Chapter Text
“I was wondering if you might do me a favour.”
Amos Diggory sat behind his desk, his stout fingers steepled under his chin. His blue-grey eyes twinkled hopefully as he awaited a reply. He was a good-natured man, a generous boss—but at that moment, all Hermione wanted to do was slap him around the ears.
Damn him and his inconvenient favours at the most inconvenient of times.
She was a professional. A respectable adult (sort of). So instead, she settled on a frown, folding her arms over her chest as if they could protect her from Amos’s spirited brand of persuasion. “I have a funny feeling I’m not going to like whatever this favour is.”
Dropping his hands to lie flat on the sprawl of gnarled oak before him, he leaned forward on an exhale. “You know I hate asking you, kid, but no one else is available to cover the holiday shift.”
And there it was. The penny had dropped.
She’d suspected that this was the particular tree he’d been barking up when he summoned her to his office. At the very least, it would have been a cracking guess. After all, it was a variation of the same favour he’d requested three years in a row, ever since she started in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.
“No,” Hermione replied tightly. “Not a chance.”
Amos sagged slightly in his seat. “I wouldn’t ask if I had other options, Hermione. You know that. But Peakes is on holiday. Clearwater is still on maternity leave. I need someone on deck in case shit hits the fan with the bowtruckle migration. Remember last year? The Muggle coppers outside of Glasgow had a field day sorting all the calls about bits of wood shimmying down the street.”
Her sole response was to cross her arms tighter, her lips thinning to a nearly non-existent line.
“Oh, c’mon. You don’t like all that Christmas stuff, anyway,” he continued, waving a hand around vaguely. “You don’t even like presents.”
Hermione scoffed indignantly, cocking her head to the side. “When have I ever said that?”
“You didn’t have to! You walk around here like bloody Scrooge the entire month of December. Groaning and complaining. Chains scraping on the ground, and all that.”
Her eyebrows knitted together. “That’s Marley, not Scrooge.”
Amos waved her off. “Potato, tomato. I just meant, Christmas isn’t… your thing,” he finished weakly.
There was a beat of awkward silence, in which the real reason for his request—and Hermione’s distaste of all things Christmas—remained unspoken. She resolutely averted her gaze, watching with feigned interest over her knuckles turning white from the effort of gripping her elbows.
“Listen, kid, you’re just…” Amos trailed off uncomfortably.
Instead of meeting his eye, she stared straight ahead, over his shoulder. She studied the neat rows of family photos littering the shelves behind him, the finger paintings of dragons and clumsy, handmade mugs. Signs of a life fully and robustly lived—a life surrounded by loved ones.
“Just say it,” she whispered numbly. “I’m the only one in the department with no Christmas plans. I’m the only one without a family.”
Amos sighed. It was a sad sound, one of morose understanding. “I get it. Trust me, I get it, Hermione. Without Cedric… it doesn’t even feel like Christmas.”
Just like Hermione, he had lost a loved one in the war—his son, Cedric. At Hogwarts, she’d heard whispered rumours from fellow Ravenclaws, each one increasingly awful and completely different. All she knew for sure was that it’d been at the hands of Voldemort himself. She’d never dared ask Amos for details, and he’d never freely offered any. But it had obviously taken the Diggorys years to regain any sense of normalcy.
For as much as he could sympathise, he’d never fully understand the reality of Hermione’s situation. She’d lost the only family she’d ever known—her parents. And so, every year, when Amos regretfully asked her to cover the Christmas shift, she agreed. If anyone was forced to spend the holiday at work, it might as well be someone who’d spend the day alone, regardless.
“Fine,” she relented. Unlocking her arms, she pushed to standing before shooting an accusatory index finger at Amos. “But I want time-and-a-half. And a very nice Christmas present.”
As she strode from the room, she heard him call out, “Deal. I’ll even throw in some catnip for Crookshanks.”
Christmas morning arrived with little fanfare, in the doom and gloom of a miserable downpour. Elsewhere, fortunate strangers were opening presents under opulently decorated trees, surrounded by laughter and friends and family. But Hermione sat in her tiny office, totally alone.
So far, the annual Scottish bowtruckle migration had gone off without a hitch. At the very least, she hadn’t received any desperate calls from Muggle law enforcement this time, but this posed a problem in itself. She had nothing to do.
In Hermione’s opinion, there was no greater sin than having nothing to do.
She skimmed her meeting notes. She reorganised her interoffice memos. After halfheartedly tidying her immaculate ledgers for the tenth time, she’d officially run out of distractions. A trip to the canteen seemed in order—there was nothing a piping hot cuppa couldn’t solve, including mind-numbing boredom.
Magical lights flickered halfheartedly over the canteen’s Formica tabletops, the atmosphere antiseptic, veering on austere without its ordinary hustle and bustle. The only signs of life consisted of trails of crumbs and sticky rings left by teacups from yesterday’s lunch rush. Hermione skimmed her fingertips along the tabletop as she ambled out of the canteen and towards the atrium. Her heels clacked across the tile, echoes ringing out around the empty corridor.
She prepared to turn the corner for the lifts, and then—a flash of ginger caught her eye. Her heart stuttered to a dizzying halt.
As much as she tried to deny it, those red locks always had that effect on her. Not a hair out of place, perpetually styled with the utmost care, just like the neat work robes he tended to favour. It was hard to miss him for those details alone, but his tall stature certainly didn’t hurt, either.
When she’d accepted the holiday shift, she’d considered—hoped, really—that he might be here. He’d been a part of the skeleton crew last Christmas, and the one before that. He was seemingly always here. Constantly strolling the corridors with top Ministry officials, rushing from meeting to meeting. He was exceptionally dedicated, as if he were going somewhere important in life.
