Chapter Text
October 2003
Hermione Granger prided herself on being painfully rational and, oftentimes, annoyingly put-together and a bit of a know-it-all. She's been called a swot more times than she'd like to admit, along with her other monikers: Brightest Witch of Her Age, the Golden Girl, and the Chosen One's Best Friend.
And currently, she was about to hex said 'Chosen One' six ways to Sunday, considering he was twenty minutes late to a meeting with Kingsley Shacklebolt—Minister for Magic (and sometimes, friend).
Fighting in wars will do that to a person.
She honestly didn't understand how Harry Potter could be so late. They left Grimmauld Place together this morning. Actually, she watched him leave with his travel cup of coffee, unruly dark hair sticking up in every which direction, and wire-framed glasses askew. Ginny (on a brief break from playing for the Hollyhead Harpies) leaned against the threshold, smirking at the hickey he was trying to conceal on his throat.
Honestly? She loved her friends, but they could at least try to cast Silencing Charms, considering Harry's room was right above her own.
Still, grotesque hickeys or not, he was bloody late to this meeting.
Hermione shifted against the leather chair, giving Kingsley a slight grimace as it squeaked under her. They'd already been through the small talk this morning: 'How's life at Grimmauld?' To which she replied politely, 'It's fine. We finally got that poltergeist out of the third floor.' Or the awkward: 'So, how's work?' And Hermione's blatant lie of, 'Oh, it's fantastic! I love my job!'
Okay, so she didn't exactly say that.
The truth? She hated her position in the Ministry.
Four months after the war ended, Kingsley showed up at the Burrow (where Harry, Ron, and Hermione were all living, trying to cope with everything that had happened) and offered them jobs. Not just any jobs—but high-up, high-paying jobs.
Of course, Ron and Harry jumped at the chance to become Aurors. Ron practically blurted: 'Are you bloody kidding me? I don't have to go back to school?' They would be accelerated within the program and trained under Robards.
Hermione, however, declined and went back to Hogwarts to finish her education. It was something she was determined to do after the castle had been reconstructed following the Battle of Hogwarts. It was hard going back, hearing the whispers of people in the corridor, and listening to their gratitude when she felt like she didn't deserve it—but she managed.
During her official seventh-year, she focused on learning more about her own recovery. While most students had someone from St. Mungos come in and speak to them—allowing them to talk about their issues and the trauma of the war—Hermione knew hers ran deeper than most.
It wasn’t as simple as black or white. Or even a year at school, hiding from the world. No. Hers weighed heavily on her shoulders, even though Ron joked whenever he visited that she just needed to quote-unquote lighten up.
Yeah, she didn't think that that would help with the nightmares she had of lying on the floor of Malfoy Manor with Bellatrix hovering over her, carving out derogatory words into her skin. Or the fear that still ate at her day-in and day-out.
So, when the Healers they brought in from St. Mungo's didn't help, Hermione took matters into her own hands. Literally. She studied coping mechanisms of PTSD and Muggle therapy and psychology.
And a year later, she graduated from Hogwarts, and Kingsley offered her the same proposition: 'Whatever role you want—we will give it to you, Hermione Granger. Name your price.'
She didn't have a price; she just wanted something not handed to her on a silver platter.
Still, Kingsley was persistent. 'I've reviewed everything you've learned in your year at school,' Kingsley had said. 'And I think you would really be beneficial in this new department we're creating—the Department of Magical Rehabilitation and Displacement. We really need your help, Hermione. Think about it.'
Hermione did—think about it, that was—for three practical days before politely telling Kingsley she wouldn't accept a high-up position without merit and that anything considered entry-level would be perfectly fine.
Unfortunately (or fortunately for Kingsley), Hermione was easily convinced with a few words and a handshake. Idiot. Honestly. She nearly smacked herself over the head for the way Kingsley just had to look at her with his wide, sable eyes, and she folded.
She'd be horrible at Muggle poker if she ever got into the gambling sport.
The reality? She didn't have it in her to complain or argue with Kingsley once she realized what he had done. Plus, the newly formed department was a disaster, and she needed to put her head down and work if she actually wanted to get it up and running.
