"There was something in her eyes that made me trust her. Maybe it was because they held the same cynicism, the same world-weariness I saw in my own every morning when I looked at myself in the mirror."
-Corcitura, by Melika Dannese Lux.
Hermione fumbled in her purse for the key to her flat. Really, putting an Undetectable Extension charm on her purse just so she could carry around a veritable mobile library of legal books had caused more problems than it solved.
It was a week since the Malfoy hearing, and the strain of DEW was starting to wear out Hermione's vigor. She had entered the job enthusiastic and full of great ideas, but after three and a half years, it was starting to drag. For one thing, there weren't nearly as many abused house elves as she had believed. Only a select number of families had house elves to begin with, and her department had already dealt with the abusive owners. Not owners, employers! She had fought hard to change the language of the legal texts from "owners" to "employers", a seemingly trivial detail that could greatly affect the way that wizards viewed elves as a species. Semantics were very important when it came to delicate issues.
She abandoned her quest and pointed her wand into the depths of the purse, muttering "Accio key." It leapt obligingly into her hand, as though it had never been lost to begin with. Hermione entered the small, cheerful flat. She had decorated it in tones of red and grey, and the effect was both warm and upscale. The London dusk was a crumbling blue-grey outside the small window.
She slumped onto the sofa, hugging a red throw pillow to her chest. One thing she hadn't anticipated was the sheer dullness of the job. She had pictured another case like the Malfoy case every week, she a triumphant crusader for justice at the helm of DEW. Actually, she had been trying to nail the Malfoys for ages, but she hadn't had enough proof to warrant a hearing until that anonymous report. Who had filed that, by the way? It was really puzzling. Obviously it couldn't have been any of the Malfoys; could it have been a family friend of theirs?
Hermione groaned and kicked off her shoes, rubbing her blistered feet. She had outgrown DEW. Was it wrong to hope that she could be promoted? She was painfully aware that DEW would fall into disorganization and obscurity if she left. Just look at how easily her associates were bribed by that snake, Lucius Malfoy. She knew that it was important work, but at the same time she didn't want to have to be the one to do it. Was that a hypocritical and petty thought?
Her reverie was broken by the sound of an ecstatic tapping. Hermione walked to the window and pushed it up, wincing at the unoiled squeak that it made. A tiny grey owl zoomed excitedly into the room, ever enthusiastic to deliver a letter.
"Pigwidgeon!" said Hermione in exasperation, feeling her face crack into a grin. "Hold still for a moment. Merlin, why can't I ever convince Ron to just call me?" With difficulty, she untied the rolled-up parchment from Pigwidgeon's leg and encouraged him to sit still by tossing his an owl treat from the tin she kept on the window ledge for just such occasions.
Hermione,
Want to go out tomorrow? Ginny got us prime tickets to a Harpies game.
-Ron
Hermione felt her heart sinking. There were several reasons for this. The most obvious was that he had neither bothered to put "dear" in the salutation nor "love" in the closing. There was also the tangible fact that Hermione hated watching professional Quidditch, which came with the subtler truth that Ron had not observed this.
Ah . . . Ron. Their relationship, though harmonious, somehow left many things to be desired. It had started out as a platonic friendship, with something more thrilling slowly replacing camaraderie. The war had escalated things - increased tension led to more passion in both arguments and embraces. Besides which, there was the whole "We could die tomorrow, so let's snog now" mentality. After the war, they had needed one another for mutual support through the haze of pain.
And now . . . ? Hermione felt like a spoiled brat for even thinking it, but she was bored. She was bored of going out with someone who had the emotional range of a teaspoon. Their friendship was stronger than ever, but . . . the schoolgirl crush was starting to fade. Hermione had once asked her mother whether she had ever gotten bored of loving her father.
Mrs. Granger's brow crinkled. "Why, honey? Are you worried that your father and I are getting a divorce?"
"No, Mum, it's just . . . I've heard people call the beginning of a relationship the 'honeymoon phase'. What happens after that? Does it stop being love and just become companionship?"
"Not exactly. It's hard to explain. When I was about your age, I dated a young man named Nathan. I thought I was in love with him . . . he was my first serious boyfriend, you see. After a while, it was like you described. I just found that all the sparkle had gone from our relationship."
"What did you do?"
"Oh, I found some excuse to break up with him. I claimed to be jealous of his pretty cousin Emily after he kissed her on the cheek." She smiled wistfully. "Nathan was really cut up, but he found happiness with someone else. We kept in touch; he lives in New Guinea now, with his wife and sons."
"What about you and Dad?"
"Your father was different. We met through work, you know."
Hermione nodded; she had heard the story of the Granger parents before.
"Well, I expected it to spark out like it did with Nathan. But it never did. True, it wasn't quite as thrilling as it was when we were first together, but I still felt electricity when he held my hand. Still do, actually." Mother and daughter sighed blissfully in synchronization. "That's when I knew that I should marry him and spend the rest of my life with him."
"Wow." Hermione struggled to find the right words to respond. "That's sweet."
Hermione was jolted from her flashback by Pigwidgeon's expectant hoot.
