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Chapter Text

Prologue

2012

Hermione stared out into the sea of people, seeing nothing. They weren’t looking at her. They didn’t see her, either.

She stood ramrod straight, feet together, hands clasped. Her lavender robes were pressed and her usually riotous hair was pulled back immaculately. Today, it was important she was immaculate. 

The Minister was speaking before a large audience of journalists and ministerial staff , as well as the general public. Hermione, as his advisor, was required to be there. Standing there on the stage, squeezed between the Minister's secretary and under-secretary, she felt overheated. Smothered and suffocated. There was no air in the room.

It was hard to stay present in the moment. Hermione felt her mind drifting, but she quickly reined it back in. No- she would focus. She had to focus. It was an important day.

Her eyes were still blurry as she tried to find a blonde head in the crowd, something she could ground herself on. Then, like a bell, she heard her name through the white sound. The minister was still speaking, his tone smooth and strong, booming across the large space with the sonorus charm. Reassuring yet absolute, as it always was. He was smiling at her, with that ever-present grin. It had never looked right on his face, not natural. At least, not to her. That was fine, because she was smiling now too, a twin of his own smile, as though she was being pulled by strings. The Minister held the rod, and she was the marionette.

“…and for that we have to thank our very own Hermione Granger, for time and time again she proves that she truly is the brightest witch of our age”, the Minister said to the crowd.  “She has worked tirelessly, selflessly-.”

Hermione fixed her smile and tuned him out, a lump in her throat. Her heart was beating at an alarming rate, and she wished she could run out of this room, out of this building, out of this life that she had built with straw and hay. This life that could burn down any moment now, before her eyes.  

“- ‘impossible’ is a word only found in the dictionary of fools”, the Minister droned on, his eyes still trained on Hermione, flashing iridescent blue. “Nothing is impossible, if you try. And victory belongs only to the most deserving, to those who try to achieve what everyone else tells them they can not, they should not*. I welcome you to join me in my endeavours to create a magical society that looks to the future, and not the past. Thank you for coming today.”

Applause filled the room, and a spokesperson took over, directing the audience to the next item on the itinerary. She hadn’t been able to find that blonde head in the audience, even though she knew it was there somewhere. It would have given her some sense of calm, if only she could find him. She closed her eyes for a second as the cameras flashed brighter and harsher. Suddenly, a thunderous crash vibrated across the room.  Then, an echoing feminine scream.

A deep, masculine voice said, projecting from far away-

“Crucio maxima!”

Hermione’s eyes flew open in horror to see the Minister crumple to the ground, unearthly screams tearing from his throat unlike any sound she had ever heard him make. People rushed past and away from her, bellowing at the top of their voices, grabbing at the Minister, making pointless demands and statements.

Hermione swayed on the spot.

“Wait,” she said, her voice hoarse but cutting through the noise ahead of her. “Let me through!”

She repeated herself again and again as she pushed through the throng of people. The Minister came into view, and she collapsed at his side.

He was foaming at the mouth, with flecks of blood covering his face, which was pale as chalk. His eyes had turned inward, his arms flailing uncontrollably. He looked so powerless then, that she couldn’t recognise him and she paused, her hand hovering above the minister’s chest as she tried to filter out the voices surrounding them.

“…went right over my head, could’ve hit me—“

“…it’s like it’s the war all over again, I’m telling you, it’s starting again—“

“Another minister, why does it this keep—“

“Is he okay? Merlin, he got hit right in the chest—“

“You heard the curse right? It’s got to be one of Everlast lot—“

Hermione swallowed. Her heart drummed erratically in her throat as she called into the crowd.

“A healer,” she said, raising her voice above the noise. “Is there a healer here?”

Seconds. A minute, an hour, a year. She lost all ability to recognise time as she waited and waited.Finally a healer came, then two para-healers, and somehow Hermione was cradling the Minister’s head with her two shaking hands. 

It was no use, in the end.

She watched as the Minister’s face went from sickly grey to ghost white, his eyes blown underneath their near-translucent eyelids, dilated and glaring. She would be the last person he would ever see.  Then the rattling breaths stopped, and she felt his life seep through her hands. 

Later on, Hermione would remember that moment as the longest of her life. But it was only a minute, and then the Minister was dead.

That minute would never end, not as long as she lived.

A camera flashed. Hermione finally caved into herself, into the despair she felt too keenly, as the healers and aurors hovered around her.

The next day there was a photo of her, the Minister’s advisor and friend, printed on the front page of the Daily Prophet. Her head was bowed over the Minister as she wept, hair now loose and unruly around her wet cheeks, still cradling his face. 

--

Three weeks later, Hermione Granger was Minister of Magic. The first female Minister. The first muggle-born Minister, she thought to herself.

Hermione raised her head as she stood at the podium, just as she had witnessed two Ministers do before her. 

The ghost of them both surrounded her. She would carry them both with her, for the rest of her life. 

As surreal as it felt- it was time for her first speech to the public.  She looked out into the sea of people, seeing anxious faces. Curious faces. Uncertain and blank faces. She looked to her side. Her shoulders relaxed, and she allowed herself to smile. The breeze pulled a stray curl across her chin and she turned her head to face the crowd again. She cleared her throat, which was suddenly very dry.

“Not nearly so long ago, as you know, I lost a dear friend,” she, the Minister, said. “ Your Minister. And today I stand here, in his place, much sooner than I could ever have known.”

She paused. She waited. She let go of a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“He was a great man, better than many knew, or appreciated. We didn’t always agree, but we did find common ground. The common ground was- and still is- you.”

She looked out into the sea of people, seeing all of them before her.

“The Wizarding people,” she said. “I say to Magical Britain, what I have always said to my two Ministers before me. I have nothing to offer but my blood, my toil, tears and sweat. I wish to offer all that I have, and meagre as it may be. I am your Minister now, but before that- and still- I am just a witch that wants to live in a safe world.”**

She prostrated her head for a while, watching through the audience through her eyelashes. Some faces relaxed. Some even smiled. She raised her head again.

“We have before us an old ordeal”, she continued. “An old struggle that we must vanquish if we are to move forward as a society. You might ask me what my policies will be. I will say it is to wage war with all our might at discrimination, and those who think monstrous tyranny against others is the way to go forward.  We are, all of us, equal in our magic regardless of our parentage. And if we are to survive as a population, we will need to remember that.” **

Hermione paused again, and drew in a breath, as she looked to her side. Looked directly at him, her husband.

“Finally, as your new Minister, I only have left to say,” she said, her voice firm. “That I will never give in. Never, never, never- in nothing, great or small, large or petty- I will always work as hard as I can at this chance I’ve been given. This is what I have strived for. I will never give in, except to convictions of honour and good sense, which should be our most important allies at all times.”**

She finished her speech with her thanks, and the crowd erupted, the applause drumming in her ears along with her heart. In front of her, people were smiling, cheering. To her side, her staff, friends and family were smiling. Most of them were smiling.

Hermione stepped off the podium. A camera flashed, and Hermione closed her eyes. When she opened them her vision was blurry, and she realised she had tears in her eyes. She heard her name called once, and then twice. Then she felt a warm hand on her shoulder, moving to her face. A signet ring grazed her cheek and told her who it was, even if she didn’t already know. The coolness of the platinum grounded her, forcing her to focus her vision onto her husband’s face. 

She looked at him, that sharp nose and angular jaw she had come to love so much. The serious grey eyes that held so much tenderness, that it was hard to believe there once was none there for her. A ghost of a smile remained etched on his lips, whispering words no one else could hear.

Well done. I’m proud of you. I love you.

And then:

We did it. 

He knew better than anyone else, what they had done. What she had done. 

Hermione pushed herself up onto her toes and wound her arms around Draco Malfoy’s neck, pulling him for a kiss as their eyes blazed with triumph. 

The world- this world- was hers.

Chapter Text

PART ONE

Chapter one: The Minister’s Debate

Three years earlier: 2009

Hermione looked at her bathroom mirror, her face was grey with exhaustion and lack of sleep. She muttered to herself as she tried to remember a case study for a reform bill she was trying to draft, while simultaneously checking items off her mental checklist. She had proof-read that last document hadn’t she? She was so tired. She had ended up going to bed around 4am, and she still hadn’t finished things she should have finished yesterday. 

She sighed. 

Hermione quickly brushed her teeth, washed her face and got dressed. Then she started her daily wrestle with her hair and quickly spritzed herself with the jasmine-scented perfume she had been using for decades. Putting on her work shoes, she absent-mindedly looked in her cupboard, and realised she had run out of teabags.

“Fiddlesticks”, she said to Crookshanks, who had slowly ambled into the kitchen, padding in on his greying paws. “I absolutely must remember to go to the shops today.”

She stepped into her living room, shoes now on. She glanced with a heavy chest at yesterday's evening Daily Prophet still on the coffee table, the front page a moving picture of her next to the minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and his senior under-secretary. Her hair was in disarray, falling out of her hair ties, and her clothes were slightly ruffled. Next to the two immaculately dressed men, she looked bedraggled, and not like a Chief Advisor, second only to the Minister. The newspaper byline read: THE BRIGHTEST WITCH OF OUR AGE’S DIM-WITTED IDEA.  

She paused for a second that she didn’t have, and tried not to feel the sting as keenly as she did last night. The papers had been writing about her since she was fifteen years old. As the years went, it never got easier, but she became better at pretending it didn’t touch her. That maybe they might be right—

There’s no time for this now. She would wallow in self-pity later, preferably with some Honeydukes and tea made with those teabags she was definitely going to get. With no appetite for breakfast, she quickly reached for her floo powder, and stepped through the green flames. 

She opened her eyes to see the Atrium, and she nearly jumped out of her skin as a man came barrelling towards her. 

“Percy”, Hermione started, dusting herself off, more than slightly annoyed by her friend’s brother and the minister’s senior assistant. “Must you always-”.

“Where in Merlin’s name have you been?”, he demanded. “Don’t you check your owl? The Minister’s Debate has been moved up, it starts in twenty minutes-”.

Hermione dropped her bag. 

“What?”, Hermione said. “I haven’t even given the minister my notes from Hyde and my meeting with the Gringotts Head Goblin on the OBR forecast-”.

“Hyde’s done the debrief already”, Percy said. “Kingsley called for a pre-debate meeting, it started half an hour ago. Magnus is driving him mad with all the reports from his conference with the MEU in Berlin-.”

Hermione looked at her watch. It was 7am.

“Fuck”, she swore. “How the hell did everyone else get here so fast?”

“They checked their owl!”, Percy said, exasperated. 

“I didn’t get any owls!”, Hermione protested, pulling Percy’s arm. “Come on, I bet you the Treasurer forgot to mention the goblins suggested a 0.8% increase on post-war taxes, and then Kingsley will have my head as well as his if Shafiq brings it up.”

They raced through the Atrium and the ministry’s winding corridors. By the time they had reached the conference room, both of them were seriously winded. I need to work on my cardio , Hermione thought, wryly. Hermione pushed the door open and was immediately hit by the familiar bustle and noise of Kingsley’s staff and heads of departments talking loudly over each other, each vying for the minister’s attention. 

Kingsley looked up at Hermione and Percy, the latter of whom had hastily sat in his seat between the junior assistant and the senior under-secretary. Hermione briefly bowed her head at Kingsley, adhering to the traditional greeting of the Minister. He curled an eyebrow briefly, smiled tiredly and went back to his conversation with the head of international magical cooperation and his senior-undersecretary, Magnus Roth. At this point, she had known Kingsley so long that the greeting was more of an inside joke than a formality that had to be fulfilled. 

She dropped her bag on the floor and shrugged off her coat, taking her seat beside him. She looked around the large and cramped oval table, sheets of parchment flying across it as people convened with each other, and wondered why they simply didn’t enlarge it, or choose a larger room. But Hermione had long stopped protesting. Like with a lot of things in the ministry, small things such as this were mired in old Wizarding traditions. This particular set of rooms next to the Minister’s office had always been used for larger inter-department and pre-Wizengamot meetings. This specific table was rumoured to have once been used by King Arthur in his court, and was apparently steeped in old, long-forgotten magic. Why they used it for something as mundane as meetings, was a question no one had been able to give an answer for to Hermione. 

The Minister always sat in the middle, with his advisor on his right hand side, and his senior under-secretary on his left. As his advisor, Hermione’s job essentially covered what a deputy prime minister would do in the muggle world, and her role was largely considered to be the most senior, after the actual Minister. With the senior under-secretary, the two of them would always flank the Minister, whether it was for the meetings, press conferences, state visits or in Wizengamot. 

Magnus signalled for Hermione’s attention. He reached around Kingsley and pushed a covered plastic cup and a brown paper bag towards her, on a small patch of the table not littered by parchment and quills. “I figured you probably wouldn’t have had breakfast”, he said, his quiet voice travelling through the din. Hermione opened the lid of the cup, and the soothing scent of lavender lady grey tea swept towards her nose. She opened the paper bag. An almond croissant, the one she favoured in Pret a Manger. 

“Thank you”, she said gratefully. “I owe you”.

Magnus smiled with a small lift of the sides of his lips as he pressed his glasses against his nose. “You owe me a lot already”.

She smiled at him ruefully as she took a sip of her tea. She had known him for years, before she had even become deputy of the Magical Law Enforcement department, and he never failed to remind her of Harry, physically and in personality. Dark haired with glasses, and the posture of someone who had suddenly grown tall very fast, he was observant and kind in a quiet way that didn’t fit into Hermione’s usual experience of politicians. But he was more guarded than Harry, and even after all these years she knew little of his actual life outside work. In a way, this made sense to Hermione; she was guarded too with those she worked with. Nevertheless, his resemblance to Harry, as well as his ready kindness, work ethic and general competence made it hard for her not to be fond of him. 

That reminded her—Harry. 

She lifted her head from her cup, and saw him sitting almost directly across from her, looking at her in that direct, curious way that only Harry could. He didn’t need to move his lips for her to know what he was thinking. Nearly twenty years of friendship translated itself into a language that could only be understood between them.

Why are you late?

Hermione raised an eyebrow and sighed. 

I’ll tell you later. 

Harry grinned, and then paid attention to the man that had been talking to him for the last ten minutes. 

The rest of the meeting went swiftly, if not without a dark nervous energy due to the rapidly nearing Minister’s Debate. This particular one was likely to be very unpleasant, and Hermione was trying to prepare herself for what was likely to be a pseudo-personal attack on herself as well as the minister. 

“I’ll need you to run filibuster, this week”, Kingsley was telling Magnus. The senior under-secretary nodded stersely, making notes. Then everyone in the room slowly stood and made their way out of the room. It was time. 

As they took the lift to Level Ten, Kingsley sighed quietly at her side. She looked up at him in askance.

“This is going to be like a horror movie”, said Kingsley. “But I am prepared”. 

“I didn’t know you watched muggle movies”, Hermione said in surprise. 

“I don’t”, Kingsley said. “But I see my life, and this must be what those movies must be like”.

“How can you be prepared for something you’ve never seen?”, Hermione teased, although her stomach was twisting into knots as they reached the correct floor.

“I am always prepared”, Kingsley said, in a resigned manner. “As an auror, I always had to be. As a Minister, it is expected. You will have to make sure you learn how to before it’s your turn as Minister.”

The way Kingsley said it- as though it was a certainty, a forgone conclusion- thrilled and terrified Hermione at the same time. He always seemed so confident she would be Minister after him. Coming to the end of his second seven year term, he would not be able to run again in three years time. He made it clear he intended to campaign for her.

To be able to become Minister, to be able to get that far…it would be beyond anything Hermione had dreamed of as a child, or when she first found out about this secret world. The ultimate stamp of approval that she belonged in this secret world. She desperately wanted that—whatever it took to get it.

“I will”, she said, feeling determined as her heart drummed. “I have the best teacher to learn from.”

Kingsley smiled down at her with a familar, paternal kindness. He had been a constant throughout her ministerial career. While always championing her causes and providing his support, he also encouraged her to critique her own work and the world around them. To never accept anything at face value, and to learn to not be too zealous in her tirade against issues she deemed unjust. To calm herself down enough to see both sides of an argument. 

She would admit that the last one had been, and still was, extremely hard for her. A ready temper was the very emblem of Gryffindor spirit. But the advice so far had been invaluable, and the reason that her House Elf Welfare and Fairness-in-Employment bill had been one of the few she had managed to pass into law without overwhelming resistance. 

In what felt like no time at all, they stood outside Wizengamot courtroom eleven, where the Minister’s Debate was always held. Hermione breathed, a stench of anticipation and anxiety filling the air. She hated the monthly Minister’s Debate, and she wasn’t even the focus of it.

“Good luck”, she said to Kingsley, as she did every month.

“And you”, he replied, and after a short walk, they stepped into the chaos. 

The Wizengamot during the debates always reminded her of an arena. A kind of stadium in which gladiators fought savage lions, while spectators watched in excitement and glee. Here, the minister and his staff were the gladiators, and the journalists-with their quick-quills and flashing cameras- were the bloodthirsty audience.

And the Wizengamot seat members…they were the Roman emperor and the vicious lions all in one.

Level Ten held one of the biggest courtrooms as well as the Wizengamot chambers, where most major bills and laws were passed. It was also where the Minister’s Debate happened every month. As Hermione walked in, she took a deep breath and tried not to feel too nervous. She felt jittery, as she did at most Minister’s Debates- they never got easier. Despite the name, the debates were not really debates- they were interrogations. And they weren’t all aimed at the Minister.

Hermione bowed her head to Elphias Doge, by the far the most senior member of the Wizengamot, and surprisingly modern-minded despite his advanced age.

As Hermione sat down, she saw Madam Shafiq, Madam Marchbanks and Madam Bones, the latter two being the granddaughter and niece of the well-known Griselda Marchbanks and Amelia Bones, respectively. They bowed their heads to Kingsley and then nodded their heads to her and Magnus. She returned their gesture, and then turned her head to the Chief Marshal, who sat in the middle of the room. 

The Chief Marshal’s role was to chair the debates along with Madam Shafiq, and keep order in the meetings. They almost always were a previous Minister of Magic, and much to her chagrin and (sometimes open) protest, this happened to be Cornelius Fudge. He was studiously ignoring her, and she noticed he looked completely in the other direction when Harry walked in. She sighed. Business as usual, then.

Cameras were already clicking. Hermione schooled her face to be as blank as possible. Journalists and press were another necessary evil of her job.

“We are ready to start?" Fudge asked the minister with a barely-there nod of his head. At Kingsley’s assent, Fudge shuffled some papers. “Then Wizengamot is in session. We start this debate with questions to the Treasurer, Madam Shafiq, will you start?”

"We hear that there is to be a rise in post-war taxes for the public despite promises just a few months ago that this would not be the case”, Madam Shafiq said, straight to the point. ‘Does the Treasurer Hyde deny this?”

Hyde stood from his bench above Hermione, sputtering as some of the Wizengamot members jeered.

“Madam, I have had a meeting with the Head Goblin at Gringotts, who has advised a 0.8% minimum increase in post-war taxes”, Hyde said. “I do not remember denying any increases a few months ago”.

A red-faced elderly man, a few rows up on the Wizengamot benches stood up. 

“I distinctly remember you saying that the taxes would remain frozen for a few years, to say the least”, the man said. “You lie, Hyde!”

Hyde made a few noises of indignation, as Wizengamot members jeered from their benches. But then, to Hermione’s annoyance, he sat down without a word. Hermione stood up, ignoring the minister’s glare. 

“Chief Advisor Granger”, Fudge said, sighing. “It is not your turn to speak”.

She ignored him.

“Lord Fawley”, Hermione said.. ‘I distinctly remember the Treasurer stating that Wizarding annual income taxes may be frozen for the next two and a half years if a rise in post-war taxes comes into play. They would not increase if there was not a freeze. You completely misconstrued his words.’

More jeers, but this time at Lord Fawley. Hermione allowed herself a small smile. At the Minister’s Debate, you took your wins where you could. 

“But”‘, Fawley started.

“Shut up, Fawley, don’t pretend you pay those taxes!”, yelled someone from the higher up the Wizengamot benches.

Fawley guffawed, but was forced down into his seat by a man sitting next to him. 

“Advisor Hermione”, Fudge said. “This is your first warning. Do not speak out of turn.”

“Chief advisor to the Minister, Deputy Head of Magical Law Enforcement and Head of Muggle Liaisons Hermione Jean Granger”, Hermione reminded him.

“What?”, Fudge said, rudely.

“You should use my full title”, Hermione retorted. “As is befitting our current meeting. And may I point out you have not issued a warning to Lord Fawley for speaking out of turn”.

“Miss Granger, you will—”, Fudge started to say, rising in his seat.

“Chief Marshal Fudge”, the Minister cut in, smoothly. “Perhaps we may move on with the matters at hand? After all, we only have so much time remaining”.

Fudge sat down. Hermione rolled her eyes, looking down at her papers, fingers gripping them too tightly. Wizarding society was steeped in patriarchy, and nowhere was it more obvious than in the ministry. It was only more concentrated in the Wizengamot. More often than not, while addressing real, serious issues at hand, she was pushed down in the name of some unknown offence she had caused to some Lord. She could only wish they cared as deeply about the actual issues at hand. She couldn’t help but sometimes turn their own pretence and hypocrisy on them. 

It riled them like nothing else, because of all the things they could no longer say: how dare she, a common-born descendant of muggles, speak out against a moneyed Lord of ancient pure-blooded lineage? 

When she was Minister for magic, they were in for a shock. 

"Inflation is at an all time high, according to the official Gringotts’ statement and it must be brought down to 5%”, Madam Shafiq said, seeming unfazed by the tension. “Is this even possible?”

“I do not think it is, at present,” Kingsley said calmly.

Chatter followed his words, and then statements from various members about increasing food and medicine prices, and general cost of living. Hermione looked to her left, and Magnus rolled his eyes at her.

What do these rich people with their inheritance and privilege know or care about the costs of food and medicine?

“The key reason is that we have a major shortage of skilled workers”, Kingsley continued. “And we need to address it and reach a unified decision before the situation becomes dire”. 

“The situation is already pretty dire”, said Madam Marchbanks. “I have heard the circumstances at St Mungos have become most strained, with a looming financial crisis. They have  the lowest number of healers at the hospital in sixty-five years.”

“St Mungos has been severely under-funded before the present government”, Kingsley stated. “We have simply inherited the financial burdens. Financial reparations are being made where possible, but the hospital has been suffering since long before the war”..

Kingsley cleared his throat, and looked at Hermione meaningfully. “Perhaps the situation with St Mungos could be repaired more rapidly with Wizengamot's aid”.

‘What do you mean, Minister Shacklebolt?’, Madam Shafiq questioned, tapping her quill. 

“He’s referring to the rejected Foreign Skilled Worker Scheme”, Hermione interjected. She hesitated before adding begrudgingly: “…one in the papers yesterday evening.”

“Advisor Granger, what did I—,” Fudge said loudly, his voice rising. 

“Let her speak”, Madam Shafiq commanded, as Fudge huffed. Her brown eyes met Hermione’s. “What scheme?”

“I prepared a scheme for the Wizengamot to consider that offers some incentives for non-British witches and wizards to work in the UK”, Hermione explained. “It largely applies to muggle-borns, but it isn’t specifically aimed at them. But it was rejected.”

“Your ‘incentives’ as you call them”, said Fudge, caustically. “Would allow these witches and wizards to just enter our workplaces, with unpractised methods, usurping our jobs. They would take advantage of our social welfare systems-”.

“-How exactly would they be usurping jobs that currently have no one to fill them?”, Hermione argued, exasperated. “And the roles wouldn’t just randomly be handed to them, jobs like healers, teachers, aurors would still carry specific requisite qualifications and training. I have plans for that too! We could offer visa schemes for students to study at schools in the country—“

“What, like Hogwarts?” Fudge said, alarmed.

There was a general chatter, with many Wizengamot members looking at Hermione sharply, some shaking their heads at her audacity.

“Hogwarts is a British school, Advisor Granger”, Madam Shafiq said. “It is written in the very founding statements of the school that only those born and bred in England and it’s surrounding nations may be educated there.”

“Madam Shafiq, I’m not sure if you saw my actual scheme draft”, Hermione said. “But I could find no actual evidence that any of the founders said ‘only’ British children could study there. There is nothing said about allowing the attendance of non-british children.”

Hermione’s heart was thumping. She had done the research as thoroughly as she had studied for her NEWTs-which was to say, her search had been extensive and near exhaustive. But the dark, discerning looks from the people in front of her filled her with doubt.

She never felt as small as she did in Wizengamot. It would be humbling, if it wasn’t infuriating.

Madam Bones—or Susan Bones, as Hermione had known her at school— spoke up.

“Even if we were to allow non-british students into Hogwarts”, she said, ignoring the squawks of indignation behind her. “Why would people send their children to Hogwarts? Surely parents would wish for their children to stay close, and to send them to the magical school of their country?”

Hermione hesitated, and was about to speak when Magnus cut in.

“That is not always the case”, he said, curtly. “There are some situations in which people may wish for their children to be educated here.”

“Like what?”, said Fudge, looking agitated. Magnus looked unruffled.

“Like the areas in which Durmstrang is the nearest school”, Magnus stated. “While we don’t know the exact location of the school, we do know the area it encompasses. A school such as Durmstrang famously values pureblooded children over half-bloods or muggle-borns. There are accounts of muggle-borns in the school being vilified—“

“Senior under-secretary Tiberius Roth, Durmstrang does not accept muggle-born students”, Fudge said, blankly.

“Magnus”, the senior under-secretary said.

“Pardon?”, Fudge replied, confused.

“Magnus”, the other man said. “My name is Tiberius Magnus Roth, but it is my preference to be known by my middle name. If that is acceptable to the Wizengamot.”

Fudge nodded his head. “Very well. But my point still stands: Durmstrang does not allow entry to muggle-borns”.

Magnus smiled, with no humour behind it. 

“So they tell people”, he said. “But they have allowed entry to students entering with a muggle-born status in the past. They just don’t advertise it. A school that goes out of its way to discriminate against a whole segment of the magical people—not the best environment for the children in quesiton, would you not agree?”

An undercurrent of mutterings came from the Wizengamot bench, but most of them looked uncomfortable. 

“So you think some of the potential Durmstrang students would come”, Susan said. “Although I am not sure Durmstrang would be okay with us poaching their students. Would there be any other students you would target?”

Hermione answered.

“There would be the children from areas of conflict—“ Hermione started, before Fudge interrupted her.

“These children would need financial aid”, Fudge argued. “Hogwarts scholastic fund is not so large that it can provide for all the war children of—I’m guessing—Afghanistan or Iran or some such far-flung country—“

“—You are being xenophobic”, Hermione hissed at him, anger coursing down every nerve in her body. ‘And your implications are racist. This is a potential solution for the safety of hundreds of children, and long-term benefits to our society and economy that would outweigh any short-term financial support the children would need.”

Fudge looked flabbergasted, his mouth gaping open and shut like a fish. He didn’t say anything, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel a surge of grim victory.

“Okay. Fine. What about in the short-term? This does not solve the fact that the pool of new key workers at this very moment is unfeasibly low,” Madam Shafiq interjected. 

“So we invite people with the qualifications for key roles from other countries, using the same incentives”, Hermione explained. “This makes up the bulk of my scheme. Perhaps prioritise workers with children. Allow those children to attend our schools, including Hogwarts. It would be a win-win situation.”

“I can’t see how something like this would be accepted by the public”, said Lord Burke, from the upper back benches. “Children from my family have attended Hogwarts since its founding. It is steeped in history, in…in our lineage. It is our school.”

Magnus suddenly stood up. 

“No one is stopping your family from going there”, he said. “No one is stopping your Sacred Twenty-Eight children from going there. Hermione is simply saying that everyone has the right to attend!”

Hermione stared at him, startled by his outburst. The epitome of calm and serenity, she could count on her fingers how many times she had seen him show this level of emotion. There was something about this particular debate that was getting to all of them.

“And you sir, are being out of line”, Fudge said. “I will have order in this session of the Minister’s Debate.”

Hermione nearly retorted that he had been causing at least half of the disorder, but she saw Kingsley look at her tersely. She stayed quiet. She also noted that Magnus didn’t get a warning, and what he had said was potentially more inflammatory and dangerous in front of the press. 

“I apologise”, Magnus said, although it didn’t sound very sincere to Hermione’s ears. “The physical capacity of Hogwarts would be able to handle five times its current intake of students, and some short-term solutions for financial support are included in the scheme. We have areas of the world we could target.”

“No offence, senior under-secretary Roth”, Madam Shafiq said. “But weren’t you educated in Ilvermorny? You just wouldn’t understand Hogwart’s pride. Most of us were educated there.”

Magnus said nothing, but Hermione saw it. The sudden darkness in his eyes, the barely concealed anger. Then his face was blank.

She had only seen it because she had felt that before. The feeling of being an outsider, of being excluded: us versus you.

Magnus’s face was contorted with so many emotions that she would have liked to have stopped to examine him if she didn’t have bigger things to deal with.

Fudge cut in.

“That’s the other thing. Durmstrang might not take kindly to all of this. And we don’t…”, Fudge looked panicked for a second, glancing at the journalists. “We don’t have any issue with Durmstrang, nor how it is run.”

There was a quick murmur of agreement in the room, and then silence for the first time since the debate had started. “Perhaps we should move on”, Madam Shafiq said, finally. “We are running short on time.”

“Fine”, Fudge assented, shuffling papers. “Next on the agenda is the latest Everlast attacks.”

“Do we know that it is the Everlast group that targeted the muggle school?”, Lord Fawley spoke up, the first time since the start of the debate. “It could have been that other group, the one with the angry muggle-borns, I just don’t know—“

Hermione’a hands curled even tighter around her papers at the words angry muggle-borns. 

“Seeing as there was a sign written in blood that said purity conquers all , I think we can safely assume it was at least one of the pureblood supremacy groups”, Hermione said dryly. “Not to mention that the school is located in the area where Rodolphus Lestrange was last seen.”

Rodolphus Lestrange had escaped from Azkaban a few years after he had been caught, and was still at large. He was widely regarded to be the leader of several death eater off-shoot groups, and his escape from Azkaban was still a sore point for the ministry.

“Advisor Granger, you have not been asking to speak”, Fudge said, tersely. “I will give you a second warning.”

“But Lord Fawley spoke out before me!”, Hermione fumed, slamming down her quill. “You haven’t issued him one warning.”

“That is true”, Madam Shafiq said, looking sharply at Fudge. Before Fudge could reply, Harry spoke up from further along the bench.

“Chief Marshal, if I may interrupt to continue with the matter on hand”, Harry said. "We have reason to believe that it was the Everlast blood purist group that attacked the school, and were also behind the kidnapping of the muggle-born student at Hogwarts. We found magical traces believed to be from Lestrange. But I think we can assume there were more members at the school attack.”

“And what is to be done about it?”, Madam Shafiq asked. “It is deeply troubling that the rate of attacks appears to be increasing, and we can’t even capture a convict who should never have been out of our grasp in the first place.”

“We are always working on finding the locations of death eaters and sympathisers who were not reprimanded at the Battle of Hogwarts, or immediately after,’ Harry said. ‘Although this is quite difficult right now  as it seems a lot of them are hiding overseas and coordinating from there. We have some recent information about the manner of recruitment for the Everlast group but—“

There was a deep murmur suddenly running through the members. Hermione tensed.

“—We are struggling to find any solid information. It is…”, Harry paused, looking at Kingsley. “It is a lot to manage, as the Everlast are not the only purist group. They are just the biggest one we know of. There are currently more off-shoots than we have aurors; we simply do not have the resources to be able to keep up with their movements and potential planned attacks, as well as guard Azkaban to the level it needs to be”.

More murmurs.

“And we are to live with being potentially attacked by dangerous death eaters?”, Lord Burke spoke up. “Minister, surely it is a massive failing of your government that you can not keep up with a death eater’s pipe dream to re-establish you-know-who’s control-”. 

“I assure you it is more than a pipe dream”, Kingsley said, tersely. “This is a seriously dangerous group, with seriously dangerous ideas, and it is only one of them. I thank you for taking us neatly back to our previous discussion: we need more workers. ”

“So we need more Aurors, more money”, said Lord Fawley, sneering in distaste. “In the meantime we have to live in fear—“

Hermione couldn’t take it anymore. “I don’t think you will be living in fear of being attacked by a pureblood supremacy group, Lord Fawley.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Lord Fawley demanded. “Are you accusing me of being a blood supremacist? Of being involved in this group? I have never, even when the Dark Lord was alive—“.

“Advisor Granger, I am issuing your second warning!”, Fudge bellowed. “You will NOT throw unfounded accusations at Lords of the Wizengamot court of law! One more interruption such as this, and you will forfeit your inclusion in the next Minister’s Debate!”

Hermione was trembling with fury. Her eyes were burning in their sockets. Her whole body radiated heat as it coursed through her veins, lashing out of her- 

‘Hermione’, Kingsley said, quietly next to her. “Sit down.”

Hermione blinked, and realised she was standing up. She looked at the people in front of her: lords, ladies, Sacred Twenty-Eight, pure-blood and so dated. They would never achieve anything of substance as long as these people held power in their society. She sat down, her heart heavy and her mind brewing. She wouldn’t apologise. She wouldn’t. She hadn’t actually accused Lord Fawley of anything. They just didn’t get it. 

Silence filled the chambers, as both Hermione and Lord Fawley stared each other down.

“Minister, I have a question about what you mentioned before. If you will allow it, Chief Marshal?” Madam Marchbanks inquired, her voice cutting through the silence.

Fudge nodded his assent.

“Minister, we have record inflation, and one issue is the key workers. You have ideas, which we will review again”, Madam Marchbank said. A few voices shouted their protests, but she ignored them. “However your solutions will take time. I am a trustee on the hospital board, and I can tell you St Mungos is on the brink of collapse. Every moment we deliberate brings them closer to unmitigated disaster should an emergency occur. What would you suggest as a faster, short-term solution?.”

Before Kingsley could answer, Magnus answered for him.

“We could ask for another loan from MACUSA”, he said, smoothly. “This will smooth things over until our other plans can kick in.”

Kingsley was looking at Magnus, incredulous. It was an unspoken rule that nothing was brought up in the Minister’s Debate that had not been discussed and approved by the minister beforehand. Hermione wanted to tell Kingsley not to reply to Magnus’s statement, and that they could sort it out later, but it was too late. Kingsley stood up.

“Absolutely not”, he said, his voice booming. “To borrow more money from MACUSA now would send a message to all our allies—and our non-allies at that—that we are struggling as a nation. It would make us vulnerable to war against any tomfool who thought they could take us on.”

"We already owe more money than we can ever repay to MEU”, Magnus argued. His eyes were flashing with resentment and fury as he addressed the minister. Hermione could do nothing but watch in horror as the cameras flashed harder and louder. “As Head of International Magical Cooperation, I can tell you we have been on thin ice since the events of the war. They have already forgone imposing the punitive measures they imposed on Germany during Grindelwald’s reign of power— we are lucky to have avoided the same. We are this close to losing our membership. They have been fairly sympathetic to our financial plight so far but for how much longer, I do not know. A loan could save us from bankruptcy and exile—“

“Magnus”, Hermione said, firmly, looking at the shocked faces and rounded eyes.

Fudge was taking Magnus in with curiosity, while Madam Shafiq was taking notes with an inquisitive eye. Harry, who was sitting a bit further down the bench than Hermione, was staring at Magnus with an expression she had never seen before, which usually signified trouble.

But the press—they were having a field day.

“Enough!”, Kingsley said. “We will discuss this later”. 

“Seems like the Minister has lost control of his own staff”, Fudge concluded, his tone suggestive. More camera clicks.

Magnus finally sat down, as Kingsley calmly defused the situation. His head was bowed; Hermione could not read his face. But his hands— his knuckles were taunt from how hard he was gripping the table in front of him. 

“Chief Marshal Fudge, I have not lost control of my senior under-secretary or any of my staff”, Kingsley said, calmly. But there was a shake to his hand as he ran it over his face, and he suddenly looked exhausted. 

“I would like to address the Wizengamot as a whole”, Kingsley continued. Some of the members that had been jeering, looked up in surprise. “I know it’s not the done thing for the Minister to address Wizengamot unilaterally without prompt during the Minister's Debate. But perhaps that will stress the importance of the matter.”

Cameras flashed, quills scratched harder. Hermione looked up at Kingsley. His face was a shadow of its usual serene self. He looked serious, angry, and was channelling it directly at the Wizengamot members before him. He looked taller than usual, stronger than usual—he looked sure of his convictions. 

“Borrowing money may help in the short term. Perhaps we can curry favour with MACUSA and MEU,” Kingsley said, evenly. “Perhaps we could even go to the United Magical Nations, and ask for aid. We could ask the International Magical Monetary Fund for assistance. But none of this will help, even in the short run. Because all it will be doing is putting a plaster over the real, under-lying issue we are all doing our very best to ignore. And that issue is that we are running out of our most precious resource- magical people.”

There was pin-drop silence in the chambers, a type that was unheard of in the rooms. The cameras had stopped clicking, quills had stopped scratching. The Wizengamot members were sitting rigidly still, posture straight and frowns in place.

Their attention belonged to the Minister alone.

“It is almost ten years since the Battle of Hogwarts”, Kingsley continued, his voice rising in tenor. “Our population has all but halved since then, as a direct consequence of that war. The horrific treatment of muggle-borns and sympathetic half-bloods by the puppet ministry has driven them out of the country. The now-defunct Muggle-Born Registration Commission meant a lot of magical people died inhumanly during the war and the rest fled and never came back. There is a massive brain drain in this country and we are dangerously, inexplicably, unsustainably low on skilled workers.”

Kingsley breathed in deeply, his face troubled more than ever as he continued.

“With the war, the Galleon depreciated, inflation rised, we have needed to introduce post-war taxes”, Kingsley said. “I have inherited a nation in crisis and I am willing to take some of the blame for the lack of recovery, but not all of it. I have never wanted anything more than to save my country. During the war, I risked life and limb every day working for the Order of the Phoenix so that we all might live in a better, safer society. It is to my great shame that I have not yet managed to make such a society materialise. Merlin knows, I have tried my very best. But some issues are beyond even my control.”

No one spoke as the Minister paused. 

“We are still so hung up on old, antiquated values that we are doing the job that Voldemort didn’t manage. We are dividing and killing ourselves still, so long after his death”, Kingsley said. Several members flinched at the mention of Voldemort’s name. “We are so obsessed with blood and comeuppance that we can’t see that as a nation we are dying.”

The cameras started flashing at this statement, and the journalists scribbled furiously, talking over each other, as the Wizengamot sat, dumbfounded. 

“I have advisors that can resolutely tell me that our infrastructure can not continue with our current population numbers and decreasing birth rate, and that in twenty years we could very well be on the brink of no return,” Kingsley said. “Hermione Granger’s migration draft and schemes to increase Hogwarts student output are our short-term solution, not the long-term. We currently have no long-term as a society here in Britain.”

He nodded at Madam Shafiq, who visibly swallowed and looked concerned. 

“You are saying…what?”, Madam Shafiq said, her voice anxious in a way that didn’t fit her usual demeanour. “That-that we will die out? Our magic faded? How can that be, we can not be the only nation in history affected so greatly by a catastrophe, such circumstances have been survived before—“

“They have”, Kingsley interrupted. “And they have not. We let the lost magical civilisations become myths, and therefore lost to history.”

The lost city of Atlantis vibrated in Hermione’s brain. The Roanoke colony. The city of Pompeii.

The story of these populations and civilisations were so legendary that even muggles had heard of them, although they had assigned their loss to natural disasters, mystery and mythology. 

The pin-drop silence returned, a spectator of their own impending doom.

Chapter Text

Chapter two: Kingsley’s Warning

Naturally, it would be Cornelius Fudge that would break the silence.

“So that’s it? We die?”, said Fudge, his voice uncommonly quiet. “We have data to support this?”

Kingsley looked at Hermione. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. 

“We do”, she said. Two simple words, but they felt like ash and failure in her mouth. 

“Is there nothing that can be done?” said Madam Marchbanks. “We could support Advisor Granger’s schemes, however unpopular they may be—“

Hermione swallowed a retort as Kingsley spoke.

“We still have time”, Kingsley said. “Although only a little. If we pass several new migration bills, putting them into law and effect immediately, add incentives for our current muggle-borns to stay and work here, we may be able to avoid more drastic steps”.

Drastic steps? What drastic steps?

Hermione looked at Kingsley, who was avoiding her glaze. She looked at Magnus on Kingsley’s other side, and saw no confusion on his face. She frowned.

“What do you mean, Kingsley?”, Madam Shafiq inquired.

“Drastic steps”, Kingsley said, hesitantly. “None that would directly affect any senior members of the Wizengamot”.

The senior members leaned in to speak to each other while younger members looked suspicious. None spoke out. But the senior members seemed satisfied with the explanation that there were no repercussions to them. Fudge looked ready to move on.

Hermione was disgusted by their selfishness.

Suddenly, a voice from a few rows up rang across the chambers. 

“What about the Scavengers?”

Marcus Flint was slouching back his seat, his legs splayed and his arm spread across the head of an empty seat beside him. His grin of malice travelled across the room, aimed at Hermione. Marcus was one of the few actual Death Eaters that had managed to avoid a sentence, getting out with only a few years house arrest and mandatory Hogwarts eighth year attendance. Despite his and his father’s role in the war he had been able to retain his Wizengamot seat in the court of law, which enraged Hermione to her core.

He had been trying to bait her at every opportunity ever since she lobbied to have him removed from the Wizengamot.  She wouldn’t rise to it. She knew she couldn’t afford to let her temper take hold of her here again. 

Fudge turned to look at Flint, then looked at Harry, who had hesitantly sat down during Kingsley’s speech.

“The Scavengers have not made a move recently”, Harry said slowly, looking at Hermione. She glared at him.

Stop looking at me when you mention them.

“Oh that’s good”, Flint said, casually, before turning to Hermione. “Granger— what’s your next move, then? Save your friend the hassle, huh?”

Loud chatter and jeers erupted across the room.

“For the millionth time, Lord Flint”, Hermione said, gritting her teeth. “I am NOT the leader of the Scavengers.”

“Big, bad, muggle-born vigilante group targeting us poor, little purebloods”, Flint said sarcastically, still grinning from ear to ear like the Cheshire Cat. “Who else could be leading it but our most prominent muggle-born?”

Her vision went red.

“I am not—“ she started to say, before she stopped herself.

She breathed in and out, before continuing. “You can not make such accusations lightly, Lord Flint. There is no evidence that I am a part of the Scavengers.”

Down the benches, Lord Fawley loudly scoffed. Hermione pointedly ignored him. 

“The members of the Scavengers are more elusive than the Everlast”, Harry said. “But as someone who has known and worked with Hermione Granger for more than half of my life, I can tell you she would never join a group like the Scavengers.”

“I am not a Scavenger”, Hermione said over her best friend’s words, still fuming. “And I officially condemn the existence of such a group. Muggle-borns have suffered much during the war, but we won’t get any closure using the tactics this group uses. Eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, after all.”

“So unofficially, you support them?”, Lord Fawley spoke up, his mouth forming a wry smile, picking at her words. 

Loud shouts of protests came from her bench as Hermione looked furiously at Lord Fawley. She looked at Fudge to see if he would call order as was his role as Chief Marshal. Instead he was looking at her, Lord Fawley and Flint with glee. 

“So that is the real reason we aren’t trying to prosecute them then?”, Flint said, shouting above the noise. “Why are you only chasing after groups with pureblood ties—because that’s what you’re saying, isn’t it, that it is the purebloods that are the problem?”

More jeers and yelling, from both sides of the chambers. 

“Accusing lords of Wizengamot, while the Minister is so incompetent that everyone is talking about it except those around him,” Flint continued. “He obviously favours these supremacist Mud—muggle-borns so they get away with everything, picking us off one by one—“

Screams and shouts of shock and indignation coursed from the benches, but Flint was still looking at Hermione. He knew she had caught his near-slur, and his grin was utterly unrepentant. 

“Watch your mouth, Flint!”, Harry yelled. “Everyone knows we haven’t prosecuted any Scavengers because we barely know they exist and they have no modus operandi you disgusting—“

“And what about you, Flint?”, Hermione said suddenly, breathing hard. 

Kingsley gave her a look of warning and tried to put a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off as she stood up so fast that her head spinned. Further down, Harry was frantically motioning her to sit down.

“What about me, Granger?”, Flint said.

“What are you?”, Hermione said, her voice trembling with anger. “You and everyone you seem to speak for, exactly what have you been doing for our society since the war? Oh yes—sitting at home in your big, cushy manor while the rest of us slog thanklessly against the likes of you, being crushed at every step. It’s very convenient to forget what side of the war you were on, now that it’s all over!”

“I was under house-arrest because of the accusations against my father”, Flint said, lying through his teeth. “Are you accusing the entire Wizengamot court of being Death Eaters when you say they are my peers? What side of the war they were on?”

“That is not what I meant!” Hermione yelled over the bellows of protests and anger coming from the Wizengamot bench, several members standing up.

She looked frantically at Madam Shafiq and Madam Marchbanks. They were frowning at her, the potential implication of her words.

She looked at Susan Bones. She refused to look at Hermione. 

Blood drummed in her ears, and Hermione felt the stirrings of an oncoming panic attack. It had been a couple of months since her last one, and she had never had one on the ministry let alone in Wizengamot—

She suddenly found it hard to breathe. There was no air in the room. The noise around her seemed muffled and far away, as though she was under water. She was drowning, suffocating— 

She couldn’t breathe.

“Hermione”, said a quiet voice next to her. She felt a hand on her shoulder, firm and steady.

She looked to her side, and suddenly noticed that Magnus was standing beside her. 

She looked from the Wizengamot bench, as Fudge was yelling for order. She looked at her bench, where more than one person was avoiding her eyes. Kingsley had moved to Magnus’s seat when the other man had got up to help her, and seemed to not be paying attention to her, as he looked thoughtfully down at his hands.

She looked at Magnus again. She still couldn’t breathe. 

“Listen to me. Focus on me”, he said, blocking her view of Flint, and the Wizengamot members. He was holding a hand up to Harry, who was walking up to them. “Just breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out.”

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

Breathe in. Breathe out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Her blood stopped rushing. She gasped as air entered her lungs. Magnus pulled her to their seats. 

“Let’s sit down”, he said.

He took the Minister’s seat. 

Fudge was calling for order, and the room slowly quietened.

“Chief Marshal”, Magnus said. “My colleague has been grievously misunderstood and upset by Lord Flint’s suggestion. She accuses the Wizengamot bench of no such thing. I request that we table the debate for this month as I fear for my colleague’s health.”

He was micro-managing on her behalf- as everyone seemed to do today. To make matters worse, it was not the done thing for anyone other than the Minister to ask for a Minister's Debate to be closed, and Kingsley was looking at Magnus with reproach painted clearly on his face. 

“Very well. We are nearing the end of our allocated time anyway”, Fudge said. “Advisor Granger: I will have to issue you a third warning and a strike from intending the next Minister’s Debate. I don’t want any arguments. This month’s session is over.”

People immediately began to stand up, rustling papers and footsteps filling the room as they filed out. Hermione opened her mouth in protest. Her hands were shaking and her head still felt woozy from her panic attack earlier. 

She was being handled like a damsel in distress. Like a problematic damsel in distress. 

She could see Flint looking at her as he filed out of the room, still smirking.  He had not received any warnings or strikes, or even any proper retaliation against nearly using a deeply offensive slur.

The unfairness of it all made her mouth so bitter that she could have choked on it.

“Magnus, Hermione— I would like to talk to you both”, Kingsley said, shortly. “In my office. Right now.”

The walk back to Kingsley’s office was tense. Several people looked at them as they walked past. Many of them looked specifically at her. They entered the Minister’s office, and Kingsley sat down at his desk, flicking his wand to shut the door. He cast a muffliato and then looked at both of them.

“What was that?”, Kingsley hissed, with barely disguised anger. “What were you both thinking?”

Hermione didn’t know what to say. 

“I’m not entirely sure what I said wrong”, Magnus said, instead. “If you’re referring to my stance with MACUSA and the MEU—“

”—Yes, I am referring to that”, Kingsley fumed. “And to the fact you allowed the debate to end in disaster. How do you propose we come back from that?”

“I’ll release a statement”, Hermione said, her voice sounding small even to her ears. “An apology”.

“You just called the Wizengamot a bunch of Death eaters”, Kingsley said, shortly. “And what in the seven hells were you thinking, arguing with Lord Fawley? I know the man is an idiot, but he is well-respected and widely regarded as one of the few purebloods that openly refused to support Voldemort! We can not afford to make an enemy of him!”

Kingsley’s voice rang in the room. Hermione felt panicked and as though she was pushed into a corner.

“And you”, Kingsley said, turning to Magnus. Unlike Hermione, the senior under-secretary looked mostly collected and unruffled. “You went and suggested something to the Wizengamot that I did NOT approve of, an option that is untenable and you knew that . You have completely undermined my authority—“

“I said what I thought was the best”, Magnus said, an edge to his voice now. Something was surfacing on his face beyond the calm. “Just because I didn’t flatter your vanity—“

Hermione looked at Magnus in disbelief.

“This isn’t about my vanity, as you so kindly put it”, Kingsley said. “I know we have our differences in opinions, but I always thought I could count on you to know when it is the time to question me, and when it is not. I have always listened to your ideas.”

Magnus said nothing. He didn’t look at Kingsley or Hermione, but she could see anger contorting his face, a darkness there that she wasn’t sure she had seen until today. 

“To undermine my authority is to undermine yours”, Kingsley continued. His shoulders slumped a bit, as though his anger was physically slipping away from him, leaving nothing but tiredness. “Whatever makes me look bad will reflect on you soon enough.”

Magnus opened his mouth to say something, and Hermione waited. But then he closed it. She thought perhaps he felt guilty; it was hard to tell with Magnus. 

Kingsley sighed.

“I would like to speak to Hermione alone now, please”, he said, turning his back on Magnus. “If you could close the door behind you.”

Magnus looked annoyed, but still didn’t say anything. 

“Magnus”, Hermione called, as he walked to the door. He looked back at her. 

There was a pause.

“Thank you”, Hermione said, quietly.

He hadn’t handled the situation as she would have wanted, but he had still helped her and saved her from potentially more ridicule and long-enduring embarrassment. 

He looked at her for a long second. Then nodded, and walked out of the door. There was a soft click, and then Kingsley and Hermione were alone in the room.

“Kingsley, I’m sorry”, Hermione said, begrudgingly, even though it was sincere. “You know I was pushed into a hole by Flint, he always—

“—Exactly. He always”, Kingsley interrupted. “You know that he always targets you, so why do you continue to fall for it? He does it all the more because he knows you will react.”

“He accused me of being the Scavenger's ringleader!” Hermione exclaimed.

“And so you fell for his bait”, Kingsley said back. “You accused a lot of people—people we need on our side, might I add— of being Death Eaters. What is worse is, you have done it on the run up to the eleventh anniversary of the war. You are making an enemy, one by one, of the people you will need most if you are to be Minister one day!”

“I don’t need them to become Minister”, Hermione spat out, contempt dripping from her voice.

Kingsley laughed with derision. 

“You absolutely do”, he said. “And the sooner you realise this, the better it will be for everyone. How do you propose to become Minister for Magic, when half your government will reject everything you put forward, on a whim, simply because they do not like you? If they rally against you, putting their support behind someone else?”

“Kingsley”, Hermione said, with barely bridled calm. “You and I know: they are so out of date, completely behind the times. How can it continue to work like this? A government full of modern witches and wizards with new ideas, but the people that vote which laws are passed are traditional and so narrow-minded that they refuse to consider anything new, no matter how desperate the measure? We need a total overhaul!”

“I agree with you, Hermione”, Kingsley said, looking exasperated. “I have always known what you think about it. But you think you can change a major part of how our society runs at this very moment, at a flick of your fingers? You have to work the system. You will have your moment, but that is not now!”

Hermione was trembling inside, anxious, angry and annoyed at herself at the same time.

She started pacing the room, not knowing what to do with the nervous energy. 

“Then when, Kingsley?”, Hermione asked. “Nearly eleven years, I’ve been working here, working for you, working myself to the bone—for what? To be ridiculed, underestimated and ignored. Just because I am muggle-born and female, they push me at every step—“

“—They push you because the fact is that the next Minister will have to be a muggle-born,” Kingsley said. “They will have to allow something that is completely outside of the traditions that you mention they never deter from, because even they aren’t above public opinion, which has vastly changed since the war.”

He paused, letting the words sink in.

”The next Minister is going to be a muggle-born,” he repeated, emphasising the words. “Their peer without their ancestry, full of dangerous new ideas they don’t understand. And they know that you fit that description.”

A dark thrill ran through Hermione, thrumming deep with magic.

“You are muggle-born and female, and everything they are scared of”, Kingsley agreed. “My second term is nearly over, we only have three years left. You will be Minister, when my term is over, even if I have to die trying. I fear who the alternative might be.”

Hermione frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The Chief advisor isn’t always the next in line to being Minister, Hermione. You know this”, Kingsley said, wiping a hand over his tired face. “You are not  inheriting a throne. You will need to have the public’s good opinion and you will need to stay in the favour of the Wizengamot members. You forget who these people are. As outdated and antiquated as they are, these people control our society.”

Hermione sucked in a breath, trying to reign in her frustration and anger at his words.

”These are the people who think Sonali Shafiq shouldn’t be co-chair in debates, that only allowed her to be the first female to do so after supreme effort on her behalf,” the Minister continued. “That think Meris Marchbank shouldn’t be the head of her house. They think Susan Bones is a silly little girl, and they ridicule me because I have not married, as they think I should. But they are an enduring part of our society, and you can not topple their power in a day.”

Kingsley stood up from his desk, and looked at Hermione. 

“You are at a major disadvantage as you have said— but you can turn all these things into an advantage,” he said gently. “Appeal to right people, twist your words to confuse but beguile the wrong ones. That’s how you do it.”

Hermione closed her eyes.

“To be a Minister, you will have to control your most major weakness—your temper,” he said. “To these mostly older, Sacred Twenty-Eight males, if you continue acting how they think a young, female muggle-born behaves, you are going to hand them every ammunition to make sure you are never able to become Minister.”

Hermione swallowed, horrified as tears threatened to spill out of her eyes.

“But I am young, muggle-born and female. Why should I act any differently to who I am?”, Hermione demanded angrily. “They will never accept me. They will never let me be Minister of their own accord. If they have to accept a muggle-born, they would probably go for someone like Magnus—“

“—Magnus is not an option”, Kingsley said, immediately. “He’s the alternative I’m trying to avoid.”

Hermione gaped at him.

“Magnus is….too extreme”, Kingsley said, vaguely when she looked at him in askance. “He wouldn’t put the nation’s needs above his own, personal vendettas.”

“His vendettas?”, Hermione repeated.

“Surely you must have noticed”, Kingsley said. “Magnus loathes pure-bloods. Not distaste, not specific pure-bloods. The idea of us. He doesn’t even like me, although he does a good job pretending. No: his vendetta against purebloods would just lead to anarchy, and unrest we can ill-afford. We need security more than anything, now.”

She had seen Kingsley and Magnus have their disagreements, but for the most part, they had seemed genial. Enough that Kingsley had made him his senior under-secretary, one of the highest roles in the ministry. Kingsley saw the question in Hermione’s face before she asked it.

“I think it’s a muggle saying”, Kingsley said. “Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer? I think that’s it.”

She thought of Magnus: kind, quiet and constant Magnus. While they were not close, she had always considered him a friend.

“I was an auror before I became Minister”, Kingsley said. “And that’s why I say we need a Minister like you before we need a one like him. The Minister after me is likely going to have to make some tough decisions. I can trust you to make the right ones.”

Hermione considered this, and what she knew about Magnus. 

“I think you’re wrong about him,” Hermione told him.

“I dearly hope so”, Kingsley said. “But my intuition rarely serves me wrong. And right now that is not important. What is important is that you do better.”

Hermione flinched at his words. 

Kingsley looked tired, and went to sit back down at his desk. Then he faced her, his fingers folded over each other on his desk, looking every inch the Minister of Magic. Gone was her friend; this was the leader of magical Britain.

“I’ll do everything I can for you, in the three years I have left”, Kingsley said. “But the rest you will have to do yourself. There is still a lot of work to do.”

And with that, he picked up a parchment and began reading it. 

Hermione was dismissed. 

—

Hermione went into her office in a trance. She felt bone-tired, and it was not even midday. She walked past her assistant, ignoring the people milling around her.

She reached her office.

She closed the door.

She cast a muffliato.

She sat down at her desk, with its teetering pile of papers.

She thought of her tiny flat, cluttered with books, papers, and carefully chosen ministry robes and shoes. The newspapers covering her coffee table, taunting her, calling her terrible names.

 She thought about how empty she always felt, an intangible layer of melancholy that always clung to her like a ghost.

She thought of the people she walked past everyday in the Atrium, talking about her with whispered breaths while looking on at her with derision.

She thought about Magnus, who had been so kind with his tea and steadiness. Magnus who she was supposed to distrust, despite being the only person who truly helped her today. 

She thought of the Wizengamot looking down at her, judging her.

She thought of Marcus Flint, so confident in his attacks and accusations.

She thought of that empty seat next to Marcus Flint, guaranteed to some rich, entitled pureblood simply because of his ancestry. A rich, entitled pureblood that hadn’t even bothered turning up to discuss the collapse of their country. 

She thought of Kingsley’s disappointed face.

What is important is that you do better. 

She looked down at the piles of rejected bills, drafts of legislations that had never seen the light of day. Rejected applications, schemes she had spent years devising teetered in mountains over the surface plains— only to never reach the Wizengamot members at all.

She slammed her fists down on the desk so hard that her hands started to bleed and a vase shattered behind her. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Hogwart’s Rejection 

Hermione wiped her eyes and cast a quick healing spell on her bleeding hand. She was just scourgify-ing her desk when she heard a familiar tapping sound on her office window. With a slightly wobbly smile, Hermione unlatched the window and let her owl, Athena, through into her office.

“Where have you been?”, she asked. Athena nipped her hand, looking for a treat. Hermione released a small scroll from the owl’s claws. “Is this the letter that I should have received this morning?”

She saw the Hogwarts emblem attached to the parchment, and immediately knew it wasn’t Percy’s belated letter urging her to hurry that morning. After quickly feeding the owl, Hermione sat down to open the letter. 

Dear Miss Hermione Jean Granger, Chief Advisor to Minister for Magic,

Thank you for submitting your proposal concerning RE: Further Reforms to Muggle Studies/ Addition of Introduction to Wizarding Traditions and Customs. Unfortunately, it is our regret that it is the bilateral decision of the Hogwarts Board of Governors to not continue forward with your application.

Yours sincerely,

Lord Orthus Fawley 

Chairman for the Hogwarts of Governors

“‘Fuck”, Hermione swore. She put the letter down on her desk and closed her eyes. “Fuck it all.” 

Couldn’t one thing, this one thing, have gone her way today? Rubbing her forehead, she suddenly froze. She read the letter again, her tired eyes zoning in on the signature.

Lord Orthus Fawley.

She put the letter done again slowly, the Minister’s Debate playing on fast forward through her mind. She saw Lord Fawley’s face, angry and sneering. 

No wonder her proposal had been rejected. 

Suddenly Hermione didn’t feel tired anymore. The self-pity and misery that had been plaguing her for the last hour dissipated, replaced by pools of fiery fire in her gut. She swallowed, trying to swallow the anger too, but it poured out of her like venom.

Her heart wanted her to stalk to the Atrium, where some of the lords stayed a while to chat, and to release her wrath on Lord Fawley in front of his peers. It would be extremely satisfying, watching his face turn blistering red into his hairline, as he tried to splutter a response. If she was lucky, maybe some of the more mercurial Wizengamot members would tease and taunt him a bit.

But her mind knew that she couldn’t do that. If she did, the teasing and taunting would ultimately turn around on her, with much more sinister consequences. They would use it as an excuse to make an example of her, and it wouldn’t just be rejected proposals and bills then.

But she needed to talk to someone about this. She had to talk to someone or it would eat her alive until she did something impulsive and stupid. 

She could talk to Harry.

Decision made, she nodded to herself and brushed her clothes with her hands, smoothing herself over. She walked out with purpose towards the MLE department. She had to go there later anyway, this way she could talk to Harry and tick something off her list too. 

Hermione was entirely too fond of lists—far more than she would ever admit too. A well-organised and thorough list, in her mind, could change the universe.

She walked straight into MLE and through to Harry’s office. She didn’t bother knocking; something about living in a tent together for months on end meant they were used to barging into each other’s space.

He wasn’t there. 

Hermione stared at the office that was even messier, if possible, than hers. Parchment and owl treats were covering every surface, his desk chair left askew, and his broomstick (firebolt? Nimbus? Cleansweep?) propped up in the corner. Quidditch posters and boards with photos and notes filled up the rest of the place, with a worn sofa against the only uncovered wall. 

“Ma’am?”, said a feminine voice behind her. “Do you need something?”

Hermione turned around quickly to see a slim woman in an Auror’s clothing, her dark hair swept back and a serious look on her olive-toned face. 

“Yes, I was looking for Auror Potter," Hermione said. Do you know where he is?”

The other woman regarded her calmly. “He’s currently in a meeting in the Auror’s Office, but he told me to look out for you. I need to go there too, if you want to come with me?”

The woman gestured with her hands, a plain silver ring the only adornment on her fingers. Hermione noted it curiously. Wedding rings were still very much a muggle thing, although muggle-borns and some half-bloods did seem to be bringing them into fashion in the Wizarding world. 

“Thank you…”, Hermione hesitated.

“Dita”, the auror supplied.

"Thank you, Dita”, Hermione corrected, offering a small smile. She knew her eyes must be red-rimmed, her skin blotchy from the tears. She was grateful that Dita didn’t seem to notice.

Harry looked up with a hesitant, but no less warm, grin as she and Dita appeared in the Auror Office.

“Hermione! I was hoping you might come by”, Harry said brightly. He glanced at the other Aurors, now all looking at Hermione. “I was going to go see you after… but—er, it looked like you were busy with Kingsley.”

Hermione looked at the Aurors. None of them seemed particularly curious or interested. She had beaten the gossip mill for once, it seemed. 

“Yes,” Hermione said. She paused. “Should I sit in on the meeting?”

As deputy head of the department, she wasn’t required to attend these smaller auror meetings. Being the head of another department and the chief advisor to the Minister meant there were only so many hours in the day. She rarely came to the Auror meetings, unless she had a reason to, like today.

‘We’ve mostly covered everything today, and I’ve handed the new assignments out,” Harry said. “We were discussing Scavenger sightings, but there is nothing new yet.”

Perhaps it would be best if she finished her work here first, before talking to Harry. They had more to talk about than the Hogwarts Board of Governors.

More like the Board of Incompetence Arses, her mind supplied childishly. 

Yes. She had better finish work first.

"We need to discuss Kingsley’s Auror protection for the eleventh Christmas war memorial”, Hermione said, turning to one of the Aurors as they were packing up to leave the room. “Joseph, I know it’s a bit earlier than I said I would come, but if you have time?”

Joseph Proudfoot looked up from his chair. A senior Auror and a member of the Order of the Phoenix, Proudfoot had been assigned to the protection of Hogwarts during the war. Since then, he had turned down promotion after promotion, saying he wanted to spend more time with his family.

Proudfoot has encouraged Harry to go for the Head Auror post when Gawain Robards retired, and he seemed happy as deputy head Auror.

Harry, Hermione and Proudfoot reconvened to Proudfoot’s office where he brought up the schematics for the memorial event, tracing the areas the Minister would be. As the Minister’s advisor, it was a part of Hermione’s job to advise how best to secure the Minister at all times, wherever he would be. Therefore, she often found herself working with Proudfoot, the main Auror responsible for the Auror protection provided to senior ministry personnel.

He went on to list exits, vulnerable points and areas to station staff, before he went through exact charms and protection spells that would be placed in the location. But then, Proudfoot hesitated.

“I’m not sure if you know,” he said to Hermione and Harry. ‘But spell creation and theory is a bit of a special interest of mine. I’ve been wondering whether I could run you through a few protection spells that I devised myself, with the option that they could be used for the minister’s protection. With your permission, Hermione, of course.”

Hermione nodded, her interest piqued. “Of course. Charms was a favourite of mine at Hogwarts too! Well, after Arithmancy. And Runes, probably, although translated Beedle and Bard drained me of working on my runes lately. But I would love to see the charms you’ve created, isn’t it so fascinating how—“

She stopped as she realised both Harry and Proudfoot were looking on at her, both grinning.

“There’s our Hermione,” Harry said. “Glad you’re feeling better after this morning.”

“What happened this morning?” Proudfoot asked curiously. 

“Minister’s Debate,” Harry explained vaguely. “Flint was running his mouth again.”

“Is he calling you a Scavenger again?”Proudfoot asked, bluntly.

Hermione grimaced. “Yes”.

“Don’t worry about it”, Proudfoot told her, reassuringly. “It’s going around, I won’t lie, but we all think it’s rubbish. At least we Aurors here do.”

Hermione didn’t know whether to thank him or cry. 

“Why in Merlin’s bloody name is there a rumour going around that I’m a Scavenger?”, Hermione demanded. “Do I look like I would release mustard gas inside Gringotts or send a letter with anthrax to the Minister? Me? Why is everyone so fast to think I’m a—a terrorist? That’s the word for it, isn’t it?”

The only modus operandi that Hermione had been able to figure out of the Scavengers is that—in almost direct opposition to Everlast—they used muggle methods and weapons to terrorise people, pinpointing pureblood people and institutions. Harry didn’t think this was the case, what with a few cases where it was obvious that magical methods were used. But then the Scavengers never laid claim to their work unlike the Everlast, so it was hard to tell.

With so many groups working against each other, it often felt like the Wizarding world was still in open warfare. Only it was different from before. Now, it seemed, some muggle-borns were fighting the system. They were fighting back.

In a way, Hermione could understand why people thought she was the leader of a group like the Scavengers. She was, unfortunately, probably the most well-known muggle-born in Britain. She had openly spoken out about the atrocities that muggle-borns had faced under Voldemort’s rule, as well as the alienation they faced in Wizarding society. But even she couldn’t condone the methods they were using to further their cause. Open mutiny and violence would never work, not if they wanted to effect real change.

The very last thing that they needed was a third war.

“I don’t think anyone actually thinks you’re a Scavenger, Hermione”, Harry said. “But have you seen the pamphlets thrown around Diagon Alley? The wording of some of their slogans?”

If muggle-borns stole magic then why do muggles and squibs exist? 

The Scavengers want a Society that Promotes  the Advancement of Muggle-borns and their welfare!

Stop the outrageous abuse of muggle-borns and campaign for change! 

“Yes”, Hermione said, impatiently. “What about it?”

“So, their manifestos and slogans sound like they were written…well, by you”, Harry said, and then put his hands up as Hermione zoned in on him. “I’m not saying that they are! I’m not, Hermione! It just sounds like exactly how you would write it, if you were to start a muggle-born awareness group, or something.”

“Harry Potter—“, Hermione started, but Harry barrelled on.

“Look”, Harry said, gesturing with his hands. “I’m not saying that you are a Scavenger, I’m not stupid but: Society that Promotes the Advancement of Muggle-borns? With all the capital letters, that spells S.P.A.M”.

Hermione frowned. “Harry…”

“So, it’s like Spew, isn’t it? It’s almost like they’re ripping you off, or something”, Harry continued. “Even that bit about the ‘outrageous abuse of muggle-borns’.. I swear that was the spew manifesto…”

“S.P.E.W”, Hermione corrected him.

She suddenly remembered Proudfoot was there, and Harry looked as though he had too. 

“Yes, that’s been discussed in the Auror office too”, Proudfoot said. “But don’t worry Hermione. No one actually thinks you’re a Scavenger”.

Hermione didn’t know what to say or think. Why hadn’t she realised that the Scavenger manifestos and statements looked like some of her work for S.P.E.W? 

“Right”, Harry said, breaking the awkward silence. “What did you want to talk to me about, Hermione?”

“Hm?”, Hermione said, and then stopped. With all the talk of the Scavengers, she had forgotten why she had come down to MLE early in the first place. 

“Actually, do you want to go have lunch?”, Harry said. “I’m starving, I didn’t have time for breakfast.”

“Neither did I”, Hermione said truthfully. Her stomach decided that was the right time to rumble embarrassingly loudly. Her face coloured.

“I think it’s lunch time”, Harry said brightly, tugging on her arm. “Proudfoot, do you want to come?”

“I’d love to, but I need to be getting on”, he said. “Hermione, perhaps I could come by to your office later to talk about the protection spells?”

“Yes, of course!”, she confirmed.

Harry turned to her. “Shall we go?”

“Okay, but nowhere far, I have tons of work to get through”, Hermione said. 

Less than ten minutes later, Hermione was sinking her teeth into a generously filled smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel with capers, occasionally stealing cheese and onion crisps from Harry’s packet, despite his protests that she had her own. She hadn’t realised quite how hungry she had been. This particular muggle establishment was a favourite of hers and Harry’s, and was luckily very close to the ministry. 

Hermione had shown Harry the letter from the Hogwarts Board, which he was currently reading, his own club sandwich half eaten in front of him. 

“I’m sorry Hermione,” Harry said finally, putting the letter down. “I honestly thought this was a good idea. It’s a shame they didn’t go for it.”

“I’m not going to give up”, Hermione said, determined. “I’m going to write a strongly worded letter to the board about impartiality and bias.”

“What bias?” Harry asked, confused, as he chewed on his sandwich. He put a hand inside his crisp packet, but came up empty. “You finished my crisps!”

“Sorry”, Hermione said, guiltily. “Here, have mine. You like salt and vinegar too. Or I can get you a new packet?”

“It’s fine,” Harry said, taking her crisp packet. He chewed thoughtfully. “You think the board is biased because of the reforms you’ve already done to muggle studies?”

A few years ago, Hermione managed—after a lot of struggle—to convince the Hogwarts Board of Governors to allow her to rehaul muggle studies, updating it to include more critical thinking and discussion on more controversial topics: such as those encompassing magical people versus non-magical people, how to actually live alongside them, and the morality and ethics of using magic around and on muggles or muggle items. Gone were the outdated, almost mediaeval theories about why magical people were superior to muggles, and less emphasis was placed on the historical witch hunts; she had replaced it with material on how to peacefully exist alongside muggles and the importance of the Statute of Secrecy.

She wasn’t trying to hide or modify history, as certain members of the Hogwarts Board accused her. Nor was she trying to guilt-trip students to become ‘muggle sympathisers’, or apologise for their magic. She had simply wanted students not to see muggles as something to be despised or ogled at like zoo animals. 

But since then, she’d been eyed with some suspicion whenever she attempted to contact the Hogwarts Board, resistant as they had been to correct even the most prominent issues with the current school curriculum, and to accept that to effect change in their society they needed to start from the ground up. Of course, these mostly privileged purebloods hadn’t really wanted change to their society. After all, it did nothing to benefit them.

“I think it’s in part probably that”, Hermione admitted. “But it’s also at least a bit because of Lord Fawley having a vendetta against me now.”

“Lord Fawley?” Harry said, confused. “Why would they reject your proposal because of him?”

Honestly, men can be so obtuse, Hermione through. 

“Harry, look who answered the letter,” Hermione emphasised. “They’re chairman. Lord Fawley . Who I just had a public row with. Of course it’s because of him.”

“But Hermione, the Minister’s debate was only this morning”, Harry said with a small laugh. “I don’t think he could have written this just after that.”

“I’m sure he did”, Hermione said, with a bitter taste in her mouth. She smothered it with the last of her bagel. “I’m sure he absolutely did.”

“I’ve worked with Lord Fawley”, Harry said. “We haven’t always got on either, but he’s never struck me as anything but fair. He’s a lot better than half of them in the Wizengamot seats.”

“You’re not seriously defending him?”Hermione asked incredulously. 

“I’m not defending him,” Harry said, hastily. “I’m just saying: today was the first day you’ve ever had any issue with him in the Wizengamot. You two might have had butted heads today but he wouldn’t be biased like that, not if it was for the benefit of Hogwarts.”

Hermione felt like she was looking at a stranger rather than her best friend of nearly twenty years.

“Don’t be mad, Hermione”, Harry said, touching her arm. “I’m not saying that you’re not right. I’m just saying that you’ve not had good experiences with the Hogwarts Board before, and maybe it’s that instead. Or maybe they do have a good reason for rejecting it. It doesn’t mean they won’t consider including Introduction to Wizarding Traditions and Customs in the school curriculum in time. Perhaps they just want you to tweak it?”

Hermione let her shoulders untense. “What do you think I should do then? They always resist my ideas. I can’t just let it go just like that. I’ll at least have to appeal the decision”.

“Why don’t you write to McGonagall first?” Harry suggested. “As headmistress she might be able to persuade them it’s a good idea to reconsider. She might be able to tell you why they rejected it, without…them getting upset. Yeah, I think you should write to her first, before you do anything else.”

Hermione played with some crumbs left on her plate. “Okay…I’ll think about it. It’s just…it isn’t fair. Why is nothing ever easy?”

“I think we know better than anyone else, Hermione”, Harry said. “We never did seem to attract anything other than trouble, since that bloody troll in the bathroom.”

They both laughed and gathered their coats, ready to head back to the ministry.

“You still on for tonight?”, Harry said on the walk back. “It’s Friday. Ginny brought this massive shoulder of lamb and thinks she can cook it. Ron is really excited about it.”

Most Friday evenings found Hermione joining Harry, Ginny, Ron and his wife, Lavender, at the Potter’s home in Godric’s Hollow. Out of all the Weasley siblings, Ginny and Ron alone had inherited Molly’s skill and love of cooking, and they often tested new recipes on Friday nights. 

“Of course”, Hermione said, smiling. “Wouldn’t miss it”. 

“Actually, Ron and I wanted to talk about something with you today”, Harry said vaguely, not looking at her. “Nothing serious, don’t worry.”

Hermione observed her friend’s strange behaviour, but decided to wait to address it until later.

“Okay”, Hermione said. “We can talk later.”

—-

Hermione apparated carefully outside the fideliused cottage, and knocked on the door. 

