Beta readers are heaven sent, and none more angelic than Aurabolt, of whom the blush of this fanfic owes its existence to. Oh, sweet Pumpkin Pie!
Standard disclaimers apply.
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Chapter One - Brilliance of His Gaze
In which Hermione asks herself why, what now, and what next.
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It was perfect. It was everything she might have asked for.
Hermione Granger, the brightest, and now most famous, witch of her age, lived with her two best friends, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, who were probably more famous that she was. They showered her with affection and care; sought her approval when they thought it necessary (which was always) and turned to her when they needed mothering (which wasn't always, but all the more precious for its rarity.)
When they weren't comfortably basking in each other's company, they were celebrities; invited for interviews, gala premiers and photo shoots, often together; sometimes individually. They refused more often than they accepted. They did not feel much like celebrating when there were so many lost lives, but survivor's guilt stood no chance when the ones they loved told them, almost everyday, that they had nothing to be guilty for; that they had saved lives by the thousands. The pain lingered, but the edge wore off, and with the encouragement of those most dear to them, they let themselves realize that the war was over, and that the Wizarding World was safe at last. The novelty of accepting it was overwhelming, but it had its moments. It had its use. It was, in a way, therapeutic, and while Hermione and Harry took it in small doses, Ron took to it with a vengeance.
On Hermione's part, she had refused being placed on the cover of Witchling: Wizard Magazine, mainly because they wanted her in nothing but skimpy robes and a pointy witch's hat, but she did rather enjoy being on the cover of Wizard's Compendium, the wizard gentleman's quarterly magazine detailing the latest in the discerning wizard's corporate, sports and casual wear, wizard health, business and the occasional image-spell. She liked having been in her smart (but subtly sexy) business robe, holding her wand like a thinking stick and with Crookshanks staring up at her adoringly as his tail whipped this way and that. Sometimes, especially when Hermione was waving her wand in the air, Crookshanks would slide around her legs. Everyone seemed to love that. Cute pets aside, she looked like she was ready to hex you one minute and then seal a multi-million galleon deal the next.
Hermione figured she was entitled to at least one vanity in her lifetime.
Wizard's Compendium was the first and last of her commercial exploits. As the months rolled by, she turned down proposals for ad campaigns and other such explosive ventures. She strategically attempted to ease herself back into a regular-life routine (if not absolute obscurity) and began submitting resumes to the varying Ministry offices. She did, after all, feel that she had a lot of catching up to do, career-wise. After they left Hogwarts, she, Harry and Ron devoted all their time and efforts to the Order of the Phoenix. There was a full-blown war, after all, and they weren't the only ones who put off their careers to fight for the cause. They were soldiers; that was their career for the time being, and only after the defeat of Voldemort was any other career an option. Now was her time to look through those options, and she was going to tackle it with utmost enthusiasm.
Hermione was glad Harry saw eye to eye with her on this aspect and he had eagerly taken a similar path, probably even sooner than she did. It was hard to tell with him, considering he seemed just as busy being the celebrity that they all were, but Hermione knew he couldn't have gotten his application for Auror-training in so quickly if he had started at the about the same time she began submitting her resumes, so she suspected Harry had been putting in extra hours to secure his place among the Auror hopefuls.
The post-war frenzy made everyone want to be Aurors. The defeat of Voldemort made it seem like such a heroic, impressive job, and of course, it was everyone's dream to be heroic and impressive. Fortunately (or unfortunately), Harry knew better, and he was applying for the job for all the right reasons. Hermione wouldn't put it past Harry that he thought he actually had competition for a place in the auror force, hence his diligence in meeting application deadlines.
She actually laughed at him when he asked her help to compose an essay and she promptly pointed out: "You can write about cauldron bottoms and still get the trainee-position, Harry. You defeated Voldemort, for goodness sake… without a wand!"
"That was a fluke!" he cried, before he frowned and retracted his statement a bit. "Sort of…"
"Fluke my arse, Potter. You've been doing pretty impressive wandless magic ever since! And-"
"Only the basic spells! I couldn't do the difficult spells wandless, not since that one time with Voldemort, and let's not even talk about unlocking charms-"
"AND-" she continued, as if he hadn't said anything "-you have your own Chocolate Frog trading card. An auror-in-training's resume couldn't get any better than that. They should be rolling out a red-carpet for you."
Harry had rolled his eyes. "Tonks hasn't exactly stopped teasing me about that card, thank you very much, and might I remind you that you and Ron have your own cards, simply because you had about as much to do with defeating Voldemort as I did. You almost-well-"
He stopped then, pausing ever so slightly to look like he was suddenly reliving some nightmare in his mind.
Hermione understood that her coma had affected him quite badly, and Ron too, if both their over-protective tendencies were any indication, but they refused to talk about it, with that added feature of Harry looking sick to his stomach whenever he remembered it, so she never pressed, and she was well adapted to continuing conversation as if it never came up in the first place.
She scoffed. "Doesn't change the fact that you're the one who really kicked Dark Lord arse, Harry Bloody Potter!"
The Harry "Bloody" Potter always made him grin. He thought it was ridiculously funny. "Shut it. I just want to submit a good essay, that's all. Are you going to give me a hard time of it, Granger?"
She chuckled, taking his parchment. "Oh, give me that, then. Let's see what you have."
