A/N: Thanks a million to my amazing beta, midnightme.
Hermione ran her hand through her hair distractedly as she stood in the mess that was her office. Her desk, normally immaculate, was strewn with papers and files of all sizes and descriptions. They stood in precarious heaps across its surface, threatening to spill onto the mounting piles of already fallen documents. She sighed, and began the tiresome task of sorting it all out.
"You've got your work cut out there!" an amused voice said from behind her. She turned and threw a dirty look at the man sprawled in the chair opposite hers. He grinned at her and propped his feet up onto his desk, which was likewise littered in junk of all sorts. Bare white walls hemmed them both in. The ceiling was low, contributing to the close, cramped feeling of the office. It was an unlikely setting for two heads of departments.
"You could, of course, give me a hand instead of lounging around doing nothing," she said pointedly. His smile widened and he swung his feet down.
"That, my dear Hermione, would involve work, and as we both know I have a severe allergy to that." She couldn't help it; a small smile forced itself through despite her struggles to the contrary. Quentin could always make her laugh, no matter her mood. And despite his words, he was actually very hard working. How else could he have risen to be head of his department?
He wandered over to her desk, flicking casually through the paperwork burying it. He uncovered a letter, much creased and grubby, as if it had been read many times. His blue eyes skimmed casually through it for the umpteenth time.
"I still can't understand why you would give up a promising career to go teach some little brats," he said reprovingly. "At the rate you're going, you could become Minister of Magic in the next few years!" He said this in a joking tone, but she could sense the seriousness of his words. She straightened up and looked at him. Part of the reason she liked Quentin so much was because he was one of the few people who actually looked her in the eye, and not to one side of her face.
"Minister of Magic? Quentin, use your head; I'm only twenty four!" she told him, snatching the letter back and flinging it into the overflowing wastepaper basket. "Besides, Neville is an old friend of mine. I couldn't let him down by refusing. There are so few capable wizards and witches left, he's the only adult at Hogwarts!"
Quentin raised his eyebrows. "An 'old friend'? Sure there wasn't anything more behind it?" he said teasingly, giving her a sly wink. At this a peal of laughter escaped her lips.
"Neville? You've obviously never met him. I mean, he's a lovely man, but... just no!" she said, shaking her head with another laugh. She surveyed the chaos that was her desk in hopeless despair.
"Why does everyone leave it to my last day here to dump all this paperwork on me? I'll never get through this!" She started on another mountain, wisps of hair flying from her rebellious thatch. Quentin returned to his desk and began to peruse yesterday's Daily Prophet while sipping a steaming mug of coffee. She poked her head suddenly through a gap between two enormous heaps.
"I'm not completely giving up my current work, you know. I'm still going to continue my research into records of ancient spells."
He rolled his eyes theatrically, setting his mug down on an untouched report. "Why bother deciphering some ancient fellow's illegible scrawl just to rediscover some measly spells?"
"I have found some very interesting new spells, some of which had never been heard of before," she retorted indignantly. "I think I'm on the verge of a completely new one. At least, he's been blathering on for pages about this wonderful spell he created. I hope it's better than the last one. A spell to clean toilets is not the most helpful in the battle against evil."
Quentin laughed. "Well, you never know." He picked up his paper and started to read again. He had barely finished the article on the new Minister, Dennis Creevey, before Hermione interrupted him.
"I asked you to find me a slave person for my research. Someone with a bit of willpower, so I can test some of the more advanced spells."
He sighed, folding his Prophet up and dropping it onto the desk. It looked like he wouldn't get a chance to finish the first page at this rate. "First of all, they are not slaves, they are reformers. We are a civilised society. And I say that with a perfectly straight face." He glanced down at the report his mug was resting on, and a mischievous look crossed his face. "Someone strong-willed you want, is it? This strong enough for you?" He tossed the file across the cramped room. She effortlessly caught it with a spell and Levitated it back to her. Her eyebrows rose as she skimmed it. When she had finished, she threw it back to him with a flat stare.
"Fine. I'll need him to be sent to Hogwarts soon. My research needs to continue. And by the way, 'reformers' is a ridiculous title. It sounds like they're someone such as Martin Luther King or Jean Calvin, instead of captured Death Eaters."
His forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. "Martin who?"
"Oh! I'd forgotten you were a pureblood t - or a linear wizard, if we're being politically correct here. Martin Luther King was a social reformer — as in he tried to change the way people treated each other. Just someone you learn about in Muggle history," she added as he still looked confused. She had to hand it to him, he had worked really hard to achieve his current position. Purebloods — no, linear wizards - often were treated with dislike and distrust in the new wizarding world, and found it difficult to advance in their careers. After all, the majority of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's followers had been from pureblooded families; naturally, others regarded the remaining purebloods with heavy suspicion.
