They reached their table before Draco asked in a low voice, "Are you okay?"

Hermione summoned a shaky smile. "Close enough," she said. He'd gotten another bottle of the excellent wine and she poured herself a glass and took a sip before she added, "I was starting to be afraid it was going to get violent." She was glad he'd arrived when he did, glad it hadn't come to that. Hermione Malfoy, whore of the establishment was bad enough. Hermione Malfoy, instigator of violence in the loo would be so much worse. Would Pansy Parkinson write an editorial in her defense? The very thought made her feel ill.

Draco reached over and touched a single finger to the bracelet on her wrist. "Well," he said, "I'll just say I'm glad all that spell work didn't go to waste."

"Oh, yes." Hermione took another sip of her wine, this one larger than the first. No wonder Lucius had become an alcoholic. It would be so easy to hide all her problems behind a veil of intoxication. "I'd hate for your posh wand to have to do all that work for nothing."

"Do you want me to bring charges?" Draco asked, still speaking quietly.

Hermione shook her head. "They were right," she said in a voice just as soft as his. He looked outraged so she said it again. "They were right. I mean, they were wrong about me, but we've worked hard to hide that, and… don't we want people confronting Yaxley and his crew at every turn?" She could hear the viciousness in her low voice but didn't care. "Let those fascist bastards be afraid to eat out. I hope people scream in their faces at Quidditch games. I hope every trip out into the world becomes navigating a path of fear… what will happen today? Will they get slurs hissed at them? Water tossed in their faces? There should be a price for supporting him."

"Which you are paying," Draco said.

That made her sag a little. "Which I am paying," she agreed. It was unfair, but who ever said life was fair? She'd bear this to get the work done. She'd keep her head down when necessary, and saunter through public spaces antagonizing people when necessary. She'd sneer and roll her eyes and flirt and flatter and do it all as she prepared the knife to stab into Yaxley's back.

She'd be Snape.

That made her need another sip from her wine glass.

They ordered and the food came and everything was fine. Hermione kept breathing, avoided looking at anyone in the restaurant, and reminded herself when she could feel their hatred creeping up the back of her neck that they'd wanted this. People didn't rise up to overthrow beloved governments, and complacent people didn't rebel. She just didn't like that no matter what she did she always seemed to be on the side of the group it was okay to hate. Seeing Percy, she was sure, would make it better. At least one person understood.

And he did. It wasn't that he didn't understand. He cringed in sympathy when Draco told him the story of the encounter in the restaurant, and he shared what he'd been working on – an article that laid out all the bribes that had lined the pockets of wizarding Britain's most powerful – and Hermione was sure it was all good and decent and everything they needed to move forward. Her mouth moved and said all the right things. Percy liked praise as much as she did, even now with all the rage, and some part of her mind could see him preening under her pleased words. He was a smart man. What he was doing was working. They'd be rid of this horrid administration sooner rather than later. Hell, he'd probably end up Minister.

She said all the things that were appropriate and flattering, but the photograph of Ron propped on the mantle was all she could think about. He had his hand on Gabrielle Delacour's rounded stomach. His child. His wife. And it was insane to be jealous. She wasn't jealous.

He looked so happy, though. So proud. So at peace.

That must be nice.

Draco had to have seen the way she kept sneaking glances at the picture, hidden half way behind a cat toy, but he didn't say anything. Awkward, she supposed, to mention your wife kept staring at a photograph of her ex as he beamed, his smile going from the photographer to his wife. Percy wasn't so tactful. Once he realized she was only half-listening to him, he took the picture and turned it to face the wall.

"Came in the Muggle post," he said apologetically.

"I'm glad he's doing well," she said. That was a benefit of living in hiding as a squib. Arabella got the post. She didn't. Malfoy Manor took their mail via owl or not at all. Of course, that was assuming Ron would have thought to send her a photograph, and that was quite an assumption.

"It's easier to do well in France," Percy said. His tattoos writhed in agreement.

"Are they doing anything?" Draco asked. He kept his voice carefully neutral and free of judgement. He, like Percy, was still too scarred by what he'd done – and not done – in the proper war to risk sounding like he was censuring Ronald or the Order now.

"Propaganda, mostly," Percy said. He sounded equally careful. "The idea is to foment rebellion then, when people are rioting in the streets, to trot Harry out as a savior."

Draco and Hermione exchanged glances. It was similar enough to what they were doing she couldn't object to it. "That's good," she said. It was awful to hear that her own voice was just as careful as theirs. These were her friends – her best friends – and she had fought a war with them. They had won a war because Harry was pure of heart and noble enough to be willing to die for everyone. It was just that, as she stood here in this crowded suburban house that smelled of cat, it was hard not to remember how Harry had needed to be nudged and pushed and dragged into things. How he'd managed to not think about any of the challenges in the Triwizard Tournament until the last minute. How he'd skated by on luck and a willingness to barge in where any intelligent angel would have refused to go. And Ron? Ron was worse. She knew that wasn't fair. Knew he was loyal and good and true. But as her eyes kept going back to the picture of Ron and his bride – the bride she absolutely did not begrudge him and everything had worked out and she was much happier with Draco – it was hard not to remember how bitter and angry he'd been that Harry had been chosen for that Tournament. Hard not to remember the way he'd accused her beloved Crookshanks of eating his wretched rat. Hard not to remember how he'd run off in that final, horrible year. His family was in danger. She and Harry were different, he'd said. They didn't have to worry about a wizarding family.

