Come Find Me, Hermione

Nov. 1st 1999

(First) Monday

Mondays are no more popular for wizards than they are for Muggles. Hermione Granger was perhaps the only witch in the world willing to regularly relive every Monday for what had been over half a year. And she had dragged a wizard (Theo) whimpering along with her.

This particular Monday, she woke in her own bed before the dawn chorus of bird song. Ginny was sleeping in at Harry’s—not being needed by the Holyhead Harpies till late morning and having made a proper Sunday of it.

Hermione welcomed the quiet solitude.

A trip to the loo, a kettle to boil, and she slipped into the work skirt, blouse, robe, and kitten heels she’d laid out the night before. She found dressing up for Mondays helped her face the longest feeling part of her work week.

Coffee in one hand, she dumped in cream and sugar until it was debatable if it could still be called coffee. Then, she sat down to a bit of toast as she smoothed out the Daily Prophet.

The entire front page (barring titles) was a close up of Gringotts Bank leaking gold like a cracked open wasp nest leaking—well, wasps.

The following article elicited little hisses and gasps into her not-coffee, and Hermione found her forehead aching with a scowl.

The Daily Prophet

Special Feature: The Great Gringotts Heist

By Rita Skeeter

How DARE Skeeter!

Blaming Muggle Halloween customs as the cause of a bank heist? Casting poor Rudinheimer’s marvelous idea into such sordid light! Hermione shouldn’t expect better but she did!

Harry hadn’t escaped either. The image of him and Ron, wide-eyed and bumbling around the carved-up steps of Gringotts bank was the absolute picture of incompetence. And Rita had to have just dozens of nice photos she could have drawn from.

Now in a righteous rage, Hermione clipped off to work. She dropped the paperwork off for her supposedly dark and dangerous scavenger hunt rune book but kept the volume itself at home beneath her bed. The elevators parted on the fourth floor to furtive stares and retreats from her co-workers. Hermione paused to watch several witches lift papers half over their faces.

Several wizards smirked as she passed. And then she saw why.

The door to her closet of an office swarmed with winged Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts. They crawled like termites in rotting wood. The floor, ceiling, and air buzzed. Hermione turned in circles. But no other office was infested. Groaning to herself, she turned on her heel, back down the elevator to the Auror’s level.

Harry and Ron arrived and the three of them wrestled every last Knut into a sack. Ron told her not to worry—Hermione had several charities operating out of her office, and the stolen winged currency was showing up with a pattern; St. Mungos, the Fountain of Magical Brethren, the Society for Distressed Witches, etc. S.P.E.W. was just one of many—And this was good!—They would likely track down all the missing money by week's end!

Door finally Galleon-free, Hermione set about her day. Awaiting her on the desk were two assignments. One, the Gringotts Bank Heist consultation gig, the second, a house call in Glasgow to address a neighborly complaint about the treatment of the Boilerbrew’s house-elf.

She had appointments at Gringotts all afternoon, so she set off to take care of the house call post-haste. Nobody was home except the house-elf, Burble (an elderly twiggy elf in a flour sack). He was not at all pleased to see Hermione.

Wasn’t she that snotty little witch behind S.P.E.W. trying to stir up trouble? Well, she could keep her trouble away from Glasgow, thank you. Had that nincompoop of a neighbor reported him? Well, he requested that his nosey neighbor Bethilda mind her own business! And she wasn’t to even try fobbing off some smelly sock or sweater on him! If Hermione objected to his flour sack—well what would she know of elf fashion? Elves had been wearing flour sacks and pillowcases for longer than she or her parents had been alive, hadn’t they?

Hermione (who had said nothing of clothes or socks or unfortunate looking flour sacks) agreed. She knew nothing, she was a Ministry boil, and could he please attest whether or not he had enacted self-harm on himself in the past year? Had he been punished or forced to punish himself?

‘What business did she have knowing?’

None at all, of course, but should he wish her to go away and not come back again to bother his Master and Mistress, he would need to answer just a few questions, please?

Her pestering him this very minute was a punishment!—and yes she should write that down in her report; Hermione Granger’s surveys are a punishment to endure. And wasn’t she a bother for persisting? And very well then, the answer was NO—to everything.

