XIII. Rebellious Spirits
"Oh, I almost forgot—no fresh flowers. Governor Warrington can't stand them. They trigger her allergies," Katrina Street-Porter stated in an authoritative tone.
Ginny, with a quick nod, diligently noted the comment on her already note-laden scroll.
"What's left to be sorted out?" Katrina enquired, smoothing her sleek leather skirt in an effort to erase any imperceptible creases.
"Almost nothing," Ginny replied, carefully scanning the list with her eyes. "Invitations, catering, decor, speakers, entertainment—all confirmed. Only one matter remains—security."
"The Auror Office will be handling that directly. Dawlish confirmed as much to me this morning," Katrina conveyed, her expression pleased.
Rising, she strode decisively towards the entrance, her high-heeled dragon leather shoes clicking on the polished floor. She grabbed her jacket and her large, glossy black handbag.
"I suppose all that remains is my favourite part. Come along, Miss Weasley," she said, gesturing to Ginny.
Ginny took her belongings in turn and followed Katrina out of the office.
"If anyone asks for me, I'll be occupied with suppliers for the ball all afternoon," Katrina called out to Cormac McLaggen. "Miss Weasley will be assisting me."
He nodded politely, but Ginny detected a hint of annoyance in his blue eyes.
At Cressida Warrington's request, Ginny had been assisting Katrina with the organisation of the Hellebore Ball, a high-profile event hosted each year by the governor. The social event welcomed a distinguished array of guests, enveloped in a festive and ethereal ambiance. It was a crucial gathering for the regime's elite, uniting for a splendid evening at the Chimera Palace.
Working alongside Katrina Street-Porter, Ginny gained new insight into the regime's upper echelons—a world where wealth circulated easily, appearances dominated, and all excesses were sanctioned. Allying with Katrina had made Ginny's Ministry days progressively tolerable, even edging towards enjoyable. She was no longer burdened by the oppressive anxiety previously associated with going to work.
She had tried to heed Katrina's advice to the letter.
"Master their language. Mirror their demeanour. That's how you navigate their circles," Katrina had advised confidently.
Her colleague revelled in the Ministry's political intrigues, a master of image and communication, skilled at swaying public opinion in favour of even the most disreputable individuals. This clarity shed light on why Cressida had recruited her to the team.
They arrived at the Ministry's Floo station, situated on the ground floor. Ginny scooped up some Floo powder and followed Katrina into the swirling green flames.
They emerged onto the Scarlet Promenade, London's most illustrious avenue, lined with luxurious boutiques and high-end establishments frequented by affluent wizards. Ginny immediately felt out of place as they walked along the avenue's immaculately polished tiles. From the corner of her eye, she noticed several signs in shop windows displaying the words "Non-Purebloods Forbidden." All establishments were authorised to decline service to certain clienteles.
"Nobody knows your blood status. Don't give anyone a reason to ask," Katrina advised, seemingly noticing Ginny's sudden discomfort.
Katrina had repeatedly told her that her attitude and appearance defined the treatment she would receive in the community. She had advised her to pay close attention to her style. Following her colleague's advice, Ginny had even purchased a new witch's cloak in a deep, rich red. The fabric was thick, the finishes were high quality, and the fit was perfect. The cloak lent her an air of sophistication.
Ginny had panicked when she saw the price tag—equivalent to two weeks of salary at Burke's Bountiful Brews. She had convinced herself to view it as an investment. The following day, upon her arrival at the Ministry in her new cloak, Mandy Brocklehurst eyed her outfit in amazement before quickly concealing her reaction behind her eternally haughty expression. Katrina, conversely, had bestowed upon her a nod of approval.
Even Hermione had complimented her on her appearance that very evening. Ginny, however, hadn't dared divulge the truth, claiming it was an old cloak of Fleur's given to her. Hermione didn't probe further, allowing Ginny to suppress a sigh of relief, knowing she couldn't justify such an extravagant expenditure. Hermione would have likely admonished her to save the earnings from her consultancy role in Mrs. Warrington's project. Yet, among the Purebloods at the Ministry, image was acknowledged as paramount. Since adhering to Katrina's advice, Ginny noticed a distinct change in how she was treated. At times, her blood status was wrongly assumed.
"Where are we going?" Ginny asked, eyeing their surroundings with curiosity. "You mentioned a supplier?"
"The Hellebore Ball is one of the season's major events," Katrina informed her. "It's a chance for many brands to showcase their products."
Katrina halted in front of a shop named Madame Patty's Glittering Palace.
"We have an exclusive partnership with this brand. They supply us with ball gowns annually at no cost. In exchange, I ensure their name is credited in press photos—a mutually advantageous arrangement. As the Governor's employees, we too can enjoy these benefits," Katrina explained, winking at Ginny.
As they entered the shop, they were enthusiastically greeted by a square-jawed woman named Madame Patty. She wore a blonde wig partially covered by a polka-dot ribbon. She seemed to know Katrina well, as she gave her a familiar peck on the cheek before engaging in small talk. Ginny gave a polite smile to the so-named Patty while her colleague made the introductions.
