Title: Through Trial and Error (1/3) for adriennelouise

Title: Through Trial and Error (1/3) for adriennelouise
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Harry Potter
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury Publishing. I do not own the characters depicted within this story and do not seek to profit financially from it.
Warnings: none, besides moments of rampant fluff.
Author notes: Written for the dmhgficexchange's 2007 round 'Divine the Future with Draco and Hermione'. AU as ignores many elements of the epilogue from Book Seven as well as most canon comments made by J.K. Rowling in interviews etc. Some liberties taken with the mechanics of the Floo network. Many thanks to the lovely ser523 who accepted beta duties at the very last minute; all errors are mine and mine alone.
Summary: Post Deathly Hallows: Hermione unintentionally thwarts Draco Malfoy in the course of her duty and must suffer – so to speak – the consequences.

Through Trial and Error

"Is this some sort of joke?"

Hermione Granger clutched at her head, her brown eyes wide in disbelief as she stared at the letter in front of her.

It was late on a Friday afternoon and Hermione had just managed to clear the last documents from her in-tray, which now glimmered happily as it floated above her desk. Her Christmas grocery shopping list lay on the bureau, the ink still fresh upon the parchment while outside the door of her office she could hear the fading laughter and good wishes of fellow Ministry workers as they headed home to mulled wine and mince pies. Before her stood Denis, her secretary, who offered a sympathetic and bemused smile on his spotty young face.

"When did this come in?" she raised the sheet and shook it vigorously, her tense grip crumpling the edges.

"Just now," Denis answered meekly for there was a manic edge to her voice

"How?"

"By owl."

She looked at the clock on the wall. It declared 'On Holidays' in screaming scarlet letters before the hand quivered and moved to 'Work, Work, Work'. She returned her gaze to the sheet and sighed. To her left was a neat pile of carefully wrapped presents. She plucked a small gift from this and presented it to the weedy youth.

"Happy Christmas, Denis. Go home and enjoy the holiday, I'll take care of this."

He blushed, stammering his thanks before scuttling out the door. He returned a moment later with a somewhat haphazardly wrapped package, which he placed on her desk with a mumbled, "Merry Christmas."

Wary of touching it, for fear that it would disintegrate on contact, Hermione instead bestowed her brightest smile upon him, "Thank you."

His blush deepened but he managed to utter, "Are you sure you don't want me to stay and do it for you? It seems straight-forward enough."

Hermione stared at the sheet, running her fingers through her hair and wincing when they caught in a snarl. Reluctantly she shook her head, "I can take care of it," she mustered up another smile, "no use both of us being stuck here."

He edged slowly towards the door, uncertain, "If you're sure…"

She shooed him with her hands, "Go on, go home. Get some of those chestnuts Padma's been roasting in her rubbish bin on your way out. They're quite good."

"Alright," he held his present to his chest. "Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas, Denis," she smiled encouragingly at him until the door shut before dropping her head onto the desk with a groan. The urge to burst into petulant tears was strong but she resisted it, allowing herself a mere sniffle before straightening up and gazing around her neat little office with a despondent air. On the whole she loved the cosy little nook with its bookshelf-lined walls, red and gold upholstered furniture and wide fireplace. Located between the Department of Mysteries and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – a spatial impossibility made possible thanks to the mysteries of the Space Chamber - it was perfectly situated to suit Hermione's hectic schedule. At this particular moment, however, it more closely resembled a prison than the beloved epicentre of her working life.

She sat in silence for a few minutes, indulging in a brief sulk before shaking it off and walking over to the fireplace. Cringing she threw a handful of Floo powder onto the glowing embers and said clearly, "Ronald Weasley."

At first the apparition in no way resembled Ron but after squinting and tilting her head a little Hermione realised that her friend was engaged in a passionate lip-lock. She wrinkled her nose and cleared her throat noisily.

"Ahem."

No change.

"AHEM."

Ronald released the female from his face sucker, startled. The anonymous girl disappeared from the fireplace.

"Oh hullo, Hermione."

"Hello, Ron. Busy?"

He grinned, unrepentant, and Hermione rolled her eyes. Before she could say a word, however, his expression shifted from mischievous to suspicious.

"Why are you flooing me?"

Hermione begin to curl a lock of hair around her fingers, "Well, you see, the thing is…"

"Oh, no you don't," he broke across crossly, "you're not cancelling on us again."

"Now, Ronald," she attempted to take the reasonable approach, "I have responsibilities in my job and –"

"And Aurors don't?" he questioned.

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

"You promised you'd make it this time. We haven't seen you outside the Ministry in three months."

Her lower lip trembled.

He scowled darkly, "Don't try that with me, Hermione Granger. I've had you crying on me for fourteen bloody years, I'm immune at this stage."

"I'm just going to be a little late," she wheedled.

"Delegate!"

She shook her head sadly, "They've all gone home."

"You're a rubbish liar, y'know that?"

