Chapter 6: The Minister Strikes Back
Hermione's eyes opened approximately one minute before her phone started buzzing and loudly playing the Star Wars theme song on her bedside table, courtesy of Hugo.
She sat up in bed mechanically, her cortisol levels spiking. They had 30 minutes before the Portkey was set to leave.
Switching off the alarm, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and pulled on a pair of boots over her jeans. Her hair was a riot of curls, so she hastily piled it on top of her head, securing it with a scrunchie. She paused, staring at the wall for a moment, and wondered if trying to catch a few hours of sleep before departure had been a mistake.
But if she hadn't slept, today would blend into tomorrow thanks to the time zone difference, and that would have been an extremely long day.
The bathroom light flickered to life, revealing dark smudges beneath her eyes—souvenirs of the stress she hadn't quite managed to sleep off. Hermione leaned heavily against the sink, cold porcelain pressing into her palms as she stared at her reflection.
She looked tired. No—she was tired. Not just physically, but emotionally. Ever since the election, ever since Ron... The cold water she splashed on her face was a jolt to her system, but it didn't wash away the lingering ache beneath her skin. Still, she squared her shoulders. There were tasks to be done. And Malfoy to wrangle.
Sighing, she headed downstairs to put the kettle on. She would need some fortification before she woke the dragon, so to speak.
Her movements were blearily automatic as she stumbled through the house, wandlessly and nonverbally switching on lights as she went. Two rucksacks were lined up neatly next to the hall table, where an old protractor sat waiting to be activated.
In the kitchen, Hermione boiled water the Muggle way, insisting on steeping her tea without magic as she always had. It had driven Ron mad when they were married; he preferred the expediency of a wand when making tea. Hermione, however, swore tea tasted better this way, and a few extra minutes were worth it. When the tea was ready, she poured two cups, took a long swig from one, and started back upstairs with the other.
Hugo's room was at the end of the landing. Hermione pushed the door open with a spell uttered from within—no wand, no words, just a soft whisper of magic. She had been able to perform a great many domestic spells like this for years now, though she still needed her wand for anything complex.
Stepping inside, she was greeted by the familiar chaos of her teenage son's world: walls covered in Pokémon posters, shelves lined with video game paraphernalia, and carefully arranged Warhammer figurines. The smell hit her next—a blend of sweaty teenage boy and sun-kissed child. It wasn't entirely pleasant, but it wasn't terrible either. She took a moment to breathe it in.
But tonight, there was something else. A new layer of scent and energy: clean, citrusy notes cutting through the boyish musk, and the faint hum of another person's magic brushing against her awareness.
Draco Malfoy was sprawled in Hugo's too-small bed, his long legs hanging off the edge, snoring softly. He looked ridiculous, crammed into the narrow frame.
Hermione resolved to buy Hugo a bigger bed. He was growing like a weed these days, and apparently, they were now housing overnight guests.
"Malfoy," she tried softly, keeping her tone even. Predictably, he didn't stir. She tried again, louder this time, but still nothing. He slept like a bloody teenager—limbs sprawled, utterly impervious to reason or responsibility.
With a sigh, Hermione set down the tea cups, eyeing the precarious stack of Pratchett novels on Hugo's desk. It wasn't as though she wanted to touch him, but desperate times and all that.
Moving closer, she raised her boot and nudged his side. Nothing. She kicked him a bit harder, and he groaned—half-asleep and full of indignation.
"Did you just kick me in the kidney?" His sleep-muffled voice was both annoyed and absurdly posh.
Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes. "The Portkey leaves in twenty minutes," she said briskly, ignoring his accusation. "Get up. I made you a cuppa."
Eighteen minutes later, Hermione stood at the foot of the stairs, tapping her foot impatiently.
"Would you hurry up?" she muttered to nobody in particular.
Finally, Malfoy emerged from Hugo's room. He ambled down the stairs with the grace of someone who had never been rushed a day in his life, looking maddeningly unhurried.
"Thanks for the tea," was all he said, handing her the empty cup as though she were his maid. Hermione narrowed her eyes and flicked her wand, sending the cup clattering into the sink. She caught the faint smirk tugging at his mouth and fought the urge to hex him.
In her hand, the Portkey—an old protractor—began to glow. She waved it at him impatiently. "Hurry up."
"Alright, no need to have kittens," he replied, drawling the words out as though to test her patience.
