A/N: Greetings all and a Happy Boxing Day (to everyone past PST-Merry Christmas before that) and Hanukkah to those who celebrate them! Like all of my other stories, I have no idea where this came from. I'm reading a book about a serial killer (that's the holiday spirit for you) so I decided to put a Potter spin on it. This story centers primarily around Hermione and seems a little slow to develop, but as I'm sure you know, post-Hogwarts fics generally require a lot of background covering the years during the war which we know nothing about (yet!!) So, read on and kindly leave a review! Thanks!
Chapter 1---Hermione's Action-packed Friday
Friday morning saw Hermione Granger walking briskly down one of the many halls at St. Mungo's toward her office, her echoing footsteps doing little to calm her nerves. She was always a little anxious on the first session with a client, but just as she had in school, she felt that she never performed as well if she wasn't a little nervous. Still a few doors away from her office, she pulled the client's history from within the stack of parchment in her arms and perused it carefully.
At the end of Voldemort and the war, though only nineteen years old, she was a key member in the campaign for the creation of a department within St. Mungo's to counsel wizards through trauma stemming from both the war as well as medical procedures. And now three years later, she was on her way to the top of her field, boasting not only her own office and receptionist, but impressive credentials and an exhaustively long list of clientele.
But glitzy and glamorous the life of Hermione Granger was not. There was nothing particularly alluring about the long hours and heavy workload, though this somehow slipped past most members of the wizarding community. She often had clients-schoolgirls mostly on Hogwarts, and once even Beauxbatons holiday-who were simply curious about the life of Hermione's famous flatmate, Harry Potter. She put up with it as best she could because she was good, if not the best, and it wouldn't be long until those higher up took notice. Not that she was particularly interested in advancement.
Though for many it required a full-scale war to realize what was truly important, Hermione had always known that there was more to her life than just her cleverness. She was grateful that it had gotten her this far, but she was determined to do the greater good and help those who still needed helping.
At this moment she was most concerned about Charlotte Fairclough, her newest client. Settling in to a therapeutic relationship proved tricky for some, especially those unaccustomed to revealing their emotions. Hermione's style was unconventional to the wizarding and Muggle world alike. Her blurred background seemed to be an advantage as it helped shape the sort of environment in which her clients would be most comfortable. Firstly, she referred to the people she interviewed every day as "clients," not "patients." She was also aversed to the Muggle practice of scribbling down unintelligible and meaningless notes while a patient droned from a leather couch. Eventually she settled on her present method.
For almost five minutes, Charlotte had been sitting in Hermione's office. The latter's delayed arrival would allow Charlotte to bond with the room, noting its features and getting an idea of its tardy occupant gradually, rather than upsetting her with an overwhelming upsurge of information. Then Hermione would enter, with Charlotte already somewhat familiar with the room, and the session already underway.
As she stood outside her own office door, Hermione took a deep and calming breath. It would be foolish for her to walk into an interview distracted by personal issues, and the conversation which she knew would follow might dredge up some of her own painful memories. For that reason alone, Hermione dreaded these sorts of discussions.
She lingered one last moment, then raised her right arm-the one not laden with parchments and her briefcase-to knock on the heavy oak door. She strode in confidently, smiling a greeting to her newest client and holding out her hand. She was immediately taken with the charming matronly woman who strongly resembled Mrs. Weasley but for her clear hazel eyes and many more wrinkles.
"You must be Mrs. Fairclough," she asserted warmly.
"Yes, yes I am," the aged witch replied. Hermione introduced herself and offered the woman a seat in one of the armchairs beside the faux fire. "Please call me Charlotte. No one's called me Mrs. Fairclough in years, though I suppose that all will come up later…." She nervously folded and unfolded her hands in her lap, caught herself staring in Hermione's direction and looked away quickly.
Hermione smiled to herself guessing the reason behind Charlotte's staring as she seated herself across from her. Politely she asked, "Is there anything the matter, Charlotte?"
The woman blushed slightly and shrugged her shoulders. She seemed to laugh embarrassedly at herself as she answered, "I'm sorry, I've read about you and everything but I just expected you to be-"
"Older?" asked Hermione, a wide grin on her face. At the woman's nod, she continued, "Yes, I get that a lot actually. I'm regretting the day it doesn't come up."
