A/N: I OWN NOTHING BUT THIS SO CALLED PLOT.
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For the first time since she had begun working, Hermione was running late. Several factors had played into that unfortunate turn of events, starting with her carelessly sleeping in (on an armchair, for that's where she had fallen asleep,) followed by an encounter with a loquacious neighbour in the lift after her morning run. An unforeseen accident caused by her new pseudo-pet was the last straw, leading to her bursting into the atrium with just a minute 'til nine o'clock.
She clutched freshly cleaned parchment rolls, that she had spent all day and night working on, close to her chest and raced towards the lifts.
"Cutting it a bit fine today?"
Hermione tottered as Draco fell into step next to her. Her brisk was his leisurely.
"Yes," she huffed, amping up her pace to just a rung below a jog, "Stella tipped a bottle of ink all over my work."
"Stella?"
"My unicorn."
"Ah."
They'd moved past the golden gates and stood alongside eight other people, waiting for a lift to arrive.
"Theo called it Ducky."
"Ducky the unicorn?"
"Yeah."
She wrinkled her nose. "Absolutely not."
He snickered.
Blasted lifts were taking forever. Her white rabbit mania was augmented by the agitation that his presence always inspired. She was hyper-aware of his scent and solidness beside her. She bounced on the balls of her feet, like she was on her mark at a starting line.
"Definitely keep hopping like a lunatic. That'll make the lifts come faster."
It so happened that a lift did indeed open up exactly at that moment.
"See?" she said loftily, "It worked."
"Exactly like I'd said it would," he replied, aping her tone.
Once the lift was moving, she took a chance to look at him properly. He was wearing a travelling cloak, and, in addition to his attaché case, had a holdall slung on his shoulder.
"What time's your portkey?" she asked.
"Ten. But first, I must get through a briefing. When Kenny's involved, it's never brief."
At level five, she said, "Bon Voyage."
"Unlikely," he muttered mulishly, before stepping out of the lift.
When she finally burst into the office, Kathy and Takumi were already well settled.
"Hi!" Hermione gasped, slamming the sheaf in her arms down on the table, "I've gone through a dozen secret ledgers with ten years of financial records... I think we can nab them on tax evasion and fraud."
Her colleagues nodded.
"I have a testimony from a disgruntled ex-shop manager," Kathy said, waving a parchment with the official Auror seal, "He swore under Veritaserum that their dragon scales are supplied by poachers from New Zealand."
"Not a single piece of theirs is truly goblin-made," Takumi added, "They have over seventy house-elves in a dungeon, working round the clock."
It finally felt like they were doing something. Insignis Co. had been allowed to sell its (dodgy) exclusive jewellery to pureblood patrons for decades, with the Ministry turning a blind eye to its malefactions. But tax evasion was a step too far, now that Kingsley was in charge. There was no way out for them.
It was a big case, with multiple barristers in the department collaborating. The family behind the company, the upper management, and the independent accountants affiliated with the company were all under scrutiny. In exactly two weeks, there was to be a full criminal trial in courtroom three.
Hermione hoped and prayed that Barros would let her sit in a corner and watch.
For the next few days, Hermione was incessantly reminded of how small of a cog she was. While Kathy no longer inspected her work before passing it to Stamp or Barros, she continued to be handed the least daunting tasks.
What had seemed so exciting on Monday, was just a little tiresome by Thursday. She was stuck with the ledgers and the ledgers alone. She had asked Takumi to please let her look into the certification forgery and elf-exploitation aspect, but he had merely smiled and said it was important to abide by Madam Barros' assignments.
Kathy kept flitting between the Auror headquarters and the admin, often muttering profanities against Slattery, the inefficient linkman whom Harry and Ron so despised.
At least Stamp and Barros were too busy to dish out unnecessary scorn – and for that Hermione was grateful.
Sometimes, after lunch, she would stand in the waiting area for a few moments, watching the straight-backed upholders of the law march between each other's offices. It was like a cartoon door chase.
On Friday, Hermione entered the canteen with an ache at the base of her neck, and hours of peering down at dates and transactions were to blame. Gringotts had finally sent over their own records of Insignis' dealings, and she had been making note of the innumerable inconsistencies.
After collecting a salad and some crisps, she looked around the space, hoping to find an empty table, or even one with Percy, who finally, as she'd discovered the day before, had insights she was genuinely interested in.
But instead, she found something so much better – Draco, alone at a table; no Fiona in sight.
As she neared, she noticed he was utterly neglecting his tray of food, choosing instead, to scowl at some parchment.
"You're back," she said and smiled, settling across from him.
"No," he loured, "Still in Berne."
"Hilarious." Her smile fell. "What are you scowling at?"
"Kenny's impressions of our meeting with the Swiss delegates."
"But the parchment's blank."
He stared at her like she was the biggest moron in the world. She bit into a cherry tomato.
"You make the most searing observations," he droned, "It's blank because he had no discernible impressions. Told me to cook something up and slap his name on it."
"And you agreed?"
"Obviously. He's my boss."
She needed him to stop looking at her like she was the village idiot.
"And you're you."
"I'm not bloody stupid," he sneered, "I know when to truckle and be agreeable."
For a moment she gave him a doubtful frown, but then she remembered –
"Oh, yes. The consummate sycophancy of the Inquisitorial Squad."
"That's right," he replied plainly and unabashedly.
Why the hell did she like this man? Boy. Brat. She dug into her crisps and looked away from him.
He continued to gripe under his breath. "I don't understand why they stuck me with Kenny. Of all the senior delegates, I get the incompetent, brain-dead cretin who has no sense of what–"
"You took away their chance to send you to Azkaban, so they found another way to punish you," she spat crossly.
When he didn't immediately bite back, she was compelled to face him once more. He was looking at her with eyes slightly wide... then a shocked laugh tumbled out of his throat.
"I really don't know why people think you're so kind and compassionate. You're jolly well mean. And twisted."
"I am not," she snapped, "Not usually. But it's like I said to Theo, some time back. You bring out the worst in me."
The change in him was so unexpected that she nearly dropped her lettuce-laden fork. Suddenly, he was amused. The scowl had completely vanished.
"I should put that in my CV."
What?
Oh right. He brought out the worst in her.
"Please do," she mumbled, "Just having my name there will do wonders."
"I'm not so sure," his brow puckered, "Thankfully it's something that negatively impacts you, otherwise the association would destroy my social standing."
"Your social standing?" she sputtered, "Excuse me?"
"Yes, you see–"
"I," she pointed towards herself with her fork, "Am a well-loved celebrity."
"So am I."
