Chapter Text
Antonin
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There was no missing the changes the second he strode out of the Floo.
Seemingly overnight, festive decorations had been vomited all over the Ministry of Magic’s Atrium: wreaths, garlands, and warm snow falling from the sky stolen straight from Hogwarts’ holiday handbook. Someone had even charmed the floor to look like a sheet of ice, which seemed a terrible idea to Antonin. He wouldn’t be surprised if some dimwitted fool fell on their face before realising none of it was real.
Not even the coffee cart remained unscathed; the perky witch who handed him his daily cup and wore a fur-trimmed red cap chirped “Happy Holidays!” at him like a damned greeting card. Her grin faltered at his responding grunt.
He hated Christmas.
All the holiday did was remind him of everything he didn’t have: anyone to celebrate it with. Yes, there was Thorfinn and, by default, Pansy, but the last thing he wanted to be was a third wheel to their sickeningly sweet love story. Then there were the Malfoys, who always made sure to invite him to their parties. He appreciated the thought even if he never accepted. Maybe if they hosted them anywhere other than the Manor…
What he would give to experience the Christmases of his youth, clouds of his breath mingling with his mama’s as they watched the dancing lights and clutched steaming mugs of her homemade sbiten. Throwing snowballs and making angels with his younger brother on Christmas Day. Curling up near the hearth to watch his babushka prepare his favourite dishes.
Those days were long gone.
If he snapped a little more sharply at his co-workers, made the lunch lady warble with a snide comment, and cast a Silencio on his door–damn whoever thought it appropriate to cast Celestina Warbeck throughout the department–well, it was mostly because he simply wanted to focus on his job and not let some pesky holiday to distract him.
“Psssssssst.”
Antonin jerked around to find young Theodore Nott leaning into his office. His fellow Unspeakable was not wearing their standard robes, choosing a jumper that had instead been knitted to look like a bare, prominently muscled, torso. Chunky words teased, “Ho, Ho, Ho for you.”
He snorted. He might hate the holiday, but that didn’t mean he’d lost his sense of humor.
“What do you want, Theodore?”
Bottom lip jutting out, the wizard crossed his arms. “How many times do I need to remind you to call me ‘Theo’? Everyone else does.”
Antonin clicked his tongue before replying. “And how many times must I remind you to knock before entering?”
“I did knock!”
That’s when he remembered the silencing charm. Blyat.
“What. Do. You. Want?” he repeated.
Theo’s growl made a convincing imitation of a bear cub, a comparison that was only solidified with his head of brown curls that, from what Antonin picked up, a fair number of Ministry witches and wizards alike seemed to adore.
“Why are you always such a grump? It’s like you haven’t gotten shagged in Salazar knows how long–”
“Theodore!” Antonin barked.
“Fine!” Hands up and eyes wide, his insufferable co-worker finally got to business. “Granger asked for you.”
He couldn’t help his surprised blink. Hermione Granger requested his presence? Ever since his application to the Department of Mysteries had been miraculously accepted, she’d been largely absent from his day-to-day life. They interacted as needed–always professional, always polite. He’d even made sure to see her directly on his first day to apologise for everything he’d done to her during the war, not that any amount of grovelling would ever be enough to make up for his atrocities.
She’d accepted his apology, even gone so far as to ask him to put the past behind them and focus on their work. He’d thought himself outrageously lucky then. He thought himself still lucky now for her continued professionalism whenever their projects overlapped.
He knew she and Theodore worked together in the Time department. Restoring all of the lost Time-Turners would take a lifetime, especially with the improvements they sought to add to the next generation.
What could she want with him now? There weren’t any upcoming projects that he knew about requiring their teamwork.
“Do you know what she wants?” he asked cautiously.
“Not a clue,” Theodore said, shrugging. “She just asked you to visit her office whenever it was convenient for you.”
“Why didn’t she just send me a memo directly?”
“I was already on my way to go consult another grumpy wizard,” Theodore answered, winking suggestively.
Potter, no doubt. Not that he thought himself and the Head Auror at all similar–Theodore hadn’t been exactly discreet about his current obsession, flitting off to the fourth floor more frequently than any excuse of a “consultation” could disguise.
Antonin had been in the middle of a particularly troublesome bit of Arithmancy, but taking a break might actually help him come up with a solution later. He glanced at the clock on the wall.
“Let her know I’ll be there in 10.”
Giving a mocking salute, the younger wizard swivelled on his heel and shut the door firmly behind him.
Antonin immediately strode towards the full-length mirror hanging the length of the door to check himself over.
Uniform and shoes, impeccable.
The lines of his recently trimmed beard and mustache stood out sharply.
