Chapter 4: That's Just Like, Your Opinion
Within ten minutes
15 June 2002
"TIME," Hermione announced, after knocking politely on George's open door frame and startling him into dropping the piece of half-eaten toast in his hand, which she helpfully returned to its original state of floorless sanitation. After all, she did not have the necessary eternity to wait for him to make another; an owl from Dauntless had accosted her mid-walk with yet another request from Lily Moon's publicity team, so she had plenty to do and no time to waste doing it. Already, her tasks for the week had increased from a visit to some sort of nursery school for celebrity-spawn to a recurrent feature with a capricious popstar, which was…
The pinnacle of investigative journalism, no doubt.
"Time," Hermione repeated firmly, once the toast had been re-secured in George's hand. "Obviously we couldn't have calculated the effects of time on compatibility before—"
"Because you were not actually involved in creating the enchantment?" George guessed.
"—because insufficient time had passed from its initial development," Hermione finished, before adding with a scoff, "And you did come to me for purposes of peer review, did you not?"
"I did not, no," George said, resuming the toast's occupancy in his mouth. "Technically," he mused through a mouthful of raspberry preserve, "I do believe my exact words were 'please voice your opposition now before you print your inevitable criticism in the Daily Prophet,' but—"
"But I was helpful, was I not?" Hermione prompted. George, who either had too much toast in his mouth or enough sense not to disagree, gave a conciliatory shrug that could have meant any number of things. For purposes of expediency, Hermione chose to accept his silence as tacit agreement. "The point is," she continued, slightly louder in the event his single uncursed ear was preventing him from grasping the weight of the situation, "we hadn't sufficient data to categorically prove compatibilities could change over time, but now that the charm has been in circulation for a full calendar year—"
"I'm not entirely sure what about any of this led you to believe I was conducting some sort of sociological study," George said, having finally gulped down the last of what remained of his breakfast. "I'm just a businessman, Hermione. Whether people understand the very truth and nature of love is as irrelevant to me as their corporeal wellness."
(She didn't doubt it. See also: Skiving Snackboxes, 1995.)
"On that note," George added cheerfully, "would you care for a biscuit?"
Knowing it would probably turn her hair blue or her skin translucent or otherwise compromise both her appearance and the known laws of physics, Hermione declined, falling into the seat opposite George's desk.
"It changes," she told him firmly, and he sighed, conceding to be reasonable and possibly even academic for what she knew from experience to be a maximum of five minutes. "I have proof that it can. What do you think that means?"
"Well," George said, considering it, "barring any errors in the charm's formulation, of which there are of course none—"
"Parameter accepted," Hermione confirmed. She did not, after all, make mistakes, and she had analyzed the enchantment itself dozens of times over.
"—then I suppose yes, you could conceivably expect that compatibility with others would change as the charm bearer experienced change over time," George determined, "whether by personal growth or, I suppose, possible regression."
"So it's like velocity and acceleration when it comes to measuring speed," Hermione deduced, and to George's look of either stomach pain or bemusement, she further clarified, "Velocity measures speed in a given direction, but acceleration measures how much speed changes over time, so—"
"Yes, fine, whatever, fine," George said, waving her away as if her hopelessly inconsequential muggle-isms of science and maths had no business in his empire of farcical nonsense—which, she supposed, they did not, owing to their vast superiority. Though, better she not point that out, lest his whims subsequently lead to turning any part of her the aforementioned shade of blue. "And in terms that aren't complete rubbish—?"
"People change," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "So if I changed, then my compatibility with others would change." Not that she was entirely satisfied with the outcome of her hypothesizing, due in large part to the possibility she might have become somehow more appealing to certain sniveling ferrets. (See also: Abuse of Power by Hogwarts Professors/Escaped Fugitives in Disguise Amid Otherwise Entertaining and Karmically-Deserved Instances of Human-to-Animal Transfiguration, 1993.)
George shrugged, foisting his hands behind his head and reclining in his chair like a leisurely pirate captain. "I imagine so."
"Well, it can't simply be a matter of running into someone twice in one week. If compatibility were nothing more than a coincidental matter of knowing someone better than you did before, then compatibility between strangers would be a completely useless valuation," she summarized, having long ago deduced as much. "Which, of course, we already know it isn-"
"Mm, yes," George interrupted, "and unrelated, who have you run into, exactly?"
He was gleeful now, giving her the look that had once meant he intended to test noseblood nougat on first years the moment she was out of the room, which in turn suggested their conversation was unlikely to remain productive.
"No one," Hermione replied stiffly, being not even close to in the mood when it came to a potential discussion of the eternally smarmy Draco Malfoy. The idea she might have somehow become more compatible with him was only tolerable in that it was contradictorily promising; i.e., the single point's increase in compatibility between herself and the human iteration of her own personal hell would have had to magnify exponentially elsewhere. "The point is—"
"You already know the point, clearly," George cut in, splitting his attention between her and the plate of biscuits, which she now suspected contained more than trace amounts of doxy venom. "For one thing, I think we both know you've been sending me unsolicited data for over a year—"
"Ah, so my messages were coming through!" Hermione exclaimed, relieved to finally have confirmation. "I have to tell you, George, I've been quite concerned you'd let your Floo maintenance fall to the wayside. Didn't you read the book I gave you last Christmas on the care and keeping of commercial Floo lines?" she demanded, as he sighed. "You know how they require constant nurtur-"
"What exactly do you need my input for, hm?" George prompted, blithely ignoring her concerns despite the obvious fact he was using said Christmas gift as a doorstop (which, in his defense, was a sizable weight for such purposes, although a charm might have done the same job with slightly less blatant flippancy.) "Are you hoping I'll say, 'wonderful work, Hermione, please do revisit every compatibility percentage you've encountered over the past year and report back to me with the HEIGHT of urgency'—"
"Well, I do have quite a lot on my plate, but I'm sure I could manage it," Hermione assured him, relieved he'd finally thought to ask. "Obviously I didn't want to step on any toes, after all it is your invention—"
"Yes, my magnum opus," George muttered to himself, which Hermione of course did not have time to hear, being well into the process of determining where to start. "Certainly not a catastrophic error on my part, what with every outcome being exactly as I intended and not remotely more annoying than originally conceived—"
"I'm so sorry, George, I'd love to stay and chat, but unfortunately I have to work," Hermione informed him, apologetic in her reminder that his usefulness had lapsed. "Though, if you do want to chat about your Floo maintenance, I could be free for lunch next Thursday?"
