Paperwork- Endless and Inescapable
Hermione woke that morning to the sounds of doves cooing in the distance outside. It was early, just breaking dawn, and the sky was grey and a bit misty and damp; it looked like it had rained overnight. She padded bare foot to the window and looked out at the garden and at the houses beyond. There was a faint haze over everything beyond the garden wall, the kind of haze that implied strong magic at the boundaries. Beyond the wall was what appeared to be an urban Muggle neighbourhood and Hermione looked over it, very curious.
Iskra’s house was in beautiful shape, but the houses beyond her walls looked like they were once expensive, but were now... tired. Plaster chipped and faded, colours muted and greyed, woodwork in need of a stain. A man was bicycling down the uneven cobblestone street on an older bicycle, a wooden crate strapped to the back, swerving a bit to miss puddled spots where pavers were missing or loose. Hermione turned her head when she heard a grating putt-putt noise, like an old, unhappy tractor, and watched as a small beige car, spewing a cloud of smoke out the exhaust, passed the cyclist. She couldn’t smell anything despite the open window, and wondered if the wards on the garden walls kept out exhaust smoke, too.
In the distance she could see blocks of uniform concrete apartment buildings, the grey tones of early morning punctuated by brightly coloured laundry hanging from a few balconies. Birds perched on the telephone wires, and she spied a stork’s nest at the top of one pole. Iskra’s yard was incongruously large for what appeared to be a very urban neighbourhood.
Magic was amazing.
It was easy, when in the wizarding world, to forget that a whole other world of people existed outside of the carefully warded boundaries.
Crooks stretched and rolled in the bed, taking up as much of the warm space Hermione had vacated as possible. He yawned his jaw widely as he stretched out his claws and retracted them, making it very clear that he wasn’t doing any more travelling today.
She glanced at the watch on her wrist and winced. It was very, very early back in England, a bit past 3 am, so 5 am in Bulgaria, but her mind was busy enough that she was not going to get back to sleep. Her sleep schedule still hadn’t recovered from almost a year of time-turner use, trying to cram as much as 30 hours into a single day, and oddly, she was better rested than usual.
She slipped on the outfit she’d chosen the night before - she’d feel horribly awkward walking around in a stranger’s house in pyjamas - and rebrushed her hair.
Ugh. It was wilder than ever, poofing to unimaginable proportions thanks to the rain. She braided it tightly and clipped it into submission and glanced in the mirror. Ugh. It was already trying to escape despite looking flattened and squashed, and she always felt that having it up made her face look weirdly proportioned. She pulled it down and wrapped it into a tight, high bun. Ugh. That felt... childish, reminding her of her childhood ballet lessons where she’d always felt so awkward next to the girls with their smooth, perfect ballet buns, while her hair had tried to escape no matter how many pins and how much spray she used. She let it down again, and it was even more frizzy thanks to her wrestling with it. Ugh. So unprofessional.
And her clothes – she’d felt so adult trying them on in the store, but now they felt totally unsuitable and childish too, like she was wearing her primary school uniform but had forgotten the blazer and tie at home. She felt naked without the form-disguising robes, too. She was tempted to just throw on a set of school robes over it all and call it a day, but that would be childish, too.
Finally she braided her hair back up again, twisting the bottom of the braid into a low bun, viciously stabbing it with a few dozen hair grips to keep it in place, tucking them under the other strands like her childhood ballet teacher had taught her so they were more-or-less hidden, although they still poked and tugged her scalp. She did NOT look in the mirror this time, and left the loo before she could spend another half hour on her maddening, uncooperative hair.
She dug out the tea tin her mother had sent her with from her trunk (the thought of a day without good strong British tea was abhorrent to Paulina Granger) She picked up one of her new books and a notebook and her favourite pen, and walked slowly downstairs as quietly as possible, the floors cool against her bare feet. In the kitchen, she started the kettle (just a tap to the side, a brilliant bit of charmwork), and fussed about, making herself a pot of tea. She used the downstairs loo as the tea steeped, then walked herself and her book outside, sitting on the hanging bench in the yard, absently swinging it back and forth with one foot as she watched the sunrise and snacked on raspberries.
