Work Text:
When Hermione told Harry he ought to invest, this wasn't exactly what she had in mind.
For years, he'd left a mountain of galleons to collect dust in his vault―the largely untouched prize that went along with his Order of Merlin, First Class. And she knew he didn't care to spend the money on himself.
He'd settled into life at Grimmauld Place after the war, and along with his burgeoning career as an Auror, he wanted for little else.
But when a Gringotts adviser sent him an owl encouraging him to do something with his money, Hermione hadn't expected him to spend it where he did. If she had, she would have kept her opinions to herself.
He bought a Quidditch team.
The Falmouth Falcons, to be exact. They'd been the second highest ranked in the British and Irish Quidditch team three years running, and Harry's personal favourite.
Even less did Hermione anticipate what he did next; he gave the team to her.
Following an uneasy end to her career with the Ministry, she found herself unemployed, the timing of it verging on suspect. She didn't know much about Quidditch to begin with, let alone owning and organising a professional sports franchise, but shortly after, she found herself amidst a group of professional athletes expecting her to guide them to success. Falmouth was rumoured to run the league this season, and the worst of it all was that she didn't want to disappoint Harry.
Hermione was positive that if the team plummeted in the standings, it would be at least ninety per cent her fault. She had never been keen on failure, and this was a realm in which she most certainly expected to fail.
The team's star Chaser, an oak tree of a man called Orwell, appraised her with folded arms and an unimpressed brow. "You're the new owner."
Infusing as much confidence into her stance as she could dredge forth, Hermione offered a crisp nod. "That's right."
The team's head coach, Marvin Minnow, stood to her right, looking as uncomfortable with the situation as she felt. With a thin grimace, he informed Orwell―as though she weren't standing right there―"It isn't exactly orthodox, but we're working on it."
And despite the utter lack of enthusiasm in the coach's voice, she felt a hint of hope. Because she wasn't in this alone. The players obviously knew what they were doing, there was a team of coaches and managers and assistants and―
Marvin Minnow resigned the following week, having been headhunted to the Ballycastle Bats―first ranked in the league.
Which left Hermione, rather glaringly, short a head coach and forced to deal with a team of Quidditch players who quickly grew restless. She wouldn't be surprised if they staged a mutiny in the night.
The team's managers were up her arse with options for a replacement, and all at once she found herself overwhelmed.
"Miss Granger," her assistant Natalia, a willowy girl scarcely out of Hogwarts, approached her. "Your two o'clock meeting is in your office."
Hermione hadn't even been aware she had a two o'clock meeting, caught up in chaos as she'd been.
With a grimace, she made an effort at smoothing her curls before she wheeled on the spot and began towards her office.
Harry would be receiving a series of Howlers over this. If he wanted the Falcons to win so badly, he ought to have taken on ownership of the team himself. She wasn't cut out for this, and for the hundredth time in a week, she questioned why she had even gone along with his scheme in the first place.
Desperation. Loneliness. An inexplicable desire to try something new and exciting.
New was overrated, and this was far from exciting.
She stopped outside of the office, drew a deep breath, and steeled herself for what was sure to be another ambush she wasn't equipped to handle.
But when she opened the door and stepped inside, she froze. Eyes wide and locked on the only other occupant of the room, she pressed the door shut and leaned against it.
The man looked up from the bookshelf he was perusing, pale fringe hanging in cloudy grey eyes.
Hermione thought she might just scream.
Draco Malfoy was in her office.
"Granger." He ducked his chin, staring at her for a moment, then his lips curled with the hint of a smirk. "You look... well."
She knew she didn't. She'd hardly slept all week, her skirt was rumpled, and her hair was most certainly a fright. But she didn't know what Malfoy was doing there, and small talk with a childhood enemy wasn't something she cared to indulge.
"What are you doing here?"
Feigning surprise, he glanced at his watch. "We have a meeting. Or do I have the time wrong?"
