DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING BUT THIS SO-CALLED PLOT
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Admittedly, some things had changed. Much like after the first Wizarding War, there were certain occasions when the Wizengamot delivered sound judgements. Two days after the Millward case had been submitted, they approved the establishment of a committee that would reach out to muggleborn children and their families a year before they were due at Hogwarts, to help them better assimilate into the magical world. It was a motion spearheaded by an unlikely duo – Arthur Weasley and Justin Finch-Fletchley – and within a day the committee was ready to begin work.
At the same time, a small cavalry of disgruntled pureblood parents demanding the immediate removal of Minerva McGonagall (and a chunk of the new Hogwarts Board of Governers) for refusing to repeal the decision to have Muggle Studies as a core, mandatory subject for the first three years at Hogwarts. The petitioners were turned out with the judicial equivalent of an eye roll.
Immediately after, there was an incident in West London that stirred up great alarm regarding a possible Death Eater revival group. There was vile graffiti, vandalism, and a bloodied muggleborn lying under a Dark Mark. The Prophet, the people were in a frenzy for two days before it emerged that the dead muggleborn was neither dead nor a muggleborn, and that the whole thing was some sort of sick joke that got out of control.
The Aurors had rounded up the perpetrators in no time at all – Harry's involvement in the case making the front page, of course – and another set of fast-track trials were launched. Adrian Pucey had been among the hoodlums, and he apparently was set to marry Daphne Greengrass in three months. Hermione spotted Phaedrus Greengrass in the Ministry twice over the course of the trials: Once in the lift, going up to Level one, and once in the Atrium, walking angrily besides Ogden.
But for all his influence (and threats), he was given no consideration. The gang was sent straight to Azkaban, leaving behind a broken engagement and a sudden dearth of moolah in the Ministry's post-war rehabilitation fund.
The week ended with an exceptionally thick edition of the evening's Prophet, extolling the Ministry's expeditiousness.
In the midst of all that, squibs were forgotten. Women, still and always, had to wait their turn.
Draco gave an overblown second-hand account of the first reading over a meal of awfully lumpy but flavourful chowder. Hermione somehow doubted that Kenny had actually defiantly shown his bare bottom to the ICW, but Draco had something of a giddy look about him and she hadn't the heart to cut into his oration.
"He made Gill read it, thank fuck, and just sat there like a stodgy potato while the gathering got more and more incredulous. By the time they broke for lunch, most of the delegates were conducting private conversations that were audible to all around them. Some were adamant that Kenny was pulling a fast one on them, and the rest were convinced that this was just the sort of shit-stirring stunt that he would pull. Plonker ignored them all... held a scone in one hand and picked his nose with the other. Then they were back in session and – For Salazar's sake! I said no thank you!"
Theo had taken advantage of their distraction, and topped their bowls up with some more lumpy slop. He was careless with the ladle and it – plop plop plop – deposited milky chunks across Hermione's dining table.
"You said it wasn't dreadful!"
"Did I say it was good?"
"Arsehole."
Hermione reached for the salt cellar and sighed.
Scowling furiously, Draco stabbed a spoon into his bowl and continued.
"Well, after the reading was done with, there was absolute silence. Kenny, having missed out on his siesta, was drowsy and flatulent. The floor was opened for questioning, and unsurprisingly, a lot of questions were lobbed at the twat. He said bugger all, until he was bodily shaken by Gill, at which point–" And here Draco displayed his remarkable talent for mimicry, "– I wrote the blasted thing, and the International so-and-so brought it to you. Now it's up to you muckers to sort it out, thanks. Immediately, an American delegate suggested that the bill be chucked away without further consideration. Gill and the remaining three British delegates shot him down, and received rather enthusiastic backing from Austria, France, and Albania."
Draco drank some water to assist the chowder's journey down his throat, and Hermione took the opportunity to contribute, because she simply had to add something of value.
"Of course, they did," she said with gravity, "Voldemort paid them a visit after all."
"Yes, Granger. Well done. Ten points to Gryffindor."
(She wanted to pout.)
"Those three were followed by plenty more. Ethiopia, Nepal, Liberia, Uzbekistan, India, Bulgaria, Yemen... Afghanistan. The majority had spoken, the bill was declared prime potential emergency legislation material. Second reading's tomorrow."
"That's, um, promising," she mumbled.
Her chowder said, squelch.
"Did Safi seem optimistic to you?"
"Yeah," he shrugged, "But he's been fairly sunny and sanguine throughout."
"Except for the whole deeply traumatised and utterly debilitated by a decades-long war thing."
"Except that."
She tried very hard not to make a reprehensible comparison between a decades-long war and suffering through Theo's chowder.
"I reckon I know exactly how he feels, now that I'm halfway through this muck," Draco grumbled.
Theo tried to kick him but bashed his toe against the leg of his chair instead. He yowled in pain and Hermione stifled her laugh with her napkin.
A week since they had requested a hearing. The Wizengamot had tended to Stamp's patent infringement dispute, along with two other minor cases, and spent the rest of their time twiddling their thumbs.
Women continued to wait their turn.
Hermione returned home after a frustrating day of filing and trawling through the archival chambers because that was all there was for her to do, to find Draco standing at her kitchen door, looking inside and shaking with laughter.
"Oh, what now," she moaned, dropping her satchel on the sofa and rushing to have a look. She was sure that even if her kitchen was in shambles and the entire foundation of the building was in danger, Draco would just stand and laugh.
Something had exploded. Meat and veg shrapnel was embedded on every surface and all over poor, shell-shocked Theo.
"Her – Hermione," he whispered with horror, "I don't know what happened."
Draco was overcome with a fresh wave of mirth.
Growling under her breath, Hermione stepped inside and had the whole place spick and span with a few waves of her wand. Then she went up to Theo and carefully pried the wooden spoon he was clutching out of his hand. She cleaned him up as well.
"Takeaway?" she asked.
He blinked down at her as the shock melted off his face, after which he shook his head adamantly.
"No. I'm giving this another go. I have more of everything–"
"Oh, Theo. You have nothing to–"
"You didn't taste it, alright? It was good–"
"Explosively good," Draco offered from the door.
"If the bloody sausages hadn't exploded for whatever reason, I promise you, this casserole would've been the best thing I've made so far."
"That means absolutely nothing," Draco interjected.
"Look, I'm sure it was very delicious, but–"
"Hermione! Please. Come on, buddy. I'll be much more careful this time."
He looked so pitiful. Imploring and desperate with sappy blue eyes that were half-obscured by locks of his hair. Hermione conjured a velvet headband with a pretty bow, and after gently carding his hair back, set it in place on his head.
"There," she said, smiling at the ridiculous picture he made, "Now you can see what you're doing."
He grinned back at her and she placed her fingers on his uncharacteristically fuzzy cheek.
"When was the last time you shaved?"
"I'm trying new things, remember?"
"Right."
"Now off you go. I have a masterpiece to recreate."
She shook her head and turned to leave; Draco was no longer at the door. He was back in his armchair with History of the World and a steaming cup with what looked like her last lemon and mint teabag.
"God, I hope there isn't another explosion," she sighed as she settled deep into the sofa and rubbed her eyes.
"Probably will be," he replied without looking away from the book.
She wished she had some tea, as well. But the desire to venture back into the kitchen was entirely absent.
"How was the second reading?" she asked.
He exhaled heavily – an indulgent and unnecessary show of annoyance – before closing the book and looking her way.
"I couldn't speak to Safi today, but he sent me a note that said it went alright. I asked Begbie – he's Gill's assistant – and he said there were a lot of questions aimed at Kenny and all he did was cross his arms and stare gormlessly."
