Blood of Mud, Wing of Bat

Chapter 9: Crow for Breakfast, Fly for Lunch

Hermione had discovered early on in her employment with Trelawney that it was nearly impossible to hold a sensible conversation with the woman, particularly when Hermione herself had a specific agenda she wished to pursue. At first she had thought it was her fault, but after spying on her boss a while she figured out that everyone else had the same problem. Malfoy appeared to be no exception.

"Draco Malfoy!" Trelawney shrieked delightedly as soon as she saw who was in the fireplace. "How are you doing? It's been ages!"

"It's only been two weeks," he said, sounding a bit strained. He'd clearly planned to confront Trelawney about the Hermione issue, but it was awfully easy to get derailed by one of Trelawney's explosive greetings.

"Oh yes, so it has," Trelawney gushed. "And how is your mother?"

"The same, I suppose," said Malfoy even more reluctantly. "I still haven't heard from her."

"Draco," said Trelawney intensely, leaning forward, a gleam in her eye. "Listen to me. Your mother walks a dangerous path. The stars show a tangled fate at the end of her chosen road. If you love her, you must try to sway her to do the right thing. Otherwise…."

Malfoy picked up the shot glass and knocked it back. "Have you ever tried to talk your mother out of a radical life changing decision?" he drawled in annoyance.

"Er… no," admitted Trelawney.

"Besides, I think the other person in her life right now has a good deal more influence than I do."

"Of course, of course," said Trelawney soothingly.

"At any rate, the reason I flooed - " began Malfoy.

"And how is your dear Administrative Assistant?" interrupted Trelawney, beaming.

There was a long pause while Malfoy presumably tried to decide just how much of Trelawney's guff he was willing to put up with in order to get where he wanted to go conversation-wise. After a moment, his shoulders sagged and his face drew into a scowl. "Poopsie? She's hared off on some wild goose chase, she's been gone for hours." He grabbed the bottle and refilled his shot glass.

"Really, dear, you must have had some inkling of what you were getting into when you chose a non-domestic position for a house-elf."

Malfoy's grey eyes narrowed. "If there is one lesson I have learned from all of this, it is to never make important business decisions when suffering from extreme sleep deprivation."

Trelawney seemed unaware of any possible double-meaning in his words. "And what is she chasing down, then?"

He leaned back in his chair, evidently resigned to a long and gruelling conversation. "I vaguely remember her saying something about going to the library to research the origins of the elf/family Bond," he said. "She still hasn't gotten it into her head that our Bond is gone, it's broken, forever."

"You don't think she wants to create a new one?" Trelawney seemed titillated by the idea.

"Wants to get me arrested, more like," muttered Malfoy. "I've told her again and again, I don't need that kind of trouble right now. It's like trying to explain the graduated income tax to a cat."

Trelawney twittered in appreciation of the joke. "Really, Draco, you don't give the poor thing enough credit. Why, she's quite bright for a house-elf, and she works so hard to take good care of you."

"Works so hard to drive me insane, more like," Malfoy said, as he downed shot #3.

"Have you managed to reach an accommodation with her regarding her clothing?" asked Trelawney brightly.

"Don't even bring that up. It's become a considerable sore point."

"Come now, how bad could it be? You know, the elves have their own fashions and such, I am sure she is doing perfectly fine by her own standards…."

"Do you know what she did last weekend?" interrupted Malfoy. "She said she was going to a party - some rubbish house-elf party I gather - and she had had bought herself a dress. A used dress, mind you… as if I don't pay her well enough to use a seamstress."

"And?" asked Trelawney, seeming amused by Malfoy's indignant expression.

"And it still had the tag on it. While she was wearing it! When I tried to explain to her that the tag was meant to be thrown away, she became hysterical and wouldn't let me remove it."

Trelawney burst out laughing. "That is so sweet!"

"It is not sweet! It's ridiculous," snarled Malfoy.

"It's so sweet how you care about her, that's all."

"And," said Malfoy, as if he hadn't heard that last bit, "she had the audacity to punch me. Twice! All because of a bloody price tag. She left a huge welt it took 3 charms to get rid of, and my ribs still hurt days later."

"I certainly hope you didn't file a formal complaint about that." As Malfoy shifted about uncomfortably, Trelawney's eyes widened. "You didn't!"

