All's Fair in Love and War

II. A Tempting Offer

Hermione Granger was twenty years old, passionate, intelligent, respected, had recently graduated with one of the highest NEWT scores in history, considered one of the brightest witches of her times – and was also about to be unemployed.

She sighed in an exaggerated tone, skimming through the classified adds of the Daily Prophet once again for any job offers that looked appealing. But the truth was, she had never felt completely at home anywhere once she had left Hogwarts. Harry was the one who, it seemed, had the greatest claim to kinship with the school; but those ancient, enchanted walls held within them all her memories, her greatest achievements, her deepest secrets and her highest aspirations. No one appreciated Hogwarts in quite the same way as Hermione Granger.

Which was why, the young witch was sure, she was never completely devoted to her work. True, she was highly sought after post-graduation, but Hermione preferred to fly under the radar, taking small jobs with meager pay. The talented witch had trouble committing herself to any one task or job for more than a few months at a time, and her work suffered as a result of her restlessness. Hogwarts was her past, and it was trying to make damn sure it would be part of her future, too.

Hermione rose from her desk and strode towards the window, glancing outside blankly. It was only eight o’clock, but already the streets just outside of the Leaky Cauldron were bustling with Muggles and magical folk alike. Here and there cloaked wizards could be seen, eliciting odd stares from the Muggles who didn’t notice them abruptly disappear in the next instant. The wizard had either Apparated or entered the Leaky Cauldron, a small, dingy pub that served as the doorway between Muggle London and Diagon Alley. To Hermione, the Leaky Cauldron was not only her job choice, but her home and her only remaining connection to the wizarding world – for now.

Pressed for time, Hermione chose a modest, though flattering, champagne-colored dress as her daily garment. Being physically attractive and keeping up on grooming habits were an important part of working with customers – especially in the Leaky Cauldron, a seedy little bar and inn that attracted magical creatures and kin from all across the world. Hermione had learned to worm her way out of less than favorable situations by flaunting her charm, something that, as a late bloomer, she hadn’t begun to develop until well into adulthood, a trait that she had consciously begun to hone (now that she was aware of it).

“Miss Granger!” A sharp bark echoed up the stairwell to Hermione’s living quarters. “Miss Granger, you had better be awake!”

Hermione blanched, diving into the washroom to avoid persecution from the bar’s owner and employer, Tom.

“Ridiculous,” she murmured, kicking her clothing into an unceremonious pile in the corner as she disrobed. Deeply irritated, she twisted the shower faucet, checking the temperature. She had just climbed into the shower when—

“MISS GRANGER!”

Hermione squealed as she scrambled to wrap the opaque shower curtain around her exposed body frantically. The disembodied head of her employer, Tom, had suddenly appeared from thin air, wearing an impatient, albeit amused, expression on his face.

“You’re late!” it declared sharply. “I expect you – fully robed – in the lobby in ten minutes’ time!” Apparently satisfied with this announcement, Tom’s head disappeared with a small pop.

Shaken, though annoyed more than anything, Hermione finished her shower cautiously (and a little suspiciously). She dressed quickly, stealing furtive glances over her shoulder every few minutes as though to assure herself that no one was watching. Muttering to herself darkly, she warded her door against unwanted intrusion and headed downstairs.

“Ah, Miss Granger, I see you’ve decided to join us,” commented Tom slyly, her expression belaying smugness.

“I might have been down sooner if I hadn’t needed to keep looking over my shoulder for floating heads,” she replied hotly.

“Fair enough,” he chuckled, shooting her a sideways glance. Tom, though tattered and seedy, was a fair man, and Hermione a respectable woman – but lately, he had noticed her becoming rather edgy, as if she were nervous, or agitated. It didn’t bother him when she occasionally zoned out or even when she snapped at customers, but he made it his business when it cut into her work performance. He was worried about his bright young employee, though it pained him to admit that she could do better than the run-down, ramshackle bar called the Leaky Cauldron. Having more or less watched her grow up, he was privy to the changes in her year by year as she passed through with a friendly, timid demeanor on her way to Diagon Alley.

And grown up she certainly had, he thought lewdly to himself. That untamable nest of bushy hair had compensated for its childhood incorrigibility by rectifying itself into a set of loose, chestnut-colored ringlets that framed her face and reflected the light like a glowing halo. Her eyes were nearly the same color, although when a shaft of sunlight fell across her face and lit up her eyes, Tom imagined they could draw a close comparison to honey.

Hermione caught is eye and offered an apologetic smile before gathering her clipboard and heading over to serve a table of eager, early-morning wizards. He watched her go, his eyes lasciviously tracing the shapely curve of her hip as she cocked it to the side, writing furiously as she took their orders.

