Chapter Text
“And yes, this will require you to actually go to the library and do research, Mr. Jeffreys,” I said, pointing my finger to the red-headed, smart-ass. That one student in my class I could always count on to object to the concept of putting effort into school. He sat, picking his recent lunch from his teeth with a quill.
He looked around as snorts from his classmates echoed off the stone walls. “I didn’t say anything.”
“If you didn't have that quill between your teeth, I anticipated a fairly loud groan from your direction. I'll happily draw you a map to the library if you need me to.”
Everyone chuckled, except Jeffreys who groaned, “Fine.”
I smiled, readying for the next wave of their reactions. “Also, turn to the person next to you because they’re your research partner.”
More groans.
Perfect , I thought.
“I know, I intend to make this experience absolutely unbearable for as many of you as I can.” I strutted across the front, heels silenced by the carpet atop the stone floors.
A flash of orange caught my eye from the hallway.
Past the rows of desks, I met Ron’s inquisitive gaze. He raised his eyebrows at me and leaned against the stone entryway to my classroom, folding his arms over his chest. He nodded his head back, signaling he needed to talk.
Since our school days, I was used to Ron wearing his family’s hand-me-down robes with his hair askew. He’d grown and matured. Even physically. Now, he filled out his clothes, sporting a black sweater over a crisp white button-down. With his new stature, the roles had reversed and his slacks fit him and not his older brothers. His lace-up Oxfords sent a well-earned air of officiality. His robes were stark black, not worn of color, and clasped around his chest with gold buttons and two chains, noting a Ministry Official.
Dashing , I thought to myself.
My thought was dismissed when I remembered I presently had nothing nice to say to the Ministry. Their excitement about my research came with no funds, resources, or even a single capable assistant. In fact I could probably run a statistical analysis on how many more meetings about the International Quidditch Tournament they attended than my dedication to studying how we were going to save thousands of unborn children. I let out a groan under my breath.
Remembering I had a class present, I leaned forward and rested my hands on my desk. “Have your outlines by Thursday. Go away,” I said with a loving smile.
The students shuffled out of their seats, gathering bags and books. I noted half of them packing away their wands. How many? Ten? They take them out in every class and put them next to their quills as if willing a lesson in magic. I remember that. I remember my fingers twitching to curl around my vine, dragon heartstring core and cast spells into the sky at that age. Studying them, reading about them, was exciting. But it was nothing like the feeling of a wand, that chose you, pulling at the magic in your veins like a lighting rod.
I counted to three, and waited for the sound of shuffling shoes coming towards me instead of to the exit.
“Professor Granger?”
Took her five counts today. I blinked at the class overachiever, not the least bit surprised. Ironically, a twinge of annoyance and guilt pulled at my chest.
The student blinked back.
Ron shook his head from the doorway.
I ignored him, and took a deep breath and tried, and I meant it, I tried to look…well, frankly, like I cared. “Yes, Marcia?”
The brown-eyed-brown-haired girl with brown shoes and a brown cardigan and brown glasses leaned forward. “I’m concerned about my research partner.”
I glanced at the Ravenclaw insignia on her sweater. I know , I wanted to say. I practically heard her terrified inner thoughts the moment I mentioned “partner.” “And what are your concerns?” I already knew the answer because I had recited this speech more times to my own professors than I cared to admit.
“I’m concerned that I will be doing all the work. My partner fell asleep for most of the class. I’m sure you noticed.”
“I was fairly busy teaching, Ms. Alecco, so no, I was unaware.”
Ron chuckled from the back of the room. I knew what he was thinking. And I hated it. Marcia was me. This was who I used to be. So serious, so perfectionistic. Not that I didn’t still have those traits. But I’d grown out of those childish notions and I hoped she would too. Or at least, that I could help her mature.
I rolled my eyes before turning back to Marcia. She probably thought the gesture was at her. Her cheeks pinked and guilt bubbled within me for a moment. I’d long foregone that wretched emotion – surprimely unhelpful in times of war. I pushed that down and pulled at my more-helpful emotion of annoyance instead. “Do your best to work with him. Maybe you can help him see how important research can be.”