Harry opened the door, his hair sticking up as always and his glasses skewed, with a baby tucked into one arm. “ I was wondering whether you were going to make it! Just go through, Ron and Lavender are already here. Neville couldn’t make it today, which is a shame. Let me just put Lily to sleep.”

“Sorry, a meeting ran over”, Hermione said, smiling at the baby. “Let me give her a cuddle first, before you put her to bed. Have James and Al already gone up?”

“You just missed them”, Harry said, regretfully. 

Harry passed baby Lily to Hermione, laughing softly with amusement as Hermione tucked her head into Lily’s neck as she held her. Lily smelled of talcum powder, milk and something that Hermione had never found a name for. That pure and innocent smell that all babies had, like nothing bad had ever happened in the world, and never would. Lily was making soft, gurgling noises as Hermione kissed her soft hair. She handed her back to Harry.

Hermione breathed in again, and a delicious savoury smell filled her nose, inviting her to walk into the kitchen. There she found Ginny, Ron and Lavender. Ginny was stirring something on the stove, while Ron was flicking his wand at a chopping knife, which jumped to a cutting board to cut some herbs. Lavender was sitting at the kitchen table, her hand on her swollen stomach and a drink in her other hand while she talked. A jug of lemonade was sweating on the table in front of Lavender, while the debris from the cooking of a meal cluttered the counter-tops. A mimbus plant was swaying gently in the dying sunlight from its place on the windowsill, next to an assorted jumble of toys, random coins and keys, alongside a small yellow pen that always sat there.

The rich smell of rosemary, garlic and warm butter filled the room, and Hermione coughed to cover the loud sound of her stomach rumbling. All three of the others raised their head.

‘Hermione, you’re here!” Ginny said. “I was starting to wonder if you had fallen into a ditch somewhere without your wand. But Harry said you had probably got stuck under an avalanche of papers.”

“I did not say that!” Harry's voice bellowed from somewhere upstairs. It was followed by a loud wail and a barely audible ‘oh crap’ from Harry.

Ginny sighed fondly. “This is the problem with marrying an Auror- they hear everything. Of course sometimes it does have some benefits. Did you hear about the minister’s advisor got into a fisty-fight with Marcus Flint in Wizengamot? By all accounts, it was quite entertaining. I wish I had been there.”

“Ginny!”, Ron said, reprimanding his sister. “She just bloody walked in, let her at least eat before interrogating her? Its probably good that you’re late, Hermione. it’s taking longer to get the lamb ready because someone misread the timings.”

“Excuse you”, Ginny retorted. “You read the book too. I mean, I’ve always doubted your ability to actually read, but then I recalled mum teaching both of us the alphabet so that can’t be right.”

Ron sent a rude gesture her way.

“It’s true, it’s good you didn’t come earlier”, Lavender said, putting her lemonade down. “Otherwise you would’ve killed them both. We should never let them cook together, it’s exhausting to watch.”

“It is a shame that they both are really good cooks,” Hermione said. “Otherwise I probably wouldn’t still be friends with them.”

Ginny squawked in protest and Ron snorted. 

“Yeah right,” Ron said. “Include me in that statement too. Without me that troll in first year would have squashed you into a pancake.”

Lavender and Ginny laughed as Hermione glared at him, but then softened. 

“Harry brought up that troll too, earlier,” Hermione said. “You’re lucky that you did save me from that troll, otherwise you and Harry never have survived the following six years without me. So who saved who really?”

“Is this how you talked in the debate today?” Ginny said curiously. “Because if you did, I can totally see why Flint and Fudge lost it. Damn, I wish I had been there. I would totally have cheered you on. I’ve still got that American cheerleader costume somewhere from two hallowe’ens ago, Harry still gets really hot and heavy when I put it on—“

“Ginny!” Ron and Hermione said at the same time.

They both shuddered in tandem. 

“I really wish Harry hadn’t told you about the debate”, Hermione groaned. “Kingsley was so angry afterwards.”

Ron made a sound of sympathy. “Harry said that Flint nearly called you…that word.”

“Yes- and no one even brought it up!” Hermione said, getting riled up again. “Is it any wonder I got annoyed and said….what I said? Which they completely misunderstood. They always misunderstand me these days.”

“It’s probably because you’re completely different to them, and they don’t like it,” Lavender said. “And also probably because what you said is true and they don’t want to hear it.”

Hermione stared at her. 

Lavender had grown on her over the years, and although they were friends now, Hermione still got surprised whenever the other woman said anything in Hermione’s favour. In a lot of ways, Lavender was almost completely unidentifiable to the Lavender that Hermione had shared a dorm with at Hogwarts. She was a lot more serious and quiet, her carefree, happy-go-lucky attitude all but gone. 

The war had seen to that. Hermione looked at the twisted pale scar on Lavender’s face, tracing it down to her neck. Fenrir Greyback had seen to that. The Lavender of before would have shrieked and cried at being disfigured the way she had been, but the new Lavender just said she was lucky to be alive. 

Ron walked over to Lavender and affectionately rubbed her back. 

“Do you want anything to eat while we’re waiting for dinner?”, he asked. Lavender shook her head, and looked down fondly at her bump.

 “I think I’ve had a bit too much to drink”, she said. “The little one pushing on my bladder. I’ll just nip to the loo.”

Ron helped her out of her seat, and Hermione watched as Lavender slowly waddled away.

“Not long now until you’re a dad, Ron”, Hermione said quietly. 

“Just over two months to go now”, Ron said, smiling. “I can’t wait”.

Ron smiled down at her, and then went over to Ginny to help her with the vegetables.

Hermione was truly happy for Ron, happy to see him settled and content as he was. Hermione and Ron’s relationship after the war hadn’t quite taken off the way she thought it would, at least back then. They had managed to stay together for a few years before they had called it quits. Ultimately it had been no one’s fault. They had just been too different, wanted different things at the same time. 

Ron had been a major source of support to her while she was finishing her studies and in the early days of her ministry career, and she had backed him up when he had realise that all he wanted was to work with George at Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes. 

But as she climbed the ministry and he worked at the joke shop, it became clear just how much more intense and stressful her life was than his. And then the arguments started. They had argued before, but never quite like that.

It became clear that they were on different paths in life, and that they had to decide how important their friendship was to them compared to their relationship- one was salvageable and the other wasn’t. 

So they had broken it off. Hermione had allowed herself a week to wallow before she picked herself up again. She had felt hollow during the relationship, and she still felt hollow afterwards so, ultimately, not much had changed. 

The truth of it was, if she was really honest, now that she and Ron weren’t together there wasn’t a single relationship in her life where she came first for the other person. Ginny was Ron’s sister. As close as she and Hermione had become, Ron had to be more important to his sister. 

The more bitter pill to swallow was that Ron was first for Harry, too. Harry’s first friend, the one that Harry would go to any lengths to forgive and keep, even when it was Hermione that had never left him when he needed her most. Ron was more important to Harry too. 

It was a sobering thought, and one Hermione didn’t left herself think often. Otherwise she would sink, and she didn’t know if she could come back from it with everything else she had had to come back from.

These days she always felt lonely. It wasn’t a feeling—it was a fact. A part of her, the same way tea was a part of her morning regime, and meetings were a part of her job. 

Sometimes it hit her harder on some days than others, with the intensity of a missing limb or a breath she couldn’t breathe, and this was just a fact. She lived with it, and accepted it.

It didn’t make it any easier.

“Hermione?” 

Hermione almost jumped, and her vision blurred, before focusing on Ginny. The ginger haired woman was looking at her with a worried expression.

Hermione rubbed her hand on her face, and tried for a smile. “Sorry— just got lost in my thoughts. It’s been a hard day.”

Ginny smiled hesitantly. “Is it because I brought up Flint?” Ginny said. “You know me and my big gob, I never know when to stop. Harry always tells me—“

“No”, Hermione interrupted her, shaking her head. “It’s not you. Really—I’ve just had a hard day, and I’m tired.”

“Well, once you’ve had some grub you’ll feel better”, Ron said, with an encouraging tone.

They were used to Hermione’s sudden melancholy to a certain extent. They knew she still struggled all these years after the war. They all did. Harry had sudden mood swings and Ginny would go unnaturally quiet from time to time. Ron had his dark moments when he would snipe at everyone around him, picking at their weak points. Lavender often needed dreamless sleep to deal with nightmares about Greyback. And Hermione…

She had trouble controlling her anger, for the most part. It’s what made her job so hard. That, and her sudden bouts of depression, and the panic attacks. She knew she should go see a therapist. But it would have to be a muggle one, as the Wizarding world was shockingly lacking in mental health support. It was just one of the things she was trying, trying to get the Wizengamot to care about, to help her do something about. How could she explain to a muggle therapist that she probably had PTSD after a war they didn’t know existed? 

She was jerked out of her thoughts a second time, this time by Harry walking into the kitchen. 

“Okay, she’s finally down”, Harry said. “I’m starving, will the food be done soon?”

Ten minutes later, the five of them were feasting on slow-roasted garlic and rosemary scented lamb, crispy roast potatoes and buttered vegetables. Nobody spoke until they had nearly finished their first servings, the food was that good. This, the food, was the real reason she never missed a Friday meet up at Harry’s.

Then the conversation started. Hermione listened as Harry and Ginny talked about their kids, what James, Albus and Lily had done recently. They talked about Neville’s most recent award for cultivating a rare and nearly extinct plant that he had salvaged from the depths of the Amazon forest, and how he was so busy these days between all his achievements and teaching at Hogwarts that he often was missed on Friday’s. 

“It’s apparently been instrumental in the development of a new potion for the long term effects of the cruciatus curse”, Hermione said. “Kingsley, Magnus and I are going to go to St Mungo’s to see its introduction to the critical care units.”

“I can imagine how much that means to him, what with his parents”, Harry said softly.

Ron talked about the joke shop, while fondly rubbing Lavender’s belly. He also mentioned Arthur Weasley’s flying car. 

“I thought you and Harry lost it in the forbidden forest?”, Hermione asked, confused.

Ron grinned sheepishly at Harry. 

“Oh we did”, Ron said. “But dad’s never really got over it so I’ve been promising him for ages to get a new one to work on. Got him a Honda this time, and it flies even smoother than the Ford Anglia.”

“I take it your mum doesn’t know?” Hermione enquired, raising an eyebrow. 

“Ah….no. She really would kill him, this time”, Ron said. He paused. “You won’t say anything to her, will you? Or dad’s department, he would never be able to smooth things over again—“

“What do you take me for, Ronald Weasley?”, Hermione said, putting on her sternest voice. Ron paled. “Of course I wouldn’t tell on Arthur!”

Everyone laughed, as Ron huffed an apology. Hermione smiled at him, all forgiven.

Lavender talked animatedly about all the things she was buying for the baby, and the baby’s nursery. 

“There’s just so much”, Lavender moaned, spearing another honey glazed carrot. “I never knew that such a little person would need so many things.”

Ginny and Lavender discussed baby clothes and all the things Lavender would need in the first few months in detail, and Hermione concentrated on her food. She was just moping up some gravy with a piece of Yorkshire pudding, when she realised Lavender was staring at her. 

“Aren’t you interested in having a baby, Hermione?,” she said suddenly.

Hermione set her fork and knife down, as Ron, Ginny and Harry spluttered.

“Lav, that’s a bit inappropriate”, Ron said, wiping gravy from his shirt.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that”, Lavender said. “I didn’t mean she has to have a baby right now or anything. I just wanted to know if she’s still interested in meeting someone and having a baby one day. Hermione knows what I mean.”

Yes I did. But it’s still wildly inappropriate. And marriage and having a baby are mutually exclusive, Hermione thought.

Lavender often did speak without thinking, it was just the way she was.

“Not at the moment, no”, Hermione ventured. “Maybe one day. There’s a lot going on at the moment.”

“There’s always a lot going on with you”, Lavender said, smiling in an exasperated way. “You always turn down the people I try to set you up with. There must be someone that you’re willing to take a break for.”

“I take breaks”, Hermione said. The conversation was taking a turn into a topic she didn’t like discussing much, a lump forming in the pit of her stomach. “But I don’t see the point in having a partner that will want to stop me from fulfilling my career aspirations, if that’s what you mean by a break.”

“Lavender, maybe let’s change the topic”, Ron said, not looking at Hermione. Lavender looked at him for a beat, and then looked back at Hermione.

“Sorry Hermione,” she said, finally. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just curious because you always on your own…”

Hermione stared down at her plate. Her chest ached, yearning for something she didn’t understand.

She looked at Lavender’s hand on the table, entwined with Ron’s. She looked at the woman’s burgeoning belly, a baby sleeping safely inside. She thought of Harry and Ginny’s happy marriage.

“I think I do want to get married one day. Or at least, have a partner”, Hermione said quietly. “But at the moment… it’s hard. I’m at a sensitive point in my career, and I just don’t really have the time or the mindset for a relationship right now. Perhaps I would like a baby one day, but it would very much depend on my partner.”

“What do you mean?” Ginny said, breaking her silence at the table. 

“Well”, Hermione said. “Whoever i would marry and have a baby with…they would need to pull their weight. I want to be Minister, and that’s non-negotiable for me. That’s going to be tough for my partner, sharing with me with my job. It would be even tougher on a baby, unless my partner steps up.”

Hermione twiddled with her fork, her appetite now gone. She went on.

“I don’t want to get married and have to choose between love and my job”, Hermione said. “My very demanding job. I don’t want to give one up for the other. So yes, I think maybe one day, I want to get married. But in the right circumstances and with the right person. It’s just that… I haven’t found him yet.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Uncomfortable Revelations

Silence followed her words, until Ginny spoke.

“Well, that’s completely fine”, she said awkwardly. “I think you can find someone like that. Look at Harry and look at Ron.”

“Of course”, Hermione said. “They’re both brilliant partners. But what I mean is.”

Ginny frowned. “What?”

Hermione hesitated.

“You had to take large gaps in your career so you could have your children. And then you retired from the Holyhead Harpies after Lily”, she said. “And there is nothing wrong won’t that! But if I ever want to become Minister, I can’t take a break. Not now.”

Ginny and the rest were eying her warily, with expressions varying between confusion and curiosity. 

“I can not take a break,” Hermione repeated. “If I take a break anytime soon, I will never be Minister. You have no idea what it would mean to me to become Minister—I won’t stop now, not when I’m so close, when Kingsley is about to start properly training me for my campaign in a couple of years. So if I were to have a partner, it would have to be someone who is extremely supportive and willing to do a lot more than I can ever ask for, and I will never retire before I’ve had a chance to be minister. Never.”

Hermione breathed out. 

“So those are my stipulations for a husband”, she said, then she turned to Lavender. “Do you see why it’s hard for me to meet someone now?”

Lavender nodded, looking slightly dazed after Hermione’s speech. “I still think you’ll meet someone soon enough.”

Hermione laughed. “If you say so.”

There was an awkward pause. Harry and Ron stayed quiet.

“You didn’t exactly help things”, Ginny reminded the pregnant woman. “You tried to set her up on a blind date with Cormac McLaggen.”

“And what was wrong with that?”, Lavender said, huffing. “I thought maybe they could rekindle the romance! It worked for me and Ron.”

“I fucking hate Cormac McLaggen”, Hermione said, crossly.

And with that, the tension in the room disappeared, as everyone started laughing.

—-

When Ginny and Lavender went upstairs to look att baby items, Harry and Ron suddenly rounded on Hermione. Harry sat next to her, as Ron pulled an ottoman closer so he could sit in front of her.

Hermione looked up in surprise, putting her piece of cake down.

“We wanted to talk to you about something,” Harry said, looking slightly shifty. “We thought it might be best if Ginny and Lavender weren’t here for the conversation.”

Hermione looked at Harry and Ron, who were eying each other hesitantly. 

“Well, out with it”, she said. “Just say whatever it is you have to say—”

“—Have you heard of marriage law, ‘Mione?” Ron asked abruptly. “Only there’s talk that there may be one ‘round the corner.”

Hermione stared at her best friends in shock.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ron”, she scorned derisively. “You can’t be serious! Where would you hear that kind of rumour?”

“People talk everywhere, Hermione”, Ron said. “I’ve heard people talk about it in Wheezes even.”

Hermione shook her head. “It’s utterly ridiculous. There’s no substance to it—“

“—But what if there is?” Harry insisted. “You heard what Kingsley said today, Hermione. Drastic steps...”

Hermione’s mind replayed the scene from the Wizengamot session, and she felt uneasy.

“…And what’s more drastic than a marriage law?” Ron completed, quietly.

He looked at her straight in the eyes.

“Look Hermione,” Ron said carefully. “We are your friends. We just thought you should know. It might just be a rumour, but rumours come from somewhere.”

Hermione stared at them, unsure what to say.

“People say a lot of things”, Hermione dismissed, after a while. “There is no way a marriage law would happen. Kingsley would mention something like that to me. After all, I’m the one who compiled the epidemiological population studies and birth rate comparisons.”

Harry nodded.

“Maybe you’re right”, he said. “But what if Kingsley isn’t telling you because he knows how you’ll react?”

“Harry”, Hermione said, feeing frustrated. “Why would Kingsley not tell me something of this magnitude? Also, seeing as something like this would affect me, I would hope he would say something—“

“Exactly, Hermione, this would affect you”, Ron said. He sighed. “Maybe that’s why he hasn’t said anything. Because he things you’ll try to stop it.”

Hermione stared at Ron, and then shook her head again disbelievingly.

“I don’t know how you two can believe something this…this ostentatious !” she exclaimed. “Marriage law might exist in our laws, but there hasn’t been one invoked since the end of the 17th century, after the statute of secrecy came into place. It was repealed after a few years. We as a society have borne crises like this before. We will do it again with more sensible and effective measures than something that arcane—”

“—Circe and Morgana, just listen ‘Mione. Stop flapping for a second”, Ron inserted, impatiently. “The point is that Kingsley seems to think—from what Harry’s told me—that we won’t survive this.”

“All the talk of twenty years from now and being consigned to myth,” Harry inputted, repeating Kingsley’s words. “Hermione, you must know something about it. Kingsley must have let something slip.”

Hermione thought about the large tomes of historical laws sitting on his desk. 

She thought about the grim, impassioned way he gave his speech in front of the Wizengamot in the Minister’s debate— full of a conviction she had seen in Kingsley that often was followed by action.

Kingsley had never been a man of mere words. He always acted.

“Hermione?” Harry said, alarmed. 

She blinked at her friend, and then looked away.

“No”, she replied. “There are many things we could do before…we did that. Financial incentives for parents, subsidised fertility potions, tax breaks and tokens that would encourage people to marry. That sort of thing. Plus my new visa schemes for students and skilled workers in the meantime.”

Harry and Ron didn’t say anything, looking at each other hesitantly.

After a while they nodded. Hermione relaxed a little, assuming that the discussion was at an end.

“It’s actually quite funny”, Harry said, suddenly. “The first time I remember hearing rumours of a marriage law was years ago, and from Lucius Malfoy of all people.”

Ron guffawed, while Hermione looked at him in surprise. 

“When? Why?” Hermione asked.

“It was when he applied for parole, to be transferred to house arrest,” Harry explained. “It was accepted, and I went to check everything was in order at the manor.”

Hermione barely hid a flinch at the mention of Malfoy Manor. The scar on her arm tingled. Harry looked at Hermione carefully before carrying on.

“I think he was a bit starved for conversation—no one was at the manor when he got back. And Azkaban isn’t exactly full of intellectual conversation”, Harry said, dryly.

Hermione wondered why the manor had been empty, but couldn’t bring herself to ask the question.

“It was a strange conversation. He was…polite,” Harry continued. “Anyway, we got talking, one thing led to another, and he said that if he was a betting man, there would be a marriage law within the decade.”

“He said that?” Ron asked, looking incredulous. “Did he say why he thought that? Maybe he heard the Azkaban guards talking or something.”

“He didn’t say”, Harry replied, shaking his head. “He just said he knew which way the tide was turning. I think he was concerned for Draco.”

Hermione did flinch at that name. Her mind reeled—

—Searing pain coursed through every nerve in her body, her brain on fire as somebody screamed in her ears. The agony, molten fire in her blood, seemed to be concentrated in her arm, and it  had throbbed endlessly for days afterwards. 

And through all of that, at the height of pain, turmoil and neverending terror, she had turned her head. She saw his eyes, those stormy pools of barely disguised anguish, which flashed even from their distance. She didn’t understand that anguish, not from him. She tried to rack her brain, to think, but then…she couldn’t do anymore as everything went dark—

Hermione blinked, returning to her friends, who were watching her.

“Draco Malfoy?”, Hermione said, as nonchalantly as she could. “I assume that Lucius would just get him married sooner then, to avoid tainting their blood.”

Harry looked uncomfortable. 

“I think he did try”, he said, finally. “There was some mention of an engagement with the younger Greengrass girl. But it didn’t stick. They didn’t get married, at any rate.”

“Who did he marry then?” Hermione asked, curiosity getting the best of her. “I thought purebloods married young. The Sacred Twenty-Eight, at least.”

There was a pause.

“He’s not married”, Harry revealed.

Hermione frowned. In pureblood society and the more prominent old families, to not be married by your mid-twenties was unheard of.

For Draco Malfoy to be almost in his thirties and unmarried was frankly bizarre. 

“I'm surprised his parents have allowed him to go this long without getting married," Hermione quipped. “He must be hounded by every pureblood family with an eligible daughter as we speak.”

Harry blinked at her, confused. 

“Hermione,” he said in an odd voice. “You are aware that Lucius and Narcissa are dead, aren’t you?”

Hermione sucked in a breath, her mind spinning.

“No”, she said in a hoarse voice. “I didn’t. When?”

“Narcissa died roughly two years after the war. Lucius died about five years ago”, Ron said.

Hermione looked at him in shock.

“That’s…”, she said, clenching her hand to stop them shaking. “How come this is the first time I’m hearing about it?”

There was a pause.

“Hermione”, Ron said, gently. “You flinch or shudder anytime anything to do with the Malfoys comes up. We didn’t think you wanted to hear about them.”

”The press didn’t report on either death, at least not the major papers,” Harry added. “I think Draco probably had a hand in that.”

“I didn’t want to think about them,” Hermione found herself saying in spite of herself. “I haven’t seen or heard of them since the war ended. So it’s…it’s only…him now?”

“I’ve seen Draco since”, Harry told her hesitantly. “I didn’t mention it, because I didn’t think you wanted to know. It might be hard for you to hear, but he’s not as bad as he used to be. He seemed…”

Brittle anger, and something a bit like forlornness filled Hermione, making her heart throb in her chest. 

“He seems what?” Hermione snapped. “All trite and oh so repentant now that it’s all over, and he got away with a house arrest? He’s not that different from Marcus Flint. If he was in Wizengamot, he probably would have bitten my head off every time—“

“—He apologised to me”, Harry interjected, rendering Hermione frozen. “To Ron as well. I meant to say that he seemed ashamed, like his apology was genuine. Like he’s…’

Harry faltered again. 

“…Like he’s suffering, still,” Ron finished. “Look, I still don’t like the ferret-y bastard, and I only agreed to see him the once, when he asked to apologise. I accepted it because… well, his dad was an idiot and he was a kid. It was strange how sincere he was about it. I never thought I’d see the day.”

Hermione looked at her friends in disbelief.

“When was this?” Hermione said, angrily. To her horror, a tear fell down her cheek. “You both never said anything to me.”

Why did she care so much?

Why did it make her heart ache?

“We didn’t think you wanted to talk about the Malfoys”, Harry said desperately. “You seemed so traumatised still, by what happened in the manor. It just didn't seem right to mention it.”

Hermione wiped her cheek. 

“So why hasn’t he apologised to me?” Hermione demanded. “I deserve an apology too.”

Again, her two friends looked at each other with wary expressions.

“Hermione…I put him off”, Harry said. “This was a few years back, when you were still trying to get your scar removed. I didn’t think you would want to see him. It’s why he’s been avoiding you at Wizengamot too, I think.”

Hermione was so, so angry.

“That wasn’t your decision to make, Harry”, she snapped. “You should have told me what he wanted, and I would have decided for myself!”

Harry shrunk back at the heat of her words.

“I’m sorry, Hermione”, he said miserably. “I just… I didn’t think. I just didn’t want you to be hurt.”

Suddenly, Hermione felt very exhausted. But then something that Harry said came back to her.

“What do you mean, he’s avoiding me at Wizengamot?”, Hermione said, confused. “Why would he be at the ministry at all?”

Ron, who had been extremely quiet, spoke up.

“We thought you knew,” he said. On seeing Hermione’s expression he added: “No, seriously, this time we actually thought you knew—“

Harry interrupted Ron’s scrambled words. 

“—Draco Malfoy has a seat in Wizengamot”, Harry said, quickly. “The one next to Flint. We think he’s never taken his seat because we told him you don’t want to see him.”

—

With her mind still whirring, she put on her coat and got ready to leave the Potter home.

Lily had woken up crying, and so Harry and Ginny had said their goodbyes hastily, the former kissing her cheek, his eyes full of apology. 

Ron was helping Lavender into her coat, and Hermione opened the front door. 

“Hermione, wait”, Ron called. Hermione turned around. Ron dug through his coat pocket and, to Hermione’s surprise, pulled out a soft doll with yarn hair. He put it in her hand.

“Why are you giving me a doll?”, Hermione asked, amused. Ron chuckled.

“I meant to give it to you earlier, but with our conversation and all…”, Ron looked at her meaningfully, as Lavender approached them. “Anyway, this isn’t just a doll.”

“I gathered”, Hermione said, turning the doll over and casting her wand at it. “Protection charms, detection spell, imbibed with foe-finding magic... like a sneakoscope?”

“Sort of, but better”, Ron said. “George and I are going to introduce it at Wheezes, in our Hanky Haunted Homes line, although we actually have a big order from the aurory already.”

He looked pointedly at the doll in her hands.

”The problem with a sneakoscope is it’s not very specific,” Ron explained. “It just goes berserk when it detects a dark spell or curse in the room. So we have been working on something better. Also, it’s great because no one will ever suspect you have that kind of security because it looks like a harmless doll, you see?”

Hermione did see. “And you think I need to have one?”

“Well hopefully everyone will think they need one”, Ron said. “But with way things are lately and you being in the ministry all the time…I figured you doubly need one. But it’s up to you. I just want you to be safe.”

Fondness filled Hermione’s chest. She looked at Ron gratefully.

Lavender finally reached them and peered at the doll. 

“Oh, it’s an Intrudie-Judie”, she said, cheerfully. “Those seem very good. My Ronnie is so clever.”

Hermione laughed. 

“Intrudie-Judie?” Hermione said, delighted. 

“Lav came up with it”, Ron blurted. “And George liked it. I was hoping for something more…serious.”

“Ron, it looks like a doll”, Hermione said. She pocketed the doll. “Intrudie-Judie is perfect. Thank you, I’ll put her to good use.”

“See that you do”, he said gruffly, and kissed her cheek. 

With a quick hug from Lavender, Hermione stepped outside, and apparated into the night. 

Hermione apparated into her flat, straight into the casual chaos that was her home.

She felt fatigued, her body sore with mental and physical exhaustion. She glanced at her desk in the corner of the main living space, piled high with files she needed to look through. She went through The List in her head, and realised it was alarmingly long. 

Her small flat seemed larger than usual, cavernous and empty. Too large for one person, and the ghosts that followed her everywhere. 

Her heart ached for something she didn’t understand.

For the first time in a long time, she didn’t want to work.

She quickly got ready for the night, changing into soft, fleece pyjamas and climbing into bed. Crookshanks hobbled over, and she carefully reached down to place him on the bed. As he curled up at her blanketed feet, his warmth seeped through the duvet, into her skin and lulling her to sleep. 

The familiar, gentle tug of sleep had almost pushed her over the precipice into deep slumber, when her mind started stirring again. 

I didn’t think you would want to see him.  

Hermione pressed her eyes closed tighter, trying to rid herself of her thoughts.

We think he has never taken his Wizengamot seat because we told him you didn’t want to see him.

Hermione sat up on the bed, her brain crawling with invasive thoughts. She took a deep breath. 

Why did it bother her so much? 

She hadn’t thought about Draco Malfoy in years and now..

There was no way she could sleep with all these thoughts running through her head.

Throwing her legs over the side of her bed, careful not to jostle the sleeping Crookshanks too much, she trudged tiredly to her desk.

She rummaged around for parchment and a pen—it was too late in the night for the effort quills required—and begun drafting a letter to send to McGonagall about her rejected proposal, as Harry had said she should.

—

She received a reply to her letter a few days later, brought to her with a peck of Athena’s beak and rustle of soft auburn feathers.

Dear (Miss) Hermione Jean Granger, Chief Advisor to the Minister,

Thank you for your letter regarding new changes to the curriculum that you submitted to the Hogwarts Board of Governors.

I did have a look at the proposal, and talked to some members on the board at your behest. Although your idea has merit, I am afraid that I must reiterate their rejection. It is my feeling too that such a course of study being made available at Hogwarts would ruffle the feathers of many a parent, especially those of the old families, who consider their traditions and customs closely guarded and entrenched in the Wizarding world. As such a course would only benefit muggle-borns and some half-bloods, it may cause more bad blood between students, rather than ingratiate them to each other. I hope you are able to consider this before launching an appeal, as I know you must be planning.

Furthermore, I ask you to remember the last time we had ministry interference at Hogwarts, and how well that went for all parties involved. I would most certainly not wish to tar you with the same brush as certain other persons who had once darkened our doorstep. I apologise for the comparison most heartily, but you must consider what your persistent manner may be perceived as by certain quarters. 

Lastly, Hermione, I write this with the impertinence of someone who once taught you as a young child. Even as a student, you have always been gifted, with intriguing, forward-thinking ideas, but you were not always aware of the impracticality of them.  I beseech you to let Hogwarts decide its studies and how to handle the forming of young minds. I hope you can respect the decision of the Hogwarts board, and humour your old Professor and Head of House.

I intend no offence with this letter: indeed, I wish to advise you, with the hope that you may heed it, before you are forced to by less kindly quarters. The fate of Hogwarts and its running belongs solely to that of Hogwarts. 

Kind regards, 

(Professor) Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Hermione put the letter down, her eyes burning.

So.

A warning. A lot more than a rejected proposal now.

It seemed like she wasn’t welcome at Hogwarts, her first magical home, anymore.

And her old, most favourite professor had just compared her to Umbridge.

—

A few weeks later, McGonagall's letter was still fresh in her mind. Hermione tried to carry on as normally as possible, even if she couldn’t help but feel a little more bereft than usual. 

When had everything changed?

When had people started to see her as someone different, someone like Dolores Umbridge?

She came out of her reverie as there was a loud knock at her office door. 

“Hermione, do you have a second?”, called a voice from just outside her door.

Hermione looked up over a particular high pile of documents to see Arthur Weasley sticking his head around her door. She smiled at him.

“Arthur”, Hermione said. “You needn’t trouble yourself coming all the way up here. You could have sent me a patronus, if you needed anything!”

“It’s fine,” Arthur said, smiling. “I needed to come up anyway to talk to Douglas. I was hoping we could borrow you for a few minutes down at MMA. Something has come in and the guys need a bit of help dismantling it. None of us have ever seen anything like it.”

Hermione nodded, immediately standing up.

She adored Arthur, plain and simple, as a second father figure. She loved all the Weasleys: the noise and the teasing, the jokes and even the arguments. She loved that they didn’t pretend to be anyone else in front of her, and were comfortable in her presence.

She had been so worried that when she and Ron had broken up that she would lose all the Weasleys. Even though it had been an amicable break up of mutual decision, she was so sure that Molly and Arthur would blame her for breaking Ron’s heart. To her surprise, Molly and Arthur had invited her around for Sunday lunch the following week and acted like nothing had happened. They all had.

When Hermione had dared bring up her worries while she helped Arthur put away dishes (Molly refused to let them put away her favourite plates with magic, in case they broke them), Arthur had put down a plate and gently said: “Hermione, you know that Molly and I consider you as our second daughter, don’t you?”

Hermione had blinked at him, surprised.

”We’ve known you since you were twelve years old,” he had continued. “Your parents entrusted you to us, to help and guide you in a world that they couldn’t. Doesn’t matter what happened between you and Ron—that’s none of our business. You were always going to be my daughter either way.” 

Hermione had smiled and nodded, too choked up to say anything.

But once she had gone home, she had bawled her eyes out, with no one around to witness it.

Crookshanks had woken up from his slumber, alarmed by her blubbering.

“Go back to sleep, Crookshanks”, she said, gently stroking him. “It was just so…nice to know I’m wanted. That I’m not completely alone.”

Molly and Arthur’s easy love was a stark contrast to her relationship with her own parents these days. They had never truly got over what she had done.

She didn’t want to think about them now. She would be seeing them soon enough.

As she and Arthur walked to his department, he told her excitedly about the new flying car, an enduring obsession of his even after all these years.

“I actually wanted your opinion about something with the throttle”, Arthur said eagerly. “You can drive a car, can’t you? Maybe I could bend your ear a bit this weekend?”

“I wish I could come, but I’m visiting my parents. The international portkey has been approved”, Hermione said, regretfully. “I actually don’t really know much about the actual mechanics of a car. My dad does though— I’m sure he might be able to lend you some books when I speak to him, if you would like?”

Arthur nodded. “That would be fantastic. But you will come on Christmas Day for lunch, won’t you? Not long now.”

The months had gone so fast that Hermione hadn’t even realised that December was approaching. 

They walked into the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office, where she saw Perkins, Yenning and Fergus crowding around a table in the back of the room, muttering among themselves. 

‘Boys, I’ve brought Hermione”, Arthur called to them. The three men looked up, seeming relieved when they saw her.

“Ah, Advisor Granger, I’m so glad you’re here”, Fergus said. He pointed at the small, garishly coloured object on the table. “We got an alert for this thing that was outside the Ministry entrance. We think it was altered to bite anyone who picked it up, it’s got a few people already—“

“—Blood everywhere, a couple of lost fingers, but we managed to stick them back on”, Yenning supplied, brightly. But then his expression clouded over. “We aren’t sure exactly what it is— if it’s a thing or a creature to be honest, it doesn’t move—“

“—We got rid of the biting charm, but now we are stumped because it won’t do anything”, Perkins said gravely. “Fergus thinks it’s waiting us out, but it’s been ages—“

“—Ithink the colours are meant to attract people so it can lure them away before it attacks them,” Yenning cut in. “Like a Hinkypunk.”

“We have a lot of theories”, Arthur confirmed, nodding at the other men, before looking solemnly at her. “What do you think, Hermione? Have you seen anything like this creature?”

Hermione looked down at the little square object.

It was a Rubik’s cube.

She looked up at the four well-meaning, pureblooded men. They looked back at her with all the grimness of soldiers about to dismantle a ticking bomb.

For the first time in forever, and to the total bewilderment of everyone else, Hermione broke out into peals of laughter, feeling the warmth of the sun again after a long time.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Australia

Hermione felt the sun warm her skin as her feet landed on hard, dry soil. She looked around at the high gates around her, imbued with anti-apparition and portkey stabilisation spells. She tilted her head towards the sun and let herself absorb the much welcomed rays and blue skies. It was a far cry from England right now, which was gloomy, overcast and bitterly cold to the bone. 

She heard the sirens dictating that she should step off her designated portkey area. With a quick rifle through the pockets of her robes, she pulled out her Wizarding passport. Hermione waited briefly in line with the other visitors, and then came to a stop in front of a woman wearing the immigration auror uniform.

“Name?”, the woman said, in a bored voice. “Passport, please”.

Hermione handed over her passport. “Hermione Jean Granger.”

The woman halted her movement for a second, and briefly gave Hermione a studied look. Her demeanour completely changed. 

“The Hermione Granger?” She asked, looking almost awed.

Hermione shuffled her feet uncomfortably, aware that a queue of people were waiting behind her. She hated it when this happened, as it often did when she travelled abroad. Sometimes Hermione couldn’t help but wryly note that she was more recognisable and popular abroad. At home, people that encountered her mostly ignored her, or simply eyed her curiously before looking away. 

“Oh. Yes”, she said. She went through another pocket and pulled out a scroll. “My portkey visa parchments.”

The woman seemed to come out of her awe, and reached for the passport and parchment. Hermione sighed a silent breath of relief. 

“Everything seems in order”, the woman finally said, and gave her a smile. She handed back Hermione’s passport and papers. “Welcome to Australia, Ma’am.”

Hermione thanked her, pocketed her documents and walked through the barrier that officially allowed her into Australian soil. She headed to the nearest apparition spot, and disappeared into the sun.

Her feet landed on solid ground again, this time in a dark alleyway in the city of Brisbane. Hermione pulled out her wand and pointed them at her robes, transfiguring them into dark jeans and a pale blue shirt. She stepped out of the alleyway, and walked towards the city centre, which took a few minutes. As she walked, she patted her pocket to check she had her mobile phone—a Blackberry—before she pulled out an mp3 player and earphones. Hermione continued her journey humming along to Bohemian Rhapsody.

After a while, she stopped to fish out her Go card, and waited for the AirTrain. Bohemian Rhapsody ended and Sex on Fire took its place. She kept an eye out for her stop, and stood up from her seat as the sign for Brisbane Airport appeared. 

In the airport toilets, Hermione locked herself in a cubicle. Pulling out her wand again, she pulled out two small objects from her jean pockets. Whispering an un-shrinking charm, she groaned as the heavy weight of an overnight bag weighed down her arm. Another tap, and she also held a neck rest pillow. Pulling the pillow around her neck, she exited the cubicle into an empty woman’s bathroom. A brief look in the bathroom mirror had Hermione frowning, and she put down her bag to quickly muss her hair and pinch her cheeks.

She nodded to herself. Better. 

Her trainers made a squeaking sound on the laminate floors, and her arm ached from carrying the overly heavy bag. She cursed herself for bringing more books that she could possibly read in a weekend, but hope always sprung eternal. The dulcet tones of Sugar, We’re Goin’ Down were interrupted as she pulled her headphones off.

Hermione pulled out her mobile and checked her texts. Taking a fortifying breath, she walked until she found what she was looking for.

“Mum, Dad!” Hermione called. Her parents turned around. “I’m here.”

Her dad, now known as Wendall Wilkins, smiled at her easily, and pulled her into a hug. 

“Where were you?” Her dad said. “We didn’t see you come out of arrivals.”

“I took the back route by accident”, Hermione lied smoothly, returning her father’s embrace. “Sorry I took so long, getting off the plane took ages.”

Her dad let go and Hermione turned to smile hesitantly at her mother. Monica Wilkins offered a small smile, but made no other movements. Hermione sighed, and wished she wouldn’t get her hopes up every time. But she did, and it always led to the acrid bitterness of disappointment in her mouth.

In the car ride journey to the house, she sat in the back and did her best to answer her parent’s stilted questions, their words carefully phrased and her responses devoid of any real substance. 

How is work? It was fine, busy as ever.

Have you been eating? Of course, she always ate three full meals.

Hermione tried to be truthful as she could with her parents, except for all the times she lied. 

And the last question that Hermione always, always dreaded, but one her mother asked without fail every month:

Have you met anyone new?

No. No she hadn’t.

And even if she had, she wouldn’t be able to tell her parents about them, because they did their best to pretend that magic didn’t exist and their daughter wasn’t a witch. At this point in her life Hermione knew that if she were to meet anyone, in all probability it would be a wizard, and not a muggle.

Her wand felt heavy in her jacket; a burden that would drag her down through the car, the concrete and the soil underneath, until she disappeared into the core of the Earth. 

“It’s a shame”, her mother said. “You know Lucy, from our surgery? Her son recently got married, he’s about your age. And her daughter is expecting her second baby. She’s about two years younger than you, I think. Are you sure you don’t want to meet Delilah’s son?”

Delilah was her parent’s neighbour. 

“No, mum”, Hermione said dully.

Sometimes she wondered if her mother was so intent on finding her someone because she was trying to get Hermione to move closer to them— to Australia.

After Hermione had located her parents and managed to reverse the memory spell, her parents had decided to stay on in Australia and keep their new identities.

“We did always think of moving to Australia, once you had finished school. Now that we’ve established the new surgery here it makes sense to stay”, her dad had explained, with apology heavy in his tone.

“It makes sense”, her mother had added. “It’s not like there’s anything left for us in England anyway”. 

That last sentence had drilled itself into Hermione’s heart ever since it was uttered, like an indelible tattoo that could not be removed no matter how much she tried.

Was she nothing, then, to her mother?

Had she, by trying to save them, lost them anyway? 

The rest of the journey was silent, and Hermione tried to drown the intensity of it with Super Trouper blasting in her ears. 

After a while, they pulled outside her parent’s home, and Hermione looked out of the window to observe the beauty of it. Her parents had invested in a three-bedroom property in a suburb not too far from the city. The home looked modern and bright, encased by leafy vivid-green trees that spread out down the street, and there were several lavender bushes in their front yard, bright yet serene.

Everything seemed so elegant and tranquil. Peaceful, as she supposed her parent’s life was, now that she wasn’t really in it. 

Her dad picked up her bag from the car, and they all walked into the house. Hermione looked around, taking in the living space even though it hadn’t changed much since the last time she was here. The open layout of the house meant she could see everything on this floor; the high shelves of books in the living area with the television, the antique brown leather sofa, the stylish dining table and the immaculate kitchen.

Hermione could never help but compare it with “before”: back in England, her parents had had busy work lives, always rushing out of the door. As a result their house, although clean, had been slightly disorganised.

Stray piles of her mother’s poetry books on an end table next to a lamp, piles of dental texts on the coffee table with a mug of coffee gone cold, an Afghan blanket thrown haphazardly across a velvet-lined sofa that had traces of cat hair on it.

It had looked lived-in, in a way this house did not; this house was immaculate. All clean lines and shining vases and well-looked after potted plants, with no traces of their old life, right down to the new dental textbooks, all suited for the Australian dental surgery protocols.

There were no traces of her, their daughter from life they had lost unwillingly, and eventually rejected. 

“Why don’t you freshen up upstairs”, her dad suggested. “While your mum and I get on with dinner?”

Hermione hadn’t realised that it was nearly evening now. She had forgotten that it was summer here now, and the sun set hours later than it did around this time in England. She didn’t feel particularly hungry, but nodded her assent anyway.

Hermione went upstairs, to a guest room that was all plain lines and devoid of any character. She dumped her things on the bed, and didn’t bother to unpack.

In the bathroom, Hermione took a shower, the pressure of hot water on her back a welcome relief from the tension in her shoulders.

She had just had a shower a few hours ago, in the morning back at home, but since her parents thought she had just taken a very long flight to Brisbane, she had to had to keep up with appearances and the narrative she had painted to them. Changing into soft cotton trousers and another t-shirt, her wet hair wrestled away from her neck with a magic-reinforced hair clip, she went back downstairs. 

Savoury warmth saturated the air as she walked down the stairs, intensifying with every step. Some of her anxiety, that had been swept down the shower drain along with the water, started to come back. A soft tune came from the radio sitting on top of a microwave in the kitchen, and sizzling sounds from the stove where her dad was stirring pasta.

Her mum was tossing a salad, a muted mix of leaves that were purple, green and the hues in between. Her dad sensed her presence from the bottom of the stairs, and smiled at her, the smile full of true warmth now. Hermione smiled back, feeling a thaw in the ice that was always present in her chest when she was here, despite the pleasant warm weather.

Her father loved cooking, and Hermione always had to wrestle the emotions this simple thing created in her heart, because it was something that remained the same from before and after. 

She missed before so badly that it made her homesick for a home that was long gone.

“You’re here”, he called to her. “Why don’t you set up the table? Dinner’s nearly ready.”

“Okay”, she said. Her mother handed her the utensils and napkins silently, and Hermione took them without a word.

Dinner was delicious as it always was when her dad cooked it. She savoured every bite, knowing that it would please him; she so badly wanted at least one of her parents to be pleased with her, just once. Her dad had always been calmer, more easy going than her mother, more so in these days of after. Hermione had always been a people-pleaser, at least with the adults in her life. 

It was harder to please everyone these days. 

They ate mostly in silence, with the odd praise on the quality of the food or the weather. Her mother spoke the least, her eyes rarely lifting from her plate.

Her father talked the most, genially and about nothing in particular. Like nothing was wrong about this picture that they had created. They were just a normal family; a normal, muggle family, eating their dinner as though they didn’t feel uncomfortable around their daughter, as though they didn’t hate their daughter-

Hermione closed her eyes, and tried to reign in her emotions before she did something stupid, like show her magic. 

Afterwards, they went to the living area and watched an omnibus of Neighbours. Hermione sat on the sofa with her dad. Her mother sat on an armchair nearby. 

Hermione tried to concentrate on the storyline and the characters, but found her mind drifting.

She drifted back to her actual life, rather than this stark, characterless one she portrayed to her parents.

She thought of her cramped flat that was so different from this spacious house, her half-kneazle cat that her parents never asked about, and the never-ending pile of work that was the only thing awaiting her return.

She thought of how she would miss the next Minister’s Debates and the gossip she would have to endure from the tabloids in the forthcoming weeks.

She thought of Marcus Flint and Lord Fawley and that anger that she always had inside of her.

She thought of Harry and Ron and all the things they didn’t tell her in order not to upset her, and she wondered what else they were keeping from her, what else other people were keeping from her. 

And then, somehow, for some unfathomable reason, she thought of Draco Malfoy, whom she had seen neither hide nor hair of in thirteen years.

Just the thought of him did something strange to her, an eerie feeling passing through her like the icy glide of ghostly fingers through skin.

His eyes as she withered in pain-

She needed to stop there.

Thinking about him would only lead her to much, much worse memories she’d rather forget. 

Then, there were her parents, who she had given everything for just to keep alive and safe in a world they didn’t understand was out to destroy them. Only to now have them look at her like she was some kind of torture they had to subject themselves to once a month.

They said they had forgiven her for taking their memories without their consent.

But of course they hadn’t, not really. 

No matter what she did, it would always be wrong. No matter how hard she tried, she would always be in the wrong, in some way. 

Always.

Hermione dutifully waited for the episode to finish, and then told her parents that she was exhausted from her long flight, and if they would mind awfully if she had an early night? 

Of course they didn’t. Up the stairs Hermione went.

She went through her bag, rummaging for her books. Intrudie-Judie fell out of her bag, and Hermione smiled weakly. She didn’t know why she had brought the doll along, but just then it made her glad. It reminded her that there were some relationships she had managed to salvage, after all.

Hermione stayed up late, reading her old, battered copy of Persuasion past midnight, her heart aching. Then there was the thunderstorm. 

Hermione hated thunderstorms with a passion, ever since she was a child. It had become worse after living in a tent for the best part of a year, jumping at every crack, not knowing if it was thunder or they had finally been caught out by a snatcher.

On those days when thunder raged, she wished for nothing more than those days when she could run to her parents room and jump into their bed, cocooned by the warmth and safety of her mum’s embrace and her dad’s gentle hands rubbing her back. 

So she blasted The Winner Takes It All in her ears until the small hours of the early morning, until the rumbles died out and the sun shone through the thin blinds on the windows. Her chest ached for something, for someone that didn’t exist; a phantom limb that only embodied her deep inner loneliness and nothing more real than that. 

The next morning her mum make them breakfast—the blueberry French toast that Hermione had loved eating as a child. Hermione watched in surprise as she was handed a plate, along with a bottle of syrup. As a child, anything sweet had been heavily rationed, saved for celebrations and treat days.

Hermione ate her french toast as her mother watched on, the blueberries bursting with a sharp tartness against the sweet syrup coating her tongue. Perhaps there was an apology embedded within the French toast, in the quiet way that her mother had always apologised with actions rather than words. Maybe…maybe, her mother was thawing to her, to loving her daughter, after all. 

The french toast was delicious. 

As she took her last bite, her dad asked her if she wanted to take a walk around Kangaroo Point park. Hermione had been before, and she and her dad agreed that it was as refreshing to go in the early mornings as it was during sunset.

As Hermione was slipping her trainers on, her mother told them she would stay behind as she had a headache, explaining that she would meet them later for lunch. The words left Hermione uneasy, the French toast churning in her belly, but she said nothing.

At the park, Hermione enjoyed the warmth as it touched her skin, melting the tiredness from her eyes. Here, at the start of their summer, it was hard to tell that Christmas was coming.

At home, it was cold enough to snow, with Christmas lights shining brightly in the dark mornings. Soon, students would board the Hogwarts Express to go home for Christmas, spirits high and full of excitement to greet their families once more.

Hermione longed for the days when she had come back from Hogwarts, excited to see her parents and to tell them all about her life there so they could be a part of it too. She wondered now if it had only served to demarcate the barriers more body between them instead.

Hermione shook the melancholy thoughts away. They had no place here. 

Her dad smiled at her, assuming she was just enjoying the sunshine. 

“I don’t miss the British rain”, he t said. “There’s a lot of things I miss about England, but the weather has never been one of them.”

Hermione grinned softly. “I can’t imagine anyone really missing the weather in England. It’s freezing there right now.”

“It must be. The rainy season here is tough but at least it ends, unlike in England,” her dad said. Then he frowned. “There was a thunderstorm last night. Were you okay?”

Hermione remembered curling up to him as a child, as he shielded her ears from the noise. 

“Yes, it was fine”, she lied. “What else do you miss about England?”

“My old friends and colleagues”, her dad admitted. “The people here are friendly and have a good sense of humour, but I miss the old British sarcasm and banter. And my garage, at the old house.”

Hermione didn’t say anything for a while. Her parents rarely mentioned their house in England, which had been razed by Death Eaters shortly after Hermione had vacated her parents from the country. There was a newly built house there now, but for years there had been nothing but ash and rumble, with a notice-me-not and muggle repelling charm put on it by the local magical authorities.

Hermione had never mentioned what had happened to the house to her parents, but somehow she thought they knew. Her father’s old garage had been his sanctuary: full of old car parts, tools and mechanics manuals so he could indulge his hobby of fixing and taking apart cars in his spare time.

It was nothing but a distant memory now. 

“And then there if you, of course”, her dad carried on.

“Me?” Hermione asked.

“Yes. I miss you the most of all”, her dad said, his eyes and his tone soft. “You must know that.”

Hermione felt a familiar lump in her throat.

“I miss you too, dad”, she said, truthfully. “All the time”. 

Her dad stared out into the trees lining the street, looking overwhelmed. 

“It’s nice that you can come out to see us as often as you do”, her dad said. “Your mum doesn’t say it, but she appreciates the effort you make to come here. We know it’s not easy for you. Can’t be cheap either.”

Hermione looked down guiltily. International Portkey travel was actually pretty inexpensive. 

“Does she really?”, Hermione asked, hesitantly. “Does she really…care that I come? Sometimes I feel I burden you both by being here—“

“—No”, her dad said abruptly, looking at her now, his brown eyes so reminiscent of her own. “Hermione, never think that. Of course she cares. She just struggles still, stubborn as she is.”

It was true. Her mum never did forgive and forget, not like her dad. 

“And what’s more, you’re not a burden”, her dad said, his words strong and sure. “Not to me, not to your mum. Never, no matter what has happened.”

And what you did. 

Hermione’s eyes burned.

“I know it’s hard for her to forgive me”, Hermione blurted out. “Even after all these years. I know what I did was terrible. But I just/-“

“Hermione”, her dad interrupted her, “Let’s not rehash old matters. It’s all done now.“

Her mother chose to not speak about what happened, internalising everything until there was nothing left but bitterness and resentment. Her dad, on the other hand, chose to act as though nothing happened and refused to talk about it. 

Neither method really helped thaw the hurt and damage between them.

They walked in silence for a long time, and Hermione looked around, not really seeing anything. 

They had agreed to meet her mother in Chinatown, at her parent’s favourite restaurant there.

Her mother greeted them as they reached the table, and turned to the server to order har kau, siu mai, beef cheung fun and turnip cake from the dim sum menu, as well as egg fried rice, and bok choi in oyster sauce, to be washed down with Chinese oolong tea.

It was a lot of food, but contained every single one of Hermione’s favourites. It was things like this that her mother did, that didn’t make sense to her. 

Her mother was still so angry. Much like Hermione herself.

But she always made an effort to make up the guest room with fresh sheets before Hermione came. She always made sure to ask her for flight details and insisted on picking Hermione up from the airport. She always made sure Hermione ate properly when she came, and those foods were always long-time favourites. 

Hermione didn’t know how much longer she could deal with this back and forth.

Something had to give. 

—-

That night, Hermione went to bed feeling emptier than ever. She began to despair of ever being able to get rid of the caven, that black void that always seemed to always exist inside her these days, as native and ever-present as her magic, consuming her a little bit more with every breath. 

Why, she wondered, as she did every time she came to Australia. Why was she still trying after all these years? 

For the second night in a row Hermione listened to music into the early hours, repeating Monster by Skillet again and again, watching as the room went from Peruvian darkness powder black to Lumos-like brightness. 

—-

And then, the next day— after over a decade—the explosion that she was starting to think would never come, came. Finally. 

It came in the form of her mother, sitting on the sofa with ABC news on the television. Hermione walked downstairs still in her pyjamas and bleary-eyed, to a woman that was vibrating with fury.

The scene in the tv was showing the wreckage of a plane, debris scattered across the water. A banner across the screen said: AIRLINE HAS CONFIRMED THAT PLANE CRASH HAS NO SURVIVORS.

This was followed by the flight details. The flight number of the plane she was supposed to have been on. 

“It’s a funny thing”, her mum said, bitterly. “Lucy just called me and she was really worried, asking me if my daughter had been on the flight that crashed. She knew you were coming soon, so naturally she was concerned.”

Hermione’s tiredness instantly disappeared as she took in her fuming mother. 

“Why the hell weren’t you on that flight?” Her mother demanded. “I checked the details, the flight number matches, that’s the plane you apparently got here on!”

Furious and her heart drumming so hard that she was physically shaking, Hermione glared at her mother. 

“No, I wasn’t on that flight”, Hermione admitted. “And so what? Shouldn’t you be glad I’m alive?”

Her mother stared at her in incredulity, as though she couldn’t believe that Hermione wasn’t acting remorseful for not being dead.

“You lied to us!” Her mother accused. “Again! You told us you would be on this flight, and you obviously got here… got here by other means—“

“—And what does that matter?” Hermione said, her voice high-pitched, rising to match her mother’s. “I got here safely, didn’t I? I think that should be more important!”

Her dad looked at both of them anxiously.

“Helen”, her dad said to her mother. Hermione’s head snapped to him at the mention of her mother’s real name. “Maybe we should calm down a bit and let Hermione explain—“

“—Explain what , Richard?” Her mother almost screeched, gesturing wildly. “That she’s still lying to us, hiding things from us? How do we know she hadn’t done—done something unusual again to us?”

Hermione drowned out the rest of her mother’s words.

Something in her snapped, just that little bit.

Maybe it was her heart, or her mind.

Whatever it was, it was enough.

“Something unusual”, Hermione repeated, her tone flat.

Her mother didn’t speak, staring at her with righteous anger and confusion.

“You’re right. There is something unusual here,” Hermione continued. “But I haven’t done it. I am something unusual. And so are you.”

With the last three words, Hermione felt all the rage building inside her break through the dam, flowing like blood, like magic, out of her. 

“If I’m unusual, then so are you!”, Hermione screamed at her mother, her voice shrill with outrage that she rarely let herself truly feel. 

But now she let herself absorb it, channel it, direct it at the two people looking at her like she was some kind of terrifying creature; Frankenstein’s monster unleashed.

“Everything unusual about me, about all of this, means you’re just as unusual as me!” Hermione yelled. “Because all this “something unusual” I can do—it exists because of the two of you!”

Her parents said nothing. Her dad was looking at her, his face broken in a way that make Hermione want to break too. Her mother was looking at her with her anger still sketched on her face, but it was now marred by tears streaming down her cheeks. Neither of them made any attempt to talk, so Hermione raged on, unable to stop herself now that the dam was not only broken but completely obliterated beyond repair. 

“Yes I lied!”, Hermione shrieked. “I didn’t get on a plane. I didn’t lie because I’m some…some evil creature trying to take advantage of you, I didn’t get on it because I’m scared of flying, mum!”

It was true. Her fear of flying didn’t just stop at broomsticks. Fear didn’t care about magic. 

Her parents looked horrified.

“But I didn’t tell you that, because I was scared you would just tell me not to visit, rather than let me suggest an alternative,” Hermione said. Her voice broke, thick with tears that she couldn’t hold back. “Because the alternative would be something magical— because that’s what I am, mum, I’m a witch.”

Saying the words out loud felt like she had said some terrible curse or admitted to something heinous. It should have been freeing, but it wasn’t. It made her feel jittery and guilty, like her magic was something she was holding over her defenceless, muggle parents. But she wasn’t, never had, and she was sick of feeling like this. 

“I’m a witch”, Hermione repeated. “I have magic. I can’t help it; I was born like this. I can’t be anything other than a witch, the same way you can’t not be Helen and Richard Granger, even though you’re all trying hard to pretend you’re not.”

She was breathing hard, yet it felt like there was no air in the room, no oxygen in her lungs or in her blood. Her head was starting to swim.

“I’m sorry I used magic on you”, Hermione croaked. “I’ve said it so many times over the years and I’ll keep on saying it. I’m so, so sorry. I know it will never be enough. I’m sorry I’m not the daughter you wanted. I’m sorry that I’m such a disappointment that you would rather I died in a plane crash than have used magic to be able to see you.”

Her dad was crying now, the quiet, soft sobs audible even over her overworked heart. Her soft-hearted, affectionate dad, who never had said a single cross word to her growing up, who had read her Hogwarts books with as much relish as she had when they had first found out she was a witch.

How had it come to this?

How had her life become so messed up? 

Her mum still didn’t say anything.
Hermione thought she might be swaying on her feet, but then again, perhaps it was Hermione who was. The air in the room had long disappeared and she felt like she was choking now. 

She couldn’t breathe. 

Hermione had to get out of this room. She had to—

“I can’t stay here”, Hermione gasped. “I’m sorry. I have to leave. I can’t—I’m sorry—“

She pulled out her wand. She felt both of her parents flinch at the movement, and just when Hermione thought her heart couldn’t break anymore, it did. With a flick, her overnight bag appeared downstairs, filled with her things, and intrudie-judie raced into her hand. 

If her parents found it weird that she was suddenly holding a doll, the kind that she used to play with as a child, they still didn’t say anything. 

Seeing Hermione holding her things seemed to awaken something in her dad.

“Hermione, wait”, he said, his face a picture of torture. 

Hermione waited. He hesitated, and no more words followed.

She didn’t look at her mum, because she didn’t think she could bear it.

“I’m sorry”, Hermione repeated, the two words that had been beaten to death over the years, yet somehow never meaning as much as she had wanted. She had said the words, shrieked them, exclaimed them, wept them.

Hermione wept then as she ran outside the house, enveloped by the setting sun, dragged down by her belongings. She didn’t care anymore.

She apparated in her parent’s front yard, her world spinning, with a big thunderous crack.

—-

As soon as her feet landed in the apparition point nearest the international portkey centre, Hermione fell to the ground in a heap, her heart racing. 

Breathe, she thought wildly, finally recognising the panic attack that had been creeping up on her like fungus on a putrid, rotting corpse. Breathe .

But she couldn’t, she couldn’t do it, she couldn’t—

No. No. No. she couldn’t sink now, not when she had made it this far. Not when she had survived so much worse. She could rise again. She could. She had to, because if she didn’t, there was no one there to help her get back up. She was alone, she was drowning, drowning in a lake of her own pain and grief, before anyone could reach her—

A sharp rock dug into her cheek, scraping it and tearing through the thin barrier of her skin. She felt her blood rush to the spot, and imagined it pouring out of her, spilling onto the warm, dry soil. She concentrated on the feeling, the pain, the agony of her skin and her heart, the beauty and the terror of it.

Somehow, the feeling grounded her. Her breathing regulated itself enough for her to think. 

Breathe. One. Two.

Breathe. One. Two. Three.

Breathe. One. Two. Three. Four.

Breathe. 

Breathe. Breathe.

Breathe. 

Hermione’s vision cleared, and strength returned to her arms. She pulled herself up, finally noticing that she was surrounded by no one but the dying sun. 

She was alone.

Wobbling slightly and feeling faint, Hermione pushed herself onto her knees, and then her feet. Touching the cut on her cheek. 

“ Reparo”, she whispered. She felt the cut stitch itself up and wished, as she often did, that she could stitch her entire life with that spell, her battered mind and her unruly conscious, her decaying relationships and her demeaning work life. 

Hermione shrunk her bag and tucked Judie into her pocket, then walked outside the centre she had come out of two days ago. She looked at the closed doors, the lack of light behind them. She had known, practically, that there wouldn’t be any portkey slots on a Sunday evening. But she hadn’t exactly been thinking practically. She would have to wait until at least the morning now to know if there were any available slots, her original appointment being for early Monday morning. 

Hermione wiped her eyes, and stood staring at the doors, feeling worn out. She was so tired, she could probably sleep on the floor here.

Hermione walked away.

The portkey centre was located in the middle of nowhere, it seemed, and she didn’t really know where she was. 

The land was arid and almost creepily silent, in a way that made Hermione clutch her wand. It was a silence that felt unnatural and combative, and she couldn’t help but feel like she was being watched. 

Who on Earth would be watching her? 

Hermione walked. She walked and walked and walked, meandering around tall, dry trees, looking like sinister spectators to her breakdown. She felt empty, blank, like a canvas that had had water thrown at it, the colours draining and fading away. She walked, for who knows how long. 

It was almost completely dark now, so dark she couldn’t see the rusty redness of the dirt beneath her feet anymore. Her mind was empty, her chest was empty and now her vision was empty, nothingness stretching before her. No lumos, Incendio or even pestis incendium would ever be bright enough. 

Hermiome stopped walking. Her body failing, she sat down hard on the sandy ground. She wanted to lie down so bad, to be pulled into the earth, under it, like a warm duvet around her sore, aching body. Oh, how she ached.

She lay down in the ground, in the middle of nowhere, her cheek against the earth again. Her lips kissed the dirt like it has once kissed marble, like it had once kissed—

Hermione blinked, fog clouding her eyes briefly before it dissipated. 

She stared blankly into the darkness, feeling the cold seeping into the her skin. But she didn’t really feel it. She didn’t feel anything, not anymore. Her racing mind, the over-driven neurons that had lit up the world for her, slowed down. 

Not completely though. Never completely, because—

A faint buzzing sound came from her chest. One buzz. Two buzzes. Three buzzes.

Then a light clang as something fell out of her chest and fought the darkness with a power greater than a lumos, incendio, pestis incendium.

Hermione sat up gingerly, her burning eyes finding the object. She picked up her mobile. Two text messages. She opened them.

Mum: I’m sorry.

Mum: I’m so sorry. Come back.

What was brighter than a lumos, incendio, pestis incendium ? 

Hope. It was hope.

She had to try, one last time.

——

Hermione apparated into the dimly lit street, and walked the few steps up to the yard. Her mum was there, waiting on the grass, the front door wide open. 

She saw Hermione and they both stared at each other for a heartbeat. Then she opened her arms.

Hermione breathed out hard, like she had forgotten the motion of expelling air from her lungs, and she felt her despair leave with it. She ran into her mum’s embrace, and they both cried, holding each other tight, mother and daughter finding each other after a long, long time. 

They still had a long way to go. But now Hermione could finally see the road.

—-

She slept next to her mum that night, in her parent’s bed, like the child she hadn’t been since she had first glimpsed Hogwarts and her life had irrevocably changed.

With her mum’s arms around her, for the first time, she could convince herself that maybe, actually, she could fix this. She wasn’t alone.

There was hope.

—-

The next morning, Hermione woke up to find her mum gone. She blinked, looking around, her heart sinking.

But then she heard someone pottering around in the en-suite bathroom, the sound of the shower. She breathed out a sigh of relief. She pushed the covers back and swung her feet out of the bed. 

Hermione went downstairs and watched the sun beam outside. The door was open, and she saw her dad rummaging with something inside. He looked up as she appeared in front of him, and smiled at her. 

She had briefly seen him last night, waiting inside the house for her. He had hugged her too, the movement filled with so much promise. He had told her he would take her room for the night, that she could sleep next to her mum, like she had sometimes in the old days.

“Hermione”, her dad said, looking at the clock behind him. “You’re up early. Have you had breakfast already?”

“Not yet”, she admitted. “Have you?”

“No”, he said. “We can have it together, then, once your mum is down. You have time, don’t you?”

Hermione nodded. Her portkey wasn’t until another couple of hours. She watched him with a slight smile of amusement, as he opened the bonnet of an old Honda he had acquired, banging his head on the bonnet. Hermione let out a small shriek of surprise and walked over to him, feeling his head.

“Careful dad!”, Hermione admonished him. “You’ll give yourself concussion.”

Even as she spoke she could see a large bruise forming on his forehead. 

“Ouch, that’s going to hurt”, she said, concern taking over, and she pulled her wand out without thinking. 

They both froze at the movement, and Hermione could have kicked herself for her stupidity. 

They stood there for a moment. Hermione slowly put her wand away.

“No”, he said, quickly. He swallowed. “Do it. You were going to fix it, weren’t you? With your magic. Then do it.”

Fix it. With your magic. 

Neither of her parents mentioned magic in front of her. To talk about it, to let her use it on him, was such an immense portrayal of trust and forgiveness that Hermione was shaken, completely. 

“Are you sure?”, she asked. 

Her dad nodded. “Yes, love. Go on.”

The endearment emboldened her. She hasn’t heard it in so long. 

“ Reparo”, she whispered. The bruise disappeared, and so did all of the strife and barriers between them. Her dad touched his head. 

“Wow”, he said, with some surprise. “That must be a useful one. I think I remember reading it, actually. In one of your books, in your first year. What was it called? Charms: an introduction study guide to—“

“—Beginner’s healing spells”, they both finished together. 

Hermione smiled, her heart soaring.

“You remember”, she said, her eyes watering.

“I never forgot, love”, her dad said. “All the magic in the world would never stop me from knowing you. It was always there, in my mind. Don’t you forget that.”

—-

Breakfast was like this: 

Hermione stood in the kitchen, attempting to mix a batter of blueberries and pancake mix, her arms jostling her dad, who split a bit of milk from the milk carton.

He threw a blueberry at Hermione’s head, her mum moaning when it fell instead into the egg pan, leaving her carefully scrambled eggs streaked with a ripple of violet purple. A mock argument between her parents ensued.

Hermione grinned as she licked raw pancake batter from the spoon, and then jumped as both her parents turned on her, reprimanding her at the same time for eating raw batter.

They didn’t bother to lay the table, instead standing at the counter and digging forks straight into the pans, sharing plates between them as they talked about everything and nothing. Bad manners, indeed, but none of them cared. 

“Maybe we could visit you, sometime,” her dad said conversationally, as Hermione dug into a pancake. She blinked at him, her eyes rounded. “And we could do a day trip to the Victoria and Albert museum. You always wanted to go, back when you were at school, but we never made it. Did you ever go?”

Before you obliviated us and we forgot.

Hermione swallowed hard.

”No, I never went,” she said, a lump in her throat. She gave him a weak smile. “I would love that, dad.”

On her other side, her mum cleared her throat determinedly. 

“Your turn to wash the dishes, Richard”, her mum said to her dad. “It’s only fair, you left me with a ton for the dishwasher last night.”

Her dad squawked in protest that he certainly had not, his original Bristolian accent melting through like warm butter. Hermione was stealing the last of the eggs from the pan when she realised her parents had stopped arguing and were looking at her, the fork halfway to her mouth.

“Richard told me you fixed his head earlier”, her mum said. 

Hermione’s face dropped. She hesitated. But her mum smiled.

“Might there be a cleaning up spell as well?”, her mum asked.

Hermione smiled so hard her cheeks hurt with the sudden strain. She flicked her wand.

Suddenly, the room leapt to life as her parents gasped. The dirty plates and pans jumped into the sink, washing themselves, and quick scourgify’s and tergeo’s cleaned the counters. Hermione finished, waiting for her parents' reaction.

She didn’t expect them to start clapping, like little children. 

They were trying, Hermione realised.

The barrage of questions started, and Hermione realised with a shock that her parents hadn’t ever seen her magic, not really, never even in the old days. She could never do it at home back then because she had been under-age.

Could she fly? 

“No”, Hermione said. “Well, I could, with a broomstick. Or a dragon.”

Her dad mouthed the word dragon as her mum said: “but you hate brooms don’t you? Like airplanes?”

Hermione confirmed that she did, and they quickly moved on. 

How has she got here then? 

She tried to explain a portkey as simply as she could.

“There’s an object, and when you touch it, you sort of… appear at your destination”, Hermione explained badly. Then she thought about it. “Like teleportation.”

Both of them gaped at her. 

What about time travel?

Hermione thought of the time-turner and shuddered.

“You can”, Hermione said, reluctantly. “But it’s heavily regulated. Otherwise can you imagine?”

”But you could literally rewrite history!” Her dad argued. “All the terrible things that have happened in the world don’t need to have happened. You could literally rewrite history—“

”—Yes,” Hermione sighed. Had she not done exactly that?

Then her parents, who happened to be Back to the Future fans, looked at each other and then her.

“What about flying cars?”, her mum asked.

Hermione blinked at them.

“Yes, they exist too”, Hermione said, laughing. “Although they’re not supposed to, strictly speaking.”

“I would love to see one of those”, her dad breathed, looking starry eyed.

Hermione looked at them both, a slow grin formed on her lips.

—-

“The shrinking charm will have to be undetectable”, Arthur advised her solemnly. “Really undetectable, Hermione, the best you’ve got. You absolutely can not declare this at Australian customs.”

Hermione nodded, and pointed her wand at Arthur’s flying Honda, and muttered the best undetectable shrinking charm she knew. 

They both checked it thoroughly, before Arthur placed the toy-sized car in her palm.

“Be careful, Hermione”, Arthur said, solemnly. “We could both lose our jobs.”

Hermione thanked him and gave him a hug, knowing the trust he was placing in her. She pocketed the car.

“Don’t worry Arthur”, she said, feeling lighter than ever. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

——

Those words would come back to haunt her, one day.

—-

But before that:

The week after the ice had finally thawed on her and her parent’s relationship, Hermione took her parents flying. She took her muggle parents flying in a illegal, magically-modified car that could cost her and Arthur everything if they were caught.

But, oh, the way her parents laughed. She hadn’t heard them laugh like that in such a long time. And for that, she could overcome anything, even her fear of flying. 

Because they were trying, and finally Hermione felt like she had actually managed to win one of the things she fought so hard for. 

They swooped up and down through the clouds above the Simpson desert, her parents shrieking and throwing their arms in the air as she tried not to vomit. They still had a long way to go, needed to discuss things properly before they could properly heal, but—

Hermione couldn’t remember ever being so happy, so care-free as she was in that moment. 

—-

Someday she would use that memory to conjure her patronus, a bittersweet edge layering the happiness of the moment.

The otter would gambol in the air, circling Hermione as she wept. 

—-

Hermione was sleeping soundly in her parent’s home when the end of the beginning finally began. 

She was shaken from a deep, dreamless sleep, her eyes jerking open as she saw Intrudie-Judie dancing around on the window sill like something out of a horror movie.

“Intruders”, Judie whispered, and the entire doll lit up in an eerie way. “Intruder!”

Hermione immediately clambered for her wand, jumping out of the bed. 

“Who is it, Judie?” Hermione whispered, stating as Ron had instructed her. 

The doll started beeping loudly. “Harry Potter. Harry Potter.”

Hermione frowned as she silencio’d the doll, letting her wand arm drop afterwards.

“ Harry?”, Hermione said to herself, incredulously. “What is he doing here?”

A small clang sounded on her window, and Hermione saw Harry standing on her parent’s front yard, blanketed by the shadows of nearby trees. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as goosebumps spread all over her body.  

Something has happened. Something bad. 

She walked outside to meet him, her trepidation holding a tight fist around her lungs, her heart drumming with every step.

Harry’s face was overcast as she reached him, her bare feet sticking out of her pyjamas as she stood on the cold, wet grass.

“What”, Hermione asked. “What is it?”

Harry’s green eyes flashed as moonlight swept one side of his face, filled with untold horror.

“There’s been an incident on the Hogwart’s Express”, Harry said quickly, his voice rough. “Hermione, you have to come back right now. This is going to be really bad”.

He took in a deep breath. 

“A lot of students are dead. And, Hermione…”, Harry said, looking into her eyes. “The students—they were all muggle-borns and half-bloods. They think every single muggle-born student at Hogwarts is dead.”

Hermione’s heart thudded hard with all the heaviness of a funeral knell. The two of them stood in silence, encased in darkness. 

As they had done once before, when a war had begun. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: The Sun, Descending

When Hermione was nine years old, there had been a thunderstorm one nights that had scared her so much that it chilled her to her bones. She had thought then that she would never, ever sleep again.

She crawled into her parent’s bed, cocooned between them both. In her mother’s embrace she felt shielded and secure. But still, sleep would not come, and the terror remained frozen inside her.

But then, her father sang her a lullaby.

His baritone voice was rich and so serene, that it was like the sun had finally risen, back again from its deep, dark descent. 

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine”, his voice had quietly hummed in her ear. “You make me happy, when the skies are grey… ”

Suddenly Hermione’s eyes became heavy, as the ice began to finally thaw. Warmth filled her stomach, like warm buttered toast and Campbell’s canned tomato soup on a snow day off from school. Her eyes were leaden, and she was powerless to stop them from closing, sinking her into comfortable darkness. 

“You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you, please don’t take my sunshine away…”

Sleep claimed her, silent and entirely dreamless.

Dead to the world, she was finally at peace. 

——-

Freezing cold droplets hit Hermione’s face as her feet landed back on English soil, the skies grey and austere. 

She and Harry had left her parent’s home abruptly. Deciding not to wake her parents and alarm them, she had left a letter on the kitchen counter: simply stating that there was a work emergency, that she would call, and that she would pick up Arthur’s car at a later date.

The rain seeped through Hermione’s jacket and her hair, weighing her down. She and Harry stood in silence until the buzzer went, heads ducked in an attempt to shield against the wind and water.

They stepped off their portkey designated spot and walked through immigration. Here, there were no lines for them. A quick nod from the auror at the gates, and they were through. 

