The Wizengamot sentences Draco Malfoy to read 100 muggle novels. Hermione Granger works at a bookstore. Lord, what fools these mortals be. Luna POV, Post-war, post-Hogwarts, EWE.
Disclaimer: No ownership, no gain.
Chapter 1:
I knew it work out in the end. The feather-toed flaxeys told me. And, really, it was only a matter of time.
I suppose we need to "rewind" a little. "Rewinding" is what Hermione does with the Muggle cassette tapes she likes, which means they run backwards, so when she listens to them again they start at the beginning. I like to listen to them backwards instead of forwards, which Hermione says is why I make a good flatmate. I listen to them backwards because according to a Muggle I met at a record store sometimes have secret messages. I suppose, in that way, Muggle cassette tapes are a little like feather-toed flaxeys.
The first thing that worked out was the war. When Ginny read this she said I was being too matter-of-fact, but, really, that's not what this story is about, so I intend to leave it that way. If you really want to know about the war-about the new spells we developed, about the complex crossing and double-crossing that occurred-you can look in the newspaper archives (I recommend The Quibbler) or in a history text. I am not going to rehash what everyone already knows. Someone else can do that.
Hermione and I got a flat together after the war, in the region of London known for the kraken inhabiting its sewers, a distant relative of Hogwarts' giant squid. His name is, dubiously enough, Fergie. But we didn't see very much of him in our flat, seeing as we were three floors up, and I imagine Fergie was happy right where he was, in the ground. Sometimes it's better to stay on the ground, or in it, as the case may be. Safer.
I was working for my father at The Quibbler, managing our new London office because he preferred not to leave the house. The Quib, as Ron calls it, had expanded after the war, which I suppose was something that worked out to my benefit, though this story isn't about me anymore than it's about the war. Which is to say: it was about me, and the war, but only as these things relate to Hermione.
Hermione was working at a bookstore during the day. It was down a flight of stairs, under the Muggle record store, and sold Muggle books in the front and adult toys in the back, and then wizarding books in the back behind that. Ron would like me to point out that Flourish & Blotts didn't hire Hermione because "they're a bunch of bloody wankers." I suppose it's worth noting that the fellow who did hire Hermione didn't realize she was running a business selling rare and out-of-print magical volumes behind the rear room. Being forever in a cloud of powdered pixie wings, he didn't notice much, poor man.
At night, and during the day when the bookstore was empty, Hermione was studying law. And developing spells. And doing nearly everything she did at Hogwarts, but without the determination to accomplish the specific task of fighting Voldemort she was trying to accomplish every task at once. Accomplishing every task is generally not possible; I told Hermione that, and the story of Lady Amelencia of Aard, which Hermione said she already knew. At the time, I did not tell her that wasn't the point. I probably should've.
So this story starts with Hermione and I sharing a flat in London, and the war being over, and streaky sheaths of sunlight coming in through the grimy basement window of a bookstore, where Hermione was sitting at the counter with too many pens stuck in her hair, scribbling on a yellow legal pad she had stolen from me, which I had stolen from the offices of The Quibbler, but that is really not part of the story at all. The rest I will try to tell you straight from the Pensieve, with as little embellishment as possible, but minimal embellishment is generally not what I do best. But I am a journalist, and in the interest of maintaining my integrity, I'll do what I can (Ginny would like it on the record that I don't have any journalistic integrity. I would like it on the record that if Ginny's employer didn't insist on constantly publishing lists of the "Top Ten Most Shaggable Quidditch Players" The Quibbler would not insist on putting it second on our annual list of the "Top Ten Most Rubbish Publications." The Daily Prophet is always first-The Quibbler is always third. The list never changes, actually, and we've only run it once.).
The bell rang.
"Does this store sell books?" It was a man's voice.
"That's what the sign says," Hermione said. If she sounded snide, it was because she couldn't help herself. "Well, the sign actually says bookstore, so I suppose we might just store them, but I don't know anywhere that does that."
