Chapter Text
Shit Has Hit the Fan and I Had No One Else To Call
Hermione wouldn’t be exaggerating if she said that until she took matters into her own hands, her life, and the wizarding world, was a mess.
4 years after the war, she, Hermione Granger, Brightest Witch of her Age and the true reason Harry Potter survived his teens, had already been transferred to 6 different departments in the Ministry in a deliberate, carefully conducted conspiracy by the Under Secretary's cronies to drive her to madness, resignation, or worse...failure. These native inhabitants of the wizarding world might not spit in her face and call her mudblood, but their condescending smiles and gently reproving 'No, no... we don’t do it this way.You’ll figure it out eventually, Miss Granger's, were just as insulting, dehumanising, provocative and (OK fine, she had to say this) impractical.
Her first week at the Department of Magical Cooperation, she found the last known census for non-wizarding magical creatures in Britain was undertaken in 1857 by an eccentric wizard so stalwart in his task that he decided to follow rumours of a presumed werewolf to India and was accidentally killed in the Mutiny. All his records had been burnt with his body (which was despicable as well as inconvenient) so technically there had been no census in 1857 either, and none ever since.
That weekend, she spent the entire night rubbing Crookshank's belly and telling Ron, in great detail, why he and his pathetic world didn’t deserve her.
She had to hand it to Ron. He was an excellent person to get drunk with.
“Listen, Mione,” he hiccuped. “I’m not going to try and justify everything that happens here, but when you’re surrounded by people and creatures that don’t understand you, the only thing you can fall back on is tradition. We’re not exactly backwards; we’re just... traditional. We know there might be more...what’s that word you keep using? Yes, efficient ways to do things, but then, where would be the magic?” He waved his hand in the air as if creating a glass bubble in the air.
“We can be magical and practical, Ron. They’re not mutually exclusive. Can you imagine there are barely any records, fact-checking, standardisation and compliance procedures, ANY kind of organisational systems here? Wouldn’t it make more sense that all our information be categorised according to… I don’t know... date, topics of relevance, or by author or collector of such information…?”
“Are you saying it’s not? How do they find anything then?”
“They don’t. They point their wands at the shelves, cry “Accio werewolf files!” and duck when three hundred random scrolls come flying at their heads. It’s a nightmare. And what’s worse, they refuse to fix it. I was speaking to Lopsin- you know the house elf I’ve been consulting about suitable terms and conditions for elven freedom?- a few days ago about their kitchen organisation (you’ve got to admit, Ron, I really don’t have time to arrange all the spice and potion ingredients in their proper order at the moment and house elves have been doing this for centuries) and I realised that if the Ministry hired house-elves to create scroll databases, we would kill seven of those proverbial birds with one stone-” here she waved her firewhisky filled mug in the air- “but you know what they said? They said the Ministry cannot allow house elves access to their precious scrolls! I mean, you can allow house elves to cook your food and choose out your wardrobe, but not arrange your paperwork?!
“And you know, it would make sense feeling superior if you were good at what you do, but it seems EVERY magical creature, except for wizards (and witches, let’s not be sexist), is infinitely more efficient at their jobs than we are. We’re just. so. stupid. And soooo ridiculously inefficient I could cry.”
Her head sagged on to Ron’s shoulder and she nuzzled into his sweater while he lazily stroked her hair.
“You’re right, Mione, you’re always right, but can we please talk about something else?”
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5 years after the war, and four years, nine months after her amicable break up with Ron, Hermione Granger had been on 57 first dates, 17 second ones, and 3 third, until she finally came up with a system to predict potential date outcome based on behaviour. She placed her suitors in three categories:
- The trivia enthusiast: This person would usually spend most of the date asking extremely personal questions about her experience as war heroine and Harry Potter’s friend. One or two even brought quick-quotes quills, and most asked if they could double date with Harry and Ginny next time. They never progressed to a second date.
- The popularity hound: He would ask to meet in a slightly off-the-beaten-track kind of place where, surprisingly, a reporter lurking behind a bookshelf or so would discover they were on a date and print a large, exaggerated article on her growingly scandalous love life. She never answered their owls once the article was published, but it broke her heart every time since the publicity hounds were the only ones who at least tried to be interesting.
- The pedestal placer: She’d only found three, and they all managed to get to a third date, but after spending years having to justify every brilliant idea that came to her mind, such unadulterated worship terrified her. She felt she was handling something so pure and perfect that the stain of a biting retort would mar it forever. It was better that she remain a goddess in somebody’s eyes than prove herself fallibly human- or at least that’s what she inferred when a casual comment that she was allergic to chrysanthemums made the young wizard holding them in front of her burst into tears.
People she knew from school or work either
- Did not view her romantically, or
- Were so intimidated by her they preferred not to make a move, nor wanted her to make one.
