Chapter Text
Chapter One
“I can sympathize with the poor bloke honestly.” Cormac McLaggen said loudly, taking a large bite of the chocolate biscuit he’d previously been waving about his head. “All a man wants after a long day at work is to come home to a clean house, a hot meal, and a glass of Firewhisky.” He sprayed biscuit crumbs over his scattered paperwork, the small bits of chocolate propelled by his enthusiasm for the topic. “You were depriving Weasley, really. Poor lad was coming home to an empty house and was having to make his own supper. It’s a miracle he stayed as long as he did.” He shoved the last of the biscuit into his mouth, chewing loudly.
Hermione Granger was a hard working and talented witch. She was brave, courageous, and had no issue with standing up for what she believed in. These traits had come in handy over the years, and had contributed greatly to the long list of achievements attached to her name. Ranging from an Order of Merlin, First Class; to cutting the ribbon at the grand opening of the Granger Care Home - a beautifully built residence for retired house elves - there wasn't much she hadn't been awarded. Not to mention she was a literal war hero; one third of the infamous Golden Trio. Clearly, Hermione did everything with her full chest. This, of course, included her loathing of Cormac McLaggen.
The bullpen was a hive of activity. Hundreds of memos flew overhead and zigzagged around desks and rushing Aurors; clogging the air space with pieces of parchment charmed into the shape of various birds and intricate aeroplanes. Several of the interrogation rooms were occupied, as Tuesday had started off with a bang – literally. A group of poorly informed wizards with too much time on their hands and an overwhelming amount of Forgetfulness Potion and Shrinking Solution had attempted to use a Bombarda Maxima to blow a hole in the side of Gringotts. The goblins barely batted an eye at the hilariously pathetic break-in attempt.
What the would-be criminals intended to do with the potions was still unclear; unless they were hoping to dose the entire neighborhood into forgetting the terrible blunder, or, to shrink themselves into non-existence to escape the shame of their frankly doomed-to-fail plot.
Hermione took a deep breath, willing her face to become a blank slate. McLaggen sat smugly, putting far too much trust into the spindly legs of his chair as he leaned back. He tried to brush a few stray crumbs from his white oxford and wand holster, only to fail miserably and smudge the still somewhat damp chocolate into the fabric of his shirt. He shrugged, straightened his wand holster, then shot upright, his chair legs crashing back down to earth as if to reinforce the importance of his apparent moment of inspiration.
“We’ve been friends for a long time, Granger, so I feel comfortable telling you all this. It might be helpful in the future, yeah?” Hermione stared at McLaggen in disbelief; barely able to rationalize any part of the conversation, let alone the insinuation that they were friends.
McLaggen tapped chocolate covered lips with his index finger, seemingly trying to pick out how to best present whatever revelation he thought would help Hermione in the “future”.
“You have a very angry presence, Granger. Weasley had to deal with you storming about the bullpen, chasing down reports and then shrieking like a bloody banshee at anyone who didn’t have one for you. Then he has to go home to hear more of the same? Except now you’re nagging about the laundry and where Weasley left his boots. I mean, Merlin’s beard Granger. I hate that I’m the first to tell you, but no one likes a mad woman.”
His declaration was loud enough to momentarily stop all conversation in the bullpen; although the crushing silence didn't last for long. Replaced by hushed whispers, snickers, and some outright laughter; the volume of the room rose to a dull roar, each Auror eager to share their opinion on the bust-up happening before their eyes. Counting to ten in her head, Hermione did her best to ignore the nattering of her co-workers and the growing urge to hex the infuriating muppet in front of her into the next dimension.
Taking her silence as an indication to continue, McLaggen pushed on; completely unaware of Hermione's desire to shove more chocolate biscuits down his throat – violently.
“It’s a biological imperative, you know, for a woman to take care of a man. Lavender Brown is a real shining example of that. Weasley’s mood has increased tenfold since they got together, and the only difference is she cares for Ron; something I know you struggled with.” McLaggen nodded his head after saying this, appearing to voraciously agree with himself and his supposedly brilliant ramblings.
“She’s the one who brought in the chocolate biscuits Granger. And they're homemade to boot!” he picked up another biscuit, eagerly shoving half into his mouth. “I know a career woman like you has never dreamed of doing something like bringing fresh biscuits to the office. If you weren’t so work-oriented, you’d have time to develop those skills instead. I’m sure there’s someone out there more than willing to look past your flaws for a bit of housekeeping and a decent cottage pie.”
Digging into her massive repertoire of spells, Hermione took a moment to consider what type of insect would best suit McLaggen. A beetle was out of the question; not only would she be called out for unoriginality, but that particular spell was only for use on Rita Skeeter.
