Roses are red
Violets are blue
I don't own Harry Potter
This is sad, but true
Guys. This chapter. Phew! Honestly, I have laboured over this thing like it was my own flesh and blood crawling its way out of my (very exhausted) brain.
Thanks, as always, to the amazing littlered1992 – your support and encouragement means everything!
Hermione could not remember the last time she had been late for work. In fact, it was probably safe to assume that she had never been late for work. She was known for her almost annoying habit of arriving anywhere early, and tapping her foot incessantly until whoever she was waiting for showed up.
Tardiness was just unacceptable in Hermione's view; evidence of a disorganised mind, she would say. So when she woke up on the dreary morning five minutes past her start time, her first reaction was panic.
Her eyes opened slowly, the sound of her beeping alarm clock decidedly missing; something was wrong. She sat up quickly, and the room spun. Her head pounded and she clutched her temples as she willed her eyes to focus.
"Shit!" She swore as the time finally swam into view.
She swallowed, the feeling of a thousand tiny razor blades burning all the way down. She groaned, though the sound was barely audible through her congested sinuses.
Oh Merlin, please no.
Hermione forced herself out of bed, and desperately launched herself towards her walk in wardrobe. She threw on a simple pair of black slacks and an old red blouse - no one cared what she looked like in the filing department – before checking her medicine cabinet for Pepper-Up Potion.
She'd run out.
"Damn it!" She croaked, wincing as the action further aggravated her throat. She slammed the cabinet shut and then Floo'd directly into the Ministry.
Hermione kept her head down as she marched across the marble floors towards the lifts. She entered one as the doors open, finding it blessedly empty except for a few inter-departmental memos. She sighed and leaned against the side of the lift as it sped backwards and then straight up. She need to find Atticus before she started in filing; she would not be any good to any one with her entire head feeling like it might explode.
The lift stopped with a shudder, and the cool female voice announced that Hermione had arrived at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She stepped out, her balance a little shaky, and slowly began her way towards the open plan office cubicles where Atticus worked.
"Hermione?"
Hermione's blood ran cold. She stopped dead in her tracks, but did not turn around. She squeezed her eyes shut and she wished the ground would just open up and swallow her.
"I've been looking for you everywhere." Vivienne appeared around Hermione's left elbow. The blonde looked her up and down, from the tips of her scuffed ballet flats to the top of her head, where she'd piled her curls in a messy bun. "Have you only just arrived?" She checked the watch on her wrist.
Hermione's cheeks flooded with warmth and she forced herself into a relaxed standing position. Vivienne looked at her expectantly, one eyebrow raised; though, Hermione noted, her eyes did not hold their usual malice.
"I'm sorry, Vivienne," she said hoarsely, "I woke up late with this cold." She gestured towards her face. "I'm just looking for Atticus; I'm afraid without a potion, I won't be able to work today." She tried to keep her voice as neutral as possible, but even without the hoarseness, her tone was irritated and impatient.
"It's fine," the witch bit out. Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "I need to speak with you. Come to my office."
The blonde turned on her heel and marched down the hall in the opposite direction. Hermione watched her leave, and then turned to look longingly back towards the open plan offices. Tears stung in the corner of her eyes.
Surely whatever mess I've made can wait until I've dealt with this stupid virus, she thought helplessly.
With one last glance over her shoulder, Hermione shuffled along the corridor towards Vivienne's office.
Vivienne was already sitting behind her desk when Hermione arrived. Her back was straight, and she was staring at her hands which lay twisted in front of her.
"Have a seat," she nodded towards the chairs facing her desk, but did not look at Hermione.
Hermione's stomach flipped over. Something big had happened; and if it only affected Hermione, Vivienne would be gloating about it, not sitting there fidgeting like she was about to tell a child mummy and daddy are getting a divorce.
Hermione's stomach swooped again. Maybe that was it – was Vivienne about to tell her she and Ron were getting divorced? Hermione glanced quickly at the blonde's left hand. Nope. The ring was still there.
She fought the blush that threatened at her neck; it was stupid to think Vivienne would share something like that with Hermione, anyway. Stupid, she thought to herself. Stupid, stupid.
Hermione frowned, her mind feeling sluggish under the effects of her illness. Think, she instructed herself. What could possibly affect both Vivienne and me?
Besides Ron, there wasn't anything that connected the witches, except for their work. If it had something to do with an old case of Hermione's surely that wasn't her problem anymore; since losing the Malfoy case and being sent to…
Wait.
Malfoy.
Hermione's head shot up and she stared at Vivienne's forehead.
