"For what it's worth: it's never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There's no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you're proud of. If you find that you're not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again. - The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (Screenplay, Eric Roth)
The man on the road had been her one fortunate break.
Of course, setting out on the road from the field, she'd picked the wrong direction. Hermione began to wonder if there was a Wizarding god or goddess. And what on earth she had done to upset them. She'd made her way through the foreign countryside as dusk slipped to night and the rain poured on, unrelenting. Each step she took was a calculation- had she taken this step before? Was she past where she'd first arrived?
By the time she spotted her first pinprick of light in the distance, she'd nearly cried. Before remembering the crotchety frenchman's directions. Follow the road. The fifth cottage along.
Each step past those islands of light emptied Hermione of what little hope she held. A part of her- the foolish Gryffindor part no doubt- pulled her towards them. Surely those inside would shelter a stranger for a night. Surely they were neither dark nor treacherous. There had to be some benevolent strangers out there.
And yet she walked on.
Constant vigilance.
Left.
1603, midst of the Goblin revolution, 30 refugee's slaughtered in Bristol. Accepted mead and bread at an inn from a seemingly benevolent Wizarding in-keeper.
Right.
Constant vigilance.
Left.
First Wizarding war.
Right.
Marlene McKinnon had bested death eaters in countless raids. Her son answered the front door one afternoon. Entire family murdered.
Left.
Constant vigilance.
Right.
1 year, 5 months and 3 weeks ago.
Left.
She'd lead Harry and Ron to Xenophilius Lovegood's doorstop. They'd nearly been sold to Voldemort.
Then the snatchers had found them.
Then Bellatrix had her on the floor.
Then the knife had carved into her flesh.
Right.
Constant Vigilance.
The morbid litany accompanied her down the black, empty road.
By the time Hermione saw the fifth and final lit window, floating ahead on the horizon, the night owls hooted overhead and the distant echoes of bats shrieked. It would only be a few hours before dawn. Soon enough the shape of a cottage emerged from the dark. Even then, she scarcely let her breath falter for a moment. Right. The rain had stopped for the most part but she was soaked to her very bones. Left. With her arms wrapped tight around her torso, she climbed the slight incline from the road, through the wet grass littered with crunched leaves, towards the rustic cottage; it's light spilling onto what would probably be a charming garden in less miserable circumstances.
Hermione no longer had the energy to consider what the Delacuers reaction would be as a half-drowned English girl arrived in the darkness without call or ceremony. The mind that usually whirled ahead to oncoming hurdles was numb. Her feet carried her up a set of stone steps and to the heavy, stained glass door without even the prompt of 'left' or 'right'. She heard the doorbell ring before she noticed her outstretched arm.
"Oui?"
Hermione had never had the most graceful of social skills. Bursting into tears before managing a greeting, however, was low even for her.
It made no difference. Through blurred eyes, all Hermione could take in was a warm orange light surrounding her as the tall, graceful Mrs Delacuer drew her immediately into her arms. It was only after the woman had ushered her into the kitchen, dried her off in the warmth of her magic and assured her everything would be okay that Hermione recognised the woman's perfume was nearly identical to her mother's.
Diagon Alley was in shambles.
George had decided it was rather nice, not being the cause for a change. The crowds milling through the magical alley way were clamouring about and shouting not in outrage or panic, but simply to be heard over the sheer din. Scores of witches and wizards and congregated with nothing more in mind that a good spot of gossip.
George shut the blind on the lot of them, and turned back to the stores' cramped rest room. Percy sat, robes shabby and glasses smudged on the very tip of his nose as he starred holes through the morning paper- the cause of the calamity.
Trust the Prophet to turn a story about a violation of individual rights and government interference and twist it into the matchmaking spectacle of the century. The last 6 pages were glossy colour features devoted to each eligible muggle born with no known romantic attachments.
He'd very nearly been surprised to see Mundungus Fletcher walking up and down the chaos, ticket book in hand shouting offers for odds for various couples. On when they'd come together, on the number of offspring, on whose would be the most extravagant ceremony. Very, very nearly anyway.
Verity was out front with the customers while showing Dennis the ropes. The kid had luckily escaped the Prophet's scrutiny, and was somehow managing to ignore the customers ill-contained excitement regarding the law.
Which left George to deal with Percy.
Not a task he was particularly adept at.
Half an hour ago he'd nudged a cup of tea on to the table. It still sat there, cold, while his brother obsessed over the paper in front of him. Occasionally George could make out a faint mutter. He couldn't precisely make out the words but then again, he didn't really need to.
The prophet was spread to the fourth last page where a shiny photograph of Oliver flew before a set of Quidditch goals and smiled out to an imaginary crowd.
Oliver Wood. Son of muggle-born witch Eileen O'Connor (Deceased 1998) and Half-blood wizard Grant Hickman. Promising Keeper for Puddlemore United. Present at the Battle of Hogwarts. No known romantic attachments.