Hermione couldn’t help clarifying—‘Including the bit about a free voucher for a subscription to Dobby did it so Can You—an elvish magazine for elves by elves?’

‘Very much NO to that!’—was Burble’s reply with a sharp slam of the front door.

A most invigorating start to the day. Truly encouraging. Not at all demoralizing! She certainly didn’t waste a moment to cast a ‘Muffliato’ on her beaded purse and scream into it.

The rest of Hermione’s morning continued in-office, peppered with notices, requests for proofreading, questions on pesky little laws and caveats. She replied to these at a brisk pace, her little cupboard of an office stacked with so much paperwork, a few piles looked to be holding up the ceiling.

Atrix Rosier stopped by before lunch. A wizard two years her senior who studied at Beauxbatons. A pure-blood who (bashfully) admitted was inspired by Hermione’s S.P.E.W. campaign and had taken her pamphlets and philosophies to the Americas during the war. He found American witches and wizards far more open to the ideas of house-elf rights. ‘Bit sensitive about class issues, Americans are’, Atrix observed with a wink. He was Hermione’s predecessor on house-elf rights at the Ministry and had solicited her to come and work with him in the sub-department that was all two of them. He also covered Veela legislation.

He reminded Hermione a bit of Theo in appearances, if Theo were a bit shorter, had light olive skin, light curled hair, and hazel eyes. Also—if Theo were a bit more dippy and less mad-wanker in general.—Perhaps it was the way she suspected Atrix weaponized his grace and charm. Theo did that too, (relentlessly charming) except he made it obvious what he was about. Atrix did subtle the way sugar took to icing.

Hermione supposed it was expected from a graduate of the school known for grace and charm. Atrix was always stopping by to fix some paperwork mix-up. But getting mad at him was sort of like kicking a puppy. He had a vulnerable, open face. He laughed at himself freely, seemed friends with everyone in the department, and, in general, juggled shy and sly to an unsettling degree. Atrix was the result of the impossible scenario where a Slytherin and a Hufflepuff had a baby—Hermione decided.

The result had been a bit off-putting at first. Like a pretty girl pretending at being a clutz to encourage the boys to pick up after her and pet her on the head. She grudgingly came to admire his tenacity as red tape tied itself in ribbons to tidy up a little path for most of Atrix’s (and incidentally Hermione’s) house-elf projects. Currently, they were working on a fair wage act, a house-elf union, and a house-elf temping office so that elves had more choice in their work options.

Today, Atrix stopped by to drop off the latest copies of their petitions and casually dropped a flyer for S.H.A.M.R.O.C.K. in her lap as if it had merely slipped from his pile and not been placed deliberately under her eye.

“What’s this?”

“Fund-raiser,” Atrix passed her a matcha latte. “Drink this. Better caffeine distribution. It’ll keep you awake this afternoon. Plus it supports the cause,” he motioned to the flyer. “Might even give you a little liquid luck.”

The shiny green flyer sparkled with golden coins and read: Safeguarding Hilarious Antics, Mischief, and Reprisals to Obtain Cherished Kinship (with Leprechauns).

“They want legal rights to enact revenge against anyone who goes after their fake pot of gold?” Hermione asked, frowning.

“Support the cause, if not the vigilantism!” Atrix whispered in her ear, then toasted her tea with his.

A knock on her door frame roused Hermione from the flyer. Draco Malfoy loomed, scowly and displeased, as he surveyed her office. Hermione became aware of Atrix, half sitting on the armrest of her office chair, leaning over her almost lewdly.

“Malfoy.” She straightened up.

“Granger, might I have a word?” He slid cold eyes to Atrix.

“Only if you support the cause!” Atrix raised his styrofoam cup.

“If I must.” Malfoy’s gaze slid across Hermione’s paper piles with unveiled skepticism. She could practically pluck the words from his mind. All this paperwork, and what was actually being accomplished? Hermione scowled, displeased. She knew exactly why Malfoy was here, and she wasn’t interested in discussing it. The book was staying with her.

“Drinks and golden coin biscuits in the lobby!” Atrix said cheerily.

