Disclaimer: Mr. H. Potter and the universe in which he resides belongs not to me, but to it's author J.K Rowling.

A/N: Thank you to my three kind reviewers! I truly appreciate your words of encouragement. More reviews most welcome, by the way!

Chapter 8

July 7, 2003 The Leaky Cauldron, London

'You have got to be joking!'
'What?'
'This can't be music, this is mad!'
'It's music...' Hermione frowned at Ron 'Muggle music, but still just music...'
'Why is it so bloody strange, then?'
'I can't believe I've neglected to show you this, but.. I suppose this is your first time hearing electronic music?'
'You can make MUSIC with electricity?'
'Bloody hell, Ron. I've told you muggles use electricity for damn near everything, haven't I? Keep your voice down!'
'And what did you call this again?'
'It's a walkman. A bit out of fashion now, but I couldn't resist getting this. It reminds me of when I was little, taking car trips with my parents, you know... childhood stuff.'
'Merlins pants, Hermione! This is insane, bloody insane! It isn't going to blow up, is it?' Ron holds the walkman gingerly, running his fingertips over it with some apprehension.
'Ronald! I've explained electricity to you a hundred times. It is perfectly safe! Give it back, will you?'
'Hang on, hang on! I want to listen some more! It's completely bonkers!'

It is one of those moments where it is just so very clear to her what she has given up to be here. Namely, everything normal. Rolling her eyes, she turns her attention away from Ron and concentrates her gaze around the room. The Leaky Cauldron has once again become a rowdy place, full of witches and wizards enjoying themselves. A bemused Harry is watching Ron, but turns to let his gaze wander the crowd as well once Ron sinks deeper into the music. They're always doing this, she thinks. Keeping watch, wherever they are. And personally, Hermione isn't altogether convinced the walkman will not give out any moment from the the residual magic in the air, whatever she says to Ron.

'Wow. You know, for all I don't like Pansy Parkinson, she's really rather striking these days, isn't she?'
'What?'
'Oh, come on. The haircut, Harry! It's done wonders for her, frankly. The cow.'
'Are you feeling alright?' he sniggers.
'I've recently learned the art of gossip, can you tell?'

Letting out a small chuckle Hermione straightens to look at Harry. 'On a more serious note it was her and Slughorn who helped evacuate the kids once they were all in the Hog's Head, you know. They are considering getting her an Order of Merlin, a bit belatedly.'
'Blimey, things have changed.' his gaze momentarily travels to somewhere far off before commenting rather casually, 'She was perfectly willing to sell me to Voldemort before the battle, though, wasn't she?'
'But she wasn't willing to sell eleven year-olds to Voldemort. It's... well, I suppose she isn't a beacon of morality, but who is? I'm not the one to cast the first stone on any moral issue either way, as Rita Skeeter kindly reminded me yesterday when requesting a comment on your new job.'
'Oh yeah? What did you say?''
'I said you were obviously not keen to talk since Rita had to come to me for comment so perhaps she ought to work out any bugs in her story and get back to me later. As for Parkinson, it seems like she was only willing to sell you to keep everyone else safe. She didn't have much to do with the Carrows, either. Turns out Cruciatis just isn't her curse.'
'Where do you get all this stuff?' Harry stares at her, astonished.
'As I said, I've learnt how to gossip. Which means from Ginny, really. Once you've read all that books have to offer, the only information left to mine is that which comes directly from people, she reckons. I found out about Parkinson from Percy.'

They turn back to their drinks for a moment before Hermione steels herself, gets up and walks over to the girl sitting alone at a far table. Pansy Parkinson looks nothing less than terrified.

'Hello' she starts awkwardly.
'I'll leave, I'll leave, just please don't make a scene, I swear I don't mean any harm!' Pansy squeaks, shaking.
'Uhm... Pansy? I just wanted to say hello, see how you were doing. It's been a long time.'
'Oh. Uh... well, I suppose... I uh, I've been... well that is to say I've been alright. And yourself?'

