspenders, had slid dangerously low on his hips.

"Minister," he nodded with the face of a man who had just reconciled with the fact that his career had just ended.

"Mr. Malfoy," Kingsley replied, then his gaze wandered to the suspenders in Hermione's hand. "May I suggest that Miss Granger return to you... that piece of clothing? Unless it's part of your... preparation for the presentation?"

Hermione, realizing she was still holding the suspenders, squeaked quietly and immediately handed them to Malfoy, who accepted them with the face of a man walking to his own execution.

"Minister, I can really explain..." she began, frantically collecting the scattered documents from the floor.

"There's no need," Kingsley gently interrupted her. "Actually, I just came to say that I'm very impressed with your project. Hughes showed me the prototypes, and I think it's a breakthrough achievement."

"Thank you," she squeezed out, still as red as a beetroot.

"I also wanted to personally inform you that a small reception has been added to the conference program in Switzerland after your presentation," the Minister continued, as if he hadn't at all found them in the most compromising position. "Specifically for representatives of other ministries who might be interested in implementing your technology."

"That's... wonderful," Malfoy muttered, desperately trying to reattach the suspenders, which proved extremely difficult with hands trembling from embarrassment.

"Indeed," Kingsley agreed. "It will be an excellent opportunity to showcase the best achievements of the British Ministry of Magic. I'm sure you'll make an appropriate impression." He paused for a moment, and his eyes flashed with amusement. "Though perhaps a different one than the one you just made on me."

Hermione made a sound that sounded like a combination of a moan and a squeak.

"And now," Kingsley looked at his watch, "I must excuse myself. I have a meeting with the ambassador of the magical community from America. Hughes will give you all the details about the conference."

He headed for the door but stopped at the threshold and turned around.

"And Miss Granger?" he said with a slight smile.

"Yes, Minister?" she asked weakly.

"Next time I'll try to remember to knock," he said, then left, closing the door behind him.

For a full minute, absolute silence reigned in the office. Hermione and Malfoy stood motionless, staring at the closed door as if expecting the Minister to return soon to say it was all a joke.

Finally, Malfoy cleared his throat.

"Well," he said slowly, "that went... interestingly."

She turned to him with the face of a woman who had just seen her career flash before her eyes.

"Interestingly?" she repeated in a voice an octave higher than usual. "INTERESTINGLY?! I just called the Minister of Magic 'Perkins'! I accused him of messing up documents! And all this while lying on top of you with your suspenders in my hand!"

Malfoy tried to maintain a serious face, he really tried. At first it was just a slight trembling of the shoulders, then a quiet chuckle, until finally he burst into loud, uninhibited laughter.

"This is not funny!" she hissed, though the corners of her mouth were also beginning to twitch.

"Oh, but it is," he choked out between fits of laughter. "It's absolutely hilarious. 'DO YOU, PERKINS, REALLY THINK YOU CAN ENTER WITHOUT WARNING?'" he quoted, mimicking her furious tone.

"Stop!" she groaned, covering her face with her hands. "My career just ended. Kingsley will never look at me the same way again."

"Of course he won't," he agreed, still laughing. "Now every time he sees you, he'll remember how you were lying on top of me, holding my suspenders and screaming like a Valkyrie."

She was about to smile. She was about to join in his merriment because indeed – the absurdity of the whole situation was beginning to sink in. For a moment she was ready to look at it all with distance, to acknowledge that it was just another funny story they would someday reminisce about.

But then Malfoy, between more bursts of laughter, added:

"Well, at least this time you didn't shout that my glasses are ridiculously sexy."

The smile froze on Hermione's face, and her eyes narrowed dangerously. With one fluid motion, she grabbed a thick folder of documents that she had just picked up from the floor.

"You are," she said with feigned calmness, "absolutely," she raised the folder, "insufferable!" And with these words, she hit him straight on the head.

The rustle of papers, a muffled cry of surprise, and a final, stifled chuckle were the only sounds that filled the office.

Chapter Text

The weekend passed by Hermione at lightning speed. She dedicated every free moment to preparing for the presentation in Switzerland – checking statistics, refining slides, practicing her speech in front of the mirror, and even buying a new, professional dress for the occasion. She couldn't afford to fail – not after how hard she had worked on the project, and definitely not after behaving so embarrassingly in front of the Minister.

In the evenings, however, when fatigue began to take over and her eyes burned from staring at documents, she allowed herself a small pleasure – conversations with SilverHeir. Dray seemed more active than usual, as if he too was spending the weekend alone, immersed in work.

On Saturday evening, as she was already lying in bed surrounded by notes, her phone vibrated with another message.

SilverHeir: I wonder what you look like when you're so focused on work. Furrowed brows? Bitten lip? I could stop wondering if we finally met.

Jean G.: I thought we established that we would be patient.

SilverHeir: Patience has never been my strong suit. Besides, we've been talking for so long... Aren't you at least a little curious?

She was. Of course she was. But at the same time, she was afraid that reality wouldn't live up to the fantasy they had built. And besides, her life was currently complicated enough with Malfoy as a colleague and the upcoming presentation in Switzerland.

Jean G.: Of course I'm curious. But this week is absolutely impossible. I'm traveling abroad for work and I need to prepare. A really important presentation.

She waited for his response, wondering if this time she had gone too far. How many times can you refuse to meet before the other person loses interest? After a few minutes, the answer came.

SilverHeir: Foreign delegation? Sounds impressive. Where are you going, if I may ask?

She hesitated. On one hand, she didn't want to reveal too many details. On the other – Switzerland was a general enough direction not to arouse suspicion.

Jean G.: Switzerland. International conference. As for meeting - I really would like to this time. But not this week. This presentation is too important for me, I can't get distracted.

