Special thanks to my beta, raa, for all the help.
A Meeting with Rousseau
17 August 2001
1910 UTC+1
Paris
Thinking back, when they had first arrived in France, everything was a mess. There were no allies waiting for them, no network standing by to organize a resurgence. There was no safe house to fall back to, until they discovered Flamel's gift. Whereas they always had allies in Britain, even during the darkest days, France was empty. There was no network of friends with which to reconstitute the Order of the Phoenix, no pliant politicians ready to lend an ear. When Hermione asked Professor Dumbledore, she didn't like what he had to say.
"None of this was planned," he'd explained. "During the Second Wizarding War against Voldemort, I had no expectation of losing control Magical Britain while the Order stood. It seemed to me that there were only two routes that fate would allow. I hoped for the first, that we might defeat Voldemort in his entirety. My training for Harry and the support of the Order of the Phoenix would be enough. We would hunt down the Horcruxes and destroy those cursed objects, and with them the anchors that tether him to this world. Failing that, I expect that the second possibility was that we be utterly destroyed. Our magic and our lives would be wiped away, and the world would fall under his rule. The prophecy did not seem to allow for a partial victory for Tom Riddle—and, even should that happen, I expected I would die, that I would nobly sacrifice myself to save young Harry, perhaps."
"It would not have been the worst way to go," remarked Professor Dumbledore thoughtfully. "Especially if I could know it would ensure Harry his victory."
Hermione had known all this. She had always suspected, on some level, that Professor Dumbledore hoped for his own death. He may have been the only wizard that Voldemort feared, but he was also old—frighteningly old, really—and tired. He had been happiest when she, Harry and Ron had their own adventures and he could provide advice when he could. She didn't know how it happened, but something, sometime in the last wizarding war had broken Albus Dumbledore. He had no living relatives, now, no heirs, and no estate to bequeath on them besides. He would have preferred to live out his days quietly as the Headmaster of Hogwarts, never to fight again. When Harry told her what Albus saw in the Mirror of Erised, she was not surprised. Here was a man done with excitement, ready to rest.
In a better world, he would have had his retirement.
Hermione could not keep the bitterness out of her voice. "That's not what happened, though."
Professor Dumbledore's eyes were tired, devoid of light. "Where there's life, there's hope, Miss Granger," he had said. "I did not prepare for this retreat, it is true; we have no safehouses on the continent, but we are not without allies here, either. Even with control of Magical Britain, Riddle does not have the power base necessary to take over the world. Alastor will find a way to bring the Americans around, and in the meantime, we must build our network here. Magical France is quite different from Magical Britain, and even those who share Riddle's politics will oppose him just for being British. More pressing, though, is the need to keep Harry's death a secret. As long as Voldemort believes Harry Potter is alive, we have time..."
Hermione blinked, snapping out of her daydream, and raised her eyes back to the grey screen. The screen saver flickered at her gently. She sighed and leaned back in her chair. Normally, this part of her day was straightforward enough. After her afternoon training, she would usually enjoy a couple hours writing, researching, and corresponding with other members of the Order. This evening, though, she was distracted. Every few weeks, she needed to write a press release, and though Hermione Granger was never one to avoid work, writing press releases took a toll on her that nothing else did. "Harry Potter" had to make public appearances once a month, and had to release a statement to the papers at least twice a month, or else people would lose hope. The masquerade of Harry's continued survival needed to be maintained. This was vital work.
From memory, Hermione could write five feet on the uses of hippogriff feathers in potions, or ten feet on the technique and dangers of inanimate-to-animate transfigurations. She had faced down Lord Voldemort on four separate occasions, and survived each one. Professor McGonagall had wanted to keep her on for a Transfiguration Mastery. Professors Flitwick, Vector, and even Snape had offered her apprenticeships. She could silently cast over fifteen spells, she could conjure a Patronus, and was a perfect Occlumens. She could use the newest Muggle technology with an ease even most Muggles couldn't match. Albus Dumbledore was her personal mentor. When Alastor Moody learned she kept a spare weapon on her person at all times, he said that she was "sufficiently paranoid," and he never said that of anyone. She discreetly checked him for polyjuice after the comment, of course. By all measures, Hermione Granger was at the top of her game.
None of it mattered, though. Nothing could bring back Harry.
