Disclaimer: Oh, just shut up already.
Author's Note: In regards to the OotP trailer, I have to say: oh my god, Daniel Radcliffe, stay away from the cutting shears. What the hell is up with that crew cut? For god's sake, use your hotness for the power of good, not evil.
~ Note: Wow . . . totally weird. I wrote that after the first OotP trailer came out . . . and now the movie's in theaters!! ~
Anywho, thanks to all of you for the MARVELOUS reviews! I mean, god, I have 75 reviews for two chapters at this point. It's amazing! I feel loved, I tell you, positively adored. *sniffle*
Second Author's Note: *hums off-key* Due to the precipitous occasion of the BEGINNING OF SUMMER (whoot!) I hope that I'll be able to post quicker than usual (my anal-retentiveness means that it takes me two days to write the chapter and two weeks to edit it) . . . but yaya! Hot weather! Cool pools!
. . . I love life.
Third Author's Note: (written a week later) Okay, so I sort of missed the beginning of summer mark. Whoops. I honestly intended to have this up before I left for London, I did! I bum internet off of my neighbor's wireless sometimes, and unfortunately their system was down, so no uploading could be done. But ignore my rambling. Enjoy!
~
Denial
Chapter Three: Of Secretary-Stealers, Black Vortexes, and Yellow Frocks
~
11:57 p.m.
I love Luna, I really do. Goodness knows that she's my best friend - of the female gender, at any rate - and we do get along marvelously; but there are times when I wonder about where her rather . . . exotic tastes stem from. The Lovegoods are from Ottery St. Catchpole, which is hardly a neighborhood that is of the eccentric persuasion. Admittedly at times I wonder about the MacMillan family, but it's Ernie's fault for thinking he could change Romilda Vane simply by marrying her.
Anyway, upon stumbling, in a somewhat unattractive fashion, through the soot-encrusted fireplace in Ron and Luna's newly-shared house, I discovered my aforementioned best friend sitting cross-legged on her striped blue and magenta sofa, flipping through bridal magazines. A whole stack of them, all portraying attractive society flirts in dresses that varied from prudish to garish to downright revealing, was perched on the Eiffel Tower of brown cardboard boxes. There were similar structures arrayed about the living room, all evidence of Ron's recent defection from Grimmauld Place.
She looked up as I staggered out of their red brick fireplace - which was in desperate need of a good dusting, seeing as how neither Luna nor Ron are terribly worried about cleaning things - coughing up approximately half the alveoli and their respective capillaries in my left lung.
"Hullo Hermione!" said Luna brightly, tossing aside her bridal magazine and receiving an indignant huff from the jet-haired hussy on the cover. She hopped up from the couch to help me with my bags, a half dozen of which contained the Haverford files, which were so heavily warded by their esteemed writer that I only needed to bother with a few minor distraction charms. Luna's earrings, a pair displaying a cluster of ceramic spinach leaves dangling from a red wooden bead that I had gotten her for Christmas before last, were horridly tangled in the wispy blonde hair that had valiantly escaped from her semi-drooping ponytail.
"I was thinking yellow," she declared in a voice that was terribly firm (for Luna, anyhow), settling my bags on a ratty leather armchair that looked as though it had seen better days, no doubt around the era that Henry VIII was still on his third wife. Confused, and still slightly breathless, I could only silently follow her through a Minoan labyrinth of cardboard boxes to the kitchen.
"Yellow," she continued as she pulled down two mismatched tea cups and saucers from the cupboard above the stove. "Chamomile? Or peppermint?"
"Peppermint," I wheezed, coughing up a small plume of black smoke. Luna, appearing not to notice the rapid change in air composition around me, mumbled something about raspberry-glazed biscuits. I politely refused and, grimacing, accepted the tea she proffered and took a delicate sip. It spread across my soot-lined throat and washed away the acrid taste of burnt metal that had been lingering on the back of my tongue. Absentminded Luna may have been, but she could brew a cuppa with the best.
Mind you, Luna's not as loony as she was before the Second Blitz roared over London. I suppose that most of the time she acts that way, pretending, like we all do, that those horrible years never really happened. Ron's the same way; there are times where he'll be so utterly responsible and deviously clever that I'll think, in a most unflattering way, that it almost isn't Ron. Because Ron, you see, is blunt without exception; never dense, per se, but he's also not the sort of clever that makes Lucius Malfoy's perfect hair turn green with envy. But then the strange moment passes and he's back to being the old Ron, crabby and impolite, but still just dear old Ron.
