Best of Fifteen

It was the pictures of Ron, really, that began the whole ordeal.

On any other day, Hermione would have seen the article first thing, and the resulting spiral would have occurred alone instead of in front of any of her meddling friends. Routine was important, and Hermione’s sacred morning routine was a look at the paper first thing in the morning over her cup of tea. This routine stuck with her wherever she went– from Belgium for her first mastery to Alaska for her most recent research project, Hermione would find a daily paper and subscribe to it for the length of her stay. So, naturally, she’d subscribed to The Daily Prophet already, despite having brushed off the Floo powder and looked around at her new flat in London for the first time just two days ago.

But Hermione’s normally well-practised morning routine was off, hopelessly thrown as she awoke at 2:00am. The nightmare was one of her old standards: the battle at the Department of Mysteries. She woke gasping, clutching at the place on her chest that the curse had impacted, the place that still bore its scar. Hermione blew out air slowly, remembering where she was. She was in London, in her new bedroom, in her new flat. She was safe.

Hermione tried for several hours to go back to sleep, telling herself that her nightmares returning now that she was back in London was perfectly logical, and was not, as some divination textbook might claim, a bad omen. Around 4:00, she gave up on sleep altogether and pulled something from the already crowded bookshelf in her living room. Hermione didn’t remember falling asleep on the couch, but she'd awoken, hours later, with all the lights on and a book squished between her cheek and the cushion, already very nearly late to her first day of work.

So her tea was sent into a thermos instead of enjoyed over the morning paper, and that paper, which had been dropped on her kitchen table, was spelled across the room and into her bag without even a passing glance at its first page.

Hermione made her way through the throngs of witches and wizards in the Ministry’s atrium, feeling the heat of eyes on her. The attention had once been familiar– after the war, she couldn’t walk down a street in magical London without being noticed and observed. She’d gotten used to it then, but returning to it anew from the anonymity of years of travel, Hermione was keenly aware of the looks and whispers, heat prickling on her skin.

Crammed into the lift, Hermione tried as best she could to smooth the hair around her face back into her bun. She made meagre progress before the lift chimed and Hermione stepped out, for the first time as an employee, into the DMLE bullpen. She was welcomed by the sight of Seamus Finnegan, as rumpled as ever, leaning against the wall in front of her. His eyes brightened as the lift opened.

“Oi, Hermione!”

“Seamus,” Hermione responded, with a smile, “it’s lovely to see you.”

“You as well.” He stuck out his hand, which Hermione shook. “Welcome to the office. We’re all so glad to have you.”

Hermione smiled. “Glad to be here.”

Hermione glanced around at the space she’d visited many times since Harry and Ron began training. Even after Ron had left the DMLE and Hermione had left England, she’d stopped by to see her increasingly busy best friend when in the country. The fluorescent lights and carpeted floors were similar to her old workspace in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, but nearly three times as large, with paper aeroplane memos zipping through the halls. Seamus dodged one as they passed the conference room with its glass walls, empty at the moment.

“Alright, you can follow me this way,” Seamus said, tilting his head down one of two corridors, “Harry’s stuck in a meeting, so I’m your welcome wagon.”

On the short walk, Seamus peppered Hermione with department information and a fair share of office gossip. Hermione had remembered Seamus as bright and boisterous, and it was nice, she decided, to see that time hadn’t changed him much. Seamus stopped at the very last door at the end of the hall. A golden plaque read Hermione Granger, Runic Expert.

Hermione blinked. “Harry knows this is a temporary position, right?”

Seamus smiled crookedly. “You’ll have to be the one to remind him of that. Don’t fancy getting into a spat with my future boss, myself.”

Hermione laughed and pushed the door open. The room was small but comfortable, furnished with a desk and chair next to a bookcase, a filing cabinet, and along the far wall, a small sofa.

Seamus, who had begun recounting the score from his and Harry’s recent quidditch scrimmage, cut himself off as she stepped into her office. He coughed. “I’ll let you get set up, then. Harry’ll be over in a few– let me know if you need anything!”

