Chapter Text
Hermione had barely set her satchel down when her assistant poked her head into the office.
“Mrs. Granger, the Prime Minister wants you. Now.”
Hermione blinked. “Now as in… ten minutes from now, or,”
“As in, I’m supposed to escort you immediately before he combusts,” the assistant said, already half out the door.
Hermione sighed, pushing her hair back. “Well, that sounds promising. I do love a good spontaneous scolding before tea.”
When she stepped into his office, the Prime Minister didn’t bother with pleasantries. He looked up from the folder on his desk with the expression of a man who’d just been told his country was about to sink into the sea.
“Granger.” His voice was short, clipped. “Sit.”
“That’s not ominous at all,” Hermione muttered under her breath, then added more audibly as she sat, “Good morning to you too, Prime Minister.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I trust you know why you’re here.”
“Usually it’s because the magical world has either exploded, vanished, or insulted one of your ministers,” she said lightly. “But considering I wasn’t the one who misplaced a troll in Hyde Park last time, I’d prefer some clarification.”
His eyes flicked up sharply. “Do you ever answer a question directly?”
“Only when it deserves a direct answer,” she shot back, tilting her chin.
He gave her that thin, disapproving smile she’d come to know too well. “You’ve a habit of being terribly smug for someone whose world left her on the doorstep of mine.”
Hermione’s jaw tightened but she smiled anyway. “I prefer to think of it as… repurposed. And might I remind you, Prime Minister, you didn’t exactly slam the door in my face when Kingsley offered you a translator for the incomprehensible chaos that is wizard politics.”
His mouth twitched, which was about as close as he ever came to conceding she had a point. He leaned back in his chair. “Something’s come up, and of course, it’s magical.”
Hermione gave a dry laugh. “It always is. If it were anything else, I imagine you’d have left me in peace with my coffee.”
Cartwright didn’t bother beating around the pitch. He slid a parchment envelope across the desk, its wax seal glinting crimson in the sunlight.
Hermione’s brow furrowed, “This isn’t one of your memos.”
“Correct,” Cartwright said, sitting back in his chair. For the first time in their years of strained cooperation, he looked positively gleeful. “This one comes from your side.”
“Kingsley?” she asked, instantly alert.
“Minister Shacklebolt asked that I give this to you personally. Said it was ‘sensitive.’” Cartwright made air quotes with his fingers, childishly, and gestured to the seal. “You’ve been accused of breaching your resignation terms. Again.”
Hermione blinked, then let out a short, incredulous laugh, “Excuse me?”
“Oh, don’t sound so surprised.” He laced his fingers over his stomach. “You’ve been walking a fine line since you left the magical government, and someone’s finally called you on it. Frankly, I’m surprised it took this long.”
She broke the seal and skimmed the parchment, her lips tightening with each line. “This is a warrant from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” she said slowly. “A formal review?”
Cartwright’s smirk deepened, “Delightful, isn’t it? For once, I’m not the one calling you to account.”
Hermione looked up sharply, “This is ridiculous. I work for your government, James. It’s my job to liaise with the magical world. Of course I come into contact with magic.”
He tilted his head. “It’s not the contact they’re concerned about. It’s the… excess. There are reports of trace magic in your home.”
Hermione drew in a steadying breath, gripping the parchment a little too tightly, “We’ve been over this before. Per my last review, I agreed to a trace similar to what underage wizards are subject to, but it’s flawed.”
“Flawed,” Cartwright echoed, one brow arching.
“Yes. You can’t tell if it’s me or one of my visitors triggering the trace. And frankly, I can’t help it if they do magic in my home. But I assure you, it’s never in my presence. They know better.”
Cartwright’s expression softened only slightly, the way a lion’s might before it pounces. She knew it all too well. “You say that like I should be reassured.”
“You should be.” Hermione leaned forward now, her voice cool, controlled. “If I’d wanted to break my resignation terms, I wouldn’t have signed them. You may see I was a fool for doing so, but I did. I’ve honored them.”
He gave a low, skeptical hum. “Your assurances are very moving, Granger, but they’re not mine to accept. You’ll have to convince the DMLE when they arrive for your review. In the meantime…” he tapped the parchment with one finger, “…I suggest you get your story straight.”
Hermione’s eyes flashed. “My story is already straight. It’s the law that’s crooked.”
Cartwright chuckled, low and pleased. “You haven’t changed at all, have you? Still the crusader, even when you’re in the dock.”
“Better that than a bureaucrat hiding behind his desk,” she shot back.
