DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING BUT THIS SO-CALLED PLOT.
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The funny thing was that after a good night's sleep, she was just fine.
Not fine in the sense of FINE, like she was drilling the word into her own skull and desperately willing for it to be true – she was legitimately all right. Obviously, a level of anger remained, bubbling up when she pictured Stamp's malevolent face as he screamed at her, but she didn't think about him much.
She thought about science lessons in primary school; about the properties of water and solubility, and the experiments they were made to conduct. Clear as day, she remembered holding up a glass beaker against the sun, to watch shimmering, suspended sand particles float around in water.
She was an idly floating grain of sand.
XXX
On day one, she stayed in bed. While Stella capered around, she finished Fedelm's memoir, ate a lot of flapjacks smeared with jam, and painted her toenails teal, (the small, ancient bottle of polish had required multiple liquifying charms to finally attain some level of spreadibility.)
XXX
On day two, after completing her usual morning regimen, she apparated to Sussex. She had been barred from the Ministry; not from the Ministry-maintained Magical Library, stowed away under Monk's House.
She spent some time looking around Virginia Woolf's former abode, before going out into the garden and requesting the bust of Leonard Woolf to allow her access to the library. A tiny passageway opened on the brick wall beside the sculpture.
Hermione had been keen to visit ever since Percy had told her about its existence... though she had wondered when she would get the time, considering the library also abided by the Ministry's timings. What a stroke of luck getting suspended had been. She felt a thrill as she climbed down a stone staircase, to an arched red door.
The thrill died when she opened the door and stepped inside. To say that this library was being maintained was horrifically misleading. It was dingy. It was dirty. It was small. Alexandria, it was not. It looked like Hermione's bloody office, struck by a violent dust storm.
A very round man in grey robes, with fluffy white hair, (like he too was made of dust,) was sitting at a tiny counter by the entrance.
"Employee or visitor?" he droned like the wings of a fly too close to the ear.
"Employee," she replied, "I work at the D–"
"Sign in, please."
She wrote her name in a massive, tatty register. The entry above hers was B. Hubert, 17th May, 1997. Above that, P. Weasley, 4th November, 1994.
"I'm looking for some books on history, or perhaps Ancient Magical theory–"
"Fourth shelf for History, seventh shelf for Theory and Methodology."
"Okay, thank you. I'm looking for a something about a particular Celtic guild–"
"Fourth shelf for history."
"Yes, but it seems books about the Dæg Guild are very rare, and I was wondering if–"
"Fourth shelf."
He stared at her with tiny, blank eyes. Hermione turned away.
The shelves were all tightly packed together, eleven in total, with books haphazardly piled upon them. There was a thick layer of dust on everything. Hermione cast a bubble-head charm and got looking.
An hour later, she found just one single mention of Fedelm and the Dæg Guild, in A History Buff's Guide to the Magical Sites of Great Britain. She made a quick copy of the pertinent segment and, with a great deal of relief, climbed out of the library.
[Please do note: There actually is a first time for everything. On the fifteenth of October, in the year of our Lord, nineteen ninety-nine, Hermione Granger was happy about leaving a library.]
Since she was in the vicinity anyway, and to recover from the disappointment of her venture, Hermione suffered through almost three hours of public transportation to get to Bateman's. It would give a nice theme to her day – exploring the homes of famous writers.
Kipling's large Jacobean house was so different from Woolf's cottage. Unfortunately, it was a tad too late in the year to see the glory of the garden, but she got the gist of it.
Just a few days ago, she had wondered what her life would have been like if she had stayed a muggle, vying for a position in central London. Now, as she wandered from room to room, she imagined having such a life: Living in an idyllic estate with hundreds of flowers, oak furniture, Persian rugs, beautiful artifacts, all for her to extract inspiration from.
She decided, as she had a cuppa in the Mulberry Tea Room, that such an existence would be stultifying.
Later that evening, when she was back at home reading Magical Institutions and Legal Theory over tinned parsnip soup, she received an owl.
Hermione,
I just wanted to update you re: the goblin issue. It wasn't quick, or easy, but the Ministry agreed to a five percent overall increase in Gringotts' annual maintenance budget, as well as a five percent increase in their individual monthly stipends. The goblins agreed to the former, and refused the latter. It got rather grim, I'm afraid. They are adamant on twenty percent.
I hope you're doing okay. Takumi and I can't wait to have you back at work.
Kathy.
P.S. - Stamp is witless and mean. Don't take what he says to heart.
XXX
On day three – well, it was Saturday. She would've been at home anyway. Did it count as a part of her suspension?
Anyhow, on day three, she had a particularly good time running. It was cool enough to minimise sweat, and a charmed mower was humming across the lawns, filling the air with a glorious smell.
The morning's Prophet had a rather agitational headline:
GRINGOTTS GOES ON STRIKE!
Gringotts Wizarding Bank faces the first strike at its Diagon Alley Headquarters since the Goblin Rebellion of 1612, after the Ministry refused to meet the Goblin's Association's demands for a twenty percent rise in their monthly stipend. The existing stipend, which in itself should be considered largesse, had been introduced by former Minister for Magic and known pushover, Milicent Bagnold, at the end of the first Wizarding War.
Tellers, security, and the staff that look after the vaults – the central core of the bank – will be striking indefinitely from tomorrow, the 17th of October, which would make the institution "effectively inoperable", according to a source from the Goblin Liaison Office.
However, Cyprian Foss, head of the GLO has made assurances that there are plans to ensure that the bank will continue to operate effectively. Ministry personal have been dispatched to temporally take charge of security and telling. A single goblin will be available on site to ensure that people still have access to their vaults.