"Yes, yes, Pig, very well," she muttered, seating herself on the floor with a parchment and some ink.
Dear Ron,
I would love to go to the game with you. Shall we rendezvous for lunch before?
Affectionately,
Hermione
Hermioen couldn't think of another way to accept without saying "I'd love to go," or she would have written it. She hoped that the note's brevity and lack of exclamation points would say what was left unsaid, but Ron would most likely not pick up on it. She sighed and tied the note to Pigwidegeon's claw before sending him back out into the night.
Draco's nausea had been ebbing back ever since the trial the previous week. He wanted nothing more than to hide in the cool silvery shadows of Malfoy Manor and ignore existence itself, and yet here he was, in the top box of a Quidditch stadium, mindlessly spectating as the Holyhead Harpies prepared to play the Montrose Magpies.
Really, it was Blaise Zabini's fault. Draco was eager to remain on good terms with him as Blaise was one of the few of Draco's former Hogwarts friends with whom he could be seen in public. Blaise had also politely extended the invitation to include Astoria, but she had declined on some excuse.
Draco found himself studying his own hand again as Blaise chattered about the game. It was statuesque and nearly flawless. But why, fundamentally, was it attached to his arm? More pressingly, why did he possess fingernails? They were merely a remnant of primitive animalian claws. Admittedly they were useful for opening things, but why did he even open things? When he was too lazy to reach for his wand? Why weren't all wizards merely obese, floating globs of flesh, hovering in space and summoning themselves whatever they wanted?
These questions, though highly important to Draco in his detached state, were interrupted by one of Blaise's.
"She's still really hot, isn't she?"
"Sorry?" started Draco. Annoyance flitted across his friend's features.
"The Weasley girl."
"How would I know?" sneered Draco.
"Come off it! I just pointed her out to you. She's on the Harpies, remember? Were you even listening to me?"
"Oh. I see." Draco squinted down at the pitch. "She still has red hair," he deadpanned unhelpfully.
"You idiot." Blaise handed him a pair of Omnioculars. Draco lifted them and peered at Ginny Weasley, who was indeed wearing the dark green Harpy robes and clutching a broom. He could recognize no beauty in her features, but then, he recognized no beauty in anything.
"Her face is well-proportioned," he noted diplomatically. Blaise slapped a hand to his own forehead in frustration.
"Are you so attached to your girlfriend that you won't even ogle random girls that we went to school with?" he whined.
"Truth be told, I'm not really attached to anything right now."
"You, my compatriot, are depressed."
"Interesting idea."
Blaise looked up as a couple entered the box. "Draco," he hissed under his breath. "Don't look now, but two-thirds of the trio just walked in."
Draco disobeyed, turning his head sharply. His pulse sped up slightly, a reflex action. There they were, Granger and the Weasel.
To his surprise, Granger was wearing Muggle clothing: tailored tan-colored trousers, a violet scoop-neck blouse, and a fitted black blazer. Odd color combination, but the effect was neat. Lacking a pair of oversize Nicole Richie sunglasses, perhaps, but not unstylish. The infamous hair was piled in a knot on top of her head. Somehow the blazer emphasized the narrowness of her shoulders.
By contrast, the Weasel was wearing dark blue robes. A safe option, to say the least. Then again, with hair that annoyingly orange, one would need to make conservative choices.
"We're really lucky that Ginny could get these seats," he was saying to her. "Apparently someone tried to rent the whole bloody box . . . oh." Ronald Weasley caught sight of his old nemesis. Draco sneered, taking care to look as challenging as possible. What is wrong with me, that I require the presence of my old school grudges to feel satisfied? he wondered. Oh, well. There were worse addictions.
"Weasley, Granger. Good afternoon," he said superciliously, not bothering to stand but instead lazily stretching over the back of his seat like a cat to look at them upside down.
"Hello, Malfoy," said Weasley with a pathetic attempt at aristocratic indifference. He ended up sounding merely stiff and uncomfortable. Draco briefly considered making a classist remark for old times' sake, then decided that his snarkiness had evolved sufficiently to wound without use of a blunt instrument. He rolled back into an upright position and stood, scrutinizing them. Granger looked completely bored.
"Is this a date?" He raised an eyebrow, doing his best to imply that if so it was a sorry excuse for one. The tips of Weasley's ears reddened. "Granger, I didn't know that you liked Quidditch."
"Er, yeah, Quidditch is nice," she said, too quickly. Draco raised his eyebrow further, making it clear to her that he could see through her halfhearted defense of Weasley.
"I see. Somehow I never got the feeling that you were a dedicated fan."
Weasley had clearly caught on by now and was glaring at Draco. "We've just come from London. We were having lunch there."
"How lovely. By the way, Hermione, you never sent me an owl like you said you would."
She flushed pink with indignation. "I never said anything of the sort! Who gave you permission to use my given name, anyway?"
Draco feigned surprise. "Oh. I see." Blaise stood as well, looking from Granger to Draco in confusion.
"Weasley, Granger, you remember Blaise Zabini."
