Excerpt from 'Protocol for employees of the Division of Obscurial Elimination, 3rd Edition':
Premeditative safety precautions, transportation and cultural integration
Provide your wand to the head of division to perform a tracking spell that will track any and all Apparition and Disapparition spells. This will allow the ministry to locate an employee in case of a disappearance and/or imminent danger.
1.1 Failure to provide one's wand before a mission to conduct this spell will result in immediate elimination from the mission and possibly, position as an employee.
The ministry will provide its employees with a car as mode of transportation that will help blend into Muggle society.
2.1 All gas charges will be repaid by the Ministry.
If there were any sleepier town than Jøvik it could not be considered sleepy anymore, but dead instead; for this town was so tired and calm – a silence that could only come from decades of nothing, nothing, and neighbours calling a begrudging truce over asinine feuds – that its own inhabitants appeared to have tried moving away from it, but gave up after ten steps.
The sun was bright and the snow even brighter, and every indication of human life seemed like it had forgotten it was alive to begin with. Mailboxes hung on their hinges, rust nibbling holes. Rotting fences had fallen into themselves, stretching along the main road as if to protect a fantasy of privacy, already achieved by the distance between the houses. Even the smoke rising from chimneys looked unnaturally pale, the cold blue sky shining through.
To their left was the sea, reflecting the sun brilliantly, adorned by snow tipped mountains in the distance. Few houses had squeezed themselves alongside the road when there was enough space; sometimes even with a pier crawling into the sea, half sunken boats alongside disappearing into the water. In between were specks of snow-covered driveways, pebbled beach fronts and telephone poles stretched over their heads. The bay hugged the sea gently.
To their right were more houses, all carefully placed just out of shouting distance from one another, nestled into the hill that slowly climbed into the same mountains behind the sea. It was impossible to tell houses from barns; they all looked the same, some with iron sheeted roofs, others with dull, pale outer walls that were waiting to crumble.
It all had a rather odd air of a town refusing to die, as if it had failed to notice it was already dead.
The uneven road was mean to the car; it rattled and squeaked when Granger turned into one of the driveways to their left, hood pointing towards a small, once red house that seemed to have survived the passing of time better than its neighbours.
The Norwegian voices finally cut off and Granger yanked the car into park. Draco threw open the passenger's side door and lunged out; the air inside was tense enough to cut through and he would take the Scandinavian winter cold over Granger's suspicious silence any day. She had kept good on her promise and ignored his presence for the past two hours.
She was becoming less fun by the minute, and reminded him more with each passing second why he actually really did hate her. Why this game was just a distraction.
The freezing air that met him was nothing short of brutal. It slapped him across the face as if to scold him, and it sent waves of ice-cold wind through his layers of clothing, sinking down to the bone. His teeth were chattering before he had even closed the door. He discreetly cast a warming spell all over himself, and relaxed into the cozy glow.
He stomped towards the house and took in its shoddy façade. The deep red paint had faded into a crumbling admission of pink defeat; white window frames and the overhanging roof had given way to times past. It faced the sea, with a few stone steps on the left that led to the front door, a rotten awning overhead, and small windows all along the first floor above. As Draco got closer, he saw that the small snow-covered space in front of the house led to a pier.
"This is it?" he asked, turning towards Granger. She had slammed the car door shut and pulled on a horrid beige petticoat. She looked at him, acknowledging him for the first time in two hours.
"Oh, is it not the mansion you expected?" she mocked with feign worry, walking past him. Draco sneered.
"I've lived in worse," he called after her, words tumbling out before he could catch them; she threw a glance towards him, eyebrows scrunched tightly, and Draco winced.
She had already opened the front door when he climbed the steps, shaking the snow from his boots.
He stepped into a quaint, small space; the house opened into the living room, filled bookshelves, cabinets and a small fireplace lining the far-right wall with a couch and armchair crowded around. A nestled kitchen corner with an island in the back, no door, but a mere opening in the counter and cupboards to allow entry. The carpeted floor was covered with yet another carpet, and it was thick under his feet; smelling like something moldy and claustrophobic, the light not enough to illuminate it all clearly. Dust whirled up from where he had moved into the room.
