Chapter 28: Sweep
May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel
Can't Live Without Each Other
During their official engagement announcement and the subsequent private interview (with, of course, yours truly), Prince Draco was surprisingly—even astonishingly—open about his relationship with Hermione. He was particularly vocal about his pride in her accomplishments, noting that her influence on his beliefs was inextricable from his role as future king. "She's compassionate and brave," he said, gazing adoringly at his intended bride, "and fiercely loyal, too. That she trusts me to share her life, and that she has willingly chosen me for her future, is not something I consider easily won. Without her, the man you see before you would not exist."
Hermione has been similarly cryptic, elusively referencing something of a rough patch in their relationship. "He was sure even when I wasn't," Hermione has reportedly said of her prince, "and strange as it is to think I ever had any doubts, I'm grateful he gave me the space to have them. It has prepared me, in a surprising way, for everything that's to come."
A surprising thing, no doubt, to hear a future princess discussing her fairytale as if it could be such a chore! But that, as Prince Draco has said, is part of Hermione's remarkable pragmatism. "She is far cleverer than me," he said, laughing, and whether or not that's true, it's quite clear the two have come a long way towards finding their happy ending.
Boy, Rita really does have a way of expressing her distaste for me even with flowery language, which I suppose is fairly commendable. Assuming her job is to be a heinous bench even when she's not technically being one, then give this woman a raise! Naturally, she wasn't allowed to mention my little 'incident' in Greece in this book, but I find it difficult to believe she wasn't thinking about it and cackling to herself as she wrote this.
At the time, actually, Rita was quite busy using the Daily Prophet for her elaborate royal fanfiction in which Draco, Lady Susan, and I battled it out in some sort of erotic love triangle, so naturally, my accidentally exposed breasts were the subject of great joy for her.
Luckily for me, I had ninety-nine problems, of which my tiny twins were only one.
November 30, 2014
London, England
"You could come home, you know," suggested Helen, not for the first time, and Hermione sighed.
"And do what, exactly?"
"Mm," said Helen, "unclear." She squinted into space for a moment, venturing, "Any thoughts?"
Almost none, actually. "I'm not sure how well a job interview would go at the moment," Hermione grumbled, "considering my boobs are the most famous thing about me right now."
The thought was giving her a headache, or perhaps she already had one. She raised a hand to her temple, suddenly nauseated. Maybe she was getting sick. She'd certainly woken up that morning feeling like she'd been hit by a truck, though she had no reason for it outside of the usual: the paparazzi outside her window, the complete lack of direction towards any conceivable goals, the ex-boyfriend who was still a famous prince.
You know. The usual.
"Well," Helen said brightly, "I'm sure we could convince our receptionist to take a sabbatical, if you wanted. Provided you could resign yourself to wearing a shirt, that is."
"Ha ha," Hermione said, rolling her eyes and letting her hand fall from her throbbing forehead. "How's Dad taking this?"
"Hm, excellent question, I should ask him. David," Helen shouted over her shoulder, "how are you taking this?"
David's voice was audible from a distance. "Taking what?"
"This business with Hermione," Helen shouted back.
"Hermione who?"
"You know, the one with the curly hair? She used to live here?"
"Very funny, Mom," Hermione sighed, and after a few seconds of muffled trudging, her father appeared within camera view. He was wearing his early morning trail running gear, a little dirt and sweat smudged over his face, and the little semblance of unruly curls he'd passed onto Hermione presently stood wildly on end.
"I think," David said slowly, resting one hand on his wife's shoulder, "as I have always thought, that our daughter can and will do anything she puts her mind to."
"Oh, that's very nice of you, Dad," Hermione said, surprised, "but I think at the moment I'm—"
"Who are you?" demanded David, which had clearly been his intended joke, and Hermione sighed again, less patiently this time, as Helen gave David's hand a brief, dismissive pat.
"Ignore him," Helen advised Hermione, as David gave Hermione an enthusiastic thumbs up, meandering away for a shower. "Though, to answer your question, he seems to be taking things quite well. It's really you we're worried about, Hermione."
"I'm fine," Hermione said listlessly, clearing a bit of lingering something from her throat, and Helen arched a skeptical brow. "I am! Mostly. Well, sort of," she admitted. "I just don't know what I'm doing next, that's all. And it's not really something I know how to just jump into."
"Well, do your friends have any ideas?"
What a question, Hermione thought, feeling herself grimace. Pansy was relatively inaccessible when it came to life advice. Harry was certainly not much help in the professional arena. Daphne was building her business, which wasn't unhelpful, exactly, but she wasn't much less lost than Hermione was. Draco was… plainly put, out of the question. He would almost definitely try to help, which Hermione wasn't sure was something she actually wanted. Blaise might have been helpful, but Hermione couldn't find it in herself to face him yet; she retained her anger on Pansy's behalf.
The only person who'd been slightly useful had been Theo, which, despite often being the case, never failed to be surprising.
"Surely the principles of job-seeking aren't entirely unlike nepotism, which is a thing we are all generally experienced with," Theo said cheerfully, 'taking a break' to have a drink with Hermione and Daphne after lifting exactly one box. "You did work with people of significance, California, did you not? Maybe that McGonagall woman or Neville's zesty gran could point you in the right direction."
"That's quite sound advice, actually," Daphne said, and Theo gave her a fleeting look of smuggery. "Amazing, Nott, you've managed to get one right—"
"Well, add it to the list, Greengrass," he sniffed, which was, of course, a remark probably made in error, as she was soon piling additional boxes into his arms and sending him retreating up the stairs in affectionate but unrelenting punishment.
"Theo's not wrong, nor is he ever," Helen said fondly, once Hermione had relayed his suggestion. "Why haven't you tried it?"
"Well, I hardly think I can ask Minerva." Hermione pressed the back of her hand to her head, wondering if she'd been imagining the sensation of warmth. "I did just quit my job, Mother," she reminded Helen, "so I can hardly ask for favors."
"I thought she liked you?" Helen countered, surprised, and Hermione shrugged.
"I never really knew for sure," she admitted, "but either way, I don't think it's a very good idea to say, 'Oh, by the way, remember how I quit working for you? Well, turns out I just don't want to work for you'—"
"But that's not true," Helen insisted, interrupting. "Surely she'll understand the work just didn't suit you. Don't you think?"
"I don't know," Hermione said, not wanting to confess to her mother that, in fact, Minerva had called her earlier that morning. Hermione had let the call go to voicemail, unsure whether she felt like dealing with her previous employer before she'd had a cup of coffee—or, more likely, several more spirals of panic, none of which she cared to consider at the moment. "I've never had a very good read on her."
"Well, as I've mentioned, you're more than welcome to come home if nothing else suits," Helen said again, gravely hospitable. "David and I would be happy to host you."
A tempting offer, or would have been, except 'home' had not been California or the United States for some time. Hermione had more support in London than she ever had at 'home,' and the idea of leaving—even for something productive or promising—was far more discomfiting than the prospect of staying there, lost. Yes, Hermione's life in the U.K. had largely revolved around her relationship with Draco, but even without him in the equation, it was still the place where her friends were.
