Unbreakable (Part I of III) - A gift for accio_catawba!
Title: Unbreakable
Author: jhestia85
Recipient: accio_catawba
Pairing(s): Hermione/Ginny
Word Count: Chapter: 6414, Complete: 16789
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sexual Situations, Character Death, Voyeurism, Dub-Con, Strong Profanities
Summary:
Time has a habit of changing our lives, our thoughts, our priorities; the things that were important to us then are often not what are important to us now. We’re remoulded and reshaped, our malleable selves determined by new desires, new goals, new feelings to be passionate about. That’s what makes us human.
I am Hermione Granger. I’m twenty-two years old. I have a new reason to live, and it’s Ginny Weasley.
Hermione Granger has been asked to investigate Pansy Parkinson’s successful and suspicious escort company. But when she joins Glamour Escort Services under a false identity, she’s forced to make decisions she never expected to.
Author's Notes: This story contains one more pairing I cannot list since I don’t want to spoil. :) I hope you’ll like it.
Chapter 1: Brittle as Glass
The air shouldn’t have to feel so solid in my lungs.
Molly warned me about that a few days after the funeral. A time would come when the tears will stop and it would be trouble. You know you’ve hit the pits when you want to cry but can’t. I didn’t believe her then. I should have. Molly has lost far more loved ones than anybody I know. Perhaps, I couldn’t concentrate on her words. It’s possible that was the case. I was busy - crying.
I can’t now. I can’t do it. The ache is there, gathering momentum within my chest for nothing. It will not go as all exit points have been blocked. I won’t even scream or dismantle things, no matter how much the sight of these dark roses make me want to whip my wand out and curse them to explode. How dare they stay permanently fresh?
How stupid was I to even cast the charm in the first place? How insane was I to think that if the roses didn’t wither, it would mean something positive? That, somehow, this would change the fact that he’s gone?
He really is, isn’t he? They wouldn’t have buried the body otherwise. This headstone wouldn’t be here otherwise. I wouldn’t be inhaling what seem to be shards of crystal otherwise.
For the wizarding world, today marks the fourth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. For a few, it means four years have passed since Fred, Remus, and Tonks died. And mostly Ron. To me, anyway.
Ron is dead.
Eventually, I’ll have to say that aloud. One day. One fine day.
As is the unusual custom, we mark the second of May with a big lunch at the Burrow. It’s a long walk from this meadow to the house. By the time I reach the place, they’ll all have been there, waiting for me. I don’t want to go, but I have nowhere else to go.
Harry is the first person I see. He’s lobbing gnomes over the hedge, and he doesn’t hear me the first two times I call him. When he eventually acknowledges my presence, there’s a half-hearted smile on his face. He has stubble now. I hug him, awkwardly. “I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Doing what?”
He shrugs.
“Cleaning up Grimmauld Place?” I ask him, making an effort to sound stern. “Because, Harry, you’ve been doing that for two years at least.”
It works. He’s grinning. “It’s a great old dirty house, and I like to clean with my hands.”
With a snort, I slip my arm into his and lead him into the kitchen. We’re silent now, and yet I think - I am certain - there’s something comforting about us being like this that we don’t have to make small talk. As I expected, everybody is there. Everybody who can be. They yell hello’s at me, and “Did you get rid of all the gnomes, Harry?” As I greet them, I feel Harry disengaging himself. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him approach Ginny and give her a peck on the cheek. It looks like something done out of habit; his arms don’t go around her waist, for instance. Ginny pats him on the shoulder in return, and then the two of them move on, Harry heading for Charlie, and Ginny, for me.
Everything is crumbling.
“'Mione.”
“Don’t call me that, Ginny!”
She laughs. “D’you want to help me set up the table?”
“I will if you drop that ridiculous name.”
“All right.” Rolling her eyes, she adds, “I thought you loved Cormac calling you that.”
“Let’s not discuss him. He sickens me.”
“He likes you,” she says, with some hesitance.
Cormac McLaggen. An utter prat who works in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. I suppose he fancied me in school; he was vile even then, spending most of his waking hours taking stupid bets and singing his own praises. I was hoping not to ever cross paths with the man, but I had to work with him on a Bludger-tampering case last month. He insisted on calling me 'Mione in front of everybody. Ginny, who works in the same department, unfortunately heard him once.
“I’d like to think I can do better,” I reply through gritted teeth.
“You definitely could.”
Lunch passes in a haze, the voices and aroma and flavours and textures sweeping me along, making me burst into laughter that comes out in sudden spurts. Fleur speaks the most; she’s pregnant again. It’s a good topic to discuss, so we all grab it. I try not to think of Ron, of marrying him and having his babies. It’s difficult not to, though; I am in the Burrow, sitting on this table where we had meals together. Funny how I never imagined that far into the future before his death, and how powerfully these thoughts have invaded me since.
Let it go.
“Are you okay?” Ginny asks me afterwards. We’re alone in the kitchen, cleaning up.
“Hmm.”
“No, you aren’t.”
I don’t reply, focussing instead on directing the plates to wash themselves.
“You should go out with somebody.”
“Easy for you to say,” I snap, and then immediately regret it. And yet, I don’t apologise.
“It isn’t,” she says quietly.
“Ginny, I-”
“No, don’t. I am sorry.”
+++
My name is Hermione Granger, and I work in the Criminal Investigation Branch. I am twenty-two years old.
I stare at the parchment, thinking of things to add, determined to avoid my non-existent relationship status.
I love reading and I believe in equality.
That’s true.
Sometimes, I wish -
“Granger!”
That’s my boss. Wiping off the text from the parchment, I look up and nod at her. “We need help with the Parkinson case,” she announces, dumping a stack of folders on the desk. “Jackson has failed to find anything illegal, and you’re good with loopholes, so there you go.”
It is a huge stack of folders. “What’s the story so far?” I ask.
“Jackson will do the explaining in a bit.” She has already turned away and is returning to her office.
“Right,” I mutter. I untie the charm holding the files and pick out the topmost one. Pansy Parkinson. Reading the title itself makes me sigh. Dear old Pansy. I’m not sure if I’m curious or bored, although, the fact that she has done something to merit being looked into by our division says a lot about the nature of whatever she’s been up to.
A picture of her greets me on the first page. It’s in black and white, but you can tell she’s wearing a heavy amount of make-up from the dark eyes with heavy lashes and the almost black lips - features that I don’t remember her having at school. She looks attractive in a way most women wouldn’t dare to. Or care, I amend myself.
“Pretty, isn’t she?” Jackson comments, pulling up a chair. “Absolutely cunning as well.”
“Mmm. I knew her at school,” I answer non-committally. Pansy was a piece of work, but not particularly devious. Then again, contrary to what I’ve just told Jackson, I didn’t know her that well. “Boot has just thrown this on me. What’s going on?”
“Have you heard about Glamour Escort Services?”
“No?”
“You’ve been living under some rock, I assume.”
“I’ve never needed an escort,” I tell him irritably.
“All right, all right!” he says. “Anyway, it is owned by Parkinson’s family. They started it four years ago just as the war got over. You know, when the wizarding world went crazy with the parties and celebrations? It is still a small business, but it has been steadily gaining popularity. Problem is, we got a tip-off about how their annual earnings don’t match with the estimates provided by our tax department. Padraig Parkinson’s administration has obviously left out several things in the income reports they sent in.”
“I suppose Gringotts isn’t helping?”
“Nope. Gringotts will never divulge details of their clients’ accounts.”
“What about the person who gave the tip-off?”
“He’s dead.” Jackson draws a line round his throat as if to emphasise his point. I don’t much like Jackson. “Or at least the person who we suspect of being the whistleblower is.” He gingerly picks out a blue folder from the pile and gives it to me. “That’s him.”
Marvin Rhodes. Age - fifty. Accounts manager at Glamour Escort Services. Died in his sleep. I can vaguely recall reading about this a few months ago, but since our division doesn’t allow the investigators to discuss each other’s work unless ordered otherwise, I didn’t know there was supposed to be anything suspicious about the case. “Why do you think he was the whistleblower, apart from the fact of his conveniently timed death?”