They walked quickly to the apparition point, where a ghostly fox was waiting for them, near-transparent and almost blinding against the gloom surrounding it.

“A.S.P meeting. Minister’s rooms ”, the patronus fox said in Kingsley’s deep voice. “15 minutes .”

The fox disappeared. A.S.P —Alertness and Security Positions—meetings were emergency gatherings of all high-level ministerial officials, called in the event of a national crisis. They took place in the Minister’s rooms, situated in a location unknown public, although it was popularly rumoured to be adjacent to Winston Churchill’s war rooms, unbeknownst to the muggles. 

Hermione looked at Harry, and then held out her hand. As he put his hand in hers, she closed her eyes and the deafening sound of rain against hard tarmac stopped.

Opening her eyes, the rain returned as they stood on a street in Whitehall, London. Walking out of an alleyway, Harry led the way towards a large monument, discoloured with age and wear. The Cenotaph war memorial loomed above them as they approached it, dwarfing them with its impressive height.

The Glorious Dead. Hermione traced the words with her eyes, unblinking against the rain. Harry and Hermione bowed their heads, looking for all the world like two people paying their respects. Harry tapped his wand on a specific corner of the monument, which emitted a faint light as the notice-me-not entrance charm was activated. 

“Harry Potter”, Harry said to the corner of the monument, and walked through. 

Hermione moved to stand where he had stood, past the charm. “Hermione Granger,” she said, and stepped through the monument. 

Hermione often thought the entrance to the Minister’s room felt like entering a mirror dimension. On the other side, the cenotaph still loomed behind her, but now the words were different now:

THE MAGICAL PEOPLE WILL NEVER FORGET read the engraved words on this side of the monument, and below them were thousands of names-magical people that had died during the Second Wizarding War.

In these underground rooms where men had talked of war, beneath the dirt and rubble, Hermione felt as though she had been buried, these rooms a coffin that had been tightly snapped shut. 

——

Fifty children, dead. Fifteen half-bloods and thirty-five muggle borns. Every single muggle-born at Hogwarts. 

A Fiendfyre had been set inside the Hogwarts Express, uncontrollable and unstoppable, killing everyone on it. These children had entered a new world, full of promise and with stars in their eyes. Only for the world to burn the lights out before they could be switched on and stamp out the dreams before they could fully form. 

Just when Hermione started to hope, she was reminded of how fabricated and artificial hope truly was. How could there be hope in this world, where children become soldiers and would keep on dying years after the war was supposedly over? 

Kingsley sat next to her, at the middle of the long table. He was solemn and impassive. Almost in direct contrast, Magnus, who sat on the other side of the minister, looked troubled, his blue eyes dark and stormy.

Hermione knew she should look like Kingsley, the epitome of a strong leader. But when she looked at Magnus, she saw the broken shard of a mirror, a distorted reflection of herself. 

“….the Fiendfyre has been exterminated, but there’s considerable damage—“ Harry said, his voice breaking through the chaos in Hermione’s mind.

“—How considerable?”, Kingsley asked gravely. 

“The entire train will have to be replaced”, Harry replied. “It’s beyond repair—“

Hermione looked at them both incredulously, something foul and acrid seething in her veins. 

The train? THE TRAIN—

Hermione threw her hands on the table, making several people jump and stare at her in surprise.

“Who cares about the train?,” Hermione spat. “What about the children? What about their families— have they been informed yet?”

Kingsley’s lips pursed tight.

“Not yet”, he replied smoothly. “This is…major incident. One that will have to be managed and dealt with carefully. The parents will be informed later tonight, once a plan is fully in motion.”

“Later tonight?”, Hermione said, the decibel of her voice increasing. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Kingsley, their children are dead! These parents are expecting their children home for Christmas any moment now! By tonight the parents will already know something is wrong! What happens if they try to come to the platform?”

“The platform has been sealed off”, Harry interrupted. “No one will be able to get in. Just until the site can be cleared and the bodies can be moved.”

“The bodies…“, Hermione repeated faintly, and then stopped, feeling as though she couldn’t breathe. 

She tightened her grip on the table, and realised Kingsley and Magnus were arguing. 

“—The situation must be managed before the news gets out”, Kingsley’s deep voice said, dominating and spitting vehemence. “Magnus, you will conduct yourself in a professional manner. I understand you are distressed, as a muggle-born yourself—“

“You understand nothing. What you need to understand is that you can not control the situation even if you want to”, Magnus snapped, his voice low and furious. Behind his glasses, his eyes were red-rimmed, burning with rage. “There is going to be a major fallout, no matter what you do, because it’s muggle-borns, Kingsley, all of them—“

“—Some of them were half-bloods, too”, Kingsley said, calmly. “It was not simply a muggle-born attack”. 

There was silence that followed was deafening. All eyes were on Kingsley.

Percy, who has been taking notes, looked at Kingsley in confusion, while Hyde stopped tapping his fingers on the table. Harry had cast his eyes downwards. Hermione breathed out, her lungs burning, burning with so much anger that she couldn’t—

“You are unbelievable”, Magnus said in a flat tone. “Of course it’s an attack on muggle-borns, the half-bloods were collateral—“

“Kingsley”, Harry interrupted, quietly. “We do think it’s aimed at muggle-borns. And also that it is the work of the Everlast group.”

“Be that it may”, Kingsley said levelly. “They have not claimed it yet. We will not be the first to turn it into a blood feud. Until such a time they do publicly declare, we will handle our losses and concentrate on the tragedy that it is.”

“It’s more than a tragedy”, Hermione retorted. “And you underestimate the public. People will want to know the full story, and sooner than you think. You might want to not make it a blood feud, but that’s what it is and people will know that straight away.”

Kingsley looked at her. For the first time, his facade cracked, his eyes flickering with a spectrum of sadness, anger and—bewilderingly—resignation.

“Then what would you have me do?” Kingsley said. “Would you like me to make a direct statement on the Everlast group, without even being sure it was them? To do that now would be tantamount to asking for a retaliative attack. Not to mention that to make such a blunt statement would be seen as unsubstantiated prejudice against a specific sector of our community. The ministry can not start discriminating against blood status.”

“So it’s alright when everyone else does it then?” Hermione replied bitterly, resent crackling in her bones. “Discrimination is alive and well at the ministry and everywhere, Kingsley, let’s not pretend to ourselves.” 

“You should make the statement”, Magnus declared suddenly, his voice smooth as steel. The anger in his eyes was gone, replaced by something darker. “You should launch an attack at Everlast, and every pureblood that supports them and covers for them. You need to recognise them for the terrorists and the death eaters that they are.”

There was a pause after his statement. Hermione blinked at him.

Their eyes caught, for a mere second. And in that second, they understood each other completely.

“Absolutely not”, Kingsley responded. “Let’s wait to see what they do before we make real statements.”

He turned to Hermione. “Your professional opinion?”

Hermione hesitated, not looking at Magnus.

“I think we should hold back on attacking Everlast, or it might escalate things unnecessarily,” she said, slowly. “But I think we should not kid ourselves that this was not aimed at muggle-borns.”

Kingsley nodded at Percy, who wrote what she said down. Hermione could feel Magnus’s eyes boring into the side of her face.

“We can issue a neutral statement”, Kingsley said, nodding.

“Not completely neutral—” Hermione warned, but was interrupted.

“We can get that statement ready for you within the hour, Minister”, Percy said. 

“Fine”, Kingsley said.

Harry stood up. “Minister, I must be getting back to the scene, I am needed there. I only came to escort Hermione—

Hermione jerked her head to look at him. “You’re going to King’s Cross?”

Harry looked at her in alarm.

“Hermione, no”, he said. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Magnus looked at them both. “What?”

“I’m going with you”, Hermione said to Harry. “You can’t stop me.” 

Harry faltered, and then looked at Kingsley helplessly. 

“Hermione, no”, Kingsley said. “I forbid you to go.”

“All due respect Minister”, Hermione said, quietly. “But you wouldn’t understand.”

She stood up. Harry sighed, seemingly resigned to his fate. As they made for the door, Magnus spoke out.

“Wait!” he called. “I’m coming with you.”

“This is why you don’t make muggle-borns your left and right hands, Minister”, she heard Hyde taunt Kingsley, as they left the room.

—-

Dry, dusty particles hit Hermione’s face as she stood in what was left of platform nine and three-quarters. It didn’t dawn on her straight away that it was ash, made from metal, plastic and human bone. 

She remembered Fiendfyre, from the Room of Requirement, all those years ago. 

The all-consuming, radiating heat of it. Not burning hot, like a normal fire, but like being thrown into boiling water, the heat surrounding every inch of her body, drowning the life out of her as the fire soaked into her bones—

She choked, horrified, on the bitterness of it. She closed her eyes and coughed hard. She tried to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

When she opened her eyes, she couldn’t see for the fumes and black ash in the air.

The darkness was not silent, not like deep sleep and calm nights after bustling daylight.

No— the air was vibrating, the nothingness in front of her sinister and menacing. The kind that was found when death wasn’t waiting, but was demanding, insisting, pushing the dying towards the belly of the underworld.

When Hermione could see, she wished she was blind.

Hermione stared straight ahead, and it took her too long to realise that the platform wasn’t there. It was a crater, a ditch, with the body of children strewn across it.

Some bodies had all their limbs and minimally burnt, their faces young and their last expressions one of horror and agonising fear. Other bodies were snapped apart, like the muggle magician's trick where they saw someone in half, but gone wrong. It didn’t look real, it couldn’t be.

Then there were the bodies that—

They weren’t bodies, not vessels that once contained a human soul, not anymore. Black, twisted charred remains of children lay in front of Hermione. An innocent child, with promise and stars in their eyes, reduced to screaming dust. 

Hermione turned her head just in time to vomit all over the side of the crater, all the way down herself. She looked up to see Magnus behind her.

He looked listless, his eyes vacant and glassy. There was nothing behind those eyes, nothing that would betray what he truly felt.

Hermione’s head starting spinning, and she held onto his arms, trying to steady herself, to say something. But all that came out of her mouth was a sob.

Harry walked up to them, his eyes full of misery. 

“I told you you shouldn’t have come”, he said. He quickly vanished her vomit. 

Hermione heard Harry talking still, but she zoned him out. She looked straight at Magnus, his eyes locking with hers. There was no anger there. Just darkness. Her reflection, once again.

Children, mostly muggle-born, dead. Children dying, for nothing and no one. Children, as young as eleven years old, not old enough to know about the war, death eaters and blood prejudices. Dying because they dared be born to the wrong kind of parents, parents who had no idea what world they had borne their children into—

Her magic inside her thrummed, as something dark and foreboding twisted her soul.

“They’re going to pay for what they’ve done”, Hermione said. Her voice was rough, filled with ash. Magnus looked at her intensely, almost like he was trying to read her thoughts.

He nodded. 

Hermione didn’t know if she believed in a God. But she did believe in hell. 

She believed that she had seen hell on Earth, and it was black. Bone ash black and innocence burned alive.

—-

Hermione stormed into Kingsley’s office. Magnus tailed behind her, a silent spectator to her furore. 

“Re-write that statement”, Hermione demanded. Percy and Kingsley stared at her. 

“Merlin, Hermione, what happened to you?” Percy said, looking aghast. 

Hermione ignored him. Both she and Magnus were covered in ash and dirt, but she didn’t much care just then. Kingsley said nothing, observing her with a blank expression on his face.

“You can’t send out a neutral statement”, Hermione insisted.

“Why not?”, Kingsley said. “You gave me your approval earlier”.

“I’ve changed my mind”, Hermione said. “Kingsley, you have to—you have to go to King’s Cross. You can’t just throw it off as not being a premeditated attack on muggle-born if you see it for yourself. You just can’t.”

Tears streamed down her face, but she didn’t wipe them, didn’t weld against the misery she felt so deeply. She looked fiercely at Kingsley through her tears, refusing to be cowed.

She knew she was right.

Kingsley stared at her, like he was trying to read her mind. He folded his fingers together on the table, looking down at the parchment that was probably the statement he intended to give. 

“I have decided to go ahead with a neutral statement”, he replied calmly. “I will make no statement either way, until such a time comes that the perpetrator is found or comes forward.”

Hermione clenched her fists so hard that her nails dug into her palm painfully. She felt a nail cut through skin, and her palm stung.

“Kingsley”, she said, using every grain of will she had left to not scream at him. “Please. Go to King’s Cross. You can’t see what I’ve seen and believe what you’re doing is going to be fine.”

Magnus shifted to her right. He said nothing, but his eyes darted towards Kingsley, his irises dark and eerie.

“I have been to King’s Cross”, Kingsley said.

“What?”, Hermione said, shocked. “How—“

“I went shortly before I called the A.S.P meeting”, Kingsley continued. “I know what I am talking about, Hermione. I am going to continue with this.”

Hermione couldn’t speak. She didn’t know this man in front of her. This man, who had been her mentor all these years, the compassionate and determined auror that she had witnessed in the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.

She didn’t recognise this man that was speaking right now. All she knew was that he wasn’t the person she had known so well. 

“Minister”, Hermione finally said, struggling to stay calm. “As your advisor, my advice is that you are going about this all wrong. And that you will regret it.”

All three men in the room were staring at her now. Percy looked uncomfortable and hesitant, looking back and forth between her and Kingsley. Magnus was looking at her with the most open expression she had ever seen on his face; he looked as though he breathed every word she was saying, his mind entirely in agreement. 

Kingsley looked on dispassionately, entirely without expression. He stayed silent. The silence stretched on. 

“…Minister?”, Percy said, eventually breaking the silence. “What would you like me to do?”

Kingsley looked away from Hermione, towards Percy, turning his back on her. 

“We go ahead with the neutral statement”, Kingsley said. “Let’s run through it one more time.”

Hermione had heard enough. 

She turned her back on the impassive Minister, and stormed out of the door, slamming it behind her so hard that it could have broken from its hinges. 

—-

MINISTER DENIES EVERLAST LINK TO MUGGLE-BORN ATTACK said The Wizarding Times.

MINISTER REFUSES TO ACCEPT HOGWARTS EXPRESS ATTACK WAS A PREMEDITATED ATTACK ON MUGGLE-BORNS said the Daily Prophet.

THIRTY-FIVE DEAD MUGGLE-BORN CHILDREN- MINISTER IN DENIAL ABOUT NATURE OF ATTACK said the Magical Independent.

WHAT IS THE MINISTER HIDING? Said the Prophet Express.

IS THE MINISTER A MEMBER OF EVERLAST? Said Witch Weekly.

MINISTER HAS A BAD CASE OF THE WRACKSPURTS- QUIBBLER’S EXPERTS WEIGH IN ON MINISTER’S BIZARRE BEHAVIOUR said the Quibbler.

Hermione stared at the Quibbler, and closed the magazine. 

Well, at least some things never change, she thought bitterly.

——

The Wizengamot was in uproar. Hermione only wished that it was about the right thing. 

Hermione sat listlessly listening to entitled and privileged lords hurl their trials and tribulations at Kingsley, herself, and the rest of the Minister’s staff.

She tuned them out, his eyes vaguely focused on a man with dark brown hair sitting directly in front of her. He wasn’t paying attention to his peers. He twirled his quill around long, elegant fingers while he stared intently at his parchment, and then at Hyde, for some reason. Hermione didn’t think she had once seen him contribute to the debates before, but he had always been there.

“I was called a terrorist in Diagon Alley!”Lord Burke roared across the chamber. “By a half-blood! I, who has no association with Everlast whatsoever!”

Yes, but you did have an association with another terrorist group known as the Death Eaters, Hermione thought irritably. So maybe that half-blood has a point.

“Lord Burke, I will have order in these chambers”, Fudge bellowed over the din of angry lords. “It is a trying time for us all.”

“But it is extremely vexing ”, Lord Fawley joined in. “They think the Minister is a member of Everlast now, and that’s with his muggle-born entourage always around him. I’m telling you, they’re going to be picking us purebloods off next, they’re baying for our blood.”

Hermione snapped her quill and stood up, ignoring Kingsley’s stern look.

“And do you not think they might have a point?”, she said, looking fiercely at Lord Fawley. “Their children are dead, and it’s very obviously a targeted attack—

“—It is hardly my doing”, Lord Fawley retorted angrily, his face turning red. “ I didn’t kill those muggle-borns.”

Somewhere further up the benches, Marcus Flint scoffed.

“What do you mean it’s a targeted attack?” Madam Shafiq said sharply, looking at Kingsley. “There’s been no mention of Everlast claiming the attack.”

“Hermione”, Kingsley hissed to her, gesturing her to sit down. “Madam Shafiq, my advisor only meant that—“

Hermione sat down, not moving her glance from the Wizengamot members that were enraged with all of their ennoblement and pride. Enraged because people had the audacity to be upset that innocent children were dead and  inconveniencing them. 

Hermione sat, seething quietly, for the rest of the session. Swallowing her anger, she focused on the brown-haired man from earlier to distract herself from her anger, wondering why he looked so familiar. 

As she was pondering this, anger throbbing in her chest, she was startled when the man looked up and straight at her, his dark eyes roving towards hers.

He smiled.

Then, of all the things, he waved at her.

—-

A few days later, finally, Everlast claimed the Hogwart’s Express attack as one of their own.

—-

The protests began. At first, they were touted as peaceful marches, to create awareness for the stigmatisation and discrimination that muggle-borns faced in daily society. 

But then as the days went on, and the protests became angry, resentful and eventually, violent.

Shops in Diagon Alley were smashed in during the middle of the night, graffitied and vandalised, as protestors magically affixed themselves to the the gates of well-known pureblood institutions such as Gringotts and Florish and Blotts. 

“We are done being ignored by the government. We are done being singled out by purist supremacists!”, screamed a young woman to a crowd of people surrounding her, as Aurors tried to unstick her from the walls of the bookshop. “This shop sells books that lie about us muggle-borns. We didn’t steal magic, we were born to it, like everyone else! We have as much rights to it as you and we refuse to keep being punished for your vendettas!”

“Go back to the scrap heap you climbed out from, muggle!”, someone bellowed from the back. 

“The scrap heap, where I scavenged my magic?”, the woman projected tonelessly, acknowledging a well-known debunked theory about muggle-born magic. “Then this scavenger will show you how we muggles deal with people like you. The Scavengers will avenge their children!”

And before anyone could do anything, the woman set herself alight, burning the bookshop and the crowd to the ground, as fire blossomed around them like a Phoenix from the ashes as it was reborn. 

—-

“I believe it was a Molotov cocktail bomb”, Magnus said gravely at the next A.S.P meeting. “A muggle device.”

“She called herself a Scavenger”, Harry said, his tone quiet and angry. “It’s the first attack they’ve properly acknowledged.”

“They’re going to fight back now”, Hermione said. “It’s not like it was during Voldemort’s reign. Now, they fight back. I told you they would fight back.”

Kingsley said nothing.

—-

“Lord Burke was a patron of Florish and Blotts,” Fudge said at the next Wizengamot session, his tone solemn. “He was in the crowd when the terrorist set the street on fire.”

“They can’t keep getting away with this”, Marcus Flint said angrily. “They’re going to pick off the Sacred Twenty-Eight one by one, while our Minister  does nothing!”

“The Scavengers may have claimed an attack but we are no closer to knowing who the members are and how they operate”, Kingsley said smoothly. “They will, of course, be condemned, the same as Everlast is.”

“The two are not the same!” Lord Fawley bellowed. “You need to do something, Shacklebolt, or we will do it for you!”

Hermione stood up, her chair clattering to the floor.

“And who is we , Lord Fawley?” She screeched at him. “Do you accept the acts of Everlast, the killing of innocent children who never did anything wrong? How are the Scavengers and Everlast not the same? At least the Scavengers had a reason!”

“Lords and Ladies, the leader of the Scavengers speaks!”, Flint yelled into the chambers as he gestured towards Hermione. Several people stood up, all of them taunting and jeering at her.

“No. No!”, Hermione screamed back. “You don’t turn this back on me! Innocent children have died and people have no answer as to why, and you all are complaining because they dare fight back! This is what happens when people are ignored and belittled! You are reaping what you have sown!”

The yells intensified, and Hermione stared at the fury in front of her. Her magic crackled as she looked at them, one by one, daring them to do something. To give her a reason, to do something. Suddenly, she was pulled back, her whole body yanked hard to the side as she was led away from the bench. 

Kingsley pulled Hermione out of the room, pushing her back against the door as he looked at her, furious. 

Finally, an reaction.

“What in Salazar’s name are you doing?” Kingsley snarled. “Do you realise what you will cost yourself if you continue like this? Calm yourself down!”

Tears fell down Hermione’s cheeks and she was filled with self-loathing for letting herself cry in front of him.

“What about you?”Hermione demanded, her sobs thick in her voice. “Why don’t you do anything?”

Before Kingsley could speak, she pushed him away and pulled out of his grasp, running down the corridor. 

—-

Hermione sat on a secluded bench hidden behind a pillar in the Atrium. She stared out at the Fountain of Magical Brethren in front of her, which was now sandwiched in between the Second War memorial monument and the Statue of Unsung Heroes. The second statue was chiselled to depict several faces, including that of Severus Snape, the unlikeliest of people to have helped win the war. She remembered the black stone statue that used to be where these statues now stood, the bold lettered Magic is Might held up by a horde of crushed muggles, apparently in their rightful place.

At least that statue had been honest. No matter what she did, how much she tried to change things: being crushed and suppressed…that was her rightful place in the society she now called her own. 

—-

Hermione sat on the bench, breathing shallowly with her head slumped on the wall behind her.  People walked by, unable to see her behind the pillar. 

Suddenly, someone sat down beside her. Hermione turned her head sluggishly to her side and saw Magnus looking out into the Atrium. 

“It will be okay, Hermione”, he said, quietly.

Hermione looked at him, and felt like she would start crying again.

“How can you say that?”, she said, her voice breaking. “How can you believe that?”

Magnus turned to face her, his eyes searching hers. The vivid, sharp blue of his pupils always startled her with their intensity, and now they looked as though they had opened the door to all the despair in her heart.

“Because you exist”, Magnus said. “Because I exist. We have been hurt, so many ways. And as long as we exist, they can’t hurt us forever. We will come up top one day. It’s just a matter of time.”

Hermione blinked at his words, the strange way in which it warped in her mind. Something about them rang true. But something about the words rang alarm bells in her head too.

Before Hermione could delve further, Magnus moved his arm, and she felt his hand on top of hers, his palm radiating warmth onto her cold and clammy one. 

“You are…amazing”, Magnus said, his voice oddly earnest. “You just say what you believe. You keep on fighting, throwing your truth in their faces, no matter what they do.”

Hermione scoffed. 

“Much good it does me”, She said. “They don’t care what I have to say.”

“They will, given the right circumstances”, Magnus promised her. “One day they will have to listen to us, because things aren’t as they were before. We have the upper hand, this time. The day they are forced to listen might be sooner than we think.”

Hermione stared at him.

“What do you mean?”, she asked.

Magnus smiled at her gently, and moved his hand away, leaving behind nothing but ice.

“Hermione,” he said. “We are the same, you and I. You yourself said to Kingsley that he will regret what he’s doing. And he will, the way things are going”.

“You think he will be forced to resign?” Hermione said, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

“He might do”, Magnus said, calmly. “He should have listened to you.”

“They won’t push Kingsley aside,” Hermione said, aghast. “Who would they even replace him with? The public won’t accept who they choose. The public has the vote and they still like Kingsley, no matter what’s happening now—“

“—Who knows”, Magnus said, shrugging indifferently. “But I know when he does step down, I want to be on the side of the person who replaces him. Someone who can actually change this world for the better, this time.”

He was looking at Hermione, in that forcely intense way he had been looking at her recently.

“Hermione, I…” he said again, urgently, and then he stopped. He pursed his lips and looked away. 

“I think you’re going to be a force to be reckoned with one day”, he said, instead. “I think one day you will be able to drastically change how things are, if you are with right people. I think all we have to do is wait.”

Hermione felt a familiar lump in her throat.

“I wish Kingsley had half of your faith in me”, she retorted. She swallowed, and gave him a flickering smile. 

She reached out, and patted his hand, over the thin silver band he always wore.

“Thank you”, she said, honestly. “I think all this would be a lot harder for me if you weren’t here. You’re the only one who understands.”

—

As payback for the Florish and Blotts bombing, the Everlast set a muggle building of flats on fire in the middle of London. 

It seemed as though the world was on fire.

—-

DELUDED MINISTER SAYS NOTHING ABOUT LATEST EVERLAST ATTACK said the Daily Prophet.

PROSPECTIVE MUGGLE-BORN STUDENTS REJECT HOGWARTS ENTRY FOR NEXT ACADEMIC YEAR said the Magical Independent.

BEAUXBATONS AND ILVERMORNY APPLICATIONS FROM BRITONS DOUBLED claimed the Wizarding World News.

WHEN WILL THIS END? Screamed the Daily Express.

IS A THIRD WAR UPON US? Theorised the Wizarding Times.

MINISTRY INFESTED WITH NARGLES stated the Quibbler.

—-

But then, just as Hermione felt there was no end to the despair, a tiny ray of hope appeared. A piece of good news she wasn’t expecting.

A week after the Hogwart’s Express Fiendfyre, a little girl had been found after the rubble, still alive.

Harry found her as soon as they heard the news.

“You can’t go to see her”, Harry said, desperately. “Hermione, you have to listen to me this time. You mustn’t go.”

She ignored him. Of course. 

The girl was eleven years old and her name was Helen. Only eleven years old. 

Hermione looked horrified as the girl lay on the hospital bed in St Mungos, unconscious and covered in third degree burns so severe that her face was unintelligible. Her skin was blistered, purple and red rather than a human colour, her lips and eyes bulging and swollen. Hermione was reminded, horrifyingly, of the pictures she had seen of people in the aftermaths of the Chernobyl disaster. 

Helen’s breaths were shallow and even unconscious Hermione could tell she was in terrible, terrible pain. Her parents stood at her side, her mother collapsed against the father, both of them sobbing over her.

“She was so excited to go to Hogwarts”, her mother wept to Hermione. “We didn’t want her to go so far away, but she begged us and begged us so we had to let her go-.”

She dissolved into more tears, the sobs racking through her as though her body couldn’t hold them. Her husband held her tight, his own tears silent as he stared straight at Hermione over his wife’s head.

“This is your fault”, he said, deadly quiet. “She read about you, the amazing muggle-born that ended a war. She wanted to be like you.”

Hermione’s heart stopped. 

“I…“, Hermione started, but then stopped. Guilt twisted her gut and she couldn’t breathe.

“You’re a fraud”, he continued, his anger slapping her across the face. “You made us think this world was better, safe for your daughter. How could you let this happen to her?”

“Why won’t you do something?” Helen’s mother screamed against her husband’s chest. “Why won’t you save our daughter?”

Hermione looked at them, breathing fast as her heart thumped so hard in her chest that it hurt. 

“I’m sorry”, Hermione said. The words were meaningless, as they always were. “I’m sorry, I—I’m so sorry—“

For the second time, she ran out of a room, trying to get away from the demons inside her own head.

—

Two days later, Helen died, in terrible pain and in a world that hated her.

—-

Breathe.

Breathe. Breathe.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

She couldn’t breathe.

—-

“I wish they could feel half of the pain Helen felt”, Hermione seethed to Magnus on the Atrium bench the next day, as they watched Wizengamot lords chatter a few feet away from them. “I wish they could feel what all those children felt on the train. I want to raze the whole lot to the ground, all of them. If I had a time turner, that’s what I would do. I would go back and raze them all to the ground, before Helen had to die.”

Magnus hummed agreement as he sipped his coffee.

”That time may come, Hermione,” he said. “Maybe that time has already come.”

Hermione’s lavender lady grey tea went cold.

—-

Hermione ran down to the Atrium along with the Aurors after the alert, pushing through the crowds of screaming visitors. 

In front of her was the toppled Statue of Unsung Heroes, with Susan Bones crushed under the weight of Severus Snape’s stone head. Her eyeballs had rolled back into her head, blood gushing from her crushed skull as her neck was snapped naturally to the side.

WHAT ABOUT THE MUGGLE-BORNS THAT DIED FOR YOUR WAR was written next to her, in blood. 

—-

“These fucking mudbloods are getting away with it and the Minister doesn’t care!” Marcus Flint roared, his voice echoing in the chamber. “I knew you had a thing for them, but I didn’t know exactly how much of a Muggle lover you were, Shacklebolt!”

“Lord Flint, watch your words!” Kingsley reprimanded. 

Everyone ignored the Minister.

“CONTROL THE MUDBLOODS!” Flint bellowed.

Hermione wanted to rip the skin off his face with her bare hands.

—-

THE MINISTER NEEDS TO CONTROL THE PUREBLOOD COMMUNITY IF THERE IS TO BE PEACE SAYS WORLD RELATIONS EXPERT said the Daily Prophet.

—

Hermione watched as Proudfoot cast a dome on the stage, his magic arcing in shades of blue and green, crackling with protective charms. 

The Christmas memorial speech, which took place on Christmas Day, was almost upon them. As it was every year, the speech would take place in the large courtyard in the centre of the ministry, open to the press and select spectators. 

He showed her an improved version of impedimenta and his tweaks to salvio hexia. He ran her through a truth-binding spell he had invented, that prevented the audience and staff from being able to mention or discuss anything that could cause or encourage harm to the Minister, or otherwise make him vulnerable during his appearance. 

“I usually use this in the potion form rather than as a spell”, he told her. “But it makes more sense to use it as a spell in this context. Can’t exactly force a random potion down the throats of every journalist.”

“You have to show me how you did that sometime”, Hermione said, curious. “When things blow over a bit.”

“When things blow over”, he confirmed.

He showed her protego ampliatur , which would not only shield the caster but amplify the spell that had been thrown at them and direct it back at the opponent. 

“What about if it’s used with unforgivables?” Hermione asked him, watching the dome of protective spells sparkle in the sun and then disappear. 

“It should be able to amplify them too,” Proudfoot said, watching his own spells before his eyes. “I haven’t tested that, to be honest. I’m not sure how crucio and avada kedavra could be any worse to be honest.”

“Things can always be worse”, Hermione sighed. “I imagine there are ways to make unforgiveables… even more unforgivable. I would be curious if the idea wasn’t utterly horrible.”

“So, what do you think?”, Proudfoot asked, looking at her. “Do I have your approval to use these for the Minister’s security?”

Hermione watched him add the usual spells, cave inimicum, protego totalum, fianto duri and repello inimicum.

“Of course”, said Hermione, giving him a small smile. “I trust that you know what you’re doing.”

Proudfoot smiled. “Is Kingsley all set for the speech?”

“As ready as he will ever be”, Hermione said, casting her eyes at the podium on the stage. “There’s not exactly a lot of Christmas goodwill this year.”

Proudfoot nodded. Hermione watched him work for a while longer, as Harry appeared by her side in the courtyard. Proudfoot inclined his head to Harry and walked away, leaving Harry and Hermione alone in the courtyard. The wind picked up, making their robes sway around their feet, and Hermione shivered.

“How are you doing, ‘Mione?” Harry asked. “I’ve been meaning to check on you, but it’s been busy.”

“I‘m not surprised”, Hermione replied. She sat on a nearby bench. “I’m as well as can be expected, I guess.”

“You should come over some time”, Harry said. “It’s been a while. Ginny misses you.”

“I will”, Hermione promised, and then sighed. “I haven’t been feeling up for company lately.”

“Except for Roth”, Harry noted.

Hermione bristled. “You can hardly blame me. He’s the only one that understands what it feels like.”

“What feels like what?” Harry entreated, scrunching his eyes behind his glasses. “I wish you would talk to me. To us.”

“Harry, I’m not ignoring you”, Hermione said, impatiently. “Nor am I ignoring Ginny or Ron. You all just won’t get it, so there is no point talking about it.”

“What won’t we get?” Harry said. “‘Mione, we are your friends. Whatever you’re going through, you can always talk to us. I know all these muggle-born related attacks must be difficult for you, and the Wizengamot are being a bunch of arseholes.”

“When are they not?” Hermione said derisively, and she felt irritated for some reason. It wasn’t Harry’s fault she felt like this, not really. But at that moment she wished he would just leave it alone, leave her alone. 

Harry waited, looking at her imploringly.

“Talk to me, Hermione”, he said again. “I hate seeing you like this.”

“Like what?” Hermione said, bitterly. “I’m behaving how I always behave. People only just notice now because it’s justified and they don’t want to acknowledge it.”

“You’re all…lifeless. Angry. Resentful. You just-“, Harry faltered. “You just don’t seem like you.”

Hermione laughed with no humour behind it, her laugh flat and bitter.

“And this is why I don’t talk about it”, Hermione said. “Harry, I’m always angry.”

“It doesn’t mean I’m not here for you”, Harry said. “You’re my best friend.”

“Maybe”, Hermione said, flippantly. She instantly regretted it when Harry looked at her sharply.

“What do you mean, maybe?” Harry said, hurt. “You and Ron are my best friends, have been for all these years. Why would you doubt that?”

“Yes, we are”, Hermione said, irritation clear in her voice. “But out of the two of us, who do you care about more? Who would you side with out of the two of us, if it came down to it?”

“What—what does that have to do with anything?” Harry said, indignant. 

“I’m not trying to say anything”, Hermione interrupted. “Just that you would never understand what it’s like for me in our world, not you or Ron.”

“Hermione, you're not making any sense.”

“You and Ron can never understand what it’s like for me”, Hermione continued. “Because you’re a pureblood and a half-blood. You will never understand what it’s like to be reviled, to be looked at like something dangerous and unsavoury, just because of my parentage. Of all the battles, that’s not one you’ve had, Harry.”

“We might not be muggle-born, Hermione, but that doesn’t mean we don’t understand how it is for you,” Harry said, his voice quiet and aching.

“Yes, and I’ve always been grateful for it”, Hermione said. “But I’m sick and tired of needing support for the right to exist, to have opinions of my own. There are people who still believe people like me stole magic from other witches and wizards, from rubbish heaps—“

“—That’s a load of bullshit, Hermione”, Harry said abruptly. “Everyone knows that.”

“They might know, but they still think it”, Hermione said. “Whenever I, or someone like me, says something they don’t like, they instantly look down at us. Like we are inferior, like we don’t deserve this world and we should be grateful we have been allowed to live in it.”

Harry said nothing, and with the ever-present anger coursing through her veins, Hermione continued.

“They all look at me like I’m a silly little girl, no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try,” Hermione said, her voice wobbling. “But I’m so tired of trying, Harry. I’m exhausted, trying to please people who don’t care if I live or die.”

“So what are you going to do?”, Harry asked, his tone serious and measured. 

“Nothing. Yet”, Hermione said. “But one day…one day I’m going to change the world. This world. Don’t act like this is new information, Harry, I always said I would. I’m going to change the world so that we can rise above the utterly petty and ridiculous notion of blood status, so that it doesn’t kill us all. Because it’s not a low birth rate or a war that will finish us. We will finish us.”

Hermione looked at him intently. 

“So I’m going to do what I always do,” Hermione said. “I’m going to fight. And I’m going to wait. Because these people can’t rule our world forever. And when that day comes, I’ll be here.”

She breathed out, letting her anger slowly pour out of her.

“I’m looking to the future, Harry”, Hermione said. “Whether that’s in another ten years, or tomorrow. But they’ll regret the day they decided that I am not enough.”

In her mind's eye, she saw her magic dance inside her, onyx black, like a dying star. When she blinked, it was gone. 

—-

Hermione sat on the other side of Kingsley’s desk, and went through the security plans with him. When she finished, she waited for him to dismiss her. Instead he just looked at her. Hermione stood up to walk out of the office.

“I know you are angry with me”, Kingsley said suddenly, when Hermione was almost at the door. 

Hermione turned around.

The Minister looked fatigued, aged beyond his years. He looked at her with an unidentifiable expression on his face, the outer corners of his eyes arched downwards as the lower half of his face seemed to crumple from the burden on his shoulders. 

Hermione couldn’t help but feel something then. So many things that she couldn’t pull at just one. What she felt was a lingering ghost of all the emotions she had ever had towards Kingsley

Her mentor. A father figure when her own father couldn’t look at her. The encouragement and support she had needed so much after everything was over. To build herself up again to believe that she could do something, something good and worthwhile with her life. 

There had been a time when she wanted to give up, to sink into the depths of her own despair. But she hadn’t, and it had been because of Kingsley. 

“You have so much to offer this world”, he had said to her, crouching next to her as she slumped against a wall in the garden at Grimmauld Place“ You might not be what this world thinks it wants. But you are what our world needs.” 

She had looked at him, eyes half-closed with the heaviness of her eyelids.

“You need to rise above this”, he had said, calmly, as though he was certain that she would. “You need to rise above yourself.”

“And do what?” She had said, miserably. “What can I do that would be ‘good’?”

“You once told me you wanted to change the world”, Kingsley said, a wry smile on his face. “I don’t think you should aim for anything less than minister for magic. I can help you with that.”

The memory washed over her and disappeared, replaced by an older, more worn out Kingsley. Hermione swallowed, struggling with everything she was felt. 

“I’m not…angry”, she said, and she wasn’t sure if she was lying. “Just confused. I think.”

“You feel betrayed by me”, Kingsley said. “And that would be justified. I acted in a way that you felt was wrong, did it against all of your advice.”

“Don’t tell me how I feel, Kingsley”, Hermione said. She felt tired rather than angry, her body heavy in a way she couldn’t describe. She sat back down on the chair she had vacated. 

“Would you believe me if I say I did what I thought was right?” Kingsley said. “You, who probably knows me better than anyone else in this building?”

Hermione looked down at her lap. 

“Sometimes I’m not sure if I know you at all”, she said, trying to sound indifferent. 

Oddly, Kingsley smiled.

“I have been Minister for over a decade”, he said. “Longer than quite a few of my predecessors before me. I believe I have lasted as long as I have because I have appeared to be above opinion and reproach.”

A fire kindled again inside Hermione. 

“How can you be above opinion about this?”, she said, her tone biting. “How can you…how can you not care that so many innocent children died because of their blood status? That people are killing themselves and others because of it? Just because you ignore it doesn’t mean it will go away!”

“No, I agree”, Kingsley said, his voice calm and smooth as ever. “Blood status is the most major issue we have and the one that will most certainly decimate us if we don’t figure out how to control it.”

“Then do you think what you have been doing is controlling it?” Hermione demanded. “You have just been fanning the flames, Kingsley!”

“I didn’t mean to”, Kingsley said. His face crumpled. “You asked me earlier if I don’t care. Of course I care. I care so much that I would throw myself in harm’s way before I would let a blood war start under my watch.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, confused and frustrated. 

“I thought, by denying the killings as a muggle-born attack, by refusing to acknowledge that purebloods were being killed in retaliation, that it wouldn’t escalate to something much worse,” the Minister said. “Something where people declare a side and fight for it. A blood war. To not give a name to it means that people can’t use it as a rallying point.”

“Well, you have failed”, Hermione said bitterly. “We are in a blood war.”

“And that’s why when you’re Minister”, Kingsley said. “You have to do something I couldn’t do. It’s too late for me, because if I did it now, it would only be used to oust me prematurely from my office.”

Hermione looked at him sharply across the table. “What is it?”

“I am not long for this office”, Kingsley said, matter-of-factedly. “I will do what I can to give you time to be ready, but I do not think I’ll make it to the end of my term.”

“Why—” Hermione started.

Kingsley suddenly stood up, and walked to her side of the table. To Hermione’s surprise, he crouched down in front of her. Like he had, all those years ago, when he had told her she should want to be Minister for Magic. 

“Hermione, this is going to be hard for you to hear”, he said, softly. “I have tried so hard to shield you from it, because I wanted to spare you, of all the people it will affect. I know you value your independence over everything.”

Hermione’s mind suddenly reeled back to a conversation with Harry and Ron, and her disbelief at the time.

“You will have to invoke a marriage law decree”, Kingsley continued, and moved away from her, trying to gage her reaction.

Hermione’s mind swam, and she pushed out of her seat to stand as Kingsley did the same. 

“Why?”, she asked, in shock. 

“Because our population numbers were low before”, Kingsley said. “But they are dangerously insufficient now. The death of every muggle-born in the next generation will have a devastating effect in the next decade. Muggle-borns are our only source of new blood, a wider gene pool in this community, as much as people ignore it. A diversity we sorely need. But more importantly than that for you, a marriage law would be a diversion.”

Hermione thought of the bodies on Hogwarts platform, multilated and destroyed beyond all hope. Children, never to grow up. All that potential, lost, forever. 

“A diversion?” Hermione said, her mind roiling. 

“A diversion from all our issues”, Kingsley said. There was a desperate edge to his voice. “If people can unite around this, the furor and confusion a marriage law would create, it might detract from the blood wars and the worse fate that would await us if it continued. It would be two birds with one stone.”

Hermione stared at him in incredulity, unable to believe what she was hearing. 

“Invoke a marriage law to divert from a blood war?” Hermione summarised, her tone sarcastic and bitter. “Replace one terrible thing by starting something potentially even worse? How can you expect me to do something so barbaric, so…so…it wouldn’t be a diversion, and it would blow up on me!”

“It wouldn’t, if it was you—a new and fresh Minister,” Kingsley said, insistent. “If you were rational about it, the Wizengamot would listen, and the public would follow.”

Hermione looked at Kingsley like he had gone mad.

“No. Absolutely not”, Hermione said. “Kingsley, how can you ask me... I can’t do that. It’s utterly ridiculous, not to mention cruel and inhumane. I won’t do it.”

Kingsley looked at her for a beat. Then, his shoulders slumped and he sighed. 

“I don’t want to fall out with you about this”, he said, finally. “Everyone is against me. I would like to have you, at least, on my side.

“How can you expect me to be on your side about this?” Hermione said in disbelief. “You have never once mentioned you were thinking of something like this. And now you’re telling me that you think you won’t be Minister long, that I’ll be Minister soon, and the first thing you want me to do is force people to marry and produce babies they don’t want—“

“—Hermione, please”, Kingsley interrupted. Hermione halted.

He sounded so sad, so miserable. He didn’t sound like Kingsley at all, but someone who had been broken again and again. Despite everything- the confusion, the frustration, the anger- she wanted to comfort him, the man she had looked up to for so long. Who had guided her in this path she was on, even though many had asked him why her, why a muggle-born witch with no connections to the wizarding world when you could choose a worthy Sacred Twenty-Eight pureblood with the world at their feet? 

“I don’t want to fight you”, he said. “I trust you. I trust you to do the right thing when the time comes. I have said my piece. The rest is up to you.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” Hermione asked him. She felted overwhelmed, suddenly overburdened by what she did and didn’t know. 

“On the contrary, I have told you everything I know for certain”, Kingsley said. “After all, you are my legacy”.

Hermione sharply looked at him, her eyes burning as Kingsley’s smile turned genuine, with actual light behind it. 

“You are my legacy,” Kingsley repeated. “Everything I strived to do, is so you can continue it. I belong to an old and dying generation, don’t think I don’t understand that, Hermione. I wanted to at least begin a new future for the next generation. I know you will build something great with the foundations I will leave, when it’s time.”

Hermione let out a small laugh, watery and shaking.

“Why are you saying this now?” Hermione said. “Why are you saying this now, to me?”

“My father was a stern man. A brilliant man”, Kingsley said. “I admired him greatly. But he was very closed off around his family, and no one ever knew how he truly felt. I spent most of my childhood unsure that he cared for me. After all, I was a third son that he didn’t actually need, when he already had his heir and a spare.”

He kept smiling at her, soft and light, and it made Hermione’s eyes burn even more.

“I am so very proud of you, Hermione”, Kingsley said. “Never doubt that. I saw something in you, when I first saw you at the Phoenix headquarters. You have never discouraged that first impression I had. You have excelled at everything I put on you and more.”

Hermione’s eyes became unbearably hot, and she tried to blink away tears.

“I trust you to make the right decisions when the time comes”, Kingsley said. “When you are Minister for Magic, which you will be, you will change everything as you have always wanted.”

Hermione wiped away her tears, and for the first time ever, reached up and threw her arms around the one person who had never been disappointed in her. 

—-

Christmas morning came, with a cold, crisp wind in the air and a clarity Hermione hadn’t had since before all the attacks. 

She stood just beyond the stage with Kingsley, people bustling around them, doing last minute preparations for the christmas memorial speech. Magnus and Percy were talking solemnly a little way off, while other ministerial staff whispered amongst themselves. On the other side of the stage and in the main stretch of the courtyard, journalists chatted in loud tones as cameras flashed.

“Are you ready?” Hermione quietly asked Kingsley. He raised an eyebrow. 

“This feels like a muggle horror movie”, he said, a throwback to their talk before a Minister’s Debate, a time that felt like a millennia ago. “But I am prepared.”

Hermione smiled at him.

“Just get it over with”, she said. “Do you have plans for Christmas, after this?”

“Nothing much”, he admitted. “Perhaps I will go to see my brothers and their families.”

Hermione knew Kingsley didn’t like to talk much about his personal life. She was aware that he didn’t have a partner, or a family of his own. She had wondered why that was, this man that had so much paternal spirit and that cared so much, but she had never asked him. It has always seemed too invasive, too intimate.

Kingsley looked at her, and seemed to read the question on her face.

“Perhaps once I retire”, Kingsley said. “When I have some time of my own, perhaps I might and get some semblance of a personal life. Life as Minister for magic can be very lonely.”

“Why don’t you try to find someone while you are Minister?” Hermione asked before she could stop herself.

“There was never time”, Kingsley replied. “It can be a massive burden to bear, the ministry. It would take a rare person that would be able to share that burden.”

He sighed, breathing in deeply.

“It’s not long until I will retire”, he continued. “I think I might travel afterwards. I have always wanted to travel.” 

Hermione smiled and squeezed his hand, as Percy walked up to them.

“It’s time, Minister”, he said, bowing his head. Kingsley nodded, and looked at Hermione and Magnus, who followed him up to the stage.

Flashing lights immediately greeted them, distorting Hermione’s vision. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the light. She stood carefully on Kingsley’s side, a step behind him, and Magnus swiftly flanked the Minister’s other side, also a step behind. 

An usher signalled to the journalists, and they quietened. The man then looked at Kingsley.

“Ready when you are, sir”, the man said.

Kingsley cleared his voice and stepped up the podium and cast a sonorus charm.

“My good people of Wizarding Britain”, he began. “I send you the good tidings of the Christmas season, and wish you all the happiness that is to be found on this day.”

He paused for a second, looking out into the crowds, before continuing.

“Every year, we herald the coming of the Christmas season with the turning on of Christmas lights,” he continued. “This is because lights signify hope, better times to become, a rebirth to be found every year. But this year, the lights have been dimmed, and many will never light again.”

Hermione felt a cold gust of wind whip through her hair, her curls loose and swaying with the wind. A few feet away from her, Magnus was standing resolute, not moving an inch.

“My good people, I ask you, as always, to remember the sacrifices of the people who died in the war against evil”, Kingsley said, his voice echoing through the large courtyard. “So that we might have a brighter future. Remember everything they gave up to stop the fighting, to bring safer times for the next generation. At this moment, we are failing those people. Where they fought for us to be united, we are dividing all the same.”

The cameras flashed, and Hermione was temporarily blinded.

“We should not forget we are the heirs of a revolution”, Kingsley continued. “And therefore we should—“

Kingsley’s words were muffled as a loud crack came from the back of the courtyard. A shrill, feminine scream echoed in the wind, followed by a masculine voice:

“ Sectumsempra!”

At first, Hermione looked wildly around her, trying to find the source of the voice. But then she realised everyone was looking at Kingsley.

From Hermione’s angle, Kingsley looked the same as before, his eyes staring straight ahead at the crowds of people. But then people started screaming in horror, their eyes on the Minister, and Hermione realised, she realised—

No no no no no—

She ran the short distance to Kingsley, just as he began to fall, crumpling backwards into her arms. His weight dwarfed her and they went crashing to the floor. 

Pain burst from Hermione’s shoulders, her hips, her knees, but she scrambled under Kingsley, picking herself up into a sitting position. She piled him onto her lap, and her hands, her arms, her elbows were soaked in blood, in Kingsley’s blood—

Kingsley’s face was ashen, unnaturally devoid of colour as blood flecked his mouth. His neck was convulsing like he tried to swallow, but a gash on his throat pumped out blood, like water rushing out of a faucet. He gurgled as Hermione frantically tried to stop the bleeding on his throat with her hand.

“No!”, she screamed, and whipped her head to look around her. Aurors were rushing around, and crowds of people she didn’t recognise surrounded her and Kingsley.

Finally, she saw Magnus, staring down at them as though he had been petrified, his eyes trained on the Minister.

“A healer!”, she screamed at him. “Find a healer, quickly!”

He blinked at her and then disappeared. Hermione looked back down at Kingsley.

In years to come, Hermione would remember the next few seconds, minutes, hours. She looked down at Kingsley, his eyes fixed on hers as his mouth opened and shut uncontrollably. It was like he was trying to say something, anything, and couldn’t. They were both soaked in his blood, as Hermione tried to grasp one of his hands with her free hand. Their hands met with slick wetness and a horrifying coldness that made Hermione shake from within.

“Kingsley, please”, Hermione said to him, her teeth rattling. “Please, hold on, they’re coming, I promise you the healers are coming. Just hold on, please, for me.”

Blood poured out of Kingsley’s mouth as he started convulsing. He looked terrified, his eyes twisted in pain and horror and fear. With all her terror, Hermione’s heart broke for him.

“Kingsley, please—“ she repeated, and she squeezed his hands.

She clenched her fingers around his, her other hand pressed against her throat, completely covered in the blood she couldn’t stop pouring out. She held him as tightly as she could in her arms, as if somehow she could hold him together, knit his skin together so he wouldn’t leave her. He couldn’t leave her, not like this. 

Kingsley looked so scared, Hermione couldn’t stand it. 

“The healers are coming”, she promised again, even though she knew by now that it was late.

The fear didn’t leave his eyes, and it tore Hermione apart.

Hermione closed her eyes for a second, a minute, an hour. Her dad’s voice rang in her ears, loud and clear over the screaming crowds around them. She bent her head down, next to Kingsley’s ear.

“You are my sunshine ,” Hermione whispered, her voice shaking. “ My—my only sunshine. You make me happy, when skies are grey.”

Kingsley stopped convulsing, the blood flowing more slowly beneath her hand on his throat.

“You’ll never know, how much I love you …”, Hermione’s voice wobbled, and she realised she was sobbing, her face wet with tears as well as blood. “Please don’t take my sunshine away — please, Kingsley, don’t go, please don’t go—”

She straightened up to look at his face, and her chest went cold. Kingsley’s eyes looked ahead, at her, at nothing. She felt his hand tightened around hers, and then let go altogether.

Hermione stopped breathing.

Kingsley was finally at peace in Hermione’s arms. His sun had descended, never to rise again.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Madam Minister 

“I didn’t know the counter-spell”, Hermione heard herself say, her voice distorted and faded in her ears. “Harry said that Snape sang a counter-spell. He didn’t say what the spell was.”

A cool palm rested on her arm.

“Hermione,” said a quiet voice. Magnus? “You have to let go.”

“He didn’t say what to sing”, Hermione said. “I didn’t know. So I sang him a lullaby instead.”

——

Hermione opened her eyes. She saw nothing. 

The quiet voice and cool palm had disappeared. 

“Hermione, you have to let go”, said a another, louder voice.

Harry? Yes.

Hermione held on tighter. 

“No”, she said. “Not yet.”

“Please Hermione,” Harry’s voice pleaded. He sounded wrecked, his words breaking as he spoke them. “You have to let go.”

“I can’t”, she said, her own voice dull and dispassionate. “I’m waiting for the healer to come.”

“Hermione”, Harry said. “A healer can’t help now.”

Hermione closed her eyes and rocked, the way she had seen Ginny rock Lily in her arms. 

Hot hands clasped her shoulders, pulling at her, trying to release her grip. Hermione shook them off.

“No”, Hermione said, insistent. “Get a healer.”

The quiet voice and cool palm came back.

“Hermione, we will get him a healer,” Magnus promised. “You just have to let go of him so they can see him.”

Hermione held Kingsley tighter, her head resting on top of his.

“No. I’ll let go when they come”, she said.

Hermione didn’t know why, but she felt that if she let go now, she would be letting go of herself too. It was something she couldn’t afford to do.

Several hands were now holding onto her, wrenching a gap between her and Kingsley. Hermione slapped the hands away, pushing blindly out in front of her.

“No!”, she screamed, her eyes wild. “No, I won’t let go, you can’t make me—“

“No! Don’t!” Harry yelled.

Then suddenly her eyes were drooping, which was strange as they were already closed. And then she began to sink…

As Hermione drifted into a comfortable darkness, she heard Percy’s voice, a sharp contrast to the quietness that was enveloping her into its folds.

“Merlin”, she heard him whisper. “Oh Merlin, he’s really gone, he’s dead—“

—-

WIZARDING BRITAIN IN SHOCK AS MINISTER OF MAGIC IS MURDERED ON CHRISTMAS DAY said the Daily Prophet.

MURDERED MINISTER: WHO DID IT AND WHY? Said the Prophet Express.

MAGICAL BRITAIN IN CHAOS said the Wizarding Times.

FEARS FOR THIRD WAR: ANOTHER MURDERED MINISTER? Said the Magical Mail.

MINISTER DIES IN GOLDEN GIRL’S ARMS DURING CHRISTMAS MEMORIAL said Witch Weekly.

—-

Hermione opened her eyes. 

“Miss Granger, I need you to open your mouth”, said a strange female voice. 

Her head hurt from the noise around her, and Hermione couldn’t focus on what was going on. She was shivering and everything ached, from the roots of her hair to the bones in her ankles. Her skin felt itchy, as though paint had dried on her skin. 

“Where am I?”, she said blearily, her vision still hazy. ‘What’s going on?”

“You’re at St Mungo’s, Miss Granger”, the woman said. “I’m a healer here. I need you to swallow this potion.”

Hermione’s eyes burned, and suddenly her face was wet.

“Where were you?” She croaked, her voice rough. “He needed you—“

“Ma’am, I need you to just open your mouth.”

Hermione tried to stand up and she felt the world tilt around her. Her face slapped against something hard and plasticky.

“No!”, she said, her voice shrill and rising. “No! Where were you when he needed you? Where were you when I needed you?”

“Ma’am you need to calm down—”

Hands on her skin, again.

“No!” Hermione screamed. “Let go of me, let go—“

Darkness again.

—-

Hermione opened her eyes.

Warm arms holding her close, rocking her slightly, as the air moved around her. She remembered being rocked like this, as a child. She had felt as though nothing could touch her, in her dad’s arms; not pain, not fear, not despair. Nothing at all. 

“—Lav and I will take the boys, maybe ask mum if she can watch Lily just in case—“

“Harry, carry her to the bathroom while I quickly call mum, will you?”

“Ginny, she’s barely conscious. Are you sure you can manage with her?”

“It’ll be fine. Just help me get her up to the bathroom.”

“What’s going on?”, Hermione said, groggily, blinking into the bright light.

Soft, silky hair brushed her face as a smooth hand swept over her face. A sweet floral scent lingered in the air. Hermione was reminded of comfort and happy although both of those things felt unfamiliar, emotions she had once felt but could barely remember. Her head was resting against something solid, a far away thud thud sound under her ear. She reached out and felt wool and cool metal buttons.

Hermione looked up and saw a green blur against the harsh light. 

“Hermione, you’re in Godric’s Hollow with Harry, Ron and me”, said the red hair. “We need to just clean you a little, is that okay?”

“—Bloody hell, Hermione, look at you.”

“Ron, move out of the way, Harry and I will manage—

“But she’s covered in blood, shouldn’t she be in St Mungos—“

“That’s where I got her from”, said a hoarse voice just above her head. “Fuck, you didn’t see her, Ron. The way she was holding him.”

Kingsley.

“No,” Hermione said, desperately. “I have to go, I have to…”

She struggled against the arms around her.

“Hermione, please,” said the hoarse voice. “Let me and Ginny take care of you. Then you can do whatever you want.”

There was another movement of air around her, the cold biting across her arm, startling against the warmth against her cheek. 

Suddenly the arms were gone, replaced by rigid, frozen ground beneath her. She shivered, her insides quivering as she felt abandonment wash over her, she was so alone.

But then the floral scent was back, and she felt warm hands on her shoulders.

“Hermione, you need to have a wash. I’m going to help you,” said the floral scent and warm hands. “I’m just going to take your dirty clothes off, is that okay?”

Hermione shivered again. “Ginny?”

“Yes it’s me,” Ginny said. “You need to have a shower, Hermione. I’m going to help you, is that okay?”

“I don’t want to have a shower now”, Hermione said. “ I want to sleep.”

“You will sleep”, Ginny promised. “But first, you just need a bit of a scrub, okay?”

She was talking to Hermione like she was a small child, like she was James, Albus or Lily. It was strangely comforting, and Hermione wished for nothing but her own parents just then; the sense of safety only they could provide. 

Hermione felt a tug on her arms, her neck and then her head. There was a pull at her feet, a rustle of material as they swept down her legs.

A click behind her back, and suddenly she felt cold, so cold. An arm looped under her arms and shoulders, pulling her up. Hermione’s head spinned as she suddenly stood upright. Her legs wobbled and she almost buckled over. But then there was a solidness next to her, holding her up. 

Hermione flinched as she was hit by a spray of hot, streaming water. It poured down her hair and onto her face, making her gasp at the suddenness of it. She stopped shivering but now she was shaking, trembling, her skin vibrating against her bones as she placed her hands on the walls of the shower stall.

She opened her eyes, and water dripped down her eyes, blinding her. But then her vision cleared, enough to see rivers of red water whirling down the shower drain. 

Kingsley’s blood, flecking his mouth, soaking and staining her robe like red wine on white silk—

Hermione crashed onto the hard shower stall floor, pain shooting up her legs and to her heart. She breathed fast and shallowly, trying to hold herself up on her arms, but she couldn’t, she just couldn’t .

The cold came back and she was shivering again, her skin clammy and freezing. She couldn’t imagine feeling warm ever again. 

I am so very proud of you.

Hermione’s face was wet. With water from the shower, with blood that washed off onto her hands. His blood was on her hands, it was literally on her hands, it was her fault, all her fault, she could have saved him—

Sobs racked her body, so hard that she was gasping from it, her lips opening and closing like a dying fish without a chance of finding water even though she was practically drowning in it. She had lost control of her body. It was heaving up and down painfully, her breaths coming in and out in a burning trail, and her lungs were on fire, which didn’t make sense, because she was surrounded by water—

“ I just needed to get the towel—oh, Hermione.”

Hermione tangled her arms around her body, trying to preserve what little heat it held, as she cried and cried.

She wept with her whole body, with the pain she could and couldn’t feel, the numbness that was taking over her just as jarring and devastating as the ache in her heart that felt like a million cuts. 

A body surrounded her, heavy and warm. She held onto it, the wet hair and clothes, like a lifeline against the savageness of the sea she was lost in. 

“It’s okay”, Ginny said. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

“It will never be okay,” Hermione wept. “I will never be okay again.”

—-

KINGSLEY SHACKLEBOLT: THE MINISTER WHO CARRIED BRITAIN AFTER A WAR wrote the Wizarding Times.

BELOVED MINISTER BRUTALLY MURDERED- MAGICAL COMMUNITY IS DEVASTATED said the Daily Prophet.

UNANSWERED QUESTIONS: WHY WAS SHACKLEBOLT MURDERED? Asked the Magical Independent.

—-

Hermione opened her eyes.

Her eyes were heavy with sleep, but they were pried open by the invisible but unrelenting at strings of consciousness.

She was lying in a bed, although it wasn’t her bed. She was wearing pyjamas, but they weren’t her fleece pyjamas. She was in a room that wasn’t her room. She was about to scream when her memories swept over her, the crush of a body falling on hers, the wet slap of bloodied hands meeting—

Hermione sat up, and saw Harry slumped on an armchair next to the window, his tired face riddled with anxiety even in his sleep. She looked at him, for what felt like a long time.

She thought about how much happiness and excitement they had had for their futures, reaching for it like the bright and hopeful thing it was.

She thought about how that had changed over the years as they realised that, actually, they had been children fighting a war for inept adults who should have done better, and now they had scars that would never fade.

She thought about how blasé and hard Harry had become, and how angry and defensive she had become. 

She thought about how everything had changed and nothing had, not really. So many people had died, but it only now that her friend had died that she realised that maybe this world of theirs was really fucked up, beyond any repair. Maybe she shouldn’t be trying to save it, but razing it to the ground, from the top level down—

Hermione felt so lost in despair that she didn’t fight unconsciousness. She welcomed it. 

—-

IS MURDERED MINISTER A SIGN THAT THE BLOOD WARS HAVE TRULY BEGUN? Asked the Magical Mail.

WHO WILL LEAD US NOW ? Asked the Prophet Express.

MAGICAL BRITAIN WITHOUT A LEADER stated the International Wizarding Times.

TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE: BRITAIN NEEDS LEADER DURING SENSITIVE TIMES said the Magical Independent.

—-

Hermione opened her eyes.

“Hermione. ‘Mione, wake up.”

Hermione’s eyelids flickered, but stayed resolutely shut. They seemed sewn together right, and she fought to unthread her eyelashes, which seemed to have knitted together.

Eventually she looked out from her pillow and saw Ron sitting on the armchair that Harry had been in, but pushed closer to the bed. He laid down a tray of food on the bedside table.

“You need to eat something,” Ron said, and picked up a plate of buttered toast. “Have some breakfast.”

Hermione looked at the toast, which was just on the right side of golden-brown and carefully buttered all the way to the edges. But just the sight of it, sitting there on the flower-trimmed plate, made her feel like vomiting. 

All she wanted to do was sleep.

“I’m not hungry,” she said, and turned her head into the pillow. “Maybe later.”

“Hermione,” she heard Ron say, but that was all she heard as she drifted back into unconsciousness. 

—-

HERMIONE GRANGER: SHACKLEBOLT'S SUCCESSOR ? Asked the Daily Prophet.

GOLDEN GIRL TO BECOME MINISTER ? Asked Witch Weekly.

BRIGHTEST WITCH OF OUR AGE: MINISTER OF MAGIC ? Asked Daily Express.

CRUMPLE-HORN SNORKACKS SIGHTED IN THAILAND said the Quibbler.

—

Hermione dreamed. 

She dreamed she was floating, clouds of pillowy fog under her bare feet. She stood up, but the fog remained, whirling around her in concentric circles. Frowning as wisps of it tangled around her fingers, she tried to push it away.

Suddenly, the fog started to crawl up her arms, circling around her arms and climbing towards her neck. She blinked, and the fog morphed, the white wisps turning into thick tendrils of jet-black hair that scratched her face as screams echoed in her ears, they were her screams—

—She’s running, running faster than her malnourished body was capable of maintaining. She could hear the Snatchers getting closer, and she’s so sure now, so sure she is going to die—

—She saw Snape raise his wand in her direction, and she instantly knew she had been wrong, Snape wasn’t on their side after all, Snape was a true Death Eater all along. But if that was the case, why did he look so broken—

—The scratchy black hair disappeared, and was replaced by a howling creature climbing on top of her. His putrid breath curled over her face, the smell of rotting corpses clinging between his teeth. She could feel his excitement, the excitement of adding another rotting corpse to his list. She’s going to give you to me when she’s done with you, the creature said to her. What are you going to do now, mudblood bitch? You’re nothing but a powerless mudblood bitch now, you’ll never be able to fight me. You’re going to taste so sweet, maybe she won’t mind if I have a little taste to whet my appetite, it’s not like you can do anything—

—She was running, running through the department of mysteries. Suddenly she found herself looking into the cold, pale and piercing blue eyes of Augustus Rookwood. Rookwood was dead now, she knew, but why did those eyes look so familiar—

—No, wait said a quiet, male voice. The voice was rough and high-pitched, like it was scared. You have to wait for my aunt, or she’s going to be really mad. The putrid-breathed creature laughed over her, manically and with abandon. He said don’t worry, little Malfoy, by the time she’s back there won’t be much point in being mad—

—Time turners crashing to the ground in the Department of Mysteries; since disappeared without a trace, while some splayed across the floor as people run over them, one even fell beyond what she later knew was the Veil—

—Blood was everywhere, staining the world red. Hermione looked down at her bloodied hands, and then Kingsley’s face, his eyes wide open and blank. He had been relying on her to save him, to keep him alive, and she had failed, she had—

—The world was coloured in hues of grey. Hermione blinked and realised that the grey was a pair of eyes, wide and panicked. They’re coming, he mouthed, save yourself. Hermione would have frowned at him, if she could do anything at all, but she was so, so tired and everything hurt. Save herself, she had thought, if you were a decent human being you would have saved me. But she was realising, too late, that there were more people in the world that would let you die than there were that would help you live—

—Who had called Dobby, she asked much later. How did Dobby know we were there? There had been no answer, and at the same time, she had it. 

——

WHERE IS HERMIONE GRANGER ? Asked all of the newspapers in Britain. 

—-

Hermione opened her eyes, gasping. 

She sat upright, blood rushing to her head and making it pound painfully. She looked around, still gasping, the images from her nightmare swirling around and fading. Yet somehow they were still there, vivid beneath her eyelids, as unrelenting like the fog she had dreamed of. 

A ghostly creature was swirling around the room, its eerie wings leaving a silver trail behind it. The bird—A rook? A magpie?—eventually sat on the end of the bed, facing her.

“Wizengamot has called an emergency session,” said Magnus. “ You have an hour.”

The rook slowly dispersed into ethereal light particles before before disappearing altogether.

Focusing on breathing, Hermione slowly inhaled and exhaled, and took in the room around her. She knew she was in Harry’s guest bedroom, having slept in this particular room before.

Early morning light streamed from the large window, tiny dust particles dancing in the rays that caressed her face. The room was painted in hues of amber and yellow, the sun shining and heralding a new day. 

Hermione swallowed and closed her eyes. Kingsley’s soft smile as they sat in his office appeared beneath her eyelids.

She blinked at the door as Ron walked suddenly walked in. He looked at her, startled, clearly not expecting to see her awake.

“Hi,” he said. “It’s good to see you up. How are you feeling?”

Hermione looked down at the duvet.

“What day is it?” She asked, in lieu of answer. 

Ron hesitated. “December 28th. It’s been…”

Three days since he died, Hermione’s mind supplied. 

Angry tears threatened to fall from her eyes.

What was she doing? Kingsley was dead and she had been lying around for three days—

“Where’s Harry?” She asked.

“He’s at the ministry,” Ron said. “Ginny’s gone to drop the boys off to school, or else she would be here. She asked me to come over to make sure you’re alright.”

She swallowed. “Do they know who did it?”

She didn’t have to explain. 

“No,” Ron said. “Not yet, anyway. Hermione, don’t you think you should eat something?”

Hermione shook her head.

“I have to go into work,” she said, and tried to stand up. Her head spun, and she felt Ron grab hold of her arms. 

“I have to go into work,” she repeated. “I have to…”

Tears streamed down her face, a burning trail down her neck, to her heart. 

“I have to make them pay,” she sobbed. “They have to pay, whoever did it, whoever killed him.”

Ron wrapped his arms around her, and she was struck by how much closer they were as friends, closer than they ever had been as lovers.

“You will do that,” Ron promised, his head above her own. “But breakfast and a shower first. You stink.”

Hermione let out a watery laugh, her dreams whirling in front of her eyes. 

Save yourself, he had said. She didn’t want to think of his name. She didn’t know why she was dreaming of him now of all times, or if he had even really said that. Everything from that time felt like a dream. But maybe her mind was telling her what her heart wouldn’t. 

Save yourself. Because if you sink, no one will be able to bring you back up. 

In an ideal world, she would have time to grieve and process her loss. But this was far from an ideal world, and it was her job to try and fix it. After all, this is what Kingsley had wanted for her, had been meaning to prepare her for.

She was up; it was time to get back up and fight. 

I trust you to make the right decisions when the time comes, Kingsley had said.

She couldn’t afford to fall down now. It was time to make decisions for those who couldn’t. 

—-

She stepped into the Atrium, into abject chaos. Cameras blazed in her eyes, and she flinched.

Hermione felt disorientated, like she had been away from the ministry for much longer than she had. Her mind was sluggish, her chest heavy as she tried to regulate her breathing. She wasn’t ready for this, no matter how much she pretended she was— she wasn’t ready. 

Then through the blaze, she saw Magnus stalk through the crowds of journalists, and stop in front of her.

“Hermione,” he said, his eyes sombre and careful. “I wondered if you would make it. It is good that you have made it.”

Her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth, and she was all too aware of the journalists watching them. Magnus spared them a glance, before hovering an arm around her shoulders and pushing through the crowd.

“Let’s just get through here,” Magnus said, close to her ear. “We have a lot to talk about.”

He led her to a back corridor, with a lift that would lead to the Minister’s office. He turned to her.

“How are you doing?” He asked. “Auror Potter said that you needed some time and to not bother you.”

“I needed some time, yes,” Hermione said, feeling disconcertingly void of feeling. “The Minister has just…”

She faltered. She was supposed to be gaining control, but she felt like she was adrift, unable to tether herself to reality.

“That is to be expected,” Magnus said, softly. “I didn’t realise quite how close you and Kingsley were.”

Hermione looked at him, her chest burning.

“And you?” She asked, looking Magnus over. “How are you doing?”

Magnus was sharply dressed as ever, his hair smoothed back, his robes carefully pressed over a suit. She thought he looked tired, but other than that, it was hard to tell that he had seen everything she had, that he had been a part of everything she had. 

“I was never as close to Kingsley as you,” he said, bluntly. “I am sorry for what happened to him. He didn’t deserve it. But we have to look to the future. This time, the future is ours. We have a chance to have what we should have always had. You know that, right?”

Hermione frowned at his words, her mind whirring.

“Yes,” she said eventually. “That’s why I’m here.”

Hermione pressed the button for the lift and, after a moment, stepped into it. After a beat, Magnus followed. As the lift started moving, Magnus looked down at her, his eyes boring into hers when she looked back at him in kind. 

She remembered what Kingsley had once said to her.

Magnus is the alternative I’m trying to avoid.

“Hermione?” He asked. Not hesitantly, not unsure in any way.

He said her name like he knew what she was about to ask, and was prepared for it.

“I need to know what you are going to do, Magnus,” Hermione said, quietly. 

“What do you mean?” He asked. 

“Let’s not beat around the bush,” Hermione replied. A small fire lit within her, bolstering her convictions.

She stood in front of him.

“I’m going for Minister,” she said bluntly. “Are you going to challenge that?”

Magnus didn’t waver, and his face was schooled into a neutral expression. For a second Hermione’s stomach lurched, preparing to find out that, yes, he was her competitor, that he would fight her—

But then he looked away. Suddenly, he looked exhausted, stress in every line of his face. He looked altogether more human.

“I won’t fight you, Hermione,” he said, softly. “I have always listened to what you had to say.”

Hermione didn’t say anything as the lift doors opened. His response left her feeling more broken somehow, even with the relief that filled her at the same time.

Hermione didn’t want to fight him either. She felt the small fire inside her extinguish. 

“Okay, then,” Hermione said.

And with that, they walked from abject chaos into complete bedlam.

—

“Well, I fucking told everyone they would pick us off one by one,” Marcus Flint projected into the chambers. “The Minister didn’t do shit and now he’s dead!”

The entire room bristled at his words.

“Lord Flint, please watch your words,” Madam Shafiq said tersely. “Our Minister, a up-standing member of our society and our leader, has just been brutally killed. Have some respect.”

Flint was rarely humbled in the Wizengamot sessions, so Hermione felt justified in feeling a surge of satisfaction when he was forced back to his seat, red blotches appearing on his face.

The rest of the Wizengamot members were silent. 

“This emergency Wizengamot session has been called to discuss recent events,” Fudge said. “I am personally…horrified…can’t believe it…”

Fudge trailed off, seeming unable to continue.

“This entire situation is a tragedy,” Madam Shafiq said. “I am extremely disturbed by what has happened. I can not believe someone would—

“Do we know who did it?” Lord Fawley interrupted.

Harry cleared his throat, and Hermione startled, noticing him for the first time. She had walked into the Wizengamot chambers in what felt like a trance, her stuttering thoughts echoing in her head as Magnus had taken the reigns and cajoled her along.

“As of now, we have a few suspects, but no one in custody,” Harry said. “There are several eye witness accounts, but also a few things that seem out of place, so I am unable to discuss the matter openly at the moment. But I am confident we will know who the assailant is soon.”

Hermione swallowed hard, wanting to ask questions and demand answers. But then she looked at the empty seat beside her.

She grasped the table in front of her, her knuckles turning white.

Blood pouring out of the deep gash on Kingsley’s neck, dipping down his shoulder and onto her fingers—

Hermione closed her eyes.

“Very well,” said Madam Shafiq. “Then there is the other matter on hand. We will need to elect another Minister, in the interim at least.” 

Fudge looked up, his eyes flickering hesitantly to Hermione. 

“Would that not be a bit hasty?” He said, quickly. “Minister Shacklebolt has not yet cold in his grave—“

Hermione held back a flinch.

“It is no insult. It is practicality and protocol,” Madam Marchbanks interjected sharply. “There is, after all, a precedent. Rufus Scrimgeour was succeeded very soon after his assassination—“

“—Yes, and look how well that turned out,” Fudge bit back, sarcastically.

“Nevertheless,” Madam Marchbanks said, her cheeks colouring. “We can not be without a Minister, especially not in the current climate. We need an acting Minister, at least.”

“Chief advisor Granger, you are considered Kingsley’s natural successor, yes?” Madam Shafiq said sharply, suddenly facing at Hermione.

Hermione inhaled, feeling light-headed as every eye in the chambers turned to her. 

“Yes,” Hermione replied, with a confidence she didn’t feel. 

She had been trained for this.

She had been prepared for this.

She had always known that she would become Minister, and would do anything to make it happen. She had wanted it so badly.

But just then, Hermione couldn’t remember why. She just felt so empty, a shell of herself, as though a part of her had died with Kingsley. 

She should be stronger than this. She would be stronger than this. 

“Yes,” She repeated. “Kingsley always intended for me to be his second, to campaign for my ministry once his term was over.”

