Chapter 1 Updated

Okay so, I am back. Officially. And my first act as president is to finish my stories one at a time. I'm starting with this one first, and I'm re-doing it. A lot has changed since I last wrote, so I'm taking the time to go through it all and fix everything I want to. There weren't many big changes in this chapter, but enough.

Sorry for the delay!

JK Rowling owns Harry Potter, not me.

Chapter 1 – Friday, August 19th, 7:24 p.m.

...

The sweltering London night was about to storm. Electricity hung in the air, fizzing only when someone dared to move in the humid, heavy lower-atmosphere. Hardly anyone dared. A mere shuffle to the mailbox would induce such a heavy sweat that a cool shower was immediately necessary.

"This ain't natural," muggles muttered, idly fanning their sedentary selves in parks or on shady porches. "It's like I can drink the water from the air, but it tastes all electric-like."

They were partly right, those people hiding in the shade. The fog of moisture was stuffed full of tension. But what the perspiring people of London didn't know was just how magical the edgy atmosphere really was.

Alderman Hermione Granger lazily scratched at a bug bite on the back of her left hand as she tried to finish reading the last paragraph of a memo on the desk in front of her. The hypnotic warm glow that filled her office from the light-orb hanging suspended above her did nothing to help her weariness. Only a month shy of twenty-eight, the witch still felt older than her age was traditionally supposed to denote.

That August in central London had been a record-breaking hot, especially this week, with the collecting of clouds refusing to burst into rain to break the humidity. A slow rising orange-angry sun shone constantly, setting later than usual and baking the city's inhabitants. It put the people on edge. Weathermen all over the country were baffled; hastily stammering explanations on the evening news about this sudden change in climate, but they were as lost as they were so many years ago trying to report on showers of stars and owls.

Hermione felt a tickle slide down her neck and past her collar, finally soaking into the fabric that clung to the small of her back. Not bothering to wipe the sweat away, as the futile action would just cause more moisture to form; the woman closed her eyes to rest them.

She hated the heat. Hated the fact that her office couldn't use A/C magic and she especially hated what the heat did to her hair. In this weather, it regressed back to what it was like in her early schoolgirl days: frizzing completely out of control before she had discovered the right combination of hair care products to calm her tresses into more manageable curls. She loathed the heat.

What she couldn't admit to herself was what she actually hated. The heat was just a scapegoat. What Hermione really despised was the Timed Magic Suppressant Law, an act of Ministry bureaucracy that forbade the magical community from using magic outside the hours of 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. Monday through Friday and 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. on Saturday and Sunday. It was this law that currently prevented her from casting a cooling charm on her office. Hermione tried not to think of the name the people called it in the streets behind her administration's back: the Bitch Curfew was in full effect at the moment since it was now, named as such after the woman who had come up with the idea herself. Hermione opened her eyes to glance at the clock on her desk and sighed. 7:33 p.m. She hated the heat, the law, and the fact that she had created the law.

As Alderman, she occupied one of the highest positions in the British Ministry of Magic, and it was something Hermione prided herself on. After the War, she had realized that cleanup and reorganization of her country would be a huge undertaking, one that she had wanted to be involved in personally so she could oversee how it was done. There was no way that Hermione would stand idly by to watch everything she had fought so hard for to become muddled up again in a swath of red tape. No, this round the Ministry of Magic was going to do it her way, or not at all.

Almost immediately after her graduation from Hogwarts, Hermione had used her status and connections to maneuver her way into a slightly-higher-than-entry-level job at the Ministry's headquarters in London. In reality, the Ministry didn't even exist; the infrastructure was lost in the Darkness of the war. But thanks to the new Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, some semblance of what the Ministry once was began to trickle back.

However, the pace at which the trickle of facilities was reemerging did nothing to satisfy Hermione. So she built faster, urging the magical community to support this new government and encouraging her coworkers to do the same. Through it all, she easily climbed the ranks at the new Ministy of Magic.

She reached a point, however, where she saw her path break off in two directions. One showed her a future that she was expecting. A future filled with love and a life she knew she deserved. The other showed a future of love that she could give to so many in the magical community that she knew deserved it as well. Stubborn to the end, Hermione threw herself down that second path and into her work.

