I had written part of this chapter (I'm sure you'll guess which part,) way back when our girl was still languishing in a tent. I've obviously had to rework it entirely to fit the narrative and reflect Hermione's twenty-year-old voice, but the crux of it remains the same. Feels good to finally post it. ❤️
Art for this chapter is on AO3.
DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING BUT THIS SO-CALLED PLOT.
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MILLENNIUM BUG HITS RETAILERS!
Hermione dolefully considered the menacing headline as she stood in a rickety lift. The group around her oozed post-holiday lethargy, just like, two years ago, muggles would have stood in lifts at their offices, completely unaware of the upheaval devastating the wizarding world.
Ten-thousand HSBC issued credit card machines had stopped accepting transactions. An involuntary ebullition of dread took hold of her. She was in no state to withstand another calamity. At least dad had the Ionian sea to soothe his anxiety.
The lift arrived at her floor and she shoved the paper into her satchel, quickly switching to Magical-Person-In-The-Business-of-Law-Making mode. A technological apocalypse would have no impact whatsoever on the fate of House-Elves.
She sent out a request memo to Benjamin Snelling at the Office for House-Elf Relocation before she had even settled behind her desk. Someone from the maintenance crew had done away with all traces of Kathy's festivity, leaving behind a staid and bland office as per usual. Something that Kathy was not happy to see when she got in, a few minutes after Hermione.
"Bad form," she grumbled, "Had a good Christmas, Hermione? Thanks for the planner. It's going to be dead useful for REPTILEs prep."
Takumi came in with a box of chocolates, and for the following few hours, they exchanged stories while getting through their own work, compiling an annual report, and trying to devise a polite way to tell a landlord that it was not okay to expect your tenant to pay for your own illegal extension charms.
(The fines for those were monstrous. Shame on those who indulged in such awful, illegal behaviour.)
Snelling's response memo landed on her desk around noon, inviting her to come by whenever she wished. Thereupon, she collected her things, her bearings, her conviction, and left.
There were a few people standing by the lifts on level four, who gave her directions to the Being Division. It was right next to the Spirit Division, outside of which two empty-eyed ghosts swept through her. She shuddered and winced.
She ended up in a waiting room that was much smaller and dingier than the ones on level two. In one corner sat the vampire she had encountered on her last visit to the department, reading a magazine. There were five people waiting outside the Werewolf Support Office.
The narrowest door, (one that she would have mistaken for a storage room had it not been labelled,) was the one on which she knocked.
"Come in," said a very high-pitched, squeaky voice.
The interior was as small as expected, but generously decorated. There was one large photograph of Newt Scamander on the wall, and around it were paintings of trees and animals that looked like they were made by a toddler. There were also vases full of flowers, bowls full of potpourri and shiny stones, kitschy ornaments –
"Good morning, Ms. Granger."
Overwhelmed by the décor, she had failed to notice the equally interesting personnel in the room.
Benjamin Snelling was a portly, jowly man with a thatch of sandy hair and very small green eyes. He raised one hand and gestured to the chair in front of his desk.
"Please, do sit."
From her left, the squeaky voice spoke once more, "Would Ms. Granger like some tea?"
A house-elf in a pinafore and Balmoral hat sat behind a smaller table that was pressed against the wall, and overrun with flowers and scrolls. She had very long eyelashes, was holding up a kettle, and beaming.
"I'd love some. Thank you, er–"
"Bickie. Because Bickie's mother loved biscuits."
"It's a lovely name," Hermione said as she settled.
"Bickie has been my assistant for a year now," Snelling said with a warm grin, "Best I've had.."
Tea was poured – a fragrant floral brew – and Hermione expressed her admiration for the most vibrant office in the Ministry.
"All Bickie's doing," said Snelling proudly, "She's something of an artist."
"Bickie is so happy to meet Hermione Granger! Ms. Granger was Dobby's friend."
Snelling said, "How may we help you?"
Hermione laid a copy of her proposal across the table, and once again launched into the disquisition that was meant for Barros, to someone other than Barros. She shifted her focus between man and elf, hoping to make it perfectly clear that she wanted a trilogue. Bickie's gaze never wavered as Hermione spoke.
"So, broadly, I wish to accomplish five things," she held up her fingers as she concluded, "Freedom, remuneration, employment contracts, protective rights, and a proper support system. But I don't believe any reforms should be made without input from those whom they are going to impact. For that, I need your help."
Snelling was quiet for a while as he scanned her proposal. Then he clasped his hands on the desk and looked up.
"Ever since I took over Elf Relocation nearly seven years ago, I have written fifty-two letters to the Wizengamot, the Department of Domestic Law, and even the Minister's office, asking for one or more of the things you listed. I have been ignored each time. This subdivision is a joke to them. But now… to have someone with your influence taking this on… Ms. Granger, I am thrilled. Of course I will help you to the best of my ability."
Hermione held onto her smile. "What do you think, Bickie?"
