A/N: Hello, everyone. Well, looks like this will be the last chapter I post before I get back to school, but fortunately it's quite long! In fact, it's the longest I've ever written. Ever. So, I hope you enjoy it and massive thanks to my (regrettably few) reviewers-I really love you guys!
Disclaimer: Although there are more of my own character creations in this fic than not, I don't own Harry Potter or his friends.
Chapter 6~~Cheeky Vimto
"Mark!" Hermione gasped, putting one hand out to steady herself against the doorframe as the other clutched her chest. "What are you doing in here?" she asked, still breathless from both her encounter with Ebenezer Powell and the discovery of Mark Bonner sitting behind her desk, seemingly without a care in the world.
Mark removed his feet from where they were propped on the mahogany surface of Hermione's desk and reached her across the room in two large bounds just as she was hanging her cloak on back of her office door. He shifted his weight forward and backward as though he thought to hug her but wasn't sure if it was appropriate. He settled for an awkward pat on the shoulder and an enthusiastic "Welcome back, Hermione! How was your holiday? I must say, it was dreadfully dull without you around to brighten things up!"
The tension from her argument with her boss diminished with Mark's familiar friendliness. She found herself returning his infectious grin and answering quite cheerfully, "Thanks, it's good to be back, though I wouldn't necessarily call my time off from work a `holiday.'"
Mark smirked and seated himself in one of the armchairs by Hermione's faux fireplace-the very chair once occupied by Charlotte Fairclough. "That's right, because Hermione Granger never goes on holiday; that would ruin her image as a workaholic."
Hermione plopped gracelessly into her usual chair, whipping out her wand to summon the pitcher of water and two glasses from the small table by her desk. She shook her head at her friend's audacious sarcasm and muttered a joking, "Cheeky." With a sigh and a freshly filled water glass, she settled into her chair fully and banished the thoughts of all the work she should be doing. She waited until Mark had taken a large sip before admitting, "It did me a chance to get some housework done."
After Mark's prompt spurt of water, his half-hearted scolding of Hermione, and the immature laughter that ensued, Hermione granted that Ginny did have a point in making humorous comments during others' drinking. She also wondered if perhaps Mark was really the man for her-after all, they had fun together, Mark was very charming and had the intellectual prowess to instigate and hold his own in intelligent conversation. It would be very easy to love Mark. But as she watched him nimbly cast the charm to dry up the hard to see water droplets, she realized that she and Mark were simply the perfect example of two rights making a wrong. There would never be a time when Harry was not the first person she thought of if she was in trouble or if she had good news; the first person she wanted to see in the morning and the last person she wanted to see at night.
It was just too bad that it would be supremely difficult bordering on impossible to convey this information to a man whose friendship was so important to her. And she wasn't sure if she meant Harry or Mark when she thought this.
"So anyway," said Mark when he had sobered, "I came by to warn you that your boss has been snooping about a bit since you left and was particularly interested in some of your files on that woman who died, so you might want to be on your guard."
Hermione blew out of puff of air disgustedly along with her good humor, leaping off her chair and pacing rapidly across the room and back. "Yes, I've already encountered that, unfortunately. And he actually took the files from me, though I'm not quite sure why since I've been told that I am not personally under investigation nor does there seem to be any prerogative to conduct one of Charlotte's death. I'm quite sure Harry will call it off anyway. It's horrible that there's no doctor-patient confidentiality in the wizarding world," she said, almost without drawing breath. She continued pacing while Mark regarded her with an odd look on his face.
"What?" she asked defensively when she noticed him staring at her.
Mark looked confused. "I thought you said that your meeting with Charlotte went well?" he said uncertainly.
Hermione thought back to that day and how Charlotte was in tears for nearly the full hour. She shook her head at Mark, clearing the images and answering Mark's question. "No, I think you are mistaken. I remember her as an older, matronly woman, who talked only of missing her husband and how her life was empty without him. I was quite sad for her."
Again Mark looked at her curiously. "Are you sure?" was all he said as he leaned forward in his chair. He nodded his head once when she answered in the affirmative and shrugged his shoulders in a "Whatever you say," kind of way. He glanced at his watch absently, made a small oomph of dismay, and stood up suddenly. Within fifteen seconds he had grabbed his lime green Healers robe, explained that he was late and had to get to work, invited her to lunch and shut the door. For this first time since she had gotten dressed, Hermione was alone with her thoughts.
The past hour flashed back at her in brief chronological bits: Harry's parting words, her confrontation with Powell and the subsequent handing over of what should be privileged information, and Mark's eagerness to welcome her back. She naively wished for a way to please everyone, but she knew this to be realistically impossible.
"I will not have you bring down this department."
Hermione could practically hear her boss' voice spitting the words at her as she sat at her desk. How dare he suggest that she act in a manner other than what was in the best interest of her clients, when the very idea of the department was hers to begin with! If I were older, or more credible as a department head, I would not be in this situation, she thought with irritation. Powell was using Hermione's professionalism and duty to her job against her, for his own gain. She doubted the Ministry had given any such order to collect evidence against his own employees. In fact, ever since the creation of her department in St. Mungo's, Hermione had never known there to be any such direct communication between the wizarding hospital and the Ministry. Could Powell be lying? she wondered, tapping the point of her quill on the desk blotter. But what could he gain with possession of Charlotte Fairclough's notes?
"And this time, not even your friends in high places can help you."
