Mondays & Murphy's Law
It’s Monday morning and Hermione gets to work half an hour earlier than normal to get her mug back from the clutches of Bellatrix Lestrange.
The office is dark and silent when she opens the door with her key.
Bellatrix is not here yet.
No one is here yet.
Of course not. Huh.
Hermione realizes now, belatedly, that Bellatrix is always punctual, but never there before 7:50, and she just gave up precious time she could’ve used to sleep more - especially on a Monday where she needs all the energy she can possibly get - for nothing.
Well, eh, almost?
At least she’ll have her mug?
Bellatrix is a fan of ravens.
Hermione finds that out, unexpectedly, when she grabs her mug from Lestrange’s desk and almost jumps out of her skin when she suddenly stares into the black eyes of a life-sized realistic raven figurine sitting beside it.
Hermione’s only source of light is her own little desk lamp, all the way across the room, because it felt weird to put the lights of the rest of the room on, which made the scare a hundred times worse.
Ten minutes later the first member of the team beside her turns up.
Luck is not on her side because it’s Riddle.
Hermione realizes this when she comes out of the loo and walks straight into him.
“Merlin,” Hermione breathes. “Since when are you here?”
“2 minutes,” Riddle says. “Approximately.”
“Did you hear me pee?” Hermione should have slept more, because apparently less sleep makes internal thoughts turn into outloud sentences.
Riddle raises an eyebrow. “How loud do you pee, Granger?”
“You don’t ask someone that!”
“Forgive me,” he mutters and gestures from her to him, “but who of the two of us started a conversation about urine?”
“I was spooked,” Hermione defends herself. “And I’m sleepy.”
“Okay,” Riddle answers. “Can I get to the toilets now?”
She steps away, hastily, and sits down.
Then she lets her head fall to the desk and groans softly, mortified.
Hermione doesn’t hear him pee so that answers her question.
The next to come in is Neville.
He’s wearing a bright orange sweater and a green beanie, and two tote bags with flowers in it hang on his shoulder.
One bouquet for Hermione, red and orange and yellow, and one bouquet for Riddle, purple and blue and green, as a celebration for their promotion.
Hermione’s day brightens a bit. Bless Neville’s heart.
She has four voicemails on her desk phone.
Hermione clicks play on the first with a heavy heart.
She already fears the worst.
“Hermione, my dear, forgive this old fool, but I completely forgot to mention on Friday that I won’t be at the office on Monday – you know, Abraxas Malfoy, his son Lucius and another acquaintance of theirs wanted to go for a meal and some drinks at Ogden’s, the newest attraction in Diagon Alley, and invited humble me, which is a one in a million chance to socialize and make a good name for our business –”
Beep. She jumps to the next.
“Sorry, sorry, dear, these things have an offensively short time span it seems, such a shame that society puts a limit on human communication and connection. I’m truly aghast about that, but we’ll have to tackle that problem another time. [there’s a sound like ruffled curtains, followed by something falling, which makes it impossible to hear all of his next words] – and you and Tommy boy will only have to greet the movers, they’re going to be there at 11 or 12, I wager? I can’t remember what the employee told me on the phone, but I presume it’s noon or maybe afternoon, considering evening wouldn’t make much sense now, would it? I –”
Beep.
“I have to write a letter to the minister about these devices, my dear, this is unacceptable! I’ve had to dial your work number three times now, to give you a very short message overall I have to say, which shortens my time to get ready for the next task on my schedule, which is an important appointment with a possible investor at this exquisite restaurant for a quick dinner; the lobster is supposed to be absolutely divine there and [a subdued thump is heard] No fault of yours, of course, Hermione, but something to keep in mind. This digital society –”
Beep.
“Oh. It seems I might have pressed the wrong button in my haste to talk to you, my dear, but – nevermind that, I do believe it’s still not enough space to convey the entirety of the message, so because of this restriction I will sadly have to keep myself short. The two new members will be coming in on Tuesday and you will greet them and supervise and let them watch and do minimal tasks for now, yes, and – I will only come in after lunch on that day, I’ll leave the team in your capable hands, Hermione, you and Tom, and I’ll see you then!”
Ron and Lavender are glued together when they tumble through the door.
Apparently their date went well, Hermione thinks.
They trade kisses on the cheeks like lovesick teenagers and giggle like gossipy middle-aged women, until Bellatrix pushes herself into the room behind their koala-hugging forms and bumps into them with gusto while making a cringe face.
They stumble apart.
