DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING BUT THIS SO-CALLED PLOT.
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The sky was mercilessly overcast and the wind was something awful, but Hermione stood vigil by an open window with unflinching determination. There was a piece of toast in her hand – cold and tough – that she was nibbling on when she remembered to. The tip of her nose could fall off and she wouldn't know.
At last, when the clock read half past seven, an owl came to a fluttering perch on the window sill. She removed The Quibbler from its leg, and it made off with her knut and toast.
She carried it with her to Draco's armchair, set the magazine on her knees and stooped over it, keen to absorb every word.
The article spanned five pages, and right from the opening lines, displayed Anita's expertise. She wasn't even a presence in the piece, completely equitable and purposed to only report, yet the depth of research gave away her discernment and sensitivity. There was no bid for pathos for it was not needed. She had spoken to people around Knockturn, and people who had business dealings with Millward, (how she'd managed to get all those people to talk to her was a mystery,) and presented a complete history of Millward and his various indiscretions. There was a picture of him included. Hermione was finally able to put a face to the brute.
He was a man anywhere between thirty and fifty. Average build, average height, even features, average hair, parted to the side. He was the vague, unremarkable image your mind might conjure if you thought the word man, in a very general sense. Not someone you'd look at once, if you passed him on the streets.
But above everything, the spotlight shone on Twila and Hattie; on Emily, Hanne, Mariam, and the two who wished to remain anonymous. Anita really expounded on their stories, on their struggles. Which led to perhaps the only notable ploy that she had employed: A little poke at barely healed wounds from the war. She pointed out the way squibs were disregarded and ostracised, and claimed it was reminiscent of and equivalent to the Muggleborn Register.
Hermione sat back and stared into space for a bit, shivering as icy breeze kept sweeping in through the still-open window.
Finally, she waved her hand and it shut with a snap. The glass reverberated.
She rolled up the magazine and shoved it into her satchel. On her way to the fireplace, she snagged a chocolate rose from the box sitting decorously on her coffee table.
The morning went by. Ellington and Speight didn't show up for their fourth session of negotiation, forcing Hermione to pen one of the barmiest letters she had ever written. She put in a scintilla of labour for Stamp when he approached her with a Managerial disagreement of some sort. (If he even once took on a meaningful case, she might've been shocked into actually helping.)
He came to collect just before lunch, and fumed and spluttered at her paltry effort. She sat back and listened disinterestedly, trying to arrange her features into a Draco-esque expression of apathy.
After a few moments, Takumi very loudly asked, "Are you unable to put together a simple case, Mr. Stamp?"
"How dare you!" Stamp rounded on him furiously.
But Takumi wasn't looking at him. He was staring pointedly at the door. Where Madam Barros was standing.
Oooh, grand.
Stamp blanched like he was looking at a Boggart.
"M-Madam Barros! I-I– I'm–"
"Get back to work, Julien," she spat dangerously.
Stamp scarpered.
Barros turned to Kathy. "Why hasn't that ridiculous owl matter been dealt with?"
She lingered, asking questions for much too long. She demanded to see a copy of the letter Hermione had sent, pursing her lips as she read it. Perhaps she didn't appreciate the phrase faecal fowl-up. She departed with a disapproving look, and Hermione made her way to the canteen, hoping those tiny quiches were on the menu.
Instead, she saw something even more welcoming.
The Quibbler. Here and there – at least ten copies, by her rough estimation – being waved about, poured over, and passed around.
On her way to the counter, she walked by a table where a group of four were converged around the article, picking up the words horrific and unbelievable. Her scan of the room had made her aware of the fact that Draco was sitting near the back, and she did not look there again. Just as she had collected a sandwich and some sort of packaged pudding, a man with a long droopy moustache waylaid her. She knew he was a part of the barrister Allan Hoggard's team.
"You're with Barros, aren't you?" he asked, straight up.
"Yes."
"This Millward case is yours, isn't it?"
"I'm not at liberty to say."
Hermione carried her lunch up to the office and ate it up in tiny, neurotic bites, knowing it would only be a matter of time before –
Kathy burst into the room, flapping multiple copies of The Quibbler frenetically.
"Have you seen this?!" she screeched.
"What?" Hermione asked, trying to arrange her features into a Luna-esque expression of innocence.
"There's a whole stonking article about Millward in The Quibbler! Full of interviews with all the girls and – Did you know?" she asked Hermione wildly.
"I–"
"You're friendly with Twila! Did she give you any hint that this is what she had planned? Oh, Madam Barros is going to flip!"
She exited just as she had entered – with a burst – leaving Hermione with a magazine that she pretended to be absorbed in and astounded by as Takumi came in.
Kathy returned sometime later, her panic whittled down to a daze. She said, "Barros has gone to meet Ogden, in case the Wizengamot thinks this was her doing."
"Will they think that?" Hermione asked lightly, dragging her eyes across page two.
"Of course, they will! They've been looking for a reason to sack her for ages! She was only brought her into the fold in the hope that it would tame her."
"They won't sack her," Hermione said. Kathy could be so irritatingly short-sighted.
"Did you hear what I said?" Kathy quavered, "They've been looking for–"
"This piece is going to spread like wildfire. It will generate a great deal of outrage. How do you think it will look if the Wizengamot kicks out the one woman who was supporting the cause?"
Hermione could sense Kathy and Takumi watching her. She turned the page.
And sure enough, when Hermione made a trip to the loo around four, the women she encountered just outside had magazines clutched in their hands. She saw Darnell from the admin shuffling down the corridor, with his nose buried in the magazine. The receptionist at the DDL had a copy at her desk.
Barros never returned, even after it was time to knock off, and her three researchers lingered for half an hour. After exchanging unsure looks, they finally decided to call it a day. In the lift, the other late workers and dalliers were throwing around quotes from the article.
When Hermione was back in her flat, she rushed to the same window to collect the small pile of correspondence that lay there. A letter from Parvati (Subject: General excitement,) and one from Twila (Subject: Simmering Optimism,) and one from Anita (Subject: Not half fucking bad, is it?)
