Chapter Text
Hermione stood outside Westminster Hall, smoking by a window overlooking Muggle London in its midnight glory.
“Did you ever think this day would come?” Harry asked thoughtfully. "Muggles and Magicals, together?"
Hermione stared at him, wistful. His very presence at the gala was a message to the magical society: one of the most influential, prominent, unyielding figures of the passing century was on board with whatever brand of insanity the relentless Hermione Granger was about to introduce. She couldn’t begin to explain how important his endorsement was to her.
The heroic Harry Potter, her Harry, covering her back after all these years.
“We wouldn’t be here without you,” and she meant it.
His eyes twinkled.
“Hey, what about me?” Ron said, a charming smile widening across his face. His hand went around her shoulders, grounding her.
He was so tall that Hermione had to crane her neck despite the high heels. His eyes were bright with mirth.
“I could never forget you, Ronald,” she laughed, leaning into him. “Both of you are sharing this moment with me, and I couldn’t be happier. We are beginning a new era.”
“Yes, we are,” Harry said, raising a raven brow. “Now get out there.”
Hermione nodded, grinning. She put out her cigarette and ran her manicured fingers across the silk of her emerald gown, straightening imaginary creases.
“You are breathtaking,” Ron said, his soft eyes running down her body. "I hate to admit that Slytherin green is doing you justice."
"You cut quite the picture yourself, Ron," a gentle blush kissed the high points of his face. “Walk me back?” She asked coyly, shooting him a glance.
“It would be my honour, Miss Granger,” he returned her playful tone, offering his arm.
They walked back, the three of them entering Westminster Hall.
Westminster Hall had never looked as it did that night. The vast medieval chamber stretched the length of a cathedral, its ancient stone walls rising to the magnificent hammer-beam roof. The hall glowed warmly under a fusion of electric chandeliers and discreet magical lights. Long banquet tables draped in deep navy and gold lined the hall, polished silverware reflecting wizarding banners hung along the walls. Wizards in formal robes mingled with ministers in tailored suits, their conversations blending into a low, charged murmur. Aurors and Muggle security stood along the perimeter, guardians of an unprecedented peace. At the far end, beneath towering windows, a raised dais awaited the evening’s speakers, framed by subtle wards that shimmered faintly in the air.
Ginny whisked her husband away, shooting Hermione a wink. Ron followed them, giving Hermione's hand one last squeeze.
Hermione stepped toward the podium, exchanging smiles and polite nods as she went.
Murmurs faded completely as Hermione ascended the podium and took over the microphone. She looked over her audience, the people eager to hear what she had to say, and ignored a sudden urge to poke around their brains with Legilimency. That wouldn't do, so she settled for fairer means of interpretation.
Dozens of glances locked on her, some doubtful and challenging, some deferent, but all of them curious.
A calm, gracious smile spread across her face.
“Madam Prime Minister, Madam Minister for Magic,” the leaders of the two governments each got a special endorsement, “Ministers of Parliament, esteemed members of the Wizengamot, distinguished scholars, honoured guests – friends.” She smiled a kind smile, the sort a mother would after having brought together her estranged children. “Tonight we stand within the House of Parliament, in the beating heart of British governance, at a moment that history will remember for generations to come.” She took a deliberate pause, allowing her words to sink in.
She knew she was being televised. By morning, her face would be plastered across the front page of every magical newspaper.
If she played the game well, by the same time next year, it would be every Muggle newspaper as well.
“It is not lost on me how extraordinary this gathering is.” She continued, her steady, assured voice spilling across the hall, “Wizards and witches seated beside the elected leaders of the United Kingdom. Magical scholars conversing with non-magical scientists. Aurors standing alongside British law enforcement who, until recently, did not know our world existed. The very idea of such unity would have been considered impossible for most of our history. Yet here we are, at the beginning of a new year, new millennium, and a new journey.” Another pause was followed by vociferous applause.
“For over three centuries, the Statute of Secrecy preserved our survival.” The warm smile came off her face, a striking, militant fire igniting in her eyes. The benevolent politician retreated, giving the spotlight to the stern heroine of war. “It shielded our world when fear of the unknown led to persecution and violence. Our ancestors were wise to choose concealment, and we owe them our continued existence. But what protects one generation may restrain the next. Secrecy preserved us, but the isolation that followed limited us. It confined our progress, narrowed our understanding, and created a distance that, over time, transitioned from necessary to habitual. And, eventually, dangerous.”
Hermione let the implication hang in the air.
“Tonight, we begin to move beyond the dangerous habit that almost cost us the integrity of both of our worlds.” She spoke passionately. “We take a step toward thoughtful, structured integration, grounded in mutual respect and consideration for each other’s differences and similarities. Five years ago, we emerged from a war that nearly destroyed everything our ancestors had worked for. We rebuilt our institutions, reformed our laws, and restored trust among communities long divided by prejudice and fear. We learned that unity, once thought fragile, could become resilient when sustained by courage and shared purpose.”
Everybody in that room was affected by the Second Wizarding War, Muggle or Magical. Hermione could see it now.