"Tragically, I've already scheduled a spontaneous waltz into the ocean," George said. "Perhaps at my wake the following Monday?"
"Monday's no good, but we'll work something out," Hermione assured him, breathless as she began considering possible locations for the evasive Seamus Finnegan, who had been the first person she'd run into after receiving the charm and with whom she shared a mystifying 54%. "Have a marvelous Tuesday!"
"It's Saturday," George said.
"Yes, you too!" Hermione called over her shoulder, hurrying out the door.
When things had been silent for a few days, Draco had begun to suspect one of two things: either Theo had already grown tired of plotting to destroy Harry Potter by virtue of driving him to madness and had simply taken a nap, or he had become enamored with plotting and would very soon have nothing but chaos to show for it. By the time Theo invited him out to Diagon for a brisk afternoon constitutional, Draco had come to assume the mystery of Theo's position on the matter would be shortly resolved and therefore, did not bother to ask.
"What do you think about Granger's little outburst, hm?" was Theo's opening subject of conversation, having already undergone the perfunctory small talk, a la: How was work? Terrible. More or less terrible than always? The same, really. Can it really be terrible if there is no progression on the matter? What on earth does that mean, Nott? Well, if it's terrible every day then terrible becomes simply normal. Whereas I would argue that if terrible is consistent then my measure of satisfaction in fact decreases as the scale of terrible persists. Ah, I see, milk? Yes, and one sugar, thank you.
In short, the usual conversation.
"I really haven't thought of Granger at all," Draco replied, which was a categorical lie they both understood to be a necessary preface. "Do you mean her maniacal breakdown, perchance? Because Granger's departure from sanity was certainly inevitable from the first," he advised, taking a perfunctory sip of his coffee. "I hardly think it worth considering in depth."
"Oh, please," Theo scoffed, guiding Draco toward a left turn. "You've not even considered what the increase in compatibility between the two of you might mean? Surely the concept has wormed its way into your permanent state of existential crisis."
"Crisis?" Draco echoed. "Nonsense. I haven't the time."
"Draco, you have never in your life encountered a dilemma not worth extending," Theo replied, strolling down the Alley to aim a rather unsettling smile at startled passersby. "Surely it bothers you a little."
"Only circumstantially." Sleeplessness was a magnificent curse that way, allowing his brain to torment him with unwelcome memories and thoughts and the inadvertent repetition of song lyrics. "Am I to assume you have thoughts on the matter, Nott?"
"Certainly," Theo replied, "and I'm so glad you've finally thought to ask. Theory one," he announced, helpfully tossing a galleon to a small child who'd been eyeing a dungbomb in a nearby shop's window. "You and Granger have become the mindless playthings of an omnipotent but ambivalent god and will henceforth provide the bread and circus for her pleasure."
"That," Draco agreed, "was my first thought as well."
"Theory two," Theo continued, "you've secretly indulged your incurable desires to cast yourself into the flames of an apathetic inferno—which, as we know, is Granger's dearest wish for you, and therefore an aspiration you must both wholeheartedly share."
"Less likely," Draco said. "I am not overly fond of bodily harm."
"Theory three is that Granger has newly devoted herself to the lifestyle of a wealthy but loftily charming bachelor with a taste for grandeur and a penchant for self-destruction, which of course is—"
"Overruled," they chimed in unison.
"—leaving only theory four," Theo finished, "which is that perhaps you are the source of your mysterious increase in compatibility."
"What, you think I've become more similar to Granger?" Draco scoffed. "Theodore, let me be clear, I did not come here to be so brutally insulted—"
"It's not a measure of similarity, you cerebral ruffian. It's a matter of compatibility," Theo informed him, nudging Draco to the right. "And pay attention, would you? I've an errand to run."
"At Gringotts?" Draco asked, doubtful. "I thought your father kept all his money in those bizarre underground catacombs you've stashed below your house."
"He did," Theo confirmed, "and don't think I'll let you get away with distracting me. What aspect of you has possibly become more compatible with the brains behind Potter's lifelong trail of fortunate coincidences, hm? Ah yes, hello," he said, turning his attention to the wrinkled goblin at his feet. "I'd like to rob this bank, please."
"Isn't that a bit unfair?" Draco asked him, half-listening. "It merely increased, Nott, by the sparseness of a single percentage. It did not suddenly become conceivable we should join up and pledge ourselves to eternity."
"I beg your pardon," the goblin said to Theo, mildly affronted. "Did you say rob?"
"I did indeed," Theo replied, adding to Draco, "Yes, but an increase of a single percentage is still significant, don't you think? If everyone else's remains stagnant, then theoretically, even the increase of one percent is actually quite remarkable."
"I don't understand," the goblin said. "Is this… a joke?"
"How can you simply presume everyone else's compatibility remained stagnant?" Draco asked him. "Have you done the necessary research?"
"One moment, please, Draco, the staff here is notoriously imperceptive. YES, HELLO, FELLOW PATRONS OF GRINGOTTS BANK," Theo announced, launching himself with a flick of his wand atop the marble counters. "I REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOU ARE ALL THE VICTIMS OF A HEINOUS AND IMMORAL CRIME. SPECIFICALLY, THIS ONE."
