20

Chapter Twenty

Monday 03 March 2003: AM

"Mrs Sandore – I don't understand why you're asking me to sit in on this meeting… Importation/exportation law is not one of my specialties, and I don't have much practical knowledge of wine beyond 'red' or 'white'," Hermione protests, bewildered by her supervisor's last minute directive.

"Oh, that's perfectly fine, Ms Granger – it's the legal ramifications of the importation of a new product line that they're interested in. Specifically, the addition of a Portuguese magical herb to boost the anti-inflammatory and antioxidant benefits of the resveratrol; apparently the MUKVA – that's the Magical United Kingdom Vineyards Association, dear – is demanding more research into the possible side-effects of excessive euphoria and increased allergen sensitivities."

Marilda ignores Hermione's expression of irked bafflement as she pushes a compact dossier across her desk. "The meeting's not until 10.15AM; you've over an hour to familiarize yourself with the particulars, Ms Granger. I realize this isn't your usual area of expertise, but I can tell you – in the strictest confidence, of course – that you're the brightest young lawyer in the Department, and I've every confidence you will handle this conference with your usual professionalism and aplomb."

Mrs Sandore's tone brooks no argument; Hermione reluctantly slides the heavy folder into her lap and glumly sinks back into her seat.

Throwing a surreptitious glance at the closed door of her office, Marilda leans forward, lowering her voice as she informs Hermione, "Besides – young Mr Zabini personally requested your assistance in the matter, and the Director agreed that you could be excused from your regular duties for the morning."

Eyes sparkling with co-conspiratorial delight, Marilda whispers, "I think you've made quite the impression there, Ms Granger!".

Hermione literally bites her tongue to contain her immediate, angry reaction.

"Blaise Zabini specifically asked for my involvement?".

Marilda nods excitedly.

Cogitating furiously, Hermione chooses her subsequent words with care.

"Mrs Sandore, I am concerned that Mr Zabini's request stems more from a… personal motive than any true regard for my professional capabilities. Excuse my candour, but this feels uncomfortably close to 'pimping me out', so to speak." Hermione's voice is quiet but implacable.

"Oh! Oh, my dear Ms Granger, never think it!" Marilda actually slaps her hands to her cheeks in horror. "Had I sensed any impropriety in the request, I should never have suggested it to you!" she hastens to reassure her subordinate.

Hermione relents on her stern stance as she witnesses Marilda's sincerity and distress at the thought that she may have placed Hermione in a compromising position.

"I suppose I can always simply walk out, if Zabini says or does anything inappropriate," she concedes.

Mrs Sandore taps a quill to her lips. "What if I sit in on the meeting for the first quarter hour? Or until we're both satisfied the collaboration is genuine in nature and scope?" she worriedly proposes. "I would cancel your attendance altogether… but the Director was especially resolute as to your involvement…" the older woman agitatedly shreds the feathered end of the quill with her fingers; Hermione has to look away from the preoccupied vandalism.

"Very well, Mrs Sandore – let's see how it goes and react accordingly," Hermione hears herself agreeing. You soft-hearted fool. But seeing Marilda upset isn't something she enjoys. Plus: she confesses that she'd rather enjoy imparting a scathing, public dressing-down if Zabini does try any funny business.

Hermione stands to leave, lugging the heavy file beneath her right arm. "Please come collect me when it's time to leave for the meeting, Mrs Sandore – I'd best start on the reading," she gives her supervisor a tight-lipped, resigned smile.

"Thank you, Ms Granger – and please, do understand that preserving my duty of care to you is my highest priority," Marilda stresses. "I shall hex Mr Zabini myself if he dares nudge a toe out of line." Her kind brown eyes take on a ferociously protective gleam that reminds (a slightly alarmed) Hermione of Molly Weasley shielding her cubs.

Nodding, Hermione exits the office, indulging in a grumpy, self-pitying scowl as she trudges back to her cubicle. There isn't enough caffeine in the world to improve this Monday.

Hermione's fears that Zabini had plotted to include her in the meeting in an obnoxious attempt to chat her up have been assuaged by his perfectly correct behaviour ever since she and Marilda had entered the discreet, well-appointed conference room on the fifth floor of the Ministry.

