The (Slughorn's Potions) Office

Hermione dreams about clouds, about walking through the sky, and falling into her work mug with the lion and discovering hot tea already inside, so she screams, and it screams back, and she burns, and burns, but then she’s running, fast, faster, with a clock in her hand, loudly chiming, and she’s the rabbit in Adventures in Wonderland , stammering, i’m late i’m late i’m late i’m late in a panicked whirlwind of words –

and her cell rings. 

She groans, ignores the noise, squashes the pillow over her head, and barely slips back into dozing, when her phone rings again. 

“Hmm?”

“Mione, is he going to be there in the morning or the evening?? Is it even still happening or did he cancel. He’s bloody busy isn’t he, of course, he is, he’s Viktor bloody Krum! Mione, are you there? Do you think it was a prank or April fools joke –”

“It’s June, Ronald,” Hermione grouches, tired, and blinks at the alarm clock, “And it’s four in the morning, go back to sleep.”

“Are you wearing a tie with spiders on it?” Hermione says and nods in Fred’s direction before sitting down in her chair. It’s quite noticeable. The spiders are chunky bois. 

“Indeed I am,” he quips back. 

“To mess with Ron?”

Fred gasps and puts a hand on his heart. “I can’t believe you doubt me,” he huffs, “obviously to mess with Ron. How that warranted a question mark, I will never get, boss mum.”

“Don’t ever call me that again,” Hermione threatens, glaring deathly daggers at him until his shit-eating grin vanishes, slowly, while he leaves the room, skipping, that jester . 

Hermione opens her laptop, pushes the on button and waits. Her eyes jump from desk to desk - no Neville yet, no Ron yet (which surprises her because it’s Viktor Krum Day), Harry is on the loo, she saw Bellatrix smoking and Tom talking to her when she came in, Fred went to the break room just now and –

Hermione flinches. “Merlin!” 

George, coffee in the left hand, a magazine with Krum as the cover model in the right, stands right beside her, leaning against the wall, and smiling at her with raised eyebrows. 

He smirks, making jazz hands, and says, “Hello there, boss mam.”

He looks mischievous. She doesn’t appreciate it. 

“Don’t be a trickster today,” Hermione answers, ignoring the greeting bit, “and don’t say boss mam. Ever. Got it?”

“Got it.” George hums, still far too happy and accommodating, like he’s agreeing to something, now, only, because he’s already done with the deed. 

“Are you lying? Blink twice if yes.” 

George blinks twice. 

“Was that an admission of guilt or did you just have something in your eye?”

George blinks once, smiles like cheshire, and leaves.

Hermione misses the times where Ron was the only Weasley around.

Neville brought a new pot with a plant, yellow and red-colored, mixing, flowing into each other in a very pretty way. He’s carrying it like a treasure. 

“New friend?”

Neville turns to her, beaming, “Yes! Her name is Victoria. I got her as a present for Mr. Krum. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Oh, Neville, that’s so sweet,” Hermione gushes. “She is, very much. I think he will be delighted, and grateful.

He grins, brushes Victoria with his thumb, and positions her in front of the window beside Martha. “I hope so!”

“I know so,” Hermione comforts. 

“You look like you haven’t slept,” Hermione mentions while sorting the file and checking the pages, one by one, carefully and meticulously. 

"What–Do I? Like bloody hell, ya best pass out, dead beat tired –” Ron’s hands flail around, one almost catching her chair and knocking it over. He sounds a bit like a squeaky mouse, “or hardworking-sophisticated tired ??”

“I didn’t know you knew that word,” Riddle comments with a slightly impressed raised brow. “Oh, and it’s the first,” he adds, already bored again, and leaves for the printer.

“Oh, Blimey!" Ron shakes Hermione’s shoulder, back and forth, ragdoll-style. “Mione, help me! Krum is going to be here in three hours! And I –”

“Two, actually,” she corrects, and pushes him away to stop the dizzying action. 

His eyes go round. The fidgeting halts. “Merlin. I–I– This should– It needs to be perfect. Mione, it’s– it’s Viktor Krum. Mione.”

This, Hermione thinks, this is my kryptonite. People I care about being passionate about things and showing genuine joy for them. 

Makes no’s into yes’es. 

She sighs. “Power nap. 30 minutes. Make-Up from Lavender to cover the circles under your eyes,” Hermione says, “and a glass of water with fresh lemon, and then a cup of green tea.”

Ron stares, dumbfounded, then nods. He seems to still wait for more instruction, so she claps her hands once, makes a shoo-ing gesture and bellows, “Now!”