As a result, the Ministry of Magic was stronger than ever, according to a recent poll that was on one side of her desk, but this was only true because of the sacrifices that had to be made. Sacrifices that she, in her position as Alderman, a high-ranking Ministry official, had made. Tough decisions that had made Hermione the most controversial witch in the magical community. Decisions like the Timed Magical Suppressant Law that forbade anyone from doing magic outside the hours of ten to five on a weekday.

As a result, she had to hate the heat and not the law, for the hating of the law led to the hating of the self.

A knock interrupted her thoughts and she yawned, her body reacting to the shift in brain activity. Hermione absentmindedly wondered how the door still made such a noise with all the water saturated in the wood. "Come in," she muttered after concluding her yawn.

Timothy Terrence, her bodyguard Number One stepped into her office. Round-faced and blonde, the twenty-year-old's eager disposition made him easy to like. Hermione smiled when she saw him. Hand chosen by her from one of the Ministry of Magic's At Risk Children program, she had nurtured the spark she had seen in him, keeping in touch as he worked his way through Hogwarts and into the new Ministry Defense and Peacekeeping Academy. Upon his graduation, she asked him if he would do her the honor of protecting her; an honor that he had bashfully, and excitedly, accepted.

Hermione had watched this boy grow up to manhood and she felt almost like a big sister to the young man. "Timmy?" Hermione asked, inviting him further in. She knew what he was going to say next and had already started shuffling her papers in order.

"I'm sorry to bother you ma'am," Timothy intoned. He, along with the rest of her immediate staff, had quickly learned to call her "ma'am", as Hermione thought "Alderman Granger" was far too formal. "But the car is waiting." She nodded and he slipped back out of her doorway, closing the door with a click. It was a routine with which she was familiar and as apart a government she helped build based on the principle of orderly routine she liked the familiarity.

Order from chaos, Hermione told herself, standing up to a new wave of sweat she tried to ignore. It wasn't one of her latest nights at the office, but the heat took a lot out of her and she was grateful for the conclusion to her day. Satisfied that she had everything she needed for the coming weekend, Hermione tapped the light-orb above her desk twice with her finger and smiled with pride as it dimmed to blackness.

The light-orbs were an invention created by the Ministry funded Magical Advancements Group, or MAG. The orbs were to replace the need to light a wand by the lumos spell and to replace lighting fires and candles by magic: an invention whose sole purpose was to help with the Magic Shortage as the orbs recycled the small amount of magic they used at all.

She was the one who had had the idea to start and fundraise the group, supervising the department from its beginning. It wasn't the easiest of feats. No one in the magical community had understood why they needed advancements of any kind, they wanted to focus on rebuilding and gathering themselves closer to their families after the Darkness, not think about governmental workings.

As Alderman, Hermione knew better than anyone that the morale and energy of her people were strained, but there would be no better way to stimulate both the economy and the hope of the people simultaneously unless she created MAG immediately.

MAG had been an immediate success, after the grumblings of the patrons during the fundraising; Hermione had been pleased to present the country with a new invention only two months into MAG's inception.

"An orb in every home, a light in every heart," her speech had concluded when she presented the invention over six years ago to an enthusiastic crowd. She had made good on that statement too. At least three government paid-for light-orbs had been given to every magical family as a gesture of goodwill but to also serve as a reminder of who was raising their country out of the mess of the Darkness and back into the light.

Heaving a sigh as she walked out of her office to the fading of her own light-orb, Hermione felt the familiar twinge of guilt that always accompanied her when she reviewed her ambitious moves over the past eight years with the Ministry.

"It seems a bit like propaganda, don't it?" Ron had bluntly pointed out to her when she practiced her light-orb speech so many years ago.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione had tediously explained to him as she had to Harry when he had expressed the same opinion: "It may be a little hokey, but this is honestly what the people need right now, can't you see that? Simple, easy concepts for them to grasp so they can begin to trust in a government that has failed them time and time again while they grasp at the bigger issue of healing from this national tragedy."

Hermione was pretty sure Ron had just said "whatever" and had moved to make out with her, but Hermione hastily put aside that memory and the fight that had come after it when she spotted Timothy and her bodyguard Number Two a few paces down the hall. "Good evening, Carl," Hermione stated before the big, muscled man in a dark suit turned to see her.

The tall man nodded at her, silent as ever, preferring action to words. Hermione wasn't perturbed. She hadn't been ever since she had learned that Carl Hammond spoke when the moment was always just right.

She grinned at him again as her Number One and Number Two fell into ranks just behind her, following her down the back stairwell that led into the lobby.