In the most feeble attempt at rallying, the front page of the evening's edition of the Prophet, also covered the Millward case. Of course, it lacked first hand interviews, and it had most painfully sited The Quibbler as its source, but it had included a picture of the outside of Millward's shop. It must have been taken just a few hours prior, because goodness, there was a crowd present.
Hermione could not muster any excitement, optimism, or satisfaction. She thought she would have a drink, and a half-serving of The Hungry Zowou's perfect fried rice to inspire some feeling. Then the galleon in her pocket burned, and she sighed.
It had burned the day before as well, and she had replied with a weak excuse of exhaustion and head pains, before hiding away in her bedroom lest Theo decided to barge in and check on her. His message today was a lot less flexible –
Come for dinner OR ELSE.
And while his threats were as frightening as the squeals of a pygmy puff, Hermione didn't want to risk a terrible allergic reaction by disappointing him twice in a row. Thus, she dutifully slipped into something a little more casual and plodded through the fireplace to his flat. She prayed to sodding Theo as she was shooting through the network with her eyes closed tight, that Draco wouldn't be there.
She landed in an empty sitting room, made a little moue at it, and ventured out into the hallway. She peeked into the empty terrace, peered down at the closed doors of their bedrooms, then darted towards the kitchen. Theo was there, whistling as he watched something boil.
"I thought you were done cooking," she called from the door.
He looked over at her and beamed. "I am. But these are beautiful pears from the Weasley orchard and Robert's sent me instructions on how to poach them."
"I see."
There was a distinct lack of fragrance in the air.
"How's your head?" he asked.
"Better," she shrugged, and turned away to sit at the table.
Theo slid into the chair next to her. "Where the hell did you run off to on Sunday?"
"Went home. Wasn't feeling well."
He was looking at her in that I can see through you sort of way, but she wasn't going to succumb. How was she supposed to tell him that catching Draco's eye across the lawn had hit her like a summoning charm? That before she knew it, she had scrambled to her feet propelled by some burning impulse that was telling her to go to him, go to him, go go go –
Then Fiona had tugged on his arm and pushed half a cauldron cake into his hand and Hermione had veered around with dizzying celerity, wandering blindly till she found someone to stand with.
How could she tell Theo, who was looking so concerned, that she had spent hours witnessing the strange friendship that had blossomed between Mr. Weasley and Justin, and then a few more hours bouncing between Harry, Ron, and Padma, all the while feeling like her blood was full of splinters? How could she admit that the moment the Lardarses claimed their victory, she scurried over to Mrs. Weasley, making excuses of extreme exhaustion and light-headedness, (promising to be there next week,) and ran back home? How – how – could she tell him that she had pathetically, repugnantly, stood numb and shivering in her balcony and cried?
"Are you okay, Hermione?"
"Told you... I'm better now."
She shifted slightly and shook her hair forward. He was still, like he was puzzling something out.
"You left me," he said eventually, "All by myself."
"There were nearly forty people there," she scoffed.
"People, yes. But there were no Hermiones." He offered her his most endearing smile. "And George was too busy with all those extra lugs from his year, and Seamus was tying himself into knots for Parvati, so I was stuck with Draco and that Vince-and-Greg bint."
"Who's that?"
"You know. That bint from his department who follows him around, stroking his ego and laughing at his jokes. Vince and Greg rolled into one."
Hermione stared down at her hands. "She's a lot nicer than those two." And better looking.
"Just as thick, though."
"I don't know if that's true."
"They bored the hell out of me. She made Draco boring, even after losing at quidditch, when he's supposed to be so entertainingly surly and shirty. So, I wandered off – tried to help Molly cook but she chucked me away after I ruined the carrots. Fucking carrots. Carrots are my nemesis. Hermione, when you're head of the Wizengamot and Minister for Magic, I need you to outlaw carrots, alright?
"Anyhow, spurned by everyone's self-declared mummy, I found myself caught in Fleur's web. I became her errand boy, fetching her cushions and tea and potions and food, while Bill rubbed her feet and Ron alternated between heating and cooling charms, as she demanded. Second time around a sprogged-up bird, and it wasn't any easier."
He shook his head ruefully, and she knew it was all an effort to cheer her up. She laughed and jostled his shoulder, and he faux-glared at her, seemingly for her lack of empathy.
"What would you like for dinner?" he asked.
"Something warm and comforting."
"A culinary hug."
"Precisely."
"Consider it done."
She sighed to herself once he had gone, and stared emptily at the pot within which the pears were simmering. The sound of a low boil was soothing, as was the steam curling out of the pot, and she got a bit lost in them; till she was jarred by the sound of approaching footsteps.
Draco came to a stop at the doorway.
"Evening," he drawled.
"Hello," she mumbled, and turned back to the bubbling pot.
"I know why you'd gone to the Lovegood Asylum now."
"Hurrah."
She sensed him moving, and suddenly his arm, encased in dark green, was blocking her view. He'd rested his hand on the table and was looming over her, customary smirk in place. He was fresh out of the shower again, slightly flushed, hair damp, smelling mouth-wateringly good. Much too close. She had to look up and tilt back to meet his eye.
"You little rabble-rouser," he said, "Been a bad girl again, haven't you?"
Hermione died.
The end.
From beyond the grave she rasped, "Erm?"
"Getting a bit too fond of causing a stir?"
"It's a diverting hobby," she replied in a deceased manner.
He chuckled and leaned down a bit. "I assume things are going exactly as you wished them to?"
She huffed a dismissive, "We'll see."
"Why so grumpy, Granger?"
"I'm not grumpy."
She was almost certain his eyes were gliding across her throat. They burnt her. He must've been able to hear her skin sizzle. How was it possible to be this attracted to someone?
"Are you upset that your team lost the other day? You should've known better than to support the Ronalds."
"You Pillocks lost as well."
"We did," he grinned.
Needing a break from his face, she found herself staring at his hand, resting casually on the table. What would he do if she stroked his fingers with hers?
"Why did you abscond? Theo was insufferable, rifling through bushes, looking for you."
