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It’s a fine thing to watch a whole group of men visibly sweat in front of you.
Under a cloudless cornflower blue sky, the members of the International Muggle Liaison Committee sip ice cold water, desperately trying to cool down. Hermione watches as a droplet of condensation slides its way down the side of the carafe, just as an identical bead forms at the brow of the Polish representative, a true arse of a wizard who had dropped his calculating gaze right down the front of her blouse the previous morning.
Magic is limited at this Muggle hotel in southern Spain, where various Ministries have sent their heads of department. Their wands have to be left in their rooms—Cooling charms are expected to last for hours as they run through their itinerary. Post-war efforts have seen an increase in these sorts of tick-box meet-ups, an excuse for each Ministry to put on the front of peace and unity. For Hermione it’s a chance to clap eyes on whichever wanker it is replying to her Owls from across the continent, and luxuriate in the fact that her cooling charms always last the full stretch of the day.
These idiots can barely conjure one to see the morning out.
For now, across this wrought iron table, one of the biggest wankers leans back in his chair, long line of throat bobbing as he drains the last of his water. It’s the French representative, and he places the glass back on the table and audibly sighs, plucking up a napkin to dab at his temple.
Hermione can’t help the flicker of a grin at the corner of her mouth. “Are you okay there, Malfoy?”
Draco tosses the napkin back to the table, wafting his linen shirt around the collar. “Just wondering if Julian is ever going to finish this speech or if we’re all doomed to boil to death before we can even grab a beer.”
A few of the wizards sat nearby—Austrian, a wanker of the highest order after a few aperitifs, and Danish, who runs at a steady level on the scale—chuckle, shoulders shaking, as if Draco needs any more encouragement. He’s been doing his usual under the breath murmuring the entire day, disparaging the presentations of most of the members present. It doesn’t matter that Hermione mostly agrees with his comments—it will be a cold day in hell before she ever lets him know that they are of the same opinion about their colleagues.
“Don’t complain to Hermione,” the Danish wizard, Peter Jensen, says. He’s a small, blading man with a pinched face—Hermione dislikes him thoroughly. “She never feels the heat.”
This seems to interest Draco. He cocks his head at her, tapping the tabletop. “Is that so?”
“Her cooling charms are incredibly strong,” Peter continues. “But she never shares how she casts them so well.”
Hermione offers a self-deprecating shrug. “A witch and her secrets.”
Fluttering the paperwork atop the table, a warm breeze floats through the terrace. Hermione watches with barely concealed delight as it draws huffs and moans out of her fellow delegates, her own cooling charm at tip-top strength meaning she barely feels the soft burn of heat on her skin. Draco shifts uncomfortably on his seat, again blowing out a puff of air. He glances over at her and she focuses on the parchment on the table with faux interest, completely unaffected by the climbing temperature.
Julian Schmid—Swiss, position on the wanker scale yet to be determined—finally finishes up his presentation, and Hermione joins in with the smattering of half-hearted applause as everyone starts to clatter to their feet. They are finally free for the rest of the day, and Hermione dodges the requests from some of the others to join them at the bar, instead heading straight for the lifts tucked just inside the lobby.
Leaning back against the cool wall, she takes a deep breath, pressing the button for her level. The doors start to slowly draw together, when all of a sudden they judder to a halt as Draco slides inside. His mouth is a straight set line, his shoulders tense, as he steps forwards into the small lift.
“Fine, Granger. You win.”
“I win?” Hermione bites her lip, keeping the laugh at bay. “What are you talking about?”
“Do me.”
The scoff cannot be held back. “Excuse me?”
“Your charm,” he says, crowding closer. “Your exceptional strength, top of the range cooling charm. I want it.”
She leans around him to hit the button for her floor once more. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Like fuck you don’t.” His eyes flicker over her, from the top of her sleek, pulled back curls, down to the tips of her work appropriate heeled sandals. “You look perfect.”
Her eyebrows raise automatically, but he looks nonplussed at the fact he just complimented her. Gesturing at her with a hand, he continues, “You’re not sweating one little bit. Not a bead. My own cooling charms are doing nothing in this heat. I can’t stand it anymore.”
“Let me get this straight. You want me to show you how to do a cooling charm.”
His eyes roll. “I know how to do a cooling charm. What I want is for you to do one of your cooling charms on me.”