Madam Shafiq nodded, while Fudge and a few other Wizengamot members looked on, bewildered and aghast.

“You can not be seriously considering making her Minister?” Said Lord Fawley, in horror. 

“I am not making her Minister,” Madam Shafiq said firmly. “She will hold a public election in due course. But until then, she is the leader of her party, and therefore next in line for Minister.”

“Come, now, Sonali, surely we need to discuss this—” Fudge interjected. “What about other options? Tiberius Roth, for example?”

There was a wave of murmurs across the room.

Hermione looked at Magnus.

For a second, a single mere second, their eyes connected, pale blue on brown.

“I am not challenging Chief Advisor Granger’s right to her ministry,” Magnus said, his eyes still on Hermione. “She is who Minister Shacklebolt had intended to ascend after him.”

Hermione let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. 

“Cornelius, she has the public’s backing… they expect her as the next Minister,” Madam Marchbank said.

Fudge spluttered, but gave no intelligible response.

“Okay then. With the power vested in me as co-chair of the Wizengamot,” Madam Shafiq said. “I would like to ask if anyone in the party is opposed to Hermione Jean Granger as our Minister for Magic?”

Hermione breathed in and out slowly, standing up. She felt as though she was at the centre of a whirlpool, the eye of a storm, the epi-centre of all chaos and disaster.

She looked behind her, at Kingsley’s staff. She looked at Hyde, at Percy and Harry. Harry smiled at her reassuringly. 

She looked at Magnus. He looked back at her at this time. And then, slowly, he bowed his head. Her eyes widened.

“Then in that case,” Madam Shafiq said. “Miss Granger…if you have a question for us?”

Madam Shafiq was asking her to form a new government. To say the traditional words that a new Minister said to the Wizengamot before ascending to the role.

Hermione’s mind reeled.

“My dear Wizengamot members, officers of Britain’s wizarding parliament and high court of law” she said, Kingsley’s voice echoing in her head. “With your support, I would like to form a new government, with myself as its leader. Do you agree?”

She looked squarely at Fudge, the Chief Marshal and chairman of the Wizengamot, and silently dared him to refuse her. His face was riveted with turmoil, with unsaid words. Eventually, he relented.

“I agree,” he said, reluctantly. Then he called, as was the practised tradition: “Do the other members agree?”

After a beat, waves of ascent rippled down the benches in the chamber. 

“Wait a minute,” Marcus Flint said, suddenly. “So she’s Minister just like that? You can’t just—“

“Oh shut up, Marcus,” said a voice across the room. She looked round to see the brown-haired man looking at Flint with a bored yet annoyed expression. “Get off your high horse and let the rest of us get on with it. Some of us have other things to be doing than sitting here shooting their mouths off all day.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Nott, or so help me—” Flint started, rising in his seat. 

Lord Nott grinned, and lazed back in his seat. 

“It’s not Hogwarts anymore, darling,” Nott called. “You can’t beat me up, although you’re welcome to try.” 

Flint turned red and opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Madam Shafiq.

“Lord Flint, Lord Nott!” She bellowed. “I will not tolerate this kind of behaviour from Wizengamot lords. Be seated and let us carry on.”

Flint looked angrily at Madam Shafiq, then at Nott. And then at Hermione.

Hermione stared back, still standing and not moving her glance. She refused to be cowed by this man.

“Very well,” Madam Shafiq continued, after a beat. “If there is not opposition…and everyone agrees… we will support your government.”

She stood up and bowed her head at Hermione.

“If I may be the first to congratulate you,” Madam Shafiq said, with a small smile. “Madam Minister.”

Hermione looked at her, a high-standing pureblood member of the Wizengamot, bowing to her.

She couldn’t breathe. 

Harry stood up. 

“Madam Minister”, he said loudly in the chambers, and bowed his head to her.

Hermione looked as others followed suit, the Wizengamot members standing up one by one, until all of them were stood at at their benches and bowing their heads at her. 

She looked behind her, and saw everyone on her side standing up.

Hermione looked at Magnus, holding her breath.

With all the grace that he always embodied, Magnus stood up slowly, and also bowed his head to her.

“Madam Minister,” he murmured.

Hermione sucked in a breath. She turned her head to survey the entire chamber.

All these people, some she had worked with and toiled alongside, trying to make tomorrow a better day. Some she had fought with, at loggerheads and never seeing eye to eye with, always rejected and ignored.

Now they all bowed to her. 

Despite everything, her magic rushed through her veins, as something thrilled inside her.

Power.

I am Minister, she thought. I am Minister of Magic. 

And before she could control her mind, Hermione also thought: It’s too soon.

——

She walked into the room with the highest ceilings in the entire ministry- colloquially called the ‘Throne Room.” She kept on walking, until an open coffin came into view, placed on top of a gilded table. 

Kingsley was lying in-state. He looked, for all the world, like he was asleep. A dreamless, peaceful sleep, a far cry from the fear and agony she had seen on his face in his last hours. He looked like he could wake up any second, and for a moment she desperately wished that he would. That he would wake up, that all of this was a horrible dream, that he could stop all the things that she was feeling. 

But he lay there, unmoving, forever asleep. 

They had cleaned him up, and there were no signs of the spell that had taken his life. Dressed in all his finery, he looked every bit like the Minister he no longer was.

More of a Minister than she would ever look. 

Hermione leaned over, and softly smoothed a hand over his face. 

“I don’t feel ready,” she said, her voice breaking. She would not cry now. “But I hope I can make you proud. I will always miss you. Thank you for everything you have done for me. Thank you for giving me a chance.”

She kissed his forehead lightly. 

“I’m going to find out who did this to you,” she promised. “I’ll make sure they pay for it.”

She took one last look at his face, at this man who had been so much to her for so long, and then walked away. She didn’t look back. 

“I am stronger than this,” she said to herself. “I am better than this.”

She wanted to cry, with all of her sore and aching heart. She wanted to bury her head in her arms and crumble to the floor. She wanted to curl up in her bed and never get up, to hide from the darkness that never seemed to leave her.

But she would do none of those things. Because there was no time to grieve, no time to wallow in sadness. Her only option was to move on, otherwise she would not move at all.

——

Hermione was sitting on the hidden bench in the Atrium again, looking at the now-fixed Statue of Unsung Heroes.

She should be working. She should be doing anything other than sitting there, doing absolutely nothing but wallowing in her all-consuming thoughts. Normally, the previous Minister would help hand over duties to the new Minister, running through protocols and addresses, but Kingsley wasn’t there.

She was Minister because Kingsley was dead. 

How was she ever going to do this job if she couldn’t get over the fact she was doing a dead man’s job? It wasn’t hers, not yet, because it wasn’t time, this was happening too fast—

So right now, all she wanted was a bit of peace. Just a little peace away from the stares, whispers and open chatter, a space of time where she didn’t have to pretend she was as untouched as the statue in front of her, mended to look as though nothing had ever happened. 

It had only been a few days, and people were already behaving as though nothing had happened. They were even wishing each other happy new year, like everything would go away when the clock struck twelve. 

“Well, this is oddly voyeuristic of you,” said a voice to her right.

Hermione blinked and looked up in surprise to see Lord Nott, the dark blonde-haired man from Wizengamot. He was looking at her with a bright smile on his face, an overcoat sling over one arm. 

“I mean— don’t get me wrong,” he said cheerfully. “Far be it for me to judge you for your kinks, but I thought you had better taste than ol’ Fudgey and Fawley over there.”

Hermione traced his glance, to see that Fudge and Lord Fawley were indeed in front of the Statue.

“I didn’t even realise they were there,” Hermione said, and then started to stand up. “If you would excuse me, Lord Nott.”

“No, no—sit down, if you would please, Madam Minister,” Lord Nott said, gesturing to the bench. “I’m going to just sit down next to you, if that is okay? We can be voyeurs together. Well, not like that, but you get what I mean.”

Hermione sat down slowly, confused, and Lord Nott swiftly took a seat next to her, his coat on his lap. She was mildly annoyed by his intrusion, but mostly just bewildered as to why he was suddenly talking to her. Perhaps because she was Minister now, and he needed to curry favour somehow. She couldn’t think of any other reason. The Wizengamot peers usually didn’t talk to her much outside of official duties. 

She imagined that would change now. 

“What can I do for you, Lord Nott?” She asked politely. 

Lord Nott scoffed.

“Please, call me Theo,” he said. “Or even Theodore, if you’re feeling particularly proper. But Lord Nott was my father, and it’s awfully rude of you to suggest that I am him.”

Hermione tried to remember what she knew about this man, the name ringing a bell.

“We went to school together,” Hermione said, eventually. “We were in the same year?”

“Oh, you do remember,” Theo said, looking delighted. “I’m quite chuffed now: Blaise said you would have no idea who I am. He owes me five galleons.”

Hermione felt an odd sense of guilt.

“You were in Slytherin, and I was…busy,” Hermione said, slightly petulantly.

At least she thought he was in Slytherin. She had a vague image of a thin and lanky boy in a silver and green tie sitting by himself in the library, always a good distance away from her. Hermione didn’t recall ever seeing him hanging out with the other Slytherins, and in the classes they shared he was always quiet.

He looked different now, more broad-shouldered and fitting into his features. She didn’t quite know how to put together that quiet boy with the man in front of her. 

She didn’t know why he was talking to her in the first place.

“Well I guess we all were, back then,” Theo said conversationally, not looking the least bit offended. “You were busy, you know, helping defeat a psychopath masquerading as a Dark Lord, and I was busy dodging said Dark Lord when he and my abusive arsehole of a father were intent on branding me like a cow. Good times, all round.”

Hermione was stunned into silence.

“I’m… sorry,” she said, not knowing what else to say. “I know not everyone was willing to support Voldemort from the old families.”

“It’s neither here nor there now,” Theo said, looking a bit more sombre than before. “They’re both dead now, at any rate.”

They sat in silence for a bit, when Theo suddenly clapped his hands on his lap.

“Well, the wind really blew up Satan’s arse, didn’t it?” He said, as Hermione blinked in surprise at his words. He frowned. “Wait…he’s the baddie from the bible, right? I can never get all the characters straight. It doesn’t help that the pages keep getting stuck together, they’re so flimsy.”

Hermione couldn’t help but make choking sounds as she nodded, before huffing out a small laugh.

Theo looked pleased.

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” he advised her. “The pages stick together because I read it in the bath. It’s quite fun, light reading. At least, the Old Testament is. But what I actually meant to say is….I’m sorry for your loss.”

Hermione’s small smile disappeared, and she regarded the man next to her.

“Thank you,” Hermione said. “No one has actually said that to me yet.”

“Yeah, well. Most magical people are idiots,” Theo said. “Probably muggles too, but I don’t know many. But anyone who looked properly could tell you both were close. So, my condolences, Madam Minister.”

Hermione blinked hard, horrified to feel tears brimming in her eyes. 

“I hate being called that,” She said, suddenly furious. “ Madam Minister. Why does my gender need to be delineated next to my role? It’s not like any of male Minister before me were called Lord or Mister Minister, or anything silly like that. I’m the Minister for Magic, that is all.”

Even to her own ears, calling herself Minister sounded unreal. Like she was playing a part in a play, or stolen someone else’s identity. 

“That’s true,” Theo agreed. “The wizarding community are an old-fashioned lot. But I thought you were all about changing that anyway. It's always seemed that way, even back in school.”

“I am. I will,” Hermione said fiercely, swallowing her tears. “It’s just been so…fast.”

She had no idea why she had chosen this man to be honest with, a man she didn’t truly know, even if they had gone to school together. But something about him was strangely disarming, strangely real in this institution where everyone was playing a farce all the time. 

“I believe you,” he said, quietly, and they looked at each other, sad brown eyes meeting solemn green ones.

She didn’t know what he saw in her eyes, but his face softened, and he started rifling through the pockets of his coat. He pulled out a shiny, purple packet.

“Here, have—oh Merlin’s wrinkled ball sack,” Theo swore, as some small objects and folded papers fell from his coat pocket. “Hang on.”

Hermione bent down to help him pick the items up, and raised her eyebrows as she picked up a small yo-yo.

“This is a muggle toy,” she said in surprise. 

“Is it? Huh,” Theo said, looking dumbfounded. “Pansy told me it was a butt plug.”

Hermione really did choke then, unable to hold back her laughter. Theo looked on, smiling widely.

“Well, my job here is done,” he said cheerfully. “Now you look less like a ghost. Can’t have our new Minister mopping and looking so dejected.”

Hermione stopped laughing, and smiled at him uncertainly.

“Why do you care?” She said, feeling oddly bereft. “We don’t know each other.”

Theo smiled gently.

“I like to think we will be friends someday,” Theo said. “At least, I hope so.”

He put the shiny packet he had pulled out of his coat in her hand. 

“An old school teacher once told me that chocolate makes everything better”, Theo said. “I find he’s been correct so far.”

Something tugged hard at Hermione’s heart.

“Remus Lupin?” She asked, looking down at the chocolate frog packet. 

“Yes,” Theo said. “By all accounts, he was probably the best DA teacher we had, if you don’t mind the whole furry, bitey-bitey thing. He was nice. Always let me do my homework in his classroom during lunchtime, so the older students couldn’t jump me on the way to the Great Hall.”

Hermione swallowed a lump in her throat.

“He was a good guy,” she agreed. “Thank you for the frog.”

Theo nodded, and Hermione turned the packet around to open it, frowning when she realised something was stuck to the back.

“Wait, what’s this?” She said. She peeled a small piece of card from the chocolate frog.

It looked like a postcard, but the other side of the card was blank, and one edge was slightly more worn than the others.

The card had an image of a peacock on it, gilded with gold leaf and painted in deep azure blues and forest green hues. The peacock was striking, but somehow melded into the soft beige background. 

“Oh that”, Theo said nonchalently. “It’s something I got from an old friend, once upon a time. A gift, when I was very sad. I didn’t know I still had it.”

His tone was casual, yet wistful, too.

“It’s very beautiful,” she said. She didn’t know why she was so captivated by a picture of a peacock, but the image was calming and safe in a way she couldn’t describe.

It seemed familiar, yet not at all, at the same time. 

He looked at it and then pressed it back into her hand when she attempted to give it back.

“You like it, so keep it,” Theo said. “Call it a small congratulatory gift from an ancient, withered lord—“

“—We’re the same age, Theo,” Hermione interrupted.

Theo grinned.

“Like I said. We’re old news these days,” Theo said. “Until you bring us up to snuff, I hope.”

He stood in front of her, and bowed his head.

“Minister,” he said, with the air of a long-suffering Lord being forced away from his Queen. “I must be going. Until we meet again.”

He held out his hand to Hermione. She gave him her hand, thinking he would shake it, but instead he kissed the back of her hand. She watched him, slightly bemused. 

“Happy new year, Minister,” he said, bowing his head again. He walked away with a wave, as quickly as he had appeared.

She felt something lighten inside her, her shoulders rising a few inches as it did. She smiled down at the picture of the peacock, pocketed it, and then sat back to open the chocolate frog.

The card was one of herself. 

She had managed through adversity before. This card was a testament to what she had managed. She would do it again.

It wasn’t until later that she realised that he hadn’t once asked her why she, the new Minister, was hiding behind a pillar in the ministry that was now technically hers.

—-

Hermione walked into Harry’s home, and laughed as James and Albus came running towards her. She grabbed them both into a tight hug, kissing the top of their heads.

“I missed you both,” she said to them. “What are you doing?”

“Uncle Ron brought Lily a baby broomstick,” James told her. “We’re tryin’ to teach her to ride it, but dad says she’s too small.”

Harry smiled at her from his armchair, baby Lily on his knee.

“I told Ron she isn’t old enough for it,” Harry said. “I’m a bit worried what he’s going to do when his baby is here.”

Hermione smiled back at him. Harry’s face softened.

”Where is Ron?” She asked.

“In the garden. How are you?” Harry said. “It’s mental in the ministry right now, I can’t even find you. Where have you been?”

“Here and there,” she said. “Trying to get my head around it all.”

She watched James and Albus run out of the room, taking the small broomstick with them.

“Thank you,” she said to Harry. “To you, Ginny and Ron, for taking care of me. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you all.”

“Hermione, it’s okay. You went through a massive shock,” Harry said. “We are here, no matter what you need. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all this time.”

Hermione looked at him as he rubbed Lily’s back, the baby chattering away. 

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said, softly. “I shouldn’t have said what I said to you. I was overwhelmed and upset. But that doesn’t mean I should have had a go at you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry said easily. “It’s true, I guess—I don’t understand. But you’re my best friend and I care about you. You can always tell me what’s going on, you know that, don’t you?”

Hermione nodded. 

“And you’re truly okay?” Harry said. “Things are probably going to get harder for a bit before they get better.”

“I know,” Hermione said. “I just hope we can find out who did it, that’s all.”

Who killed Kingsley. She didn’t need to elaborate.

Harry looked a bit uneasy all of a sudden.

“We have a few leads that I will need to talk to you about sometime soon,” he said. “But perhaps now isn’t the time.”

Hermione wanted to know, but at the same time she didn’t. Her head was buzzing with more thoughts she could handle, yet at the same time she felt like she was thinking at half-speed, the world slowed down around her. 

Clearing her throat, she pointed at Lily.

“I would feel a lot better if I could get some Lily cuddles,” she said. 

Harry laughed, and put his hands under Lily’s arms to hand her over. 

“Happy new year,” Harry said, looking down at them both.

Ginny barrelled into the garden, looking more than a little annoyed.

”I’m going to kill Ron,” she hissed. “He took the boys to test Lily’s new broomstick near that big tree with the beehive in it. He knows that James is allergic to bee stings. Pass me the epipen, just in case, will you?”

Harry shot out of his chair, and grabbed the little yellow pen from the windowsill.

—-

GOLDEN GIRL: NEW MINISTER FOR MAGIC said the Daily Prophet.

HERMIONE GRANGER IS MINISTER FOR MAGIC said the Wizarding Times. 

FIRST MUGGLE-BORN MINISTER- START OF A NEW ERA? Said the Magical Independent.

NEW YEAR, NEW MINISTER said Witch Weekly.

—-

Hermione rang in the new year at home, on her desk, wading through masses of files and scrolls that she should only have been privy to in a few years, with Kingsley at her side explaining them all.

Perhaps by then she would have met someone, too, someone who would look at her with pride and affection in their eyes. They would watch the countdown to midnight together, and Hermione would feel a surge of hope and promise with every second.  

But instead she was sitting there, listening to the fireworks outside her window, feeling as though the light inside her had been extinguished for good, her heart aching, yearning for someone who didn’t exist.

She felt something press against her ankle, and Hermione dropped her quill to look under her table.

“Happy new year, Crookshanks,” she said, stroking the cat under his chin. “Just you and me against the world, huh? 

This was not how she had wanted to become Minister, how she wanted things to have been. But It would have to be enough, because it was all she had. 

—-

Right after the new year, the Wizengamot decided that protocols must be observed, no matter the circumstances. That meant it was time for the next Minister’s Debate. 

Only Hermione was the Minister, now. 

God, she hated these debates, and that was before she was the main attraction. The person they would rip apart the most, like a pack of starving hyenas promised a feast. 

She sat in the minister's seat, on King Arthur’s table, holding court over subjects that didn’t feel like hers. She watched them bustle around her, muttering and moaning over something or another on a piece of parchment. Sometimes they said something to her, with a bow of their head, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel like she was still in her nightmare.

In her nightmare she was running: running from Snatchers, from Death Eaters, from the Department of Mysteries, from Malfoy Manor, from the demons in her head—

She blinked, and she was standing in the lift to Level Ten. She looked to her side and saw Magnus staring at her, his blue eyes bright and piercing.

“Are you ready?” He asked her. 

Hermione breathed in, willing herself not to feel Kingsley's ghost lingering at her side.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, feeling more than a little broken. She squared her shoulders, and looked straight ahead. “I am prepared.”

The doors opened, and they walked into an arena.

The arena was ready, with the Roman emperors and lions looking down at their new gladiator with curiosity and disdain. 

Hermione breathed out, and took Kingsley’s seat. She saw Flint looking in her direction, smirking, and she ignored him. She looked ahead of her, watching the Wizengamot members find their seats and arrange themselves into their familiar defence and offensive stances.

She tried to mentally prepare herself for what would be her first trial as minister, for the battering and barbed words that were coming, only now she was alone and so unprepared to handle them that she—

Hermione’s mind ground to a stop.

She stared at the Wizengamot seat next to Marcus Flint.

The first thing she saw were his eyes.

Even the distance between them couldn’t stop Hermione from being thrown right back into her nightmares.

Grey eyes looking at her in anguish and barely hidden terror—

Like a grim striding out of the fog of her dreams, sitting cross-legged and staring right at her, was Draco Malfoy.

Hermione should have known then that the nightmare had only just started. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Scapegoat I

His eyes bored into hers. Then, as quickly as it happened, it was gone. She blinked, only to see him turn to Flint, his head cocked towards the other man as he whispered something in his ear.  

Fudge was speaking to her and she couldn’t concentrate. Of all the times to turn up at Wizengamot, he couldn’t have chosen a worst time to do it.

He didn’t look at her again. So she stole glances at him, while Fudge was jabbering over some technicality before the debate properly started, as surreptitiously as she could. 

Hermione was thrown by his sudden presence at Wizengamot, but the other thing that had shocked her was just how different he looked.

It wasn’t that he was unrecognisable—there was nothing pedestrian about that hair— but the subtle changes made him stand out to Hermione in a way she wasn’t expecting. 

He had grown into his features, she quickly realised. The pointy chin and lanky physique had been replaced by sharp features and a broader torso, and he also seemed taller than she remembered.

His dress sense emulated that of his father’s, but at the same time, it had a completely different effect on him. Not sinister, with an air of domineering menace as it has done the elder Malfoy. Instead he simply exuded innate sophistication, sharp and inherently elegant without effort— something that had always eluded Hermione.

It irritated her for reasons she refused to think too deeply about.

“All seems in order,” Fudge bellowed suddenly, interrupted Hermione’s train of thought. “Madam Shafiq, you will start?”

“Very well,” Madam Shafiq said. “Madam Minister, I was wondering what your plans were for—“

The next half way felt like the most intense interrogation of her life. The reality of it was that she was just not prepared for it, no matter how much she had tried to be. Even when she had intended these debates with Kingsley, she had never been the sole focus of the angry tirades from the Wizengamot.

It was humbling, to say the least, and made her realise just how much she had to learn—and how quickly. 

Still coming to terms with her grief and her sudden abrupt ascension to Minister, and with no one to help her with the handover of tasks of papers— as well as the Christmas period, in which all work at the ministry ground to a stop— Hermione was not even close to being ready for her new role.

It was obvious that the Wizengamot members knew it. 

“Madam Minister—“ Fudge said, looking bored. “You should honestly have talked about all of this with your staff first.”

“Chief Marshal, I have not had time to appoint my staff yet” Hermione replied hotly. “And I would prefer to be known simply as ‘Minister’ rather than—“

“Madam minister,” Lord Fawley said, with a condescending laugh. “You have had plenty of time. You were named Minister almost two weeks ago! Let it be clear, you are slacking, ma’am.”

Hermione bristled, and couldn’t help but look up at Malfoy, who seemed to be looking intently at his lap for some reason. 

Slacking?

Hermione had never slacked in anything in her life.

“Lord Fawley,” Hermione retorted, drawing herself to her full height. “Since I have been appointed Minister, I have had to deal with the handover of tasks by myself, come to terms of the sudden and tragic exit of the last Minister—who was a dear friend of mine. I have been dealing with liaising with the auror department to organise a proper investigation into his death, and also drawing up my own manifesto. So forgive me if I haven’t yet cleared everything from my overflowing list, sir, but I am getting to it.”

The man simply looked at her with the same distaste Fudge had shown her earlier, not effected by her words.

Nothing she ever said or did had any effect on these people. It was as though nothing she said or did would mount to their expectations.

“You went missing for three days after Shacklebolt’s death,” Marcus Flint jeered from his seat. “I would say you had plenty of time to deal with it, like the rest of us.”

“Three days to mourn the loss of a friend is no time at all!” Hermione exclaimed.

“Was he a friend though?” Flint taunted. “You say he was, but maybe it’s just a ploy to laze around on the job. If you don’t have what it takes to be Minister, just say so, Granger. We would happily find a replacement.”

Hermione felt her cheeks start to blister red, anger thrilled along her veins once more. She breathed in deeply, and felt her magic rush inside her, onyx black and buzzing.

“I have more than what it takes to be Minister,” Hermione said, as calmly as she could. “I do not laze, I do not slack. My apologies if you think my grieving the loss of the last Minister is unseemly, but I think a lack of empathy on your part says a lot more about you than it does about me.”

Flint stood up in his seat abruptly, jostling Malfoy as he did so— who gave him a dark look—and Hermione stared him down as his eyes turned furious.

“How dare you malign me!,” Flint bellowed. “Who are you to say that I have no empathy?”

“Who am I?” Hermione said, her own fury starting to take over. She looked at the Wizengamot bench, a challenge in her eyes. “I’ll tell you who I am, Lord Flint, I am your Minister for Magic. That is who I am!”

As she said the last words, she slammed her hands down on the desk in front of her. She watched as more than one Wizengamot member followed the movement. 

How dare he question her, taunt her—malign her. A mere Lord in a building filled to the brim with them—how dare he—he would never have questioned Kingsley that way—

Hermione stilled.

And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it?

She wasn’t Kingsley.

She wasn’t a man, she wasn’t a pureblood.

She wasn’t someone these people respected.

It didn’t matter. She would make them respect her—

Suddenly, she heard Malfoy’s voice through the buzz of her magic and the fire in her veins.

“Marcus”, he said carefully, looking at the man. “Sit down.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Draco,” Flint said through his teeth, still staring her down. 

“Sit down,” Malfoy commanded once again, louder this time. Flint looked at him, then at Hermione.

He acquiesced, glaring at Hermione as he took his seat.

Hermione blinked at Malfoy, confused. For the space of a heartbeat, he glanced back at her, making her suck in a breath.

But then he looked away.

Hermione breathed out, the fire inside her cooling down as their connection broke.

“Well, that was…dramatic,” Nott—Theo—said suddenly, from the other side. “Kind of wish I brought some cockroach clusters for the show. But shouldn’t we be getting on with the agenda? I’ve got to see a man about a boggart after this.”

Hermione would have laughed if she didn’t feel like crying.

“Yes…well,” Fudge said, looking distractedly between Flint and Hermione. “Moving on. Next in the agenda is an item that was added by late minister prior to his…passing. Repopulation efforts.”

Hermione’s heart squeezed at the mention of Kingsley, but then she did a double take at the rest of Fudge’s words. 

“Pardon?” Hermione said, confused.

“Repopulation efforts,” Fudge repeated obnoxiously, as though he was speaking to someone who didn’t speak English. “That’s all it says here.”

“I…don’t know what that is about,” Hermione said slowly, flicking through her papers. “I haven’t found anything that mentions repopulation efforts in Kingsley’s papers.”

When you become Minister, Hermione, you will have to invoke a marriage law , Hermione’s brain supplied.

She squashed the thought immediately.

She felt a thread of annoyance run through her when Flint scoffed loudly.

“I think we all know what that’s about,” he said. 

Hermione ignored him, and turned back to Fudge.

“I have no idea what Minister Shacklebolt intended to discuss about repopulation efforts,” Hermione said. “But I can tell you about mine. I would like to discuss implementing my Foreign Skilled Workers Scheme, as well as open Hogwarts school registration to magical children outside Britain.”

 The entire chambers went quiet. 

“Minister Granger,” Madam Shafiq said. “Your scheme was rejected and the Hogwart’s scheme you suggested was widely considered a bad idea.”

“A lot has changed since then,” Hermione said simply. 

She looked around the chambers, at the individual Wizengamot members. She saw the challenge on Flint and Lord Fawley’s faces, the quiet curiosity on Theo’s. She saw Madam Shafiq and Madam Marchbank’s faces etched with uneasiness. 

Hermione looked at Malfoy once more. He looked as impassive as the last time she had seen him, his face empty of any emotion. She wondered why he had come and what he was planning to do.

“One of those things that have changed,” Hermione challenged. “Is that it is I who is the Minister now.” 

She watched as all the faces turned stony in front of her. Malfoy looked at her then, his eyes sharp with something she couldn’t comprehend. His eyes flickered slightly to her side.

Hermione followed his gaze, her own eyes falling on Magnus. She frowned. 

Magnus looked at her, expressionless, before a careful smile painted itself on his face.

—-

Hermione rushed into a lift in the Atrium, huffing as she did so. Just before the doors shut she saw Theo walk up to Malfoy, who had been standing alone beneath the Statue of Unsung Heroes, looking intently at Severus Snape’s mended face.

She blew a strand of her hair out of her face as she turned to Magnus, who looked as poised as he always did.

“I hate Lord Flint,” Hermione spat, angrily. “That…that bloody baboon, always showing off and talking utter nonsense—“

“He does have a habit of talking out of turn,” Magnus said calmly. “What are you going to do about it?”

“What I always planned to do,” Hermione said. “I’m going to make them listen to me. The days they looked down to me are over.”

Magnus smiled at her, his eyes flashing.

“You are amazing,” he said, simply. 

Hermione looked at him, feeling oddly uneasy.

“I didn’t get a chance to ask you,” Hermione said. “But will you be my Chief Advisor?”

Magnus didn’t seem surprised at her request.

“Of course,” he said. “I would be honoured.”

“Well, that’s one thing sorted then,” Hermione replied, nodding. “Now just the other ten million things I need to do.”

—-

The next couple of days were a whirlwind as Hermione tried to grasp what it meant to be Minister. She realised that for all Kingsley had been preparing her to take over after him, he had very obviously taken for granted that he would be there to pave the way when the time came. The thought made Hermione’s heart ache. 

Team meetings, so many team meetings as she tried to iron out what role went to which person, what schedules, itineraries and plans of Kingsley’s to keep and which to alter. Looking at Kingsley’s near-unintelligible scrawls on document after document twisted her insides, and Hermione found herself constantly having to reign her emotions in as time and time again, something small and benign as Kingsley’s signature could feel like a stab in her gut.

In all the times she had imagined becoming Minister, she had never imagined it being like this. 

She wrote letters to foreign dignitaries establishing her ministry, invited ambassadors and diplomats to meet with her, and made arrangements with the muggle prime minister. There were lots of meetings to arrange other meetings, and parchments referring to other parchments. Hermione had dealt with the bureaucracy for her entire ministerial career, but it seemed there was a new level of it as Minister. 

But all the paper shuffling did distract her—from a truth Kingsley had mentioned to her but once.

Being Minister for Magic was lonely and isolating in a way she has never thought it would be. 

It was 2am, and she was still in the ministry, all the lights in the offices around her turned off. A hazy glow emitted from the lumos of her wand, and she was tired, so tired.

But her mind would not let her rest, would not let her leave this god-forsaken office that was hers and not hers, because she was looking for something. Something she hoped to find before someone else did.

Something she hoped didn’t exist. 

Hermione, you must know something about it. Kingsley must have let something slip, Harry had said. 

You will have to invoke a marriage law decree, Kingsley had said.

She had seen books. Old tomes and parchment. 

Was it possible he had actually written up the marriage law decree he had been so desperate for her to instate? 

Hermione stopped flicking through a file that was yet another dead end and sat down on the floor, looking at the open cabinets and strewn papers. 

Perhaps he hadn’t. Kingsley’s office was unorganised, so unorganised that his secretaries had no idea where everything was kept, but Hermione had been searching for days. She would have found something by now. She allowed herself to give in to the small relief that she felt at the thought. 

Hermione stood up and walked over to the desk, Kingsley’s desk—now her desk.

She had always loved this table, the rich mahogany, with antique brass edges. This desk was now hers, but still felt stolen, snatched from its rightful owner. 

Out of her bag, she pulled out her mp3 player, which she had magicked to work inside the ministry without electricity and batteries. She pulled out a photo of James and little Al, running around her as she cuddled a tiny, chubby Lily, and then another one of her and her parents, before she found out she was a witch.

She smiled at the pictures and muttered a spell, watching as they encased themselves in wooden frames. She stood it on the table, next to her mp3 player.

Next she pulled out the Rubik’s cube that Arthur and the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts department had been so wary of, followed by the peacock picture that Theo had given her. 

Lining them up next to a pile of books on the mahogany table, she nodded at the objects and the emotions they invoked in her. She needed to hold onto the feeling, the brief shards of  happiness and light in her otherwise dark world.  

She had spent enough time trying to figure out the inner-workings of a man that wasn’t here anymore. She needed to stop looking at him as Minister and be one herself.

And what she wanted as Minister was reform.

What she wanted was action. 

Putting on her headphones, she cued Brave and got to work as the tune thrummed in her ears.

—-

NEW MINISTER PLANS TO CONDUCT FISCAL AND HOUSE SEARCHES OF OLD FAMILIES SUSPECTED OF AIDING EVERLAST said the Daily Prophet.

NEW MINISTER PROPOSES SANCTIONS AND UPDATES TO SENTENCING IN LIGHT OF RECENT EVERLAST ATTACKS said the Daily Prophet, two days later.

MINISTER GRANGER SAYS WE ARE IN THE MIDST OF A BLOOD WAR AND CHANGE MUST BEGIN AT THE TOP said the Daily Prophet, another two days later.

WIZENGAMOT OUTRAGED AT MINISTER’S AUDACITY AS ATTENTION TURNED TO THE SACRED TWENTY-EIGHT said the Daily Prophet, another three days later.

—

“The papers are reporting it incorrectly,” Hermione said, raising her voice above the yells coming from the Wizengamot benches. “I am not accusing anyone of aiding Everlast—“

“—Then why,” interrupted Lord Fawley. “Have I received a notice to allow Aurors to carry out a search, on pain of fines and imprisonment if I do not? You have not passed this through Wizengamot and have no right to do such a thing!”

“Those were precautionary and letting you know what the plans are,” Hermione said, impatiently. “They have been sent to all the old families, not just yours Lord Fawley. It isn’t an official warrant. Not yet.”

“All the old families?” Madam Shafiq cut in. The usually calm woman was looking at Hermione with barely hidden incredulity. “Surely you must realise how this looks, Madam Minister? Surely you realise you are accusing us all of helping Everlast? Of being terrorists? That is what the papers have already picked up on!”

“The papers are wrong!” Hermione insisted. “The house searches are not indicative of whether I think you are helping Everlast, but simply a re-search of the houses that were searched after the war. There have been some irregularities in the taxes filled and some things that were missed in the searches before that should really have been conducted—“

“—Basically you’re searching the houses of families suspected to be Death Eaters or have Death Eaer associations,” Marcus Flint cut in. “Why don’t you just say it, Madam Minister, you think we’re all Death Eaters, the lot of us!”

There were loud murmurs across the room, and Hermione felt herself shaking with anger.

“I have not said anything like that—“ Hermione said.

“—Did you receive a notice too, Malfoy?” Flint said suddenly, addressing the man next to him. “Of course you have. If our dear Minister thinks I’m a Death Eater, when I was cleared, then she’s going to have an absolute ball with you and your manor.”

Hermione gripped the table in front of her, her nails digging into the wood.

You WERE a death eater , she thought furiously. You were a death eater then and you got away with it. Why are we pretending otherwise—

She was sick of dancing around the fact that more than half of the Wizengamot had happily sat around while Pius Thicknesse had reigned as Minister, clearly imperiused and under Voldemort’s control. It had been all but an open secret, right up to and after the deaths of both Voldemort and Thicknesse.

But that hadn’t mattered then because it suited the Wizengamot and their agenda—what with more than half of the Wizengamot at the time within Voldemort’s inner circle. 

How easy it was to rewrite history when you have enough money and power to pretend you were on the side of the winners which ever way the dice fell, Hermione thought bitterly. 

Because more than half of the Wizengamot still encompassed Voldemort’s circle, even after all these years. 

Nothing had changed.

“I haven’t,” she heard Malfoy say, and saw his eyes turn to her; those watchful, empty eyes that she always saw curl in terror in her nightmares.

She should be doubling down on how this wasn’t an attack on the old families. That she wasn’t calling them Death Eaters or accusing them of helping Everlast—subconsciously, she knew that.

But the truth of it: she was, she absolutely was—

“Yours is coming, Lord Malfoy,” she bit through her teeth.

She zoned in on him then, daring him to fight back, expecting the fight and the challenge that he would no doubt met out— 

“—That’s fine,” Malfoy replied, evenly. “I have nothing to hide.”

Hermione stared at him incredulously, and she found herself locking eyes with him for another few seconds.

As always, Malfoy looked away first.

Hermione felt the drum of unsaid words passing between them, so tense and loud that she was almost surprised that no one else could hear them. It made her uncomfortable, for reasons she couldn’t quite comprehend. 

More than anything, Hermione felt confused. She looked for the argument in his voice, the sarcasm, the sneers…and found nothing.

The Malfoy at school, so full of himself—his grand titles, his connections, his friends and family— would have torn her apart for daring to suggest that she, a mere muggle-born, had any right over him and what was his.

But this Malfoy didn’t react. Didn’t fight back. It didn’t make sense. 

“Well,” Fudge said, looking agitated. “Does your party all back you on this matter?”

Hermione looked behind her and saw shifty faces. She looked at Magnus, who was carefully not looking back.

“We are doing as the Minister says,” Magnus said, hesitantly. Hermione watched as several Wizengamot members eyed him. “It’s her decision. We follow her lead.”

Hermione frowned at him, clenching her fists.

—-

Hermione sat in Kingsley’s office—her office—surrounded by teetering piles of folders and boxes of scrolls. Overwhelmed, overburdened and over-tired, she was slowly unravelling and losing control of everything.

“Minister?” Said a voice from her door. She looked up to see Hannah Abbott, her new junior assistant, staggering under another stack of folders. “Where shall I put this?”

Hermione frowned. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure,” Hannah said. “But I found them behind the back shelves: I think they must have fallen off. Is there anywhere I can put them down?”

“Wherever you can find space, I guess,” Hermione replied distractedy. “Please call me Hermione, Hannah. Being called Minister all the time is…”

Too much. 

It felt too much. 

It felt too much like being an imposter.

“Hermione,” Hannah said, nodding. She pushed a bundle of three files in front of Hermione, tied together in red silk ribbons. “I think maybe you should have a look at these files, they look a little strange. I haven’t opened them. They are addressed to you.”

Hermione took the files and was startled to see RE : for the attention of HJG, post 2012 election written in Kingsley’s scrawl.

She swallowed hard as she opened up the first page of the first file. 

The first words that jumped out at her were marriage and law . A shot of betrayal ran through her and she snapped the file shut hard.

I trust you to make the right decisions when the time comes, Kingsley's voice boomed in her head.

“Are they of use?” Hannah asked her.

Hermione carefully re-tied the ribbon, her hands trembling as she fumbled with the silk strings. She placed the files in the bottom drawer of the desk, and looked down at them, suddenly feeling very, very heavy. 

“I don’t know,” Hermione said. “I…hope not. Let’s table them for now.”

She slammed the desk drawer shut and closed her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes. Hannah was a hazy blur in front of her.

“Would you be able to send Auror Potter a message asking him to let me know if there’s any developments with his investigation?” Hermione asked, and pushed the files out of her mind.

—-

Hermione needed to think, so she went to her bench in the Atrium.

All this time, she had hoped, prayed that Kingsley hadn’t been serious. That the rumours Ron and Harry had heard weren’t true.

But there was now a file in her bottom desk drawer that proved otherwise: damning evidence that she hadn’t known Kingsley as well as she had thought. It even had her name on it—

Hermione blinked. There was someone already sitting on her bench. 

“This is my bench,” Hermione said bluntly. 

Theo smiled up at her, smugly sipping from a cup.

“Funny,” he said, cheerfully. “I didn’t see your name on it.”

He looked around in mock-confusion, looking down at the legs and sides of the bench.

“Nope, don’t see it” He said. “Unless it’s under my arse, that is.” 

Hermione looked at him balefully.

“Hilarious,” she said, taking a seat next to him.

She closed her eyes for a second, breathing in deeply. When she opened her eyes, Theo was looking at her, bemused, with a cup halfway to his lips.

“I’m thinking,” she told him. “If you must be here, then you can sit quietly.”

“Thank you for the privilege, my lady,” Theo said. “I am most humbled.”

“You should be,” Hermione teased in spite of herself. A smile tugging at her lips. “And it’s Minister, by the way. Isn’t that the rule?”

“Is it?” Theo replied. “And here I was hoping we were going to be friends.”

“You say that, but I’m not sure why,” Hermione said, honestly. “I don’t think we have anything in common.”

“I’m sure we can find something,” he said smoothly.

Hermione sat quietly for a while, watching people walk by, completely unaware of the Minister and Wizengamot lord sitting just beyond them. 

“So you aren’t offended then?” Hermione said, suddenly. “About the house searches? The potential sanctions? Your name is on the list.”

“Me? No,” Theo said, stretching his legs out in front of him. “I knew you were drawing from the post-war search lists and my name was near the top then. No, they’re welcome to search if they would like. I don’t have anything to hide. I made sure to destroy everything after my father died.”

Hermione thought back to the Wizengamot session, Malfoy looking back at her, his eyes blank and empty as he told her he had nothing to hide. 

Why did her mind always turn to him?

“Yes, I’m sure you don’t,” Hermione said, slightly sarcastically. She frowned at her own tone, and looked at Theo apologetically. 

“Well, I have nothing illegal to hide,” Theo clarified, shrugging. “But I do feel sorry for the Auror that has to search through my bedroom. That’s going to be an education, to be sure. Unless it’s Micheal from Patrol and Security, he won’t be shocked at all, the dirty minx.”

Hermione laughed, and looked at his empty cup. “What were you drinking?”

“Hot chocolate,” he told her. “With a hint of chilli. I had it in Mexico, and now normal hot chocolate just isn’t the same. Do you want some?”

“Alright,” Hermione said. “Where did you get it from?”

“I made it. Here, let me,” Theo said, pulling out his wand. He conjured a plastic cup and then, to Hermione’s shock, produced more of the thick, sweet-smelling liquid from nothing. 

“How did you do that?” She asked, amazed. “You didn’t have any of the hot chocolate left! How did you make the drink from scratch?”

Theo handed her the cup, and simply tapped his nose.

“No, you have to tell me!” Hermione insisted. “What you did goes completely against Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration! You must have just summoned it from your kitchen or something—“

“—Did that look like a summoning spell to you?” Theo asked, in mock-offence. 

“Then…how?” Hermione said. “That shouldn’t be possible.”

“Everything is possible if you really try,” Theo said, as Hermione scoffed. “No, really. There is a way around most transfiguration rules and standard spells if you really try. Most people think it’s about reversal or completely creating a new spell, but it’s all about modification and understanding the language of the spells.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked.

“Spell creation and wand movement theory is a very overlooked field,” Theo said vaguely. “It’s a special interest of mine and, dare I say, an innate talent of mine. Much to my father’s dismay.”

Hermione thought of Proudfoot, and his modifications to the protection spells and the truth-binding spell he invented.

“I wish I had more time for things like that,” she said wistfully. “Charms was my second favourite subject at school. In another life, I would have loved to become an Unspeakable, or a researcher.”

“It would certainly be less stressful,” Theo replied. “Well— if you ever want to learn, I’m your man. I’d love to show you my work some time.”

“Anything illegal?” Hermione asked, slightly teasing.

“Me?” Theo said, putting a hand on his chest, in mock-surprise. “No, absolutely not. We’d have to be much better friends for me to show you anything like that.”

Hermione nudged him with her shoulder and took a sip of the drink.

“This is really amazing magic,” she admitted, and then sighed. “It doesn’t seem like I’m going to have much spare time anytime soon anyway. Not if I can’t get the Wizengamot to agree to anything I say.”

“Oh, that,” Theo said. “Give it time, they will probably come around. Your…approach is very different from what they’re used to, that’s all.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, frowning.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Theo said. “But you have to remember most of the Wizengamot is made of traditional, very conservative men who aren’t used to being challenged. And arseholes like Flint, which doesn’t help you much either.”

“Their issue is because I’m a muggle-born woman who can argue?” Hermione said. “I know that. How can you say they will come around if I can’t change that?”

“Because they’re conservative old men who know that they are dying out and that the world has changed,” Theo said bluntly. “After the war, everyone knew that the Minister after Shacklebolt would have to be a muggle-born—someone forward-thinking, shiny and new. When the world wants to change, it always over-corrects by suddenly desiring the exact opposite of the previous ways, for better or worse. We never know how to do things by halves.”

Theo looked at her. 

“In this scenario, that means you,” Theo said. “I’ll be honest. They don’t like you. Not now. They don’t like your methods—”

“—My methods?” Hermione asked, confused.

“Your methods,” Theo confirmed. “You’re very…headstrong. Direct. You jump into things and push ideas without observing the traditional etiquette, you say what you mean, with no pretence and nothing to make what you say more palatable.”

“Basically, I don’t pretend to be a simpering buffoon that will lick Lord Fawley’s feet,” Hermione said, acidically. “So they don’t like me because I don’t observe traditional pureblood etiquette? I’m a muggle-born!”

“Well, that’s the thing of it,” Theo said simply.

“So,” Hermione said. “The Wizengamot know there will be— there is—a muggle-born Minister, know they must be forward-thinking and modern-minded for our current society. But at the same time, they want them to be able to pander to pureblood traditions and customs. How on Earth does that make sense? How is that even possible?”

“I'm not sure,” Theo said. “It’s not exactly happened before. The Minister has always been someone from the old families. In our circles, they train the children  from birth to be politicians and law-makers. So the Ministers have always known how to appeal to all the facets of society, not just the public. Unfortunately that’s your problem.”

“But the public are the most important,” Hermione said. “Surely they have the most say, as the ones being governed?”

“You can not have come this far in your political career and think that is true?” Theo replied in disbelief. “You can’t be that delusional.”

Hermione sighed, her head aching.

“I know,” she said tiredly. “I just…I need to think.”

Theo put a hand over hers.

“You’ll get there,” Theo promised. “After all, I’m an old, traditional, conservative man and I like you.”

“You just told me that your bedroom would scare the Aurors,” Hermione pointed out. “I have a feeling there is nothing conservative about you at all, Theodore Nott.”

“How very observant of you, Minister,” Theo said, saluting her for some reason. “I think you might surprise us all.”

Hermione hesitated.

“Hermione,” she said. 

Theo looked confused.

“My name is Hermione,” she said. “If you’re going to be giving me hot chocolate and career advice, then you should call me by my name.”

Theo smiled slowly.

“Hermione,” he said, rolling her name in his mouth like a long sought-after sweetness.

“Tell me one thing,” Hermione said. “If the Wizengamot aren’t comfortable with muggle-borns, why do they seem to like Magnus more than me?”

Theo stopped smiling. He hesitated.

“I’m not sure they exactly do,” he said evasively, his tone strange. “He just knows how to cater to them, I suppose.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, confused.

“He’s…less muggle-born than you,” Theo said carefully. “He always knows the right thing to say, and when he doesn’t say the right thing, he’s very good at changing it into something that is. He’s measured, controlled and courteous— the complete opposite of you. Basically, he can speak pureblood, if that makes sense. I think there’s a side of him you haven’t seen yet.”

Hermione opened her mouth to ask more questions, but Theo continued.

“He also has better dress sense than you,” he continued.

“What is wrong with my clothes?” Hermione said, bewildered.

A smile teased on Theo’s face once more.

“Well,” Theo said. “You don’t look much like a Minister. And Magnus is always dressed like he’s from pureblood aristocracy.”

“I’ve had more important things on my mind than my robes,” she retorted. 

Theo nodded, grinning.

“How was the hot chocolate?” He asked, changing the subject.

“It was very good,” she said, honestly. “But I prefer earl grey or lady grey tea more, I think. The version you can get that’s infused with lavender is amazing. You should try it.”

“Very posh. Are you sure you aren’t a pureblood? Maybe there’s hope for you yet,” Theo said, looking scandalised. “You must not have a sweet tooth, I tried this recipe on Draco and he loved it, he—actually hang on, he’ll tell you, there he is—OI! DRACO!”

Hermione jerked at the sudden mention of Malfoy’s name, horrified as she saw him standing in the Atrium, turning towards them as Theo bellowed his name.

Malfoy looked over at the pillar they were sitting behind, looking confused. He was wearing his standard dark suit, with the collar buttoned right to the top and gold cufflinks glimmering at his sleeves. He was holding a dark grey wool coat on one arm, which swayed as he turned towards them, finally spotting Theo. 

“Theo? What—“ Malfoy saw her sitting next to Theo, and froze. 

Hermione looked up at him. She breathed in hard as she registered the shock on his face, and then the careful neutrality that replaced it.

It suddenly occurred to her that this was the closest they had been since the Battle of Hogwarts. Being forced to interact with him when they were sitting at opposite ends of a chamber, with the entire Wizengamot surrounding them was entirely different from sitting less two feet away from him, his looming height and widened eyes transporting her back to—

Hues of grey swimming in her vision. They’re coming, he mouthed. Save yourself—

Hermione stood up, and Malfoy abruptly took a step back as they stood face to face. 

“Hermione,” Theo started to say, behind her. “Oh damn, I’m so sorry—“

“—I have to go,” Hermione said quickly, not looking at either of them.

She walked away, her heart thudding in rhythm to her footsteps. She could feel Malfoy’s eyes staring into the back of her head, boring a hole into her brain, diving right into the dreams that wouldn’t stop plaguing her no matter how hard she tried.

Why had he come back? Hermione thought miserably.

— 

MINISTER GRANGER PROPOSES NEW HOGWARTS REFORMS said the Daily Prophet.

—-

“I absolutely refuse to support any reforms to the Hogwarts registration,” an elderly Wizengamot member was yelling from the very top benches. “Allowing non-English students to study at Hogwarts is tantamount to blasphemy!”

And I suppose you’ve forgotten that Scotland and Wales are a part of Great Britain and that Hogwarts has never been an only-English school, Hermione thought irritability.

“Hogwarts is desperately low on students,” she argued hotly. “As British parents are electing to send their children to Beauxbeatons and even as far as Ilvermorny. Where is the flow of new students, and therefore new workers supposed to come from? I demand that you take this matter seriously!”

“You do not demand us to do anything, Madam Minister,” Fudge said. “We are at your disposal, but not your servants to command!”

Hermione looked around and saw Madam Shafiq frowning and pursing her lips.

“I didn't mean it like that,” Hermione said. “I meant—“

Before she could finish, Magnus spoke up.

“Perhaps we can table this solution for now,” he said, smoothly. “It was a suggestion made by the Madam Minister, prior to all the changes. Perhaps we can find some kind of middle ground. I apologise for the Minister’s behaviour, she simply feels very deeply about this matter.”

Hermione looked at him incredulously, and found that he was avoiding her eyes. He had supported her Hogwarts plan, when she had first argued for them in one of Kingsley’s Ministers Debates.

She remembered how he used to cut across Kingsley’s interactions with the Wizengamot, suggesting things that had not been approved by the Minister.

Now he was doing it to her.

Hermione sat down and leaned closer to him. 

“What are you doing?” She hissed. “You just made me look like a fool! We haven’t suggested any middle ground—“

“—I’m just trying to calm them down,” Magnus whispered back. “They won’t listen to anything you have to say when they’re like this.”

“That’s not for you to decide,” Hermione said, angrily.

Magnus looked at her, untouched.

“I’m just trying to help you,” he said quietly. 

Hermione looked away, willing away her anger.

“That’s fine,” she said. 

I think you’re wrong about Magnus , she remembered saying to Kingsley, many moons ago.

“At least someone has a leash on our new Madam Minister,” drawled Flint.

Hermione’s anger flared again. She saw Malfoy look sharply at Flint and—

“Shut up, Marcus,” said Theo. “Someone needs to have a leash on your gob.”

“Order! I will have order in these chambers,” Fudge yelled tersely.

Flint looked like he wanted to say something when, to Hermione’s surprise, Malfoy looked directly at her. 

“The Skilled Workers scheme,” he said. 

Hermione stared at him, feeling wrong-footed.

“What?” She said bluntly, her tone accidentally rude and uncouth. 

Malfoy’s eyes flashed, an odd expression passing over his face too fast for Hermione to catch it.

“Your scheme,” he said. “Something about skilled workers. I wasn’t here when it was last talked about, I would like to hear what it’s about.”

His tone was careful and polite, no sign of the malice and sneering intonations that used to be ever-present in his words before. 

“The drafts of that scheme were sent to you, like they had been to all the Wizengamot members,” she said, feeling on edge. 

What was his game?

She couldn’t help but feel as though he was laying a trap for her, waiting for her to put one toe in the wrong place before he snapped her into his grip.

“I must have lost them,” Malfoy replied smoothly. “If you wouldn’t mind going over them again?”

I do very much mind, she thought. 

“Very well,” Madam Shafiq said. “Minister, if you wouldn’t mind going through the scheme one more time for those of us who have waylaid our papers.”

Hermione felt more than a little irritated, explaining a concept she had repeated to the same group of people a million times. But she did so, all the whole wondering what Malfoy was up to.

She could see that the majority of the Wizengamot were looking at her with open distrust. If she couldn’t tackle them about matters like these, then there was no way she had a chance dealing with the real issues that they were all studiously ignoring. 

It seemed almost as though Kingsley’s death had given her a bit of a reprieve, but she didn’t know how long it would last. Hermione had to get these people within her grasp somehow.

She was Minister now, they had to listen to her, surely?

If only she could figure out what Malfoy wanted. It was driving her nuts.

—-

Hermione was still in her office at near midnight, sifting through files, trying to make sense of Kingsley’s system.

She felt like she was drowning in paper, in legislations, drafts for bills, letters, letters and more letters. Files for everything, except the things she needed to know right that minute.

The Wizengamot were no help at all, and it was clear that she couldn’t show them any sign of weakness. So far they had resisted anything she had tried to put through, more vehemently than before she was Minister. 

She hadn’t realised how much of a buffer Kingsley had been for her. How much he had covered for her. How much he hadn’t taught her. 

Why hadn’t he taught her?

Hermione had more questions than answers, lately.

Her biggest problem seemed to be that she didn’t have loyalty that Kingsley had with the ministerial staff. When she had told Andrew Hyde, Kingsley’s Treasurer, that she would like him to keep his role, she was met only with stony silence and indifference. None of the automatic deference and respect that Hyde had had for Kingsley seemed to have transferred to her.

She had thought that, after all these years of working in the ministry, she might have inspired at least some respect. But apparently not. It was something she didn’t realise wasn’t there, until it was glaring in her face. 

She thought back to McGonagall’s letter, the Hogwart’s rejection letter that compared her to Umbridge. Umbridge, for all of her titles in the ministry, had been reviled and scorned behind her back. Was she like that too? In her crusade to make the things she wanted to happen happen, had she lost sight of the fact that she didn’t have the faith of her own party? 

If that was the case, then she was surprised that no one had contested her candidacy for Minister. 

Her party seemed indifferent to her. The Wizengamot definitely didn’t see eye to eye with her. How was she meant to be Minister when she couldn’t win any of these people, when she didn’t know what to do, when her brain was still reeling from what had happened and she just couldn’t move on—

Hermione shook her head. She was so exhausted, she couldn’t remember the last time she had slept more than three hours in a night. But she couldn’t stop working. She couldn’t entertain these thoughts now.

There was too much to do. 

—-

MAGI-EPIDEMIOLOGISTS CONFIRM: WIZARDING BRITAIN’S BIRTH RATE FALLS TO RECORD LOW said The Wizarding Lancet.

WHAT DOES NEW DATA MEAN FOR MAGICAL BRITAIN? Said the Daily Prophet.

LOSS OF BRITISH MUGGLE-BORN CHILDREN AND LINGERING BLOOD-RELATED ATTACK HAS BEEN DETRIMENTAL FOR UK’S MAGICAL SOCIETY said the Wizarding Times.

—-

“Rather than persecuting purebloods, madam, perhaps you should have been paying attention the repopulation effort!” Fudge bellowed at her at the next Wizengamot session. “This is what Minister Shacklebolt’s note was about, he had plans to deal with this matter. You, however, appear to have none—“

“—What do you propose all my schemes for foreign workers and Hogwart’s reform are for?” Hermione retorted, her voice rising. Her anger was palpable. “I have spent so much time trying to convince you to agree to prevent such things happening! We have known for ages that our birth rates are low and our community is failing!”

“No, ma’am,” Lord Fawley butted in. “It is you who is failing.”

“Let’s not pretend, this is all your fault,” Fudge said. “Sheer incompetence on your part and complete tomfoolery on our part for allowing you to lead a government, I will admit.”

Hermione breathed out hot air, her chest moving up and down rapidly as sheer fury penetrated every inch of her body.

She needed to calm down, she needed to think, she needed to—

“—I am not the incompetent one,” she said coldly. “I have done my best. The Wizengamot is completely inadequate to function in today’s society and it’s what has led— what will lead—to our downfall. I will not be your scapegoat!”

She watched as several Wizengamot members gasped and looked at her in incredulity.

“Madam minister, you have gone too far,” Madam Shafiq said sharply.

Hermione waited for the barrage of taunts and rebukes, but then Magnus stood up next to her.

The chambers automatically went silent for him.

“My lords and ladies, I understand that matters are quite heated”, he said, his tone genial and pleasant. “I’m sure we can find a way we can agree on this issue. This is a partnership between all of us, and I assure you we are willing to work together, after all.”

Hermione looked at him incredulously, this careful yet charismatic side of Magnus she had always known existed, but had never been so bothered by before.

She vaguely noted that the only Wizengamot members that did not seem appeased by Magnus’ words were Theo and Malfoy. 

—

Her head was still buzzing when she exited the Wizengamot chamber. Magnus tried to talk to her, but she forced her way past him. 

She needed time to think. She needed space to think. 

Hermione rushed down the meandering corridors of the ministry, the din from the chambers now a faint noise behind her. She found one of the back service lifts, hidden behind a wall.

She pressed the button twice, and waited impatiently. As the lift came, she heard footsteps behind her, a quiet yet heavy tread. Then they halted.

She turned around to see Malfoy standing behind her. 

She sucked in a breath she didn’t have. 

He didn’t say anything, his eyes wary when he became aware of her presence.

Without a word, he turned on his feet and began to walk away.

Hermione watched him, bewildered.

“Wait!” she called. He stopped walking. “Did you need the lift?”

Malfoy turned back around slowly to face her. His face was blank as always, his eyes carefully looking beyond her.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s fine, I’ll use a different one.”

Hermione, as always, waited for a barb, a sarcastic comment, even for him to push past her and take the lift she had been waiting for.

She was ready for anything but this quiet, measured, polite Malfoy.

It twisted something deep inside her painfully, the ghost of a feeling wrestling it’s way out of her.

For the life of her, she couldn’t name it.

All she knew was that she felt restless and more than a little bit irritated, her exhaustion from multiple nights of no sleep and anger with the Wizengamot still drumming in her veins. 

She was stronger than this. If she could get through a war at seventeen years old, she could stand a damn lift with Malfoy.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “We are adults. We can share a lift.”

He didn’t react, at first. Then he nodded.

Well you did run away the last time you saw me, like a scared little girl, she expected him to say.

Don’t tell me what to do, you filthy little mudblood She heard his twelve year old self say.

Hermione pushed the lift button again. The bell dinged as the door opened, and she walked in with more confidence than she really felt at the prospect of being contained in a small space with her once school-enemy and the object of so many of her nightmares.

Malfoy stepped inside after her, standing as far away from her as it was possible to in the small lift. The doors closed. 

Hermione closed her eyes and tried to regulate her breathing, but they came through hard and shaky. After a while, she realised she wasn’t the only one struggling with to breathe properly. Hermione looked at Malfoy.

Strangely, her first thought was that he was so much taller than she remembered. She hadn’t really paid attention in Hogwarts, but now, standing this close to him, he was easily a head taller than her.

He was dressed impeccably, as he always seemed to be, in blacks and dark greys from head to toe. The dark collar of his shirt was snapped tightly shut against his ivory skin, the swath of material covering him entirely from neck to where his wrist met his palm. She looked at his arm, imagining the dark mark that must still be there, and then his hands, which were balled into tight fists, his signet ring gleaming in the harsh, artificial light. 

He looked the epitome of a pureblood, traditional, conservative man. All of the adjectives that somehow made her less than in this world of hers, that she was slowly realising was not hers.

Hermiome had so many issues with this man, but just then, she hated him to her core, resented him for acting like nothing was wrong, like he didn’t still believe he was better than her.

Something pulsed inside her—

“—What is your game?” Hermione asked, before she could stop herself.

Malfoy jerked his head to look at her, his eyes curled in surprise.

“Excuse me?” He said. Politely. Again.

Hermione was furious.

“What do you want?” She snapped. “Why are you suddenly here?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Malfoy said evenly.

“I have never once seen you in Wizengamot,” she said. “Never in the entire time I’ve worked here. So why now? Why are you here?”

An expression flickered on his face, and this time Hermione caught it before it could escape.

Irritation. Anger. Finally.

“With all due respect, Minister,” he said. “It is none of your business what I am doing here.”

All due respect? Respect—

“Oh fuck off, Malfoy,” Hermione spat, her mouth running ahead of her tired brain. “Let’s not pretend you have any respect for me, nor I for you.”

She knew exactly when something snapped inside him. His face contorted, the sneer painted on his face so reminiscent of the Malfoy at Hogwarts that it shot liquid rage into her heart.

“Well, what would you propose I do then, Minister?” He said, his tone sarcastic. “I have work here, and I have as much right as you to be here—“

“Stop calling me Minister like you mean anything by it,” Hermione interrupted. “I don’t care what you have to do here, just stay out of my way.”

He glared down at her, his shoulders rigid and his fists clenched even tighter. 

“Don’t worry, you already made that fucking clear,” he said. “I was trying to stay out of your way, but it’s you who decided I should get in the lift, not me—“

“—And since when have you ever listened to me?” Hermione bit out, her body trembling with anger. “Since when do you do what I tell you to do?”

“I don’t listen to you,” he retorted. “Fucking Morgana, some of us just want to move on and live in peace, Granger.”

“Live in peace?” Hermione said, her voice shrill.

She inched closer to him, facing him so that his face was almost above hers. His eyes widened at her closeness, and he swallowed visibly, his eyes flicking up and down as she did came to a stop in front of him.

“Why should you, of all people, get to live in peace?” Hermione snarled. “Why should you, when so many more deserving people that don’t get to?”

Malfoy stared at her intently, his eyes twisting and he swallowed. She watched his Adam's apple bob up and down, in a movement that looked almost painful.

The small lift was filled with the sounds of their heavy breaths. Hermione’s heart drummed in her ears so hard that her head spun. 

“Maybe not,” Malfoy replied hoarsely. “But that’s besides the point. I have business here, and every right to be in the ministry as you.”

Hermione breathed in shakily.

“Perhaps,” she said, her voice quiet but harsh. “But just remember: here you are only a lord. One of many, many lords. You aren’t unique, special or different. You are entirely replaceable, a thousand times over. But I am the only Minister—your Minister for Magic. Here, in this building, you bow to me.”

She punctuated the last words forcefully, tilting her head up to look straight at him in the eyes.

With their height difference, it was hard to be the one dominating the conversation, but she wanted nothing more than to push him down, to make him recognise that the tables had truly turned.

Hermione watched his pupils dilate, and they both let out a breath at the same time, rattling and harsh.

To their side, she heard the lift bell softly chime, and the doors started to open.

“Understood,” Malfoy said quietly, not moving away. “Minister.”

Hermione sucked in a breath at his words, even as the doors fully opened to reveal Harry standing there looking at them in surprise.

“Er,” Harry said, looking alarmed. “Hermione?”

Hermione saw Malfoy jerk away from her as though he had been scalded.

“Harry?” Hermione said quickly. “What are you doing here?”

“I was waiting for Malfoy,” he said, looking confused.

Malfoy’s jacket brushed past her as he strided out of the lift.

“Why?” Hermione said, feeling as bewildered as Harry. “What—“

“That is my business,” Malfoy interrupted, standing next to Harry. “If it's acceptable for me to have business in your fine establishment, Minister?”

Hermione bristled.

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” she said for the second time. Harry looked between Hermione and Malfoy with uncertainty.

“Right,” Harry said slowly, and then looked at Hermione. “I’ll speak to you later?”

Hermione felt restless, agitated, her mind and body jittery with nerves after the Wizengamot session and now her altercation with Malfoy.

“Clear your afternoon, Potter,” she snapped. “You still haven’t answered my memos about the investigations and I know there’s something you’re not telling me.”

She jabbed the lift button. As the doors started to close, she saw Malfoy’s eyes become blank again as he continued to look at her, the haunted and empty look that was devoid of any feeling.

The doors slammed shut on her best friend and her old enemy, and Hermione felt something slam shut inside her too. 

—-

“I’m not trying to challenge you.”

Hermione looked up from the parchment she was reading to see Magnus standing at the door. She sighed.

“Okay,” Hermione said, tiredly. She thought of his evasive reply to the house search questions in Wizengamot, and the way he tried to take over in the last session. 

She remembered what Kingsley had said about him, how sure she had been that he was wrong. 

She had always thought of Magnus as a friend, had been so relieved when she thought she wouldn’t have to go against him to fight for the ministry.

Now she wasn’t so sure what was going on. 

Nowadays she never knew who was a friend and who not to trust. 

She didn’t say anything else. Magnus sighed. 

“Look…do you want to go to lunch?’ He asked. 

It was something they used to do often, in what felt like another life. 

Once upon a time, he has been her only friend in the ministry, besides Harry. She wasn’t sure what he was now.

Her stomach rumbled and reminded her that she had forgone breakfast, yet again.

“Fine,” she said, then looked at her watch. “But it will have to be somewhere close.”

“Is there anywhere you would like to go?” He asked.

Hermione thought of the sandwich shop that she and Harry frequented.

“I know a place,” she said. “It’s pretty discreet and not too far from here.”

Magnus didn’t say anything as she led him to the muggle shop and ordered them both cream cheese and smoked salmon bagels. 

She felt his eyes on her as she took her first bite. When she looked up at him, he looked away,.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Magnus said after a while. He folded his hands in front of him. “I’ve said it before, and I meant it then.”

Hermione observed him, and he openly looked back at her, his pale eyes solemn and sharp behind his thin metal-rimmed glasses.

Magnus was always so careful, his stance deliberate, his facial expressions schooled, his clothes and hair immaculate. He looked every inch the wizarding conservative, traditional man that she knew he couldn’t be as a muggle-born— and yet he still fit into the casual, muggle sandwich shop setting with ease. 

She had always thought that he strongly resembled Harry, in a vague sort of way. But their physical looks were where the resemblance seemed to end.

Harry, even all these years later, was a bundle of raw nerves and still a little impulsive, full of convictions from which he could not be swayed. Magnus, on the other hand, was always controlled and cautious, and everything he did seemed to be meticulously thought through.

Harry was more comfortable in the wizarding world these days than the muggle one, although he still tried to fit in. Magnus apparently was able to straddle both with ease. 

If she was really honest, Hermione often considered that Magnus’s outer similarity to Harry had been a reason why she had warmed to him faster annd easier than nearly all of her other colleagues. But it was his similarity to her that had made her feel like she knew him.

He was muggle-born who had made it into high-level politics. And for all of his caution, she could always sense a restless sort of determination, reckless ambition subdued only by careful restraint. The same as her, to the bone.

She and Magnus seemed to always understand each other, on a fundamental level. It had never troubled her before—until now.

It cut something inside her to even contemplate considering him an adversary. But the reality was—it was becoming harder for her to trust anyone now.

She was so, so tired of trusting no one and fighting everyone. 

She sighed. 

“I don’t want to fight you either,” Hermione said, exhaustion making her bones ache. She put her bagel down. 

“But I don’t see any point in beating around the bush,” she continued bluntly. “If you’re planning to contest my leadership, I would rather you tell me honestly.”

Magnus sat straight in his seat, one leg crossed over the other, his hand stretched out in front of him. A silver ring gleamed on one hand, and Hermione was involuntarily reminded of the signet ring on Malfoy’s long, tapered finger.

“I don’t want to fight you,” he repeated. “You and I want the same things, Hermione.”

“Do we?” Hermione asked, feeling exasperated. “I thought we did. But if Wizengamot is anything to go by, I’m not sure we do now.”

“Of course we do,” Magnus said. “Hermione, I…”

He ran a hand through his hair, and seemed deep in thought as he tried to say what he wanted to say. Hermione waited.

“You are one of a kind, out there,” Magnus said eventually. “I admire you for it. You just storm in and tell those purebloods what you think, and you don’t care about the consequences. You say all the things I wish I could say.”

“They would never listen to me otherwise,” Hermione said. “It’s the only way to get through to them.”

“Nevertheless,” Magnus said. “That’s how I know I will never have to fight you. I know exactly what you want— your ideas. And I want exactly what you do: to end them once and for all.”

“I want to put an end to arcane, purity-led politics,” Hermione clarified. “And that starts at Wizengamot, yes—“

“—You want to raze them to the ground,” Magnus continued, his eyes shining bright and intense. He leaned in over the table, his hands in front of Hermione. “You want a system by which to end them.”

“I was upset when I said…that,” Hermione said, feeling uneasy.

She thought about the taunts and jeers she had to endure in Wizengamot. The lords and ladies that looked down their nose at her, refusing to endorse anything she tried to do or even cooperate with her.

These people, who were just looking for an excuse to blame her for all their failings and problems. 

“I resent them,” she admitted, quietly. “Sometimes I want to bring them down, down to my level. So they can see what it feels like. The…pain that they cause.”

“I feel like that too,” Magnus said quietly, and he looked strangely wrecked. “I want to bring them down too. Make them feel the pain that we did.”

Hermione felt strangely effected by his words, struck and unsettled by them at the same time.

“You do?” Hermione asked, even though she knew the answer. She had there was anger and frustration within him, even though it was hidden better than hers. 

They were kindred spirits, of sorts. 

Then she remembered something Kingsley had said.

You must have noticed, Kingsley had said. He hates purebloods. Not distaste, not specific purebloods. The idea of us.

She saw cool, blue fire burn behind his eyes, determination streaked with something deeper and less controlled.

“Hermione,” he said slowly. “If I ever have an opportunity, I would do everything in my power to bring them down. If I thought gunpowder would work, I would burn the entire Wizengamot to the ground. And I think…now—this time—maybe we can.”

They stared at each other for a while, the magnitude of their conversation intense compared to their muggle, pedestrian, background.

“What are you trying to say?” Hermione said carefully. 

“I’m trying to say that when I say we want the same things, it’s not that I think we do. I know we do. I know what you’ve been through, Hermione,” Magnus said. “I know enough to be certain that you can’t come out the other end and not want to make them pay. This is our time to shine.”

Hermione’s mind was reeling. 

“What do you mean—our time to shine?” She asked, unsure. A deep, roiling feeling of unease filled her stomach. “You want to…burn everything to the ground?”

Magnus huffed a small laugh, and leaned back in his seat, his hands on his crossed leg.

“Well, not literally,” he said. “I’m not crazy. I just mean that the days of these entitled, privileged lords controlling society are coming to an end, and they know it. They are a disease, and they need to be cut out.”

Hermione’s stomach lurched at his words.

”If the war taught them anything, then it was that,” Magnus continued. “Time and time again, they’ve had the upper hand. But not this time. Because this time— we are ready.”

His words rattled around in her mind, tugging at a thread buried deep within. 

Hermione shook her head.

“I need you to stop trying to take over in the Wizengamot sessions,” she said suddenly. Firmly. “It’s hard enough trying to manage them with my party’s support. When it’s clear they don’t, it just gives the wizengamot ammunition to fight me tooth and nail.”

Magnus didn’t say anything for a while. He picked up his bagel and took a bite. Hermione looked at him, refusing to move her eyes, challenging him. He swallowed and gave her a small smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the words were dry and quiet. They sounded sincere, although reluctantly. “I thought I was helping.”

Hermione scoffed.

“How exactly?” Hermione retorted. “You know what it costs me every time you refuse to support me, talk over me, offer them alternatives I didn’t approve of. How on Earth can you possibly think you’re helping?”

Hermione brushed off her dress, and scrunched up the wrapping from her bagel more fiercely than she needed to.

“I need them on my side,” she said angrily. “I’ll make them take my side, even if I have to force them to do it.”

Magnus tilted his head, taking her in.

“You’re very determined about this,” he said.

“Yes, of course,” Hermione snapped, struggling to control her anger.

Being angry at Magnus… alienating him wasn’t going to help her.

She sighed.

“Yes I am determined,” she said, more softly. She smiled wryly at him. “My dad calls it stubbornness, but my mum says that what men call it when a woman has ambitions that don’t involve marriage and a family.”

“She sounds like she knows what she’s talking about,” Magnus replied. “Your parents are dentists?”

Hermione looked at him in surprise.

“That’s right,” she said. “How do you know?”

Magnus laughed, properly this time. It transformed his face entirely, and the sound echoed in her mind.

“You forget exactly how famous you are,” he teased. “Everyone knows that the wizarding world’s most famous muggle-born parents are ‘teeth healers.’”

Hermione laughed too.

“I suppose so,” she said. “What about you? Your parents?”

Magnus chewed his bagel, swallowed and looked down at the table.

“My father was in the sciences too, just not the medical kind,” he said finally. “I never knew my mother well.”

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said softly.

He looked up and smiled at her.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he said. “I had my father, and for a long time that was enough.”

“For a long time?” Hermione repeated gently, probing information out of this man she knew and she didn’t.

“He wanted me to be like him, to join him,” Magnus explained. His eyes were glassy, twisting slightly. “And then he realised I wasn’t what he wanted me to be. Then he gave up on me, utterly.”

Hermione swallowed painfully, his words cutting her.

Even in this, they were the same.

“Mine too,” she said quietly. “They will never admit to it, but I know they would have been happier if I hadn't been a witch. If I had a normal job that they could understand. They won’t say it, but I know it’s true. And I think, in some small way…they’ve given up hope that they’ll ever understand me.”

She had known that for a long time. She had stamped down the thoughts, far into the recesses of her mind. But the thoughts are still there, damning and painful.

“That’s why I say that we want the same things,” Magnus. “You know what it’s like.”