"Well, the last two I went in said bookstore on the sign, but all they were selling was erotica."
"That's because they were adult bookstores. Which we are as well, if you're interested." Hermione was still jotting down notes, but she was always matter-of-fact about what her workplace was; she didn't seem to realize that few men wanted to buy sex toys from a woman who them as if they were produce at the grocery. Or maybe she did, and was just trying to avoid the discussion. At this point she finished what she was writing, forced her mouth into what she hoped was a helpful shop assistant smile (but was in fact more like a grimace), and looked up.
"How can I help y-Malfoy?"
Draco Malfoy was indeed standing in the doorway, his eyes still not fully adjusted to the dim light inside. But when they did, or perhaps it was just the familiar shrill register of Hermione Granger's voice, he groaned. Of all the bookstores in all of muggle London...but he steeled his shoulders, because he had already been subjected to two too many muggle bookstores selling, not books at all, but dildos.
"Hello, Granger. I would like to buy a book. A muggle book."
"Of course you would," Hermione said, snideness intact.
"Seriously Granger, can you just recommend me a book? Or better yet, give me one without talking?"
"That depends on what you need it for," she was trying to sound pleasant, but failing.
"Granger, I don't want to talk about it, I just need a book. A muggle book."
"You have absolutely no requirements for the contents of said book?" Hermione knew they had an illustrated Kama Sutra somewhere around here, and if Draco Malfoy was, apparently, the one man in the world who didn't like porn, he was certainly going to get it.
Malfoy sighed, and pulled a scrap of paper out of the pocket of his jeans. He could almost have passed as muggle, except his shirt was a flowered button-down that would be more suited to someone's mother. Hermione was amazed he had even found it in a man's cut-she looked for darting in the chest.
"Granger, stop checking me out. You know you haven't got a chance."
"I would, but you haven't bought anything yet," Hermione said, but the pun fell flat. "And if you keep talking like that, I won't need to, because I won't sell you anything."
"I need a novel," he said, reading the paper.
"And you aren't going to tell me why?"
"No Granger, I will not feed your gossip mongering. I am going to ask you for a muggle novel, any muggle novel, or perhaps several, and maybe I'll come in next week and buy another, because in the end I'll need one hundred. But if you're going to keep asking about it I'll risk the porno palaces and never patronize your establishment again."
"You'd never patronize my establishment again!" Hermione exclaimed. "That would be tragic. But because I'm a good employee-not, mind you, because I want to see your ferrety face again-I will help you find a book."
Hermione actually already had a book in mind. If Malfoy was going to come into her bookstore and ask her for a recommendation, well, suffice to say Hermione Granger was not going to let a bibliophilic convert go to waste. Even if it was Malfoy.
"Or actually, three. It's a series, so you get three for one, and I guess if you need to one hundred you'd best get crack-a-lacking," she said, pulling away from the counter and walking out into the stacks. "J. R. R. Tolkien. The Lord of the Rings. If you buy all three, I'll throw in "The Hobbit" for free. And if you like them all you could come back for "The Silmarillion" but usually only the die-hard fans can even bother with that." To tell the truth, Hermione loved "The Silmarillion" more than anything Tolkien had ever written, for the same reasons she loved "Hogwarts: A History." Which came first was a chicken-or-egg quandary not worth discussing. She walked up to the fantasy section and pulled the four books down without hardly glancing at the shelves. Draco followed, bewildered at the transformation from snark to amiability, but afraid to question it because muggle porn shops were, frankly, strange. And they made him feel dirty
Hermione slapped the books on the counter and rang them up, writing the receipt by hand before giving Draco the total.
"You sure you summed that correctly? I don't want to get cheated."
"I'm giving you a free book, arsehole. Does it even matter? It'd still be cheaper than it should be. Not to mention that I'd eat my foot if you understand the exchange rate."
"I'd pay to see that."