Of course, Tom was a gentleman (mostly), but what attracted him to Hermione the most was her body. She was the type of girl over whom men would hex each other just to get a piece. She was tiny but shaped like a woman with small, perky breasts and a belly as tight as a snare drum. What impressed Tom the most was that she didn’t seem to know how positively bewitching she was, and if she did, she was certainly modest about it. Hermione was a true poster child for beauty.

“The witch in the corner with the purple balaclava wants to know what her tab is,” said Hermione, breaking Tom from his libidinous thoughts. He stared at her, almost shocked, and she grinned at him nervously, unsure.

“Something wrong?”

“Er… no, Hermione, no. You’re doing well. Tell her that her drink is two sickles.” He released a deep breath when she turned away to tend to the customers. He hoped that she didn’t yet know how to recognize that telltale gleam in a man’s eye.

-----x-----

Hermione worked ceaselessly until late afternoon, and only then, after eight straight hours of work, was Tom able to talk her into taking a short break. The pub’s peak business hours were coming soon and he needed Hermione to be in top form; therefore, at Tom’s persistent goading, Hermione went upstairs to freshen up and get a bit of reading in before returning downstairs. She was dismayed to find that the Leaky Cauldron had become several times busier in the few spare moments she had snatched to herself. Heaving a dramatic sigh that reflected her consternation, Hermione trudged across the room to begin her shift.

“Excuse me, Miss. Could I take an order, please?” requested an oddly familiar voice.

Hermione turned to address the wizard and gaped in silence, her mouth hanging open, when she realized whose voice she was hearing.

“Professor Dumbledore!” she gasped, dashing over to the much older wizard, her clipboard promptly forgotten. Here sat the man to which she – and the wizarding world – owed everything, for not only had he saved her life, as well as the lives of her two best friends, but he had also been a key factor in the downfall of Voldemort. Where others had doubted the word of Harry Potter and his friends, Dumbledore alone had been the voice of reason, the only solid, unwavering supporter that Harry had ever known (she had, of course, her face red with shame, vetoed Harry’s opinions in favor of logic many times before). Hermione didn’t doubt that there were more times still that he had been offered the position of Minister for Magic, apart from the three that the wizarding world was aware of. But like her, like Harry – and like Voldemort, she realized bitterly – her place was at Hogwarts. They had more in common than most people could ever imagine.

“Ah, Miss Granger,” he said genially, giving every indication that their meeting tonight was a result of luck and chance, “what a pleasant surprise.”

“I, uh, wasn’t expecting to see you here!” she exclaimed nervously, tugging on her dress’ hem self-consciously. “Hogwarts business?

He chuckled. “It is, Miss Granger, it is. But why not order a nice, cold pint of Firewhiskey and chat with a good friend before getting down to business?” He peered at her mysteriously over the rim of his glasses, and she deciphered this to mean that he was making an order.

“Of course, Professor—erm, a Firewhiskey?” she added shyly, tugging a quill and a spare notebook from her apron; she, after all, had not had nearly as much one-on-one contact with Dumbledore as Harry had, and was feeling justifiably sheepish.

Dumbledore held up his hand, halting her in mid-sentence. “No need, Miss Granger. In fact, it was you with whom I came to speak, and it wouldn’t do at all to have you running off to serve me drinks while I was attempting to proposition you.” He gazed at her thoughtfully, and she wondered vaguely what sort of a proposition he was preparing to make her. “I would like you to consider returning to Hogwarts to work for me.”

Hermione reeled internally, stunned into silence. The shock didn’t last long, however; it was quickly replaced with a rapidly ballooning feeling of elation, and her heart leapt at the idea of coming back to Hogwarts. Had the librarian, Madam Pince, retired? Had yet another teacher succumbed to the curse laid upon the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts? But Hermione knew, knew with every fiber of her being, that she would accept no matter what the position was.

Dumbledore cocked an eyebrow, waiting patiently, and Hermione remembered that he was a highly accomplished Legilimens; he was probably reading her thoughts as she stood there, gaping, silent. He offered a small, all-knowing chuckle. “Of course, there are the small matters of transportation and salary, but I am confident that you will find the rooming to be most satisfactory—“

“I’ll do it!” she gushed before he could finish speaking, radiating happiness, beaming as she hadn’t since receiving her NEWT scores the summer after graduating. Wasn’t this what she had been dreaming of since?

“Excellent,” he exclaimed, rising from the table, his business apparently concluded with favorable results. “Incidentally,” he added as an after-note, in an unconvincingly casual tone, “The position to be filled is that of apprentice Potions mistress to Severus Snape.”