Body Got Me Twisted

by Hypothetically

Summary:

Draco Malfoy doesn’t mind his job until Theodore Nott needs to clean up a PR mess and hires Hermione Granger.

It’s not like Draco stalks her in the society pages…

Or has an issue with how his body responds to her clothing choices…

Or

Draco Malfoy is a virgin and keeps getting Cindy in HR to ban Hermione Granger from wearing almost everything.

Notes:

Hi. Idk what this is and I'm not use to Romcoms… don't take me or it to serious and idk squint for plot. uploading weekly (or actually probably more because I can't stop writing this)

lightly beta. Its just gonna be a self-indulgence of sorts.

See you at 9pm on Sunday (actually before because my patience again is zero)

Chapter 1

It was Draco’s fault, of course. He’d opened the door. That was his first mistake.

Theo walked in wearing yesterday’s clothes, clutching a half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey, already shouting about betrayal. Not his, obviously, just betrayal in general, as a concept. 

Draco didn’t know. Honestly, he wasn’t even caffeinated yet.

He collapsed into a chair as Theo muttered about investors, reputation, and something Rita Skeeter had written, the words spilling together as he poured liquor into his juice.

Stocks were crashing. Deals were dead. And apparently, they were all raging sexists now.

Draco hadn’t even made it to his second bite of toast.

Theodore Nott had started a business after the war. It had taken a little time to get off the ground, but to everyone’s surprise, including Theo’s, it had started to do well. He said it was about offering second chances. In reality, it was about using his father’s vaults to fund a company that gave Ministry-approved jobs to people no one else wanted to hire.

It was a smart move. Especially for someone who managed to avoid a Dark Mark and any real consequences. 

They contracted out mostly. Draco never paid much attention to what exactly they were contracting. Things showed up. Things left. People filled out forms. He assumed that was normal. Or legal. Probably both. Maybe. No one had knocked on the door yet, so it all seemed above board. 

Draco joined the company after his house arrest ended, mostly because the Ministry strongly insisted he do something productive to prove he wasn’t just another washed-up rich boy with a cult tattoo and a seedy past.

Also known as: you were a Death Eater, now you’re our bitch.

Theo’s offer of employment had been the easiest to accept, minimal talking, breathable air, and a refreshing lack of corpses or snakes draped over boardroom tables. Not that he’d actually seen the boardroom. He assumed it existed. Offices usually did. He wasn’t about to go wandering just to check. He had his own office, painted in a shade best described as Azkaban chic, and that was enough sightseeing for him.

It was appropriately bleak. Almost homey, if anyone asked. No one asked. Then Rita bloody Skeeter had to get involved.

Her latest article accused the company of being an old boys’ club in disguise. Something about “gender imbalance” and “archaic hiring patterns” and a line Draco vaguely remembered about “charming incompetence propped up by inherited gold.” That one might’ve been about him, specifically.

She wasn’t wrong. But it wasn’t exactly right, either. There were some women. One for sure, maybe two, probably more he was almost certain of it.

It wasn’t an active decision. He didn’t think, anyway. It just… happened. Voldemort didn’t put value in anything but the pure, and the place for a woman was not at his table.

His aunt Bella was the exception. But she was more of a man than his uncle ever was, and maybe that’s why the Dark Lord picked her as head of house instead of the idiot she was tied to.

So after the war, the women who decided to go back to work willingly didn’t have many issues. They didn’t need Theo’s business like the rest of them. They were hirable, apparently.

“Ah—finally!” Theo perked up mid-rant, springing out of his chair as Narcissa entered the room.  “A woman!”

She paused just inside the doorway, one perfectly arched brow lifting. “Sharp as ever, Theodore.”

As Theo launched into whatever that was going to become, a house elf appeared beside Draco, quietly setting the Daily Prophet on the table in front of him. Draco muttered a distracted, “Thanks,” and unfolded the paper without looking up.

His mother's flat response didn’t deter Theo. If anything, it encouraged him. He rushed to pull out her chair like they were at a gala and not at the dining table, then poured her tea with a theatrical flourish, elbow out, pinkie raised, the whole production.

“Have I mentioned how stunning your hair looks this morning? Regal. Absolutely radiant.”

He slid the teacup toward her with both hands. “Cissa, have you ever thought about…I don’t know… a job?”

“No, my love,” she said smoothly, lifting the cup. “But I assume you saw the lovely issue in this morning’s paper.”

“It’s dreadful,” he whined, stomping his foot as he dragged his chair closer to hers, then dropped his head onto her shoulder like a child. 

She began petting his hair absently, as if this were all very routine. Unfortunately, it was. 

Draco didn’t bother watching their weird little display, Theo draped across his mother like some tragic Egyptian housecat. He flipped the paper open instead, skimming the headlines with the kind of disinterest that took years to perfect. 

He wasn’t even reading, just letting his eyes wander until, of course, they landed on the Society Section. Apparently, there was some ridiculous thing called a speed dating event at the Leaky. 

Speed dating. Whatever that was. Some kind of race? Brooms involved, maybe? Or duels? Did you win something at the end, or did they just shove a marriage contract across the table and remind you that love was optional but heirs were not?

He was still mentally dissecting the absurdity when his eyes caught the headline: Golden Girl On to the Next?

And there she was, of course. Because even in whatever mating ritual this was, Hermione Granger had managed to make herself the main event.

Draco took one look at the photo, specifically the trousers, and nearly aspirated his tea.

What in Merlin’s name were those even made of? They didn’t wrinkle when she moved. They didn’t bunch or stretch; they just clung, permanently, like a second skin, like they had a personal vendetta against his sanity.

And the worst part? She looked like she knew it.

The way she stood, hip slightly cocked, talking to someone just out of frame. Her hair was up, her shirt shifted slightly to show a scrap of skin at her back and the trousers, those cursed, diabolical trousers, looked painted on. 

He leaned forward, just slightly, as the photo looped again.

The pants didn’t shift. Not even a ripple.

Was that a spell? A textile-based dark art? Was someone regulating this?

