Disclaimer: Anything you recognize is not mine.
Sweat slid down Hermione's forehead in large, heavy droplets. It created moist trails in the layers of dirt and grime caked on her cheeks, nearly blinding her as it dripped into the corners of her eyes. It felt like every part of her, from her camel-colored hiking boots to the laminated I.C.W. name badge clipped to the hem of her jumper, was splattered with mud and grains of loose dirt. At the moment, the young inspector was hunched over, gripping her knees for balance as she expelled large puffs of breath, numb to any pangs of disgust as she felt the muscles in her chest constrict. Perhaps she shouldn't have neglected to exercise for so long… nor had that third croissant at breakfast. But she was supposed to be a bureaucrat, for Merlin's sake, leading a sedentary lifestyle, not rolling about in country pastures, chasing pigs. Sorry, demon pigs.
Lifting her head slightly, Hermione felt her heartbeat begin to settle, the scent of manure becoming apparent once she ceased to gasp for breath. Before she could express any revulsion, she found herself toppled, a white creature throwing itself heedlessly at her body. Dog saliva now mixed with the mud and sweat, and a defeated Hermione lay flat on the ground, wondering how she even got to this point.
"Beau!" a voice shouted sharply. "Beau, ici maintenant! Ne fais pas ça!" Beau lifted his head after a beat, sheepishly eyeing his master across the grassy field before setting off towards him at a lively trot, his hanging jowls swishing slightly with every step. Hermione propped herself up on her elbows and watched as the pure white bloodhound "assis!" where his master pointed. Then his master, a slight man with receding dark hair, jogged over to where she lay, offering a hand.
"Desolé, Madame Inspector, desolé!" he apologized, quick to pull Hermione to her feet. "Ze rest are très obedient, mais Beau est trop lazy, non?" he continued in his broken Franglais. As if to demonstrate his words, Beau could be seen at that very moment rolling on his back with abandon in the wet grass while his fellow bloodhounds sat patiently at his side, waiting for their next command.
"It's quite all right, Alain," Hermione assured the farmer, uselessly dusting off her loose-fitting, navy trousers and pulling down her rumpled black jumper. Straightening with another deep breath, she surveyed the country landscape, establishing that the true, non-demonic pigs were boxed in their pen and releasing loud grunts of contentment, and the Nogtail, with its malicious black eyes and too long legs, had run for the hills, so to speak. The sight was certainly a relief. This farm was the fifth and last farm in the vast, wheat-growing region of Beauce, where she had been forced to deal with a string of failed harvests due to Nogtail infiltration. Why the ever-powerful French Ministry of Magic couldn't handle the concerns of a few poor wizard farmers was a mystery to her, but once their concerns had reached the ears of her bosses, that is to say the International Confederation of Wizards, and the Office of Magical Creature Regulation and Concealment specifically, and it had become her problem.
"Well, Alain," Hermione said, reaching to shake the farmer's browned and callused hand, "everything seems to be in order here. You have your own pack of hounds now, which should scare away any skulking Nogtails." Grinning gratefully, Alain shook her hand enthusiastically before leaning over to give her a quick kiss on each cheek, clearly immune to her messy state.
"Ze Muggle farms, I can help?" Alain asked, gesturing to his posse of albino bloodhounds. Hermione gave the ragtag bunch, and then their happy owner, a considering glance before nodding in agreement.
"Just remember, don't mention a word of magic, Alain," Hermione cautioned. "Perhaps you could say it's something religious?"
Alain agreed immediately, saying, "Oui, of course," with an authoritative nod. Smiling warmly, Hermione gave one last wave of farewell to Alain and his bloodhounds before Apparating to the outskirts of the nearby Muggle town. Taking another cursory look at her filthy state, Hermione pulled out her wand and sent a well-aimed Scouring Charm at her boots. Though there was no hope for the rest of her without a bar of soap and warm bath for heavy soaking, at least she wouldn't drag any dirt into Madame Vallée's home.
