1
The look of the woman in front of me intimidates me. I'm not easy to intimidate but the woman in front of me, about 60 years old, is fixed on me, she doesn't move a muscle on her face and she doesn't look away no matter what. She makes me feel as if she knows that I'm about to do something bad or illegal, she tries to seem bored in front of me, but I know there is a lot behind that look.
A few years ago, when I was in Paris, I came across many looks similar to that. On the outside they look like they're bored, like they don't want to be there with me, but I know that's not the case. That look always brings bad things with it.
“Granger, Hermione.” My attention finally moves away from the woman. "Over here please." The warm smile of the lady– who looks my age – is refreshing after half an hour sitting without moving an inch feeling cornered by an old woman.
Sometimes I wonder if it's just my past, if it's my brain that plays against me to give me a hard time, that doesn't let me rest or let my guard down at any time of the day or if I actually develop some kind of instinct with the years and I can really read people. Their inside self.
It is not the first time something like this has happened, I have found myself following more than one stranger with my eyes, my heart uncontrolled, imagining how many horrible things they are planning or about to do. Ginny has made fun of me countless times, which bothered me, but when that teasing changed to concern I wished with all my desire that the jokes would return.
Clarisse, the assistant who guides me through the hallways, speaks animatedly. I have to force myself to stop analyzing her movements and gestures to be able to pay attention to what she is telling me.
The world has changed in the last five years. After the long war that spread throughout Europe, the world dedicated itself to changing countless laws and regulations to have better control if one day we found ourselves in the same situation. The policy of zero tolerance for discrimination was taken without severity causing thousands of pure blood families to lose members and wealth, on the other hand the government system had also changed. Each continent had only one minister, they hoped to unite the countries by having a single person in charge.
Bullshit.
Because our people had won the war, and Harry Potter had become the Master of Death, the magical minister was in London. I thanked Merlin deeply for that.
That the Ministry was still in London only lightened my work.
Clarisse gave me a smile before leaving. She was new, last month when I had brought all the paperwork from St Mungo's I had been looked after by a different person, a man, but I can't remember his name. I also don't remember who was before him. Not the previous one. The staff changes often, another new norm.
"Forward." The Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, greeted me with a dull smile. Just like me, the war had taken more from him than a normal person could bear and he had endured it. Not only had the Minister lost his family and been in captivity when a rumor spread that he was the favorite to take the place of Minister just before the war ended, he also lost his eye, now looking menacing with his black eyepatch on the left side of his face. “It's nice to see you, Hermione, like every month.”
"Minister." I joked a little, Kingsley was part of my small group of friends, although the circumstances had not been the best, captivity had made us bond and cling to each other, I was a girl and he was an adult about to start his family, I never realized when our dynamic had changed, suddenly we were like siblings fighting tooth and nail to get out of the hole. Kingsley rolled his right eye and waved me over to sit in the chair across from him. “I'm just passing through, St. Mungo's is upside down and they need me back as soon as possible.” I put down the yellow folder, one good thing about all the changes in the wizarding world is that they had adopted a lot of Muggle technology in an attempt to force everyone to adopt the customs of non-magicals, bless the pens and notebooks.
“Is Friday's plan still the same?” Kingsley glanced at the monthly report without paying attention to it. “Tina is driving me crazy.” Tina, his pregnant wife, who loves to have visitors so she has an excuse to prepare huge feasts and desserts.
“Still on, Kings. Besides, I don't believe it's that bad, Tina is a sweetheart whenever I visit her. You’re just exaggerating.” Kingsley laughed sarcastically. I know that her intimate life is different from what they share with me, but I'm not going to be against the woman who fills me with books every Christmas or who makes cheesecake for my birthdays like my mother did.
You're alone in this, Kings.
I think, unable to help but smile at his unhappy married life.
“It's just the hormones. It will be over soon and everything will return to normal in time.” I can't help but reach out and pat his shoulder like I'm a dog looking for some love. “You can handle it.” I smiled at him.