"I suppose if I'm being honest I did check Pansy's," Draco mused, leaning against the counter as a nearby witch dropped to the floor with a shriek, several others sprinting for the doors in panic. Pansy, whom Draco had not seen in a week, had only permitted him five minutes of her attention before declaring with a thud of at least four heavy legal books that she had better things to do than rehash the ongoing saga of Gryffindorian drivel. "Hers hadn't changed with anyone, either." She'd informed him as much before barking for him to either leave immediately or spend the next four hours researching obscure case law for something he couldn't begin to fathom, which of course he earnestly declined.
"Well, that's precisely my point, isn't it?" Theo said, flicking his wand to carry the herd of goblins who'd advanced in his direction away on a small, fluffy cloud. "Surely you can't say it's entirely—" He paused, sighing, and turned over his shoulder, addressing one of the goblins behind the counter as another swarm of them approached. "Someone should probably alert an Auror, don't you think?" he said to the goblin clerk, somewhat impatiently. "To my understanding, that's standard protocol in the event of a robbery. Anyway, where was I?" he asked at the goblin's small sigh of concession, turning back to Draco. "Right, you can't say it's entirely un-interesting, can you?"
"I wouldn't say that necessarily, no," Draco conceded, folding his arms over his chest. In reality, it had been the subject of no small amount of pondering. It was only Hermione's own application of weightiness keeping him from any number of wilder pursuits; like, for example, owling Astoria to ask if she had any interest in having coffee, which he had only coincidentally done because several months had passed and it was important to keep up one's correspondence, which had in turn been a lesson imparted from his mother and therefore perfectly reasonable to pursue.
If Hermione had reacted to their increased percentage with anything shy of her precise degree of insanity, Draco admittedly might have indulged the lurch in his chest at the possibility his compatibility might have changed with other people. But, seeing as she was completely deranged and he was not, he had of course done nothing.
And anyway, Astoria was busy planning some sort of philanthropic children's event, so. All in all, it was a wash. (She had invited him along to be polite but, as he'd reminded her, the under-five demographic had never been his forte. Something about children and their unfettered honesty made him supremely uncomfortable, and besides, he did not have time for the unavoidable stomach flu that came from interacting with tiny walking cesspools. It was astounding mass quarantines were not more frequently attempted.)
"It may be of a certain… relevance to me," Draco conceded, stepping aside as a goblin attempted to wrangle Theo by launching himself at his ankles, "but I can't say I find the increase as telling as you do."
"Well, that accounts for our incompatible half, I assume," Theo said, ducking a spell that had been aimed at his head and leaping down beside Draco, tiring of his fruitless elevation. "I do have a certain irrepressible thirst for knowledge, which you've always Slytherinly lacked."
"You're a Slytherin too, in case that escaped your attention," Draco said with a roll of his eyes, following after him as Theo launched himself in the direction of the bank vaults, conjuring a shield charm that formed a translucent bubble around them. "By the way, is this strictly necessary?" Draco asked tangentially, gesturing to the ongoing havoc outside the sphere of their private conversation.
"Well, they don't seem to be taking my threat of wrongdoing particularly seriously, do they?" Theo lamented, striding forward without pause. "I would have thought I'd be stunned by now, at least."
"I take it you've not forgotten about your threats to Potter, then," Draco observed.
"Draco, this is a bank robbery," Theo informed him. "I haven't the slightest idea why you'd think the two even remotely relat-"
"NOTT!" came a bellow behind them. "HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?"
Draco arched a brow, and Theo shrugged.
"Coincidence," he said. "How was I to know Potter was on duty at this precise time, hm? Riddle me that."
"Certainly not extensive research," Draco replied drily. "How did you know he'd be the one sent over here?"
"Certainly not by calling in an anonymous bomb threat at a nursery school gala," Theo said. "That would just be heinous and immoral."
"So true," Draco agreed, just as—what else—a marginally proficient disarming spell finally broke through the shield charm and hit Theo square in the shoulderblades, sending his wand flying out of his hand to deposit itself in a waiting Harry Potter's hand.
"Well, if it isn't the Boy Who Expelliarmused," Theo said, revolving slowly and placing his hands atop his head. "Am I to presume I'm finally under arrest?"
"I'm really not sure I understand this as a master plan," Draco murmured, and Theo shrugged, still giving Harry a taunting glance.
"All will become clear in time, Malfoy. Or it won't," Theo said, "and I'll just tell everyone it was a public art piece."
"Love that," Draco offered approvingly, just as a beleaguered Harry Potter joined them, wrenching Theo's hands to bind them behind his back.
"Theodore Nott, you're under arrest for the robbery of Gringotts Bank," Harry sighed, sounding both noticeably rehearsed and deeply embattled. "You do not have to say anything—in fact, I beg you to not—but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when question-"
"It's sweet that you've prepared a speech for the occasion," Theo cut in, twisting around to smile goadingly at Harry. "Hope you haven't been too lonely without me, Potter."
"You can post bail when he's been processed," Harry muttered to Draco, giving Theo a murderous look of scar-faced irritation. "Try not to flee the country."
"Well, my alternatives are hardly persuasive, but fine," Draco replied, waving them off as Harry disapparated with a scowl, the rest of the goblins expressing some degree of malcontent for Draco's continued presence. "Yes, yes, I'm going," he informed them, wading back across the marble floors and heading for the exit. "Though, he's right, you know. You really ought to have a protocol for this sort of thing," he suggested, striding through the doors and deciding to indulge a sudden, desperate craving for a pint.
"I really can't imagine why anyone would threaten to harm children," Astoria Greengrass frantically bemoaned, one hand flying to her mouth as the other fluttered in reference to the massive ballroom behind her. "I mean true, there aren't any children present, but still. It's the principle of the thing, isn't it?"
"It certainly is," Hermione replied, gesturing to her quill. She wasn't entirely sure why a black tie auction was necessary for a nursery school, but she struggled in equal measure to find it worth the asking. Rich people did as rich people did, et cetera et cetera, so on and so forth.
