DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING BUT THIS SO-CALLED PLOT.
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The ease with which Hermione was able to put together a proposal was disconcerting, (and a little dismaying,) but it made sense since her raw materials were, in fact, rather ripe. She had been building, unbuilding, and rebuilding versions of it in her mind since July. Admittedly, it had been soul-crushing to deny her instincts when they told her to elaborate, and to clamp down on the impulse to be overeager.
She used the Norwegian charter as a framework, her notes on abolition laws as anchors, and UK labour law as a blueprint; while doing her best to suppress her personality.
The fact that she could no longer exist without something consuming and meaningful to attend to might have been cause for worry, but she didn't have the luxury or capacity to worry. For one whole day and two entire nights she kept at it. Being case-free was suddenly a blessing. Takumi had taken leave and gone off on holiday. Kathy was roaming around the office, scattering tinsel and holly all over the place. Hermione was left to her own devices.
On Wednesday, she swung her chair around to peer out the window in her study as the barest tint of daylight emerged in the sky, and she rolled up a concise two-and-a-half feet long scroll.
Proposal, not the final bill, she reminded herself.
Not only was it incomplete and full of cracks, it was a contentious idea during cautious times – Hermione had no confidence in it. But, for now, all it had to do was hold Barros' attention, and convince her to explore possibilities.
In thirty-nine hours, her parents would touch down on British soil.
Later that morning, in her brightest blouse and with a slight glamour under her eyes, she stood in the foyer by Barros' door, waiting to waylay her. Instead, it was she who was waylaid by Kathy, to be informed that the Wizengamot was having a meeting and that Madam Barros would not be back till after lunch.
That delay gave Hermione the chance to re-read her work more times than necessary, laying fertile ground for the growth of uncertainty and apprehension. She considered letting Kathy have a gander – but was turned off that idea even before it had fully formed.
Her nose remained buried in the scroll all the way down to the canteen, only rising when she partook in her daily ritual of seeking Draco. She found him in the middle of the line, shuffling behind his uninspiring companions.
"I can tell you what I'm plotting now," she chirruped, bounding to his side, turning a deaf ear to the indignant squawks of the people she had casually cut in front of.
"I am on tenterhooks," he droned.
He was more intrigued by the sandwiches on display. Any hope of that changing was gone when he dithered before the piles of ham and BLT, like he was facing a very serious conundrum.
She leaned to one side. "Honestly, thank you so much for getting–"
"You've already thanked me."
"Hello, Hermione," Fiona smiled over her shoulder.
"Hello," she said back.
When the time came to converge around a table, Draco waited till everyone else had settled, then quite emphatically marched to a different table and sat down.
"Draco…?" Fiona called out weakly, and completely ineffectively.
He was tense, with his guard up so conspicuously high, that it was almost threatening. What must Narcissa have said to him? Hermione felt wretched convulsions of pity, wishing she could find him in the alternative dimension where she was allowed to curl into his side and ask him what the matter was.
What she could do, however, was distract him with a bit of light verbal sparring. Hint at stupid or embarrassing things to give him something to look forward to.
She left that table for his, feeling Fiona's eyes on her all the way. Conversely, Draco's eyes remained staunchly on his tray.
"Shove off, Granger," he spat when she'd barely just bent her knees.
"I told you I'd reveal my plan once I'd got hold of the charter. I'm a woman of my word."
She could feel blistering waves of fury coming off him when she paused to unwrap her sandwich. Not letting them deter her was proving to be a challenge; something that had never been a problem before she went and got so utterly soft for him.
"I'm provisionally calling it The Elf Manumission Project. So… TEMP. Get it? Hah. Ahem. So… well… anyway… One day off is akin to nothing, and doesn't remedy the issues of subjugation and enslavement. I'm proposing the immediate, unconditional freeing of all House-Elves."
She waited for… anything. The image before her stayed the same. Draco glaring downwards. Lunch untouched.
"It's quite alright. You don't have to say anything. Your disapproval and scepticism is perfectly conveyed. I imagine you'd like to tell me that I'm a fool and that it will never be approved by the Wizengamot? Or you'd like to convince me that House-Elves like being enslaved and abused?"
