A/N below. Read onward, my friends.

Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee

Isn't it quick to say. And isn't it long to live.

- Jean Rhys, Wide Sargasso Sea

Chapter Two

"Oh, hello again, Miss Granger. May I take a message for — Miss Granger?"

Kingsley's skinny secretary stood from his desk, holding out a hand, turning to follow her as she strode past him. "Miss Granger, we've talked about this, you can't just go in there!"

Hermione stopped inches from Kingsley's door. It was shut, but there was a slight illuminated crack between the door and the rug on the floor.

His lights were still on, so she was going inside.

She knocked, a heavy one-two-three, then immediately moved a determined hand to the doorknob, twisted, and pushed. If the door hadn't been so heavy, it would have slammed against the wall.

Imposing yet still strangely out of place, Kingsley stood behind an overbearing oak desk, sorting the remnants of files into a leather briefcase, apparently on his way out to some meeting or another.

How many ministers had stood in the exact same spot, behind that exact same desk?

Hermione could imagine the centuries of posturing that went on behind the desk. The machinations and intimidations and political games. Despite how focused she was on her anger, those thoughts and images flitted across her mind, making her stomach turn.

Or maybe the bile churning in her stomach and burning up the back of her throat was due to Malfoy being hired — paid — to ravage the minds of Muggles.

Kingsley glanced at her briefly, then looked back down at the papers he was in the process of packing up.

"I haven't had time to read your notes yet, Hermione," he said with a slight hint of annoyance as he went about his task, his fingers nimbly sorting through the office correspondence, earmarking a stack of letters and vanishing others into filing cabinets.

That's because I haven't given them to you.

After a second, Kingsley caught up with the situation, and his hands paused. He lifted his head and gave her a scrutinizing look, taking in her tensed shoulders, lifted chin, and fierce expression. "What's wrong?" he asked, the heavy timber of his voice filling the empty room.

Hermione clenched her fists. "Someone has contracted Draco Malfoy to Obliviate Muggles," she said, expelling the words with more vehemence than she intended.

Kingsley shook his head, putting his correspondence to the side and sitting down carefully, cobalt blue robes fanning out around him. He gestured to one of the high-backed black armchairs in front of his desk. "Why don't you take a seat."

Hermione clenched her fists harder, feeling her fingernails bite into her palm. "I'm fine standing, Kingsley, thank you. Did you not hear what I said?"

He tilted his head to the side, noncommittal, and waved at her to continue.

Hermione took a deep breath. "There is a serious problem with The Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. The Obliviation Department in particular."

Kingsley leaned forward. "Is Teddy okay?"

"What? Yes, he's fine. He's with — it doesn't matter. That's not why I'm here," she said, and paused to look at him. Really look at him. His face had changed over the course of their short exchange, like he'd slowly packed away pieces of his personality as she'd been talking. She'd seen that exact guarded expression on the front page of the The Daily Prophet more times than she could count. Why would he...?

A deflection. It was a deflection.

"You know why I'm here," she said slowly, feeling the truth of the words ooze in her mouth, trickle down the back of her throat, and settle heavy in her stomach.

She didn't want to believe it.

She didn't want to believe it at all, but she'd already been disillusioned once today, and the necessary connections formed quickly.

"You knew."

"I did," he said, face stoic and voice level. "I hired him."

"You did what?" Hermione gaped, stung. "Kingsley, after everything you've helped me do, you —?"

"Offered Mr. Malfoy employment. And he accepted my terms," Kingsley said levelly before frowning. "I trusted Harry to keep this matter private."

"Harry didn't tell me anything," Hermione protested.

"No?"

"No, he didn't. Don't act surprised," she said. "He knows me, and he knows that I wouldn't — that I won't stand for it. It's wrong, Kingsley."

Kingsley leaned back in his chair, drawing his hands off his desk and letting them fall to the armrests. "I know this isn't a common occurrence, but you don't know what you're talking about here, Hermione. I did what was necessary."

