A/N: I own nothing but this so-called plot.
.
.
Of the three doors in the foyer of Elena Barros' office, the one on the right belonged to the research team. Behind it was a narrow, rectangular room, and even Hermione, thin and diminutive as she was, felt too large standing in such a cramped space. Three small desks were set in a line on one side, and filing cabinets and bookcases of all sizes covered every single wall.
"There is absolutely no reason for you to come into my office, and you must certainly never venture into Madam Barros', unless summoned. That desk on the right is yours, make sure to keep it tidy at all times. Madam Barros does not permit clutter. Of course, I don't expect you to be here for very long... the wonderkid appeal gets stale fairly quickly."
Julien Errol Stamp BL, Junior Counsel, was Madam Barros' second string. A pallid-skinned man in his mid-thirties, with short brown hair, close-set eyes, a goatee, and a very shifty look about him.
And, as Hermione had surmised in the past half hour, he was a raging arsehole.
"Go ahead, settle down," he gestured towards the desk and gave Hermione a disgruntled look, "Your colleagues will be arriving soon, they'll tell you what's what. I have more important things to do."
He slammed the door behind him, and Hermione scowled to herself as she settled behind her designated desk. The cushioned chair squeaked with every tiny move she made.
She put her satchel on the table, took out a notebook, parchment, a bottle of ink, and a quill. Then she blinked down at the stuff, blankly, for a bit.
Nothing seemed real. It felt like her morning run, shower, and breakfast had happened a decade ago... and it was still only quarter to nine. So far, she had learned that two out of the four people she'd be working with were nasty, unkind, and insultingly dismissive. Happy morning tidings, indeed.
She sat back – squeak – and looked around. There was a dull grey filing cabinet right next to her, a mere arm's length away, labelled 1984.
It was exactly the kind of suspiciously fluky omen that tested the limits of her rationality. This was the Ministry of Love. She had already committed many a thoughtcrimes.
Cabinets went on in that manner along the wall, (1985, 86, 87, 88, and so on,) till the corner where there was a bookcase full of slim, leather-bound tomes. Then it was back to cabinets, another corner bookcase, and then more cabinets. There was a window directly across from her, half covered by cabinets. There were cabinets behind her as well, and a noticeboard covered in scraps.
She crossed her arms – squeak – and wondered if these many cabinets could be considered a committee, and if she could petition to have them replace the one in parliament.
She stood up – SQUEAK – and walked to one of the bookcases, peering at the spines. Each volume appeared to be dedicated to one law, by-law, or order: It was the compendium, expanded and elaborated upon.
There was a noise by the door and Hermione turned, holding her breath.
A woman entered: Tall, shoulder-length hair, with her nose buried in the Prophet. She went, robotically to the desk on the left and dumped her (three bulging) bags on top of it. She leaned against the desk, still engrossed, while Hermione watched her nervously.
After some time had passed, it became evident that the write-up holding this woman's attention was long and very captivating.
"Um, excuse–"
"Gorblimey!" the woman exclaimed, dropping the paper in shock.
"Sorry!" Hermione squeaked, "I didn't mean to alarm you!"
She stared at Hermione for a beat, eyes wide, then said, "Well alarm me you did! Oof, it's alright..."
She strode forward and stuck her hand out.
"Lovely to meet you, Hermione Granger."
Hermione took her hand and tentatively shook it.
"You too, um..."
"Kathleen Edwards. Kathy."
"You were in Ravenclaw!" Hermione exclaimed, suddenly remembering, "Head girl during my first year!"
"That's right," Kathy grinned.
It was a guileless, welcoming sort of grin. Hermione slowly felt a sense of ease leak into her bloodstream.
"How long have you worked here?" she asked.
"Three years," Kathy replied, "Not counting the one I spent hiding in a cave in Castleton." She pointed to herself and added, "Muggleborn."
"...Ah."
Before Hermione could ask if Kathy had been subjected to the same line of questioning as she had been, the door reopened, and a man walked in.
He was built like Theo, very slender and unnecessarily tall, and had thinning hair that was neatly parted. He looked considerably older.
"Here's Takumi Morita, the third member of our esteemed team. Takumi, Hermione Granger."
He shook her hand firmly before going on to deposit his things on the middle desk.
"Nice to meet you Ms. Granger," he said in an accented voice, "I have heard so much about you."
"Call me Hermione, please," she said at once, wanting desperately to be a part of such a friendly rapport as soon as possible.
He nodded politely.
"Takumi joined last year," Kathy said to Hermione, "He's a bit of a legal savant. Practiced law in three different countries before coming here–"
"Four," he corrected bashfully.
"Disgusting, isn't it?" Kathy remarked with a fond smile.
That's when Takumi approached her once more, holding out a small pink parcel.
"Red bean mochi," he said with a bow of his head, "My wife made them, to welcome you into the team."
"Gosh," Hermione gasped, accepting the parcel with no little surprise, "Thank you so much."
The office of Elena Barros was a sample box, displaying the extremities of human nature.
The two then gave Hermione a tour of their shared space, and it was basically just as she had already surmised during her earlier investigation. She was made privy to the case they were working on at that moment:
Cadfan Burke, grandnephew of Caractacus Burke, was attempting to reclaim precious artifacts allegedly belonging to his family, that the Ministry had claimed after the war. The Ministry wasn't having it.
"Not the dark, cursed stuff that comes under the Decree of Justifiable Confiscation, of course, but the rest..." Kathy muttered, "We've been at this for over a year now. The Wizengamot has once again decided that Madam Barros is simply trying to undermine them. There's a solid chance they'll refuse permission to appeal."
"But she's a part of the Wizengamot."
"They put her there hoping she'd fall in line."