She sent the message and immediately felt a pang of regret. Another refusal. How many more times would she be able to refuse before he lost interest?

SilverHeir: I understand. Work comes first. But you know what? We'll meet someday. I'm sure of it. And until then, good luck in Switzerland. You'll amaze them all, I have no doubt.

His response was polite, with no trace of resentment, and yet Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that this time she had really disappointed him. That maybe this time she had gone too far.

She put down the phone and returned to her notes, but her thoughts still revolved around SilverHeir and their meeting that never happened. Maybe she was making a mistake? Maybe fate was giving them a chance, and she was stubbornly rejecting it?

But no, she couldn't get distracted now. Switzerland, the presentation, Malfoy – that had to be her priority. SilverHeir, whoever he was, would have to wait a little longer.

Monday morning found Hermione in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, punctually at 8:15. She was dressed in a light, cream-colored knee-length dress, over which she wore a navy blue blazer – a compromise between a professional look and the August heat. Her hair, usually left in disarray, was carefully pinned up that day, revealing her face and emphasizing her professional appearance.

At her foot stood a small suitcase – extended by a spell, of course, because even for a three-day trip she couldn't travel without at least ten books, three sets of robes, and a whole arsenal of cosmetics. In her other hand, she held a folder with documents and notes for the presentation – despite having everything magically recorded, she still trusted paper copies more than spells.

She looked around the Atrium, searching for Malfoy. Surprisingly, he hadn't appeared yet, though he was usually painfully punctual. This only increased her nervousness – the clock above the main entrance showed 8:20, and their portkey was set to depart exactly at 8:30. Theoretically they still had time, but she hated being anywhere at the last minute.

It also didn't help that she had barely slept all night, tossing and turning, her head full of thoughts about the presentation.

"Hey, Granger, ready for international fame?"

Malfoy's voice pulled her from her thoughts. She turned and froze for a moment. He stood before her, but looked different than usual – he was wearing light linen pants and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, without his typical suspenders. He looked... summery. Relaxed. Almost like a Muggle from an exclusive fashion magazine.

"Malfoy," she breathed with relief. "I thought you were going to be late."

"Me? Be late for an event that could change the course of magical communication history? Never," he replied with a smile, then looked at her more carefully. "You look... professional."

"Thank you," she replied, not entirely sure if that was a compliment. "You look... different too."

"Summer in Switzerland," he shrugged. "I heard it's warm there too. And speaking of which – our portkey is waiting in the Department of Magical Transportation. We should hurry."

She nodded, and they headed toward the elevators. On the way, they passed several colleagues who looked at them with a mixture of curiosity and amusement – rumors about their alleged romance were apparently still circulating around the Ministry.

"Nervous?" Malfoy asked as they entered the elevator.

"A bit," she admitted. "It's my first international presentation."

"Mine too," he replied, to her surprise. "But it'll be fine. You know this material better than anyone. And you have me as support."

She looked at him suspiciously. "Who are you and what have you done with Draco Malfoy?"

He laughed briefly. "Maybe I'm just trying to be a good colleague? Besides, your stress is contagious. And when you're stressed, you become even more controlling than usual. And that's already terrifying."

"I'm not controlling!" she protested, to which he just raised an eyebrow. "Alright, maybe a little. But only because I care that everything goes perfectly."

"And it will," he assured her as the elevator stopped at the right floor. "We're well prepared. We have a great presentation. Our devices work flawlessly. What could go wrong?"

"Please don't say that," she groaned, exiting the elevator. "Whenever someone says 'what could go wrong,' everything immediately falls apart."

"Superstitious, Granger?" he joked, following her. "I didn't expect that from you."

"It's not superstition, it's experience," she replied, but her voice sounded lighter. Strange, but the conversation with Malfoy had actually calmed her down a bit.

The Department of Magical Transportation was already full of people – some arriving, others departing, creating controlled chaos typical for Monday mornings. Hermione and Malfoy headed to the portkey section, where a department representative was waiting for them.

"Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy?" he asked, checking a list. "International Center for Magic and Diplomacy, Geneva?"

"That's right," Hermione confirmed.

"Great," the official nodded. "Your portkey," he pointed to an old, worn atlas lying on the table, "will depart in exactly three minutes. Please make sure you have contact with your luggage."

They stood next to the table, each holding their suitcase. As the departure time approached, Hermione felt her heart quicken. Not because of the travel – portkeys were everyday for her – but because of everything that awaited them in Switzerland. The presentation, international experts, the reception... and of course Malfoy himself.

"Ten seconds," the official announced.

She took a deep breath and reached out toward the atlas. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Malfoy doing the same.

"Five, four, three, two, one..."

Their fingers touched the worn cover at the same moment. She felt the familiar tug at her navel, and the world around them blurred into a swirl of colors.

The journey to Switzerland had officially begun.

The world spun around them in a kaleidoscope of colors until suddenly, with a strong jerk, their feet hit the hard floor. Hermione staggered slightly but quickly regained her balance. Malfoy, of course, landed with his typical grace, as if he traveled by international portkeys every day.

They looked around. They were in a large, circular hall with a high, domed ceiling on which constellations were painted, glimmering with gentle, magical light. Around them, several other wizards and witches were arriving or departing at designated stations.

"International Center for Magical Transport in Geneva," announced an official-looking wizard in a navy blue robe. "Welcome to Switzerland. Please present your travel documents."

Hermione quickly took out their official invitations and Ministry passes from her bag. The wizard examined them carefully, then tapped them with his wand. Golden seals appeared on the parchments.

"Everything is in order," he said, returning the documents to them. "Hotel Magique Royal is a five-minute walk from here. Just exit through the main entrance and turn left. You can't miss it."

"Thank you," she replied, putting the documents away.