And so she helped him write his stellar essay, and his application was accepted, stellar-like, with a letter exploding confetti, fireworks and jellybeans. Poor Hedwig almost popped her feathers as Hermione, Harry and Ron dove for cover under the kitchen table, screaming. Crookshanks was even less pleased, hissing and spitting at Ron as if instinctively knowing it had something to do with him, or his brothers.
"This has Fred and George written all over it! I bet Bill made them to do it, those gits!" cried Ron amidst the whistle of fiery pinwheels and displeased cat-kneazles.
Combustible acceptance letters aside, Ron was the one who enjoyed the attention the most. There was, surprisingly, an odd affection for him as a sidekick. Because Hermione was too much her own person to be considered one, Ron got tagged with the moniker and was actually quite accepting of it. As far as defeaters of Voldemort went, sidekick wasn't a bad position to be in. It was certainly a heck of a lot more than the rest of the wizarding world, but Hermione supposed it had more to do with Ron's being Harry Potter's best friend; the one who "had his back" so to speak, that made him so well-loved. And perhaps, in an imperfect world, there's always a following for the underdog. Hermione supposed Ron would prefer "sidekick" to "underdog" any day. In any event, he was the guy who had front row seats to the battle between He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and the Boy-Who-Lived. That was beyond wicked.
So Ron was everywhere. He was given invitations to the most exclusive parties and clubs, was made to come out in ad campaigns, was always given (three) complimentary front-row seats to Quidditch games, had a float of his own in parades and he even had his own brand of butterbeer. As much as the fanfare nauseated Hermione, she saw that it made him happy, and that was enough for her to be supportive.
She was only too glad to have peace and quiet in Grimmauld Place. As popular as the house was, very few could actually see it. It was visible to a select few, and accessible to in-house apparation to even fewer. Order members, of course, could simply apparate in its front yard, walk up to its porch and ring the bell, and a few other friends, mostly from Hogwarts, could do the same, but only Hermione, Harry and Ron were allowed to apparate in its living room, courtesy of built-in house wards. Harry explained that the house recognized its true residents, and it was only by unanimous consent of all living in it could permission be granted for others to apparate within the house's protective walls.
Ron, for one, was glad he didn't have to come up with lame excuses for his mother as to why she couldn't just apparate in the house. "Don't tell her about the unanimous consent thing, Harry. It would be a nightmare to have mum coming and going as she pleases. I love her, but she's mum for Merlin's sake."
It was little surprise that Remus had apparating rights, but he stalwartly declared that he would use the porch, just like everyone else, because God forbid he ever apparate on something he shouldn't be apparating into.
At any rate, they all agreed that he was always welcome in the house, and he could come and go as he pleased, any hour of the day, for whatever reason he saw fit and he could even stay there, for as long as necessary. It's what Sirius would have wanted, after all.
Remus demurred, saying his Marauder rights were up and that he would let the next generation of Marauders have it, but he expressed his appreciation for their sentiments. The old werewolf could not help but be touched.
Hermione was glad she could share many quiet moments with Harry and Ron, most nights just Harry. Ron had a terribly busy schedule, and Harry got in late besides since he began training.
She found that she had a bit of difficulty selecting which job opportunity she wanted to pursue. She had many offers from big name corporations and magical research institutions, but what she really wanted was a job in the Ministry, and the Ministry was being a Bitch. It sent her one refusal after another, condescendingly pointing out that while she had all the qualifications and more, they didn't feel she would adapt to the Ministry's working environment and office culture. Hermione knew it was because she had caused quite an uproar with her latest S.P.E.W. proposals.
She would never confess this sad truth to Harry and Ron, because it almost felt like she was admitting failure, and she didn't ever want to admit to something like that. Not Hermione Granger. No way. She vowed that she would never let her personal goals get in the way of her principles, so unfairly refused applications or not, she would submit S.P.E.W. proposals whenever she damn well thought it appropriate.
She didn't think her current state of unemployment particularly troubling, anyhow. Worse came to worse, she could get a job, but she was willing to fight it out with the Ministry to give her a place in its holier-than-thou walls, and she actually found the challenge invigorating. Besides, it wasn't as if she didn't have other sources of income for the meantime. She did. She was, in fact, financially secured for the next year. Money was not a problem.
Everything was perfect.
So Hermione wondered why, especially on nights when she was completely alone in the house, did she feel so utterly lonely?
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Hermione tore open yet another Ministry letter as soon as she untied it from Hedwig's upraised claw.
Hedwig hooted from her perch on the kitchen window, as if to say, "Aren't you forgetting something?"
She smiled, reaching for a bird-treat. "Sorry 'bout that, Hedwig. Of course you deserve thanks. Here." She gave Hedwig the treat, smoothed her ruffled feathers and watched the snowy owl set off for the sanctuary upstairs.
Having done her duty, Hermione sat at the kitchen table to read her letter. Crookshanks hopped on her lap, purring as if preparing himself to comfort his mistress at the inevitable Ministry refusal.
It wasn't a refusal. Well, at least not outright. The letter mentioned that she was a menace to the status quo, etcetera, etcetera, but she did possess certain qualities that this particularly "obscure" Ministry office required. It was the Wizengamot Counsel's Office, and they needed an assistant Interrogator. The primary Interrogator was a wizard named Thane Archibald, and his second was Winston Heartcomb. She would be assistant to Heartcomb, and Archibald, too, when the need arose. Hermione figured it meant she would be assisting both, but Heartcomb first before Archibald.