Both Kathy and Takumi laughed at that.
"Hermione, this is the transcript of the hearing, and here's a catalogue of artefacts that Mr. Burke demands be released. Make yourself familiar with the case."
She returned to her desk – squeak – and she did just that.
XXX
When the time for their lunch break rolled around, Hermione had finished "catching up" as it were, and was digesting the fact that her very first venture into the legal field would involve helping a rich man get hold of things that his rich and famously rapacious uncle had nabbed through dubious means. What would Gareth Peirce say to that?
"Need me to show you where the canteen is?" Kathy asked, "Or would you like to join me for a smoke outside?"
"No, thank you," Hermione replied, "I'm meeting some friends for lunch."
"Would these friends happen to be a couple of rather well-known Aurors?"
"Um. Yes."
"Alright," she grinned, "Be back within half an hour, or Barros will have your head."
All three of them walked out together, and parted ways just outside the DDL main office. Hermione wandered back to the window that she'd stood at, before her interview.
It had been cloudy then; it was storming now. There was such depth in storm clouds, especially when lit by a flash of cold blue lightening.
"Hi there!" Ron called from behind her, and she turned around with a smile. Seeing him was stabilising. They walked together towards the lifts, and he asked her how her morning had been.
"Okay?" she said with a non-committal shrug, "My superiors are awful, but my colleagues are very nice."
"That's standard around here," Ron replied, "I think you're contractually bound to turn into a git the moment you get to a higher position."
"Where's Harry?"
"Got held up by our head-git. Robards found some minor filing error and apparently the world is ending."
They went down in a (as usual) crowded lift, after which Ron led her across the atrium to an arched opening under a signboard that read Staff Canteen.
It was a large space full of small round tables. There was a long counter along one wall with a stack of trays and a board baring the day's specials. The queue in front of it was not short, but very quick-moving.
Hermione took a gander around the room as she stood behind Ron, blindly moving ahead towards the counter. There were only a few empty tables left. She observed the vast variety of faces, (and was very often observed right back,) till she found the table where Draco was sitting.
Even though she expected it, the awful swoop in her stomach was unnerving. There were two other blokes and one Fiona at his table. He was wearing black robes and a thyme-green shirt, charily appraising a slice of pie, while Fiona kept incessantly speaking to him.
Only to him.
Surely, she could spare a look towards one of the other blokes? Surely, she could stop ogling him for one bloody second?
A flimsy purple tray floated in front of her vision, and she mentally shook herself as she accepted it from Ron.
"What do you recommend?" she asked peering up at him with extreme forcefulness.
"The sandwiches are alright," Ron answered unenthusiastically, "Fish is not bad. But whatever you do, do not go for the potted meat. Worse than poison, that."
Hermione opted for a simple chicken sandwich, while Ron piled his tray with an unseemly amount of food. She then waited for two minutes while he collected pumpkin juice from a vending machine, with her eyes fixed on an empty table diagonally across from where Draco was.
"Oh, we aren't eating here," Ron told her, "C'mon."
She peaked back over her shoulder just before leaving the canteen, and Draco was looking right back at her. She nearly tumbled into Ron.
They weren't the only ones taking their food back with them. The lift was full of employees clutching trays or packets.
Hermione's already unsteady bearing, further battered by Draco's puissant gaze, suffered complete derailment as she shuffled through the Auror Headquarters, behind Ron. People stopped mid-conversation to gawk at her, like she was a clabbert in a tutu; like she had encroached upon a holy space. They peered over the busy, colourful walls of their cubicles.
Ron took her to the end of the enclosure into a tearoom where Harry was scowling down at a long roll of parchment that trailed down to the floor. His scowl morphed into a grin when he saw her. Ron set his mountainous tray of food on the table, and before Hermione could so much as say a word, an army of Aurors burst into the room and piled on.
It made sense now: Ron was out gathering for the entire squad of hunters.
Hermione was introduced to more people than she ever cared to know – Wayne Hopkins, Roger Davies, and (of all people) Miles Bletchley – among them. All manner of salutations boomed around her; one over-enthusiastic woman kissed the air by her cheek and one man reminded her of McLaggen.
Eventually, she just sat next to Harry, quietly nibbling at her sandwich while the Aurors indulged in raucous bantering and good-natured badinage. Harry didn't speak much either, but Ron was in his element. He was drawing out the loudest laughs and had an odd propensity to seek out the over-enthusiastic woman, to make sure she was laughing, too.
When her watch told her it was time to leave, Hermione was glad. She waved at Harry and Ron and dashed out, arriving back at her office right at the heels of her colleagues.
Back at her desk (squeak!), Hermione was handed an enormous sheaf of loosely bound parchment.
"Make note of all property disputes from this inventory, please," said Takumi, "We need to look into precedents."
It took her over an hour to do that. Between a case of commercial negligence and a business partnership gone sour, Madam Barros swept into their tiny room like a gale. Her robes were peacock blue and she wore matching teardrop earrings.
"I better have all pertinent precedents on my table first thing tomorrow morning," she commanded, without preamble.
"Yes, Madam Barros, of course," Kathy mumbled rapidly.
"It will be done," said Takumi, not even slightly intimidated.
Hermione simply stared. Sensing her gaze, Barros looked at her with a touch of odium.
"Edwards, take care of this one's reading list, will you? If she's still lagging by the end of this month, I will fire her."
She left before anything else could be said.
Kathy took Hermione to the archival chamber, at the far end of the floor. They entered a reception room first, where a man behind a semi-circular desk made them write their names in a register before letting them into the chamber.
"Jesus," Hermione gasped the moment she stepped in.
It had to be considerably larger than the Great Hall, a high-ceilinged, windowless, and severely dingy vault. There were seven columns of storage shelves and god knows how many rows. From the door, it looked to be a hundred. A thousand.
