A/N: I've been informed that this site hasn't been great about notifications. So in case you missed it, I had posted two chapters some time back. I've also had to split a chapter ****again**** because these two can't keep their interactions brief. Next part will be up very soon. :)
DISCLAIMER : I OWN NOTHING BUT THIS SO-CALLED PLOT.
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Misty morning. Frost on the window panes. A delicate dusting of snow on the hill.
Hermione was impassive and ascetic as she picked The Little Prince out of her bookshelf. She sat with a pen and post-it for quite some time, as quotes and snippets carrying varying degrees of bite swam around in her head. Finally, she settled on being cute instead.
It might end up backfiring, but oh well. How much worse could things get?
She wrote the Ode to an Expiring Frog, from The Pickwick Papers –
Can I view thee panting, lying
On thy stomach, without sighing;
Can I unmoved see thee dying
On a log
Expiring frog!
And in keeping with the Little Prince's spirit, she made a drawing. No, really.
The frog from the park, dead. Hermione standing by it, upset. Draco cowering in terror behind a lamppost.
And before she could change her mind, she put on a jacket and trainers and went out the door.
By two in the afternoon on Monday, Hermione had decided that the whole week was absolutely rubbish; the only highlight being the newspaper rolled up in her bag, featuring a long interview with Twila and Hattie. The Prophet had dubbed them the Dauntless Duo, (which was at least somewhat less mawkish than the Golden Trio.) They were starting an organisation to support and advocate for squibs – The Foundation for Squib Advancement (FSA), had filed for official recognition, and would be open to accepting volunteers and donations from the coming week.
Ellington and Speight continued their streak of absenteeism. Hermione very nearly doodled in the letters she sent to them, too. Something akin to the angry owl Draco had once drawn on her Arithmancy parchment.
Dear Mr. Ellington,
Where have you disappeared, OWL of a sudden? I hope you are not under the FEATHER.
Yours sincerely,
Hermione Granger
Office Of Madam Elena Barros
Department of Domestic Law
Ministry Of Magic
.
Dear Mr. Speight,
Will the mystery of the balcony beFOWLER remain a HOOdunnit?
Yours sincerely,
Hermione Granger
Office Of Madam Elena Barros
Department of Domestic Law
Ministry Of Magic
They had no other cases. It was a karmic balancing act – the fresh, Stamp-free environment had to be counterpoised by robbing her of meaningful work. For some reason, Kathy was completely content with putting her feet up instead of preparing for the exam she had to sit for in two measly months.
Hermione wandered the archives suffering from full-body paraesthesia. In that dark and gloomy vault, it felt like the spectre of time was stalking her. She went in on one day, came out the next, and had no real recollection of what transpired in between, when, surely, she must have gone home, eaten, slept, ran, showered…
Non-action led to wars. Vacant minds dwelled on the ache of loneliness. Closed eyes were treated to visions of graveyards and a cursed locket that had fused itself to Harry's chest.
On one such day of impersonating flotsam, she was informed that Stamp had filed a case against the department for wrongful termination, (despite collecting payment in lieu of notice,) and cited her specifically for sabotage. The file now sat somewhere among the teetering piles collecting dust in the admin office.
A few hours later, she had lunch with Twila, who had come to collect her signed and sanctioned scroll of certification. Hermione listened all through the meal, to her plans about building a solid organisation, and cultivating an association with the Diagon Union of Shop and Allied Workers to widen employment prospects for squibs. Eventually, once they had garnered sufficient funds, they would petition the Ministry to begin registering squibs as legitimate members of Magical Society, and afford them the rights that come with it. They would demand the opportunity to apply for administrative and clerical jobs in the Ministry, and the right to open an account at Gringotts without needing to have it associated with a witch or wizard.
"You know you will have all the legal support you need, right?" Hermione asked.
"Of course," Twila smiled with a bashfulness that was completely at odds with the spirited plan of action she had just rattled off, "I actually had something else I wanted to ask you..."
"Yes?"
"We're working on a monthly newsletter. Anita has a printing press that she says we are welcome to use, and she has also offered to edit for us. We want to bring out the first one by end January. Would you write a small forward for us? Short – just around seven hundred words."
"Um... I'm... not sure I should," Hermione stammered, "That honour should go to nobody but you. Or Hattie..."
"I can't think of anyone better to write about standing up for who you are, Hermione. Hattie and I will have our say as well, of course. But... I don't know how much longer we'd have been stuck waiting if it hadn't been for you. Please, say you'll do it."
She obviously agreed. As they parted, she pressed ten galleons into Twila's hand; the first of many donations, she promised.
Then it was –
Archives. Annals, accounts, and dossiers. The chamber of regrets. Was it Wednesday– ?
– No, it was Thursday.
Thursday evening and she had just showered. She closed her fist around the ends of her hair that were pure frizz.
I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
Well, look again.
It was Thursday night and as she sipped lukewarm cream of vegetable cup-a-soup, she received an owl.
Not any owl – it was Rodion, with The Little Prince. Hermione's cold-tipped fingers undid the packaging and opened the book to find the slip of parchment he'd left there.
Her-meow-ne, Her-meow-ne, there's no one like Her-meow-ne,
She's broken every human law, she breaks the law of gravity.
He had made a drawing too, but outdone her by animating it. A little cat walked across the bottom of the parchment, up the side of the parchment, and halfway across the top of the parchment before losing her footing and tumbling downwards. And as she hit the bottom, she transformed into a wild, tangled scribble.
Then the scribble re-formed into a cat, and it started over again.
Hermione smiled wanly. It was silly and endearing – exactly how she had hoped he would respond.
But she couldn't –
She couldn't feel.
She watched the cat form and re-form. Climb over and over again. A Sisyphusian endeavour. …Sissy-puss.
What if in some far, alternative dimension she led a life in which she could say that asinine pun to Draco because they were together, and he'd roll his eyes but also chuckle, and then he'd hold her tight?
