The (Slughorn's Potions) Office

“Mione, I really thought it was Lestrange! It didn’t make sense to me for it to be anyone else, you know. How should I have known that Slughorn would tell Lav –” He rants.

She cuts in, “Ron, not now, okay? Just try to look at it from all sides before making any accusations next time, yes? I really need to file these photos now and answer some emails.”

“Ye, ye, of course, but I’m real’ bloody sorry, Mione! I need you to know that. I didn’t want to make you mad or cause a fight or anything. I just wanted my bloody yogurts!”

Hermione stops writing, sets her pen aside, closes her notebook and looks up. 

“I know,” she says, soft with a harder edge. “I know, but you need to confront other people and stand up for yourself in a better way.” 

“Okay, I will, I will, Mione.” She throws him a look. “Well, I’ll try! Are you going to stop being disappointed at me now?” he whines. “I’ll even get you a brownie, yeah?”

Hermione shakes her head, and sighs, deep and long. “I don’t need a brownie - especially not a bribe brownie, Ronald.” Her voice leaves no room for disagreement. 

She opens another tab on her laptop and starts a new document. “Also, don’t take stuff from others in the office, and I especially mean Creevey, the cameraman, because you made all that fuss about your things getting taken without consent, but do the same thing? Not nice.”

“Okay,” he mutters demurely, before repeating the word with more conviction. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Hermione says, again, just to be very, very, very much on the same page. 

“Okay, yes,” Ron answers. 

“Good,” she smiles and he smiles back. “One more thing.”

He straightens his posture and nods, obediently. 

“I may not want a bribe brownie,” Hermione says, “but you should probably get Bellatrix one, so she doesn’t kill you with her eyes for three weeks. She likes the one with hazelnuts.”

Mr. Rosier wrote an email while the blackout happened. 

It’s incredibly long, and incredibly dense, and it seems like he accidentally hit send before coming to the part of the mail where he wrote down what the intent of it was. 

There’s this whole story about ballroom dancing, and the importance of having both red and white wine at a masquerade ball, and then a quick detour to when he first met his wife at one of those occasions, and then it’s, suddenly, just blank. 

It doesn’t cut off in the middle of a sentence, but it’s a close thing, because it does stop in the middle of a thought he just started to describe in more detail. 

Hermione writes back, Mr. Rosier, do you by chance have any addendums to this email you sent? A second part maybe? Would love to hear back from you. Greetings, Ms. Hermione Granger from Slughorn's Potions. 

It’s only 11:10 and Hermione already feels like she’s been through three days in the span of one Monday morning. 

Neville is wearing his plant, Theodosia, in a sling around his stomach, like he’s carrying a baby around and Hermione has to say that it looks very cute indeed. 

“This way,” Neville gushes when Hermione asks him. “I won’t ever forget her throughout the day, and her needs will keep being my top priority the whole time.” 

A winning strategy, Hermione thinks. 

“She’s surely going to recover,” she says, ”with that kind of dedication, Neville.”

“Think about it, Tom,” Bellatrix says, heavy with meaning, and lays her hand flat on his shoulder, when Hermione gets back. She’s wearing a long black cardigan, which almost drags on the bottom. Almost like a witches cloak. 

Very fitting, Hermione thinks. 

“Hmm,” Riddle returns in confirmation; though, without reciprocating her lecherous staring. 

Hermione sits down in her swiveling chair, ignoring them, not looking at them, just doing her own things, following her work schedule. 

Catching up on what was lost in the power outage.

Mr. Rosier answers, faster than anticipated. 

His answer, though, as expected, is very much not something that can be read quite as fast. 

His emails are these stream of consciousness essays, or journal entries maybe, with only a vague question or instruction as a conclusion at the end, which needs some getting used to.

Reminds her of Slughorn in a way. Different but the same. 

Luna comes by with the mail 25 minutes before the lunch break, which is excellent timing because Neville has been an incredible worrywart in the last half an hour, and Hermione wants to shake him, badly, and tell him, sternly, that Theodosia will thrive soon enough. 

She doesn’t have to, it turns out. 

“Luna! Hello! Hi!” Neville, weirdly, or not that weirdly, is always the first one to greet her. He’s basically the receptionist when it’s her visiting. 

That’s what Luna is calling it: visiting. Not doing her work as a postal office worker, but visiting different places. Like she’s taking a relaxed stroll, three days a week, for fun. 

