Job Market Crashing!
After the burnings of multiple cities, more people are desperate to find jobs. Open positions quickly fill up, leaving many unemployed and struggling to find a way to make money.
Be sure to find these jobs quickly!
Rita Skeeter
Draco pushed Hermione to the ground once he finished apparating.
Hermione pushed herself off the floor and began to dust off the dirt and gravel off of her clothes. "What the fuck was that for?"
"I got us out of there, you should be thanking me." He also cleaned himself—from Hermione's touch.
"Thanking you?" Hermione said incredulously, "You broke my things! You touched me!"
Draco raised his eyebrows. "An empty whiskey bottle. I never thought of you as a whiskey drinker, isn't it too strong for someone like you? Firewhiskey isn't the same as muggle whiskey."
"That doesn't stop the fact that you touched me—without my consent—and broke my things."
"It was empty, what are you doing with an empty bottle? It was weighing you down, consider it a favour."
She scoffed at him. "That empty bottle was for potions and draughts. Now what are we going to use if we need to make them? Hmmmm?"
Draco rolled his eyes. "Then go dumpster-diving for another glass. I believe you've been doing that already?"
"They're not sturdy enough, but that's beside the point. Don't touch me. Don't break my things and give me back my wand."
Draco fiddled Hermione's wand in his hands. "I'm not so sure about that, Granger."
"Just give me my damn wand back." Hermione reached out for her wand, but he laughed and raised the wand above his head. She went on her tip-toes as she tried to reach her wand but she still couldn't make it.
From a distance it could've looked like they were dancing. The grace and beauty of Hermione being en pointe; Draco leading the dance away. The Black Swan dancing to the sound of silence with her partner. The piles of metal became the stage that broadcast them to the world.
"Give me my damn wand back, Malfoy," Hermione spat.
Draco shook his head, finding amusement in her struggle. It wasn't until Hermione kicked him in the shins that he gave her wand back.
He rubbed his shins, trying to soothe the inevitable bruises. She held her wand close to her chest.
"Where did you even apparate us to?" Hermione asked.
Draco shrugged. "To the first place I thought of—probably in the same city."
"I told you to keep your head down, and look at where we are now! This wouldn't have happened if you had just listened to me."
"You don't understand. They'll do anything to talk to Death Eaters—you would've never stood a chance."
"It's because you have that ring, suit, and hair. Fuck, we need to figure something out before we get caught."
"You're not doing anything to me. My parents will kill me if I lose this damn ring—don't even get me started if my father sees that I dyed my hair—"
"Then go back to them! Don't go with us—I still don't understand why you put up with us if you hate us this much—it'll make my life so much fucking easier."
"I just need to get a few things, and then I'll be on my merry way."
"Fine," Hermione spat, "what do you need to get?"
"That's for me to know, and for me to know only."
"Then what's the point? I can't help you if you don't tell me what you want."
"It's fine," he harshly said, "you don't have to involve yourself with everything."
Hermione ignored him and raised her wand. "Expecto Patronum."
The flickering of her otter appeared, swimming around her. A sense of calm traveled around her body as her otter sat on her shoulder. "Can you send a message to Cleo?"
Her otter nodded.
"Tell her to meet us at the place where I apparated us to." The otter nodded it's head before swimming back into the city.
"Now what?" Draco asked.
"We wait for Cleo to send a message back."
"Should've just made a two-way patronus."
"I'm still not sure how your mother managed to find a spell that does that," Hermione said begrudgingly, "do you have any idea what spell she used?"
"Even if I knew I wouldn't tell you. Malfoy's are known for being quite protective of the things we care about."
She scoffed. "Fine, whatever. We'll have to wait longer then." Hermione sat down, resting her body as they waited for Cleo's patronus to get back.
Draco moved a bit farther away from her before he sat down.
The two watched the city, or the thick fog that covered the city. Moving in waves as it crashed onto the people below, forcing them to become sediment.
It felt as if they were God, looking down on the world below them.
The shards of glass and metal surrounded them, digging into their clothes. Yet the shards still couldn't cut the tension in the air.
They both couldn't trust each other. Both were always on edge, waiting for the other to mess up.
It was the glares that they would give each other before they went back to watching the fog move.
Hermione narrowed her eyes to the blue wispy figure of a panther emerged from the fog and ran towards them.
The panther paused at their feet before sitting lazily in front of them.
"I don't even want to know why you're back at where we started, but I'll go to you once I get off of work. Stay safe." The panther soon fizzled out.