And that was how Hermione Granger sold Draco Malfoy his first four muggle novels, four for the price of three, already plotting what books she would set him on next using a flow chart to determine her response to his reponses. She had, after all, been given the opportunity to convert a hardened pureblood to muggle literature, and she wasn't going to let it go to waste. Hermione came home that evening and slapped her bag on the table in the way she only did when she was slightly pashed or extremely excited.
"Luna, you would not believe who came to the store today."
"If you say so, I guess not," I said mildly. "Though I do think I'll believe whatever you tell me. And of course I wouldn't be surprised at all if it were Draco Malfoy."
"Luna! How did you...?" I thought about explaining about garbles, and how they do the opposite of garble and in fact allow you to know more clearly than you might otherwise, but instead I held up the day's issue of The Quibbler, headline: "Wizengamut decides Draco Malfoy's punishment." Subheading: "Younger Malfoy sentenced to live without magic until reading 100 muggle novels." And then there was a moving picture of Malfoy leaving the hearing, head hung, reporters mobbing the poor boy. Underneath that, the headline: "Life in Loch Ness: An Interview With Nessie." It was really a remarkable piece of layout if I do say so myself. You can't understand unless you'd seen it (Ginny disagrees, but working for Witch Weekly doesn't mean you know anything about the press). Hermione, looking slightly incredulous, then grabbed my magazine and started flipping through, skimming the article. She would deny it, but I think she mostly looked at the pictures.
"That explains it-who made the ruling?"
"Dumbledore's portrait."
"Well! That's rather unorthodox."
"Mmm-hmm."
"How does the no magic part work?"
"I didn't write the article."
"But it says you did, Luna." She points to the byline, looking annoyed. I should have known Hermione wouldn't overlook a detail like that-this is the woman who once caught a library that had alphabetized half their Gabriel Garcia Marquez under "G" and half under "M."
"Well, I supposed it does say that. But it's all written there, anyway."
And it was.
The punishment doled out by Dumbledore's portrait was typical of Dumbledore the man-quirky, yet carefully calibrated. Draco Malfoy was to read 100 muggle novels. Nothing he had read prior could qualify. His magic use would be monitored, and any use at all would result in an immediate response from the Ministry. Well, excepting one spell: Bibliodex-a special monitor which had been placed on Malfoy, which he or anyone else could check at any time and maintained a record of the books he had read and how close he was to his goal. He was also to live as a muggle until the books had been read-small withdrawals could be made from the frozen and depleted Malfoy estate to cover a cheap flat, food and necessities-muggle clothes, for one, and the books, for two. He was expected to buy his clothes used to encourage him to further connect with muggles. He was allowed in wizarding areas, namely Diagon Alley, but he was not allowed to wear robes.
That was the ruling. Once the books were read-really read, as determined by the spell-it would be over. No book reports to write, no exams to pass. The spell would alert the Ministry, and the block on Draco Malfoy's use of magic would be lifted. He would have access to the Malfoy family estate, albeit depleted by war payments. Everything would be exactly the same, unless one hundred muggle books, and novels at that, not history or academic texts, could change his mind.
Hermione knew all of this information by the time Draco Malfoy returned to the bookstore the next week. Draco Malfoy assumed as much. He actually wasn't sure why he came back, since he had gotten out last time with his life intact, and really, why risk it again? But then he found himself on the right street, and he found the seedy looking stairwell and the cast iron sign-how had he even found it the first time?-and he knew that there weren't dildos prominently displayed within, despite appearances to the contrary. Maybe Granger wouldn't be working.
Of course she was.
"Hello, Granger."
"Hello Malfoy."
"So, want to rub it in my face? Tell me how much I deserve this?"
"Malfoy, you should be honored. The time to read one hundred novels-it's like a vacation! The best vacation. You don't deserve it, not at all. But what I really want to know is what you thought of the books. Bibliodex."
And there was the number, in both of their heads: 4.