"As arranged, we have set aside three outfits for Mrs Warrington," Madame Patty said, pointing to three garment bags hanging on a rack.
"Perfect. And I trust you've got something sorted for the rest of her team, Pat?" Katrina inquired, her silky blonde curls swaying.
"Certainly. Directly from my latest collection," Madame Patty proclaimed with pride. "Please, make yourselves at home. Verity, could you bring some mead?"
For the next two hours, Madame Patty presented them with magnificent gowns, each more impressive than the last. Ginny had never seen such beautiful dresses, except in magazines like Witch Weekly, usually worn by socialites. Verity, Madame Patty's assistant, helped Ginny with the fittings, complimenting her lavishly as she tried on each gown and helping her make any necessary adjustments. Ginny was astounded by the service; unaccustomed to such attentions, she repeatedly pinched herself to confirm she wasn't dreaming.
At the conclusion of the session, Ginny had the privilege of choosing her favorite gown for the Ball. Katrina explained that this represented invaluable promotion for a fashion house. Outfitting the Governor and her team was straightforward promotion, helping to broaden their customer base.
"You'll see, we're rather spoilt with freebies from sponsors all year round," Katrina confided in Ginny, giving her a meaningful wink.
The Warrington family was the nation's wealthiest dynasty. It was not surprising that these 'trifles,' as Katrina called them, were considered insignificant to someone like Cressida. Returning to the office, Ginny and Katrina maintained their hearty laughter, slightly tipsy from the mead consumed during their exclusive shopping trip. Only Mandy Brocklehurst was in the room. As always, she glanced at them disdainfully. All afternoon, she sent frequent furious glances in their direction.
"Would you mind keeping it down? Some of us are trying to work here," Mandy finally snapped, evidently struggling to contain her irritation.
Katrina responded with an eye roll, dismissing her.
"If you need quiet, the meeting room is available. I think it's currently empty," Ginny responded.
Mandy whirled towards her, visibly shocked by Ginny's audacity to respond. Ginny had remained silent until now, wary of potential repercussions for answering back to Mandy's snide remarks. She decided she would no longer tolerate such behavior. Never one to be dominated, she now extended this resolve to her professional life. She refused to endure any more of this shrew's passive-aggressive behaviour. At that very moment, the office door swung open, revealing Cressida Warrington, accompanied by an Auror.
"Looks like you're having a bit of a struggle, Miss Brocklehurst. I can lend a hand, having finished my tasks for the day ahead of schedule. No trouble at all," Ginny said, her tone laced with feigned politeness.
"Commendable team spirit, Miss Weasley," praised Mrs. Warrington, striding across the room to her office and then vanishing inside.
Ginny turned back to Mandy, her face painted with feigned innocence, fully aware of the anger boiling within Mandy. It was likely Mandy's ire stemmed from Ginny's insinuation of her incompetence, especially in front of the Governor. Huffily, she gathered her belongings and strode toward the meeting room, with Ginny watching her depart, a radiant smile on her face. Next to her, Katrina was quietly chuckling, apparently trying hard not to laugh outright.
"You're quite a quick learner, aren't you?" she noted.
"You were right," Ginny conceded with a shrug. "There's no point in holding back anymore. If she wants me to stoop to her level, then so be it."
"The proof of the pudding is in the eating, isn't it?" Katrina remarked, nodding towards the meeting room into which Mandy had vanished.
After her day at the Ministry, Ginny headed to Shell Cottage for her weekly dinner with her brother and his family. Fleur, answering the door, appeared utterly worn out, her belly noticeably rounder, now in her eighth month of pregnancy.
"Oh, Ginny, what a lovely cloak," Fleur gushed as Ginny stepped into the cottage.
"Thanks, Fleur," Ginny replied enthusiastically, embracing her sister-in-law. "How are you?"
"I'm knackered," Fleur confessed, casting a desperate glance at Victoire, who was bouncing around the living room.
Ginny chuckled softly before making her way towards her niece. The little girl's face brightened at the sight of her aunt, and she rushed towards her. Victoire was an energetic child with a knack for wearing her parents out. Ginny embraced her niece warmly, affectionately pinching her cheek.
"Still keeping your mum and dad on their toes, eh?" Ginny asked conspiratorially.
Victoire responded with a shy smile, looking even more adorable than usual. Ginny rummaged through her magically extended bag and handed her niece a neatly wrapped package.
"A little surprise for my favourite niece," she announced.
A glint of excitement appeared in the young girl's blue eyes as she grabbed the package.
"Maman, Maman!" Victoire called out in French, turning towards her mother who had just eased into one of the living room chairs, exhaling a sigh of relief.
"Oui, mon petit hippogriffe?" Fleur responded gently, her hand absently stroking her belly.
"Auntie gave me a present. Can I open it?" Victoire asked, proudly showing the package to her mother.
