4
Despite your qualifications—
Though we find the focus of your independent research—
There were many competitive applications this year, both nationally and internationally—
Due to an unprecedented—
At this time, we regret to inform you—
The seven rejection letters from a mixture of respected private-and-Ministry funded research residencies were far too much to open at once. Hermione thought she would be able to handle it, but truthfully, she should have thought about opening about three letters each day. Seven was supposed to be a number of magical completion, but as of right now it was just a reminder of her place.
With a sigh, Hermione started to pen seven near-identical thank you for your considerations.
Even with Dolohov's assurance of support, it had been a long shot anyway, she mused as she watched ink dry. She was young and teachable, sure, but she was also a liability by nature of her birth; even if her boss was not prejudiced, it was highly unlikely no one would have something to say about the muggleborn newbie. Workplace conflicts were bound to occur, and there was no single quality on paper which could not be found in another candidate. God forbid some news of discriminatory treatment get leaked to the press; they'd have a field day. Hermione understood.
She did.
If she had made a bit more progress in her research, perhaps she would be looking at a different set of letters.
Hermione placed her hands down on the library table. If she bore down hard enough, her hands would stop shaking.
In her third year, professor Lupin had taught Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was a bright Wednesday morning when he'd shown their class a wardrobe. Their assignment was to banish the boggart within. One by one her classmates defeated a version of their fears, and when it had been Hermione's turn, the class was looking at an older, black woman wearing a pair of shades with a pair of keys in hand, a coffee cup in the other. At the buzz of a Nokia she had promptly dropped her cup and rushed to get it.
Hello? the woman had answered the phone in Hermione's voice. She had taken off her shades, and Hermione was left to stare at a twin pair of brown eyes. Hello? Hello?
Hello? Years later Hermione could still hear it ringing in her eyes. Hello? How do you do? I shall be over shortly. Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?
That was who Hermione would be, if her pursuits in the Wizarding World failed. Irrational perhaps.
Most fears were.
Rodolphus had only grown more pitiful after his wand broke in the hallway. The four weeks following had been filled with "oh if only's" and "I would if's" and "the person who broke it should rot." Each time, Antonin and Tom made eye contact, and the more complaints Rodolphus uttered necessitated they make more of it. Tom was far too familiar with the exact shade of the Russian's irises. He could probably recognize it in a sea of browns; his eyes were the exact color of shit.
Abraxas, on the other hand, had developed an acute facial twitch. Tom thought it was unbecoming. Lestrange was bringing down morale.
This weekend was a Hogsmead weekend, and the four of them had traveled to the Hog's Head. A thoughtful wizard had tucked the pub's tables into discreet locations. The windows of the establishment had the kind of Wool's-orphanage-grey coating, as thick and even as newly asphalted roads. The bartender was a rough-looking, tall, older man. His grey pants and shirt matched the precise shade of his stringy beard.
Abraxas gave a sniff and took out a handkerchief. He covered the handle of his butterbeer mug with it and took a quiet sip. Tom watched as he swished it his mouth as if it were wine.
After he swallowed, Abraxas said, "Acceptable."
Tom raised his own glass.
"The glass is filthy. Does the dishwasher not know the basic charms?"
"I doubt this place employs one," observed Antonin, looking unbothered and comfortable in the cracked leather seat. He didn't seem to mind the dirty windows either. "The bartender might be the owner, for all we know."
Right on time, Rodolphus mumbled, "I'd clean the place my damn self, if—"
"You've one more time, Lestrange," cut in Abraxas smoothly. "You've been insufferable since you broke your wand."
"I didn't—"
"You dropped it, didn't you? That's just the same," said Abraxas, looking into the bottom of his now-empty mug with disdain. "Don't burden us because you were incompetent."
With amusement, Tom watched the Lestrange boy's mouth gape open and closed before he decided to throw him a bone.
"How is Bellatrix?"
He regained his footing with a snort. "Just as disinterested as always."
"Funny," said Antonin, who had signaled to the bartender for another round of drinks. "She's been nothing but polite to me."
"Frigidly so," specified Rodolphus, running a hand over his dark stubble. Puberty had been fast and quick for the heir of Lestrange. He looked more a man than a teen.
"To you," snipped Abraxas.
"She is sweet to the rest of us," added Antonin.
Rodolphus looked up at the ceiling. There was mold.
"It's not your fault," Tom offered, still amused.
