The (Slughorn's Potions) Office

Slughorn comes out of his office with wrinkles in his dress shirt and spotty ink markings on his left cheek. "Hermione, my dear, has Abraxas called yet?"

"No, he hasn't." She takes a sip of her coffee, black with a tiny amount of sugar, and opens a new tab for a quick research detour: paper made from apples instead of trees. Hermione read an article yesterday before bed.

"He hasn't? He makes time to catch up with me every Friday, without fail; as a token of appreciation for all I've done for him, I reckon. Always was proud to be in my office as an intern, that boy, which is why he never forgets our Friday calls -"

"It's Tuesday, sir," Hermione says.

Slughorn stills. "Ah," he nods, resolutely, after a slight pause. "Makes sense. That boy cares about my opinion too much to ever miss a chance to have a chat with little old me -"

Riddle comes back on Thursday.

Slughorn had send him to another location, temporarily, to help out with an important project.

The most relaxed three months of Hermione's work life have ended now.

"Tommy, my boy," Slughorn's face is shining, glossy and rosy, and his hands get grabby-grabby. One, two, three, four pats on the shoulder later and Hermione can't stop a small smile from appearing when a muscle in Riddle's jaw twitches.

"Good to be back, sir," he answers, polite as ever and perfectly fake. He catches Hermione's eye and her miniscule expression of joy vanishes in an instant. "I've missed it."

Neville waters his plants, all sixteen of them, when Hermione visits his desk to have a moment away from her newly welcomed back desk neighbor.

"How are they?"

"O-oh, Hermione! H-hi! Theodosia and Martha are excellent, Samantha is having a tough day, though, a bit dry, because Ron forgot to change the pot positions of the plants like I told him. She got too much sun, isn't used to that."

"You've got a magical green thumb, Neville," Hermione tells him softly. "She will florish in no time again with your care."

He blushes. "Thank you, Hermione! D-did you want my help with something, or were you on the way to -"

"Oh no," she intercepts. "Just wanted to stretch my legs, but thank you."

A light in the break room flickers when Hermione is on her way back.

She opens the door and it's Ron, sitting at the baby blue table, eating a sandwich.

"It's 8:25," Hermione says.

Ron says, "Is it?"

"Work started 25 minutes ago," Hermione goes on. "which means we have hours to go before it's time for the official lunch break, and you are eating a sandwich, Ronald."

"...yeah."

"Your work ethic is atrocious," Hermione says, blankly, before leaving him to it.

Bellatrix Lestrange is sitting on the edge of Riddle's desk when Hermione gets back. She takes her place in her chair, ignores them both and calls up the current document she's working on.

"You can't imagine how boring it was here without you," Bellatrix purrs, louder than necessary considering Riddle is right beside her, which means it's a dig at Hermione herself, again. That's basically Lestrange's default setting.

"I can," Riddle says. "It's not very hard to."

"Granger."

Hermione keeps typing.

"Granger," Riddle repeats.

Hermione looks up, reluctantly.

"Did your hearing get worse while I was away?"

"No," Hermione says. I was just ignoring you is heavily implied and Riddle knows.

His expression turns stormy.

"Did Slughorn tell you why I was back?"

"Because your project at Durmstrang is done?"

"Yes and no," Riddle quips and Hermione stops typing, abruptly, an unconscious panic reaction. He sounds amused and she does not like it.

She wants to say, why did you say it like that? what does that mean? what don't i know? tell me, don't drag it out, but that would satisfy him, and Hermione does not like that either.

He gazes at her, waiting, and Hermione gazes back, not asking.

[The camera zooms in on their faces, anticipating, but cuts away impatiently after sixteen seconds of intense eye contact.]

Ron is flirting with the temporary receptionist, Lavender Brown, when Hermione walks by to get to the printer.

"This restaurant," Ron gushes, "has the best butterbeer and best chicken and the best pumpkin pie, I swear you will -"

"I'm sure I will, Ronniekins," Lavender says, eyes sparkling and mouth smiling.

"Would you like to go? Saturday?" Ron's hand moves enthusiasticly through the air and Hermione can see sweat form on his forehead. He's eager. It's cute.

At least Lavender seems to think so, because she says, laughing happily, "So eager. That's cute, Won-won. I would love to."