Granger stood by a steep, carpeted staircase on the left, watching him. Like a hawk. Like he was a rabid animal. Draco despised the look in her eyes.
"This is what you signed up for, Malfoy."
"You act as if I'm complaining."
She squinted at him and then turned, stomping up the stairs. Her footsteps sounded dull, deafened by the thick carpet. Draco lost no time following her.
"Just preparing myself for the inevitable," she called, voice sounding further away than should be possible. When Draco rounded onto the first floor, he realized why; the house was magically enlarged. There were at least five doors, leading into just as many rooms, and Granger had already thrown open two of them. Draco crossed his arms, leaning against the faded floral wallpaper, watching her barge through the rooms. He couldn't help it; taunting her was soothing to his soul. He could read the ignorance in every line of her body, and how it shook every time he spoke.
"You might find yourself surprised then."
She came out of the room on the right the furthest down the hall, glaring at him, exasperated.
"Surprised by what? Your undoubted philanthropy? You're right, that would surprise me. You don't seem like the good Samaritan that I usually work with. I'll take this room."
She gestured towards the one she had come out of and Draco stepped forwards, glancing into the first room on his right. It was another bedroom, windows already thrown open to filter out the stale air. A large bed pushed against the wall on the left, heavy duvets that hung onto the floor, an enormous wardrobe opposite to the bed, and an unmistakable air of desertion.
"You mean the good Samaritans that jump off after one job?"
To his left, a large bathroom with a tub, toilet, two cabinets, sink and a naked bulb hanging overhead. Granger was tapping her foot into the floor, staring him down as he moved closer.
"Yes, those. I won't expect any less of you. I'd actually prefer it."
The second on the right, another bedroom. It looked identical to the first.
"I won't meet your expectations then, Granger. I'm here for… what did you say? Philanthropy? That's a nice way of putting it."
He kept a light tone, light words, on purpose. No attempt to hide his mockery.
The last door on the right was a dark storage room with a Muggle washer and dryer. They were less than an arm's length away from each other now. Granger glared at him, lips curved into a disapproving pout. He suspected that she was trying to look angry.
"Like I said – just don't get in my way," she seethed, looking up to meet his gaze head-on, and Draco raised an eyebrow. There was a shine in her eyes, something he had not seen earlier in Roberts' office.
Maybe, maybe , there was some life left in her after all.
"Or what?" he dared, searching her eyes for more. It perplexed him. He had not expected her to be anything more than the ideal, impenetrable image of a perfect life.
For a breath's instant, he almost believed she was going to answer him. Claim the last word like he would expect her to. Her eyes screamed of it, her breath on his cheeks. A small huff.
But then she was walking away down the hall, and he felt air in his lungs again.
"I'll take the first," he called after her. She answered with little more than footsteps pounding down the stairs.
"We need to go visit Theo. Freshen up, we leave in five minutes," she shouted then after all. It was not really the last word, so Draco didn't mind.
But still; lovely images of tearing down the walls of Granger's world, showing her what he knew, what she was blind to, they faded with every passing minute. He was here for another reason entirely, one that she had absolutely no place in. A part of the play that she hadn't auditioned for.
His steps carried him into his chosen bedroom. The roofed ceiling was tilted down, towards the window, and Draco looked out at the sea stretched out before him.
Lively, clear water sloshed against the shores just a few long strides from their front door, breaking around the stakes of the decaying pier. The snowy mountains looked grand in the distance, colossal and proud, withstanding time and society itself. Silent, yet too loud not to notice.
What a beautiful place to cure an Obscurial.
When Draco walked into the kitchen a few minutes later, Granger was manhandling an old Windsor coffee drip machine that had specks of red on it. Her eyes flickered towards him as he entered and she immediately put it down onto the table between them.
