A/N: I own nothing but this so-called plot.
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Hermione's black suede block-heeled pumps made a much deeper click-clack than Hermione-as-Mafalda's pointy kitten-heels had. Under plain black robes, she wore, from head to toe, brand new clothes. Her hair was pulled back and secured with multiple pins. A faded satchel was slung on her shoulder; her charmed beaded bag had been left behind at home, far, far away from the scrutiny of the DMLE.
Her steps were small, but her pace was quick. She skittered down the Ministry atrium, her eyes darting from side to side, one hand gripping the strap of her bag. Her mind was very unhelpfully supplying her with plenty of examples to illustrate her historical inability to make a good first impression. Add to that the usual pre-assessment jitters and the hormonal flux that preceded her period... It could be said that Hermione was a bit... off.
Just don't say it to her face.
It was eleven in the morning: Peak working hours. There was no reason for there to be so many people loitering around in the atrium. Far too many of them gave her second – and third – looks. The memorial obelisk was overtly phallic.
She got caught in a swarm of people at the lifts, all of whom were, quite possibly, here for interviews as well. She cloistered herself into one corner, and her vision was half-obstructed by the lanky bloke in front of her. Still, she was able to spot Draco when he slipped through the golden grille right before it closed.
Her first impulse was to tunnel her way, headfirst, through the mass to get to him. Which, obviously, she vetoed, owing to the general indignity of such a move. She had no idea what he was doing there and felt a desperate, irrepressible need to find out. As the lift plunged upwards, she considered her options...
The lift came to a rattling halt, ("Level Five – Department of International Magical Co-operation") and Draco, along with about five other people, disembarked.
Hermione firmly shouldered her way towards the front, but it was too late for anything. The grille slammed shut and they were once again plunging, before she could so much as catch a glimpse of platinum blond hair.
A few more people got off on level four and then at level three. At level two, she and four others, including the lanky bloke, stepped out.
They walked together across the foyer; a little gaggle of strangers united by apprehension. Had she made an effort, she might have recognised some of them from the year below at Hogwarts, but she was not remotely inclined to do that.
Charmed windows showed a post-shower gloom which was completely contrary to the actual weather outside.
They must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, because after crossing the Improper Use of Magic office and a series of closed doors, they landed up outside a women's bathroom. They stopped there, looking hither and thither cluelessly.
"We're a bit lost, I reckon," observed a rotund chap, wielding an overlarge briefcase.
Then they all looked straight at her as if she was supposed to have all the answers.
She simply shrugged and turned a corner, into yet another corridor full of closed doors. But at the end of the corridor were a set of large oak doors, very much open. And by these doors stood a very tall young man whom she knew fairly well.
Ron grinned and waved when he saw her approaching.
"Well, fancy seeing you here," he said.
"Hi," she rushed, "Where on earth is the Wizengamot Admin office? Feels like we've been going around in circles."
"Oh. Right this way..."
Ron turned them to the left and down a long corridor, to another set of wide-open doors.
"There you are!"
"Thank you," she told him earnestly.
He reached out and squeezed her arm. "Best of luck. Not that you need it."
That statement earned them a lot of scowls and stiff looks from the group. Ron left, and Hermione took in a huge gulp of air and stepped through the doors.
The insides were brightly lit and utterly chaotic. Her first, and quite frankly only, impression of the place was: A maze of cubicles, wonky towers of parchment, the smell of musty old paper, people shuffling around looking terribly busy, and pale violet paper planes streaking through the air.
The group stood at the threshold, blinking dumbly at the scene.
At one point, a man baring a million files walked by them, and the rotund chap attempted to ask him for assistance –
A brusque, "Out of the way, please," was all he got.
They shifted uncertainly into the room, being fully ignored by people in their cubicles, bent over parchment, deep in discussion, or indolently sipping from flasks.
It was only when they were halfway across the room that they were finally attended to.
"Here for the interviews?" asked a square-jawed woman carrying a clipboard, "This way, please."
She took them to the back of the area, where there was another door that read:
GEMMA MANDRAKE
HEAD OF THE WIZENGAMOT ADMINISTRATION SERVICES
The woman with the clipboard led them inside, into a very sterile waiting room where four other people were already seated, among whom were Justin and Susan.
Hermione moved quickly to sit next to them.
"Hello," she murmured, placing her satchel on her lap.
"Hello," they whispered back.
The woman with the clipboard sat at a desk in the corner of the room, right next to another, rather ornate door.
"Mr. Adkin!" she called.
The lanky bloke from the lift stood and went through the door.
"I didn't know either of you were interested in law," Hermione remarked to her classmates in a hushed tone.
"I'm not," Justin shrugged, "This is plan B for me. I'm hoping to get onto the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee. Sounds like a hoot."
"My auntie and I always talked about it," Susan said with a half-hearted smile, "But it looks like there are only three openings available in this department, now that you're here."
"Oh, please," Hermione huffed, looking away. She wanted to wring her hands, but that wouldn't be very professional.
"Did you see Cho Chang on your way in?"
"No."
But that was brilliant, wasn't it? She already, potentially, had a co-worker who hated her.
About fifteen minutes later Adkin came out. He didn't look traumatised.
"Ms. Andrews!"
A young woman in silver stilettos rose gracefully and went in.
"Did you get through the enormous list that McGonagall had recommended?" Susan asked, "I managed about half..."
"Heh," Justin snickered, "I skimmed through some of it."
Hermione kept quiet. It was for the best.
Andrews breezed out of the room.
"Ms. Bones!"
With a tiny squeak, Susan scuttled through the door, leaving Hermione and Justin in an even tenser silence than before.
But when she came out, fifteen minutes later, she had a small smile on her face. She offered a short nod on her way out, just as "Mr. Chappel!" was called upon.
Hermione slipped open her satchel and, keeping her hands inside her bag, flipped through her notebook.
"Mr. Finch-Fletchley!"
She read at record speed, spurred on by the old, unpleasant amalgamation of impatience and dread. After about twenty pages, Justin came out. He looked benign, gave her a pleasant smile and a wave, and she watched him walk out of the waiting room.
"Ms. Granger!"
She whipped her hands out of her bag and stood up. Everybody watched as she smoothed down her robes and click-clacked her way towards the ornate door.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
She went in.
Madam Mandrake's office was mid-sized and full of plants. The eponymous woman, who looked about the same age as McGonagall, had brown hair streaked with grey, and a round, rather splodgy face. She was wearing deep blue robes, and a pair of grey pince-nez with a beaded chain. She smiled kindly and gestured towards the chair in front of the desk.
"Ms. Granger." She had a soft, lilting voice. "Please sit."
Her desk was cluttered with parchments, files, family photographs, and tiny glowing succulents.
She peered at Hermione closely for a few moments, making her wonder if she was expecting her to say something. However, as it was, Hermione had nothing to offer. She had come with the intention of answering questions, not breaking any ice. Um... hello? She could say hello. Er, no. Actually –
"Good afternoon, Madam Mandrake."