They were fools to think their worlds were ever separate.
“Over the past several years, I have served as an Auror for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” she regarded the Head of the DMLE, Allastair Bones, with a considerate nod, “And as a faithful acolyte of the Department of Mysteries.” Antioch Greengrass, Head of the DM, got an acknowledgement as well.
“I was protector of the law and scholar of thought, working in fields where knowledge is both power and responsibility. In that time, I began receiving higher qualifications in both Magical Sorbonne and Non-Magical Oxford.” Everybody was more than aware of how accomplished Hermione Granger managed to become by the age of twenty-two, judging by their knowing smiles. “What I discovered was not a lesser system of knowledge, but a parallel one, a complementary one: rigorous, disciplined, brilliant in its methodology. Non-magical scientists who mapped the structure of matter, harnessed electricity to illuminate cities, developed communication systems capable of linking continents in seconds. It's a world achieved not with feats of magic, but with persistence, logic, and collaboration. Imagine, then, what we might accomplish together.”
Hermione smiled once more, a wilder smile of anticipation, a burning fire of conviction.
She didn't discover the Muggle genius while pursuing higher education. The thought was laughable. As a Muggleborn, she was familiar with it before she learned magic was a thing, but she knew if she were to appeal to the larger wizarding masses, she had to adapt her narrative.
“Imagine healing spells guided by non-magical diagnostic technologies capable of detecting illness before symptoms manifest." Her speech went on, "Imagine enchanted infrastructure strengthened by engineering principles refined across centuries. Imagine protective enchantments synchronised with satellite detection systems identifying environmental threats before they endanger entire populations. Imagine magical theory tested through scientific modelling, yielding discoveries neither discipline could achieve independently.” With each passing sentence, her voice was gathering momentum, becoming more urgent, more assured. “This is not a fantasy. This is our future.”
“But understanding alone does not create progress.” She went on, “Institutions, cooperation and courage create progress. And courage, tonight, surrounds us.” Says a Gryffindor. “Courage from wizarding leaders willing to open a dialogue once considered dangerous. Courage from non-magical leadership willing to confront the extraordinary reality of magic with curiosity rather than fear. Courage from scientists, historians, and policymakers willing to engage in conversations that reshape centuries of tradition.”
“Let me be clear: integration does not mean abandonment of identity. It does not mean careless revelation or unregulated exposure. The Statute of Secrecy cannot - and must not - be discarded overnight. It must be studied, revised, and transformed into a framework of responsible coexistence.”
“As Director-General of the Granger-Malfoy Institute for Interdisciplinary Magic and Science,” mentioning her crowning achievement sent another round of applause across the hall. Narcissa Malfoy accepted cheers, looking every bit the aristocratic, progressive beneficiary she was playing these days. “My team and I have spent years merging magical systems with non-magical technologies. Our early attempts were flawed. I recall an experimental translation engine producing medieval poetry in response to mathematical input.” Restrained chuckles rang through the crowd.
Hermione smiled. “Failure, however, revealed something fundamental: magic and technology are not incompatible. They are languages that stem from similar roots, waiting for interpretation. The work of translation between two worlds is the defining intellectual challenge of the new millennium. For too long, our worlds have existed as neighbours separated by an invisible wall known for fostering misunderstandings, cultivating myth, and encouraging fear of what lies beyond. Understanding dismantles fear. Collaboration replaces suspicion with trust, and trust, once established, becomes the foundation of peace.”
Her eyes hardened.
“The next century will not be shaped solely by magical advancement, nor solely by technological innovation, but by the convergence of both. A synthesis of enchantment and engineering, of intuition and evidence, of witchcraft and circuitry. This convergence will not be easy. It will require legislation, oversight, diplomacy, and patience. It will demand new educational systems, new ethical frameworks, and new forms of cooperation between ministries and governments that have never before acknowledged one another beyond suspicion and volatility.”
“But difficulty does not negate necessity. I believe with absolute conviction that the next great revolution will not be fought with wands and weapons. It will be achieved with minds, the sharp, bright minds of the individuals I am honoured to see here today. An intellectual renaissance forged through cooperation between magical and non-magical thinkers, a shared pursuit of knowledge that transcends tradition without discarding it, and a partnership that transforms fear into discovery, is the promise we step into the new millennium with."
"One day, historians will look back upon this evening and recognise it for what it is: the formal beginning of a dialogue between worlds long separated by caution and misunderstanding. They will say this was the night when secrecy began to evolve into stewardship, when isolation began to transform into affiliation, when curiosity overcame fear. Tonight, we celebrate friendship."
Westminster Hall erupted with applause.
"And as midnight approaches, let us raise our glasses not merely to the passing of time, but to the opening of a new chapter in human history. Happy New Year - and welcome to the Century of Convergence!”
Westminster Hall shook with acknowledgement, with people – not Wizardfolk and Muggles, but people eager to begin a new era.
Standing there, basking in the spotlight, at the height of power, Hermione felt as though she could take over the world.
She'd done the impossible, hadn't she? Who was to say she couldn't take it further?
