The host of the restaurant they'd selected looked a little uneasy when he saw Draco and Hermione. Hermione glanced into the dining area, wondering if they should have made a reservation, but at least half the tables were empty and, before she could ask, the host led them to a small table half-hidden behind a potted palm. Hermione sat down. One of the leaves of the plant brushed across her face as she lowered herself to her chair then tickled her neck. She tried to bat it away and one of the branches caught on her diamond bracelet. Enough was enough. She turned and gave the basket hiding the pot a good shove with a murmured charm to get it further away from her. She didn't need the decorations feeling her up during lunch.

Someone had left a copy of The Prophet leaning up against the wall behind the plant and when she moved the pot, the paper fell down. It might be rude to read at the table, especially if you were out with a husband you rather adored, and it might be nothing but a rag more dedicated to propping up Yaxley's administration than reporting the truth, but Hermione had never been able to resist the printed page so she bent down to pick it up. It had been left folded open to the editorial section and she was unable to control the grimace that settled onto her mouth when she saw Pansy Parkinson's photo. She looked glossy and smug and had the tiniest bit of an overbite that made her teeth seem large. They gleamed even in the black and white picture and Hermione wondered if there was a charm for tooth whitening. If so, Pansy knew it. She'd used it a few too many times.

"Anything good?" Draco asked.

Hermione let out of snort but didn't answer. She was already reading the article. Pansy Parkinson, the byline read. Best-selling author of The War on Aurors and a former student of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. "Who hasn't gone there," Hermione muttered to the picture. "It's the only school. It's not that impressive of an accomplishment, Pansy." Pansy pushed her lips together and glanced down at the title of her opinion piece. Strength Comes from Vision.

It wasn't about the importance of seeing an eye doctor regularly.

By the time Hermione had reached the end of the article, she was grinding her teeth and her hands had clenched so tightly the paper was folding in on itself. Pansy adored Corban Yaxley. He had prioritized the needs of wizards and witches over muggles. He had removed wasteful regulations while putting others in place dedicated to securing their borders and their way of life. He had freed Wizarding Britain from its tiresome focus on the needs of Muggle-borns. Their assimilation was their own problem. They should bear the brunt of the costs of joining Wizard society. She even proposed the long-standing tradition that Hogwarts be free of cost be changed for Muggle-borns and that their parents should pay for the cost of their magical education, "which is a significant drain on resources because of their greater needs."

She also found his aggressive stances "sexy."

Hermione picked up her water glass and drained about half of it. When the waitress came over she asked for a glass of chardonnay then changed her mind. "Bring me a bottle," she said.

Draco raised his brows but just selected a particular vineyard and vintage and didn't comment on how unusual it was for her to want to drink quite that much. She didn't think all the wine in all the world was enough to get the foul taste of Corban Yaxley as "sexy" out of her mouth.

Pansy edged toward the frame of her photograph to get away from the fingers crumbling the paper. She could run, but she couldn't hide. Hermione crumbled the paper even more viciously, holding it more and more tightly in her hands, until Draco reached over and pried it free.

He glanced down at the article and curled his lip. "She never could write for shite," he said. "Theo and I used to have to proofread all her assignments."

That tricked a laugh out of Hermione. Draco smoothed the crinkled newsprint as best he could and folded the paper back so the front page faced outward. "Maybe don't read that part," he suggested. "It's only going to upset you."

The wine arrived, and they ordered, and Hermione took a deep breath. She'd known Pansy had taken on the role of shill for Yaxley. It wasn't out of character, or even unexpected. Someone always wanted to ride the coattails of power, no matter how loathsome that power was. She still didn't like it. She took a sip of the wine. She tried to inhale. She was doing what she could. It wasn't everything. She couldn't fight every battle. Another sip. Draco had selected a good bottle. At least she supposed it was good. She liked the taste more than that swill they served at the art openings they'd gone to.

"What's the actual news," she asked. It had to be better than Pansy's opinion.

The actual news seemed to be that Lord Yaxley was picking a fight with the French Ministry. Draco just twisted his mouth into a frown, muttered something about trade wars being better than real wars, and shoved the paper back toward her. She picked up the paper and searched for the article he meant.

It was appalling and offensive and over the top but as she read it first once, then more closely, she went from outrage to a slow sense of smug pleasure. Percy had written it. She recognized the penname as a play on an old joke of Fred's. The article itself was maddening. It praised the Ministry's decision to impose tariffs on imported magical items with excessive fervor and cavalierly dismissed, while being sure to mention three times, the impact this would have on the economy of wizarding Britain and the lives of ordinary wizards and witches. Number four of a 10-part series, the by-line noted.

She'd have to get the other parts. Good on Percy. He was doing it. He was damning with excessive praise. She just hoped it would work.

She took another sip of the wine, then pushed her chair back. "I'm going to go to the loo before the food gets here," she said. "You might like this one."

Draco nodded at her, almost absent mindedly, and picked up the paper to read the article. She wove her way through the restaurant. Conversations died off as she passed tables and she could feel eyes on her skin. She'd wanted to be pretty, once. Wanted to be the center of attention the way Fleur and Ginny always were. Now she was wondering if she should have downed polyjuice before they went out. The immaculate designed clothes, picked out by Narcissa, itched along her shoulders, and the bracelet felt like a heavy shackle on her wrist.

"Shame," she thought she heard a woman say as she walked by her table, but when she turned the diners were all absorbed in their menus, not paying her any heed at all.

