Chapter Text
February 5, 2024
Grabbing a cheeky, maple leaf painted yo-yo is all it takes to whoosh Hermione halfway across the world and into the International Arrivals foyer of the Canadian magical embassy in Thunder Bay, Ontario. Thanks to her credentials as UK Minister for Magic, she’s able to bypass the requisite wand inspection and paperwork and, with a promise to catch up with Canadian Minister Michaels, she jumps into the Floo and calls out “Vert Ice Alley!”
It’s not a complete coincidence that her parents decided to settle down in the city with one of the most preeminent magical communities in North America. After their blissful 2 years in Australia was tainted by a rather nasty un-Obliviation procedure, they eschewed both the UK and Europe in general (Robert Granger would apparently rather be re-Obliviated than to live out his days on ‘the Continent’), and decided that life in the colonies suited them quite well. Hermione had suggested Thunder Bay for selfish reasons, however its magical significance didn’t translate over to Muggle amenities, so Victoria was a natural compromise.
Emerging from the meandering lanes of shops, Hermione taps the ancient exit glyphs with her wand, which splits the normally blank stone wall down the middle and reveals a musty wooden door. She pushes it open and steps into the cellar of Munro’s bookshop and, after navigating an increasingly rickety staircase, she arrives on the shop floor.
She spots her father a minute later, perusing the Food and Beverage section. There’s only a moment of recognition before he scoops her up into his arms and she breathes in the scent of mint, Cavicide, and home.
“I’m sorry Bear,” he sighs, and squeezes her harder.
“Thanks Dad.”
It takes her three days to fully relax into her leave. Three days of lying around, feeling useless, three days of mulling over the last 25 years of her life, running every choice through a fine toothed comb, detangling all her mistakes. Yes, she probably shouldn’t have worked so much, yes, she probably should have spent more time with her kids. No, of course she never expected Ron to settle into the role of a politician’s spouse, no they probably shouldn’t have gotten married so young.
No, she doesn’t think it was all a mistake, but there were definitely many mistakes made along the way.
On her fourth day of leave, her parents drag her out to see the sights. She daydreams in the harbour, has tea and scones, picks up the latest Muggle fiction bestsellers. Her dad points out the houseboats and recommends different things she could add-on to her official residence, and her mum makes her promise to read a trashy romance novel the moment she gets back home. Hermione feels fresh again– like a 40-something divorcee on the verge of reestablishing herself, and less like an overworked head of state being tailed by two conspicuously well-dressed security officers.
On day five she has a lie-in, but a healthy lie-in, one spent snuggling in the comfy pleasure of a down duvet instead of wallowing in depression and despair. She’s finally coaxed out of her plush haven by the smell of vanilla and cinnamon wafting from the kitchen. Trudging down the hall, she’s greeted by her parents, the morning paper, and a stack of fresh waffles and whipped cream.
Hermione frowns at the cracked eggshells on the counter. “Mum, I thought you were vegan?”
Helen waves her hand and scoffs. Her husband chuckles. “Nope, animal products are back in. Microplastics are the new enemy.”
One aspect of living almost exclusively in the Wizarding world is that Hermione has almost no exposure to the breaking news or hot trends of the Muggle world. It’s even worse now that she’s no longer living with Ron, as his recent TikTok fascination (read: addiction) at least kept her abreast of what the younger generation was talking about.
“So what happened to everything with the farming industrial complex? Are we no longer concerned about the farming industrial complex?”
Mum retrieves a cooked waffle from the iron and ladles in another scoop of batter. “I’ve assuaged my guilt since we moved here. We’re getting free-range eggs, truly free range mind you, not just slightly less bad cages, and local, pasture fed dairy. I’ve met the cows– they’re treated quite well. But microplastics are forever. Did you hear that they’ve been found in human breastmilk?”
“Microplastics? No, I did not.”
“Mhm. They’re in babies now, from birth. There’s almost nothing we can do to avoid them, though we still need to do our part. And who knows what it’s doing to us, having all of that gunk building up in our bodies.”