When they left the building, Geneva greeted them with bright August sunshine. The city was beautiful – well-maintained, elegant buildings, wide avenues, and all against the backdrop of a blue lake and majestic Alps in the distance.

"Nice place for a conference," Malfoy muttered, looking around. "Better than those terrible rooms in the Ministry basement."

"Definitely," she agreed, also admiring the views. "We should hurry. I want to check in and review the materials once more before tomorrow's presentation."

They moved according to the directions, pulling their suitcases behind them. The receptionist was right – Hotel Magique Royal was hard to miss. The huge, five-star building rose majestically, shimmering in the sun thanks to subtle protective spells that made it look like an ordinary, though exclusive, hotel to Muggles.

They entered through revolving doors into a luxurious lobby. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, elegant furniture – everything screamed "luxury" and "exclusivity." Hermione felt somewhat intimidated, but Malfoy looked as if he was in his element.

They approached the reception desk where an elegant witch with platinum blonde hair and an immaculate smile greeted them.

"Good morning," she greeted them in English, apparently recognizing their origin. "How may I help you?"

"We have a reservation from the British Ministry of Magic," Hermione explained. "Granger and Malfoy, for the Ministers' conference."

The receptionist nodded and began reviewing the reservation book with her wand.

"Ah yes," she said after a moment, smiling brightly. "Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, of course. We have everything prepared."

Hermione froze. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy," the receptionist repeated, looking at them with slight surprise. "That's how it appears in the reservation."

"There must be some mistake," Hermione said, feeling her cheeks beginning to burn. "We're not... I mean, I'm not... There should be two separate rooms. Under the names Granger and Malfoy."

The receptionist looked at the book again, frowning slightly.

"I'm afraid we only have one reservation," she said apologetically. "For the honeymoon suite, as requested by your Ministry."

"WHAT?!" Hermione was sure the entire hotel heard her exclamation. "The HONEYMOON suite?!"

Malfoy, who until now had been standing beside her, watching the whole situation with amusement, finally decided to intervene.

"There must be some misunderstanding," he said calmly to the receptionist. "We're not married. We're colleagues. We need two separate rooms."

The witch looked genuinely embarrassed. "I understand, but... the hotel is completely full because of the conference. We don't have any vacant rooms."

"Full?" she groaned. "Completely?"

"Unfortunately, yes," the receptionist confirmed. "All hotels in the city are full. It's the biggest magical event of the year."

Hermione closed her eyes, trying to calm down. This had to be a joke. Or a nightmare. Or... Rita Skeeter.

"That article," she hissed, opening her eyes and looking accusingly at Malfoy. "It's because of that damn article about our supposed engagement!"

"Probably," he agreed, though he didn't look particularly troubled. "Someone at the Ministry apparently read it and decided to be... helpful."

"Helpful?!" she barely restrained herself from shouting. "This is not helpful, this is..."

"A problem we need to solve," he interrupted her firmly. He turned to the receptionist. "Does the suite have two bedrooms?"

"No," the witch replied, clearly uncomfortable. "It's a honeymoon suite. It has one large bed."

"Of course it does," Hermione muttered, feeling that this day was getting worse by the minute. "What about a couch? An armchair? Anything one could sleep on?"

"There's a sofa in the living room," the receptionist admitted. "I can order extra bedding."

"Please," she sighed. "And please note in the documents that there's been a mistake. We are not married."

"Of course," the witch agreed, though her smile suggested she didn't particularly believe it. "Here are your keys. Fifth floor, suite 501. I wish you a pleasant stay at Hotel Magique Royal."

Hermione took the keys, trying to maintain what dignity she had left. This trip was starting terribly, and she had a horrible feeling it would only get worse.

"Well," he said as they entered the elevator, "at least we'll have plenty of space to prepare the presentation."

Hermione shot him a murderous look.

"If you joke about our 'marriage' even once, I swear, Malfoy, I'll turn you into a ferret and send you back to England by owl post."

"Your threats are becoming increasingly creative, Granger," he replied as the elevator stopped on the fifth floor. "I must admit, it's impressive."

Hermione didn't respond, too busy internally cursing everyone responsible for this situation – from Rita Skeeter, through Ministry employees, to Malfoy himself, who somehow always found himself at the center of every problem in her life.

They stopped in front of the door with the number 501. She took a deep breath, inserted the key into the lock, and opened the door.

"Oh my..." the words died on her lips.

The suite was huge, luxurious, and absolutely, completely, impossibly romantic. The floor in the living room was strewn with rose petals, forming a path leading straight to the bedroom. A delicate scent of jasmine and vanilla hung in the air. On the table stood a silver cooler with champagne, next to crystal glasses and a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries.

Malfoy entered behind her and stopped abruptly, nearly bumping into her.

"Well," he said after a moment of silence, "at least they didn't skimp on the extras."

She walked deeper into the suite, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief. In the living room stood a huge couch (on which Malfoy was presumably going to sleep) decorated with heart-shaped pillows. On the walls hung magical paintings of couples dancing in romantic settings. Even the chandelier was formed in the shape of intertwined hearts, casting soft, pinkish light on the walls.

"This is a nightmare," she muttered, approaching the large glass doors leading to the balcony. "Even the view can't compensate for... all of this."

Malfoy looked around the room with an expression difficult to read – a mixture of amusement, embarrassment, and something that might have been amusement at someone else's expense.

"Want to see the bedroom?" he asked innocently. "Maybe it's... normal in there?"

She gave him a skeptical look but headed toward the bedroom, following the path of rose petals. The door was slightly ajar.

When she opened it, she made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a muffled cry.