"Yes," inserted Abraxas. "You're simply not pretty enough."
It was no secret Bellatrix Black loved pretty things—perfume bottles with plush atomizers, brooches inlaid with precious stones, ribbons, corsets, high heels, and jasmine. Tom tamped down his urge to smirk as Rodolphus's eyes flicked to judge his own expression. Lestrange had some misconceptions about Tom and his fiancee—but it wasn't to his benefit to disillusion him yet.
Tom opened his mouth to speak but the loud rumble of an engine interrupted him. The door opened to reveal a tall man who beelined for the bar. The four Slytherins heard a clear, slurred order for "Butterrum." Abraxas scoffed.
"Drunks."
"He is quite highly functioning," observed Antonin. "He was in here often last week."
The three of them cast eyes at the Russian, who shrugged and fiddled with his drink. "The castle feels stifling at times."
The castle was not the issue. It was the people. The attitude. Gryffndor House was full of goody-two-shoed, assertively unambitious loudmouths. Peacocking about as if they were the next best thing since Merlin. Ravenclaws chirped about their unfruitful studies—the lot of them had no clue there was worthwile literature to be found outside Hogwarts and probably soiled themselves the minute they were too close to the Restricted section. The house of yellow ties was playing an endless game of catch-up.
If someone had asked Tom his first year if he was proud to be in Slytherin, his answer would have been an unequivocal yes. He'd expected to be surrounded by his equals. He had been disappointed. His ancient ancestor would be disgusted with the amount of mediocrity living in the house named after him. It was sick—as sick as his family history.
The door opening distracted Tom, and he watched a familiar bushy head march to the bar.
There was no other word for the way Hermione Granger walked—it was nearly always a march. If she was uncertain where she was going, the pace slowed to a stride. She walked as if going to war. A caramel hand met the pale hand of the bartender, who grasped it like an old friend. From his position, he could see the shaggy-haired head of the drunk turn toward her in interest.
"—often?" asked Abraxas. Even without looking at his face, Tom knew the Malfoy was trying to hide another disgusted sniff.
"Often enough. But this place closes early—at ten every night."
"That's late enough. I bet this place is right dead before closing."
Hermione had taken a seat at the bar. From his angle, Tom could see she had parted the vast majority of her hair to one side. The rest was situated behind one proportionate ear.
"Wondrous things happen in the dark," replied Dolohov.
There was a finely hammered, modest golden hoop in her pierced earlobe.
"Indeed," agreed Abraxas.
"Curfew," reminded Rodolphus.
Tom, in perfect unison with the other two, pinned the Lestrange boy with a disbelieving stare, who only shrugged and took a sip of his butterbeer.
"Antya, call for me another glass," said Abraxas, expecting his mug with a more pronounced disdain. "I've spotted mold."
"You are a wizard, are you not? Scourgify it."
"It's the principle," insisted the Malfoy heir.
"You would not call for another glass yourself? You are the one with the problem."
"You won't do me this favor? I would for you, Antya."
"A little mold?" shrugged Antonin. "Me, it does not bother."
"It bothers me."
"It bothers me to ask for a new glass," said the Russian. There was something about his tone which reminded Tom of a cat playing with a new toy.
"It bothers me that you are bothered," returned Abraxas, a falsely serious look in his eye.
"Likewise, it bothers me—"
"Sir!" called Rodolphus. He waited until the bartender paused in his conversation with Granger, who had turned to see who saw the need to yell in an otherwise-empty bar.
Continuing on loudly, Lestrange said, "I'd like another cup of butterbeer. My friend is particular, you see. Bit of a pansy, like. Can't muster the gall to order another drink. Do make sure the glass is clean this time."
The bartender gave the four of them a disbelieving look for a long while, before the Granger girl said something which drew away his attention. There was silence for a few beats at the table the Slytherins shared.
"You'll be lucky if he ever brings another thing to this table, Rodolphus," said Tom in his quiet tone.
"You were uncouth, really," sniffed Abraxas, who pulled out his wand a defeated resolve.
"Insufferable, truly," quipped Antya.
Rodolphus opened his mouth just as a spic-and-span mug of butterbeer floated over to them, to Abraxas's delight.
"Idiot boys," said the gruff bartender, blue eyes grumpy over the wire rim of his glasses.
"Entitled little shits, their lot," said the ragged looking man, who had, up until that moment, been minding his business. He caught the eye of the bartender, Mr. Abe, who said,
"Quite a mouth."