Cat to scribble, scribble to cat –
How had he dared to discover Eliot on his own? Was there someone in that bookshop near the Ministry making recommendations to him? She wondered if there was any honest, ethical way to shut it down.
He just kept finding ways to reject her.
It was Friday morning and she ran through near opaque fog that was blurring out a desaturated landscape. At one point, out of breath, she sat on a bench.
Then she realised she was crying. Then she realised she wasn't flotsam. She was just really fucking sad.
And time kept bleeding –
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past.
– Had Draco read Four Quartets, too?
Her grandmother would've been sixty-eight that day. Mum's mum. Why were all her grandparents dead? Was dying young in her blood?
Dying young and mud.
She wore grandma's checked skirt and pulled her hair back into a tight bun like grandma used to make her, before ballet lessons. Friday, noon, and still no new cases –
– Well, one landlord/tenant dispute that Barros handed to Kathy without so much as flipping through the file –
Draco was late for lunch. Fiona actually stood and waved like a maniac to grab his attention. Hermione stabbed a cherry tomato and it spurted juice across her tray. She did not look back up again.
"Barros has taken off," Kathy grinned, "How about we also call it a day early? My friend's had a baby that I can't wait to meet!"
Cat to scribble.
Late Friday afternoon, Hermione riffled through the cabinet in her study, unable to find the notebook she was looking for.
Couldn't find it, couldn't find it –
– she yanked out the entire drawer and upended it onto the floor. The notebook tumbled out and she summoned it into her hands like she could've done to begin with.
Hours buried in old jottings –
In the evening on Friday, the spectre of time materialised into the peace of her flat.
.
The steady, arrhythmic drone at Finnigan's was soothing.
Dean was standing at the bar, wearing paint splattered dungarees and a mesh top. His nails were electric blue. Hermione went up to him and he grinned, easy and a little scatty.
"You look snazzy," she mumbled.
"I'm a cliché," he laughed with a sway, "But I don't care."
He collected his unseemly tall glass of beer and Hermione her glass of wine.
"Join us," he gestured over her shoulder, "You haven't met the gang yet."
But she had already seen a head of pale blond, alone at a table, in front of the mural. The last and the only thing she needed.
"I will in a bit," she told Dean, "Just need to have a word with Draco over there..."
"Oh. I should warn you then. He's an arsehole right now."
"Only right now?"
"More than usual. He's in a mood. Snarled at me when I asked him to come to our table."
"I see. I still have to speak to him."
Moving away from the bar, Dean said, "Well, alright. He won't snarl that hard at a girl. Probably. Come by when you're done!"
Unlikely, but she nodded.
She pulled together Hermione from time past, and Hermione from time future, (gather 'round all you clowns,) and tried to bring herself into an even headspace.
Let me hear you say
Hey, you've got to hide your love away!
Plodding towards him, she felt the heavy weight of perpetuity. She pulled out a chair and said, "Hello."
"Hi," he muttered.
He was staring straight ahead, stiff-necked. An inebriated flush spread from his cheekbones to the tips of his ears. There was a half-empty glass of firewhiskey before him, and another full one and two empty ones near him. A bowl of salted peanuts was at arms-reach. And his hand, his wand, were resting on the table, moving erratically from side to side.
She followed his gaze and landed on a table full of rumbustious carousers across the room. One man, possibly the drunkest of the drunks, was flailing around as his glass danced all around the table, always out of reach. His companions were in splits, not remotely bothered to find out why it was happening.
"Why are you pestering that man?" Hermione asked. She almost reached out to physically stop him, but good sense seized her motions.
"He elbowed me at the bar," said Draco simply.
"Are you grievously injured? Shall I take you to Mungo's?"
"No."
"Then leave that poor lush alone! I'm sure he didn't deliberately jab you!"
"Doesn't matter. His filthy elbow touched my sleeve."
She heaved with exasperation. "He must've barely – Oh, for goodness' sake!"
Draco lightly lifted his wand, levitating the glass off the table. Hermione gave up – or simply could not find words – and just watched in dismay as he made the man chase his poison halfway down the pub and back. Then he raised the glass even more... lowering it just so... making the man hop on the spot, while his friends wet themselves. Finally, he hovered the glass right above the man's head, and when he looked up, sure enough, the drink was poured all over him. He stood dazed, licking his chops, while next to Hermione, a small, understated laugh escaped into the world.
She turned to find Draco surveying the scene with satisfaction.
"That's cheered you up then?" she asked snidely.
"Hmm?" He smirked so egregiously Draco-like.
"Dean informed me that you are in a mood. Harassing an innocent stranger seems to have greatly improved that."
She watched as the man staggered towards the bar, his garbled cry, ("'nother fi-whishky, mate!") rang across the pub.
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm in a good mood around you."
Right then, she was fully and only Hermione from time present. The runny consistency of time clotted, and she was left with an actual, solid moment. Followed by another and another –
How was she supposed to take that? For certain, not seriously.
"Are you?" she whispered.
He shrugged. "The chances of you saying something foolish or embarrassing are always high. So, there's always something to look forward to."
Yes, there was that. She gnawed at her lip for a bit, wondering if this would be the irresistible, agonising interaction that would finally kill her.
The whiskey-soaked man returned to his table, brandishing a fresh glass.
"Must be really hard for you," she said slowly, "The instances in which I manage to get by without putting my foot in my mouth."
"Yeah, well–" He stopped and peered at her. Those grey eyes were made for a focalised stare. They held her. "That depends."
"On?"
"On what you're wearing."
…
She was Hermione from a frozen moment where time ceased to exist–
Staring up, she took in his slowly forming grin with a stuttering heartbeat.
"What about what I have on right now? Will it allow me to pass the evening without making a fool of myself?"
It was a blatant invitation and he took it. Leaning back in his chair, he scrutinised her from head to toe, (setting light,) from toe to head, from head to toe again, (fanning the flames). Then he slid his eyes slowly up her calves and settled on her lap.