“And then we talk?” Malfoy raised an eyebrow at Hermione.

She pursed her lips. Was he actually going to go buy a latte to talk with her? She gave a reluctant nod. “Until my next meeting.”

“Fine.” Malfoy turned on his heel, cloak snapping after.

Hermione blinked at the empty doorway bullying down a guilty conscience. Was Malfoy actually trying? Her planner pinged on her desk. She had to get to Gringotts. She almost felt rude sneaking off before Malfoy returned, but really, he was the Slytherin. She’d only promised to stay until her next meeting. He’d figure it out.

“Got to go, tell Malfoy I couldn’t wait. Meetings and all. Gringotts assignment.” Hermione jumped up waving the folder. “Thanks for the tea!” She patted Atrix’s arm on her way out.

Atrix followed her out with a sly smile. “Support the cause!” He yelled into the neighboring cubicles.

****

Hermione spent the next hour merely listening. Occasionally advising Head Goblin Griphook, but her real work wouldn’t begin unless action suits were brought against the bank.

Hermione was surprised when, twenty minutes past one in the afternoon, Malfoy strolled into Gringotts. The smell of fresh bread permeated the air around him—mouthwateringly. In one black gloved hand (probably dragon hide, Hermione sniffed), a parcel dangled. It looked like it could hold a loaf of bread the size of a pumpkin.

She expected some reaction from him for ditching him at the Ministry. But if Malfoy was angry he gave no sign. That made her nervous.

He strolled over, smiling pleasant as a saint. “You’re drooling, Granger.”

She refused to wipe her mouth. She was not drooling . . . Not literally, anyway.

“Forget to eat?” Malfoy drawled and dropped a bag of Leprechaun coin biscuits in her lap.

Ugh. Gold. She was sick of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts. But she was hungry. Most of the food in their fridge was Ginny’s. Most of Hermione’s pay went to the Mind Healers working with her parents. The rest she had spent on a new wardrobe after Theo’s relentless mocking of how delightfully dowdy she was. ‘Like having a spry great aunt around’—he’d mocked. (It wasn’t that Hermione didn’t like fashion, it had just never taken priority. But she had to admit Theo wasn’t wrong—professionalism required a professional appearance. It also required a great deal of money.)

Alternatively, Hermione found she didn’t enjoy being poor. For one thing, she was always hungry. And, like any starving student, food was a gift not turned down. She checked for sneaky hexes before popping the shortbread in her mouth, eyeing Malfoy narrowly. Her glare brought real pleasure to Malfoy, by the way his gray eyes danced. Hermione only looked at him with suspicion, crumbling a biscuit in the bag with the tensing of her grip.

“Ah, Malfoy, back from lunch so soon?” Griphook checked his watch. “We shan’t pay you for working overtime.”

Hermione seriously wondered if the goblins thought Malfoy needed more money. But she supposed to a banker there was no such thing as too much profit.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Griphook, Rotrin,” he nodded to both goblins, “take care of Granger, won’t you? She’s got a stalker after her.”

“Stalker?” Griphook frowned.

“Don’t you worry, anyone bothers you, I don’t carry poisoned knives for nothing,” Rotrin rasped at Hermione.

Griphook nodded moodily muttering about, ‘Witches bringing their problems to work.’

“Alleged stalker.” Hermione smiled falsely, taking a large bite of shortbread.

“You Ministry paper-pushers and your semantics.” Rotrin grinned evilly—as though suspecting Hermione of designs to murder alleged stalker.

Malfoy strolled away and Hermione almost regretted not catching that word with him in her office. Now he was certain to come ghosting back in at the worst moment to nag about that book.

Harry and Ron, of course, were also working late at Gringotts. They were testing all sorts of fascinating tracking spells and had already confirmed the locations of over half the coins. Most of which appeared to have donated themselves to charities—like Hermione’s department.

Over the afternoon both Ron and Harry dropped by separately to invite her out for a beer after work with similar lines along, ‘beastly day, we’ll be at the pub (not the local ones) Ginny’s got a round already going with the Harpies at Pints Parlor,’ they told her separately, almost word for word, really.