"S'justifed. One of those prats—" pointing a surprisingly fine finger at the group, "—is engaged to my ickle niece. Smart as a whip."
"Surely it isn't bad as all that," said Mr. Abe, sounding thoroughly disinterested.
The man nodded his shaggy head of hair, and Hermione caught a glimpse of bright, gray eyes.
"It's the family," insisted the man, who was quite coherent for someone who was supposed to be four drinks in. "Those families…" he trailed off.
Hermione knew what he meant.
Swaying in his seat, the man's head lolled as he surveyed the room, eyes distant. His gaze stopped on her chest. Hermione felt an urge to slap him all of a sudden—she didn't tolerate perverts.
"Nice tie," he slurred.
"Thank you," she said, because it seemed rude to ignore him, and because she did not know what else to say.
"You're one o' them?" he gestured crudely to the group of boys.
Hermione thought of the conversation she had overheard. Of new money. Wizengamot seats. Of broken wands.
"We're of the same House," she said.
"A snake, are you? Snakey girl. Snake snake, shnakes," said the man, spinning around on his stool. Hermione caught a whiff of cedar.
For a drunk man, he certainly didn't smell of alcohol.
"Mister Abe, has my shipment come in?" Between the presence of her classmates and the weird, non-drunk-drunk man, Hermione was ready to leave. Most Hogsmeade visits she spent visiting with the man in front of her or picking up stationary from Scrivenshaft's. But this weekend was different; she was due to submit a care package for Paulina along with news of a new development in her research.
"From the islands," said Mister Abe's muffled voice. He was underneath the bar counter. He rose with a twelve pack of glass drinks. Hermione reached out a hand, running her fingertips over the engraved surface of the nearest bottle. "The ginger-butterbeer you love."
In Hermione's opinion, there were many wonderful things about the Caribbean, but the fusion of ginger beer and butterbeer was by far the best. That, and—
"The malta you requested."
Hermione waved her hand to set the two twelve-packs afloat. The drunk man looked surprised, registering the clinking of glass, and Hermione's auspiciously absent wand.
"You're a doll," she responded, watching as Abe gave a cough to hide his growing smile. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I must be on. Pauly's got a gift coming her way; the owl I send may not be able to carry it all."
"Shrink it down?" offered Abe with a raised brow. That's why she liked the bartender so much—he was a problem solver as well as a wonderful listener. He was wicked with charms, too.
"Food gets a metal taste when it's been shrunk," Hermione said. "Not pleasant."
"Useful knowledge," replied Abe. His eyes traveled to consider the four boys.
Hermione waved her goodbye, pushing the door to Hog's Head open. There was a gleaming motorcycle parked near the entrance, which was curious. But Hermione was on a mission, and Scrivenshaft's would be closing soon.
Pauly,
Things are looking up; in the other envelope, I have included a new incantation and wand movement, if you are willing to try it. I've also enclosed a bunch of treats. You liked the butterbeer—this time I've sent the gingered version. And malta. It's sweet, but has an adult flavor.
Do let me know if the new incantation works.
Conspiratorially,
H.
P.S. Abe says hello. And do give the delivery owl a treat? It's a long journey.
After sending the message, Hermione gave an apologetic look to the handsome owl she had coaxed from its perch. The white owl which she had relied on to send her follow-up messages last week was nowhere to be found. The other Hogwarts owls had been reluctant once their large eyes fastened on the large parcel Hermione had been lugging behind her.
"I know," she said sympathetically. "But Paulina will have treats for you, and if you visit me during mealtimes I will save a bit of sasuage. In case you come to visit."
The owl shook out its wings, dipping a beak to pick at an errant feather. The larger animal held out a talon.
"Good sport," Hermione said. And then she took another appreciative look at the owl, noting the shine of the feathers.
"You're a beautiful creature," she said, offering another treat.
The owl gave a head bob that seemed far too regal, as if the bird was saying this we both know. Hermione was reminded of Crookshanks. She bid the owlery goodbye and left, making her way back to Slytherin's dorms. She thought about returning to her makeshift lab, but she had spent every leisure hour there for the last month, pouring over Paulina's past letters.
When Hermione came up with a new attempt at a spell, she sent it to Paulina. The original intent had just been to have another set of eyes on her guesswork—for that is what her work was without practical application, an informed guess. An inference. But Pauly had started casting Hermione's inferences on herself, and subjected to twenty-four hour observation periods, cataloging the effects she felt.