She was in the Prophet nearly every week now, with art exhibits, dinner parties, and random sidewalk photos that somehow looked curated. Keeping up with her had started to feel like a social requirement.

She didn’t even do anything, really. Not publicly. Not like she used to. She just existed, loudly, all the time, in clothes that made his morning unbearable.

His gaze flicked back to the headline On to the next? What even happened to the last guy? The one from the article last week. Or maybe it was the week before. Whatever. She cycled through them like she was testing new robes, none of which, included actual robes.

It wasn’t like he flipped to the Society pages on purpose. He just… skimmed. Casually. In case there was something relevant. And if she happened to be there, well...

He tilted his head as the picture looped again, biting back a groan. Her trousers were positively indecent.

“It’s a brilliant idea, isn’t it, Draco dear?”

Draco didn’t respond right away. He was busy tilting his head like it might help the image reset itself into something less pornographic. Truly and utterly a crime against… something.

“Yes, Mother. Brilliant, as always,” he said, though it came out a bit strangled. He straightened the page. That didn’t help.

“See, Theodore? You should do it.”

“Do what?” Draco muttered, still tracking the slow sway of Hermione’s hips as the photo restarted again. His thumb dragged along the edge of the page, crinkling it. He needed to put the bloody paper down before he lost the last of his dignity right here at the table, in front of his mother.

“Hire her,” Narcissa said smoothly. “Ms. Granger. I hear she runs a rather successful firm now. The ladies were talking about it at tea, and I was frankly shocked at how much their tune had changed. She could clean up this whole Skeeter mess.”

Theo groaned. “That sounds expensive.”

“It sounds effective,” Narcissa corrected, lifting her teacup.

The words barely registered. Then they hit.

Draco slammed the paper down hard enough to rattle the tea beside him. He must’ve misheard.

“Granger? You want Theo to hire Hermione Granger?” His voice cracked. It cracked. He cleared his throat immediately, but the damage was done. He was sweating. Why was he sweating? 

His mother didn’t even flinch. “You just said it was a brilliant idea.”

Theo snorted, already reaching for the paper Draco had flung aside.

“Oh, it is truly brilliant, Narcissa, love. Even if she doesn’t clean up the mess, at least I’ll have some entertainment as my whole life’s work burns to the ground.”

He leaned in conspiratorially, dropping his voice to a theatrical whisper.

“I don’t think I’ve seen him this worked up since before sixth year. Back when his hair didn’t bounce and his soul wasn’t in tatters.”

Draco felt heat crawl up the back of his neck as his mother leaned over to peer at the image with far too much interest. She hummed, actually hummed.

They couldn’t be serious.

Hiring her would be… no. Absolutely not. That would be reckless and entirely inappropriate. Not because of anything he felt, he didn't feel anything, because she was… she was.. she wore trousers like that in broad daylight. And she was everywhere. Every time he opened the bloody paper, there she was, existing in a way that made it impossible to focus. It would be a disturbance to the office which would be unprofessional. 

He stood abruptly, yanking his tie straight, dignity unravelling by the second. “Would everyone stop—”

Narcissa didn’t even look up. “He was charming back then.”

Theo gasped. “He was insufferable. It was adorable.”

Draco made a strangled, indignant noise from across the room as he paced. He hated this game, the way they volleyed off each other effortlessly, always at his expense, never once staying on topic. Like if they tossed enough words around in just the right order, they could confuse him into conceding. And it was working. His palms were clammy, his collar too tight, and Merlin, why was it suddenly so bloody warm in here?

Theo watched him flail with the delight of someone witnessing a particularly dramatic opera. He leaned back in his chair like he was settling in for the final act.

“There it is,” he said, almost reverent. “Life in the eyes. I thought we’d lost him.”

Draco whirled on him. “Fuck off. Tell Cindy to ban whatever those are if we’re now hiring,” he snapped, stabbing a finger at the image.

There was a beat, just long enough for him to realise he’d accidentally jabbed at the Speed Dating Tuesdays headline instead of the photo.

Bloody perfect.

“Dating?” Theo wheezed, halfway doubled over in laughter, his voice cracking under the effort. “I know you’ve never done it, Draco, but gods, now you want to ban it altogether? Bit extreme, even for you.”

Narcissa didn’t even bother hiding her smirk, eyes skimming the article with detached amusement. “He’s always had a flair for turning personal grievances into public spectacle. Just ask… what was that bird’s name?”

“Buckbeak,” Theo supplied helpfully, like he’d been waiting his whole life to bring it up again.

Draco looked like he might combust. “That hippogriff attacked me.”

“You provoked the poor thing,” Narcissa said primly.

“I was still gravely injured.”

Theo snorted. “So was your ego when Granger decked you. Funny, don’t recall a beheading request for that.”

Draco’s eye twitched.

They were doing it again, twisting the subject until it didn’t resemble the point at all. As if his not wanting those trousers anywhere near his office suddenly meant dredging up every single embarrassing thing that had ever happened to him at Hogwarts. Next, they were going to bring up the ferret incident. Or that one time Potter caught the Snitch by accident. Or—Gods knowing Theo he’d probably bring up the time he couldn’t off their headmaster effectively. 

He snatched the paper back, and groaned, of course, the image restarted right then. Of course, the light caught the curve of her exactly wrong, like it was staged just to ruin his life.

Merlin’s sagging balls.

He tilted it away like that might help. It didn’t.

“No… this.” He jabbed a finger toward the image. “Whatever Granger is wearing. It would be bad for business. They’re indecent. Who let her out of the house in those?”

Narcissa swatted him lightly with the back of her hand, not even looking up from the photo. “She let herself,” she said dryly. “She’s a grown woman, Draco. Imagine that.”

“Oh I’m imagining it,” Theo muttered, fanning himself with the paper. “Very vividly.”

“Shut up, Theo.” Draco’s jaw clenched. “Those trousers should be banned by the Department of Magical Safety.”

Theo nodded solemnly. “Absolutely. I’ll make a formal request. Launch a campaign. Protect Pureblood Values: Ban Whatever Granger Is Wearing.”