Hermione knew the look. It was the way he had stared at her sandwich.
"Well, Gill and the others did their best to tackle them. Apparently, Kingsley's been apprised of the issue and he told them to support the bill no matter what. The Americans, this time backed by Italy, Russia, and Turkey, moved to postpone the next session, but that motion was defeated."
"So, committee stage tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Good." She nodded slowly. "Yes, that's... good."
He went back to reading. It was a funny parallel to see him so emersed in History of the World... just the way Hermione had been so enamoured with Hogwarts: A History all those years ago. She allowed herself thirty seconds to study the way his fingers were cradling the spine.
Then she occupied herself with case notes that were going nowhere.
Much after supper ought to be eaten, Theo emerged from the kitchen with an undeniably fragrant casserole. And despite the under-fried sausages and the burnt onions near the bottom, Hermione and Draco had to concede that it did actually taste rather good.
She ran in the dark; the light from the old flickering lamps in the park turned into luminescent haze in the early morning fog. Her blood was hot, but sweat turned cold the moment it beaded her skin. She ran fast and winter chased her. It wrapped around the weak, fading final days of November, vice-like and parasitic; a chord of ruthless chill like it was making an unbreakable vow. Frosty dew on the edges of the path caught the light, making two shimmering parallel lines.
There were two parallel lines and Hermione had a foot on each. One was carrying her forward, one was stuck in place, and she felt like she was being torn in half.
No word from the Wizengamot. Instead, they got an owl from Millward's lawyers, requesting a meeting to put this unseemly and fallacious matter to rest. Hermione was sure that Barros would spit in the envelope and send it back, but for whatever reason, she agreed. A meeting was set up for the following day.
Two new cases dropped into their laps: The first involving a werewolf from Tutshill who claimed the Ministry's suppliers had delayed his last dose of wolfsbane, and thus was responsible for covering the cost of damages that his home had suffered. The second was a dispute between two flatmates over owl droppings in their shared balcony.
Hermione spent fifteen moody minutes in the canteen where she ate a dry cheese sandwich while Justin raved about the initial success of the Muggleborn Assimilation Committee. He seemed to need her validation, as she was the venerated High Priestess of Muggleborn-kind. Not that the praise was unwarranted – she simply wasn't feeling very charitable at that moment. A few tables away, Arnold and Irvin banished their trays and left, leaving Draco and Fiona to have a cosy little lunch together.
When she finally got back to home sweet home, she breathed a sigh of relief at the clear air and the mellow sizzling coming from the kitchen.
"Hullo," she called out as she shed her robes and let down her hair, and "hullo, buddy," came the cheerful response.
She pulled out three cans of beer from her sideboard, sent one whizzing into the kitchen, ("Thanks!") set one on the coffee table, and took a long, soul-reviving pull from the third.
She was considering her cassette collection when Draco arrived. He zoned in on the beer even before he'd set his attaché case down, and much like her, his first sip reeked of desperation. Maybe he'd had a trying day as well. Maybe Fiona was dull-witted and he hated her.
"Alright, Draco?"
"Yeah," he replied.
"How was–"
He veered off towards the kitchen and, upon poking his head through the door asked, "What are you inflicting on us today?"
Hermione couldn't hear Theo's response. She turned back to face the music, and after intense deliberation picked out Elton John, with the hope that Draco might enjoy his piano playing. Your Song began to play, and she started when he spoke up right behind her.
"How does that contraption work?"
Hermione picked up a tape at random and held it out on her palm, while he came close, (um, close,) to see.
"You see these spools?" she warbled at an inelegant pitch, "The tape wound around them is coated with iron – ferric oxide – that can be permanently magnetised. It can be used to both record and play sound. An electromagnetic signal is impressed onto this coating, and..."
She tapped the player to render it's outer casing transparent, revealing its inner mechanism.
"There's a motor in there that's turning the spools at a fixed speed. The magnetic coating transmits signals, and the microphone converts it into sound."
He bent low to peer at the machine and she followed. It was dangerous, but when again would she get the chance to study his profile at such proximity, while he was focused and unguarded? She could examine the slope of his cheek and the angle of his jaw. The sharp line of his nose and the wee dip below his lower lip.
If I was a sculptor, heh, but then again, no–
"How?" he asked.
"Er? How what?" She looked blankly at the player.
"How does it become sound?"
"Energy can change from one form to the other. Something like channelling magic to perform a whole variety of things. Um, somewhat. I think."
She straightened and stepped away before she lost her head. Taking a glug of beer, she perched on the arm of the sofa, waiting for him to disengage.
He didn't. The fascination seemed a bit Arthur Weasley-ish, but she didn't dare voice that thought.
"Draco," she pleaded, "What happened today?"
He sighed as he turned.
"Today was pretty shambolic. Even Safi looked peaky. Your clever ploy of distracting them with monetary concerns didn't really work – that matter was sorted in minutes, fixed on a sum a little lower than what Safi had initially stipulated. Then the quibbling began. A whole lot of back and forth, till someone decided to ask what exactly a state of crisis was in the first place. They demanded an exact set of qualification. Which led to more quibbling. Everybody had a different idea. They ran out of time somewhere between unignorable anarchy and oh dear, a famine."
Hermione slumped as she absorbed his report. That was the sort of bullshit she had been afraid of; arguments over semantics, pussyfooting, and indeed... quibbling.
"We definitely wouldn't have qualified," she muttered.
"Hmm?" he queried with a mouthful of beer.
"Us," she looked up at him and quirked her mouth, "Even during the worst of it, we had a seemingly functional Ministry. The anarchy was easily ignorable. ICW sessions carried on, and none of the British delegates would dare to bring up Voldemort because Umbridge and Yaxley would swallow them whole. And obviously no country was going to risk unwarranted interference."
Draco studied her in a far rougher manner as compared to how she had studied him. She averted her eyes, staring at her white-knuckled grip on the beer can.
"We wouldn't have qualified," he agreed in a low voice.
He walked past her to his armchair, where History of the World sat waiting for him.
By and by, Theo served them perfectly palatable glazed chicken, with a soggy rocket and tomato salad on the side.
Barros wouldn't let Hermione sit for the meeting with Millward's lawyers. She had barely been able to contain her furious outburst.
After trying to silently convey her displeasure to people who were too preoccupied to care, she trailed behind Kathy and Takumi as they walked out of their office, to catch a glimpse of the visitors so that she could get the villainish caricatures out of her head.
She stood behind the ajar door as the team of three entered: one man with an egg-shaped head, one woman (for shame) with red hair, and a young man trailing behind them with arms full of scrolls. Once everyone had disappeared into Barros' office, Hermione stepped out into the foyer, thrumming with agitation. A few moments of hesitation, followed by a little nervous bouncing, led to her casting a tweaked and extremely potent locking charm on Stamp's door. Then she took out an extendable ear from her bag, crouched by Barros' door, and slipped it through the gap underneath.
Pzzzzzt chrrrr bzzzzzz shhhh
Thwarted.
Before she could talk herself into dismantling the privacy wards, Hermione scurried back into the office and busied herself with the wolfsbane case, which, thanks to Lupin's Law, was a clincher.
Sometime later, Kathy and Takumi returned, openly incensed.
"They're offering five hundred galleons to drop the whole thing. Chuck the case, scorch the evidence, blah bloody blah," Kathy fumed, "We've sent a word to Twila; she's on her way."
"She won't agree to this," Hermione said.
"She shouldn't."