“His daughter works at the place as a receptionist,” Jackson says, his voice soft and slow for dramatic effect.
“And?”
“Flip the page.”
I flip it, and find the employee profile of Selene Rhodes, an exceptionally beautiful girl with strawberry blonde hair. There are two photos of her. In the first one, she’s wearing blue robes. In the other, it’s a pale gold negligee. “Well, this looks really ...”
“Our people found this photo in one of Marvin’s drawers, but when we asked her about it, she said it was taken by her boyfriend. He confirmed this was true. They both appeared shocked when we told them that Marvin had it. Said it was a private thing between them.” Jackson straightens up and adds, “Observe the photos closely.”
“Okay.”
The backgrounds are different, but the paper quality is of the same high-gloss, thick material. In the wizarding world, people often use whatever paper they can find for developing photographs, since the process is completed with charms. This one appears expensive, and more importantly, Muggle-made. “Is this boyfriend a professional photographer?” I ask Jackson. “What sort of camera does he own?”
“A cheap one?” Jackson replies. “The type that comes with a simple lens, and without a flash. That’s what I thought, too. Unless he’s a pro who cares for his art, I don’t think he’d go for the expensive paper.”
“And they claimed this photo was supposed to be private,” I add. “So, they wouldn’t have given it to a proper store to have this developed.”
“Exactly. These photos were developed at Colin’s Camera Carnival, which we both know is the premier store in this field as far as the UK is concerned. I asked the owner about it, and he said Selene herself had come to drop off the negatives as well as collect them.”
“So ...” I pick my words carefully. “The Parkinsons are running a brothel and Selene Rhodes is more than just a receptionist?”
“That appears to be the thing,” he tells me. “At any rate, it is more than just an escort service. But we don’t have any other leads. None of the employees will talk. The investigation into Rhodes’ death didn’t turn up anything; our Healers said it was natural causes. His daughter certainly isn’t saying anything, and she’s still employed by the company, which is now owned by Pansy.” After a pause, he continues. “It’s odd she does. Her father’s too young to retire, and she’s too young to run it on her own.”
“Where do I come in?” I ask, suddenly nervous for reasons I can’t put my fingers on. “Why aren’t we waiting for further evidence?”
“But that’s why I need you. We want further evidence. Boot and I want you to apply for a job there.”
“As an accountant?”
“No.” He has the grace to hesitate before dropping the proverbial bomb. “As an escort.”
I open my mouth to protest, but at that moment, catch Boot’s eye. She’s standing in her office, beckoning me with a finger. On cue, Jackson nods and leaves for his cubicle.
“You aren’t comfortable with the idea,” states Boot. “But let me tell you why I chose you, Granger. Don’t just stand there. Sit.” She continues speaking as soon as I’ve taken a seat. “This isn’t just a job for you, is it, Granger?” I shake my head slowly. “When people interview for this division, they say they want to eradicate crime from society. I believe them. There is, however, a difference between getting rid of the crime itself and getting rid of its origin. You know that difference well.”
“Do I?” I ask numbly.
She takes off her glasses and glares at me. “Yes, you do, and get rid of that melancholy. I’m sick of you looking like a lost Crup.”
“Okay.”
“You started a cause for house-elves at the age of fourteen, a cause that didn’t work precisely because no one gave a damn. Why didn’t they? To them, it was natural that house-elves slave through their existence. If anybody hears a house-elf is being mistreated, they will take on the case since mistreating a living being is a crime. But what if the house-elf doesn’t want to press charges? What if he claims it’s only natural that a house-elf should be punished for not doing his duties well? The case falls apart.”
“When it shouldn’t.”
“Correct, Granger. It shouldn’t. Which is why I am choosing you. You care as much as you should. Why isn’t Selene Rhodes being more helpful? What is Parkinson doing behind the façade? Is she manipulating her employees? Are they doing whatever it is they’re doing out of free will? Obviously, whatever’s going on there isn’t completely legal, and I need the best I have to uncover this shady business. Is that clear?”
Taking a deep breath, I tell her, “Yes.”
+++
The Parkinson files now lie scattered around my bedroom. It took me less than an hour to go through them. Glamour Escort Services was opened in October, 1998, without much fanfare, with an employee count of ten people. Within two years, the number had risen to forty, with about twenty-five witches and wizards working as escorts, four-fifths of them being immigrants. After Pansy took over in the middle of 2001, they hired twenty more people. Forget the part about income anomalies; the arguably small magical community of Great Britain isn’t blessed with that many social events or rich people that should warrant such a huge escort service.
I have seen the official catalogue and seen the pictures of the models. The men are clean-shaven, athletic and wholesome; the females are proportionate, sensual and glamorous. Stripping down to my pants, I walk in front of the mirror and scrutinise my body.
There is a small bump on my belly - fat, not a baby. I have never had sexual intercourse. I nearly did with a colleague, but we were both slightly drunk and somehow managed not to go that far.
I need to get rid of this bump. My hips are too wide, my breasts too flat. They are the first modifications I make. I assume they do these things at the company anyway. The trickier part is changing my identity. They wouldn’t take a risk, letting just about anybody in. Surely, they conduct tests to see if you are who you claim to be, or an imposter.
Boot has given me a month off to prepare my avatar. I take the chance to buy some stuff from Muggle London. The first day, I visit a hairdresser and get my brown curls straightened and dyed. I also buy green contact lenses and fake eyelashes. A friend of my mother, who is a make-up specialist, has agreed to make a prosthetic nose for me. My parents, however, have refused to whiten my teeth, saying it’s not worth it. I’ll have to ask some other dentist.
I also need to sign up for a speech and elocution class to cultivate an American accent. I might have to borrow my father’s DVD player and a huge chunk of my mum’s DVD collections. If I take down some of the heavy wards and charms I put up, the device will work properly.
Perhaps, I can start with Erin Brockovich.
+++
Today marks the completion of the third week of my transition. Donnita Cabros is almost ready. My teeth look whiter. I have black, ramrod straight hair that is somewhat reminiscent of Cho Chang’s, and my eyes are a dark green. The accent is somewhat shaky, but that shouldn’t be a big problem; Donnita’s parents are an Italian couple. She was home-schooled, so that none of the American employees at the company will have to pester her for information about which institution she had attended. She has rented a flat in London.
Presently, I am at Dorothy’s, the make-up specialist who has finished making the prosthetic nose and is now teaching me how to blend the outline into the area around my nose. Tomorrow, I’ll go to the Ministry and win a new wand, since I can’t use my own. The Ministry now stocks old wands that haven’t sold at Ollivander’s in centuries, or belonged to deceased wizards and witches, stripped of any latent association with their previous owners and modified. If anybody wishes to use a different wand while going undercover, they can request a duel with a witch or wizard, made of wood but charmed to fight. They will, of course, have to win the duel in order to fully possess the new wand.
I’m ready for all of this; I’m just not sure how I’m going to fare as an actor. Impersonating somebody else is a task I’ve already undertaken twice, and I don’t remember being very convincing in either case. This could be easier. I’ll be a person nobody has met before. Maybe Donnita tends to get nervous. Maybe she is inept at seducing people. Maybe she is recovering from heartbreak.
Maybe, I need to get a grip on myself.
“Remind me why you’re doing this, Hermione,” Dorothy mumbles as she applies a few tender brushstrokes on my left cheek. “Nothing illegal, I hope?”
I laugh. “I’m acting in a play,” I answer.
“Jean never told me you are into theatre and drama.”
“Oh, it’s nothing fancy. It’s a silly little play for a select group of people.”
“You must be very dedicated to go to so much trouble for a silly little play.” She puts down the brush and swings my chair around so I can look at the mirror. Donnita could pass off as a far cousin, but one more exotic and alluring. The eyes, the lipstick, the hair, the straighter nose, the sharper cheekbones - it’s definitely not Hermione Granger.