"Actually," he rapped out venomously, "I have developed a strong aversion to indentured subjugation, if you can believe that. I have no desire to propagate it in any way."
Her face, neck, and ears burnt, and she muttered a quick, "I can believe it."
"Doubtful. But you've had your say. Now go away."
"I – I'm not done."
"I don't care."
Hermione's head lowered with abashment. So much for being in a good mood around her. She clenched her scroll tightly to help focus her resolve, and pitchy and desperate, she ploughed on –
"I understand that just freeing the elves and then leaving them to fend for themselves is not a solution. I plan to draw up a formal, uniform contract that both the elf and employer must sign and adhere to, that will detail rights, working hours, payment, holiday entitlement, and such things. A standard work contract like you and I and any other Ministry worker has to abide by. The thing that I've struggled with the most is compensation. Muggle abolition acts doled out remittance to slave owners for the loss of their 'workers.' But I can't fathom the logic behind paying the upper crust to sustain the 'loss' of the exploitative labour that they could've easily paid for, a hundred times over. I'd be interested to hear your thoughts about that."
Another painful, silent interval. He did not share his thoughts. She fidgeted and cast an eye around, diligently avoiding Fiona's inquiring stare.
"Of course," she warbled, "It could all go to hell if Madam Barros decides it isn't worth pursuing. I could put in an independent petition, but those scarcely get any attention, and if they do, they are never seriously entertained."
"How can anyone deny Hermione Granger anything, though?" he sniped nastily.
She wanted to laugh so loudly at that. God, if he knew.
She carried on as if he hadn't spoken. "It'll be far more advantageous if I have the office of Elena Barros backing me, especially in the wake of Lupin's Law and the Millward case. Might get press coverage, too–"
"Because you'd never be able to muster up their interest on your own. The press is completely uninterested in you."
Again, with difficulty, she pushed through. "It's just that Barros is so unpredictable and impossible to impress!"
"Hasn't she already praised you for Crisis Aid?"
"I lose my head around her. I either get angry or twitchy and… horribly inarticulate. And maybe I haven't worked on this proposal for long enough –"
"You're too fucking neurotic to turn in anything less than thorough."
"And might I remind you that you are the one who said that I don't make a good first impression? Or second, or third, or four–"
"Right."
That was said at such an unexpected volume that she jumped. She looked around uneasily, wondering if they were being stared at.
"Um… so…" What to say, what to say. "Do you think–"
"As if you care what I think."
A downright tortuous interval.
She murmured, "I wouldn't ask if I didn't–"
"It doesn't matter. What I think doesn't matter, what I say or do doesn't matter."
"Draco… What?"
"All that matters is what I thought before. What I did before. That's how I'll always be seen. By everybody… my parents… you."
The most flabbergasted, unbelieving tangle of words sat in her larynx, too tightly packed to escape. She gaped at him, wondering how he could possibly think that about her. How? How?
"How?" she wheezed.
"Every fucking thing I do is perceived through that lens. Every word I say… every off-hand comment, every stupid little joke –"
"Joke," she choked out, and all her bitterness – every last grain of it – escaped, unbidden, alongside that word.
"Yeah." He nodded with such ugly vindication, like her bitterness was exactly what he had been waiting for.
He banished his tray and stood up, pushing his chair in with rattling force. His hands gripped white and hard on the back of the chair, and he stared down at her wearing a look that –
That…?
She couldn't name it. She couldn't understand it.
All she knew was that she never wanted to see it appear on his face. It took hold of her heart and wrung it.
"You have no reason to fret over your preparedness, your boss' approval, or your ability to put forward a strong argument. Now go ahead and disregard all of that… as is your wont."
Once again she had to endure the vision of him storming away, past tables and out the door. A steady, high pitched ringing sounded in her ears. It felt like she had been bodily shaken, so hard that none of her insides were in their rightful place anymore.
Fiona sidled up to her, oozing sagacious disapproval that was devised to make her wild.
"It's best not to bother him when he's troubled. He prefers to be left alone to his thoughts."
"Excuse me," Hermione muttered, and left.
She couldn't make sense of what she was feeling. Her brain, swimming somewhere in the rattled cavity of her body, was providing no assistance whatsoever.
Now go ahead and disregard all of that… as is your wont.