She looks up at him, at the pink flush creeping along the high point of his cheeks, how it dips down the slight bit of chest revealed by his open top buttons. His hair is mussed, a slight sheen of sweat decorating his forehead, and he’s leaning forwards now, so very close.
They’re not friends. Yes, they may have to reluctantly bear each other's company once a year at this get together, and they may send each other passive aggressive job related notes across the English Channel twice a month, but Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy have never been friendly.
She straightens up and he gives a little lurch of surprise, as if he hadn’t quite realised how near he’d moved in the small space.
The door dings open on her floor.
“No,” she says.
His face falls, nose scrunching. “No?”
“No,” she repeats simply, ducking around him and out of the lift doors. “I don’t think I will, actually.”
He turns on the spot, eyes following her out into the corridor. He’s almost gaping at her, as she backs away from the lift. “Granger—”
“See you, Malfoy. Enjoy that air con in your room for a while, why don’t you?”
The lift door snaps shut across the sight of him, obscuring him from view, and Hermione smiles.
****
At breakfast, as Hermione’s perusing the pastry selection next to a doddery old Spanish couple, there’s a whisker of breath at the nape of her neck.
“Why, Granger, you look very cool today. It has me wondering what on earth might make you sweat.”
Hand tightening around a silver pair of tongs, Hermione barely represses the shudder, the slow climb of heat at the back of her neck. It’s like there’s been a breach of her high grade charm, a little kink in its armour, before it smooths out back to full power. Arousal floods through her, cheeks heating, and it feels wildly inappropriate to feel this turned on standing next to two octogenarians.
Holding a cup of coffee and a croissant, looking cool and confident under the whirr of the indoor air conditioning, Draco saunters away, and Hermione can practically hear the smirk from here.
****
It's hard to concentrate on the day's meetings, when all Hermione can think about is how Draco’s chest pressed briefly against her back that morning, how his breath had tickled at the flare of her neck into her shoulder. He’s infiltrated her thoughts too easily, and she’s almost mad at herself for allowing it.
Luckily, their afternoon session is a tour around a local liaison hub, and Hermione watches her fellow representatives with unbridled glee as they get more and more bothered by the heat with each passing hour.
The only problem is that Draco Malfoy looks very good sweating.
It’s ridiculous, really. It feels almost Neanderthalic, to have her interest piqued so acutely by a glisten of sweat across Draco’s brow, or by how he’s rolled the sleeves of his thin white shirt up to the elbow. She’s just never seen him this way, so severely undone by something so simple as the weather, and it truly has knocked her for six.
Last year's trip to Iceland had been much simpler. Nary a hint of moisture in minus two.
Following the rest of the group across the courtyard, mind full of wistful thoughts of fur lined parkas and thermal vests, Hermione half stumbles on one of the cobblestones, heel slipping sideways. She’s about to go careening down to the floor—something no doubt the Austrian and Polish wankers especially would’ve enjoyed—when a firm arm around her middle and a hand wrapping around her bicep halts the fall.
“Careful there.”
Draco holds her steady, fingers confidently holding her in place, indenting into her waist, and it’s this sure and steady grip that sees her breath hitch. That sees a shuddery exhale as his hand slides across her lower stomach when he releases her.
“Oh,” he mutters, mercurial gaze sweeping over every inch of her. His lips part, expression softening for a beat, until he smiles, really smiles, because he’s figured it out from accidental aid. “Okay, Granger. I see.”
The bezoar in her throat sticks, mouth dry, as his fingers flex one last time on her arm, before he lets go.
****
The evening air lingers with an orange blossom scent, radiating warmth as the sun dips away. Their group meal takes place on the terrace and Draco sits right beside her, shoulders brushing with every movement. He’s doing it on purpose, she knows, every lean and press its own sort of heat stamp on her body.
“I know what you’re doing,” she says, taking a sip of her chilled white wine and leaning back in her chair to dissolve the contact between them.
“What are you talking about?” he mimics, throwing her words from the lift back at her.
“You’re trying to get me hot and bothered.”
He appraises her from over the top of his own wine glass. “Granger, you would know if I was trying to get you hot and bothered, believe me.”
Ignoring this, and the slight stir of something in her lower abdomen, she turns away to chat to Julian. He’s new to the committee, fresh faced and enthusiastic, and he happily indulges her in conversation about the newest Swiss initiatives.