She was rewarded with a wide smile.
"Minerva has told me so much about you, Ms. Granger. In fact, I wonder if this interview is necessary at all, after having heard from her. She's made it quite clear that not hiring you would be prime foolishness. I'm sure you are familiar with the desire to not have Minerva McGonagall call you foolish."
Hermione's shoulders relaxed as she smiled.
"That desire is what drove me through Hogwarts," she replied.
Madam Mandrake laughed. "Well, she is extremely proud of you. I've been friends with her for over sixty years now, and never before have I known her to vouch for a student so strongly. Besides, even without her endorsement... your role in the war has proven how capable you are..."
Hermione's smile became tight and she fought the urge to cringe.
"Now," Madam Mandrake continued, "Let's get the formalities done with, shall we? NEWT's results, please."
With some relief, Hermione fished out the parchment from her satchel and handed it over.
"Hmm. Yes. Excellent." She cast a doubling charm on the parchment and kept one for herself. "I'm aware that Minerva gave you a sizable list of resources. Have you managed to look through some of those?"
"I have."
"How many?"
"Um... all?"
"All?"
"Yes?" Hermione squirmed under the woman's narrow-eyed scrutiny, "I've also done some reading of my own."
Madam Mandrake clasped her hands together and set her chin on them. "Such as?"
"I've gone through the Legal Compedium a few times–"
"A few times."
"Er, yes. I've read up on the most prominent trials of the century, and a few papers published by key members of the Wizengamot – Barros, Marchbanks, Ogden, Ewart, Cecil, the late Amelia Bones–"
"Ms. Granger," Madam Mandrake cut in, "Would you complete this quick test, please?"
She accepted the parchment, on which were ten multiple-choice questions. They were achingly simple, covering the most basic components of magical law, from the Statute of Secrecy to the Code of Wand Use. Hermione had it done in two minutes.
"I see," Madam Mandrake nodded, looking down at the test, before filing it away with the copy of Hermione's NEWTs results sheet, "That you have already covered what you are required to tackle over the course of your first year here."
She sat back and once again gazed at Hermione in a very incisive manner.
"What we do here, Ms. Granger, is maintain court documents and case notes. We ratify legal proceedings, appoint dates for hearings, and manage the Wizengamot schedule. For the first two years, your duties will involve filing and transcribing, while simultaneously solidifying your legal knowledge. After those two years, you have the option of continuing on as a mid-level administrator, or you may move into the Improper Use of Magic Office, or – and this is not an easy position to secure – there is a chance you may be able to attach yourself to a practitioner in the Department of Domestic Law."
Hermione nodded along as she spoke, trying her best to appear sincere and enthused. She knew her job wouldn't entail nerve-wracking training sessions, sting operations, trips to China...
"Had I not been the head of the department," Madam Mandrake said with a smile, "I might've been reprimanded for being premature... but I'd be very happy to welcome you into the Wizengamot Administrative Services."
"Oh, thank you, I–"
"But the question is... are you willing to go out on a limb?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You mentioned Madam Barros earlier. You are familiar with her work, then?"
"Yes, of course."
"You see, Ms. Granger," she went on, "Madam Barros currently has an opening in her team. Would that be something you'd be interested in?"
At a loss for words, Hermione simply nodded ardently.
"Elena is tough and exacting. Extremely exacting. She'll find the notion of taking on a newcomer laughable. I can't promise you anything, short of one interview. One chance to impress her."
"But then," Hermione breathed, "Why would she even agree to see me?"
"Your reputation precedes you."
Hermione smiled uncomfortably. Right.
Madam Mandrake sensed her distaste, and she laughed. "You won over Minerva. I have a good feeling about this, Ms. Granger. Wouldn't suggest it if I didn't. And if it doesn't work out, as I've said, I'd be thrilled to have you in my department."
"Okay," Hermione mumbled.
"Well. That's all for now. I will have my assistant send you an owl when I've fixed things up."
"Thank you, Madam Mandrake," Hermione said warmly.
Hermione's journey back to the lifts was quite obviously longer than necessary, for she retraced the steps she'd taken earlier. There had to be a shorter path between the two points, but Hermione was in no mood to explore. It felt like her brain was actually, physically pulsating every time she thought about the words one chance to impress her. Which she happened to be doing over and over again.
While shooting down to the atrium, she was once again shoved into the corner of the lift by a throng of people escaping for their lunch break. She wrapped her arms around her ribs and pressed herself into the walls to avoid rubbing up against the very elderly gentleman in front of her.
It was a great relief when she was thrown out into Diagon Alley; bright, warm, and familiar. As she cut through the thin crowd and inched closer and closer to Finnigan's, the need for a sunset grog and a plate full of greasy chips escalated. She pushed through the door, ready to storm towards the bar and –
Stopped.
Draco was at the bar, (leaning against it in that casual, debonair way that tall, attractive men often adopted,) talking to a young woman. She had fair hair, was wearing satiny pink robes, and she was twinkling at him.
Hermione redirected. She located Theo and Luna sitting at a corner table behind a wooden pillar.
"Hi," she muttered, hanging her satchel on the back of a chair and pulling off her robes.
Luna returned her greeting cheerily, but Theo's disposition was closer to Hermione's.
"How'd it go?" he asked her sullenly.
"Fine," Hermione shrugged, "Job's mine, if I want."
One chance to impress her. Hermione was so hungry. She eyed Theo's ale and Luna's bright pink drink with envy. Who the hell was that bint at the bar?
"That's wonderful, Hermione!" Luna smiled.
"No big surprise," Theo added, with some attempt at warmth.
"What's happened to you?" Hermione asked.
Theo scowled and crossed his arms petulantly.
"Ask her," he grumbled, looking sideways at Luna.
"He's being silly," Luna chided, forcibly unlocking his arms and taking his hand in hers.
"She's leaving again," Theo snapped, "Four days after coming back."
"Back to Berlin?" Hermione asked, finally feeling genuinely interested.
"No, Sweden," Luna beamed, "We're setting up camp–"
("For two weeks!" Theo thundered.)
"–begin looking for Crumple-Horned Snorkacks! Mr. Scamander has called for the most amazing equipment from America."
"How – er." Hermione glance nervously at Theo who was glaring off into the distance and chewing his tongue, "How exciting, Luna."
"Isn't it? When daddy and I went, we only found footprints and a horn – but with so many creature detection devices, I'm sure we'll find an entire herd in no time."
"Um. Splendid."
Theo huffed.
There was actual money being put into this. Resources. Seemingly legitimate, institutional backing. Fucking bonkers.
She was hungry. She smiled broadly and unnaturally at Luna.
That was when Draco came to the table, carrying a tall drink and a plate full of pork scratchings. Hermione's stomach protested bitterly.
"Didn't ask your friend to join us?" Theo asked tartly.
"No."
Draco sat and Hermione stood.
"Getting a drink," she muttered and stomped off.
