Chapter Text
While I fasten the seatbelt, I confirm the time on my watch. 5:20. As scheduled. At least I can rely on the company’s driver for punctuality.
Coffee — in my thermal cup, secured in the holder.
The only acceptable way to start a morning. Hot, dark roast, precise temperature, no compromise. Prepared exactly the way only I trust myself to make it. Some routines are non-negotiable. On leisure days I try to pair it with a good book. On workdays, I settle for logistics. I take a measured sip and let it settle. Small pleasures. The first moment of the day that belongs entirely to me.
Bag — check.
Laptop — check.
Documents for signature — check.
Phone charged — check.
Meeting with the target confirmed by Pansy at 10:00.
Driver confirmed for Draco’s school run.
New pilot.
I exhale slowly while I drink another sip of my coffee. I hope this one works. McGonagall owes that to me. This is the third one since Mr. Shacklebolt retired three months ago. None of the replacements have been as reliable. Always three minutes late. Or “Sorry Mrs. Black. We are just concluding the final checklist and we will be ready for departure in a few minutes.”. I am not allowed to be late for a client’s meeting. It's not professional. Neither should they be.
Return landing expected for 19:15. Dinner with Lucius after.
Scheduled three days ago. Confirmed twice. Entered into my calendar with the same precision as a board meeting. Lucius does not request dinners. He schedules conversations disguised as meals.
I will deal with whatever he wants after Chicago. After the meeting with Ollivander’s lawyers. I don’t believe we are anywhere close to sealing the acquisition deal, but one can hope. Problems belong to their designated time slots. That is the only way they remain manageable.
Boston slides past in muted glass reflections. The leaves are starting to turn brown, as summer gives way to winter. Today’s agenda is already arranged. Every variable accounted for. At least to the best of my ability. And Pansy’s too. Let’s not belittle the efforts of a very efficient executive assistant. I’m sure my days would be chaotically insufferable without her.
Except for one variable. The new pilot.
I exhale again. I really hope this one works.
I lose track of the city once I start drafting emails and leaving messages to Pansy. It is not because I’m not in the office today that there are no problems to be solved.
The emails stack in my outbox in clean objective lines. Instructions for when the day officially begins. Pansy will see them at seven when she officially starts her day. She prefers structure. I give her structure. That is why she is exceptional. I have to try to give her another raise in the next HR cycle. She deserves it.
Confirm. Reschedule. Push to next quarter. Request further information. Loop the tax team. Revised version only.
I don’t expect answers yet. The system runs on sequence, not urgency.
The car slows and the change in motion pulls me back into the present. I look up. We are at the airport and the aircraft is already in view.
5:44.
One minute ahead of schedule.
Good. Very good.
I slide the phone into my bag and take another sip of coffee as I check I don’t forget anything in the car. The driver opens the door before I reach for the handle. Cold morning air, sharp and clean. No heavy clouds in the sky, so it should be a smooth takeoff. At least, I hope so. I step out and give him a brief nod.
“Thank you.”
Politeness costs nothing. Efficiency includes courtesy. And he has been extremely punctual, I have to give him that.
The pilot is already waiting beside the aircraft. That is unexpected. And appreciated. His two predecessors have not welcomed me outside the aircraft. Different from Mr. Shacklebolt. They were always inside, doing last minute procedures that should have already been done. Correction: not HIS predecessors, HER. I reproach myself. Women can do anything, including commanding aircrafts. Of course they do. I should have never presumed the new pilot would necessarily be a man.
For a moment I see only the uniform: precise lines, clean shiny white shirt below the blazer, immaculate posture, no visible impatience. Then the rest of her registers.
Young. Composed. Watching without staring. Interesting.
For a moment I notice the fatigue.
It’s very subtle, I will give her that. A softness around the eyes, a bit of dark circles concealed below a clean make-up, the kind of strain that comes from waking before the sun and staying upright on discipline alone. But it’s held in place by precision and professionalism. Uniform immaculate. Hair secured. Smile measured and polite, not eager. Present.
She looks ready, and I hope for our lives that she is. That matters more than anything else.
“Good morning, Ms. Black,” she says extending her hand. “Hermione Granger. I’ll be your pilot this morning.”
Her handshake is firm and brief. No attempt to linger. No attempt to impress.