At her side, Draco doesn’t stop his game. His chair is hitched ever so slightly nearer, the long stretch of his leg gently nudging against hers. She steadfastly refuses to give in, to admit defeat and acknowledge that small prickle of awareness at the back of her neck. She thanks God for her industrial strength cooling charm that is not giving away any of her thoughts on the outside.
He continues the entire meal. Small, covert touches that could easily be excused away with proximity, with how they are all squashed in tight around this small restaurant table. A slide of his pinky against the curve of her hand as they both reach for the water jug, or the graze of his foot on the outside of her calf as he shifts in his seat. Her calm exterior starts to crumble, his steady movements chipping away at the cooling charm that is usually so impenetrable.
The only saving grace is that he also seems affected by his own actions. He’s forced to keep pressing the napkin against his temple, or to take long sips of cooled wine. In the golden evening light he’s almost too much to look at, loose limbed and lazy as his gaze falls over her. She gulps at her own wine, tart on her tongue, as night falls around them, bringing its own cool relief from the sun.
By the time she’s in the lift, Hermione can feel the stickiness starting to slide over her, just under the edges of her gauzy shirt and between her breasts. Fuck. She’s desperate to get upstairs, to step into the chilled air conditioning and take a nice, cold shower.
She faces the door, willing it shut, but knowing full well that he’s following in every footstep. Sure enough, he’s there, striding inside, wasting no time in pressing right against her side. He can no doubt feel the clamminess of her skin, see how the little hairs are starting to curl at her ears. Notice how he has inched his way through her charmwork, one innocuous touch at a time.
“So,” he says, voice low. He reaches out to press the button and the doors slide shut. “All I had to do was reach out.”
She battles to keep her expression neutral, the lift starting with a jerk. “What do you mean?”
“Your weak spot.”
“Bold of you to assume I have a weak spot.”
His teeth flash in the muted light. “Everyone has a weak spot, Granger. Even you. And I think I have yours all figured out.”
“You’re so full of yourself.” She turns her head away from him, focusing on the peeling poster on the lift wall.
“You like it when I touch you.”
Her scoff can no doubt be heard back in the lobby. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then prove I’m wrong.” He grins, so cocky, and she hates that she does want to do as he says, to try and show him that his touch means nothing.
If only she weren’t so affected by him.
“You want me to prove I’m not bothered by your touch?”
“Or you could just swish one of your cooling charms over me instead?”
She can’t stop the laugh tumbling from her lips. “Wow, Malfoy. Are you that desperate to cool down?”
His eyes glint, flint-grey. “Maybe I’ve made myself hot and bothered in the process.”
The lift lurches to a halt, the doors gliding open. Hermione steps out into the corridor. Draco stays put, watching, as she turns and puts her hand over the edge of one of the doors, stopping them from shutting.
“Well. Are you coming?”
The whitewashed walls of this cliffside hotel are close, ceiling low. The open windows at either end let the balmy night air ruffle gently through, lifting the pale gold strands of Draco’s hair. His eyes don’t leave her as they walk the length, or as she presses the key card to the handle. Not even as she pushes the door open and reaches out to wind her fingers into one of his belt loops. He watches, eyes calculating.
As she tugs him forwards, lips to ear, and says, “Do your worst.”
His mouth is on hers instantly, stumbling them over the threshold, hard and hot and tongue sliding against her own. His hands bracket her jaw, hold her steady, thumb trailing along the edge near her earlobe.
When she moves her hands under the hem of his white shirt, she’s met with the sun-warmed expanse of his skin, stretched over lightly firmed muscle. Her nails scratch into his ribs. She wants to leave a mark, have him look in the mirror come morning and have every second of this return to his thoughts. He hisses, kissing her harder.
“Oh,” she smiles. “Is that your weak spot, maybe?”
He huffs. “I’m the only one without a weak spot.”
“Ha, right.” Her eyes roll. “You just dislike being hot and sweaty.”
“I enjoy it in some circumstances.” His mouth lands on her throat, tongue circling, and she shivers against him. “And I’m going to enjoy getting you sweaty.”
Her head tips back, encouraging him on, and he takes the hint, nipping and caressing at the delicate skin. A hand lands on the arch of her back, pulling her close.
“My charm is still active,” she says. “It will take a lot.”
“Good job I do know your weak spot, then.” His fingers slide to her hip, digging in, causing a groan to wrench from her mouth. “You like to be touched. You like the feel of my skin on yours.”
“Yes,” she breathes. “Don’t stop.”
“Believe me, I wasn’t planning on it.”