She could try and attempt a variation of the jinx she had used in Dumbledore's Army. After all, it had seemed traumatic enough to Marietta Edgecombs. Perhaps instead of ‘sneak’ she could spell ‘prick’ on his forehead. Or across his sure to be tiny knob. She held back a smirk at the thought.
After considering her options, she let out a small sigh of disappointment. Any jinx, hex, or curse that she could think of would result in one: job loss, or two: time in Azkaban. Instead, she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and focused her gaze solely on McLaggen.
“ What did you think I’d say to that , McLaggen?” Hermione clenched her jaw tightly, the words barely escaping from between her teeth. “Or better yet, why would you believe it was your right to inform me of your extremely outdated beliefs? To be frank with you, all this conversation has done is reinforce the fact that you’re an utterly misogynistic pig.”
“Easy there, Granger,” McLaggen raised his hands in a poor attempt at a placating measure. “You seem angry . It’s just a conversation between co-workers; I haven’t carved it into your desk with my wand.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “So typical of women to always jump to the worst conclusion they can think of. It’s a shame, really. I was thinking of asking you out, but after this conversation it seems I’ve dodged the rather large bullet that is Hermione Granger.”
Without thinking, she snatched her wand from its holster. “ When you say I ‘seem angry’, I get more angry , McLaggen.” she spat, red filling her vision.
She stepped forward, only to be intercepted by none other than the Chosen One himself, Harry Potter. He gripped her wrist tightly, and she huffed in annoyance. Where did he even come from? Why was he here? She didn't need his help; Hermione was perfectly capable of handling office conflicts on her own.
She attempted to level Harry with her very best glare, only to watch him narrow his eyes and shake his head slightly. Hermione rolled her eyes at him, adding in a scowl for good measure.
It was only once her gaze moved from Harry’s face and back to her wrist, did she realize that she was gripping her wand with enough strength to successfully throttle McLaggen. She relaxed her hand, and in turn, he released her wrist.
Hermione quickly tucked her wand back into its holster and straightened her blouse, if only to give herself something else to do with her hands.
She was annoyed that it was Harry who had stopped her from doing whatever it was she had in mind. Perhaps it would've been turning McLaggen into one of those chocolate biscuits he seemed to enjoy so much. Now she'd never know, thanks to Harry once again inserting himself into her business.
***
After finding Ron in their bed with not one, but two extremely beautiful blonde witches, Hermione had kicked the ginger git and his two slags to the curb, promptly locking him out of the Apparition wards and Floo. It wasn’t the first time she had stumbled upon Ron in a compromising situation, but it was the last.
She had expected Harry to side with her; Ron was the one stepping out after all. She was sorely disappointed to find that the opposite was true. Hermione still wasn’t sure if the decision was of Harry’s own volition, or influenced by his fiancé, Ginny Weasley.
She had been ambushed, in a sense. Harry and Ginny had asked her to pop by the Leaky Cauldron after work for a round of drinks and she’d eagerly agreed.
Hermione had always categorized her relationship with Harry as a familial one, and she knew it was the same for him. They were essentially two war orphans: Hermione’s parents Obliviated into forgetting her existence. For Harry, it was the tragic and untimely deaths of Albus Dumbledore and Sirius Black that had left him alone, and untethered.
When Harry and Ginny announced their engagement at the Burrow last Christmas, Hermione had been ecstatic. She loved Ginny. They had grown close after the war, and spent many nights together in Hermione’s flat: gossiping, drinking wine, and watching the telly; which - much to her amusement - Ginny was absolutely enamoured with.
Hermione had arrived at the Leaky Cauldron looking forward to having a bit of a moan with the two of them, and perhaps a basket of chips. Feeling extremely pleased with the trajectory of her evening, Hermione slid into the booth, seating herself on the opposite side of Harry and Ginny. After ordering a hot toddy and her chips, Hermione settled in, taking off her scarf and coat and laying them neatly on the seat beside her.
As they exchanged niceties, Hermione noted someone in her periphery approaching their table. As the person loomed closer, it became impossible to ignore the head of ruffled red hair, and the bright orange Chudley Cannons jumper. She turned her head slowly, and watched as Ronald Weasley slid onto the bench beside her, sloshing the contents of his pint onto her lap with his clumsy entry.
“Sorry ‘bout that, Mione,” he said, grinning toothily at her. “I can’t seem to help myself when it comes to getting you wet.” He leered at her, or at least attempted to. Hermione felt as though the gesture lost some of its potency when you considered who was doing the leering. She took the stack of serviettes from the table, doing her best to ignore Ron while trying to sop up as much of the spilt beer as she could.
“What are you doing here, Ronald?” Hermione asked, abandoning her hopes of a drier skirt. Piling up the used serviettes, she did her best to keep her voice low; not particularly wanting the entire Leaky Cauldron privy to her personal business. Meanwhile, the neurons in her brain had kicked into overdrive, trying to explain the situation she had found herself in. Perhaps this was some type of stress-related nightmare.