“Will do,” Hermione said as Seamus pushed out of her door frame and waved. She set her bag down and turned slowly, surveying the space. She took her wand from her robes and began rummaging through her beaded bag, pulling out and enlarging her things before setting them in their new places. A set of pens in addition to a quill and inkpot, her diplomas, and a framed picture of her, Ron, and Harry at the Burrow.

As she smiled at the memory, the door to her office swung open, and Harry himself appeared. His hair was its usual mess and his glasses were askew, but the wizard was grinning from ear to ear. Hermione knew her face likely matched his as she jumped up and threw her arms around her best friend.

“You’re here! Merlin, I can’t believe you’re actually here!”

“I am!– alright, put me down, Harry Potter.”

At her scolding, Harry set her back on the floor. “I’m sorry I couldn’t greet you, it’s been a busy morning.”

“Most of them seem to be, huh?” she asked. “Anything important going on?” Hermione arched her brow cheekily, knowing full well that Harry was in line to be the next Head Auror, and that Robards was putting him through his paces before passing on the title.

Harry rubbed his head, turning a bit pink. He turned the subject back to Hermione deftly, “It’s amazing to have you here, ‘Mione. The department, obviously, is going to benefit immensely, but for me… having you back in London…”

Hermione squeezed his hand as Harry’s green eyes went a touch glassy behind his wire frames. “I’ve missed you so much,” he said.

Hermione reached out to her friend and hugged him again.

Harry left her, after a few tears from both parties and a promise to attend a trivia night on Wednesday, with the details of the case that Hermione was to advise on.

Nearly eight months ago, Harry had been investigating an illegal Quidditch betting ring when he’d found something unusual: a trail of galleons deposited by several unsavoury wizards through a circuitous route of banks and into a heavily protected, unnamed fund. Harry was suspicious off the bat, but the department had been unwilling to put funds into his investigation– until one of those wizards had turned up dead at the beginning of July. A veritable slew of correspondence was found in his flat, including bank statements that Harry had recognized.

The letters that the Aurors had discovered were heavily coded, using a creative combination of repellant and obscuring charms to put readers off of the task before even getting to the cipher, a tricky combination of several languages and runes from multiple dialects and magic traditions. Harry and his team had been at a loss to understand what they’d found, and as it was newly connected to a murder, Robards had agreed to bring in a specialist.

Crates of papers were wheeled into Hermione’s office throughout the morning: all the original documents, notes, and letters, many of them in airtight containment spells to prevent the nasty charmwork from catching someone unawares. The case file had been copied for her too, down to each instance in seven months that Harry had requested and been denied resources to look into the case. In no time, Hermione’s tidy office was transformed into a mountain of boxes and papers. Hermione rolled up her sleeves and began sorting.

The mountain was partway conquered when Hermione paused for lunch. Harry was in another meeting, and, not quite ready to face the stares in the Ministry cafeteria, Hermione resolved to eat at her desk. Mentally calculating the time difference between London and Croatia, Hermione pulled out her cell phone (equipped with some smart charmwork that let it run on the latent magic around her instead of electricity) and dialled Ginny.

Ginny Weasley was the only one of Hermione’s friends she’d convinced to get a cell phone. She’d begun the campaign when her first Mastery took her out of London, telling her friends that a phone call was much easier than a Floo call, particularly when her research took her to far-off corners of the globe, and when fieldwork precluded her from being near a fireplace. Ginny had gamely submitted to Hermione’s lessons, particularly once she’d accepted a position on England’s international quidditch team and begun travelling for her own work. Harry had readily agreed, and then lost his phone in the first three days of having it. Ron claimed that he got on fine with an owl, and Pansy Parkinson, who Hermione was just beginning to get to know, had taken one look at the cell and shuddered with disgust.

But Ginny had adapted to it quickly. They called no matter where either of them were, and their friendship was cemented as they shared the stories and woes of their travels. In a stroke of lucky timing, just one week after Hermione accepted the position at the DMLE, Ginny phoned to tell her that she was planning to leave the team.

When Ginny picked up, the two caught up about Hermione’s trip home, Ginny’s final matches, and Hermione’s first day of work, before settling into a comfortable silence.

