Chapter Text
“Good afternoon, Ms. Roberts.”
“Good afternoon, Dr. Granger. The Minister is expecting you.”
“Lucky me. Got any sharp quills back there? I’ve got an eye that could use a good stabbing if it’ll get me out of this meeting.”
“Sadly no, I’m fresh out. And I wouldn’t dare hurt those honey-brown eyes anyway, the women of the wizarding world would never forgive me.”
The women shared twin smiles, their banter light but infused with a mutual attraction Hermione was hoping to act upon one day soon. The Golden Girl had always suspected the secretary was a bit of a fan if the shy smiles and pink cheeks Catherine Roberts displayed at their first meeting were anything to go by. Not that the uber-professional woman would ever say anything outright. At least not back then, when they were strangers to each other and long before they started feeling the other out for signs of interest, loyalty, and availability circling as if in some ritualistic courting display only they knew the rules of.
Since their first meeting, Hermione had made it a point to interact with the woman every time she had to visit the Ministry, even briefly, just to put her more at ease and slowly build rapport. Her efforts were clearly not in vain as the two women now shared a camaraderie built upon the mutual disdain of the slug walking around in a $3,000 suit and calling himself the Minister of Magic. Which reminded her that she needed to schedule a meeting with Professor Slughorn about the recent Wolfsbane troubles. Hermione sent up a brief apology to the Professor for mentally linking him, even briefly and only in her own head, to the aforementioned detestable slug.
Hermione shot one last reluctant look at the secretary adding an exaggerated slump to her normally perfect posture before throwing her a wink and gamely heading towards the heavy oak doors. The shiny brass nameplate sitting above eye level read, “PERCY WEASLEY” in a giant bold script and “Minister of Magic” in a smaller, more basic font as if the man himself was more important than the powerful position he inexplicably found himself in. Hearing the faint “Good luck” directed at her back, she cleared the thick door and spied the gastropod near his desk, a smoldering, purple drink in one hand and a newspaper in the other. Without looking up he directed a grunt to the room which she interpreted as an acknowledgment of her presence. As she came further into the dim office, he gestured to the two uncomfortably low chairs facing his desk, the right of which, she gently eased herself into.
She patiently waited for the man to shift his attention to her, well-versed in his not-so-subtle attempts to put her in her place as a civilian in his magical world, famous witch though she may be. His attempts at intimidation were heavy-handed, though some didn’t even notice the forced lower height of the chairs leaving the Minister in a more lofty position, their uncomfortable nature causing unprofessional fidgeting for the uninitiated victim. Many didn’t realize that the slightly too-high nameplate forced them to look up to read his name in quiet, inadvertent supplication. Most did, however, notice the dim lights that left his visitors slightly wide-eyed, their irises rapidly expanding pupils, cones and rods increasing their sensitivity to take in the maximum amount of light. It left them floundering for a critical 20 seconds, just long enough for Percy to throw them off-kilter with a quick question while they were distracted or pointing out something their eyes weren’t yet adjusted well enough to see. It allowed him to gain the upper hand instantly and it was just one more reason Hermione hated the slimy man. Today, though, he seemed to be trying out a new tactic; the “I’m far too busy for the likes of you so you’ll just wait until I’m good and ready” silence.
Hermione just sighed and examined her nails, ever attentive to their length for... reasons.
Finally, the man deemed her worthy of his attention and placed the folded newspaper down in front of her with a highly unnecessary flourish. Hermione was surprised to see it was a muggle publication, the still photos and uniform font making it immediately obvious.
“Have you heard about this, Hermione?”
“Yes, Percy, I have heard about muggle newspapers.”
“It’s Minister Weasley, or just Minister, Hermione.”
“Then it’s Dr. Granger, Minister.” Either they were on a first-name basis, or not. They had known each other for 15 years now. These petty games were tiresome but the pompous, insecure man appeared intent on continuing them. His attempts to gain the upper hand were the frantic scooping of water out of the sinking ship of his self-worth.
Sporting a thin-lipped smile and furrowed brow, he tried to take back control of the meeting, his methods appearing just as clumsy as he always had next to his more athletic siblings.
“Yes, well. This muggle newspaper has an article about a missing artifact.”
At Hermione’s less than engaged, blank stare, he clarified.
“A missing magical artifact.”
At this, she picked up the newspaper and examined the article Percy’s pointed chin gestured at, her back separating from the stiff chair, feeling sticky in the too-hot room. At the bottom of the front page was a short four-paragraph article beside a colored picture of a displayed artifact, typical of what you’d see in a museum brochure. The only thing of note about the photo, which would pass by unnoticed to anyone else, was the silky blonde hair of the person in the background, face mostly obscured as she (and it was undoubtedly a she) appeared to be engrossed in a nearby exhibit. Hermione froze, her muscles seizing her in place. She would recognize that blond hair and side profile anywhere. Fleur. Fleur, whom Hermione had shared one magical night with after the Yule Ball, sending her on a spiraling journey of self-discovery that landed her well into the land of lesbians. Fleur who had divorced her husband right after the war, citing a mutual decision that one look at Bill’s face showed was anything but. Fleur, whom no one had seen or heard from in ten years. Fleur. Fuck.