The town was quiet in the Sunday twilight, the afternoon summer heat giving way to the cool breezes of evening. Hermione walked along the edges of the main road, passing a row of stone homes, each two or three stories in height with pitched roofs and dressed in creeping, green vines. A brimming flower box sat in the sill of each glowing window. Noting the lack of pedestrians or any other traffic, Hermione guessed that the residents were probably gathered around Sunday supper.
Turning a corner, Hermione caught a glimpse of her destination - a two-storied stone home which served as Hermione's residence for the week. Its walls were speckled with beige, silver and charcoal-colored stones of differing size and shape. The light in the wood-framed windows left a warm and homey feeling in Hermione's chest as she thought of the kindly owner, Madame Vallée, and the savory meal that most likely awaited her. But before she could even reach the front door, Madame Vallée had opened it, watching from the doorway as Hermione approached.
"Oh, ma pauvre!" Madame Vallée gasped when Hermione reached her, taking in the dirt and grass stains. In contrast, Madame Vallée wore a crisp cotton dress with a soft black shawl gathered around her shoulders. Her silver hair was twisted into a tight chignon at the back of her head, a punctuation mark on her neat style of dress.
Feeling guilty, Hermione's cheeks reddened, as if being scolded by her own grandmother after dirtying her good tea dress. "I am so sorry, Madame! Très desolée! I promise I will clean up immediately!" Madame Vallée simply clucked in response, her hands hand on her hips with a single raised eyebrow. Her stern demeanor, however, quickly gave way to a sympathetic smile, reaching her hands forward to dust off Hermione's clothes slightly, straightening the hem of Hermione's jumper. Satisfied that the loose dirt had been disposed of, she beckoned Hermione into the warm hallway. Turning immediately to climb the stairs to her room on the second floor, and thoroughly chastised, Hermione was halted by the soft pressure of Madame Vallée's hand on her shoulder.
"You 'ave a visitor," she informed Hermione, nodding to the sitting room with a knowing look. Unsure of what could have caused such a smile, or who this mysterious visitor was, Hermione approached the sitting room with a practiced tenseness, keenly aware of the wand literally hidden up her sleeve. An eyeful of her visitor, however, left Hermione less than impressed. Hunched over on an aged dark leather couch, his arms folded over the tops of his knees and his hazel eyes firmly focused on the patterned oriental rug before him, was a skinny boy with cropped, almost copper-colored hair, and a thin, long nose. Donning a pair of wire rimmed glasses, Hermione barely refrained from rolling her eyes at the sight of his large, black wizard's robe, I.C.W. neatly embroidered just above his heart. This hack didn't even have the sense to take off his wizard's clothes before entering a Muggle home! Hermione was suddenly quite thankful that Madame Vallée thought the British hopelessly tacky; this idiot's appearance was not helping one iota.
"I suppose you have my next assignment," Hermione stated briskly, not even considering it a question, but curious as to why the I.C.W. didn't simply convey the message by owl as usual. The boy's head snapped towards where she stood and he jumped up, nearly tripping over his feet to meet her at the sitting room's entrance.
"Uh, yes, Inspector Granger, I - "
"Well, let's have it, then," Hermione beckoned him impatiently. She had no desire to hear this rookie prattle on, feeling the grime sinking into her pores. The boy paused, mouth agape, but fished a scroll out of his pocket and soldiered on.
"That's the thing, Inspector, I'm - " The boy was forced to pause once more after the scroll he had clutched in his right hand was ripped violently from him by an ever irritated Hermione, who unrolled it with haste and read aloud the bullet points in a mutter.
"Nonnative creature found… sighted by Muggles, well, of course… Washington, D.C. … my apprentice?" Tearing her gaze from the carefully inked message, Hermione looked at the string-bean-like wizard with disbelief. Apparently, it was her turn to be shocked. Seeing his opportunity, the boy thrust his right hand forward, grasping Hermione's, which hung limp at her side, and shook it vigorously with a near bone-crushing grip.
Finding no resistance from Hermione, the boy continued his introduction. "I'm Thomas, Thomas Cook," he said with clear excitement. "I'm just so honored to work with you, Inspector. I mean, you have accomplished so much, and at such a young age, and I have, of course, heard so much about you from Professor Hagrid."
