That morning, something ominous is happening in the sky. The winds circle round and round and the leaves crackle hostilely in the trees. The bells of St. Martin's Church ring thrice even though it is seven in the morning.
The beggars and brutes stretch across the wayside of King Cross Station. This Chosen Few are to inherit the Kingdom Highest but now make do with a couple of pounds clanking in their plastic cups.
Sometimes they find a strange coin with an engraved dragon on one end and a bearded sorcerer on the other. The Fool's Gold is tossed into the street and immediately picked up by some wizard boy who knows its price. An older witch scolds him before seeing the shiny galleon in his hand. Then she pulls him to the platforms without so much as a gentle brush of dirt off his cape. Generosity has been hard to come by since the end of the Wizarding War.
London's finest folk blow between the masses of trams and trolleys, all too concerned with the arriving to work on time to mind the clock or the beggars. All are blissfully unaware of the magic surrounding them. To the trained eye of a wizard, a bus- thin as a whistle zips between the traffic from Leadenhall Market to Whitehall.
A wizard shakes away the remnants of Floo Powder as the Knight Bus makes its final stop in a nearby puddle. The water creeps onto his carefully pressed pants. He scoffs at the smell of frying fish in the distance and charms the fabric into dryness. Then he masks the horrible start to his morning with a cigar. He spins the bundle of leaves once and flicks his fingers whispering Incendio. When the blasted thing does not light for the third time, he curses:
Blasted Grimalkin.
Suddenly, the bundle lights and burns with such a force that it nearly licks the wizard's fingers to the bone. He shakes his arm only to meet a hard bundle of nerves and frizz. A golden crest in the shape of an "M" marks the shoulder of the impolite witch. Had it not been for that emblem, he would run his mouth at her.
The witch only adjusts her own briefcase and rubs her neck before carrying on. She shuts the door of a red telephone booth and muddles as her curls unfurl from the band the moment her feet hit the dark tiles.
The Ministry of Magic only exposes how unruly she looks. The floors sparkle from the vigorous work of a zinging mop against her chaffed boots. The marble centaur, polished to a shine, laughs at her crumpled cheeks. She will not notice until she reaches her office and Draco casually spiffs her up with his usual charms.
Brown and navy cloaks ghost across the mirrored corridor. The nail file zips the prestigious fingertips of Klava the secretary as Hermione grabs a card from her desk and punches in her arrival time over the horn of a miniature unicorn statuette. The elevator finally ascends from the fourth, left interior corridor and opens before her tired eyes.
"Hold the door!" A man in black, half-awake stumbles in alongside her. By habit, he sweeps the darkened bangs over the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.
She adjusts his tie with a quick incantation and they exchange friendly glances. The red fabric weaves itself into a cross under the white bunny ears of his dress shirt. Harry Potter can afford to leave any boutique on Oxford Street with the attire of their front-window mannequin. However, it is heartening he still allows her to fuss over his appearance like a first-year at Orientation.
"The Queen Mary's Gardens were a hit with the kids. Thanks for the suggestion," The wizard rubs the sleep from his green eyes. "Gin can't wait to see the Osaria Rose exhibit in the East End."
She nods.
"Shite, you took your wife to the Mistress Gardens?" A voice pops as soon as the doors open on Level 2. "Harry, Harry."
One moment later and Hermione's curls wrap tightly above her head and her shoes become polished to look as spotless as the Ministry Badge on Draco's chest. She pulls off the matronly updo and snaps at him for making her look like his mother (praise her, Lucifer).
"The Minister planting roses for his secret Mistress is only a scandal made up by the Quibbler for reads."
"If I didn't know Luna well enough, I'd say so too. But there's always some truth to those wacky articles she publishes," Harry adds.
The Staff Room is quiet until Hermione slams the coffee machine closed with her fist. The lid had been flipping around due to some prank Hex. Hermione bet Draco five galleons that no one would fix the glitch for a week.
"Next stop, the Hippodrome? Or should we practise your poker face before we play for big winnings?" He slips the five galleons out of his well-made wallet, but she's too busy muttering and cursing the machine to notice her winnings floating before her.
"I can lie you know, I'm not a martyr!"
"Not saying you are, but it wouldn't hurt to play dumb every once in a while."
The lid presses down so hard it cracks the glass. The two are startled by their boss standing in the doorway with a certain look on his face. Hermione is sure no one can be fired for breaking a coffee pot.