"That skirt could stand to be shorter," he decided.
"Is it short enough to earn me a favour?" There was a tremor in her murmur.
"You want a favour, Hermione?"
"Yes."
"What can I do for you?"
Have your way with me.
"I... need... a document."
"A document."
He picked up a single peanut and took it between his white, perfectly even teeth. He sucked it into his mouth and his lips closed.
Look somewhere else. Look literally anywhere else.
Staring at one of his discarded glasses, she said, "Would you happen to know anyone in the Norwegian Council of Magic? And could you procure a copy of the charter granting a day off to House-Elves?"
He said nothing. She had to seek him out again, and see his lips pulled up wryly.
"Lost the ability to stay still even for a moment, eh?" he said eventually.
"Ha ha. I suppose. So... do you think you could–"
"I could."
"Will you?"
He glanced at the hem of her skirt once more. "I'll think about it. What are you plotting?"
"I'll tell you after you get me the document."
The consequent toothy grin she received made her breath hitch. Bloody hell, she could get past this. Would get past this. She always found her feet one way or another, like any self-respecting cat would. Till then, maybe she could find a curse that would cause him to always be drunk and flirtatious in her presence.
She finally got around to taking her first sip of wine
Scribble to cat.
"How did you stumble upon T. S. Eliot?"
"I was at the children's section at the bookshop, looking for a Christmas present for Teddy," he replied, "How was I to resist a book called Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats?"
She laughed lightly. "You bought it then?"
"Of course."
"He wrote grown up poetry too. One of... if not the... most brilliant and complex modernist poets. His work is so dense with references and allegories; esoteric, challenging, but beautiful and compelling..."
Sensing the danger of an impending sermon, she quickly bit her tongue. He was looking at her like he was expecting a sermon.
"So... um, yeah," she finished weakly, "If that interests you–"
"Do you have a compilation or anthology to lend me?"
She nodded. "Annotated for your convenience."
He grinned, and she thought that maybe he wouldn't mind, if she said a little more.
"You have to read his poems very… deliberately, as he's been so deliberately allusive in writing them. He called it an extinction of personality."
Draco said, "Surely poetry is enhanced by personality."
"It is, but it must be shrouded. Eliot believed that individuality shone when the immortality of dead poets and ancestors was the most prominent thing in any piece of poetry. He also used a lot of quotations and contrasts."
"Patchwork verses." He put down all that remained in his glass.
"Why… yes. That's a quaint and succinct way to describe his poems. Patchwork that's unfalteringly stunning."
He frowned, so deep that a shadowed groove formed between his eyebrows. His eyes darted between both of hers, filled with deliberation. Every passing second pulled her nerves tighter and tighter.
Then he said, slow and measured, "That's how I try to compose music."
Hermione knew better than to say, You said you didn't compose. She stayed still, quiet and tense, and hoped that he would continue.
"Never thought to put it in those words, but essentially, yeah. Emotions, persona, disposition, what have you… are best suppressed, if not made extinct."
"Isn't it a bit different for music?" she asked cautiously, "It's much harder to be direct without words. Music relies on its emotive qualities."
"Evocative qualities. Emotive in a neutral sort of way. Unless it's operatic… theatrical… and intended for a particular scene, the composition in itself should be inexplicit in its intentions; open to interpretations. The emotions are left to the performer and the audience. And there can be a vast difference between those impressions, too."
"That night…" she mused, "The night before the memorial dinner… what was it you'd played?"
"A prelude by Rachmaninoff."
"And you did something to it. You changed it up, or–"
"I drenched it with my personality."
She huffed a laugh and gripped the stem of her glass. "That week – fortnight, in fact – it felt like the entire castle was under an all-pervading silencing charm. A bubble charm. Arresto Momento. It was horrible, stifling… inescapable… but you just dispelled them all. You tore through the… the facade…"
She sucked in a breath and peered at him – he was looking back with such gravity that she actually trembled.
"And that other time," she broached softly, "The last evening at Hogwarts…"
"Ravel. Le Gibet," he supplied. Low. Gruff.
"You did something to that as well."
"Just forced in some personality."
"It was overwhelming."
"My personality?"
"The music."
"Made so by my overwhelming personality."
"Perhaps."
She grinned. The severity between them dispersed and she batted her eyelashes like a twit.
(She'd cry over that later.)
She asked, "What's your starting point, when you're composing? Say, you've put away that overwhelming Draco Malfoy personality, and you're sitting poised, facing those keys… where do you begin?"
She had, unconsciously, raised her hands, pretending they were hovering over an imaginary piano, and on realising that fact, (clued in by his smirk,) she dropped her arms and flushed painfully.
"There are many different ways to begin."
"Such as?"
He shrugged, but the flippancy was missing. "Sometimes, just a word; the general sense it invokes, or even how it sounds, phonetically. A place, the weather, a couplet, Arithmantic matrices. Sometimes, things can take off during practice exercises. The way two notes fall together can suddenly–"
He stopped. His flush was more prominent, more widespread – certainly not purely caused by inebriation. He seemed chagrined, but even so, not closed off. She leaned onto the table, rested her chin on her knuckles and waited.
"Those ones are the easiest to separate from yourself.," he continued slowly, "It feels almost architectural; constructing a piece, bit by bit… Ensuring it's harmonious and technically sound, with enough turns and chord progressions to be interesting…"
"Without a blueprint?"
"A what?"
"A plan. A design."
"No, there is a plan–"
(It was amazing how he could say the most cutting and brutal things without turning a hair, but talking about something so fantastically interesting left him completely flustered.)
"–It also forms simultaneously. A few paces ahead, I suppose, but it's… there."
She smiled. "That's it, isn't it?"
He arched an eyebrow.
"The plan. It's inspiration. The creative force."
"Pff," he jeered – or attempted to. A roll of his eyes, a swipe at the peanut bowl, a tug on his scarf, while his flush spread down to his jaw. She loved, loved, loved the palaver.
