The Intern

Hermione Granger was having a bad day.

Fridays were always busy, crammed with the work she needed to finish before the weekend, but this one started worse than most when she slept through her alarm. Five minutes before she was due to arrive at work, Hermione woke and bolted out of bed. Bleary-eyed, she threw on the first clean clothes she could snatch from her wardrobe and ran to the bathroom.

Pain jolted through her shoulder as she rebounded from the door frame on her way into the hallway, head half-stuck inside her blouse. Curse words spewed from her mouth in an unending stream—fortunately, she lived alone so no one was around to hear.

Descending the stairs, she simultaneously scrubbed her teeth and attempted, in vain, to tame her hair. A wave of wandless magic deposited cold water and a scoop of instant coffee into an insulated travel mug. Hermione spat her toothpaste into the kitchen sink before grabbing her bag and sprinting from the house.

Leaving late meant London’s streets were busier. In any other circumstance, Hermione would have taken better care dodging through the crowds but today she was preoccupied, digging through her satchel as she walked to ensure she hadn’t forgotten anything important.

As she struggled to juggle her belongings, an oblivious Muggle businessman collided with her, unwilling to stray from his path despite her obvious lack of attention. The lid popped off Hermione’s travel cup. Coffee—thankfully still cold—drenched her and the stranger. He instantly began to berate her. With a stilted apology, she left the rude businessman behind and pushed on, reaching the closest apparition point no less than twenty-four minutes late for work.

Arriving so late meant there was a blessedly short queue for the Ministry lifts. Hermione strode towards them with determination. However, her step faltered when she saw Cormac McLaggan waiting inside, holding the door open for her. She stifled a groan of frustration.

Cormac was a low-level employee in the Portkey Office. Fortunately, their positions were distant enough that Hermione never needed to work with him, but he always seemed to appear when she least expected it—perhaps a consequence of his work in transport. Unfortunately for Hermione, Cormac’s motives primarily revolved around trapping her in conversation when she had better things to do or making a clumsy, uncomfortable pass at her.

“Well, well,” he cooed as she stepped into the lift, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath from the chaotic commute. “Good morning, Hermione. Or should I say good afternoon?”

She didn’t bother forcing out a polite chuckle at the joke. It was all she could do to restrain the eye roll.

Silence was never enough to deter Cormac, though. He told her, in depth, about his weekend exploits, eyes repeatedly drifting to the damp, coffee-stained fabric of Hermione’s muggle-style, white blouse as he spoke.

She whispered a surreptitious drying spell, silently cursing herself for not finding proper robes in her rush to leave the house. Muggle clothing always drew the eyes of her colleagues, earning every reaction from amusement to disapproval and leering stares, since it was often more flattering to her figure than stuffy, traditional robes. Cormac fell solidly in the leering category.

It was a relief when her floor arrived.

“Until next time, beautiful!” Cormac called after her as she strode from the lift and into the Muggle Liaison Office, making a beeline for her tiny, private workspace at the back of the building.

People murmured greetings to her as she strode past, shooting the usual glances at her outfit. She nodded back. The stares might have bothered her, normally, but anticipation of her upcoming meeting with Shacklebolt was a bigger distraction. Despite their rapport and mutual respect, which had only grown during the past few years she’d spent working at the Ministry, Hermione still felt little more than a child stepping out of line when she made requests of the Minister.

After the war, staying at Hogwarts for a belated eighth year had felt natural. Education was familiar. Hermione was good at it. She’d flown through the year, throwing herself into her studies—her need for escapism driving her more than ever. Job offers had arrived from every direction when she graduated, with plenty of companies eager to be represented by the Golden Girl in any capacity. She had her pick of careers in the wizarding world but still desired the Ministry above all else.

Growing up, Hermione’s passion to help magical creatures had shaped her ambitions, but the war had demonstrated that her devotion might be better placed elsewhere—namely, to be a voice for Muggles and Muggle-borns.

Most witches and wizards vehemently claimed that blood purity was a thing of the past, that it only existed among extremists. The war had demonstrated just how wrong that belief was. Even if extremists were the only ones who truly believe that Muggles were a danger, Hermione’s experience at Hogwarts had shown her that most of the magical population knew little to nothing accurate about their non-magical counterfolk.

She’d been brimming with confidence and excitement as a First Year going into Muggle Studies, ready to excel and witness the extraordinary magical children around her develop an equal sense of awe and appreciation for her background when they learned about Muggle life. Disappointment had been abrupt and overwhelming. Most of the curriculum focused on random moments in Muggle history—moments that, at best, highlighted flippant, irrelevant parts of Muggle culture and, at worst, painted Muggles as short-sighted, violent, and selfish folk.

At school, it had encouraged an ongoing ignorance of Muggle life that served to deepen the rift between Muggle-born students and other magical children, even when there was no underlying ill-intention towards Muggles. Worse, many Muggle-borns and half-bloods sought to abandon their Muggle heritage in a hapless attempt to gain credibility among their pure-blood peers.