"Oh, please!"
"You," he pointed towards her with his quill, "are known to be a tedious and boring nag. An officious busybody."
"Then why are you having lunch with me? Go away."
"YOU plopped yourself down at MY table."
She glowered and pushed the bag of crisps across the table. He accepted and forced her to watch him eat one.
"You can stay," he dipped his head like he was telling her a secret, "Because you look annoyed. If people notice I'm annoying you, I will be lauded for my valour. I will be considered a bigger hero than Potter."
"Harry annoys me too," she quipped.
"As much as I do?"
"That isn't possible. There isn't a single person – or thing – in the world as annoying as you."
"That's some high praise," he grinned, "Granger, maybe you bring out the best in me."
Fine, yes, she knew why she liked him. Enough, already. She could feel her cheeks getting so warm.
"The best you can be is outstandingly annoying? That's very sad, Draco."
"No. Annoying you is valiant, remember? The best I can be is valiant."
What hope did she have when he shot her roguish, alluring, crooked grins like that?
"Are there no limits to your swaggering delusions?" she asked, mostly because if she didn't speak, she'd just be sat there, mutely blushing, "Who on earth believes that being naturally irritating is some sort of heroic accomplishment?"
"Who indeed?" he smirked, boring holes into her eyes.
"You can't just turn it around on me, after all that drivel!" she scoffed.
"Why not?"
"It's lazy. I expect better from you. I'm scarcely irked."
"You say that, but you're rather red with rage," he pointed out.
"It's the lycopene," she muttered, quickly gobbling up another cherry tomato.
The chairs besides them were pulled back, reminding her that they were in the Ministry canteen. Two blokes settled on one side, and Fiona on the other.
"Hello, Hermione," said Fiona pleasantly, with a fleeting look, "And Draco, I can't wait to hear all about your trip."
Draco's enticing crooked grin had slipped away, making room for an expression of bland affability.
"A disaster, as expected," he said dramatically, "In the middle of the dialogue, Kenny asked if he could use a time-turner to go back in time and never come to such an overlarge pasture."
"Um?" Fiona blinked.
"He called Berne an overlarge pasture," Draco explained, "And then he went on to imply that the Swiss delegates were cattle."
"Why hasn't that man been sacked?" one of the men asked.
"Oh," said Draco abruptly, catching Hermione's eye, "This is Arnold Begbie, and this is Irvin Masters. Gentlemen..."
He paused, and some wickedness slipped back into his appearance. He gestured towards her like she was a specimen in a museum.
"Gentlemen, this is a well-loved celebrity."
Hermione narrowed her eyes, and turned haughtily to the two men.
"Hermione Granger. Nice to meet you. Malfoy is a prat."
The sentiment was returned, with much nervous, respectful amusement, but shortly after, silence fell. Hermione began to make quick work of her salad.
"It's really so wonderful that you joined us today, Hermione," Fiona piped up.
She looked far too genial. Aggressively genial.
Hermione made really quick work of her salad. The crisps were still in Draco's possession and he could keep them.
She banished her tray, stood up to leave, and mumbled some generic words of departure.
"Don't forget to look annoyed," Draco told her, "I have a reputation to maintain."
So, of course she shot him with the sweetest, broadest smile in her arsenal, while he looked on challengingly.
"Have the loveliest of days, Draco," she cooed.
As she walked away, his low chuckle slammed into her back, but she didn't peak over her shoulder. He was free to tell Fiona about his trip now; free to focus all that playful, vexing energy on her. Hermione had a stack of ledgers to attend to.
XXX
It was only at the end of the day, after she was back at home, eating dinner and going over and over the interaction, that she realised – Not once, while he harped on about the demerits of associating with her, had she presumed he was alluding to her blood. It hadn't even crossed her mind.
Staying up until four in the morning to finish her work had been worth it. She slept for five hours after that, then went downstairs for a stroll and came back with The Guardian and a blackcurrant queen of puddings that had been sitting temptingly at the baker's window.
For the rest of the day, till darkness descended, she sat in her balcony, drowning in Fedelm's memoir.
Thanks to Mrs. Weasley's prezzie, she was able to fix herself dinner in a minute.
After eating, she went straight to the study and dive back into reading. Stella cantered on the bookshelves for a bit, then made an impressive leap onto the footstool, where, by Hermione's ankle, she fell asleep.
A little later, Hermione migrated to bed, placing Stella on the second pillow. She read for as long as her eyes stayed open.
Fedelm Bedelia Beetlerot was born to a poor, unwed witch in a secluded hamlet in Dartmoor. Neither she, nor her mother, were looked upon with kind eyes.
However, as she grew older, it became patently evident that she was an extraordinarily powerful witch. For that reason, the Warlock who taught the local children took a special interest in her. Her prowess with a wand was unmatched, leading to the rumour that her father was one of the druids from the elusive sect of High Wyll. Her mother never admitted to anything, and died with her secrets when Fedelm was just sixteen years old.
Left to her own devices, Fedelm threw herself in study, spending nearly all her time at the phrontistery. Unfortunately, her skills weren't the only thing that interested the old Warlock. One evening, he made to act on his depraved desires.
To the rest of the vill, it just seemed like the misbegotten girl had callously burnt down their hallowed place of learning, and murdered the instructor in cold blood. In no time at all, she was driven out by an enraged, self-righteous mob.
Angry, bitter, alone, and fearful, Fedelm took sanctuary in a nearby woodland, where most people were afraid to tread, owing to the rumoured presence of werewolves and hostile centaurs. For eight days and seven nights, she wandered haplessly, cold, starved and alone, till she did stumble upon a herd.
Anyone else would have been mauled on sight – but not Fedelm Beetlerot.
The centaurs' percipience was quick to recognise her virtuosity. They took her in, and they fed her. From them, she learned of the most abstruse keys to divination.
The galleon in Hermione's pocket burned and she (very reluctantly) put the book away. She would have very happily spent the rest of her day reading, but Theo had sent an owl early in the morning with a rhapsodic, devastating lament.
In essence, she had to join him for lunch or he'd die.
Maybe it was because she had been reading nothing but lustreless law books, law documents, law records, and sodding ledgers full of numbers. Maybe it was because historically, druids and druidesses were forbidden from recording their knowledge. Perhaps it was both...
But it felt like Fedelm's Memoir was among the most exciting things she'd ever read, and she was still only a quarter of the way in.
The prose was fantastic – the translator had done a brilliant job preserving medieval magniloquence – and it read like gorgeous, immersive historical fiction.