"Warm night, ma'am," Carl surprised her with his words, his voice deep and breathy. "Very strange."

"Indeed," the witch nodded. She thought back to the report that had come in earlier that day. It was a message from Ministry's weather division, forwarded on to her automatically because of her high position in the ministry: Hermione was to know everything that was going on, whether or not she needed to deal with it directly. The message told her what she had already been expecting; that the heat wasn't natural.

Carl had asked her a question. "Hmm?" Hermione asked her Number Two. "I'm sorry, Carl, I wasn't listening."

The big man repeated himself. "Any more news on this weather from the Ministry?"

Hermione sighed. She wasn't really at liberty to discuss any official Ministry business, but whenever these situations arose, she always found herself keeping her bodyguards as confidants. I can't help it, I mean, I have no one else to talk to, and I know they won't tell anyone.

"The weather bugs over at the Ministry think that the gathering storm and hot weather have been the result of an expanding Dark Pocket, or something having to do with one. Either that or the humidity is reacting with the magic and making it worse. They don't really know yet, but something's happening with the left over Dark Magic."

Carl nodded. "That would explain the city's mood today. Bunch of rabble-rousers. Makes people crazy, it does…"

Hermione looked up at him as a rush of humid air pressed down upon their skins. Timothy had just opened one of the glass doors that surrounded the lobby of the new premises of the Ministry of Magic. Clearly noticing her alarm, Carl added; "It just puts people on edge, ma'am. Nothing to worry about, we're not expecting trouble."

Hermione nodded and smiled vaguely, shifting her concentration to shoving extra papers deep into her worn dragon-skin briefcase. A shiny black car was waiting for them at the curb. Her bodyguard Number Three was waiting for the group at the door. Bev Coulter was one of the first female bodyguards hired under Hermione's campaign for equality within the Ministry Defense and Peacekeepers, and she was as capable as any male bodyguard Hermione had ever come across.

Coulter wasn't one of those women who compensated for her femininity just because she was in a male-dominated position. The Welsh woman wore make-up and her hair was always put together copying exactly the at-the-moment wizarding fashion. Hermione had long ago given up being envious after Bev confided in her boss how long her morning routine took.

"Evening, ma'am," Number Three smiled down at the frizzy haired diplomat. "Great weather we're having, eh?" Hermione scowled at her female guard. Bev knew Hermione hated what the heat did to her hair and took every opportunity to tease Hermione about it.

"Open the damn door," Hermione growled but flashing a good-natured look at the 5'10'' woman dressed in a suit. She didn't seem to be sweating, Hermione noticed to her further annoyance. Bev laughed and did as she was told. Hermione admired her Number Three who, although at first glance just seemed like a very pretty MDP officer, was hiding lean and strong muscles beneath her polyester and cotton suit. Hermione had seen the woman in action at the MDP Academy once and she had never forgotten it.

It was during a routine walk-through and Hermione was being shown around the new location for the training and headquarters for the Academy. Her touring party had come across the main workout room with a boxing ring in the middle for hand-to-hand combat practice. The fighting style had to be picked up and learned by the MDP after Hermione's magic curfew had been placed into effect. They needed someway for their security forces to protect themselves after magic hours.

Bev had been younger then, just barely twenty-one, and recently challenged to a fight by a rather large man that the academy had nicknamed "the Bull".

The tour guide had tried to urge Hermione on past the scene, but she had waved the man off, she wanted to see this. "Who is that?" Hermione had asked her Number One. Timothy had stepped forward, then still nervous and awkward in his job.

"Er, that's, er, Bev…Coulter," he paused before rushing into a hasty "ma'am." Hermione ignored his stumbling and asked Number Two for her file. Carl had handed it smoothly to her before shooting a look at Timmy behind his bosses' back. Carl knew the younger bodyguard would get it eventually, he just wondered when.

Flipping through the file, Hermione had smiled wryly. "Ah, so she's the one." The first female to loudly volunteer for MDP, Bev was marked from the start as a "nobody". Her pretty face and lean body had done nothing to help her male peers take her seriously. Her story was one of having to prove herself over and over again, but that day would be her last in a long line of unnecessary struggles.

Hermione had tried not to clap too heartily at the end of Bev's "demonstration". She not only had kicked "the Bull's" large and very muscled butt, but she had ferociously roundhouse kicked the referee in the face when he went to check on his friend. "Why did you kick him?" Hermione had called down to the woman from the observation catwalk. "The referee, why did you attack him?"

