Part Six
Part Six:
Once, when Hermione was little, no more than seven or eight, she’d gotten food poisoning. Her parents had called out from work and spent the whole day in their bed, Hermione lying between them, as they stroked the hairs of her clammy forehead and read from the heavy book of fairy tales that was her favorite at the time. And she remembered that even on that day, she hated that she was sick because she wasn’t even enjoying the day off with her parents. This felt nearly identical to that. Ginny was on the bed behind her, arms wrapped around her shoulders as Harry crouched in the space between the bed and the wall, holding Hermione’s hands. She was sure it was well past when Harry was due in the office, and Ginny was the type of social butterfly that never had a Saturday without some kind of plans, and yet they were both still here. Any other moment, she would have been so overwhelmed by the love of her friends. But just then, it didn’t even feel like it was happening to her. Sure she could feel them physically, Ginny had cried for a while, and her breath was still hitched as it blew over Hermione’s ear, but it all felt fuzzy. Hermione, briefly, wondered if she was having some kind of stress induced breakdown. Should they take her to St Mungos? Or give her a calming draught? But then, she reasoned, that if she needed those things she probably wouldn’t be aware of it. Instead, she just felt entirely numb, cold. The immediate panic had given way to a thick layer of disbelief, and now, as she lay there, unable to move, or speak, or cry, the disbelief was crumbling away, leaving only an emptiness in its place.
After a long time, or maybe only a few minutes (time like everything else was feeling fuzzy), Harry rocked forward onto his knees, bringing his face down so it was eye level with hers. He had been running his hand through his hair constantly, that nervous habit of his, and it was all wild and unkept now. She could see the bottom half of his scar now, normally so well hidden under his dark hair.
“What do you need?” He asked her, voice thick. “What can we do?” But any words Hermione may have wanted to say couldn’t find their way out of her tight closed lips. And maybe that was the answer in and of itself, nothing. There was nothing she needed because there was nothing she could do.
“Scream, cry, whatever you need.” Ginny said from behind her. Hermione wished she could cry. But even though she’d felt on a near constant verge of tears every day since her break-up, now her eyes were bone dry. So dry, in fact, they were stinging slightly, like maybe her body had stopped blinking for her. With an effort that far outweighed what it should have cost, Hermione closed her eyes. The dark was…nice, better than staring at Harry’s contorted, worried face, so she didn’t bother opening them.
A long time passed, Hermione could tell this time because she counted her breaths, hoping they were like sheep and would let her sleep. No such luck. Eventually, Harry let out a heavy sigh, assuming maybe that she was asleep. Ginny must have too, because her arms loosened from around Hermione and she felt the mattress shift as Ginny sat up.
“What do we do?” Harry whispered, “She’s practically catatonic.”
“What do you expect? He’s a fucking Death Eater.” Ginny snapped.
“I know,” Harry whispered back, quickly “I just mean, there must be something we can do. An appeal maybe?”
“We could kill him.” Ginny said, not sounding a bit like she was joking.
“Be serious, Gin.”
“Oh I am entirely serious. As far as I’m concerned he should have been thrown into Azkaban along with his father. He should be rotting in a cell. We’d only be setting the universe right.”
“You’re just angry.” Harry said. There was movement, the floor creaking, and Hermione imagined him moving to stand by the window, or settling in the desk chair. She could open her eyes to check but they felt tethered down.
“Of course I’m angry.” Ginny said, “But don’t dismiss me just because I’m mad. Think of all of our friends, our family, that died because of people just like Malfoy. If the whole point of this ridiculous law is to stop blood purity, getting rid of the left over Death Eaters feels like a good first step.”
“We aren’t killing anyone.” Harry said, firm. His auror voice. “Besides, according to the Ministry, he isn’t a Death Eater. Dark Mark or no Dark Mark, they classified any of the people who joined while still in Hogwarts as ‘coerced minors.’ I do think it’s suspicious that of all the people to match with Hermione, the Ministry chose him.”
“Do you think someone tampered with it?” Ginny said, sounding alarmed.
