Chapter 5: Hermione
Ingredients
"Walking into the crowd was like sinking into a stew—you became an ingredient, you took on a certain flavor." — Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
The Office of Hermione Granger, Ministry of Magic
The junior Auror that burst through Hermione's office door was unfamiliar to her, which made the fact that he had not even knocked even more alarming.
"Miss Granger," he forced out, panting heavily.
"Is it the fairies? What happened?" She blurted, jumping up from her seat, which sent several crumpled memos to the floor.
"No," the Auror wheezed. "We need urgent assistance at a Muggle townhouse. Unidentified magical cats. Please help." His eyes were frantic.
Ten Minutes Later—
Muggle London
"Merlin," she uttered, looking up through the first-floor window of the three-story townhouse. "Those are Wampus cubs."
"Oh," Harry responded. "That's bad, then?"
"Even infants have massive powers of hypnosis and legilimency," Hermione cried. "Don't make eye contact!"
"Well, that explains it," Harry said wearily, gesturing down the cordoned-off sidewalk where three Aurors restrained another Auror, two shady-looking wizards, and no less than five Muggles, all of whom were desperately attempting to reach the townhouse.
Hermione turned to him and announced plainly, "This is going to be a nightmare."
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Level Eight, Ministry of Magic
"What do you mean they won't look after them?" Hermione asked incredulously. "That's their job."
The guard on duty at the holding cells observed her unimpressed. "The overnight watch had to chain themselves to the wall."
"That sounds incredibly effective," Hermione replied nonchalantly. "I commend your staff for their ingenuity."
"This is your department's issue, and we have the right of refusal."
Hermione groaned. "What are we supposed to do?"
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Level Eight, Ministry of Magic
"Harry, this is completely unethical!" Hermione cried. She actually felt tears well up as she tried to recall the last time she slept.
Harry ran his hands through his hair in exasperation. "We're desperate, and this is an issue of public safety," he said. "I am using every tool at my disposal."
"Kreacher will make the mongrels sleep," the house elf grumbled. He glowered through the bars, snapped his fingers, and then the three frenzied magical cats were swaddled in fleece blankets and snoozing.
"Oh," Hermione whispered.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
The Atrium, Ministry of Magic
Hermione shook the wizard's hand using the most enthusiasm with which any person had ever shaken someone's hand.
"We are so grateful," she said.
"The Wampus is an endangered creature," the American wizard replied disdainfully, extricating his hand from hers. "It speaks poorly of your government that two citizens could harbor them even for a day."
Hermione glared and pointed at the three cages to her left. "Just take them."
It was only later that night, exhausted and slightly scratched up, that Hermione thought, at the very least, the Vernal Equinox of 2007 had been uneventful for the residents of Lower Chicksgrove, Derbyshire.
Monday, March 26, 2007
The Outskirts of Cardiff, Wales
When Kirkpatrick began to screech, the merchieftain's attitude changed perceptibly. The retinue of Merfolk immediately relaxed their defensive stances and moved their weapons down to their sides.
Hermione tried to listen and make out any recognizable sounds as she attempted to get a firm footing on the creaky wooden dock. A minute later, Kirkpatrick's overly round face turned back toward her.
"Hermione," he began, his tone concerned. "I think we're on the wrong side here."
A feeling of dread settled in Hermione's stomach.
"Daniel, we're not on any side," she replied carefully. "What did they say?"
"No, really, they have a good point," he dismissed her and turned back to the Merfolk, screeching unpleasantly.
Hermione groaned.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
A dock outside Cardiff during a rainstorm
"Daniel, for the last time, I can't help anyone unless you tell me exactly what they are saying," Hermione said through gritted teeth. Her enchanted umbrella was struggling against the wind.
"It's not words. It's more of a tone," Daniel replied, his expression far too casual for Hermione's liking. "Did you know the chieftain's daughter makes decorations from Muggle plastic bottles?"
"Good Godric," Hermione muttered as she pulled her cloak tighter around her body.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
An increasingly creaky dock outside Cardiff
"They want all of the Muggle boats gone from outside the city," Kirkpatrick told her as he munched on some seaweed the merpeople had brought him—and only him.