“The article was alright, I thought,” came Ginny’s voice, a bit tentatively. “I suppose I was worried they’d make more of a thing of me and Harry, but it wasn’t so bad.”

“What article?” Hermione asked.

“The 10 Years– oh, have you not subscribed to the Prophet yet?”

“No, I–” Hermione vaguely remembered shoving the paper into her bag that morning. Holding her phone between face and shoulder, she freed her hands to dig through it.

“Hang on, I’ve got it here somewhere,” she said, before locating the bundle of paper and shaking it out. And there, on the front page, which she hadn’t so much as glanced at in her hurry to get to work, were the words: “10 Years On: Where Are Hogwarts’s Heroes Now?”, an article, of course, written by Rita Skeeter.

Hermione scanned the piece, which spanned the front and next two pages of the paper. Photos jumped out at her: Harry smiling with several members of the DA at the Three Broomsticks, patting Seamus on the back in a quidditch pitch, raising a glass of champagne at some fundraising gala, and picking up Teddy Lupin in an endless loop. Skeeter described Harry’s life with breathless delight– his success in the DMLE, his charitable endeavours, his adoration of his godson, and not an insignificant amount of speculation on the women he’d been seen out with. Ginny’s name was mentioned only once, in a list of his past flames.

The next page brought her face-to-face with the broad grin, bright hair, and freckled smile of Ron Weasley. He was pictured at the Burrow with the entire Weasley clan, good-heartedly mussing the hair of Victoire, Bill and Fleur’s oldest. To the side, a picture of him at the 10-year celebration of Weasley’s Wizards Wheezes, clapping George on the arm as confetti erupted. And directly in the center: him gazing down at Parvati Patil, soon to be Parvati Weasley, her left hand adorned with a gorgeous, sparkling ring, placed on the center of his chest.

Hermione knew they were engaged, of course. In fact, she was to be a bridesmaid in the bloody wedding. The couple had begun dating after Hermione and Padma grew close, and only after Hermione and Ron’s attempt at a relationship had puttered, amicably, to its end. Hermione had no ill will towards them, and in fact had commented herself on how suited they were– Ron’s steadfast loyalty grounded the flighty Parvati, while her humour and energy had reawakened his own after the war. Rita seemed to agree. The journalist was in raptures about the couple, noting how happy they were, how beautiful they looked, and their excitement over what was sure to be the “wizarding wedding of the century”. Hermione was happy for them, she really was, so the pang in her chest came as a surprise.

She flipped one more page and was greeted by her own face. She recognized the picture– it was a few years old, but one she liked, a shot taken by Molly at her graduation from her third Mastery. Hermione held up the degree proudly as she walked towards the Weasley matriarch. But that was the only image, and the text was scant. Rita parroted Hermione’s academic bio, but with a few flourishes: speculating about why Hermione was avoiding Britain and if it had to do with a certain upcoming wedding (Hermione ground her teeth), wondering if she’d bring a date or if her academic career left no time for distractions, and closing with a remark that the Golden Girl was likely perfectly happy, as she was in good company with the true love of her life, books.

“Hermione? Are you still there?”

Ginny’s voice came, small and tinny, from the ground, where Hermione had let the phone slip from her shoulder. She jumped and retrieved the phone, pressing it back to her ear.

“Yeah, here. Just found the article, and…” Hermione really did try to take a deep breath. But it came out high-pitched and strangled, and was followed by an almost involuntary screech of “I’mgoingtokillthebeetle.”

“‘Mione!” came Ginny’s voice, “I know. But take a breath.” (Hermione really did try again.) “It’s not the best, but–”

“Not the best?!”

“It could be worse. I mean, you didn’t give her a lot to go on.”

“What are you talking about? It’s not like she asked me for comments!”

Hermione could hear Ginny’s frown through the line. “H, I love you, but she totally did. Remember? About a month ago? I remember you telling me that you got her letter and threw it in the bin.”

Hermione’s mind stalled for a moment before the memory hit her. She groaned.

“Oh Gods, I did. I threw it in the bin.”

“I suggested you look at it, for the record. You suggested I shut up.”

“Well, I had my research assistant owl her my bio, like I do for all press inquiries!”