Malfoy scowled. "No, I wanted to, but I didn't. I can't even show my face around the Department of Domestic Disturbances since that damned Rita Skeeter blew the whole Amexia thing out of proportion last Spring. Now they just laugh like hyenas whenever they see me coming." He gulped down shot #4.

Hermione remembered the "Amexia thing" well. Amexia Brandt was, as far as Hermione knew, Malfoy's most recent foray onto the dating scene. A tiny little thing with a tongue like a harpy, Amexia had various suspected Death Eater connections and had been sorted into Slytherin at Hogwarts about five years after Hermione and Draco's class had left the school. This past spring, she and Malfoy had appeared publicly together repeatedly over about two months. The "Amexia Incident", which as far as Hermione knew was the circumstance of their break-up, occurred publicly in, of all places, a Muggle shopping mall.

The eyewitness version Hermione had heard (from Parvati Patil, who actually worked in the mall as a professional Psychic) was that Amexia had lit into Malfoy, screeching her head off for several minutes before whipping out her wand and beginning to fire curses in all directions. Malfoy had held his own during the verbal part of the argument, but left the scene rather suddenly when it came to wand work. This was only sensible; the Ministry had descended upon Brandt within seconds of the first curse hurled, and promptly arrested her for exposing Muggles to magic. It had taken weeks to track down all the Muggle witnesses and erase their memories of the incident, and even longer to stamp out the stories created by their relaying the experience to others.

Meanwhile, the story that had appeared in the Daily Prophet the next morning had been passed through the Rita filter and become wildly distorted. According to Skeeter, the argument had begun over Malfoy's supposedly cheating on Amexia, and escalated to physical blows. After a well placed kick between the legs reduced Malfoy to a quivering heap, he'd hurled the final insult: he claimed that he'd never liked her anyway, and had only dated her out of pity. This had reduced Amexia to such rage that she had blown out every glass window in the entire mall with a burst of Wild Magic. At which point, Malfoy (so Rita reported) may or may not have lost bladder control.

Hermione wasn't inclined to trust Parvati much more than she trusted Trelawney, but she did have personal experience with Rita Skeeter articles and it was guaranteed that whatever had happened, it wasn't at all like how Rita had described it. She would have to ask Rita sometime how the Malfoys had come to fall out of favour with her. Twenty years ago, her articles had always seemed to show them in a positive light.

"Oh dear, yes, I remember that," said Trelawney ruefully. "It was all over the news. Quite embarrassing don't you think?"

Malfoy snarled. "Look, can we please come to the point? I did have a reason for calling, you know."

"Ah yes," said Trelawney, flustered.

"What in the world were you thinking when you assigned that Weasley Mudblood to my case?" he demanded.

"I can explain," blithered Trelawney. "Truly I can. It's for the best, you'll see."

"This would have to be one hell of an explanation," said Malfoy.

"First of all, she's my best Know-it-all," Trelawney began.

"Not the best for me!" he growled. "She's a Mudblood, her husband writes me threatening letters, her father-in-law and his goons have been harassing me relentlessly, and her litter of bloody weasel-whelps have put my son in the hospital! Again!"

"And how is your son doing?" asked Trelawney, most likely in in an attempt to re-derail the conversation.

Malfoy glared coldly at her and downed yet another shot. There had been either one or two in between there, and Hermione had lost track. Was this #7 or #8?

"He'll live. He might hate his life, but he'll live," he said. His tone of voice absolutely forbade further questions along that line.

"Er… well," said Trelawney, taking the hint. "That is good. But back to the other…. surely you don't balk at having a Muggle-born employee? There must be zillions of them at Batwing already. Why, I've heard you even have Muggles working some of the greenhouses and breeding facilities."

Malfoy sneered. "Yes, but this is different. She and I would have to work one-on-one, and -"

"And so it is a good thing that Hermione is so professional and open-minded, isn't it?" asked Trelawney, a bit sharply.

Malfoy's mouth was still open but there was a pause as the end of his sentence failed to materialize.

"I mean," persisted Trelawney, "it isn't as if you haven't done your best to make yourself an enemy of her kind, and of her family specifically. But even so, Hermione will still do her best for you, and that's not something that's easy to find. In fact, in my experience, it's… unique."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Are you saying she is the only one who was willing to do it?"

Trelawney smiled apologetically. "I did have two weeks to try to convince all of the others before she came back from holiday."