"A magical barrier will never hold up offshore," Hermione said. "We need to find another compromise. And besides, there are way too many for wizards to regulate."
"I 'fink we ought to try," he responded with his mouth full.
"That's not really your place, Daniel," Hermione muttered irritably as a mermaid shrieked behind them.
Kirkpatrick laughed. "Oh, you have got to hear this."
Thursday, March 29, 2007
A gods-forsaken dock near gods-forsaken Cardiff
"Daniel, you are really missing the point here," Hermione said in her best impression of Professor McGonagall. "Three muggles nearly drowned when that boat capsized. They might have died if a magical healer didn't arrive in time."
"There's wrong on both sides," Kirkpatrick nodded.
"So, you'll tell them?" Hermione grabbed Kirkpatrick's shoulders in desperation. "Ask them what else they want?"
He screeched.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, London
It had been the longest two weeks of Hermione's professional life.
By the end, the Merfolk had agreed to leave the boats alone. In exchange, Hermione ordered a team of protective enchantment specialists to ward Muggles off a stretch of beach where the Merfolk enjoyed sunning in the afternoon. Hermione arrived home with saltwater permanently encrusted in her too-long hair. A letter of reprimand for Kirkpatrick was fully formed in her mind.
Curse the ring of illegal magical menageries for conscripting three-quarters of her department staff for the last month. Anderson was entirely too smug about the whole thing, especially for a man more than ten years her senior, and she would be giving him a full rundown of all the horrors she had suffered.
Right after she slept.
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Diagon Alley
Hermione was faced with something nearly unprecedented: an entire weekend to herself.
On Saturday, she slept, took an hours-long bath, and did not think about Wampus cubs, Merfolk, or Daniel Kirkpatrick.
On Sunday, with Harry off playing a pickup Quidditch game with fellow Aurors and with plans to join him and the Weasleys for dinner celebrating George's birthday that evening, Hermione decided that a jaunt through Diagon Alley would be a nice change of pace. She needed to restock some potion supplies, but her first stop in the famous shopping district was always the same.
Flourish and Blott's was bustling when Hermione arrived. She had been meaning to buy a book on arithmantic strategies for specialized Transfiguration that had been recently translated to English from Chinese. She was delighted at the prospect of curling up in bed later that night and diving in.
"Excuse me—pardon." Hermione elbowed her way to the checkout desk of the bookstore with her book and placed it on the counter, where a young wizard with dark brown hair and oversized glasses rang her up.
The good thing about crowds and enclosed spaces was that Hermione could sometimes blend in. She was of average height and had unremarkable coloring, so with this many distractions around, she would only be recognized by some.
"Please put it on my bill," Hermione told the cashier, holding out her wand for scanning. He tapped her wand on the ledger, and the wizard froze when he next looked back up at her.
"Sweet Merlin," he said with wide eyes. He placed his palms on the counter and leaned across toward her. He continued in a fervent whisper, "You're Hermione Granger."
"Er—yes," Hermione replied, forcing a smile. "Hello."
"Wicked," he said in awe. Suddenly, he jumped below the counter and sprang up with a horrifyingly familiar book in his hands. "Would you sign this—please?"
He held out the lurid orange cover of the only book Hermione had ever truly and wholly despised: FUGITIVE! Harry Potter's Year on the Run by Rita Skeeter.
The dust from the Battle of Hogwarts was still settling when Rita announced her next book. Hermione remembered feeling incandescently angry to the point that she had considered another abduction.
"They won't arrest us, Harry, we're 'symbols of the future,'" Hermione had spat out. "A future without Rita Skeeter, if I have anything to say about it."
Harry had simply held her close and rubbed the small of her back. "It's okay, Hermione." A kiss to her temple. "Let her write. No one knows what happened but us."
Hermione sighed. "I'm so tired." And she was.
"Me too." And he was.
Rita published her book, which was so full of lies that Hermione did not even know where to begin a defamation suit. They had all ultimately let it be. The book still sold out every May, even all these years later. Hermione took solace that Rita had finally retired her Quick Quotes Quill and settled down on the Isle of Wight two years ago.
