Chapter Text
Eight Weeks Until the Wizengamot is in Session
To say that the chair in the waiting room outside the Minister’s private office was uncomfortable would be an understatement to the highest degree. Every time Hermione shifted her weight around, which she was extremely prone to do whilst bored, a metal rod beneath the thin upholstery dug into the sensitive flesh where her arse met her thigh.
Even worse, it made a caterwauling sort of wail that sounded like Crookshanks when he was feeling particularly sorry for himself - usually at three o’clock in the morning, with a dead rat between his paws.
Hermione had resorted to tapping her foot impatiently ages (i.e., approximately fifteen minutes) ago, and the soles of her sensible heels made a lovely, snappy little click against the marble floor that had the Minister’s secretary, Judith, glaring daggers across the room.
Good. Maybe if she annoyed Judith enough, the crotchety old witch would leave her desk (which was an utter catastrophe of unorganized paperwork) and convince Kingsely to finally, finally, commence the meeting he had called Hermione in for in the first place.
But the solid oak door of the office remained frustratingly closed. From behind it, the dull drone of three male voices could be heard arguing in low, heated cadences.
Hermione tapped.
Judith glared.
The clock on the wall marked the passage of at least twenty minutes' worth of time which Hermione could have spent polishing the legislation that, if passed, would ensure her legacy for generations to come. Her Magnum Opus, as it were.
When Kingsley had taken her under his wing at the ministry, and she had settled in the International Affairs department, many of her colleagues and friends had expected nothing more than average banality from her efforts. She was already a war hero, already a public figure with an Order of Merlin, First Class and a well-recognized name.
She had peaked, everyone agreed.
But that wasn’t enough for Hermione Granger, oh no. She had instead done everything in her power to prove everyone wrong.
She had completely skipped the trade agreements and manufacturing deals that everyone expected of her, and had instead begun chasing monumental change from the very beginning of her career. Monumental change that began, surprisingly, very close to home.
For the entirety of its existence, wizarding Britain had been isolated. Yes, it had hosted ambassadors and contingents from other nations, and occasionally offered asylum and long-term visas to those who requested it, but the efforts to globalize had up until that point been very piss-poor, to be blunt.
The truth was, the little insulated world they existed in was far too closeted, too isolated, and it was hurting the entire society in the long run. Something needed to change, and Hermione Granger was just the witch to usher in a new era (if she did say so herself).
Ten years into her career, her landmark legislation was nearly made law, and though it had received considerable push-back from every single level of government, it would be headed to a vote in the Wizengamot in just one month’s time. Once passed by the members, Kingsley had assured her he would officially sign it into law, no matter how contentious it was.
And it would pass. It had to. Hermione would accept nothing less.
It had already been determined that the Wizengamot vote would be razor-thin. Its members were nearly split right down the middle; half appreciated the opportunities and perks of global cooperation that opening the borders would bring, and half were vehemently opposed to any sort of change that would upset the status quo.
The key to a successful, ratifying vote lay in the recent assumption of the Black family Wizengamot seat by a progressive member who had recently been sworn in under a long-forgotten stipulation. Said loophole erased the need for a witch or wizard of a specific bloodline to hold a seat, and instead transferred voting power based on the personal delegation of the former seat-holder.
As it had turned out, Sirius Black had left a will, found buried deep in the depths of Grimmauld Place when unearthed during a recent renovation.
And that will had designated Harry Potter as Sirius’s heir to the Wizengamot seat held by the House of Black.
As if on cue, Hermione’s best friend - and her legislation’s last hope - opened the door to Robard’s office. “We’re ready for you,” Harry told her, motioning her inside. His black hair looked as if he had been pulling at it nervously; it was sticking out from his head at every conceivable angle.
“Glad you men could finally accommodate me,” Hermione muttered grumpily as she brushed past him, the movement of the air between them stirring up his familiar cedarwood cologne. “Do you even know how much time I wasted sitting out there in that stupid little room while you’ve been in here talking about me?”
“‘Mione.” Harry’s voice was firm, but she could hear the stress in his tone, curling in at the edges. “We’re just trying to do what’s best for you.”
“By leaving me out of the conversation entirely?” She rolled her eyes. “Some things never change.”
There was an air of marked tension settled heavily in Robard’s office that hit Hermione immediately as she stepped into the room. The Head Auror’s normally pristine desk was scattered with papers and thick manila folders, the chairs had been pushed askew, and quite a few enchanted volumes on the bookshelf behind his desk were grumbling angrily amongst themselves.
The Head Auror himself was a mess - a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow as he hunched over his desk. He looked as if he was headed into battle or, maybe more appropriately as Hermione studied him further, had just come from one.