"Necessary?" Hermione's arms flew up. "Kingsley, listen to yourself! You hired a Death Eater to obliviate Muggles. There's no excuse for that!"

"It's not that simple, Hermione. Mr. Malfoy's situation is unique."

Again, she gaped. Of course it was that simple. There were some things you just didn't do.

How could he not see that?

She wanted to yell at him, scream at him, until he realized how much of an idiot he was being, until he snapped back to reality and understood what she so easily did.

This was the Minister of Magic, this was her friend, and he was acting like — like the war never happened.

"There is no such thing as a special case. Not for him. Not for this. He's a marked Death Eater, Kingsley! He should never be allowed to touch, control, or-or do anything to the mind of an innocent person. He hates me. He hates Muggleborns. How do you think he feels about Muggles?"

Breathing hard, she met Kingsley's eyes. Large and brown, they were wide with sympathy. With pity.

She nearly spat.

He didn't get it. And he wouldn't get it, like Ron hadn't, because the war had never been about him. It was nearly three years later and he still didn't have a clue, and perhaps that meant he wouldn't ever.

No, things would continue on as they had, and Kingsley would sit behind the Minister's desk and go to meetings and write letters and stare at her with pity in his eyes while he stood by his decision to hire Malfoy.

He was sad to see her upset, but that was it.

Her fingers curled around the ends of her sweater, nails pushing through the wool and into her palm.

But she wasn't finished here.

"How could you possibly trust Malfoy with that kind of responsibility?" she asked. "I need to understand."

Kingsley frowned. Whether he was frowning at her or the situation, she couldn't tell.

"We didn't have much of a choice, Hermione. And we still don't, to tell you the truth. After two wars, we only had four members on the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad proficient enough in Legilimency to attain an International Obliviator's license. That makes four qualified Obliviators for the whole of magical Britain."

"And?"

"And we needed numbers," he said. "Legilimency isn't taught in a normal curriculum, and it's not something you can learn from reading a book; you need a natural inclination paired with an abundance of one-on-one training. Mr. Malfoy was already trained, and he certainly has the natural inclination. We offered to let him serve out the remainder of his five-year house arrest sentence as an Obliviator, and he accepted."

"One more isn't much of a number," Hermione said, remembering Malfoy's piercing, probing grey eyes with a swiftly sinking feeling. "If he's a Legilimens, he's an Occlumens. You have no idea what he could be hiding from you."

"We've taken care of that," Kingsley said firmly. "There's no way he's misbehaving."

She nearly laughed. Misbehaving? As if this was some childish romp?

She put her hands on her hips. "Train someone else."

Kingsley's eyes flared. "You're volunteering for the job then?"

She took a sharp intake of breath, and Kingsley shook his head, looking momentarily shamefaced. He didn't apologize, though.

Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose and began to speak. "With all you've done, it's easy to forget how young you are. You really have no conception of how small we are, do you?" he asked, pausing to look at her directly, to let the weight of his words sink in. "How many wizards do you think we have, Hermione?"

She saw his steady, expectant look and set her jaw. Kingsley had been a Gryffindor, too, though, and he waited her out.

Finally, she shifted her weight and let out the breath she'd been holding. "I don't know," she replied, sounding petulant even to her own ears.

"Not enough."

Hermione could practically hear the period at the end of his statement.

She raised her chin. There was authority, and then there was what was right. She knew that now.

"That's not an answer or an excuse. There's always another way."

"Like what?" he asked. "Really, Hermione, I'm interested. Tell me how to do my job."

His sarcasm stung, but she threw up her hands. "Hire people from outside — from India, America, France — wherever! Put out an ad in The Daily Prophet, offer tax incentives, train people! Don't be so bloody proud. I can think of a hundred different scenarios that would be better than what we have," she said. "What you sanctioned."

"Stop acting like a child, Hermione, and think. The war was expensive. We didn't just lose lives, we lost property. Infrastructure. Money. Who do you think funded the Ministry before we locked them away?"