"That book is complete rubbish," Hermione told the uncomfortably earnest cashier. "Neither Harry Potter nor I contributed any details." The wizard immediately deflated with a crestfallen expression that Hermione could not bear to look at it. She let out an exasperated breath. "But yes, fine, hand it over."
She signed her name on the inside cover, and nothing could be done if a flourish of the ink happened to bleed over Rita Skeeter's name.
"Thank you," the cashier told her solemnly. "For everything."
Extremely uncomfortable, Hermione nodded, picked up her book, and left the shop immediately.
"Is that—"
"That kind of looks like—"
"Whoa."
"Do you think she would sign my robes?"
In the expanse of the outdoors, more people could notice her. Hermione moved swiftly through the crowds. It was a fine afternoon, with bright sunshine and an unseasonably warm breeze coursing through the busy stalls and throngs of people.
It surprised her, sometimes, how many people knew who she was. Never in her childhood had she aspired to be a public figure. She had, in fact, wanted the opposite—to have the ability to not stand out so much despite her hair, her voice, and her over-wrought mind. Wanting recognition for her work and knowledge differed from being intercepted by strangers wherever she went.
With a frustrated sigh, she fastened the two-button clasp on her robes, her summery set, made of sky-blue linen, and raised the hood over her hair.
She walked briskly down the street, slightly hunched over, and when her next destination arrived, she quickly ducked in through the door. The apothecary was dim and filled with rows of shelves—too many rows—over-stuffed with jars, tins, vials, bags, bushels, boxes, and every manner of receptacle holding every manner of potion ingredient. It smelled like a zoo and a florist in one, and a thrill of excitement passed down Hermione's spine.
The store was mercifully not too crowded. Only three or four other customers were browsing the shelves, and none noticed her when she arrived.
Reaching into her beaded bag, Hermione pulled out her shopping list and a small basket. She needed more Dittany, dried nettles, and lacewing flies. On top of that, she was out of murtlap essence since Harry kept popping blisters while playing departmental Quidditch.
Hermione let her fingertips graze over the shelves as she walked down one narrow aisle. She placed a jar of nettles into her basket. In the next aisle, she grabbed Dittany. Hermione also threw in some elderberries, thinking she would make a batch of hangover remedies before the Victory Ball next month. It always turned out to be a raucous night for Harry—and herself.
As she walked down one aisle leading back toward the checkout counter, Hermione saw the owner, Mr. Westbrook. He had curly salt-and-pepper hair, thick horn-rimmed glasses, and a portly figure that filled out his usually mustard-colored robes. He was a pleasant man, always kind to Hermione, if not overly warm. She had always thought him to be a timid sort of wizard.
That was not the case today. Mr. Westbrook was talking in harsh tones to a cloaked figure from behind the counter. A third person stood beside the cloaked figure, a short older witch carrying an overstuffed basket.
"I'm sorry, I can't help you today, sir. Please leave," Mr. Westbrook asserted in his quiet, breathy voice. He tapped the fingers of his right hand on the counter nervously.
"I only want to purchase some Demiguise solution," the figure said slowly, in a coarse whisper. "I will pay extra if your supplies are limited."
"It's despicable," the witch interjected, "to be out among good society."
Hermione's brow furrowed. Without thinking, she approached the long counter and set down her basket. "Hello, Mr. Westbrook. Lovely day," she announced in the most cheerful tone she could manage. At the last second, she let down her hood.
The owner was startled at her words, and all three people turned to face her.
"Miss Granger!" Mr. Westbrook's face transformed almost at once. He smiled graciously while eyeing the other two customers with an uncomfortable fidget.
The cloaked figure snapped his torso away from Hermione and clenched their pale hand in a fist on the counter.
"I'm sorry," Hermione replied with false surprise. "I seem to have interrupted something."
"No, no," Mr. Westbrook said, nervously wringing his hands. "I was just about to ring up Madam Pearson." He glanced nervously at the cloaked figure.
"Fine, then," the figure spat before rushing toward the door. The motion caused his hood to blow back briefly, and Hermione let out a soft gasp.
As the owner and the short witch began their business, Hermione left her basket at one end of the counter and rushed after the rapidly retreating cloak.
"Hey!" Hermione called in a half-whisper. "Malfoy." She reached out with her hand and caught the back of his shoulder.