And Harry hasn't been able to shake that dark glint in his eyes, the one that I know Ron and I can see, and sometimes share, but maybe it isn't quite as visible to anyone who doesn't know him as well as we two do. It's from killing them, I know, all of those Death Eaters and Voldemort, the ones who deserved to rot away in Dante's seventh circle of Hell for all of eternity, but whom we still had to kill to put there.
I worry about Harry, because I know that being an Auror isn't all paperwork and stake outs and information gathering, it has its dangers and its violence - not as much as when we were in the War and it was just a handful of competent Aurors and schoolchildren against one of the most darkly powerful wizards the world has ever seen, but the danger is still there - and I know that in his mind he's wondering whether or not he's become too good at being detached, at killing them, and that he isn't suited to doing much else. That's when the glint gets bigger, and his green eyes harden as if his heart is doing it as well.
He looked like that when he killed Voldemort, when all that light rushed around them, leaving just Harry's dark eyes.
Alright.
No more talk about Voldemort, not now, when I've got Luna's ridiculous wedding plans to dissect. Because, you see, while I (rather naïvely, I hesitate to admit) assumed that she was talking about the Quibbler when she rambled on about yellow, she was, instead, talking about her bridesmaid dresses.
Bright yellow. When she showed me a photo of the particular swath of fabric she had in mind, which turned out to be a tablecloth, of all things, at the post-nuptial soiree of a young fashion protégé's spring wedding, my retinas all but screeched in mortal agony.
"Erm."
"Isn't it marvelous?" gushed Luna, gazing down at the glossy magazine page happily. "I know that brunettes with your porcelain skin tone are supposed to be lovely in yellow, or so assures Margery. Ginny's dress might need a little work, but I suppose we could lighten it up a bit, and she'll look fine."
I tore my eyes from the page to Luna's wide blue eyes, framed by the haphazard fringe that, despite its lack of care, manages to accentuate her long face perfectly. The view was obscured by scattered white splotches in the general shape of a series of square tables. "Yellow?" I repeated dumbly. In my mind I was divided between making a mental memo - Note to self: Hex Luna's secretary - and imagining gleefully the stunningly beautiful Ginny in a garishly yellow bridesmaid gown bedecked in ribbons and lace; I imagine that despite this, I quite resembled a landed cod as I gaped at her.
I'd realized after so many years of friendship that Luna's tastes were terrible, but goodness, not that terrible.
"Yes, yellow," replied Luna patiently. She looked down at her swath of fabric and gestured vaguely in the general direction of the napkins folded under bright purple cocktails in the next picture. Luckily, this yellow appeared to have been bleached heavily of its neon undertones; unluckily, it had sparkles.
"I figure that if I show Madame Malkin these pictures, she'll be able to rustle up some fabric to match. Mrs. Weasley's offered her help with making the dresses; isn't that kind of her?"
My nose twitched as I attempted to calmly take a sip of my tea without snorting. The day I allowed Mrs. Weasley within three hundred yards of my wedding plans was the day that my groom was Draco Malfoy. It isn't as if I don't love Mrs. Weasley, because I do. But I'm afraid that our tastes don't mesh terribly well, and I am perfectly aware that we are both just too stubborn to ever compromise on any of our disagreements.
But then again, Luna's bluntness allows her a certain amount of leeway when it comes to dissenting opinions with Mrs. Weasley. I suppose that's one of the reasons why she's marrying Ron, and I dumped a bowl of boiled greens over his head two hours after he told me he fancied me.
I spent the next two hours talking Luna into a more tolerable shade of creamy yellow (that would better suit both complexion and optic nerve) for the bridesmaid dresses and writing innumerable lists about the wedding. While neither Luna nor Ron appear to be that worried about the fact that their wedding is two months away, between Mrs. Weasley and I all necessary worrying is covered.
I suppose that if they wanted a small wedding then it would be a different matter altogether; but when the Weasleys are involved, nothing can ever be completely small. There's Ron's parents, his five siblings, their significant others (or, in the case of the Gin-inator, insignificant other), their children, plus aunts, uncles, cousins, and work and school friends. Then there's Luna's family, which is surprisingly large, considering how I always got the impression she and her father were awfully lonely.
Then again, it's always surprising how many relatives come out of the woodwork when one is getting married. It's rather like coming into a large sum of money, I imagine.
