Chapter Text
The wind had been slapping her in the face for the last twenty minutes like it personally resented her existence. She was fairly sure her cheeks had turned a very sharp red from the cold. Her bike wobbled every few metres, mostly because she was carrying the heaviest green insulated delivery bag known to humankind. Inside it was mexican food she'd collected a kilometre away. Burritos, she assumed. Possibly laced with lead, given the weight.
She halted at a red light near Southwark Bridge Road, tilting her head up as if the sky might show mercy and hold back the rain just a bit longer. It was unlikely, the city enjoyed tormenting her far too much for that.
It was nearly closing time for most shops, the streets thinning out and the streetlights beaming directly into her retinas. Combined with her two-hours-of-sleep and the Ancient Greek assignment due tomorrow that she worked on all day, her eyes felt as if someone had swapped them with sandpaper.
A horn blared behind her. She jumped. The light had turned green for all of half a millisecond. She pushed off, pedalled the last few minutes, and stopped in front of a gloomy, grey block of flats. Her phone announced she had arrived at her destination.
She always hoped the customer would be downstairs already. They never were. Accepting her fate, she pulled her phone from its holder and tapped to call.
Someone picked up after two rings.
“Food delivery,” she mumbled, already bracing herself for the usual silence followed by the usual delay. But instead she heard immediate fiddling with keys, the buzz of the front door unlocking.
A moment later the building’s entrance lit up, and a young woman in pyjamas shuffled toward her, hair damp as though she’d bolted out mid-shower. She looked startled to see her, and then gave a soft smile. They exchanged food and awkward polite glances.
As she turned her bike around, the woman paused before heading back inside. “Be careful, yeah?” she called.
She had cycled off and found a well-lit corner near a late-night kebab place. She parked and leaned her forehead against her handlebars for a moment.
Just one more delivery. That’s all she needed to hit the quota she’d set for herself. Tuition at King’s wasn’t going to pay itself, even with the scholarship. Rent in London certainly wasn’t going to help her either.
And then there was her cat. Her beautiful, ginger mistake from her Oxford undergrad years. She loved him to pieces, but he ate like a posh Victorian child with dietary preferences: only the expensive stuff, and somehow always hungry.
She unlocked her phone, trying to will the app into offering her one more job before she trudged home to collapse. The screen remained infuriatingly blank. That was when the first drop of rain landed on her cheek.
“Oh, brilliant,” she muttered. “Shit.”
She yanked her hood up and wrangled her hair into something resembling containment. She must look an absolute fright but she was far too tired and far too broke to care anymore.
Someone tried calling her. She rejected the call immediately. She didn’t have the energy to deal with anyone. She needed to get the next delivery, pick up the food, and go home. The cold felt as though it had settled inside her bones, vibrating with every shiver. She just wanted her bed.
Her phone vibrated again. A notification this time. She accepted the delivery instantly.
It was unusually well-paid for a short distance. She frowned at the name of the restaurant and caught the logo of one of those high-end Japanese places near Battersea Power Station, in that cluster of expensive glass-fronted buildings where penthouses were priced like small countries. She had never eaten there herself; she knew someone who worked there. She wished she didn’t.
She exhaled, long and tired. The food wouldn’t be ready yet, but she’d rather wait there than stay where she was, half-frozen and dripping under a weak streetlight. Battersea was at least well-lit, the kind of place where even the pavements felt curated. Her old Uniqlo rain jacket was losing the fight against the rain; cold water seeped through the fabric and reached her skin.
She cycled for ten minutes until she reached the restaurant. It stood at the corner of the main plaza, all dark stone and warm wooden panels, soft orange lighting spilling onto the pavement. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, she saw diners moving slowly, deliberately, as though the world outside didn’t concern them. She decided to go in.
Inside, the air was warmer. A receptionist stood at a podium, his expression unreadable but his eyes brushing over her wet jacket, her bike gloves, the strands of hair stuck to her cheeks.
“Are you here for the delivery?” he asked.
She nodded. Speaking felt difficult with the cold wrapped around her throat.
He sighed. “Follow me.”
He guided her past quiet tables, then down to the bar at the back of the restaurant. A few remaining customers stood there, talking in low voices, their posture relaxed in the way only people unconcerned with prices ever were.
“Wait here,” he said, and she did.
She had no idea why a place like this even bothered with delivery. It felt wrong. Like if Fouquet’s in Paris started sending out lamb cutlets in paper bags.