Malfoy said nothing, just stared at her resentfully, his pale eyes slitted. Hermione was stunned. She'd just assumed that Trelawney had a good reason for picking her, and that it had something to do with her being the best Know-it-all Sibyll & Co. had. Was it really true that all of her co-workers had first refusal of the gig? One thing was for sure, Hermione intended to find out.

"However, if you truly cannot work with her, it is always your option to forfeit your down payment and find another consulting firm to work with," continued Trelawney. "Perhaps one of the others…."

"This company is one vice-president short of a full set because of your damned down payment," said Malfoy defensively. "I'm hardly about to let that sacrifice go to waste, particularly after all the trouble it's caused me since. And besides, I've been to the other consultancies. None of the others have any experience with a company this large, and they're all too afraid of Arthur Weasley and his pack of raving lunatics to have anything to do with me."

"I'm beginning to detect a common theme, Draco dear," said Trelawney gently. "It does seem like a lot of people don't want to have anything to do with you, doesn't it?"

Malfoy recoiled, offended. It was true, though; his money, his breeding, and his reputation gave him a lot of clout at a distance, but nobody wanted to deal with him in person. This was plain fact. Malfoy might not like to admit it, but he had to have noticed by now.

"At some point you must face the facts, and accept help from whoever is willing to offer it," said Trelawney. "Hermione Weasley is willing to help you and she's honest enough and fair enough that you won't have to worry about who she's related to or who else she might be working for… that's guaranteed in writing in your contract."

"Fat lot of good your contract will do me if she helps send me to Azkaban," said Malfoy darkly, having apparently chosen to ignore the insult about his personality. He tossed back another shot of Ogden's Extra Special.

Hermione was becoming seriously worried about Malfoy's health. She'd witnessed him down several shots in less than an half an hour. How much alcohol could someone of his size handle in that short a time, anyway? She knew that in Muggle terms, ten or twelve shots in an hour could be lethal to a person weighing about 55 kilos. He was probably bigger than that, but unfortunately in her fly form it was hard to make accurate estimates of that kind. Plus she had no idea what kind of tolerance for the stuff he had built up, or even how strong wizarding whiskey was compared to Muggle.

"True, but I wouldn't make a guarantee like that if I thought I couldn't stand by it," said Trelawney. "You do trust me, don't you?" she asked, smiling kindly.

"Yes, but -"

"Your mother used to trust me implicitly. I gave her advice for years and years, both before you were born and up until recently."

Malfoy glowered at her. "Up until she recently went mad and changed her Last Will and Testament to leave my Manor to -"

"Oh, dear, well that was unfortunate. But there will be plenty of opportunity for her to change her mind before she d-"

"Don't say it," Malfoy hissed. "Don't even think it."

Trelawney sighed. "My point is, you do trust me, and you desperately need my help. All we need to get over is your fear of Hermione Weasley."

Malfoy bristled, but Trelawney wasn't going to let him take charge of the conversation again.

"You've done a pretty good job of keeping your reason for doing this a secret," she continued, "but whatever that reason it is, it has to be a pretty compelling one. I've known you all your life, Draco, and frankly speaking you aren't the type to work this hard for anything less than a life or death situation. Now I don't know if you've gotten yourself entangled in some sort of Death Eater trouble, or if you have secret debts, or a pact with one of the darker Supernatural Powers, but whatever your difficulty is, it seems you have no choice but to make Batwing a working company. Is that right?"

Malfoy managed to send her a death glare while squirming uncomfortably at the same time. He seemed to want to deny it, but what he finally said was, "Maybe."

Trelawney smiled, a touch grimly. "Now, I knew you were desperate when you came to me. I always know these things, that is why people come to me for advice. Even your mother, bless her heart. I know you lent the money for my down payment to Batwing, and that it drained your personal cash reserves, and that it'll take two years for you to get it back from Batwing using money budgeted for that missing Vice President's salary. That's a big gamble, Draco. A very big gamble. What are you going to do when you run out of cash, sell some land?"

Hermione knew that the bulk of Malfoy's wealth lay in real estate, most of it non-income-producing. Much of it had been in the family for hundreds of years. At one time he'd been worth more in business investments, but the anti-trust ruling and the ravages of divorce settlements had put an end to that. Right now, his land-based wealth consisted mainly of the ability to borrow almost any amount he could desire. To threaten that financial leverage would be to threaten the very foundation of the Malfoy family's power. There was no way he'd sell any land. But then, to actually live on borrowed money was a slippery slope. Would there be any way to avoid that if Batwing failed?

