Chapter Text
Friday, December 24, 2010 - 6:38 pm
“Again with the charmed mistletoe?” Hermione demanded incredulously, stuck to the floor of the Ministry ballroom where the annual employee Yule party was about to begin. She looked up and narrowed her eyes at the foul plant in question, before leveling her angry gaze back at the true culprits. “I’ve already told both of you how incredibly problematic this is, when it comes to consent-”
“Ah, but we considered that!” George raised a finger. “Right, Ron?”
“Eh, right.” Ron did not appear to be particularly interested in engaging his ex-wife in an argument about consent. They’d parted on good terms, but there were still limits to what their post-divorce friendship could withstand.
“And we made some adjustments,” George added, looking significantly at Ron and elbowing him. Though Ron was an excellent partner in most aspects of running Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, George had never quite been able to accept his inability to fill Fred’s shoes when it came to snappy conversational duets.
Hermione narrowed her eyes at Ron in a way that portended bat bogies. Everyone present had enough first-hand experience to know that Ginny had taught her well.
“It won’t let anyone kiss you if you don’t want them to!” Ron blurted out, red-faced and desperate. George grimaced at him, shaking his head despairingly at his brother’s total lack of panache.
“And just how is that determination made?” Hermione demanded skeptically, raising a brow at George, who she suspected to be the brains behind this particular operation.
“A true magician never tells.” George rolled up first one, and then the other sleeve of his purple velour blazer with a coy flourish. “But for you and you alone, Ms. Granger: a little from column A, a little from column B, some complicated arithmancy running analysis on body language paired with a charm assessing chemistry…”
“But that’s absurd!” Hermione's brow crinkled in full indignation. “We’ve been over all of this before, and you know as well as I do that physical response is not the same as permission.”
“Hermione, Hermione.” George played at being wounded. “You are forever underestimating us. Though, to be fair, Ron usually deserves it.”
“Hey!” Ron protested around a mouthful of figgy pudding that he had produced from his pocket, and which Hermione suspected he had nicked from the kitchens. The party hadn’t started and hors d'oeuvres weren’t even being served yet, let alone pudding.
“First of all,” George continued, “witness it in action.” He began to move into Hermione’s personal space and was immediately bounced back forcibly, as though he had walked directly into an invisible wall made of rubber.
“Well, that at least is good news, as I’d rather not be anywhere near either of you right now.” Hermione spoke through gritted teeth.
“Secondly,” - he flashed her a showman’s smile, lifting two fingers - “you can override the mistletoe’s kiss-approval sensors by clearly stating, ‘I DO NOT GIVE CONSENT.’”
“But I still have to be kissed by someone before I can move.” Hermione tried to keep her voice level, but her eyes were burning furiously into George and she was seriously considering setting his robes on fire. “Which, as we’ve been over, is incredibly problematic!”
“Third,” George went on immediately, anticipating this point. “This mistletoe accepts any kiss. A kiss on the cheek, the hand, the tip of the fingernail… Surely there is someone in this room you would kiss on the cheek in greeting anyway.” He put a hand on his chin and tapped a finger against his lips pensively. “Although, if you ask me, that particular loophole sucks the fun right out of a beloved holiday tradition…”
“Oh, save it.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “As though anyone needs a romantic custom based around a toxic parasite, not to mention how steeped in patriarchy its entire history is…” She glared at George for good measure. “And that’s without even including the fact that you’ve modified the tradition with magic to make it compulsory- ”
“And given you a way to essentially opt out without personal cost in a room full of people who you allow to kiss you on the cheek in greeting on a regular basis. All while ensuring that the fine employees of the Ministry aren’t short on Christmas cheer!” George clasped his hands with satisfaction, grinning winningly at Hermione. “And that concludes our promotional pitch for Consent-Yule Mistletoe, available for public purchase next season pending a successful trial!”
“You’re not calling it that!” Hermione groaned in disbelief, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes and grimacing before remembering that she had put on Muggle eye make-up for the party. She blew out a frustrated breath, then blinked at them, absently running a hand through the tendrils of hair that had escaped from the front of her increasingly unruly chignon. “And what are the two of you even doing here, at an event exclusively for Ministry staff!?”
“And their families!” George supplied merrily. “As you may recall, the lovely Angelina,” - here he gestured across the way, where his very pregnant wife was releasing golden snitches that had been strewn with silver tinsel into the ballroom - “works in Magical Games and Sports and is chair of the Ministry Social Committee…”
He smiled up at Hermione unimpeachably, lifting his hands up in an amiable shrug.
