Elvish Couture
Breakfast at Harry’s
12 Grimmauld Place, nestled in northwest London, still sat under the Fidelius Charm. This proved both a nuisance and a blessing—as the worst of the remaining Death Eaters likely knew the address, but the local solicitors did not.
Harry had never bothered about removing the charm, and so Hermione was at the crux of inconvenience arriving side by side with Malfoy, who turned in a circle looking about curiously.
“This way.” She took him by the sleeve to lead him up the front steps.
“If you wanted to hold my hand, darling, you need only ask.” Malfoy’s deft wrist snaked hers, his long fingers glided down her palm and he’d locked their fingers together before she could protest.
A horrid flutter in her chest and tingles nipped at her palm in his.
“Now, where would you like to take me?” Malfoy looked side to side, up and down the street—eyes narrowing as he found 11 and 13 Grimmauld Place side by side.
“Oh,” he sighed. “The dreaded, drab house of Black. Really darling, why don’t you allow me to take you out to tea? There’s a charming little brunch spot over in Brooklyn.”
“Malfoy?”
“Yes, darling?”
“Shut up.”
“Immediately, darling.”
“Malfoy?” Hermione clenched her jaw. How was a polite Malfoy so much more infuriating than a rude one?
“Yes, darling?”
“Release my hand.”
Malfoy hummed thoughtfully. “Nooo.”
“Malfoy.”
“Yes, my scary darling?” He leaned his head down towards her.
“I will break every bone in your hand.”
“As you wish, darling. But we will be rather late for breakfast at this rate—if you insist on breaking twenty-seven bones. I’m certain my screams will also disturb Pot-heads lovely neighbors. (I’m quite the screamer.) But if that’s all it takes to please you, darling, I will acquiesce.”
Hermione scoffed and gave up, dragging him after her up the steps. With a rap at the door she turned her wand on their hands and snapped a Slippery Jinx.
Malfoy grimaced as his grip on her hand slid away effortlessly. Smirking, she shook out her wrist.
“Salazar, Granger. Did you lubricate our hands?” Malfoy pulled free a handkerchief. Amused, she watched his fingers fail to catch at the silk.
“I’d use your other hand with the tea service, darling.”
His eyes snapped to hers, hot, then curiously blank.
Hermione let herself inside. “Harry?”
“In the kitchen. Coffee’s ready!” Harry’s voice drifted through the sitting room.
A yawning Ginny descended the stairs. “Mione, have you seen—oh, Draco, you’re here—has anyone seen Arnold?”
“Who the devil is Arnold?” Malfoy muttered.
Arnold, the purple pygmy puff, was nestled on the witch’s shoulder half buried in red hair and snoring louder than Ron ever had.
“How does she not hear—“
“He’s on your shoulder, Gin.” Hermione kicked Malfoy’s shoe.
“Oh! So he is. Tea, Arnold?” Ginny rubbed her eyes.
Arnold snored.
“Excellent. Lavender vanilla?” Ginny pulled her fluffy white robe closer around her curves and sleepily drifted to the kitchen.
The window shone cheerily over a breakfast nook set with steaming coffee and more toast than the toast rack could support.
“Just on time.” Harry stood at the stove and prodded jiggly eggs about a pan.
“Tea, anyone?” The tea kettle puffed, and Ginny rummaged her tins.
“Please.” Malfoy grimaced at a days-old tablecloth with a few jammy stains. Hermione elbowed him into the breakfast nook, scooting in after.
“How do you like your eggs, Malfoy?” Harry called.
“Not too runny, not too dry.” Malfoy failed to pick up the fork on his plate. To which Hermione stifled a smile and poured herself some coffee.
“How do you like your tea?” Ginny blinked absently into the cupboard.
“Lemon and one lump.”
“Who buys lumps anymore?” muttered Ginny. “I’m making you Lavender Vanilla.”
“Ahh . . . I’ll just have a coffee,” Malfoy leaned into Hermione to get at the coffee pot.
At last, they were all settled—Ginny’s feet in Harry’s lap as she drank her tea and fed Arnold the crust on her toast. Harry busied himself with his plate while Hermione took great comfort in watching Draco surreptitiously try, and fail, to pick up his coffee.
