No knocks on the door and the appearance of a beautiful woman, overwhelmed by the condition of her existence could only mean one thing for Hermione Granger: Narcissa Black had once again presented herself to her office without an invitation.
In a sobbing mess, Narcissa threw herself into the armchair and began to recount her woes: a sleepless night, the appearance of more wrinkles, palpitations of the heart and night sweats.
"And that is not all," she sobbed, as Hermione urgently began to show her to the door. "I had a dream-"
"It's all very concerning, but you need to wait in line just like everyone else," Hermione hissed, opening the doorknob.
"You don't understand," Narcissa snapped, extracting her wand, and barring the door shut. Her eyes grew dark with maddening, lusty excitement. "It was my husband. Lucius came to me."
Hermione sighed. "Yes. Nightmares are often common after one leaves an abusive situation-"
"He is coming for me. He is going to kill me. Both Edward and I."
Hermione was not certain if the look on Narcissa's face suggested true horror or anticipation. Those Pureblooded wizards were a different breed of mag. What struck fear into the hearts of most, excited Narcissa. Whether it was the idea of being won over by an old lover, or mauled to death by him in a fit of passionate rage, it was all the same. She was the kind of woman who only felt loved if there was split blood.
Lucius Malfoy was back and, by her account, vengeful. What did Narcissa expect would happen, leaving him the way she had?
According to Narcissa, she had packed up all her belongings in the middle of the night and left Lucius Malfoy tied to his bed naked and blindfolded. She said they would be having a passionate night of love-making. A surprise. Instead, she emptied out his pockets, took everything of value from his safes and flew off into the night. The next week, sent him a letter signifying her intent to divorce him. Then, going through a gruelling court order which robbed Lucius of his many, many homes (except the Manor) and any rights to a mere Galleon of the Black family income. Narcissa and her lover escaped and left Lucius in near poverty. The only thing the wizard did have was his Manor, and only because it belonged to the Malfoy bloodline for centuries and was subject to a variety of patriarchal contracts.
"What do you say to that, Hermione?" Narcissa's eyes shone.
"I'd say, Mrs Snape, that you still need to schedule an appointment with my secretary if you'd like an audience. Private appointments cost double, you know, and last-minute appointments warrant extra charge."
"I'll owl you the check?" Narcissa said.
"Out."
Hermione watched the witch, beautiful as she was, chasse her way out of the Bureau for the Protection of Rights of Magical Folk. Hermione's assistant, Barnaby, sat staring blankly in her direction. The other Wiccans in line shot Hermione with death stares. One witch went as far as to mumble a profane curse in her general direction.
"Barnaby. My study. Now."
Barnaby followed suit. He was a plump man with a very large set of blue eyes. "Have you seen the poor-"
"How dare you!" In her chair behind her desk, Hermione imagined she looked rather menacing. Barnaby, of course, remained unaffected by her position.
"How dare I what?"
"Barnaby, I specifically told you many times not to let people in without appointments." Hermione rubbed her temples. "This is why people accuse our bureau of playing favourites with the Purebloods. Because of people like her who barge in uninvited."
"But she was in pain," Barnaby said. "Didn't you hear her? I mean Mr Malfoy is crazy. He's mad! He can't be anywhere near her with the Probation Order-"
"It doesn't matter," Hermione grumbled. "The entire point of having the appointment system is so that people like Naricca Malfoy can't use their influence and position in life to get ahead. Why is her emergency more important than anyone else's? If we start letting people in who have more Galleons, it paints us as bureaucratic gangsters and I'll remind you that the Bureau for the Protection of Rights of Magic Folk is, in essence, humanitarian. We don't value someone's problems as more important just because they pay us more to investigate them."
Barnaby was a good employee, of course, but the correct actions must have been enforced for his misconduct. Hermione sighed. "I hate to do this, but I have to…let you resign from your position. I can't give you a positive recommendation on your resume, but I won't write anything negative either which should put you on neutral terms with your future employers."
Barnaby's eyes widened. "You bitch."
"Excuse me?"
Barnaby undid his tie and threw it under his boot, mushing it into the carpet. "You try to be this egalitarian "Miss Propriety", but you're nothing but a cold-hearted witch, Hermione Granger. You don't care for people in the least!"
Hermione crossed her arms, hair whizzing around her head. "That is not true."
Barnaby stormed to the door, but the blows kept emerging from his mouth. "You know what people say about you behind your back? That you're only in this line of work because nobody loves you at home. So you put on this act and you pretend to care for people's problems, but you're just trying to fill a hole inside your heart that's only there because you put equality above actual concern. You know what? Some people's problems are more important than others'. What's the use of helping Magic Folk if we turn away people in current distress all because we have to follow a Code of Conduct?"
His words alone riled Hermione up to unfathomable heights. Though she let Barnaby exit the study unhexed, she didn't let the fire burning in her chest cease. She admitted all of today's clients by herself and made sure they were compensated for their waiting time. She reminded herself to fire her employees at the end of their working shift the following time around. As soon as the last client left, it was eight thirty, which was nearly three hours after closing time. Hermione was starving. She was tired as a Hell Dog. She walked to Barnaby's desk and with the swift motion of her wand, dumped his shite into a cardboard box. Barnaby was a good man, she liked working with him, but his knickknacks needed to go. Her ego was bruised and this act of retribution didn't really do much physically but made her feel a bit better emotionally.
She descended down the steps of the Ministry with Barnaby's box in her hands and dumped it before the reception. No sooner than she stepped outside than she got herself into a giant pile of Kneazle turds. Double shite.
She wiped her legs on the edge of the crosswalk. It began to drip from the grey sky as she walked to the subway station. She could Apparate home, but she needed to walk off the anger. Barnaby was not right. He couldn't be right about her.
Her cloak — soaked. Her shoes slopped from the water. She felt utterly miserable, like a wet, three-headed dog. She was probably a freak. A small voice inside her whispered that Barnaby had a point. She barely had any friends because she hadn't kept in contact with anyone since she took up her job at the Ministry and began moving up the ranks. She was too embarrassed to Floo Harry and Ron because they were too busy with their own children and families. Plus, they've always looked up to her as the strong one. She couldn't show up on their doorsteps looking like a blubbering mess.
She debated going home, but the Malfoy case did not leave her head. Sure, Narcissa showed up without an appointment, but the sentiment of her words couldn't be ignored. Mr Malfoy was a dangerous man, she knew that first-hand. During the war, she had the experience of being kept imprisoned in his home which was a hub to the Death Eaters. She swore she'd never return there, but she also couldn't live a life where fear is in the driver's seat. Her therapist said she needed to expose herself to situations that scared her. Hermione didn't want to visit that Lucifer Hell-Hole ever again, but feared that if she didn't, Narcissa's death might be on her conscience.
She'd dealt with cases like that every day: jealous, hurt husbands mutilating wives and girlfriends because they've been left. Nothing pierced a man's ego like rejection; nothing else fuelled his desire for revenge quite like a healthy dose of suspicion. Hermione used to believe women were more sensitive than men. No. Very little compared to a bruised male ego.
Hermione decided to investigate the situation herself. Normally she'd have sent a team over or have Barnaby come with her, but Barnaby was forever gone and it was a Friday. She was scared of what might happen if she got on Lucius Malfoy's bad side. Malfoy was no Tom Riddle and no Greyback—just an unpredictable coward with a chip on his shoulder. But Hermione was no lamb either.
Armed with her wand, she ducked into the nearby alleyway and whispered, "Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire." In a second, she was a sliver of smoke in the air.