"How does it go when you begin with a word, or a place, or the weather?" She was on the edge of her chair by now, with both elbows on the table, straining towards him.
"They're… anchors? A place to start that helps establish the melody, texture, tonality, etcetera."
"Snow."
"...Snow?"
"Hypothetically," she elaborated, "The word is snow. How would you compose a piece about it?"
Her query induced another non-flippant shrug. "High notes, I suppose? Cold and crisp. Strophic, homophonic. I'd keep the tempo and dynamics open – full fortissimo for a blizzard… pianissimo for a gentle flurry…"
A gentle flurry. On a late night in a park.
"What about the Arithmantic matrices?" she asked eagerly.
His small smile was knowing. "They are particularly useful for creating rhythmic patterns." One long, tapered finger drew a set of square brackets on the table. "Depending on the number of rows and columns, and the numerological value, they can be used to write monotones, or even fugues or canons. Are you familiar with Schubert's Erlkönig?"
"No. But I know it's based on a poem by our old friend Goethe."
"Oh," his brow wrinkled, "I didn't know that. But well… It's a very layered piece. I tried to structure a similar durchkomponiert using only Arithmantic expressions. The crescendo was based on an equation for variable prophesying."
"That's bloody fascinating," she breathed.
He traced and retraced the invisible bracket he'd drawn. His shoulders were bunched like he was bracing himself for something, but his mouth was clamped shut, as though he had lost steam. But still… he was not closed off.
Emboldened, Hermione asked, "So this is where the patchwork comes in? Your nod to Schubert, I mean. Do you often pay homage to the immortality of dead composers?"
"It's unavoidable," he snorted, "Herr Dietrich was of the opinion that originality is no longer possible, that all great musical accomplishments have already been made and we can only play around with borrowed genius."
"Do you share that opinion?"
"No. He was an unimaginative scavenger. Would you say Eliot's poems are unoriginal, even with all the dead ponces shining through?"
She glared at his word of choice, but shook her head. "Nobody would say that."
"Right. So it isn't unoriginal or derivative to be inspired by a splash of Schuman, or a bit of Bach, a dash of Debussy–"
"But not even a mote of Malfoy."
"Merlin forbid."
"How ever do you manage?" She was batting her eyelashes again. "How do you suppress the strong, forceful, overwhelming Draco Malfoy persona?"
Back at bracket-tracing, he replied, "Music can eclipse anything and make you realise how small you are. Make you forget yourself."
"All good art can."
"Yeah."
Art and you, she silently amended. Her fingers walked themselves to the peanut bowl, stopping when they touched the rim. They ran along the edge in a gentle stroke, mere inches away from where his finger was drawing brackets. One accidental slide off the tacky ceramic and her hand would land on his, stilling its motions, smoothening over the digits that could make blizzards and flurries, and turn numbers into melodies.
She peeked up. He was watching their hands, too.
"You save up all that personality to pour into other people's compositions."
Her fingers curled into the bowl, and pulled it closer to herself, and he smirked while keeping his eyes on it.
"I only make them better."
"If you say so."
"You said so."
"I didn't say the word better. I meant that your talent for manipulation is evident when you play."
"I can play Ode to Joy in a way that will leave you overcome with grief."
"Oh?" She raised her brows. "That poorly?"
His eyes flicked up, bright with surprise, and he laughed. The notes of it were so pristine, that… roll over, Beethoven… she'd found the truest ode to joy. Better than the crack of a brand new book, and better than McGonagall saying very good, Ms. Granger.
"My friends!"
Seamus descended, toting two round potion bottles filled with a bright red liquid that shimmered with golden flakes, and set them down on the table. He dragged a chair to sit right next to Hermione, who was, once again, jarred and irritated to find that things existed beyond the delusory shroud that Draco kept throwing over her head.
She wanted to murder Seamus. A severing charm to his neck. Reducto till his bones were dust. Incendio till he was a charred block of coal.
"Where've you been, Hermione? Haven't seen you in yonks!"
"I was here on Sunday," she bit out.
"Yonks!" Seamus exclaimed, "Now this here, is called a Bloody Merry. Go on, give it a go."
Heaven knows how she resisted the urge to fling the drink in his face. And it was not good. She kept it in her mouth for a bit, while Draco all but growled, "That was fucking vile. Like cold, bitter tomato soup."
"Sure look, the connoisseur Malfoy doesn't approve. What about you?" He draped his arm around her and squeezed her shoulders, "Any good?"
"It's an acquired taste," she grumbled.
Seamus let out a laugh, while Draco scoffed.
"That's a no then," he said, unbothered, "Now, there's one more thing I need to ask you."
He was too close to look directly at, so she just turned her head in his general direction. "Yes?"
"Why haven't you brought Parvati to my pub yet? You're good mates!"
"We've never been good mates. You know that."
"You get on with her twin well enough."
"They're two separate people."
"Bah, I know. Padma isn't interested in my cock at all."
Bletch. Hermione looked at the part of the table that was right in front of him, and edged slightly out of his grip. "You think Parvati is?"
"Yeah. But she never replies to my owls for some fucking reason."
She said nothing as Seamus sulked; only continued to squirm away.
Expecting Draco to bite his head off was a lost cause, it seemed; He was, once again, staring into the distance. What good was his mood if he wouldn't weaponise it when really required? Someone needed to stop Seamus from being so Seamusy.
"What about you?"
"Huh?"
Draco's grey scarf looked preposterously soft. She could imagine rubbing her cheek against it while she buried her face in the crook of his neck.
"Are you interested in my cock?"
Her head snapped in his direction as she lurched out of his grip to glare at him.
"Excuse me?!"
He laughed and tried to pull her back in. She evaded.
"Come on, love. You're single, aren't you?"
"So?!"
"Don't you remember the rumour back in school about the size of–"
"A rumour you made up!"
"Who told you that?"
"Everyone knew!"
"Moryah!"
Hermione washed down her distaste with wine; only to have it return when Seamus snaked his arm back around her shoulders and damn near crushed her to his side.