And sure enough, when Twila showed up, blanched and grim, she shook her head firmly at the offer, refusing the option to take some time to think it over. Madam Barros said "Very well," in that enigmatic manner of hers, and instructed Takumi to let Millward's lawyers know.
Hermione invited Twila to have lunch with her in the canteen, smiling in the most reassuring way that she could.
They sat with bowls full of warm pumpkin soup and crusty bread, small talk quickly getting eclipsed by their shared anger. Hermione learned that Twila, Hattie, and their friends and families had set up camp outside Millward's shop, hindering his aim to carry on, business as usual.
"I did the right thing, didn't I?" she asked, "I don't want his filthy money. I want him to burn."
"Yes," Hermione agreed, "Yes."
That was when she spotted Harry and another auror standing in line at the counter, collecting the usual pile for their mates. She waved him over, thinking he might raise Twila's spirits.
It worked beautifully. Hermione was pleased and completely unbothered by the annoyed look Harry shot her before he left. He'd understand once she explained the whole situation to him.
"Oh, he's even more handsome in person!" Twila gushed, "It's a pity the papers only publish black and white pictures. His eyes are green, aren't they?"
Hermione chuckled. "As a fresh pickled toad."
The second half of the day dragged in the way one might be dragged when chained to the back of a bullet train.
Millward's lawyers owled back a thinly veiled threat that assured them that refusing to settle was a big, terrible mistake. Barros took their letter making a vague comment about waving it around during her casual tea and nibbles time with Ogden.
After that, they juggled the other two cases: They submitted the Tutshill affidavit, and thereafter put their heads together to figure out if there was any discernible difference between barn owl and snowy owl droppings, (and if not, whether there was any way to magically ascertain the source of said droppings.)
Priori Excrementum, Hermione thought. She suggested reaching out to a muggle forensics laboratory, and both her colleagues took her far too seriously.
At long last, when it was time to leave, their departure was unexpectedly delayed by the furious rattling of Stamp's door.
"What on earth?" Kathy breathed. She rushed ahead while shouting, "Are you alright, Mr. Stamp?"
Muffled howls and loud thumping emitted through the door. The rattling intensified.
Kathy tried to pull it open. Takumi tried to pull it open. Kathy cast an alohamora. Takumi cast a finite. No surprise that nothing worked. Hermione stood mutely, doing her best to look troubled and innocent.
Maintenance was summoned. They spent half an hour working out spells to undo whatever mysterious, powerful enchantment had its hold on the door, but ultimately were forced to use a reducto.
Stamp shot out and was out of the room in seconds, with the gait of one who had a dangerously full bladder. The Maintenance team informed them that a new, privacy-charms-imbued door would take a few days to install and that they would send Mr. Stamp the bill.
"What took you so long?" Theo demanded the moment she stepped through her fireplace.
"Don't ask," she groaned as she nestled into a corner of the sofa and hugged her legs.
Arms crossed mulishly, standing at the kitchen door, Theo said, "Too late. I've already asked. What happened?"
Draco carefully marked his page and looked up.
So, she told them, mumblingly, staring at the rug... and bit the insides of her cheeks while they both laughed at her. Once they were through and Theo had gone back to cook, she set her chin on her knee and looked expectantly at Draco.
Laughter had tinged his cheeks and brightened his eyes, reminding her of life's endless capacity for cruelty. He was lovely and she felt a painful yearning in her soul that mingled most debilitatingly with the anxiety over what he was about to tell her. She wanted someone, (not just someone,) to hold her close and kiss her breathless, while telling her that everything would be fine.
She expected his face to fall, but the humour remained intact.
"The venerable delegates have agreed on a definition for state of crisis. No, I cannot tell you what it is, because it takes up over a foot of parchment. I believe some of the more difficult members were made to see reason by the sheer force of volume. There was another quarrel over the size of the team of Aurors who would be dispatched to employ defensive magic and lay safe passages for rations and school-going children. And yet another about the list of potion's supplies. The most controversial ingredient was fucking maral root, as if that's something anyone needs during an emergency. But Granger, you can stop looking like I'm skinning a House-Elf over here, because they've settled on a tentative final draft. If all goes well, a new bit of emergency legislation will be passed before lunch tomorrow."
She was silent and dazzled momentarily, for she truly had been expecting the worst. Then she breathed out slowly and fell backwards till she could rest her head.
"Was Safi less peaky today?"
"He was. He sends a warm handshake for dear Ms. Granger."
Why did that set her off?! It had to be his voice.
Hoping he'd think she was flushing from Safi's compliments, she quickly got to her feet, mumbling an inane, "I'll just..." as she left the room.
She didn't have to just anything. However, for good measure, she splashed some water on her face, put her stuff in the study, and changed into a warmer, more comfortable jumper.
When she returned to the living room, Theo was placing fish kievs on the table. They were crumbly and unevenly coated.
There was not even a hint of a fuss over the Tutshill incident. No court summoning, no demands of further proof, no weeks of avoidance. The very next day a notice was sent to the reinstated Werewolf Support Services in the Being Division, instructing them to send a representative to survey the damage and dispatch immediate compensation.
The suppliers were severely reprimanded. Someone lost their job.
Oh, look at the marvellous, dutiful efficiency of the Wizengamot.
Women continued to wait their turn.
By noon they received a notice informing them that Mr. Eldon Audley Millward had filed a case of slander against their client, the squib Twila Elliot. Triumph flashed across Barros' face. An inconvenient and indirect way to get Twila to court it may be, but it would still serve their purpose.
Hermione had been obsessively looking at her watch all day. She was impatient and short because owl droppings were the last thing on her mind. The closer the minute hand edged towards lunch, the worse she got. Her throat had shrunk and her stomach was rioting. It was like she was waiting for her NEWTs results again, only with slightly larger, global repercussions.
When the hour finally struck, Hermione scurried – then slowed – then hurried down to the old siesta room. It was pitch dark, so she summoned her army of bluebell flames, steadying and comforting as always, and sat at the table, facing the door.
She had brought some work with her, in case the wait would be long, but after reading the same sentence six times, she gave up trying. It was so quiet, she could hear the seconds tick by. She started whistling, but she'd never been very good at that; she sounded shrill and wheezy. She hummed out loud and sang in her head.
Little patience,
Need a little patience,
Just a little patience...
The handle of the door turned and she jumped to her feet, nearly toppling her chair in the process. Draco walked in, unhelpfully affectless as ever. Hermione had a question on the tip of her tongue, yet her larynx would not cooperate. Her swollen heart went thud-thud-thud like a bass drum.
He stood halfway between the door and the table with his hands behind his back, letting the silence and suspense become unbearably stifling.
"Out with it!" she managed to croak.
His face split into a broad, radiant grin.
"It's done."
Thud thud – blip – thudthudthudthudthudthud –
"...D–done...?"
"Yeah. It's been passed."
"Passed? Really?! Are you being serious?!"
He laughed, light and effervescent. "You think I'm having you on?"
"Oh. My god!"
She squealed with delight and dashed around the table, rushing towards him as her arms lifted –
His grin fell. She stopped dead.
Just two steps away, quivering on the balls of her feet, her arms slowly settled back at her sides. He was stillness personified; his frame frozen in place, and his gaze wide, sharp, and fixed on her. It was like he recognised her volatility, and it scared him.
For she was a balloon filled to capacity – one touch and she'd burst. She was a dome of liquid over the rim of a glass – one tap and she'd spill over. Her lungs were shallow pools and she was panting.