Fleur nodded her approval, and Victoire eagerly tore into the wrapping paper, scattering pieces in all directions.
Her eyes widened as she saw what was inside.
"Wow..." she whispered, her eyes shining with happiness. "Mum, look! It's a Nimbus X Mini, like the one we saw in Diagon Alley!"
Already at six, Victoire was showing a keen interest in Quidditch, much like her father and aunt. Fleur stared in astonishment at the miniature broomstick, a version specially designed for children.
"Ginny..." she started, evidently struggling to find the right words.
The sound of Victoire's delighted squeals soon brought Bill into the living room.
"Dinner's nearly done. What's the fuss about, Vicky?" he inquired, moving towards Ginny for a brief hug, cautiously avoiding contact with his flour-covered hands.
"Daddy, look what Aunt Ginny gave me!" Victoire beamed. "A Nimbus X Mini!"
Bill's gaze landed on the broomstick, and he appeared just as stunned as Fleur.
"Ginny, could you give me a hand finishing up dinner?" he eventually asked, his tone calm.
Ginny suppressed a sigh and nodded. She knew her brother inside out; that tone was his prelude to a lecture. She accompanied Bill to the kitchen, greeted by the inviting aroma of the meal cooking.
"You missed last week," Bill pointed out.
"I got held up with a last-minute issue at work," she said, gathering plates to set the table. "Sorry, I forgot to tell you."
"Ginny, that broomstick for Victoire must have cost a fortune. How did you afford it?" Bill queried, his brows furrowed in concern.
"I've been putting in extra hours; the shop's been swamped," she fibbed. "And I got a raise recently."
She withheld the truth about her Ministry role from her brother, fearing his reaction to her working for the Governor. She was aware that Bill would urge her to resign, given his deep-rooted aversion to the regime's authorities. Bill regarded her warily, seemingly assessing her honesty. Ginny met his look, keeping her smile serene to avoid raising any suspicions.
"You know I can't resist spoiling my darling niece," she added cheerfully.
This was true. There were other ways she might have spent the money, yet her niece's delighted expression was invaluable.
"That's really thoughtful of you, Ginny," Bill eventually responded, his expression softening.
She suppressed a sigh of relief. Knowing her brother well, she had braced herself for more probing questions. Although she deeply loved Bill, Ginny sometimes found his protective nature a bit overbearing. To him, she would always be the little sister he needed to look after.
Changing the subject, Ginny asked, "What's for dinner? I'm famished."
/
Hermione watched amusedly as Ginny buzzed around the living room with excitement, thrilled by her blossoming relationship with Theodore. It came as no surprise that her friend had wheedled the information out of her, especially with Hermione unable to hide her lovesick grin all evening. Finally, she'd told Ginny the truth about the kiss she'd shared with Theodore. After several moments of playful theatrics, Ginny settled beside Hermione, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
"How was it?" Ginny asked, clearly excited. "I want to hear every single detail."
"I'm not sure," Hermione replied, shrugging awkwardly.
"What do you mean you're not sure?" Ginny repeated, scandalised. "Oh, do indulge me, Hermione! Tell me everything and make it good."
"What would you have me say, then?" Hermione asked with a sigh.
"Is he a good kisser? Did things get handsy? Did you two get carried away on his piano?" Ginny asked eagerly.
"No, Ginny!" Hermione exclaimed, her cheeks turning crimson. "We just kissed and it was quite... lovely. Are you satisfied now?"
Ginny chuckled at Hermione's flustered appearance.
"I'm afraid that barely scratches the surface," Ginny insisted dramatically. "I need all the juicy details. I want to live vicariously through your love life to fill the void in my own."
"Honestly Ginny, I don't know if getting involved with him is a good idea," Hermione admitted, unsure. "Considering his status..."
"No excuses, Hermione. It's obvious from a mile away you're into him, and it's clearly mutual," Ginny cut in, shaking her head. "Hermione, you get that you can let loose once in a while, right?"
Hermione remained silent, though Ginny's words struck a painfully true chord within her. The strong attraction she felt towards Theodore was undeniable. The kiss they had shared had stirred her senses in an indescribable way. Yet Theodore's status made her deeply uncomfortable. Even more alarming was the fact that he didn't seem bothered by it. For a wizard of his standing, things were different. Hermione, however, was in a starkly different position. The luxury of acting freely was beyond her grasp, leaving her wary of possible repercussions.
"Why can't I find myself a Theodore? " Ginny lamented, making a face.
The following day, as Hermione entered the grand hall of Damasus the Decadent's Theatre, her nerves resurfaced. Like every morning, she headed straight for the theatre's private library. Once inside, she was welcomed by a delightful scent. A quick glance towards her customary desk revealed the source: a bouquet of white flowers, neatly arranged in a glass vase.
Intrigued, Hermione approached the desk and leaned in to inhale the flowers' scent. Suddenly, a soft, melodious sound filled the room, reminiscent of tinkling laughter. Startled by the unexpected melody, Hermione looked around the room.
