Friday, May 2nd, 2003.
Commemoration day, part one: before the encounter.
Hermione woke up with a hangover she hadn't had the chance to perfect the night before. It basically meant just a headache. But she'd bought everything she'd need for a pepper up potion the evening before anyway and had set her alarm clock early just to brew one. Which she did first thing, and bottled enough for three times, as she sensed the upcoming night would be relatively difficult.
Then she took a proper shower, got ready, grabbed the plastic bag that contained her one good dress, some heels, and after buttoning her ministry robes, apparated straight outside of the ministry.
She dialled the code in the red telephone booth and heard her usual welcome. She managed to get to her office and close the door behind her without a single word unwillingly extracted from her mouth, and lost herself in work.
The only time she interrupted herself was when she had to sign a few reports from Zabini's company. She remembered precisely every time she'd gone to these offices, to meet with Mrs Zabini. The first time she'd met the old witch though, the Lady had booked an appointment at the Ministry. Hermione hadn't been head yet but a few month away from it only, so she'd already had quite a few responsibilities. The elder and well mannered witch had entered her office with elegance and sat right away, before going straight to the point of her visit.
She'd wanted to be rid of anything dark magic related that, as she'd stated herself, "polluted" her estate, now that the war was over, and that she could without having fear of retaliations. Hermione, who had already been working on exactly the matter with her superiors and, in direct collaboration, Kingsley Shackelbolt, who had been Prime Minister since the war, had accepted.
They'd both worked together for a year, and built out a project outlining a series of regulations and laws, the Wizengamot couldn't refuse. Of course being Hermione Granger had helped, at least with the public opinion. She'd been nominated head of the department shortly after the Wizengamot's acceptance.
Since then, she'd kept the Ministry's nose, or more hers, in almost every pure-blooded lead company that had outworn the war. She'd lowered the controls and reports the past few years, as those company were now clean, and for the most part, their heads were behaving.
The old Mrs Zabini had passed away a year prior, and Hermione had been cordially invited to the funeral. She'd come to respect the witch greatly and had been pained to learn she'd passed away. She'd stayed at the far end of the procession during the funeral though, feeling out of place. Apparently the witch had been well appreciated among her pears too and the crowd had been gigantic. So, she'd just hidden herself at the end of it. She had only caught a quick glance at Zabini, and now that she thought about it, Malfoy had been there too.
But what twisted her heart a bit at this memory was the reason why she'd started to like Mrs Zabini.
The memory was as fresh in her mind as if it'd happened the day before, but Hermione couldn't think of that now. She had papers to send, a trial to prepare and a lot of reports to finish. Plus, she had to call Judith and she dreaded even the sight of the stupid woman.
Draco was still in over his head with this new supplier contract when Blaise entered his office without knocking.
"What're you doing here?" He asked.
"Came pick you up." Blaise answered as if it were perfectly normal.
"I'm not your date."
"Yes, I know. I don't have one, I told you I'd have a go at the younger Greengrass."
"And you thought going there with me would help? At best I'll get her, and you'll end up back at Daphne's." Draco smirked.
"No, Daphne's not coming, she's sick."
Draco didn't even want to know, Blaise's smirk was so mischievous he'd better not get involved.
"Ah. I'll get ready then." Draco concluded.
They apparated outside the Ministry around seven in the afternoon, just in time. They were both received with a check of their wand for invitation and a sharp nod from a tight-faced Ministry official. As usual the event took place in the large reception room of the second floor and people had already gathered around the lifts.
It took ten bloody minutes to get into one, and once they landed at the right floor, ten more to actually move to the room.
As usual, Draco recognised most of the faces present there, among old Hogwarts acquaintances, were mingled Order members, Aurors and other Ministry officials, and professors. He caught sight of Minerva McGonagall, apparently having a content talk with the gigantic and shaggy Rubeus Hagrid at the back of the room, before he could point anyone else.
Blaise lead their way to the middle of the room, where rows of white chairs had been aligned, and few people already sat. He recognised Longbottom and Lovegood, McMillan, Chang and Goldstein, all gathered in a round, apparently laughing. Some of them had brought their spouses, apparently.
He scanned the room some more as Blaise did too, probably in search of Greengrass. There weren't so many Slytherins gathered but he bowed his head a bit at Parkinson's sight, he had no wish to torture himself, though his hair was probably betraying him anyway.
Then, there, a flash of red hair. Another, and another. The entire tribe was there, mingled with former Gryffindors. Johnson, Bell (shit), Jordan, the Weasley twin that hadn't died, and another older Weasley were in deep conversation. A few steps at their left, the parents, another older Weasley with long hair, Fleur Delacour, whom the long haired one had married, and their daughter gripping her hand, were talking to the real weasel, the atrocious Ronald. Potter was not far from them, a wary look behind his glasses, mingling with Thomas, Finnigan, Wood and his wife, the weaslette was there as well, holding her baby Potter tightly in her arms.
Turning his head away from the mingling groups, Draco caught Shackelbolt's stare and they nodded in polite acknowledgement. At his side were Hestia Jones, the Auror that had investigated the Manor after the war, Diggle or Dingle or whatever, Fletcher and the Longbottom grand mother, who were arguing loudly about something, wriggling their arms and hands like gesticulating monkeys. Their argument ended sharply, and the old lady laughed. They all followed. Disturbing.
Greengrass had apparently not arrived yet, and Draco smirked:
"No little bird eh? Maybe try for Abbott over there, I think she grew tired of Longbottom."
"Shut up."