"We can't go back to the city, not yet at least," she says, almost like she knows what he's going to ask, "they're probably waiting around for you."
He nods. "She better not take long," he muttered.
They sat in silence. She would glance back at him, uneasy at his silence.
But it seemed like he was watching the people below them, ants walking a circle. Analysing them in his own way.
She watched as the vultures flew from one building to another, feeding off of the people below them—and it seems like he noticed this as well.
"They always do that, don't they," he says. It's more of a comment than a question, but she nodded anyway. He stared ahead, a stern gaze. "I expect it's better than dementors." He laughed hollowly.
Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, confused at his solemn state. "Just because one thing is worse than the other doesn't erase the fact that the first is terrible as well."
"I would rather be dead than have the happiness sucked out of me, but you wouldn't know about that," he says with a mocking tone, "you're as depressing as they come."
She grit her teeth, almost laughing at herself for believing that he had changed.
Another tense silence falls between them.
Instead of arguing back with him, she stared at the city again.
The barbed wires that surrounded the cities kept everyone locked in the city. Uneven buildings withered with smog. The shadows of the dead floating around the cities—a ghost town.
It's almost like they're trying to taunt her, staring back at the living, almost to say that they were the ones alive.
She closed her eyes.
The coolness of the air engulfed her warm body, stealing all the warmth she had. Shivers ran through her body. Wind blows through her hair, sending whistles into her ear. Cheeks aflame from the cold.
When she opened her eyes she could see him staring at her, perhaps he was bored of staring at the city and decided to stare at something more interesting than a ghost town.
She wants to question him, to ask him what he wanted from her but he quickly looks away. Too quick.
And it goes on.
It's the same thing over and over.
The stares. The city. The wind.
Almost an hour after the panther fizzled out, and still no sign of Cleo.
Hermione had grown relentless with anticipation—not used to sitting in one place for too long. It was a waste of time in her opinion. Each minute was a minute gone from job-hunting. A minute gone from getting money. A minute wasted.
Exhausted. She was tired—but it was another form of tired. It was the same tiredness from being in one place for too long. The same one of boredom.
It was almost like her body was unaware how to rest. Her heart continued to beat quickly, and she couldn't ignore her headache with work.
He, on the other hand, had his eyebrows furrowed—deep in thought. She couldn't bother herself to ask him what was on his mind.
"How long does it take for her to apparate to us?" He annoyedly said.
"She's probably busy. It's not like she can walk out whenever she wants to."
He huffed at her response but continued to twist the ring around his finger.
Her head continued to ache as she stared at the city. She desperately tried to close her eyes shut and focus on her breathing but it only seemed to keep her focused on the pain.
She wanted—no, needed—to distract herself from the ache. It was almost unbearable. She tried opening her eyes but even the grey skies were too much for her head to handle.
"Malfoy, I'm going to ask you to do me a favour," she said in one breath, "talk—and don't stop."
He's confused, and a part of him doesn't want to talk, but he's curious. "And why so?"
She doesn't respond for a few seconds. "I would be lying to you if I said my head didn't hurt, and I wouldn't want to focus on it."
"And you would rather listen to me talk?"
"It's embarrassing enough for me to ask—actually, nevermind," she quickly said.
He looked over at her. Her body laid flat on her back, and her hands covered her eyes, trying to cover herself from the clouds.
"It is embarrassing," he repeats back to her, and then another silence hits them.
It's not tense like it typically was.
It was filled with anticipation.
Anticipation for her headache to clear up. For Cleo to come back. And for him to leave.
And she waits. She waits because she can't leave him—not when the Desperates have already seen her or when they think that she's locked up.
She clenched her fist, crescent moon shaped marks imprinted onto her hand. She can't tell if it's from the anger she feels towards him or her reaction to her headache. Maybe it's a mix of both but it was easier to blame him.
Easy.
She never liked taking the easy way out but it seemed like her life was full of contradictions.
She's almost certain that he's watching her very carefully. She can almost imagine the intensity of his eyes staring at the ruins of Hermione Granger.
Hermione Granger.
She wanted to remind herself of the person that she used to be.
Be the person your younger self would be proud of.
She wasn't sure who told her that anymore, but she forced herself to imagine herself talking to a younger Hermione.
To the young girl with hopes and dreams for a better life, one filled with equality for everyone. To the young girl destined for a life bigger than herself. To the young girl with shadows behind her—not in front of her.
But there was nothing to be proud of.
The pounding of her headache continued to throb. It crossed her mind to take Draco's water, but she couldn't trust the water.