"An hour late, at the absolute maximum," she placed a hand over her heart. "I swear on the sweet, departed soul of Crookshanks."

He glared for a moment before relenting, "Fine. We'll be in the Leaky Cauldron."

"Will you tell Harry for me?"

His handsome face broke into a grin, "Hermione Granger, war heroine, afraid of her best friend?"

"Oh, shut up," she huffed. "It's just the Ministry have made cutbacks on Floo powder and…"

"Useless," he crowed, "absolutely useless liar. I'll tell him but you're buying the first two rounds."

"Thank you, Ronald," she agreed primly.

"You're welcome, Hermione," he responded with equal formality before vanishing.

She stood, staring wistfully at the dwindling fire as she thought of the cherished friends and hearty meal awaiting her. She pinched herself, threw a few more logs onto the fire and trudged reluctantly back to her desk.

Once seated, the collar of her work robes seemed too tight all of a sudden. She picked up her wand and with a wave transfigured them into a pair of comfortably worn jeans and a thick Aran jumper, a pair of fluffy slippers adorning her feet. She wriggled her toes. Although usually meticulous in her work appearance she felt, at this moment, that she could afford to relax her work etiquette a little. Especially, she stared at the letter willing it to burst into flames, as she was working overtime.

She gritted her teeth as she scanned the page, a vein throbbing in her temple as she focussed on the signature: Draco Malfoy. Only he would have the sheer nerve to submit a first class motion for restitution exactly at five o' clock on the last working day before the Christmas holidays.

She summoned a fresh sheet of parchment with a vicious flick of her wrist, yelping when it flew across the room too quickly and she had to duck to avoid it. Once retrieved she began to make a list of the necessary forms that she would need to process the motion, muttering under her breath as she did so. A suddenly frown creased her forehead and she re-read the letter carefully.

Slimy little ferret. Conniving prat.

And so on, and so forth did Hermione rage silently against Draco Malfoy as she realised that the specific wording of the letter required the claimant to receive confirmation of receipt of their application, as witnessed by an employee of the Ministry, within seventy-two hours. Not only did she have to process this utterly idiotic claim, but she had to hand-deliver it to her childhood foe. Of all the injustices in the world. For a brief moment she considered recalling the faithful Denis, who was more than capable of retrieving a few forms and making a quick trip to Malfoy Manor.

She quickly quashed the thought; this was part of her duties and she would not shirk them. Furthermore, the wording of the document appeared to be deliberately convoluted. She needed to complete the task herself; even if it meant cutting it rather fine in terms of making the appointed hour with Ron and Harry.

Not for the first time in her life did Hermione wish that she was marginally less conscientious.

Hermione stood shivering at the gates to the Malfoy homestead. Not, she thought, that it looked like much of a home per se. Beyond the wrought iron gates and high stone walls lay the rather desolate Manor, as gothic a creation as anything Mrs. Radcliffe ever conceived of. The lawn before it was quite neglected and had been scorched by the frost while an elegant fountain dripped water down the sides, algae forming in its wake. Someone had emblazoned 'Death Eater Scum' on the outer walls with magic, seared deep into the stone-work. Hermione had felt a deep sense of satisfaction when she first saw that, followed swiftly by shame at her petty pleasure. She had avoided looking at the venomous words since.

A horrible screeching sound, like a stuck pig, had emanated from the gates when she tried to push them open and so she had instead yanked vigorously on a frayed rope that hung to one side, hoping that it would catch someone's attention. And after a few moments of blowing on her fingers and shifting from one foot to the other, she saw a figure emerge from the house.

Slowly it approached along the torch-lit path until eventually Hermione could make out the silver-blonde hair of Draco Malfoy shimmering against the dark. He reached the gate but made no indication that he intended to open it.

"Granger."

"Malfoy," she responded curtly and withdrew two rolls of parchment from inside her winter coat. "You need to sign for this."

A muscle twitched in his jaw and Hermione felt like smiling. Instead she said, "You were lucky I received it just before I left the office, otherwise it would have just been sitting there until the New Year."

"Yes," he bit out, "how fortunate." He took a step closer and she could make out his face more clearly in the gloom. He was still alabaster pale and his features were just as sharply defined as they had been in Hogwarts although he had lost some of the tension that used to pucker his forehead and pull his mouth into a perpetual sneer. Hermione could not remember the last time they had been face-to-face; Malfoy had become somewhat reclusive in recent years.

"After all," she continued, "with cases of this kind there is an onus on the Ministry to respond within a certain time period."

"Is there?" he asked blandly, "I wasn't aware of that."

"Oh, yes," she said with false cheer. "Claims related to the war are, after all, so complicated. I believe there is some sort of fine involved."

"I forgot," Malfoy tilted his head, "all war claims are under your supervision, aren't they?"

"Yes."

"Then again," he mused, "you do seem to have a finger in most of the Ministry's pies."

