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Welcome to Day 3! This is going to be a more serious one, and I'm sorry for that, but I've got two or three lighter ones coming up. Today's prompt is 'Name one scar your character has, and tell us where it came from. If they don't have any, is there a reason?' Of course, it's Hermione, so naturally she has scars, but I decided to make up my own rather than do the boring old canon ones - this one takes place a few years after Hogwarts, but the Trio is under 30. Enjoy!
"The Wizarding World has not seen significant political or social change in three hundred years." Hermione Granger declared from her podium, furiously blinking away the spots that appeared in her eyes as cameras flashed around her. This fact was depressing, but she tried not to let it get to her. After all: "This ends today.
"In the past, our stability has been a source of strength; it has allowed us to pass unseen, and to build our society into what it is." Hermione didn't personally think that was much of an accomplishment - her jaw clenched as she remembered the long debates with the Wizengamot where, rather than provide any sort of reasoned attacks on her policies, they had decided that of course her policies were bunk because she was muggleborn. But, once again: "This ends today.
"The old ways are no longer enough to sustain us. The rate of muggleborn emergence is on the rise and with it, greater integration with the Muggle world is inevitable. If we are to survive, we must evolve.
"We are growing." She emphasized, and they were; the end of the Second Wizarding War had seen a tremendous increase in both birth rate and fertility rate and, for reasons that weren't entirely clear to the Ministry's magibiologists, the emergence of muggleborns was increasing almost exponentially. "We are growing faster than we have ever grown before, and the Wizengamot has," Reluctantly, she thought privately, And some of them only under threat of Harry, "Agreed that it will not be able to govern this new population.
"Therefore, I am pleased to announce the passing of the People's Parliament Act and, with it, the creation of a new legislative body, with representatives that will be decided by the People, rather than by virtue of birth, and selected for their qualifications, not for their wealth. The first free elections in British Magical history will take place this coming October, and the Wizenmoot will have its inaugural sitting in February." If the flashbulbs had been bright before, they were positively apocalyptic as Hermione finished her speech - so bad that she had to physically cover her eyes as she descended from the podium, dodging the reporter's questions and slipping behind the curtain. Kingsley was there, but he only smiled at her and gave her a succinct "Good job" before he exited through her entrance, to make his own comment on the new changes.
Hermione couldn't help but smile. She was making legitimate reform. It had been a tough battle, but she had done it.
***
"Congratulations, 'Mione!" Hermione's dear friend, clean-shaven for a change but still looking out-of-place at a Ministry gala, proclaimed loudly as she approached.
"Thank you, Ronald." She accepted, nodding graciously as she had learned to do when socializing among the Wizarding elite. He grinned at her manner, but the grin slipped when she added, in her most dangerous voice: "And if you ever call me by that horrid nickname again, Molly is going to find herself with another daughter; understand me?" Ron's ears went very, very red, and he nodded sullenly. Hermione immediately shot him a sickly-sweet smile, another skill she had learned in her political deals. "Now where's Harry?"
"Here." An unfamiliar voice called behind her. She turned to see an older gentleman with a long grey beard and a sharply pointed nose. It wasn't Harry, and yet she knew it was; she could see the lines of his face underneath the charms and, of course, he hadn't disguised his uniquely green eyes.
She briefly thought to admonish him, for disguising himself on today of all days, but she knew why he had done it: if Harry Potter walked into a room, he owned it - everyone was on him, and nothing else was happening as far as the media was concerned. He didn't want that attention on the best of days, but today was her day, and he wanted it to be about her. So she just commended him on his glamour, which made him smile, and excused herself from her friends to make the obligatory toast.