Narcissa finally looked up, eyes gleaming. “You’re both ridiculous.”

“I’m serious!” Draco seethed, as if someone, anyone, might take him seriously. 

He could not believe this was his life. A full-grown man, cornered before breakfast, debating Hermione Granger’s trousers while silently weighing whether flinging himself through the nearest window would make a strong enough statement. 

Theo’s grin deepened. “They should form a task force. Operation: Save Draco From Tight-Fitting Fabrics. I’ll chair the committee myself.”

The second story might work. He could pop up there and hurl himself out, so long as he didn’t crush Mother’s roses. She hated it when blood got on the blooms.

“I think she looks quite nice,” Narcissa said calmly, dabbing her mouth with a linen napkin to suppress her smile.

“Mother—”

She didn’t even blink. “It’s just a statement, darling.”

“It’s treason.” 

Draco reached for the sugar dish with a rigid posture. He dropped an absolutely absurd amount of cubes into his cup, more sugar than tea at that point, then took a steady sip, as if that might somehow reset the entire fucked up universe he woke up in.

Theo stood, brushing imaginary crumbs from his trousers, and clapped once. “Well. That seals it. I’m hiring her.”

Draco nearly upended the entire tea service.

Chapter 2

A tight leather skirt.

So tight the seams seemed to strain to keep their place. It clung to her like it had been sewn on in the dead of night. When she bent over a desk to shake someone’s hand, the fabric pulled in a way that made his brain short-circuit.

Draco leaned back in his office chair, not to get a better look at her legs as they flexed, that would be absurd, but to see who she was touching. Of course, it was Robert. The man had the personality of lukewarm tea and somehow the audacity to look smug about it.

From his office, the usual hum of the floor carried on, but there was a shift, a pull, as if the desks and chatter beyond his open door had quietly rearranged themselves to orbit her.

Hermione Granger commanded the room and did it without a hint of professionalism. The black leather skirt was so taut he could map every line of her body and know with absolute certainty there was nothing underneath. The black fitted top was tucked in neatly, pulling clean against her frame, and a blazer hung from her shoulders like it had been placed there by magic. How did it not slide off when she moved? There had to be an anti-slip charm. And why was she in all black? The only funeral she was attending would be the company’s, when this ridiculous plan inevitably crashed and burned.

His hand flexed against the armrest while she laughed at whatever inane thing Robert had said. Theo was there too, leaning casually against the next desk over, drinking her in like she was the only thing worth looking at in the building.

And, well, she was. Which was exactly the problem.

He told himself this was about professionalism, optics, the company image. The fact that every single man in the room was watching her, and several weren’t even pretending otherwise. It was absolutely not about the way she sat, or moved, or breathed. And yet his eyes refused to move away from her. Every inch was infuriating. Every second was an exercise in self-control.

She perched on the edge of Robert’s desk, leather pulled snug, ankles crossing neatly. Her heel tapped against the wood like she was keeping time with his pulse. A slow, steady rhythm that made the men around her lean in without a single shred of shame.

This was bad. Bad for business. Bad for him. Bad for Theo. Bad for anyone who had the misfortune of existing in the same room as her.

Draco was on his feet before he even registered the decision. The chair rolled back with a sharp scrape, and he cut across the office in long, clipped strides, jaw tight enough to hurt. His magic was knotted under his skin, wound so tight it hummed, and it followed him out the door. The slam shook the frame, the crack of it loud enough to make the nearest paper pusher flinch.

Every head turned. Subtlety had never been one of his better qualities.

Hermione’s eyes snapped to him so quickly that it was a miracle he didn’t trip over his own shoes. Not that he would. He had perfected balance like he had perfected everything else worth doing. Clumsy and Malfoy did not belong in the same sentence.

He forced his expression into something neutral and rolled his shoulders like he hadn’t just rattled the room on purpose. People scattered, suddenly very interested in their desks. Good. Bloody perverts.

Theo’s gaze found him instantly, eyes lit with the kind of amusement Draco would very much like to hex out of existence. He was seconds from speaking, from calling him over, from drawing him into some revoltingly cheerful introduction to the woman who was allegedly their company’s new public saviour.

Not a chance. Especially not when she stood and her skirt somehow looked even tighter. That defied the basic laws of magic. It had to be deliberate, some silent, sadistic charm, no doubt cast by the bastard he called his best mate, shrinking the fabric stitch by stitch until Draco had an aneurysm.

Draco turned on his heel before Theo could get a single word out. He walked directly to Cindy’s office. She would agree with him. She had to. She was a reasonable woman. At least, she had been the last time he checked. Merlin help him if she had fallen under whatever spell Hermione was clearly casting on the entire floor.

His magic was still prickling under his skin, and he had the distinct sense it might lash out if anyone so much as breathed in his direction. Every step felt too loud, the sound of his shoes on the floor practically announcing that he was fleeing. Which in his defence he wasn’t. There was nothing to flee from, this was a pre-planned, perfectly normal walk to speak with a colleague.

He reached Cindy’s open door and knocked lightly, pulling the pleasant smile he reserved for his mother as he leaned against the door waiting for an invitation in. 

“Mr. Malfoy, what a pleasant surprise.”

He took that as his cue. 

“Draco, please,” he said, flashing her the kind of smirk that suggested this was just a friendly drop-in and not a strategic retreat from the rest of the building. He closed the door behind him, resisting the urge to lean on it like he was barricading himself in.

Cindy raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?” His hand brushed at an invisible speck on his sleeve before clasping loosely behind his back. That felt too stiff, so he let them drop, then immediately tucked one into his pocket.

She gestured toward him. “The one you get right before you’re about to tell me something that’s going to be my problem.”

He made a low hum, picking up a framed photo from the edge of her desk. “New?”

“No,” she said, amused. “You’ve seen that a hundred times.”

“Of course,” he said quickly, setting it back a little too close to the edge. It wobbled. He caught it. “Steadier than it looks,” he added, as if they were discussing fine architecture.

He straightened and wandered halfway to the chair before changing his mind and circling the desk instead, pretending to study a stack of files. “New cases?”

