When the Bell Tolls - Dramione

12.

August 28; 10:13pm

Hermione frowns at the report, scanning again for the last date her co-worker had checked the Barkley residence. "The meeting will have at least one person from the higher circle. No one will be safe."

The shuffling of clothes stops briefly inside the loo. "I meant, in terms of not having done anything to anger them, I'm safe. I'm fully aware that their intentions can shift without reason, and I don't need you to ramble on again about the consistency of unexpected death."

"I did not ramble," she mutters, and then raises her voice. "I was simply stating that no matter what we do, or how safe we tell ourselves that we are, absolutely anything can happen at any moment that will kill us. That it's not always someone else or other people that it happens to. That everyone should be aware of that."

"It doesn't matter."

"What?"

"Normally, in everyday life, it doesn't matter."

"That you can be killed at any second? I certainly think that--"

"If death comes as a surprise even when you expect it, if it can come at any time, then it doesn't matter. Living your life waiting for it isn't going to do anything but waste your life as much as death will. When there's no immediate, obvious danger, and you hide behind wards and fear for the rest of your life, it's just as well that you be dead."

Hermione stares at the door, her quill slipping through her lax fingers to stab her parchment with a blob of ink. She opens her mouth for the fact that she should say something, argue against his point, but she has nothing to say. She lifts her quill from the parchment, tapping her wand in an attempt to clear the spot without lifting the original words.

"You should still protect yourself."

"I didn't say people should walk through Knockturn at night without a wand."

Any response is lost when he steps out from the loo, his trousers charcoal grey and his shirt a steel blue that's changed his eyes the same color. He looks sleek, but brighter than she's seen him in years, and more attractive than a man with so many strict lines and points should have the right to be.

"You look good." She flushes, pulling in a deep breath at the rise of his eyebrows, and smells the bitter-clean of soap. "Acceptable. You look...very acceptable. For the meeting."

He looks at her for too long - nine beats of her heart - where she can't read him, and then glances down at himself. "Since I've met your approval, I might have to consider changing."

"Why?"

He looks back, his gaze sweeping down to her shoes and then back up again. "How old are you, Granger? Twenty-three? Twenty-four? You dress like you're forty-five and a librarian. I've never seen so many clothes in beige and brown in one person's wardrobe."

She narrows her eyes. "I wear sensible clothing for work. And this blouse is white--"

"Risk-taker."

"As opposed to your constant blackness! Black, midnight blue, black, forest green, black. Black. More black. You dress like a funeral director!"

"I dress in--"

"What is it you think would be appropriate? A neon pink--"

"--appropriate for what I do on--"

"--plunging neckline? I'm sure the Wizengamot would be--"

"--blend into the darkness, rather than--"

"--matter of professionalism that I uphold, where you're all sinister, and--"