Astoria, meanwhile, was looking around with palpable concern. "I just don't see how any of the big ticket items are going to go quickly now," she lamented, frowning at what appeared to be an autographed broom. "That's an original Nimbus! And honestly, I don't see how Lily Moon is expected to adequately perform after all this fuss, really," she sighed, "so I suppose we should just do as we're told and evacuate—"
"Are you raising money for a new facility?" Hermione asked, mildly curious to know how a broom worth hundreds of thousands of galleons and an 'intimate philanthropic event' featuring the most famous pop singer of the current era could possibly serve the education of small wizarding children.
"Oh no, of course not. But the more we raise during the summer auction, the more promising the autumn casino night has a tendency to be," Astoria fretted aloud, briefly tearing her gaze from the ongoing mass of Aurors to glance down at Hermione. "My mother's a longtime board member of the Sacred School," she explained, and Hermione nodded, gesturing for the quill to add that to her notes. "My sister and I both attended the school as children. Lily Moon herself is an alumna," she added brightly, "along with nearly every Prefect to have come from Slytherin House—"
"It was my understanding that wizarding children were typically taught in their homes before attending Hogwarts," Hermione noted aloud, and Astoria gave a delicate laugh of patient disagreement.
"Many are, yes, but of course for families who want their children to have a head start, magical nursery schools are preferable," she said kindly. "After all, wouldn't every parent want to see their son transfigure his first pet into a teacup well before his Sorting, or discover early on if their daughter has a divinatory gift that requires fostering? Early childhood development is so very important, after all."
This, unsurprisingly, rankled Hermione's nerves. "Is admission open to all wizarding children?"
"Oh, heavens, yes," Astoria said with a laugh, "though the board requires the highest quality references for acceptance, of course. The staff is, after all, the very best in their field, and we do try to keep class sizes small."
Somehow, Hermione suspected that did not include muggleborn children, or anyone else who couldn't afford what had to be exorbitant tuition. And if the 'Sacred' in Sacred School was not a reference to the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight,' she'd eat Neville's grandmother's hat.
"Don't you think," Hermione began tightly, "that giving some children a head start might, in fact, be an unfair advant-"
"Oh, so sorry, there's Mamá," Astoria said, appearing to not have heard Hermione's opposition. "Please do include in your article how tirelessly our volunteers worked to put all this together, will you? Thank you so much!" she called, disappearing as a woman who might have been Astoria's slightly older twin beckoned frantically from afar.
Hermione was terribly sorry to see her go, which was not something she had ever expected to think about Astoria Greengrass until that precise moment. Unfortunately, the absence of Astoria meant Hermione was now eligible for an upsetting eyeful of Ron Weasley, who was completing his report by interviewing some of the auction's attendees.
A week had gone by with Hermione having dedicated her full investigatory prowess to the subject of her compatibility. (Astoria's, for the record, was an astonishing 78%. Though, Astoria was very pretty and obviously accomplished, so perhaps that was flattering in the end.) Hermione had dutifully promised Harry three times that she wouldn't go running after Ron for her research, but now that he was here by coincidence, she didn't see how it could possibly be avoided. She waited until Ron looked up from his notes, catching her eye, and then pretended to be startled by his appearance, figuring that saved each of them the obvious embarrassment of struggling to acknowledge the other from across the room.
"Oh, hello Ron," she called, and after a moment's uncertainty, he ambled towards her, giving her that strange nod in greeting she'd always thought made him look a bit gawkish. "Been a while, hasn't it?"
"Has been a bit, yeah." He gave her an odd look, clearing his throat. "What are you here for? Didn't think you were such a fan of posh pureblood society."
"I was assigned to it. I'm, well—" Ah, and how to possibly say she was here to report on the most utterly inane of social events? "I'm writing an exposé," Hermione decided, finding that to be sufficiently important-sounding, "on the… ah." Balls. "The classism embedded in early magical education among the wizarding elite," she decided hastily.
That was nearly over half true. Privately, she congratulated herself.
"Oh, yes, of course. You know, Padma said"—briefly, Hermione thought she might choke on something, a stray breeze perhaps, but compelled herself with her entire willpower to recover quickly—"you were doing a piece on Lily Moon, so I thought maybe it was that. I obviously told her you'd find that assignment to be total rubbish," he added with a chuckle, "but—"
"Rubbish? Hardly. Miss Moon asked me personally to report on her UK Tour," Hermione said, which was entirely true and not at all being weaponized for personal gain. "It's a favor to her, if you must know." Evidently Lily Moon had liked Hermione's demeanor, according to her manager, which was no real surprise. Hermione was, after all, a war hero and a preeminent journalist of the highest possible caliber, not that Ron needed reminding. "Anyway," she said, clearing her throat, "you hadn't mentioned you were seeing Padma. Is that new?"
Ron raised a hand, raking it through his hair, which was a surprisingly appropriate length. Probably Padma's doing, as he had always kept it overlong while they were dating. Hermione bristled, then glanced at his wrist and forced a swallow.
"It's been a little over a month," Ron said. "It's going well, but I don't expect you want to hear about that."
"Why not? We're friends," Hermione said, chest suddenly a bit tight. "Aren't we?"
"Of course. Yes, yeah, of course." Ron cleared his throat, blue eyes cutting guiltily away. "You don't, um. Well, I suppose you and Harry are doing well. I know he's not especially happy at work, but I think he's get-"
"Just out of curiosity, how is your percentage with Padma?" Hermione asked, careful to keep her voice light. "I only ask, of course, because you seemed so very insistent it shouldn't matter to me," she added, observing his expression going stiff.
"Mione," Ron said, which sounded like a warning. "Is this really the time for another row?"