The receptionist returned. His expression had softened a little, as if he’d read her confusion.
“We have one delivery person,” he explained quietly. “For regulars. The sort who want the food but not the public.” He gestured vaguely with his hand. “He’s sick today. And one of our most loyal customers insisted.”
Hermione nodded. She understood the implication. Still, she couldn’t help thinking that they could have picked it up themselves. Sent a car for it. Sent a driver. They had options she didn’t.
“We usually don’t do Uber Eats here,” he added.
She gave a small, polite smile, painfully aware of her soaked jacket, the small puddle forming at her feet. A waiter stood a few metres away with a mop, pretending not to look.
The only faint comfort she had was the hope that her ex-boyfriend wasn’t working tonight. If he was, she would have to see him. And talk to him. And she truly didn’t have the strength for that.
The receptionist seemed satisfied that his role was complete and turned back toward the entrance without another glance. She kept her eyes lowered; she could feel a few looks drifting in her direction, but she didn’t want to meet any of them.
A waiter finally approached her, raising one finger before stepping into the kitchen. His uniform was fitted, sharp in a way that reminded her of the restaurants she’d seen in Nice. Her parents had taken her there a few times during summers. That was before she’d left for university, before money became a calculation she felt in her chest. She hadn’t eaten anywhere like that since.
She had worked everywhere else instead. Babysitting. Hotel cleaning. Night guard shifts that lasted too long. Dog walking. Temporary office work in July, wishing she were anywhere but trapped in Bristol, far from her friends and family. But money was money, and education demanded all of it.
The waiter reappeared, carrying a branded thermal bag, sleek, structured, too elegant for delivery work.
“Make sure the customer doesn’t see your Uber bag,” he said, handing it to her carefully. “Do not accept tips.”
“And don’t say where you usually work. Just say you’re coming from us, delivering the food.”
He paused, studying her face to ensure the instructions had landed. “And fix yourself. You look like a wet dog.”
He spoke to her like she was twelve, but they were at most two years apart. Hermione forced a small smile and reached for the bag.
“Follow these instructions properly, or you’ll never get past the guardian,” he added.
She smiled again, tighter this time. She wasn’t sure whether he meant she looked dangerous or simply homeless. Perhaps both.
At last he handed her the food and pointed toward a side corridor. “Exit through the back door.”
It was inconvenient, as her bike was parked out front, but she didn’t argue. The valet attendant had been surprisingly kind earlier, letting her tuck her bike near his station despite his brief hesitation at the sight of her green delivery bag. He’d even promised to keep an eye on it.
Hermione stepped into the night, the cold air hitting her immediately, her teeth clenching from the sudden drop in temperature. She walked quickly around the building, relieved when she saw her bike exactly where she’d left it.
The food was heavy. Even through the expensive insulated bag, she could feel the warmth. She placed it carefully inside her own green delivery bag, lifted the weight onto her shoulders, and checked the address for the delivery.
Before leaving, she looked again at the name printed on the sleek insulated bag. Imperial Bird. She repeated it silently, trying to make it stay in her beyond exhausted mind.
She was there in under ten minutes. The restaurant truly had been at the corner of the street; the red light had been the only thing slowing her down. She muttered under her breath about it; walking might have been faster, but it was still raining, and she was already soaked through.
The building rose in front of her like a glass monument. One of those new developments along the river. She paused for a second, taking in the soft lighting, the clean stone façade, the private balconies jutting out like quiet statements of wealth.
She secured her bike wherever she could. Her body felt heavy, bone-deep fatigue, the kind that settled behind the eyes and made everything move as though through water. Like a Friday night after a week that had pulled her apart. Or the sort of exhaustion that kept you awake, staring at a ceiling you couldn’t focus on, waiting for sleep that wouldn’t come.
She knew she wasn’t thinking clearly. Her steps were slow. Her hands felt clumsy. She forced herself to remember the waiter’s instructions and pulled the restaurant’s insulated bag out of her green delivery bag.
She stepped inside.
The lobby was bright and quiet, lined with pale marble floors and soft recessed lighting. A long reception desk stood opposite a wall of tinted glass. The air smelled faintly of expensive cleaning products; citrus, something floral. Fresh flowers sat in a minimalist vase. Everything was clean lines and muted colours, designed to look effortless.