For a second, an odd, creeping feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. Hermione watched her audience, watched their hopeful, auspicious faces. Against all sense, a slow, needling prickle jabbed at the base of her spine, as though something vast and unseen had turned its attention toward her. The lights became blinding, the crowd a soft blur beyond a blinding white glow. The sensation came from somewhere deeper in the dark, somewhere she could not possibly understand. The air thickened around her, humming with a presence too large to name.
It wasn’t the ordinary nerves of being watched by hundreds - Hermione ceased to get those long ago. This was singular, deliberate, predatory. It was an overwhelming force, a suppressing one, a terrifying one. Hermione kept the smile up, but she knew something in the shadows was listening, something far more powerful than anyone in the room.
At once, she thought she saw eyes of cosmic darkness, two pools of black matter ready to swallow her.
But she was nowhere near ready to be swallowed.
***
Hermione apparated to Knightsbridge, where she resided in the penthouse of One Hyde Park. She entered her flat, all high heels, fur coat, and pinned curls, humming the tune of Everybody Wants to Rule the World under her breath. Crooks emerged from the shadows, giving her a haughty meow, and went on about his cat business.
"Hello to you too, Crooks," she said to his retreating tail.
She made her way to the study, losing her coat and putting a cigarette between her lips. She lit it wandlessly, inhaling the smoke.
Tick.
There it was again, the feeling of being watched. It came back, having followed her home, shedding the polite distance of public space. The air felt wrong, too still, too heavy. A slow, crawling awareness slid up her spine, colder and more deliberate than before, and she froze mid‑stride. It wasn’t imagination or nerves, not at all. It was a presence, a vast, patient presence, coiled somewhere just beyond sight. Her hand moved before thought could catch up, her vine stick drawn in a defensive arc, the tip glowing faintly as she scanned the dim corners of her flat. Every shadow seemed to lean toward her. Every silence felt inhabited.
The entity wasn’t merely watching now. It was nearing, close enough that she could feel its eyes pressing against her skin like a hand. She braced herself, breath tight, knowing with absolute certainty that she was no longer alone.
"I always knew green was your colour."
Hermione whipped her head, ready to shoot a Bombarda out of her eyes, only to discover Draco Malfoy lounging in the loveseat by the fireplace, the crimson glare of it kissing his pale face.
"Malfoy." She acknowledged, relaxing.
Thank Merlin.
"Were you at the Gala?" She asked, the answer suddenly becoming very important.
"Yes," he answered impassively, "I stopped by to hear your speech."
Of course. It was him.
The tension left her with an exhale.
Malfoy looked befitting Britain's most desirable bachelor, with his tailored black robes, his silvery-blonde hair parted down the middle, and his sharp, austerely beautiful face. Every angle of it spoke of perfection: from the straight bridge of his nose to the arrogant curve of his lips to the alluring sharpness of his cheekbones. His cool, icy grey eyes went down the elegant slope of Hermione's body, taking in every detail of her appearance with the dedication of a renowned scholar: he noted the Slytherin green of her dress, the muted glow of her candlelight diamonds, the bespoke craftsmanship of her matching Manolos before staring at her with that vague, Malfoy-ish smile of his that made it impossible for Hermione to decipher what he was thinking.
Was he admiring the sight before him, or was he thinking of her as a square peg in a round hole, the round hole being high society?
Hermione wasn’t exactly the bookish Muggleborn witch Malfoy knew from Hogwarts, nor the fearsome Auror the wizarding community used to whisper about, but someone more elegant, refined. The kind of woman that would be behind the gala of the century, one might say.
"You ought to owl before you drop on someone," she said finally, her voice laced with a taunt.
"If you didn't want me to drop on you, you wouldn't have written me into the wards," he pointed out, tilting his head.
Now, he wasn't exactly wrong.
"How was France?" She asked.
"I'm glad to report that the French Ministry is positively sick of me," Malfoy smirked coolly. "Minister Beaumont would have signed over his seat if it meant getting rid of my company, which is ridiculous. I'm a delight, if I say so myself. Regardless, the French will be on board next year, just like the rest of the Confederation."
"The Confederation," she scoffed, unable to hide her disdain, "The Supreme Mugwump all but called me insane when we went public, but it took a single Malfoy to sway him. What a joke."
"You severely underestimate the weight behind the Malfoy name, Granger," Malfoy remarked smugly. "We might have made some questionable decisions in the past fifty years, but it doesn't negate the over a thousand years of the right ones."
Hermione didn't dignify that with an answer, lowering herself into the velvet of a scarlet armchair. Her neck and legs went across each arm, and she took the opportunity to stretch voluptuously, letting the roaring fire and the silk of her dress accentuate the soft curves and lean muscles of her figure. Malfoy's dark gaze was transfixed on her, following the slow motion with a dubious expression.
"What are you planning to do now that you're back on British soil?" She asked in the meantime.
"You mean outside of being your faithful minion?" He mocked, turning a page in his book. "I am a Malfoy. A life of leisure and casual political meddling sounds about right."