He walks her over the room, stopping at the edge of the bed. Here their fingers turn nimble, divesting each other of their clothes, and then he’s pushing her gently back, laying her atop the mattress. True to his word, Draco does not stop touching her. Every moment, a new point of contact, a new discovery. The curve of her shoulder, the dimple at the back of her knee. Her pounding heart as he leans down to kiss over where it threatens to beat out of her chest.
“Is it me, or is the air con not working?”
He glances up at her, moving his mouth down, over the swell of her breast. Her nipple rolls between his lips, is nipped between his teeth. She gasps, eyes squeezing tight.
“It’s working fine, Granger.”
It can’t be. There must be a malfunction. She feels like she’s burning from the inside, the heat stifling. Her temple feels damp as she pushes curls out of her face to run her eyes over his broad shoulders, his large hands smoothing over her skin. He sucks marks into her breasts, pinning her hips down as she writhes on the sheets.
“Seems like your charm can withstand quite a lot,” he murmurs into her bellybutton, shifting further away on the bed, nudging her knees apart with his own. “But I can feel it disintegrating.” He mouths just above her cunt, inhaling deeply, pressing a fleeting kiss. “I can taste it disintegrating.”
His tongue swipes down between her legs, licking long stripes. Her legs kick out, and he uses his hands to stretch them over his shoulders, fingers digging into the meat of her thighs as he licks and sucks until she’s wet and glossy, a dripping mess against his mouth.
Magic pulses in her veins, the charm holding by a single thread. Goosebumps start to break out over her body, rising with every one of Draco’s groans against her clit. It’s too much, and not enough, hips fighting to rise off the bed.
“I need—” she gasps, hand scrabbling into his hair.
But it doesn’t matter that her sentence goes unfinished, as he knows exactly what she needs. He pushes inside with two long fingers and she clenches around them, stars bursting behind her eyes. He works her through every wave with the slow pump of his hand and his tongue on her clit.
Chest heaving, sweat beading at her brow, Hermione feels blissful. Draco crawls up her body, peppering more kisses on her glistening skin, hands never breaking contact. His smirk is wicked when he hovers over her.
“Don’t,” she manages to croak out.
“Don’t what?” His faux innocence is highly irritating.
“Don’t gloat.”
“Me? Gloat that I broke through Hermione Granger’s internationally renowned cooling charm?” His grin is ever so wide. “Would I do that?”
His hands part her thighs once more, the hard length of him nudging against her. She tips her pelvis, welcomes him inside, and he sinks into her with a low groan. Slowly, he starts to move, drawn out thrusts that have her clutching at his biceps.
“Press into me,” she says. “Harder. Harder than you think.”
He closes his eyes for a moment like he’s praying for hope, but he does as she asks, and she’s biting her tongue, eyes rolling back in her head. She can feel every inch of him covering every inch of her, nerve endings sparking. She feels devoured, consumed by his entire body.
“You feel fucking perfect,” he grits out on a particularly brutal hitch of his hips that sees them move up the mattress.
She wants to seep into him, muscle and bone and sinew. Bury herself deep. No one’s been able to give her what she needs before. They treat her like a delicate thing that might break. Not Draco. He’s pulling his arms around her, sweat dripping between them, mouthing at every bit of her he can reach, pressing harder and harder.
She licks at his collarbone, tastes the salt of his skin. Clings to him as she barrels towards a second release.
Cursing, he breaks first, but it’s the pulse of him hot and deep inside that sets her off, moaning his name.
Nuzzling into her neck, he’s a weight against her. Still inside her. She welcomes the compact feel of him, the drape of his body over hers. It’s sticky and tacky and she feels about a thousand degrees but at that moment it’s everything.
There’s a mechanical whirr, a click. The air conditioning unit turns on, a waft of icy air floating straight over the top of them.
Draco’s laugh is muffled into her hair.
****
“So,” he says later, idly running fingers through her hair. He’d taken her again, her up on her knees gripping tightly to the headboard, his body curved over her back. “Are you going to show me your secret?”
Her mouth is still full of the musky scent of him, the brine of his skin. She rolls to look at him, and his hands span her waist in such a satisfying way.
“I don’t know that I will,” she replies. Her fingertips dance down his spine, scratching lightly. “I quite like you sweating.”
