"Something has happened to me, I can't doubt it anymore. It came as an illness does, not like an ordinary certainty, not like anything evident. It came cunningly, little by litte; I felt a little strange, a little put out, that's all . . . And now, it's blossoming."

-Nausea, by Jean-Paul Sartre. Translated by Lloyd Alexander.

The nausea was growing worse.

This was what Draco Malfoy had dubbed his increasing disenchantment with the world, his emotional detatchement even as his body was still affixed to the corporeal.

He looked down at his own arm and was annoyed to see it there, looking stupid and pointless. The cuff of his black robes extending almost to his pale fingers was equally superfluous. Usually the sight of his own beautifully sculpted hand made Draco pleased at its aesthetic flawlessness, but today he was just irritated at its continued existence, along with the rest of his body.

It occured to him that he should get a job, since employed wizards did not seem to have such angsty thoughts. It was not as though he needed the money. His family was independently wealthy due to Muggle investments, though his father would commit hara kiri before admitting it to an outsider. Alas, no employment idea seemed to catch his interest sufficiently for further exploration. The ridiculousness of the situation strcuk him rather suddenly - in the postwar boom of increased prosperity and equality, a wealthy young aristocrat was sitting at a table in the corner of the Three Broomsticks, contemplating his own slender hands and wondering what the hell he was good for. Perhaps he ought to throw himself off the Hogwarts Astronomy Tower and quit wasting clothing.

Draco was momentarily distracted from his dark musings by the arrival of his girlfriend, Astoria Greengrass. They had met through her older sister Daphne, who had been Draco's acquiantance at school. Astoria was a very pretty witch, with clear green eyes, an aristocratic face, and brown hair that was currently swept into a low chignon. She was younger than Draco - only twenty years old, actually, to Draco's twenty-four. Her most noticable characteristic was her petiteness - not only was she over a head shorter than her admittedly tall boyfriend, but her very frame had that disarmingly fragile, birdlike look.

Draco ought to have felt pleased to see her, but actually all he registered was a subtle sort of crumbling away at his pride that she had encountered him in a cheap pub. Not even existential angst and suicidal thoughts could discourage the Malfoy pride from surfacing. Nonetheless, he approached her.

"Hello, Astoria," he said, feeling too flat to think up a snappy pick-up line. Anyway, Draco hadn't tried most of his "usual" flirtatious nonsense on Astoria. Despite her youth, she was a serious woman who gave favor in rare unexpected smiles rather than giggles and cheap antics. Draco had been given to wondering if her maturity and suitability indicated that this was the relationship he had been waiting for. Whenever he had thought of walking to the altar, it had been with a woman like Astoria: aside from her family's wealth and desirable blood status, she was beautiful, reserved, diplomatic, soft-spoken, and intelligent. It occured suddenly to Draco how remarkably similar she was to his mother.

"Hello, Draco. I was looking for you," she said calmly. "Daphne suggested you might be here."

"I was just leaving. Unless you want something to drink?" The courtesy was an afterthought, as always. Lucius Malfoy had impressed upon his son the great importance of incidental meetings and small gestures to a greater end, but chivalry was simply not in Draco's nature.

"No, thank you. Shall we go to London? There's something that requires our attention at the Ministry."

Draco simply nodded, unsure whether she meant "our" collectively or was utilizing the majestic plural to refer to herself. He casually set several Sickles on the table and signaled to Madame Rosmerta that he was leaving, then took Astoria's elbow. The pair exited through the pub door as a courtesy before Disapparating to the Ministry of Magic.

They walked through the restored Atrium. Draco had not been inside since his father's trial, and he felt vague satisfaction to note that the hideous MAGIC IS MIGHT monument had been replaced. Where the insipid, hypocritical Fountain of Magical Bretheren had once stood, a massive, magnificent blown-glass phoenix soared towards the ceiling. Sunlight streamed through the immobile icelike glass, turning the grey London light filtering weakly through the glass ceiling into a lush array of reds and golds. Ingraved in its snowy marble base were the Latin words SIMUL RESURGET EX FAVILLA.

Draco noted this beauty with the analytical coldness of a jaded theatre critic sitting through a rehash of Evita. Yes, the phoenix's neck was elegantly fluted in the Irish style, and yes, the space was being much more effectively lit than ever before, but his sense of pathos was unruffled. Draco was beginning to doubt whether his pathos hadn't been entirely done away with by the nausea.

"So, why are we here?" he asked of Astoria as they stepped into the lift, trying to prevent boredom from creeping into his tone.

"Your father is at a hearing."

"Again?" Draco was more bemused than genuinely surprised. "I thought we overcame the little matter of treason to everyone's satisfaction. Is he locking up another one of his friends?"