Leaning into her side, Malfoy hissed. “Alright. Tell me the spell you used, and I’ll give you Narcissa’s recipe for Sleekeazy. Or do you think Bella was the only one to inherit a riot of curls?”
Hermione narrowed her eyes in thought.
“I’ll think on it.”
And she did, for three eggs and three pieces of toast. Malfoy managed well enough one-handed (though he had a time with the jam.)
Tea woke Ginny from her pleasant daze. Her gaze sharpened on Hermione, darting between her and Malfoy suspiciously. “Sorry, but did you two become friends or something?” She asked around a mouthful of toast.
“Rescuing Granger has become an occupation.” Malfoy sipped his coffee, wincing exaggeratedly at the taste.
“From where? Her bed?” Ginny asked, eyes gleaming.
Malfoy spit up his coffee, braced himself with the wrong hand, and banged his elbow on the table.
“Woooow,” Ginny sipped her tea.
Harry squeezed Ginny’s foot, mouth too full of egg and toast to comment.
Hermione sniffed. “I wouldn’t call tripping all the alarms and trapping me in a warehouse of contaminated Floo Powder much of a rescue.” Her fork screeched vengefully across the plate as she cut her egg.
“You weren’t supposed to be there,” Malfoy sniffed back.
“Speaking of, Hermione,” Harry mumbled around his eggs, “Why were you there?”
“I was there as a concerned citizen.” Hermione sounded (she thought, with a great deal of satisfaction) perfectly reasonable.
“At five in the morning?” Harry frowned.
Ginny nodded unsurprised.
“Concerned citizen?” Malfoy laughed outright.
“That is reasonable enough, for you I suppose, that I can add it to the report if need be.” Harry sipped his coffee.
“How is that bloody reasonable?” Malfoy protested.
“It’s perfectly reasonable, Malfoy. Floo-Pow has a contamination issue. As a customer and citizen, I knocked on the front door to voice my concerns.”
“At five in the morning?” Malfoy looked scandalized.
“It’s a business. . . besides which,” she swirled her coffee, “I’m not the one who was breaking and entering.”
“How did you get in then?”
“The house-elves brought me inside.” Hermione sipped smugly.
“And where did you get that pretty crown?” Harry asked, looking sleepy and innocent—strategically so.
“Tiara,” Malfoy corrected. His wand out now, diagnosing the hex on his hand.
Hermione set her coffee down. Well, she needed to have this conversation eventually. “Have any of you heard of Vindicar?”
“It’s Spanish for vindicate.”
Hermione nodded grudgingly at Malfoy, “Yes well, it’s likely he’s your terrorist, Harry.”
“What? Is some knob walking about calling himself an Avenger?” Ginny giggled.
“I spoke with Floo, Pow, and Sizzle. (House-elves who work at Floo-Pow.)” She waved off their confused expressions. “They said Vinicar brought house-elves with him into the warehouse and contaminated the Floo Powder, which—“ She felt around in her bag for the vile she’d copped off Theo's dining table and set the glowing sample between two cold pieces of toast. “Theo extracted moonlight from his contaminated powder. And we believe we know when it was harvested. All Hallows Eve, by free house-elves.”
“Is Vindicar a house-elf?” Harry picked up the sample.
“I don’t think so. I think he’s a wizard, and he’s got more of these artifacts.” Hermione reluctantly dug in her purse and set the tiara in place of her breakfast plate, which she stacked on top of Malfoy’s.
“Holy Harpy’s Hives, Hermione.” Ginny sat up straight, leaning forward to eye the diamonds.
“I know,” Hermione winced. “I think it’s a house-elf heirloom.
Harry dropped his jammy toast, and it splatted face down on the floor. Arnold snorted excitedly, scuttled off Ginny’s shoulder, and began bouncing on the fallen toast.
“I‘ve never heard of house-elf heirlooms. I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions about it.” Malfoy’s jaw flexed. “How did you come by it?”
“I was (sort of) attacked. By house-elves. When I woke up I was wearing their tiara—which Floo Pow and Sizzle say Vindicar gave to me . . . while I was asleep.”
“While you were unconscious, you mean.” Malfoy’s hands flexed.
Ginny’s eyes widened.
