Chapter Text
Chapter 1
The kitchen smelt of wet dog and the heavy, sickly-sweet scent of Lavender’s perfume, which hung in the air like a cloud of toxic gas. Hermione Granger sat at the long wooden table in the kitchen, her back stiff, her fingers wrapped tightly around her teacup. The steam had long since vanished; the Earl Grey was now nothing more than a cold, bitter puddle. Opposite her sat Ron. He had served himself a monstrous portion of shepherd’s pie and was working his way through it with an intensity he might once have reserved for training on the Quidditch pitch. The scrape of his fork hitting the porcelain mingled with the wet smacking of his jaws.
"You must try this, Hermione," said Lavender, placing her hand possessively on Ron's forearm. Her fingernails were painted a garish pink that caused almost physical pain to Hermione's eyes. "I got the recipe from the latest issue of Witch Weekly. It's 'Traditional with a Modern Twist'. Won-Won simply loves it."
Won-Won.
"It is... surely very nutritious, Lavender. Thank you," Hermione replied with a composure she was proud of.
Ron swallowed a massive bite and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, leaving a small grease stain on his official Ministry robes. "She's right, 'Mione. You look as though you've eaten nothing but parchment for weeks. No wonder Kingsley showed you the door. You look completely burnt out."
Hermione felt her fingernails digging into her palms. "I wasn't 'shown the door', Ron. I refused to put my signature on a document that curtailed the rights of centaurs in exchange for forest concessions. That is called integrity."
"That is called unemployment," Lavender giggled behind her cupped hand. "It's such a pity. I mean, we all thought you'd be the first Minister for Magic under the age of fifty. But now... well, perhaps it's a sign. That you ought to look after your private life for a change? A little less paperwork, a little more... glamour?" Lavender let her gaze wander over Hermione's simple, dark blue knitted jumper and messy bun. Her look dripped with faux pity.
Glamour. Says the woman who looks like an exploded cauldron full of strawberry ice cream.
"My private life is exactly where I want it to be, Lavender," Hermione said coolly.
"Oh, really?" Ron chimed in, already loading up his next portion. "All alone in that dusty flat in London? With Crookshanks as your only conversational partner? Come on, Hermione. We're worried about you. Even Harry says you're losing your way."
Hermione looked at Harry. He was sitting at the head of the table, his glasses slightly askew, staring into his goblet of pumpkin juice. He didn't look like the boy who had defeated Voldemort. He looked like a man who hadn't taken a deep breath in years. He appeared grey, almost transparent. "Harry?" she asked quietly. "Is that true? Do you think I'm losing my way, too?"
Harry raised his head. His green eyes looked dull behind the lenses. He opened his mouth, but before a sound came out, Ginny cleared her throat. Ginny Potter, née Weasley, sat beside him like a statue carved from polished marble. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her robes made of the finest silk. She seemed the perfect embodiment of what magical society expected from the wife of the "Chosen One". But her smile was as rigid as a Full Body-Bind Curse.
"What Harry means," Ginny said, in a voice as smooth as the parquet flooring in the Ministry Atrium, "is that stability is the utmost priority right now. We cannot afford to rock the boat, Hermione. The public needs heroes who exude calm. Your... aggressive proposals for reform do not fit the image Kingsley wishes to convey."
"Aggressive?" Hermione let out a stunned laugh. "I am demanding equality, Ginny. I am demanding that we do not repeat the mistakes of the past."
"And that is exactly the problem," Ron interrupted her through a mouthful of food. "You're always going on about the past. The war is over, 'Mione. We won. We're the good guys. Why can't you just enjoy the peace and quiet? Look at us. We have jobs, we have houses, we have influence. All you have is... constant trouble."
Jobs you got because of your names. Houses where you sit in silence with one another. Influence you use to cement the status quo. You aren't heroes anymore.
"Influence," Hermione repeated bitterly. "Harry, you're Head of the Auror Office. Surely you see how Kingsley is cutting funding to finance his new galas, whilst the security measures in Azkaban have been crying out for reform for years, and your Aurors are guarding prisoners under terrible conditions, prisoners who are kept in even more precarious circumstances."
Harry rubbed his eyes wearily beneath his glasses. It was a gesture Hermione had seen him make constantly over the past few months. "It's complicated, Hermione. Kingsley is under a lot of pressure from the old families. He's trying to find a compromise."
"A compromise with people who were wearing Death Eater masks eight years ago?" Hermione shot back.
"Stop it!" Ginny hissed. "Harry does everything for this country. He sacrifices his time, his peace of mind, his image. You have no idea what it's like to constantly be under scrutiny; don't put him under such pressure for your own pointless campaigns. We cannot... and will not... simply be as radical as you. We have a responsibility to our family. To the Potter name."
Ah, there it is. The name. The branding. God, I miss the days when we were nearly starving in a tent in the forest. At least we were honest with each other then.
"Responsibility," Hermione echoed. She felt a cold emptiness rising within her. She looked into the faces of her former best friends and didn't recognise them anymore.