"What row? I'm just asking," she assured him. "I hope it's not a sore subject for you," she added, feigning concern. "Because you should know that just because we didn't work out, that certainly doesn't mean the two of you won't work out. You might grow into it, you know," she informed him brightly. "I've recently come to learn that the percentage compatibility can change over time, so even if it's not at a pleasing point now, it could still always go u-"
"It's 93%," Ron cut in flatly, muscle tightening around his jaw as Hermione stopped, taken aback. "Happy?" he asked, in the particular tone of voice suggesting he was not, in fact, happy in the slightest with having said it, which was itself such a common and frustrating occurrence during the later stages of their relationship it had always made her wonder why on earth he even bothered to say it.
"I… why, yes, Ron, I am happy for you, in fact," Hermione managed to say. "This is what I always said, isn't it?" she prompted, fumbling a bit to produce more words and, ideally, better ones. "That in the end we were just wasting our time, and—"
"How do you know the percentage can change?" Ron interrupted, frowning. "Are you…" He stopped, and Hermione got the nauseating sensation he suddenly felt sorry for her. "Is that… Are you saying that you thought you and I might have—"
"Of course not. Of course not." Certainly not after seeing that it hadn't changed a whit. "I was just… it was just, you know. Small talk. Polite conversation between friends. You know, because we're friends," she reminded him, brightening to add, "In fact, we should all hang out, don't you think?"
Instantly, he blanched. She wished she could take it back, but magic only went so far.
"I don't know, Hermione—"
"Why not? Padma and I work together. And you and I've been best friends for… well, for over a decade, haven't we?" God almighty, why could she not stop talking? "It just seems like we should all get together, that's all. There's certainly no reason not to." No reason, her brain screamed, except for literally every reason that has existed or ever will exist!
"Well, that's… true." Ron frowned. "I guess we could have dinner or something, if you wanted," he said slowly, driving an unpleasant sensation of horror into the base of her abdomen. "Just the, uh. The three of us?"
She certainly couldn't tell him that was the stupidest idea she'd ever heard, however much he deserved to hear it. That would be rude, and she wasn't rude. She was extremely reasonable and unequivocally gracious.
"Well, only if you want to, Ronald."
"I mean, I want to if you want to—"
"Which I do, obviously!" She gave a brief, mad bark of laughter, suddenly wanting to snap at him or otherwise drive a stake through his chest. "Why on earth would I have said it if I were not perfectly okay with you and Padma?" Her brain was obviously melting. There was no other explanation for this. Something had snapped and now she was physically crumbling beneath the weight of her broken brain. "I can't think of anything I'd love more than dinner with you two!" Oh, except for everything. Except for burying herself alive in a tomb with only Rita Skeeter and his mother for company. "Truly, Ron, I'd love it, I'm so pleased you thought of it." Perhaps if she hadn't done all his homework he might have managed to be even slightly more capable of independent thought. "Tomorrow night at ours?"
Say no, say no, please say no—
"Tomorrow sounds great," Ron said, and briefly, she considered murdering him and then herself before determining that to be potentially a bit rash. "I'd better get back to work, though—see you tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," Hermione confirmed, waiting until he had turned before disapparating away.
Directly into the Leaky Cauldron.
Where she narrowly prevented a scream.
"Bloody Christ," muttered an unfortunately familiar voice, just as Hermione noticed she had apparated directly into someone's path, sending his whisky sloshing onto the front of his shirt. "Ah, Granger, of course," came Draco Malfoy's tone of slippery condescension, his grey eyes narrowing as he registered her presence and waved a hand, wandlessly ridding himself of the excess alcohol. "Well, well, if someone doesn't look a bit more frizzy than usu-"
"Give me that," Hermione snapped, yanking the glass from his hand and downing what remained of it in a single gulp, shuddering as she realized it wasn't remotely whisky at all. "My god," she coughed up, making a face and eyeing the glass. "What was in that?"
"Absinthe," Draco said, followed by, "you're welcome."
Hermione gave another shudder of distaste. "Terrible," she said, turning to set the glass on the bar. "Two more of those, please," she informed Tom the barkeep, who snapped his fingers, promptly refilling one and conjuring the other. "Marvelous," she said, and dropped herself heavily onto an available barstool, raising one glass to her lips.
"Well, this is interesting," remarked Draco, who apparently didn't possess the requisite social aptitude to leave her to her crisis in peace. Instead, he pulled out the stool beside her, watching her as if she were some sort of fascinating zoo animal. "What could have possibly happened to you, Granger?"
She downed the second shot of absinthe, turned her head, and shoved his watch aside, glancing down at the percentage.
22%.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" she asked the universe aloud, unsurprised it sheepishly did not deign to answer. She didn't normally overspend when it came to obscenities, but that one felt wholly justified. She permitted the full, hateful effect of her most unrestrained scowl, and then turned to the second glass, suddenly feeling moderately sickened.
"Not to point out the obvious," Draco said, "but it has become clear to me you're somewhere south of jubilant and relatively north of cross."
His breath was spiced and sweet, like licorice. "You've been drinking," she observed, raising a brow.
"Came for a pint. Got thirsty." Draco reached over, slipping the second shot glass from her fingers. "You owe me this one," he informed her, and raised the glass for a sip, holding it trapped between his lips for a second before tipping his head back, depositing the contents into the back of his throat and blinking as his eyes watered. "Awful," he judged, and gave a full-bodied shiver. "I love it. Makes me feel my mortality, which is both exquisitely depressing and justly deserved."
He turned to her with his usual narrow-eyed skepticism, licking away the little gleam of alcohol that lingered on his lips.
"What?" she snapped, finding his stare fully unsettling.
"Tell me about your research," he said, half-daring her. "Come on, Granger, I know you're dying to."
She felt her mouth tighten. "What research?"
"Your… data collection. Your notes." He leaned forward, propping his head up while his elbow rested on the surface of the bar. "You know, I wouldn't have guessed you'd care much about any of this," he said, flicking the percentage on her wrist. "You've always been so reliably cynical."