“What can I say, Dorothy?” says Donnita in her halfway-house accent, leaning forward and turning her face from side to side. “I am a perfectionist.”
A wide smile appears on Dorothy’s face as she replies, “That is something Jean always told me.”
+++
It’s my last night as Hermione for the foreseeable future. I am in my new flat, which is small but comfortable, going through my wardrobe. The clothes are of a design I’d normally not even try on at a store: plunging necklines, too-high hemlines, lace, satin, strappy, strapless. My footwear might kill me. I am no stranger to tall shoes, but I’m not in the habit of living in them. I have to admit everything looks beautiful, though, and I silently applaud the person who did the shopping for Donnita.
As scheduled, Boot’s head appears in the fireplace around eight.
“Good evening,” I wish her as Donnita.
“You look wonderful,” she says. “Though not as beautiful as your usual self.”
“Thanks,” I say with a smile.
“Is everything ready? Your identification papers and permit?”
I nod.
“You don’t think it’s safe to communicate via the normal channels.”
“No,” I tell her. “Owls can be intercepted, and the Floo network isn’t foolproof. Using Patronuses would end this mission before you can say 'Expecto Patronus'. The Protean Charm method is the best. You just have to keep the coin with you at all times and not use it by mistake.”
“I won’t,” she assures me. “The department thinks you’re in Budapest, with the exception of Jackson. I trust that’s what you told your people as well?”
I think of the terse letters I sent to Harry, Ginny and my mother. “Yes.”
“Good.” For a full second, she doesn’t speak. I’m amused by how odd her head looks just sitting there among the crackling flames. “That’s it then, Granger,” she says abruptly. “I wish you the best of luck.”
+++
Glamour Escort Services is a small office on the outside, whitewashed and with pots of flowers along the base and the stairs, and on each side of the three mahogany front doors. It’s not at all a glamorous façade; if anything, it leaves the impression of an innocuous travel agency. Highly deceptive, of course, just like any wizarding building likes to be. Taking a deep breath, I walk up the stairs and try to push the middle door open. It doesn’t budge.
“Welcome to Glamour Escort Services,” announces a chirpy female voice. “Please identify yourself and state the purpose of your visit.”
“Donnita Cab-” My voice comes out squeaky and I have to clear my throat. “Donnita Cabros. I’d like to work at the company as an escort.” After a pause, I add, “Since you don’t advertise with the papers, I assume people just pop up at your doorstep and apply for the job.”
“Thank you for your co-operation, Miss Cabros. Please knock on the door to your right three times.”
“Thanks!” I yell. I approach the door and give three sharp raps. It opens to an enclosed space like the inside of a lift. As soon as I step inside, the door closes. There are no buttons, just three bare steel walls.
“Welcome to Glamour Escort Services.” This time, it’s a male voice. He sounds just as happy. “You will now be scanned by magical detection charms to check what kind of spells you have arrived with. Please bear with us while we carry out the procedure. The amount of time taken is directly proportionate to the amount of magic currently active on your person.”
A strange, buzzing sensation washes over me right after the speech. It goes down to my toes, and back up again to the tip of my head. “Engorgement Charm on the hips,” the male voice speaks. “A glamour charm on the waist area. Engorgement Charm on the chest. Undetectable Extension Charm on the purse. Scan is complete.”
The buzzing feeling instantly lifts.
“The first three are permitted on the company premises. Please empty your purse on the table.”
A table materialises out of thin air in front of me. I carefully put the contents of my purse on display: a lipstick, a lip gloss, compact powder, foundation, eye make-up, facial tissue, a small vial of perfume, a silk handkerchief, a notebook, self-refilling quills, my identification papers and permits, a few Sickles, and a lot more Galleons, including the fake one. The male voice records the list.
“Please undo the charm and turn the purse upside down.”
I obey. Nothing happens.
“Thank you for your co-operation, Miss Cabros. You may now enter the building.”
The wall to my left melts away, revealing a large reception hall with mahogany flooring, dark green velvet sofas, crystal tables and silvery globules of light on the ceiling. There is a lone girl standing behind the reception desk at the far end; she has a face I have seen before. Selene Rhodes. I put the contents back into the purse, reinstalling the Extension Charm, and step out. After the entrance closes behind me, I cast a self-recording spell on the notebook. I can almost feel a quill scribbling furiously.
“Hello, Miss Cabros,” Rhodes welcomes me with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Welcome to Glamour Escort Services.”
“Thanks, Miss ...”
“Rhodes.”
“Miss Rhodes. You can call me Donnita.”
“Could you show me your papers?” she asks. It’s almost like she didn’t notice me trying to be friendly.
“Absolutely.” I give her Donnita’s papers, and then look away, trying to hide my nervousness. There is a huge mirror to my right. The reflection on it is that of a woman I can vaguely recognise. It gives me some courage.
“You’re from America,” Selene mumbles, writing it down on a register.
“Mm.”
“Your wand, please.”
“Cypress, twelve inches, unicorn tail and swishy,” I explain, looking into her eyes as I hand over the wand, searching for some hint of remorse, regret, fear. Anything. They are, however, expressionless.
“Interesting combination,” she remarks. She takes out her wand and - to my horror - says, “Priori Incantato.”
An image of my notebook erupts from the end of my wand-tip. Rhodes turns towards me, eyes narrowed, but I’m too quick for her. I snatch my wand back and hex her with a non-verbal Memory Charm. “The last spell performed by Miss Cabros’ wand was,” I speak forcefully, “an Engorgement Charm. You will write that down.”
She is a bit dazed but she nonetheless follows my directions. “That will be all, Miss Cabros. Please have a seat.”
“Good,” I mutter, breathing properly only after she disappears inside.
This is not a smooth beginning; my hands have started shaking already. I can only hope that I don’t have to meet Pansy today.
“Miss Cabros.” Rhodes still appears mildly disoriented as she returns to her desk. “Miss Parkinson will see you now. The door to your right, please.”
The day couldn’t get any better. Inclining my head towards Rhodes, I gather myself, take one last look at the mirror in a bid to restore my faith in the new identity, and prepare to meet Pansy. But the walk to the door is short and stifling. By the time I’ve reached the room, I’m certain Pansy is going to see through it all. I don’t know why, but right now, she is to me the most devious witch in the country. Not altogether a baseless opinion, of course, considering how their family business has met so much success - Pansy just seems to have the upper hand. This is her territory.
Yet when I enter and find her leaning against her huge desk in fitting white robes that accentuate her curves to their fullest effect and her black hair piled on top of her in an elegant bun, she holds me in a gaze that can only be described as cold appraisal. “Stop,” she snaps. “Don’t walk like that with your shoulders all stiff. Loosen them up.” I obey her and try to change my posture. “Turn around and let me see your arse. Hmm. Stay there.”
I don’t like having my back turned towards Pansy, unguarded and at her mercy, but I don’t really have a choice. She doesn’t wear shoes, so I can’t hear her getting closer. I can, however, see us both on the mirror to our left - positioned on what I assume is the corresponding spot of the one outside. Her eyes are scanning me in the same way the Sweeping Spell in the entrance did. When she puts an arm around my waist, I almost stop breathing.
“Look at yourself,” she whispers in my ear, gently turning me around. We’re facing the mirror, with her hands running up and down my side. “Are you beautiful, Donnita?”
I consider my hair, the subtle make-up, the brilliant green eyes, the perfect teeth, the fuller breasts, the narrow waist and the wider hips. Then I say, “Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I didn’t catch that.”
“Yes,” I say in a louder voice, looking her in the eye. “I am beautiful.”
“Good,” she replies, the smile on her face a sign of approval. “Because I don’t care for anything less than that. Come, let’s have a chat.”
As I sit down on one of the many couches strewn about the room, she perches herself on top of her desk and conjures two glasses of champagne. I accept the one that floats towards me and thank her.
