Need against Need, at cross-purposes
“Imagine that the world is made out of love. Now imagine that it isn’t. Imagine a story where everything goes wrong, where everyone has their back against the wall, where everyone is in pain and acting selfishly because if they don’t, they’ll die. Imagine a story, not of good against evil, but of need against need against need, where everyone is at cross-purposes and everyone is to blame.” - The Definitive Version, Richard Siken
When Hermione was just a little girl - before she knew magic was something that existed outside of fairytales, that she was able to do it, that she was great at it, even – she knew about war through the stories her father told her before bed.
Her mother chastised him for telling her about war, certain that she was too young to hear of battlefields and hardships, but Hermione loved those times – after all, all wars came to a inevitable end - there were victors and losers, there were glories and failures, and there were villains, sure, but most importantly, there were always heroes.
That was what her dad told her, anyway.
It wasn’t until Hermione was much older, inhabiting world that didn’t want her but which she was so eager to be a part of – so much so that she would dig her nails in the earth, blood staining her teeth, fight exuding from every inch of her skin – that she realized her dad had made a fool out of her.
There was no victory in war.
And, most importantly, there was a reason heroes mattered only during battles.
They had no idea how to live in the aftermath.
_
Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain -
“Miss Granger?”
Hermione looked up, her eyes settling on the face of a tall, balding man calling for her.
She couldn’t remember his name. How rude, she thought. She had spoken to him at least twice.
“Miss Granger?” The man repeated, a patient smile on his face. He was always so bloody patient, wasn’t he? Hermione remembered that about him.
She just didn’t remember what his name was.
“Yes. Hi.” She finally responded, grabbing her purse from the seat beside her and standing up. Her legs shook a bit, but he didn’t notice. “I apologize, I was distracted. Lots of things to think about, I’ve been very busy.” She rambled on. Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain. She cast a non-verbal warming spell on herself, hoping that she would stop shaking.
“Are you sure you want to start today?” He smiled at her, looking almost patronizing. He gestured as he talked, like he had too much unreleased energy inside of his body. “The Ministry would be happy to postpone. We know that people such as yourself are always busy.”
Hermione almost laughed at that.
Truthfully, she hadn’t been doing much of anything lately.
Repairs to Hogwarts had been completed months ago. Ever since she lost that as an excuse and a distraction, she’d been mindlessly completing her everyday routine - get up, make breakfast, look presentable - while looking for something worthwhile to do with herself. Then finding it, because she didn’t lack options and everyone wanted to claim the brains of The Golden Trio. And then, immediately giving up because she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She couldn’t bring herself to do anything.
This was her latest attempt.
“Oh, no,” She said, trying to sound uplifting. Hermione Granger was uplifting, wasn’t she? She was firm, stable, and cohesive. “I’m very excited about this opportunity. Harry told me about his visit the day the Center opened. I’m very impressed by the great work you’ve been doing.”
Hermione wasn’t actually lying. Harry had told her about the Mental Rehabilitation Center when he visited. The Ministry of Magic set up the MRC to tend to those affected by the war, the ones who couldn’t quite get back to their normal routines, that couldn't easily pretend that tragedy hadn’t struck.
What she didn’t tell the man was that Harry went on for hours about how the Center was a political cover-up, a way for the Ministry to hide its incompetence, to pretend that the suicide rate hadn’t skyrocketed after Voldemort fell – to put a pretty bow on it, Harry said. Look, we are taking care of you, see? We care about your broken hearts. Magic can fix that too.
“That’s wonderful! I’m glad you think so. Please do follow me,” he said, turning around to make his way forward in the long corridor. The bounce of his body as he walked reminded Hermione of Arthur Weasley. “Our staff here has been great at finding ways to soothe the worries of our wizarding community. As you are probably aware, most of our members are people that lost family and friends in the war and need a little help getting back on their feet.”
“Members?” Hermione asked.
“Patients,” he smiled, Hermione thought a little condescendingly. “We also work with those who lost their businesses or sources of income,” he continued. “The Ministry knows these more practical concerns can cause a great amount of stress.” He turned a corner and guided Hermione towards a set of stairs.
“I heard you also work with people on probation?” she asked, noticing that all of the walls in the Center were painted a bright, spotless white. If they didn’t want people to feel like patients, they should put more of an effort into making the place look less like a mental ward, she thought. “War criminals?”
The man turned to look at her from the top of the stairs, “Yes, we do." He said gravely, the smile on his face slipping for the first time. “And it’s important that you mentioned this, Miss Granger. We debated greatly about where you would best fit at the Center. Of course we want you to feel comfortable as you work here, but someone of your caliber would be perfect for a more challenging position! You would be doing the Ministry a great service by joining the rehabilitation program,” he fired the words off quickly.