"Bickie will help, just like Dobby would have helped!" she avowed solemnly, "House-Elves need all those things, Ms. Granger. But they are so scared."
"I know," she sighed, "Perhaps, with you here, they will be willing to talk to me? Open up to some new ideas?"
"Other house-elves think Bickie is a little mad," she smiled sadly, "Like they thought Dobby was mad. But Bickie will be strong and brave like Dobby."
"Thank you." Hermione let herself smile, and prepared to see herself out. "I'll let you familiarise yourselves with what I have on paper so far, and if you have some time later this week, we can sit down and put together a longer, more thorough proposal… maybe even a questionnaire for the elves…"
"Or," Snelling countered, "We can go over it with you right now, and get all questions out of the way."
"I wouldn't want you to give up your lunch break!"
"We won't be." He grinned at Bickie. "What are we having today?"
"Bickie has brought mushroom and chicken pies!" she pranced over to a cupboard in the corner of the office and took out a basket from inside.
"We take turns bringing lunch," Snelling explained meaningfully, "Neither of us care for the canteen's fare."
Hermione understood the real reason. Far too many witches and wizards might have made Bickie feel unwelcome, if not blatantly objected to her presence.
"In that case," she said, accepting a pie and napkin, "I insist on it being my turn tomorrow."
For an hour more, they sat together and poured over Hermione's plan. Both man and elf engaged with equal avidity. They pulled out a stack of the letters and petitions they had drafted over the years, as well as Bickie's work contract; informal and drawn up by Snelling, but fair and faithfully adhered to. Hermione conjured a noticeboard and everything was clearly pinned up and laid out.
She left their office with a bounce in her step. The empty tedium of the rest of the work day did not faze her. When it was time to go home, she walked slowly down the atrium, hoping to catch sight of Draco. She found Ron and his enthusiastic auror friend, Edith instead. He grumbled about being saddled with Harry's workload while he and Ginny relaxed in a lakefront cabin. Edith found him very, very funny.
That evening, she finally converted her desk-bed back into a bed-desk. When she went on to refill the drawers, she found an envelope among her things. It was mum's annual birthday donation, this year intended for The Foundation for Squib Advancement.
Curling up in her own bed, she concluded the day by reading another chapter from Eugenius' book, about the time he took a potion for lucidity along with the draught of living death and went into a stupor during which he claimed to have had visions of Elysium, and lengthy conversation with wisps of light that embodied spirits of the dead.
…Whom he nearly joined as a result of his experiment. For weeks he lay in the Asklepieion, circling the mortal coil.
She used Draco's latest note as a bookmark.
You should tell him.
What were the odds of her getting the better of words for that?
Between the next two days, that new alliance put flesh on Hermione's bony proposal, while simultaneously preparing an agenda for future meetings with House-Elves. United by purpose and well-matched in zeal, all keen to make contributions.
"Ms. Granger," Bickie piped up at one point, "House-Elves are punished very strictly when they use magic against their masters, even when they are hurting us."
"Oh, yes, good point," Hermione muttered, printing self-defence clause in bold letters across the scroll.
Consequently, they had a fun time cooking up violent and creative punishment ideas for cases of House-Elf abuse – ideas that were obviously not put on parchment. By the end of that sitting, she was Hermione, Snelling was Ben, and Bickie was to remain forever and always Bickie.
With that second day wrapped up, she walked to the fireplaces with Kathy, conversing absently while on the lookout for a glimpse of pale blond. Just as she started to say goodbye, Kathy gave her an odd look.
"If I tell you something, do you promise not to use it?"
"Erm…?"
"It'll help you understand Madam Barros' motivations," Kathy offered knowingly.
"Alright. Go on."
"Do you promise?"
"I promise."
Kathy looked around them nervously, so Hermione cast a verbal muffliato to ease her mind.
"You know I did a lot of filing for the Admin when I first joined the Ministry, right? Well, back in ninety-two… November or thereabouts, there was a closed hearing that the Ministry did not want anyone to find out about. Corban Yaxley versus Boe the House-Elf. That monster had… allegedly… let loose a near lethal barrage of hexes on his elf, tearing him into ribbons."
"Oh my god."
"The head of the Elf Relocation Office at that time – I don't remember his name – came to the DDL to find someone to take the case… and Madam Barros agreed at once. But you know how things were. Yaxley used his connections and money to buy his way out… Barros threatened to go public with things from the first war that he had worked so hard to bury. So the Wizengamot agreed on a compromise: A closed hearing."
"Let me guess," Hermione seethed, "Nothing came of it."
"Nothing. Yaxley claimed the elf directly disobeyed and threatened him. It was his word against Boe's. Case closed, names expunged, records sealed and hidden in the restricted section of the archives. All of which was my supervisor's job, so… I peeked. It was horrible. The Wizengamot really tore into Barros for wasting their time."
"But now everyone knows what an evil wretch Yaxley was. And he's dead. Why is it still hidden away? What happened to Boe?"