The International Magical Trading Standards Body clearly has access to a much larger budget than the Wizengamot Administration Services, Hermione thinks with a small sniff. The coffee, tea, and glazed pastries on the table are fresh and tasty; a marked difference from her department's usual fare of stale Hobnobs and soggy pink wafers.

She inspects the other attendees with circumspect sidelong glances as Zabini smoothly blathers on about cooperation and expedition of red tape. Marilda is seated on her left at the long oval table (her allotted fifteen-minute monitoring attendance has a few more minutes yet to run). Zabini stands to her right; directly across from her is none other than Theodore Nott, while the would-be exporter of fine Portuguese wines sits attentively beside him. Marcus Flint.

Hermione warily eyes the ex-Slytherin Quidditch captain, wondering where he's been living and working for the past five or six years. Her busy mind ticks over as she tries to place the last time she saw him; she's reasonably confident that she's neither seen nor heard about the brawny Pureblood since he'd finally graduated from Hogwarts in 1994. There wasn't any mention of him being involved in the Second Wizarding War, as far as she's aware.

He's had his crooked teeth expertly realigned at some point; hopefully, his conniving attitude has improved, too. Hermione remembers Harry bitterly denouncing the hulking Chaser for habitual foul play and dirty tricks. Harry had gone so far as to insinuate that Flint must have some troll blood running through his dishonest veins. Her pursed lips twitch at the memory.

Flint must have sensed her overlong regard of his features; he looks across the table, showing his straightened and homogenised choppers in a bland, friendly smile. Hermione ignores it, flickering her eyes back to her opened dossier; she is perturbed at having been caught staring.

Marcus's improved appearance isn't limited to his orthodontic work; he has lost most of his mien of brutishness and grown into his heavy features since Hermione last saw him. And he's discarded his severe, unbecoming Caesar hairstyle for a short-back-and-sides brunet 'do. She supposes that he's not an unattractive man – if you like tall, dark, and rough-around-the-edges.

Which I do not. The thought flashes into her brain along with the vivid memory of shagging Draco senseless on her lounge on Saturday night. No! Focus! No erotic flashbacks at work!

Risking another upward glance, she is startled to find Theo Nott's keen kiwi-green orbs locked on her face; he jerks his gaze away, rosiness suffusing his translucid skin above the neck of his olive Bengal-striped shirt and single-breasted dark fawn suit. After a few moments, he looks back at her, his mouth curving in a hesitant, congenial smile that Hermione has no compunction returning. Nott's lean, almost-gangly body seems particularly refined compared to Flint's sturdiness; and his dreamily intelligent eyes reflect a self-possession that sits well upon his ascetic features.

She'd not had much discourse with Theo during their schooling, but he'd never overtly bullied her. Nor had he shown any interest participating in the historic Slytherin/Gryffindor enmity, preferring to keep to himself or study quietly in the library. Occasionally, they'd nodded cordially at one another whilst burning the midnight oil. Hermione had sometimes wondered at the perpetual shadows behind his emerald eyes – was it melancholia? Pain? As with Flint, she has little concept of how the man has been existing for the past half-decade.

Marilda interrupts her busy thoughts, standing up to give Hermione's right shoulder a small squeeze. The younger woman nods, indicating that she is confident to continue the meeting alone. Marilda smiles, turning to Blaise.

"Thank you for your comprehensive synopsis of the proposed trade agreement, Mr Zabini – I have every confidence that Ms Granger is ably quipped to answer any legal considerations from this point. Do excuse me, gentlemen," and Mrs Sandore nods at each man before walking from the conference room. She makes a point of securing the door open with the small rear latch before she departs.

The three men turn to Hermione, obviously awaiting her input. Right. Here I go. Hermione shuffles her loose leaf parchment notes in her hands and clears her throat.

"As I see it, the major legal sticking point is ensuring that MUKVA is satisfied that the stringent testing procedures on the new varietal have inarguably met their current standards – and in order for that to occur, you are going to have to order another round of stricter tests from a reputable French oenologist. If you proceed without running those tests, you run the probable risk of future lawsuits and a revocation of your international export licence, should the new vintage display detrimental side effects.'

'My brief, under-prepared research (she glares at Blaise) indicates that the wine industry is unforgiving of experimental products that later prove inferior or defamatory to their esteemed reputation."