And he’s off.

“Quirrel is acting weird,” Hermione notes, more to herself than anyone else, watching the parking lot from the window.

“He’s the standard for acting weird,” Harry murmurs back nevertheless, distractedly, while typing aggressively on his phone. 

Hermione’s head whips to the left, puzzled, facing him. “You know Mr. Quirrel?”

“The mad hatter?” Harry questions, frowning at his phone, typing, erasing, re-typing. “He’s a legend around here, everyone knows of him. Only some people know his actual name, tho.”

“I’m so out of loop,” Hermione utters, baffled. “They have a nickname for him. Huh.”

Tom is writing in his journal, short, precise movements with his pen, again, and again, and again. A lock of his hair tumbles down his forehead, while another curls up where he sweats. 

His tie is a dark, dark blue. His cufflinks match. Pretty. 

There’s an ugly, big ring on his finger, though, that Hermione has never seen before. 

It looks like an heirloom. It’s not very aesthetically pleasing, but it fits him somehow, and makes him prettier in direct contrast. 

“Do I have something on my face?”

Hermione straightens up. “No.”

Tom catches her eye, a tiny grin curling at the corner of his mouth. “Just admiring the view, then?”

“Yes,” Hermione agrees, because it’s true, the suit and the tie and the cufflinks and the ring–

Riddle’s eyes widen, expression flustered for a nanosecond before it evens out, and Hermione blushes in turn when the realization hits, what she insinuated –

“I mean,” she adds, babbling, “The blue tie is really beautiful and the suit is tailored well! And the ring–” Hermione fumbles, making a face unconsciously. 

“The ring…” Tom repeats, mischief in the lines around his eyes. Waiting. Teasing.

“Well, it’s,” she says,”it’s fairly ugly and bulky but you make it work.”

Oh no. Hermione, you idiot. Utter fool. Baffoon. You don’t say that to your – work.friend.

Tom stares, blank faced, until a muscle jumps and his mouth curves upwards, fighting the smile slowly coming in, blooming patiently. 

And then he outright laughs. 

“Only you, Hermione,” Tom tells her afterwards, bright and brilliant like a star. “It’s atrocious, yes, but it belongs to me. It’s entirely mine.”

Hermione gulps.

“You wanker,” Harry spits, phone clenched in his hand, knuckles white. “You tosser. I hope your snogging-shirt gets colored pink in the wash. Prat.”

He hangs up, burning with anger, and Hermione asks, “Was that Draco? Do you want a biscuit? I got two on my way to work.”

“Not Draco,” Harry responds, “Why’d you go from snogging-shirt to him?”

“Seemed like something he’d do,” Hermione mumbles, embarrassed, but certain. 

“Huh, good point,” Harry says, “Though, he doesn’t have a snogging-shirt, he has a whole snogging-outfit.” He rolls his eyes, exasperated but fond, like it’s dramatic but in a cute way.

She curls her lips in disgust. “Please stop saying snogging-shirt.”

“Sex shirt? Seductive suit-up?”

“No,” Hermione denies, hoping for the end of it, but unconvinced of her wish coming true. 

“How about moist-makeover? The nagging for the shagging?”

“Ha-rryyy,” she whines. “Stop it.”

“Dumping for the humping?” Dress to undress?”

Hermione stomps her left foot on the ground like a little, ticked off girl, and glares. 

Hermione is in the break room, making tea. Bellatrix is there too. 

“Are you cursing me?” Hermione’s voice gets pitchy. “You look like you’re cursing me. Bellatrix, this is not the witch trials.”

“I can try,” she hisses, catty and raspy. She grabs some grape juice from the fridge. 

“Halloween or the full moon would be better, I think.”

“Noted,” Lestrange grits back, and sprint-walks out the room. 

Mr. Karkaroff and Mr. Krum are supposed to arrive in 45 minutes and, instead of going over her documents for the last time, Hermione is on the lookout for Ron. Who has been missing since she instructed him earlier. He won’t want to miss this. 

She checks the break room, the archive room, the reception desk (because of Lavender being there), the parking lot, the staircase, and finally pushes herself towards the loo. 

She knocks thrice, opens the door, and calls out, “Ronald? Are you here?"

Nothing. She tries again. “It’s the final countdown to Mr. Krums appearance! Ron?”

She sighs and closes her eyes in annoyed frustration, when a voice says, “Mione, could you leave? Ron isn’t here and I’ve been holding my pee since I heard you open the door. TMI.”