She couldn't say either way; her day had been such a mash-up of assorted meetings that she'd lost track of her schedule. Natalia must have booked this particular meeting. Thinning her lips, she grit out, "What is the meeting for? I must inform you, Mister Malfoy, I am quite busy, so―"
"I imagine you'll want to hear this."
His tone was idle, almost bored, and he looked away to draw a thin volume from her shelf, peering at the cover. Her hands twitched of their own accord towards the book, but she clasped them together instead.
She gestured towards the seat at her desk, but Malfoy remained standing after setting down the book. Hermione's veins coursed with enough nervous energy that she knew she would never be able to sit still.
She only stepped farther into the office, folding her arms as she peered up at him. Merlin, he was tall. Although she tried to recall the last time they'd spoken, she couldn't remember anything specific. She saw him only infrequently in passing, and it had been years since they'd been at school together.
Warmth crept into her cheeks when his cold eyes roved her face.
"So I'm told," Malfoy began in an easy drawl, "the Falcons are going under."
"They are not," she snapped instinctively. An uneasy gnawing churned her stomach at his blatant assessment, and she dropped her head to the side. "Whatever you think you've heard―"
"I assure you, my sources are sound." Cool mocking danced in his eyes. "The Falcons' new owner is in over her head, the head coach walked off the job, and the team is in complete disarray. Which part of that is wrong?"
Hermione ground her jaw.
Forget Howlers, Harry was going to receive an unpleasant visit in the middle of the night.
"I happen to have a… personal stake in the Falcons doing well this season. I cannot see you drive this team into the ground." Malfoy barrelled on as though he didn't care to wait for a response, but Hermione wouldn't give him the satisfaction anyway. "So I have an offer for you."
Malfoy reached into the chest pocket of his suit jacket, squared his jaw, and presented a scrap of parchment between two fingers with an elegant flourish.
The parchment contained only a number. The blood drained from her face. A large number.
"What is this?" she asked, her voice breathy.
"An offer," Malfoy repeated. "For the team."
Hermione tensed, then her eyes drifted from the parchment back to his face. "The team."
"Merlin, try to keep up?" He raked a hand through his blond hair, and Hermione watched as his fringe fell instantly back into his eyes. "I don't know how you ended up in charge of a professional Quidditch team, but it's obvious you know nothing about any of this. I will give you that sum of galleons to walk away and turn the team over to me."
As she stared at him, her feet froze to the spot, knees weakening. Her first instinct was to jump at the opportunity, to take the money and walk away from the absolute mess she'd landed in.
But then her thoughts shifted back to Harry, and all of her uncharitable thoughts about her oldest friend vanished. He had given control of the team to her, and it was his money in the first place. If she took Malfoy's offer, she would have to give the money to Harry―and explain to Harry why she had sold his favourite team to Draco Malfoy of all people.
"No," she whispered, inwardly wincing at her own easy refusal. "I don't accept."
"You don't."
His tone was that of disbelief.
"I do not," she repeated with a shallow nod. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have quite a lot to―"
"The offer is more than fair." A furrow knitted the skin between his brows. "Granger, they'll be getting rid of you next. Anyone who knows anything about Quidditch can tell you haven't the slightest fucking clue how to run a team."
"Must you continue saying that?" Hermione rubbed at her temples, the beginnings of a migraine coming on. "Your offer surpasses fair―but I can't sell the team."
Despite everything, and despite the fact that it was Malfoy, she desperately wished she could. But she tried to imagine telling Harry and she just couldn't do it.
At the heart of the matter, he had chosen to give her this team―this opportunity―and she wanted to do right by him.
Malfoy continued staring at her, his back ramrod-straight and frustration clear on his face. "You realise people are counting on the Falcons winning the season."
Anxiety swelled within her, tightening her chest, desperation causing her mind to fuzz. "Then help me," she blurted, the words falling unconsidered. They both stared at each other in shock; she wondered if her eyes were wild. She forced a thick swallow. "I need a coach."
His brows shot high, lips parting in surprise. But then he swallowed and said, "Okay."
To her surprise―and utter relief―Malfoy's Quidditch instincts were as sharp as she remembered from Hogwarts.
