Snakes and a Baby in the Pub
Snakes and a Baby in the Pub
This is so wrong, Hermione thought, a bit hysterical, as Draco wrapped baby Teddy around his neck. Teddy had transformed himself into a bright green garden snake about five times larger than could be found in any garden. All while Malfoy crooned proudly about what an amazing boy he was—which, fair, how many animagi had learned animal transformation when they could barely speak? But did he have to murmur in such low tones? As though whispering a secret.
Hermione shivered horrified to know that Draco Malfoy had a silky smooth way with his voice. He murmured nonsense about lemon sherbets, custards, and Chocolate Frogs to Teddy, and Hermione wanted a cold bite to her neurons because they were misfiring. Surely she didn’t find Malfoy’s voice the least bit sexy.
Ginny clasped Theo’s sleeve, demanding to know if this pub at least sold chips. Hermione rubbed her arms against the cold wind and found herself missing childhood. Missing the easy way Harry and Ron would walk arm and arm with her. Now such touches seemed laden with meaning.
Hermione scowled accusingly at the beginnings of snow frosting the steps of the Mystic Mug. The weather waged war on a witch's psyche, practically throwing them into wizard's arms just to get a bit of warmth.
“I demand chips!” Ginny yelled into the dark looking ready to cry. It had been a long day for poor Gin. What with Harry dawdling to get engaged and them practically married in everyone’s mind. And then Ron goes and meets a girl and declares love before the year’s end. Ginny needed this escape more than Hermione—who (let's be real) really bloody wanted an escape from the gorgeous family she had lost when she’d lost Ron.
Back at the Burrow, Ginny had caught sight of Hermione bundling into her worn robe again and latched on like a leach demanding to be rescued from the third round of jokes about snakes and lions.
And here they were. Snakes and lions.
Hermione grew impatient with the crooning and talk of chips and pushed into the pub to escape another biting blast of wind before she threw herself at one of the boys like a seagull diving for crisps.
“Four Butterbeers and two baskets of chips,” Malfoy called over her shoulder, having silently followed her in. He reached past her shoulder to hand over his coins. Hermione felt the welcome heat of his body at her back and resisted the base urge to fold herself back into it.
“There’s a booth at the back,” Malfoy murmured near her ear, pointing past her shoulder again. “Save it for us?”
“Right!” Hermione marched in the general direction and had to change course. The booth was sticky, and the benches over small, but two Butterbeers later atop the over imbibing at the engagement party, and Hermione and Ginny were giggling into each other’s shoulders and loud whispering about their ever plotted and never planned trip to America.
Hermione laid out a well plotted itinerary for visiting all the famous libraries, eating their way through New Orleans, and climbing New York’s tallest buildings. Ginny suggested they gamble in Las Vegas for free booze, perked up at the idea of New Orleans wizard jazz clubs, and thought pizza was the only reason to set foot in New York. Hermione wanted to find an American Starbucks—preferably at The Pike Place and proposed a stint in Hawaii to see the coral reefs. Ginny demanded they try an American Big Mac and heartily agreed to any and all beach days. Hermione rolled out a map and course to drive the Pacific Coast Highway by motor, while Ginny scoffed and demanded they fly down the coast by broom. (This was a point of much contention, and usually ended all talk of plans entirely.)
Tonight, Ginny turned a bright red and huffed, latching onto Theo and complaining loudly about the merits of brooms. Hermione sulked into her beer and observed Malfoy feeding chips to Teddy, who swallowed them in disturbing lumps down his coils.
“Never thought you'd let something like a broom stop you, Granger.”
“Never thought you’d walk out with baby drool on your robes, but here we are,” Hermione sniped back, stuffing chips in her face.
Malfoy checked his robes, scowled, and vanished a sticky splotch from his shoulder.
“So, you’re not going to even try?” Malfoy lounged in his shabby chair as if it were a throne.
“I don’t need to fly a broom, there are better modes of transportation than clutching a stick between your thighs.”
“Beg to differ, Granger.” Malfoy’s eyes gleamed.
“Gross.” Hermione made a face.
“You’re argument just makes me like my broom more.”
“Shut up.” Her foot shot forward aiming for his shin.
Malfoy’s legs jerked and he leaned down and caught her by the ankle, his cold eyes narrow, his fingers bruisingly tight around her heel. Hermione found with some dismay he was holding her foot captive one handed, using the free hand to continue feeding Teddy chips.