Huh, Hermione thinks. Good for him.

She only has to kick the printer twice before it works which compares to a work miracle, almost.

"Abraxas Malfoy is going to call at 11:30, on the dot. You are going to answer the call at the reception desk and redirect it to Slughorn's office," Hermione instructs. "He's going to come out of his office at 12:27, on the dot, almost stumble over the cord of the phone before realising he can't take it with him or get to your desk. He's going to yell your name or your job title, temp or receptionist, if he forgot your name, and ask you how to redirect the call back to the reception desk so Mr. Abraxas Malfoy can make a new appointment with him. You are going to answer, press the # button and then press 1, a click is going to be heard and then you can drop the call because it has been successfully redirected."

Hermione leans her head to the side like a bird, a bright red pencil in her hair bun. "Do you understand?"

Lavender's eyes are round and the pink bubble of gum in her mouth pops.

"Um, I guess so?"

It's Friday and Riddle is in a good mood.

Hermione shudders thinking of a reason.

"Yes, I assure you, sir, it will be," Riddle says and clicks his pen before writing something down on an open journal.

His brow is furrowed, though, which doesn't match the tone of his voice.

He's a terrific actor, especially on the phone where he only has to measure the way he speaks and not care about how much his body language expresses.

It's scary, Hermione thinks. Spooky.

"Mione, have you seen my glasses?"

"They aren't on your head, on your desk, on the table in the break room or on the sink in the bathroom, Harry?"

"No."

"Then you probably took them off briefly while you were giving Neville's flowers water. Look on the window sill."

A brief moment, and then: "Got them!"

Hermione is writing an email to an investor, the grumpy Mr. Rosier, when the work phone on her desk rings. It's 10:00, like usual. 

The routine started six weeks ago and for the first time Hermione wants to ignore it, not like normally because it's useless and annoying, but because Riddle is back and he listens like a hawk. 

But alas, there are no small mercies here, working in this office. 

She picks up. 

"Hello, Ms. Hermione Granger from Slughorn's Potions speaking. How can I help you?" Standard, professional. If only her counterpart understood the concept. 

"Always so proper," a deep voice replies. "Hello, sweetheart, to you too. Good to hear your lovely voice. Did you see the weather report? It's the most inviting day to spend together; a romantic set-up with -" 

Hermione swallows down a groan and the you absolute wanker, i wouldn't go out with you if you gave me a payed vacation, that lays on the tip of her tongue, waiting to be let loose. 

"- Mr. McLaggen, let me rephrase: how can I help you, professionally speaking?"

Riddle perks up in his seat. 

"Fine, darling," McLaggen says, smirk heard in his delivery. "Just had a quick question and wanted your professional opinion: which of Slughorn's Potions would you give a woman you fancy?"

"Dare You," Hermione retaliates. "It's the one with the violet bottle in the newest collection. It smells both sweet and alluring. The perfect perfume for a possible romantic partner -" 

Riddle moves, and Hermione lights up, because she now knows how to get rid of McLaggen and cut the call short. 

"- but I'm going to redirect you to my male collegue so you can get a second opinion. Good luck."

Hermione taps the # button and then number four and hangs up. 

Riddle's desk phone rings. 

Neville is in love with Luna Lovegood, the starry-eyed blonde woman from the postal office. 

They talk every Monday, Wednesday and Friday because those are her shifts. 

Today - most of the days - their conversation goes like this:

"Luna! He-hello!"

"Hullo, Neville. Have you seen how pretty it is outside? Your flowers will bloom beautifully in this sunshine." 

"Yes! Thank you! Are you well? I mean, has your day been good? And, um, do you have any letters for me?"

"I'm well. The day has only began, but I'm hopeful that it's about to be wonderful, thank you. Two letters for you today - here."

It's sweet, though, a bit monotone. 

Mr. Abraxas Malfoy calls at 11:30. 

"Slughorn's Potions, Miss Lavender Brown here." She leans back, twirls back and forth in her seat and keeps making eyes at Ron. 

And then, surprised, a bit nervous, "oh, yes, yes, of course," and her highheels land on the ground with a quite noise while she searches the room, wanders with her eyes from work table to work table, until she finds Hermione. "Mr. Malfoy, yes, yes, Sir. Of course, immediately, I'll put you through." 