The next morning he arrived on the pitch, the air more than a little tense between them. But whatever his reasons for wanting the team to perform, they were obviously important enough that he was willing to help fix her mess.
It was a mutual understanding borne of a shared desire, and she couldn't question it beyond that.
Malfoy spent the majority of the first day conversing with the team, the managers, the assistant coaches, before falling almost seamlessly into the role. By the end of the week, the team was running their drills as smoothly as she'd ever seen.
She knew his reasons weren't altruistic―especially given the high-paying coach salary she'd thrown at him without a second thought―but she wondered what else there was to it.
Her answer―or at least one of them―arrived when she walked out onto the pitch Friday afternoon. Walking up alongside Malfoy, she cast him a glance. His blond hair was ruffled by the wind, eyes attentive as he tracked the formation of the team's chasers. But when he turned to face her, the grey in his eyes sparkled with a gleam she'd never seen before.
"They're looking good," she murmured, folding her arms across her chest in the slight chill.
When she had hired him on the spot as the new head coach, they had fallen into a sort of unspoken agreement to make their best efforts to get along. Although they hadn't agreed on everything, she deferred most of the Quidditch-related decisions to him. Neither of them could deny he was the one that knew more about it.
And Malfoy had shown her more respect in turn than she'd thought him capable.
In a way, hiring him had proven to be a good decision after all―and a part of her appreciated that she wasn't struggling with all of this alone.
"They are," he returned. She thought she detected a hint of pride in his voice. "They should do well against Holyhead this weekend."
"Good." Tension lingered between them, but Hermione wasn't in a rush to walk away as she watched the team practice. She cleared her throat, toeing the grass. "I… thank you. I appreciate that you were willing to step in."
For a long moment, Malfoy didn't respond. Then he huffed a quiet laugh and said, "Someone had to. You'd have driven the franchise into the ground."
Instinctively, her hackles raised, and she turned to fire a retort. But a slow, teasing grin dragged across his face that caused her chest to lurch, her cheeks to heat, her blood to flare.
"You're welcome, Granger," he said quietly, and there was enough legitimate warmth in the words that the fight sank from her in an instant. "You still haven't told me how you ended up owning a Quidditch team."
She hummed for a moment. "Harry. Falmouth is his team, and he had galleons burning a hole in his pocket."
"So he put you in charge?"
The scepticism in his tone was obvious, but she couldn't fault him. She nodded, squinting in the sunlight as the players flew higher into the sky. "Obviously, I'm not the best person to run a Quidditch team."
"I think you're fine to run an organisation," he said, surprising her. But then he turned to face her again, a thoughtful knit in his brow. "You're thorough, task-oriented, competent―you just don't know bollocks about Quidditch."
At that, she laughed. "That I do not." Accepting the tentative peace between them, she added, "I guess that's where you come in."
The warmth returned to his eyes, and his shoulder brushed lightly against her own. "I guess it is."
The Falcons emerged victorious over the Harpies. The following week, they beat out the Wimbourne Wasps by a wide margin, and the week after that, they captured a slim victory over the Chudley Cannons.
Hermione smiled to herself, thinking of how scandalised Ron would be as the game came to an end. Her eyes slid instinctively to where Harry and Ron sat in the stands, engaged in a fierce rivalry over the match.
The team played and flew at their best, the chasers operating as one, the beaters sharp and efficient. The Falcons' Keeper was second-to-none in the league, and their seeker, Hollins, had the sharpest eye she'd seen.
But through every match, she couldn't help the way her attention always landed on Malfoy.
Despite being relatively close in age to most of the team, they all looked to him for advice and guidance, and they rarely second-guessed a call. He knew the plays to enact, and how to keep spirits up when the tides began to shift against them.
In short, he was the coach she never would have thought to hire.
After Hollins snagged the Snitch from near the Cannons' goal post, Malfoy's gaze slid to land on hers. Sunshine glinted off the grey in his eyes and his mouth curled with a genuine smile. "A good win."
"An excellent win," she returned, flashing him a grin. "Great job, Coach."