“Respiratory illness, fatigue, definitely cancer.” Robert takes a long sip of coffee. “Not that your lot needs to worry about that.”The wizarding population’s imperviousness to most major illnesses has been a constant source of fascination and resentment for her parents. As health professionals, they’d both felt slighted when their daughter had come back from boarding school claiming that their lives’ work was meaningless, from a certain point of view. Later on, Hermione had learned that it wasn’t just potions and charmwork that made most Muggle medicine moot, it was the unique physiology of magical beings that required a different sort of care.
And now, with much more life experience under her belt, she knew it was naive to assume that the different societies had nothing to offer each other. Within the past twenty years or so, Muggle technology had metaphorically exploded into wizarding culture, with eleven year old Wizarding kids just as addicted to their mobiles and TikTok as their mundane counterparts. There’s even talk of creating a magic restricted internet where students could essentially Google spells needed for any situation.
“We have other ailments to worry about,” she comments. “And certain things even we aren’t impervious to.”
“Oh really?” Helen raises an eyebrow. “Have the wizards been talking about microplastics as well?”
“No, not at all. In fact, wizards don’t tend to use anything plastic. At least not in our more magical activities like potion making or charm work. In fact, plastic transfiguration requires more effort than standard transfiguration with organic materials because–”
It hits her like a Bludger to the head. She actually startles, like she’s woken up from a daydream. “Wait…wait, if it’s everywhere…”
“Hermione?” Her father reaches across the table and rests his hand gently on her arm.
Helen unplugs the waffle iron and crouches down at her side, face twisted with concern. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, yes everything’s okay…I mean–” Hermione takes in a deep, steadying breath. “Maybe it’s not okay. Maybe it hasn’t been for a while. If the muggle world is full of plastics, in the food and water and even in their bloodstream, I can’t imagine the wizarding community has been exempt. The only difference would be that we haven’t been talking about it, haven’t been doing anything about it. But that doesn’t mean we’re exempt from any negative effects.”
“Negative effects?” Robert’s expression becomes drawn and serious. “You never mentioned any trouble. Is everyone okay?”
Hermione smiles softly at her father. He’s recently turned 70, mostly retired, and still the consummate healthcare professional. “Everyone’s fine, but the birth rate has not been good for the past while, and the likelihood of children being…non-magical…well, it’s become high enough to cause concern.”
“Birth rate going down? Oh dear.” He winks. “Molly and Arthur can’t carry that burden themselves, I guess, however hard they tried.”
“Hm.” Her mother, also the consummate healthcare professional, rubs at her chin, deep in thought. “You never did determine the source of magic, physiologically. I remember you were quite set on that initially. Oh Robert, do you remember–”
“– when she built the Faraday cage in the attic?”
“Yes! Yes, and she put her wand in there!”
“As well as that strange book she had. The monster one, that bit?”
“You seemed to reach a definitive conclusion that magic was not related to magnetism, at least at that point.” Helen dishes a waffle onto Hermione’s plate and nudges over a glass bottle of syrup shaped like a maple leaf. “Sounds like more experimentation may be needed?”
“I had only determined that magic was not a form of magnetism, but it does require some sort of conductivity, which is why wand materials are so specific and influential.” It’s times like this where Hermione swears she can feel her neurons firing in her head. “But plastic– maybe it interferes with a magical being’s natural conductivity?”
“Could be.” Robert scoops a generous helping of cream onto her plate. “Care for some blackberries?”
“Yes please, thank you dad.”
“Maybe there’s more things that could influence the volume at which magic is channelled.” Helen taps her finger on the tabletop. “You said wizards have radios, correct?”
“Yes, the Wizarding Wireless. We’re actually looking into expanding it, to see if it can mimic the internet in certain ways.”
“Have you ever looked into the relationship between wireless frequencies and magic? There could be some interference there too. Along with cell phone signals, Wifi…”
“Goodness.” Hermione buries her head in her hands. “Augh, Harry is going to kill me.”
