The New Members...
Hermione meets Mr. Quirrel on Tuesday morning, for the first time face to face, while she’s walking up the stairs.
He comes up behind her, with heavy footsteps, and shuffles to, away, and in front of her with a huff. He’s fidgety.
She doesn’t know who he is until he stops at his office, and takes out his key.
“Oh,” Hermione says, in realization, “You’re Mr. Quirrel.” It was mostly meant for her, but apparently it was loud enough for him to detect, and react to.
He startles, and the keys fall, and clutter on the ground, but he doesn’t pick them up immediately after, instead, he stares.
Like Hermione’s a hungry cat and he’s the mouse about to be food.
Not one muscle moves.
“I’m Hermione,” she adds, trying to put him at ease, “from Slughorn’s Potions?”
“The d-door g-girl?”
Woman, Hermione corrects in her head.
“I guess so,” she agrees out-loud.
He doesn’t answer, but still stands there and looks at her, so she says, “Nice to meet you, properly,” and puts her hand out, to fill the silence, and the moment.
He doesn’t reciprocate, which is a bit rude and a bit awkward, but maybe he’s a germaphobe, and Hermione clears her throat, and drops the gesture.
She decides to go ahead and get out of here, and out of his face, and starts walking away.
On the last step of the staircase, she sneaks a peak and he’s still in the same position, following her with his eyes, paranoid and protective, strained and stealthy, until she’s gone.
The fallen key is beside his shoe, still.
Weird fella, she thinks.
Riddle is already there, in the office, at their desks, when she arrives.
He’s wearing a suit, dark gray, with a green tie, a vibrant one she sees even from afar.
And he’s speaking with Ron, who’s sitting on Hermione’s swivel chair, with his back to her, just swaying his legs back and forth. He’s wearing clothing she’s never seen before, which could be to impress Lavender, but the signature red hair makes it obvious.
“Weasley, this is work, like you should very well know, and I urge you to treat it as such –”, Riddle says, seriously, with the hint of a threat, when Hermione steps up beside them.
He’s tense, and Hermione misses the sleepy version of him.
“Hello, Riddle,” she murmurs, gently, before adding, without looking away from him, “Morning to you too, Ron. You’re early.”
Which is a mistake.
Riddle’s eyebrow twitches, but he doesn’t make eye contact with her, because he’s still focused on him, and she only understands the reason behind it, when a joke-y “Morniiiiiiing!” is the answer to her greeting.
Hermione turns, towards the person, red-haired, but taller, and leaner, with a different face, and a different voice, who’s smiling, one-sided, well, lopsided, and –
“You’re not Ron.”
“I’m not,” he agrees.
“Perceptive, that one,” says a voice from the right, similar but different, with the door to the loo closing behind it, loud and fast, with a swish sound.
Merlin, Hermione thinks, there’s two of them.
“Pretty, too,” the first one continues.
“I’m not Ronnie, either,” the second one goes on. “For the record.”
“We’re much better looking,” the first one tells her.
“And smarter, too.”
Riddle sighs. “Mr. Weasley, stop talking.”
“Which one?” they ask, an echo.
Riddle says, exasperated, “Both preferably.”
His eyes meet Hermione’s, a tired flicker in them, and he, with great reluctance, introduces them as, “Mr. Fred and George Weasley, the two new team members Slughorn hired.” A pause, and a sigh. “Weasleys brothers.”
“F. Weasley, you follow Hermione for the day,” Riddle commands, voice low, sitting on his chair, while making a note on the journal open on his desk.
He points to the twin on the right, who replies with, “I’m George, sir.”
Riddle doesn’t look, but pulls a neon green text marker out of his pencil cup, and marks a passage from the page, practiced and precise.
“If you’re G. Weasley, you’re with me today,” he answers, unbothered, “So you want to take back what you just said, Mr. Weasley?”
He doesn’t have to wait long.
“Merlin, you’re right, sir,” he says, “I got totally confused just then – of course I’m Fred. I’m so thankful you could make me remember, boss.”
“Of course you are,” Riddle responds, deadpan.
Hermione makes tea and coffee for them.
Fred, or George, watches her, hawk-like, every move, like he tries to memorize it.
The kettle lets out a scream, and Hermione chooses, for him, a bright yellow mug with a smiley face on it, because, from the first impression, that seems to fit relatively well.
“Honey? Sugar?” she questions.
“Yes, sweetheart?” he says, amused.