“She asked me to help decorate.”
Hermione, giving up, rubbed the bridge of her nose and sighed. “Well, you can warn her that I will be having words with her on Monday if you like. As for you two, I’m sure Ginny will be more than happy to help me assess and execute appropriate revenge…” Her eyes glinted, and she leveled a calculating smirk at George.
“You wouldn’t!” George's face puckered in protest.
“Oh, she definitely would,” Ron confirmed knowingly.
“And you!” Hermione fumed, her righteous indignation returning. She would have rounded on him if only she could move her damned feet. “Why on earth are you here, Ronald?”
“I got used to coming with you every year.” Ron shrugged a bit pathetically, looking away from her and running a hand through his thinning red hair. “And George wanted my help. I thought it would be a lark.” He hesitated before asking, “Did you bring anyone this year?” Hermione scowled defiantly at Ron as he peered around her as though she may have been hiding a date behind her back.
“If you must know, I’m here alone, but I hardly see how that’s relevant-”
“Consider him your plus one, then!” George said, as though that solved the problem, and clapped Ron on the back. “Now if you’ll excuse us, Hermione, we really must be off-”
Hermione shook her head after them in irritation. “You haven’t heard the last from me about this!” she called after them threateningly and then sighed in resignation. She tested the limits of the charm for the fifth time, but both of her feet remained planted firmly on the floor. She went so far as to try, unsuccessfully, to slip a foot out from her strappy heel before admitting defeat. The charm was thorough, she had to give them that. George was excellent with theory; it was a shame his applications were so insufferable.
Caterers, both wizards and free elves, were beginning to stream into the room with chafing dishes and trays as Angelina’s team hustled to finish festooning the space with greenery and floating candles. On the other side of the ballroom, Luna Lovegood was smiling serenely as she cast languid spells at the ceiling. A column of enchanted snow drifted down gently from each place she had pointed her wand.
Resigning herself to her circumstances, Hermione straightened out her cocktail dress, a lovely spaghetti-strapped knee-length affair made from ruched burgundy velvet. She was certain her face was a mess, judging from the smudged eyeliner on her hands, and she could feel her hair threatening to burst free from its tenuous updo at any moment. There was simply not enough Sleekeazy’s in the world. So much for the polished, professional, festive look she had fastidiously planned.
It was fine, though. Surely there was no harm in the Ministry’s Director for Equity and Inclusion spending the entire duration of the Ministry holiday party looking an absolute mess trapped beneath a sprig of enchanted mistletoe. It was only the networking event of the season, on which hinged the solidification of several important alliances, but no matter. No, of course not, no harm at all.
She was probably overreacting. Harry would arrive any moment, forever gallant, and grant her a chaste peck. Or perhaps she could even lure a friend into kissing her on the cheek in greeting without noticing the mistletoe. As long as she got out of this mess before Malfoy arrived, she would live this down, and her co-worker was always fashionably late.
Sure, the fully reformed former-Death Eater was her long-time strategic partner and right-hand man in magical creature and Muggle-born civil rights education, but he would never not be her former schoolyard nemesis. They got on very well these days; their successful working relationship had been streamlined by years of fifty-hour weeks, coffee breaks, working lunches drafting curriculum or legislation… all punctuated by their good-natured acerbic grousing. They were certainly friends now, but Hermione could envision no possible realities in which Draco found her stranded under charmed mistletoe and didn’t take the piss.
Morgana’s left tit! Hermione scrunched up her nose in dismay as she glimpsed a sleek white-blonde head move through the growing crowd. Malfoy sashayed into the office ten minutes late every morning, but today of all days, he had to be five minutes early.
Hermione turned her head as far to the side as she could, trying to be inconspicuous. But alas, here he came, raising a hand in casual greeting and strolling her way.
6:55 pm
“Looking well, Granger!” Draco called pleasantly as he reached Hermione. “You look lovely, actually.” His voice was sincere as his grey eyes swept over her approvingly, but when they reached her own eyes, which were now rather raccoon-like, he raised one brow skeptically. “Only-”
“Oh, Merlin’s balls, Malfoy, don’t look at me like that,” Hermione grumbled, her cheeks turning pink. “I know I’ve smudged it, only I haven’t a mirror-”
“Here, let me.” Draco stepped close to her, and her breath hitched involuntarily as he brushed a stray curl from her face. He’d broken through the boundary of the mistletoe enchantment, she’d noticed, but such charms weren’t always foolproof. And though he hadn’t ever kissed her on the cheek in greeting before, after all their years as colleagues working closely together, she wouldn’t think twice if he did. So perhaps that was all it signified, that she wouldn’t mind so terribly if he kissed her cheek in greeting and freed her from this torment.
