Chapter Text
It is a no good, very bad day for Hermione Granger.
Hugo’s yells wake her from a particularly fraught stress dream involving a rotating class schedule at Hogwarts, an exam on Goblin runes that she completely forgot to study for, and constant confusion on which room is for Charms and which is for dueling club practice. She is just about ready to give up on even trying to remember the lyrics for choir when she distinctly hears “Mum! I can’t find my trainers for gym today!”
Anticipatory classmate faces melt into her view out the bedroom window. She glances at the clock - nearly seven in the morning, more than just a little bit late but instead almost disastrously behind schedule. The bed next to her is empty, so Ron must be handling things. She groans, drops her head into her pillow.
“Mum!”
“Did you check under the sofa!” she shouts back.
After a brief pause, Hugo shouts back, “Thanks, Mum!”
Sure, she thinks, whatever. She looks at the clock again; she feels the pang of having missed possibly the only time today she will have to herself. No slow morning coffee, no debating approaches to Fitzroy and MacKay, just get up and go. Anxiety forms a rock in the pit of her stomach. She would give her right arm for a Time Turner right now.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” she interrogates, glaring at Ron as she jogs down the stairs in slacks and a fresh green blouse.
Ron, pouring cream into his coffee, looks at her like a deer in headlights. “What? You seemed exhausted. I thought you’d want to catch up on sleep.”
“Did you turn off my alarm?”
“Mione, it went off for five minutes straight. I turned it off because we were gonna wake the neighbors if it kept going.”
Hermione yanks one rain boot onto a foot, then the other. “I wish you’d just woken me up. Is Hugo’s lunch packed?”
“It’s in his bag.”
“No, it’s not finished, I still need to add the pasty from last night.”
“I can do it -“
“No, I’ll do it,” she cuts him off, reaching for Hugo’s backpack while also squashing her heel into her other boot. She waves a wand and the meat-stuffed pastry darts from the fridge into the bag, which she zips and hurls into his pack.
Ron frowns. “You know if you just asked -“
“It’s faster this way. Hugo, ready to go to school?”
“I haven’t had breakfast yet!” Hugo protests.
“You’ll just have to take it with you and eat on the go. Cmon, let’s go.”
“But -“
“Hugo!” Hermione snaps. “Just put it in your lunchbox. We don’t have time to argue.”
So Hugo, sulking, takes his toast and sausages and dumps them into his bag, making sure Hermione sees his displeasure. She feels an urge to scream; years of training as a parent hold her back.
“See you tonight. We’ve got dinner at Ginny’s tomorrow night, so grab a bottle of wine if you can.”
“That’s tomorrow? Right, erm, okay, I’ll get something on the way home. Anything in particular?”
It takes far more effort than she wants to admit to hold back the groan ready to burst in her chest. “Merlot, they always ask for merlot.”
“Right, will do.”
Hermione doesn’t even look at Ron on the way out, doesn't even stop to kiss him at the door. She is so angry that she barely registers Ron’s expression of confusion and sadness.
The lines to get into the Ministry are painstakingly long today - apparently some of the usual entrances are undergoing maintenance and re-charming, so employees are being funneled into half of the usual toilets and Floo lines. People are staring at their watches and counting the minutes lost that they will need to make up at the end of the day, faces looking increasingly like everyone ate earwax Bertie’s for breakfast. It takes Hermione twenty-four minutes to get through the queue, which is after she was twelve minutes behind her usual time arriving because Hugo decided to plod to school in protest of a lack of hot breakfast.
“Absolute chaos out there,” she complains to Harry. “They can’t announce these things in advance?”
“They probably sent notes to everyone’s boxes down in the mail room,” Harry surmises. “All you have to do is go all the way to the basement to get it.”
“And get trapped in the elevators again? I don’t have three hours to spare.”
“It was just one time.”
“Then you do it.” She means to joke, but the reply comes out too sharp. Harry looks at her and raises an eyebrow.
“You alright?”
God, not this too, not Harry’s sincere concern. “I’m just off today. Rough morning, and it’s going to be a rough day. Somehow I’m already behind even though it’s not even nine yet.”
