Hermione Granger Quits Her Job
Hermione tried not to be nervous about the fact that her diary was missing – and likely in the hands of Draco Malfoy and/or Pansy Parkinson.
She hadn’t even wanted to journal – after the war, her mind healer required daily entries for the first six months.
It had become something of a habit, a way to clear her mind when she was feeling overwhelmed.
What would this mean for Willa?
The thought was rattling through her mind constantly – would her daughter be at risk because of the things she wrote within her diary? Would Malfoy be able to use her words against her in negotiations?
Hermione was scheduled to start back at the Ministry, effective immediately.
The unforgiving light in the Ministry atrium was different than the MACUSA office she worked out of in Chicago. Unlike the United Kingdom, the American version of the Ministry had hundreds of tiny satellite offices all over the country. It was not prudent for most witches and wizards to Floo or portkey into MACUSA headquarters everyday, particularly when their fieldwork was in San Francisco or Maui or Houston. The time differences that ranged across the country didn't help.
Despite relative ease in access to New York, Hermione preferred to work out of her office in Chicago. Her view of the Chicago River and Lake Michigan was freeing in a way that working in a big city was not. Since the war, Hermione found herself looking for comfort in nature - particularly American landscapes. The history that she had with the Scottish highlands and the big city of London was hard for her to contend with.
Her office in Chicago was open, the windows were large and floor-to-ceiling. The space was warm, the walls painted light shades of sage. It was a place where she could be comfortable.
Her notoriety had reached MACUSA, but the witches and wizards of America had not been involved in the Second Wizarding War. She was treated almost like a normal witch in America. No bowing and scraping and constant thank you for your service . She much preferred that. Every "thank you for your service" was a reminder of her unwilling participation in the war.
No sooner than she stepped into the Ministry, pencil skirt and blouse gray to match her gray robes, Hermione was accosted by noise. Various whispers swirled in the air, eyes darting – eyes glazed over – she was already unwilling to deal with the trouble and she hadn’t even made it to her office yet.
Hermione refused to be uncomfortable, grabbing a copy of the Daily Prophet and making herself as comfortable as she could be in the atrium of the Ministry. A crawling sensation was on her, like she was being watched.
She looked up from the Prophet and her gaze met familiar silver eyes. “Granger,” Malfoy greeted, “Can I sit for a moment?”
Hermione nodded, her typically tan skin suddenly green – and not in an olive way. “Malfoy,” She greeted. She noted that his hand was bandaged. “You didn’t heal your hand? After breaking Theo’s nose?”
Malfoy snorted. “If you had heard the things he said to me in that washroom, you would have broken his nose too.”
Hermione lifted an eyebrow, “Care to elaborate?” She wondered if Theo had provoked him or if Malfoy was exaggerating. When she asked Theo about the incident further, he had been evasive.
Malfoy conjured himself a cup of tea. He leaned back in his chair, loftily holding his pinky finger loosely from the side of the teacup. “No, Granger, I don’t. What I would like is to make some progress on negotiations. As you know, I have less than thirty days to make a decision about m-my…little Granger. I would like to have the matter settled.”
Hermione nodded, “What is it exactly that you want to see happen, here?” She would not make herself a liar, she would try and stall. If she ran the timer out, Malfoy might relinquish all options to custody.
“I want some involvement in her life,” Malfoy said, “To what extent, I am not entirely sure. I thought maybe about making her my heir, but I am unsure about that, too.” Hermione noticed that he curled his lip as he spoke, the right side of his face slightly upturned. “I was wondering…if maybe you would be willing to go out with me in Muggle London – bring little Granger with you?”
“What is the deciding factor?” She interrupted, sharply.
“What do you mean?” Malfoy replied.
“What is the deciding factor on your level of involvement? I don’t want to introduce her to,” Hermione paused, a painful lump in her throat, “I don’t want to introduce her to her father and then he decide he doesn’t want her. What makes you decide if she is your heir?”
Malfoy nodded, “I understand that, Granger – there is no part of me that wants to hurt her. As for if she is my heir...I think we discuss that a little more in detail.”
“Hurt isn’t always intentional,” Hermione lowered her voice. She had cast a Muffliato when Malfoy sat down, but the eyes surrounding them were overwhelming. “I don’t want to see my daughter affected by blood prejudice or by her name.”
Malfoy was silent for a moment, his fidgeting stilled. “Granger, I make this vow to you, I will never hurt her.” He stood up, breaking the silencing charm. He slipped a small book out from his coat pocket. “I didn’t know what it was, when I took it.” He whispered. Something that resembled shame lingered on his face. The skin across the bridge of his nose was red.
She watched him as he retreated, Auror robes billowing behind him. His promise to not hurt her daughter did not reassure her. He did not say he wouldn’t hurt her in the process.
Hermione did not make it to lunch before she handed in her resignation notice. The Ministry of Magic was no longer a place she could stomach to work. Her office here in Diagon Alley was fluttered with papers and old newspaper clippings. It was noisy, the colors were too stark.
MACUSA was different.
Hermione had not been cursed in the Department of Mysteries in MACUSA or watched Sirius Black die in the Hall of Death - she didn't even think MACUSA had a Hall of Death. Hermione had not seen Voldemort take over MACUSA. The cordoned-off office of one Dolores Umbridge still existed here. The place where Dolohov had scarred her permanently was spitting distance.
The voices in her mind, the memories of all those who had perished, it was too much. Unlike the Hermione Granger of eight years ago, she didn’t even bother quitting in person. She sent an owl.
When she had returned to Nott Manor, she sent two more owls. One to the old proprietor of Flourish and Blotts and another to Malfoy.
Malfoy,
Next week. Seven Dials.
-HJG