The steady light from her enchanted Apple G3 was harsh and blue compared to the dancing orange glow coming from hallway through the crack under her door. Professors Moody and Dumbledore were having another argument, the same one they always did. Somehow, it all seemed surreal to her. Here she was, writing on Harry's behalf, because the Wizarding World needed to believe he was alive. And there was Professor Dumbledore, in hiding because the Wizarding World needed to believe he was dead. As long as Harry Potter continued to exist, Voldemort would be in fear. He would be cautious: he would spend resources looking for the Boy-Who-Lived-Then-Died and delay his plans. Every moment the Death Eaters spent hunting for Harry Potter was a moment they weren't using those resources to hunt down Muggle-born wizards and witches. Every man-hour spent trying to trace him or track him was a man-hour taken away from arresting fleeing refugees.
With the Order shattered, this delaying action was all they had left. The world was falling apart, Magical Britain was controlled by the greatest Dark Lord in living memory, and all Hermione Granger could do was pretend to be Harry, write press releases, drink Polyjuice, and hold on to hope.
Enough slacking off. Yes, she hated writing these releases. Yes, she hated pretending to be him. Yes, it was dishonest. And yet, it was necessary. Hermione had never shirked away from doing what was needed, no matter how distasteful. She was the only one who knew him well enough, who had proofread enough of his school essays, who spent enough time with him, to really imitate his writing style and his beliefs. The world would need a hero, even a false one, if the Order was to muster forces against the darkness that settled over Britain. In the end, that mattered more than any moral qualms.
By the time the guests arrived, Hermione's article calling for a pan-species dialogue in Brussels was revised and ready for publication. As the printer hummed to life, she made her way down the carpeted upper hallway towards the Ball Room. From a brightly-colored portrait, an elderly wizard peered out at her with a calculating look.
"You're going to be late if you don't hurry up, missy," he chided. "The guests will arrive soon."
"Tempus," Hermione muttered, twisting her wand in the simple motion required for the spell.
"Just in time" was the reply. Hermione snorted at the old man, and kept a stately pace as she mentally prepared herself for the coming meeting.
Even after living here for months, she was a little in awe of Flamel's former home, Manor Asnières-Sur-Seine. Compared to the Order's last headquarters, this place was a palace. 12 Grimmauld Place had been dusty and poorly-maintained. The shadows that seemed to cling darkly to the corners and closets of the Black mansion weren't, strictly speaking, signs of Dark magic, but the decor had unsettled her nonetheless. Dark things had been done there, the kind of things that hang in the air and water and ground and walls long after the screams of the victims have faded from the ears of their captors.
Manor Asnières, by comparison, was always festive and alive, even as empty as it was now. For many centuries, it had been Nicolas Flamel's primary residence, and nearly a decade after his death it was not in any way diminished. The wards were strong, though Flamel never invested in anything quite so paranoid as a Fidelius Charm, for who could possibly threaten him? In fact, Albus had been moderately surprised when the wards accepted them. The head of staff, Milly, passed on Flamel's final benediction—ownership of a few of his properties around France.
What happened to the rest of his wealth, they never learned. Manor Asnières was devoid of magical items or objects of value, though there were several paintings and an ancient library with tomes, histories, newspapers, and diaries spanning back a thousand years. Hermione had only made a small dent in the library, which wasn't organized in any coherent way she could recognize, except that older books tended to be towards the back. In another time, living in a spacious manor on the outskirts of Paris filled with tomes that had rarely, if ever seen light in the past hundred years would be exhilarating—and it still was, to an extent—but not now. Not with the fate of Europe at risk.
Hermione moved her wand to her left hand and transfigured her sweater and jeans into dress robes while she tied back her hair with her right hand. The off-hand practice came to her more and more naturally now, as did wearing transfigured formal clothing. She could still hear Professor Moody's advice ringing in her head:
"CONSTANT VIGILANCE! You think Death Eaters are going to wait for you to get dressed when they attack? Never wear something so restrictive," Professor Moody had ranted. "If you absolutely must wear dress robes, transfigure your combat armour or loose clothing into something presentable and wear that instead."
Looking into a hallway mirror, she smiled at her work before applying a few finishing touches to her cuffs. Her left-handed transfiguration was getting better every day. She'd never be as good with her left hand as she was with her right, but the improvement was gratifying nonetheless. The seams were still a bit off, and the buttons looked suspiciously cloth-like, but it would do.
"Not bad," said the mirror, "but you still absolutely must do something about your hair. Even if it's just Rousseau, you can't show up with a hairdo like that."