She rippled slightly from the precariousness of her stance and fell back onto her heels. His eyes slid down her body and back up, after which they were somehow sharper; honed in.
The door reopened and very many people entered. One stocky figure leapt onto the bed, and suddenly Draco was no longer in front of her. Instead, it was Safi, beaming joyously.
"Ms. Granger, Alhamdulillah, we have done it!" He moved her hand up and down vigorously, as though he had a whole lot of excessive energy to expend, "For a moment I was worried but... there are good people, still, in this world. A team of aurors and healers are being put together as we speak! Oh, please let me introduce you to my friends!" He stepped back and ushered the other people forward. "They are so eager to meet you!"
She met Suraj Devkot from Nepal, Abena Bekele from Ethiopia, and Lubomir Bachvarov from Bulgaria. They were a very friendly, very effusive bunch, whom Hermione was too dazed to fully appreciate.
She needed to stand in an empty room. With her eyes closed. For many minutes.
More chairs were conjured, and they all sat around the table, (Safi between Hermione and Draco,) and their chatter managed to drown out Kenny's snores.
Safi had brought a box of fudge like sweets that were coated in crushed pistachios. He went on to relay the past week's events in a more detailed manner than Draco had, giving Hermione a better idea of how tremendously galvanic and fired up the sessions had been. Bachvarov turned out to be friends with Victor, and he said something overly-flattering about her living up to all his praise.
They left one by one, with pleasant words of farewell. Bachvarov kissed Hermione's hand and held onto it as he spoke – "The next time I am here, you must let me take you out for dinner. You truly are a lovely rose, just like Victor said."
Hermione drew her hand away, forcing out a laugh and a noncommittal hum.
Safi made her promise that they would meet again as friends, not co-conspirators, and that she would visit Kabul to meet his wife and three children, and his mother and old uncle, and his goats. He tried to thank her again, but she shook her head.
"You pulled this together, Mr. Safi. Thank you."
Then, it was just Draco and her and thick, tight tension. As she gathered the scrolls that she had pointlessly brought with her, she struggled to find words that would diffuse the situation. She didn't expect him to do it; he never did. He kept resolutely watching her, making her skin prickle and her fingers fumble.
One look at her watch saved her. She had less than five minutes to get back to the office.
"Oh, blast," she huffed.
He barked a laugh. "Nothing in history has had its purpose less recognised than your watch."
Hermione stayed facing the door but turned her head to look... in his general direction.
"Pardon me?"
"You're always running late, scurrying about like a headless chicken."
"I'm scarcely ever late. It mostly happens when you are invo–"
"I have never seen you look at your watch and not jump into a panic after."
She gave him a withering look. "That's a gross exaggeration. And I could hardly have been checking the time while we had company – Ah! I can't be indulging in such a braindead argument right now."
She resumed her egress.
"Yes, the company," he persisted, "Bet your ego is the size of the sun by now. Did you enjoyed being fawned at?"
Hermione wheeled around and glared. "What is your problem?"
He didn't look like he had any problems, to be honest. Smirking superciliously, chair tipped back on two legs, boss asleep and nowhere to be. He raised his palms in a gesture of surrender.
"No problems here, Granger."
"Hermione," she snapped without thinking.
"Psh. No thanks."
She pressed her lips together. His smirk became smirkier. A three second stalemate. She made to turn away again.
"That's how it starts, isn't it?"
She pulled in a long breath. "How what starts, exactly?"
"The inculcation, of course. First, it's all limpid doe-eyes and call me Hermione, and in no time at all you're demanding blood sacrifices at your altar."
Hermione's jaw dropped to the floor. He was still smirking, though his tone should have been bitter enough to curdle any expression.
Kenny snored like a cartoon bear.
"That's exactly how it happened with Theo. You went from Granger to Hermione, and all of a sudden, he's out and about, duelling with Death Eaters even though I expressly told him to stay in the dungeons."
"Have you lost your mind?" she exclaimed.
"I don't even know where it stops. Now he's cooking for you and calling you cute little names – I suppose he's contractually bound to complement you at least three dozen times a week?"
"You have lost your mind! You're–"
"I'm not getting sucked into your shit. For all I know, you'll demand that I call you a lovely rose next, and I might never stop vomiting."
"You know, Draco," she growled, "You really are the most odious little twat when you're jealous."
"I'm not fucking jealous!"
All at once, he was on his feet, and that obnoxious smirk was gone. They glowered at each other across the room, while Kenny's nap suffered a momentary disruption. He turned over, shuffled for a bit, and the snoring resumed.
"I'm not jealous," Draco reiterated at a lower volume.
"You are," Hermione avowed through gritted teeth, "You are the most jealous person I've ever known. You spent your entire time in school stomping around in a snit because you were jealous of Harry. You moulded your whole bloody personality around competing with him–"
"What the fu–"
"No! You listen to me. You were jealous because Harry chose Ron, you were jealous when Theo dared to make another friend, you were jealous that I was better at magic than you. You were jealous over quidditch, over attention, accolades, and popularity... And now you're jealous because I'm getting rightful appreciation for the great deal of work I put in? Oh, I'm so sorry they were shaking my hand rather than falling to their knees at the honour of being in your presence! How dare anyone else get attention when Draco Malfoy is in the room. Next time I see Bachvarov, I'll be sure to tell him to compare you to a flower. You're not very rose-like... so perhaps he can call you a wilting narcissus!"
Breathing heavily, she curled her hands into tight fists and forced herself to maintain eye contact. There was no rapid-fire retort from Draco. He gaped at her with barefaced incredulity; eyes round and mouth slightly open.
As the silence rang on and on, she knew she had touched a nerve.
She departed without another word, dispelling her bluebells and leaving him in darkness. He was such a brat. It should've been enough to extinguish her interest in him.
Barros was waiting in the office, hands on her hips, tapping her foot. Hermione got a solid fucking earful.
So, there you have it. Even after a significant accomplishment, she was stuck with ill humour.
Things got better when she returned home, and Theo patted her back and told her he was making celebratory (dad's vague estimation of) paella.
Things got shit again when Draco arrived.
He had the evening's Prophet in his hand, and he brandished it like a banner at Hermione and Theo.
"Kenny's vacuous, scowling mug is on the cover. The ICW's Dark Horse makes history with pivotal humanitarian legislation!"
He tossed it onto the coffee table, and Hermione bent forward to see the picture in question: Kingsley, Supreme Mugwump Akingbade, and a few other senior delegates surrounded Kenny and beamed at the camera, while Kenny scowled at something to the side.
"Nauseating," Theo remarked, "But this is what you agreed to."
"Yes," Hermione sighed.
"Not to this! They're calling him inspired. Percipient. Compassionate."
"Are you jealous?" she sniped.
She picked up the paper and began reading as Theo went back to the kitchen, and she diligently ignored Draco. Who, as it happened, was not in the mood to be ignored.
"I was just taking the piss, Hermione. There was no need to get so tetchy and offended."
She scoffed from behind the paper.
...clauses of the Statute of Secrecy thus far had kept magical communities from interfering with –
"I was. You lashed out for no reason."
That made her livid and she threw down the paper. "You lashed out for no reason. I merely reacted."
"In a very bitchy manner."
"Sod off."
He smirked, and that was it. She no longer fancied him.
"I wasn't at all suggesting that you don't deserve to be commended, Hermione. You do. It should be your name in the paper."
"I'm not bothered."
He snorted. "So noble."
Tucked under his other arm was a very expensive looking bottle of elderflower wine. He walked to the sideboard with elegant ease and took out three glasses.
She really ought not to watch him bend, now that she didn't fancy him anymore.
