Chasing Pavements
"Minister, sign this—"
"Minister, the judgement on Travers v Summers is about to be issued—"
"Have you had a chance to—"
"Minister—"
"It's like a beehive in here," comes a bemused voice, cutting above the din in the office. The aides turn to look at the newcomer with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance.
"Harry!" exclaims Hermione, before addressing the others in the office.
"Give us a moment, will you?"
Once the masses have filtered out, Harry leans casually on the leather armchair across from Hermione's desk. "So. The Bill on Elfish Welfare."
Hermione's eyes light up. "I know. Isn't it exciting?"
"I'll say. It seems like only yesterday you were handing out those awful S.P.E.W. badges and designating me—what was it? Treasurer?"
"Secretary. Ron was Treasurer."
"Of course," demurs Harry. He pauses and smiles at her again. It's infectious.
"What?"
"Nothing, it's just…good on you, Hermione. Few would try to pass laws in their first year as Minister. It shows you're not bothered with bureaucracy. You care about doing what's right."
"It's still got to be passed, though," she reminds him, blushing. "The Conservatives in the Wizengamot are being terribly cagey about the whole affair—one day we've got them on our side, the next they're against us. Even some Liberals are acting up."
"Really? Who?"
"Boot, Chancery, Rivers, Kenmare—"
"Elf-owning families."
"Essentially. We've still got two weeks of lobbying. I'm optimistic, but it's going to take a lot of work. The Conservatives have even stipulated that should the Bill pass, we need to have made all the arrangements to put it into action immediately."
"You're kidding!"
"Sadly, no." She gestures to the mountain of paperwork on her desk that threatens to topple over at any moment. "All this needs to be done before the vote."
Harry shakes his head disapprovingly. "Are you even going to have a Christmas, Hermione?"
She shrugs. "No rest for the wicked. Regardless, how are things with you?"
"Same old. Criminals to be caught, cases to be solved. Journalists accusing me of inefficiency to be dealt with. It's a good thing it was Kingsley who promoted me, or you'd be accused of nepotism on top of everything else."
Hermione looks at him, confused. "Everything else?"
"Don't you read Theia Grey's opinion column in the Daily Prophet? Or the Politics section of Witch Weekly?"
Oh, that.
"I don't have time to read much apart from the Prophet's front page, much less Witch Weekly."
"Right." Harry nods slowly. "I don't mean to tell you what to do, Hermione, but maybe you should..."
"Read what the masses think of me?" She snorts. "Harry, I've got people in this office who track public opinion. I don't need to read what some reporter with a grudge is saying about me. I'm busy enough."
"It's up to you," says Harry, but even once he's left, she can't shake the feeling that there was something he wanted to say.
She makes a mental note to check the papers when she's home, but when the Senior Undersecretary enters, stumbling under a swaying pile of parchment, she forgets all about it.
(x)
The shouting reaches her ears as soon as she opens the door. Rose and Hugo are standing in the living room, screaming unintelligible things at one another.
There go her hopes of a relaxing evening.
She finds Ron in the kitchen, helping Millie, their house elf, with the cooking. Hermione didn't want a house elf at first, but as she moved up the ranks at the Ministry, she couldn't keep up with the household work. Millie's treated excellently—she's free, receives a generous salary, and both sick leave and holidays. She's recently been to Cornwall for a weekend. The Weasleys have proudly tacked up a picture of her relaxing on the beach on the fridge with the family photos.
"Miss Rose and Master Hugo has been arguing all evening, Missus," says Millie, shaking her head disapprovingly.
Hermione sighs. "About what?"
Ron shrugs. "First it was about Rose not helping Hugo with homework, then about whose turn it was to take the dog for a walk. Then it devolved into Merlin knows what."
She reaches up to massage her temples. "I deal with squabbling Ministry officials for a living, and then have to come back to this."
"It's so good to be home, isn't it?" says Ron, quirking an eyebrow, before sobering quickly when Hermione glares at him. "Do you want me to handle it?"
