Chapter 37: Clayton Avery

"I like him." Jean Granger stared at the coffee pot and willed it to drip faster. Her modern, white and chrome kitchen made her feel like she was in some vapid magazine about housekeeping or a spaceship. It depended on the time of day. The fixtures and fittings had come with the home her husband loved, and she was too lazy to change it.

"You called him a shit at least fifteen times," Gene noted from his perch on the modern stool that he was never comfortable sitting on. He sipped his tea.

"I called the ginger one a cunt." Jean, bored of waiting, pulled the pot from the machine, pointedly ignoring the hiss of coffee hitting the element below. As fast as she could, she poured a large cup of the bitter pick-me-up and shoved the pot back under the drip. "Don't start." She noted her husband's affronted scowl.

"Your impatience isn't covered under the warranty Jean." he scolded.

"Shut up, you absolute nerd." Mrs Granger rolled her eyes and moved to the fridge, searching for milk.

"He's going to propose to her." Hermione's father placed his tea back onto the kitchen island and turned to look thoughtfully at his wife. "Told me while I was showing him the drill."

"Brave boy." Jean Granger chewed her lip thoughtfully.

"I said to him, 'isn't it a bit fast, son?' and he says 'no sir, I've loved her a long time."

Hermione's mother leaned on the kitchen island next to her husband and cradled her well-earned coffee. "She's going to say yes." Jean took a sip.

"She told you that?"

"No, I can just tell." Mrs Granger leaned her head on her husband's shoulder, "She's made up her mind. He's the one for her. You know Minnie when she's sure, she's sure."

"I'd say she's all grown up, but Hermione was the only three-year-old with a functioning Filofax, so I think that ship sailed many moons ago." Gene rested his head atop his wife's. "I thought you'd be more opposed to the idea."

"If we fight her on this, we just push her further away, and she's already on a different planet."

"Beloved and most favourite brother!" Ginny cheered happily from her perch on the kitchen table. Harry had taken James to swimming lessons with his cousin Dudley and his daughter Kaylee. The spelling made Ginny wince. It had been strange to see Harry with his muggle cousin attempt to mend the fences the Dursleys had ripped down. It had taken Dudley becoming a father himself to fully comprehend how fucked up his parents' treatment of Harry had been.

"You summoned me?" George Weasley brushed soot from his hoodie as he stepped from the floo.

"I invited you over for some brunch and a chat with Molly Weasley's favourite son." Ginny brandished the article Pansy had published.

"No." he groaned and turned back to the fire.

"My precious George has a heart the size of London and a brain to match." Ginny sang as she read from the publication.

"I'll never forgive her," George grumbled, rotating to face his baby sister once again.

"Who?" Ginny smirked and lowered the paper. "Mum or your new bestie, Panties Parkinson?"

"mum," George answered fast, too fast.

"Sit down," Ginny ordered busily, grabbing a bowl and slamming it in front of George. She reached for a box and placed it next to the bowl.

"What is this?" George chuckled, grabbing the bright cereal box.

"Brunch." Ginny had a jug of fresh milk and a spoon floating toward her brother as she took her seat across from him. "It's the good sugary Muggle cereal we don't feed the baby." She nodded at the box.

"sweet." George poured himself a bowl and avoided eye contact with his astute sister.

"Pansy Parkinson," Ginny spoke her name and let it hang in the air. Seconds ticked by.

"What about her?" George finally spoke as he swallowed a mouthful of cinnamon flavoured crunch.

"She's an interesting girl, isn't she?" Ginny tilted her head from left to right. He knew the move. Her, 'I'm about to throw you from your broom' look. "Mum's certainly partial to her."

"Yea, she's alright, I guess." George prodded the floating cereal with his silverware and watched as the flavoured powder drifted on the surface of the milk like dust.

"George…" Ginny looked at him earnestly, her voice screaming, ' c'mon, I know you .'

"Ninny." George threw his hands up. "What?"

