Chapter Text
Chapter One: The Other Minister
“First of all, I would like to make one thing quite clear.”
“Yes?”
“I never explain anything.”
Hermione Jean Granger slouched at the kitchen table in her quaint Lavenham cottage. She rubbed her knuckles into her eyes until little magical specs of light danced on the back of her eyelids. Her parents were fighting. Again.
“That’s certainly very helpful, Albert,” Mary Granger said sarcastically.
Hermione had only been home a few days, though the constant squabbling made each minute feel like an hour. Her parents had never been especially affectionate—emotionally stunted, really, until recent years—but this was something altogether different.
The tension had started the moment they left King’s Cross.
Her father, having rented a car for the trip—“the old wagon would never make it”—spotted a tiny scrape on the driver’s panel. You’d have thought the bumper had come off with the way he carried on, muttering curses under his breath for nearly an hour as they drove.
When they arrived in Lavenham, things only worsened. As they unloaded the car, every buried frustration from the school year bubbled up between her parents.
Just as Bert shifted into park, he heaved a sigh worthy of Shakespeare and marched round to the boot. “Mary, did you leave the cooler in the backseat?” he asked, already halfway annoyed.
Mary, adjusting her purse, frowned. “I thought you were going to grab it at the petrol station. You said you didn’t want lukewarm tea, remember?”
Bert clicked his tongue and dug through the backseat, brushing past Crookshanks with a muttered, “Brilliant.” He yanked at a mess of shopping bags. “Who packed this? Everything’s stuffed in sideways. How are we meant to carry all this?”
“I packed just fine, thank you,” Mary shot back, pulling out a tote bag with a little too much force. “If you hadn’t insisted on cramming in half a grocery store, it might be more manageable.”
Hermione stayed quiet, hugging Crookshanks as her father turned to her trunk.
“I’m telling you, they must be giving you bricks at that school,” Bert grumbled, groaning as he hefted it. “I can’t even lift this without slipping a disc.”
“It’s mostly books,” Hermione offered quietly.
Mary ignored the comment and rounded on Bert again. “You fuss over everything—groceries, newspapers, the weather. It’s exhausting.”
“At least I care what’s going on,” Bert snapped. “With all these strange reports lately, someone ought to be paying attention.”
“Oh, not this again,” Mary sighed. “It’s always doom and gloom with you. Sometimes I think you enjoy being miserable.”
“Well, someone around here has to worry!” he shot back, voice raised. “It feels like something is happening—something we’re not being told!”
Hermione’s heart sank as she watched her parents—typically so composed—unravel over the most minor things. She slipped her wand deeper into her coat pocket, just in case.
“Mum, Dad,” she said gently, “maybe we should just get everything inside? Looks like it’s about to rain.”
Mary gave a weary sigh and offered a strained smile. “You’re right, sweetheart. No point standing out here bickering.”
“Right. Fine,” Bert muttered, lifting her trunk with a grimace.
As they trudged to the house, Mary adjusted her bags with a grunt. Bert held the door, jaw clenched, as the sky cracked open and thunder rolled down with the rain.
The rest of the week followed the same rhythm: silence stretched thin, waiting to snap. Little comments lit little fires. No one said what they were really thinking.
That morning, Hermione tried to read the paper at the kitchen table, pretending she didn’t notice the twitch in her father’s jaw. Usually indifferent to politics, he kept muttering about “incompetent ministers” and “bloody useless systems.”
“Just look at this,” he said, shoving the paper her way. Mysterious Attacks on Motorways - Cause Unknown.
“Every day, it’s worse. Accidents, shutdowns, shops going under. It’s like the country’s coming apart at the seams.”
Mary stared out the window, her voice quiet. “People are saying it feels… strange… like there’s something in the air. A chill you can’t shake. And then that thunderstorm—out of nowhere—the minute we got home from London. Honestly, how are we meant to feel safe anymore?”
She set her teacup down hard. Tea sloshed onto the saucer and table. She didn’t wipe it up. She just stared at it, daring it to spread.
Hermione’s stomach tightened.
She’d noticed it, too—the odd storms, the rising fear, the Muggle reports of things that didn’t add up. But she'd been too focused on her parents’ crumbling calm to consider the broader pattern.
Now, the pieces fit.
This wasn’t just family tension. It was everywhere.