As was her wont? Her wont was memorising and obsessing over every bloody word he said to her. Her wont was melting into a helpless puddle if he so much as offered her a shred of indulgence, instances of which wouldn't even fit on a post-it, and consisted of casual, pat flirtation that was aimed to throw her off for his entertainment.
She recognised what she was feeling. Pure indignation.
After all the slices of cake, glasses of wine, conversations in towers, observatories, quiet rooms, and loud pubs… how dare he accuse her of holding the past against him? What right did he have to claim that she perceived him through a distorted lens when she saw him so clearly and brilliantly? She saw an inspiring, stimulating, magnetic person who, with every poignant insight, every clever turn of phrase, bludgeoned her with the mounting conviction that he had been designed with her in mind.
She had arrived outside the DDL in no frame of mind to face Barros.
Venturing to the nearby window, she pressed a hand against her eyes and inhaled deeply. Electric blooms erupted across blackness and she let them pulsate for a moment before pulling her hand away. Their imprint stayed even when her eyes opened, sparkling over the winter scene outside, blandly perfect in a way that only artificiality could accomplish.
She was so tired of feeling so ravaged. Completely tired. She could scarcely remember a time when she didn't feel that way.
There she was, minutes away from taking the first step to bring a long-standing goal into fruition, and her prime focus was her own pathetic heartache.
No.
Absolutely not.
She lifted her chin and cut a determined path to Barros' office. Scarcely had she raised her knuckles, than the door flew open, and a voice from within bellowed –
"Come in."
She entered, facing her boss who was draped in hunter green suede.
"Madam Barros," she said with forced dynamism, "Good afternoon. I hope I'm not bothering you."
"What is it you need?"
Holding the scroll in both hands like an offering, Hermione began her well-rehearsed disquisition: "I've been working on potential legislation for the emancipation and establishment of basic rights for House-Elves, and I hope that it is an initiative you will support and be willing to attach your name to."
"What's that?" she demanded, pointing a gold-tipped finger at the scroll.
Hermione took a second to re-align her thoughts. "It's a formal, written proposal."
"Does it contain everything you wish to communicate?"
"...Yes?"
"Are you planning on saying something that isn't in your proposal?"
"I… suppose not?"
"Very well. Leave it here. I'll have a look."
"But, I–"
"Is there something vital that you've left out for some reason, that you must verbally convey to me?"
Hermione wanted to tear her hair out. How could she know that? There would have to be a discussion – some damn engagement – for that. She clenched her jaw and set the scroll on Barros' desk.
"You may go."
"Thank you for your time."
Outside, she nearly screamed. Everyone was either pernicious, infuriating, or intolerable. After a few long and deep breaths, she checked her watch. Thirty-three and a half hours till her parents landed.
All would be right once they did.
She approached the door to her office, opening it just a crack to peek in. Kathy had brought a whole tree inside. She was busy decorating while singing Wassail! Wassail! All Over the Town. Hermione wheeled around and fucked off to the archival chambers for the rest of the day.
XXX
She hadn't been able to stay on anything for long enough. There were so many things that required her attention, yet Draco, with inevitable frequency, kept jamming his way into her thoughts, knocking whatever else was in the forefront out of the way. Indignation had melted. Melancholy was the reigning emotion when she returned to her flat.
She fixed herself a cup of green tea that he had bought for her from China, and stood in front of the salon wall, staring at all his contributions. All three were simply perfect for her collection; curated, like she had curated books for him.
They proudly adorned her wall. Had she disregarded them by doing that?
She stepped closer and peered at the little Sung dynasty cat, angry and bristling.
Could it be that her interminable longing had been evident in ways she hadn't anticipated? Perhaps that desire had manifested such that it made him feel like his overtures of friendship and goodwill weren't enough. For they were enough… had she not wanted so much more from him. They were consistent and certainly enough for a few barbs – off-hand comments, stupid little jokes – to harmlessly slip in… had they not been delivered to a fractured heart.
She couldn't stand the thought of him feeling like she held any lingering disdain towards him. She couldn't allow that notion to persist.
Leaving the tea under a preserving charm, she made a dash to her bedroom, scrounging through the shopping bags till she found a box of festive chocolates, which she wrapped in colourful paper. Then she ran through the fireplace.
