The Power Outage
It smells a little like bacon and cheese on the staircase, which makes Hermione feel safer while she walks down in the dark with Riddle's flashlight.
It’s not a very scary smell.
The journey to the other office in their building is short, there’s only a one-floor-difference between them.
There’s a doorbell, Hermione realizes when she slows down to a stop.
She clicks on it and waits ten seconds.
Nothing.
Hermione knocks, three times.
“Hello? Is there someone? Anyone?”
“Stop,” says a voice from inside, fast and very furious for some reason. “W-who are you?”
“I’m from Slughorn’s Potions, the office above yours. Are you alright? Have you heard something? Is the power outage contained to our building or the entire part of town?”
Nothing.
“Hello?” Hermione looks to the plate with the company’s name. “Mr. Quirrel?”
“How do you k-know my n-name?”
“Um,” Hermione frowns, “it’s written on your door, sir. Everything okay with you?”
“Yes,” Mr. Quirrel says behind the door, “now l-leave!”
Hermione listens.
She goes back upstairs.
There’s a camera thrust in her face when she opens the door. The red light that shows it’s recording blinks in her eyes.
“What are you doing?” Hermione inquiries.
“The night mode of the camera let’s me see,” Ron exclaims cheerily. “So cool!”
“Can’t you use the flashlight on your phone?”
“Boring!” Ron pouts. “This is more fun.”
“We’re not in the Blair Witch Project, Ronald.”
“We could be!”
Hermione says, “Of course. Go on.”
She makes to step away when she adds, “Have you asked Creevey before taking the camera this time, though?”
“Who?” Ron questions.
“Nevermind,” Hermione says.
Harry and Neville are at the windows using the sunlight to see.
Neville is watering his flowers on the windowsill and humming while Harry sits in the swivel chair beside him and looks through a sports magazine.
Viktor Krum is on the front cover.
Riddle is on the phone with Slughorn.
“Yes, sir. No. No. Hmm. Of course. Yes. That’s not - yes, Mr. Slughorn. No, no, it’s not possible. That’s - no. No.”
Hermione would’ve known it’s their boss without the name dropping; Riddle only talks so little on call when it’s Slughorn.
“No. No. Okay. Hmm. Yes, of course. Of course. No. It doesn’t have to do with - No. No, we can’t. No. We don’t. Like I said. Hmm. I will. Yes, very well.”
He hangs up.
She only sees the rough contours of his face because she decided to beam the light at their desks, as to not blind him.
Riddle looks her way. “News?”
“No,” Hermione reveals. “The owner downstairs wasn’t very forthcoming. Didn’t even open the door.”
“He was rude to you?”
She shrugs. “What did Slughorn say?”
He’s sitting and she’s still standing.
“The same,” he answers. “Nothing much. He asked some questions I obviously couldn’t know the answers to, then asked some questions about things that I told him already at the beginning of the conversation, then he described his plans for the day, in great detail, to make sure that I knew he couldn’t deal with that because he’s obviously absolutely swarmed today, and ended with stating the obvious: he leaves it in our hands.”
“Well, same old, same old then.”
They sigh.
He stands up and she sits down.
It’s awkward to go to the loo in the dark.
It’s also awkward to wash hands in the dark.
Lavender’s first call wasn’t picked up.
Lavender’s second call was redirected to the maintenance waiting line.
“What does it say?” Hermione asks.
“We’re number eight,” Lavender says, annoyed. “Seven people before us.”
“Doesn’t sound that bad,” Hermione counters.
“I’ve been in line since you left,” Lavender answers. “I started out as number five! How can I be ‘eight’ now?”
Huh, Hermione thinks. Good question.
It’s awkward walking around with her phone lighting the way like a b-rated horror movie.
It’s also awkward not seeing Creevey on the ground, even with the little light.
He’s crawling, ruffled and nervous, and touching the door, the carpet, the cabinet, like he’s dropped something, when Hermione stumbles over him.
She shrieks, and he bangs his head.
“Oh, blimey, Ms. Hermione, I’m so sorry –”
“Merlin, Creevey, why are you down there?”
“My camera!,” he says, despairingly, “I lost it again! In the blackout, I think! How does this always happen to me –”
Hermione sighs, exasperated. “Stand up,” she orders, and he does, immediately.
“Go to Ron. Again,” she says. “Take your camera from him, again, and don’t let him take it, again.”
He looks surprised, eyes wide, and then embarrassed and guilty.
She breathes out, clasps his shoulder and adds, kinder, “and you should put a bell or something on it, so you’ll know if it’s moved when you don’t actively use it for filming, or always keep it on you, if that’s more to your liking. Boundaries, okay? It’s your equipment, and if someone breaks your rules about your tools, you have explicit permission to scold them. Alright?”
He stutters, “ y-yes! I’ll try, Hermione.”
“Good,” she smiles, “Good, Colin.”