The bedroom was even worse than the living room. A huge four-poster bed occupied the center of the room, covered with silky, crimson bedding and – of course – sprinkled with more rose petals, arranged in the shape of a heart. Above the bed hovered a swarm of miniature, glowing butterflies, casting flickering light on the entire room. In the corner stood a bathtub – yes, a bathtub! – filled to the brim with foam, with flower petals floating on the surface and candles arranged around it.

"Merlin's pants," Malfoy whispered, peering over her shoulder. "Is that..."

"Yes," she confirmed weakly. "It's a heated, automatically refilling bathtub. With a view of the lake."

"And with bubbles forming the shape of a heart," he added, pointing to the water's surface.

She took a few steps into the bedroom and then noticed another horror – on the bedside table lay an elegantly wrapped box with a ribbon and an envelope. With apprehension, she reached for the envelope and opened it.

"'For Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy'," she read aloud, her voice trembling with restrained indignation. "'On the occasion of your stay at our hotel, we include a small gift which – we hope – will make your time together more pleasant. With congratulations on your engagement, The Staff of Hotel Magique Royal'."

Malfoy snorted with laughter, for which he received a murderous look.

"Sorry," he said, trying to compose himself. "It's just... absurd."

"What's in the box?" she asked, though she didn't really want to know.

"Shall we check?" he suggested, reaching for it.

"Malfoy, no!" she shouted, but it was too late. He opened the box and froze, looking at its contents. Then, to her horror, he burst into uncontrolled laughter.

"What's in there?!" she demanded, coming closer.

Wordlessly, he turned the box toward her. Inside, on velvet material, lay two small vials of opalescent potion and... something that looked like silk handcuffs decorated with feathers.

Hermione felt her face burning so hot it could melt a cauldron.

"What is that?" she asked weakly, pointing to the vials.

"If I'm not mistaken," he replied, still fighting an attack of laughter, "it's a potion that intensifies... sensations. Quite expensive, by the way."

"We're getting out of here," she stated firmly, turning on her heel. "Immediately. I'll go to another hotel. Or I'll sleep in the lobby. Or in the park. Anywhere but here."

"Granger, calm down," he said, putting the box down. "It's just a room. Overly decorated, agreed, but still just a room. We need it to prepare for tomorrow's presentation. Besides, you said all hotels are full."

"I don't care," she replied, though there was already less conviction in her voice. "I won't stay in... in this."

"Listen," he approached her, unexpectedly serious. "I have a proposal. You take the bedroom, I'll sleep on the couch. We'll throw out all these rose petals, remove the bedding, ask for normal ones. We'll turn off the butterflies. We'll close the bathtub. It will be like a regular room."

She hesitated. What he was saying made sense. They needed a place to work, to rest before tomorrow's crucial presentation. And looking for other accommodation in a full city would be a waste of time.

"Fine," she finally agreed reluctantly. "But not a word about this to anyone. Not. A. Word."

"I swear," he said solemnly, raising his hand. "Although it's a shame, because it would make a great story for parties."

"Malfoy!" she growled warningly.

"I'm joking, I'm joking," he assured her, raising his hands in surrender. "Now, maybe we should first order something to eat, and then deal with the deconstruction of this love nest?"

She sighed deeply, but had to admit she was hungry. And tired. And needed a moment to calm down.

"All right," she agreed. "But first, throw away those... things," she pointed to the gift box.

"Are you sure?" he asked with a mischievous gleam in his eye. "The handcuffs could come in handy if you decided to turn me into a ferret after all."

"MALFOY!"

"I'm throwing them away, I'm throwing them away," he laughed, grabbing the box. "Though I'm sure Rita Skeeter would pay a fortune for information about what the hotel prepared for 'Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy'..."

She grabbed a pillow and threw it at his head, but Malfoy skillfully dodged, still laughing.

An hour later, the suite looked much less like the set of a romantic comedy and more like a place where two professionals could prepare for an important presentation. The rose petals had disappeared, as had most of the candles and all the heart-shaped pillows. Hermione had enchanted the butterflies to shine with neutral, white light instead of pulsating with a romantic glow, and Malfoy had transfigured the canopy over the bed into a simple, elegant canopy. They had also closed the bathroom door, effectively hiding the bathtub and all its romantic accessories.

"Well," she said, looking around with satisfaction, "now it's much better."

"Almost like home," he agreed, collapsing onto the couch. "Though I can still smell those roses."

"It will air out," she assured him, sitting in the armchair opposite. "Now we can focus on the presentation. We still have a few things to refine before tomorrow."

"Food first," he protested, reaching for the hotel menu. "I can't think about Mesopotamian runes when my stomach is demanding attention."

She rolled her eyes but had to admit she was hungry too. She took a second menu and quickly looked through it.

"I'll just order a salad and soup," she decided. "I don't want to be too full while working."

Malfoy looked at her in disbelief.

"A salad? And soup? Granger, we're in Switzerland! The homeland of fondue, raclette, and the best chocolate in the world!"

"That's precisely why I need to keep a clear mind," she replied. "And you should do the same."

"A clear mind is overrated," he stated, studying the menu with an intensity worthy of ancient runes. "I'll order for both of us."

"No, you won't," she protested, but Malfoy had already approached the fireplace to place an order via Floo.

She listened with growing horror as he ordered: traditional Swiss cheese fondue, raclette with potatoes and gherkins, a platter of cold meats and cheeses, a goat cheese salad (at least that much), onion soup (a concession to her), veal schnitzel, rösti, and for dessert – chocolate fondue with fruits and a selection of Swiss chocolates.

"Are you planning to feed the entire conference?" she asked when he finished ordering.

"No, just us," he replied innocently. "We need energy. Tomorrow is an important day."

"Energy, not a food coma," she muttered, but she knew there was no point in arguing with Malfoy about food.

When the food arrived – delivered by a discreet house-elf who looked amazed at the amount of dishes – Hermione had to admit that everything looked and smelled delicious.