Now that she thought about it, both categories seemed a bit similar...
Anyway, simply put, after 5 years of pointless dating, Hermione realised that it would be a more efficient use of her time if she focused on fixing the mess the Ministry was making of her life, career, and really the entire wizarding world, and putting the whole lot out to dry, rather than look for a meaningful romantic relationship.
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The wonderful thing about being Muggleborn was that her other world offered her insight and opportunity the Wizarding World lacked. Since they were unable to Accio information, her Muggle forebears were forced to use that incredible organ that was completely unappreciated here- their brain. And databases. Oh God, how she loved databases. Her local Muggle library had these wonderful cubicles with that glorious Muggle invention, the internet, and each day, after the mind numbing sycophantry at work, she spent hours researching all the tips and tricks proper historical documentation could provide to bring down this ridiculous government- the pamphleteering, sabotage, covert meetings, symbolic acts of defiance… since the magical world never paid an ounce of attention to the Muggles, they wouldn’t know what hit them.
And they didn’t.
On the morning of 2nd May 2004, every magical household received an anonymous pamphlet containing hundreds of Ministry infractions, including lapses in data collection and upholding of law and order, infraction of civil rights, abuse of power, lack of representation of Muggleborns, Squibs and other magical beings, and continuation of archaic and racist laws within the five years AFTER the fall of Voldemort. It was meticulously compiled and completely untraceable. It had Hermione Granger written all over it.
But who could prove it?
And if they could, with Veritaserum and some such, wouldn’t that prove they were the Draconian government they were pretending not to be?
And to deny it would require intensive documentation they knew they did not have.
But she did. She was noting every bloody thing.
And she was waiting for them to acknowledge it.
On 1st June 2004, a day before expected (since she assumed the Ministry would try to resist the public demand for some transparency for at least a month), she received an owl from Kingsley Shacklebolt asking to meet to discuss Ministry reform.
She wrote back saying she required the meeting to be held under Harry Potter’s heroic eye of the Chosen One and in the presence of one Ron Weasley to ensure all dealings were above board and universally acknowledged as supported by the heroes of the magical world. She wasn't going to fall into that trap again.
She had also pinned the owl sent by the Under-Secretary to her bulletin board.
‘We are looking forward to working closely with the witch that saved the world, with all the resources and finances the Ministry can provide.’
She realised the significance of that memo almost immediately when she began work as the head of the newly created Department of Transparency and Equity. When Hermione announced her first move would be to install a team of house-elves to create a Ministry-wide filing and database system, and the second, to create a diverse taskforce to review existing Magical Laws and Statutes for racist implications, she was met with the immovable object of government finances, or the lack thereof.
It seemed that after years of ridiculous budgeting and insufficient war remuneration efforts, the Ministry of Magic was broke, and almost all of Hermione’s carefully orchestrated plans to bring the wizarding world into the 21st century were doomed to fail because not a single knut could be moved in any direction without the express permission of the Wizengamot, and the approval of every single minister of every single department.
Once again, her love life would have to wait.
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“I assure you, Hermione,” Justin Finch-Fletchley’s face implored through the Floo, “I did EVERYTHING you told me to, at exactly the time you told me to, but the Selkie chief never showed up. It was fucking cold and the water was up to my shoulders and I swear to Merlin that if I hadn’t done a warming charm before I stepped in you would be speaking to an icicle.”
“I’m sorry, what? How did you do a warming spell? DID YOU HAVE YOUR WAND WITH YOU?”
“I… Was I not supposed to?”
Hermione nearly cried. “Justin, do you not recall that the very first line in my step-by-step-guide in 'How to Speak with the Selkies' is ‘Do not bring a wand to the meeting’? The Selkies have been persecuted by the local population for years! They do not trust wizards at all! I specifically TOLD all of you that! We had seminars on the historical conflict between local wizards and the Selkie population for weeks! HOW could you bring a wand to this essential meeting that took me MONTHS to set up?!”
“I’m sorry, Hermione...I guess it just slipped my mind. I’ll fix this, I swear.”
“No, Justin. I’ll fix this. Like I always do. Please, for god's sake, do nothing. And do you know what? I’m not assigning you to the Veela delegation this year. I can’t trust you.”
“Merlin! Please no, Hermione! I even bought new dress robes! You can’t DO this to me!”
She shut off the floo with a sigh.
Hermione knew that her threat was pointless. Of course, she would be sending Justin with the Veela delegation- at least she would receive complete documentation if he was along. The rest simply thought good intentions were enough. Settling herself down with a grunt amidst her monstrous pile of paperwork so that she could go back to doing what she did best- everything-, she was interrupted by a soft cough.
She looked up.
The man in front of her was immaculate. Each lock of his dark hair looked like it had been carefully fixed into place by fairies and pomade, and his spectacles were perched at that perfect, almost unattainable angle that allowed him to look lazily over his audience in all his professorial glory. Hermione scowled.