The fear, the anger, the sense that something was wrong —it was being fed.
By him.
Voldemort.
After the battle at the Ministry, chaos enveloped the Wizarding World, and it seemed to be seeping out into the Muggle World as well.
“Something in the air?” Bert quipped. “Rubbish. It’s these damn politicians mucking about, making us all on edge.”
“The Prime Minister’s supposed to give an address tonight, isn’t he?” Mary asked, finally snapping out of it and wiping up the tea from the table.
“Bloody fantastic,” Bert growled. “Probably going to tell us they buggered something else up.” There was yet another tense silence at the table as Bert returned to the paper, and Mary fiddled with her tea. Hermione pressed her palms into her eyes. “Look! Look here! They tried to bury it!”
Hermione opened her eyes and tried to focus on the paper her father was shoving into her face through the swirling orbs dancing through her vision. She scanned the article:
Junior Minister Chorley’s Unexpected Family Leave: Bizarre Behaviour in the Workplace Raises Eyebrows
In a surprising turn of events, Junior Minister Herbert Chorley, known for his sharp wit and staunch political stances, will reportedly be taking an indefinite leave of absence from his post, citing a need to “spend more quality time with family.” Sources close to the Minister say this decision came after a series of rather unusual incidents at the office, which left his colleagues and constituents more than a little baffled.
According to witnesses, Minister Chorley’s recent days have been marked by erratic and uncharacteristic behaviour, described by one aide as “peculiarly animalistic.” On several occasions, Chorley was reportedly seen muttering nonsensical phrases under his breath and, at one point, allegedly attempted to imitate the behaviour of a duck during a high-level meeting. While it has been suggested that the Minister might be experiencing high levels of stress, his team assures the public that he is receiving the “best possible support.”
A source within the Ministry, who preferred to remain anonymous, remarked, “One moment, he was discussing the budget with a perfectly serious expression, and the next, he was flapping his arms and quacking loudly. It was… well, let’s just say it’s been a unique week for all of us.”
Despite the humorous aspects of Chorley’s behaviour, experts warn against jumping to conclusions. “Stress-related behaviours manifest differently for everyone,” says Dr Mary Templeton, a psychiatrist based in London. “While Mr. Chorley’s case may seem unusual, it’s essential to remember that anyone in a high-stress position may need time to recalibrate.”
The Prime Minister’s office representatives released a brief statement yesterday evening: “Junior Minister Chorley has served his country with dedication and excellence. We wish him and his family well as they enjoy some much-deserved time together. Minister Chorley’s responsibilities will be redistributed temporarily to ensure continuity.”
While Chorley’s constituents have been assured of stability, the Minister’s peculiar departure raises questions about the toll of political office and the pressures faced by those in public service. As one bystander quipped, “At least he’s kept us all entertained! Politics could use a good laugh now and then.”
Only time will tell if Minister Chorley’s unusual behaviour marks a fleeting chapter in his career or something more serious. Meanwhile, for those keeping score, the last junior minister to “spend more time with family” was back in 1987 after attempting to “communicate with a cat” during a press briefing. Here’s hoping Minister Chorley finds his footing—preferably on solid ground and in good health.
Hermione narrowed her eyes, skimming the article again as her father muttered beside her, his voice threaded with frustration and unease. Phrases like “peculiar behaviour” and “prolonged leave of absence” leapt off the page.
Poor Chorley. This wasn’t job stress or post-strike burnout. Hermione doubted he'd simply decided to go tap dancing in his pyjamas, despite what some papers might suggest. Something darker was at work.
The Prophet and even The Quibbler brimmed with reports of attacks, strange sightings, unexplained weather, and odd disappearances. Gone were the days of Cornelius Fudge’s carefully curated nonsense; the public had finally lost patience. His resignation had come swiftly—less a scandal, more a sigh of relief.
Hermione had never believed Fudge was under Voldemort’s control—just another vain politician, too worried about his headlines to face facts. But Chorley? That felt different.
She glanced over at her father. “What was he responsible for, Dad?”
Bert adjusted his glasses, frowning at the page. “Junior Minister for Transport and Infrastructure, I think. Bit of a disaster, honestly. Made a mess of that rail strike last month. Probably couldn’t handle the flak and decided to take ‘a bit of personal time.’” He snorted. “That’s politics—one bad week and you’re off to ‘spend time with family.’”
