Chapter 2
October 30, 1998
Nine hundred fifty two successful jobs in the seven years of Hermione’s entire career.
She doesn’t count her failures: she knows they don’t stem from any shortcomings within her, rather from Malfoy simply beating her just as often as she beats him.
Nine hundred fifty three now, she thinks. Hermione smiles to herself, sauntering over to the man in a blue suit with a lengthy white beard and half moon spectacles. She flings the brown leather bag onto the mahogany desk. “Miss Bathilda Bagshot’s diamond ring,” she confirms, settling comfortably into the red plush chair and propping her feet up.
Albus Dumbledore nods in approval, appraising her with his stare. “Brilliant as always, Hermione.”
She shrugs, twirling one of her curls around her finger. “When do I get my cut?”
Albus squints down at his papers, lips pursing together. “The deal is already underway. You’ll receive your fifteen percent cut of seven thousand pounds sometime in the next few days.”
Hermione looks up for a moment, her brain calculating promptly. She looks back at Albus. “It’s seven thousand five hundred, actually.”
His brow scrunches, wrinkled fingers moving over a calculator. He grunts, shaking his head. “Right you are.”
She clicks her tongue, running it over her teeth. “You’re getting old, Albus. Your miscalculations are more frequent.”
Albus chuckles, pinching the bridge of his crooked nose. “Age dulls the mind, however sharp it once was, although I’m not ashamed to admit it was never quite as sharp as yours.” He gives her a pointed look.
Hermione hums, wiggling her eyebrows in anticipation. “Do you have another mark for me?”
He slides a manila folder across the desk towards her. “Beauford Archer, age 30, wealthy nobleman in Dufftown, widely known for his arrogance and his countless lovers,” Albus explains. She opens the folder, studying the picture of a handsome man with a cocky grin. “He’s having a Halloween masquerade ball tomorrow night,” Albus continues. “The mask he’s going to wear is three pounds of pure gold and precious gems, a relic from the 1800s that’s on loan from the Natural History Museum in London.”
“Overall value?”
“A hundred and two thousand pounds. Half of the worth stems from the centerpiece of the mask, an excessively large and boastful diamond.”
Hermione lets out a low whistle. “This is a great mark. I’ll get everything ready tonight.” Her mind inevitably wanders to Malfoy, and her expression sours. “Do the Slytherins know about it?”
Albus exhales, stroking his beard absentmindedly, lost in thought. “I’d be surprised if they don’t. That Mole of theirs, Zabini, is it?” Her frown deepens at the mention of Malfoy’s mate. “He’s quite good: he gets all the same information we do, considering that the Malfoy boy is always there right alongside you.”
“Harry’s a better Mole, though,” she insists, flicking a piece of lint off her leggings. “He has ears everywhere. He’s the best there is. Plus, I doubt that the Slytherins have a Coordinator as brilliant as Ginny, given that Malfoy never really seems to have a plan.”
He flashes a warm smile. “You’re right, of course. We have the best team.”
Hermione stands, cracking all the knuckles in her left hand, a habit she may or may not have picked up from Malfoy. “I’m gonna get the rest of the details from Harry.” She heads to the door that leads to the kitchen, glancing over her shoulder. “See you at dinner, yeah?”
Albus waves a dismissive hand, already engrossed in more paperwork, chapped lips chewing on the end of his blue pen.
Hermione enters the kitchen, the delightful scent of eggs and toast and other breakfast foods wafting into her nose. A plump and cheery woman beams at her, flipping a pancake. “Hello, dearie.”
“Hi, Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione responds pleasantly. A skinny, tall redhead is bent over the other stove, sausage links and bacon strips sizzling in a low hiss. She walks over and swipes her finger over a piece of bacon, sucking on her finger appreciatively.
Ron laughs, rolling his eyes. “Hands off, it’s not ready yet!”
“Well I approve of your choice to make breakfast foods for dinner.” Hermione opens the fridge, taking out the carton of strawberries. Ron raises his eyebrow at her. “I’m just getting a snack, Ronald, I’ll still eat your food,” she says, peeling off the lid and sticking one of the berries between her lips. She winks at him, leaving through the door that leads to Harry’s office.
“Don’t fill up on those again, dinner will be ready in ten!” Ron calls after her as the door swings shut. “It’s always the strawberries with her,” he mutters under his breath.