“And she decided to embellish. But really, she’s written much worse. She didn’t pit you as a vengeful ex-lover or something, like she did with me.”

Hermione made a sound of assent, remembering how furious she’d been at the coverage of Harry and Ginny’s breakup. Their relationship had barely made it a year, and ended with Ginny’s acceptance onto the international Quidditch team– but Rita had written column after column about the redhead’s schemes to sabotage his future relationships before Harry himself had stepped in and put a stop to it.

Softened as she remembered Ginny’s anguish, Hermione managed a full breath.

“You’re right,” she said, “It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. But…” She trailed off.

“But what?”

Hermione had turned the page back to the picture of Ron and Parvati, watching as her hand landed on his chest and as the wizard leaned down to kiss her forehead.

“Is she right?” Hermione asked softly.

“Is she… Hermione, are you serious?” Ginny’s voice took on a stern tone, so like Molly that Hermione almost laughed.

“It’s not like anything she’s saying is untrue. Other than me avoiding London because of Ron, which is ridiculous. But the rest of it… Gin, I hadn’t planned on bringing anyone to the wedding. It hadn’t even crossed my mind.”

There was a beat of silence before the response came.

“Hermione Jean Granger. If you let that beetle get into your head, I will personally fly across the English Channel two weeks early to slap you. You are beautiful, you are brilliant, and you are incredibly busy! So you won’t have some mediocre man on your arm at Ronald’s wedding. So what? You’ll have me, and Padma, and Harry, and your 300 honorary nieces and nephews. All of whom know how spectacular you are, and all of whom know that the reason you won’t have a date is because there are scant few wizards out there who could possibly deserve you.”

Hermione sucked in a breath, awed by her fiercely compassionate friend.

“Got it?” Ginny said, with a somewhat menacing edge.

“Okay, yeah. I got it.”

“Good. I have to get to warm-ups, but do me a favour and chuck the paper in the bin, too.”

“I love you. You know that?”

Hermione could hear Ginny’s smile through the phone line.

“I’m aware.”

The afternoon passed much the same as the morning had, with Hermione up to her ears in paperwork, and with a merry-go-round of old friends in the department arriving at her door to chat. Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson, now both Aurors, brought flowers for Hermione’s desk. Percy Weasley stopped by from the top floor, giving Hermione an awkward but well-meant hug.

Finally, Harry returned, startling Hermione from her progress with a light knock on her door. She waved him in, and he looked at all the papers, muttering “Merlin” under his breath, before continuing, “‘Mione, it’s five. Face the lobby together?”

“Oh,” she said, glancing up at the clock, “I hadn’t realised!”

Hermione looked back down at the stack she was working through, the very last she had to sort before she’d feel ready to properly start her work.

“I’m just going to finish this,” she said, “go on without me.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Is it going to be like this every day?”

Hermione flushed and shrugged at him, smiling.

“All right,” he said, grinning, “Don’t stay here too late!”

She agreed, waving him off.

“And trivia on Wednesday! Don’t forget!”

It was closer to 7:00 by the time Hermione got through the last stack of files, but she looked around the office, immensely pleased by her progress. She grabbed her bag and walked to her door, humming lightly to herself as she started into the darkened corridor.

Hermione noticed, absentmindedly, that there was only one other light on in the department, in the office just next door to her own. She turned towards it, wondering who her neighbour was and why they were working so late. The answer to that question came in two parts– through the cracked doorway, an instantly recognizable gleam of white-blond hair, and on the door, a nameplate she hadn’t read that morning: Draco Malfoy, Litigator for the DMLE.

Hermione’s head snapped back up as though she’d been shocked, and the movement must have drawn his attention, as through the crack, the man’s head turned and his eyes met hers.

Hermione had time for one thought (fuck), before abruptly averting her eyes and walking, at perhaps an unnecessarily quick pace, down the hallway and to the elevator.

Hermione arrived home, tumbling from her newly connected floo and landing directly in front of one Pansy Parkinson, who was holding out a generously full glass of rosé.

Hermione’s mouth fell open in surprise, and Pansy smirked.

“Oh, Golden Girl, don’t look so shocked. Your new wards really weren’t too impressive.”