He actually laughed at that, brief and sharp. “We’ll see how clever you sound when they’re here. Seven sharp.”
Hermione stood, slipping the parchment back into its envelope, and said confidently, “I’ll be here. But I warn you, James, if this is a witch hunt, they’ll regret it.”
Cartwright smirked again, folding his hands. “Somehow, I don’t doubt it.” He paused, studied her, “You know, Granger, you are an asset.”
Hermione blinked, holding back a laugh, “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re good at your job,” he admitted grudgingly. “Too good. Which is precisely why I wouldn’t put it past you to skirt the rules when it suits your purposes.”
Her brows shot up, “Did you just compliment me?”
His face twisted as if she’d accused him of blasphemy, “I did no such thing.”
“You did.” She leaned onto one foot, arms folding across her chest, cheek twitching to suppress a grin. “You called me good at my job. That’s a compliment.”
“That was an observation,” he corrected sharply.
“With a flattering undertone.”
“With a suspicious undertone,” he retorted. “Don’t put connotations to my words, woman.”
Hermione laughed, short and incredulous. “Merlin, you just can’t admit I’m even competent.”
“You’re reckless,” he shot back, though his tone lacked true heat. “I don’t like magical people, Granger. I don’t trust them. Never have.”
Her smile faltered, her jaw tightening. “Yes, I’ve noticed. Funny thing, when I was a child, wizards didn’t trust me either. Muggle-born, bookish, a nuisance to their precious traditions. And now I work here, with you, and still it’s prejudice all the way down. I’ve walked both sides of the fence, and you know what I’ve learned?”
Cartwright raised a brow, “Do enlighten me.”
“That it’s exhausting deciding which side is worse.”
For a heartbeat, silence settled in the room. Cartwright shifted uncomfortably, as though her words had scraped a little too close to something he didn’t want to feel. Then he cleared his throat, brisk and businesslike.
“You’re dismissed for the day.”
Hermione blinked. “Just like that?”
“Yes, just like that.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What about the rogue potion case? We still have half the report unfinished.”
“Not a problem.” Cartwright flipped open a folder without looking at her. “Nott says he can come finish it. Just leave your notes on your desk.”
Hermione smirked. “No need. I finished it ahead of schedule.”
He paused, then sighed with exaggerated annoyance. “Of course you did.”
She rose smoothly from her chair, gathering her satchel. “Where would you be without me, Prime Minister?”
“Probably enjoying a much quieter office,” he muttered.
Hermione flashed a triumphant smile as she swept toward the door. “No, you’d be lost in the nether without me.”
Cartwright grumbled something unintelligible, which only made her grin wider. She stepped into the corridor, her heels clicking decisively, and for once didn’t turn back. An unexpected day off was a rare gift, and Merlin knew she deserved it.
-
Hermione had barely settled into her chair back in her office before she rolled over lazily across the space to toss a pinch of Floo powder into the fireplace. The green flames curled upward, and after a moment Harry’s head appeared.
“Harry.”
He winced at her tone, “That bad already?”
She folded her arms, leaning back. “I’ve just been handed a warrant. By the Prime Minister. Care to explain?”
His brow furrowed. “A warrant? From who?”
“DMLE,” she said crisply. “Supposedly at Kingsley’s request.”
Harry’s frown deepened, “I haven’t heard a word about this, Hermione, but I’ll see what I can find out on my end.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”
“Meaning I’ll poke around without sticking my neck too far out until I know what I’m looking at.” He gave her a look that was exasperated and pleading. “Don’t hex anyone in the meantime.”
“I make no promises,” she muttered, but her lips twitched.
Harry glanced off to the side, then back at her. “Listen, I have to go, meeting starting in two minutes. But we’re still on for dinner tonight?”
Her expression softened. “Of course. I made pasta.”
Harry barked a laugh, but it wasn’t convincing. “Great.”
Hermione arched a brow. “You don’t believe me.”
“I,”
“I’m joking,” she interrupted smoothly. “I’m ordering takeaway.”
His brows visibly relaxed, though he tried not to show it. “Good. I mean, good. That’s good.”
She smirked knowingly. “Coward.”
“Survivor,” he corrected quickly. “Alright, I really have to run. Don’t let Cartwright chew you up before we get there.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said sweetly. “I chew back.”
Harry snorted, then the flames flickered and his head vanished, leaving Hermione in her office with a warrant on her desk and a half-amused smile on her face.
Another bloody review.