Malfoy winked.
Hermione couldn't quite wrap her head around the way her stomach jolted and twisted into a knot at the innocuous gesture, and she glanced away as warmth bloomed in her cheeks.
But before she could say anything else, Harry strode towards them, hands jammed into his pockets.
He'd been aghast when she first told him she'd hired Draco Malfoy as the team's new coach, but after Hermione gave him an earful about thrusting her into a situation in which she had no knowledge or expertise, he'd conceded the point.
He hadn't been happy about it, but he couldn't deny Malfoy knew Quidditch.
The broad grin stretching across his face now, the team on a streak of three consecutive wins, made her think he might have reconsidered.
"Great match," he offered into the space between her and Malfoy, then he gave an awkward nod. "Good coaching, Malfoy."
Malfoy lifted a brow and pursed his lips, but nodded in response. "Thank you, Potter."
Moments after Harry drifted back into the crowd―to taunt Ron, most likely―Hermione froze.
A small blond boy, maybe four or five and clad head-to-toe in Falcons purple, rushed towards Malfoy, arms raised above his head in victory. A slow, genuine smile spread across Malfoy's face before he crouched down to pull the boy into an embrace.
Hermione managed a tight swallow.
Malfoy spoke quietly with the boy whose elation shone in his grey eyes, so like the man before him. When Malfoy rose once more to his feet, he cast Hermione a sidelong glance.
"Scorp," he mused, "this is Miss Granger."
"Hello!" the boy exclaimed, fixing her with a huge grin. His cheeks dimpled. "My name is Scorpius Malfoy."
She hesitated for only a moment before saying, "It is wonderful to meet you, Scorpius. I see you're a fan of the Falcons."
"The biggest," the boy said emphatically, puffing out his small chest. "Just like my dad."
Hermione hadn't been aware Malfoy was a father. She quashed down a storm of conflicting emotions rioting within her as she observed the pair of them together. Scorpius was the spitting image of his father―and there was something altogether softer about Malfoy when in the presence of his son.
Her chest tightened.
When a woman―whose face Hermione couldn't clearly see through the throngs of people―called Scorpius away, the boy gave each of them a big wave before running off.
The silence that followed felt loaded.
"He seems wonderful," Hermione said softly. Then, before she could stop herself, "I didn't realise you were married."
In the years following the war, she had scarcely paid any mind to Draco Malfoy.
Malfoy thinned his lips. "Divorced." His eyes caught on hers for a moment. "His mother and I were young. Too young."
"Ah." Hermione wracked her brain for an appropriate response―some way to make sense of the tumult in her chest. "I'm sorry it didn't work out."
With a shrug that appeared more flippant than she might have expected, he drawled, staring in the direction where his son vanished, "It's alright. Some things aren't meant to work out―and I wouldn't trade Scorpius for the world." He turned back towards her and offered a lukewarm smile. "And in case you were wondering about my motivations for wanting the team to do well―now you know."
For some reason, the thought surprised her. She had expected his reasons to be financial in nature, but knowing he simply wanted to coach his son's favourite team―to guide them to victory―showed the man in a brighter light.
"I appreciate that," she said at last. "You must be a great father."
When Malfoy didn't respond for a long moment, she wondered whether he meant to. But then he said softly, "I want to be the example I didn't have."
As too many thoughts swirled through her head, Hermione only offered him a smile of her own.
Hermione glanced up at a light tap on her open door frame. She'd been so caught up in her work she hardly noticed the rest of the facility clear out, and she blinked with surprise to see the sun setting beyond her window. Glimmers of orange and blue and violet danced through the glass.
Sliding her gaze towards the door, she met Malfoy's stare.
He leaned a casual shoulder against the frame and shook his head once. "Always working so late."
"You're still here," she retorted, leaning back in her seat and rolling a kink from her neck. "So you don't have much room to talk."
It was far from the first time they'd been the last two remaining late at night, but they didn't often talk.
Malfoy only shrugged, drifting a step into the room. He stopped to observe a photograph on the shelf, one of her, Harry, and Ron shortly after the war. Breathless, Hermione found herself watching as his fingers brushed the corner of the frame.