"You and Nott were housemates."
She wasn't asking, so Draco didn't answer. They both waited, her eyes boring through his skull like she was imagining driving a meat cleaver through it. He couldn't blame her; he had the same picture in mind.
When she finally relented, with a silent huff, Draco bit the inside of his cheek until it hurt.
"Anything I should know? If this case is longer than I hope, we'll be working closely with him. He will send updates to the Ministry every second day. He's going to tell us what he knows so far. We might be on our way home already, soon."
Draco crossed his arms, leaning back a bit. She looked genuinely curious. She couldn't possibly not know?
"Well, except for what everyone knows, there's not much."
Her eyes remained blank. Of course she had no clue; she was probably too bloody busy being perfect to notice people's lives falling to pieces around her.
"What's what everyone knows?" she asked, moving around the table and into the living room, where she picked up her ugly petticoat from the couch and shrugged it on.
"Seriously? You have no idea?" he bit back, approaching her with slow steps. He should have known, of course she didn't give a flying fuck about anyone but herself.
"No, I don't, Malfoy, that's why I'm asking."
She threw him a dismissive glance. His hands curled into fists.
"So you can ask questions, but mine are ignored? That's not really a fair fucking partnership we have here," he spat; at her audacity, at her rudeness, at her not even giving him a chance to be a proper arsehole before she wrote him off.
"Christ, Malfoy-," she whined, before closing her eyes and turning her back to him, fingers threading through her hair, scratching at her scalp. She was breathing quickly, a controlled manner Draco recognized, and he stood waiting, tapping his foot, scowling.
"I want this to be over with, Malfoy. I don't want to complicate things. I know working together is anything but ideal, but we're gonna have to make do-"
"Why? Roberts almost pissed his bloody pants talking about you, he was so excited. If you told him that your schoolyard bully is being mean, he would bend over backwards to give you a new partner. Why the fuck are you bothering with me when we both know you don't have to?"
The words tumbled out of him in quick succession, each one louder than the last, fueled by everything he hated the way it hated him, but mostly, the way she was turning out to be much worse than just a fun toy to smash into the ground. He couldn't tell anymore if she was a blessing in disguise, or plain and simple what he thought she was; the personification of everything that was wrong with the world. She was everything he regretted, everything he wanted to ruin, and she didn't even fucking know it.
"Why didn't you tell Roberts?"
She had not moved while he spoke, not even turned her head. Any indication of her reaction he could only gauge from her head as it tilted forward slightly. She knew what he meant.
"Let's just go."
She walked away, opened the front door and he followed, slamming it shut behind him. Neither of them bothered to lock it. Draco had already put up wards around his room, and whatever happened to her stuff, he didn't care.
It was silent as they walked, except for the snow crunching underneath their feet. Granger led them back onto the main road, and crossed it onto one of the paths that led to various houses dotted along the hillside.
"Nott left sometime during Eighth year. That's all I know."
He liked the tone of admission. She was staring right ahead, sometimes glancing at a tiny map nestled into the palm of her hand, showing her the way, a glowing line leading her steps.
Draco followed the vague thread in the real world, and his eyes fell onto one of the worse looking houses, shingles missing and grey paint chipping off.
Granger mistook his silence for sulking and looked at him, aghast, that he dared to ignore her.
"Bloody hell Malfoy, I'm just ask-"
"You weren't there in Seventh Year," he interrupted before she could possibly explode. "Nott's father was pretty prolific with women. Among all the Death Eater business, I guess."
She was quiet now. Draco could not tell why he bothered to explain it to her, except, at most, that it felt liberating. As if he was telling his own story to someone without them knowing. And maybe, because he could ignore her for as long as he could. But it would be easier to keep her talking. He could choose.
He liked choosing.
"He had a little half-brother. Oliver, I think his name was. He was in First Year then, and Theo absolutely adored him. Showed him all around the castle, helped him with his schoolwork. Didn't even mind that he was related to a bloody Hufflepuff. Not sure what happened, but he snuck back into the castle during the Battle."