Ron was no better. He was braced against the bookcase, his head bowed and arms crossed, and Hermione immediately clocked the fact that he refused to meet her gaze. After many years of knowing the wizard, she knew that could only mean one thing - she wasn’t going to like what they were about to tell her, and he wasn’t brave enough to look her in the eye.
Harry closed the door softly and stepped around her, walking over to lean against Robards’ desk, and Hermione took a moment to assess them. The wizards were all worse for wear - clothes rumpled, eyes tight with exhaustion. The faint smell of nervous sweat curled over to her on a draft of air.
Hermione jutted out her chin defiantly at them as she stood unmoving, but beneath the bravado, her spine began to prickle in the way it did when she knew something bad was coming.
“You should probably have a seat,” Harry said wearily. He took his glasses off and began to clean them on his wrinkled, untucked shirt. “I don’t think you’re going to like what we have to say.”
Deep down, Hermione did want to take a seat. She could feel the heel of her right shoe digging into the soft flesh of her foot, and her quadriceps still carried a dull ache from her run the previous day. Instead, she merely clasped both hands firmly around the handles of her leather briefcase and stood up even straighter. “No, thank you.”
Robards gave a dry and humourless bark of laughter and pinched the bridge of his nose. “If she’s starting off this stubborn, how do you think the rest of this is going to go?” he asked Ron.
“Excuse me,” Hermione snapped. She’d never had any patience for Robards. He was proven to be a good auror, but he was also a misogynistic pig (the retention rate for female aurors had been abysmal under his tenure). “I’m right here. No need to talk as if I’m not in the room anymore.”
Robards sealed his lips together in a grimace and leaned back in his chair, fixing her with a penetrating glare. He didn’t offer an apology, but that was fine. Hermione hadn’t expected one.
“‘Mione.” Ron’s voice was soft, almost placating. He still wouldn’t look at her. “We think that it’s time you are made aware that there have been numerous and very credible threats against your life,” he recited to the floor.
The tingle in Hermione’s spine moved slowly through her body as his words sank in, suffusing into every limb. Her skin pebbled with adrenaline-fueled gooseflesh as her magic stirred nervously beneath her skin. “Why?”
It was a stupid question, really. She knew why.
Harry nodded at the briefcase clutched firmly in her fingers, the handles now damp from sweaty palms. “Your legislation is very unpopular.”
“We already knew that,” she scoffed. “We knew this was going to be an uncomfortable fight. I was aware that I wouldn’t be the most popular witch in wizarding Britain, and I’ve always been fine with that. It will blow over.”
There was a buzzing in her ears that was making it very hard to hear. Her own voice sounded so small and pathetically weak. It was ridiculous, really. She was Hermione Granger, for Merlin’s sake. A few meritless death threats weren’t going to stop her.
Robards pushed a manila folder across his messy desk in her direction. “This won’t blow over,” he said gruffly. “They’ve been watching you, very extensively and very patiently. They know where you live, where you run, which muggle coffee shop you frequent on Sundays.” He flipped the folder open and pointed at the contents before leaning back in his chair. “Take a look for yourself.”
Hermione moved one hesitant step forward, then another. The file appeared to hold a stack of wizard photographs as thick as her thumb, though only the top one was currently visible. She peered down at it as dread began to pool thickly in the pit of her stomach.
It was a picture of her from her run the evening before. She’d been so proud because it had been the longest run she had completed to date (twenty kilometres) and the marathon she was signed up for that coming spring had finally felt achievable. She had been euphoric.
The picture cycled in a loop. She watched herself stretch her hamstrings against a park bench, the heel of her running shoe perched on the iron armrest as she leaned towards her toes. There was a shadow of sweat darkening her shirt between her breasts and beneath her shoulder blades, and her running shorts were pushed high up her thighs. Her cheeks were red (her face always turned the shade of a ripe tomato with even the slightest physical exertion), and her hair was damp where a few strands had escaped her ponytail to cling at the nape of her neck. She mouthed a few words as she listened to the song playing through her earbuds.
Britney Spears’ Circus. That’s what she’d been listening to. Merlin, it was catchy. It always made her pace quicken, her heart pump harder.
Hermione felt the sudden, irrational urge to dig out her iPod and delete the song from her playlist. She felt violated and dirty, like someone had pinned her naked beneath a microscope and examined the most intimate parts of her. Her knees wobbled every so slightly.
Harry, who had been watching her closely, lurched forward and grabbed her arm. “It’s okay, ‘Mione,” he said soothingly as Ron stepped around the desk and dragged a chair towards her. They both helped her sit down as she moved her briefcase to her lap and clutched it tightly. “We’re going to keep you safe.”