Harry groaned, “You do have a stalker.”
Malfoy sneered, “And he’s feeding you breadcrumbs like you’re catching up to him too slowly. So, who’s getting assigned to guard her?”
“No one. Because I’m not in danger.”
Ginny laughed.
“I’m not! Not yet anyway.”
“You don’t know what could set him off, because we don’t know what he wants,” Malfoy contradicted.
“Mione . . .” Harry looked apologetic.
“No!” She couldn’t have a bodyguard. She had a whole second life to keep hidden.
“You got knocked unconscious and kidnapped.” Ginny reiterated.
“That was a misunderstanding. Actually, that was your fault.” Hermione glared at Malfoy.
“What isn’t, Granger.”
“Why the tiara again?” Harry ran his hands through his hair spiking it further.
Hermione sat up straighter. “Wearing it turned me into a house-elf. Which is probably how Vindicar is getting around. And who knows how many others.”
Harry perked up. “Interesting. Sounds like an invitation. Question is, where does he want you to go?”
“Likely the Free Elf Union. Which I’ve already been assigned to attend by my job.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t. Can’t Rosier go?” Harry crossed his arms. “You keep getting involved in roundabout ways. What if this Vindicar is setting you up as a Patsy? I think you need to let the Aurors handle this.”
“I don’t think that’s an option.” Malfoy surprised them all. “It’s no use trying to keep her out of it. He’s got a fixation with her. Probably because of your social reforms. You’re a prominent figure in reformist culture. What’s he done so far? The heist donated to charities. The Floo Flue forced a mass act of gratitude to house-elves. He’s not done. And he’s not taking credit. Hermione probably wasn’t even supposed to find out his name.”
Hermione nodded. “These are likely just . . . tests.”
Harry nodded reluctantly, “he’s planning more. He was working on the Floo Flue while we were all worried about the banking heist. He’s upped his stakes. Wizard wealth, wizard health . . .”
“We need to find out what he’s planning, and I already have an invitation to find out,” Hermione argued.
“You’re not an Auror,” Harry shook his head. “You don’t have the training.
“For what, Harry? We don’t know what he wants. Maybe he’s just raising awareness—unfortunately in dangerous ways.”
“He’s toying with you all.” Malfoy absently threw bits of torn toast on the floor for Arnold to roll after. “He’s using social issues as a smoke screen for something else he wants, but can’t get without using big magic. There have been no demands. No manifestos. No calls of action. He’s playing with you.” Malfoy reiterated firmly giving Harry a hard look.
“Doesn’t matter, my jobs the same either way. Find him, bring him in, he can tell his story then.” Harry poured a second cup of coffee. “In the meantime, Malfoy, why don’t you and Hermione study that crown.”
“Tiara,” Hermione and Malfoy corrected.
“And Mione, if you must go to the Free Elf Union, you can’t go alone. If you want to involve yourself, take Malfoy with you.”
“What?” Malfoy and Hermione wrinkled their noses together.
“You’re already partnering on the rune book, now the tiara, at this point we might as well add you both to the books as Auror assets.”
“Partners, huh?” Ginny observed, giving Hermione the ‘we are going to talk’ look.
“Keep track of your purchases and bill my office. Whatever you need to be safe. Same to you, Malfoy. I’ll expect a report of this weekend's activities on my desk Monday.
“Enjoy the toast. I’m off to clean up at Floo-Pow. See if your Nott has any other ingredients sorted, yeah? Maybe he can consult with our departmental experts.”
“Ta.” Ginny rolled her eyes and scooped Arnold off the floor, brushing crumbs from his coat. “I’m going back to bed like a normal person after not sleeping all night.”
Left alone in Harry’s kitchen, Hermione pulled out her planners.
“You’re plotting, Granger,” Malfoy murmured.
Hermione snapped her books shut, scooted out of the bench. “Don’t concern yourself with me, Malfoy. If you plan to attend the Free Elf Union meeting you may want to give some thought to your appearance.”
“Where are you going?” Malfoy scowled.
“It’s nearly eight?”
“Yes, and?”
“Goodbye, Malfoy.”