While a glass floated into the kitchen, ("Cheers, thanks!") he performed a leisurely strut towards her, one wine baring hand extended. She accepted the glass without a thanks, because that's what a bitch would do, Draco.
He sneered, raised his glass, and said, "To you."
It was delicious. In spite of herself, her eyes fluttered as she savoured the first sip. She managed to hold back a sigh at the very least, and shot Draco a look of poison and reproach for having the audacity to ply her with such excellent wine.
He didn't react, because he was already deep within the pages of History of the World.
...Mr. Pendleton refused to answer any questions, but it is believed that his prime motivation was an unquenchable compassion for the plight of the magical community of Afghanistan, (that has been caught in the crossfire between domestic insurrections and muggle conflicts since 1989,) and a desire to ensure that no other nation suffers as Britain had during its two wizarding wars. The bill caused a furore when presented, leading to unprecedented daily sessions for the entire week, during which nearly every clause and provision was discussed...
Theo's rendition of dad's paella was shockingly splendid. Indeed, Hermione gaped at him, unable to find the connection between his skills and that dish.
"Were you just pretending to be rubbish at cooking?" Draco asked, "Did you violate our ceasefire? Oh, you have no idea what I have in store for–"
"No, you knob. I've been cooking for two weeks straight. I was bound to improve."
"But," Hermione said, "But this... this is..."
"You're the one who's been harping on about the merit of practice for years," he told her.
"Well... yes..."
"It helped that there were no exact measurements involved. Robert just said to add a dash of this, a bit of that..."
"Your dashes and bits are on point," she smiled.
"Yes, yes. My bits are perfect." (Hermione and Draco groaned.) "My poor neglected, forsaken bits."
"You just have to find some way to ruin the meal, don't you?"
"Go to hell, Draco. I'm processing a heartbreak. Oh, Mother Morgan's frilly petticoat. This is sublime. Hermione you will write to Robert about this won't you? Better yet... ring him up."
"He'll be so proud."
"Thank you, my dearest one. How I wish I had decided to fall in love with you instead of – Well."
Hermione laughed, peering at him in puzzlement. "I don't think that's the sort of thing you can decide on."
"Why not?" he shrugged, "We could've gone that way. You were definitely on the pull in the beginning."
Had she had food in her mouth, she would most certainly have choked. She put her spoon down and straight up goggled at him.
"I was not on the pull!"
"You so were. Batting those pretty eyelashes, acting all coquettishly unsure and baffled–"
"Acting?! I truly was unsure and baffled! You came out of nowhere!"
She had more than half a mind to upend his plate over his head. And Draco – who had not said a clever word thus far – was probably loving this; basking under such unexpected validation. Even imagining his triumphant smirk was making her blood boil. Fuck... fuck... fucking Theo.
"–coy little smiles, running hot and cold–"
"You spent so much time berating me for fancying Ron! So, which was it? Did I fancy him or was I chasing after you?!"
"That was an obvious ploy to make me jealous."
"Oh, bollocks!"
"Next you'll even deny flirting with me!"
"I never flirted with you! You flirted, because that's just your way–"
"Do you think I've forgotten that evening when you charmingly offered to wear nice underwear for–"
Hermione wailed. She buried her face in her hands and fucking wailed.
"That's right," Theo carried on, indifferent to her agony, "Was that not flirtation? Or did you often meet blokes in the library while wearing pretty knickers for platonic reasons?"
"IsaynonsensewhenI'mfrazzled," she moaned into her hands, wishing for immediate death... for any one of them, really. She wasn't picky.
"I'm pretty sure I made a comment about marrying you at some point, and you were so eager and enthused–"
"My goodness, Theodore. Shut up."
She wrenched her hands away, all thunder and lightning, while he beamed at her with wicked – downright diabolical – delight. She had no idea when he had started hating her.
A little ding emitted out of the kitchen.
"That'll be the cake," he grinned and left.
He had baked a cake. Bloody brilliant. With her sky-rocketing blood pressure, a hefty dose of sugar might actually do her in.
Her skin, from head to toe, was steaming hot.
Over the ringing in her ears, she could hear the steady scrape of Draco's spoon against his plate. He was happily scarfing down paella, enjoying the dinnertime entertainment. She resumed eating.
Theo returned with a chocolate cake that had a huge crater across the middle, and a bowl of custard. Dry cake, lumpy custard, both cloyingly sweet – thus equanimity was restored.
"I am done with cooking," Theo declared as they dug into their pudding.
Hermione was still too peeved to speak. Draco didn't say anything either.
"I peaked with the paella. Can only go downhill from here. Don't you agree Hermione?"
"I don't care."
"That was rude! Are you sad? Did I upset you with a tantalising image of what could have been?"
She turned to him with the intention of biting his head off, but found him laughing, eyes twinkling. Something in her snapped, and suddenly, she was laughing too. They fell about till she had tears in her eyes.
She shoved her bowl away and said, "This is pure sugar."
"It is!"
And they dissolved into cackles all over again.
Catching her breath, she snuck a long overdue glance at Draco. His expression was blank, and all he was doing was methodically spooning the sugary mess into his mouth. She had avoided his entire show of smugness and she got to witness his displeasure at her good humour.
That right there was a moment of divine justice.
They polished off the rest of the wine after dinner. The Cure played softly in the background and Theo detailed a story about George, a toddler, his furious mother, and a faulty nosebleed nougat. Draco read quietly.
At around eleven, Theo yawned, and made such an abrupt departure that he may as well have disapparated.
"Bye?" Hermione called out to his back as he leapt into the fireplace.
She hadn't even a chance to turn away before Draco strode past her, cloak in hand.
"You're leaving, too?"
"Yeah."
"Oh."
There was no explaining why she stood up and walked behind him. At the hearth, he faltered, and turned to her.
"I did lash out first."
"You did."
She swallowed. He pulled in a long breath.
"It was..." His eyes skimmed over her face. "Uncalled for."
"Yes."
With that, he melted into green flames.
Hermione didn't move. His cologne lingered in the air, mixing with ashy, floating floo powder particles.
She stood in the empty room. With her eyes closed. For many minutes.
And when she did move, she darted to the player and changed the music to something faster, wilder, freer.
She danced till she was breathless, breathless, breathless.
Two weeks since they had requested a hearing. Nothing had come of Millward's accusation of slander as yet, either.
Hermione had gone to Knockturn Alley during the weekend, to see the group picketing the shop. Ethically, she wasn't supposed to join them, so she wore a glamour as she handed out flasks of hot coffee and a big tin of biscuits. Twila was as determined as ever, but Hattie was beginning to show signs of wear and tear. Hermione understood – worry for her family took precedence, and she still hadn't secured another job.
The other accusers, friends, and supporters came and went; but those two stayed all through the day. People who passed by barely spared them a glance, too concerned with their own brown studies. Nobody paused to ask questions. One woman read a placard as she walked, but did not come to a cold stop as she should have.
Hermione left them with empty words and a strong warming charm.
After all that, it felt sickening to spend two days attempting to mediate an argument over owl droppings. Although, to be fair, she was sitting to the side, taking notes, while Kathy was mediating. (It was originally meant to be Stamp's job, but Barros' faith in him had continued to wane at a constant pace.)
Ellington and Speight were two young men in their late twenties, who had been sharing a flat for three months. Their owls were called Fidget (the barn owl) and Cyrus (the snowy owl) respectively.
"We agreed that we would clean up after ourselves! Those were your ruddy owl's droppings all over the balcony!"