They had almost reached the house. There were empty flower pots hanging outside, a forgotten mailbox on the ground; no matter, for no one sent any post.
"Theo found him after the battle. His body was stuffed into an alcove. He was never the same again."
Granger stopped in front of the steps to the porch, looking up the façade.
Draco found it looked too abandoned to be inhabited, so he knew for a fact that Theo was actually in there. He knew the sight of hopeless desertion that was inescapable after a grief like this.
It was odd then, Draco found, that he had never thought about his old housemate since he left. They had both suffered, after all.
They had not ever been the closest back in school, but he knew him. Theo had always been nice to be around. He was funny enough, knew the timing to crack jokes, and never failed to make a quip about Potter, Weasley or Granger that would send their table into roaring laughter. Draco wasn't sure if he had ever talked to him one-on-one.
Draco glanced at Granger, but she was still staring. He felt satisfied, knowing that she had not expected this answer.
Doing the unexpected, the capricious, was what he was best at. Almost.
"It's been five years since the war. He's done grieving," she murmured then, and climbed the steps.
"No one ever stops grieving," Draco replied, and her raised hand froze for a moment, before she knocked on the door. Quickly, as expected, steps sounded from within, approaching them. It swung open with surprising force.
Theodore Nott must've just barely woken up from a nightmare. He was clad in loose pajamas and an air of disorientation. Wild eyes scanning them up and down, like they were another figment of imagination. As though he'd just woken up from another, more familiar reality.
He looked crazed, and it was somewhat comforting to see.
"Theodore Nott? We're here from the Ministry, about the death of-"
"Yes, yes, I know. Come in," Theo interrupted, sticking his head out of the door like a meerkat, checking their surroundings and immediately retreating and waving them in quickly. There was quite literally no one around, except for them and a barn with a caved in roof a bit down from the path they came.
The threshold crossed into a cold home. The kitschy wallpapers were taken right out of the sixties, decorated with empty frames. Draco caught a small glimpse of a messy living room through glass double doors on his right, stacks of boxes and books and folders covering the floor. They followed him down the hall into a lively kitchen. Light wood cupboards, an honest to Merlin functioning coffee machine, lacy curtains covering the window, counters heaped with dishes and pots and empty food packages.
"You just arrived?" Theo called, and the same voices from the car spoke from an ancient radio on the kitchen counter.
"Yes, fifteen minutes ago or so. We inspected the house the Ministry gave us first," Granger answered, pointing north, where they had come from. They stood around the kitchen island now, also covered with old dishes, mugs, books and folders.
Theo handed them both cups of coffee sloshing with hot black liquid, and Draco almost burned his throat. Granger took a careful sip.
"Since when do you work for the ministry, mate?" Draco coughed through the sting in his throat. Theo shot him an indecipherable look.
"Nothing held me in England. They offered it to me. Norwegian correspondence and stuff," he said gruffly, tipping his head back to down his own half-filled cup. Draco nodded.
Theo seemed wide awake now, and he looked them both up and down with a sweeping gaze.
"Odd pair, aren't you two?"
Granger tensed up. Draco grimaced into the coffee.
"What can you tell us about the recent death the ministry sent us here for?" Granger sniped through the awkward silence, and Draco couldn't help but chuckle a bit.
"Touchy touchy," he mouthed around the rim of his mug.
"Ah, yes. Bernt Johansen, 43 years old, died a few days ago at the birthday party for his recently adopted daughter, Anette Knudsen, nine years old. I interviewed the wife already, she's pretty traumatized. Barely remembers a thing, only a black cloud attacking them."
"And the child?" Granger asked, taking the folder Theo held out, looking through the report. Draco moved closer, looking at the details from over her shoulder. This was it, then; would they work together for at least two more weeks? Endure each other's company and possibly kill one another? Or would they be home tonight, safe and sound?