“That hurt.”
“Let go!” Hermione hissed under her breath, not wanting Ginny or Theo to notice.
“You gave me your foot. I’m keeping it.” Malfoy raised an eyebrow.
“Malfoy!” she winced, knee hitting the bottom of the table with a painful thud.
Malfoy chuckled. “Do I need to take your knee away from you too Granger? For its own protection?”
A flush rolled down her face all the way to her toes. Her mouth opened and closed. Malfoy’s fingers tightened, thumb rubbing across her ankle making her jump again in shock. He was flirting with her.
“Where do you get these heels?” He leaned back further, half dragging her so she slid in her chair.
“Malfoy!” Hermione snarled searching for her wand.
“They’re pretty.” He frowned turning her foot side to side and up and down. Tingles raced up her thigh. There wasn’t enough Butterbeer in her glass to toss on him. Just useless foam. So she chucked a handful of chips.
Teddy the snake let out a startled hiss.
“Oops! I’m so sorry, Teddy. You’re not the bad guy!” Hermione waved both arms.
“Throwing chips at a baby, Hermione?” Malfoy tutted and brushed them off his robes with a pitying snort.
“I’m throwing them at you!”
“Looks like you need to work on your aim as well as your broom handling.”
“What are you two . . . doing?” Ginny leaned forward on one elbow, eyes dancing back and forth between them drowsily.
Theo was watching too, and shoveling chips.
“Granger’s gone violent.”
“I hate you!” Hermione growled between her teeth.
“Okaaaay.” Ginny blinked slowly.
With a warning stare, Malfoy lowered her foot. His fingertips traced lightly up her calf as he released her. Hermione wrenched herself upright flustered and turned to Theo, determined to ignore Malfoy forever.
“Luna mentioned house-elves at your Mooncalf survey.” Hermione launched into interrogation. “Did you recognize any of them? Luna said they took samples.”
“It was a bit weird. But wizards ask house-elves to collect magical ingredients all the time. It’s not that strange.” Theo said, clearly more interested in whatever was happening between Hermione and Malfoy—which was nothing!—to be clear.
“What ingredient?” Malfoy asked, too casually.
“I think it was the moonlight,” Theo said slowly.
“What night?”
“Halloween.”
Malfoy’s brows crunched as he observed, “Wasn’t even a full moon that night.”
Hermione decided to research what was so important about a full moon and moonlight in a book, and definitely not just ask Malfoy why that mattered. Or she could un-ignore him and ask.
Malfoy smirked at her.
A shiver rolled up her spine. Ugh. She’d rather read ten books through to find the answers herself.
A low snore issued from Ginny, passed out at the table.
“Time for bed.” Hermione wobbled to her feet and shook Ginny. “You coming?” she asked Theo.
“I think Draco and I will go another round,” Theo drawled. And though his smirk was just as smirky as Malfoy’s—it was somehow less evil. That was all. Malfoy’s smirk was gross, not sexy.
Ginny wasn’t too smashed to walk. She just couldn’t keep to a straight line. Hugging Hermione tight enough the other witch felt herself reduced to half a functioning lung as they wobbled to the Floo.
And Hermione was not thinking about Malfoy’s fingers on her leg as she shook out the Floo powder. She felt his gaze, like an icicle, or a snake’s tongue, tracing between her shoulder blades as they hastily departed.
Saturday Morning
Gobbledegook Choir
Hermione was many things but no one would claim she could sing. This had been a terrible idea, she admitted to herself. It was eight in the bloody morning on her day off, she still felt like her toast and coffee hadn’t fully traversed her pharynx, and goblins have very keen ears.
She stood beside Luna in the alto section, heads taller than the goblins around them, and wished, fervently, to be somewhere else. The bank hadn’t opened yet, and the high, stony vaulted ceilings magnified their voices in echoes.
The current music was in preparation for Christmas. Hermione flipped through the pamphlet finding a delightful range from chants, carols, and jazz numbers accompanied by a small bunch of instrumentalists: a bass player, several bell ringers, a flute, a sax, and some rhythmic toads.
Hermione had studied the theory of music—knew how to read it. It was her vocal chords that were the problem. Her voice, an inflexible, stiff organ, strained to find pitch. Far more suited to the crisp clear diction of spell casting.