“I don’t care why you’re here in Britain,” she begins without preamble. “I don’t care who your parents are. You have passed the preliminary identification process so far, and even as I conduct this interview, your address is being checked out by my people. Ah!” A young wizard Apparates right into the room and hands her a scroll of parchment before going to stand at the other end of the room, where the wall is decorated with tiny portraits. None of them makes much sense.
“Don’t mind him,” she remarks lazily as she peruses the paper. “He’s my personal hound. Exceptionally good at dark magic, in spite of his age. That’s how they make them at Durmstrang. Very loyal. Hmm. You weren’t lying about where you live, and it’s safe of stupid tricks.”
“You went through my possessions?” I ask her with some heat.
“Yes,” she says. “I did. So far, you appear to be who you claim you are.” After Vanishing the scroll, she adds, “Fabulous! Now, Donnita, tell me why you’re here.”
“I want to work with you,” I answer, straightening up.
“You want to be an escort.”
“That,” I answer slowly, “and more, if there’s more.”
She doesn’t respond immediately, smiling at me and then taking a sip of her champagne. “Interesting,” she says at last. “How do you know we could help you with ... more than just playing escort to filthy rich, useless wizard bastards?”
“Miss Parkinson,” I say, making the glass disappear with a wave now that it was getting serious, “you have to admit that there aren’t that many filthy rich, useless wizard bastards in this country to supply you the kind of Galleons and fame you’re bringing in.”
“Good point,” she admits. “But how do you know it’s something you would want to do?”
“Because I want some of that. The money. The fame.” I have eased myself into Donnita enough to say what I’m about to say. “And I’m beautiful. I deserve it.”
“That you do.” She puts her glass on the desk and slides off, motioning at me to get up. “I think you’re ready to see what you’re about to see, Donnita. Dmitri, if you can open the inner chambers for us, please.”
It’s hard to hide the excitement that is surging inside of me, although showing it might not be a bad thing. Pansy can assume her new recruit can’t wait to get started. As for me, this means I’m about to get to see what really is going on in this place. Dmitri turns around and raises his arms. The many portraits on the wall begin to move, following the directions made by his hands, until they merge to form a perfectly rectangular painting of an orgy. A jigsaw puzzle, and a not very subtle one at that. It springs forward to reveal a narrow corridor.
“Shall we?” asks Pansy.
I follow her inside, clutching my purse tighter, now apprehensive as to what I might find. She looks into the peephole of the first door, then shaking her head continues walking. This goes on for the next four doors, until at last she turns to me with a triumphant expression on her face. “You might like this one,” she assures me. “Go on.”
Trying to act cool, I smile back at her. When I do see what made her so happy, I have to stop myself from recoiling. A black haired man, who has his back turned on me, is thrusting into a girl. So, Pansy is running a brothel.
“Keep watching,” Pansy orders from behind.
I have never watched or read anything pornographic in my life. Would I have been comfortable with this if I had? No, I don’t think so. This is the last place I would come to for gratification or entertainment. It sickens me.
I don’t know what Pansy is trying to achieve, though. I get it. Her employees have sex with people who are willing to pay. It’s prostitution, as simple as that. I could watch this man’s bum move for the next hour, and it wouldn’t make the conclusion any less different.
When he pulls out and kneels on the bed, with his profile clearly visible - that is when things change. I have to grip the handle of the door hard so that I don’t faint. And then my knees buckle. The woman is climbing on top of him, burying his head on her breasts. A woman with a sheet of dazzling blonde hair.
I can’t watch any longer.
“I ... didn’t know that ...”
“That Harry Potter and his dead friend’s sister-in-law are fucking behind everybody’s back?” Pansy finishes for me, gleeful.
“I didn’t recognise her,” I lie.
“Ah. Well, let’s carry on.”
This can’t be, I tell myself. This is not true. There is no way Fleur is cheating on Bill, no way Harry would do this. This doesn’t make sense. Fleur is going to have a child.
“Here’s another one, come on.”
“Do I have to?” I ask her. “I think I understand the line of business now.”
She merely inclines her head towards the peephole. I have no choice but to oblige. This time, I lose it and jump back immediately.
Harry’s inside, his tongue running over Draco’s chest.
“It’s impossible!” I gasp. “Harry Potter was just there in the other room. He-”
Looking immensely pleased, Pansy offers me another peep-show.
“Don’t tell me Mr Potter is shagging himself there,” I say, unable to help myself.
She laughs. “No, it’s not Potter. But if you know anything about the wizarding wars, you will recognise these two.” When I hesitate, she narrows her eyes. “If you have had enough...”
“No.”
I regret it soon enough. “They are both dead.” I need to fight the bile rising up my throat. “They died.”
“That doesn’t stop people from entertaining weird fetishes, does it?” she says. “Dmitri!”
We’re back in the office.
“Why?” I ask her.
“Why do some men like girls with tiny feet? Why are there women who are turned on by brushing?” Pansy shrugs. “I don’t concern myself with these questions. I only aim to provide the tiny feet and the brushes. You see, one of our clients rented a male escort and offered him a lot of Galleons to have sex with another girl, the only condition being that the escort had to disguise himself as Potter and the girl as the client. Odd, isn’t it? But it gave me an idea to expand our business.”
“How did you know about it?”
“I was the girl. Not that the client knew that. At any rate, there I was in this hidden room with a two-way mirror, shagging Potter’s doppelganger as the client watched from the other side, no doubt pleasu-”
“But it’s a form of violation, isn’t it?” I cut in. “Harry ... Potter didn’t know.”
“And it didn’t hurt him. It hurt no one. It made me richer and left the client satisfied. Even now, there are around ten Harry Potters in this building fucking ten different people and being watched by ten different clients. And the world continues to spin.”
“How are you so sure that this will remain a secret?”
“We’ll come to that in a minute,” she says. “Before that, let me enlighten you on the employment benefits. You don’t have to know who’s watching you. You don’t have to know who’s fucking you. You don’t have to think it’s you being fucked. All you have to do is allow our experts to assign you a role according to demands, put glamour charms on you so that you resemble the person, and shag. Fifty Galleons per performance.” She glances at my purse and comments, “I bet you’ve never had fifty Galleons in your purse, have you?”
“No,” I reply, suddenly happier as I remember the purse and its contents. The self-recording quills had completely slipped my mind. I have to keep her talking, make her spill everything, and then get her arrested for the heinous exploitation she has been thriving on. “But you still haven’t told me why this arrangement is fail-safe. There are a lot of loose ends. Someone on the other might end up talking.”
“What would the clients say?” she asks with a laugh. “That they saw Potter fucking Malfoy? No one knows the true locations of these chambers, except Dmitri and me.”
“What about the employees?”
“They would prefer life to death.”
“What do you mean?” I ask breathlessly.
“I mean, as part of the terms of employment, you have to take an Unbreakable Vow. You cannot divulge anything you hear, see, read, or say in this place. In any form, at any period of time, to anybody. You cannot discuss it, even by accident.”
“An Unbreakable Vow?” I ask her, going cold.
She sits down next to me on the couch and touches my face. “You look pale. Don’t worry, Donnita. If you think this is too dangerous, we can always wipe your memories and send you home. One or two have done that, but the rest usually understand the profits involved and stick around.”
“You - you mean I cannot repeat what I’ve heard today -”
Shaking her head, she takes my hand and laces my fingers through hers. “So, are you in, or are you out?”
What are my options? On one hand, I could make her wipe my memories, except I don’t know how much damage she might end up doing. On the other, if I take the Vow, I can’t give my notes for evidence or speak to anybody. I need time to figure out how to get out of this, but for now, I must act.
“I’m in.”
“Excellent. Dmitri, if you will oblige us.”
As Dmitri raises his wand, Pansy and I join hands. The wand-tip is cold and heavy on my skin.
“Do you swear,” she asks me, “that you will not reveal the terms of your employment at Glamour Escort Services to anybody, at any time, or by any means?”
“I do.”
“Do you swear that you will not divulge company information to anybody, at any time, or by any means?”
“I do.”
“And do you swear that you will remain in my service until and unless I see it fit to release you?”
I hesitate. Pansy grips my hand tighter.