“Show me the other pictures,” she said quietly, setting her jaw so that her teeth wouldn’t click together. Her body had begun to tremble uncontrollably. “I need to see them.”
Harry slowly paged through the pictures for her as she leaned towards the desk for a better view. Bile built in the back of her throat as he worked his way through the stack, its sour taste threatening to make her heave.
They had captured extremely personal moments of her day-to-day life with startling efficiency. Her friendly and mundane interactions with the coffee shop barista, who always drew a smiley face on her to-go cups. Her recent visit to Flourish & Blotts, where she’d paged mindlessly through books she didn’t have the time to read. Her runs. Her takeaway pickups. Her trips to the grocery store.
Every quiet little bit of her existence, every moment when she was perhaps the most at ease (and at the greatest risk), had been documented thoroughly, all while she had carried on completely unaware that someone, somewhere, was watching every movement. Whoever it was could have just as easily approached her and shoved a blade right into the soft flesh between her ribs. She would have been none the wiser.
“There have been written notes, as well,” Ron said quietly. “Demands that you throw out the legislation if you value your life. Those are currently being analyzed by the investigations department.”
“So… what’s the plan?” Hermione whispered, hating how shaky her voice had become. “I’m not going to abandon this legislation. I absolutely refuse. I’d rather die.”
Ron grimaced at her words and shoved his hands in his pockets. He let out a sigh. “We knew you’d say that.” His voice was strained, but the undercurrent was fond. “That’s why we’ve been trying to facilitate some sort of plan.”
“Your declaration is admirable, ‘Mione, but it’s unnecessary,” Harry told her tightly. He sounded frustrated. “Kingsley wants it taken to a vote, no matter what. Your legislation will make it to the Wizengamot one way or another.”
Hermione blew out a sigh of relief. Her fingers eased on the briefcase handles, just a bit. “Thank Godric. I was worried you were going to ask me to pull it from consideration, but I hoped you knew better than to ask that of me.”
“I do know you better than that,” Harry said carefully, his green eyes soft as he crouched down beside her, bringing his face level with hers. “Which is why I also understand that what we are about to ask of you might seem absolutely mad. And I know your immediate response will be to say ‘no’. But ‘Mione…” He placed a steady hand on her knee. “I need you to agree to our plan.”
Hermione’s heart hammered steadily against her ribs. “How bad could it be?” she tried to joke weakly. “A few months in a safe house? An auror contingent following me everywhere? I can manage.”
Harry shook his head firmly. “Neither of those things is an option at our disposal.”
A swirl of confusion stalled the ringing in her ears. “I must not be understanding you correctly.” Hermione turned her gaze to Robards. “My life is in jeopardy, but the DMLE is affording me neither a safehouse nor auror protection?”
Robards gestured at the other files on his desk. “You think your life is the only one that’s been threatened?”
Hermione’s stomach flipped wildly. She looked at Harry’s hand on her knee, and traced the sturdy line of his arm back up to his face. The stoic, half-hearted grin he gave her when her eyes met his told her everything she needed to know. “You too?”
He shrugged, as if she had simply asked him whether he’d like to go out for dinner. “I’m the deciding vote.”
Robards leaned back towards his desk, propping his elbows on the surface and steepling his fingers below his chin. “You inquired about a safe house and an auror detail?” He inclined his head at Harry. “That’s where a sizable chunk of our department’s resources are going.”
“And we’ve had to beef up Kingsley’s protections as well,” Ron interjected, running a hand through his hair. “The department’s stretched thin, and you, well…” His voice trailed off, unable to complete the sentence.
“You’re not the priority here,” Robards finished for him. Hermione clenched her jaw as she felt a wave of fury rise up inside her, swallowing the fear in her gut and cloaking it in red-hot anger.
“I’m not the priority?” Did her voice sound shrill? Probably. She didn’t care.
Robards held her gaze coolly. “You’ve created the legislation. You’ve written it, and babied it, and gone through who knows how many drafts. And now it’s about to go up for a vote, which means your work here is nearly done. It will be able to proceed without you. You’re dispensable at this point.”
Before she even quite realized what she was doing, Hermione was launching out of her chair at the smug bastard sitting across the desk. Were there penalties for assaulting a Head Auror, even one who deserved it? Undoubtedly. But she wasn’t really concerned with that at the moment. All she wanted to do was experience the thrill that would undoubtedly wash over her when her fist connected with his face.
Unfortunately, her fist had other plans. She simply couldn’t swing it forward in the way that she wished, and it wasn’t until she turned around that she noticed Harry’s hand grasping her wrist, which was raised in the air behind her as her fingers curled tightly into her palm. He gave her a stern look. “That’s not a good idea.”
“I think it’s a fantastic idea,” she growled back. “This fucking arsehole just called me dispensable.”