“I don’t think-”
Yes, yes, that won’t work. My grades this, my honor society that. I didn’t have to be a world-renowned Seer to know where this was going. I switched tactics.
“Or,” I leaned forward, out of earshot of anyone else, “you could always seduce him. Then he’ll do as much research as you want. Find a way.” I winked and dismissed the student.
The redness on Marcia’s face was priceless. But it worked. Marcia backed away from my desk and nodded, clutching her books to her chest as she turned and walked out of the room.
Ron pushed off of the doorway with a mocking slow clap. His shoes gave soft clicks as he swayed down the middle aisle of the classroom. The early fall sunlight filtered from the windows and danced off the redness of his hair, accentuating the accessories of his uniform. “You really got through to her,” he said with an amused glint in his eyes.
I smiled cunningly back at him. “Can I help you, Mr. Weasley?” Ron unclasped his robes and tossed them on a nearby chair. I rounded my desk and perched on the front, crossing my arms.
Ron’s expression brightened as he reached out to me. I embraced him warmly and noticed the confidence in his arms: a stark contrast after years of being unsure and awkward. I took the hug as a statement, one made by a dear friend. Although with the way his hands lingered on my waist, I wondered if it had been more of a question for him. Our previous romantic relationship was not something I was interested in exploring at the moment. Not that it was something I regretted, and not that it wasn’t something I didn’t want to remember. Just that a dear friend was how it would stay. “Been a bit,” I said, leaning back against the desk.
“Your teaching methods always surprise me.”
I raised an eyebrow curiously. “Is that so?”
He chuckled, meandering between the wooden desks, running a finger along them. “That student was you.”
“I’m aware of who I was.”
He glanced up at me. “Not so much you anymore.”
I sighed. “Wars change people.”
“I think you’ve changed for the better,” he said rather quickly.
“You mean because I’m a bit more bitchy?”
He laughed. “You said it, not me.” He perched against one of the desks. “I’d say more realistic.”
I nodded in thoughtful agreement. He was right. I had changed. I was not the know-it-all, teachers-pet I used to be. In fact, war had taught me that I knew very little about the world. The books I once buried my head in were nothing but illusions. You cannot fight a war with words on a page: you fight with spells and wands and vengeance. Reading about death and torment, about a curse that tortured to the bone was nothing until you saw it cast - until you were the one casting it. Being a student, being a perfect student, had limits, had security. But rejecting reality for safety had not been a chance I was willing to take when the first of Dumbledore’s Army fell. My fear? That the dark power I’d conjured all those years ago still crawled through my veins, unchecked.
“I really don’t feel like being late,” Ron said, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I glanced down at my watch. 2:45pm. “Alright, alright. Let me just freshen up, give me a minute.” If there was one thing I appreciated about my classroom was the adjacent restroom. Professor McGonagall really knew how to live in luxury. I wondered how she had gotten Dumbledore to make the addition.
Closing the door behind me to the small washroom, I brushed my tartan skirt that sat above my knees — quite the change from a youth spent hiding under a uniform. My tucked-in blouse with billowing sleeves cinched at the lower arms and knotted necktie were more fitted than in my former years. And although it still held its natural curl, my hair was better taken care of now than it used to be.
I’d paid a hefty price to a beautician for a new technique that removed frizz. The charm should last for about a year and then I would have to reapply it. But, god, was it…magical. I could take a shower and charm-dry my hair and there was not a strand out of place. The curls and waves fell together now, cascading to the middle of my back. Today, it was half-up, secured with a Gryffindor insignia clip: a gift from a dear teacher a lifetime ago.
My heart gave a fierce pound against my chest. I felt a tug. A pull backwards. She’d handed it to me with tears in her eyes. Why was she upset? I wasn’t going anywhere?
I shook my head to halt those thoughts and looked at myself in the mirror. Focus, Hermione , I reasoned. My hands curled around the lip of the ceramic sink.
