Hermione stumbled into her office, wine bottle clutched in her fist and the image of Malfoy French-kissing another witch seared into her mind.
Untucking his chair, she dropped onto the leather seat and did a spin.
His desk was so much tidier than hers. Two eagle feather quills in a black marble cup, an ornate bottle of ink, and a stack of blank personalized parchment for summoning interns to do his bidding.
“I don’t like you,” she said to nobody, planting the Merlot on the table then reaching for a quill. “I don’t care if you snog other witches. Or tell them they look ravishing in blue.”
She opened a drawer. “Juuuulie. From HR.” She feigned a gagging noise, opening another drawer where she found a ticket stub beside a jar of bonbons. She stuffed a handful in her mouth. Talking with her mouth full, “Definitely don’t care you took her home.”
Raised the ticket stub to her eyes, letters blurry.
The play they attended together. Three months ago.
“Draco.” She sniffled, suddenly emotional. “Why would you save this?”
She thumbed her scarlet gown, satin with a slit at the leg. “I didn’t wear this for you.” That he hadn’t called her ravishing didn’t matter.
“You like someone else,” she slurred miserably.
Popping the top of the ink jar and dipping her quill, she scribbled:
I’m happy for you, Drac—Malfoy
SO happy. Wouldn’t know anyone happier than me. HERMIONE.
I know it’s hard to tell it’s Hermione. I drink wine.
Pleased with herself for this momentous article of closure, she put his stationary neatly away, tucked the wine under her arm, and went home.
Monday morning, Malfoy’s vacant chair, swiveled in the opposite direction, niggled a foggy memory in her mind.
Had she been here Saturday night?
No, she shook her head. Even if she had been, why would she have occupied Malfoy’s desk?
Only when he showed up, whistling a jolly tune, did she recall the witch he’d taken home from the Ministry mixer.
Her gaze fell back to his desk.
She shot up to her feet. “Don’t!”
“What on Earth?” His eyes went wide, righting the ornate jar of ink—its contents, having dried over the weekend, now stained the wood.
Hermione leaped over, intent on destroying the letter before he read it.
But Malfoy picked it up first. Edges wine-stained, parts of the parchment pierced-through from pressing the quill too hard.
She covered her eyes with her palm, wishing to disintegrate on the spot. “I can’t believe you’re reading that.”
“You’re over me?” He looked astonished. “When-when were you under me?”
“I was drunk. It’s stupid. I’m sorry.”
Malfoy blinked a few times, bewildered, then devastated. “You were into me?”
“Please don’t do this.” She retreated, throat burning. “Julie from HR, right? What does it matter how I feel?”
“You said feel.” His expression changed, how it always did when facing a challenge. She loved that expression. It got things done. Solved problems. Won.
But wasn’t sure how she felt about it fixated on her.
Before she could ask what he was doing, he’d stormed forward, and then he was kissing her.
All she could do was kiss him back.
A hand gripping her waist, tender fingers cupping her jaw. Her name whispered across a jagged exhale. “You. You’re all I’ve thought about for months. If I’d known sooner—”
“Will receive my sincerest apologies because there is no way I’m letting you slip through my fingers.”
(610 words, cross-posted from twitter, inspired by this ross/rachel scene from friends)