"So there's suddenly a girl you're involved in some sort of prank battle with, and I'm just to accept 'she's alright, I guess.' for an answer? No sir." Ginny folded her arms across her chest and raised an eyebrow. "You haven't spoken to a female since the war. You haven't pulled a prank since…." Ginny swallowed. "Fred."

"Parkinson doesn't hesitate when she says his name." George stirred the bowl, no longer hungry.

"We didn't say his name enough." Ginny jutted her jaw. "We thought we were sparing your feelings, but we should have said his name." she looked at her brother, "I'm sorry." a weight which had sat in the pit of her stomach like a pebble in a river, lifted "What would Fred have thought of Pansy?" Ginny grinned. She didn't hesitate that time.

George's shoulders shook with an appreciative chuckle. "He would have probably thought she was alright… I guess." His gaze caught Ginny's, and he smiled, his eyes only a little bloodshot.

"You blush when you talk about her." Mrs Potter smiled and pursed her lips. "Your one ear goes all red."

"It's like you forget all the times I've asphyxiated our brothers for you." George finally dropped the spoon, leaving the now soggy cereal half-eaten.

"if it's worth anything to you, I like her." Ginny shrugged. "I mean, she's a bit of a weirdo, but who are we to judge?"

Kingsley Shacklebolt, Gretchen Sully, Oliver Babbish and for no good reason, Deirdre Barlow sat in an uncomfortable silence in a dark panelled office, somewhere in Dover. The only sound that punctuated the quiet was the ticking of a monumental clock. The meeting was seventeen minutes late to start, and the stuffy air was causing the Minister to break into a sweat.

"This is an outrage…." Deirdre started.

"Minister, I want permission to stun her if she speaks." Sully, the recently returned head of Transport, glared at Deirdre. The woman had been mentioned by name on the invitation to negotiate.

"calm down, Gretchen," Kingsley muttered, his eyes fixed on an eerily still painting of an elderly man.

"Nobody speaks," Oliver Babbish, the chief Council of the Ministry, barked.

"I'm sorry, she'll be with you in a moment." Mr Pinter smiled cheerfully as he stuck his head around the closed door, "can I get you anything while you wait? Water?" The little man shot a look at the Minister, noting the wetness of the gentleman's brow with a silent chuckle.

"We're fine, thank you," Kingsley said primly, waiting for the door to close again.

"She?" Sully looked around the room. "What happened to old Avery."

"He died." A new voice joined the conversation, and all eyes swung back toward the door, and Kingsley knew he'd lost.

Some Years Before

Hermione Granger stared at herself in the mirror as she ran her finger over her exposed and prominent ribs. "I'm so skinny." She commented at her reflection.

"Eat something then," Ron commanded from their shared bed, a chuckle tickling his lips like he'd said something funny. "But don't get fat, yea?" He raised a brow seriously.

"You're a pig." Hermione snorted at him. She grabbed the plain black dress she'd bought for the funerals and pulled it over her barely functioning frame. There was a bang, a door slamming somewhere down the hall. The sound rattled her, and she drew her wand, falling into a defensive crouch. She wasn't alone. Ron had leapt from the bed, his heart pounding and his wand trained on their door.

"Sorry!" They heard Ginny call absently to the house. Nobody liked loud noises.

"Where are you going?" Ron watched her, still on his feet, as she tied her hair back.

"I'm going to Dover," she said quietly.

"What's in Dover?"

"An old man who lost both his sons." She kept that both men had been Death Eaters out of her mouth.

"You're a bleeding heart." He groaned and rolled his neck. "You don't need to hold everyone's hand through every little thing."

"It's not a little thing. He's alone. I know what that feels like." Hermione spoke plainly. She would broker no argument with him. She needed time away from Ron, away from his needy hands and constant demands.

"fine." He sighed and flopped back into bed.

Hermione arrived in Dover with a knot in her stomach. She'd received a letter from Mr Avery shortly after the death of Voldemort with a request to meet her. He admitted being the father of two Death Eaters, and despite her better judgement, she'd gone to him, unaccompanied and without informing anyone.