“Neville, hullo – oh! Who is that beauty?” Luna answers, and points to Theodosia. “She’s wonderful! Her aura is almost all white, with some gray and pink. She’s sick, isn’t she? But already on the way to recovery, is she? Astounding, Neville! She loves you.”

Neville blushes. “She loves me? Me?” Then he beams, as if realizing what she said, “She’s getting better? Oh, thank Merlin! Thank you, L-Luna, that means so much to me!”

“Very much so, as far as I can see,” she says with a serene smile, one hand stroking down one of the plant’s leaves softly, her eyes watching the move while Neville watches her. “There’s only a few nargles left, but they seem determined to leave, so she should be fine.”

Luna is wearing a floral dress, with a white sweater over it, and a blue shoulder bag with some letters spilling out. They make a nice picture, Neville and her and their plant love. 

Sadly, Hermione has to interrupt the moment with a quiet cough. “Sorry, Luna? Hi. Good morning. You look nice! Do you have anything for me?”

“Hermione, hullo! Thank you!” Luna answers, but hesitates. “I do have a letter for you, but I don’t think you will like it very much. It reeks of brown, and red, and purple, which are all quite nice separately, but don’t bode well when mixed together.” 

She sends Hermione a compassionate look, and picks out a letter. 

It looks normal enough, but Hermione smells a particular scent coming from it, something she recognizes but can’t quite put her finger on. She grabs it from Luna’s hand, gently, turns it over, curiously, and decides to wait to open it. 

“Thank you, either way, Luna,” she says, “Have a good day!” 

She makes her way to her desk with an uneasy feeling.  

Creevey is filming Harry typing aggressively on his keyboard. 

He’s doing different angles, walking backwards, without looking, then tiptoeing back, closer, and closer, until he gets the perfect shot of Harry’s focused-frowning-face. 

He looks a little like a tap dancer. 

“What are you doing?” Hermions asks, interested. 

Answering questions asked on the website contact form?

Emailing a client that forgot to pay? 

“Adding upcoming events to the online calendar,” Harry grits out.

Oh? Oh. That makes him so mad?

“I’ve been trying to add one event for 17 minutes now,” he adds on, “I don’t know what bloody happened but somehow the letter ‘p’ got flagged, and I now have to rephrase every announcement so it doesn’t have ‘p’ in it.” 

Oh Merlin. That makes sense. 

“Which, let me tell you,” he says, mockingly laughing, “is atrociously hard, when the company we work for sells perfume, and is named Slughorn’s Potions.”

If Hermione hadn’t forgiven him for his involvement in the Bellatrix-Ron-Yogurt-Incident yet, she would have done so now, for sure. Poor sod. 

“The best I came up with yet is ‘bottle filled with a dreamy scent just for you’ and ‘the company you all know so dearly’ instead of perfume and Slughorn’s Potions,” Harry finishes, “which I personally think sounds ridiculously like I’m crawling in his ass with praises.” 

Hermione stares, openmouthed, and says, belatedly: “My condolences, Harry.” She shuffles her feet, a little lost, “Maybe you could ask Riddle? He’s normally the one Bellatrix goes to when she has technical problems.” 

She leans her head to the side, considering. “Hm, though, I guess it’s mostly for pretenses, because she wants to spend some time with Riddle.”

“Riddle?” Harry repeats, aghast, “You think he’ll help me?”

“It’s kinda part of the job, isn’t it? I say, just go for it.”

“Can’t you do it for me? He’s more likely to agree that way.”

Hermione hiccups, confused, “What? No. We’re work rivals. Colleagues, or desk neighbors, on good days. You know. I couldn’t just ask him for favors like that!”

“I thought you said it was part of the job,” Harry points out. “Then it’s not a favor. Also, you have been a lot more chummy with each other since he got back from Durmstrang.”

“No, we haven’t!” Hermione denies with vigor. Her voice is squeaky. 

“I’ve noticed that, too!” Creevey chips in, and Hermione moves her head to the right, where, apparently, Creevey has been filming the whole thing from. 

“No, you haven’t!”

Creevey frowns, “What?”

“I mean. Maybe it seems like it? But we’re not, like, work friends. We’re not. I mean. Are we?” Hermione stares into nothingness, replaying the day in her head, and gasps. “We are, aren’t we? A little. We’ve been practically nice! How did this happen? We’re chummy, right?”