"No clue. And why would they reopen the case now that he's dead?"
"Justice for–"
"You know they don't care," Kathy said glumly.
Just before they stepped into a fireplace, she issued a reminder – "You promised, yeah? You won't bring this up?"
"If I do, this whole endeavour will be seen as Madam Barros' revenge."
Hermione's blood was boiling.
She spent the entire second half of Friday with Ben and Bickie, finalising their gameplan. Kathy's revelation had added fuel to her fire and fanned her doubts.
She may have harangued Bickie while putting together the questionnaire, but Bickie was perfectly accommodating, even as she pulled out boxes full of tuna salad from her basket.
As the afternoon wore on, Hermione slipped deeper and deeper into her 'on a mission' persona, helplessly, repeatedly reconsidering everything, till Ben let out a deep, rumbling laugh.
"Hermione, I think we've been more than thorough already. The day's come to an end… the year is coming to an end… surely a young 'un has a party to get to."
She looked at him blankly.
The world would be coming to an end.
Kind of. In a way. Probably not.
She felt like an overheated appliance that had been abruptly unplugged.
XXX
She ate a bit, mindlessly rearranged things in the study, painted her nails, read another one of Eugenius' misadventures. She showered and dried her hair. The brand new miracle conditioner did nothing for her trillion and one split-ends.
She missed the girlish indulgence of getting ready alongside Ginny; sitting back and having her hair tended to while they gossiped about all the singular characters in their lives.
She slipped into the black dress mum had bought for her in Sydney – short, fitted, long gauze sleeves, a low neck and even lower back. She darkened her eyelids and painted her lips and gathered her hair into a bun at the crown of her head, topping it with a jewelled headband. She lifted her arms and stepped into the most maladroit tendu croise devant – and almost immediately wrinkled her nose and cringed at herself. Her brand new stilettos were by the chest of drawers, still in their box. She sat on the bed as she fit them onto her feet, stood up, and tottered back in front of the mirror.
Never before had she looked so good. For some time, she could only gawk, till she was hit by a very powerful moment, a bit like when she'd held her wand again, for the second time. It was an intensification of something she'd only felt flashes of, when her parents beamed with pride, when her teachers were complimentary, and when everything except Draco and her disappeared while they were entangled in each other's sentences.
You should tell him.
She took a step, (nearly snapped her ankle off,) and stumbled right into another moment; one which gave rise to an urge to shake her fist at the heavens. The stilettos had to be carefully coated with stabilising charms, durability charms, and tethering charms, which inevitably led to her tottering from room to room, getting used to the feeling of having what was essentially magical velcro on the bottoms of her shoes. Once she was sure she had progressed from newborn giraffe to relatively nimble-footed woman, she wrapped herself up in a cloak and left.
Diagon Alley was lit up prettily. Strings of multicoloured fairy-lights criss-crossed overhead.
It was nearing eight when she walked into Finnigan's, where green and pink flamed lanterns effectuated a blooming, 'Green World' air. Despite the hour, she appeared to be among the first to arrive. She handed her cloak to the coat rack, and saw Theo lead a bunch of people into the private room, looking very serious. There were a few people at the bar, some sitting at tables that were once again less than half in number and pushed to the sides. Way across, at the far end of the pub, she spotted Draco by one of the half-pillars that flanked the mural, involved in a discussion with his usual company, and an additional two. Fiona was right next to him, in a strapless red dress.
Hermione needed a drink. Maybe that potent peach concoction, or a gin and pumpkin fizz.
"Good evening!" She greeted Vassilios upon reaching the bar. He responded with disinterest. "I'd like a–"
"Orange Enigma."
"No, actually–"
"Boss said I have to give you an Orange Enigma."
"Well, if boss says so…" she muttered as he busied himself.
There was a burst of the world's most enticing scent, a flash of black in the corner of her eye, and a low, "Granger," that all but knocked her right onto her back. Already a bit flushed from drinking, Draco set his empty glass on the bar, and she wondered if he had somehow broken through the wards and learned to silently apparate.
"Hullo," she said dazedly.
Oh, it was so good to finally be near him again.
"Another firewhiskey," he said to Vassilios.
His shirt wasn't actually black – it was the darkest shade that purple could be without turning into black. Her heels had provided her with a whole new angle to admire him, putting her eyes at level with his mouth. His furrowed profile remained on Vassilios, his hand was tense on the bar, his frame radiated impatience.
"You're allowed to choose your own drink?" she asked.
He spared her a short glance. "You aren't?"
"No. Seamus decided for me."
"Yeah, well, he always takes special care of you." He began rapidly tapping his fingers.
"I'm surprised you were even invited, after your… erm, altercation."
"There isn't enough room in Finnigan's head to hold a grudge." Then he scowled, adding in a barely audible undertone, "If it takes that prat this long to fix two little drinks, how will he cope with the incoming mob?"
Tap, tap, tap.
Vassilios sent Hermione's drink sliding her way. It was in a margarita glass, bright orange speckled with sparkling gold.