"Yes, well, can't you just —"

"No, we can't. We've already taken thousands upon thousands of Galleons from the Malfoys in reparations. And the Flints, Parkinsons, Goyles, and anyone else we can even loosely tie to the Death Eaters," Kingsley said, starting to look angry in earnest. "But there's a limit to what we can take, a limit to what we can prove, and there are rules we have to follow. You know as well as I do that the law is on their side, and we don't have enough money to hire Obliviators from the outside."

"Then change the rules—"

"Hermione, no," Kingsley said, cutting her off firmly, sounding every bit the Minister of Magic now. "I trust your opinion, I value our personal relationship, and I appreciate everything you have done and will continue to do to help the Ministry, but my decision has been made. Despite what this conversation may have led you to believe, this matter is not open for discussion."

Smoldering with indignation, Hermione turned away, but, to her immortal mortification, she felt her eyes welling. Seconds pooled as she fought to blink back the encroaching tears.

She shook her head, short brown curls swaying, and looked back to him.

Kingsley had returned to packing up his work, likely in a polite attempt to allow Hermione the time to collect herself, but the ease of the everyday task struck her. Deflated her, really. Even as she grasped for the edges of her anger, gravity seemed to take on a larger presence in the room. The solid weight of things — her sweater, her bag, the hair on her head, the skin on her bones — was all heavier than it had been moments ago.

Kingsley continued to file his papers away. The pile on his desk seemed never-ending. Whether that was due to a spell or bureaucracy or both, she couldn't tell.

"Have you seen Harry?" she asked finally, reaching.

Kingsley didn't look up. "He's not in his office?"

"No, he's not. Do you know where he is?"

Kinglsey glanced at her then. "You know I couldn't tell you even if I did."

Their eyes met for a long, drawn out period, and then there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Kingsley called, glancing over her shoulder

Hermione continued to frown at him. Apparently their conversation really was over. If one could call what had just transpired in this room a conversation, that is.

Behind her, a tall, skinny redhead opened the door and strode into the room, coming to a stop a few feet from her side. He wore slightly threadbare but immaculately pressed burgundy wizarding robes and wielded a large clipboard with comical seriousness. A Quick-Quotes Quill hovered in the air next to him.

"Hello, Percy."

"Good afternoon, Minister," Percy answered, pushing wireframe glasses up the bridge of his freckled nose. At Kingsley's answering nod, Percy looked over to her and smiled kindly, if awkwardly. "Hello to you, too, Hermione. It's nice to see you."

Hermione inclined her head, wincing. "It's nice to see you, too, Percy."

Just then, emerald green flame erupted in a bright, soundless burst in the fireplace behind Kingsley. Looking like he wanted to groan, Kingsley pulled out the ludicrously large stack of parchment he'd just finished packing into his briefcase and set it none-too-gently back on his desk, apparently giving up all hope of making it to his next meeting. "One moment, please, Percy," he said tightly, sounding strangled.

"Oh, yes, yes. Of course, Minister Shacklebolt," Percy replied as Kingsley turned to the floo call. A quick mufflato kept her from hearing what was said next, but she could see the red, animated face of John Dawlish, the current Head of the Auror Department, talking at a rapid pace.

"You know," Percy began, but must not have felt he had her full attention, because he cleared his throat, waited until she turned to face him, and started again in a polite whisper. "You know, Hermione. Well, um, yes," he said, but stopped for a second now that he did have her attention, cheeks a bit pink. "I haven't gotten a proper chance to say anything what with just catching glimpses of you these last few months, but now, I really must —"

Hermione nearly winced, steeling herself. He wasn't about to talk about that now, was he?

Percy pushed through, posture stilted but words warm. "I really must say how unfortunate it is you haven't been able to make family dinner. Well, I know you see Bill and Ginny every so often, but as a whole, we don't see you around as much, and the entire family misses you. Even Audrey was saying something last week about having you come round."