Harry and Creevey watch her, then watch each other with similarly perplexed looks, before coming back to Hermione. 

“Yes,” they agree, an unwanted greek chorus, “you are chummy.”

Oh my. 

She leaves without another word, hands running through her locks in despair. 

Hermione needs to eat something and searches for a sweet in the break room. 

Something deliciously sugary, that is going to make her happy, at least for a tiny, tiny moment. Even something with caramel would do.

She doesn’t find anything, though.  

After brief consideration, she decides on a tea with more sugar than usual, as a counter offer to herself, and walks, more like sprints really, to her desk to get her mug. 

Riddle, bless you, is not at his desk right now, so she doesn’t have to face him. 

Nevertheless, she’s on the lookout, just to be sure, and gropes, eyes on the corridor, her left hand reaching for the general position of her mug, and – 

It’s not there. 

The smelly letter she got from Luna, her open notebook, a few files and three folders are the only things laying beside her open laptop. 

It’s gone. 

Hermione thinks back, and rewinds the day a second time around, until her eyes widen. 

Bellatrix. 

She stole the mug back when she was talking to Riddle! 

THAT WITCH. 

It’s lunch break, finally. Half the day is done. 

The team decides to get some soup from the shop down the road. 

One potato pumpkin soup, one asparagus soup, one tomato soup, one - no, two lentil soups, Hermione writes down. Harry. Neville. Lavender. Ron. Yes, he wants two. Yes, he’s sure. 

Hermione orders french onion potato soup with bread for herself and a korean spicy beef soup for both Riddle and Bellatrix. 

She’s chatty, and smiley, when she asks around the office for their orders, but inside, she’s flaming angry, trying to curb her irrational, childish want of revenge. 

It’s just a mug. Just a mug. Just a mug. 

Just. Her. Mug.

Hermione strains for level headed behavior. 

Practice what you preach, Hermione thinks to herself desperately. Don’t give into a mug war. 

The soup is delicious. 

Coffee and soup are gifts from the gods. 

Hermione sits beside Harry and Ron at the desk in the break room. 

They’re talking about Quidditch, especially the bulgarian team, and the irish one, and something about the wronski feint? Hermione, to be honest, is only half listening, and the parts she hears she doesn’t truly understand. 

Their enthusiasm is nice, though. 

Hermione wishes she could share it. 

When Lavender comes into the room, eagerly looking for Ron, Hermione waves her over, “You can sit, Lavender,” she says, a little tense, but with a kind voice, “I got some more things to do, you know how it is. Enjoy your meal.” 

Riddle is writing something down in a notebook, when she slumps back to her chair, dejected, with wrath still simmering in her belly, and he looks up.

Hermione stops in shock.

He’s wearing glasses. 

Tom Riddle, philosophy professor. 

Tom Riddle, British gentleman. 

Tom Riddle, charming librarian at Oxford –

“Granger?” 

Hermione shakes her head, clearing her mind, “Sorry, yes?” 

He examines her expression, “Are you…okay?” 

His hair is wavy, and his eyes are deep and, dare she say it, worried. 

Oh, Merlin. They are chummy. 

“Yes,” she says, then: “No,” before adding: “It’s stupid, though.” 

She wants to put the words back into her mouth. 

Riddle is going to think she’s lost her marbles. 

“Well,” he says, unusually patient, “what is it then?”

Hermione, surprisingly, realizes she wants him to respect her. 

Hermione, surprisingly, realizes she wants him to think she is competent. 

Which makes her want to make a joke of it, or redirect the conversation. 

But, furthermore, Hermione, surprisingly, realizes, above that, she doesn’t want to lie to him. 

“Bellatrix stole my mug.”

Such a silly thing to be held up about, Hermione thinks, glum. 

Riddle puts his pen away, and sits up. “What?” 

He gives nothing away. 

His face is a blank canvas, an unwritten piece of paper. 

Hermione grabs his mug, the green one, with the snake in the middle, “This one has a twin. With red and golden colors, and a lion instead of a snake. Bellatrix took it. She’s done it before, but I thought it was a one-time-thing, and didn’t keep an eye on it. I was wrong.”

She puts the mug down, gently, and swallows, and waits. 

“Why did she do it?” He asks, deceptively calm, and still. 

“I can’t be sure, but,” Hermione answers, “I think she wanted you two to match. She only started to steal it, after you forgot yours and started to use this one.”