There was no doubt in who he meant by that. Though many of her friends and other members of the Order gained considerable prestige after the war-hadn't even Mark gotten an Order of Merlin, Second Class?-Hermione was certain that despite his resemblance to a purple inflated gasbag, Ebenezer Powell was no thick-headed idiot, and that the only person he could possibly be referring to was none other than Harry Potter. But she could only guess at what Powell meant with this threat. Perhaps he knew that Hermione had played a large part, with her connection to Harry, in keeping the investigation into the circumstances of Charlotte's death going. But then why take the files? Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose; she could feel a headache coming on.
Her circulating thoughts were interrupted by a well-timed knock on the door. Squeezing out from behind her desk and smoothing the invisible wrinkles in her skirt, Hermione shuffled to the door curiously. When she opened it, she was surprised to see Isabelle's relieved face peeking back at her. Instantly, Hermione's face broke out in a grin as she beckoned her receptionist to enter the office.
"Thanks, but I can't stay long," Isabelle said, accepting the invitation in her clipped American accent. "Glad to be back? I tell you, I had a helluva time reorganizing your appointment schedule. You're on for Adam Finnin at eleven o'clock, by the way. Yeah, and Powell just told me something about not scheduling any new patients?"
Hermione rolled her eyes at her boss' strange but petty antics. "Yes, since I am technically on probation, I'm not allowed to take on any new clients," she explained, not bothering to withhold her bitterness at the situation.
Hesitantly, Isabelle placed her hand on Hermione's forearm and said quietly, "I was so sorry to hear about Mrs. Fairclough. I know you had only met with her once, but she was a very nice woman."
"She was a very lovely woman, yes," agreed Hermione in a small voice.
The silenced stretched between the two young women until with a sigh, Isabelle added, "Strong. Independent. Kind of like you, huh?"
Wrinkling her brow, Hermione took a step back. Isabelle's hand dropped back to her side and she looked embarrassed for her boldness. "What did you mean by that?" asked Hermione, surprised that anyone who had seen Charlotte after her session with Hermione could make that comparison.
Isabelle looked distinctly uncomfortable, as though she was a student being lectured by a teacher for speaking out of turn. She clutched and smoothed the front of her robes, constructing a reply. "Sorry, I didn't mean anything by it. She just reminded me of you sort of, the way she laughed at my stupid jokes and asked what State I was from and stuff. She told about the time she and her husband planned a daytrip from New York to South Carolina and hadn't known how long it would take. You English always think everything is so close together, but-"
Hermione put up a hand to halt her rambling friend. "No, what did you mean about her being strong and funny? She had just spent an hour crying practically in my arms! Couldn't you tell?"
Bewildered, cocked her head to the side and scrunched up her face in thought. "No," she began uncertainly, "she seemed fine to me." Isabelle paused and Hermione could feel her eyes studying her. Suddenly her expression cleared and she shrugged. "But hey, I only saw her for a few minutes, maybe she was just done crying by the time she got to me."
Hermione shrugged too and smiled, though she wasn't entirely satisfied with the answer. Something about how other people were reacting to Charlotte Fairclough just wasn't adding up…
"Well anyway," interrupted Isabelle, her usual perkiness restored, "I just wanted to stop by and welcome you back. Oh, and remind you that Adam Finnin will be here in a half hour or so."
Hermione nodded, holding the door for her receptionist and thanking her for the information. With an unnecessary glance at the wall clock, Hermione began to prepare herself for her first client since returning to work. In her magically enlarged filing cabinet, Hermione kept the records from every session with every client. The second drawer containing the files was charmed to never be filled, so she pulled it out to nearly four feet before she got to the proper section of the alphabet. Her fingers flitted deftly through the names as she recited them aloud, pausing every so often to remind herself of the corresponding face to a name.
"Egnew…Ferguson…Findlay…ah, here you are, Finnin," she said triumphantly, pulling from the drawer a thick folder labeled `Finnin, Adam.' On the front cover was a list of dates that Hermione and Adam had met. Hermione knew him well on a professional level-the tall and well-toned wizard was one of her first clients and one of the few to openly support her idea for the department by scheduling a session. She had only known him before the war as the young owner of Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop in Hogsmeade, so it was of little surprise that he recognized her from her student days.
She laid the tightly bounded parchment gently on her desk and fetched her partially filled water glass from the side table by her armchair. She barely registered the dropping frequency of the liquid as she poured it into the glass because her mind was focused on the progress of her sessions with Adam. What Hermione found so comfortable about Adam was that since he was one of her first clients, they had traveled the path of the healing process together and had formed a relationship that, but for its clear professional component, was as close to friendship as she had gotten with any of her clients. Harry used to joke that he felt like he and Adam had known each other their whole lives, since Hermione spoke of him so highly at home. Adam had even inadvertently inspired Hermione's use of a pensieve to wade through a client's individual memories in order to face their fear. Not many clients were in the position to sift through their own traumatizing reminders, but Adam felt the foray into his subconscious to be wonderfully cathartic. The few jars of memories were kept in the magically sealed first drawer of Hermione's clever cabinet.
The wall clock struck quarter to eleven and Hermione carried her glass of water back to her desk, humming along with the clock's chime. She plopped unceremoniously into her chair, grateful that no one was there to witness that particular part of her work ethic. While sipping sporadically on her water, she slid the folder toward her and noticed that it seemed lighter than before. She realized that she had accidentally grabbed two files from the cabinet and leaned forward to read the name on the partially obscured one on the bottom. What she saw made her freeze.
