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She looked up as her boss entered the outer office, only a few minutes off from the anticipated arrival time. “Good morning, Minister.”
“Good mo…” He paused. “What are you doing here? It’s Saturday. And the Sun’s just come up.”
“The same reason as you. The avalanche of proposed bills that was delivered a minute before closing yesterday, the assumption being nobody’d review them before the initial votes on Monday.”
“That would be it.” He looked through the inner doorway to his office desk, where a collection of parchment sat waiting for him. “Remind me why I wanted this job?”
“Better hours and fewer weekends than being an Auror, wasn’t it?” His shoulders slumped comically, and she grinned. “Chin up, Minister. There’re biscuits and a hot cuppa behind the papers. Faster we’re done, faster we can leave.”
He took in the stack on her desk, roughly twice as high as the mound he was facing. “By the time you’re finished with that pile, I’ll have more ready for you. Let’s get cracking, shall we sir?”
She took a sip from her own teacup and resumed work. Red ink once more attacked the pages, as the first of many exclamations of disbelief and exasperation issued from through the doorway.
It was a year now working with him, and she did believe he was getting the knack of it. No Kingsley, of course. Not yet, but soon. And soon he’ll be better; everyone knew it.
Right now, however… there, that should do it for this proposal. Annotated notes to reference existing comparable laws and historical precedents, along with her personal assessments on public reception and any furtive political manoeuvres. Those papers relocated to an empty spot with a wave of her hand, and the next slid in place.
An hour passed, then two, and she was ready for a short break as it had been a long night, when the ringing began.
What in Merlin’s name… Oh, right. That. Only where was it?
The ringing helped the hunt. She’d stuffed it into a cabinet two, maybe three years ago? It had remained blissfully silent ever since.
Now it was returned to her desk. The Muggle telephone. Godric’s Beard, she’d hoped to never hear it again. And on a Saturday morning, no less.
She raised the top segment (handset, that was the name) to her face. Listen on the top part, talk into the bottom part, like a tiny Floo without the fire. “Hello, Minister for Magic’s Office.”
“Please hold for the Prime Minister.” The voice was male, crisp, and polite.
Also unfamiliar. “What? Who?” Was this the person from the last time? “Wait, no, no you hold! For the Minister for Magic!” A mental ‘Take That!’ to whomever this was.
A pause before the voice continued, a bit hesitantly she thought. “You don’t sound like a Harry Potter.”
“Of course I don’t! This is Lavender Weasley, Executive Assistant to the Minister for Magic. Who are you?” Oh wait, Prime Minister. Meaning… “Is this Hermione on the call? Well, not her, you’re talking for her?”
Lavender heard a sigh of relief. “Correct. It’s her husband. If you could—”
“Harry told us about you and Hermione yesterday! You’re Paul, right? And call me Lavender, please.” She was feeling mortified. The earliness of the day was no excuse; they’d only been talking about her scant hours ago.
“Yes, that’s me. We weren’t sure he’d be in the office, especially at this hour, but figured to best try there first.”
“You’re lucky, there’s a mountain of bills to mark up and… and why didn’t you use the portrait to reach Harry? It’d find him wherever he is.”
“Yes, well, the portraits are the problem.”
Lavender kept her amused reaction solidly in check. Harry had mentioned Hermione’s encounter with a former Minister from centuries past. “Let me guess. Hermione wants to talk to him?” Hang on a tic. “I was told there was only the single portrait?”
“So did we. He scampered upstairs to the residence, found a landscape to manifest in. We had a situation last night; no, early this morning she’s reminding me. She’s rather insistent.”
Uh oh. “Let me find the Minister, Paul.” She pressed a button on the telephone then put her hand over the bottom speaking-into part, as Kings had shown her long ago. A Muggle Muffliato. She turned in her chair towards the office, and her boss. “Harry? You have a call on the Muggle telephone. I’m going to transfer it to your desk, alright?”
“Hold on, I know it’s…” She heard rustling papers and opening drawers. “Ah, found it. It’s blinking at me. Why is it blinking at me, Lav?”
“Press that button when you’re ready and you’ll have the call. Good news, Harry, it’s Hermione! Bad news, she’s probably not happy.”