It was a silly crush, but it wasn’t just because he was one of the Weasleys. She’d seen the way girls, and some men, swarmed around him, but Hermione wasn’t the sort to go after a famous name. In fact, she’d found him cute even from her earliest Hogwarts days. Though they’d barely spoken more than a few words to each other in all those years, one polite nod from him was still enough to render her brain utter mush.
At the clatter of her heels against the marble, he pivoted in her direction, his blue eyes sharpening to piercing focus. To Hermione’s great surprise, he raised his hand in a small wave. Sure, it was reserved, but this was the most direct contact they’d ever shared. Hell, this was the most action she’d gotten since her date with that bore from the Department of Mysteries—he hadn’t left enough to mystery, in her opinion.
Discreetly, she pinched her arm, checked her breath. So far, so good. She was neither dreaming nor in desperate need of a mint. She returned the wave with a shaky hand and started walking towards him. One foot extended carefully in front of the other, lest she trip and embarrass herself further.
Holy smokes, she was finally going to talk to him. It was a Christmas miracle! Maybe this wretched holiday wouldn’t be so bad, after all. One day, they’d tell their children about how they met on this special day…
A few steps short of the atrium, she stopped in her tracks as the sharp crack of Apparition sounded nearby, arresting their attention. It was unexpected, to say the least. Not only was it Christmas, but just a few moments prior, they had been the only two souls in the building. Hermione knew better, and if the perturbed look on his face was anything to go by, so did Weasley—one couldn’t Apparate directly into the Ministry.
Unless, of course, they had somehow overridden the controls.
Hermione peeked around the corner just in time to see two mysterious wizards, cloaked in black velvet and wearing ornate silver masks. One was tall and stout; the other, shorter but thin and scrappy. Her breath hitched, and shivers ran down her spine. Something was definitely afoot.
After a flicker of hesitation, Weasley smoothly unsheathed his wand from the depths of his robes. He darted off towards the intruders, but he was too late. Just a second later, two jets of violet light struck him squarely in the chest, knocking him off his feet. Hermione wasn’t sure if it was his scream or hers that reverberated around the green tiled walls as his tall form crumpled to the ground.
Hermione had never considered herself exceedingly brave. There had been countless times that she’d done the safe thing, rather than the right thing. With the war, with her parents… Suffice to say, she hadn’t been sorted into Gryffindor for a reason.
Now was not the time for cowardice. Heart thumping in her throat, she pushed away her lingering threads of self-preservation and indecision in favour of what was at best a miscalculated, risky plan. Juggling her teacup in one trembling hand, Hermione fumbled for her own wand. The moment her fingers curled around the stick of vine, she took a deep, steadying breath and tore around the corner.
The wizards had their backs turned and had begun striding off towards the lifts, snickering under their breaths. One kicked Weasley’s arm where it lay in their path. Fury gripped her, and with a sense of courage she hadn’t believed possible, she raised her wand and shouted a malediction she’d only ever studied in a textbook. “Stupefy!”
A string of red light zipped out of her wand, knocking Hermione off balance, jostling her teacup out of her grasp. Bits of porcelain shattered around her as it smashed to the floor, but she held her ground. Instantaneously, the curse connected with her intended target. The smaller of the two intruders flopped over, his mask slipping to reveal an ugly, pointed face and white-blond hair.
One down, one to go.
In a miraculous stroke of luck, the larger wizard didn’t seem like the sharpest tool in the shed. Instead of staying in the fight, he dropped to his knees beside his companion, shaking his bony frame. “Draco,” he mumbled. “Draco, what do I do? This wasn’t part of the plan!”
Steeling her heart with her steadily growing bravery, Hermione repeated the stunning spell, bringing the second perpetrator to the ground with a resounding thud, his body tumbling on top of his friend’s. Scurrying over with her wand held aloft, she confirmed they were knocked out before lifting her wand a third time, imprisoning them in a makeshift net. It wasn’t ideal, but it would keep them secure until the Aurors arrived—and until she could ensure Weasley was okay.
“No!” She whimpered, crawling over to his prostrate form. A bead of blood streaked down the side of his head, pooling onto the cold tile. She swiped it away with the side of her thumb, then grabbed the front of his robes, shaking him slightly. “No, no, no. You have to wake up! You have to!”
Desperately, Hermione smacked his face, but he didn’t stir. She sucked in a shuddering breath, aiming the tip of her wand at his chest. “R-rennervate.”
Still, nothing. Cool dread filled her lungs as she scrambled to her feet and stumbled to an open Floo grate. Hastily, she tossed a handful of emerald powder into its depths and kneeled in front of it. “St Mungos, please! This is an emergency!”
Within seconds, the floating head of a mediwitch materialised in front of her. “Miss, please remain calm. May I have your name?”
“Hermione Granger,” she supplied breathlessly, her fingers clutching the hearth, desperate for something—anything—to hold onto. “I’m at the M-m-ministry and—and two wizards in masks Apparated in, and there’s a man down in the atrium! I need help!”
The mediwitch straightened, hopping into action. Sparks flew from her mouth as she instructed, “Hold steady. We’re dispatching an emergency response team and sending an owl to the Aurors as we speak.”
“Thank you,” Hermione whispered.
“Do you have the victim’s name, dear?”
Hermione rotated on the heels in his direction, taking in his freckled skin, the swoop of red hair covering his feverish forehead… the cracked glasses lying on the floor beside him. She turned back towards the Floo. “Percy Weasley. And please hurry!”