But either way, Luna's wedding is going to be quite large. Considering how the Prophet latched their teeth into the proposal (although I suspect that it had more to do with me running, desolate, into Harry's eagerly awaiting arms), I don't doubt that the bridal magazines Luna was drooling over will be sending her owls soon. Luna's far too sensible to actually entertain such notions, but we'll have a good laugh or two over them and their pink stationary.
I made it back to Grimmauld Place, leaking notebook paper, just in time to see a heavily made-up Gin-inator stalk angrily out of the house. Behind her, the door shut with a great clang, the peeling paint at the top swaying back and forth on their precarious perch. The top two buttons of her clingy crimson blouse were undone, and I, with great relish, stopped her to point out that the lacy top of her brassiere was showing. She shot me an evil glare that would have meant hairy death in any language, and flounced off, the spindly heels of her stilettos clacking against the cement squares leading up to the house.
I found Harry hunched over a few fingers of Firewhisky in the parlor. Because he looked like he needed a distraction, not my unmitigated glee at the failure of the Gin-inator, I shuffled into the doorway with a huff. "Care to give a girl a hand?"
He looked up, and I could see he was grateful by his smile and the way he quickly placed the crystal glass of liquor next to the decanter on the rickety mahogany side table. "Planning on invading Poland?" he inquired politely, taking more than half of my overflowing bags and shoving them onto the couch with barely visible effort. I attempted not to be jealous and failed miserably.
"Goodness no," I declared, adding the last few to the pile and sinking down into the dusky green Queen Anne chair nearby. "That's just to get me across the Channel. I'll have to double it at least for Poland." Harry quirked an eyebrow in reply, but I could already tell that his fingers were twitching towards the sofa. "Oh no you don't," I said warningly, pulling myself out of the delicious warmth of the chair and propelling my body between my housemate and paperwork.
"What, is it Mysteries business?" inquired Harry, grinning. I'd explained to him once how those within the Research subsection of the Department were called Mysteries, while everyone else were referred to as Unspeakables. He'd found it highly amusing, and made some good-natured rumblings as to how it was the perfect place for me, as even the nicknames were organized. Ever since he'd made sure to use the proper nomenclature of the Department of Mysteries personnel.
"Yes," I replied, sniffing as haughtily as I could. I came off my high horse as I burrowed myself between two leaning towers of files on the sofa with a contented sigh. "I'm hungry enough to eat a horse," I continued, reaching up a leaden hand to massage my still-sore eyes. "One look at the fabric Luna wanted for her bridesmaids' frocks and I lost my appetite completely." Harry raised an eloquent eyebrow, reaching out to take a sip of his Firewhisky, and I told him the entire story, complete with adjective-riddled descriptions of the fabric swatches.
He clucked sympathetically at all the correct moments, and when I finished we moved into the kitchen, where he made me a thick turkey sandwich that we split and enjoyed in companionable silence. I ultimately decided against bringing up the amusing anecdote of the geriatric supporters of our non-relationship - and not because I thought it would raise any awkwardness between us, due to unacknowledged romantic feelings, or other ridiculous somesuch.
I didn't tell him because I saw no reason that he would get any merit from it, other than a good chuckle. So I decided to save the anecdote for a particularly thunder-riddled rainy day, and lugged my fourteen thousand pounds worth of paperwork up to Ron's my bedroom to do some late-night work.
I always do best at the ten-to-one in the morning hours, so in reality I should probably be working on decoding Haverford's notes, not writing about my daily escapades in this journal at midnight. However, this has become surprisingly addicting. Who would have thought that sensible Hermione Granger with her sensible shoes and such would become addicted to journaling?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Wednesday, September 3rd
This is complete and utter bollocks. Honestly, who does Grey think I am? Grunheld the Explorer? Do I seem to be the type who would work better while "in the field with first-hand information coming at me?"
Really? Do I? I guess I was under the rather mistaken impression that the reason I work in the Department of Mysteries, rather than in the research division of MLE, is that I cannot think on my feet, and would most likely be blasted into a pile of ash if I ever ventured out onto the field against an opponent more dangerous than a diricawl. Because I had thought that during my interview with Grey when I said, "Sir, I can apply myself best in a library environment," I was telling the truth.