Besides, that was assuming Draco was actually no longer in the equation, which was something Hermione was apparently still struggling to reconcile.
As if Helen could read her mind, she ventured carefully, "I suppose I haven't asked you—how have things been with Draco?"
Hermione could feel her cheeks burning, along with the rest of her. "Hm?"
"Draco, you know. Your friend from college, I think it was?"
"No, I—" Hermione wasn't quite in the mood to joke, though she wasn't sure she wanted to be serious, either. Talking about Draco meant saying things out loud, but not talking about him meant thinking about him silently until she eventually went insane.
Hermione took a minute to weigh her options, and then confessed, "It's hard, actually. Harder than I thought it would be."
"Did you think it would be easy?" Helen asked.
Kind of, yes. After all, she'd expected him to be gone after they broke up, which she had recently found out a matter of days ago that he wasn't.
They hadn't seen each other since the run-in at Daphne and Theo's house, but still, he was in London, and therefore his presence was unavoidable. Just as Hermione had been in the tabloids constantly, now Draco was, too. WHERE'S HERMIONE? demanded the Daily Prophet, showing pictures of Draco making his grandfather's usual appearances. Is His Royal Highness an eligible bachelor once again? mused Rita Skeeter, sounding as positively delighted as ever by the prospect of Drama, and even the DRAGONFLOWER blog, which had been relatively silent save for their features on Fleur's outfits, seemed to be joining in anew. Draco's appearance in a tuxedo at the opera house two evenings prior had manifested a new series of photoshopped images all over the internet, some of which paired Draco with Fleur while, more often these days, others featured Lady Susan.
Which wasn't to say Hermione was jealous, exactly, though she wasn't technically not, either. If she were being honest, she would have had to confess that while her insecurities about Lady Sooz seemed to be mostly in her head (after all, how long had rumors about Draco and Fleur persisted even while Hermione had known the truth?), they still made her stomach twist with discomfort.
"You could date," Daphne had suggested after The Roger Incident. "Surely one of these silly posh boys we're stupidly friends with knows someone. Oh," she realized, snapping her fingers, "what about Harry's friend, the ginger one? He's tall," she said thoughtfully, and Hermione grimaced.
"I really don't see that going well," she said, trying to imagine being with Ron Weasley and finding herself utterly incapable of doing so. "Besides, I don't actually think dating is the problem."
Roger had proven that for her already, as far as Hermione was concerned. The problem wasn't that she'd needed sex from someone else or even someone else's intimacy, but that she'd needed… something of her own. To feel like herself, she supposed, and to do something simply because she'd wanted to, rather than existing as a limb belonging to Draco that was ultimately controlled by his family.
Greece suits you, he'd said, with a look that confirmed it. Had it been kindness, maybe? Something to make her feel better, or was it flirtation? At the time, it had seemed undeniably the latter, but if she could be imagining one thing (i.e., Lady Sooz), then she could certainly have dreamt up another. Could she have been misinterpreting the whole thing because she wanted him to still want her? That would be human nature, Hermione told herself, and besides, they had dated a long time. It wasn't as if she wanted him to feel nothing.
Don't worry, you needn't see me unless you want to—what about that? Did he want to see her? Did he want her to want to? It was a touch maddening, the wondering. The end of their relationship had once meant the end of her misery from their constant estrangement, and she had thought that would be that. Now, though, she was left with nostalgia for what they'd once been.
Either nostalgia, she thought again, or purely nausea.
Had she really wanted things to be over, or had she simply wanted them to be different? She no longer knew, and it was distressing. She was a person who liked to know things, or at least to be able to reason them. Her current feelings defied any conceivable rationality, which she hated, and as a result, she had the sudden sensation of wanting to expel all of her stupid emotions, heaving them down to the street below. That, or throw up, possibly. Her emotional and corporeal state seemed to be battling for dominance, and Hermione, in the meantime, was left feeling crippled and unsteady, or possibly sick.
"I guess I should keep my distance until I figure it out," she said, and Helen gave something of a shrugging nod.
"Certainly not a bad idea," she said. "But in the meantime, if you don't feel comfortable talking to Minerva, maybe you should try talking to that other woman you seemed to like. Augusta, you said?"
Hermione considered it. It seemed somewhat bad timing to ask the favor of Augusta's time, given everything that was happening with Neville and Pansy, but Hermione supposed she did have a relationship of her own with Lady Longbottom outside of whatever was or wasn't happening with her grandson's engagement.
Surely it wouldn't hurt to reach out, would it?
"I could try," Hermione said, reaching for her head again.
"Are you feeling okay, hon?" Helen asked, observing her. "You seem a little off."
Hermione shook her head, picking up her phone and resolving to do something, anything, outside of spending the entire day pondering the consequences of the nothing she and Draco now shared.
"I'm fine," she said, swallowing any lingering doubts as she located Augusta's phone number and dialed.
To Hermione's surprise, Augusta was eager to see her. Within twenty minutes, Hermione was hurriedly struggling to piece together some semblance of an outfit, reaching for her only Pansy-approved blazer and the skirt Daphne would have probably advised (a guess) before making her way to the cafe Augusta requested. It wasn't until Hermione arrived, however, that she pieced together what might have otherwise been obvious, had she been a little less achy and a little more remember-y.
"Hermione," said a grimly unsmiling Pansy, rising to her feet upon Hermione's approach. "So pleased you could join us."
(What Hermione had forgotten was Pansy's standing appointment with Lady Augusta, which she supposed was less an oversight than it had been an assumption that such an appointment might be canceled under such very unique circumstances.)
"Yes, of course," Hermione said, and desperately withheld a cough. "Apologies," she said, maintaining a careful distance from Augusta, who rose genially in her typical pastel ladysuit of tweed. "I think I may be coming down with a cold, so it's probably best I stay on this side of the table."
"Both of you, then, hm?" Augusta said, flashing Pansy a look Hermione couldn't quite interpret. "I suppose returning to London after your little holiday might have done it. The city's being rather dreary," Augusta lamented, casting a disapproving gaze out the window, and Hermione turned to look at Pansy, who seemed… off, in some unknowable way. Hermione frowned to herself, unable to put a finger on what was different, and instead noted that Pansy looked much the same way Hermione felt.
Though, that could have something to do with the fact that Pansy was having tea with her cheating boyfriend's grandmother, so perhaps it wasn't so much Hermione's imagination as it was an inevitable result of the obvious.
"I'm sure it's nothing," Hermione said, and Pansy sipped quietly at her tea, unresponsive. "Anyway," Hermione continued, turning to Augusta, "it's lovely to see you. How have you been?"
"Well, largely healthy," Augusta said, flashing Pansy a look of furtive disapproval. "You should take better care of yourself, my dear," she told Pansy stiffly. "My grandson hasn't the strongest constitution."
"No," Pansy drily agreed, "he doesn't."