“You’ll catch up, you always do. Even without a Time Turner, you always find a way to make it work.”
He is right, of course; she will dutifully take reports home and make corrections on the sofa or in bed while the television plays in the background, chewing up any remaining leisure time by analysing Auror reports. Hermione sighs and conjures a pen and paper. “Right. What’s on the docket today?”
“Another Fitzroy meeting at eleven,” Harry says, not bothering to hide his disdain. “Then read outs from the Improper Use of Magic Office - they’re sending someone new, Alec something. Office of Misinformation might also swing by to discuss that bit about the recent explosion in Bramfield. They wanted to have ‘firm commitments’ on next steps and future responses.”
“Can’t we just tell them that we had a junior Auror who was too busy dealing with flying hexes to follow proper protocol? Who cares if a Muggle five-year-old saw some wizards - “
“Misinformation cares,” Harry replies, shrugging. “They really want to make sure everyone is on the same page when it comes to cover stories. And you know that Auror should have been more discreet.”
“Brodbeck did the best he could, given the circumstances he faced - “
“He went in solo, wand blazing, like an American cowboy. He was right to face discipline.”
Hermione thinks back to their days at Hogwarts, running through corridors in the dead of night, making illicit potions in bathrooms, fending off a giant three-headed dog. “You know, we were like American cowboys at one point. God forbid anyone tell Harry Potter, the Chosen One, how to tackle He Who Must Not Be Named.”
Harry lets a grin slip. Just as he is about to open his mouth to reminisce, an intern politely knocks on the door before impolitely letting himself inside.
“Sir, ma’am, passing along this report from the Auror in Bermuda. Caught up in a murder trial it seems, and we need to figure out cover stories.”
“A murder trial?” Harry practically shouts.
The intern only nods. “Double homicide, apparently.”
Hermione presses a finger to the spot between her eyes. It is going to be a very, very long morning.
After Harry sends a note to Misinformation to let them know of what he and Hermione have decided to call “the Spanish Point Problem,” Hermione scrambles to get through the stack of paperwork on her desk. Read this, highlight that, sign and initial and date in six locations in triplicate, send feedback to that pixie Hanley letting her know for the tenth time that she needs to read her auto-quill notes before submitting them for review. Two hours fly by and suddenly Fitzroy is at their door, ready to unload all of his thoughts on what the Aurors can be doing better and how they are currently failing at their jobs. It all goes as expected, and Hermione takes notes on what is top of Fitzroy’s mind, which she hopes is top of MacKay’s mind: stricter wards and even mild jinxes at the ports to reduce overall smuggling; the upcoming negotiations with counterparts in Paris to ensure that refugees are caught more effectively before they can cross the Channel via physical or magical means; the ongoing low-level skirmishes in Manchester between the traditionalists and the “diversity brigade,” and how to deal with instigators.
“We could stand to arrest a few more of these troublemakers, even if only for a day or two,” Fitzroy says, almost as if to himself. “It would get them off the streets and away from their peers, maybe give them a good warning of the path they’re going down.”
“With all due respect,” Harry begins, “our jails are already somewhat at capacity. We’ve got a lot of people serving longer sentences who take up rooms, and unless we make more prisons or shorten sentences, we’ll soon be over capacity if we book every teenager and twenty-something who causes a bit of trouble.”
“Well, once we reopen Azkaban, we’ll have more - “
“When we reopen what?” Harry interrupts.
Fitzroy briefly takes on the same expression as a dog caught eating the Christmas turkey. “I mean, well, what I meant to say was, you see, if the Ministry opens more correctional facilities - “
“Is that part of the Minister’s goals for her tenure?” Harry asks. “Opening Azkaban and putting people into it again?”
Fitzroy looks between Harry, who is glaring daggers at him, and Hermione, who is trying to process this new piece of data. Azkaban re-opened, hanging like a sword of Damocles over anyone doing anything the government does not like. Fitzroy settles on Hermione, a pleading look in his eyes.
“It’s just an idea, for the moment. A consideration. The idea is still so new, it may turn out that other facilities are more suitable to deal with the increasing crime rates. Just some casual discussions, nothing more.”