"What's the enigma then?" she asked him good-naturedly.
He ignored her.
Draco's tapping got more frenetic. She could not understand why he had chosen to stand next to her if all he planned to do was show her how badly he wanted to get away. She took a defeated sip of her drink, grateful for its sweet booziness. Soon, a tumbler of firewhiskey sailed towards them, and Vassilios moved to the other end of the bar. Hermione waited morosely for Draco to depart as well.
But he didn't budge. He took a sip of his, she took a sip of hers, and that was all. The gold in her drink shimmered and flowed like cosmic dust. She felt like she had the exact same substance within her, floating alongside blood corpuscles.
Maybe she should leave; beat him to the punch. Theo and the rest would be happy to see her.
"You look absolutely stunning."
Her heart stopped. His fingers stopped. Her vision got unfocused and everything stopped.
"Thank you," she breathed.
His fingers resumed a much slower, rhythmic tapping. Her heart, on the other hand, took off galloping. You should tell him. She lifted her eyes and they fell naturally on his lips, at that moment still in profile and barely parted. It wasn't a look that indicated a desire to take back what had just been said.
"Do you know what's happening there?" she asked. When he turned to her, she gestured to the private room behind her.
"No," he replied softly, "Theo just said something about a midnight spectacle."
"Want to investigate?" she grinned.
His lips pulled up. "Sure."
She turned, began walking, and he followed. What a perfect fuck you to Fiona.
They exchanged a short look just outside the door, then Hermione knocked. Draco waited for a total of two seconds before pushing it open and waltzing in.
There were a lot of people in the room, and no furniture. George and Lee were crouched on the floor, over what looked like a cluster of enormous bombs. They had their wands held aloft, and were having some sort of disagreement. Theo, Dean, and two others were deliberating over a thick sheaf of parchment. Everyone else was just drinking and chattering at a very loud volume.
Hermione started when Theo showed up at her side.
"Hello, lovely," he said, pulling her towards Dean and the other two, and introducing them as Wendy and Blake.
Blake was heavily tattooed. Wendy had an astonishing cleavage. After a short and polite exchange, the four resumed their deliberation – an ardent discussion about dragon designs, it seemed – while Hermione and Draco stood by quietly, making quick work of their drinks.
Eventually, they reached a consensus, and Dean and Blake carried away the sheaf to George and Lee.
"What are you planning?" Hermione asked Theo.
"Can't say. It's a surprise. But you can be sure it's going to be extraordinary."
"Hermione, are you single?" Wendy enquired out of the blue.
Theo snorted.
Hermione blinked. "I'm – um – why?"
"My friend Itziar is going back to Spain tomorrow and she desperately wants to bed a Brit before she goes."
"Oh," Hermione stammered, "I'm not…"
"Don't swing that way? Well alright." She shifted her attention to Draco.
And Hermione burst out with, "Neville's in town! He's newly single!"
Theo snorted again.
"Is he fit?" .
"Yes, rather," Hermione nodded, "He's been spending a lot of time outdoors, and it's done wonders for him."
"It's not like he could get any worse," Draco quipped.
She turned to him with a frown. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"What do you think it means? There isn't any scope for him to look worse."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"He's basically a shorn basset hound."
Theo started to laugh, which caused Draco to look very pleased with himself. Hermione glared from one to the other.
"How horrible you both are. You act like you're his friends–"
"I'm not his friend," Theo sneered, "I see right through him. He acts like he's everyone's friend, all bumbling and stupid, only to steal kisses–"
"Oh, for the love of–"
"I'm friends with a lot of ugly people, Granger. I'm very generous that way."
There was a very loaded, silent impasse following that, with poor Wendy looking like she wished she hadn't approached such insane people with her equally insane proposition.
Then, George's voice, magically magnified, tore across the room, laden with uncharacteristic irritation:
"Anyone who is not associated with Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes needs to get the fuck out of here right now! Immediately! Clear out! I can't hear myself think and I have just one functioning ear!"
Slowly, ninety percent of the room's occupancy ambled towards the door and spilled out. Hermione stayed at Draco's side, all the way back to the bar, but only because she had reached the bottom of her glass. She was certainly not done being affronted on Neville's behalf. She made a point to glower as she squeezed between two women to get to Vassilios, (the pub had become considerably more packed in the time that they had been away,) and went on to pout when Draco grinned and excuse me, please'd his way into stealing one of the women's place.
They got their refills and she continued to pout while she followed him to an empty table. And yes, she was genuinely angry, but she still sat next to him instead of across.
It was loud. Music was on, some generic thumping-dance-thing. Ethereal lights, glitzy clothes, glasses full of multicoloured shimmering liquid.
"Why must you get so pettish on behalf of other people?" Draco asked eventually, "Longbottom isn't here to see you defend his ugly mug."
"Would you stop?"
"No, I don't think I will."
"Neville is a lovely person!"
"I didn't say he's a bad person. I said he's bad to look at."
