Chapter Text
“Aligning quills: three times. Checking the corridor: five times. Checking synchronization between chimney clock and watch: eight times.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, then waited. One minute. Then two. Still nothing. She realigned her quill.
“ Correction: aligning quills - four times .”
Hermione pursed her lips. She had read in History of the Great Witches of Our Time that Zada Squabs, former Head Mediwizard at St. Mungo's, was renowned for her exceptionally successful anaesthesia techniques.
Now that she had to share an office with her portrait, she understood why: the image of this plump, dark-skinned witch with a cheerful smile had quite enough to knock you out with her words!
“I will do without your comments this time, Zada,” Hermione said as politely as possible.
“Oh, I could keep quiet. But you know, I'm bored. And so are you. Who would you talk to if I wasn't here, dear?”
Hermione's teeth gritted at the nickname. Little one. My child. Little Miss Granger. That was what one got for wanting to do something for the wizarding community two years after the end of the war.
A month earlier, Hermione had felt the weight of those two years' delay when she had pushed open Mafalda Hopkrik's door with a distraught air.
The Ministry of Magic official, a close friend of Harry's, had put on a tired face.
“It was to be expected.”
“Nobody has a job for me, even with your reference letter. No one,” Hermione had slumped into the chair opposite her, stunned.
“That was to be feared,” Mafalda Hopkrik had repeated flatly.
Hermione, exhausted by the three hours she'd spent skimming the various Ministry offices and picking up nothing but “Sorry, little one”, “Excuse us, dear”, “My apologies, child”, had looked up at her with a vaguely furious gaze.
“The war has only been over for two years and I'm supposed to believe that I can't make myself useful anywhere?”
“Miss Granger, do you have any idea of the state of our community just after the war ended? We had to hire, hire, hire. And then...”
“And then what?”
“Do you remember the state of the Ministry before the Second Wizarding War?"
Hermione remembered very well: the Ministry of Magic was then... perfectible. Largely perfectible, with, among other things, a problem of corruption, influence-peddling and people in positions they shouldn't be in. That was how Dolores Umbridge had made her career in education.
Mafalda had given Hermione an apologetic look, and she understood. She may have been two years late, but she was still Harry Potter's friend - the Chosen One, the Survivor. Despite Hermione's skills, no department wanted to find itself bragging of having accepted the war hero's friend into their ranks; this was a way of being blamed for corruption and backdoor dealing. Same as before.
Yet Mafalda Hopkrik and all the civil servants she had met that day seemed exhausted. Two years had passed, but a mountain of work remained.
“I... I'd still like to make myself useful ,” Hermione had stammered.
“You're a very competent witch, Miss Granger. Not employing you in the rebuilding would be a waste, I agree.”
The only comfort Hermione had at that moment was that Mafalda seemed to sincerely mean it. The witch's gaze had slipped to a letter, lying on her desk, and her face lit up.
“There's no position available at the moment but... what would you say if we made one for you? What if we made a position that needs to be filled?”
As the Ministry assistant's voice still echoed in her mind, Hermione finished re-aligning her feathers on her desk, bringing her back to present time. It would have been just as well if she'd dwelled in her memories: she was still bored out of her mind.
Distractedly, she readjusted the nameplate someone had pompously set on the table: “Hermione Granger, Head Officer of Restructuring the Cohesion of the Wizarding World in the School Environment.”
The nameplate was included with the appointment letter sent by the Ministry, signed by a wizard of unknown name, a sign that the matter had now slipped out of Mafalda Hopkrik's familiar hands. It was between the administration and Hermione now.
It was the longest nameplate Hermione had ever seen - a title “befitting her responsibilities”, as the appointment letter had instructed her, “as head of your own department, with your own office!”.
Rather than describing the location's “advantageous” southern exposure, Hermione would have preferred the Ministry to describe to her what she was to do. Mafalda Hopkrik had made it clear, though, that the creation of this position was very much needed - but if that were the case, the painstaking count led by Zada's portrait wouldn't be so high, she mused bitterly, before her reflection was interrupted by someone knocking on her door.
Hermione stood up.
“ Come in!
“Miss Granger! How nice to see you! How are your first days with us going? ”
Minerva McGonagall entered the room, her pointed hat almost falling off as she stepped through the doorway to greet her former pupil. Her enthusiasm was shared by Hermione, but she kept a stiff upper lip - some old habit made her stand straight, expectantly as though there were still points for Gryffindor to be earned as a reward for good behavior.
“Oh, uh... All right. Like... Like the first two days,” she lied, waving her wand to conjure up a steaming pot of tea and two mugs from her desk.