Nadgurg, head of the Goblin's Association, and a profoundly bitter being, said: "The goblins have made their anger clear by voting for strike action due to the Ministry of Magic's outright refusal to negotiate a fair pay deal for our workforce."
He warned that if the Bank failed to resolve the row, the dispute would most certainly be escalated.
This is the goblins' most daring bid for extortion in centuries. It remains to be seen whether Minister Shacklebolt will capitulate, during a tenure which is building up to be defined by his inability to take a hard stand on any matter. In the meanwhile, terrified sources in the Ministry's accounting department are preparing for a potential financial crisis.
Oh bollocks, then.
It evidently was as bad as Barros had feared.
...Oops?
Honestly, good for them. It served the Ministry right. For centuries they had got away with treating goblins with disdain and contumely, while happily sitting back and letting them handle the economy, and keep their vaults nice and cushy. It wasn't as blatantly exploitative as the treatment meted out to house-elves, but it was bad nonetheless.
She was, however, quite surprised that her name had been left out of the article, especially considering the fact that it was written by none other than Rita Skeeter. The Ministry must've been actively trying to keep that bit under the rug, and she doubted it was to protect her. It simply wouldn't do well for their image if word got out that one slip of a girl, with just a month of work experience, had inadvertently shut down the financial machinery.
She repeated that thought to herself for the second time, staring vacantly at nothing.
She spent the day at Grimmauld Place and, unsurprisingly, there was only one thing they talked about over lunch.
Harry was cautious and restrained; the way he usually was when there was danger of Hermione having emotions, or Hermione feeling rage and acting on it. Ron, on the other hand, found the whole thing extremely funny. While he still could not for a moment come to terms with Hermione's compassion for goblins, he was tickled pink by the idea of her recklessness having such monumental consequences.
"It'll be alright, though," he shrugged carelessly, "The Ministry will sort it out. I don't see them letting things go to pot so soon after the war."
"You think they'll give in?" Hermione asked.
"Absolutely," he nodded, "It'll be daft not to. Only goblins know the layout and the enchantments on Gringotts... it'll take a bloody army of curse breakers to get past them. And without goblin gold and access to the vaults, how the hell will they pay that army of curse breakers? Nah. This won't last long."
It was a fairly astute assessment, truth be told. After making it, Ron yawned and waved and plodded upstairs for a siesta.
Hermione and Harry settled in the drawing room. She decided to spare him from further discomfort and changed the topic. For some time, they talked about Ginny, and then the reappearance of tension between Fleur and Mrs. Weasley. She asked if there was something going on between Ron and the over-enthusiastic auror – Edith – and Harry nodded mirthfully.
"He clearly fancies her but he's shy. It's hilarious, Hermione. I've never seen someone fall flat on their face... metaphorically... so often."
"You think she fancies him back?"
"Hard to tell, with her."
"Yes. Over-enthusiastic."
"Speaking of enthusiasm," Harry said with a grin, "Dez keeps asking about you."
"Who is Dez?"
"Desmond Wilcox. Big bloke. Blond. A bit loud"
"Ugh," she grimaced, "He reminds me of Cormac."
Harry narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "They are quite similar. And they're both interested in you."
"Yuck."
"So is Kemp, by the way."
"Who's Kemp now?"
"Known lecher. Hairy ears. Definitely over forty."
"Just my type."
"Both of them find you too intimidating to approach."
She rolled her eyes.
Maybe she had been intimidating, once upon a time, in the Hogwarts bubble where she was among the oldest and cleverest of her peers. Where she was a torture survivor, an evil witch slayer, and she led study groups in the library. Where sometimes, Draco drunkenly, accidentally, flirted with her.
But now...?
Eventually, it was time for Harry's appointment with Healer Asher. She went with him to Mungo's and he left her at the disorderly, over-crowded reception. Hermione only had to wait for five minutes before Padma bounded over, with a strange purple stain on her lime green robes.
She led Hermione through the reception to a small open courtyard, and bought two cups of coffee from a cart in the corner.
"My fifth cup of the day," Padma croaked, as they sat on one of the benches that lined the sides of the courtyard, "I'm knackered."
"When does your shift end?" Hermione asked.
"Not for hours." She was taking huge gulps of coffee like a woman possessed. "There was a potions-related accident earlier this morning and we have twenty people here with limbs blown off. Plus, the whole Gringotts business is worrying."
"Right," Hermione mumbled staring at her toes, "It'll affect healthcare, too."
"Damn right, it will. The finance department has pulled out sacks of galleons from the official vault to make sure we won't run out potions and supplies. And we're going to let patients pay by cheque. I just hope the Ministry nips this thing in the bud. Bloody goblins..."
Padma left quickly after her cup was empty, leaping and jogging back into the building. Hermione sat back, sipping slowly, people watching. Healer watching.
The younger ones never seemed to walk. They all jogged, leapt, and bounded like Padma had. The older ones looked gravely serious all the time, nearly always frowning down at their clipboards. Patients and invalids on crutches, or being led by healers or loved ones, showed up for a bit of fresh air. St. Mungo's was its own little plexus.
When the hour was almost up, she bought an iced fairy cake from the cart and met Harry back at the reception. He looked jangled and she knew he wasn't going to speak. She handed him the fairy cake and they both floo'd back to his house.
XXX
On day four, the Prophet was full off analyses, opinion pieces, and editorials about all the terrible things in store. They had pictures from the evening before, showing a line of goblins marching out of Gringotts, while guards with probity-probes puttered around.