The sixty-something witch chuckled and relaxed back into her armchair, removing her lacy, cream colored gloves as she did so. Charlotte looked around the spacious room with interest, her hazel eyes wistfully resting on the collection of moving photographs on the mantel.
"That was taken at my friend Ron's wedding last June," explained Hermione, indicating the largest photograph in the center where Charlotte's eyes had lingered longest. Hermione, Harry, Ginny, Neville, Ron, and Luna's picture selves grinned and waved from the sepia-toned portrait, while every so often the bride and groom leaned in for a kiss and the rest of the group feigned disgust.
Charlotte seemed to come back from a distance. She blinked to clear her misty eyes and admitted with a shy smile, "I'm sorry, I'm not really sure how to begin."
Hermione nodded and leaned back into her chair. "Why don't we just start with why you're here today?" she offered, turning her palms up in a symbolic gesture of trust and honesty.
"Well," Charlotte began timidly, "About three years ago just at the end of the war, my husband was killed." She closed her eyes at the admission but when she opened them, her voice gained confidence and she continued. "Before the war began to escalate, we discussed our options. In end we decided to fight alongside the other trained witches and wizards despite our age, because both of us had quick wands in our youth. Maybe that wasn't the wisest decision, but neither of us wanted to stay at home. We have no children, so there didn't seem to be a lot to lose."
She stopped abruptly, losing herself in the memory. Hermione interrupted gently, probing the woman's past for more information. "Did you discuss the possibility of one of you dying?"
Charlotte nodded in the affirmative. "It's easier to accept the possibility when it's not the reality," she replied wisely.
Hermione flinched slightly. Unknowingly, Charlotte had just reiterated almost the exact words Hermione had told herself many times during the war. It wasn't difficult to accept that her best friends might not make it when they were both alive and well beside her. She remembered looking into Harry and Ron's serious faces as they sat around a weak fire somewhere, praying to any deity who deigned to listen to spare her friends from death and pain. Luckily Harry managed to defeat Voldemort in the most important battle of the wizarding world and the trio emerged from the war relatively unscathed, but not everyone was as fortunate. The names of thousands of casualties were posted on parchment in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. Hermione tried to ignore the memory of hundreds of crying and screaming women as they read out the names of the dead.
"During one of the final battles, we were separated. I refused to even consider that he could be gone until I read his name," Charlotte proceeded.
Hermione blinked away the remaining images. "And what did you do after you found out?"
"I'm sure you agree, Miss Granger, that war is not the best time to allow yourself emotion," she pointed out rationally. "I had to go on fighting, but it often came back to me at night. I couldn't bear to think about him during the day. Does that make me a callous person, Miss Granger?"
Hermione shook her head. "On the contrary, it just proves that you're human. In survival situations when your primary goal is simply to maintain living, emotions are a dangerous distraction at best. This is an intrinsic component of a soldier's mentality in the first place-otherwise one might question the morality behind one's actions, whether what one is doing is murder or justice, et cetera. The method is often known as `compartmentalizing,' or perhaps the Scarlet O'Hara Syndrome," she assured her with a kind smile.
"I apologize but I'm not very familiar with Muggle cinema, Miss Granger," laughed Charlotte.
"I understand," she assented. "Now, can you tell me more about the days following the loss of your husband?"
While Hermione was reluctant to put Charlotte into any sort of category to classify her stage in the grieving process just yet, this question might help her determine the woman's attention to detail proceeding her husband's death. In a later session, Hermione might recommend the use of a pensieve to further explore a client's traumatic experience. But that would have to be far into the future, so that both Charlotte and Hermione could wholly disconnect themselves from the scene and the former would not suffer any sort of relapse.
Charlotte was silent a moment, staring at the flickering flames in the fireplace. "War is funny in that it brings out the best in some people and the worst in others. I saw wizards of all ages, races, and backgrounds out there on the battlefield. They all blur together but in a way I will never forget a single one.
