The Crescent

‘Have you seen? Hermione, have you seen?’

‘What the fuck are they doing here?’

‘Wands out, all of you!’

‘Ron, calm down –’

‘No, Harry. This is our home! Wands out!’

Hermione dropped off the bottom step into an ocean of anger. Her guests, all twenty of them, had emerged into the hallway, wands clutched and primed. Harry was at the centre with raised hands, glasses askew, desperately trying to be heard.

‘Everyone, calm down! Hey, listen a minute. Guys, please. Guys –’

‘SHUT IT!’

Harry thanked Ginny’s outburst with half a smile. ‘I’ve sent Kingsley a patronus. He’ll be here soon, I’m sure. There must be some misunderstanding or something. A wrong address, maybe. But for now, we have to keep our heads.’

‘But, Harry, it’s –’

‘I know who it is,’ said Harry. ‘We’ve been to the trials. We’ve read the articles. We know they are experts at getting under the Ministry’s skin. Don’t let them get to you too!’

‘But they –’

‘That’s enough,’ Harry said, finally bringing some order. ‘Just carry on as we were. The houses are warded. Right, Hermione?’

All eyes span to her. Her own property wards were the first thing Hermione had checked on arrival. But how was she supposed to know if the rest of their houses were secure? Had they not checked the wards themselves?

‘Ours is,’ she answered. ‘Definitely. I tested them earlier.’

‘There we go. The house is protected.’ Harry clapped his hands together and gestured back towards the drawing room. ‘When Kingsley gets here, me, Ron and Hermione will go out and find out what’s happening. How about that?’

Hermione’s heart thundered. For some reason, Harry still insisted on forcing some warped idea of authority onto her. They weren’t Dumbledore’s Army or prefects or Head Boy or Girl. Friendships didn't need leaders. Yet, evidently, they did.

‘Can you test our houses too?’ Katie Bell asked with a sudden urgency. ‘Please, Hermione. You’re the best at wards. I don’t want any of them stepping one foot in our house. Please.’

Hermione yawned and nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘Tonight? Before bed?’

Hermione drew in a quick, short breath. ‘Sure.’

The group retreated back into the drawing room, though the spirit of the party had fallen unceremoniously flat. Hermione hovered on the cusp of the room, keeping the front door in her periphery, as the others took the remaining seats.

A hand found her arm. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Always,’ Hermione lied, as easy as breathing.

Ginny squeezed Hermione’s elbow. ‘Evenings are drawing in,’ she said. ‘It’ll only get earlier.’

‘I’m aware,’ said Hermione, doing her best to steady her voice.

Ginny and Luna were well-versed in Hermione’s aversion to the night. They had held her through her nightmares. They had stayed up until sunrise and squeezed in powernaps after classes for her. They had left her alone to read or brew potions or roam the castle. Whatever Hermione needed, Ginny and Luna were more than happy to oblige.

And despite being completely unaware of herself most of the time, Ginny had an irritating knack of knowing Hermione.

Hermione caught her friends concerned frown before it could run away with itself. ‘Honest, Gin, it doesn’t bother me like it used to. Stop worrying. I’m a big girl now.’

‘Almost twenty-four. A golden oldie!’ Ginny confirmed with a grin. ‘Just think of the party we could have here.’ She blew out an impressed whistle, as if able to picture it already. ‘Dancefloor over there. Bar in the kitchen. Music. Dancing. Weasley’s. What more could you want?’

Hermione turned square to Ginny and squeezed her shoulders. ‘Nothing ridiculous on my behalf.’

Ginny dismissed her with a flippant wave. ‘I’ll do what I like, thank you very much.’ She took a second to look at Hermione, from the wrestled plait of curly hair down to her comfy trainers. ‘You, know what? When I grow old, I want to be just like you.’

Hermione forced a weak laugh. ‘You want to be tired and boring?’

‘Mature,’ Ginny corrected. ‘Content.’

Content. Interesting. She must have truly mastered her mask if Ginny believed that.