At two in the afternoon, she floo'd to Theo and Draco's flat.
Theo, during his enduring correspondence with dad, had professed great admiration for dad's collection of polo shirts, which led to him discovering the existence of Marks and Spencer. Now, Hermione was being forced to take him there.
She stepped into their sitting room, and carefully siphoned soot off her white jumper. On looking around, she saw Draco standing with his back to her, in front of an open liquor cabinet. An ardent spike of excitement shot through her.
His shirt was off-white. His tapered trousers ran down his legs with nary a crease. A black holdall floated next to him.
"Back from Bali, then?" she called, walking towards him.
"No, I'm still there," he monotoned.
If it hadn't felt so good to hear his voice, she would have been annoyed by what he was using that voice to say. When she reached his side, she didn't immediately look at him. Rather, she eyed the bottle he was putting inside the cabinet: Eagle Brand – The original Balinese Rice Wine.
"It's called Brem," he told her.
The selection in the cabinet was unsurprisingly sizable, amongst which she spotted an unopened bottle of Swiss brandy and the two bottles of Bundaberg rum that had been considerably diminished.
"You're just interested in travelling because you want to collect alcohol."
"Why else would anyone go anywhere?"
She finally peered up at him but he turned away, plunging a hand into the holdall. There was just a little over a foot between them.
"Have you heard of Balinese shadow puppetry?" he asked, too busy in his bag to look at her while talking.
"Yes."
"It's called Wayang Kulit. They took us to see a show on our last evening there. Kenny snored loudly through the whole thing."
"He's a menace."
"He is."
Finally, he turned to her, and she smiled at the sight of his face before she could help herself.
"This one's called Garuda," he said, looking down at his hands, "King of the birds, mount of god. Half man, half eagle."
She looked down and gasped softly. The puppet was flat, made of stained leather, and sandwiched between two sheets of glass encased in a gold frame. She bent to have a better look, almost unconsciously reaching out, and he let her take hold of it.
It was unbelievably intricate. She could tell that every perforation was carefully considered to ensure that the puppet cast the best possible shadow. The figure was both frightening and beautiful, demonic and ethereal. Its wings were like blue flames, it's neck, arms and head were adorned with ornaments.
"Hold it against the light," Draco urged.
When she did, she gasped again. The leather glowed like colourful embers. The ornaments twinkled. Its eyes were ablaze.
"Wow."
The sound of cabinet doors closing had her tearing her gaze away from the puppet. She smiled and offered it back to him. He turned back to the holdall.
"It's for you," he muttered, "For your wall."
"Oh."
Hermione was floored.
She was just... oh god?!
"Thank you," she breathed, "It's beautiful."
"Hm."
He zipped up his bag and hauled it over his shoulder, while his other hand carded through his hair. Such a fluid, effortless, downright sexy move.
He turned to her and she turned to him and somehow, they were closer than before.
She knew her eyes were wide with wonder and gratitude. He had to see it. He had to feel it.
"So," he murmured, looking down at her as a build-up-to-a-smirk hinted around his mouth, "You did indeed trigger complete economic collapse."
She let out a shaky laugh. Blinking once, twice, and three times to kickstart her brain. She hugged the puppet to her chest and actively held herself back from swaying into him.
"It appears I did."
"Bureaucratic collapse, too."
"Yes, they often go hand in hand."
He tilted his head and a gentle smirk settled over his slim, pink lips. They were both speaking so softly. Her stomach had clenched into an iron ball.
"The ICW is very worried. There's an emergency meeting first thing tomorrow morning."
"Understandable."
"Good lord, Granger," he grinned, "You were supposed to save the world, not raze it to the ground."
"Sometimes, when things are too far gone, you have to burn everything down and start over."
His eyes skated around her face musingly, as though there was more to glean than what she had just said.
"What's next on the agenda?"
His hand slid down the holdall's strap like a gentle caress.
"Next is..." She stared up at him conspiratorially, and lowered her voice to a mere whisper. He had to dip his head closer to listen. "Next is surviving a shopping spree with Theo."
He chuckled huskily and she felt his breath against the side of her forehead. Heat raced down her spine.
"It just gets more and more dismal, doesn't it?"
"I'm afraid so."
He was wholly, achingly alluring and magnetic, like this, (in a shrouded alcove at midnight, on a sofa in the midst of pure chaos,) when his grin was wide and raffish. When his eyes were enigmatic, but still gleaming and focused.
"Well, I'll go unpack now," he murmured.
"Alright."
He didn't turn right away. He met her stare for a few moments, as though he was trying to doom her for life. He took a few steps backwards, still not looking away and she stared back, clutching his gift to her chest.
Then, he said, "Don't murder Theo, no matter how painful he gets," and he turned around.
She watched him leave with his usual, effortless saunter while her heart produced high-energy shock waves that threatened to shatter her ribs. Once he had gone past the door, she closed her eyes and breathed in the air he left behind.
Calm down. Fuck. Calm down.
She looked at the exquisitely crafted puppet once more; it would be a lovely visual foil for the other artwork on her wall.
Had he considered that? Had he stood in some charming, colourful market in Bali, spotted a row of puppets hanging from a string, and spent time picking out the one that would best suit her wall? The fact that he had thought of her at all was...
She grinned broadly, muzzily. Her stomach swooped.
Or was it something he had been presented by the Indonesian delegates and had in turn palmed off to her?
Ugh. This was the point at which she had to turn off her thoughts. She gently slid the frame into her beaded bag, and moved into the hallway to knock on Theo's door.
