Hermione Granger knows all too well how rare a house elf pregnancy is in this day and age. Rare enough that she'll tolerate Thorfinn Rowle and take down a terrorist organization just to protect it.
AN: It's been too long. We're all just playing around here.
The "first time" Hermione Granger saw him definitely wasn't the first time she saw him, but it was the first time seeing him made her stop short and almost drop her to-go cup of coffee. He was standing in her office doorway. Completely in her office doorway. Without even trying. She couldn't see her desk (tidied up before her morning break), the umbrella plant in the corner of the small room (a gift from Ginny upon her promotion), or even her robes hanging on the hook by the door (dreadfully stuffy for a morning spent in the office.) His shoulders spanned nearly the entire entryway, and in the space that he left open was her assistant, batting her eyelashes and smiling beguilingly.
His name didn't come to her immediately.
"Thorfinn Rowle," he introduced himself, pushing up from the wall. He pushed his blonde hair back from his face with one hand while reaching out for her own hand with the other.
Hermione shook her head, recognition hitting her, and held out her own hand cautiously, "Hermione Granger. What can I help you with, Mr. Rowle?"
Hermione Granger was well aware that her current position at the British Ministry of Magic was a bit… superfluous. It came as no surprise to her when elder Wizengamot members brushed her away and sent her back to her quaint office on the fourth floor. Her budget was meagre, her staff was abysmal, and her work was tedious. The bills she tried to pass rarely went anywhere, the paperwork she had to fill out in duplicates and triplicates was never-ending, and she spent more time handing out pamphlets on boggart and doxie removal than anything relating to creature rights and welfare.
She loved it anyway. Throughout her hectic years at school- and those few even worse ones after- it was what she craved. Monday thru Wednesday she floo'd in by half past eight. Morning break (a cup of coffee- black- to go and a moderately stale croissant from the ministry canteen) had her back to her desk at quarter after ten. Lunch was at one sharp, and then it was nose to the grindstone till six. Thursdays and Fridays she was "mobile"- a term she brought to the ministry to convince them to let her work from home. Three days a week she reviewed Hagrid's lesson plans, signed off on dragon imports, and walked exhausted housewives through how to get rid of magical pests. Then two glorious days a week she nurtured her "pet projects" as Harry called them.
It was routine. It was calm. It was quiet. Her coworkers and assistant had a running joke that they might set their watches by Greenwich, but Greenwich set thiers by Hermione Granger. Deep inside- and on the outside when her office door was closed- it made Hermione smile.
And then, four years in and newly named head of office, Thorfinn Rowle showed up in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.
"What can I help you with, Mr. Rowle?" Her knuckles were white around her coffee cup. He was fairly sure if he waited long enough her carefully painted nails would pierce right through the ministry-issued paper cup and explode her drink all over her prim skirt and blouse. He considered waiting it out.
In the end, he gave in, if just to move away from the overly perfumed witch that greeted him when he arrived. Taking a step forward, he reached towards a newspaper folded up on the assistant's desk. "You asked me to come, yeah?"
Hermione's eyebrows quirked. "Come again, Mr. Rowle?" She strode past him towards her office. "I don't believe I had an appointment with you scheduled. Did I, Florence?"
The other witch paled and darted towards her desk. "No," she flustered, flipping through the calendar on her desk, "No appointments until this afternoon."
Thorfinn rolled his eyes and shook the newspaper. "This article was you, wasn't it?"
Hermione's eyes went wide. Her nearest and dearest project. House elf registration and census. She might not be able to free them- yet- but she could at least figure out how many there were. Hogwarts was easy- the Headmistress was more than forthcoming with the information about how many elves they "employed"- but the old pureblood families were less so. Her last-ditch effort had been calling in far too many favors and putting out a quarter-page spread in the Prophet.
"House elves and such? You're trying to do a census?"
"Well yes-"
"I'd like to count mine."
