A/N: Wow, I'm alive? I know. I have literally not touched HP for four months. My life is a mess, but so is this story. A lot of strangeness, OOC, BS, and just plain weirdness. This story is merely for personal entertainment.
No magic. Obviously AU. Fucked up timeline, EWE, and all that.
Also a lot of cursing.
Because I am procrastinating on my college work...I HAVE CREATED A PLAYLIST FOR THIS STORY! You can find them on my profile page. I listen to those songs to get into the heads of these characters. I hope you'll like them too!
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise.
Chapter One: GDFR
SNAPSHOT ONE: OCTOBER 2015
Jukebox: "Theme (Look Three)" – Trevor Rabin
i. Tom Riddle
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Thomas Marvolo Riddle Junior was utterly bored—and that was never a good thing.
A senator currently under investigation by the Department of Justice for bribery? Been there, done that. A congressman resigning due to sexual misconduct? That was yesterday's news. And the House's oh-so-secretive scheme against the Middle East nuclear deal? Please.
By now, he has gotten used to the scandals splashed across the front pages of The Washington Times – even the disgustingly liberal and libelous Washington Post has lost its distinctive magnetism. Those stories were overblown and dumbed-down by the media for the average American reader, who did not know anything outside the ten-mile radius of his or her home.
Tom was sure that if The New York Times ran a story as boring, useless, and absurd as the story of Vice President Dumbledore's creepy breakfast habits, it would still cause a fit of psychotic melodrama for Fox News or MSNBC.
He needed excitement. He needed real news – the type of news that documented the underhanded plays in the core of democracy: the fall from heaven of the rich and powerful, the type that will make history.
(But of course, those news would have to involve him, the rising star of Washington politics, and, as the few wise and courageous ones may even claim, the true power behind the President of the United States.)
Without him, all news would be boring.
Tom swung his long legs – clad in Tom Ford's charcoal assemble suitpants, Draco Malfoy's latest obsession – onto the carved mahogany desk in his M Street office.
The framed Harvard University and Harvard Law School diplomas sparkled in their gold frames. Power was a nice feeling indeed. He closed his eyes, letting the last traces of the winter sunshine caress his sculpted features.
It was then he decided that he would feel even better if he were sitting in the Oval Office.
. . . .
ii. Draco Malfoy
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
"But Draco—"
"This Friday's not going to work, I already told you." Draco Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, still damp from shower, and escaped the bathroom to put some distance between him and the fiendish brunette girl that refused to leave his apartment. "Besides," he called out from his newly installed walk-in closet, "It's not like we're getting anywhere with…any of this."
He could hear what-was-her-name-again (Jennifer? Priscilla?) continue to pick up the trail of her discarded clothes that went from the front door to the bedroom. She didn't seem to mind Draco's annoyance. If anything, she was more determined to make him understand their mutual compatibility.
"I literally do not understand," she kept on going, blissfully ignorant of the fact that Draco Malfoy was more interested in his Hermès tie pattern than what was coming out of her smudged-red lips. "Did I do anything wrong? The past five times—they were all perfect. Didn't you feel that we just clicked? I even met your parents."
As if that mattered.
Draco slid on his suit jacket and adjusted his Windsor knot. It was his daily signature ensemble: bespoke Brioni suit, Ermenegildo Zegna oxfords, and his father's Phillipe Patek watch.
(He would never, as long as he is alive, admit to anyone that he reads Men's Vogue for fashion advice.)
"Listen, Wendy—"
"Astoria," the girl screeched as she clasped on the Agent Provocateur black bra. Her blue eyes stared daggers into Draco in the vanity mirror.
Astoria?
Like the Waldorf Astoria?
That name was indeed very far from his previous guess. Now he'll have to fuck a girl named after the Ritz-Carlton to complete the series.
"—Astoria, yes, sorry." he finally looked away from his reflection, and the leggy brunette was pleased at the attention she was finally receiving. She braced herself for a heartfelt apology from Draco and, maybe – just maybe – even a little morning quickie before they leave for their high-powered, higher-salaried jobs.
Just looking at him all suited up made her heart beat faster in anticipation.
"I'm twenty-five, Draco." She finally murmured, gently touching her face in the mirror. There was a zit that was threatening to break out on her smooth forehead. "I'm not getting younger, and in this cold city, a girl's beauty is all she has."