“Old ones,” she said, watching him with barely concealed amusement.

“Ah, the classics,” he replied, tapping the corner of the stack like he was checking its durability. He moved to the window, peered out for a moment, decided it was too bright, and turned back. “Have you considered blinds? You’d get fewer headaches.”

“I don’t get headaches,” 

He pulled out the chair across from her, sat for all of three seconds, then stood again, smoothing his jacket. “Impressive. Theo gives me one just by breathing in my direction.”

Cindy smirked. “That’s because you let him get to you.”

“I do not ‘let’ him,” Draco said, pacing toward the tea tray lifting the lid on the sugar bowl just to look inside before moving on. “Still sugar cubes. Good. None of that granulated nonsense.”

Cindy leaned back in her chair. “You planning to sit still at any point during this conversation?”

“I am sitting,” he said automatically, then realised he was standing directly in front of her bookshelf, staring at a framed photo of the ugliest little Crup he had ever seen. Or was it a Kneazle? No, Merlin, what was it? Some sort of unholy crossbreed the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures should have outlawed on sight. He pivoted, dropped into the chair opposite her, and crossed one leg over the other with the air of a man entirely in control.

“Mother sent me to invite you to tea at the Manor,” he said, tone perfectly even, as though he hadn’t just done laps around her office. “I told her you were just talking about her last luncheon. You know, the one in the papers. She wanted to thank you in person for your kindness.”

Draco lied.

Well… half-lied. There would be tea, mother just didn’t know it yet.

Cindy reminded him a little of Narcissa, shorter, yes, and with softer features, but just as impeccably put-together. The same crisp blouses, the same air of quiet authority that made people straighten their posture without realising. He had no idea how Theo had managed to talk her into running human resources, but it worked. People naturally gravitated toward someone with a mother’s presence. Draco was no exception.

He came here sometimes purely to escape Theo. “Private HR meeting” meant even the owner had to knock. And Theo could be such a relentless thorn in his side that Draco often had no other choice. Cindy would offer him biscuits, tea, and blessed silence. His dream date. Well, the second dream date, the first one involved Theo resigning from ruining his life and firing Granger. 

“Oh, how wonderful.” Cindy’s eyes lit up so brightly that Draco’s stomach lurched. 

She believed him.

Not that she had any reason not to, he’d never given her one, but still. The fact that she thought this was a genuine invitation and not a flimsy, hastily stitched cover for his actual motives was… baffling. He was a retired Death Eater, for fuck sake. 

His hand dropped from his cuff to the arms of the chair, fingers curling like he was bracing for impact. Brilliant. He’d lied to one of the only decent people here. The gods, or whatever higher power oversaw poetic justice, were already warming up their smiting hands.

He had to pivot. Fast.

“I’ll bring you a formal invitation,” he said, straightening in his chair with the kind of polished composure that had absolutely nothing to do with the chaos stampeding through his head. Inside, his thoughts were shoving each other into walls, fighting for the last lifeboat, and loudly debating whether leaping out the window would be faster than enduring this conversation. “Have you met Ms. Granger already?”

“I did this morning. She filled out some paperwork and handed it in before meeting everyone.”

“Hm.” Draco hummed, already reaching for a biscuit from the tray Cindy floated over. Not because he wanted it,  Merlin knew he could barely swallow with his throat this tight, but because eating meant his mouth was occupied and therefore incapable of blurting out the sort of humiliating truth that would require him to fake his death and move to Switzerland.

“Is there an issue?”

His eyes flicked up to hers. “I don’t think so. I just… I came by and noticed a lot of lingering gazes on her…” He stopped, the rest of the sentence collapsing in his throat. How exactly did one describe the way her hips looked without sounding like a man about to be forcibly removed from the premises? 

He should just mime it. Yes, mime it.

He waved his hands vaguely, trying to sketch the outline of her hips in the air without actually conjuring the mental image in any dangerous detail. The last thing he needed was to sit here like some hormonal teenager in front of the only person in the building he liked. 

“Her?”

“Skirt,” he blurted, way too fast, and immediately inhaled a crumb. He doubled forward, coughing into his fist, which was exactly the sort of dignified image he liked to project. If he keeled over right now, he wanted it on record that this was entirely Theo’s fault. He could see the Prophet headlines: Draco Malfoy, pure-blood, generally respectable when not actively in a purist cult, tragically undone by a biscuit while valiantly avoiding direct thought about someone’s hips.

“It was very inappropriate…” he went on once he’d stopped seeing stars. “The way they ogled her, I mean. My mother would be appalled at a display like that at any of her functions.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice like they were plotting corporate espionage. “You couldn’t, say, slip in another dress code violation, could you? Just a small one. About tight leather skirts.”

“So… leather skirts and denim pants?”

Denim pants?

His brow furrowed. Wait. Was that what the paint on her legs had been during the run-dating fiasco? Why was he still thinking about her legs? He should have been halfway back to his office by now. 

“Just tight ones,” he managed, after a pause far too long to pass for casual. He tossed in a shrug for good measure, the kind that screamed I’m fine, completely fine while his hands busied themselves brushing biscuit crumbs off his shirt. Finally, he glanced up.

Cindy was smiling.

That was good. That meant she agreed…Unless she didn’t. Unless she was smiling because she knew.

Knew what, exactly? Everything. Obviously. She could see it written all over him. Merlin, she could probably smell it on him like some dreadful cologne called Vierge Sang-Pur, Pensées Impures, Any second now she’d fill out the paperwork:

Violation 42a: Inappropriate Biscuit Consumption While Discussing a Colleague’s Skirt.

42b: Attempted Hip Illustration in a Professional Setting.

42c: Excessive Use of the Word “Tight” in Human Resource Office.

And, the career-ender—42d: General Vibe of a Man Thinking About Things He Shouldn’t Be Thinking About in Company Time.

By tomorrow, Theo would be reading it aloud at an all-staff meeting (they had those right?) while passing around the “educational diagram” Draco had unintentionally mimed in midair.

“I’ll get on that right away, Mr. Malfoy,” Cindy said, doing her best not to laugh.