The first of these entries had been short—the last couple had been promising. Some of them indicated setbacks; one of Hermione's variations had set Pauly on a hallucinogenic trip where her attackers had, in Paulina's words, "blended into the most miraculous, jewel-toned rainbow skin-soup, crying all the while." A revision of that spell rendered Paulina "pleasantly numb," and she had managed to trek outside to look at some flowers. That had been an improvement; until that moment, Paulina had been unwilling to even look at the entrance to her home.
This iteration was a new one; Hermione had resolved to look at other magical methods for healing trauma after Paulina shared she used a mix of potions and Muggle balms to ward away the worst of her symptoms. The wild idea had come to her during a stint in Advanced Potions, where they were tasked with brewing a better-tasting version of the Draught of Peace.
She had counted the unique number of color changes the Draught undergoes during its formulation as her guide for the number of syllables in her incantation, mirrored the action of stirring in her wand movement, and asked Paulina to undergo two different trials—a verbal and nonverbal spelling.
She had no idea what possessed her to make such radical changes to her approach, but she had been at a standstill since she had last spoken to Professor Hilbert, who had recently shaken her head in dismay when Hermione had given her an update. That had been months ago, and after a frenzy of studying for midterm exams, the frequency of her time in her lab, and a steadily growing, if reluctant, reliance on coffee, Hermione had been high strung.
She would maintain she was in total control during the course of experimentation. Even if her vision had doubled occasiona—
What was that?
She could have sworn she heard a sharp sound. As if someone had been slapped.
Right as rain. Grindelwald-Boy was sporting an angry looking red mark on his face. Nearby was a tall female. She had a head full of waist-length, corkscrew curls. The pair was close enough for Hermione to properly envy the glossiness of the other female's hair.
Oh, if only.
There was no way to avoid their presence—there were very few side doors on the seventh floor—so Hermione resolved to move further down the corridor, catching bits of hissed conversations.
"—well to keep your hands to yourself," hissed the woman. The duo's pace had slowed, and they were now standing in the hallway, trading jibes.
"I'm only exercising my marital rig—"
"Please," said the female, touching a hand to her hair and flipping open a compact, "you couldn't even spell—"
"—ght, and it is your duty—"
"Duty?" she said, voice snapping like the closed compact mirror in her balled fist. "I owe you nothing."
"Your dowry—"
"Oh, then give it back," she responded with a roll of her eyes. Grindelwald-Boy started squawking and the way his cheek muscles jumped gave the impression there was an image of a large, red, dancing jellybean on his right cheek.
Hermione was trying her best to look ahead, but she caught the eye of the woman, who gave her a thorough up-and-down scan before her lips stretched in a wide smile.
Her teeth were perfect—proportionate and white. Just like the rest of her.
"Granger, is it?" she said aloud.
Hermione blinked. "Have we met?"
The other girl waved away her question, extending her hand. Hermione took it, for no other reason than because she didn't know how politely refuse it. It wasn't a handshake, which is what Hermione had been prepared for. Rather, Hermione was holding the other girl's hand as if she was about to kiss it.
"Bellatrix Black," she said with an even wider smile.
"Hermione," she said.
"You've the most lovely hair," she said, eyes raking over the frizzy curls with a look of appreciation. "I've intended to tell you for ages, though I've only seen you in passing."
Hermione's eyebrows raised, her thanks spilling from her mouth somewhat inelegantly. She was in the middle of making a gesture to Bellatrix's own hair, perhaps to strike a conversation up about products, when—
"Oh, don't pretend with the mudblood," said the Grindelwald-Boy irritably.
Hermione's spine stiffened as her hand twitched. He was close enough to punch.
"I visited India in the summer. They've infused sesame oil with amla powder." Bellatrix gave a winning smile at Hermione's noise. "You've heard of it?"
"I've a cousin in the States who swears by it, but it's never crossed my mind to use. Is it good for dry hair, or..?"
"Well, I use it with a bit of watered down Sleekeazy's when my hair is still wet—"
Hermione nodded. "Good combination."
"Angelina introduced it to me. Do you know her? Angelina Johnson," said Bellatrix, peering at her now.