"Fuck you," said Draco. "Everyone keeps doing that. It's going to give me a sinus headache."
"Poor widdle Malfoy. Maltfoy. Milfoy. Your name really is ridiculous, you know. Now: the books?"
"Like your name is so much better," Draco muttered. "It means farmer."
"We Grangers have worked the land for many years. It's a noble profession."
"Seriously? Your parents are farmers?"
"No, they're dentists. And no, I'm not going to tell you what that is. The books?" The last phrase was practically shouted, and Draco brought a hand up to his head.
"My sinuses?"
"Don't care," she said flatly.
"The conception of magic was rudimentary at best. Throwing the ring into Mount Doom as monumentally stupid. And I don't understand how a hobbit is any different from a person who's just short. Like you."
"Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy," Hermione shook her head. "I should've known better than to start you off on fantasy. You have a long way to go, young grasshopper."
"96 books, Granger."
"Well, we'll see if we can't put a dent in that," she reached behind the counter and dropped several books on the table. "Douglas Adams. And I'll be charging you full price for these."
"And maybe I won't come back to your little shop."
"They always come back," she shouted as he walked out the door, bell ringing behind him.
We went out to the Leaky Cauldron that night like we did every Wednesday: Hermione, Harry and Ginny (they were a package set), Ron, Neville, me. We always got a booth at the Leaky Cauldron, and pulled up tables on the end, and shouted to anyone we recognized even remotely and made them sit at our table and Harry would insist on buying them a pint of the terrible brew-Hippogriff's Hock-that only he liked (Harry would like to note that Hippogriff's Hock has won several independent brew awards, both wizarding and muggle. Ron would like to note that it tastes like toilet bowl water. I would ask how he knows, but I don't want to know). Sometimes we'd bring my Gryffindor hat from Hogwarts and set it at the head of the table and call the whole table the Lion's Head, a bar within a bar, or sometimes we'd try to make the person talking wear it, but that never worked because everyone was always talking over one another. It really was like going to a party with a bunch of garbles (that's why they're called garbles).
"Did you hear about Malfoy?" were the first words out of Ron's mouth when we arrived. Hermione was still standing, fumbling around in her purse.
"Of course we heard. Luna wrote the article, Ron," here she glared at me. Hermione holds minor grudges like a axioape, which puts them in a box and will never, ever, let go. This makes them surprisingly easy to kill.
"I also wrote an article about Malfoy's sentencing," Ginny interjected.
"Yes, dear, and it was very good," came from the obvious party.
"I especially liked the bit about how flattering muggle jeans would be on his arse," said Ron. "From my own sister! Harry, you obviously didn't read it."
Harry shrugs helplessly, "You know she has to put in those bits."
"I think the ruling was quite good. It was clever to have Dumbledore's portrait make it, wasn't it?" Hermione said brightly, and I realize Malfoy's arse would be in her line of sight, if she was sitting at the counter and he was walking out, and I wonder if she's ever looked. I don't see why she wouldn't. Well, I know some reasons, but those have to do with the war and I was trying to avoid the subject. This isn't that kind of story.
"Has he been to your bookstore yet, Hermione?" Neville says, obviously thinking it a grand old joke.
"Actually, yes." And the everyone looked at her, except I swilled my pumpkin juice and then spit it out because that seemed appropriate. It ended up all over Neville. I went to get the lavender and quartz I keep in my coat pockets for purifying spills (Hermione took me to what she called a "New Age shop" once. It it was lovely.), and by the time I got back Hermione has told them all about her privileged position of influence in Malfoy's life, and asked them if they have any books to recommend, and of course they don't, until Harry mutters "Pride and Prejudice." Hermione looks at him in shock, but then she nods.
"That might work. Why have you read that one, Harry?"
"Aunt Petunia liked it. One of the only non-bodice rippers she owned, and so the only book of hers I had any interest in reading."
"I should give him a bodice ripper. Malfoy apparently hates porn. Or fears it."