"I hope they please you," came a voice behind her, causing her to start.
She spun around quickly to see Theodore standing in the doorway.
"Are these for me?" Hermione queried, a note of disbelief in her voice.
"Of course," Theodore chuckled. "They're Humming Ranunculi, a very rare breed that sings from time to time. When it feels like it, at least."
"They're beautiful," Hermione responded, admiring the soft petals. "Ginny will be absolutely thrilled."
She cringed inwardly at her own absurd response. Had that truly been her first thought? For someone who usually prided herself on her sharp wit, that was appalling. She glanced at Theodore, who also seemed taken aback by her comment. He eventually gave an amused chuckle, and Hermione's tension eased.
"I... I'm speechless, honestly," she admitted. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. I wanted to express my thanks for yesterday. It was a truly splendid time," he said with sincerity.
He had seemed particularly happy the day before, during their stroll around Diagon Alley. And even more so when they'd shared that kiss.
"It was my pleasure," Hermione said.
He joined her by the desk, gently touching one of the flowers. The petals delicately unfolded, and the earlier tinkling melody resonated once more in the room.
"They can stay this beautiful for a week. But they become silent after three days," Theodore explained.
He turned to face her, giving her a warm smile. Once again, Hermione felt that twinge in her chest. She realized how close they were again. She held her breath, getting lost in his clear eyes. The same urge she had felt yesterday washed over her—the urge to feel his lips pressed against hers once more.
"Mr. Nott?" a voice called from the doorway.
And for the third time in just five minutes, Hermione was startled again. She stepped back, aiming to put some proper distance between herself and Theodore. She turned towards the door and recognised the theatre's director, who she often crossed paths with when in Theodore's company.
"The orchestra is ready to resume; they're simply awaiting you," said the woman, her tone urgent.
If she had noticed the palpable tension between Hermione and Theodore, she gave nothing away.
"I'll be right there," Theodore replied, shifting his focus to the woman, who gave a nod and then disappeared.
He faced Hermione again, a disappointed look crossing his features.
"Duty calls," he said with a sigh. "I hope they brighten your day."
He gave a quick nod towards the flowers and Hermione returned the gesture to show her appreciation. Then, driven by a sudden surge of bravery, she closed the gap between them with a kiss. The kiss was quick, but it was enough to reignite the butterflies she always felt around him. As she pulled away, Theodore wore a look of pleasant surprise.
"That will undoubtedly brighten my day," he assured her, his expression dreamy.
Hermione stayed blissfully happy for the remainder of the morning. She didn't even feel her usual stress over falling behind on her references. The assignment given by Aelius Macmillan was proving more time-consuming than she had anticipated. Theodore returned in the mid-afternoon and suggested a walk in the gardens. On the guided tour he had led on her first day, they hadn't been able to fully explore the gardens.
Hermione felt a shiver run through her as Theodore took her hand, walking among rows of impeccably trimmed hedges. Similar to the theatre, the gardens themselves were a masterpiece. She found it surprising how immaculately maintained the vegetation was, despite the season. Undoubtedly, this was the result of house-elves' meticulous care for the grounds.
As with their previous day's experience in Diagon Alley, they conversed for hours, completely losing track of time. This time, it was Hermione's turn to listen to Theodore's tales of distant lands. Her life had offered few opportunities for travel. Then, the regime's invasion had shattered all her hopes of ever visiting other countries. Despite his youth, Theodore appeared to have achieved much in his life. He also radiated a melancholy often found in those much older. Despite the stark differences in their status and backgrounds, life-changing events had clearly marked him too.
For reasons she couldn't quite fathom, Hermione found herself unreservedly opening up to Theodore. She couldn't explain this feeling. After all, they'd only just met, and she should have been wary of someone of his standing. Yet, her instincts told her otherwise. With Theodore, everything seemed clear. In his company, her doubts vanished, replaced by an irresistible urge to seize the moment, a rarity for her. Normally, Hermione was always on guard. She typically left nothing to chance.
"Was it your birthday recently?" he asked, sounding somewhat surprised, during their conversation.
She nodded.
"Ginny insists on throwing a party every time," Hermione chuckled. "This year, I managed to dissuade her."
Anxious after receiving that mysterious letter, Hermione had declined all her friend's efforts to get her out of her flat for birthday celebrations.
"You don't enjoy celebrating your birthday?" he inquired.
"I don't like celebrating anything. I despise parties," Hermione added with a grimace.
She always loathed being the centre of attention, no matter the situation. A silence followed. Theodore appeared lost in thought.
"What about yours?" she inquired.
"Mine's a few months away," he answered, somewhat evasively. "Honestly, I don't enjoy celebrating it much either."
"Why?" Hermione probed curiously.
"Well, that day tends to bring back some unpleasant memories for my family," he said, his face clouding over.
He shook his head, as though dispelling the negative thoughts.
"And today is a beautiful day; I wouldn't want to spoil it with that," he added with a smile.