“Merlin, I didn’t think it would be today. Monday, maybe Wednesday.” Lavender craned her head and caught him pulling out his to-do booklet. Then he was leaning forward in his chair, like he was about to launch after a Snitch.
Hand removed, Lavender returned to the caller. “Paul? I’m connecting her now. If you could,” and she remembered she was a Gryffindor, no matter what. “Tell her thanks. From me. I’m not sure if she remembers.”
“She does. She told me about what happened that day.”
That’s… there was a warm feeling glowing within her, deep under extensive lengths of scar tissue. “Thanks, Paul. He’s ready when she is. And… could you call me back? While they’re going at it. I’d really like to talk more. If you don’t mind.”
The line went silent; Harry must have worked out the button. He led off in a cheery tone. “Hermione! I wasn’t expecting…”
Lavender gently closed the Minister’s door with a waved hand. It didn’t completely Silencio the room; from the sound of it, Harry was getting an earful.
~~~~~~
The telephone rang. Lavender had it grabbed before the second ring.
“Hello? Paul?”
“Still me.”
“No ‘Hold for the Husband of the Prime Minister’ this time?”
She heard him laugh. “Good one! I’ll use that time I text her, Lavender, she’ll love it.”
Paul related that he was employed today to keep the conversation private, due to the recipient. Specifically, the recipient’s magical nature. Hermione’s as well. If rumours leaked that the new Prime Minster was a witch… well, so much for the Statute. Even if no one believed them, it would crush her professional career.
It doubled as practice; Hermione was still getting used to the ‘Hold For’ protocols. “The PM doesn’t call people,” he explained. “The call’s made and then people wait for her to pick up.”
“Hmmm. I might try that with Harry. I swear, he keeps asking for a second personal fireplace in his office. Doesn’t seem to appreciate the concepts of calculated buffering and pre-emptive appointment scheduling, either.”
“Maybe use Quidditch analogies? Hermione said he loved the game.” Bloody good idea that, and Lavender made a note. “Anyways, we had no idea who would answer when we called, or if anyone would. We wanted to avoid the Floo downstairs except as the last resort.”
He went on to describe 10 Downing St; odd to call the building by its address but it was a Muggle tradition, perhaps? The idea that they lived where she worked… bad enough Harry was here on a weekend. If walking downstairs to his office was possible, Ginny would kill her. Ron wouldn’t like it either, however he knew the Minister’s hours were her hours.
Her Ron. Lavender talked about her husband. Paul knew about him; Hermione’d told of her friend and might-have-been boyfriend. He in turn talked about meeting Hermione at post-school school. Twice. Lavender wondered if there was magic at play, even if neither were magical.
“And now she, you, have children!”
“We do. Part of why Hermione’s calling. You?”
“Yes. Two.” And they were each perfect miracles, no matter what she heard her parents believed. They were hers, and Ron’s, and that was that.
She couldn’t see him, and he couldn’t see her, and maybe that was why Lavender felt she could tell him anything. She jokingly spoke of the Won-Won days, which yes, Hermione had told him about as well. How Ron was there for her after the war, hadn’t given up on her. How she’d changed. Or so people told her.
Like Paul was doing now. “I’ll be honest. You don’t sound like the Lavender of Hermione’s description.” A nice, tactful statement. Lavender wondered if that was a natural technique or one he’d learned from his wife.
“Well, that was decades ago. Nothing like getting disembowelled and half your face clawed off to make for a new you.” A flippant reply, like Lavender did with friends and fellow survivors, and instantly she worried that’d gone too far.
After the release from St Mungo’s, she had decided not to hide. No long hair over the right side of her face, no disguising charms. Like Ron’s brother Bill, whom she’d run into at the Ministry and had followed with hours of earnest discussion. A lunch with his absurdly gorgeous wife a few days later, where Ron had joined them.
So Lavender owned the scars. Didn’t conceal and answered bluntly, perhaps with aggressive honesty, whenever asked about them. And she and Bill weren’t the only ones carrying scars. It became a mark in their society over time. These were the people who survived. Who fought and lived.
“Hermione didn’t know the details when she left for her parents,” Paul finally said. “Only that you weren’t listed as amongst the dead. Wasn’t for years that she heard anything else.”