"Are you taking sufficient care with your diet? Fruits and vegetables are paramount for immunity," Augusta said, still apparently focused on Pansy. "Perhaps you should also increase your consumption of ginger, if you continue to feel unsettled. It's a very common natural supplement."
"I'll be sure to tell Neville his health is at risk," Pansy said, and Augusta gave her an expression Hermione had never seen before, turning back to Hermione to fix her with a much warmer, considerably more friendly glance.
"Now, Hermione," Augusta said, transitioning back to her usual demeanor, "you said you wanted to have a chat, then? Tea?" she offered, "or biscuits?"
Hermione shook her head, the smell of food slightly turning her stomach.
"Just the chat, thank you," Hermione said quickly, glancing at Pansy before facing Augusta. "It's just that, as I mentioned on the phone, I felt The Transfiguration Project was no longer the best fit for me, and—"
"And it isn't," Augusta agreed. "You're a bright young woman, Hermione, with quite a future. Much as I adore Minerva, an administrative role is not for you. I told her so myself several times," she lamented, shaking her head as she took a sip. "Unfortunately, Minerva can sometimes lose sight of the big picture when it comes to fostering up-and-coming young professionals. Hazards of working alone for so long, I suspect."
"Oh, that's very kind of you," Hermione said, trying not to indulge the throbbing of her head. The last thing she wanted was to remind Augusta that she, too, was under the weather, seeing how Pansy seemed to have heard enough about it. "I don't mean to disparage Minerva at all, it was an honor to work beside her—"
"Yes, yes," Augusta said, waving away Hermione's niceties. "Still, I should put you in contact with some other young ladies of your caliber. Lady Susan Bones, perhaps—"
Pansy coughed briefly into her tea, and Augusta gave her a stern look.
"Pansy, dear, you should have them bring you a bit of honey and lemon," Augusta said, tutting her disapproval. "In the meantime, perhaps it's best you don't see Neville until you've recovered fully. This is a very trying time for him, you know," she remarked, giving Pansy a warning look. "Best if you not give him something else to worry himself over, hm?"
"Yes," Pansy said, not contributing anything further, and Hermione delicately cleared her throat.
"Well, I am familiar with Lady Susan," Hermione unhappily admitted, though she might have confessed to worshipping the woman's feet just to prevent any further squirming in the wake of the unmentionable Neville Trauma, "but not particularly well. Only to the extent of her patronship of The Transfiguration Project, so—"
"Oh, you must get to know her better," Augusta said, brightening again as she turned to Hermione. "You and she have so very much in common—both driven, bright, unselfish. A very charming quality for a young woman," she said, and Hermione saw Pansy's hand tighten on her teacup. "Best to be gracious, I say, which you and Susan certainly are."
Briefly, Hermione's head swam with a wave of something discomfiting, washing over her momentarily until she had to force it back with a swallow.
"Well," she said, blinking for a moment to steady herself, and then, when that didn't work, she gripped the table for a moment. "Right, well, as I was saying—"
"My dear, you look terribly unwell," Augusta said with a frown, turning to Pansy. "Did you say you had a stomach flu, Pansy?"
"Yes, I did," Pansy said, a little touch of concern reaching her voice as she turned to Hermione. "You really should go home, Hermione. I imagine it will only get worse from here."
"Do you need a doctor, perhaps?" Augusta asked, fretting. "I have a very good friend, Poppy, who occasionally makes house calls—"
"No, no, I'm… I'm fine," Hermione said, though she felt a brief trickle of sweat begin to pool at the small of her back. "I just, um. Maybe you're right," she said, swallowing again, and then a second time. "Probably best if I go home, and—"
"Yes, go," Pansy said, urging her out the door. "Do you need me to come with you, or—?"
"No, I'm fine," Hermione said, launching to her feet. "I just… I'll call you, Augusta—"
"Yes, and if you need that doctor—"
"Oh no, thank you, I'm fine—"
It was a blur from her seat to the sidewalk, and from there the chill in the air struck Hermione with a dizzying slap, sending her running for one of the city's great miracles: A conveniently available cab, a couple departing the backseat just as Hermione reached the just-closed door.
"Hi," she said, yanking the door open and letting the words bubble up from her throat. "Yes, hi, I need to get t-" she began, and then cut herself off abruptly, taking a step back and wishing she could rewind to earlier—like, say, to approximately twenty minutes before she'd left the house.
Because, much to Hermione's dismay, what came out of her mouth did not end with directions.
Hermione woke with a start to the sound of a knock on her door, shivering slightly from the sweat clinging to her mismatched sweats. She rose to her feet in the dark, not bothering with the light switch, and looked through the peephole.
Odd, she thought. Either she was hallucinating, or Batman had come to her apartment.
She paused for a moment, suddenly incomprehensibly cold, and considered whether Batman could force his way inside. The answer was yes, she assumed, though she'd never been particularly well-versed in comics. She was about to consult Wikipedia for confirmation when she realized she had no idea where her phone was, and then she heard another knock.
"Hermione," came a voice, and since she didn't think Batman knew her name, she reached for the door, slowly drawing it open.
It was not Batman, as it turned out, though it was someone dressed head to toe in black, a motorcycle helmet over their face.
"Yes?" she said.
"Oof," replied not-Batman, shaking his helmeted head. "You look dreadful."
"That's rude," said Hermione, opting to turn around and return to the little nest she'd burrowed for herself on the sofa. Standing, she noted, was a very trying activity, and she felt the immediate urge to resume being horizontal.
Not-Batman had followed her into her apartment, which might have worried her under other circumstances, but considering she was maybe-probably dying, she didn't bother to say much.
"I'll just put the kettle on," she said, waving a hand as her face met the sofa cushions, and the man who wasn't Batman seemed skeptical, glancing over his shoulder at the kitchen.
"Well," not-Batman said, removing his gloves, "I see Pansy was right, then." He seemed to be surveying her apartment with a doubtful tone, shaking his still-helmeted head. "How long have you been feeling sick?"
"I'm not sick," said Hermione, teeth chattering slightly. "I'm cold. And hot. And," she said, squinting to recount her symptoms, "mildly vomitous."
"Mm, yes, so quite well, then," judged not-Batman, removing his helmet and setting it on her table. For a moment, Hermione was quite sure he had a silvery glow around his head, and wondered if perhaps she had misjudged. It seemed suddenly quite possible he was not only not Batman, but also possibly an angel.
"Do you have a message?" she asked him.
"No," he said. "Can't I come check on you without bearing a message?"
That, she thought, is precisely what an angel would say, only he didn't seem to have wings. He seemed, in fact, intensely familiar, though she supposed everything was a little disorienting at the moment, and besides, the lights were still off.
"You look like my ex," she told him. "But I'm not allowed to talk about him, so don't ask."
For a moment, not-Batman looked incredibly perplexed.
"Just out of curiosity," he said, "if you were allowed to talk about him, what would you say?"
Hermione considered it.
"Trick question," she judged eventually, shivering so sharply she bit her tongue. "You won't get a word out of me, Bruce."
"Bruce, hm?" he echoed. "Is that who you think I am?"