“Do you want,” Hermione repeats, unamused, “honey or sugar?”
“Sugar, please and thank you, boss.”
Off to a great start.
Harry, Ron and Neville get to the office at 7:52, as a trio, and if Hermione thought it couldn’t get any more chaotic here, in this office, she would be proven wrong soon.
Turns out, Ron did not know he was going to share his workplace with his brothers.
Turns out, Ron doesn’t want to share his workplace with his brothers, now or ever.
Turns out, Ron got his immaturity, at least partially, from his older brothers.
Turns out, they amplify that behavior in each other.
Ron doesn’t find out until 7:59.
In the minutes before, he smiles at Hermione, affectionately, talks to Harry about Quidditch, enthusiastically, sits down at his desk, searches in his cabinet for a chocolate frog, finds one and eats it, and starts his laptop.
He perks up when Lavender rushes through the door at 7:57, Bellatrix, Creevey and Seamus right at her heels, and simps, with some major heart eyes, before deciding to make himself some coffee, with caramel and vanilla syrup.
He gets up, his neck cracks, he stretches shortly, just a tiny movement, and makes his way to the break room, thinking about his upcoming date with Lavender, and then the upcoming Quidditch game, and how much he loves syrup, when he opens the door and sees them.
“No!” Ron yells, “No! Why?” His face is turning red. “What are you doing here?”
“Working,” Fred says.
“Making money,” George says, “you know how it is.”
“But not here!” Ron cries, aghast. “I work here!”
He stomps his feet.
“Sharing is caring, Ronnie,” Fred answers, undisturbed.
“Ever heard of mi casa es su casa, brother?” George adds.
“WE SHARE EVERYTHING AT HOME ALREADY! IS THAT NOT ENOUGH?!”
Fred and George share a look, before shaking their heads, simultaneously, “No, it’s not.”
Ron growls, steals the cup of coffee from George’s hand, and says, scathingly, “I hope you get fired.”
He shuts the door with a loud bang behind him, making it rattle.
“That’s not very family friendly of you!,” Fred yells after him.
Lavender wants them to play a game, to get to know each other, and incorporate the twins into the team a bit more.
A nice idea, usually.
In theory, very much so.
Doesn’t turn out well when they do it, though.
Which is only mostly the Weasley brothers’ fault.
The other reason, unexpectedly, is Bellatrix.
They get a ball from the break room, stand in a circle, and softly throw the ball at another person of the group to catch, who they then can ask a question.
Hermione now knows that Harry doesn’t like grapes, Lavender’s favorite color is red, but was pink for a long time, George’s favorite movie is Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, which should have warned Hermione for what’s to come, but didn’t, and Fred likes both tea and coffee, equally.
After that, it goes a bit south.
He throws the ball at Bellatrix, who grabs and glares, and asks her, “How old are you?”
Which is… not a good question to ask.
“Not that it’s any of your business, Weasley #3,” she answers, snappy, “but I’m 28.”
It rapidly, surprisingly, gets even worse.
“Really? You look older,” Fred says.
“I thought she was younger! Given the whole emo, gothic thing she’s got going on,“ George mutters, not rude from the tone, but definitely rude from the words itself.
Oh no.
The ball makes a squeaky, squeezed noise when Bellatrix’ fist clenches.
Hermione fears the worst, and already takes a small step in their direction, because surely Bellatrix will retaliate and throw the ball at one of them, harshly, with a lot of anger behind it.
And she does, but not at one of the twins.
But at Hermione.
It bounces against her stomach, and Hermione stumbles back from the force of it, and barely catches it in her left hand.
She suppresses the urge to wheeze.
“Who could be stupid enough to hire those losers?” is Bellatrix’ question, which is not very get-to-know-each-other, and also rudely phrased, and makes Hermione go, Not me! Stop looking at me like that!, in her head, thrown off.
“Slughorn thought they were the best choices for the additional positions that opened up,” Hermione says, instead, as dignified as she can while having the breath knocked out of her. “If you have any questions about his decision making, you can, of course, contact him.”
The Weasleys are silent, for once, and someone shuffles their feet, awkwardly, in the quietness following, which makes Hermione put on a fake smile and gently give the ball to Neville, who stays to her right - Riddle is on her left, but you wouldn’t know that from his bleak and bored inaction the last five minutes or so -, and asks, joyful and cheery, “Theodosia looks so much better! How did you make that happen in only one day, Neville??”