"Figures. Asexual prick." This came from Ron, and everyone was impressed that he realized this implied asexuality, not homosexuality. When Ron read this, he said that of course he is a very reasonable and open-minded individual and then went off in a huff.
That is all anyone said about Malfoy that night, because Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan came round since they knew we'd be there, and they had to tell us an extremely complicated and very strange story about a muggle calculator, and then it was a normal Wednesday at the Leaky Cauldron and everyone was talking loudly, Ginny and Hermione about who they reckoned was the better band, The Mooncalves or Tomorrow's News, and Harry and Ron about something with Quidditch, and Neville and I about the new lot of students at Hogwarts, were Neville taught, and how terribly small they were, but weren't they always?
All Malfoy would say about Douglas Adams was "Your people are weird" and Hermione had a feeling he liked it. She sold him "Pride and Prejudice" and threw in "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies" for free and made a mental note to get Malfoy some books from outside the British Isles soon. Didn't want him replacing his pureblood superiority with some kind of British supremacy.
"What's a record, Granger?" Malfoy said before he left.
"Go upstairs and ask."
"Or you could just tell me so I don't need to explain to the muggles why I don't know."
"I knew you just came here because you were afraid to talk to muggles. You really should work on that little phobia, Malfoy." He gave her a bitter look and turned to leave when she added. "A record plays music."
"Like the Weird Sisters?" The question, like Malfoy's first, just seemed to slip out-it was more innocent than Hermione expected.
"Have you not been to a concert since the Yule Ball? The Weird Sisters haven't been good since the 90's." Hermione shook her head. "Anyway, no, not like the Weird Sisters. You put it in a machine and it just plays music. A recording." Hermione would never understand how spells could foster such advancement in some areas and remain in the dark ages in others-a few old wizarding families had magiophones, phonograph knock-offs manufactured by a wizard, but all the new wizarding bands recorded on cassettes, like muggles. There simply weren't any alternatives, and most pureblood families and their children only listened to music live. Malfoy looked at her blankly, and finally she sighed. "Come upstairs with me, I have an old WalkMan you can borrow."
"At the record store?"
"No, in my flat. And the wards are pretty excellent, so don't think that just because you know where it is you can come by anytime you want," Hermione says as she hangs a "Be Back Soon" sign in the window.
"Are you inviting me up for a drink Granger? Don't you remember what I told you the first time I was here?"
"Why is it that your snark only relates to sex these days? Not getting any?"
"I think you're mixing us up, Granger."
"Oh, good one Malfoy. Real clever."
"Did I hit a soft spot?"
"Not really. Who gets less action-the girl who works at a porn store or the guy who's afraid of them?"
"I am not afraid of porn shops. I just find the muggle ones...dirty."
"Whatever you say Malfoy. Well, here we are," she swung open the door. I should probably note that I wasn't home, though I imagine there were several of my mugs making rings on our coffee table. There usually are.
"Nice place you got here, Granger," Malfoy sneered.
"Oh, and I'm sure you're doing so much better," Hermione muttered. Our flat had hardwood floors-it was really quite nice. The furniture, less so.
"I will be once I finish these books."
"Well, you don't seem to be reading right now..." she shook her head and went back towards her room, pausing at the door to look at Malfoy. "Wait here. Don't touch anything."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Granger."
Hermione emerged from her room several minutes later, clutching an old grey cassette player and a couple tapes.
"Here. You just put these in-like so-and click the button with the triangle on it. Square to stop. If you break it-well, just don't touch it anymore and hope to Merlin you didn't ruin any of my tapes. And you put these in your ears to listen."
"So I'm supposed to stick something in my ear that's been in yours?"
"And Harry's, and Ron's, probably Luna's, Ginny's...You know, village bicycle."
"No, I don't know," Malfoy looked slightly aghast.
"Relax, I'm kidding. They're clean. Now get out, I need to go back to work. You need to read some books. We're burning daylight."