She opened her eyes again, blinking ferociously to accommodate the fog.
"And so she's awake," he mocks.
She doesn't find the energy to argue with him, instead she slightly glares at him. "Wasn't sleeping," she said matter-of-factly, "I already told you I had a headache."
"And I told you that I didn't care."
They bicker back and forth, not noticing the panther coming back.
"Hopefully you both haven't killed each other yet."
Hermione and Draco both turned their heads to face the panther, who didn't seem amused.
"They want me to work overtime, not sure when I can get back to you. It's not safe to stay outside at night—I'm sure you already know that, Jean—just try to get back to the motel, I'll meet you both there—closer to my workplace anyways. I'll try to talk to you later. Don't get in trouble."
The panther gave them a knowing look, one that nonverbally repeated Cleo's sentiment, before running back into the city.
"We're going to have to go back to the city," she took a deep breath before continuing, "if it wasn't for you—we would be fine."
He looked annoyed,"You're smart enough to figure out a way to get back to the motel."
"And you?"
"I'll get back just fine," he replied, "you act like I can't get back to the motel by myself."
"We should get back together—who knows what shit you'll get into."
"You have little faith in me," he stood up and took his bags, "I wonder who'll make it to the motel first." He began walking towards the city.
She watched him in disbelief, not sure whether or not he was joking. She tried to concentrate on his figure before she began following him.
He walked quickly to the motel. Trying to keep eye contact away from the people away from him.
But with his eyes turned away from the people, his ears could not block their cries.
All of the chatter blurred into one idea, filled with contradictions.
He could hear the people pleading with store owners for a lower price. People pleading for others to give them money. The squawking of the vultures around them.
It became unbearably loud, but he couldn't just shut the noise out of his head.
He began to hum to himself—maybe then he could drown out the voices around him. But it didn't seem to drown out the voices anymore.
No, it seemed to encourage the voices to grow louder.
Because now the voices were louder and he couldn't drown them out. They were loud—yelling at him.
He begins to walk even faster. Stretching out his legs, making each stride even faster.
And he can see the motel close by.
He runs and runs.
Runs away from the voices close-by. Until the chatter becomes a figment of a world that he wasn't supposed to be a part of.
And when he makes it to the front of the motel, he's out of breath. Breathing the air heavily, coughing from his uneven breathing.
He looks around the motel trying to see if he has beaten Hermione.
But she's already there, staring at him.
"What took you so long? I gave you a headstart and still," she looked down at her imaginary watch, "I made it here five minutes ago."
He glared at her but returned back to his coughing fit. She awkwardly stared at him and tried to pat his back.
"What are you doing?"
"It's supposed to help. I would rather not be framed for murder."
He tried to stop his desperate inhales, he could feel the smog reaching into his lungs and then out. It scratched his throat, he can taste the metallic taste of blood in the back of his throat. "I'm fine," he choked out.
She pulled back her hand. "Suit yourself—drink the water you bought."
He reached into his bags for the water bottle. Pulling out the bottle, he drank it all in a few seconds. He disappointedly pulls away. "That's it? I paid galleons for three sips of water?"
She's not sure if she wants to laugh or pity his naivety. The sheer annoyance on his face etched into her mind.
"That's just how life goes," she replied, "come on, we can't keep staying in front of the motel or the Desperates will find us."
She pulled him by his sleeve to the side of the motel, into the narrow alleyway at the side of the motel. "I already tried staying in the lobby but they aren't too keen on having people not staying in their motel."
"Now we wait for Cleo? How long's that going to take?"
"I'm not sure," she looked at the puddle beneath her feet, "it can be anytime—"
"And we still don't have a place to stay."
She studied the puddle for a minute and pressed her foot into the puddle. Her reflection became refracted from the ripples of the liquid. She was sure that it wasn't water.
"How much money do you have?"
He shrugged. "Maybe a few galleons—not enough to keep us in the motel for long enough. I highly doubt Cleo'll manage enough to keep us in the motel."
"We can stay in my tent—but it has to be somewhere secluded. Lord knows how horrible some people could be."
He awkwardly shifted from one foot to another. "Maybe we could find another place that's cheaper—"
"Malfoy, if we spend all of our money on a roof over our head, we'll have nothing to eat."
It's a painful reminder to him that he's barely been eating any food—scraps, they should call it.
He already knows that he's becoming thinner by the way his suit starts to hang from his body. By the way his face starts to mold into his bones.
Maybe in his past he would have cared for the way his appearance may have insinuated his status to be lower than it already was, but he was too focused on the emptiness in his stomach.