“Maybe. Or some kind of error.” This was a new thought to Hermione, a flicker within her otherwise dark and empty interior. A mistake. It must have been. She’d answered pages of questions, any number of them should have been a clear indication that the last person in the world she should ever be forced to marry should be Malfoy. Clerical errors happen all the time, especially in a new department. It was normal, to be expected even. She took a breath and, for the first time since opening the letter, it felt like the air actually entered her lungs.
“I need to talk to Shacklebolt.” She said, her voice coming out rough and cracked like she really had been asleep.
“Hermione,” Ginny said, returning to stroking her hair comfortingly. “I thought you were sleeping.”
“The Ministry’s closed to visitors.” Harry said, “That’s why they needed auror’s there today. I guess they were assuming lots of people would try and come after getting their matching letters.” Now that Hermione had a plan, or at least the first step of one, she wasn’t going to be deterred.
“You’re Harry Potter. They’ll let you bring me in. Besides, he was all keen to have our support last week. So maybe he’ll see me.” Harry tugged at his tie, and Hermione realized this was one of those extremely rare and far between moments in their friendship where she was the one asking him to break the rules. Would he really turn her down after all the times she’d bent her moral compass for him? Eventually, he nodded.
“If we say you already have the meeting scheduled, I doubt anyone would call us both liars. But once you’re actually there, I don’t know if he’ll see you. They’ve been really upping the security, since there’s bound to be lots of upset people trying to force their way in to protest.”
“I’m not upset.” Hermione said, though her tone indicated otherwise “They clearly made a mistake. It needs to be fixed and once it’s fixed it’ll all be fine.”
Harry had been right. The lobby, filled the other day, was eerily quiet as they moved through it. There was a single auror stationed in front of the info desk, but when he saw Harry, the man simply nodded. She wondered how many people had tried to come today, to appeal their match. The elevator doors pulled open, and in her first stroke of good luck, the attendant was the same, short wizard as last week.
“Mr. Potter, good afternoon, Sir.” He said. “The auror offices, I assume.”
“For me, yes” Harry said, and then looked at Hermione.
“I have a meeting with Shacklebolt.” Hermione said, trying to make her voice as confident as possible. The attendant looked at her for a long moment, and Hermione was sure he would call her on the lie, but then the doors slid shut and the elevator was in motion without a word.
“Drop Hermione off first, please.” Harry said, “I’m already late.” And he chuckled in an easy, off handed sort of way. He was so good at this, the office talk and the casualness. She often worried that, when the shine of being the Boy Who Lived eventually wore off, that Harry wouldn’t be able to handle being ordinary, but as he chatted with the elevator attendant, asking perfectly timed questions about whether his husband had gotten the job in the assistant minister’s office, Hermione realized that he would be just fine. He would marry Ginny, and he’d eventually lead the auror office, and he’d remember the names of all the elevator attendant’s spouses, and he’d be happy. She just wished she had the same sort of confidence in her own future. The doors opened back up to the Minister’s hallway, and Harry reached out and squeezed her hand before she stepped out of the elevator. She was alone this time. No righteously angry Ginny, or calmly confident Harry. Just her.
The secretary, dressed again in the old ministry robes, didn’t even raise her head when Hermione stopped before her desk.
“No meetings with the Minister today, send a memo and it will be addressed as soon as possible.”
“I need to see Minister Shacklebolt.” Hermione said, and the secretary’s eyes snapped up, clearly shocked that Hermione wasn’t some Ministry employee looking for an audience.
“He’s unavailable.”
“Please tell him Hermione Granger is here to see him. He’ll want to talk to me. It’s quite urgent.”
“You could be the reincarnation of Merlin himself and you still wouldn’t get through those doors. Not available means not available.” Her eyes were narrowed, and Hermione wondered if she was going to call for security. She pictured herself being dragged out by her elbows and tossed through the floo. What a sight that would be. An idea sparked at the image. She so rarely used her public image as a tool, hating it more days than not, but if there ever was a moment, wouldn’t it be this. She leaned her hands on the table, the wood creaking.