‘Heard.’ Hmmm. It fitted with what Harry’d said, that Hermione was operating a private intelligence network. Which she kept hidden from both parts of Britain. Interesting.
For another time, however. “I wasn’t sure she’d remember,” Lavender said. “I wasn’t a friend; we were strangers who shared a dorm for seven years. No, six years. Including my prattling, inane, jealous idiot phase. She once attacked me with a flock of killer canaries, and I probably deserved worse.”
“That she didn’t mention,” he chuckled. “Be realistic, Lavender. You were both children, just in your teens. Lord knows I did stupid enough at my own school. Without a wand, mind you.”
“I guess we all did.” School. How it ended. “Hermione’s told you about her last year, I assume.”
“Oh yes.” Lavender got the feeling that must have been a fun chat. “Dad had the magic in the family but they both could see what was coming, a second time. We moved away in ’91, put as much distance as we could from magic.”
She won’t bring up personal magic. Harry had told them about that, about Paul. “Smart. You got out at a good time. I was wishing I could have done the same that last year. When I wasn’t healing fellow students and fighting back however I could.”
“We read about it. We managed to get The Prophet during it all. Wilful ignorance, then virulent propaganda, followed by self-congratulatory revisionism. After we met, Hermione told me what’d really happened. What happened to you, too.”
“I’m glad. I remembered her from school, I always will.” It wasn’t until yesterday that Lavender had found out what Hermione’s life was after school.
~~~~~~
The Night Before…
“Married, and kids. Huh. Didn’t expect that.”
“They look like a good family, from the pictures.”
“The Boss of Britain. That, mate, that I had expected.”
“I have to say she was cross that Crispin booked an entire hour.”
“That’s my mistake, Harry. I delegated and assumed he knew who Hermione was. Is.”
“No worries, Lav. It all went well, better than I’d reckoned it would. We both needed the time.”
“So she runs their owl delivery programme?”
“Parliament. No owls. It’s what they call their Wizengamot, Ron.”
“Oh, right. I forgot Muggles tromp on their letters to convince them to fly off.”
“Honestly, Potter, he’s having you on.”
“You’re kidding. Hermione said they had a daughter? Him and Her? As bad as either of them?”
“I may become ill. Seriously, for real?”
“Seemed serious about it. Deadly serious. She’s dead now, ashes sunk to the bottom of the ocean.”
“Blimey.”
“What were you imagining would happen? This is Hermione Granger.”
“Did you know one of the first tasks for their Minister is planning for if she’s killed? Work out who controls Britain’s atom bombs if that happens.”
“Blimey. I need a refill, anybody else?”
“She wants to get together, get all of us with all of hers.”
“Our kids too?”
“Our kids too. No Ministers, just families.”
“Brave of her. She’s not met our spawn.”
“Whatever do you mean, darling? Such peaceful angels they are.”
“They’re asleep, you berk.”
“I’m guessing no magic for this school reunion, eh mate?”
“You guess right. She really didn’t like it when I tried a simple spell.”
“Harry, she walked away from magic twenty years ago. What made you think she would suddenly miss it now?”
“Yeah, that makes sense. Paul, her husband, he grew up in a magical family. He doesn’t have magic himself.”
“Oh, he’s a–”
“He’s her husband. Hermione tore my head off before I could say that word. We’re all not going to use it, agreed?”
“You said she’s got those atom bombs, yeah? I for one won’t be pissing her off.”
“Is she happy?”
“That’s a good question. Yes, I think so.”
“I’m glad. She deserves it.”
“She’s different, Lav. Or different than I remembered.”
“Twenty years, mate. I mean, look at us.”
~~~~~~
Look at us indeed, Lavender had mused at home that night. Her own children asleep, Ron snoring next to her.
Everyone had thought poor Lavender Brown had died in the battle. One of a number that increased through the hours, long after the fighting had ended. For the wounded, the battle remained ongoing.
It was a battle she wasn’t expected to win. The healers had finally moved her aside to make room for those they could still save; the cold, terrible Arithmancy of their profession. Well past midnight, they’d noticed the sheet covering her was gently moving. No one ever told her how she wasn’t dead. Sheer stubbornness, Parvati had said. It was her face Lavender had woken to, three days later at St Mungo’s.