After fifteen minutes of delaying the inevitable, peer pressure won, and Harry led the trio outside. The temperature of the day had dropped. Goosebumps scrambled up Hermione’s neck and legs as she followed Harry and Ron out to the cars where the wives had gathered in a group. None of them were brandishing knives or wands, which she supposed was a good start.

The sight of their bitter expressions brought back flashes of the trials. It had only taken a week to convict the surviving Death Eaters. All guilty. All rotting in Azkaban. Draco Malfoy was the sole exception. He spent two years in Azkaban until Harry’s campaign to free him was picked up by the Wizengamot and he was eventually released.

The wives’ trials, much to Hermione’s surprise, drew a lot more media attention than their partners. It became a circus, dragging on for months and months. Rita Skeeter dedicated a double page spread to them daily. Private interviews. Family photos. Deep-dives into the picture-perfect purebloods. Loyal to the end, spearheaded by the Ice Queen herself, Narcissa Malfoy.

None were found guilty of anything warranting a lengthy spell in Azkaban. They were held there for the month before their trial, but apparently, blind, obedient devotion to their partners could not be considered a crime. In fact, in some cases, it was deemed that the magical bonds of marriage had forced them to help. To agree. To heal their wounded husbands. To see to their prisoners of war.

Pureblood marriages were in the hands of husbands and the timid, innocent wives had no choice. Or so they would have everyone believe.

Hermione’s jaw ached. She hadn’t realised it was clenched so tight, grinding. She sucked in the harsh, evening air. It was cold. Pinching. Not that she felt much at all.

‘Potter?’ spat one of the wives. Mrs Yaxley, Hermione assumed. The oldest of the lot, with silver hair pinned back in a painful bun. She turned her back on them and addressed her own group. ‘Where’s Shacklebolt? This is preposterous!’

‘Oh look, he’s brought the blood traitor and the Mudblood too. What joy!’

Hermione tensed. Her arm instantly seared with heat. Pain rolled from her wrist to her elbow, like matches striking against skin. Her other hand flinched to grip it, and she was suddenly grateful for long, dark sleeves as blood seeped down into her palm.

‘Mind what you say, Mara,’ warned a silky voice. ‘That’s a hate crime now, remember. Eighteen months in Azkaban. For words.’

The crowd jeered as Hermione put her hands behind her back, hiding her damp sleeve and red hand and stepped in front of Harry with her chin up, chest out, daring them to say it again.

Mara Dolohov kissed her teeth at the sight of her. ‘Cissy’s right. Behind closed doors for the foreseeable, ladies.’

Ron pushed Hermione aside, face as crimson as his jumper. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Is the weasel talking to us? Us?’

‘Yes, I’m talking to you, Carrow!’ Ron’s wand was out, pointing to the ground. Harry tugged him back, to little avail. ‘Want me to give you something to talk about?’

‘Muggle Bath, Ron,’ Harry murmured as his eyes flicked up and down the street. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’

‘That sounded like a threat!’ Mrs Travers yelled in fake hysteria. ‘You all saw it, didn’t you? He went for us! Aiming a wand at us poor, unarmed witches –’

‘Poor is not the word I would use,’ Narcissa drawled. A chorus of cackles followed. The sound made the older witch’s mouth turn up and her cheeks dimple. ‘Tell us, Potter. What exactly are the arrangements? What is the plan here?’

‘Er…I don’t know,’ said Harry. He had always shown Narcissa far more respect than she deserved. He insisted she had shown him a kindness in the forest. Displayed altruistic bravery in the act. Though, Hermione struggled to accept self-preservation as courage. ‘I don’t know why you’re here. Who sent for you, Mrs Malfoy?’

‘Ms Black,’ Narcissa corrected. ‘Shacklebolt sent the car. Heinous contraptions. Another way to humiliate us, no doubt.’

‘I’m sure he has a good reason,’ said Harry. ‘Perhaps it would be best for you to wait in the cars –’

‘Oh, I know the reason,’ Narcissa said, her voice rising. ‘The Ministry has taken everything from us – our husbands, our possessions, the majority of our wealth – now, they want our freedom. Look, ladies. They even sent a couple of baby aurors to oversee this pitiful excuse of an initiative.’

‘What initiative?’