“I do.”
Continue to part two.
Author: jhestia85
Recipient: accio_catawba
Pairing(s): Hermione/Ginny
Word Count: Chapter: 6414, Complete: 16789
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sexual Situations, Character Death, Voyeurism, Dub-Con, Strong Profanities
Summary:
Time has a habit of changing our lives, our thoughts, our priorities; the things that were important to us then are often not what are important to us now. We’re remoulded and reshaped, our malleable selves determined by new desires, new goals, new feelings to be passionate about. That’s what makes us human.
I am Hermione Granger. I’m twenty-two years old. I have a new reason to live, and it’s Ginny Weasley.
Hermione Granger has been asked to investigate Pansy Parkinson’s successful and suspicious escort company. But when she joins Glamour Escort Services under a false identity, she’s forced to make decisions she never expected to.
Author's Notes: This story contains one more pairing I cannot list since I don’t want to spoil. :) I hope you’ll like it.
Chapter 1: Brittle as Glass
The air shouldn’t have to feel so solid in my lungs.
Molly warned me about that a few days after the funeral. A time would come when the tears will stop and it would be trouble. You know you’ve hit the pits when you want to cry but can’t. I didn’t believe her then. I should have. Molly has lost far more loved ones than anybody I know. Perhaps, I couldn’t concentrate on her words. It’s possible that was the case. I was busy - crying.
I can’t now. I can’t do it. The ache is there, gathering momentum within my chest for nothing. It will not go as all exit points have been blocked. I won’t even scream or dismantle things, no matter how much the sight of these dark roses make me want to whip my wand out and curse them to explode. How dare they stay permanently fresh?
How stupid was I to even cast the charm in the first place? How insane was I to think that if the roses didn’t wither, it would mean something positive? That, somehow, this would change the fact that he’s gone?
He really is, isn’t he? They wouldn’t have buried the body otherwise. This headstone wouldn’t be here otherwise. I wouldn’t be inhaling what seem to be shards of crystal otherwise.
For the wizarding world, today marks the fourth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. For a few, it means four years have passed since Fred, Remus, and Tonks died. And mostly Ron. To me, anyway.
Ron is dead.
Eventually, I’ll have to say that aloud. One day. One fine day.
As is the unusual custom, we mark the second of May with a big lunch at the Burrow. It’s a long walk from this meadow to the house. By the time I reach the place, they’ll all have been there, waiting for me. I don’t want to go, but I have nowhere else to go.
Harry is the first person I see. He’s lobbing gnomes over the hedge, and he doesn’t hear me the first two times I call him. When he eventually acknowledges my presence, there’s a half-hearted smile on his face. He has stubble now. I hug him, awkwardly. “I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Doing what?”
He shrugs.
“Cleaning up Grimmauld Place?” I ask him, making an effort to sound stern. “Because, Harry, you’ve been doing that for two years at least.”
It works. He’s grinning. “It’s a great old dirty house, and I like to clean with my hands.”
With a snort, I slip my arm into his and lead him into the kitchen. We’re silent now, and yet I think - I am certain - there’s something comforting about us being like this that we don’t have to make small talk. As I expected, everybody is there. Everybody who can be. They yell hello’s at me, and “Did you get rid of all the gnomes, Harry?” As I greet them, I feel Harry disengaging himself. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him approach Ginny and give her a peck on the cheek. It looks like something done out of habit; his arms don’t go around her waist, for instance. Ginny pats him on the shoulder in return, and then the two of them move on, Harry heading for Charlie, and Ginny, for me.
Everything is crumbling.
“'Mione.”
“Don’t call me that, Ginny!”
She laughs. “D’you want to help me set up the table?”
“I will if you drop that ridiculous name.”
“All right.” Rolling her eyes, she adds, “I thought you loved Cormac calling you that.”
“Let’s not discuss him. He sickens me.”
“He likes you,” she says, with some hesitance.
Cormac McLaggen. An utter prat who works in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. I suppose he fancied me in school; he was vile even then, spending most of his waking hours taking stupid bets and singing his own praises. I was hoping not to ever cross paths with the man, but I had to work with him on a Bludger-tampering case last month. He insisted on calling me 'Mione in front of everybody. Ginny, who works in the same department, unfortunately heard him once.
“I’d like to think I can do better,” I reply through gritted teeth.
“You definitely could.”
Lunch passes in a haze, the voices and aroma and flavours and textures sweeping me along, making me burst into laughter that comes out in sudden spurts. Fleur speaks the most; she’s pregnant again. It’s a good topic to discuss, so we all grab it. I try not to think of Ron, of marrying him and having his babies. It’s difficult not to, though; I am in the Burrow, sitting on this table where we had meals together. Funny how I never imagined that far into the future before his death, and how powerfully these thoughts have invaded me since.
Let it go.
“Are you okay?” Ginny asks me afterwards. We’re alone in the kitchen, cleaning up.
“Hmm.”
“No, you aren’t.”
I don’t reply, focussing instead on directing the plates to wash themselves.
“You should go out with somebody.”
“Easy for you to say,” I snap, and then immediately regret it. And yet, I don’t apologise.
“It isn’t,” she says quietly.
“Ginny, I-”
“No, don’t. I am sorry.”
+++
My name is Hermione Granger, and I work in the Criminal Investigation Branch. I am twenty-two years old.
I stare at the parchment, thinking of things to add, determined to avoid my non-existent relationship status.
I love reading and I believe in equality.
That’s true.
Sometimes, I wish -
“Granger!”
That’s my boss. Wiping off the text from the parchment, I look up and nod at her. “We need help with the Parkinson case,” she announces, dumping a stack of folders on the desk. “Jackson has failed to find anything illegal, and you’re good with loopholes, so there you go.”
It is a huge stack of folders. “What’s the story so far?” I ask.
“Jackson will do the explaining in a bit.” She has already turned away and is returning to her office.
“Right,” I mutter. I untie the charm holding the files and pick out the topmost one. Pansy Parkinson. Reading the title itself makes me sigh. Dear old Pansy. I’m not sure if I’m curious or bored, although, the fact that she has done something to merit being looked into by our division says a lot about the nature of whatever she’s been up to.
A picture of her greets me on the first page. It’s in black and white, but you can tell she’s wearing a heavy amount of make-up from the dark eyes with heavy lashes and the almost black lips - features that I don’t remember her having at school. She looks attractive in a way most women wouldn’t dare to. Or care, I amend myself.
“Pretty, isn’t she?” Jackson comments, pulling up a chair. “Absolutely cunning as well.”
“Mmm. I knew her at school,” I answer non-committally. Pansy was a piece of work, but not particularly devious. Then again, contrary to what I’ve just told Jackson, I didn’t know her that well. “Boot has just thrown this on me. What’s going on?”
“Have you heard about Glamour Escort Services?”
“No?”
“You’ve been living under some rock, I assume.”
“I’ve never needed an escort,” I tell him irritably.
“All right, all right!” he says. “Anyway, it is owned by Parkinson’s family. They started it four years ago just as the war got over. You know, when the wizarding world went crazy with the parties and celebrations? It is still a small business, but it has been steadily gaining popularity. Problem is, we got a tip-off about how their annual earnings don’t match with the estimates provided by our tax department. Padraig Parkinson’s administration has obviously left out several things in the income reports they sent in.”
“I suppose Gringotts isn’t helping?”
“Nope. Gringotts will never divulge details of their clients’ accounts.”
“What about the person who gave the tip-off?”
“He’s dead.” Jackson draws a line round his throat as if to emphasise his point. I don’t much like Jackson. “Or at least the person who we suspect of being the whistleblower is.” He gingerly picks out a blue folder from the pile and gives it to me. “That’s him.”
Marvin Rhodes. Age - fifty. Accounts manager at Glamour Escort Services. Died in his sleep. I can vaguely recall reading about this a few months ago, but since our division doesn’t allow the investigators to discuss each other’s work unless ordered otherwise, I didn’t know there was supposed to be anything suspicious about the case. “Why do you think he was the whistleblower, apart from the fact of his conveniently timed death?”
