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Draco’s calves burned with each slap of his trainers against the pavement. The brisk morning air whipped against his already flushed cheeks and filled his aching lungs. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he darted past a pair of Muggle tourists who had their heads buried in a paper map whilst trying to navigate the city.
Though he’d rather be flying his beloved broomstick—which was far too risky to consider around so many Muggles—running was his next preferred method of escapism. It was primitive, however it never failed to clear his mind. Truthfully, he had despised exercise when he was young, but had taken to strenuous runs during the summer before his sixth year. His late night runs around the Hogwarts grounds had been a refuge after every failed attempt at repairing the Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of Hidden Things.
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‘Why did it have to be you?’ Granger’s words from the night before mocked him as he redoubled his efforts, trying to outrun them.
She had no idea how many hours he spent pacing in his office, contemplating what to do with her case. He’d gone back and forth on it for weeks, debating his poison; did he torture himself by spending the week alone with her or drive himself mad wondering what Mcarthy or Smith were doing with her in the meantime?
In the end, he knew there was no one he trusted more than himself to keep her safe, not even Blaise.
His mind ran through every moment of the previous night. ‘Didn’t you and Zabini have anyone else from your company to send?’
It was at that moment that Draco realised that he had never mentioned Blaise’s name the night before. It was Granger who had brought him up. Had she kept tabs on him after Hogwarts like he had with her?
After rounding a corner, he could see his destination in the distance. With one final burst of adrenaline, he increased his pace and ignored the jabbing pain in his side until he came to a halt in front of the tall glass doors of the hotel. Doubling over with his palms pressed to his knees, he drank in lungfuls of air and felt his racing heart slow with each breath.
By the time Draco entered the hotel room, he was feeling revitalised and ready for the day. He stepped into the suite, feeling the tingle of his wards from head to toe, and lifted the hem of his exercise shirt to wipe away the perspiration on his forehead.
A clatter caught his attention, and his hand instinctively fell to his wand which was securely fastened inside the pocket of his grey joggers.
“Malfoy, you’re back.” His grip relaxed instantly at the sound of Granger’s voice.
He closed the door behind him and passed through the kitchenette of their suite to the common living space. Granger was curled up in an armchair with her knees tucked under herself and a cup of tea in one hand. She still wore her sleepwear, and his eyes caught on her oversized jumper which featured an obnoxious flashing Holyhead Harpies logo. Considering Granger’s dislike of Quidditch, he assumed the jumper must have been a gift from the girl Weasley.
Her hair was up again today.
Bollocks.
It was difficult to suppress the urge to cringe when he realised the first thing she would’ve seen when he walked back into the hotel was his sweaty and bare abdomen. He hoped to Merlin that he had at least been flexing.
“I went for a morning run,” he mumbled in response to a question she hadn’t asked.
Granger hummed softly, appearing in a slightly better mood than the night before. “A little warning would’ve been nice.”
“A warning? You barricaded yourself in your room at the first possible moment last night.”
“You still could’ve left a note. I woke up and your door was open and you were gone. I thought you’d been kidnapped for ransom, or perhaps I’d scared you away already,” she mused while using a small spoon to stir her tea. She tapped the spoon twice against the lip of the cup before setting it on the saucer.
“Worried about me?” he quipped on instinct.
“More like I was contemplating how utterly irresponsible it was for my security detail to up and disappear like that with no notice. To quote your own words, I could’ve died,” she declared, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Draco couldn’t help the way his nose scrunched in distaste. Did she think he wasn’t qualified to keep her safe? “I’ve completed a full sweep of the hotel, not to mention that this suite is as fortified as Gringotts. Just what do you think poses a threat to you? The furniture?”
“Obviously not; we both know that the sofa doesn’t have it in it to take a life.” She rolled her eyes and set her saucer down on the end table. “What if the tea had been poisoned?”
“That’s absurd, I brought that tea myself.”