Ron lifted his pint, taking a large swallow. Hermione wrinkled her nose when she realized how thoroughly he had soaked his own clothing with beer. Of course, he seemed completely oblivious to the fact. She watched, desperately curious to know what kind of charmwork was causing the pint to refill - because at this point what other explanation was there? – before looking over at Harry and Ginny.
“You two didn’t tell her ahead of time?” Ron slurred. Harry, at least, had the decency to look sheepish; while Ginny’s features had morphed into an expression Hermione couldn’t completely decipher.
“No, Ron, we didn’t tell her ahead of time.” Ginny snapped, her eyes flashing. “I thought you wanted this plan to work. Hermione would’ve never agreed to coming here if she knew you’d be sitting next to her in the booth.” Ginny shook her head, seeming exasperated by the whole situation. She turned back to Hermione, and cleared her throat in what Hermione assumed was an attempt to take the snappishness from her tone.
“Hermione, we asked you here tonight because Harry and I–” Ginny gestured between Harry and herself, the former replacing his sheepish expression with a more serious one, “–think you and Ron breaking up was a mistake. I understand the shock of walking in on that type of situation, I mean, Morrigan’s muff, I would’ve strung Harry up by his bollocks if I ever caught him even thinking about something like that.” Ginny shook her head and took a sip of her white wine, adding, “We think you were a bit hasty in your decision is all.” Ginny set her wine down whilst Harry and Ron nodded, eagerly agreeing with everything that had just been unceremoniously dumped into her lap.
At this point, Hermione was fully convinced that she’d been involved in some kind of magical accident; one severe enough that the healers at St. Mungos had placed her in a magically induced coma to save her brain. Following this train of thought, Hermione concluded that she was in the midst of some type of coma-related hallucination. There was no other explanation. Ginny siding with Ron? That never happened.
“So, what I’m hearing–” Hermione paused, “–is that even though you would string Harry up by his bollocks for even thinking of cheating on you, I’m supposed to forgive Ron and welcome him back with open arms?” Hermione resisted the urge to pinch herself. She already knew she was hallucinating. She should focus her efforts on a way to get herself out of it.
Ginny looked at Hermione like she had grown a second head, which perhaps she had. It was a hallucination after all. Apparently, anything could and would happen.
“Hermione, were you not listening to anything I said? I know you get lost in that big brain of yours, but this is important.” Ginny leaned forward in her seat as if to punctuate the alleged severity of the moment.
“Ron has struggled since the war.” she continued, ignoring the way Hermione’s mouth had fallen open. “Those decisions were made by a trauma-addled brain. You can’t hold him responsible for that. It’s basically unethical.”
“It’s true, Mione,” Harry said, having obviously decided that this was the appropriate time to jump in. He nodded and looked around the table. “It was different for me and Ron. We carried the weight of the war on our shoulders.”
Hermione swallowed hard at his comment. It was an unfortunate narrative that she had tried her best to change since they had been bestowed with the title of ‘ the Golden Trio ’. She couldn't count the number of times that someone had assumed she chased after Harry and Ron like a lovesick puppy; diving headfirst into the world of Dark magic and wizards to prove her loyalty and devotion all because she was a girl .
It didn't matter how many nights she spent cold and frightened in a tent, or the number of Horcruxes' she found. Hermione was forever taking a back seat to the Boy Who Lived, died, and lived again; and his best friend, the offspring of a reformed pureblood family who had once wielded the Sword of Gryffindor for a few moments.
The weight of the war her arse , she thought bitterly. Based on that sentence alone, Hermione decided to forget the coma/hallucination theory. She was clearly in Hell. Obviously she had died in the magical accident, and this was her personalized slice of eternity, chosen specifically to maximize her suffering as penance for a lifetime of poor choices.
“Harry and Ginny are right, Hermione.” Ron dared to place a beer-sticky hand on her still damp thigh. “You’re a smart girl, always have been. You know I’d never willingly do something like that to you.” His breath was hot and sour as he spoke, and he squeezed Hermione’s thigh in what she assumed was meant to be a reassuring gesture. “It was the, ah, what’s it called… trauma! Yeah, the trauma of the whole war situation. My brain was overtaken by trauma and what not. It was one of those out of body experiences people talk about.” Ron ran his hand up and down her thigh and lowered his voice as if speaking to a spooked horse that was ready to bolt. “Let’s go home, Mione. I’ve missed you.” Hermione’s eye twitched slightly. “I’m willing to forgive and forget, so let’s just put this whole thing behind us, yeah?” His features were smug as he gripped her thigh.