Draco Unraveling
Andromeda Tonks paused in mild confusion as she and Teddy weeded the garden. It was mid-afternoon, the warmest time of day, and Teddy (in snake form) wound beneath her Juniper bush tailing a trail of ants. Both perked up as laughter echoed up from the cellar. It had been going on for some time—bouts of quiet punctuated by peels of laughter that stifled into chuckles. Andromeda smiled to herself and shrugged at Teddy’s curious stare.
“Something has Draco in stitches down there. Maybe he’s testing the freshness of that Alihosty shipment he ordered.”
Draco’s potions lab resided in said outdoor cellar. Conveniently, one room held many of Andromeda’s vegetables—and now many of Draco’s drying potion ingredients. Off-shooting this was a wine room and to the other side, Draco had cleared out storage to make a potions lab. He had four regular-use cauldrons (his favorites) and four special cauldrons including a silver, a solid gold, the bulk batch beast, and (regrettably) the cheese cauldron—which Andromeda liked to use too often.
The lab was clean slabs of stone, sturdy stone tables with wooden, marble, and glass cutting boards. Heat blazed in the room as Draco had all four of his favorite cauldrons busy bubbling up Christmas gifts—(Pepperup Potions, Felix Felicis, Draughts of Peace, and an Elixir to Induce Euphoria in case Blaise threw another discreet party) the other two cauldrons held his current projects.
Draco was not testing Alihosty leaves from the Hyena tree. He had no one but himself and a lack of sleep to blame for the bouts of giggles and the swinging outbursts of emotion he experienced. That honor was due to the faulty filing of an Occluded folder—busting at its thin, paper seams—labeled Hermione Granger in his mind.
He needed to take care of said folder, but that would require some lengthy meditation and the mental construction of a steel vault that didn’t look like a vault. (Not that he needed to hide his secret thoughts from Voldemort anymore, but should the Ministry get nosy he’d rather avoid an embarrassing conversation as to why he had an entire art museum of Granger in his brain.)
No, he just needed to focus.
Draco continued his inventory: two shrivelfigs, four daisy roots, five hairy caterpillars, wormwood, four leeches, rat spleen, cowbane—and an added ingredient, fluxweed.
He checked on his Polyjuice potion, bubbling away in his copper cauldron (hoping to shave off six hours of brewing time), before returning to the shrinking potion and juicing the shrivelfigs. He was making large batches of both potions as he predicted the need given Granger’s new accessories.
Inexplicably, Draco found himself once more bursting into laughter as he chopped the daisy roots. Because there she was again. The image of Hermione swam to the surface of his consciousness—precious, little, wide-eyed, house-elf face, enormous ears, and a ridiculously blinding tiara, gaping up at him.
Draco leaned over to clutch his sore abdominals and rub tears of mirth from his face before any could spill into the daisy roots and cause mischief.
This was intolerable.
Granger had no business popping to mind like this. How were shrivelfigs reminding him of the witch? . . . Because she carried an ugly purple sack of a purse just like a shrivelfig.
Draco sank into a crouch and lightly slammed his forehead against the edge of the table. He needed to focus on the Shrinking Solution. Especially as he was adding in fluxweed to make its effects temporary—as he didn’t wish to run around at half stature for the rest of his life.
But here he crouched, falling to pieces. Memories of his first, childish crush long tucked away resurfaced now. Granger with larger front teeth and a know-it-all tilt to the chin asked such strange questions in the bookshop their first year. He’d never seen Muggles in Flourish & Blotts before. She’d only spared him a curious stare, then turned that bushy, brown hair and those knowledge-greedy eyes away, all her attention just for books.
She was impossible not to notice, near bouncing in her seat to answer Potions questions. The one class Draco had outscored her in and the way she’d pouted about it: lower lip full, dark eyes finding him across the room, considering him with something other than disdain. That challenging look had stirred a cold heat in his heart.
The way she glared at him when he’d wind Potter up. It had been fun, watching Potter squirm. She never looked at him unless he needled one of her boys.
And then his life had gone to rotting pieces. Nothing like her belonged in his world. Not even sacred twenty-eight girls had deserved the cesspit Malfoy Manor had become.
And yet, the way her hand cinched in his that morning. Fingers locked perfectly.