Ron, who only cared about his own comfort and whose ambition had died somewhere between his second and third helping of dinner. Lavender, who took refuge in superficialities to fill the void in her marriage. Ginny, who had mutated into a PR machine and managed Harry like a valuable but fragile trophy. And Harry... Harry, who simply existed rather than truly lived. Who allowed himself to be used as a puppet, merely to avoid causing a fuss.
"You know," Hermione began quietly, and the sudden silence at the table was almost palpable, "I always thought defeating the Dark Lord would be the hardest part. I thought the light part would come after. The easy part." She slowly stood up. Her chair scraped jarringly against the kitchen's stone floor. "But the truth is, you all gave up far quicker than he did. He wanted to change the world—in a terrible way, yes. But you... you don't want anything at all anymore. You just want to sit around, comfortable and lazy."
"Now, don't be insulting, Hermione," Ron grumbled. "We're still your friends."
"Are we?" she asked, looking directly at him. "Or am I just the guilty conscience you invite to dinner once a month so you can tell yourselves that you're still 'the good guys'?"
Lavender scoffed. "You're just bitter because you haven't got a man to provide a proper distraction. Won-Won, tell her she's overreacting."
Ron opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione raised a hand. "Save it, Ron. Eat your pie. It seems to be the only thing making you genuinely happy at the moment." She reached for her bag, which had been sitting beside the table. No one made a move to stop her. Harry glanced up briefly, a tiny spark of regret flashing in his eyes, but then Ginny placed her hand on his arm again, and the spark died.
Run away, Harry. Run as far as you can. But you won't do it, will you? You'll stay in your gilded cage until the bars rust away.
Hermione left the kitchen. Her footsteps echoed on the stairs. She didn't wait for anyone to run after her. She knew no one would come.
As she let the heavy front door of Grimmauld Place click shut behind her, she breathed in deeply the cold, rain-soaked London air. She was wet, she was alone, and she was officially an outsider in the world she had saved. Yet as she walked through the rain towards the nearest Apparition point, she felt something she had almost forgotten at the Weasleys' dining table. A spark. A cold, burning rage that was far cleaner than the suffocating tedium in the House of Black.
Perhaps they're right. Perhaps I am radical. Perhaps I am difficult. She Disapparated with a sharp crack that echoed through the quiet street like a small gunshot. But I am not going to bloody well stand by and watch them lull this world to sleep.
Arriving in her small flat, she threw her wet cloak over a chair. Crookshanks came trotting towards her, his bushy tail held high. "We are alone, Crookshanks," she said, stroking his squashed head. "Once again."
____
Morning in London was grey and washed-out, as though someone had draped a wet cloth over the skyline. In Hermione's small flat on a quiet side street in Hampstead, the distant hum of the Muggle world filtered only faintly through the thick walls.
She woke before her alarm clock, a habit from her days in the tent that she had never quite shaken. The light seeping through the linen curtains was dim, but it was enough to illuminate the familiar outlines of her home. It was a studio flat, though clever room dividers and floor-to-ceiling shelves made it feel like a sprawling library. Warm wood tones dominated the room; the dark oak floor was covered with soft, earthy rugs. Books were stacked everywhere—not chaotically, but in a precise order that only Hermione understood. It smelt of dried sage, old parchment, and the unmistakable aroma of black tea.
Twenty-five years old. Almost twenty-six. And my greatest achievement today will be convincing Crookshanks he isn't starving to death simply because his bowl is only three-quarters empty. Crookshanks, lying like an orange, slightly squashed rug at the foot of her bed, let out a soft, deep purr. He had grown old, his fur a little more ragged, but his eyes still glinted with the intelligence of a creature that saw more than was good for him.
Hermione slipped out of bed, her bare feet finding their way across the cool wooden floor to the kitchenette. With a fluid flick of her wand, she put the kettle on. Whilst she waited for the water to boil, she stepped over to the window. Outside, people in heavy coats were hurrying to the Underground. None of them suspected that just a few streets away, a world existed that was on the verge of choking on its own arrogance. The previous evening at Grimmauld Place still sat in her stomach like sour milk. Ron's chewing face, Ginny's perfectly rehearsed smile, Harry's silence.
Harry. The Boy Who Lived, only to serve now as a living billboard for a Ministry that would once have fed him to Voldemort at the first opportunity. It’s almost poetic. If it weren't so bloody tragic.
A sharp tapping at the window dragged her from her thoughts. A large, majestic long-eared owl was perched on the sill, clutching the Daily Prophet firmly in its talons. Hermione opened the window, letting in the crisp morning air, and offered the owl a treat before taking the paper from it. The ink was still fresh, leaving dark smudges on her fingertips. She unfolded the newspaper on the solid acacia wood kitchen table. The headline was so large it took up the entire top half of the front page.
*****
THE DAILY PROPHET
Special Edition: 19 April 2005
THE MAGICAL SOCIETY RESTORATION ACT COMES INTO FORCE!
Minister Shacklebolt Announces Historic Measure to Secure Our Future
By Barnabas Cuffe, Editor-in-Chief
LONDON – In an emotional and pioneering speech before a packed Wizengamot late on Saturday evening, Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt signed the "Marriage Law" (Magical Population Security Act). The measure, which applies with immediate effect to all unattached witches and wizards between the ages of 17 and 40, marks the most radical turning point in the Ministry's history since the end of the war against You-Know-Who.