"Well, you're not Batman," she said.
"Infallible logic," he agreed, moving to sit beside her on the sofa and pressing his cold knuckles to her forehead. "You're burning up, Hermione," he said, sounding concerned, "and unfortunately, I don't actually know how to care for someone with the flu. Probably should have considered that before I came," he murmured to himself, removing something from his pocket. "Do you think I can simply Google 'flu,' or—?"
"You know, I've been thinking," Hermione interrupted, squinting at him. "What if we could travel through fireplaces?"
"Hm?" said Bruce, who seemed to be looking something up on his phone instead of listening, which she considered very rude. "Fireplaces, did you say?"
"Yes," she said, snottily. "We could call it a floo system."
"Flu system?"
"Floo system," she corrected, and sneezed. "Sorry."
"Bless you," he said, still looking down at his screen. "Lozenges, wonderful, such sage advice—"
"Hold on," Hermione said, gripping his arm as a wave of dizziness passed over her yet again. "Hold that thought. I have to do something."
"Do what?" asked Bruce.
In answer, she promptly threw up on his shoes.
"Ah," said Bruce. "Yes, I see."
When Hermione woke again, she was tucked snugly in her bed, a warm figure sitting beside her. She opened her eyes slowly, squinting, and registered that it was, in fact, Prince Draco, who was wearing one of her t-shirts and a pair of very snug, very short shorts—also hers.
"Sorry," he said. "Had to borrow some things."
He was sitting with his back against her headboard, long legs outstretched on top of her duvet, ankles crossed. He was also wearing a pair of reading glasses, glancing at her with his thumb holding his place in one of her books.
"What," Hermione began, "the fuck?"
Draco held up a finger for pause, reaching for one of her hair ties from her nightstand to mark his place in the book, then set it down on the floor beside him, turning to look at her.
"Where would you like me to start?" he asked, and she shivered a little, frowning.
"How did you get in?" she said.
"You let me in," he informed her.
"I did?"
"Yes. You called me Bruce several times."
"Oh," she said, finding that vaguely familiar. "Okay."
"Anything else?" he prompted.
"Yes," she said. "Why are you wearing my clothes?"
"Mine are a bit… soiled," he said, and then added hastily, "But that's to be expected, of course. Blame my lack of preparation."
She winced, piecing that together. "Oh god, sorry—"
"No, no, you're fine," he assured her, and she burrowed deeper in the covers, not wanting him to see how flushed she was. "No need to hide, either," he informed her, half-laughing as he removed his reading glasses to set them on the nightstand. "Or did you fail to notice you're also wearing different clothes?"
She lifted the covers, glancing down at her sweater and yoga pants, and felt vaguely embarrassed, only mostly shivery and tired. "Oh," she said, and then, "Since when do you wear glasses?"
"It's a recent thing," he said. "Just for reading, and just one eye. Turns out my genetics are not, in fact, perfect," he sighed, "only don't tell anyone. Divine right does not extend to vision, but we can't have them telling the Church."
She wanted to laugh, only she worried she might throw up again. Speaking seemed less volatile a motion, so she opted for further questioning. "How did you know I was sick?"
"Oh, you know. Saw a picture of you heaving in the Daily Prophet," he said, and when her horror must have shown on her face, he hurried through a laugh. "No, no, I'm joking. Pansy rang me," he explained, which wasn't all that much better, in Hermione's mind.
"She told you to come here?"
What a minx Lady Six-Names was, as Hermione was hardly in a fit state to be seen by a man who, despite having seen her naked several hundred times, had never witnessed her this repulsively exposed.
"No," Draco said, shaking his head, "but I didn't like the thought of you being alone. She hasn't been particularly well, either," he added, frowning. "I believe she's just getting over something similar, though I'm sure she'd very well murder me if I tried to help."
Hermione briefly pondered his murder herself, then dismissed it, finding the prospect exhausting. That was the difference between her and Pansy, Hermione thought with an inward sigh. Surely Pansy was never without energy for violence. "She didn't tell me she was sick."
"Well, unsurprisingly, Pansy prefers it if other people do not suspect her of bodily functions," Draco said. "I think it's one of her great shames, her frail humanity. Perhaps in her next life she will ascend mortal functions."
"Here's hoping," Hermione faintly agreed.
Draco smiled.
"Drink water," he advised, gesturing to the glass on her nightstand. "I tried making you soup, but you refused it, so water it is."
She sat up, or struggled to. "I refused it?"
"Well, I was very clear about the fact that it was a royal decree, but you told me that I, Bruce, was in no way capable of decrying anything," Draco said. He shook his head, adding, "You were quite mean about it, actually."
Hermione sipped the water. "Was I?"
"Yes. In fact, you told me to 'mind my business and run along,'" he quoted, "and then you called me an arrogant toadstool and advised that I take my ferritty features elsewhere."
"I'd apologize—"
"Don't. It was illuminating, really."
"—but I won't," Hermione agreed, "because frankly, I think it's about time someone told you about those."
"My ferritty features, you mean?"
"Yes," she said solemnly, and he chuckled.
"Noted," he said, and she settled herself in the blankets again, shivering. "Still cold?"
"Freezing," she said, "and also burning. So, you know, normal mortal things," she sighed, and he laughed again, scooting closer to her on the bed.
"Well," he said, "I could try the soup again, if you wanted."
"How did you get soup to begin with?" Hermione asked him. "I'm fairly certain I don't have any."
He shrugged. "I have some privileges. As a general rule," he mused, "if I wish to have something, it is fairly uncomplicated for me to get it."
Hermione groaned. "See? Arrogant toadstool," she informed him, and he gave her something like an unapologetic smirk. "Princes these days, honestly. Give them an inch, they take the whole damn empire."
"Now that," Draco said, "is surely genetic."
She flashed him her best imitation of Pansy's disapproval.
"Shouldn't you be somewhere, by the way?" she asked him.
"Probably," Draco said, "but you're hardly in a fit state to be alone. You already seem to have lost the last three hours of your life, haven't you?"
She refused—refused, bodily, and with what remained un-vomited of her convictions—to be swayed by that, or by anything.
"I imagine the Prince of Darkness is going to call at any minute," Hermione said, deciding to be difficult.
"Oh, I'm sure he will," Draco agreed, "but I'm slightly unconcerned with him at the moment."
Hermione scoffed. "A rarity."
"More common than you think," Draco countered, "particularly recently."
She slid him a sidelong glance. "Meaning what?"
Draco considered her for a moment, then gestured to the glass of water beside the bed.
"Finish it," he said.
She shook her head. "You finish. Your sentence," she clarified. "Trade you. Hydration for intel."
He paused to gauge her offering, grey eyes slightly narrowed, and then nodded.
"Fine," he said. "My mother would like a divorce and my father refuses to agree. My grandfather, meanwhile, will not approve it without my father's cooperation. And I," he ventured, and stopped. "That's a separate matter."
Hermione arched a brow.
"Water," Draco said, and she scowled.