Three years ago, about the time that Adam had first started to meet with her and see was still inexperienced in her field, she pycho-analyzed herself and committed the findings to a stray piece of parchment. At the time, it was merely a way to familiarize herself with what she should expect from the average client dealing with the events of the war. Back then she was better at disassociating her emotions from her practice, though she supposed that her grief must have always been lurking just below her surface façade of cool and collected calm.
Somewhere in the back of her mind she had wondered what happened to it, but that didn't keep her from being surprised that it had been under `Granger, Hermione' the entire time. She shrugged to herself; she must have just forgotten that it still existed. Slowly she pulled the parchment toward her, intrigued and not a little curious of its contents. What would the amateur therapist Hermione have made of herself then? What would she make of herself now?
On the front cover was just one date, the day she had decided to name herself her own very first client. She lifted the cover and paused to read. The writing was surprisingly blunt and simple; no flowery explanations of feelings and their causes, but just pure and undeniable fact. Like all of the other files, the notes were in her script, because she had enchanted the quill that wrote them. This was a property not shared by the Quick-Quotes Quill, which for all intents and purposes had a mind of its own.
Name: Hermione Jane Granger
Date of Birth: 19/09/79
Observations: Misdirected anger toward Death Eaters and the Order manifested as angry feelings toward self-survivor's guilt. Tormented by feelings of physical and emotional inadequacy, stemming from death of Robert Henderson, Magical Law Enforcement Officer. Failure to revive Henderson appears to be main concern. Client reports troubled sleep, brief periods of insomnia, and mild depression.
Suggestive Treatment: Symptoms seem to be diminishing without treatment. Client's desire to overcome angry feelings coupled with the difficulty in maintaining awareness of guilt for a protracted period of time may be sufficient for recovery.
With a small smile that might have gone unnoticed by any witness, Hermione read the single word in the final category.
Support network: Harry
The next page in the file should have contained the dictated testimony of her association with Robert Henderson's death. She made a slow move to search beneath Adam's file for the elusive page, dreading the words that she had spoken three years before. There was barely time for her to register that beneath Adam's hefty file there lay nothing but the glossy surface of her desk blotter when a knock sounded. The next moment the clock chimed eleven and she quickly scrambled to tidy her desk of the detritus of files.
With a satisfying clink, she heard the second drawer to the filing cabinet shut and seal itself. She approached the door, smoothing her wispy, rebellious strands of hair, and found the slightly stooped figure of Adam Finnin on the other side. His long frame was bent over to accommodate the too short length of his walking cane and his stringy chocolate brown hair flopped casually into his eye.
"Hermione," he said, his tone jovial, "Nose back at the grindstone I see."
She nodded with an agreeing smile, chuckling at his unique greeting and accepting his one-armed hug. "It has been too long." She stepped back and gestured for him to enter and seat himself while she hastily bustled back toward her desk to initiate the quill dictation. Out of habit he made a beeline straight for the armchair with the matching ottoman, keeping most of his weight on his intricately carved wooden cane. Moments later he was sighing in contentment, leaning back into the upholstery and propping his lame leg on the footrest, as Hermione handed him a steaming cup of tea and seated herself across from him.
Adam was in the minority of Hermione's clients that had fought in the war but were relatively unencumbered by its aftereffects. No, instead Adam enlisted Hermione to help him not get over but appreciate the death of his kid sister, Jemma, who had died in an awful broom flying accident when he was still at Hogwarts. Adam had been coping with the fact for nearly twenty years before the inception of Hermione's department at St. Mungo's.
Now having been her client for three years, there weren't many new details to surface. Hermione had always been a good listener, even when she put up her sometimes stubborn and admittedly bossy façade, so her sessions with Adam mostly just required steady silence on her part or a prompting question. She was quite proud to be a part of his grieving process, but equally sad that soon she would be no longer needed.
With this sobering thought in mind, she settled into her chair and asked, "So, what shall we discuss today?"
Adam gravely set his cup on the side table and rubbed his hands together vaguely. "I want to talk about the war," he said, sounding confident and unsure at the same time.
Hermione deftly hid her look of surprise and merely nodded. "All right," she said, offering him the chance to begin.
He sighed and looked away from her into the merrily crackling flames in the grate beside them. "Well it's just…given recent events, I can't really help but think about it. With Charlotte dying, I feel like it's opened up a whole new can of worms-"
Hermione visibly started and struggled to re-impose her calm exterior. "You knew Charlotte Fairclough?" she asked, remarkably without a quaver in her voice. She couldn't get over what a small world it was.
Shrugging indifferently, he replied, "Well, yes, everyone in Hogsmeade knows everyone else-and everyone else's business." He chuckled good-naturedly. "The curse of a village life, I'm afraid." Hermione smiled, coming back to herself. Adam continued, broaching the topic of his fight in the war and his lingering injury from it with almost uncharacteristic seriousness. She learned that the brave wizard before her had fought nearly every battle through to the final showdown-for many, the worst and best day of their entire lives-and had suffered a compound fracture of his right tibia a few days before Voldemort was destroyed. Since it had been inadequately splinted there in the field, there was little the Healers in St. Mungo's could do to restore his leg to normal mobility.