“Draco,” he corrected, standing so fast his knee caught the underside of the desk. Pain shot up his leg hard enough to make his vision blur, but he powered through because nothing screamed composure like limping. “Great. This is perfect. I’ll just…”

He gestured vaguely toward the door, caught his hand on the back of the chair, tipped it backwards, then lunged to catch it before it crashed. Backing out slowly, he kept his eyes on Cindy like turning away might give her sudden Legilimency powers. She was still smiling as he slipped out of her door. 

He didn’t look up again until he was safely back in his office, shutting the door just enough to feel hidden but not enough to feel like he was back at the Manor for those two glorious post-war years of house arrest.

He dropped into his chair, the leather groaning under him. He’d have one of the elves pop a new one over when everyone went to lunch, because now all he could think about was her. With a flick of his wand, an ink well and parchment appeared, not because he was ready to write, but because it made him look like a man with pressing business and not one plotting how to manipulate his mother.

It was always easier to lie to her in writing than to her face. He just had to make tea feel like her idea.

Notes:

Let's pretend it's Sunday? I told you I have no patience. Also all mistakes are mine.

And he will get less awkward as time goes on but he hasn't been anywhere but the manor and work since Azkaban give him a break.

Chapter 3

Today she was in head-to-toe cream, a silk blouse, half unbuttoned, tucked into high-waisted pleated trousers, like she’d stepped straight out of an indecent fashion spread with the sole purpose of ruining his day. The fabric shifted with every move, dipping low enough to show the delicate chain at her throat and the faint scatter of freckles across her collarbones. Faint enough that he almost wanted to get closer, just to see if they formed a pattern. Gold caught the light at her wrists as she adjusted the strap of her satchel. Why had no one offered to carry it for her?

Pigs, the lot of them. Who raised them? Certainly not anyone with a functioning sense of decency, or upper body strength, apparently, because there she was, adjusting the weight of her satchel like some helpless maiden in need of a gallant idiot.

Draco, of course, remained rooted to his chair. Not because he didn’t want to help (he absolutely did not want to help), but because moving would have meant standing. Standing would have meant drawing attention. And drawing attention would have meant someone might notice he’d been staring at her collarbones for an unsustainable amount of time.

She blew a curl out of her face, purposefully, he was certain, and reached into her bag to hand something to a balding bloke. Gary, maybe. It had to be some dreary name that fit the dreary face. How was Draco expected to remember; he had more pressing concerns, like the way her blouse shifted when she leaned, pulling just enough to hint at things that had absolutely no business being visible in a professional environment.

It wasn’t even fitted, if anything, it was the sort of deliberately oversized that women claimed was “effortless” while men like him knew it was a trap. But the way she was breathing, like she’d just sprinted here (was that part of the dating thing again? Did she jog from wherever she lived now? he should really have someone measure the exact distance between her flat and the office), was pushing the shirt to its structural limit. He was fairly certain that one more deep breath and the entire thing would give way, leaving him to witness the collapse firsthand like some sort of morally compromised bystander. Draco shifted, adjusting himself. 

Then she stepped into the light and he caught it, the outline of a matching cream brassiere beneath the silk. Of course, it was cream. The whole outfit was tasteful in that understated way, but daring enough to keep it from being boring.

His eyes dragged up the exposed skin of her chest, tracing her décolletage before flicking back to her eyes… where she was already looking straight at him, head tilted.

Draco’s expression flattened into what he hoped was polite disinterest, though with the very immediate problem under his desk, it was likely closer to the look of a man being marched to the gallows.

Her brows furrowed, and he felt his pulse kick. 

He yanked out a piece of parchment, furiously dipping his quill into the ink.

Add whatever type of shirt Ms. Granger is wearing today to the list… Gary is drooling on the financial paperwork.

—D

He flicked his wand, sending it straight to HR. Every department in the building had access to the same standard privacy charm, a system designed so complaints could be sent directly to Cindy without the risk of anyone else reading them. In theory, it was to protect sensitive information and encourage people to come forward without fear of retaliation.

In practice, no one used it.

Well… no one except him.

Which means that the only complaint she is going to see today is another about Granger… 

The filing room door doesn’t close all the way. This is a confidentiality risk.

—D

He flicked his wand again, because nothing screams “responsible employee” like pretending he cared about document security when in reality, he doesn’t even know where the documents are secured. Fuck.

Two people from Accounting were openly discussing payroll in the corridor. Breach of privacy. Recommend a reminder on discretion.

—D

Okay, now that one sounded official, and Cindy loved official. Crisis averted, or had he overdone it? Drowned the first note under so many other issues that she’d forget all about the actual problem?

Seconds later, a reply flickered back.

Who’s Gary?

Double Fuck.

He really did need to learn their names. 

Notes:

Yes yes. She’s a short one. (The chapter not Hermione but maybe idk) and yes I have uploaded multiple times and said F the upload schedule? So just know it will be (at least) once a week by Sunday at 9pm… yes let’s go with that.

It’s been so fun to just write with barely any thoughts to grammar or grammar rules so like…. If you see anything off, no you didn’t?

I know the writing is different than my usual stuff but i really wanted to try something new and out of my comfort zone.

Expect a few short chapter over the coming days.
I want to get to Hermione interactions and the plot faster so I’ll be dropping more spirals of her clothes before we get into the meat of it.

Chapter 4

The slit was the first thing he saw. High, perilously so, the kind of line his eyes should have rejected on principle, but no, traitorous bastards, they followed it. Up, then down, tracing the bare length until the fabric finally relented at her knee and gave way to the curve of her calf. Black heels, delicate ankle strap, perfectly arched foot.

His gaze should have stopped there. He should have had the decency to retreat while he still had control, but then he noticed the hands. Large, steady, and unmistakably male, fastening the clasp at her ankle with careful attention that turned Draco’s stomach. His eyes jerked upward, his brain several beats behind, until the headline snapped into view.

Rekindling Old Flames? Hermione Granger in Paris with Viktor Krum.

The words bled into the photograph until all he could see was her leg and Krum’s hand on her skin, as though the world had conspired to reward his avoidance with this.

