Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

I don't own Harry Potter,

This is sad, but true.

Thank you to my wonderful Beta's: blackened rose, closer-2-monkey, ClumsyKnowItAll, ellemcdxo, littlered1992

The Manor had not changed since the last time she had visited some five years ago. It rose up from the impossibly green valley, surrounded on all sides by rolling hills topped with grey skies. The stone walls were still covered in leafy vines, and the pretentious albino peacocks were pecking around the fountain centrepiece. A soft breeze toyed with the tops of the trees that sat on either side of the house and towards the fields beyond. The air was warm, almost humid, as if this plot of land in Wiltshire had no care that the rest of Britain was wet and miserable.

From behind the tall wrought-iron gates, Hermione Granger gazed up at the building with a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Despite the balminess of the air, she shivered as the breeze licked at her stocking-clad legs. She glanced at her watch, squared her shoulders, and then presented her wand to the bars with a shaking hand. They melted away as if they were made from ice and her wand from fire, and she took her first shaky steps forward.

The peacocks took no notice as she stumbled past them, her sensible black work shoes clicking melodiously on the uneven ground. The sound of their ruffling feathers rang around the open space, and a sudden cracking noise forced Hermione's attention to the front door. A small creature had appeared on the threshold, dressed in a freshly pressed pillow case with the letter M elegantly monogramed onto its chest. Its ears flopped downwards like a hound's, and its nose was long and pointy. As she climbed the short flight of steps, a large grin broke over the creature's face. Its eyes, giant and yellow in its relatively small face, lit up at the sight of its guest before the House Elf hurriedly fell into a very low bow.

"Miss Granger!" The creature squeaked, its face still pointed towards the ground. "Miksy is so pleased to meet you, Miss!"

The young woman blinked once before collecting herself and clearing her throat. "The pleasure is all mine, Miksy."

The House Elf's back audibly cracked as she straightened quickly. She clasped her hands in front of her, and began to wring them at an incredible speed.

"Mast-Master Malfoy is right…is right this way, Miss," Miksy's impossibly wide eyes blinked rapidly as her small chest heaved. Walking backwards so as not to break eye contact with Hermione, the elf snapped her fingers and the front doors swung open.

Hermione clutched her papers tightly to her chest as she followed Miksy into the dark hallway. She squinted as the doors shut behind them and her eyes struggled to adjust to the dark.

"Apologies, Miss," the house elf lamented, "Master is used to the darks of Azkaban, Miss. He is not wanting the light, Miss." Miksy continued to wring her hands as she led Hermione into a sitting room off to the right of the entrance.

"It's fine, Miksy," she murmured as her right shin found the edge of a heavy hall table. Eyes watering, Hermione continued through the darkened interior until she felt Miksy's small, cool hands usher her into a large armchair.

"I is getting you tea, Miss," Miksy squeaked. Before Hermione could open her mouth to respond, there was a crack and Miksy was gone.

Hermione sighed, a lock of frizzy brown hair bouncing away from her face briefly, only to settle over her right eye once more. She swiped it impatiently behind her ear and lit her wand, holding it slightly aloft to take in her surroundings. She was standing in the middle of a modestly-sized sitting room. The walls were painted a soft grey which glowed almost blue beneath the light of her wand. In the middle of the room was a matching lounge suite consisting of a white three-seater couch and two matching armchairs. Had she been anywhere else, Hermione might have described the room as 'cosy'. She turned slowly on the spot, taking in the ornate fireplace and mantle carved from white marble. She also noticed the collection of trinkets; doubtlessly priceless and probably arranged by someone who had been paid far too much to do so. Above her hung a chandelier, the diamonds glinting and swinging softly though the air was still. Hermione wondered what it looked like when it was lit. With a sigh, she brought her gaze back down to the coffee table placed in the exact centre of the room. Hermione chose the armchair that was angled slightly so she could keep an eye on the doorway, and set about organising her papers, her wand lit and held precariously in her teeth.