"He is not. You are a bad person!"
He turned his chair to face her, and leaned onto the table with a smirk. "Let's make a deal."
"No."
"I'll mingle with all of the ugliest people out here tonight, and I'll be outrageously friendly towards them."
"No."
"But I have one condition."
"Draco, I said I will have no part–"
"You have to stay close at all times, to balance things out."
How was she supposed to resist that? How could she not look away, flushed to the roots of her hair? How could she hold back a tremulous smile?
She peeked up at him in a way she knew was painfully shy and said, "I'd have thought you'd be enough for that."
It won her her favourite thing: A slow, uneven grin. One that spread across his face with delicious gradualness, matching the slowness with which, deep in her chest, a kind of roseate recklessness began gathering.
"You expect me to walk around with a mirror?"
"It would surprise no one."
He didn't respond to that. Just took a sip from his glass, smirking at her through his eyes. The reckless orb within was vibrating with tension.
You should tell him.
Tell him. Tell him. Tell him. Reach out, touch that stripe of pink on his cheekbone and say, you're horrible, but wonderful. When I'm with you, the world stops.
She had one hand on her lap, and the other loose around the stem of her glass. They both were entirely motionless, stuck in a tussle between fight and flight. When they finally jumped into action, it was to grip her own leg and shove her glass into her mouth, respectively.
Draco sat back, crossed his arms, and raised a single brow; a look devastating enough to make her stomach tighten.
"Do you accept?" he challenged.
"Of course not."
Slow grin again. Wicked. Hot.
She wet her lips. "I'm going to have to keep my eye on you all night, aren't I?"
He kept his on her. "Definitely."
A loud roar erupted as, right next to the bar, a giant singing fountain appeared. It played nothing but a thumping drum beat on loop. Shimmering smoke bloomed out of its spout.
And who would show up to their table right then? None other than Neville.
"Longbottom!" Draco said jocosely, "Long time, mate! How have you been? You look well."
Hermione pressed her lips together and offered Neville a tight smile.
"What's going on with him?" he asked her with a guileless grin. "Cheering charm?"
"He's drunk, ignore him," she replied shortly, "Have a seat… we never got to finish our conversation the other day. You were telling me about the self-fertilising shrubs that you're trying to cultivate."
"I too would love to hear about your attempts at self-fertilisation," Draco averred.
Hermione shot him a glare, but Neville launched into an elaboration without cottoning on.
Their company was doubled with the arrival of Fiona, (who said, "There you are!" to Draco in a reproachful tone,) Arnold, and one of the new additions, who had very long dark hair and was called Jessie.
"Hullo again!" Draco beamed. "Do join us! I'm sure you will each have something valuable to contribute to this scintillating conversation about oozing plant sap. Yes yes, drag over that chair… mind those charming, er, ruffles on your dress, Jessie."
"Okay, what is wrong with him? Neville asked Hermione in an undertone. "Has he been imperiused?"
She drained her glass.
An altogether rubbish conversation ensued. Draco was unspeakably ridiculous throughout. When somebody accidentally kicked the leg of his chair while passing, he smiled and told them he would've been just as clumsy if he had such a distracting companion with him. The couple laughed and waved. He exclaimed, "And what an interesting tie you have on!" as they went.
Everyone in their mismatched group had come to the conclusion that Draco Malfoy had imbibed something sinister and gone barmy. Fiona wanted to take him to Mungo's. Draco insisted they pay a visit to the 'delightful' bartender instead.
Hermione conspiratorially twisted her neck as she stood. "So everyone is ugly in your book?" she mumbled under her breath.
"Not everyone," he whispered back.
He walked away while she battled against another smile.
They were convinced (compelled) to do a round of shots by Seamus who had taken charge behind the bar. By the time they all got fresh drinks, their table had been claimed by others, forcing them to find refuge by a pillar too close to the fountain. Hermione's drink was gone in five gulps. There was nothing else to do.
Musical vibrations rattled her bones. Shadows and light blurred. The crowd was stomping on her chest.
Draco's false demeanour finally broke when the question of dancing came up. Everyone ganged up against him, tried to pull him onto the floor, and he snatched his arm out of their grasp, stared down his nose and said a sharp, "Fuck off."
Neville gestured for Hermione to come along. She mouthed, in a bit.
They were boneless and sinuous and dizzying as they moved. She leaned back against the pillar and closed her eyes.
"Are you passing out?"
Draco's voice brushed over her neck. She wanted to feel it over every inch of her skin. She wanted to feel every inch of his skin on every inch of hers.
She opened her eyes and looked at his mouth, so amazingly close. Pink, perfect, probably warm and whiskey-flavoured. There was no need to tell him anything. She could just… just…
"Granger?"
She looked up at his eyes. Hooded and glassy under a mussed up fringe.
"It's so loud," she murmured, "Stuffy. I think I… I drank too much… too fast."
His hand lifted, hesitated, and fell.
"Come with me."
"Where?"