A concierge looked up as she approached. His eyes moved from her wet jacket to the bag in her hand, wary. She straightened instinctively and held up the food for him to see.
“Delivery. From…” Her mind stalled.
All she could recall was a recipe she had translated from Latin earlier that week, Apicius’ patina de pisciculis. Absolutely useless right now.
She blinked. “Delivery… err… from…”
The concierge waited.
“Imperial Treasure,” she said finally.
He shook his head. “Doubt it. Miss Black never eats Chinese.”
She looked at him quickly, heat rising in her face.
“This is from Imperial Bird, isn’t it?” he said, helping her out gently.
She nodded, embarrassed. Right. Treasure was the Chinese restaurant in Mayfair. Bird was the one she’d just come from.
The man gave a small, almost fatherly smile. His name tag read Horace.
“You’re not Seamus,” Horace said after a moment.
She shook her head. She assumed that was the name of the usual delivery guy. “No. I’m Hermione.”
Horace nodded, then tapped something on the panel behind his desk. An elevator at the far end of the corridor lit up and opened.
“Please proceed. And Hermione…”
She turned, surprised he’d use her name.
“Be careful, yeah?”
The lift was lined with dark wood and brushed metal, the kind that didn’t have buttons for floors unless you had the right key card. It began moving immediately toward the penthouse without her touching anything.
She had heard Horace call Miss Black, she assumed that was the customer, to say the delivery had arrived.
Hermione wondered why Horace couldn’t have taken the food up for her. Or why Miss Black couldn’t come down. Why a stranger, soaked by the rain, had to be the one stepping into the upper floors of such a private space.
The lift stopped with barely a sound. She held her breath and kept her eyes closed for a moment, unsure of what she would find beyond the doors. Some penthouses opened directly into the flat. Others had a small private lobby. She assumed the latter.
The doors slid open slowly.
A short, bright corridor stretched ahead, white walls and soft light guiding her to a single, enormous door. In gold lettering, gleaming against the lacquered surface, she read the number 93. The door itself was tall and looked heavy enough to require a hydraulic hinge.
She took two steps toward it before it opened on its own.
She froze. She had not had a second to straighten her jacket or push her wet hair away from her face. Water still dripped from her fringe; her eyes felt swollen, her lips dry. She lifted her chin anyway.
A woman stood in the entrance.
She was lean, tall, and dressed in a tailored loungewear set; soft cream cashmere trousers and a matching long-sleeved top. Her shoes were not quite slippers but more like structured house mules, suede with a slight heel. Everything about her spoke of money.
Her hair was very blonde, worn straight and falling over her shoulders like silk. Her expression held no warmth. It was a private-school sort of stare, the one girls used when they were deciding if you were worth their time.
Hermione felt herself shrinking inward.
“Food delivery, Miss Black,” she managed, her voice too soft.
“You are not Seamus.”
She turned her head slightly toward the interior of the flat, and Hermione caught a glimpse inside: cream walls lit by warm sconces, double-height ceilings, and the suggestion of glass walls beyond.
“Bella, did you order Uber Eats?” the blonde woman called, the last two words spoken with open disdain.
Hermione’s cheeks burned. So she did look that terrible.
Footsteps approached, slow and confident.
Another woman emerged from deeper within the penthouse. She was breathtaking. She was the opposite of the blonde one, dark curls falling like a heavy cloak around her shoulders, black eyes, sharper features. Yet the resemblance was clear: same bones, same confidence, same arrogance softened by beauty. Sisters, without a doubt.
This woman’s presence shifted the air. Hermione felt it before she fully saw her. There was a quiet power in the way she stood, as though she did not need to raise her voice to be obeyed.
“This is not Seamus,” the dark-haired woman said, her tone flat.
She looked her over, not unkindly but clinically. “Who are you?”
Hermione frowned slightly. “This is your food. From Imperial Bird.” She raised the bag. She just wanted them to take it before it cooled.
From inside the flat, a third voice carried forward. “Horace said Hermione was delivering our food today.”
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, unsure whether she should say something or simply wait. She could not leave without handing over the meal.
“Yes,” she said eventually.
“And they do not provide proper rain jackets at Imperial Bird, I assume,” the dark-haired woman added, her eyes lingering on Hermione’s soaked sleeves.
The student shook her head. “I am only replacing Seamus for the day, Miss. Ma’am.”
Her correction made the woman’s eyes shift, a different light passing over them.