Her assistant had the gall to giggle. Hermione shot her a scathing look that had her very focused on something in a ledger on her desk.
"Well," she motioned to her empty office, "After you then, Mr. Rowle."
Thorfinn Rowle decided early on he liked rendering Hermione Granger speechless. He liked how she shook herself out of it with a little shake of her head and a nervous twirl of her wrist. It was a decision he made early on in their "relationship" even if she never knew it. The first time they crossed paths she might have only been an eleven year old swot on her first train ride to Hogwarts, but even as a sixth year himself he could pinpoint just how to rile her up to a stubborn huff.
Over a dozen years on, and some things never change.
He dropped himself into the chair across from her desk and propped his feet upon it, smirking over his shoulder at her as quills and biros rolled across paperwork that was- at some point- neatly stacked.
"Mr. Rowle-"
"Aw, come on, Grange," he cut her off with a roll of his blue eyes, "Do we really need to keep that up after so long?" He stretched his arms behind his neck and relaxed more fully into the ministry-issued guest chair. It really could do with a cushioning charm or three. "Fritz and Fratz turn a hundred and six and a hundred and three this summer." She still hadn't moved from beside her office door. He raised one wild eyebrow. "Isn't that something you need to write down?"
Hermione eyed the blonde behemoth taking up most of her office and sending her desk into disarray. "Are you really, voluntarily, supplying me with this information?"
He had the gall to laugh. "Well you're definitely not imperiusing me there, Grange."
"Don't call me that," she snipped as she made her way to her desk, pulling a ledger out from a bottom drawer and catching a birro before it rolled off the edge of the surface. She flipped through the book until she came to a blank page. She began writing without even sitting down. "Fritz and Fratz, you said?"
He grinned at her no-nonsense demeanor. This was the frizzy-haired Grange he remembered, to a T. "Fritz will be 106 on July third-"
"You're sure of that?"
"Of course I'm sure. Why wouldn't I be?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. "You're telling me you can remember all your elves birthdays?"
"Grange, I may not have gotten the most NEWTS in a century, but it's only two elves. I think I can remember two birthdays. I mean, my da was a hell of a lot dumber than me and he managed it."
She cleared her throat and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "Fratz, you said? How old is he?"
"She," he chuckled, "102. She's a doll. August 2nd is her birthday." Hermione nodded and kept writing.
"Any other pertinent information? Where do they reside? Are they related? Any illnesses?" She never looked up from her writing.
Thorfinn rolled his shoulders and settled down into the chair even more. He grinned. "1400 North Sea Lane, Middlesborough. They're not related. They're-" he hesitated.
"They're what?" She paused from her writing and looked up. "Mr. Rowle, while all this information is voluntarily given, it is massively important for the protection and health of the house elf population."
A massive hand waved her off her spiel. "I know, Grange. I read the essay in the paper. Did you have Binns proof it for you?"
"I'll have you know-"
"They're a bonded pair." Hermione fell into her chair. "Fratz is pregnant."
The tight French twist Hermione's hair had been tamed into that morning promptly exploded with gold sparks and left her hair a wild mess about her head. Thorfinn just grinned. She was speechless and he made her spark with accidental magic. No matter what Adrian might have said to him when he told him what he was planning on doing, this definitely was the best way to spend a Tuesday.
Harry Potter rolled his eyes over his lunch as he listened to Hermione's morning. "Rowle is a wanker. Has been since we were kids."
Hermione chewed on her sandwich and didn't disagree. "Do you think he's telling the truth? Do you think he can tell the truth?"
Harry shrugged. "Does he have reason not to?" They sat in relative silence for a few moments while Hermione studied her ledger and Harry opened a bag of crisps. "Ginny wants to know if you're coming to the Burrow on Sunday. It's Fred's birthday."
"Wasn't he in Azkaban?"
"Fred? Nah. They threatened a couple times, but they just don't have the bollocks for the follow through. It'd probably do the brat a world of good though."
