To the Moon, Over Jerusalem
"We've been to the moon and we're still fighting over Jerusalem . Let me tell you what I do know: I am more than one thing, and not all of those things are good. The truth is complicated. It's two-toned, multi-vocal, bittersweet, (...) I am sad and angry and I want everyone to be alive again. I want more landmarks, less landmines. I want to be grateful but I'm having a hard time with it." - Black Telephone, Richard Siken
_
Hermione paused in front of the room’s door, her thick brown hair tied up in a knot on top of her head. She pressed a palm to her fluttering stomach.
Without warning, a tiny hand settled on her shoulder, startling her. “Are you okay?” asked Cartwell, a patient smile plastered on her face. “If you’re unsure, we can always-”
“I’m sure” Hermione interrupted.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you changed your mind.” Cartwell said, her eyes flashing with compassion.
“I can do this, Edina, you don’t have to worry.” Hermione assured her.
“I know you can.” Cartwell agreed, then pushed the door open. As soon she did, five heads turned in their direction.
The slytherins were scattered around the room, Bulstrode and Parkinson to one side, while Nott and Malfoy were in the opposite corner. Rookwood stood like a lone wolf near a window.
“Good morning.” Cartwell greeted, “Please, find yourselves a seat. I have news to share with you.”
The group sat on the chairs closest to them, not bothering to greet Cartwell back. Hermione bit back a huff of annoyance at the rudeness.
“Hermione and I had an enlightening conversation this week,” Cartwell started, intertwining both her hands. “This program isn’t the only initiative in the Center that requires my attention. Because of that, we figured it’d be best if I channeled my energy on those.” She paused to glance at their faces, her lips flattening in disappointment when she didn’t get a reaction. “You don’t need to worry, though! You’ll be left in the capable hands of Hermione Granger. That’s an honor I’m sure you won’t take for granted.”
Hermione pinned her eyes to the back of the woman’s head. If she was irked by Cartwell’s compliment, she imagined the group would be much more.
“My office will be open in case any of you need me, of course. Let’s make the most of this opportunity, yeah?” She finished, then turned to smile encouragingly at Hermione. “Good luck,” whispered Cartwell, and closed the door behind her.
For a moment, Hermione stood facing the wall. Well, here I am, she thought. How bad can it be, really? She listened to herself inhale, and exhale a deep breath. Here we go .
Hermione turned to face the room. Five Slytherins looked back at her. To her surprise, they wore neutral expressions, as if they had expected Cartwell’s announcement all along.
It was unnerving.
Hermione steeled herself, trying to bury any feeling of uneasiness deep within her. I’ve been through too much to be afraid of boredom and being disliked, she thought. She knew where the power lay, and it wasn’t in their hands.
“As you know, I’ve been shadowing Cartwell for weeks now,” she started, pausing to see if she’d get a response. “I’m not impressed by you.”
“Pardon?” said Parkinson, her face twisted in confusion. Her pug-like features, framed by locks of dark hair, had softened somewhat with age. But the contempt in her eyes, same as always, dulled any trace of prettiness.
“I said I’m not impressed by you.” said Hermione. “What exactly do you lot plan to accomplish by going through the program like this? You can’t just get away with court mandated rehab,” she said.
“Who are you to say I’m not invested in this?” asked Parkinson. She looked over her shoulder at the others. “We’re all here, aren’t we?”
“I’ve been watching all of you,” said Hermione firmly, “and I know deceit when I see it.”
“Calling us out seems rather counterproductive.” said Malfoy, acknowledging her presence for the first time. He sat relaxed in his seat, as if he were a visiting dignitary who she had come to entertain. “It doesn’t make us likely to do your bidding.”
“Being nice hasn’t been working out, either,” said Hermione, trying to avoid criticising Cartwell. “The way I see it, you have two options: you can go along with whatever I propose and earn the chance to be released from this program in the foreseeable future,” she continued, forcing herself not to fiddle with her hands, “or you can resist, and extend your time here indefinitely.” Well, I’ll have to talk to Cartwell about that, she thought to herself.