She frowned. "I'm not entirely sure about the leisure, but the casual political meddling can be done from the Board of Directors."
Hermione couldn't see it, but she knew he rolled his eyes. "The Institute is yours and my mother's," he said, not for the first time, mind you. "Believe it or not, but I'm not dying to work shoulder to shoulder with Muggles, my tolerant witch."
She pursed her lips, dissatisfied. The dashing man across from her was worlds and a lot of personal development away from the arrogant, entitled, insufferable boy who had once called her a Mudblood. Surely enough, he was still arrogant, entitled and insufferable, but that seemed to have come with the Malfoy DNA. Since the war, he had made an effort to overcome some of his prejudices, which was more than Hermione could say for a lot of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.
Hermione couldn't tell you how she grew close with Draco Malfoy. Just that one day, she found it easy to resonate with an ex-Death Eater. Malfoy supported her in her endeavours to round up every last one of the Death Eaters (mostly because he didn't want them coming after him and his family, the self-serving serpent that he was). After the war, the Malfoys put a considerable chunk of their fortune toward progressive, reconstructive causes, amongst which was the Granger-Malfoy Foundation of Interdisciplinary Magic and Science. Not that they were dying for the convergence of magic and science. What they were dying for was to have their name associated with something other than Voldemort, Death Eaters and Dark Arts.
She lit a second cigarette. Succulent smoke filled her lungs, numbing away the gnawing pain.
A new millennium was coming.
It was unbelievable.
When the war ended, she was angry. So many lives were lost, so many young, promising wizards and witches gone, magical blood spilt, so much pain inflicted. Those who had the misfortune of surviving the bloody ordeal gained the questionable honour of having to heal their disfigured minds and bodies for years to come, a traumatised country trying to get off its knees, all because a single man was too scared to die.
Hermione had seen it all in her years as an Auror, when she charged through half the globe hunting the fugitive Death Eaters. When the last of them were caught and tried, she went straight to Allastair Bones and turned in her Letter of Reassignment.
Harry and Ron were not too happy to part ways with her. They weren’t surprised, either. It was the endless pursuit of knowledge Hermione was built for, not the endless pursuit of criminals. So, when she went thick as thieves with the Malfoys, announced the foundation of the Granger-Malfoy Institute, and started the three-year-long campaign against the Statute of Secrecy, her friends weren't too shocked.
Nor were they shocked when she joined the Department of Mysteries, where she knew she belonged - for better or worse. When Hermione traded combat for research, she felt at peace, content despite the many flaws it came with. Magical mysteries were a place where her renowned mind was appreciated, a place that studied the very roots of magical energy and its mysterious beginnings.
Hermione Granger became the busiest woman in all of Wizarding Britain, but she was only happy to get out of her own head.
... Her hand laced through the air, faint golden sparks igniting about her fingers.
Letting off excess magic always felt good.
“You're brimming with magic,” Malfoy's low voice disturbed her tranquillity.
Inhale. Exhale.
“It's been a while since I've transitioned,” she said. "Things have been hectic."
"Transitioning is not the only way to let off the steam," Malfoy pointed out, letting the implication of his words hang in the air.
Hermione turned her head, giving him a tipsy, sultry smile. "Unfortunately, my primary outlet was off to France, abusing the local leadership.
Now she could see his smug grin, the kind that left her lower abdomen longing.
"Pity." She narrowed her eyes at his selfish words.
A moment of silence followed. He wouldn't approach her first; he rarely did. Malfoy's game was to have her come crawling to him, a needy, begging mess.
“I can hear your thoughts all the way from here, you know." Oh, how much she loved playing their little game, "Your pining, traitorous thoughts..."
He let out a vibrating laugh that went straight to her cunt, “No, you can’t, you haughty little witch.” His amused arrogance was slipping through the composed facade. “I'm a natural Occlumence.”
“The little thinking you do is very loud.” She rolled her eyes.
“Well, not everybody has gone through the mysterious Unspeakable training that turns your mind into a deadly swamp,” Malfoy murmured, not feeling the need to defend his excellent Occlumency.
Hermione smiled. “Why are you here, Malfoy?”
She exhaled a cloud of smoke, her eyes fixed on the man.
He shot her a bemused look. “I'm taking advantage of your rather large collection of Muggle books, obviously.” His voice was unbothered. “Merlin forbid someone catches me with one of these out in the wild. I have a reputation to uphold, after all.”
“The reputation of a brooding Muggle-hating prick with a stick up his arse,” Hermione reminded him exactly where he stood.
“Precisely." He smiled politely. "So, be a dear, and leave me to my brooding and Muggle-hating.”
Hermione feigned a concerned look. “But how can I?" She mused, "Your mother would skin me alive if she were to discover your whereabouts on New Year’s Eve, that is. So, really, what are you doing here?”
“First of all, my mother would never indulge in such crudeness. She would Imperio someone else to do it for her," he explained edifyingly, as if speaking to a child. "Second of all, my curious witch, the question is not what am I doing here, but what are you doing here.
“I live here, obviously.” She deadpanned, raising on her elbows to glare at him with her signature furrow.