But then again, perhaps it meant something more.
Inches away, Draco surveyed her eyes thoughtfully, and she couldn’t help but watch his murmuring lips as he swiftly cast an admittedly clever combination of cleaning and glamour charms. When he had finished, Hermione looked a question at him.
“Now, don’t look at me like that, Granger,” he drawled amiably. “I used to help my mother get ready.” He surveyed her appraisingly, considering his work. “Much better.”
“Thank you.” She could not keep the ruefulness out of her tone. “You look pristine, of course.”
“Only you could make that sound like an insult, Granger,” he returned with a game quirk of his lips and a playful shake of his head. He really did look dapper tonight, decked out in the latest in wizarding formalwear. His fair hair was tastefully tousled, the sharp lines of his face quite handsome above his crisp white shirt and black silk bow tie.
Draco’s keen grey eyes sparkled silver as he smirked at her. He really could smile at you in a way that made you feel singular; Hermione knew better, having watched him leverage his social graces for their shared professional advantage countless times. Witch Weekly’s Bachelor of the Year, indeed. Even if it did make her stomach lurch giddily sometimes, the way he could look at her like she had hung the moon, she knew better than to assume it was real.
Although, of course, there was always a chance that it might be real after all.
Imperative one was distracting him in order to keep him from noticing the mistletoe. “About the upcoming Unlearning Pureblood Prejudices workshops, I was thinking we ought to rework the order. You need to tell a personal story earlier-”
“Oh no, Granger,” Draco protested, narrowing his gaze at her dryly. “I told you, no work talk tonight-”
“But Malfoy, it’s very time-sensitive and-”
“Hush, Granger. Look-” He stepped off to her side, placing his left hand on the small of her back as he surreptitiously gestured to the far corner of the room with his right. “There’s Hiram Bones from the Hogwarts Board; we need his vote if we want the new curriculum to be mandatory for third-years, so let’s go give him the old razzle-dazzle-”
“You just said no work talk.” Hermione squinted at him critically, her hand on her hip. She would much rather start an immature and pedantic argument with him (their specialty!) than have him discover that she was stuck in place.
Malfoy arched a disdainful brow at her. “You’re impossible tonight, Granger, what’s got your knickers in a twist? This is networking, the whole reason we’re here. Besides, I can enjoy myself while socializing with our contacts, and if it happens to benefit our cause, well, so much the better-”
“So you don’t enjoy yourself with me?” She was grasping at straws here, trying and failing to sound offended. Anything to stop him from attempting to make her cross the room with him.
Draco looked at her with confused concern. “I’m not saying that, Granger, and you know it,” he answered plaintively. “Now let’s go over there and do what we do best-”
He tried to guide her gently with the hand that was still resting at the small of her back as he stepped forward, but of course, she did not budge. He wrinkled his brow as he searched her face in puzzlement. Hermione, caught out, felt her face fall. Draco tugged at her waist again and tilted his head in thought. Then, to Hermione’s abject horror, he looked up.
“Ah, well, that explains it.” His words were wry, his eyes twinkling in amusement. Keeping his hand on her waist, he stepped around to face her directly. “Weasel 1 and Weasel 2, I take it?”
“Who else?” Hermione moaned, trying not to resent his evident glee. “That’s what my knickers have been in a twist about, as you so delicately put it, if you must know. Now, if you’ll just give me a quick peck, we can go seduce Mr. Bones-”
“Not so fast, Granger,” Draco said huskily, stepping closer to her. He tightened his grip on her waist and brought his other hand around the back of her neck, where his thumb aimlessly stroked the soft skin of her nape. Hermione felt a spreading warmth low in her belly.
Draco’s grey eyes drilled into hers with a focused intensity, and she couldn’t tell whether or not he was having her on. “What makes you think,” he drawled in a saucy whisper as he tilted his head to the side, “that I want to kiss you?” His breath ghosted over her ear.