Hoping that Percy wouldn’t recognize that blond hair anywhere, she read the article, gleaning anything she could from it with fully dilated eyes flying over the black text. The missing artifact was an Egyptian Winged Scarab Amulet, turquoise in color, and dating from between 664 and 332 BCE. Interestingly, the amulet was in three pieces, an actual scarab beetle and two separate wings. However, the wings were not those of a beetle, but those of a bird, as was apparent by their shape and the indication of individual feathers. Several small holes featured in each indicated that at one time the winged scarab had been fastened to the wrappings of a mummy. Winged scarabs, meant to guarantee the rebirth of the deceased, were common funerary amulets. This particular amulet appeared to be made of turquoise, though the article stated it was made of faience, a type of fine tin-glazed pottery. The amulet had been on display at The Met in New York where it went missing the day previous, disappearing from its case overnight. Security cameras of the area showed a brief flash of light, origin unknown, before the amulet appeared to vanish into thin air, its glass display case undisturbed.
“Well, Minister. It looks like the Met’s security forces are in for an intriguing case. I’m not sure why you think this is magical in nature. Egyptian amulets have been studied at length and rarely, if ever, have been found to be anything other than well… old. And a doctored tape or bribed security guard could easily explain the sudden disappearance.”
“Did you happen to look at the picture, Ms. Granger?”
God, she detested this man. He made her hate her own name with his nasally delivery causing her shoulder blades to come together in a full-bodied cringe.
“Again, it's 'Doctor.' I did, but I’m obviously missing what you’re referring to.”
The red-haired man shifted towards her, though Hermione noticed his hair had gotten much thinner since she had seen him last, the combed-over strands clinging valiantly to his scalp like abandoned soldiers fighting to their last breath.
“Right there.”
His well-manicured finger appeared to point at Fleur causing her heart to beat so fast and so hard that she was sure it would pound itself right out of her chest. Before she could fully examine her body’s puzzling overreaction, the man continued pointing, his aim now much more focused as he pressed a finger into the paper, right on a faintly glowing circle on the glass display case, a subtle glimmer that could easily be the result of a camera flash or overzealous lighting.
“You must know something I don’t know because that appears to just be a reflection.”
“We, the Ministry that is, have been tracking this amulet for some time.”
At Hermione’s raised brow, Percy ignored the implied questions of how long the Ministry had been tracking the artifact and why and skipped to his next point.
“Our agents were there when the photo was taken and identified a clear magical origin to the light. They stated that it was some sort of diagnostic spell. The flash was brief, and the muggles didn’t seem to notice, but there was no doubt in their minds. They couldn’t tell who cast the spell and weren’t able to shut the apparition exit down in time to capture the thief.”
“So, you’re all jumping headfirst to the conclusion that the person who cast the spell is also the person who stole the amulet?”
Percy took in a long breath through his nose, causing a slight whistle and setting Hermione’s teeth on edge, her last ounce of patience flying out the window and she enviously wished she could follow it.
“A spell is mysteriously cast the day before the amulet goes missing. A coincidence is highly improbable. Surely, you’re smart enough to realize that.”
Thinking herself far too experienced with the Minister’s petty jabs to resort to a reply, Hermione surprisingly found herself with a retort heavy on her tongue. She let it fly with nary a reservation, more than done with his constant needling.
“Surely, you’re smart enough to realize that a curious witch or wizard could have wandered unknowingly into the exhibit and cast the diagnostic spell purely out of fascination with the amulet’s age and design. It would be ill-advised considering the location, of course, but it isn’t out of the realm of normal for those of us to which knowledge is a life-long pursuit.”
Percy may have taken a record number of NEWTs, but he ended his educational drive at Hogwarts, preferring to throw his hat in the political ring instead, an overinflated slug clinging desperately to established fighters, landing in the head office more through luck and slimy loyalty than any sort of intellectual prowess. Hermione couldn’t resist a calculated swipe at his super soft exposed emotional belly. Her stab was carefully calculated having honed her aim over many years of dealing with the man, exposing his weak spots one by one. Highlighting the temporary nature of his academic experience was a personal favorite of hers.
The Minister had clearly decided that this little back-and-forth display had gone on long enough, his eyes narrowing in a way that made him look more pained than the authoritative air she knew he was desperately hoping for.
“No matter the cause, we need you to get the amulet back. I am authorizing you to do whatever you need to.”
“Oh, you’re authorizing me, are you? Since when do I work for you? I left the Ministry a long time ago. There is a reason I am a consultant now. I say what jobs I take and when I take them.”
“We’re prepared to offer you 5,000 galleons for the safe return of the artifact.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?”
Percy’s smug smirk was enough for her to take back her easy-going acceptance, despite the money that would buy her a brand new, top-of-the-line potions lab as well as pay off her London flat. But blonde hair fluttered through her mind’s eye, its intoxicating scent being called forth from long-ago memories that were seared into her brain but bricked over with the sturdy materials of heartache and time. She knew she would pursue this with or without the Ministry’s approval. It might as well be with. And the reward purse didn’t hurt either, though its impressive size set off alarm bells in Hermione’s brain.
“I need time to get some affairs in order but I can set off for New York on Monday.”
“No, you’ll start today and you’ll start in Reykjavik.”
“Iceland?”
“Do you know of another Reykjavik?”
“My question was why Iceland, not asking clarification of if you meant Iceland.”
“Of course. Our trackers last identified its location in the capital, but the trace on the item has since been removed. We don’t know whom removed it or how.”
“Who.”
“We don’t know.”
“No, it’s… Nevermind. Give me everything the Ministry has on its location, history, and properties. I can leave tomorrow morning.”