“And what are you proposing, exactly?” Malfoy asked, a smirk on his face.
“First of all, I need all of you to stand up,” she commanded, hoping they couldn’t hear her voice shake.
The group didn’t react immediately. Parkinson shot a questioning glance at Malfoy, who ignored it. He looked at Hermione, smiling, challenging her to ask again.
Hermione waited a couple of beats before repeating herself. “I’m not aware that any of you have a hearing impairment. I asked you to stand up.”
The room was silent. For a moment, Hermione wondered what she would do if she couldn’t get them to listen. Would she have to threaten them? Or god forbid, call Cartwell back in? To her surprise, Theo Nott stood up. He brushed a curl of hair from his forehead and looked up at her with an expression she couldn’t read.
Malfoy crossed his arms. Hermione watched as Nott walked over to Malfoy’s chair and nudged it with the tip of his boots. Malfoy looked up at him, jaw clenched, before standing up as well.
And just like that, the rest of the group followed suit.
“Well?” Malfoy snapped.
Hermione raised her wand hand and pointed it at the group.
“What are you doing?” Parkinson said nervously.
“Oh, please, I’m not going to do anything to you.”
Hermione waved her wand in a smooth motion, sending the chairs flying. The Slytherins jumped out of the way as the chairs rearranged themselves in a neat row in front of her. “Now you may sit.”
Hesitantly, the group sat. Nott chose a seat right in the middle. Ignoring him, Malfoy chose a chair on the far left side of the room. Parkinson quickly followed him, dragging Bulstrode along with her. Rookwood was the last to find a seat, slouching over to the remaining chair on the right side of the room.
“Are we here to fulfill your teacher-student fantasies, Granger?” Malfoy gibed, earning laughs from across the room.
“Of course not,” Hermione replied in a neutral voice. “Not that I can’t think of a thing or two I could teach all of you. But this isn’t a class, I’m here to have a conversation.”
“Excuse me?” Bulstrode spoke for the first time, her voice an octave too high. “Could you get to the point?”
“Gladly.” Hermione grabbed a chair for herself, then sat down, keeping her posture straight.“I spent the last week with a fascinating book,” she said, lifting her wand to conjure its title from thin air, the words flying in front of her. ‘ The Wizarding Sacred Society’s Handbook’ . “Have you read it?” she asked them.
“Have you?” snapped Parkinson. “I know for a fact that that book is not for sale.”
Hermione lowered her arm and the words vanished. She stood up and walked over to her bag, reaching inside.
“What, this book?” said Hermione, holding it in the air for the group to see. Parkinson inhaled sharply. “I have my ways.” Hermione said. “To be truthful with all of you, I’ve been asking myself for years how people who consider themselves so evolved could repeat ignorance with such ease. But if your parents have been reading you bedtime stories out of books like this, I think I understand where it comes from.”
Rookwood lifted his head to stare at her. “It’d be smart to think carefully about what you’re saying, mudblood,” he said coldly. “Someone of your kind can’t understand old magic, certainly not enough to talk about it to us, and some of us are just waiting for a reason to snap.” Hermione suppressed a shiver. In his words, she heard the sort of deep-seeded hatred that reminded her of a white crystal chandelier and drips of blood on her skin.
Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain.
She fought the urge to tug at her sleeve.
“Calling me that word qualifies as an offense under the Magical Equality Act of 1999, Rookwood. And I doubt threatening a MRC’s staff member will help your release from probation,” she said in a pleasant voice. “I don’t recall you being so abrasive when Cartwell was here.”
“Cartwell isn’t a mudblood,” said Rookwood. Unlike Malfoy and Nott, he didn’t seem to be even entertained by the situation. His hand gripped his knee tightly, and his jaw was clenched.