Draco's friend wasn't anywhere around. Hermione sat at the bar, while Vassilios prepared the grog and chunky chips she had requested. She returned to the table in better spirits, with full hands and the prospect of a full stomach... and fully capable of dealing with the eerie silence amid her companions.
She wished Luna would stop assiduously petting Theo's hand, though. It did not appear like he was very open to it, at that point.
She took one big, reviving sip of grog and scarfed down four chips.
Finally, she looked up at Draco. His hair was somewhat tidier than usual and his shirt was navy blue.
"What were you doing at the Ministry?"
"Same as you," he replied shortly.
He wouldn't look back at her. He seemed stiff... Uncomfortable... Evasive. And some visceral part of her recognised that comportment at once. It had all the characteristics of the morning after a night of mortifying drunkenness.
She was absolutely certain that he regretted and was embarrassed of his candour from two nights ago.
"You got off at level five."
"I know."
Theo nicked two chips off her plate.
"I thought you had grand, globetrotting plans."
Draco stole a chip off her plate. And he still wouldn't look up.
"The Ministry requires a whole new set of dogsbodies for the Senior Delegates. That means multiple all expenses paid trips–"
"Yes, it's such a pity you have no money of your own."
He smirked and stole another chip. Hermione helped herself to a pork scratching.
"So," Theo piped up grumpily, "In two days, you'll both be good little Ministry bums."
"Not exactly," Hermione said.
She broke off to quickly eat because Draco, Theo, and Luna had just taken a chip each.
"And you kept that quiet?" Theo sputtered after Hermione had explained.
"I'm not even sure she'll agree to see me," she shrugged, "And even if she does, it's very unlikely that she'll take on someone with no experience."
"You aren't just someone. You're Hermione Granger."
Theo looked less peeved, which stole some of the sting from her scowl.
"That's not going to matter, Theo. Madam Barros is very uncompromising, and I've been told I have just one chance to impress her."
"As if you need more than that."
"I do not make good first impressions," she huffed.
"Or second, or third, or fourth, or..."
She aimed her scowl towards Draco, and he finally looked back at her, grinning.
"Rubbish," Theo scoffed, "I adored you from the moment we met."
"You," Hermione pointed at him, "Had an agenda. It didn't matter how I was. All you cared about was getting me to befriend you."
"That's not–"
"Luna, did you like me when we first met?"
"Not at all," she said with an easy smile, "And you didn't like me. We're acquired tastes, Hermione, and that's alright. Look at Theo... now that he's had a taste, he can't bear to be parted from me."
Majorly put out, Theo glared at her. "Oh, I'll taste you, alright, I'll–"
"Yes, please," Luna nodded eagerly, "At least once a day, before I leave."
Hermione groan-laughed into her hand, and she peeked at Draco who was watching the two of them like they were actually going at it right there on the table.
Theo stood up, and pulled Luna along.
"No time like the present," he declared, and they left.
Just like that.
Hermione shook her head at their abandoned drinks.
"I can't imagine what living under the same roof as those two must be like."
"Worse than anything you can come up with," Draco avowed.
She only noticed there was a sleek black attaché case on the empty chair between them, when he flicked it open. He brough out Faust and pushed it across the table towards her.
"Could I borrow that potion's book you had mentioned?"
"Sure."
With Theo and Luna gone, his discomfort was even more apparent. The scene around them re-enforced it; for what was less like her small, homely flat on a quiet night, than a cavernous pub in the afternoon?
Hermione irritably bit into a chip and stared upwards. A grid of hazy sunlight, a network of wooden rafters.
"I bought The Divine Comedy," Draco said.
She glanced at him in passing, on the way to peering into the glowing amber liquid in her glass.
"Do you like it?"
"Just bought it today morning," he said, "From that bookshop near the Visitor's entrance."
"You didn't encounter any raving old women this time?"
"Not in the shop."
It was completely unsurprising to find him looking very pointedly at her.
She sniffed. "I'm not old."
"If you say so."
They were down to four chips and six scratchings, and about one-sixth of their drinks remained. She didn't have much time to shake the bloody disquiet out of him.
"How did you talk yourself into becoming a dogsbody? Isn't that woefully beneath you?"
"It is. But it'll allow me to go places and–"
"Are you seriously pretending you don't have the means to travel on your–"
"Let me finish, you gobby termagant–"
(She sputtered with offence.)
"–It'll allow me to go places with a sense of purpose. Idleness doesn't suit me."
"I agree," she snapped petulantly.
"Yeah?"
"You're devious enough when you aren't idle. Can't imagine what your twisted little brain will cook up when it has nothing to do."
"Doesn't deviousness suit me, Granger?"
He grinned, arching one brow... deviously.
"No."
He leaned forward with a dangerous tilt to his head. It set off a dormant quivering inside her ribcage.
"Then what does suit me?"
"A – uh... bonnet."
Her delivery was pathetic and breathless, but the bemused, slightly pained chuckle it brought out of him was perfect.
They didn't speak as the last of the food was divvied up and their glasses were drained. Then, she collected her satchel, draped her robes over an arm, and followed Draco out of the pub.
There was a stilted pause just outside the door, after they'd recovered from the initial assault of brightness. Draco squinted at her – the sun was in his eyes – and hesitated, like he hoped she would save him from being the one to spit out a stiff, perfunctory farewell.
She didn't because she couldn't.
So, he said, "Well, see you later," and turned sharply.
She watched him pace down the alley for a few seconds, before setting off behind him. She kept her distance, but there was nothing to be done about the sound of her block heels on cobblestones. Nothing at all. Nothing.
Her shadow stretched out in front of her like it was straining to reach him.
It took about eight clip-clomps before he wheeled around and presented her with an irate frown.
"Why are you following me?"
"I'm not," she swore immediately, "I fancied some ice cream and Fortesque's happens to be in that direction."
His face smoothened slowly, and once again, she found herself inept and blundering. It was right there at the tip of her tongue – Would you like some too? Would you care to join me? ...Come with?
But she couldn't bring herself to say anything.
Later, she would blame her cowardice on the harsh light, the smattering of people milling around, the general atmosphere that had none of the shelter or comfort of her home.
At that moment, all she could do was tilt her head to the side, hoping that would be enough.
A tilt. Come with?
Draco said, "Alright," turned around and resumed walking. Hermione, did too, behind him.
Clip-clomp, clip-clomp.
She cast a silencing charm on her feet.
Once they reached Fortescue's he walked on without a backward glance. Hermione went in and ordered two scoops of chocolate raspberry.
There was a park next to Tower 3, really just a round, fenced patch of heath. It was full of downy birch trees, wild grass, and a few rickety swings and benches. A path wound through and around them: Henceforth, Hermione's running track.
She returned home flushed and panting, with sweat trickling down her spine.
The brass valve creaked as she turned it, and warm water blasted out of the showerhead. She took her time washing her hair that had grown longer than it had ever been before.
Wrapped in a towel, she drifted into her bedroom to dress.