“We have a lot in common, I suppose,” Hermione agreed.

Magnus’ eyes flashed in front of her, open and intense in topaz. 

“We are the same,” he said simply, echoing Hermione’s own thoughts.

—

A few days later, whatever reprieve that had wordlessly settled over wizarding Britain after Kingsley’s death, ended. 

—-

27 KILLED AS EVERLAST ATTACK MUGGLE UNIVERSITY said Daily Prophet.

MINISTER GRANGER OPENLY CONDEMNS EVERLAST AND PROMISES LASTING ACTIONS AGAINST THEM said the Daily Prophet a few days later. 

—-

“And exactly what are your actions going to be, madam?” Lord Fawley bellowed from his bench. “Seeing as you consider half of these chambers to be aiding and abetting the Everlast group?”

Hermione slammed her hands down on the table in front of her.

“My lord,” she bellowed back. “I have never once said I think you are a part of Everlast! Simply that every thing must be seen to be above board and in order, and frankly, your finances and house searches are most definitely not!”

“So you are saying you think I am in Everlast?” He yelled. “Am I to expect a warrant for my arrest? For my my properties to be seized?”

“No, sir,” she said. “I am looking into sanctions and more in-depth investigations. If everything is fine, then you have nothing to worry about.”

On the benches above Lord Fawley, Marcus Flint laughed loudly and clapped her hands.

“Our Minister, ladies and gentleman!” Flint said, clapping his hands mockingly. “So quick to condemn purebloods. You are such a hypocrite, Madam Minister.”

“I am not condemning anyone,” Hermione snapped loudly. “And how dare you call me that: what have I done that is particularly hypocritical?”

“I call it as I see it,” Flint yelled back. “Why aren’t you this quick to condemn and sanction the Scavengers then? Because you are prejudiced against purebloods, that’s why!”

“I would sanction and persecute the Scavengers,” Hermione yelled above the noise. “If I had information! Of course I condemn their actions! But I have no names, no whereabouts, nothing—“

“—Don’t lie,” Flint interrupted, standing at his bench and pointing his finger at her. “You have a Scavenger in your cells and I haven’t heard about you doing anything yet. You’re a filthy liar, Granger!”

Hermione frowned, feeling wrong-footed.

“What?” she said, her voice almost lost in the din around her as others looked up at Flint and started talking over each other.Next to him, Malfoy was looking at him with a confused expression. “What do you mean?”

“You have a Scavenger locked up on Azkaban,” Flint said. “I heard your bestie talking about it. Don’t pretend you don’t know—“

“—I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Hermione exclaimed, bewildered.

“Such a liar!” Flint started to say, but stopped when Malfoy put a hand on his arm.

“Marcus, what are you on about?” Malfoy said.

Flint glared at him, and then looked at Hermione.

“Joseph Proudfoot. The deputy head auror and our Minister’s friend ,” Flint said, his voice echoing in the chambers. “He just admitted to being a Scavenger. Potter’s got him in Azkaban and singing like a fucking canary about how he killed Minister Shacklebolt.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Scapegoat II

Hermione sat through the rest of the wizengamot session in a trance. The jibes and taunts continued, but they slid off her like she hadn’t just had ice poured into her veins. She shivered. 

As soon as the session end was called, Hermione stalked out of the chambers. She ignored Flint’s smug looks, Fudge’s glance of disdain, her own party’s wary and hesitant stares. At that moment, she didn’t care about any of it, any of them. 

Her heart thumped hard against her rib cage as she walked to the auror office. Everything around her was a blur, every sound an unintelligible wave of noise. She pushed open the door to the office and, without a word to anyone, stormed through into Harry’s office.

Harry looked up in surprise, from where he was sitting at his desk as she slammed the door behind her.

“Hermione—” Harry blurted.

“Harry, what the fuck ,” she hissed, her voice raised and her fists clenched. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her best friend’s eyes widened in realisation, before cautiously narrowing. Hermione was grateful that, at least, he wasn’t going to pretend to not know what she was talking about.

“Merlin, Hermione,” he said, as his face became lined with stress. “I’m so sorry. I promise I was going to tell you.”

“When, exactly?” She asked, and for some reason she felt perilously close to tears. “I’ve told you so many times, Harry: you can’t hide things from me! Not things to do with our personal lives and definitely not things to do with our work—you’ve just made me into a laughing stock in front of the wizengamot!”

“Hermione—“ Harry began, standing up. Hermione held a hand up to him.

“Save it, Harry,” she said, her eyes burning. “You know what it looks like to them? It looks like I have no authority as Minister, that no one has faith in me, not even you! How could you not tell me?”

“Hermione, I can’t even begin to tell you what it’s been like lately,” Harry said. “It’s not an excuse, and I know that it’s my duty to tell you, but I swear, I was just trying to clear some things up first. I was going to tell you as soon as I could.”

“As soon as you could,” Hermione laughed, without humour. “If it was Kingsley, would you have waited?”

Harry said nothing, and Hermione’s chest ached with his unsaid answer.

“Well, there we go then,” Hermione said, full of resent. 

She turned and opened the door, coming face to face with a line of aurors standing outside the office, clearly having heard every word of their conversation.

Muffliato, Hermione thought bitterly. Just another thing she couldn’t get right.

“Hermione, wait,” Harry called from his office. “Where are you going?”

She turned to look at him as he walked around his desk towards her.

“What does it look like?” She said. “I’m going to Azkaban.”

“You’re going to—Hermione! You can’t be serious,” Harry said, as they walked out of his office.

Hermione ignored him and looked around at the aurors.

“Which one of you is in charge of the Azkaban portkeys?” She called loudly into the main auror office.

An olive-skinned woman she had met before came in front of her, looking hesitant as she bowed her head to Hermione. Dita, Hermione remembered.

“We’re on rota, ma’am. It’s me, at the moment,” she said, looking hesitantly at Harry. “Sir, shall I authorise an emergency portkey?”

“No, Dita,” Harry said bluntly, and turned to Hermione. “Hermione, absolutely not. There is no way you are going to Azkaban alone.”

“Fine,” she said flippantly. “Then come with me.”

“I can’t,” he said. “I’m not allowed. I’ve had to step down from the case because It’s a conflict of interest. I’m not allowed to communicate with him in any way.”

Proudfoot has been Harry’s second-in-command, and had essentially executed a plan to assassinate the Minister under Harry’s nose. She could understand why Harry looked so stressed out.

“What about me?” She asked.

“You’re Minister,” Harry said, shrugging. “You can do what you like. Doesn’t mean I think you should—“

“I’ll go by myself,” Hermione snapped. “Harry, I have to go see him. I need to know, I’m so confused. If…if he actually did it, this is on me. This is Proudfoot. This is—this is...”

She was stuttering, feeling her mind shutter around her. Hermione knew she shouldn’t talk about this in front of an auror she didn’t really know, but she had to go to Azkaban. She needed answers.

She needed to know how the hell this could be happening, how someone she thought of as a friend could be capable of doing the unimaginable. Hermione had known Proudfoot for years. What he had apparently done and what she knew about the man didn’t match up in her head, and it left her feeling as though she had fallen from a great height, her heart and mind in free fall.

She could never have imagined things would turn out like this.

Hermione needed to know why they had turned out this way.

“I need to go,” Hermione finished, resolutely. “Harry, please. Don’t stop me.”

She tried to keep walking, but Harry held onto her arm.

“Okay, wait,” he said again, insistently. He looked at Dita. 

“I can’t go but perhaps someone else can,” he said. “Dita, do you think you could escort the Minister?”

“Sir, I have to go with Cox to the muggle university,” Dita replied cagily.

“Oh right, yes,” Harry said, looking around. “Who else has clearance for Azkaban here?”

“Micheal does,” one of the Aurors offered. “But he’s on a house search right now—Nott Manor, I think.”

“Katie had clearance, but she needs to renew it,” said another auror.

“No one else?” Harry asked, clearly exasperated. “Hermione, this is why you should have let me get you a security detail.”

Hermione bristled. 

“Kingsley didn’t have one, why do I need one?” She said.

“Kingsley was a seasoned auror,” Harry reminded her. 

“I don’t trust someone to follow me around everywhere,” Hermione said. “And I truly haven’t had need of one.”

“Well you do now,” Harry retorted. “There is absolutely no way you’re going to go to Azkaban without an escort.”

Hermione glared at him. She looked at Dita.

“May I have an emergency portkey please?” She asked the other woman, as neutrally as she could. Dita looked at her with wide eyes, and then at Harry.

“Sir…” she started.

“No,” Harry said firmly, his eyes trained on Hermione. “I’m head auror, and I say no, Hermione.”

Hermione looked at him intently before turning back to Dita.

“And I'm the Minister for Magic,” Hermione said bluntly. “I would like an emergency portkey please.”

Dita looked between Harry and Hermione. She pulled out a set of keys and aimed her wand at one of them, looking worriedly at Harry. He watched her, grim betrayal painted on every feature.

“Dita,” Harry sighed.

“Sir, she outranks you,” Dita said. “I have to do as I’m told.”

She pulled the key off the ring, and handed it to Hermione.

“Ma’am, take this to the portkey pad on level two,” she said. “This is a selective portkey so you will need to visualise your destination for it to work.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, taking the key and pocketing it.

How would she visualise the prison when she had never been there?

She would have to figure it out somehow.

She nodded at Harry. “I’ll see you later.”

“Hermione…” Harry said. “I mean it, you really can’t go by yourself there.”

Hermione ignored him as he chased her down the corridor, muttering one-sided arguments the entire way. When they reached the main Atrium, Harry grabbed her hand, forcing her to turn around.

The wizengamot members had poured out of the chambers into the atrium, talking amongst themselves. More than one pair glanced around to stare at them. 

“Harry,” Hermione warned.

Her eyes flickered behind Harry’s head, where Theo and Malfoy were standing, staring at both of them. 

“Hermione, I’m not trying to be difficult,” Harry pressed. “You haven’t been to Azkaban before. It’s not somewhere you go alone.”

“The dementors are gone,” Hermione replied impatiently. “I’ll be fine.”

“Yes they’re gone, but—look,” Harry said. “It’s…not a nice place.”

“It’s a prison, Harry, of course it isn’t,” Hermione retorted. “I can handle it. Please just let me go.”

“Look, I’m not saying that you can’t,” Harry insisted. “But you have to have somebody with you that knows their way around. If you give me two hours, I can get Dita or Michael to go with you—”

“—Harry, I don't have that kind of time,” Hermione said, feeling shaky. “If there’s no one that can come with me, then I’ll just have to go alone.”

“Auror Potter?”

Hermione and Harry turned their heads to the side to see Theo approaching them. Hermione looked warily at Malfoy, who was standing slightly behind Theo, pointedly leaving a gap between her and himself. 

“Auror Potter,” Theo said. “Is something the matter? It’s only that I noticed our Minister is looking more agitated than usual.”

“Nott,” Harry said, nodding at him distractedly. “We’re fine, Hermione is just trying to do something very unadvisable.”

“I did always detect a rather rebellious spirit under all the bureaucracy,” Theo teased. “Unadvisable how?”

Hermione huffed loudly.

“I need to go to Azkaban,” she said shortly. “Harry thinks I need an escort.”

To Hermione’s surprise, Theo’s smile suddenly dropped off his face, all signs of mirth melting off his features.

“I see,” Theo said. “Yes, Hermione, you’ll need an escort.”

“I can’t find anyone that’s available that has clearance,” Harry explained. 

Hermione turned to Theo.

“As a member of the Wizengamot, wouldn’t you have clearance?” She said to Theo.

Theo looked pained, slight panic visible on his face.

“I do,” Theo said, slowly. “But Hermione, I’m sorry. I can’t go.”

“Why not, Theo?” Hermione asked, feeling annoyed. “I could really use the…”

But then Hermione looked at Theo properly, and swallowed the rest of her sentence. Uneasiness filled her belly as she watched Theo blink rapidly, clearly distressed.

Malfoy stepped forward and put an arm on Theo’s elbow.

“He can’t go, Granger,” Malfoy said, shortly. “Just leave it at that.” 

Hermione looked at Theo again, nodding.

“Alright,” she said, feeling guilty for reasons she didn’t understand. “If there’s no one that can accompany me, then that’s that. Now if you excuse me, I must go.”

Both Harry and Malfoy started talking over each other.

“—Hermione, no—“ Harry said again.

“—Granger, don’t be an idiot,” Malfoy said, slightly louder. “You can’t go to Azkaban alone.”

“And why not?” Hermione demanded, stamping her foot. “If the dementors are gone, what’s possibly so bad about Azkaban that I can’t manage it?”

Malfoy looked her impassively, but she could feel the derision pouring off him. 

“Only someone who’s never been there would say that,” he said. “Potter’s right. You need an escort.”

Harry looked at Hermione triumphantly from behind Malfoy, the words I told you so clear in his eyes.

“Don’t tell me what to do, Malfoy,” Hermione bit out. She deliberated. “I’ll ask Magnus to come, if I absolutely must have an escort—“

”—No,” Malfoy said immediately. 

“Hermione, you need an escort who knows where they’re going. Roth has never been,” Harry said, exasperated. “What about you, Malfoy?”

The man in question raised his eyebrows. 

“Me, what?” He asked. Hermione stared at Harry.

“No, absolutely not,” Hermione said, horrified.

Harry ignored her. “Do you have time to escort the Minister to Azkaban, Malfoy?”

“No!” Hermione exclaimed. Malfoy studiously didn’t look at her.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Potter,” he said evasively. 

“You would be doing me a massive favour,” Harry said, emphasising his words.

Malfoy looked at him, his face twitching slightly.

“No,” he said, shortly. 

Hermione was furious.

“Harry, can I speak to you—alone?” She asked, and yanked his arm before he could answer.

“Bloody hell, Hermione, that hurts—“ Harry said, as she pulled him away from the rest of them.

“You can not be serious about Malfoy!” Hermione cut in. “Harry, what’s wrong with you?”

“Hermione, no offence, but you don’t exactly have a lot of options at the moment,” Harry retorted. “Storming into Azkaban is a bad idea as it is, storming in alone—“

“—I have to go, Harry—“ Hermione began.

“—But I know that you’ll do it anyways,” Harry continued. “So at the very least, you need an escort. If Malfoy agrees, then just go with him.”

“I’m not going anywhere alone with Malfoy,” Hermione said. “How can you trust him?”

“Hermione, a lot has changed since school,” Harry said. “He’s changed a lot. Just trust me on this one.”

Hermione couldn’t believe what she was hearing. 

“You used to hate him,” Hermione said. 

“Like I said, a lot has changed since school,” Harry said. “We were kids. He was awful in school, but he’s been through a lot since then— we all have. He’s apologised and I choose to believe he means it.”

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face, his face grey and exhausted.

“Look,” he said. “You have more than enough of a reason to not want to be anywhere near Malfoy, so I won’t convince you to go with him if you feel uncomfortable. But if that’s the case, then you’ll have to wait a couple of hours for an auror to be available.”

Hermione thought about the way Malfoy had suddenly turned up in the Wizengamot chambers, the fears and memories that his presence elicited in her.

She thought about the memories that danced beneath her eyes every time he got close.

She thought about standing inside a lift with him, feeling trapped and cornered, and her play for dominance that he didn’t resist. 

She thought about how haunted he looked now, how expressionless and devoid of emotion. The sneers, sarcasm and derision were still there, under a coat of careful impassivity, but they had lost their potency somehow.

Almost as though he had lost the will to fight back.

Harry was right. A lot had changed since school. It had only been a week since her first Minister’s Debate, in which Malfoy had suddenly appeared, and yet she could feel the change.

The thought shook her.

She didn’t know what to believe. She just knew she didn’t trust Malfoy and had no reason to.

“I don’t know,” Hermione admitted. “I have to go now, Harry, I have to talk to Proudfoot. I…I don’t know what to think, everything is so messed up.”

Hermione closed her eyes, the image of Malfoy snarling at her in third year appearing beneath her eyes, calling her a word that would be etched into her arm and her mind forever. 

“I know,” Harry said softly. “Tell me about it.”

“Malfoy’s saying he won’t go,” Hermione said. “So maybe I’ll have to go alone anyway.”

“Let’s see,” Harry said.

Hermione turned around to look at Theo and Malfoy, and saw that Theo had disappeared. She and Harry walked back to him.

“Where’s Theo?” Hermione asked.

“Something came up,” Malfoy said shortly. 

“Malfoy, I would be really grateful if you could take Hermione,” Harry said.

“Potter, I don’t think so,” he said quietly. “The Minister looks like she might off me. As much as I love to visit my old haunt, I would rather not die there.”

Old haunt? Hermione had thought Malfoy had got away with a house arrest and no Azkaban sentence. 

“She needs to go with someone who’s familiar with Azkaban,” Harry emphasised. “Malfoy, please?”

“Harry, leave it,” Hermione said. “I’ll ask Magnus, or something—“

“No,” Malfoy repeated, more vehemently this time. 

Hermione glared at him. 

“Yes, actually,” Hermione rebutted. She looked at her watch impatiently. “Harry, I really have to go now.”

“Hermione, Roth has never been to Azkaban—“ Harry stressed.

“—Wait,” Malfoy suddenly said, his voice firm. 

Hermione turned to him, watching as he ran a hand through his hair, his eyes strained. 

“Fuck. Fine,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”

Hermione scoffed.

“It’s fine, Malfoy,” she said. “I can get by just fine by myself.”

“Hermione, just take Malfoy,” Harry said. “He knows his way around—“

“—You owe me—” Malfoy muttered to Harry. 

“—Yeah, like you don’t owe me several,” Harry muttered back.

Hermione looked between Harry and Malfoy, uncertainly. Malfoy turned to face her, his eyes clear and tentative. 

Filthy little mudblood, he had once said.

Save yourself, he had also once said.

Had he really changed?

Hermione wasn’t convinced, but there wasn’t time for this now.

“Fine,” she said, giving in. “Let’s go.” 

She watched Harry sigh in relief. 

They walked in silence to level two, a gapping space between them, as if it would physically hurt them to be in any proximity to each other. 

Hermione silently reached in her pocket for the key, and wordlessly handed it to Malfoy.

He took it, and stretched his other hand towards her.

Hermione looked at his face, at the deliberate and careful movement of his features that didn’t give anything away.

She looked at his hand, stretched out to her in offering, and thought about what it meant that it made more sense to her if that hand aimed a jinx or a curse at her instead of aiding her.

She didn’t understand why Malfoy was helping her. Why he wasn’t fighting her, when literally everyone else in her life was at the moment.

She was starting to think that, perhaps, she really didn’t understand anything at all. 

Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and put her hand in his.

—

The first thing that went through Hermione’s mind as they landed in Azkaban was who was screaming?

An agonised shriek echoed in every corner of the dank, grey room they had entered.

Every hair on Hermione’s body stood on end as the scream went on and on. She wanted to open her mouth to ask about it, but as she did Hermione was slammed by ice-cold fear running through her veins, freezing her where she stood. Her ribs hurt as her heart sped up, tremors running through her body. She tried to raise her hand to her chest, as though she could manually switch off the terrible things she was feeling.

But her bones were lethargic, suddenly lacking the energy to do something as simple as move. Everything felt pointless, so hopeless—

“Granger,” Malfoy said, interrupting the despair that tore through her. “Are you okay?”

Hermione tried very hard to breathe.

“I’m fine,” she said eventually. “It’s just— can you hear that?”

“Hear what?” He asked, confused. His eyes swept over her face.

“Granger,” he said after a beat. “The dementors are gone, but they’re magic…it’s still here. They were here for so long that it’s impregnated into the walls. It’s intensified over the years. Didn’t you know?”

Hermione had not known. 

Sucking in a breath that she couldn’t expel, she felt numb and so, so cold. She nodded without really understanding what he was saying. Her mind was clouded, lost in the fog of her fears and despair.

“Didn’t Potter tell you?” Malfoy asked softly.

Hermione looked into his eyes, the screams ringing in her ears painfully over his voice. He didn’t look affected by the atmosphere around them, not like she was. The thought made her feel even worse.

“No, he didn’t,” Hermione said. She swallowed, and closed her fists. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Malfoy started rifling through the pockets of his overcoat. He pulled out a packet of Honeyduke’s chocolate, and stretched the packet out to her. Hermione stared at his hand, unable to think about anything other than the sheer terror enveloped within the screams.

“Take it,” he said.

When she didn’t move, he reached over and put the packet in her hand.

Hermione stared at the chocolate. 

“Eat it,” he instructed. 

Hermione looked at him, and then the packet. Time moved at a sluggish pace and every movement felt like it took an age. The act of unwrapping the chocolate exhausted her, but she eventually managed to snap off a small piece of the chocolate and put it in her mouth.

Malfoy watched her carefully.

Warmth flooded her veins, heat racing through her body like a balm against the freezing cold that had embedded itself inside her.

Her fingers and toes tingled as blood flowed through them once more, and her face lost it’s stiffness as she was finally able to move her eyes and lips.

She felt alive. 

“Still don’t need an escort?” Malfoy drawled, and Hermione didn’t know how he could find the willpower and energy to taunt her in this godforsaken place.

“Shut up,” she said, wrapping the rest of the chocolate neatly and giving it back to him. 

Malfoy cocked an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything as he pocketed the packet. He walked over to the door of the room and knocked hard on it with his fist.

Suddenly, Hermione found herself not in the dank, grey room anymore, but in an equally dank and grey corridor. She shivered as she looked into the darkness at the end of the corridor, a sense of something sinister and foreboding washing over her. 

“Minister for Azkaban!” Malfoy roared into the corridor. “Guards!”

A man appeared out of nowhere, seemingly spawning from the darkness. He was followed by a few other men behind him.

“Oh, look who we have here,” the man said, and Hermione felt like she had seen him somewhere before. The man eyed her up and down in interest, his eyes lingering at her hips, chest and her mouth.

Hermione suddenly felt deeply uncomfortable. 

Malfoy clenched his fists and stiffened next to her.

“Dawlish,” he said. “The Minister for Magic would like to see Joseph Proudfoot as soon as possible.”

Dawlish raised an eyebrow, his eyes still trained on Hermione. She felt unease slither into her chest as he looked at her like she was a slab of meat to be devoured. 

The other men crowded around them, all eyes on Hermione. She looked resolutely back at them, refusing to be cowed.

“As soon as possible?” Dawlish repeated, in interest.

“Yes,” Malfoy snapped. “Now, Dawlish.”

“She really the Minister, boss?” One of the guards said, looking pointedly at Hermione’s chest. “I thought Parson was having me on. She don’t look old enough to be no Minister.”

“Don’t you read, Hode? We have a girl Minister now,” another guard said, leering at her. “The golden girl.”

Hermione drew shaky breath after shaky breath, trying to find a retort, but came up with nothing. It felt like the walls of the prison were closing in on her, and the effect of the chocolate was already dissipating.

“I’d like to see where Joseph Proudfoot is kept please,” Hermione said, as loudly as she could manage through the noise in her head. Somewhere in the background, the shrill screams were getting louder. 

Dawlish smiled at her, a wolf’s grin as he looked down at a sacrificial lamb.

“My, you really have grown since school,” he said. “I don’t remember you looking like this back then.”

“Perhaps you were too busy being bested by Dumbledore,” Hermione quipped, her teeth rattling. 

Dawlish took a step closer to her, and the other guards cheered. Hermione baulked and took a step back, moving closer to Malfoy against her own will.

Suddenly there was a swatch of dark wool in front of her face, as Malfoy pushed in front of her, covering her completely from the view of the guards.

“Enough,” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. “She is your Minister for Magic. Have some fucking respect.”

“Aw, Malfoy, we missed you,” Dawlish crooned with sarcasm. “Come to visit your old cell? We kept it nice and cosy for your next visit. It’s been a while—“

“—Let her through,” Malfoy growled. “Now. Be quick about it.”

Dawlish didn’t say anything for a moment, and then she heard the rustle of keys, the voices becoming slowly more distant.

Malfoy stepped to the side, and she saw the corridor was now gone, replaced by an dirty, ancient-looking door.

“Don’t know why you want to see him for,” Dawlish said, looking ruffled. “He’s gone a bit loopy, to be honest.”

Hermione didn’t say anything as Dawlish unlocked the door, and pointed at her to go through it.

“Ma’am, one visitor at a time,” he said, in a bored voice.

She glared at him, and then looked at Malfoy. 

“I’ll wait out here for you,” he said.

“You can leave if you want,” Hermione said, hoarsely. “I don’t know how long I will be.”

Malfoy looked back at her like she had said something offensively stupid. 

“I’ll wait out here for you,” he repeated. 

Hermione nodded, and put her hand on the doorknob.

—-

There is another corridor past the door, and Hermione was reminded horribly of the Department of Mysteries as a small light turned on at the end of the passage.

As she edged her way closer, she could make out a man sitting slumped on the floor, long metal bars in front of him.

“Proudfoot?” Hermione called softly. “Joseph.”

The man twitched, moving quickly to look towards her. 

“Hermione?” He said sluggishly, and then his eyes sharpened a bit.

As he came into the light, Hermione nearly gasped as she took in how awful he looked. 

The usually neat and sharp looking Proudfoot looked like he had aged overnight, his face lined and grey.

His clothes looked dirty and ragged in the short time he had been there, and Hermione’s heart ached with pity and anger at the conditions in which he was being kept. His eyes were red and blood-shot, his fingers trembling as he gripped onto the bars, holding himself up.

Hermione found herself trembling too.

“Joseph,” she said, her voice dry and rough. “ Why?”

“I don’t know,” he replied immediately, sounding weak and scared, shooting fear into Hermione’s veins. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.”

She had never heard him sound like this.

“Why did you kill Kingsley?” She asked again.

“I don’t know,” he repeated. “I was standing there…and then I did it. Oh my gods I killed him, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t…”

Hermione frowned, completely bewildered. The man was shaking, opening and closing his mouth like a fish, his eyes looking imploringly at Hermione. 

“You didn’t mean to?” She pressed. “What do you mean? Were you forced?”

“I don’t know,” he said again, shaking his head. “I was there, and then Kingsley was dead. I couldn’t….control….myself.”

He suddenly fell to the floor, grunting as he did so.

Hermione gasped and got to her knees on the other side of the bars, trying to level herself with him. 

Proudfoot was crouching on the floor, his whole body shaking violently.

“Hermione,” he said slowly, and she could hear his teeth chattering. “I co—couldn’t control my—myself. I had—had to do it. It—it came out of me—urgh!”

He doubled down on the floor, and Hermione let out a yell.

“Joseph! Are you okay?” She cried. Her heart raced as she watched him writh on the floor, and she wanted to call someone, but found that she couldn’t breathe as she watched him.

The writhing stopped, and he pulled himself up, using the bars to prop himself up.

“Hermione,” he gasped. “Can’t. I can’t.”

Suddenly, something occurred to her.

“Are you saying you were imperiused?” Hermione asked. The cold spread through her body again.

She looked careful at the frantic man, his head moving in an indiscernible pattern, but she thought he was trying to nod.

“Can’t, I can’t” he said, tears tracking down his face. “Tell my wife I love her. And the kids.”

“If you were imperiused, then I’ll get you out of here,” Hermione promised desperately. “But you need to tell me who.”

“Can’t. I don’t know. I can’t,” Proudfoot said again, shaking. “Can’t. Me.”

“Me?” Hermione repeated.

“Me,” he said, stressing his words. He gripped the bars tighter, shaking them violently as he tried to get closer to Hermione’s face. He looked wild, like a wounded animal trapped at the end of a poacher’s gun.

“Me,” he said again. “Me, me, me, ME!”

Hermione looked at him, terror shooting into her heart.

She didn’t understand what was happening, but suddenly she knew two things, with absolute certainty.

There was something rotten in the state of the wizarding world, and that the screams in her head belonged to her. 

—-

Her mind was reeling as Hermione exited the cells. She felt jittery, as though there was something crawling beneath her skin. She knew her hands were trembling.

The screams were back in full vengeance, and all she could think about was imperius and despair and how much that reminded her of when she was being tortured on the floors of Malfoy Manor, with Bellatrix cackling over her as Malfoy stood just beyond looking terrified and like he was on edge—

Malfoy stood in front of her, pulling her out of her thoughts.

“What’s wrong?” He said sharply.

Her teeth were chattering again, and she tried hard to pull herself together, to show some semblance of control. But the screams weren’t leaving her, and nor was Proudfoot’s agonised and desperate face.

She stamped on her own thoughts, hard. 

“I’m fine,” she gritted out. “Let’s go.”

But Malfoy didn’t move.

“Something happened,” he said. “What did he say?”

Hermione shook her head, her mind still lost in the cells with Proudfoot.

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “I need to get back to the ministry and talk to Harry.”

“But—“Malfoy started.

“—Malfoy, please,” she snapped. “Just let it go.”

“Salazar, I’d forgotten how stubborn you are,” he said, his temper flaring.

Hermione looked at him in surprise.

Perhaps Azkaban was getting to him after all.

“Like you’re any better,” Hermione quipped. “Why are you suddenly at the ministry again?”

“Like I said,” he snarled. “None of your business.”

“There you go,” she said.

“You don’t have to know everything about everyone,” he sneered. 

The sneer was so familiar, so normal, that it brought some of the warmth back to her face.

“Neither do you,” she sniped back.

Malfoy looked irritated, and Hermione felt a brief shock of triumph. The feeling was fleeting, and almost as soon as she felt it she was brought back to the horrors of Azkaban.

She shivered.

“Fine,” Malfoy said, and turned to bang hard on the door behind him with his fist.

As they waited, she noticed that Malfoy positioned himself firmly in front of her.

“DAWLISH!” he yelled through the door.

The door opened with a creak.

“Dawlish ‘as gone on break,” said a new guard on the other side of the door. He tried to look around Malfoy, who refused to budge. “I ‘heard the girly Minister is ‘ere.”

“That,” Malfoy snarled. “Has nothing to fucking do with you. We are done here and the Minister needs to get back.”

“Merlin, Malfoy, you ‘aven’t changed,” the guard said. “Didn’t know you were the Minister’s bodyguard these days.

“He’s not,” Hermione interjected over Malfoy’s back. 

“I’m not,” Malfoy agreed, turning back briefly to glare at Hermione, before looking at the guard again. “But I bet I can beat you in a duel. Care to find out?”

“Circe all-mighty,” the guard exclaimed, putting his hands up in defence. “I was just saying. I don’t mean no trouble. You’re looking a lot better than you did when you were in ‘ere.”

Hermione looked curiously at Malfoy’s back, frowning. She leaned a bit to look at his face and saw a shadow cast over it.

She felt his shoulders tense above her. 

“It’s Azkaban, Fernsley,” he snapped. “Everyone looks better out of Azkaban than in.”

“Fair enough,” the guard said. He let them through the door and rang a bell.  Hermione blinked as they suddenly found themselves outside, looming sinister-looking gates appearing in front of them, hazy with fog. “Go through there, there’s a pod not too far. You can activate the portkey there.”

Malfoy sighed. “I know.”

Hermione and Malfoy walked through the gates in silence. A cold wind drifted around them as they walked, freezing her hands and face, and sweeping their robes in the air.

“Why is it so much further to get out of Azkaban? We just appeared inside on the way in?” Hermione wondered, wrapping her arms around her body to ward off the chill.

“It’s a statement,” Malfoy said shortly. “Once you’re in Azkaban, it’s very hard to find the way back out.”

Hermione shivered again. The world around them was almost opaque with thick fog, and a gradient of grey spread into the horizon, nothing solid or human to be seen for miles.

She looked at Malfoy as he walked, his shoulders still rigid with tension.

“You were in Azkaban?” Hermione asked, tentatively. 

“Yes,” he said.

“I thought you were given house arrest,” she said.

Something clicked in Malfoy’s jaw.

“We are remanded in Azkaban until the trial,” he said. “The trial took a while to start.”

Hermione hadn’t known that.

Immediately after the war, she had only spared a brief thought of what might have happened to families like the Malfoys.

But for the most part she had blocked out any feelings she had had about it, and stayed well away from the news. 

“I see,” she said, finally. Then, she softly asked: “Theo, too?”

“Yes,” Malfoy answered stiffly. “He had a harder time than most there.”

Hermione felt terrible, worse than she already felt. 

“I see,” she repeated. 

Malfoy halted, and Hermione ground to a stop to avoid walking straight into him. 

“Granger,” he said, looking down at her intently. “You need to watch your back.”

Hermione stared up at him, bristling. 

“Is that a threat?” She retorted, feeling her shackles rising. 

“No,” Malfoy said.

His face was a riveting array of contorting lines and angles. Hermione couldn’t read an expression or thought into a single one of them. 

“No,” he repeated. “Not from me. But if it’ll help you sleep at night, then fine. I don’t care. Just watch your back.”

“Why?” She said, her voice shrill. 

“Because—it bloody annoys me that I have to be the one to say this,” Malfoy snarled. “But seeing as your party is full of a bunch of cowards and layabouts, and Theo is too much of a people-pleaser to say it outright, then I guess I have to.”

That was the longest sentence Malfoy had uttered in her presence so far, and Hermione’s mind buzzed with curiosity and bridled anger.

“Say what exactly?” She snapped. 

“You’re fucking up,” he replied bluntly. “Everyone can see it. The way you’re going about things is not how you do it. It’s painful watching you in Wizengamot, because it’s clear no one is advising you as they should.”

Anger rankled through Hermione’s veins.

“No one is forcing you to watch,” She retorted, fury and hurt laced in every word. “What makes you such an authority on how I’m—apparently—doing such a bad job?”

“Because, for better or for worse, I am a Sacred Twenty-Eight,” he said. “Because this—politics—is what I’ve been raised to understand, whether I want to or not.”

“Yet somehow, until now, you’ve never been that interested,” Hermione said. “Not if you’ve left your seat empty in the wizengamot for that long.”

“I never said I wanted to be a politician,” he snapped. “The ministry could burn down, for all I care. But I’m just telling you that that’s how it works in our circle.”

“So what— I’m fucking up because I’m a muggle-born?” Hermione raged. “Do you really want to go there, Malfoy?”

Malfoy’s eyes suddenly became blank as he took a step back. He looked tired and on edge.

“No,” he said. He ran a hand through his hair. “Shit, that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?” Hermione said, her eyes burning as she glared at him. 

“I mean…” Malfoy said, and then hesitated. “You know Roth is sucking up to the Wizengamot behind your back, don’t you?”

Hermione felt something cold rush down her back.

She didn’t know why she was surprised. In some ways, she had suspected something like this. 

“He’s meeting with some of the members, pitching ideas, putting things in their heads,” Malfoy continued. “You must have had some idea.”

“I do. I did” Hermione said slowly, her mind buzzing. “But…We had an agreement.”

I won’t fight you Hermione. 

There was so much happening at the same time, she didn’t know what to do about anything, least of all Magnus’s increasing attempts to—from what it sounded like—to sabotage her ministry. 

Hermione was so at sea, with no help from any angle, and she felt powerless at the point where she should have felt the most powerful. 

“I hate to break it to you,” Malfoy said. “But I don’t think he’s playing according to your rules.”

“Has he been trying to talk to you too?” Hermione asked.

Malfoy scoffed.

“Fuck no,” he said scornfully. “But you hear things in our circles.”

Our circles. He had said that twice.

The circle. The ones she could never be a part of no matter how hard she worked, how competent she was, how much she strived. 

Except, somehow, Magnus seemed to be able to work those circles.

What was she going to do about Magnus?

Hermione closed her eyes and tried to breathe. 

“Okay,” she said.

There was too much going on at once. She felt like she was grasping into the fog, trying to find something solid, only for it to slide between her fingers. 

“You should be careful,” he said. 

She looked at him, bewildered and lost, as she always was now.

“Why do you care, Malfoy?” She asked bitterly. “I thought you would be happy that someone has, as Flint said, got a leash on me.”

Malfoy’s face contorted in anger, his eyes boring into hers.

“No, Granger,” Malfoy said. “I am not.”

Hermione looked out into the mist, remembering the fog in her nightmares, how they had wound into Bellatrix, Greyback, and then the man next to her. 

Save yourself, he had said. They’re coming, I promised you, I promised I would—

She blinked, the fog dispersing.

“Malfoy,” she said suddenly, without thinking. “Why did you call Dobby?”

Malfoy flinched, his entire body flying back. He looked at her in open shock, his eyes wide with something close to fear. 

“What?” He said.

“I know you called him,” Hermione said quietly. “When I was…when we were—”

Screaming in agony, her skin was burning, her blood was burning, she was dying and no one could help her—

“— I don’t want to talk about it,” Malfoy said. He looked away from her as he walked some distance. 

Hermione watched him stop after a while. She didn’t think she could talk about it either. Not now. But for some reason she wanted to try.

“Malfoy,” she called.

“I didn’t think you’d remember,” he said, and Hermione should she could hear his voice shaking. “You were so hurt, and it was so confusing, I couldn’t even remember what—“

Hermione looked down at his hands, his knuckles bulging white with stark blue veins as he clenched them. 

“I don’t remember much,” Hermione said, her voice trembling. “But I remember that.”

“Granger,” Malfoy said. “I can’t talk about this….”

He stopped, his jaw clenching as he looked away from her.

Perhaps , she realised for the first time, she wasn’t the only one tortured that night. The only one that can’t get over it.

“Okay,” she said. “Alright.”

She watched his face lose all expression, blank and empty of any thought, in the familiar way it always did now. She watched his face drain of colour, of emotion, and something clicked in the fog of her mind.

“You’re occluding,” she realised. “When did you learn to do that?”

Malfoy turned to her, his grey eyes dull.

“A long time ago,” he said.

“Why?” She asked.

Malfoy breathed out hard, the hot air coming out like smoke in front of him. 

“Why do you think?” He said bitterly. 

They finally reached the portkey pod, and Malfoy rummaged in his overcoat. Hermione thought he was pulling out the portkey, but instead he pulled out a bright purple potion. He handed it to her.

“What is it?” She asked, turning the vial around in her hands. She had definitely never seen this one before, the almost violent purple colour iridescent with a silver sheen to it. 

“After we go back, you’ll feel like shit,” he said bluntly. “It’s always that way when you come out of Azkaban. This will help.”

“Where did you get it?” Hermione asked suspiciously. 

“I made it,” Malfoy said. “It’s what I do now, when I’m not forced to be your bodyguard.”

“You make potions for a living?” Hermione asked, surprised.

“Sort of,” he replied, but didn’t elaborate. “Take it, if you want. Or don’t. It’s up to you.”

He pulled out the portkey and held out his hand again. Hermione put the potion in her pocket and placed her palm in his. 

“Malfoy,” she said.

He looked at her, their hands joined together.

“Thank you, she said softly. “For the chocolate.”

He nodded. His hand was warmer than hers, his signet ring a cool contrast against the heat. She could feel calluses on his fingers, rubbing against her skin.

He gripped her hand tighter, moulding his fingers to hers, and they disappeared into the fog, the crack deafening against the eerie silence.

—

When Hermione walked into the auror office, two Aurors at their desks looked up at her in surprise.

“Minister,” Dita said, slightly bowing her head.

Hermione nodded back, her mouth dry.

“Is Harry here?” She asked. 

“I can check,” the other auror said.

Hermione and Dita were then left alone in the office.

“Did you go to see Proudfoot?” Dita asked, quietly.

“I did,” Hermione said. 

“He was a good man,” Dita said, hoarsely. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard.”

Hermione waited a beat, and frowned at the other woman. Before she could think further about it, something else occurred to her.

“Where is Proudfoot’s office?” She asked. 

“Down the corridor, on the left,” the other woman said.”It's cordoned off for investigation at the moment.”

Hermione nodded as the other auror came back.

“Auror Potter asked if you could come to his office,” the man said. 

Hermione thanked him and walked to Harry’s office. 

Harry looked up as soon as she entered.

“You saw him then?” Harry asked straight away. 

Hermione faltered, and her face finally crumbled.

“Harry, something is really wrong,” she said.

“You see it too then,” Harry said, as he ran a slightly shaking hand through his hair. “Something doesn’t add up, but everyone is determined to believe it’s him.” 

“How can everyone be so sure it was him?” Hermione said. 

“Hermione, there’s eye witness accounts saying they literally saw him get up and throw the curse at Kingsley. There is residual magic all over that area and from that vantage point he would have had a straight shot,” Harry said. “It’s bad— really bad.”

Hermione sucked in a breath. She kept seeing Proudfoot’s face; a senior and seasoned auror—scared, hurting, and unlike someone who could have murdered Kingsley in cold blood.

“Harry,” Hermione said. “I think he’s been imperiused. Possibly confunded too. He wasn’t making any sense when I visited him.”

“We’ve checked for Imperius and confundus, nothing came up,” Harry explained. “Hermione…you understand that this is going to be very bad for us? There’s a reason why I didn’t tell you straight away.”

Hermione swayed on the spot. “I know.”

She had worked with Proudfoot on the security plans for Kingsley— a fact that was widely known. She had even approved spells of his own creation for Kingsley’s protection. And Harry had missed enough to not realise that his second in command had been plotting against the Minister. 

This was very, very bad indeed.

“Harry, what do I do?” Hermione asked, and her bones ached from the cold that wouldn’t leave her. Her ears rang from the screams in Azkaban, and the image of Proudfoot struggling wouldn’t stop appearing before her. “I can’t let this go.”

“I know,” Harry said, miserably. “I’m at your disposal, Minister.”

Hermione looked at him, then, and saw the anxious curves of his face, the shadows under his eyes. 

“This is not going to go down well,” she said, echoing his words.

She knew that. But she was going to do it anyway. 

Sighing, she pulled the small vial of potion Malfoy had given her from her pocket.

“Do you know what this is?” Hermione asked Harry, holding the potion up in front of him. He frowned at it.

“It looks familiar,” he said eventually. “But I’m not sure.”

“I’m not sure either,” Hermione said. “Malfoy gave it to me. He said it would help with the after-effects of Azkaban.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, looking appalled. “I should have warned you about that. Are you going to take the potion?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione admitted. “Malfoy said he made it.”

“He’s a potioneer these days,” Harry said. “Does research and stuff, and supplies medicinal potions to St Mungo's and the Diagon Alley apothecaries, I think. Chances are you’ve already had a potion he’s made.” 

Hermione looked at Harry in surprise.

“I didn’t know,” she said eventually. She looked at the potion, the waves of purple swishing in the vial. 

Hermione deliberated.

“I don’t know who or what to believe anymore,” Hermione said bitterly. “If this kills me then at least I’ll be proven right about one person.” 

In a state of pique, she upended the vial into her mouth. 

Warmth flooded her body almost as soon as the potion hit her tongue. The screams disappeared, and her mind went quiet. The images of Proudfoot were still there, but faded. The cold in her hands and feet were gone and the clouds in her head cleared. Her limbs no longer felt stiff and painful.

Wrong again, Hermione’s brain told her.

Nothing made sense to her anymore, least of all Malfoy.

“Wait, I think I know where I’ve  seen this potion before,” Harry said suddenly, taking the empty vial from her. “The shiny, purple colour. I think I’ve seen it in Neville’s laboratory at Hogwarts.”

“Neville has a laboratory?” Hermione said in surprise. Then she thought further. “What is Malfoy doing with Neville?”

More things she didn’t know.

—-

“Is there a reason you called this emergency session, Madam Minister?” Madam Shafiq asked, with a sniff. “Some of us have busy lives outside these chambers.”

Hermione bit back a retort and schooled her face, into what she hoped was a picture of calm and authority. 

“Ma’am, I have visited Joseph Proudfoot in Azkaban,” Hermione said. “And following the visit I have decided to ask the auror team to launch a full investigation into his involvement in Minister Shacklebolt’s death.”

“His involv—” Fudge interrupted. “I thought he did it.”

“It does appear that way,” Hermione said, smoothly. “However on visiting, a few things came to light and I would like to have them investigated.”

“What things came to light?” Asked Madam Marchbank, tapping her quill. 

“I am concerned that Auror Proudfoot was imperiused and coerced into his actions,” Hermione said. “Seeing as Proudfoot, until now, has been an upstanding and loyal member of the ministry, we shouldn’t condemn a potentially innocent man without full proof.”

A stillness came over the chambers.

“Can you be sure?” Madam Shafiq asked, sharply. “I was extremely shocked when I heard the news about Auror Proudfoot. In all my years, I have never thought him to be hostile to our late Minister.”

“This will be a massive waste of resources we don’t have, madam,” Fudge said, annoyed. “Only to find out the same thing: that Proudfoot killed Shacklebolt in cold blood.”

“Nevertheless,” Hermione said. “I think it has to be done.”

“I don’t think so,” Lord Fawley called. “It seems completely pointless to me.”

“Don’t let her fool you, everyone,” Marcus Flint called from his bench. “Granger’s just trying to save her pal and cover her back.”

Flint’s eyes gleamed as they moved over Hermione. 

“After all,” Flint continued. “Didn’t you help Proudfoot set up the security for Minister Shacklebolt. Didn’t you approve them?” 

Hermione’s shoulders tensed and she balled up her fists.

“What are you insinuating?” Hermione demanded. 

“Nothing, Madam Minister,” Flint said. “After all, you have nothing to hide, do you?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about, Flint,” Hermione snapped. “I would just like to launch an investigation—do I have the agreement of the Wizengamot?”

“This is a bad idea and a bad look for you, Minister,” Fudge said, irritably. “A refusal to see the facts in front of your face while you are very quick to accept other non-existent ones!”

“You have been accusing the Wizengamot of enabling Everlast for weeks now,” Lord Fawley sneered. “Why is it so hard for you to accept you have a fully-fledged Scavenger in your prison? I demand proper prosecution!”

Hermione deliberated. She thought back to Proudfoot’s face, fully of desperation and untold terror. She swallowed. 

“If it is proven that Proudfoot is a member of the Scavengers,” she said. “I will make sure he is properly prosecuted. But until then, does it not matter that we have potentially locked away an innocent man?”

She looked around the room, trying to find a conscience in a room full of people who had long since let go of the concept of humanity. 

“I don’t advise this,” Madam Shafiq said. “There is much evidence to suggest Auror Proudfoot is indeed guilty.”

She looked to Hermione’s side, at Magnus, who had been silent until now.

“Do you agree with the Minister’s request?” Madam Shafiq asked him pointedly.

Magnus gave her a strained a smile.

“If the Minister wishes to re-examine the damning evidence,” he said. “Then I can not stop her.”

Hermione clenched her fists so tight that she felt a nail cut through her skin. 

“The evidence is not damning; eye witness accounts are the most subjective form of evidence there is,” Hermione snapped. “And I have to try. A man’s life is on the line.”

“Well, on your head be it, then,” Fudge said, and slammed the hammer to call the end of the session. 

Hermione heard the mutters around her, picking up words such as hysterical and irresponsible and this is why the Minister should be a man.

She looked at Madam Shafiq and Madam Marchbank, and noticed that they were looking at the tables in front of them, saying nothing. 

Hermione slowly turned her eyes on the room, looking at the Wizengamot members and her own party. In a room full of people who were supposed to be on her side, she was well and truly alone. 

Against her will, her eyes flickered to Malfoy’s, across the room. He looked back at her, his face muted.

In that moment, Hermione knew she was making a mistake. But it was like an oncoming car crash just waiting to happen- she felt powerless to stop it. 

—-

Afterwards, Magnus came to her office, holding a mug of her favourite lavender Lady Grey tea. He sat across her table, sipping his Earl Grey tea. 

“I thought you said you wouldn’t fight me,” Hermione said, dropping her quill to look at him. “You said that we were on the same side. It doesn’t seem like it, to me.”

“I will not,” Magnus promised, his eyes intensely blue and pale behind his glasses. “And I promise that we are.”

Hermione looked at her tea and took a sip that scalded her mouth.

—-

MINISTER’S REFUSAL TO ACCEPT THAT DEPUTY HEAD AUROR IS LATE MINISTER’S KILLER said the Daily Prophet, on the front cover.

MINISTER’S FRIEND IS SHACKLEBOLT’S MURDERER: WHY WON’T SHE DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT? said the Evening Prophet, on the front cover.

MINISTER’S DELIBERATE DELIBERATION: GRANGER STANDS BY AS PROUDFOOT IS FOUND GUILTY OF SHACKLEBOLT’S ASSASSINATION said the Magical Times, on the front cover.

POTTER’S SHAME: BLIND-SIDED BY SECOND-IN-COMMAND said the Daily Prophet a few days later, as a side story.

—

A chill swept through her hair and down her neck as she entered the ministry courtyard with Harry. She hadn’t been back there since Kingsley had died.

Her eyes flickered to the podium.

Blood, blood everywhere, on her clothes, on her face, on her hands, she literally had blood on her hands-

Hermione looked away.

“Here,” Harry called from some distance away, and Hermione walked over to his spot.

She watched as he muttered a few spells and bright blue light suddenly appeared everywhere in that corner, almost ultraviolet in its brightness. 

“That’s Proudfoot’s magical signature,” Harry said quietly. “It’s everywhere. We’ve tested his wand already. The wand definitely cast sectumsempra. ”

“What about the spells he created?” Hermione asked. “Did he cast them right? Have they been tampered with? I saw him cast them myself.”

“There’s a few unknown spells in the area with his signature, but they seem harmless,” Harry said.

“We need to check his customised spells,” Hermione said, saying something that she had already been thinking about. “He showed me the spells he used, but I honestly can’t remember thinking any of them were particularly strange or nefarious at all. We could check his books.”

“Those are in his office, which is an active crime scene now,” Harry said. “You’ll have to get permission from the Wizengamot to go in there, because I’m off the case now.”

“Damn it,” Hermione swore. She sighed. 

“I just can’t bring myself to believe that he would do it,” Hermione said, softly. “If you saw him in Azkaban, Harry, you wouldn’t believe it.”

“I haven’t been allowed to see him since he was taken there,” Harry said, sounding frustrated. “How could I have missed that something was going on? If he was…coerced in some way, I should have stopped it. If he actually did it in cold blood, then I don’t know what to think.”

Harry looked so stressed and miserable, that Hermione found herself reaching out and twining her fingers with him. 

“We’ll figure it out, Harry,” she said quietly. “It’ll be alright.”

“Do you actually think so?” Harry said, doubtfully. “When has anything ever been alright for us?”

“It has to be alright,” Hermione said, simply. “It just has to. We have to believe that the truth will come to light, that good will win out in the end. Because if that’s not the case, what’s the point to anything?”

—-

ANALYSTS DISCUSS: THE MINISTER’S IN-ACTION SPEAKS VOLUMES ABOUT HER PRIORITIES said the Magical Independent.

—

“Madam, you are wasting your time,” Fudge snapped. “And ours by association.”

“I simply wish to be allowed into his office “ Hermione insisted. “Or for an auror to be cleared to retrieve and analyse the items I have mentioned.” 

“Hermione, are you sure this is necessary?” Magnus whispered loudly to her, his voice projecting across the room. “There are other, more important matters that need to be addressed, and we are getting nowhere with this. You’re becoming obsessed with this when we already know the answer.”

“I agree, this is not seemly of you, Madam Minister,” Madam Shafiq said, looking almost concerned. “You seem almost unnaturally single-track minded about this.” 

“Isn’t it obvious why she’s so obsessed?” Marcus Flint scoffed. Hermione automatically tensed. “He’s one of hers.”

“One of my what, Flint?” Hermione snapped. “Proudfoot isn’t a Scavenger, and I’m not the leader of the Scavenger or whatever it is that you think I am—“

“Well, isn’t he?” Flint said, his eyes shining. “And aren’t you?”

Hermione laughed derisively.

“Of course not,” she said, scorn in her voice. 

“I’ve always thought you were the leader of the Scavengers,” he said, his voice echoing. “And now you’ve brought it up yourself. Very suspicious, if you ask me. It would all make sense now, wouldn’t it?”

The chambers were silent, Flint’s voice bouncing off the walls and vibrating through Hermione’s chest. She looked around at the Wizengamot members and her party, and they were all looking at her with solemn, cautious eyes.

“You can not be serious,” Hermione said. No one said anything. “This is ridiculous!”

Next to Flint, Hermione saw Malfoy looking to her side, his eyes sharp.

Hermione followed his gaze, towards Magnus, who had the look of a victor on his face.

—

FLINT ACCUSES MUGGLE-BORN MINISTER OF SCAVENGER ALLEGATIONS said the Daily Prophet.

LEADER OF THE SCAVENGERS: SERIOUS POSSIBILITY? Said the Wizarding Metro.

GOLDEN GIRL REPUTATION TARNISHED said Witch Weekly. 

ANON FROM MINISTER’S PARTY SAYS THAT NO ONE TRUSTS MINISTER GRANGER said the front cover of the Daily Prophet, a day later.

—

“I AM NOT THE LEADER OF THE SCAVENGERS!” Hermione screamed in her office, throwing a vase off her table. 

She sat down hard on her chair, her head in her hands as she hyperventilated.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Hermione raised her head, and realised her office door was slightly cracked open. She looked through the gap and saw people outside stopped on their tracks, looking shocked.

Fuck, Hermione thought. 

She was so full of despair and bitterness that it was pouring out of her, like water through a broken dam she just couldn’t repair.

—-

Hermione waited until the auror office was empty, and crept into Proudfoot’s office, quietly disabling the security spells before entering the room. 

The office was dark and eerily silent, the only light coming from an uncovered window, as the moon gleamed through. Hermione treaded carefully, muttering a spell to cancel the caterwauling charm near Proudfoot’s desk.

She gave a brief glance to the table, but otherwise didn’t make a move towards it.

She wasn’t interested in his desk.

She eyed the bookshelf. Carefully making her way towards it, she quickly cast a lumos and scanned the titles. There was also a notebook stashed among the books.

On one side of the bookshelf there was a small picture frame, containing a photo of a chestnut-haired woman smiling and waving, a small boy standing next to her while she carried another small child in her arms. Hermione looked at the picture sadly, a lump forming in her throat. She looked away from it.

She was pulling out the notebook, when a bright light suddenly shone behind her. She jumped and swung around.

Dita was standing behind her, her wand bright with lumos maxima, the light exaggerating the surprise on her face.

“What are you doing here?” She asked, with alarm.

Hermione’s heart raced.

“I was just—“ Hermione began, and then faltered. “I just needed to see something.”

Dita looked at the books in her hands.

“You were trying to help him,” Dita said, her eyes on Hermione’s hands.

Hermione breathed in and then out.

“Yes,” she said. “I truly believe he was innocent.”

Dita looked at her, her face suddenly crumpled as she looked away.

“So did I,” she said. “He was a good man, a good boss…”

Hermione waited for her to say something more, but nothing came.

“You can’t tell anyone I was here,” Hermione said. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t.”

“I won’t, minister,” Dita said. “There’s no point now anyway. You can’t save him.”

Hermione jerked her head towards the other woman, confused.

“Why not?” Hermione said. “There’s still time—“

Dita looked at her, her eyes filled with something close to pity.

“Haven’t you heard?” She said, a quiet sadness in her voice. “Proudfoot is dead. He killed himself in Azkaban a few hours ago.”  

—-

“I’m not sure why you are surprised things have turned out like this,” Fudge said. “He was guilty and obviously not right in the head.”

“A completely failed endeavour on your part, Madam Minister,” said Madam Shafiq.

“A failure,” Lord Fawley agreed.

—

IS THE MINISTER FAILING ALREADY? asked the Daily Prophet. 

MINISTER HAS LOST SIGHT OF PRIORITIES SAYS ANON AT MINISTRY said the Evening Prophet, jumping on the story from the Magical Independent.

In the following days, all the newspapers ran articles with quotes from people who had spoken out about Hermione. 

—

Hermione walked into the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts department, and into the Muggle Liason’s office. For years, this was her only office, her first desk in the ministry for her first ministerial role.

She had been so full of hope then. So certain that her future was bright and that she could change the world.

The office was full of dust now, the desk tarnished and aged, just like the hope she once had. She sat down on a chair at her dusty desk, and it creaked loudly with disuse. It made her feel heavy, so heavy when she already felt crushed under the weight of her own mind. 

She wiped some of the dust from the desk with her hand, blowing on it and watching the particles fly into the air around her.

“Er… Hermione, is that you?”, Hermione looked up blankly as Arthur walked in through the door. He looked around and then at her in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Hermione shrugged.

“I just wanted some quiet,” she said. Arthur seemed to be waiting for her to say something else. But there was nothing else. There was nothing left for Hermione to say at all.

He seemed to hesitate at the door, before walking in towards her. 

“Are you okay?” He asked softly. 

Hermione looked down at the desk.

“I’m fine,” she said. She paused and then sighed. “I’m so sorry Arthur, I— I left your car in Australia. I’ll bring it back when I go visit again in the beginning of February—“

“—Don’t worry about the car,” Arthur interrupted. “I know you’ve had more important things to worry about.”

He paused for a moment. Then, he pulled the chair from the other side of her desk and pushed it towards her side, sitting down on it.

“Things must be a bit tough at the moment,” he said vaguely.

Hermione laughed without humour.

“You could say that,” Hermione said, utterly swallowed by her own misery. “I can’t seem to do anything right.”

Arthur nodded.

“We all make mistakes,” Arthur said. “That’s how we learn. It doesn’t mean that you will always be wrong. The only thing you can do is persevere.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Hermione said. “Persevere. I hate that word. I was always taught that if you persevered, that eventually everything would work out. I wanted, so much, to belong here. In the wizarding world. I thought becoming Minister would finally mean that I belonged here. What a lie.”

Hermione gently kicked the side of the desk, and more dust particles jumped in the air. 

“Hermione, of course you belong in the wizarding world,” Arthur said, sounding puzzled. “It might not seem like it now, but your hard work will pay off, Hermione. I believe it. I’ll be honest: you have a hard road ahead of you. But if you truly want this, to be Minister for Magic, then I believe you can do it.”

“Then why is everything going wrong?” Hermione said, her voice thick and muffled.

She held back a sob, the struggle making her body shake. “I’ve been working so hard, for so long, and everything is going wrong. Innocent muggle-borns are dead, and I can’t seem to do anything about it. Kingsley is dead and I can’t seem to be him. Proudfoot is dead and I should have been able to save him—“

“—You can’t do everything, Hermione, and no one should expect you to,” Arthur said firmly. “You can’t put all of that on yourself. None of that is your fault.”

“But it is,” Hermione said, the tears pouring down her face. “It’s my fault because I can’t do anything about anything, no matter what I try. Everyone hates me, is against me. I don’t know who to trust anymore. And I don’t know what to do.”

She looked at Arthur, tears coursing down her cheeks.

“Tell me what to do,” she pleaded. “I don’t know what to do.”

She caught the look of helplessness on Arthur’s face even through the blur of her tears. She felt a tug as he pulled her into his arms.

“Hermione,” he said weakly. “It will be alright.”

“I am so alone,” she said thickly, struggling to speak through her tears. “I am always so alone.”

—

Hermione took the service lift up to the Wizengamot chamber. She stood in the enclosed space and stared blankly at the walls, feeling as though they were closing in on her.

The lift dinged a few floors before her destination. She looked at the doors as they opened, slowly revealing Malfoy standing just beyond them.

Hermione didn’t react.

If he was surprised to see her, Malfoy didn’t show it. He silently walked into the lift and stood beside her, carefully leaving ample space between them. His eyes were trained on the doors as they closed once more. 

Hermione closed her eyes and listened to him breathe, his body unmoving next to her. She could feel the warmth radiating off his skin and clothes, and for some reason it melted her tension.

She opened her eyes.

“Well, you were right,” she said flatly. “I fucked up.”

She felt him turn his head towards her.

He said nothing.

“You must be happy,” she continued.

She tried to sound sarcastic, derisive. But her voice fell flat, lacking conviction. 

She didn’t know why she was trying to fight him.

“I know this might be wildly shocking to you, Granger,” Malfoy replied. “But I don’t take pleasure from your m distress.” 

Hermione breathed in sharply, and looked up at him.

She felt oddly desperate, for something she didn’t understand. Something was breaking down within her, pulling back the layers of her skin until she was reduced to nothing but the most vulnerable version of herself.

Hermione felt like weeping again, not caring that Malfoy would be there to witness it. 

“Granger,” Malfoy said, quietly. His tone was soft, almost bereft. 

Why would Malfoy be bereft?

The hand closest to her twitched slightly, and for a wild moment Hermione thought he might reach out to hold her hand.

Hermione had put up shackles and shields against the world, fought them all with everything she had within her. But now, in this lift with Draco Malfoy, she dropped all pretences, and caved. 

Her eyes burned as she looked up him, an avalanche of emotions crashing within her. Hermione did nothing to hide it from him. 

“I think Proudfoot was a scapegoat for someone else,” she said, a sob in her throat. “I think maybe I am too.”

His eyes locked with hers, suddenly bright, suddenly open.

“What do you mean?” He asked sharply.

“Why are you here, Malfoy?” She asked again. But this time it sounded like a plea. “What changed?”

He looked down at her, his eyes a whirling storm of charcoal and silver. His face was suddenly lined with bitterness, his eyes empty again.

“Everything,” Malfoy said.

She couldn’t find her nightmares in those eyes anymore.

—-

The Wizengamot members were unnaturally quiet during the session.

Hermione ran through the items on the agenda with Madam Shafiq, who seemed distracted. Fudge interjected a few times, but other than that, the session was almost disturbingly smooth.

That should have been Hermione’s first clue that something was wrong.

But she was so mentally and physically drained, her mind so full of Proudfoot, Magnus’s double acts and the Wizengamot’s taunts, that she didn’t see the looks that passed between the Wizengamot members and members of her own party.

She didn’t even notice that Flint and Malfoy seemed to be furiously arguing under their breaths at first, not until Madam Shafiq spoke up. 

“Is something the matter, Lord Flint, Lord Malfoy?” She asked. “You are disturbing the session.”

“Absolutely not, ma’am,” Flint called down to her. He looked straight at Hermione gleefully. “Only I was wondering when we were going to get to the special item on the agenda.”

“There is no other item on the agenda,” Hermione said, frowning as she looked down at her parchments. 

“I was telling Marcus that I have not been alerted to any additional discussions to take place today,” Malfoy said. “I would suggest tabling any extra matters until such a time that everyone is informed.”

“Informed of what?” Hermione asked, feeling annoyed. “The Wizengamot has not asked to add anything to the session today, and can not do so without my knowledge and approval.” 

“Oh, but it wasn’t us that has a special item,” Flint all but hollered at her. His eyes were bright. “It’s your members that have something to say.”

Confusion ran through Hermione’s body.

“What—“ Hermione started, standing up.

She looked down at Magnus, who was looking at her with an odd mixture of emotions on his face. 

Pity, she realised. Regret. 

Suddenly she knew all too well what was coming. 

She couldn’t breathe.

Hyde stood up a few benches behind her, and everyone’s eyes turned to him. He looked abashed and more than a little jittery, but he seemed to be steeling himself for what he had to say.

“I have been elected as spokesperson to deliver a message that reflects the opinions of the entire party,” Hyde started.

Hermione looked around, and saw several people avoiding her eyes. She saw Percy drop his quill, looking confusedly at Hyde. Hannah looked confused too. 

“Our party would like to inform the wizengamot that we no longer have confidence in our current leader,” Hyde continued. “As a result we would like the Wizengamot’s permission to elect a new leader, and therefore a new Minister for Magic.”

Hermione felt like she was in a dream, her mind encased by the fog of her nightmares as they started to escalate.

“What?” Hermione said. She looked around, and saw resigned faces, gleeful faces, taunting faces. “I was not informed of this, I wasn’t—“

“—Of course you weren’t,” Fudge said, sounding cheerful. “It’s an intervention against you.”

“You can’t—” she started. She sucked in air, and felt like she was choking on it.

“—Do we have the Wizengamot’s permission to elect a new leader?” Hyde interrupted, not looking at Hermione. 

“Wait a minute!” Theo suddenly said from his seat, looking at Hermione and then at Hyde. “Is this how we do things now—launching sneak attacks at the Minister? Getting a bit big for your boots now, aren’t you Hyde?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Hyde asked angrily, his face red. 

“Shut up, Nott,” Flint yelled across the Wizengamot bench. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What, like you do?” Theo yelled back. “Talking out of your arse all the time, like you’re some kind of hot shot when we all know daddy had to buy your seat back after it was confiscated—“

“DON’T talk about my father, Nott,” Flint said, a dangerous glint in his eye. “I’m warning you.”

“I don’t give a—“ Theo started, standing up.

Hermione felt like she was floating. The arguments around her seemed to be happening behind a glass wall, one that she couldn’t break. 

“Theo,” Malfoy interrupted, sharply. Theo was still standing, his hands clenched.

Malfoy turned to Madam Shafiq. 

“Perhaps we should give the Minister some time to form a rebuttal,” Malfoy said, between gritted teeth. “Like how these things are usually done.”

Hermione’s head cleared a bit.

“A snap election,” she said. “I can call a snap election. Then I can campaign to stay on as Minister—”

“—Granger, you can’t be that stupid,” Fudge said. “Britain can not be in a state where there is no clear Minister or government at this precise point.”

“In the case of a snap election, I am Minister,” Hermione rebutted. “I am Minister until I am ousted out.”

“Perhaps that day has come,” Fudge said, condescendingly. He looked at Madam Shafiq. “Madam, I am of mind to permit a revote. Do you agree?”

Percy stood up. “This is uncalled for!”

“You can not be serious,” Theo said incredulously, looking at Fudge.

“Madam Shafiq,” Malfoy interjected, his voice even and low. “This is not how we do things.” 

Madam Shafiq deliberated, looking torn. She looked at Hermione with an apologetic look.

“If you don’t have the confidence of your party,” she said slowly. “I’m afraid your government has essentially collapsed. We do not have time for a snap election. Madam Minister, I’m afraid I’m going to have to allow the revote.”

“This is unjust!” Hermione roared, her voice trembling with anger. Her hands gripped the table as she stood up, her knuckles white. “This is not in accordance with Wizengamot law!”

“I’ll allow the exception,” Fudge said shortly. Then he called behind Hermione: “the Wizengamot permits a revote—”

“—I demand to be allowed an election!” Hermione yelled. “It is within my right to—“

“—Who will stand against Granger?” Fudge said, over her.

Hermione sucked in a breath, her eyes burning as she knew what was about to happen.

Magnus stood up swiftly.

“I will,” he said, his voice projecting in the room.

Hermione turned to look at him, betrayal tearing through her.

And yet he looked back at her, earnest and resolute, as if he wasn’t the traitor that he was. 

I won’t fight you, Hermione, he had said.

Then, Hermione thought, angry tears burning behind her eyes, what is this? 

“Hands up for Roth as leader of the party and Minister for Magic,” Fudge called.

Hermione looked around as a smattering of hands immediately raised in the air.

Another shot of betrayal tore her.

“Okay,” Fudge said. “Now hands for Granger.”

Another smattering of hands. Hermione desperately tried to count, but it was happening too fast.

“A tie,” Madam Shafiq said.

Flint stood up.

“In the case of a hung parliament, the Wizengamot has the final vote,” he said determinedly. “We get the last vote.”

Hermione breathed in hard, her heart drumming hard in her chest. She looked wildly around at the Wizengamot bench, and her eyes stopped at Malfoy.

He looked at her in alarm.

“Fine,” Fudge said. “All in favour of Roth.”

An overwhelming majority put their hands up, and Hermione’s heart dropped. Malfoy did not put his hand up. Neither did Theo, Madam Shafiq or Madam Marchbank. 

“Well, that settles it,” Fudge said, sounding like all his christmases had come at once. “Roth has the Wizengamot’s vote.”

Hermione swayed on the spot.

Madam Shafiq looked uneasily at Hermione, and then at Magnus.

“Minister Roth,” She said, echoing the words she had said to Hermione less than a month before. The words cut through Hermione like a knife. “If I may be the first to congratulate you…”

Hermione didn’t hear the rest.

She wasn't Minister anymore.

She had lost. 

You will need to stay in the favour of the wizengamot, Kingsley had said. As outdated and antiquated as they are, they control our society. 

Hermione had never had their favour.

They were never going to accept her.

They never meant to give her a chance. 

She turned her head to look at Magnus, and watched as his eyes blazed in triumph.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: The Leaders

Hermione had lost, in more than one way. 

She never had their favour, and she now realised she never would.

She never had been accepted by them, and she never would.

She never stood a chance, and now she never would.

She had lost her ministry, her plans and her hopes, all in the space of a few minutes.

Her head spun, and the noise around her was high-pitched, hazy and distorted.

She could feel the burn of all the eyes on her and couldn’t bear it, not knowing that, at best, they felt sorry for her. At worst, she was a laughing stock.

She couldn’t bear it.

A hand on her arm. Hermione looked up to see Magnus. It took all of her strength not to push him away, as violently as she could. To hurt him, in some semblance of the way that he had hurt him.

Hermione had rarely ever felt like this before. This need to hurt, to maim, to do uncontrollable and unrestrained damage to someone. 

She needed to get out of there before she unleashed something inside herself that terrified even her. 

“Hermione,” Magnus said. “I’m sorry. But it was for the best.”

“For the best,” she said, flatly. “The best for who? It certainly wasn’t for me.”

“You were losing control,” he replied. “We are never going to achieve anything this way.”

“Achieve what, Magnus?” Hermione spat, anger seeping into her voice. “It seems like we wanted different things after all.”

He hardened his grip on her arm, as though he was trying to force her to listen. Hermione didn’t look away from his face. The face that she had always thought of as a friend, that had always reminded her of another friend. Who had also failed her, now.

“Hermione, I promise I’m on your side,” he said, earnestly. “I didn’t want to go about it like this, but let me explain. You’re angry now, but it will all make sense. You just have to let me explain.”

“I don’t have to let you do anything,” Hermione snapped. “After all, I don’t have to do anything at all now.”

The words made her stomach roil, the truth hitting her like a speeding bullet.

She had lost everything.

Everything she had worked for, all for nothing. She didn’t need to do anything anymore, because there was nothing left to work for. 

“Hermione…” Magnus said, but she jerked her shoulder hard, trying to pull out of his grip. 

“Let me go,” she said, firmly.

“No,” he insisted. “Not until you listen—“

Hermione stepped forward, into his space, until their faces were almost level. She could see the paleness of his irises, the grim frown lines of his face.

“Let. Me. Go,” she said fiercely, and pulled hard, freeing her arm from his grip.

“Don’t touch me without my permission,” she said. “Ever.”

Before Magnus could say anything, Hermione turned on her heel and stalked out of the benches.

She knew the minute she left the room there would be taunts, jeers and mutters behind her back, and it made her heart clench with anger. In the corner of her vision, she could see Malfoy standing at the bottom of the Wizengamot benches.

Their eyes locked, just for a second. He didn’t look happy. He didn’t look sad. He looked almost angry, his eyes flashing, almost like he knew what she was feeling, like he felt it too—

She wasn’t ready for his anger. She wasn’t ready for his pity, which might follow. She wasn’t ready for anything. 

Hermione just needed to get out of there. 

She almost ran out of the room, trying hard to keep an even pace and her head held up high, but failed. Tears burned behind her eyelids and she wanted to scream, but she wouldn’t.

Another face came in front of her as she left the chambers, green eyes filled with misery.

“Hermione,” Harry said. “I’m so sorry—“

Hermione stared at him, swaying.

It’s all your fault, she thought. 

But was it? Maybe not completely, but at least a part of it was. If he had told her about Proudfoot, would she still be Minister?

Yes. No. Maybe.

She didn’t know; didn’t know if she was grasping at straws, reappropriating blame or just losing her mind. 

“Get out of the way, Harry,” she said firmly, pushing him. He looked at her, hurt.

“Hermione!” he exclaimed.

“Not now,” she said abruptly, desperately. Her eyes burned. “I need to be alone.”

Hermione pushed past him, ignoring him as he tried to call after her, and ran into a lift before anyone could follow after her. 

The openness of the Atrium was a balm after the stuffiness of the Wizengamot chambers, and Hermione looked blindly around for a floo that was not in use.

She finally located one at the far end and, trying to ignore the stares around her, she clambered for the powder.

“Wait!” A voice said behind her. Hermione turned her head and saw Theo walking quickly towards her, sounding slightly out of breath. 

“Wait,” he repeated. “Where are you going?”

“Does it matter?” Hermione replied, thickly. She felt too much and too little at the same time, the anger and need to hurt stifled by a sudden numbness that she couldn’t get rid of. 

Theo hesitated, seemingly considering something.

“Theo, just…” Hermione said, and her voice trembled. The need to cry crashed through her and Hermione wanted to get out of the ministry so badly. “I need to go.”

“You shouldn’t be alone,” Theo said quickly. “Not when you’re like this. I think you should come with me.” 

“I want to be alone,” Hermione repeated blankly, looking at the floo powder in her hands. “I think it’s best you let me go, Theo.”

But he stretched out his hand to her, leaving a gap between his palm and her shoulder. She tensed. 

“Come with me,” he said simply. “Just trust me.”

Suddenly, irrationally, Hermione felt furious.

“Trust you?” She said, sharply. “Why the hell should I trust you? Just because you said a few nice words to me and gave me some hot chocolate?”

Theo didn’t say anything. He looked at her with his warm eyes, a softness there she didn’t expect. A softness that she felt the irrational urge to get rid of, to break into a hardness that would be easier for her to handle.

“How would you understand what it’s like?” She said, suddenly full of resent. “You, who has had this world at their feet, you—you…a privileged, pureblood lord that no one ever says no to, why should I trust you?”

Theo smiled sadly.

“That makes sense,” he said. “But believe it or not, I understand more than you think. I’ve been told no, my entire life. I have money and status, yes, but for a long time it wasn’t mine— it was my father’s. It was used against me as a threat to keep me under his thumb.”

He took a deep breath and continued.

“I know what it’s like to be smothered and stamped on every time you dare to voice an opinion of your own, to try to rise beyond the limits others force on you,” he continued. “I know that it’s the most excruciatingly painful feeling in the world, to be caged and suffocated when you want to do so much but can’t, because no one will let you. I know that there’s more than one way to bleed.”

Hermione stared at him. 

“You don’t have to trust me,” Theo said, shrugging. “I should have realised that’s a big ask right now. You’re right: why would you trust me? We don’t know each other, not really. But I would like to. Perhaps it’s not the best time, but when you’re like this—when I’m like this— it’s never a good idea to be alone.”