"Attention, everyone, please!" The dull hum of the room died down, and all eyes were on her. "I want to thank everyone who made today possible: Minister Shacklebolt, of course; the entire Wizengamot; Director Thicknesse…" There was a long list of people to thank - complicated pieces of legislation like the PPA always had a lot of people involved - but Hermione did not get an opportunity to thank any more than she did; at that precise moment, several things happened very quickly. It was only later, sorting out the pieces on the courtroom floor, that Hermione was fully clear on the exact details. But to a layperson in the congregation, events unfolded like this:
A man had appeared behind Director Granger. Although that was unusual enough, it was all the more disconcerting that his face was covered by a white mask, uncomfortably similar to the marks of the old Death Eaters. Any illusions the assembly had about this being a publicity stunt, however, were dispelled when the man drew a cruel-looking knife, grabbed Director Granger about the middle, and pressed his blade into her throat. "Open your eyes, my pureblood brothers!" The man shouted in a throaty voice. To the average witch or wizard, this statement was disconcerting enough - it brought back memories of the Dark Times, when He-Whose-Name-Was-Still-Not-Spoken ruled by Pureblood supremacy. For some of the older attendees, it sent them back even further, to the First Great War, when Grindelwald had announced similar aims. Fortunately for you, dear anonymous witch or wizard, at this moment one of your neighbours had likely started whispering about Harry Potter.
Because Harry Potter had indeed appeared, dropping the charms that kept him disguised, throwing a stunner at the interloper, and bounding up to the stage in one fluid motion. What Harry had not anticipated, however, was how the knife would react to all of this excitement, which was why he felt as though his stomach had dropped through the floor when he turned from restraining the intruder to see Hermione Granger, Director of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and his very best friend in the entire world, kneeling on the ground in a pool of blood.
***
Hermione awoke very slowly. It was good that she did this, she reflected, because her head was pounding so violently that she may have thrown up if she'd woken too much faster. She tried opening her eyes, but the brightness of the light pointed at her instantly removed that idea from her head. "Where'mi?" She asked, her voice hoarse, not failing to notice the foul taste in her mouth. She cleared her throat, hissing at the unexpected pain of doing so, and tried again: "Where am I?"
Someone - something? - squeezed her hand. "Hermione," Harry's voice, sounding relieved and guilty and, to her ears, wonderful, "You're in St. Mungo's."
"What happened?"
Harry shushed her gently, and she felt him brush some strands of hair behind her ear. "Don't try to talk. You had an accident; someone hurt you."
"Vol-"
Harry's hushing was less gentle the second time. "I don't know, they won't let me in on the investigation. Please don't try to talk."
"Har-"
"You really should listen to Mister Potter." A curt, unfamiliar voice admonished from a separate direction. Hermione had been in St. Mungo's enough times - and wasn't that a depressing thought - that she had a reasonable picture of the patient rooms in her mind. She knew she was on the bed, and that Harry was at her side, meaning this new voice must be a Healer, and he must have just walked through the door. "I'm Healer Griffiths," Score one for brainpower, "I tried to patch you up. You were very lucky, Director Granger; if the blade had been even a fraction to the right, I'm not sure we'd be having this conversation."
Hermione, for once listening to an expert opinion, didn't respond, but she squeezed Harry's hand and, slowly, opened her eyes. The glare wasn't so bad, once she got used to it. Harry was indeed at her bedside, and judging by the growth on his chin he'd likely spent the night. The Healer was at the foot of her bed, looking at them with his head cocked to the side. "Will there be any permanent damage?" She heard Harry ask.
The Healer shook his head. "The blade only grazed the trachea, so there shouldn't be any lasting effects, except for a bit of soreness for a few days. However, the throat is a tricky place, so I wasn't able to completely heal the surface wound." Hermione's hand, the one not in Harry's, flew to her throat. Her fingers brushed the bandage around her neck before another hand - Harry's - gently pulled her hand away. "There will be some scarring, but only superficial damage."
Hermione turned to Harry, and smiled, letting him know she was okay with that. He smiled back. They both had their share of scars, so what was one more to the list? At the moment, and for the future, they were both just happy that she was alive.