And it wasn't just that. Those words stemmed out of a prodigious mind. Fedelm wrote about magic in the most cerebral way. She broke down spells, deconstructed and revamped potions, and tested the limits of charms. She played around with runes and ciphers. Hermione had only just finished a segment in which she had theorised a proto-regenerating draught, which, centuries later, would evolve into the potion that gave Voldemort his body back.
Magic was incredible. In all the recent drudgery, she had forgotten.
The galleon burnt again. And again, and again, and again.
REMINDER: LUNCH WITH THEO.
REMINDER: LUNCH WITH THEO.
REMINDER: LUNCH WITH THEO.
REMINDER: LUNCH WITH THEO.
He was relentless.
ON MY WAY U MANIAC.
She dragged herself into the bedroom to get ready.
XXX
She stepped into a deserted sitting room, which left her feeling quite incensed. What was the need to put on a show of such desperation if he couldn't even be there to greet her? Persecution and tetchiness were her companions during her journey to the kitchen. She hoped he had got her a caprese sandwich. If he hadn't, she would turn right back and return to her book.
He wasn't in the kitchen, either.
Draco was. Leaning against the counter, sipping from a bottle of ginger ale, and using his wand to lay plates and cutlery on the table.
If it had been anyone else who had given her the memoir, by now Hermione would have barrelled into them, emitting squeals of gratitude. But this was Draco; and in any case, she couldn't imagine any of her friends picking out that book.
The last fork had been placed, and he eyed her expectantly, in a not-in-the-mood-to-bother-with-polite-greetings way.
"Do you remember when you accused me of sabotaging your NEWTs by giving you diverting literature?"
She loved catching him off guard. It was so damn empowering to be the reason behind his slightly confused frown.
"Yes?"
"Are you trying to sabotage my career by giving me diverting literature?"
His expression unclouded. With eyes bright, he smirked.
"That would be too obvious and transparent to be considered sweet revenge."
"Perhaps," she grinned, "But effective."
"Have I sabotaged your career?"
"Irreparably."
"Excellent."
She laughed softly and stared at her feet. It still didn't feel like enough, though. Too far from the realm of thankful embraces. She shuffled to the table and sat demurely on the edge of a chair, clasping her hands to keep from fidgeting. A bottle of ginger ale appeared in front of her, and she looked up to watch him lower into a chair.
"It really is an amazing book, Draco," she murmured, circling the rim of the bottle with her thumb, "Utterly fascinating. Thank you."
She peered at him through her eyelashes, and he regarded her scrupulously in return.
"I'm glad you like it."
He took a long pull of his drink, still watching her.
Silently watching her. It was oppressive.
She shifted focus onto her bottle, dragging her thumb down to the label and picking at it.
Pick, pick, pick. One corner successfully peeled off.
How strange was it, that sometimes, with him, conversation could be so easy and immersive and bloody good that she would forget where she was. And sometimes, she was so bereft of things to say that it felt like she was stuck in a deep dark verbal void that was moments away from physically crushing her.
Neither of them spoke. It had been five overlong minutes; she had counted each second as her watch ticked them off, and she couldn't do anything besides peeling off the label.
Another minute later, salvation came in the form of a distant door opening. Hermione turned in her chair, gawking at the kitchen entrance. It took thirty-six seconds for Theo to parade in, with a big paper bag in hand.
"Surprising crowd at Neil's today," he said, quickly laying food on the table, "Have you been waiting long?"
Too long. She only smiled.
"Sorry."
"You know you're permanently forgiven. No matter what. Unless you didn't get me my caprese sandwich."
"Of course, I did."
"Tons of tomatoes in a caprese," Draco noted, "Will you once again suffer the consequence of too much lycopene?"
She probably already was... pre-emptively.
"What if ginger ale imparts some of its pigment onto your hair?"
"I'll still be dashing."
Theo scoffed. He bit into his sandwich with an eagerness that suggested months of starvation.
"Aren't we waiting for Luna?" Hermione asked.
"Luna's plodding around in the Isle of Wight. Someone spotted dabberblimps at the Alverstone Marshes."
He took a second massive bite of his sandwich. Hermione had no blooming clue what dabberblimps looked like, but she suspected they might be strikingly similar to water voles. She sighed and turned to Draco.
"What were, um, Kenny's impressions of Switzerland, finally?"
She patted herself on the back for successfully coming up with something to say to him when there was no longer a pressing need to.
He put on an expression of great smugness and recited, "Kenny was overwhelmed by the verdure and natural beauty of the city of Berne. While the fine Swiss delegates could not be cowed into giving us twenty time-turners as we had requested, they possessed sufficient milk of human kindness to hand over twelve."
"You're very proud of yourself, aren't you?" Hermione asked, doing her best to maintain a look of boredom.
"Deservedly."
"Did you know that Swiss cowbells are one of the most popular souvenirs among tourists?"
"Is that so?"
"Yes. My dad has one hanging in his office. A gift from a grateful patient."
"I would've got one, I think, if I'd had the time to look around." He smirked at Theo, "To hang around your neck."
"I'm not your cow, you bellend."
"I could give you a very fitting pair of horns, if necessary."
Quite suddenly, Theo perked up. "Ooh, speaking of horns–"
For the time that ensued, Hermione focused on eating. Theo went on and on badgering Draco to divulge the formula for his horn-sprouting potion. She knew now that he had adapted an elixir drunk during Shamanic rituals in Lesotho, but she was happy to stay out of it.
They moved to the terrace after eating. It was small by their standards, but at least six times the size of her wee balcony. Theo stretched out on a deck chair, while Hermione and Draco occupied two of the four Windsor chairs scattered around the terrace. Below them was the view of one corner of the park.
Autumn had most assuredly crept in, cooling the air and staining the trees. Still, it was partly sunny through broken clouds. Light and shadow speckled across the tiles like Signac's brushwork. Well-fed and drowsy, she basked in the silent indolence that they settled into.
Departing summer hath assumed
An aspect tenderly illumed,
The gentlest look of spring;
That calls from yonder leafy shade
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade,
A timely carolling.
Somewhen, Theo, with his eyes closed and hands behind his head, asked, "How's the Insignis case going, Hermione?"
"Well," she softly replied, "They're done for. I don't think the DMLE has ever before made such a collective, concerted effort towards anything."
Theo snorted. "Pansy will be crushed. I'd lost count of the number of pieces she had on hold."
Draco, who had been staring unfocusedly at the trees below, let out a laugh. He smiled fondly, and his eyes misted over even more, as he remembered.
"Pansy's fucking festoon necklace," he drawled.
"Ha!" Theo exclaimed, "Divine Greek ornamentation, darling..."