"And I'm fucking twenty-six in fucking New York City. I don't settle until I'm thirty. I apologize if I don't share your outdated Southern opinions. And—" he paused, admiring his appearance in the body-length mirror. "—there is plenty enough to go around for both of us." Draco spoke nonchalantly, ignoring Astoria's increasing agitation.
All his focus needed to be on his career. He had exactly eleven months to make a serious deal happen at the Malfoy Foundation if he still wanted to reach his goal of being its youngest-ever managing director. It wasn't that Draco was picky. But after last night, he had decided that Astoria has absolutely no further potential beyond a few quick fucks. She had a nice rack, yes, but she looked like the type to bloat after thirty-five.
Not to mention her thighs were a bit too big for her five-foot-six frame.
He glanced at his reflection approvingly again before sending a text to his personal driver, Guillermo, to be by his apartment building in fifteen minutes.
Draco Malfoy was not going to date a girl with the name of a hotel.
"I—I—" she stood, half-naked and motionless, "What?"
. . . .
iii. Ron Weasley
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
Ronald Weasley has finally admitted that he was, all in all, a mess.
He was four years out of University of Maryland—"Hey, they gave me a full football scholarship," Ron exclaimed defensively when his overbearing and overachieving older brother, Percy, had questioned Ron's decision, waving Ron's Northwestern's acceptance letter in front of him—and was unhappily unemployed.
(Well, it was kind of his own fault.)
"Ronald Weasley," Hermione answered his call on the first ring, and screeched into his barely-functional, shattered-from-a-weekend-debauchery Samsung Galaxy, "I do not need to remind you that—"
(It was the sixth time he called her in the past three days.)
"—'I'm not your personal secretary to cater to your life's needs'. I know, I know." Ron rolled his eyes. Upon hearing his best friend huff angrily into the speaker, he decided to add, "Don't worry. I have not yet gotten to a point in my life to need you as my caretaker." He smiled cheekily, and he was sure that Hermione could see his expression over the phone, too.
Pause. Then, "Don't tell me you actually quit Morgan Stanley?"
"Well—"
"Ronald."
"Finance just isn't for me! If I have to stare at another bloody fucking Excel sheet and process the fucking derivative or standard deviation or whatever the fuck they call those things—I just—what—Look, I can't. The last two years have been hell—no, it was like…like having to fuck Satan's mother in boiling water—I don't ev—Shit, you know what they call it? Fi-NANce. Like they have a right to judge me on how to speak the fucking English language! That cunt Cormac McLaggen from Goldman even tol—"
Hermione's eyebrows quirked. If there was one thing Ron learned from the trading desk, it was utilizing his freedom to curse.
"Ronald," she sighed exasperatedly into her iPhone 6, cutting off the redhead's string of beautifully conceived profanity. "Honestly, sometimes I really admire your courage. How can you just quit your job like that? Wait—don't even answer that. Anyways, sorry to point out the obvious, but what are you gonna do?"
Oh, that's right.
He's got the monthly rent for his midtown apartment overlooking Bryant Park.
And he was behind his payment for Neiman Marcus, Saks, and Barneys.
And the trip to Ibiza and Montenegro that he had planned for next month.
Not to mention payment for his Verizon FiOS services, Errol's petsitter, his suit fittings at Brioni, his Equinox membership…and other expenses for the absolutely, positively necessary luxuries that came with his short-lived Wall Street glory.
It was obvious that regaining his old job or a similar version of itcan be the only solution to the problem (perhaps at a boutique hedge fund this time? He had that thought for a while now). But he despised everything about the financial industry with a fiery passion. Ron didn't even know he had the capability for such hatred.
But, optimism was ingrained to Ron's nature. He had friends—powerful friends—that he no doubt had limitless faith in. After all, it was common knowledge among Hogwarts alumni and any politico that the twenty-six-year-old Hermione Granger, following the footsteps of the young and ambitious before her, was the Secretary to the President of the United States of America.
Hell, even Draco Malfoy has her speed dial now.
"I don't know," he decided to play it off nonchalantly. "You work with rich old fuckers everyday, right? Maybe introduce me to one of them?"
Ron could hear Hermione chuckle to herself. It wasn't going as good as he had hoped, but it wasn't a bad sign, either.