Hermione’s thoughts raced. Transport and Infrastructure. The railways, the motorways—all places where the magical and Muggle worlds brushed up against each other. If Voldemort had his eye on Chorley, it made awful sense.
Control the Minister, and you could disrupt everything. Delay trains, block roads, spread low-level chaos. Slip Death Eaters through the cracks. Moreover, it would breed uncertainty—subtle yet corrosive—exactly Voldemort’s style.
A chill crept up her spine.
He wouldn’t waste time on anyone insignificant. No, he’d target those who could tip the balance. Chorley’s position was a foothold—an opportunity to destabilise the Muggle world while they remained blissfully unaware.
And it had already begun.
Bert caught her expression and frowned. “What’s on your mind, love?”
“Oh… nothing,” she replied, shaking her head. “Just… interesting times, I suppose.”
Suddenly, her mother turned to her with an edge to her voice. "Hermione, you’ve been spending so much time up in your room lately. Your father and I barely see you anymore. Is there something we should be aware of? Something… we should be worried about?”
The question hung in the air, unexpected and sharp. Hermione opened her mouth to reassure her mother, to deflect, but found herself momentarily at a loss for words. Her parents’ quickness to anger, their sudden anxiety, was unlike anything she’d known from them before. She forced a small smile, her hand instinctively closing over her wand in her pocket. “No, Mum, nothing to worry about. Just studying. Lots to catch up on before term.”
Mary looked at her for a beat longer than necessary, but went back to her tea without a word.
She had been debating with herself on exactly how much of what transpired in the last school year to tell them, and while she wanted to share at least a little bit of it all, it never seemed like a good time. Hermione bit her tongue. Her parents’ moods seemed to be getting worse by the day, and perhaps sharing a bit with them now would be better than risking their moods later on.
“Well, actually,” Hermione started before she could fully figure out what she was going to say.
Her pause hung heavily in the air.
“Yeah?”
Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her chair, running her fingers along the rim of her teacup as she watched her parents exchange concerned glances.
“Well…” she began slowly, choosing her words with care. “Things were… different last year. More intense than before.” Mary leaned forward, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took in Hermione’s tone. “It wasn’t just classes and exams, you know? There were… other challenges.”
“Other challenges?” her father, Bert, interrupted, a frown deepening across his face. “What sort of challenges are we talking about, Hermione?”
Hermione looked down, hesitating. “It was… complicated. You remember me mentioning Voldemort?”
Both parents froze.
“He’s back. Properly, I mean. The Ministry tried to deny it, but Harry was right all along. Things got a bit… chaotic.”
Mary’s hand tightened around her teacup. “You mean they kept the school open while a dark wizard—?”
“Mum, relax,” Hermione interrupted gently. “Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall were there. They did everything they could. Besides, they didn’t exactly advertise the danger. Most students had no idea.”
She paused, trying to gauge how much was safe to share. Then, deciding honesty (or a version of it) would be easier than dodging questions later, she continued.
“There was an incident. At the end of term. A group of us… went to the Ministry.”
Bert set down his tea with a thunk. “The Ministry? Of Magic ?”
“We were helping a friend,” she said quickly. “Things escalated. There were Death Eaters.”
“I beg your pardon?” Bert’s voice cracked in disbelief. “As in, followers of Voldemort ?”
“It wasn’t a school trip, Dad,” she said dryly. “We didn’t mean for it to turn into a duel. But yes, they were there. We were rescued. The Order arrived—adults, Aurors. Everyone made it back.”
Mary’s face had gone pale. “You were hurt, weren’t you?”
Hermione hesitated, then nodded. “Just a curse. Nothing permanent. Madam Pomfrey patched me up.”
“Good heavens,” Bert muttered, rubbing his temples. “What kind of school is this? Are they teaching defence or just handing out wands and hoping for the best?”
“Dumbledore is doing what he can,” Hermione said, choosing her words carefully. “He’s preparing us. Voldemort isn’t going to ignore Hogwarts forever.”
“And that’s supposed to be reassuring?” Mary snapped. “You’re sixteen!”
“Nearly seventeen,” Hermione corrected, without missing a beat.
“That’s no better,” Bert said.
“In the wizarding world, it’s adulthood.”
“In this house,” he replied, voice rising, “it’s not!”