“Harry? How so?”
“I swore I wouldn’t work during this trip.”
“What Harry doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” She feels her father’s hand on the back of her head, patting it gently. “He knows better than to ask you to completely abstain from your task at hand.”
“My task at hand is supposed to be grieving my failed relationship! That’s what I’m supposed to be doing!”
“And so, what?” Helen’s voice is gentle yet firm. “Do you still need to do that? Are you still hung up on the fact that you are no longer Mrs. Ron Weasley?”
Helen and Robert love Ron, as well as all the assorted Weasley relations, but their hearts have always remained loyal to their daughter (and Harry, by association). No one could ever be good enough for their Hermione, and while they really did adore him, Ron also had some traits that were…less than desirable, in their eyes: his anger, his ego, his tendency to strongarm Hermione into smaller and smaller boxes (figuratively, of course) in order to assuage his stunted sense of self worth.
“You are no longer a wife. That is true. But…you are still a mother, you are a friend, you are the best daughter we could have asked for, you are a sister to Harry, and let us not forget that you are the Minister for Magic of the United Kingdom, democratically elected to lead your magical government. And, if you wished, you could walk away from that world and in five years be an executive at any non-magical corporation you desired. You are capable of anything you set your mind to.”
“Except marriage.”
Robert scoffs. “A marriage doesn’t have to last forever to be successful. You two raised a family, you raised each other, you are both healthy and productive and, despite who you both are and the conflict you’ve had, you are still capable of behaving like adults in the aftermath. In my opinion, that’s success.”
“Dad’s right, Bear. We hate that you’re hurting, but don’t dwell on the lie that you’ve failed. You’ve learned and you can move on from this. You are moving on– beginning of this trip you were a lump on a log, and now look at you! Solving problems like normal.”
“Thanks Mum.” Hermione sucks in a gulp of air and gives her eyes a final rub. “Okay. Yes. I think…I think I’m done grieving for now.”
“Good.” Her mum pushes a knife and fork into her hands. “Now eat. We’ve got a birth rate problem to solve.”
Robert pulls a notepad from one of the kitchen drawers. “Precisely. Now, please refresh my memory– what are the five exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration again?”
“It’s an interesting theory.”
Hermione’s leg bounces under her robes as she pours freshly steeped PG Tips into four blue porcelain tea cups. She slides them across the coffee table in her private parlour, gesturing to the cream and sugar held on a tray between them. Her eyes flick between her three colleagues, one who also happens to be her best friend. “Interesting? What do you mean by that, Alistair?”
Bingle-Chan reaches for his teacup and gives it a cooling blow. His gaze meets hers over his spectacles (magenta and diamond shaped for today). “Well, if true, it could definitely be used as ammunition by certain members of the population who advocate for the exclusivity of wizardkind.”
BK Darque grabs his own tea, his pinky raised. “Oh? And do those members have a certain name they go by, pray tell?”
Alisair rolls his eyes and flashes a “V” at his fellow minister. “I’m just saying, if it’s discovered that Muggle technology is causing Wizard sterility, there will be a complete uproar. And I’m sorry, I know it’s been a quarter century, but I am not ready for Voldemort revisionism to become mainstream.”
“Yep,” is all Harry adds.
“Figured you would agree, Minister Potter.”
“But do you think the idea has merit?” Hermione squashes down her fears, her inner Gryffindor roaring to defend the veracity of her theory. “Regardless of the potential fallout.”
“Of course I think it has merit. First off, you came up with it, and second, it makes logical sense.” He rubs at his salt-and-pepper goatee, his emerald-painted nails gleaming in the lamplight. “The wizarding population should be experiencing exponential growth at the same rate as the Muggles, but in the last century or so it has staggered while innovation has boomed.”
BK raises a long, wrinkled finger. “And regarding your theory about plastics, my team has been conducting research on magical conductivity in novel materials. It’s been the main focus of the Stuff Lab for the past several years.”