In fact, the department was so new that it consisted only of Hermione, a perpetually nervous wizard named William Watts, and Pansy Parkinson—but that was a topic for later discussion.
The real issue was that several children were orphaned during the war, newly bitten werewolves were running around scared, and Muggle-borns were traumatized and some untrusting of the Ministry after everything that occurred.
Things seemed to just go downhill from there.
She moved in with Ron. She still had nightmares. She hated her job, knowing that it wasn't what she wanted to do.
Then, a few months ago, she came home after a grueling day at work to find Ron in bed with another woman.
Hermione didn't even give him a chance to explain—or entertain the shouted words—before she went right to Grimmauld, where Harry was living, and locked herself away in the room she'd used all those years ago.
Five years together. Five years. Five. And for four of those years, she gave bits and pieces of herself to Ron, only for him to take home some Muggle girl from the stupid Muggle bar he worked at after he was kicked out of the Auror Program for failing to pass his written A.R.B.s (Auror Regulation Boards).
But whatever. That didn't matter now, Hermione supposed.
She'd buried herself so deep into her work in her own department that by the time she actually had the mental capacity to think about the image of Ron's bare arse and those widespread, tan feminine legs as he thrust into her—utterly oblivious to the sound of the bedroom door opening.
Kingsley cleared his throat, looking down at the timepiece on his wrist. "I suppose we should just get started," he said. "I'm sure Harry has a reason for being late."
Hermione wanted to roll her eyes, but thought better of it. Instead, she adjusted herself on the chair for the thousandth time.
"You've been with the Department of Magical Rehabilitation and Displacement for about a few years now, Hermione," Kingsley began. "And you know how impressed I am with everything you've done to help the creatures and children as we enter into a new era. Sometimes, I can't believe it's been almost five years since the war, and while we've done so much to help rebuild our world, plenty needs to be done."
She bobbed her head, anxiously picking at the skin around her thumb. Nervous habit.
Kingsley grabbed a thick manila folder off his massive desk. The golden light poured in from the wall of windows, obscuring him like a shadowgraph.
She always liked the Minister's office the best, ever since she came to work here. It was all dark woods and leathers, with a massive limestone hearth that was both functional and practical. Along the mahogany bookshelf, Kingsley kept photographs and various artifacts he'd collected as an Auror and undercover guard to the Muggle Prime Minister. He once told Hermione that he could learn a lot from others' treasures—an insight into the minds of the wicked and the good.
Hermione, always pragmatic, thought it was utterly foolish.
Kingsley cleared his throat. "I called you in here because—"
The door to the office flew open as Harry stumbled through, out of breath. "Sorry, I'm late, Minister. An issue sprang up with an underage wizard and some Muggles."
"No worries, Harry," Kingsley remarked, grinning broadly to reveal his perfectly pearlescent teeth (a Dentist's wet-dream). "You're here now."
Righting himself, Harry took several strides across the crimson and navy Persian rug, greeting Kingsley with a handshake before patting Hermione on the shoulder. She knew the gesture wasn't patronizing, but she somehow felt it in her bones.
Harry sat beside her, propping one leg over his thigh. "What did I miss?" he asked.
Kingsley opened the folder in front of him. "I was just about to tell Hermione why I called you two here. As you know, it's been four years since the war and the trial of the Death Eaters. Harry—" Kingsley dipped his chin "—you spoke at the trial of Draco Malfoy when he was first convicted."
Hearing that name for the first time in years sent Hermione's spine rigid.
"He's coming up on his hearing in a few weeks, and I've been reviewing several files of those convicted. Malfoy, however, stood out to me the most." Brandishing his redwood wand, Kingsley levitated two additional folders over to them. "We created Hermione's department for a reason."
God, she absolutely hated it when they called it that. I
Really, it wasn't her department; it was the Ministry's. Yeah, sure, the department had only three employees—including herself—but it was fully functional and ran without a hitch.
The newest (within the past six months) just so happened to be Pansy Parkinson.
While Hermione wasn't necessarily on board with hiring Pansy at first, the witch had a way of convincing her to do anything. And, yes, she really meant anything.
