The Intern

Nerves churned in Hermione’s stomach as she waited for Malfoy’s arrival at the apparition point they’d agreed to meet at.

After their first trip to the cafe, where Malfoy had outlined Hermione’s goals, he’d gotten straight to work actioning some of those, brushing off her objections that things at the Ministry needed sorting before anything else. He scheduled a visit to a local wizarding orphanage two weeks after he started as her intern, penciling it in their wall calendar with a flourish.

The day of the meeting came around significantly faster than Hermione had anticipated.

Part of her was excited that things were moving so quickly. Perhaps Malfoy’s method of tackling all of her problems at once was the correct way to do things. However, another part of her screamed that it was too soon—that there was no way she could offer any practical help to the staff and children she was about to meet without finishing her work at the Ministry and getting started with some proper fundraising.

A pop sounded behind her. She turned, coming face to face with Malfoy, dressed in plain, dark robes similar to her own.

“Granger.” He nodded in greeting. “You look positively green.”

She choked a laugh. “I’m a little nervous.”

“Don’t be. This is just an introduction. Our only goal today is to learn more about the problems we’re facing so we can start brainstorming actual solutions. If anyone can excel at that, it’s you.”

She blinked, taken aback by the casual compliment.

“I suppose you’re right. Let’s stop delaying.”

They started walking. Hermione concentrated on her breathing as they trekked down the quiet street. Fortunately, Malfoy continued talking, distracting her from her silent stream of worries.

“You don’t have to humour my friends, you know. I didn’t realise they were going to barge in and demand so much of you last week.”

She glanced at him, eyes catching the hard set of his jaw from his profile.

“It’s no hassle. Like I said, we need to spread this tolerance among all purebloods eventually. Your friends are a good opportunity to start that, and anyway, they weren’t as bad as I remember from school. They’re actually quite fun.”

She had set them all up with mobile phones over the weekend, as promised. Since then, she’d already received several calls from Theo and texts from Blaise, Pansy, and Daphne, all wanting to discuss some mundane Muggle belief they’d heard or gossip about what Malfoy was like to work with.

“I understand, but they’re the type to take advantage of your generosity. They’ll monopolise your time if you let them.” Malfoy’s pace sped up, fuelled by his agitation.

“Well, they won’t interrupt our work, if that’s your concern,” she reassured him.

He said nothing. The lapse in conversation did not last long as their destination came into view.

The detached building stood tall but was still dwarfed by the buildings on either side of it. In front of the orphanage, the concrete pavement was cracked and uneven. Years ago, someone had painted the door a bright colour, but time had faded the pigment. Paint now hung in shreds off the wood. A few dry curls peeled away and clung to Hermione’s knuckles as she knocked.

After a minute or two, a small, elderly witch opened the door.

“Miss Granger and Mr Malfoy?” she asked, eyeing the strangers on her doorstep.

Hermione smiled and nodded. “Mrs Harlowe?”

The woman nodded once, stepping back and opening the door wider to let them in. “You may call me Poppy.

Inside, the building felt as tired and shabby as their office. Stained carpet curled away from the skirting board at the edges of the hallway, as if even it cringed at the thought of touching the damp, dirty walls. Hermione’s shoulder pressed against Malfoy’s arm as they crowded into the narrow space.

Poppy closed the door behind them. If she noticed their reactions to the state of the building, she said nothing.

“Come through,” she said, beckoning them to follow her further into the house. “We can discuss this in my office. I’ve prepared some tea.”

They shared a glance and followed her. Poppy’s office was the first door on their right. Footsteps and quiet voices sounded from elsewhere in the building, muffled through the floors and walls.

Poppy’s office was snug, housing a small dining table with chairs on either side in the place of a desk. On the table was a tray with three mugs of steaming black tea. Pictures hung on the walls—silent, sombre witches and wizards with young children at their sides. As the loops played out, the children offered smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes.

Malfoy gestured for Hermione to sit first, taking the chair that she did not choose. Poppy sat opposite them and passed each of them a cup. There was no milk or sugar to sweeten the tea.