"Malfoy, you're a fine chancer. Help me out." Seamus piped up once more, "Tell me about that friend of yours. Fiona."
Draco's eyes were shooting poisoned darts at him.
"What's her story? She single?"
"You're a cretin."
"Oho!"
Seamus chortled as he made note of Draco's expression, and Hermione was jostled around. She grabbed his arm, lifted it over her head, and placed it firmly back on his lap. Then she moved her chair away before he could notice.
Seamus winked, "I see how it is. I'll quit asking after her, then."
His amusement petered out, and sombreness set in quite abruptly. He pouted at the distance between him and Hermione.
"Luna's single now, yeah?"
"You've gone mad!" she slated.
"What is the point of owning the best pub in the bleeding country if I've to have it off with my hand every night?"
Pinching her lips between her teeth, she just about suppressed a shudder.
However, Draco had rediscovered his acerbity. He said, "Kindly take your permanently scarring imagery and bugger off."
"You bugger off!"
"You're seriously repulsive. I don't know any woman who'd hate herself enough to willingly let you touch her–"
"Oi!"
"...tastes can range from ludicrous to grotesque, but you are beyond any of that–"
"What the fuck?!"
"...have any wit that's worth a damn, not even the suggestion of a personality–"
"What the fuck?!"
"Um," Hermione interjected nervously.
"...going around rubbing up against women, deluded enough to believe that'll work in your favour–"
"You tool! I'll have you thrown out!"
Seamus shot to his feet – Draco followed – both gnashing their teeth. The people around their table had begun to gawk. Hermione jumped up as well and grabbed Seamus' arm.
"Look!" she hissed, "Seamus! See that group that just walked in. They look like they need your help!"
"I don't have to take this shite from you, pasty fucking ferret!"
"Right! I'm sure I'm robbing you of time you could spend making yourself even more unappealing – plunging new, unprecedented depths of foulness–"
"Seamus! Seamus! Look! Those people… definitely could use your expert input… at the bar… Come on."
She began pulling him away, dragging him, and some of what she had said must've registered, because he let her. She didn't relent till they had reached the bar, only unleashing him when they were a short distance away from the group that had just come in.
"I'm going to tell Vasillios to kick his arse… break his legs…"
"No." She stood on her toes to cut off his view of Draco. "Let it go."
"Who does he think he is? Fucking wanker. I'll have him hauled–"
"You obviously touched a sore spot when you brought up Fiona. Forget about it. Go tend to those people. Whip up some of your exceptional cocktails. Please."
He scowled at her, purple-faced. "Fine. Only because you're asking. Fucking bastard. Arsehole."
Making a beeline for the two young women in the group, he said a loud, still very furious, "How ya," causing them to jump with alarm.
Hermione shuffled back to her seat, peeking over her shoulder at every other step, in case he decided to make a return.
At the table, Draco had started on his final glass of whiskey, and his high complexion and clenched jaw were the only indication that he had recently gone completely crackers. She sat down gingerly, and once again peeked at the bar. By all appearances, it would be safe to assume that Seamus would not storm back; he was aggressively, vengefully jerking a cocktail shaker. She gnawed at her lip as she watched, feeling a little bad for foisting him on those unsuspecting people.
"Regret pushing him away?" Draco sniped.
Withered and glum, she just stared at him, finally realising that Dean had meant business with his warning. She didn't think it would be possible to circle the conversation back to music; not when he was lashing out compulsively, without a thought; without even bothering to look at her.
"Wish you had kept him for yourself?" he went on.
"You have nothing to worry about, you know." she muttered, "With Seamus."
He turned to her sharply then, with a rapier-like gaze. "What?"
"He may be a lout, and an absolute idiot," she explained in a dejected monotone, "But he would never go after someone else's… erm. He… won't try anything with Fiona, now that he knows that you're… I mean, no matter how desperate or angry he is, he wouldn't–"
"We aren't together," he snapped.
He didn't look happy at all, making that declaration. She reckoned there was some kind of warning in his manner.
Still, she persisted, adding, "You mean yet?" with a forced, coy smile. Because she couldn't help it and she had to know.
He looked incredulous, like he couldn't believe she had the audacity to keep prying.
"No," he ground out, "I mean exactly what I said."
Training her focus on her neglected drink, she was close to wishing that the spectre of time would return, (in a temper that outdid even Draco's for nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence. She wanted for them to sink into hideous night.
She methodically drained her glass and he sat largely motionless. No further attempt at conversation was made, and yet neither made the move to leave.
The fabric of time consisted of seconds that tessellated perfectly: She could see them all from her ensnared position. The pattern lay over both of them; variegated marks on their skin, joining them together in a plane.
They were joined by physics, and metaphysics. Magic and mundanity. By the circle of wood between them. By their history - shared and corrosive, diametric and complementary. By collaborative humour, combative notions, magnificent discussions, and little slips of paper tucked into books.
It was so senseless that she couldn't have him.
It was so senseless to be sat there, with him, still.
How unreserved and engaged he had been, before stupid, bawdy Seamus had interrupted! She had been on the verge of asking if he'd play her one of his own creations — The quixotic part of her mind was convinced that he would have agreed. They'd have walked through another snowy night in Diagon, stopping at Fortescue's to pick up some warm apple strudel and vanilla ice cream. My treat she'd have insisted, batting her eyelashes. Then they'd have got to his building, and in the lift she would've stood just a hair's breadth away from him. The flat would've been dark and quiet because Theo wouldn't have been home, and they'd have walked down the hallway, side by side…
An animated figure, the furthest thing from the spectre of time, was making his merry way towards them.
"Theo," she sighed.
"Fuck's sake," Draco grumbled.
"Why are you skulking out here?" Theo demanded, falling into the chair that Seamus had occupied, "All the action is happening in the private room! Do you remember that Magical Creatures game I cooked up for NEWTs prep? George and I have taken it to another level!"