"Fine," she said, grumpily sitting up to take a sip. Her head swam once again, gifting her a shudder of revulsion. "You what?" she said into the glass, and Draco was silent for a moment, considering it further, before opening his mouth.
"Initially," he began, "I thought it might be better for you if I stepped aside. I thought perhaps you might be happier with someone else. But then you told me what happened with Harry, and—"
"Hold that thought," Hermione said, and then, with a bit of dazed relief, "Oh, look, a salad bowl."
"Thought you might need it," Draco replied, and placed a cool hand on her back as she vomited, waiting politely for her to finish.
"So," Hermione said, permitting Draco to help her back into bed after he'd insisted she take a hot shower (something about, "Google says steam," though he'd refused to move from the other side of the door) and clambering under the blankets. "You were saying?"
"About what?" he said, feeling her forehead. "Hm," he said, sounding concerned. "You're still quite hot."
"Thanks," Hermione sniffed, and sneezed. "You, too."
"No, I meant—" He stopped, half-smiling. "Never mind what I meant."
"You said something about Harry," Hermione reminded him, and then tried to strain foggily for recollection. "Or was it Blaise? Or Neville. God, fuck Neville," she grumbled, burrowing into the blankets as Draco resumed his place at her side. "Can you believe him?"
"I can't, actually," Draco said. "I'm trying, for Blaise's sake, but—"
"What?" Hermione said, staring up at him. "What do you mean for Blaise's sake? You're talking to Blaise?"
"Of course I'm talking to Blaise," Draco said, as if she'd said something irrational. "He's my friend, Hermione, and has been for y-"
"How very fucking dare you," Hermione shot at him, and Draco sighed, rising to his feet. "Where are you going?"
"I'm making you soup," he called over his shoulder, "but by all means, continue berating me."
"I'M GOING TO," she shouted. "DON'T YOU HAVE ANY LOYALTY?"
"Yes, of course I do," he said, followed by the sound of cabinets opening and closing. She heard the clang of dishware, a few beeps from the microwave, and then his footsteps resuming a path towards her bedroom. "Pansy understands," he said, reappearing in the frame, and Hermione's eyes narrowed.
"Like hell she does—"
"She does," Draco said firmly, "because this is, quite unfortunately, a private matter between them. Of course, she did not take my part in his deception well," he admitted, and then the microwave beeped again. Draco turned, disappearing into the corridor.
"WHAT DECEPTION?" Hermione shouted after him, perhaps a bit too violently.
"Ouch, Christ," said Draco, presumably about something other than their conversation. "Balls almighty—"
"HELLO," Hermione prompted grouchily, and after a few more sounds, Draco emerged in her bedroom, oven mitts on his hands as he carried her the bowl of soup.
"Wait a minute, it's hot," he informed her, perching on her side of the mattress, and she folded her arms irritably over her chest. "Oh, fine," he sighed, moderately exasperated. "You're not going to eat until I tell you, are you?"
She made a face that meant she was going to do whatever the hell she liked, and he grimaced.
"Blaise told me last year that Neville kissed him," Draco said, and Hermione blinked, stunned.
"What? When?"
"New Year's Eve," Draco said. "When we all went to Courchevel."
"But—"
"He told me it had only happened the once, and I believed him. I had no idea it continued, obviously, but at the time, I thought it best not to upset Pansy—"
"But—"
"And yes, perhaps that was ill-advised of me in retrospect, but I was really quite certain Blaise wasn't harboring any secret feelings towards Neville. I suspect even he wasn't aware that he was, at least not at the time, and it has really never been my practice to press him unnecessarily—"
"BUT YOU DIDN'T TELL ME!" Hermione informed him, and Draco, a bit startled by her volume, stopped abruptly, snapping his mouth shut.
Immediately upon recovery, though, he became defensive. "It wasn't my information to tell," he insisted, "and besides, you would have told Pansy, which is precisely what Blaise didn't want—"
"You don't know that," Hermione snapped. "When have I been anything but loyal to you, hm?"
Draco stopped for a moment, his pale brow furrowing.
"Loyalty again," he noted, and frowned. "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"
She glared at him.
He turned, picking up the bowl of soup, and held up a spoon.
"Eat it," he said.
"Fuck you," Hermione replied.
"You're feisty when you're sick," Draco noted, spooning the soup for her and leaning forward. "Open your mouth," he said, annoyingly princelike, and she scoffed.
"Draco, don't tell me what to d-"
He pressed the spoon against her lips, ignoring her, and she glared at him.
"Your choice," he said, looking horrifically unsorry. "If you want to keep shouting at me, you'll have to eat the soup."
She folded her arms tighter, annoyed, and finally gave in.
"Fine," she growled, opening her mouth, and he gave her a smug look of triumph, spooning broth into her mouth. "But," she said, hastening to swallow, "that means I get to be as angry as I want."
"Yes, fine," Draco permitted neutrally, spooning another bite. "You can be as cross as you like until the end of the bowl. Sound fair?"
She swept a willful gaze over him, noting how ludicrously tight her t-shirt was on him and delighting momentarily in his probable discomfort, and then returned to glowering.
"You should have told me about Blaise," she said. "You should have told Pansy, too. There's no excuse for what he did."
"His excuse," Draco said, bringing the spoon to her lips as she grudgingly permitted her mouth to open, "isn't the issue. He's my friend, and while I'm not happy with his choices, I don't like to see him suffer. Which, by the way, he is doing," he said firmly, observing Hermione as she chewed the salted noodles of what was clearly canned chicken soup, "whether I contribute to it or not."
"He was selfish," Hermione snapped.
"He felt trapped, I think," Draco said, shaking his head. "He fell for Neville and he didn't want to hurt Pansy. It's hardly excusable, but still, I can see how it was a difficult situation for him."
"Oh," Hermione scoffed, "so you think what he did was fine, then?"
"Open your mouth," Draco said.
"Fuck you," she shot back.
He glared, and she glared back.
"Obviously it wasn't fine," he said, gratifyingly conceding first. "Of course I don't approve. How could I? Pansy is suffering, but so is he, and they're both my friends. And truly," he said, grumbling it, "I don't think this was a trifling thing for either of them, and certainly not for Blaise. You don't know him the way I do, Hermione."
"Oh, so now I don't know him?" she said, needlessly childish, and Draco sighed.
"Open your mouth," he said again, "or I won't continue."
She grudgingly unhinged her jaw, accepting the proffered bite.
"He's always felt like an outsider," Draco said, placing the spoon carefully in her mouth. "I think he loves us differently than we love him, and loving Neville…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "It's nothing he's felt before, nothing he knew how to deal with. I think he thought it would go away, that it might fade, but when it didn't—"
"That isn't what love is," Hermione said, forcing a swallow. "Love isn't some hopeless thing you have to chase through hell or high water! It shouldn't be, anyway," she muttered. "It certainly shouldn't be something you choose when it means one person is suffering."
Draco stopped for a moment, eyeing the bowl of soup.
"No," he said, and then, emboldened by his moment of humility, Hermione kept going.