"Actually," said Astoria, a note of amusement entering her tone, "it's about your house elf, Spotty."

"Dotty," corrected Draco automatically, before her words fully registered. At last, a needle of surprise prodded his ennui-wearied brain. "Wait, what?"

"Apparently there's a new Ministry Department, DEW." Astoria's thin shoulders were vibrating with repressed laughter. "The Department of Elfish Welfare. It's one of these progressive ones that popped up like weeds after the Second War; there are approximately four people in it. Anyway, there have been a series of aggressive investigations into the owners of house elves, and Lucius Malfoy has been apprehended for various misdemeanors."

"Is it a criminal hearing?" Draco frankly didn't care, but it was best to know as much as possible.

"I don't know. I assume not, since I am allowed to attend, though not family."

"Ah." They stepped out of the lift and proceeded down the hall to the door that Astoria indicated.

It was a small room, not really a courtroom at all. There was only one chair beside a podium in the center of the room, facing one long desk with eight chairs seated behind it. There were three or four additional chairs grouped in a random-seeming clump to one side.

A few witches and wizards were milling about near the long desk. One of them was Lucius Malfoy, who acknowledged his son with a curt nod as he seated himself in the solitary chair.

One of the witches turned around, and Draco felt like someone had hit him in the midsection with a Bludger. Only that face could ever get such a rise out of him.

He tried to collect himself and stood coolly observing the scene as the witches and wizards started setting papers on the desk and settling into chairs. His flinty gaze, however, was fixated on her. His antithesis.

It was unmistakeably Hermione Jean Granger. The notoriously busy hair had been corralled into a messy bun at the nape of her neck and the Hogwarts robes had been traded for a slate-colored robe over a Muggle pencil skirt, but Draco recognised her petulant brown eyes instantly. Those eyes had directed more potent unadulterated hate at him than he had believed optic receptors were capable of - and Draco had been glared at by the Dark Lord. The nausea was banished unceremoniously to the recesses of his mind as he was forcibly reminded of certain Hermiocentric memories . . . Hermione's anxious buck-toothed face under the Sorting Hat, Hermione Petrified, Hermione's fist breaking his nose, Hermione in a floaty perriwinkle dress, Hermione hexing him senseless, Hermione fearlessly dueling Death Eaters, Hermione screaming, screaming, as Bellatrix Lestrange's knife pierced -

Draco tore himself back to the present, which was suddenly looking more interesting. How can one feel that there is no point to existence when one's favourite nemesis has just recognized one and is piercing one with a killer glare?

Hermione glared at Draco Malfoy. He was standing near the closed door, his pale arachnoid fingers casually arranged in the triangular debate-power-position over his diaphragm. She hated that he could just waltz into her well-organised court and stand there in elegant black robes, unconsciously expressing dominance and ease with his body language. His wintry eyes followed her with a very strange expression that was somehow at odds with his in-control posture. Hermione was reminded forcibly of a hungry ferret.

"Draco Malfoy," she addressed him in officious tones. She considered shaking his hand, but it didn't seem fitting somehow. There was no pretending that it wasn't awkward, encountering an old enemy who was also a potential witness at his father's hearing who had also happened to see her at her most vulnerable moment . . .

Hermione dropped that highly unpleasant train of thought as soon as it occured to her, though her hand drifted unconsciously to her other forearm.

"Hermione Granger." If she had considered courtesy before, that idea was out the window when he smirked at her. Just like old times. Her blood began to heat at the sight of the smirk that had tormented her school days. "So, what have you been doing since the war?"

"I am the founder and head of DEW." She enunciated each letter of D - E - W. The petite brunette witch beside Malfoy tittered. Hermione glanced at her in vague surprise; she had been so fixated on The Blond Antithesis that she hadn't really noticed her.

"Do

tell me, is this a civil or criminal hearing?"

Hermione suspected that he had put intentional emphasis on "do".

"Civil," she conceeded reluctantly. "But just wait," she hissed, "until I can make the abuse of house elves a criminal offense!"

To her immense surprise, Draco's smirk suddenly looked as though it was struggling to keep from blossoming into a smile.

"I certainly cannot wait, if it means that I get to see my lovely ray of anti-sunshine again." His smirk widened at her obvious indignation. "How does this kangaroo court work, exactly?"

"Dotty will testify, then your father, then any additional witnesses. My committee will vote deciding Lucius Malfoy's guilt or innocence. There must be a two-thirds majority vote to decide his guilt." Hermione restrained herself from retorting with regards to the "kangaroo court" jibe. She knew that he was baiting her, but several comebacks rose to her tongue unbidden.

"And if he is found guilty?"

"As of now, the fine can range anywhere from 100 to 3000 Galleons, depending on the offense."

