Dramione One-Shots (Collection)

Testing Limits

Written by geoblock

https://archiveofourown.org/works/11490225

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Maybe it was Draco Malfoy's upbringing, but he was a man of unfailing habit. His routine was rigid and practically inflexible, and he insisted on everything being a certain way.

Firstly, he always had to have three quills on his desk. Hermione had enquired why the number had to be three—surely two was enough?—but Malfoy had spent ten minutes explaining the variety of flaws one could encounter with a quill; breakage, dulling, ink splurging, uncomfortable grip, and statistically, one should have three quills to increase the probability of having one that works perfectly.

Secondly, the handle on his mug of his tea always had to be pointing outwards. Draco had explained, in another of their fascinating discussions, that he was more likely to knock to handle if it was facing inwards, sloshing the contents of his cup, ruining his precious work. The mug also had to sit on the right-hand side of his desk, so he could grab it with his right hand while writing—being the left-handed oddity he was. Hermione had attempted to tease him light-heartedly about his 'deformity' but all she'd earnt was a single raised eyebrow, and a 'do you have the copies or not, Granger?'

Thirdly, he didn't like lateness. In Malfoy's ordered world, tardiness was the gravest of all sins. Usually, Hermione arrived at least half-an-hour before he graced the office with his presence, preparing his schedule for the day, and brewing a cup of tea strong enough to stand a spoon in. Usually.

But usually, Crookshanks didn't vomit a concerningly green substance just before Hermione left, meaning she had to drive him to the nearest animal hospital—which happened to be Muggle. Usually, she didn't have to wait an hour to see a vet—had everyone else's animals decided to get sick that Monday morning?—before Hermione had discovered, upon arriving home (the cat remaining at said hospital) that Crookshanks had ingested all of her Floo powder. She'd rushed back to the hospital, nervous that the discovery of Floo powder by Muggles would be a grievous breach of the Statue of Secrecy, even if it was in her cat's vomit.

To then top it all off, her lack of Floo powder meant she'd had to travel all the way into central London to flush herself into the Ministry, not having high enough clearance to Apparate directly to the Atrium.

So Hermione's usual eight am start, on that Monday morning, had turned into a ten forty-two am start, a serious breach of Malfoy etiquette.

She rapped on his office door, listening at the wood for his permission to enter. Hermione couldn't help like feeling a little like a lamb waltzing into the slaughter yard, neck stretched out in invitation. Malfoy's scolding's were legendary, colder and quieter in nature than most others, but undeniably lethal.

"Come in." It was muffled through the wood of his door, impossible to detect any kind of preliminary mood to his voice, so Hermione had not even the slightest warning to what she would face.

Hermione let herself in quickly, striding to stand before his impressive mahogany desk. His entire office was decorated in this fashion—dark wood bookshelves, heavy with novels and volumes; looming cabinets and hutches, neatly displaying artefacts and trophies of his travels and achievements. The only reprieve from the dominating furniture were the dashes of green around the room—the heavy satin curtains, his ergonomically engineered desk chair, all were united by the same shade of royal emerald.

"It's quarter to eleven, Miss Granger." Malfoy indicated after an appropriate silence, just long enough to leave Hermione squirming. He nodded towards a grandfather clock in the corner of the room, as though Hermione needed the reminder of the time, as though she hadn't been checking her watch every five minutes for the last two hours.