"Was sent back to the orphanage. She was only adopted around a week ago. Pretty safe to assume-"
"It's the Obscurus," Granger finished with a low voice, shoulders sunk, and Draco furrowed his brows at her side profile. This was as good news for him as it was bad news for her.
"Body shows all the usual signs?"
"Yes, black veins, grey skin, everything. Muggle coroner thinks it was a heart attack, can't explain the marks. I wasn't at the orphanage yet, since that's your job. I have this for you," his voice carried away as he disappeared into a side room. Draco looked around the kitchen and noticed an open sliding door behind him. It led into the messy living room. The light was out so he could only make out vague lines of boxes and books and stacks.
Theo re-entered the kitchen from the hallway – however he'd gotten there from the other door – and caught Draco's interest into the living room, and made quick work of slamming the doors shut.
"Sorry. Didn't expect you to be so early."
Draco nodded. Granger was lost in the files.
"Here, rations for one week. You know the drill?" he continued, lifting a box with the Ministry's logo on the lid onto the small space on the island.
"He doesn't yet," Granger said absentmindedly, pointing her thumb at Draco. He scowled.
"I do. I read the protocol."
"Obviously, that's why you had to ask me about the spell Roberts conducted earlier," she replied, voice dull and uninterested, and Draco felt his neck flush.
Always the dismissive tone.
Theo was watching them both with a severely bored expression. His arms were crossed, neck craning, impatient.
"Anyway. That's all I've got for you. I have an open line of communication with the ministry. If you ever need to tell them something quickly, I'm supposed to help you. You can leave now."
And with those words, the man disappeared down the hallway, and for the first time, Draco and Granger shared a look of mutual surprise. Footsteps climbed the stairs and then echoed through the house, the ceiling creaking above their heads.
"Are we dismissed?" Granger asked.
Draco rolled his eyes and grabbed the box from the counter. "Let's go."
The municipality of Tromsø – including Jøvik – found itself north of the Arctic cycle. This meant two things that Hermione technically knew of, but had not considered in the few minutes she had to absorb all of the mission's information before coming here.
For one, from September to April every year, the natural phenomenon known as aurora borealis, or more commonly, northern lights, were displayed in the night sky regularly. This was, currently, of no mind to her.
And then, something she did mind right now, sat on the carpet, hunched over the small living room table with parchments and books and papers spread out around her – the midnight sun and polar night. The daylight circles were growing closer and closer to winter, which meant that the sun would stop rising. The sun had gone down at five pm, right after they had come back from interviewing the widow, and Hermione felt the darkness weighing her psyche down already. She suspected it wouldn't have been so bad for her if not for the absolutely exhausting drives today.
Because Malfoy was an absolutely unapologetic and obnoxiously insufferable cunt.
He was not the mindless, hate spouting schoolyard bully she once knew. The one who only cared about hurting anyone in his vicinity, directionless with all the spite and anger he housed. She had grown out of taking his comments to heart after Second Year, because there was no merit in listening to a boy so angry and manipulated that he could not even bother to think about the consequences of his actions.
She saw traces of this old disdain when he looked at her now, an expression made of pure hostility and derision, painting the near sneer on his lips and the hostile spark crossing his face. But there was something else in his ice-cold eyes, something she recognized but could not name; at the tip of her tongue but refusing to be spoken aloud.
As if though the mean taunts and mysterious comments were a mere distraction.
She did not know a lot about his life since the war. She knew his father was found guilty in the trials following the Battle, and was to spend his life behind bars. His mother and him were found innocent based on Malfoy's age and Narcissa's helping Harry to survive. She knew that they graduated together, that he'd been a shadow in the hallways at Hogwarts during their Eighth year, nothing at all like the prancing and sashaying that everyone had been used to. He'd kept to himself, always chose the furthest corner of the library to study, receiving owls from, presumably, his mother, near every morning.