“His daughter works at the place as a receptionist,” Jackson says, his voice soft and slow for dramatic effect.
“And?”
“Flip the page.”
I flip it, and find the employee profile of Selene Rhodes, an exceptionally beautiful girl with strawberry blonde hair. There are two photos of her. In the first one, she’s wearing blue robes. In the other, it’s a pale gold negligee. “Well, this looks really ...”
“Our people found this photo in one of Marvin’s drawers, but when we asked her about it, she said it was taken by her boyfriend. He confirmed this was true. They both appeared shocked when we told them that Marvin had it. Said it was a private thing between them.” Jackson straightens up and adds, “Observe the photos closely.”
“Okay.”
The backgrounds are different, but the paper quality is of the same high-gloss, thick material. In the wizarding world, people often use whatever paper they can find for developing photographs, since the process is completed with charms. This one appears expensive, and more importantly, Muggle-made. “Is this boyfriend a professional photographer?” I ask Jackson. “What sort of camera does he own?”
“A cheap one?” Jackson replies. “The type that comes with a simple lens, and without a flash. That’s what I thought, too. Unless he’s a pro who cares for his art, I don’t think he’d go for the expensive paper.”
“And they claimed this photo was supposed to be private,” I add. “So, they wouldn’t have given it to a proper store to have this developed.”
“Exactly. These photos were developed at Colin’s Camera Carnival, which we both know is the premier store in this field as far as the UK is concerned. I asked the owner about it, and he said Selene herself had come to drop off the negatives as well as collect them.”
“So ...” I pick my words carefully. “The Parkinsons are running a brothel and Selene Rhodes is more than just a receptionist?”
“That appears to be the thing,” he tells me. “At any rate, it is more than just an escort service. But we don’t have any other leads. None of the employees will talk. The investigation into Rhodes’ death didn’t turn up anything; our Healers said it was natural causes. His daughter certainly isn’t saying anything, and she’s still employed by the company, which is now owned by Pansy.” After a pause, he continues. “It’s odd she does. Her father’s too young to retire, and she’s too young to run it on her own.”
“Where do I come in?” I ask, suddenly nervous for reasons I can’t put my fingers on. “Why aren’t we waiting for further evidence?”
“But that’s why I need you. We want further evidence. Boot and I want you to apply for a job there.”
“As an accountant?”
“No.” He has the grace to hesitate before dropping the proverbial bomb. “As an escort.”
I open my mouth to protest, but at that moment, catch Boot’s eye. She’s standing in her office, beckoning me with a finger. On cue, Jackson nods and leaves for his cubicle.
“You aren’t comfortable with the idea,” states Boot. “But let me tell you why I chose you, Granger. Don’t just stand there. Sit.” She continues speaking as soon as I’ve taken a seat. “This isn’t just a job for you, is it, Granger?” I shake my head slowly. “When people interview for this division, they say they want to eradicate crime from society. I believe them. There is, however, a difference between getting rid of the crime itself and getting rid of its origin. You know that difference well.”
“Do I?” I ask numbly.
She takes off her glasses and glares at me. “Yes, you do, and get rid of that melancholy. I’m sick of you looking like a lost Crup.”
“Okay.”
“You started a cause for house-elves at the age of fourteen, a cause that didn’t work precisely because no one gave a damn. Why didn’t they? To them, it was natural that house-elves slave through their existence. If anybody hears a house-elf is being mistreated, they will take on the case since mistreating a living being is a crime. But what if the house-elf doesn’t want to press charges? What if he claims it’s only natural that a house-elf should be punished for not doing his duties well? The case falls apart.”
“When it shouldn’t.”
“Correct, Granger. It shouldn’t. Which is why I am choosing you. You care as much as you should. Why isn’t Selene Rhodes being more helpful? What is Parkinson doing behind the façade? Is she manipulating her employees? Are they doing whatever it is they’re doing out of free will? Obviously, whatever’s going on there isn’t completely legal, and I need the best I have to uncover this shady business. Is that clear?”
Taking a deep breath, I tell her, “Yes.”
+++
The Parkinson files now lie scattered around my bedroom. It took me less than an hour to go through them. Glamour Escort Services was opened in October, 1998, without much fanfare, with an employee count of ten people. Within two years, the number had risen to forty, with about twenty-five witches and wizards working as escorts, four-fifths of them being immigrants. After Pansy took over in the middle of 2001, they hired twenty more people. Forget the part about income anomalies; the arguably small magical community of Great Britain isn’t blessed with that many social events or rich people that should warrant such a huge escort service.
I have seen the official catalogue and seen the pictures of the models. The men are clean-shaven, athletic and wholesome; the females are proportionate, sensual and glamorous. Stripping down to my pants, I walk in front of the mirror and scrutinise my body.
There is a small bump on my belly - fat, not a baby. I have never had sexual intercourse. I nearly did with a colleague, but we were both slightly drunk and somehow managed not to go that far.
I need to get rid of this bump. My hips are too wide, my breasts too flat. They are the first modifications I make. I assume they do these things at the company anyway. The trickier part is changing my identity. They wouldn’t take a risk, letting just about anybody in. Surely, they conduct tests to see if you are who you claim to be, or an imposter.
Boot has given me a month off to prepare my avatar. I take the chance to buy some stuff from Muggle London. The first day, I visit a hairdresser and get my brown curls straightened and dyed. I also buy green contact lenses and fake eyelashes. A friend of my mother, who is a make-up specialist, has agreed to make a prosthetic nose for me. My parents, however, have refused to whiten my teeth, saying it’s not worth it. I’ll have to ask some other dentist.
I also need to sign up for a speech and elocution class to cultivate an American accent. I might have to borrow my father’s DVD player and a huge chunk of my mum’s DVD collections. If I take down some of the heavy wards and charms I put up, the device will work properly.
Perhaps, I can start with Erin Brockovich.
+++
Today marks the completion of the third week of my transition. Donnita Cabros is almost ready. My teeth look whiter. I have black, ramrod straight hair that is somewhat reminiscent of Cho Chang’s, and my eyes are a dark green. The accent is somewhat shaky, but that shouldn’t be a big problem; Donnita’s parents are an Italian couple. She was home-schooled, so that none of the American employees at the company will have to pester her for information about which institution she had attended. She has rented a flat in London.
Presently, I am at Dorothy’s, the make-up specialist who has finished making the prosthetic nose and is now teaching me how to blend the outline into the area around my nose. Tomorrow, I’ll go to the Ministry and win a new wand, since I can’t use my own. The Ministry now stocks old wands that haven’t sold at Ollivander’s in centuries, or belonged to deceased wizards and witches, stripped of any latent association with their previous owners and modified. If anybody wishes to use a different wand while going undercover, they can request a duel with a witch or wizard, made of wood but charmed to fight. They will, of course, have to win the duel in order to fully possess the new wand.
I’m ready for all of this; I’m just not sure how I’m going to fare as an actor. Impersonating somebody else is a task I’ve already undertaken twice, and I don’t remember being very convincing in either case. This could be easier. I’ll be a person nobody has met before. Maybe Donnita tends to get nervous. Maybe she is inept at seducing people. Maybe she is recovering from heartbreak.
Maybe, I need to get a grip on myself.
“Remind me why you’re doing this, Hermione,” Dorothy mumbles as she applies a few tender brushstrokes on my left cheek. “Nothing illegal, I hope?”
I laugh. “I’m acting in a play,” I answer.
“Jean never told me you are into theatre and drama.”
“Oh, it’s nothing fancy. It’s a silly little play for a select group of people.”
“You must be very dedicated to go to so much trouble for a silly little play.” She puts down the brush and swings my chair around so I can look at the mirror. Donnita could pass off as a far cousin, but one more exotic and alluring. The eyes, the lipstick, the hair, the straighter nose, the sharper cheekbones - it’s definitely not Hermione Granger.