Fingers crossing and uncrossing, she walked down the long hallway, praying he hadn't already left. She paused to cast a wary eye at Theo's closed door, (covered with criss-crossed glowing blue chains) hoping the holiday rush would keep him at the shop for a while. Wary became daunted when she considered Draco's door.
But she knocked anyway.
He pulled it open with no little force, and seeing her triggered a look of unmitigated exasperation.
"Oh, good," she smiled, relieved and nervy, "You're still here."
He was not in the mood for that game at all.
"Why are you here?" he blistered.
"Would you give this to Safi for me, along with my regards?" She held out the box.
He snatched it away, tossed it somewhere behind him, and made to slam the do–
"Wait, wait!" She tottered sideways, following the diminishing gap at the doorway. "When will you get back?"
"What's it to you?"
"Well," she said with a skittish laugh, "I wouldn't want to send your present to Kabul, only for you to portkey back while the poor owl is halfway across the Caspian Sea."
Draco looked as unimpressed as that claim deserved. He must've been able to taste her desperation.
"Saturday afternoon."
"Oh? But then you could have made it to your mother's Yule banquet, and not had to go twi – Okay, sorry, sorry! You are aware of that. Of course. Didn't mean to rub salt – oh my god, Draco. Would you just hold on!"
"I don't have time for your shit!"
"I'll leave you be in a bit! Just tell me what you have planned for Christmas dinner."
"Why?"
"Are you going to Andromeda's?"
"She'll be at the Weasley hovel," he growled.
"Then…" she clasped her hands and dug in her heels, "Will you come have dinner with us? Theo, my parents… and…"
"Fuck no."
"Why not?! I know Theo's foray wasn't very promising – he made a right mess of the recipes – but my dad really is the most marvellous cook. I can promise you a great meal."
"I don't want a pity-plate."
Eyes flashing like light on a mirror, he had one hand gripping the door and the other the frame, like he would die if the two didn't meet at the earliest.
"It won't be a pity-plate!" she objected fervidly, "We'd love to have you! You know Theo would, and mum and dad–"
"You can speak on behalf of your parents, then?"
"Yes, I bloody well can! I've known them a rather long time. My mum is so taken with potions and arithmancy; she'd love to have someone else to talk to about them! And my dad is very into music. He plays the guitar. He's also curious about quidditch, but I've never had the patience or inclination to tell him much about it. You would be most welcome."
"Oh, sure," he sneered, "They'd welcome the chap who was absolutely, unforgivably horrible to their daughter while at school–"
"They don't know any of that," she huffed, dropping her face downwards.
He fell silent. She didn't need to look at him to know he was taken aback.
"I kept a lot from them," she mumbled softly, "They were so gobsmacked and thrilled by the idea that I was magical, and had finally found somewhere I belong, I hadn't the heart to tell them. By the time I got around to apprising them of… of the way things were… well, the stuff with you wasn't… it didn't figure."
She straightened her neck. He was wearing that look again; the one she never wanted to see appear on his face.
"Nevertheless," he said over a harsh sigh, "I am not going to intrude on your happy family Christmas."
He was straining out of the doorway, baring down the best he could without losing his hold on the door and frame. Hermione felt such a mad burst of exasperation.
"You won't be intruding! I'm inviting you!"
"You've already gone above and beyond for Theo's sake. There's no need to inveigle me into–"
"Good lord! You're being ridiculous today!"
"Shut the fuck up. Not all of us are in the habit of barreling and pushing–"
"Do you know why I keep pointing out the obvious to you, Draco?"
"Because you can't go without hearing your own voice for longer than a few seconds!"
"No! Because you are completely, stupidly blind to the most obvious things!"
"Oh, you're a fine one to talk!"
"Because if you would just pay attention to what's blatantly evident, you'd realise that I like spending time with you. Very much. I want you to be there."
That only served to aggravate him even more. He looked incensed.
Hermione did not possess yond Draco's Mien of Persuasion, nor any such expression that might induce or seduce. But she had a well-practised look that dad had once dubbed ruthlessly angelic.
She looked up at him with eyes wide. One corner of her mouth gently curled up, and she said, "Join us for dinner, Draco. Please?"