Flint jerks forward in his chair, expostulating, "But we've already spent a bloody fortune on tests! Our capital is stretched thin as it is!". He modulates his aggrieved tone as Blaise cocks one glossy eyebrow.

"I mean – the wine has already passed the Portuguese and Spanish testing standards with flying colours… sending it to France seems like a redundant expense," Marcus backtracks.

"Isn't that why I asked Theo to join us?" Blaise reminds the burly man. "He is already an active investor in a number of international wineries, and is well-placed to either fund the testing or advise whether you're trying to break into the market prematurely."

Aha. So Theo has his slender fingers in more than a few pies, Hermione surmises.

Theo speaks for the first time since they'd exchanged greetings.

"Ms Granger is absolutely correct – there is no point in moving forward with the export expansion until the French have signed off on their approval," he nods acknowledgement to Hermione, who blinks at the unexpected praise.

"From an investor's viewpoint, I'm interested in finding out more about the herbal additive and how you decided to experiment with its inclusion in the vintification." Nott flips through his notes.

"I see that you are pushing the Moscatel as your flagship wine; what's the reasoning behind that choice?" he presses. All traces of the shy diffidence he'd earlier displayed have vanished; in their place sits a cool, canny, uber-professional young entrepreneur.

Marcus flicks his left wrist in a dismissive motion. "I leave that technical stuff to the eggheads," he drawls. "All I need to know is that the stuff tastes good and sells well – and it's been flying off the shelves in Iberia." He smirks as he brags, "It's a right little Galleon-spinner, make no mistake."

'Eggheads' – charming. This explains how you failed your NEWTS on the first go-round, Hermione ponders disapprovingly.

Nott launches into a series of relentlessly technical questions (minimum and maximum alcoholic strengths, acidity, sweetening and enrichment additives, residual sugar content, clarifying agents, protein stability...) that Flint is incapable of answering. His increasing annoyance at Theo's skilled exposure of his ignorance is evident in the way Marcus scratches at his too-tight collar and yanks at his slightly protuberant ears.

Hermione hides her amused smile behind her sheaf of parchment, increasingly certain that Nott is deliberately baiting Flint with every composed query he is pitching. Her suspicions are confirmed as Theo cards his elegantly lean pale hand through his fringe of hickory-brown curls, dropping a quiet, co-conspiratorial wink in Hermione's direction as Marcus shifts restlessly in his seat. The gesture makes her blink and tuck in her mouth lest an inappropriate giggle leak out.

Zabini finally intervenes, pushing back his seat and rising as he interrupts Theo's vinaceous inquisition.

"Thank you, Theo, for that fascinating insight into everything I never wanted to know about winemaking," he quips. "Marcus – Ms Granger and Theo have raised some pertinent issues that must be addressed. We'll allot you a week's grace before we revisit the trade agreement proposition; I'll let you know the time and date of that consultation."

Blaise doesn't wait for Flint's resentful nod of acceptance before he turns his charismatic attention to Hermione.

"Ms Granger, please accept our sincerest thanks for your shrewd participation and sagacity; may we include you in our next meeting, please?" Blaise stops short of fluttering his enviably long, dark lashes in supplication. Hermione is unmoved.

"I'm confident you can call upon many other Ministry employees with a greater range of expertise and experience in this particular arena, Mr Zabini," she parries with a tight smile, gathering her documents and standing up herself.

"Good day, gentlemen; it's been an interesting experience," she nods. Marcus curtly dips his head, whilst Theo's slow-forming, winsome smile makes Hermione briefly wonder why she hadn't paid him more attention at Hogwarts. His usual self-effacing, quiet comportment is easily obliterated when he elects to shine that appealingly seraphic killer smile at an unsuspecting witch.

"Until next week, Ms Granger!" Blaise gaily calls after her departing form, undaunted by her refusal.

Does the blasted man's audacious self-confidence ever suffer the slightest blow? Hermione clicks her tongue as she hurries back to her pinched little workspace; she is due to meet Harry for an early lunch in the cafeteria at half past eleven, and she wants to scribble down and organize her notes on the odd meeting before then.