"They're sending him back to Azkaban, aren't they?" Her already compromised voice was barely above a whisper as alarm coursed through her veins.
Vivienne met her gaze, her brow slightly creased. "No," she said slowly.
"But?" Hermione urged, her headache vetoing any attempt at a patient façade.
"But nothing," Vivienne snapped. "Draco isn't going back to prison."
Odd, Hermione thought, she almost seems disappointed. Weren't the Malfoys friends of the Greengrasses?
"I brought you in here today, Hermione," Vivienne shifted her gaze sideways so that she was addressing the wall, "to discuss your reinstatement to the Malfoy case."
Hermione's jaw dropped and she stared, wide mouthed and bug-eyed.
"I'm sorry?" She choked. "You want me to take over the case again?"
Vivienne paused, her mouth contorting as if she couldn't say what she really wanted to say.
"Yes," she said finally. "From today, you are once again Draco's case manager."
"Why? What happened?" Hermione demanded.
Vivienne bristled, her gaze back on Hermione. "That is unimportant."
Hermione wanted to argue. Whatever she had been expecting at work today, it was not this conversation. Ever curious, the brunette witch felt frustration bubble in her chest at the denial of knowing what was behind this very odd decision.
"I don't understand…" she spoke under her breath, but Vivienne heard her.
"It doesn't matter. Just go and do your job, Hermione, before I change my mind."
Hermione felt the smirk settle on her face before she could stop it. Who did the blonde witch think she was fooling? Vivienne had been fidgeting and avoiding eye contact throughout the meeting. Something had gone down; something that was outside of Vivienne's control, and Hermione wanted to know what it was.
"It doesn't seem like you have the power to make that sort of call anymore, Vivienne."
Hermione watched as Vivienne's cheeks flushed. A sick sense of satisfaction settled itself in her gut and she arched an eyebrow as the blonde woman glared back at her.
"Do you really want to find out? I could have your job like that!" She punctuated the last word with a click of her fingers.
Hermione laughed; a high, cruel sound that wasn't entirely like her. She rose slowly from the chair, still conscious of the way her head was pounding. Fainting in front of Vivienne when it finally seemed like she had gained the upper hand would not do. She placed her hands palms down on the desk and looked her boss in the eye.
"And how would that look, Vivienne? Harry Potter's best friend and the Wizarding World's Golden Girl sacked by the very institution she risked her life to save?"
Vivienne's lip curled menacingly and she spoke through clenched teeth. "You aren't as special as you think you are."
Hermione snorted and pushed herself away from the desk. "Get over yourself, Vivienne," she spat. "I'll go and collect the files from Morag. I'll have the report completed by the end of this week."
"See that you do," Vivienne snapped back. Hermione rolled her eyes, but bit back on her retort. After that exchange, she figured it wasn't a great loss if Vivienne had the last say. Without looking back, Hermione flounced from the office without shutting the door behind her.
Morag was sitting at her desk when Hermione barged in to her office, adrenaline still coursing through her veins. The elderly witch looked up, her quill poised above a thick case file. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, but she recovered quickly.
"I need the Malfoy case file please, Morag." Hermione punctuated her sentence with the click of her heel as she came to a stop in front of the desk.
The old witch frowned and placed her quill carefully back in its ink pot. "I wondered whether you'd be along to collect it."
Hermione tapped her foot on the ground. She knew it was rude, but she was in something of a hurry; her head was pounding and her throat was actually aching with the force of speaking. All she wanted was to get the damn case file, send Atticus to the apothecary down the street, and retire to her office with a large pot of lemon tea.
Morag, clearly not sensing the young witch's urgency, stood carefully and turned to the bookshelf behind her. She ran a short, pale finger along the wood until she found the file labelled "MALFOY, Draco".
Morag handed the file to Hermione who held it against her chest, tucked under her chin.
"Thank you," she indicated the file with a nod of her head. She turned to leave.
"Oh, and Hermione?" Morag called, still standing behind her desk.
Hermione turned back around slowly, her face a picture of exasperation and exhaustion.
"Just be careful, when you go back there," she clasped her hands in front of her and Hermione frowned. "It appears the young Mister Malfoy spends his time in unsavoury company."
Morag spoke as if she was choosing her words very carefully, but the corners of her mouth twitched as though she was fighting a grim smile.
"What do you mean?" Hermione, unable to hide her curiosity, stepped back in to the office.
Morag opened and closed her mouth several times, and Hermione felt her limited patience wane. The older witch was a true bureaucrat in many ways; she wouldn't speak unless it directly followed a policy or procedure. But Hermione also knew she was a terrible gossip, second only to Atticus in their department.