Professor Hagrid? Hermione thought, unable to engage her jaw enough to respond. How old was this kid?
Clearly not put off by Hermione's silence, Thomas continued to jabber on like an eager lap dog. "Your work with the Order against Voldemort was impressive indeed, that goes without saying really, but the legislation you wrote to empower house-elves over at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, that was masterful. I can't believe the Ministry wouldn't even consider it! It's shameful how they drummed you out like that. I mean, I know they said you had a nervous breakdown of some sort, but I don't believe that for a second! Well, you're here now, anyway, and - "
Well, that was quite enough. Hermione could no longer bear to listen and was seconds away from covering her ears with her hands like a petulant child.
"Dîner!" The sharp call cut through Thomas' babbling, effectively silencing him once more. Peering around the wall and into the kitchen, Hermione saw three places set at the small rectangle table in the center. Silently indicating that they should join Madame Vallée at the table, Hermione and Thomas entered, Hermione making a slight detour to wash her hands and face in the kitchen sink before joining them at the table. The two young people took seats at opposing sides while Madame Vallée sat at the head. Grateful for the interruption, Hermione sent Madame Vallée a look of appreciation before tucking into the steaming beef stew set before her. She wasn't sure how much of the conversation Madame Vallée had heard, or really understood for that matter, but she could have sworn that Vallée had winked at her in response.
The meal was taken, for the most part, in silence. Thomas seemed to be as ravenously hungry as Hermione, taking to shoveling the stew in his mouth sloppily, bits of broth dripping around his bowl. Hermione might have said something about it had she not been so focused on inhaling her own meal, although in much more polite, ladylike manner. Madame Vallée seemed hardly perturbed by the entire situation. Hermione guessed that her years of renting out rooms to foreign visitors had taught her when - and when not - to ask questions.
Choosing her moment, Madame Vallée turned to Thomas with a curious glance and asked, "Are you a farm doctor as well?" Thomas spluttered the stew in his mouth, managing to spill even more than he had before. Sending him a murderous glare, Hermione swallowed her own mouthful of stew before beginning to speak.
"Yes, Madame, Thomas is… my assistant. He flew here from England to join me. You see, the pig virus has been quite widespread. But do not fear. All of the area pigs have been cleared." Madame Vallée nodded approvingly and went back to her meal. Across from Hermione, Thomas soundlessly mouthed, "farm doctor?" with confusion, but Hermione elected to ignore him for the rest of the meal.
Once they had finished, Madame Vallée began to clear the table and, after thanking her for the lovely meal, Hermione literally pulled Thomas outside for a private chat. Dropping the arm she had used to yank him out of his seat the moment they had exited the home, she began giving him his first lesson in an angry whisper.
"I don't even know where to begin with you," she hissed, watching the boy shrink awkwardly in his place. "First, do not ever come into a Muggle residence, or even walk around in any Muggle community in wizard's robes! Especially not in the middle of the summer! Second, do not loudly talk about magic in a Muggle's sitting room. I feel like all of this should be terribly obvious, but perhaps not." She stopped for a second just to glare before continuing. "Third, learn to think on your feet! Did you really think I was going to tell her I was here to deal with a Nogtail infestation?"
Feeling she had said enough for now, Hermione ended her rant with a sigh. The violent exertion had her feeling all of the aches of the day's activities, and she wouldn't be surprised if at this point the whole town could smell her.
"Now, I am going to go to my room to wash this mud and grass and Merlin knows what else off of me and then I am going to bed. I will see you in the morning, Thomas." With that, she trudged towards the front door. But before she could grasp the handle, she heard Thomas ask a question.
"Did you really train several packs of albino bloodhounds to chase off the Nogtails?" Giving another sigh, Hermione trained her voice into a weary calm.
"There really isn't any other way."
Thomas' only response was "fascinating," and Hermione gave a tired nod, pushing open the front door and walking into the house again.