"Let's get started then," Kathy said, handing Hermione a copy of the list she had compiled, "You start from the bottom, I'll start from the top. Be sure to make a copy of every page."
There was a table by the entrance full of small lanterns. They picked one each and began their quest.
When they were finally through, it was just past four o'clock. They scurried back to their office with towering stacks in hand. The load was divided into three, and they set off scouring the records for any and all relevant information.
Hermione found herself repeatedly vanishing bits of her work, in the hopes of having her handwriting appear as neat as she was capable of presenting. She did not want Barros objecting to her penmanship, on top of everything else.
Five-thirty came and went. Nobody moved or said anything. At a quarter past six, Hermione's chair squeaked as she pushed away from the desk. Flexing her tired fingers, she said, "I think I'm through?"
She looked up and had a bit of a shock. Takumi's chair was empty, and his desk was clear. Kathy was leaning back in her chair, reading the paper.
"Oh, finally," she said, not unkindly, "I'm having severe nicotine withdrawals here."
"I'm so sorry," Hermione cried, horrible humiliation burning across her cheeks, "I hadn't realised–"
"Relax!" she grinned, "Not shabby at all for your first day. Hand it to us then, I'd like to go over what you've done once, before giving it to Madam Barros. No offence, but you know how she is."
"Yes, of course," Hermione mumbled.
She stood up, (squeak,) and began tidying her desk while Kathy flipped through her pages. When she heard the scratching of a quill, she went over to see what was being revised.
Kathy modified her formatting in some parts, made small notes referring to orders she wasn't familiar with, and eliminated entire paragraphs where she had transcribed courtroom exchanges, ("That's a tad more thorough than necessary, Hermione.")
Finally, one softly muttered "nox," later, they left.
The Ministry was so quiet at that hour. Save for a couple of aurors loitering around the corridors, the floor was deserted. Hermione and Kathy got in a lift, and it rattled with unnatural volume due to the lack of atmospheric noise.
A security person stood by the memorial monument, in an otherwise empty atrium. It reminded Hermione of the evening when she, along with Harry, Ron, Ginny, Neville, and Luna, had run through it after an insane flight on an invisible thestral. The evening Sirius had died.
Tiredness bloomed over her limbs quite suddenly, when she was a mere step away from a gilded fireplace.
"I'll owl you a list of books and reading material tonight, alright?" Kathy said, "See you tomorrow, Hermione."
"See you," Hermione mumbled, and reached out for some flu powder.
All the air left her lungs when she stepped into her flat. It felt so dizzyingly good to be home. She waited to feel solidified, less hollowed out; but that didn't happen.
She went straight to the bedroom – tossing her bag on the chair, kicking off her shoes, yanking off her robes – and flopped onto her bed... then promptly sat up with a growl, to undo the bun at the back of her head. Her hair tumbled down and so did she, back on the bed. She reached down to undo the button on her trousers and kicked them off in the most violent and ungraceful manner.
Better.
She sighed and pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. Hot flashes of red and white light exploded across her eyelids, and from behind them, emerged images of the cramped office, of the Ministry's corridors, of the dingy archival chamber, of cackling aurors, of Kathy, Takumi, Stamp and Barros. Of the canteen. Of Draco – and Fiona – in the canteen.
The day had ended and still, nothing seemed real. She had woken up in this bed, she was back in this bed, and all that had happened in the interim was illusory. Hermione half sat up and summoned the parcel Takumi had given her. Inside, there were half a dozen small, sugar dusted dumplings in a beautiful paper box. Hermione ate one – it was soft, chewy, and mildly sweet – and then she ate another. She lay back down, chewing and staring at the ceiling.
She couldn't be arsed about dinner.
Springing out of bed, she ditched her shirt for a dressing gown, picked up her bag, wandered into the study and thumbed through the section on litigation in the Legal Compendium till Kathy's owl arrived, baring a two-feet long scroll. She would have to make a trip to Flourish and Blotts very soon.
But no matter how much she read, how much she went over her day, how often she combed through the copied records she'd brought back home... the hollowness did not abate.
She went to the kitchen to brew a cuppa before once more, returning to bed. Burrowing under the blanket, she sipped tea, ate two more sweet dumplings, and read till ten... and then she only slept like the dead.
She barely ran the next morning. Lost in foggy, unformed thoughts, she sauntered around the park like she had the whole morning at her disposal. On her way back, she grasped a fistful of chicory flowers and took a detour to the baker and picked up some freshly baked muffins.
It was still, somehow, too early by the time she was dressed, packed up, fed, and ready to leave. She stood in front of her wall of art for ten minutes, then thought fuck it, and landed up at the Ministry at eight in the morning. Again.
She had a run-in with Ernie in the lift, learning that he'd earned himself a position in the International Trading Standard's Body, which sounded terribly dry no matter how hard he tried to give it a highfalutin spin. He got off on level five, and once the lift was set in motion again, Hermione sighed. If she had to have encountered someone who worked on level five...
Could it not have been...
Someone else?
The receptionist was still setting up her station when Hermione strode into the DDL, and she mumbled a taut good morning before carrying on. The moment she stepped into her office, the feeling of displacement – the same one that had gripped her the day before – reappeared.
Her chair squeaked when she pulled it back.
She discarded her satchel and crouched on the floor, peering at the bottom of the chair. She gave it an experimental nudge, and – hmm. Seemed like an issue with the back leg, on the right.
Silencio.
Nudge.
Squeak.
Maybe the one on the left.
Silencio.
Nudge.
Squeak.
The one in the front then, on the right.
Silencio.
Nudge.
Squeak.
The left one.