Painful pause.

“Oh, Harry! Of course, of course! I’m leaving. I’m leaving. I’m gone. Going now–”

The door falls shut. 

Hermione sips on her hot tea when it knocks on the office door. Lavender, clipping her nails at the reception desk, looks up with wide eyes, thinking, and coughs, before deciding to call out, louder than normal, blinking rapidly, “Come in?” 

The door opens and a tall, scruffy, but handsome man, close shaved brown hair and a fantastic suit on, steps in. He has some kind of fur incorporated in the garment that makes him stand out and seem both robust and fashionable. 

Hermione doesn’t place him immediately, but Lavender does. 

She gasps, and stammers, “Viktor Kr– Mr. Viktor Krum, sir? Hello! Welcome!”

Ah, Hermione thinks, in recognition, and then, quickly, he’s not supposed to be here yet.

She flashes her eyes to the clock on the wall. 25 minutes. 

25. Minutes. 

Riddle is unaccounted for. 

Ron hasn’t returned. 

“It is nice to meet you,” Viktor Krum says. His accent is nice. 

“Same!” Lavender gushes, and flushes, “I mean, I am too. My boyfriend is your biggest fan! I’m a fan, too!”

Krum walks closer to the reception, his posture perfect in every step. “Vhat is good to hear. I am happy and grateful. It is treasured.”

There’s a pause, going on a bit long, with staring and simping, one-sided, and –

Hermione stands up.

“Mr. Krum?” She calls out, her heels making soft noises on the ground. 

He turns around, in her direction, and Hermione says, hair bouncing, a kind smile fixed on her face, “I’m Hermione Granger. I’m one of the two project leaders. Nice to meet you.” She motions for his hand, to instigate a handshake, but he’s not quite ready, it seems, because his eye contact and breathing quicken.

“Mr., um, Mr. Krum?” Hermione wiggles her fingers, hand still held in the air. 

“Viktor,” he says, finally, “Call me Viktor, please. It is my pleasure, Hermyowneee.”

He takes her hand, at last, and holds it. Without shaking it. Is this a bulgarian thing?

“I’m excited for this project,” Hermione adds, to fill the silence and awkward hand holding. 

“I am as well, Miss Hermyownee,” Krum answers with a small smile, barely forming, but his eyes are welcoming and warm. He speaks with a deep, quiet voice that makes people listen. 

She coughs, caught off guard, though, a little charmed. “Well, good. Shall we go to the break room to wait for the rest of the team?”

“If you’d like,” he says, his accent thicker, grin broader. “I vill follow you.”

It doesn’t take long for Karkaroff and Tom to get there. 

“We envisioned something fun and sporty, something that fits both Slughorn's Potions and you, Viktor Krum, the beloved athlete–”

“I have vaith in you, Hermyownee. I put trust in your hands without fear.”

“Well, thank you,” Hermione halts, and hedges, “I still need to tell you the plan and the time schedule later on, though. It’s mandatory to inform you all of it before signing, and my To– my colleague needs to be here for the sign off.”

Hermione is chuckling, politely, and Krum is talking now, answering her, agreeing, chair close and voice lowered, his whole body angled her way, when the door is pushed open and two voices interrupt their chat. 

“--good thing, I assure–”

“--been told that–”

They pause, all four of them, both in speech and movement. 

Karkaroff is a grim-faced one, thick hair, thick lines of worry on his face, and squinty, suspicious eyes. “Viktor, my boy. You are here too soon.”

He’s scary, imposing, but in this second, pulled longer like gum, he’s got nothing on Riddle’s expression. He stayed at the door, rooted to the ground, while Karkaroff stepped inside. 

His hand is clenched around the papers he printed, crinkling them, and his teeth have bitten down on his lip, viciously. 

“Mrs.--”

“Miss,” Hermione corrects. “I’m not married.”

Karkaroff stops, scrutinizes her and grunts, “Understandably.”

“Of course,” she answers, quietly indignant, “Like you. Bachelor. Ten years now, right?”

He grinds his teeth, and presses his lips together tightly. “Indeed, Ms. Granger, but we shall steer clear of personal topics from now on, shall we?”

“Good idea,” Hermione agrees, cheerily. “Could’ve been mine.”

Tom is not blinking. 

Hermione ends with, “...and that is our plan.”

Tom is watching Krum. Well, more glaring. Has been for the whole of it. 

Krum doesn’t seem fazed, mostly because he hasn’t noticed, because he has been looking at Hermione. Also for the whole of it.