Next, she went into the kitchen and fixed herself a cup of tea and toast slathered in rainforest plum jam sent by mum and dad. She sat in her dining nook, sipped her tea and flicked open the morning's Prophet. There was a little vase (a transfigured biscuit tin) on the table, full of chicory flowers that she'd picked at the park.
The routine was familiar, but also so enchantingly new.
There was nothing very interesting in the paper, besides a story about a wizard from Ilkley who claimed to have been visited by the ghost of Voldemort, and a giant advertisement on the back page announcing the launch of Weasley Wizarding Wheezes' brand new Symphonic Spout (This singing sensation will get you wet!)
After breakfast, she moved into her study to spend a few hours mugging up every word Madam Elena Barros had ever written. She went through all her published papers, and doubled down on every little mention of the woman in recent trials.
Eventually, it got to that horrid point at which even she began to realise the futility of pouring over words she already knew. More than anything, her mind was preoccupied with the muffled ticking of her watch. She decided it was time for a break, and abandoned Barros' dry, matter-of-fact observations for the zippy humour of Henry Cecil. Curling up in her arm chair, she was lost to the world.
When she resurfaced, she felt ill.
She shuffled back to her desk with nausea swirling in her stomach. It was the feeling one got after sitting down with an enormous slab of chocolate cake – one that you shouldn't have and don't particularly want – but still force down your throat anyway.
She'd gone and read the entire book. It was nearing three in the afternoon. It would've been better to have popped over to the self-improvement section at Foyles. Maybe she would have found a book called How to Impress Someone When You Only Have One Chance to Do It.
She needed to hatch up a fool-proof plan. So, she pulled out a crisp, fresh sheet of parchment and wrote 'Project: Impress Barros and Skive off Administrative Drudgery (IBSAD).'
"I-B-Sad," she muttered out loud.
Lovely.
'Project: Impress Barros and Open Possibilities That Instigate Mighty Improvements in Society and Thoroughly Irradicate Corruption.'
Ridiculous.
La Nausée –
Three o'clock is always too late or too early for anything you want to do.
Hermione stood up and stomped to her front door. She picked her bag off the hook, slipped into her shoes, and went outside.
She hadn't had much time to explore her new neighbourhood, save for one trip to the greengrocer's and the owlery each. It was time to investigate the two inner alleys.
In the first one, she passed a butcher's and a repair shop, and came to a halt in front of the potioneer's. It had a purple-painted shopfront, with a large window that displayed sacks full of ingredients like in a spice market. Just as she was about to move on, a rough gasp of "Ms. Granger," lent her pause. A man sprung out of the shop, sputtering the same old lines about honour and pleasure, and she found herself admiring all manner of roots, powders, and liquids, in a dimly lit, kitschy room.
The man had a pointy nose, a pointier beard, and such effervescent, genuine love for his ware, that Hermione ended up leaving the shop, sometime later, with a vial full of premium lavender oil from Yemen, and a bottle full of specially stabilised Ashwinder eggs.
In the second alley she discovered a Scrivenshaft's outlet. She promised herself that, if she convinced Madam Barros to hire her, she would purchase a fancy carved silver quill holder like Draco had.
There was a pub next, (basic and much smaller than Finnigan's,) a tailor's shop, a florist, and a Bistro that had a padlock on the door.
At the end of the lane was a Chinese restaurant called The Hungry Zouwu. An animated drawing of the aforementioned beast leapt and bounded around the lettering. Maybe the unrelenting churning in her stomach was hunger...?
Inside, Hermione was accosted by a very short woman with short black hair, ("I am Yi Lau! Ms. Granger... Oh, when we heard a celebrity had moved into our neighbourhood...")
The restaurant was cramped, full of small square tables with red and gold tablecloths. Beautiful lanterns hung from the ceiling. Hermione sat in a corner, ordered a half-portion of fried rice ("Only half?! Look at you. So thin!") and Ma Po tofu, ("My great, great grandmother's recipe! You will love it!") and scarfed down absolutely fantastic food while the enthusiastic Yi Lau talked at her.
When she was back in the lift, climbing up to the sixth floor, she felt ill again.
She had met two new people who had completely absolved her of the responsibility of impressing them. Having people be honoured was sickening and completely unhelpful.
With a sigh, she stepped inside her flat and spent a moment just leaning limply against the wall and sighing pathetically. She sighed like a frail Victorian heroine.
An incessant tapping from the living room brought her back to the twentieth century.
There were two owls pecking at her window, one non-descript brown owl and one – her heart sputtered – was Rodion. The first owl had brought a plain white envelope, and Rodion had brought her a giant package, the size of two bricks.
It was the potion's book. It had to be.
The owls fluttered away and she tore apart the brown paper packaging with care.
An Exhaustive and Comparative Study of Potioneering, by Artem Kovalenko.
Leather bound and sturdy, with gilded edges, it really was, as he had said, fucking massive. Yet, it was incongruously light to hold; Draco must have put a weightless charm on it, for the sake of his owl. She set it on the table before opening it, and there, right in the middle of the title page, was a piece of parchment baring Draco's tidy handwriting.
GRANGER'S ambition in life is to get in the way and be sworn at.
She read it thrice, with wide eyes, before she was able to react. Outwardly she huffed, (don't ask for whose benefit,) and rued the fact that she hadn't made Rodion stay. She wanted to send him Kafka's Metamorphosis. With a note inside, of course, but there would be no need for a clever quote. She would simply write: As a cockroach yourself, I'm sure you will sympathise.
Once the idea had formed, there was nothing else she wanted to do. Damn it. There was no option, was there? She would be going back downstairs, to the owlery.
And, as she carried the potion's book into the study and moved to the bookshelf to pull out Metamorphosis, she mindlessly beamed. All through the process of taking out a post-it from her drawer, scribbling down the note, wrapping up the book... she kept beaming.
His note had been paraphrased from Three Men in a Boat. She had mentioned it to him once, and he had read it. He'd bought The Divine Comedy.
Nothing – nothing – beat the unbidden delight of knowing that he took her book suggestions seriously.
She pressed her lips together to reign it in, as she left her flat, as she got into the lift, as she walked down the street.
The man at the owlery greeted her pleasantly, accepting her package and three knuts.
It was only after she had returned home again and was leaning against the kitchen counter, waiting for her kettle to whistle, that she remembered the letter she'd left on the sideboard. She wandered over, steaming cup of lemon and mint tea in hand, and slit the envelope open.
Dear Ms. Granger,
It is my pleasure to inform you that Madam Elena Barros has agreed to meet with you regarding the opening in her research team. You are requested to appear at the Department of Domestic Law on Wednesday, the first of September, at 9 A.M.
Hoping you are well.
Sincerely,
Gemma Mandrake
Head,
Wizengamot Administrative Services
Ministry of Magic
Wednesday.
Tomorrow.
She raced into the study and didn't move from her desk till midnight.
The moment Hermione stepped into the Ministry atrium, her eardrums ruptured.