He reached out with agonizing slowness, extending a single finger to touch the protractor. Hermione glared at him, wondering—not for the first time—if he had been born infuriating or if it was a skill he had perfected over the years.
The familiar sensation of a fishhook behind her navel yanked them both into the whirlwind of the Portkey. Colors and shapes blurred into a dizzying tapestry, and Hermione felt the sturdy presence of Malfoy beside her—until she remembered who it was.
They landed with a squelch, several meters above the ground. Hermione dropped like a stone onto a conveniently placed crash mat, while Malfoy executed a showy somersault and landed lightly on the grass.
"Graceful as ever, Granger," he teased, brushing imaginary dirt from his trousers with an infuriating grin.
Hermione scowled, poking her tongue out as she hauled herself to her feet with a middle-aged groan. Her hair, already a disaster, now stuck out in every direction. She gave it a half-hearted swipe and straightened her clothes.
Polite applause drew her attention. A small group of people sat nearby under a canvas shelter, clapping.
"He gets a seven—nice tumble, mate. Sorry, Minister, I'm giving you a three," called a man in a broad Australian accent.
Hermione sighed, but despite herself, the corner of her mouth twitched upward. She glanced at the expansive blue sky, inhaling deeply. The crisp scent of eucalyptus and the open, sunlit space filled her lungs. She felt a flicker of affection for this land she'd once called home.
"A seven?!" Malfoy huffed, clearly affronted.
"It would've been an eight, but grown men look ridiculous doing tumbles," a short, dark-haired woman said with a shrug.
Hermione smirked, adjusting her bag as she joined Malfoy. Together, they headed toward the group, their steps falling into an easy rhythm—though she noticed his nose wrinkle slightly as he caught sight of the shelter.
The trio introduced themselves warmly. Bruce Lopeman, Director of the International Portkey Division, shook Hermione's hand with enthusiasm. "Lovely to meet you, Minister Granger."
"Lovely to meet you, Bruce," she replied, matching his smile.
Cornelia Grout, Chief of Staff to the Australian Minister for Magic, stepped forward next, her demeanor warm and professional. "Minister Plumb is looking forward to seeing you," she said. "She's taking you to lunch."
Hermione's stomach sank. So much for staying incognito.
Finally, Titus Smith introduced himself with a firm handshake and a dazzling smile that wouldn't have been out of place on a Witch Weekly cover. Malfoy, standing beside her, looked distinctly unimpressed as he endured the same enthusiastic greeting.
As they wrapped up introductions, Hermione's mind whirled. Why had Nell assigned them a minder? What did she suspect? And how much could Hermione afford to reveal about their purpose here? One thing was certain: their plans to keep a low profile had just become significantly more complicated.
Barely half an hour later, Hermione and Malfoy were ushered out of a black Mercedes with tinted windows and through the visitor's entrance of Parliament House. Malfoy had spent the ride shooting her glares and making exaggerated, silent complaints over the not-insubstantial shoulder of their security detail. Titus had bashfully tried to make small talk with an unrelentingly frosty Malfoy. Meanwhile, Bruce had driven and Cornelia had caught Hermione up on the latest news in magical Canberra. With an election approaching, Nell was busy. Apparently, not too busy to meet an old friend—though Hermione wondered if this meeting might be more of a complication than a kindness.
Malfoy had been uncommonly quiet during the trip. There had been at least a hundred opportunities for him to grumble about the heat (nearly oppressive) or the muggle mode of transport (luxurious, but still muggle). Yet he'd remained uncharacteristically silent.
Almost as if summoned by her thoughts, she felt his ominous presence sidle closer as they entered the building. She straightened her blouse and tugged her jacket back into place.
"What the fuck," he hissed under his breath, his expression sour.
Hermione barely glanced at him. "Sorry, Malfoy. I didn't think this would be an issue since I'm no longer in office." Her voice was brisk and unapologetic. "We'll sort it. Nell is a friend."
"You better," he snapped back, though his petulant tone carried all the venom—and none of the weight—of a schoolboy threat. It was almost nostalgic.
They followed their guides through the impressive, sunlit halls of the building. Hermione could tell Malfoy was uncomfortable in this environment, glancing around like he was trying to map an escape route. She found herself both annoyed and faintly amused. The grandeur of Parliament House was, in her opinion, far more inspiring than the British Ministry of Magic, with its slightly shabby Victorian aesthetic. She noticed him peering ahead into the Great Hall, where tourists mingled with elaborately dressed foreign dignitaries and religious leaders.