It was only after soaking in the bath until the water had turned cold and wrapping herself in a clean nightgown that Hermione figured out what had set her so on edge with Thomas. Even in the moment, she would admit that she had been unreasonably short with him, and it was more than her state of dress or her level of exhaustion which had set her on him. No, she decided as she climbed on to her full sized bed, it was the eager look in his eye, the energetic spring in his clumsy steps, and his unmistakable desire to please. The sum of their interactions had to have been less than ten minutes, but he was clearly still so new and shiny and young. How long ago had she been like that? Not that she was over the hill - at 25, she had hardly begun to climb it – but this Nogtail mess had only served to amplify her growing weariness with her lifestyle.
Turning onto her side, wide awake, the thought skittered across her mind that she was training her replacement. Reproving herself for her paranoia, Hermione considered the options. She was far from the oldest inspector on the team, many of which were hovering near 80 and 90 years of age, prime retirement age for a healthy wizard. Perhaps Stevenson, who had refused deal with another dragon case anywhere in the world without being efficiently inebriated, or maybe Wong, who claimed to still suffer from night terrors following his decade-long stint aiding the German government with their Erkling problem. If nothing else, the position certainly made for great retirement stories.
Groaning, Hermione turned over again, burying her face in her pillow. Despite her gruffness with Thomas, her bleeding heart had not been fully stitched, and pangs of guilt radiated off her person. When had she become so snippy anyway? Was it the war? No, she couldn't carry on blaming all of her problems on the bloody war, though it may have borne many. Her stalled relationship with Ron? Yes, well, who hadn't seen that coming?
The elf legislation – was that where it began? Perhaps she would cop to this one. Rolling on to her back and closing her eyes, she envisioned the burly department head with his quivering walrus-like mustache, who had told her in no uncertain terms that her legislation on basic elf rights was dead on arrival as long as elf enslavement was legal. Well, maybe he hadn't used the term "enslavement", but he had made himself quite clear: it was too soon after the war to make waves. She had stood her ground of course, and soon found the ground taken out from beneath her when she was pushed into her current role, now four years ago. You're a rising star, they had said, we would regret holding you back from your true potential. Apparently, that's what they called a career dead end.
There was also the 'breakdown', as Thomas had more delicately phrased it, somewhere among those events, but she had long since filed that one away in the imaginary filing cabinet in her head. If one were to thumb through those files, they might also find tabs labeled 'Parents- Australia' or 'Snape- Dead' or even, 'Best Friends- Who?', but she rarely reviewed personal files. Pulling the bed sheet to her chin, Hermione resolved to be far gentler with Thomas in the coming days. The process might even remind Hermione of what she liked about the job in the first place, if there was anything at all. Unfortunately, this resolve didn't lead to sleep, and she tossed and turned through the night, on the brink of exhaustion.
Hermione stepped lightly down the worn staircase the next morning, her tawny leather travel bag in hand, careful to prevent a creak or groan from the elderly wooden steps. She hadn't given Thomas any specific departure time, and though she would much prefer to leave as soon as possible, she also didn't want to barge into his room for the purpose of throwing him out of bed. She may have been snippy the night before, but she was no monster. Once she had reached the ground floor, however, she found Thomas seated at the small kitchen table, devouring a slice of bacon in a single bite. Hermione found herself torn between disgust and jealousy. She's only been serving me croissants and butter this entire week! Hearing the click of her heels, both Madame Vallée, who stood at her stove top frying eggs and bacon, and Thomas turned to watch her enter.
"Bonjour, Madame," Hermione greeted, smiling brightly at her host before taking a seat at the table across from Thomas.
Smiling in response, Madame Vallée glanced at Hermione's matching charcoal skirt and suit jacket, and exclaimed, "Ah, 'ermione! Très belle et professionelle!" Hermione couldn't help but redden at the compliment, meekly murmuring, "Merci." Facing Thomas, she noted that he was not as thrilled by her appearance, choosing to stare pointedly at his plate instead. At least he too was dressed in business casual, in a pair of black slacks and a white button-down shirt with a striped vest on top. Fighting the urge to sigh, Hermione looked over her shoulder to find Madame Vallée engrossed in her cooking and then turned back to Thomas again.