Hermione hadn’t formulated a reply yet when Padma Patil’s voice piped up, “What Pansy is trying to say is that we’re so happy to have you back in London!”

The Ravenclaw came up to wrap Hermione in a hug, giving her a chance to look around at the rest of the assembled party: Pansy in the front, her sleek, dark hair perfect in its Parisian bob, and a self-satisfied look on her face. Behind her, Neville Longbottom sat on the arm of her couch, and Luna Lovegood was perched on the recliner chair in the living room.

Hermione, still a bit confused, hugged Padma back.

“Yes, yes, that,” Pansy said dismissively, “and more to the point, one red-headed She-Weasel may or may not have given us a heads up to bring you some wine tonight.”

“Ah,” said Hermione.

She accepted the glass and took a deep drink before crossing the room to hug Neville and Luna. Her friends had certainly brought wine, with more bottles on her coffee table than she thought they could (or should) finish, plus a box of macarons that Hermione was fairly sure were straight from France.

“Your new place is aces, Hermione,” Neville said.

“Just lovely. And I’ve already spread honey around the bathroom drains to keep wrackspurts out,” Luna said.

Hermione nodded gratefully, making a mental note to thoroughly clean the bathroom after her guests had left in order to keep ants out, too.

Pansy sank down into the couch, holding her own glass imperiously, and quirked a single eyebrow at Hermione before drawling, “Well, shall we discuss why you’re letting Rita Skeeter paint you as a dumpy librarian, or should we begin with what you’re going to do about it?”

“Pansy!” This came at once from Padma and Neville, but the black-haired woman was not deterred.

“What Pansy is trying to say,” Padma said, flashing a menacing look at Pansy, “is that we’re here for you if you’d like to talk about it. Or if you’d like to just get smashingly drunk.”

“It’s not…” Hermione began, then let out a huff, “it’s a stupid article, and I shouldn’t’ve let it get to me.”

Luna hummed her agreement, and Neville nodded along, although his eyes were fixed on Hermione’s newly bought and already struggling houseplant.

“But it did get to you,” Pansy said decisively. “The Weaslette was very clear that this is not just to be a girls’ night, but a war council.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, regretting, as she often did, that she’d ever convinced Ginny and Pansy to put their differences aside.

Neville looked up. “This was a girls’ night?”

Pansy nodded, not looking away from Hermione.

“Pansy, why did you invite me to a–” when Pansy didn’t so much as turn in his direction, Neville seemed to give up the line of questioning, resigning himself back onto the couch with a sigh and a second glass of pink wine.

“Alright, drink up,” said Pansy, offering the bottle to Hermione, “it’s time to discuss the long-ignored facet of your life.”

Padma nodded, calling, “Love!” as Pansy intoned, “Getting shagged.”

Hermione blinked.

“Alright, both,” Pansy said.

Hermione raised her eyebrows at Padma, who nodded back at her apologetically.

“Pansy’s right. This conversation is overdue. I’m all for you getting shagged properly.” When Hermione opened her mouth to protest, the Ravenclaw continued, “Obviously, a woman is not defined by her romantic partnerships or lack thereof. And if you have no interest at all, we’ll leave off. But there are plenty of wizards in London who’d love to do the job.”

“Orgasms are very good for repelling wrackspurts, you know,” Luna added.

“I’m really not sure why I’m here,” said Neville, who’d gone as pink as his wine.

Pansy waved a manicured hand at him. “Hush.”

As everyone turned to her, Hermione could feel her face growing red and her head going a bit fuzzy from the wine she’d consumed without anything for dinner. She took a breath in, preparing to defend herself, and was mortified when she began to feel pinpricks of tears at the corners of her eyes. Padma was instantly by her side, smoothing her hair comfortingly.

“Oh, love. I’m sorry we pushed,” she said, her brows pulling together.

“No, no,” Hermione said, hearing her voice breaking on the words, “It’s not your fault. Gods, it was the article, and the pictures, and the stupid beetle. And I don’t care what she says about me, I really don’t!”

“Good,” Padma said emphatically, rubbing Hermione’s back.