She read through her book -a Bulgarian book on wards that included a LOT of content that would force it to languish in the restricted section at Hogwarts-, and jotted down questions in her notebook in hesitant and blocky Cyrillic. It felt... weird to be reading and writing Cyrillic. And it was so slow! Like her eyes didn’t know where to rest, didn’t know the patterns of the letters, but her brain did. And her hand didn’t know how to shape the letters, it felt cramped, and awkward, with letters in perfect script, not a fast and messy scrawl of long experience. Still, she could feel with every word she read, every word she wrote, the language settling into her brain, and Hermione thrived on nothing so much as progress and accomplishment.
///
“Ioana?” Iskra called from the doorway. It took a second for Hermione to register that she was talking to her.
“Oh, good morning!” Hermione said, and realized with amazement that she’d automatically used the Bulgarian - Dobro utro ,not Guten Morgen, or Good morning. Magic was amazing.
“Wonderful, you are awake. There’s banitsa and kifla in the basket on the counter. It’s a charmed basket, and the bakery in Plovdiv sends some fresh every day, so it isn’t stale. Come, sit with me.”
Hermione followed Iskra in to the kitchen and discovered the same flat bread-like thing she’d had at the restaurant the day before, and crescent shaped rolls. The banitsa was savoury, like a bread, but flaky like a pastry, and full of cheese and egg. She moaned as she bit into it, a fantastic start to the day. She’d take this over kippers any day.
“You must be tired,” Iskra said. “It’s early in Britain. Do you want coffee?” She picked up a copper pot, shaped somewhat like the creamer from a tea set, waggling it invitingly.
“Yes, please,” Hermione said, with interest, tea long finished, and inadequate for the morning.
“Do you take sugar?”
“I’m not sure -”
“Then I’ll prepare yours very sweet, like I do mine, and we can see for tomorrow.” Iskra was not a woman who seemed to tolerate indecisiveness, and Hermione liked her for it.
Hermione watched as Iskra waved a wand, and the stove top warmed. She flicked her wand again and water filled the little copper pot, and then she spooned coffee grounds and sugar into the little copper pot, and mixed it a bit, briskly, then set it onto the stove top. Another flick sent two water glasses to the table, and one more flick filled them with cold water.
Hermione took a bite of one of the crescent shaped rolls and discovered it filled with chocolate. Oh, she could get used to this!
“Kifla,” Iskra said. “Do you like them?” Hermione nodded enthusiastically, mouth full.
“They’re delicious!" Hermione said. She paused for a second, a question that had been bothering her all morning reaching to her tongue. "I didn’t think last night, but how did we manage to do the charm together without alerting the Ministry?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that here!” Iskra scoffed. “The trace is terribly imprecise, and my warding is thick enough that they’d never detect you casting here. I’ll have it removed later today at the ministry, just to be correct, so you have the proper paperwork, but most places you will be this summer, it wouldn’t trigger anyway. Honestly, it’s more of a formality, no one bothers with enforcing it in their own house.”
Iskra pulled adorable tiny cups and saucers from the cupboard. They reminded Hermione of the fancy child’s tea set that Megan, one of the worst of her childhood bullies, had lorded over the rest of the children when she had birthday parties, only letting her “favourites” use, which Hermione had been so jealous of. Iskra took the coffee pot from the stove top and spooned foam into each of the mugs, returning it to the stove top.
“Hogwarts has always been very strict, I’ve never done magic in the summer before. Does this mean the kids from magical families get to practice over the summer?” Hermione demanded.
Was Malfoy practising magic all summer, safe behind ancestral wards, while the muggleborn students were forced to pretend magic didn’t exist?! Sometimes Hermione felt like her parents truly didn’t believe she was learning magic at school, wouldn’t it be so much easier to talk to them if she could just demonstrate a charm she was talking about? She knew the Weasleys restricted their children’s magic usage (which seemed only logical, considering the existence of Fred and George), but she doubted the Slytherins would enforce such rules if they didn’t have to.