Hermione holds up the right number for Slughorn's private office with her fingers, to swiftly and correctly divert the call, and Lavender beams at her. 

Joy looks good on her. 

At 12:26 Hermione stands up and walks a few paces until she's beside Slughorn's door before she awaits the next steps of his weekly routine. 

At 12:27 his door opens with a woosh, boisterous and uncaring of the loudness of the act, and Slughorn's laughter soon follows. "You flatter me, Abraxas, my boy, but no need, no need. Of course, I will. I'm humbled by your invitation."

He walks forward until the telephone cord grows taunt. "Oh, receptionist, dear," he calls out, flustered. "Misses -"

"Miss," Hermione corrects from beside him. 

"Miss Brunner -," he starts again. 

"Brown," Hermione corrects. 

"Miss Brown," Slughorn continues. "Mr. Abraxas Malfoy would love to make another appointment for next week. Quite the faithful one, he is." He chuckles. "How to take the call back, my dear, again, it seems I forgot. Well, it happens to the best of us."

Lavender's mouth hangs open for a second, before she catches herself, and grabs for the post-it note Hermione wrote for her, good girl. "Press the # button and then press 1," she reads outloud, "- a click is going to be heard and then you can drop the call because it has been successfully redirected. Sir."

Hermione grins, proud of her. 

"Marvellous, marvellous, my dear," Slughorn says. "Thank you, Miss Brad  -"

"Brown," Hermione corrects. 

"Thank you, Miss Brown," he says and closes the door. 

Twelve seconds later the phone at the reception picks up and Hermione returns to her workspace. 

Riddle stares. He does that a lot, used to before his time gone, too. But it's less subtle now, more palable. He's not hiding it, not sneaking a peak anymore. He's revelling in it. 

It's like he's waiting for her to ask, why the change? why are you being so obvious now? what are you staring for? which moment do you want to see my reaction to? WHAT IS GOING ON WITH YOU?

It's like he knows, for a fact, that he is going to be the personification of the cat that got the cream with his answer. 

Bellatrix steals her mug after the lunch break. 

Hermione has had the same one, a red and golden one with a lion in the middle, since the very beginning. 

Lestrange has never touched it. 

Never even wanted to. 

Until Riddle, today, for the first time ever, forgot his own mug - black with RIDDLE written on it in white font - and in an act of utter obliviousness took the matching one, green and silver one with a snake in the middle, from the cupboard. 

Hermione didn't think much of it until she came back from the loo and her mug, the one she had used for almost two years now, was not where she had left it. 

In result, she's forced to make a choice she's not had to make for quite awhile and it bothers her. As her replacement Hermione decides on a yellow mug with a bad perfume pun. 

When she turns around to exit the room, Bellatrix is leaning against the doorframe with a glare on her face. 

She's holding Hermione's mug and the teabag tag swinges from side to side after she moves to nip on it.

It's black tea, Hermione sees. Ironic, considering she herself drinks mostly white tea in this specific cup. 

Riddle is more of the mint and lemon tea kind of person. 

No idea why she knows that. 

Harry is on the phone when Hermione gets by to enter the archive room. 

"You can be such a git, Draco," Harry hisses through gritted teeth and hangs up the phone. He huffs and shakes his head. 

His glasses are on, for once. 

Hermione falters. "Um, everything allright? Did little Malfoy do something?"

"What?" Harry's face is flushed. "Oh, yes. We recorded the newest Quidditch game and said we'd watch it together at home after work tonight and now the tosser got off work hours earlier because his boss is his grandfather and they both share a passion for the sport so he had 'compassion' for him and just let him go. Just like that! The only thing I have in common with my boss is our workplace, so I can't do it the same way, and now he whined about how hard it will be to wait for me and wanted to make a deal that he'd watch it now, alone, and then, again, with me when I 'finally' get home and went on and on about how he has a great poker face because of his resting bitch face so he wouldn't accidentally spoil the game for me the second watch around. Can you believe him?! Obviously, I bloody well said no, and told him 'no sex or kisses' if he dares to break the promise and that cheeky brat answered that I wouldn't make it four days without a kiss from him and that's when the conversation was so bloody over for me."

"This," Hermione answers after a moment of brief silence, "is why I sometimes feel lucky to not be in a romantic relationship at the moment."