"Cyrus only shits in a designated corner of his cage!"
"I saw him doing it! He shat in our balcony!"
"He would never! It was your ill-bred raptor!"
...And so on. Any attempt to alter their agreement to something where they cleaned the balcony on alternate days, regardless of whose owl defecated there, fell on deaf ears. The notion that banishing charms were the easiest thing to do, and certainly not worth such a fuss was considered gravely offensive.
Kathy and Hermione exchanged pained looks many times. But Speight was well-heeled, and that was that.
The days of working on the crisis aid bill felt like a hundred lifetimes ago.
Owl droppings, she thought as she made a trip to Diagon's owlery on Wednesday during lunch, to send a letter to Padma.
She missed the drive, the ferment, the purpose.
Owl droppings, she grumbled as she received a response late that night.
She missed doing something valuable. She missed helping people.
Owl droppings, she blustered as she dispatched another owl on Thursday morning.
She missed coming home exhausted in the best way, only to work more.
Owl droppings, she thundered as she received an affirmative word in the evening.
She missed Draco. Did he miss her, too?
Owl droppings, no more.
She had come to expect that a Hermione at the end of her tether was an eruptive thing. So even as she heard Barros' voice in her head, hissing words like impudent, brash, foolish, she marched on, through the atrium and out the Ministry on Friday afternoon.
For she had a tried and tested blueprint, after all. She knew what she was doing.
She apparated onto a grassy patch amid blustery weather, and rhymed rook with brook, and moon with noon as she trundled up the hill upon which the Lovegood House sat.
She walked along the path through the garden that was hunkering down for winter, and rued the fact that she still hadn't seen it in its springtime splendour. The crab apple tree was just as laden as the last time, and Jamila Lovegood was standing under it, collecting fruit using careful severing charms.
"Hello," Hermione called, softly for she did not want to startle her.
Mission unaccomplished. She dropped her wand and one crab apple fell to the ground with bruising force.
"Hello," she replied after profuse apologies were exchange, "Yes... Xeno said he was expecting you. Please, come in."
They stepped into the house and, the moment she saw the painted walls, Hermione was hit with a wave of remembrances.
Memories of the ever-present terror of war, of hallows and horcruxes, of bitterness between the best of friends, of Theo stuck and scared, of Harry angry and hopeless, of Ron desperate and repentant, of Tonks – round and glowing, terrified and excited – waddling down the spiral staircase.
Hermione lost her baring for a moment.
Where – Oh.
What – Right.
"Are you alright?"
"Yes," she replied firmly, "Yes, I'm –"
The kitchen door opened and Luna stepped out, her grin upon seeing Hermione warm, sincere, and immediate. She absolved Jamila of the duty to take her to Xenophilius, and that was how Hermione found herself awkwardly standing on the step below Luna, as the staircase moved upwards at a snail's pace.
"How have you been?" she muttered, "How was Guyana?"
"Wonderful," Luna sighed, "We stayed in floating cabins next to a waterfall."
"That sounds amazing. Did you encounter any of those Atar Pixies?"
"Oh, yes. An entire tribe. We witnessed a midnight ritual and saw our soulmates reflected in a pool of opal milk."
"Ah..." Hermione hedged. "Did you... um..."
"I'm not going to tell you who I saw, Hermione. It's personal."
"Right, right. Of course."
"I'm leaving for Landes tonight. There have been ever-increasing sightings of Lou Carcolh."
"Fascinating."
They had arrived on the first floor, and Luna lead her down a walkway that curved along the wall.
"I miss talking to you, you know?" she said.
Hermione baulked under the subsequent rush of guilt.
"I do too, Luna. I'm... I'm sorry."
"It's okay. You were Theo's friend first. Oh, actually," she stopped in front of a big blue door, "That isn't true at all. You were my friend first. Hard to believe, isn't it?"
"Erm."
"But it's okay," she smiled, "I understand. Theo needs his soulmates."
"Luna..."
She was just the purest soul, wasn't she?
"How is he?" she asked in a small voice.
"He's... coping," Hermione shrugged, "The best he can."
Luna nodded, and pushed open the door.
In parting, she said, "Take care of him. I told you – our wedding will be in five years. Don't you worry. And daddy's probably by the printing press."
Hermione ventured inside the large circular room – Xenophilius' workroom – walking carefully to avoid the stuff that was all over the place. It reminded her of the room of hidden things. Stacks of paper, piles of inscrutable stuff, models of unnameable creatures, a stone bust of Rowena Ravenclaw...
She spotted the huge wooden printing press, creaking and humming with magic, by a round window, and Xenophilius sitting next to it, in a patchwork armchair, resting his bad leg on a fluffy ottoman.
"Ms. Granger," he greeted with a tilt of his head, "You will forgive me for remaining seated, I hope? The changing weather has affected my leg poorly."
"I'm so sorry to hear that," Hermione said, settling on the chair opposite his, "I hope pain potions help with that?"
"Commercial pain potions are laced with Cipactli scales. They will slowly poison you till you die."
"Is that so?"
He nodded gravely as he summoned a flask and two glasses from somewhere in the chaos around them. The next thing Hermione knew, she had a huge helping of gurdyroot infusion in her hand.
"Potion brewers will never get caught because it works so gradually – anywhere between sixty to a hundred years."
"How can you tell if someone's died from gradual, hundred-year poisoning, or due to natural causes?"
"Exactly," he averred, raising his glass to her.
Hermione took a sip the size of a dew drop.
"I'm sorry Mr. Lovegood, I would really love to chat–" Not "–but I must be back at work in half an hour. So, if you don't mind, I would like to get to the purpose of my visit."
"Please. Go ahead."
"I need you to publish a story for me in The Quibbler."
She went on to explain the Millward case, from the plight of the young squibs to the apathy of the Wizengamot. Xenophilius listened intently, clicking his tongue with regret from time to time. And once she was through, he simply said, "The Quibbler will always stand for justice, and boldly print what the Prophet won't... what the Ministry doesn't want you to know."
He finished his infusion, forcing Hermione to take another dew-sized sip.
"I will proudly run this story on the front page of the Quibbler's January edition–"
"No!" she cried, "Please. This cannot wait! It has to come out this month."
"My dear," he said gently, "I'm afraid that is impossible. This month's edition is going to print this weekend. The Quibbler always comes out on the seventh of every month, and we have a trail-blazing piece on Atar Pixies that–"
Hermione cut in again – "Please, Mr. Lovegood. It's already been two weeks since we asked for a court date. We need sexual harassment and assault cases to be fast-tracked, to be considered a serious crime–"
"I understand–"
"These women... they have nothing. No money, no jobs, no support system. They're my age. Luna's age."
He sighed and pressed a hand against his eyes, (Hermione banished every last drop of her gurdyroot infusion.)
"I can't pay you."
"I know. It's fine. And I won't be writing the piece anyway... I'm a part of their legal team. I can't."
He removed his hand and peered at her.
"Please tell me I will not be sullying the name of my publication by having Rita Skeeter's name on it again?"
"Not at all," Hermione assured him at once, "Have you heard of Anita Storstrand? Ex-foreign correspondent with the Prophet."
He shrugged. "Somewhat."
"She's highly respected and famously upright."
He sniffed. "Does she know I will not be paying her?"
"Yes," Hermione lied.
"Well. All right, Ms. Granger. If you can send me the article by Monday, I will print it in this month's edition."
Hermione stood up. "Thank you, Mr. Lovegood. Thank you so very much. I knew I could count on The Quibbler. Your publication has never disappointed."
She wondered if she was laying it on thick enough, but the man smiled.