Draco's pale eyebrows shot up.

"Besides which," continued Hermione, "Dotty can be removed from your employ."

"How do you mean? By freeing her?"

"Not unless she requests it." A faint frown marred Hermione's expression. She was still having a difficult time wrapping her mind around what she viewed as the rampant Stockholm Syndrome of the elves. "The Ministry now has the power to remove house elves from their employers, in the most extreme cases. They can then be placed with another family on the waiting list, or if no other options are open, sent to Hogwarts."

"How riveting." Hermione was slightly ruffled by Malfoy's evident nonchalance. "I believe your associates are ready commencer . . . ?"

It was true; the seven other committee members were looking expectantly at her. She blushed and scurried to collect her papers from where she had left them on the desk. As spectators, Malfoy and the young witch seated themselves in the randomly grouped chairs off to the side.

To her acute embarrassment, Malfoy had gotten much smoother since their school days. He was approaching even his father's slipperiness level, which was saying quite a lot. He had also gotten better-looking, if that was possible (bad thought, bad thought!). His white-blond hair was growing out a bit, and though it wasn't quite shoulder-length, it looked really good.

Hermione shook herself slightly as though getting water out of her ears. She carried her papers to the podium at the front of the room.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy, fellow Department members, guests. We have gathered today for a hearing regarding the alleged abuse of Dotty, a house elf in the employ of the Malfoy family. The abuse complaint was filed by a witch of wizard who chooses to remain anonymous. Lucius Malfoy, as the defendant, please summon Dotty."

Looking bored and supercilious, Mr. Malfoy snapped his fingers. A small house elf appeared with a crack. She was wearing what appeared to be a grey linen pillowcase with holes for her arms and head. Hermione noted that it was clean.

"Dotty, at Master's service," she squeaked. Her enormous green eyes bulged when she observed the room full of witches and wizards. Hermione smiled gently at her in an attempt to put her at ease. The elf reminded her very strongly of Dobby.

"Good afternoon, Dotty. You have been summoned here for a hearing."

"Dotty hasn't done it!" she said, her voice squeaking up an octave in alarm. "Dotty is an innocent elf!"

"No, you are not the one on trial," said Hermione, used to this reaction. Really, she would have to seriously consider rephrasing the opening statement. "Your master is on trial because our department, D - E - W, received a report that you had been abused."

"Master would never," said Dotty anxiously. "Master is the best of wizards."

"Mr. Malfoy," said Hermione in disgust, "please repeat after me: Dotty, you must tell the complete truth when asked questions."

"Dotty, you must tell the complete truth when asked questions."

"Yes, Master."

"Thank you. Now, if we may proceed with the examination . . ."

The trial was one of the easiest of Hermione's career thus far. Once commanded to tell the truth, Dotty admitted that she had been beated regularly, threatened with death, and on one occasaion, forced to shut her own ears in the oven door.

To her immense surprise, Lucius Malfoy didn't even try to deny anything.

"I demmand that the court take a short recess," he drawled. Hermione was mystified, but she couldn't exactly turn down the request. The committee members rose, chattering together with small talk. To Hermione's further surprise and suspicion, the defendant did not hold himself aloof, but went first to Draco, muttering something in his ear, then Lucius Malfoy and the brunette witch joined the committee members in their exchange of pleasantries. Hermione tried to join them, suspicious of how he might attempt to sway them, but her path was arrested by Draco Malfoy. He put a hand on her elbow, light yet unmistakeably a barrier. He leaned close to her.

"Excellent job, Granger," he murmured, his lips mere inches from her hair. Deplorably, she was quite a bit shorter than him. Is Le Blond trying to seduce me, or what? she wondered, frazzled. "You've definitely proven him guilty. But, you know, a fine wouldn't really be a punishment for a Malfoy. The only thing that really matters to my father is pride."

Whatishedoingwhatishedoing

. . . his sinewy grip tightened on her wrist. Hermione felt a faint shiver of revulsion.

"You know, this will be all over the Prophet," he continued. "The humiliation alone is quite a punishment. And in case you hadn't noticed, we Malfoys are wonderfully adaptive. If told not to shut Dotty's ears in the oven door, we shall not do so again."

"Adaptive? Oh, is that what it means when you flee to the Dark Arts for two wars in a row and come off scot-free?" she demmanded.

His grey eyes darkened and he let go of her wrist. "Old prejudices, much? Our societal debt has been payed off in spades, I believe. Two-thirds of the current Azkaban residents are there because of my father. Now, is it really right to prosecute such a committed advocate of social justice?"

"Wh - what does that have to do with elf abuse charges! Ridiculous!"

"In all fairness, you brought it up."