“Ah,” Riddle answers, relaxed, “I’ll get it back. You shouldn't worry.”

Hermione stares, for two seconds, and shakes her head, like a bobblehead. 

“You don’t have to involve yourself, really, Riddle, I got it. I’ll just talk to her.”

“You think that’ll work?” 

No. “Yes?”

“You don’t seem sure. Want to change your answer?”

Yes. “No.”

“Granger, trust me,” he smirks. “Just let me sort that out, okay?”

Hermione thinks, work friends help each other. 

Hermione thinks, letting him solve it would be nice. 

Hermione says, in good faith, “Sure, Riddle. Thank you.”

And decides to forget about it. 

She writes Mr. Rosier back, for the third time today, and decides to, now, finally, rip the bandaid off and open the scented letter. Get it over with. 

Face the demon. 

Hermione takes the letter in hand, sniffs the material, and sniffs again, because it’s on the tip of her tongue, and, suddenly, at last, she gets it. 

It’s perfumed, and the perfume is Dare You, a scent from their newest collection. 

The one she recommended to the usual suspect, her weekly caller, Mr. Friday.

Please, no, she thinks, and prays. 

Hermione rips it open, takes the paper out, breathes through, and reads. 

In her heart of hearts, she already knew. 

It’s from Cormac McLaggen. 

And it’s a love letter. 

Hermione, my lovely, meticulous Mia, I was disheartened when you, last Friday, cut my call, and with it, our weekly conversation, short. 

I understand what you are doing, but you don’t need to play hard to get. 

I will like you either way, no matter, if you decide to show your affection, openly. 

I wanted to write you this letter to show you that, fear not, I’m not mad about it anymore. 

Love is complicated, and love can scare, and I will love you through it. 

Through you ignoring me. 

Through you avoiding me. 

I will keep calling, until you are ready for us to meet, until you feel welcomed, and safe in my feelings for you, until you doubt no more, that I am committed, that I am not joking.

That it was love at first listen for me. 

And love at first sight when I saw your photo on the company website. 

I will hear you on Friday. 

Yours, 

Cormac 

Hermione stands up from her chair, walks away from her desk, and out of the office, sprints up the stairs, with the crumpled letter in her left fist, hair flying everywhere, and her shoes clicking on the staircase, until she comes to the highest floor, pushes the door open, enters the roof terrace, the bright light greets her, and walks, and walks, to the middle, where she takes a breath, deep and with her whole body, and screams. 

She composes herself four minutes later, goes back downstairs and returns to her work like nothing out of the ordinary happened. 

An hour later, a big man, very tall and very hairy, comes into the office.

A big dog, very tall and very hairy, follows him. 

He goes up to the reception and speaks to Lavender, who nods, smiling, and comes around the desk to kneel down beside him and pet his dog. She does this for half a minute, before turning, and calling out, “Hermione! Can you come here for a moment?”

Hermione tries to put a name to the face, but she can’t, for the love of god, remember him. 

She doesn’t think she knows him. 

Because he’s memorable. 

“Hermione,” Lavender says when she joins them, “this is Mr. Hagrid. He’s from the moving company. He said he has two desks in his van for our office. Slughorn hired him.”

Right, Hermione thinks, That’s right. 

That’s also today. 

“Nice to meet yeh,“ Mr. Hagrid says, with a thick accent, but a warm voice. “Miss Hermione.”

Hermione and him shake hands, and she smiles when his rough, warm palm meets hers. 

“Likewise, Mister Hagrid.”

“This is my dog, Fang,” Hagrid explains. “He’s playful, but sleepy, and needs some exercise.”

The dog sits, quietly, with crunched up features on the carpet. 

“Hello to you, too, Fang,” Hermione says and caresses his fur softly. 

Fang leans his head against her hand, cuddling, and she melts a little. 

“I just need yeh to sho’ me where I hav’ to put the desks when I bring them up,” Hagrid continues, “after tha’ I’ll go and do that. All’ll be done in a tiffy, promise, Miss Hermione.” 

He’s earnest, and professional, and seems excited, and happy to be of help, which makes Hermione think he’s a nice, hardworking fella. 

“Of course, yes, let’s do that,” Hermione agrees. “Thank you, Lavender,” she adds, and waves to Hagrid, with her left hand, for him to come along. 

Hagrid and Fang obey her command without hesitation. 