“Too bad for her,” said Hermione with a smile. Nott laughed. “Now, if we can continue, have any of you heard about the theory of evolution?”
“I haven’t heard about it, but if we’re talking about evolution, I can assure you wizards are more evolved than muggles,” said Theo, leaning back in his seat. “Does saying that count as an offense, too?”
“How can you be so sure?” Hermione countered, ignoring his sarcasm. “That book specifically states that wizards who reproduced with muggles would evolve into generations with gradually weaker magic. Yet here we are, a hundred years after that book was written, and with more than enough generations to falsify that claim.”
“It’s common sense, Granger.” Malfoy said, looking straight into her eyes. “The theory you mentioned talks about survival of the fittest, doesn’t it?”
“That’s a common misconception, actually,” said Hermione. “Survival of the fittest is mostly a catchphrase. The basic premise is that as long as a species is able to reproduce and pass on their genes, that species is good enough to survive. It doesn’t mean having magical genes makes you stronger, or more evolved.”
“Well I can name, off from the top of my head, a hundred situations in which wizards are more fit to survive than muggles,” said Malfoy. “Wizards can do anything that muggles can, easily. And we can do things that muggles could never accomplish, like healing people, or taming magical creatures.”
Hermione chuckled. “If only you knew what Muggles are capable of.”
“It’s clear to me why we’re having this discussion,” said Bulstrode. “Muggleborns haven’t been taught to respect magic. They don’t connect to it the way we do.”
“That’s another old chestnut, isn’t it?” said Hermione. “That muggleborns can’t master true, old magic, like purebloods do?”
“It’s a proven fact,” said Rookwood, tapping his fingers against his knee.
“Really?” she said, stopping in front of Rookwood. “Lily Potter was a muggleborn, and her magic was powerful enough to stop Voldemort himself. That’s how Harry survived to defeat him seventeen years later.”
The group was momentarily silenced. Even Malfoy, who had been more forthcoming than she expected, seemed to hesitate. From his corner of the room, he threw a subtle glance at the rest of the group. “The Dark Lord was a half-blood,” he said nonchalantly.
The other Slytherins snapped their heads to look at Malfoy. Hermione wondered if Voldemort’s blood status was still scandalous in pureblood circles, even after his death.
“Yet you accepted him as your lord,” said Hermione, turning towards Malfoy. Her gaze bored into him. “Shouldn’t he be inferior to you?”
“The Dark Lord was the heir of Salazar Slytherin,” said Parkinson in a shrill voice. “This conversation is pointless.”
It’s almost like Death Eater blasphemy, Hermione chuckled to herself. If they’ll talk like this after a little pushing, it’s clear they haven’t been pressured enough.
“So where do you guys draw the line?” asked Hermione. “Can you have just a bit of muggle blood? Or do you have to be a psychopath to earn that privilege?”
Parkinson stood up, her cheeks burning red. “I’m not staying here for this,” she said. “You can write that up in my file. I don’t give a shite.”
She didn’t wait for a response before fleeing the room, the sound of the door slamming shut echoing in the now silent room.
Hermione stared at the closed door for several seconds. At last, she turned to look at the faces in front of her. Each one of them displayed varying levels of irritation. The look in Rookwood’s eyes made Hermione itch to grab her wand. Theo looked uncomfortable, suddenly finding the floor the world’s most fascinating invention. Bullstrode seemed to consider following her friend, eyes moving back and forth between Hermione and the door.
Malfoy -- Malfoy she couldn't read.“I guess we can continue next week,” said Hermione. “But I have an assignment for you.”
“Are you completely sure this isn’t a student-teacher fantasy, Granger?” quipped Malfoy.
Hermione ignored him. “I want all of you to pick something you were taught about muggles that you aren’t too sure about. It can be something that seemed ridiculous to you, or even disgusted you.”
“Who do you think we are, Granger? We’re not going to give you more ammunition to use against us,” said Bulstrode, who was already standing to leave.
