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Hermione took a deep breath and asked the witch for what seemed the hundredth time,

"Please, can you please tell me who the fifth sub-head is? There were five on the list and now there are only four."

"Oh! Sorry luv, it's awready been a long day..."

Hermione glanced at her watch in irritation, noting that it was just quarter past eight.

"...I fink you're looking for a bloke goes by the name of 'archird. 'archird wif an 'H'. Percy or Peter or sumink, I dunno. 'archird is what I always call 'im."

"Do you have an idea why his name-"

"Well I spose that's 'ow it's spelt." She cackled at this then resumed to answering Hermione's question after giving her a light slap on the arm. "Naw 'm only joking! I spose since 'e demoted 'imself, 'at's why he ain't been on your list. Spose, like Mundgeon, 'e couldn't take all the 'sponsibility or sumink. Can't be living 'ere tweny-four seven an' what not. Dunno really, 'm only 'ere to tidy the place a bitsy. Ta!"

"Thank you for your help anyway," Hermione called after her, watching her leave and mildly amused at the sarcastic notion that she'd just met literary legend, Eliza Doolittle.

Hermione clicked her tongue, scolding herself, and concluding that pregnancy had made her impatient and mean. She decided to wait back at the office and see if Harchird would make an early appearance. The handful of times she'd gone looking for him she'd come up empty handed and after the stress of last night, she really wasn't in the mood to play Harchird Polo. She'd had an especially bad morning because she hadn't been able to eat but somehow the nausea kept tossing stuff up, even when she was sure there could be nothing left and the inconsistency of the spells were driving her mad. Not just morning sickness. Afternoon sickness. Evening sickness. Middle of the night sickness.

She was sick of being sick.

Her insides felt as if they were sweating and her neck was sore from everything that had emptied out of it. She took a potion vial out of her bag and unscrewed the lid to drop a little onto her tongue, praying it would help ease her stomach but before she could even squeeze the rubber bulb, there was a commotion outside the doorway. It almost sounded like, singing? Before she could react, the office door swung open and in flew, no, air-waltzed, a flock of cherubs carrying a large bridal bouquet of pink and blue roses with baby's breath.

She knew he probably picked it unknowingly, just thinking it was pretty and that she would like it, but as the cherubs fluttered and swooped around her head, her face felt like it was sinking into quicksand. The lyrics of their cacophony were lost on her and she barely even registered that they'd thrust the nosegay into her numb fingertips before swooshing back out the door. The constriction of her eyeballs straining against her skull in no way impeded her vision from the time-bomb in her hands, but the soft glow of impending tears began to, and before she could even gather a single thought, she was running as fast as she could from the office.

Up ahead, she saw the lift open before her and there appeared to be no one inside. Her footsteps pounded toward it and as she slammed the partition shut, all the stormy thoughts brewing behind her face began pouring out of it. Why hold back? she thought. There's no one here. No one who can help me. She couldn't stop the volcanic tears from erupting and didn't even try as she broke down completely, burying her head into her hands, as the bouquet fell to the ground with a soft plop. After a series of long, shuddering sobs, she became still and quiet, concentrating on the only sounds she could hear: the ascent of the lift and the pounding in her ears until-

"Ahem."

The sudden sound of a man clearing his throat broke the illusion that she had been alone all this time and the blood that had previously been thundering inside her ears, made it's way to her face, as she brought her head up slowly and stared into a pair of cool grey eyes.

Draco Malfoy had been on his way to walk around the newly expanded hallways of Level Four before making his way to Level Seven and reading the Quidditch plaques and trophy engravings again since he hadn't been cleared to return to the Medi-tent when completely out of the blue, this tiny tornado of tears and curls made her volatile entrance. He'd quickly dismissed the need for medical attention as he saw no blood or sign of trauma and made a snap judgement that this was purely emotional and he would have gladly left her to it, except for the fact that she'd slammed the only exit shut, barring him in with her. He decided once the main brunt of the outburst had subsided he would make his presence known, regretting it almost immediately as he saw the mortification bloom on her face.

The fact that neither of them said anything and were just staring at one another brought an almost comical atmosphere to the situation and the corners of his lips curved upward, involuntarily, reviving the ghost of a smirk that was so familiar and so attached to memories from a time when Hermione felt bright and optimistic. She gaped at the former boy who had once called her horrible names with his mean little smirk, and became reluctantly cognizant of how desperate she must really be if she could find comfort in such a recollection. Draco looked at her curiously, obviously perplexed at the massive breakdown he'd just witnessed; his eyes drifting from Hermione's bright red face to the ugly bunch of flowers she'd discarded on the floor.

"Allergies?" he asked doubtfully.

