Singing While Rome Burns
“I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want. You said Tell me about your books , your visions made of flesh and light and I said This is the Moon. This is the Sun (...) Here I am leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome burns. We are all just trying to be holy. We are all going forward. None of us are going back." - Snow and Dirty Rain, Richard Siken
_
Hermione wasn’t inclined to admit it, but she was intrigued.
On the way home from the Burrow, her mind oscillated from speculating why Malfoy had given her the book, to deciding she should just ignore it and return it to him, to realizing she wouldn’t be able to control her curiosity, saying to hell with it, and deciding to crack the book open as soon as she got home. As soon as she got to the flat, Hermione locked herself in her room with it and a cup of peppermint tea.
She opened it. The book discussed some of the topics that Hermione had read about in the books Harry had given her -- pureblood beliefs, magic, and rituals -- but with such detail she could finally get an accurate sense of some of the intricacies of pureblood culture. Based on the way it was written, Hermione wondered if it was supposed to be a manifesto of sorts.
The hands on the clock turned as she kept reading. Halfway through, a passage stuck out to her:
The most distinctive difference between a wizard who is faithful to our mission and a wizard who betrays it is a knowledge of the fundamental importance of our existence. As magic is as old as the earth itself, so is our connection to it. We were the chosen ones. Our home is the symbol of our wealth, so we must grow and protect it, as others will covet it. Our witches are the backbone of our families, so we must clothe, feed, and worship them. Our children are the upholders of our purity and our reputations, so we must guide them through life until they come to a successful union. It is imperative that we keep ourselves untouched by temptations - we must speak loudly and proudly of our origins, so others will know our values. We must rule all institutions that influence our society, to guarantee the survival of our people. And above all, we must safeguard our world from the invasion of the impure.
As she read through it, Hermione constantly thought back to Malfoy and his intentions in giving her the book. She hoped he wasn’t attempting to get her to sympathize with him. She certainly didn’t.
But Hermione saw him, perhaps for the first time . If a boy is raised to believe that hating a minority is the only way to protect his people, she asked herself, can he really do anything but exactly that?
Of course he can, she thought, catching herself. We expect everyone to put aside their biases to be part of society. We just fought a war over it.
Hermione finally closed the book, exhaling a deep breath. As she glanced out her window, she was startled to realize it was already morning -- she hadn’t spent the entire night reading since she’d taken the OWLs.
Hermione went to set the book on her nightstand, but paused and opened its cover once more. She rubbed her finger over the embossed family crest and fine-printed letters beneath it.. Malfoy’s ancestors must be rolling over in their graves right now , she thought.
It was that thought that spurred Hermione to get up from the bed and grab her copy of The Question of Cultural Identity.
She grabbed a roll of kraft paper from a drawer, then wrapped the book in it, tying the package with a string. She’d take it to the owlery in Diagon Alley later in the morning. You never know, she thought. Maybe he’ll learn something.
_
Draco raked his fingers through his hair in frustration. He scowled down at the book in his hand, flicking his wand to turn to the next page. Many of the terms confused him, and the author’s unusual word choice made the book feel like it was written in a different language. Still, he wouldn’t let it defeat him.
“What are you reading?” said a deep voice. Draco jolted upright, the book slipping through his fingers and tumbling to the floor with a loud thud.
“Bloody hell, Nott,” said Draco. “Where did you come from?”
“The fireplace.” Theo bent down to pick up the book, but Draco grabbed it from his hands before he could get more than a quick glance. “Why are you so touchy?”
“I’m going to put the damn wards up this time, I mean it,” snapped Draco.
Theo rolled his eyes. “So you keep saying.”
Draco tossed the book into a drawer, then shut it and walked over to his chair behind the cherry wood desk. Theo was already comfortably slouching in the armchair in front of it.
“Care to tell me to what do I owe the displeasure of your presence?”
“What were you reading?” asked Theo again, propping his feet up on the table. With a sweep of his arm, Draco immediately knocked them down, making Theo grunt.