The flash of green. The flash of green in my eyes. And then there wasn’t green anymore. They were…gray? The eyes were gray. Mine? My eyes? No…I stumbled. My ankle gave out and I caught myself against the wall before I hit the floor. Bile churned in my stomach and absolute horror streaked through my chest.
“Okay, okay, you’re okay,” I whispered, “get it together. Stop.” My breaths were coming in and out shakily like my trembling hands. I flattened them against the cold stone of the wall and rested my forehead, letting the chill seep into my skin. Deep breath in, one, two, three, out, two, three…
“Hermione?” I heard from the classroom.
… in, one, two, out, one, two. “Coming, geez, Ronald.”
All of them. Obliterated. “No,” I growled, pushing off the wall, grinding my teeth at my own mind. The War was over. There was nothing else to think about. I drove it back, farther, into the recesses of my memory. Where it belonged.
I reentered my classroom, willing myself together, steady on my feet. Horrors forgotten.
Ron leaned against a student desk, staring at the curious witch’s hat perched atop my own. His eyes roved to me as I approached. “Seeing the Headmaster doesn’t necessitate getting dolled up, Herm.”
“You wouldn’t know a woman dolled up if it hit you like a Bludger.”
“You…you did something to your eyes. Right?”
“Let’s go before you say anything stupider.” He was right though — I had learned, wait for it, makeup. Who knew as a nerdy teenager in the 1990s that it didn’t have to be applied in the most excruciating hues of bright blue and pink and the darkest of black eyeliner? Turns out that a little mascara and a simple black line above the upper eyelashes can really do wonders without looking like a tramp. All the things I judged and never knew.
My attention was caught when I glimpsed Ron’s finger extending towards the hat.
“Don’t bother Dilys,” I warned, narrowing my eyes at him like a protective mother.
He quickly snatched his hand away like it might bite. He should be more afraid of that with me, not the hat.
I gathered my Hogwarts professorial robes, pulled them around my shoulders and secured the clasp. My witch’s hat, only worn by the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, seemed to look up at me with those dark folds. “Not today,” I told her. The old, heavy material sagged with disappointment. I gave a knowing smile and provided her a pat as I rounded my desk again. “Do you know what this meeting is about?”
“I, um, well I do, actually,” Ron answered with a hint of discomfort.
“But you’re not going to tell me?” I sneered at him.
“I’ll let the Headmaster do the talking.”
Surprise, surprise. Usually he would love to blurt out good news immediately; not doing so most likely meant it was bad.
“Some friend. I take that hug back,” I snarled, slipping my wand into the inside pocket of the robe. I followed Ron out into the hallway and thanked the lord that most of the other students were already in class — saved us from shuffling through the ridiculous crowds of hormones.
Ron spoke up. “How’s the lab?”
“Underfunded,” I snapped immediately, glancing at him sideways. “I’m expected to cure a virus that will plague generations and I get treated like a Muggle on Halloween. I don’t want candy, I want resources.”
“That’s not exactly true,” Ron shot back, his voice entering a slightly higher register. “You know that I have appealed to Shacklebolt multiple times.”
We took a flight of moving stairs that connected to the Headmaster’s Tower. “Right, but he hasn’t done anything about it. Nothing changed. Ron, I have Dark Magic Objects in a dungeon . Do you have any idea what could happen if those items got in the hands of the wrong people?”
“Hermione, you’re trusted with those items and with your research because you’re the best there is.”
“Then why am I not treated like I am?” I could feel my blood starting to boil. I put my hand on Ron’s arm and turned him. “Voldemort probably had multiple of ‘the best’ Death Eaters working on this virus. He wanted the wizarding world to be affected. Our friends died trying to prevent it from being released. And now? Generations of affected children. What if it gets worse?!”
Ron’s face fell. “I know, I know the risks of not finding the cure. I know the pressure you work under.”