Hermione bristled, "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

He blinked slowly, the very picture of innocence, "Just that you're a busy little worker bee." He slowly looked her up and down. "I see you're still an adherent to scarecrow chic," he shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry to break it to you, Granger, but it really isn't going to take."

Hermione resisted – barely – from raising a hand to pat down her thick mane of hair. She thrust the parchments at him, "Just sign for this, Malfoy, and I'll be on my way."

He dug his hands deep into his coat pockets, "I don't have a quill."

She whipped one out of a capacious pocket with a triumphant flourish.

Malfoy's lip curled but accepted the proffered quill and scratched his name onto the parchments. Hermione added her own name and an embossed seal materialised, recognising the acknowledgement of both parties.

"That's your copy," she handed him one of the parchments, her hand inadvertently brushing against his. His skin was rather warm considering the chill temperature of the evening, And his cold-blooded nature, Hermione thought.

"My thanks," he said dryly, grey eyes glittering dully.

"You're welcome." Hermione hovered for a moment, "Well…"

He raised an eyebrow, "I assume you have somewhere to go."

"Yes," she snapped, "I do, actually. Merry Christmas, Malfoy." She turned on her heel.

"I'm an atheist."

"You would be," she retorted over her shoulder as she marched resolutely away.

"What does that mean?" And the amusement in his voice nearly summoned her back to the gate to unleash the full wrath of Hermione Granger upon him. However, as she wasn't completely sure what she had meant by the comment she deemed it prudent to consider her current course.

"You figure it out," she shouted back, feeling rather foolish when he called:

"Festive greetings to you too, Granger."

The warmth of the Leaky Cauldron began to chase away the chill nipping at her extremities as soon as she stepped inside the door causing a sigh of relief to escape her lips; Hermione started to unwind her bulky scarf as she searched out her friends. A burst of laughter from one end of the pub caught her attention and her expression brightened. Another few steps and Harry and Ron came into view, tucked away in a corner table.

"Ah, if it isn't the elusive Ms. Granger," Harry pronounced. He glanced at Ron, elbowing him in the side, "Come on, pay up."

Ron tweaked her nose as she pulled up a chair next to him, "Hello, Rudolf." She batted his hand away.

"What's this? Why are you paying?"

"Ron and I made a bet," Harry informed her as the redhead grew pink around the ears. "He said you'd be at least another half an hour. I, of course, said you'd keep your word."

"Thank you, Harry," she stared sternly at Ron. "Oh ye of little faith."

"Oi," he protested, "it's not exactly unheard of that your work keeps you from having a life."

She sniffed disdainfully, "Pay the man, Ron."

Grousing he threw twenty sickles on the table.

Hermione shrugged off her coat and pulled her purse from her handbag. "Alright, what are you drinking?"

"There's a special spiced ale on tap, I'll give that a go," Ron answered.

"You do know it's charmed to make you sing Christmas carols?" Harry queried and nodded at a particularly merry group sitting at the bar, arms clasped around each other's shoulders as they belted out 'Good King Wenceslas'.

Ron puffed out his chest, "I've got a fine singing voice, I do. Ahem," he cleared his throat and warbled. "La lalala."

Hermione's mouth pulled into a grimace, "Er, yes, Ron. Very nice," she patted him on the shoulder. "Have you eaten?"

Ron was still demonstrating his unique vocal abilities so Harry answered, "No, we were waiting for you. I think Tom has a special Yuletide menu, care to try it?"

Hermione nodded, "So that's two Yuletide dinners. Ron?"

"Yes, please."

"Alright, three Yuletide, a spiced ale and -?"

"I'm flying home," Harry sighed, "so just some butterbeer for me."

Ron sniggered, "Ginny's banned him from apparating anywhere for a month 'cause of the last time."

Hermione frowned, feeling left out, "What last time?"

"You," Ron stared at her accusingly, "couldn't make it."

"Oh."

"Anyway," he continued, "the Boy who Lived," he jerked a thumb at Harry, "tried to apparate while fairly drunk and became the Boy who Flashed his Seventy Year Old Neighbour."

"Harry!"

The black-haired wizard reddened, running a hand over his head, "I was just thinking about Ginny when I disapparated and –"

Both Hermione and Ron shouted, "Enough!" simultaneously.

"That's my sister you're talking about," Ron shuddered, peering desperately into the bottom of his flagon.

"It's alright, Ron," Hermione soothed, casting Harry a disapproving look, "I'll get your ale now."

"Supposed to be able to tell your friends these things," Harry was muttering defensively, slumping in his seat.

"Sharing is not always caring," Hermione cautioned prudishly as she left the table.

She returned a few minutes later bearing a tray of drinks; Ron's flagon of ale was humming merrily with small musical notes rising from the foam and hovering above. He eyed it warily then turned his gaze upon his friends' beverages, "Am I the only one drinking?"

"Sorry, Ron," Hermione shook her head, "I'm absolutely shattered. If I drink anything stronger I'll be asleep by dessert."

"Hectic week?" Harry asked sympathetically.

