It's not unreasonable to expect some measure of competence on someone's first day. Narcissa could make allowances. She could tolerate mistakes. She could not tolerate willful stupidity.

"Did you not clearly hear me say I want eight Donna Karkaroff blouses?" she wondered, glaring at her two assistants.

Pansy shot an accusing look at Granger, who admitted, "Yes, Narcissa, but Miss Karkaroff told me she only had six finished―"

"So you lean on her until she gives you two more," Narcissa said with an exasperated sigh. "I know you were raised by muggles, but can't you at least try not to be as weak-willed and oblivious as they are?"

Granger's eyes flashed. "My parents are some of the best people I know. Don't talk about muggles like that."

How dare Granger talk back to her? Perhaps Narcissa could turn that fiery stubborness to her advantage. "Prove me wrong," she countered. "Improve by the end of the week, or you and Pansy will be the next casualties."

Pansy's mouth hung open. "But Granger's the one who screwed up."

Narcissa raised her eyebrows. "And you're the one supposedly training her not to do so. You both have jobs to do."

The two witches returned to their desks, and Narcissa eavesdropped on their conversation. No one seemed to realize how easily she could hear everything, and she intended to keep it that way.

Granger's voice echoed through the office, asking, "What does she mean by 'casualties'?"

"Narcissa's assistants never last, and neither will you," Pansy answered snidely. "I've been here for almost a full year and I won't let you ruin my chance at a promotion. Most girls quit. Some disappear. I heard that one girl turned up dead in an alley."

Narcissa smiled, stroking the tip of her wand with her finger. She loved the darkest rumors. They were hogwash, obviously, but they kept everyone in top form for fear of earning her wrath.

In the other room, Granger said skeptically, "That didn't really happen. No one would murder someone for being a bad fashion assistant."

"If you really think that, then you don't know Narcissa," Pansy replied. "Don't believe me? Talk to the witch you're replacing. Narcissa berated her and let her wander off crying in the woods. She got attacked by a manticore and had to go to St. Mungo's. Then her final paycheck was docked for missing work."

Narcissa did not appreciate that retold version of events. It was highly unfair to blame her for that in any way. She was only being truthful when she said the girl was little more than a glorified Accio charm. And Blacklist's profits would suffer if she kept paying employees in full when they were lying useless in a hospital.

Pansy concluded, "That's the kind of boss you're working for now, so if she wants eight DK skirts, you bring her exactly eight. Not seven, not nine, eight. Even if you have to sew the damn things yourself!"

Narcissa nodded in silent agreement. When she wanted something, she got it.

And she was nothing if not the trial-by-fire type. The next day, she called softly, "Dobby."

There was a long delay. Very displeasing.

"She means you," Pansy hissed.

Granger came rushing in with a small notebook and readied her quill. "Yes, Narcissa?"

"That had better be Unsmearable Ink," Narcissa said. "If you get fingerprints on any designer clothing..." She let an unspoken threat hang in the air, enjoying the way Granger squirmed, and started listing tasks. "Make an appointment at the Yves Saint Catchpole headquarters."

"What time―"

Narcissa ignored her and went on, "Tell my ex-husband he may attend Draco's birthday gala only if he does not speak to Andromeda or interact with Teddy in any way whatsoever. Reject Suitor #11 for me, but politely so he won't be provoked into starting a smear campaign."

"Who―"

"We need different scarves from Hermìt. No more gnomes-tooth patterns. And send an owl asking for a draft of this summer's feature article."

"Okay, but where should I send the owl?" Granger asked, quill racing across the page as she tried to write everything down. Her hands looked nimble, with smooth skin aside from a callous on her middle finger from the pressure of the pen.

Narcissa did not wonder how that texture would feel under her fingertips. "Aren't you supposed to be the brightest witch of your age?" she snipped. "That's all."

On the third day, Narcissa strode between her assistants' desks as usual on her way into the office. She tossed her cloak at Granger, who seemed affronted as if she were too good to hang it up. The girl would either have to lose the attitude or lose this job.

"Where is my tea?" Narcissa asked. "Did you spill it on that dreadful beige jumper?"

"I'm sorry," Granger apologized. "I got here late, which is really unusual for me, honestly, but today Ginny and my other flatmates needed help―"

"You're sorry?"

"Very sorry, I know it reflects badly on my work ethic but I―"

"I don't think you understand," Narcissa interrupted again. "This is a place of business. In school if you're late, the professor scolds you and takes away house points, and your classmates give you a hard time about it, boohoo. Here when you're late, you disrupt my day, perhaps multiple people's days, which could derail long-term plans that our magazine's survival depends upon. So don't tell me you're sorry. Ensure it never happens again."

Granger's expression shifted from irritation to embarrassment to outright guilt. "Sorry―um, I will, I promise."

Narcissa continued into her office without responding as an owl swooped in with a letter and landed on her assistant's desk.

Behind her, Granger asked, "Um... what should I do with this letter?"

Pansy answered, "Take it, don't just sit there like an idiot. It's your job to receive owls for Narcissa and respond to them."

"Why isn't that your job? I don't know what to write," Granger replied.

"Pay attention and keep up," Pansy said. "If it's business, do whatever needs to be done. If it's a suitor, decide whether the letter is worth her time. You need to stop asking so many stupid questions."

Granger did not stop asking stupid questions.

"Where is the Hermìt store? I'm sorry I couldn't find it. I've asked all around and everyone just laughed."

"What do I do if Suitor #12 isn't available for dinner on the evening you wanted?"

"How was I supposed to know you meant dark green, not light green?"

Because that shade of green would look terrible with silver accessories, obviously. Never before in her life had Narcissa met someone so ignorant of fashion and the demands it put on her as editor-in-chief. She kept waiting for her new assistant to prove her worth, watching Granger botch every order and run around on errands in such rumpled, ill-chosen clothes that Narcissa longed to tear them off. For aesthetic reasons.