"Practice went late," he murmured, then glanced up belatedly. He took another step closer, his gaze roving the stack of paperwork on her desk. "And I had to make some adjustments for this week's game. Hollins had an accident―nothing too bad, but he won't be able to fly."
She found herself oddly enraptured by his slow perusal of her office, and a flutter of nerves darted through her chest. He picked up a quill from her desk, peering at the long feather.
"Did you need something?" she asked, forcing her breathing steady.
Although they had never been anything but enemies growing up, an easy comfort had started to develop between them that she couldn't refute. And if she was honest, she felt the undertones of attraction growing for the man.
Which was, of course, a bad idea.
He laid the quill gently back on her desk, shoulders lifting in a shrug, before he slipped his hands into his pockets. "I thought I'd go for a fly before heading home. Clear my head a bit. I'm sure you could use a break, if you want to join me."
Hermione blinked at him, her heart stuttering a beat.
Malfoy leaned a hip against her desk, cocking a brow as he stared down at her.
"I'm not much for flying," she admitted, clearing her throat. She quashed a sudden surge of disappointment. "But thank you for asking. I hope you have a nice fly."
"Still?" He released an uncertain laugh. "But you own a Quidditch team."
"That doesn't mean I have to enjoy flying."
And how was she meant to tell him she'd hardly been able to pick up a broomstick since the war, when they'd had to chase out of the burning Room of Hidden Things to survive. The thought caused a lump to form in her throat that she couldn't dispel.
Malfoy plucked the quill from her hands and set it in the receptacle on her desk. He leaned in, his voice lowering. "Then fly with me. Or we can take a walk. Get out of this office."
The thought of flying with Malfoy, of sharing a broom, feeling the heat of his body next to hers, caused a riot of emotions to stir within her. And though she knew most of them were inappropriate, given the fact they worked together, she couldn't help it.
The word slipped free of its own accord. "Okay."
A slow, crooked grin spread across Malfoy's face, his eyes bright in the dim lighting of the office. "Come on, then. The best views are this time of night."
He offered a hand, and before she could think twice, she took it, allowing him to tug her to her feet. For a moment, she only stood before him, soaking up his presence, and it took several ragged thuds of her heart before he released her hand.
"So is that why you took this job, then?" The question was abrupt, but she'd scarcely been able to stop thinking about the gleeful expression on his young son's face some weeks ago. "Because of Scorpius?"
Malfoy blinked at her, a knit forming between his brows. "Partly, yes."
Hermione hesitated, then said, "I wouldn't think you'd need to work at all. Certainly not if you had the means to purchase the team outright."
Although he didn't immediately answer, a glimmer of warmth remained in his stare. "I only have a hand in influencing Scorpius' development part time. It doesn't bother me, because his mother is as dedicated to him as I am―but it is important to me that he grows up understanding the value of effort and commitment."
The words hovered in the back of her mind for several drawn-out moments, clattering about and settling in a quiet space.
She thought again of the small blond boy, filled with pride and a sort of vibrant, youthful enthusiasm as he embraced his father after the game he'd attended.
Hermione's chest twinged at the thought―at a deep-seated sort of longing that lingered within her. It was something she wanted for herself, one day, if she were to find the right person.
"I respect that," she murmured at last.
His eyes snagged on hers again. "And the Falcons are my team, too. I wanted them to do well."
"But you didn't have any coaching experience."
He smirked, glancing away. "You hired me anyway."
Heat stung her cheeks, and Hermione was grateful for the low lighting. Neither of them moved away. "I was backed into a corner," she said at last, fighting a smile. "You caught me at a vulnerable moment."
His expression softened, as though her words meant something more than they did, and he said, "Maybe it was mutual. At any rate, I'm happy to be here. Now come on."
"Maybe it was for the best," she offered in a whisper, and she found the significance within her own heart reflected back through his eyes.
Malfoy's eyes shone. "I think you might be right."