"Ha! You say that because it doesn't make you sleep on the floor after a long day of work.” Despite the complaints, I know that Kingsley doesn't really hate his life with Tina, quite the opposite. It's funny to see him have such common problems and to be able to be there with him to make fun of him in his face. Tina is not only Kingsley's great love, Tina is the light at the end of the tunnel, the one who brought him a little normality after the chaos. And now she will give him a family. You really can't complain about having to sacrifice a few nights of sleep on the floor. “Anyway, I'll see you outside Gringotts on Friday at 6. See you around, Mimi.”
The way back is quick, most of the workers are still working their shifts so the chimneys are empty and, unlike when I arrived, I did not have to train to be able to use one. My shift at St. Mungo's doesn't start until noon, so I still have some free time, however a few months ago a part of the DoM department was transferred to St. Mungo's, while half of the department stayed at the ministry doing no I know that the other half was transferred to the basement so they could work on creating new incantations and spells to help the sick and study the curses that were created during the war and for which there is no cure. As a healer – and war hero – I was given the supervision of our new team, which implies much more work than I already had on my hands, also time that I use to distract myself with something, so that my mind leaves me alone.
Mornings at St Mungo's are usually filled with peace, peaceful enough to be found in a hospital. The night staff prepares to leave the hospital and the morning staff fill the dining room ready to start their shift at any minute. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and tea fills the reception and everyone greets each other.
It's early August so when I arrive at my office stacks of folders greet me.
They are not only the files and reports from the previous month but also the applications of recent magical medicine graduates, ready to be selected and begin their internships. I had started working here three years ago, I was about 23 and St. Mungo's was a disaster. Kingsley had helped me put the place in order, and get the position I am in, but little by little we had moved forward.
I began to arrange each of the files in rows, separating the requests from the files and leaving everything that had to do with administration in front of the desk. Among the stacks of paper in front of me were also letters. Because I don't have direct contact with patients, at least not as frequently anymore, I don't usually receive as many letters from families hating me or grateful for the treatment they received here. Most of my correspondence it’s from Ginny, she was almost never in the country, she was currently looking for a Quidditch team to join and between training and tests she never stayed in one place for long. Ron also sent letters from time to time, which were actually notes setting the date and time for our monthly meetings at the burrow with Arthur. The only other person who sent me letters was Harry, but over the years they had ceased to be a greeting on our birthdays or a small update on our lives every few months.
For the first time in a long time my three old friends had sent me letters at the same time.
And for the first time in a long time Ginny and Harry were back in London.
Have you ever seen someone cry to the point where their face turns red, they can't breathe anymore, and you start to panic because you don't know what to do or say?
That moment is this.
Ginny's red face matches her hair, she has been stuttering for about ten minutes – two minutes after I walked through the front door of her new home – and I hadn't understood a single word due to the constant hiccups and stuttering.
I was never good with other people's feelings, at least not the deep ones. It is easy for me to control an angry Ginny – like that time Ron stole her broomstick in fourth grade and broke it – or a happy Ginny – which is very common since she seems to have a bottomless reserve of good humor and hope – but when she is sad or crying is when I don't know what to do or say apart from what is logical, I can hug her and say encouraging and sweet words to her, I can listen to her and give her space to vent until she stops crying and is tired enough to sleep. But this time it's different.
Her gaze is empty and his shoulders tremble. She's not sad, she's destroyed.
She opens her mouth again, breathing as deeply as her lungs allows her and tries to speak again, but her desperation makes the stuttering return making it impossible for her to finish a word, she stands up abruptly – almost knocking over the chair – and disappears from the kitchen for a few minutes. seconds.
When she returns she brings with her a white envelope, throws it on the table and waits patiently while I open it to read the contents.
We regret to report that last Saturday night, July 30th 2005, Mrs. Molly Weasley was found dead in Paris.