“I was pleasantly surprised to receive your letter.” Poppy stared at them over her mug, taking a slurping sip. “We’ve been requesting additional help from the Ministry since the war ended, but most responses simply say there is no more money to divert our way.”

“The Minister is working hard to help everyone who was affected by the war.” Hermione gave a half-hearted excuse.

“Always comes down to money in the end, though,” Poppy said, voice dry.

Hermione cleared her throat, discomfort oozing through her. What if she wasn’t able to offer the sort of help she’d hoped?

Malfoy jumped in, as always sensing her unease and hesitation before she had to voice it.

“What sort of deterrent spells do you use to keep this place concealed?”

“Just the standard required Muggle repellents,” Poppy said. “They’re unnecessary, really. No one would approach the building, anyway. It’s primarily a precaution to keep the children safer.”

Malfoy nodded, eyed thoughtful. "As I explained in our letter, we want to use today to learn more about you and the children you care for. We were hoping you could tell us a little more about your situation, including how things have changed since the war.”

Poppy blew out a long breath. “There’s not much to tell. As all of our letters have explained, it comes down to the fact that we have no money to support the children. We were busy even before the war peaked, but since the end of it, we’ve been inundated. Donations are at an all time low. Space is also a major issue; we don’t have enough beds for the children outside of term time. Several of them are forced to permanently share bunks. Hogwarts does all it can to help during the school terms, but Headmistress McGonagall has had to enact a limit on the number of students permitted to stay during the holidays. If they didn’t, the teachers would get no time off. They’d be full-time carers.”

Malfoy nodded at Poppy’s words but she did not pause long enough for either of her guests to respond.

“It’s certainly easier during term time, but even then the children don’t get the same experience as their peers. They cannot attend school outings beyond Hogsmeade because we cannot fund it, for example. Our money has to go towards necessities, such as food. We can rarely afford new uniforms for the children, so they use one another’s hand-me-downs, and they all rely on outdated workbooks because they’re cheaper. Most of them have to share, even then. And that’s not to mention the problems the older children face.”

“What sort of problems do the older children experience?” Hermione asked.

“Well, when they graduate, they don’t have the reliance of Hogwarts during term time. Some are able to get jobs but wages are poor. Few earn enough to fund their own accommodation so they can’t leave. If they do leave, it’s usually either to live in another orphanage with slightly more space, for whatever reason, or to live in a house share, which often has poorer conditions than here. In most cases, we’ll see them again. It’s here or the streets for the majority. I know the Ministry have offered some financial support schemes for young people trying to enter the workforce but those schemes do not stretch far enough to help everyone who needs it. We are turning a blind eye to our age limits but we cannot do so forever.”

Hermione swallowed as sadness clogged her throat. She’d known the situation was dire, but hadn’t quite realised the extent of it.

“And are we correct in assuming that the majority of children in your establishment are of Muggle-born heritage?” Malfoy asked.

“A lot of them. We have some half-bloods and a couple of purebloods, but they’re more likely to have other wizarding family to take them in. The Muggle-borns usually have no one to rely on if they want to remain in the wizarding world. Deatheaters targeted a lot of them during the war, targeted their families.” Poppy lowered her voice. “I’ve read about it and spoken to some of the older children. The Dark Lord was quick to kill the families of Muggle-borns when he found them, I suppose in the hopes that any Muggle-born children he could not eliminate would abandon the Wizarding world.”

Malfoy’s face had drained of colour. His fists were clenched in his lap, but he nodded politely at Poppy.

Meanwhile, nausea rolled in Hermione’s stomach as she thought of her own parents. She hadn’t seen them since choosing to obliviate them and send them abroad during the war. Even then, she’d known it was the right decision, but it hadn’t made the task any easier.

Her parents remained alive, though Hermione would never know if it was due to her choice to distance herself from them.

