The Politician's Wife - Dramione

Chapter 3: Copy Me

"How were your holidays, Granger?"

There were so many things wrong with this scenario, I didn't know where to begin.

Draco Malfoy was sitting in my office, the office I had warded no fewer than sixteen times, some of the spells dating back to the thirteenth century.

Draco Malfoy was not only sitting in my office, but he was sitting at my desk. In my chair. Rifling through my In Box. Rifling through the confidential post in my In Box. A cigarette dangled out of his mouth. He'd already transformed the paperweight into an ashtray, and what had been a fresh pack of Players lay on the desk. He must have been there for some time because several butts littered the ashtray, and I could barely see him through the smoky haze. With one hand I cast a Smoke-Be-Gone Charm, and with the other I picked up the cigarette wrapper and threw it in the dustbin. Which was filled nearly to the top with my discarded post.

"Have a lie-in? You are," he looked at his watch, "three minutes late."

How did he enunciate so perfectly with that nasty fag hanging out of his mouth? The disconnect between fair and foul was only heightened by his usual grace as he turned his wrist to peer at his watch.

"I'll be sure to make it up at lunch."

Ignoring my sarcasm, he shook the memo in his hand; the parchment crackled.

"I didn't get this memo. Why didn't Parker copy me on this?"

"Don't be thick, Malfoy. It isn't a giant leap to assume that he didn't want you to see it."

He looked it over again. "Unlikely. Must have been an oversight." He frowned and placed it in one of the three neat piles on top of my desk.

Picking up yet another memo, he scanned it for two seconds, sighed, and pitched it in the dustbin. The back of my neck, which had only unraveled its maze of kinks on the ninth day of the holiday, balled back up into a tight, unforgiving knot the size of a walnut. From experience, I knew that this knot that had no bloody hope of loosening until the Christmas holidays.

I hated him. Normally I had a week's grace before that god damn knot came back. I hadn't been back at work for more than five minutes and already my neck was balled up sixteen ways to Sunday.

I slammed my briefcase on the desk. He didn't flinch one centimetre, just kept on reading. "Let's ignore for one minute the fact that you broke into my office, are rifling through my confidential post, and have pitched most of it into the rubbish. Shall we start with first things first? Do you mind if I sit down?"

He waved his hand in the general direction of the seat opposite and snapped his fingers. The antique Spode tea set made its appearance. In addition to the two cups, creamer, sugar, and silver tongs for the sugar cubes, two perfectly rolled croissants sat on matching plates, together with pats of butter, and small pots of raspberry jam, whose sweet, fruity aroma filled the office. "Be your guest. Tea's probably ready. Milk, no sugar." He added absentmindedly from behind the memo. "Help yourself to a croissant."

"I meant my own seat, you annoying prat," I barked.

He looked up and waggled a finger at me. "Ah, ah, ah. If you're not nice to me for at least one day upon your return, I won't approve your vacation request next time..."

"You do not approve my vacation requests," I sputtered.

"Not yet, but I will." He said this with so much conviction I had to remind myself this was typical Malfoy arrogance, not tidings of things to come. The idea of Malfoy as my supervisor was enough to make me contemplate throwing myself down the lift shaft. "Your mantra for the next twenty-four hours, Granger: Nice to Malfoy. Nice to Malfoy. I'd suggest saying it on your knees in total supplication, but that's probably asking too much." He picked the nearly spent fag from his mouth and stubbed it out in the ashtray. Then making a great show of standing up, he bade me sit with an elegant roll of his hand. "Your wish is my command, my lovely Hermione."