Pansy's voice cracks on the last syllable, and somehow, in this case of her old school enemy, that is all the apology Hermione needs for everything that has ever happened.
It takes a while, but in the end it turns out Pansy Parkinson is rather pleasant these days. That much could not be said of everyone else in the magical world, though, if her reactions are to be believed. It is, of course, understandable. Everyone in Britain is a little broken, after all. Pansy has been broken in a rather endearing sort of way, Hermione thinks.

There is a moment when she is really rather drunk and she sees Pansy there in front of her as Harry attempts conversation, and nothing is the same and this new person is so gentle that she reaches through the tension and she presses her mouth against a very soft pair of lips that taste of alcohol.

...

Staggering home at 3 in the morning together has never felt more difficult or more wonderful than it does tonight. The darkness seems deeper and warmer than usual, the city lights blink brighter. Hermione holds on to Harry to keep from falling over as Ron leans heavily into her. They catch their portkey at the Portkey station in Diagon Alley and when they reach the hallway of their flat they collapse, all tangled limbs and hysterical laughs, shoes and coats flying everywhere. After each of them has forced down a glass of water (Hermione insist they always do this, it is cheaper than hangover potions), they bid each other goodnight and Harry staggers to his room, Ron to his. Hermione thinks on it for only a moment, and perhaps it is the firewhiskey thinking for her, but she follows to Ron's room.

...

It is exactly 10 AM when Hermione exits Ron's room after a bit of a lie-in only to discover, as she attempts to scarper into her own room without having to see Harry's look of amusement, that they have a visitor.
Of all the visitors Hermione thought they were likely to have in this flat, the Dursleys had not been high on her list, but she needs only a cursory glance at the blonde man sitting on the sofa to be certain that this has to be none other than the famous Dudley Dursley. She yelps her surprise, and hurries through her washing and dressing so she may support Harry during what must be an awkward visit.

The boys sit on the couch immersed in the most loaded silence Hermione has ever been witness to when she plops down on a chair, hair still damp and her comfiest blue robes on (really, what else could one wear to greet a Dursley?), ready to make nice. Harry attempts an introduction.

'Dudley, this is Hermione. Hermione, this is my cousin Dudley. You've met before, right?'
They stare at each other, though there is no malice in Dudley's eyes that Hermione can see. Harry stares at the floor. Finally, Hermione can take no more.

'Dudley is a bit of an unusual name, isn't it?'
'So is Hermione.' smiles Harry, visibly relieved.
'It is, isn't it? I think my parents only named me Hermione because they thought it was a bit clever, to be honest. It's from Shakespeare.'
'Mum is obsessed with British history. I think she specifically meant to name me for Robert Dudley, favourite to Queen Elizabeth the 1st. She's got a painting of him in the sitting room and everything.'

The astonishment on Harry's face could not be plainer.

'That's fascinating.' Hermione encourages, 'Would you like some tea then, Sir Dudley?' she smiles. Harry visibly relaxes when Dudley confirms his wish for tea and Hermione simply summons the damn teapot and teacups because, well, Dursley. His eyes aren't quite wide enough for it to be satisfying, though, and she remembers suddenly that he has at one time spent an entire year being guarded by wizards.

'It's been a while since I've seen that.' he comments, amused, when she points her wand at the tea which promptly places itself in the pot. Pointing her wand at the pot she aims first a silent Aguamenti, then adds a heating charm. Steam rises from the spout of the pot, and after a while it begins pouring tea into their cups of its own accord. Doing this now, for the first time in front of a Muggle, she recognizes again how truly amazing it is. Magic. She can do magic.

'So, Hermione, what do you... er, do?'
'I'm an Unspeakable.'
'Surprisingly, she's not allowed to talk about it.' Harry grins. Dudley laughs.