The conductor grimaced at the alto section, eyeing Hermione with thinly veiled skepticism. Several goblins before and beside her plugged the ear closest to her and shuffled a step away. This, paired with her still middling grasp of Gobbledegook—and she felt her tongue and weak diaphragm betray her next to Luna’s easy voice.
Hermione decided this would be her last trial on the music stands. She had only stepped up on the risers because she needed to ask Luna about the night of the ghostly tea party. Half drunk, and eager for answers before she had to face Malfoy again on the morrow, Hermione had jotted off a note to Luna last night. To which, Luna had proposed Hermione join her to “invigorate their lungs, and exercise their minds, tomorrow morning.”
Reasonably, Hermione had thought this meant a nice walk around Diagon Alley with a coffee. The choir was a wholly unwelcome side effect—one Luna further suggested might help her with her Gobbledegook pronunciation. From the resulting offense of Hermione’s alto neighbors, it was clear music was not going to be penciled into her study planner—though she might purchase their Christmas album.
Between songs, Hermione questioned Luna about the house-elves from her Mooncalf survey. A whole fractured conversation on full moons and Mooncalf mating rituals later, Hermione determined that Luna would be an absolute terror on trial—as all questions twisted and morphed into polite but tangential avenues when sieved through the witch’s slippery mind. But at last, Hermione hit upon something interesting.
“Oh, no, they were all free elves.”
“Free? You’re certain?” Hermione asked, amazed. Luna flipped their music sheet to the next song.
“Well, it’s only that they were all wearing clothes.” Luna smiled in her close-lipped way. “I think one wore a shirt and tie around his neck. And one a pretty little dress. I only noticed because they didn’t look like wizard clothes. They looked made for house-elves. I went looking for a shop that catered to house-elves, because that would be a nice story for my father’s paper.”
“Did you find one?”
“Yes! Would you like to visit with me? I’m sure a quote from the founder of S.P.E.W. would gather more interest from our readers.”
“I wouldn’t want to claim any sort of credit. S.P.E.W. didn’t help start any house-elf businesses. But you could of course quote me as saying I wholly support the idea,” Hermione assured.
“Alright, if you’d like, I plan to visit Sunday after tea.” Luna turned back to her choir pamphlet.
Hermione gave up on singing, mouthing “watermelon” for the rest of practice.
****
Already nursing a headache, Hermione arrived at Theo’s by ten to noon to find Malfoy already scowling over their Rune book. A plate of pastry crumbs soured her mood further. The afternoon limped onward, rife with tension. And the Rune book seemed delighted by the animosity in the air. Glowing, it flipped its pages with a crisp efficiency.
“Do you always dress for work on the weekend?” Malfoy asked irritatingly, motioning to her outfit—a flowery structured blouse with antique long sleeves and a long, brown, pleated skirt and matching Mary Jane heels.
“When I have work to do, yes. Which I do, so I can’t stay late tonight.”
Malfoy snidely replied that he, also, couldn’t stay late. He needed to be back by 4:30 on the dot to babysit Teddy for Andromeda. Hermione didn’t volunteer the details of why she needed to leave early. It was none of Malfoy’s business who she met with. (For reasons yet un-scrutinized) she only felt strange about it being or not being a work dinner because Malfoy had asked.
It was only a work dinner, wasn’t it? She second guessed herself.
An unlikable hesitancy spread over her evening with frustrating haziness. Why should she feel any hesitancy? She wouldn’t waffle around admitting she had a work dinner if it were Mr Weasley or Harry or even Ron—admittedly, the Ron scenario would be fraught with problems for other reasons. One just didn’t go out alone to dinner with a newly engaged ex for so many reasons it was silly to justify it all in her mind.
“Where are you off to on a Saturday night for work anyways?”
Hermione sniffed. “Do try to stay on task, Malfoy, I think we’ve mixed up the long and short vowels here.”
“No, I haven’t. Are you off to the giant’s mountain preserve to survey their dental hygiene before bed?” Malfoy’s mood brightened as her’s soured.
Hermione scowled at their notes, hunting for a flaw.
“Not the giants? Perhaps you plan a trip to North Ireland tonight? Going to harass that banshee they discovered in the widower’s shack? Did it fail to fill out the paperwork for heralding the death of the landowner?”
“Maybe if you'd left me a pastry I’d be inclined to amuse you. But I’m hungry, and it’s almost 4:30. You wouldn’t want to be late. Do you need help putting the Rune book to bed too?”
“I don’t require you to be here at all, Granger. Off with you then.” Malfoy shooed her dismissively.