She reached out for Draco's hand and squeezed it so hard it had to hurt but he made not a single sound of protest.

"It is good," Percy said. A hint of anger snuck into his words. "Good and safe."

"Not like here," Draco said, and she could hear his voice mirroring Percy's. He'd always been in the thick of things, stuck in a house with Voldemort, stuck in a school with the Carrows, trapped by other people's decisions. Trapped by his own youthful arrogance.

"Well," Hermione said as brightly as she could, "it will be over soon if today's fun in the loo is any indication."

"Do you want to hear something?" Percy asked. Before she could answer he turned on a wizarding radio and fiddled with the knob. Static, and then that awful Celestina Warbeck, more static, then a voice she recognized. Airy and meandering and burning with so much anger Hermione was surprised the force of sympathetic magic didn't ignite the radio.

"We know he's not a vampire, alas," Luna said. "You could plunge a stake into a vampire. But the question remains, what is wrong with Corban Yaxley?" The war had changed Luna. The last Hermione had seen her, she'd been hovering at the brink of madness. Judging by this commentary, she was back to her peculiar and odd self. Strange, but not insane.

"Lord Corban," said a voice Hermione didn't recognize. Male. Cultured. Whoever this was, he had come from money. She could tell by the vowels.

"Oh," Luna said with what sounded like genuine surprise in her voice. "Does he have a Muggle peerage thingy? I didn't know. I thought he was a pureblood."

"I think he is," the male speaker said. Draco was staring at the radio in shock. He must think he recognized the voice. "A pureblood, I mean."

"We don't have titles in wizarding Britain," Luna said. She sounded confused and Hermione could hear her flipping through what might have been a pile of parchment. "Well, the Supreme Mugwump, of course, but not Lords."

"Or Ladies," the male voice said.

"I think Narcissa Malfoy is a bit of a lady," Luna objected. "Did you know she has three extra nipples?"

Percy looked at Draco whose mouth had dropped open.

"I've never examined Narcissa's chest," Hermione said, trying not to laugh. "I mean, Luna could be right."

"She is not," Draco said with an offended twist to his mouth.

"Don't be such a stuffed shirt," Percy said. "She's making your mother somewhat relatable."

"With extra nipples?" Draco asked. "How is that relatable?"

"Both of you shut up," Hermione said. "I want to hear this."

They'd missed whatever Luna's co-host's response was to the revelation about Narcissa, but Luna had returned to the question of what Corban Yaxley was, exactly, since he wasn't really a Lord and wasn't a vampire. "I think he might be a kelpie," she said. "They're very ugly – "

"Which certainly fits," the male speaker said. "Corban Yaxley could use a trip to a good witchy spa to trim his nails and do something about his teeth."

"Very bad teeth," Luna agreed. "And they like to lure people into rivers and streams and then eat them."

"Don't kelpies spend most of their time as horses?" Draco asked in an undertone.

Hermione hit him on the arm. He needed to stop interrupting.

"Do you think Corban Yaxley eats people?" the radio asked.

Hermione could almost see Luna's nod. "Oh yes," she said. "I wouldn't be at all surprised if the Ministry was covering up a string of murders he'd committed in search of human flesh to devour."

Percy clicked the radio off.

"That's total nonsense," Draco said. Hermione suspected he was sore about the comment about his mother, but she had to agree. Spreading information about corruption and bribery and even sexual misconduct seemed like it would rile people up. No one likes an adulterer who doesn't pay his taxes. But the idea the man was a malevolent fairy horse creature who was secretly dining on wizards and witches was absurd. No one would believe that.

Would they?

Percy's smile looked a little too smug. "She's good," he said. "And it lets us print up a lot of stories denying that Yaxley is a man-eating monster and people aren't smart. What a lot of them take away is there's so much denial about Yaxley eating people – "

"That there must be some truth," Draco breathed out in an awed voice. "Percy Weasley, you are a genius."

Percy shrugged but Hermione could tell he was pleased. "I do my best," he said. A thousand people saying Corban Yaxley isn't eating people, don't be ridiculous would result in the slow questions of, But what is he really hiding? He was a Death Eater. How many bodies do you think are in his wake?

Hermione could imagine them now, talking about how they'd thought he was a fresh voice, someone who would shake things up after the incompetent Ministry had failed to deal with Voldemort not once but twice, but now they were sorry they'd supported him. He'd gone too far.

She thought they were bastards and cowards and weak-minded fools, but if herding them into the streets was what it took to get this monster out of power, she'd use them. She gave the radio a look of fierce satisfaction, then nodded sharply at Percy. "Stay safe," she said. "You and that reporter."

"We will," he said.

She turned to go, ready to apparate out of the little overgrown patch at the back of Arabella's garden, when she remembered one last thing she'd wanted to tell him. "The Carrows?" she said, her voice turning it into a question.

"Carrow, you mean," he said. "I recall the way you ended the first one at your wedding."

"They've been reunited," she said.

Percy's smile was as vicious as her own. "May they rest in peace," he said.

"Indeed," Hermione said.

She and Draco slipped away, fingers interlaced, back to Malfoy Manor and the roles they had to play. Narcissa had left a note on Hermione's desk. Company for dinner, was all it said.

. . . . . .. . .

A/N - Thank you to saintmosshart for proofreading and a giant, incredible thanks to slytherinxbadxgirl, who reread the whole story to make sure I hadn't killed off Luna in the past. They are both amazing.