"Hello, Miss Granger." The man who met her near Dover castle was small, round, bald with thick glasses and a genial smile. "I'm Clayton Avery. Thank you for meeting me." He shuffled toward her, his legs no longer as fit for purpose as they once were.

"Hello, Mr Avery." Hermione smiled and bobbed her head in deference to the last Avery.

"You've come alone?" He looked surprised as he took her hand and led her slowly to a bench.

"Yes, sir. The others… wouldn't…." She didn't know the words, how to tell this sweet little man that her friends would have been less than kind to him.

"Understandable." he conceded, taking a relieved seat. His voice was grumbling in a comforting way. It reminded her of her grandfather, who'd died when she was six. "I appreciate you taking this risk. I want to assure you I mean you no harm." He patted the empty space beside him. "I needed you to know. They weren't always bad." his eyes filled with tears. Hermione sat but didn't speak. "My great-great-grandfather invented floo powder, helped establish the floo network."

"I've read about him." Hermione shrugged and pulled at a loose thread on her coat.

"He was a great man. His wife was an even greater woman. She was a muggle-born, you know?" He blinked into the wind as he stared at the castle's crumbling walls.

"I knew that." Hermione nodded. "I thought it would be wise to make files on all known Death Eaters. Lots of them had muggle blood."

"I… the business started failing, costs you see." He explained, "and the boys were so angry at me, their mother died when they were young and… I worked, and when I told them we'd have to tighten our belts a little," He took off his glasses and swiped at his eyes. "They were angry at me, which pushed them into a bad crowd." his voice grew in pitch. "I think they got in too deep and just…."

"I get that." Hermione nodded, her mind flitted to the letter she'd received from Draco Malfoy before his trial. "I'm really sorry for your loss. A parent shouldn't have to lay their children to rest." Hermione, with a heart more extensive than the white cliffs of Dover, took the man's hand in her own and held fast. He let out a rattled sob.

"Thank you." he managed to breathe after a few moments.

They sat for a while longer, Hermione asked the old man questions about the Floo Powder business, genuinely interested in how 'industry' worked in the wizarding world, and he, in turn, asked her of her plans.

"I'm going to go back to school, get my NEWTs." She pressed her palms together, now that his hand was no longer in hers. "They're letting anyone who wants to, go back to Hogwarts."

"Well, I can't offer you much, Hermione, but you have a job here when you leave." He smiled at the girl. She was as bright as a button, the kind of granddaughter he'd imagined he'd have one day.

"Can I write you?" she tapped her feet nervously. "I'd like to keep in touch with you if that's alright?" Her parents were somewhere in Australia, and if she was honest with herself, she wasn't sure she knew how to fix their memories. Mr Avery was all alone too.

"I'd like that." He took her hand in his and squeezed, "You should be getting back."

Hermione sat in the Hogwarts library, her lip trapped between her teeth and a pile of letters before her. She liked to do her correspondences straight after breakfast, before her first classes. The waistband of her skirt dug into the flesh of her hip. She smiled. She was finally putting weight on. She picked up the letter she knew to be from Mr Avery. The handwriting was familiar.

Dear Hermione,

Despite your best efforts, young lady, I will not disclose to you our powder formula. I can tell you, in the last letter, you did correctly identify a key element. I'll say no more. Pinter sends his thanks for the arthritis remedy you suggested. He tried it on me last week without my knowledge and said I was at least seventy per cent less crabby. We're renegotiating with the mining Dwarves. Little bastards are playing hardball and looking to be wined and dined. How are your classes? I appreciate you sending me a copy of your potions essay. If Slug hasn't given you full marks for that, the man's more a fool than I remember. I know you plan to spend your Christmas holidays in Australia, but please, if you can find the time, stop by Dover on your way?