“I need to speak with Minister Shacklebolt about the matching letter I received in the post this morning. Please do tell him that if I don’t speak with him, I will be walking out of here and apparating directly to the Daily Prophet. I am sure any number of reporters would love to write the story of how Hermione Granger is permanently leaving Britain due to the barbaric marriage law, and her encouragement of all those affected to follow in her footsteps.” She wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself once she finished, but she tried to channel Ginny and affixed what she hoped was an intimidating sort of smile as she sat in one of the chairs along the opposite wall. The secretary blinked several times, like she was stunned perhaps, before standing up and disappearing through the double doors, muttering to herself. Hermione wasn’t entirely sure, but she thought she heard the words “entitled brat.”
She was expecting it to be like last time, where the secretary would come back and open the door for her to go to Shacklebolt’s office, but the woman didn’t return. There wasn’t a clock, but Hermione guessed it had been at least ten minutes when she heard the elevator doors open at the far end of the hall. Maybe Shacklebolt had been out, and the secretary had called him back in. But, quickly, she realized it couldn’t be him when the distinct click of high heels on the marble floor approached. Around the corner, dressed in another sharp pantsuit, this one a deep red, was the woman she’d seen leaving Shacklebolt’s office the last time they were here. She stopped in front of Hermione, holding out her hand.
“Ms. Granger, it’s so good to meet you. I’m Beatrice Fitzmoor, head of the Department of Matrimonial Placement.” Hermione, uncomfortable with having to stare up at her, rose and shook the offered hand, the woman’s grip was firm and her smile the tiniest bit cold. Not fake, just practiced. “Shall we go down to my office for a chat?”
“I’m, um, here to see Minster Shacklebolt?” Hermione said, and she hated how it came out a bit like a question so she added on a “I won’t speak to anyone else.” Beatrice Fitzmoor gave her another of those practiced smiles, this one softer at the eyes.
“Unfortunately, Kingsley is in a meeting with the French and Bulgarian Ministers today, or he would have loved to meet with you. I know it’s distressing, given the seriousness of the situation, that you can’t meet with who you planned to, but I assure you I have all the knowledge and authority to assist you.” The more Beatrice Fiztmoor spoke, the more Hermione realized that she did not like her. Hermione liked most people, or at least tolerated most people. But there was something in the way she was speaking, like Hermione was a toddler on the verge of a tantrum instead of a witch who was instrumental in saving this very Ministry from falling, that made her skin itch with annoyance. When Hermione didn’t answer, Beatrice simply took it as agreement, and turned back towards the hall. “We’re going to the fourth floor. “ She said over her shoulder, and Hermione wasn’t sure if it was information or command. Either way, she found herself following behind before she quite realized what she was doing. As they waited for the elevator, she tried one more time.
“I really think I’d be more comfortable speaking with the Minister. I think I should just wait until he has availability to see me.”
“You’re free, of course, to do as you want, Ms. Granger. But as I said, I’m the department head, and while you may meet with the Minister, if your concern is related to the matching notifications that were received today, he will defer to me.” The elevator opened then, the ding of its arrival popping the tense silence. This time, the elevator attendant was an ancient looking man, so old he was resting on a narrow stool instead of standing. He didn’t even bother to ask the destination, just pulled the lever and, when the motion stopped said in a cracked, wheezing voice,
“Fourth Floor.” Beatrice said nothing as she led Hermione through a maze of desks and offices, most of them occupied, even though it was a Saturday. None of the employees glanced up, but Hermione noticed a few vaguely familiar faces, no one she knew partially well. She did notice, however, a total lack of noise, beyond the scratching of quills, and the sound of ripping and shuffling parchment. Beatrice must run an incredibly tight ship if there wasn’t a whisper of office chit-chat. Even in the always moving, often stressful St. Mungos, the healers Hermione trained with were always finding time to gossip over the most inane things.
At the back of the office, Beatrice slid a key into the door of a glass walled office and pushed it open, ushering her in. It looked spartan, a mostly empty desk winged by two bookcases, filled with unlabeled grey, blue, and red binders. Hermione sat in the singular chair across from the desk and watched as Beatrice, without much hesitation, pulled one of the grey binders from the shelf, flipping through it before landing on whatever page she was searching for with a quiet “here we are.”
“So, Ms. Granger” She said, as she settled into her high backed chair, taking out a quill and poising it ready to write, “Do tell me what you feel the issue is, please be as detailed as possible.”