“But Gods, Ron looks so happy in that picture. We were never happy like that. So I thought maybe I just wasn’t that kind of person. And I don’t think I’m lonely, I really don’t– I have my work and all of you– but seeing him like that in a relationship, so different from how he was with me, made me wonder if I’m not…” She trailed off again “... missing something?”

The final words were barely a whisper, and Padma wrapped Hermione in a hug. Neville’s arms came around her, too, embarrassment forgotten in favour of being there for his friend.

“You’re very brave, Hermione,” came Luna’s voice after a moment, “but perhaps you haven’t been brave about this one thing.”

Hermione blinked up at the blonde, who was staring thoughtfully at her, the look that made Hermione remember why she was placed in Ravenclaw. Hermione nodded slowly.

“Well,” Pansy said, looking down her nose at the embrace around Hermione, “now that we’ve sorted your feelings, the question is: what are you planning to do about it?”

Hermione, straightening herself up and wiping at her eyes, responded honestly. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

This seemed to be precisely what Pansy was waiting for. “Brilliant! Because I do.”

The witch waved her wand, and a scroll of paper flew from her bag onto Hermione’s lap. Across the top was printed: BEST OF FIFTEEN: A Hermione Granger-proof Dating Plan.

Hermione’s mouth dropped again. “Pansy, are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

Padma crammed in next to Hermione, looking with her at the scroll.

“I’ve put a lot of thought into this, so hush up and listen. I’m making dating a science for you. You give one night a week to dating, just Friday nights, and just until the end of December. You do the whole thing: the dress, the hair, laughing at the bad jokes. We,” she gestured around the room, “will pick the wizards and the locations, and all you have to do is go.”

Hermione unrolled the page to reveal a marked out social calendar, a list of different types of forks, and a strongly worded note about appropriate footwear for formal events.

“There are sixteen Fridays left in the year, and the last one is the inferior Weasel’s wedding to the inferior Patil.”

“Lovely,” Padma said. “You should give the wedding toast.”

“So here’s what you do,” Pansy continued, “You go on fifteen dates. You rank them as empirically as your swotty little heart desires, and you take the best of the lot to the wedding to prove Skeeter wrong. And then if it all goes to rot, your assignment with the DMLE is up and you can run off to another godforsaken continent to faff about with pixies or whatever it is you do.”

Still gaping, Hermione ascertained that Pansy had finished. After a beat of silence, an awed “you’re mental” broke the stillness.

Pansy whipped around to Neville, who’d spoken, and gave him a look that could’ve turned a weaker man to stone. Then she returned to face Hermione. Almost imperceptibly, Hermione watched her confidence waver. “Ginny did sign off on all this, you know,” she said.

Hermione, unable to stop herself, began to laugh.

Pansy’s face pinched up into extreme displeasure. “What is so funny?”

Hermione looked up at her friend, dropped the scroll, and pulled a very confused Pansy into a hug.

“You really want me to be happy, don’t you?”

Pansy relaxed into the hug for just a moment before her nearly inscrutable haughtiness returned. “I suppose.”

Padma was suddenly hugging them, as well.

“We all do, Hermione.”

Luna was there almost immediately, breaking the hug into an odd dance and humming over them.

“Pad, what do you think?” Hermione asked as they tumbled back onto the floor.

“Oh, this is absolutely insane,” the brunette responded, grabbing a macaron from the table. “But fuck it. You deserve someone wonderful. And if you don’t find them this round, you at least deserve to shut Skeeter up.”

From over her glass, Hermione watched Pansy fidget with her skirt and smack Neville’s hand away from her hair. She looked around the room at her friends, as odd a bunch as they were, who had dropped everything to be there for her tonight. She looked around at her new living room, bright and warm with its lamps and laughter and with a Smashing Pumpkins song playing lightly. She saw the next three months in London stretching out ahead of her, and imagined if she had someone to share them with.

Hermione finished her glass in one go.

“Alright, Pans,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

Pansy let out a decidedly unlady-like squeal while Padma whooped.

Hermione frowned suddenly, a thought occurring to her. “You are going to let me approve the wizards first, right?”

Pansy smirked. “Oh, Granger. Absolutely not.”