Her eyes widened and dropped to her cup, staring at the pale pink liquid. “You…” Her annoyance disintegrated and she lost her words.
Knowing what she was about to say next, he cut her off, hoping to avoid the conversation entirely. “Malfoys never trust tea supplied by others, not after my great-grandfather Actaeus Malfoy nearly succumbed to a cup of Earl Grey from his brother.”
“Poisoned tea, how terribly unbritish.” A ghost of a smile toyed with her lips.
He shrugged before retrieving a bottle of water from the refrigerator. The chilled liquid formed a layer of condensation on the glass and he chugged it before replying, “I won’t tell the Queen if you don’t.”
“You don’t know the Queen.”
“Of course I know the Queen,” he scoffed, and set down the glass on the countertop with a clink. “I’m a Malfoy.”
She stared at him for a moment before huffing, “I hate that I can’t tell whether you’re serious or not.”
Draco’s fringe clung to his forehead and he became suddenly aware of how sweaty and sticky he felt. “We have an hour until the rest of the attendees begin arriving at the conference. How about we leave in fifteen minutes and pick up breakfast on the way there?”
“I’m not feeling particularly hungry.”
Fear gripped at his chest, stealing his breath away. Granger did have more colour in her cheeks than normal, and a flushed face could be indicative of a fever. Loss of appetite was an early indicator of over a dozen illnesses, some mild, some fatal.
It was his mother’s first symptom.
His hand twitched with the urge to run a dozen diagnostic spells on her. “You should’ve mentioned that right away, Granger. Will you let me run a few tests? I need to check your vitals.”
She pulled the sleeves of her jumper down and twisted the material in her hands. Her face turned even more red the longer he stared. “My vitals? I’m not ill.”
“You just said you weren’t feeling hungry,” he repeated back slowly, enunciating each word. “I’ve never met anyone more obsessed with breakfast food in my life. You’re saying that you are voluntarily missing out on some of the best breakfast in the world?”
“Maybe nothing sounds good.” She sounded defensive. “Besides, I never told you that I was obsessed with breakfast.”
“Now you’re just being difficult. You feel fine but nothing sounds good? Absolutely nothing?”
She bit the inside of her cheek and narrowed her eyes.
He decided to accept her challenge and asked, “What about a freshly buttered baguette?”
Granger answered with a shrug.
“Or pain au chocolat?”
She gasped. “How dare you use chocolate against me?”
“Not to mention beignets.”
“Fine!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. “You win.”
“I always do.” He smirked. “Fifteen minutes?”
All he received in return was a roll of her eyes and a slam of her bedroom door.
“I still think you’re absurdly overdressed. You’re wearing a full suit—what if someone mistakes you for a conference worker and not a participant?” Granger’s cheeks grew pinker and there was a sort of breathlessness to her words.
Draco was starting to wonder if he should insist on checking her temperature. If her complexion didn’t return to normal soon then he would have to insist. He followed her gaze down to his freshly polished dragonhide shoes and arched a single eyebrow. “I’m wearing a fifteen thousand Galleon suit. No one of consequence will make that mistake.”
She took another bite of her breakfast and chewed slowly. Her eyes fluttered shut and he could tell she was trying not to groan with delight.
“Happy?” His question was entirely rhetorical. When Granger had her favourite foods, she was the personification of joy. She always had a wiggle to her shoulders and a sway to her head, like she was dancing in place to match the enthusiasm of her taste buds.
“I would eat this for every meal the rest of my life if I could,” she declared through a mouthful of bread.
“I don’t doubt that for a moment.”
“So, what’s your job like?” she asked, sucking strawberry jam from the tip of her finger.
He fixated on her index finger, remembering when he held her hand in his and healed that very finger before everything changed.
“I can’t imagine it’s fun following people around every day,” she added.
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“I run the company. My days usually consist of meetings and numbers. I don’t… it’s unusual for me to take a job like this.” Before she could even ask the question, he answered, “Everyone in the company has a specialty. I specialise in dark magic and dark creatures which makes me the most qualified for this particular job.”
