The New Age - Emily Potter Series Finale

Chapter Forty-One: Tolerate It

An Afternoon in The Malfoy Home,

Dessert was always the way to go when in need of social battery recovery, at least when it came to Emily and Hermione, two personal tubs of gelato between them solved everything. The two women had made a nest of blankets in the Malfoy home living room where Emily had amped up the air conditioning for the fullest, cosiest experience; Hermione got herself a honey vanilla praline swirl while Emily was already scraping at the bottom of her pistachio gelato.

"How many newspapers does the entirety of Great Britain need? There were over fifty – "

"Seventy." Hermione corrected listlessly.

Emily's eyes widened, appalled, "Seventy fucking journalists had questions. Bloody fuck."

"Mind you that those papers also circulate throughout England, Scotland, and Wales. Not to mention some international press as well. I was surprised it was only seventy."

She fell quiet, her mind slowly rebuilding after having been melted under hot fluorescent lights and stupid questions. "Do you think we'll meet the queen?"

Hermione was about to dig into her carton for another scoop, but her hand faltered and she ended up stabbing the ribbon of praline that tempted her so. She looked over at Emily, hoping to see if she was joking. To her misfortune, she sees her happily lopping off her spoon the last nugget of her pistachio, patiently waiting for an answer.

"No, Emily, I don't think we'll meet the queen."

"Shame. I would have liked to meet Lizzie. Did all that watching of The Crown for nothing – "

"Emily!" Hermione squealed, finding pure bliss in the notion that one of the smartest people she knew considered a highly dramatized Muggle television show to be the golden standard of preparation to meet the Queen of England.

"What?"

Secretly, she liked hearing her questions, because her questions always had a lingering sense of security in their future together. And in that future that Emily questioned, she had always insinuated that Hermione was a constant figure in it. A pillar. Hermione thought that it was maybe just a generalization that just covered the instance of either one of them winning the election, but after a few questions, she deemed that her suspicions were correct. Many of them varied, though a few notables were:

"We'd have to meet every minister for magic worldwide – or some counterpart of it. Not to mention meet the British muggle prime minister. I hear he's a flaming bag of shite. You think we can skip meeting that one?"

"I've never heard anything about the Irish minister for magic. Do you think they hate us? Shacklebolt never received correspondence from them."

Emily quickly notices Hermione's silence and her signature pensive, thoughtful expression. "What did I say this time, Granger?"

Hermione adjusts herself more comfortably, her knee bumping into Emily's under the blanket as she turned to face her directly. "You keep saying 'us', even though only one of us would win. Why?"

The woman frowns, a few stray strands of silver falling over her temple when she began looking sadly into her now empty carton, her spoon poking at the bottom of it as if mining for an answer. "I suppose, in my head, whichever way the wind blows its favour, I would think we'd still be by each other's side. We became heads of our respective departments roughly at the same time. I don't see a reason for us not to have another ascension together, do you?"

She blushes unexpectedly, feverishly shoving a mouthful of gelato to cool her face down, "Oh, Er – when you say it like that it makes sense."

"Oh, yeah?"