Hermione ate her biscuits, read up on Goblin law, and hid away in the loo until everyone had gone. She’d meet them all (her tomorrow)/(their tonight) on their way out of Gringotts. Maybe she’d pretend she ran an errand, maybe even run said errand, stop in to check on George. She scribbled all these plans away in her calendar and snuck out the bank Floo to lose herself, both physically and mentally, far away from Pints Parlor—at her parent’s house.

****

11:50 pm First Monday saw Hermione slumping in a Muggle telephone booth. It was important—using Time-Turners—that she always knew exactly where she was when she re-wound time. She’d chosen a phone booth in particular because it had a Muggle charm. A sort of media romanticism.

But tonight she rather wished she’d chosen her bathroom, or closet, or anywhere not outside her own home. But living two full days separately this way—she couldn’t exactly use her own bed every night. Which was why she and Theo had a second flat together. They took living two lives rather seriously.

Hermione spent first days working in the D.R.C.M.C. and right after work she’d disappear—check up on her parents. They were back in Britain but they didn’t know her. Knew of her—yes—but in a distant, factual way. They’d been told who she was, and they’d been over pictures, family vacations, holidays. Her parents thought they had a strange amnesia. The healers told her to be patient. When she couldn’t handle the lack of connection in her parent’s eyes, or when the healers left, she’d take herself off to some Muggle bar and research or attend a theater.

On her second time through a day, after she and Theo called it quits in the lab, Hermione would slip into the previous day's social shoes. That way, whatever transpired, she’d seamlessly wind up back in her and Ginny’s Flat, and wake up in her own bed to start the next “real” day. It wasn’t a perfect system. But it did keep things tidy—secret—socially uncomplicated. They were working in the Department of Mysteries, and even that was kept a secret. Though Ginny suspected—lovely thing about Ginny—she never pried, but always seemed open for a chat.

Hermione wobbled into the Muggle phone booth.

Her hair lay in sad droopy curls down her shoulders. Her clothes felt gray—though they were an indisputable soft minty green—and her feet felt a thousand years old. The scent of peanuts and beer lingered depressingly as she finally fished Nott’s and her prototype Time-Turner from her shirt where it hung from its long chain.

They each had one. And they were still working on making it more flexible. As of now, they could only get this prototype to turn back time by an entire day. No more. No less. Expected, as they had based it partially off Nott’s Groundhog artifact technology.

Robert Threep thought they should reduce their use to a few days a week, as they were essentially aging twice as fast as those around them. Hermione had suggested Theo continue the research without her, but he tossed the idea out as emphatically as Threep had. It was her project as much as his.

Hermione then promised Theo they could take a break soon—as soon as her other work slowed down and she could take a vacation. Theo didn’t seem particularly bothered one way or another, and months had slipped by. Honestly, Theo was a blessing to work with. So easygoing. He was an ideal roommate. Him with his Mooncalf eyes for Luna, her with her shriveled little pit of an academic heart. It was sort of like living with a cousin.

A distant clock struck midnight, Tuesday, more Muggle clocks chiming in the distance, and Hermione turned back Monday.

12:10 AM (Second) Monday

Theo met her at the door to their Flat in Muggle London. It was a beautiful location, right across the River Thames from Shakespeare's Globe. Every few weeks she’d wander across and get a ticket to the peanut gallery to drink beer and have a laugh. It was also a location she found unlikely to run into anyone from the other half of her life.

“You look bloody awful.” Theo left her swaying in the door.

Hermione forced herself to hang up her clothes instead of leaving them in a pile in her second bedroom. A few freshening charms, smoothing and whisking away wrinkles and she wandered into her flannels blurry headed. The bed whined at her to sleep, but Threep had been exacting in his instructions to journal the previous day’s locations so there would be no mistaken run-ins between past Hermione and present.

In a surly mood, with drooping eyes, Hermione joined Theo by the odiously cheery fire and nabbed her journal from the coffee table.

“I propose a cuppa,” Theo looked her up and down worriedly, lounging in a blue silk robe that set off his eyes. He had never had much modesty to begin with, and over the course of school and living together, Hermione was used to flagrant amounts of lean chest and snug briefs that left little to be imagined. But again, it was Theo.