He paused, pointing at something in the distance. Following his gaze, Hermione noticed a fountain before them. In the centre, a statue of a woman wielding a bow, poised to shoot a sharpened arrow, stood. A flute hung at her waist.
"She symbolizes artistic inspiration," Theodore revealed. "Legend says one of my ancestors was struck by a Woodland Muse's arrow. Since then, all his descendants have been born with a unique talent."
"I'm not sure Woodland Muses really exist," Hermione interjected, her tone pragmatic. "It's just folklore that's never been confirmed."
Her comment drew a short laugh from Theodore.
"It's merely an old tale my grandfather told. I, too, have my doubts about its truth," he admitted.
Their stroll continued in peaceful silence, broken only by the buzzing of creatures within the bushes.
"This place is breath-taking," Hermione said in awe as they settled on a natural stone bench with bevelled edges, finely carved.
"The gardens at our family estate are even more spectacular. They're my mother's pride and joy," Theodore remarked.
"How's she doing?" Hermione inquired, turning to face him.
A concerned expression appeared on Theodore's features.
"She claims to be alright, but I believe she's suffering more than she lets on," he shared. "Her treatments only manage the pain. Sadly, the Medi-wizards can do no more."
Hermione moved closer, resting her head on his shoulder, reducing the distance between them. Feeling unable to change the situation, she hoped her presence would offer Theodore some comfort, no matter how small. She could only imagine the sadness he was feeling. He wrapped an arm around her, gently caressing her waist.
"I'm really glad you're here, Hermione," Theodore confessed.
Hermione simply placed her hand on his as a response. She, too, was happy in his company. Whenever he was nearby, her doubts seemed to vanish. She nearly forgot the distance their statuses created within the regime.
"I'd really like for you to meet her," Theodore eventually said, after a thoughtful pause.
Hermione sat up straight, giving him a stunned look. Yet, the earnest gleam in his eyes assured her of his seriousness.
"Is that a good idea?" Hermione began, uneasy.
Theodore not sharing the regime's ideals was one thing, but meeting the wife of a Governor, a member of the Sacred Thirteen? That request was of another level. The idea terrified her, and instantly, a latent anxiety resurfaced. Theodore seemed to notice her sudden panic, as he quickly added:
"My mother is different," he vehemently assured her. "She won't care about your status. That's not how she raised me to judge people."
Hermione, however, was not convinced.
"I realize it's quick," Theodore acknowledged. "But given the current circumstances, I don't know how much time we have left."
He added this in a hushed tone, and once more, Hermione was overwhelmed with sympathy for him.
"Alright," she conceded at last.
The idea made her nervous, but being constantly on edge was exhausting. Theodore was the most open-minded man she'd met since her arrival in the regime. Clearly, his upbringing had shaped his attitude. Up to this point, he had never given her a reason to doubt. She found herself wanting to trust him.
Their eyes met, and Hermione felt herself losing ground, captivated by the unique shade of his eyes. When he gazed at her that way, it seemed as though nothing else mattered. Theodore gently placed a hand on her cheek and planted a kiss on her lips. Her heart raced uncontrollably. Hermione wondered if it was normal to feel such strong emotions for someone so quickly. These newfound feelings both uplifted and frightened her.
A raindrop landed on Hermione's forehead, quickly followed by more. Quickly, a downpour drenched the garden, soaking their hair and faces as they pulled apart. Hermione stood, releasing a nervous laugh as raindrops streamed down her face. Theodore then took her hand, leading them in a dash towards the theatre. He stumbled on a flagstone, nearly falling, but quickly steadied himself against a garden railing. Hermione's laughter intensified, and soon, Theodore joined in. They rushed inside for shelter, oblivious to the disapproving eyes that had been watching them from a window two floors up for several minutes.
/
Days flew by quickly among the Defiant Ghouls, and Hannah found herself pleasantly surprised at her ability to adapt so seamlessly to her new life, a drastic contrast to her previous existence. Never had she envisioned herself displaying such bravery. Once a reserved and peace-seeking individual, the harrowing events she had faced had fundamentally changed her.
The warm reception from the Defiant Ghouls deeply moved her; they welcomed her as though she were a long-lost friend, despite being a newcomer. A spirit of camaraderie and steadfast resolve infused the community. Despite the harsh living conditions, the Defiant Ghouls upheld their unwavering commitment to selflessness and mutual aid, cheerfully assisting each other without complaints. This contrasted sharply with Voldemort's oppressive regime, dominated by a culture of individualism, suspicion, and prejudice.
Since her initial tour of the base, Hannah hadn't seen Dean again. Whenever she asked the other members about him, their answers were evasive and unclear. She deduced that he must have been assigned to a mission.
Much to her surprise, Hannah formed a bond with Terrence Higgs, their friendship flourishing as they spent significant time together. United by their deep loathing of the regime, she often found herself agreeing with his views.
"Personally, I reckon we're far too passive. We ought to be making bolder moves to really show them our mettle," Higgs asserted with confidence, a passionate glint in his blue eyes. "There's too much complacency here. Many come from free zones, hiding here to evade arrest. They haven't seen the regime's horrors up close. They're lacking a proper grasp of the situation."