“Probably. Such a silly tradition,” Iskra said, pouring a bit of boiling coffee over the foam in the cups, returning it to the heat. “No worries, we will have it removed today, and, if I know the British Ministry, no one will remember to put it back on unless reminded.” She smirked wickedly at Hermione as she took the coffee pot back off the burner and poured more over the coffee, bringing them to the table. Hermione waited as she sat down, and cautiously sipped hers after she watched Iskra try some.
The coffee was – intense. Dark, bitter, and sweet, with ultrafine grounds that coated her mouth if she took too deep of a sip. Hermione wasn’t sure that she liked it, but she didn’t dislike it, so she sipped cautiously, occasionally, as she nibbled on more of the banitsa, which she definitely liked, and sipped water.
“Do you like it?” Iskra asked.
Hermione nodded, considering. “I think so , but I’ve never had coffee like it. It’s like espresso, but thicker. What is it?”
“Turkish coffee,” Iskra said. “The Ottomans held Bulgaria for far too long, and our local magical communities declined while they were here, but at least their coffee tastes good.”
“Oh! I was wondering how muggle borders and politics affected the local Ministry of Magic! I asked a few friends, but no one knew. The borders in Britain have been pretty static.”
“Yes – the magical community follows the muggle law of the land, and the muggle political divisions. But, the boundaries at some points have changed every other week. ” Iskra grinned, slyly. “Well, at least we pretend to, since the Statute went into place. We put a glamour on the building where the Minister for Magic meets the President, to look appropriately drab for meetings, lest they try to tax us more. One of the chasers on the team, her family made good money in the last few decades portkeying luxuries from western Europe to Bulgaria. I think a certain type of blue trouser was especially profitable? Muggle officials are usually quite willing to be sympathetic with the right incentives. The muggle government here is in transition, but it’s not changed much for us. They leave us alone, more or less, so long as we keep quiet and don’t try to get involved in Muggle wars, like that Grindelwald did.” Iskra waved her hand, and a stack of papers landed on the table in front of Hermione.
“But, enough about politics! Here! Make sure you read them thoroughly, ask me any questions, and once you’ve finished it all, you can sign. After breakfast, we can go to the ministry and file everything.”
Hermione read them – also in Bulgarian!- with interest as she drank her sweet coffee and another chocolate kifla, guiltily wondering what her parents would think about the sugar content of this meal. It seemed... standard enough and consistent with her letter. It outlined payment, upon signing she’d be unable to speak of it for 10 years, and honourary citizenship for the duration of the tournament.
“This says I won’t be able to talk about the world cup... what does that mean, exactly?”
“Ah, yes. It’s a standard tongue-binding curse,” Iskra said. “Nothing too unusual, but you’re mouth will freeze and be unable to form words, and you won’t be able to write, use sign language, or gesture agreement. Because of the high-profile nature of the World Cup, we have a permit to use one on the contracts. The more you fight it, the longer it will hold. It keeps you from slipping up inadvertantly.”
Hermione was really unsure about this... But, then again, Professor Snape and Professor McGonnagall had vouched for the opportunity, and used a similar magic, so she supposed it was standard.
“Are you finished your coffee?” Iskra asked. “Would you like more?”
“I am finished, thank you.”
“Here, then flip over your cup.” Iskra demonstrated with her own. Hermione did so, bemusedly. Was this going to be another Trelawney moment? She wasn’t sure she could handle hearing about impending doom this early in the morning, and divination was NOT the sort of magic she’d planned to learn this summer. Quiet, Hermione. No insulting your host even if she does believe in Divination, of all things.
“Good,” Iskra said. “We’ll wait a few minutes for the grounds to settle while you finish reading the documents. Make sure you sign the official name registration form, first. It registers you as a member of the Bulgarian Magical community, will allow you to open an account under that name, and sign documents with it. I’ve filled in your new Bulgarian name, and your Muggle English name, and after you sign that, you’ll be able to sign everything else with your Bulgarian name.”
Hermione pulled it out, read it three times, and signed it. Name changes in the magical world were obviously a lot easier than in Muggle England. She signed everything else, too, reading through it twice to make sure she’d caught everything.
“There, now, they should be ready,”Iskra said, picking up Hermione’s coffee cup and inspecting it.