"I wasn't feeling well."
"What happened?"
"Headache."
Please take a step back. Please don't.
He nodded sagely. "That's what you get for wearing Weasley's clothes."
"Right."
She rolled her eyes and they landed back on his face. He was regarding her like one regards a small animal attempting to perform a clever trick, but failing.
"If you had kept it on any longer, you might have died. Painfully. Covered in oozing sores."
"I slept in it, actually," she snapped.
The effect was immediate. His face scrunched into a grimace.
"I've worn Ron's clothes plenty of times, and look – still alive."
He pushed away from the table. "I did not need to know that."
She crossed her arms and, now that the path to the pot was clear again, went back to watching it simmer.
He walked out of the kitchen. His footsteps faded into nothing.
So many things faded into nothing, leaving behind wretched phantom imprints that cannot be forgotten or looked past.
Approaching footsteps sounded once more, and Draco was back at the door, jaw firmly set.
"Are you staying for dinner?"
She squared her shoulders and glared. "Yes."
"Would you like a drink?"
"..."
"A drink, Hermione. A beverage. Alcohol in a glass."
"...Yeah. Er, I–I'd like that."
"Alright."
He left again. Hermione let her shoulders relax with a heavy exhale.
Maybe he was insane. That was the thing. That was what his indefatigable aloofness and his constantly shifting disposition were hiding. He was simply, completely bananas. Bonkers.
Much Madness is divinest Sense –
To a discerning Eye –
Hermione's discerning eye twitched.
Draco and Theo returned together, the former bearing drinks and the latter a big bag of food. And while the latter got busy with the pears, the former sat right across from her, and pushed a beautifully cut tumbler full of amber liquid her way.
When she said thanks, his smile made her want to crawl across the table. Who was she to call anyone insane?
With the syrup set to reduce, Theo joined them at the table and told Hermione to recount how The Quibbler article came about.
"The whole story, mind you. Draco hasn't heard it yet. From the beginning, please."
"And the beginning would be my journey from the Lovegood's sitting room to Xenophilius' study?"
"But of course!"
She told the tale. All through she wished that Draco would take just one second to look impressed.
They went for a second drink each. Ate big bowls of minestrone soup. Theo told them about the soon-to-be-launched Tufty Toffees, that made your nose hair grow down to your chin. Draco said he'd finally be going to Kabul the next morning, to oversee the implementation of Crisis Aid.
Hermione knew there were a few things that people, without fail, lapped up with insatiable glee. Among those were salacious gossip, twisted, gruesome crimes, and tales of someone else's downfall. And when two or more came together, it gave outlet to people's enthusiasm for being outraged in the least taxing manner possible. It was a tool that had been used and abused through the ages.
The morning's Prophet bore an enormous picture of Millward's shop, and the throng outside had swelled even more. These were the people who were willing to do a little more than the bare minimum. The rest sent letters.
Letter after letter.
Demanding letters, angry letters.
Smoking red howlers.
(And then they went on with their days.)
The letters were tucked inside paper plane memos and sent whizzing through the Ministry. The internal post office was overworked in a way it hadn't been since Voldemort's return had been confirmed. (Perhaps that was a hyperbole, but it was what Hermione overheard in the lift on the way back from lunch.) It carried on all through Wednesday, a day in which all Hermione did was send a letter of her own, to Ellington and Speight: Hello. Please come. We're so desperate to hear more about your respective owls' toiletry habits.
At the end of the day, she witnessed a blur of purple robes tear down the atrium while a shrieking howler chased it all the way to the fireplaces.
The next morning was no different. She heard of letters that had made their way up to the holy sanctum of level one. If Kingsley was to find out that she was the reason his peace was being disrupted again...
She wrote to Ellington and Speight: Wotcher. Let's meet, eh? It will be a HOOT.
For lunch, she wanted to see the brassbound members of the Wizengamot standing in a line, being ruthlessly destroyed by a barraging of thunderous howlers. A re-imagining of The Third of May 1808.
But as she stepped into the foyer, Madam Barros' door flew open, and her voice rumbled out from within the office – "Granger."
Groaning internally, Hermione spun around and shuffled into the room.
Barros had the most eclectic wardrobe in the world – barring Luna. However, unlike Luna, Barros' clothes were always tasteful, elegant, and free of grotesque hellspawns. That afternoon, she was in two-toned silk, that shifted from rust to pink.
"Don't sit," she said the moment Hermione stepped in, "I want this to be quick, so I expect you will spare me your lies and dithering."
What a menacing opening act! Move over witches in the desert place – make way for the decorated witch behind a Ministerial desk.
"I had a spontaneous meeting with Ms. Elliot last evening. She's a bright girl. Very spirited. Inordinately fond of you, and perfectly evasive when necessary."
Hermione liked Barros' earrings. A cluster of cat's-eye stones, dangling above her shoulders.
"Ms. Norwood on the other hand is a loquacious one. Rather quick to open up. It seemed she couldn't help herself when she told me that she's so thankful to Hermione Granger for putting them in touch with Anita Storstrand."
Rust to pink, rust to pink, rust to pink as Barros crossed her arms and adopted an adamantine stare. Hermione's brain was silent. Smart bugger read the room and remembered the utter and heartbreaking stupidity of words.
"Do you know the definition of the word team, Hermione Granger?"
Noun or verb?
"Do you think running off, doing things behind your colleagues' backs, and possibly jeopardising all their hard work is something a good team player would do?"
Hermione's commitment to silence was a bit too strong, for Barros felt it necessary to bark out an angry, "Answer me, Hermione Granger!"
Why did she use her whole name like that, in such moments? If it was some sort of powerplay, Hermione didn't get it.
"I was going to tell you," Hermione replied, "Once we got a court date."
"You were so sure about getting a court date?"
"Yes. I suppose we have about a year or so more of the Ministry actually caring about rectitude and its reputation."
"So, why wasn't I made privy to your scheme?"
"I didn't want to take any risks, in case your esteemed colleagues performed a sleight of veritaserum."
"Is that what you think about the honourable Wizengamot?"