Hermione rolled her eyes and swatted at her friend. "You know I'm not talking about Fred. And of course I'll be there. Have Ginny owl me what she wants me to bring."
"I can look into it, but most of the young ones got by with a slap on the wrist if they could prove good behavior. Especially Snotty 28 families. You know how it was. These days, it's just a shitty tattoo and a bad memory. War is hell, and most of us were just kids." Harry shrugged and finished his tea. "I say, if he's willing to let you in on it, go for it. You're sure as hell not getting it from anyone else. Maybe he'll set a precedence and the rest of those turkeys will follow suit."
And therein lied the truth. She was trying to save a race who she didn't know anything about. Purebloods were secretive enough about their homes and their books, but they were downright mute about their house elves. Besides the information from the Hogwarts elves- many of who still didn't trust her fully- her house elf census was floundering. The article in the prophet was a last-ditch effort before she threw in the towel.
Hermione vanished the dregs of her tea and eyed the coffee machine in the corner of the canteen. "I suppose you're right," she sighed.
Thorfinn Rowle and another wizard she would come to recognize as Adrian Pucey were rocketing around the sky above a tudor-style home when Hermione Granger pulled up to the front gates and turned off the engine of her car. Looking around, she didn't see any muggles, but she had definitely just driven through a fully muggle city on the northeast coast of England. In the distance she could still see a double-peaked bridge standing guard over the skyline.
Pressing the key fob her doors locked with a beep and she made her way through the open gates. She checked her watch- 11 am sharp- and headed up the gravel path to the front door. She had an appointment to keep with two house elves, even if their "master" couldn't be arsed to stop playing around like a schoolboy.
Hermione Granger did not, at any point in her life, consider herself a clumsy person. She carried a childhood of ballet lessons and an adulthood of daily runs under her belt.
None of that mattered a lick when she suddenly found herself off her feet and arse-over-teakettle in the front lawn of the Rowle residence. By the time she looked up, a large blonde mane of hair in snug-fitting a quiddich kit was reeling back with an obscenely large bat and blasting an angry bludger at the wizard still hovering in the air.
Ladylike or not, though it would send her gran rolling in her grave, Hermione let out a feral growl. "Mr. Rowle, what is the meaning of this?" In no time flat she was back on her feet and dusting grass off her trousers. "We agreed upon this appointment not two days ago and by no means was I under the impression that upon arriving I would be manhandled and shoved to the ground!" Resisting the urge to stomp her foot like a petulant child, Hermione took a deep breath in an attempt to calm her temper. Another deep breath. And another.
The wizard in the air, now holding tight to the jerking bludger, let out a bark of a laugh. "I told you you'd be in for it, Thor!" Pulling his wand out of his sleeve he banished the ball back to its case and came slowly back down to the ground. He held his hand out to the seething witch. "Adrian Pucey," he introduced himself. "And you must be Hermione Granger, all grown up!"
Hermione ignored his hand. "Miss Granger, if you please." Turning to the blonde who had set himself leaning against his broom, she cleared her throat and carried on as if Pucey had never even existed. "Mr. Rowle, although you seem to have forgotten, we had made an appointment. You assured me I would be able to interview your elves today."
"Yeah, yeah, of course." He made for the front door. "Just didn't expect you coming in this way, did I?" Holding the front door open, Hermione entered, followed by Adrian. "After all, it's not every day little witches pull up in muggle autos, is it?" Two brooms were leaning against a closet door, and the wizards added theirs to the pile carelessly. "I was a bit surprised you didn't floo in. That was when Ade whacked that bludger and it got away from me."
"Oh bollocks!" the black haired wizard interjected, "Any excuse but the real one! You were watching her arse!"
Thorfinn shrugged. "Still, nailed it before it hit her, didn't I?"
"Oh yeah, Thor! I'm sure she adored being upended across the garden."
Hermione cleared her throat again. "The elves, if you please?"