She shakes her head. "What's one more score to settle?"
She strides into the living room, folds her arms, and puts on her best stern expression. "Stop it, both of you!"
They fall silent. Score.
"Hi, Mum," says Hugo, sheepishly. "Didn't realise you were home."
"Clearly. What's going on here?"
Hugo opens his mouth to respond, but Rose cuts in, her voice chilly.
"What do you care?"
"Excuse me?"
"I said, what do you care?"
Hermione is taken aback—Rose is never disrespectful. "Don't take that tone—"
"Oh, don't be so high and mighty!" A crimson flush creeps up the younger witch's face. "When was the last time you were even home before five? When was the last time you showed the slightest interest in my life?"
Shock writes itself all over Hermione's face. She doesn't understand where this is coming from. "Darling—I've been working on something important—"
"What about me?" A single, hot tear spills down Rose's cheek. "Am I not important to you?"
Hermione feels like she's been punched in the stomach, the wind knocked out of her. She watches dumbfounded as her daughter spins on her heel and storms upstairs. She jumps when the sound of the door slamming ricochets through her ears.
Silence.
Then Ron, timidly from the kitchen: "Well, she's got her mother's temper."
(x)
Hermione gives Rose time to cool off. Then, she knocks on the door, her knuckles feather-light against the wood.
"Rose?"
"Go away."
"We made your favourite," she tries again.
"I'm not hungry."
Hermione sighs and cracks open the door. The lights are off. Rose is lying on her bed, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars she'd spotted at a Muggle shop when she was four, and begged her parents for. Ron had spent a whole day tacking them up the Muggle way, and had let Rose help.
"You've always loved those stars," says Hermione softly, crossing the threshold and shutting the door behind her.
Rose doesn't move.
"Rosie—I'm sorry."
Nothing.
"I've been caught up at work," continues Hermione, perching on the bed near her daughter's feet. "Everything's been so busy, and I just didn't realise—"
"That's the problem, isn't it?" Rose says coldly, her gaze still firmly on the stars. "You don't realise."
Rose is obviously trying to hurt her, and it's working. Each word is like a paper cut.
"I'm sorry, darling," she says softly. "There's no excuse, I know. I promise, as soon as this Bill is passed, I'll be home more. We'll spend more time together."
Rose says nothing.
Hermione feels like she's grasping at straws—maybe if Rose understood why this was so important, she might be better able to empathise. Pressing her lips together, she begins: "Darling—you do know that this Bill is vital. Not all elves are like Millie—"
Wrong strategy.
"Circe," swears Rose, sitting up suddenly, her eyes blazing. "Everything with you is about those stupid elves!"
"Rose—"
"Don't 'Rose' me! Maybe if I was an elf, you'd pay attention to me and realise that I need you now. Not after your stupid Bill passes."
She leaps up from the bed and grabs her coat off the peg. "I'm going out."
"I—" Hermione struggles to decide what to do. There's no manual for parenting. "No, you are not, young lady—"
"Relax, Mum," says the teenager, shrugging the garment over her shoulders. "Millie will keep an eye on me. Unlike you, she was here when I got home from school."
She stalks out, leaving Hermione on the verge of tears.
(x)
The Bill fails.
All the long hours, the paperwork, the fights with Rose, the exhaustion…none of it matters, because in a single vote, everything she's fought for is destroyed.
Every pat on the back, each comforting word feels like a slap in the face. She smiles and nods as people tell her not to worry, that it's her first Bill, that passing laws is nearly as difficult as surviving a Killing Curse ("And only one known wizard's done that," jokes Senior Undersecretary Morgan, before sobering quickly), but nothing stops the horrible ache in her stomach, the sense of failure that consumes her wholly.
It only gets worse when she gets home and finds her husband and son on the sofa, but no sign of her daughter.
"Where's Rose?"
Ron and Hugo exchange a glance. "She's in bed," says the former.
"What?" Hermione glances at the clock. "It's just gone seven."
"I know," says Ron soothingly. "But she wanted an early night. To get ready for tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
Ron gives her a funny look.