She made it back to the office mere seconds before she and Kathy were due for another meeting with the owl droppings duo.
On Saturday morning, jittery and trepidatious, Hermione entered a rustic muggle coffee shop in Uxbridge with a muffler covering the bottom half of her face and a tight grip on her bag. She looked about the wood-and-exposed-brick interior, passing over the moderate-sized crowd. Delicious aromas swept her away for a bit – freshly baked bread and roasted coffee; a hint of chocolate and cinnamon.
There was a hiss of steam, the trickle of a percolator, a man's low chuckle...
"Hermione?"
She turned to her left and there was Parvati, smiling nervously and fidgeting with the ends of her sleeves.
She looked so different. Her face and figure had filled out, and she was dressed very simply in a knitted beige jumper. Her hair, while still a dark, long and glossy sheet, was streaked with multiple thin stripes of lavender.
"Hi," Hermione said cautiously.
Parvati stepped forward and hugged her. Not expecting that in the least, Hermione was only able to awkwardly pat her on the back before she pulled away, her smile even more nervous than before.
"How are you?" they both asked.
They laughed and Parvati gestured to the counter, after which the process of placing their orders went about in silence. With a caffè latte each and a plate of shortbread, they found a large table near the back of the room and settled, whereupon Hermione cast a quick muffliato.
She thought to take a sip before venturing into conversation, but her beverage was too hot. She blew feebly at the foam. Parvati was still smiling nervously, waiting for Hermione to speak first.
"So," she drew out, colouring it with all the warmth she could muster, "It's nice to see you again, Parvati. You look lovely."
"Thanks," she muttered, twisting a lavender lock, "I did this two months back, for Lav's birthday. You know I've always been pretty ace at hair charms."
Hermione smiled thinly and nodded. She had expected Lavender to come up, but not with such immediacy. She spread a gentle cooling charm over her cup. A few seconds later, she was able to take a small sip.
"How have you been doing?" she asked, peering at the coffee swirls on the milky froth.
"I'm okay. Healer Asher really helped bring me out of the hole I'd dug myself into. I heard Harry's been seeing him as well? Oh, don't worry," she added with a tentative titter when Hermione looked up sharply, "I'm not the gabby bint I used to be. I won't go around telling anyone. I... I know better than that."
"I'm glad you're doing well," Hermione muttered, "Padma's been singing your praises... and I'm sure you know how rare it is for her to be sincerely impressed."
"Oh, I know," Parvati said with wide-eyed weightiness.
They paused to share a chuckle.
"Look, Hermione," she sighed, "The reason I asked you to come a bit earlier is... well... I wanted to apologise."
Hermione reared back and stared. "Apologise?"
"Yeah. For the way I treated you back in school. I was mean and nasty. I've been focusing now on being a better person, see. Less shallow and jealous... because I was, by the way. Jealous. Of you."
"You were jealous of me?!" Hermione sputtered.
"Of course," Parvati said with a rueful shrug, "You were smarter and braver than I could ever dream of being. You somehow befriended Harry bloody Potter, you got so pretty without even trying, and my own sister liked you better than she liked me. You went about excelling in everything, and not caring about what people thought because you knew you were better... it drove me up the wall. And I took it out on you. I'm so sorry, Hermione."
"I did care," she admitted, "For the first four years of school, very, very few people genuinely liked me. And even they seemed to get tired of me quite easily. While you... well, you were almost universally liked and admired. I was jealous. So bitter and angry. Acting superior was just my attempt at coping. And I am sorry, too. I was rather unkind to you as well... to you... and... Lavender. I'm so sorry for... that she..."
"Yeah," Parvati breathed. Her eyes were worryingly shiny.
Hermione decided not to mention that she was still bitter and angry a lot of the time, and that she was just better at hiding it.
"You are brave, Parvati. Incredibly so."
"Thank you."
They took a much-needed breather, sipping their coffee and biting into shortbread. Parvati brushed the corner of her eye against her shoulder. From somewhere, the same man chuckled again. Steam hissed.
"This is an amazing thing you're doing," Parvati piped up by and by, "Just the sort of thing I'd expect of you, to be honest."
"I really appreciate your help. How did you get in touch with Anita Storstrand? Hadn't she already resigned by the time you started working at the Prophet?"
Parvati nodded. "Mr. Cole – my boss – is a good friend of hers. He took her side while she was still trying to reason with the editor-in-chief. You know what happened, right? She was in Moldova when the Death Eaters took over the Ministry. She knew coming back would be a death sentence, so she spent the time writing articles about what was going on for publications around the world... from The States to, like, Japan or something. She moved to Oslo for a bit... Then to Chicago.
"When the war ended, she came back and said she'd continue to write for the Prophet only if they issued a public apology for being spineless. They refused, so she left. Mr. Cole kept trying on her behalf, but even he resigned in solidarity a month back. I wanted to as well, you know... but he told me I should stick around, gain some experience, and join their publication once they've got it together."
"They're starting their own paper?"
"Oh yes. Anita's writing a book as well, actually and–"
Parvati stopped; her eye caught on something behind Hermione. Then a woman approached their table. They both stood up to greet her.
She had to be under five feet tall, with wiry salt-and-pepper hair and severe, square glasses set on a round face. She shook both their hands, and said meeting Hermione was a pleasure instead of an honour. She had a spiral bound notebook and black gel pen in her hands. Hermione liked her already.
With perfunctory pleasantries out of the way, Parvati insisted on fetching Storstrand's cuppa for her, leaving the other two to talk.
The first thing Hermione said was, "Ms. Storstrand–"
"Anita."
"Anita, Xenophilius Lovegood will not be able to pay you for–"
"I don't give a fuck," she said, waving the words away, "This story needs to be told... needs to be shouted from rooftops. Good on you for standing up, but I hear that's on fucking brand. And I've always admired Lovegood for what he did during the wars. Better to be considered a madman than to be craven, rotten bastards. The Prophet needs to take lessons on ethics from The Quibbler."
"Er, yes," Hermione hedged, trying to recover from the strong language and hoarse voice emitting out of such a small, serious looking woman, "Parvati mentioned that you're trying to start a paper of your own?"
"The Weekly Sentinel," she replied, "It's on hold till I can get my book out of the way. I've seen a fucking load of shite as a foreign correspondent. Journalism in the Magical world has an acute lack of ethics. It's going to be one fucking whopper of an exposé... as well as a manual."
"Sounds smashing."
Parvati returned with a steaming mug and Hermione took the chance to pull out a copy of the case file for Anita's perusal.
And no more than ten minutes later, Twila and Hattie pushed into the coffee house. Introductions were made, and Parvati smilingly took them to the counter to order.
Once everybody was seated, Hermione picked up her cup in both hands and sat back, letting Twila and Hattie take the reins.
George and Angelina had organised a mini quidditch tournament, consisting of seven hour-long matches; four a side, no seekers. Hermione had no intention of going; her Sunday plan involved pacing her flat, full of impatience and suspense, switching between beer and tea, till she hauled herself to the Burrow for supper: Mrs. Weasely's letter had given her no choice.
But earlier in the morning, just as she got home shivering and sweaty, legs shaking from her run and arms laden with bags from the bakers and greengrocers, she received a desperate owl from Padma, begging her to come. Tracey was dragging her along and she really, really would appreciate having some sane company.
Another letter that she could not refuse.
Thus, she showered and didn't put on baggy fleece pyjamas and Luna's absurdly comfortable werebunny slippers. Being extremely cognisant of who she would be encountering, she wore a nice jumper, a skirt, woollen tights, and spelled the scuffs off her boots. She pulled half her hair up and put on some earrings and perfume.