“Agreed.” Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “My stash or yours?”

“Silly bint, why would I suffer through a mug of herby rooibos when I could sit down to an indulgent cuppa Sweet Potato Pie Autumnal bliss with bloody beautiful marshmallows melting on top?”

“Calories?” she hazarded.

“It’s tea, you little twit, not Butterbeer.” Theo was not to be argued with. Sitting her down by the fire he disappeared into the kitchen.

When they eventually moved out, Hermione had designs on Theo’s tea stash. She planned an accidental walkout with his little air-tight tins and baggies shrunken into her purse. And, maybe, she’d force him to open up a tea shop.

Five minutes later Theo returned, forcing tea on her like a grandmother handing out candy.

“Godrick Theo, you know I love you, don’t you?”

“Of course you do. Everyone loves me.” He collapsed with her into the couch, wiggling his feet beneath her thighs to warm them as he sipped his bloody beautiful marshmallow topped tea and let a magicked quill scribble his thoughts into his time regulation journal.

“Was your day half as beastly as mine?”

Theo shrugged. “It’s rather difficult carrying the sinfully wealthy bachelor mantel.”

Hermione smiled. He liked to play the careless prat, but she’d figured him out. Yes, he drank and partied and lazed, but he also showed up to most charity events. His name was on the list of several boards and he somehow ran his Italian vineyards from afar. When he wasn’t inventing dangerous, half-deranged magical creations in his lab.

Hermione was fairly certain Theo had approached her with his project because he knew he needed an ethical brain in the room with him. Someone to point out that, while brilliant, maybe he shouldn’t invent a weapon of mass destruction for the fun of it. He’d get around to the realization eventually, but often got too interested in the creation and morality took second fiddle.

Privately Hermione thought he would have made a stereotypical Ravenclaw.

The time-turners project would only distract him so long. Hermione hoped the Department of Mysteries would see sense and hire him before he invented something without a morality check. Of course, if he did end up seducing Luna, they would either be a match made in heaven or utter terrors.

Hermione started in on her journal the Muggle way, soothed by the scrape of pen to paper.

****

Still warm Quiche Lorraine and thick hot chocolate awaited Hermione when she tripped out of her second bedroom still blurry with sleep. Nott employed house-elves. Hermione knew this was a reality for most witches and wizards. And perhaps she had interrogated Theo too enthusiastically about paying the elderly French house-elf a fair wage and insisting he give her clothes as proof that she was free.

After the first introduction, in which Hermione bullied Nott into presenting Tassel with a pretty pair of mittens, Tassel had burst into a tirade of such fluent French Hermione had only understood one of every five words shouted into her and Theo’s faces.

Theo had winced, flinched, nodded, apologized, and sent Hermione nasty little glares. Hermione had guiltily noticed Tassel was wearing a smart, little, gray, button up and apron—clothes.

Then Tassel turned on Hermione, and now in slow French, to give Hermione every chance to understand her anger clearly, she told Hermione that while her heart was pure her execution was, “mal fait,” poorly done.

The elderly house-elf then snatched up the mittens and Apparated out with a resentful CRACK!

Theo had glowered, “Satisfied now?”

“Je suis désolé,” Hermione had mumbled flustered.

“Oui, sorry! Do you ever tire of making us all sorry?” Theo had stormed off.

Hermione had not seen Tassel again, and was even debating resorting to a Je suis désolé gift basket—with no clothes inside it—except, wouldn’t some nice oven mitts be adorable? But, as breakfast (and sometimes dinner) always waited for her—or popped into existence when she wandered too near the kitchens, Hermione supposed Tassel didn’t hate her too much.

Godric bless Second Mondays. Hermione toasted herself in the mirror on the opposite dining room wall. Second days meant hot chocolate and warm breakfasts and the real end to a day.

She’d never imagined living in a Flat with a full dining room separate from the kitchen. She’d also never imagined living across from the Globe with a view of the River Thames. Nor that she’d have a lap pool on the balcony roof warded with Notice-Me-Not and Muggle-Repelling charms from the outside.