"Hermione, over here!" Harry waves from a square table tucked in the darkest, chilliest corner of the Ministry's eatery; they usually sit there to avoid prying, censorious eyes. Hermione smiles and hurries to meet her friend, hugging him tightly before they take a seat on the unforgiving metal chairs. The luncheon crowd has not yet swarmed the cafeteria, hence the conversational din is muted in their comparatively secluded area.

Harry gestures at the two trays of food before them. "Shepherd's pie and veggies – best of an ordinary bunch, I'm afraid." He spikes his fork dubiously at an anaemic pea as it rolls feebly across his plate.

"Harry – it's fine. Thank you for getting our meals," Hermione reassures him. He looks weary, mauve shadows bagging beneath his bespectacled eyes. She lays a concerned hand upon his robed arm.

"Are you alright? Has work been terribly taxing?" Worry permeates her soft voice as Harry removes his round glasses to knuckle at his tired eyes.

"I'm OK… don't worry, love. I'm not sleeping well at the moment. 'Operation Acromantula' is our top priority and we seem to be getting somewhere at last.'

"That's the codename for the roofie potioneer investigation," he adds, correctly interpreting Hermione's nonplussed expression.

"Oh, right. Speaking of which, Dra- Malfoy told me that his father provided some pertinent intelligence?" Hermione hopes Harry doesn't notice her slip-up; but Harry's twisted grin suggests otherwise.

"Did he now?" Harry's eyes spark with playful mockery. "Was it part of his ongoing 'protection and support package', Hermione?".

He laughs aloud at her disconcerted aspect as Hermione pretends to fiddle with the side comb in her hair to cover her hot cheeks.

"I thought you might like to know, that's all," she eventually states, keeping her face averted.

Harry's chuckles cease at her miffed, injured tone; he gently pulls her shielding hand from her flushed cheek.

"I'm sorry, Hermione – I'm only teasing. Malfoy owled me a brief report of Lucius's information late on Friday night, and he's meeting with me to discuss it in full – " Harry checks the large utilitarian clock mounted above the cafeteria entrance – "in twenty minutes. I'll have to make our lunch short and sweet, I'm afraid."

"You are?" Hermione squeaks, flummoxed by Harry's casual mention of collaboration – he'd been blatantly suspicious of Draco's motives and involvement at their Friday meeting.

What the hell did the two of them discuss when I left the interrogation room? She forks some savoury mince into her agape mouth in an effort to ground herself.

"Mmm. Want to sit in? I'm sure Draco will enjoy seeing you," Harry is snickering mischievously again.

Hermione's flatware clanks to her plate. "What are you getting at, Harry? Go on – don't beat around the Flutterby bush!" she hisses.

Harry reaches over to clasp her angry little hand in his warm one. "Hermione – I know." His leprechaun green eyes connect searchingly with her golden brown peepers as she turns crimson in a boiling wave of discomfiture.

"What – what do you mean?" She makes one last stab at pretending she doesn't understand exactly what Harry is intimating. Harry dramatically rolls both his eyes and head at the drab ceiling.

"Honestly, watching the two of you hopelessly stumbling about - steeped in denial - is both incredibly amusing and deeply frustrating," Harry groans. He turns to face her again.

"Love, I know that you're a couple. You and Draco Malfoy," Harry clarifies. He holds up an admonishing index finger at her automatic sputter.

"No, Hermione – please, spare me the indignant denial and injured outrage. I have two functioning eyes and ears; you may as well take out an advertisement in The Daily Prophet." Harry sneaks in a few more generous bites of his pie as Hermione's mouth works to form a coherent sentence.

Harry blithely continues, "I've no desire to hear the particulars – witnessing you and Ron pashing and fumbling was bad enough! – but I will ask you this: are you happy? And safe?".

Godric's goatee, not the 'safe sex' talk… again! Hermione closes her eyes, wishing she had earlids as well as eyelids. Ground, swallow me.

Harry is as bloody obstinate as ever. "Well? I promise I won't pry, but I must be satisfied that you've not been coerced or overwhelmed in any way," his voice is sombre as he squeezes her shaky palm for emphasis.

Hermione immediately lashes her head from side-to-side to negate the abhorrent idea.

