Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: At the age of twenty-four, Hermione Granger is the Chief Advisor to the Minister of Magic and the war against Voldemort finally seems to be coming to an end. Suddenly and violently, things begin to take a turn for the worst and Hermione is forced to make a life altering decision. Rated M for strong language. Main Characters: Hermione, Snape, Tom Riddle, and various OC's. Eventual Hermione/Tom.
A/N: Shamelessly disregards HBP.
Prologue
Lips pursed and hair an angry halo around her head, Hermione Granger made her way down the pristine corridors of the Ministry of Magic, furious.
It was the seventh time the Minister had called her to down his office this morning, did he not understand that she had work to do? More important work then telling him that both robes were equally horrendous and that he really shouldn't let his wife pick out his clothes for him?
She supposed it's what she got for being the Minister's most trusted advisor. But honestly, could the man do nothing himself?
Scowling darkly, Hermione inwardly cackled as a paper-laden intern with overly-large green glasses scuttled quickly out of the way, eyes wide with fear.
Though the job does have its perks.
Her day had begun rather well– which should have been forewarning enough. She had had one of those fabulous dreams where you can only vaguely remember what it was about so you got to ponder it all day– which, in her profession, was actually a good thing as it gave you something to think about while filling out paperwork and making and canceling the esteemed Minister's appointments.
Eric, the old watchwizard, had also managed to snag her a cup of coffee from one of the Auror meetings down the hall– he was a sweet man, even if he tended to piss her off a bit most of the time.
And she'd only tripped once– a huge accomplishment for Hermione, since she'd had to start wearing heels. 'Practically dress code' Pavarti explained after Hermione had enlisted her help for her new work wardrobe. While climbing her way up to her current position, Hermione had needed to reevaluate her clothing. She could no longer delude herself that people wouldn't care how she looked, at least not in her area of work.
So it had been her comfortable, if not exactly attractive clothing versus the most powerful position in wizarding politics (Minister didn't count as she made almost all of his decisions for him and never got the blame for the bad ones)– obviously she chose the latter.
Though at the moment, she was regretting the decision. In her small, ink-stained hands she held a document that rock the wizarding world– and not in a good way.
And it was all Draco bloody Malfoy's fault.
Somehow– Merlin only knows how– the little snake had managed to slither his way in the Ministers office and convince him that the Goblins were a threat that needed to be eliminated.
Had someone told her this two days ago she would have been rolling on the floor and thanking the man for a good laugh. You see, over her three years as the Minister's chief advisor, she had become a bit fond of the old man. Fond in the way one becomes with a particularly ugly and pathetic looking puppy.
However, even she, who had serious doubts as to the man's IQ, didn't think he could possibly fall for that rubbish.
So, of course, he did.
No matter how many times Hermione had stressed how tenuous their situation was, no matter the countless hours, obviously wasted, she had spent explaining the economic choke hold Gringott's had them in, it had all went straight through one ear and out the other.
Merlin, words could not explain how pissed off she was.
In fact, Hermione doubted she was even coherent enough to formulate any words other than 'moronic', 'inept', and 'poor excuse for a mentally retarded primate'.
And now, thanks to bloody Malfoy, she had to be the one to tell the damn creatures that they and the Ministry were no longer on friendly terms.
She could only hope they didn't kill the messenger.
Honestly, what was Draco playing at?
Anyone with half a brain cell (Hermione snorted, this was a rather small percentage of the ministry, she was discovering) could tell that the Goblins have been itching for the opportunity to bring out the old axe and shield for ages, and that this was the perfect time to do so without having the blame placed on them. There's no chance of them defecting towards Voldemort's crowd either, as they're entirely too proud to rely on anyone, or, rather, anything, else. If the Goblins rebel again, it'd be by themselves and against anyone who gets in their way.
Nasty creatures, she thought viciously.
Well, Hermione had had it. The Minister could make his own bloody appointments today, and he'd just have to find some other sorry employee to get butchered by Goblins. Because Hermione Granger was taking her first vacation since leaving Hogwarts, and damn it, she was going to enjoy it.
Or not, Hermione thought as she stared blankly at the ruins of the once proud Ministry of Magic.
She had just reached the Underground entrance (she decided she was going to take a break from wizards in general and just bum off her parents for a bit) when suddenly the ground beneath her shook and a sonic boom pounded on her ears.
An old man who had been sitting quietly on a bench nearby began muttering about the Blitz and trying feebly to make his way into the Tube.
People rushed about her, frantic and panicked. But Hermione simply stood there.
How could I have been so blind?
This was what Draco Malfoy had been playing at. He'd planned it. Or rather, someone else did and he only acted as the catalyst to this horrifying disaster. Simply the messenger.
Oh, God.
It was a mass grave, she could tell. The wards had mostly fallen, though a few threads still clung onto existence, flickering in and out, allowing anyone who cared to look a clear view of former Ministry of Magic.
In between those flickers, Hermione could only see what looked like a huge collapsed cave, full of broken cement– huge sections of the road that had cracked and fallen into the underground building when the explosion hit.
She didn't know how long she stood there; everything had begun to blur together, leaving only faint traces of comprehension in her mind. Everything faded to the background, the blinding lights of the ambulances speeding by, the roaring sirens of the fire trucks. No Aurors or Unspeakables here, they were all were dead by now.
Oh, Merlin. No Aurors, no Minister, no law– It would be complete anarchy. The entire British Wizarding World would be at its most vulnerable, perfect for Voldemort to conquer.
The truth struck her sudden, sharp and piercing– they must have been planning this for years.
Years, the word echoed despairingly through her mind.
They had thought he was mad, incapable of patience but he had fooled them all. He had been planning this since before he ever set foot in Hogwarts during her first year. God, how could they have been so oblivious? The man had had twelve years to think of his course of action and we assumed he would really be so foolish as seemed to have been?
It had all been a farce– he had never really wanted the Philosopher's Stone, nor had he cared whether or not his diary was successful, all he had wanted to do was assemble a new image of himself in their minds.
Gone was Lord Voldemort of the First War– Dark, Brilliant, and Undefeated– replaced by this mockery of his former self– Paranoid, Mad, and Foolish.
He had set up camp behind a great wall of mirrors and reflected back only what we wanted to see.
And we had believed it.
And we had lost.
A/N: Okay, so this is just the prologue of what will eventually become a Hermione/Tom fic. A warning: this won't be updated all that regularly. I'm writing this for my own enjoyment and posting it here to share and gain (hopefully) some feedback. I write when the inspiration hits and though I do have an outline set up, it's all still very rough around the edges. Review if you want, I'd appreciate it immensely, and I hope you enjoy.
On the title: (Taken from Merriam-Webster's Medical Dictionary)
Main Entry: mer·cu·ry
Function: noun
Inflected Form: plural -ries
1: a heavy silver-white poisonous metallic element that is liquid at ordinary temperatures and used especially in scientific instruments —symbol Hg; called also quicksilver.