“The issue,” Hermione said, trying to hide her annoyance but clearly failing. “Is that there was an error in the matching. Minister Shacklebolt assured me that the matching process the ministry would be using was thorough and well tested. However,” She had to stop and take a breath, her voice shaking “however, there is clearly something wrong with it.” Beatrice wrote for several seconds after she was finished speaking, before looking up at her.
“Could you speak more to that? To why you feel there is an issue? We haven’t received a single complaint or concern over incorrect matching, so this would be a first.” Hermione wondered if, at least in part, the lack of complaints was due to the Ministry closing to the public. It’s hard to hear the criticism when it’s locked outside.
“Ms. Fitzmoor, the matching notification I received,” Hermione kicked herself for not bringing it with her so she could have pulled it out at this very moment. “listed my match as Draco Malfoy. This is clearly a mistake, and it needs to be rectified.” Beatrice was writing again. Hermione craned her neck to try and make out what the notes said, but they were in some kind of short hand she couldn’t read, all squiggly lines and short dashes. Beatrice was nodding her head as she wrote, and when she finished she looked up with that same, softened practice smile from upstairs.
“I hear that you’re upset over your placed match, but I can say with complete confidence that there was no error in our matching system. If you and…Mr. Malfoy” she paused to read the name from the binder as if Hermione hadn’t said Malfoy's name twenty seconds before, “were matched, then it was because you two are the most compatible across seventy five distinct placement points.” Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but Beatrice held up a finger to stop her. “We are not making these decisions lightly. In fact, our system was developed and tested over two years, with favorable results across the board for the entirety of its trial. An error is simply impossible.” That helpless feeling was flooding back into Hermione, cold saltwater down her throat, filling up her lungs, making her desperate.
“Ms. Fitzmoor, the Malfoys are a family of Death Eaters. What reasonable system would partner a Death Eater with someone in the Golden Trio and call it a match? How is that ‘favorable?’” Beatrice sighed, closing the binder with an audible click.
“Ms. Granger, I am not minimizing your role in Voldemort’s defeat. Nor am I trivializing any actions done by those in the Malfoy family line who have been tried and punished. However, may I suggest to you that categorizing people as all ‘good’ or all ‘bad.’ or as ‘death eater’ and ‘golden trio’ is the kind of thinking that this law is working to combat?” Hermione blanched at the accusation.
“I hardly think –” Beatrice held up both hands, surrendering.
“I mean no offense, Ms. Granger. I am merely stating that the pushback we have received is almost primarily made by those who feel that their status, whether blood status or societal status, should make them exempt from this type of government oversight.” She lowered her hands, folding them on top of the desk. “And I will say to you exactly what I have said to each of them. You have freedom in our society, the freedom to choose to be who you want to be. But that freedom does not come without consequence. If you are unwilling to participate in the marriage law, if you deem your match unsuitable to your political or personal ideology, you may choose to turn in your wand and leave us or to keep your magic and travel to countries that do not yet have such stipulations in place.” She set her quill back in its holder, like she was signaling that nothing of further note taking value would be said.
“So you’re refusing to do anything?” Hermione said, her voice surprisingly even despite the internal battle raging between rage and fear that was beginning once again. Another practiced smile,
“As there’s no identifiable error in the matching, there is, unfortunately, no ability to change your match based on your like or dislike.” Beatrice said, as she flicked her wand. The door to the left of Hermione opened, she was clearly being dismissed. Hermione didn’t move.
“Minister Shacklebolt indicated that it was very important that Harry, Ron, and I were in support of this law.” Hermione said, hoping that the intimidation card, her final card, may work as it did with the secretary. “I don’t know how I could ever support something that is clearly matching people without reason or recourse.” Beatrice was still smiling at her, but Hermione watched as it turned from a carefully neutral smile to something colder, harder. When she spoke, her voice was razor edged, no longer placating a crying child.