He'd already turned away, pushing through the crowd. Hermione lurched forward before she lost sight of him. They wound up back at the bar, and Draco gestured for her to wait while Seamus served a final round of cocktails with a flourish, after which he leapt over the counter and bounded to the dancefloor.
Then, when Vassilios had his back to them, Draco made a hurrying motion and led her behind the bar, to the sliding shelves. One tap of his wand induced a slight opening, just enough for them to slip through. It closed behind them and cut away most of the noise.
In the passageway, lit by regular oil lamps, Hermione was suddenly, utterly alive and reeling. She looked at Draco and her stomach was rolling. He gestured up the narrow staircase and said, "After you."
She didn't know how many steps behind her he was as she ascended. The exposed skin on her neck, back, and legs was abuzz. The light got dimmer; the climb went on and on. She was lightheaded and unsteady, so her pace was slow. Draco did not complain.
Finally, the staircase's destination came into view – a trapdoor on the ceiling. She looked over her shoulder. Draco was three steps beneath her.
"Through there?" she asked.
"No. I intend for us to stand under it."
She huffed. Alohomora.
It led to the roof, of course. A fairly large area that was almost completely overrun with empty casks; towers and fortresses made of the bloody things. There was a ramshackled shed to one side and a narrow ledge going around the boundary. But it was completely blessedly quiet up there. Hermione could hear nothing but residual ringing in her own ears. The fresh, icy night air enveloped her in glorious shivers.
"Oh, this is much better," she declared, staring at the fairy-lights above, so much closer than before.
Draco agreed. "Better than downstairs, yes. And infinitely better than last year, when you climbed up on the bar and flashed your knick–"
"That never happened, you stupid bastard!" She wheeled around and glared.
He grinned.
Fuck.
Alone. On a rooftop. With him. On a beautiful new year's eve night.
Her pulse was fluttering everywhere… erratic… in her chest, knees, throat, finger tips, upper lip…
She shivered again.
"May I…" she rasped, "Cast a warming charm on you?"
"Do you think I'm incapable of casting one myself?"
"I've adapted mine. Combined it with a temporary sticking charm so it lasts longer and is more effective."
"So that's where Theo…" He rolled his eyes. "I should have known." He raised and dropped his arms. "Go ahead."
She went ahead, knowing he would feel immediate, toasty relief, hoping he would be awestruck. He wandered past her, eyes skimming over the buildings that surrounded them. She turned away, spreading warm magic over her own body, through blood that was pounding away mercilessly.
"Why don't you have a seat?" Draco asked.
His signature, high back leather armchair appeared in front of her. She complied, crossing her legs because he was looking at them. Then he looked at her bodice. Then at her neckline. Then steadily up to her face.
Her mouth went dry. Tell him. Hold out your hand. Say, Draco, come here. And tell him.
He conjured an identical chair for himself, right where he was, a good couple of metres away. Out of her reach and too far for anything. He tipped his head back and took in a long breath. His eyelids fluttered.
It was the sort of action one would take to set one's head straight. Like, well shit, I got carried away. The lights and the booze messed me up again. Like he was sighing in relief, or to regain composure. She couldn't take her eyes off him, even as she contended with the crushing blow of yet another rejection.
"How's your House-Elf Liberation Project going?" He kept peering at the twinkling lights.
HELP was more apt than TEMP. She didn't really have it in her to talk anymore. But she pushed aside her sinking heart and replied.
"I've been working on it with Snelling from the Office for House-Elf Relocation, and his perfect assistant, Bickie. They've been enthusiastic so far; completely on board. But–"
"Is that where you've been during lunch this past week?"
"Yes. We eat in their office, for obvious reasons. Anyway, Bickie will be bringing in some of her friends and acquaintances next week, for us to talk to. But I just found out that justice for House-Elf happens to be one of Madam Barros' failed projects. I feel I am being manipulated. Now I'm waiting for her to call me into her office to administer a full dose of discouragement, which I'm sure she'll consider a teaching moment. Call the venture a fool's errand again, and tell me I'm an idealist."
"You think you aren't one?"
"Not how she means it."
Draco closed his eyes and smirked. "How does she mean it?"
"She means to say that I am idealistic in an impractical and naive way, when really, I am idealistic in a galvanising way."
He sniggered, his eyes opened and shifted towards her, and her own flickered downwards.
"It's galling every time she says it. As bad as when either of the Lovegoods call me close-minded."
"You aren't close-minded," he said.
She smiled.
"You're bloody-minded."
She stopped smiling.
Scowling at the ground, she said, "You're just like them, then. I am not bloody-minded. I am determined."
"Determinedly obdurate. Unreasonable and truculent."
"Truculent?!"
She reared up, ready to go as low as to say that he was the one with blood on his mind, but she was met with bright eyes and an indulgent, teasing grin. All the rage left her. It had been a paper tiger anyway.
They lapsed into a brief silence. Hermione re-crossed her legs. She touched the side of her neck. She didn't know what she was doing, but she hoped he was watching.