"Pink opals and diamonds like you've never seen..." Draco continued.
"Platinum filigree so fine, it looks like lace..."
"Only goblins with the tiniest, daintiest fingers must have worked on it..."
Such toffee-nosed twaddle. Was Draco still involved with Pansy Parkinson then? Where even was she? He looked so tenderly nostalgic that it was disturbing.
"But not actually goblins; isn't that right, Hermione?" Theo asked.
"Right," she concurred after swallowing thickly, "Just the usual, battered, brutally exploited house-elves."
Draco turned to her with an absolutely not-tender smirk.
"Did you know the Norwegian Council of Magic has a charter in the works that could grant house-elves the right to a weekly day off?" He waited for her to blink at him in surprise. "Bunch of zealous crusaders are on it, but it looks promising. Norway is particularly keen on creature rights."
"That's... something," she shrugged, "A start."
Just a short while later, she took her leave. There was a flustering tangle of sensations muddled up inside her, catapulting a need to be alone. It was the sort of discomfiture that sat like thick and bitter sludge in the back of her throat.
She felt... weird. Volatile, but empty.
Besides, Mrs. Weasley had all but demanded that she have supper at the Burrow on Sundays. A few hours of solitude were a requisite before an evening with the Weasley clan. Ever since her birthday, she had been feeling Ginny's absence twice as much.
Fedelm left the centaurs' lair after two years. She had learned to hunt and feed herself, and mastered the art of gleaning potency in runes. No spell, no incantation could evade her. On a low branch of a sprawling oak tree, she built herself a shelter, and carved protective runes into the mossy rocks that surrounded it.
At the dead of the night, cloaked in magic, she stole back into the old hamlet and cleaned out their shoppe.
Thenceforth, plumes of colourful steam would be seen escaping out of the woodlands. Sounds of sizzling spellcraft melded with the baying of werewolves. Often, magical energy like a palpable tremor would cut through the moorland.
Hermione was a bit late for work again, that Monday. She had stayed up till three, lost in Fedelm's in-depth exploration of runes and the derivation of spells.
She was sure that it was one of the reasons Draco had thought to give her this book. She understood the significance of incantations better than ever, and found herself accepting the enigmatic power of ancient scripts and tongues.
I has't cast many a spell. For sooth – If mettle and locution are potente, Magick is bound to the invokation whence it is first summoned.
From the laws of magic to magical law.
She handed Takumi a folder detailing every financial indiscretion Insignis had committed, and sat at her desk to commence her new task – preparing an overview for that worthless maggot, Stamp.
Bleak were the times, and it was getting increasingly difficult to find a table to sit at. If only her co-workers would deign to eat in the canteen once in a while... But no. Kathy couldn't do without a side of tar and nicotine, and Takumi just had to be the sort of darling who enjoyed having lunch with his wife.
She was seriously beginning to consider going back to eating with the obstreperous aurors.
Hermione Granger was a well-loved celebrity who had nobody to share a quick meal with.
She sat with Percy a few more times, but he was too important to make it to the canteen every day. She had never seen Mr. Weasley around either.
She ate with Susan once. The next day, Susan was with Cho. She wasn't standoffish per say, but the undercurrent of 'you vindictive bitch, you disfigured by best friend' was not easy to suppress.
One meal was shared with Justin and Ernie, and she was not remotely keen on repeating that. It was hard to say which one of them was more bored.
Of course, Draco was always with the same trio – a pleasant replacement for Crabbe, Goyle, and Parkinson, perhaps.
Finally, she just decided to play it by the ear. On the days that she found an empty table, she stayed in the canteen. If some unwelcome entity decided to join her, she would eat at breakneck speed. If there was no space available, she would carry her food back to the office and eat at her bloody desk.
As Fedelm's power increased, so did her fearlessness. While she had no desire to move out of her arboreal sanctuary, she no longer hid. She boldly foraged for herbs along the river. She walked through the hamlet to purchase rations and supplies, and not a soul was brave enough to come in her way. On full moon nights, with a deferential werewolf by her side, she performed the most incredible spells in the open moors, while village folk stood in the shadows and watched, terrified.
The potency of her magic piqued the druids of High Wyll, and they descended from their spiring abode to meet with her. They offered her a place among them – the one and only woman, they said as though it was praise. Fedelm's hatred for old men with power had not diminished in any capacity. She spurned their offer with scorn and derision.
She was a guild on her own. And written among the stars, on a moonless night, she saw certain companionship coming her way.
The Re: Insignis Luxury Baubles Co. case became the Prophet's – and hence the whole magical community's – obsession for an entire week.
Because money matters more than anything, the issue of tax fraud, tax avoidance, laundering, illegal trade, and bribery were the first to be tackled. Much to Hermione's delight, Madam Barros acknowledged her part in putting the case together by telling her to sit silently at the back benches and observe.
Which ended up being at the end of a row full of journalists, who all looked on with great interest as she settled. She averted her eyes, looking instead at the high bench that was slowly filling up with purple-robed luminaries, and kept a grip on her quill so tight, she was sure it would snap.
Suddenly, a blinding flash went off, turning her vision white. She whipped her head to the side, meeting twin sickly grins. Bozo and Skeeter.
Their names belonged to sleezy two-bit mobsters from a noir-comedy.
She spared them a disinterested glower before turning back to the Wizengamot.
In the following ten minutes, the whole courtroom filled up. People from across departments had come to be spectators.
Kinglsey, Ogden, and Percy were the last to arrive. The lamps around the room were dimmed, while the spotlight on the chain-draped chair in the middle of the room was sharpened.
The doors opened and two Aurors marched in, with a very wide, bald man between them.
"Edric Isidore Hogarth Walterson, owner of Insignis Luxury Baubles. Please take your seat."
XXX
Off the top of her head, if Hermione had to name three lawyers who absolutely blew her mind, she'd go with Sydney Carton, Atticus Finch, and Perry Mason.
Julien Stamp was so beyond disappointing that Hermione wished she had a few cartons of eggs to hurl at him. It was lucky for him that the trial was such a piece of piss, and that Hermione had basically hand fed him. It was wrapped up and Walterson was found guilty in less than two hours.
Which was both good and baffling – Hermione could only imagine how long a case of this magnitude would drag on in the UKSC.
While she hadn't been expressly permitted to sit for the remaining trials pertaining to the case, she hadn't been forbidden from observing either. Truth was, nobody was bothered about her whereabouts.
So, she sat for the subsidiary financial shite, later that same day, and for the illegal trade and smuggling charges the next day. The latter was a bit more exciting, because Stamp wasn't presenting, and a very impassioned representative from the beast division provided reams of evidence.