“Not that. I mean, why are you here, alone, in my poor company, on New Year’s Eve, and not with your repulsive, world-saving Gryffindor clique?” He smiled thinly, but the smile did not quite reach his eyes. “Did you get your welcome revoked when you turned down Weasley’s pathetic advances?”
He clicked his tongue, his face contemplative. "Can't say I blame you for that. I'd choose Azkaban over the Burrow any day."
Hermione narrowed her eyes.
“At least I’m not hiding from the whole world behind a Muggleborn’s back." She returned the thin, empty smile. "You think being associated with a war hero will get you in the Ministry’s good graces, and since you despise both Harry and Ron, you chose me.” She assumed a vertical position, rising to her feet. "You chose wrong. I'm no shield, Malfoy, and I offer no solace."
Hermione approached him, every sentence followed by a slow, seductive sway of her hips. His heavy stare met hers, burning.
"I don't want you to be my shield, nor do I want your solace." He remarked levelly, gazing up at her. "I didn't choose either one of your Gryffindor Pet Projects because I cannot do to them what I like to do to you," he admitted.
"Besides, neither of them holds a candle to you, Hermione Granger. Nobody does." The last bit came out resigned, as if the truth of it unnerved him deeply.
He lowered his eyes, and, for a moment, Hermione could swear a tint of rosiness flushed across his cheeks. “You're not wrong, Malfoy." She smiled coldly. "Nobody holds a candle to me.”
She reached him, the distance between them close to nothing. Malfoy looked up at her, incredulous, lost, hungry. There was wildfire churning in his eyes, despite their stark iciness. His strong, yet slender hands twitched as if he was fighting the urge to touch her, and, all things considered, he probably was.
Hermione took the book off his lap and set it aside. It was Ludovico Ariosto's Orlando Furioso.
"You're on my beck and call, my most devoted champion," she mocked, towering over him. "I wonder if it's the sagacious Malfoy in you, or if you're that desperate for my cunt." She brushed her knuckles against his cheek.
He let out a sharp, hissing sound.
Just like that, his resolve snapped. He grabbed her wrists harshly, pulling her into himself with a surrendering sigh, as if whatever battle he was waging against his basest instincts was lost. She let out a triumphant laugh that caught in her throat when he grabbed a fistful of her hair and jerked her head.
"Perceptive, aren't you?" Malfoy murmured viciously against the shell of her ear, sending a row of goosebumps down her spine. "You can play the arrogant witch all you want, but we both know what you look like with my cock shoved down your throat."
A breathless moan escaped her lips when he sank his teeth into the sensitive skin of her neck. "Yes, just like that." He drawled, soothing the pain with his tongue. He used his other hand to press her into his body and let go of her hair, only to grab her jaw and force her to look into his eyes.
"And just so you know, darling... It's both." His lips spread in a haunting, wolfish smile, and he thrust, his erection hard against her cunt.
Just as Hermione was about to forfeit all of her wits for a taste of him, she felt her wand vibrate mildly. The two of them stilled.
She summoned the vine stick, staring at it accusatorily as if it had personally offended her. The tip signalled a neon red, and an array of electrifying sparks broke out, making Hermione let out an annoyed growl.
“It seems duty is calling,” Malfoy said, sounding amused. “I don’t think you are in any condition to apparate, though. Maybe take the Floo?”
Maybe shut up?
She grabbed his neck and bit into his lips with a mindless, searing kiss. He moaned softly, returning the kiss tenfold.
Hermione was the one to break it off. Getting off him hurt her viscerally, the unreleased tension thick in her body. But it would have to wait.
The Department of Mysteries was knocking on her door. If someone could spoil the prospect of Hermione Granger getting laid, it was Lester Carrow.
Hermione approached her potion cabinet and extracted a vial of Painless Bliss. She downed it quickly, ignoring the vile, familiar taste.
"Do they still hurt?" Malfoy asked, studying her with his unreadable expression.
He was talking about her scars, the ones hidden under layers of glamour. She met his hard gaze with a glare of her own.
Yes, she wanted to say.
“Feed Crookshanks for me, will you?” She said instead.
“Leaving me on cat duty again, I see.” He spoke, narrowing his eyes.
“Well,” she grinned obnoxiously, playing with her wand, “Since you all but live here, you might as well make yourself useful.”
He smiled, a strange mix of lazy entertainment and something else, something more complex and confusing.
“Happy New Year, Granger.” He murmured, “Try to get back before it hits midnight.”
She cracked a brow, and, without giving him a proper answer, she disapparated.
***
Being an Unspeakable of the Department of Mysteries gave you perks beyond a sick, albeit oddly sentient and deadly, tattoo: you could apparate freely in and out of most places, including Ministry Departments and even Hogwarts, bypass most wizarding laws, and be as odd and aloof as you possibly could, while answering directly to the Unspeakable of Fate. No Magical Law Enforcement, no Minister of Magic, not even God himself, if he was real, were law to Unspeakables: only Fate, the most fickle and unreliable of bosses, and the most enigmatic one. The Unspeakables answered to a cosmic consciousness beyond human comprehension, the kind of metaphysical power that was brimming within the Department of Mysteries, and it was a lawless hooray that allowed them to do things.