"It's not as if it's tarot cards," she said, giving his hand a shove. "It's compatibility. It's not about the future, it's about personality. Traits, characteristics, preferences—"
"Blah, blah, sure it is. Look, I know you did the research, Granger," Draco patronizingly swanned, reaching out to tap her nose with a finger as she lurched away, "so you might as well tell me, because I'm probably the only person in this entire galaxy and certainly in this pub who's going to want to hear it."
"Like I'd tell you," she muttered. "You'd only find some way to mock me."
"Mm. Right." He reached over, brusquely spinning the seat of her stool so she faced him with a loud squawk of indignation, nearly toppling to the floor. "Relax, stop, you're fine—did it increase with Weasley?" he asked, incorrectly finding that a perfectly reasonable thing to interrogate her with. "Just tell me that."
"What? No," she snapped, jerking away from him. "Go away."
"Tell me and I'll leave you alone." He smirked at her, or smiled. He was either nicer when he was drunk or he was another person wearing Draco Malfoy's face as disguise. Hermione briefly considered checking for polyjuice potion before realizing she would then be morally obligated to help him, which she did not presently care to do. Instead, she simply turned her head. "Come on, Granger, just tell me. Nobody's listening and I know you want to. Just tell m-"
"No, okay?"
It slipped out.
That had to be it. Her defense in court after she inevitably assaulted him with a tribe of angry bees would have to be: Your Honor, I swear, it slipped out.
To her amazement, though, he didn't laugh.
"No?" he echoed.
"No," she confirmed, and then, though she wanted very badly to feel no compulsion to do so (but did, because life was unfair), she added, "It didn't increase with anyone."
"Are you sure?" What a question. "How many people did you check with?"
"Seventy-five." He blinked, startled, and she fought a groan. "Stop, okay? It's not as if it's inconceivable I'd see that many people in a given w-"
"Seventy-five," he repeated, "and not one increased?"
"No. In fact some of them decreased."
He brought a hand to his mouth, contemplating that. "But Weasley's…?"
"No change," she said, the anise on her tongue going increasingly bitter before she realized, abruptly, that this was perhaps her single opportunity to make use of the situation. "Hang on," she said, and Draco gave her an arched look of prompting. "Maybe if I knew why our compatibility changed, I could replicate its effects elsewhere. You know," she added, slightly encouraged or possibly a little tipsy from what was obviously extremely potent absinthe, "apply the theory to practice."
"What theory?"
"That we're increasing in compatibility."
"That's an observation, not a theory."
"I… that's not the point. What do you think accounts for our incompatibility, hm?" she prompted, determining that the easier calculation. "If our incompatibility is shrinking, then maybe one of us is inadvertently doing something to change it."
That seemed to make a strange sort of half-drunken sense to both of them, judging by the look of hazy contemplation on his face. "So, your theory, Granger," he attempted to synthesize, "is that we could both improve our compatibility with other people if we could somehow manage to do it… advertently?"
"Yes." Sort of. "Something like that."
"Well," he said, gesturing to Tom for more beverages, "what do you suppose counts for incompatibility, then?"
She laughed. Naturally she had assumed he was joking, but the look he gave her suggested quite firmly otherwise.
"Oh, are you… are you serious?" she asked, bewildered. "You really can't think of one reason we're massively incompatible?"
"Well, I prefer my lovers to not correct my form mid-congress," Draco said. "I can only imagine your bedroom whispers include 'it's clit-oris, not clit-or-is'—"
"Malfoy, you smug bastard." She felt a tiny wave of fury, which she doused with the ale Tom slid in front of her. "Maybe," she seethed over the lip of her glass, "just maybe, it's your prejudiced bullying arse that puts me off, or maybe it's your unquestioned supremacy, hm? Or possibly the fact that I want to make you eat slugs every time I see your pointy little face—"
"Who says it's unquestioned?" he countered with a lazy grin. "My supremacy, I mean."
"Have you ever thought to question it?" she snapped, and then, with a renewed wave of her previous annoyance from the evening, "You know what? I bet you went to that Sacred School, didn't you?"
"Hm? Oh, yeah," Draco said, indifferent. "Dreadful institution. Lovely library, though. Enchanting place to discover one's head, shoulders, knees, and toes—"
"Don't you see how ridiculous that is?" Hermione demanded. "As if it's not bad enough you're wealthy and privileged for your blood status, you get educational advantages, too!"
"Didn't stop you from being Prefect, did it?" he asked, directing the question to his glass, which she subsequently (and intentionally) jostled in her annoyance, prompting him to spill. "Hey, Granger, watch it—"
"I was Prefect, Malfoy, because I worked twice as hard as everyone else," Hermione said, furious to find that her eyes were stinging. The idea—the very implication—that anyone could have done what she did, or that her efforts were somehow worth overlooking, somehow rocketed beyond his childish taunts about her blood or her teeth or her big bushy head. "More than that! I worked ten times as hard as everyone else only to be positively reviled for it," she hurled at him, "and for you to not even know why the two of us would be incompatible when you're nothing but a privileged, arrogant, dramatic little toerag is just—"
"I didn't not work," Draco cut in, appearing to be somewhat injured, or perhaps just injuriously squinty-eyed. "I worked harder than Potter and Weasley, didn't I? And I don't see you giving me any credit for that."
"You think you deserve credit?" Hermione echoed, scoffing in disbelief, though before they went down the 'my horse is bigger than your horse' route (hers being unquestionably bigger to anyone who was not a fucking idiot), she opted to reroute her emotional, regrettably absinthed state to the logical source of their argument, i.e. the more sophisticated high ground. "And anyway, it's not a matter of rehashing our entire horrible history, Malfoy, I'm simply saying that when it comes to our compatibility—"
She was cut off, however, as twin stags approached from somewhere near the ceiling.
"Malfoy, come get Nott before I'm forced to arrest myself for murder," said a disgruntled version of Harry's voice, just as the second stag said, in slightly more dulcet tones, "Hermione, would you mind picking up something for supper and meeting me at the Auror offices? I'm starved, and cannibalism is unfortunately frowned upon in most Western cultures."