Hermione let silence relay her answer.
Barros curled her lip. "People have allowed you to get away with too much, Hermione Granger."
Keeping a hold on silence was, all at once, a struggle. Fuck, she was sick of being reprimanded like an entitled child, like she hadn't nearly lost her life struggling to get where she was. She held her tongue but couldn't clamp down on her expression, and felt herself glower.
"How do you know Kenneth Pendleton?"
"I don't know him," she replied much too quickly.
Shock kicked anger's arse.
"He certainly seems to know you. You see, I do not believe Crisis Aid was his doing. He's an obstreperous fool and entirely inept. I went to speak to him about it and he was belligerent, as expected. Told me to go tend to my tumbleweed doll. That can only be describing you."
"Lots of people know who I am," she scowled.
"I work with the International Magical Office of Law, in an advisory capacity. You know this, right?"
"Yes."
Hermione's eyes found the tiny dent on Barros' desk once again. I dub thee the Dint Of Doom.
"It grants me some special privileges. I asked to see a copy of the initial bill, as presented to the ICW, and they were happy to oblige. It's a painfully researched bit of legislature – more long-winded than anyone with any sense would dare to present to the hotheads in the ICW. Quite a bit of it, I imagine, was influenced by muggle law. If I had to sum it up in one word, I'd say it was... overeager."
Hermione feared that if she opened her mouth, she might squeak like a mouse that got its tail caught in a trap.
Silence! calm, venerable majesty –
A dash of deep plum nudged the edge of her vision, as Barros pushed an envelope towards her.
"I have already informed our client; the Wizengamot has fast-tracked her case. The hearing will be tomorrow morning, at ten-thirty A.M. sharp. Are we prepared?"
"We've been prepared for weeks," Hermione mumbled in a strangled tone.
"Let your colleagues know."
"Okay."
"At once."
"Yes. Er, yeah. Thank you. I'll... go."
When Hermione had stepped out and halfway closed the door, Barros called out her full name again. She paused at the threshold, peeking over the side of the door, catching a strange look on the woman's face that chilled her blood.
"Well done."
What?!
"Thank you," Hermione gasped and closed the door with a little too much force.
Holy shit. She stayed in the foyer, hands pressed against her chest, keeping her heart from bursting out. If she had been attached to an ECG machine, it would have melted. She thought she might've been having some sort of systemic cataclysm – multi-organ upheaval.
Her method of dealing with authority had always been so straightforward. Work hard, impress, receive praise, (repeat infinitely.) Simple. It hadn't failed her, unless the authority in question was inherently hateful; which was what Hermione had decided Madam Barros was.
But she had said well done, hadn't she? She had actually said that? Well done?!
Hermione unstuck her feet and went into her office, only to find it empty and remember that it was still lunchtime. Thus, she wound up in the canteen, grabbing a wrapped bundle off the pile labelled fish finger sarnies while looking around dazedly for somewhere to sit.
"Looking for a table?" Ernie asked, appearing next to her.
"Oh, no. Working lunch, I'm afraid."
Once again, she ate at her desk, nibbling neurotically.
When her colleagues showed up, she jumped up and almost shouted the news.
XXX
Though they had, as Hermione had told Barros, been prepared for weeks, the blaring, terrifying prospect of actuality had an unsurprisingly unnerving effect on their team. They decided to go over every little thing – statements, their list of witnesses, questions for each witness, Anonymity Orders, evidence...
They sat till after six, and even after, as they left the DDL, they kept up a perfervid discussion. They conferred in the lift, and reviewed as they walked down the atrium. Once Takumi had leapt into a fireplace, Hermione and Kathy carried on deliberating.
"The only thing left now, is to ensure that Jade and Petronella are sufficiently glamoured," Hermione said.
Kathy nodded a tad madly. "The admin should have put somebody up to it... but it doesn't hurt to make sure. I'll come early tomorrow and see that it's done..."
Hermione had something more to add, but it fell and echoed in the wells of silence.
Draco was making his way down the atrium with his holdall on his shoulder and travelling cloak draped over one arm. He was in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, khaki trousers, and his usual dragonhide boots, looking like he was returning from some glamourous archaeological expedition. Kenny, Arnold, and a man she didn't know were close (and superfluously) behind him.
Kathy momentarily glanced over her shoulder, and turned back to Hermione.
"Do you think you could come a bit earlier tomorrow as well?" she asked impatiently, "We can go over the whole thing once, before Madam Barros gets here."
"I'll be there," Hermione agreed, struggling to keep her gaze from wandering.
By the time Kathy collected floo powder and left, the other team had reached the fireplaces. Hermione looked at Draco, and he looked at her fleetingly, before turning to his companions and saying words of farewell. Two said goodbye in return, one said humph.
Then it was just Hermione and Draco in the empty atrium, under a ceiling of false stars.
She began, "Back from–" And quickly stopped.
"Go on," he commanded, looking as imperious as he sounded.
"No."
"I've had to deal with the most vexing arsemongers. I've had to scale mountains. Are you going to deny me a simple pleasure?"
"Back from Kabul then?" she recited dutifully, without missing a beat.
"No." He grinned.
It was a disarming, exhausted grin. His nose was a little pink – sunburnt perhaps – and his hair was stiff with dust. He hiked up his holdall as it threatened to slip off his shoulder. Right shoulder, right hand. His left forearm was well covered with his cloak.
"You look spent," she said.
"As I mentioned," he replied drawlingly, "I've had to scale mountains. Safi decided to show me around the wizarding settlements in Kafiristan."
"That sounds brilliant," she muttered.
"It was."
She nearly humphed like Kenny. Instead, she asked, "How is Safi?"
"He's well. Sends you his regards."
"Did you meet his family?"
"Yeah. His wife is lovely. His kids are quiet, which is all I ask, really. His uncle is a sot. His mother is the Dark Lord's last remaining horcrux. His goats belong in the seventh circle of hell."
She laughed. "How did the goats wrong you?"
"Have you heard the sound they make? Fucking horrendous. And they're constantly shitting."