Hermione walks away, towards the break room, and mutters, “‘Rules about your tools’ sounds ridiculous. Why did I phrase it like that?”
Her smoothie is gone.
It’s not in the mini fridge.
She can’t make her tea and her smoothie is gone.
Hermione closes her eyes, leans exhaustively against the sink and puts her hand in something extremely wet and uncomfortable.
She moves her phone light and looks.
It’s an almost empty yogurt.
She cringes, curses and washes her hand.
Mondays are awful.
She sneaks, as silent as possible, with her flashlight as dim as possible, to see but not be seen, into the archive room for a quiet moment.
She just needs to be alone.
And yes, the archive is messy, and chaotic, and full to the brim with files and folders and loose papers, but it’s warm and there’s a tiny couch.
Practically an adult blanket fort in this dreadful power outage.
A sanctuary.
She sits down, clicks the phone light off and feels for the scruffy pillow on it.
Later, Hermione isn’t sure how much later because she apparently took a little nap in the middle of the work day, the door opens slightly with a creak.
Steps, careful, measured, are heard.
A figure moves towards the couch, and Hermione sits up, because she apparently laid down some time ago to be a horrible employee, and slowly inches to the right side of the couch.
She leaves the left for him.
Riddle sits down, and Hermione smells his cologne, and hears the rhythm of his breathing, when he groans.
“What a shit day,” he murmurs.
“You tell me,” Hermione affirms.
Riddle jumps, flinches and accidentally kicks the pillow on Hermione’s lap to the ground.
“Oh, bloody hell,” he curses. “Bloody hell, Hermione! My heart almost stopped.”
“You have a heart?” Hermione answers, surprised. “I didn’t know you had a heart.”
He huffs, indignant, “Well, now you do, Granger.” He moves to discreetly correct his sitting position. “Why are you sitting here in the dark?”
“Probably the same reason you are,” she whispers, her left arm tingling where they are lightly touching.
“You went to the toilet and caught Weasley and Brown making out in the stall, too?”
“...what?” Hermione stills.
Riddle continues, “because that’s my reason. What’s yours?”
“...Some peace and quiet,” she tells him, before saying, her smile blossoming, “but I like yours better.”
She giggles.
“Are you laughing?” Riddle sounds flabbergasted. “I’m scarred, Granger. I was about to reach for my belt when I opened the stall and saw a fumbling mess in the shadow and flashed the light in their direction. I now know what Weasley looks like when he’s aroused.”
His voice has never been more grumpy, and it’s glorious.
“I should get another promotion for that alone,” Riddle says now.
“You should,” she agrees.
“You stupid idiot!”
“Please, can I get it back?”
“I know it was you!”
There’s yelling when Hermione opens her eyes again.
Riddle stirs beside her but doesn’t wake.
It’s right outside the archive room.
“You dumb fool!”
“Be careful with that, please!”
“Just confess already, it’s obvious!”
Hermione grabs a random file from a pile, tiptoes to the door and steps out of the room.
It’s Bellatrix, Creevey and Ron screaming.
Neville is watching them like a deer in headlights.
Harry is filming the scene with his phone.
Lavender is nowhere in sight.
The lights are on.
The electricity is back.
Ron is waving the empty yogurt in Bellatrix’ face with one hand while holding Creevey’s camera in his other one. It’s in his grasp very loosely, barely hanging on by a thread and Hermione understands Colin’s pleading now.
Hermione thinks that Bellatrix’ face looks scary, almost repulsively angry, and if looks could kill, Ronald Weasley would be perished.
Hermione also thinks that Ron’s face looks far too brave in the face of this danger and that it probably has to do with the camera he’s holding, at least a little. Probably makes him feel like a character in a dramatic reimagining of a movie.
There’s a tiny amount of yogurt on Bellatrix’ brow and Hermione is very, very, very sure that she does not know about that because if she did, Ron would be cowering right now.
“I wouldn’t take anything of yours, you absolute moron!”
“Please, give me the camera!” Creevey seems teary-eyed and Hermione snaps.
“RONALD WEASLEY!”
The yelling stops abruptly. Ron ducks his head, quick, before straightening.
“Mione –,” he starts, but she cuts him off.
“No, Ron,” she says. “Give Creevey the camera. Right now.”
He pouts but obeys, and Creevey clutches it to his chest like a baby.
“Bellatrix,” she continues. “Do not insult your colleagues. Make your point without resulting in rude behavior.”
She grinds her teeth but nods with a disgusted expression on her face. “Whatever, Granger.”
“Ha!” Ron exclaims, and Hermione rounds back to him.
“No! No ‘ha!’, okay?” she tells him. “Do not wave half-eaten things at your colleagues and accuse them of stealing from you in such a ridiculous manner. Ask her, properly, and accept her answer. If you don’t believe her, take it up with Riddle or me or if you want with Slughorn. And last but not least – Harry!”