The day after that, she watched with sickening shame as two emaciated and dishevelled house-elves were dragged into the court as evidence and continuously pointed at, as if they were objects, rather than terrified and abused living beings. Harry attended that trial too, and he kept shooting her worried glances, as though just waiting for her to stand up and set everyone's robes on fire. (From the other end of the bench, Bozo and Skeeter lost their shit, seeing the two of them together.)
On the final day, there was a goblin present during the proceedings, confirming that not one of Insignis' baubles boasted of their handiwork. Two men from the Ludicrous Patents Office were also implicated.
By Friday, hours before the Ministry closed for the weekend, Insignis Co. was no more. All their products were banished, all their assets went straight into the Ministry's coffers.
Hermione, Kathy, and Takumi went to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink. Takumi left at a very early hour, and Hermione suggested moving over to Finnigan's. They celebrated with Gin and pumpkin fizz till the pub filled up with the usual Friday evening crowd. They each spotted their friends and parted with a hug.
And so, the week ended with Theo's arm slung around her shoulders, while Dean told the horrifying, Dorian Gray-like, story of his first attempt at imbuing a personality into a portrait. George had a single goat horn growing out of the top of his head. Angelina put her bracelet around it. Draco was a no-show.
Notoriety seldom came without its share of admiration. While close-minded poltroons feared her, and the envious called her names, a number of mistreated and unheeded women were galvanised by Fedelm's valour.
One by one, they abandoned their stations and marched into the woodland to become her cohorts, her companions, her peers.
Her Guild.
First to arrive was Sabia Gristlesmoke. She was an elderly mediwitch at the sanatorium with remarkable healing skills that were never acknowledged by the healers she assisted.
Next, came Brigit Dunne. She left the hamlet without a seer.
After that, Sophia and Hersilia – the Hazelbone sisters – arrived at Fedelm's abode. One was capable of conjuring an entire castle; the other could cast a shield that covered the entire woodland.
Tiny Irene Silvervisp arrived one morning, hovering three inches above the ground.
And finally, there was Catrìona Jewelle. Born Angus Truggatt, she was tormented for being different. At the tender age of fifteen, she walked into the woodlands with a new name, a new identity, and a prodigious mastery over potioneering.
Seven women in all – the most powerful magical number made up by the most powerful magical women. Thus, the Dæg Guild of Druidesses was born; the name derived from the Dagaz rune to symbolise dawn. Intuition. A blazing inner light.
What goes up must come down. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.
The week after the trials was winding down to be a crashing bore. There were no active cases and the Wizengamot had continued refusing to entertain pending ones. Hermione spent Monday in the Archival Chambers.
She spent Tuesday in the Archival Chambers.
On Wednesday, just as she was all set to head to the Archival Chambers, she spotted a tear in her tights, running up her calf. She quickly mended it, but couldn't hold back a grimace. There were three previous occasions in her life when she had suffered laddered tights. Each of those days had turned out to be utter shite: The first day of primary school, the Yule Ball, and her cousin Charlotte's fifteenth birthday party.
Just as she stood up, Barros came into the office.
Hermione froze behind her desk with her arm awkwardly bent, caught in the process of hanging her satchel on her shoulder.
"Edwards," Barros called brusquely, "Take out the file containing contracts from the Goblin Liaison Office. It's that time of the year again."
Stamp slunk in, bearing two binders and a look of loathsome self-importance.
"I trust you can handle this on your own, Julien?" Barros asked.
"Yes, of course," he avowed solemnly.
"Good."
She watched Kathy hand a file to Stamp and then her eyes traversed to Hermione's hunched form, and narrowed thoughtfully.
"Take Granger with you," she commanded.
"But Madam Barros!" Stamp protested, "She has no experience whatsoever."
"Yes," she replied coolly, "And that needs to change."
"Not a word out of you," Stamp growled as she trailed behind him towards the lifts, "I'm warning you. I will not let you ruin this for me."
"What exactly is happening?" she huffed, and then gasped as Stamp shoved the two binders into her ribs.
"Read up." he barked impatiently, "The goblins are coming in to renew their contract with the Ministry."
She did her best to look over everything during their short journey down to level four, but not even Hermione was that quick a reader. She kept her eyes fixed on the contracts even as they walked through the various division offices of the Creature Department, though she was dying to have a gander.
At one point, she was fairly certain she brushed arms with a vampire. She stuttered an apology and he flashed his incisors and said, "It's alright, hun."
Finally, Stamp marched into a meeting room with a large square table, currently occupied by three goblins on tall stools, and two men on chairs.
"Mr. Foss, Mr. Sutton," Stamp greeted. He didn't acknowledge the goblins.
He took a seat between the two parties, and Hermione sat next to him. She smiled tremulously at the Goblins; they scowled back murderously.
"Mr. Stamp," Mr. Foss said, appearing spuriously pleasant, "And Ms. Granger. What a wonderful surprise. Good to have you here."
She knew of this man, this unremarkable Foss, who had replaced poor, brutally slain Dirk Cresswell as the head of the Goblin Liaison Office. She didn't know the other chap, but he looked young and just as vital to the proceedings as she was.
"Alright then. Liaison, present. Goblin representatives, present. Solicitor, present. Let us begin."
The goblins, she soon learnt, were called Freld, Nadgurg, and Odbert.
It was a straightforward affair; a whole lot of "sign here," "sign here," and "sign here." Extreme loathing from all sides was poorly masked by a veneer of politeness. There were no discussions nor negotiations; just the deft maintenance of status quo. Hermione flipped through the previous few contracts, and –
"We need more funds," Nadgurg asserted.
It was an assertion that cast a pall over the proceedings.
Hermione wasn't surprised at all. From what she had gathered from the contracts, Gringotts was allotted extremely controlled sums. The Goblins' stipends were comparable to the salaries of trainees and assistants.
"Oh, must we go over this every time? Whatever for?" asked Foss with a forced, clearly peeved laugh.
Nadgurg glowered. "To maintain your precious bank, of course."
"You have more than sufficient funds for that, my dear friend," Foss continued with his stupid, outraged laugh, "In fact, according to this statement from the accounting department, there is a surplus of funds at your disposal."
"That's an old statement," Nadgurg growled, "Do you have any idea how much it cost to rebuild Gringotts?"
All three of the goblins looked to Hermione with the filthiest of scowls. She hid her face behind a sheet.
"Those costs were footed by the Ministry!" Foss tittered, "You still have adequate funds to manage day to day functions and–"
"Expenses have shot up since the war."
