Chapter Text
Hermione Granger stood at the base of the grand marble staircase leading into the Ministry of Magic, feeling a twinge of nerves she hadn't expected. She'd fought in a war, faced down Death Eaters, watched friends die—but this felt different. This was the place she was supposed to help rebuild, to shape a world that was still patching itself together.
The Ministry loomed overhead, an imposing building of gleaming white columns and towering windows charmed to catch every drop of sunlight. Even now, years after Voldemort's defeat, the atmosphere felt too formal, too polished—like a place still reeling from the war's scars.
Inside, the atrium was alive with movement. Ministry workers bustled to and fro, balancing stacks of parchment, dictating letters to floating quills. An enchanted fountain glistened in the center, sending soft ripples of magic dancing across the tiled floor. Hermione's gaze swept over the crowd—robes in every color, faces marked by lines of worry and weariness.
A knot formed in her stomach. She adjusted her newly pressed navy robes, running a hand over the badge pinned just below her collar: Department of Magical Law Reform. The words gleamed with promise—and pressure.
You can do this, she reminded herself. You've faced worse than paperwork and politics.
A dark-haired witch, her hair pulled into a severe bun, nearly collided with Hermione, muttering a hasty apology before disappearing down a corridor. Hermione blinked, heart thumping. Everything moved so quickly here. Nothing like Hogwarts, where the rhythm of classes and meals offered structure.
You're not a student anymore, she thought. You're here to change the world.
She squared her shoulders and started forward, her boots clicking sharply against the polished floor. Every step echoed—like a drumbeat in the cavernous space.
A series of Ministry offices branched off the main hall—rooms with brass nameplates and elegant glass doors. Through one, she glimpsed a pair of wizards deep in conversation, heads bent over a cluttered desk. Another office held a witch charming a quill to copy pages at lightning speed, the air thick with the smell of ink and magic.
So many people, so many lives tied up in parchment and bureaucracy.
Hermione passed a portrait of a stern-looking wizard in emerald robes who eyed her with disapproval. One of the old guard, she thought, chin lifting defiantly.
She paused to study the directory, a brass plaque etched with dozens of department names. Her gaze rested on her own: Department of Magical Law Reform, Level Five.
Her heart beat faster. She inhaled deeply, the scent of polished marble and aged spellwork filling her lungs.
"Here we go," she murmured.
And she took the first step toward the lift that would carry her to the floor where she would try, in her own way, to change the world.
The lift shuddered to a halt on Level Five, and the golden grille rattled open with a metallic sigh. Hermione stepped out, the hush of the corridor a stark contrast to the bustling atrium below. The air smelled of old paper and lavender polish—someone had tried to make it welcoming, but it felt more like a library's ghost.
She followed the brass nameplates lining the walls—Department of Magical Law Reform—until she reached the office marked Minister's Office—K. Shacklebolt. The door was slightly ajar, and she could hear the low murmur of conversation within.
She took a steadying breath. You're not a student anymore, Hermione. You belong here.
She knocked softly.
"Come in," a deep voice called.
Kingsley Shacklebolt rose from behind a wide mahogany desk, his presence as commanding as ever. Even in his neatly pressed navy robes, he exuded an air of quiet power—like a man who'd seen darkness and carried light through it.
"Hermione," he greeted, his smile warm and genuine. "It's good to see you."
She stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind her. His office was a comfortable clutter—stacks of parchment, battered old law books with broken spines, a small potted plant that looked suspiciously like a Fanged Geranium. A photograph of the Order of the Phoenix—taken before the final battle—sat on a shelf behind him. Remus, Tonks, Fred. Her throat tightened.
"It's good to see you too, Minister," she managed, her voice steadier than she felt.
"Kingsley, please." He gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Sit."
She settled in, smoothing her robes, fingers drumming lightly on her knee.
"I won't waste your time," he said, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the battered wood. "You know why you're here."
"The Muggle-born Rights Bill," Hermione replied, her voice sharp with purpose. "I'm ready. I've already read the drafts you sent—some of it is a mess, but I think—"
He held up a hand, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. "I know you're ready, Hermione. If anyone is, it's you. I fought alongside you. I know what you're capable of."
She flushed, her chest tightening with both pride and pressure.
"But," he continued, the smile fading, "this isn't Hogwarts. And it's not the battlefield either. The Ministry is…complicated. Change here comes slowly—and not everyone welcomes it."
Hermione's mouth tightened. "I'm not here to play politics, Kingsley. I'm here to change the laws that allow so much suffering."
His eyes softened, but his tone remained firm. "I know. And I admire that. But there are people—powerful people—who will fight you at every turn. Pureblood families with old money and older grudges. They'll see your name on this bill and sharpen their quills."