Narcissa laughed. It was fake. Her elegant beauty vanished as the wicked laugh contorted her features. ‘You really don’t know? Oh, please let that be so. I would so love to tell you.’

Harry sighed. ‘Go on.’

‘This is to be our new home.’

‘Like hell it is!’

‘That’s enough, Ron. Mrs Mal – Ms Black – please –’

‘Stop trying to reason with them!’

‘How dare you turn your noses up at us!’ snarled Mrs Macnair. She withdrew her wand from her handbag and held it subtly at her side. ‘As if we are happy to live next to you either. Filthy traitor!’

Ron rushed forward, Harry hot on his heels. ‘Me a traitor? Your husband was a murderer!’

‘Stop!’

Ron’s wand hand was rising, as was Mrs Macnair’s. As the other waiting wives rushed for their own wands, Hermione leapt between them.

‘Protego!’

An invisible shield erupted between Ron and Mrs Macnair. Jets of red and blue bounced off either side and faded into the ground. Shouts volleyed between Ron, a one-man army, and eleven furious women and one reticent man: Mr Umbridge, the husband of Azkaban’s most delightful resident.  

Doors along the Crescent opened, and several Weasley’s in pyjamas shuffled from their houses, sleepy at first, but then very awake, reaching for their own wands.

‘What is going on?’ Bill snarled. ‘You? What the – what the hell are you –’

‘Bite me, werewolf!’

Charlie’s head popped around his door. ‘I’ll get Kingsley!’

‘And Percy! Get Perce down here –’

‘Merlin, there’s more of the orange parasites –’

‘ENOUGH!’

The warring group fell silent as Narcissa stepped forward. Her body was facing Ron, but her head suddenly cocked in Hermione’s direction.

‘Aren’t you going to say anything, Miss Granger?’ Narcissa asked. Her tone was short, dripping in demand. ‘You are Shacklebolt’s protégé, are you not? You must have known.’

‘Do you think I would be here if I did?’ Hermione’s voice was small but sure as she stared at her shield. ‘Why don’t we wait quietly? Wands away.’

‘Mione –’

‘Wands away,’ she ordered, cancelling the shield. It surprised Hermione to learn her words still held some weight. Her friends holstered their wands.

‘Miss Granger.’

Hermione rolled her neck at the sound of her name in Narcissa’s mouth. ‘What?’

‘Your wand.’

Hermione glanced down at her side. Her wand was still trembling in her tight grip, the only one out and ready. Her cheeks flushed as she forced her dry mouth to swallow and slid her wand back into her pocket.

Another dose. Chop, chop, girl.

‘Look, we all know there has been a mistake. Hermione works for the Wizengamot,’ Ron explained in an arrogant tone. ‘She would have heard about this. And she hasn’t, so –’

‘No, I don’t,’ Hermione stated. ‘I’ve never worked for the Wizengamot. I worked in Wizengamot Administration Services –’

‘Same difference –’

‘Two years ago,’ Hermione added, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘For five days.’

‘Oh dear.’ Narcissa tittered. ‘Trouble in paradise, is it? Lover’s tiff?’

Hermione had managed to avoid Narcissa’s glare so far, but the woman’s sarcastic glee had banished any looming fears. She lifted her chin and met Narcissa’s eyes. They were blank. Unreadable. Too busy trying to stare Hermione down to give anything away.

Look away. Look away, or you won’t sleep for a week.  

Hermione’s neck rolled again, squirming under the weight of her drained, heavy head. She wasn’t going to sleep regardless, so why worry about it now? She locked onto Narcissa’s glare and took hold.

Stupid, stupid witch.

Several thumping moments passed until a sharp crack snapped from the end of the Crescent. The contest was over. Both witches turned to the sound. Kingsley hustled out of the last house, purple robes trailing behind his feet.

Harry’s shoulders dropped with relief. ‘Minister!’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Kingsley between panting breaths. ‘You were supposed to arrive tomorrow.’