Since the end of the war, she’d consulted with a plethora of memory spell and spell-reversal experts but none of them had been optimistic about or willing to try undoing such extensive memory alteration spells. Even if they attempted and succeeded, the process would likely be extremely traumatic for Hermione’s parents, and the complexity of the reversal grew the longer she delayed the decision, reducing the already slim changes of getting them back with their minds in one piece.

Malfoy’s pen scribbled, filling the silence as he made nodes of the further statistics he drew from Poppy. The majority of the conversation was a blur for Hermione, who fought to keep control of her emotions.

The situation that these children found themselves in could have been her fate had she not been such a major part of the war effort. That realisation was startling enough to freeze her into silence. Befriending Harry and Ron early in her academic life may have been the single action that prevented her from living in an overcrowded orphanage exactly like this, with her parents lost to the entire world, rather than just to her.

She swallowed again, harder, blinking away tears that pricked her eyes as she tuned back into the conversation. Her fingers curled into fists, nails pressing into her palms, in an attempt to ground herself and slow her racing heart.

“I agree that funding is the major roadblock.” Malfoy nodded, looking over his notes.

Hermione reached out with a trembling hand to pick up her teacup. It was cool against her lips, significantly colder than she’d expected. Just how much of the conversation had she blanked out for? Guilt washed over her.

“But, you can leave that problem with us,” he continued, glancing at Hermione. A flash of concern, or perhaps annoyance, lit his eyes. “I think it would be beneficial for us to set up regular meetings like this. That way, we can keep you up-to-date with our progress and proposals.”

“Would monthly be frequent enough?”

He nodded. “Absolutely. Miss Granger and I will check our diaries when we return to the Ministry and be in touch with some dates.”

“Would you like to speak with any of the children before you leave?” Poppy asked.

Malfoy looked to Hermione, leaving the decision in her hands.

She nodded. “Y-yes. Please. That would…that would be lovely,” she managed to croak out.

Poppy led them upstairs. Malfoy followed close behind Hermione. The rich, woody scent of his aftershave tinted each breath she took. She wrapped her arms around her waist to stop herself from reaching out for physical support from him. That would be highly unprofessional, no matter how much she wanted to hold a friend’s hand right now.

Upstairs, several bunkbeds stood in each room, lined up side by side to offer as much space for sleeping as possible. Most of them were occupied by multiple children, sitting together and talking quietly or reading through tattered books. They looked up as Poppy and her guests entered, wide eyes falling immediately on Hermione and Malfoy.

He spoke to several of the children, crouching to lower himself to the younger ones' heights. Hermione was unable to offer much more than a smile, still fighting the growing sense of panic in her chest. Her shoulders ached with tension.

Was she too late to help? She’d spent so long convincing herself that she needed more time to prepare but, during that time, she’d been living on a comfortable Ministry wage in a house that had already been paid for by her parents long before she began living there alone. None of these children had the same basic luxuries that offered—space, comfort, privacy. They’d been suffering while Hermione was filing paperwork.

Malfoy had been the one to suggest she could take proactive steps outside of the Ministry’s walls while she continued her administrative work. How much longer would she have lingered in the safety of her office if he hadn’t spurred her on?

Guilt and self-loathing bubbled inside her chest, so strong it felt overwhelming. Each thought buzzed through her mind like an angry hornet.

If things were this bad for so many people now, what would they have been like if Harry hadn’t defeated Voldemort?

By the time they left, her breath was coming in quick, shallow pants. Stepping outside lifted some of the weight from her, but it still felt as if she was suffocating.

“Granger?” Malfoy’s voice was quiet and hesitant. She couldn’t see his expression through the tears blurring her vision. “How can I help you?”

“Don’t—don’t worry about me. You go ahead. I’ll be back—I’ll be back at work soon…I just need a minute.” Despite her best efforts, her breath would not slow.

“No. Come with me.” Malfoy grabbed her hand.

Hermione gripped it tight, not even taking a second to hesitate about letting her childhood tormentor lead her somewhere unknown in a moment of vulnerability. She stumbled, led by him, unable to concentrate on anything beyond the dread she was drowning in.

When Malfoy let go of her hand, his grip moved to her upper arms. Gently, he pushed her to sit.