“May I help you?” she said in her coldest voice, reserved usually for that useless toad, the Senior Undersecretary.
“No, Miss Granger,” he smiled. “But I believe I can help you . May I have a seat?”
For a brief instant, her curiosity struggled with her desire to get back to work, until finally she conceded that anybody so clearly put together must be capable of offering some much-needed aid, and waved him towards the only spot on the sofa that didn’t have scrolls on it. Jealously, Hermione watched as he managed to make the process of sitting down on 8 inches of orange fabric look elegant.
When he had finally draped himself into position, he took a white scroll out of his robe pocket, and handed it to her. The smoothness of the paper almost made Hermione gasp. It felt like it was made of feathers.
“This contract, is my employer’s generous, flexible and completely legitimate offer to help you in your quest to -how shall I say this?- revolutionise the magical world, IF you should choose to accept it. The help that they offer is not only financial, but also intellectual. Let us say that my employer has access to records and documents the Ministry does not, carefully collected and categorised-” Hermione's hand inadvertently went to her mouth, and he smiled fondly again,“-categorised meticulously by date and subject. They also have more gold than is healthy, and for various reasons believe that the best they can do with their immense resources, is to help you help the wizarding world once again.”
Hermione cocked an eyebrow. She'd seen McGonagall do it many times and it was always impressive. “I’m sorry if I believe this is too good to be true. May I know one of those ‘various’ reasons they wish to help me?”
“My employer thinks, Ms. Granger, that the Ministry is actively resisting any reform that they perceive as a threat to the status of wizards (and witches- let us not be sexist). Your suggestion that we reach out to the Centaur population of Britain and offer a seat at the table was shot down 21-13 in the Wizengamut, with 16 members withholding. Almost the same number objected to the House Elves Emancipation Act, and the Muggleborn and Squib Inclusion program. You seem to be having trouble convincing a fixed proportion of the members that your reforms are beneficial for the wizarding population. My employer wishes to provide you with the means to influence them, and make significant change.”
Hermione chewed on her thumbnail. The man seemed oddly relaxed- as if he anticipated her doubt and his smile was too familiar. She felt he knew her , and even liked her, which was odd because nobody outside her friends’ circle did. “You haven’t answered my question. Why though?”
“Would it be enough to say that they believe in you?”
She scoffed. “Obviously not.”
“Fine,” he sighed. As he leaned forward and looked straight into her eyes, the dark gaze behind his glasses were meaningful, as if imparting a clue he hoped she would guess. “It is my belief that my employer sees you as a means to save themselves . Please accept that if I was to confide more, I would have to rip out my own tongue. All I can say, as someone genuinely on your side, is that they have no intention of harming you,or your work. All their aid will be above board and legal, and they are looking for the chance to help, in any way they can.”
“I’m assuming that they’re also asking that I not know who they are.” Hermione shook her head as she went back to documenting that day's selkie disaster.
“I’m glad I don’t have to spell it out.” Smiling, he placed his right hand on his jaw as he settled back on the sofa. “They do not wish to be known for the time being. You are to respect that. That is the only condition. You are also requested- " here he stared at her meaningfully again- “that you share drafts of any bill or reform you plan to take to the Wizengamut so that they can help you anticipate objections and concerns. They do, after all, have access to information and insight that you...might not, and they want to help you. Desperately.”
Hermione’s stomach was already in knots by now. Something told her not to put herself in such a potentially dangerous position- after all, she had no idea who this person was, and such selfless desire to ‘help’ was usually codswallop. This was very likely just another elaborate way to disgrace her out of the Ministry. About to politely decline, she was interrupted when her Floo splurted green flame and Justin’s panicked voice rang out in her tiny room.
“Hermione! Listen, I know you hinted that I wasn’t supposed to attempt to fix the situation but I think I might have accidentally started a village-wide Selkie hunt so I really need you to come here and fix this because I swear to the gods the wizards here are mental!”
His head disappeared.
Hermione turned to look at the elegant man in front of her who was still smiling at her, fondly, pityingly; still holding out the contract and quill. With a helpless sigh, she took them from him and dipped the quill decidedly into her unspillable inkpot.
The contract contained only two terms.
I, Hermione Granger will
- Allow myself to be advised in legislative matters by the employer of the witness and executioner of the contract, Charlus Bleshfellow, and will accept, in lieu of financial, political, and intellectual assistance, any advice or change advocated by the same individual.
- Not ask or investigate the identity of said individual until they choose to reveal it.
“Well, Mr. Bleshfellow-”
“Charlus, please.”
“Well, Mr. Bleshfellow," she carefully signed her name on the line provided. "Unfortunately, I’m pretty desperate too.”