With precision, he wrapped an enchanted wire around an intricately carved stone. This was part of an explosive trap setup by the Defiant Ghouls near the base's surface. If an outsider ventured too close to their hideout, these stones would trigger a minor explosion, alerting the members to the presence of an intruder.
"The Sacred Thirteen need to face consequences for their actions against the Unbloodeds and those who oppose them," Higgs continued. "Mercy is not an option. They've shown us none."
Once he was done, he carefully placed his explosive stone on a nearby pile. Hannah handed him another stone and the barbed wire she had neatly cut.
"I don't believe in passive resistance. I think we should obliterate them at the first opportunity," he added, his voice heavy with fury. "They're the real savages, the brutes. We're merely fighting for survival."
Hannah stayed silent, her thoughts churning amidst Higgs's impassioned words. His approach, though radical, resonated deeply with her. Someone, indeed, must bear the weight of the suffering inflicted upon the regime's most vulnerable members.
"Unfortunately, here in the base, not many align with our stance. Most are pacifists," Higgs lamented, a look of disgust crossing his face. "They're naive, not understanding that sometimes fighting fire with fire is necessary."
In the underground artificial garden, Higgs and Hannah, flanked by two comrades, continued their discussion, with the others nodding vehemently in agreement with Higgs's words.
"However, some rebel groups share our sentiments," he added, satisfaction evident in his tone. "Isn't that right, Ritchie?"
Higgs turned to one of his companions, a young man with dark skin and curly hair named Ritchie Coote, who nodded vigorously.
"I was part of a faction known as the Yorkshire Revolt," Ritchie shared. "We took definitive action; we didn't just hide and avoid the enemy. We might have lacked numbers, but we had more courage and audacity than an army of ten thousand. The last I heard, they declined to join the F.L.I.P. because they disapprove of the Phoenix's methods."
Recalling Dean's words about the resistance groups scattered across the country, Hannah felt a connection to the broader struggle. It wasn't until several weeks later that Hannah finally saw him again. She found him in the mess hall, his arm wrapped in a makeshift cast. With a broad smile, he gestured for her to join him at his table.
"Oi, Hannah," Dean greeted, his voice brimming with cheer.
He looked tired but hadn't lost his usual good humour.
"I take it your mission went well?" she remarked.
"If you're basing that on me returning in one piece—then yes," Dean replied with amusement.
He finished his meal—potatoes and sausages. Lately, the quality of the food had improved noticeably, courtesy of a recently arrived food convoy.
"I've got some good news for you," he announced, after finishing a large bite of potato.
Curious, Hannah quirked an eyebrow, prompting him to elaborate.
"The Aurors aren't after you," Dean informed her.
Relief washed over her, realising this meant Jacob's mother hadn't recognised her. As a result, they had been unable to trace her back to her real identity, she realized. Even though it had only been a few weeks since she'd joined the Defiant Ghouls, her old life already felt so far away. Just a month ago, her life had been a series of drab, flavourless days. Back then, the only thing that gave her a semblance of happiness were her illicit visits to the Rowle residence to spy on their comings and goings with Jacob.
"This also means you're now eligible for field infiltration missions," Dean declared.
"You mean I'll have to go back there?" she murmured in a quiet voice.
Dean nodded in confirmation. "You can help us from the inside," he stated emphatically.
The thought of returning home filled her with unease. Part of her was relieved at the chance to see Terry again, to offer him reassurance. Yet, the idea of going back to live under the regime after what she'd experienced felt overwhelming.
"Alright," she finally said, with resignation in her tone.
She had committed to the cause and would do everything possible to contribute to it. Since her arrival, she hadn't been assigned any specific role. She was tired of staying at the camp, without any interesting missions. She yearned to be useful, like the others.
The next day, she shared the news to Higgs.
"That's fantastic news, Hannah," he said. "You'll have the chance to do much more than those of us trapped in this hole."
He seemed to ponder at great speed, and she felt an idea sprouting in his mind.
"Indeed, this is truly good news for us," Higgs reiterated, his voice dropping to a whisper to avoid eavesdroppers in the corridor.
"With you out in the field on our behalf, we can make some proper waves. The sort that'll put the wind up the regime," he assured, his eyes twinkling with schemes.
The discussions they had shared over the past few weeks had made the implications of Higgs' words clear to Hannah.
The regime would probably not be prepared for what they had in store.
/
Draco drummed his fingers impatiently on the edge of his two-way mirror, frequently glancing at the wall clock. He observed his financial manager with deep boredom, barely registering the words spoken. Listening to the end-of-day financial summary of the hotel was pure torture. His attention always faltered when hungry, and the employee's monotonous report only worsened the ordeal. Eventually, Draco, unable to bear his interlocutor's constant talking any longer, sat up straight.
"Just give me the bottom line – are we on track financially?" he interjected.
