Friday, May 23rd, 2003.
Part one: Missed encounters.
Hermione was at the ministry at five forty five that morning. It was the last day of trial. It would start at nine, and end whenever. Who knew. Maybe Sunday.
Growling, she scratched her head with great difficulty through her hair, and yawned loudly in the empty lift. The Ministry was deserted this early and she could only be grateful for it. So far, she hadn't encountered anyone potentially irritating that week. It was almost as if they avoided her.
It would certainly have been the drop anyway, and seeing the state of nerves that Kingsley was in, she thanked Merlin she hadn't been pushed to make another scene.
Speaking of their Prime Minister, he was waiting for her in her office, or more perusing through her notes and sitting in her chair, when she opened the door.
He didn't lift his gaze from the paper until he was done reading the page. Hermione had long sat in the visitor's chair when he finally did.
"Who's helping?" He asked. She knew him far too well to be fooled by his slightly curious expression. Kingsley had fought a war at her side, he was a master in disguise. Their Prime Minister. What she'd done with Astoria broke a Law of secrecy and he certainly wasn't dupe as to think her assistant/receptionist had annotated all her work.
"Tracey." She tried and the little twitch at his mouth forced her to sigh and confess: "Astoria."
She was inwardly preparing for a lecture, for his usual low voice that never yelled but sent chills down one's spine and which warning was deadly, to speak her mistakes. Instead, he nodded and resumed reading. Hermione didn't dare say a thing. After a minute of nervously wringing her fingers, she retrieved the notes she'd brought home the previous night, and started reading too. She still found bits to correct. Bits to underline for Astoria. Her quill scratching the paper was the only noise that resounded until Tracey knocked at six thirty.
"Come in." The frowning witch didn't flinch neither looked surprised to see their Prime Minister there. She didn't comment and just politely nodded in his direction. Maybe she felt the heavy tension in the room. Slytherin frowning thing.
"I'm at my desk if you need me. There's the usual paperwork waiting from yesterday, shall I take care of it and leave it for you to sign?" Thank Merlin for Tracey Davis.
"Yes please. On your desk Tracey."
"Noted." And she was out, clicking the door quietly after her. Kingsley had lifted his face from the page.
"You let her sort your paperwork?"
"She's brilliant." Hermione justified.
"You let someone from another department read your notes." He stated. The air felt still. If he decided to follow the Law, the entire trial could be compromised. She could be revoked. But somehow, she knew he wouldn't. When she didn't answer, he finally warned her with a single glance. She didn't speak. She knew better than to justify. It was useless.
"I'll have a position created. I think communication assistant would be a rather fitting job for Astoria Greengrass. If she refuses, burn these."
He then stood and only once he was at the door, he caught her eyes above his shoulder:
"I knew you'd get back on your feet eventually. I was starting to grow impatient."
And he was out, leaving Hermione utterly baffled. She was. He was right. How ironic that breaking a Law would make her realise that.
Tracey only made an appearance when Hermione was about to head to court.
"Trouble in paradise?" She grimaced. It triggered a little chuckle from Hermione.
"Not really."
"Astoria sent a note."
Couldn't come this morning! McMillan is a bit suspicious and kept me within arms reach since I arrived. I've just been allowed to go pee. Just stick to precision and it'll be alright. Keep me posted. Astoria.
Hermione scribbled an answer very quickly:
Bullocks. Need to speak to you as soon as possible. I'll send a note once I'm out the courtroom.
Draco stood from his chair, and stretched. Damn this paperwork. He needed a break. Except it was only ten o'clock, and he didn't have anyone to call and disturb in the middle of foreplay to join him. He still needed a break. Almost a whole week without seeing Blaise and he realised only then how much he needed the single person that didn't despise him in his life.
He wouldn't be able to hold that grudge much longer. BUT the lad had better have prepared a very detailed set of apologies. And his arse for some serious kicking.
Had he just chuckled alone? Over something Hermione sodding Granger had suggested? Damn he so needed that break.
He got out of his office, passed the ugly specimen at the entrance of the floor and, without a word, went down in the street.