Draco tapped his forehead on the stone edge of the table, again. Imagined a nice long string, and wound it around and around a folder called Hermione.
Nice, tidy, and SHUT.
Sunday Roast
Hermione woke from her nap on the couch to the sound of her parents whispering in their kitchen as they tried to throw together Sunday’s Roast without waking their comatose daughter. One of them had thrown a soft blanket over her and set out tea gone cold.
Crouched by her parent’s electric fireplace—which they’d recently installed, Hermione fiddled with the remote. There would be no Floo access nor wizard calls made in her childhood home—not anymore. She’d gotten a minute phone just to keep in contact.
When she peeked into the kitchen earlier, her dad was fiddling with a meat thermometer for the chicken, her mum just popped the Yorkshire puddings out of the toaster oven.
“Are you sure I can’t help?” Hermione called again.
“No, no, we’ve got it sorted,” Mum still acted as if Hermione were a guest. Dad was better, less reserved.
Hermione replayed the conversation Healer Pye had with her all too often.
“We are providing stimuli, familiar sounds, voices, everything should gradually reawaken their cognitive memories. Just talking to them may help.” She had been working with him long enough to trust his process—he’d even been excited to read up on Muggle neurology and memory therapy.
“I’ll just set the table then, shall I?” She called.
“Oh, I can get it!” Her mum hurried in.
“I’ve got it. I used to set the table all the time, Mum. It was sort of my contribution to dinner.” Hermione unlatched the china cabinet removing three dinner plates.
“Oh . . . right.”
“At least when I was home for summer. Winter time you always whisked us off to France to ski.” Hermione grinned over her shoulder.
“Y . . . yes.”
“You taught me to ski backward. Dad liked to sit in the lodge next to the fire.”
“So he still does.” Her mum looked wistfully back towards the kitchen.
They ate their roast, Hermione retelling stories from her days in Hogwarts. Those were easier to tell. They were just stories to her parents before, and she knew which parts to embellish to make them laugh.
The hard part was everything else. The way her mum smiled at her as though afraid she might run away before they’d gotten to know one another again. The way dad’s hand would squeeze her shoulder on his way into the sitting room after lunch, but without the familiar kiss to the back of her head.
The black underlying unease that should be hurt and anger for robbing them of their memories—but they didn’t remember her enough to feel it.
The way they both saw her off at the door, instead of comfortably from their couch. As though some part of them anxiously still thought it might be the last goodbye.
The loss was in the small tells that reminded Hermione on a basic, instinctive level, her parents didn’t remember her.
But they were getting to know her again. Hermione glanced back at the house, waving to her parents again. They huddled in the door, nodding at her. For some reason, Dad always wanted to watch her Apparite, never seeming tired of the magic trick.
The Mystic Stitch
Elvish Couture.
Hermione’s feet dragged as she followed Luna’s summons to meet her outside of Harrods in Muggle London.
Today, Luna wore her shredded leather research robe and bright pink leather boots.
“Afternoon, Hermione. Ready to shop?”
“Thank you for letting me tag along.” Hermione smiled, tucked her arm under Luna’s, and bumped their shoulders together.
“It’s no trouble, you’re an easy witch to shop with. You already know your mind. Shall we?”
Hermione tried not to cry as they passed the chocolates displayed throughout the Ladurée on their way to the elevator. From which Luna led her by The Wedding Dress Boutique, through Eveningwear, Lingerie, International Designer, and at last into a Shoe Salon—which Hermione had to pass through by half covering her eyes. Especially when she caught sight of a pair of low-healed leather boots.
The ceiling swirled like musical notes, and almost everything gleamed, reflective.
Luna nudged Hermione into one of the display mirrors. It warped like water around them before crystallizing into a boutique so miniature her hair nearly touched the ceiling. Racks of dresses and suits adorned by snow globe displays of skating house-elf miniatures and Christmas trees dripped jewelry.
“Welcome to The Mystic Stitch! Thimble, at your service!” A little house-elf called and scampered out from behind the counter. She was dressed all in white silk with a red apron and name tag. Atop her head bloomed a silky white bow. “We specialize in elvish couture! Everything here is made by house-elves for house-elves! And fifteen percent of our profits go towards funding the Free Elf Union! Are you looking for anything I can help with?”