Alistair frowns. “The Stuff Lab?”
“Yes, that is what I said.” BK reaches over and taps his colleague on the nose. “Do try and keep up, please.”
“So, has your team ever studied the effects of microplastics on magic?” Hermione asks.
“Oh no, definitely not. Plastics yes, but not microplastics. In fact, today has been the first time I’ve ever heard of such a thing.”
Her eyes narrow, and she co*cks her head to the side, examining his face for tells.
BK raises an eyebrow and takes a drawn-out sip of tea.
She huffs. “Fine, I don’t see any reason why you would lie about that.”
“It would be far too predictable after all, for me to be the villain of this tale.” He takes another sip. “The head of the Department of Mysteries, ooooh oooooh, masterminding a conspiracy to destroy the wizarding world, ahhhhh ahhhh.” He chuckles. “What on Earth would I do if my plan succeeded? Become an accountant?”
“Now that we’ve established that BK isn’t a villain from f*cking Noddy or what have you, let’s move back to the Minister’s theory.” Alistair wrinkles his nose, frowning down at his cup like he’s spotted a particularly nasty prophecy in the tea leaves. “Plastic, the primary material of Western Muggle society, is polluting us from the inside out and may– this is a big may– may be impacting our ability to perform and pass down magic. Correct?”
Hermione nods. “An accurate summary of my thoughts thus far.”
Her eyes flick over to Harry, who is crumpled down in his burgundy wingback chair, arms folded against his chest like a petulant toddler. His tea is untouched.
“The plastic is only the first potential culprit,” she continues. “It directed my thought to other potential oversights with regards to how magic and Muggle society and devices may impact each other. Certainly there’s less fear regarding Muggle technology than there used to be, and usage of Muggle devices is at an all-time high that could be considered exponential. BK!” She turns to her colleague. “In the Stuff Lab, has your team ever attempted to transfigure something into an iPhone?”
“I…can’t say that we have.”
“Thank you for that non-answer. Let’s assume that you either haven’t, or have and have been unsuccessful.”
“Presumptuous.”
“Accurate,” she counters.
Alistair’s eyes narrow. “Conceivably one could transfigure something into an iPhone, if that wizard knew all the constituent parts and materials. It’s not like the electronic properties of the iPhone itself limit transfiguration.”
“You would think that, but you would be incorrect.” Hermione’s face flushes with the pleasure of proving people wrong. “Yesterday I deconstructed an iPhone and tested the composition of each part using spectrum propagatio, a fluctus magneticus diagnostic, and the x-ray machine I keep in my study. I then proceeded to create several iPhone copies, one transfigured part-by-part from a collection of pebbles, another transfigured whole from a paperweight, and the third I Conjured using a modified lebetes.”
BK scoffs. “That last one is certainly a long shot.”
“I thought the same. Turns out they were all faulty– I attempted to charge them at the Starbucks several blocks from my residence, and none of them took a charge. I managed to reassemble my test model and it charged perfectly, but if I replaced any component with one I conjured, then the original phone went dead. And when I attempted to charge the phone with one of my transfigured components installed…the component reverted back to a pebble.”
She takes in a large breath and steadies herself to deliver the final hypothesis. “We already know that Muggle technology needs to be heavily modified to operate in magical spaces, as magic nullifies electrical currents. But have we ever considered that electrical currents, standard radio waves, and even Wifi may disrupt magic?”
A hush settles over her study. Harry is stalwartly silent, Alistair is the physical epitome of the ‘yikes’ emoji, and BK has steepled his long, skeletal fingers, mouth thinned. A moment passes, then he answers with a quiet, “I…I cannot say that we have.”
Alistair snorts. “Oh for f*ck’s sake. Why say anything at all?”
“It would be rude not to.”
“Harry.” Hermione pointedly stares at her friend until he very reluctantly meets her gaze. “What do you think?”
He sighs. “According to the 5 Exceptions, an enchanted or inherently magical item cannot be transfigured without losing its magic. I suppose the same could be said for these Muggle devices?”