They walk past Bellatrix, and Harry, and Hermione points to a free spot, near those two, where a wrapped stack of paper and a dusty water dispenser stand. 

A calendar hangs over those, the month October on display, which has been over for several months already. An orange bat, as sparse decoration, adorns it. 

Hermione clears her throat, “Well, here we are. We’ll only have to put those away first.”

She risks a look at Hagrid, to gauge his reaction, and he seems unsurprised and undisturbed. In his job, he’s probably seen a lot worse. 

Thank god, Hermione thinks. 

“Yeh, sure, sure, Miss Hermione. Where do yeh wan’ it?” He only has to go a few steps, because he’s so tall, and heaves the water dispenser, with one arm, and holds it, casually. 

Doesn’t break a sweat. Doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t reposition. 

Hermione is confused, because normally, the people Slughorn hires, for little jobs, like to paint a room, or repair a toilet, are chosen by their low price, which means that they, sometimes, mostly, don’t do a good, good job. They get it done, yes, but with minimal effort.

The toilet the second one repaired worked two more days until it needed to be fixed again. 

“Oh. Just put it in the break room, for now, I guess.” Hermione points it out for him. 

Hagrid needs a minute to put everything there, all by himself, he doesn’t ask Hermione for help, doesn’t expect anything from her and handles it all with great care. 

Hermione’s amazed and decides to write down his information, so, if they ever have work in this area, she can call him and be secure in her choice. 

Hagrid is here for fifteen minutes to get the two desks set up, and another fifteen minutes to drink tea in the break room with Hermione and have a nice talk about his work, and his dog. 

Lavender comes in to pet Fang some more, while they discuss different breeds of dogs. 

It’s all very lovely. 

Her work phone rings when Hermione bids Hagrid and Fang goodbye. 

She hurries back, dodging Creevey who suddenly comes out of the loo, and sidestepping Bellatrix who’s probably on her way out to smoke a cigarette. She’s lighty panting, and thinks to herself, I should do more sports, before reconsidering that thought immediately after. 

The phone stops ringing a moment before she touches it, which baffles Hermione to no end, because this much physical exertion should have a good reason, and not be for nothing. 

She huffs, sits down in her chair, and makes brief eye contact with Riddle who’s already watching her with a look she can’t decipher when his desk phone rings. 

He picks up with a smooth, “Mr. Riddle for Slughorn’s Potions.” His greeting is always the bare minimum, which Hermione finds both brave and arrogant. 

“Mr. Slughorn?” Riddle questions. “Is that you, sir?” 

He frowns, his head tilted to the side, eyebrows scrunched. “What was that?” 

“You’ve been trying to reach Hermione the whole day?” 

Hermione perks up, OH OH, stumbles to her feet, OH NO, rushes around the desk, grabs the phone in a haste, and suddenly her hand lies over Riddle’s, because apparently everybody but Tom Riddle let’s go off a phone when someone else tries to reach for it. 

Their hands and heads are as close as they’ve ever been. 

Hermione panics, and thinks about pulling away, but then panics for a different reason, when she distantly hears Slughorn’s distorted voice over the phone.

The phone cord dangles between them. 

“[...] my boy, you [...] there?”

Riddle clears his throat. “Yes.”

“Just [...] like I said [...] not sure but [...] should probably ask [...] ley. [...] must know, surely. I [...] no problem and [...] could you? [...] of course you both will, I know it [...] tomorrow [...] leave you to it [...] won’t be reachable for [...] all my faith [...] much luck!”

Slughorn hangs up without another word. 

Hermione asks, hoping for the best, “Was that understandable for you?” 

“Every five words or so, yes. All the rest? No,” Riddle answers.

“For how long did he say he was unreachable?”

Riddle drawls, “For once in my life the answer is: I have no idea.” 

“Oh, Merlin,” she replies. 

They stay silent, both lost in thought, and lost in faith. 

“Granger?” 

“Yes?”

“We can keep holding hands, but at least let me put the phone back down.”

She let's go like his hand is on fire.

On the ride home, with the tube because her car is in the shop, Hermione, almost vanishing in her coat and the seat, retweets a post from her college friend, Susan Bones, who is a preschool teacher, that says, “it’s only Monday? feels at least like a Wednesday”, because self awareness is one of her greatest strengths but she still likes the affirmation of other people.

Monday is finally over.