“And what would be the point of me reporting something I’ve asked you to do?” said Hermione. Internally, she cursed herself for being too straightforward. They would never believe that she was being sincere.
“I doubt that you’re here because you want to help us out,” said Nott.
“I’m not,” she laughed. Nott looked startled. “I’ve known most of you since I was eleven years old, and you have never afforded me any kindness, I’m not inclined to do so, either.” She stopped to look at the group. “But I’m not petty, and I’m going to do my job here properly. If you cross the line and threaten me like Rookwood did? Then don’t doubt you’ll face consequences. Otherwise, I’m not wasting my time setting up traps for you to fall in.”
Unwillingly, she caught herself looking at Malfoy from the corner of her eye. She didn’t know him well enough to filter through his actions and get to the meaning beneath them. He hadn’t acted aggressively as he had acted when they bumped into each other in the hall. Throughout the meeting, he seemed amused, willing to argue with her without being offended by anything she said. She couldn’t puzzle him out.
Malfoy looked back at her, an inscrutable expression on his face. Maybe he couldn’t puzzle her out, either.
_
For the first time in months, Harry was already home when Hermione arrived.
He was laying on the sofa, feet up one of its arms, holding a copy of Seeker Weekly above his head. The cover of the magazine featured a Ginny Weasley clad in the green and yellow Harpies uniform. She held a broom and smiled widely at the camera.
“Are you missing her?” asked Hermione. Harry almost fell off the couch.
“Oh, Merlin .” He joined Hermione in a laugh.. “Didn’t see you there.” Hermione crossed the room to the couch, grabbing his legs and setting them on the floor so she had space to sit.
“I’m sure you were distracted,” said Hermione, inclining her head towards the magazine. “She’s been in Wales for almost a month now. You should plan a visit.”
“I don’t want to distract her,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “She should be focused on her training. And I really don’t have the time, things have been crazier than usual at the DMLE.” Harry’s shoulders sagged as he talked, and Hermione noticed how tired he looked. His robes and hair looked rumpled, like neither had been washed in multiple days.
“Any particular reason?” she asked.
Harry sat up. “Just the usual department ruckus, nothing too important,” he said, shifting in his seat. Hermione wondered if she should push. But she knew Harry wouldn’t be forthcoming unless he wanted to be.
“You seem to be getting closer to Shacklebolt lately,” she said instead, thinking back on the issue of Witch Weekly.
“We’ve always been close,” said Harry casually. He stood up, leaving Seeker Weekly on the couch. He padded his way to the kitchen, pulling open the door to the refrigerator and peering inside. “Are things exciting at the Center?” he called.
Hermione exhaled a laugh. “Exciting wouldn't be the word I’d use. Interesting would be a better fit.”
“Interesting enough for you to have something to bring up Sunday,” he said.
“ Harry. ” said Hermione, unable to stop the tightness in her throat. “You know I’m not going on Sunday.”
She could hear Harry sigh loudly from the kitchen. She waited on the couch as he came back into the living room, holding a jar of Honeydukes cinnamon balls. He offered her the jar. She shook her head.
“You can’t keep avoiding the Weasleys forever, you know?” Harry said, leaning against a wall as he ate.
Hermione almost said, try me. “I’m not avoiding anyone, there’s just no good reason for me to go,” she lied.
“Hermione. ” Harry imitated her tone. “You came with me to the Burrow every Sunday before you and Ron even thought about being a thing. What’s changed now that you aren’t?”
Part of Hermione wanted to shake Harry for being so clueless about why she was so uncomfortable. While she was at Hogwarts, the Weasleys had become something like surrogate parents to her. But after the war, after everything she’d been through, she suddenly didn’t know how to treat them any more. And Molly never seemed to accept that she and Ron would never be together. Hermione had to pretend to not notice her subtle attempts to pry into her life, and her current relationship with Ron.