She sipped at her butterbeer, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table as the drink's golden warmth seeped through her. A thick curl of hazel hair fell over her forehead and she blew at it ineffectually, "Usual Christmas madness; everyone trying to wrap up cases and claims before the holidays. Plus your lot kept on squabbling with the lot in the Department of Mysteries, which meant that my office or, rather I had to play peacemaker."

"Well," Ron grumbled, "if those tossers in Mysteries would just give us access to our evidence then maybe –"

"That evidence is an item of considerable dark magic with unknown uses. They have the experts to analyse it," Hermione lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. "Mysteries must examine it fully before it's allowed back into the relatively less protected department of Law Enforcement."

Harry smirked, "I thought your office was all about transparency and accountability in the processes of the Ministry."

"My office," Hermione groaned, rubbing her eyes, "is about a great many different things which is why no-one has managed to come up with a name for it yet."

Harry and Ron exchanged a grin. "That's not exactly true," Harry corrected, clearly trying to not laugh, "People do have a name for it."

She brushed the coil of hair out of her face and raised an eyebrow, "And what's that?"

"The Office of Know-It-All."

Hermione's fingers curled dangerously around her drink, "I see."

"Don't get uppity, Hermione," Ron patted her on the head. "Take it as a compliment. You get all the problems too tough for anyone else to figure out. It's a sign of people's high opinion of you."

"What kept you, anyway?" Harry interjected, reading the warning signs in her narrowed eyes and trying to divert the conversation. "What emergency cropped up?"

It worked; instead of throwing her drink at Ron she merely sipped at it wearily. "No emergency, just Malfoy."

"Malfoy?" Ron's tone of disgust clearly indicated the unchanged nature of his regard for the blonde wizard.

"Keep it down, Ron," Hermione hissed, glancing around anxiously. "I shouldn't even be telling you these things."

Tom suddenly appeared, three large bowls of soup and a plate of crusty white bread floating in his wake. "Ready for some grub?" he beamed at them as they voiced their appreciation and set the dishes down. "Enjoy," and bustled away again.

After a few slurps, Ron returned to the previous discussion topic, "Well, what did he want?"

"He's filed a suit against the Ministry," Hermione informed them quietly. "He's looking for a return of the funds they confiscated from the Malfoys after the War."

"That's a load of bollocks," Ron exploded. "After everything his family did they were lucky to have been allowed to keep their land."

"They did help us," Harry reminded him.

"Yeah, sure they did, when they realised that things weren't going their way."

"And Lucius has been in Azkaban and Narcissa's been housebound ever since," Hermione added. "They didn't go unpunished."

"Draco got off scot-free," Ron objected, "and Azkaban's hardly the punishment it used to be."

"Ronald!" she scolded, appalled by his tone, "The Dementors were a sadistic and primitive form of control and punishment. I should hope they are never given such power ever again."

"Alright, alright," he backed down, shame-faced, "I know that I shouldn't wish that upon them, and I don't. But," he qualified, getting riled up again, "I think it's bloody typical of a Malfoy to claim that they were wronged by the Ministry when they were taking the piss out of the Ministry the whole time." He dunked a hunk of bread defiantly in his soup causing it to slop over the sides of the bowl; cursing, he mopped it up.

"Draco does seem to have turned a new leaf," Harry offered quietly, swirling the contents of his glass slowly. "His potion for alleviating the long-term effects of the Cruciatus has helped hundreds of people and all the profits went into training Healers in Muggle grief counselling and cognitive behavioural therapy."

"You don't get much more politically correct than that," Ron said bitterly before swallowing a mouthful of his tuneful ale.

"That's not fair," Hermione objected hotly.

Ron opened his mouth to disagree but instead launched into a hearty rendition of 'I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus'.

"Scarily perfect timing, I'd say," Harry noted, grinning as his friend struggled against the charm. He turned to Hermione, "Whatever about what we think Malfoy deserves, do you think he has a case?"

She shrugged, buttering some bread, "It's before my time so I don't know the details. He might have a case. The Ministry had quite a swift knee-jerk reaction to anyone with Death Eater connections; it's not a perfect institution. I expect some mistakes were made." She noticed Ron brandishing his soup spoon, "Yes?"

His complexion turned puce as he bellowed, "Underneath the mistletoe last night."

Hermione's answering smile was beatific, "I couldn't have said it better myself." She calmly returned to buttering her bread.

Harry choked on his soup and spluttered into his napkin.

"Anyway, whatever the outcome and regardless of whether they deserve it, Malfoy is a prat for submitting it exactly before the office closed for the holidays. I had to stay back, process it and deliver it to him myself."

"Deliver it?" Harry peered at her through his shaggy fringe.

She nodded, "The motion was worded in such a way that it makes recourse to the Obligations of Ministry to War Victims Act, Section –" She ceased at Harry's baffled expression. "It needed to receive a response within seventy-two hours of receipt. Usually this wouldn't be a problem but it's a tricky thing, war claims; they need to be read over by someone with suitable credentials, such as myself, and then the confirmation of the initiation of proceedings needs to be personally delivered to the claimant."