The stags dissipated into nothing, and after a moment of silence, Hermione turned to Draco, who in turn directed his attention expectantly to her.
"Well," he said tightly. "I suppose we've both been summoned, then."
It certainly appeared that way.
On the one hand, she wanted to cast some debilitating insult over her shoulder and march away from him, possibly slamming a door as she went.
On the other, that would be tawdry, and perhaps a cooler exit, bidding him a farewell as heartless and cold as she could summon the wrath to possess, was a more respectable option.
But on a third, unfortunate hand, she was who she was, and logistical expediency was king.
She chewed her lip, contemplating it. "Should we just—"
"Don't make a thing of it, Granger, I beg you. Tom," Draco called, "two specials for takeaway. Put it on Granger's tab."
"What? Malfoy, I don't have a tab—"
"Fine, open a tab for Granger and put them on it." In response, two dinners materialized on the counter, neatly wrapped. "Brilliant. Shall we?" he prompted, giving her a look that was neither sympathetic nor unsympathetic and appeared to be, actually, quite disinterested.
Good. So he didn't matter to her and she didn't matter to him. Ideal. It meant she was fine and he was fine and everyone here was fine, and wasn't that a nice thing to not have to lie about being, for once?
"We shall," she said, taking a moment to steady herself as she slid half-bonelessly down from the bar stool, making her way to the Ministry with Draco forced to trail after her perfectly well-adjusted, totally unbothered heels.
Hermione Granger was a bossy swot of a menace that Draco wouldn't want to cross in the swampiest of nightmares, but he could at least acknowledge that in a strange way, power suited her. Nobody questioned what she was doing in the Ministry after hours. It was as if they were afraid to ask, in fact. Almost none of the guards even looked up at their entry, and likewise, Hermione tapped her way to the elevator without bothering to stop.
It was a rare woman who did not make apologies for the belligerence of her presence, but it also made sense she'd be one of them. Draco supposed she'd done enough apologizing to no beneficial results that perhaps it no longer felt like a prudent use of her time.
"The Sacred School," Draco murmured once they got in the lift, remembering that she'd brought it up. "Why on earth were you asking me about that?"
She gave it a twitchy moment before answering.
"If you must know, Malfoy, it's because I was there for an article. The school was having—"
"A fundraising auction," Draco realized, and half-laughed. "You know, I almost went to that."
"Well, best that you didn't," Hermione said tightly, "as it was basically evacuated by Aurors."
"Why on earth were you there?" he asked her, frowning. "I can't imagine what a nursery school fundraiser could possibly have to do with political news."
"I—" She looked away, mouth a thin, grim line. "I don't work in political news."
"Oh." He cleared his throat. "Well, if it helps, I don't read the Prophet."
"Frankly it astounds me you can read at all."
"Oh, ha-ha." Fine, if she wanted to play it that way. The elevator dinged, and he muscled his shoulder in front of hers, blithely obstructionary.
"Malfoy, what the—" She shoved him, glaring, and exited onto the DMLE floor. "Can you not?"
"Not what? I'm just wondering what sort of thing you're even writing, Granger. By the sounds of it, hardly news at all… culture, possibly? Certainly not pop culture," he guessed, and at her instantly rigid response, he fought a smile. "Pop culture, really? The great Hermione Granger, with that giant brain and all those important scholarly thoughts—"
"Astoria was there with her fiancé," she commented, asking with a sidelong glance, "Didn't you two used to date?"
Well, that was rather uncalled for. Or perhaps it wasn't; he'd lost track. "'Dating' is quite a loose term for what we did," Draco assured her smoothly, shoving aside the slight. "What Astoria and I used to do, Granger, was very good, highly skilled, and exceptionally premarital."
"Oh, very cool, now he's going to brag about his sexual conquests," Hermione scoffed, narrating to an invisible audience before rounding on him, lips pursed. "You know, if your prick were really that desirable you'd have somewhere to put it by now."
To both her credit and his complete dismay, he was genuinely quite shocked.
"My goodness, Granger, how positively lewd," Draco managed to faux-gasp, incongruously pretending at very real surprise. "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"
"You know, it's incredibly tired," she said tightly, "the whole 'oh, Draco Malfoy, what a sex god,' as if you and I don't both know you cried like a little girl during the Buckbeak Incident of 1993—"
"I never said I was a god," he shot back, not entirely sure whether he was more agitated that she'd said it or that he was put in the incomprehensible position of having to deny it, "though I certainly don't hear any complaints. What've you got, some irrepressible fantasies about being dominated in the library after hours?"
"What I've got, Malfoy, is a healthy sexual appetite and ample means to tend to it," Hermione said without blinking, throwing open the door to the Auror offices and marching inside as he gaped after her, positively stunned.
After a moment to process the words she'd said in the unfathomable order she'd said them, he hurried in her wake, catching her conversation with Harry. He was sitting precisely where he usually was, having what appeared to be a staring competition with Theo.
"Pity you had to stay so late, Harry," Hermione told him, glaring at Theo. "It's almost as if some overstuffed arseholes ought to be forcibly corralled into a home for wayward ponces and banished there for eternity, forbidden to breed."
"I see you and Draco had words," Theo observed, glancing between her and Draco's sulkily oncoming form with a knowing smile. "Marvelous, I hate to think I was the only one enjoying myself on this dastardly Tuesday—"
"It's Saturday," Harry said.
"Only in a world where time has meaning," Theo replied, his voice its most silky-sweet, "though, of course, it vanishes entirely for me whenever you are near."
"Well, this continues to be a hellscape from which I will never escape," Harry remarked, turning to give Hermione a small and highly fleeting smile of gratitude. "Thank you, by the way. I didn't mean to saddle you with Malfoy," he added, flicking an accusatory glance over her shoulder at Draco, "but—"
"You know, it's best that you did, actually," Hermione said, giving Draco a stubborn look of pompous opposition. "It was a much needed reminder that just because compatibility can increase, it still doesn't mean 22% is any more meaningful to my life than eighteen. There," she added, flinging it at Draco. "Are you pleased with the results of my research?"