The man spun around to face her, and it was indeed Draco Malfoy. His expression was briefly furious before morphing into indifference. They were in one of the narrow aisles near the clouded glass doorway of the apothecary, and the small space made her very aware of both their proximity and how tall Malfoy was. The top of her head reached only to his chin. She hadn't noticed during their last encounter.
"May I help you?" Malfoy smoothed down the front of his robes, which Hermione noticed were made of magnificent silk.
She took half a step back and huffed, placing her hands on her hips. "Is everything alright?"
"Yes," he nodded. "Goodbye." He turned away and walked imperiously toward the door.
"Hey." Hermione caught his elbow. "What was the issue back there?"
Malfoy turned back toward her slowly. His nostrils flared as he spoke. "I don't see how that would be any of your business, Granger."
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Fine, then. Maybe I just wanted to confirm you weren't a Dementor," she mocked, echoing his and Nott's words from the Ministry. "That would be my business."
His eyes widened briefly, and the corner of his mouth quirked up. Just as quickly, his expression cooled, and he responded. "There are occasions, Granger, when upstanding members of society don't want to interact with former Death Eaters." He adjusted the hem of one of his sleeves. "Today is one such occasion."
The words that came out of her mouth next surprised her. "You weren't a Death Eater." She almost gasped and fumbled for something to continue, "I—that is—not really. You were exonerated."
Malfoy looked dumbfounded for a moment, and then he scowled. "I was a Death Eater, Granger. Believe me, I would know."
"Even you must admit there's a difference between you and the likes of—of Antonin Dolohov. You are free, and the war is over," Hermione asserted, suddenly annoyed. "You've not done anything."
Malfoy stepped toward her, and Hermione had to crane her neck to look at him. His eyes were gray, she noted in surprise. She hadn't ever thought to notice the color of Malfoy's eyes. They looked like a storm.
"What a remarkable change of heart." His voice was low and menacing when he continued, "Save your self-righteous rage for someone else, Granger. You don't know what I have or have not done."
With that, he turned around and left through the door, the brass bell ringing as it clanged shut behind him.
Hermione was frozen in place. The way he had said her surname dripped with so much venom that he might as well have just called her a mudblood. What had possessed her to rush after him? She could easily have let him leave the apothecary without a second glance.
Something about the entire situation had made her indignant, though: the way the typically quiet Mr. Westbrook had commanded Malfoy to leave, the old witch's haughty posture, and the way Malfoy had hidden under his cloak—for the very same reason she had.
Hermione huffed. She was only trying to help. It was a perfectly charming Sunday, and this was not the place for fights over old prejudices, no matter how the hate was directed. Where did Malfoy get off being angry at her? She returned to the counter. By the time she arrived, Mr. Westbrook was done with the old witch.
As Hermione picked up her basket from where she left it, the witch walked by her toward the door and placed a hand on Hermione's arm.
"It's an honor to see Hermione Granger out and about." Her voice was low and gravelly. "Thank you, my dear, for all you have done."
Hermione moved her arm out of the witch's grasp, perhaps too quickly. "Yes. Well, I'll always fight against hate where I can see it."
The witch looked slightly confused but overall unperturbed. She turned slowly and smiled as she left the store.
"Miss Granger," Mr. Westbrook greeted her, sweeping out his arms. "How can I help you, finally?"
Hermione's smile was unusually strained as she walked down the counter to where Mr. Westbrook stood. "These, please," she said.
"Excellent," he replied, taking the basket from her hands as he reached over the counter.
Hermione bit her lip as she mulled something over in her mind. As Mr. Westbrook took the final item from her basket, she blurted, "Oh, and I'd also like to get some Demiguise solution."
Later that evening—
The Burrow
"And then," George struggled to talk between bursts of laughter, "the entire cauldron regurgitated the potion into Lee's face. He looked like a caramel apple, all covered with that rancid goo."
Everyone around the table started laughing. It was a relatively small gathering, all things considered. George and Angelina; their three-year-old daughter Roxanne; Ron and Lavender; Mr. and Mrs. Weasley; Percy, his wife Audrey, and the infant baby Molly; and Harry and Hermione.