The archive room is messy and dirty and Hermione needs three times longer than she thought. It's like a black hole in here. 

Things just seem to come and go. 

She knocks on Slughorn's door, four small files in her arms. "Come in!"

"Sir, I finished the email to Mr. Rosier and sent it. He messaged back a time and place for an appointment and I wrote it into your online calender. I also made a post-it note to put on your desk so you'd remember the date better." 

Hermione sticks the post-it on the left, right next to the last one she left him with his email passcode. 

"Perfect, perfect, Hermione, my dear girl," Slughorn hums and claps his hands with a big smile. "I can always count on you."

He's sitting with his feet up, some crumbs of bread on his necktie. 

"Thank you, Sir, it was no problem," she murmurs. "Additionally, I got an email from Mr. Karkaroff, the manager of Quidditch player Viktor Krum, who wanted to get in touch for a possible collaberation. Apparently, Mr. Krum needs some time off for his health and is open for less strenous work in the coming months." 

Hermione points to the files she brought. "I've already compiled a few documents from past projects involving athletes that I'm going to consult to make a proper plan if we choose to accept the offer. I, personally, think it'd be a great idea that could give us positive exposure." 

"Wonderful!," Slughorn's booms. "Yes, yes, we are very much on the same page there, my dear. That seems like a brilliant opportunity, Ms. Granger." He stands up and clasps her shoulder with his heavy hand. "Fantastic work! Keep me updated on the proceedings, Hermione."

Ron comes around her desk an hour later. 

Hermione is alone, the desk opposite her empty because Riddle is still at the printer. It's an old one, barely shying away from being ancient, so it takes it's sweet time. Four to six minutes usually, on a good day it's about three. 

He's been gone for eight minutes, which does not bode well for Riddle's emotional wellbeing. He hates wasting his time. 

Hermione is already dreading his grumpy attitude for the rest of their worktime. He's no sunshine to start with, but when something doesn't go to plan?

Downright Grinch. 

Which is why Hermione wants to get rid of Ron as soon as possible. Riddle does not appreciate his particular brand of work managament or lack thereof. 

"I'll send the forms you'll need to your email address, Ron. No worries."

"Great! Thanks, Mione, but also... there's this error on the website that I can't figure out. It just suddenly appeared? When I clicked on the save settings button?"

Hermione swishes her head from Ron's face to the end of the corridor, but thank god, no Riddle spotted yet. 

"I'll take a look later, yes? Just come find me before you leave today and we'll fix it, okay? Now, I really need to finish this draft, Ronald, so if you don't mind -"

Ron nods his head, rapidly, like those bobblehead toys. "Course, Mione, thanks a lot, you're the bloody best! Oh, just one more thing: do you think Lavender would like red or white roses more? You know I asked her out on a date and I wanted to go with white but Ginny said those are for funerals or weddings so I said maybe red ones then but she said those are stereotypical -" 

"Ron-"

"So I asked Harry and he said red roses are not stereotypical but classic so I should probably pick them because they are the safest choice but then I wanted a third opinion and asked Luna and she said she'd prefer white ones because they are special and have an ethereal aura to them and so I need you to be the deciding vote here because I don't bloody know anymore -" 

Hermione opens her mouth, again, to stop his rambling but a deeply annoyed voice harshly interrupts his musings. 

"Weasley, don't you have some work to do? Sometime this century perhaps? Or should Hermione write you a step-by-step guide on how to do your job? Starting with the general rule of 'keep your private and work life seperated'."

Riddle slaps a few newly printed pages of paper onto his desk and steps closer to him, his upper lip curled in anger. 

"Maybe she'll do that after being your personal dating guru and offering you free emotional labor on her own work time?" Riddle's eyes throw daggers at him. "Possible, but she shouldn't have to. Hermione may be your friend, but in here she's a worker first and foremost and you shouldn't derail her focus on that by forcing her to choose between being helpful to a friend or finishing all the work she had planned for the day."

He looks down his nose and his eyes flicker from Ron's, embarrassed and guilty, to Hermione's. 

Riddle stares until he shakes his head softly, and sighs. "Understood, Weasley?"

Ron nods, wordless. 

"Good," Riddle says. "Then leave."

And he does. 

Neville has baked some brownies for everyone and Hermione eats hers in one bite. 