“Malfoy,” she hissed, eyes round. “People are looking.” One of her hands had somehow landed on Malfoy’s waist. With the other one, she fidgeted awkwardly with the hem of her dress, glancing feverishly around the room. Appearances mattered in their line of work… and yet, feeling his long, lean body so close to hers, she couldn’t quite force herself to care. Giving in, she let go of her dress and threaded both of her hands around his neck. For balance, she thought to herself wishfully, though the greater part of her knew better by now.
“Let them look,” he whispered, and then he drew back to look at her. His hands now encircled her waist. She shivered as his thumbs, cushioned by the velvet of her dress, brushed softly over the sides of her stomach. Draco’s eyes were boring into hers, full of heat and challenge. She didn’t know what any of it meant.
“Are you going to help me or not?” She widened her eyes at him in exasperation. A blush was rising on her cheeks.
“Granger,” he said softly, gazing into her eyes intently and a little sadly. Sometimes he said her name as though it were a prayer. His nose brushed hers, and she could feel his breath on her dry lips. “If I were ever to kiss you,” he breathed, his voice incredibly solemn and his mouth impossibly close, “it wouldn’t be because of any mistletoe.”
With a surreal feeling as though perhaps she were dreaming, Hermione leaned in towards him instinctively, tilting her head up and to the side. Just before her lips could brush his, Draco pulled back the smallest amount, away from her lips but close enough that his nose was still touching hers, his eyes never leaving hers. It was subtle enough that it might have been a mistake, or nerves, or simply a pause.
And now she was committed.
Hermione twined her fingers through the silken hairs at the base of his skull, pulling him towards her as she closed her eyes and leaned in to kiss him. Anticipating the brush of his lips, she felt… nothing. She opened her eyes to find Draco had taken a small step back, though his face was still mere inches from hers. His shoulders had stiffened beneath her hands; his eyes were closed and his expression was pained. Inexplicable hurt flared through her wildly, and her face crumpled as she looked up at him in question.
“No,” he said, very quietly, “don’t take it wrong, Granger, but not like this.” He gazed down at her sadly, pressing his lips together.
The moment was broken. Hermione exhaled in frustration and cast her eyes up at the mistletoe.
“I DO NOT GIVE CONSENT,” she intoned loudly, and Draco was immediately propelled backward a good foot, landing unceremoniously on his bottom. Parvati Patil raised an eyebrow from nearby, and from somewhere in the ballroom Hermione heard the shutter of a camera click.
“What the hell, Granger!?” Draco issued a dismayed stage whisper from the floor, suddenly camera-conscious once more. Standing, he took a moment to carefully brush the wrinkles out of his formal robes. He may have worked through his prejudices and devoted his life’s work to fighting the ideologies of blood purity and magical might, but he remained rather vain.
“If you aren’t going to kiss me, Malfoy,” Hermione said with a cold shrug, “then please go find someone who will.” He shot her a look that she knew to mean, We’ll talk about this later.
“Well, I’m sure Prince Potter will be along to save you shortly. I’ll send him your way if I see him.” Malfoy’s voice was clipped, but he couldn’t quite keep the amusement out of his eyes.
Hermione tried her best to frown at him, but her lips kept quirking up. It was harder and harder to stay mad at him lately, though she certainly tried. Her anger had evaporated, but unfortunately the feeling in the pit of her stomach, a heady combination of desire and disappointment, hadn’t gone anywhere.
“Harry’s not your errand boy, Malfoy.” She rolled her eyes.
“Not yet,” Malfoy acknowledged with a wistful sigh, “but a man can dream. Later, Granger.” He winked at her as he waltzed away.
7:49 pm
Hermione strode purposefully towards a particular balcony after gritting her way through a series of strategic social interactions. Professional social lubrication always went better when she and Malfoy did it as a team, but she could manage on her own in a pinch. And managed is just what she had done: managed to finally escape after enduring twenty minutes of Elphias Doge droning on about the importance of maintaining and respecting ancient ritual traditions.
She told herself that she wasn’t looking for Draco, that she just needed some air, but she knew that she was deluding herself. She also knew exactly where to find him.
Sure enough, there he was, leaning back against the wall of the building, shielding the ember of his lit cigarette from the wind with one elegant hand.
“Granger.” He said her name like a proclamation, amiably enough. “We meet again.”
“We always do,” she shot back in a jokingly resigned tone. Joining him against the wall, she sighed and held out her hand. “Could I bum one?”
“You don’t smoke,” Draco informed her, lifting a brow.