****
The final morning of the conference and they’re almost late, stumbling into the meeting on the terrace ten minutes after the starting time. Eyes flicker knowingly their way, but nothing is said. They sit at opposite sides of the table, and all Hermione can think about is how he turned and pressed into her in the early morning light, sleepy and slow. How his arm slung around her middle kept her in place, kept her grounded, as he fucked her from behind.
Beneath the table, his foot taps against hers. He doesn’t move it away. She can feel the heat of him, just from the small area of contact.
They don’t say goodbye, not really. Suitcases packed, the lift stops on his level and when he enters and finds it empty apart from Hermione, he steps close and kisses her as they descend to the ground floor. They part just before the lift stops, and he turns to face the door, expression playful.
“How about you show me that charm, Granger? Call it a goodbye gift.”
“Maybe next year,” she says, unable to resist. He shakes his head, smiling, and lets her walk ahead of him to check out.
****
When they meet again it’s been three hundred and thirty two days. Her eyes find his as soon as she enters the bar of the small Italian hotel.
He raises his glass in greeting. “Quite warm here on the Amalfi Coast, isn’t it?”
She hums her agreement, leaning on one elbow to face him. He looks so good it almost makes her teeth ache. His hair is longer this year, skin carrying the faintest of tans. She watches his fingers wrap around the glass tumbler and pictures them wrapped around her instead.
“Yes, the temperature is expected to climb quite dramatically while we’re here. A heat wave, so I’ve heard.”
“We all need strong cooling charms then, especially if we’re to get through one of Julian’s speeches.”
“It would be quite difficult to bear if yours can’t last the day, I imagine.”
“I’ve been practising.” Draco drains the last of his drink, placing the glass carefully back on the bar. “Would you like me to show you?”
His room is closer. She’s pinned against the wall before she knows what’s happening, and he slides the strap of her sundress down her shoulder, following the movement of fabric with his mouth.
“You feel so cool to the touch,” he says. “An ice cube.” His nose nudges at the scrap of material covering her breasts, encouraging the fall. “I can’t taste you like this.”
The air in the small room is already close, thick with heat. There’s no air conditioning in this old Italian hotel, and Hermione had left her own room steeped in charms so that she’d be able to sleep.
“Give me your wand,” she replies, and he accio’s it over from the bedside table. She waves magic over herself, cancelling her cooling charm, and straight away she can feel the warmth seeping over her, like the hot blast from an open oven door.
He leans to run his tongue over the top of her breast, dipping down into the valley between. Hermione’s head thunks back against the wall, hands moving to run through his hair. She scratches lightly at his scalp and he nips at her in response.
“Wait,” she says, and tugs him off so that she can reverse their positions. He goes without complaint, looking faintly amused as she pushes him back against the wall. She drops to her knees and his expression darkens. “I’ve been thinking about this all year.”
“Merlin,” he sighs. “You can’t say that.”
“Why?” She grins, silver-sharp, fingers unbuttoning his trousers and lowering the zip. “It’s true. Thought you might like to know.”
He gently pushes back strands of her hair from her face. “Others haven’t been quite the same?”
“No. They don’t know what to do with me.”
He gathers the curls, fisting them at the back of her head. Mouth opening, tongue pink—he pulls her head towards where she has released his hard cock into her palm, and he feeds it inside.
“I know what you need, Hermione.”
She holds him there for a beat, encouraging saliva to coat him until he’s wet and glossy. Her tongue rolls, and he groans and uses the hand in her ponytail to inch himself deeper, until he’s nudging at the back of her throat. Tears threaten to pool, and he slowly pulls back out.
“Do it,” she says, the tip of him resting against her bottom lip. “Use me.”
She’s truly impressed by how he never questions, just forges ahead with whatever she asks. The three other wizards she’d tried this past year had seemed promising, but once they were sans clothing had wilted before her. She’d been gossamer under their fingers, fragile and weak.
Now, with him roughly fucking into her mouth, her jaw wide and iron grip on his thighs, she feels invincible. She’s forged by fire, burning at a rate of knots, and she has to squeeze her legs together to try and control the ache.
He knows. Of course he knows.
“Touch yourself.”
She doesn’t need to be asked twice. Her hand hitches up her sundress, curls under the flimsy lace of her underwear, slides over where she is practically pulsing.
The pressure, the feel of his hands enveloping her skull, and the harsh tug of her hair. The slide of a thumb at her temple where sweat is forming. The litany of curses and praise he releases into the sultry air. She’s shuddering before she realises, orgasm vibrating through her, moaning around his cock.