Theo rose, blurry eyed and just dressed ten minutes before they planned to Floo to the Ministry through a special Floo Threep had warded to their specific blood. he also required they memorize a daily changing password—just in case someone tried to Polyjuice into the Unspeakable’s check-in room. Paranoid? Yes. But Hermione found she approved.

Hermione and Theo paused at the front desk where Eugeen Wolf reclined, feet on his desk reading a ledger. Wolf had a great curling white beard and groomed walrus mustache. His eyebrows were just as fierce, and his nose round and distinguished. He was a very old, thick-shouldered wizard whose preferred wardrobe consisted of a pointed black hat and formal black robes. When relaxed, he’d set his leather shoes to the side of his little black desk and pop on some slippers.

“Morning Mr Wolf!” Hermione smiled brightly.

The older wizard slid their badges across the desk with a single finger reminding Hermione of a judge.

“Ms Granger, Mr Nott. One of those texts you requested has come off hold.” He ducked beneath the desk and withdrew a heavy tomb with chains binding it shut.

“Excellent,” Theo’s eyes gleamed.

“Careful with this. Time’s a funny thing. Specially in books this old. It’s eaten a few wizards before it got regulated to the Unspeakable Library. Said to have eaten its author, Emilia Clockwin, too. Powerful spells in this.”

The book’s title, Eon glimmered at Hermione with hints of faded gold filigree. The cover a dark purple leather with the engravings of a star clock on the cover.

The two made their way to the Time Room. An indefinite space, that always seemed to be growing and shrinking to Hermione. Every type of clock invented lay within this room—half museum really. At the center of the room was a miniature clock tower. Each side of the tower reflected the face of a famous clock tower out in the Muggle world. They never stayed the same. As though the miniature tower were cycling through, connecting in time to the physical towers out in the world. Hermione had made note of the Tower of the Winds from Athens, Big Ben, The Deira from Dubai, Rajabai from Mumbai, St. Mark’s from Venice, Zimmer from Belgium, Makkah Royal from Mecca, Messina Bell from Messina, to name a few.

There were also timepieces floating in the nebulous ceiling. Hermione wasn’t convinced the ceiling was simply spelled to mimic a night sky. It was more of an endless storage. A void. The glitter above was all clocks, timepieces of one sort or another. Most of them broken or long inactive. The shifting of sand and water in hourglasses, and the restless ticking and chiming of all those clocks muted to a white noise.

Theo and Hermione spent most of their time on an experimental platform: a small table holding the groundhog artifact, the broken remnants of the old Time-Turners, and the newest prototypes they were working on.

Theo set to tinkering, and Hermione greedily popped onto her stool at the table. There were no comfortable chairs in any of the experimental rooms. It was far too dangerous to nap—though she had caught Threep at it several times. The old man could nap in a doorway.

Undoing the book’s chains, Hermione lifted her wand cautiously. Some books (especially very old books that have soaked in spell magic) liked to toss a few nasty surprises out. This book was very old, but the pages had remained crisp. A very powerful stasis charm had preserved it.

At last, she came upon the spell she’d been looking for. Mumbling the words under her breath as she tried to translate the Latin, Hermione was so engrossed, she didn’t want to notice a swirl of purple magic slip from the open page. She’d recapture it in just a second.

Thin as a garden snake, it dipped below the table and wound its way to Theo with stealthy intent. Theo bent over the two wristwatches he’d been designing. Easier to keep hold of than a pocket watch. The escaped rope of magic slithered between his hands, darting into the complex spell weaving of one of the prototypes.

Theo jumped up with a shout. Hermione frowned at the disruption, bending into her book, nose almost in the pages. Theo howled something, and Hermione felt her mind dimly aware that something urgent was going on. If she could just focus for another second, she was certain she’d get the full meaning of this spell down.

It wasn’t until Theo threw himself at her, tumbling them to the floor, and rolling out of the warded platform that Hermione’s concentration snapped. She clutched the book to her chest, wide-eyed as the entire warded platform shuddered. Golden and purple flames lashed the inside of the domed ward like a plasma ball. Hermione gaped as Theo slapped at her arm. The under-sleeve alight with purple flames.