"She goes back to school tomorrow, Mummy," says Hugo, eagerly.
For the first time, she becomes aware of how exhausted she really is. It isn't only her muscles that ache—her head is heavy, like someone's filled in the crevices with concrete sludge. She wants nothing more than to pour herself a glass of wine and curl up in bed, but Hugo's looking at her with such large excited eyes. She's not been home early enough to eat dinner with him for weeks, and she doesn't want to disappoint him.
She puts an arm around her son and guides him to the dinner table.
(x)
It's only later, when she and Ron are alone, that everything gushes out in a terrible deluge.
"I took this job because I wanted to change things," she whispers between tears. "I wanted to make things better for everyone. But if being Minister of Magic is nothing more complicated than learning lines and putting on a costume—if it's nothing more than being a figurehead, then…I don't know. I don't want it."
Ron pulls her closer to him. "I know."
"And now Rose won't speak to me, and…it doesn't feel worth it. None of this feels worth it."
"Hey." Ron places his hands on her shoulders and looks her straight in the eye. "You're doing an amazing job."
She averts her eyes. "It doesn't feel like it."
"Doesn't make it less true. You've had a setback, fine. But I know you. You don't give up. You win."
"And Rose?" she asks. The words come out hesitantly, almost like she doesn't want to know the answer.
Ron sighs. "She's a teenager. She's probably just going through some stuff right now. She'll sort it out."
"You're probably right," murmurs Hermione, but she isn't sure if she truly believes it.
(x)
It's only the next morning that Hermione realises what the 'stuff' might be.
She decides to take half the day off and drive Rose to King's Cross with Ron and Hugo. If Rose appreciates this gesture, she does not show it—she sits sullenly in the back seat, her arms folded, staring out of the window as the London streets go whizzing past. Every attempt at conversation that Hermione makes fails.
The silence is only broken when they cross the barrier to Platform Nine- and-Three-Quarters and Ron swears loudly under his breath.
Cameras are shoved into their faces, flashing and clicking angrily. Reporters jostle each other, each trying to get the best angle, trying to be heard over the sound of the mob.
Hermione thinks they're there for her. She clears her throat, preparing to give a statement, and then realises that none of the cameras are pointing at her.
"Rose, over here!"
"Oi, what are you wearing?"
"Rose, who's your boyfriend?"
Rose covers her face and, breaking free of her family, pushes forward and hurries across the platform. The reporters follow her until she ascends the steps of the Hogwarts Express and disappears inside. They then wait outside the windows, hoping for a glimpse.
Hermione's head spins. She sinks her nails into Ron's arm to stop herself from fainting or throwing up.
(x)
Later in the car, she asks him, in an urgent, low voice: "What was that about?"
He gives her a funny look. "When was the last time you read Witch Weekly?"
She groans. "In case you haven't noticed, Ronald, I don't exactly have time to—"
"I know, I know," he says calmingly. "It's just… "
"Just what?"
He sighs. When they get home, she follows him upstairs and into Rose's room. He slides open the top drawer of her bedside table and extracts an issue of Witch Weekly. Going by the date, it's the latest one.
"Ron—" she begins, confused, but he shushes her. He opens it up to the gossip section and slides it into her lap.
The shock she feels is nothing compared to the guilt that comes next. It wraps around her stomach and squeezes until she feels like she can't breathe. Her mouth drops open and her breathing becomes shallow, and it's all she can do not to grab onto Ron's arm and hold on for dear life. It's only when she feels his fingers clutch onto hers that she realises that's exactly what she's done.
"How long?" she manages.
"'Mione—"
"How long?"
He sighs. "Since the school year started. They've been following her to Hogsmeade, taking pictures, reporting on any rumour about her that they hear."
"Why did no one tell me?"
"Rose didn't want me to."
Hermione's head snaps up.
"She didn't want to bother you," says Ron, apologetically. "She said she could handle some—and I quote, 'uneducated prats with cameras'. But I think she was secretly hoping you'd notice on your own."