"This way, Malfoy," she said, nudging him toward the cloakroom.
At the counter, Cornelia approached the attendant, offering a charming smile and a subtle flash of her wand. The woman behind the counter raised an unimpressed eyebrow before sighing and standing to lift the hinged divider.
"You'd best come back and look for your missing items yourself," the attendant said, her tone utterly bored.
As they moved through the cloakroom, Hermione noticed Malfoy glancing back over his shoulder, checking for prying muggle eyes. She stifled a laugh. Nobody was paying them the slightest attention—not even Titus, who struggled to squeeze through the narrow entry.
"There are charms to keep us unnoticed," she murmured to him. He didn't respond, but she caught a flicker of tension easing in his expression.
They were handed visitor passes on lanyards and had their wands weighed. Hermione noted with interest that Malfoy no longer carried his old hawthorn wand. She distinctly remembered Harry returning it after the war. His new wand, she observed, was hornbeam, nine inches, with a dragon heartstring core. Typical.
Soon, Cornelia lifted a heavy, military-style coat and ducked under it, vanishing into what appeared to be solid wall. Bruce and Titus gestured for Hermione to follow, which she did without hesitation. Beyond the barrier, she found herself in what looked like a replica of the Great Hall above, but instead of a tapestry of trees, this one displayed a twisting, many-colored serpent. The bustling crowd here looked distinctly magical.
Malfoy stepped through behind her, glancing around sharply. For once, his usual sneer was absent, replaced by a cautious wariness.
"Welcome to the Department of Magic," Cornelia said warmly, motioning to a moving staircase nearby. "If you'll follow me, Mr. Smith and I will guide you to the Minister's office."
Bruce, meanwhile, bowed slightly. "It was an honor to meet you, Minister Granger. Enjoy your stay."
"Thank you, Mr. Lopeman," Hermione replied graciously. Malfoy, predictably, said nothing, though his sharp glance suggested he was analyzing every detail of their surroundings.
Cornelia led them through a maze of corridors, pointing out historical details as they walked. Hermione listened politely, though she'd heard it all before. Malfoy, however, seemed unusually attentive. Titus trailed behind, silent but watchful, like an oversized, sun-kissed shadow.
Eventually, they reached a security checkpoint.
"Wands must be checked here, I'm afraid," Cornelia informed them apologetically.
Malfoy shot her a look of such exaggerated annoyance that Hermione had to stifle a laugh. She handed over her wand without complaint, and Malfoy followed suit, though he did so with visible reluctance.
Finally, they were ushered into a spacious office at the end of a polished corridor. Sitting on a plush couch was Nellaria Plumb. It had been years since Hermione had seen her in person, but the woman was as striking as ever. Though her curls were streaked with more gray, her dark eyes were as sharp and piercing as Hermione remembered.
"Hermione Granger," Nell said warmly, standing to embrace her. "It's been too long."
"Nell." Hermione hugged her tightly, letting herself relax for a moment in the presence of someone she trusted.
As Nell pulled back, she gave Hermione a searching look. "Darling, I know you received my letter, but I want to say again how sorry I was to hear about Ron—and the election."
Hermione offered a small, tight smile. "Thanks, Nell. I'm okay."
"Are you?" Nell's voice softened, but her gaze remained unyielding, cutting through Hermione's carefully constructed defenses.
Before Hermione could answer, Nell turned her attention to Malfoy. "And you must be Draco Malfoy." Her tone was firm, though not unkind.
Malfoy inclined his head slightly. "Minister."
Nell's expression was unreadable as she studied him. "When I headed up the Australian equivalent of the DMLE, your file crossed my desk more than once. You were much younger then, of course. We monitored the situation in Britain closely."
Malfoy stiffened, a faint flush creeping up his neck. "I regret my actions at that time," he said quietly. "I've spent decades trying to lead a different kind of life."
Nell raised an eyebrow. "The kind of life where one associates publicly with muggle-borns?"
"Yes."
Before the tension could thicken further, Hermione interjected. "Nell, Malfoy was just a kid during the war."
Nell's gaze flicked to her, sharp and knowing. "And so were you."
The room fell silent for a moment before Nell finally gestured for them to sit. "Well, let's discuss why you're here."