Her fingers fell to her necklace, absentmindedly twirling the pendant. “If there’s such a variety of work, how do you know who is qualified to work for you?”
“We have a series of mental, physical, and magical requirements that all employees have to meet. After that, we take into consideration special talents or skill sets and hire according to the customer demands and the gaps we have in our current team.”
“What sort of mental requirements?”
“You know, they have to be even-tempered, quick thinkers in unusual situations, able to handle—” He paused, tightening his eyes at the corners as he saw her snicker. “What?”
“Malfoy, ‘even-tempered’.” She let out a snort that would’ve been offensive if it weren’t so endearing.
“I’m even-tempered!”
“I once saw you kick a plant,” she informed him in a matter-of-fact tone. “How is that even-tempered?”
He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “I assure you, it was provoked and completely necessary to deescalate the situation.”
“I’m beginning to think you don’t know what the word ‘deescalate’ means.”
“And I’m beginning to think that you don’t know what that plant was capable of,” he retorted.
Grey fucking joggers.
Hermione had spent her entire career up to this moment working her arse off. Late nights and weekends spent pushing the limits of modern potioneering for the sake of innovation. Now that she was on the precipice of sharing a breakthrough that would revolutionise the monthly transformations for those afflicted with lycanthropy, all she could think about was Malfoy’s grey fucking joggers from that morning. The suit he had changed into before breakfast was doing her no favours, either.
She pressed the backs of her hands to her cheeks, hoping to relieve the burn coursing through them. She would learn nothing at the conference this week, she was sure of it.
“…seen better protective charms on a diary than you have for this venue!” Malfoy’s voice carried a sharp edge of irritation as he continued his rant at the security.
She wanted to hide from shame. Her only consolation was that they were so early the only witnesses were staff. This Malfoy was far too uptight for her liking. Everything about his body language screamed his unease; his shoulders were tense, his eyes analysed everything around them with apparent distrust, and his hand hovered near his wand as if he were prepared to use it at any moment.
Hermione had survived a war and kept Harry and Ron alive for months while they foraged for Horcruxes. She had faced Death Eaters three times her age and Voldemort himself. It was ridiculous to suggest that she couldn’t handle herself against a few anonymous threats from a werewolf pack.
A woman with a blonde bob cut approached them with a dazzling smile. “Excuse me? Hi, I’m Aline, one of the organisers of the conference. Perhaps I could be of some assistance?”
One of the security guards murmured to the other, who chuckled.
“Finally, someone capable.” Malfoy glared at the guards before turning his back to them. “I’m appalled at the lack of preparation and security for this event. At the very least, I expected you would have secured Aurors for the week—instead of those bumbling fools.”
Aline shifted her clipboard to rest in the crook of her arm and extended her hand to Malfoy. “Ah, Mister Malfoy, I was expecting to speak with you this morning.”
“Don’t tell me his reputation preceded him all the way to France,” Hermione quipped as she watched them shake hands. “What gave him away? The blond hair? The shoes that cost more than my flat?”
“Actually, the badge,” Aline replied with a curt nod towards Malfoy’s guest badge on the front of his suit coat. “I was the one who personally approved his credentials for this event as a personal favour for John Laurent; we attended Beauxbatons together.”
That was a surprise to Hermione, who had heard very little from John about his days at Beauxbatons Academy. Her boss had always been a man of few words, and had simply informed her that she would have a security escort at the company’s expense. She briefly wondered if she should stay and probe for stories from his school days, but the temptation to slip away from Malfoy was stronger.
“As I told John, I understand given Ms Granger’s high profile during the war that you would be concerned about her safety, but I can assure you that we’ve taken all appropriate measures for an event of this size. Would you feel more comfortable if I walked you through the schedule and plans for the week?”
“I absolutely would,” he answered immediately. “Granger?”