She was being made to report at level two, Wizengamot Administration Services Council of Law. The stern reminder of "This is not an acceptance. Your employment is yet to be decided after careful consideration of your upcoming interview," wasn't as unnerving as it probably should have been. Hermione had put up with enough written rejection from the Ministry to actually want someone to at least tell her to her face that she wasn't wanted.
"Bloody cowards, the lot of them," she had often grumbled.
Thoughts of rejection aside, Hermione didn't even know there was such an office until then. She was under the impression that the prosecution in court of accused wizards fell in the hands of-well-the Wizengamot. She didn't realize there was actually an office for Interrogators.
Well, I'll take what I'm given. It's a start, and who says I couldn't use the office's obscurity to my advantage? Those blockheads in the big offices will never see me coming!
Thus enervated, she decided to learn more about the Wizengamot Counsel's Office, or as she later found out: WizCOF. Care for a lozenge?
It was a Ministry inside-joke she would come to hate.
With her usual efficiency and enthusiasm, Hermione wrote out her itinerary for the following day.
It was late in the night, and Harry and Ron were still out of the house, so she didn't bother bringing her work to the library. She quilled-in her plans seated at the kitchen table while she ate muggle potato crisps, which Ron declared to be brilliant. "Especially dipped in sour-cream and onion sauce!"
Stubborn to the core, Hermione decided she would stop by the Magical Legislation Committee to submit another S.P.E.W. proposal. It was really nothing more than a detailing of the more important, general proposal she submitted the previous week, but she liked to pound her convictions over the heads of the committee, or at least she liked to remind them that they couldn't scare her that easily. She didn't need to antagonize the lot of committee members anymore than she already has, but they were beyond liking her long before, so this little proposal wouldn't do anymore worse damage to her reputation, but just like every proposal she had submitted, the Legislative Committee had an obligation to present it to the higher law making bodies, whether they liked the author of the proposal or not. Besides, it wasn't as if she didn't have sympathizers in the committee. There was at least one who was rumored to agree with her; one Cecily Ackwater. Hermione had no idea if the rumor was true.
After the important meetings, she figured she could squeeze in a trip to Fred and George's store. She had come up with a funny new invention and she had the specifications; for the twins to test its feasibility. In the past, she had managed to get two of her inventions up on the shelves and both sold so successfully that Fred and George were always niggling her to come up with more. They had, of course, offered to give her a percentage of the inventions' profits for as long as the product stayed on the shelves, but Hermione instead opted to sell them the patent so they didn't have to pay her royalty forever. Their insistence on sharing the profits convinced her to take a profit share of one year, no more. Everybody happy.
Ultimately, it was an acceptable source of income for her while she was unemployed (it supported her Book Addiction just fine, as well as a brand new addiction she had come to acquire, free of the stresses of war: shoes), and she enjoyed having this little secret with the twins. They thought it a grand joke, too, so they liked the secret as much as she did.
It was during Hermione's planning that she decided to improve on her proposal and thus stayed up later than she was wont.
She was almost done with the revisions when she heard a loud crack from the living room. So attuned was she to the nuances of her best friends' apparitions that she knew by sound who had arrived. It was too early for Ron, anyway.
She looked up at the Whereabouts Clock hanging on the kitchen wall.
It was a clock reminiscent to the one at the Burrow, only instead of nine hands, there were three: One for Ron, one for Harry and one for her. It contained the standard indicators: home, school, work, traveling, lost, hospital, prison and mortal peril. There was an extra indicator that said "out", which she put there specifically for Ron who was always "out" as in: out on dates, out partying, and out doing Merlin-Knew-What.
Right now, Harry's hand shifted from "traveling" to "home". Ron's… well, that was a no-brainer.
"Hi, Harry!" she called from the kitchen, not removing her gaze from her parchment.
Harry dragged himself through the kitchen, his face drawn weary. He pushed up his glasses briefly to rub at his eyes before setting them back down on the bridge of his nose. Out of habit, he scratched at his lightning scar.
"Hey there, Hermione. You're up late." He went to the magical chill-box, opening it to rummage for something. He brought out one of Ron's butterbeers.
Crookshanks gave a yowl as he jumped off Hermione's lap, quickly padding to Harry and winding affectionately around his legs.
He gave Crookshanks a nice scratch behind the ears. "Hi there, boy. Been keeping Hermione company, haven't you?"
The cat-kneazle rewarded him with a purr, as if to say yes, before he slid out of Harry's reach and out of the kitchen. Perhaps Crookshanks knew Hermione had company now and that he could go back to his usual haunts.
Hermione nodded. "Crookshank's a dear, that way. I've been busy. I have to get this done now if I want to get anything done tomorrow."
"More spew?"
"That's S.P.E.W. to you, Potter."
"Ah, yes. Of course."
She looked up, expecting that he would be cocking her that grin Witch Weekly declared to be the most charming since Lockhart conned the Wizarding World. She agreed heartily with Witch Weekly on that, but Harry's grin lacked luster this time. He looked tired.