The area was swarming with people; more tightly packed than it had ever been, in her experience. Bodies everywhere... and in the distance, shooting over everyone's heads, were three giant jets of water. The booming, thundering tune of the Irish Quidditch team anthem drowned out every other sound.
Hermione screwed up her face and pushed through the crowd, inching towards the golden gates. Or at least, that was the direction she hoped she was heading. It was so fortunate she had decided to arrive an hour early.
At one point, someone grabbed her arm, and she let out a scream that not even she could hear. But it was only Harry. Ron appeared at her other side, and so, with the aid of his height, (and Harry's Potterness,) they were able to burst out of the crowd and reach the lifts in one piece.
"Bloody hell," Ron remarked when they were safely ensconced in a lift.
One of their co-passengers – a man wearing a singularly menacing scowl – muttered, "Damned blatant act of terrorism, it is."
Harry and Ron showed her the direct route to the admin and the DDL. She didn't say a word during the journey, and they knew her too well to attempt engagement. At the door, they wished her luck, and told her to come to the Burrow for dinner. She nodded vacantly. Her ears were still ringing.
After they had left her, she found the nearest window to stare out of till it was time for her interview.
The window showed a partially cloudy sky, much like it actually was, above the ground. A steady stream of workers marched by behind her and she paid them no heed. It was technically the first day for new hires; she wondered if Susan and Justin had got their desired jobs. No doubt, Draco was three levels below, behaving like Percy.
At ten to nine, she went through the door.
She walked into yet another staid waiting area. It was much larger than the previous one, with twelve doors spread across three walls. The reception was right by the entrance, and after a brief interlude with the woman behind the desk, Hermione was asked to take a seat and wait.
She watched as a lilac paper-plane-memo flew from the reception to a door labelled ELENA BARROS, and slipped into the gap beneath it.
For ten minutes, nothing happened. The receptionist was busy with something. There was nobody in the waiting area but her. It was deathly quiet.
A man in starched robes, sporting a grey ponytail strode into the room. He accepted the receptionist's greeting, gave Hermione a passing look... flinched and gave her another look – and then disappeared behind the door labelled ALAN HOGGARD.
Then, two men and one woman entered, and claimed their own chairs in the waiting area.
It became deathly quiet again.
Ten past nine.
The nervous tension in her veins was almost unbearable. The urge to fidget was immense. She dug her nails into her palms.
Quarter past nine.
A memo flew out from under the door and landed in front of the receptionist. She read it, stood up, and beckoned to Hermione to follow.
They went through Madam Barros' door, into a small foyer, with three more doors. The receptionist knocked on the one in the middle, and a clear, orotund voice called out, "Enter."
Hermione entered.
In her head, Elena Barros looked like Professor McGonagall; a notion that had been reinforced after her conversation with Madam Mandrake. She had forgotten that she was only forty-five.
When she saw her, sitting behind an imposing desk against a backdrop of mighty bookshelves, she had to hold back a gasp – the woman was beautiful.
Warm brown skin, long black hair, and perfectly arched eyebrows. She wore embroidered robes of magenta and black, her lips were painted bold and bright.
"Hermione Granger," she said in that precise, commanding voice, "Sit."
She gestured to a chair with a graceful hand. Her nails were long and painted, and rings glittered on three of her fingers.
Hermione, in her plain, pressed, office-friendly clothes and pinned back hair, sat.
For many overwrought moments, she smiled inelegantly while Madam Barros observed her. There was an open folder between them, with Hermione's NEWT results and test.
"You are aware that this is highly irregular."
It was a statement, not a question.
"I am," Hermione agreed, "And I really appreciate–"
Madam Barros held up a hand.
"I can spot a liar from miles away, Hermione Granger. Tell me, did you use your pull and connexions to wrangle this interview?"
"Of course not!" Hermione exclaimed, stunned, "I had gone to interview for a position in the administrative services! I had no idea there was an opening on your team till Madam Mandrake told me about it. And she told me not to get my hopes up, that you might not even agree to see me."
"Very well."
Hermione thought her face might be steaming. Madam Barros looked down at the folder.
"You are clearly skilled. But this job is far more cerebral than magical. Are you quite sure you're suited for it?"
Hermione had to grit her teeth, mashing down the desire to ask, isn't it your job to assess that?
Instead, she muttered, "I believe I am capable."
That earned her a raised brow. It was a cold-blooded look. Surely there had to have been some middleground between the overwhelming flattery of Yi Lau and... this.
"Have you any knowledge of the law?"
"I have read–"
"What have you read?"
Snapping her mouth shut, Hermione reached into her satchel and took out a scroll. Madam Barros accepted it after a pause and spent no more than two seconds scanning it.
"Not even close to enough," she declared, tossing the list back at Hermione.
"If I may," Hermione ground out, "What exactly am I doing here, if you are so convinced that I am unworthy of this job?"
Something curious passed over her face. She tapped a pointy plum nail against the surface of her desk, considering.
"Gemma insisted that you are exceptionally bright, and would have no issue catching up. Is that correct?"
The corrosive, cynical quality of her voice and expression drove Hermione's temper up. All her anxiety and awe flew off somewhere and she was just plainly miffed.
"I have successfully coped with plenty of challenges, most of which were much more arduous than a bit of reading. I don't believe I have ever considered reading to be an issue."
Madam Barros was amused. In a mocking, deprecating way.
"Your reading list will be more than double of what you've accomplished," she said with derision, "So far. In addition to that, I will expect you to spend ten hours a week in the archival chambers."
Hermione shrugged. This wasn't a legitimate interview at all, and she had no desire to be a part of such a sham. Her face still felt steaming hot. She wanted to leave.
"You are muggleborn."
Another statement.
"I am."
"Do you feel that will be a handicap in this particular field?"
Hermione's impure blood boiled. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"You have not grown up under our laws."
"Oh, are children under the age of eleven usually made to understand the ins and outs of your laws? Do their parents read to them from the Legal Compendium in leu of bedtime stories?"
"You are angry." Madam Barros smiled icily. "Will you lose your temper like this during trials?"
"If I am faced with blatant, offensive prejudice, then yes!"
"Very well."
There was something new in her expression now. It glittered across her face and her smile widened.
"So, you don't believe your heritage will be a handicap."
"Of course not," Hermione rejoined sharply, "I cannot believe such a discriminatory line of questioning is allowed at the Ministry."
"I haven't played by the Ministry's rules for years, Hermione Granger, and I am very particular about who I allow on my team. You are not qualified, you are painfully young, impetuous, and you wear your outsider status like a badge of honour."
"Well," Hermione growled, over the roaring in her ears, "I'll just leave then."
She had half-stood up when Madam Barros spoke again.
"Exactly what do you have to offer, besides unfledged cleverness? What made you think interviewing for this position was a good idea... was remotely feasible? Tell me, Hermione Granger... Why should I hire you?"
Hermione stood up as tall as she could. Looking down at that woman helped.
