It's Too Late For Your Shit

"Granger, I'm off for the evening." Draco hung his head around her office door, gripping the frame. "You know what they say, the early Fwooper catches the Flobberworm."

Hermione didn't bother to look up from her parchment. "Didn't you mention earlier that you were going out drinking after work?"

"That's beside the point." Draco waved a dismissive hand, now fully standing in the doorframe to her office. "Just remember to Floo home at a reasonable hour. Don't fancy finding you sleeping at your desk tomorrow morning. Again."

"Hm," Hermione murmured as Draco's footsteps echoed down the corridor, away from her office. She turned her gaze towards the now vacant doorway, her mind no longer focused on the paperwork before her, instead she could easily picture him: his muscular frame casually propped against the doorframe, his white shirt untucked from a long day at the Ministry, sleeves rolled up to reveal the faded ink of the Dark Mark on his inner forearm. She'd often catch a glimpse of it before he folded his arms across his chest. A faint smirk would play on his lips as he threw backhanded compliments or the occasional outright insult—though, thankfully, no longer calling her a mudblood. She gave as good as she got, however, insulting him right back. He'd often let out a low chuckle as he brushed off whatever retort she threw his way, sauntering back to his own office as she shooed him away, unfortunately just two doors down from her own.

Her head tipped back in frustration as she gripped the edge of her desk. How had she ended up in this situation? Working not just in the same building, but within the same department as Draco bloody Malfoy. The allure of the Department of Mysteries had been undeniable—unravelling secrets, pushing the boundaries of knowledge... How could she say no to that? What she hadn't anticipated was the avalanche of paperwork and the endless parade of quill-pushers that kept her from making any real progress.

Then Draco Malfoy walked in. Two years post-trial and just narrowly avoiding Azkaban, he was in need of a pet project. The department, it seemed, was in need of his family's financial contribution—or so she had overheard while her colleagues gossiped at the Aguamenti station.

Hermione shifted in her seat, an uncomfortable knot forming in her stomach.

He was absolutely insufferable, yet she couldn't seem to shake him from her mind. Every time he leaned against the doorway with that casual yet confident posture, her heart would race. His smug smile, ever so infuriating, was a constant reminder of his arrogance. It drove her absolutely crazy. She resolved it was simpler to pretend he didn't exist—to focus on her work and block out the annoyance he stirred in her.

Four hours and twenty-six unbearable minutes later...

Hermione stared down at the never-ending stack of paperwork on her desk, her eyes bleary with exhaustion. Her hair was haphazardly twisted into a bun—more of a bird's nest, as Draco liked to tease—secured with her wand. The wand served a dual purpose: it kept her hair out of her face and ensured she didn't misplace it... again. She rubbed her temple, trying to summon the energy to tackle the next report.

A disturbance from the corridor snapped her from her thoughts. Her head shot up and she was on her feet a second later, wand pulled from her bun and dangerously pointing at the doorway. Why hadn't she closed the door? She thought to herself. She positioned herself against the wall, making sure her back was secure. She rolled her eyes as she remembered her most recent promotion had also given her a new office, with a window the length of the wall she was now standing against.

Her eyes flicked outside for a moment, scanning the night sky. She was high enough up that the ground was just visible enough, but not an immediate problem. The skies were clear for the first time this autumn, stars twinkling in the moonlight. She twirled back and he was there, standing in the doorway.