Hermione waved him off. “Go on; I’ll be busy wandering the room and contemplating whatever grave offenses I must have committed in a previous life to deserve a week spent with you.”
“Hilarious.” He couldn’t have sounded less amused.
“Maybe I sabotaged a treaty between nations who were previously at peace. Even worse, I must have entered a restaurant five minutes before closing and ordered a three course meal. Or I could have introduced an invasive species that took over an ecosystem and threw the entire—”
“Granger.”
With the air of an experienced professional, Aline diverted her attention to one of the many documents on her clipboard.
“Go on, I can manage myself while you focus your neurotic tendencies towards someone else for ten minutes. No one is even here yet,” Hermione muttered.
He skimmed the room to see that she was correct. “Fine. Just be aware of your surroundings at all times, don’t touch anything, and don’t talk to anyone while I’m gone.”
She turned on her heel, ignoring Malfoy’s scoff as she walked away.
It took approximately five minutes for her to find someone to talk with and purposely break Malfoy’s rule. A mousy man with thinning brown hair was pacing back and forth in front of a collection of photographs with introductions on the session leaders for the week. He had paused in front of Hermione’s photograph.
“Hello! It would seem that we are the earliest attendees today. My name is Hermione Granger; it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Hermione thrust her hand out and gave him a bright smile.
The man’s eyes widened and darted between her photograph and herself. “M-m-ms Granger!” He wiped his hand on his trousers before shaking hers with vigor. “I have read about you in the British media. I am Igor Petrov.”
His hands were still clasped in hers when the hair on the back of Hermione’s neck stood straight up and Igor looked behind her, swallowing hard.
“Granger,” Malfoy said tersely.
She didn’t even have to look back at him to know that he had to be giving poor Igor the classic Malfoy sneer.
“It was n-nice to meet you. I should be going.” Igor rushed away so quickly that she didn’t even have time to object.
Hermione whirled around and swatted at Malfoy’s chest. “What was that? You have to be less intimidating or I’ll never meet anyone this week.”
“Fine by me,” he grumbled, clutching a pamphlet and some papers, presumably from Aline.
She shifted her weight to one hip and crossed her arms. “What is your problem?”
“Only that I have to protect a witch with an apparent death wish. His English was suspiciously fluent. He could be a planted assassin.”
She put her hands on her hips, visibly exasperated. “The entire venue has a translation charm on it so we can communicate without a language barrier. It is an international conference.”
“Still could be an assassin. It’s always the stuttering ones. Do I have to remind you about Professor Quirrell?”
“Are you going to be like this the entire week?” she hissed at Malfoy, who was more concerned with flipping through the pages of the pamphlet than paying attention to her.
He gave a noncommittal grunt in reply.
Just then, a large group entered the main room of the conference centre.
“Oh, look, more international secret assassins I can befriend,” Hermione declared, knocking her shoulder against Malfoy’s arm as she brushed past him.
“Fucking hell, Granger.” He rushed after her, dropping several papers in the process. “Why are you always so difficult?”
“Hm. You must have me mistaken for someone else. That certainly doesn’t sound like me.”
By the time the opening orientation wrapped up, Malfoy wasn’t even talking to her—not that she minded. He just followed her from session to session, silently listening to the speakers while remaining alert to the crowd around them.
A bespectacled man with tufts of grey hair clashing against his dark locks wandered up to the pair as the final speaker prepared their demonstration on the main stage.
“Excuse me, young man.” He caught Malfoy’s attention. “You look familiar, but I can’t quite place you. Have we met before? My name is Albert Jones.”
Malfoy stiffened, and Hermione could feel his shift in body language. She hopped in before he had the chance to reply. “You must have seen him in the newspapers a few years back. This is Michael Benson, and I sponsor his education at Hansen Labs. He was displaced in the Niffler raids of ’93; quite tragic, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
Albert’s gaze softened and he tsked. “Of course, I am practically an expert in that subject. That must have been very difficult for you. I’m so sorry for your losses.”