The subject matter, along with his zeal, made Hermione ill. Iller.
"I don't have the energy for that," she mumbled.
He wrinkled his nose. "When did you turn seventy?"
"Monday, I think."
"I see. Draco?"
Draco completely ignored him.
"Oh, of course. As usual, you're nursing a grudge like it's your own little baby."
Draco displayed his special talent for performing ordinary tasks in a manner that conveyed what he wanted to say. Never before had anyone scratched their jaw in a more go fuck yourself sort of way.
Theo turned to her with a long suffering sigh, belied by the impish smile he was sporting. "He's angry with me."
She nodded with disinterest. Draco quaffed whiskey like you're a dreadful arse.
"He thought he was being clever, you see," Theo pressed on, "By volunteering to run back to Afghanistan right before Christmas, thinking he'd avoid Narcissa's painful pureblood Yuletide banquet. But you know what happened instead?"
She shook her head with disinterest. Draco pushed back his chair like you aren't worth my time.
"Narcissa is organising a pre and post Yuletide banquet just for him, and he cannot get out of either. And he's directing his anger at his own stupid miscalculation at me, simply because I refuse to suffer along with him. Tell me, is that on?"
Theo received no response, and nor did he expect any. Draco put on his cloak like your existence is a stupid miscalculation.
"I don't have time to sit around, eating foie gras while listening to Pansy bitch about… about everything. I haven't even started Christmas shopping and I have to owl Robert and Evelyn's presents by Tuesday, latest, if I want them to reach on time–"
"But they'll be here next week," Hermione cut in, "Didn't I mention?"
"No, you did not!" Theo cried, most affronted.
"Oh. Well, sorry. I'd have thought they might have told you themselves…"
"So would I," he huffed, "I will be sure to convey my disappointment."
"In any case," Hermione added, "I plan on getting through all my shopping on Sunday. You can tag along, if you'd like."
"I'd like," he beamed, "It's a date."
Hermione's gaze dropped to her grandmother's too-long skirt and she let out a short, empty laugh. "Keep that up and Draco might begin to look kindly upon you again, out of sheer pity."
The edges of her vision revealed that they both were studying her intensely, with Draco halting his imminent departure. She refused to look up.
"What's that?" Theo probed.
"Oh, you know. There's nothing worse – nothing sorrier – than being on a date with me."
"I… er… disagree?" He chuckled confusedly.
Draco left. The other two watched him storm past the tables, the punters, and straight out the door.
"When is the pre-Yule banquet?" Hermione asked.
"Tomorrow."
"Since when has he been so ill-tempered about seeing his mother?"
Theo didn't answer, posing a question instead: "He said that dating you would be the worst thing? He actually said that?"
"Pretty much. All in good fun."
Good fun. Because she was supposed to have believed that it hadn't been a crack at her.
Then again, her thoughts were a flat circle. There was a chance she might've even imagined their conversation about music. Maybe he'd spent the entire hour lashing out at her, and she had made up an alternative scenario as a coping mechanism.
It wouldn't surprise her at all.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end…
…Which was that feelings made her stupid.
Theo was agitatedly chewing his tongue, poor lad, like he was having the hardest time trying to figure out what to say to her.
"Who all are there?" she rushed out, "In the private room?"
"Um, everyone. Astoria, George, Angelina, Lee, Goldstein… I just sent Dean and his lot in–"
"Ron?"
"Yep."
"Alright." She stood up.
"You're coming?"
"No. I'm going to Grimmauld place. Harry will be alone."
"I thought he didn't need a babysitter anymore."
"He doesn't." She collected her bag and smiled. "I'll be over to collect you bright and early on Sunday. If you aren't awake, you'll be treated to an Aguamenti charm."
She stepped out into the night and breathed in slowly. There were so many shoeprints in the thin layer of snow on the ground – of them, the deepest and harshest ones would've been Draco's. Snowflakes descended in rhythmic swirls:
Cold and crisp high notes. Strophic, homophonic. Pianissimo…
She apparated to the street in front of Harry's home. His neighbours had enthusiastically embraced the festive season, as wreaths and lights adorned every facade. There was some sort of celebration going on next door; bright windows showed people in beautiful clothes.
She turned back to the plain door of number twelve and knocked.
"Good evening, Kreacher. How have you been?" she asked upon being let in by the House-Elf who was wearing some sort of poncho fashioned out of tea-cosies.
"Master is in the dining room," he replied shortly and vanished.
In the aforementioned room, all the candles were burning. Harry sat at one end, and before him, spanning the entire length of the long table, were rivers, hills, and valleys made of scrolls and parchment.
"Hey, you," he said gloomily.
Hermione then learnt that Harry and Ron had struck up a deal – they would each tend to both their paperwork for the month alternatively, and happy December had fallen into Harry's hands. He had, unsurprisingly, left everything till the eleventh hour. It had to be submitted on the coming Monday.
She sighed.
"Feed me and I will help you."
"You're a lifesaver, Hermione."
"I know."
So grateful was he, that he didn't even summon Kreacher to bring them food. While he troubled himself to make the trek to the kitchen, Hermione, with great relief, set up heavy blockades at every avenue of her brain that didn't directly contribute to boring, clerical shite-work, and familiarised herself with Harry's (complete lack of a) filing system.
Soon enough, there was sustenance, a task, and a safe, comforting presence, making her feel at ease at long last. She studied Harry and Ron's careless scrawls across badly compiled case notes and filled the details onto dotted lines.
"Like the good old days, isn't it?" she remarked.
"You mean like me leaving homework till the last minute and you having to swoop in? Or like me making a rash, unformed plan and… you having to swoop in?"
"Whichever," she chuckled, "Both."
"Isn't it comforting, though, that some things never change?" he asked as he signed his name for the tenth time. His signature was getting looser at every instance.
"That's almost always said about things that desperately need to change."
"Like your hair."
"And your gittish sense of humour."
Some hours later, Ron returned, bearing a miniature figurine of a flobberworm.