Hermione slowly forces herself to nod and smile, though her stomach churns a bit as she does. Whatever pleasant things she had thought about Fitzroy before - that at least he was giving them an opening into the Minister’s circle, that he was overall pleasant and not too squirrely - they quickly curdle in her mind, soured by the realization that a man who believes in the use of prisons like this probably accepts even less savory “facts” about “the real world.”
“Still,” she says with a forced smile, trying to make it look as genuine as possible, “We would love to be part of the conversation if it does come up. It would most definitely impact our processes as Aurors, and we would want to be aware of any policy changes so we could respond accordingly.”
Fitzroy understands this legalese - let us know if the conversations become more concrete, and, for now, we won’t let MacKay or anyone else know that this topic ever came up. Hermione keeps her reassuring gaze on Fitzroy because she can feel Harry’s anger boring a hole into her body without even glancing in his direction. “Perhaps we should take a break?” she offers. “I could use some lunch. We can regroup tomorrow if needed.”
“Excellent idea,” Fitzroy concurs, raising himself from his chair, shaking Hermione’s hand, and quickly grabbing Harry’s and shaking it once as fast as he can. “I will have my office coordinate with yours on a follow-up meeting. Ms. Granger, Mr. Potter. Lovely as always to speak with you.”
Hermione sees Fitzroy out, waves him down the hallway, then shuts the door slowly. She knows what is coming and wishes there were a way to avoid it. And yet she is not prepared for the sheer volume of Harry’s voice when he is angry.
“‘We would love to be part of the conversation?’ Hermione, what the hell!” Harry starts.
“Harry, if you would just listen to me for a second - “
“You actually want to talk to MacKay about re-opening that hell hole? Why not just bring Dementors back to Hogwarts while we’re at it!”
“I’m not saying I want that either! But we need to accept that - “
“We don’t need to accept anything. We’re not beholden to the Minister’s whims like that. We were here long before she came around - “
“And if we sit back and just let them do whatever they want there very well may be Dementors walking around the grounds one day.”
“Then we make it clear to the public that our office does not and will not support these and other measures.”
“Do you really think,” Hermione begins, her face flushing, heart pounding, “that anyone would care about the Aurors and their particular stances if you weren’t the one in charge? People only think of us as distinct from the whole of the Ministry because you’re The Boy Who Lived. They trust you to always do the heroic, noble thing. Nobody would care otherwise.”
“I care,” says Harry, stiffening, “and I care about the independence of this department. We’re not going to negotiate with anyone on our position here, and I don’t want to hear anything about potential concessions on the matter. Azkaban stays closed, no exceptions. We hold our ground and we don’t budge. And I don’t want to hear anything about anyone from this office having conversations with the Minister’s people on this.”
Hermione purses her lips, doing her best to keep from sneering. “Is that an order?”
Harry sits at his desk and stares at a report on the latest unsolved disappearances. “If it needs to be, then yes.”
Fuck you, she thinks.
The clock strikes six just as Hermione opens the front door. She can hear plates clattering as they are tossed into the sink
“Oh, love! Sorry, we already had a bite to eat,” Ron admits sheepishly. “Didn’t know when you’d be getting home. Here, I can heat up a plate for you. There’s some meatloaf left for tomorrow, too.”
Hermione nods wordlessly. She removes a stack of reports from junior Aurors before dropping her bag on the floor near the door. The energy it would take to place it on the rack is energy she does not have. She sits wordlessly at the table while Ron hands her a plate - and no fork and knife. After staring at it for a few minutes, she stands to get silverware. On the countertop is a bottle of cabernet. She grabs it and digs in the drawer for the opener.
“Oh, no, that’s for the get-together tomorrow!” Ron exclaims.
Hermione freezes. “For Harry and Ginny?”
“Yep. D’you think it looks good? Not too pricey but not cheap either.”