"We can no longer turn a blind eye to reality," Shacklebolt stated to the Prophet. "Birth rates are at an all-time low. Our community is shrinking. If we do not act now, the British wizarding world will cease to exist within three generations."
The Interview: Minister Shacklebolt in Exclusive Conversation
Prophet: Minister, the new law is already sparking fierce debate. Critics speak of an infringement upon personal freedom. What do you say to them?
Shacklebolt: (adjusts his crimson official robes) You see, Barnabas, freedom is a precious commodity. A commodity we all fought for. But freedom without a future is worthless. We lost our best in the war. The magical essence of our country is diluted. This law is not an attack on freedom, but an investment in our survival. It is a sacrifice, yes, but a necessary one. I myself made sacrifices in the darkest hours of the war, and I expect every citizen to place the greater good above personal preferences.
Prophet: How exactly will the process work? There is talk of "Magical Core Scans".
Shacklebolt: Correct. The Department of Mysteries, in collaboration with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, has developed a procedure that is far more precise than any conventional compatibility test. Everyone affected will be required to undergo a scan of their magical core. Magic is not merely a force; it is a signature, something measurable. The Ministry will use this data to pair individuals whose magical signatures strengthen one another, thereby maximising the probability of healthy, magically gifted offspring.
Prophet: And if someone is dissatisfied with their allocation?
Shacklebolt: (laughs briefly and drily) The Ministry does not make mistakes, Barnabas. The pairings are based on hard, magical facts, not on fleeting emotions. We must detach ourselves from the romantic Muggle concept of 'love' if it endangers our continued existence. There is no provision for an appeal. The marriage must take place within thirty days of the announcement.
Prophet: One of the strictest clauses concerns progeny...
Shacklebolt: Yes. A child within the first two years of marriage is mandatory. We will provide potions and medical support through St Mungo's to ensure this is successful. Anyone who refuses or sabotages the law will be considered an enemy of the greater good. We are not talking about recommendations here. We are talking about laws.
*****
Hermione stared at the paper. The cup in her hand trembled so slightly that the tea formed tiny ripples.
'A sacrifice for the greater good'. Kingsley, you sound exactly like Grindelwald on a bad trip. 'The Ministry does not make mistakes'. The fact you can say that without your gold earring falling off in shame is the true magic of the day.
She read the article again, more slowly this time. Her eyes searched for the loopholes, for the exceptions in the small print.
"Unmarried. 17 to 40 years of age," she whispered.
She ran through the list of her friends in her head. Harry and Ginny—married (or at least trapped in a PR marriage that counted as such). Ron and Lavender—married. Neville and Hannah—married. Luna and Rolf—married. They waited. They waited until all the 'heroes' were settled. Everyone except me. The inconvenient Hermione Granger, the woman who asks too many questions and writes too many legislative drafts that disturb the old pure-bloods during their afternoon tea. Rage, hot and fluid as lava, spread through her chest.
Core scans. What absolute drivel. Magic cannot be squeezed into spreadsheets. If they are scanning cores, it is only to see who has enough power to become dangerous, and who needs to be kept in check.
She looked at the photograph of Kingsley. He looked bloated; his features had hardened. Behind him in the background of the photo, she recognised the shadowy figures of a few older Wizengamot members—men she knew had maintained a very comfortable relationship with the Ministry under Pius Thicknesse during the war. Crookshanks leapt onto the table and sat directly on the Minister's face. Hermione chuckled drily. "Good boy," she murmured.
She stood up and began to pace the flat. Fourteen steps to the bookshelf, fourteen steps back. She paused and looked at her desk. There lay her rejected drafts. There lay her notice of termination. "They sacked me because they thought I’d have no power without the Ministry," she said quietly to the empty flat. "They thought if they took away my office and my secretary, I'd just be a girl with too many books." She went to the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of aged sherry she normally kept for guests. She poured herself a splash, even though it was only just past eight in the morning. She thought back to the previous evening. Ron's condescending smirk. Perhaps you ought to find a hobby. Had they known? Had Ron and Harry known that this law would be announced today?
Harry looked so exhausted. He wouldn't look me in the eye. Oh, Merlin, he knew. He knew and he said nothing. He watched me walk right into the blade.
That thought hurt more than the headline. The realisation that the Golden Trio was not merely broken, but actively working against one another, was the final nail in the coffin for her nostalgia. She drank the sherry in one gulp. The warmth burned pleasantly in her throat.
Enough with the sentimentality, Hermione. You are twenty-five. You are the brightest witch of your age. And if they want to play a game, they had better make sure they know the rules better than I do.
She sat down at her desk and pulled out a fresh piece of parchment. She reached for her quill and began to write. Her handwriting was precise, sharp, and resolute. The pain of betrayal was still there, deep inside her, but it was eclipsed by something greater: the absolute will to burn this corrupt system to the ground. Outside in London, it began to rain, but in Hermione's flat, a fire was burning that had nothing to do with the hearth.