“Fine.” Hermione brushed off her skirt, piled up her books back into her bag, and left Malfoy to dismantle his wards. And she told herself she was only imagining the tingling sensation between her shoulder blades, and that Malfoy wasn’t watching her leave.
The Date
Atrix met her at a cute little pub called the SandWitch, and Hermione felt overdressed in her skirt and heels, Atrix in a casual jumper and trousers.
“Hermione!” Rosier peeled off the wall where he’d been waiting for her. His smile warm instead of the tense worry that had billowed around him in her office. He greeted her with a kiss to both cheeks—and yes, so he was French-but his French-ness had never led to cheek kisses and a hand on her low back at work.
“Look, Rosier—”
“Atrix, we aren’t in the office. Even if we were, we’ve worked together ages now Hermione.”
“Atrix, is there any news?”
His smile faltered. “Let’s get some food, I’m starved.”
It was an order-and-seat-yourself sort of casual pub, with sand on the floor and pillows to sit on at tables made from driftwood. It was brilliant, and Hermione felt all the worse that she wasn’t able to appreciate it. The sand got in her heels and nylons, and she wasn’t dressed to sit on the floor which made it all the more awkward.
Atrix insisted she get a drink on him. And then he insisted she pick an appetizer—which she hadn’t done since before the war, (drinks and appetizers tending to skyrocket the bill). She ordered a French dip (which made her blush in retrospect) and he a grilled cheese and soup.
Worse, he didn’t want to discuss work at all, not until after they had something in their stomachs. So they talked not-work. Which was horrible because he kept asking questions she couldn’t talk about. Her days were filled with secret projects, work, and her parents. So she talked of her clubs.
He demanded an invite to P.L.E.A.S.U.R.E.
This did not, Hermione wailed to herself, feel like a work dinner. Maybe this was all normal and it was just her imagining something more happening. Also, so what if this was more than a work dinner? Hadn’t she wanted to date? And Atrix was nice.
Sensing her distress, Atrix took pity on her. “Look, I wanted to bring you in on my concerns about the house-elves, but I didn’t mean to wreak your world, Hermione. It’s not all bad. And if house-elves are acting out for their own interests . . . maybe that’s a good thing?”
“It is, isn’t it?” Hermione’s brow wrinkled. She stared down at her hands and found the sandwich had disappeared somewhere between her thoughts and chatter.
“Other than Dobby, I wasn’t sure a house-elf could stick up for themselves, you know?” Atrix snorted ruefully.
She knew what he meant. Most house-elves were insulted at the very idea of being paid a wage for their work.
“Though, I’d prefer they weren’t involved in a major bank heist, but if they are maybe there are some house-elves who would be open to fighting for their rights. Wizards won’t take house-elves seriously as long as they keep believing their house-elves are fulfilled by their servitude.”
Hermione nodded again. She just wished stealing wasn’t involved.
“Anyways, I felt bad not feeding you before dragging you into the deep end.” Atrix winced, and Hermione noticed he looked exhausted. “I couldn’t bring all the paperwork with me. Would you mind stopping by my place? I can show you all my maps and data.”
“You have a data wall?” Hermione perked up.
“I have a data wall,” he laughed.
“Well, I suppose. For the data.” Hermione smiled at him.
“I thought you might.” He crinkled up their sandwich papers, floated the trays to the counter, and held his arm out to her. Hermione slid her hand through the loop of his elbow and they stepped up to the Floo half covered in sand. Atrix murmured his address, and the world spun out. They landed with a poof of soot, within a black marble entry and the fireplace made a gurgle of indigestion. Atrix laughed and lifted his wand to de-soot them.
His wand sparked and nothing happened. He frowned and tried again. Sparks. Nothing.
Hermione lifted her wand. Not even a spark.
“What?” They shared a wide-eyed glance. And then they sneezed together. A head rattling fit of sneezes brought tears to Hermione’s eyes and a strange, white, glow hazed her sight.
“I don’t feel well,” Hermione staggered.
“We should go to St. Mungos.” Atrix sneezed again, steadying himself on the fireplace mantle.
Hermione sneezed as she said yes, her brain dizzier than a baby's rattle. Atrix threw the Floo powder in but they both huddled in the black soot going nowhere.
“Something gone wrong with the Floo,” Atrix sneezed, head rocking.
Hermione’s head ached. How were they to contact anyone to get them to St. Mungos with the Floo out?