"This here is Theodore," he said, eyeing the thing with disgust, "Filthy oozing cheat like his namesake."
He sat across two chairs – arse on one, feet on the other – and told them all about George and Theo's pseudo bloodsport ring, but made no effort to help out with the paperwork and drudgery. Hermione half-listened, pretending that she had completely forgotten about being cleaved open.
Time continued to bleed and so did she.
She had lied to Theo, by omission. Sunday wasn't the only day she was dedicating to Christmas shopping.
Saturday was unpropitiously overcast, but purpose lit up the path before her, and the presence of a proper itinerary (written in green and purple ink,) wonkily reestablished the linearity of time. It was the sort of agenda that would've been impossible to accomplish in a day, but for the ability to apparate.
Hermione's journey began at the British Library, in front of a computer. She studied confusing diagrams, scoured through articles by MIT graduates, and read about photonics and diffraction on webpages that were flashing advertisements at her. Then, with plenty of print-outs shoved into her bag, she apparated to the Ministry maintained library in Sussex, and after minimal interaction with the fluffy man at the counter, came away with the most advanced book on charms that she could find.
(With two of the more time consuming tasks on her list completed, she stopped at a cafe for a bite and a robust cup of builder's tea.)
Next, she hopped over to Tottenham Court Road, looking for the electronics shop her parents had purchased their telly from. It no longer existed, but a new one had come up in its place – bigger and brighter. A garrulous shop assistant helped her find a portable CD player, (sleek, light, and silver,) and a pair of headphones that cost a tad more than she had anticipated. But they were, she was told, the best in the market, with superior sound quality, and maximum comfort. Her hands were tied.
Another crack of apparition, and she landed in Soho, stepping into dad's favourite record shop, which very much still existed. It was full of a diverse variety of people, and Hermione looked with interest as she walked by a woman in black lipstick and a spiked choker, a man in torn jeans and a patchy shirt, an older man with a long beard and fedora, a tall woman with colourful beads at the ends of her abundant braids… till she got to the classical music section. There, in the silent company of a woman in a chevron coat and a young man with a trumpet strapped onto his back, she pulled out a CD for every composer Draco had mentioned in her presence. Bach, Chopin, Ravel, Schumann, Debussy, and Rachmaninoff. Beethoven because he'd mentioned Ode to Joy. Mozart, because the CD cover had the word essential on it. As did Brahms and Liszt. She carried the stack to the counter to pay, knowing full well that it was too much. It would've been too much had she been buying them for Harry, Theo, Ginny, or even dad.
Did she care? Of course not. Nothing mattered beyond Draco having the means to listen to music whenever he wanted, wherever he was.
The next crack took her to the Adidas outlet on Oxford Street, where she bought some winter-friendly athletic wear for Ginny, as requested.
Her shadow jumped as lamps came alive. She strolled vacantly and her mind wandered; from pondering over laser theory and operation, to wondering if getting Theo a bowtruckle (that he would most assuredly name Mandy,) would be pathetic and resentful.
She ended up inside Hamleys, surrounded by hyper children towing their parents around, and frazzled parents scouring the shop for presents. She came out with a large and elaborate race-track set.
Home. She could barely remember slipping into an alley behind a… Belstaff? Or a Japanese restaurant?
Ugh, not again. She gave herself a hard shake to dislodge the mites of melancholy.
The day's loot was discarded in a corner of her bedroom. The CD player, headphones, and Schumann CD were fished out. Moving into the study, she spread the print-outs and the Charms book methodically across the desk. Then, with the most careful of wand movements, she unscrewed the bottom of the player.
Here's what she knew:
1. The player used light waves to read the CD.
2. It did so using a low power laser beam to scan the data.
3. There was subsequent diffraction and polarisation involved.
She took out a magnifying glass from the drawer and compared the player's mechanism to the diagram she had printed. Everything was exactly in place. There was the diffraction grating, and there the beam filter; a coil, amplifiers, and a bunch of diodes. She would not be touching any of that. All she needed to do was pinpoint the lens from which the light was to emit and get the apparatus going. She marked the spot with a teeny-tiny X.
Theo's demon alarm clock had given her plenty of practice with charm permeation - albeit with sound, rather than light. The principle was the same.
The issue here was that she needed to magically recreate a laser.
(She kicked off her shoes, pulled her feet up onto the chair and bent over the Charms book.)
Lumos was out of the question; that was diffused white light. However, she was fairly sure that coloured light, whether magical or natural, got its hue from its wavelength. If she were to combine the incantation for colour transfiguration with an illumination charm, she should achieve wavelength coherency.
"Lumos Rubicundus," she tried.
Bright red light shone from her wand. Very much diffused.
Another glance at a print-out: Lasers had to be directional. The beam of light has very low divergence.
It took over an hour of flipping through the book, consulting a few from her own bookshelf, and excavating a textbook from fifth year, before she had formulated an incantation that could most likely mimic a laser.
"Lux Radium Rubicundus."
A pointed beam shot out from the tip of her wand to the opposite wall of the room. Red, sharp, and focused.
She moved with choreographed swiftness –– Re-sealed the player. Wand pressed against the scorch mark. Incantatio Imbuere. Lux Radium Rubicundus. Turned the player over. Popped in the CD. Locomotor. Plugged in the headphones. Gently touched the wire. Sonorus.
It worked. It worked. If all muggle mechanics could be thus powered by magic, the result would be revolutionary.
Hermione fiddled with the buttons till she reached Erlkönig, and sat back with her eyes closed. Time was brought to heel by a powerful melody. Her dreams of a future utopia morphed into a nightmarish World State.
Everyone had the same brilliant idea of getting all their shopping done on the last Sunday before Christmas. Diagon was chock-a-block and Hermione was the sort to get easily shoved around in a crowd. She had one hand clamped around Theo's elbow, the other keeping her bag in place. Her knitted hat had spontaneously loosened, and had half-fallen over her eyes, forcing her to tilt her head up and peer out from underneath it.