Then, in the middle of a red asterisk
"He's a Keeper ladies!"
George took the cold cup of tea and poured it down the sink. A heating charm probably would have salvaged it- but this morning called for stronger stuff altogether. He grabbed the near empty bottle of fire-whiskey from under the sink and poured both he and his brother a generous tumbler.
"It'll be alright Perce. Oliver obviously loves you and wants to be with you. You'll find a way."
It sounded lame even to his own ears. This is what happened when George attempted sincerity. It just came out wrong.
"Plus any witches that remember Oliver from school will know what an absolute nutter he is- they won't want a bar of him."
That at least got Perce to trade his woeful muttering for a heated glare.
"Oliver could get anyone he wants!"
George's hands were already up in surrender.
"Yeah and the man's taken one too many bludgers to the head, because he wants you Perce. So stop obsessing over that trash that calls itself a paper and remember that this law isn't going to last."
Percy made an ugly scoffing noise, but didn't loosen his hold on the paper before him.
"George you can't seriously believe you and a few other belligerents are going to overpower the ministry? You're too naïve by half."
George was almost surprised to hear the arrogant ministry snobbishness coming from Percy now- his brother had made such a turnaround since the final battle. He'd been there with mum and dad through the darkest of days, he'd apologised to each and every member of the Order and he still felt apart from the family after deserting them through some of the hardest years. The surprise must have shown on his face.
"I don't mean- George listen, I'm not defending them. They've crossed the line- and I'm not just saying that because of- because of Oliver." Percy clutched the paper and paused once more, the look in his eyes far away and hopeless. "But you don't understand how things are running in the Ministry now. Corrupt doesn't cover it. Half the cabinet are bought out, and the other half are ready to climb all over each other for the sake of ambition. I was… that is, I know how far people are willing to go in the name of ambition. Your little stunts will only go so far. You might get public opinion on your side- but you won't be able to turn the ministry. That would take nothing short of revolution."
George let his eyes glance around the small office as Percy's words sunk in. If anyone knew what it was like within the ministry, it was Percy. He was no longer under-secretary to the Minister, but he had been placed as a supervisor in the Wizengamot administration services. He was two-rungs beneath department head, and Dad had told George that his position was more pivotal than he was letting on. Perce's desire for recognition in the Ministry had been soured and paled, but it hadn't prevented him from landing in a position that allowed advancement. Most witches and wizards stayed in the post of Supervisor for 6 to 8 months before advancing. Percy had been there for near on two years. It seemed the only thing stopping Percy's progression was, well, Percy.
"What are you still doing there Perce? When you feel like that about the place?"
Percy snorted. It was odd, hearing the sound from the boy who had pretended for so long to be above such vulgarity.
"What else is there for me? I've never been good for much else. I'm officious. I'm relentless. I work hard. That's all I've ever had, that's all I've ever been. I've never been as daring as Charlie, or as brilliant as Bill. I'd have never been able to build this place out of nothing like you and Fred did. I played absolutely no part in the war like Ron did- Harry Potter's second-hand bloody man. All I've ever done is work myself to the ground, and for what? The ministry are about to take away the only good thing that's ever happened to me. It's too late for me to become anything else. I've been a pompous fool my entire life but my over-achieving days are behind me. I'll work at the ministry and I'll shut up about it. It's what I deserve."
George fixed his brother with a reckoning glare.
"That's bullshit."
Percy physically started. There was no trace of sympathy in George's voice as he continued.
"The lot of it. Complete bullshit. It's never too late to be what you want to be. And staying at the ministry for the rest of your life as punishment? Who is that helping? What does that achieve. If you want to atone for your inaction- if you honestly want to change who you've become, then just fucking do it."
Percy's mouth hung open comically. His glasses had somehow become askew on the end of his nose, and for the first time this morning, the paper sat entirely ignored.
"Do what?"
George pushed the chair aside and brought an ordered stack of ministry forms to the table.
"Time to start your career as a relentless belligerent. These are patent forms for a new potion; It develops memories into viewable globes- like a muggle movie-film. Any body at all can view any memory as many times as they like. Hermione says it will completely change privacy in the Magical world. It was originally meant to be a WWW product- but I think It's going lend itself to public warfare quite nicely. If you can register this without anyone at the ministry releasing exactly what they can do, you'll be that much closer to ending this law. People need to see the reality of this situation, not the glossy print version."
Percy was eying the stack of parchment warily and George tried not to let the anxiety bubbling in his stomach show. Maybe he should have been kinder- or at least less harsh anyway. Maybe he-
In one fell swoop, Percy incinerated the Daily Prophet and levitated the stack of forms closer to him.
"Can you OWL Oliver for me, and tell him to come here after training? He might be interested in a bit of belligerent work himself."
Thanks for your many reviews- It means the world :)