"Thomas," she began in an undertone, not wanting Madame Vallée to be privy to their conversation, "I know I was a bit… harsh yesterday. I apologize, but you must realize the … sensitivity of our work." She nearly rolled her eyes while saying the last bit. Who was she kidding? She had just spent the last four weeks chasing pigs around. The statement, however, seemed to strike a chord with Thomas, because now he was nodding fervently in agreement.
"You are absolutely right, Inspector," he whispered dramatically. "I won't let you down, I promise."
"Yes, well," Hermione replied awkwardly, taking a slice of bread from the platter in the center of the table and working her jaw to stifle the amused smile forcing at her lips. "Let's just start over, shall we? And, uh, just call me Hermione, okay?" Thankfully, Thomas didn't speak, having just stuffed another slice of bacon into his mouth, and instead gave her a very direct look, which Hermione read with amusement as "aye, aye, sir!"
After breakfast, Hermione thanked Madame Vallée for her hospitality and bid her farewell, Thomas following closely behind. The walk from Madame Vallée's to Hermione's preferred Apparition point on the outskirts of town was about a mile's walk, so Hermione decided it would be prudent to begin Thomas' training. She hadn't been thrilled about the prospect of dragging an apprentice around, but, somewhere, very deep down it seemed, she was still Hermione Granger.
"Right, then, Thomas," Hermione said, as they walked along the town's central road. "As you already know, the International Confederation of Wizards is an international organization made up of ambassadors from the many wizarding governments of the world. Like the Muggle United Nations."
"The what?" Thomas asked with confusion. Looks like a Muggle Studies refresher's in order, Hermione thought, adding it to her mental to-do list. Hogwarts had very clearly failed him there.
"Never mind," Hermione continued. "The point is, our office, the Office of Magical Creature Regulation and Concealment, exists to help our member states with their regulation practices. As Clause 73 of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy states, 'Each wizarding governing body will be responsible for the concealment, care and control of all magical beasts, beings, and spirits dwelling within its territory's borders.'" She had stated the clause from memory, as if she was suddenly eleven again. If only. "Now, in truth, we're supposed to hold each state responsible for any infractions, but not every state has the means to keep up with these things - "
"So that's where we come in!" Thomas cut her off enthusiastically. Grinning openly at his eagerness, she nodded.
"Yes, exactly, we offer consultation and education on best practices." Despite this last statement, Hermione had already come to see that their stated mission and their actual function had diverged quite a bit since the 17th Century. In her experience, she had spent more time wrangling creatures, Obliviating Muggles, and cleaning up messes, than any kind of consulting. It seemed to her that rather than lacking the means, most countries which sought their help simply didn't care enough to bother with the dirty work themselves. Case in point: Nogtail chasing.
At the conclusion of her introductory spiel, the pair found themselves drifting off of the main road and into a nearby pasture. After casting Homenum Revelio and finding no other humans to be in the vicinity, Hermione directed Thomas behind a clump of close growing trees before grabbing his hand and Side-Along Apparating them both to the Portkey Receiving Center inside Charles De Gaulle Airport in Paris. The title 'Center' was a bit an exaggeration, as it consisted of a single desk sitting at an unlabeled gate in the terminal, one which Muggles didn't seem to notice as they walked hurriedly by, too fussed with not missing their flight to notice a line of oddly dressed people approaching the desk, taking a piece of rubbish, and disappearing onto the tarmac.
"All international Portkeys departing from France have to be arranged through Paris," Hermione explained to Thomas after they left the desk, a single galosh in hand. Exiting the terminal through a door behind the counter, they walked down a retractable staircase on to the sizzling tarmac with fifteen minutes until their Portkey launch.
Examining the galosh, Hermione wondered aloud, "Wonder if we'll need this in Washington, you know, weather-wise."
"Haven't you been there before?" Thomas asked.
"Never," Hermione confessed. "They're a bit funny over there in the States. The country is just so big; most of the wizarding community is quite spread out and decentralized. They take care of themselves. It must have been some sighting for their Ministry to get involved."
