Prompt: Trapped in an Elevator
A/N: I'm going to use the terminology lift instead of elevator to keep it as British as possible. Forgive me if I do anything wrong. I hope that is okay. Also, this is a Modern + Ministry of Magic AU. No time traveling or anything.
Here we go. . .
The elevator opens with a ding.
A soft, feminine voice announces, "Basement Level 2. Department of Magical Law Enforcement." Someone walks in, but Hermione hardly gives them an eye.
Her eyes remain focus on a certain appeal from a crazy Dark witch named Bellatrix Lestrange. She always tries appealing year after year. As the Deputy Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and as someone who has detained the witch several years ago, Hermione has an interest in this case. Harry is already down in the courtrooms. He is, without a doubt, angry at her for killing his godfather.
It would not be good to see what would Harry do once Bellatrix starts throwing her taunts and shrieks about how Sirius died.
She frowns at the appeal's details. If Bellatrix does indeed give up a few names of her associates and receives a reduced sentence, she could be out earlier. That is unacceptable. But learning the names of the Dark wizards and witches would be crucial in hunting those who learn the Dark Arts.
She weighs the pros and cons.
Before she can think about a single pro, the lift suddenly shakes violently. It swings side by side, up and down. It moves in directions it is not supposed to be. Hermione looks up, and she finds the other occupant in the lift to be none other than the dark-haired Minister of Magic, Tom Riddle. She grimaces, briefly forgetting the dangerous swinging of the lift.
Then the lift gives a mournful squeal and stops.
They are trapped in a lift.
She looks out towards the opening in the lift, seeing nothing but darkness. It's clear that they won't be getting out anytime soon.
Insistently sticking her nose into Bellatrix's appeal as if it is the most engrossing and riveting story that she has ever read in her entire life, she pointedly ignores the Minister of Magic. Now, if only she can actually get used to the appeal's no-nonsense tone, she might actually be able to convince the Minister. She thumbs the page and flips it to the back. The words go into her mind, but they are not latching onto Hermione.
The lift's doors rattles a bit, and the Minister mutters a small, inaudible spell. He makes a few footsteps here and there, turning around to face Hermione. With only politeness in his voice, he casually greets, "Granger."
Hermione inwardly groans. Does she really have to talk? Did he have to open his mouth?
She supposes she can copy Riddle and fake his own faux pleasantry and politeness. She has no idea how the Brits managed to elect him into office. He is as fake as the diamonds Romilda Vane wears around her neck while parading across the lobby as the attractive wife of the director of Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Everyone knows that the poor director is always the least paid out of all the officials ever since that little leak on the Daily Prophet. There is no way he could afford diamonds unless he was corrupted. And Hermione has checked that out before.
Speaking of corruption, she can smell it on Riddle. There is that heavy scent hovering around him. It is the scent of decay, of blood, of death. It is a smell she has associated with Dark wizards.
Of course, she can't do anything about it. Suspicion is not enough to warrant an official investigation. Unofficially. . .
Still frighteningly nothing. Squeaky clean is what she and Harry found. It is obvious that something is wrong with that. Even Albus Dumbledore, who was a good wizard and didn't partake in the Dark Arts, did had a spiffy background. There were signs of Dark Arts, just little hints, in his youth.
She has found that the most clean of people are usually hiding some of the nastiest and ugliest skeletons of all.
"Riddle," she snarks back. "I didn't realize you were here. You aren't with your sycophants. For once."
The Minister arches a fine eyebrow with false concern. "Granger? I don't understand. Have I done something wrong?"
She mimics him. Remaining as professional as possible, she tells him, "You struck down my house elves' rights proposal after it went through the house. Don't you remember that?"
He blinks. "Yes, I do remember that. The proposal, which has managed to impress many members of the International Confederation of Wizards, did not meet my standards."
Hermione's mouth drops. What standards? She wants to whack him in the head and slap him on the arse for a good measure. He passed a ridiculous tax law that was originally proposed by Lucius Malfoy! It's the reason why Malfoy has been walking around in brand new dragon-hide boots, coat, and gloves. He is too happy about his tax cuts.
"The American legislative passed the proposal. Unanimously!"
"They are Americans." There is a certain tone in his voice that would be more fitting if he is talking about rubbish.