"Shaklebolt drive you hard today?" she asked, smiling as she offered the crisps.
He ate some and nodded. He spoke through the crisp. "Man's an unforgivable curse in himself. He had me dodging boggarts all morning and rounding up hostile pixies in the afternoon. He hates pixies, so naturally he assigns me that job."
Hermione pitied him the boggarts but knew that Harry was more than capable of fending off boggart-created Dementors. "Well, at least you got to practice your patronus summoning skills."
Harry was silent for a few seconds, tilting his bottle of butterbeer idly as he thought. He had a look of pain on his face, as if someone had poked a stick at a healing wound. "I'm not afraid of Dementors any more, you know. I mean, they still give me the willies, but I seemed to have… developed a fear deeper than that these last few months."
She knew immediately that the tiredness so evident in the slump of his shoulders was from a little more than physical fatigue. "I'm listening, Harry."
Hermione found that the unobtrusive quality of "I'm listening," as opposed to, "Do you want to talk about it?" worked better for her boys. They were often less resistant to it. Often was the operative word; not "always".
He smiled wanly, resolving to eat more crisps. "I know. That makes me feel better already. Is Ron still out?"
That was Harry for "Thank you for being concerned, Hermione, but I'd rather not say..." Hermione tried not to roll her eyes at the absurdity of it. He was as guarded about his emotions as always.
"Ron's still out," she said. "Probably another one of his ridiculous parties. But you're in quite late yourself, Harry. Don't tell me Shacklebolt made you stay in after he put you through all that."
"Oh, he didn't. Gail Coppercane asked me out to the Leaky Cauldron for happy hour. A bunch of other Aurors-in-training were there. I really needed to unwind, so…"
"Always good to unwind," said Hermione, going back to writing on her parchment with nonchalant ease.
She felt that harsh twist inside her when Harry mentioned other women. Every inch of her knew Harry didn't like her in that way, and while she had supposedly gotten over this unimpeachable fact after he kissed Ginny Weasley in the Gryffindor common room in sixth year, she realized that having him single throughout seventh year and the critical year after that had managed to awaken a sad little hope in her. Forever the realist, Hermione never lost sight of the fact that-well-she didn't seem to be his type at all, but sometimes it was easy to forget whenever he took such good care of her, especially these last few months.
He was always very thoughtful with her, like when he remembered she had a craving for egg-rolls one day when even she had forgotten about it already, or when he bought books on impulse because he thought she might find them interesting, and how he always asked if she wanted company to go somewhere; so that she didn't have to be alone, he said. The only reason she didn't think Harry felt more than friendship for her was his occasional mention of strange women. He went out with them, as was expected of a handsome, famous and young bachelor such as himself, but the thing about Harry was that he had this look in his eyes, like he was constantly in search of The One. It wasn't hard to deduce that he wanted what James Potter had with Lily Evans; that same all-encompassing love. It was romantic, but such a quest directed at other women was thoroughly heartbreaking as far as Hermione was concerned. He was out there looking for his greatest love because he hadn't found it in 12 Grimmaul Place.
Well, lah-dee-dah, there's nothing a dashing bachelor would find remotely attractive in S.P.E.W. and library-couture, so don't act so surprised, Granger, she often thought bitterly.
As for Ron-the Boy Who Was Supposed to Fancy Her-, he was never quite that consistent to begin with. The fact of the matter was she could've loved Ronald Bilius Weasley, red-headed temper and all, if he hadn't been so damn eager to suck Lavender Brown's face in sixth year and the face of every starlet in these last few months. She supposed she was a little jealous when he harried off to yet another date with "this really hot bird", but not so much that she would be as bitter about it as she was about Harry's women. Ron was thoroughly enjoying his blonde (brunette… redheaded… in all colors, really) bombshells and he had absolutely no plans of settling with a proper young woman who can put two sentences together without pouting fashionably between dangling participles. Ultimately, her feelings for Ron before could be considered her way of "settling for the next best thing", but if they ever did get together, she would be of a mind to deny that "settling" concept to her dying day. It would be unnecessarily cruel of her to tell him that he was second-even in her affections-to Harry Bloody Potter.
So maybe she loved Harry, and she fancied Ron (sometimes), but no one could accuse her of being a selfish spoiled brat, because she hadn't really said anything to either of them to stop them from seeing and being with their bimbos-
Er, women, I mean.
It went without saying that hearing Harry being with another girl hurt for real. Ron's exploits annoyed her, but Harry dealt that proverbial knife through her heart every time he mentioned someone new. Hermione sometimes felt masochistic and had the urge to ask him about Ginny, but she hadn't enough painkillers handy for that one.
She ground out her frustrations about this new name-this Gail Coppercane-by churning out more nouns and adjectives in her proposal, and only after she'd included "bodacious" in the legal jargon did she look up. It had all taken no more than a few seconds, really, but she did, after all, have incredible self-possession. She met Harry's steady gaze without blinking once.
"How's Tom, by the way?" she asked.
He blinked first. "He's alright. Business has been up since the end of the war. I s'pose there are more things to drink to, these days."