"In your dreams, Ronald Weasley." Hermione laughed sardonically before hanging up on him.
. . . .
iv. Hermione Granger
WASHINGTON, D.C.
I've really got to get my shit together.
This was the fiftieth time the thought occurred to Hermione as she sat, creepily motionless, in her plush custom leather chair next to the Oval Office, staring wide-eyed into the blinking screen of the outdated Hewlett-Packard.
It still ran on Windows 7. She just knew she couldn't trust her files (read: her life) on anything Microsoft.
Of all the things to be doing right next to the freaking President of the United States, she was trying to fix a computer. Without any IT help because apparently they're on "lunch break". And with a press conference coming up in forty-five minutes. And a dinner with the Prime Minister. Not to mention the First Lady wanted a weekend briefing.
What's next, a private party with the Rothschilds? She wanted to punch something. Her BlackBerry for work has been buzzing nonstop in the past hour from the Department of State, Bloomberg, Rita Skeeter, and CNN.
Awesome. There's a live interview with CNN in two hours. Now she really wanted to punch something.
But, there were consequences of committing anything out of line at the White House. She could practically see the headlines: "Presidential Secretary Suspected of Islamic Terrorist Activities".
Oh yes. Rita Skeeter would have a field day with that.
Hermione sighed. What she wouldn't give for a scandal. The President's tentative nuclear proliferation deal with Iran was only an excuse for bureaucrats to say they've done "something". What she needed was a Ponzi scheme or a Monica Lewinsky or even a World War III, anything to make her life more interesting.
But first, she needs to calm down. Calm. Down. She needs to face reality, and the reality was that a virus somehow infected her computer, and sensitive information is lost, and she will probably be out of a job tomorrow.
Hermione did everything right—at least according to the standards of a workingwoman: she worked out every morning, and restricted her carbs intake; she read The Economist to keep her up-to-date with the news, and ELLE to keep her polished appearance; she was the first to arrive at the White House and never the first to leave; she reorganized her LinkedIn connections every week to maintain control over her networks. So what was wrong? She couldn't pinpoint the cause for her mini existential crisis.
Prioritize. Prioritize. Prioritize. She survived Ivy League undergrad and law school (more than survived, in fact. She excelled. But humility is a virtue, right?). Hermione Jean Granger was not going to let a computer problem stop her.
Starting with…Reboot? Hermione raised an eyebrow at the new option that popped up on the screen. She may be a Millennial and a product of twenty-first century scientific excess, but her technological ability was questionable.
She checked her Daniel Wellington watch again. 12:57.
Fuck. All her scripts and schedules and emails and sensitive CIA thingamabombs were on there.
"I swear to fucking God—" She picked up the standard black desktop phone again, maniacally punching in White House IT service's extension. She huffed loudly into the receiver, making a mental note to herself that the Vice President will hear about this. The call was put onto the automated messaging system again.
Hermione was pondering on the ways to avenge her dilapidated computer against the apathy of the tech geeks when the door to the Office busted open, revealing a familiar dark-haired man, followed by President Dippet.
She quickly looked down at the sea of papers piling up on her desk, attempting to appear busy and focused. At the moment, she was only thankful to the God of Dirty D.C. Politics – or whatever higher power out that was there to preside over this hell – that neither of them noticed her and her distressed state.
Dippet clasped the man on the shoulder. "It's always a pleasure speaking to you, Tom. I'll see you tonight. And please, do drop by often—Ah, Hermione!"
She definitely celebrated too early.
Normally, she would not be caught dead like this. Today seemed to be the exception.
Hermione quickly rose, trying her best to appear calm and unflustered. Dippet, she noted, was looking especially worn out, but he still seemed to be elated by the man in front him—almost infatuated, in fact.
"Mr. President,"
"Hermione, I trust that you know Tom here?" Dippet gestured at the man next to him, who was smiling politely at her with an extended hand. Neither Dippet nor the man seemed to mind the informality.
For a brief moment, Hermione remained rooted to the ground, slightly staring at Tom's handsome face.
Disturbingly handsome. Especially for a senator.