Hermione slumped back in her chair, staring at the parchment as though glaring alone might set it aflame. A warrant. More than a formal review. Not the first, and if she was being honest with herself, probably not the last, but this one felt different. Someone wasn’t just checking boxes. Someone was after her.
Lovely. As if she didn’t have better things to do than repeatedly justify her existence to two governments that seemed equally ungrateful. She’d left the wizarding world to make a point, and what did it earn her? Endless suspicion. The irony wasn’t lost on her: she was doing both worlds a favor, and yet she had to defend her position in both. Over and over.
Fine. Perfect. Splendid.
She drummed her fingers against the desk. Could she live without magic? Well, maybe. Probably. If she absolutely had to. It wasn’t as though she needed charms to manage laundry or cook or write reports. Millions of Muggles did it every day.
But then her mind flicked, unhelpfully, to the drying charm she’d perfected for her hair. Gods, her hair. It would eat hours of her life without magic. And dishes, Merlin, she loathed doing dishes. She’d done it once, to prove a point to herself, and the bubbles had somehow multiplied like an infestation, until she nearly drowned her entire kitchen in soap.
And then there were the little conveniences, stockpiles of potions Ginny smuggled her like contraband cosmetics. Hair tamer, bruise balm, the one that made her skin look slightly less corpse-like after an all-nighter. Small mercies, and she was supposed to give them up?
Yes, she thought bitterly. She could live without magic. She’d simply hate it every single minute.
Hermione let out a dry laugh at herself. Marvelous. She’d fought to be accepted as a witch despite her Muggle blood, and now she was fighting to be accepted as… what? A bureaucrat who wasn’t allowed to use magic but still wasn’t Muggle enough to belong? Brilliant work, Granger. Top marks.
She shoved the warrant aside with unnecessary force. “Another bloody review,” she muttered under her breath. “Let them come. At least I’ll be properly annoyed for it.”
-
Back at her flat, Hermione reached into the cupboard, pulling down a neat stack of plates before she even realized what she was doing. Halfway to the counter, she stopped, frowned, and muttered, “Pish posh.”
She turned on her heel, slid the ceramic plates back into their place, and marched to the pantry. “Who are we kidding? Disposables.” A packet of paper plates was unceremoniously yanked free and plopped on the counter.
But the universe clearly wasn’t finished with her. When she went for the wine glasses, one slipped, tumbled, and shattered spectacularly across the floor.
Hermione groaned, pressing her fingertips to her temple. “Of course. Because why wouldn’t it?”
She was just reaching for the broom when a whoosh from the Floo announced Ginny’s arrival. Her best friend stepped into the kitchen with all the grace of someone who’d done it a hundred times before, brushing soot off her sleeves.
“Mind cleaning that up for me?” Hermione asked flatly, broom dangling uselessly in her hand.
Ginny raised a brow, already drawing her wand. “I don’t mind,” she said sweetly, then flicked the broom with the tip of her wand so it flew back against the wall. “But I do mind that you’re apparently under review. Again.”
Hermione rolled her eyes heavenward. “Oh, please. You just used the Floo. Any trace magic here is already muddied. If the Ministry’s watching, you’ve done me a favor.”
The shards vanished with a casual swish, leaving the tile gleaming. Ginny leaned against the counter with her arms folded. “Favor or not, you’ve got to admit, it looks bad, Hermione.”
“I’ll admit it looks tedious,” Hermione shot back, pulling her mobile out of her back pocket and thumbing it awake. “Now, spicy dumplings or regular?”
“Spicy,” Ginny answered promptly. Then, as though it were merely a footnote, she added, “Oh, and Nott’s joining us tonight. He wants to discuss your… predicament.”
Hermione froze, phone hovering mid-scroll. Then, slowly, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Well,” she said, almost wry, “finally. Someone knows something.
Hermione flicked through her takeaway options, then glanced at Ginny. “By the way, did you bring the hangover potions I asked for? I’m out.”
Ginny’s mouth dropped open. “Honestly, Hermione, If you're under watch, I can't be your contraband mule.”
Hermione burst out laughing, sliding her phone onto the counter. “Oh, come on. You say that as if I don’t pay handsomely in gifts.” She reached for a tote bag tucked under the table and pulled out a little parcel. “These toys are for James and Albus, and these are Imported sweets. The proper kind. Not Honeydukes’ best, these are Muggle-made, full of corn syrup and terrible for you. Harry will adore you for them.”
Ginny tried not to look interested, which lasted all of three seconds.