The absurdity of such a response might have made her laugh and, if he hadn't been who he was, she probably would have. But the lift witch's voice crackled through the air announcing Level Three, and Hermione was out the doorway before she could even finish saying the Department's name. Draco stood frozen in the lift, his mouth slightly open, before his eyes dropped to the ground and he knelt to pick up the abandoned bouquet, examining it with distaste. He shook his head, reasoning that he probably would have cried as well, had someone sent it to him.

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Oh, holy hell...

Hermione felt completely humiliated. It was bad enough someone had caught her in her moment of weakness but of all people! Draco Malfoy! Honestly! Why didn't a bolt of lightning just strike her down, dead at his feet? It probably would have been a kinder interaction, maybe he would have tried to resuscitate her! She imagined the scene unfolding ridiculously, internally snapping at herself in disgust. She sought refuge in the Level Three restroom, walking calmly into the closest stall just in case anyone else was in there and sat down on the toilet, taking in three deep breaths. Her thoughts focused on this calming exercise and her body repeated it, listening as her heartbeats slowed and she regained composure. She scolded herself briefly for her loss of control, telling herself she was here to work, not to worry about what old school acquaintances thought of her.

After a brief appraisal of her appearance in the mirror, she adjusted her skirt and made her way back to Level Four. There were about forty steps from the outer office area to the interior hallway of the department and she stared at her shoes counting each one before a slight movement down the corridor caught her attention. Harchird's door closed. She took another deep breath, gathered her paperwork from her desk, and hurried down to his office, knocking gingerly on the door.

"Yes, come in," an oily voice answered.

She turned the knob and pushed the door open, side-stepping around two rather large trunks on the floor.

"Yes? How can I help you?"

"Are you Harchird?"

"That's me. Pierce, Pierce Harchird."

"Pleased to meet you, I'm Hermione Granger. I work for-"

"The Department of Magical Law Enforcement, yes I know who you are. Who wouldn't? The famous Hermione Granger," he said adding a dramatic vocal flair to her name. "How can I help you, my dear?"

Hermione didn't understand why, but shivered at the intimate term.

"Um...I'm here conducting interviews with all the sub-heads-"

"Well, I hate to disappoint you," he interrupted dismissively, "but I'm no longer a sub-head of this department. I-"

"Demoted yourself," Hermione finished for him, returning the interruption and raising her eyebrows expectantly. "May I ask why?"

He shrugged. "I can't really keep up with the responsibilities. After Talal almost lost a limb with that manticore I've come to find I quite appreeseeate my body whole and unaltered, thank you," he said, snickering lightly.

"I see. Well, would it be alright with you if I went ahead and asked you a few questions about your past projects and responsibilities? It would give me a better idea of why the heads of this specific department are becoming overwhelmed and I may even be able to help take some pressure off you all. I hate to think of anyone having to take a cut in pay because they feel overworked or taken advantage of. Really, don't hold back, you can trust me. I'm here to help so-"

She stopped midsentence because her stomach gave a sickening lurch and quickly covered her mouth with one hand while Harchird's eyebrows shot up in surprise. The clipboard and papers she'd been holding fell to the floor with a clatter as she placed her other hand on her belly.

"Miss Granger are you alright?" Harchird asked in a panic.

"Yes, I-I..." she stuttered in weak reassurance, trying to recompose herself, but the nausea would not subside.

Almost at once, Harchird's eyes lit up with recognition as he stared at her stance and Hermione could have sworn his features transformed with sudden and intense interest in her. There was a hungry desperation at the core of his expression, as if he could hardly contain himself.

"Are you..." he asked in breathless excitement, "are you...pregnant?" his lips wrapped around the last word, needlessly over-enunciating it, and somehow making it sound salacious.

"I..." Hermione's knees felt weak and wobbly and she felt his spindly arms pulling her toward the chair in front of her. Completely dazed, she sank into it. She could barely keep her eyes open but thought she saw his grow wide and shifty as he licked his lips in rapid thought.

"Let me...let me get you some water..." he said coaxingly.

"Yes, thank you," she heard her voice say, but her intuition rebuked her for it.

She heard him rummage through a few things and felt he was making too much noise and far too many verbs than were needed to produce a glass of water so she took a groggy glance in his direction. His back was to her so she couldn't see anything he was doing but when his hand outstretched a glorious cup toward her, she accepted it gratefully and tilted the rim to her lips.

"That's better isn't it?" he asked as he took the empty cup from her hand, smiling greedily at her.

But Hermione never got a chance to reply. She felt her eyes sink back into her head and her head sink back into her neck and her neck sink deep into her body, as she fell and fell and fell into the black.

And the black was all around and all there was.
And she welcomed it.

Fuck yes, did she ever welcome it.

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