Warmth touched her right arm and leg as he sat beside her, close enough for her to find if she needed him.

“It’ll be over in a moment,” he said. “I have attacks like this, too. Most people our age do, I think. My friends all certainly do.”

She concentrated on his voice, tightly gripping the wooden bench beneath her. Splinters pricked at her palms. She focused on the feeling, clutching to the reminder that Malfoy repeatedly voiced—she was not in danger.

When her breathing slowed and the panic ebbed, her throat felt raw. She swiped at the cold tears streaking down her cheeks. The world around them came back into focus.

They were sitting side by side in a small park. Colourful plants swayed in the breeze, enjoying the late-summer sun that still shone bright overhead. Petals and leaves rustled. Only the occasional songbird and pigeon shared the space with them, flitting from tree to tree as they eyed the humans intruding on their territory.

“Sorry,” Hermione mumbled to Malfoy.

“Don’t apologise.” He frowned at her. “Have you had a panic attack before?”

She nodded. “I didn’t expect it. I didn’t think it would hit me so hard, going there. That could’ve so easily been me.” Her voice wobbled.

“But it isn’t. And we’re going to help them all. They won’t stay living like that forever.”

“How? Kingsley can’t even pay you a salary. He must know what they’re going through, despite repeatedly telling me my work isn’t a priority. Poppy essentially said he’s been ignoring her letters. You can’t fund this entire thing yourself.” She took a deep, shuddering breath.

“No, I can’t. But, we can fundraise. Most charities rely on donations, don’t they? Together we can access every part of society. I know how to manipulate the purebloods and, even beyond them, I’m certain there are plenty of people who would rush to help any cause the Golden Girl dedicates herself to.” He smirked.

Hermione shot him a flat look, though she doubted it had the intended effect with her red nose and puffy eyes.

“Maybe we can even fundraise using some Muggle methods. What sort of things do they do?”

She pursed her lips. “That’s actually a great idea. We could try things like a silent auction or a silent disco.”

“Do Muggles do everything without talking?” He frowned.

“No,” she smiled, “but those are the only things I can think of right now. I’ll explain them to you properly another time.”

After a moment of sitting in comfortable quiet, Malfoy spoke again.

“I didn’t—” he swallowed, “I didn’t think it would be that bad in there. I know that’s stupid. You’ve been telling me how awful things are for Muggle-borns for weeks, but I still didn’t expect to see people—children—living like that. There weren't even enough beds for them.”

Hermione grimaced. “If it’s any consolation, me neither. Hearing about it is one thing, but seeing it highlights the reality of the problems we face.”

“Maybe we just need to drag Kingsley down here so he realises how important your work is.”

She snorted. “If only it was that simple.” Her smile faded. She tilted her head to face him. “Thank you for helping me with this, and for helping me calm down.” Her gaze dropped to the floor, embarrassment flushing her cheeks.

He shrugged. “I know what it’s like.”

“The war messed with us all.”

He nodded, expression grim.

Distant chimes drifted across the park. Both of them looked in the direction of the music.

“What’s that?” Malfoy asked, frowning.

Hermione smiled, the loud, tinny music sparking happy memories. “Come on, I’ll show you.” She stood, smoothing the back of her robes. They’d get some strange looks approaching an ice cream van in their current attire, but she couldn’t muster the strength to care after what she’d just seen. She needed something to take her mind off her guilt.

Minutes later, they were back on their bench, each holding a Mr Whippy ice cream with a flake and strawberry sauce.

“Granger, how were ice cream vans not the very first Muggle thing you showed me?” Malfoy groaned, taking a long lick and closing his eyes with pleasure as he savoured the sweet treat.

She giggled, but her cheeks heated. She averted her gaze from him, tongue darting out to catch the ice cream that had melted onto her hand as a result of her distraction.

“I underestimated your sweet tooth.”

“Don’t make that mistake again,” he warned, teasingly.

She smiled, watching surreptitiously as he sucked at the ice cream that had dribbled onto his long fingers.