As she turned to page six, a shadow moved fleetingly over the left side of the parchment. Her jaw slackened and her wand dropped reflexively into her waiting hand. In less than a second, she was out of her chair, her parchment at her feet, and her still-lit wand was aloft, pointing directly at her charge's chest.

The blond man stood with his arms crossed against a broad, yet hollow, chest. His waist was almost smaller than Hermione's and his legs looked too thin in his expensive grey trousers. The white Oxford he had buttoned to his throat hung loose on his frame, giving him the overall appearance of a young boy who was playing dress-up in his father's closet. His face, however, was far from anything Hermione would akin to a child's. Grey eyes, still cold and guarded; sharp cheek bones, starker than when they were younger thanks to near starvation; and a thin mouth set, as usual, into a hard line. His eyebrows knitted as their gazes met, his eyes moving from the tip of her lit wand which was still directed towards him. He did not greet her verbally, but offered an infinitesimal nod of the head before striding past her to take a seat in the other arm chair. Though he folded gracefully into the soft material, Hermione could not help but notice how small he looked in it.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and willed her heart to stop racing as she lowered her wand. Slowly, she pivoted on the spot and smoothed her hands over the material of her navy blue pencil skirt, ensuring that her blouse was still tucked into the high waistband.

"Mister Malfoy," the salutation tasted bitter on her tongue, given their history, but she wasn't about to jeopardise her job for the sake of a school yard grudge. She offered him her hand as she spoke.

"Miss Granger," his arms untangled and he slowly lowered them to rest on the arms of his chair, but he made no move to accept her proffered hand. Hermione swallowed as he stared impassively back at her. A faint blush stained her neck and threatened to climb her cheeks as she realised that she was still standing. He watched her as she bent quickly to recover her files. She took her place across from him, perching on the edge of her armchair and crossing her legs at the ankles. Hermione opened her mouth to begin their meeting when a faint sound caught her attention.

Quick footsteps echoed down the adjacent hall, growing louder as they approached the sitting room. Miksy appeared underneath a large tea tray laden with a tea pot, two tea cups, and what appeared to be the entire selection of biscuits from Honeyduke's sweet shop.

"Tea!" Squeaked the house elf as she placed the tray between Malfoy and Hermione. "I is getting you more when you wish, Master!"

"Thank you, Miksy," Malfoy said quietly without taking his eyes off of Hermione. The young woman felt an unpleasant ripple up her spine and her cheeks flushed. Miksy bowed low to Malfoy, and then to Hermione before disapparating with a loud crack!

Malfoy leaned forward and busied himself with a tea cup; two sugars and lots of milk, Hermione noticed. Following his lead, she poured her own drink, though she preferred hers a lot stronger and definitely less sweet. When they were settled with their perfectly brewed tea, Hermione cleared her throat and began to shuffle the parchment on her lap.

She glanced up to look at Malfoy, who was sitting like a statue, his gaze trained on hers. She felt her breath catch in her throat on the inhale. She had thought this would be easy, a natural step to take after all her efforts of the last five years. She was mistaken. Sitting there, in the cold, dark house, facing her childhood nemesis, Hermione felt her Gryffindor courage threatening to leave her. Okay, relax her inner monologue was firm. Deep breath. In, hold it, and out. Feeling only marginally better, she gripped her wand and directed the light down at her lap. Her tongue darted out over her lips, and she began to read.

"I have been sent by the Ministry to act as your case manager during the period of your house arrest. I will be visiting you weekly to ensure you are adhering to the conditions of your release from Azkaban Prison. Do you understand and agree to these terms?"

"Yes," he muttered. He took a sip from his tea cup. The cup was much too small for his hands, and so he held the handle in an almost comical pincer grip.

"Excellent," Hermione marked the first three pages of her notes with her initials, and stacked them neatly at the bottom of the pile. "This first visit is going to consist of routine questions, and will be an opportunity for you to ask any questions you may have relating to your case. I do ask, however, that you leave these questions until the end of the visit, to ensure we get through all of the necessary paperwork." Malfoy made a noise of contempt and Hermione's quill paused, her head snapping up to meet his gaze in the dim light. He took her look as one of questioning.