She drew in a breath, the weight of his words settling on her shoulders. I knew it wouldn't be easy.
"I won't let them stop me," she said quietly.
Kingsley nodded. "Good. That's why I chose you." He picked up a folder and slid it across the desk. "You'll have a partner on this—someone who understands both sides of the conflict. I'll finalize the assignment later today."
Hermione frowned. "I don't need a partner."
He chuckled, low and kind. "Maybe not. But trust me, Hermione, this will be a fight worth having someone at your side for."
She sighed, leaning back in her chair. Someone at my side. A wave of loneliness rippled through her, quickly buried beneath her determined resolve.
"I'll do whatever it takes," she said, her voice steady.
"I know," Kingsley replied, his gaze warm but shadowed. "And that's what worries me."
When Hermione left Kingsley's office, her mind buzzed with thoughts of bills, amendments, and the gnawing worry of facing resistance at every turn. She tried to push it aside as she navigated the narrow hallway, each step echoing off the ancient stone walls like a small defiance against the institution's old bones.
A young wizard in turquoise robes nearly collided with her as he rushed past, his stack of scrolls teetering dangerously. "Sorry, ma'am!" he gasped, his voice cracking slightly.
She gave a small smile. "It's all right."
He darted away, leaving a faint scent of ink and a loose scroll behind. Hermione picked it up and carefully balanced it on a nearby stack of files—someone would find it eventually.
She continued on, searching for the office assigned to her—Department of Magical Law Reform, Subsection A-3. The corridor was lined with dark wood doors, each bearing a polished brass plate engraved with the occupant's name. Some plates were new and gleaming, others tarnished and worn.
She found hers at the end of the hall. H. Granger. The letters seemed to glow in the dim light, proud and unyielding.
Inside, the office was smaller than she'd imagined—narrow and rectangular, with a single window high on the far wall that let in a shaft of watery sunlight. A battered oak desk occupied the center, covered in neat piles of parchment, folders, and a chipped teacup. The walls were lined with shelves groaning under the weight of ancient legal tomes with titles like "A History of Goblin Labour Laws" and "Magical Contracts and You."
She ran a hand over the desk's surface, tracing the faint etchings left by decades of previous occupants. A faint tingle of magic lingered in the wood, the residue of countless charms and quick repairs.
Home, for now, she thought.
A small stack of memos had been left on the corner of her desk—some official Ministry notices, others handwritten notes from staff she hadn't met yet. One read simply: Welcome aboard—please don't try to change everything in your first week. The penmanship was spiky and impatient. Hermione's lips twitched.
She hung her navy cloak on the hook by the door and sat at the desk, surveying the mountain of parchment that awaited her. Her fingers itched to organize, to categorize, to dive in and fix everything at once. But Kingsley's words echoed in her head: The Ministry is complicated. Change comes slowly.
She let out a slow breath, smoothing the front of her robes. One law at a time.
A knock at the doorframe startled her. She looked up to find a woman—blonde hair in a tight braid, Ministry badge gleaming—peering inside with curious blue eyes.
"Granger, is it?" she asked, voice clipped but not unkind.
Hermione stood, extending a hand. "That's right. Hermione Granger."
The woman's handshake was firm. "Parker. Records liaison." She gestured at the tottering piles of parchment. "Looks like you've got enough to keep you busy for a year."
Hermione gave a wry smile. "That's the plan."
Parker's eyes softened slightly. "Good luck," she said, then turned and disappeared down the hall, leaving a faint whiff of lavender polish in her wake.
Hermione sank back into her chair, feeling a mixture of anticipation and isolation. Everyone seemed polite, efficient—but detached, like she was an outsider politely tolerated.
Maybe they're waiting to see if the war hero can actually do the work, she thought bitterly.
She stared out the tiny window at the thin sliver of sky, its blue already fading to gray. The weight of the task ahead settled on her shoulders like a thick cloak, but she lifted her chin, determined to carry it.
One parchment at a time, she promised herself.
By the time Hermione made her way back to the lifts, her head was spinning with legal jargon, half-finished memos, and at least three contradictory Ministry decrees. She felt like she was already losing a battle she hadn't even started fighting.
She checked the time: nearly one o'clock. Her stomach growled. When was the last time I ate?
The lift rattled as it descended, the golden grille catching the light and casting thin lines across the tiled floor. She stepped out into the bustling Ministry cafeteria—a cavernous space filled with long wooden tables, enchanted ceiling lanterns, and the hum of a hundred conversations.
The smell of roast chicken and freshly baked bread greeted her like a comforting embrace. She paused just inside the doorway, scanning the crowd for a familiar face.
Harry sat alone near the far end, his dark hair a little longer than she remembered, and a faint shadow of stubble on his jaw. His Auror robes—dark navy with a discreet badge—made him look older, sharper, but when he spotted her and waved, his grin was the same as ever.