And though her mind suddenly swam with questions, she suppressed them in favour of a spontaneous fly.
The evening air was cool on her skin, and an old, deep-seated fear threatened to rise when she stared at Malfoy's high-end racing broom. He was the team's coach, but he spent nearly as much time in the air as he did on the ground, and she'd seen the easy and fluid way he commanded the vessel.
Even so, she had to take several deep breaths. Memories of searing flames roared in the back of her mind, taking her to a time better left in the past.
Malfoy noticed her hesitation, and his hand came to the small of her back. "I'm not going to let anything happen," he said, the quiet assurance doing wonders for her frayed nerves. Whether he guessed at the cause of her hesitation, she couldn't tell.
And although she still didn't know him that well, she believed him.
It was enough for her to push back the old fear and, drawing a deep breath for strength, she climbed atop the broom as it hovered before her.
When he slipped onto the broom behind her, his warmth enveloped her despite the cool night chill. He kept a careful distance, one hand lightly grazing her hip as he reached around her to hold onto the handle. His knees brushed the outsides of her legs; jolts of energy darted through her at every point of contact.
He planted his feet on the ground, and asked, "Comfortable?"
The low timbre of his voice rumbled through her, and it took everything within her not to sink back into his solid form. "Yes," she whispered, shifting to balance herself.
If she were honest, she might have been a little too comfortable with his close proximity. Malfoy froze, waiting for her to situate herself, and his hand tightened on the handle ahead of her. Then he pushed off from the ground, the cool rush of a breeze on her face enough to startle her back to the reality of the moment.
She was flying with Draco Malfoy―and she hadn't even put up a fuss.
After months of watching the Falcons, she had come to expect every Quidditch player to fly like a maniac, but Malfoy was careful, his direction of the broom smooth and gentle.
She suspected it was due to her presence, because she had seen him flying just as wildly as the rest of the team.
Malfoy's breath ghosted along her curls, a hint of warmth breaking through to the cool skin of her neck. His closeness was enticing in ways she wasn't prepared to unpack just yet.
As he turned the broom almost lazily, Hermione caught a glimpse of the sunset, breathtaking in its glory. The sky danced with streaks of vibrant colour, the last hints of the sun brilliant along the horizon.
"It's beautiful," she said, almost to herself.
"It is."
She wasn't entirely certain, but she thought Malfoy shifted on the broom, his chest brushing her back. A shiver darted the length of her spine, and she forced herself to refrain from sinking back into his warmth.
It took more willpower than she'd anticipated, when all she wanted to do was feel his arms around her.
And she knew it wasn't a good idea to indulge the intrigue that grew within her like wildfire. Draco Malfoy wasn't a man she often considered―nor had she ever given him much thought at all over the years that had passed since the war.
But now… with a quiet moment hanging between them and washing away her good sense, she couldn't help but let the thoughts free.
"You could stand to get out of your office more often, you know," he murmured, his voice jolting her from the intrusive thoughts. "Spend more time out on the pitch."
His hand grazed her hip, settling there for a moment, and a breath caught in her throat at the soft touch.
"You're right," she managed, forcing a thick swallow.
Malfoy's thumb began to play circles along her hip, and she could just feel it through the fabric of her jumper. He ducked his head lower, his temple brushing her hair. "This doesn't have to be all work."
His words hung over her, teasing and tantalising, and she drew in a careful breath. Something in his words emboldened her, and she shifted on the broom, her back landing flush against his chest.
"What is it, then?" she asked, her heart rioting when his hand shifted to rest on her stomach. "Play?"
She could have sworn she felt his smirk against the side of her head. His fingers drifted along her middle. "It is a game."
Hermione wanted to see his face, to catch the glint of mischief in his eye that she could hear in his voice. She wanted him to touch her, firm and proper, to forgo the gentle caution of his hands on her now.
Dropping a hand to his knee, she smiled as the last vestiges of sunlight dipped below the horizon. The world was a mural of purples and blues, the moon glowing far off in the distance.
The quiet, easy atmosphere between them awakened something within her. She felt as though they both stood on the edge of a cliff, prepared to jump if only they would go together.