Hermione stuttered, struggling to keep up with the man’s pace. “I thought I was going to take a more administrative role, Sir. I don’t have any training as an Auror or a Mind Healer.”
“That was the initial idea, but to be honest, Miss Granger-” he hesitated. “Most volunteers don’t want to work with that particular group. I’m sure you understand. They haven’t committed the most serious crimes; those went straight to Azkaban. But they aren’t always pleasant, and they aren’t happy to be here. From what we know of your service during war, someone of your character would be more than able to keep a handle on these people,” he finished, forcing the smile back on his lips.
Yes, of course. Hermione thought. Of course, he would think that, wouldn’t he? Between the three of them, she was known as the steady one. The one who reasoned with Harry’s impulsive tendencies, and balanced Ron’s more temperamental personality.
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the vote of confidence, but I’m not sure-” Hermione started, only to get interrupted.
“We have no doubt this would be the perfect route to take, Miss Granger. We know you’ve been deeply involved with the repairs to Hogwarts the past couple of years, and we’re grateful for that. Take this as a next step in the great relationship you’ve been building with the Ministry,” he insisted.
Hermione stopped to consider the man’s words. She was reminded of the conversations she’d had with Harry, his insistence that the Ministry never seemed to be satisfied with what they had given them.
“Don’t you think my being a muggleborn would defy the purpose of the program? I don’t know why they would listen to me.”
“That’s why you’re perfect, Miss Granger, you are not just any muggle-born witch. You are a war hero. Besides, the goal here is to see if those people are in the appropriate headspace to be released from their probation, so we need someone who won’t crumble under the pressure and will tell them what’s what. I don’t have illusions about changing their beliefs.”
Privately, Hermione rolled her eyes. Harry was right; it was apparent that the only thing the Ministry cared about was that people weren’t causing a scandal by killing themselves, or avenging Voldemort’s death.
The side-effects of chaos and destruction were merely a nuisance to be dealt with. It made sense that the Ministry had no particular concern about the outcome of these meetings. Clearly, they had no illusions about suddenly transforming pureblood supremacists into muggle-loving fools. It was politics, at the end of the day.
It wouldn’t be an easy task, she thought. There was still so much anger inside of her. But she was strong enough to look in the face of the people that fought in the side that wanted to kill her. The side that tried to. The side that succeeded in killing some of her friends. People that didn’t regret it, but had no choice but to pretend they did.
I’m empathetic, but rational, Hermione thought, if anyone can separate reason from emotion, it’d be me
Besides, she had promised Harry that she would try.
Lately, he had taken to looking at her as if the only thought looping through his mind was, what happened to you? You were stronger than this. You were supposed to hold us all together.
She swallowed. “Well, I’m sure I can handle it.”
“That’s great,” the man beamed, seeming ready to move on with the conversation.
“What’s next?” she asked him, who was guiding her towards his office. Hermione took a quick look at the name engraved on the door. Bart Hughman.That was his name.
“Let me grab the files of the group you’ll be shadowing today and I’ll give you a quick run-down.” Hughman said, pushing open the door. She didn’t follow him, watching as he grabbed a folder from its perch on top of several different documents. “You’ve visited the facility before, right?”
“Just once, when I came here to apply.”
“That’s unfortunate! We don’t have the time for a proper tour right now; there’s a meeting happening as we speak. But I’m sure soon you’ll get acquainted with the place.” He closed the door behind him and mentioned for her to follow him. “Currently, we’re handling a group of five wizards on probation for their actions during the war. As I’ve told you, none of them were charged with serious crimes, but all of them were involved with the dark side in one way or another.” He handed her the folder. “I don’t like to keep them in the program for long, you see, there’s a lot of resources that could be directed to people that actually need mental healing. But this group in particular has some members that are more of a difficult case.”
“How do you evaluate who is ready to be released?”
“We monitor them regularly with Aurors to ensure they’re not involved with anything illicit, and each of them has specific requirements for their probation that they have to meet. Our role is to get them to talk, to facilitate discussions about the wizarding world and how they are fitting in the community. We try to incorporate questions that help us evaluate where their heads are at, such as how they’re interacting with the people who fought against them, or how they’re responding to progressive Ministry policies against blood supremacy.”
She almost laughed. The Ministry wanted to have records that they tried to rehabilitate those people, even in this ineffective way, just so they could say they’ve done something in case it all went to shit again.
“So, you want them to swear they suddenly love muggle-borns and no longer believe in blood supremacy?” she joked.
“More or less.” He shrugged.
Hermione opened the file in her hands, her eyes pausing at the names. Millicent Bulstrode, Draco Malfoy, Angus Rookwood, Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson.