"What happens if it's not processed within seventy-two hours?"

"The Ministry pays a penalty for every day of delay."

Ron interjected loudly with, "She didn't see me creep/ down the stairs to have a peep."

Harry grinned but asked, "You think Malfoy was angling for some easy money?"

She lifted one shoulder in a half shrug, "I cannot say for sure but it certainly seemed that way. I could have easily left the claim to do after the holidays and he was not very pleased to see me. Not," she propped up her chin on the palm of her hand, "that there was ever a time when he was pleased to see me."

"But why would Malfoy need money?"

"Well, I don't know that, but," she swallowed the last of her soup, "I must say that Malfoy Manor has seen better days."

Harry nodded, "I noticed." At Hermione's quizzical look, "Narcissa regularly provides us with information about artefacts of dark magic. I've been appointed as her liaison."

"Oh, Harry," she reached across the table to grasp his hand, "do you mind?"

He ducked his chin, hiding his green eyes behind unruly hair, "It's alright. She's always perfectly civil and she did help me with Voldemort; I can't hold Bellatrix against her."

"Still," Hermione squeezed his hand before releasing it, keeping her perceptive eyes trained on him, "it can't be easy."

"No, but," he shook his head roughly; "you're right about the house. It's falling apart."

Ron spluttered out a final ringing, "…last night!" before subsiding into exhausted silence. There was a smattering of applause from around the room.

Hermione patted him absentmindedly on the shoulder, "I think I remember that they were only allowed to keep one house elf," she frowned. "That must have been quite traumatic for the house elves, to be forcefully separated from their masters."

"SPEW lives on," Harry murmured.

She turned irate eyes upon him, "Well, I'd like to see you deal with it, Harry Potter: to have everything you've built your life around taken away from you in order to punish someone else."

"Sorry, Hermione."

She tossed her hair over one shoulder, "Anyway, enough about Malfoy. Even if he has become a pillar of society he still rubs me the wrong way."

"Hear, hear," Ron said hoarsely.

The Annual Peace and Fraternity Ball had become a mainstay of the wizarding world's social calendar since Kingsley Shacklebot became Minister for Magic. Keen to minimise finger-pointing, and to put the emphasis on forgiveness and unity in the wake of Voldemort's demise, he had requested that a small focus group, led by the admirable Patil sisters, devise a social fixture that would bring all parts of the magical community together. And so the Ball had been born; held every Boxing Day outside the village of Hogsmeade it gathered wizards, goblins, veelas, centaurs, house elves and the occasional giant together for an evening of – purported – harmony and entertainment.

Of course, there had been some mishaps. Occasionally a centaur divined illness and death in the stars for an over excitable witch when she suggested children's pony rides as a reliable money-spinner; there had been two or three scenes wherein a house elf had mistaken receipt of a party hat for dismissal and been inconsolable; and it was generally agreed that the Ball of 2000 had been a complete disaster and that for the sake of veela-werewolf relations should never be mentioned again. However, this year the Patils were guaranteeing an evening of serene enjoyment. It was a brave claim.

Hermione had indulged in a new set of dress-robes for the occasion. Her income from the Ministry was more than modest but she rarely spent most of it, too busy to spend time shopping or going on holidays. So she had felt justified in her rather expensive purchase, even if the witch at Twilfitt and Tatting's had been a little snottier than the familiar faces at Madame Malkin's.

She examined herself closely in a mirror, repressing a sigh when her gaze fell upon her hair. Never would she have the sleek and lovely locks of witches like Lavender or Ginny. She gave her reflection a resigned smile and with a muffled pop disapparated.

And arrived in Hogsmeade. Hermione pulled her heavy woollen winter cloak tighter around her shoulders and charmed the bottom of her dress robes to hover an inch above the ground. The harsh cold of the Scottish climate was a dramatic contrast to the cosy warmth of her London flat, and she shuddered. Her breath formed amorphous clouds in the winter air as she trudged through the narrow main street of the village; snow blanketed the earth as far as the eye could see and was still falling gently, dampening errant curls to her forehead. She was about to exit the village towards the lake when a rush of air notified her of an incoming apparition and she jumped back.

Draco Malfoy appeared in front of her, freezing when he saw her. The tall wizard looked disconcertingly handsome in a charcoal grey winter cloak and Hermione floundered for a moment.

"Granger," he said warily.

"Malfoy," she inclined her head politely, recovering from her surprise, and brushed past him.

A moment later she realised that he was keeping pace with her. Her fingers automatically tightened on her wand beneath her cloak.

"Everything alright, Malfoy?"

He gazed impassively at her, "Yes. You are going to the Ball, I assume?"

"Of course," she replied shortly, suppressing a more caustic response as they came into view of the lake. On the other side a large white marquee had been set up surrounded by torches; the faint sounds of music and revelry floated across the water towards them.