Hermione smiled weakly and found herself backing toward the door, nearly tripping as her heel clipped the leg of one of Kingsley's black armchairs.

"I miss you, too, Percy. And I'd love to see Audrey, especially before the baby comes. But, look, I really need to go find Harry before he leaves for the day. Can you let Kingsley know I'll write him? And I'll — I'll talk to you soon, okay?"

She continued backing up, and Percy nodded and smiled sadly and looked at her, until she turned around and left.

Quarter til eight, Hermione heard footsteps out in the hallway corridor. The sound echoed quietly as the footsteps grew nearer.

Someone fumbled with the doorknob. "I've got Thai!" she heard.

That was Harry, then. Hermione's pen underlined the sentence she just read with short, jabbing strokes. Then she underlined it again.

Their doorknob turned, and the door began to open, only to stop abruptly short by the jerking wrench of the door chain pulling taut.

"Damn!"

That was Harry, too.

From the couch, Hermione kept reading, resolutely ignoring her dunderhead of a roommate as she poured over the scroll in her hands. There was a chance there was something she could use here. She knew it. There had to be.

"Hermione," Harry called from behind the door, his voice rising at the end of her name in a not-question question.

Hermione pursed her lips and underlined another sentence.

Harry knew that chain, and he had to have some idea what it meant that it was latched. Each seemingly simple loop of iron was carved with intricate, interweaving runes. The rune story spelled the iron against magic of all kind, from Alohomoras to Wingardium Leviosas. But more than that, the iron sucked up concentrated magical spells like quicksand. Harry was well aware the chain would absorb any incantations he cast, the power from them funneled directly into the wards surrounding the house, strengthening them. He'd tested the chain out for Hermione after she created it and again right before she put them up, and it had leeched an incredible amount of power from him — far, far more than it should have — both times before he'd conceded defeat. Infuriating, bull-headed boy.

"Hermione! Hermione, are you in there? Please come undo the latch. I want to see Teddy before we put him to bed."

Hermione stood on unsteady legs and walked to the door, parchment still in hand. She leaned against the beige wall next to the doorway, crossing her feet at the ankle. The rubber of her rainboots squeaked on the wooden floor.

"Hermione?" he asked. After a moment, he spoke again. "Hermione, what's wrong? Is this about this afternoon? Look, I'm sorry. Dawlish had promised me I'd have the day off. I didn't know. I'm as upset as you about it. Maybe more."

She scoffed. That was likely.

Wordlessly, she thrust the near-white parchment she'd been scrutinizing moments and minutes and hours before through crack in the doorway. Harry took it hesitantly.

Moments later, he cursed.

Hermione clenched her teeth. Well, he was quick to read the document, wasn't he? Apparently, a few of the paper's key words, like Obliviation and immunity and Draco fucking Malfoy, jumped out at him.

Hermione heard a loud thonk as what was presumably Harry's head thudded against the wooden door.

"How'd you get this?" he asked, his voice muffled.

Now there was a question.

"Apparently it's a matter of public record," Hermione answered, chewing over her words. "Which is funny, because if his hiring was a matter of public record, then I probably should have heard about it before now. ...You know, like literally any time my Auror roommate came back from work for the past thirty-seven days. Especially since the aforementioned Auror roommate would be painfully aware of how totally and completely abhorrent I would find it."

Harry sucked in a deep breath.

Hermione continued. "And I know that there is no way that said Auror would let me find out at three o'clock in the afternoon on a Thursday in a cold, dirty, piss-covered back alley in Islington. No, no. Certainly not."

Silence hung between them, and Hermione could feel the guilt poking at her, prodding her, saying not Harry, not him, almost as soon as the words left her mouth, but she stood firm.

"I was told not to tell anyone," Harry said weakly, his voice still partially muffled.

"But it was public knowledge."

"Yes, well, I was told not to tell anyone. Part of the job, you know, and that pesky little business about my contract having secrecy vows. One slip, and I'm cursed. Quite literally."