Interesting, she mused. She didn’t know this was one of the requirements of Malfoy’s probation. She’d known from reading the Daily Prophet over the years that the entire Malfoy family had been judged, Lucius Malfoy had been one of the first Death Eaters to be sent to Azkaban, but she hadn’t cared enough to know about the details.
“I went to school with some of them.” She said quietly.
Ignoring her, Bart swept open the door in front of him. “Well, Miss Granger, we’ve arrived. The meeting is being conducted by Mind Healer Edina Cartwell. You’ll be working with her going forward. I’m sure she will greatly appreciate your help with this.”
“I’m glad to be of service,” she said, only a little apprehensively.
Hermione was already regretting her decision. She should’ve entered the Auror Program with Harry and Ron, or accepted one of the many Ministry positions offered to her. She had countless opportunities to do literally anything else.
Yet, here she was.
She knew that the years she spent helping with Hogwarts was borrowing time. But she didn’t understand why every time she thought of working towards her future she got a tight feeling in her chest, like she couldn’t breathe, like she’d start running away from all of this – like she’d never come back, if she did.
Hermione didn’t understand why she felt so fragile while everyone around her was so eager to go on as if nothing happened. To begin a new chapter of a life unmarred by bloodbath and darkness.
She didn’t understand why she couldn’t let go, and how easy it was for her to procrastinate on doing something about it.
How stupid that her inertia led her to this –
To waste her time contributing to this farce, by listening to the troubles of people she hated just so she could prove to Harry and Ron that the war hadn’t stolen the only parts of her that made her worth something.
-
Malfoy didn’t acknowledge her presence in the room.
By itself, this wouldn’t be a notable fact. But he was the only one who didn’t look up when she entered the room, or that didn’t sneer when Cartwell introduced Hermione to five people who already knew exactly who she was.
As the meeting settled in, Hermione’s eyes kept wandering back to Malfoy. He looked the same as he had always had – aristocratic and arrogant, holding his pointy nose high in the air, just as pale and platinum-blond as ever. She kind of hated everything about him, from the formal dark robes that contrasted against his skin to his hair, so bright it hurt to look at under the fluorescent lights of the room. There was no reason to be more annoyed by him than she was by any of the others, but she couldn’t control the spike of irritation that hit her whenever her eyes met his.
She forced herself to focus on the group. Hermione watched as Edina Cartwell questioned the five former Death Eaters about their probation requirements: the work they’d been assigned, the volunteer projects they’d taken up. Each member responded in a more or less similar fashion – I’ve been doing great, I’ve joined social groups mixed with people of different blood status, I don’t know how I ever thought these people were lesser beings, I’m completely regretful of everything I’ve done.
“It was recently approved that by next term, Muggle Studies will become a compulsory class for every year at Hogwarts. Have you given any thought to it?” Cartwell probed.
“I haven’t seen anything about it.” Pansy Parkinson offered.
“No? It was yesterday’s headline at The Daily Prophet. Kind of hard to miss it.”
“I’m not there anymore, so I have no reason to think about what happens in that school,” the girl replied neutrally.
“If you had a child, would that information stop you from sending them to Hogwarts when the time came?” The healer continued.
Parkinson set her lips into a flat smile. “Every Parkinson has gone to Hogwarts since the school was founded,” she said smoothly.
Cartwell assessed the girl with a calculating look in her eyes. Hermione figured she’d keep probing at the girl, that she’d try to get something genuine out of her non-answer. When the healer changed the subject, asking the group another question, Hermione let out a sharp breath of annoyance.
Edina Cartwell was perceptive enough to notice when she was being tricked, that was obvious to Hermione, but she wasn’t sure if it was the woman’s naiveté that stopped her from being more aggressive, or if she was more patient than Hermione could ever hope to be.
She couldn’t help but think the whole ordeal was less effective than the Healer realized - there was something particular mind-numbing about trying to make former Death Eaters talk about their feelings, like trying to push a boulder up a hill.
-
And just like that, the meeting was over. As the members left the room, Cartwell let out a deep sigh that sounded like she had been holding in for hours. She stood up, turning to Hermione as she walked towards the door to close it.“Well, what do you think?” she asked.
Hermione paused, deciding if it would be smart to give the woman her honest opinion, but also realizing she didn’t care enough not to. If Cartwell decided that Hermione didn’t fit the job, she could go back to Harry and say that she had tried, but that it hadn’t worked for reasons out of her control. “Well,” Hermione started hesitantly, “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I don’t see what the Ministry is trying to accomplish here. They’re a bunch of Death Eaters fibbing through their teeth...”