Hermione had to stop herself from answering too quickly. Long, coily hair fashioned into waist-length mini-braids, smooth skin with a glow little seen among other pale faces. Johnson had been in the process of locking her hair; she had told Hermione that early during breakfast during her fifth year, when Hermione had been missing her mother's family and was wanting for a skin-folk friend. She had sidled up next to her at Gryffndor's table, and Angelina had welcomed her with a smile and a quick quip of "I was wondering when we'd meet."
"We're familiar." She and Hermione still traded owls quarterly. Angelina was a bookkeeper for a jokeshop in Diagon Alley. Her spouse was an older gentleman she called Gid for short. He was a humanitarian who was currently aiding in international efforts to offer support for wizarding Rwanda, and she'd recently taken a holiday to surprise him there.
"She's a darling," said Bellatrix with a feminine hand movement. She spoke with her hands. They were slender and topped with quite fetching nails, despite their short length.
Hermione found herself nodding, "I admire her."
"So did I," said Bellatrix, and there was a wistfulness in her tone Lestrange bristled at.
He cleared his throat.
"Who are you?" Hermione said lightly, half his name already forgotten, swiveling to look at the boy. "Are you the one whose wand broke?"
Waiting until the boy's mouth opened to respond, Hermione rushed to continue, "It was tragic, really—I would not wish a broken wand on my worst enemy. I read it can be difficult to find a replacement—compatibility, you know. It wouldn't be a problem for a wizard used to nonverbal spelling, but who really is nowadays?" At this her gaze flitted to Bellatrix before flitting back to the other boy.
"I suppose it can be difficult for someone like you especially, totally integrated into the magical way of living. Muggles have their own ways of dealing, part of the benefit of having a base in both—I imagine most magical families have an unhealthy reliance on magic—prob'ly feel like infants without their wand." Hermione took a breath and instead titled her head at the boy before her, thinking of how easily his wand had broken underneath the sole of her shoe, the steadily reddening mark on his face, the way that word had left his mouth way too easily, calculating how easy it would be to leave a twin mark on the other cheek.
"Are you insulting me?"
Hermione kept her face blank. "I'm sympathetic to your plight."
"You filthy mud—"
"Your name?" interrupted Hermione. She wanted to punch him. She wouldn't, though.
There was a beat, during which Bellatrix supplied, "Rodolphus. Rodolphus Lestrange."
"Ah. Well, I hope you do find a replacement for your wand," Hermione said. She moved past the couple.
"It would be a shame, honestly, if you could not find another before we get into the swing of final exams," she tossed over her shoulder.
She passed a couple more familiar faces as she made her way toward the stairs.
"Head Boy," she nodded. "Shame about your friend, there."
"Friend?"
"Oh," she said, putting a hand to her mouth. She was lying now. "Couldn't remember the given name if I tried." She also couldn't remember slowing her pace, but now, undoubtedly, she was standing with the Head Boy. And his blond friend.
"Bellatrix?"
"No," she said. "She was lovely. The other one, though—the one with no filter."
"Oh?" Riddle said, tone politely clueless. The set of the jaw suggested the opposite.
Hermione chanced a look at Abraxas, and the disdain she found there, steaming on low heat, made her neck feel hot under her hair.
"A word?" she asked, already stepping to the side, further down the hall.
Tom had no choice but to follow. Hermione looked particularly fetching; at the end of the school day, her hair was tossed and large. Wild. Like a lion, offered his mind. He was not interested in teasing out all the implications of such an association, but nevertheless, it was there.
"Yes," she said, meeting Riddle's eyes again, careful to pronounce each syllable. "It seems he has a penchant for using words he shouldn't. Loudly."
The light from the windows was fading quickly. She looked lovely in the warm, golden light of the torches—all clear, brown skin and browner eyes.
"I don't understand," said Riddle, his own eyes now earnest, though his jaw remained tight. "Has he said something to you, Miss Granger?"
Before Hermione could fashion a reply, Riddle rushed to continue, "It is unlike Rodolphus to offend anyone. Did you two have a disagreement? Is there something I could do?"
There was something so sincere about his body language. The right amount of apologetic willingness one would expect from a parent figure. But then Hermione thought about how Riddle had nothing to say for his friend when he'd been discussing why his family refused their Wizengamot seat. "Mudblood-lovers," he had said.
"Lestrange is your friend?" she asked.
"Well, yes."
"A close one?
She was even attractive like this, his mind noted needlessly. Furrowed brow, crossed arms and all.
Riddle blinked at her sharp tone, keeping a placid expression. No. "Yes. I consider him to be."