Hermione knows, from reading enough books, that, statistically speaking, wives get upset most often at their husbands’ actions, while husbands get upset most often at their wives’ anger over their husbands’ actions. She knows, logically, that arguing will lead only to a downward spiral, knows that nothing good will come of blowing up. She is tired and should just sit down and eat dinner and get to reading reports and let it slide, because she can go to the store tomorrow and get merlot, the wine Harry and Ginny always ask for, and fix this issue in the morning. This is not something to explode over.
But it doesn’t stop the explosion anyway.
“I asked you for merlot!” she finds herself yelling. “I asked you for a very specific item, and you couldn’t even do that! They always ask for the same thing, Ron! Why can’t you remember that! Why do I feel like I’m the only one who gives a flying fuck about anything in this household!”
“Hey!” Ron begins, glancing over at Hugo, who seems frozen to the couch, staring anywhere except into the kitchen.
“I don’t understand why it’s so hard to do these things when you have so much time and I am so busy and you can just write it down and remember it!”
“I do lots of things around the house!”
“Really? The grocery list planning and shopping, wiping the countertops down after dinner so we don’t have a problem with ants, mopping the bathroom floor, putting together the suitcases for the trip to your parents’ house for Christmas - you’ve been making sure all of that gets done? Because last I checked, I was the one doing all of those things times ten!”
“We don’t need to mop the bathroom floor when it already gets wet!” Ron exclaims as Hugo creeps up the stairs.
“Because you can’t bother to wait five seconds to drip in the shower after you turn off the water! That’s not cleaning the floor, Ron, especially when you manage to piss all over the toilet bowl when you go!”
“Why does it matter if a little pee gets on the floor! Tiny droplets, Hermione, you’re obsessing over tiny droplets! It doesn’t matter!”
“It does matter!” Hermione counters, now shrieking, the pitch of her voice rising uncontrollably. “It’s all the little things that matter, Ron, and I am doing them every single day to make up for what you miss. You couldn’t even think to bring me a fork for dinner!”
“I was trying to help! I brought you food, heated it up - “
“That’s the bare minimum! That is the absolute lowest bar you could meet!”
Ron throws his hands up in the air. “Well sorry I’m not perfect like you, Hermione! Sorry I can’t think of everything all the time! I don’t have a perfect memory like you, and I’m not always constantly trying to do everything! Look, I get that you’re angry about this morning, but you’ve been practically punishing me for it ever since you woke up! You’re acting like I intentionally ruined your morning. I just thought you could use some rest.”
“Yes, I could use rest - because I could use a husband who actually does what he’s supposed to do! Not just the absolute bare minimum, but literally as much as I do every single day! Maybe I would feel rested if I felt like I was taken care of as much as I take care of you and cover for you and fix your mistakes!”
“I don’t want to argue with you like this,” Ron suddenly declares, turning away. “I’m not going to talk to you when you’re so emotional.”
Hermione chases him as he heads for the stairs. “You’re just going to leave the discussion because you don’t like what you hear?”
“It’s not a discussion, Hermione, it’s you yelling at me and telling me how I’m a bad husband! You think I can’t do that, too?”
Hermione barks a laugh. “And what exactly would you say about me? How am I failing to be the perfect Mrs. Weasley?”
“You work too hard! You focus on things no one else cares about! Why do the pots need to be stacked a certain way in the cupboards? Why is it so important that Hugo always has so many snacks in his lunchbox when we give him plenty of pocket money to get food at school? Can you, for just once, not hold yourself to all of these impossible standards and simply let things happen?”
“What, and let the house fall to pieces? Sure, I could sit on the couch all day and watch television - “
“I’m not saying do nothing, I mean just let things be - “
“I already let so many things slide,” Hermione counters. “When was the last time the trash bins were cleaned? How long have the weeds been growing in the yard?”
“You are the only one who cares about those things.”
“But they matter! They matter to me!”
“Then you do them, Hermione! You find a way to do it all! But stop judging me for things you never tell me to do or even point out! Why do you expect everyone to see everything that you do? It’s impossible!”
“I have pointed them out, again and again - “
“Have you? Because I don’t recall you saying anything about the weeds. Is that really what matters to you in our marriage? Whether or not the weeds are pulled up? Whether the house is clean and the meals are all made from scratch? Do you want us to redo our wedding vows so they say ‘I promise to fulfill the following list of chores exactly as Hermione Granger expects them to be done’ and have everyone as witnesses?”