Laughing some more, she shook her head at him, while he reached into his holdall and pulled out a paper bag. Her laughter petered out and she stared at it.
When he held it out to her, she accepted; heart in her throat.
"The box of assorted nuts and dry fruit is from Safi."
"And the other thing?"
He smirked.
The other thing was a thick, solid slab, wrapped in newspaper. The paper itself caught her attention at first: She assumed the language was Dari, and it had a picture of robed figures casting shield charms as a group of small children watched.
Then she peeled it away, revealing an elaborately carved wooden tablet.
"It's the Nuristani style of woodcarving," Draco said, "The method, the skills, and symbols are exclusive to the area, and have been passed on from one generation to the other."
The carving was a mixture of bold geometric patterns and delicate latticework, forming a beautiful harmony. And dotted all over, (with a very precise spacing in between,) were pinwheel flowers, embedded alternatively with turquoise and carnelian.
"It's gorgeous."
"Reminded me of your ballerina painting."
She could see why. The flowers looked like whirling tutus, as seen from above. Degas might have picked the pigment straight from their stones.
"You have quite an eye," Hermione said, tracing a flower with her finger.
"I have two, actually."
She gave him a look from under her eyelashes, hoping it said that was a piss-poor joke, and not I adore you.
"I've been told they're rather distinct."
She looked down again. "What idiot told you that?"
Whatever he meant to say was swallowed by a yawn. He pressed his index finger and thumb against his eyes and muttered, "Fuck me."
When and where?
Out loud she said, "You should get an early night."
"Plan to." He yawned again.
She watched him floo away and stood in the ensuing silence. Silence that wasn't a vehicle for things unsaid, but silence that crowded around her and smothered her with her own thoughts.
She imagined Draco stepping into the sitting room. It was unlikely that he had procured any alcohol from Afghanistan, so he wouldn't go straight to the liquor cabinet. He would wander out into the hallway, and run into Theo who'd popped out of the kitchen on hearing him. He would give Theo his gift, tell him he didn't give a fuck about dinner because he'd already eaten, and then drag himself into his room, yawning.
Her own room, her home, awaited her. She discarded everything but the woodcarving the second she arrived. The salon wall required some rearranging because she wanted to hang it right on top of the Ballet Dancers, and once it was done, she stood back and admired the way they complimented and conversed with each other.
She toed off her shoes and imagined Draco doing the same. She imagined him chucking away his cloak, and setting down his holdall – carefully, because there were still more presents inside. One for his mum, certainly. One for Fiona.
No – ugh – shh –
She saw him stretch... like she was doing... pulling burnt out muscles. Like her, he also padded towards the bathroom, keen on a blistering hot shower.
His bathroom would be nothing like hers. It would... it was exactly like hers.
Draco unbuttoned his shirt and left it at that. The pale column of his exposed torso danced tauntingly just under the line of her vision.
"A little help?" he asked wickedly, "You know I'm awfully tired."
She lowered her eyes and bit back a smile, gripping the panels of his shirt, letting her fingers brush against his chest as she pulled it off him. In return, he lifted her blouse over the top of her head, too impatient to deal with more buttons. She sensed him watching her in that piercing way of his, as she let her trousers and knickers fall to the floor. She turned, unhooked her bra, and climbed into the alcove, all the while feeling his eyes on her back and bum. They burnt her. He must've been able to hear her skin sizzle.
She stayed facing the wall and he stepped in and stood behind her, not touching, but close enough for crackling, fizzing static to form between them. She could nearly imagine what it would feel like if he had been pressed against her. Crazy, thrashing orbs of some sort formed in her chest and her stomach.
He blew onto her bare shoulder and a tremor wracked through her body.
She reached out and turned the shower on.
A hot spray lashed over them and he murmured, "Turn around."
"No." She closed her eyes.
"Alright."
Her – his – hands settled on her hips and they dragged upwards along the sides of her body, coming to a halt at her ribcage. A hand lifted and swept her hair to the side, and he blew along the line of her neck. She shivered again.
Her – his – hand returned to her ribs, and then both slid forward to cup her breasts. She barely held back a whimper, but when her – his – his thumbs circled around her nipples, the whimper tore out, wretched and pleading.
"Calm down, Kitten," he said, smooth as silk. A phantasmic tongue traced the shell of her ear.
Her – his – hands slid down again, stopping at the bottom of her stomach. Without needing him to ask, she knew to widen her stance. His fingers edged lower but not low enough – teasing along the lips with one hand while the other gripped the back of her leg and lifted it till it rested on the rim of the tub. She was fully at his disposal, but he still kept teasing, tracing her slit with a light touch.
"... just... ah... go on..."
"A fair request should be followed by the deed in silence."
He slipped his finger inside her. Him. He. Draco's finger. One finger. In and out, long drawn. She pushed back – two fingers, his fingers, long straight elegant fingers performing a perfectly synchronised dance like they did over piano keys – they plunged... curled with a divine degree of curvature... but then pulled out to trace quick maddening circles... his fingers back inside –
His other hand fully gripped her thigh, pressing into the flesh – then that hand slid up to her breasts – squeezed – slid down to join the other –
His hands, his hands, his hands. Both his hands devoted to making her wild and pyretic. The pace got to a point of fury. She gasped and whined and his his his finger kept stimulating where she was already insanely, pulsatingly sensitive.
An impression – mimesis – of a hard length pressed into her back. His finger drew a circle – stopped - pressed down fucking hard, and he said, "Are you going to deny me a simple pleasure, Hermione?"
She choked on a breath; on a smothered, soundless cry. Pleasure hit her like a tidal wave, and she crumbled like a structure made of sand.
Her own hand spasmed, still inside her, and she swayed forward till she was resting her fevered forehead against the tiles.
Slowly, she moved her hand away.
When she had calmed, she lowered her leg and turned around. Steam and spray. Silence and solitude.
She reached for her body wash.
Afterwards, dressed in pyjamas and werebunny slippers, she stood before her mirror, carefully drying her hair. She glared at herself.