Not those of her parents. Lavender had been quietly disowned. A pure-blood family would never countenance a werewolf daughter, of course. Simply not done. Despite the healers insisting there hadn’t been transmittable bites as there hadn’t been a Full Moon. Bites, and claws. Nothing else. Like anything else had been needed.
They didn’t let her look into a mirror, not at first. A full day passed before that.
The left side of her face was a ruin penetrating to the bone. Most of her internal organs had been horribly mauled. Her throat had been torn open, the major arteries barely missed. Whoever had saved her had done so in the nick of time.
It would’ve been easy for anyone to skip the endless replenishing potions, sneakily drain them under the bed. Closed their eyes, escaped the pain and the whispers, forever.
Not her. Not after everything over the last year. She’d refused to quit then, and she refused to quit now. Quitting meant the vile monster had won. And she’d die before that happened. And yes, Lavender realised that had come out all wrong.
She had help in the new battle, two people who kept her going. Parv, her best friend, of course. She was with her for nearly a week until she had to leave, along with her twin. It was an argument she couldn’t win with parents who demanded time away from the uncouth savagery of Britain.
Lavender wasn’t alone by then. There was a second person. Ron Weasley.
She’d heard from Parv that it was Hermione Granger who’d saved her. Lavender injured herself from laughing before Parv, and then Ron, swore it was so. He’d then said Granger had disappeared into the Muggle world, had renounced magic. That’d been even more unbelievable.
As were his near daily appearances at her bedside. He was hurting as well. A brother lost, along with so many friends. They’d cried together over Fred and Colin. Not so much over Snape, even after Ron’d told her of his secret role in the war.
Then Granger, who’d abruptly up and vanished. Ron had lost a best friend that night, as did Harry. A different hurt yet a hurt, nonetheless. She could show up one day, after all. Right?
Lavender was to this day unsure how it happened. Ron was there, and Merlin knew she needed somebody those initial weeks of recovery. She couldn’t leave her bed, and he wanted to get away from the outside world, so they talked. He’d gone through similar with Bill and he treated her as human, not a diseased (which she wasn’t!) unfortunate to be pitied and avoided. Like a great deal of the staff here were doing.
And Good Godric there were things to talk about. Their whatever-it-was had been wreck, they both agreed. She treated him like a possession, or an obsession. His way of breaking up, being so terrible that she’d done it herself, wasn’t any better. Even if it was due to a misunderstanding and an invisibility cloak. The best to be said about their mutually humiliating teenage romance was that it’d been short.
Then it had all gotten serious. The headmaster assassinated. A new year, a new headmaster heralding a compulsory regime of indoctrination, violence, and bloodshed. Classes filled with torture, to teach torture. And Ron not there, deathly ill at the Burrow with splattergoit. Except everyone wearing red and gold learned the truth quickly enough. On the run with Potter and Granger, Merlin knows where and why. Nobody knew anything, only that the three hadn’t been reported as captured or dead.
Maybe that was when she’d really started changing. Started paying attention and sorted her priorities. When she’d become a real Lion and saw who around her was doing the same. Such as the youngest Weasley. She and Ginny had never gotten along, nevertheless they’d worked together well that year. Nobody would suspect that cute, prattling little pure-blood Lavvie Brown was a part of the resistance. The splendid new ‘professors’ could barely remember she was a Gryff.
Then the battle. Not all of her housemates stood with Harry that day. There wasn’t any question if she would defend the castle. Lavender and Parv had been side by side, wands out and Death Eaters falling around them. Until the terrifying roar from out of nowhere, and the pain.
She was brave, she had fought, she didn’t run when she could have, as Ron put it at the end of visiting hours, last one before she could leave. Neither had he, Lavender replied. There was a long look shared between them, and a kiss on her forehead. Then one on the lips.
They’d slowly entered into whatever-this-was, part two. Officially adults, after all. Older now, older than anyone should be at their age. Nearly dying did that to you. Also, they’d seen each other at their worst. That gave them lots of room to do it right this time.