‘What?’ Ron once again reached for his wand. ‘No, no, no. Not tomorrow. Not ever –’

‘I apologise for the error, Mr Weasley,’ said Kingsley. ‘I was supposed to take tomorrow morning to explain. The Ministry has decided to relieve the spouses of known Death Eaters of their house arrest. But the Wizengamot believes significant rehabilitation is still needed. They are to live here, among you. They are to assimilate back into wizarding society. Mix with all walks of life, whether that be half-bloods, muggle-borns or even muggles. If they cannot prove themselves to be upstanding, decent members of society, then an expanded wing of Azkaban awaits.’

The group of partners muttered, spitting obscenities under their breath. Ron looked to Hermione, silently, desperately willing her to what? Interject? Tell the Minister of Magic that he was wrong?

So, you are not just a toolbox, but a mouthpiece as well?

‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ Harry shook his dipping head. ‘Not everyone would have agreed if they had known…’

‘And there is your reason, Mr Potter,’ said Narcissa. She clasped her hands together. ‘Mr Shacklebolt has an exceptional aptitude for deceit, don’t you, Minister?’

Kingsley’s face fell as he took in the chaos of his own creation. ‘I am truly sorry that we…misled you regarding the circumstances of your move. I would appreciate if you returned to your homes while I settle the rest in. Tomorrow, I will explain more.’

‘But we live from end to end,’ Ron said, swooping his arm the full length of the Royal Crescent. ‘Where are they supposed to go?’

‘You are in the even numbered houses,’ said Kingsley. ‘They will be moving into the odds.’ 

‘The odds?’ Narcissa’s face hardened at the not-so-subtle insult. She clenched her jaw and looked to her comrades, before replacing her icy mask. ‘As you wish, Minister. Lead the way.’

*

Once Harry had explained everything to the rest of the party, it quietly disbanded. Hermione escorted the small huddles of her grumbling friends back to their houses and checked over their wards. They were solid, much the same as hers, but she added a couple of extra precautionary shields, over the chimney pots and letterboxes, just in case. Some of them waited beside her, with an offering of alcohol or polite conversation, but most locked themselves in and left her to it.

It was gone eleven o’clock by the time she returned home. She washed the dried blood from her arm and poked her head through Ginny’s door to bid her and Harry goodnight. She then filled her flask, finished the drinks left abandoned in the kitchen and slipped out of the house. 

Bath was truly beautiful. It was the only thing she knew for definite about the whole affair. Light stoned houses and yellow streetlights guided her aimless feet. Roads were quiet of cars, but pavements busy with wandering couples and groups of students. Hermione followed a small sound. Chatter. Loud laughter. Soft music. The louder it grew, the quicker she walked.

She jogged across one last road. The sign for The Red Chariot was illuminated, draped in festoon lights. Hermione entered into a wall of dull, constant noise. Droning music. Conversations she couldn’t decipher. Cutlery and glasses clattering on tables. Smells of spilt alcohol and leftover dinners.

Hermione released a deep breath and drowned in it all. The distraction of strangers. At last.

‘What can I get you?’ asked the barman, a tall, wiry man with flushed red cheeks.

Hermione climbed onto a stool at the bar and scanned the wall of liquor bottles. ‘Two sambuca blacks, please,’ she said. ‘Could you open a tab? Thanks.’

He plonked the shots in front of her and Hermione instantly tossed the first back, shivering at the taste. She whipped out her flask and squeezed the empty shot glass between her knees, out of sight of the barman, and filled it to the brim with dark purple liquid. She set it next to the other shot, hidden behind her cupped hand.

Sleeping Draught. After months of nightly use following the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione had grown immune to the potions intended purpose. However, she found that paired with good, strong alcohol, it offered her another remedy. She drank the Sleeping Draught and sambuca in quick succession, then tipped her body forward, letting the bar take her weight.

Calm dropped through her body. A wistful fog drifted behind her eyes. There was nothing to worry about. No ghosts to run from. No inhibitions to care about. She couldn’t find the will to care about anything at all, actually. And it was utterly liberating.

Nothing mattered except the next moment ahead. Simple predictions of little importance. What drink would someone order. Which table held the funniest muggle. Which song would play next on the jukebox. The other punters were reduced to mere actors in the mindless play Hermione was gladly watching.