“Miss Black,” she said. “Not ‘ma’am’. I am not that old.”
Hermione nodded quickly. They were maybe ten years apart at most. Most likely less. “Sorry,” she murmured. She moved the bag closer to the blonde woman, hoping she would finally take it.
The blonde did not move.
“Your food is going to be cold,” Hermione muttered, the words slipping out before she could stop herself.
A third woman finally appeared in the doorway. Brown curls, friendly eyes, softer posture.
“What is taking you so long…oh. That is why.” She smiled at the student. “Hello, Hermione.”
She nudged the blonde sister, who reluctantly stepped back to make space.
“Forgive my sisters. They do enjoy tormenting strangers,” she said, giving a pointed look at the dark-haired one. “Do you not, Bella?”
Hermione nodded once and extended the bag toward the third sister. She seemed the kindest, or at least the least likely to laugh at her.
“It is fine, but I really need to leave now,” she said. Her voice felt thin, too small. She hated that.
The third sister studied her for a moment. “You look very cold. And rather young to be delivering food this late.”
Hermione wanted to say it was none of her business, but she swallowed the words. Instead, she nodded.
“Well, yes. Exactly. So I should go.”
“Come to my shop tomorrow,” the woman said suddenly. “I will get you a proper raincoat. You should not be freezing yourself half to death everynight.”
Hermione shook her head. She didn’t know where said shop was and she didn’t want to know. “No, thank you. I have to go now.” She pushed the bag gently but firmly into the woman’s hands.
She muttered a goodbye and practically fled toward the lift. She did not turn around, not even when she heard her name called again.
There were no elevator buttons, but the doors opened as she approached. Relief washed over her. She stepped inside, hit the “close door” button several times, and shut her eyes just as Miss Black began walking toward her, expression displeased.
The rest of the evening blurred into instinct: rushing past Horace with a muttered “thanks”, running straight to her bike, pedalling fast through the rain, slipping into her flat without meeting her roommate’s eyes or her cat’s judgmental stare. She showered in five minutes flat and collapsed under her covers, headphones on.
She played The Year 1812, Solemn Overture, Op. 49 on repeat to not hear her thoughts. Eventually, sleep dragged her under.
She woke starving, head pounding, to the sound of Crookshanks meowing directly into her ear as if filing a complaint.
“I know you are hungry,” she told him, voice rough. He meowed louder.
Pansy appeared in the doorway, hair a mess, holding her mug. “Hello. Your orange menace has been screaming at me for the past hour. We are out of cat food.”
Hermione nodded into her pillow. “I will go to the shop later.”
Pansy stared at her. “Later? He is loud now.”
“No.”
“Then let me smother him.” She reached for Hermione’s pillow.
Crookshanks didn’t even flinch. Hermione had to defend him on principle. “No!” She swatted Pansy with the pillow she’d been reaching for.
She collapsed forward dramatically, landing on Hermione, and then partially on Crookshanks. He bolted away, complaining loudly from a safe distance.
“Pansy, move.”
Her flatmate wiggled, entirely unhelpful. “No.”
“Out of my bed.”
A groan. “Where were you yesterday? I did not hear you come home.”
Hermione tried pushing her off. “At your mum’s. She said you should call more often.”
“Ha ha. You wish. My mother has standards. You do not reach them.”
Hermione kicked her lightly. “Move! You are so heavy.”
“Where were you?”
She snorted. “Delivering food.” Then, remembering last night, she winced. “Actually… awful. I went to this ridiculously rich place and they were so mean.”
Pansy sat up, unimpressed. “That is no way to find your future husband. Imagine your wedding on some Greek island, and then: ‘How did you meet?’ ‘I delivered cold Chinese food.’ Tragic.”
“It was Japanese.”
“What?”
“And they were three sisters.”
Pansy perked up immediately, looking far too interested. “Oh. One for me, one for you, one for Blaise.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Go for the oldest. More money, less years left. Optimise, Hermione.”
Hermione sat up, glaring. “You are awful.”
“Your Shakespeare master’s at King’s is not going to pay for a nice flat in London, let me tell you.”
Hermione walked to her wardrobe, opening it with more force than necessary. “It is not Shakespeare studies. It is contemporary literature. And second, I can become a teacher.”
Pansy rolled her eyes and walked toward the still-yowling Crookshanks. “Yes, wonderful. And then we will live together forever in our tiny flat. I love that for us.”