Fun things. Great things. Illegal things. Things.
So, Hermione apparated without having to go through the scrutinising process of security clearance. She knew her younger self wouldn’t approve of the Unspeakable privileges, but she no longer slept clutching a tome of Hogwarts: the Rulebook.
The Department of Mysteries was fortified after their little ordeal in Fifth year. Apparently, when a group of deranged teenagers were able to break into the wizarding world's equivalent of Area 51 with nothing but hopes, dreams and the chosen one's vivid hallucinations, it raised security concerns. The infernal rigmarole of saving Sirius Black ended with the man dead and Hermione bound to a hospital bed for months to come. The Purple Flame curse unleashed upon her by Dolohov, the one that nearly tore her lungs apart, did her the disservice of not only dooming her to downing Painless Bliss potions for the rest of her life, but of disqualifying her from taking the fifth-year exams.
The notion of missing exams simply because she was comatose was beyond Hermione. They could have shocked her into consciousness and brought the papers to her.
Since Dolohov cost her the fifth-year exams, she evened the scales with a well-aimed Killing Curse during the Battle of Hogwarts.
It was only fair.
...Hermione entered the Chamber of Thought to find a very curious selection of people waiting for the likes of her.
“Unspeakable Granger,” Lester Carrow, the Senior Unspeakable over the sub-department of Thought, a dark-haired, dark-eyed, gaunt man who reminded Hermione of Snape, measured her with a dissatisfied look. She did not get those very often, being his star pupil and everything.
His eyes went up and down her frame, his brow arching.
She followed his gaze and cursed internally.
Hermione had apparated straight out of her flat, more than slightly drunk, high on nicotine and Draco Malfoy's sinister touch. The state of her intoxication was written across her face in a conspicuous blush.
“Gentlemen." She cleared her throat. "This is my day off,” she reminded Carrow, trying to sound as sober as possible.
The sobering charm was slow-acting. She lowered her wand. “Frankly, I thought we were under attack."
Lester Carrow, Atticus Bell, Hollister Greenaway and two other Unspeakables whom she did not know exchanged meaningful looks.
Hermione assessed them with a level gaze.
“We did not call you for reinforcements, if that's what you're saying,” Carrow remarked condescendingly. “The turning of the centuries and the beginning of a new millennium make this a perfect learning opportunity, as far as mysteries are involved, but I’m not at all sure how teachable you are in this… State.”
Bell and Greenaway, her training partners (both of whom were also dressed informally for being dragged off their respective celebrations), concealed their sneers. The other two Unspeakables, presumably from the sub-department of Time, judging by their grey robes and the time-turners hanging over their necks, stared at her with cool indifference. They didn’t seem impressed to meet the legendary Hermione Granger, an expression of timely detachment written all over their faces. It was believed that working with Time did strange things to how people manifested themselves, which was one of the reasons Hermione had avoided the sub-department of Time like it was the bubonic plague. Another reason was that whenever she crossed the threshold of Time, it felt as though the Grim Reaper himself was breathing down her neck.
She couldn’t make sense of it, and for the time being, chose to stick to the sub-department of Thought.
Hermione stared Carrow straight in the eyes. “I could be dead, and I’d still be teachable.”
“Follow me, then, all three of you.” Said Lester, walking away.
Greenaway murmured into Hermione's ear. “Nice heels.” He nodded at her Manolos.
"I can tell you they're unsuitable for whatever sorry business Carrow has in mind." Hermione sighed.
They followed suit as Carrow went on about time-this, space-that.
“Our colleagues from the sub-department of Time are giving us a rare opportunity to observe calibrations within the River of Time.” He explained dutifully, which piqued Hermione’s interest.
A wave of excitement shot through her, knocking out all concerns about her shoes.
“The River of Time? The very one that inspired the legends of the Styx River?” She asked, her voice electrified with sudden impatience.
"Yes, Unspeakable Granger. That's the one."
Her mind went racing.
The River of Time was one of the top secrets of the sub-department of Time, a reverent truth to the Unspeakables. Its existence was one of the secrets protected by the Mark, so mentioning it to someone who didn’t bear one would kill the Unspeakable on the spot.
The River of Time inspired many legends across many cultures: the River of Styx for the Greeks, the River of Leto for the Romans, the River of Panj for the Persians, and so on. The common theme was its time-related properties, for it was the waters of that very river from which the Sands of Time were derived. Every bit of the river was believed to be temporal magic materialised.
The river didn’t exactly flow in one of the Chambers of the sub-department of Time, but under it, buried deep in the bowels of the Ministry, charmed with intricate space-distorting magic and enough protective wards to have kept away the Death Eaters during both of the Wizarding Wars.