Hours and HOURS later, she understood why Draco had warned her not to kill Theo. She had been shopping with him before, but it had definitely not been like this.
They stepped inside the giant M&S outlet at Marble Arch, and Theo's first impulse was to wander. He walked and looked around like he was sight-seeing at the Acropolis, and she trailed behind him partly-exasperated and partly-thinking about Draco. It was a twenty-eighty split.
When they finally got down to the business of polo shirt shopping, that ratio changed to fifty-fifty at first, and then rapidly hit eighty-twenty.
"I like the blue. Do you like the blue, Hermione? Of course, you like it – it's blue... What about this black? It's blacker than that black. Is the blacker black better than the less black black? ...Fuck, I look fit in maroon. Can't believe I've had to spend the majority of my life parading around in green when I look this good in maroon... Not that I look bad in green either. Should probably pick up a green one too... Where are the nice stripy ones like Robert has? I want one that's stripy and maroon."
...And so on.
She ended up paying for him, (more than she'd ever spend on herself,) since it had become near impossible to exchange galleons for pounds.
It was dark by the time they returned with five large bags and settled for a nice meal of steak sandwiches. Draco had stories to tell and was in high spirits. Theo opened out the evening's Prophet, which bore news of brawls breaking out in and around Gringotts, and showed pictures of a queue that stretched halfway down Diagon Alley. The bank had attempted to close at five, but people had rioted.
Hermione's mood soured at once. Who knew what kind of desperate situations were driving those poor people...
Theo decided they must go see it in person. And so, down they went, walking past the park and through the inner alleys till they came face to face with the serpentine queue. Hermione looked both left and right and she could see no end to it. It reminded her of pictures she'd seen of the Terracotta Army in Xi'an.
And it was loud. The people were incensed. They were baying mindlessly at the towering marble structure of Gringotts in the distance. Some people had conjured chairs, some had gathered under lamp posts to read, many were eating and drinking.
"Oh, look," Theo yelled over the noise, "Isn't that Higgs?"
"Yeah," Draco sneered, "Fucking knob."
Theo pushed off momentarily to get ice cream, and Draco had the presence of mind to cast a silencing charm around them. Hermione, who thus far had been rooted to the ground and gobsmacked, came back to herself at the sudden onset of peace.
"Holy hell," she rasped in despair.
What if Mungo's had run out of funds? What if some poor family had no capital to purchase food for their children? What if some convalescent couldn't pay for the potions they desperately needed? She was terrified of looking too closely and spotting someone she knew. Imagine if she hadn't had a conveniently full moneybag at that time? She would've been right there, in that queue.
"This isn't actually your fault," Draco snapped.
She started and turned to him. "What?"
"You look like you're about to cry," he gurned with great distaste, "The Ministry did this. And there's been a spate of goblin mutinies across the world in the past few years. This cauldron was bound to bubble over some day."
"Feels like I tipped it over," she said in a small voice.
"Maybe you did," he shrugged–
He broke off as a man bound in ropes was dragged away by three aurors, screaming things that Draco's charm kept them from hearing.
"That's Timothy Morcott. He's extremely well-to-do. His screaming isn't desperation, it's entitlement."
He would recognise entitlement, wouldn't he? Objectively, she knew he was right. She had already decided that the strike had been necessary. But how was she supposed remain objective in the face of such bedlam?
She turned to Draco with desperation and asked, "Why did you choose the king of birds?"
He looked shaken by the segue and – oh, yes – wore that endearing expression of bewilderment.
Please, please, keep looking at me.
He didn't. He looked straight at the thrumming queue and frowned.
"I almost chose one of the princesses. But the bird was a strange humanoid creature and I thought it would complement those characters in that Daughter of the Minotaur paining."
She could have... she could have kissed him.
"You're right. It's perfect."
His frown didn't recede.
Theo came back and, after handing them a cone each, pointed meaningfully at his ears. Draco undid the charm in time for them to catch the end of a booming announcement emitting out of Gringotts.
"...DOORS ARE CLOSING. ANYONE WHO PROTESTS OR CAUSES A DISRUPTION WILL BE ARRESTED. PLEASE DISPERSE AND DISAPPARATE IN AN ORDERLY MANNER. THE BANK WILL REOPEN AT NINE A.M. TOMORROW MORNING. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION."
Hermione, Draco, and Theo leaned back against the wall of the shop behind them, ate ice cream, and watched the throng of outraged, unhappy people scatter.
Hermione woke up while it was still dark. She wrapped her blanket around herself like a cocoon and stepped out into the balcony. She sprinkled some water in her plants and fortified warming charms over the ones that required it. The herbs were doing well; she would have to get Neville something really nice for Christmas.
She went back inside, feeling a sudden swell in her heart. In such a short time, her flat had accumulated so many little tokens from other people – there was something in every room.
She picked up Stella from the dressing table (she had been sleeping next to the half-burnt scented candle,) and carried her to the living room, to roll around on the rug while Hermione lay on the sofa and leafed through the latest issue of the Journal of Advances in Modern Arithmancy. She could scarcely focus.
Eventually, she put the journal down and stared at the new addition to her wall. She had hung the puppet so the light from the lamp above hit it just so. It glowed and shimmered, floating above the cloudy, starry sky of 'that daughter of the Minotaur painting.' She only ever heard those words in his voice now.
When dawn said a shy little hello, she went out to run.
XXX
Black trousers, black blouse, black robes, black shoes, black headband. Very funereal. Hermione walked straight and cold to the DDL, with her jaw set and her arms stiff by her side. She had been savagely chanting affirmations in her head, to the tune of a dirge.