The next three-quarters of an hour passed quickly while the pair discussed not only significant events of the war, but whether they should consider the employment of the pensieve. Hermione wasn't sure it was necessary and felt that to the abuse the privilege of possessing a pensieve was also an abuse of her position as Adam's counselor, but the wizard seemed his typical adventurous self and removed the memories himself while Hermione gently protested. She let it go, hoping to persuade him against diving into his own memories during their next session. Adam had come to her initially to discuss the loss of his sister, and though Hermione was bound by her own sacred oath to help her clients in any way that she could, she felt that go veering off this direction would, in Adam's own words, "open up another can of worms."
Thankfully, the clock struck the hour and they spent the next few minutes casually chatting while Adam prepared for his departure. Something struck Hermione as odd and she turned to ask Adam as he donned his cloak.
"If I may ask, what about the events concerning Mrs. Fairclough made you think of the war?"
Adam paused momentarily and Hermione was thinking that maybe she had gotten too personal when he answered quietly, "Oh, Charlotte fought next to me quite a few times after her husband died." He cleared his throat in an unusual display of emotion, given that they had just spent the last hour talking about death and destruction. "She was a good shot, too," he added with his customary light-heartedness, the moment before forgotten. Hermione couldn't help but return his smile.
By then she was already pulling open the door for Adam, surprised to find the forms of Harry and Persephone on the other side, clad in their scarlet Auror robes and smudged with soot. Realizing they must have traveled by Floo, Hermione glanced at her best friend and stifled a giggle at the hint of discomfort she saw gracing his features. She opened her mouth to question their visit when Persephone began speaking in her richly pure voice.
"Excuse the interruption, Miss Granger," she said formally with an incline of her head to Hermione and Adam, "but the Auror department requires your signature on this affidavit declaring the case regarding the death of one Charlotte Henrietta Maria Fairclough closed. As her grief counselor, we are bound to inform you that her final cause of death was found to be suicide by poison ingestion." She said this all with the slow and clinical detachment becoming to her profession, but Hermione was still caught off guard to hear it from her newest acquaintance.
Hermione's familiar manner vanished; the Aurors were there for business only, never mind their personal relationship with her. She turned to politely make her farewell to Adam when she felted strangely light-headed. She paused in the middle of her goodbye and felt three pairs of eyes regarding her curiously.
"All right, Hermione?" came Harry's concerned voice. The world seemed strangely sluggish, and it seemed to take ages for the sound of Harry's words to reach her ears. She shook her head as though to dislodge an errant strand of hair, and answered in a surprisingly clear voice. "Yes, I'm fine."
All at once everything sped up to its usual pace and Hermione looked to where Persephone held out the parchment for her to sign. Hermione patted her pockets for a quill when one was handed to her from the quill shop owner himself. "Thanks," she said, taking the proffered quill and scrawling her name on the indicated line. She hoped to never have to sign another affidavit like it, but knew that life dealt its own Bludgers every now and then. She returned the borrowed quill and Adam tipped his pointed wizard cap to her and smiling politely at Harry and Persephone before hobbling toward Isabelle's desk to schedule his next appointment. Persephone was meticulously rolling up the parchment, a scowl marring her otherwise beautiful face.
"So it was poison," said Hermione with a sigh, more of a statement than a question.
Persephone rearranged her features into a look of respectful sympathy and answered, "Yes."
"Conium maculatum," added Harry.
"Hemlock," said Hermione and Persephone simultaneously, though the former sounded incredulous while the latter was merely commenting. Surprise flickered briefly on her face before it relaxed into its usual brisk expression, the moment for condolences passed.
Hermione's brow was furrowed over Harry's puzzling behavior, when she suddenly remembered something. "Did you ever figure out why those witnesses were changing their testimony?" she asked curiously. Harry cringed as Persephone threw him a sharp glance. Hermione wanted to smack her forehead for her stupidity; clearly she had just revealed to his partner that Harry had told her some probably classified information. She winced in apology as he glanced away from Persephone's demanding face.
"It's not his fault," she said, not sure why she felt the need to explain herself. "I made him tell me."
Persephone did not look away from Harry's discomfiture and responded coolly, "An Auror should not be so easily persuaded." She held her scolding gaze for several moments before suddenly bursting out into laughter. Hermione and Harry's eyes met in shocked confusion, their mouths gaping open. "Oh, honestly, you two! I don't care that someone here can't help but take their work home with them," she laughed, jutting her head toward Harry. "Don't worry, I won't report you. Besides, you have enough dirt on me to fill a Martian crater anyway."
Harry cracked a relieved smile. His next words were drowned out by a loud voice coming down the hall. "Hermione! Harry!" Three heads swiveled to see Mark on his way to Hermione's office, dressed in the Muggle clothing that he usually wore underneath his Healer robes. He wore a wide smile, which faltered slightly when he saw the third party. "Oh, hello Persephone," he said more quietly, a tinge of color on his cheeks. Hermione and Harry carefully avoided looking at each other lest they collapse into laughter at the scene of adorable embarrassment.
"Hello, Mark," Persephone replied with a pretty smile, her playful tone gone.
Mark cleared his throat and neither Hermione nor Harry made a move to salvage the conversation. "I'm just here to pick up Hermione for lunch," he said to fill the silence.
Hermione noticed a flicker of something pass Persephone's face and she realized how it must have sounded. "To celebrate my return to wonderland of employment," she added with a nervous laugh.