The Death Eaters were a sensitive topic for Lester Carrow, for his siblings, the murderous Carrow twins Alecto and Amycus, were notorious supporters of the Dark Lord, like most Carrows: pure-blooded and noble that family was, and well-versed in the Dark Arts, too. Despite coming from a line of very proficient dark sorcerers, Lester Carrow, the Unspeakable, wasn’t able to fight in the war, bound to the Department of Mysteries. Both Alecto and Amycus were now deceased, to Hermione’s greatest pleasure, and Lester Carrow hadn’t even bothered to attend their funerals.
She expected to encounter certain tensions with Carrow, having helped to put his siblings six feet deep down the ground and all, but was wrong. He was the perfect Unspeakable, Thought's faithful warrior, completely detached from his earthly woes. Hermione was not yet at the same level of detachment, having a great many earthly ties. Despite everything, Carrow had welcomed her with harsh glares and harsher words, trained her vigorously, tearing at her mind day and night, and branded her personally with the Unspeakable Mark. Behind her back, he called her his star student, his most promising Unspeakable. His version of a bad day was whenever someone would bring up the idea of Hermione leaving the Department of Mysteries in favour of a political career.
“Why should one rule men,” he had said to her once, “When one can rule Thought.”
“You are no Auror, Granger,” he said another time, before she received her Mark, “Your service was nothing more than a thirst for revenge that you successfully quenched. You are an Unspeakable, and were always meant to be. A natural Thoughtful.”
She hated him for being right.
“Have you ever thought why Dolohov’s curse didn’t end you against all the odds?” he asked once, a rhetorical question that demonstrated his awareness of Hermione's woes. “Was it because you were lucky enough to hit him with your silencing charm? In pitch blackness? By the sub-department of Fate?”
Sometimes she felt like he knew more than he let on, the arrogant expression of cosmic wiseness in his eyes annoying her beyond comprehension. Hermione Granger wasn’t stupid or reckless enough to try to penetrate the mind of Lester - fucking - Carrow, so she left it be.
Their descent continued. The marble of the Ministry gave way to rough caves the deeper and further they went. Under the Ministry were the catacombs of magical London, and under that death trap of a place were the caves. They were a place imbued with magic, brimming with power, transseptal and existential beyond time and space. Hermione, attuned to Old Magic, being an Animagus and a connoisseur of wandless casting, felt goosebumps shiver down her spine, forcing her to bristle. It was power. It was time. The kind of magic that was beyond wands and spells.
Hermione did not expect the River of Time to be a quick one, but she supposed it was quite poetic.
It was emanating power, the air around it bending into slight convulsions. She had never felt anything like it, such power, such subjugating magic.
“Merlin’s beard,” Atticus let out a ragged breath, his face pale and his hands shaking, “I feel sick.”
“That makes two of us,” Greenaway agreed solemnly.
“It takes time to get accustomed to the power of this place,” Carrow explained the obvious. “You might even be sick the first couple of times; it is only natural.”
Hermione felt his words in her bones.
“The wizardkind has distanced itself from raw, unprocessed magic.” It was the first time one of the Unspeakables of Time spoke, his voice dry and unimpressed. “We rely on wands and artefacts and other ways to direct the godly power given to us by forces we are yet to understand. In the perfect world, one would be unaffected by the River’s aura. It only requires being in tune with the magic both inside and outside of you, without any mediators.”
“It requires a connection,” Hermione said. “When one relinquishes the confinements of flesh and rises above.”
"Yes, Unspeakable Granger," the old man agreed. "Senior Unspeakable Selwyn. It is a pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise."
Hermione breathed in the magic around her, lowering her walls, letting it cling to her skin and penetrate her lungs. Fighting such power was the most unwise thing one could do.
This is how Unspeakables reach flow state, I’m sure, she remarked to herself. Better than any drugs could ever be.
She let the magic of the River of Time mingle with her own, creating the most succulent of blends.
“All right, then, pull out your wands, you three. I want you to take moulds of the emanations around the river.” Carrow ordered, and the junior Unspeakables each pulled out their wands. “And under no circumstances are you to touch the water. It is timesand mixed with disillusionment and misery, and any contact with it will kill you.”
Bell gulped loudly, terrified. Greenaway looked like he would sell his own mother to get out of this place.
Hermione looked down at the river roaring beneath them, fast and furious, just like time itself. The water was golden, glistening with the most ominous, misleading iridescence she had ever seen. The gold was likely the timesand, the original timesand also known as the Sand of Time. It wasn't the dodgy stuff they’d manufactured and put into most time-turners, but the real deal, some of the most powerful magical essence in the universe. The Department had conducted countless experiments on it over the years, with one conclusion unwavering no matter the decade: it was unpredictable, uncontrollable, and more often than not, murderous.
The glistening liquid gold and the nauseating smell similar to that of Amortentia were overpowering and most definitely messing with her mind. For a moment, Hermione thought she could see something in the changing waters.
It induces hallucinations, she realised.
Hermione began to complete her assignment before the river knocked all sense out of her.
“It does affect one’s mind,” said the second Unspeakable of Time, a short, scrawny man, not much older than Hermione herself. “You’re not any madder than I am, Hermione Granger, ‘tis the water speaking to you.”