The first, beside Shackelbolt, to seem to notice their presence was Slughorn. His old wrinkled face arboured a honeyed smile that fit well with his rather large stomach as he hobbled over them.
"Mr Malfoy! Mr Zabini! What a pleasure to see friendly Slytherin representatives. We're outnumbered it seems!"
Draco tried three times to cut the irritating chatter before finally managing to set free of the old leech.
"Salazar he never stops talking!" He complained once they were free.
"Yeah, that old bat. Can't find Greengrass anywhere." Blaise had kept perusing the place the entire conversation and seemed to be loosing his patience.
"Maybe she's sick too." Draco smirked. Blaise's eyes widened a moment and he seemed to think.
"Shit." He muttered. Draco chuckled:
"Want me to call Parkinson for you?"
"Err, no thanks. I'd rather go for Nott. He's there."
"Err … " Draco grimaced but Blaise was already on his way.
They strode to Theodore Nott and exchanged faked friendly pleasantries until Parkinson poked her ugly nose again, holding two glasses of whatever.
"Draco, Blaise, finished avoiding me already?"
"Not quite, now that you're here actually, I'll go." Sneered Draco, actually being honest and taking a step away.
"Good." She hissed at his back.
"Where did you get these?" Asked Blaise and she wrinkled her nose towards the far right of the room, where a bar had been settled.
"Do stay there." She sneered. "That's where the hopeless cases are."
Hermione had arrived early to the commemoration, hoping to go unnoticed in the crowd of Ministry officials taking care of the event. She'd been forced to politely acknowledge all of them though, one by one. But at least when she saw familiar faces come in, she was at the far end of the room, near the bar, hidden behind the crowd which had lost interest in her to go salute the newly arrived. In an attempt to stay in the shadows until the speeches ended, which would be a reasonable time for her to sneak out quietly, she'd braided her hair tightly, rolled it in a bun, all of that after applying about six bottles of Sleekeazy's. She was pleased to say that she looked like someone else.
It wasn't until she heard Ron's guttural laugh among the incessant chatter that she scowled, and finally took the single step that kept her away from a drink.
Ron's a mess, her arse.
"A firewhiskey." She droned to the bartender, a tall and skinny guy she'd never seen before. Good.
He nodded and obliged, but just as she was about to touch the glass with her bottom lip, she got interrupted.
"For Salazar's sake Granger, the party's not even started yet." Parkinson, of course. What next, Zabini? Nott? Malfoy? She didn't answer and took a first sip at her drink. Except the nasty woman sat down next to her. Hermione refrained from rolling her eyes.
"Two firewhiskeys please." Parkinson waited for her order, watching Hermione openly, while Hermione herself could very well see her from the corner of her eyes. The annoying ex-Slytherin started tapping her too sharp nails against the wooden bar, as a smirk slowly started on her pug-nosed face. Hermione took a deep breath not to make her stop by throwing her drink right in her face.
"Is this annoying you?" The witch taunted. Hermione kept her mouth shut, but she felt a slow bout of anger creep up her lungs.
"Are you mute?" That was enough.
"Fuck off Parkinson." She hissed quietly.
"Wow, rude. I'd never imagined the golden girl could speak like that. What's happened? Did your favourite weasel dump you?" Hermione couldn't help but chuckle, her anger vanished. The woman was as petty and shallow as she'd been at Hogwarts. It was ridiculous.
"You're pathetic Pansy." She said just when the bartender was putting the two glasses she's ordered on the bar before her.
"Oh but I think you're the pathetic thing right now, look at yourself Granger …" She started but got cut by the bartender:
"I think she told you to fuck off Parkinson."
Pansy's eyes widened and she half-stood angrily:
"How dare you …"
"Shut it. Or do you want me to remind everyone around here about your role during the battle we're commemorating right now?" That shut the bint's mouth for sure. And it caught Hermione's interest right away. Parkinson grabbed her drinks angrily, spilling some of it on the bar as she did, and strode away, her cheeks a nice deep red colour. Hermione felt like she had to say something, even though she could have shut Parkinson's mouth by herself:
"Thanks."
"You're welcome." The bartender smiled and extended his hand to her. Hermione almost sighed but shook it and nodded as he introduced himself:
"Peregrine Derrick, I guess you don't remember." Hermione frowned. Derrick, she definitely knew that name.
"Didn't you play Quidditch for the Slytherin team?"
"Yes, beater."
"Ah." Hermione returned her attention to her drink, another bloody Slytherin. What was he even doing here? She frowned further in her glass but tried to end the conversation before it started by keeping her gaze still on the amber liquid.
"I'm benevolent here." He continued. "Wasn't there for the battle, me dad was though, he's in Azkaban now."
So apparently he didn't get the hint.
"Sorry for you." She droned, now watching the veins in the wooden bar. It was a nice oak colour, even if she doubted it to be real oak. Maybe a boosting charm?
"Yeah well it's all right, I was never really close to him anyway. Plus, I've never wanted to be a death eater, trying to prove I'm not like that scum over there since the war."
"Great." She muttered. The bar was as boring as this conversation and she took interest at a thin thread that poke out the sleeve of her dress. She didn't want to pull at it, it could unpick the entire sleeve's hem. Derrick kept speaking, more to himself she realised as he propped his elbows on the bar so, she retrieved her wand and magically cut the annoying thread. Then she grabbed her drink again, and as he was now speaking about his Quidditch abilities - never recognised by any professional team - she decided to drown herself in the glass.
She was saved – that word deserved a big fat snort – from her ordeal by a now familiar voice she appreciated as much as Derrick's.
"Hey Dicky! Where's your double?"