"That's none of your business," said Malfoy weakly.

"That's true," said Trelawney. "Just like it's none of my business why you chose to get yourself in this Batwing mess in the first place. But there's one thing that is my business: you need my Know-it-all. And my Know-it-all just happens to be Hermione Weasley. You've already paid for the first two months of Hermione Weasley. Are you going to use her, or are you going to waste your money?"

"I don't feel so good," said Malfoy. He did look unhealthy and queasy, though whether from Trelawney's pointed words or from incipient alcohol poisoning Hermione did not know. One thing she did know: he was in no condition to be making important business decisions. Apparently he had been thinking along the same lines, because he said "I… I'll owl you in a few days after I've had a chance to think about it."

Trelawney watched him for a moment, and then her face softened. "I'm sorry, Draco, I don't want to be harsh, but I worry about you. To be honest, I wasn't sure that I should even ask Hermione to do this. But Divination revealed that far from being wrong for the job, she is the only one for the job."

She leaned in really close to the fire, and Malfoy unconsciously leaned closer to his fire too. He seemed almost nervous about what she might say next.

"I did a crystal ball reading," said Trelawney in a low, confidential voice. "And I saw the most terrifying vision! There was a forest, at night, and in a clearing there was a circle of black-robed…."

"Yes yes, get to the important bit," said Malfoy tensely.

"You were there being tortured and killed at wand point."

Malfoy blanched.

"And then - needless to say I was quite concerned - I decided to use a new product I am prototyping, the Predictall FutureVision Glamour Specs. It turned out that this event had something to do with Amexia Brandt."

The look of intense dismay on Malfoy's face was almost comical. "Amexia? In my future? The reason for my death?"

"Well," said Trelawney briskly, "I don't know what the connection between Amexia and Batwing is, but that is the vision I got when I looked into the future about Batwing without Hermione Weasley."

Hermione was pretty sure Trelawney had just made the whole thing up, but it sure had put a scare into Malfoy. If that was what it took to get him to agree, well, Hermione didn't like it but she would take what she could get.

Malfoy put his head in his hands. Trelawney smiled sympathetically. "Do owl me when you have had a chance to think about it," she said.

"What's the point?" he said miserably. "If it's between risk of prison or certain death, I don't have any choice."

"You always have a choice," began Trelawney.

"Spare me," snarled Malfoy. He lifted his head from his hands. "Fine, I'll deal with your Mudblood. But if anything happens to me, I swear someone will make sure you regret it."

"Nothing will happen," said Trelawney, with a little sigh. Hermione could tell Malfoy was beginning to get on her nerves big time. But the owner of Sibyll & Co. had not made her business successful by giving up easily, or by being too picky about her clients. "Now, I haven't spoken to her since this morning. I can only hope she hasn't decided to quit or anything."

Malfoy's expression darkened. "I refuse to take responsibility for…."

"Now now, calm down," said Trelawney. "We can't undo the past. I think a nice letter of apology would be just the thing to reassure Hermione that you are serious about working with her."

Malfoy looked dumbfounded. "An apology? From me? To her? In writing? After you've practically threatened me -- "

"Just get your assistant to write it," said Trelawney. "You'll hardly feel a thing. Then, take her - Hermione, that is, not your elf - out to lunch. Somewhere nice, so she knows you're taking this seriously."

"I can't be seen in public with a Mudblood! Are you trying to get me killed?"

"At… let's say… two o'clock."

Malfoy glanced at his wristwatch. The dial was pointing to "I shan't tell you, you never listen anyway." He hissed and tapped on it sharply with a forefinger, and the dial shifted slightly to point to "Almost race time!" He ripped it off his wrist in annoyance and stuffed it into a drawer of the desk.

"Preposterous," he snarled. "I won't have any part of it."

"Splendid," said Trelawney enthusiastically, taking that for an agreement. "Well that's that then, and be sure to let me know again in a couple of days how things are going. Good luck!"

Her face vanished from the fireplace.

Malfoy snatched the nearest object on his desk - some sort of appointment book - and hurled it into the fire in a fit of fury. Then he turned back to his desk and buried his face in his arms.

Poopsie tiptoed out of nowhere - Hermione had been so riveted by the floo conversation she hadn't even seen her come in - and plucked the book out of the fire, snuffing out the burning portions.