Her eyes flick back to the glossy pages of the magazine, to the unflattering photo and the words that follow.
How could she have missed something this big?
(x)
Lucinda Munch is the editor of Witch Weekly. She has a perfect row of teeth, a glossy blonde bob and wears robes that probably cost as much as Hermione makes in a month.
"Hermione," she purrs in an affected accent as she enters the Minister's office, her arms outstretched. "Darling. It's been too long."
Hermione gives her a cold smile. Lucinda drops her arms and smooths down her robes.
"You must tell me what you're wearing. Our readers would love to know—"
"Your readers can screw themselves."
"Excuse me?"
"You tell your reporters to stay away from my daughter," growls Hermione through gritted teeth, "or I will file a restraining injunction—"
"You can't," begins Munch, a Cheshire smile spreading across her pinched face. "According to the Law on the Actions of Journalists, Ministry officials cannot file a restraining injunction against—"
"I don't care."
The words come out slow, calculated and colder than a cube of ice. The smile disappears off Munch's face.
"Leave my daughter alone," repeats Hermione. "Or I will personally ensure your magazine is never printed again. Understood?"
She sees every possible protest run through Munch's mind, from this is intimidation to go to hell. She continues to stare her down anyway.
Several seconds—or perhaps minutes—pass, but Hermione does not flinch, nor does she repeat herself.
Finally, Munch lowers her eyes. "Fine. We'll leave Rose alone. But only in exchange for an exclusive interview with you regarding the failure of the Bill on Elfish Welfare."
Hermione doesn't give exclusive interviews—only press conferences. It is not her job to help newspapers sell. And she does not want to talk about the Bill—not yet, not in detail.
Regardless, she doesn't think twice about her answer.
"Fine."
(x)
Rose opens the door to the Headmaster's Office and turns to leave immediately.
"I should've known," she groans dramatically.
Hermione sighs and stands up, straightening her skirt. "Rose—"
"You're taking me away from my education," says the girl coldly. "I can't believe you blackmailed Headmaster Kant into letting you come here."
"I didn't blackmail anyone," says Hermione, patiently. "Except, perhaps, Lucinda Munch."
Rose stops in her tracks and turns around. Her face has changed, thinks Hermione—the baby softness of her cheeks has dulled, replaced with sharper edges.
"They won't be hounding you anymore." She takes a step forward, and pauses. "Rose, why didn't you tell me? I know, I should've noticed, but why didn't you just come to me?"
The younger witch ducks her head. "I don't know," she mumbles. "You were just so…busy, and I didn't want to disturb you. I know your job is important. How could I ask you to put me above…well…above the entire Wizarding population?"
Hermione walks forward and takes her daughter, her precious, beautiful daughter, in her arms. Rose nestles into her the way she always does, head resting just above her heart.
"I will always put you first," Hermione whispers into her mass of curls. "Always."
(x)
When she returns to the Ministry, the Senior Undersecretary is waiting for her. "Mister Eastwood came to see you, Minister. He left a note."
Eastwood? He's the head of the Conservative coalition—the ones that voted against the Bill. What could he possibly want?
She picks up the note, her brow furrowing as she skims it.
Minister—
Sorry to miss you. Talked to the coalition, and we've agreed to reconsider the Bill on Elfish Welfare if a few changes are made. Nothing major—we just need to look into issues of accountability, and benefits.
Do contact me when you can.
A small smile appears on her face.
She'd thought the Bill was done for, but this, in political terms, is progress. This means that there's still a chance. It won't be easy, but she's quickly learning that very little ever is.
Maybe—just maybe—being Minister isn't so bad after all.
Word count: 3000
Written for: The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, S6, Round 9 – main prompt: Hermione Granger; optional prompts: (3) "Nothing more complicated than learning lines and putting on a costume – Morgan Freeman", (13) "It's so good to be home", and (15) "It's like a beehive in here"
Beta-ed by the fabulous desertredwolf and JBrocks917 - thank you guys so much!