"See?" Malfoy said with satisfaction, watching as the table in the living room filled with dishes. "Now we can work at full power."

"If we'll be able to move after all this," she replied, but her stomach growled treacherously at the sight of the steaming fondue.

They spread out the presentation materials on the table next to the food and began reviewing them while simultaneously putting food on their plates. Or rather – Hermione was carefully serving herself small portions, while Malfoy was filling his plate with the enthusiasm of a child in a candy store.

"I need to go to the bathroom for a moment," she announced after reviewing a few pages of notes. "Just don't eat everything before I get back."

"I can't promise," he replied with his mouth full of raclette. "This Swiss food is too good to resist."

She rolled her eyes and headed toward the bathroom, stopping at her suitcase to take out her toiletry bag. She needed to wash her face with cold water – the day had been long, and Malfoy's presence wasn't helping her relax.

When she returned five minutes later, a suspicious silence reigned in the suite. The living room was empty – plates were still on the table, but there was no sign of Malfoy.

"Malfoy?" she called, looking around.

No response.

With growing concern, she moved toward the bedroom. The door was ajar.

She pushed it open and froze on the threshold, not believing her eyes.

Malfoy was sprawled on her bed – the same one that just an hour ago had been decorated with rose petals – with a tray of chocolate fondue and a plate of strawberries beside him. Around him were spread their notes, and he himself, comfortably propped against the pillows, was turning pages with one hand and dipping a strawberry in hot chocolate with the other.

"What are you doing?!" she exclaimed, feeling her blood pressure spike.

He looked up, completely unfazed by her outburst. "Working," he replied as if it were obvious. "And sampling Swiss specialties. These strawberries are absolutely divine."

"On MY bed?" she asked in disbelief.

"Technically speaking, it's the bed of Hotel Magique Royal," he noted, putting the strawberry in his mouth with an expression of pure delight on his face. "Besides, the couch is uncomfortable. And this bed is huge – wasting such space is a real crime."

She took a step toward him, clenching her fists.

"We established rules, Malfoy. The bedroom is mine. The couch is yours. It's not a complicated concept!"

"Rules are made to be broken," he replied lightly, reaching for another strawberry. "Especially those that are arbitrary and unnecessarily restrictive. Do you really want me to work in uncomfortable conditions? That will affect the quality of our presentation."

"The only thing that's about to affect the quality of our presentation is the fact that my co-presenter will have a wand stuck in –"

"You must try these strawberries," he interrupted her, as if he hadn't heard her threat. "Really, they're phenomenal. Swiss chocolate plus perfectly ripe fruit – it's like an explosion of flavor in your mouth."

Hermione took a deep breath, trying to calm down. She counted to ten in her mind. Then to twenty. But even that didn't help when she saw a drop of chocolate fall from his strawberry right onto her clean, freshly conjured bedding.

"Get up," she said through clenched teeth. "Immediately. And take that fondue away before you soil the entire bed."

He looked at her with an innocent expression. "But I haven't finished the presentation yet. Or dessert."

"You can finish in the living room," she replied firmly. "There, where we agreed you would work."

"The living room is too... living room-ish," he replied, waving his hand. "It's much better here. Besides, you really should try these strawberries. You're too tense, Granger. A bit of chocolate would improve your mood."

"The only thing that will improve my mood is the sight of you leaving MY bedroom!" she exclaimed, moving closer to the bed.

Malfoy sighed dramatically but didn't move from his spot. Instead, he reached for a particularly large strawberry, dipped it deep in chocolate, and extended it toward her.

"Try it," he said, his voice suddenly becoming a bit lower. "I promise it will change your attitude."

"I don't want a strawberry," she replied, though her gaze momentarily lingered on the fruit covered with a thick layer of chocolate. "I want you to get off my bed."

"First the strawberry, then negotiations," he replied, bringing the fruit closer to her face.

She stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest. "No."

"Oh, come on, Granger," he insisted, a mischievous gleam appearing in his eyes. "One little strawberry. What's the difference? Is the great Hermione Granger afraid to try something sweet?"

"I'm not afraid," she denied immediately. "I just don't want to."

"Really?" He raised an eyebrow in a gesture of challenge. "Or maybe you're just afraid to admit that I might be right? That a bit of pleasure in the middle of an intense workday might do you good?"

She narrowed her eyes. She knew perfectly well what he was doing – trying to draw her into his game, provoke her. And although the rational part of her mind warned her not to be manipulated, the other part – the more Gryffindor part – couldn't bear the thought that Malfoy might think she was afraid of him.

"Fine," she said, extending her hand. "Give me that strawberry. I'll eat it. And then you'll get off the bed."

He smiled triumphantly, but instead of handing her the fruit, he shook his head.

"Oh no, not so easy. I don't trust that you'll actually try it," he said, still holding the strawberry between his fingers. "You have to eat it directly from my hand. As Swiss tradition dictates."

"Swiss tradition?" she repeated in disbelief. "Do you really think I'll believe something like that?"

"You can check the guidebook," he replied, nodding toward a book lying on the bedside table. "The Swiss take their chocolate fondue very seriously."

Of course, she knew he was bluffing. There was no such tradition. But something in his challenging look made her decide to play his game – just so she could then triumphantly throw him out of the bedroom.

"Alright," she said, approaching the bed. "Have it your way."

She leaned in to reach for the strawberry, but at that moment Malfoy pulled his hand back.

"What are you doing?" she asked angrily.

"Making sure you appreciate this moment," he replied. "Close your eyes."

"Absolutely not."

"Are you afraid?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Then prove it," he challenged her, and that familiar, irritating gleam appeared in his eyes. "Close your eyes and trust me. For ten seconds."