Hermione deliberated, torn. Some of the numbness disappeared, and her fingers tingled with magic. 

“I'm not the best company right now,” she said finally.

Theo shrugged again, a small smile on his face.

“Who gives a shit?” He said. “Neither am I. Let’s go have a drink, then we can blame our lack of fucks and filter on that.”

Suddenly, a drink sounded like a really good idea to Hermione. What she really needed at that moment, was to forget everything and everyone.

A drink sounded like a really, really good idea. 

“Fine,” Hermione said, relenting. Theo looked surprised. “But not the Three Broomsticks. Or Hog’s Head.”

“Excuse you,” Theo said lightly. “What do you think I am? No, we’re going to The Green Room.”

Hermione blinked at him through sore eyes. 

“The what?” She said, confused.

—

The Green Room was decidedly not green at all. 

Theo led her to a private room with dark mahogany walls and tapestries, as well as two plush and buttery-looking leather armchairs facing a large ornamental fireplace. On the other side of the room there was a large, round mahogany table with leather upholstered chairs under an elaborate crystal-laden chandelier, sparkling in the light. 

Every inch of the room spoke of quiet wealth and ancient money; Hermione imagined it was the sort of place where deals were made between old families, where traditions and old customs were upheld and celebrated with clinked flutes of heavy crystal wine glasses. 

It was, in fact, not the sort of place Hermione wanted to drown her sorrows about failing to fight against such families, traditions and customs.

“This isn’t a pub,” Hermione said in dismay. 

“No,” Theo said. “But it is private and discreet. Do you really want to be the subject of every tabloid under the moon? That’s what will happen literally anywhere else.”

Hermione sniffed “What is this place?”

“The Green Room,” Theo answered promptly.

“It’s not very green.”

“No, it’s more symbolic. Green is the colour most old families associate with purity and old lineages—“

“—And Slytherin—“

“—A coincidence. Most of us are Slytherins, and Salazar knew the type he wanted in his House.”

“So why have you brought me here, of all places?”

“Why not? It’s secluded, quiet and we won’t be subjected to every Gryffindor and Hufflepuff in Diagon Alley—“

“—I’m a Gryffindor.”

There was a glint in Theo’s eyes as he smiled at her. 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Theo said. “You were a Gryffindor. I imagine that under all that bleeding heart, courage bordering on stupidity and garish red, there might be a slither of green with nerves of steel.”

Hermione felt confused. Her head and her heart were sore, and all she wanted, more than anything, was to forget. Instead she was standing in a posh gentlemen's club with a Wizengamot lord who seemed to have forgotten who she was. 

“The hat never wanted to put me in Slytherin,” Hermione said. She threw herself into one of the leather armchairs, and instantly changed her mind about the place. The leather was soft, well-cushioned and almost melted into her skin—it was that comfortable. “It did nearly put me in Ravenclaw though.”

“Close enough,” Theo said.

“I hate to break it to you,” Hermione replied, looking around and wondering if this place actually served alcohol, or just patriarchy-based misogyny. “I never wanted to be in Slytherin.”

“I think you should have,” Theo replied, sitting in the other armchair with a lot more elegance than Hermione had. “Because do you know what Slytherins are?”

“What?” Hermione said. 

“Politicians,” Theo said, smoothly. “Law-makers. Leaders, rulers, the be—all and say—all of society.” 

Hermione scoffed, looking into the fire. 

“That’s not Slytherin,” Hermione said. “That’s called having money and titles.” 

“Yes,” Theo agreed, to Hermione’s surprise. “But every once in a while, a Slytherin without any of that makes it through to the top.”

“Yeah?” Hermione said, unable to keep the scorn from her voice. “Like who?”

“Here I was, thinking you were clever,” Theo teased. “Why—Kingsley Shacklebolt, of course.” 

Hermione frowned.

It was true. Kingsley had been a third son, with no title. From a lineage where all the money and assets belonged solely to the heir, with some left over for the spare. Nothing for the third-in-line. 

“He still had the Shacklebolt name,” Hermione pointed out. “He was still a pureblood.”

“He only had the name—nothing else,” Theo said. “Names can be…acquired. And the pureblood aspect doesn’t have as much weight now, not when everyone knows that non-pureblooded Ministers are the immediate future. Plus you have your own specific brand of appeal.”

Hermione jerked her head at him.

“I do?” She asked, evenly. “I have…appeal?”

“Of course,” Theo said. “You’re one of the golden trio, a saviour of the wizarding world. The brightest witch of our age and the golden girl. There isn’t a person in the wizarding world who hasn’t heard of you.”

Hermione felt a trickle of disappointment, followed by frustration and despair.

“Fat lot of good it did me,” she said. “No amount of fame and hard work will make me Minister again.”

“No,” Theo replied. “You just need to be Slytherin.”

Hermione was confused, and more than a little irritable after the events of the day. “Theo…what are you trying to say?”

“I’m just saying, perhaps it isn’t over,” he replied softly. “And that maybe you need to talk to Draco.”

Hermione frowned at him, her heart leaping to her throat. 

“To Dra—“Hermione started, and then stopped herself. “To Malfoy?”

“Yes, he was always better at this sort of stuff than me,” Theo said vaguely. He pulled out his wand and tapped the arm of his sofa. “Daddy Malfoy was very determined to have a Minister in the family, and raised Draco with this ideal in mind. It was a massive disappointment to him that Draco made it clear he wasn’t  interested in politics.”

To Hermione’s surprise, a small black tray appeared with a crystal-cut glass of rich, amber liquid. 

“But I can see that now is not the time for that kind of conversation,” Theo continued genially. “By all accounts, Draco still thinks you might throw him down a lift shaft in the ministry.” 

Hermione swallowed.

She didn’t know why they were suddenly talking about Malfoy.

She didn’t know what they were talking about at all. 

Malfoy had improved on her since their visit to Azkaban. She wasn’t terrified at the sight of him. She didn’t have nightmares when he was nearby. But that was a far cry from discussing her career plans with him.

“I need a drink,” Hermione said suddenly. “Can I get one?”

“Of course,” Theo said, gesturing at his glass. “What would you like?”

Hermione thought hard. 

“Tequila,” she said eventually. Theo looked at her, confused.

“What’s that?” He said.

“Tequila,” Hermione repeated. “Do they not have that in the wizarding world?”

“I’m guessing that is a muggle drink,” Theo said. “So no, I don’t think so. What is it?”

“It’s…a drink made in mexico, I think,” Hermione said. “Distilled from an agave plant. It’s taken in shots.”

“In shots?”

“Yes, shots. Of glasses. Small glasses. With lemon and salt.”

Theo looked at her as though she had grown another head.

“Right,” Theo said. “That Slytherin in you is buried deep, I see. But I think we have something sort of similar.” 

He tapped his wand again, and a dark blue bottle appeared, along with two small crystal-cut glasses.

“What is this?” Hermione asked, confused. It didn’t look like tequila.

“Black Cat shots,” Theo said. “It’s the only liquor I know that’s drunk like that. I have no idea if it’s like your tequila and I’ve never tried it.”

“Well there’s a first time for everything,” Hermione said. She poured two glasses to the brim and looked around. “Where’s the lemon and salt?”

Theo raised an eyebrow at her. 

“You know,” she continued, gesturing. “To suck and lick.”

Theo’s eyebrows went almost to his hairline.

“Ma,am, I’ll have you know that this is a respectable establishment,” he said, laughing. “I’m pretty sure you drink this neat.”

Hermione sighed. She picked up one of the glasses.

“Cheers,” she said, raising it. 

“Sláinte,” Theo replied, clinking his glass with hers carefully. 

They both drank the shots in one, and then immediately started coughing and spluttering in unison.

“What the fuck was that?” Theo rasped, coughing in loud hacks. “My throat is on fire. It’s gone, it’s disintegrated. That tasted like basilisk spunk and pure evil.”

Hermione’s face was tingling.

“You know what basilisk spunk tastes like?” She giggled, feeling slightly befuddled.

“I might do, you never know,” he said. His voice was already slurring. “But this drink was worse.”

“This drink,” Hermione said, looking at her empty glass in awe. “Is amazing.”

“Oh ye Gods,” Theo said. “You would enjoy that, you heathen. That Slytherin is buried deep.”

Hermione picked up another shot, and downed it. She shuddered. 

“Wait for me!” Theo exclaimed, looking scandalised.

“You don’t like it,” Hermione said.

Theo picked up his glass. 

“If we get through tonight without dying,” he said, sombrely. “I insist you consider me a friend. I won’t drink this for anything less.”

Hermione gave him a small smile. 

“Fine,” Hermione said, teasingly. “But first, I would very much like to forget today and everything else.” 

Theo raised his glass.

“To your success,” Theo said. 

Hermione’s heart throbbed but she ignored it.

“My chances at success are over,” she said. She raised her glass. “To the Wizengamot. May they forever continue to ruin the world.”

“The fucking Wizengamot,” Theo repeated, thickly. “May the Gods have mercy on them when you finally take over the world.”

—-

Hermione had lost. She had lost everything. She wasn’t Minister anymore.

But it was really hard to clear about that, at the moment.

Excellent.

Hermione propped her head up, and realised she was lying across an armchair, half of her body almost slumped off one edge.

Her hair had come loose from its top knot and, for some reason, was in her mouth. She spat it out.

Her feet were cold. Her shoes had disappeared. 

“Buh-lease,” Theo’ slurred, his voice floating from somewhere beyond her. 

She tried to look at him, but was almost blinded by the brightness of the fire. 

“Huh?” She murmured. 

“Buh-lease,” he said again. “I’m gonna…I’m gonna call him—“

“—Who is buh-lease?” Hermione asked stupidly. 

“My boyfriend,” Theo said, dangling a leg off his arm chair. His jacket and coat were missing, as well as one shoe, exposing a sock with peacocks all over them. “My partner. My loooooooover.”

“You have a boyfriend?” Hermione asked. “Called Buh-lease?”

Hermione tried to sit up, but found that her arms would not cooperate, so she gave up.

She felt pleasantly numb, and couldn’t feel anything much, including her own face. The world and her limbs had faded into the periphery and it was blissful. 

“Yes,” Theo slurred, and flinched as he almost fell off his chair. “Fuck, I’m drunk.”

Hermione blinked as he scrambled towards the fire and tossed some powder in.

“Wait, Theo,” she croaked, her throat dry. “You’re going to fall in, here—“

She clumsily tried to get off the chair, and felt the world tilt on its axis as she fell in a heap on top of Theo.

“Fuck!” He yelled. “That hurt! Your elbows are so sharp.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

Hermione tried to get up, but couldn’t, so she laid on the soft carpet on her back. 

This didn’t seem like a bad place to sleep, actually. It was comfortable, warm. Flat. All the requirements of a place to rest, really.

She was starting to drift off, floating comfortably in and out of consciousness. Her entire body felt like it weighed nothing, completely devoid of all feeling. 

It was the best she had felt in years. 

But then, suddenly, she could hear voices. Even in her befuddled state, she could make out the footsteps of two new presences. 

She blinked, and a blurry blonde head appeared in her vision. 

Hues of grey blinked above her—

“Oh, not again,” she moaned, waving an arm uselessly in the air. “Go away!”

“Charming,” murmured a voice, somewhere near her feet. It sounded familiar somehow, but also not. It kept distorted as she tried to decipher what it was saying. 

“—what in Salazar’s name possessed you to think that it was a good idea to get her drunk, today of all days—“

“—She was going to be all alone. I thought you’d be happy that I—“

Hermione tried to go back to sleep. But—irritatingly, the voices got louder.

“—This isn’t what I meant, Theo, and you know it. Just because you have decided to make a project out of her—“

“—Not a project. Just because she hates your guts doesn’t mean that she has to hate mine—“

“Theo,” said another, much deeper voice. Hermione tried to follow the sound. The voice was low, calming and melodic, and seemed to belong to a blur that stood next to two others. “I think you should stop. Let’s go.”

“No, Buh-lease,” Theo slurred. “He should he doesn’t have the bloody award for being a moody fucking wanker—“

“—Shut up, Theo,” the blonde blur said. 

“Don’t talk to Theo like that—“

“—Don’t tell me how to talk to him, Blaise. He always makes the worst decisions at the worst fucking times, and never learns. Do you know how dangerous this kind of thing is for her at the moment?”

“Actually, I don’t know,” said the other blur—Blaise?—sharply. “Because you won’t fucking tell us.”

“You know that I can’t,” said the blonde blur. 

“I don’t make stupid decisions,” Theo piped up.

Hermione looked blearily to her left and saw him struggling to get up. Her vision cleared a little and she could see another man, holding him up. 

“Theo,” Blaise warned, as he wrapped the other man’s arm around his shoulder. 

“I don’t make stupid decisions,” Theo repeated, his voice slightly high-pitched. “We’ve known each other since we were in nappies, Draco. You should know I never made a single decision for myself until the day my dear old daddy died.”

“Theo,” Blaise warned. 

“And if I did, guess what daddy’s idea of a punishment was?” Theo continued bitterly. “I became quite comfortable in the dungeons at home. The Malfoy Manor ones too, if I remember correctly—“

Hermione saw the blonde blur sway a bit.

Malfoy.

“Theo,” Malfoy said. “This isn’t about your father.”

Theo laughed, and Hermione could hear a thick sob in his throat.

“It is for me,” Theo said. His face was red and shiny. “He made it so that it will take the rest of my life for it not to be about him.”

Theo tried to stand up again, failing. 

“Everything is about my father,” he slurred. “And the arseholes who are just like him, sitting up in that court chambers, telling everyone what to do. You know what? Fuck them all. Fuck them and the bullshit they stand for . I don’t want to be a part of it.”

He waved a hand at Hermione, and she came round with a start, the room becoming more distinct. 

“She could change all that,” Theo almost yelled. “If she had the fucking information to do that.”

“Theo,” Blaise said once more. “You are talking nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense,” Theo said. “This is the most sense I’ve ever talked in my life. What’s in this Black Cat stuff? I’ve had a bloody epiphany.”

He pointed at Malfoy.

“Hey, here’s an idea,” Theo said, angrily. “Why don’t you help her?”

“Theo, stop,” Blaise tried again. Theo tried to pull out of his arms, and failed.

“No, I don’t think I will,” Theo said. “Don’t think I don’t see you staring at her, Draco. Don’t even pretend you are doing okay. You look at her like you’ve been tortured. Which is funny, because I swear it was the other way around—“

“—Draco, ignore him,” Blaise said. “You know he’s an emotional drunk.”

“Theo, if you don’t stop now,” Malfoy replied, quietly. “I will jinx your mouth shut permanently.”

“Oh shut the fuck up, you inbred wanker,” Theo snapped. “Just talk to her instead of just staring at her. It’s doing my bloody head in.” 

“You’re all inbred,” Blaise sighed. “You British Sacreds. Sometimes it shows. Like now.”

“Fuck off, Blaise,” Malfoy snarled.

Hermione tried to raise her head once more, but her head spun.

“Blaise?” She said slowly, feeling dizzy. “As in, Zabini?”

“How about that, she remembers me,” Blaise said. “I’d say I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, but I’m sure you’ll disagree in the morning.” 

“What is happening?” She asked, hazily.

Hermione raised herself on her elbows. She felt herself slip and braced her shoulders for a heavy blow. The blow never came, and instead her head was cushioned by a hand under her neck. 

“Fucking hell, Granger,” Malfoy hissed.

She blinked and the brightness around her dimmed a little, and she found herself looking at Malfoy’s face. He was crouching next to her, with his arm behind her. “I thought you were smarter than this.”

“Why are you here?” Hermione asked bluntly.

She wiggled her head, trying to pull out of his grip. He gently put her head back on the carpet, but stayed crouching, assessing her.

“I was summoned by your new minion,” he said, dryly.

“—Not a minion,” Theo slurred to her other side. “We’re friends, you jealous twat.”

Hermione swallowed, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. 

“Friends,” she confirmed, feeling dazed. She felt herself sit up, and realised that Malfoy had pulled her into a seated position. “I want….home. I want to…go home. To my—my flat. Home.

The world started spinning around her, and her brain hurt as she tried to remember where home was. The lights became bright again, blazing and scalding like the fire in the room. She felt herself fall again.

“Fuck,” Malfoy swore. “I’m going to kill you for this, Theo.”

The arm behind her head was back.

“Not if I don’t kill myself first,” Theo moaned. “How do I feel hungover and drunk at the same time?”

“Let’s get you home,” Hermione heard Blaise say. “Draco: you’re going to have to handle Granger by yourself. I’ve got my hands full.”

“Do you really?” Theo said, flirtatiously. “I’ll give you something to put in your hands—“

“—I rue the day I met you, Nott,” Malfoy said. “How am I supposed to get her home?”

He turned to her.

“Where do you live, Granger?” He asked. “I’ll floo you home.”

Hermione thought hard, so hard that her brain hurt. Everything around her buzzed, words, light and liquor, dancing in a tune that she couldn’t comprehend.

“In my flat,” she rasped.

Malfoy sighed.

“Where is your flat?” He prompted, sounding irritated. “Think hard with that big old brain of yours, Granger.”

Hermione tried, and something electric shot painfully to her head. 

“London,” she gasped, rubbing her temples. “My head hurts.”

“London doesn’t exactly narrow it down,” Malfoy said, exasperated. 

“What am I supposed to do now?” He asked the two other men.

“You could take her to Potter,” Blaise suggested. “Doesn't he live in Godric’s Hollow?” 

“In a heavily fidelius-ed fortress with a blocked floo probably,” Malfoy snapped. “Do you really think I can just walk in there? I’m not taking her back to the ministry.”

“What about Weasley?” Blaise asked.

“You want me to go gallivanting around London looking for the Weasel?” Malfoy snapped. “I would rather die.”

“Doesn’t he live in that house,” Blaise said vaguely. “Tunnel, warren, something? In Devon or something.”

“The Burrow,” Theo supplied. “In Ottery St Catchpole.”

“How in the hells do you both know that?” Malfoy asked disbelievingly. Then he shook his head. “Strike that—I don’t want to know. Hells or high water, there’s no way I’m voluntarily entering a ginger ambush.”

There was a pause, and Hermione coughed, her throat burning. She blinked as a glass appeared in front of her. She held it clumsily.

“Drink,” Malfoy said. She looked at him, squinting at his face, and then back at the glass. She nodded.

Water slopped down her front, and she heard Malfoy sigh and mutter something. A larger hand laid over hers on the glass, holding it correctly so that she could drink. 

Hermione was so occupied by the cooling liquid, the beautiful ambrosia that it was, that she nearly missed the rest of the conversation. 

“—You could take her to Wizarding Wheezes,” Theo said.

“Yes,” Malfoy scoffed. “I’ll do that. I’m sure the Van Gogh the Second is going to be really pleased to see me towing Granger along. He’ll think I kidnapped her.”

“No, you bastard,” Theo said. “The actual Weasel works there, with his brother.”

“Theo, it’s not long to midnight,” Malfoy said. “I don’t think he’s there. They’ve got to be closed.”

“Well, it’s worth trying,” Blaise said, shrugging.

“Merlin,” Malfoy said, sounding resigned. “Fine. I’ll take her to the ginger twat. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t hex me on the spot.” 

—

The cold air whipped across Hermione’s face, dragging her out of her sleepy daze. Yet somehow, she felt even drunker than before, her brain moving at a sluggish pace.

“Fuck, you’re heavy,” Malfoy muttered. He sounded and felt very close to her.

Hermione lifted her head from her chin, and realised that one of her arms was slung around the back of his neck and onto his shoulders, lifting her slightly up. Another strong, steadying arm was wound around her waist, holding her to his side as he helped her along. 

“S’not heavy,” Hermione slurred. “I’m the—the average weight for a woman my height.” 

They walk slowly through the dark and empty streets of Diagon Alley, only a few overhead lamps lighting up the path ahead of them with a dim, yellow brightness.

The pavement beneath them was wet with recent rain, and the smell of salt and damp newspaper mingled in the air. 

“You don’t have to help me,” she mumbled, after a while. “I can get home by myself.”

Malfoy scoffed.

“Can you?” He asked. He removed her arm from his shoulder, and let go of her waist. “Can you really?”

Almost immediately Hermione stumbled, narrowly crashing into the pebbled ground when the arm swooped back round her waist. She grabbed onto his coat, and clung to him like a lifeline.  

Hermione was moulded to his side, and it should have bothered her that they were standing so close, her face only slightly beneath his, and practically level with his throat.

In the partially lit road, his eyes were dark and bright as they looked down at her. 

“I didn’t think so,” he said. He gently took her arm and wound it around his neck again. “You’ll have to be higher than you already are to think I’ll let you go anywhere alone like this.”

Hermione looked at him hazily, her mind clouded with fog. 

“You probably find this amusing,” Hermione said, feeling numb again. “The Wit—Wizengamot took my ministry. I’m a laughing stock. Now I’m drunk in a random alleyway with you.” 

There was a pause as Malfoy’s hand tightened around her waist. 

“No. No, I don’t,” Malfoy said. “You getting drunk today is….understandable. It’s Theo I blame for getting you drunk. But you know you can’t make a habit of this, don’t you?”

“Of what?” Hermione asked. Her head felt heavy, and she could feel it sliding onto his shoulder. The rocking motion as they walked was lulling her into waves of darkness. 

“Drinking. Alcohol,” Malfoy explained. “No matter what anyone says, it’s as bad as any drug sometimes. I would know.”

Hermione knew there was a story there, somewhere in the darkness, but she was so tired, she couldn’t make sense of it. 

“I’ve lost everything,” she said, numbly, as if it had only just hit her. “Everything I worked for…has come to nothing. All gone. All gone wrong.”

“Not necessarily,” Malfoy said, eventually. “Not all is lost. All that’s changed is that you need to tread very carefully now.”

Hermione’s head was starting to throb again, through the welcoming arms of sleep and numbness. 

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“This Roth,” Malfoy said, bluntly. He turned his head to look down at her. “You know he’s bad news, don’t you? Tell me that you have at least realised that by now.”

Hermione tried to look up at him, but the movement made her headache worse, so she found herself looking at his throat, watching his Adam's apple move up and down.

“I thought he was my friend,” Hermione said, and she felt a sob held back in her throat. “I thought…he would help. After Kingsley. But I was wrong. I’ve been wrong about so much.”

“You made mistakes, yes,” Malfoy agreed. “Big ones. But we all have. Sometimes it’s hard to see what’s right in front of us.”

Hermione huffed out a slow breath, watching her breath turn into cold smoke in front of her.

“My biggest mistake,” she said. “Is trusting people. If there’s one thing, it’s that I can’t trust anyone.”

“Maybe you can’t trust the people you already know,” Malfoy answered swiftly. “Time to trust some new people, Granger.”

Hermione halted to a stop, digging in her feet and forcing Malfoy to stop as well.

She felt her head spinning, and a strange tingling in her fingers and toes. Malfoy’s face became hazy through her heavy her eyelids. 

Without thinking, she moved her arm from around his shoulder, pulling back to palm the nape of his neck. Hermione reached up with her other arm to hold onto the collar of his coat.

She breathed in deeply, the scent of rich amber, wet grass and fresh parchment drifting towards her. Hermione tiptoed, the pebbles digging through the thin soles of her shoes, her skin trembling beneath her linen blouse in the cold.

She pulled him closed, and felt him suck in a breath as their faces became levelled on the same stage. 

“Trust someone new,” Hermione said, with more sharpness than she could easily muster. “Someone like you, you mean?”

Malfoy breathed hard, the warmth of it caressing her cheek as it plumed into smoke. She could make out the shape of his pupils, dilated and dark against the thin band of white around them. 

“It could be,” Malfoy admitted, his voice low. “If you wanted. You just need to ask, Hermione.”

Hermione. Her name in his mouth dragged something out of the back of her mind, dark and pulsing.

Suddenly, she was filled with want—want for something that confused her in the way it bloomed fast inside her, fully-formed and all-encompassing.

Malfoy saying her name shouldn’t make her react like that. 

It had to be the alcohol. 

“Ask you what?” Hermione said, as evenly as she could while she channelled all her energy into staying upright. 

“The right questions, of course,” Malfoy said.

His eyes flickered over her face slowly, as if he was trying to take in every inch of her face, every line and curl.

Hermione let out a shaky breath.

“What questions?” She asked. “I wish, just one person, would tell me what they really mean.”

She gripped tighter onto his collar, pulling his face closer. Her thumb moved away from his collar and onto his neck. Something swooped down her body as she felt, rather than saw, the bare skin of his throat and collarbone, the beginnings of something inky clinging to his skin.

Hermione heard him breathe in sharply, and reach up to grip the hand on his collarbone, his other hand digging into her hip.

She had made mistakes left and right, lately. It was as though she couldn’t stop making mistakes.

Suddenly she felt graceless, she felt wanton, she…she wanted to make another mistake.

Hermione felt like she was destined to make a stupid mistake tonight, and she didn’t really care if she regretted it in the morning. 

She just wanted to feel good.

She wanted to feel nothing at all.

There was a beat. Then another one. A low, shaky breath sucked into the deep recesses of his body, and then it was gone.

Hermione blinked as he moved away, readjusting their position to their previous one. 

“Let’s get going,” Malfoy croaked. “At this rate, we won’t get there until dawn.”

Hermione shivered at the lack of warmth, her lungs trembling as she breathed.

Malfoy sighed.

Suddenly, he let go of her entirely, and Hermione swayed on her feet at the abruptness of it. He swiftly removed his coat, and Hermione blinked as heavy wool was wrapped around her shoulders, the sleeves pushed through her arms until she was wearing it, the hem trailing close to the ground. 

“You’re freezing,” he said gruffly. “Weaselshit will have my guts for garters if you turn up with hypothermia.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say, huddling into the heat cocooned within the coat. His heat, Hermione’s brain reminded her sluggishly, and she pushed the thought out of her head.

She would be embarrassed about all this in the morning. But right now, she was confused, a little less cold, and a lot more drunk.

“Thank you,” Hermione said. He nodded, and continued walking them down the street. 

“Malfoy,” Hermione said. “Why are you suddenly everywhere?” 

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Why are you?”

Hermione sucked in a breath. He didn’t say anything more, and turned back to the street, guiding her carefully.

“Almost there,” Malfoy said after a while. She nodded, her mind drifting. Her eyelids felt heavy, dragged down by the weight of her dreams.

“I used to dream about you,” she said, sleepily, her head slumping onto his shoulder again. “I still dream about you.” 

Hermione thought she had him say something, but the words slipped through her mind like fog, as she was tugged down onto even further darkness. 

——

Hermione dreamed. 

There was fog in her brain, and it quickly became murky, twisted, pulling tight against the caverns where her memories were buried, and then dispersing completely. Hermione drifted—

—She was in pain, so much pain, so much that she wished she could die. But not like this, never like this. A deep, shrill cackle sounded above her. Crucio! the knot of scraggly curls said above her, crucio, crucio, crucio! Hermione couldn’t move, couldn’t protect herself as she lay on the stone cold dungeon floor—

—The dungeon was so cold, so, so cold. She was shivering uncontrollably. Every inch of her skin hurt, and she felt like she was covered in a layer of needles and hot wire. She blinked and saw those grey eyes looking worriedly down at her—

—It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m going to get you out, I promise, I’ll get you out—

—The agony is back, and Hermione felt like she is floating. The screams and laughs were in the background now, and she didn’t feel them vibrating within her anymore—

—He’s coming, they’re coming, you can’t…I will-

—She saw his face as she opened the door. He turned around, shock painting his face before it recovered into a sneer. What the fuck are you doing here, he said—

—What a tasty little morsel you will be, said a putrid breath blowing in the cold air of the dungeon, all but licking her face with terror—

—Twisted, sad eyes, and—

—Have to, I’m going to have to—

—Save yourself…Hermione, Hermione, Her—

And then the fog swallowed her into a deep abyss, and she was gone.

—-

“Hermione! Hermione! Her—“

She woke up gasping, her mind on fire and her throat burning. She coughed and spluttered, and then looked around frantically.

“Hermione,” a gentle voice said to her left, and she jerked her head in that direction so fast that she cried out in pain. 

“‘Mione, it’s alright!”  Ron said, hovering over her, with concern on his face. “It’s just a bad dream.”

Hermione blinked at him, and realised she must be in his house, recognising the floral wallpaper.

“How did I get here?” She asked, her voice coming out in a dry rasp that felt like sandpaper in her throat. 

Ron handed her a glass of water, and she gulped it down. The coolness of it helped clear her head and soothed her burning throat.

“Funny story,” Ron said, dryly. “George and I were making a few tweaks to Intrudie-Judie and some other new things for the shop, and Malfoy starts banging on the front door past midnight, carrying you. ”

Hermione swallowed. Her head was still throbbing. The events of last night were distorted in her mind, Theo’s face hazy in her mind. She remembered Malfoy being there. Also… Zabini? 

She gripped tighter onto his collar, pulling his face closer. Her thumb moved away from his collar and onto his neck—

Hermione swallowed hard, her face turning blistering red in embarrassment.

What was I thinking? she thought, furiously. 

Hermione prayed he wouldn't bring it up when she next saw him. If she saw him. She looked at the end of the bed, a masculine wool coat folded neatly at her feet. 

“Ah,” she said.

“Yeah,” Ron said. “Look, Hermione, far be for me to judge you for getting drunk after what has happened, but with Nott and Malfoy? Since when did you even talk to Malfoy?”

“I don’t,” she replied. “At least, not outside the ministry. I just see him there now, in Wizengamot” 

Ron was looking at her, concern etched clearly on his face.

“I know things have been difficult for you,” he said carefully. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around as much, I’ve been so preoccupied with work and Lav and the baby… but Harry told me about everything you’ve been dealing with. I’m sorry about what happened yesterday.”

Hermione looked down at her lap, and squeezed her eyes shut hard to block out the pain in her forehead. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. 

Ron sighed again.

“Okay,” he said. “But ‘Mione… Malfoy ? You were terrified of him, not long ago. You used to have…dreams.”

Back when they were together, her nightmares had been rampant, and she had woken him more than once screaming in the middle of the night.

At the time it has been okay. Ron had nightmares, too.

“I didn’t know it was still so bad,” he said. “You were screaming in your sleep just now. About dungeons. Why are you dreaming about dungeons? You never were—has Malfoy been saying something to you? Why is he—“

“—My nightmares aren’t about him,” Hermione lied.

She didn’t know why she was lying, why she was covering for Malfoy. But somehow, somewhere down the line, he had become the least of her worries. She didn’t feel like he was out to get her anymore, but there was something there that she didn’t understand.

But whatever it was, it didn’t feel nefarious, sinister or wrong, like everything else in her life at the moment. 

“I don’t know why I was dreaming about a dungeon,” Hermione said, and then remembered how Theo had mentioned being locked up in them by his father. She felt terrible. “I think it was just something Nott mentioned.” 

Everything was so confusing. Everything was so complicated. Everything was so messed up. 

Everything was lost to her.

“Something that Nott…”

“Ron,” Hermione interrupted, weakly. “Please. Can we talk about this another time? My head hurts so much.”

“Oh, that,” Ron said, grinning slightly. “I said we’ve run out of hangover potion, so Malfoy gave us some he had with him for some reason. Said to give it to you in the morning.”

Hermione blinked, and followed Ron’s glaze to the bedside table where a small vial of pink liquid was sitting innocuously.

“Don’t worry, I don’t think he’s tampered with it,” Ron said. “It’s got an apothecary label on it.”

Hermione looked at the Slugs and Jiggers label on the vial, and smiled wryly.

Chances are you’ve already tried a potion he’s made, Hermione remembered Harry saying. 

Without another thought, she tipped the vial into her mouth. Similar to the last time, the effects were instant, her throbbing head fading away. 

“That reminds me- while you’re here,” Ron said, as Hermione put down the empty vial. “Would you mind sending me your Intrudie-Judie? I need to make a few tweaks.”

“Okay,” Hermione said. “Why?”

“Just a few additions we thought might be useful,” Ron said vaguely. 

Hermione nodded, and nearly jumped when her stomach rumbled audibly. 

Ron huffed out a laugh, and started to stand up.

“Come on, let’s go down and have some breakfast,” Ron said. “Lav got some croissants from that muggle bakery she loves, but I fancy some eggs and bacon.”

“Me too,” she answered truthfully.

“Good. Also, can you answer one of Harry’s owls while you’re at it? He’s been sending me a ton of moppy messages about how you won’t talk to him,” Ron said. “It’s starting to remind me a bit too much of sixth year, and we don’t need a repeat of that, do we?”

—-

Monday rolled around long before she was ready to face it.

But she had faced worse adversities. She could handle this. 

Hermione flooed into the ministry as early as she could, straightening her spine as she walked down the corridors. She could feel eyes turning to fix on her, unrelenting in their stares. 

She halted outside the Minister’s office. The office that hadn’t felt like hers, until it was no longer hers.

She turned around, dithering. Ignoring the looks that followed her as she tried to decide what to do, Hermione was relieved when she saw Hannah appear and smile at her.

“Good morning,” Hannah said, pleasantly. “Shall we go to your office?”

Hermione nodded without saying anything. After all, she had no idea where her office was now, or even what her role was, anymore. 

To her surprise, Hannah led her to her old office, the one she had been given when she was Kingsley’s Chief Advisor. 

Surely he didn’t mean to keep her on as a CA, Hermione thought. 

She didn’t know if that was a slap in the face, having been brought down after being Minister, or a comfort to know that he would still give her a prominent role in his ministry. 

They had been friends before all this.

Magnus had always been kind to her, knew her favourite foods and drink, held her when she cried, felt her woes as keenly as she had. He had been the colleague she had been closest to, the one she felt she understood the most.

The one that she thought knew what she was going up against, because he was, too.

Hermione didn’t know what she knew anymore.

She stared at a box of her things sitting on the table. She stared at it, and felt nothing.

“Minister Roth wanted to move over to the Minister’s office as soon as possible,” Hannah said apologetically. “So I gathered up everything that I knew was yours. I hope that is okay.”

“That’s fine,” Hermione answered. “It’s fine.”

She slowly walked towards the desk, and put her hands into the box, pulling out the photos of her parents and James, Albus and Lily. She could see the Rubik’s cube, the peacock picture and her mp3 player. The small, insignificant things that meant so much to her because of the memories they held. The happiness that seemed all too fleeting in her life. 

She pulled her hands out, still gripping the two photo frames. 

Hermione had been so naive, to think that she could change the world. To think that the wizarding world would accept her as she was. To think she could straddle her two worlds and belong to both of them, when really she didn’t belong to either one.

She wouldn’t change the world.

She would dissolve into it; another irrelevant, unimportant thing, forgotten in time. 

She had been so stupid to think she could fit into this world that had been so special to her, let alone lead it. 

She never had a chance. 

She heard the quiet snick of her door as Hannah closed it behind her, and was grateful for the other woman’s consideration. Hermione sat down at her old-yet-new desk, gently sweeping her hand across its oak wood expanse and silver-gilded edges. She longed for rich mahogany and brass edges, but had lost it, forever. 

The finality of such a small thing raised a lump in her throat, and it was suddenly hard to breathe. 

She would not cry, Hermione told herself furiously. She would not cry. 

She looked back at the box, and suddenly her eyes caught on something she hadn’t noticed before. She stood up. 

There, underneath all her papers and scrolls and insignificant things, was Proudfoot’s notebook. Hermione couldn’t remember if she had taken it after Dita had caught her in Proudfoot’s office. But she must have, and Hannah must have taken it before Magnus noticed, because it was here.

She didn’t know why but it felt important somehow. 

Hermione was just about to pick it up, when there was a loud knock on her door. Hermione jumped as Magnus strode into the room. 

For a while, they just stared at each other.

Hermione didn’t bow her head. He didn’t seem to expect her to.

“What do you want?” She asked bluntly.

“I know you don’t want to see me,” Magnus said softly. “But at some point, if we are going to work together. I need to clear the air.”

Hermione didn’t say anything. Just looked at him. He already looked every inch the Minister, his suit sharp and expensive, layered with the rich material of wool robes. His hair was carefully slicked back, the dark strands gleaming in the harsh light of her office. 

“Are we going to work together?” Hermione asked eventually. 

Magnus’s eyes flashed. 

“Of course, Hermione,” he said quickly. Firmly. “How can you doubt that? I would very much like us to work together, if you are amenable.”

Hermione sucked in a breath.

“You lied to me,” she said. “You lied to me and you stole the ministry under my feet.”

“You don’t own the role of Minister, Hermione,” he said calmly. “I can’t steal something you don’t rightfully own.”

Rightfully. Her temper blazed beyond her numbness.

“I had every right to be Minister,” Hermione said. “As much as you, as much as anyone else. How can you—“

“—You don’t understand,” Magnus said. “Of course you have a right to be Minister. But surely you must have realised that you were only given the ministry because it was what Kingsley wanted? Like it was an inheritance. Nepotism. You might have had the right, but you didn’t exactly get it fairly.”

Hermione stepped forward, closer to him. Her hand inched closer to her wand.

“What are you trying to say?” Hermione said. “That I took the ministry?”

Magnus looked at her intently, seemingly unbothered by her ire. He eyed her hand, the one that had moved to her robes.

Strangely, he smiled.

“No, Hermione,” he said. “In fact, you gave us the ministry. For that, I will always be in your debt.”

Hermione stopped, her hand falling to her side.

“What?” She said. 

“I’m sorry,” Magnus said. “Sometimes I forget how much you don’t know.”

“What don’t I know?” Hermione snapped. “Apparently there’s a great many things I don’t know about you if you could stab me in the back—

“—I'm not your enemy,” Magnus interrupted. “I wish you would believe me. That you would let me explain. Please: will you let me explain?”

Hermione stood resolute.

“Explain, then,” she said, folding her arms. She looked directly at him, daring him to look away first. 

He smiled. 

“Have dinner with me,” he said. “Tonight. I promise you, I will tell you everything. I’ll explain all my plans to you. Once you understand, you’ll see what a great team we could make. How much I can offer you.”

Hermione said nothing, glaring at him. A cold trickle of foreboding slithered down her spine. She deliberated. 

“Fine,” she said shortly. “Send me a memo with the location.” 

“Of course,” he said, walking towards the door. He looked back at Hermione. 

“I really hope we can still be friends,” he said. “I really did mean it when I said that I wouldn’t fight you.”

Hermione didn’t know why, but she had a feeling she was making a mistake that would come back to haunt her, in time.

—-

When she did see Malfoy again, she found him standing under the Statue of Unsung Heroes, looking thoughtfully up at Snape’s face.

Hermione walked slowly until she stood by his side, a coat folded over her arm. She looked up at the statue alongside him.

“Were you close to him?” She asked. 

“As much as I could be,” Malfoy replied. “He was the only adult that didn’t fail me as a child, at any rate.”

The words were so stark, so raw, that Hermione turned her head sharply to look at him. His face was vacant; the kind of shroud that only Occlumency provided.

She nodded. 

Hermione held out the coat on her arm to him. 

“Your coat,” she said.

Against her will she felt herself turn red. Images from the night before flashed before her eyes, and she found she couldn’t look him in the eyes. 

Malfoy took the coat from her wordlessly, the tug of soft wool travelling from her fingers to his in one long slide.

“Thank you,” he said.

Hermione looked at him curiously.

She wondered how she went from being afraid of him to wanting to understand him, to wanting to know more about what had happened to create this new Malfoy that didn’t make sense to her. The one she had known had been full of unbridled, entrenched anger and scorn; he was a shadow of that now. 

“Thank you,” she replied. “For yesterday. I hope Ron wasn’t too nasty.”

“He didn’t tell you?” Malfoy said. “He thumped me one the minute I stepped through the door.”

Hermione’s eyes widened.

“He did not!” Hermione exclaimed. “He wouldn’t do that, he didn’t say anything—“

She looked at him carefully, as the solemn expression curled into mirth.

“You’re joking,” Hermione surmised. “You’re not funny, you know.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, his lips twisting upwards. Hermione looked at him and tried to remember a time she had seen him smile. Oddly, it suited him. “The Weasel was perfectly gentlemanly. Confused, but seemed to remember his manners, mostly. I didn’t even know he was taught them. Everything is possible in the world, apparently.”

She nodded.

“How is Theo?” She asked. 

“Not sure,” Malfoy said, shrugging. “Probably regretting his life choices. Hopefully.”

“I chose to go with him, you know,” Hermione said, remembering snippets from the night before. “I chose to get drunk. He didn’t actually get me drunk.”

“Still, he should be more careful,” Malfoy said. “We live in dangerous times.”

“Because… of what? The blood wars?” Hermione asked. 

“Probably,” Malfoy said, evasively. “Among other things. Be careful who you trust.”

The words swirled around her head, seeming familiar somehow. 

“I don’t trust anyone,” she said, bluntly. 

Malfoy just looked at her.

“Good,” he said eventually. “Safer that way.”

“So I shouldn’t trust you?” She teased, slightly recalling their conversation last night. The words fell flat.

“Maybe one day,” he said. “I hope so.”

Hermione sucked in a breath.

Confusingly, bizarrely, bewilderingly, something had drastically changed between them, something that ran electric in her veins. 

She looked away

“Anyway,” she said, as evenly as she could. “Thank you. For taking care of me last night. For the coat. It was very Mr Darcy of you to swoop in and save me from ruin.”

“From ruin?” He asked.

“From drinking myself into a stupor and probably ending up in trouble somehow,” Hermione clarified. “I seem to always find trouble.”

The side of Malfoy’s quirked upwards. 

“I wouldn’t mind being Mr Darcy,” Malfoy said, to Hermione’s surprise. “In fact we have a lot in common, being devilishly good looking and obscenely rich and all that. But I always preferred Captain Wentworth myself.”

“You’ve read Jane Austen?” Hermione said, incredulously. “You must be lying.”

“I have,” Malfoy said. “That shocks you?”

“A bit,” she admitted. “I didn’t think you would read muggle books.”

“Believe it or not, the Malfoy library is extensive enough to have muggle titles too,” he said.

The sudden mention of Malfoy Manor made Hermione feel cold. “A bit hypocritical, don’t you think?” She said dryly.

Malfoy hesitated, seeming to feel her unease.

“Yes,” he said eventually. “The irony of it was lost on my ancestors. But most of them were moronic imbeciles without a single brain cell between them anyway.”

Hermione looked at him, surprised that he would talk about his own family like that.

He looked intently at her, as though willing her to say something.

“Frankenstein,” she said.

“What?” He asked, confused.

“You should read Frankenstein by Mary Shelley,” she said. “If you haven’t already.”

“I have not,” he said. “I’ll look into it when I have a chance.”

“It was my favourite as a child,” she confessed. “But I haven’t read it since I was fifteen. Seemed a bit too morbid and dark, after that.”

After Voldemort came back to ruin our lives, were her unsaid words. 

“I see,” Malfoy said. 

He looked past her, at the people walking past them, giving them brief looks of curiosity.

“So what’s your plan?” He said, suddenly. Hermione frowned. 

“My plan for what?” She asked.

“To take back the ministry, of course,” he said, as casually as though he was talking about the weather.

I’m saying perhaps it isn’t over, Theo has said. You need to talk to Draco.

Hermione breathed in sharply.

“Don’t be absurd,” she said. “I can’t do that.”

“You could,” he insisted. 

Hermione blinked at him, bewildered by the path their conversation was suddenly taking.

“How?” She demanded, without thinking, and then moderated herself. “I mean…why?”

“Because Roth is a bastard,” Malfoy said, nonchalently.

The words felt oddly blasphemous while standing in the ministry, and she felt a thrill run through her nerves. 

“You know that he doesn’t like purebloods,” Hermione said, bitterly. “If only the rest of Wizengamot understood that.”

“Roth is very good at letting the Wizengamot see what they want to see,” Malfoy said. “And he doesn’t give a fuck about making false promises and flattering the right people, unlike you.”

“I can’t be Minister again,” Hermione said, and felt bereft. “It’s over for me.”

Malfoy looked at her with bright eyes. He looked angry, his face coming to life.

“Bullshit,” he said bluntly. “Are you Hermione Granger or do I need to check you for Polyjuice?”

Hermione frowned at his words, anger settling into her chest.

“What are you on about?” She snapped. 

“Since when did you give up?” He sneered. “You aren’t a loser, or at least you weren’t back in school.”

Hermione bristled, clenching her hands.

“We aren’t at school anymore,” she says. “You didn’t know me at school, anyways.”

Malfoy took a step back. 

“And I’ve lost,” she said. “Whether you—or I—like it or not, there’s no way back for me. I’ve lost.”

The words hurt as they left her mouth, leaving tiny splinters on her tongue and heart. 

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” Malfoy said. “Isn’t that the Muggle saying?”

Her hands trembled, and she wanted to punch him, to shake him, to tell him to stop giving her hope for something she couldn’t hope for.

“Where has willingness ever got me?” She said, her eyes burning. “There’s no point. There’s no hope.” 

Malfoy stood resolutely in front of her. His face was blank again as he stared at her.

“Hope is the thing with feathers ,” he quoted. Hermione looked at him, confused and her heart burning. “That perches in the soul, and sings a tune without the words and never stops at all .” 

Hermione swayed on the spot, the bustle of people walking behind them becoming a static noise. 

“Emily Dickinson. One of your muggle poets,” he finished. 

His face was earnest, riveted with something close to anger and frustration, restlessness vibrating from his body.

“There is always hope,” he said, punctuating his words so sharply it could have been a scream. “I would be dead without hope.”

He stepped away. 

“Find your feathers,” Malfoy finished, his face slipping into occlusion. “Find your hope. Than we can talk.”

And without another word, Malfoy turned on his feet, his coat swaying in his arm as he walked away, leaving Hermione more confused than ever.

—-

Hermione walked into a dimly-lit restaurant in old wizarding London.

She glanced around at the low, antique chandeliers and the rich, mahogany tables dressed in fine silken cloths, the expensive china and polished silverware. In the centre was a retro-style open bar, light gleaming across the crystal-cut glasses and vintage wines. 

The entire restaurant was bathed in warm, amber tones, tinting everything in sepia. Quiet classical music played in the background, adding to the general ambiance of opulence and understated wealth. Hermione couldn’t help but be reminded of The Green Room, if it had gone back in time. 

A server appeared out of nowhere, with a demure and quiet smile. They took her coat and led her to the table. Hermione suddenly felt self-conscious, pulling absent-mindedly at her dress. She wasn’t exactly under dressed, but she didn’t feel as though she quite matched the elegance of her surroundings. 

Magnus stood up as she approached, an easy smile painted on his lips. He held out a chair for her to sit. For some reason, the simple gesture rang alarm bells in her head, but Hermione ignored them, choosing to say nothing as she took her seat. 

“Thank you for coming,” he said, sitting down.

Unlike Hermione, he seemed at ease in this atmosphere, his own outfit melding into the background. He was dressed in a muggle suit—Saville Row by Hermione’s guess—tailor-made in an array of brown tones, with silk features. He gestured to a server, who immediately brought over a wine bottle covered in white cloth, and poured it for them.

In a short space of time, Magnus had already embodied the look and act of a Minister more than Hermione ever had. Here, in this restaurant that seemed to be intended for old, pure-blooded aristocracy—he fit right in. 

Roth is very good at letting the Wizengamot see what they want to see, Malfoy had said.

Magnus was a chameleon, she realised, able to change himself for every scenario. She remembered the way he had seemed at home at the muggle sandwich shop she had taken him to, the way he looked the part in the Wizengamot, and now here: a muggle-born that somehow looked born into pureblooded wizarding wealth.  

Hermione didn’t know why she hadn’t noticed this about him until now.

She still said nothing, sipping her wine, the deep body and layers of the liquid coating her tongue like velvet. 

“I suppose your silence means you are still angry with me,” he said, holding his own wine glass in his hand.

He put it down, and folded his hands together, looking directly at her. 

After a pause, Hermione put down her own wine glass. 

“Would you not be, in my position?” She asked. 

“I suppose I would be,” Magnus said. “I hope I never have a reason to find out.”

He gave her a searching look, and she knew what he was asking.

I’m going for Minister, she had said to him a month ago. Are you going to challenge that? 

The memory left a bitter taste in her mouth, acrid as it swirled with the wine in her stomach.

“I won’t fight you, Magnus,” she said, echoing his words back to him. “I can’t, anyway.”

He looked at her intently, his smile gone and the ghost of something else sweeping across his face, disappearing before she could decipher it.

“Good,” Magnus said. “I do very much want us to be friends. To work together. More than you know.”

Would she fight him? She didn’t know, not really.

But all she knew was that he was Minister now. She had to keep him on her side.

“So what is your plan?” Hermione asked. There was no reason to beat around the bush. “Now that you are Minister.”

Magnus just smiled at her, tilting his head slightly as though he was trying to read her thoughts.

“Come now,” he said, in lieu of answering. “Why don’t we at least have something to eat first? Then I’ll tell you everything.”

Hermione felt irritated, but tried her best not to show it. He was dangling a hook in front of her, watching in curiosity to see if she would snap.

She wouldn’t rise to the bait.

“Fine,” she said. 

Two menus appeared in front of them.

“I recommend the lamb,” Magnus said. “The chef is from the Dordogne Valley in France, and has a very good lamb signature dish—“

“—I think I’ll try the Bouillabaisse,” Hermione cut in. “It’s an old favourite of mine that can be relied upon.” 

Magnus inclined his head. “Very well.” 

Hermione hadn’t had much of an appetite prior to coming to the restaurant, and had resolved not to eat much.

But the bouillabaisse was divine; so much so that she ate all of it. The fish fell apart easily under her fork, and the mussels, clams and vegetables in the soup were succulent and full of flavour. 

“I’m glad you enjoyed the meal,” Magnus said, ending the silence that had taken over while they had been eating. His own plate was empty. “Would you like dessert?”

Hermione put her fork down. 

“No,” she said. “I would like to know why you wanted to talk to me. And your plans, if I am to be your Chief Advisor.”

Hermione hadn’t been sure about the last part, but seeing as he had given her her old office back, she was willing to force him into giving her back the job even if he hadn’t intended it.

“Of course,” he said, not rising to her challenge. “Let’s at least have some tea, then. They happen to have your lavender lady grey here, and their blend is said to be particularly good.”

“How come you haven’t tried it yourself?” Hermione said, gesturing to the restaurant. “It seems like you have been here before.”

“I have come here on occasion,” Magnus said. “I’m more partial to Earl Grey, myself.”

The tea appeared before them, steaming cups that scented the air with soothing fragrance.

Hermione had never felt less soothed in her life. She took a sip of her tea, enjoying the tang of lavender against the floral tones of the lady grey tea in spite of herself.

“It’s good,” she admitted, putting down her cup. “Now, I would like to move on.”

“You have a very singular mind,” Magnus said. “Never beaten off track. After what I have to say, I really hope you will join us. That particular trait would very helpful for us to have.”

The repeated use of us seemed ominous, spiking the hairs on the back of Hermione’s neck. But she didn’t say anything, instead choosing to wait until he spoke.

She was surprised when he pulled something wrapped up in paper out of nowhere, and placed it before her. The weight of it made a loud thud as he rested it on the table between them.  

As he unwrapped the paper, Hermione’s blood ran cold.

There, three files twined with red ribbon and her name on top, was Kingsley’s marriage law files. 

Hermione’s heart leapt into her throat, choking her, suffocating the air out of her, rendering her almost unable to speak.

“How did you get those?” She said, in horror.

“You left them for me,” Magnus said smoothly. “In the bottom drawer of the Minister’s table. I thought you intended for me to have them.”

No, Hermione thought, the last thing I would want is for someone else to have hold of these files. And especially not you, now that I think I know what you’re capable of. 

Hermione made a noncommittal noise, unsure how to go forward.

“So what do you plan to do with them?” She said, as nonchalantly as she could. She felt like vomiting, a feeling of foreboding swarming the back of her brain like a hive of bees.

“Enact them, I suppose,” Magnus said, shrugging, as though these files wouldn’t ruin the lives of potentially hundreds—thousands—of people. “I assume that’s what Kingsley intended. What you would have done, given more time.”

Hermione wanted to snap at him that, in a million years, she would never have invoked these laws, no matter what it would cost her. That the only reason he had these files was because she had been in tail-spin and forgotten them, and that Hannah hadn’t thought to take them. 

She had to limit damage somehow.

“Hmm,” she said again, vaguely. “I never understood why Kingsley exactly thought a marriage law would be necessary. In the short term, this could create total anarchy and chaos. In the long term, there could be a lot of damage we can’t take back, lives that will be forever changed and potentially ruined. And for what? Can we be sure that we will get the results we want? More children, more workers? At what cost?”

Magnus seemed to be considering her words carefully before he spoke.

“That is all true. We have no idea what a marriage law would truly entail in the long term. It would have to be put to the public very carefully,” Magnus said. His eyes flashed behind his glasses. “After all, the last one was invoked hundreds of years ago.”

“Yes,” Hermione said, insistently. “So surely it would make more sense to not invoke them until we know more?”

She needed time. Time to gain his trust, which he seemed ready to give but not quite there yet.

“No. I think I will invoke them as soon as possible, actually,” Magnus said, looking entirely at ease. He leaned back in his chair, and looked at her. “You think that’s a bad idea.”

“Yes,” she said bluntly. “Why rush into something as…as drastic as this? Why can’t we wait?”

Magnus deliberated, still smiling. He sat up in his chair and then leaned across the table, his hands folded to mimic Hermione’s. She could see the brightness of the blue in his eyes, the intent behind them. 

“To create a diversion, of course,” he said. “I assume that’s what Kingsley intended, although I doubt my reasons are the same as his.”

“What is your reason?” She asked. “If it’s different from his?”

A wave of foreboding swept through her again, leaving her cold. 

“I don’t know what his reasons were,” Magnus said. “And I don’t suppose you’ll tell me. But mine are to draw attention away from the fact that we are in power now.”

“Who?” Hermione asked, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“I thought you might know, somewhere in your mind. In your soul,” Magnus said, looking at her intently now. 

He said the last word like he was searching for something in her, hoping for something in her.

Hermione breathed, trying to hide her frustration.

“What do I know?” She snapped. “Just say it, already.”

Magnus leaned back, leaving a vacuum of air between them. 

“I thought you knew about me. Who I really am,” he said, simply. “That you knew about the Scavengers.”

The words sat between them, silent and screaming, innocent yet damning. 

“What?” Hermione whispered, as his words rattled in her brain.

“You never fought back,” he continued. “For all Marcus Flint accused you, you never once refuted him. All our conversations, about burning them to the ground. The first thing you did, as Minister yourself, was to hit as hard as you could at the Everlast. I knew, then, that you had to know.”

“But none of that had anything to do with the Scavengers,” Hermione said, in shock. “I don’t understand how the Scavengers are in power.” 

“By focusing on the Everlast, no one noticed us, quietly working our way up the ministry,” Magnus continued. “I thought perhaps you knew what I had done. I thought perhaps that you’d seen me as the partner you could have in all this. But then Wizengamot wanted you out. I had to take over. For the sake of my cause.”

Us. Our. My. I. We.

The Scavengers.

Hermione sucked in a breath. 

“They called me the leader of the Scavengers,” she said hoarsely. 

Magnus’s eyes flashed iridescent blue and electric.

“But it was me,” he said, smiling at her. “I’m the leader of the Scavengers.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: A New Regime I

I’m the leader of the Scavengers.

Hermione felt the world around her slow down to a halt. White noise rang in her ears.

She looked around and realised, with a jolt, that the restaurant was eerie silent.

There was no one around, and there had not been for some time. She and Magnus were alone in the restaurant.

Just her and the leader of the Scavengers, a terrorist organisation. 

Hermione’s heart drummed hard in her throat as she stared at the man before her.

He had been her friend, her colleague for so many years.

He was a terrorist—the leader of a terrorist organisation.

He was the Minister for Magic, now the leader of wizarding Britain.

All of her problems suddenly faded into the background, next to the fact that she had essentially put the country in the hands of a potentially dangerous and unpredictable person, even if she had been forced into doing so.

Kingsley had warned her about Magnus’s vendettas against purebloods. He had told her about his vendettas. But never, not in a thousand years, did she think him capable of this.

She understood the Scavengers to some level; as a muggle born, of course, she did. But she would never understand killing, maiming and suppressing to advance awareness of the stigma that people like her faced.

The Scavengers were every bit the terrorist organisation that the Everlast were.

But now she was looking at the man who was leading them. 

Hermione reeled as a sudden, second realisation rocked her mind, choking her of all her breath.

Kingsley.

She remembered what Magnus had said, in the days leading up to Kingsley’s death. 

One day they will have to listen to us. That day might be sooner than we think. 

You yourself said to Kingsley that he will regret what he’s doing. And he will—

Hermione pushed herself out of her chair, and it clattered to the floor. She stared down at Magnus in horrors

“You—“ Hermione whispered. “You had Kingsley killed. Proudfoot…”

Questions crashed through the tumultuous sea that was her mind, violent, her thoughts deafening waves in the darkness. 

Everything she knew was a lie. 

She blinked, and Magnus was standing in front of her.

Without thinking, she took a step back and nearly tripped on her fallen chair. Magnus reached out to grab her, his hands gripping her elbows hard, and Hermione immediately tried to jerk her arm out of his reach, stumbling as she did so.

“Hermione, calm down,” Magnus ordered. “Listen.”

“Listen?”, Hermione said, her voice growing louder and more shrill.

“Yes,” he replied, forcefully. The abrupt change in his tone created a frenzy of fear within her that she had never felt around Magnus before.

He reached round, bending to pick up her chair, letting go of her in the process. He sat the chair in its original place and gestured at her to sit.

Hermione stared up at him, and wondered who she was looking at.

Magnus looked back at her, and she wondered who he was seeing. 

He moved back to his seat, crossing his legs and folding his hands over one knee in a show of ease and indifference.

He looked steadily at her, challenging her. 

He looked like a leader in every way.

Hermione sat down.

“You have questions. Ask whatever you would like,” Magnus said quietly. He looked at her with a piercing glaze, watching her every move.

“You are a terrorist,” Hermione said bluntly, her voice hoarse.

“Am I,” he asked smoothly, in a question that wasn’t a question. His face softened slightly, and he sighed. “Hermione, you know me. I am still me. I’m still your friend—“

“—You are a terrorist,” Hermione repeated, her voice firmer now. She removed one of her hands from the table, slowly, and reached down into the pocket of her dress to find her wand. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”

Magnus’s eyes flashed. 

“Ask your questions,” he commanded. “Say what you really want to say. Call me a terrorist, if you wish. I know what I am. But that’s not what you care most about at the moment.”

Hermione stared at him for a beat, and gripped her wand more tightly.

“Kingsley,” she said. “Did you kill him?”

“I did not kill him, no,” Magnus said calmly. 

Hermione breathed hard, not blinking as she looked at him.

“Did you order him to be killed?” She clarified.

There was a pause. They both stared at each other over the table, refusing to look away from one another.

“Yes,” Magnus said eventually. 

The words rang in Hermione’s ears, rattling all the way down to her chest, as she scrambled for control of her own mind. 

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. 

She had never felt betrayal quite like this. This soft and quiet pain, that cut a deep and enduring scar into the most delicate tissue of her brain. It throbbed agonisingly, in a way she wasn’t sure she would ever recover from.

She forced herself to continue. 

“Proudfoot,” she rasped. “Was he a Scavenger?”

Another pause.

“No, he wasn’t,” Magnus said.

Hermione frowned at him, confusion layering her betrayal. 

Then she remembered the man she saw in Azkaban, desperate and in pain, begging her to understand the words he couldn’t say. 

“You—“ Hermione said, and the words stuck in her throat. “You framed him. Somehow, you made him kill Kingsley, in the name of the Scavengers.”

Magnus waited for a beat again, and Hermione was suddenly consumed by the need to pull out her wand and—and strike him.

It was so sudden that her head spun—this abrupt and heady hunger to cause pain. It  captured her like an uncontrollable storm, refusing to let go, until she was whirled in the tempest of her own hurt and betrayal. 

“Yes I did,” Magnus said. 

“How?” Hermione asked, in disbelief. “Why?”

“I had reason to believe he was working against me,” Magnus said calmly. “Kingsley needed to be…removed. Proudfoot needed to be dealt with. He was conveniently placed for me to kill two birds with one stone.”

Hermione’s grip on her wand tightened so much, she was afraid it would snap in two. 

She looked away from him, staring down at the tea leaves and lavender stalks swirling at the bottom of the teacup still sitting in front of her. 

“Hermione,” Magnus said softly. “Look at me.”

His voice was strangely earnest, an odd yearning lingering in the air. It reminded her of the man who had brought her her favourite tea and croissant before Minister’s Debates, the man who had been with her as she cried in Kings Cross. The man who had, until recently, fought alongside her and backed her up whenever the Wizengamot fought against her.

What did it say about her that what upset her most, more than him being a terrorist, more than the terrible things he had done, was that he had betrayed her? 

“I know this all sounds bad,” Magnus said. “But you have to believe me: if there had been any other way, I would have taken it.” 

“Any other way?” Hermione repeated, flatly. “You are trying to rationalise assassinating a Minister for Magic?”

“I—“ Magnus said, his face tightening into a frown.

“You killed Kingsley,” Hermione interrupted, her voice hardened. “You. You killed him, and you framed an innocent man to do it. So don’t tell me any other way. You did it because you saw a path and you took it.”

Her words echoed in the thick, tense air between them.

Magnus said nothing at first, seemingly untouched by her accusations. He tilted his head, observing her as though she was a particularly interesting specimen. 

“I did what needed to be done for the Scavengers,” he said, matter-of-factedly. “For people like us, who have never had the upper hand. The outcasts who were never accepted—try as they might. Let me explain it to you, and you will see: this was for the best.” 

Nothing was ever going to make her feel that this—what this was—was for the best. 

“If I don’t listen to your explanation,” she said, as calmly as she could, never removing her hand from her wand. “Will you let me go?”

Magnus looked at her silently. His eyes trailed down to where her wand arm disappeared beneath the table. 

“You aren’t a hostage,” he said smoothly. “I’m not going to hurt you. You can put the wand down.”

Her hand flinched over her wand, but she didn’t let go. 

“You don’t need to be scared,” he continued. “Not of me.”

“I’m not scared of you,” Hermione spat. She continued to stare at him as she stood up and pulled out her wand. “I am disgusted by you. You will let me go.”

Magnus didn’t react to the sight of her wand, his eyes boring into hers with an eerie calmness that rattled Hermione. He didn’t make any attempts to pull out his own wand.

It was like, over the space of minutes, Magnus had turned into someone else. A monster, dressed in the skin of her friend.

“I’m going to give you time to come round. I know this is a lot of information to take in,” the Minister said quietly. “I know you cared about Kingsley and Proudfoot. But this is more than about them. When you are ready to listen to me, you will have to decide whether you join me or not.”

“Join you?” Hermione said shakily. “Is that why you’re telling me all this?”

“You will eventually have to listen to my explanation,” Magnus said, firmly. He slowly stood up, his hands empty. “When you hear what I have to say, you will choose to join me of your own accord. I am certain of it.”

“How can you be so certain?” Hermione said. “You act like you know my mind better than me.”

Strangely, Magnus smiled.

“Because we are the same. My ideas aren’t so different than yours,” he said smoothly, his eyes bright in the dim light of the silent restaurant. “And I know that you have felt the things I have felt. Crushed, oppressed, inferior because of what we are. The first to suffer, the last to be saved.”

His eyes were almost startlingly blue as they locked with Hermione’s.

”We are on the same side,” Magnus continued, his voice soft. “We always have been. We have always believed the same things.”

Hermione’s eyes burned.

“I don’t have to listen to this,” Hermione said. “You don’t know anything about me at all.”

She slowly put down her wand, stepping backwards towards the door, keeping her eyes on him.

“Just tell me one thing,” Hermione said, in spite of herself. “Did you oust me from my ministry for the Scavengers, or for yourself?”

Magnus frowned. He stood by the table, his hands at his sides.

“For the Scavengers of course,” he said. 

Hermione sucked in a breath.

“Are you sure?” She asked. Her voice was bitter and sarcastic. “Are you sure you didn’t just want power?”

“It was for the Scavengers,” Magnus repeated, frowning.

Hermione laughed without mirth.

“Liar,” she declared. “Wrong answer. I might have listened to what you have to say if you had been honest.”

Magnus frowned, saying nothing. 

“Liar,” she repeated, more to herself than to him. “Everyone wants power.” 

Hermione turned around and walked through the door without another word. She waited for him to call her back, to stop her leaving, but he did nothing.

If we are the same, she thought furiously. Then it’s power that you want. But it’s mine. 

—

Hermione apparated outside her flat, and immediately ran towards her fireplace. She threw some floo powder into the fire, and as soon as the flames began to flare green, she called for Godric’s Hollow. 

Ginny answered, her face turning into a frown as she took in Hermione’s face.

“Hermione, what happened?”, Ginny asked, alarmed.

“Where’s Harry?” Hermione asked urgently.

“He’s working late in the auror office,” Ginny said, slowly. “What’s going on Hermione, you’re freaking me out—“

“—Sorry, Ginny, I really have to talk to Harry,” Hermione said. “It’s important, I need to tell him something about the Minister—“

Suddenly, Hermione’s voice caught in her throat. She coughed, nearly swallowing her tongue as a sharp electric jolt ran from her head to her toes.

The pain was agonising, like a deep cut in her flesh that had suddenly been wrenched wide open. She screamed and crashed to the floor, staring up into the green flames.

She heard Ginny yell through the flames, saying something to her, but she couldn’t make them out from the agony that was rapidly consuming her. 

All Hermione saw were green flames, until it faded to black, and so did everything else. 

—-

The fog in her dreams dispersed—

—Hermione was looking into the inner circles of Bellatrix’s eyes, the mania and cruelty spiralling through them in droves. 

Hermione gasped as she felt a cold hand claw at her arm, ripping her sleeve. A sharp scratch deepened into throes of agony, so hot and fiery she felt as though she had been thrown into boiling water. This is what we need to do with filth like you, the woman screeched above her. Brand you like the mudblood you are so you never forget it, so you never dare to touch what’s not yours with your dirty, muggle hands—

Hermione screamed and Bellatrix cackled. Hermione screamed and Bellatrix cackled.

Hermione screamed and screamed—

—-

A high-pitched sound tore through Hermione’s brain as she opened her eyes. 

She gasped, almost choking on her own breaths, the air around her thick with pain. 

She looked around wildly, and realised that she was lying on a bed in a dimly lit, clinical-looking room.

The fact Hermione didn’t recognise it immediately made her frantic and she struggled, trying to get feeling back into her legs and arms so she could get up.

“You shouldn’t move so much,” a masculine voice said from the corner. “You should let your muscles relax. It will hurt less.”

Hermione flinched and followed the direction of the sound, her vision swimming in pain as she turned her stiff neck. Her hair fell in her face, partially covering her eyes.

Magnus was sitting in a chair, shrouded by a layer of darkness as moonlight from the window threw his features into a sharp contrast of light and dark.

His legs were crossed, his hands flared across them, a silver ring on one hand glimmering in the sparse light. He looked immaculate, as he always did, and more than a little menacing against the benign settling of the hospital room. 

Hermione glared at Magnus, and tried not to feel vulnerable without her wand.

“What did you do to me?” She croaked, wincing as a shot of pain jolted up her body when she tried to move her hair out of her face.

Her voice sounded strange even to her, thick like treacle, the words almost drowning into one long noise before she could sound out the individual words. 

Magnus tilted his head, and there was a slight look of regret in his eyes. But the sliver of regret was surrounded by a dense ring of steel. 

“I had to have reassurance,” Magnus said, in a measured voice. “Surely you didn’t expect me to have told you what I did without making sure you can’t tell Auror Potter? You’re smarter than that.”

“What—” Hermione repeated slowly, panicking when she realised that her voice was slurring. “What. Did. You. Do. To. Me?”

Her curls fell fully across her face as she struggled on the bed, sticking to her clammy cheeks and chapped lips. 

Suddenly Magnus stood up, stretching to his full height. Hermione froze as he took the few steps to her bed and bent down, his face level with his. 

She could feel the warm of his breath, the scent of something citrus-y and herbal diffusing from his clothes. He pushed the strands of her hair out of her face with two fingers, meticulously careful not to touch her skin. 

Hermione tried to pull away, but found she could not move. 

“Nothing that will hurt you in the long term,” Magnus said softly. “I didn’t want to hurt you at all, Hermione. You have to believe that.” 

Then he moved away, swiftly moving to sit back on the chair.

Hermione breathed heavily and, with a painful thump in her chest, remembered the lavender lady grey tea he had had brought to her at the restaurant table.

She couldn’t think of anything else it could be. 

“You poisoned my tea,” Hermione accused. “You did something to my drink so I—“

“—I didn’t want to,” Magnus interrupted. His voice was oddly earnest, and didn’t match up to the way he appeared before her eyes now.

With his words, everything Hermione had known about this man, her friend and confidante, tilted on its axis, destroying something inside her. 

“I trusted you,” Hermione said. Her stomach twisted, adding to the deep rooted agony that was still beset in her body. “I thought you were my friend—“

“—I am,” Magnus said firmly. “I mean it, Hermione: I didn’t want to hurt you. But I had to be sure that you wouldn’t be able to tell someone. Not before you knew the whole truth first.”

“The whole truth,” Hermione repeated. Her eyes burned with unshed tears that she would never let fall. “Then tell me the truth, then. What did you do to me?”

“A truth-binding potion,” Magnus said, the words quick and damning. “A version of a spell that your….friend invented.”

“Proudfoot’s spell,” Hermione said.

She remembered seeing Proudfoot demonstrate the spell to her, the beauty of it as he waved his wand in elegant concentric circles. 

A spell that could also be a potion, it was a complex weave of magic that would allow the caster to prevent someone from physically being able to talk about any matter of the caster’s choosing, by triggering a negative bodily reaction that was similar to the Cruciatus curse. Even at the time it had slightly alarmed Hermione, but she had not given it enough thought. 

She wished like anything that she had, now. 

The images in her head turned dim, stark in their contrast as she remembered the man’s tear-stricken face as he screamed at her. 

“Me,” Proudfoot had said. “Me, me, me, ME!”—

“—Proudfoot’s spell,” Hermione said, her mind reeling as her body physically recoiled back on the bed. “He kept on saying ‘me’ in Azkaban. He meant his own spell—“

“—It’s not designed to hurt you,” Magnus continued. “Not unless you reveal the truth that is bound within the potion.”

Truth bound within the potion. 

Hermione couldn’t stop replaying the image of Proudfoot’s mouth repeating the same words again and again, like they were bound by an invisible dead knot. 

Bound by Magnus. 

“You used his own spell on him too,” Hermione said. She hated the fact that her voice was so shrill, the words trembling as they left her mouth. “You made him kill Kingsley somehow. And then you put his own spell on him, so he couldn’t tell anyone.”

“Yes,” Magnus said gently. 

“How could you?” Hermione said. Her nails dug into the mattress, the springs pushing against the tips of her fingers. “How could you do that to him? To me?”

Magnus looked back at her, his face devoid of any expression. 

“I did what had to be done. For the Scavengers,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. The artificial lighting in the room hit his face more harshly, one side almost completely shrouded by the stricken brightness of the other side. 

Like Jekyll and Hyde, Hermione thought, bitterly.

Except there was no alter ego. There was just Magnus, in all his colours. 

“The Scavengers,” she repeated, flatly. 

Hermione sucked in a painful, rattling breath. Then her head cleared.

“Tell me,” she whispered. “Tell me everything.”

The Minister smiled.

—-

Harry said nothing until Hermione was discharged. He looked at her grimly, the frown lines on his face entrenched with concern and worry. 

“Ginny said before you fainted, that you wanted to talk to me,” Harry said, as soon as they closed the door to Hermione’s flat. “And then I go to the hospital and the Minister is there.”

Hermione didn’t immediately answer, her thoughts in turmoil and buzzing in her head. She looked up at Harry.

Just then, she would have given anything for him to be able to read her mind.To see the trouble and danger that seemed to be ahead of them once more, to be able to help her figure out what to do with all the trouble and danger they were already in. 

“I know we haven’t been getting on lately,” Harry said, and he sounded so tired, so desperate. “But whatever it is, you can tell me. You know you can.”

Without a single word, somehow Harry already knew something was wrong. Perhaps she could use that somehow, to tell him without actually telling him. 

She just had to work out how. 

“Give me time, Harry,” Hermione said. She sounded out the words slowly, carefully. “Just…I need a bit of time.”

Time was the one thing she wasn’t sure she had.

—

“The Scavengers want equality,” Magnus had said back in the hospital room. “Real equality.” 

“And what is that?” Hermione snapped. 

Magnus’s eyes flashed. 

“The kind where they don’t just pay lip service and tell you that they respect you, when they actually don’t,” Magnus said. “The kind where when you speak, they actually listen, not spend the time you’re speaking thinking of ways to demean you and make you lesser than.”

Hermione swallowed hard, his words rattling her more than she was willing to admit.

“And you think the Scavengers will be able to make that happen?” Hermione asked. “With your methods?” 

“We resort to the measures that we have been reduced to,” Magnus said calmly, but there was a slow-burning fire behind his eyes. “If the other side have their wands drawn to kill, why shouldn’t we?”

“You killed Kingsley,” Hermione accused. She fought against the pain that still enveloped her skin. “You killed Proudfoot—“

“And the Everlast,— the Death Eaters by another name—have killed so many more,” Magnus threw back, sharply. “They have killed so many more than two men who were as bad as the rest of them.”

“The rest of them?” Hermione said, laughing without any humour in it. “You mean the purebloods? You say you want equality, but you’re just as prejudiced as they are.”

The fire lit brighter behind Magnus’s eyes, the blue flames vivid and foreboding. 

“Equality for us,” he bit back, and for the first time, Hermione could see anger, real anger on his face. “The rest of us. The ones that don’t have the world at our feet because we have everyone else crushed under it.”

“So you want to crush them,” Hermione said flatly. 

“Of course,” Magnus said, his eyes flashing behind his glasses as a slow smile pulled at his lips. “As do you.”

Hermione just stared at him, saying nothing.

“That’s why I wanted you to know,” Magnus said softly. “That’s why I want you with us.”