"Glad to see you haven't changed, Granger," his voice was wooden.

"Excuse me?" Hermione felt her cheeks heat and was momentarily glad no candles were lit.

"Still a bossy know-it-all," the young man whispered. "Just an observation; not meant to offend." A flash of teeth in the dimly lit room alluded to the hint of a smirk which said otherwise, but Hermione chose to ignore him.

"The questions," she pulled out a short ream of parchment, "are not meant to be invasive for the sake of being nosey, but rather to ensure the Ministry is handling your case in the best way possible." Malfoy made another noise of derision, but Hermione continued as though she hadn't heard him. "First question, Mister Malfoy," she glanced quickly up at the blond who was still sitting haughtily as if on his throne, seemingly bored out of his mind. "Has a Medi-Witch been to see you since your release?"

"Yes," Malfoy drawled. "Surely you knew that? Doesn't the Ministry have access to these sorts of records; at least for prisoners?" His face contorted around the word as if it were poison.

"I'll answer your questions at the end, Mister Malfoy," Hermione snapped back as she scribbled on her parchment. "Second question; have you had any visitors since your release?"

"I hardly see how that is the business of the Ministry," Malfoy's fingertips dug into the soft material of the armrests.

"Just answer the question."

Malfoy was silent for a few moments and Hermione felt desperation bubble in her chest at the thought of having reached a stale mate so early on in the process.

"No."

Hermione blinked and opened her mouth, preparing to launch into a detailed lecture on just why he did not have the right to refuse to answer her questions, and that given his position, he should just do as he was asked, but then she realised his response in the negative was actually his answer. She took a deep breath and pursed her lips, scribbling as she spoke again.

"Third question; what have you been doing since your release?"

Hermione practically heard Malfoy's eyes roll as he huffed and shifted in his seat, his arms folded across his chest once more. "I've been having gay little tea parties with the house elves, hosted a charity gala, and organised a week of pampering with my beautician," he deadpanned. "Honestly, Granger, I've only been home a week, and I'm under house arrest – or in case no one told you, I've been in Azkaban for the last five years. Ring any bells?" His grey eyes protruded slightly from his sunken face and Hermione had to swallow repeatedly to stop herself from snapping at him. Glad to see you haven't changed either, Malfoy, she thought savagely. Her insides squirmed as she noted his answer onto her parchment. Adding the final period with a flourish, she steeled herself to ask the next one. As if she didn't know exactly how it was worded, she read slowly from her parchment. She hoped Malfoy wouldn't notice the way her hands trembled.

"Fourth question; how are you feeling mentally since your release from Azkaban Prison?" She was greeted with silence. After a series of long seconds, she lowered the parchment to peer into Malfoy's face. In the dim light, she could see that the lines on his forehead had deepened. His hands had come to rest just beneath his chin, the tips of his fingers pressed together.

"I don't know how to answer that one," he breathed finally. Hermione felt her shoulders relax as she hurried to copy down his answer. "Don't you have a quill for that?" She looked up slowly, glancing from Malfoy to the quill in her hand.

"I do have a quill," she waved it quickly in front of her. He rolled his eyes.

"I mean an automated one; one that would write while we talked."

"Like Skeeter's Quick-Quotes Quill?" Hermione made a face.

He did not respond, but Hermione sensed his disdain. The shadow of his arm moved towards her and she fought the urge to recoil. His hand reached for his tea cup, and closed around the small piece of china before retreating. Hermione realised that her own cup was currently going cold on the table in front of her, so she paused to take a sip. She instantly regretted the decision as she locked eyes with Malfoy over the rim of her cup. He watched her with a blank expression as she gulped at the lukewarm liquid and set the cup back down.

The rest of the meeting carried on without further incident, Hermione asking questions and taking notes while Malfoy answered in a monotone, though she was disconcerted by the amount of staring he was doing. As the sun sunk beneath the hills, the drapes fell across the windows, plunging them into total darkness. Miksy appeared suddenly at Malfoy's side with a lone candle, standing in a glass holder. Though it was not enough light to write by, Hermione could at least make out Malfoy's facial features and was able to complete the majority of her notes with the help of her dimly lit wand.