"Because I'm muggleborn."
Barros smiled deviously, but said nothing. Hermione eyes burnt with unshed tears or built-up rage that she wished would shoot out like lasers. Burn the fucking witch.
"Because I'm muggleborn," she repeated fiercely, "Because muggleborns make up less than twenty percent of the total workforce in the Ministry. Because there was a movement aimed towards irradicating muggleborns entirely. Because the wizarding world keeps circling back to the same ghastly, discriminatory mindset... the wizarding world that is decades behind the muggles in terms of social and political progress. I am not an outsider. I am a witch with better perspective."
Barros took in her rant with dark eyes full of disdain and schadenfreude. Hermione was being played with.
"Do elaborate," she drawled sardonically, "Tell me all your radical ideas."
"They only seem radical because everything is so backwards," Hermione spat, "I'm talking about basic equity and equality. There are barely any laws instated to protect the the wording of existing laws is so poor and flimsy that it takes nothing to find loopholes... or they are easily, openly flouted by those with power. It's absolutely fuc – ridiculous that all sentencing is done by a body of old, entitled, purebloods. I respect Kingsley Shacklebolt immensely, and I admire the changes he's made, but he – the Ministry – will only get so far if they don't welcome systemwide change, and... a better perspective."
"Such whimsical idealism."
Hermione hated, hated this woman.
"Idealism helps win wars, Madam," she seethed, "And idealism makes you brave enough to attempt to change the world."
"Unfledged cleverness indeed."
Hermione turned to leave.
"You are aware that I'm the reason the Muggle Protection Act and Lupin's Law exist."
A statement.
"And you think it's acceptable to needle me about my blood status during a job interview."
Another statement.
Hermione walked towards the door.
"When was the latest amendment to the Wizengamot Charter of rights?"
Hermione turned around slowly, with a scowl, and Barros looked back at her penetratingly.
"1864."
"Regarding what?"
"Outlawing the conjuring of commercial structures and-slash-or the materials used to build said structures."
"Which was the most ground-breaking trial of the early twentieth century?"
"The Trial of Frederick Bristlegash, 1903. The first instance of a reduced sentence in exchange for incriminating information."
"Why was there considerable backlash against the International Ban on Duelling?"
"Old values, and a lack of clarity in the initial literature around what constitutes a duel. A revised version was passed in 1994."
Madam Barros didn't look anything close to impressed. Hermione turned up her nose and waited for more. Instead, she got a dismissive wave of a jewelled hand.
"You may go."
Hermione went.
She went straight down to the admin office, marched past the packed cubicles as her face got hotter and hotter and she felt herself losing control of her tear ducts. But she could not cry just yet.
She stepped into the head's waiting room, up to the assistant who blinked quizzically.
"Is Madam Mandrake in?" she asked, her voice a low rasp.
"Yes. Do you have an appointment?"
"No."
"Well... I'll, erm, just check if she's unoccupied..."
Within minutes Hermione was ushered in and stood facing the kind, smiling face of Madam Mandrake...
The smile that quickly morphed into grief when she noticed Hermione's expression.
"Goodness gracious, Ms. Granger! Are you alright?"
"I am coming straight from Madam Barros' office."
"Oh dear..."
"Is your offer still open?"
"Are you ill? You look awfully flushed."
"I'm fine."
Madam Mandrake took off her pince-nez and cleaned the lenses with the edge of her robes. Her face was pinched with pure pity and it became so much harder for Hermione to hold back her furious tears.
"Of course, my offer is still open. As I said before... we'll be thrilled to have you."
Hermione nodded heavily. "May I start now?"
"Monday."
"But," Hermione frowned, "I thought–"
"You really do look unwell," Madam Mandrake said gently, "Take a few days to recover."
"I'm honestly fine," Hermione insisted, only to be presented with another kind smile.
"Monday."
With a jerk-like nod, she swept out of the room. All the way across the floor and down to the atrium, she bit down on the insides of her cheeks to stave off her impending breakdown.
The atrium had mostly cleared up, but the fountain remained. She didn't look at it for too long, vaguely registering trumpet-shaped spouts and purple polka-dots. It wasn't blaring music anymore, but emitting sporadic, brassy notes. A very sweaty group of officials stood beside it, aiming spell after spell...
Hermione fell into a fireplace.
Home. Sofa. Tears.
XXX
At six in the evening, she dragged herself off the sofa and into the bathroom. She left her stupid professional clothes on the floor and stepped into the shower. She got dressed and cast a glamour on her face. It was necessary, for she looked very much like someone who had spent the entire day sobbing and sleeping.
At the Burrow, she forced herself to be cheerful. She helped Mrs. Weasley set the table and congratulated George on wreaking havoc at the ministry.
"Wasn't me!" he declared with his hands up.
"Your fountain," she said with a smile that hurt.
Once Percy and Mr. Weasley arrived, Hermione made an escape. She went to her favoured spot by the pond and sat glumly, missing Ginny. So much for weekly floo-calls.
She leaned back on her hands as the day died, like sunny ambitions did.
Evening is like a curtain of cloud,
a blurr above ripples; and through it
sharp long spikes of the cinnamon,
a cold tune amid reeds.
When Harry and Ron joined her, she pushed aside her sorrows once more.
Harry had the same, tired look about him that he'd worn after his last session with Healer Asher. For a while, they sat quietly, watching the sun dip behind distant hills.
"Apparently," Harry said suddenly, "Being forced to live under the stairs isn't as funny as I'd thought it was."
Hermione and Ron turned to him, equally startled.
"Apparently," he went on, "My problem isn't alcohol. It's nineteen years of repressed trauma." He paused, shrugged, and looked at Hermione. "How was your interview?"
She reached for him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Oh, Harry, I'm–"
"No. Please," he implored, "Tell me about your interview."
"Um, okay." She wet her lips and stared into the pond's scummy depths. "It was awful."
Both Harry and Ron made noises of disbelief.
"No, really. It was horrible. She goaded me and I lost my temper. I yelled at her and almost said fuck."
"Hermione?!" Ron sputtered, flabbergasted.
After a moment of silence, Harry snorted. And the three of them burst into laughter.
Her routine had lost its charm.
On Thursday, after a run, shower, and breakfast, she spent the entire day sat at her bureau with Draco's potions book, brewing draughts from across the world. It was completely engrossing and fascinating, and she didn't think of the Barros-debacle once.
She thought about it several times when she took breaks to eat or use the loo.
On Friday, she hopped over to the liquor shop near Blackheath station and bought a six pack of Stella Artois, and a bottle of gin. She stopped by The Hungry Zouwu and picked up a half portion of fried rice, fending off Yi Lau's friendliness with noncommittal hums and nods.
("We do home delivery too! Just put your order and flat number through the floo!")
One chilled beer and a satisfying lunch later, she lay on the sofa, wishing she had a telly. Or even a gramophone.
Just as she was about to drift off to find some diverting fiction, she was waylaid by an owl at her window.