"Well, it would be rather odd if we walked in single file the whole way, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, indeed," she agreed calmly, "very odd. Whatever would people think?"

Something akin to a smile flashed through his eyes but it was so brief that Hermione could not be certain that she had seen it.

"Exactly, Granger. I'm glad we see eye to eye on this."

"How else would we see this?"

"I have no idea."

"Neither do I," Hermione bit her lip. This polite Malfoy was not one she enjoyed dealing with; she rather preferred the irrationality of his youth. At least she knew the appropriate reactions to that type of behaviour. The skin of her hand tingled briefly as it remembered one of its rare moments of violence.

"How's work in the Ministry?"

She resisted the urge to glare at him, "Oh fine, keeps me busy. Every day is a challenge. And your work in St. Mungo's?"

"Very well," he replied cordially, "I believe that I may be approaching the formulation of a vaccine for Dragon Pox."

She blinked, "Really?"

"Early days still but I believe a solution is in sight. I do need to consult a Herbology expert," he looked down at her. "Could you recommend someone?"

Hermione's step faltered but she raised her chin and said, "Well, off the top of my head I can think of two: Professor Sprout and Neville Longbottom are both highly respected in that field. Neville's been doing some marvellous things with Mandrake roots in recent years."

A twitch of the nose and a glimmer of the old Malfoy came to the surface. It was perversely reassuring.

"Well, I'll have to see if Longbottom is available to share his expertise with me."

Hermione heaved a sigh of relief.

Malfoy looked at her curiously.

"Oh come on, Malfoy. Stop pretending as though butter wouldn't melt in your mouth. 'How's work in the Ministry?' " she mimicked. "Honestly, do you think I was born yesterday?"

"Such a suspicious nature," he lamented mildly although there was a sharpness to his voice, "I believe that points to some sort of insecurity about interpersonal relationships."

"Spare me the Freud, if you please."

He stared at her.

"A Muggle," she explained with no little degree of condescension.

He limited his reply to a derisive snort.

Hermione gritted her teeth, conveniently forgetting that she had yearned for the return of his arrogance mere moments previous to this.

They were swiftly approaching the marquee, and although Hermione hastened her step her companion easily kept pace with her. She silently cursed her comparatively short legs. As they entered into the marquee they passed by a cloakroom.

"Allow me," Malfoy requested and rather than provide the few scattered onlookers with a scene Hermione reluctantly acquiesced, unhooking her cloak and pushing back her hood to allow him to remove the garment. She glanced away as he did this, peering into the main room of the marquee and when she turned back she was surprised to find that he had a rather odd look on his face.

"What?" she asked irritably.

"Nothing," he snapped back automatically and a sly expression settled across his features, "I just think there's something alive in your hair."

Hermione stroked her wand longingly but, keeping in mind the title of the ball, she merely dropped into a graceful curtsey, "Thank you ever so much for your charmingcompany, Mr Malfoy."

He bowed low, "My pleasure, Ms. Granger."

She swept into the main room, relieved to be away from the unsettling presence of Draco Malfoy. Once inside she paused to smile in wonder at her surroundings. The marquee roof and sides had been spelled to be transparent in one direction so that one had the impression that one was completely outside while bluebell flames hovered in crystal balls, emanating heat and light. Snowflakes appeared to be suspended in the air but when Hermione grasped one she realised that it was delicately constructed from spun sugar; she placed it upon her tongue and it melted with a gentle sizzle. There were, naturally, the obligatory branches of mistletoe that floated above the room and prompted unsuspecting pairs to launch into passionate embraces, much to the amusement of those around them. She made a note to herself to keep an eye on the dangerous plant.

At the far end of the room, next to a large Christmas tree, a jazz trio was holding court over the dance floor. Occasionally the floor beneath a couple would detach, floating high above the crowd and allowing them to demonstrate their sense of rhythm to the gathering. A pair of goblins were currently boogying in mid-air. In the centre of the dance floor was an ice sculpture that had been charmed to shift between heroes of each of the magical species. Hermione smiled fondly as it morphed into a likeness of Dobby clutching a sock as he gazed innocently into the distance.

Between the dance floor and the entrance was a sea of tables; a sumptuous banquet would commence soon while glittering bronze fountains on either side of the room supplied the attendees with warm mulled wine to ease their stomachs while they waited for the dinner to be served. Winged trays also zipped around the room, a little overzealous in their provision of canapés and wine.

Hermione snagged a canapé and a goblet from an eager tray that had been nudging her and began to scan the crowd for a familiar face. A flash of red hair and Hermione moved forward, stopping to acknowledge a greeting or smile until she finally located a Weasley chatting to Lee Jordan.

"Ginny!"

The youngest Weasley turned at her voice and threw her arms around Hermione, "We were wondering where you were," she pulled back and bid farewell to Lee before arching an inquisitive eyebrow, "Lavender said you arrived with Draco Malfoy. Is this true?"