"Yes, sir," replied the man, taken aback by the abrupt interruption.
"You should have started with that," Draco criticized irritably. "Good evening."
The man quickly scooped up his parchments before excusing himself. Draco followed him out, encountering a new assistant at the staff reception, whose name escaped him.
"Mr. Malfoy, I've informed your mother that you won't be present for dinner. And your guest has arrived," she announced politely.
"Where is she?" Draco inquired; his interest reignited.
"She's waiting in your private lounge, sir."
Draco nodded briefly and then walked away. Comprising several wings, the hotel featured private corridors for employees to move unseen by guests, upholding its high standards. He particularly chose these corridors towards evening's end, when his tolerance for guest interactions diminished. Guests here were affluent individuals, spending fortunes to stay at the Imperial Augurey, expecting impeccable service.
He took one of the service lifts up to the fourth floor, where the North wing was reserved for meeting rooms and private lounges. When he entered one of them, he set his eyes on a young woman. Standing with her back turned, she stood before a large buffet, heaped with delectable dishes, arranged by the employees at Draco's request.
"Pure be the blood," Draco drawled.
Ginny turned sharply to face him.
"Victorious be his coming," she replied, her mouth full.
Draco watched her in silence as she swallowed, clearly uncomfortable.
"I've been waiting a while and got hungry," she explained.
In his circles, it was unheard of for a woman to display such glaring lack of etiquette before someone of his stature. Many would have preferred to remain hungry rather than behave in such a way. However, such considerations apparently never crossed Ginny Weasley's mind. She even seemed to find the situation amusing. From her expression, it was evident she was holding back laughter.
"Are you expecting more guests?" she asked.
"Why would you think that?" Draco retorted.
"This feast," she replied, gesturing towards the buffet and shrugging. "Are you throwing a party?"
The table held enough food to easily feed a dozen people.
"No," Draco replied disdainfully, stepping towards the table. "It's just the two of us, Ginevra."
He gestured towards a chair and Ginny, taken aback by the invitation, followed his gaze. She then moved towards the table; her approach marked by evident uncertainty. Her eyes widened in realization that Draco had pulled out the chair for her. Draco took a seat opposite her, just as a house-elf entered the room.
"I don't have any new information," Ginny stated, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "You did ask me to keep a low profile."
"That's not why I've called you here," Draco stated, unfolding his napkin onto his lap.
"Then why am I here? You didn't invite me just for dinner, I suppose," Ginny retorted.
"You could really do with learning some manners," Draco cautioned, picking up the glass of mead that the house-elf had just poured. "Especially the art of not blurting out every thought that crosses your mind."
His comment appeared to stun her, causing her cheeks to flush a pale pink. It wasn't from embarrassment, though—she appeared agitated by his response.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Do 'good manners' mean I should let you belittle me without interruption?" she asked sarcastically.
Draco found her quick wit rather amusing, a welcome change from the dryness of his financial manager's company.
"No need to be so defensive, Ginevra," he said. "You might actually be pleased to learn why I've summoned you."
Curiosity ignited in her hazel eyes, causing her to momentarily disregard the plate the elf had just placed before her.
"I require information about your family background," Draco explained, picking up his cutlery. "Without it, I can't arrange the Ministry Clemency you're seeking for them."
At his words, her expression lightened, briefly taking on the look of a hopeful little girl. She watched him as though he were Voldemort himself, possessing the key to all her desires. Her transparency and emotionality struck him; such reactions were entirely foreign to him. He had never known such fervent hope in his life, and even had he done so, he would have never displayed it so openly.
"What would you like to know?" she asked eagerly.
"Everything."
Draco paid close attention while she detailed her family's circumstances. He learned she'd been separated from most of her family during her childhood due to an annexation. Her father had been placed on the list of potential Dissidents, thus explaining her status as a blood traitor.
"My brother and I have no contact with them anymore," she said. "It seems unjust that we should pay the price for it. We were just kids, and—"
"The rules are the rules. And they apply to everyone," Draco interrupted flatly, uninterested in her grievances.
"But you have the power to do something, haven't you?" she said, struggling to hide her agitation. "Your family… Your father is a Governor."
"Think, Weasley. What would people think of the Sacred Coven doling out pardons to Unbloodeds?" he asked, rolling his eyes. "Contrary to what you might believe, we can't just do as we please."
The statutes governing blood purity were the cornerstone of the pureblood-led Britain, superseding all - the Sacred Thirteen, the Coven of Governors and the Minister for Magic. They were the pillars of order; any deviation could lead to chaos. Even Voldemort himself, had he been alive, would likely have been subordinate to these principles.
"You told me you could do something. We had an understanding," she protested, a hurt look in her eyes.
"I'm well aware of what I said. Such negotiations take time and must be conducted discreetly," Draco explained, as if it were obvious.
"So, what should I do to make these discussions move quicker?" she asked, her voice resolute, watching him intently.