"And then what? I can't live like this."
She eyed him, up and down, detecting the slight shake in his body.
The desperation.
"I can't help you with that," she stated almost bitterly.
And he knows that she can't save him from the life that she's accustomed to. But a part of him desperately wants her to have her savior ideals to fix his world.
So he wallows and puts all of the blame on her.
She begins to look around the alleyway. "What is that?"
"What?" He asked, confusedly.
"Keep your voice down."
She walked to the edge of the alleyway and carefully listened to the ongoing conversation.
"I'll get out of your way. I never meant any of disrespect—"
"Sorry? Your family stole from mine," a raspier voice spoke.
"Please. We needed to provide for our—," the person whimpered.
"Avada Kedavra."
She could hear the thud of a body falling to the floor. The shuffling of feet and then the laughter before silence filled the air.
She peeked her head from the wall but before she could see a glimpse of the body, Draco's cold hand enveloped her wrist.
"It's fucking dangerous out there—sometimes I wonder how you're still alive when you're so reckless."
She pulled away from his grip. "I know. I just have to make sure Cleo's coming here—alive."
"She can handle herself."
But she knows, she understands that Cleo is more than capable of protecting herself.
But she knew that about the Order, and now they were gone.
Maybe it was the instilled fear that everything she cared for would return in ashes—and she held the urn everyday, only getting heavier as the days passed.
"I know."
But her comprehension of safety had been caged in the barbed wire, the weight of the urn too heavy for her hands.
He doesn't mention his disbelief of the murder in daylight. It was easy to read the papers and dismiss the violence in the streets but the papers couldn't describe the pain in their voice or the thud of a body in the floor.
And the eerie calm after the murder, he couldn't describe it. There was no screaming for help, no cries, no cheers, nothing.
He couldn't understand how anyone could feel safe enough to live in a city where their own people could kill each other. Doesn't understand how the children ever make it past their teenage years without dieing.
He doesn't need to see the body to feel the acid in his stomach crawl up his throat, burning it even more.
She slumps onto the floor, resting on the cold concrete walls, staring at the sky. He follows suit, sitting next to her.
They stare emptily at the concrete wall in front of them, mourning the death of someone that they didn't know.
They stared at the concrete in front of them for hours, throwing rocks at the wall.
"Are you both okay?"
Hermione jumped and beamed once she saw Cleo. "We've been better."
Cleo quirked an eyebrow in Hermione's direction when she catches the look on her face. "Do I want to know what happened?"
"Not exactly," Draco mutters.
Cleo's gaze flicks between them, eyes narrowing slightly. "So what was so wrong that you had to send a patronus to me?"
"Desperates spotted him," Hermione says, "he said that he's locking me up—so if they see me, who knows what they'll do."
"You're telling me that you can't be seen outside because Malfoy fucked up?"
Hermione nodded.
"You have some nerve, Malfoy," Cleo snarled, "now what can she do? What can we do?"
"I can figure something out. Worst case scenario we can just move to another town."
"We can't just do that!" Cleo pulled out the knuts from her pockets. "Jobs are so fucking hard to find—I can't uproot my life because you fucked up—because your people ruined the economy!"
"I have no control over the economy," he argued back.
Hermione scoffed. "You're one of the wealthiest families, I highly doubt that."
"This doesn't involve you, Granger."
Hermione's eyes slightly widened.
"Granger?" Cleo looked at Hermione, almost questioning if Draco's lost his mind.
"She still hasn't told you?"
It's the wicked gleam in his eyes that tells Hermione that he felt like he had succeeded in diverting the conversation away from him.
Cleo slowly shook her head. "Tell me what?"
"It's nothing much, Cleo, it's a nickname he gave me," Hermione tries to say—trying to convince the both of them that Granger was a nickname.
"You can believe whatever you want Cleo but some things aren't always what they seem," he carelessly replied.
Cleo watched them both carefully but didn't push the conversation any further.
Hermione said a quick mental thanks for the fact that Cleo had been too exhausted to keep asking questions.
"You still have some money, right Malfoy? Maybe we can rent another room—I'll pay you back when I make enough money."
"No!" They both turned to Hermione. "We can't—not this one at least."
"And why can't we go to this motel? It's the cheapest one here."
Hermione glared at Draco as she spoke. "Because he broke the television, and I'm sure we don't have the money to pay the fine."
Cleo stuck her middle finger at Draco before rubbing her eyes. "I'll deal with that later. We just have to figure out our living situation now. Is there any other place, Jean?"
"There might be another place."