“You don’t notice all the hints about summer weddings,” said Hermione tiredly. “It just makes things weird. How many times can I say that there’s not going to be a wedding? She doesn’t seem to hear me.”
“Mrs. Weasley makes the same comments to Ginny and me, you know,” he offered, talking as he chewed. Hermione scrunched her nose.
“Are you being purposefully obtuse?” she said. “You and Ginny have been dating for years. Ron and I shared a kiss and held hands once .”
Harry sighed. “It’s not that I don’t get it. But after everything that happened with Fred, and then George--” He paused. “I think they’re just trying to focus on the good things about the future, you know? So the past gets easier to handle.”
Hermione bit down the stab of guilt low in her stomach. “I get that, Harry, you know I do. But dreaming up impossible scenarios is just going to disappoint everyone.”
Harry paused mid-chew, seeming to debate if he was going to say whatever it was, before shrugging. “Can you be sure that it won’t happen?”
“I’m not having this conversation with you again,” said Hermione, standing up and walking in the direction of her room.
“Aww, Hermione, don’t go.”
“How come thick-headed Ron Weasley is the person I had the least problem convincing about this?” she muttered to herself, ignoring her friend’s protests.
When Hermione reached her bedroom, she closed the door behind her and cast a locking charm. Kicking her shoes off and crawling onto the bed, she finally allowed herself to feel the hurricane of emotions she had been ignoring most of the day.
Her meeting with the former Death Eaters had left Hermione feeling raw, like she had spent too long in the heat of the sun and her skin was peeling off, leaving an uncomfortable tingle all over her body. Her conversation with Harry had intensified that anxiety, reminding her of all the areas of her life that were a jumbled mess she didn’t know how to sort through.
Despite the stress she felt, the job was a welcome distraction, something that made it easier to brush the rest of her problems under the carpet and pretend to be a little more put together. But every day after she got home from work, as soon as she let her guard down, Hermione was overcome by the weight of her responsibilities. This job carved her out a little time to breathe, but eventually another wave would crash into her.
Damn it, Harry, she thought, irritated at him, but more angry with herself.
Crookshanks’ meows distracted Hermione from her thoughts. She looked down at her cat, who stared at her from his perch on her best-stuffed pillow. She scooted closer to him at the top of the bed. The cat settled himself by her side and began to purr. Hermione stroked his soft fur with one hand, massaging her forehead with the other. Her eyes fell on the book resting on top of her nightstand. Harry had given her that one, too.
She thought back to her confrontation with Malfoy over a week ago. She hadn’t given his words much attention, but Parkinson's insistence that those books weren’t easily accessible made her want to investigate.
Hermione let her fingers skim the pages of the book, paying attention to the yellow coloring of the paper. Though well-preserved, the book was obviously very old. There were no notes written in the margins, but its spine felt soft from frequent use.
When she reached the inside of the back cover, Hermione’s eyes zoomed in on three tiny black words engraved in the upper right corner. Her eyebrows raised in surprise. “House of Malfoy, she read out loud. She quickly rose from the bed, disrupting Crookshanks, who gave her a sleepy yet indignant meow. “Sorry, boy, be right back,” she whispered, fishing for her bag on the carpet. She rifled through its contents, at last pulling out The Sacred Wizarding Society’s Handbook.
She returned to sit on the corner of her bed with the book in one hand. Quickly, she flipped to its back cover, finding the same engraved words in the upper right corner.
Something clicked. Of course Malfoy would be angry at her for walking around with his family’s (valuable) belongings. Surely it stung, knowing he had no say in what happened to things that’d been in his family for longer than he’d been alive.
“Well, Crooks,” she muttered to the cat, “how exactly did your Uncle Harry end up with this, huh?”
_
“I’m so done with this shite,” said Pansy, the brusque movement of her hand knocking over her glass and spilling liquid all over the table.
“You better clean that up,” said Theo calmly. “This table cost me a pint. French vintage, elm wood inlaid with unicorn hair.”