Her mobile telephone rang and he smirked at the look of displacement on Harry's face. She had cast an enchantment on Grimmauld Place to get a cell-signal for hers, Harry's and Ron's phone while they were in the house, and it pretty much worked everywhere else except enclosed magic-warded places. Predictably, the two boys didn't find the phone as handy as she did, but the reason she gave them telephones in the first place was so that she could contact them from anywhere. It wasn't her fault wizards didn't use "telly-phonies". It was just as well. It meant 99.9% of the time their lines would be free for her calls to get through.
She checked her caller I.D. and was pleasantly surprised to discover Ron's name flashing on her digital screen. "Why, it's Ronald!" she couldn't help but exclaim as she exchanged grins with Harry. It was the first time Ron ever used the mobile and she couldn't help but feel a bit of thrill. She answered the call.
An unfamiliar female voice spoke through, music beating in the background. "Is this Hermione Granger?"
Hermione's smile melted to nothing and morphed into a frown. "Yes. Who is this?"
"Oh, goodness! It really is you on his speed dial! So you really are friends! I thought it was some kind of nutty propaganda!"
"Who the hell is this?"
There was a clatter, and suddenly Ron's voice was there, laughing. "Hi, Hermione!"
"Ronald, what was that?"
"That was Nancy! I mean-Nina! Oh, bother, it's so hard to keep track of names!"
Hermione felt her annoyance rising. "I am working, and I would appreciate it if you didn't have your groupies calling me, unless you're dead or bleeding to death on some blooming sidewalk!"
"Well, don't go in a snit. I was just being nice to her! She wanted to hear the voice of the great Hermione Granger-"
"Goodbye, Ronald." Hermione snapped her phone shut and banged it on the tabletop. "Unbelievable." She went back to her parchment but felt Harry looking at her. She met his gaze; his was expectant and she arched a questioning eyebrow.
He kept staring with the same look.
She quit guessing. "What? Something on my face?"
His brows knotted. "No. It's nothing… I think I'll go to bed now." He got up, leaned over and kissed her forehead. "Goodnight, Hermione."
Hermione liked these kisses, even if they were meant to be brotherly and nothing else. "Goodnight, Harry."
He flashed a weary smile, squeezed her shoulder and left the kitchen.
She watched him go, sighing softly. "Books and cleverness…" she muttered. "Who cares about that except me?"
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The following morning, Hermione found herself anxiously smoothing out dark-gray kimono-inspired business robes. She checked her high-heeled shoes and stockings. No runs on the nylon; Mary Janes were perfect. She didn't care what the Wizarding World said; muggle shoes were a joy. She touched her hair; it was swept up to perfection and the two oriental pins held it tightly in place.
She gave the WizCOF waiting room another survey, trying to familiarize herself with the territory.
The entire office was a hole in the wall; literally. When Hermione first arrived in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement on Level Two, she spent almost ten minutes going back and forth down a designated hallway looking for the said office. Imagine her chagrin when she discovered that she had been passing the WizCOF door again and again simply because she had thought the hole in the wall was an accident pending repairs. Was it her fault that the sign by the door looked like some poorly tacked-on "Wet Paint, do not lean" sign scribbled on by some kindergartener?
Of course, once she stepped through the powdery, crackling stone, the office looked bigger than it seemed (but not by much.)
The waiting room itself was a mess. There were books, scrolls and quills scattered everywhere. There were two owls perched on the ceiling beams, peering down with their wide, blinking eyes. They shook their feathers then ignored her. There were windows lined up on one wall, overlooking a steamy bog. There had to be something living in the greenish goop of pond-water, as was the Wizarding World's wont. Hermione stopped trying to figure out how in the world there could be a bog outside windows that weren't supposed to be there in the first place… in level two of the Ministry no less!
The waiting room was about as large as a storage closet, and to the far left from the entrance was a dungeon-like, tall wooden door placed against ancient, moldy stone. The door had a slot at the top, but the slot was closed. She could only assume it was the door to the office proper.
Hermione's first steps into the waiting room sent her crashing to the floor, a book flying from beneath her foot. She landed on her behind and she cursed soundly, forgetting that someone might hear her. The owls hooted but left her alone.
Gathering her bearings, she went to the door and grabbed hold of the knocker. She rapped it, and the sound was inadequately pert. She didn't know if anybody could've heard anything through the thick door.
She was about to use the knocker again, more vigorously this time, when the slot slid open and she met deep brown eyes topped by thick, bushy eyebrows looking down at her.
"Yes?" croaked a toad, for that was the only way Hermione could describe the quality of the voice.
"H-Hermione Granger, sir. I-"
"There's no Hermione Granger here."
She blinked. "Yes, I know. I'm Hermione Granger. I received-"
"You're Hermione Granger? Well, why didn't you say that in the first place? Would've saved me the trouble of asking!"
"But-" She stopped, immediately realizing it would be futile. "Yes, sir."
She stood there, waiting for him to open the door, but he merely stared out at her, unmoving.
"Well?" he asked. "What do you want, Hermione Granger?"
Hermione blinked back her befuddlement. "This office sent me an owl telling me to come here today so I can speak to Messrs. Archibald and Heartcomb."
"The office sent you an owl?" he cried in amazement. "How can an office do that? It doesn't have hands to write with, or a brain to think with, for that matter! If an office can hexing well write owls, I'd have it make me tea and scones! Office sending an owl… the idea!"
Hermione felt the first signs of frustration. "I didn't mean-sir, I'd just like to speak to Mr. Heartcomb. The owl said he was considering me to be his assistant."