"I was hit and put out of commission a few weeks before the Final Battle and a few days after my husband. I remember it seemed so hopeless out there-buildings were still smoldering as the rain doused them, screams in all directions, mist clung to the ground making it hard to see what or who you were tripping over." She shivered and Hermione remembered all too well the feel of the war, the drooping morale. How Harry had managed to stay above it she wasn't sure.
Charlotte's eyes locked with Hermione's. She spoke determinedly, "My husband was a good man, Miss Granger. I'm not here to forget him, I just need to accept that he's gone where I cannot follow. At least not for a while," she added with a wink.
Hermione returned the gesture. "Does that mean you'll be coming back next week?"
"Yes indeed," she answered at once. "I like the look of you, Miss Granger. You're astute, there's no doubt about that," Charlotte observed in much the same way a grandmother would appraise her grandchild.
Hermione chuckled and replied, "You sound just like the Sorting Hat at Hogwarts. Anyway, I think we're done here for today." Both women stood up and Charlotte began to re-don her gloves, hat, and cloak as Hermione escorted her to the door of the office. "Why don't you speak to Isabelle at the receptionist's desk where you came in and see if the two of you can't set up a schedule for the next month or so?" Hermione suggested while holding the door.
Charlotte nodded and made her goodbyes. Just before turning to leave, Charlotte turned around and addressed Hermione a little shyly, "Miss Granger, I was wondering if I might ask you a personal question?"
Though she was inwardly a little wary at this turnaround, given the sorts of questions she was still asked in interviews by journalists and teenaged witches alike, Hermione doubted that Charlotte would breach that line of politeness. "Please call me Hermione," she answered by way of reply.
"Hermione," said Charlotte, trying out the name on her lips and smiling, "Have you ever been in love?"
Hermione knew it was not asked because Charlotte was intentionally prying into Hermione's personal life or because she was a subscriber to Witch Weekly, but because she was concerned that Hermione might not be able to empathize with Charlotte's situation if she'd never experienced love and loss herself. For that reason, Hermione gave her a bittersweet smile and a sincere nod.
Charlotte accepted this, shook Hermione's hand, and departed down the hall, her heeled shoes reverberating against the wooden floor as she walked. Hermione closed the door softly behind her and crossed over the thick rug to the mantelpiece on the other side of the room. Charlotte's last question lingered in her mind, especially as she gazed at the moving photographs in front of her.
Just next to Ron and Luna's wedding picture was Hermione's secret favorite-she and Harry sitting on the couch of Ginny's old flat two years previous having a playful argument about something already forgotten. Both had adopted angry expressions, though it appeared that a smirk was threatening to break out at any moment. The next second Harry was gesticulating wildly toward his mouth, as Hermione had just used a silencing charm on him. Hermione fondly remembered as it was depicted in the photograph that when she'd restored his speech, they'd both burst out into a giggling spell that lasted several minutes.
Still smiling at the picture, Hermione sighed to herself. She was in love, to be sure. It was who she was in love with that was the problem. Everyone had assumed that because it had taken so long for she and Ron to get together, once they did it would be forever. However, that ship had sailed, and Hermione wasn't eager to do a repeat performance with anyone else. Often she'd listed the pros and cons of just admitting her feelings to the object of her affection, but no matter how she tabulated it, she just would not risk their friendship. Harry had been a colossal part of her life almost as far back as she could remember.
She tore her eyes from the mantelpiece and headed for her desk where a stack of post waited for her. A glance at the clock informed her that it was nearly lunch, a time held in high esteem by her flaming red-haired best friend. Since there was no appointment scheduled for the afternoon, Hermione decided to leave the post and the report for Charlotte's session until then. She straightened up her desk and headed to the rack by the door to retrieve her hanging cloak.
A moment later she was striding purposefully toward the reception room to see if Isabelle wanted anything while she was out. While she struggled with the catch on her handbag, a deep booming voice rang out in the hall.
"Miss Granger! Just what do you think you are doing?!"