“What is it this time?” asked Draco. “Spit it out.”
“Fine,” sighed Theo, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m hiding from Pans.”
“What have you done now?”
“Absolutely nothing! She’s bloody mad, is what she is. She sent me a Howler last night, scared the living hell out of me,” he said, his voice rising in tone and volume. “I was having a bath, and my glass of Dragon Barrel Brandy fell in the water, made a fucking mess. I had to take another shower. She ruined my me time.”
Draco chuckled. “What’s she so pissed about?”
Theo rolled his eyes. “Something about me indulging Granger. Like I have any other choice, I don’t plan on being in that damn program forever.”
“And you think coming here is a smart idea? It’s not going to take her long to figure out where you went.”
“I might have sent her an owl asking to meet at The Leaky Cauldron,” he looked down at his watch, “and she might be getting there now, and I certainly don’t intend on going.”
“That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, and that’s saying something,” said Draco, amused. “A Howler’s nothing compared to what she’ll do when she finds out you stood her up.”
Theo crossed his hands behind his head and gave him a mischievous grin. “I might have also owled Kiran Avery to meet her there. Daphne told me Pansy’s been fancying him for months,” he said, sounding proud.
"Avery? The sod looks like a hippogriff stepped all over his face."
"He's also going to inherit half the shops in Knockturn Alley," said Theo. "Beauty is fickle, but a fat vault is the gift that keeps on giving."
Draco smirked. "Pansy was always a visionary.” he said. “Or rather, her mum is."
"Certainly," said Theo, "but I figured getting properly shagged might get her off my back.”
“Theodore Nott,” said Draco, “you're a devious bastard. But maybe there’s some Gryffindor in you, betting it all on the unlikely chance that Avery’s good in the sack.”
“You call it foolish, I call it a calculated risk. Either way, I’m taking my chances," said Theo. "I would offer you my matchmaking skills too, but I don’t think you need them” he said significantly, waggling his eyebrows at Draco.
Draco’s eyes narrowed, and Theo stood up from the chair, backing away from the table.
“What are you on about?” asked Draco.
“I’ve seen you staying back from class recently,” said Theo. “You seem to be getting all chummy with Granger.”
Draco’s jaw twitched. “Did someone slip a babbling beverage into your tea this morning, Nott?” he spat, watching as his friend walked over to the fireplace. “You’re speaking nonsense.”
“Just using my eyes,” shrugged Theo, grabbing a pinch of Floo powder. “By the way, how did you get your hands on a Muggle book?”
Before Draco had the chance to come up with an answer, Theo stepped into the fireplace, smirking as he waved goodbye.
“Sodding git,” hissed Draco.
_
The large framed photo pinned to the wall behind Hughman’s table was crooked. Hermione’s eye kept wandering to it. In the photo, Shacklebolt and Hughman shook hands, then walked together to push open the center’s front doors.
Hermione itched to take her wand out and straighten the frame -- it’d take half a second, and she didn’t understand why Hughman wasn’t bothered by it.
I’m going out of my mind, she thought, barely listening as he rambled on about Hermione’s exceptional work at the center. He doesn’t even know what I’m doing. Even if Hermione had been assisting Cartwell, as the director believed, the compliments would fall on the side of arse kissing.
“Of course, we are so incredibly proud of the work you’ve been doing here! Having you and your friends support the MRC means so much to the Ministry!” he finished, looking at Hermione expectantly.
Hermione feigned a smile. She cleared her throat before saying, “I’m glad my work is being well received.”
“It’s more than just work! It’s a mission!” said Hughman, his voice a pitch too high. “And it’s important for us that everyone is aware of that.”
“The general public has lots of reasons to be happy about the Center’s work,” said Hermione, keeping her smile. “The Wizarding World has become so vocal about political initiatives these past few years. Nothing slides by anymore. It’s a great development.”
“Of course, and the Ministry cares greatly about the public opinion,” nodded Hughman enthusiastically, “which takes me to my reason for calling you here, actually.”