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As quickly as he had appeared, Albert dismissed himself and faded back into the crowd around them.
“What were the Niffler raids?” Malfoy asked with his brows knitted together.
Hermione glanced over her shoulder and back at him. “Something I made up. Albert is insufferable and ‘practically an expert’ in everything. He’s a bit like Slughorn where he only cares about those with influence. I once spent nearly three hours during a conference in Barcelona trying to escape him. As a fake refugee from an unknown family, I just saved you from being captive to his ramblings, so you’re welcome.”
“I don’t understand. Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of ‘networking’?”
“Was I wrong to intervene?” she asked dryly. “You speak like a Malfoy, and if he recognised you, word would spread and I doubt you’d ever see daylight outside of this centre again. You were the one who said that I could explain your presence any way I liked.”
“And you’re going to make me regret that, aren’t you?”
She shrugged and looked him up and down. “You know, if you’re going to be here all week then you might as well prove your worth in entertainment value.”
“Entertain—” he gritted his teeth. “I’m proving my worth by keeping you alive.”
She made a high pitched sound of skepticism. “That has yet to be proven. Terrance!” She waved down a nearby man with strawberry blond hair and a suit two sizes too large for his small frame. “Terrance, this is my lab assistant, Benjamin Ravens.”
A vein twitched under Malfoy’s eye as he shook Terrance’s hand.
“Pleasure! What is your area of expertise, Benjamin?”
“Magical creatures. I know you have a penchant for the field and Benjamin is a leading expert,” Hermione supplied with a grin. “Don’t let him convince you otherwise—he’s just being modest. I’ll be right back, don’t move an inch.” She gave Malfoy a small push forward before darting away.
In her younger years, Hermione never would’ve considered her height as a strategic advantage, but it certainly helped her escape Malfoy as she disappeared into the dense crowd. She hoped to leverage his Pureblood manners against him to buy some time. He was too polite to brush off company that quickly, and in the meantime, she could seize the opportunity to introduce herself to the Swedish potioneers she had spotted not ten minutes prior.
Lars and Oskar Nilsson were two brothers who had presented during the first session that morning, and Hermione was overflowing with questions to ask them. She found the blue-eyed siblings by themselves near the edge of the crowd towards the main exit.
“Look, Oskar, speak of the trolls! It is Ms Granger!” Lars declared, wiggling his finger at her in recognition.
She fought back the urge to laugh at the Swedish idiom. “Hello! It’s a pleasure to meet you. I was hoping to speak with you two about the experimental technique that you had mentioned earlier this morning.”
Oskar made a soft sound of acknowledgement and then asked, “Are you perhaps related to Hector Dagworth-Granger?”
She was pleasantly surprised by how inviting and friendly they were, despite their rather standoffish appearance during their demonstration. Perhaps they had just been nervous about brewing live in front of an audience.
“Oh, no, I’m—”
“We are very impressed with your great-grandfather,” Lars continued with a nod of his head and a look shared with his brother.
With a puff of his chest, Oskar added, “We are also part of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers.”
“Are you now?” she asked faintly. “I had a few questions about a footnote at the end of your speech. You mentioned testing new uses for Abraxan hair in potion-making, but I was wondering how you managed to stabilise it for long-term use. We’ve considered developing a new cream for the Children’s Ward in St. Mungo’s in the department next to mine, but the hair is rare and typically loses its potency before we can complete the brew.”
Lars lowered his voice to a whisper, as if sharing a secret. “We have found better results when the hairs are extracted and prepared by someone who is using an Abraxan hair wand core. It releases with less damage to the Abraxan and doubles the shelf life.”
“That’s fascinating!” Hermione exclaimed. “Just imagine the implications. It would almost imply that the Abraxan’s temperament impacts the quality of the hair.”