Silencio.
Nudge.
Squeak.
What the god damn buggering fuck?!
Silencio.
Nudge.
Squeak.
Silencio.
Nudge.
Squeak.
Silencio.
Nudge.
Squeak.
Silencio. Silencio. Silencio. Silencio. Silencio. Silencio.
After every square inch of that ungodly chair had been silenced, it stopped squeaking.
Hermione plucked a tome on the Statute of Distribution off the bookcase and settled down behind her desk to read.
Takumi arrived first that morning, and just after Hermione had finished asking him to convey her compliments to his wife, Kathy arrived, bringing in a faint smell of cigarettes.
The two had scarcely settled when Madam Barros and Stamp burst into the room, sucking the air right out of it. Hermione was immediately claustrophobic. Stamp was levitating a veritable mountain of parchment in front of him, and he dumped the lot on the floor, turning the office into some sort of paper landfill.
"Edwards, Morita," Barros barked, "I need you in my office in ten minutes. That scab from Todd and Bullard has agreed to consult on the case. Edwards, go to the admin now and get a copy of the notes from the hearing."
"Yes, Madam Barros," Kathy muttered and dashed out of the room.
"Morita, send a memo to Ogden's office and fix a meeting for later today. I don't care how, just make it happen."
"Okay." Takumi was unflappable.
Barros left the room without so much as glancing in Hermione's direction. But Stamp was looking at her.
Well, he was sneering at her.
"These are old affidavits that need to be filed away," he said brusquely, pointing at the heap on the floor, "They need to be sorted by year. Get on with it, Granger."
She stood up very fast, hoping the sudden, boiling, seething rage in her gut might fall behind in her chair if she did so. Law of Inertia and all that.
"Will do," she gritted out with forced politeness.
"Manually," Stamp added, "No magic. We can't afford even the slightest error."
Then he stalked out too, in a way that suggested that he had been carefully studying Madam Barros' mannerisms.
Anger dissipated and dismay took over as Hermione stared down at the mound of parchment in front of her. She snatched up one at random – Sworn by Glen Perkins on the ninth day of February, 1991 – and damn neared whined out loud.
Takumi gave her a look of genuine sympathy before he left.
It took her minutes to come up with a system, after she realised that, thankfully, most of the Alfred Davids, (as that rogue Roger Riderhood would call them,) were from the last twenty years. She made floating piles, hovering under pretty, glowing numbers made of tiny bluebell flames.
When Kathy and Takumi returned, announcing it was time for lunch, Hermione had got through perhaps one-fifth of the pile. Stepping outside was a glorious, welcome reprieve.
Or so she thought, for a bit.
Harry and Ron met her outside the office, and they told her the mad story of how they apprehended a band of nefarious nifflers. The bite-sized mushroom and spinach quiches in the canteen improved her mood even more. While Harry and Ron piled their trays, she scanned the room for a flash of distinguished pale hair. There was none.
And that was when the downward slide recommenced.
She felt true-blue dread, walking into the Auror Headquarters. Lunch in their tearoom was as unpleasant and headache inducing as the day before.
At least it made her glad to be back in the quiet of her office. She decided to give her tedious task a meditative air; sort of like a quasi-Buddhist ritual.
"94... 92... 81... 85... 89..." became her sacred chant.
Kathy and Takumi returned, informed her that the meeting with Odgen was happening in twenty minutes, gathered some files, and left.
"87... 93... 97... 80..."
They came back and informed her that Ogden was on board, but it was Edwina Lumbard who needed to be persuaded. Hermione remembered her from Draco's trial. Vicious woman.
"94... 92... 89... 91..."
When Hermione had finally set the final parchment in place, Kathy and Takumi shuffled in looking spent.
"How did it go?" Hermione asked, a bit flat.
"How it always goes. Madam Barros browbeat poor Edwina into submission," Kathy said around a yawn, "We've got a date."
"When?"
"Friday."
Stamp burst in, pinning Hermione with a look of disdainful expectancy.
"Done," she said plainly, gesturing around her.
"What've you got them hovering around for?" he snarled, "Put them in the cabinets, bottom drawer. Can you manage that?"
Sucking in a deep breath, Hermione turned around and got to it.
The three harrowed 'researchers' left together that evening. Kathy made trivial conversation, Takumi laughed much, and Hermione stood quietly with a thin smile.
On getting home, she flung off her robes and shoes, and fished out the galleon that was a staple in her pocket. She sent a pathetic, plaintive plea to Theo, before taking out two cans of beer from her sideboard and casting a light glacius on them.
She had just plopped down on the sofa and set her feet on the coffee table when he staggered out of the fireplace.
"Are you okay?" he demanded, staring at her.
"Fine," she shrugged, "Sorry if I sounded too wretched."
"You did."
"Just wanted some company." She half-smiled. "Your company."
He full-smiled and flopped down next to her, also putting his feet on the table, after snatching up a beer.
"What did you do today?"
"I sorted a pile of parchment. An enormous pile of old affidavits."
"How ghastly."
"What did you do?"
"I helped fashion a toffee that turns into a spider the moment you put it in your mouth."
"That's actually ghastly."
"Thank you."
"Fancy some fried rice and sweet and sour pork?"
"Sounds good."
Her chair squeaked the next morning. She cast silencing charms with the fury and potency she usually reserved for magical shields and disillusionment charms, cast on a tent in the middle of a forest.
Kathy and Takumi were gone most of the day, running around for Madam Barros and accompanying her to meetings. On returning from lunch, (with a dull throbbing in her temples,) Hermione got a fleeting glimpse of Cadfan Burke as he entered Barros' office. Kathy, who walked in behind him, gave Hermione a significant, wide-eyed look before closing the door.