The Aurors smiled. "Then by all means, don't let us keep you," Persephone said, her pleasant expression restored. She turned to Harry. "We should head back anyway," she suggested, and he shrugged. He stepped closer to Hermione to hug her goodbye, something he wouldn't ordinarily have done in front of such company, but she accepted it warmly anyway. Soon she could only see his and Persephone's scarlet backs receding down the hall, and so she ducked back into her office to grab her bag before heading out to lunch with Mark.
A half hour later, when they were seated and tucking in ravenously to their sandwiches, Hermione decided to broach the topic of Mark's amusingly awkward behavior around Persephone.
"So Mark," she began after taking a sip of her iced tea, "how are things with you and Persephone?" She made sure to ask when his mouth was unengaged; she didn't want to risk his choking for her own pleasure at poking fun at him.
He seemed to be thinking along the same lines, but he took another bite, Hermione knew, to stall for time. Finally he swallowed and answered Hermione's expectant expression. "She's a really nice girl." He took another bite and made a show off unfolding his paper napkin with his free hand.
Hermione raised her eyebrows. "That's all?" she asked, entirely unsatisfied with lack of gossip that her friend was providing. She refused to believe that her poor matchmaking skills had anything to do with Mark's lack of success.
Suddenly he seemed to flare up, replying in an uncharacteristically defensive tone. "Yes, that's all. Blimey, what is this, the Spanish Inquisition?" He bit roughly into his sandwich, sitting back in his chair as though distancing himself from her would deter her questions as well.
She continued to chew calmly, betraying none of her feelings of confusion. She had thought the question was innocent enough, yet she had a hunch that his reaction wasn't entirely to do with the subject matter of their conversation. "No, this is one friend asking another a simple question. But if you don't want to talk about it, that's fine," she said, continuing to eat her meal. Their lunch hour was already half over and Hermione wanted to make sure she got a chance to look over the notes from sessions with Adam and other clients before she had to return home to get ready for the night out with her two best friends.
Mark seemed to sag in his seat and put down his partially eaten sandwich. He ran his hand through his hair in a style oddly reminiscent of Harry and said, "I'm sorry, Hermione, I've just had a rough day. I shouldn't take it out on you."
"You're right, you shouldn't," agreed Hermione in mock sternness. "What happened?"
He made a sound halfway between annoyance and embarrassment. "Well, somehow Pye found out that I brought Persephone into the storeroom. You know how the attending Healers are, sticklers for rules and whatnot, and we're not supposed to bring anyone into those designated rooms. And he just kept going on and on about how it's dangerous to bring outsiders in, you never know what could be stolen, blah blah blah…" He sighed and buried his face in his arms, the sandwich forgotten.
She thought Pye might have a point. "Have there been many thefts lately?" she asked curiously.
Mark looked sheepish. "A few," he admitted. "But I swear that I've remembered to lock up the cabinets every day! I guess the Knockturn Alley market for poisons is just too irresistible to thieves," he said, shrugging.
"You know a lot about it," said Hermione, carefully keeping her eyes on her cup and the tone of accusation out of her voice. Mark's tendency to leave the contents of those cabinets open to anyone who might walk by was not something she could accept an excuse for.
Hermione's thoughts immediately jumped to their own conclusion as to why Mark had stuck a girl he was seeing into an empty room. "What exactly were you two doing in the storeroom?" she asked, waggling her eyebrows in hopes of raising her friend's spirits.
He rolled his eyes at her implication, though Hermione saw the beginnings of a smile on his lips. "For your information, Miss Granger, I had forgotten to lock the cabinets again and I asked Persephone if she wouldn't mind coming with me while I did it. We weren't even in there that long, but someone blabbed to Healer Pye anyway. I'm afraid he'll have my head for this."
Hermione reached across the table and laid her hand reassuringly on his. "I'm sure it won't be that bad," she said comfortingly. "And at the very worst, they'll give you some time off to take care of your housework." When he didn't laugh at her reference to that morning's joke, she followed his gaze, which was still fixed on her hand atop his. Quickly she retracted it and an uneasy silence settled over them.
Hermione found herself clearing her throat repeatedly. "So you like her then?"
Mark looked confused. "Who?"
"Persephone."
"Oh," he said, shrugging his shoulders noncommittally, "yeah, we get on quite well."
"I sense there's a `but.' What's wrong with her? Or should I be asking what's wrong with you?" Hermione joked, trying to bring back the previous moment's jollity.
Mark sighed and picked at the remains of his meal. "There's nothing wrong with her," he said finally. "She's just not-" he broke off, looking unsure of himself.
"Not what?" she prompted.
He looked at her, really looked at her, straight in the eyes in a way that only one man had before. Hermione thought she knew what was coming and she opened her mouth to stop him, but he spoke first. "She's not you," he said with no attempt to hide his feelings.
Hermione's thoughts were running pell-mell through her head. Vaguely, she supposed there must have been something in his sandwich to make him speak so plainly when they had been dancing around it for years. She cast about for an adequate reply that would set the record forever straight between them.
"It's okay," Mark said, a sad smile on his face. "You don't have to say anything. I know that you belong to Harry."
The feminist part of her retorted, "I don't belong to anyone." She sighed helplessly. "But I would be lying if I said I didn't wish that there was just more than friendship between he and I."
Mark nodded in a dejected understanding. "Then it would never work between us," he said simply.