It was from the Ministry; a pile of documents for her to sign, forms to fill, etcetera. She carried the lot to the study and splayed them out on her desk, reaching for a quill.
Then she saw the letter of acceptance – From the office of Madam Elena Barros, Barrister-at-law, Member of the Honourable Wizengamot – and she froze like she had been struck by a petrifying spell.
XXX
"Er, what are you doing?" Hermione asked
"Moping," Theo replied.
He was draped gracelessly on an armchair with a half-empty box of Honeydukes chocolate on his stomach. The curtains were drawn and all the lamps were doused. Only the low fire in the heath was lit, from whence Hermione had just emerged. The room was stifling and musty.
"Why?" she asked, moving closer to him and helping herself to a heart-shaped chocolate.
"Luna just left," he shrugged, "So I thought I ought to mope, you know? Felt like the done thing. She gave me these sodding chocolates as a consolation prize."
"She's gone for two weeks, right?"
"Yeah," he huffed.
"Not that I'm not chuffed to see you, darling," he said in an anything-but-chuffed way, "But what brings you to my humble abode?"
She lifted the chocolates off his stomach and made a valiant attempt to pull him up.
"I think we should celebrate the launch of your Symphonic Spout."
"Already done," he grumbled disinterestedly, "George rolled a jolly good spliff. Gillyweed and cannabis. You should try it sometime."
He tried to free his hand; she grabbed the other one.
"Alright. Then how about we celebrate the fact that for some unearthly, inexplicable reason, Madam Barros has accepted me as a part of her team?"
He froze just like she had.
He shot up and wrapped her up in a tight hug.
"What did I tell you?" he grinned, "Congratulations."
"Thank you," she beamed, "Now may we go to Finnigan's?"
"Yes, alright. You're just a little cheering-up fairy, aren't you? Go on ahead, I'll join you."
She narrowed her eyes. "Will you really?"
"Of course, I will. But buddy, I smell. I know it, you know it. May I have a shower?"
He picked up one last chocolate and shot her a calculating grin.
"Would you object to Draco joining us?"
She rolled her eyes because she felt it was... what had he called it... the done thing, and replied, "No."
"Brilliant. He's in his room. Let him know."
"You let him know."
"I'm going for a shower."
"His room is right next to yours!"
He'd already left, and his sing-song voice – "shooooweeerrr"– lingered.
Hermione dithered on the spot, but only for a second. She was emotionally drained, tired, and sick of anxiety clawing at her chest.
The sound of piano keys become clearer the closer she got to Draco's door, till finally, she stood with her ear pressed against the wood and listened. Now that she knew how much of a bloody soul he had and the beauty in his playing wasn't inapt, she was able to really soak it in. He was playing something operatic and dramatic, the notes quickly tripping over one another. Her eyes closed and she pictured his fingers, hands, arms, and shoulders moving with smooth effortlessness.
She only knocked after silence had fully settled.
His face flashed with shock when he opened the door, and he was – fuck.
His shirt was fully unbuttoned.
A smothered gasp sat heavy in her throat, and she kept her eyes firmly fixed on his face. The pale column of his exposed torso danced tauntingly just under the line of her vision.
"We're going to Finnigan's for a drink," she breathed, silently cursing the warble in her tone, "Would you like to come?"
He thought it over for a moment then shrugged one shoulder. His shirt tails might have shifted, but she didn't dare look.
"Alright. Give me a minute."
He disappeared behind his door again, and she finally choked out the air caught in her chest. She felt warm all over, filled with a sort of dazed urgency that propelled her away from his door and back into the sitting room.
She absently waved her wand about, freshening the air in the room, and aiming a lumos at the horrid tacky lamp that still, somehow, held a place of honour on a shelf full or ornaments.
When Draco reappeared, his shirt was fully buttoned and he was wearing a black jacket over it. He scanned the room with a frown.
"Theo already left?"
"He's having a shower. Would you like to wait for him?"
He scoffed. "No."
His eyes had settled on the chocolates. He picked one up, and Hermione watched as his lips closed around it, brushing against the tips of his thumb and index finger. He strode past her – smacking her with a wave of his cologne – and stepped into the fireplace.
Walking alongside Draco on a busy evening at Diagon felt surreal. She tried to stop peering at him from the corner of her eye, but it was proving to be difficult, since the crowd didn't allow for a safe distance between them, and her sleeve kept brushing against his.
She wished she'd worn pumps instead of trainers.
Finnigan's was filled to capacity. Hermione saw that there wasn't a single empty table as she and Draco approached the bar.
She stood quietly, waiting to be served, (Both Seamus and Vassilios were busy at the other end,) when Dean popped up next to her with a happy greeting. His glass of beer was nearly the size of his forearm.
"Bit much, don't you think?" Draco asked him.
Dean shook his head. "The model for today's anatomy drawing lesson was a hag. I need this."
At last, Seamus stopped in front of them.
"What will it be?" he asked.
"Same old," Draco drawled.
"Ogden's it is. And Hermione?"
"Surprise me. Make is strong."
He presented her with something pale pink and topped with a layer of crushed ice. She took a judicious sip, detecting, under a prominent bitter tang of alcohol, a lovely fruity flavour.
"Do I taste peaches?" she asked.
Seamus grinned and winked at her. "Peaches for a peach."
She shook her head with faux-disapproval, quashing down a smile, as he turned away to attend to some other punters.
She looked to her left and saw Draco watching her with an ill-suppressed smirk, and humour shimmering in his eyes.
"What?" she asked.
"Are you shagging Finnigan?"
To her right, Dean sprayed his shoes with beer and erupted into maniacal cackles.
"NO!" Hermione spluttered, after peeling her jaw off the ground, "No. Oh my god."
Draco grinned, looking from her to Dean.
She took a giant gulp of her drink and reiterated – "No."
Dean gasped, "I promise he'll be up for it, Hermione, if you're interested," and promptly resumed cackling.
She shoved him, hard. Draco had on his well-practiced look of supreme self-satisfaction.
Here she was, still pondering about that fleeting glimpse of his torso, and he wanted to know if she was shagging Seamus. For shit's sake.
It was the perfect time for Theo to show up, while Dean was wiping his eyes and Hermione was undoubtably blushing.
"What did I miss?" he asked.
The evening progressed. The group found space to stand next to a pillar, and Hermione went from drink one to two. Theo made her tell him about the entire interview in great detail, quaking with righteous fury on her behalf. Then Dean launched into stories about all the various types of naked bodies he'd seen of late.
Hermione had sensed when Draco drifted away, but hadn't let herself look immediately. When she did sneak a peek, (taking a necessary reprieve from Dean's much-too-graphic description of a hag's posterior,) she saw that he was with his friend from before – the fair-haired woman, today in an off-white dress – and they were deep in conversation. It was like an anvil fell on her stomach, and for a moment, she was sure her lunch was going to make a reappearance.
She looked away quickly, but not quick enough.