The air was warm. Too warm for the black button up shirt he'd transfigured his light tailor robes into. Muggles always gave odd looks when he forgot the small flick of his wand, and he was pretty sure it broke a Law. He'd ask Granger sometime.
Right. Now, he was out of his mind. Maybe his system had been so used to a certain dose of alcohol that now, deprived of more than half of it, it was failing him. He should remedy the situation.
Tom was as bald as usual, his bar as dirty as ever, and the smell of sweat even more persistent than the rest of the year. Spring didn't do good to the establishment.
Draco sat slowly on his usual stool anyway, at the far end of the counter-top. Tom watched him a second, and then poured him a glass of firewhiskey, out of habit probably. The man lazily pushed it across the counter to him, and returned his wrinkled scalp to his pretend washing of something.
Draco took a sip at his drink. Alone. Pathetic. Right, he felt pathetic. Pushing the glass away, he decided that drinking without company wasn't relaxing in any way. If nothing it even made things worse. He stood, threw a coin at Tom, went to the back of the room and to the rear courtyard.
He tapped his wand on the brick wall, three times.
It had been years since Draco had come there without a purpose. The crooked streets were full of people. It would get even more crowded once lunch break would come. He transfigured his robes back, took a deep breath, and, trying not to regret it right away, took a step in.
Blaise had been practically thrown out of bed by a very early Astoria Greengrass that morning. Unable to go back to sleep, he'd gone out. He wandered around in Diagon alley for a good hour before deciding that it was about time he made another appearance at work. Work. He almost laughed.
He was about to head back to the Leaky Cauldron when something rather nasty caught his attention. A woman, her face swollen to the size of a small balloon, stormed out of a tea shop, screaming her lungs out. Apparently she'd been bitten by something.
Curiosity was a bad, bad sin. It would be the end of him.
He took a step closer, realised her face and hands were turning the ugliest shade of green he'd ever seen, while small purulent boils started popping everywhere on what was visible of her skin.
He gagged, just as a second woman, with an orange hat that strangely looked very small atop her gigantic head, stormed out the same shop, screaming too.
Both atrocities started pointing their fingers at every wandering passer-by that had gathered in a little crowd around them, screaming like banshees still. Blaise remained frozen to the spot and there was his mistake. A loud crack resounded and they were all suddenly surrounded by Ministry officials and Mediwizards and witches, that started fussing around.
Blaise startled and quickly made to run away, only to be pocked in the ribs by a tight-faced Ministry official, who droned:
"Witnesses stay here."
Draco had passed the Owlery, Fortescue's, Flourish and Blotts, and Madam Malkin's when he saw it. The Weasley atrocious shop. The whole thing was so bright it hurt the eyes. The worst wasn't the facility in itself but more who was at the door.
The weaslette was there, her dark-haired little brat clinging to her chest like a leech, as his mother was pestering about something he couldn't hear. Her brother, the remaining twin and owner of the bullshit shop, was at the threshold, his face set as stone in a red angry frown, his arms crossed against his chest, smoke swirling around his fingers.
Was he smoking?
Whatever. Not in any way wishing to be yelled at or warned by the presumptuous bitch, Draco turned a corner, and found an apothecary. He decided that if he was to run a potion shop, he might as well replenish his kit.
He got out half an hour later, an order placed to be delivered at his office the next day, only to be welcomed by another tedious thing. A small crowd, surrounded by Ministry officials, was loudly expressing their dissatisfaction. Draco caught sight of a mediwitch in the middle and decided that he had better head back to work quickly before somehow ending up accused of something.
He made himself the smallest he could, even if his hair never really helped, and got around the angry rally.
That's when he saw them. Greengrass and a few feet at her right, Blaise. This was definitely not his day.
They didn't see him though, she seemed very busy and Blaise very pissed off. He was apparently arguing with a tight-faced Ministry official, that remained a bit too calm not to get hexed or punched. A few steps away, Greengrass was taking notes next to a man that had his back to Draco, her usually pretty and contained face contorted in an angry frown that didn't look so good on her.
Draco decided that he never wanted to set foot in Diagon Alley ever again. This place was hell.
Hermione got out of the courtroom much earlier than she could have anticipated. Seven o'clock, which was rather unsettling. She had no idea how things had gone.