“What can I say, Dorothy?” says Donnita in her halfway-house accent, leaning forward and turning her face from side to side. “I am a perfectionist.”
A wide smile appears on Dorothy’s face as she replies, “That is something Jean always told me.”
+++
It’s my last night as Hermione for the foreseeable future. I am in my new flat, which is small but comfortable, going through my wardrobe. The clothes are of a design I’d normally not even try on at a store: plunging necklines, too-high hemlines, lace, satin, strappy, strapless. My footwear might kill me. I am no stranger to tall shoes, but I’m not in the habit of living in them. I have to admit everything looks beautiful, though, and I silently applaud the person who did the shopping for Donnita.
As scheduled, Boot’s head appears in the fireplace around eight.
“Good evening,” I wish her as Donnita.
“You look wonderful,” she says. “Though not as beautiful as your usual self.”
“Thanks,” I say with a smile.
“Is everything ready? Your identification papers and permit?”
I nod.
“You don’t think it’s safe to communicate via the normal channels.”
“No,” I tell her. “Owls can be intercepted, and the Floo network isn’t foolproof. Using Patronuses would end this mission before you can say 'Expecto Patronus'. The Protean Charm method is the best. You just have to keep the coin with you at all times and not use it by mistake.”
“I won’t,” she assures me. “The department thinks you’re in Budapest, with the exception of Jackson. I trust that’s what you told your people as well?”
I think of the terse letters I sent to Harry, Ginny and my mother. “Yes.”
“Good.” For a full second, she doesn’t speak. I’m amused by how odd her head looks just sitting there among the crackling flames. “That’s it then, Granger,” she says abruptly. “I wish you the best of luck.”
+++
Glamour Escort Services is a small office on the outside, whitewashed and with pots of flowers along the base and the stairs, and on each side of the three mahogany front doors. It’s not at all a glamorous façade; if anything, it leaves the impression of an innocuous travel agency. Highly deceptive, of course, just like any wizarding building likes to be. Taking a deep breath, I walk up the stairs and try to push the middle door open. It doesn’t budge.
“Welcome to Glamour Escort Services,” announces a chirpy female voice. “Please identify yourself and state the purpose of your visit.”
“Donnita Cab-” My voice comes out squeaky and I have to clear my throat. “Donnita Cabros. I’d like to work at the company as an escort.” After a pause, I add, “Since you don’t advertise with the papers, I assume people just pop up at your doorstep and apply for the job.”
“Thank you for your co-operation, Miss Cabros. Please knock on the door to your right three times.”
“Thanks!” I yell. I approach the door and give three sharp raps. It opens to an enclosed space like the inside of a lift. As soon as I step inside, the door closes. There are no buttons, just three bare steel walls.
“Welcome to Glamour Escort Services.” This time, it’s a male voice. He sounds just as happy. “You will now be scanned by magical detection charms to check what kind of spells you have arrived with. Please bear with us while we carry out the procedure. The amount of time taken is directly proportionate to the amount of magic currently active on your person.”
A strange, buzzing sensation washes over me right after the speech. It goes down to my toes, and back up again to the tip of my head. “Engorgement Charm on the hips,” the male voice speaks. “A glamour charm on the waist area. Engorgement Charm on the chest. Undetectable Extension Charm on the purse. Scan is complete.”
The buzzing feeling instantly lifts.
“The first three are permitted on the company premises. Please empty your purse on the table.”
A table materialises out of thin air in front of me. I carefully put the contents of my purse on display: a lipstick, a lip gloss, compact powder, foundation, eye make-up, facial tissue, a small vial of perfume, a silk handkerchief, a notebook, self-refilling quills, my identification papers and permits, a few Sickles, and a lot more Galleons, including the fake one. The male voice records the list.
“Please undo the charm and turn the purse upside down.”
I obey. Nothing happens.
“Thank you for your co-operation, Miss Cabros. You may now enter the building.”
The wall to my left melts away, revealing a large reception hall with mahogany flooring, dark green velvet sofas, crystal tables and silvery globules of light on the ceiling. There is a lone girl standing behind the reception desk at the far end; she has a face I have seen before. Selene Rhodes. I put the contents back into the purse, reinstalling the Extension Charm, and step out. After the entrance closes behind me, I cast a self-recording spell on the notebook. I can almost feel a quill scribbling furiously.
“Hello, Miss Cabros,” Rhodes welcomes me with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Welcome to Glamour Escort Services.”
“Thanks, Miss ...”
“Rhodes.”
“Miss Rhodes. You can call me Donnita.”
“Could you show me your papers?” she asks. It’s almost like she didn’t notice me trying to be friendly.
“Absolutely.” I give her Donnita’s papers, and then look away, trying to hide my nervousness. There is a huge mirror to my right. The reflection on it is that of a woman I can vaguely recognise. It gives me some courage.
“You’re from America,” Selene mumbles, writing it down on a register.
“Mm.”
“Your wand, please.”
“Cypress, twelve inches, unicorn tail and swishy,” I explain, looking into her eyes as I hand over the wand, searching for some hint of remorse, regret, fear. Anything. They are, however, expressionless.
“Interesting combination,” she remarks. She takes out her wand and - to my horror - says, “Priori Incantato.”
An image of my notebook erupts from the end of my wand-tip. Rhodes turns towards me, eyes narrowed, but I’m too quick for her. I snatch my wand back and hex her with a non-verbal Memory Charm. “The last spell performed by Miss Cabros’ wand was,” I speak forcefully, “an Engorgement Charm. You will write that down.”
She is a bit dazed but she nonetheless follows my directions. “That will be all, Miss Cabros. Please have a seat.”
“Good,” I mutter, breathing properly only after she disappears inside.
This is not a smooth beginning; my hands have started shaking already. I can only hope that I don’t have to meet Pansy today.
“Miss Cabros.” Rhodes still appears mildly disoriented as she returns to her desk. “Miss Parkinson will see you now. The door to your right, please.”
The day couldn’t get any better. Inclining my head towards Rhodes, I gather myself, take one last look at the mirror in a bid to restore my faith in the new identity, and prepare to meet Pansy. But the walk to the door is short and stifling. By the time I’ve reached the room, I’m certain Pansy is going to see through it all. I don’t know why, but right now, she is to me the most devious witch in the country. Not altogether a baseless opinion, of course, considering how their family business has met so much success - Pansy just seems to have the upper hand. This is her territory.
Yet when I enter and find her leaning against her huge desk in fitting white robes that accentuate her curves to their fullest effect and her black hair piled on top of her in an elegant bun, she holds me in a gaze that can only be described as cold appraisal. “Stop,” she snaps. “Don’t walk like that with your shoulders all stiff. Loosen them up.” I obey her and try to change my posture. “Turn around and let me see your arse. Hmm. Stay there.”
I don’t like having my back turned towards Pansy, unguarded and at her mercy, but I don’t really have a choice. She doesn’t wear shoes, so I can’t hear her getting closer. I can, however, see us both on the mirror to our left - positioned on what I assume is the corresponding spot of the one outside. Her eyes are scanning me in the same way the Sweeping Spell in the entrance did. When she puts an arm around my waist, I almost stop breathing.
“Look at yourself,” she whispers in my ear, gently turning me around. We’re facing the mirror, with her hands running up and down my side. “Are you beautiful, Donnita?”
I consider my hair, the subtle make-up, the brilliant green eyes, the perfect teeth, the fuller breasts, the narrow waist and the wider hips. Then I say, “Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I didn’t catch that.”
“Yes,” I say in a louder voice, looking her in the eye. “I am beautiful.”
“Good,” she replies, the smile on her face a sign of approval. “Because I don’t care for anything less than that. Come, let’s have a chat.”
As I sit down on one of the many couches strewn about the room, she perches herself on top of her desk and conjures two glasses of champagne. I accept the one that floats towards me and thank her.
“I don’t care why you’re here in Britain,” she begins without preamble. “I don’t care who your parents are. You have passed the preliminary identification process so far, and even as I conduct this interview, your address is being checked out by my people. Ah!” A young wizard Apparates right into the room and hands her a scroll of parchment before going to stand at the other end of the room, where the wall is decorated with tiny portraits. None of them makes much sense.
