Chapter 1
Hermione Granger lived a life of drudgery.
Somehow, in her earlier years, she had gotten the impression that if Voldemort won, the world would become a wasteland of cruelty and desolation.
Her cozy office in the Ministry sat on an upper level and she only answered to two people, one of which was Voldemort himself.
Excuse her, the Dark Lord.
Old habits were hard to break.
She took her quill to yet another petition for leniency from the Notts. They had lost their son in the aftermath of the war and were struggling to produce another child.
The price of failure was high.
Hermione enjoyed the underlying desperation from Pureblood families as they scrambled to avoid the punitive, and often somatic, punishment of the unfeeling machine of the Ministry.
However, the Notts were one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. A faulty list, to be sure, but the book was too well-known to disregard.
She sent out an Order of Extension letter and crossed that off her to-do list.
“Which way did you decide, Miss Granger?” a low voice demanded quietly.
The velvety voice of her former Professor had not changed a whit. Ironic, considering how he died.
“As we discussed. She has six months to get up the duff and attend her first appointment at St. Mungo’s.” She looked up at him where he sat, forever in the large gilt frame.
His heavily lined eyes narrowed and thin lips curled. “You become crude in your glee.”
Hermione boredly ran the scratchy tip of a clean quill along her lower lip. “They should feel grateful to meet the requirements of the law. Half-bloods are still being--”
“Careful, Miss Granger,” Snape drawled, black eyes glinting.
She shut her mouth and began to sort through her stack; petitions, pitches, and proposals, oh my. She handled most of the priority correspondence, which made her both hated and feared.
The Repopulation Law had been passed shortly after the Ministry was up and running again. Naturally, the law affected only Pureblood families since inferior bloodlines weren’t fit to breed.
A knock at her door; most likely her assistant, Tracey Burke, née Davis. The half-blood hated her job.
Hermione altered the protection spells with a wave of her wand. “You may enter.”
Mr. Parkinson entered the room, trailed by Tracey.
“Your one o’clock meeting is here,” she announced politely. The first few weeks of her employment had been...difficult. Tracey hadn’t wanted to respect her Mudblood boss.
She wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last. Hermione allowed it to go on for exactly twenty-one days before teaching Tracey what happened when her expectations were not met.
“Thank you, Tracey. You may go now.”
Mr. Parkinson took a seat at one of the chairs, setting his pointed hat on the seat next to him. “Advisor Granger, I’ve come to respectfully appeal the decision regarding Narcissa Black.”
“Yes?” She felt immediately bored. He also wouldn’t be the last to ask, but he had been the first. Most interesting.
As the last living Black accessible, Narcissa was heavily sought after. Most Pureblood witch had the freedom to choose their lovers. Their Lord, however, decreed the widow’s womb open only for business, not pleasure, and certainly not to anyone who he hadn’t approved.
Hermione sighed. “At this point, the only two people who can override a Wizengamot decision on Narcissa is the Minister of Magic, and, well.” She looked him over slowly, a smile stretching along her mouth. “Are you saying our Lord and Savior is mistaken?”
“No! No.” Parkinson scratched his nose, hiding his face partially after his outburst. “I just thought, I thought perhaps you, being the Advisor to the Minister, might put in a good word for me.”
How typical. A twist of her wand brought a thin pile of parchment zooming to her desk. On top, the latest Order of Denial in regards to Parkinson's official Application to Court Narcissa Black.
The Ministry’s Barrister wrote up the language, and had been forced to cooperate with her on the finer points of the changing law.
“What do I get out of this?” she asked without interest. It was the same conversation each time.
Parkinson eagerly pulled a draft from Gringott’s to show her the prewritten amount. It was insultingly small; whoever tipped him off must’ve forgotten to tell him that her services did not come cheap.
“I may put in a good word for you and suggest this,” she jabbed the parchment with a finger, “be revisited.”
He nodded eagerly, gaze following the slip of paper that disappeared into her robes. “Thank you, tha--”
“Ahh,” she wagged a finger at him. “That will not be all.”
His words died mid-stutter, lips twitching closed. “Eh, yes? What else can I do for you?” Flushed with relief at his success, a self-satisfied smile twitched at his fat, florid face.
Her returning smile was larger, threading her fingers together atop the file. “Bark.”
He blinked. “Pardon me?”
“Bark. Like a dog.”
His eyes darted around, as if someone else might explain what was going on to him. "Do you want me to?”
“Yes.” Her smile stretched wider. “Bark like a dog, Parkinson. Out loud. Right now.”
A satisfying array of emotions crossed his face; shock, realization, then venomous.
“Out with it, I haven’t got all day.” She picked up the Order denying him the right to the Pureblooded witch.
His mouth worked for several seconds as he debated on if he’d do it. If she would follow-through with her silent threat.
Hermione grabbed the file itself and moved to fling it in the fireplace merrily crackling away.
He barked once, high pitched, and looked a bit shocked at the sound.
She raised both eyebrows, waiting.
“More?” he snapped.
Keeping one hand on the file, she pointedly gestured for him to continue.
A short string of barks erupted from his wet lips, like music to her ears. His muddy eyes shone with anger, but his glare got lost a bit as he degraded himself for her.
“Why don't you come here, doggie?” She scooted her chair back and patted her knee. “Keep barking, let me pat the good doggie."
He stared at her as if she had gone mad. But with one last look at the file, he got to his knees.
The snickering from the portrait above had the wizard turning brick-red, but he gamely shuffled forward on his hands and knees.
“I said bark!” she reminded sharply.
He barked loudly, crawling around the desk.
She kept patting her knees, and when he got close enough to rub his balding head, she did so eagerly. It was dry and flaked under her palm. “What a good boy! Good boys deserve treats.”
She produced a small dog treat from behind his ear like a whisper of forgotten Muggle magic tricks, not that he’d recognize the significance. She held it out on the flat of her palm.
He stared.
“Take your treat, doggie. Eat it up, yum.” She grinned, showing her perfect teeth.
He leaned forward slowly, taking it in his lips and gnawing. It took a bit from him to finally bite through the dense treat.
Hermione continued to pet his head as he choked down the dry chunks. “Do you like kneeling to a Mudblood, doggie? Do you like that? Speak if you do."
He glared at her, still chewing.
“Speak!”
He barked, crumbs spraying all over her knees. But he'd been good, so she didn't make him lick up his mess.
She shooed him away. “Thank you, Mr. Parkinson. The Ministry will review your application. Have a nice day.”
The wizard remained kneeling uncertainly before backing up to stand. He walked stiffly to the chair and jammed his hat on his head, still grinding the last of the dog biscuit in efforts to swallow.
He dared not spit it out.
“Oh, and Mr. Parkinson,” she waved prettily at him as he paused in the doorway, “give my regards to your daughter.”