"Master needs his calendar," she said. "Otherwise Master be late to many important meetings." Poopsie placed the calendar on the desk again, then smiled sadly at Malfoy's unresponsive back. She picked up the Ogden's bottle and the glass and put them back in the cupboard, then came back and touched him on the shoulder. "Master??"

"What," he mumbled into his arms. "Leave me alone, I'm having a terrible day."

"Doesn't Master want Poopsie to write a letter to Miz Weasley?"

"Yeah, do that," he said. "Then get lost."

"Master! You has to say what the letter says. Poopsie writes down anything Master wants."

Malfoy groaned and stretched out an arm, knocking several items off the front side of the desk. He left his head lying on that arm while he used his other hand to rub his face. "What did I do to deserve this?" he asked rhetorically. "Fine, I'll dictate, now hurry up so we can get it over with."

While Malfoy muttered something like "I can't believe I'm doing this," Poopsie bounced happily into one of the seats across the desk from Malfoy, and produced a scroll and quill. She waited expectantly. There was a long, long pause.

"Weasley," he said heavily. Poopsie obediently copied down the greeting, such as it was. Then there was another long silence, while Malfoy stared blankly at some parchments his head was half resting on. Finally he said, "It appears that I owe you an apology."

Hermione was so excited that she lost her grip on the ceiling and fell to the desk with a smack landing on the parchments right in front of Malfoy's nose. He straightened up and stared down at her in disgust while she lay stunned. From her angle he looked rumpled and unwell.

"Honestly, this place is revolting!" he exclaimed in annoyance. "I have never seen more vermin in one building in my entire life." He reached toward her.

Hermione recovered her wits and launched herself upward to avoid being squashed, but to her shock Malfoy simply darted his hand up and plucked her out of the air like a tiny Snitch. The Gryffindors had derided his abilities back at Hogwarts, but there was no doubt about it - the guy was wired like a Seeker. Hermione wondered what his reflexes were like when he was sober.

He frowned at Hermione and began to prod at her with his thumb and forefinger, tugging none too gently on her limbs and poking at her tiny head. Oh my god, she thought frantically, he's going to pull out my wings or practice Crucio on me or....

"Master… do yous want more to yous letter, or is you finished?" asked Poopsie.

"No no, there's more. Where was I?" Malfoy sighed.

"It appears I owe you an apology," Poopsie read back helpfully.

"Oh yes," said Malfoy rather sourly. There was a long pause. Then: "I have spoken to Sibyll Trelawney," he continued to dictate, "and she insists that, contrary to all common sense and the laws of nature, you are the best Know-it-all for the job and that there can be no other."

He rummaged through a bunch of jars amongst the clutter on his desk, squinting at the labels. He picked out a jar of dead flies, examined the contents, and then compared Hermione to the desiccated specimens at arm's length. Hermione realized to her horror that they were a Batwing product sample. She imagined being trapped in that jar with all those dead bodies….

"As I have neither the inclination nor the time to verify her… sources, I am forced to take her word for it. Therefore, I am requesting your presence here at 2 P.M. today when I will treat you to lunch and we can discuss how to proceed further."

He replaced the jar on the desk and, almost as an afterthought, tossed Hermione aside. She bounced along the floor and came to rest under the windows, temporarily unable to do more than re-live her near-death experience. Several times, in Technicolor.

"Sign it the usual way," drawled Malfoy in a bored voice. "Send it immediately via regular courier, and please don't misspell anything this time. I had a very difficult time explaining to the Minister why I had written him about the inconvenience of not being able to use my own hand for a week."

Poopsie blushed a lurid shade of tennis-ball green. "Poopsie not make that mistake again," she vowed. "Poopsie be very careful."

He hunted through his pockets and found the tiny Swiss Army Knife wand. Then he lurched to his feet ungracefully and nearly fell over. "Damn that Nesbitt," he muttered as he caught himself against the book shelves. Hermione realized it had been long enough that he must be stiffening up from his abuse at the hands of the two Aurors. Not to mention running up the four flights of stairs afterward. That had to be cruel and unusual punishment for anyone who Apparated as much as Malfoy did. All the alcohol he had drunk probably wasn't doing his coordination and balance any good either. He pushed himself away from the wall and stepped forward around his desk. "I'll be back by two o'clock," he said.

Poopsie looked up from her letter, then dropped everything and jumped up in alarm. "You is not Apparatings with that itsy bitsy wand Master!" she exclaimed. She jumped forward and seized his left arm, pulled it down so she could grab the wand from him.