Glaring at him, she throws in some countries. "The French."
"They don't have eyes. Nor can they read."
"The Germans."
"They love work."
She waits for her to say something more, but no. He doesn't. "Norwegians."
"Liberals. All of them."
Oh, as if she can't forget the evil conservative right in front of her. "The Canadians."
"Liberals, too."
She cross her arms. "And what about the Chinese?"
There, Tom does give a pause.
Hermione smiles triumphantly.
He can't really say a lot about that one. After all the Chinese prefer cheap labor yet they somehow managed to—
"Saving face," he answers.
She brings her arm to the side, huffing. "Every other country," she says, leaning right into his personal space, "passed the proposal without resistance. Even the most conservative countries. What exactly is the standards this proposal fail to reach?"
A pause.
"Tell me," she breathes.
His dark eyes glance down, just briefly. Then he looks back up. A smirk plays on his lips. "Granger, if you wanted to get close to me, all you needed to do is ask."
All of the sudden, she slaps him in the face.
It is very satisfying.
Despite the red mark on his face, the Minister casually remarks, "You want to know why it doesn't pass my standards? Here's why, Granger. Every time there is an opposite, I find you leading the mob. You have been the loudest critic. You wrote articles after articles about every policy I have supported or passed. Even policies we both supported, you vehemently disagree about the bills and proposals. I'm not sure where I have spurned you."
She admits he isn't wrong.
Straightening her back, she curtly replies, "If you want me to stop criticizing you, then pass the house elves' rights proposal."
He chuckles. "I doubt it is that simple. Is it?" His eyes darken in slightly disguised interest. "Or perhaps, you want my attention?"
Her anger takes her to new levels, and her hand twitches. Why is the Minister of Magic so slappable? "As if I would be attracted to lying, two-faced, head-up-his-arse—"
Quickly, he grabs her by the shoulders and hold her against the lift's walls. His body presses against her, and this is when Hermione realizes how tall he is and the dangerous situation she is in now. She may be in a safe area, but it doesn't mean he won't curse her with some obscure Dark curse. He leans down towards her neck, his mouth right by her ear. Then he whispers, "Shh. . ." The white of his teeth flashes at her, and she stiffens, her nerves waiting in heated anticipation. Her mouth parts, and if she moves an inch, she could press her lips against cheek and. . .
"Interesting choice of words," he hisses. "Attracted."
He pauses right next to her neck, the ghost of his teeth sending shivers. Her heart beats quickly, and she wonders if he is close enough to feel the blood pounding madly. Thump, thump, thump. He almost nuzzles her, keeping only a faint distance between them. If they touch, she won't know what would happen next.
As if knowing exactly what she's thinking, he continues, "It is unbecoming for one of my directors to be publically against me. All those things you've written. . . Very naughty."
"You want to know why?" she murmurs back, her breaths soft and controlled.
"Why?"
"Because you're fake," she tells him.
As if removing one layer of his disguise, he commands, no, demands, "Tell me why."
But she is saved by the lift. It moves again, going down to the next level.
"Basement Level Eight."
Tom slips himself to the other side of the lift. He is relaxing, faking as Hermione has said, just in time for a wizard to sheepishly look at the Minister. "Sorry, Minister Riddle, Director Granger," the wizard apologizes. "The lifts were due for a maintenance check."
"Thank you for fixing the issue, Mr. Pettigrew," says Riddle politely. He brushes by the wizard, probably missing the admiring and dreamy gaze on Pettigrew's face. He pauses and pivots around, giving a strange, odd expression at Hermione. "You should know that I had nothing against the house elves' rights proposal, Director Granger. Or quid pro quo." He runs his gaze over Hermione's clothes. Speculating and considering.
She narrows her eyes.
"I would appreciate your support for the Auror Office's budget plans. I hope you like tea." With those parting words, Minister Riddle walks away with his hands in his robes.
Her mouth drops in surprise. Her feet begins to move, and she stands in the dark hallways and stare at his back.
Her voice sounds surprisingly loud in the empty halls. "Yerba mate, in fact."
His low chuckle echoes. "Then I'll see you in my office for tea today," he calls back.
She shakes her head. For once, she is actually left speechless.
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