Everything – all emotion and bearing – melted away like a charm was making its way down his face. It went slack. Utterly blank. Maddeningly, stolidly blank. And it stayed that way.
"Fine."
She grinned. Beamingly, (a little insanely.) Draco's brow twitched as he took note of it. For a passing second, she thought he was going to speak; but he simply swallowed.
"Brilliant," she said, taking a few steps backwards. "I'll… leave you in peace now."
His arms fell from the door and frame. He shifted, leaning one shoulder against the jamb, pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek, while she took another two steps backwards.
"What did Barros have to say about your proposal?"
She stopped and pursed her lips to the side ruefully. "Nothing. She told me to leave it on her desk, and that she'd have a look. Then she dismissed me."
"Assertion of dominance," he explained.
"No! Really?"
"She knows that a Hermione Granger running rampant is a dangerous thing."
Dangerous. She blew out a short, disbelieving breath. Dangerous. She was all-round ineffectual.
"By the way," he drawled.
A smirk had begun to simmer just underneath his insouciance. She could see it and she could see him. He looked like her Draco – well, not hers – but the Draco she knew him to be. Hers. Hers.
"Yes?"
"You really do make a horrible first impression."
She wanted to laughcryslapkiss him.
"So do you."
"That's not my problem."
"It is categorically your problem."
"And you would most definitely be a nightmare to date."
Was he testing her now? Like, better take my shit or I'll accuse you of being a grudge holding harpy?
Her glower brought out his latent smirk.
"The rose is a coquettish creature. Haughty, demanding, and drunk on her own beauty."
"W-What?!"
"You saw how she tormented the Little Prince with her fragrance and radiance… made him move heaven and earth to tend to her, yet was never satisfied. Drove the poor lad so spare that he abandoned his own planet."
Hermione's brain wasn't functioning anymore. Fully dead. She was only aware of a primal appetency that was telling her to fucking lunge at him.
"Isn't that right?" he asked archly.
"I am not at all afraid of tigers," she recited blankly, "But I have a horror of drafts"
What must I do, to tame you?
He lowered his chin and fixed her with a penetrating stare. "I think putting you in a glass globe will be good for the universe in general. Prince and pauper alike."
"It'll have to be very large," she murmured.
"Why's that?"
"Potential hair expansion."
"Oh, right. It'll have to be palatial."
"I'm afraid so."
He chuckled. She could not respond in kind.
Empty lungs. Leccy on her skin. Demolition hammer heart. Grey non-matter.
"Now honestly, fuck off. My portkey will activate in ten minutes."
Breathe in. It's important.
"I hope Safi shoves you down a mountain," she gasped. (He raised his eyebrows.) "Um, enjoy the trip. See you on Saturday."
She walked back down the long hallway suspecting that he may have cast a surreptitious jelly-legs curse on her. A very peculiar energy was building between her muscles and bones, the kind that educed crazy, volatile behaviour. She absolutely could not look back to see if he was still standing at the door.
The energy wrapped around her sinews. It infiltrated muscle fibres. It was the sort of thing that made leaping out of a window possible. It turned canaries into missiles. It always ended with her shell-shocked, letting loose a litany of oh god's.
Oh god, if she looked back and found him still standing there…
It was only after she had turned the corner and stepped into the sitting room that she heard the click of his door closing.
Breathe out. It's just as important.
At home, she paced. A turbulent march from one room to the other, to expend the mad energy. However, she was well aware that simple physical exertion would do nothing to get rid of it. She swept into the bedroom and decided to finish wrapping all the presents. No prizes for guessing what she started with.
The player, CDs, and headphones were placed in a box imbued with plenty of cushioning charms. With them, a sheet of parchment with instructions on how to get it working, and another with Goethe's Erl-King. She sat back, watching as a strip of ribbon tied itself into a bow, and wondered if it was possible for him to think this gift was also just for Theo's sake?
For Theo's sake. Bloody hell. Pity-plate. Where was his mind? To have every instance where she was wholly herself, cheapened to that?!