“Hey!” Ron exclaims flustered and indignant before he turns and sees Bellatrix and wisely decides to let it go.
Harry is late. 4 minutes only, but still. His hair is disheveled and his glasses are awry, but that’s nothing new. He hurries past Hermione and throws her a quick wave, which she reciprocates with a fond smile.
“What are we supposed to do with those photos?”
It’s 08:07 and Riddle is already not making sense to Hermione.
“Huh?,” she asks, eloquently, before adding: “Which ones?”
She finishes writing down a sentence in her journal and flips to the next page of the file she has opened on her desk. She’s reading it for the possible Krum project.
“From the email Slughorn has sent us both,” Riddle sighs with an air of duh and obviously, you utter idiot.
Hermione quickly opens her account on her laptop and updates the site, and guess what, he’s right, there are photos, and guess what, he’s also right in not knowing what they are for.
Sadly, they are not quite as obvious in their purpose as she had hoped.
And – “Oh, Merlin, how many are there? I’ve been clicking through the first 11 pictures and they are all different variations of wine glasses, red lightning in the back, blurry male hands in the front and half eaten steaks at the sides.”
“The first 25,” Riddle snaps, in answer, “are the main course, the following 18 are, weirdly, from the appetizers, because he couldn’t possibly put them in chronological order for his employees, and the rest of the bunch is probably a bunch of photos from dessert.” He leaves room for a slight pause, before continuing with gritted teeth: “I wouldn’t know, though, because I stopped clicking at the appetizers.” He seems barely a second away from huffing.
She has the weird urge to make him a nice lemon honey tea, because Hermione can truly, for once, understand his ire; Slughorn does this all the time – he sends some cryptic message or just a link or just a photo or just a quote and Tom and her need to figure out what it could mean like it’s a weekly puzzle – and it’s bloody tiring.
Slughorn doesn’t write lists with daily or weekly or even monthly tasks, no, no, he just gives clues.
Maybe Hermione should add decoder to her resume? Does that count?
Well, nevermind.
Because she isn’t Riddle she can’t just stop doing something when she’s frustrated, so she keeps clicking and looking, and clicking and looking, and hello, appetizers!, and clicking and looking, and clicking and looking, and clicking and looking, and hello, dessert!, and clicking –
oh.
Hermione recognizes Lucius Malfoy in the next photo. She’s only met him once, briefly, after Harry and Draco moved into a flat together and threw a party to celebrate.
She only remembers two things about him: 1. he’s even more of a snobby and pompous git than his son and 2. he can’t hold his liquor to save a life, which makes her nervous when she jumps to the next picture and there’s rum in his hand, and then wine in his hand in the one after. Oh-oh.
There’s a noise behind her, but Hermione’s too anxious to care, and she gasps when she gets to the –
“Oh, blimey, is that Draco’s dad? Is that blood on his designer jacket?”
Hermione flinches and makes a choked noise. “No, Harry, that’s red wine.”
“Is he drunk? And is that Slughorn hugging him? Wait, is that a piece of salad in his hair?”
What? Oh – “Yes? I think there is a piece of salad in his –”
“-- in his stupidly extensively cared for long white blond hair?” Harry snickers.
“And yes, he also seems like he has drunk a bit, but I think it’s their acquaintance Mr. Dolohov hugging him, and I guess it’s Slughorn patting his left hand in the right corner –”
“Bloody hell, this is meme material, Mione, Draco is going to laugh his bollocks off,“ Harry says and gently guides Hermione’s head to the right so he can get a better picture with his phone. She lets him and sighs.
“You should take a second photo and zoom in on the piece of salad in his hair, Potter,” says a voice from her right side, the one she’s still leaning towards with her head.
Hermione startles and glares at Riddle. “What are you doing on my side of the desk? And don’t encourage him in his shenanigans. ”
“Actually,” Riddle muses, “you should take one of the wine stain, too.” A look at Hermione and a slight curling of his lips, “And for the record, Potter is always up to no good, he doesn’t need any encouragement on that front. I’m just trying to be a decent work colleague and give him good tips in his endeavor.”
“And you chose this as your first foray to foster a positive work environment?,” Hermione asks.
“You take what you can get,” Riddle says. “I just wanted to share my expertise with him and this was the first chance I got.”
“Your expertise? In what? Photography? Comedic staging? ”
“No, Granger. Knowing the right angles to exploit.” He walks away, towards the break room.
A second, in which Hermione shakes her head, until she hears another click of Harry’s phone camera, and watches him, grin on his face.