Misconceptions painted Muggles as unsophisticated and basic, despite the fact they were finding ingenious solutions to problems that witches and wizards couldn’t imagine solving without the aid of magic. Fixing that rift was vital to prevent more discrimination.

Harry repeatedly called Hermione paranoid to assume that the lingering divisions in wizarding society would ever lead to another war but Muggle history had taught her that it was all too likely. Misunderstanding and willful ignorance could so easily lead to widespread fear and persecution.

So, upon leaving Hogwarts, Hermione had met with Kingsley and laid out her plans. Even he had gently suggested that the task ahead of her—completely eradicating the lingering prejudice rooted in wizarding Britain—was near-impossible, but Hermione was never one to be turned off by cynicism and doubt. If anything, other people’s lack of faith only steeled her determination.

Despite his wariness, Kingsley agreed that the entire Ministry of Magic was due an upheaval. The war had physically destroyed much of the Ministry and its resources. And, since Muggle-borns had been a major Death Eater target, any departments holding information on Muggles had been hit the hardest.

Kingsley had suggested the Muggle Liaison Office as a good place for Hermione to start her mission. However, starting work had only revealed quite how disjointed the wizarding and Muggle worlds were.

Beyond the targeted attacks, war had ravaged the Ministry more generally, causing employees to neglect their work for more pressing matters, such as staying alive and safe. Understandably, the documentation and resources that remained were disordered, incomplete, and rife with inaccuracies.

Fixing paperwork was of low priority following Voldemort’s death, set aside as Kingsley directed the Ministry’s resources to more pressing problems, including the post-war trials, physically rebuilding, and honouring the many, many dead.

Hermione was the only person Kingsley spared to fix the Ministry’s bookkeeping and even that concession had been reluctant.

For the past two years, her life had consisted of little more than administration as she sought to organise and update the Ministry’s data, using Muggle life as her starting point. It meant delaying the larger goals of tackling prejudice in wider society, but how could she get started on that when even the majority of Ministry staff had no true understanding of the non-magical folk living alongside them?

Some days, she wondered if all her work was worth it. Would she be trapped in a dead-end role for years to come, attempting to help people like herself in vain? She dedicated excessive amounts of time to work but it remained too much for one person to complete alone. She needed help. Which was why she was scheduled to speak with Kingsley after lunch, to request additional headcount in her department.

Hermione’s office consisted of a small room adjacent to the wider department’s filing storage. It had no windows, contained no more than a single desk, and the lightbulbs buzzed incessantly when switched on, but her thoughts roared loudly enough to drown it out, most days.

Instead of being able to start work immediately, Hermione was accosted by other members of her department, each knocking on her door needing clarification about some mundane Muggle thing they should already know about. By the time she was finally blessed with five uninterrupted minutes of peace and making her way into the filing storage attached to her office, several other members of the wider department were leaving for lunch.

She worked through it.

She was cross-legged on the floor when her wand buzzed with an alarm indicating her imminent meeting with Kingsley. Tall shelves towered over her, filled with boxes of paperwork, one of which was empty and its contents scattered around her on the floor. Hermione stood and carefully stepped over the organized mess. Her hair was a fresh tangle and her armpits were damp with sweat from the stuffy room.

Instead of tidying everything away, she abandoned the parchment spread on the floor, knowing no one would intrude on her chaos unless they needed something from her and would leave the moment they saw she was not present. No one used these rooms as they should.

Straightening her slumped shoulders, Hermione steeled herself and made her way through the Ministry to Kingsley’s office. He called out a welcome as soon as her knuckles brushed the wood of his door.

Kingsley’s workspace was the opposite of Hermione’s—bright, comfortable, airy. The soft scent of roses filled the air, rather than musty damp. His desk was made from a deep brown wood and was large enough that she could perch on the edge without her feet touching the ground. Bookshelves lined the walls, their contents neat and orderly.

“Hermione, how are you?” Kingsley smiled as she approached the cushioned chair on the other side of his desk.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she lied, putting her dismal day out of her mind. “How are you?”

“Good, thank you. Tea?”

“Please.”

A wave of Kingsley’s wand had their drinks brewing. He steepled his fingers together and peered over the desk at her.

“How many I help today? I noticed there were no meeting notes in your request.”

She took a deep breath and dove straight into the deep end. “I was hoping to discuss the possibility of increasing the headcount in my department.”

The changes in Kingsley’s expression were minute—small enough to miss had Hermione not been watching closely for them. The muscles in his jaw tightened, his lips downturned a fraction, and his eyes grew guarded.

She powered on.

“As you know, my goals have required an in-depth reorganisation of the Muggle Liaison Office resources, which is a project I believe will eventually span through to the other departments. It is imperative to complete this work, as it affects every interaction and perception the Ministry and wider wizarding society has of the Muggle world and Muggle-borns, by extension. However, it is taking significantly more of my resources than I expected. I know the Ministry’s budget remains tight, but I believe that hiring support for me would provide extensive benefits to my work and, with time, the Ministry as a whole.”