Your friend

Clayton

Draco Malfoy sat on his smaller table and watched Hermione Granger's face react to the letter she read. He wondered what faces she's pulled when she'd read his letter. Probably disgust. He watched her chew her lip, and the sudden image of her pinned against a bookshelf popped unbidden into his mind. Voldemort, giant snakes, dead bodies, he mentally listed unsexy things and tried to keep his wandering eyes to himself. He'd only recently started shouting Fuckety-Fuck when he came, and he lived in constant fear that Hermione would accidentally shoot him a sexy look and end him with a breath. Mortifying.

Dear Clayton,

It's Pyrite, isn't it? That's the one I got correct! I bet it is. Alas, old Slug gave me 98 per cent and claimed my assertion that forced maturation of Skrewts is cruel was, and I quote 'up for debate'. Please excuse my French dear sir, but he is an arse.

Hermione grinned as she scrawled. Clayton was a ribald and fiery man once you got to know him. He appreciated those qualities in Hermione, qualities she'd oft been told to tamp down.

I had intended to write you this morning to tell you the Australian Trackers found my parents, and the Ministry has had them portkeyed back home. I broke about seventeen laws when I wiped their memories and created false documents to set them up abroad, so the Ministry isn't letting me near them till they're of sound mind again. Harry says they might ask my parents if they want to press charges.

Hermione felt tears burn in the back of her nose. Other than Harry, nobody knew what she'd been going through. She didn't see Draco Malfoy grimace at her sudden turn of mood, nor the way he seemed to hover out of his chair for a second. Like he might go comfort her.

So I may stop by for more than a day if that's alright with you? I have some ideas I'd like to share with you, and I don't think either of us wants to spend Christmas alone.

A sudden thought hit Hermione, and she canted her chin up to catch Draco Malfoy scowling at her. His eyes returned to the book he had opened. She wondered if he had anyone to spend Christmas with, her mouth opened, and despite her excellent-sense telling her to shut up, she vocalised her thought, "Malfoy, you're not staying here for Christmas, are you?"

Draco looked like a Centaur caught in the headlights of a sentient Ford Anglia. He blinked at Hermione slowly. Opened and closed his mouth before finally finding the mental fortitude to slip his metaphorical mask back on. "No, I'm spending it with mother." He said coolly.

"OK, good." she nodded and returned to her letter.

He wondered if she was worried about him, or perhaps she just needed someone to feed that bloody bastard of a cat she owned; while she gallivanted… he shook his head, Hermione did not gallivant.

"I'm leaving it to you." Mr Avery nodded decisively, "twenty per cent to Pinter and eighty to you."

"Sir, this is mad!" She laughed. "I'm not without money. I'm…."

"This isn't about money Hermione." The old man leaned over the desk with some strained effort and grabbed her hands. "We're the sole producers of Floo powder on these isles. Without us, the world stands still. I need to know she's in good hands." He pointed out the window at the factory below, visible only to magical beings.

"Pinter…" She started.

"Is loyal, but he's not an ideas man." he finally relinquished her paw and sank back to his seat. "You're an ideas man… and I know you won't bleed the business dry." He flicked an eyebrow at her.

"Pyrite?" Hermione asked, conspiratorially.

"Nail on the head, my young friend." he grinned. "Since the war, the price of fools gold on the dwarven market is double the price of actual gold."

"Who needs gold when Gringotts are experimenting with paper money?" She read the financial pages just like the big boys. "That aside," Hermione grinned. "I have got an idea."

Present Day

"Hello, Miss Granger." Oliver Babbish led the charge with his arm outstretched. "I'm so glad to see you. We've missed your visits down in legal."

Hermione gave the man a warm and genuine smile before shuffling past him to take her seat behind the extensive desk that had once been Clayton's. She tried not to grin at the expression of horror on Miss Barlow's face. "I'm so sorry I'm late. I was meeting the staff for the first time. I've been running this place through a proxy, you see!" She laughed giddily and waved for them all to sit. "What with me no longer working at the ministry, I thought it about time I honour my promise to Clayton and be a pair of good hands." Hermione smiled at Pinter, who winked at her. He knew what was coming.