“Harry? He’s wrong, right? You’re being good and not embarrassing your possibly soon-to-be father in law? Right?”
Harry points to himself, “Who? Me? No, no, I solemnly swear, Hermione, that I’m up to no good.”
“You mean, all good, ” Hermione corrects. “I solemnly swear that I’m up to all good.”
“Sure,” Harry says and winks. “Sure.”
Colin Creevey has chosen Hermione as his new temporary boss.
Suddenly, he had a lot of questions, most of which he didn’t feel like he could ask Slughorn when he was his boss for months and months before and piled up inside his head, and all of which he felt compelled to tell Hermione now.
The cameraman could have decided on Riddle as his stand-in but then he would have probably kept those questions to himself still, because he doesn’t like to directly interact with her desk neighbor. He’s easily unsettled and Hermione feels for him, she does, but she still wishes he would have done it. He’s a little like a bee. Just buzzing around her.
“Should we do longer shots? Or more interviews? Should we do backstories on the people who work here? Or make a special on the two new members that are going to be added later this week? Do you think Mr. Slughorn would let us film his office? I’ve never been there.”
Hermione is at the printer.
“Do you think Mr. Longbottom would let me move his flowers to get natural light for the filming from the windows? Could you ask Ms. Lestrange if she could stop glaring at the camera when I’m filming backroll sequences?”
Hermione is going to the reception.
“Do you think Mr. Riddle would do a voiceover for the intro? His voice is very smooth. Could I put a mic next to your keyboard so it can pick up the sounds when you type on it? People love this ASMR thing, I’ve seen it on the internet! Or do you think we shouldn’t cave in just because it’s popular at the moment?”
Hermione is going to the break room.
“Do you think Ms. Brown is going to stay after her temporary contract ends? If she does, I should probably ask her some questions about her reasons, right? I mean it would make the company more likable to the audience, right? By the way, how long do we keep filming?”
She likes the kid, truly, he’s a kid fascinated with everything, but his questions are… a lot.
Hermione goes to the loo to escape Creevey for a quick second.
Lavender is standing at the sink and putting on red lipstick.
“Suits you,” Hermione hums. “Nice color.”
Lavender smiles, “Thanks! Won-won bought me red roses and it made me realize how much I like that color on me. No, love it!”
“That’s sweet. Are you two planning a next one? Date, I mean.”
“Of course! Next Saturday we’ll go out again and I’m so excited. I wouldn’t even mind him asking me to be his girlfriend then! I have an amazing feeling with him.”
“I’m glad. I’m happy for you two. You seem to fit together well.”
Lavender awws and sniffles a bit, before moving and throwing herself into Hermiones’ arms for a hug. “Ah! That’s so nice to hear,” she says, ecstatic and teary-eyed. “I was kind of scared to transfer here and now everything’s so good, I’m just so relieved.”
Hermiones’ heart warms and she squeezes back.
“Theodosia is dying!” are the words Neville greets her with after getting back to her desk.
He’s standing beside it with fumbling hands and sad eyes.
“Dying? Did you forget to water her before going home for the weekend?”
“No!”, Neville vehemently denies. “I would never! I don’t know what’s wrong so I don’t know how to help her.” His forehead crunches in distress.
Hermione takes him by the arm and walks with him back to his work desk.
“Okay, here’s what’s going to happen,” she says. “You are going to check on her a few times throughout the day and if she doesn’t improve you’ll take her home. If by tomorrow she doesn’t show signs of getting better, you’ll visit a florist or the garden center and get a second opinion, okay? It’s gonna be okay, Neville.”
Neville nods four times in rapid succession. “Yes! Yes, thank you so much, Hermione.”
She decides to make some white tea, to refocus and calm herself, and opens the break room to put that plan into motion.
Ron is sitting on the table with a camera pointing at the refrigerator.
“Hello, Ron,” Hermione says and walks to the kettle.
“Are you stealing my yogurts?,” Ron greets back.
“If I was,” Hermione answers, “you wouldn’t catch me like this. But no, I’m not.”
“Do you reckon it’s Lestrange, Mione?,” Ron whines.
“I have never seen her eat a yogurt, ever, so I’m not sure.”
“But she’s the only one that hates me!”
“Bellatrix dislikes every single one of us,” Hermione quips back. “Except Riddle.” She puts the tea bag in her mug. “And does someone have to hate you to eat your yogurt?”
“Yes,” Ron says. “They have to.”
“Maybe they’re just hungry?”