I suppose, though, I must be mistaken on this account. Because, you see, Grey has decided that rather than letting me sacrifice the next seven months - which is a conservative estimate, I have to admit - to unwarding Haverford's files, instead he's going to send me, along with an Auror, the Regency era and that dank little monastery to convince Haverford to give me the codecharm for his notes.
I asked why I needed an Auror to accompany me - after all, they catch dark wizards, and from what I've read on Haverford (and believe me, with Delta Spark clearance I have access to all sorts of restricted files) the man was just about as dark as a billywig - and Grey replied, his mysterious tone somewhat belied by the screeching of his newborn triplets, "If you're right, Granger, and there was nothing Haverford did wrong, then someone decided to interfere with his work. The Auror's there to make sure that he or she doesn't splinch your large brain in half, too."
Somewhat mollified by this - but not enough to ignore the loud danger! danger! shrieks in the back of my mind - I opened my mouth to protest when Grey quickly withdrew his head from the fireplace. Harrumphing, I settled back on my heels. My office isn't really a proper office at all, although I do have a strange sort of half-wall that rises slightly about the height of Harry's head and is thick enough to hold a fireplace. In front of that is my desk, where I quickly relocated to sketch out a request for the Auror department. It was all the classic paperwork sort of thing, until I arrived upon the purpose and destination part.
Somehow I had a feeling that "Grey intends on sending an Auror and I into the Regency era to possibly find a dark wizard who is willing to splinch a man in half in order to keep easier methods of time travel undiscovered" wouldn't be what Kingsley meant by purpose and destination. So I meandered around the issue, making rumblings about possibilities of danger and only mentioning the Regency era once in passing.
I folded up the parchment, tapped it with a few wards, and made my way out of my oasis of isolation to find Melinda. I had to weave around the two lumpy armchairs and the half-moon of filing cabinets holding the shrunken reports of every case I've ever worked on (and a few that I haven't) in order to leave my office/clearing. Finding my way to the front doors involved meandering through the stacks upon stacks upon stacks of bookshelves that extend endlessly on three sides and only moderately so on the fourth (so I can leave my office without having to bring along rations). It was along the fourth side that I traveled, which lead to Melinda's desk beside the large double doors that lead back into the main foyer of the Research Division.
After Lucius Malfoy revealed, under Veritaserum at his trial, that he and other Death Eaters posing as Ministry officials had been hacking into the classified owl posts between departments, the Ministry had stopped using owl posts and instead had Auror-couriers, a useless and inefficient system involving Aurors having to carry their own messages for the cases they were working on.
The odious Weatherby and I - in our only collaboration - jointly petitioned the Minister to install a new system that was neither inefficient nor easily intercepted, and we ended up with the Black Box system. A square opening about the size of a first edition Hogwarts, A History is cut into the wall, where it accesses the `black vortex' (or so Harry called it, rather unprofessionally) that goes fluidly throughout the entire Ministry building. With a tap of the wand of anyone working in the office, the black box is operational, and one simply says the office name, puts in the piece of parchment or package, and the walls carry the message to the requisite office.
Unfortunately, my office has no walls connected to the Ministry building, so I have to go to Melinda every time I wish to use my Black Box; I sent Grey a petition months ago asking that he get in a maintenance worker to connect my false wall to the floor, but he went on paternity leave not long after, and his secretary isn't terribly trustworthy.
I arrived at Melinda's desk to find it deserted. She had left a piece of parchment on her desk explaining that Weatherby had rudely demanded her assistance with some meaningless chore, and she would be back by eleven at the latest. Honestly, Weatherby has to stop his aggravating attempts at bothering my work flow - Melinda is my secretary, and he and Tennebaum share Yewdell, who I know is quite capable of doing his job properly! His office politics are absolutely juve----------
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I am still not terribly experienced at portraying how a character is startled and jerks their pen off the page, because whenever I do it in real life, I get ink all over my neat handwriting and the letters turn unintelligible . . . But I hope I got the point across.
Anywho, I have returned from my vacation in London/Spain . . . and then my vacation in Chicago . . . and will post this chapter. Never fear! Summer is here, thus my time spent on this story will increase exponentially. However, I sort of drowned my iPod in London, so first dibs on time goes to the job paying for its replacement. Me sorry!
P.S. I realize, as someone pointed out, that I wrote in passing that Harry and Hermione share a flat in the last chapter. I apologize. This is actually the only fic I've really written where they share Grimmauld Place . . . it was habit, which is my only excuse.
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