"The accounting department made all the necessary adjustments."
"Not enough," Nadgurg insisted bitterly, "You cannot keep the money we mint from us! Goblins don't survive on air!"
"We have an agreement, dear Nadgurg," Foss tee-hee'd, "And you know... the Ministry never says a word when some of the money that you mint goes missing–"
"Every single coin, every serial number is accounted for," Odbert thundered.
"You dare?!" Freld bellowed.
"What about pay rises?" Hermione blurted.
Everyone stared at her. She could feel Stamp's blistering gaze on the side of her face.
"All Ministerial employees are eligible to receive an annual two percent pay rise," she went on even as her ears burned, "From what I can see here, that hasn't been implemented in any of your arrangements for the past decade. It's incredibly unfair. I imagine even before–"
"Enough!" Stamp thundered.
Hermione's jaw snapped shut.
Foss' smile had turned manic. He looked at the goblins and said, "Please excuse her. She's new. Doesn't know what she's talking about."
"No..." said Nadgurg slowly, "She is correct."
"Dearest Nadgurg, you aren't technically Ministerial employees."
"That's a slippery slope, don't you think?" Freld asked.
"Dear, dear Freld–"
"We are working under your guidelines. Holding up your economy."
"I have more figures here!" Foss cried, shuffling through a stack of parchment, "The revenue you earn by selling metalwork and artifacts is astronomical."
"It's irrelevant," Nadgurg hissed, "Or would you like to talk about how much of our revenue was stolen by Insignis? If you expect us to toe your line, you must pay us like you'd pay your human personnel. Or else... wouldn't it be a shame if something went wrong at the bank and all your salaries got stuck?"
"Is that a threat?" Floss' face had finally gone slack.
"Yes."
"Look, I suppose I could have a word with Minister Shacklebolt and the accounting department, and instate a two percent increase..."
"Not two percent." Nadgurg shook his head. "We are looking at decades of neglect. Perhaps a twenty percent increase will be more apt."
"But that's unthinkable! Unfeasible! You said yourself that you run the economy! Surely you realise the impossibility of a twenty percent rise!"
"I do. It is up to the Ministry to move things around and come up with a good offer. We look forward to hearing from you," he spat sardonically.
With that, all three Goblins hopped off their stools. Freld and Nadgurg walked towards the door, but Odbert glared at Hermione.
"You and your friends stole from a vault, used unforgivable curses on my peers, and freed one of our dragons."
"Sorry about that," she squeaked.
As if the sneers she got when she visited Gringotts weren't enough, she received three more as the Goblins exited. For two seconds there was stunned silence.
Then Stamp exploded.
"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?! ARE YOU COMPLETELY MAD? WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? I TOLD YOU TO KEEP YOUR FLAMING MOUTH SHUT!"
"Calm yourself, man!" Foss exclaimed.
Hermione stared down at her hands while her eyes, ears, throat, and heart burned.
"I WILL NOT CALM – ARGH!" He stood up and began gathering the half-signed parchments. "You're finished. You're done. Madam Barros will have your head."
"I'm sure it was an honest mistake," Foss said smiling dimly, "Ms. Granger didn't know better."
"GET UP," Stamp growled at her, and marched out of the room.
Hermione's legs shook as she stood. Her hands were terribly clumsy as she gathered the folders. She knew the other two men were watching her, and she kept her eyes downcast.
Fuck. Holy fuck. What had she done.
Stamp was far ahead of her. She didn't try to catch up. Looking straight ahead, her footfalls matched the thudding of her heart. She felt nauseous and so, so afraid. Her ears were ringing.
She couldn't believe what had happened.
She couldn't believe she had been yelled at like she was a miscreant child on a playground.
Suddenly, waiting alone in the passageway for the lift, she was enraged.
She hadn't done anything besides pointing out the hypocrisy and unfairness of the Ministry. She had sworn to herself that she would never again participate in underhand tactics involving goblins. What right did he have to scream at her like that?
Her entire body burned as she stood in the lift, all the way up to level two. Dread and outrage tussled in a truly destructive way. Unsurprisingly, her vision had begun to fog as tears built up. She blinked quick and hard as the grille slid open.
Every step towards the DDL office exacerbated her desire to turn around and flee. Stamp's fury would be nothing compared to Barros'.
In the waiting room, she closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath. She pulled open the door and the moment she entered the foyer, she saw Madam Barros' furious stare. The door to her office was wide open. Seeing that drained away all her fire.
"Get in here."
Hermione's pulse was an out-of-control machine gun. There was bile in her throat. She shuffled into the office.
"Shut the door."
Stamp was standing at one side of the room, with a gargoyle-like glower. Barros was dressed in vivid purple. A dozen beads were strung around her neck.
Hermione grit her teeth and waited.
"What possessed you to interfere in a transaction that you were just meant to silently observe?"
She wasn't yelling, but the low, dangerously slow inflection gave Hermione goose pimples.
"Why would you say something so monumentally idiotic? Why would you say anything at all?"
"I am sorry," she whispered.
"You're sorry?! Sorry?!" Barros snarled. Her nostrils flared, "Do you think saying sorry will take back the repercussions of your utterly asinine behaviour? Did you think at all? Are you actually even capable of thinking? I want an answer, Granger."
Hermione had long given up meeting Barros' eye. She stared at the edge of her desk.
"I knew your rashness would sink you, but to take the whole Ministry down... in just one month... Speak up, Hermione Granger. Why on earth aren't you running your mouth now? What in Merlin's name were you thinking?"
There was a teeny tiny dent on the edge of the desk. Only visible because of the way the light was falling on it.
"Answer me!"
Hermione jumped. She wet her lips and tried to speak without a quiver – "I didn't think it was fair... how little the Goblins were receiving in terms of compensation."
"You fool," Barros spat, "Have you even seen the Ministry's annual budget? Do you know what percentage goes into maintaining Gringotts?"
"I know–"
"Do you have any idea what giving an opening like that to goblins can lead to?"
Hermione bit down hard on her lip. When would this dressing down end?
"They're goblins. They up to their pointy ears in gold. They don't lack money. They literally make money."
"Perhaps," she mumbled, "But - but – it's the principal–"
"Leave."
She said it so quick and fast and brutally that it felt like a blow to the solar plexus. Hermione actually gasped.
"Leave, Granger. And don't come back till Monday."
"Wha – Monday – that's–"
"Next week, yes. Get out."
"But–"
"Take this time to learn how to bite your tongue. If you find you cannot manage it, don't come back at all."