“No. They hate me.”
“If you say so. Good luck.”
Hermione steps out of the room and Creevey latches onto her.
“Hermione, have you seen one of my cameras? I seem to have misplaced it and I can’t find it! Do you think Mr. Slughorn is going to fire me if I’ve lost it? How does one lose a camera in a building? It’s precious! It’s precious and I’ve lost it, and I’m probably going to lose the job, too. My mum is going to be so disappointed. Maybe I’m just overlooking it, right? I’m probably too panicked to see what’s right in front of me –”
She holds up the hand not holding her cup of tea and points behind her. “Ron has a camera in there, and I guess I now know where he got it from. Just take it back and tell him to ask you if he ever wants you to ‘loan’ it to him again, okay?”
She leaves.
Hermione gets to her desk and puts her tea down. Finally, some calm and quiet, she thinks and sits, and sighs, before clicking the on-button on her laptop, and waiting.
She takes a sip from her mug, closes her eyes for a moment, and opens them to darkness.
Absolute darkness.
The sounds - the typing, talking and constant background noise of the machines - stop suddenly, afterwards.
For a moment, there is nothing, and then Lavender screams, “Oh my god!” from the reception and the break room door opens and Ron yells, “Lav, are you okay?!” and she screams, “Yes, Won-won! But what happened? ” and Ron yells back, a little out of breath, “I dunno!” and crashes against the door slightly.
Steps are heard beside him and Creevey says, voice higher pitched, “It’s dark! Why? ”
Riddle’s voice answers, barely louder than his normal one, but still heard clearly throughout the whole room, “A blackout,” then adds, “Obviously.”
“This damn building,” Bellatrix huffs annoyedly.
“What do we do now? ” Neville asks into the room nervously. “Do you think it’s just a short power outage that’s going to be fixed quickly or more long term?”
“How would we know more than you in this situation, Longbottom?” Riddle drawls.
“Sorry,” Neville answers, quieter now. “Hermione?”
“Yes, Neville?”
“Sorry! Again. It’s nothing, I just wanted to know that you’re in the room.”
“I am,” she says, fond. “No worries. I’m going to go down one floor and ask the other company in our office building if they know what’s going on. Meanwhile, Riddle can call Slughorn and inform him, while Lavender calls the caretaker of the building. Lavender?”
“Yes!” It’s weird not seeing faces when talking to people, Hermione thinks.
“The number should be written in the folder to your right, under ‘maintenance.’ Take your own phone, as a substitute, to make the call while the electricity is gone. Tell them what happened and ask them to keep you updated on the situation. Can you do that?”
“Yes, yes, of course!”
Hermione stands up from her seat, and it makes a creaking noise, absurdly loud now, and tries to gingerly move to the other side of the desk. “Riddle?”
Her hands touch the edge of his desk, and she shuffles forward, slowly.
“Granger?” His voice is very much closer, maybe too close for comfort. “Want to instruct me some more? Give me another task after calling Slughorn?” He sounds almost.. amused.
“You have a flashlight in your desk drawer if I remember correctly? Can I borrow it?”
There’s a momentary pause. “How do you know that?”
“You used it when we changed the lightbulb of the archive room five months ago.”
“You remember that?” His voice is weird. Not the normal deadpan tone. Surprised maybe, but why?
“Yes,” Hermione murmurs back. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He confuses her.
“Why would you?,” he murmurs in response.
Maybe it’s mutual.
There’s another pause, and Hermione says, “Well, I –”
“What’s there to bloody whisper about! Just give her the bloody flashlight!” Bellatrix bellows.
Hermione flinches and she hears Riddle harshly breathe out.
There’s some rustling, and the drawer opens with a short banging noise, metal against metal.
“Here.”
“Where?” She moves her hand in his direction, from side to side, trying to match his movements.
“Here.” His fingers touch her hand, warm and rough, and Hermione’s heart clenches.
He holds her hand with his fingers in this position, and uses his other hand to put the flashlight into her palm.
Have we touched that long before?, Hermione thinks. I can’t remember.
“Thank you,” she answers, delayed.
“What’s mine is yours,” he answers and she can’t, for the life of her, find the sarcasm in his voice.
She steps aside, turns on the flashlight, facing towards the floor, and follows the little light to the staircase.
The last thing she hears before closing the office door is Lavender’s baffled voice asking, “Have Mr. Riddle and Hermione always been this weird with each other?”
And Neville, Ron and Harry answering, simultaneously, “Always.”
Hermione hates Mondays.