“We’re cleared for departure at six. Weather is stable across the route, arrival Chicago approximately eight thirty-two Boston time. Seven thirty-two local time. Fuel and balance confirmed. We’ll have a smooth climb.”
The information is delivered cleanly, like a report already solved, with a polite (but not artificial) smile. No excess words. No gaps.
“Welcome aboard.”
She steps aside just enough to guide without crowding, one hand indicating the stairs. The aircraft waits open and quiet behind her.
Efficient. Prepared. Straightforward. I approve of her immediately, which is rare. Pansy would agree with this last comment any day.
I board.
The cabin smells faintly of leather, something clean, polished, metallic. I secure my bag in the side compartment, place the tablet and phone within reach, and settle into the seat on the right with practiced efficiency. The coffee remains steady in my grip. The CJ4 has a good design. I prefer the comfort of the smaller aircraft to the excess of larger ones. The larger jets feel excessively empty when I travel alone, but it is a necessary evil when I have meetings on the west coast. Most of my meetings are in Chicago, the city of the wind, not an encouraging nickname when you think of arriving by plane, but it is a beautiful city. Boston gives me more comfort. I have no intention of leaving, but Chicago is where most of our M&A deals are closed, so I have to travel there on a regular basis.
Ms. Granger steps inside a moment later. The door closes with a muted click behind her.
“We’re ready to notify the tower,” she says. “I’ll confirm clearance and be right back.”
A nod is sufficient and she disappears into the cockpit. The silence that follows is structured, not empty. Engines waking somewhere beneath the floor, systems aligning, sounds that I am used to. I fasten my belt and adjust the sleeve of my blazer. Small rituals before takeoff. I hate flying. I tolerate it. There’s a difference. Anchors.
She returns just a few minutes later with a small smile. “We’re cleared for departure. I’ll begin procedures.”
“Thank you.”
She gives the cabin a quick sweep with her eyes - automatic, I would say - before the door closes again. I don’t register it consciously. Only later at night, when I will do a quiet go-through of the flight, will I remember the precision of it.
The takeoff is clean. No unnecessary commentary from the cockpit. The city drops away in controlled geometry, and the aircraft climbs with quiet certainty. Boston is always a sight from above, especially as the city is showing the first signs of autumn.
By the time we level into cruise, the tension in my shoulders has dissolved without permission. I got used to flying although I would prefer apparition, if possible, any day.
The door opens cautiously. “We’ve reached cruising altitude,” Ms. Granger says. “I’ll leave the door open. If you need anything, I’m right here.”
I lift the travel mug slightly. “I’m well supplied. Thank you.”
Her eyes flick to the cup, and something like approval crosses her face in a small smile.
“Good idea,” she says lightly. “I might need one too.”
She moves with quiet efficiency to the small galley behind the cockpit without hesitation, like she does this everyday. She probably does most days. The aircraft doesn’t waver. The hum of the engines remains steady, the horizon fixed. Everything continues exactly as it should be.
I watch her pour the black coffee with the same precision she applies to everything else. Even this is measured. Two-thirds of a cup in a travel mug besides the coffee machine.
“How long have you been with Hogwarts?” I ask while she is putting a small spoon of sugar and stirring the coffee.
“Just under three years,” she answers, glancing back toward the cockpit as if the airplane is a conversation she’s still listening to. She steps back inside to the cockpit thresholder, coffee in hand, door still open. Half attention on me, half on the plane. I don’t feel dismissed, I feel secure that she is not forgetting that we are thirty thousand feet from the ground.
I study her face. Nothing about her feels new, but
“I don’t remember seeing you before.”
A small breath, almost a laugh. “You probably did. I flew as a copilot on the Latitude during training. I shadowed Kingsley. I may have been on a flight with you, but as a copilot I usually don’t leave the cockpit”
That earns her my full attention. “You trained under Mr. Shacklebolt?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
There’s pride there, carefully contained in a small grin. Earned pride. “We lost a good commander when he retired, but he deserves to rest.”.
“That explains a great deal,” I say. And I mean it.
She nods once with acknowledgment, and disappears back into the cockpit, leaving the door open exactly as promised.
The aircraft holds steady. So does my trust in her competence. I open my tablet to review the documents that I will discuss in the meeting. I have already gone through them more than enough times, but it is never a waste of time to do a quick review a few hours before. I can never trust my lawyers colleagues on the opposing team to not try to pull a surprise.