She couldn't understand why she wasn't even allowed to sit for the meetings.
Instead of wasting away in the office, Hermione went to the archival chambers to pour over old records. She charmed a lantern to float above her head and went straight for the file on Sirius' trial; the gross injustice of his case had been lingering in the back of her mind for days.
When she returned to the office not long after five, it was still empty. For half an hour she waited, and nothing changed. She peeped through the door, the foyer was empty, so she slowly ventured out, staring at Barros' closed door.
Stamp stepped out of his office, stopped short, and scowled.
"Why are you still here?"
Fine.
She left.
She met Ron at the Atrium, and they floo'ed to Diagon. He had time to kill before he was expected at the burrow, and Harry was at Mungo's.
The smell of fresh parchment, the bookshelf labyrinth, the rustic chandelier of Flourish and Blotts were like an extravagant meal after weeks of starvation.
"How is he now, in the evenings?" Hermione asked, unfurling Kathy's list.
"Uh... Better?" Ron mused, "He gets a bit quiet, but at least he isn't twitchy and shirty like he used to be."
"And has he been sleeping?"
"I think so. Dunno. Maybe he's silenced his room, but I don't hear him shouting or talking anymore."
She frowned, and followed the signs to the Law, History, and Politics section of the shop. Conversation was stalled as she climbed up a ladder and pulled out all the necessary books, floating them down to Ron below. She ended up leaving with a sack that rivalled Santa's, and she cast a feather-light charm on it before slinging it across her shoulders.
They stepped onto the pavement and Ron tugged at her sleeve.
"Want to come to the shop with me?" he asked, "George and Theo have been working on some exciting new stuff."
"I really need to get cracking on these," Hermione replied, jostling her books, "But listen, Ron, do not, under any circumstances, accept any kind of toffee from them. Please... else you'll be traumatised for life."
He chuckled. "You're talking about those spider things, yeah? Don't' worry – I know. Saw Theo give one to Lee yesterday and I ran out of the shop screaming bloody murder."
"My god," Hermione laughed and shook her head, "Those two together are – hold on. Did you just call him Theo?"
In one of his more endearing moments, Ron averted his eyes and shrugged with a rueful smile.
"Yeah? You can't get caned with a bloke, devise an elaborate battle-formation to take down an army of garden gnomes, and not be on first name basis, you know?"
She gaped at him. "You flew on a blind dragon together, and he was still Nott."
Ron went on, a trite abashed, "He got Verity off my back. She isn't angry anymore, she's downright cheerful. I don't fucking know how he did it."
"Theo has his ways," she replied, shaking her head in disbelief.
"Heh. S'pose so." He looked down at her with a strange twist to his mouth. "Are you sure you won't come along?"
"I'm sure."
She stepped a bit to the side and, with a smile and a wave, apparated to the lobby of her building.
Squeak.
Hermione pressed a fist against her mouth to muffle a scream.
She pretended the chair was Dolohov in the Department of Mysteries and silenced it. Thankfully, she was not hit with a painful curse in return.
For the entire morning, Kathy and Takumi were involved in preparing for the next day's appeal, leaving Hermione largely ignored. So, she sat quietly at her desk with The Evolution of The Council of Magical Law and stayed out of the way.
Five minutes before lunch, Stamp came into the room and gave her a task.
"Do you have a copy of the catalogue of Burke's artefacts?"
"Yes," she replied, pulling it out of her drawer.
"Go down to the depository and make sure everything's there. Take inventory, get Stringer to ratify it, and bring it straight back to me. And," he slapped a bit of parchment onto her table, "Give him this application. Tell him to have everything sent to courtroom four tomorrow morning at ten, sharp."
"Okay," she mumbled to his back as he left.
"You know where the courtrooms are, Hermione?" Takumi asked.
"Level ten," she replied robotically, "The lift doesn't go all the way down, so I'll get off on level nine and take the stairs."
"Yes, very good. Take the stairs next to courtroom twelve. The depository is right next to the detention area. Mr. Stringer is the keeper."
"Thanks," she nodded and stood up to leave.
She shook her head at Harry and Ron outside, muttering her predicament. They told her not to worry, and to come straight to the tearoom when she was done.
Hermione walked down between the courtrooms, some merely closed, some bolted, till she found a small opening and an uncomfortably narrow staircase. They lead to a long tunnel with rows of holding cells on either side. There were a couple of Auror's pacing around. She kept her gaze locked straight ahead.
From the outside, the depository looked like a broom cupboard, and the inside matched. There was a table and a chair crammed in the titchy space, with a ceiling lamp hanging so low it nearly touched the head of the man sitting behind the table. He was skeletal, beardy, and eating a sandwich. There was also a guard leaning against a wall, sipping from a paper cup.
"Mr Stringer?" Hermione broached.
"Yeah?" the beardy man grunted.
"I've come from Madam Barros' office," (Both men straightened at that,) "I have this application, regarding a hearing tomorrow."
Stringer perused the parchment and nodded sullenly.
"Alright."
"I have to check that–"
"You want to make sure all's in order?" He opened the fat register sitting on his table, "Sign here."
"Cor," said the guard, peering over the table, "Hermione Granger, are you? Jolly good, ain't it? Wossit like, bein' Hermione Granger?"
Hermione grimaced.
"Shut your mug, Paul," Stringer snapped, "This way, Ms. Granger."
He tapped his wand against the back wall seven times, and it opened to reveal a huge vault that was brimming with every object imaginable, set on metal racks. It took Hermione ages to get through Burke's belongings, (there were many.) Once the checklist was complete, Stringer stamped and signed it and sent Hermione on her way.