Rotten old Millward. Twila. One of the biggest moments of her fledgling career. Tomorrow. For fuck's sake, get it together.
Barros relinquished her plum robes that morning. Her robes of Barrister Blue billowed behind her like a cape, as she, followed by her team, strode down the basement passageway to courtroom nine.
Hermione and Takumi settled on the benches on the side, while Barros and Kathy approached one of the two tables near the centre of the room, where Twila was already seated.
(In one of the most painful scenes Hermione had ever had to witness, Stamp attempted to take a seat with them. Barros, eyes flashing, said something that turned his complexion a dull red, and he stiffly walked over to hunch on the opposite corner from Hermione and Takumi.)
On the other table, sat Millward, still as unremarkable as ever, even with the hammy expression of distress he had put on. His egg-headed and red-headed legal team were beside him.
Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, the courtroom began to fill up. Anita came accompanied by a man with a short beard and long locks, whom Hermione imagined might've been Parvati's former boss. Friends and family of the victims came and claimed two entire rows of benches. One woman wrapped in multiple shawls looked like she could be Twila's ailing mother. Multiple journalists from the Prophet – Skeeter and her sidekick included – took the back bench. There was nobody recognisable after that. Hermione stopped paying attention, focusing instead on Barros and Twila, heads close together, quietly conferring. Kathy was furiously shuffling through all the parchment in front of her. She was so obviously panic-stricken.
A feeling that Hermione shared. Her leg kept bouncing of its own accord. Her hands kept fiddling with the binder on her lap... While Takumi was as calm and placid as a lake on a still summer morning.
Finally, Hermione looked up at the highest bench. The whole plum lot of them were there, like they ought to be for a criminal trial. They were whispering amongst themselves, some staidly watching, some wincing irritably every time Bozo's camera flash went off. Ogden and Kingsley sat in the centre, a mirror image of Barros and Twila. Percy was a statue with his quill hovering over parchment, as though expecting the hearing to commence out of the blue, with no warning.
She realised then that almost everyone in the room was whispering to each other. The buzzing wasn't just in her ears. She picked at a hangnail and watched as Millward offered a good-natured smile to someone on the benches.
Ogden cleared his throat. Percy's shoulders rose up to his ears.
He began rattling off the usual names and personnel who were oh so pertinent to their justice dispensing machinery. Percy the scribe scribbled with fervour.
The wriggling things that had taken up permanent residence inside her, awoke from their dormancy and turned her stomach into a snake pit.
The first person to be called to the chair in the middle – thankfully lacking the chains – was Twila. A murmur swept across the benches as she walked; Bozo took a photograph. Hers was the face that would define this case – that naturally serious face showing determination and poise, as she sat with her ankles cross and hands clasped, meeting the Wizengamot's stare head on.
When Barros got to her feet, silence fell like a pall. She stood beside Twila, raised her chin at her associates, and began presenting the case.
Even though everyone was familiar with the story by now, they entire courtroom was rivetted. Such was the power of having a commanding voice and knowing how to use it. Different modes of verbal conveyance would make for an interesting study, Hermione thought while her leg bouncing turned feral, especially when you compared Barros' oration to Anita's narration. But the bottom-line was that the story was ghastly, no matter how you spun it.
And that fact was not lost on the Wizengamot. When Barros wheeled around and returned to her seat, they all wore varying expressions of bleakness. Even that excruciating shrew Edwina Lumbard looked disturbed.
Next, Millward's lawyers had the opportunity to pose their questions. No surprises in their approach – they brought focus to Twila's sorry finances and pulled out some silly anecdote from eight years ago, when Twila had been twelve, and she had stolen a chocolate bar from Honeydukes and then lied about it.
"A testament to the character of the mendacious accuser!" The egg-headed cretin proclaimed.
The Wizengamot's subsequent interrogation was restrained. Even though four names had been listed as interrogators, it was Ogden who did all the questioning. He called her young lady in a decidedly avuncular manner.
Twila's composure held strong throughout.
Then it was Millward's turn on the chair. The Eggman lifted a finger as he presented their twisted version of events, like he was Augustus of Prima Porta. He gestured sadly to their poor, maligned, darling baby angel of a client and begged the Wizengamot to not be swayed by womanly melodramatics.
Which was a really bad choice of words to end his tirade with; it turned Barros' counter-questioning into something cold and venomous. She rattled off questions about his whereabouts, about the cheques he had been sending out to women who no longer work for him, about why nearly every single one of his female employees had left abruptly, and was met with a blank stare and a refrain of, "I'm sorry, but I have no idea," "What can I say, madam? I care," and, "I don't know."
His voice was deep and flat.
When the Wizengamot interrogated him – this time they all chipped in – his entire range of responses could be summarised thusly:
"No good deed goes unpunished. The honourable Wizengamot knows how little use we have for squibs. I wanted to help them... and see how they repay me?"
Evidence – Millward's financial records – were brought in: The massive sums he paid to former employees prior to their sudden departures, the annual cheque going off to (name redacted) and Hanne Winter, and the monthly sum (outside of her salary,) being paid to Lindy Dalton. Records from a pawn shop in Knockturn Alley showed that he had purchased a set of proscribed magical handcuffs that were only allowed to be used by aurors.
The Eggman said that the records bore testament to Millward's compassionate nature. He felt compelled to take care of his employees, even after they were no longer that. Oh, the pawnbroker? Another horrendous liar. A drunkard, to boot.
They broke for lunch. Twila went straight to her family, and Millward and his lawyers bounded out of the courtroom arm in arm. Kathy waited till Barros had gone before shooting out of her chair, undoubtedly to smoke an entire pack.
Hermione and Takumi went to the canteen.
Eating felt like a ghastly waste of time. All Hermione wanted was to go back and have Ogden announce that Millward was being chucked into Azkaban and have a happy weekend, all. She squirmed as she became aware of Skeeter at a corner table; even then, her quick-quotes quill was busy at work. Anita and her friend were sitting nearby as well, and Hermione carefully avoided looking directly at her.
The line was long. She kept mechanically shuffling ahead and picking at her thumb.