His hair…
He brushed a hand through the loose waves. He could go for a cut, but had put it off as usual. The only capable witch he allowed to wield sharp objects anywhere near his neck had her hands currently full with running her popular boutique during the holiday season. Any spare time Pansy had left was reserved for her boyfriend, who could be a needy man even on the best of days.
A quick glance at the clock showed he still had five more minutes. If he took his time on the walk, he’d arrive exactly when promised.
Antonin had to disillusion himself twice on his way over, first from Wanda, the department’s head administrator who had an unquenchable compulsion to throw herself at him like he was an oasis in a desert. He didn’t have the heart to report her for inappropriate conduct. She was harmless to a man like himself, even if she had a frighteningly strong grip.
The second time had been when the Malfoy heir appeared in the distance. He didn’t have any issue with the young man, but he wasn’t in the mood to be pressed yet again to attend the family’s New Year’s Gala. They knew his answer. It wasn’t going to change.
Now he stood in front of her door, the golden plaque that adorned it as shiny and smudge-proof as always. The first knock went unanswered. As did the second.
“Madam Granger?” he called loudly and firmly after his third knock.
Silence.
Just as he’d decided to lean against the wall and wait, a purple memo zipped from the side and smacked him in the temple.
“Blyat!”
He snatched the note out of the air, cursing the Ministry’s continued use of the blasted means of communication. Smoothing it open, he recognised the neat script instantly as Hermione’s.
To Antonin Dolohov,
Please accept my apologies for the delay. I’ve been waylaid for another 15 minutes. You are welcome to wait in my office, if you like.
Best regards, Hermione Granger, Head of the Department of Mysteries
Chewing on his lip, he contemplated whether or not to return to his office.
It felt wrong, despite her invitation, to enter alone. This was her private space, and she was his superior.
And he was not as reformed as he appeared.
The best thing he could do would be to turn around and walk away. His urges should not be indulged, especially where she was concerned. While he’d apologised to her, she hadn’t known everything that he had apologised for, not the least of which involved the scar that still decorated her chest that she didn’t even bother to cover up or glamour.
He turned the doorknob and entered.
He immediately crossed himself, as if any deity would protect him from her vsratyy office.
Every surface was covered with decorations, from the Christmas tree sitting in the corner that had to rival her for height, to the snowflake cutouts adorning her bookshelves and desk, and even to the greenery draping across the ceiling.
The same snow that fell in the Atrium did so here, as well. Of course the talented witch had a hand in recreating that tricky bit of magic. There was even a festive melody tinkling in the air coming from an unknown source–the bells adorning the garlands, perhaps?
He eyed the white and red striped poufs in front of the desk. The transfiguration was perfect, not that he expected anything else from her. If anyone could transform the standard-issue chairs from their hideous and uncomfortable forms into these all-too inviting seats, it would be Hermione Granger. Impressive, but, also, not the wisest choice. They basically begged for the initiated to take a nap rather than pay attention, much less get any amount of work done.
Her own chair was noticeably less cosy, the scarlet and golden monstrosity almost a throne with its size. How would she react upon returning to the sight of him seated there, a lord presiding over his kingdom and demanding fealty?
His preferred method of worship veered far off from his former master’s demands. Less fanatic purification, more…carnal in nature.
Since Antonin valued whatever meager life he had left to him, he sat his arse down on a pouf, crossed one ankle over the other, and studied his surroundings. He’d been in here a handful of times as required, but he’d never had the time to truly study the space in detail.
Decorations aside, Hermione Granger displayed a distinct lack of personal effects. Where were the photos of her famous trio of friends, or, at the very least, anybody that wasn’t the squashed face of her ginger cat? The only frames adorning her walls and shelves showcased various credentials and works of art, including, to his surprise, an oil painting by Rabastan Lestrange. He hadn’t noticed it the last time he’d been in, so it had to be new.
He’d known her to be more open minded than many of her peers towards the Azkaban Reformation Program, but here was concrete proof of it. He’d have to tell Rab later about the discovery; the wizard would be beyond giddy about the news.
Bells hanging from the doorknob jingled gently, and he swiftly turned to find Hermione arriving exactly when she said she would. Her glittery jumper was bedecked with countless golden stars that shimmered as she moved, almost distracting him from the way her black pencil skirt hugged her arse.
“Antonin.” She greeted him far more warmly than he thought he deserved, but he accepted her handshake nonetheless. Firm and not too brief. “How are you?”
He cleared his throat as she rounded her desk, trying valiantly to not gawk at her outfit.
“I’m fine. Thank you for asking. And, yourself?”
She rested her head against the tall backing of her chair. “I was in a good mood until Terry nearly shorted out all of the brains.”