Cartwell shrugged, returning to her former seat beside Hermione. Without the group, the room they were in appeared even larger and drearier, better lit than any classroom in Hogwarts, but sparsely decorated: the room’s main feature was a semicircle of uncomfortable wooden chairs, with no rugs or posters to add a touch of uniqueness. “I imagine you wouldn’t,” said Cartwell. “Honestly, sometimes I’m not sure myself. And I’ve been here with the program since the beginning.”
Hermione arched a brow. “If you don’t believe in the mission of the program, how come you don’t move on to something else?” she muttered, hoping she didn’t offend her.
Cartwell snickered. “I’m here because I do believe in it. Sure, I’m just a low-level Mind Healer. I finished my apprenticeship at St. Mungo’s just a few months before the war peaked, and this job isn’t exactly what every Mind Healer dreams of.” She looked at Hermione, as if considering whether to level with her. “I did well at St.Mungo’s. I could’ve done something else to start my career, and when Director Hughman approached me about this job, I knew that there wasn’t really any altruism in it. It’s been over three years since the Battle of Hogwarts, but people are still scared, Hermione. Anyone with sense knows that getting rid of You-Know-Who wasn’t the happy ending. There are still many people who believed his ideas and who would be willing to fight for them. They didn’t disappear just because he’s gone.”
“Are you worried that Death Eaters are planning something?” Hermione asked, not sure if she really wanted to hear the answer.
She’d been dreading a resurgence since the end, of course, the thought a persistent seed of fear that sometimes sent her into full blown panic. She didn’t know how many nights she’d spent on her bedroom floor, the shaking that never truly left overtaking her completely, her imagination running away with that thought.
Cartwell seemed to consider her question with some seriousness. “The Department of Magical Law Enforcement doesn’t think so, from the information I’ve been able to gather,” she said thoughtfully, “and I personally don’t think so, not right now at least. They’re weak. Most of their higher-ranking members are still in Azkaban, and most of their money got confiscated by the Ministry. But what about later on? When people start to regain a sense of normalcy? I’d hope that the Ministry is doing everything it can to avoid that.”
Hermione blinked, “Is that what this program is supposed to be? I just don’t see how making Death Eaters pretend to love Muggle-borns-”
“It’s not the ultimate solution, but isn’t it a step, at least?” Cartwell interrupted. “It matters to me. I was the only one who would take the job. The Ministry gave it to me, even though I have no background working with people in the criminal justice system. They don’t seem to treat it as an important effort.”
She paused, looking hard at Hermione.
For the first time, Hermione noticed that she was young, probably only a few years older than her. Cartwell had a quality to her that Hermione could never imagine in herself, like she was already grounded and comfortable with who she was. It made Hermione envy her, even though she looked tired and dejected.
“At this point they’ve locked everyone they can in Azkaban,” Cartwell continued, “and they could make more room to put people in there. But what about making sure they won’t escape? Besides, Azkaban just isn’t a practical solution long-term. The dolts at the Ministry must’ve figured that out, otherwise why would they be putting everyone who isn’t considered an immediate danger to society on house arrest, or in this program?” She laughed. “This program wouldn’t even exist if Hughman, albeit reluctantly, hadn’t agreed to oversee the project. No one else would. I have my theory that he did it as a political favor for someone in the Ministry, but I’m glad for it. We have to at least try to make long-term changes in the minds of blood supremacists, such as the charming individuals you met earlier today. If we don’t, I don’t see much hope for the future of the wizarding community.”
“And I’m guessing you don’t share the same opinion as your higher-ups? Hughman told me you have to release them as soon as possible,” said Hermione.
“You are correct.” She smirked. “The Ministry doesn’t want us wasting too many billable hours on this. Hughman agrees. The Center is run mostly by volunteers, and none of them want to work on this kind of project. I’m doing the best that I can.”
Something stirred in Hermione. Cartwell made Hermione remember what she used to be like, before the war. The Hermione from that time had been so hopeful, so willing to believe that there was no way she could live in a world without fighting for peace.
That Hermione had stubbornly refused to believe that evil was at the core of humanity. She had fought everything that didn’t align with her morals and ethical code, because she had to, because to do otherwise would betray her natural state of being. It was what had made her a Gryffindor. It was what had kept her from going insane while she was held down against the carpet of the coldest place on earth, screaming and shaking while she was marked like a pig ready for slaughter.
That feeling, that remembrance of strength, was probably what made her believe in Cartwell, even now, when Hermione felt so beaten up and tired that she couldn’t fathom how she would muster the energy to make a difference in this world. All over again.
It terrified her that she even wanted to.
But she was still Hermione Granger. And she still hasn’t learned how to quit.
“Well, what can I do to help?”
Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain.