Chapter: Ministry Decree #24,358
-
"At times one remains faithful to a cause only because its opponents do not cease to be insipid."
-- Friedrich Nietzsche
-
Harry,
I've just been to the Ministry. Come to my flat now if you know what's good for you—you've some explaining to do.
– Hermione
-
"You told Percy that I would be the best choice for this… this…"
"Endeavor?" Harry supplied helpfully as he stepped from Hermione's fireplace, brushing the soot from his shirt. Hermione was pacing before him, one hand tangled securely in her disobedient hair as she fumed.
"Yes! It's ridiculous, Harry! Those people aren't going to listen to me!" She cried, stalking past Harry's stationary form but refusing to look at him.
"Hermione," he began, catching her elbow and forcing her to stop and face him, "you're the best one for the job…the only one for the job. Everyone else…" He swallowed carefully. "You can make them listen to you."
Hermione stared helplessly at him, willing her mind to think of some other way, someone else who could take her place. But it was true, what Scrimgeour had said; she was the only one who could do it. Most of the professors at Hogwarts were killed during the war, and no one else had survived who possessed enough free time and devotion to the cause as she did. Her voice sounded painfully soft as she spoke. "But… I'm Muggle-born, and they… they hate me. We've known each other since we were children, Harry. What could possibly compel them to take me seriously?"
She felt a spark of irritation as Harry's lips quirked upwards in a faint smile. "Hermione, if anyone can do this, you can. During the war I saw you take down incredibly powerful wizards twice your size. This job isn't even dangerous."
She shot him a dry look and sank down abruptly onto an armchair, cradling her head in her hands. "I just don't know if I can do it, Harry," she admitted quietly. "I don't know if I can handle that hate again. After the war I swore that I would never have anything more to do with those sorts of people."
"Yes, but picture the look on Malfoy's face."
Hermione had to smile at that.
-
The next day, Ministry Decree #24,358 was released.
-
Every week she and Ginny met at the quiet little tea parlour several blocks from her flat. Her friend's bright hair was not hard to distinguish in the sunny interior of the room, and Hermione weaved through the masses to sit across from her with a fatigued sigh. "Hello, Ginny."
"Can you believe it?" Asked the youngest Weasley, her eyes radiant with glee as she pushed the morning Prophet across the table. "This is absolutely brilliant."
Hermione didn't look at the paper but she knew what Ginny was thinking. "Mhmm," she hummed, ordering herself a cup of herbal tea as the waitress arrived. No cream, no sugar. Ginny looked at her strangely.
"Why aren't you more happy?" She asked, the light in her eyes turning ruthless, hungry—Ginny had changed a lot during the war. "We're finally getting revenge on the last of V-Voldemort. All that's left of him will be gone, once and for all. Think of all those cruel bastards finally having to stoop to doing this!" She looked triumphant, a glorious smile on her lips. "I thought that last week's decree was the furthest they were willing to go, with just the Azkaban sentence. Of course, that's not too difficult to evade, for people like those high-classed purebloods. They can talk their way out of anything…but this… This is bloody fantastic! It's almost restored my faith in the Ministry!"
Hermione forced a hesitant smile, sipping her tea meekly as Ginny elaborated on the merits of the Ministry of Magic's latest decree and stubbornly ignoring the knot of anxiety in her stomach.
Saturday at one o' clock.
Her eyes drifted over the Daily Prophet, resting briefly over the large, bold print at the head of the front page.
Ministry of Magic Decree #24,358
Offspring of all known supporters—particularly "Death Eaters"—of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (Lord Voldemort) shall from hereafter be required to take a six-week course at the Ministry of Magic, in which the delusions and fallacies of Lord Voldemort's position will be discussed. If any of the offspring of said supporters refuse to participate in this mandated class or are removed from the class for a justified reason by the instructor, the penalty discussed in Ministry of Magic Decree #24,357 will be enacted and the perpetrator will be sentenced to a one year incarceration in Azkaban Prison.
"Hermione?"
Hermione jerked her head up to see Ginny watching her reproachfully. "Have you been listening to anything I've been saying?" She asked, gathering her red hair—perfectly styled and smooth, Hermione noted with a trace of bitterness—into a knot at the base of her neck.
"I'm sorry, Ginny. I'm afraid I've been a bit distracted lately." Her fingertips scratched over the surface of the table as if with a will of their own.
"You do seem awfully quiet. Is anything the matter?" Her friend's eyebrows drew together in concern and she reached out to pat Hermione's restless hand.