It’s such a non-answer that she has to resist the urge to huff and prod him further. Magical conductivity and electrical conductivity aren’t equivalent, they already know that. “All right.” She turns back to the other two. “BK, I shouldn’t have to ask at this point…”
“On it.”
“And Alistair, I don’t have any specific direction at this point.”
“I’ll keep my ear to the ground.” He nods to BK, and both men drain their teacups simultaneously. “Well Minister, it’s been a slice.”
“But we’d best be off!” With a swirl of his velvet cape, BK gives her a bow. “Potter– be nice now.”
“Nice?” Hermione sputters. “What do you–?” She turns on Harry as BK and Bingle-Chan make their expedient (and coordinated) exits. “Be nice? Why wouldn’t you be nice?”
“Because.” Green eyes flash under his glasses. “When did you conceptualize all of these theories about plastic and Wifi and what-not?”
Oh. She slumps back in her chair, the weight of external disappointment already sagging on her shoulders. “Harry, I did relax. I swear it.”
“You weren’t just meant to relax, you were supposed to–”
“Grieve. Yes, yes, I know–”
“You know! Yes, of course you know! Can’t get anything past the great Hermione Granger, the Brightest Witch of Our Age!” He barks out a laugh, flailing his arms in the air with frustration before stubbornly re-folding them over his chest. “Heaven forbid I attempt to criticize or correct you on anything, even something I explicitly instructed you on that you proceeded to blatantly disregard!”
“I did grieve! Ask my parents– I was practically comatose for days before I even started thinking of this!” She frowns at him. “And you could hardly expect me to turn my brain off for an entire week…that’s not like me at all. Theorizing is a part of my recovery process.”
It’s times like this where she feels the strongest sense of deja vu, like truly no time has passed since she and her best friend were decoding schooltime mysteries or hashing out study schedules (or in Harry’s case, a severe lack thereof). It’s also times like this where she misses Ron’s presence the most– he always brought much needed levity to balance out their more severe characteristics: Harry’s melancholy, her anxiety and over-control. Perhaps that’s why their marriage ultimately failed; he always served as a much needed third leg in the tripod of their friendship. Without Harry, their relationship fell flat.
And now…without Ron, she knows the two of them run the risk of marinating in their own ennui for days unless she does something. So–
“I’m sorry.” She reaches over and tugs on his sleeve, once, twice.
He snorts, but already a small smile is threatening to escape from the corner of his mouth. “What for?” he mumbles, sounding all of twelve years old.
She adopts her snootiest, swottiest tone. “I am sorry, profusely sorry, for disregarding your wishes and theorizing, nay, not just theorizing but also working while on the grief leave you so graciously and expertly procured for me. I realize that this was a massive betrayal and went against all of your intentions, and for this I apologize with all my heart. I don’t know how I will ever make it up to you.”
Harry scrubs at his face, likely a desperate attempt to hide his smile. “Oh my god, why are you like this?”
“Trauma, likely.” She grins. “But as my oldest and dearest friend, you have played a non-insignificant role in shaping my psyche as well, so it could be argued that you have yourself to blame for this.”
“Touche.” Without meeting her gaze, he reaches out and clasps her hand in his. “I accept your apology, by the way, though I do reserve the right to still be hurt from time to time.”
“As is your right.”
Placated, he shifts in his chair to face her. Time has been kind to Harry; his eyes are still as bright and clear as ever, and his jet black hair is only just showing some flecks of grey at the temples, with no hint of a receding hairline. His skin has maintained a complexion as pale as milk, with some wrinkling around the eyes and mouth, but otherwise he’s mostly unchanged by the ravages of time, aside from a slightly patchy beard and mustache that are in need of a trim. Even his clothing is still endearingly rumpled, Ginny’s keen fashion sense clearly not extending to Harry’s personal ironing and/or steaming practices.
Hermione grimaces. “One of these days you’ll be sick of me.”