"So, you had commercial interests while working in the ministry?" Deirdre smirked, a little triumphant glow settling around her.

"Yes, and as per Ministry guidelines, I had my salary and bonds from Avery's put into a trust which wasn't accessible until I resigned. I also registered my interests with HR." Hermione grinned at Deirdre. "You really thought you'd got me there!" she exclaimed with a chuckle.

"Hermione, I understand you're frustrated. But isn't this a bit much?" Kingsley pointed at the letter she'd sent him.

"Oliver," Hermione ignored the Minister "If I were to take a case against the ministry to the international wizarding courts and could testify under veritas serum that the Minister said that the reason the Hob-Elves couldn't have a Floo Trade licence was that they weren't human, do you think I'd have a shot at winning?" Hermione cocked her head curiously and watched as Oliver swivelled narrowed eyes toward the Minister.

"Yes, you would, Hermione." Mr Babbish spoke through gritted teeth. An extraordinary point of international law stated that while it was acceptable to keep creatures as slaves, it was not permitted to legislate against them. For example, it could be legal to own an elf, but it would be against the international decree to pass a law stating that all elves were to be enslaved.

"When Avery passed away, and Pinter and I started to re-jig things, we found ourselves in a position to offer the Ministry free, unlimited Floo Powder. It was an honour to help the world get back on its feet." Hermione smacked her lips. "Well, you're standing now, so you can pay full price, like everyone else." Pinter couldn't help the grin at her words.

"Hermione, we can't afford that. Even before the war, the Avery family had an understanding, a reduced rate for the Ministry." Sully spoke for the first time. Gretchen was a friend, a lovely woman who, like Hermione, believed in change.

"I understand, but I can't be seen to be showing favouritism." Hermione Granger smirked and finally turned her full attention to the Minister.

"What do you want?" Kingsley would do as she'd asked and be gracious in his defeat. She had him by the balls.

"I'll continue to supply the Ministry for free for the next two months, at which point I'll submit my proposal again, and I want someone other than Barlow to handle it. If you come back to me with a better reason for 'no' than 'they're not human'. I'll accept it. Either way, the Ministry will go back to paying the reduced pre-war rates. The free powder wasn't meant to be forever, and we all know that."

"Thank you, Miss Granger, that's very reasonable." Oliver Babbish stood, speaking before Barlow could somehow blow the uneasy truce the woman had just offered.

"Sully, please give that beautiful baby of yours a squeeze from me." Hermione leaned over and grabbed the woman's hand.

"Minister." Hermione nodded. "I'm sorry I've not lived up to your expectations." No amount of 'Girl Boss' power was enough to mask her need to be liked by her superiors.

"You've exceeded them." He nodded solemnly. It sounded like a compliment but felt like a gut punch.

Oliver Babbish allowed the Minister to go before him into the floo, leaving him the last ministry man left standing. "If I look through those HR files, am I actually going to find a declaration?" the lawyer smirked.

"When I stepped down, my business was no longer the Ministry's. According to employment law 7, stipulation c, I was entitled to have all documentation of my personal interests removed from the record." Hermione walked round to stand before the lawyer and beckoned Pinter to join them. "If you get bored or want a change, we're looking to retain a lawyer with international experience." Pinter slipped a manilla folder into Babbishes hands.

"Our proposal." Hermione's proxy spoke gently.

George Weasley and Gunther hastily placed kitten after kitten through the open floo. The redhead glanced at his watch, it was one in the morning, and he had three minutes left before the network closed.

"Your girlfriend is going to flip her lid!" Gunther snorted as he placed the last of the felines through the green flames.

"She's not my girlfriend." George protested, stepping into the hearth.