"When you love someone, you don't just keep them in the dark," she said, somewhere between irritably cross and painfully anguished. "When things are hard, you don't just make excuses! That's not how things are supposed to work—"
"Well, if one person isn't willing to be honest, then what is the other person supposed to do?" Draco countered. "Look at Pansy," he reminded her, shaking his head. "The truth isn't important to her, is it? She hardly confesses to anything, even now—so what was Blaise supposed to do?"
"Oh, so now it's Pansy's fault?" Hermione snapped, incensed. "It's not that simple, Draco! A person can't always admit to being hurt, or to feeling lonely, or to thinking it's her responsibility to carry her own emotional weight—and how hard was it for him to simply look at her and notice? Didn't he love her enough to see it for himself?" she demanded, a little desperation creeping into her voice. "He was so busy thinking about himself, about his own struggle, without considering hers—"
"He was most certainly considering how difficult things were for her," Draco argued, fingers tightening further around the spoon as the discussion gradually progressed from its initial subject, "but what was he supposed to do, Hermione? If it were up to him, he'd have been honest in a heartbeat, but he wasn't free to do so! It's not something he knows how to do, it isn't in his nature—and besides, his role has obligations—"
"Of course he does, but doesn't he have some obligation to her, too?" Hermione shot back. "Shouldn't she have the right to be a priority in his life, if he is in hers? Yes, fine, he has rules," she said bitterly, "and yes, fine, so she doesn't always understand the restrictions of his life—but couldn't he have done more?" she insisted, feeling the ache in her head throb angrily against her temples. "Was it really asking too much for him to put her first?"
"He isn't perfect," Draco insisted. "He was raised to believe he should always put duty first—should put his responsibilities first, and put his blood and his family above everything—and yes," he said, slightly pained, "now he can see that he was wrong, and now, probably rightfully, he's suffering for it, but—"
He broke off, clearing his throat, and glanced down.
"Blaise," Draco clarified, his grey gaze fixed on the bowl in his hands as he re-oriented the argument to its source, "is suffering for his mistakes, and I can't let him do it alone. Much as I love Pansy, and as much as I know this is a struggle of Blaise's own making, I can't let him go through it alone. Perhaps I relate to it," he said, glancing up to look at her. "Perhaps I understand what it's like to know that something I've done has cost me everything, and that in the end, I was too much of a coward to fight for it. But whatever it is," he sighed, "I can't abandon him, Hermione. Some lessons are too painful to learn alone."
For a moment, Hermione simply stared at him, unsure what to say.
Then she slowly parted her lips, opening her mouth, and Draco slid a spoonful of soup between them, letting her chew quietly in silence.
"What," Hermione said, "are we going to do about Blaise and Pansy?"
Draco shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "I want to repair it, but I think it's on her to decide. When she's ready, perhaps she'll come to him," he said, looking slightly wearied by the wait, "but for now, I think it's best that he simply—"
"Are you fucking Lady Sooz?" Hermione cut in, and Draco blinked, startled.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Making love, then, whatever," Hermione amended, muttering it with preemptive brusqueness, and Draco stared at her for a second.
Then, to her distress, he started to laugh.
"My god, I can't believe it took me four years to see you this ill," he managed, nearly spilling the soup as he struggled to maintain his composure. "This is… honestly, it's quite an experience—"
"Yes or no, dickhead," Hermione said, impatient.
"Wow, I just—Lady Susan, really? No," he said, shaking his head and curling his hand around the remains of a tightly controlled wave of laughter. "No, god no, of course not. What did you call her?" he asked, and when Hermione turned away, annoyed, he gripped her arm, laughing harder. "Did you call her Lady Sooz—"
"Don't laugh," Hermione said, suddenly sick with either embarrassment or relief. "It's not funny, Draco—it's not like you've denied it, and she's all over the press!"
"Oh, believe me," Draco said, wiping the back of his hand against the moisture at his eyes, "if I denied it, it'd be much, much worse. The Palace only bothers denying things that are true, you know," he said, still indulging a tremor of humor, "which is a ridiculous rule that somehow we've all stupidly agreed to follow—"
Something like relief or sadness or possibly a brief, sudden chill swept brutishly over Hermione, who snatched the spoon from Draco's hand.
"Don't fuck her," Hermione said, opting to feed herself. "Okay?" she prompted, angrily taking a bite.
Draco gave her a fleeting half-smile, reaching forward to brush her sweaty curls away from her clammy forehead.
"Okay," he said. "You have my word."
"Good," Hermione sniffed, shoving the bowl at him. "And hold this."
"Yes, Your Highness," he said, rolling his eyes. "And by the way, how is the sou-"
He stopped himself as she leaned over, retching into the conveniently-placed salad bowl, and then he sighed, patting the back of her head.
"Right," he said. "Well, that makes sense."
"It's the Lady Sooz talk," Hermione muttered, spitting into the metal bowl and groaning with discomfort. "Not that I'm not a feminist," she reminded him, collapsing with her cheek pressed to his lap.
He gingerly lifted his hand, beginning to stroke the frizzy mass of curls that clung to her neck.
"Don't worry," Draco said, the sound of his voice fading away as her eyes groggily fell shut. "I know, Hermione. I know."
She woke sometime in the dismal hours of the night, well past midnight with her bedsheets positively drenched, to find Draco sleeping on his side. He was facing her, still wearing her t-shirt, which she noted for the first time featured the Hogwarts crest. It was funny, seeing their past emblazoned on his chest like that, and it made her smile a little to herself, though even that brief moment of consciousness was sufficient for her to feel she desperately needed a shower.
She tried sitting up but was wrapped in the blankets too tightly, like a human burrito. She groaned, struggling to pull free, and found Draco's unmoving form was prohibiting her escape.
She reached out, touching the bone of his cheek.
"Draco," she said. "Wake up."
He stirred, making a low sound of complaint. "Five more minutes," he muttered, and she sighed, about to try to climb out of bed again, when his eyes flew open. He startled himself to consciousness, catching her arm with a jolt. "Sorry," he said, launching upright. "I forgot where I was for a second—"
He had always slept well in her bed. She wondered, briefly, if it wasn't where he was but when he was that had disoriented him.
"It's fine. You're fine. I just need to shower," she said, gesturing to the sweat clinging to her clothes. "And—"
She broke off, sneezing, and immediately discovered there were no tissues to come to her aid.
"I need to shower," she repeated into the palms of her hand, and he gave her a piteous look of sympathy. "Don't look at me like that," she snapped, and made her way to the bathroom, turning the water all the way up and ignoring the fact that she hadn't shut the door behind her.
She saw his silhouette materialize in the bathroom through the opacity of her shower door.
"Need anything?" he asked her, and she let the beads of scalding hot water sting her skin as she bided her time, not answering right away.
"No," she said eventually, and then, perhaps because the water was greatly improving her state of mind, "Except maybe some advice, if you're up for it."
"Oh?" She watched the shape of him as he leaned against the door frame. "Try me."