She would like to say that they were friends. They'd gone out for drinks now several times, and one of those, Hermione drunkenly spilled the horrible day she caught Ron naked and red-handed. Literally. Obviously, Pansy listened and offered equally witty and straightforward advice—forget him; he's not worth it.
Good qualities for a friend, Hermione surmised.
But on top of everything, Pansy was competently organized and often offered key insights that Hermione found useful. She was never late (a plus), and she always got everything completed at an impressive rate (a win). Pansy said it was the Slytherin in her with how she could make those fools in the Wizengamot and the High Council wet their knickers.
Also (even if Hermione would never admit it to anyone), she liked how uncomfortable William got around the witch—blubbering and glassy-eyed.
It was quite adorable.
They must've been talking because suddenly Hermione found two sets of eyes on her, waiting for a response.
Clearing her throat, she felt warmth creep over her neck, painting crimson watercolor splotches beneath her silk blouse. Wonderful.
"As I was saying," Kingsley drawled, "Draco Malfoy is being released from Azkaban in four weeks. Harry, as interim Head of the Auror Department while Robards is on leave, you will oversee his transition and trial in the Wizengamot. More information will be given, but he is assigned to you during the six weeks after his release."
The folder magically opened on a phantom wind, showing her a recent image of a twenty-three-year-old Draco Malfoy. In the black-and-white photograph, the boy who bullied her in school stared haughtily at the camera, dressed in striped prison garb. His blonde hair was ruffled, longer than she'd ever seen, curling around his jaw and nape, and his full lips were curved into a sly, almost all-knowing smirk.
Positively irritating.
She ignored the photo and focused on the various papers in the folder. Over the four years, the Healers at Azkaban had given all reports and other behavioral analyses. And that part of her couldn't help but latch onto various keywords: student inmate, respectful, reserved.
Hermione looked up then. "I'm sorry, Minister, but I don't see why I need to be involved in this."
Kingsley grinned, almost pleased with himself. "That brings me to my next point: my goal is to start a program for rehabilitating prisoners, and Draco Malfoy will be our first test subject. Harry will be in charge of technical stuff with the Auror Department, but you, Hermione—"
Nausea curdled in her belly. Did she eat breakfast this morning? God, she couldn't remember. Why couldn't she remember?
"You will be tasked with the rehabilitation of Draco Malfoy," Kingsley explained. "You will monitor his progress. Meet with him for six weeks and assess if we can properly determine if Draco Malfoy can safely integrate into society and if he poses a threat to the wizarding community as a whole."
"Is he going to live with us?" Harry blurted, brows pinched as he continued scanning the file. "I mean, Grimmauld has enough rooms, but don't you think that will be a little… uh, weird?"
"Merlin, no!" Kingsley barked. "Absolutely not! The Ministry will supply him with a temporary place of living that will alert us of comings and goings, and if any and all magic has been used."
A heavy breath escaped her.
"What do Muggles call it again?" Kingsley asked.
"House arrest," Hermione and Harry said in unison, exchanging a glance.
"Ah! Yes, right." Kingsley reclined back in his chair, resting his hands over his stomach. "He'll be on house arrest and monitored thoroughly. Harry—as you know, the Auror Department is working on a prototype for a bracelet that will alert us to the use of magic. You'll receive reports daily of everything that he does."
Hermione somehow gained her voice because she found herself asking: "So, what am I supposed to do again? Just meet with him and see if he can assimilate into society?"
"Couldn't have said it better myself!"
Hermione glanced over at Harry, and she had a feeling they were wondering the same thing: How was this going to work?
"Of course, there are rules," Kingsley said. "Reports must be given weekly, and by the end of the six weeks, you will stand before the Wizengamot and present your findings. We believe with your skills, Hermione, you can dive into Draco Malfoy's mind. Also, I know I don't have to tell either of you this, but there can be no romantic entanglements with the individuals you're working with."
She was almost taken aback as the warmth spread over her. Romantic entanglements? With Draco Malfoy? Oh, absolutely not. God, that would be when hell froze over and—okay, so pigs could fly. Whatever. Either way, she would not, under any circumstances, get involved romantically or otherwise with Draco Malfoy.
That much Hermione Granger knew, even as she accepted the task with a handshake and another pat on the back from Harry.