“Oh?” asked Hermione, “I thought you just wanted to touch base.”
“Pardon?” he asked, forehead raising.
“I apologize,” she said quickly, “it’s a Muggle saying.”
That made Hughman laugh -- too loud, and for too long. Hermione shifted in her seat, her eyes going back to the crooked frame.
“You’re a funny one, Miss Granger!” he said, still chuckling. He grabbed his mug from the table, glancing at Hermione over the rim as he lifted it to his lips. “Your sense of humor will be an asset when you talk to the press at the St. Mungo’s anniversary party next week.”
“Excuse me?” said Hermione with a frown. “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
“It’s been four hundred years since the hospital was funded! They’re throwing a party to celebrate its accomplishments and the Healers, of course. Isn’t that exciting?” Hermione opened her mouth, but Hughman continued talking. “It’s a huge event for the wizarding community, and you are the perfect person to represent the MRC.”
“I don’t think that would be appropriate, sir,” said Hermione. “I started here just a little over a month ago. I’m sure there are people who have been here since the beginning that would appreciate the honor.”
“I will be there as well, of course!” said Hughman, setting the mug down on the table. “You’d get the other invite.”
“I feel like we’re talking past each other, sir,” said Hermione, struggling to maintain politeness. “Why don’t you give the invite to Cartwell?” she offered. “She did her apprenticeship there, so she probably knows the St. Mungo’s staff well.”
“Cartwell is a valuable member of our team, but she would agree you’re a better fit for this,” he said. He moved to grab an envelope from beneath a stack of parchments, thrusting it into her hand. “I insist, Miss Granger.”
Hermione reluctantly accepted the envelope. As she did so, she had the nagging feeling she was being used. “If you insist.” she mumbled.
“Great! You’re such a team player, Miss Granger, that’s the attitude that we need from everyone,” said Hughman, his voice rising with enthusiasm. “Now, keep in mind that you’ll likely be approached by reporters at this event, so it’s important to…” he hesitated, clicking his tongue, “use discretion when talking about initiatives like the rehab program.”
Hermione frowned. “There’s already been a lot of press coverage about the rehab program.”
“And all of it has reported the message we’re trying to get across, Miss Granger,” he said, tugging at his tie. “The Ministry cares deeply about Wizarding Britain becoming a more progressive society. We’ve ensured we will start on that journey with the rehab program.” His words sounded like they were ripped off a governmental brochure. “We’ve been making progress, and that’s what people need to know.”
Hermione chewed on her lower lip, pausing to gather her thoughts. “I will make sure to represent the MRC to the best of my abilities, Director Hughman,” she said slowly, making sure to look him in the eye, “but I’m not going to lie about what I’ve been doing here.”
Hughman gave her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Miss Granger, I’m sure you understand that--” he started as Hermione stood up from her chair.
“I understand, Director. But I’m sure you understand where I’m coming from as well,” she said. “It was nice to talk to you. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No no,” he said, hastily gathering some papers together. “Right. Sure, of course. Have a good day of work, Miss Granger.”
“You too.” Hermione tucked the envelope into her purse before turning around.
As she closed the office’s door behind her, Hermione felt strangely calm. The realization that she stood up for herself, for once, settled inside of her chest like a butterfly flapping its wings. If she had to, she would go, but she would do so on her terms.
_
Hermione was sitting on the outdoor chairs of the café next to the MRC, half full bowl of tomato soup sitting on the table in front of her. It was Harry’s day off, and she was wasting as much time as possible before she returned to their flat. I’m not stalling, she thought to herself firmly. I’m giving him privacy. It’s not that the walls of the apartment have felt too small for both of us recently.
Home meant tiptoeing around elephants and dealing with uncomfortable silences, these days. Like her and her best friend were existing in completely different frequencies.
She looked at Harry and she yearned to reach out to him, desperate to make things clearer, to regain a resemblance of the comfort he once gave her. But something paralyzed her every single time she psyched herself up for a conversation. Maybe it was the knowledge that he didn’t approach her, either, and worse, that he didn’t even look like he wanted to.