She leaned forward and grasped his hand, realizing what an odd setting they were in to be discussing something so serious. "I'm sorry, Mark," she said, and meant it, "please believe that I've thought about us a thousand times, and if it-"
"Weren't for Harry, you'd be with me," he interrupted, sounding not bitter, only disappointed.
She nodded, not having anything else to do. "He's my best friend," she said quietly, squeezing his hand once before letting go.
"Does he know how you feel?" Mark asked, seemingly in the mood to torture himself. She shook her head, looking away, and then felt Mark's fingers under her chin, bringing her eyes back to meet his. "Then he's an idiot for not seeing what's right in front of him."
A laugh escaped her and she swiped at her eyes which had become overbright during the conversation. "Hey, that's my best friend you're talking about," she said as they gathered their trash and began the return journey to St. Mungo's. She was glad that she and Mark had finally had that necessary conversation and she walked away from him toward her office with a greater respect for him-and every intention of encouraging him to go after Persephone.
Hours later, back in her flat and reeling only slightly from her lunchtime conversation, Hermione Granger divested herself of her stiflingly formal work clothes and slipped into something more comfortable. For some girls ready to hit the pubs and clubs of London, "comfortable" meant next to nothing, or at the very most some tight, décolletage-revealing top and a miniskirt leaving no room to wonder the answer to the female equivalent of boxers or briefs. But for Hermione who, despite her slim figure and killer proportions, this meant her slightly baggy but reliable pair of jeans, a sparkly but full-coverage yellow top, and some fancy heels for good measure. She doubted the logic behind this last outfit choice, but she could practically hear the impatience coming from where Ron was plopped on the living room couch and didn't want to hunt for another pair of shoes. Luna had opted to stay home, not a fan of the smoky atmosphere of the pub.
"Oh, give it a rest, Ron, I'm coming!" she yelled as she shut the door to her room and made her way down the hall.
"How does she always know?" asked a bemused Ron of an equally amused Harry. Both wizards turned to look as Hermione entered the living room. Ron gave a little whistle that ordinarily would have annoyed her but tonight she was feeling slightly giddy, for she had decided that tonight was the night that she would cross the imaginary line that she and Harry had drawn between them long before and tell him that she loved him. Of course, she conceded that the amount of drink that would be in her by the end of the night would probably help quite a bit with her planned confession.
So Ron's reply allowed him to maintain possession of certain bits of his anatomy and she even did a little twirl, much to his chagrin. "So are we ready to go?" she asked, smiling wider than she had in a long time. The two young men nodded and Harry went to retrieve his jacket from the peg, bringing back hers as well. She thanked him as he handed it to her and thought she felt his eyes on her as she pulled her long and especially straightened hair free from the collar of her coat. When she glanced over at him, she caught his eye and he said simply, "You look nice in yellow."
She blushed heavily, blessing the darkness of the stairwell as the trio climbed down to the ground floor, for she had selected this shade of top specifically hoping it would remind Harry of the robes that she had worn to Bill Weasley's wedding and that he had commented on so long ago. She skipped down the last few flights and hardly felt the usual London nightly chill when the front door was opened.
Minutes later it seemed, Hermione, Harry, and Ron were tucked into a booth at one of their favorite Muggle pubs. There was a pitcher of beer in the middle of the table and while Hermione was pining for the sweet taste of butterbeer, her stomach had begun to do flip-flops as the reality of her "plan" set in. Ron's eyes were glued to TV screen which was showing one of England's ever-present football matches, and Harry seemed oddly quiet, just sipping every now and then from his glass.
Suddenly his eyes shifted and he caught her staring. Color tinged her cheeks a bit, but she did not look away. "You all right?" she asked with concern, too low for Ron to notice.
He immediately hitched a large but strained smile on his face. "Yeah, just a little surprised at you is all," he answered.
Hermione put down her glass and poured herself more from the pitcher. "At me?" she asked in response to his enigmatic statement.
Harry nodded, seemingly more ruffled than he was pretending. "Yeah, I didn't think you were going to give up on Charlotte so quickly. It was like you lost faith in her or something."
Snippets of that morning's overheard conversation between he and Ron came floated back to Hermione as though through a haze. "Are you kidding? What are you even talking about?" she asked, anger sparking for no real reason. There voices were still though, so Ron hadn't looked away from the TV yet, but Hermione could sense some kind of strange undercurrent lacing their conversation.
He leaned on his elbows, bringing his head closer to hers. "I'm talking about you saying that there's no way Charlotte killed herself one minute and then completely changing your mind the next! `Oh, sorry that I made you keep your team on a pointless case for two weeks, Harry. How silly of me, she really was a depressed woman!'"
Hermione's mouth dropped open, angry that Harry would bring this up when they were just trying to go out and enjoy themselves and hurt that he would belittle her by exaggerating her behavior at what was a very difficult time in her job. "How dare you," she said in an intensely quiet tone. "I'm sorry that I so inconveniently kept you and your team from all of the dangerous missions because I forced to simply follow through a little more thoroughly on a suspicious death! I know investigative work is not as glamorous as busting a bunch of Dark wizards in the act of capturing the Hogwarts Express, but forgive me if for once in my life my emotions got the better of me. Forgive me if for a while I couldn't think straight and thought that there was more to Charlotte than there very clearly was!" She finished, breathing hard and fighting the welling of tears in her eyes. Her voice had risen steadily throughout her little speech, so that now both Harry and Ron were staring at her-Ron fearfully and Harry ashamedly. She looked from one to the other to speak and when neither did, she excused herself to the toilet.