"Assistant to the owl, you say? Didn't even know those feathery things could talk! What does Mr. Heartcomb have to do with any of that, then?"
Hermione had a strong urge to pull at her hair and scream.
"Thane," came a dignified voice from behind him. It sounded old, and wobbly, much more ancient than how Dumbledore used to sound. "Is someone looking for me?"
Before Thane Archibald could speak, Hermione tiptoed as near to the slot as she could. "Mr. Heartcomb! It's Hermione Granger! I think you might have sent me an owl-"
"Granger?" said Heartcomb. "Why, yes, Granger! Well, of course I sent you an owl! It's only proper, isn't it? Thane, let her in. And send that other person you were talking to, away. She's wasting mine and Ms. Granger's time!"
Hermione decided she wasn't going to be the one to explain this very odd situation to Heartcomb.
Thane Archibald's response was uncannily simple. "I think she's gone now, Winston. Good riddance, I say. She sounded rather batty. Office sending an owl…"
He swung the door open and Hermione carefully walked across the threshold. The office proper was neater… but not by much. The twenty-foot shelves lining the walls were filled with books and scrolls, some of the volumes rattling in place. The entire room looked like it extended a mile down, and the farther down the aisle, the more active the shelves. The shelves spat books at each other, the dismayed cries of the tomes whistling in the air. Amazingly, the disenfranchised books shimmied back to their shelves quite desperately. A lot of the mess was confined to the two enclosed cubicles nearby set on opposite sides of the office. She could only assume they belonged to Thane Archibald and Winston Heartcomb. There was a utility table in the center of the room, like the dining tables they had in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, but miniaturized to sit three on each side instead of a hundred. Atop it were a collection of the strangest things. They may have either come from the junkshop further down Diagon Alley or Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn. She spotted one with a label floating just above it that said, "Item 12th; Case No. 231546423156 and so on and so forth." There were other items that were labeled as well, but she couldn't read what was written on them.
Pulling her gaze from the room, she let her eyes fall on Archibald and Heartcomb.
Archibald did not look like a toad. Archibald looked like a wisp of a tall man with wide brown eyes, white, bushy eyebrows and absolutely no other hair anywhere else. He wore a pinstripe brown robe with tasteful silver frills. His feet were clad in gleaming black boots; no heels. He was tall enough as he was; at least as tall as Ron who was almost a foot taller than her.
Heartcomb was of regular height, the same build as Archibald, but he had more hair. It went all the way down his back streaked in white, gold and gray. His robes were black pinstriped, but he wore a dangling round pendant down his front-the image on which wasn't quite discernible-sparkly gem-encrusted rings, a trimmed mustache and silver shoes; heeled with bows at the arch. The heels pegged him to be about as tall as Harry.
That was the way with her, she supposed. Harry and Ron were always her gauge for the men-folk.
"Why, you're a child!" cried Heartcomb, horrified.
"No children in this office!" barked Archibald.
Hermione's eyes flashed. She had suffered the worse kinds of criticism from the Ministry, and so she knew how to hold her own against them, whoever they were. "Mr. Heartcomb and Mr. Archibald, I am not a child. According to Wizarding Law, a witch and wizard shall be declared of-age on and after the seventeenth year of his or her birth! I am twenty, going on twenty-one, and incidentally, I stopped being a child when I turned eleven!"
"Hang on," said Archibald. "Aren't you the one on the-what was that in the papers, Thane? Something about someone, something…"
Heartcomb's brows knotted in thought. "Good God, Archibald! What could this child have to do with an Antipodean Opaleye? She's so little!"
I am not little! And she wasn't all that small, anymore, really. Somehow, she grew another few inches before she hit the eighteen-year-old mark for women, and she managed to hit five feet and six inches, but Ron, Harry and practically everyone else she knew (mostly Weasleys) were so tall she was definitely dwarfed by comparison.
Archibald continued to speak. "Not that! The one with the chap who doesn't want to be named…"
Hermione almost had a stroke hearing them refer to Voldemort as a "chap" who "doesn't want to be named," for she could only assume they were talking about that.
Recognition sparked in Heartcomb's eyes. "Ah, yes! With that young man… Gardener, was it? Or maybe Planter."
"That's Potter," said Hermione, unable to help herself. "Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One-"
"Well, no wonder the poor chap couldn't remember his own name! He has so many of them!" said Heartcomb. "Tragic, really. Now, what should we do about this child?"
Hermione grit her teeth. "Mr. Heartcomb, you were the one who summoned me here. From what I read in your letter, you wanted to determine whether I was fit for this office-"
"Egad! All that kerfuffle to get me an assistant! It's quite simple really: Can you read?"
"Of course I can read!" she cried indignantly.
"And are you quite willing to learn the Magical Laws of our lovely Great Britain in all its moods and nuances? Can you write about them? Laud their precision and wave it proudly in the face of those who disrespect it?"
Hermione raised her nose haughtily at his utter nonsense. "I am willing to learn, yes, and I know I will be able to grasp it in all its 'moods and nuances'. I can certainly write about them and use it to build a strong case against the rightfully accused, but I have my issues with certain laws, particularly those governing elves."
"Humph!" sniffed Archibald. "We can certainly condition that out of your pretty little head! But the rest of your qualities will do. I might like you. What do you think, Winston?"
