Nine years later.
As she did every day, Hermione returned home at promptly 6:27pm.
First, however, she would Apparate into the metro washroom, charm her Official robes into a tan overcoat and shrink her warded briefcase into a handbag, opt for the stairs up to the street, and duck into the nearby wine merchant where she would grab a bottle of her father's favorite Argentinian merlot. Her receipt was always time-stamped 6:18pm. Her flat was just two blocks away and in a trendy new London suburb with shops and dining and young Muggle families with old Muggle money.
Normal, fittingly normal.
Normal were the trimmed hedges and stone-circled trees that lined her walk. Normal were the upscale cars the slowed for pedestrians. Normal — and safe — were the lives of her neighbors who let their children play at the neighborhood park until supper.
"Good evening, Mrs. G!"
That was also normal. The kids knew her, trusted her by virtue of her living proximity and their parents' assumptions of her class status, employment, and criminal history. After all, a witch in their nice suburb? Never.
"Hello, Levi." Hermione returned the greeting as she passed.
"Mum says your cat has been terrorizing our bird feeder." Levi's voice caught and wavered as he reached the peak of his swing, and fell back the other way.
Hermione slowed. "Tell your mum I'm sorry on his behalf. Crookshank is nearly blind, though and won't cause undue carnage." She flinched internally. Her statement sounded far too... corporate.
"Sure, Mrs. G."
With the eight-year-old's dismissal, Hermione picked up her pace and rounded the corner to her row of townhomes. She suppressed a familiar feeling of longing and let the shame that tended to follow overtake it. Regret tends to be easier on the conscience than hope in the long run.
She could faintly remember a time when the turn of the season stirred excitement and wonder. Something to do with a train and the task of mastering a new level of curriculum. But now as the heat lifted when the sun sank, she felt... nothing.
And as she did every day, she returned to an empty, quiet home.
Ron was often away, as Auror responsibilities dictated. Although the war and the fall of the Dark Lord had resolved most imminent danger, nostalgia and unrest were still a flaw of magical folk and humans alike. Whenever rebellion would kick up across the Ministry's jurisdiction and although defense against dark magic was both well-funded and highly sought after as a career, Harry and Ron weren't yet ready to let go of their spot on the frontlines just yet. That said, the frontlines tended to involve drunken duels and pranking teens rather than the genuine darkness they were once up against. Still, they held. Perhaps it was a lingering sense of duty and repayment for all the loss of the war. Perhaps it was a refusal to accept the peace. Perhaps it was all they knew of themselves.
For Hermione, the distance was not her first choice. If she had it her way, Ron would be at a desk job at the Ministry. A compromise would even have allowed him an Auror desk job; they do exist, she had exhausted her license to remind him in the early years of their relationship and by the time they married she had dropped the subject altogether. "Meeting for lunch and a kiss," wasn't compelling enough either, much less than his safety and stability.
She shrugged off her charmed coat and slipped out of her work flats and together they scuttled off into the coat closet. The cold tile of the floor bit through her stockings as she padded into the kitchen.
A saucepan slipped out of the cabinet and landed on the stove just as it's flame sprang to life. Ingredients floated gracefully onto the counter and a knife set to work dicing and chopping her greens and citrus.
A filet of fresh salmon laid itself over the chopping block and folded to pull three slices of lemon over itself, as if embarrassed. A pot of farrow boiled over but it's spent cooking liquid rose up instead of hitting the stove and fell back into the pot, much like a fountain.
It was a bit showy, what with all the steps that she could bypass with an added speed charm or a simple conjuring. Something about the sounds of cooking settled her heart, though. It reminded her of evenings after Muggle primary school with her parents, and raucous yet homely dinners at the Burrow.
This whole time, Hermione kept her eyes on the report she had brought home. The only thing she did manually, mundanely, was uncork her wine. It had become somewhat of a ritual, one that perhaps wasn't the most supportive to her well-being, though that was subjective. There had been a time where she adamantly would not imbibe, but that time had passed and was bitter in her memory all the same.
Soon, a plate of crisp salad, dressed grains, and baked salmon nudged her hand. The dirtied cookware migrated to the sink where they chimed as they washed. Again, for effect.
As she ate, Hermione poured over her report. It was not uncommon for her to take her work home. After all, with two titles and only one day cycle and her timely perfectionism, why wait?
The report was a compilation of recent anomalous events within the wizarding and magical creature community. As Adjunct Solicitor and Regulator of Intermystic Relations (the latter a loose and self-chosen title to encompass anything and everything that occurred between magic-wielding beings), Hermione received dozens of these reports daily as an oversight formality. Should anything strike her as cause for action — gross violations of law, inhumane conditions, non-compliance with progressive initiatives — she would make appropriate interventions. Usually, however, she would merely sign them as Reviewed and send them back down the chain where a subordinate would resume monitoring for any developments.