Cosmopolitan even ran a risqué article titled "Power Sex", calling him "D.C.'s Sex Symbol" and "bringin' sexy back…to politics". For twenty-six years, she has always been under the impression that politicians were wrinkly and ugly. But for all the photos splashed across newspapers and magazines, Tom Riddle looked even better in real life. The black suit, normally a boring uniform required for the old and often overweight legislators, hugged his svelte figure.
Woman, get your shit together.
She must be PMSing.
"Nice to finally meet you, Senator Riddle," She took his hand. Their handshake was brief, but Hermione nonetheless flinched at the unexpected coldness of his skin. She paused, unsure whether she should create a small talk or opt for silence, before settling for, "I really liked your speech before the Benghazi committee yesterday."
Real smooth.
"Thank you. Though I must confess, speaking in front of Congresswoman McGonagall was not an experience I'd want to endure again," Riddle's lips quirked a bit in amusement, "But, that is not to say I don't love fraternizing with the enemy." He added, winking at her lightheartedly.
The double entendre in his comment was clear. Riddle was a self-proclaimed libertarian, and Dippet was a staunch liberal on the borderline of a socialist. Hermione blinked. There was no way a U.S. Senator was this socially inept. To publicly acknowledge such difference, and to do so blatantly in front of the President himself, Tom Riddle was practically asking for political death.
(And the liberal media, although head over heels with Riddle's looks, was all too eager to point out his notorious corporate connections, with the Malfoy family being his top campaign contributor.)
To her surprise, however, Riddle was able to draw a booming laughter from Dippet. Hermione, absolutely dumbstruck, instead tried forced a weak smile in return.
Attractive, and unbelievably suave without appearing as feigned. Her eyebrows slightly knitted.
Hermione was not stupid; she knew very well that she was not immune to his beauty, but she also knew that he was too good to be true. Sure, Riddle could have won over voters (read: the female demographics) with his looks alone, but to charm the pants off of the President like that, he definitely has a few tricks up his bespoke Tom Ford suit sleeves.
"Now, isn't he just something?" The old man looked at Riddle as would a father to a son. "Oh, right—before I forget, Hermione, could you put him on our online guest list for dinner tonight with Prime Minister Grindelwald?"
Hermione did not have the nerve to tell the President that her computer was as fucked up as it could be.
SNAPSHOT TWO: DECEMBER 2015
Jukebox: "Crosswords" – Alexandre Desplat & London Symphony Orchestra
i. Tom Riddle
WASHINGTON, D.C.
"You're such an asshole." Hadrian Yaxley chuckled as he watched the swirl of his scotch in the crystal glass. Noticing his favorite anchor coming up with reports on the Middle East, he unmuted the flat screen TV that hung delicately from the wall.
Tom rolled his eyes before turning his attention onto the newspaper again, pretending to be absorbed in The Wall Street Journal.
The top story was about the latest scandal with Banque de Lestrange, where Rudolphus Lestrange allegedly peddled seventy million dollars of shares he knew to be undervalued to unwitting investors. Tom grimaced: that better not affect his donations.
He had just shot down another attempt to beg for the role of communications director by Colin McCreevey, his intern. Colin was one of the hardcore chip-on-shoulder interns whom politicians would work to death, but never give any actual power because they were socially inept. The kid had left his office with a tomato red face.
"Hey, look who's on TV right now,"
Tom knew Yaxley was watching the blatantly leftist MSNBC to piss him off, but he nevertheless looked up reluctantly. The headline, "Tension Rises As Syrian Refugees Seek Shelter in the U.S.", caught his attention. And as if right on cue, the camera panned onto the perpetually smiling face of Albus Dumbledore, sitting next to the anchor for international politics, Cho Chang.
Yaxley let out an appreciative whistle. "She's so hot,"
Tom raised an eyebrow at his friend. "You sure about that? Dumbledore sure looks yummy in that baggy suit." He drawled, turning to the "World News" section of the Journal. Yaxley needed to control himself. The infamous European heir wasn't exactly known for sexual discretions.
"Really funny, Riddle." The blonde man rolled his eyes and uncrossed his legs. Yaxley's Gucci loafers gave his dandyism just the right hint of the moneyed Englishman. It was his posh London accent that sealed the deal.
(And Washington was, after all, a classic East Coast prep city, and people wore pastels 100% of the time. Tom much preferred black-and-white minimalism.)