She wove through the tables, careful to avoid balancing trays and floating teapots. When she reached him, she slid into the seat opposite with a tired sigh.
"Long morning?" he asked, eyebrow raised.
Hermione let out a rueful laugh. "Longer than the Battle of Hogwarts, at least on the paperwork front."
Harry chuckled, his eyes warm. "You always did love a challenge."
She rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the smile tugging at her lips. "Don't remind me."
A floating teapot hovered by, and Harry poured her a cup of tea without asking. She wrapped her hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into her bones.
"Tell me about it," he prompted gently.
She took a sip, the hot liquid scalding her tongue just enough to pull her focus together. "It's overwhelming, Harry. There's so much to fix, so many injustices still buried in the fine print. Some of these laws—Merlin, they're older than Dumbledore's beard. And Kingsley…he's supportive, but he warned me. There are people here who'd rather see me fail."
Harry's face darkened, his green eyes flickering with that protective spark she'd come to know so well. "You'd think after everything we've been through—"
"—they'd be eager for change," she finished, nodding. "But old habits die hard, I suppose."
Harry sighed, tracing a finger along the rim of his cup. "Just…be careful, Hermione. Not everyone here wants change, and some of them are very good at making life miserable for people who try."
She met his gaze, seeing the shadows of old battles there. "I can handle it," she said, more for herself than for him.
"I know you can," he replied softly. "But you don't have to handle it alone."
Warmth bloomed in her chest. This was the Harry she knew: brave, loyal, always ready to share the burden.
She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his. "Thanks, Harry. Really."
He gave her a lopsided grin. "What are best friends for?"
A loud crash from the next table interrupted them—a junior clerk had accidentally charmed his teacup to bite his finger instead of filling itself. Hermione couldn't help but laugh, the tension easing from her shoulders.
Harry leaned back, a fond smile on his face. "I guess some things never change."
She shook her head, her laughter fading into a determined smile. "No," she said. "Some things don't. And some things desperately need to."
After lunch with Harry, Hermione felt lighter, as if the tea and his easy humor had smoothed the sharp edges of her worry. But the Ministry didn't pause for best friends, and her to-do list felt like a living thing waiting to swallow her whole.
She returned to her office, weaving through the busy corridors, nodding politely to passersby who still occasionally gave her that look—the one that said war hero rather than Ministry official. She'd never get used to that.
The glow of her small office welcomed her like an old friend, parchment and books waiting patiently for her to dive back in. She settled at her desk, quill in hand, scanning the first draft of the Muggle-born Rights Bill. Her eyes skimmed lines that were equal parts archaic nonsense and the occasional spark of hope. She made small notes in the margins, her writing neat but fierce.
A memo fluttered in through the open door, carried by a small, enchanted paper crane. It hovered in front of her face until she sighed and plucked it out of the air. She smoothed it on her desk, eyes scanning the Ministry's elegant but cold script:
From the Office of the Minister
Subject: Partner Assignment
Ms. Granger,
Per our earlier discussion, please be advised that you will be assigned a partner to assist in the review and drafting of the Muggle-born Rights Bill. The partner is chosen based on their unique insight into the complexities of both sides of the post-war political landscape.
A formal introduction will follow tomorrow.
Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt
Hermione exhaled, the air leaving her lungs in a slow, measured hiss. A partner. She'd known it might happen, but she'd hoped—somehow—that she'd get to do this on her own.
Unique insight into both sides. Her mind churned with possibilities: perhaps a former Order member with experience negotiating with the more conservative families. Maybe someone from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement who'd worked with Harry.
Or maybe—her heart gave a quick, unwelcome skip—someone from the other side of the war. A Slytherin.
She pressed her lips into a thin line. She'd fought for change, for equality, for a world where people could work together no matter their blood status or House or history. She wouldn't flinch now.
She rolled the memo tightly, fingers smoothing the edges. A quiet knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts. She looked up to find Parker—the records liaison—leaning in, her sharp eyes glittering with curiosity.
"Big assignment, huh?" Parker asked, nodding at the parchment in Hermione's hands.
Hermione forced a small smile. "Looks that way."
Parker smirked. "Well, good luck with whoever they saddle you with. Some of us have been waiting years for change."
Hermione met her gaze evenly. "So have I."
Parker's smirk softened into something closer to respect. "Then you'll do fine." She disappeared down the hallway, leaving Hermione alone with her thoughts.
Hermione stared at the now-empty doorway, the echo of footsteps fading. A partner. An unknown partner who might become her ally—or her worst challenge.
You've faced worse, she reminded herself. She smoothed her hand over the memo once more.
She wouldn't let anyone—friend or foe—stand in the way of the future she'd promised herself she'd build.