“Don’t mind him,” she remarks lazily as she peruses the paper. “He’s my personal hound. Exceptionally good at dark magic, in spite of his age. That’s how they make them at Durmstrang. Very loyal. Hmm. You weren’t lying about where you live, and it’s safe of stupid tricks.”
“You went through my possessions?” I ask her with some heat.
“Yes,” she says. “I did. So far, you appear to be who you claim you are.” After Vanishing the scroll, she adds, “Fabulous! Now, Donnita, tell me why you’re here.”
“I want to work with you,” I answer, straightening up.
“You want to be an escort.”
“That,” I answer slowly, “and more, if there’s more.”
She doesn’t respond immediately, smiling at me and then taking a sip of her champagne. “Interesting,” she says at last. “How do you know we could help you with ... more than just playing escort to filthy rich, useless wizard bastards?”
“Miss Parkinson,” I say, making the glass disappear with a wave now that it was getting serious, “you have to admit that there aren’t that many filthy rich, useless wizard bastards in this country to supply you the kind of Galleons and fame you’re bringing in.”
“Good point,” she admits. “But how do you know it’s something you would want to do?”
“Because I want some of that. The money. The fame.” I have eased myself into Donnita enough to say what I’m about to say. “And I’m beautiful. I deserve it.”
“That you do.” She puts her glass on the desk and slides off, motioning at me to get up. “I think you’re ready to see what you’re about to see, Donnita. Dmitri, if you can open the inner chambers for us, please.”
It’s hard to hide the excitement that is surging inside of me, although showing it might not be a bad thing. Pansy can assume her new recruit can’t wait to get started. As for me, this means I’m about to get to see what really is going on in this place. Dmitri turns around and raises his arms. The many portraits on the wall begin to move, following the directions made by his hands, until they merge to form a perfectly rectangular painting of an orgy. A jigsaw puzzle, and a not very subtle one at that. It springs forward to reveal a narrow corridor.
“Shall we?” asks Pansy.
I follow her inside, clutching my purse tighter, now apprehensive as to what I might find. She looks into the peephole of the first door, then shaking her head continues walking. This goes on for the next four doors, until at last she turns to me with a triumphant expression on her face. “You might like this one,” she assures me. “Go on.”
Trying to act cool, I smile back at her. When I do see what made her so happy, I have to stop myself from recoiling. A black haired man, who has his back turned on me, is thrusting into a girl. So, Pansy is running a brothel.
“Keep watching,” Pansy orders from behind.
I have never watched or read anything pornographic in my life. Would I have been comfortable with this if I had? No, I don’t think so. This is the last place I would come to for gratification or entertainment. It sickens me.
I don’t know what Pansy is trying to achieve, though. I get it. Her employees have sex with people who are willing to pay. It’s prostitution, as simple as that. I could watch this man’s bum move for the next hour, and it wouldn’t make the conclusion any less different.
When he pulls out and kneels on the bed, with his profile clearly visible - that is when things change. I have to grip the handle of the door hard so that I don’t faint. And then my knees buckle. The woman is climbing on top of him, burying his head on her breasts. A woman with a sheet of dazzling blonde hair.
I can’t watch any longer.
“I ... didn’t know that ...”
“That Harry Potter and his dead friend’s sister-in-law are fucking behind everybody’s back?” Pansy finishes for me, gleeful.
“I didn’t recognise her,” I lie.
“Ah. Well, let’s carry on.”
This can’t be, I tell myself. This is not true. There is no way Fleur is cheating on Bill, no way Harry would do this. This doesn’t make sense. Fleur is going to have a child.
“Here’s another one, come on.”
“Do I have to?” I ask her. “I think I understand the line of business now.”
She merely inclines her head towards the peephole. I have no choice but to oblige. This time, I lose it and jump back immediately.
Harry’s inside, his tongue running over Draco’s chest.
“It’s impossible!” I gasp. “Harry Potter was just there in the other room. He-”
Looking immensely pleased, Pansy offers me another peep-show.
“Don’t tell me Mr Potter is shagging himself there,” I say, unable to help myself.
She laughs. “No, it’s not Potter. But if you know anything about the wizarding wars, you will recognise these two.” When I hesitate, she narrows her eyes. “If you have had enough...”
“No.”
I regret it soon enough. “They are both dead.” I need to fight the bile rising up my throat. “They died.”
“That doesn’t stop people from entertaining weird fetishes, does it?” she says. “Dmitri!”
We’re back in the office.
“Why?” I ask her.
“Why do some men like girls with tiny feet? Why are there women who are turned on by brushing?” Pansy shrugs. “I don’t concern myself with these questions. I only aim to provide the tiny feet and the brushes. You see, one of our clients rented a male escort and offered him a lot of Galleons to have sex with another girl, the only condition being that the escort had to disguise himself as Potter and the girl as the client. Odd, isn’t it? But it gave me an idea to expand our business.”
“How did you know about it?”
“I was the girl. Not that the client knew that. At any rate, there I was in this hidden room with a two-way mirror, shagging Potter’s doppelganger as the client watched from the other side, no doubt pleasu-”
“But it’s a form of violation, isn’t it?” I cut in. “Harry ... Potter didn’t know.”
“And it didn’t hurt him. It hurt no one. It made me richer and left the client satisfied. Even now, there are around ten Harry Potters in this building fucking ten different people and being watched by ten different clients. And the world continues to spin.”
“How are you so sure that this will remain a secret?”
“We’ll come to that in a minute,” she says. “Before that, let me enlighten you on the employment benefits. You don’t have to know who’s watching you. You don’t have to know who’s fucking you. You don’t have to think it’s you being fucked. All you have to do is allow our experts to assign you a role according to demands, put glamour charms on you so that you resemble the person, and shag. Fifty Galleons per performance.” She glances at my purse and comments, “I bet you’ve never had fifty Galleons in your purse, have you?”
“No,” I reply, suddenly happier as I remember the purse and its contents. The self-recording quills had completely slipped my mind. I have to keep her talking, make her spill everything, and then get her arrested for the heinous exploitation she has been thriving on. “But you still haven’t told me why this arrangement is fail-safe. There are a lot of loose ends. Someone on the other might end up talking.”
“What would the clients say?” she asks with a laugh. “That they saw Potter fucking Malfoy? No one knows the true locations of these chambers, except Dmitri and me.”
“What about the employees?”
“They would prefer life to death.”
“What do you mean?” I ask breathlessly.
“I mean, as part of the terms of employment, you have to take an Unbreakable Vow. You cannot divulge anything you hear, see, read, or say in this place. In any form, at any period of time, to anybody. You cannot discuss it, even by accident.”
“An Unbreakable Vow?” I ask her, going cold.
She sits down next to me on the couch and touches my face. “You look pale. Don’t worry, Donnita. If you think this is too dangerous, we can always wipe your memories and send you home. One or two have done that, but the rest usually understand the profits involved and stick around.”
“You - you mean I cannot repeat what I’ve heard today -”
Shaking her head, she takes my hand and laces my fingers through hers. “So, are you in, or are you out?”
What are my options? On one hand, I could make her wipe my memories, except I don’t know how much damage she might end up doing. On the other, if I take the Vow, I can’t give my notes for evidence or speak to anybody. I need time to figure out how to get out of this, but for now, I must act.
“I’m in.”
“Excellent. Dmitri, if you will oblige us.”
As Dmitri raises his wand, Pansy and I join hands. The wand-tip is cold and heavy on my skin.
“Do you swear,” she asks me, “that you will not reveal the terms of your employment at Glamour Escort Services to anybody, at any time, or by any means?”
“I do.”
“Do you swear that you will not divulge company information to anybody, at any time, or by any means?”
“I do.”
“And do you swear that you will remain in my service until and unless I see it fit to release you?”
I hesitate. Pansy grips my hand tighter.
“I do.”
Continue to part two.