“You don’t,” I snapped at him, pulling hand away. He wanted to understand, I knew he did. But the Weasleys were Pure-bloods. Despite the fact that Ron didn’t flaunt that around, it was true. I knew, though. I knew that since the spread of the virus as a last-ditch effort for Voldemort to leave his mark on the country, I had no idea if I could ever have a healthy magical child - like thousands of British Half-bloods and future ones. But don’t worry, my under-funded lab with two sleep-deprived Hogwarts seventh-year research assistants will fix it! The thought made me curl my fists.
I continued, “But if you really want to understand, get me in the Ministry lab with Ministry assistants and real funding. I don’t know what Shacklebolt’s problem is, but give me five minutes with that Pure-blood ogre and I’ll get what I need.”
Ron opened his mouth but closed it again.
I was never the best dueler and couldn’t – well, wouldn’t – wield Dark Magic. And overwhelming people with facts never ended up leading to a win. So I’ve long learned that getting in a sharp final statement could turn the tide in my favor. We stood before the eagle with its raised wings. “Why don’t you ask the Headmaster how he feels? Tell him you’d like him to come along to meet with the Minister? You work for the Ministry; I’m sure you can throw your weight around.”
Ron scrunched his face. “No thanks.”
I smiled. “ Godric’s earwax ,” I said to the eagle. The stone shifted, turned, and began spiraling as the staircase formed. I pounced forward, hopping onto the second stair to the top. Ron shook his head and stood on the fifth as we rose. The smell of spice and old books found our noses with a hint of…onion?
The stairs stopped at the entrance to the office and I stepped inside. “What the bloody hell is that smell?”
“I got hungry,” said the Headmaster from his desk high in the office tower. A piece of bread floated through the air from the top level to Filo’s perch. The Phoenix cawed, flapping its growing wings as it jumped and gobbled up the piece.
“You really shouldn’t feed him from the table,” I scolded as I made my way over to the fiery Phoenix.
“Don’t tell me how to raise my kids,” the Headmaster shot back. I rolled my eyes as I petted the adolescent bird on its back. My most cherished friend, and Hogwarts Headmaster, stood from his desk, licking ketchup from his fingers. “I went with a burger for lunch, indulged myself a bit,” Harry said simply.
“I could have brought you one, mate,” Ron said as he sat at one of the tables on the lower level.
“No, no,” Harry corrected, rounding to the stairs, “I wanted a heart-attack one, you know, from one of those fast food Muggle places.”
“That’s barbaric,” I shivered, feeling my stomach roll.
“Have you had one?!” Harry asked, his maroon and gold robes catching the afternoon light from the windows.
“Well,” I said with defeat, “not exactly.”
“I had it delivered to this bloke’s house and then sent my owl to pick it up. Thinking about starting a service. OwlDash?”
“I don’t think it’ll take off,” Ron said, fiddling with his collar. “Can we get to the reason we’re here?”
Harry nodded, taking a seat in a high-backed chair.
“Are you firing me?” I asked with a smirk, making my way over to the pair. Although I was technically kidding, this wasn’t a usual meeting. The three of us were known to get drinks, have dinner, or meet to discuss where we stand on Wizarding political issues, but this seemed out of the ordinary. The idea of being fired was sitting perched anxiously in the front of my mind.
“Not today,” Harry said, “although stop telling students there is a Gryffindor Chamber of Secrets: they’re telling their parents.”
I smiled. “They need a little motivation sometimes. If I can get them to learn magical history because they’re searching for a hidden chamber, why not? Motivated you two,” I pointed out, settling onto a love seat that was probably five hundred years old. At least.
Harry cocked an eyebrow.
“Why am I here, then?”
Neither of them spoke. They just looked at each other.
So I piped up again. “You’re sure you’re not firing me.”
“Possibly worse,” Ron mumbled, glancing up at the portraits hanging around the office. They were keenly listening in.
“How is your research going?” Harry suddenly asked.
I paused for a moment, not sure if this was relevant or if he was changing the subject. I decided to indulge him. “Coming along.”
“That’s it?”
“Research doesn’t happen overnight.”
Harry sighed. “Bring me up to speed anyway.”