“And,” Hermione added, triumphantly holding up a small bottle of tablets, “Vitamins, but these were made from Whisperwheat. You've been hunting for yeah? Hard to find in the magical world, but the Muggles call it Thiamine. Same thing, better packaging.”
Ginny snatched both items with mock indignation. “Merlin, you’re shameless. Trading sweets for potions. You’d make a fine Knockturn Alley dealer.”
Hermione said, smirking. “I’d run the place in a week.”
Ginny stuffed the contraband into her bag anyway, muttering, “Gods, I’m shameless,” though her eyes twinkled. Then her expression softened, almost pleading. “Just… come back home, Hermione. Really home. Where you belong.”
Hermione’s smile faded. She looked around her kitchen, the paper plates stacked on the counter, the spot where glass had been just moments before and shook her head. “This is my home. Not with some stranger the Ministry would have forced me to marry, as though I were part of their breeding program.”
Ginny bristled, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she said quietly, “Everyone I know was paired with people they knew. Friends, acquaintances. It wasn’t all strangers. Or you can choose.”
Hermione gave a sharp little laugh. “That’s probably worse. What if they’d stuck me with Marcus Flint?”
Ginny snorted. “Or Cormac McLaggen.”
They both shuddered in perfect unison, then dissolved into helpless laughter, the sound bubbling through the kitchen like relief.
Hermione leaned back against the counter. The laughter ebbed, leaving behind that hollow space it always seemed to lately.
“I never expected to push Oliver away,” she said quietly. “I just… prolonged things. The engagement. There was always another reason to wait, another paper to write, another project that mattered more than picking a date.” She let out a bitter laugh. “And when the Ministry stepped in, he chose the first option that wasn’t me.”
Ginny’s face softened. She reached out, resting a hand on Hermione’s arm. “Hermione… if you’d been engaged for three years, were you really ever going to marry him?”
Hermione’s lips pressed together. She wanted to protest, to insist yes, of course, eventually. Instead, all she managed was a quiet, “Maybe.”
Ginny tilted her head. “Maybe?”
Hermione sighed, staring at the clean tiles where the wineglass had shattered minutes earlier. “He didn’t take too kindly to feeling like the Ministry forced my hand. He wanted me to want it enough to choose it myself. And I… never quite did.”
Ginny gave her a sad smile. “That doesn’t sound like a man who really lost you, Hermione. It sounds like one who was never quite yours to begin with.”
Hermione’s throat tightened, but she forced a wry smile. “Trust you to put it like that.”
Ginny squeezed her arm. “Trust me to tell you the truth.”
The Floo flared green again, and Harry stepped out, brushing soot off his robes. Ginny’s face lit instantly, and she practically launched herself into his arms, giving Hermione just enough cover.
Hermione slid the little stash of potions into the cupboard behind her, careful not to nudge the precariously balanced wine glasses that rattled like glass chimes if she so much as breathed wrong. She shut the door with exaggerated delicacy, exhaled, and snatched up her mobile again.
“Hello, yes, I’d like to confirm an order,” she began, turning toward the hall. Her voice caught the second she rounded the corner.
Not three friends waiting for her.
But a fourth body was draped in official black Auror robes, platinum hair catching the low sitting room light. Draco Malfoy, leaning casually against her wall as though her home were his office, lips quirked into that insufferable half-smile that had irritated her since she was eleven.
The shop worker on the other end of the line droned, “Hello? Ma’am? Are you still there?”
Hermione blinked once, then forced her voice into something resembling calm. “Yes. Just a minute.” She lowered the phone, eyes narrowing on the git.
Ginny gave a helpless shrug, “Apparently Malfoy is joining us for dinner. Here for your review. And,” she added with faux sweetness, “he’ll take anything that’s not spicy.”
Malfoy’s smirk widened, like he could already sense her hackles rising. “I’m not picky, Granger. I’ll take whatever’s available.”
Hermione glanced at the clock above the mantel. Seven o’clock. Sharp. Not tomorrow. Tonight. Her stomach did a neat little flip of irritation.
She turned back to her phone, “Yes,” she said crisply to the poor restaurant worker. “We’ll take one more meal, a number four.”
As she ended the call, her lips curled into a private smirk. Let Malfoy play at Auror formality in her home. By dessert, he’d be too busy gasping for water to smirk at anyone.
She slid the phone back into her pocket and lifted her chin, meeting Malfoy’s gaze. Big surprise in store for you, Malfoy. Things were about to get really hot in here.