'She is, however, obligated to talk about last night. Or did I not see you snog, of all bloody people, Pansy Parkinson, last night?' Harry's faux tone of shock isn't enough to not make her blush at the accusation.

'I... might've. She had just... changed so much and I uh... appreciated it?' she tries to explain.
'With your mouth.' Harry sniggers.

Dudley Dursley looks a bit shocked now, though still friendly.

'Oh, Harry. You've done worse, don't even start. It was just... we had a moment.'
'Of snogging.'
'Right.'

They burst out laughing, and soon Dudley cautiously joins in.

August 5 2003 Ministry of Magic, London

'Hello, miss Granger. Have a seat.'
'Hello. You can call me Hermione, Minister, you know me.' she smiles nervously 'No need to be so formal.'
'Very well, Hermione. Are you comfortable? Would you like some tea?'

When Hermione nods some tea appears in front of her. She clings to the cup. Being called to the office of the Minister has her rather nervous.

'Your academic record - you passed all your N.E. with Outstandings, is that correct?'
'Yes, Minister. And I've apprenticed as a Curse Breaker prior to my current position.'
'Yes, most excellent. I hate to see how many people have had their education interrupted by the war. Most unfortunate.' he ruminates.
'I hope you're settling in well here at the Ministry?' he inquires, and she nods.
'Oh, that's good. Good. Well, you see, I need your assistance with a project. After much consideration of the possible candidates, madame Tonks and I have decided that you are the most suited, so she has kindly lent you to me.'

He smiles brightly at her.

'You are, if I may say so, exceptionally talented. Not everyone can do small weather-working by the time they're twenty.' he twinkles at her knowingly.
'Oh. Well, eh... thank you, Minister. That's very kind of you.' A rosy blush is spreading over her face. She does love praise, especially when it reflects so much effort.
'The Ministry has sadly lost many of it's finest, a loss from whence we are still suffering, I'm afraid. We need those with talent and skill and intelligence now more than ever, as we are so sorely lacking specialists. Luckily, we've now got you.'

This is, even by Hermione Grangers' reckoning, laying it on thick as far as flattery goes. Basically saying he thinks of her as some sort of expert already? She shoots Kingsley a sceptical glance – nothing that needs this much flattery can be particularly pleasant.

'Well, let me get down to business then, shall I?' he smiles at her, and she notes it is rather nervous.

'There is, well...It is simply a matter of a small, or that is to say, a rather large actually... eh, favour of sorts.' the Minister himself is fumbling his words now.
'We cannot afford to let the knowledge of anyone go to waste at this crucial juncture. Even those with abhorrent crimes in their past hold secrets worth preserving. We need someone to... oh, let me just be clear, Hermione. We've fought side by side. I need someone to take over the care of one particular remaining Death Eater. I'd rather not house all of them in the same prison, if it's all the same and well... I'd rather catch two birds with one stone if you understand me. We rather lack solid documentation on the workings of Voldemorts inner circle, you see. I know your specialty is Soul Magic, and as such your specific abilities will come to good use in this case. We need you because, well... rehabilitating Bellatrix Lestrange has proven less successful than we'd hoped. She possesses too much valuable information to be simply stored away just yet, you see, and while she's made great progress her soul healing has not been particularly successful which I thought could be of interest to you. To be clear, this would hopefully be a permanent solution. I do not mean to house her in any regular prison ever again. In fact, I rather hope we can get rid of those altogether. Housing wizards and witches against their will... one has to get rather severe in method before it works and I've rather lost the taste for that sort of thing.'

He pauses just long enough to draw a breath.

'Mrs. Lestrange has yet to undergo a successful deposition as we can't quite access her memories. We've seen enough to put a trial together, but there is much more there. I'd like you to Heal her and deposition her.'

Oh shit. Hermione blinks at the Minister. Shit shit shit. Catching her breath she gives a shaky sort of toss of her head. It is meant to convey confidence, but she does not need to look further than the Ministers' face to see it has utterly failed and she shrinks back, scrunching her forehead and rubbing her temples with her fingers.