I returned the sigh. “Are you questioning if I’m working?”
“No, just making sure we’re on the same page.” He sat forward. “So Battle of Hogwarts, year 1998, you and everyone else assumed I was dead when Voldemort brought me out of the Forbidden Forest.”
“Right,” I confirmed, blocking out the emotions that I had pushed so far down into my memory. I stuck with the facts. “We,” I indicated to Ron, “are pretty well upset about you being dead. So we attack the Death Eaters left in the Forest.”
Ron picks up. “McGonagall was killed by a Death Eater, after she had killed Narcissa Malfoy.”
I swallow harshly, that being my most detestable memory. I squirm, as if shaking off discomfort. “The rest of us are able to fight Voldmort and his Death Eaters back enough that they at least retreat, weak, barely able to stand, but alive. Many of them are rounded up and taken to Azkaban, like Lucius Malfoy. But there were some, like Dolohov, Rowle, and young-Malfoy who had followed Voldemort into hiding.”
“Now,” Harry cuts in, “this whole time I’m asleep.”
Ron tilts his head. “Did they ever find out what exactly happened? After you came out of that Forest you were out cold for eight full months.”
“Gee, Ron,” Harry sassed him, “it could have something to do with me having been a Horcrux? That affects a person.”
“Right,” Ron nods, realizing he hadn’t thought that one through. “Anyway,” he continues, rubbing his hands on his slacks, “you wake up and get with the Aurors to find out wherever His Dark Majesty has slithered off to.”
“We tracked him for two years,” Harry reminisced.
“Meanwhile,” I piped in, “during that time, he hadn’t stopped his vicious acts of violence - Muggle-borns were being hunted down and attacked, sometimes killed, by his cronies. And I had no doubt that many of those attacks had been done by Malfoy, himself. The coward.”
“But then we found him,” Harry said with pride. “Raided that damned hideout. We burst into a room and Dolohov had just cast some kind of spell but no one knows what it was or exactly what it was designed to do. Voldy is killed. Dolohov is pronounced dead. Malfoy was rounded up and thrown in Azkaban.”
“And then,” I said with a sigh, “things went wrong.”
“Alright,” Harry sits back in his chair, “now catch me up on the state of the virus. Curse. Whatever you want to call it.”
I give them the bullet-point rundown. “Year 2000, we notice that Muggle-borns all have weaker magic. We started seeing it in students, actually, where they would be learning the simplest of spells, and they just…couldn’t cast them. We got them new wands, spoke with Ollivander and no luck. Barely any magic. Then, fast forward to 2003, the virus-slash-curse gets worse.”
Ron steps in. “Is this with the mother versus father thing?”
I smile at his rudimentary understanding. “Close. So at that time, if a magic mother and a non-magic father have a baby, the baby is born a Squib.”
“Which…” Ron struggles with putting the pieces together, “which is different how?”
I go on. “The genetic standard is that when a magic parent and a non-magic parent have a baby, there is a 75% chance that the baby will have magic. But this changes that to only 50% of the time. So there are more Squibs being born.”
“Right, right, okay. But then it gets even worse right?” Ron twirls his hand, trying to keep up which makes me laugh.
“Right, so then again, three years later in 2006, it mutates again. This time the percentage jumps down to 25%.”
Ron narrows his eyes. “25% of what?”
“The statistic started that 75% of Muggle-borns were magic. Then it became 50% and then it dwindled down to only 25%. So 75% of Muggle-borns are Squibs.”
“That’s a lot of math,” Harry said with a smirk.
“That’s why you have me,” I quipped back. “Now the current stage, and most extreme, is occurring now, three years later. The population of Muggle-borns being born at all is dwindling. So not only are the majority of Muggle-borns born without magic, but now some are not being born at all.”
Harry shook his head. “Unbelievable. What the hell could he have cast?”
“Well, that’s what I’m trying to find out,” I replied, folding my arms across my chest.
Suddenly there was a silent moment that passed between all of us.