She was holding a copy of The Serpent Wire , a magazine that Blaise Zabini founded a few months after the war ended. Hermione knew she wasn’t Zabini’s target audience -- neither Slytherin nor pureblood -- every issue Hermione had purchased was more out of morbid curiosity than real interest. But now and then, its coverage surprised her. An article by Sarah Spudmore discussed the implications of Harry’s promotion in an insightful and surprisingly impartial way. Back in Hogwarts, she would have never suspected that Zabini would be her source for alternative media.
“The Gryffindor princess reads Serpent Wire ?”
Hermione lifted her eyes slowly, finding Draco Malfoy’s smug face. He wore a pair of jet black sunglasses, the color of the frames contrasting against his pale skin. Hermione grimaced in distaste. It’s not even sunny out.
“Someone was giving it away near the fireplaces,” she replied coolly, watching as he grabbed a chair from an empty table behind him. “Oh, please, why don’t you sit?”
“Oh, thank you,” he replied, relaxing into the chair, “I assumed you only read publications that blow smoke up your arse. Like every other magazine, but that one.”
“That sounds more like you than me, but then again, there’s no magazine talking highly of you these days, is there?” said Hermione. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? I’m trying to have lunch, and your face is making me lose my appetite.”
Malfoy scoffed. “In this dreadful place? The food here tastes like a troll’s ear wax, Granger. You’d be better off eating the Hog’s Head’s soggy chips. But you having an undeveloped palate doesn’t surprise me. You've probably been fed the Weasley’s scraps for too long to recognize flavor.”
“If you’re here to insult my friends, you better go before I hex you into next week.”
Malfoy just chuckled in response. “Don’t you get tired of defending those peasants?” he said.
Hermione looked at him skeptically. Malfoy was... bantering with her. Despite their words, there was no real bite to them. It was like he was entertaining himself by baiting her, as if he didn’t know how to do anything else. She couldn’t remember ever having a conversation with him that didn’t carry an angry undertone. It was baffling, and it made her jiggle her foot in nervousness.
“Did you seek me out, Malfoy?” she asked, closing the magazine and placing it on top of the table.
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself, Granger,” said Malfoy, taking off his glasses and hanging them on his robes. “I was in the MRC for a mandatory program evaluation with Cartwell. You’re not that special.”
Hermione pursed her lips. "I didn’t know Cartwell called you for individual evaluations.”
“Oh, our resident swot doesn’t know something? It must be a cold day in hell.” He smirked when she wrinkled her nose. “I read some of that book you had that sorry excuse of an owl drop at my house. Do you own that thing, Granger? The poor creature looked half blind, making it fly anywhere should be considered animal cruelty.”
“I hired that owl from The Diagon Alley’s public owlery,” she said, mildly offended by the accusation, “You read the book?”
“I just said that.” They stared at each other for a full minute, neither willing to be the first to continue the conversation.
This is ridiculous, Hermione thought, then forced the question out. “So, what did you think?”
Apparently, Malfoy was just waiting for her to ask. “I have no idea what that postmodernism or illuminism shite is supposed to be but, frankly, I’m appalled to know Muggles dislike people over silly things like one’s skin color.”
“Aaah,” Hermione squinted her eyes. “Can you imagine one person discriminating against another for something they can’t control?”
“I wasn’t making a comparison,” he snapped. “I was merely commenting on the fact they’re clearly uncivilized beings.”
“Dark-skinned muggles were enslaved for centuries. They were tortured and raped. It was horrendous,” said Hermione, watching his reaction. “My ancestors were taken from their homes and cultures and brought into the British colonies to serve, and then die. My grandmother’s own grandparents were children of slaves, she used to tell me stories about it.”
“That’s simply barbaric, Granger,” said Malfoy, sounding genuinely appalled.
“I don’t doubt Voldemort would want to do something similar to muggleborns.”
Malfoy didn’t answer immediately. Hermione watched his Adam’s apple bob when he swallowed.