She crossed the crowded pub, following the sign for the ladies' room to a small hallway where the doors to the two loos stood along with a few payphones. She leaned herself against the wall for a second, catching her breath and wondering how long that had all been bottled up. She supposed Harry had a right to be upset, she probably cost him some brownie points with his boss for stubbornly refusing to back down from the pointless investigation. She wanted to apologize for blowing up on him, but more than that she wanted back her giddiness from earlier.
"I'm sorry, Hermione," came a familiar deep voice from behind her. She turned around and lost herself in his earnest green eyes. "I shouldn't have said those things, I know you were going through a tough time."
She shook her head and instinctively put a hand on his shoulder. "No, you were right. And I'm sorry if you got in trouble with your boss."
His face broke out in an amused half-grin. "I'm not too worried about him, and to be honest I think my team-especially Doyle-was relieved that it was over."
She returned his smile. "So are we okay?" she asked hopefully, removing the hand that was resting on his shoulder to indicate the space between them.
He grinned widely, his smile genuine this time, and stepped forward to embrace her quickly. "Of course," he said. "Now let's go get pissed." She laughed aloud and followed him back to where Ron was holding their table.
"What's all this then?" interrupted Ron as the pair approached. "Are we done arguing like schoolchildren now? We're supposed to be having fun… Oi, bartender, fetch us another round!" he yelled, waving his hand obnoxiously.
When the trio was happily provided for, Harry called for a toast. "To Ron's fine business strategery!" he joked, holding up his glass abruptly so that liquid sloshed down the sides.
"Strategery!" echoed Hermione and Ron promptly, raising their glasses to clink Harry's. They had just finished sipping and began dabbing at the generous amount of spilled beer on the tabletop when Harry groaned and rustled around in his pockets.
"What is it?" asked Hermione, at once concerned. Harry pulled out the same credit card looking device she had seen once before and after a moment of staring at it, looked up at her and Ron with disappointment all over his face.
"I'm being paged, I'm supposed to come in straightaway. Sorry, guys," he said, rummaging about for his jacket, and patting his pocket to check for his wand.
"That's rotten luck, mate," said Ron sympathetically. "Looks like Hermione and I will have to drink your share." Harry laughed and got up to leave, tossing a few coins on the table to pay for his drink.
"When will you be home?" asked Hermione, trying not to sound as forlorn as she felt.
"Late, probably," he answered, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. A few final goodbyes and he was gone, leaving Hermione rubbing her cheek in disappointment.
"Oh, I'm not that bad of company, am I?" joked Ron, sensing her moodswing. She cracked a smile and tried to forget her dashed plans-tomorrow was another day, after all. She could tell him then.
She sighed again, wondering when she had started doing that so much. Tracing the grain of the wooden table with her finger, she said, "Sorry, Ron. It's just that this isn't how I wanted the night to go."
Ron leaned forward, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "What did you have in mind?" he joked.
She looked up and swatted his arm, upsetting his drink. "Let me remind you, Weasley, that I am a lady and you are a married man," she said with dignity. She caught herself in the midst of another sighing fest. Ron was staring at her with a concerned expression, but she gathered from years of experience and the knowledge of her friend's emotional range that he probably wouldn't ask her about it directly. "It's been a long day," she offered by way of explanation, smiling wanly and rubbing circles on her temples.
"Yeah, you and Harry both I think," replied Ron, filling up their glasses.
Hermione laughed humorlessly. "But I don't think Harry had any poorly timed romantic advances," she said. "At least not yet," she added, thinking of her own intentions for the evening.
Instantly Ron was put in protective, brother mode. "What happened? Did someone do something to you?" he demanded, subconsciously cracking his knuckles.
"No, nothing like that," she answered, and he relaxed. "It's just I'd had a really good hour with Adam-you remember him?" Ron nodded in recollection of the man he often joked was Hermione's other best friend. "Well, then Mark and I went out to lunch and, well, he as much said that he fancied me."
Ron blew out a puff of air. "That's heavy, mate." Hermione wrinkled her nose; he knew it annoyed her to be called that, but she suspected he was simply trying to lighten the mood. "I'm guessing by your ecstatic behavior tonight that you turned him down?"
She nodded and buried her head in her arms where they rested on the table. She suddenly wondered what Ron would think about her and Harry as a couple. Steeling herself, she decided to ask him, knowing that as the third component of their inseparable trio, his opinion mattered greatly. She brought her head up and fixed him with a steady, serious gaze. "Yes, I refused him. Ron, there's someone else, and I think that it's time I told somebody," she said flatly, accounting for her friend's natural capacity to take everything literally.
"Bloody hell, Hermione, it sounds like you're breaking up with me. You're not, are you?" he teased.
Hermione huffed. "Ron, I'm serious!"
"I know, I know, sorry. I couldn't help it. Besides, I already knew there was `someone else' as you put it, anyway," he said with an indifferent shrug. She raised an eyebrow disbelievingly-how could Teaspoon Boy possibly be that keenly aware of the feelings she had been burying for years? "It's Harry," he said, and Hermione stared at him with her eyes wide, suddenly worrying that she had been horribly obvious the whole time. "Don't worry, he has no clue, the daft git," Ron added, patting her hand gently.