“I've finally managed to arrange a room for you in the teachers' quarters, where you'll find yourself very much at home.”
“The room won’t be in the Gryffindor Tower? “ Hermione couldn't help wondering.
No one seemed to be waiting for Hermione when she had turned up at the Hogwarts gates - so Headmistress McGonagall had urgently accommodated her in a vacant dormitory in Gryffindor Tower. The two of them hadn't seen each other since, although Hermione would have liked to; this would have alleviated her boredom.
The familiar setting of Gryffindor dormitories was more pleasant to her than other places she wished to avoid - the courtyard, some of the corridors, amongst other places... and she found her heart beating wildly now that she had to leave it
“You're no longer in Gryffindor, Miss Granger. For your mission, it's best if you seem not to be choosing a house.”
“My mission ...”
Hermione sat back down, glancing at the huge, pompous nameplate on her desk, while Crookshanks, her beloved cat who never left her side, hopped onto her lap. In contrast to her, who saw more debris and death than happy memories as she walked through the corridors of Hogwarts, he had been purring happily ever since his return.
It made Hermione envious of her cat.
Seeing her former pupil's bewildered expression, Professor McGonagall replied:
“You know, Miss Granger, I wouldn't want you to think that your activity is useless.”
“ ...I don't think it's pointless, Professor ,” Hermione replied dutifully as the teapot filled the headmistress' cup.
“I'm sure the people around you think you've fallen into one of the Ministry's many allegedly useless departments.”
Without flinching, Hermione discreetly pushed aside the few letters she had received from her relatives since her arrival. Hermione didn't have the heart to lie to them - boring job or not. Harry and Ginny had been sympathetic, Luna had replied that it made sense since Mafalda Hopkrik was in fact a Veloche - an allegedly extremely hideous and hateful kind of Veela - and Ron had come very close to making a fuss, stating that he'd talk to his father, the Minister, and that given all they'd done during the war, they'd be bound to listen.
It was doubtful, Hermione thought, that despite what they'd done for the wizarding community, Kingley Shacklebolt, their new Minister, would have the time to listen to an Auror apprentice who was a little too defiant.
“ ...My title is just a bit ostentatious for a one-person department posted at Hogwarts,” Hermione said, “I feel like Gilderoy Lockhart. I'm about as knowledgeable as he used to be.”
“Well, for once, you're wrong. I'm the one who asked for this position to be created,” confessed Professor McGonagall, smiling faintly at the mention of the fanciful former Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. “I'd been asking for it for months, to tell the truth, yet the Ministry kept dragging its feet.”
Hermione raised her eyebrows.
“Really?”
“Well, it's probably not quite as high-profile a position as the name suggests, but I do think we need someone like you in that role here.”
“The atmosphere in the school doesn't seem so bad that we need an agent of the Ministry to restore cohesion ,” Hermione retorted. “ Hogwarts has always had its tensions, but it remains a safer place than most.”
“You're probably still having a bit of trouble gauging it, given that you only arrived two days ago, but we still have a lot of problems.”
“Such as?”
“Well, for example, Professor Sprout had to give a detention to two Hufflepuff students who had turned a Slytherin first-year's ears into cabbage leaves because her father had to work on the Muggleborn registry during the war.”
“But how? This first year had nothing to do with her father's activities, had she?”
Professor McGonagall gave her a knowing glance over her cup, before resuming.
“ We also had to take fifty points off Slytherin when we realized that a fifth-year student was having his books carried by a young Muggle-born Ravenclaw.”
The headmistress recalled four or five more examples of ferocious vendettas, fresh from the old grievances of war. With each one, Hermione slumped a little further back in her chair, while Crookshanks was still purring at a steady pace on her lap. No matter how many times she walked around Hogwarts to her office, to the Great Hall, to the toilets, she hadn't noticed a thing. Mafalda Hopkrik was right: she really was late. Unlike what she'd expected after two years away, wizarding society, instead of opening up, had fallen back on its old wartime habits: mistrust, paranoia, and pre-emptive punishments.
“We've missed you these past two years, Miss Granger ,” Professor McGonagall said gently. “ We sincerely need a neutral person in whom the students can confide.”
“One year at the Burrow, one year with the Muggles...” Hermione enunciated dejectedly. “And you really think I'm the best person to solve the problems you're talking about? I can't force students to confide in me.”
“I know the challenge may seem daunting from a distance, but I personally encourage students to come and see you one by one. It can be a good start before considering activities involving more people at once.”
Hermione couldn't help but give the headmistress a grateful smile, feeling as she had when she'd managed to turn a hedgehog into a pincushion for the first time before her eyes, many years before.
Knock, knock.