Hermione blinked. Her father rarely raised his voice. But the anger behind it wasn’t really about her. It was fear—raw and human.
“I understand,” she said, voice low but steady. “But I’m not staying home to sit around while people I care about fight this without me.”
“So this is about that Potter boy,” Mary said sharply.
“Yes,” Hermione said simply.
“Then you’re a target too.”
Hermione didn’t answer.
Her father sighed, the fight draining out of him. “We just want you safe. Every headline feels like another warning.”
“I get it. I really do. But please trust me—I’m doing what I have to.”
Mary’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Are you scared?”
“No,” Hermione lied. “I know I’m safe.”
They sat in silence, the only sound the ticking of the clock on the wall.
“I know how it sounds,” Hermione said finally. “And yes, sometimes it was scary. But we’re learning to defend ourselves. We’re not being thrown in unarmed—we’re choosing to stand up.”
“You’re still a child,” Mary said.
Hermione shook her head. “Not anymore.”
Bert frowned. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“My mind won’t change,” Hermione said softly.
“That much is clear,” he muttered.
The silence returned, heavier than before. Hermione’s eyes drifted to the old clock on the wall, its second hand sweeping steadily forward.
She thought of the Weasleys’ enchanted clock, with its hands pointing to “Mortal Peril” more often than “Home.” In that house, magic felt like protection—something that held a family together.
Here, it felt like the wedge driving hers apart.
-----
A few days later, the Grangers sat in the living room, the soft flicker of the television washing the walls in blue. On screen, the Muggle Prime Minister stood at a podium outside 10 Downing Street, looking like a man who hadn’t slept in days.
“My fellow citizens,” he began, each word measured like a committee had weighed it. “We face a period of deep uncertainty. You’ve seen the headlines—the events that have shaken our nation. Just last night, the Brockdale Bridge collapsed under unexplained circumstances. Experts are working tirelessly to determine the cause.”
Hermione’s stomach clenched. Unexplained , sure.
She glanced at her parents—both were sitting forward, tense, the unspoken question between them now loud and public.
“The bridge collapse is just one of several recent tragedies,” the Prime Minister went on, trying for sympathy and landing somewhere near mildly constipated. “Earlier this week, the Bones family fell victim to a horrific attack. Police say leads remain… elusive.”
Hermione froze.
Bones.
It couldn’t be a coincidence, not with Amelia Bones—Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, vocal opponent of Voldemort, and no one’s idea of an easy target. The name had slipped through the cracks between their two worlds, but Hermione heard it loud and clear. Voldemort had crossed the line. Again.
“And this morning,” the Prime Minister added, faltering for a beat, “we were saddened to learn of the death of Emmeline Vance. A beloved member of the community and, by all accounts, a generous soul.”
Hermione bit her lip. Emmeline. Another Order member. Another casualty. And the fact that Muggle authorities were saying her name on live telly? That could only mean Fudge—or whoever replaced him—had finally come clean—or at least, clean-ish.
“Lastly,” the Prime Minister said, straightening his notes, “some of you may have noticed recent… atmospheric disturbances. Thunderstorms, unseasonably cold spells—unusual weather. We advise caution and recommend staying indoors during severe incidents. Emergency services remain on alert.”
Hermione barely noticed the chill in the room until it curled around her ankles. The Prime Minister could call it weather all he liked—she knew what it was.
Dementors.
He closed with the usual platitudes about resilience and unity, nodding stiffly before the feed cut back to the news anchor.
The television flickered. The room fell silent.
Hermione’s gaze remained fixed on the screen, even after it went dark.
The war was no longer creeping. It was here—and the Muggle world had no idea what to call it.
Bert exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “Dreadful, absolutely dreadful. Do you think it’s terrorism?” It was like the prior conversation hadn’t taken place.
Mary glanced at him, worry etched in her face. “What else could it be? A bridge doesn’t just collapse out of nowhere.”
Hermione remained quiet, her gaze distant. She knew what her parents didn’t: that these horrors weren’t random, nor were they anything Muggle authorities could fix. Magic, in its darkest form, was creeping into their world, dragging fear and destruction with it. Magic was tearing the world apart , she thought bitterly, the words echoing in her mind as she sat there, feeling more helpless than ever.
She didn’t know how to protect her parents—but she knew staying here wasn’t it.