I spoke up again. “So does anyone want to tell me why we’re here? I don’t really think you were eager to hear the mathematics behind my lab work.” They were stalling and my heart couldn’t take much more.
“Alright, alright. Well, we’ve found you a semi-permanent research assistant.”
I sat forward. “You’re kidding! That’s excellent! Who?”
Ron rubbed his forehead. “Voldemort.”
“I’ll take him,” I cheered, half sarcastic, “if he has two hands, which he did, and half a brain, which he did, he’ll do. When does he start?”
Harry sighed, throwing Ron a look. “There’s a program…”
“Program?” My brows furrowed. “Like a graduate program?”
“Erm,” Harry ran his hand through his hair, “more like a parole program.”
I was silent for a moment. I know my quip about hiring Voldemort was in poor taste but I didn’t think they’d take the joke this far. “What?”
Ron groaned. “Harry, mate, we should have taken her wand first.”
Harry ignored him. “It’s…it’s like a…community service type situation.”
“This is a joke,” I acknowledged with a smile spreading across my face, looking between the two.
Ron leaned back in his seat, resting his forehead on his fist. “A sick one.”
Harry shot him another look and sighed again, trying to keep his attitude optimistic. “There is a…an individual who…we…I mean the Ministry…”
“Oh, come on, mate,” Ron groaned, rubbing his forehead again.
Harry continued, “…believes would be a good candidate to help with your research.”
I was beginning to think the joke was on me. My foot started to tap without my permission. I held up a hand. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that there is a prisoner, who is on parole, and is going to be my research assistant?”
“Well-” Harry started with a nod. The first word out of his mouth was most certainly not a denial. Which means…he was fucking serious.
Ron interrupted. “Here we go.”
I shot out of my seat. “Are you fucking mad?! First, okay, first, you said that in order to do research at all, I have to teach full time. Second, you give me half the resources that I need to do my research. You can only get me samples from dead bodies? I need live, afflicted individuals to work with.”
Harry tried again. “The Ministry hasn’t approved-”
“And now, you’re telling me that I have to babysit some fuck-up in a laboratory with the most dangerous potions, chemicals, and essences of Dark Magic? Who the fuck is it?”
“So, that’s the thing, Hermione,” Harry said, still trying to remain calm. I’m glad he was even trying because I was not at this point. I didn’t care if one was a Headmaster and one worked for the Ministry. I was not about to be taken for a fool. The portraits had already turned away and were pretending to go along with their day. The portrait of Albus Dumbledore was chuckling jovially. “It, um, we…I mean the Ministry-”
“Fuck,” Ron buried his head in his hands.
“…feels that this individual possesses certain knowledge and…skill that could really help advance your progress. What’s better than to work with someone who has intimate knowledge of the virus?”
I froze, my voice lowering, brow furrowing. “What did you say?”
Harry swallowed hard. “I’m saying that we…they think that working with someone-”
I’d had enough. I pointed at him, my voice lowering even more, to a whisper, finger shaking, eyes blazing. “There are a limited number, a very limited number of individuals who would have intimate knowledge of the virus. All of which are now sentenced to life in Azkaban for good fucking reason. And it sounds, which I know isn’t true and that I’m misunderstanding, like you’re about to pair one of them with me. Please correct me. Please.”
They were silent. My eyes bulged. Harry bit at his lip. Ron groaned cowardly into his palms.
I set my hands on the table where Ron was seated, and leaned forward, looking between the both of them. “Who. The fuck. Is it.”
Harry looked at Ron. Ron sunk lower, shaking his head. The Headmaster had probably had enough of being the bad guy for one afternoon. Besides, I could tell was fearing for his life from the look in my eyes and the trembling in my hands. And his fear was completely founded. “Well, Ronald, Department Head of some terribly long acronym, want to tell her?”
Ron paused for a moment before sitting up in his chair and leaning back. “I suppose I should look my executioner in the face.”
“Ronald,” I said with a turn of my chin.
He looked right at me. Right into my green eyes. And drew, what felt like, his last breath.
“Draco Malfoy.”