"Ow!" he howled, giving way so suddenly Poopsie fell over backward, the wand clutched in her fist. "That hurt, you little shit! Give it back."

"No Master, you should not be Apparating when you's been drinking too much and you is not feeling well."

"I was feeling much better before you tried to rip my arm off," he said in an aggrieved tone.

"Poopsie just wanted to make sure Poopsie got the wand before you did it," said the house-elf contritely. "Poopsie is sorry if Poopsie was too rough."

"The next time someone grabs my arm and tries to yank it off," said Malfoy, "I swear I will rip the damned thing off myself and owl it to He-who-must-not-be-named in a box. And good riddance!"

He stormed out in a huff, leaving a somewhat bewildered Poopsie in his wake.

"Poopsie just not want Master to get splinched," she said sadly. Then she shook herself and whisked out after Malfoy. Hermione realized she was being left behind, and buzzed upward in pursuit. For all it had seemed rough treatment at the time, she didn't seem to have taken any actual damage during her brief moments of terror.

"Oh God," said Malfoy, when he realized the house-elf had caught up with him.

"Poopsie just wanted to ask where yous goings?" she asked innocently, bouncing alongside him.

"Home."

"But how is you getting there?"

"I'll take the damned Knight Bus if I have to."

"Poopsie will come with you and hail it for yous, Master!" She waved the tiny wand.

Malfoy's eyes bugged. "Put that away, you imbecile! Don't you know how much trouble I can get into for letting you get your hands on a wand?"

"See, yous do want to be my Master again. You acts like I still is your Poopsie!" said Poopsie joyfully.

"Don't even go there," said Malfoy, desperately trying to pull away from her in the hallway.

Poopsie sped up to match his pace, her energy level easily ten times his. "Today at the library Poopsie has found out many interesting things about elves and families," she began.

Malfoy stopped in his tracks and rounded on her so suddenly she nearly crashed into him.

"That's enough," he snapped, his voice coming out with the unmistakable whiplash of command.

Poopsie's eyes widened and her ears and shoulders cringed downward.

"Master Draco… you sound just like Master Lucius just then."

Malfoy took a deep breath, as if consciously reining in his temper. "If you push me too far, you leave me no choice but to be firm," he said. "Now go back and finish those reports I gave you yesterday. I'll be back by two o'clock. And no arguing."

"Yes, Master," mumbled Poopsie, looking at her feet. She vanished with a barely audible thup noise.

Malfoy ran his fingers through his hair. "Damned elf," he muttered to himself. "Jumped up pantry rat." He turned and continued rather unsteadily down the hallway and into a stairwell, still muttering to himself.

Not wanting to attract his intimate personal attention again, Hermione prudently didn't follow him very closely but instead flew on ahead and landed in a discreet location to wait, moving down a floor each time he drew near. She thought he was a lot drunker than he'd been a few minutes ago, but she didn't want to take any chances. Tormenting flies was probably something they taught little kids in Slytherin while showing them their common room and how to find the Great Hall. He could probably do it in his sleep.

In the lobby on the first floor, the receptionist was gossiping with another witch. They both turned in surprise and dismay when they realized Malfoy of all people had just walked in. He was looking pretty green by now. He weaved over to them, sized them up disdainfully, and then pointed at the receptionist.

"You… give me your wand."

"What!"

He gestured impatiently with his outstretched hand. "Give it here, or it's your job." He used his other hand to steady himself against the receptionist's desk.

"Um… um… take mine, sir," stammered the other witch. She fumbled for and produced a slender oaken wand, offered it to him.

Malfoy studied her more thoroughly, then took the wand without comment.

He turned and sneered at the receptionist. "You had better watch yourself," he hissed. And with a flick of the other woman's wand, he was gone.

"Oh my God," said the witch who had given up her wand. "I can't believe he took my wand."

"I can't believe you were dumb enough to hand it to him!"

"Are you joking? Have you heard what he did to Maxwell Bannock in Sales? Besides, I don't want to lose my job. I have a daughter away at boarding school now."

"And how are you going to afford her tuition if you have to buy a new wand?"

"He'll give it back, won't he?"

"Don't bloody count on it."

"Oh my God!" said the woman again, this time with feeling.

As Hermione found a crack between the front doors through which to fly away, she reflected that she had a very long, hard assignment ahead of her.