Bev Coulter had straightened hastily up and tugged on her sweat-stained shirt as soon as she figured out by whom she was being addressed. "Rules are rules," the dark-haired Welsh woman had stated, neck craning up to see Hermione. "In all challenged fights here at the Ministry's Defense and Peacekeeping Academy, the opponent must be left alone for ten seconds before declaring defeat by his unmoving body or waving surrender before he allows or is allowed to be touched by one of his comrades." Bev had quoted the unwritten and unofficial rulebook set up by the ranks of men in the academy so well that some of them grinned and even laughed out loud, tension breaking in the air.

Hermione had moved on with her tour, leaving Bev to enjoy her success as a finally accepted member of the MDP.

Shortly thereafter, Hermione had summoned the woman to her office and had offered her a job, one that was to be collected straight after her graduation from the academy. Bev had, of course, accepted.

Hermione slid into her black Ministry car for the ride from her office to her apartment noting with pride how Number One and Number Two were already situated in the facing seats across from her. She felt the weight of the car jostle again as Bev got in the front passenger seat. Before they pulled out, the privacy screen lowered.

"Howdy this evenin', ma'am," an Oklahoma accent drawled out to her. Hermione nodded to her driver, bodyguard Number Four, and a transfer in from the American Ministry. Wes Smithfield had moved to London just a year ago as part of the continuing support from the Americans. Smithfield had jumped at the chance to be Hermione's driver.

"I know it's a muggle sport and all," Wes had stated during his interview with her. "But NASCAR drivin' is fantastic." Hermione had nodded along, remembering hearing about this American muggle fascination. "Besides," Wes had continued. "I think it would be awesome if I got a chance to learn how y'all drive."

Carl had coughed at Wes' southern accent during the interview, clearly voicing his displeasure at the corruption of the words you and all, but Hermione hadn't minded. To her, Wes Smithfield represented a personal connection the American Ministry making the man a walking symbol of his country's support in the U.K.'s time of crisis. So, Wes and his accent had stayed, his driving was impeccable, and Carl seemed to get over him saying "y'all" although he never fully opened up to the American driver.

Timothy and Bev had taken to him immediately, Bev especially. Hermione had a sneaking suspicion that the girl was slightly in awe of the thirty-seven-year-old cowboy-wizard, but she kept her mouth shut in deference to Bev's pride and Wes' job.

"Y'all ready to go?" Wes smiled playfully at the group in the back before pulling out of the car park without waiting for an answer. "Thought so," he muttered to Bev, making her giggle as the privacy screen went back up.

The ride from the Ministry on St Mary Axe, to her flat on Great Portland Street was an easy one, about twenty minutes cruising through the muggle traffic on the main roads in the Ministry car. The black Mercedes was enchanted to look like a muggle's diplomat car and with the additional stealth spells put on it, muggle police left these cars alone. There were about 100 of these cars in the Ministry's possession for the use of transporting V.I.P.'s like Hermione or for the transportation of prisoners, law-breakers, witnesses or anyone else that needed protection.

The cars were muggle cars, with only a little magic in them. The electrical functions in the muggle vehicles didn't malfunction at all, even in the presence of so many magical people and business affairs. The old fleet of Ministry cars had been destroyed when someone had figured out that the residual magic within the old machines could be harvested for better use. So, the old fleet was scraped and the magic was donated to St. Mungo's with the leftover spread out amongst the charities that needed it the most during the worst of the Magic Shortage.

The motion to ratify the purchase of the new cars was drawn up and pushed through into passing without any help from Hermione. This time it was conducted by someone else equally as important in the administration of the new Ministry, a man who was now fervently trying to reach Hermione by mirror.

"Yes?" Hermione heard Timothy ask into his invisible earpiece that was connected to her private mirror. "Please hold." Hermione's Number One looked almost apologetic as he extracted a mirror from inside his breast pocket and extended it to his boss. "Ma'am? It's Chancellor Zabini for you. He says it's urgent."

After the war, Blaise Zabini had maneuvered his way into the Ministry, using the extreme wealth his mother had collected over the years as leverage. However, no one would ever say that he was wrong for the job. Blaise Zabini was driven, dedicated, and determined to run the magical community to the best of his ability. He too, like Hermione, had sacrificed a family in favor of an all-consuming career path. The effect of his commitment to his job left no debate upon his skill as a Ministry official as well as on his ability to lead the people.