He shook his head at the intricacies of the Muggle world and returned to the subject of the so-called reformer. "Are you serious about wanting this fellow? He spent three months in solitary confinement for assault of a wizard, for Merlin's sake!"
She nodded emphatically. "And yet he is still apparently sane, showing that he has remarkable mental strength. Just in passing, who was the wizard he attacked?"
John consulted the file in his hand. His face fell as he saw the name. "Terence Thistlewaite."
Hermione stared at him incredulously. "What? But the man is a known pure- linear wizard hater! He's been accused of attacking several linear witches and wizards without provocation. Who in the world assigned him a reformer?"
Quentin leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed, rubbing his temples. As head of the Department for the Rehabilitation of Former Dark Wizards, he was held accountable for this kind of disaster. "I was told that he had earned one for 'services rendered' to the Ministry. It's not my job to question my superiors, so I just did as I was told."
Hermione was nearly speechless at the injustice of it all. "Do you mean to tell me that this reformer was sentenced to three months in solitary confinement based on Thistlewaite's testimony alone?"
He nodded gloomily. "Well, it was obvious he'd been attacked. The reformer had broken his nose before he managed to stun him. However, Thistlewaite claimed it was an unprovoked attack, there was no taunting or abuse on his part." He and Hermione exchanged looks of scepticism. "Anyway, if that's the one you want, I'll arrange to have him shipped to Hogwarts in a few days." He glanced at the clock above the door. "Nearly five o'clock. Tell you what, I'll finish up here for you. St. Mungo's visiting hours end at six, and you were too busy to go at lunch."
She bent down and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Thanks a million, Quentin. The school term starts tomorrow and I have so much to do before then." Grabbing her cloak, she rushed out the door, waving goodbye at the last second.
Hermione strode through the busy atrium, her head high and cloak billowing out behind her. She kept her gaze straight ahead, and did her best to ignore the stares she was getting from the few visitors to the Ministry. Her footsteps echoed in the nearly empty room, reminding her yet again how few wizards were left in England. The War had killed many, of course, then the coup in the Ministry had wiped out much of the prominent political members of the magical community, and then the Atrocity happened. Now a collapsing economy and complete disorganisation had led to soaring rates of emigration.
A figure kneeling on the floor near the fountain caught her eye. The reformer was wearing robes of such a dull brown colour that she could feel a yawn coming on even as she looked at them. The hair was equally monotonous; it was shorn close to the head and Transfigured to match the robes. Her eyes flickered automatically to the reformer's face, but were instantly repelled. She had come up with that spell herself; anyone trying to look a reformer in the face would find their eyes could not focus, and instead would have to look to one side. It prevented recognition of any reformers, many of whom had enemies who would attack them if they got a chance.
As she waited in the all too short queue for the fireplaces, she scanned the Prophet that she had picked up on her way down. She caught the name Dennis Creevey and she shook her head. She still couldn't believe that someone so young had been elected. He was only about twenty-one! Then again, in the troubled times that now plagued the wizarding world, younger wizards often came to the fore as they were less conventional and set in their ways. She herself was an example of that - head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, and she was deeply involved in many other departments as well.
"Hello, Hermione." She turned and saw, to her surprise, the man himself standing behind her.
"Dennis!" she replied, shaking his hand. "Congratulations on becoming Minister. Youngest ever, I believe."
His steel grey eyes regarded her impassively. "Thank you. I hope we'll see a lot of changes in the way things are run now." He nodded to her and continued on his way. She stared after him, and gave an unconscious shiver. He had changed so much from the little boy she had seen and heard about in Hogwarts. It was Colin's death that did it, of course. He had saved Harry's life once, but sacrificed himself in the process. She hadn't seen Dennis for over a year after that, and the changes in him had shocked her when she did. From a hero-worshipping, rather comical young boy, had come a charismatic leader, inspiring the bedraggled remnants of what had once been wizarding Britain to struggle on, in the hopes of regaining some former glory.
A sharp tap on her shoulder shook her from her thoughts. Startled, she turned and saw a short, grey-haired man whom she vaguely recognised from the Department of Magical Transportation. These days, she knew everyone in the Ministry.
"Excuse me, miss, but some of us need to get going, you know." He eyed her fiercely from under caterpillar-like eyebrows. His expression changed as she turned to fully face him.