He leaned closer to her, fully out of the shadows of moonlight. 

“Hermione, you are amazing,” Magnus said. “I’ve said so before. I truly believe it. You know what it feels like to be oppressed by these people, underestimated by them. With the Scavengers behind us, you’ll never have to answer to them again. Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter which one of us is Minister now, not if we work together.”

Hermione’s heart drummed.

“I know you cared about Kingsley and Proudfoot,” Magnus continued. “I’ am truly sorry for what needed to happen. But they’re gone. And we are the future. Don’t you want to win, for once?”

Hermione breathed hard. She had no reply.

They sat in the hospital room in silence for what felt like hours, on the cusp between friends and enemies. 

—

Hermione didn’t know what to think. But she did know this: 

The government was being led by the Scavengers, a terrorist organisation.

The leader was her work colleague, and her friend. 

The leader, her friend, had duped her entirely and was, quite possibly, a madman. 

The leader, her friend, the madman was  torturing her into making a decision to join a terrorist party or suffer. 

This was insanity.

She couldn’t let him remain Minister, not like this. Not at any cost.

She had to be able to speak. 

Hermione had decisions to make.

—-

Hermione walked into her office, and quietly shut the door. 

She went to her desk, and her vision immediately zoned in on the box of books and memorabilia still sitting on top of it. She rifled through it and found Proudfoot’s spell books, and the notebook. Then notebook looked aged, well-worn, and seemed to be annotated. A sense of relief washed over her as she saw notes scrawled across every page of the notebooks and inked comments in the textbooks.

Perfect.

Over the next two hours, her relief turned to frustration.

Hermione leafed through page after page of spells and wand movement theory, Proudfoot’s analysis, calculations and annotations. He must have had this book for a while, because his hand writing looked different and more immature, his notes abbreviated with a short-hand that looked like it had been developed over time.

In another time, Hermione would have been fascinated by the contents of the notebook, but all she felt now was a numbing grief, anger and despair. She found mentions of the truth-binding spell in his notebooks and how to cast it, but nothing about the spell work behind it, the mechanics of it, and most importantly, how to remove it. 

As far as she could tell, there were no loopholes that she could exploit, with the limited information she had. 

Hermione set down the notebook.

What she needed more than anything, was to figure out what exactly she wanted to do.

She knew she wanted to stop Magnus from furthering his agenda, and using the ministry and the Wizengamot to do it.

For that, she needed to remove him as Minister. 

And to do that, she would need to be able to say why he needed to be removed as Minister. 

In the end, it came down to telling someone— the one thing she could not do. 

Hermione stared out into the room. 

Exactly what could she not say?

Hermione wasn’t sure of the limits of the spell, and what words or how much triggered it. She just remembered mentioning Magnus, with the intent to tell Ginny everything, and then she had been hit by blinding, agonising pain. 

She wondered if she dared test it now, in the privacy of her office. 

“Magnus,” she whispered, and flinched. 

She felt nothing.

“Magnus is,” Hermione continued tentatively, and then paused. 

Again: nothing. She squared her shoulders, a cautious confidence thrilling down her veins.

“Magnus is the lead—“ Hermione started, then jerked as pain erupted within her, and she fell to the floor.

She pressed her lips together hard to stop from crying out. Her arms were clamped together rigidly at her sides, and her legs flayed as electric agony shot through them.

For what felt like hours, Hermione shook violently, unable to move. But still, she refused to scream for help.

She could see black spots in her vision, the sheer effort of not screaming weakening her further. But then, as suddenly as it started, the pain stopped. 

Hermione lay on the floor, exhaling a rattling breath between sore, bleeding lips that had split from how hard she had pressed them together.

She trembled, and tears streamed down the side of her face, across her ears and necks. 

Slowly, Hermione pulled herself up, moaning from the painful stiffness of her limbs. The physical pain meshed within her brain, pushing into the fog of her memories. It reminded her of:

Crucio! Crucio, crucio, CRUCIO!—

Hermione blinked and slammed her hands hard against her desk, bending over it as Bellatrix’s high-pitched cackle rang through her head.

The pain and the aftershocks were extremely reminiscent of how she remembered the Cruciatus curse.

It wasn’t something she had wanted to have learnt, but it was useful information nevertheless.

Perhaps it could be the key to breaking the spell. 

Hermione couldn’t help but wonder why Proudfoot had been experimenting with spells that caused Cruciatus-level pain in the first place. 

There was so much she didn’t know, and only so much time for her to find out.

It appeared that she couldn’t reveal anything about Magnus being the leader of the Scavengers. Hermione was pretty sure this included being able to insinuate any link between Magnus and the Scavengers at all. 

Could she indirectly allude to it somehow? Or was it based on intent?

Hermione carefully levered herself into her chair, almost flinching as the sensitive skin of her legs touched the edge of the chair.

She tried to take her mind off it, absent-mindedly flicking through the textbooks on the desk. She was reading through Spellmans Theory of Spells, Chapter 24: Curse Breaking, when something suddenly occurred to her. 

“Spell creation and wand movement theory is a very overlooked field,” Theo had said. “It’s a special interest of mine.”

Theo.

She needed Theo. 

—-

“…And how exactly do you think the Scavengers can win?” Hermione had asked Magnus in the dimly lit hospital room. “Win equality, that is.”

Magnus kept smiling that ever-present smile.

At that moment, Hermione wished for nothing more than to be able to knock it off his face. 

“We have already won, Hermione. We’re in power,” Magnus said. “Now it’s about keeping it.”

“How?” Hermione demanded. “They wouldn’t let me stay Minister. What makes you think they’ll let you?”

Magnus laughed softly. Not cruel, not condescending.

But as though Hermione was missing a large piece of the puzzle, blind to the game being played around her. 

“You use their methods against them,” he said. “But not the way you did. What’s that saying? You catch more flies with honey than vinegar. You were never very good at that.”

Fury drowned out every other emotion in Hermione’s brain.

“Also, the other key ingredient that you never mastered,” Magnus said. 

“And what is that?” Hermione snapped.

Magnus’s eyes flashed.

“You lie,” he revealed. “You make them see what they want to see. You’ve never been good at being anyone other than yourself—your truths and all.”

—-

Hermiome couldn’t find Theo. 

She sent him memos, owls and even a patronus. She tried fire-calling him, to no avail. He was nowhere to be found.

The next Wizengamot session was called and Hermione stared at Theo’s empty seat, trying to remember the last time she had seen him miss a session.

Even before they had been friends, Hermione couldn’t recall ever seeing that particular seat empty. 

Where was he? 

Magnus sat on her left, in the Minister’s seat, and she tried desperately not to let her ire show.

She had to stay calm in this session.

One of her first debates since losing her ministry, the Wizengamot were just waiting for her to give them a reason to vindicate her. 

Her mind went back to Magnus’s words, back in the hospital room.

You will catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

Lately, a small part of her brain had been wondering if, just maybe, he had a point. 

Would she still be Minister if she hadn’t been so rash with the Wizengamot?

Suddenly, Hermione felt a prickling on her neck—someone was looking at her.

She tilted her head upwards, and saw Malfoy sitting on the Wizengamot bench, his eyes focused on her.

He frowned as she looked back at him, and it seemed like he was trying to say something to her with his eyes.

For the life of her, she didn’t know what it was.

“Now that the formalities are done, let’s address the newer items,” Fudge drawled, looking down at a parchment. 

Hermione frowned, looking down at her own documents.

Newer items?

With all that had been happening lately, she hadn’t had time to do her usual preparations for the session. 

Item #45.1 (appendices 2.2 and 2.3a): protection protocols for Sacred Twenty-Eight and adjacent pureblood ancestries. 

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows. She felt bewildered.

Why would Magnus, a Scavenger, advocate for the protection of pureblood families?

Hermione looked at Magnus next to her, as though, if she stared hard enough, she could find out the inner workings of his brain.

He didn’t seem to notice her attention, and sat ramrod straight in his seat, his hands poised carefully over the papers on the desk in front of him. His expression was completely serene, but there was something steely there.

Something determined. 

Hermione flicked through the papers and read through the details of the proposed plan. 

She had seen these concepts before, the words chiming a bell in her mind. It took a while for her to figure out from where—

Hermione gasped, and muffled the sound with her hand.

The Muggle-Born Registration Commission. 

Umbridge’s plan to register, control and persecute the muggle-borns of Wizarding Britain. That’s what this reminded her of.

Only, it was the other way around.

He meant to register them. Tag them. Brand them, in a way that looked totally innocent and even possibly beneficial for them. In time, the information could be used to reduce their influence, control them, even blackmail and oppress them.

In practice, it could be more effective and damaging than anything Umbridge had planned for muggle-borns during Voldemort’s reign.

Because now, no one would be any the wiser, the battle over before anyone had known it had begun.

Hermione stared and stared at the proposal. The wording was almost the same.

She felt sick. 

Hermione glanced up and realised Magnus was now looking at her, his eyes eerily pale. 

He knew what she was thinking, and in that moment, she knew exactly what he was thinking too. 

If I ever have an opportunity, I would do everything in my power to bring them down. If I thought gunpowder would work, I would burn the entire wizengamot to the ground. 

Not quite gunpowder.

But explosive and damning, all the same. 

Hermione’s brain raced and she looked around the room, watching each Wizengamot member as they went through the proposal before them. 

“This sounds like a capital idea,” Lord Fawley. He flipped over the parchment, and looked impressed. “I say, if you have ideas like this, things should run very smoothly, Minister.”

Hermione stared at Lord Fawley wirh incredulity. 

“I will need to see a more detailed scheme,” Madam Shafiq interjected. “But all seems in order, and I do not see why this couldn’t provisionally go ahead.”

“Participation would not be an imperative, not at first,” Magnus said genially. Placatingly. “Of course, all the families will have the choice. But I have included several…incentives…that may mean it is very beneficial for all the sacred twenty-eight families to participate.”

A well-placed, winning smile on a classic, handsome face. A relaxed stance and softly-spoken words designed to make people lower their guards. A strong, calm voice, gentle yet firm at the same time, spoke of dominance and competent leadership, almost hypnotising when combined with the words coming out of his mouth. 

It would have been fascinating to watch, if didn’t sicken Hermione to see Magnus play out his chess piece with such ease. 

Madam Marchbank coughed loudly from her seat next to Madam Shafiq.

“This is all very good,” Madam Marchbank said. “But you have just become Minister—why is this the first proposals of yours to be submitted when there are other matters more pertaining to you?”

Why do you care about the Sacreds when you aren’t one yourself, Hermione’s mind supplied.

Ah. The chink in the well-tailored armour. 

Magnus clenched his hands on his desk, and Hermione could see the taunt white of stretched knuckles.

A dark, dangerous look swept over his face, gone before most could register it.

But Hermione did notice, because she was the only one who knew who he was. Knew what he was.

Try as he might, Magnus was not in their circle. He may have somehow enticed them, but he was still an outsider, looking in from the periphery. 

He would never be one of them. Just like Hermione.

Perhaps Magnus was right.

Perhaps he and Hermione were the same, if only it hadn’t been for all the ways they were different. 

“I may not be a pureblood,” Magnus projected calmly. “But if these recent months have taught me anything, it is that no matter how we feel, our most ancient ancestry and histories must be preserved.”

Another smile, hidden yet open.

“I can appreciate that, no matter who I am,” Magnus continued. “And it makes sense for me to start an incentive where the lineages are fully documented, cemented into our records…and given the due respect they deserve.”

He wants to document your lineages so he can tear them apart, Hermione thought furiously. He wants to use it to blackmail you, to extort and belittle you until there is nothing left. 

How was it that not a single person in the room had noticed the wording of the document?

The Ministry of Magic is undertaking a survey of so-called "Muggle-borns," the better to understand how they came to possess magical secrets , the muggle-born registration commission statement had said. 

The Ministry of Magic is proposing a survey of all British Sacred Twenty-Eight families, to better understand and preserve the magical ancestry of our nation, the Pureblood Ancestry Protection Protocol statement said. 

It went on and on, creepily familiar in its context and content. 

Hermione scanned the room desperately, and only saw impressed, interested and even some excited faces.

In her desperation, she looked at Malfoy, staring at him beseechingly.

Surely he could see it? 

But Malfoy was looking down at the parchment, unaware of Hermione’s frustration. His face was blank, devoid of anything at all. 

Then Hermione saw him slowly turn in her direction, and the clouds in his eyes were gone as he focused on her.

They stared at each other for a long while and that was when Hermione knew—

He knew.

And he wasn’t going to say anything.

Why wasn’t he saying anything? 

Hermione was shaking with fury.

Fine. If he wasn’t going to say anything, then she would. 

“Minister, surely the items added to the agenda should be discussed with your staff first?” Hermione projected into the chambers. Magnus looked at her, inclining his head.

“I have,” Magnus said, simply. “You were unwell at the time.”

“It’s not the Minister’s fault if you can’t keep up, Granger,” Marcus Flint drawled. “Do try and be more competent than you were as Minister, won’t you? Gods knows why you're the Chief Advisor.”

Hermione saw red.

“Competent?” Hermione said, her voice shrill. She stood up. “Perhaps if you were more competent you would be able to read a proposal properly!”

“What is she talking about?” Lord Fawley said.

“Who knows,” Flint said. “Talking out of her arse as always.” 

“Order,” Fudge called out, half-heartedly. “Do not insult the Chief Advisor.” 

“Perhaps you should use your head,” Hermione spat out, glaring at Marcus. “And read the document properly!”

“Advisor Granger—language!” Fudge bellowed. “Don’t make me give you a strike!”

“What the bloody hell are you on about?” Flint said loudly over Fudge. 

“Is this proposal beneficial to the Sacred Twenty-Eight?” Hermione said impatiently, raising her voice over the growing din of the room. “Is it really?”

“Hermione,” Magnus said. 

She didn’t spare him a glance.

Hermione glared furiously at the Wizengamot members, and then stared straight at Malfoy.

Say something, she thought furiously. 

Malfoy looked at her. Then, he gave a minute shake of his head. No.

Why not? Hermione thought, anger pouring out of her. WHY NOT? 

“You can call me incompetent as much as you like,” Hermione continued. “But it’s not me who can’t see what’s right in front of them, who can’t see that this proposal looks awfully familiar to something else—“

“—If you have a point, Advisor Granger, please get to it,” Madam Shafiq cut in, sharply. “Rather than accusing the Wizengamot and belabouring whatever it is you are trying to say.”

“Just ignore her, Madam Shafiq,” Flint called, in a bored voice. “She just likes accusing us of things without any evidence.”

Next to Flint, Malfoy was giving Hermione a warning look, his gaze fiercer than she had seen it be in a long time—in years—

Even though she knew it wasn’t sensible, even though she knew she had to keep calm…she just couldn’t anymore.

Hermione snapped into two. 

“I do not!” Hermione yelled across the room. “Right now I’m trying to stop you all from making a mistake, and you’re too busy taunting me to realise that the proposal is trying to register—

“—Hermione,” Magnus repeated, his voice louder and more authoritarian. “Sit down before you say something you might regret.”

A brief, electric shooting pain swept through Hermione’s brain as she looked down at him. She sucked in a short breath. 

Flint wolf-whistled across the Wizengamot bench. 

“You’ll need a firm hand with her, Minister,” Flint said snidely, grinning at Hermione. “Even Shacklebolt couldn’t control her, you’re going to have your work cut out. Are you sure you want to keep her as Chief Advisor—“

”Lord Flint,” Magnus interrupted, looking irritated for the first time. “Enough—“

“—Marcus,” Malfoy hissed over Magnus’s voice. His eyes glowed with something strangely dark and dangerous. 

But it was too late. Hermione was too far gone. 

Hermione clenched her fists hard, and slammed them on the desk in front of her.

“Control? Control?” Hermione shrieked. “How dare you speak about me that way! How can you say I need to be controlled when you can’t see that you’re the one that’s going to be—“

Hermione’s body suddenly jerked against her will, and she gasped.

Agonising pain shot down her body and her vision swam.

She looked up and saw Malfoy stand up in alarm, almost as though he was about to reach out. 

Then she looked at Magnus, a muted expression of resignation and something else on his face before it blurred, and all she saw was a blue light that shone bright as she flew too close to the sun. 

—-

“…So you plan to use their methods against them,” Hermione had said, back in the hospital room. “You plan to lie, to cheat, to…oppress the way muggle-borns were oppressed.”

“How harshly you put it all,” Magnus commented, sitting back in the chair. “But correct, nonetheless.”

“How does this make you and the Scavengers any different from the Everlast?” Hermione retorted. 

“Because we speak for everyone,” Magnus said immediately, his voice sharp. “For the greater good. They speak only for themselves, a small minority.”

The greater good. 

Hermione thought of Grindelwald, and that same statement had shaped a war. The first of two wizarding wars and the battle between friends on opposing sides.

Some things seemed to be doomed to be repeated, again and again and again.

Fog laced Hermione’s brain, and it was hard for her to think straight. 

“How does a marriage law decree work into this?” She asked abruptly. 

Magnus’s lips lifted upwards. Hermione’s stomach lurched at the sight. 

—

Hermione was surrounded by fog—

It was thicker than ever, solid and densely packed like a cemented brick wall. She reached out and placed her palm flat against it, feeling icy tendrils run down her hand, holding her wrist in a ghostly vice grip.

Hermione gasped as she felt herself being tugged forward, and she hurtled through the wall of fog—

—Hermione blinked, and she was standing in front of a door that hadn’t been there before. It looked strangely familiar. She looked down her body and saw her old, oversized cloak, the one she wore over her school uniform, almost fourteen years ago.

She opened the door. 

A tall, lanky figure was sitting on the floor inside, his green and silver tie loosened so it hung haphazardly on his chest, his shirt unbuttoned on the collar.

His legs were spread, his wrists resting on his knees as his head lulled downwards. But then he raised it slowly, his eyes unfocused as they looked her up and down.

Hermione suddenly noticed an empty bottle of what looked like firewhisky next to him. 

Why the fuck do you keep coming back here, he slurred. You just can’t get enough of me, can you Granger? Is it because you can’t get Weasley’s cock? Personally, I don’t think it’s any major loss but there’s no accounting for taste—

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but Malfoy disappeared-

—Hermione gasped as she found herself suddenly staring at Snape’s face. She took a step back in alarm. 

Just what do you hope to achieve by this exactly Miss Granger? He said with derision, looking down his hooked nose at her. I didn’t take you for a fool, but you are being obstinate, naive and stupid to a degree even Potter could not achieve. Perhaps his idiocy is rubbing off on you, I recommend a period of distance perhaps—

—Hermione was so hungry, her stomach caving in until it was concave with the lack of food to fill it. She tried to move her lips, but the skin around her mouth was cracked and it hurt to speak. 

You need to eat Hermione, a voice pleaded with her. Please, for me, eat something, anything- 

Let me alone, Hermione found herself saying. She was lying on a cold stone floor, her head on Malfoy’s lap as he held her face. Let me die, Draco, just let me go.

No, he said fiercely. I will get you out, I promised you, I promised…

Don’t, Hermione said. Her cheeks and lips hurt with the effort it took to speak. Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Maybe…maybe it’s time to give up now. You can’t save me and I can’t save myself. It’s okay, I just want it to be over-

No, Malfoy said again, his voice fiercer still. His eyes were dark, the ring of silver turned charcoal. Fuck, Hermione, I love y—

—Hermione screamed, and threw her head backwards. Then suddenly she was cold, she was wet—

—No, no, NO! she heard Malfoy scream, and the scream was followed by a shrill cackle—

And then she was floating, and everything disappeared but the fog.

—-

“As I told you before,” Magnus had said, back in the hospital room. “The marriage law is mostly to divert from what we are really doing. But it does have other uses.”

“Such as?” Hermione snapped.

“You don’t believe I would allow purebloods to marry other purebloods, do you?” Magnus said, tilting his head.

“And how will you get them to allow that?” Hermione said, shortly. “How will you get them to allow the marriage law at all, as absurd and barbaric as it is?”

“I’m working on that,” Magnus admitted. “I won’t broach something like a marriage law just yet. It will have to be handled sensitively and put at the right time. It helps that the Wizengamot don’t care about absurd and barbaric when they think it doesn’t apply to them.”

“I just don’t understand how you think you can get away with this,” Hermione said. “And what about you?”

Magnus looked at her straight on. 

“What about me?” He asked smoothly. 

“You’re not married,” Hermione said. “Will you get married in the name of the law? Will I?”

Magnus laughed.

“Of course not,” he said, scornfully. “People like us don’t exactly have to follow the same rules. There’s always exceptions at the top.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione replied. 

“We don’t need to do as we say,” Magnus said. “After all, did Winston Churchill adhere to the food rationing during World War Two? He was eating lobster and caviar while the masses were eating imitation eggs. No one cared.”

“That was then,” Hermione retorted. “Things are a bit different now. Then it was war.”

“Hermione,” Magnus said, his voice low. “We are always at war.”

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but healers suddenly came into the room. Magnus looked away from her quickly, standing up to face them. 

One of the healers stopped in her tracks.

“Minister!” She exclaimed. 

Magnus smiled at the healer.

“I’m sorry to intrude after visiting hours,” he said pleasantly. “I was just so concerned. Hermione is an old friend, and she fainted so suddenly, out of the blue. I hope you don’t mind.”

The healer smiled, clearly charmed. 

“Of course not, Minister,” she said, relaxing. She looked at Hermione reprovingly. “She is likely overworked. You need to take a step back, young lady.”

“It isn’t—” Hermione protested.

“She’s been getting so worn out lately,” Magnus agreed. “I keep telling her that there is no shame in taking a break, especially after all she’s been through lately. Yes, perhaps a rest is in order.”

The threat was there, laced into his words and Hermione's brain. 

Join me or else.

—-

Hermione opened her eyes, the fog dancing underneath her eyelids. 

Tendrils of it blurred her vision. She blinked, and saw hues of stormy grey and artificial light shining off smooth platinum.

She smelled something sweet, like apples and nectar, as well as something more earthy, like the pages of brand-new books and grassy fields laden with morning dew. 

I must be dreaming, Hermione thought. 

She let out a breath, and realised the tendrils of fog were actually strands of  platinum hair, and the grey were eyes that bored into hers with intent. 

Her dream echoed inside her mind, and she tried to reach out and hold onto it—

“Draco?”, she said, darkness threatening to pull her back in. But she held on. 

She heard a sharp breath above her, and a warm hand linger over the side of her face.

“Granger, I’m going to go get Potter,” Malfoy said, his voice sounding distant, as though behind a glass wall. “Just wait a minute.”

She blinked hard, and her vision cleared to confirm that Malfoy was indeed standing next to her.

Hermione knew without asking that she was in St Mungo’s again. 

“Where’s Magnus?” she asked. Her tongue was thick in her mouth, fuzzy and like it was too big. She felt nauseous as she tried to swallow, almost choking on her own saliva. 

“Granger, stop trying to—“ Malfoy said, before halting. She heard him scramble around her as she coughed.

Then a plastic cup of soothing, ice-cold water was brought to her lips. She drank it greedily, water trailing down her chin in her clumsy attempt to drink, and Malfoy held the cup affixed to her mouth. 

“Where is…” Hermione tried again after he moved the cup, but Malfoy put a hand on her mouth.

For a second she struggled, and he moved his hand to cup her chin with his fingers, bringing their faces level with each other.

“Granger, listen to me,” Malfoy said, every word nuanced with meaning. His eyes roved her face, clearly troubled, with no signs of occlusion. “What you’re doing…it’s extremely dangerous. Don’t mess with Roth. I mean it.”

Hermione stopped moving.

“What?” She said.

“Don’t antagonise him,” Malfoy said. He released her face, and pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Fuck, I wish I knew what to say to you. But I have to say something because you seem determined to get yourself killed.”

Hermione felt like she couldn’t breathe, and she reached out without thinking, grabbing Malfoy’s shoulder and pulling him closer.

The smell and warmth of him was so familiar, oddly comforting. Hermione didn’t know what was happening to her mind that Malfoy had suddenly become a a sense of calm to her.

But she was trapped in the eye of a storm with no way out and, right now, he felt like a lifeline. 

“Tell me,” Hermione said. She felt desperate, frustrated, angry. “Just tell me—“

“—Hermione, I know,” Malfoy said. Her first name sounded strange, yet completely at home coming out of his mouth, as though he had said it many times before. “I know what he is. I know. For once in your life, you need to stop arguing.”

Hermione sucked in a breath, her lungs rattling with the pain of it. 

“I know,” she admitted. “I know, I just…”

Hermione didn’t know how to explain what was going on inside her head.

That try as she might, she kept making mistakes and losing control of herself and the situation.

That everything was happening so fast that it had slipped between her fingers before she could ever hope to grasp it.

That she was so lost inside her own mind, grieving and reeling so many times over that she just couldn’t seem to get over any of it, even if she knew that she should. 

“How?” Hermione asked, hoarsely. Her grip on his shoulder tightened, and she felt his hand snake up her arm to her elbow, holding her steady.  “How do you know—“

“—I just do,” Malfoy said, and he sounded wrecked, haunted and empty, all meshed together.

Hermione didn’t know if she was now clinging to him or if he was the one holding her, but it didn’t matter, because he knew, he knew—

“—Granger, you can’t say anything to anyone,” Malfoy said. 

Hermione let out a painful breath.

“Why not?” she croaked, her hands aching from how tightly she was gripping him. “You can tell people, you can speak.  You have the words…”

“What do you mean?” Malfoy said sharply. He looked at her intently, his grip on her elbow twisting to caress her upper arm. 

“I can’t…”” Hermione swallowed, trying to hold in a flinch.

She didn’t want to trigger the spell again, not when she was so weak already. But at the same time she was desperate for him to understand.

“You can’t?” Malfoy pressed. His eyes searched hers. “Hermione, we don’t have much time. I shouldn’t be here. What can’t you?”

Hermione shook her head viciously, her hair a disarray of curls around her face. She remembered the way Magnus had tucked her hair behind her ear, and shivered.

“I can’t,” she repeated. “I can’t, I can’t…”

Proudfoot’s words echoed in her head.

Me, he had screamed desperately. Me, me, ME! 

“He’s done something to you,” Malfoy said, his eyes running up and down her face and body. Then his expression twisted into anger, a ferociousness she hadn’t seen before. “What the fuck has he done to you?”

Hermione wanted, so much, to tell him. In that moment, as insane as it was, she trusted him.

“Magnus,” she said. “I—“

Hermione let out a harsh gasp as her body jerked uncontrollably again, and she was ripped violently out of Malfoy’s grip.

She heard him say her name, roar it syllable by syllable, until it rattled her mind—

—Hermione! Malfoy’s voice echoed in a dream—

In the hospital room, the darkness claimed Hermione back into its embrace, until neither the dream Malfoy or the real Malfoy could find her. 

Then, she had nothing and no one.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: A New Regime II

Hermione swirled through thin air, through darkness, through fog. 

Then she was swallowed whole, pushed through a vacuum of space and time, to the recesses of her brain. Her mind burst wide open—

—Malfoy jumped back until his body was slammed against a stone wall, her wand at his throat. She watched his throat convulse, and a wave of anger and something more powerful roared in her head.

You foul, loathsome, evil little cockroach, she snarled, and it felt good to see fear in his eyes, good that she could make him feel that way. But then something flickered in his eyes, smouldering embers of something dark and throbbing burning behind them. At the same time, her stomach twisted and she raised her hand to—

—Hermione sat on the comfy, well-worn sofa in her parent's home, looking at the pile of poetry books on the coffee table. She looked over, with humour, at her mother’s ever-growing love of Emily Dickinson, Elizabeth Barrett Browning and John Keats. She sighed and turned to her mother. 

But mum, what if I get bullied at Hogwarts, she had asked. Like I do at school now? Her mother looked at her, sharp and firm brown eyes meeting younger, softer, brown eyes. There’s only one way to communicate with a bully, Hermione, her mother had said, quietly. Hermione looked up at her in question. How? Hermione had asked—

—And she raised her hand to slap Malfoy hard across his face. Her stomach swooped in surprise as Malfoy’s eyes dilated and—

The fog swallowed her further into the dark and murky crevices of her brain, and suddenly the images flashed faster, so fast she couldn’t breathe—

—She sucked raspberry preserves off a teaspoon, licking any remaining traces with her tongue, and felt the hairs on her neck prickle suddenly. She looked up and saw Malfoy staring at her from the Slytherin table, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark—

—Hermione let out a cry and tried to arch her back off the floor, but his body was heavy on top of hers and held her down.

Malfoy placed lazy kisses as he moved down her body, making sure to give extra attention to the beauty spot just above her right areola, before dipping his head into the valley between her breasts. His lips were smooth and hot as he pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses there, making her skin burn and tingle.

He looked up her body with a mischievous grin, dirty with promise as he moved down further, further and further until Hermione gasped and writhed, her ears ringing and dark spots in her vision—

—Just let me go, Granger, Malfoy snarled at her. He pushed past her, but Hermione held onto his arms, the momentum nearly making them both slip on ice. I said, he hissed, his voice dangerous. Let me fucking go!

Or what? Hermione said fiercely, looking up at him. Her eyes burned with raging fire. What will you do? 

Malfoy looked at her angrily, his face riveted with barely repressed emotions, and then he was holding her tightly against him, in a way she knew would bruise tomorrow, but she didn’t care, couldn’t think, as his lips descended on hers, insistent, rough and blistering—

—And then what? He asked her, as they lay on the freezing ground, surrounded by little jars of bluebell flames and snow. Then what will you do?

I’m going to be Minister for Magic, she said determinedly. Malfoy laughed—

—Malfoy turned around as she opened the door. Shock and horror swept across his face. 

What the fuck are you doing here—

—Hermione put her hand on the doorknob, when she felt a presence behind her. She looked around to see Malfoy, disheveled, his face wet with sweat and tears. What, is all she managed to say before he pointed his wand at her. Hermione jumped back in alarm. I love you, he whispered brokenly. I could never have imagined I would love you this fucking much—

—Tears streamed down Hermione’s face as the wind whipped through her hair, making her curls stick to her wet face. She stretched out her hand to him. Come with me, she yelled angrily at him through her tears. I said, COME WITH ME! 

He looked away slowly and Hermione’s heart broke into splintering shards of glass—

—Malfoy was there, Harry had said, bitterly, in the astronomy tower. I told you he was a Death Eater—

—She was in the dungeon of Malfoy Manor again, broken and half-dead. She could hear screams but for once, they weren’t hers—

—She was on the drawing room floor, the marble cutting into her face as she screamed—

—She looked up, and saw Harry standing over her, his glasses slightly askew and fear in his eyes—

—She looked up, and Dobby was there-

- Hermione, wake up, WAKE UP! Salazar, please don’t be dead, don’t be—

—Bellatrix standing over her, the sole of her boot pressed hard against Hermione’s face. Filthy, disgusting girl, the woman said, her voice curling with ugly distaste—

—Aunt Bella, you said you wouldn’t, you said if I— Malfoy said.

DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO! Bellatrix bellowed in his face—

—Hermione’s body seized, and she opened her mouth to scream but nothing came out—

—Instead, she heard Malfoy scream—

—NO! NO, NO, NO!

The fog spat her out, leaving her to be consumed by a dark maze of what was real and what was not. 

—-

Hermione opened her eyes. She smelled the familiar scent of bleach and plastic, saw blank white walls and listened to whirring machines and soft voices muffled by walls. 

She was in St Mungo’s—that much was obvious. 

There was a presence in the room, at the foot of the bed. She knew it was Magnus.

“Just say what you want to say and leave,” Hermione rasped. 

Magnus said nothing, but she heard the scrape of a chair on the linoleum floor, and then slow footsteps to her side, bringing him into her vision. 

He reached towards the bedside table, pouring water from a jug into a paper cup. He held it to her face, offering it to her. Hermione was thrown back to a hazy memory, one of Malfoy doing something similar.

The feeling was entirely different, back then, and she wasn’t completely sure she didn’t dream it.

She looked at the cup of water and turned her head away. 

Magnus sighed. 

“I didn’t put anything in it,” he said.

Hermione laughed without mirth, the effort burning her throat, and pushed the cup away. 

“I suppose you think I should thank you,” Hermione said. “I’m grateful you don’t find it necessary to poison me anymore, I suppose.” 

“We don’t have to be like this, Hermione,” Magnus said quietly. “I do not want to be your enemy. I do not want to hurt you. I simply had to protect my cause, and myself. Can you understand that?”

“No,” Hermione said shortly. 

“I have tried to explain myself to you. More than once” Magnus said, his voice suddenly low and terse. “You act as though I have done things worse than the other side.”

“Well, haven’t you?” Hermione quipped, struggling to sit up on the bed.

Magnus made a move towards her, and she flinched away, a warning look in her eyes. 

“Let me tell you what I think,” she croaked. She looked at the cup of water sitting on the table, but refused to ask for it. “I think you are a bully. I think you use the same means to get what you want as ‘the other side’.”

The sudden flash of Magnus’s eyes was eerie; pale blue irises that were unsettling in the dim-lit room, making him seem every inch the dangerous man he was. 

Don’t rile him up, Malfoy had said.

“What do you truly know about “the other side”, Hermione?” Magnus asked, evenly. 

“About Everlast?” Hermione asked sarcastically. “Enough to know that the Scavengers are every bit the terrorist organisation that they are.” 

Unnervingly, Magnus smiled.

“I actually meant Kingsley,” he said. He moved back to sit in the plastic chair he had vacated, his legs crossed and arms folded. “And Proudfoot. ”

Hermione looked at him sharply, feeling wrong-footed. It unsettled her. 

“What do you mean?” She asked.

“You think of them as friends,” Magnus stated. He carefully unbuttoned his suit jacket, fingers moving slowly over the ornate buttons as Hermione scowled at him. “You have cried over them, railed against the Wizengamot for them, ruined your own reputation for them. At what cost?”

Hermione said nothing as Magnus pulled out some small pieces of paper from a pocket inside his suit jacket. He stood up and strode the few steps to the side of her bed, his presence looming over her.

There was something restrained in his gaze, his eyes dark and curled behind his glasses. Magnus dropped the papers on Hermione’s lap, and she realised they weren’t papers at all.

They were photographs. 

Hermione turned them over, and her heart dropped.

The first photo was Kingsley, sitting at a table with Rodolphus Lestrange, the leader of Everlast. Hermione quickly rifled through the rest of the photos, which had Kingsley in various locations with known ex-death eaters associated with Everlast.

The last two had pictures of Proudfoot at the scene of some well-known attacks on muggle-borns, standing alongside members of Everlast.

In the last one, Kingsley was shaking hands with Lestrange, while Proudfoot laughed. 

Hermione felt sick. Her stomach turned and twisted, and her hands started shaking almost uncontrollably.

She let go of the photographs, and gripped the bed, hard, with both hands. The metal was cold and rigid under her grip, the unrelenting strength of it threatening to bend her bones backwards. 

“There is probably an explanation for these photos,” Hermione said. Her teeth were chattering now and it was getting hard to breathe.

Magnus could see her distress, and she hated herself for it. 

Breathe. One. Two.

Breathe.

Breathe, just breathe—

Magnus said nothing.

He didn’t acknowledge her distress. He didn’t do anything at all, except push one photo closer to her, forcing her to look down at it. 

It was the photo of Kingsley shaking Lestrange’s hand, a smile painted on his lips as if they had just agreed to some kind of deal. 

Proudfoot, to the side, laughing as though they had all been friends their entire lives. 

Hermione’s stomach plummeted suddenly and she turned her head to the side, and vomited onto the floor.

“I wish that was all, but there is more,” Magnus said. A sliver of remorse threaded through his voice, but Hermione could barely hear it past the roaring sound in her ears. “I tried to show you this file in the restaurant, but you didn’t look at it properly.”

He waved a hand, casting a wandless spell, and some files appeared out of nowhere to rest in his hands.

Hermione would recognise those three files anywhere, bound in their blood-crimson ribbons.

The marriage law files. 

He waved his hands again, and the first file opened, revealing papers tied with treasury tags. He waved again, and the pages began to flick past, before coming to a stop. 

Magnus paused. Hermione looked up at him, at the strange look had suddenly taken over his features. It was something close to pity.

“Turn the page,” he said softly. 

Hermione blinked. She breathed. She looked down at the file. She turned the page. 

The first file seemed to detail the inner workings of a marriage law, as Kingsley had planned them. There, in obsidian black ink and Kingsley’s distinct scrawl, his plans to implement them, had he lived, the dates stark and set in stone. 

The page she had turned to detailed some examples of matches. At the top of the page, listed as the Initial Specimen was her name. 

Hermione thought she had felt betrayal before, but not like this. It was a blunt dagger, thrust deep into her gut, impaled through her again and again until she bled uncontrollably, alone in the darkness of her mind. 

Kingsley and Proudfoot had been dealing with the Everlast. 

Kingsley was possibly a part of the Everlast.

Kingsley had planned to invoke a marriage law decree, without her knowledge.

Kingsley had planned to force her to pioneer it, to force her to marry against her will in order to use her as an example. 

It was more than betrayal. It was the death of everything that Hermione had held true. 

“You think the Scavengers are as bad as the other side,” Magnus said. “Because you don’t know who the other side is.” 

Hermione wasn’t breathing when a healer walked into the room, followed by Harry and Ron.

“‘Mione, what the bloody hell is—“ Ron said, and stopped when he saw Magnus sitting at Hermione’s side. He looked at her with uncertainty. “Are you okay?”

Harry said nothing, looking between Magnus and Hermione, his eyes curious and contemplative.

Magnus stood up and smiled pleasantly. 

“Hermione has been having rather a rough time of it lately,” Magnus said, smiling at Ron. Ron didn’t smile back. “I can’t say I blame her, grief is a powerful thing.”

“Grief?” Harry said, his voice flat.

He looked at Hermione. Hermione looked down at the file in front of her. She closed it shut. 

The healer appeared in front of Hermione, checking a clipboard and ticking something on it.

“Miss Granger has obviously been under a lot of stress lately,” the healer said. “She should really be on bed rest. For her mental health.”

Her mental health, Hermione’s mind emphasised. He was trying to make it look like she had lost her mind.

“Yes, I agree,” Magnus said, swiftly. “I’ve been thinking that it might be good for you to take a step back for a while, from your role as Chief Advisor.”

“You’re demoting her?” Harry cut in, sounding angry on her behalf. “For being ill?”

“To give her time to recover from her nervous breakdown,” Magnus said smoothly. “Of course, she can return to her role once she feels better.”

Once she plays by my rules. Hermione’s mind filled in the unsaid words.

Magnus’s eyes flashed.

“A step down to DMLE might be easier for Hermione to manage right now,” Magnus said. 

Hermione looked at him. 

She knew what he was doing, and Hermione felt sick again.

He was demoting her to reduce her influence in the Wizengamot and using her health as an excuse, killing two birds with one stone.

His eyes dared her to fight back, to challenge him. She knew if she did, she would look every bit as crazy as he was trying to make her look. 

“If it would prevent another panic attack,” the healer said solemnly. “Then this is probably a good idea.”

The healer and Magnus regarded each other. The healer nodded minutely at the Minister in a silent gesture. Magnus’s eyes flickered to Hermione.

The Scavengers are everywhere, his eyes said. 

“Fine,” she said, shortly. 

She would stay quiet, for now. Until she knew what to do. 

Magnus smiled, nodding. Ron and Harry looked stonily between the two of them.

Fuck you, Hermione thought viciously.

Good girl, said Magnus’s smile. 

Her throat burned, and Magnus picked up the paper cup of water that she had refused earlier, draining it in a single swallow before crushing it in his fist.

—-

When she was alone, Hermione had whispered spell after spell on the photos, praying and hoping they had been doctored somehow.

They never changed. 

Could there be an innocent explanation for the photos?

She looked at the photo of Kingsley sitting in an Everlast meeting.

Perhaps an explanation could be made for why an undercover auror could have been there—but the Minister for Magic? 

But her heart couldn’t believe that Kingsley would ever possibly entertain joining Everlast. Everything she knew about the man went against it.

She remembered the days on the run-up to his death, the way he refused to condemn Everlast for the muggle-born deaths, even when the evidence had been damning. 

Hermione dropped the photos on the floor, watching them scatter to the ground like decaying leaves from a dying tree. 

—

“What’s going on Hermione?” Harry asked, when she was discharged from the hospital. 

Hermione looked at the trees around them, the intricate ways the leaves moved in the wind, swirling above their heads and at their feet. 

“Everyone keeps saying you are sick,” Harry continued. “But no one says what it is. And I never see you anymore.”

Hermione’s eyes burned. She said nothing.

“I don’t think you are,” Harry said suddenly. “I don’t think you’re actually sick. I think there’s a lot you aren’t telling us.”

Hermione looked at Harry.

Yes, Hermione thought fiercely, and jumped as a jolt of pain swept through the back of her skull.

“Hermione?” Harry said, looking alarmed. 

Her head spun, and Harry helped her move to sit on a bench close by. The wind picked up, and the leaves rustled closer to her feet. 

“I don’t know, Harry,” Hermione said.

Despair threatened to swallow her whole, but she had to hang on.

She couldn’t sink, not now. 

She crushed the leaves under her foot with more force than was necessary.

—-

Hermione remembered holding Kingsley in her arms as he lay dying, his blood thick in her hands and running through her fingers. His eyes unseeing, his mouth without words.

She had shared his last moments, but he hadn’t shared anything with her at all. 

—-

“Why are you so desperate to have me join the Scavengers?” Hermione asked suddenly, as Magnus walked by.

He stopped and turned back to her. He frowned. 

“I’ve told you,” Magnus said. “I think, together, we can achieve great things.”

Hermione stared at him.

“I really do believe that,” he said. “It also would be easier for me to have the Golden Girl on my side than not.”

A piece of the puzzle clicked into place, albeit a small one. 

“But don’t think that makes you invincible,” Magnus said. “Even gold loses value.”

Hermione scowled at him.

“I’ve been very easy on you so far,” Magnus said. “Because I like you, Hermione. I would like us to remain friends. But if you won’t join me, then you are against me.”

“You aren’t who I thought you were,” Hermione snapped back. “And you don’t know me at all.”

“Are you sure about that?” Magnus said, a dark glint in his eye. “How much are you willing to bet on that?”

—-

Hermione sat in the auror office.

Her things had been unceremoniously returned to the cardboard box and moved to the DMLE before she had even left the hospital. As there wasn’t an office available yet in the main DMLE section, she was making do with a small, makeshift desk in the auror office, under the lingering and curious eyes of many others.

Her downfall was a spectacle for all to see.

Magnus was doing everything in his power to make sure her defamation was absolute.

Currently, it was early in the morning, so Hermione had another hour or two before the stares and whispers began. She sat in the silent office, absorbing the pretence of peace. 

She tried not to feel the raging fury spitting inside her like lava. Today she would miss her first Wizengamot session. As she was now simply just the deputy head of the MLE department now, her presence at Wizengamot was only required during Minister’s Debates, or if she was summoned. 

As Hermione was pondering this, the office door gently opened. Dita walked in with her coat and bag in hand. She froze when she saw Hermione. 

There was a long pause as both women regarded each other. 

Hermione remembered that the last time she had seen the woman, when she had been trespassing into Proudfoot’s office. 

He was a good man, Dita had said. 

How well had Dita known Proudfoot?

“Good morning,” Dita said hesitantly, breaking the silence. 

The other woman seemed nervous and on edge, fiddling with her coat as she walked quickly to her desk.

“Good morning,” Hermione said carefully. Her mind whirred. 

Her eyes flickered over the auror, eventually resting on a silver ring that adorned one of Dita’s fingers.

It looked an awful lot like the style that Magnus wore: close to the style of a muggle wedding ring, but not quite. 

Hermione sat back in her chair and plotted. 

—-

Every time Hermione looked through Proudfoot’s notebook, it was like a dagger to her heart. 

She saw the laughing man in the photograph.

She saw the desperate man with tears streaking his face, telling her to tell his family that he loved them. 

She snapped the book shut. 

She needed to look for answers elsewhere.

——

At Hogwarts, whenever she wanted the answer to something that was on her mind, she had turned to the library. It had been her source of comfort, a solace against the sometimes misery, hardship and ostracism of her school years. 

At the ministry, there was a wonderful equivalent called the Carousel. As the name suggested, it was a room consisting of a circular platform, which was made entirely of books. Any information you needed within the ministry could be found there. 

Hermione had never had a reason to research her own colleagues. But that was then. This was now. 

Quietly muttering a spell to break the confidentiality charms on the files, she called up all the files she could find on Magnus and was presented with his early ministry records, his work and promotion applications, his school records and the drafts, schemes and bills he had participated in advancing. 

An hour later, she sat on a small table on the side of the Carousel with trembling hands, a sore chest and more darkness in her magic than ever before. 

There was nothing. Nothing unusual, nothing sinister, nothing that was not prim, proper and completely above board. 

Tiberius Magnus Roth had entered the ministry a few months after leaving Ilvermorny, where he had been in the Horned Serpent house, with top grades and stellar references from more than one professor.

His early ministry record spoke of a quiet, studious and deeply competent worker who had steadily risen through the ranks until he had been made head

of International Magical Cooperation. After that, it appeared Kingsley had noticed him and his rise had been meteoric yet completely unremarked upon.

It was unusual in the sense that it was hard for someone so young to rise so fast without any proper connections, but not unheard of. 

But there were some discrepancies.

Magnus had not filed any of his school records going back into his earlier years at Ilvermorny, not like Hermione had. It could be a ministerial mistake. Maybe Hermione had simply been more meticulous about her records. But she couldn’t find his St Mungo health records, which were a standard thing to file after joining the ministry. Either he hadn’t filed them, or he didn’t have a record at St Mungo’s. 

It wasn’t sinister in any way that Hermione could tell, but it certainly was odd.

Everything came back to somehow circumventing this spell he had put on her. He essentially had her gagged, and even if Harry and— maybe - Malfoy knew about it, they didn’t know the extent of the situation she was now in. 

If there’s one thing she had learned lately, it was to rely on no one. Trust absolutely no one. 

Which meant she had to fight this one out by herself. 

That was okay, because she had been fighting for herself her entire life.

—

Hermione waited in the Atrium, staring up at the Statue of Unsung Heroes, her arms folded, her heart numb. She felt a prickling sensation on the back of her neck, and turned around. 

Malfoy was standing in the distance, looking directly at her.

Hermione sucked in a breath.

She had wondered if she had dreamed up the conversation in St Mungo’s.

One glance at his face told her it had been very real. 

Hermione blinked as Malfoy suddenly strode up to her, bending over discreetly so that his lips were only inches away from the whorls of her ear.

“Not here,” he said with a rush. She could feel the way his jaw pushed against her curls.

She remembered her most recent dreams, the way they had been…intwined…in it, and found herself flushing slightly. 

What was wrong with her? 

She knew that she was losing control of her reality. In another time and situation, it would have scared her and forced her to seek help. But she had so many problems that her bizarre and disturbing dreams were the least of her concerns right now. 

There was a movement of air, and Malfoy pulled away to walk past her. Hermione took a breath, and followed him. 

He led her through a meandering route through the ministry, until they reached the set of service lifts in the back corridors where they had met before.

Malfoy pressed the buttons until a lift arrived. He waited until Hermione entered it, before following her. 

The doors closed.

Malfoy turned to her, abruptly, his cloak swirling around him.

“What the fuck has he done to you?” He asked, his eyes scanning her in her entirety. “Are you okay?”

Hermione was taken aback by the ferocity in his voice. 

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m…”

She didn’t want to trigger the spell.

“I want to know what you know,” Hermione said, in lieu of answering him. 

Malfoy didn’t say anything.

They breathed in tandem as the lift whirred quietly around them, passing back and forth the same air between them. 

“I want to know what he’s done to you,” Malfoy insisted. 

“That’s not the important thing right now,” Hermione responded impatiently. “I want to know what you know.”

Malfoy scowled back at her.

“Fine,” he retorted. “I know that you’re messing with a dangerous man. I know that he, and what he stands for, are capable of worse than you seem to think—“

“—I know he’s dangerous,” Hermione snapped back. “I’m not stupid, Malfoy. In case you haven’t noticed, I didn’t decide to keep blacking out for my health.”

Malfoy stepped back as though she had hit him, and Hermione was thrown by the sudden distraught look on his face. 

This was the first time she had been able to broach anything close to what was wrong with her with anyone else. 

She was more sure now than ever that intent was involved in the spell. 

“He’s making you black out?” Malfoy said, his face pale. “How?”

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but hesitated.

She could not afford to end up in St Mungos again.

Malfoy clenched his fists.

“I’m going to kill him,” Malfoy spat, his voice rough and eyes livid.

Hermione watched curiously as he placed a hand on a lift wall, as though he had been winded by her admission. His hair fell out of its neat and careful style until it was in front of his eyes; he pushed it away roughly. His face was contorted in anger. 

Hermione couldn’t help but watch in fascination as Malfoy came apart. Because she had been hurt. 

It didn’t make any sense. Why did he care?

But then Malfoy righted himself, looming over her with his taller stature, his eyes engulfing hers.

“Granger, I need you to listen,” he said, urgently. “You need to stop riling him up. This man, these people, they aren’t the sort you just openly mess with, you have to be careful—“

“—I know, Malfoy,” Hermione sighed in frustration. “I’m aware. I haven’t done anything yet because I know that.”

She looked at him squarely.

“You are the only one who knows,” she said, praying she didn’t trigger the spell. Blinking, she was surprised when she felt nothing. “Will you help me or not?”

Malfoy looked at her like she was insane.

“Help you?”, Malfoy said. “Do what? Did you not hear me when I said you can’t rile him up?”

Hermione bristled, glaring up at him.

“And what am I supposed to do instead?” She said angrily. “Just stand here while—while terrible things happen? I’m just supposed to join the—just condone everything?”

Join the Scavengers, was what Hermione was going to say, but she was positive that would have triggered the spell.

She realised, with a horrible lurch of her stomach, that this was the only way she would be able to stay in the ministry now.

If she joined the Scavengers. 

Absolutely not.

Hermione looked at Malfoy, the way every inch of him spoke of refined and well-bred pureblood. Of the quiet elegance and secretive, exclusive world of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. The way that, she supposed, he represented everything that had caused her to suffer in this world that she had so desperately wanted to be accepted in, only to be thrown aside and scorned many times over. 

She should want people like him to suffer. She should want him to suffer, the bully that he had been. The first one to call her mudblood, to teach her that she wasn’t accepted in their world at all, let alone welcomed in it. 

But yet—

There was a ghost of something, like a long-lost memory, that seemed to always linger around her since Malfoy had reappeared in her life.

It rattled in her brain, like a breath she couldn’t take, no matter how many times she sucked air into her lungs. It was blood her heart couldn’t pump, no matter how many times it beat within her chest. 

“Yes,” Malfoy said shortly, and Hermione looked at him in bewilderment. “Granger, use that brain of yours. I don’t know how else to say this so that you fucking understand! I’m telling you to do nothing, at least for now.”

“Nothing,” Hermione repeated. “You can’t be serious.”

Malfoy scowled at her.

“Yes, Granger, that’s exactly what I’m fucking saying,” he snarled. “Just shut up for now and—“

Hermione laughed derisively. 

“Just shut up and don’t say anything. That’s what everyone says, every time I breathe,” she said. “That’s what you want me to do? Let him—let him…”

She could feel it now, when she was about to trigger the spell. It was like a lever that was about to be pulled, and she could feel the magic caressing it.

She and didn’t finish her sentence.

“Malfoy, he wants to invoke a marriage law decree,” Hermione said. “And I fear that’s just the tip of the iceberg.” 

A pause, as Malfoy looked at her with wide eyes. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, hoarsely. “I heard rumours but…”

He trailed off, deep in thought.

“I’ve got the files,” Hermione said. “He gave them to me. Yes, I am sure.”

Malfoy seemed to come out of his thoughts, shaking his head. 

“Well, I’m interested to know how he’s going to get the Wizengamot to agree to it,” he said. “They might like Roth at the moment, but I can tell you, they really, fucking hate being kept in the dark about things.” 

“I don’t know,” Hermione said, and anxiety crept into her heart. “All I know is it’s arcane, barbaric and and—and—“

She could feel the hair trigger of the spell, and she halted. 

“…It’s wrong,” Hermione finished, lamely. She shook her head. “People should be able to marry who they want. Who they love. This is not…this accomplishes nothing but discord and unrest.”

She expected Malfoy to nod his agreement, but instead his face clouded over. 

Hermione looked away, feeling strange.

“I’m going to bide my time,” she said. “But I need to do something. I won’t—- I can’t— wait forever. I’m going to find something. So…if you won’t help me, then get out of my way.”

Malfoy took in a sharp breath that seemed to make his face even paler. He looked so different now, Hermione found herself musing, from the boy she used to know. 

“If you could do me one favour and perhaps give Harry a clue about what’s going on, I’d be grateful,” Hermione continued. 

There was a soft ding in front of them, and the lift doors began to open.

Hermione nodded at Malfoy, and made to walk through the doors. But, suddenly, he grabbed her elbow, pulling her back inside the lift. She stumbled slightly, and hit the back wall of the lift.

She looked at him in shock. 

“What are you doing?” she exclaimed.

Malfoy ignored her, furiously jabbing the button to close the door again. 

Hermione looked at his fierce face, and felt cornered aa he strode towards her.

He was crowding her against the wall, almost unconsciously so, only a thin slither of space between their bodies. She could feel the heat radiating off him, the faint familiar scent of wet grass and something rich and warm that was always there when he got so close.

For two people that had hated each other, for the fact that at one point she hadn’t been able to stand the sight of him, they ended up standing close an awful lot. 

“No,” Malfoy said, and he sounded almost wild. Like a wounded animal, searching for something, and not finding it, “I mean it. Absolutely, in Merlin’s fucking name, not. I mean it, Hermione—“

His use of her name felt like another ghost as it left his tongue.

Malfoy flinched as his own words.  

“—Granger,” he corrected himself. “Stop being such a fucking Gryffindor. We left school a long time ago. You can drop the heroics now—“

“—I am not being a Gryffindor,” Hermione said abruptly, fire licking in her veins. “Don’t tell me what to do, Malfoy. I mean it: if you won’t help me, then get out of my way—“

She gripped his upper arm, trying to manoeuvre past him, but he stood steadfast, holding onto her elbow so that they were standing side by side, faces inches apart. 

“Granger,” he said roughly, his eyes lingering on her face. “I’m fucking serious—“

“—And so am I. The lift will open again, you know,” Hermione said, scowling. “You can’t keep me in here forever!”

In one swoop, Malfoy turned to the buttons on the side of the wall. He muttered a quick angry spell and the lift came to an abrupt halt, suspended in between two floors.

“What are you doing?” Hermione screeched. “Let me go you—you over-grown ferret!”

Malfoy glared down at her, his frustration barely hidden.

“You can not possibly think it’s a good idea to involve Potter right now,” Malfoy said, ignoring her attempts to push past him. “If the Unstoppable Twat  is involved, there will definitely be Gryffindor shit, and then we are all dead.”

“Harry is the reason we won the war,” Hermione reminded him. “He could help me—“

“—He’s alive because of you, and dare I say it, the Weasel too,” Malfoy retorted. “The bleeding Chosen One doesn’t have a single self-preserving brain cell in his skull. But this time he isn’t the one on the firing line. You are.”

Malfoy’s eyes were dark, full of ire as he sneered at her. 

“His idea of a subtle plan would be rushing in like a minotaur in a glass cauldron shop,” he snarled. “Unfortunately for you, your opponent this time is not as dramatic, and much less willing to play the obvious Big Baddie who likes to monologue. This one would simply cut your throat before you get a chance to speak.”

It was the truth. Magnus had already metaphorically cut her throat, by taking away her voice.

She didn’t doubt that he could physically silence her too. 

“Fine,” Hermione said. “Then I’ll just do this on my own then.”

“Granger, listen to me, ” Malfoy said insistently, sounding exasperated. “Roth means business. He’s already got Theo, he—“

He stopped abruptly. Hermione looked at him sharply.

“What?” Hermione asked, quickly. “What’s happened to Theo?”

Malfoy hesitated. Hermione stepped forward, into his space.

“Malfoy, what happened to Theo?” She asked again, her voice shrill with tension. 

Malfoy swallowed hard.

“Theo is facing some charges lobbied against him,” Malfoy said finally. “They found some…illegal materials…in his manor during a house search.”

Hermione’s mind screeched to a halt.

“House search?” she repeated, in horror. “One of the ones I mandated?”

Malfoy looked at her for a beat.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Minister Roth hasn’t officially cancelled your mandate to carry out house searches in the home of select members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. I’m surprised he hasn’t come after me yet, actually.”

Hermione’s heart jumped to her throat.

“Where is Theo?” she asked. “Not—not Azkaban?”

Hermione felt sick, remembering Theo’s reaction to being asked to accompany her to the wizarding prison. 

“Not yet, I don’t think,” Malfoy said, his face tightening. “I’ve been briefing with his solicitor. Theo has been magically tagged and must stay inside Nott Manor until he goes to trial.”

No, no, no.

“Malfoy,” Hermione said, her voice catching in her throat. “Why would Magnus do that? Did Theo actually have anything illegal in his manor? A chimera egg, a time turner…”

Malfoy flinched at her words, turning paler still, and then shook his head vehemently. 

“No,” Malfoy said shortly. “No time turners.”

Hermione nodded, her mind replaying the image of time turners falling in the Department of Mysteries. “They were all destroyed.”

Draco looked at her strangely. He nodded too.

“His father…did keep a lot of dark materials during his time,” Draco continued. “But the manor was closed off by the ministry after the war, and I ….helped Theo clean it out. It was one of Shacklebolt’s stipulations for Theo’s freedom after the war.”

There was a story there too, another story she didn’t know. 

There just wasn’t enough time for all thethings she didn’t know, except for all the things she did—

“Is Magnus holding Theo because of me?” She asked abruptly, the words falling out of her mouth. There was fear in her words, at what the answer might be. “Is he?”

Malfoy said nothing for a while, and Hermione nearly tore in half.

“He might be,” he said eventually. “But Granger, this is not a reason to go after Roth. Don’t use Theo as a reason to do something stupid, he would never forgive himself—“

“—Theo is my friend,” Hermione cut in. Malfoy stared at her, apparently at a loss for words. “I look after my friends. I would do anything for my friends.”

Malfoy looked at her, horror seeping through the Occlumency.

“Granger, nothing is worth dying over,” Malfoy said. “Not now, not after all these years, not after…”

He trailed off, looking troubled. He looked like he was having trouble breathing. 

“Granger, no offence,” Malfoy said. “But you have no plan, no political currency, and, frankly, no power at the moment. You are not a match for Magnus Roth. He will finish you off, and you can’t just walk into his trap.”

He spat out the last words, anger breaking through the cloud of Occlumency.

“It will be the stupidest thing you will ever have done,” Malfoy said. “And possibly the last thing you will do.”

“He won’t kill me,” Hermione breathed. “Magnus needs me too much.”

She knew Magnus was a dangerous man, capable of anything. But she also knew she had some bizarre yet tangible hold over him, something that gave him enough pause to try and win her to his side.

However badly he was doing it, he still thought she was worth having on his side. 

Hermione was running out of time to use that to her advantage. Once it was clear she would never support him, she wouldn’t be able to do anything. 

She had to try, for Theo. She had to try, for herself and every other person who might be in danger, for all she knew.

“You are so fucking stubborn,” Malfoy seethed. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you, but I was hoping that maybe you were less…less self-righteous now. Apparently, I was wrong.”

Anger thrummed through her veins.

“Why exactly should I listen to you?” Hermione said, her hand still on his arm. The wool of his coat was soft under her fingers, reminding her of soft, hazy memories of dimly-lit Diagon Alley pebbled streets and conversations with muffled heat. “Why should I trust you?”

Malfoy’s eyes bored into hers. Then he pulled away from her.

The loss of contact made her feel cold, despite how small it had been, as though she had lost something intangible. 

“I don’t know,” Malfoy said, sounding oddly bereft.

Hermione waited for him to continue but he didn’t. 

She was so angry, she was so confused; she wanted to scream at him and shake him, but for some reason, she also wanted to turn his face towards her and ask him why. 

“Everything has been so confusing, ever since you turned up,” Hermione admitted. She couldn’t stop herself. “My entire life is going up in flames, but I keep thinking about you.”

It was a stark truth, brutal in it’s honesty. It left her completely vulnerable to his derision, to potential insults and taunts, but she somehow knew they wouldn’t come.

He slowly looked up at her, his face full of disbelief.

“Thinking about me,” he repeated, flatly. There was no light behind those eyes now. “Why would you think about me at all?”

The words were harsh, a wet slap on bruised skin, and Hermione looked at him. 

“Harry told me that you apologised to them, for everything,” Hermione confessed. “That you had planned to apologise to me.” 

Malfoy said nothing, still looking at her with empty eyes. 

“Why didn’t you?” Hermione asked.

There was a strange, uneasy desperation in her voice that she didn’t understand. A plea, perhaps, to help her understand at least one thing in her life right now. 

Hermione was completely at sea in every way. For, as bizarre as it was, Malfoy was the beacon on the horizon, calling her to safety.

“Would you have accepted it?” Malfoy asked, quietly. “If I had said sorry, would it have been enough, back then?”

Hermione thought about Hogwarts, of filthy little mudblood and the Densaugeo that made her the laughing stock of the school with her over-elongated teeth. 

She thought of the taunts and sneers over the years that made her feel more isolated in this new world than anything else.

She thought of the slap, the way his pupils had dilated, and the dark thrum of something else ever since.

She thought of the vanishing cabinets, cursed necklaces and poisoned mead, followed by Dumbledore hurtling to his death.

She thought of the drawing room in Malfoy Manor, and being tortured before his very eyes as he did nothing. 

“No,” she croaked. “No, it wouldn’t have been enough.”

Malfoy didn’t look angry. He didn’t look upset.

He looked resigned, as though he had expected her answer.

His face shrouded once again with the clouds of Occlumency. 

“Well, then,” Malfoy said. “Tot’s probably for the best that I stayed away.”

Then why are you back now? She wanted to ask him.

Would it be enough now? Is the question she didn’t want to ask herself. 

She didn’t know. She didn’t know the answer to either question, and so many more.

There wasn’t time for this. She had things she had to do. 

Because Magnus could hurt her, but no one hurt her friends. 

She had to try. She knew he was dangerous and there was no telling what he could do.

But if there was a price to be paid… then let it be paid by her.

If anyone was going to get hurt, it would be her and no one else. 

Because Hermione would rather die than let another dictator control the country with iron fists in the name of the greater good.

Time for some Gryffindor shit, as Malfoy had called it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: A New Regime III

She was sitting on her bench in the Atrium when she saw it. 

The Wizengamot members crowded in the middle of the floor, as they usually did after an important session. Hermione quietly seethed. Now that she was unable to go to the sessions, she was almost completely in the dark about what Magnus was doing. He had made sure of it. 

Marcus Flint was rambling on about something, with Malfoy standing next to him, clearly bored. Hermione saw him look over at the pillar that she was hidden behind, his eyes lingering for a long while. Then he turned to look at Magnus, who was walking past while pretentiously laughing at something Lord Fawley had said.  

Suddenly, as quick as a flash, Hermione saw Malfoy put out one polished Oxford shoe, just enough to catch the edge of Magnus's foot. 

The Minister lost his balance and, before anyone could do anything, went crashing down to the marble floor with a loud thud that made everyone in the vicinity stop talking and turn to see what happened. 

Complete silence reigned as Magnus lay sprawled at Malfoy’s feet. The entire Atrium was looking down at him, dumbfounded. A few feeble attempts of help were offered, before a couple of assistants ran over. 

Magnus slapped away their hands and stood up with a rush, his face pale with red blotches and his glasses skewed. He looked dishevelled and uncontrolled.

It was glorious. 

Hermione has never seen Magnus look anything other than completely collected and calm. But beyond his current dishevelment lay an undercurrent of palpable danger and instability. The humour of the situation was gone, the darkness within Magnus fully visible—and it was aimed at Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy looked thoroughly unbothered by the commotion, castling a careless glance downwards.

“Marcus, you dolt,” he drawled lazily. “Look what you’ve done. You’ve tripped over the Minister.”

Flint blinked at Malfoy, and then at Magnus, who was now standing toe to toe with Malfoy, his eyes flashing with barely repressed fury. 

“Did I?” Marcus said, looking confused. “Sorry, Minister. I didn’t see you there.”

Hermione knew a well-placed confundus charm when she saw it, having had some practice with it herself. She couldn’t help it—a smile tugged at her lips. 

Magnus ignored him. His lips pursed in a thin line as he stood level with Malfoy, his eyes solely trained on him. The lord and the Minister sized each other up, both of them impeccably dressed, perfectly poised and fighting for dominance.

“Perhaps you should be more careful where you stand, Lord Flint,” Magnus hissed, still looking at Malfoy. “Otherwise you might accidentally find yourself in trouble.”

Flint flushed and opened his mouth. Malfoy cut in before he had a chance to speak.

“Perhaps you should be a bit more careful, Minister,” Malfoy sneered. “So people don’t find themselves in a position to accidentally make you fall.”

Something hot pulsed in Hermione’s body, making her feel feverish. Her stomach fluttered. 

She shook her head vigorously, dislodging the feeling. 

Magnus looked at him with disgust. There was a pause as everyone held their breath. 

“Oh, I fully intend to, Lord Malfoy,” Magnus said smoothly. “Don’t worry yourself on my behalf.”

Malfoy smiled at him, the image of all things benign and harmless. 

Suddenly, Hermione was certain that nothing was further from the truth.

The tension dissipated, as Magnus shoved past Malfoy and stalked out of the Atrium, followed by his assistants. 

Hermione looked down at her lap and couldn’t hold back a full grin, her lips aching from being stretched after a long, long time.

Malfoy looked over in her direction. His lips twitched minutely in an upwards direction.

Don’t get ideas, his expression said, his eyes glowering.

But Hermione felt more determined than ever, buoyed by hope.

Time to get on with her ideas , she thought. 

It was time to sow some doubt. 

——

Hermione stood in a corridor just behind the Wizengamot chambers, casting a disillusionment charm as she waited for the session to finish. 

Madam Shafiq was always the last one to leave. This appeared to be the case this time, too. Hermione walked into the near-empty chambers, grateful that Magnus had not thought to physically bar her from the rooms. 

The older woman looked up at Hermione in surprise. 

“Miss Granger,” Madam Shafiq exclaimed, sounding shocked. “What are you doing here?”

The woman looked wary and defensive as Hermione approached her. 

“I was hoping to talk to you,” she said quickly. “If I could just have a minute of your time?”

Madam Shafiq looked around at the empty room hesitantly. 

“Miss Granger, I don’t think this is appropriate,” she said quietly. “If you send an owl to my secretary, I can perhaps find time for an appointment.”

Frustration filled Hermione, but she ignored it. 

“Unfortunately ma’am, I don’t have time for an appointment , ” Hermione said, firmly. “This will only take a minute if you would—“

“—Miss Granger—” Madam Shafiq warned.

“—It’s important,” Hermione insisted. Quickly, she pulled two scrolls out of her robes, opening them both up on a nearby desk.

“What are these?” Madam Shafiq said suspiciously. 

“The Pureblood Protection Protocol scheme,” Hermione said. “And another one that is very similar.”

Madam Shafiq looked at her sharply.

“If this is about what happened in the last Wizengamot session,” Madam Shafiq said. “Then perhaps we should table this conversation. You are obviously not very well, and the Minister has made it clear that you are having a hard time accepting the loss of your ministry—“

Fury rankled in Hermione’s veins. She clenched her hands over the documents on the table. 

“I am completely fine,” Hermione interrupted. “And it is to do with what I said during the session, and I would like to offer up some proof. Things are not as—“

A shot of pain ran up the side of Hermione’s face, and she flinched hard. Madam Shafiq looked at her in alarm. 

Hermione breathed, and forced herself not to give in to the pain. 

“Please, just look,” Hermione gritted out through her teeth. “ Please. Tell me they aren’t the same.”

Madam Shafiq looked at Hermione incredulously for a few moments, before she stepped forward and picked up the documents. 

In one hand she had the Pureblood Protection Protocol. 

On the other hand, a copy of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission manifesto. 

Madam Shafiq looked between Hermione and the documents in bewilderment.

“Just read them,” Hermione croaked, a tinge of desperation in her voice as she battled with the pain on the side of her skull. She dug her nails into her hands and willed herself to fight. 

As Madam Shafiq continued to read, Hermione breathed out and the pain started to subside. 

When the older woman had stopped reading, her face had paled a number of shades, and she dropped the papers onto the table. 

“This can’t be right,” Madam Shafiq said. “How can they be so similar?”

Hermione has to bite her tongue in order not to answer her, knowing the words could be devastating for herself in more than one way. 

“Think about it,” she said instead. “Why might they?”

Madam Shafiq looked at Hermione as though she had never seen her before. She folded the documents and put them in her robe pockets. 

“Leave it with me,” the Wizengamot co-chair said, nodding. “I’ll look into it.” 

Relief washed over Hermione, threatening to consume her entirely. She smiled. 

Doubt sown. 

It was a small victory, minuscule against the tidal waves of losses. But Hermione would take it.

—

Hermione couldn’t say that the Scavengers were in power.

 She couldn’t say that Magnus Roth, their Minister for Magic, was the leader of the terrorist organisation. That much, she knew.

But she could root out every policy he was planning, and find the discrimination, the hypocrisy, the condemnation and terror within. She could rip them to shreds to whoever would listen.

Hermione was going to make her way through the wizengamot, whether they wanted to listen or not. 

So the next day, when she was sure Magnus was as far away as possible, she cornered Lord Fawley as he stepped through green flames into the dark marble of the Atrium. 

He looked at her in surprise, which quickly turned to suspicion. 

“I want to speak to you,” Hermione said. The suspicion in his expression gave way to open distaste and annoyance, and he attempted to push her to the side with his cane. 

“Get out of my way, girl,” he snarled. “I have nothing to say to you.”

His behaviour reminded her so much of Lucius Malfoy that Hermione was temporarily thrown off course, ice water travelling down her spine. She pressed her lips together hard and, refusing to budge, instead grabbed his cane. 

Hermiome pushed it away from her body hard, making the man stumble slightly. 

He looked at her in shock. 

“It wasn’t a request. I will talk to you,” Hermione said forcefully. 

“They say your wits are added,” Lord Fawley replied furiously. “But I didn’t realise how much, for you to have the audacity to behave this way with me!”

“It’s no better than you treat me, my lord,” Hermione said, matching his sneering tone. Just because she needed him to listen to her, that didn’t mean he would cow her. 

“What do you want?” The man said impatiently. “Say your piece or get out of my way, I apparently have a meeting with Mr Potter.”

She took the man in properly and noticed, for the first time, that he was perspiring heavily: clearly tense about something. 

He thought Harry had called him about a house search, Hermione realised.

She couldn’t help it. She smiled. 

“No you don’t,” she said. “That was me. I used Auror Potter’s memos to call you so we could talk.”

Lord Fawley’s face slowly turned red in anger.

“How dare you,” he hissed. “You stupid chit of a girl. I’ll have the Minister know you are misusing—“

“—No you won’t,” Hermione said, with more confidence than she actually felt. “Not when you know what I have to say.”

Lord Fawley frowned at her. 

He scraped his cane on the floor, using it to hold himself as upright as possible. But he said nothing. Hermione had expected him to argue back, to push past her, but he didn’t.

Perhaps Madam Shafiq had said something. Or maybe he had his own misgivings about Magnus. The suspicion and annoyance in his expression was gone, replaced by a thin line of uncertainty that he couldn’t hide. 

Whatever it was, it filled Hermione’s chest to the brim with hope .  

“Not here,” he said shortly. “Come on—I don’t have all day.”

He did walk past her then and, begrudgingly, she followed him. He led her into the courtyard within the ministry, and Hermione tried to ignore the shivers that ran down her spine. She looked briefly at the area where a podium and stage usually were erected. Where Kingsley had once stood, and then died in her arms.

A wave of sadness, betrayal and confusion swirled around her stomach, a mirage against the memories of Kingsley: bloodless and lifeless.

“Well, out with it,” Lord Fawley said, pulling Hermione out of her reverie. “You’ve wasted enough of my time already.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but then proceeded to pull out the same documents that she had shown Madam Shafiq. She did so silently, without explanation, to let him draw his own conclusions. 

Unlike Madam Shafiq, he had no respect for her, nor did she for him. Trying to cajole him and appeal to his better nature was not something Hermione felt wont to do, nor did she think it would work. 

No, it was better to let him work it out for himself, however much of a buffoon she thought the man to be. 

After a while, similarly to Madam Shafiq, Lord Fawley paled.

“This is absolute nonsense,” he said, pushing the documents back into her hands. “This is not possible. He would not…”

He faltered, looking distraught. 

Hermione did her best not to let the surprise show on her face; Lord Fawley had come around to the idea of Magnus double-crossing the Wizengamot a lot faster than Madam Shafiq. She couldn’t let this opportunity go.

“It is possible,” Hermione pressed. “And there are a lot of other things that you might not know about.”

She had practised the words beforehand, repeating them in her head to see if they triggered the spell. They didn’t, and it felt good to be able to say something, even if it wasn’t much, close to what she wanted to say. 

You utter morons have put a terrorist in power of the government and he’s going to do everything to incinerate your legacy and everything else to the ground.  

But close enough. 

Lord Fawley was staring at her now, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. Then he snapped it shut. 

“I see,” he said eventually. He gestured to the documents in her hand. “There is more like this?”

“Yes,” she confirmed sombrely. 

“This is why muggle-borns should not be in power,” he muttered. “I always said we bowed to public pressure too fast. First, you try to desecrate our homes, now this Minister wants to destroy our lineage.” 

A wave of rage tore through Hermione.

“Perhaps there is a reason, Lord Fawley, that others want to bring people like you down a notch,” Hermione said, before she could control herself. “After all, the documents in my hands can attest to the fact that you would desecrate and destroy muggle-borns in exactly the same way. You reap what you sow, sir.”

Her magic was molten and darkening with her fury, and Lord Fawley took a sharp breath.

“Here now,” he said angrily. “I never agreed to the Muggle-Born Registration Commission—wasn’t even aware of it at the start! We all had to save our skins back then, and there was nothing I could have done that would have stopped it.”