Gooey chocolatey goodness as a treat for a job well done. 

Sadly, he doesn't have enough for Hermione to have an additional one, so she sits infront of her laptop, the lasting taste of the sugary sweet still in her mouth, and thinks about turning back time. 

If she's not thinking about turning back time, she's looking, respectfully, at the untouched brownie besides Riddle's open laptop screen. 

"Granger?"

"Hmm?"

"Either stop or ask me for it."

Hermione frowns. "What? I'm not doing anything, Riddle." 

"Oh, really?"

"Really."

"You sure?"

"Very." 

"So for the past minutes I've been imagining you panting over the brownie?"

"Exactly," Hermione says. "You should get your eyes checked."

"Only if you do the same with your brain," he says, straightfaced. "Tell them to pay special attention to the part of it responsible for short term memory."

They glare at each other.

One. 

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

"Can I eat your brownie?" It comes out in a frenzied rush.

"Yes," Riddle answers immediately. 

Hermione stills. "Oh. Thanks, Tom."

Riddle's breath seems to hitch, and his left hand clenches on his mousepad. 

After a short moment, he grabs for the sweet and holds it in his hand for her to take, so Hermione mimics the motion, clumsy and confused, and their skin accidentally touches. 

She freezes and Riddle's eyes are blown when she braves a quick look. Her heart beats like a drum and every thought in her head comes to a screeching halt. 

"Hermione." Did his eyes always sparkle that way? Did his voice always sound so velvety smooth?

Their pinkies are still touching. 

"Granger, I -" 

There's a sudden knocking sound, five times in a weird rhythm, and Hermione barely has enough time to be perplexed, before Slughorn's voice echoes in the room. "Attention everyone!," he yells out with his hand still positioned on his wooden office door, ready to repeat the same knocking order again, if someone doesn't listen while he speaks. "I have a big announcement to make."

What? Hermione lowers her hand, and searches the room and the people in it. Harry, Ron, Neville, Lavender and Bellatrix are all watching Slughorn with varying degrees of interest, so they don't know either. 

"Slughorn's Potions is at the top of its game and we are, very deservedly, expanding our office. Two additional members are going to join our team next week." Slughorn glows, cheeks blushing and body shaking in excitement. "I'm going to be out of the office more often in the coming time, so I have decided to appoint my two most trusted employees as the ones who shall steer this ship into better waters in my absence." 

What?

"Congratulations to Mister Tom Riddle and Miss Hermione Granger," Slughorn beams. 

[The camera zooms in on Hermione's face, mouth open in shock, before turning to capture Riddle's reaction, blankfaced.]

Hermione shakes Slughorn's hand. 

Hermione thanks him, profusely. 

Hermione doesn't look at Riddle.

Hermione walks to the toilets, and sits down, and closes her eyes. 

And then she breathes, and breathes, and breathes, in and out, until the unease and budding panic retreats. 

Afterwards, she purposefully spends time at the printer to avoid seeing his smug face. Hermione can't remember a moment before this one where the printer felt like a safe space, but now, now it does, and she's glad that it gives her a valid excuse. 

She's been standing there, copying her documents, for so long now, that Lavender, Neville and Harry have all passed her to get their last tasks done before the weekend. 

But not before congratulating and hugging her. 

Which is nice. Normally.

Getting a promotion is also nice. Normally.

If she didn't have to share the position with someone who gets a kick out of keeping their coworker in the dark. 

Hermione enters the interview room and sits down on the couch. Her shoulders are tense and her face is a careful mask. 

"What do you think of your promotion? Are you excited to work closely together with your colleague, Mr. Riddle?"

Creevey cringes at the question and barely stops himself from cutting the interviewer off. The guy, Seamus, is new and obviously doesn't know the office dynamics yet. Poor guy.

Hermione keeps quiet. There's anger and disappointment simmering in her gaze, but she doesn't let them out. 

[Her eyes look directly into the camera for seven seconds straight, which makes Creevey fidget nervously, before she leaves the room without a word to go back to her tidy and organised desk.]

Seamus frowns. "Is she the silent type?"

"No," Creevey denies and swallows. "She's not."

Riddle has left when she gets back, his jacket and scarf gone, but his brownie sits on a purple napkin besides her half-empty mug.