He had dodged work for three days, barricading himself in the safety of his wing. Theo had been cut off from every Floo connection with wards strong enough to withstand siege, owls had been intercepted, and every edition of the Prophet had been forbidden from crossing his threshold. 

He had done everything short of blinding himself. For what? For Dimsworth to stroll in and hand him the very page he had been avoiding, as though the creature had sensed his weakness and decided tonight was the night his master should die.

Draco stared at the photograph again, because apparently, he hated himself. Krum’s head was bent with that irritating Seeker focus, as though fastening the golden buckle of her heel were the Snitch itself, and catching it might win him another bloody World Cup. Above him, her hand was outstretched, a lit fag balanced carelessly between her fingers, smoke curling upward as if the entire scene hadn’t already been staged to break him. She looked perfectly at ease with those grubby hands on her, as though men kneeling at her feet were nothing new.

Well, she hadn’t cared at the Yule Ball either. He remembered it with clarity he wished he didn’t. Krum marched her out like a prize, the pair of them turning slowly under the enchanted ceiling while the whole school gawked. Pansy had sat beside him, hissing commentary about her hair and her gown, but it had hardly helped. He’d been irritated, plain and simple. Irritated at the spectacle, at Krum’s overlarge hands on her waist, at the way she hadn’t looked remotely embarrassed to be in the spotlight. That bloody dress had floated around her like she thought she was meant to be admired. It had been infuriating.

And now here she was again, years later, parading about in Paris with the very same man, as if the universe had run out of original ideas. 

His mind, traitorous as ever, jumped ahead before he could stop it. Married, naturally. A tasteful Prophet spread with the headline From Triwizards sweethearts to Happily Ever After. The wedding photograph would show them smiling in some Bulgarian garden, roses, doves, the whole revolting ordeal. Their brood of Quidditch-spawn would follow…all of them broad-shouldered and broom-obsessed. Hideous little monsters. Except of course, they wouldn’t be hideous, would they? Not with Granger. They’d be clever, charming, well-liked. Golden children with her brains and Krum’s blasted jawline, who would grow up to dominate every room they entered while Draco sat in the corner wondering how exactly his life had come to this.

Draco tipped the bottle back again, his count long since lost, the line between wallowing and alcoholism worn thin. He was desperate for the burn, but it did nothing to dissolve the image lodged in his head.

He couldn’t just sit with it. He had to tell someone. Cindy would understand…she always did. It wasn't an obsession, obviously, just… sharing. It was venting, friendly correspondence between colleagues. Maybe some slight suggestions added in. 

He dragged a sheet forward, quill stabbing at the parchment. His head was spinning as the whiskey hit his bloodstream with another pull. 

C, Smoking is bad for health. Especially in photographs. Sets a bad… exampel.

He squinted at the word, scratched out exampel, rewrote it the same way, then slashed the whole line through and flung the parchment into the fire.

Another swallow from the bottle. A heavier hand.

Kneeling in public = scandal. Not dignified. Not… The ink blotted, the line trailing into a smear. He jabbed at it again. Krum is a fuckboy accessory less than a handbag. Hand—bag. Too heavy. Too stupid.

The letters slid sideways across the page. He groaned, crumpled the mess, and tossed it toward the grate. It bounced off the rug, rolled, and sat there accusing him.

He slumped back, drank again, and grabbed fresh parchment. The nib tore as soon as it touched down.

She is suppost to fix. FIX. Theo’s image. Not BE in the paper. Not headline. Not Paris. Paris BAD. Ban Paris.

He underlined ban six times, each stroke angrier than the last, until the quill snapped.

Another page. 

A different quill. 

His hand shook as he scrawled. Krum = liabilty. Brain = none. Can’t even spell brain. He… head hit too many Blugers. He crossed out Blugers, rewrote Blugers, crossed it out again, then scrawled bludgerz across the margin in a fury.

He stared at it, swore under his breath, and hurled the page straight into the fire.

By the bottom of the bottle, the notes scattered all over the floor had lost all pretence of sense. smok bad. knees bad. ban krumb from life.

The last scrap of parchment in front of him was a disgrace. Draco was educated, proper and if anyone saw the state of this. He blinked hard, as if his vision were at fault, then let his head fall onto the blotter with a groan.

“Dims—worth,” he slurred, voice muffled by ink-stained leather. “Potion. The one that makes me… less.” A vague hand fluttered in the air. “This.”

The elf appeared with a crack, arms folded. “Again?” His tone carried the weight of his annoyance.  He snapped his fingers, produced a vial, and set it down with exaggerated care, eyes flicking toward the note. “Drink, before you add ‘ban Paris’ to your list of demands.”

Draco lifted his head, squinting at him. “I should fire you.”

Dimsworth bent, plucked one of the balled-up notes off the rug and unfolded it. “‘Krum is an accessory with shoulders,’” he read flatly. “Powerful. I tremble at the impact this will have.”

Draco snatched for the parchment, nearly overbalancing in his chair. “Give that back!”

“No.” Dimsworth tucked it behind his back. “If you had any dignity left, you’d beg me to burn it for you.”

Draco scowled, fumbling for the potion instead. He yanked the cork with his teeth, spilt half down his chin, and gagged as the sharp taste hit. The fog in his head cleared too fast, leaving him painfully aware of the pounding in his temples and the sober eyes of his elf on him.

“You mock me,” he rasped.

Dimsworth’s ears twitched. “I keep you alive. Mockery is an extra service.”

Draco shut his eyes, slumped back. He had grown up with this elf. Trusted him more than half the people who shared his blood. Which made the humiliation worse. Somehow Dimsworth had mastered the art of being both caregiver and tormentor. 

“You’re awful,” Draco muttered.

“So is” Dimsworth unfolded another note, glanced down, and sniffed. “‘Smoking is bad for health.’ Groundbreaking.”

Draco covered his face with one hand.

The elf clicked his tongue. “If you truly want Viktor Krum gone, stop pretending these… will accomplish anything.”

“You don’t know that,” Draco snapped, though his voice lacked bite.