She groaned and buried her face in her hands, brought right back to the state she was in earlier in the day: Tired of feeling so ravaged. Completely tired. Her blood, (that had been gushing in the aftermath of his sudden turn into cheeky, suggestive Draco,) turned cold, and she was all set to spend hours agonising over whether he had truly meant that they were the prince and the rose, or he was just bringing some levity back into play after a show of vulnerability; or perhaps he didn't see himself as the prince at all, just likened her to the arrogant rose and nestled a gibe between words like beauty and radiance –
She couldn't do this anymore. She couldn't, she couldn't, she couldn't torture herself wondering about his motivations. Just like she couldn't touch him, or even let herself look at him for too long. He – the air around him – felt inviolable. Sacrosanct. Psyche shackled her in place. Cupid wished to see her languish forever in the dark.
Twenty-nine hours till her parents' arrival.
The rest of the presents were parcelled in a matter of seconds, jumping up in the air as paper flew and wrapped around them. Then she picked up her wand and began cleaning her flat more thoroughly than she had ever done before.
Obsessively lingering in the foyer, awaiting a summoning from Madam Barros, proved to be an unavailing endeavour. Further assertion of dominance, no doubt. She would most likely be called on two weeks later, and Barros would say, "Hermione Granger, you idealistic fool! Begone forever!"
At half-past five, everything ceased to matter. She ran uninterrupted from the Ministry atrium to the florist's shop, and bought big bunches of daffodils and crocuses, turning up her nose at the pansies and daphnes.
She spread them all around her flat, doing yet another round of cleaning while she was at it. She cleaned the cleanliness.
In the balcony, she refreshed the protective charms on her plants and rearranged them so that the ones that were thriving the most got pride of place. In the bedroom, she whipped out fresh sheets. A duplicate of the chest of drawers was conjured. Finally, in the study, she emptied the drawers of her desk and transfigured it back into a bed.
By the end of all that, it was quarter to seven. Her parents' flight would land at eleven.
Another round of cleaning, then?
XXX
Dark snippets of London flickered across the taxi's window. Mum's face was pressed against it, like a child taking in uncharted splendours. Hermione's head was on her shoulder, and she was staring at dad's hair, which was visible over the top of the passenger seat.
Her hands were freezing. She rubbed and rubbed them together till mum took them between both of hers. Her hands were toasty warm.
They were deposited at a bus stop on an empty road by a rather suspicious driver. Once his break lights faded from view, Hermione shrunk her parents' luggage and grabbed both their arms.
"This will be very uncomfortable," she warned, "Brace yourselves."
When they appeared outside her building, dad's oath echoed through the neighbourhood. Many darkened windows lit up. Hermione swiftly dragged them inside.
"Sweetheart," mum said gently, "Are we supposed to see something besides empty land and trees?"
"Oops, sorry. Parte revelio."
"Christ alive," dad breathed, as both him and mum gaped around the unremarkable lobby.
"This way," Hermione said.
Mum took her hand again in the rickety lift. Hermione squeezed it tight. The night was so mellow, and so were her thoughts. They were warm like mum's hands. Even the tingle of nerves that arose when she led them into her little home felt like toasty embers from a crackling winter fire.
They went first to the living room, where mum spun in a slow circle and smiled.
"Charming."
"Yeah. Luh–Love–Ly," dad agreed over an enormous yawn.
Hermione grinned and slipped her arm through his, taking them to the bedroom.
"But you don't mean to give us your bedroom?" he objected.
"Tch. Of course, I do. You can put your things in there. Bathroom's at the end of the hall. Just… um… settle in. I'll fix us some chamomile tea."
She scurried out before it could become a proper scene.
A while later, she took in the visual of mum peering out the balcony doors and dad sitting back in bed and felt perfect, placid contentment.
"So Corfu at last," she beamed, settling at the foot of the bed.
A shared childhood love for My Family and Other Animals had been one of the very first things mum and dad had bonded over in the early days of their relationship.
"At last indeed," mum replied, "Almost didn't happen. Your father would still rather not go."
"Whyever not?!"
"Tell her, Robert."
"Don't start now," dad grumbled.
"Hermione wants to know," mum impelled smirkingly.
Dad only narrowed his eyes, so mum settled next to Hermione with a laugh –
"Your dear old dad is convinced the end is nigh! Apocalypse! Armageddon!"
"Now, look here…" dad demurred.
"At midnight, new years eve, the internet will think it's 1900 again, and turn into a pumpkin!"