“I thought it would take more than ten minutes for the book to fool you, but clearly you need to set up more wards.” Theo turned her arm this way and that, looking for damage.

Hermione nodded, biting her lip guiltily.

“I’m so sorry Theo. This book, it’s like it could read my mind. It showed me the spell I’d been looking for and then used it like a distraction to slip something out!”

Theo nodded, eyeing the book narrowly. “Bloody sentient books.”

The explosion of magic died down. Everything within the platform ward looked melted like a psychedelic painting.

Theo blew out a sharp breath. The Groundhog Day artifact was half melting off a zigzagged table. Their prototypes—at the heart of the explosion, surprisingly untouched in appearance. Though what had been done to the magic within was yet to be seen.

“Merlin, I’m so, so sorry Theo. That was so stupid of me.”

Theo shrugged rubbing a hand through his tousled hair, still flushed with excitement. He gave her a cheeky grin, coming down from the adrenalin rush.

“Wouldn’t be the first time you exploded my lab, Hermione. What’s the spell that had you so excited?”

Hermione blushed fiery and took a deep breath before carefully re-opening the tomb.

“I think this is what we’ve been looking for,” she gushed excitedly.

“Temporal Nexus Mechanics?” Theo frowned. Hermione saw the book draw him in the same way it had captured her. His mind sucked inward.

She raised her wand threateningly at the tomb, which rustled its pages at her. “Try anything, and I make copies of you and have you chained up and forgotten on a bottom shelf where the bookworms nest.”

“Hmm?” Theo mused, only half hearing her.

Draco POV of the Monday(s)

Draco had thoughts about Hermione and that little Muggle two-piece she’d flounced about in all day. Many thoughts. Most of which went right into an Occluded dirty, little, mental-magazine. The rest of which plaintively suggested dropping a robe over the witch’s shoulders. He didn’t know which impulse was worse.

It’s because she looks so bloody ridiculous. Everyone was staring. Those quick little slivers of skin that peaked out when she twisted or lifted an arm, a curve of a rib, a dip where her stomach flattened.

It was a silky blousey button-up that was far too short to be called a shirt, cinching only a few inches beneath a far too appealing pair of breasts. Equally difficult to ignore the existence of when she’d loosened the buttons by her neck from the heat in the bar. And there was the distracting little matching scarf around her throat. The fabric shifted, highlighted the soft skin beneath, and the way she swallowed.

Draco took a deep breath of peanuts and hops telling himself to stop looking for the fourth time.

This was Hermione bloody Granger he was staring at.

His gaze betrayed him, drifting down to the equally appealing little high-waisted matching pleated skirt that flowed about the pronounced curve of her hips as distractingly silky as anything a Beauxbatons débutante might wear.

Hermione wiped a forearm across her forehead as though feeling the heat.

Was that a burn smudge on her sleeve?

When would she have caught fire that day? He’d certainly been looking often enough to have noticed the messy melted fabric at her cuff. He Occluded the thought for later.

Bloody Muggle Hell and their bloody fashion. Draco cracked peanut shells into dusty piles as he binned the entire night as an exercise in futility. Obviously, there was no reaching Granger at work. She was busier than bubbling caramel in a saucepan. When he’d returned from the S.H.A.M.R.O.C.K. drinks line, Muggle grass tea in hand, Atrix had smirked and told him Granger was already gone to Gringotts. But best of luck chap, and all that.

Tromping back down to the Ministry cafeteria, Draco decided to sample what all the worker drones ate day in and out. A sad array of deli sandwiches, suspect salads, and untouchable soups. He barely paid attention to the stares and whispers. A house-elf took his order, and a table cleared for him by a window. This gave him a displeasing view of the golden trio’s statues that marred the building’s otherwise respectable front.

His aunt and mother were up to their not talking almost daily as winter approached. Andromeda had sent him off with a full tin of Fudgey-Whatsits to owl over to Mother. So of course, two bites into his pickle and ham, Errol crash-landed at his empty table, loosed a few feathers, and dropped an entire fresh baked loaf of sourdough bread—crusty and hot and bloody horrible to carry around and not eat. Needless to say, Errol was treated to the remainder of Draco’s ham and pickle on sad-bread while he finished off his bag of crisps. He sampled one of the leprechaun’s shortbread and wouldn’t even feed that to Errol.

