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Learning to Deal by dtown_curly_q
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Learning to Deal

dtown_curly_q

A/N::: I realize this has been a loonnnggggg time coming ((we're talking YEARS, here)), and I'm sure many of you who were so faithfully reading my story before have totally forgotten about it.

But here's a snippet for those who haven't.

Happy reading.

Chapter 19

Warning

Despite my excellent morning-no doubt made perfect by my unexpected, bedside white chocolate-cranberry muffin-the rest of my day has not followed suit. First, Malia is out with a case of the wizard's flu, and the minister called a last-minute meeting of all high-ranking officials in the Department of Mysteries. While rushing to make it to said meeting on time, I scuffed the toe of one of my favorite ivory, babydoll pumps and managed to misplace one of the pearl earrings that my grandmere had given me last Christmas. Then, the infernal meeting only lasted a blasted SEVEN AND A HALF MINUTES, and a perky bottle-blonde intern cornered me just as I was leaving the boardroom to gush out the usual "blimey-you're-like-Harry-Potter's-best-friend-don't-you-like-live-with-him-have-you-ever-walked-in-on-him-showering?" bit, getting oil prints from her over-moisturized fingers all over the sleeve of my blouse. And to top off my morning, I return to my office to find that I'd snagged my favorite pair of sheer black thigh-highs on the corner table next to my door. With a muttered, "Bloody hell," I slam the door shut and hike up my black A-line to undo the fastenings that hold the stockings to the garter belt with the infuriated decision to just go barelegged. Though it seems as if the whole world is against me, since the miniscule clips simply refuse to unlatch. I'm so engrossed in cursing every known deity for my no good, very bad morning, that I don't hear the first cough that comes from behind me. The second is much more purposeful and pronounced, causing me to spin around, wand in hand.

"Do you require assistance, Miss Granger?"

It takes approximately three seconds for my brain to register that the person perched behind my desk is actually behind my desk and another three for me realize that some people just don't know when to quit. In a sign of irritation, I feel my shoulders square and my jaw go rigid.

"No, Darren, I think I can manage."

His face breaks into a lopsided smile, the one that made me start dating him in the first place. My thoughts bounce from his possible intentions to the engagement ring that lies in the top right-hand drawer of my desk, exactly where it's been since he sent it to me in the bouquet of roses.

"I've noticed that you have yet to return my ring," he points out.

"It's in the top drawer on your right. Take it. I don't want it," I spit, returning to my wand to its thigh holster and refocusing on my stockings, "and get the hell out of my office."

"I thought that, perhaps, you might want to reconsider."

"Unless marrying you doesn't entail spending the rest of my life with you, then I'll pass."

"I think, perhaps, you may want to reconsider," he repeats. Annoying bastard.

"Trust me, Darren. There is nothing, I mean nothing that would persuade me to…" but my voice trails off as I turn again to face him.

My gaze falls on the manila folder in his hand, without a doubt the only thing that would make me reconsider his proposal.

"How did you get that?"

My voice is harsh, but the undercurrent of closely-held terror makes it unsteady.

"You didn't think I'd come by your house just to ask Potter to get you to marry me?"

Actually, that's exactly what I had thought.

"But that drawer is under specific identity-lock enchantments-"

"Hermione…I'm a code breaker. Did you expect a few enchantments to deter me?"

Try as I may to keep my emotions in check, the raw panic that grips my being is palpable.

"Imagine my surprise, finally opening the one locked compartment in my girlfriend's desk to find information that could very well turn wizarding society on its end. You know I always wondered why the great Hermione Granger-brightest witch of the age, possible candidate for Minister-settled for a job as an Unspeakable-"

"I'll have you know, my position in the Ministry is extremely reputable-"

"To be sure," he interrupts, "but really, Hermione. Everyone has always speculated as to why you settled for an office in the Department of Mysteries. Won't they all be pleased to find out that their brilliant Miss Granger managed to stage the biggest cover-up to ever hit the wizarding world? That she planned her job, and therefore the rest of her life, around assuring that no one would ever find out that The Chosen One was actually a danger to society."

"Preposterous! Harry has always shown an unparalleled amount of self control! He would never-"

"Is this evidence of self control?" he shouts over me, shoving the right sleeve of his shirt up to reveal the telltale scars of healing burns, "I'm sure the Daily Prophet would love to hear all about St. Mungo's Golden Healer's little quirk. Though I'm not all that sure that St. Mungo's would want someone displaying such…abnormalities dealing with patients. One little slip and…" he trails off.

My eyes narrow in disgust.

"You wouldn't."

"Oh, love. I would. And I will, if the two of us can't reach some sort of…compromise."

"You're absolutely barking." I murmur, trying to kick-start my brain into gear.

"I like to think of myself more so as…goal-oriented," he smirks, lifting himself from my chair and coming to stand in front of me, "If your precious Harry Potter is so important to you, why don't you prove how much? It's a fair trade isn't it? Your future in exchange for his."

Darren reaches a hand up to brush against my waist, my shoulder, the line of my jaw, and I pour all my concentration into not shivering in revulsion and contempt. A light chuckle escapes him.

"Wasn't that your plan all along? To keep him happy, safe? Don't you think the great Harry Potter has suffered enough at the hands of our world…? Don't you want to save him the backlash that will occur after his dirty laundry is aired as the headline of the Prophet's Evening Edition? Especially so soon after the death of a child under his care?"

The surge of magic that sweeps through my veins at his words is nothing but pure, unadultered power and rage, and I concentrate all of it on the stack of papers in his hands. The wall of magic hits it with enough force to knock Darren into the wall, but the files are left undamaged.

"Hermione, love, you should have known I would take all the necessary precautions."

"Leave," I snarl.

His reaction is delayed, making the mere moments it takes for the sardonic smile to spread across his face seem like days spent in a room crackling with static electricity.

"You have until this time tomorrow. That should be enough time for you to pack your things."

By the time I have my wand drawn he has already fled the room and disapparated from the hall beyond it.

Rattled and shaking, my wand clatters to the floor and I collapse onto the nearest piece of furniture.

What now?

A/N::: I'm trying to find time to finish this out of guilt. Bear with me, please.

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