Neither of the two wanted to broach the topic of Dumbledore's 2016 presidential campaign—or Dippet's reelection campaign, for that matter. Tom continued to flip through his newspapers. Yaxley, bored with staring at Chang's face, opened up iTunes on his MacBook Air. An email notification popped up on the right-hand corner of the screen
"Well, what do you know…" Yaxley murmured to himself. His suddenly-alert green eyes quickly scanned the content of the email, and stopped on the very last bit. "Tom—it's from Rosier—get this: Horace Slughorn just pulled out of the race. Malfoy will be publicly announcing his support for Dippet tomorrow morning at nine. Nice work, you bastard."
Tom did not attempt to hide his smirk. "Was it really that obvious?" He gasped, deciding to play along. Dippet was already in the bag; the plan was to have Malfoy's money to keep him dangled for another four years, after which Tom hits thirty-five and takes over.
He was proud of the sheer simplicity yet ingenuity of the plan, but he hadn't informed anyone aside from Lucius and Draco Malfoy. He should've known that the younger Malfoy would not be able to keep his mouth shut.
That problem will need to be addressed.
(Actually, Tom didn't even have to even campaign. He's got the world's richest men and women backing him. But, he secretly enjoyed the publicity, and playing the oh-so-democratic-and-ethical senator.)
Tom was going to tell him soon enough, anyway. But since the blonde seemed to be up-to-date already, there was no need to hold back anymore. Hadrian couldn't betray Tom even if Tom wanted him to. The Yaxleys, for all their offshore accounts and personal Ivy League lawyers, needed him to keep the media away.
"Fret not," Yaxley laughed, pouring himself another glass of scotch, "Your secret's safe with me. Though, holy shit, why Dippet? Could've chosen someone new like Merriweather or even Longbottom,"
"Why change? Whoever is in that seat does not matter. What's important is that he will trust me, and rely completely on me." Tom replied matter-of-factly, deciding to have a bit of liquor too to celebrate the occasion.
"You think you've got Dippet to trust you?" Yaxley snorted. He looked up from his laptop. "That's like asking Karl Marx to fuck Adam Smith."
"The old man is simply in love with me."
"Please. If there is anyone Dippet is in love with, it's that Hermione Granger chick,"
Tom took a sip of his scotch. "Hermione Granger?"
He definitely heard that name before. Tom prided himself in his precise memory, but he could not put a face to that name. Hermione Granger must either be very unimportant or dispensable in order for his brain to clear her from his recollection.
"Yeah, her," Yaxley placed his Mac on Tom's desk. A picture of a brunette girl was pulled up on Google Images. She was not bad looking, but she was no Cho Chang. Her brown eyes were just a little bit too close together, and her chin was a little bit too sharp. She was a bit taller than Dippet, standing next to him in the Diplomatic Reception Room and sporting a classic impersonal smile.
Tom's eyes slightly narrowed. Oh. Her.
Now he remembered. He passed by her every time he went to see Dippet, and she was always in the same position, situated in her little cubicle outside of the Oval Office and typing away on the computer maniacally. Their exchange was standard: it was three sentences, tops.
"Good morning, Senator Riddle," She would greet him as he approached.
"Morning, is the President in?"
"Yes, he's expecting you."
It had became such a routine to his White House visits that he simply saw her as a robot, not that she didn't seem like one. Everything about Hermione Granger screamed hipster-turned-yuppie with a serious control issue, from her always-too-clipped voice to the omnipresent espresso on her desk that was just a bit too freakily organized.
"Interesting," He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "Is she that important to Dippet?"
Yaxley didn't answer, clearly disappointed with Tom's lack of emotional response. "I mean, she's got some seriously communist views in line with our old wanker. Her father also donates to the Democrats regularly."
"I suppose," Tom murmured to himself. A new piece on his chessboard – this was the last thing he needed at the moment. He quickly pulled up her curriculum vitae on Wikipedia. "There's really nothing too special about her besides a few Ivy diplomas. What got her the job?" Tom asked more to himself than Yaxley, but Yaxley still shrugged in response.
The blonde sighed dramatically, "Anyways, she's not a problem. Secretaries don't last, especially a pretty one like that. An old and jealous wife will get her fired soon enough,
"And besides," Yaxley stalked back to the leather couch, "It's not like she's going to infect your health with AIDS tomorrow or some shit. You just need to survive until you're thirty-five." He grinned.