“Fuck, fuck—”
He’s there too, spreading salt over her tongue, and she swallows and swallows until she can take no more. He sweeps her up, firm hold on her body, gliding his touch all over her as he deposits her on his bed. Contouring around her, even through the rumpled fabric of their clothes he’s a welcoming weight.
Just what she needs.
****
They don’t make it down for the welcome dinner. Room service is ordered instead, pizza devoured between the sheets. He tastes of sun ripened tomatoes when he kisses her, of summer and heat.
“You know, after the war I couldn’t bear to be touched,” she says as they lie with their heads on downy pillows, facing each other. His fingers trace up her arm, connect the freckles with his touch. “It was too much. I just wanted to be left alone.”
Moonlight dribbles through the crack in the thin curtains, lighting up his face in a ghostly glow. “And now?”
“Now it makes me feel alive.”
****
The conference passes in a whirl of meetings, of him winding her up with soft brushes of his arm, or a slide of his hand on the small of her back as he walks by. It reminds her of last year, of Spain, yet this time she knows what is waiting for her under the cloak of darkness.
Sometimes they don’t even make it until nightfall. During a break in meetings he pulls her into a cleaning cupboard, dropping to his knees and working her over with his mouth until she’s keening against the shelves, hands fisted in folded towels.
She almost teaches him the charm for his efforts.
On the final evening they leave the dinner early, not even fussing about keeping up any sort of pretence. They go to her room, where he grumbles about her magic having left the air icy cold.
“To say you’re desperate to learn my charm, you aren’t half moaning about the temperature of this room.”
“I told you,” he says, yanking his clothes off in frustration. “At a meeting I want to feel cool. Here, I want to feel you.”
So she lets him, cancelling the charms so that they can feel the glide of skin on skin, of sweat slicking at every bend and crease. So he can feel how wholly he’s affecting her with every single touch. She whispers his name as she comes with him deep inside her, his thrusts hard and unrelenting.
In the early hours, sweat cooling and sheets pooled at the end of the bed, she thinks of home.
“Do you ever think you’ll leave France?”
His eyes don’t leave the ceiling. He swallows and winds his foot around her calf. “I didn’t used to think so.”
“But now?”
He turns his head, gaze sliding over her naked form, and his hand reaches out to pull her closer. “But maybe I’ve found my weak spot.”
Sitting up, she hooks her legs over his middle until she’s sitting astride him. His cock twitches in interest against her core, but Hermione reaches for her wand and holds it in front of them.
“It’s like this.”
She performs what looks like the average cooling charm, the run of the mill magic they all learn back at school. But then she twists her wrist in a figure of eight, adding a loop to the conjuring that means her charm will continue to hold. The room cools instantly, like they’ve just stepped out into the snow.
He shivers, smiling, and his hands grasp at her hips. She moves against him ever so slowly.
“Show me your secret again, Granger.”
****
Four months later and Hermione’s in her Ministry office seething, hurriedly writing a response to an owl from that Austrian wanker. Sending it off with a flourish, she eyes the other piece of parchment on the edge of her desk. She bites her lip—it’s new correspondence from Draco, delivered from his Parisian department just that morning. She’s been so busy she’s barely had time to glance at it.
Her hand reaches for it, eager now she finally has the time to sit back and see what he has to say. Parchment in her grasp, she leans back in her chair just as they’re a sharp knock on the door.
Sighing, the paper is thrown back on the desk, and she’s up on her feet, striding across her office.
“This better be good, Derek, I’ve already told you—”
But it’s not her assistant standing on the other side. It’s him. Draco. He’s smirking, coat buttoned up to his neck, wrapped in a thick woollen scarf.
“Morning, Granger.”
She blinks at him, breath hitching in her throat. “What are you doing here?”
“Thought I’d collect the reply to my letter in person.”
“I—” Her hand stutters on the doorframe, and she waves over her shoulder at her desk. “I haven’t got around to reading it just yet.”
“Even better. I can just tell you myself.” He’s walking around her, pulling off the scarf, draping it across her office chair. He’s here, and it doesn’t quite make sense, not with him all buttoned up, layers on, and in the harsh lighting of the Ministry. “Seems I might be moving back to England, and I think I’m going to need your help.”
An exhalation of disbelief as she steps towards him. “With what, Draco?”
His fingers work each button on his coat, smirk growing wider. “Well, it’s very cold here. Do you happen to know any warming charms?”