Time passed quickly in the bustling bar. Strange shoulders brushed with hers. Clusters of friends convened in loud shouts, hollering back to the rest of their group for drink orders. A trio of girls giggled and pooled all their cash together, leaving with a tray of shots lofted high over their head like a trophy.

Hermione was mindlessly enjoying the night, until five older men pushed themselves to the front of the bar, each red in the face and balding, waving obnoxious hands for the barman’s attention.

‘Oi, mate!’ The largest man snatched at the back of the barman’s shirt. ‘Piss off, we were next!’

The barman shrugged off the grip and continued to serve two women to Hermione’s right.

‘Oi! Hello? Are you deaf as well as dumb?’

‘I’ll see to you next.’

The man lunged over the bar and spat at the barman’s shoes. ‘Prick!’

Hermione sighed heavily. She liked the barman. He kept her glass full without judgement and scolded young men when they leered too close. And he smiled a lot. He definitely didn’t deserve to be treated like dirt. Hermione reached her fingers into her sleeve and placed her wand on her lap.

‘Fucking prick! Yeh, you! And what? And what?’

With a quick flick of her wand, the angry man’s eyes shot open, and a dark, damp patch spread across his crotch. Once one friend noticed, word and laughter spread like wildfire, and before Hermione could take another sip, he was rushing from the bar with his gang of snorting friends, swearing profusely as he went.

Hermione slipped the wand back into her sleeve and watched the bar refill with fresh, friendlier clientele. But, where the men had once stood, she found a woman sitting alone, long, pale fingers pinching the stem of a wine glass. The woman tilted her chin up to Hermione and arched a perfectly plucked brow.

It should have made her crumble. It should have squeezed the life out of her pounding heart. But it didn’t. The brew of Sleeping Draught and sambuca had calmed her nerves nicely.

‘I could report you to the IUMO,’ Narcissa said casually.

Improper Use of Magic Office. Hermione scoffed. She could say the same thing to her. Narcissa must have cast some sort of disillusionment charm on herself, because nobody but the barman cared to notice her. And she was hardly dressed to blend in. A black witch’s robe hung loosely from her shoulders, swamping her body. The hood gathered around her neck, nestled like a cosy scarf beneath strands of blonde and black hair.

Finding Narcissa in a muggle bar was like seeing a shark in the forest. A total oddity. It didn’t belong, therefore it shouldn’t. Hermione didn't believe for one second that the witch was happy to sit amongst muggles at all, let alone loud, brash, drunk ones.

Hermione came for the noise. It seemed Narcissa stayed despite it.

How had she not noticed her? Nobody else was paying her any attention either. And Hermione bet that bothered the older witch more than anything…

‘It is rude to stare, Miss Granger.’

Hermione blinked away as warmth trickled up her neck into her cheeks.

Time for another dose.

She asked the barman to line up her next shot, and while his back was turned, took another large swig from her flask.

An hour of foggy solace passed. Hermione continued to ignore Narcissa’s presence and slumped against her arms, enjoying the warmth of strange bodies. She nuzzled her nose into the fibres of her jumper. It was soft. It smelt like copper and parchment. She wondered if she would remember her way back home. It didn't matter either way. Her smile warmed as she tried to decide which book from her library to read before sunrise.

A loud clatter stirred her from her careless daydream. The barman was clanging a bell above the shelf of whiskey bottles, shouting, ‘LAST ORDERS!’ He turned to Hermione with his hand already on a half-empty bottle of sambuca. ‘Another two?’

She nodded, perking upright. The barman filled her empty glasses and passed her a receipt so long it trailed off the bar.

Hermione narrowed her eyes and pointed over to Narcissa. ‘She’ll pay my tab,’ she said loudly.

‘I don’t think –’

‘Ask her,’ Hermione demanded. ‘Go on. She won’t mind. We go way back.’

The barman frowned and carefully approached Narcissa, apologising as he explained. Narcissa’s jaw flexed as she brought her glass of wine to her lips. With a pointed glance to Hermione, Narcissa replied to the barman with rolling eyes and a short, sharp nod.