“What was the point of giving me the book, Granger?” he said at last. “It just went on and on about identities. Felt a little soft, a little theoretical for a swot like you.”
“You still read it, though,” sighed Hermione. “I thought you could relate to the bits about fractured and contradictory identities.”
“Pardon me?” he said, sounding surprised. “I don’t have a fractured identity.”
“Well, here you are, supposedly a bigoted pureblood, chatting with a muggleborn about war crimes.” He opened his mouth to respond, but she continued before he could interrupt her. “I’m not saying that you’re not a bigoted pureblood, but you also gave me -- sorry, lent me -- a book that I’m certain your family wouldn’t want someone like me touching.”
“I think you misinterpreted my--”
She went on. “You were supposed to be a ruthless Death Eater, but you didn’t kill Dumbledore when you had the chance, did you?”
Malfoy just looked at her. “You need to quit projecting your holier-than-thou, savior of the dark and twisted school-girl fantasies onto me, Granger.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she snapped. “I’m just saying, you fit the description, but if you’re so offended by my assumption, forget I said anything. You’re really sensitive for someone who has ‘judgment’ as a personality trait.”
Malfoy looked away from her, pointedly finding the passersby more interesting than their conversation. Hermione picked up the magazine, figuring she had annoyed him enough he would get up and leave.
Hermione kept her eyes fixed on the page in front of her, but she wasn’t registering anything she read, too aware of him to concentrate on anything else. She felt a buzzing under her skin, an overwhelming urge to look up and stare him down until he finally broke the silence. When he finally stood up, Hermione let out a breath that felt like she had held it in for hours.
Malfoy didn’t say anything to her as he left, and Hermione allowed herself to take her eyes off The Serpent Wire . She dragged her forgotten bowl of soup towards her, muttering a warming charm and scooping a spoonful of the thick red liquid into her mouth. The git was right , she thought, this is probably what a troll’s ear wax would taste like.
“Bloody hell, Granger, are you actually eating that thing?”
Hermione was so startled she dropped her spoon into the bowl, making drops of soup splash all over the table and, to her shame, down her chin.
Hermione grumbled under her breath, reluctantly accepting Malfoy’s engraved handkerchief. “You’re as graceful as a herd of centaurs,” he said, nose scrunched in disgust.
“You startled me!” she said, waving her hand towards the mess. “Go away, Malfoy.”
“Did you read the book I gave you?” he said.
Hermione let out a sigh she purposefully dragged for longer than necessary, trying to show him she was extremely put off by his attempts at conversing with her. “I might have.”
“That means you did.”
“Oh, like you know anything about me.”
“Do you get off on being contrary?”
“Look who’s talking!” she barked.
Hermione told herself to leave. But this is the first interesting conversation you’ve had in who knows how long, her inner voice piped in. Bantering with him is harmless, and might actually be entertaining. Hermione squared her shoulders as she stared back at him. Malfoy held a cup of coffee in his hands.
He grinned when he saw her looking. “Do you want one?”
“Are you offering?” she asked.
“Of course not, get one yourself. You have a job.” He actually laughed when he saw her face. The manners her mother installed in her were the only thing keeping Hermione from flipping Malfoy the bird. “About the book?”
Hermione licked her lips, tapping her fingers against the table --- she could apparate away, right then, and leave Malfoy to wonder alone. For another day, she could put off progressing on whatever strange timeline she found herself on.
Hermione felt something nervous flutter in her chest. Their conversation made her think of starting a walk down an unfamiliar road -- it’d lead them somewhere, unquestionably. The realization was both thrilling and terrifying.
She couldn’t define what it was that they were doing, but Hermione knew that talking to Malfoy felt like wading into a pool of water - she couldn’t tell if she was holding her breath yet.
Ah, fuck it , she decided. And, then, she said, “I read your bloody book.”
The only way she could describe his smile was -- a hungry snake watching a wood mouse scurry across the forest floor. It was only a matter of time.