“Christmas gifts, please!” Luna smiled. “I don’t suppose you make anything that could fit a goblin? I’d like something for my choir mates.”
“We have a large assortment of hats and gloves.”
“Hats would do,” Luna wandered after Thimble.
To say the attire was upscale would be modest. Expensive fabrics, expensive stitching, and lovely designs.
Hermione had barely turned a full circle absorbing it all when Thimble returned.
“And is there anything I can help you with, Ms Granger?”
“Thank you, Thimble. I’ve a . . . friend who’s been invited to the Free Elf Union this week and I was hoping to pick up something nicer to wear than a Floo-Pow sack.”
“Oh!” Thimble clapped. “You’ll want a fancy dress then.”
“I will?”
“Oh, yes, it’s a formal attire event.”
“It is?”
“Top hats, and suits and tiaras.” Thimble nodded excitedly.
“Are you saying the Free Elf Union is a ball?”
“There is dancing, yes!” Thimble beamed.
“Oh,” Hermione tried to picture it. “Well, I already have a tiara . . .”
“A dress then? We can custom-fit it and deliver it to the address of your choice.
“That’ll be grand.” Hermione tried not to cry when she saw the price tag, reminding herself that the Aurar department would be picking up the bill.
She tried to picture her size compared to Thimble. “Something about your size should do.”
Luna reappeared with five hats, knit from genuine red, green, and white Pygmy Puff fur and sewn with iridescent unicorn hairs.
“Did you say you were looking for pot mitts?” Luna asked, holding out a cute pair of oven mitts decorated with holly leaves.
She definitely hadn’t mentioned them, but she did owe Tassel a Christmas gift and she wasn’t likely to have time to knit one. “I didn’t, but thank you, Luna. That’s just what I needed.”
“You must have been asking with your eyes.” Luna smiled.
They exited the shop together, but before parting outside, Luna tapped Hermione’s shoulder.
“Could you give this to Theo for me?” She withdrew a small, wrapped package from her purse.
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “So it’s Theo now?”
Luna waved a hand, “It’s Theodore to Theodore, and Theo to you.”
“I see. . .” She didn’t. “Of course I’ll get them to him. Did he make you one of his teas?”
Luna quirked her head like a curious kitten. “No?”
“Oh,” Hermione flapped for words.
“He showed up in the woods while I was looking for mushrooms. He got turned about while wild herbing. Got a bit muddled from the Floo flu I imagine.”
“Oh . . .” Hermione wilted. Poor Theo.
“So I made him a wit-sharpening potion.”
“Ah . . .” Hermione stared at the package with renewed dread. Poor Theo prided himself on being clever.
“Should I have made him muffins instead?”
“Muffins?” Hermione had suggested taking over Plan Lovegood, but in truth, she began to believe conventional means were too indirect for these idiots.
“Does Theo not like muffins?”
“I think he does . . . yes, I’m sure he does.”
“What kind?”
Hermione wracked her big, stupid brain for muffin trivia. Had she ever seen Theo eat a muffin? Or had he picked out the blueberries and thrown them at birds in the park? Did he have a favorite flavor? Did it matter?
“Would you like a Wit-sharpening potion too?” Luna asked. “I always have a few spares—I like to utilize them whilst having an epiphany.”
“I’m not having an Epiphany, Luna, I’m trying to recall the last time Theo ate a muffin. I can’t and in any case, I think he’d rather you give him your favorite muffin, he likes knowing about people more than he likes being known to them.”
“Thank you, Hermione. I suppose he is a bit shy.”
“Shy?” Hermione grimaced. Theo was going to murder her.
“You’re a surprisingly restful person.” Luna lightly hugged Hermione, before skipping back a step.
“Thank you, I think.”
“I can see why Theo needs you.”
“Oh, I don’t think he needs me.”
“Of course he does. It gets lonely being so honest.”
Hermione blinked. Honest? Theo?
Luna withdrew a choir flyer from her purse next. “If you’re free Christmas Eve, you should stop by for our performance. It will probably snow, so dress warmly.
Hermione watched Luna go, wondering how much she owed Theo for today. Much as it bruised her ego, she was the worst wing-woman in Great Britain.