“Well, congratulations,” Hermione said quietly, seething. “You have saved your skin, at the price of many, many others. How does it feel to have the souls of innocent people on your head?”

Kingsley had once told her, many moons ago, that the Fawleys had been one of the only Sacred Twenty-Eight families to stay neutral during the war. Whether it was because they actually found the Dark Lord abhorrent, or in order to play for whichever side won, they still had not openly displayed their supremacy mindset like so many other families. 

While she knew pureblood superiority was definitely something Lord Fawley believed in, she didn’t think he would ever act on it or be comfortable with the implications of it. 

The man became even paler in her presence, and Hermione knew that she was right. 

“I…” Lord Fawley said, and then stopped. His face turned red and he gulped several times. “I didn’t…”

Hermione watched him stutter for a while, feeling an odd sense of satisfaction watching him struggle, while also feeling guilty. She decided to try a softer approach for the next part.

“Perhaps you didn’t openly support Voldemort,” Hermione said softly. “But by saying nothing, by doing nothing, you supported him all the same.”

Lord Fawley said nothing, his face riveted with the lines of anguish and inner torment.

Everyone had traumas from the war; different yet similar at the same time.

“I don’t need to listen to this,” he said, turning away. “Get out of the way, girl.”

“But you can make amends,” Hermione protested. “If you can help me put a stop to it now…”

The words started scorching her brain, and she jerked to a stop, clenching her hands to hold back the pain. 

She had said enough.

“What are you saying?”Lord Fawley said, incredulous. “Surely you are not comparing Minister Roth to the Dark Lord?” 

Yes. 

No. 

Was she?

The spell was telling her to stop going down this train of thought, and she had to reign it in.

“Tell the others about these documents,” Hermione said as vaguely as possible, gritting her teeth. “Tell them… what you think. And then you can decide.”

She had done all she could do within the limits of the spell. She watched Lord Fawley observe her with confusion and, surprisingly, a small tinge of fear. 

“Talk about this with my—” Lord Fawley started, but stopped as they both heard loud footsteps walking their way through the courtyard, interrupting the quiet tranquillity of the enclosed greenery.

“Well, what do we have here?” Said a smug voice. 

Hermione looked in horror as Marcus Flint appeared before them, his face lifting into a calculated grin. 

“Lord Flint,” she said, as nonchalantly as she could. “Do you often skulk in the shadows?”

“I could say the same about you two,” Flint said, grinning in a way that made Hermione uneasy. “What an unlikely pair to find hiding away in the courtyard. Didn’t think you went for older men, Granger, or I would have tried a bit harder to get on your good side.”

Hermione repressed a shudder. 

Flint turned to Lord Fawley, who was red in the face and looked deeply uncomfortable. 

“What are you doing with Miss Granger, Orthus?” Flint asked, nodding at him. “Didn’t think she was your type.”

The older man spluttered and looked away from Hermione, embarrassed. 

“Don’t be ridiculous Marcus! Granger has come to me with some…disturbing news,” Lord Fawley said, sounding stressed. “You should see for yourself, it’s most peculiar— it seems our Minister is a bit of a dark horse.”

But Flint ignored the papers in Hermione’s hands.

“You must know Granger is a bit doolally in the head these days—Minister’s words,” Flint said. “What makes you trust anything she says?”

“See for yourself,” Lord Fawley repeated. 

Hermione didn’t move to show the documents to Flint, simply staring back at him in an unsaid contest of dominance. Lord Fawley stood between them uneasily, and eventually Flint looked away and turned back to him.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Flint said. “If you wouldn’t mind leaving us, Orthus? Miss Granger and I have a few things to discuss, as it goes.”

Lord Fawley looked at Hermione. 

“I don’t know—” he said.

“—I’ll be with you shortly, Orthus,” Flint interrupted. “Now if you wouldn’t mind…?”

Lord Fawley looked at Hermione once more before nodding his assent, shuffling away quickly. 

Hermione stood resolutely in her spot, not moving her eyes from the man before her. He didn’t immediately say anything, instead rifling through the pockets of his outer robes.

She looked on in disgust as Flint used his wand to light a cigarette, and leaned against a nearby pillar to smoke it. He looked at her lazily through the haze of smoke, the plumes of tobacco and ash lingering like a barrier between them.

He held out the packet to her. “Want one?”

“No,” Hermione snapped, feeling annoyed. 

“Suit yourself,” he said, shrugging.

Hermione watched him inhale the tobacco, and exhale long puffs of smoke.

“Hypocrite much?” She said, snidely.

Flint seemed unfazed by her words.

“How so, sweetheart?” He said. Hermione felt a ripple of irritation at the endearment. 

“You,” she said. “Smoking a muggle cigarette. And don’t call me that.”

He grinned at her and blew a line of smoke in her face. 

“You wound me, sweetheart,” Flint said, holding the cigarette to his lips. “I’m as far from a muggle as it’s possible to be.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. 

“So let’s get to the point before your blood pressure gets too high,” Flint said. “What’s your pitch?” 

“Excuse me?” Hermione said, momentarily confused. 

“Your pitch,” Flint said, puffing another line of smoke. “To kick dear ol’ Mags out of the ministry and become Minister yourself. Yet again.”

Hermione stared at him. 

“Will be interesting to see how you think you can do that though,” Flint said. “This Minister is quite a bit better than you at buttering up the old arses on the bench.”

“How do you know that’s what I plan to do?” She said, angrily. “You don’t even know what I have to say.”

“I can guess,” Flint said. Then he put on a high-pitched tone: “ Magnus is a baddie, he lied, he cheated, how dare he be such a meanie to me, I’m the Golden Bitch—“

“—Shut up” Hermione snapped, and Flint broke out into open laughter. 

“You are so fun to rile up,” he said, wiping a tear in his eye. “I hope it’s this easy to rile you up in bed.”

Hermione felt cold inside as a shudder overtook her properly, and she took a step back. 

“Fuck off, Flint,” Hermione spat. “You disgust me. That would never happen.”

If he was angry, he didn’t show it. He kept leering at her, his eyes lingering on her body too long for comfort. He was doing it on purpose, to make her as uncomfortable as possible.

“Ah, sweetheart,” Flint mocked. “You have no idea what might happen.”

“I have some,” Hermione retorted. “That is what I was talking to Lord Fawley about. I was showing him these.”

She held out the documents. Flint looked at them, his eyes flickering to her face, before taking them. He read with a lazy eye, seemingly disinterested.

“Oh, that,” Flint said. “Yeah, I know about that.”

Hermione looked sharply at him, shock slamming into her brain. 

“What?” She said. “You know?” 

“I know,” he said, and the grin was gone. He took one more puff from the cigarette, before dropping it on the ground and stamping on it.

“Then surely you realise that something must be done,” Hermione said. “This is what I was telling Madam Shafiq and Lord Fawley—“

“—Nah,” Flint cut in, a strange expression on his face. 

Hermione bristled.

“No?” Hermione said, her voice becoming more shrill. “He wants— you— no?” 

“It’s not my business what the Minister wants to do,” Flint said. “I clocked some time back what his agenda was. I’m surprised no one else has.”

“How can you not care?” Hermione exclaimed.

“It’s easy,” Flint drawled, looking almost bored. “You just choose not to. Simple. No, I’m more interested in what his plans could do for me .” 

“What do you mean?” Hermione said impatiently. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, in a sing-song voice. “You could never imagine the things you can get out of someone for keeping their secrets. Once Roth realises I’m on to him, I’m milking him for all his worth. I'm pretty sure he has an idea already. And then there’s also the marriage law.”

Hermione reeled back. Out of all the things, that was the last thing she expected him to bring up.

“The what?” She gasped.

“Sweetheart,” he said, grinning again. “Surely even you must know about the marriage law by now.”

“How do you know?” Hermione demanded, ignoring the endearment.

“I have my ways,” Flint said. “Boy, I would like to know how he’s going to spin that. I know Kingsley had some plans on how to do it, but it’s going to be interesting watching Roth suck everyone’s dick trying to push that one.” 

Hermione breathed hard. 

“Why are you so okay with it?” She asked, her voice becoming more angry. “ How?” 

“It’s easy,” he repeated. “I happen to know who one of my pairings is. And…I think I can work with it.”

A sense of foreboding slammed into the back of Hermione’s brain.

“Who?” She asked. 

But she knew, she knew. 

The slow, filthy smile on Flint’s face told her everything. She took another step back. He took a step forward. 

“The marriage law won’t happen,” Hermione said furiously. “I won’t let it.”

“I don’t think you have that power, sweetheart,” Flint said, his voice low and crooning, in a way that made Hermione’s skin crawl. “Personally, I think we could accomplish so much together.”

Hermione’s body screamed in panic as the man stood closer, but she refused to let herself be intimidated. 

“Move away from me now,” she said quietly. She tensed her shoulders and her fists balled tight. “You hateful, disgusting man. I will marry you over my dead body.” 

Flint looked down at her, his eyes sharp and calculating. Suddenly, he reached out, shoving his hand roughly under her chin. Hermione pulled back hard, almost crying out as he pushed her chin forward and upwards, so she was forced to look at him straight in the eyes.

“The ministry has let you get a bit too high and mighty, bitch,” he snarled harshly. Hermione could smell the stench of tobacco on his breath, putrid and cloying, making her choke. “You need taking down a peg or two, and I would happily be the one to do it—“

“—Marcus,” said a familiar, furious voice. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Flint let go of Hermione roughly. She held her breath as she took in the sight of Malfoy standing in the distance. 

Malfoy’s face was carefully blank, but Hermione was used to looking behind the mask of Occlumency now, and knew better. 

His hands were clenched tight, the black leather gloves he wore over them stretched over the knuckles. She watched him swallow hard, his throat only barely visible over the collar of the wool overcoat that was buttoned high. His hair was tussled, as though a breeze had run through it. 

But it wasn’t windy in the courtyard, the air still and thick with tension. 

“Nothing, mate,” Flint said, casually. “Just having a talk with Granger here.”

Malfoy looked over at Hermione. His eyes were blazing, his pupils clear as the skies before an oncoming storm. She felt frazzled under his gaze, unable to recollect herself.

“It looked like a very interesting talk, ” the blond man said testily, his tone not matching the severely strained look on his face. “Why don’t you fill me in?”

Hermione found she couldn’t speak.

“Granger has ideas,” Flint said. “Not very good ones, from the sound of it, but I give her an ‘E’ for Effort.”

“What in the seven hells are you talking about?” Malfoy said impatiently. 

“He’s talking about nothing,” Hermione cut in. Her heart hadn’t stopped racing, and she was aware that Malfoy was looking at her intently, trying to decipher her every expression. “It’s nothing, Malfoy.”

Flint was looking at them both curiously now.

“I see,” Malfoy said lightly. “In that case, I must be off.”

Hermione blinked at him in surprise. He turned to Marcus.

“Orthus is hanging around in the Atrium for you,” Malfoy said shortly. “I wouldn’t recommend making him wait too much longer. He’s as red as an overripe tomato and I fear for his health.”

Marcus huffed and brushed the lapel of his robes. 

“Fine,” he said, before turning to Hermione. “Don’t miss me too much sweetheart. We aren’t done here—“

Malfoy’s face darkened.

“—We are done,” Hermione snapped. 

“Come along Marcus,” Malfoy gritted out forcefully, his voice thin. 

Hermione watched as they both walked away, Marcus grinning at her as he went. Malfoy didn’t look back. 

She should have been relieved, but she wasn’t. 

Hermione sucked in a deep breath, her palms sweaty over the documents she was still holding. She leaned against a pillar, trying to catch a breath she didn’t know she was holding. 

Suddenly her neck prickled, and there was a change in the air. Hermione pushed herself away from the pillar to look, just in time to see Malfoy swoop out of nowhere, and grab the documents out of her hands.

“Hey!” Hermione shrieked. “ What on Earth are you doing?”

Malfoy ignored her, shuffling through the papers.

“We might not all have got straight ‘O’s in our OWLs, but I don’t need to be top of Defence Against the Dark Arts to know when you’re lying,” Malfoy drawled, flicking through the papers. “ It’s nothing, Malfoy— my bloody arse.”

Hermione glared at him. “Those are mine.”

Malfoy stopped shuffling through the papers. 

Hermione knew he had reached the ones about the Muggle-Born Registration Commission. 

“Do you see?” Hermione said, insistently. “How can I sit back when he wants to do this? Just because it’s not muggle-borns, doesn’t make it any different.”

“Doesn’t it?” Malfoy asked, in an odd tone. Hermione looked at him in surprise. “There would be some who would say that the world is better off without the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Without purebloods.”

There was a silence between them as Hermione absorbed his words.

The Malfoy she knew at school would never have said such a thing. 

“No one deserves to suffer for things that they can’t help, Malfoy,” Hermione said. “No one deserves to die for who they are.”

Malfoy swallowed hard. He wasn’t looking at her.

“Don’t they?” Malfoy asked. Then he looked her in the eyes, his pale grey pupils dull as they bored into hers. “Even when they are the reason for everyone else’s suffering? Even when they are the reason for all the terrible things that have happened?”

The silence around them became oppressive, an invisible divide between them more apparent than ever. 

“I don’t think anyone deserves to suffer or to die,” Hermione said quietly. “No matter what they did.”

Malfoy’s face contorted.

“Well that’s a fucking lie,” he said. “No one believes that.”

Hermione bristled.

“Well I do,” she insisted. “We can’t all be nihilists. Is this because I said I wouldn’t forgive you?”

“No it’s not,” Malfoy replied. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Well obviously it does,” Hermione retorted impatiently. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here talking.”

“You think I talk to you because I want you to forgive me?” Malfoy sneered, in disbelief. “I’m well aware I am past forgiveness, Granger, don’t worry.”

Hermione stared at him, the way he recoiled into himself, as though he was uncomfortable in his own skin. She could sense the turmoil simmering just below the surface. 

Did she forgive him for everything?  

He obviously didn’t think so. And the truth was, she didn’t know herself.

There was just too much bad history between them. 

“Then why else are you talking to me?” Hermione asked. “We weren’t exactly friends in school, if you remember. Why are you suddenly here, Malfoy?”

The same question she had been asking, for weeks now. 

“I don’t know,” he said, and those words sounded honest, at least. “But I do know two things.”

Hermione blinked at him as he got closer.

“I do know that whatever it is you are planning to do with these documents,” Malfoy said, holding up the papers in his hand. “It’s reckless and stupid. You are going to get in way above your head, Granger.”

Hermione tried to grab the papers from his hands, but he held on tight. The documents stayed trapped between their hands, a gulf between them. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she seethed. “Have you read them properly?”

“Yes I have,” Malfoy replied, gritting his teeth. “It’s nothing I couldn’t have guessed.”

“Then do you not care?” Hermione asked, bewildered and angry. “How can you not care?”

“Of course I care,” Malfoy said, sounding irritated. “But I know where to pick my battles, and this is one I can’t fight. Yet.”

Hermione stopped trying to pull the papers out of his hands.

“Yet?” she repeated. 

Malfoy’s eyes gleamed, and his hands fastened tighter over his end of the papers.

“Yet,” Malfoy confirmed. 

“So you will fight with me?” Hermione asked, confused. “Then why won’t you help me?”

“Because ‘yet’ means yet, Granger,” Malfoy said. He sounded exasperated. “Storming into battle isn’t always the way to go about things. You aren’t ready to take on Magnus.”

Hermione yanked the papers hard, once, and watched a small tear appear on one of the papers.

“And how do you know this?” She asked angrily. 

“I just do,” Malfoy snarled back and pulled on his end of the papers.

“Then, according to you, when is it time to fight?” Hermione asked, her tone abrasive.

“I don’t know,” he retorted. “But it isn’t fucking now.” 

Hermione tried to shove him with her elbows.

“Let go of the papers!” She snapped, her voice shrill. 

“No.”

“Let go, you ferret!”

“Nope,” Malfoy said. “Plus you haven’t asked me about the second thing I know.”

“You are such an utter arsehole, Malfoy,” Hermione snarled. “I take it back, you’re exactly the same as you were in school—“

“Second thing,” Malfoy drawled, and he gently shoved Hermione back with a pointy elbow.

“Fine,” Hermione snapped, not letting go of the documents. “What’s the second bloody thing that you apparently know, my lord?” 

The last two words were said sarcastically, but Malfoy’s eyes darkened. Suddenly, he yanked the papers hard. 

Hermione let out a small squeak as she was tugged along with them. She blinked, and found herself standing heart-racingly close to him, the heat from his body radiating to her own. 

She looked up in surprise. She didn’t move away. 

“The second thing is you would,” Malfoy said, his voice low. He looked down at her with an odd expression on his face, his eyes searching.

“I would what?” Hermione asked, her voice faint in her own ears. 

“You would let someone die,” Malfoy said forcefully. “You would make someone suffer. If what they did was bad enough, was heinous enough, you would let them burn in front of you, and you would be holding the petrol and matches. You would be holding the wand with an incendio smoking from the end of it.”

Something thrilled inside her, her magic smoothing through her veins like black silk.

“And how do you know that?” Hermione said, trying to sound nonchalant and failing. “You don’t know me at all.”

Malfoy’s eyes were still dark, the grey pupils ashen with the storm that was coming. 

“Let’s just say I have a hunch,” he said softly.

He pulled away from her, and Hermione almost stumbled. 

“You say all that,” Hermione said, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. “But you won’t help me.”

They stood in the silent courtyard, their breaths dancing between them in tandem.

“I will help you, Hermione,” Malfoy said, and his tone was strangely earnest. Hermione blinked at him, and for some reason, his words tore at something in her heart. “Just not yet.”

Hermione looked down at the leaves at their feet, clenching her hands as she tried not to feel anything. 

“That’s fine,” she said flatly. “There’s probably nothing you can do for me anyway.” 

She said it with a neutral tone, but she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t trying to hurt him, just a little, with the maelstrom he seemed to have created within her. 

“Granger,” Malfoy said gently. “Look at me.”

Unwillingly, Hermione complied. 

She looked up at Malfoy, taking in his tall stature, the contrast of his skin and hair against the stark black of his clothes. She could see a sliver of pale skin at his wrist, where his leather glove ended and the cuff of his coat sleeve began, but other than that, he was completely covered by layers of wool, linen and silk. 

Hermione looked at his spidery long blonde lashes, the way they stood out but were almost invisible at the same time, the turmoil in the eyes beneath them.

“When the time is right,” he said carefully. “I can do a lot for you.”

Hermione felt strangely bereft.

“When the time is right…” Hermione repeated, bitterly. “When is that, exactly? What is it exactly that you can do for me?”

“I don’t know when it will be,” Malfoy admitted. “But Magnus won’t always be so powerful. People like him, like this…there will come a time when he takes a step too far, and makes himself vulnerable. They always do.”

He was talking about Voldemort, Hermione realised. He was talking about the Death Eaters. 

Was Magnus truly as bad as Voldemort? 

“As for what I can do for you?” Malfoy continued, and his eyes turned dark again. “I’m sure you will think of something, Granger. You just need to ask. I’ll bow to you.”

A memory of her confronting Malfoy in the lift when she was still Minister came back to her, the way she had told him to bow to her. 

Hermione flushed, and she hated that her cheeks were probably red, knowing that he could see it.

Malfoy’s hands twitched in their gloves, as though he wanted to raise them to her, and Hermione’s eyes widened. 

But he didn’t.

“Stop causing trouble, Granger,” Malfoy said softly. “Wait for when the time is right. Then strike.”

Then, like a ghost of a person she once knew, he walked away, leaving Hermione with frustration and a door wedged open in her heart.

—-

A few days later, Hermione heard that Flint had been absent from the last Wizengamot session due to an accident.

“So what happened?” She asked Malfoy, behind the Statue of Unsung Heroes. 

Malfoy shrugged.

“He fell down the stairs,” Malfoy said, with an air of casual indifference. “Apparently.”

A pause.

“How did he fall down the stairs?” Hermione asked.

“The usual way I suppose,” Malfoy said. “He was at the top. Then he was at the bottom. Then up again. Then down again. So the story goes.”

Hermione stared at him. She should have been horrified; instead, she felt strangely gleeful. Her stomach fluttered. 

“Exactly how many times did he fall down the stairs?” Hermione asked curiously.

“Honestly? I can’t remember,” Malfoy said, casually. “Probably could have done with a few more rounds, but it was getting rather tedious. Not that I was there.”

Another pause.

“Naturally he doesn’t remember any of this,” Malfoy added. 

“Naturally,” Hermione said, matching his tone. 

Yet another pause.

“At least, not the last two times. Of that, I’m sure.”

“Of course.”

“He won’t remember if anyone was there, at any rate. Not that I was.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Hermione couldn’t help the smile tugging at the side of her lips, and she wrestled to keep a straight face. 

Malfoy looked at her, and his own lips twitched. 

“He’ll be fine,” he said. “Sooner than he deserves, I expect.”

Hermione’s heart was beating wildly in her chest.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Hermione murmured. “You keep telling me not to do stupid things—“

“—Marcus is an imbecile with the IQ of a troll that bred with a slug,” Malfoy drawled. “Magnus is not, unfortunately. More’s the pity.” 

Hermione breathed. 

“Why did you do it?”, she asked, before she could stop herself. 

Malfoy looked at her again with a strange, forlorn expression on his face.

“He shouldn’t have called you sweetheart,” he said simply.

—-

The seeds of doubt were being sown, well-planted in deep crevices that Magnus couldn’t find. 

Hermione was careful to make sure to meet Wizengamot members only when Magnus wasn’t around, working her through the members in a pattern that was designed to delay words reaching Magnus’s ears. She wasn’t stupid; she knew he would find out eventually. It was about doing the most damage before he found out. 

Some Wizengamot members were more willing to listen than others. But, surprisingly, they did listen in the end. There was something brewing, and it made Hermione’s heart soar.

Where there was doubt, there would be dissent. Where there was dissent, there was desertion, and then eventually take down.

She knew this from experience. 

-—

Magnus found out much quicker than she had anticipated, despite her careful manoeuvring. 

“The Scavengers are everywhere,” Magnus told her, smoothly. 

Hermione had hoped she had created enough of an uproar to cause some kind of change at least. 

But then Madam Shafiq suddenly stopped attending the Wizengamot sessions, deciding to step down as co-chair. 

This was no small event; the decision to allow a woman to co-chair the Wizengamot in the first place had been a momentous one. 

Lord Fawley too missed a Wizengamot session but then reappeared, seemingly unscathed. But he refused to talk to Hermione anymore.

Marcus Flint appeared once again after two weeks, smug and unrepentant as ever. 

“What did you do?” Hermione accused Magnus, when he walked into her new office in the DMLE. 

Instead of answering her, he picked up her photo frames from the cardboard box she still hadn’t emptied, looking at them with interest.

Hermione wanted to slap them out of his hands.

“Nothing that you did not start, Hermione,” he said easily. “You can not put the blame entirely on me.”

Hermione’s magic turned onyx, and the glass of the photo frame shattered in his hands, cutting his hands. She looked at the blood trickling from his fingers and into his starched white sleeve, soaking his ring and the photo of her parents. 

Magnus didn’t react. There was a timid knock on her door.

“Hermione, I heard a loud noise, I wanted to check that you were—“ Hannah said, and then stopped. She looked at the Minister’s bleeding hands in shock.

“Sir, what happened?” She asked, in horror. 

“Don’t worry—it looks worse than it is,” Magnus said, in a tone of long-suffering. “Hermione didn’t mean anything by it, of course. Would you get me some tissues, Ms Abbott?”

Hannah looked at Hermione uncertainly. The door was now wide open, and several people had halted outside the office. Hermione knew how it looked to them; the Minister with bloodied hands in her office, after the recent rumours of her mental health.

Once again, she had played right into his hands, and she hated herself for it.

She should be better than this .

What was wrong with her ?

“Why don’t you use magic, sir?” Hannah asked. 

Magnus looked at Hermione with a glint in his eyes.

“Oh, how silly of me,” Magnus said, with a genial smile. “I do sometimes forget.”

With a wave of wandless magic, the photo frame was fixed, and his hands mended. Magnus put the photo frame carefully back into the box, the light shining on her parent’s happy faces. There was still blood on the corner of the photo, next to her parents' faces.

Hannah left the office, staring at Hermione as she did. She could hear the whispers outside the office before the door had even closed.

“Oh, Hermione,” Magnus sighed. “Why are you losing your self-respect over some purebloods? You are worth more than that. It hurts me more than it hurts you to do all this.”

Hermione gripped her chair, her mind spiralling. 

She was starting to feel as insane as he was making her out to be.

“I think perhaps the duties of deputy head of MLE are still too taxing for you,” Magnus said conversationally. “Perhaps moving back to Muggle Liaisons would be good for you, until you regain your health.”

It had taken her more than half of her ministry career to move up the ladder. In the space of a week, she had lost it all. 

Hermione glared at him, refusing to react, knowing that was exactly what he wanted.

“Do what you want,” Hermione hissed at him. “You can’t hurt me anymore than you already have.”

“You’re running out of time to choose a side,” he said quietly. “I have been exceedingly patient so far, but I do have a limit.”

“Or what?” Hermione retorted. “What are you going to do?”

Magnus’s eyes pierced hers. 

“Mr Nott has been asking for you,” he said abruptly, tilting his head. “Did you know?”

Hermione’s heart stopped. 

“Where have you taken him?” She snarled wildly. “ What have you done with him?” 

“Nothing so far,” Magnus said, unfazed. “It really does all depend on you, Hermione.”

“On me?”, Hermione repeated caustically. “None of this is because of me—“

“—I have been more than lenient with you so far,” Magnus interrupted. “You won’t like it when I’m not. I’m running out of patience and time. If you are not with me, you are against me.”

Hermione was close to the edge of an abyss, one step deciding her fate.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair and looking up at the ceiling. Then he turned back to her, his eyes dark.

“Hermione, you belong with us. You could be great with us,” Magnus said. “Why are you trying so hard to protect the people that would never do the same for you?”

—-

Hermione sat on her bench, and watched Malfoy talk to Flint. The Atrium was flooded with Wizengamot members once more. Rings of laughter echoed in the open space. 

Magnus’s words ran through her head on repeat. 

Why was she trying to protect these people?  

He wasn’t wrong. They would never have protected her, if it had been the other way around. There was historical evidence for this fact. 

Malfoy turned away from Flint and looked directly at where she was sitting, even though she knew he couldn’t see her. His face was impassive. 

The edge of the abyss drew closer. For the first time, Hermione was truly terrified of falling.  

—-

She could feel the spell oozing into her magic, slowly destroying her from the inside. She couldn’t explain how, but the repeated triggering of it was taking a toll on her health and on her mind. 

Just as Magnus wanted.

Hermione felt increasingly desperate, tethered to marionette strings that crushed her under Magnus’s thumb, suffocating her, choking the life out of her. 

She had to find a way around it. 

She had tried to write things down, until her hand shook so violently with arthritic-like agony that she felt as though her nails would bleed. She wonders about a pensieve, and showing the memories to someone, but even thinking about it hurts, and she has no idea where to find one anyway. 

Hermione wondered if Legilimency would be able to circumvent the spell, although she somehow doubted it. It seemed like something Proudfoot would have thought of. 

She knew Malfoy was an Occlumens. Could he also perform Legilimency?

Even if he could, would she trust him with her mind? 

There was no one she truly trusted at the moment. 

The people she had trusted had all been someone else when she hadn’t been looking, had failed her so spectacularly that she couldn’t bear to think about it. 

Hermione sat alone at her worn-out and dusty desk in the Muggle Liasions office. How far she had fallen. She, who at one point had been poised to become Minister, who had become Minister.

It wasn’t supposed to have been like this. 

Hermione remembered the harsh whispers of mental and lost her mind and finally cracked that had passed so easily through everyone’s lips lately, how quickly Magnus had convinced everyone that she was “unwell”—and how easily everyone had translated that to hysterical .

As a woman, Hermione had always struggled to defy any man of the Wizengamot. Yet, it had been all too easy for a man to make her look weak and problematic. 

Magnus hadn’t even broken a sweat doing it.

She had lost everything, and in the hands of someone she had considered a friend. 

Was she losing her mind? She wasn’t always sure what was real and what was not anymore.

Had she really been that blind? Could she have noticed everything that had been going on around her all this time? Everything she knew was a lie.

She was no longer sure what she was fighting for. 

Hermione ached. Her body and mind were stretched thin and covered in tiny cuts, each deeper than the last. She was coming apart, and she didn’t know how to stop it, didn’t know how to deal with the pain of being ripped into two by all that she felt so keenly. 

She gripped her desk, willing herself to feel nothing. Forcing herself, like she had done so many times before, to just stop it, to just cut it out, just shut up and get on with it. 

But her body was weak from the spell, her mind from her dreams and doubts, and her heart from the betrayals that didn’t seem to stop coming. 

Tears tracked down her face, and she hated herself more than she already did. 

“Stop it,” she told herself. “Stop it. Stop.” 

But the tears came fast and thick, choking her as they drowned her face and lungs. 

She couldn’t breathe. 

Breathe.  

One. Two. 

Breathe. Breathe.  

She gave up. She wept and wept, until her throat ached and her face burned, until her body was tired from heaving with the force of her sobs.

She had lost everything. 

Hadn’t she?

Hermione sucked in a breath and wiped her face. She let the breath out and her chest felt empty. She sat back in her chair, staring at the cardboard box she still hadn’t emptied.

In the silence of her tiny office, all alone, she eventually, finally felt nothing. 

It was the most free she had felt in a while. 

She had lost everything she had worked for. 

She had nothing left to lose.

And if she had nothing left, then she might as well go down fighting. And perhaps, just perhaps, she could take Magnus down with her. 

She just needed to think how.

Hermione laid her head on her desk, her eyes closing with exhaustion. 

—

Fog. So much fog.

And then—

—This thing? It has no future. One day I will have to get married, Granger, and it won’t be to you—

—Go marry some girl you barely know and have your precious pureblood babies, see if I care, I don’t care, I don’t—

—You’re going to be the death of me, Granger—

—You don’t need to marry who your parents tell you to—

—In my circle, it’s all about who you marry—

— One day, I’ll get married too, who knows, maybe it will be Ron—

— He will never be me. He will never kiss you like me, touch you like me. Face it, Granger…you will never be able to forget me—

—As if I would ever marry a Malfoy. Don’t be ridiculous. As if I would ever stoop that low—

— You love me. Why?—

—You don’t ask why about love, Granger—

—DRACO!—

Hermione jerked awake, tears dried on her cheeks. 

She was still at her desk. The room was dark. 

Malfoy’s voice echoed in her head; the dream Malfoy, that seemed to plague her whenever she closed her eyes. 

You don’t ask why about love, Granger. 

The words vibrated in her head, Malfoy’s low and rough tone engrained from the whorls of her mind like indelible ink. 

Her heart wouldn’t stop racing.

Why did she always dream about him? 

But then something stuck out to her. Her mind cleared, the fog fading.

It’s all about who you marry, Granger , said the dream Malfoy.

I’m interested to know how he’s going to get them to agree with it. They might like Roth at the moment but they really fucking hate being kept in the dark about things, the real Malfoy had said, not so long ago about the marriage law files.

Hermione blinked, a storm brewing in the tempest of her mind. 

She couldn’t tell the world the truth about Magnus, or the Scavengers.

But what if she told them everything else, on a stage where everyone could see?

Just this once, she could play dirty. She could play dirty to play fair in the long run. 

Hermione whispered a lumos, and her wand glowed with a light that entered her chest, warming her heart. 

She quickly found the marriage law file and muttered some spells to remove her name from the front, watching as Kingsley’s spidery scrawl vanished before her eyes. Then she pulled out the sections mentioning her. 

She held the files up to the light, her heart lodged in her throat. 

These files made her sick to her stomach. 

These files may be her only hope. 

One last shot, to tell the world who Magnus really was. It could cost her everything, but she was past caring.

But first, she needed to threaten a reporter with a jar. 

—-

Hermione could no longer attend Wizengamot on a regular basis as a court of law, but she could attend the Minister’s Debates, which were open to all the ministerial staff. She may have fallen so very far in everyone’s approximation, but here she still had a seat, even if it was a drastic step down from her previous one. 

Near the front, she saw Magnus walk in, his back straight, his face as still and smooth as the calm waters of a silent lake. Impeccably dressed as always, he was the emblem of a successful politician, a law-maker…a Minister. 

He looked like a man who was the victor in a history no one knew was being made.

Hermione tried to keep herself calm. She sat down, ignoring the looks around her as she did. She didn’t look at the journalists standing to her side, as burdened as she felt under the weight of their hawk-like stares. 

She didn’t need to look to know that she was there too. 

Magnus greeted a few people around him. For a brief second, across the gulf between them, their eyes met. Hermione held his gaze, making sure to keep her expression blank. Magnus looked away.

Fudge walked in and took his seat. A new co-chair was sitting in Madam Shafiq’s seat, a man Hermione didn’t recognise. A silver ring glinted on his right hand.

“Order!” Fudge called into the crowds of chattering journalists. “This session of the Minister's Debate has commenced!”

The Minister’s Debate started normally, with nothing to distinguish it from any other. Fudge and the new co-chair rattled off items on the agenda. 

Eventually, after what felt like an age, Fudge opened the questions to the journalists.

Hermione sucked in a breath, and her heart jumped to her throat. 

A journalist for the Wizarding Times stood up after being called, and he immediately faced Magnus, a quill and notebook poised in front of him. 

“Minister, allow me to congratulate you on your ascension—I believe this is your first Minister’s Debate,” the journalist said, smoothly. “The Wizarding Times would like to know…”

Journalist after journalist stood up and asked questions directly intended for Magnus. Something was strange about the way they questioned Magnus, although Hermione couldn’t quite put her finger on why. But then, she realised. 

She had never once been to a Minister's Debate under Kingsley where the line of questions had been only directed at him. 

In addition, the questions they addressed to Magnus were carefully structured, discreetly designed to be neutral and benign in a way they never had been under Kingsley or her own, brief, government. 

Finally, there was a quiet, feminine cough from the middle of the throng of journalists, and a woman with peroxide-blonde curls stood up from her seat.

“Rita Skeeter from the Daily Prophet,” she said, her tone simpering and feigning innocence. 

Hermione sucked in a breath. Magnus smiled calmly. 

“Minister Roth, you are the third Minister for magic Britain has had within the span of a year, a feat that has not been seen since 1485,” Rita continued, smiling with all her teeth on display. “It is pretty clear that tensions are high in the country at the moment. The Daily Prophet wants to know exactly how you plan to address this, compared to your… recent predecessors, shall we say?”

There were a few snickers from the back benches on the Wizengamot side. Hermione closed her eyes, willing herself to ignore them.

Magnus’s smile became more fixed.

“Yes. While I’m sure my predecessors had good intentions, their actions left much to be desired,” Magnus said, not-so-subtly insulting both Hermione and Kingsley in one go. “I wish for my actions to have the impact I intend.”

Hermione swallowed hard. 

“And what I intend is to honour all our citizens and institutions,” Magnus said, his words projecting across the room. “I intend to work tirelessly for my people of magical Britain. My countrymen and women have endured much over the years. I intend for these sufferings to have been in vain. I will not lie to you; our situation at the present moment is precarious. But it is not untenable. I am willing to do anything to preserve and respect our ancient customs and history in the manner they deserve, and secure our accession to modernity. You may take my word for it as your minister for magic.”

Preserve and respect our ancient customs and history in the manner they deserve.

His words were subtle and ambiguous enough to hide their real meaning. 

Rita nodded. Then she let out a minute sigh and looked pointedly at Hermione for a few seconds. 

Hermione looked directly back at her, a forcefulness in her stare that she hoped the other woman felt. Rita turned to the Minister, her smile faltering.

“And how do you plan to respect our ancient customs and history, as you say?” Rita pressed, placing the bait.

Magnus took it. 

“I plan to honour our ancient institutions by introducing schemes that will register them as estates to be preserved by the government,” Magnus began.

Hermione clenched her hands.

Magnus intended to bring all the old institutions under the control of the ministry, so they could be under the influence of the Scavengers.

He meant Gringotts. 

He meant listed buildings in Diagon Alley. 

He meant Hogwarts. 

Hermione shot a look at Rita, who seemed to shrink under it even from the distance.

“Yes, yes,” Rita said, nodding vigorously. “What else?”

“I also intend to honour our ancient families and lineages,” Magnus said, firmly. A few Wizengamot members looked uneasy, but did not say anything. 

“Ah, yes,” Rita said, shuffling some papers. “I understand that by that you mean the Pureblood Protection Protocol?”

Magnus, finally, seemed to realise that something was not right. 

“Yes,” he said slowly. “However there are other things—“

Hermione tapped her foot. 

“—And this protocol ,” Rita asked. “You want the Sacred Twenty Eight families to register under a government scheme so that their lineages are registered, in exchange for incentives?”

Several Wizengamot members seemed to be whispering in their seats now. Hermione was sure she heard her own name.

Magnus didn’t seem to have realised exactly how many Wizengamot members were now aware of the true nature of the scheme. 

He did now.

“Yes, however, this is far off and not very important compared—“ Magnus tried.

“—It sounds very interesting to me,” Rita interrupted. “I would like to talk about it.”

Magnus frowned.

“I think there are much more important matters of concern at this time,” Magnus said shortly. “Rather than a scheme that might not happen—“

Rita might not have wanted to question the Minister in this way, but her natural bloodhound instincts were fully activated now. 

It really was rather majestic to watch it unfold, when those beady eyes and trigger-happy quill weren’t aimed at her. 

“It might not happen—why? Then why was it mentioned in one of your first drafts to the Wizengamlt after your ascension?” Rita quizzed. “Do you not intend to upkeep your promise to respect our ancient customs and history, as you have just said?”

The whispers were louder now, and the very ground beneath them seemed to stir with the slowly building decibel of noise. 

Magnus pressed his lips together, his shoulders tense as he glared at the journalist. 

“I think we should move on,” he said, nodding to Fudge. 

The Chief Marshal looked between Magnus and Rita curiously.

“But really!” Rita cut in, breaking into a mock laugh that echoed in the chamber. “Surely it is not a difficult question to answer, Minister?”

She looked around, and Hermione saw every eye had turned to the blonde woman. Rita, however unwilling she had been to help Hermione in the first place, was now preening under the sudden attention. 

But by now Magnus could smell that he was being baited. But it was too late.

But the damage was done. 

Rita had brought up the topics that Hermione could not. The journalist had also paved the way for Hermione to take a stand, without seeming like the deranged, hysterical woman that Magnus wanted everyone to think she was.

“This matter is now closed,” Magnus said shortly. “As I have said, I have ideas to protect our enduring magical ideals. These can be discussed later.”

Rita opened her mouth to speak, but an usher ran over to whisper in her ear urgently. The woman closed her mouth into a thin line and nodded, sending Hermione a sharp look as she took her seat.

Magnus wasn’t going to give in, so Hermione would have to take the small, imperfect opportunity that she had now. 

“Fine,” Fudge said. “Any other questions from the floor?”

The session was close to ending. 

Hermione raised her hand. 

Fudge ignored her. “Anyone else?”

There were a few titters and condescending laughs. Hermione ignored them all, her heart drumming. 

“Chief Marshal,” Hermione said, projecting her voice across the room. “It is written within the rules of the Minister’s Debate that ministerial staff are permitted to address the Minister within the session.”

Magnus looked back at her, over his shoulder. His eyes flashed dangerously.

“We are running out of time,” Fudge warned. “I do not have time for your tomfoolery.”

“I am no tomfool,” Hermione retorted, before restraining herself. She gritted her teeth. “I will be short, if you please.” 

Fudge turned to Magnus. “Minister?”

Magnus stood up slowly, and complete silence took over the room. He turned towards her, his back to the Wizengamot.

This was a battle between the two of them. No one else. 

“I’ll allow it,” Magnus said, his voice made of steel. “Go on, Miss Granger , what would you like to ask me?”

With just the use of her name, he reminded her of the titles she had lost and how far she had fallen. 

He was trying to intimidate her, belittle her, bully her. 

It really was unfortunate that Hermione had rather a lot of experience with making bullies bow to her.

“ Minister. You say you will protect magical ideals?” Hermione said. “How so?”

Magnus smiled at her condescendingly.

“I am aware of what you are doing, Miss Granger, and the conspiracy theories you have been spreading about me,” he said. He looked at her pityingly. “It makes me very sad that you think me capable of all that you are accusing me of. But we must make allowances for you and your ill health. I know that if you were in your senses you would support me fully.”

Whispers became louder, echoing around the chambers.

How dare he make her look insane.

How dare he discredit everything she had worked for.

Hermione had long thought that she would tear down his house of cards. Now it was a promise. 

“How can I support you fully, sir?” She continued, raising her voice above the noise in the chambers. “How can I support your barbaric and arcane schemes?”

Magnus let out a derisive laugh. 

“If you mean the Pureblood Protection Protocol, then I can easily counteract all your hare-brained theories right now—“ Magnus said calmly.

“—No, no,” Hermione said. She widened her eyes in mock confusion. “Not the Pureblood Protection Protocol.”

Magnus stared at her, realising what she was about to do.

“Hermione—“ he warned.

“—What about the marriage law decree?” Hermione said innocently, picking up the file from her table. “This one?”

All eyes turned to her, audible gasps coming from the crowd. 

Fudge stared at the file in Hermione’s hands. 

“The what?”, he asked, turning red in the face.

The entire chamber exploded with voices, all eyes turned to the Minister, at the centre of it all.

For a mere second, Hermione felt victorious—

But then her eyes flickered behind Magnus, to Malfoy in his Wizengamot seat, and the abject horror on his face. 

-—

Somehow, Malfoy got out of the Wizengamot chambers before her, swooping out of nowhere to drag her behind the Statue of Unsung Heroes.

“Look, I know you said—“ Hermione began. 

“—Do you know what you’ve done?” Malfoy hissed. His face was livid. “Of the fucking reckless things you could have done—“

“—I did what I had to do. It’s one thing if he hurts me. But he’s hurting Theo. He’s going to hurt other people,” Hermione interrupted. To her horror, tears burned the rims of her eyes. “How can I possibly leave innocent people in the hands of the Wizengamot, who don’t even care what’s going on until it affects them? The same people that are the reason we suffered so much in our childhood. I can never trust them again. Be angry all you want, Malfoy, but I’m not sorry.”

Malfoy stared at her. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

“You know I’m right,” she continued, her voice trembling. “Why should I water down the facts—water down myself—so that it is more palatable for people like them? These are the truths that I know. They can choke on them.”

Malfoy swallowed hard, his own eyes suddenly blood-shot.

“Granger. Listen—“ he said, hoarsely.

But Hermione shook her head. “No—“

She stopped protesting when she saw the furious look on Malfoy’s face.

“— Fine ,” he said, shortly. “Don’t listen to me. Then perhaps utilise that big swotty brain of yours that you seem to currently not be using! You need to leave the ministry. You need to hide. You don’t realise what price you might pay. I can—“

“—I won’t hide,” Hermione said fiercely. “I have no regrets. The truth is in the open now, and people will fight. Regimes like Magnus’s were never going to last. After all, they never have in history—“

“—This isn’t a case of good versus evil, Granger!” Malfoy snarled furiously. He looked ruffled and desperate. “How can you still be this fucking naive? Hate me all you want, but stop acting like a bloody martyr!”

Hermione looked up at him, angry tears burning in her eyes, threatening to fall.

“I have never been naive, Malfoy. And I have no interest in being a martyr,” she replied. “But I will not be anyone’s pawn.”

And with that, she turned her back on him, striding out of the Atrium as fast as she could. 

He didn’t call after her.

—- 

HERMIONE GRANGER BRAVES NEW MINISTER’S WRATH TO REVEAL DEVASTATING HIDDEN MARRIAGE LAW PLANS said the Daily Prophet, written by Rita Skeeter.

NEW MINISTER’S DIRTY LITTLE SECRET: MARRIAGE LAW TO BE ENSTATED? Said the Witch Weekly.

MARRIAGE LAW: WILL IT HAPPEN AND WHAT IT MEANS FOR EVERYONE, said the Wizarding Times.

CHAOS IN THE MINISTRY AS HERMIONE GRANGER UNVEILS MINISTER’S PLANS FOR MARRIAGE LAW, said The Magical Independent.

GRANGER VS ROTH: BRIGHTEST WITCH OF OUR AGE AT LOGGERHEADS WITH NEW MINISTER? Said the Prophet Express.

WHAT ELSE IS MINISTER ROTH HIDING? wrote Rita Skeeter, in an article for the Daily Prophet and the Quibbler a few days later. READ ABOUT IT IN MY UPCOMING INTERVIEW WITH HERMIONE GRANGER. 

—-

An ethereal stag glided through the walls, releasing a warm glow in the darkness of her office.

Harry’s voice rang out in the room, forcing Hermione to look up from the parchment she was scribbling on. 

“ Hermione, where are you? If you’re still at the office, let me know and I’ll come get you—you shouldn’t be alone. We need to talk.” 

The stag faded away.

Hermione had been working on her notes for her upcoming interviews with a ferocity that she had forgotten she had, determination keeping her so focused that she hadn’t even realised that day had turned into night. 

Her office was dimly lit by a small lamp on the corner of her desk, the only light in her windowless little Muggle Liasons office room. 

She rubbed her eyes tiredly and yawned, stretching her arms upwards. She pulled out her wand, and cast an expecto patronum, imagining the day that her dad came into her bedroom holding a Hogwarts letter.

Her otter gleefully gambled around the room.

“Harry, I’m alright,” she said to the playful otter. “I’m still in the office but I’m about to leave—I lost track of time. No need to come get me, I’ll be fine.”

Hermione began to gather her things, making a note to take her box with Proudfoot’s notebook and other memorabilia. 

She wasn’t stupid. She knew, most likely, she was about to be fired. But she had made enough of an impact that she could work from the outside now, actively protesting to remove Magnus from office. 

And once that had happened, she was going to work her way back to becoming Minister. 

Hermione shrugged on her coat when, suddenly, there was a knock on the door. She frowned and looked at the clock on her wall. 

It was past ten in the night, long past working hours. Everyone else had long left.

Hermione had been sure she was alone.

Immediately, alarm bells rang in Hermione’s head, and she scrambled for her wand.  

She froze when the door opened, the hinges whining in protest.

Magnus walked in. 

Ice ran down Hermione’s spine as the atmosphere in the room darkened, a sense of foreboding making her insides lurch.

Every nerve in her body was now alert at the sight of him.

They stood in silence, pale blue eyes on brown. 

Slowly, Magnus walked into the room.

Hermione moved away from her desk. They almost circled each other, with her desk as the centre point, the tread of their footsteps loud in the pindrop silence around them. 

Hermione could practically smell the trap into which she was being ensnared. 

Magnus took a seat on one of the two chairs at the other end of her desk, pulling it away from the desk so that he could cross his legs. 

He tilted his head but kept his gaze on her, never looking away. 

“I thought we could talk,” Magnus said. 

Hermione stared at him. She cleared her throat. 

“It’s late,” she said. “Perhaps we can talk tomorrow.”

As soon as she spoke, Magnus flicked a finger, wandlessly making the door slam shut. 

With no exit route left to her, Hermione turned around.

“I don’t think so,” he said quietly. His eyes shone behind his glasses. “We will talk now. I insist.”

Hermione said nothing. She held her wand tighter.

“Take a seat,” Magnus prompted.

Hermione continued to stare down at him.

It was a trap. 

She knew that. 

But she didn’t know what else to do.

Hermione sat down. 

“Talk, then,” Hermione said hoarsely. “I was supposed to be at Harry’s hours ago, and I’m very late.”

Magnus smiled, and Hermione’s stomach dropped.

“Very well. I’ll keep this short,” he said, resting a hand on his knee. “Tell me—what did you expect to achieve by revealing the marriage law file to the Wizengamot?”

The question was blunt, to the point. 

All cloaks were off, now.

“To tell them the truth,” Hermione said, her throat dry. “And to show everyone who you really are.”

Magnus nodded. 

“And what is that, exactly?”, he asked, his tone unfazed as he rested his elbow on the desk, his hand tucked under his chin. “Let me guess…am I a villain?”

His mocking tone set Hermione on edge.

“You fulfil the criteria of one,” Hermione said dryly. “What with lying to the Wizengamot, leading a terrorist organisation and purposefully debilitating me so I’ll keep silent.”

Magnus nodded once more, as if he was taking her words into consideration.

“Fulfilling a criteria does not make it so,” he said. Then Magnus sighed. “Once again, you are missing the spot. You aren’t asking the real question.” 

“Which is?” Hermione said, testily.

His eyes suddenly turned dark, his mouth twisting. 

“That you are being relentlessly, dangerously, stubborn,” he hissed, dropping his calm facade. “You’re so intent on casting me as a villain, that you don’t see the real villains.”

Hermione scoffed.

“The Wizengamot,” Hermione answered. 

“The Wizengamot,” Magnus confirmed. “The Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

“In other words,” she said. “The purebloods.”

“Surely you agree,” Magnus countered. “Why are you protecting the people who have made you suffer without conscience?”

“It doesn’t mean we should be the same,” Hermione retorted. “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind—“

Magnus balled his fist and slammed it on the desk.

“—But then maybe the world would finally use its ears and listen!” He spat.

A pause, as Hermione eyed him warily, unsure of who she was looking at anymore. 

“What you are trying to do is no different from Voldemort,” she whispered. 

Hermione expected Magnus to react, but like always, he simply smiled at her. But the smile was ugly, marring his otherwise handsome features. 

“On the contrary, we couldn’t be more different,” Magnus replied. “I’m actually playing to win.”

“The government is not a game of chess,” Hermione reminded him. “The country, the world…they aren’t not a game to play and win.”

Magnus uncrossed his legs. He leaned closer to her. “Then what is it, in your opinion?”

Hermione felt uneasy.

“Fairness. Justice—“ Hermione replied stubbornly. 

“—And who has the ability to define what is fair and just, if not the winners?” Magnus answered. 

“You sound exactly like Voldemort,” Hermione accused. “And look what happened to him.”

Magnus said nothing for a while, and Hermione could tell she had finally hit a nerve. 

“I am nothing like him,” Magnus said flatly. “You do me a great disservice by repeatedly insisting that I am.”

The late hour ticked on, darkness cloaking them both. Hermione could only see slithers of the man in front of her, a part of him hidden to her.

“Hermione, I am running out of patience and, frankly, the willingness to put up with your nonsense,” Magnus snapped. “You need to decide right now whether you will help my cause or…”

He paused. Hermione looked at him.

“Or what?” She asked. “What will you do to me?”

Magnus leaned back in his seat, taking his time to answer. 

“You are determined to make an enemy out of me,” he said, coldly.

“It’s not me who made an enemy out of you,” Hermione retorted. “You’ve done that all by yourself. After everything you’ve done, why on earth would I join the Scavengers?”

“Because we are the change this world sorely needs,” Magnus responded. “Because you yourself have said countless times that they need to suffer, to be punished, to be razed to the ground for what they have done. I have the power to do that.”

Hermione sucked in a breath, rattled by his words. She shook her head.

“Not like this, Magnus,” Hermione said. Against her will, there was a plea in her voice. “Not using tactics that Voldemort used to start a war—“

“—Stop,” Magnus snarled, his voice rising. 

Hermione recoiled at his tone, which was unlike any he had used on her before. 

“Stop,” he hissed. “Comparing. Me. To. HIM! ”

Hermione retreated, her body screaming at her to run.

“I thought you were different,” Magnus muttered, more to himself than to her. “But I’ve misjudged you. So far all you have cared about is derailing plans that do nothing to harm you or…”

“—How have you not harmed me?” Hermione saison, in spite of herself. “You have put me in St Mungo’s at least three times!”

“…Your pet pureblood,” Magnus finished.

Hermione stalled.

“Theo is my friend,” she said. 

Magnus looked at her. Something flickered through his eyes, but it was gone before Hermione could catch it.

“I see,” he said, with a strange finality in his voice. “One day you’ll realise that purebloods don’t make very good friends. Too…self-serving.”

He looked at her coldly, with no hints of the friend she had once known.

“Let’s try a different tactic,” he said. “You mentioned Auror Potter earlier. How is he these days?”

Hermione baulked at the sudden change in conversation.

“What does Harry have to do with this?” Hermione said sharply. 

“Your friend is trying to start an investigation into me,” Magnus said casually. “He thinks I don’t know. I assume you are aware of this.” 

Hermione’s heart raced. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to Harry in a while.

“No,” she said. “I wasn’t.”

“There is no use lying,” Magnus replied. “In any case, it doesn’t matter. He will get nowhere.”

“Why?” Hermione said.

“Because he doesn’t realise who he is going up against,” Magnus said. “You see, this is why Voldemort and I are very different. I have no need to recruit, to strengthen by numbers. I already have who I need. And I already own everyone.” 

The Scavengers are everywhere.  

“Then why have you been trying to recruit me?” Hermione asked.

“You are a special case,” Magnus said. “Having the Golden Girl would be….favourable.”

Hermione’s nerves rankled.

“Even if I’m insane?” Hermione snapped. “Even if I’m hysterical, as you’ve been telling everyone?”

“Even then,” Magnus said, resolutely. “You have no idea what you could have achieve on our side.”

Hermione said nothing. Could have , he had said. 

Past tense. 

“Anyways,” Magnus said, brushing his knees. “But to Auror Potter.”

“You can’t be serious,” Hermione interrupted, in disbelief. “You can’t seriously be telling me you think you can harm Harry Potter—“

“—Perhaps not Auror Potter himself, although that isn’t entirely out of the question,” Magnus cut in. “But what about his wife?”

Hermione froze.. 

Magnus’s eyes flickered to the cardboard box of books and memorabilia. 

“What about his children?” Magnus continued. “I hear there are three of them. Does he need all three?”

Hermione jerked back in her seat, pulling out her wand without thinking. 

In a second, Magnus drew his own, and her wand shot out of fingers before she had time to utter a spell. 

He caught it deftly in his own hand.

His eyes were dark. Menacing.

“And what about dear Theodore Nott, your little pet pureblood?” Magnus said. “Are they all as untouchable as you think—“

“—You are insane,” Hermione said, her voice trembling with fury. “You are a bully . I can’t believe I ever considered you a friend.”

Magnus’s face turned grim to match his darkened eyes. His hand flexed, in which he held both wands. 

“I had a friend once. Let me tell you the lesson I learnt,” Magnus said quietly. “Friends are spiteful. They are disloyal, cheating little cowards.”

His gaze was cold as ice as he looked at her.

“Friends are temporary,” he finished. “No—I do not want a friend . What I want is an ally.”

Magnus’s eyes were so intense now that Hermione could have sworn she could see his black soul within.

He stood up.

“It doesn’t matter what you think of me,” he said. “Only what side you are on. Time to pick a side, ‘Mione. One last time: are you with me or are you not?”

Something stirred within Hermione’s brain, thick and dark as treacle. His words tugged something inside her mind, wrenching it from its chains. 

But she shut it down, and took a deep breath. 

Her eyes flickered to a book that had fallen from the cardboard box on her desk. She picked it up, feeling the heavy weight of it, the way its leather bound cover felt solid on her palm.

“You know,” she said, softly. “My mother taught me that there is only one way to communicate with a bully.”

She walked up to Magnus, until there was only a couple of inches of space between them, between their faces. 

His eyes were almost translucent, his pupils blown dark against the pale circle. 

“Oh yes?” Magnus prompted, his tone dangerous. “And how is that?”

Without another thought, Hermione leaned back and slammed the leather-bound book into the side of his face.

Magnus stumbled backwards, falling hard against the side of her desk, the edge cutting into his shoulder. He dropped both the wands on the floor.

“ Accio wand!” Hermione screamed, and felt a surge of strength race through her fingers as her wand leapt into her hand.  

Magnus recovered quickly, summoning his own wand as he knelt on the floor. 

“ Crucio!” he roared.

The spell narrowly missed Hermione as she jumped out of its way. 

“ Stupefy!” She screamed. 

Hermione did not have time to see if the spell had connected before she ran to the door. Without a backwards glance, she flung it open and raced out into the main department work area.

The main section of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts department was drenched in darkness. Hermione stormed through it, banging into the door that would let her out onto the corridor. 

She turned the knob urgently, and her blood ran cold.

It was locked.

“ Alohomora!” She whispered desperately. 

Nothing happened. 

Hermione looked behind her to check if Magnus was coming after her. But the darkness was absolute; utterly opaque and terrifying.

She whispered every unlocking spell she knew but nothing worked. Now desperate, she took a step back.

“ Bombarda!” She casted at the door.

An explosive blast vibrated through the room, and finally the door burst open. 

Hermione gasped in relief. She took a step forward to safety—

Suddenly she was pulled backwards, so hard that her neck snapped back. Hermione let out a blood-curdling scream as pain erupted across the back of her skull.

She stared wildly into the darkness, and realised she had been shoved against the wall next to the remnants of the door, the suffocating weight of a forceful hand on her throat. 

She blinked hard and found herself looking directly into Magnus’s manic eyes.

Hermione tried to scream, but she couldn’t. With all her strength, she fought against his weight, but his hold only tightened on her resistance. He was taller than her, heavier than her, stronger than her. She couldn’t get away.

She scrambled without aim as she started to choke, her head spinning.

For, what felt like an age, there was complete silence in the room aside from her thin gasps for air. Magnus stared at her furiously, uncaring, his nose bleeding, his eyes wild with ire. 

Once upon a time, Hermione had mused how much Magnus resembled Harry. It had made her accept him as a friend much quicker than she normally would have. 

But now, she didn’t see Harry at all. 

Instead she saw a different dark-haired man, with a similar stance. Someone she had only seen in photographs and Harry’s pensieve memories.

Magnus wasn’t Harry. 

He was Tom Riddle.

“You keep comparing me to Lord Voldemort,” Magnus hissed, as though he had heard Hermione’s thoughts. “But I am no lord. As if I would aspire to be something so insipid and of little consequence as that. ”

He grasped her skin tighter, making her gasp soundlessly in protest. 

“Think about it, ‘Mione. Why is it, exactly, that people like Voldemort lose? The self-proclaimed dark lords that openly discriminate, maim and kill to incite fear?” Magnus hissed. “Because they do it openly, for the world to judge. Then they’re on borrowed time before an offensive is launched.”

Hermione’s mind was turning to fog, the lack of air making it hard for her to understand what he was saying.

“The leaders that win, the ones that truly reign?” Magnus spat, his breath harsh on her face. “They do whatever they want—but they do it in stealth. No one sees them coming.”

Hermione gasped again, black spots appearing in her vision.

“ You have more in common with that man than me. With that loser,” Magnus sneered. “You show all your cards for the world to see. You scream and shout, but you can’t even see what’s happening under your nose. You were never going to be a good leader. I’m the history books, you will be a footnote next to Harry Potter. I will be the one who changed the world.”

He pushed her further back into the wall, her shoulder painfully connecting with the arch of the door.

“The real question, Hermione. You still haven’t asked it,” Magnus hissed. “How to become Minister? How to stay Minister? You do it all, but in secret.”

Then, suddenly, he let go. 

Hermione fell to the ground, scrambling on her knees as she gasped for breath.  

She looked up and saw Magnus staring down at her in loathing. 

“So I have your answer then,” he said flatly. “You are against me.”

Hermione took in another rattling breath, her throat bruised and painful. She couldn’t find her wand; she must have dropped it when he attacked her. 

She had no way to defend herself. She clenched her hands and lifted her chin, refusing to look scared.

But nothing happened. 

“That is unfortunate,” Magnus said. Strangely, his tone was filled with remorse. “If it means anything… I’m sorry it’s come to this.”

Without another word, he walked away, his footsteps fading into the distance as Hermione was engulfed by darkness. 

— 

For the next few days, nothing happened. 

Harry and his family remained untouched.

There was no news about Theo to suggest anything had changed.

But then her parents stopped answering her phone calls. Her text messages, her owls.

Then late at night in the midst of a thunderstorm, at long last, she received a phone call from an Australian phone number.

It wasn’t from her parents.

It was from the Queensland police, solemnly informing her that her parents had died. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: Turn Around

They were sleeping. 

Hermione touched her mum’s face. It was ice cold, unrelenting. So unlike the face that she had looked at so many times in her life, the very first face she ever saw. The creases around her eyes when she smiled weren’t there anymore, the frown lines when she was angry were nowhere to be seen. 

“Mum, wake up,” Hermione said. 

She looked at her dad, by her mother’s side. He was sleeping, too. She remembered how she used to crawl into her parent’s bed as a child, whenever she had nightmares. 

She held her father’s hand. It didn’t feel like his hand, the hand she had held every day on the way home from primary school. The calloused ridges of his fingers were cold and hard, his soft palm ungiving. Her dad had always given and, as a child, she had always taken for granted. 

A hand touched her shoulder.  It was warm. It was soft. 

“Hermione,” Harry said, quietly. 

He sounded sad; so sad that it dispersed through the stale, recycled air of the room until it was in her own lungs. 

She choked on nothing, her teeth rattling. 

“It’s cold,” Hermione said, not looking at Harry. “Can’t they put the heat up?”

“‘Mione…,” Ron croaked, his voice floating from somewhere close to her. “Do you….do you know where you are?”

Hermione blinked. She looked up. 

The stone-white walls and concrete floors came into her vision, as well as a unit with drawers. 

She was in a morgue. 

And on the slabs in front of her, were her parents, lifeless. 

—-

“The cause of death appears to be carbon monoxide poisoning,” the coroner explained. “The house was found to contain dangerous levels of the gas. The forensic detectives at the scene put it down to a leakage from the exhaust system of a car in their garage. As the garage was attached to the house and shared vents with the main living space, we think that is how the levels in the house were so high.”

“Didn’t her parents realise something was wrong?” Ron asked the coroner. “Doesn’t carbon monoxide have, you know, symptoms or anything?”

“Carbon monoxide can be a silent killer. Also, I predict that the time of death was last night,” the coroner said. “So it is likely they were asleep when it happened. They won’t have suffered—“

“—Alarms,” Hermione gasped. Her head was swimming, as though she was underwater. “My parents must have had carbon monoxide alarms.”

“There were none found at the scene,” the coroner said carefully. “I am very sorry for your loss, Miss Granger.”

Hermione looked at the coroner. The other woman’s eyes were full of sympathy. 

Sympathy she had probably shown so many times over her career. 

For her, this was another day, another dead person. 

For Hermione, this was a nightmare. 

When the war had begun, Hermione had been terrified of losing her parents. She had done everything to keep them safe. 

When the war ended, she thought her nightmares would end too. 

She hadn’t realised, then, that they were just starting. 

“Wait,” Ron said. “What car? You don’t mean…”

The car.

The car—

Hermione’s stomach lurched and nausea rocked her insides. 

She turned her head and vomited on the cold floor next to her parent’s dead bodies, her mind drowning in the dark waters of her nightmares. She felt Harry and Ron rush to her side.

Arthur’s car. The one she had left in her parent’s home, months ago now. 

This was all her fault.

It was her fault—hers, no one else’s, hers—

“—But the car was brand new,” Ron said in horror, his voice distant and watery in Hermione’s ears. “It wouldn’t have had leaking exhaust pipes unless…”

Unless someone had sabotaged the car, Hermione’s mind supplied. 

‘If it means anything, I’m sorry it’s come to this,’ Magnus had said to her. 

The car—

Mum—

Magnus—

Dad—

Her fault—

Magnus—

— It was all her fault. 

Magnus might have killed them, but she had signed their death warrant without even realising it.

Hermione crashed to the floor and let out a wail that shattered the deepest, darkest waters of her mind, and the walls around her collapsed. 

—

No no no no no no no no no—-

—

The fog descended around the tattered remains of the walls in her mind. She had long given up fighting the fog—

—Her mum, laughing as Hermione huffed a breath over her birthday cake, blowing out the candles that were shaped like the number “eleven”. They didn’t know yet that, in under a year, they would find out their daughter was a witch, the start of a divide that would remain until—

—Her dad, poring over her brand new Hogwarts books, The Standard Book of Spells held open on his lap. Wingardium LEVI-osa? Hermione recited nervously, is that right? Her dad peered into the book. I think it’s Wingardium Levi-O-Sa, Hermione, but let’s read up the theory in that charms book you got for light reading—

—Professor Snape, snarling down at her over his hooked nose. Absolutely not, girl, he said with a sneer as she tried not to wilt under his gaze. I will not play fiddle to your dunderheaded ideas, nor do I have the endless patience to put up whatever ill-advised scheme you have cooked up. I can not, will not, be able to cover for Draco forever. This will end in tears, and they won’t be mine, I assure you—

—Her mum and dad, dancing in their home to La Vie En Rose . Hermione’s heart ached as she thought about the Horcrux hunt ahead of her and what she needed to do before she could leave—

—Draco, bent over a sink in the bathroom, retching as his entire body heaved with the motion. Let me help you, she said, a few steps behind him. You aren’t alone. He looked up at her. He looked devastated. I have to kill someone, he said. Do you still want to help me?—

The fog appeared again, thick and insidious, pushing her forward to the front of her battered brain—

—Malfoy, raising his wand at her, his face drowning in anguish—

—Her mum, smiling with her eyes, her face bright and joyful as she read Hermione a poem from a book she loved—

—Her dad, singing as he cooked pasta on the stove—

—Hermione, standing behind her parents, her hand trembling as she aimed her wand at her them—

—Her mum, eyes closed and her face pale, drained of life—

—Her dad, unsmiling, lips blue and frozen—

— Obliviate , she said, a sob caught in her throat—

— Obliviate, Malfoy said, his voice thick and low. Forgive me, Hermione—

—-

MINISTER IN HOT WATER: SAYS ‘HE CAN EXPLAIN’ MARRIAGE LAW PLANS stated the Daily Prophet.

MARRIAGE LAW PLANS COMPLETELY BLOWN OUT OF PROPORTION, SAYS MINISTRY INSIDER said the Daily Express.

MINISTER TO ADDRESS WIZENGAMOT AND PUBLIC ABOUT MARRIAGE LAW DECREE said the Wizarding Times.

IS A MARRIAGE LAW DECREE LIKELY TO HAPPEN AND WHY? EXPERTS DISCUSS AHEAD OF MINISTER’S PRESS CONFERENCE said The Wizarding Guardian.

HERMIONE GRANGER’S MUGGLE PARENTS DIE IN ACCIDENT mentioned The Quibbler.

—-

Hermione left the morgue. She wrote an email response to her parent’s solicitor when they asked about her parent's assets and home in Australia. She was listed as their immediate kin, but not as their daughter. 

She couldn’t face her parents’ home, so she asked Harry and Ron to close it up for now. 

Then they went back to England. Hermione refused her friend's offers to stay with her, or to have her stay with them. 

She was fine, perfectly fine.

Hermione went back to her flat. Her empty, soulless flat, where every inch was a symbol of her failures. Files and books rotted on her coffee table and desk, and frames with photos of her parents smiling haunted the fireplace mantle, her dressing table, her walls. She couldn’t get away from her failure, her guilt, her fault. 

Consumed by her mind, she didn’t leave her flat for the next two weeks. 

There was nowhere to go.

She didn’t sleep on her bed, because she didn’t want to be comfortable and warm. She slept on her sofa, which was coarse and unforgiving, providing no escape from the relentless assault of her conscience. 

It’s what she deserved. She deserved to suffer.

Harry Floo-called. She blocked her fireplace. 

Ron owled her. She sent the owls back, letters unopened. 

Ginny, somehow, rang her on her mobile. She didn’t pick up the call. 

None of them actually came to her flat, though, as if they knew that would be a step too far.  

Hermione was glad. She wouldn’t have opened the door. 

Crookshanks pawed his way to the sofa and underneath her blankets. She pressed her face into his fur and allowed herself the small luxury of listening to his living, beating heart. 

She allowed herself this, the comfort of Crookshanks. 

He had never failed her. 

“Perhaps it’s time to stop here,” Hermione whispered to no one in particular. “Perhaps it’s time to give up.”

What was the point if she had lost everything ?  

All she had left was her mistakes and her parents' ashes. 

How could she ever forgive herself?

“Yes,” she decided. She pressed her face into Crookshanks’s warm fur. He mewled softly, uncharacteristically quiet and unresisting. “Time to stop, I think.”

The gears in her brain ground to stop and she breathed shallowly, staring into the black void beneath her eyelids. 

She didn’t cry.

—

ROTH TO ADDRESS MARRIAGE LAW IN PRESS CONFERENCE TODAY! said the Daily Express.

ROTH TO ADDRESS MARRIAGE LAW DEBACLE—HERMIONE GRANGER WILL NOT APPEAR IN CONFERENCE said the Daily Prophet.

HERMIONE GRANGER NOWHERE TO BE SEEN SINCE MARRIAGE LAW said Witch Weekly.

HERMIONE GRANGER WILL BE ABSENT FROM CONFERENCE—ROTH AND GOLDEN GIRL STILL AT LOGGERHEADS? said the Magical Sun.

ROTH’S POPULARITY POLLS DECLINE SINCE ROW WITH GOLDEN GIRL AND MARRIAGE LAW said the Magical Independent.

HERMIONE GRANGER WILL LIKELY BE ABSENT FROM CONFERENCE DUE TO RECENT DEATH OF PARENTS said The Quibbler.

—

Hermione dreamed, the fog blanketing her subconscious. She surrendered without a fight—

—Malfoy’s snarling face as he stampeded up to her, standing so close she could see the veins of silver in his ashen irises, the thick singular strands of his eyelashes. 

Where the fuck have you been? He demanded, hooking an arm around her waist, pulling her to him. I’ve been looking for you everywhere! 

He buried his snarling face into her hair, his nose pressed against the skin beneath her right ear, and all she could smell was her amortentia potion; the cut grass, the fresh parchment, minty toothpaste and warm amber.

I’m here, Hermione said. I’m here. 

Malfoy pulled away. 

You need to leave Hogwarts, Hermione, he said forcefully. You need to leave now—

Not without you, Hermione said, with equal forcefulness. I’m not leaving without you. Come with me—

Malfoy looked agitated as he put more space between them.

I don’t want to do this again, he said. I can’t come with you…how many more times? He’s going to kill my parents, he’s going to kill—

Dumbledore will help you, Hermione insisted, stepping forward, closer to him. Malfoy looked down at her, his face tortured. Come with me, and we’ll go to him, he’ll help us— 

Malfoy laughed without humour, his face scrunched with bitterness.

The old fool can’t even help himself, let alone me, Malfoy said. His days are numbered, one way or another. 

Hermione wanted to ask what he meant, but she had to make him see sense. 

Their time was running out. 

Draco, Hermione said. She swallowed. Draco, I—I love you.  

He said nothing, staring at her with wide eyes that shone in the moonlight. 

I want— she continued, her heart in her throat. I want you in my life—

Malfoy stepped away. 

Don’t, he said quietly.

Hermione didn’t stop.

I want you by my side. I want us to be together. It doesn’t have to be like this, it doesn’t… she said.

Malfoy looked furious.

I said stop, he said, his voice low. His eyes were conflicted, his hands were shaking.

Come with me, and we’ll go to Dumbledore, Hermione repeated, stepping forward. He’ll save you and your parents—

I SAID STOP, JUST FUCKING STOP! Malfoy yelled. His voice echoed in the astronomy tower, bouncing off the crooked stone surrounding them. 

Hermione’s breath hitched.

Malfoy moved further away from her, looking out of the open ledge as he ran a hand through his hair, his face contorted and wild. Then he turned back to her.

His expression was blank, and cold as ice. 

Hermione, you need to leave, he said flatly. I won’t say it again.  

Not without you, she protested. She tried not to feel betrayed by his lack of reaction to her statement. I love—

Well, I don’t love you, he interrupted, his tone flippant.  

Hermione reeled back, as though he had slapped her. 

She looked into his eyes, and saw no love for her there, saw nothing at all there. 

Tears burned down her cheeks before she could stop them, dripping into her neck, and then to her heart, the heart he didn’t want, the heart he felt nothing for, while she felt so much she thought she would die from it—

—

Hermione woke up. 

The fog dispersed beneath her eyelids, taking Malfoy with it.

A tear streamed down her face. Her heart was thumping hard, sore and aching like in her dreams. 

The words I love you were on her lips, ancient and decayed over time. She licked her lips, tasting salt. 

The tear dried on her face as she watched the light come in from behind the closed curtains. Her heart clenched.

Well, I don’t love you. 

Her parents were dead. 

What hold did Draco Malfoy have over that she was dreaming about him ?

…Why did these dreams seem so real?

…Why did they hurt so much? 

Hermione shook her head.

This was pathetic. She was pathetic. Her parents had died; she had killed them. And here she was, dreaming about a man she had nothing to do with, wondering if words of her desperate, lonely imagination held any substance.

How had she become like this? How could she ever—

Hermione flinched as a quiet tapping sound filled her living room: a knock on her front door. 

Suddenly, her melancholy was replaced by irritation. She ignored the sound.

After a minute, there was a knock again, louder this time.

She ignored it once more, pulling her blanket over her head, causing Crookshanks to hiss in protest as he was jostled. 

A third knock followed, obnoxious and deafening.

Hermione yanked the blanket off her head. 

“Go away, Harry!” She yelled out. “Go away, Ron. I am fine!”

A loud huff came from the other side of the door.

“So you are alive,” Malfoy’s voice drawled. “It’s not fucking Potter and I’m definitely not the bleeding Weasel, so kindly open the door to what I am sure is probably more of a library than a living space.”

——

‘MARRIAGE LAW HAS BECOME VITAL’ SAYS MINISTER ROTH: PUBLIC REVEAL OF WIZARDING BRITAIN’S BIRTH RATE RECORDS said the Daily Prophet. 

BIRTH RATES OF WIZARDING BRITAIN;ONE OF LOWEST EVER RECORDED said the Magical Independent.

UNSUSTAINABLE SOCIETY: BIRTH RATE DECLINE said the Wizarding Times.

BRITAIN: HEADING FOR DISASTER? said the Magical Sun.

‘SHACKLEBOLT WARNED US ABOUT THIS’ EXPERTS SAY said the Wizarding Guardian.

MARRIAGE LAW DECREE A RUSE FOR SOMETHING ELSE? asked the Quibbler.