'You are certain I am the only option, I presume?'
'I am afraid so. We need somebody with very specific talents for this. Mrs. Lestrange has... well, she isn't quite what we expected her to be. I assure you she would be perfectly harmless, and once healed you'll hardly need to bother with her. It turns out to be quite lucky for us that she survived, really. All that knowledge of Voldemorts? Well, it seems he passed most of it to Madame Lestrange. Now she has a chance to repair at least some of the damage she has done, and we intend to use her for it.'
'Right.' Hermione bites her lip. 'And what a great relief that will be for the victims and their families, I'm sure.' she can't help but add in an icy voice. This is bloody ridiculous, she thinks bitterly.

'Yes, well... that is the way it has to be, I'm afraid. Vengeance cannot be our only motivation for justice.' he takes a nervous sip of his tea in a very un-Kingsley like moment before he considers her, and finally composes himself.
'I thought you might understand, Hermione, that there are things more important than punishing the guilty. Creating a life worth living for the innocent is, in my book, the highest priority of all. I am building a new society and was under the impression you understood that. You have always seemed supportive of it, at any rate.' The gaze he fixes her with burns in its intensity.
'Of course, Minister. Forgive me.' she says, but it is half-hearted at best.

'For the more... official project I am offering you... well, we need someone to oversee the magic of the Isle of Poseidon. We haven't got anyone fully trained to do this, and you seem to be the best candidate to be apprenticed. This would also be a great place to permanently contain mrs. Lestrange, which is where that all comes in. You will be given the necessary training, and you will simply be posted as an Unspeakable and Ward master. No one will know of your other mission, nor of mrs. Lestranges' residency. You will, in short, receive a hybrid education for both projects, and the documentation work with mrs. Lestrange would take place once you're at the island and then hopefully you could... keep an eye on her there.'

'You want me to start with that, don't you?'
The look he casts her is answer enough.
'Hermione... well, the island is not yet inhabited, and getting mrs. Lestrange situated and evaluated before anyone else arrives would indeed be an advantage.'
Hermione steels herself, gathering all the Gryffindor courage she can muster.
'I'll need to meet with her first. I don't know if I can do it, Kingsley.' she looks directly at him when using his name. This is not a professional matter, it is personal, and she needs him to know that, needs him to know what he is asking of her. 'She tortured me.'
He has the grace to look uncomfortable. 'I know.' he replies. 'I've seen it.'

Stupid Pensieve, she replies bitterly to herself as she slips out of the Ministers' office. Not even bloody memories are private for the Golden Trio. She pulls a face before entering the lift.

...

She returns to the flat in Diagon Alley in a daze.

'What's wrong?' Ron asks, looking as innocently incredulous as always, as though no one could ever be mad enough to think something is less than perfect when they are in the presence of Ronald Bilius Weasley, master of dismissing all concerns as ludicrous so long as there is enough food. She flings her arms around him.

'Kingsley wants to give me a new job.' she half-sobs.
'I can see why that is upsetting, obviously, but I assure you being a Ministry paper-pusher will not actually kill you, Hermione.'
'Ron! Honestly, you're horrible.' she smiles into his shoulder, relishing the comfort of his warm sweater and strong, angular shoulders as he grins at her affectionately.

They sit down on the couch Ron has purchased for them, brand-new, to be spell-proof and stain-proof. It is uncharacteristically tasteful and exceptionally comfortable. Ronald Weasley has grown into a man who appreciates style and invests his Galleons wisely. Hermione thinks Ron also feels it important that people know he has some gold now, although neither her nor Harry would ever point that particular motivation out to him.