Hermione pondered changing her mind for a second, but decided it was better to say something. At least there was someone present whose advice she trusted, and there was no sense putting that to waste.
"Well," she said, "Minerva called me yesterday morning."
"Oh?"
"Yes."
"What did she want?"
"I don't know. I didn't answer."
"She didn't leave a message?"
"She just asked me to call her back."
"And you… haven't?"
Hermione slid the shower door open a crack, arching a brow at him. "I've been busy," she reminded him, gesturing to the soiled clothes on the floor, and he gave her a subtle half-smile.
"You're putting it off," he corrected her, "illness or no illness, or you wouldn't be bringing it up now."
She shut the door again, groaning. "You think you're just so clever, don't you?"
"I'm hardly unclever."
"Well, seeing as I've been vomiting, this isn't the flu," she told him. "So you're not a very good nurse."
"Maybe not," he permitted. "But what I lack in medical diagnosis I have in spades about you, don't I?"
She let the water slide over her in silence.
"What are you afraid of?" Draco pressed her, and she grimaced.
"Her, mostly," she admitted. "Minerva's a little terrifying."
"She was always nice to you, wasn't she?"
"Well, yes, but—" Hermione cleared her throat. "I was always nervous to disappoint her, and then I did."
"How do you know?"
"I quit working for her, Draco, that's how I know."
"Maybe that's not disappointing. Why else would she call?"
"I don't know."
"Surely she still thinks highly of you. Why wouldn't she?"
"I don't know, but—"
"You should call her," Draco said. "Maybe she has another opportunity for you."
Hermione was quiet for a moment.
"I think," she said, "that's the part I'm actually afraid of."
She heard him shift his weight from foot to foot, his posture changing.
"Is it?"
She turned off the water, sliding the door open a crack, and he slid a towel through the vacancy.
"The thing is," Hermione said, accepting it and shutting the door, "I want to do something meaningful with my life."
"Yes," Draco said. "I know."
"Right." Hermione wrapped the towel around herself, wondering how to confess the rest. "It's just that I know I want to make an impact, which means I need… a voice. My voice."
"Yes," Draco said. "And?"
"Well—"
Hermione slid the door open, stepping out from the shower, and glanced at an expectant Draco.
"If she offers me something safe, like my old job, I'm afraid I'll take it," she confessed, watching Draco's brow furrow with confusion. "I'm afraid," Hermione clarified slowly, "that I'm not actually ready to give up the possibility of having you. That I'll choose to limit myself again because of… well, you," she repeated, and Draco leaned against the frame again, waiting. "Because honestly, I don't know how to see my life without you in it, but I think I need to."
"Because you don't want to be with me?" Draco said, and Hermione winced.
"I don't know," she admitted, folding her arms tightly over her chest. "But I don't want to live my life like you're the only thing in it, you know what I mean? I was unhappy, clearly." She paused to cough, then sneezed, swiping at her nose and giving him an apologetic look. "I just don't want to fall back into being the background character of my own life."
Draco was quiet for a moment.
"You know," he said, "I shouldn't have ever let you feel like that."
"I know," Hermione said.
"And if you were unhappy with me, it didn't have to be that way."
"I know."
"There were two of us."
"Yes."
"And I told you," he said, "I want you to be happy. Whatever that means for you."
"Yes," she repeated, a little frustrated, "and you keep saying that, but I don't actually know what that means. Because I was happy with you," she reminded him, feeling an old sting of hurt rise up in her throat again. "I used to be happiest when you were with me, but then you were gone so much, and I was—"
"Overlooked. I know." He glanced down, then back at her. "So why are you afraid, then?"
"I don't know." She laughed a little mournfully, shaking her head. "I mean, god, obviously we're already broken up, so it's not like we're…"
She trailed off.
"Not like we're what?" he prompted.
"Nothing. Nothing." She glanced down at her bare feet, still wet, and laughed again. "I'm being ridiculous—you're obviously just here to be nice," she sighed, gesturing to the entire mess that was herself, her life, and her deplorable gastrointestinal expulsions. "We're friends, I get it, but—"
"Oh, no, hang on," Draco cut in, startling her into looking at him. "Friends, really?"
"I," she began, and then, still foggy on what he was attempting to say, "Sorry, what?"
He paused a moment, calculating something, and then took a step towards her.
"If it isn't clear, Hermione, I love you," he said, and she blinked, finding the admission newly unfamiliar, as if he might have been saying different words than the ones he used to say.
"Believe me," he said, "I have every intention to have a life with you. The moment you decide you want that life as well, you'll have me. But," he continued, his expression unchanged, "if that takes time, so be it. If it never happens, fine. Other people in love have suffered before, and so will I. I thought when we split up that maybe someone else could make you happy—that Harry, specifically, could make you happy," he admitted, his gaze cutting away from hers for a moment and then returning, filled with certainty, "but it's since become quite clear to me that stepping aside is not remotely what I want."
"Draco," Hermione said, frowning, but lacking anything else to say, he continued in her silence.
"It occurred to me," Draco informed her, "that right from the start, I did you a disservice. You know what I never did?" he asked, suddenly somber.
She was surprised her voice came to her, considering she wasn't sure she trusted herself to look at him.
"What?"
"I never swept you off your feet," he said.
She stared at him, her pulse quickening erratically, but despite his admission, he'd come no closer, remaining instead near the door.
"I plan to," he clarified, "however long that takes. Whatever it requires."
She said nothing.
"Call Minerva in the morning," Draco advised. "See what she says. If she offers you something you want, then take it, whatever it is. Controversial, uncontroversial, so be it. If it sends you halfway round the world and you want distance, take it. If you want meaning, have it. If it's time you need, it's yours. In the meantime, call it arrogance, but for whatever it's worth, I am sure enough to wait," he said, and she could hardly believe he was saying it—she was convinced, at least partially, that her fever had never actually broken, and that this was, in fact, a dream—but she doubted even her subconscious would have dressed him in that outfit.
"Draco," she said. "You know you have rules. I," she amended, "know you have rules. I know you can't make empty promises, nor should you."
He shrugged. "If the gamble here is my crown, then it's worth it," he said, and she stared at him. "That's not an empty promise."
"You know I wouldn't make you give that up," she said.
"No," he agreed, "but I would, if that's what it took."
"It's irrelevant, Draco, because I'd never let it happen."
"Fine. Then can't I love you for that?" he said, and she curled a fist.
"Fuck you," she said.
"Well," he sighed, "lucky I already know sick Hermione is rather fond of her expletives—"
"No, really, fuck you," she said, mouth tightening, "because you know it's not just you I'd have to choose. You know it's more than that."
He cleared his throat, appropriately sobered by her anger. "Yes," he said eventually, "I do know that. But if you wanted me, it would be different. I would be different," he clarified, "for you."
"How?" she demanded. "You'd come home?"
"Yes, if that's what you want."
"You'd be seen with me, publicly?"
"Yes. Though, it would require an engagement," he said.
She blinked. "You're proposing?"
"Not now. Not like this. But yes," he said, and her head spun.