Hermione deftly hid her wince and turned to see the bulky form of her loathsome boss, Mr. Ebenezer Powell. He resembled her memory of Vernon Dursley so well that Hermione often grew angry just thinking about him. His towering frame capped off over six and a half feet, while his tremendous girth strained the buttons on his white collared shirt. He was Muggle-born, just like Hermione, but it wasn't obvious by his constant negative remarks about them. If keeping her job for the sake of people like Charlotte Fairclough wasn't so important to her, Hermione would have taken him down a peg or two. As such, she could barely stand him, but made a good show of appearing to.
"I'm heading to lunch, Mr. Powell," she answered simply.
"Not on my sickle, you're not. There are still," he paused, pulled out his pocket watch and screwed up his eyes to do the arithmetic. Hermione thought he looked like a crumpled up piece of old parchment, but apparently he wasn't finished, "six work minutes until lunch time."
Hermione repressed an exasperated sigh. "Yes, but there are a few matters I need to check on with Isabelle before I go," she said through gritted teeth.
Powell grunted to hide his confusion. "Who is Isabelle?"
She restrained herself with some difficulty from rolling her eyes. "The receptionist."
"Oh," he said, not in the least embarrassed that he didn't know his own employee's name. "Carry on then, but you'd better be back on time. And I want that article I asked you to draw up for the Daily Prophet by five o'clock!"
"I've already given it to you, Mr. Powell," Hermione said. "On Tuesday," she added, hoping it would jog his memory.
"Oh yes," he recovered. Hermione's relief was short-lived. "Yes, of course, then why don't you draw up another for the special April edition of Witch Weekly?"
She fought a groan and hitched a fake smile on her face. "Will do, Mr. Powell."
"Good," he replied, raising himself up and down on his toes with his hands behind his back. "You know, you're good for publicity, Granger. For some reason, the papers love you. Keep it up," he said, clapping her on the back and causing her to stumble forward.
She was saved from slamming her nose into the wooden floor by a pair of strong arms that had emerged from nowhere. After being placed upright she discovered the identity of her rescuer. Mark Bonner, a trainee Healer in the medical department of St. Mungo's, was one of her closest friends at work. A few years her senior, he'd been distinguished after the war with an Order of Merlin, Second Class for bravery and valor. But to Hermione he was just Mark, an attractive wizard with a heavy dose of wit and a conspicuous taste for clever woman. In all intents and purposes, Hermione admitted to herself yet again, he would be perfect for her-if only she loved him.
As she dusted herself off, she offered her thanks and asked, "What brings you to the slovenly depths of the psychotherapy department, Mark?"
He handed back her handbag before they began to walk whence he had come. "Oh, you know, just seeing if you wanted to catch an early lunch on my sickle."
She credited his imitation with a laugh and replied, "Definitely, I'm absolutely famished. I had a new client today, which is always a little nerve-wracking."
Mark nodded in understanding. "Good, do you think it went well though?"
Considering for a moment, Hermione answered, "Yes, I do, although generally speaking it's a little soon to tell. I'll have to go over the transcript that my quill took later to see if I can work with what she gave me today."
"Excellent, excellent. Listen, do you mind stopping by my office before we go? I forgot to lock of the cupboards again, and I really ought to secure that before I get another lecture for Healer Augustus Pye. Merlin, the man's a certified Healer for two seconds and already he's rubbing it in everyone's face. Anyway, you don't mind, do you?"
"No, that's fine," she shrugged. "You're still coming tomorrow, right?"
"Of course," Mark answered as though it was obvious. "Think I'd miss the chance to dine with the famous Harry Potter?" he added sarcastically.
She rolled her eyes and waved to Isabelle as they left the reception room and headed for the lifts, making a mental note to discuss Charlotte Fairclough's schedule before the end of the workday.
Together Hermione and Mark rode up to the main floor where they had to navigate through the throngs of wizards waiting to be seen or directed to the proper floor for treatment. A few minutes later, Hermione followed Mark into a storeroom and watched him sort through nearly fifty keys he carried on a thick brass ring. She hummed to herself idly and fingered the various boxes and bottles of potion ingredients.
Suddenly she stopped at the cabinet that Mark was locking. "Conium Maculatum? Mark, isn't hemlock a poison?" she wondered, a little unsettled that so strong a poison found a place in a healing institution.
He shifted uncomfortably. "It's not something we shout about, but yeah," he admitted. "It's rarely used, but sometimes needed when a patient requests a speedy death."