Draco paused, her question hanging in the air. In fact, he had stopped listening altogether. The only thing now capturing his attention was the sudden fervour in the young woman's demeanour and the fiery glint in her eye. He found himself imagining Ginny Weasley in his bed, her fiery red hair spread across his sheets like a flaming halo, her eyes still shining with that same impetuous spark.
"Well?" she pressed; her gaze still fixed on him.
It would be so easy, he thought, as his eyes dropped to the blouse that clung to her body, perfectly accentuating her figure. Gaining some favours from her, if he so desired, seemed like an effortless endeavour. She appeared willing to go to any lengths.
Draco compelled himself to dismiss these thoughts, mentally reprimanding himself for entertaining such notions. He was no longer the young boy who let himself be dictated by his primitive urges. He had a plan, a meticulously crafted strategy, to which he needed to stick to. Prioritizing long-term objectives over yielding to immediate desires was crucial. Fulfilling his parents' expectations was still his primary goal, and he needed to stay focused on that.
More importantly, Draco had standards. He would never stoop to touch a woman of lower rank, regardless of her attractiveness. Plenty of other women, from distinguished families, were eager to throw themselves at him at the slightest hint of his attention. Draco lifted his glass and took a sip, savouring the mead's cool relief against his suddenly parched throat.
"Patience is essential, Ginevra," he finally responded, his voice carrying a hint of languor. "We're in the midst of a strategic game here."
He clearly noticed the flicker of frustration that crossed the young woman's face. Nevertheless, she remained silent, and for a while, the only sounds were those of cutlery and crockery.
"Well then, if I'm to keep waiting for my reward, I'd like to request another favour," she said, interrupting suddenly.
"What makes you think you're in a position to negotiate?" he asked, a mocking smirk playing on his lips.
She gave a nonchalant shrug, appearing undisturbed by his query.
"You wanted me motivated, didn't you?" she retorted, raising an eyebrow. "You've seen what I can do. You've underestimated me, a fact you've admitted yourself."
Placing her fork beside her plate, she eyed him with defiance. Without missing a beat, the house-elf swooped in to clear away the main course.
"You're consistently benefiting from the information I provide. I believe some form of reciprocation is only fair," she stated firmly.
Draco was acutely aware that the terms of their arrangement distinctly favoured him. It hardly surprised him that she was now attempting to level the playing field. While Draco typically resisted bargaining, his curiosity now overtook him. What might she request? Monetary aid? Special access? Certain privileges? His curiosity was piqued to uncover the underlying motivations and desires driving someone like her.
"And what might you be after?" he enquired, glancing at the dessert—a raspberry confit paired with a delicate meringue.
"My niece is starting school this term. She needs a place at a decent institution," she said, her voice unwavering as she enjoyed a spoonful of dessert, her eyes momentarily closing in appreciation.
"And of course, you'll be handling her tuition fees," she added with assurance.
Her choice to advocate for someone else's needs over her own intrigued Draco. From what world did she hail? Why did she not prioritize her own desires? Draco had long understood that everyone had their price. His family's status and wealth had always given them leverage, which they wielded without hesitation. He was skeptical of any apparent altruism, Ginny Weasley's included. But he was intent on finding out her true motivations.
"Consider it done," he conceded.
Her eyes slightly widened, betraying her surprise at the absence of further negotiation. In truth, her request was trivial and easily achievable for someone of his status. If such a concession was sufficient to motivate her, he was prepared to oblige.
"I never imagined this feeling could be so delightful," Ginny confessed, her voice tinged with pleasure.
She let out a contented sigh, savouring her final bite. Draco observed her, bemused by her comment.
"What feeling?"
"Having a silver spoon in my mouth," she responded with a cheeky tone.
Such provocation might have typically irritated Draco, yet it surprisingly amused him, prompting a smirk.
"It's a risky game you're playing, Ginevra," he cautioned. "Your insolence might not be to my liking. Others have faced consequences for less."
For a fleeting moment, Ginny's confidence seemed to waver, but it was quickly masked by bravado.
"You wouldn't," she challenged boldly.
She made this statement with an attempted air of confidence, yet Draco could discern from her tone that it was feigned. This amused him all the more.
"Quite self-assured, aren't we?" he commented, his tone laced with mockery.
"You need me," Ginny reminded him.
Draco's lips curled into a deliberately mocking smirk, drawing an intrigued expression from Ginny. The confidence she newly exhibited amused him more than he cared to admit. In truth, he found her unexpectedly intriguing. Observing her closely, Draco recognized his earlier misjudgement.
Ginny Weasley was shaping up to be a far more engaging distraction than he had initially anticipated.
And there we have it – while some are just dipping their toes into ''cordial'' conversations, others are already navigating the tricky waters of meeting the in-laws. Ah, the diverse paces of romance lol. But as the saying goes, all roads lead to Rome, right?
Anyway... The charged tension, the power play, the verbal sparring... This chapter is exactly why I ship Drinny so hard. Yes, I'm unabashedly fangirling over my own story – is that weird?
Let me know your thoughts!