"Deeply." Upsettingly, it crossed his mind that perhaps that had been a lie. "What other results could I have expected to receive?" How wonderful that scorn came so easily to him. How not at all frustrating and in fact, how spectacularly convenient for his position amid the wretched maelstrom of social customs that was the human world. "This is perfectly adequate," Draco informed her, "as I would have expected from you."
She bristled, mouth snapping shut. "Good," she growled. "Glad to hear it."
"Good," he replied, and she turned to Theo, giving a little huff.
"And as for you, you're a shameful waste of space," she informed him.
"Thank you. It takes a village, you know," he replied, and she scowled, by then probably too irritated to even consider replying. A talent of Theo's, driving people to that degree of paralyzing fury. It was almost enviable how skilled he really was.
"Let me just finish up with him and get them out of here," Harry told Hermione with a sigh, forcing Theo up by the collar of his jacket. "Just have to close out his intake paperwork and then we can eat," he assured her, Theo's bound ankles floating above the floor as he gave a cheerful wave and permitted himself to be dragged, perfectly content with his latest bout of torment.
Draco and Hermione were left alone, both stiff and grimacing into nothing, which future scholars would be flabbergasted to know Draco was aware was mostly his fault. He hadn't intended to speak to her in the silence, only before he could prevent himself, something slipped out.
It slipped, unpreventable. Uncontrollable, like a reflex.
"You're obviously having a bad day," he muttered to her, and she glanced at him with surprise, or even fright. Like a baby deer. Or like the idea that he might choose to say something to her that wasn't an insult had genuinely startled her. "For what it's worth, I didn't actually intend to make it worse."
"Then why did you?" she shot back.
"Fuck if I know." He glanced at his feet. "Just comes naturally."
She aimed a glare in his direction.
Then, after a moment, she swallowed.
"I told Ron I'd have dinner with him and his new girlfriend tomorrow," she grumbled, and when Draco made a face of my god, what possessed you, she added, "who, as you so helpfully pointed out, also happens to be the person who got promoted over me in the political news department at the Prophet."
"Well." Draco contemplated his shoes, shrugging. "I'm essentially a Ministry drone with no prospects, romantic or otherwise, plus I have a best friend who appears to be using his massive fortune to get as close to Azkaban as he can without actually falling in."
For a second, she looked like she might have wanted to laugh.
She did not.
"In his defense," she said carefully, clearing her throat, "the bond money is probably being used for Ministry infrastructure improvements. There are worse things he could be doing."
Another two beats of silence passed.
"You don't need to be in political news to write things of value," Draco said. A reply of sorts. "Politics are just as stupid as everything else, so what does it matter?"
"Easy for you to say."
"Yeah, easy for me to say. But that doesn't make it less true."
She looked up at him, considering him.
For half a second, he wondered if she might say thank you.
She did not.
"Should I just cancel dinner, do you think?" was what she actually said, sounding faintly optimistic and clearly neck-deep in denial.
"No, certainly not," Draco reproached her, making a face. "And let Weasley believe he scared you off? No. You made that bed, Granger. Now you've got to die in it."
"The phrase is lie in it, Malfoy."
"I said what I said." Again, her mouth twitched a little with something that might have been a laugh. "And for the record," he added with a sigh, "I do actually know why we're incompatible. It's… not as mysterious to me as I may have led you to believe."
"Just felt like being shitty?" she asked, souring.
He shrugged. "Isn't that better, in the end? Otherwise you'd have to, you know." Another shrug. "Like me or something."
"Ugh." She made a face. "Save us both that particular abuse."
"With pleasure," he replied.
"Alright," Harry announced, startling them both and re-emerging with Theo in tow. "If he'd actually robbed the bank it'd be a felony," he informed Draco, "and then I could toss him over to a dementor or, at the very least, Dawlish—"
"Shudder," said Theo, shuddering.
"—but since the most I can give him is incitement, he gets the maximum fine," Harry finished. "Any questions?"
"Yes," Theo said. "How close can I get to murder before it leaves the jurisdiction of Powerless Entry-Level Auror and becomes Trial By Fire? Hypothetically speaking, of course."
"Intent," Draco and Hermione said in unison. He glanced at her, which she ignored.
"You'd have to intend to kill someone for it to be murder," Hermione clarified to Theo, "which you just confessed to not doing, and also, we don't try by fire anymore because we're a civilized society that also declines to use pitchforks. However, if you actually threatened someone with reasonable expectation of physical harm," she went on, despite Draco motioning for her to please, for the love of god, read the room, "most degrees of assault would be plenty t-"
"Please stop encouraging him," Harry advised. "Also, on a related note, leave," he added to Theo, who gave him a ruthlessly insolent smile.
Draco, meanwhile, wondered if he should say goodbye to Hermione, unsure whether their brief détente called for any sort of formal acknowledgement. After questioning silently what his mother would prescribe for the situation, he decided it was probably in their mutual interest to simply leave and pretend nothing of this evening had ever happened, and she seemed to agree.
"Been fun, Potter," Theo said. "Try not to miss me while I'm gone."
"One of these days, Nott," Harry lazily replied, "I'm going to make you wish you were never born."
"Joke's on you, that's just my average Tuesday," Theo retorted, and Draco, who was definitely going to need more alcohol in the startlingly near future, decided to be the hero of the moment and yank Theo out by the back of his upturned collar, finally ending what had been a thoroughly disastrous night.
a/n: For HeartSandwich, a reliable delight; fullyvisible, whose practice of sharing a favorite line is one of my personal highlights; and kete, for the richly satisfying visual. Thank you for reading! The quote comes from the most epic comeback of all time, via The Big Lebowski: "We're going to fuck you up!" "Yeah, well, you know, that's just like, uh, your opinion, man."