The thought scared her more than she expected.
It had been too long since she'd blindly jumped into something new, and this was as far from predictable as she could get. Although she could admit that she was interested in him, she wasn't certain whether she could see anything beyond that. If it made any sense; if it could possibly last.
She wanted to play, to indulge in this new game. Wanted to melt into his chest, to bask in the sensations his careful touches invoked.
But a part of her was afraid.
If she leapt and he did not, she would surely meet her peril on the rocks below.
Indecision wrenched at her, and for as much as she wanted to give in, a part of her still held back. She allowed herself to exist in his hold, gazing upon the ethereal beauty of the night sky, and her eyelids fluttered shut at the perfection of the moment.
The smooth, soft graze of his thumb at the base of her ribcage kept her focus fixed, hyper-aware, on Malfoy. Her stomach sank when she realised she could no longer dissuade herself of her own interest in the man.
Eventually―she couldn't tell how much time had passed―he began the broom's descent, and a jolt of disappointment chased through her. They were silent for so long, simply enjoying the view and the company, that she started when he spoke.
"Thanks for joining me," he murmured, his voice low beside her ear. "I've had too much on my mind lately, and flying helps."
"I can see why," she said quietly, feeling instantly bereft when he unwound his arm from her middle and touched the broom back down. Full dark had fallen, a chill on the air.
Hermione dismounted the broom, folding her arms across her front to combat the cold air bristling her skin through her clothes. She gnawed her lower lip for a moment as she stared at him, uncertain as to the way things had shifted between them ever so slightly.
With the way his suggestion sounded like an offer.
Slowly and in silence, they made their way back into the complex's offices. Hermione found she wasn't in a rush to get home, but nor was she interested in settling back into the paperwork that still cluttered her desk. Malfoy walked her to her office, a strange fluttering in her stomach as though it were something more.
At the look in his eyes, she wondered whether it wasn't.
"Thanks for joining me," he said softly, leaning on her door frame. His casual stance suggested he wasn't eager to walk away, either.
Hermione's heart rattled in her rib cage. "Thank you as well. I suppose I did need a break."
Something shifted in his expression, falling serious. A furrow of uncertainty creased his brow. One of his hands skimmed her hip, a question dancing in his eyes just before they flickered to her mouth.
It would have been so easy. To lean in, to throw her fears into the wind. To sink into whatever he was offering.
She tore her gaze away, with a whispered, "I don't know that we should."
Hermione knew she didn't need to elaborate―not with the air between them as charged as it was.
Malfoy's expression faltered only for a brief moment. "If you think so, then I'll respect your decision. But just so you know... I think we could." His fingers continued to brush her side, soft and teasing but not intrusive. When she didn't respond, a hint of humour lifted one corner of his mouth. "And if it goes wrong, you can fire me or sell me the team."
At that, the tension shattered, and a small laugh slipped free of her lips. "That simple?"
"It can be." He sobered. "Or it could be whatever you want."
He'd laid his cards before her, as steady and honest as she knew him to be; a breath hitched in her throat. There was a promise beneath his words, one she longed to take hold and draw close.
She felt as though she stood on the cliff again, but maybe she wasn't alone. A smile tugged at her mouth as she drifted a hand up his chest, toying with the silk of his tie.
"Maybe," she murmured, tugging gently on the fabric, "we could simply see where it goes."
The grey of his eyes shone with more brightness than the dim lighting allowed, but his hand only hitched around to the small of her back as she pressed up on her toes. Her lips met his, smooth and seamless, as if they'd each been placed in this moment for precisely this.
Sliding one hand into his hair, kissing him again, harder, seeking the indolent graze of his tongue on hers, Hermione sank into the kiss. Heat and adrenaline flooded her, nerves rioting in her stomach.
He was all warmth and support and something intriguing, something uniquely seductive.
When she drew back with a nip to his bottom lip, when she met his gaze with a heavy exhale, she smiled. And Hermione felt that part of herself that clung to the ledge dive into whatever they would make of it.