He wasn't.
"Tell me about the post-Yule banquet," she blurted.
"Nothing to tell," he responded swiftly.
"A very formal affair, I suppose?"
"Formal. Yes."
"My parents really liked you," she imparted delicately.
Maybe she was an idealist in exactly the way Barros accused. Why else was she expecting a smile, when in reality he jolted and stiffened in quick succession.
"You did have a nice time that day… didn't you?"
"Yeah."
"My mother called you charming. Can you imagine anything more outrageous?"
"Well, you only have yourself to blame for that," he replied with a surprising amount of acridity.
"The presents helped," she grinned.
His expression was severe. "You really didn't tell them a thing, did you?" She was puzzled so he added, "About me."
Hadn't they gone over all that already?
"They know who you are," she said.
"You lied to them."
"I didn't lie!" she exclaimed, "Unless you lied. Have been lying. Unless everything has been–"
"You lied by omission," he injected bitterly.
"I did not lie. Yes, I omitted, but–"
"You had no business doing that. Do you think they would have wanted me over, had they known? Would they have found me charming then?"
Had he not read her post-it?
"Why are you getting into such pointless hypotheticals?"
"They deserved to know who they were eating with. It wasn't right–"
"Then why didn't you tell them? Or… why did you come at all?" she blared, "Why did you show up if it was so wrong?"
"Because you fucking asked me to!"
"Exactly! Have you forgotten who you are talking to? Do you think that I–" she pointed angrily at herself, "I – would've asked you to celebrate Christmas with my muggle parents if I had even the slightest of misgivings?"
"That's not – It's–"
"What the bloody buggering hell do you want, Draco?"
His glare ignited, his lip curled, ready to let loose a tirade, but it was not his turn. Her nails dug painfully into her palms.
"You threw such a tantrum when you thought your past was being held over your head. You were unbelievably rude to me, made me seek you out to reassure you… and now you're harping at me for doing something in the spirit of moving on? What am I supposed to do then? What is the right way to behave?"
"Sod that!" he barked, "This is only about your parents not having any idea who they were entertaining and being so damn nice to."
"Oh, so now you think you don't deserve to be–" She cut herself off and jumped to her feet… stumbled… but thankfully stabilised before she made an arse of herself. "How dare you?" she spat.
He was on his feet, too. "How dare I what?"
"How dare you berate me for being… How dare you goad me into defending your horrible past!"
He recoiled and his face fell so abruptly that it was like she had slapped him again.
"That isn't… I wasn't… No. I'm not – I wouldn't–"
"We should go back," she said coldly, "Theo will be inconsolable if we miss the show."
He stalked away.
Hermione's temper was bubbling and writhing. Drunkenness, fluttering shyness, wanton anticipation… none of those remained. There was only restless rage. She vanished her chair with violence.
Draco had just left his behind. How many stupid armchairs had he littered the world with? The next big environmental pollutant would be furniture, and it would all be the doing of one vexing, rankling, bloody-minded man.
"Your fucking chair," she growled.
"I'm sorry," he muttered from behind her.
"I'm sure you aren't," she snapped. Evanesco.
"No. Hermione. I'm sorry."
She turned around and his expression stole her breath away. What he said next, drove a giant nail through the top of her head and fixed her to the spot.
"I'm sorry for the way I was, and the way I behaved. I'm sorry for ever believing that anyone was less-than… that you, your parents were less-than." He regarded her quietly for a moment. "Apparently I can't even convey that without goading you."
A tall, pallid, ragged figure under a canopy of rainbow lights. His hair appropriated all colours, but his eyes held their own.
"I'm sorry," he said again, then frowned. "I should have said it months ago. A year ago."
"Would you have meant it, a year ago?"
"Yes," he insisted hotly.
"Then why didn't you say it?"
"I didn't know how." He eyed the roof's ledge wishfully, like he was seriously considering jumping off. "You said that I could spend the rest of my life apologising to the world, and it still wouldn't be enough."
Her breath stalled for many long minutes.
"You said you had nothing to apologise for."
He sighed deeply. "Which was bollocks. But I… I cannot put into words how much I despised and resented you for saying that… and for when you chose to say it."
"I don't think that any more," she choked out.
But what about when he was choosing to say all this?
She wanted to yell at him because, yes – he did make her feel less-than… till she decided that he was too pathetic to have any sort of bearing on her self-image.
She wanted to rage at him for having the nerve to apologise after she had already forgiven him enough to love him.
She wanted to tell him that he didn't make her feel less-than any anymore; he made her feel more than anyone else ever had.
She wanted to assure him that she would accept his apology because she knew he meant it.