She looked at him suspiciously, but after a moment closed her eyes, cursing her Gryffindor pride.

"Ten," she began counting aloud. "Nine. Eight. Sev–"

She never got to seven. Instead, she felt something wet and sticky touch her nose. Her eyes opened abruptly, just in time to see Malfoy smearing chocolate on her face.

"What are you doing?!" she screamed, jumping backward.

Malfoy was laughing, holding in his hand the strawberry now devoid of chocolate, which now adorned her nose and cheeks.

"Sorry," he choked out between fits of laughter. "I couldn't resist. You looked so serious, with those closed eyes and clenched lips..."

"You..." she began, wiping the chocolate from her face. "You absolutely impossible, childish, irritating..."

Her eyes fell on the fondue tray. Without a moment's hesitation, she grabbed a handful of strawberries and dipped them in chocolate.

"Granger?" Malfoy suddenly stopped laughing, seeing her movement. "What are you going to..."

He didn't finish because at that moment she threw the chocolate-covered strawberries at him. Most hit the target – his face, his cream-colored shirt, his hair.

"Ha!" she exclaimed triumphantly. "Who's laughing now?"

For a moment he looked at her in disbelief, chocolate dripping down his forehead and nose. And then, to her horror, a predatory smile appeared on his face.

"So this is how you want to play, Granger?" he asked quietly, reaching for the fondue tray. "In that case, let the war begin."

Before she could react, he dipped his fingers in the chocolate and flicked them in her direction, sending droplets of hot chocolate onto her dress.

"Malfoy!" she shouted, looking at the forming stains. "That was my new dress!"

"What a tragedy," he replied, feigning sympathy. "Though personally, I think it looks better with the addition of Swiss chocolate."

"You..." she growled, rushing toward him to snatch the tray from his hands.

Anticipating her move, he quickly moved the fondue, causing Hermione to land on the bed beside him. But she didn't give up – she tried to reach for the tray, while he held it as far away from her hands as possible.

"Give it back!" she demanded, trying to climb higher.

"I don't think so," he replied, amusement in his voice. "It seems I've finally managed to interest you in Swiss delicacies."

Their struggle became increasingly intense. Determined to take the tray from him, she climbed higher, practically lying on top of him to reach further. Malfoy, equally determined to keep the fondue out of her reach, stretched his arm as far as he could.

And then – the inevitable – the tray tilted, and hot chocolate spilled onto the bed, onto both of them, onto the notes scattered around.

"No!" she cried, watching as the brown, sticky liquid spread across the bedding.

In a desperate attempt to stop the catastrophe, they both lunged toward the spilling chocolate, colliding heads in the process. Malfoy lost his balance, dropping the now empty tray, and grabbed onto the first thing within reach – Hermione. She, surprised, also lost her balance.

They landed in a tangle of arms and legs, on a bed covered with chocolate, Malfoy lying on top of Hermione, holding her wrists above her head, where he had instinctively grabbed them.

For a moment there was absolute silence. Their faces were centimeters apart, both breathing heavily after the struggle, both covered in chocolate from head to toe.

Malfoy looked at her with wide eyes, apparently as surprised by their position as she was. His hair, usually perfectly styled, was falling onto his forehead, with one strand stuck with chocolate just above his eyebrow. A droplet of the sweet liquid trickled from his temple to his cheek, and then to his lips.

Hermione felt her heart accelerate, and she wasn't sure if it was due to the adrenaline from their fight, or because of the closeness, or perhaps both at once.

"Let me go," she said, but her voice was strangely quiet, devoid of her earlier anger.

"And what if I don't?" he asked just as quietly, and in his eyes appeared a gleam she couldn't interpret.

"Then..." she began, but trailed off, not knowing how to finish.

Malfoy's gaze moved from her eyes to her lips, and then back again. A drop of chocolate from his hair fell onto her cheek, but neither of them moved to wipe it away.

Time seemed to stop. The world beyond this room, beyond this bed, ceased to exist. There were only his eyes, his hands on her wrists, the weight of his body on her, the smell of chocolate and strawberries, and something else – something that was just him.

"Hermione," he said her name so quietly that she almost didn't hear it.

And then – because of course, because it had to be that way, because fate loved to mock them – there was a loud knock at the door.

"Hotel service!" called a voice from the corridor. "I've brought the extra bedding you requested!"

Malfoy closed his eyes, and on his face appeared a mixture of frustration and amusement. He released her wrists and moved away, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"I guess we should open up," he said, running his hand through his hair, which only caused the chocolate to smear even more.

Hermione sat up, feeling a strange dizziness. What had just happened? Had they almost...?

"Yes," she replied, trying to sound normal. "But you can't go. You look like... like a victim of a chocolate catastrophe."

"And you look better?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

She looked down at her dress, legs, arms – everything was covered with brown stains.

"Hotel service!" the voice from behind the door became more insistent. "Are you inside?"

"Just a moment!" she called, jumping off the bed. "One moment!"

She looked at Malfoy, who was now smiling broadly, apparently completely amused by the situation.

"This is all your fault," she hissed, pointing at the mess.

"It was worth it," he replied, and in his eyes that strange gleam still smoldered.

Hermione shook her head, wondering how she would explain to the maid why two adult, professional wizards looked as if they had fought a battle in a chocolate factory. But as she looked at Malfoy, with his tousled, chocolate-covered hair and that irritating, confident smile, she couldn't suppress her own smile.

It was a disaster. An absolute disaster. But for some reason, she wasn't as angry as she should have been.

Two hours later, after the intervention of a very discreet maid (who looked as if she regularly found guests covered in chocolate and didn't even blink), Hermione was sitting cross-legged on the freshly made bed. Her hair, still slightly damp from the shower, was tied in a loose bun, and she was wearing comfortable sweatpants – definitely not an outfit she would show herself in public, but perfect for a work session.