"You forget, Malfoy, that we are no longer at school, but are responsible adults at a formal hearing. If you continue soliciting in this manner, I shall report you. And for Merlin's sake, take a step back. Your cologne is nauseating me."

He smirked. "Égoïste by Chanel. You like?"

"Ah . . . I should have guessed. You saw your chief personality trait on a bottle of cologne and knew that it was meant for you." Though she would never admit it, Hermione did like it. It was woody and a bit spicy . . . actually, the opposite of its cold, metallic wearer.

"Touché, Granger. What are you wearing? Rosa Alba by Happ & Stahns?"

"How did you know?" demmanded Hermione, suddenly flustered.

"I have my ways. Now, I think we are ready to proceed with the hearing. Do keep what I said in mind."

How, how, how did he always know how to push her buttons?

It was altogether too easy to push Granger's buttons.

That didn't mean that Draco wasn't enjoying himself, of course. Because he definitely was. There was an unprecedented satisfaction in watching her expressive face respond to his insults and innuendos. And she had to go and use the word "nauseating". Of course, she wasn't using it in the philosophical sense, but it had been a word so often on his mind lately that it had given him a jolt nonetheless.

The perfume thing was lucky. Astoria had been testing that very fragrance out the previous week before deciding that it was too floral and "juvenile". She was much more suited to Tocca's Florence.

Draco knew fully well that he was a metrosexual. He was rather proud of it, when he wasn't wallowing in angst. After all, women were generally more impressed with a straight man who dressed well and cared which perfume they were wearing than the plebeian model of traditional masculine vigor.

Oh, but he had overlooked the fact that Granger would be more drawn to such a proletarian stereotype . . . she was dating the Weasel, wasn't she? Ah, well. The next time that his father asked him to "distract the Mudblood", he would keep that in mind.

Lucius Malfoy asnwered the questions coolly and eloquently. He waffled a bit about the traditional hierarchy and then opened a flaw in the DEW case that Granger was making.

"Tell me, when were thses laws passed?"

Granger shuffled her papers, unruffled. "March 15th of this year."

"Perhaps the highly respected and established DEW," he sneered, "should ask my elf when exactly she shut her ears in the oven door."

It was a fair point. Hermione blinked, unsettled.

"Dotty, when were you forced to shut your ears in the oven door?"

The green eyes blinked. "Dotty doesn't remember, miss."

"Can you give us a rough time estimate?"

"Oh, about a year ago, probably. Dotty remembers that it was autumn."

Granger's cool expression slipped. She looked suddenly unsteady.

"When is the last time that you were beaten?"

"Last week, miss."

The self-satisfied look returned.

"How many times have you been beaten since March 15th of this year?"

"Once a week, miss. Sometimes extra hittings if Dotty does something wrong."

The committee scribbled on their notes.

"That concludes our hearing, unless Dotty or Mr. Malfoy has any further statements to make or witnesses to call."

With a terrified glance at her master, Dotty shook her head vigorously until her batlike ears flapped.

"The committee will now deliberate in private." Granger waved her wand, and a soundproof blue screen blocked her and the seven other committee members from view.

After about fifteen minutes, the screen vanished. Granger ascended the podium. Her expression was neutral, but the pink flush of anger on her cheeks betrayed her to Draco.

"The assmebly here today finds the defendant Lucius Malfoy guilty of Mild Physical Abuse, under DEW Article 3.4. The sentence is a fine of two hundred Galleons. This fine must be payed by the first of January three months hence, or - "

"I have it now - in gold." Lucius pulled out his wand and a cascade of heavy gold coins streamed from the tip into a green drawstring bag that he had fabricated out of thin air. Draco knew that his father had arranged an instant connection from their Gringotts vault to his wand, but even he was mildly impressed as the pouch was filled to bulging with gold and levitated onto the desk with a metallic thud.

"Yes. Well," continued Granger, clearing her throat. "You are also on probation. Three months hence, Dotty shall be summoned here and questioned by one of the members of our department. If conditions have not improved, then she shall be removed from your employment and the fine increased exponentially. You are free to leave. Court adjourned."

That had been truly entertaining. Obviously the sentence had been lowered, due to the bribery of a one Lucius Mafoy while Draco distracted Granger. No doubt she was angry.

Speaking of which, Draco saw a certain witch approaching him with a petulant expression. Hair was escaping her bun and forming a halo of frizz around her face.

"I know what you did, and rest assured that justice will find a way."

"How mystifying. Anyway, Granger, it's been interesting to see you again. Owl me and we can have lunch some time. Bring the Weasel and we can reminise about the old days." He smirked at her bemusement and pressed a sleek calling card into her hand.

She would send him an owl eventually. If her life was half as boring as his, she wouldn't be able to resist.