Dimsworth’s eyes flicked toward him as he gathered the crumpled parchment, unfurling one with a sigh before dropping it into the fire. Another he snapped out of existence without comment. All the while he rolled his eyes in steady intervals, punctuating the silence, until he slipped one note into his pocket as casually as straightening a sleeve.

“Your father kept folders you know, meticulous ones.” 

Draco groaned, dragging both hands down his face, as if sheer effort might erase the words. The last thing he wanted tonight was a reminder of Lucius bloody Malfoy.

Dimsworth stared daggers into him until Draco shifted upright in his chair, abandoning his protest before it could form.

“Names, meetings, payments, all the sort of things people are happier forgetting. The Krum family appears more than once.” Another note disappeared into his pocket as he spoke. “Not in the obvious places, too clever for that. He hid them where no one would bother to look. Maybe try the Muggle section of the library. Behind the Great Expectations and Pride and Prejudice, if memory serves.”

Draco froze, staring across the room as he could see through the walls. He had passed those spines for years without giving them a thought, written them off as his mother’s collection of curiosities.

Dimsworth folded a blank parchment neatly and set it in front of him. “Cindy isn’t the letter you need to be drafting, an anonymous tip to the Ministry… a few elves whispering about.”

“I couldn’t.”

Dimsworth gave a single, thin shrug. “Then by all means, keep writing health advisories about  smoking. Very compelling.” And with that, he vanishedw.

Notes:

Emyphysema told me to post it now in a TikTok comment so here you go.

We are so close to hermione interaction and I’m so impatient 😭

Chapter 5

“We’re fucked.”

Theo’s voice cracked through the office. He paced behind the desk, coat swinging, eyes alight with impending doom.

Draco sat slumped in the chair opposite, head in his hands. His skull throbbed too sharply for interest. “You’re always fucked. Try being more specific.”

“Krum’s been arrested.” Theo spun on his heel, the paper snapping between his hands.

Draco lifted his head slowly, as though the words were too stupid to register. “And?”

“And?” Theo’s voice climbed into operatic outrage. “We are royally fucked. Double penetrated. All holes, fucked.”

Draco groaned and pressed his palms harder into his temples. “Please. Less graphic. It’s too early for that sort of imagery. I fail to see how this concerns us at all.”

“Of course you don’t.” Theo jabbed the air with the folded Prophet. “Because you were locked up in the Manor doing gods-knows-what with gods-knows-who. I tried every Floo. Every owl. All returned. Who is he?”

Draco let his hands drop just far enough to glare. “I don’t swing that way, and you know it.”

Theo scoffed. “I’m not talking about you getting your willy wet. Merlin, we all know that’s never going to happen. I’m talking about who replaced me. Have they met Narcissa yet? Oh my gods, you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t.”

Draco didn’t dignify it with a response. Silence was safer, even if his stomach churned. He really shouldn’t have emptied the bottle last night. At this rate, starting again at nine in the morning, at his supposed job, was beginning to sound like mercy.

The quiet stretched until Theo straightened his jacket, smoothed his tie, and leaned forward, over his desk. “Don’t worry your pretty little head. In your absence, I’ve been plenty busy. And next time you decide to skip out on this lovely opportunity of love and friendship I’ve so graciously bestowed upon you—”

Draco groaned. “Here we go.”

“—I’ll turn you in to the Ministry for embezzlement.”

That pulled Draco upright, though his tone stayed flat. “I’ve done no such thing, so by all means, please do. A holiday in Azkaban sounds refreshing. I could use a break.”

Theo’s smile spread slowly. “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. The paper trail is extensive. I’ve been curating it since you started, but during your little bitch-fit period, I… accelerated things. More fraud, spread neatly throughout the books. Not just ours… our clients’. Which means when the charges hit, they’ll be far more serious.”

Draco stared at him, colour draining from his face. “You’re joking.”

Theo’s expression didn’t waver, he just flicked the Prophet across the desk like it was nothing. “Now that we’ve covered that, let’s return to the most pressing matter, namely the fact that Viktor Krum has been arrested for war crimes.”

“War crimes. How gauche.” Draco leaned back, unimpressed. “I still fail to register why this concerns you specifically, and I would very much like to return to the peaceful silence of my own office.” 

“Granger was in Paris with Krum as you saw.”

”I didn't.” 

Theo snorted, whispering, “Denial,” under his breath before carrying on without missing a beat.“Sure, dear. As I was saying, Granger was in Paris with Krum. Some elaborate plot. I tuned her out. She really is hard to listen to sometimes, when all you wanna do is look at her.”

His hands cut sharp shapes in the air as he spoke, like the words alone weren’t enough to keep up with his own train of thought. He finally angled a look at Draco, lifting a single eyebrow, that stupid fucking smug smile still gracing his face. “You know?”

“I don’t.” 

“A river in Egypt,” Theo murmured.

He went on before Draco could cut him off. “She finally got him to agree to sign onto the books. Whole plan was to polish the company’s image and put the Rita disaster to bed. One smiling, sharp-jawed hunk on the roster and poof, who cares about sexism when you’ve got a heartthrob like that.”

“You’re just saying words at this point I don't even know why I am here.” 

“We are fucked, that’s why.” 

“As you keep saying.”

A knock rattled the door and Draco went rigid. Theo had lured him in with the promise of a private meeting, complete with reassurances that Granger was out of the office, and now here they were, seconds from catastrophe.

The door handle turned and Draco shut his eyes briefly, sending up a half-hearted plea to anyone listening that he wouldn’t be forced into improvising an escape route. Not that Theo made it easy. His office had no windows, something about liking to shag where no one could see. As though blinds weren’t an option.

Not that Theo had ever been shy about public spaces either. Unfortunately. Draco had witnessed the man in more compromising positions than he cared to catalogue, usually uninvited and always impossible to scrub from memory.

“Mr. Malfoy, I’m so glad you are feeling better.” Cindy’s voice cut through his panic, and Draco finally let the tension ease off his shoulders.