“Abraxan hoof shavings also have medicinal qualities.” Malfoy’s drawling voice made her jump. She’d nearly forgotten about him. “We grind them into a powder and mix in the juice of pufferfish eyes to make a paste for particularly stubborn venomous wounds.”
Hermione whirled around to face a smug-looking Malfoy. “How did you know that?”
“We have some Abraxans at the Manor.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
He shrugged, inspecting the Swedes with a critical stare. “My grandfather was named Abraxas, and my grandmother thought she was funny by gifting him creatures similar in name that were equally stubborn.”
From behind her, Lars gently cleared his throat, and heat creeped up Hermione’s chest and neck in embarrassment. “My apologies, gentlemen. This is my co-worker, Ernie Boils.”
Malfoy not so subtly leaned in and whispered, “Twenty minutes ago I was your assistant. Did I earn a promotion already? If I move up the corporate ladder too quickly people might suspect I did something untoward to earn it.”
She silenced him with just a single look.
The two walked together through the streets, and a tension lingered in the air between them. Draco had lost all his patience from Granger’s seemingly insatiable need to drive him mad. She spent the entire day either fuming and silent or trying to pawn him off on fellow academics so she could escape his detail. It was one thing that she didn’t take any of the threats on her life seriously, but it was another that she couldn’t even seem to stand his presence.
Unless he could figure out a way back into her good graces, she would continue to place herself in danger just to avoid him. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco caught sight of a small bookshop. It was barely visible off the main cobblestone path and had a train of ivy growing up the side.
It was perfect.
He took Granger by the elbow and half-dragged her in that direction.
“Hey! What are you doing?” she protested, attempting to dig her heels in before quickly conceding.
“You’ve been a pain in my arse all day and I even fed you breakfast,” Draco grumbled, pausing in front of the painted bookshop door. “I know that you aren’t exactly fond of me, but we have to spend the week together whether you like it or not.”
Her eyes flashed with something he couldn’t place and her shoulders slumped forward. “Then what is this? A bribe for my cooperation?”
“We both know I’m not above strategic bribery.”
She glanced at the quaint shop, taking it in. “Did you plan this?”
“No, but when I saw it I knew that if anything could improve your spirits, it’s this.”
“Then it’s a trouvaille,” she announced, reaching for the gold-plated handle. “Something lovely that was discovered by chance. I suppose that makes it a good omen for the week.”
Letting out an audible sigh of relief, Draco followed her inside.
The shop seemed to instantly transform Granger from the snarky woman he’d spent the last day and a half with back into the one he knew at school. She weaved through the aisles with a skip in her step and efficiently skimmed through dozens of books, creating a pile as she went.
Halfway through the shop she spotted a silver bound book at the topmost shelf. He watched with amusement as she attempted to grab the book which was just beyond her reach.
“Did you forget that you’re a witch?” he murmured, his smile evident in his voice. Draco stepped around her and picked up the book with ease before handing it to her.
She clutched the book against her chest and craned her neck up to meet his eyes. Her voice was barely above a whisper when she said, “Force of habit, I suppose.”
And for a moment, they were suspended in time.
The words were on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill out. Before he could say anything, a sharp ringing from the shop doorway broke the spell of unspoken words between them, and he stepped back.
“Well, Malfoy. I’d say your bribe was a success.” She glanced around the shop, looking pleased with her spoils.
He held his breath, eager for even a sliver of optimism. “Was it? Did the food and books work in my favour?”
“An infallible duo.”
“Speaking of food, I’m not inclined to skip dinner again tonight. Any objections to picking up takeaway on the way back to the hotel?”
She looked like she had something on her mind, but she simply replied, “No objections here.”
He bent over and picked up the remaining books that she had selected. “Does that mean we have a truce?”
Placing the silver book on the top of his stack, she nodded once. “I think so, that is if you—”
“I do,” he quickly answered. “We can even add a dessert. Something chocolate?”
She smiled, and for the first time in their trip, her smile was real. “That sounds perfect.”
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