She realised she was next in line for the fireplaces and hurriedly picked up her things. "I do apologise, just give me a moment."
"What?" He leaned in closer, his face screwed up in concentration. His eyes even flickered to her own for a moment, before drifting back as if drawn by an invisible force to the left side of her face. She stared at him, until it dawned on her that she had forgotten yet again. Even after almost three years, it often slipped her mind.
"Sorry, I'm leaving now," she said slowly, before turning and walking into the fireplace. Emerald flames danced around her as she spoke her address, before whirling her away.
Several hours later, Hermione surveyed her near-empty apartment with no little satisfaction. Now, all that remained was to pack away her personal possessions, the little that she had.
As she methodically sorted through the few drawers and cupboards in a room, she came across an old photo she hadn't looked at in a long while. Her own, younger, unblemished self waved at her from behind the dust, arm in arm with — her throat tightened — Harry and Ron. She remembered that day, early in sixth year. None of them had known what was ahead of them, thank Merlin. Harry could not have looked so carefree if he had known that in four year's time, he would be brutally murdered in his moment of triumph, just after he had defeated Voldemort. The Death Eater had been mad, insane, and had killed himself directly afterwards, but that had been no consolation for the aching loss she still felt today. As for Ron… No, I won't think of him.
She lifted her head, looking directly into the mirror that hung on the otherwise bare wall. The face that looked back at her was almost unrecognisable as the same laughing girl in the photo. She scrutinized the image, searching every aspect of her face for changes.
Her hair, of course, was completely different. Tired of its rebellious bushiness, she had long ago decided that it would be much simpler to cut it all off. It was now cropped close to her head, but still thick and prone to bushiness given the slightest chance. Her eyes… they had once been a sparkling brown, full of hope for the future and confident of happiness. Now they were dead, the colour of muddy water, still reddened and swollen from tears she had shed not so long ago. Through these eyes she had seen things she still was reluctant to believe. Her mouth, once eager to smile, rarely curved up in that expression of joy. There were few people now that she could relax sufficiently with for that to happen.
She was conscious, as she made these observations, of her keen avoidance of the one feature of her face that had changed immeasurably. Now she could postpone it no longer. Her probing eyes moved reluctantly to the left side of her face, tracing the long line of the ugly scar, from just above her eyebrow to where it ran off her chin. The scar disfigured her face, pulling her left eye and her mouth downwards, distorting her vision and slurring her speech. It stood out starkly from the rest of her face, which was now pale from lack of time in the open air. Her fingers ran softly around its rough edges.
Quentin once asked her why she had never removed it. Scars had been all too common after the War, but the development of a new healing potion meant that few still carried the marks. She had refused to take it. How could she bear to emerge from the War and the confusion of the years after it unblemished, when Harry was dead and Ron was… NO!.
She shook her head like a dog trying to get water out of its ears, but in her case she wanted to be rid of her memories, the ones that still tormented her every moment, waking and sleeping. She was moving on to a new stage in her life; she should accept her losses and get on, still mourning but no longer despairing.
A humourless laugh forced its way out of her tightening throat. Move on? No one with her experiences could. She had tried after the War; she got a new job, several jobs in fact, and immersed herself in them. In only two years, she was head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, widely praised for her research into old forgotten spells, and well known for several new charms she had invented. And what had that brought her? No happiness, that was certain. Try as she would, she could not leave her state of mourning for her lost friends.
An Irish acquaintance had once told her that the Irish for 'to separate' was 'scar'. It seemed to strangely suit her own scar. It separated her past life, with happiness and no worries, from the grey, monotonous one she lived today. It symbolised her separation from her old friends, her old life, her old self.
With an impatient sigh, she pulled herself away. She couldn't afford the luxury of self-pity and looking back on what she had lost. After the War, she had had some kind of nervous breakdown, or so she was told. She couldn't remember much of those six months. She had left the hospital determined that she would not succumb again. Now, she kept her mind focused on other things, except for that one hour of the day. After that hour, she would let the tears flow freely.
But now was not the time. Rapidly refusing to allow herself to think of anything else but her task, she placed the last of her belongings in the case and buckled it shut. She sat down on the bed and looked around the bared room. You would expect, after living here for three years, that something of me would have rubbed off in this room, she mused. But the stark walls gave no sign that any personality had ever dwelt in the room they surrounded. She no longer had the power to impose her personality on anything.
The little watch on her wrist called out the time in its high, reedy voice. With a start, she realised that dinnertime had come and gone. She decided to forego any meal, and simply went to bed. She would need an early start if she wanted to catch the Hogwarts Express in the morning.