The brunette stuttered in incredulity, "How does she do that? I just got here."

"So it is true," Ginny tutted. "I realise that on a superficial level he can be quite pleasing to the eye but Malfoy? Really, Hermione."

"Oh, shush," Hermione grumbled, "you know there is absolute nothing going on between me and Draco Malfoy."

"Well, yes," Ginny admitted with a mischievous grin, "but it was funny to see Ron's reaction. He can turn so many different shades of red; it's really quite amazing."

Hermione chuckled, "Serves him right; absolutely none of his business, anyway."

"Though I must say," the redhead drawled provocatively, "you do seem dressed to impress, my dear."

Hermione allowed herself a pleased smile. Her robes were a deep warm shade of red and of the finest silk, cut low across the chest they fit her snugly to the waist and then fell loosely to the ground, charmed to float around her with a small train at the back. Tiny gold stars were stitched into the bodice and matched the gold strands she had threaded through her hair and the plain gold choker on her neck. She had been unable to tame her tangled curls sufficiently, settling for pulling some of it back into a bun but allowing the rest to fall freely around her shoulders.

Once she had finished preening she replied, "You're looking rather glamorous as well."

And so Ginny was, her sage green robes emphasising the cream of her skin and the fire of her hair.

"I feel fat," she frowned, rubbing a hand over the small bump of her stomach.

"You're pregnant and you're beautiful so don't be silly. Anyway, look, Dean Thomas is ogling you."

"Really?" Ginny perked up. "Where?"

"Don't look," Hermione admonished, "And shouldn't you be beyond such things?"

"I'm married not a saint," Ginny said sharply then sighed, "and also ridiculously hormonal. I've a horrid yearning for brussel sprouts."

Hermione grimaced sympathetically.

The jazz trio stopped playing and Kingsley Shacklebot mounted the stage.

"Speeches," groaned Ginny quietly, "let's get to our table; I can't stand through all of this."

They slowly eased their way through the crowd and settled at their designated table to wait out the speeches. Although sincerely delivered there was no mistaking the tedium of the next hour as members of different magical communities took centre stage and spoke of integration and communication and facilitation. Just as the crowd was beginning to get restless the speeches ended abruptly, they were all bid to take their seats for the evening's banquet, and a cheer spontaneously erupted from the gathering as they rushed to their tables.

Ron, Harry, Neville and Luna emerged from the mass of people and joined them at the table. Ron blinked rapidly at the sight of Hermione.

"You look nice."

"Careful Ron, don't go overboard," she warned, the corners of her mouth trembling.

He scowled, "Alright, you look bloody brilliant. How's that?"

She smirked, "Much better and you're not so bad yourself."

"I can be bad," he waggled his eyebrows suggestively and Hermione sputtered with laughter. Ginny looked vaguely repulsed while the remainder of the table chuckled. Ron sobered a little after a minute.

"Er, Hermione," he started tentatively and she could see Harry grinning out of the corner of her eye, "did you come alone?"

She decided to misunderstand him, "Well, I'm not hiding my escort under the table if that's what you're asking."

"What? No, I…"

"Though Draco Malfoy did walk in with me." She consulted the menu and looked at her plate, "Gravalax."

Smoked salmon and salad appeared. She began to tuck in, apparently unaware of Ron's glowering expression.

"Hermione."

"Aren't you hungry, Ron?"

"Er, yes," he glanced at the menu, "eh, duck confit. Now, Hermione."

"Don't get your knickers in a twist," Ginny butted in, "and let us eat our starters in peace."

Ron's expression became more thunderous until Neville said, "I met Teddy the other day. He's getting quite like Remus, isn't he?"

Blessed be the peacemakers, Hermione thought gratefully as Ron and Harry launched into a detailed discussion of Teddy's Quidditch prowess.

Luna had been gazing across the room and eventually murmured in Hermione's ear, "He does stare an awful lot. I wonder if he's been tested for Orbolicus imps. They feed on your cornea, you know. Very difficult to detect." She then returned to her goat's cheese tartlet without any further explanation.

Hermione shrugged inwardly and joined the debate on whether Teddy was a Seeker or a Chaser, provoking laughter with the inaccuracy of her comments.

Some time later she found herself whirling around the dance floor with Arthur Weasley. He had recently discovered the joys of music boxes and had undertaken a study to determine whether the ballerina usually turned clockwise or anti-clockwise. Thus far, results had been heavily in favour of clockwise. He wondered whether this indicated a certain temporal awareness in the Muggle mindset.

Hermione was trying to decipher his logic when Ron and Luna whizzed past at a rather accelerated pace. Luna did think that adherence to music tempo was a form of mind control, after all. Arthur gazed after his youngest son affectionately then looked down at the young witch in his arms.

"You know, Hermione, me and Molly were sure you'd be our daughter some day."

She flushed but managed, "We are much better as friends," she tilted her head, laughing, "I nag too much and he's too easygoing. We'd have been miserable."