Thank Merlin she had her own vault. Enough for a cheap room until she’d gotten a job. She’d never had a job before, never considered she’d ever need one. Thankfully the Ministry was desperate, and she was a dab hand with a quill and people. After that last year, she’d gotten quite good at managing people.
And look at them now…
From extremely junior pool secretary to Executive Assistant to the Minister. Six years in that position, and she liked it. She was good at it and people openly said so, running the Minister’s office with a mix of sugary sweetness and (when needed) an iron wand. Lavender Brown had survived Fenrir Greyback, everyone knew. It kept attempts of browbeating her into acquiescence to almost nil.
She had good friends. Molly and Arthur, who welcomed her into a way of family life Lavender’d never had. All the Weasleys, including the Potters. Harry Potter became a good friend, and Minister Potter was a good boss.
And Ron. Who’d have thought that would happen, after their mutually embarrassing Sixth Year?
He was busy himself, having put the mind that routed opponents across a chessboard to producing unstoppable business strategies for the WWW empire. “Easier than chess,” as remarked early on. “Fewer challenging opponents.”
George managed product development, Harry remained a silent partner. A dozen or so staff and growing. Three shops in Britain, an owl-based delivery system that covered most of Europe, and the thriving branch in America. A large part came from his leadership.
He was her husband, thirteen years now. Helped to raise two incredible children, and didn’t give a toss that they weren’t his, or hers. Or that she won’t ever be able to have children.
And she loved her husband, her children, her life. Her life… who’d have thought?
~~~~~~
It was fun talking to Paul. He was obviously brilliant, not that she imagined Hermione would be with anyone else. His wife had mentioned the gathering to him, kids included.
Lavender had thought it was a fantastic idea when she’d heard it earlier. For the three to reunite; she could tell last night how much Ron and Harry missed their third. That Hermione was in a way found, and wanted to see them, was visibly brightening them both. Ginny’d nodded to her at one point as the men talked, and the wives had shared a grin.
That would be a good for the husbands. And possibly her too. Hopefully.
“Paul, if you would?” she started softly. “Tell Hermione… I’m looking forward to seeing her. I know we weren’t ever close like she was with Ron and Harry. Or Ginny. We weren’t friends, not ever. And she saved my life.” Lavender wished this was a Floo, that she could look at him instead of the air. “I want to thank her, in person. If she’ll let me.”
“She will. Lavender, I guarantee it.” He sounded confident. “You knew her for six years. I’ve known her for well over twice that. This person I’m talking with? She’ll want to see her. Trust me.”
A second warm feeling. “Thank you, Paul. It’s been wonderful meeting you. I’m glad this happened, and I can’t wait to see you and your children, and soon.” Oh. It’s getting quiet from the office; the two ministers were wrapping up judging from the lighter tones. “Time to say goodbyes, I think.”
“I can hear it from the study too. Till we meet again, Lavender Weasley.”
She heard a click on the listening-part and replaced the headset. That… that was special. Maybe she should come in on weekends more often.
Harry slowly opened the door, scratching the back of his head as he walked out and leaned against her desk.
“So…?”
He had a slight grimace. “Our Hermione, she’s not a happy hippogriff.”
Lavender’d been thinking about the real reason for the call. An easy potion to stir, really. “Their children.” she ventured. “Magical?”
He nodded. “I think that might be part of it. She never did like surprises, and this happening right when she’s become the leader of Muggle Britain…”
“She’ll work it out. She always did.” Lavender’d been thinking of Hermione, too. She knew there were those who claimed Granger had run away instead of properly helping to rebuild and restore like a good, loyal witch. Gormless numpkins. She went to where she could truly be herself, be the woman she couldn’t ever be here. Hermione Granger didn’t retreat; she conquered a country of her own so she could face this one on equal terms.
Or, possibly, superior terms. Lavender made a second note for greater study of Muggle current events, specifically European politics.
Harry pointed at the stack on her desk. “I think we can get through this in another hour. Out by ten at worst. Sound good?”
She’d been about to suggest the same. “That sounds excellent, Minister.”
“If we’re done by nine, breakfast is on me. And the call wasn’t all bad news. Seems Hermione has a manor estate out in the country; comes with her job. 1500 acres. Should be big enough for all the kids, you think?”