The fact that Kingsley didn't either was far from reassuring.
All she had to do now, was to wait for the Wizengamot's deliberations. It was beyond unnerving. She twisted her fingers nervously for the entire lift's journey, replaying the day in her head.
Of course she startled when Tracey grabbed her hand, sighing:
"You should probably go home Miss Granger." Apparently she'd stayed in the lift once it had landed. Good.
"I'll just do that yes." She agreed, which obviously surprised Tracey, a lot. She grabbed her purse, put her now useless notes on her desk, and started away.
She walked all the way down her crappy street, entered her muggle building, climbed the stairs, opened her door, realised she hadn't fixed her vase, cast a reparo, and stopped.
Hadn't she forgotten something? Astoria. Kingsley's proposition. Godric's bullocks.
She sat at her small kitchen table after grabbing a torn piece of parchment and started to write.
A sharp flaming sound burst from the living room when she was almost done. The piece of parchment was ripped from one side to the other, her wand was drown, her heart hammering her chest.
A floo call. Only a bloody floo call. How long had it been since someone had called her flat? She hadn't even remembered having it connected with the floo network.
"Hermione?" Astoria's face was … different. Angry, tired, annoyed a whole bunch of unpleasant things. "Ah you're there."
"What's wrong?"
"Err … I've been deployed. I hate McMillan. I had to take statements from a whole bunch of morons, including Blaise, because the owner of a sodding tea shop didn't bother getting rid of the vermin that infested his … " She started angrily but stopped to frown as Hermione got closer to the fireplace. "Are you alright?"
"Err …"
Astoria nodded: "I see. Hog's head?"
"Damn yes." Astoria turned her face at the back of the earth then, as if looking at someone. When she turned to Hermione again she was grimacing.
"Can Blaise come too?" She asked. Hermione almost burst out laughing.
"If I say no, he's going to sneak his way in anyway, right?"
"Err …"
"In an hour then? I need a shower." Astoria finally smiled and then scowled, she didn't turn to speak to Blaise this time:
"No you're not sodding too cute for her to let you wait on the street!" This time Hermione burst out laughing. Astoria's glare only added to it. It quickly morphed into a sighing half-smile though.
"In an hour." She said, and ended the call.
It took a few seconds for Hermione to stop laughing and head for her bathroom. There, she undressed, and, out of nowhere, remembered she had also forgotten something else.
Malfoy's letter. Wait, no, she had nothing that important to say to send an answer. She had decided that the previous evening, right? Plus, thinking about the blond in tailor robes while naked was surely something no one would ever feel comfortable with.
She shook her head to get rid of the thoughts when an idea came to her. A very mischievous idea. All right, maybe not so mischievous but at least a little. And only if it worked.
Draco went back home, a little earlier than usual. His shortened trip to Diagon Alley had made him skip lunch and atop being hungry – and sober – he had also done most of the paperwork due for the week. He could very well take care of what little was left during his boring week-end.
Once at the Manor, he went to the kitchens, one of the only rooms he was sure not to cross his mother. The elves had already prepared him a plate, as if expecting him so he ate quickly.
Once in his bedroom, the only occupying activity available was work, and he just couldn't.
That's when something that sent chills down his spine invaded the privacy of his own room.
"You have an owl." Drawled the cold and nasty voice. Draco jumped around as if hit by a lightning bolt. His father's painted disdainful face was wrinkling his nose at the boring still life that had always been above his bed.
"You can …"
"It is my home, isn't it son?" He could. He could go in every painting. He could see everything happening in that damned house. This was it. It was all too much.
"Are you finally daft to the point of not moving? I said you have an owl. In my office." Draco obeyed. Slowly, unwillingly, his head empty. He climbed the two flacks of stairs that led to his father's office and opened the door. He wasn't even surprised to see that it was as if he'd never been in there. He opened the window to let the owl in, took the letter from the bird, closed the window, and slumped in the chair by the chimney. He put the letter down on the cabinet, retrieved a glass, opened a brand new bottle of expensive firewhiskey, and poured himself a glass.
The liquid had just touched his parted lips when he recognised the handwriting. Granger.
He never drank the alcohol.