"So," George continued, "the vanishing glue is still a work in progress, but the new trick cauldrons are a success."
"We plan on rolling them out over the summer just in time for the school crowds," Ron added with a grin, always concerned with the business.
They were all digging into one of Mrs. Weasley's best chocolate cakes. It was fudgy and moist and the perfect end to a relaxing weekend, despite Hermione's tense interaction with Malfoy that afternoon. She hadn't mentioned it to Harry or Ron when they met earlier that day, and she wasn't sure if she would. Nothing came of it except a newfound knowledge of Malfoy's relationship with the public and a vial of very expensive Demiguise solution she had no idea what to do with.
Mrs. Weasley and Audrey were cooing over a gurgling baby Molly, and the men of the table had turned the conversation to Quidditch. The British League was proving quite competitive that year, and any team—except the Cannons—had a fair shot at the title at the Championships that summer.
Hermione turned to Lavender, who was seated immediately to her left. She hadn't spoken much that evening, and her hands were clasped together on the table in front of her. Ron, seated on her other side, had a hand on her knee, stroking lightly.
"Hey, Lavender," Hermione said quietly to not draw anyone else's attention. "Are you okay?"
The blonde witch jumped slightly and turned. Hermione took a moment to observe Lavender's appearance. Vibrant red scars ran down her face on the left side, across her nose, and the surface of her left eyelid. The worst scarring was on her neck, visible over the neckline of her jumper. Aside from the scars, however, Lavender looked worse for the wear. Lurid purple bags rested under her blue eyes, and her usually done-up hair hung limp to her shoulders.
"Oh," Lavender responded, "Yes, I'm alright." She let out a long, tired breath and closed her eyes briefly. "The full moon is tomorrow, and it always makes me…restless, I suppose. I won't be able to sleep until it's over."
"Of course," Hermione said sympathetically. She had not realized what day it was and looked up at the sky, noting the ring of moonlight streaming behind shifting clouds. Lavender was not a werewolf, but the extent of the damage Fenrir had caused to her body left many side effects, far worse than even Bill Weasley had after his attack on the night of Dumbledore's death.
"And it's been a disappointing few weeks," Lavender went on wearily. "Ron said that he told you. No one seems to be interested in my work."
Hermione recalled Ron's news of the rejection from Twilfitt and Tatting's and felt a surge of protective anger. She could say with complete sincerity that Lavender's designs for women's robes were quite good, to the extent that Hermione paid attention to those things. The charm work on the hems and magically expanded invisible pockets were the height of practicality. Lavender had come a long way from doctoring up her Hogwarts school uniform.
"Don't give up, Lavender," Hermione urged.
"I won't. I know my stuff is good," Lavender replied. "It's just…when I went in for the meeting at Twilfitt and Tatting's, the current owner looked shocked. You know," she gestured to her face. "I wonder if that affected anything because they seemed pleased with everything else."
Hermione frowned. "I don't know whether to hope that's true or false." She hummed quietly, thinking of the ridiculously vapid voice of Felicity Rochelle Durham-Montpellier. "You just need someone to recognize your talent."
"Well, it won't be Twilfitt or Tatting," Lavender said, resting her chin on the heel of her hand. "I've been wondering if I should just pay people to wear things I've made. Next month, the Victory Ball will be photographed in the Prophet and Witch Weekly."
Hermione nodded in agreement, thinking. "Merlin, I haven't even thought of what to wear to that." She paused and looked over at Lavender. "Would you have time to make something for me?"
Lavender gaped for a moment, and Hermione drew back in alarm. She continued, "That is—of course, I would pay you. I would never even think of—"
Lavender cut herself off, reaching over to clutch Hermione's forearm. "Are you serious? You would wear dress robes made by me to the Victory Ball?"
"Yes?" Hermione replied in confusion.
"You hate clothes."
Looking down at her Muggle denims and blouse, Hermione mumbled, "I wear clothes."
"I didn't think you were interested in fashion at all," Lavender said.
"I'm not," Hermione agreed. She thought of Queen Helia and the offense taken at the sight of her grey work robes. "I'm really not. But I must wear something. And really, Harry, Ron, and I will get photographed all night if that's what you're after."