"Madam Barros, please, I–"
"Leave before I issue an official suspension that will go on your record."
Hermione discarded the binders and files on Barros' desk, turned, and fled. She didn't go back to her office, even though she had some things to collect. She couldn't bear facing Kathy and Takumi. Numbing, dumbing shock claimed her as she walked away with slow steps and a white-knuckled grip on the strap of her satchel. Her body didn't feel like her own. Walls were closing in on her.
Once she had reached the atrium, she stood frozen in front of the fireplaces. The mere thought of going home to stew in isolation made her want to cry. So, with a sudden spur, she moved towards the visitor's lift. She transfigured her robes into a blazer as it rattled upwards, and moments later, she was standing in a run-down phone box, surrounded by murky daylight. She stepped out into the squalor of London, casting her eyes around the graffiti, the dumpster, the grimy, broken windows of old buildings, and then up at the sky. It would rain sometime in the day; she was sure of it.
She began to walk, using those vague occlumency tricks that Harry had taught her. She wanted to block her mind from herself... for if she let herself think...
Around the corner, she passed a dingy bookshop. It was most likely the one Draco dropped into. On any other day, she would have gone in.
She found herself walking down Great George Street, surrounded by important, imposing buildings. The Supreme Court wasn't too far off. Traffic whizzed past – a comforting hum and buzz. Big Ben loomed in the near distance. This could've been her life. Instead, she got skewered by... gobbledygook.
At Parliament Square, she encountered Churchill's statue, stooped and glaring. She glared right back.
Sure, you saw us through a war. But you remained a staunch racist and imperialist, didn't you?
She went past parliament garden, past Westminster Abbey, taking in the sights like she was a bloody tourist. For half an hour she ambled down streets, alternating between staring at her shoes and peering at the buildings. Neither were proving to be particularly diverting.
Suspended, she was.
Strike her pink. Truss her and gag her and throw her into the Thames.
She kept walking and she kept walking, now seeking solace in strangers' faces. Before she knew it, she was on Millbank, approaching the Tate Gallery.
There had been an uproar in the papers of late, over a Tracey Emin exhibit that had been shortlisted for the Turner Prize. Hermione, as a suspended individual, finally had time to look at new art.
The exhibit was called 'My Bed', and gosh, it was the most perfect image of misery and self-destruction. A small number of visitors came and went, but Hermione stood for ages looking at the unmeant assemblage – the dirty, rumpled sheets, the balls of tissue, the bloody knickers, pregnancy test, cigarette butts, empty vodka bottles, and used condoms. It was a grim ode to bad decisions and pain.
At around the time when Ministry workers would be returning to their offices after lunch, Hermione snuck into a toilet cubicle and disapparated.
XXX
Seamus looked pleasantly surprised when Hermione stomped into his pub.
"What are you doing here?"
"I need a drink," Hermione muttered, placing both her palms on the bar, "Drinks."
"What would ya like?"
She shrugged. "I need to get completely plastered."
"Say no more. Go sit down." He waved a hand and winked. "I'll take care of you."
Hermione returned to the partially obscured table where she had sat with Theo, Luna, and Draco, after her first interview, with Madam Mandrake. Before anything, she pulled out her special galleon and sent a word to Theo.
Seamus was taking his sweet time. On crossing one leg over the other, she saw that the ladder in her tights was threatening to return; there was a pale line running up her calf.
Finally, Seamus came up to the table, carrying a tray laden with six shots and two tall glasses. Hermione didn't wait for him to launch into his usual grandstanding; she didn't care what they were. She reached, at once, for a shot, and downed it.
Bleh. She shuddered as the pungency coursed down her throat. Then she downed another.
"Er, this'll take the edge off," Seamus said dumbfoundedly, pushing one of the taller glasses towards her.
It was a mild ale. Not what she required.
Seamus quickly took a shot himself. Hermione frowned and claimed another for herself.
"Hermione?"
A very alarmed Theo came around the pillar that hid their table from view.
"What? I'm... um... what?"
"Hello," she trilled, "Come, get sloshed with me."
He looked very worried as he sat next to her, ignoring the shot glass she set before him.
"What on earth happened?" he demanded.
"I've had a bad day. Barros suspended me from work. I want to obliterate my brain."
She knew Theo and Seamus were exchanging looks. She exchanged looks with her own consciousness, feeling a burgeoning level of glorious disassociation, brought on by quickly imbibed liquor.
"You got suspended?" Seamus sputtered, "Hermione?"
"The one and only," she sang and chugged down more than half of the ale.
"Why?" Theo droned, appalled.
"I messed up... with the goblins..." she sneered, "It isn't official, but I'm banned from the office until Monday. Don't make me talk about it now, Theo."
"O... kay," he replied most unwillingly, and finally tended to the shot.
Hermione polished off the ale. There was one last shot on the table and if anyone else dared to touch it, she'd growl.
"Well, well. What is happening here?"
She gaped a little, trying to come to terms with Draco's sudden appearance. Alcohol was moving much more quickly through her blood stream now... or maybe it was just her blood that was gushing around faster.
"What are you doing here?" she yawped.
He crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the pillar. "I asked first."
"It's in the middle of the afternoon on Wednesday!"
"Indeed."
"Why aren't you at work?"
"First you tell me why you aren't at work."
Bloody twerp. Fine. Hermione widened her eyes and stared up at him with a look of highly farcical innocence.
"Teacher threw me out," she whispered earnestly, "I was a bad girl."
His eyebrows disappeared behind his fringe. Seamus made a choking sound. Theo started to laugh.
"What?" she turned to him and snapped.
He looked desperately amused.
"What?!"
"Oh, Hermione." He grinned broadly and shook his head.
"Whatever," she grumbled and downed the final shot, "I'm getting more drinks."
But standing up was not a good idea. She was immediately lightheaded and stumbled. Theo jumped up, caught her by the shoulders, and forced her back down on the chair.
"I'll get them," Seamus muttered.
Hermione closed her eyes to steady herself. Her optic nerves must've been pulsating, because she could see vibrations. When she gently peeled back her eyelids, she was treated to the vision of Draco sitting across from her, all mockingly smirky.
"Have you eaten anything?" Theo asked her.
She stuck her tongue out at him. He sighed and looked at Draco.
"Why are you here, Draco? Don't tell me you also got suspended."
"Granger got suspended!?"
He gaped at her with an odd mix of disbelief and glee. She stuck her tongue out at him too, and he laughed bemusedly.
"What the hell did you do?" he breathed.
"I might have triggered complete economic collapse," she huffed, "Maybe. I have a feeling Barros was being melodramatic."