Hermione let out a tired little groan and absently massaged her stiff neck with her right hand, her left still extended to receive a cigarette. “I do tonight, Malfoy.”
“Far be it from me to police anyone’s vices.” Draco shrugged, handing her a thin cigarette. His fingers brushed hers and she felt her belly warm again.
“Don’t worry, they’re ethical.” He flashed her an ironic smile and took a long drag.
“Good to know, though that doesn’t make it a less dangerous or less disgusting habit,” she griped back.
He shook his head at her wistfully, biting back a smirk. “It is so like you, Granger, to lecture me about the perils of smoking in the midst of bumming a cigarette from me…”
She held the cigarette between her lips and gave Draco an expectant look. Leaning nearer to her, Draco lazily raised his wand and cast his trademark modified Incendio, perfectly calibrated for lighting a cigarette without scorching one’s eyebrows. The hand he’d raised to block the wind brushed her cheek, and it seemed like an accident, but with Malfoy one could never be sure. Hermione looked him in the eyes, inexplicably fierce, as she inhaled.
He was still quite close, and she caught a whiff of him: tobacco and mint, cedar and sugar cookies. Hermione hummed happily and closed her eyes in satisfaction as she took her first pull on the cigarette with the casual air of someone who had definitely done this a number of times before.
“You do smoke!” Draco accused, delighted. His eyes were alive with amusement. “How the hell did you manage to hide it from me?”
“I did smoke,” Hermione admitted. “Now I only do it when I’m drunk. Or on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”
“Which are you now?” Draco's voice was perfectly deadpan - he blew out a series of truly extravagant smoke rings, which served no purpose Hermione could see other than showing off. With great effort, she attempted not to think of the potential implications regarding just what he could do with that mouth.
“The latter, clearly.” Hermione groaned, not mentioning that it was largely because of him. “I wish I was drunk. No one spiked the punch this year, and I'm almost disappointed.”
“You’re full of surprises tonight, Granger,” Draco said fondly, his eyes meeting hers in the dark.
“As are you, Malfoy.” She endeavored to stay arch, but gave him a long, meaningful look.
He did not deign to respond, and for a while they smoked in companionable silence.
“You got free, I see,” he observed casually. “I suppose Prince Potter saved the day after all?”
She snorted. “Hardly. It was Luna, actually, bless her soul. She kissed my elbow, if you’ll believe it, but she insisted on calling it my weenus.” Hermione wrinkled her nose in displeasure.
“Sounds like Lovegood.” Draco chuckled. She watched him surveying the rain-drenched city, where the slick streets were at risk of turning icy.
At length, Draco stubbed his cigarette out on the wet iron rail and cast it into the waiting ashtray. Hermione’s bare arms were covered in gooseflesh. “Granger, you’re shivering,” he said quietly, grasping her left forearm as he met her gaze.
Hermione shuddered, and not from the cold. There was history there, and he knew exactly what he was doing.
He had this way of looking at her like they were playing a chess game. Is that really the move you’re going to make?, he seemed to be asking her with those incisive eyes, at basically all times. She found it equal parts thrilling and exhausting.
“I'm fine,” she insisted stubbornly, shaking her arm free and stomping out her own cigarette, then crossing her arms and rubbing her hands over her cold biceps.
“You are not.” He eyed her with great petulance, slinking out of the black wool cape of his dress robes and settling it over her shoulders carefully.
“Fine, you freeze then.” Her voice was cavalier, but her subtext was, Thank you.
He’d left his hand resting artfully on her shoulder when he had arranged the cloak over it. Now his arm was around her, gently drawing her into him.
She shifted a little closer, feeling the pulsing warmth of him along her side, but kept her aloof gaze leveled at the London cityscape sprawling out below them. There was plenty at stake here. She took her time, considering.
“Why tease me?” she finally asked, in a small, defeated voice. “Why not just… kiss me, or not?” She looked up at him evenly, her eyes vulnerable. “Is it about power for you? Even after all these years?”
“Unggghhhh.” Draco groaned, closing his eyes morosely. “I’ll never get used to Gryffindors. For the record, it’s not about power, but if it were, do you think I’d simply tell you?” He rubbed his free thumb into his eye socket and exhaled through pouty lips.
“Would you specifically tell me specifically?” Hermione asked, determined to make some kind of point. Her dark curls had escaped her chignon completely and were tumbling out over her shoulders. She shot him a shrewd look. “Yes, I think you would.”