“Are you serious?” He knew Terry Boot was ambitious, but even that seemed a step further than the wizard would usually take.
A hum was her answer, and she waved a hand to open the nearby cabinet. A tea set flew over to them and poured two cups. “Sugar? Milk?”
“No, thank you.” A quirk of her lips, gone nearly as quickly as it appeared, before they sipped their tea and sighed in mutual appreciation at the unadulterated beverage.
She couldn’t tell him what, specifically, Terry was working on; that was the nature of the Department of Mysteries. They knew who worked where, but none of the details beyond that. Terry was in the Brain Room. Theodore, Time. And Antonin…
“I wanted to talk to you about your vacation days.”
He spent all of his time in the Love Room. He’d intended to continue to do so through the holidays while everyone else was out.
“I’m listening.”
“You’ve hardly used any of them, and they’re set to expire with the New Year.”
“I know.”
She frowned. “And, yet, you plan on working regardless?”
“I do.”
Her brows jumped high on her forehead. “I realise I’m probably the last person to speak on overworking, but is there really no other place you’d be–”
“Hermione.”
That smart little mouth stopped mid-sentence, and he couldn’t help but imagine putting it to use somewhere else far more intimate.
“I assure you that there is nowhere else I’d rather be.”
She made an adorable sound of disbelief, part snort, part scoff. “What about Pansy and Thorfinn’s holiday party–”
“Not interested.” Especially with how rowdy their parties could be. The last thing he wanted to see were countless couples wrapped up in one another.
“You know, I could just force you to take the rest of the month off.” Her chin jutted out stubbornly, as if the idea of her threatening Antonin didn’t excite him.
He leaned forward, elbows propped up on his knees, and stared her down. “I’ll show up anyway.”
“Not if security won’t let you in.”
He stood, then, taking pleasure in the way her face lifted to maintain eye contact. Were she his, he would have praised her, perhaps allowed her a bit of reprieve from the task he imagined such a pose would imply.
“You will do no such thing.”
He would have done well to remember that Hermione Granger was not a witch easily intimidated. Not when she was a mere slip of a girl, and certainly not now.
She followed suit, shoving her chair back and standing tall–only coming up to his collarbone–and narrowed her eyes in disapproval.
“I can, and I will. You’re an excellent worker, Dolohov, but I will not stand by and watch you work yourself to death.”
This hellion of a witch had no place caring about his well being. No place, at all. Cynically, he thought perhaps it wasn’t so much concern as it was ego that compelled her actions. Despite the way the rest of the wizarding world saw him, it still wouldn’t look good for the esteemed Hermione Granger to be seen as uncaring. There were still those that were bitter over her progress in creatures’ rights who’d be more than happy to label her a hypocrite, one who pushed her employees too hard. Some even thought her shift in departments yet another strategic move on her path to the top.
“I assure you that I am healthier than I have ever been. In fact…” He eyeballed what he could see of her, from the top wisps of her curly hair, past her pouty lips, and down to her heaving breasts. “...I think it’s you who is in need of some time off.”
“Excuse me?” she said indignantly.
In for a Knut, in for a Galleon.
“When was the last time you took a vacation, hm?” He leaned further over her desk, unable to resist lessening the gap between them.
“That’s hardly the issue here,” she sputtered.
To his glee, she refused to step back, keeping their proximity dangerously close. He’d only have to bend his neck to taste her, to bite down on that plush lip of hers. There was no missing her quickening breath, or the way her eyes rapidly flitted down to his lips before snapping back up.
“Stop trying to distract me!”
“You make it a bit difficult looking like you do.”
She gasped, outrage colouring her cheeks to a sweet peach. “How dare you!”
He stood back up, immediately mourning their closeness, but fully aware he was one memo away from an HR disaster. Antonin gestured as he explained, “Your jumper. It’s very bright.”
“Oh.” Seemingly mollified, she eyed him warily as an awkward silence filled the space between them.
He let the moment stretch a bit longer, unwilling to concede on his original plans. Perhaps he’d gone about this the wrong way. From what little he knew about his boss, he at least thought she’d appreciate a bit of honesty.
He sighed, shoulders sagging in what he hoped was a convincing manner, and affected the most pleading tone he could muster.
“I really have nowhere else I’d rather be. I do not enjoy the holiday season for personal reasons I would rather not disclose. Working will help me keep my mind busy and productive. Please allow me to work through New Year’s. I promise to take a vacation once the holiday is over.”
The fire in her eyes simmered, then cooled.
When she sank back into her chair, he knew he’d won.
“Fine.”
“Thank you.” He meant it, too.
That’s when she dropped her own Howler.
“It’ll just be you and me, then.”