"Harry… I went to Malfoy. I don't mean – that first night. But yeah, I guess that was my choice, too." She gulps, braving another glance at her concerned friend. "I most certainly wasn't coerced, and I'm not overwhelmed – and – and I'm being safe – that is, we're being safe. And I know you don't want to know the nitty gritty details – rest assured I don't want to tell you! But we're not a couple, not like that –"

He holds up a hand, grimacing. "OK, that'll do. Really. Please, stop. Hermione, if he hurts you –"

"Harry, please don't threaten Dra – Draco. He's… my friend, and he isn't who you think he is. I don't know that he ever was," Hermione finishes quietly.

Harry sighs but doesn't respond. A melancholy silence settles over their small table and abandoned meals.

Another diner screaks a chair across the tiled floor, and the mood is broken.

Hermione stands as Harry scans the clock again and gathers his food tray. He puts it back down suddenly as another idea strikes him.

"Love – did you deliberately forget Ron's birthday was Saturday? He was pretty cut up about it when I dropped into the Burrow that morning," Harry uneasily musses his hand through his hair.

Hermione's mortified face provides Harry with the answer. "I completely forgot – I'm an awful friend! I've never not sent him a card or gift before! We had an awful quarrel at my desk on Friday morning…" she frets, fingernails unconsciously graunching her 'Mudblood' scar through her long-sleeved blue and white paisley blouse.

"I know – Ron told me," Harry firmly steers Hermione's scrabbling fingers away from her arm. "Look, try not to worry over it, Hermione. It might be for the best that you and Ron allow each other some space and time, anyway."

"I suppose…" Hermione is unconvinced, gnawing remorsefully at her lower lip.

Harry impulsively gathers her into a consoling hug. They stand thus for a few moments before a boisterous masculine voice booms beside the table.

"I thought that was you two! Two thirds of the Golden Trio – fancy meeting you here, huh?".

Disengaging from Harry's strong arms, Hermione identifies the speaker with faint acknowledgment.

"Hello, Cormac." Gracious, is the Ministry hosting a Hogwarts reunion that we weren't invited to? Hermione chews at her abused lip again.

Harry merely jerks his head, eyeballing their fellow Gryffindor schoolmate with what Hermione privately labels his 'Auror Animus': inflexible jaw, stern mouth and forbidding frown.

Cormac is undeterred by the lukewarm reception. His wide smile amplifies as his seaweed green eyes drift over Hermione from head to toe; she instinctually folds her arms across her chest as defence against his unsurprising ogle. Harry pushes forward, blocking Cormac's prurient leer.

"What are you doing here, McClaggen?" Harry's blunt belligerence doesn't dent Cormac's brash cocksureness one iota.

"Came by to pick up Uncle Tiberius's personal effects – he finally fell off his perch last month – accidentally drowned in the bath, poor old sod," Cormac flippantly discloses as he points to the old-fashioned archive box lodged beneath his left armpit. "'Course, I could've left it for a minion to send on, but I didn't want to take the chance old Tibby might've left some treasures hidden in his office," he crassly expounds.

"My condolences for your… profound loss," Hermione offers, already aware that McClaggen wouldn't hear the irony in her remark if it smacked him on the arse.

Cormac's smirk doesn't fade. "Oh, it's not all gloom and doom, Hermione – seeing as how I'm his sole heir. Tibby was a confirmed bachelor, y'know." He winks unpleasantly.

Hermione can't help voicing her reprimand. "Cormac – that's quite a stigmatizing term – and rather unfair to your uncle –"

"Don't let it bother your pretty little head, Hermione – ole Tibby hated women, he wouldn't care what you had to say about it," the goldenrod-blond wizard steamrolls her objection.

"Anyway – didn't find a single Knut up in Tib's office. Gotta wonder if someone didn't beat me to it," Cormac reflects with a scowl. His expression clears as he angles his head around Harry to address Hermione again.

"So, how about it, Hermione? You, me, tonight… I'll treat you to a classy nosh and some bubbles, take some time to enjoy each other's company a bit more intimately? Pick you up at seven, there's a good girl." Cormac's confident grin is all perfect ivories and pneumatic lips.

Repressing a shudder, Hermione begins to frame a categorical refusal; her introductory 'No' has barely left her lips before McClaggen overrides her objection.

"I've got plenty of dosh, sweetheart – Uncle Tibby was a canny old miser, I'll say that for him." Cormac bobbles his eyebrows, eyes sparking with vulgar anticipation. "We've never explored our chemistry properly… and you've grown into a right little looker, babe."