"Maybe it's Bigfoot?" guessed Thomas, a dreamy look in his eye. Hermione threw him a worried glance. So he didn't know what the United Nations was, but he knew the Muggle lore of Bigfoot? And, he was impressed no less; Hagrid's star pupil, no doubt.
"Well, I highly doubt that," Hermione said, turning the galosh in her hand so she held the thick, ridged sole of the boot and the top stretched towards Thomas. "For one, it certainly wouldn't be the first time that a Muggle has seen that exhibitionist. And two, if it's anything like the Yeti I met, the message would have included 'sighted by Muggle, who was promptly relieved of his appendages.' Now, quick, grab the galosh, it's about to leave!"
Thomas' eyes were now round as saucers as he grabbed the galosh's rubber top, and Hermione faintly heard him ask, "You've seen a Yeti?" However, they left the ground only a second later.
Hermione and Thomas hit the hard pavement of Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport only a minutes or so after departing Paris, both finding it difficult to right themselves. Hermione couldn't help feeling sorry for Thomas as he wobbled next to her; his legs seemed far too long for him at times, like a newborn deer's. An attendant waited patiently at their side to retrieve the galosh, not at all perturbed by their difficulties. Hermione wondered about the hilarious stories he probably told his friends of the travelers' drunken-like stumbles around the tarmac.
Their trip through the airport was rather uneventful, save for Thomas' incurable fascination with all of the electronic gadgets and gizmos to be found. It seemed that seated at every gate was a group of businessmen, typing on laptops, talking on phones, using both of their hands to do the two activities at once. Muggle progress being what it was, Hermione had lost track years ago of what each electronic whatsit's function was, or rather, what its function wasn't. But Thomas could not be dissuaded from staring, and it was nearly by his shirt collar that Hermione was forced to pull him away and keep him focused on the task at hand: actually exiting the airport. This, however, was not Thomas' only dog-like response to Muggle innovation. She felt as though if she hadn't kept pulling him away from the window of the taxi to their hotel, he might have rolled it down and stuck his head out, tongue hanging over his slackened jaw.
The only thing which kept Hermione from scolding Thomas once again for his obvious behavior was the sight of their hotel. In general, her occasional hotel stays, when the assignment's locale allowed it, were one of her few luxuries over the last couple years, and at the very least, the I.C.W. did not skimp on the cost. On this trip, they had booked them Phoenix Park Hotel, a European boutique hotel near the Capitol Hill area of D.C. within walking distance of Union Station. While she thought it a little highbrow for their purposes, with marble floors and crystal chandeliers, she couldn't resist the comfort of the queen-sized pillow top mattress, even amongst the ornate wallpaper and high thread count sheets.
Eyeing the soft cotton robes hanging in the doorway of the bathroom from the vantage point atop the bed, Hermione was deciding between taking a long bath or a quick shower when there was a rhythmic knock at the door. Guessing who it was, Hermione groaned before begrudgingly rolling off the bed, not caring about the wrinkled state of her suit or the dented shape of her brown fluffy hair. Padding across the thin green carpet, Hermione wrenched open the door, only to be pushed aside as Thomas barged into her room uninvited.
"Have you seen the… the … telly?" he asked, pausing for confirmation. Hermione's hands clenched slightly at her sides.
"Yes, I've noticed the gigantic telly," she assured him, tiredly waving a hand at the 32-inch flat screen. "Now, if you'd kindly - "
"Did you see the pub downstairs?" he interrupted. It was all Hermione could do not to swear aloud.
"Yes, I did, but I'm not really in the mood for - "
"Let's have a drink, then?" Thomas invited, completely ignoring Hermione's protests. Are there actual qualifications for this job?Hermione wondered silently. As he seemed in no hurry to vacate her room without incentive, Hermione agreed to meet him downstairs in ten minutes. After he left, she used those ten minutes debating whether or not to stand up her apprentice. However, acknowledging the precedent that might set, she ran a comb through her hair and tried to flatten the creases in her skirt.