Hermione was just about speechless. "How did you know?" she spluttered.
Ron grinned cheekily. "Actually I didn't," he admitted, "I was just taking the mickey, but you sort of gave it away." He laughed at her shocked expression. "You and Harry, huh? Well, he's better than Viktor, anyway. Why haven't you told him?" Ron asked in interest. "And don't give me that load of bollocks about how it was `never the right time' or `you didn't want to ruin your friendship,' because a bloke can only take so much," he added.
Hermione cracked an involuntary smile, hardly daring to believe that she was having this conversation with Ron of all people. "Well, you're almost spot on, but I suppose we can lump it in the plain old `Insecurity' category. You've seen the kind of girl he goes for-Cho, Ginny…" she said, ticking off her fingers as she thought of their names.
Ron shrugged again. "You should just tell him," he suggested as though it wasn't something she had agonized over for years.
"Thanks, Ron, I'll just go do that," she replied sarcastically, finishing her pint and reaching for the pitcher. Ron stilled her hand.
"I know you're too proud to ask me, so I'll just tell you-I don't know how Harry feels. Contrary to popular belief, we did talk about more than just girls in the boy's dorm in Gryffindor tower. But for what it's worth, I think he'd be an idiot to say no to you."
Hermione smiled, touched at Ron's words. "That's what Mark said," she laughed.
Ron sat back and clapped his hands definitively. "Well, I for one am tired of your dour expression. I came here to celebrate and that's what we're going to do, with or without Harry. Now, there's only one way to cheer up my mate Hermione, and that's-"
"Cheeky vimtos," interrupted Hermione, feeling the mischievious smile creeping over her face.
Ron returned the grin and dug around in his pockets. With a dismayed look, he turned to Hermione and asked, "Hey Hermione, can I borrow some money?" Hermione just laughed, handing over a ten pound note as he got up to order at the bar.
Two hours later, Hermione and Ron were laughing like third years over some story involving the time Harry was supposed to go undercover as a patron in some pub in Dublin. Though she had heard about the incident several times already, Hermione let Ron continue adding his own slurring embellishments. "So, he was sittin' there, yeah? And was like `I should order a pint or two to fit in, innit?' `Cept we both know Harry's the lightest lightweight there ever was, so before he knew it, he was falling out of his chair an' the bloke he was meant to be tailin' got away!" Ron finished with a great snort of laughter that drew the stares of many less intoxicated patrons, but Hermione wasn't exactly in the state to recognize embarrassment.
"I like him," she said, resting her head on her hand and looking into the distance dreamily. Ron followed her gaze as though trying to see who she was talking about, but finding no one turned to her and asked, "Who?"
"Harry," she said to clarify.
"Me too," agreed Ron, and Hermione promptly burst into giggles.
"No you don't, Ron," she said, patting his shoulder. "You don't like like him."
Ron grasped her meaning and covered his mouth to stifle his own giggles. She cringed at the foulness of the breath, and leaned forward on the table. "But you can't tell him, because I have to tell him," she warned in a stage whisper.
.Ron squinted his eyes at his watch, ignoring her comment. "Wow, it's already past one, I should get you home or Mr. Auror Man will kill me," he said. He glanced furtively around to make sure no one watching and then pulled out his wand to perform the sobering charm on himself. He winced as the feeling of being doused in icewater washed over him and shook the remaining cobwebs from his head. "Up you get, Hermione, time to go."
A lock of hair fell over her face and she groaned. "Aaaawww, now I'm going to have to wash all this smoke out of my hair," she complained. Ron lifted her bodily from the bench seat, and as she stood up, she realized her state of inebriation did not exactly permit any kind of coordination. Leaning heavily against him, Ron steered her to the car and chuckled at her nonsense words. She must have dozed off while they were driving because the next time she opened her eyes, Ron was unbuckling her from the seat and gently extricating her from the car.
"Ron is soooo macho," she breathed, laughing at her own joke.
He wrinkled his nose. "You smell like a distillery," he remarked, earning him a glare from Hermione who insisted that he started the whole thing. A laborious fifteen minutes later, Ron was knocking on the door of her flat. She reached forward and rapped her knuckles ineffectually against the wood door as well, slumping sideways immediately and clutching her heel shoes in her other hand.
Harry answered, still wearing his Auror robes. His grim expression morphed into a concerned frown at once. "What the bloody hell happened here?" he demanded of his best friend, gesturing at Hermione rumpled and worse for wear appearance.
Ron laughed. "Cheeky vimtos-her idea," he explained innocently. "What's the problem, mate?" he asked Harry when they had negotiated Hermione past the stoop and down the hall to her bedroom.
Harry ran a hand through his hair, speaking quietly to Ron in a worried voice. Hermione could hear them but their words seemed to be passing through some odd filter in her ears, making them sound fuzzy and faraway. "The call I got, it was another death, another suicide," he said. "And apparently he was one of Hermione's patients."
Ron sucked in a breath through his teeth in a low whistle. "I could sober her up if you want-"
"No, no, let her sleep, I'll tell her tomorrow," he said hastily. "Merlin, Ron, this is gonna kill her."
"Why, who was it?"
"Ron, it was Adam."
A/N: Gosh, this was a long chapter, huh? Thanks for reading! It would be such a waste to come this far and not leave a review, don't you think???
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