"But," she began, and stopped. "But your father—"
"Is hardly something to model my life after," Draco supplied for her. "He's a miserable man who's done little but made others miserable, and if he is still somehow worthy of my grandfather's throne, then surely so am I."
"Well, your grandfather, then—"
"He won't like it, probably, but he'll have little choice but to accept it," Draco said. "Succession is what it is, and there are no other heirs. Certainly no better ones," he amended, half-laughing, "though I suppose King Harry does have a certain terrible ring to it."
"But," Hermione said again, and faltered. "But—"
"The only remaining concern I have," Draco informed her, "is you. Full disclosure?" he prompted, to which she said nothing. "If it were up to me, I would fulfill the obligations of my rank for another year, perhaps two, and then return to public service. I think it's a valuable experience, and if I'm to be king of this country, I would rather have it than not. But, if it comes at the cost of your happiness, then simply say the word and—"
"You can't be serious," Hermione cut in, somewhere between disbelieving and… no, just disbelieving, she realized, numbed again to silence.
"Oh, I am. Very serious," Draco assured her. "I'm sorry it took losing you to know it, but I know it nonetheless. You are the only person who will keep me from you, Hermione, and once I've won you over—which I will do everything in my not-inconsiderable power to do," he cautioned her, leaning in to invade what was suddenly her extremely naked space, "you'll see I was serious all along."
For a moment, neither of them moved. It seemed at once impossible that he was saying anything he was saying, and similarly, totally inconceivable that at this time yesterday, she had been fully convinced he was fucking some snotty member of the nobility.
"Jesus," Hermione said under her breath, and when that was not sufficiently impactful, "Fuck."
Draco gave her a gravely sympathetic nod. "Yeah," he said. "I know," and when she leaned forward, considering the value of kissing him (Spoiler: it was very high, because who fucking said things like that?), he stopped her, reaching out to rest the back of his hand coolly against her forehead.
"Well, you seem to be better now," Draco noted, seeming to have observed the impressive way she'd gone several minutes without hurling, "so I should let you get some rest."
To her amazement, he released her, striding to the door and glancing over his shoulder.
"Feel better, Hermione," he said, and though it seemed a perfectly adequate time to faint or perhaps reprise her fever, she surprisingly did not.
"Thanks, Draco," she said, and only after he had collected his things and left did she realize he'd been humming something familiar under his breath.
"Ah, Hermione," said Minerva, beckoning her into the office. "Excellent, I'm so glad you were able to come in."
"Thank you for inviting me. I'm so sorry for the delay," Hermione offered, and Minerva glanced up, surprised.
"Hm? Oh yes, I assumed Wood's incurable chattiness might have kept you," Minerva said, waving a hand to reference his desk, and Hermione fought a laugh.
"No, I meant that I'm sorry I couldn't return your call right away," she explained. "I'm just getting over some sort of stomach bug that my friend and I had, but—"
"Not to worry," Minerva said, shooing her excuses like flies. "I won't keep you long. I simply wanted to ask if you had any interest in writing professionally," she said, and Hermione, surprised, felt herself inhale sharply. "It occurred to me that perhaps I should get with the times," Minerva remarked with notable lamentation, "and begin some sort of blog to support our ongoing philanthropic efforts. You had one, didn't you?" she prompted Hermione. "A blog, I mean."
"Oh," Hermione said, blinking. "Yes, I did—"
"I thought so. Good, as I'd certainly prefer you to that Lovegood lunatic you dug up—she's clever enough," Minerva said without much enthusiasm, "and hardly untalented, but she's entirely without your vastly preferable clarity. That, and your obvious passion for social change, which is of course the heart of any not-for-profit endeavor. Now, that being said, I'm aware freelancing isn't enough to pay the bills," Minerva continued, sorting through some of the excess pages on her desk without bothering to concern herself with Hermione's reaction, "but I'm certainly not unconnected. I have friends and former colleagues with similar philanthropic pursuits with which to build your portfolio, so if you haven't found another position—"
"No," Hermione hurried to assure her, pulse quickening at the prospect. "No, nothing else."
"Well, wonderful," Minerva said, glancing up. "You're welcome to use our office space, if you like, and for the sake of your visa, I can continue as your employer—"
"Minerva," Hermione said, positively overwhelmed. "I'm… I'm honored, and—"
She stopped, considering something.
"Though, you do realize that my reputation is," Hermione began, and faltered, wondering how to say, 'Well, my tits were in the Daily Prophet and so, perhaps, any articles written by me at this time might not be taken seriously' in a way Minerva might find compelling. "Well, it's not its best, I'm afraid—"
"So use a pseudonym," Minerva said, and looked up, squinting at Hermione to gauge something unknowable. "Penelope Clearwater," Minerva judged after a moment, and shrugged. "There, done. May I expect you in the office tomorrow morning? I'll have Wood brief you on our next event," she said, and before Hermione could say anything, Minerva had already risen to her feet.
"Welcome aboard, Penelope," she offered, and Hermione, still in a state of disbelief, slowly took her hand, shaking it with amazement.
"Thank you, Minerva," she said, feeling a rush of affection for her once and future employer that she felt unable to put into words. "Really, I'm so grateful you thought to ask."
"Yes," said Minerva. "Of course."
Hermione beamed.
Minerva, meanwhile, gave her a small frown.
"You can leave now, Hermione," she said, and Hermione blinked, startled back to cognizance.
"Yes, yes, of course," she said, hurrying out of her office and pulling her phone out of her bag.
"How did it go?" asked Oliver, grinning gleefully as looked up from the skateboard he'd ridden in on from lunch. "Told you it'd be relatively painless, didn't I?" he asked, kicking it up and then tossing it over his shoulder.
"I should know by now you're always right, Wood," Hermione said.
Minerva offered me a freelance writing job, she sent in a message. I took it.
She paused for a second, and then added, I don't know where that leaves us, but I'm happy about it, I think. It feels right, at least for now.
"Yes, yes, truer words. By the way, this is the former you," he informed the person now sitting in Hermione's desk—a young woman named Demelza Robins. "And as you can see," he sniffed, "you have quite a lot to live up to."
"Right, sir," squeaked Demelza, as Hermione shook her head, receiving a text in response.
So, came the reply, one might say you're shining like the sun, then?
Perhaps… smiling, having fun?
Hermione, who was feeling oddly optimistic, opted to take that as a sign.
Feeling like a number one, she confirmed in reply, humming the lyrics to Super Trouper under her breath as she winked at Oliver, tossing an exuberant, "See you tomorrow," proudly over her shoulder at Demelza before making her way to the door.
Draco told me later that he'd always intended to say all the things he'd said to me while I was sick, but he'd imagined them being more romantic. Personally, I don't think it's possible. I think the way it happened was exactly right.
Besides, we had bigger emergencies to deal with. Remember when I said the end of 2014 would hit all of us hard? Right, well…
Prepare for impact, I suppose.
a/n: My book One For My Enemy is now available! Find links at olivieblake dot com, if you so choose. Thank you for the birthday wishes, and thank you, as always, for reading!