The loo was one of the fancy ones you found at posh restaurants with a whole lounge for women to sit on comfortable chairs and peer into giant, gilt-edged mirrors. The lounge was empty when she passed through it on her way to the toilets, but when she came back out, still muttering a drying charm at her hands because the basket of paper hand-towels needed filling, several of the chairs had occupants and a pair of witches stood by the door. They were all staring at her. She smiled as blandly as she could at one older woman. The stony return gaze didn't encourage her. Well, if that was the way they wanted to be. She wasn't sure if her sin was her birth or her marriage, but she didn't really care. They could all go sit in judgement on someone else.

"Excuse me," she said in her best Narcissa voice.

No one moved.

"You have a lot of nerve," said a voice behind her. "Showing your face among decent people."

"Social climber," said someone else.

Hermione took a deep breath and tried to count to ten even as she slid her hand, still slightly damp, into her pocket and brushed her fingers against her wand.

"I hope you feel guilty every night," one of the women said. Her lip curled in barely contained rage. Hermione had faced down Death Eaters and sycophants, both in battle and over canapes, and she's never seen someone look at her with such utter hatred. Her heart began to beat harder. This might go badly. This might go very badly indeed. She was outnumbered, and two women stood between her and the exit. If she had to fight, it would get bloody. Could she apparate away?

"Why would I?" Hermione asked as lightly as she could. "The war was just, as Augustine would have said."

The witch facing her had no idea who Augustine was, that was clear. "No one's talking about the war," she said.

"Though you should feel worse," a witch said, taking a step closer. "You were friends with the Boy Who Lived, you helped him."

"And now look at you. Does it bother you that Lord Yaxley's policies mean most people will have less?" That witch took a step closer too. "Does it bother you to know people are suffering?"

Hermione wanted to scream. This was ridiculous. These women had cornered her in the loo, thinking she was supporting Yaxley. First Pansy's article and now this.

"Why would it bother her?" a witch asked. "She got hers."

"Betray everything and everyone," said another. "Why not as long as you get those sweet, sweet Malfoy galleons to roll around on at night?"

The older woman who must be the ringleader poked Hermione in the chest with a long, spindly finger. "Wizarding Britain was always a decent place," she said. "We didn't hold with that Grindelwald nonsense. And people fought back against Voldemort."

Hermione decided now might not be the best time to express her opinion on how people hadn't done anything of the sort and had by and large just left it for other people to sort out. Things had been bad, yes, so very bad, but the people who weren't directly affected hadn't seemed to do much more than look the other way. She took a step back from the woman's prodding finger, which brought her closer to the pair of witches guarding the exit. They cackled. It was so on-brand Hermione wanted to laugh. Instead she fought back against her body's screams to run, run now, run away, and said, "We're not at war."

"No," the woman agreed. She took a step of her own forward and Hermione's room to maneuver got that much smaller. "We're just slowing dying under Lord Yaxley's reign." She twisted Lord into the same insult Hermione did in her own mind. "Tariffs, regulations about how people like you need to file extra paperwork, constantly having to prove that they belong –."

"Why would she care?"

" – and I suppose you know all about the Carrows and the Lestranges and the disgusting way they treat women?" the woman went on as if she hadn't been interrupted.

"I had heard that, yes."

"But you go to parties with them," the woman sneered. "So, it's not as if you really care."

"Power-brokers never do."

Hermione choked back an almost hysterical laugh. This woman hated the Carrows and she'd surely never even been tortured by one of them. She was too old to have been at Hogwarts during their reign of terror and, as she was clearly eager to point out, not connected enough to be invited into the inner circle now. She hated the because of the propaganda the Order had spread, hated Yaxley's reign more because of it, and it was all brilliant and a great job and she'd raise a glass to Molly and Moody and the efficacy of their campaign except now she was the one trapped in a group looking more and more like a mob.

More, she couldn't help but see the bodies lying on the floor, in the garden. She'd killed them both. BOTH. She'd have nightmares for years, she was sure. And she couldn't admit it. She had to pretend to be this thing they hated, this part of the system, or it would all be for nothing.

One of the women shoved at her and she took a quick step backward. "Don't," she said.

"Or what?" the woman asked. "You'll report us to Yaxley? Have us tossed in Azkaban to wait for a few weeks while paperwork gets sorted?"

"Of course not," Hermione said. She pulled out her wand and leveled it at the woman. Her heart was pounding and she could feel the sweat prickling along her arms. Fight or flight. Moody had taught them how to ride it, how to use it. She could feel herself drop into the kind of battle-readiness he'd trained her in. Everything became clearer, sharper, and time became almost slower. She could see a woman put her own hand into her purse to reach for her wand. Another began to pat her pockets, looking for hers. Soldiers these weren't. "But I will defend myself if things get physical."

"There's more of us," the woman said.

"I fought in a war," Hermione said. It was a warning. It was a plea for these people to back down and back off before things went too far.

The door to the lounge opened and a familiar voice said, "I'm so sorry to intrude, but I'm looking for my wife. She's been in her quite a while and I'm becoming worried."

She spun, turning her back on her main adversary. Moody would have castigated her for that for hours. She didn't care. She'd almost ran the few steps to Draco Malfoy and pressed herself against his side.

No murder today.

"Our waiter is eager to take our order, darling," he said. "Is everything okay?"

Hermione glanced at the gathered women. "Everything's fine," she said. "Right ladies?"

A nervous shuffling, some looks laced with resentment, but none of them said anything. She turned her back on them again and led Draco back out into the restaurant.

Everything was fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.