"He has a habit of saying words he shouldn't. Derogatory ones," she said, feeling like a broken record.
Tom knew the company he kept—he had to bite back a high-pitched laugh. "Really?" he said instead. "Like what?"
And the way Hermione heard Riddle say it, like he was really surprised his friend would say something offensive, as if he would never imagine a single slur passing the lips of his school chum, like Hermione was lying—
"Your friend called me a 'mudblood,'" she said, watching Riddle's face change, the false concern falling away fast. Hermione turned her eye to Abraxas as she continued, "You have a couple of friends who like to call muggleborns 'mudblood.'"
"Miss Granger—"
"And I wonder—" she said loudly, before she collected herself. "I find it curious the Head Boy would not, at the very least, attempt to keep his close friends from casually saying what are widely considered slurs, both internationally and locally, or at the very least remind them not to utter the word in public."
She knew she was using too many adverbs. She had a tendency to do so when she was upset.
"Miss Granger, on the behalf of my friends—"
"Do you personally say the word, Mr. Riddle?" At this, the Head Boy reared, if slightly. Hermione saw a chink and pressed forward.
"After all, birds of a feather flock—"
"I can assure you, I—"
"And it would be horrible, if in 1998, the Headmaster had selected, innocently, of course, someone unfit to serve all students. Including students like me."
At this, Riddle was silent, a sullen look on his face.
Well? Hermione wanted to scream.
"Have you something to say in defense of yourself?"
But the boy remained silent. There was something boiling in his eyes, and as Hermione came down from whatever lofty place she went to understand very suddenly she was in a hallway with three unknown people, who knew each other, but did not know her, on an otherwise empty floor. She had watched others get cursed for much less than what she had said.
"Defend myself?" Riddle said in a smooth voice. "You talk as if we're fighting. We are having a conversation."
"By all means."
Yet silent it stayed.
"You've taken offense to a word, Miss Granger?" he said eventually.
"If someone insulted you on account of little else but birth, would you?" she countered.
Yes. "If I knew it to be an illogical basis for insult, no," he lied.
"Would it not bother you tomorrow if you heard them talk that way about a half-blood?"
"What are you implying?" What did she know?
"Would it? Then their insults would apply directly to you. The last name is Riddle, right? It's certainly not a pureblooded name."
Tom had managed, quite brilliantly, to avoid the topic of his birth with most of his comrades. For any rough spots, Antonin or Bellatrix was always around to smooth things right over. If Tom had it his way, every sordid detail of his birth would die with the remaining members of his family. In time, he consoled himself, thinking of the ring currently Illusioned on his hand. Morfinn and his mother were long dead, as well as the stupid old man Gaunt. All that was left was his biological father, and as soon as he could donate time to track him down, he, too, would be a nonissue.
Then Tom would be free.
"Well?"
There was very little Tom could say to satisfy Granger—she was far too smart for a typical gas-light, and any off-handed phrase would be insufficient.
"I understand your concern, Miss Granger. You feel as if I failed as Head Boy by allowing my friends to say certain words—" at the muggleborn's narrowed eyes, Tom resolved to continue "—and I am inclined to soothe your thoughts. I will speak with my friends."
"You intimate my concern is mostly personal," she said after a time, hands now tucked behind her back. "I speak up out of interest of maintaing the honor of Head Boy and our House."
Oh? "I do not believe I understand, Miss Granger," Tom said, curious just to hear where the girl was going.
The female Slytherin took a look around before she took a step into Tom's space. He could smell her now—something like jasmine and another scent, mixed with her own musk—could see the drop-pearl earrings dangling from her lobes—the dainty necklace winking from her neck.
"You know it. I know it. Blood supremacy makes little sense. Our school and House should be on the right side of history," she said quietly.
He did know it.
"You are concerned about image," Tom stated.
"The company you keep is," she said instead. "Antonin has been quite helpful."
Tom had nothing to say to this. Antonin had been helpful at his directive—attempting to trade information about pureblooded culture for answers about Hermione's research. In the months of their interactions, all the Russian wizard had managed to uncover was Hermione's penchant for nonverbals, and her strong passion for elven rights. Something about how pureblood-elf serfdom reminded her of a far more egregious, if more American, error.
With a glance at said company, Granger slipped away with a "by your leave."
She was out the corridor before Tom could say another word.
Thank you for reading. What are your thoughts?