The Ollivander acquisition is already solved in my head. What remains is execution. I skim the financial statements again out of habit, confirming numbers I could recite without looking. Revenue projections. Debt exposure. Clean enough to proceed.
Satisfied, I close the file. There’s no reason to rehearse the same battle twice.
The next folder opens automatically. The Gringotts expansion file. Fresh. Signed this week and routed to me yesterday. Due diligence begins today. A different client. A different problem. My work never runs in a straight line; it overlaps, folds into itself, continues. While one negotiation advances, another one prepares to exist. Finance instead of industry. New terrain. Good.
From the cockpit, Ms. Granger’s voice filters through the open door in low fragments: coordinates, confirmations, calm exchanges with air traffic control. I don’t follow the content. I follow the cadence of her voice. Secure. Even stripped of meaning, it carries a steadiness I register somewhere physical. The aircraft responds to it. So do I. It calms me. Nothing will go wrong with the airplane while she is in command. It becomes a background sound, a metronome that keeps the air, and my thoughts, aligned.
Numbers. Altitude. Target company. Route. EBITDA.
Time compresses when I work. It becomes elastic. Useful. I barely notice that two hours have passed. I don’t notice the silence changing until Ms. Granger is standing at the threshold again. It surprises me to see her not in her chair, but closer to me.
“We’ll begin our descent shortly,” she says. “I’m closing the door for approach.”
I nod my thanks, but the click of the door registers differently this time. It had been open long enough to feel like part of the cabin, her voice, a quiet reassurance at the edge of my awareness. The closure is procedural. Every pilot does the same. Mr. Shacklebolt used to inform me in the same way. Probably where she acquired her wording. Necessary. Still, the absence is noticeable.
I secure the tablet and check my seat belt. The aircraft tilts gently, controlled, deliberate. No apology for gravity. It seems the city of wind is gentle with us today. The descent feels like a continuation of the same steady logic that carried us up.
The runway appears almost without warning. Touchdown is a whisper. Rubber, air, wings absorbing our speed. Efficient.
We taxi in measured silence. Engines hum lower, softer, until the aircraft settles fully and the sound fades into stillness. The sudden quiet is always the strangest part, the absence of speed, the body expecting motion that no longer exists.
My shoulders loosen only then. I hadn’t realized they were tight. They always are on airplanes.
Ms. Granger’s voice reaches me over the intercom. “Welcome to Chicago, Ms. Black. Local time 7:32. Your car is already en route. It should arrive in less than 5 minutes. We’ll remain in the hangar during the day. If your schedule changes and you’d like to advance the return, we’re available.”
7:32. Exactly as briefed. Rush time will be avoided. I will arrive at Ollivander’s office with sufficient time to talk with my client and have another coffee. Shame it will not be as good as mine.
I allow myself a small breath. McGonagall got it right this time. Finally. I consider sending a message to her. I don’t. Let her wait until the return flight. She earned the suspense. A small punishment for months of improvisation. Ms. Granger should have been her first and obvious choice. My agenda would have been more manageable for the last few months.
A moment later the cockpit door opens. Ms. Granger steps out, movements unhurried. She seems to stretch unconsciously after a few hours sitting. She checks the cabin with a quick glance by habit, not curiosity, then moves to the aircraft door. Metal clicks. Pressure shifts. The sounds of the airport invade the quiet of the inside. The door opens outward and the cold Chicago air enters in a clean rush. I hear her take a deep breath, absorbing the air of a new city.
She lowers the stairs and turns back toward me. “Can I help with anything?”
The offer is automatic, courteous, perfectly neutral.
“No,” I say, not unkindly. I just don’t need her help with my bag. “I’ve got it.”
She inclines her head once. Understood. No insistence. A polite smile. No performance. I return it before thinking.
I gather my bags and rise. Phone. Tablet. The mug Draco gave me last Mother’s Day. Everything accounted for. The ground feels unstable just for a second, my body still calibrating to altitude. I descend carefully, heels finding each step.
The tarmac smells different here. Colder. Business. Awake. At least people appear to be more awake at 7:30 in Chicago instead of 6:00 in Boston. No judgments here.
I turn once, briefly, toward the aircraft.
Everything in its place. For the first time in three months, the variable holds. A small smile.
Good.
Very good.