"Minerva did recommend her. Highly, I might add, and she doesn't give in lightly, that witch."
Hermione might have fallen all over again in her surprise that McGonagall had recommended her to these-these bumbling fools!
Hermione, calm down. There must be a perfectly good explanation as to why McGonagall sent you here. She loves you, remember? She would never do anything mean to you, right?
Archibald sniffed again. "Indeed. And with all those Deatheaters getting their trial dates postponed, they're really too much to handle by ourselves…"
Hermione's interest was suddenly piqued. "Pardon me… Deatheaters? Aren't they all in Azkaban?"
Heartcomb rolled his eyes. "Well, not all of them. There are still quite a bit roaming free; as fugitives, of course, but I'd expect the aurors to round up the lot of them soon."
Archibald nodded. "And those that are in Azkaban have been properly convicted. However, there are still those out on bail. Due process, you know. I don't expect they'd be doing anything nasty while they're awaiting trial, though. It'll be bad for their case if they get caught pre-trial doing unsavory things. With their supposed leader dead, they have no one to turn to but themselves!"
Hermione suddenly didn't feel like she had walked into a hole in the wall and it suddenly became absolutely clear why McGonagall wanted her there. "Of course; due process. Mr. Heartcomb; Mr. Archibald; it would be an honor to work for your office, if only to lighten your burden. I promise you that I will give you nothing but my best efforts and I will see to it that every Deatheater who has ever postponed a hearing will be duly processed if I have to use every Magical Law in these crotchety shelves!"
Heartcomb scoffed. "We'll see about that! Thane, we will consider Miss Granger, won't we?"
"We will," said Archibald. "At the very least, she was tenacious enough to find the office door. Most applicants just miss it altogether."
I wonder why, thought Hermione wryly.
Heartcomb nodded. "We shall send you an owl, Miss Granger, informing you of our decision. Good day to you."
Hermione nodded. "Good day."
She was feeling good enough to give each of them a firm handshake. This initially dismal prospect was beginning to look terribly interesting; in fact, she believed that she could actually love this job.
She left the office proper and climbed out of the hole in the wall. Shoes clacking smartly on the stone floors, she headed to the Legislative Committee, her smile growing wider as she went.
Thank you, Professor McGonagall!
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Hermione left the Legislative Committee's office with her cheeks aglow. She had learned during her past dealings with the committee that her proposals were considered no more than nuisances in their dockets. She had learned that while she can convey her convictions through constant submissions, follow-up and lobbying, she couldn't very well yell at any of them, whether she had reason to or not. She often kept her cool, letting her cause and proposals speak for themselves, but it didn't mean that the condescending tones and acidic comments they made at her expense didn't affect her.
By all things magical, Hermione had dealt with worse, what with Malfoy and his goons calling her "mudblood", but she hated it when she was being patronized. At least with Draco, she knew that his disdain stemmed from his being threatened by her; because she was brighter, and better, but the flunkies at the Legislative office didn't care if she was the brightest witch of her age. They didn't care that she had helped defeat Voldemort. They didn't give a damn that she was friends with the great Harry Potter. All they knew was that she was an annoying young lady who was fighting a cause no one cared to support. She was a fly in their ointment; a bother to their busy lives.
It made her want to scream, and it was enough to throw ice-cold water on the good mood she had built up after her meeting with Heartcomb and Archibald.
Her foul temper churned within her as she left the Legislative Committee's office and headed for the fireplace that would take her to the Atrium.
She considered passing by the Law Enforcement Squad's office to see if Harry was free to have an early lunch but decided against it. He would surely notice her bad mood and she probably wouldn't be much for company, anyway.
Grumbling, she turned a corner and ran right smack into a wizard. She felt the jarring collision through her body, like she had ran into a stone wall, and she stumbled back, barely keeping her poise as she felt her head spin. It was the oddest thing, to be so bowled over. She hadn't been walking that fast, and the man she ran into wasn't that big, but there she was, feeling lightheaded, like something taken her by the legs and shook her like a rattle.
Someone steadied her with a firm grip and she believed it was the only thing keeping her on her feet.
"Shhhham it!" she cried, beating down the flare of pain from her knocked forehead by sheer will. She didn't care if she was partly to blame. She was in a bad mood, dammit, and she hated it even more that this wizard had an entourage of official-looking men all scuttling to see to him when she was the one who felt like she had been hit by a cannonball. "Watch where you're going!"
"You watch where you're going!" said one of the haughtier robes.
She sneered, glaring at him. Oh, she knew these types of wizards; looking and smelling like galleons a mile away; in-love enough with money to let themselves be yes-men who would kiss their employer's arse if their employer so required. Too much like Malfoy for her not to judge them. She was about to spit out, "Paid you to say that, didn't he?" when she set her spinning gaze to the wizard she had collided with.
She promptly hated herself for thinking that he was quite the gorgeous specimen. Sure, he looked, at first glance, to be the type to call her "mudblood", what with his polished, platinum hair, but his eyes-they were the kindest, warmest eyes she ever did see… or something like it. They were a peculiar shade of purple; beautiful, shimmering and sincere, and if she were the slightest bit inclined, she would have been content to look at those magnificent orbs forever. But she pulled her gaze away, almost afraid to get lost in them, turning her eyes instead to the rest of him. And when she was done admiring the finer features of his nose, mouth and forehead, she found her gaze traveling to the svelte shape of his build.