“Well – you’ll create new relationships, and a chance at love,” Iskra said, “That seems promising. And exciting new employment – well, yes, we didn’t need the cup for that. Right now you have some uncertainty, which is only reasonable, and in the near future you must be on guard for danger. And your family will grow.”
“Well, that’s a lot better than I was expecting,” Hermione admitted. “My tea leaves apparently always show incoming doom.”
“Bah. It’s an imprecise art, Radka – Viktor’s mother- is much better at it than me, I think it takes a gift, and I don’t have it, but it can be fun to look. I’m not happy about danger showing up, though. We’ll keep an eye on it. Come now, let’s get to the ministry.”
///
Hermione’s head was pounding. Between the lack of sleep and the language charm she was ready for this day to be over and it wasn’t even noon yet. Her eyes were sore from reading all the documents she’d been presented with at the ministry. In addition to the forms she’d signed that morning, there were more things – two more forms for the official registration and name change, contact information forms, educational history, another secrecy agreement enforced with a body-binding curse, World Cup conduct agreements, banking forms... She’d been handed a tall stack of rolled parchments and felt like she’d barely made a dent in them.
It was like her eyes knew they didn’t recognize Cyrillic, and but her brain did, but there was just that extra little bit of a pause where each new word thumped itself past her subconcious. Writing was worse. Somehow she KNEW how to write her new name, and her address, and all of the other things the form asked, but her hand cramped weirdly as she tried to write the letters down. She’d taken to prewriting and figuring it out on a scrap of parchment, then transferring it to the official paper. It still looked like the awkward chicken scratch of a child, but at least she wasn’t having to ask for new copies.
Meanwhile Iskra and the officials gossiped in rapid Bulgarian, and her brain insisted on translating and learning THAT too, but they were talking so quickly she didn’t catch more than fragments.
“-My nephew is on the team and one of my nieces is the healer, of course. -”
“-hear about the affair with the dragon in Sofia?-”
“-bribed the muggle police with six crates of Ivan’s French wine-”
“-Muggles are sure asking for more these days-”
“-American team claims the-”
“-the British stretched the host country rules to get England, Wales, and Ireland playing, when England didn’t even qualify-”
“- Hear someone jinxed the French keeper -”
“- I’m certainly not letting them join the World cup without protection.”
Fifteen completed rolls of official parchment later, Hermione was questioning her decision to come to Bulgaria as she stretched, stood, and rubbed her head. This might be an efficient way to learn a language, but it sure didn’t feel like a pleasant one.
“Headache?” Iskra asked sympathetically. “I thought my skull would crack when I tried this charm on myself, learning Japanese during a seminar in March with a colleague. The first few days are the worst, but it was worth it, I published my paper in one of the Japanese journals, and now I have another few colleagues I correspond with, and have learned quite a few new approaches with luck and atmospheric warding.”
“I think my skull may have already cracked,” Hermione admitted, and Iskra laughed.
“Here, I brought headache tablets,” she said. “Take one.”
Hermione took one gratefully, and chewed it. It tasted different than the potion Madam Pomfrey kept on stock. The box said “Mister Georgiev’s Betony Headache Relief”. The tablet was bittersweet and somewhat astringent, leaving her tongue feeling dry, but tasted better than Madam Pomfrey’s potions. And instantly, the pain soothed. She mentally added buying a large supply of them before she went back to England, they’d make studying in the common room during exams far more tolerable.
“It’ll get easier as the day goes on,” Iskra said. “I found that by the second week -” Her voice cut off, and her face hardened into an expression that reminded Hermione that Iskra was not only an affable host, but was also a formidable witch.
“Come, now!” she ordered, grabbing Hermione’s arm. “One of my ward-alarms was triggered at the stadium.”
Hermione followed her, half dragged, as Iskra raced down the hall, and to the floo. Iskra pushed past the people waiting in line with barely a “Pardon me,” and dragged Hermione to the hearth.
“Varna Quidditch Stadium,” Iskra bit out, tossing a goodly handful of floo powder, and tossing a galleon behind her (far more than the fare for a floo-trip), as she dragged Hermione through the floo behind her.