Her eyes scanned the heavy stack of pages documenting several recent emigrations from Great Britain to foreign magical directorates. All had forfeited protection and rights under the Ministry's power. This was not uncommon nor illegal, Hermione thought.
Each case looked unique and personal, though she skimmed each one anyways. If anything, the reasons given were almost inspiring. New employment, scholarship exchange, bridging of long-distance love, end-of-life care for an elderly family member. Well, not inspiring, but... enviable?
Her hand shook as the bounds of her restraint stretched too far and deep burgundy splashed across the page she was reviewing. She hastily scourgified her clumsy spill away but not before the splash pattern drew her attention to one word at the bottom of the case file for one Althea Scrub.
Deceased.
A pity, Hermione concluded before she resealed the file and pressed a blue wax R over its parchment wrapping and sent her wine glass off to the sink to harmonize with the other dishes that had long been clean.
•••
In her dream she was trying to stop the bleeding. Of no one in particular, just a wound; the blood just kept bubbling up. It was watery and gritty at the same time as it pushed between her fingers while she desperately tried to add pressure.
She could feel exhaustion stealing her vision at its edges, the vignette of unconsciousness growing deeper.
No. She needed to stay awake.
She needed to stop the bleeding.
"Vulnera Sanentur," she slurred. Her wand jolted but nothing happened.
Her magic was weak.
Or resisting.
The maw of a wound split further in a mocking smile and Hermione pulled back sharply at the unnatural motion.
Then it spoke to her.
"Stop," it hissed. "I like it."
"N-no," Hermione stammered, moving disjointedly to resume her attempt. "I have to save you."
She didn't know who, or what, she was speaking to or trying to save. But nothing about a talking gash struck her as abnormal in that dream state.
The decaying skin drew back further to reveal teeth that snapped at her helping hand. Hermione hastily withdrew again, this time with fear.
"I said stop," it barked. "You can't do anything anyways, useless fool. You're only seeing where the blood leaves, not where it's coming from. Thank Merlin you never became a healer." It tutted dramatically before forging on with its digging rant. A ranting wound.
"Besides, I've grown to like the bleed. It suits me. It feels good, so good." Now it was crooning, grotesquely. "And the taste..."
Ribbons of congealed blood formed two tongues that darted out to lick competing circles around its gashed edges.
"Stop!" This time it was Hermione's turn at the word. "Just let me help!"
"Nuh-uh!" It mocked and split further, now smiling with sharp, blood-reddened teeth. "Though, before you fuck right off and leave me to my peace, it might do you well to know, study, and become intimately versed in this piece of my nature..." It dangled Hermione's incessant need to know and understand.
"W-what?" She took the bait. Again, her vision wobbled and faded and she fought to keep her wits sharp.
It spoke slowly and purposefully this time.
"You cannot amputate a heart and expect the organism to survive, just as you cannot—"
A thump and a groan tore Hermione from her dream. Of course it had to be just when she was getting answers, all be they cryptic.
The bed behind her sank, as Ron crawled beneath the sheets and pulled her into his arms. His hair was still damp from a shower that hadn't managed to wake her, and he smelled like clean linens.
"Sorry, Mione," he murmured into her hair.
Ron was warm and sturdy, and she welcomed his interruption from such an unsettling dream. She rarely dreamed these days and preferred it that way.
"It's ok," she sighed and nestled closer into his embrace, shifting her hips. "Welcome home."
Ron brushed the hair from her cheek and planted a kiss in its wake. "Go back to sleep, I'm sorry to wake you."
"Mhmm," she tried to chase his lips with her own but he had turned to lay on his back, though he left his arm tucked behind her neck.
It was late — she had gone to bed past midnight after reading through the other reports she'd brought home — and Ron must be tired from wherever he came from. But she was awake now, and they hadn't been together in a while. They were married, for Merlin's sake, even if...
She stopped her thoughts before they went down an avenue too painful to venture down, not in this admittedly raw state she found herself in after such a dream.
Instead, she focused on Ron's heavy breathing as it sank beneath the waves of sleep that wouldn't catch her again.
•••
There was a line for the red telephone booth that morning. There always was, but this particular morning it was longer. And slower. She hadn't accounted for this in her timing. She always accounted for variations, but this pushed beyond her allowance. And it set her on edge.
Old habits, they say.
By the time she strode into her office, not running of course or offering any indication of her actual state of fluster, she was three minutes behind.