"How do you do." Blaise shook hands with them each in turn, looking impassive and diplomatic. "Are you two a couple now?"
"Obviously," muttered Weasley. This was too easy for Draco.
"What was that?" he asked lightly.
"Nothing."
Granger was cringing in embarrassment. Draco felt a sudden rush of sympathy as he and Blaise sat back down.
"Do sit down," he said, remembering to sound patronizing at the last moment. Granger slid gratefully into the seat beside him. Weasley seated himself on her other side.
The game commenced.
Hermione didn't even try to focus her attention on the pitch. She felt as if her ears were on fire every time Ron reacted to the action in the game. The groans and cheers that seemed endearing when they were alone or part of a large crowd were suddenly acutely embarrassing juxtaposed against the two silent former Slytherins.
She sank lower and lower in her chair until she was slouching dramatically. She didn't even care that Ginny was playing, she didn't care that this was supposed to be a date. Ron would be thoroughly ashamed of himself if he bothered to look over at her once. Or perhaps "look down at her" would be more accurate. Her head was nearly parallel with her stomach.
She looked up, intending to give Ron's profile a reproachful glare, but accidentally met Malfoy's grey gaze instead. To her amazement, he looked deeply sympathetic rather than mocking or supercilious. Before Hermione could decide if it was a trick of the light, he was facing the game again.
With a small mmph, Hermione dragged herself upright in time to see Ginny score another point. Or ten points, or fifty, or however many were awarded, she couldn't recall. Ron was vocally pleased.
She couldn't resist a glance at Le Blond's profile. He wasn't watching the game either. His eyes were unfocused, and he was fiddling with the sleeves of his bottle green robes. He turned his head slightly and smirked when he caught her staring at him. Hermione quickly faced frontwards again.
Something interesting was happening. Two of the other team's Chasers seemed to be closing in on Ginny, who had the Quaffle. Hermione felt the vague primal urge to shout a warning, but it was no good. They rammed into Ginny simultaneously, and she plummeted fifty feet from the air.
"No!" roared Ron. "Foul! FOUL! THAT'S MY SISTER, YOU - !" A fluid stream of obscenities issued from his mouth.
Hermione cringed. "Ron, please," she tried, but he was past reasoning. Why couldn't he realize that no one could hear them from inside the box?!
"Go to her, Ron," she said tiredly. Ron did as she suggested, sprinting from the box. Hermione doubted that he had even heard her.
"She'll be all right," she mumbled for the benefit of Zabini and Malfoy. "She didn't land on her neck, and the Healers can fix anything except death, it seems."
Malfoy shot her a rather appraising look. What is it, Slytherin boy? Shocked at my deviousness? Well, I don't care about anything today. Everybody just sod off.
Ron returned a quarter hour later, out of breath. "She'll be fine!" he told Hermione. "The Healer just said that she'll need to rest for while."
"Good," said Hermione, feeling pleased that Ginny hadn't died. Really, what was wrong with her today?
"I swear, those -"
More profanities. Hermione glanced at Malfoy, and the same thing was written on their faces. Yes, Ronald. Yes, you do swear.
Hermione bit her lower lip in amusement. Suddenly, everything seemed like one big, highly entertaining joke. She linked her arm through Ron's. He glanced at her in surprise.
"Yes, dear, I'm sure that they thoroughly deserve everything that you just called them. Now that it is clear that Ginny is going to make a full recovery, let us enjoy the rest of the game. Tell me, who's winning?"
Malfoy actually laughed aloud. Everyone looked at him in surprise. He smirked happily back at them. Hermione grinned. Even Malfoy was included in her sudden good mood.
"The Harpies," said Ron helpfully. Hermione wasn't even in a humor to feel annoyed that he had answered her rhetorical question. As if she actually cared who was winning!
Her upliftedness wilted as Ron stalwartly ignored her for the next half hour. Hermione seriously needed some solitude. She mumbled something about the loo and left the box.
Draco watched Granger leave, her face tight with loneliness. Instinctively, he rose to follow her. Blaise raised a questioning eyebrow, but Draco pretended not to notice.
She was nowhere in sight. Draco grimaced as he eyed the ladies' loo. Why he was following Granger, he wouldn't let himself consider.
He pushed open the door cautiously to find her leaning her back against the sink. She jumped when she saw him.
"Merlin's beard, Draco, why are you here?" she sputtered.
"Please, Granger, don't insult my intelligence. You wanted to escape Weasley. I must say, if I were in your position I would have left an hour ago."
"That'll come back to haunt you when you end up dating Ron."
"Ha-ha. Don't make me retch. Anyway, I have a highly interesting proposal for you."
"How interesting?"
"Now, now, Miss Granger, no innuendo. You see, I noticed, with my Sherlockian powers of observation, that you seem rather bored with life."
Her eyebrows shot up. "Go on."
"I also am filled with discontent. However, I must confess that I find you to be amusing."
"Really."
"Yes, really. Now, my proposal. I think that we should spend some time together."
"How so?"
"That has yet to be determined. However, I was quite hurt not to receive your owl. That could be a start." On that note, he left.
The Harpies won.