When he returned to Gringotts, Granger cast guilty flustered glances his way. Suppressing a smile, Draco dropped the baggy of golden coin biscuits in her lap. She looked astonished. He just fancied the idea of her eating his leftovers like the beggar she was. And the symbolism of tossing her money like he might a beggar—ahh well, Aunt Andromeda would be so disappointed in him. He may not believe in blood ideology anymore, but that didn’t mean he had to like his academic rival with her airs and graces, and better than everyone else act. Nobody cared so much about everything as much as Granger did. It had to be an act.

And Granger gave him such a suspicious look, like she actually might have thanked him for the inedible biscuits if she wasn’t positive they had to be poisoned. Delightful. He loved laughing at people. He loved having secrets. Satisfied with his petty revenge, he went back to work planning to corner her later.

This proved equally unsuccessful. Even with Potter’s misguided invitation to join them all at Pints Parlor. Slim chance of catching her ear over a beer. She was always talking to multiple someones at once. And if she wanted to ignore a subject, it took her very little effort—as four or five other witches and Wizards wagged desperate little tails to get her attention. Atrix had snaked himself an invitation, having wandered into Gringotts and up to Potter to discuss fly away Galleons and if they needed anything else? Now the whole lot of them bunched around a table, Hermione standing between Potter and Rosier.

“Oh yes,” Rosier gushed, “I was inspired by S.P.E.W. If only more wizards took after Hermione we wouldn’t even need a Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

“Cheers to that!” Hermione smiled dizzily into her firewhisky, blowing red flames around the rim. Draco caught Atrix staring at her mouth. Not exactly professional Rosier, Draco tutted to himself. Wasn’t he her boss or something?

“Wow, Hermione, he’s like a more effective version of you!” Ron joked.

“Well, Ron,” Hermione drawled, surprising Draco with a little bit of his signature tone, “I don’t see what you have to crow about. Or have you done something edifying lately? Tip your banker for Christmas last year?”

Draco hid a smirk in his firewhisky. Well done Granger. He almost liked a drunk Hermione. Especially if she was giving it to the weasel. A round of “oooo” and “she got you there” and “ vicious, Hermione,” went around the table in friendly jeering.

“He went pumpkin smashing with Nearly Headless Nick,” Ginny chimed into her Butterbear, toasting Ron.

A chorus of betrayed ‘what’’s turned on the weasel.

“I couldn’t invite you.” He protested, wiping beer foam from his lip as Daphne snickered into her drink beside him. “You know I wanted to! But it was a be-there thing!” Ron protested.

“Be there with your fiancée, you mean.” Ginny rolled her eyes.

Draco found he rather liked the little weaselette. Knew how to make her brothers squirm. Hermione was looking conspicuously away from Ron, mouth tight and bothered. Maybe things were not so golden between the golden trio after all?

“You lot were all busy at Gringotts anyways!” Ron protested flushing with a grin. “We deserved some fun after watching all those beastly children all night! Eh, Daph?”

Daphne smirked and kissed him right there to whoops, cheers, and playful boos. Malfoy noticed Hermione avoid looking at Ron again for the rest of the night.

It wasn’t as awful as Draco feared. Nothing like the monotony of the Weasley parties at the Burrow. Ginny’s friends asked him about Quidditch several times. And he asked them about future matches.

If it hadn’t been for his need to keep an eye on Hermione for a chance conversation alone, he might even have asked one of the witches out. Instead, he drank and waited for a chance. A trip to the loo or bar. A step outside for fresh air. But Granger remained entrenched in her army of friends. Heading home beneath the arms of several of Ginny’s lot who wanted to know if Granger couldn’t touch up that anti-ripping spell she had, apparently, invented for their Quidditch gloves.

In any case, tonight was a failure. There would be no cornering Granger about the book. No, Draco would need to make a plan. A situation even. Something the great Hermione Granger couldn’t ignore. In effect, he was going to have to actually put out some effort.

Dreadful.