"Final question," she finally muttered, her mouth having long gone dry. "Have you heard from your mother or father since your release?" She looked up from her parchment and instantly recoiled back into her seat. Malfoy was on his feet, his pale complexion almost translucent in the flickering light of the candle. His breath was coming fast, his chest heaving, and his hands had balled into fists at his sides as he loomed over the brunette witch.

"I think that's enough for today, Granger." His voice was low and full of warning. Hermione stood awkwardly, as his body was mere inches from her chair. This close, she could smell his cologne – a distinctly wooden, masculine scent. It made her feel slightly off-balanced. She bent awkwardly, slowly, as if he were a dangerous caged animal, and placed the pile of parchment on the chair behind her. Hermione lifted her hands, palm facing outwards in surrender, her eyes still trained on Malfoy's face.

"I understand this is difficult, but – "

"No you do not understand!" He roared, turning on his heel and walking towards the doorway. Hermione jumped at the noise, but stayed where she was, her hands still raised. "How could Little Miss Perfect, champion of the Wizarding World and Harry effing Potter's best friend possibly understand what a Death Eater like me is going through?" His eyes flashed and every fibre of Hermione's being told her to run. She bit the inside of her lower lip as she took in his heaving form, trying to assess the situation. If she left now, not only would she not have completed Malfoy's file – a Ministry ordered condition of his release – but she'd have to face her boss and tell her what had transpired. The thought made Hermione shiver.

"It's the final question," she said softly. "I promise I'll leave as soon as you answer it, if that's what you want." She lowered her arms until they hung limply at her side.

"What I want?" He screamed, his arms flung wide, "What I want, Granger, is for you to leave my house! Right now!"

Hermione blinked and took a step back. If reasoning him wasn't going to work, there was only one thing left to do – fight fire with fire. Hermione narrowed her eyes and brought her hands to her hips. Malfoy seemed to understand the shift in her stance and squared his shoulder as if to prepare for the onslaught; welcome it, even.

"Well unlucky for you, Malfoy," she spat his name as if it physically hurt her to pronounce it, "I have a job to do, and I will not leave here until I've done it." Her hands had balled into fists at her side and Malfoy swore he could see the crackling energy as it vibrated in the loose strands of her hair. He matched her icy stare as he retorted.

"I don't give a pixie's dick about your stupid case file, Granger."

"Well that's too bad," she said, her eyes still hard and her voice sickly sweet, "because if you choose not to answer the last question, your arse will once again belong to the Dementors!"

Hermione saw his eyes flash – with fear? Before she could confirm it, the grey orbs were once again steely and withdrawn.

"I'm not going to answer your question." His voice was steadier, but his nails were cutting into the palm of his hands and he spoke through gritted teeth. "Write whatever you want in that file," he nodded robotically towards the forgotten notes littering the armchair and floor. Hermione followed his gaze towards her folders and allowed herself a small sigh. Her hands relaxed slightly and she squeezed her eyes shut, hoping that when she opened them she would wake up from this terrible nightmare. Forcing them open again, she took a step towards the folders and began gathering her work.

"I won't answer." Malfoy repeated.

Hermione finished collecting the loose pieces of parchment and turned slowly back to face him, her features schooled into a blank mask of indifference. Slinging her purse over her shoulder she shrugged nonchalantly and lazily allowed her gaze to rove over Malfoy's form, starting with his feet. She was pleased when she finally reached his face and saw that he looked somewhat apprehensive.

"It's your funeral, Malfoy." Hermione said quietly as she strode past him and back down the hallway Miksy had led her. Hermione pushed against the doors, relieved beyond words that they opened and granted her escape. As her feet hit the flagstone ground she began to run. She ran until she reached the apparition point beyond the high gates. Ignoring the stitch in her side, Hermione turned on her heel without slowing her pace, and was gone.