He lights up, predictably and endearingly, and starts a highly happy and tension-removing gush fest, “Oh! Yes! Thank you, Hermione! She is indeed, is she? When Luna told me…”
There are no more questions after.
Sadly, that doesn’t go for games, or immaturity, in general.
Slughorn has sent Hermione an audio file via email.
It’s 4 minutes long.
There’s no context in the mail.
Hermione decides to not open it yet, in fear of more complications today.
Mr. Rosier wrote, too.
He told her about some honey his wife made, apparently she’s a hobby beekeeper, and she sells them on the market, and she wants him to go with her next Thursday but he couldn’t remember when his appointment with Slughorn was, so he asked Hermione for the date.
Which is quite romantic.
Now that Hermione thinks about it, Mr. Rosier talks about his wife a lot, mentions her all the time, in fact, which is actually lovely.
Good for him.
She writes, Dear Mr. Rosier, your next meeting with Mr. Slughorn is on Monday, next week. Your wife sounds fabulous. Greetings and wishing you much fun, Hermione Granger.
Which is more than a bit informal for her tastes but, for once, she tries his style of correspondence.
She wouldn’t mind some penpal kind of communication, and his way of storytelling is growing on her.
Hermione doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.
Riddle and George are being interviewed by Seamus, and the door isn't closed, so she can hear most of the words being spoken.
“What made you decide on Slughorn’s Potions? Did your brother know about your decision?”
The questions are expected, but the answers are not.
“The swan bottle, definitely,” George answers, immediately. “Oh, and no, he didn’t.”
“Sorry, what? The s – swan bottle?” Seamus asks.
“Yea, for sure, mate.”
“For fucks sake,” Riddle murmurs, and Hermione grins, unconsciously.
“The swan bottle,” George goes on. “Saw it at the bus stop, you know, the ad for it. Was like a bloody horror art piece, that one, and I thought, mate, that’s horrendously cool.”
“The Valentine’s Day Special,” Riddle sighs. “That’s what he means. The swan-shaped perfume bottle, named Graceful Love, shows a swan holding a red rose. It was a bestseller.”
“Right, holding a rose,” George laughs. “Looked like someone chopped its wing off.”
Fred loves the cameras.
He winks at them, makes exaggerated facial expressions, especially frowns and grimaces, flicks pages in slow motion and drinks out of his mug as if he’s filming a commercial.
“Her eyebrows are pinched and her thumb moves over the keyboard in a slow, but purposeful glide –”
He also does half a dozen voiceovers when Creevey is filming.
Like now.
“She breathes out through her nose before typing another –”
“Fred,” Hermione interrupts. “Are we recording an audiobook I didn’t know about?”
Harry’s on the phone again when Hermione comes out of the archive room, ten thick files on her arm like she’s some waitress with too much on the tray she’s carrying.
“I said I’ll call you back on my break, didn’t I, but you couldn’t wait! You know, this is what happens when you grow up as a spoiled child. What? Of course you’re bloody spoiled! You eat hors d'oeuvre, Draco. That’s not normal people's behavior. You also work for your grandfather, and he gives you days off whenever you need or want them. SPOILED.”
Hermione watches for the inevitable turn around that always happens with them.
“Sometimes you drive me so crazy with your rich kid thing. What? Are you pouting? Draco. Baby. Don’t make that voice. You can’t always do the voice when I’m mad at you! I’m not falling for it. You’re spoiled and you should at least try to – bloody hell, don’t be like that. I said you’re spoiled, okay, not irredeemable or evil, everyone has their faults and you tell me mine every minute of every day! What? I’m not gonna say that! No, no. No. Ugh. Fine. You’re my spoiled boyfriend and I love you the way you are, Draco.”
There it is.
“There. Happy? Aren’t you going to say it back? Hello? Drac – did he just hang up on me?”
The mail comes with him today, and Hermione wishes for Luna.
“Oh, hello! Who is this beauty at the reception desk over here? Do my eyes deceive me or is there a pretty lady I haven’t seen before.” He winks at Lavender, and brushes a hand through his wavy hair. “Who are you, my dear?”
Lavender flushes, “Lavender Brown.”
He reaches for her hand and gives it a kiss.
“Wonderful name, wonderful lady,” he says, a bit smarmy like always. “My name is Gilderoy Lockhart, pleasure to meet you, darling. I’m an author, musician, part-time volunteer and part-time postal worker, at your service.” He gets five business cards from his bag and places them beside her. “For your convenience, dear, so you can give them out.”