A tad dramatic, admittedly, but she was so full of nerves and emotions that she needed to ground herself.
She was reasonably early, hoping to be the first to arrive, but alas, before she could rush into her office, she heard someone enter the foyer.
"Look who's decided to show her uppity face again," Stamp taunted from behind, "Does that mean you've learned to hold your tongue?"
He came closer and stood in the periphery of her vision, looking daggers.
"Do you see how completely messed up things are? Are you happy with what you've done?"
She didn't respond, she didn't look at him. She just pushed through the door and pressed it shut behind her. Breathing deeply, she went to her desk, pristine like either Kathy or Takumi had tidied up for her. She set out her things as usual, crossed her arms, and just... sat. Waited.
Kathy arrived and immediately put an arm around her and squeezed. A bit 'there, there, my child,' but Hermione appreciated the kindness. Takumi brought her another box of homemade sweets. She appreciated sweets even more.
It turned out to be a big, fat, nothing day for her. She didn't see Barros at all, and Kathy and Takumi were too busy running around. They went from accounting to the GLO, all the way up to the top offices on level one. The Ministry was in shambles, and she, after striking the first blow, was sat in the middle of it all, doing nothing.
It lasted for four awful days.
When Hermione went home on Monday, the evening's paper carried news of another strike; this time it was the Diagon Union of Shop and Allied Workers.
On Tuesday morning, there was a demonstration at Diagon Alley, and with there already being a huge mass of people in queue outside Gringotts, the result was pure madness. A whole platoon of Aurors had to be despatched to reign it in. The mayhem reached its pinnacle when some fervid, inspired soul let loose a ton of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, leading to a stampede. The Ministry's holding cells were packed. At least sixty people had to be rushed to Mungos.
That very evening, The Healer's and Medipeople's Association published an open letter threatening a strike of their own. Preserving resources was challenging enough without unusually large influxes of patients.
By Wednesday, rich, pureblood families who had, after the war, donated particularly generously to the Ministry, were threatening to withhold all future contributions. Phaedrus Greengrass came out to openly denounce Kingsley Shacklebolt. Heads of all major manufacturing companies "strongly urged" the Ministry to quickly resolve the matter.
Protests reached the Ministry of Magic's Atrium on Thursday afternoon. The Golden Gates were locked, barred and reenforced with multiple shield charms. Kingsley stood behind them, with his wand amplifying his calming voice, and attempted to placate the crowd.
They were not amenable to being placated.
People had also gathered outside the visitor's entrance. Muggles living in and around that area were watching agog as an enraged mob hurled expletives at a shitty little telephone box. Aurors, Obliviators, and the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee were dispatched.
At four o'clock on Friday, an emergency meeting was convened in Kingsley's office. At five, the Goblin's Association was invited to the Ministery.
The negotiations ran long. At six-thirty, a new contract was signed, granting a ten percent rise in the stipend allotted to all of Gringotts' goblin employees, with an added clause that stipulated said rise to be an annual occurrence for next seven years, after which the rate would undergo revision and reconsideration.
The evening's Prophet was delayed, but when it did make rounds, Diagon exploded with cheers.
There was a pretence of business as usual on Saturday. Even though large numbers, once again, flocked to Diagon, (most of them to withdraw large sums of money for potential future emergencies,) they were dealt with quickly and efficiently. And even though the Goblins got their gold, and witches and wizards regained access to theirs, the animosity between them was stronger than ever...
...And even though Hermione felt a little less like there were ulcers developing in her stomach the following week, she ended up sharing a lift with Sutton from the GLO, and he shot her the filthiest of scowls.
In her office, she knew a few moments of peace before Stamp was back in her face.
"Ten percent!" he growled, bearing his wonky teeth, "Are you proud of yourself?"
She was, a bit. By the end of seven years, the goblins would be making the kind of money bankers in London ought to make.
"If I had my way, you would be fired."
If she had her way, he would be eating his own shoe.
"I don't trust you at all, Granger." He dropped a huge pile of parchment on her table. "Go through these, make note of any mention of Puculum Limited's deal with the Kazaks. If you miss even one, I will inform Madam Barros."
"Witless," Kathy hissed after he had left, "And mean."
"It's different in Japan," Takumi mused, "We have never had any quarrel with goblins. Now werewolves and squibs..." he pulled a face, "Are not treated well."
"We barely treat anyone well," Hermione groused under her breath.
Ultimately, it didn't matter that Stamp didn't trust her. He needed work to be done and he would not – could not – do it on his own. She had been biding her time and, finally, exactly thirteen days after he had yelled at her, Hermione had the opportunity to put her thoughts into action.
She had been given the responsibility to pen down detailed points for his case proving that Puculum Ltd.'s import of porphyry powder was neither lawful nor legitimate. He came in the office half an hour before the hearing and held out an expectant hand. Hermione stood up and went straight to Kathy.
"Would you have a look at it?" she asked, peering at Stamp, "Better to make sure, isn't it?"
He grunted and looked away.
"It's perfect," Kathy said kindly.
The moment the parchment was back in Hermione's hand, a tremor of magic spread across the ink.
"Here you go," she smiled, "Best of luck."
"Bleurgh."
An hour and a half later, Stamp blew into the office like a typhoon.
"GRANGER!" he roared.
"What?!" she gasped.
(Finite, she thought.)
"YOU ARE OUT OF HERE!" he raged, "FOR GOOD. FOR EVER."
"E – Excuse me?" she stuttered.