"Well, he told me that Miss Parkinson had stayed the night the week I visited him." Morag's beady eyes shone as she spoke. "And if The Prophet is to be believed, Mister Zabini is back in town as well. I don't know either family particularly well, but I do know that they are close with the Malfoys. Just be careful."
Hermione flushed as the image of a girl with a face like a pug swam in her mind.
"Pansy Parkinson." She whispered.
"Yes, dear. That's the one." Morag smiled at her and tucked the back of her skirt against her legs before sitting down neatly. "It seems they've entered into a romantic endeavour; you realise what this means?"
Hermione thought that there were probably many answers to that question, but she had no clue as to which one Morag was referring to. Her head ached and the blood pounded in her ears. Deciphering the love life of Draco Malfoy was too much for one in such a condition.
She shook her head, and pinched the bridge of her nose to ease the throbbing in her sinuses.
"She's one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight," Morag leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially.
Hermione frowned. The term rang a bell, but where she had heard it before, she could not recall at that moment.
The brunette witch could see that Morag would continue on in this vain all day if Hermione was to let her, so she pasted a look of understanding on her face and nodded sagely.
"Of course," she said as she retreated towards the door. "Interesting. Thanks, Morag."
Morag looked slightly disappointed, but waved as Hermione exited her office. "You're welcome, Miss Granger."
Hermione clutched the files to her chest as she hurried down the corridor to her own office. She shut the door behind her and slowly sank in to her desk chair. Only when she was seated did she allow her arms to relax, and the Malfoy file dropped on to her desk.
Her heart was still pounding at the picture Morag had painted. Could it be true? Were Malfoy and Parkinson together?
She wasn't sure why she felt so strongly about them; she couldn't care less about Malfoy's love life. Then, she'd always had a bit of an Achilles heel where Pansy was concerned. As children, the Slytherin witch had taunted Hermione relentlessly, and was the cause for many a bathroom trip to cry in private.
Pansy had been everything Hermione was not; popular, cruel, aristocratic, entitled. She knew now that this meant nothing in the scheme of things; Hermione was a good person, she was successful, and for the most part she was happy. But her inner child squirmed uncomfortably as flashes of Pansy throwing insults at her in the corridors of Hogwarts danced in her mind.
Shaking her head, Hermione forced herself to refocus on the task at hand. Pansy was not only a threat to her ego; she could also derail Malfoy's case if the Ministry became suspicious of a relationship between the pair.
Then there was the matter of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Morag's words niggled at her; she knew she'd heard the term somewhere before, perhaps even read it. But for the life of her, Hermione could not force the memory in its entirety to come to the surface. In moments like these, she longed for a Pensieve.
Yes, I'll definitely need to research into this – for the case, of course, she told herself.
Hermione sniffed. Mucous flowed down her nasal cavity and she swallowed thickly.
Ugh, disgusting! She thought, her face contorted into a grimace. Before I do anything, I need that medicine.
Reaching for her wand, she was about to send a memo to Atticus, when there was a sharp rap on her door and it flew open to reveal the dark haired wizard himself.
"There you are!" Atticus cried. Hermione sat back in her seat, startled by his sudden intrusion. She lowered her wand slowly.
"Atticus," she greeted him. "Excellent. I need you to get me some Pepper-Up potion." She rummaged in her desk draw and pulled out a handful of silver coins. "Here," she thrust them towards him.
"Uh…Hermione?" Atticus raised an eyebrow at the witch as he approached the desk and took the Sickles from her. "Is everything – are you - ?" He looked around the office as if the bookshelves might offer him the words he needed.
"I've been reinstated on the Malfoy case," she said quickly. "I'll fill you in when you get back." She nodded pointedly at the fist he was still holding in mid-air.
Atticus' eyes bugged, his mouth opening and closing in an attempt to keep from blurting out several questions at once. He swallowed.
"Oh," he lowered his hand. "Right. Of course." He turned on his heel and rushed from the office.
Hermione sighed in relief and leaned forward, her cheek resting on the desk.
At Malfoy Manor, Blaise was with Draco in the sitting room where the blond usually held his meetings with Granger.
"I don't want to know what you said to Vivienne Greengrass – Weasley – whatever," Draco took a gulp of Firewhiskey, "but I really appreciate it. Thank you."
"Just don't fuck up your chance this time," Blaise placed his empty glass on the coffee table. "Open up to Granger, and get your mother out of that hell hole."