Tom Riddle, however, was never the one to overlook his chess pieces.
. . . .
ii. Hermione Granger
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
First of all, she hated the architecture. It was unnecessarily modern, avant-garde, and obnoxious, vying for the attention of the onlookers. Yet, it was undeniably stylish and sleek, stylish, and cosmopolitan. The fact that an office building could be so paradoxical and complex was an affront to her brilliantly observant mind and analytical nature.
She already knew she was walking into hell.
Not surprisingly, as she stood on Park Avenue and 52nd Street, gazing impassively at the opaque glass building that towered before her, a part of her felt like that she was selling her soul to the devil.
All for America, Hermione reminded herself sarcastically, echoing Dippet's optimistic campaign message. She took another sip of her bitter iced espresso. The letters engraved on the polished silver plaque only intensified her repulsion.
Was this what Ron felt when he had to walk into Morgan Stanley's office on Broadway? Hermione made a mental note to visit Ron and Harry (who moved to Brooklyn from Seattle, since Ginny was signed with a modeling agency, to no one's surprise) some time this week.
She hasn't even told them she was in New York yet.
("Admit it, you're obsessed. You're a workaholic, Hermione. You don't have room for anyone in your life besides for your fucking job." Those were the last words her ex, Viktor Krum, said to her before leaving for London.)
Hermione took in three deep breaths. None of that mattered. She was doing everything she had dreamed of doing. Her life was perfect. She was perfect. Almost.
Casting one last contemptuous look at the name on the plague, she walked towards the door with confident steps that were disproportional to her inner insecurities.
She should have known that her façade wasn't going to last long, because at the very moment she reached for the offensively ornate golden handle, a man burst out from the glass door, apparently thinking his phone deserved his attention more than the outside world did. The Philippe Patek watch, which shone gaudily from his left wrist, was the last thing Hermione remember before the man promptly clashed into her.
Hermione quickly pushed herself away from the man. "I'm so sorry, I didn't—Malfoy?" She bit out the name harshly, eyeing the statuesque blonde like a deer caught in the headlights.
Of all the days to see the notorious Draco Malfoy, of course it's today. Déjà vu immediately crashed into her as the sneer-she-knew-all-too-well began to take form on Draco's sharp features.
"Yes, farmer Granger. Surprised to see me?" He gestured exaggeratedly at his name on the plaque: The Malfoy Foundation. "Why are you here?"
Hermione crossed her arms defensively. She knew that Malfoy knew exactly why she was willingly in his proximity. There was no need for Malfoy to play dumb, not when he had asked her for political favors for seven times in the past year.
(Yes, she kept count.)
President Dippet was meeting with Lucius Malfoy today. Hermione had a good hunch that it was about the labor deunionization bill in the Senate. Expectedly, the bill was an outrage to Malfoy and his fiscally conservative cronies.
"Oh, I don't know, just dropping by because I missed you so much," Hermione quipped. Since her days at Hogwarts, she had reminded herself that Draco Malfoy was simply a puny existence with a fancy last name attached to a ridiculous first name.
And now that they were professional adults, he was just a notoriously useless glob who owed his employment to the fact that he's working for his own billionaire father. Everyone knew he was being groomed for the executive role, which meant he spent all his time wining and dining with other billionaires instead of touching any actual work.
"Move out my way, Malfoy. I've got to be with the President."
Draco's jaw dropped a bit.
That sort of plebeian impudence was expected of Granger, but to be so confidently candid, that was out of character for her. Of course, he had hardly recognized Hermione Granger in a fitted suit and Michael Kors tote and makeup to match the working-girl uniform. He almost felt a pinch of nostalgia for the obnoxious, condescending Hermione in oversized hoodies that had smelled suspiciously like expired cheese.
But another examination of the coffee stain she left on his Brioni reinforced all his distaste for her.
Hermione, on the other hand, sauntered away, a hint of a smirk lingering upon her lips.
Now that felt nice.
But as she pressed the button in the elevator to the top floor, she was suddenly regretting her actions. Knowing Draco Malfoy, he would probably concoct some outlandish story and weep to Daddy Malfoy, and she could kiss her political aspirations goodbye.
Well, too late now.