"But you haven't had any young wizard friend since, have you?" he enquired, concern written on his face. "Molly thinks you work too hard. She knows a few nice young wizards; you know she'd love to arrange a meeting with one of them for you."

Hermione tried not to wince, "If I meet someone I'll, oh, watch out," in a flash she had drawn her wand and banished a branch of mistletoe to the other side of the room. "That's one Christmas tradition I could do without."

Arthur shook his head sadly, "Do you not have a romantic bone in your body, Hermione Granger?" He chuckled suddenly, "Don't let Molly see you do that, she'd charm one to follow you around the room for the rest of the evening."

Hermione blanched. She was about to reply when someone tapped Arthur on the shoulder and asked, "May I cut in?" His expression froze and he turned around. Hermione exhaled slowly and counted to ten, repeating to herself 'I must not make a scene'. Arthur glanced at her worriedly and she smiled reassuringly back at him. He stepped back and Draco Malfoy took his place.

"What, pray tell, are you playing at?" she hissed once Arthur was no longer in earshot.

"Don't want to be seen with me, Granger?" Malfoy sneered and all at once he was the same boy he had been at Hogwarts, and Hermione felt herself to be on firmer ground.

"No, I don't want to be seen with you, actually. It's bad enough that people saw us arriving together."

"I'm sorry," his grip on her waist tightened. "I'm so very sorry that you have been sullied by the brief association."

"Don't be ridiculous, Malfoy."

"Oh," he raised his eyebrows, "your reputation is far too shining to be dulled by even a horrendous social solecism such as my company, is that it?"

"Have you gone mad?" she stared at him incredulously, "What on earth are you talking about?"

He looked away from her earnest gaze and when he looked back all the emotions had been chased from the lines of his face, an eerie stillness to his expression, "You're in charge of claims related to the war."

Hermione suddenly understood, "I cannot discuss ongoing claims in the Ministry."

"I wish to ask you something on a point of law."

"I cannot give any such advice as it may be interpreted as prejudice before the examination of all the facts."

"Damn it, Granger," he swore tersely, "stop giving me the Ministry line. I need some help."

Hermione stopped dancing.

"Keep moving, you silly witch," he pulled her back into the rhythm of the dance, "people are beginning to stare."

She glanced sharply up at him, "People were staring from the moment you approached me. Surely you're aware of that."

He stared over her head; she watched his Adam's apple work in his throat for a moment.

"Anyway, you should be discussing this with a legal advisor."

A muscle twitched in his jaw, "I don't have an advisor."

Hermione stumbled again.

"I've never had the misfortune of dancing with such an ungainly creature as you," he growled, practically yanking at her to keep her in step with him.

"I am perfectly willing to stop dancing with you," she snapped but followed it swiftly with: "What do you mean you don't have a legal advisor? Who wrote that letter?"

"I did," his grip on her became vice-like, "and don't you dare stop dancing."

"I shall dare do whatever I like, Draco Malfoy," she replied viciously, "and you will certainly not tell me to do otherwise."

His smile was bitter, "Of course not. You're Hermione Granger, heroine of the war. Cleverest witch of her time. I'll wager you can't remember the last time someone denied you anything."

Trapped in this bizarre charade of a dance, Hermione could only dream of reaching her wand and cursing him to the other side of the room. And still the chant of 'I must not make a scene' resonated within her head. She settled for digging her blunt fingernails into his hand. He did not, however, give her the satisfaction of wincing.

"Why don't you have a legal advisor?"

He answered indirectly, "It took me three months to research and draft that letter. I had initially planned to simply research my case myself but when I discovered the time limit on the response from the Ministry," his mouth tightened, "I hoped to make enough money from their delayed response to hire a wizard with some decent knowledge of the law. You, however, put an end to that."

"I was doing my job and you," she stamped her foot, "were trying to defraud the system."

"The system, my dear Granger," he hissed, "has left me on the verge of bankruptcy."

The song ended but Malfoy did not release her.

"Alright, Hermione?" Harry's jovial voice accompanied an arm suddenly descending across her shoulders.

Malfoy slowly loosened his grip on her, nodding, "Potter."

Harry smiled but Hermione could feel the tension in him, "Malfoy."

The tall blonde wizard bowed low, "Many thanks for the pleasure of this dance."

She affected a smile, recalling her surroundings, "You're entirely welcome."

A clipped smile and he turned and walked through the crowd, which parted before him.

"Dance with me, Harry," Hermione murmured, turning under his arm to face him. "And don't stare after him."

His bright green eyes looked down at her in concern, "What the hell was that all about? We're lucky Ron is on the other side of the room or we'd be pulling him off Malfoy right now."

"Smile and laugh," she directed gently as she giggled, "or people will think there's something to talk about."

He forced a bark of laughter that made her cringe and pasted a smile onto his face, "Now tell me: what was that?"

As they turned her eyes drifted towards the path left by Malfoy's departure from the dance floor, "Honestly, Harry, I couldn't even be sure."