Hermione sank into the offered seat, composing herself. "We're here to explore business opportunities," she began, her tone professional. "Potions manufacturing, specifically. Malfoy is my partner in this venture, and we're scouting potential exporters for certain rare ingredients. Australian magical flora and fauna are of particular interest."
Nell's smile widened, though there was a trace of scepticism in her eyes. "Hermione, I never would've guessed you'd venture into the private sector. But perhaps it's the start of a new, exciting chapter for you. Potions! I suppose even Dumbledore spent a decade discovering the twelve uses of dragon's blood around your age."
"Indeed," Hermione replied lightly. "But this is just a scoping visit. I wouldn't want to bother anyone until we're sure who our trade partners will be."
"Well, the offer stands if you change your mind," Nell said, leaning back into her chair. "The Secretary for International Trade could be helpful—though, fair warning, he's rather a bore."
Hermione nodded but noticed that Nell had barely glanced at Malfoy. He sat stiffly, hands resting on his knees, looking like he was carefully regulating every breath. Hermione caught the sour expression that flickered across his face and stifled a grin.
Shifting the conversation, Hermione added, "Nell, is the security detail really necessary? I appreciate the gesture, but you know I'm not in office anymore."
Nell gave a small sigh, the kind that carried both regret and insistence. "Hermione, protocol dictates that we offer security to former world leaders, especially those with your reputation." Her dark eyes softened. "You're not just a former Minister for Magic; you're a war hero. And with tensions running high across the globe…" She trailed off, glancing meaningfully at Malfoy.
Hermione's smile tightened. "I understand. But I was hoping to keep a low profile while we're here. Malfoy and I are interested in quality business partners, not vendors looking to capitalize on a name."
Nell hesitated, her gaze flicking between them. "I must insist. Titus stays. I wouldn't forgive myself if anything happened to you—or your companion." Her tone was measured, but Hermione caught the subtle mistrust lingering in her words.
That's when Hermione realized two things. First, Titus wasn't just there for protection. He was a minder. Every move they made on Australian soil would be reported back to Cornelia and likely Nell herself. Second, Nell wasn't suspicious of Hermione or her intentions. But she was deeply wary of Draco Malfoy.
"I see," Hermione said, forcing her voice to remain neutral.
Nell didn't reply immediately but instead shifted the tone with practised ease. "Would you like a tour of our new offices? They've been updated with the magi-tech I mentioned in my last letter."
Hermione brightened at the mention. "Oh, yes, please!"
Malfoy raised an eyebrow, looking torn between irritation and faint curiosity.
Not five minutes later, Nell was guiding them through a sleek, open-plan office filled with gleaming laptops and polished monitors fitted with maginullium. The space buzzed with quiet energy as witches and wizards went about their work, some typing away at keyboards while others levitated documents with their wands.
"Uptake has been very encouraging," Nell said, gesturing to the bustling floor. "Especially among muggle-borns. It's been transformative."
Hermione scanned the room, her heart swelling with pride—and frustration. The Australian magical community was leagues ahead of Britain in embracing muggle technology. As her gaze swept over the space, she felt the familiar sting of regret.
Hermione stood in the heart of the Australian magical offices, surrounded by sleek laptops and glowing monitors enchanted with maginullium. The hum of quiet efficiency filled the space, punctuated by the faint click of keyboards and the rustle of levitating documents.
It was everything she'd dreamed of implementing back in Britain. And it hurt.
"Granger?" Malfoy's voice broke through her haze, low and surprisingly cautious. She turned, catching his eyes.
"You were right, weren't you?" she said quietly, her voice tight with the strain of holding it together. "It did end my career."
His face twisted, the faintest flicker of discomfort crossing his features. He looked away, back toward the bustling room. "Perhaps. But… maybe it wasn't the plan that was the problem. Maybe it was the timing. Or the execution."
Hermione blinked, caught off-guard. It wasn't exactly comforting, but there was an odd kind of sincerity in his words.
"Clearly," she said, gesturing around her. "It can be done." The admission came out shakier than she intended, and to her utter humiliation, a tear slipped down her cheek. She turned away sharply, burying her face in her hands.
She felt a strong arm wrap around her waist, steadying her. "Silly, clumsy Granger," Malfoy said smoothly, his voice pitched just loud enough for Nell to overhear. "She poked herself in the eye with her wand. Lost one of her contact lenses, too."