And the Minister of Magic was sitting in her chair, tugging on the gold chain of her green Muggle's student lamp. Hermione had charmed it to have access to unlimited electricity, though the cord was merely tucked under her desk; it mimicked mundane.
"Kingsley." She greeted, catching her breath. They were beyond the formality of titles at this point, having shared in the responsibility and pride of winning the second wizarding war, are overseeing the return of order subsequently.
The light clicked on.
"Hermione." He was always curt, but she could catch the respect in his tone nonetheless.
"I was unaware we were meeting this morning, otherwise I would have prepared a report."
The light clicked off, somewhat hesitantly after his tug.
"That isn't necessary. I am only here because my feet refused their way to my office and led me here instead. I was hoping you would offer me some insight as to why." His eyes seemed distant, and they flickered back and forth as though trying to scan his internal stores of reason.
"Oh Kingsley, I'm sorry, I —" Hermione approached the back of one of her wingbacks for visitors. She had not anticipated his visit, and certainly not the shred of concern he let slip through his typical air of confidence and composure. "No, I haven't the faintest. Though I suppose we are overdue for a tea..."
"That's not it," he replied matter-of-factly. He dragged the chain down again. Light on. One might find his tone one of dismissal, but Hermione had learned early in their professional engagements that it was more efficient to trim the hedging. She had even picked up some of his direct and abridged communication style as a result, which did nothing to convince their co-workers and the public that she wasn't being groomed as his predecessor.
"To the best of my knowledge, all programs are running without hitch, and the results are as we expect. I'm working with the Department of Defense to revise their force tactics; that is ongoing and requires buy-in across levels of leadership..." She rattled off her list of ongoing projects of social betterment, the only way she knew how to offer reassurance at this point.
"Yes, that was in your report last month. Excellent work."
"Thank you."
Kingsley abruptly stood, and it was as if his minor lapse was gone entirely and replaced by his typical bureaucratic demeanor of guarded dignity.
"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Granger. I'll be on my way."
"Oh, ok." She faltered. "If anything comes up I'll be sure to send you a memo."
"I'm sure you will."
Kingsley swept out of her office and the door shut itself, leaving Hermione to the shuffle of charmed reports in transit across her ceiling, some landing in her receiving box.
An odd interaction that had been, but also benign. She thought maybe it was the prolonged stress of holding public office that was finally showing through. Kingsley hadn't wanted that position initially, but the outpouring of public encouragement and the number of write-ins for his nomination were too many to disappoint. In the end, he won by a landslide with the endorsement of the Order's heroes and a public declaration to return the Wizarding society to a safe and just state. He had delivered on that promise, too. They were simply maintaining and innovating now.
It was stress, and maybe boredom, Hermione assured herself again as she removed last night's reviewed reports from her bag and sent them away with a silent flick of her wand before taking up the report resting on top of her growing stack.
By one in the afternoon, Hermione sat back and pinched the bridge of her nose to refocus her vision which was strained to say the least. Though she often forgot her hunger, she also had a strong sense of self-preservation and enough humility to know that the apple she'd spread with a nut-medley butter that morning so as not to wake a still-sleeping Ron had long since been used up.
It was quiet in her division when she stepped out of her office. It always was, with most of the Dept. of Intermystic Relations either working from home or out in the field observing, interviewing, or implementing programs. She made her way toward the main stairs when she heard a snort.
"Oh! Sorry, Mrs. Granger." It was Silvia the office manager, an older witch with a stereotypical penchant for gossip papers and zero filter on her internal dialogue. She had the Daily Prophet spread across her desk and a sandwich dropping sprouts over it. "I just can't believe the audacity of some folk..."
While Hermione tried to keep her interactions formal and work-related, Silvia always ignored her guard, pushing through with some inflammatory or hooking statement, usually to voice a strong opinion. Over time, it did whittle Hermione down and she was often surprised by the way the older which regarded the world. What was it today?
"Get a load of this hogwash," Silvia began, jabbing her finger at a bottom corner of a back page. Hermione moved closer to read.
Op Ed: Death Eaters on Parole? Ramifications for celebrated rehabilitation efforts may spell trouble for Ministry.
Beneath it, a fuzzy picture of a witch Hermione expected would be buried beneath sentences for good. The once-wild hair and gleefully sadistic eyes were limp and blank and Hermione would have mistaken it for a subdued and nameless infantry of the Dark Lord had the cruel smile not lifted the image's lips at the very end.
And for the first time in a long time, Hermione felt her stomach drop, and the faint tapping on the back of her shielded heart of the familiar feeling she knew as fear.