The state of her nerves went from jangled to shredded.
There was a small package among her shopping – a box of four fairy cakes that she had specially ordered for Draco. Each was topped with a delicate narcissus made of icing. It was the most petty-minded peace offering she had ever made, and while the idea had been to owl them to him, she was rather easily won over by the temptation of getting to witness his reaction.
The matches were due to start in twenty minutes, and it was now or... later. Hermione was extremely tired of waiting for things. She grabbed her bag and a coat, and flooed to the boys' flat.
"Good, you're here," Draco said the moment she stepped into the sitting room.
In most cases, that would be a gratifying sentiment. However, his lack of inflection could have it go either way. He was doing up the buckles of his flying boots, decked in fitted black slacks and a long-sleeved black tshirt. His broom rested against his chair and a coat and shirt were draped over its arm, the latter with PILLOCKS printed boldly across the back. He saw her frowning at it.
"My team. The Pillocks."
"Apt."
He looked bored by the comment and stood up, collecting his things. Hermione's hands spasmed around the box of fairy cakes.
"There's also the Clotpoles, the Lardarses, the Numpties, the Bawbags, the Jebends, the Spunktrumpets, and the Ronalds. All equally bad."
"Your idea?"
"George's."
"Why is it good that I'm here?"
He pushed his head through the shirt. She had to remind herself that undressing was sexy, and not... that. Not how long and firm his arms were, nor how his torso stretched taut, nor the way his hair was mussed in the process. He shook it back into place with his fingers.
"Theo's attempting to drown himself in the shower," he said.
"Why?"
"He's terrified that Luna's going to be there today. He wants to stay back, but also doesn't want to disappoint George, and leave the Jebends with one player short. He's such a valuable addition to any team. Nobody else is quite as good at being completely useless."
"Oh. But–"
"And I'm playing in the first round, so I don't have the time to coax and cajole. He's all yours. So long."
He made long strides towards the fireplace. Hermione panicked.
"Luna's in Landes."
"All right."
He barely faltered. She gave chase.
"Yes. She told me. While I was at her house on Friday."
He stopped and she walked over to stand between him and the floo.
"Why were you at her house?" he asked.
"I'd gone to see Xenophilius."
"Why?"
"Well, I–" she began, before cutting herself off.
"What?"
She raised her chin. "You're cagey all the time, Draco. It's my turn now. You'll see soon enough."
Clearly annoyed, he was poised to step around her. She quickly thrust the box out to him.
"Here."
"What's this now?"
"See for yourself."
An impatient twitch of his brow.
She watched him lift the lid with bated breath. At first, there was only a laden, calm-before-the-storm nothingness. Then he began to laugh.
She smiled, close-lipped and cautious, but when he carried on for much longer than expected, she began to wonder if he was laughing at her.
He pulled his wand out his coat and flicked it – a standard summoning charm. He kept staring down at the cakes, bemusement and light laughter persisting, till a small golden box zoomed through the room and into his hand.
"For you," he grinned. His eyes were dancing; completely different to how they were when she first arrived.
Inside the box were six chocolate roses, (so beautifully formed that she would feel bad about eating them,) coated with shimmering pink dust.
She laughed gaspingly and the beam she threw up at him felt half-crazed. He regarded her carefully, caught between a wry smile and a chuckle.
She blinked. When she opened her eyes, he was holding a fairy cake in his fingers and proceeded to take a large bite, smearing icing on the corner of his lips. His tongue shot out to collect it, dragging across his upper lip.
If her core tightened any further, it would cease to exist.
She sought his eyes and found them unchanged: Dancing, scrutinising. He kept his gaze steadily on her as he went in for a second bite. Icing just under his cupid's bow – he scraped it away with his lower lip.
"Good?" she murmured.
"Hmm."
The notes of that hum sent goose pimples down her spine. His jaw worked as he chewed, and she blindly reached into her own box to pick out a chocolate. She couldn't help but avert her gaze when she pushed it into her mouth, no more than she could help snapping it back a mere second after. His gaze hadn't budged.
Butterflies exploded in her stomach and dark chocolate and raspberry exploded in her mouth.
He smirked. "Good?"
She could only nod.
There it was. Bygones were bygones.
She was so far gone. Such a goner.
"Best of luck," she blurted out, "For the match. Matches."
He snickered as he polished off the last morsel, swiping residue off with his thumb and then licking it.
"Thanks, rosy."
He left and she shuddered palpably, stumbling backwards till she found an armchair to collapse into. Her heart was on a rampage, and every pore of her skin, every nerve ending, every stuttering pulse in her chest, mouth, wrists, neck, and between her legs was longing pleading yearning ravening to be touched. To be fucking ravaged.
She stared hard at the chocolate roses till they blurred, desperately attempting to quell the insanity. It was quite some time before she was able to get up and tend to Theo.
Theo hadn't needed to hear more than "Luna won't be there" to happily don his JEBENDS shirt. But halfway down the hall he stopped and demanded to know how she was convinced that Luna wouldn't be there, which led to a proper, long interrogation. It was only after Hermione had relayed her meeting with Luna thrice, and insisted that NO, she did not notice if Luna's eyes were more ashy than silvery, did Theo allow them to floo to the Burrow. By then, the first match had ended, and the Bawbags were prepping to face the Numpties.
Theo went off to join his team, and Hermione, predictably, sought out a head of platinum blond.
She found him standing by the refreshments table, holding a bottle of pumpkin juice and laughing with fucking Fiona. Among everyone present, he was the only one Fiona knew, so he must've invited her to watch him fly and get all ruffled and sweaty and rubicund.
He was going to destroy Hermione with all the contrary, overwhelming emotions he kept pulling out of her.
She found Padma, Parvati, and Tracey sitting to one side with team Ronald, (Ron, Harry, Dean, and Seamus,) and she marched up to them. Ignoring the usual (awful) way in which Seamus was trying to flirt with Parvati, and the unusual way in which Dean's nails were painted black and red, Hermione looked straight at Ron and said, "You better win this thing."
Ron grinned. "That's the idea."
She pressed on. "You need to hammer everyone else. Crush them."
"All well, Hermione?" Harry asked with a worried, penetrating look.
"Yes."
The others were rather amused and bolstered by her words. Guffawing, Ron pulled a spare shirt out of his rucksack and offered it to her.
"How would you like to be an honorary Ronald?"
"I would love that."
It was his size; ridiculous on her. As long as her skirt. But she didn't care about looking nice anymore. She pulled it on and settled on the grass next to Padma, falling into a discussion about the latest developments in her potion. She didn't let her eyes or mind wander.
An hour later, when it was time for the Jebends versus the Clotpoles, Hermione looked out to watch Theo kick off. He had Oliver Wood on his side, who would hopefully be able to balance out his terribleness. But then again, the other team had George and Alicia.
There were plenty of people around whom she didn't recognise, or only knew by name. She took note of each and every one, till just two remained. The backs of her eyeballs itched with the irresistible desire to check on Draco. She looked at him. Time slowed. He was looking at her.
.
.
A/N:
A few things!
1. In case you'd like a refresher on the underwear incident, it's on chapter three, the second to last segment.
2. Since it has FINALLY been picked up on - Yes, the character of Kenneth Pendleton is based on the singular, marvellous, inimitable, and glorious Karl Pilkington.
3. An insider's scoop (shhhh!) - What Hermione did not want you to know was that the song she danced to was "Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn't've)" by The Buzzcocks.