Ugh. I'll need a Silkwood shower after this. Hermione glares at the brazen young blockhead. He may be the physical epitome of standardized male beauty (butterscotch-blond curls, Grecian nose, full lips and strong as a Hungarian Horntail), but his crass personality and offensive manner leave him looking as ugly as sin.

"I'm not going anywhere with you, Cormac McClaggen. We never had any chemistry, we're not friends, and I've absolutely no desire to have you paw obscenely at me ever again. I made a colossal mistake inviting you to that Slug Club night; rest assured, it's not an error I'll ever repeat. You should go."

I've had it with 'playing nice', Hermione thinks. Besides, this buffoon won't take no for an answer otherwise.

Cormac's easy smirk quickly morphs into a pugnacious glower. He opens his sneering mouth to retort – but two competing, forceful male voices drown him out.

"Beat it, McClaggen – "

"You heard Ms Granger – GO –"

What the devil? That sounds like Draco! Hermione leans past Harry, clutching at her friend's stalwart arm for support when her hunch is proven true.

Draco Malfoy is flanking Harry – nay, practically standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Harry! – glooming at Cormac with his trademark frosty menace. His fair colouring and indubitably ferocious presence lend him the aura of an avenging mythological Norse deity; Hermione's loins unabashedly quicken at the sight of the man. And at the titillating mental image, if she's honest.

Predictably, Cormac does not react well to the doubled menace.

"What're you doing here, you slimy wanker? Shouldn't you be keeping your yellow-bellied Death Eater daddy company in exile?" Cormac's overloud, spiteful response reverberates across the busy cafeteria. Necks crick as other diners avidly sense an impending donnybrook.

Draco peels his lips back from his teeth in unamused scorn; Hermione is surprised when he stays silent at Cormac's provocation.

"Fuck off, Cormac. Before I have you tossed out of here like yesterday's rubbish," Harry pitches his voice low but it carries to the nearby tables, judging by the shocked gasps of the crowd.

All four participants in their rapidly-escalating drama now have wands in hand; Hermione doesn't take her eyes off McClaggen as he makes a few convulsive twitches. His face is a study in malignant frustration.

To her great relief (or disappointment, she's unsure which right now), Cormac relaxes his hostile stance and slips his wand back in the pocket of his navy robes.

McClaggen laughs insincerely as he cordially bids the triad, "I'll be seeing you around, fellas! Lovely to catch-up – wouldn't have missed this for quids!". He unhurriedly turns for the door, pausing only once to blow a mocking kiss at Hermione. She hears Draco growl like a wrathful Wampus cat.

Harry grabs Hermione's hand. "Are you OK, love?".

She pins a flimsy smile on her dial. "Yeah – I'm fine. He's all wind and no wand," Hermione jokes feebly. Neither of her tense guardians so much as quirk a lip. She tries again. "Really, I'm good. But do you think we could beat a hasty retreat, before the audience gets any thicker?".

They both nod; Harry moves to her right side, keeping a hold of her hand, while Draco walks to her left, his palm warm against the small of her back. His light touch immediately calms her crashing adrenaline levels.

As they pace from the eatery and toward the elevators, Hermione asks Draco, "Why were you in the cafeteria, Malfoy?".

"Potter's late," Draco succinctly replies. "Heard he was at lunch." His impassive response is at odds with the residual heat in his eyes as they scan her face and body; a muscle jumps in his mandible at her faint trembles.

They step into a half-occupied elevator; Harry checks, "Are you joining us, Hermione?" as his finger hovers over the directional buttons.

"Yes, I am," Hermione responds firmly, as she crowds in beside Draco at the rear of the lift. Their hands graze, pinkie fingers twining almost imperceptibly. Harry prods the marker for Level Two and pushes his way back to their position. His sharp eyes don't miss their tiny connection; his shoulders shake slightly with suppressed mirth as he mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like 'But you're not a couple… not like that'.

"Shut up, Harry," Hermione hisses… which only serves to make her friend vibrate more.

She stares straight ahead, ignoring the unfunny wretch.

And when Draco gently slides his entire hand around her own, Hermione doesn't hesitate to hold it tight