He shakes his head. “Never. If it hasn’t happened yet, it’s not going to happen. I’ve missed my chance to be rid of you.”
“Thank heavens for that.” She sighs, shoulders sagging. “God, why is everything still so much?”
“You’re the Minister for Magic,” he supplies, as if that explains everything (which, to his credit, it does). “You’re five years into your first term– things are bound to seem daunting this far in, and with an election looming in a couple years, if not sooner…”
“Do you think it will be sooner?”
“Definitely not. If the Wizengamot didn’t call for no-confidence when you restructured the entire government, they definitely aren’t going to call it now.”
She leans back in her chair and chuckles. “There was a minute where I thought Etienne Rosier was going to Avada me for relegating the Department of Magical Games and Sport…but seriously, an entire department dedicated to Quidditch? I still have no clue what previous ministers were thinking!”
He rolls his eyes. This is a familiar rant of hers. “But you digress.”
“Yes. Five years into my term, and the work keeps coming, but I feel like we’re equipped to handle it? I feel like we have a great caucus, amazing staff, steady resources.”
“And?”
“Well that’s just it, isn’t it? Birthrate mystery aside, things are going too well. I feel like perhaps I’ve worked myself into an echo chamber, and that it’s all actually falling apart out there. I’m coming up with all of these ideas and theories, and I’m realizing that they are completely untested in the general population, with normal people.”
Harry looks aghast. “I’m normal people!”
“Sure you are, Mr. Chosen One.”
“I’m having a laugh, obviously. I think you’re correct to seek outside opinions– frankly, most of the people you talk to are socialist government shills who love you.”
She snorts. “For a different perspective, maybe I should start consulting Ron.”
“Hey.” Harry pokes her ribs. She squirms. “Ron loves you too. More than most, despite everything.”
Sighing, she runs her fingers through her hair, heedless of the inevitable frizz. “And how is he? Truly?”
Harry groans. “Please don’t ask me that.”
She gestures wildly, nearly smacking him in the head. “And who else am I supposed to ask? Molly? I trust you’ve seen him recently.”
“Yeah, yeah. Yeah, I saw him at the Burrow this weekend, for Arthur’s thing.”
“Oh you went to that?”
“Of course I went to that. He’s seventy-four.”
Her gut clenches. “Right. Right, of course, he’s still your father-in-law.”
Anyone else would give her complete hell for a petty comment like that, but Harry shakes his head, a soft smile on his lips. “Far be it from me to remind you of things you already know, Hermione.”
“It’s just strange. Like back in fourth year, when Ron wasn’t speaking to you and I was playing referee. It’s unbalanced; you’re having to do twice as much legwork to maintain your friendships with us.”
“I was already doing that years previous. You two barely spoke.” Harry picks at a crease in the leather chair with his fingernail. “Anyhow, regarding Ron…he seems to be doing fine. Well, even.”
“Well?”
“He seemed happy.”
“Oh.” It’s a kick in the pants. No way of sugarcoating it, Ron being happy a week after their divorce was finalized means that he’s won, and Hermione hates losing. She already failed at her marriage, there is no way she’s going to fail at divorce as well. “I mean…that’s good. I’m happy he’s happy.”
“Ha!”
“I am!” She reaches over and pokes him again. “I want the best for him, you know that. We are still family after all.”
“We are. Have you heard from the kids?”
Another clench to the gut. “No. I sent an owl informing them that the paperwork has been finalized, but I didn’t receive a response. They’re busy…mid-terms.”
That’s a flat out lie. Neither Rose nor Hugo have responded because they’re resentful– of the divorce, of her career, of her general off-putting, over controlling nature that’s only increased in intensity since she was elected Minister. She’s holding out hope that she’ll hear from them soon, but now she can’t even rely on being present for their Floo call on Ron’s birthday.
“Kids are tough,” Harry says.
“Understatement of the century. Anyways.” She pulls out her mobile to check the time. It’s a bad habit, especially since there’s an exquisitely handcrafted antique grandfather clock in her line of sight. “I’m due at a budget approval meeting with the Magical Parks Commission. Any final comments?”