"Accio contact lens," he added dramatically, holding out his hand as though catching the conjured object. "Could you point us to the nearest restroom, Minister?"
Nell nodded, concern flashing across her face. Hermione allowed herself to be guided away, biting her lip to suppress another sob.
Inside the restroom, Hermione splashed water on her face, keeping her back to Malfoy as she tried to compose herself.
"You shouldn't be in here," she said weakly.
"It's a disabled toilet," he replied, his tone matter-of-fact. "Relax, Granger. I figured you wouldn't want an audience."
Hermione turned to face him, her cheeks still damp. "It was just… a lot," she said, her voice trembling. "Seeing it all—how far ahead they are. It's infuriating."
Malfoy crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. "Because Britain is still resistant?"
"Because Britain is stuck in the bloody Victorian era!" she snapped. "And when I tried to drag us into the modern age, it cost me everything."
Malfoy sighed heavily, his expression softening just slightly. "Granger, for the last time, your career isn't over. You were the youngest Minister for Magic in history. So, you tried something ambitious, and it didn't work. That doesn't mean you're finished."
"But it's too late," Hermione whispered. "I worked for decades to build that platform. And just as I was about to make real progress, it all fell apart."
Malfoy straightened, his gaze sharp. "You know what your problem is? You lack imagination. Get a new dream, Granger. The world is your damn oyster—you're just too blinkered to see it."
The words hit her like a slap. Ever since her career had crumbled, people had treated her with kid gloves. But not Malfoy. He didn't coddle her ego.
"And by the way," he added, his tone sharp, "stealing my dream of curing the Greengrass blood malediction doesn't count. That's mine."
Hermione blinked, stunned into silence. She hadn't realized how much she'd latched onto his quest, desperate for purpose.
"Please, Malfoy," she said quietly. "Just give me a break. Let me feel my feelings without pointing out how wrong I am."
He met her gaze, unflinching. "No," he said flatly, before turning and leaving the restroom.
Later, as Hermione paced through the halls of Parliament House, Nell's voice broke through her thoughts.
"Shall we grab lunch? There's a café on-site."
Hermione nodded, forcing a smile. As they headed for the café, her mind churned. She had a lot to process: Nell's suspicion, the implications of maginullium, and Malfoy's words.
But one thing was clear—this trip was turning out to be far more complicated than she'd anticipated.
The café hummed with quiet activity, its shaded outdoor seating area offering a reprieve from the midday sun. Hermione sat opposite Nell, while Malfoy lounged beside her with studied indifference. Titus had positioned himself at a nearby table, blending into the background as much as someone his size could manage.
Nell set her fork down, her expression tight. "Hermione, there's something I've been meaning to bring up. Things have been… complicated, politically speaking."
Hermione tilted her head, sensing the shift in tone. "Oh?"
Nell sighed. "You know what it's like during an election year. My opponents aren't afraid to fight dirty. Anti-muggle sentiment has been stoked in certain circles. It's not as overt as it once was, but it's there—lurking in the shadows."
Hermione's stomach churned. She glanced at Malfoy, whose expression was carefully blank. "And you think it's a growing threat?"
"I think," Nell said carefully, "that it's a reflection of something larger. What happened to your campaign, Hermione… it wasn't an isolated incident."
Hermione frowned. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying," Nell said, her voice dropping, "that I'm considering pulling back on the rollout of magi-tech in the Ministry. The pressure from the ICW is mounting."
Hermione's eyes widened. "You can't be serious. Nell, the system you've built—it's revolutionary. You've proven how seamlessly muggle technology can integrate with magic."
Nell nodded, her expression weary. "I know. But the ICW is launching an inquiry into maginullium. They're concerned it could be weaponized against the magical community."
Hermione's heart skipped a beat. "Weaponized? How?"
Nell leaned forward, lowering her voice. "It keeps magic out, Hermione. Which means it could also be used to keep magic in. Imagine entire magical communities stripped of their abilities—trapped."
The words hit Hermione like a physical blow. Her mind raced, trying to process the implications. She'd always seen maginullium as a bridge between worlds, a tool for progress. She hadn't considered how it could be twisted into something oppressive.
"That's barbaric," Hermione said, her voice tight. "It's not something I'd ever support."
"I know," Nell said gently. "But the fear is there. And fear, as you know, can be a powerful weapon."
Malfoy cleared his throat, drawing their attention. "Politics is always a balancing act," he said, his tone measured. "It's about survival."