In front of her lay two devices. The first was her own phone, covered with a complex network of spells and magical safeguards that allowed it to function in a magical environment. The second was a completely new construction, the result of her joint work with Malfoy – a rectangular piece of obsidian, shiny and smooth, covered with Mesopotamian runes etched in a thin line of silver. It didn't resemble a Muggle phone – it was more elegant, more... magical.

She turned the black obsidian in her hands, examining the runes. They were beautiful – ancient symbols combining into complex patterns which – as Malfoy claimed – created a magical network similar to what Muggles called the "internet." Each rune had its specific task – one was responsible for voice transmission, another for stabilizing the magical field, yet another for adapting to variable environmental conditions.

It was truly impressive. Though she would never admit it aloud, Malfoy's research had indeed proven groundbreaking. Her own efforts to force Muggle technology to cooperate with magic were like banging her head against a wall – sometimes managing to make a small crack, but never a real breakthrough. His approach – creating something completely new, inspired by Muggle solutions but operating on entirely different principles – had proven much more effective.

She put down the obsidian prototype and reached for her own phone. She unlocked the screen, looking at the list of messages. An empty list.

Dray hadn't written. Not once all day.

She sighed, feeling a pang of disappointment. Maybe he was really offended? After so many refusals to meet, it was hard to blame him. How many times could he hear "not now," "maybe later," "I'm busy," before losing interest?

Or maybe he just had a busy day? Maybe he was too occupied to check his phone. Maybe...

"Still analyzing the runes? I admire your commitment, Granger, but if you stare at them any more intensely, you'll bite through the obsidian."

Malfoy's voice pulled her from her thoughts. He was leaning against the doorframe, with crossed arms and that irritatingly self-confident half-smile. His hair, still damp from the shower, fell onto his forehead in a way that – as she had to reluctantly admit – was quite... interesting.

"I want to make sure everything works perfectly," she replied, putting down the phone. "Tomorrow's the big day."

"And everything will work perfectly," he assured her, entering the bedroom. "We've checked every rune at least ten times. The system is stable. Communication works flawlessly. Even Hughes was impressed, and he's never impressed."

"I prefer to be prepared," she muttered, but she put the obsidian phone on the bedside table. "What about your part of the presentation? Ready?"

"Absolutely," he replied, spreading his hands. "I could deliver that speech even if woken at three in the morning, after five Firewhiskies. Actually," he added, "I'm so bored now that I'm about to go crazy."

"Then keep working," she suggested, though she knew it was pointless. When Malfoy was bored, there was no force that could make him focus on work.

"No need," he shrugged. "I'm perfectly prepared. Unlike you, I don't need to check every comma fifty times."

She rolled her eyes but didn't comment. There was a grain of truth in it – she did tend to over-polish everything.

He began to pace around the bedroom, examining the furniture, touching ornaments, as if looking for entertainment.

"What are you doing?" she asked suspiciously.

"Exploring," he replied nonchalantly. "I wonder what else this 'honeymoon suite' has to offer. Maybe hidden doors to a private spa? A miniature rose garden? A love potion dispenser?"

"Please, don't look for more surprises," she groaned. "The chocolate incident is enough for one day."

"Ah, but it was a wonderful incident," he said with a broad smile. "I can't remember when I last had so much fun. Besides, you have to admit that those strawberries were worth every stain?"

Before she could answer, he approached a large, mahogany wardrobe standing in the corner of the room.

"I wonder what we have here," he muttered, opening the doors.

"Malfoy, that's not..." she began, but it was too late.

He opened the wardrobe and froze, staring at its contents with a mixture of surprise and amusement.

"Well, well, well," he said slowly, and that irritating smirk appeared on his face. "Looks like our hotel really took care of every aspect of the 'honeymoon.'"

"What's in there?" she asked, jumping off the bed and approaching the wardrobe. "Oh my..."

The wardrobe was full. But not of clothes one would expect in a hotel wardrobe. Instead, hanging on the hangers was a collection of the most provocative, transparent, lacy, and definitely not meant for sleeping nightwear she had ever seen.

"What is this?!" she exclaimed, feeling her cheeks turning the color of ripe cherries.

"Looks like standard equipment for a honeymoon suite," Malfoy replied, pulling out one of the nightgowns – black, with a deep neckline and side slits that made it more revealing than covering anything. "I wonder if they're in your size, Granger."

"Put that down!" she hissed, snatching the gown from his hands. "This is some kind of misunderstanding. How on earth does a professional hotel for government delegations have such... such..."

"Practical equipment?" he suggested, pulling out another creation – this time red, with feathers on the neckline and material so thin it was practically transparent.

"This is not practical equipment!" she protested, taking this gown from him as well. "This is... this is..."

"A bonus?" he suggested, reaching for the next one – white, lacy, which looked like a wedding dress shrunk to indecent proportions. "An additional service? Attention to detail?"

"Malfoy!" she growled, slamming the wardrobe doors shut. "That's enough. This is completely unprofessional. First thing tomorrow morning, I'll file a complaint at reception."

"Really?" he raised an eyebrow. "You want to go to reception and say you're outraged at finding erotic lingerie in a honeymoon suite that the Ministry reserved for us because everyone thinks we're engaged?"

She opened her mouth to respond but quickly closed it. He was right. It would only create more gossip and misunderstandings.

"Then I'll file a complaint after returning to London," she decided. "Anonymously. In writing."

"Great plan," he nodded, though in his eyes gleamed that irritating flash of amusement. "Though I must admit, some of those creations looked quite... interesting."

"Malfoy!" she exclaimed, feeling her cheeks burning again.