It was astounding that he had seemed so strong when she ran right smack into him. Looking at him, he seemed almost delicate, like he had gained strength from dancing instead of-say-Quidditch. But she recalled how firmly he stood his ground, how his grip had held her steady, and now he was holding her, it seemed, blocking her body against the haughty "yes man".
"Favisham," he said in a softly reproachful voice. "Do mind your manners."
It certainly took the fight out of her. Gingerly, she slid out of his grasp, stepping back and regaining her dignity; thankful that she hadn't "spat" her words at the so-named Favisham. It was then she realized that the wizard looked somewhat familiar, though it was difficult to put a name to him, considering she was still reeling a bit from his devastatingly good looks. Amazingly, she didn't stutter when she said, "Well, I'd say it's rather too late for him to do that. Excuse me."
She made a motion to leave.
"Miss Granger?"
She was quite used to people recognizing her, by now, but she wasn't enough of a diva yet to ignore those who called her by name. It also struck her how the sound of this beautiful stranger's voice saying her name caused a panicked flutter in her heart. Not trusting herself to say anything very complicated, she put on a mask of martyr-like patience and turned to look at him. "Umm-hmm?"
He was smiling. How she despised herself for thinking the smile swoon-worthy.
"Hermione Granger… brilliant," he said in his honeyed tone. "How I've wanted to meet you for so long. I should have known I would find the opportunity here in the Ministry. Your proposals on Elf Rights are a fascinating study in slavery and its abolition."
She blinked; shocked, really. "You've read-" She stopped, frowning as realization struck. Of course he hasn't read it. Who has? Even the flunkies at the Legislative Committee's Office haven't bothered! And of course he knows about my efforts on Elf Rights; I mentioned S.P.E.W. in my Wizard's Compendium interview! "Well, that's the most insightful pick-up line I've heard so far! Not creative; insightful. Goodbye, Mister-"
"Lysander Athanasius. I am so very pleased to meet you."
She glared at him. "I wasn't planning on knowing your name." She turned and stalked away, thinking, where have I heard that name before?
"Your accompanying thesis on Elf vs. a Corporation as a Legal Entity was judiciously enlightening, Miss Granger. I especially liked your point about Corporations establishing a non-corporeal existence based on laws originally intended to free slaves from bondage."
That actually got her to stop in her tracks. That hadn't been in the interview. "You-"
"Read it, yes. They're open to the public at the Legislative Committee's archives. I've developed a habit of looking forward to your submissions. You submit a new one every Friday, don't you? So I assume you came from the L.C.O."
She stared at him, mouth agape. His smile widened, perhaps knowing he had finally made a positive impression.
She blinked and she wracked her brain for a reason to tell him off. She couldn't find one, at least not in the state she was in. Here was someone who actually had respect for her beloved S.P.E.W., and she was suddenly ashamed for wanting to bite his head off earlier.
Letting the astonishment diminish, she told herself that of course, there were people out there who could actually think beyond themselves and be more than what was expected of them.
She finally graced him with a respectful nod, her features softening. "Thank you. I worked particularly hard on that thesis. Nobody has-thank you."
"Nobody has appreciated it," he finished for her. "Please, Miss Granger, let's start over." He stepped towards her, straightening his robes as he extended one hand. "Lysander Athanasius. It is a pleasure to finally meet you."
She blushed fiercely as she took his hand. "And I'm glad to have met you, Mr. Athanasius."
"Please call me Lysander," he said, the gentle but firm grip of his hand distracting her ever so slightly. "And you were right, you know."
She arched an eyebrow. She wasn't sure about what he was referring to. "Right? About what?"
He hadn't let go of her hand, turning her palm over with the least demanding touch. "About the pick-up line. It wasn't creative. But given the circumstances, I was too flustered to spout anything worth your intelligence. Forgive me, but I was too desperate to meet you."
"Mister Ath-"
"Lysander."
"L-Lysander, that's quite alright. I think-I think my opinion of you has changed, anyway…" Hermione almost widened her eyes at her forwardness. As much as she loathed playing mind games when it came to attraction, she at least wanted to come off as a bit mysterious, particularly with someone she just met. How very dowdy of you, Hermione Granger! "Well, anyway, I must be going!"
"Of course you must." He gracefully bent over her hand as he brought it to his lips.
Oh Merlin, he's-he's kissing my hand! Who DOES THAT these days?
He does, apparently; probably to every fluttery bird he mesmerizes in government facilities.
Trying not to seem overly uncomfortable, she took her hand back, gave a stiff nod to Lysander and his posse and strode to the fireplace without looking back.
As she stepped over the hearth, she turned to face the hallway with complete poise and saw Lysander's gaze still on her. She kept her demeanor cool and composed as she said, "Atrium!", secretly cheering for how she handled the walk-away.
Nice save, Granger! She thought, grinning. At least you didn't look like a total Hermio-ninny!
Oh, but the eyes on that man! I simply couldn't be blamed for screwing my part up so badly. Made me forget I had a brain at all.
She paused in her musings as a new thought began to form.
Made me forget, period…
And that, she realized, was his strongest allure.