Hermione rolled her eyes and turned away. Standing before the door, she stretched her arms in front of her, savoring the loud cracks as she worked out the kinks in her elbows and wrists. A couple hours spent writing always left her a bit wound up. She had never imagined she'd desperately write press letters every night, update ledgers, and manage logistics for an international organization. Still, if there was anything Hermione could learn to handle, it was organising. Every part of running the Order felt like an extension of the responsibilities she had during the war and the years leading up to it. As limited as her current resources were, they were still considerable and they needed tending, if she ever wanted to bring freedom back to her home country. She scowled at the thought. Tom Marvolo Riddle had taken over Magical Britain with no money or resources other than his own magical talent and a handful of pure-blood terrorists. Surely Hermione Granger could do better.
The Acting President of the Order of the Phoenix sighed, firmly twisted the doorknob, and swept into the dining room, smiling widely at her guests.
The dining table had been hastily transfigured into a large desk after the meal. The plates were mostly gone, relegated to the corners. The center was obscured, plastered with maps, tables of actuarial and census statistics, newspaper clippings, and a long timeline with wizarding photos and note cards tacked to it. Together, these pieces of evidence represented the outcome of six months of research and development by Hermione and her network of contacts and librarians.
Hermione's presentation was drawing to a close. This was the important part—the political part. She had finally found a sympathetic politician willing to listen her, a mere British Muggle-born witch. You don't get many shots like this. You have to make them count. Her guest tonight was none other than Justine Rousseau. Rousseau held positions in both the muggle National Assembly and the magical Wizarding Court of France. Her reputation as a supporter of Muggle-born rights made her a household name in the Light circles—at least in France. There were completely normal, legitimate reasons for Hermione Granger, up-and-coming Muggle-born political reporter, to seek an audience with her. So far she'd done nothing to let slip the truth about her agenda, just discussed data around issues of Muggle-born rights and British politics. Not all politicians, even the good ones, could consider supporting the Order of the Phoenix openly, after all.
"Starting with the makeup of the Wizengamot in the 70s during The First Wizarding War, we see a gradual decline of Muggle-born representation. This falls in line with our observations about the rate of Muggle-born immigration and the price of life insurance for pure-bloods, half-bloods, and Muggle-borns," Hermione concluded.
"I'm still not seeing it," replied Rousseau. "There are no reports of official sanctions of violence against Muggle-born wizards and witches in the Magical United Kingdom, though you've certainly made a case for things being bad there."
"It all fits together undeniably," retorted Hermione, "in spite of the DEP's PR department. Look, Muggle-born wizards are being slaughtered and oppressed in Britain, but the Daily Prophet simply doesn't print it. We can work backwards to prove this, though, from the casualty statistics and skyrocketing life insurance premiums for all non-pure-blood wizards."
Rousseau watched silently as Hermione continued. "Look, the DEP took power near the start of the year, right? And they gradually gained influence, as we know, in the years leading up to this one. And over this period of time, we see the effective risk ratio—calculated using the premium and the payout of the insurance plans—going up. Inevitably as the crumbling of mountains, ponderously as a Skrewt's scuttle, the pieces come together. It was only a matter of time following the election. The papers and the politicians might be able to ignore the plight of the oppressed, but put money in the equation anywhere, and the truth comes out."
"And why should we trust insurance companies over the British press?" asked Rousseau.
Hermione sighed. "You see, the insurance companies, they're just out to make money. And, you wouldn't make money betting that Muggle-born wizards will live or do well in Britain, not in the past five years. They have raised premiums because that's just what they've had to do to stay afloat. They wouldn't do it for no reason. The risk factor is higher. Muggle-born folk are dying in greater numbers in Britain now than ever before."
"I see," said Roussau, her voice skeptical.
Hermione knew it was a longshot, but she had to push on nonetheless.
"... which leads us to the political situation here," said Hermione, "in France."
Madame Rousseau took her pause for an invitation, and replied. "We are always eager to reach out to our neighbors across the channel. Fostering international co-operation was a core component of my platform, and remains a major priority for both my party and the Left party. So, since you've clearly put a lot of effort into this, I'll be blunt with you, Ms Granger: what is it you want?"