“C’mon Hermione,” Harry piped in. “Ron’s a great bloke. He has my stamp of approval, and you know it. The two of you can help each other heal from the war. I’m sure you’ve studied the topic enough to be a licensed mind healer at this point. You’d be mad to not take him back.”
Once the last word had dropped from Harry’s lips, three things occurred in rapid succession.
First, Hermione realized that she wasn’t in Hell, or even having a hallucination as she had previously thought. Harry’s bright eyes and Ginny’s self-satisfied look and Ron’s sticky hand creeping up her thigh and the whole conversation was real , as real as Voldemort, Horcruxes, Death Eaters, and the war.
Second, spurred on by the overwhelming amount of emotional energy it had access to, her magic surged; tearing through the Leaky Cauldron. She ignored the screams of terror as every piece of glass in the establishment shattered; knowing that unless she willed it, no harm would come to anyone.
And finally, third. Hermione turned and punched Ronald Weasley in the nose. An unwelcome intrusion consisting of a smirk and a flash of brilliantly icy blonde hair invaded her mind as she drew back her arm, but she quickly pushed the distracting memories to the side and focused on the task at hand.
A resounding crack filled the air, and Ron looked at Hermione in shock, blood spurting from his nose and down the front of the orange monstrosity the Chudley Cannons considered “merchandise”.
Running on autopilot, Hermione gathered her scarf as she stood awkwardly in the booth, shaking it gently to remove any shards of glass before wrapping it around her neck.
“What the fuck, Hermione?” Ron managed to gurgle out, his throat obviously full of blood thanks to her excellently thrown punch. Hermione picked up her coat, giving it the same treatment as her scarf before slipping it on and turning slightly to face her ‘friends’. Harry and Ginny were staring at her, the shock clearly written on their faces. Ron was lopsided on the bench, torn between holding his nose and mourning the state of his beloved jumper.
“We were just trying to help Hermione!” screeched Ginny as she suddenly came back to life. “I can’t believe you’d do that to Ron. Harry, do something! Help him before he bleeds to death!” Harry sprung to life, pulling out his wand. He tugged Ron to his feet, peering at the damage to his best mate’s nose. As he began to mutter healing charms, Ginny stood, leaning over the table and invading Hermione’s space.
“You know, I thought you were better than all this,” she sneered, poking Hermione forcefully in the chest. “Ron would give you the world, and you go and punch him in the nose. How dare you act all high and mighty? You have no idea what Ron has been through!”
Ignoring both the physical and emotional jab, Hermione slipped from the booth, taking advantage of the now empty bench. Her heels clicked loudly on the pub floor, the establishment quiet as the patrons watched the very public unraveling of the Golden Trio.
Hermione stopped at the bar, standing in front of the gobsmacked barmaid. She reached into her coat, grateful that she had worn one with an expansion charm cast on the pocket. She pulled out a large pile of coins, followed by a piece of parchment and a quill. She carefully wrote out her contact details: unsure if more would be owed, but unwilling to stay a moment longer.
With a polite smile, she slid her information and the compensation towards the woman. After returning the quill to her pocket she turned, exiting the Leaky Cauldron as the late evening sun danced off the broken windows.
***
Hermione returned to the present, pushing the painful memories back down. McLaggen sat smirking, looking like the cat that got the cream. He leaned back in his chair again, lacing his fingers across his stomach.
“Glad to see you, Potter. Maybe you can talk some sense into Granger here. The DMLE is no place for emotions to spill over like that. It’s an embarrassment, really.” He tutted, shaking his head disapprovingly. “Just more proof, unfortunately, that women aren’t cut out for work like this. You do need some semblance of emotional control after all.”
Having far surpassed her personal boiling point, Hermione tapped into her “emotions” and sent a bolt of wandless magic straight to the leg of McLaggen’s chair. There was a loud crack, followed by his shout of horror as the chair legs gave out, throwing him from his chair to land hard on his back. He groaned, rocking side to side in the rubble as the bullpen was once again stunned into silence.
It was Hermione’s turn to smirk as she leaned over his desk, making eye contact with McLaggen. He reminded her of a turtle caught on its back- trying his best to flip himself back over and failing miserably.
“So sorry about that McLaggen,” she sniped. “Looks like my emotions got the best of me. Too bad I have no semblance of emotional control.”
Hermione turned sharply on her heel, then paused. With another bit of wandless magic, she took the piles of crumb-covered paperwork and formed them into a neat stack, dropping it unceremoniously onto McLaggen’s stomach. He let out a loud – and frankly over exaggerated – oof , clutching at the paperwork like it was crushing his ribs.
Hermione rolled her eyes and headed in the direction of her office; her heels clicking smartly across the floor and McLaggen’s continued gasps and groans of pain the only sounds in the normally deafening bullpen.