When she entered the darkened pub, Hermione found Thomas sitting at a round, wooden table just off the bar, a glass of pale liquid already in front of him. Taking a seat across from him, she couldn't help but wonder how he managed to get served since he didn't look a day over 17 and she knew the drinking laws to be quite strict in the States. The bartender arrived at the table shortly after she had and gave her a knowing nod that both answered Hermione's questions and raised her suspicions, but she ordered a glass of their house red wine and left it at that. Thomas was nursing a "Bud Light," something he informed her with his customary enthusiasm, though by the face he made with each sip, it was obvious his alcoholic experience had not strayed far from Butterbeer.
Sensing he was about to start another barrage of questions, Hermione decided to turn the tables. Taking a fortifying sip of her wine, she placed the glass down and asked, "Well, Thomas, I feel like you know so much about me; why don't you tell me a little about yourself?"
Clearly unprepared for the question, Thomas stopped for a second before jumping back in. "Well, let's see, I've just turned 18," he relayed proudly. "Graduated Hogwarts with full honors. Didn't beat your scores though, couldn't manage that last "O" in Muggle Studies, unfortunately." Listening with a bit of smugness, Hermione couldn't help thinking, No kidding.
"My favorite course was Care of Magical Creatures, of course. I know what people think of Professor Hagrid, but he really is quite brilliant," Thomas continued, cringing slightly as he took another sip of his drink. Hermione's heart softened at this statement, and all smugness left her. "Um, and let's see, what else. Well, I've got a Mum and Dad, of course, a little brother, Stewart, oh and there's my girlfriend Cheryl; she's really great. Actually, she's really quite impressed that I'm…"
Hermione had tuned out. Her attention was instead on the figure that had just entered the lonely pub from the street, dressed in a long black trench coat, despite the oppressive D.C. summer heat. Hermione felt her heart begin to beat aggressively against her ribs. She was sure a dead man had just walked into the pub. The dead man, or more specifically, the ghost, she guessed, had just ordered a drink from the omniscient bar tender. The ghost sat on one of the plush stools, taking a quick swill of his drink before setting the glass down with a soft clank. Given his digestion of said drink, the ghost theory was quickly thrown out for… the impossible.
"Inspector? I mean, Hermione? Are you listening?" Hermione heard Thomas ask a notch too loudly, and Hermione watched in horror as a very much alive Severus Snape turned his head, their eyes making contact for the first time in… Hermione involuntarily shuddered.
"Hermione…" Thomas tried again, concern crinkling his boyish features. Hermione could not tear her eyes away. All of this time… but she knew what she had seen…
"Snape," she croaked. It had tumbled from her lips before she could stop her disobedient tongue, and it carried across the space. It seemed that was his cue as he broke eye contact, throwing a wad of paper bills onto the bar counter and left the pub as swiftly as he entered.
Thomas had resorted to waving his hand uselessly in front of Hermione to get her attention, but without much forethought, Hermione stood abruptly from her chair, nearly overturning it in the process. In fact, not much thinking occurred in the span of time in which she mechanically ran to the door, threw it open and ran out onto the sidewalk, looking down each direction before spotting Snape's receding figure. It was early evening by then, and staggered streetlamps lighted her way as she single-mindedly pursued him, down one block and then two and three, perspiration gathering at the roots of her loose tendrils.
And then Snape turned a corner. Only seconds behind now, Hermione rounded the corner as well, only to find an empty alleyway. Gasps for air now wracking her entire body, she leaned against one of the bordering walls, eyes closed and lips parted. Even as she felt her legs tingle in exhaustion and her throat chafe from heavy breathing, only one thought circulated her mind: What the bloody hell was that?
A/N: Thank you to my lovely beta, justine 34, and my newly enlisted britpicker, magicalpresence, for their help and encouragement.
The title of the story is a reference to Florence + the Machines' "Shake It Out".
French translations (Note: these were only approximations, my French is kind of rusty):
Beau, ici maintenant! Ne fais pas ça. – Come here now, Beau.
Ze rest are très obedient, mais Beau est trop lazy, non?- (Franglais) The rest are very obedient, but Beaus is very lazy, no?
Desolé/ Desolée- Sorry
Oh, ma pauvre!- Oh my poor girl!
Please review!