“Oh,” Lavender says, “Okay. Thank you?”
Hermione shakes her head, stands up and intervenes. “Mr. Lockhart!”
His hands disappear from the reception like he’s burned them.
“Ah! The lovely Ms. Granger.” Lockhart gulps. “I was just –”
“Do you have letters for us?” Hermione cuts him off, for once without shame or guilt.
He grimaces, and fetches them, begrudgingly.
One for Riddle, one for Slughorn personally and one for Hermione.
“Thank you,” Hermione says. “Have a good day. Goodbye.”
“Yes,” he answers, charming smile lost. “Goodbye.”
Hermione takes the business cards from Lavender’s side and throws them in the trash.
The office wants indian food for lunch.
Biryani, tandoori chicken and samosas for Harry, Ron and Lavender. Curry for Fred, George, Riddle and Bellatrix. Dal soup for Neville. Some samosas for all to share, too.
And matar paneer with cheese naan for Hermione herself.
She also adds some garlic naan for Riddle, because she thinks he’ll like it.
The food comes in record time, and it smells like heaven.
There’s not enough room for all of them to eat at the same time so Neville, Bellatrix, Lavender, Harry and George eat first, because the others are in the middle of some tasks.
Ron is especially miffed about this, because he wanted to share the break with Lavender.
He mopes about it for four minutes straight and Hermione is a second away from telling him to go ahead and mash himself into the room with them, but Riddle intercepts the moment.
“Weasley,” he says. “I would’ve also liked it more for you to be in the first group because I’d rather not share my lunch break with you, but do you see me wasting time crying about it?”
“I never see you wasting time,” Ron mutters.
“Exactly,” Riddle says, which makes Ron leave with a weirded-out expression.
“You’re a bit mean to him,” Hermione exclaims, conversationally.
Riddle moves a little closer.
“He needs ‘a bit mean,” he mimics her voice with a glint in his eyes, “It makes him work better. He didn’t react to your gentle coaxing, did he?”
“No, he didn't,“ Hermione agrees, “but maybe he would, if you did it. Wouldn’t it be satisfying to make him listen to you without a scathing remark added on?”
“The scathing remark is the best part of it,” Riddle disagrees. He smiles, and makes eye contact with Hermione, assessing. “Do you want me to?”
“Want you to do what?,” she comments, unsure.
“Try to be nicer to him,” Riddle explains, “for you.”
His voice is pretty like this.
Soothing. Gentle. Deep. Warm.
Like the narrator of a fairytale or something.
It’s so distracting it almost stops her from comprehending the question.
Hermione stills. A part of her wants to say, you should do it because it’s the right thing to do, but the bigger part can’t ignore her curiosity. “Would you?”
“Yes,” he says, without looking away.
“Because we’re work frien–” Hermione starts.
“FOOD TIME!” Ron yells, and rushes to the room.
Ron, George, Riddle and Hermione are sitting at the desk.
Ron is munching and George is slurping. They are kicking each other under the table.
So far, she has been accidentally kicked, instead of them, two times, which is two times too many, so the second time around, she snaps, “Stop it!”
“Sorry! Wasn’t meant for you,” George apologizes, before mumbling, “This is your fault,” to Ron with a roll of his head.
“How?!” Ron exclaims, shocked. “You came to my work, and you started kicking me.”
Hermione tries to ignore their bickering, and focuses on her food. She takes her cheese naan and dunks a bit of it into the sauce, and eats it, and moans, quietly.
She nods her head, enthusiastically, and does it again, but with the garlic naan, and puts it in front of Riddle, who is currently putting his fork down and chewing.
“You practically dared me, Ronnie!”
“I only mentioned it!”
“In my presence, with a smirk on your face.”
Riddle swallows, and takes the bite from her fingers.
His lips close around the naan bread and touch her skin, and that’s the moment that Hermione realizes that they have never done anything like this before, and she would never do anything like this with any other colleague, and she didn’t even find it weird until she did.
“Good,” Riddle confirms, and gets some of his food on his fork, again, and holds it out to her, this time, like it’s nothing out of the usual, just an everyday kind of thing, you know, and what’s she supposed to do with that?
She opens her mouth, diligently, and he puts the fork in her mouth, and she eats it.
It’s really good.
“That’s not a dare!”
“It was,” George scoffs. “The way you said it, it was.”