"What–"
"I refuse to relive the experience right now," she ground out, "I'm trying to forget. Now. Why. Are. You. Here."
Blessed Seamus returned with another loaded tray. Hermione's next shot went straight up into her head rather than down her throat.
"I was sent home to pack," Draco said with beautiful shimmering lucid eyes, "I'm leaving for Bali tonight."
"Of course, you're going to Bali," Hermione groused, "Why wouldn't you be?"
Even the ale wasn't going the right way anymore. Her cerebrospinal fluid was one hundred percent alcohol. The three chappies hesitated almost in tandem, before grasping a shot glass each. But...
Hermione frowned.
Were they moving in jerks or was her vision lagging?
Maybe one more shot would clear that up.
"Merlin love a Dugbog. Hermione... stop."
Too late, Theo.
Gah. Oh. Um.
"Whatsin Bali?" she asked handsome irreverent, god that smile, Draco.
"Meeting a group of Pawang to sign an MoU on controlled usage of weather modification charms."
She nodded. "Bad for the environment. Ecosystems could... collapse."
"Yeah," he grinned.
His mouth looked delicious.
Her mouth was dry.
She shook her head and took a few gulps of ale.
Which did fuck all.
"Ugh."
The room was spinning. Her head weighed a billion tonnes. Her shoulders seemed to be folding inwards of their own accord.
"Um. Ugh. I – I need to –"
"Yes. Come on."
Someone – Theo – gathered her up from the chair and wrapped a steadying arm around her.
"Seamus, let us use your floo?"
"Yeah, course. I can take her home, if you want... I don't mind."
"Don't be a creep, Finnigan." Draco's voice floated in from somewhere. Everywhere. From inside her.
"Oi, gobshite! I was just being considerate!"
"That's it, darling. Easy."
Her legs were barely working. She was being dragged. The world around her went whoosh and she wanted to vomit. She went crashing, face first, but firmgentle hands caught her again.
"You're home. Just a few steps more."
She was falling again... but oh. Soft. Mild lavender detergent. Her shoes were being pulled off. Cosy blanket all the way up to her chin.
"My bed," she garbled, curling into a foetal position.
A chuckle. "Yes, your bed."
"My bed. Clean sheets. No blood, no condoms, but ugh. Vodka. Laddered tights, omen of doom."
"Shh. Sleep now."
He stroked her hair soothingly. Just like he had after Bellatrix tortured her.
XXX
Hermione awoke at eventide with a pounding head and dehydrated body. It was gloomy outside; raining. She rolled onto her back and stretched. A sudden spell of giddiness made her groan. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, only to experience another reeling bout.
It was quite dark in the room as Theo had darkened her curtains. The only source of light was the thin gap under the door. She stood up, dying with each little movement, and ventured out of the bedroom.
Theo hadn't left. He was stretched across her sofa, reading an old catalogue from the Natural History Museum.
"Hi," she croaked from the door, squinting against the harsh light.
"Hi," he gasped, promptly sitting up, "How are you feeling?"
"Parched," she rasped and went into the kitchen.
She guzzled two full glasses of water, then refilled it for the third time and carried it back to the living room. She pointed towards the sconces and dimmed them to a bearable intensity. Theo patted the sofa next to him and she settled there, propping her feet up on the coffee table. There they were again: Sodding tattered tights. This time, with the giddiness, came a nauseating flashback from the morning.
Theo was staring at the tyrannosaurus on the catalogue cover.
"If muggles ever found out that dragons are real, they'll have a meltdown."
"That'd be true for all magic-related stuff."
"Right."
"Theo," she murmured, "You didn't have to stay."
He scoffed that notion away at once. "Will you tell me what happened now?"
She did. He listened carefully with his mouth set in a tight line.
When she finished, she knew that if she had been anyone else, Theo would have had a lot to say. But for her sake, he kept quiet, and just reached out to squeeze her arm. They sat in melancholy but companiable silence for a while, while Hermione sipped her water and tried not to feel so dead inside.
"Why don't you get a telly?" Theo broke in.
"Hah," she huffed, "And then? Figure out how to make it work, surrounded by so much magic? Ring up Sky and tell them I need a connection in an invisible neighbourhood in the middle of Blackheath?"
"If anyone can figure it out, it's you."
"Hmm."
"You should eat something."
"Yeah," she agreed, "I will."
"Join us for dinner? We're having... pesto something or the other."
She shook her head. "I'm not going to gatecrash your date."
"Not a date," he said with a slightly bitter laugh, "Just Draco and I. His portkey will whisk him away in... bugger. One hour."
"Well, you should go," she smiled.
"You come, too?"
She shook her head. "I'd like to be alone."
He looked stricken. She reached over and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"I'm okay," she promised, "Just need some time to..." She struggled to find the word, "...Process everything."
Still painfully unsure, he nodded.
Once he had left, she got herself another glass of water and floo'd out an order for some comforting beef noodle soup. Back on the sofa, she stared vacantly at her precious salon wall. First at Dean's charming, idealised version of herself, then at Mount Fuji, then at the emotive colours of Yam Story.
Maybe she could figure out how to get a telly to work. She could buy a vcd player and get that going as well. She could buy a boxed set of Fry and Laurie as Jeeves and Wooster, and invite Draco over to watch. They could sit together on the sofa, share a bottle of wine, and maybe she could scoot a little closer with each episode.
Leave, Granger. And don't come back till Monday.
Her face crumpled. She fell sideways onto the sofa and went back to staring at the painting.
Word about the accomplishments of the Dæg Guild soon flooded across settlements in Dartmoor and beyond. The druids of High Wyll made numerous attempts to strengthen their association, and while the Druidesses were willing to engage in dialogue, all overtures of friendship were rebuffed.
Little by little, people began making perilous journeys into the woodland to seek the Guild's guidance, to acquire cures for their woes or ailments, or to attain some insight into their futures. Possessing a potion, an amulet, or a prophesy with the Dagaz rune was a matter of unparalleled prestige and fortune. On the rarest of occasions, Fedelm herself would raise her wand for a particularly hopeless petitioner; and that petitioner would return home with stars in their eyes.
For close to a century, the Dæg Guild remained the most formidable force in the land. In their verdant sanctuary, many secret spells and potions were uncovered, and the deepest depths of Magic were explored.
Alas, it all came undone with the arrival of the Romans. Vulgar Latin rubbed away the runes, and druids and druidesses vanished into the ether.
The glory of Fedelm Bedelia Beetlerot and her magnificent cohorts was reduced to mere whispers in forgotten shadows.