She knew the newspapers did not speak favourably of his family after the war. She knew he worked at the Auror's office for a couple of months until a year later, Harry mentioned that Malfoy had up and left one day, and Hermione noticed just then that she'd stopped seeing him in the hallways around six months ago. She knew he left Britain, a farewell bid by the Daily prophet, one last article on the Malfoy's fall from grace. With Lucius imprisoned, Narcissa hiding in the Manor and quietly living like a widow, and the heir gone from the country, a collective sigh of relief washed over Wizarding Britain.
Hermione never quite knew if she agreed with the media's and population's assertion that the Malfoy's were a symptom of pure-blooded ideology that led to the war in the first place, and therefore, for their society to heal, must be ejected to move on. She had never stopped to think about it for more than a moment. After all, he was the most prominent figure of her youth that represented the hate that had led to Voldemort's rise in the first place.
Until Draco Malfoy appeared on the Ministry's doorstep and now worked for one of the most prestigious and publicly hailed jobs they had to offer. With Obscurials and the threat they presented holding the entire world's population at its neck, their cases and proceedings often graced the headlines. And now, Malfoy's name would appear there too, soon enough. It had to, for Hermione to finish this job and get the promotion.
And it was quite ironic that he had chosen this position of all. What if that was what he was here for? Use the division to put his name back in grace, to be accepted into society again? It sounded like the kind of cunning plan a Malfoy would come up with.
It was a miracle he'd been accepted in the first place; but, remembering Robert's words this morning, he was but a mere toy for them to have her prove her worth. She usually gave an interview after each case; there was rarely something new to say, but the public ate it up anyway. Was she to sit beside him when they answered the world's questions? Was he to be treated like anything but a Malfoy?
The questions plagued her as she did standard procedure. Writing the regular report to deliver to Theo so he could send it back to the Ministry. All updates on their case; which there were few of.
After leaving Theos, they had driven for two hours to interview the wife of the deceased and received an address where they would find the Obscurial. They didn't have to go and interview the woman, but Hermine had seniority and therefore, called the shots.
And she simply wanted to interview the woman.
And Malfoy had let her know at length that he found it a worthless waste of time. So, when he was done bitching, the drive had been silent except for the radio. Hermione was not keen at all for another conversation after what he had said about Theo.
She had almost forgotten that he'd left during the middle of their Eighth year; the pressure after the war to lead as a good example and graduate as best of her year had not given her a lot of time or space to notice anything happening around her. She hadn't even known about his loss.
All she knew now were vague memories of Order meetings after the war, where his name was mentioned. Shacklebolt's voice was clear as a bell in her head; In regards to Theodore Nott junior –
She would have to ask Harry about it.
"Case file #98
Subject: Anette Knudsen, female, nine years old.
Interviewee recalls an argument before the attack. The deceased was physically abusive and threw objects at his wife and the Obscurial. Interviewee remembers a dark cloud that erupted suddenly, experienced a short memory loss, and came to consciousness to find her husband deceased on the carpet. Obscurial could not remember the attack either and was distraught.
Obscurial was sent back to the orphanage. Will begin observation period tomorrow.
Date: October 14 th , 2003"
Hermione stared at the date. Plus two, two more days; her head chanted. She only noticed she'd been biting her lip when the pain got overwhelming.
They had gotten some fast food from a rest stop a few minutes out from Jøvik on the way home, perfectly deserted with an abandoned car garage and a haunting parking lot to complete the picture. She had not touched her salad yet; it stood on the kitchen table, where Malfoy had eaten his burger, sorted all of the Ministry's rations into the cupboards, whirled up some dust and then left out the front door without a glance at her.
Maybe he had jumped into the sea and drowned, but Hermione was never one to waste her time with daydreaming.
Right now, she was ignoring her grumbling stomach, staring at the half-filled report. Specifically, the empty section titled 'Complaints and case difficulties'.
She could do it. Explain that Malfoy had been insufferable, asking stupid questions that proved his inability for adaption, lack of knowledge of the subject matter and general ignorance of the seriousness of their mission.
She could do it. Roberts wouldn't blame her.