At least his facial response was worth it. Malfoy can take his cosmo-sized ego and shove it up his servant-wiped ass.
The elevator stopped on the seventieth floor. The silver metal doors slid open.
Everyone seemed to be expecting her. Dippet was quick to wave her over, and Lucius Malfoy nodded curtly. Hermione swallowed loudly.
She was trying not to gawk at her surroundings. There were no obsequious personal assistants nor coveted Monets nor obscure rooms. In fact, there were no rooms at all. The entire floor was Lucius Malfoy's office, completely encased in glass. The bare minimalism of the office space was amazing. The only clue to the Malfoys' privilege was the security details standing at the four corners of the floor.
She cautiously approached, her new Ferragamo heels clicked against the glass floor. There were only two neomodernist-looking chairs that seemed extremely uncomfortable. Dippet rested in one, and Tom Riddle—her eyes widened a little at his unexpected presence—was in the other.
Great. She'll have to stand.
But…Tom Riddle does look impeccable, as always. Hermione blinked furiously, turning her focus onto the Manhattan skyline surrounding them.
"Miss Granger," Lucius Malfoy rose from his seat behind the glossy black desk. "It's an honor to finally meet you in person. Draco informed me you were his classmate at both Hogwarts and Columbia. But you went on to Georgetown Law, now, was it?"
"Yale." She was reminded of her fortuitous run-in with Draco earlier, "And nice to meet you too, Mr. Malfoy," Hermione shook his hand, returning his greeting with a tight-lipped smile to hide her smugness. So, Draco did actually pay enough attention to her to tell his father about it. "Mr. President, Senator Riddle," She turned to acknowledge the two other men almost mechanically.
She hated the pretentious trivialities of high-class manner, but it was even worse when everybody was scrutinizing her.
The blonde man smoothly continued, "Please accept my sincerest apologies about the chairs, I'm trying to keep my office free of clutter, you see. Senator Riddle here has been enforcing the benefits of living a minimalist lifestyle,"
Please.
His silky voice betrayed none of his son's old-moneyed prejudice, but she noticed that his gray eyes bore the same menacing antipathy.
Lucius can save his bullshit for someone who cares. Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes; he was not at least a bit sorry for making her stand around for the next few hours.
"Nonsense, Lucius," Riddle laughed, a hearty, melodic laugh that was out of place with their cold and expressionless surrounding. It was shallow of her, but Hermione wondered just what was it exactly made Thomas Riddle so magnetic. "Here, Miss Granger. Please, take my chair."
Hermione almost choked on her own spit. She was taken aback by Tom's gesture, but at the same time disappointed in her own behavior.
If this was how she behaved around extremely attractive men, then she needed to reevaluate her life—ASAP. Cormac McLaggen was attractive, so was her best friend Harry; so were Michael Corner, Bill Weasley, Dean Thomas, and – for God's sake – even Draco Malfoy was not hard on the eyes. She had never been tripped up about physical appearances, casting them aside as one of many nuisances of humanity. There should be no excuse as to why it would be different with Riddle.
"Oh," You're in front of a senator, the President, and one of the richest men on Earth. "Thank you. I mean, really, it's no problem. I'm fine with just standing."
"Come on, don't worry about it. I can stand,"
He pushed the chair further in Hermione's direction, a slight smirk playing upon his curved mouth as if he was enjoying a private joke, "It will be good for my health."
A/N: OMG! First chapter out of the way. What a ride.
Alright, obviously, if you hadn't noticed already, there are – and will be – A LOT of racist, sexist, misogynist, elitist, and just all-around insensitive & inappropriate remarks made by some of the characters. I in no way share these views; all such comments in this story are stuff I have heard people say in real life.
To avoid any confusion over timeline and age: majority of main characters are in their mid-20s-to-30s. This story is set in the contemporary times. And yessss, there is a 2016 Presidential Election just like the hellish one we will have soon too. The minimum age requirement for a U.S. Senator is 30, and for U.S. President is 35 (I'm pretty sure…but not 100% sure…too lazy to double check…). Tom is 31. Hermione is one year out of law school, so that puts her at 26. FUCK YEAH AGE DIFFERENCE.
This was originally going to be set in England with the Parliament. I'm sorry but y'all government is way too complex for my brain to handle.
Let me know what you think!