"Please be calm, Mr. Stamp!" Takumi interjected, "Why are you–"
"QUIET!" Stamp glowered at him for a second before snapping back to Hermione, "YOU – YOU LITTLE B–"
"What is the matter with you?"
Stamp forcefully pulled himself together at once, turning completely white. He was clearly still apoplectic and out of his mind, and he spoke through his teeth to Madam Barros who had come in looking utterly stunned and plenty angry herself.
"Granger... messed up... my case. Again."
"She did what?" Barros glared at Hermione with disbelief, "What was it this time?"
"Her notes were riddled with incorrect references. She – she alluded to provisions that don't even exist..."
Both Barros and Stamp seemed to be swelling with rage. Maybe they'd take off like Harry's aunt.
"Madam Barros," Kathy cut in, "None of that is true, I looked through her work myself, there wasn't a single error."
Barros looked between the various people in the room like she couldn't believe what her life had come to.
"Let me see those," she barked with a revolted scowl. She flicked rapidly through the stack, eyes flitting from side to side like she was suffering a seizure. "Julien. The only thing wrong with these notes is that they are sickeningly overeager and pedantic."
"NO!" He somehow turned whiter than white. "Madam Barros, that cannot be. I – I–"
"What is the matter with you? Are you ill?"
"I'm fine. I – ugh."
"What happened at the hearing, Julien?" Her voice had that dangerous, quiet quality.
"Um – well, Puculum's defence said that – I – er,"
"In my office. Now."
She stalked out. He stumblingly followed.
Hermione turned to Kathy and Takumi with startled eyes. They shook their heads in disbelief.
XXX
That evening she cracked open a can of beer, put on some Blondie, and was contemplating dinner when Theo leaped out of the fireplace with five anoa horns sprouting out of his head.
"Marvellous," she remarked.
He laughed delightedly. "We're nearly there, Hermione. So close."
"Clearly."
He flumped onto the sofa and happily accepted the beer she handed him.
"What brings you here?" she asked.
"Huh?" he baulked, "I can't visit my best friend?"
"Of course, you can."
"We haven't seen each other since last Sunday. And maybe you didn't, but I missed you."
"Of course, I missed you."
"And I owe you a fucking load of money. By the way, you haven't said a word about how dashing I look in my new polo shirt."
"The horns are very distracting."
"Hermioneeeee!"
"You look very dashing in your new polo shirt."
"Thank you."
Chuckling, she left the room and returned with parchment and a pen.
"What would you like for dinner?" she asked.
"Hmmm. Braised pork. And shrimp noodles and sweet wantons for Draco."
"Oh." she tried not to choke. "He's coming over too?"
Theo smiled at his beer can. "Yeah. Is that a problem?"
"No." It wasn't a problem. She was only smarting all over. "What about Luna?"
He kept smiling. "She said she'd try. But I'd still recommend ordering for three."
"Um..."
Theo's eyes darted to the side and his smile widened.
"Oh hello, Ducky!" he crooned at the tiny unicorn that popped out from behind an armchair's cushion.
"Her name is Stella."
"Are you happy here, Ducky? Isn't Hermione wonderful?"
"Listen, Theo..."
He took a lug of beer and turned away from Stella. Hermione wavered, not sure how to continue.
"Get some spring rolls, too," he said ruminatively, like that was seriously all he was thinking about, "They're nice."
"Theo–"
"Get cracking. I'm starving." His expression shifted. "Please?"
"Okay."
She jotted down their order and tossed it into the fireplace. The two of them sat rolling the pen around on the coffee table for Stella to chase, till Draco arrived, brimming with stories about Kenny, an American dignitary, and a plate full of haggis.
(They unfortunately did not walk into a bar.)
There was so much tension at the Ministry. In the basement, the protesters who had caused the most ruckus were being reprimanded. There was double security in the atrium and around the golden gates. She had heard all about the unrest and rallying on level five from Draco. She felt the animosity on level four. On level three, the Obliviators had been working overtime, and were subsequently battling mountains of paperwork. Good old level two was faring no better. Harry and Ron and their band of merry men were only just recovering from the upheaval.
And in the DDL office, a claggy air of mistrust had developed. Stamp was sullen and jumpy. Barros was aggravated all the time. Add to that the fact that they were currently dealing with a case of sexual harassment against the proprietor of a second-hand robes' shop at the junction between Diagon and Knockturn...
Hermione was revelling in the entropy. It was oddly freeing.
She was having a hard time pin-pointing what it was that had clicked in place. Technically, the worst hadn't happened, so it wasn't that she had attained a 'do your worst' attitude that repelled fear. And while there was a sense of adventure and unique satisfaction around the aftermath of the goblin affair, it wasn't something she felt she had accomplished; so, it wasn't that sort of invincibility either.
Nor was it the joy of witnessing Barros grudgingly concede that Hermione was an adept researcher who was capable of retaining information. Sure, she felt smug when she was used like a damn encyclopaedia to piece together their case; but it wasn't particularly bolstering.
The answer came on Thursday afternoon when Stamp trudged into the office with his newly adapted, profoundly irritating, pinched expression of woe.
"Notes for the appeal, Granger," he yawped.
She neatly stood up and handed him one roll of parchment.
"What the hell is this?" he bayed. His eyes were inflamed.
"All the necessary dates, events, as well as a list of precedents."
"You expect me to go in there with this half-arsed–"
"I'm trying to be less overeager and pedantic," Hermione said meaningfully, "Don't you think Madam Barros would prefer that? Shall we go check with her?"
He was blanched and quaking as he spun on a heel and stormed out of the room.
And that's when she knew.