"Fair enough, I'll be direct." Hermione took a breath. This is where it could fall apart. Rousseau knew the facts. Could she understand the truth behind them? "As you know, Magical Britain has just emerged from a civil war. Much to the dismay of international observers and activists for Muggle-born rights, the followers of Tom 'Voldemort' Riddle and the affiliated DEP have seized control of the legislature. Even now, they enact laws to curtail the rights and privileges of Muggle-born wizards and witches. Though voting and education are still non-discriminatory, land ownership, licensure for apparition, purchase of portkeys, and government positions are now rights only extended to pure-bloods. We believe it is only a matter of time before the discrimination increases in severity."
"That sounds truly abhorrent," said Rousseau. "I've kept abreast of news from England, but was not aware things had gotten so bad. I'm sorry to hear that the English are afflicted by such an awful English politician. Of course, in France we would never stand for such a thing. Though we have our pure-bloods and various political factions that do not like Muggle-born community, we've never had to deal with that callousness of Blood Purism that you have. It has a particularly English flavor, does it not? We are blessed not to have your problems. I extend my best wishes for England's leftists in their next election."
Rousseau narrowed her eyes, and nodded as she spoke, placing careful emphasis on wishes and election. "That being said, I fail to see how this predicament involves me, or anyone in my employ. Statistics about Muggle-born financial devices or job opportunities in Britain scarcely affect my constituents. The lifestyles of Muggle-born wizards outside France are not my concern, nor do I plan to make them my concern."
There it was. Time to knock it out of the park!
"You're right. It doesn't involve you—not yet," conceded Hermione, "but it will. A man like Tom Riddle won't stop with just one island nation. His dreams will not be contained to Magical Britain, as sure as his ambition would never let him rule only the land of his birth. If you do not feel the urgency of this situation, it is your distance, rather than it severity, that dampens your reaction. There's no-one like him in France. If you would just look at the facts—"
"Well," interrupted Rousseau with frown, "we do have our Blood Purist Party here in France as well. And even before this meeting, I was quite well-informed. In fact, Ms Granger—"
Hermione grimaced at the interruption, but pressed on nonetheless. "No, Madame Rousseau. With all due respect, you are not well-informed. One who hasn't met Riddle cannot truly understand the level of depravity and terrifying charisma the man brings to the table. With his tiny group of initial followers, he was able to rig elections, control the media, assassinate his political enemies, and unleash a wave of terror on Britain not felt since—since Grindelwald!"
"Bah," said Rousseau dismissively. She waved her hand as though shooing away a bird. "Riddle hardly seems—"
"No!" interrupted Hermione. She felt a heat behind her eyes, driving her forward in an attempt to get through to this politician. "Riddle's not some milquetoast politician like Fontaine who will roll over and play dead when you beat him in an election. He won't suffer from embarrassment when he reads an article discussing his night-time activities in a tabloid magazine. He won't—he won't issue a public apology if you catch him in a lie! He kills his enemies! He murders the dissidents! If you treat Riddle like you treat the BPP, your nation will crumble."
Hermione was standing now, and punctuated her final sentence by slamming her clenched fist against the table. The house-elf clearing away the dishes jumped in surprise as the plates and goblets rattled harshly against the dark-stained wood. Scraps of parchment and paper, carefully pinned to her timelines and stacked by date and category, broke free and fluttered through the air on currents of accidental magic.
Rousseau stood as well, and scowled darkly. "Now you listen to me, young woman," she spat, her voice laced with venom, volume rising with each word. "I have extended you a great courtesy by coming to hear your theories and give you my advice. I did not come to be threatened by someone barely out of college!"
"I'm not the one threatening you," shouted Hermione, "Riddle is! By politics and terror and murder, he has seized control of Britain, and everything anyone knows about the man says he will not stop there. Stop being offended about his Britishness and open your eyes. He will come for you, and he will come for your country. If you do not take him seriously, there will be nothing left of Magical France but purists and streets running red with the blood of your allies and children! Look at what he's done already: the latest numbers shows Muggle-borns filing taxes at half the rate that they were ten years ago! Where are half of Britain's Muggle-borns, Rousseau? They are dead, Rousseau, dead like all you people will be! "
Rousseau physically drew herself back, and looked disgusted.
"I see that my time and expectations were wasted on you," she sneered. "I can't possibly imagine what I was thinking, coming to meet with someone like you."
With a resounding crack, Rousseau disapparated on the spot.
Once more, Hermione slammed her fist against the table. A goblet rattled off the corner of the table and fell to the floor, spilling wine on the carpet.
"Aargh!"
Only Milly the house-elf remained to hear her inarticulate scream, and she knew better than to talk to Hermione in a mood like this.