“Seems doable,” Karkaroff says gruffly. “Good enough.”

Krum follows up with, “Hermyownee, you haf vought of everything. Thank you.”

“Um, it was a team effort.” She braves a quick look at Tom, jaw-ticked, ice cold aura. “To– Mr. Riddle and I did our best.”

“Yes, obviously,” Karkaroff deadpans, and stands up. 

“Miss Hermyownee let me invite you to coffee, yes? To thank you.”

“Oh,” Hermione says, “that’s gracious of you but it’s my job. Really.”

He reaches out with his big hand and puts it over her tiny one, and steps forward. “It would be my honor, yes?”

“You really don’t have to,” she replies. 

“It would be no worry, Hermyownee.”

“I can’t, I’m sorry, Mr. Krum.” Hermione declines. 

Krum makes a sad sound, and opens his mouth, when Tom crashes the moment. “Do you usually have to be told things three times until it sticks?”

He imposes himself in the scene, dominating the space in the time of a fluttering of wings, and leans his body towards Hermione, confident, comfortably, easily. “Or is it the cultural difference?” He scoffs, mean, but still somehow with an air of professionalism. “Well, either way, Hermione isn’t playing hard to get. Do you understand, Mr. Krum?”

“Of course,” Krum replies, tone grim. “I didn’t mean to pressure. I apologize.”

“Oh!” Hermione interrupts, in the middle and overwhelmed for it, “no, no, it’s fine. It’s nothing. We’ll see you at the conception meeting, Mr. Krum, yes?”

Hermione exits the moment and flees to the printer to copy the signed document for Karkaroff and Krum both, so it’s finished for the day. 

Karkaroff is phoning one of Krums teammates, another one he manages, standing tense beside the printer. His face is – not pleased. 

Hermione prints, and prints, and every time the printer makes a noise, croaking, Karkaroff throws her an annoyed look, like she told him to take a phone call near the old, old grandpa- printer that’s slowly but noisily fading away. 

You chose to stand here! she wants to scream. She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.

The printer chokes for a moment, and Karkaroff wanders off, agitated, so Hermione hears the end of Tom and Krum’s conversation, a few paces away. 

“Maybe if you’d make the actual effort to wait with a reply until she stopped talking, and didn’t generally speak over her, and maybe if you hadn’t badgered her with a date after meeting her for the very first time, and maybe if you’d accepted her no the first time. Maybe then, she would’ve thought of you as a romantic option. Maybe so. You’ll never find out now.”

Hermione stills, praying for the printer to keep quiet some more.

“Perhaps not,” Krum supposses, “but she is vorth, to try again, I think, no? I can be better. I learn. Do you, Mr. Riddle?”

“Funny that you ask,” Tom answers, “I’m an excellent study in everything I do. As it turns out.”

Six minutes later, Karkaroff and Krum leave. The latter with a half-hearted smile in Hermione’s direction and a sharp nod in Riddle’s until he meets up with his manager at the office door, says goodbye to Lavender and shuts the door cautiously. 

“It’s nothing?” Tom repeats her past words, darkly. 

“It was nothing!” Hermione points out, still vehemently, but a little chastised. “Almost, at least. He just wanted to celebrate the project, Tom.”

“One-on-one?” Tom laughs, hollow. “With coffee? He was flirting. Everyone could see it. Don’t dumb yourself down. It doesn’t become you, Granger.”

“Don’t talk to me like that, you jerk!” She reprimands, snapping at him, with a glare. “It doesn’t matter anyway!”

“The bloody hell it doesn’t, Hermione!,” he yells back, “Why shouldn’t it matter?!”

“BECAUSE I’M NOT INTERESTED.”

Tom stills, surprised, blinking harshly. 

“That’s…” He fumbles. “Good.”

“Good?” Hermione echoes, out of breath. 

“...the smart choice, I mean,” Tom corrects, adding,”because he’s a client.”

“Ah,” Hermione says, “Aha.”

“Yes.”

“That’s…good then, yes.”

They hold position and exchange eye contact some more before they both step away hastily with an excuse. 

On the roof, sun shining, birds singing, the taxi with Karkaroff and Krum driving away, Ron wakes up from his planned 30 minute but actually 3 hour power nap. Bleary-eyed and sleep-heavy, he sits up, moves his head from right to left unthinking, until he remembers. 

Frantically, he searches for his phone. Finds it. Sees the missed calls. Sees the time. 

And then, 

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO,” Ron wails, face crunched, hands held in the air in prayer and demise.