Hermione shot him a sharp look, but he ignored her, his gaze fixed on Nell. "The ICW thrives on control. If they see maginullium as a threat, they'll do everything in their power to suppress it."
"That's exactly what I'm afraid of," Nell admitted. "If the narrative shifts, if maginullium is seen as dangerous…" She shook her head. "Hermione, the same thing that happened to you could happen to me."
Hermione leaned back, her mind spinning. The parallels were undeniable. The thought of her invention being weaponized—of it becoming a source of fear rather than progress—was almost too much to bear.
"And what's the solution?" Hermione asked quietly.
Nell hesitated. "I don't know yet. For now, I'm treading carefully. I need to keep my party afloat, and that means choosing my battles."
Hermione's gaze hardened. "You're capitulating."
"I'm surviving," Nell said firmly, her voice steady in the way only seasoned politicians could manage. "And I suggest you do the same."
Hermione's jaw tightened. The words echoed in her mind, colliding with memories of her own downfall. The interviews, the protests, the smug headlines gleefully cataloguing her mistakes. Surviving wasn't enough. Not for her.
"You're capitulating," she said, her tone sharper than she intended.
Nell's expression hardened, a flicker of something—disappointment? Frustration?—crossing her features. "I'm doing what's necessary to keep my party afloat."
Hermione wanted to argue, to throw the weight of her convictions onto the table. But she felt Malfoy's eyes on her, cool and appraising. When she glanced his way, his expression was unreadable, but something about his steady gaze made her pause.
Get a new dream, Granger.
The words Malfoy had said earlier lingered in her mind, unwelcome but undeniable. Maybe he wasn't entirely wrong.
After a moment, Nell leaned back, her demeanour softening. "Hermione, I don't want to see you dragged back into the fray. You've done more than your share. You deserve a chance to breathe."
Hermione forced a smile. "Thank you, Nell. But I'm not sure I'm ready to step back just yet."
Nell's lips twitched, as though she'd expected as much. "Well, just be careful, my friend. The world is changing—and not always for the better."
As they left the café, Hermione felt the weight of Nell's words pressing down on her. Malfoy walked beside her, his hands in his pockets, his expression pensive.
"You're stewing," he said after a moment.
She glanced at him, startled. "What?"
"You're stewing," he repeated. "About the ICW, about maginullium, about everything."
Hermione sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Of course I'm stewing, Malfoy. This isn't just about me. It's about the future of the wizarding world."
He smirked faintly. "Always the hero, Granger. Always trying to save the world."
"And what's wrong with that?" she shot back.
"Nothing," he said, his tone surprisingly soft. "But you can't save everyone. Sometimes things fall apart, no matter what you do."
Hermione stopped walking, turning to face him. "Is that what you think? That it's not worth fighting because it might all fall apart?"
Malfoy met her gaze, his expression unusually open. "I think it's not as simple as right and wrong anymore. Not in politics."
Hermione studied him for a long moment, her frustration slowly giving way to understanding. The battles they fought now were complex, their outcomes uncertain. But that didn't mean she could stop fighting.
"Maybe not," she said finally. "But I have to try."
Malfoy held her gaze for a moment longer before nodding. "Of course you do."
Back at the hotel, Hermione handed Malfoy his room key as they stepped off the lift. She watched him head down the corridor, his posture rigid with exhaustion.
"Malfoy," she called softly.
He turned, his expression wary.
"Thank you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "For earlier. At the Department."
He raised an eyebrow. "For covering for you?"
She nodded. "Yes. It was… kind."
Malfoy's lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile. "Don't get used to it, Granger."
And with that, he turned and disappeared into his room, leaving Hermione standing in the quiet hallway, her thoughts swirling.
Later that evening, after a quiet dinner, Hermione sat at her desk, parchment spread out before her. The weight of the day pressed heavily on her.
Her mind was buzzing, wandering through a tangle of what-ifs and should-haves. Should she have taken Nell's offer years ago to collaborate internationally? Should she have stayed in Britain to fight harder for maginullium's acceptance?
She shook her head sharply, dismissing the thought. Too late for that now. But the itch of unfinished work buzzed beneath her skin, impossible to scratch.
She picked up her quill and began to write, determined to make sense of the chaos. Whatever lay ahead, she would face it head-on.
Because that's who she was.
And no matter how complicated the world became, she wasn't about to back down.