She likes the flavor; though, her tongue doesn’t appreciate the spice, the heat, of it, but she would, embarrassingly, eat some more if he would keep feeding it to her.
Her cheeks flush, and she averts her eyes. “Good,” she mumbles.
“Can I have some naan? I really liked that garlic one,” Riddle says, almost a whisper.
I thought you would, Hermione thinks. I bought it for you.
“Sure,” she answers. “I have more than enough.”
“Wanted to try them out to know your preference?” He smirks.
“Yes,” Hermione lies, like a liar, “I prefer the cheese naan, I think.” I know.
She pushes the garlic one to his side, “So you can have the rest of it.”
“Thanks, Granger,” Riddle says, and when she takes a look at his face, he’s watching the naan with a thoughtful expression.
“Fred said so, too.”
“Because he always agrees with you, George.”
“Does not.”
“Does, too!”
Hermione eats, and thinks about the work she has to get done today, and eats some more, and then she gets distracted, and thinks about Riddle saying for you, and Riddle’s cologne, and Riddle with the dark green tie, and Riddle with glasses, and Riddle with ruffled hair and sleepy eyes, and then she gets hit with a samosa.
It lands in the same spot as the ball, so she has a flashback to Bellatrix’ toss, and flinches.
There’s some yelling, and chairs screeching, and she opens her eyes, after closing them in reflex, and sees them, the Weasley brothers, with curry on their shirts, on their face, and sauce on their fingers.
They look like they painted with food and made a mess.
Riddle pushes them apart, says, with a growly voice, “I give you one second to stop before you will regret it,” and glares at them.
They listen, because, apparently they are stupid enough to start a food fight, but also, not stupid enough to keep going when Riddle threatens them.
Hermione stands up, almost stumbles over something, and looks at the floor. “The samosas!,” she exclaims, sad. “I wanted to try them,“ she adds, miffed, before walking to their sides, and taking a closer look at the disaster.
“You look horrible,” Hermione says, first and foremost. “You’re worse than a toddler.”
“I’m sorry, it’s his fault!” Ron and George say, at the same time, before huffing.
Riddle rolls his eyes, and takes a step away from them, which makes Hermione catch sight of the green, sparkly, vibrant tie that she fantasized about, and it has sauce on it.
Hermione sees red.
“You! ”, Hermione says, angry, and points at them with her finger, “You ruined the samosas! Which had AMAZING reviews!” She points at them, on the floor. “You ruined the tie! Which is my favorite one of all of Riddle’s collection!” She points at it, harshly. “You ruined the break room!” She makes a gesture that emcompasses the mess around them. “You ruined lunch!”
“And most of all,” she ends, and shakes her head, disappointed. “You ruined my mood.”
It’s silent after her outburst.
Riddle’s hand is drawing circles on her back, and she breathes through, once, twice, thrice, before making eye contact with the brothers.
They look guilty, and for once, that’s not enough for her.
“You will clean up all of it,” she commands, “and you will not cause any more trouble today.”
They swallow and nod.
“If you don’t, I will ask Riddle to think of the most humiliating and most embarrassing thing possible in the history of workplace groveling and make you do it. Understood?”
Ron’s jaw drops, and George looks mildly impressed and mildly subdued.
“Understood,” Ron squeaks. “Mione, I –”
“No,” Hermione interrupts. “You have until the end of the day to get rid of this mess. Don’t apologize today again because I will not forgive you yet. Try tomorrow. Got it?”
“Got it,” they affirm.
Hermione snatches the cheese naan, and the garlic naan, makes her way out, with Riddle following her, and closes the door behind her.
She leans on it, and Riddle takes the naan from her hands, and she lets him, and closes her eyes, and thinks nice, positive thoughts like, it’s okay, it’s fine, stuff happens, it’s no big deal, until –
“Open up,” Riddle says, “Open your mouth.”
She does, closed eyes, empty head, and Riddle gives her some cheese naan.
It’s very, very good and it makes her feel a bit, a bit better.
“More?” he asks.
“Mhmm,” she agrees, and opens her mouth again.
The second bite is even more delicious, and she opens her eyes.
“Thank you,” Hermione says, looking into his pretty, pretty eyes.
“You’re welcome,” Riddle murmurs, and brushes away a crumb from her upper lip. “The scathing remark was the best part, right?”
Hermione smiles, remembering their previous conversation, “Just this once, yes.”
“I told you so,” he smirks.