Scratch scratch.
"Of course not. The Ministry's just asked me to do something that I'm not too keen on at the moment. I'll get over it."
"Oh… What is it? It can't be that terrible, can it?"
"It's not, don't worry. What were you saying while I wandered off?"
Ginny's ruthless smile returned. "I was just wishing that I was the instructor of that class. Did you read it? "If any of the offspring of said supporters refuse to participate in this mandated class or are removed from the class for a justified reason by the instructor," they go to Azkaban! I'd lock them all out! I suppose it's one of those stuffy Ministry officials, though. At least it will be a complete bore. Imagine all of those Slytherin stuck-ups…" Ginny trailed off as she noticed the expression on Hermione's face.
Scratch scratch.
"Merlin, Hermione, you're face just went absolutely white! What's wrong?"
Scratch scratch. Hermione took a deep breath, her hand finally moving from the table to clasp stiffly around her steaming mug of tea. "It's me, Ginny. That thing with the Ministry… Scrimgeour and Percy asked me to be the instructor."
Ginny stared at her, her mouth slightly ajar. Hermione waited patiently, her the stiffness in her fingers abating gradually as she drank her tea. She rather thought that the significance and consequences of the situation had not caught up with her yet, for she felt perfectly calm. Ginny, on the other hand, was scrubbing her face with her palms and making quiet, frustrated sounds as she thought.
"Tell them you won't do it," she finally declared, hitting the table with her fist with more force that was perhaps necessary.
"What? Two minutes ago you were telling me how wonderful a job it would be!"
"Yes, but…" Hermione could see her friend falter, close her eyes, and inhale deeply. "Hermione, during the war… you had a hard time of it. We all saw… with Ron…" She paused as if the name physically hurt her. Hermione flinched, the tightness of her pain shooting from her chest, down her spine, and back again. "I just don't want you to be exposed to all of it again," Ginny finished, taking yet another breath.
Hermione smiled sadly, embracing Ginny's hand with her own. "They seemed to think I'm the best option for the job. I'll manage, Ginny. I can handle it."
"Alone? You always handle things alone, Hermione. Let us help."
"Harry's already insisted that he come for the first class. Don't worry."
-
The dreams came very often.
Ron kisses her, and a viscous heat grows between them. Understanding and safety. Innocence and lust.
Familiar bodies on the familiar grass. Someone's arms around her and tears.
Harry. A flash of green and an inhuman sound, a dissonant shriek. Two silhouettes fall and only one is breathing. Victory and pain. She screams.
Solitude. She is alone. An ashen face and blossom of blood.
Hogwarts. Home. Love. All that she has lost. The war shines red in her mind.
The dreams came very often, and every time she awoke breathless on a damp pillow.
-
Hermione could not remember a time in her life in which she had not been researching something. It was her method of coping, of surviving whatever obstacles happened to cross her path.
Saturday at one o'clock was most definitely an obstacle. And so she researched.
The history of Muggle-Wizard relations. The origins of prejudice in the Wizarding community. Voldemort and his cause. The Death Eater's rationalizations for torture. Torturing methods. The origins of torturing methods. The biography of Tom Riddle alias Lord Voldemort. The origins and validation of transgression of the law by criminals. Methods, rationalization, and reasons for punishment.
Hermione's eyes froze over the page. Crime and punishment.
She always had an extraordinary passion for classic muggle literature. At Hogwarts she had been known for her ability to rattle off every single novel by Dickens, Austen, the Brontës, and the classic Russian authors (Turgenev, Dostoevsky, and Tolstoy, to name a few) on command—in alphabetical order. Needless to say, it had earned her more than her fair share of odd looks, as most of her fellow students had never even seen a muggle classic, let alone read one.
Naturally, after reading each of these engrossing classics, she had researched the author and his or her inspiration accordingly. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky had peaked her interest—she had been fascinated by the study of human conscience and validation of dreadful crimes that the subconscious creates. And now, she found herself wondering. There were certainly parallels… Perhaps she could put them to good use?
Hermione recalled something about a philosopher she had pursued in her research whose ideas were similar to those in Crime and Punishment. Something German and difficult to pronounce, she thought. Perhaps beginning with an "N"? With a sigh, Hermione sorted through her jumbled memories, closing her eyes and leaning back into the cushions of the comfortable armchair before the fire in her flat. Her breath eventually evened and she drifted into slumber, for once not dreaming the same dreams as before, but instead pictures of St. Petersburg, gory axes, and journalistic articles on crime floated beneath her closed eyelids.