“Much,” he said, offering a polite smile. Not even a lie. He hadn’t been feeling well when she’d penned him, though she probably assumed it was some illness, not the slow-motion collapse of his own sanity.

“I was just about to talk to Draco here about the solution we came up with.”

“No.” The word left his mouth too fast. This felt like a trap. Theo was using Cindy as a middleman to soften the blow, which meant he already knew Draco would snap. He wasn’t going to let them corner him, not again, not the way Theo always dragged his mother into things when he wanted his way.

Cindy only smiled, and the bottom of Draco’s stomach dropped. Whatever fear Theo’s last remark had stirred tripled instantly. Why was she smiling like that? No. No, no, no, no. He didn’t like this. Not one bit.

Cindy clasped her hands, all calm efficiency. “What Theo means is that, given the recent bad press, Ms. Granger feels it would be wise for the company to do something… visible. Public charity events, some positive outreach…” She trailed off.  

Theo leaned forward, elbows on the desk, grinning like this was the best idea anyone ever had. “Oh yes. Picture it, every last one of us dragged into the light. A parade of good deeds. Smiling at orphans, shaking hands with Muggles, kissing the occasional baby if one’s thrust into our arms. We’ll be adored.” His nose scrunched up “Perhaps tolerated?” 

Draco’s stomach twisted. “Absolutely not. I don’t do public.”

“You will,” Theo sing-songed, “because the company needs a heroic facelift, and nothing says redemption arc like a Malfoy in the wild, graciously pretending to care.”

“No.” Draco’s throat felt dry. “No, absolutely not. Put my name on a cheque, fine, but I am not—”

Theo’s smirk widened. “Volunteering at soup kitchens? Playing Quidditch with underprivileged children? Standing in front of cameras while Granger beams at your side?”

Draco’s pulse spiked. “Why would Granger be involved?”

“Because,” Cindy cut in smoothly, “Hermione has already put together the outline. There’s a company-wide meeting tomorrow to finalise details.”

Draco shot to his feet. This was a trap, why else would they warn him beforehand, except to keep him from making a scene in front of the entire staff? “You can’t be serious. A meeting? You mean to tell me the whole bloody company will be subjected to this madness?”

“Not subjected,” Theo corrected, “the staff will be inspired, enlightened, perhaps even entertained, depending on whether you faint or not.”

Draco’s jaw worked soundlessly. He was going to be sick. Very public, very visible, and with Granger should never exist in the same sentence. This was a coordinated assassination attempt. If he’d let her run off and marry that Quidditch idiot, none of this would be happening. He should have left it alone. He should have sat quietly in a corner, watching the world adore her and her inevitable spawn of pups, instead of being dragged into the open and forced to participate.

Draco didn’t leave the manor for a reason. He came to the office, yes, and occasionally let Theo lure him out to his place for one of those so-called snake nights with the others, but Draco Malfoy didn’t do public.

A knock came at the door.

Theo’s grin sharpened. “And speak of the devil.”

Draco closed his eyes, praying for divine intervention, a sudden fire, anything but this. “You fucking snake.” Draco gritted out. He should have known the bastard would lie.

His gaze snapped to the door. Hermione stood there with a small smile, taking him in. They hadn’t been this close since before the war. Just how he liked it. She wore a green suit, his green, like she was trying to claim his house colours for herself, and she couldn’t, he wouldn’t let her. The jacket was cut to perfection, paired with matching trousers, a black turtleneck breaking the colour, but the gold at her throat and wrists gleamed in open defiance. 

The sight made his jaw clench. He wanted to rip the gold from her, every shining trace, and brand her with silver. The urge burned through him before he could force it down, and he hated himself for wanting it at all.

So he sat frozen, expression blank. If he didn’t acknowledge her, maybe she’d leave. If he made this miserable enough for everyone, they’d stop trying to drag him into this farce.

“Malfoy.”

The sound of his name on her lips jolted through him. He tensed, throat tight. He couldn’t do this. He had never planned to speak to her again, not until the day he died, which might very well be today.

His eyes caught on the gold once more before he forced himself upright, straightening his own suit turning his glare on Theo. Without another word, he strode to the fireplace.

The jar of Floo powder came down hard, scattering green dust over the hearth and onto his shoes. Draco didn’t care. He grabbed a fistful and hurled it into the fire. “Malfoy Manor. Study.”

Nothing.

The flames coughed, spat, and died back down.

Theo leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. “Forgot you locked me out, didn’t you?”

Draco’s jaw ticked. He threw in another handful, harder this time. “Malfoy Manor. East wing.”

Still nothing.

He tried again. “Dining room. West parlour. Master suite.” Sparks shot up and fizzled, mocking him.

Behind him came the sound of muffled breath. Draco spun half a glance and caught Cindy pressing her lips together, shoulders shaking. Laughing at him. She was laughing at him.

He cleared his throat, not amused in the slightest. 

Cindy tilted her head, perfectly composed except for her eyes, which glinted with amusement. “The colour or the cut?”

Draco blinked, then snapped, “Both,” before whipping back to the fire. He wasn’t going to dignify her grin with more. “Malfoy Manor. Cellar. Grounds. Guest wing.”

Nothing. His pulse kicked higher. He could feel it in his throat. This couldn’t be happening. His blood wards should override any security, how in Merlin’s name had he managed to trap himself outside his own damned blockade?

“Malfoy.” Hermione’s voice came from behind him, steady, far too steady, like she wasn’t the direct cause of his unravelling. “You can’t run forever.”

His spine locked. He refused to look at her. If he didn’t, maybe she’d vanish. “Watch me.”

Theo’s voice rose and fell in a mocking lilt. “She’s right, you know. Avoidance is only charming for so long.”

Draco ground his teeth, shoving in another fistful of powder. “Dimsworth Cottage!”

The flames roared to life, flaring green and wide, finally offering an escape. Heat rushed against his face. He surged forward, one hand gripping the mantel, the other tightening at his side, ready to vanish into blessed silence. 

“I should have thought of that,” Theo groaned from behind, sprawling across his chair as if wounded, the words dragging into a long, theatrical whine. 

Notes:

Let the game, and fun begin. 👀