She spotted him without even trying. Or maybe she had been trying without even knowing it. Draco was with his usual lot. Fiona was speaking animatedly, but apparently not very engagingly, for he didn't appear to be paying attention at all. He was sipping from a steaming mug and offhandedly surveying the room. She let herself get so caught up in watching him, that it was too late to quickly look away when his gaze landed on her. He bloody well caught her staring.
Fuck. Her cheeks began to smart and smoulder. She flexed her fingers in an approximation of a wave. He gave her a measured nod in return. If he found out about the way in which she had shamelessly, lasciviously used his words out of context, he would never speak to her again.
Fiona looked over then, following Draco's gaze. Hermione waved at her, too, and quickly turned away and grabbed whatever was nearest to her.
An accursed potted meat sandwich, she realised once she'd found a table that allowed her to put her back to Draco and Fiona. Takumi made an observation about the Eggman and she had to give herself a hard shake.
Rotten old Millward. Twila. Get it together!
It took longer for things to get started after lunch, and all because the Wizengamot took its sweet time assembling. Impatient rustling from the benches and Barros angrily tapping her crimson nail against the table had no impact. Elphias Doge had decided to show his face, pushing to the forefront with a ridiculously tall, pointed hat on his head.
After such a disgraceful display of dilatoriness, Ogden bid the proceeding to continue forthwith. The witnesses were called upon, one by one.
It started off with candid and voluble Hattie. She gave an account of what she had endured, and what she had seen her former co-worker (name redacted) go through. When Barros asked her what exactly she thought might have happened with (name redacted), her speculation was immediately halted by the Eggman. He then expounded on Hattie's dismal state of affairs – from general poverty and the father who was incapable of supporting his family, to the pregnant, unmarried sister.
Ogden was once again kind in his interrogation, even going as far as to express regret over the death of her brother.
Emily, Hanne, and Mariam's testaments were short and quick, but the questioning took longer. Barros and Kathy had perfected their dance in which they'd exchange scrolls between each witness, while the Eggman barely expended himself at all, chanting the same refrain of, "Poor, unscrupulous, opportunistic," ad nauseum. He was particularly hard on Hanne for being so greedy that even Millward's generous annual sum, bestowed from the kindness of his bleeding heart, wasn't enough.
Parents, siblings, and partners took the chair to talk about all the mysterious bruises they had healed and the behavioural changes they had noticed.
The anonymous witnesses had their faces scrambled behind shimmering glamours. From their accounts, Hermione could tell them apart – Petronella first, followed by Jade. Which was for the best in terms of impact, for Jade's tale was flat out horrific. No amount of the Eggman's pooh-poohing could undo its effect on the entire courtroom.
"Cowards and liars!" he bayed, "Why else do you think they hide? I of course know who they are... if the Wizengamot would let me show you what sort of squibs these are–"
Kingsley's resounding voice tore across the room – "Exposing an anonymous witness is a punishable offence. The Wizengamot can fine you for even suggesting it."
Jade was led away amid a flurry of whispers.
She was followed by the mediwitch who had tended to her in the aftermath of her ordeal. She worked at a small clinic in Torquay – a subsidiary of Mungo's. She had bonafide medical records. Eggman's counter-questioning had the vigour of a deflated balloon.
Much like how Lindy Dalton looked, when it was her turn to occupy the chair. Just as she had done with Hermione and Kathy, she deflected each and every question Barros lobbed at her, till finally –
"Why is Mr. Millward paying you – and only you – extra money every month?"
Lindy threw up her hands and cried, "I don't know none of that, do I? He's a fine man. I have five children. Leave me alone."
With the Eggman she was still terse, but more forthcoming.
("You said he's a fine man?"
"Sure, he's a fine man.")
With Ogden, she only shrugged.
Up next was Rhonda O'Hearn, a woman well into her eighties. Her hair was white, her eyebrows painted jet black.
"He's a good chap."
"Is he?" Barros asked, arching a brow so, so high.
"Yeah."
"How are you acquainted?"
"I do a scourin' charm on his robes. Mend a tear if there were one, before they goes to the shop."
"You haven't seen anything unsavoury go on in the shop?"
"No."
"And how long have you provided your services to Mr. Millward?"
"Eighteen years."
Ogden asked, "Have you ever had opportunity to speak to the women in his employment?"
"Couple times."
"And did they seem happy with their lot?"
Rhonda turned to Millward and said, "Alright, it's been more 'an a minute. I'll need another galleon for that."
Absolute pandemonium.
The Eggman buried his face in his hands. Barros glided back to her seat. Ogden and Kingsley did their best to restore order while Rhonda was rapidly led out of the courtroom.
What happened next sent the Eggman tumbling off his wall, beyond the help of the king's horses and men.
He had listed four other witnesses to speak in Millward's favour – most of whom were rich, pureblood witches who habitually donated their old robes to Millward's shop – and not one of them showed up.
It was nearing four o'clock, but the court was momentarily adjourned, while a couple of bailiffs were dispatched to gather the absent witnesses, baring threats of incarceration. They came in a line, in hooded cloaks, heads bowed like Benedictine monks.
Hermione leaned forward, hugging her binder to her chest, knowing that what was about to follow could potentially hand the case right to them.
They approached the central chair one by one, acknowledging their names, but refusing to pull down their hoods.
Witness 1: Devin Hines.
"I had the shop next to his. He bought it off me to expand his own. That's all. We are not friendly."
Witness 2: Alexandria Greengrass.
"I only ever had him around to collect last season's robes. He never made it past the foyer. My husband – you must know my husband, Phaedrus Greengrass – always sent our girls to the far west wing for the duration. He always had a feeling..."
Witness 3: Pippa Macmillan.
"I just wanted to get rid of some of my grandmother's old clothes. We have over a dozen trunks full and... I swear I had no idea about... any of this! I was told there was an unfair campaign being launched against that man, and it would be nice if I put in a kind word. But I didn't know. Honestly, I didn't.
Witness 4: Dietra Flint.