"What?" he asked innocently. "I'm just saying the craftsmanship was high quality. That red one with feathers was particularly eye-catching. I wonder if it would match your..."

"If you finish that sentence," she interrupted him, pointing a finger at his chest, "I swear I'll cast a curse on you that will make you too busy vomiting slugs tomorrow to deliver the presentation."

He raised his hands in surrender, but his smile didn't disappear.

"Alright, alright. No comments about the lingerie. Although, technically speaking, it wasn't lingerie, but..."

"Malfoy!"

"Okay, I'm shutting up now," he laughed. "But I must admit, this trip is much more entertaining than I expected. Honeymoon suite, strawberries in chocolate, mysterious wardrobe... what's next?"

"I hope nothing," she sighed, returning to the bed and reaching for her notes. "We have an important day tomorrow. We should focus."

"You're right," he agreed, though clearly reluctantly. "Although..." he hesitated, and a playful smile appeared on his face.

"Although what?" she asked suspiciously.

"I wonder what the hotel prepared in your drawers," he said, pointing to the dresser standing next to the bed.

"Don't even think about it!" she warned him, jumping off the bed to stand between him and the dresser. "No more exploring the suite. No more 'surprises.' Fun's over for today."

He sighed dramatically but yielded, returning to the living room.

"In that case, I'll sit nicely on my couch," he announced. "But if you change your mind about the red nightgown, let me know. I'll gladly offer my professional opinion."

He closed the door behind him before she could throw a pillow at him.

Chapter Text

Hermione looked at the clock – it was approaching eight o'clock. Despite the air conditioning, the room was exceptionally warm, which combined with a day full of experiences made her feel increasingly tired. The presentation was scheduled for eight o'clock tomorrow, so going to bed early was the most sensible option.

She pulled out her typical sleepwear from her suitcase – a comfortable, loose T-shirt with the inscription "Books are magic that doesn't require a wand" and short cotton shorts. She usually wore long pants, but the Swiss August turned out to be much warmer than she had expected.

After quickly preparing for bed in the bathroom, she returned to the bedroom to gather all her notes and prepare clothes for tomorrow. Her dress was already hanging pressed on a hanger – elegant, navy blue, professional, but also light enough for this heat.

"Going to bed already?" Malfoy's voice reached her from the door, which he had apparently managed to open again. "It's only eight o'clock!"

She turned, crossing her arms over her chest. "Yes, I'm going to sleep. Tomorrow is an important day, I need to be rested."

He leaned against the doorframe, looking at her with a mixture of amusement and... something else she couldn't identify.

"But I'm bored," he declared, as if this was an irrefutable argument. "You can't leave me alone all night with my thoughts. That's cruel."

"You can read," she suggested, pointing to her bag. "I have a few books."

"Read?" he repeated in disbelief. "It's evening in Geneva, in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, and you're suggesting I read?"

"That's a better proposal than searching wardrobes for more indecent lingerie," she replied, raising an eyebrow.

"We could go out," he suggested, ignoring her jab. "Walk by the lake. Or find a café. Or even practice the presentation one more time."

"Malfoy," she sighed, "I'm tired. It's been a long day. Tomorrow is the presentation. I just want to go to bed."

"In those shorts?" he asked, pointing to her legs.

She looked down, suddenly aware of how short her shorts were. She felt her cheeks coloring.

"It's warm," she said defensively. "And it's none of your business what I sleep in."

"Of course not," he quickly agreed, though his gaze lingered on her legs a bit longer than necessary. "I just thought maybe you'd like to use one of those from the wardrobe. That red one with feathers. It would look..."

"Good night, Malfoy," she interrupted him firmly, approaching the door and closing it in his face.

"But..." she heard his muffled protest from behind the door.

"Good night!" she repeated louder.

For a moment she stood, listening. Finally, she heard a sigh and receding footsteps. She exhaled with relief and headed toward the bed.

She drew the curtains, turned off the light, and slipped under the blanket, setting her alarm for six in the morning. She intended to go through the entire presentation once more before breakfast, just in case.

Despite her fatigue, her mind was still working at high speed, analyzing the day's events – from the awkward situation at reception, through the chocolate battle, to the discovery of the wardrobe's contents. It had been a strange day. Very strange. And although she tried not to think about it, she couldn't forget that moment on the bed when Malfoy was lying on top of her, holding her wrists, his face so close to her own...

"It didn't mean anything," she muttered to herself, turning to the other side. "It was just a stupid accident."

With that thought, she finally closed her eyes, allowing fatigue to overwhelm her.

She had the impression she had slept for just a few minutes when something woke her up. A soft knock, and then a whisper:

"Psst, Granger. Wake up."

Hermione opened her eyes, disoriented. The room was dark, only the moonlight streaming through the gap between the curtains. She glanced at the clock – 22:07. She really hadn't slept long, maybe half an hour.

"Psst, Granger!" Malfoy's voice came from behind the door, this time a bit louder. "I know you just fell asleep, but you have to hear this!"

She groaned, turning to the other side and covering her head with a pillow. What had he come up with now?

"Granger!" another knock, more insistent. "Come on, it's important!"

With a heavy sigh, she dragged herself out of bed and approached the door. She opened it abruptly, ready for confrontation.

"Malfoy, I just fell asleep!" she hissed. "Tomorrow's an important day, remember?"

He stood before her in the corridor, clearly excited. He had changed – he was wearing dark pants and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. He looked as if he was getting ready to go out.

"Do you hear that?" he asked, ignoring her irritation.

Hermione frowned and pricked up her ears. At first, she heard nothing but the silence of the hotel corridor, but after a moment she caught – somewhere in the distance, muffled but distinct – the sounds of music. A lively, joyful melody, with a hint of something that sounded like traditional Swiss instruments mixed with modern rhythms.