Hermione groaned.
It was not raining, thankfully, although it certainly was not warm. She bundled herself into her old rain jacket again, which continued its personal mission of failing her against every gust of wind London produced.
She finished her classes, tutored a Year 9 student who insisted Homer was mid, and by evening, it was time for food delivery again.
Tonight she stayed near Battersea again, lingering between the restaurants and the river, where there were usually plenty of orders from office workers and people who pretended not to eat carbs after 6 p.m.
Night fell early. She delivered pizza to a couple she recognised from a few days ago; still arguing, still tipping poorly. Then Burger King to a group of high school students. After that, nothing. The night dragged.
After a while, a notification appeared. Imperial Bird.
She stared at the screen. Good money. Short ride. But also: Mean rich people. While she hesitated, someone else accepted the order. She let out a breath, looking away.
She waited by her bike near another kebab place, always reliable for orders. Not tonight, though. Midweek meant everyone was home pretending to meal prep.
Her phone buzzed again. Imperial Bird.
She blinked. Waited again. It disappeared. A minute later: Imperial Bird.
Hermione frowned at her phone. “What is this?”
When the same job reappeared a fourth time, she clicked it before she could overthink. Curiosity was stronger than her pride, unfortunately. She wondered if Seamus was still sick and if she’d need to go to the same customer again; she’d half wish to be delivering food to Miss Black again, so that she could put on her brave face and stand up against her and her mean sisters.
She rode to the restaurant. The same valet from yesterday was outside; he spotted her immediately, waved, and pointed to the little sheltered corner where she’d hidden her bike before. She gave him a nod, both awkward and grateful.
Inside, the receptionist looked up at once. “Ah, Miss Granger. Here you are.”
She stopped mid-step. “Sorry but how do you know my name?”
He ignored the question entirely. “You have been requested by Miss Black for this delivery. Please wait by the kitchen.”
Dismissed. She walked toward the kitchen. The waiter from the previous night stood there, holding the smallest insulated bag she had ever seen, so small it probably contained a single piece of fish.
“What did you do yesterday, Miss Granger?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Delivered food?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Explain, then, why Miss Black has offered to pay, quite a large amount, to have, and I quote, ‘the same delivery girl as before’?”
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. Nothing coherent came to mind. Before she could attempt a lie, someone shouted her name behind her.
Both she and the waiter jumped. A red-haired man approached, carrying an empty plate.
“Ronald,” she said flatly, because of course.
She had blocked out the possibility of seeing him tonight. “What are you doing here?”
Ron blinked. “I work here.”
“Right,” she said, unimpressed. She turned back to the waiter, who was still holding the bag and looked seconds away from telling Ron off for existing.
She snatched the bag before he could begin another lecture. “Nice to see you, Ronald,” she lied.
She escaped through the back door, practically sprinted around the building, and reached her bike.
At the fancy apartment building, she pulled the Imperial Bird bag out of her own green delivery bag, smoothed her jacket, and stepped inside the lobby.
Horace looked up immediately.
“Miss Black never orders Japanese two nights in a row,” he murmured, mostly to himself. His gaze shifted to the small insulated bag in Hermione’s hands. “And that looks nearly empty.”
He tilted his head, studying her expression.
“Trouble with Miss Black?”
Hermione shrugged. “No.”
Horace’s mouth twitched. Without another word, he pressed something behind his desk and gestured toward the private lift.
She took a breath she hoped would settle her nerves, stepped inside the lift, and waited for the doors to open onto the short white corridor.
She crossed it quickly this time and knocked. The door opened immediately.
Relief flooded her when she saw the dark-haired woman instead of the blonde one. The blonde reminded her of a particularly vindictive seabird, the kind that stole chips from tourists and screamed about it.
“Miss Granger,” the woman said. No smile, not even a pretense of one. “I do not appreciate when people walk away mid-conversation.”
Hermione swallowed. All of her earlier bravado vanished in an instant. Miss Black was even more beautiful tonight. Her hair seemed darker, falling in heavier curls. Her eyes looked deeper, too observant. She wore soft black loungewear, with a subtle silver clasp at the waist.
Hermione forced a small, unsteady smile. “I… had work,” she lied. “People waiting. Food gets cold.”
Miss Black tilted her head, studying her like an interesting puzzle piece. Then she gave the smallest, most disapproving shake of her head.