Hermione scowled. "Those vows wouldn't have applied in this case."

"I didn't know that! It's not exactly like they told me!"

"Oh, so that makes it okay? That makes this whole situation okay?"

"Dammit, of course not! You think I'm happy about this?" he cried, sounding so abjectly offended and bewildered at the very thought that his comment stole a harsh laugh from her.

Of course he wasn't happy. This was Harry. Not in a million years would she ever think he was a friend of Draco Malfoy, so it wasn't like he was trying to protect him.

No, it was just a disgusting situation all around, and everyone was being handed the shit end of the stick — no one more so than the non-magical members of Britain.

With effort, Hermione pushed herself off the wall.

They had fought, and they had sacrificed, and they had won.

There was a script to be followed. Their lives were supposed to begin, and the world was supposed to be different, and things were supposed to be fair. They'd earned that much.

Sighing, she pushed the door closed, unhitched the latch, then opened the door in one continuous motion.

Her flatmate stared at her, looking disheveled. His hair was a mess, and his large winter puffer jacket was unzipped. The damning parchment dangled limply in his left hand, the bag of takeaway dangled limply in his right. Concern, indignation, and guilt flickered across his face in frustrating tandem.

"No, Harry," Hermione said, crossing her arms, not moving from the open doorway. "I don't think you're happy. Your hands were tied. I just wish you— wish someone would have told me. I could have joined or..." she paused. "Well, I could have done something."

Harry frowned at her. With purposeful movements, he set the bag of takeaway on the floor against the living room wall, moved forward, and enveloped her in a firm, nearly unyielding hug.

She exhaled into him, the shoulder of his puffy ski jacket a cool and welcome pillow against her cheek. He smelled strongly of aftershave, as he usually did when he attempted to mask a skipped shower.

Idiot.

"I'm still mad at you," she said as she pressed her face further into his jacket, closing her eyes and letting herself sink into the familiar padding for just a moment. "I don't want you to think that just because I'm hugging you, I'm not."

Harry laughed and moved a hand to stroke through her hair. "That's okay," he said. "I figured as much. You're practically my sister — circumstances aside, you being mad at me isn't really new."

"Oh, ha ha," she said, eyes a little watery. When Harry's strokes continued, morphing into awkward, heavy pats, much like Teddy used to give Crookshanks, Hermione swatted his hand away and took a step back, discreetly wiping at her eyes, grabbing the parchment, and walking back to collapse on the couch.

Harry picked up the takeaway and followed her into the living room. "Let's eat, yeah? I'm starved."

"It's funny that you think we're done talking about this."

"Oh, I know we're not. You can interrogate me over spring rolls."

With a few quick words, he quietly summoned bowls and cutlery from the kitchen with his wand, and then began dishing out food into two large bowls and one small plastic one.

Hermione shook her head. For all his attention to detail in some aspects of life, Harry could be so remarkably thick sometimes.

He deposited a bowl of curry tofu on the coffee table in front of Hermione, then sat on the floor in front of the fireplace with two bowls of chicken Phat si-io. He brushed thick black fringe out of his eyes and scanned the apartment.

He looked up at Hermione from the floor. "Teddy's not here, is he?"

There it is.

"No, Andromeda has him."

Harry opened his mouth, then, seemingly thinking better of it, closed it, shoulders slumping. Hermione felt his guilt as sure as it was her own.

"I'm sure you've put it together now, but Malfoy was our Obliviator this afternoon," she said lightly, trying her best to keep from sounding accusatory, though part of her felt the self-censorship unnecessary, since it kind of was his fault. At least partially.

"Merlin, Hermione. I'm sorry." Harry removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. "No wonder Malfoy was even more of an ass than usual this evening," he said. "God, this has been such a shit day."

"Tell me about it," Hermione agreed, picking up her bowl of curry and moving around tofu and snow peas with the prongs of her fork.

"Was Andromeda... ?"

Hermione shook her head. "She wasn't happy, had to cancel her plans, but she understood."