“I want - “
“I don’t care!” Ron interrupts sharply. Immediately after saying it he closes his eyes, exhales into Hermione’s stunned silence. He grips the handrail and shakes his head. “I mean. I don’t care right now, Mione. I think we should talk about it after we’ve both had some sleep. Clearly, there is a lot we need to discuss. If you want to talk, I’ll be upstairs.”
He does not say Goodnight, does not bother with I love you. Ron trudges up the stairs, leaving Hermione alone in the living room, clocks ticking in the background, anger vaporized into loneliness.
No sleep. That is what Hermione finds waiting for her on the couch (after finishing work for the night and collecting a few blankets and a throw pillow because there is no way she wants to be anywhere physically near Ron right now). Sleep never comes. Occasionally, when the three of them were Aurors hunting down the remnants of Voldemort’s army, she would have sleepless nights like this. If they missed someone and let a killer go free, the entire wizarding community might pay for it. Maybe not now, but years or decades later, some new group, grown from that unplucked root, would come back and start the violence all over again, just with a different name and different faces.
This time she rolls around on the cushions, first with the hope and then with the pretense that if she stays still long enough, her mind will settle and her eyes will close on their own. Minutes and then hours tick by on the clock. She has her thoughts to keep her company. The arguments, disagreements, and slights from yesterday all come back to life with new, hideous reinterpretations. Was she too cruel - or not blunt enough? Does she have impossible expectations - or is she just trying to hold others to the same standard as herself? Has it always been like this, with her striving so hard while her friends all seem to relax and accept what comes? Or is she reaching for too much?
But things need to be done. If what Fitzroy said is true, then they need to move quickly to oppose any gestures to reopen Azkaban. If Azkaban reopens, then the doors will swing back open to cast aside anyone whom the government deems too difficult to manage - whether Death Eater or political enemy. There is nothing wrong with prisons, in Hermione’s mind, but Azkaban was never just a prison. It was a boogeyman held over every witch and wizard from the minute they could legally practice magic on their own. It was a tool to silence enemies.
She thinks about Goyle. He was imprisoned there. Was he so terrible that he deserved it? Maybe, but look how much it “rehabilitated” him. Now he has gone and joined some new group, determined to pick up more sophisticated tools for trying to exert power over others. Azkaban didn’t eliminate his desire to hurt people; it just refined it into something both harder and more subtle.
They cannot afford fresh Goyles, not when everything feels so precarious, and they cannot afford to lose good witches and wizards - protestors, members of the growing underground, to that black pit.
When the alarm chimes, Hermione is ready, her head buzzing with a thousand thoughts that all seem to knot with each other in a tangle. Maybe coffee will help me straighten them out, she thinks, a red eye and maybe an extra latte for good measure. She dresses too quickly and her polo ends up inside out, the Liverpool logo against her skin. She tosses on a jumper and apparates away still stuffing her wallet into her pocket. When she arrives, she knows immediately that it is too cold for this many layers. After briefly considering returning for a real coat, she decides against it and instead begins briskly walking up and down the streets. Getting the blood moving will keep her warm.
Walking and thinking. Azkaban re-opened. Unacceptable. Harry arguing with her about her attempts to get close to the Minister. Useless. It has to be done. Ron saying she works too much, but what does he do at work all day that could possibly leave him so exhausted? Insufferable, being told that you are trying too hard, like she didn’t hear enough of that from her professors at Hogwarts, like Kingsley didn’t constantly critique her with it after taking more than enough leave when the babies were born. Absolutely infuriating, Harry and Ron, gliding through their work and then having the gall to tell her how to live.
By the time she enters the cafe she is all spun up. She orders a red eye and scans the shop, and immediately her eyes fall on Malfoy, who is carefully reading a small notebook while holding a pen over the pages. He is focused, he is paying attention, he sees that things need to be addressed, that even small details are important. She sits down directly across from him and starts without introduction.
“I have something important to tell you.”