"Hermione," Lavender said gravely. "You are the most well-known witch at the Ministry. This could be—this might be the exact thing I need."
Hermione coughed uncomfortably. "Well, really, you would be doing me a favor. I hate shopping for clothes, and if it helps you, that's even better." She smiled.
"Thank you!" Lavender enthused, almost squealing. She clapped her hands together and gasped. The entire table turned to look at her. "Oh, Merlin, the ball's a month away! Ron," her husband yelped as she grabbed his hand and stood up. "We're leaving. Thank you, Molly! Happy birthday, George!"
Lavender rushed inside to the Floo without another word, a grumbling Ron dragging behind her.
"What was that?" Harry asked Hermione with a humorous quirk on his lips.
"Something I hope I'll not regret. You'll see, I suppose," Hermione said with a small smile.
"Okay…fair enough," Harry replied cheekily. "Say, 'Mione, tell George about Kirkpatrick and the mermaids."
Hermione groaned and shifted to face the remaining people at the table. She briefly explained the Cardiff ordeal and added, "I could just curse Daniel Kirkpatrick. He's a fine enough interpreter, but only if he can be bothered to interpret."
"I wonder if the chief will invite him to tea," George interjected. "Kirkpatrick might have a chance at love with his daughter." They laughed.
"Well, they can have him," Hermione giggled, then sighed. "I came close to shoving him off the dock myself."
Harry laughed, "How close exactly?"
"Close enough," Hermione said primly. "But I am a professional."
A few minutes later, the group had dispersed somewhat. Mrs. Weasley was distracted by baby Molly at the far end of the table, with Percy and Audrey smiling nearby. Mr. Wesley had disappeared into his shed, leaving George, Angelina, Harry, and Hermione in an isolated group at the center of the table.
George looked thoughtful and eventually said, "Hermione and Harry, I've meant to talk to you both. Do you still like to duel—for fun, that is?"
Harry chuckled. "You could say that. Hermione has a go at me or Ron most nights in the cellar."
"Hey," Hermione elbowed him. "Not most nights. We're hardly ever home as it is."
George leaned forward and continued, "I'm working with some business partners to set up a dueling club around Diagon. Upscale, magically reinforced spaces, private rooms, public demonstrations. ... Do you think you would be interested in something like that?"
"Hmm," Hermione said, surprised. The thought intrigued her, but she sighed in resignation. "I would, but it's hard for me—and Harry, I'm sure—to go out in public like that. I was almost swarmed today, leaving Flourish and Blott's."
"She's right," Harry nodded. "If we were other people, though, then yes."
George nodded. "What if it were truly private? Membership-only, with a privacy contract. Just a space where people can really use magic safely." He looked over at Angelina. The little Roxanne was sprawled on the bench, her curled head in Angelina's lap.
"We've been thinking about the DA," Angelina said. "Almost an entire generation of witches and wizards trained for a war and then left with nowhere to use those skills." She paused, embarrassed, then quickly said, "Not that a dueling club is like fighting Death Eaters, but there should be something between outright conflict and stuffy professional dueling."
"That's very perceptive, actually," Hermione mused. She flexed her hands on the tabletop. Their words made her notice the pulse of her magic, itching under her skin. "I thought that I had just become unusually violent, but I suppose I wouldn't be the only one."
"If I didn't get out in the field enough at work, I'd have the urge just as much as you, Hermione." Harry sighed ruefully. "No one has fought back when I've arrested them in months."
"Yeah, you two definitely are not the only ones," George commented. "And from the deep pockets of the people I'm talking with, the interest is greater than I expected."
"Who are you talking with?" Hermione asked.
"Well, there's Ernie MacMillan for a start, the rich ponce. He's looking into real estate." George chuckled, "Oliver Wood, who doesn't know what to do with himself now that he's retired from Quidditch," he paused, "and a few others. It's a motley crew at the moment."
Harry looked excited. "That sounds great. Need some help?"
"You were the inspiration, Harry, my boy," George declared proudly. "A lifetime membership, free of charge, awaits you if it ever comes to fruition."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Stop offering me free things, George."
George, offended: "I would never. It's one of my core personality traits."
Up Next: Draco has a series of increasingly unwanted conversations.