He returned to Hermione’s side of the bar. ‘You were right. Sorry, I just didn’t want to assume. Your tab’s clear. And all future drinks, apparently. So, enjoy.’

Hermione concentrated hard on his face, trying to stop it blurring. It was pleasant. Smiley. With a ginger stubble and kind eyes. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Stuart.’

‘Stuart,’ Hermione repeated. ‘Please, feel free to add a very generous tip onto that tab of hers.’

Stuart smiled and took back her receipt. Once he had left the bar area, Hazel glugged yet another mouthful of potion and gasped at the taste.

‘Miss Granger.’

Hermione heard the words but paid them little attention. She knew well enough who they belonged to.

‘Miss Granger?’

The swirl of alcohol and potion was brimming through her. A bolt of false courage. She peered across to Narcissa. ‘Are you talking to me?’

‘Who else?’

Hermione looked around. Stuart was collecting glasses. The crowd had dispersed. It was just them.

‘Twelve doses of Sleeping Draught,’ said Narcissa. ‘You should be dead.’

Hermione withdrew her flask and raised it to Narcissa in a toast. ‘If only it were that easy.’

Narcissa’s usual, passive expression flickered for a moment. ‘I hope you are aware that this will not end well,’ she said. ‘Whatever the Ministry’s plan is, convince them otherwise.’

‘I don’t care what their plans are,’ said Hermione. ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’

‘Well, nothing is ever to do with you, but you and your friends have once again found a way to involve yourselves.’ She pursed her lips and sipped her red wine. ‘It will all end in tears and rest assured they will not be ours. Those women do not play nicely in such close quarters.’

‘What about you?’ Hermione hopped off the stool and slowly stepped around the bar, around the back of Narcissa’s shoulders, allowing the thoughtless fog to control her next move. ‘How do you fare in close quarters, Ice Queen? That’s what Skeeter calls you.’

‘So, I’ve heard,’ Narcissa said. ‘But be careful about what you believe in that rag. Our reputations do not always precede us. Take you for example. Supposedly the Golden Girl, yet I couldn’t believe the pathetic, meek thing I saw earlier. Trembling. Silent. It was pitiful, really. I would even go as far as to say that I have more lion in me than you do.’

‘But lions have claws, Malfoy.’ Hermione peered down at Narcissa’s blunt fingers. They were squeezing the stem tighter, turning her fingertips white. ‘Did Azkaban file yours down?’

Narcissa blinked slowly. She had several empty wine glasses lined up beside her, but she seemed to hold her alcohol absurdly well. Where Hermione was sloppy, Narcissa remained poised. Perfect.

‘Don’t start what you can’t finish, darling,’ Narcissa finally replied. ‘And it’s Black. I suggest you stumble on back to your seat and leave me to my wine.’

Hermione ignored the instruction and perched on the edge of the stool beside Narcissa. If she had overstepped, her mind did not care or was not aware.

‘You’re all talk in front of your friends, but what happens when you’re alone with no one to defend you? With no one to laugh?’ Hermione swiped the glass from Narcissa’s hand and glugged it dry. ‘No, let me guess. The same as ever. You cower. And wither. And hide behind some rotten reputation that you think is your magic-given right.’

Narcissa’s nostrils flared, but otherwise, she remained composed. ‘Perhaps I am all talk,’ she said. ‘Allow me to prove that theory, won’t you, Mudblood?’

Hermione’s body shuddered. Her hand flexed, dropping Narcissa’s glass onto the bar with a clatter. The stain on her brown sleeve dampened and darkened. She closed her eyes and breathed swiftly through the pain.

‘I thought as much.’ Narcissa gripped Hermione’s wrist so tight her nails pinched the skin. ‘Merlin, Bella really did a number on you, didn’t she? Pull up your sleeve. Show me.’

‘Don’t touch me.’

Narcissa’s hold tightened. ‘Show me, Miss Granger.’

Hermione wrenched her arm free, scratching her wrist bloody on Narcissa’s nails in the process. ‘It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.’

‘Miss Granger…’

Hermione gathered her jacket and draped it over her stinging arm. ‘Thank you for the drinks, Ms Black. Have a pleasant evening.’