“It’s bloody ugly,” said Draco from his seat beside Daphne.
“Like the decor in the Malfoy manor is any better,” said Theo, sounding hurt. “Your place looks like a gothic mausoleum.”
Draco chuckled. “My mother decorated it, what’s your excuse?”
“Hello, can you pay attention to what I’m saying?” interrupted Pansy. “There’s no way I’m the only one unhappy with today’s meeting.” She waved her wand to clean up the gin and tonic now running down the leg of the table .
“What happened?” asked Daphne.
“Saint Granger has assumed control of our rehab meetings,” said Theo. “Somewhat predictably, the power’s gone to her head already.”
“You should see the way she looks at us, Daph,” said Pansy, inspecting her nails. “Like we’re dirt under her cheap shoes. You should be glad you don’t have to participate in the damn thing.”
Draco turned to look at Daphne. “How come you haven’t, actually?”
“I wasn’t a Death Eater,” said Daphne, looking Draco in the eye. Theo laughed. “No offense, Pansy.” Pansy waved her hand and took a sip of her drink.
“Neither were Theo and Pansy, not really. And Millicent didn’t do anything, just her family, and only a little bit,” said Draco.
“Maybe that’s it then,” said Daphne. “My family stayed out of it entirely.”
“Who cares,” said Theo, refilling Pansy and Daphne’s empty glasses with a bottle of Italian vermouth. “My sources say this rehab program is nothing more than a political stunt. I’m not surprised it’s already gone off the rails.”
“Yeah everybody, let’s all believe Theo’s so-called ‘source,’” said Pansy.
“I have sources,” snapped Theo. “Just because I know more people than you lot-”
“He probably means the middle-aged housewives he shags on the weekend” said Draco. Pansy rolled her eyes.
“That’s disgusting, Theo” said Daphne. She made a face.
“While my activities are none of your business,” said Theo, utterly unashamed, “and I can’t deny that society women are a good source of information, you’re wrong this time.” He took a sip of the vermouth. “Knowledge is power.”
“That sounds like something Granger would say.” said Pansy.
“People like Granger are full of pithy sayings like that,” said Draco. He licked his lips, fiddling with his drink. He hadn’t taken a sip. Fuck, I need a cigaratte. “I guess I can’t disagree with Nott on the benefits of gathering information.”
“Thank you,” said Nott, sweeping his arm into an exaggerated bow. Daphne giggled.
“You’re mostly just a gossip, though,” said Draco, dodging Theo’s kick. “Don’t worry too much about it, Pans. She wants you to get worked up. Just ignore her like you did Cartwell, they can’t keep us on parole forever.”
“She’s not Cartwell, though,” said Pansy. “That woman wasn’t trying to cross any lines. Granger wants to poke at things that don’t concern her.”
Theo turned in his chair to look at Draco. “You’re acting like you didn’t argue with her for half the meeting. I haven’t seen you talk so much in ages. You even knew the bloody theory she was rambling about.”
Draco shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with some intellectual back and forth,” he said, “not that you would know anything about that.” Theo shot him an outraged look. Draco continued. “Besides, unlike Cartwell, ignoring Granger is just going to make matters worse. She digs in. There’s no harm in letting her believe she’s making progress. I’m just adapting the strategy.”
Theo gave him a sly smile. “I wonder if that’s all there is to it.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “You caught me,” he said. “We’re getting engaged next weekend.” Daphne laughed when Pansy gave a little squeal.
Draco brought the glass to his mouth and finally took a sip of the vermouth. Okay, maybe Granger intellectually stimulates me he thought to himself. But I know better than to tell Theo about it.
It wasn’t a big deal, in the scheme of things, and it wasn’t a hard feat to accomplish when he was mostly submitted to the inane conversations of his social circle. There’s no harm in debating with the witch, Draco thought, Nott’s too meddlesome for his own good.