Toward the end of Hermione’s speech, their teacups drifted across the room to sit in front of each of them, a small teaspoon coming to rest beside each saucer. Kingsley picked up his teaspoon, stirring his drink. Hermione was certain the action was an excuse to buy himself some time to ponder his response.

Like her, he wasted no effort beating around the bush.

“Hermione, you know as well as I do that there is simply no space in the budget for additional headcount in your department.”

She gritted her teeth, but he carried on before she could make any further arguments.

“I, more than anyone else, appreciate your work. I agree that it is as vital as you claim, but the Ministry is still feeling the repercussions of the war, financially. We have to prioritise and make sacrifices.”

“Do you really believe this work is not a priority?” Frustration leaked into Hermione’s tone. She’d been working alone for two years. Had Kingsley truly found no room to maneouvre the budget in that time?

“Not at all.” Kingsley shook his head. “I understand the importance of eliminating misconceptions about Muggles and agree that we must strive for it, but what would you have me deprioritise to free up funds for a new salary? Should I reduce the financial support we’re offering new businesses in order to rebuild what was lost on Diagon Alley? Or perhaps cut the budget for education? Reduce the funding we’ve dedicated towards supporting the multitudes of witches and wizards still facing unemployment due to the overwhelming lack of job opportunities.”

Hermione opened her mouth to reply but closed it again, knowing she could never truly justify any of those suggestions. Although the Ministry remained understaffed and underfunded, that experience was also being felt across the rest of wizarding England. The healing process following the war remained painfully slow, despite Voldemort’s absence.

Kingsley’s expression softened. “Although the sheer amount of work you are undertaking for the Ministry is postponing other parts of your goals, you are making huge strides by yourself, Hermione. I do not believe the extent of the delay is enough to justify a new salary at the expense of another part of the Ministry. At the most, I could approve an unpaid internship to provide exclusive support to you, but that is as far as I am willing to stretch on this matter.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed.

“No one would take an unpaid position. Financial situations are dire across society, not just in the Ministry. An unpaid opportunity would hugely restrict the candidate pool.”

Kingsley conceded her point with a small dip of his head. “It is the best I can offer. If I extend the headcount in the Muggle Liaison Office, particularly for an administrative position, other offices and departments will soon demand the same. You are not the first person to make this request of me. I cannot be seen to treat you differently just because of your position in the war.”

Hermione swallowed. She could keep debating, but Kingsley’s tone was final. An internship was better than nothing. If it wasn’t enough, she could request more.

“I understand. Thank you.”

They concluded their meeting, Hermione’s tea untouched.

Despair overtook her as she trudged back to her dingy office and the endless paperwork that awaited her in the filing storage.

A stack of letters had arrived in her absence, placed in a neat pile atop the clutter over her desk. Shutting the door firmly behind her, she approached the desk and picked up the first envelope to distract herself from the misery flooding her.

Most of the letters were mundane, work-related, but the last on the pile made Hermione freeze with shock. Inside the envelope were two pages of thick, creamy parchment, lined with neat, swirling letters in dark ink. Her heart hammered.

Skimming the words, Hermione realised she was holding a written apology from Draco Malfoy—an excruciatingly detailed apology for the way he’d treated her at school, for not taking more action to help during the war, for doing nothing as she was tortured in his home, and for choosing not to educate himself about Muggle-borns, even when the lies he was told did not add up.

Hermione scowled at the paper. Did Malfoy truly think a letter of apology would make up for the years of grief she experienced at his hand?

Despite being only a child as she, Harry, and Ron had been when they were all caught up in another generation’s war, Malfoy still benefited from the privilege granted to him by his blood status. He could send out his apologies and be content with his life. He would never have to spend hours working to fix a broken system in a vain attempt to improve things for others like him, as Hermione did every day at work. He would never have to fight to prove himself among peers; his name was enough to gain him respect, even when that name was tarnished by the mistakes of his parents. She’d seen the magazine entries, the interviews with Malfoy and his mother, discussing how they were ready to move on and deeply regretful about their involvement in the war, but it had been such a complicated time…

Misery transformed into rage, burning a hole in Hermione’s chest. It fuelled her enough to pen a reply.

Perhaps if Malfoy’s letter had arrived when she’d been having a better day, she would have paid more attention to the words, given him a reply more in-line with what he was likely expecting, maybe even requesting that they meet up and discuss it in person. But, no. Today, she was in no mood to pander to his feelings.

She scribbled six words on the first piece of paper she could reach: Actions speak louder than words, Malfoy, folded it, and sent it with a Ministry owl.

Unable to recollect her thoughts, Hermione left work early, heading straight to Harry and Ginny’s flat to share the details of her dreadful day and find some solace among her friends.