"I have tried to show that I am not who I was, that I don't hold those opinions, and that I am – I genuinely am –" he glanced over at the ledge again. "Maybe I've been doing a shit job, maybe it isn't enough–"
"No! It's… clear… e–evident…"
With a vocabulary like hers… for words to fail her so spectacularly…
He was all sharp lines and deliberateness as he said, "I regret all of it. I regret ever saying that word, and meaning it. I regret the… the abuse. And I wasn't trying to get you to defend it. I shouldn't have been a prick while accusing you of holding it against me." He swallowed, jaw working like he was speaking against his will; but he did not avert his eyes. "I just don't know how to cope with the thought that you still do."
I don't.
Yet she could only (dumbly, weakly) shake her head. There were tears clinging to her eyelashes that she could not wipe. They fogged her vision and put everything but him out of focus. The casks turned into blobs, the lights bled into bright streaks of colour, and Draco, sharp and clear, stood in the middle. An unextractable mass of words remained stuck in her throat.
They held each other's gaze for quite some time. She thought his eyes were pleading with her. Maybe. She was too wrung out to accurately decipher anything.
Draco turned around and moved towards the trapdoor. The orb in her chest splintered as she took in the back of his bowed head, the tension imbued in his shoulders and back. She barrelled ahead and clamped her hand around his forearm.
He froze. Like he was made of some inflexible, immutable thing; and when he slowly faced her, he did it just as one made of such a substance would. His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly parted, and he was so utterly still that she felt he had stopped breathing.
Then she realised –
It was his left forearm that she had grabbed. Glancing down at the point of contact – there was one layer of cloth between his dark mark and the tips of her fingers. Her eyes flicked back up. He was just staring. Immobile and staring.
So she smiled with everything she had. She gave his arm a squeeze, (the warm, firm flesh scarcely yielded,) and she let go. It swung limply to his side. He came to life on a shuddering breath.
Together, they walked towards the trapdoor. Draco pulled it open and kept his eyes downcast as he waited for her to climb down.
Their descent was just as silent, just as slow as their ascent, with Draco at an unknown distance behind her. Her head was lowered as she carefully minded each step; her spine was at his disposal. With each tread, she wondered what might happen if he traced the ridge with his fingers, and if he stilled her and pressed his mouth against her nape.
She stopped at the foot of the stairs. Draco walked around her and stopped at the doorway. Stopped, but didn't look back. Her plea, (to hell with the party, there's a fireplace in Seamus' office,) remained unsaid.
They re-entered the pub and bedlam welcomed them back. Vassilios paused his task to shoot them a disapproving scowl, obviously making indelicate assumptions about what they had been up to. Hermione flushed furiously as she brushed past him. Draco stayed to collect a drink, which she only realised after she got trapped in a cluster of dancers. The bedevilled revellers pushed and pulled her right across the dancefloor. She used her elbows with indiscretion till she wound up at the door to the private room, but she did not go in. She leaned against the wall next to it, arms wrapped around herself.
Disassociation.
The dancers transformed into a network of colourful lights and, against the backdrop of a song that sounded like I'm sorry, I regret all of it, I should have said it a year ago, she cried. Softly, like a guitar that gently weeps. Muted sniffling that wasn't quite sorrow; it was an abreaction. Relief, and the loosening of a knot that she hadn't even known existed. It had been somewhere behind the orb… small… malignant… and no more.
The door opened. Theo, George, and Lee carried out a large crate. The music was cut off and every single source of light was doused. Through pitch-darkness and the buzz that went around, George's enunciation of "incendio," rang loud. There was a hiss of a flame and the sizzle of a burning fuse.
An enormous dragon burst towards the ceiling. It was utterly dazzling, with scales made of red, green, blue, and gold sparks, and a tail and wings of silver fire. It weaved over and under the rafters, circled around the pillars, soared over the riotous crowd. At one point, it passed right over her head, then went on to illuminate people around her, and eventually, Draco. For that one moment he was ablaze, eyes round as he gazed upwards.
After a final lap, the dragon exploded into glittering shards, which fell into the lamps and re-ignited them. A unified cry of HAPPY NEW YEAR ended with a billion kisses. George and Angelina, Ron and Edith, Padma and Tracy, Seamus and some girl, Dean and some bloke, Theo and… Wendy.
Draco was nowhere in sight.
Suddenly her arms were full of a sobbing Parvati.
"Happy new year, Hermione," she wailed.
"You too," Hermione patted her back in confusion.
Parvati pulled back. She looked awful.
"Lavender and I used to hug at midnight, every year," she explained tearfully, "And we'd promise we'd be friends forever. Now you and I will be friends forever, okay?"
"Um, okay."
Padma and Tracey saved Hermione from further awkwardness, both putting an arm around Parvati.
"I know Hermione is your friend, but can she be mine, too?"
"Of course she can, Paro. Come now. Let's go home."
They melted away and Theo materialised. He kissed the top of her head like dad used to when she was little and would creep downstairs at midnight to watch the grown ups have their grown up party.
"Happy New Year, Theo."
"Haaappy fucking New Year."
Then he moved and Ron pulled her into a hug. One by one she embraced and acknowledged an assortment of friends and well wishers.
She did not see Draco again that night.