This was it. Her sense of freedom sprung from a petty and vengeful place.
Both Kathy and Takumi were staggered by the show.
Bless them. They had clever minds, and were diligent workers, but they unfortunately were completely devoid of creativity. They would have carried on grudgingly doing Stamp's work for him, because they felt they were expected to do so.
...The Ministry in a nutshell.
But at that moment, the two of them looked legitimately inspired.
"I refuse to go out of my way for someone who treats me like rubbish," she said primly, and sat back at her desk, returning to a volume on the Employment Relations Act.
XXX
At the end of another day, she stepped into her flat and stretched hard till her shoulder blades popped. It was six in the evening, which meant that Ginny would be arriving at the Burrow soon. She wished she could skip tomorrow and move straight onto Saturday.
Alas, she needed to be productive, for the sake of Twila Elliot, and all the witches who may (and honestly, fucking would,) face harassment from their employers. She worked before, during, and after dinner.
At ten, she stood up. There was a knot in her upper back that only a shower would resolve.
She stood under a blast of hot water, intently kneading her fingers into her back while the scent of her bodywash tempered her nerves.
Feeling immeasurably better, she loosely wrapped herself up in a dressing gown, pushed back her sodden hair, and went into the study for another hour of work.
She had hardly picked up her quill when the vague roar of the floo startled the hell out of her. She leapt up and raced to the study door and –
Stopped dead.
"Gran... ger?"
"Draco?!"
Swaddled in a dressing gown with stringy, water-soaked hair was definitely not how she would choose to have him see her. Her cheeks burned at how confounded he looked to find her in such a state. He stood at the door to the living room and stared; up and all the way down to her bare feet.
The hall between them was simultaneously too wide and too narrow.
She wrapped her arms around her waist and his eyes snapped up to watch, and stayed there.
"What is it?" she warbled.
His eyes lifted once more and met hers, and if he asked if she'd been snacking on tomatoes she would just die. Actually, she wouldn't really mind if he raised his wand and avada kedavra'd her out of this predicament.
Instead, he said, "There's something wrong with Theo."
"What?" she gasped and she took a panicked step forward.
"No, I mean he's fine," his eyes darted around, "But he's behaving strangely. Not saying a thing. I believe you might be able to get him to... spit it out."
"What do mean strangely?" she demanded.
"He's... Sitting. Staring. Smoking."
Hermione frowned, feeling a little pang in her chest. She was almost certain it had to do with Luna.
"Would you please come talk to him?" Draco ground out.
She nodded. Took another step forward. Stopped.
"Er, just give me a minute."
She skittered into her bedroom and closed the door, veering around in discombobulation as she pulled on some clothes and magically dried her hair. It took everything to stave off anticipatory sadness; she would wait to hear what Theo had to say before feeling anything.
In the living room, Draco was standing in front of the salon wall with his hands behind his back.
"Shall we?" she broached.
It was quite dark in their flat, especially in the hallway, where the only source of light was the open door of Draco's bedroom. He led her to the terrace that was also gloomy, save for a flickering lantern in one corner, and the glowing ember between Theo's fingers.
He was lying back on the deck chair, staring up at the waning gibbous moon. The greenish, smoky air smelt pungent and earthy; definitely not tobacco.
He looked up when the two of them entered and grinned at Draco.
"Of course, you dragged this poor girl over. Bloody fool. I told you I'm alright."
"You aren't alright," Draco snapped.
Hermione pulled a chair and sat down close by him. Her first impulse was to blurt out a what happened, but she suppressed it. Instead, she waited in silence for a bit. They knew each other too well for him to not be aware of her suspicions.
Finally, after a good long drag, he announced, "Luna and I haven't split up." His eyes were bloodshot and heavy-lidded. His fringe was so long now that he could tuck it behind his ears. He gave Hermione an easy smile. "But we aren't together either."
A hundred questions popped up in her head, but she knew to keep quiet.
"George and I figured it out," he said, "The Ministry's approved our patent, and Woe-Be-Horn is ready for its debut at Finnigan's Halloween bash. I was so bloody chuffed."
He paused to take a drag, and he held the smoke in his lungs for quite some time, before releasing it into the night.
"When I told Luna about it, she said that's nice, Theo. And... I know her. I know when she's disinterested, and I know the tone in her voice when she's mindlessly obliging someone. I was suddenly so angry. We'd barely spent any time together for months, and she was sitting there patronising me. Then she went on to talk about her next field trip and I... I almost... I came so fucking close to saying the worst thing I could ever say to her."
"What?" Hermione whispered before she could stop herself.
He laughed and shook his head.
"They aren't fucking real, Luna. I wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her and drum it into her head. That all those bloody critters she keeps leaving me for don't exist. I don't know when and how I stopped believing in her. I don't know when she stopped caring about what I was doing and where I was. We used to be so uncannily in sync... and now..."
Another drag and release and he was half shrouded in glaucous vapour.
"So, we've decided to wait. To take a break until we're back on the same page. Maybe when she has room for other things and when I... when I stop hoping and dreading that that cockwomble Scamander is her soulmate." Theo flicked some ash off the spliff and asked, "She told you about the Atar Pixies, didn't she?"
"Yes," Hermione mumbled, "And she also told me that soulmates don't necessarily have to be romantically matched."
"Yep," he sighed, and sniggered at her expression. "Oh, don't look so gutted. It isn't over, we're just taking a steadying break. I need to stop feeling like my insides are being mauled because I'm the only one making an effort in our relationship, and she deserves to be able to focus on her projects without feeling guilty. We'll be okay. She's my Luna. We're young. There's no rush."