Draco gave a grunt of consent. "I'll open up, don't worry. Your efforts won't be for nought."
"Just enough, though," Blaise corrected him. Draco frowned in confusion. "Open up to her just enough; not too much. She doesn't need to know the darkest Malfoy secrets, and she certainly doesn't need to know you."
Draco blanched and choked on his Firewhiskey. He pounded his chest with his left fist as he set the glass down, his eyes watering. When he had recovered, he stared at his friend.
"What on Merlin's green earth are you talking about? She doesn't need to know me? Where did that come from?"
Blaise offered him a grim smile. "Don't go there, Draco."
"Go where, you impossible prick?"
"There; with Granger. I know you think you can trust her, but I don't want to see you get hurt."
Draco opened and closed his mouth a few times before snapping it shut lest Blaise turn him into a goldfish. His head spun and he clutched it in his hands, leaning forward so that his elbows could rest on his thighs.
Granger and me? What a terrible and intriguing thought. Now that Blaise had mentioned it, Draco couldn't help but think of the brunette witch and the possibility of his friends' warning. Granger wasn't bad to look at, he supposed, though she wasn't what he'd call his 'type'.
Like I have a type? He asked himself. Azkaban didn't exactly run singles nights; he'd never seriously dated anyone. How could he know what his type was?
Get a grip. Granger is Granger, and even if she was the most beautiful witch in the world, I wouldn't go there. Bloody insufferable know-it-all, swot of a Gryffindor…
He shook his head in order to clear it, and forced himself back into the present. He couldn't bring himself to look at Blaise, though.
"First of all, you insufferable prat," Draco began, speaking to the carpet, "I'm concerned about your mental health if you honestly think there's a snowflake's chance in hell that I'd ever fall for Hermione Granger."
He paused, but Blaise made no attempt to cut in.
"Second of all," he smirked and glanced up. His friends' face was impassive. "I'm not going to fall for Hermione Granger." His smirk transformed into a grimace, though there was no real feeling in it.
"I'm only warning you out of concern, Draco." Blaise's eyes were wide and searched Draco's to the point of making the blond feel uncomfortable. Even though he knew Blaise was a useless Legilimens, he checked to ensure his walls were up. "An affair with Gryffindor's Princess may do wonders for your reputation in the short term, but it will only end in heartbreak; specifically yours."
Draco laughed, the first genuine laugh he'd had in over five years. "Have you been smoking something?" He rolled his eyes. "Blaise, I don't know what's possessed you to think this way, but I can assure you that nothing is going to happen. Come on," Draco paused, an easy grin spreading across his face. "It's Hermione Granger."
Blaise pursed his lips, but nodded at his friend.
"Fine." He stood to leave, wrapping his traveling cloak around his broad shoulders. "I'm heading back to Italy for a while; look after yourself, yeah?"
Draco accepted his manly hug, a quick affair involving a few hearty slaps on the back. He pulled back quickly.
"Sure," he nodded once, his hands stuffed deep in to his pockets. "And thanks again."
Blaise's mouth quirked into a lopsided smile before he strode towards the fireplace, grabbed a handful of Floo powder, and disappeared into the green flames.
Draco dropped back into the armchair and raised his legs until they rested on the coffee table. His head dropped back against the soft material of the chair and he closed his eyes. His breath left him in a long, steady stream, a contradiction to the way his thoughts were firing inside his head.
Why would Blaise assume that there would be anything between him and Granger? They'd never been anything but sworn enemies since they were eleven. Sure, she'd taken on his case and apparently spoken at his trial…but that was her job, wasn't it? Hadn't it always been Granger's job to take care of those who needed to be taken care of?
Not that he would put himself in that category. While he was appreciative of the work she had done for him thus far, he'd hate to think that she saw him as some fixer-upper like Potter or Weasley. He crinkled his nose at the thought. No, this was just Hermione Granger, being what she was born to be – the Golden Girl.
There was probably something in it for her too, he reasoned. Surely she would have a massive sense of satisfaction knowing she was the one who orchestrated the Malfoy release. It was probably nothing more than her ego, hidden behind the war heroine smile and bookworm charm.
Wait, what? Granger wasn't charming. Draco's face contorted in disgust and his eyes flew open. In one fluid movement, he was up and out of the chair and striding back along the corridor towards his own living quarters. He mounted the stairs two at a time and hurried towards his study. He opened the door without breaking his stride, and flopped down in to his desk chair.
He needed something to work on; something that would stop him thinking about Hermione Granger, and the implications Blaise had woven into his thoughts.