By the time she had reached back on level two and handed the inventory to Stamp, lunch was out of the question, but it wasn't hard to not regret missing another meal among the aurors. She returned to her desk and book, and was, once again, ignored for the next couple of hours –
– Until ten past five, when Stamp sent her to the admin to collect "form A701." The ensuing thirty minutes saw her standing mutely by a cubical while one Ms. Westley argued with a court scribe, only to be told that... oh dear, form A701, she needed to go to Darnell for form A701... but Darnell wasn't at his cubical, Darnell had only just left, so she sprinted towards the lifts, and shouted "Darnell" at the crowd gathered outside, and then a very narky man pushed through and grumbled all the way back to his cubical and handed her the form.
She ran into Stamp in the corridor. He had his cloak on, briefcase in hand, ready to leave.
"I got the form," she gasped, holding it out.
"Took you long enough," he sneered and didn't accept it, "So now it's your responsibility to owl it to Burke."
And then he just fucked right off.
In the empty corridor, Hermione wilted.
She went back into the office, empty once again, gathered her belongings and dragged her feet to the lift. Leaning against the side wall, she thanked providence for making sure it was empty. It allowed her to groan out loud and momentarily close her eyes. More than anything anything anything in the world, she wanted a hug from mum.
The lift came to a halt a bit too soon, and when she opened her eyes, Draco was stepping in. The immediate spark of joy she felt, fizzled and turned cold when Fiona entered behind him.
"Hi," she muttered, glaring at the grille as it slammed shut, "Long day?"
"Oh yes," Fiona sighed, "You could say that."
She had said exactly that, so what of it? She set her jaw and turned her head towards Draco, and felt a profound kinship with his sullen expression. A second later, he returned her stare and scowled.
"I am having a very painful, horrendous realisation."
The lift jolted. They had arrived at the atrium. Draco stalked out.
"What are you realising?" she asked, quickly falling in step with him.
"Kenny," he paused to shoot her a tortured glance, "Is a berk."
"Who's Kenny?"
"Kenneth Pendleton. My boss."
She laughed. "If it's taken you this long to realise, it's a very good thing. Some of us have been in hell from day one."
Draco huffed and shook his head. Their footsteps echoed rhythmically.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh really?"
"We had a few delegates from Russia visiting today. It was a bloody fiasco."
"England and Russia have never had strong diplomatic ties."
"Diplomatic," he scoffed, "Even if they did, they don't anymore."
"Well, what happened then?"
"One of the delegates was called Ieronim Konstantinov. Kenny asked him if his name was so long and hard because other parts of him weren't."
They had arrived at the fireplaces. Hermione spun around to gape at him with her mouth hanging open.
"He did not!"
"He did," Draco ground out, pained. "Russia's been in a huff since the ban on duelling. This was the first time they'd agreed to a sit down in years, to talk about expired trade agreements, replenish our stock of pogrebin saliva..."
"I'm guessing none of that happened?"
"Seemed like it might've," Draco grumbled, "The other delegates mediated the fucking thing. The Russians brought Vodka, we gave them some of Ogden's finest, the dialogue began... and then..."
He stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose. Hanging on tenterhooks, Hermione shifted her weight onto the balls of her feet.
"Kenny decided to take a swig of the vodka."
"In the middle of the meeting?"
"In the middle of the meeting. Then he spluttered and said, right, that's unadulterated piss."
"Goodness."
"He retched, Granger. Right at the table." Draco took a step forward and bore down on her like he was afraid she wasn't comprehending the gravity of what he was telling her. "He retched, openly and loudly."
"Loudly."
"Thrice."
"Wow."
"Mr. Pendleton has always had some trouble with tact," Fiona interjected.
Hermione gawked at her, a bit dazed. From the distant golden gates, a few other stragglers were making their way towards the fireplaces.
"Well, I'll..." Fiona went on, smiling indulgently at Draco, "I'll head home now."
"Alright," Draco replied, "Thanks for sticking around."
"Anytime," she promised, "See you tomorrow, Draco."
When she had disappeared in a green blaze, Draco turned back to Hermione. For three seconds that sounded like um, uh, and ahem, in her head, he just studied her. And though he wasn't sullen or scowling any longer, his smooth-faced consideration was no less daunting.
Finally, a slow blink severed his stare, and he asked, "May I borrow The Trial now?"
"Have you fulfilled my condition?"
She didn't know why she was whispering. He smirked.
"A fair request should be followed by the deed in silence."
"Well done," she grinned, "I'll send it over."
"You better," he decreed, and grabbed a fistful of floo-powder.
Hermione reached in after him, and she could almost imagine that the powder in her hand was still warm from his fleeting touch.
"Later, Granger," he muttered and floo'd away.
She emerged into her flat still wearing the grin he had given her... but then she remembered the form in her hand. With a sigh, she headed down to the owlery, after collecting The Trial from her study.
Maybe it was time she got herself her own owl.
And man alive, she hadn't eaten since breakfast.
Squeak.
There were actual tears in her eyes.
According to her watch, it was five past eight. Stamp usually got in around eight-thirty, to make sure that everything was shipshape and Bristol fashion, before Madam Barros arrived.
Hermione had time.
She shrunk her chair to fit in the palm of her hand, and, after casting a series of stealth-related charms on her person, slipped into his office. His chair was identical to hers. Exchanging them was a very simple endeavour.
When Kathy and Takumi arrived, she was sitting very comfortably at her desk, reading Precedents of Pleading.
She was persona non grata that morning, even after gathering the nerve to ask if she might be allowed to sit in a corner of the courtroom. She was told, "No, keep reading," by Barros who barely glanced at her.
She read. She leant back and balanced on the back legs of her chair just because she could. She had brought her own lunch – leftover spring rolls – because she did not want to deal with Aurors and she very much wanted to be around when her colleagues returned.