Hermione unconsciously grimaced at his crude language, but nodded her understanding. It was discomforting to imagine ever having to be in a situation where resorting to poison was the best option.
"So who's ready to eat?"
~~~*#*~~~
Several hours and a small detour later, Hermione apparated directly into the flat she shared with Harry and called out, "Harry, I'm home and I've brought food!"
A tall figure with messy black hair stumbled into the entrance hall, rubbing his hands together fiendishly, "Excellent! What have you got here?" Digging through the bags, he repeated his exclamation and added to Hermione's delight, "Chinese! Hermione, I could kiss you."
He relieved her of the bags of Chinese takeaway boxes and set off to prepare plates in the kitchen, while Hermione cheerfully meandered down the hall to her bedroom to change out of her workclothes, uplifted by Harry's offhand comment. Would it really be so bad if she just confessed her feelings, she wondered to herself for what felt like the millionth time. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in its crisp white blouse and black knee-length pleated skirt and sighed hopelessly. "Just give up, Hermione," she murmured sulkily, repeating yet again what had become her mantra over the years.
Minutes later in a comfortable pair of brown fleece pajama bottoms and a solid t-shirt, Hermione approached the sound of opening and closing cabinets and the gentle clinking of dishes. She paused at the kitchen threshold and watched silently as Harry prepared their dinner.
He noticed her slumped against the doorframe and asked, "Rough week? You look completely knackered."
"Why thank you, Harry, just what a girl wants to hear," she replied grumpily, taking the proffered plate and cutlery and heading to the living room.
"Well it could be worse, Hermione," said an unusually chipper Harry, following her to the couch and shooting flames wandlessly into the fireplace as an afterthought. "Do you know what I learned today? That you should never put a beverage and rubbing alcohol anywhere in the same vicinity."
Hermione raised an eyebrow, resisting the urge to smile though she knew the corners of her mouth were twitching. "Pray, how did this life lesson escape you all these years?"
"Well," said Harry with mock arrogance, rubbing his chin in what he obviously thought was a debonair manner. "I didn't have much of a childhood, what with conquering Dark Lords and all. Well, one at any rate."
This earned him a playful swat from Hermione, who turned back to her food and absently began, "I met with a new client today. An elderly witch named Charlotte. She wanted to discuss her husband."
"War widow?" asked Harry, mixing up his rice.
"Yes," answered Hermione. She stared into the strengthening fire without really seeing it. "I don't know, though," she continued, turning to Harry as if asking a question. "I've never taken to any of my clients this quickly. She's just so…lovely," she finished, unsatisfied with her description of the amiable old woman. "A lot like Mrs. Weasley, I suppose."
Harry nodded to her as though he understood completely. "You're seeing her again then?"
"Definitely," she replied. `Next week sometime, Isabelle said."
The two lapsed into a comfortable silence, their dirty dishes stacked on the coffee table. Harry rested his feet on the tall pile of Quidditch magazines and situated both hands comfortably behind his head.
Hermione curled up against the nearest couch arm, cursing her inability to just spill the beans for once. I get
people to do it every day, she thought, it shouldn't be that difficult. She fleetingly registered how
romantic the scene could be-a heartfelt confession of love between two best friends in front of a blazing fire. With a
wide yawn she dismissed the notion and asked, "Anyway, how was your day?
He shrugged. "Oh you know, same old. Arrest here, false alarm there-those never get old," he said
sarcastically. "By the way, you finally get to meet Persephone. I invited her to lunch with us tomorrow."
Hermione pushed down the plume of upwelling jealousy at the thought of Harry's work partner and managed an unconcerned, "Oh?"
"Yeah," Harry continued, stifling a yawn, "I thought, you know, we could try and set her up with Mark. Get him off your back for a bit."
Hermione closed her eyes and smiled to herself, jealous forgotten. "That sounds lovely, Harry," she murmured before falling peacefully asleep beside him on the couch.
A/N: Hmmm, re-reading it, I'd say it's sorta dull in the beginning. What do you think? I know there was only a little Harry here, but more will come! Reviews are appreciated! Wink wink, nudge nudge.
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