“A poor word choice, perhaps,” Robards said, his apologetic tone obviously feigned. “All I am saying is that in order for your legislation to become law, there are other people we absolutely need to keep alive in order to assure it gets to that point.”
“Do you even know who you’re dealing with?” Hermione snapped. “You could be looking for a teenage wizard who owns a camera, for Godric’s sake. How do you know any of these threats are credible?”
Ron shifted his weight from foot to foot, chewing nervously at the inside of his lip. “A lot of the information is classified,” he told her. “Even Harry and I don’t have the full picture. What we do know, and what we’re allowed to tell you–” he looked at Robards, who gave him a curt nod, “–is that the group that’s organizing this is very real. They’re calling themselves the Old Guard. They want to keep things exactly as they are, and they’re targeting any progressive member of the government they consider a threat. They don’t want the borders open, and they seem to be willing to do anything they can to achieve that.”
“But if they really meant it, couldn’t they have killed me just last night, on that run?” Hermione pointed at the pile of her pictures in her file. “That doesn’t seem to be the dedication of someone who will do anything they can to get what they want. That seems like someone scared to act, who’s hoping they can achieve what they’re after through intimidation.”
Ron scrubbed a hand across his face. “Look, ‘Mione, I told you we couldn’t share every detail. But we need you to know that we have every reason to believe they will escalate.”
“So that’s it, then,” Hermione said, picking at a loose thread on her robes, unable to even look her best friends in the eyes. Her voice felt thick, like she was trying to speak through a mouthful of sludge. “My work here is done, so I’m just being sent off to slaughter and we can all, what, hope for the best?”
Harry cleared his throat. “Actually, that’s why we’ve been in here trying to figure out an option that protects you as best as possible without relying on the limited resources of the DMLE.”
“Oh, you mean the conversation you didn’t feel the need to include me in? How generous of you,” she snapped. “I do so love being kept in the dark about my fate.”
“We’ve been calling in every resource and favour we can think of,” Harry said, his voice strained. If his words were meant to assure her, they did the exact opposite. Hermione barked out a laugh.
“So what am I meant to do? Never leave my house again? Move into the Ministry? Oh, I know, maybe Azkaban has a nice, cosy, solitary cell for me. Surely no one will bother me there.”
Harry gave a sharp bark of laughter. “I just need you to keep your notion of exactly how awful any of those options would be when I tell you what our current plan is.”
“Are you implying that otherwise, I might find your proposal entirely unappealing?”
“I am,” Harry told her seriously, his fingers tightening their grip on her knee.
Hermione’s stomach gave another small flip before plummeting as if it had fallen straight off a cliff. She swallowed hard, and then jutted her chin out stubbornly. “Tell me.”
Harry sighed. “I need you to keep an open mind.”
A nervous giggle slipped unbidden out of her mouth, which was horrifying, because she, Hermione Granger, was not a giggler. “That bad?”
Ron stepped forward to lean against the desk in front of her, blessedly blocking Robards’ (very punchable) face from view. “We needed to ensure maximum protection without an entire fleet of aurors,” he told her slowly. “A very tall order, unfortunately. So we may have been a little, ah, unconventional in our tactics.”
“Okay,” Hermione nodded. “That’s reasonable.”
“We decided it would be best to put you under the protection of someone influential, with more than just brute strength at their disposal. We needed someone with powerful connections, a respected reputation, and a well-known family name, so that anyone who decides to harm you would think twice before doing so. Our options have been limited.”
Hermione chewed at her lip. “So I’m to what… be a ward of some powerful wizarding family?”
“In a sense,” Harry said.
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Oh?”
“We’ve found a wizard who has agreed to help,” Ron told her weakly. “He’s powerful, with loads of connections, and he’s from a very well-known family. We’re certain that putting you under his protection will be the best option for your safety. However, he did have one stipulation.” Ron swallowed hard.
“He’s said that in order for any of this to work, you’ll need to pretend you’re… in a relationship with him,” Harry interjected. “And…” he winced, “you’ll need to live with him to make it seem realistic.”
The room fell into a tense silence. Ron went back to staring at the floor. Harry studied a cobweb in the corner with great intensity. Even Robards, still blocked from view, had the sense to stay quiet.
“I’m sorry,” Hermione said after a moment. “I think I blacked out. I certainly can’t have heard you correctly.”
Harry took a deep breath. “We–”
But his words were drowned out by the roar of Robards’ personal floo, which came to life as it filled with emerald flames. The wizard that materialized within brushed a dusting of errant floo powder from his shoulder as he stepped out of the hearth before fixing Hermione with a bright, wolfish grin.
“Hello, darling,” Draco Malfoy purred. “I hear you and I are madly in love.”