They came back around two, with inscrutable expressions.
"Well?" Hermione breathed.
Kathy sighed, "Sorry, Hermione I have to dash out," she mimed smoking, "Fill her in, Takumi. But I'd stay out of Madam Barros' way today."
Takumi pulled out a flask from his bag and poured himself – and Hermione – some green tea in conjured cups.
"It did not go as we had planned," he said, "Mr. Burke was only able to take away forty percent of what he had demanded. It very much seemed like the Wizengamot had ganged up against Madam Barros. She is understandably very angry."
Hermione quietly sipped tea for a few moments, taking in the information. As far as she was concerned, this wasn't a big loss. Burke didn't deserve those artefacts. She would be celebrating, had she not known how corrupt the Ministry still was; had she believed they would return the stuff to their rightful owners.
"Where all have you practiced?" she asked, by and by.
"Japan, of course," he replied, "Then I moved to Germany, because my wife was studying Alchemy. Italy next, because we've always wanted to live there. After two years, I was invited by the MACUSA to consult on a case... which ended up becoming six cases."
"Then you came here?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I followed your war very carefully. There had been some upheaval in Japan twenty years ago, when I was just starting out as a solicitor. I know how hard it is to rebuild. I wanted to help."
She remembered ignoring the papers in the month following the fall of Voldemort. Ignoring the rebuilding, the reparations, the fast-track trials...
"You are a very brave young woman, Hermione."
She smiled emptily.
"Tell me, Takumi... in your experience, does any other country have a legal system so ridiculously inept; so susceptible to corruption? You're telling me the WIzengamot openly ganged up against Madam Barros...?"
"No country is perfect."
"But this bad?"
"Yes," he shrugged, "And no. Little better, little worse."
Hermione inhaled aromatic fumes of tea and fell quiet.
On the final day of her first week, she finally arrived at a sane hour.
Stamp the sore-headed shrake sent her back down to the depository to get a consent form that'd allow a curse-breaker to analyse some of the artefacts. Seemed pointless, but Hermione complied.
Besides that, it was an empty morning. Kathy and Takumi worked on a case that was apparently beyond the scope of her understanding. She spent the day in the archival chamber, reading Precedents of Pleading while simultaneously examining records that matched.
After another unnecessarily rowdy lunch, she had an empty afternoon, sitting at her desk and reading Magical Contracts and Bindings.
She even left on time.
XXX
After a supper of instant soup and a warm buttered roll, Hermione sat in her balcony with her feet resting up on the railing. The night sky was cloudy, and the breeze was cool. Starthisle hill was navy and dark cerulean. She closed her eyes and pictured the sea under moonlight, frothing and rushing and roaring. Without opening her eyes, she raised her wand and carefully, in great detail, envisioned a wind chime hanging from the awning.
A melodic tinkling filled the air. Soothed by the gentle tintinnabulation, she tipped her head back and sighed.
Picture the crazy, sped-up threesome in A Clockwork Orange. Now replace the characters with Hermione and books.
That was roughly how her entire weekend had looked.
Not that she fancied comparing herself to a sadist, but it was the first analogy her over-cooked brain came up with.
It was Sunday evening now, and she rolled onto her stomach, pulling her blanket over her head. Magical injury litigation services had done her head in. There was very little enjoyment to be derived from the collection of books strewn around the bedroom. It had driven her to resurrect a long-discarded attitude towards Magical Law... that it just wasn't for her.
But that was ridiculous. It had been a mere week. She had to start somewhere. And heaven forbid that even a smidgen of Barros' derogatory remarks about her impetuousness and idealism proved to be true.
She propped herself up on her elbows and dived into a treatise on Negligence.
Post the Burke-washout, Hermione learned that Barros only involved herself in important, high-profile cases, or cases that would irk her rivals. On most days, she stayed in her office, doing god knows what, coming out to fulfil her duties as a member of the Wizengamot, and some days, acting as an advisor to the International Magical Office of Law.
There were a couple of long-standing case files rotting away in cabinets, pertaining to poor forgotten souls who weren't getting their day in court. Kathy told Hermione that Barros would, from time to time, badger her colleagues to attend to them, but was always outnumbered.
"Why doesn't she go to Kings – Minister Shacklebolt?" Hermione asked, "He's a fair man."
"He's a busy man," Kathy replied, "He doesn't have the time to bother about poor Clementia Shelbey and her wrongful termination... Or about Ian Joyce, whose wartime reparations have been held up because of a sodding spelling error."
It was enough to make Hermione breathe fire.
Anyhow, the things that Barros considered beneath her station, fell neatly into Stamp's hands. And Stamp, Hermione quickly realised, was an expert at pretending to be an overachiever. All his efforts went into maintaining the illusion of work.
He took on a case, piled in onto the research team, then stepped up to collect the spoils.
It was up to Hermione, Kathy, and Takumi to put together what could be only called a script to help him prosecute a man who'd been selling cursed ties to muggle men, leading to many spontaneous "accidental strangulations" (but thankfully no casualties.)
Casual ties.
Hermione laughed to herself, and Takumi shot her a worried glance.
There was a new addition to Hermione's morning regimen. After her run and before getting ready for work, she would pop over to a nearby newsagent to pick up the day's Guardian and a couple of Fox's Glacier Mints to keep in a bowl in the office. Her colleagues seemed to appreciate them as well.
On Wednesday, she was reading an article about grassroots farming organisations launching a multi-billion-dollar antitrust lawsuit against companies selling genetically modified seeds, as she entered the foyer and – BOOM.
A resounding explosion ripped out of Stamp's room.
Kathy came tearing out of their office and Takumi burst in from the waiting area, colliding into Hermione's back.