“I was going to tip you,” she said eventually.
Hermione followed her gaze down and noticed two crisp bills held between two long, manicured fingers. The kind of fingers that had never scrubbed a pan in their life. She looked away quickly before she embarrassed herself by turning pink.
“Oh no. I cannot take your tip.” She tried to keep her voice firm. “The restaurant said we’re not allowed.”
“I must insist, Miss Granger. You could, for instance, buy yourself a new coat, since you were not particularly receptive to my sister’s extremely generous offer yesterday.”
Hermione stiffened. She did not want pity. She did not want charity. And she absolutely did not want this woman acting as though she needed saving.
“I said no,” she replied, chin lifting. “And I am not permitted to accept tips.”
She decided that this was the moment to leave. She had come here, faced the woman who had bullied her for sport last night, and frankly that was enough character development for one week. The woman was too smooth, too composed, and far too gorgeous for her to stand here acting like she wasn’t two seconds away from tripping over her own tongue.
She extended the insulated bag, hoping the woman would just take it so Hermione could escape.
But Miss Black stepped forward instead.
“Now, Hermione,” she said softly, and the use of her first name made her spine jolt, “you must understand that I generally get what I want. So if I want you to take my money… you will.”
The woman leaned in. Suddenly she was in Hermione’s personal space, close enough that she could smell that impossibly expensive perfume again, warm spices with something darker beneath it. Close enough that the overhead lighting gleamed off the silk-like fabric of her loungewear.
Hermione took a shaky step back. “I said no. And please stop insisting.”
Her brain tried its hardest to think of literally anything except the woman’s slender throat, the way her hair curled at the ends, or the sharp curve of her lips when she almost smiled.
Then something shifted. Hermione couldn’t explain it, but Miss Black’s posture changed with the smoothness of a predator adjusting its stance. Shoulders loose, chin dipped just slightly, eyes sharpening.
“Why do you not come in for a drink?”
For a second she genuinely believed she had misheard. But then the woman leaned back, giving a subtle sweep of her arm, revealing the impossibly expensive interior behind her.
It was not a joke. Miss Black added, “I will pay you. I know you need the extra money.”
Hermione blinked, offended on several existential levels.
Paid for her company? She was not an escort. “Er, no thank you,” Hermione said, shaking her head while trying not to imagine herself blushing at the mere proximity of those cheekbones.
She did not offer a reason. She did not have one that sounded normal. And although Miss Black was extremely beautiful, Hermione would rather die than accept money to spend time with someone she maybe found attractive. Not that she did find her attractive. Obviously not. Ridiculous.
The woman did not appear bothered. Her smile did not even flicker.
“Very well.” She extended a slim hand, a card between her fingers. “Here is my number. Text me if you change your mind.”
Hermione handed her the tiny insulated bag and fled. She told herself she was done for the night even though she needed more hours. Between rent and the cat food she’d bought earlier, her bank account currently resembled a crime scene.
She biked home, unwilling to deal with Pansy’s chaos.
Which was unfortunate.
Because the moment Hermione opened the door, she found Pansy sprinting after Crookshanks with a kitchen knife.
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “What are you two doing?”
Crookshanks stopped mid-escape, staring at her like she had interrupted something important. Pansy leaned against the wall, panting.
“He stole my last piece of ham,” Pansy said.
Hermione frowned. “And the knife is for what? Retrieve it from his stomach? It is already digested, Pansy.”
“No,” she said. “I was going to kill him and eat him. He is fat. He can feed us both.”
Hermione took the knife gently out of her hand and dropped it into the dishwasher. Then she turned Pansy around, pushed her down the hallway, and into her bedroom. She shut the door behind her.
“Go to sleep.”
“I am not tired,” Pansy called through the door. Then, after a beat: “Oh, also, a man called today asking about you. So I gave him all the information I had.”
Hermione pressed her fingers to her nose. “You did what?”
“Yeah,” Pansy said brightly from behind the door. “He offered twenty pounds for the info so I thought, great, I can get Burger King. But then he hung up before explaining how to pay me, so actually now I am just annoyed.”
Hermione opened the door again.
Pansy was lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling.
“He asked about me? What did you say?”
“Well. Everything. Your name. Age. Where you study. You know. When you work.”
Hermione felt the sudden, deep desire to strangle her.
“Did he tell you who he was?”
“I didn’t think to ask.”