He wouldn't deny her the promotion.
Her pen hovered above the empty box, teeth gnawing at her lip. It would be so easy, far too easy; One bad description of hers and Malfoy would never work in their division again. No; in the whole Ministry. She'd be rid of him so quickly–
The front door opened, and Malfoy entered, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in one hand and a cream-coloured letter in the other. He wasted no time throwing the letter at her.
"From our favourite war hero. The owl already left, you owe me five knuts."
She caught it out of the air – he'd aimed perfectly, she noticed, and remembered that he was a Seeker once – and turned the envelope. Her name was written in Harry's crooked script. With her other hand she grabbed her purse from her left and dove for coins at the bottom of the bag.
"Those things will kill you," she replied, nodding toward the cigarettes. They were a sinful temptation. She had smoked for a while during Eighth year, the only remedy to her shaking hands.
Someone told her it wasn't a good look for her, so she stopped it. She never lost the quiet longing when she saw someone else smoke.
Malfoy dropped onto the couch on the other side of the table, stuffing the pack into his pocket. Hermione counted out five knuts and threw them onto the floor.
"I'm very flattered by your concern for my health and safety," he drawled. He had grown quiet after they'd got their food, reading a book he'd brought, and Hermione had almost dared to hope that he would finally stop being obnoxious. That hope was dwindling quickly now.
Hermione scowled at him as she tore open the letter.
"I have zero concerns for you. Actually, maybe do continue smoking."
He squinted at her for a few seconds, but seemingly decided to let it go. Hermione began reading the letter. It was mostly Harry excitedly scribbling about his last Auror job.
Harry was not yet head of the Auror's office, but that was really just a formality. He had as much knowledge and influence as any other high ranking ministry employee; perks of being the Chosen One. Maybe he knew something about her promotion–
"Speaking of killing things–" Malfoy spoke, interrupting Hermione's thoughts. She sighed loudly.
"– I did read your beloved protocol last night, several times actually, and I thought it rather curious that there is not a single part of it that doesn't mention how gruesome and dangerous this job is, and how being killed is pretty much unavoidable."
He spoke quickly, like he had prepared his little speech. Hermione wondered if she could forbid a grown man from smoking breaks.
"It's a dangerous job, Malfoy," she murmured, reading through details of Harry using an Expelliarmus on a kettle jinxed to burn Muggles. What that kind of spell would do to stop the kettle, she could not imagine.
"And how long have you worked for this division?"
She had tried to ignore his questions so, so much, like she'd promised both him and herself earlier. It was absolutely impossible. He spoke them with such certainty, such demand for an answer. It was tiresome to ignore them. Her head hurt, and she would later blame it all on a migraine.
"Little more than three years."
"The 'Division for Obscurial Elimination'-" he made air quotations and Hermione frowned at the gesture. Was he implying the division was not real? "-was founded little more than three years ago. You've worked here since its inception, and if I remember correctly, you've never gotten into danger."
She imagined a "Regrettably so" at the end of his sentence. It sounded like something he would have wanted to say.
He sat up then, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped and watching her like she was a puzzle to be solved. A riddle, one that he scorned to look at. But he probably didn't know it; that the Daily prophet reported on solved Obscurial cases and her role in them regularly. She met his gaze head-on, raising her eyebrows.
"I'm a formidable employee, thank you for pointing it out."
He sneered, face darkening.
"If this job is so bloody dangerous and deadly that most of its employees barely last longer than a month, how do you explain that you have presumably not gotten injured even once?"
"Merlin, Malfoy, isn't this something you should've asked Roberts? I don't care if you're scared of what we have to do-"
"I'm not scared. The exact opposite. I want to know how you explain this to yourself."
"What are you implying, Malfoy?" she snapped, utterly and completely out of her wits now. He reached forward, pushed aside some scrolls and books of hers, and picked up her latest copy of the employee protocol, which only came out last month. He flipped it open and browsed through it until he found something. He began quoting.