"What on earth was that?" Kathy squawked.
A few seconds later, Stamp came out with singed robes and a blackened face.
"Granger," he growled, "Tell the receptionist to call someone from the maintenance staff."
"What hap–"
"Now."
Watching a bent, badly charred chair being carried out of Stamp's office while he wore a brilliant expression of mortified bewilderment was definitely the most rewarding moment of Hermione's career thus far.
Barros had arrived in time to watch the procession, and she glared at Stamp with much distaste.
"Julien, why are you destroying office property?"
"Damned thing wouldn't stop squeaking," he muttered stonily.
"Do you think Mrs. Weasley will mind if you, Ron, and George skip dinner on Sunday?" Hermione asked Harry while they stood in a lift.
"What for?"
It was just the two of them going down to the canteen on Thursday afternoon. Ron had been dispatched to Banchory to investigate a case of "grave maleficium".
"I'm having a little get-together at my place."
"What's the occasion?" Harry asked smilingly, "A birthday or something?"
"Maybe," she laughed.
"Who in their right mind turns twenty?"
The lift stopped and they were carried out by a ravenous throng, all the way to the canteen.
"I'll ask you that next year."
"But then you'll be primed to turn twenty-one. That's even worse."
"No, it isn't," she said snootily, "You'll understand once you're older."
Hermione helped herself to a cheese toastie and pumpkin juice and waited for Harry to finish building a leaning tower of grub on his tray.
But he didn't do that.
He stepped out of the line with a single sandwich and bag of crisps and led her to an empty table near the back wall. On seeing her confusion, he said, "Thought I'd spare you today."
He had noticed her compounding discomfort, after all.
"You're a very loud bunch, Harry. It's like being back in the Gryffindor common room, after a quidditch match."
He sniggered. "You don't have to eat with us, Hermione. I won't be offended."
"That's a relief."
She bit into the toastie and looked around for a minute, soaking in the new experience of eating where she was meant to be eating.
"You aren't having a big birthday beano at Finnigan's?" Harry enquired, aiming for light but not quite achieving it.
"No," she said, keeping her eyes on her food, "Not in the mood, plus there's work the next morning. I just want a quiet evening with close friends." She paused and glanced up at him. "No alcohol."
"Hermione," he sighed and winced.
"Yes?"
"Don't let me ruin your birthday."
"Okay, I won't."
"Listen–"
"No, you listen. No booze is not a sacrifice. No Harry is a huge sacrifice. I'm fond of you."
"But–"
"My birthday, my rules."
He peered at her for a moment, then shook his head with a laugh. For the following few minutes, they ate in companionable silence. But then...
It was remarkable, really, that she knew exactly when to look up. Draco walked into the canteen, along with Fiona and the two other blokes, and made a beeline for the counter. She could tell, just by looking at the back of his head and the set of his shoulders, that he was not enamoured by the spread before him.
"Is he invited?"
"Who?"
Harry raised his eyebrows and refused to elaborate. She really, really wanted to keep the clueless act going, but he had on his straight no-nonsense, please expression, and it undid the idea very quickly.
"Yes," she said softly, and returned to stare at her food.
"So he's a close friend now?"
"Um. Not. Really?"
This was her punishment for not wanting to eat with the Aurors. Harry had lied. He actually was offended and was hellbent on torturing her.
"I thought you wanted a quiet evening with close friends."
"He's Theo's close friend."
"Are you inviting Lee? He's George's close friend."
"I'm much closer to Theo than to George."
"Right."
She risked a peek and found him looking at her in an iffy manner.
"I'd much rather be around five thousand bottles of firewhiskey than be around that bastard."
It was her turn to wince, and she took a slow sip of juice. There was nothing to be done, then. She would wait a day and send a word around, calling the whole thing off. Having Harry feel uncomfortable was the last thing she wanted, but not inviting Draco was unthinkable.
"Next, you'll tell me you're serving fish à la tent."
She wasn't expecting the tinge of humour in his voice; it took her a few seconds to respond.
"I won't be cooking. Yi Lau will be cooking. She's a fantastic chef."
"Then I guess I'll survive the evening, in spite of the unsavoury company."
"Are you sure?" she asked in a low voice.
He made a c'est la vie sort of gesture. "Your birthday, your rules."
"Harry," she said, with a slight grimace, "Do you really think I'd invite him for my birthday if I wasn't completely sure that he has... changed."
"I don't doubt that he has," Harry rolled his eyes, "I was ready to vouch for him in front of the Wizengamot, remember? But he's definitely a bastard, too. You read a lot, Hermione; aren't you familiar with a thing called nuance?"
"Har de har."
They stood up in unison and weaved their way back out to the atrium. As badly as she wanted to look back... she didn't.
When they were back on their floor, she said, "There's a small park near my place. Will it help if you get to play quidditch before dinner? Get hopped up on testosterone and wipe the floor with him..."
"It'll help," Harry agreed.
The second week of work wrapped up on a limp note.
Hermione, Kathy, and Takumi continued to slave over Stamp's case. Five-thirty arrived when Hermione was in the middle of writing a sentence, and she just left it like that, hanging unfinished.
For that's how she felt, too. Like an unfinished sentence.
The theme carried on through the rest of the evening.
She made herself some pasta, but it turned out undercooked. She read A Detailed History of The Code of Wand Use, but put it away just three paragraphs before the end of a chapter.
She lay back in bed and tried to bring herself off, but it wouldn't happen. It wouldn't it wouldn't it wouldn't it wouldn't it wouldn't it wouldn't it wouldn't it wouldn't it wouldn't –
Barely anything happened.
She snatched her hand out of her knickers, stared up at the ceiling, and waited for her head to explode.