Meet Your Match

22. Facing Fears

Hermione ran her fingers over the covers of the books in front of her. She was sure the case she remembered was in one of them. She picked one up and thumbed through the table of contents. Nothing familiar. She dropped it and shuffled through the stacks of parchment covering the table. Why hadn’t she made a note of it? She was her own worst enemy sometimes, always sure she’d remember something important at the time. She could picture the text on the page, but which—

Her face broke into a wide grin as she heard the Floo come to life in the other room. She didn’t turn but instead savoured the anticipation as Draco approached her chair from behind. If waiting for him was a drug, she was sure she’d be addicted to it.

She let her eyes fall shut as his warm hands slid around her neck.

“Working late?”

She groaned with pleasure as his thumbs dug into the tight muscles of her shoulders.

“For a change,” she breathed, letting her head fall back against his stomach.

“Anything I can help with?”

She hummed with contentment as he kept up his kneading. “Mmm, yes,” she said. “That’s—ah!—very helpful.”

She felt him chuckle as his long fingers slid forward onto her chest. She sighed as they dipped below the neck of her blouse, skimming the cups of her bra.

“I wouldn’t want to distract you from your work.”

“It’s—mm—personal project. Not—oh!—Ministry.”

“Well, in that case...” He raised one hand until his fingers cupped her throat. He tilted her head back and leaned down to kiss her thoroughly. She melted as his tongue teased so sweetly over hers that it might have been dipped in honey.

He pulled back for a second, and she couldn’t resist teasing him. “Were you missing me, Malfoy?”

She felt his smile against her mouth.

“Always.”

He pressed his lips to hers again briefly and then moved away.

She gave a little whine as he took the chair opposite hers. Entirely too far away.

“I have something for you.”

She perked up at once. Pre-dinner cock? Because that could really be just the thing—

“It’s from my mother.”

Oh. A mood-killer if ever she heard one.

He produced a scroll of parchment from his jacket pocket and gave it to her. She turned it over in her hands, fingers brushing the broken wax seal.

“I read it,” he said flatly. “I told her I would.”

Hermione nodded, taking in his tense demeanour. She’d heard him tell her, though he didn’t know that.

“Should I—I mean—did you want me to read it with you here?” she asked.

“I expect you might have questions.”