Hermione strolls into the workspace, a circular room with maroon and gold decor. The fireplace is always burning, an eternal flame. Harry Potter is sitting on the couch, his arm draped around Ginny Weasley’s shoulders, his wiry black hair as untamed as always. His emerald green eyes skim over the map on the table. “She can take the train, it's a straight shot to Dufftown,” Ginny confirms, tracing the route on the map with her pencil. “Only a fifteen minute ride and then a ten minute walk to the ballroom, maybe twelve in her heels.”
Hermione collapses soundlessly on the couch across from them, biting into another strawberry, relishing in her favorite food, a taste that never gets old. “Once she secures the mask she needs to flee through the sewers, the streets will likely swarm with police in a matter of minutes,” Harry adds, taking off his round glasses to clean them on the sleeve of his brown sweater.
Ginny cocks her head, pulling her lip between her teeth. “It makes sense, but that’s a slow escape, no? It’s a long way back on foot, no matter how fast she is.”
“I’ll bring rollerblades,” Hermione resolves, swallowing her fruit. “Done.”
They look up at her in surprise, unaware that she had come in, their ears incapable of picking up on her silent entrance. “Where would you even put those?” Harry asks, his forehead creasing.
She snorts, crossing her ankles. “Come on, I can hide dozens of weapons in a bodysuit, I think I can manage concealing a pair of rollerblades in a ballgown.”
Harry nods, smiling softly. Ginny stands abruptly, stalking over to the closet. “Speaking of...” she heaves an extravagant dress out, a pair of elegant high heels in her other hand. “Voila.”
Hermione‘s eyes widen, unleashing a bemused cackle at the sight of her outfit. “That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s completely necessary,” Ginny ensures, throwing the entire ensemble at Hermione, who sputters and shoves the dress off of her face and into her lap. “This is a masquerade ball for the wealthy Scottish. You can’t wear that,” Ginny teases, gesturing to her leggings and skin tight long sleeve shirt paired with combat boots.
“I love my clothes,” Hermione defends, but she doesn’t argue further. However much she doesn’t want to dress up like some princess, she knows it's needed for the job. She’ll be damned if she loses to Malfoy again.
“Here’s your forged invitation, along with all the details for the job,” Harry tells her, handing her a thick red folder with a very official looking invitation lying on top.
Hermione examines the piece of paper, the perfected calligraphy. “Flawless, as always,” she praises.
Harry is grinning shyly, despite the fact that Hermione praises his abilities almost daily. “You got this, Hermione,” he encourages as Ginny sits beside him again, popping a piece of chocolate into her mouth.
Hermione stretches her arms above her head, honey disappearing behind fluttering eyelids. “I’ll figure it out. I always do.”
When she opens her eyes, they’re not even paying attention to her, and Harry is kissing Ginny gently. He pulls away, cheeks reddened and eyes glossy. “You had some chocolate right there.”
Hermione coughs, scrunching her nose. “Gag me. Get a room.”
“Dinner!” Ron’s voice floats in from the dining room upstairs.
They shuffle up the steps and make their way to the long wooden table, where everyone is already sitting and scooping food onto their plates. The Gryffindors chatter animatedly: Minerva McGonagall is already deep into a conversation with Rubeus Hagrid, and Sirius Black seems to be having a passionate debate with his boyfriend, Remus Lupin. Hermione slides onto the bench next to Ron.
Fred and George smile at her. “Congrats on getting the ring, Hermione,” says George.
“We knew you’d get it, of course,” Fred adds affectionately.
“Thanks, guys.” She grabs a piece of toast. “How are the newest devices you guys are developing coming along?”
“They’re excellent,” Fred exclaims. “We’re in the final testing stages.”
“You’re especially gonna love one of the things we’re working on,” George goes on. “You’ll be able to cut through steel with a laser shot from the fingertip of your glove.”
She opens her mouth to respond when Ron interrupts, “What’s better in your opinion, sausage or bacon?”
She bites back a laugh. Ron and his damn food, she thinks.
Harry is the only one who responds, sipping his pumpkin juice. "Depends. Are we talking about on their own, or coupled with eggs and toast?"
Ron took a moment to consider, as if they weren't talking about breakfast foods. He shoveled a heaping spoonful of pasta into his mouth and said, "Coupled with eggs and toast. I mean, who eats sausage or bacon on their own? Bloody ridiculous..."