He flinches and Hermione eyes him with fiery wrath. “Do not film your colleagues when something dramatic happens. Deescalate the situation yourself or if you don’t think you could, go off and tell Riddle or me. This is not appropriate and I’m disappointed in you.”
He stops recording and nods, earnest and apologetic. “Sorry, Mione. I didn’t take it seriously.”
“Okay,” she sighs and looks around. “Bellatrix, did you take Ron’s yogurt? Yes or no.”
“Absolutely not, no,” Lestrange spits out.
Hermione reprimands Ron with a gesture of her hand when he opens his mouth.
“Harry, did you take Ron’s yogurt? Yes or no.”
“What? No.”
“Neville, did you take Ron’s yogurt? Yes or no.”
“I bring my own lunch to work and I know the yogurts belong to Ron. I would never –”
The door opens and the group’s eyes wander towards it.
Lavender steps in, a tray of coffee cups in her right hand. She halts with everyone looking at her. “Um, Riddle asked me to get some coffee for everyone and I –”
“No problem, Lavender, thank you very much,” Hermione answers. “Quick question: did you eat the yogurt in the mini fridge?”
“Oh!”, she brightens. “Yes. Slughorn told me I could eat everything in the mini fridge when he hired me which made today so much better because I was super nervous with the black out and I really needed the yogurt and smoothie today to feel okay.”
“Okay, great,” Hermione nods. “Could you put the coffee cups on the desk in the break room?”
Lavender hums, affirmative, and walks on.
As soon as the break room door closes, Hermione stares at Ron, whose mouth stands open in embarrassed shock. “Ask everyone next time before you come to your own conclusions.”
Hermione addresses everyone, “And we should start putting labels on food and drinks in the break room. If you bring something for everyone, that’s nice and appreciated. If you bring stuff for you only, mark it as such from now on. Okay?”
She shakes her head. “And don’t be angry at Lavender. She didn’t know. Instead, thank her for getting the coffee, because I recognize the brand and it’s delicious.”
She steps away, walks to the break room and takes two coffees.
One for herself and one for Riddle.
Don’t ask her why.
Coffee is a dream.
Hermione takes another sip and moans.
Coffee saves the day.
She’s standing a few feet from Ron’s desk and printing out the pictures Slughorn emailed to go over them with Riddle.
Coffee is a revelation –
“Hermione?” Neville asks, from his seat opposite Ron’s, and she turns in surprise. “I’m sorry for not doing anything when Ron and Bellatrix fought. That was cowardly of me.”
He heaves a tired breath, and rubs his eyes with a pained expression that tugs at her heartstrings.
“No, no, it’s okay,” Hermione soothes him. “I could see you were overwhelmed when I came in. I was only mad at Harry because he was in control enough to act a certain way in reaction to the situation and chose to open his camera and start recording with his phone instead of interfering. Standing there and doing nothing was not the problem. Standing there and making it worse on purpose was. You have nothing to apologize for.”
Hermione, arms already full with her own coffee cup, the printed photos, her notebook and the folders for website marketing and product promotion, grabs Riddle’s coffee, which she temporarily placed on her desk, when her work phone rings.
She eyes the blinking on the display, eyes the stuff in her arms, and moves to put them down, when it stops.
She exhales in relief, walks away, only a few paces, when it rings again. She waits two seconds, a little perplexed now, starts to turn again, to walk back the way she came, and accept the call, when it ends.
Hermione doesn’t know if she’s happy or confused.
Bellatrix is painting her nails black, matching her hair, wardrobe and desk aesthetic, when she walks past, and Hermione very determinedly turns a blind eye, because it would be quite hypocritical of her to scold her for that when she, too, didn’t follow the work manual today by, literally, sleeping on the job.
Now that she thinks about it, the majority of the office has broken them today, and before, and often. Huh. Well, as long as it’s not harmful.
Harry, opposite Bellatrix, catches Hermione’s eye when she automatically looks his way. He puts up his finger, in a silent request to wait a moment, and writes something on a post-it that he sticks to his upper body a second later. What?
Hermione steps closer and narrows her eyes to see better.
It reads, THIS ONE IS SORRY, with an upwards arrow, so it points right at his face, puppy eyes and pleading smile on display.
Hermione grins, endeared and unwillingly smitten, shakes her head and nods resolutely. She mouths, OKAY back to him and Harry answers with a prayer gesture and a relieved face.
Boys.
Hermione enters the archive room and clicks the light on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, until Riddle makes a choked noise.
Only then does she walk to the couch and put the coffees, folders and photos down on the tiny, tiny, tiny cabinet beside it. (It barely fits.)
Riddle opens his eyes blearily, “Switching the light on and off is a torture method, Granger.”
He sits upright, his normally perfect hair a little mussed and fluffy, and Hermione reaches for his coffee and silently hands it to him.
“Fine, I forgive you,” he says, immediately, a little less gloomy.
And Hermione thinks, maybe Mondays aren’t that bad.