“Ms. Granger, Minister Shacklebolt might hold you and your friends on a pedestal for your actions during the war, but I would like to make myself incredibly clear. Shacklebolt’s opinion of you, or anyone’s opinion for that matter, carries no value in this department. There is no status here, whether blood or celebrity. You may go to the press if you wish, but I think that you will find that an outburst of that nature will have the opposite effect, and only act as proof of the necessity of this law. I believe, with my entire being, that this is the thing that is best for our community, and I will not let you stand in the way of it.” She flicked her wand again, and Hermione’s chair pulled back from the desk, angling her towards the door. “You have the same options as everyone else, Ms. Granger. If you do not have faith in our government, in the foundation of our society, then you are welcome to take leave of it.” The fear was gone, the anger too, Hermione was consumed with just the overwhelming dread of knowing her plan had failed. She rose, knowing without a doubt that Beatrice would have no qualms about calling security to drag her out. Her legs felt heavier than normal, like since sitting down, they had been laden with heavy stones. Her whole body was shaking.
She made it all the way to the doorway, each step a herculean task, when she felt something tap against her elbow. Looking down, she found a floating packet of tissues, and she realized the shaking was because she was, finally, crying. The tissues poked at her arm again, but when she took them, looking one more time at Beatrice, she didn’t see a single drop of sympathy in the woman’s face. The coldness was gone, back to a closed lip smile, but when she spoke one last time there was a glimmer of it back in her eye,
“As a reminder, Ms. Granger, the deadline indicated in the forms does require written notice of your intent to immigrate or your wand for destruction by the end of business today. But as a one time courtesy, I will extend that deadline until tomorrow.” She motioned with her wand and the binder returned to its spot on the shelf. “If we don’t receive notice by then, your presence at the marriage ceremony will be required in the grand meeting room on the 30th.” And then, before Hermione could even begin to formulate a response, the door, glass thought it was, shut firmly in her face. A blonde haired boy, so young looking that Hermione couldn’t believe he’d finished Hogwarts, was at her side. He had on auror robes. So she had called security, Hermione realized bitterly.
“I’m to escort you to the floo, Ms. Granger.” He said, all false bravado.
“I can find my way on my own.” Hermione said, the words sounding garbled through her crying. The boy gave her a truly sympathetic look, fingers twitching like he was going to reach out and touch her arm.
“The Ministry is closed to the public today, Miss. So I’ve been instructed that I must walk you out personally.” All the fight was out of Hermione, so she just gave a nod and let herself be led back to the elevators and down to the lobby. The tears made everything look muddled, an impressionistic painting of the green floo fire, and swirling of brick and tile as the boy called out her location, a hand on her elbow pushing her in and the Ministry falling away behind her.
Ginny was waiting for her, at 12 Grimmauld Place, arms already ready to catch her as she stumbled on the hearth. They tumbled back together, landing hard on the floor between the two chairs. Hermione cried, face pressed into Ginny’s shoulder, hair in her mouth as Ginny rubbed small, soothing circles over her back.
“I’m so sorry.” Ginny whispered, over and over again before finally admitting, “I should have let you talk to Ron.” But Hermione just shook her head. The tears were subsiding, slowly, her breath shallow and hitching as her body fought to recover. When she eventually pulled back, wiping at her face with the sleeve of her sweater, Ginny’s own chin was wobbling. “Are you leaving us?” She asked, voice barely audible even though they were right beside each other. She felt the real question under Ginny’s. Was her connection to the magic world and all those she loved in it really worth the cost of spending the rest of her life married to Malfoy? For the second time, Hermione tried to picture it. Tried to see herself living back in her parent’s spare room, studying for Muggle university or working admin at some office job and going home to a shoebox flat in Muggle London. She felt like she was twelve again, staring down through the trapdoor where Harry and Ron had disappeared, knowing she could run or jump after. Then, the decision had felt simple. She’d never had friends before, and once she’d gotten them Voldemort, unknown horror, the threat of death…none of that had felt that scary. Not when the alternative was going back to being alone.
“I’m not leaving.” Hermione said to Ginny, “I’ll figure out a way to reverse the law. It may take time, but if anyone can, I think it’ll be me.”
“But in the meantime…” Ginny trailed off, and Hermione felt the resolve hardening within her.
“In the meantime,” she finished for Ginny, “I’ll have to marry Malfoy.”