"I also only ever had him around to collect last season's robes. He never made it past my foyer either. My husband – you must know my husband, Leopold Flint – always stayed close by me for the duration. He also always had a feeling..."
With that, the Wizengamot fell into a quiet deliberation amongst each other. Hermione's leg was bouncing to the beat of the Immigrant Song.Her heart was thudding just as fast.
She couldn't bring herself to look at Twila.
Once again, Kathy appeared exactly as apprehensive as Hermione felt.
Ogden cleared his throat.
"Those in favour of clearing the accused of all charges?"
Not a single hand went up.
"Those in favour of conviction?"
Eldon Millward was given a two-year sentence for sexual misconduct against Twila Eliot. Additionally, taking the testaments of his other victims into consideration, along with the Wizengamot's ready recognition of the gravity of crimes of a sexual nature, he was sentenced to another two years for each count, resulting in a fourteen-year sentence, with a further two years on licence.
Hermione's first thought was – that's all? But thunderous applause erupted from the benches where friends and family sat. Aurors emerged from the shadows and whisked Millward away.
Then it hit her. They had won. They'd actually made a bit of history.
XXX
There was no good reason for the silence in their office. Perhaps it was a bit of delayed shock. Maybe it was the kind of quietude that helps one really absorb momentous joy.
Whatever it was, it saw Hermione, Takumi, and Kathy sitting at their respective tables, doing and saying nothing. The fake sun was setting in their window, throwing russet light into the room. All the paperwork pertaining to the case lay strewn in piles and mounds across their desks. One scroll trailed off Kathy's and ran along the miserly length of the office.
"We should celebrate," Kathy piped up, "Drinks later?"
"That would be nice."
"Yes, All right."
As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment.
Gravity must've been working on Hermione's robes for a while. She had pulled them off and dumped them on the corner of her desk, and quite abruptly, they slid to the ground. She let them lie there. She had also managed to rip away her hangnail leaving a sliver of raw, open flesh. One stroke of her finger, one non-verbal healing spell, and her finger was intact again.
She couldn't stop thinking about the look on Twila's face and the triumphant roar that erupted the moment Millward was sentenced. It was as powerful as magic. As vibrant as artificial eventide.
And the sun pours down like honey –
A memo wrested its way in from under the door, right onto Kathy's lap.
"Madam Barros summons," she sighed and walked out, skipping over the parchment trailing on the floor.
Hermione picked up her robes. Takumi began tidying his desk. By the time Kathy returned, her eyes like saucers, it was in perfect form.
She looked spooked; couldn't even make it to her chair. She perched on the edge of her desk and gaped at Hermione and Takumi slowly, in turn.
"Stamp's gone," she said.
"Where has he gone?" Takumi asked, not quite getting it.
But Hermione got it. Her mouth fell open. Was this going to end up being the best day in the history of the world?
"He's gone, Takumi. Sacked. Dismissed. Fired."
"Oh. Oh my," he sputtered.
Hermione pulled up her jaw and said, "About time, don't you think?"
They both turned to her.
"All thanks to you," Kathy said, and Takumi nodded.
"What? Excuse me?! I had nothing to do with it!" She would not allow them to spin that narrative, lest Barros get a hint of it. "It was his own incompetence that–"
"He's been incompetent for years," Kathy cut in, "And would have carried on that way for years. Do you think the Ministry is lacking in incompetence? If you hadn't shown up, Takumi and I would never have thought to thumb our noses at him."
"Now, look here, I did nothing except follow Madam Barros' instructions and–"
Kathy interrupted her again – "She's offered me his job."
"–the one who told me to stop being overeag– Oh my god! That's fantastic news!"
"My heartiest congratulations, Kathy."
"Not at once, obviously," Kathy added, beaming manically, "I've to take the REPTILEs in February, but... she's said the position is mine as long as I pass..."
The REPTILEs. Rigorously Extensive Patent, Treaty, and International Law Examinations. So vicious, in fact, that they were not mandated by the Department of Domestic Law. In less than three months. How was Kathy not falling apart in terror?
"We absolutely must celebrate now," Takumi declared. He stepped out of the room to send a missive to his wife.
They spent the remaining minutes of the workday filing away the Millward case, and it felt most ceremonial. To Hermione, it was the true testament of success – a mission accomplished, wrapped up and put to rest. She imagined that there would be many people out celebrating tonight.
And afterwards, going by a hankering professed by Kathy, they landed up in Diagon Alley, to a fairly popular (as the crowd would suggest) Italian restaurant two shops away from Gringotts. The restaurant wasn't very big, even with an extension charm, and it was a Friday evening; thus, it wasn't at all surprising when the host informed them that there was no room.
"Ah, come on!" Kathy pleaded, "You don't have one free table?"
"I am sincerely sorry, but we are completely booked," the man stated with bland politeness.
"We're just a group of three!"
"Yes, I can see that."
He looked at Hermione then, properly, for the first time. His eyebrows took off.
"On second thought," he mumbled very quickly, "I think there might be something available near the back. Let me have a word with the Manager..."
He dashed away.
Kathy sniggered. "Hermione Granger strikes again."
The mood was too cheerful for Hermione to be bothered. As they were led to their very centrally located table, she was sure she was being used as advertisement, and she still didn't care.
They called for two bottles of wine, and ate, drank, and talked about what a whirlwind of a case it had been. They were halfway into the second bottle by the time their plates were being cleared away, and most of it had gone into Kathy. She was decisively squiffy.
Takumi excused himself to the loo, and in that moment, Kathy swung towards Hermione and said, "She told me, by the way."
"Huh?"
"Madam Barros. She told me. 'Bout the Quibbler stuff. All you."
"Oh."
Hermione took a delicate sip from her glass and mumbled, "I was going to tell you, really, I–"
"It's all right – Stop," Kathy warbled, "Hermione, you're going places. You're going to do so much good. I mean... you already have... but. Y'know. You're... going to. So much good."
Hermione's mouth quivered, twitched, and curved into a grin as she watched Kathy sway and beam at her.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah," she averred with a emphatic flourish of her glass, "You're going to set the Thames on fire."