'He wants me to be the... resident Unspeakable researcher of Isle of Poseidon. To do the security and magical upkeep and all that.'
'Seems reasonable enough. You can do that, Hermione, no problem.'
'Yes, yes, that isn't the problem. Managing the wards of Isle of Poseidon actually sounds extremely interesting. The problem is that... well, that Isle of Poseidon will be the containment location for Bellatrix Lestrange. Which means I'd be in charge of her safety and well-being, and Kingsley also wants me to... mine her for information on the war and dark magic and bloody Voldemort.'

The look of disgust and incredulity on Ron's face is ever so satisfying.

'He can't be serious? She tortured you! She killed Sirius!'
'Actually, she didn't kill Sirius, at least not officially, although a brief glance at her formal conviction informed me she's killed at least 27 other people if that's any consolation.' she remarks drily.

'He's gone mad! That's barking mad, that is! Hold on!'

At that Ron runs off into the kitchen to attend to their impending meal, swearing loudly and cursing Bellatrix Lestrange, Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Ministry of Magic and, inexplicably, Harry. The latter turns out to simply be because Harry is late for supper.

...

'He's packing off all the Death Eaters with different Unspeakables, and even a few Healers. No one knows who has any of them, apparently. It's all very secret.' Harry informs her over dinner.

'How do you know, then?' Ron questions, incredulously.
'McGonagall told me.'

Ron snorts at this and stabs his fork through a piece of roast beef.

'S'not all that secret if everyone is being told about it.' he mutters darkly.

'Well, I was only told because I'll be helping oversee visitation for some of the children over the holidays. I think I was chosen because they assumed Hermione would tell me, to be honest.'

...

'It feels like I'm lying, you know. I mean, Kingsley certainly knows the story and I'm not sure why he pretends it's different... but it still feels dishonest.'
'We've all got to pretend, Hermione. It isn't as if any of us has a normal professional background.'
'It's not an equal comparison, Harry. You're not a recently released hostage.'
'You could've just paid them off, Hermione. I've always maintained you should've let Harry handle it and -'
'Ron! You know I couldn't. The dragon was... well, I had to make my reparations.'
'And my teaching isn't reparations?' Harry shoots in.
'Well, personally I am not concerned with any reparations, especially not in my business of importing and adapting muggle objects so wizards and muggles can more easily communicate and understand each other.'
'Ronald Weasley, master of sarcasm. I never thought this day would come.' Harry grinned.

Hermione sighs, exasperated. In a way, it had been easier when Harry and Ron were clueless teenage boys. These young men are far too difficult to win arguments with.

'It isn't the same. You know it's true, so stop it, alright? There were no goblins demanding you be their slave for years in exchange for your re-entry to Britain.'
'You make it sound so bloody dramatic, though.' Ron rolled his eyes, 'You could've said no. I did, I negotiated my payment and I've made them. So did Harry. Merlin, I made my payments with money I collected from peddling your inventions! You chose to apprentice with them and retrieve treasure in exchange for your reparations. Choosing slavery makes it not slavery, remember?'
'It is our choices that makes us who we are, Hermione.' Harry boomed sombrely.
'Oh, for the love of all that is holy, are you quoting Dumbledore to win arguments now?'

They all burst out laughing at this ridiculousness, and trying to bring the subject up again over dessert proves fruitless. Clearly, this is getting her nowhere. Sympathy has, after all, never been a strong suit for either of the boys except in cases of actual peril. Some things, luckily, will never change.

'You just don't understand. I was excited, really, to be apprenticing with them. I thought of it mostly as an opportunity until I had signed the contract and then... well, the goblins aren't quite the same once they've got you to boss around, you know. They weren't under any doubt that I was a criminal being held against my will for punishment.'
'Did you end up becoming an actual curse-breaker?' Ron demands, pointing his fork at her as he is wont to do.
'Well, yes...'
'And did you even earn quite a bit of treasure for yourself in the end?'
'Oh, for Merlin's... fine, Ron. You win. It isn't important what the Minister thinks.'
'Are you going to take the job?'
'I don't know. Do you think McGonagall would hire me if I quit now?'