The curry smelled divine. The garlic, cardamom, and coconut milk thick and fragrant.

She placed her bowl on the coffee table.

Leaning back into the couch, knees drifting up to her chest, she lost herself in thought. Meanwhile, Harry sat cross-legged on the floor, scowling as he ate first his bowl of food, then what was supposed to be Teddy's. He ate so quickly he hardly swallowed. When he reached the bottom of the bowl, his scowl deepened, food still in his cheeks. He looked remarkably, unnervingly like Ron.

The moment lingered.

If Ginny were here, she would have just the right words.

Well, to be honest, if Ginny were here and not on a weeklong trip for work, this whole day would never have happened.

But Ginny wasn't getting back for another three days, and today had happened, and they needed to talk about it now.

"So," Hermione began, running her fingers through her hair, "how do we fix this?"

"Fix what?" Harry asked, finally swallowing the remains of his dinner with an audible gulp.

"Malfoy," she said slowly. "Getting him out of the department. Because I've been doing some research the last two hours, and even without access to his transcripts, there are already some precedents that I think we can use to our advantage. Most relevant cases were in the Americas and France, but since Kingsley isn't going to be a sympathetic party, that doesn't really matter; we can go straight to the International Secrecy Committee. They have the ultimate say in this anyway."

She lifted a bundle of papers in her hands when she finished, nearly-almost-maybe smiling.

Harry stared at her, a strange expression on his face. "Hermione, that's not going to happen."

"Well, not easily, no, but I think we can do it if we just —"

"No, I mean that's not going to happen because we need him," Harry said with gentle earnestness. "He —" Harry paused, putting a hand over his eyes, looking pained. He appeared to think deeply for a moment. "He's still a miserable, selfish bastard, but the department is really hurting."

Hermione stiffened. "Oh."

"I know it's so far from ideal, Hermione, but he's — Merlin, I can't believe I'm saying this. He's actually competent at his job. More so than almost anyone else. He's assigned to my team, too, and with what's been going on... Kinglsey met with Tilly, and she says it'll take at least another year, maybe two, for a new hire to get where Malfoy is now, because his parents had him with a private tutor or something since he was small, but that's all assuming someone even applies for a job in the department. Most people, the ones that can ever even become competent enough in Legilimency, go the mind healing route. There's, uh... well, you know," he winced. "More money in it."

Hermione blinked. "So you're telling me you support Kingsley's decision?"

"No!" Harry burst out. "... Well, maybe? I - I don't know. I guess I'm just saying it's not cut and dry, Hermione."

"I see."

Harry shook his head and looked up. The ceiling creaked rhythmically, and Harry grimaced. Face pained, he pointed his wand upward, flicked his wrist, and wrestled the offending noise into silence.

While he was occupied, Hermione stood, indignant. She snatched up her bowl and Harry's two as well, stalking to the kitchen to clean up. Cautiously, Harry got up from the floor and followed her. The old linoleum countertops were the scratched off kind of spotless that only came from repeated, indiscriminate scourigifying. Like bleach, only rougher.

She wrapped her bowl with saran wrap, then put Harry's dishes in the sink.

"So you're okay?" Harry asked, hovering behind her in the doorway.

Hermione thought of Lockhart and Launceston and the boy from Blake's Hardware, and steeled her resolve.

"I'm going to be."

A/N: This chapter is so egregiously late, I know. I'm not going to offer excuses. I'll just say I have them, and they're not the worst as far as excuses go, but let's just move on, yeah?

Would love to hear your thoughts on any and everything. If you have questions or want to discuss anything further, give me a shout through a review or PM. There's a lot I'm trying to work through here, and I'd love to chat about it with literally anyone. (Well, except maybe that reviewer who called Hermione a filthy little bitch.)

Last but not least, I want to give a shout-out to tatianasletter, who sent me the nicest, most encouraging PM last week. TBH, it prompted me to get off my butt and post this chapter. This one's for you, T.