Hermione let her brow crinkle in a slight frown. Blaise never tried her on her private line after approved Magic Hours. This must be important, she thought reaching for the mirror. Hermione tapped the surface twice and smiled when she saw the face of her colleague appear in the reflective surface.

"Thank Merlin I got a hold of you," Blaise rushed into without formalities.

Hermione's smile slipped from her face as soon as she had seen his own worried expression. "Blaise? What is it? Is something wrong?"

The black man sighed and Hermione was startled to see the dark circles under his eyes. "We have reason to believe that a threat against your life has been made earlier this evening. After conducting a search, my people have verified that this threat is indeed very real. I have the MDP stationed outside your flat now."

Hermione noticed her bodyguards shift across from her but she focused completely on Blaise's face.

"Please, can you give me any details to what they want? Why has this threat been made?" She paused, mind racing. "Is it a Repercussion Threat?" she whispered, hoping his answer would be no.

She relaxed when she saw him shake his head. "No, thank Merlin, just some crazy wizard without any connection to the Darkness. But the threat is being taken seriously as he promised to use illegal Transi-force to bring you down." Hermione winced.

Transi-force was the name that defined the inventions developed under the Shacklebolt administration during the time when it had been decided to merge more of the wizarding lifestyle with the muggle one. The original idea of this combination was to help with Hermione's proposal that watering down the use of magic would not only ease the strain of the Shortage, but also keep anyone with ideas left over from the Darkness from hurting anyone. This idea had backfired when weapon plans had been leaked by a questionable source from the MDP into the black market. Wizard gangs and mobs across the world had gotten a hold of these new weapons and quickly put them into production. It had lost the British Ministry their Spanish and West African allies and it had been Hermione's and the Ministry's darkest hour.

This technology was referred to as Transi-force to describe the transitional qualities of combined magic and muggle technology. The force part was simple. It described the weapon part of the technology.

"Thank you for altering me. Any word as to which group this wizard represents?" Hermione remained all business; it was easier to distance herself when dealing with these kinds of crisis situations.

She watched as Blaise shook his handsome face again. "None so far, but we are doing research."

"Alright," Hermione said staring out the car window, thinking fast. Blaise seemed to catch her thought process midway.

"And no heroics here, Granger," the man said, using her last name to jerk her out of her reverie and to impress into her his authority.

The woman nodded, tearing her eyes away from the rushing scenery back to the mirror. "Understood Chancellor, sir." Hermione replied formally to relay the fact that she would obey him.

"Take care, please Hermione. You can't know the devastation I-the Ministry would feel if we lost you," Blaise said smiling slightly before tapping his end of the mirror, causing it to go blank. Hermione was left with her own tired eyes staring back at her, a reflection which for a moment, made Hermione think that she was staring into the eyes of a stranger.

Handing the mirror back to Timothy, Hermione heaved another big sigh. "Please inform Three and Four," the woman spoke softly, too tired to use their names. "We will no longer be going to my flat."

"The safe house, ma'am?" Timothy accepted the mirror and tucked it away in his pocket. Hermione nodded.

The two men were silent for a moment before Carl lowered the privacy screen to tell Wes and Bev the change in plans. Timothy leaned forward while Carl was busy talking with the two in front. "Ma'am? Are you alright?" Hermione was lost in thought again. Timothy grabbed her hand and squeezed. "Ma'am?"

Hermione turned her head at his touch and smiled warmly, squeezing back. "I'm alright, Timmy, just tired." He scrutinized her face, looking for more. "Is this my fault?" She asked the young man, still holding onto his hand. "I created this world we now live in, I am so tied into the community I've made that maybe…"

Timothy shook his head. "We've been through this. What you've made has given us a world to thrive in. Before we were just surviving, you know this. You led us through the Darkness, through the Shortage and you rebuilt all of this for us. You've given us our lives back, don't ever forget that." He squeezed her hand once more before letting go. Hermione looked back out the window as her Number One settled into his seat and Carl turned around.

The "cleverest witch of her age" let the lights of the city blur in her vision, the orange sunset framed the skyline in a haunting silhouette. She didn't feel so clever now.

"For some reason, I never can truly believe you, Timmy."

"I know," came his soft reply as it always did. "I know, ma'am."

This would be the last conversation Hermione Granger would ever have with Timothy Terrence.