Hermione straightened up, as Professor McGonagall nodded, as if to say “ See?” . She invited the newcomer in, and a thin, jet-haired figure in Slytherin uniform appeared in the doorway.
“ Miss Greengrass,” Professor McGonagall said politely.
Everything about the newcomer was delicate: her figure, her voice, her posture. She looked like a little green mouse. Greengrass, Greengrass.. . Hermione tried to remember where she heard that name.
Ah, like Daphne Greengrass, that Slytherin from her class at Hogwarts, she recalled. But it couldn't have been her: Daphne was much taller and her whole person exuded the majesty of those who came from a Pureblood family.
The young woman who had just entered the room was not lacking in stature - but stature wouldn't prevent her slim figure from being blown away by the slightest gust of wind.
“ ...I've come to see Miss Granger.”
“Please do, Miss Greengrass. I was just leaving, anyway."
Hermione, on the other hand, was still in the process of reminiscing about the student in front of her. Now that she thought about it, she had a vague recollection of Daphne having a younger sister, who had made her appearance when Hermione was in third year. What was her name again? As she was born in a Pureblood family, she was bound to have some unusual name to live up to.
Hermione had been entrusted with a file as thick as a dictionary, which had to be opened with a flick of the wand to land on the relevant pupil's page - but nothing was less reassuring than a huge administrative file, and Hermione didn't want to scare away what could be her first real assignment.
"Number of students received: one,” Zada counted.
“Good luck with your mission, Miss Granger.” Professor McGonagall said before leaving the room.
She closed the door behind her, leaving the Slytherin student and Hermione face to face. She gave her a doe-eyed look, which made the former Gryffindor realize that she was feeling a vague discomfort. There was nothing wrong with the student per se - but she had some discomfort seing her green-and-silver tie.
Beside said tie shone the P badge, for prefect.
Hermione had a distant glimpse of the past - that same badge glistening on the tie of arrogant, mocking students with insults hanging from the edges of their lips. She tried to push six years of insults and mockery - or worse - to the back of her mind, and tried to display a more professional attitude. More adult.
She was supposed to be neutral, after all.
“ ...And you are?...”
“My name is Astoria Greengrass ,” the newcomer introduced herself.
“Greengrass!" Zada’s portrait exclaimed. “I think I had a Greengrass on my ward once. As a patient? As a colleague? I don't remember, except that he had very bad breath and...”
“Silencio portraitum.”
With a flick of the young Slytherin's wand, Zada's mouth closed like a zipper, and she let out a panicked moan. Hermione's eyes widened as her brain spun a hundred miles an hour, searching for more information on the young girl while simultaneously looking for a way to scold her. Astoria - that was the name of Daphne Greengrass's little sister. Now she remembered.
She did a quick calculation: considering that she was three years younger than her sister, who was the same age as Hermione, and that Astoria was wearing a Hogwarts uniform, that meant she was in....
“ I'm getting married.”
Hermione nearly spat out her tea. Zada let out another muffled groan. Astoria patiently let her finish coughing - and croaking:
“If... if we could put things back... kof, kof... in the right order? If you could return this portrait to its normal state and let me introduce myself... kof, kof... I'm...”
“Hermione Granger, I know. ”
Despite her frail appearance, she spoke with the confidence of people used to giving orders to others. Besides, the idea of her marriage didn't seem to frighten her that much - apart from a slight pinkening to her cheekbones. She waved her wand and Zada regained her sharp tongue. She said nothing, though, merely glaring at the newcomer.
“ My sister told me you were the best in everything.”
“P-Pardon?" stammered Hermione, who had abandoned all professional demeanor to surrender entirely to confusion, still searching for the link between this marriage, her new position and her being ‘the best in everything’.
“Well, yes, although then Dad told me not to say it again at the dinner table when we have guests, as it would be inappropriate to bring up...”
“No, no... I mean, Miss... Miss Greengrass. Astoria. Did you read the nameplate on that desk?”
“Oh, no, it's too long. I just know you're the best, and you're responsible for something to do with witch cohesion. So you're just the person I need.”
With that, she gave her an angelic smile, leaving Hermione speechless. She didn't know what would finish her off: the fact that her first “patient” just confirmed the uselessness of her role; the fact that she'd come to talk to her about marriage when she was, if her calculations were right, just seventeen or eighteen; or the fact that said seventeen-or-eighteen-year-old patient had come to order her around with queenly ease.
“I... I don't think I'm the right person...” she stammered, “First of all, aren't you a little young to be getting married? You're still... a student.”
“I'm of legal age. And in my family, it's customary. At Beauxbatons, some witches don't even wait till they're that age.”