She banishes the tea service with a wave of her hand, then busies herself with wrangling her hair into a presentable bun using a woefully thin hair elastic. It snaps and she curses under her breath.
“I think it’s always a good idea to seek external opinions when you feel like you’re in a rut.” Harry pulls his want out and conjures a satin scrunchie in deep forest green, which he passes to her. “Have you thought about the Wizengamot? Not the whole body of course, but maybe you could consult with a lord or two, and also some of the Honourable Members? I could text you a list of candidates.”
“That would be amazing, truly.” She hums with satisfaction as the proffered scrunchie secures her hair with enough tension to keep it in place for the rest of the day, without giving her a headache. “What would I do without you?”
True to function, the makeshift scrunchie updo lasts through her afternoon meetings, her dinner project meeting with Sellers, and her evening commute. Her hair is just starting to frizz out when she reaches the Apparition point several paces from her residence. The weather is spitting, a characteristic London haze in the air as she approaches the unassuming walnut-clad narrowboat moored ten feet from a grimy fishmonger’s stall. Pulling out her key, she nods to the fishmonger, who nods back deferentially.
She was tentative the first couple times she stepped aboard, now she boards with the ease of someone five years into living on the water. She unlocks the weatherbeaten door, recently repainted a rich shade of plum, and ducks inside to her residence.
As the name suggests, within its riverboat facade, Block-on-Thames houses a palatial government residence that spans the area of a city block. Though it is much more than a humble boat, it still has nods to its nautical nature– the floors are polished oak, riddled with pits and knots from wear, the windows are rounded arches and portholes, and there’s a very subtle sway that strikes lesser stomachs with seasickness (just ask George).
With a ‘pop’ her head House Elf materializes in the vestibule. “Madame Minister, Winnie would be honoured to take your cloak,” the creature squeaks, her hands folded primly in front of her linen apron.
“Thank you Winnie, much appreciated.” Hermione retrieves her wand and mobile from her pocket, then folds up the cloak and passes it to the elf. “I’ve already eaten, so the kitchens can be closed for the night.”
“Much thanks, Madame Minister.” Winnie nods her head and poofs away. Hermione absentmindedly scrolls through her phone, humming with interest when she notices a couple texts from Harry.
list of potential consultants? def some unique perspectives
It’s followed by a picture of an excerpt of parchment– Hermione is constantly tickled by the intersection of modern Muggle technology and ancient Wizarding tradition– and her breath catches when she makes out the listed names.
Etienne Rosier (an obvious no)
Ernie MacMillan (not the most inspired conversationalist)
Georgia Prewett (a Weasley relation, perhaps biased)
Draco Malfoy
Hermione pulls several faces reminiscent of the Kombucha Girl meme Alistair introduced her to a few years back. Malfoy…is not the worst idea in the world. The Wizengamot historically was composed of hereditary seats, but amidst shifting politics and the extinction of family lines, many seats have been appointed to Honourable Members, including some seats that have been voluntarily surrendered by chastened lords. Malfoy has no such qualms about being disliked, so naturally he still holds his hereditary seat, representing the southwest region of Wiltshire.
Hermione had met the late Astoria Malfoy nee Greengrass a handful of times during various fundraisers and the like. She was quiet but kind and gracious, and Hermione got the impression that the young Lady Malfoy was altogether too good for Draco, who seemed just as off putting and pompous as he was in school. Their son Scorpius was close with Harry’s son Albus, and even had a brief dalliance with her daughter Rose a while back, which thankfully fizzled out in short order.
History be damned…she’s intrigued. She knows he’s no longer an outright blood supremacist, but his seat on the Wizengamot indicates that Draco Malfoy still holds to some of the old ways. Consulting with him would be interesting to say the least, and no one could ever accuse him of being a “socialist government shill who loves her” (she snorts at the thought). She could expect the truth from him, or at least Draco Malfoy’s brand of truth, whatever that may be.