After centuries, once Theo had led them into a shop, she was able to cast a quick shrinking charm on it. Vision restored, she saw that they were in a boutique, from where she could purchase a thumb-sized tree (unlimited engorgement capacity!) and a box of generic ornaments.
Most of what she bought that day was generic. Hermione was done being thoughtful. She was bored stiff of shopping and all the manufactured cheeriness was doing her head in. To her surprise, Theo's dourness far outshone hers. His eyes were dark, his gait was urgent.
In their latest missive, mum and dad had requested that they be given tiny token presents – that is, nothing that would add any weight to their luggage – which wilted Theo's spirits even further. They were through by noon, ending the expedition with sandwiches at Neil's.
In her tiny living room, Hermione enlarged the tree in a corner. A mere foot taller than herself, but it still managed to look enormous. Theo rolled up his favoured gillyweed and cannabis blend. She brewed two cups of tea.
With the fire burning high, they settled on the sofa, passing the joint between them. Green smoke mixed with steam from their cups. The day diminished, the room got dark.
Theo sighed out wispy tendrils. His scraggly beard had valiantly gained length while sadly failing to secure density. She remembered likening him to a young George Harrison back in sixth year. Well, he had not come into his Abbey Road era.
Time was no longer bleeding. It was warping and melting. Dribbling all over. The persistence of memory.
Flames shrank. Shadows swelled. Smoke dispersed. Tea cooled.
Everything but sound blended into the unguent decoction of time.
"At the beginning of the year, Luna and I had decided that we would move in together by Christmas. I think I've put off learning my lesson for too long now."
"What lesson?"
"Making plans is for wankers. I've been making them for as long as I can remember and they never work out. My mother had plans. I had a golden plan that carried me through the war. An idyllic little vision that looked like an ugly kitchen. Luna was there, you were there, Draco was there…"
"I'll always be there. And I'm certain that Draco will too."
"Yeah."
"I'm getting a portkey, by the way. To France. For the fucking post-Yule borequet."
"He bullied you into it?"
"What? No. I feel bad for him. Should never have taken the piss. See, Narcissa has decided that enough time has passed since the war, and she can start hounding him. Oh Draco, how can you leave our home to rot… Oh, Draco, how could you stop visiting your father… Oh, Draco, why must you lower yourself to peasant work… all while making sad, I-lied-to-the-big-ol'-evil-chap-for-you eyes."
"He's stopped visiting Lucius?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"He's a miserable old fogey, isn't he? A crashing bore. But anyway. If I go, Narcissa can focus her disdain on me."
"What's her problem with you?"
"What isn't? Like Lucius, she has decided that everything is my fault. My fault he's turned his back on his ideals. My fault he's rubbing shoulders with the rabble. My fault he's holed up in a poor, titchy flat with no house-elves."
"They really think he doesn't have a mind of his own, don't they? No agency. Like he's a child being led astray… which is just so rich, considering they're the ones who led him astray when he was an actual child!"
– A throaty laugh –
"What?"
"Heh. Nothing. You're absolutely right."
–
"Merlin's rod, I hated those things. Year after year, I was stuck, miserably picking at my food while father glared at me for daring to exist. Draco was always busy swanking, Vince and Greg stayed stuck to his side. Blaise has never liked me, Daphne and Pansy were their own little unit, Marcus and Adrian were cunts. Honestly, the only time I had fun was when they seated me next to Millicent. She has a surprisingly dark sense of humour."
"I have been bruisingly man-handled by her on more than one occasion."
"She was also unfortunately susceptible to the unofficial Slytherin code of conduct. …..Cow. I'm sorry she hurt you, buddy."
"Wasn't Astoria around for those borequets?"
"I found her annoying."
"You don't find her annoying now."
"She's a sweetheart. I enjoy bonking her."
"Argh."
"But…"
"But?"
"I can't really look at her. See her. Whatever. Luna was a part of me. Like… like. Like, my arm, my leg, my eyes, my Luna. I've been fucking amputated. Still haven't got a hang of living without a part of myself. But you know something amazing?"
"Tell me."
"I feel liberated. Can't explain it. But I think it's good. Plans keep you trapped."
"It's going to be alright, Theo. Everything. You're going to be alright."
"I know, darling. You're going to be alright, too." A warm hand on hers. "You hear me? You're going to be alright."
Kathy was standing at the wide open door of their office, hopping with excitement.
"You won't believe this!" she exclaimed, "Ellington and Speight have dropped the case!"
"About time," Hermione muttered as she edged past her and moved towards her desk.
"They've invited us to their engagement party."
"Their… I'm sorry?"
Kathy cackled. "I think we were witness to hours of foreplay."
For the rest of the boring day, she was tickled pink. Hermione tried to enjoy her enjoyment. They played around with the landlord/tenant dispute, niggling and petty, making her glad that her landlady was a non-presence in her life. During the lunch hour, Draco did not even glance at her; even though she sat at a close-by table, even though she smiled.
Snow was coming down hard when she got home in the evening; a veritable fortissimo. She threw down her stuff, her robes, right there in front of the fireplace, and she prayed for the spectre of time to appear and hurl her through the next three days, till her parents arrived. For currently, every single passing second was stabbing her.
There was a loud pecking at the window.
Rodion fluttered amid crazed flecks of white.
Hermione quickly let him in, and shook out the last few crumbs of owl treats she had left with her. Tied to his leg were three scrolls – three different drafts of the Norwegian Charter for the Establishment of Fair Working Hours for House-elves. A thick lump formed in her throat.
"Wait here," she told Rodion breathlessly, "Don't go yet."
She raced to the study and pulled out Collected Poems by T. S. Eliot.
For a fraught couple of minutes, she stood with a pen and post-it, as quotes and snippets carrying varying degrees of bite swam around in her head. Finally, she settled on the things she wanted so desperately from him: Tender words and straightforwardness.
I can no other answer make but thanks,
And thanks, and ever thanks.