Hermione glanced at Draco, who was standing with one elbow resting on the railing, frowning hard at Theo. She wished he would say something, but nothing about him indicated that he would. She was internally squirming, and at an utter loss. Theo had made it clear that this was not an occasion for an I'm sorry. What could she say?
"We stopped missing each other," he murmured, "I suppose... with the fussing and warring... we latched onto one another so tightly... we don't know how to be together when life is normal. Bah, what is normal, anyway?" He peered through billows of befuddling smoke and sighed. "She and I are certainly not normal. You, my barmy friends, are not normal. Hermione... what is normal?"
With another, unhelpful glance at Draco, she just went with her gut and said the stupidest possible thing.
"A normal is a line or ray that intersects a given line or surface at right angles."
Theo laughed furiously. "I have no," he gasped, "Fucking idea what that means."
Without warning, he stood up. He moseyed over to where Draco was standing and shoved the spliff into his hand.
"Enjoy," he droned before yawning widely, "I'm going to bed."
"Theo..." Hermione began nervously, but he walked up to her and kissed the top of her head.
"Goodnight, buddy. Please don't worry."
She watched as he slowly walked past the terrace doors, and then stood up to follow. She waited at the threshold and saw him shuffle down the hallway and into his room, gently closing the door behind him. She hung around there for some time, in case he re-emerged, but he didn't.
When she returned to her chair, Draco had comfortably settled on one of his own and was puffing away at the spliff that was nearly a stub now.
The fumes were getting to her. She couldn't tear her eyes away from his curved fingers and the shape of his mouth when he took a drag. He tilted up his head when he exhaled.
He was leaning back in his chair, surrounded by coils of smoke and he smirked with no real feeling.
"Well, you got him talking."
She grimaced.
He sat up and leaned forward, holding the stub out to her.
"Want to finish it?"
Her heart was battering like Hephaestus' hammer. She swallowed and reached towards him, praying that he wasn't watching the way her fingers were minutely trembling. She stole a peek and... No. He was looking at her face.
Her fingers caught the end of the spliff, connecting with the tips of his index and middle finger. He slipped away and sat back and she closed her lips around where his lips had been just moments ago.
That was enough in itself to get her high.
She took in a gentle drag, afraid of the possibility of having a coughing fit in front of him. It didn't hit the back of her throat like weed and tobacco had. She closed her eyes as her lungs filled, and slowly opened them as she breathed out, watching the plume of vapour shoot up to the sky. Her heartbeat was still sounding off in her ears because she had a feeling that he was still watching her.
But when she turned to him, he was gazing out into the night.
She took in a longer breath for her next drag. It went down her throat like hot, smooth, smoky cider. Then she dropped the empty roach and it vanished before it could hit the ground.
"Do you think he really is as fine as he's trying to have us believe?" she asked.
"I'm not sure," he replied warily,
"I think he does believe he's fine, right now."
She sighed and stared out at the nothingness like he was. The moon was nice. Like the dome of a floating mosque.
"But," she went on, "He may not be fine, later. I don't know."
"Nobody can know... until it's later."
"And when it's later, we'll all know."
"Yeah. Every time I try to predict later, the universe gives me a kick up the arse."
"Elephants and birds of beauty and a gold fish. Gold fish or a superstition."
"...huh?"
"They always bring bad luck."
"What the fuck, Granger? Two drags did this to you?"
"It's a poem, you prat. It's called Much Later."
"Oh. I see. Go on."
She looked from the moon to his crescent-moon smile.
"Go on where?"
"Finish the poem."
He winked, for some reason. She laughed and stared down at her knee.
"He had them and he was not told. Gold fish and he was not old. Gold fish and he was not to scold. Gold fish all told. The result was that the other people never had them and he knows nothing of it."
Her voice lingered and vanished like a curl of greenish smoke. Draco blinked in slow motion.
"Did you just make that up?"
"No," she laughed, "Gertrude Stein's poetry is not to be–"
"If you say not be intellectualised, I'll... I'll..."
She leaned over the arm of her chair and raised her eyebrows. "You'll what?"
He stared at her for a few seconds then turned away grinning. "I refuse to relinquish the element of surprise."
"You're full of it. All bluster and empty threats."
"That's right, Granger. Keep underestimating me."
"It's impossible to–"
And that was when her body decided to give her a coughing fit.
"Um... are you..."
"Dry throat," she choked, promptly conjuring herself a glass of water.
After she had calmed and breathed normally for a bit, she glared at him. He was predictably amused.
"Did you do that?"
"Excuse me?"
"You said... element of surprise..."
"No, you buffoon. I did not cause you to hack a lung."
Something settled in her brain at that moment, like a leaf slowly fluttering to the ground after being tossed around in a storm – It was late and she had to work the next day. And poor Theo. It was a very sad night.
She steadily rose to her feet.
Draco walked just a step behind her as they moved back towards the sitting room. She wondered... if she pretended to stumble would he catch her? Would he grab her by the shoulders or maybe even loop an arm around her waist? Her whole body tensed at the idea, but she simply was not shameless or pathetic enough to try it.
He stopped at the sitting room door and let her walk to the fireplace on her own, watching like she had watched Theo.
At the hearth, she collected a fistful of floo powder and half turned. He was poorly lit by the world's ugliest lamp, with one hand on the door jamb.
"Goodnight," she called.
"Goodnight, Granger," he called back.
She turned and lifted her arm.
"Please call me Hermione," she said, and in the same breath murmured, "Hermione Granger's flat," and leapt into the fire.