Her dear, observant best friend noticed her distraction and turned to look behind him. That was fairly humiliating all on its own, but then he went and raised his arm, calling them over. Hermione wished the pillar behind her would collapse and bring the whole building down.
"Aren't you going to introduce us to your new friend, Draco?" Theo asked
Draco eyed Theo disparagingly, while his pretty companion smiled.
"This is Fiona Berne," he said haughtily, "Receptionist at the ICW main office." He turned to Fiona Burne and added, "Theo, Granger, Thomas," like an irrelevant afterthought.
From that moment, awkwardness steadily escalated. Nobody was able to think of a damn thing to say after the cursory nice to meet you's.
Dean was the first to make a retreat, claiming to spot his mates from college. Theo, after making a daft comment about wrackspurts, absconded to the loo. When Fiona asked what wrackspurts were and Draco chuckled, Hermione knew she had to leave. The risk of vomiting was too high. She shook her empty glass, smiled thinly, and fled back to the bar.
Dean hadn't lied; he was surrounded by people she hadn't seen before, and Seamus was busy performing while mixing drinks for them. Hermione returned her empty glass and switched to butterbeer. The fog wrapped around her brain necessitated it.
New bevy in hand, she looked around sullenly, wondering where to go. She was unceremoniously shoved to the side by a gaggle of matronly witches, so she moved haplessly, closer to where the bathrooms were, in the hopes of catching Theo.
She noticed two things near-simultaneously:
First – a feverishly noisy table where George, Lee, Angelina, Alicia, Theo, Oliver Wood, and a woman Hermione didn't know were sitting.
Second – a group rising from their table by a window, leaving it sublimely empty.
She sat at the empty table and observed the chaos of the pub with detachment, until the volume faded and her thoughts became louder. With a surface under her bum and alcohol in her blood, the full gravity of the day's events hit her like a speeding lorry.
She was going to be the youngest member of the Department of Domestic Law. How had that happened? She had no doubt that she had been provoked and instigated during the interview as some sort of a test, but she couldn't imagine how she had passed. When had enraged rants ever won her anything? She was also fairly certain that that treatment was not going to be isolated to just one instance. She was going to be wrung out and bullied by the most terrifying woman on Level two.
She took a sip of butterbeer and pulled a face at the unwelcome sweetness.
But an unforgiving boss was a small price to pay for the prestige of the position she had been granted, for the chance to have her name attached to future legislation that carried the same weight as Lupin's law. What did it matter if Barros mocked her youth and brashness... she obviously saw some merit in it. Bizarrely enough, Project I-B-OPTIMISTIC had been actualised, in an entirely unexpected way.
Tomorrow, she would go buy herself a quill holder just like Draco's.
Draco.
At once, her rose-coloured musings, her eggs in moonshine, disappeared. She took two more grudging sips of butterbeer and sighed. She couldn't believe how sick, how wretched she felt, seeing him with that woman. It was horrible, untenable, and bad. So bad. So much worse than she had been afraid of.
Fuck. What the fuck.
His shirt had been unbuttoned and she had wanted to do so much more than just look.
Was there ever going to be a time in her life when she'd stop feeling like she was on the brink of insanity?
The pub's clamour re-infiltrated her senses. She slid a bit lower in her chair and played with the zip on her jacket. Diffused speckles of colour from the stained-glass window fell on her clothes and skin. It had a standard fleur-de-lis motif in green and yellow, and it glowed gently under the influence of Diagon's lampposts. Little drops of water fell upon it with increasing vigour: It was raining.
Hermione decided to abandon the butterbeer and go home. She could sit in her balcony with a cup of tea and watch the rain fall on starthistle hill.
A nearby chair dragged loudly. She jumped and whipped her head around.
It was Draco, he was alone, and she could not hold back her gasp this time.
The usual, endearing, alcohol induced flush bloomed across his cheekbones. He settled on the chair across from her, turning his body to face the pub. He didn't say a word. She stared at his profile as he partook from his glass of firewhiskey.
Where's Fiona, she wanted to ask. Perhaps it would be funnier to ask, are you shagging Fiona... but the answer to that could be yes, and she was not interested in throwing up in front of him. Just thinking about it was making her stomach roll.
"Any progress on The Divine Comedy?" she asked instead.
He puckered his brow without looking at her and said, "You can't send me a book with the words found himself transformed into a gigantic insect in the very first sentence... and expect me to read anything else."
Heady warmth spread across her body and she grinned.
"Did you sympathise?"
His mouth twitched. "I haven't felt so uneasy after reading a book in quite some time."
"It's quite something, isn't it?"
"Absurdly dark. I didn't miss anything, right? There is absolutely no explanation given about why it happened."
"None."
"Is it some sort of... muggle political allegory that I am incapable of understanding?"
"Not really," Hermione hedged, "Maybe a broad social commentary, if you want to look at it that way, about cruelty and alienation. Some say it has religious undertones, some say it's psychological – about the mind and body. But I prefer to take it as it is; the monstrosity, absurdity, everything. It's powerful enough on its own."
He drank and gave her a short, slightly perturbed look before turning away again.
"Like that bloody Daughter of the Minotaur painting."
"Somewhat," she smiled, "If you're up for something even darker, I'll lend you The Trial. It's also by Kafka."
"What's it about?"
"It's about–" she broke off to laugh softly, "I hope it isn't what my future looks like. But it's about a man who, out of the blue, is arrested on a mystery charge. No matter what he does, where he goes, all the twisted, bureaucratic tangles he gets caught in... he can't find out what it is. And he's expected to defend himself."
His profile scrunched into a deep frown and she could tell he was interested. She was sure of it.
"But," she went on, "I will only give it to you after you finish The Divine Comedy."
The frown unfurled into a surprised smirk. He looked at her over his shoulder.
"I'll go buy a copy of my own," he said pompously.
"No, you won't."
"I believe I will."
"You won't," she sniffed, "Because I'm telling you not to."
"Ha!" He barked and turned away dismissively.
"You read Three Men in a Boat."
"Yes."
"Because I told you to."
He turned to her again, with narrowed eyes. She looked back earnestly, from under her eyelashes.
"Have I ever led you astray, Draco?"
He seemed to grin in spite of himself, if the preceding purse of his lips and clench of his jaw was anything to go by. Ultimately, his eyes were dancing and it felt like a victory.
"I spent all of yesterday brewing potions, by the way," she told him.
"Which ones?" he asked.
"Shrinking solutions, mostly," she replied, "So I could test them. It's amazing... the number of variations..."
"Yeah," he agreed.
His eyes stayed fixed on her as he took a sip of whiskey. Her next question came out all a-stutter.
"What - What I don't um understand is the version from Mongolia. Why does it work? The ingredients make no sense whatsoever."
He nodded. "I asked Snape about that. It's got to do with the way Longhorn Beetle legs react to yarrow..."
He turned in his chair to face her fully and leaned forward with his forearms resting on the table.
It was like a veil had dropped around them, shutting out the rest of the pub.