"Er, pardon?" Hermione interjected.
"You say that as if Hermione can't literally turn things into pumpkins with a swish of her wand! And it will bring the world to a standstill! Transportation, media, and air navigation all rely on computer systems! There will be a coal shortage and electricity will be cut off. The bloody NHS will collapse!"
"Do you really think they will let that happen? Governments and fat-cats have put in enough money to sort it out. Trials and tribulations aside, they will never let billion-dollar businesses fail–"
"Then why have they planned to deploy a thousand extra prison officers on call for the millennium celebrations? They anticipate things going very wrong!"
This was clearly an issue they had touched on before. Hermione barely followed, but she sat back and listened with a stupid grin on her face as they carried on and on. How fantastic it must be, to be able to have such fevered debates after twenty-two years of marriage. It gave her the bitterest, sweetest pang. She couldn't even bring herself to care about the supposed armageddon.
"Anyone with any sense is saying it won't come to that!"
"So the IY2KCC was formed for a laugh?"
"You sound like a raving conspiracy theorist, Robert."
"Your witch daughter teleported us into an invisible neighbourhood and you find the thought of computer systems failing hard to believe?!"
They didn't sleep till two A.M. Hermione didn't sleep till four. The study had strange shadows. At one point she mistook the lamp for the spectre of time. Her eyes closed while Draco's must've been wide open, gazing at the peaks of the Hindu Kush.
Bleary-eyed Hermione Granger, (convincingly bright-eyed under a strong glamour,) felt the act of being summoned to her boss' office on Christmas Eve shortly before it was time to close shop, might set off a miraculous chain of events. It wasn't impossible that, after being irascible as usual, Barros would be visited by three spirits at night, after which she would be a changed woman. Light as a feather, happy as an angel, merry as a schoolgirl, giddy as –
"Sit down."
Hermione sat, crossing her ankles demurely.
"I have read your proposal," she announced.
And clammed up.
More stupid mind games. Hermione wasn't having any of that… for she had no reason to fret over her preparedness, her boss' approval, or her ability to put forward a strong argument.
So she spoke – "May I say something before you dub me a whimsical idealist and call it a day?"
Barros' eyebrows shot up. Hermione may have (idealistically) imagined that she was suppressing a smile. "Go ahead."
"I am cognisant of the challenges of this undertaking. I know it will not be quick, or easy, as the eradication of deep-rooted evil usually is. I know the question of compensation is tricky, I know the Ministry doesn't have any disposable funds, and I am sure many purebloods will follow the Phaedrus Greengrass route if they are robbed of their slaves without any–"
"You know all this." Barros cut in dryly, "Yet you still wish to continue."
"Yes."
"It's a fool's errand."
"May seem that way. But we have to start somewhere."
"And," Barros consulted the proposal ironically, "You wish to write your contract with input from House-Elves?"
"Absolutely. It's their lives. They must have a say."
"Do you truly think–"
"I am very familiar with the explosiveness of their reaction when even the word clothes is mentioned. I have seen first hand how profoundly centuries of subjugation has marked them and their psychology."
"Yet you think conferring with them will get you somewhere?"
"It's about opening a dialogue. As I said, we have to start somewhere."
Barros eyed her keenly, with very thinly veiled derision, for long enough that Hermione completely lost momentum. Therefore, perfectly calculated.
"How about you start by paying a visit to the Office for House-Elf Relocation next week. Ask for Benjamin Snelling. Tell him about your undertaking."
"Alright," Hermione said falteringly, "Is he–"
"You may go now."
"...To see him?"
"Leave my office, Granger. The day is over."
She picked up her quill and diverted her attention to the parchment in front of her.
"Right. Of course." Hermione stood up, slinging her satchel over her shoulder. "Merry Christmas, Madam Barros."
Her face twitched with irritation. "There's no time for that."
Hermione grinned as she left. A bah, humbug if there ever was one.
She kept her grin till she got home, where it only expanded into something larger. Mum was on the floor by the tree, scrounging through the box full of baubles. Dad emerged from the kitchen with a tray of steaming mugs. They both greeted her with utmost delight.
The air smelt of cinnamon.
.
.
(The line about the internet turning into a pumpkin was stolen from Stephen Fry.)