“Did you learn to silence portraits at Beauxbâtons?” Zada's portrait croaked, still outraged at the affront she'd suffered.
“Maybe I did. I spent two years there in an absolute calm,” she replied in a vaguely threatening tone, stroking her wand with her fingertips.
Zada closed her mouth for the second time that day - something Hermione hadn't managed to do in three days at Hogwarts.
Hermione's eyes must have taken on the same shape as the saucers on which the abandoned teacups rested, for Astoria clarified, returning to the subject of marriage:
” Among Purebloods, we marry young, and it is often an arranged union.”
“Very... very good,” said Hermione. I'm... very pleased for you. Congratulations. And... And aside from this wedding, what exactly brings you to this office?”
“I want you to write letters to my fiancé on my behalf. ”
Hermione had a second coughing fit. Astoria didn't flinch at her astonishment - nor did she apologize for not saying “please” or any other courtesy. No, she just fiddled with the hem of her dress shyly; as if she hadn't just issued an order to the equivalent of a teacher as she would have to her house elf.
“ I... still don't understand ,” said Hermione, who was beginning to feel very foolish, asking all those questions.
“Pureblood marriages are a little different from those of other wizards.” Astoria explained.
The young Slytherin then explained that, as she approached her eighteenth birthday, Astoria had learned from her parents that she was engaged to a wizard of “extremely noble” origin. Not only was this wizard from an established family, but he was also “extremely wealthy”, despite “a few setbacks in recent years”.
"And as the surveillance of Pureblood gatherings in England has increased, we can't organize balls, or garden parties, or...
“Just a minute ,” Hermione interrupted, “ What kind of setbacks has your fiancé been through, exactly?”
“Well, you know... With ...” she gestured vaguely with her hand.
” ...Your fiancé is an ex- Death Eater,” Hermione guessed in a tone that had lost several degrees of warmth.
“Don't say that word!” she exclaimed.
Her cheeks pinkened as she mentioned this mysterious fiancé in more detail.
“He's changed a lot. He's working on his rehabilitation process. Besides, the engagement hasn't been broken off, so I'd like to get to know him better...”
“Good for you, I suppose," said Hermione, wondering what kind of brute this tiny girl was going to end up with.
“... My parents have forbidden me to go near him until the wedding, though."
As Astoria recounted her story, Hermione tried to remember if the Greengrasses had ever been involved with Death Eaters. She couldn't remember seeing any Greengrass at the trials that had followed the war.
Astoria’s immediate family, in any case, had nothing to do with Death Eaters. They had never even experienced war, since they fled to France. That didn't stop Astoria from clinging desperately to their traditions as Purebloods, despite the fact that a large proportion of their kind were rotting in Azkaban or under increased surveillance by the Ministry.
“ Among the Purebloods, we never see each other during the engagement year, even when we're engaged,” Astoria explained.
“Hence the letters ,” Hermione deduced, “ but I don't see how I...”
“It's very simple!" her guest replied, as if explaining a spell to change the color of her teacup. “ You're going to write them!”
Hermione blinked.
“ ... I’m going to write them?”
“I was told you were the best ,” Astoria repeated.
“At school, perhaps, but when it comes to love letters... ” she replied, nervously thinking of the honeyed letters she had sent to Viktor Krum once upon a summer.
“It'll always be better than me! I'm afraid... I'm afraid I won't know what to say.”
Astoria raised bright, passionate eyes at her, and Hermione suddenly felt caught off guard by so much fierceness. Still, that didn't stop her from remembering that, although she still didn't fully understand what she was supposed to be doing, writing love letters wasn't on her job description.
“Think of it as a cohesion mission!” Astoria insisted. “ With these answers, you'll gain a better understanding of Pureblood society and help us better integrate among the prole... among other wizards!”
“But I don't always see how I'd be better suited than another Slytherin to write these letters ...” Hermione groaned, unable to find the heart to kick her out of the office seeing how excited she was.
“You're the only person at school his age! Surely you have lots of things to say to him that he'll understand!”
Hermione still couldn't figure out this creature who'd half-climbed onto the desk to grab her hands. For a Pureblood who was used to commanding those around her, she displayed a burning, communicative passion that prevented Hermione from remembering that Astoria's parents surely had no issue with calling people "Mudblood".
On the other hand, the age thing awakened an intuition in Hermione that sent a shiver down her spine. Cold sweat ran down her back.
“I... who's your fiancé, again?”
Astoria suddenly realized she was holding Hermione's hands and rushed to her chair to sit up straight, her posture haughty; just so she could live up to the fiancé she was so proud of:
“ Oh, his name is Draco Malfoy. ”