"Core element for 'Locating and neutralizing threats'. Section 1. ' Any and all physical contact with an identified Obscurus will result in immediate death .' Then, 1.1: ' Failure to comply with the required distance measures will trigger the Obscurus and cause the death of many.'"
Hermione tried to interrupt, but he flipped the book back quickly, reading aloud.
"' Employees are expected to be working under potentially unknown and dangerous situations, and be comfortable with the imminent threat of death at any time.' This is only the bloody introduction page!"
He snapped the book shut and struck the cover page with his index finger.
"Every single page mentions how fucking sure death is. Have you ever actually been close to an Obscurial? Have you ever thought that maybe, this is absolute bullshit?"
Hermione slammed Harry's letter onto the table. Every word he said was an infuriating spark, spit at her in nothing but pure contempt, triggering the nervous bomb in her throat that had been ticking all day.
Air chased through her lungs. Every breath came quicker than the last. Her voice was shrill and loud, words spit out in rhythm with her heartbeat.
"What do you even know about Obscurials, Malfoy?! You have absolutely no proof of the Ministry lying! You think you can just come barging in and I'll believe anything you say? If you're scared of this job then tell Roberts and you can leave!"
"I'm not fucking scared of the job, I want you to realize that this," he chucked the protocol onto the ground, "is fucking propaganda and none of what you've been told about Obscurials is true!"
His voice overtook hers easily, booming and filling the room to the brim. Hermione got to her feet in a blur, jabbing her finger at him, imagining how it would feel to close the fist and punch him. He stood too, towering over her, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and his ice-cold eyes filled with the epitome of disgust.
"This isn't propaganda! They're bloody precautions for a dangerous job, you're acting as if there's some grand conspiracy going on! Our job is to help eliminate Obscurials, and neutralize the threat they-"
"Anette Knudsen!"
Her mouth snapped shut. He had yelled the name like a desperate prayer, cheeks red, chest heaving and eyes searching hers; she did not know what for.
"What?" she breathed.
"Anette Knudsen is her fucking name! Theo told us, the widow told us, and you still just call her 'the threat', or 'the Obscurial'! That's a fucking child , Granger, not a beast to be terminally isolated!"
The room was loud and quiet all at once. Crowded with the aftermath of his explosion; quick breaths chasing after the other, a panicked gulp; there, a gasp. Hermione's arms dropped to her side, staring at where he had sat, open-mouthed. He turned away, fingers raking through his hair, shoulders trembling like an earthquake.
Hermione could not find her voice. Her mind was an empty slate.
"All these years, Granger, and you've forgotten what you're doing."
He turned his head slightly, glaring at her. Hermione opened and closed her mouth, begging words to come out, any at all. She couldn't even look at him. There were tears filling the edge of her eyes, hot and heavy, and she had no idea where they came from.
"Must suck to be told by me of all people."
He had bolted up the stairs before she could react, and a door slammed shut seconds later. Hermione was panting, something akin to panic but even worse – something she had no idea was there, buried deep within her – coursed through her body and her knees folded.
She collapsed onto the floor, a graceless, heaping mess. She was confused, thoughts strewn through her head like threads knotting, unable to see clearly, and his words' ugly echo rung through her head. Her chest was shaking. His words had struck something deep inside her mind, stowed away and forgotten.
She picked up Harry's letter again, automatically, barely able to read through her falling tears. Holding onto the first thing she saw. She barely registered what it said, until –
"I spoke to Roberts and he told me about your upcoming promotion! Congrats, but we all knew it would happen, anyway. You probably already know, but he said that this mission is absolutely crucial. The ministry is low on employees in your division.
It's a bit rough, but basically, if you somehow fail this mission – which we all know is impossible, you're Hermione Granger – the promotion will go to another foreign wizard. But don't even worry about it, you can do this. I have no doubts. Just thought I'd let you know.
Who's your partner anyway?"
Hermione leaned forward until her head hit the table, and she groaned weakly. Tears still rolling.
She was so fucked.