He expected to see a frantic Pansy Parkinson, running around in a floaty nightgown, squealing as her tiny flat became overrun with mischievous furballs. But Panties Parkinson never behaved in the way one expected. He strolled through the floo to find the girl he'd been dreaming about, most nights (not consistently sexual… in one dream she just followed him about screaming 'LOOK AT MY BUTT HOLE' and that had been terrifying) sat cross-legged on the floor crying happily.

"George!" She squealed at his appearance. "Did you do this?" round tears rolled down her grinning face, and George stuttered. Was the enigmatic Pansy Parkinson brought to girlish tears by a sea of baby cats? Yes. Yes, she clearly was. His cheeks tugged into a smile.

"It was supposed to piss you off!" he looked her over. She wasn't wearing the old fashioned and frilly nightgown he'd imagined. The Pureblood girl had opted instead for a small shirt and a pair of striped blue and white shorts that barely counted as underwear. George Weasley swallowed and lowered himself to the ground to sit beside her. Three eager cats tumbled haphazardly over his legs to get closer to him.

Pansy laughed wetly and lifted a ball of fur up to her nose, "how on earth did you find so many kittens?" she rubbed her cheek fondly against the kitten's head.

"I transfigured fifty socks." Pansy pulled the cat away from her face and stared at him incredulously. "Clean ones."

"How long till they turn back into socks?" she gasped, staring round at her fifty or so new best friends.

"About an hour." He said guiltily.

"Well, that's going to be traumatising as all fucking hell!" Pansy Parkinson stared at the joke-shop mogul with horror.

"I thought you'd be annoyed by the Kittens! Not all mushy and enamoured by them." He laughed, finding it hard not to pick up the eager little creatures that had once been a jumbo packet of fresh hosen his mother had sent him.

"oh, now I'm sad." She scooped up three felines and held them to her. "End the spell now before I get too attached." Pansy sighed sadly and placed the beasts back on the ground, pushing them away from her. She covered her eyes with her hands, so she wouldn't have to see them revert back to foot warmers.

"Finite Incantatem," He muttered, and Pansy let out a sad groan as her apartment fell silent again, then a tiny mew. She opened her eyes.

"I needed a real one to model the others off of." He pointed at the real pussycat, trying to climb back onto Pansy's lap. He was small, round, and the same shade of grey as her furniture.

"Can I keep him?" Pansy breathed, the irony of a bunch of pussies turning her into a pussy, not lost on her.

"Well, I thought since you're a penniless spinster, you might as well lean into it and become a cat lady too." He shrugged, reaching across her legs to scratch the little fella's head. "Plus, you need stuff."

"Thank you." Pansy watched as the kitten leapt from her lap and set to explore his new home and no doubt piss everywhere.

"It wasn't the best prank, but it wasn't the worst." George pushed himself to stand, but Pansy caught his wrist, tugging him off balance and back to the floor.

"Wait." She breathed. "I…" She wasn't sure what to say, so she slowly leaned onto her knees and stretched toward him. George watched with a strobing pulse as her legs unfolded, and he saw miles of milky-white skin, red toenails and a gold chain around her ankle. She pressed her lips against his cheek, letting them linger there for longer than was friendly. Then Pansy pulled back, resting her bum on her heels. She eyed him, watching for any indication of his reaction. His eyes were wide and his cheeks aflame. She leaned forward a second time, still not making a sound, her eyebrows furrowed and pressed her lips against his. Stillness and four ticks of her clock followed. Pansy was just about to pull away again when it felt like a starting pistol had been fired, and somehow she was pressed against him, his arms locked around her waist, his lips kissing hers hungrily. As quick as it started, it ended again.

George, a look of confusion and anguish on his face, threw himself back from her and wiped his hand over his mouth. "I'm sorry." He muttered, pushing himself to his feet and scurrying backwards. "I need to go, " he yelled as he made a beeline for the exit

Pansy hung her head as she heard the door slam, his rejection wrenched at her gut. "fuck."

A/N Nom Nom Nom, enjoy this broccoli chapter. Full of vitamins, and story and fibre.