-
The next morning, over breakfast and an encyclopedia, her eyes were wide as they read. A smile crept over her face.
It might just catch their interest.
-
The week seemed to pass in a matter of hours. Hermione felt as if she had only just found enough time to plan the six lessons she would be required to teach, all the while combating the anxiety that was becoming a more persistent presence on her stomach as the days wore on.
At 12:50 on Saturday, she met Harry outside the door of the Ministry classroom she was to teach her class in. She had been a bit taken aback to discover that the Ministry did indeed have a section of their building devoted entirely to classes for whatever anyone might need—from gnome handling to household potion brewing to living in a muggle community—but somewhat impressed nonetheless. She had been given the largest classroom and was expecting a group of close to forty "students," most of whose names she recognized on the list that the Ministry had given her in order to check off the arrivals. She was unpleasantly surprised to find that many of her old Slytherin classmates were present on said list, Malfoy and his thugs, Millicent Bulstrode, Pansy Parkinson, and Blaise Zabini included. In fact, the only Slytherins she did not see on the list were Theodore Nott and the others who had not been lucky enough to weasel out of an Azkaban sentence after the war.
As expected, her knees were rather weak as she walked into the empty classroom. Harry, limping along beside her (the last battle had rendered his knee-joint inflexible—it had been one of his less serious injuries), was a comforting presence at her side. She felt him touch her arm as she used her desk at the front as a means of support for her slightly faint condition, pressing the palm of her hand against its flat surface.
"You're sure you're up for this, Hermione?" He asked. She could hear the concern in his voice.
"Of course," she said, her tone surprisingly strong. She set her extensive amount of equipment for the lesson on the top of the desk, opening up the bag and beginning to sort through its contents.
He didn't look convinced. After several moments of silence in which the ticking of the enchanted clock above the door was the only distraction from the tension of the situation, Harry spoke in a quieter voice than before, "I don't trust them."
Hermione smoothed her hair back into its tasteful bun at the crown of her head and shot him a helpless smile, leaning her hip against the desk. "You think I do? We fought these people. I'm going to need some time to adjust, but the Ministry is trying to do its part to finish this war Harry. We have to help as well."
Harry opened his mouth to provide her with an answer but another response took its place. The voice was an annoyingly familiar drawl, although admittedly a bit more bad-tempered than usual and accompanied by the snickers of his ever-present ensemble.
"How touching, Granger. You've managed to remain as maddeningly wholesome as ever, I see. Now, where is our instructor?" He spit out the last work like it was a particularly foul-tasting poison.
Hermione didn't even look at him, barely acknowledging his presence save for a reply. She stared into Harry's eyes, gathering her strength from her life-long friend. "You are speaking to her presently, Malfoy. If you would please take your seat, I will wait until everyone has arrived and then we will begin."
She didn't hear any footsteps and the snickering had stopped. Finally, Hermione turned to assess the group in the doorway that consisted completely of familiar faces from her school days, and raised one cool eyebrow. They were all staring at her, more than several mouths agape. "Unless, of course," she began, her face carefully neutral, "you would rather serve your 'one year incarceration' in Azkaban. Again, please take your seats."
-
"In heaven all the interesting people are missing."
-- Friedrich Nietzsche
-
Author's Note: Ta da! I hope that didn't totally fly over people's heads. Throughout this story I'll attempt to integrate a reasonable amount of classical literature, philosophy, science, and, of course, romance, Harry Potter-ness, and interesting plot together into one monster of a story. I hope that suits at least one person's tastes! Maybe you have to be an English freak like me to get the parallels I will be drawing between literature, philosophy, and Voldemort, but I hope it's interesting, at least. Tell me what you think!
Also, you totally won't get the last dream references (St. Petersburg, gory axes, etc.) unless you've actually read Crime and Punishment.So go readthe damn thingif you didn't understand it! I'm kidding, of course. I can't force you to do anything... or can I? But seriously, everyone should read that novel... it's amazing.
If you enjoyed this (remember, there is much more to come), check out my other HP fics (The Third Law, Counting, and A Particularly Difficult Night this one maybe not, seeing as it is completely and utterly odd). They are all short, and I have longer stuff in the POTC fandom. Go figure. And yes, as I've said many times before, I am a shameless self-advertiser.
Next Chapter: Class #1. How is everyone going to react? What is our poor Hermione going to do?
Yay! This is so fun.