When Hermione locked eyes with him, she felt his Legilimency brush over her Occlumency walls.
She cut his attempt short with a furious stab of mental power.
Attempting to penetrate the thoughts of your fellow Unspeakables was bad manners. She pushed pettily, giving the man a splitting headache.
He winced from the sharp pain. Hermione, a murderous glare later, returned her attention to the River.
There it was again, the faintest shadow of a vision. It was on the surface, but too quick for Hermione to grab it. She saw figures, shadows, heard the faintest of voices, a cacophony of things that jabbed at her mind, returning the headache she had just given to the Unspeakable.
“Granger,” Carrow called, his face a mask of stillness, but there was concern in his voice. “Everything all right?”
“Most certainly, Unspeakable Carrow,” she replied dryly.
“You’re hovering,” Bell noticed. “You look like you’re fighting demons, honestly.”
“Always.” A half-smile, half-grimace twisted her features.
As so often happens, Hermione missed the exact moment everything went to shite.
One moment, she was standing on the cliff overlooking the river, staring at the water. Bell and Greenaway stood by, attempting to do the same, but Bell was clearly experiencing magic-induced fatigue and was all but vomiting. Unspeakable Carrow was situated further away, whispering something to Unspeakable Selwyn. Carrow looked rather pressed, clearly trying to sway the older wizard.
The other one, the failed Ligillimens, was unnervingly close to Hermione.
Her train of thought was derailed when something imploded in the distance, the impact shocking the caves. Bell and Greenaway snapped their shields, standing back-to-back, and so did Hermione.
They knew a Bombarda when they heard one.
The caves began to shake furiously, chunks of rock collapsing.
"Hold positions!" Carrow snapped. "This is a diversion!"
Apparition was out of the question for the same reason Hermione couldn't transfigure into her Animagus form. The River's aura was too forceful for such magic.
A fight it was.
The sleazy Unspeakable of Time was the closest wand to her. Hermione begrudgingly formed a combat deuce with him while casting stabilising charms – she would hate to be buried under all the rubble or have the cliff fall into the timesand water. Alongside Carrow, Bell and Greenaway, she cast a vast searching charm, looking for the source of the magical eruption. Sure enough, about a dozen cloaked figures stepped out of the narrower caves, inducing flashbacks of the Death Eaters. They didn't wear masks, but their hoods were drawn low enough to cover their faces. Hermione reasoned they would have to be Ministry employees with the highest security clearance to be roaming the bowels of the Ministry. It was either that, or good old Polyjuice potion.
Either way, a wave of exhilaration washed over her.
Finally, a proper fight.
"Do not engage!" Carrow ordered, to Hermione's dismay, "Too much foreign energy will destabilise the caves further! If they collapse..."
"The Ministry collapses," Hermione finished for him.
The caves shook. The river's wild ruckus got louder, time and space and magic crashing together in an endless dance of push and pull. The attackers stood between them and freedom, and Lester Carrow was having none of that.
“I will ask once! Clear the bloody path!” He shouted, his voice a cacophony of fury and urgency.
"Ask them to bake you a cake, why don't you," Hermione murmured under her breath, twirling her wand impatiently.
She knew spellfire was about to erupt, tension rising exponentially. Wands were held high, shields cast.
A dozen wands against their half dozen, two per person. The math had Hermione elated.
A jet of red light shot toward her.
Fucking finally.
All hell broke loose.
Hermione dodged the attack, and the spell blasted a chunk of stone behind her. She let out a quick succession of impact spells while defending against a vicious Expulso. Her shields were snaps of bright gold, rendering an array of curses gone while Hermione herself ousted two attackers simultaneously. Mid-duel, she heard Carrow's incessant cursing and shouting.
"Granger, I swear to Merlin, if you hit that wall!..."
"Hold fire! Hold fire!"
"Watch out!"
Lester Carrow might have been the most dismissive, irritating Unspeakable alive, but he was a force to be reckoned with. He had his opponents down twice as fast as Hermione had hers, only to engage the ones Bell and Greenaway were losing to.
He was a master of silent casting, much like Hermione. There were no words of Latin said, but Hermione could deduce the spells firing in the air. An Opuggno from Carrow broke shards of stone from the shattered cave floor. They leapt into the air like a flock of birds and charged toward the attackers. One wizard ducked, but the other cried out as the fragments struck his shoulder, knocking him backwards. The first opponent snarled and slashed his wand. An Incarcerous forced ropes to burst from the tip of his wand, twisting through the air like snakes. A slicing Diffindo followed by a blazing Confringo, red and orange forces meeting in the middle, forcing the ground to shudder once more. The speed with which the spells erupted was impressive, but it needed to come to a halt if the Ministry was to stand - Hermione could feel the stone destabilising. The magic of the River was beginning to roar, not at all content with blasts of foreign energy.
Four attackers remained, engaging with Carrow and Selwyn, the rest incapacitated to various degrees.
A strange feeling started to set in the pit of her stomach. The remaining foes weren’t exactly fighting, not at the level of silent casters who slithered their way into the Ministry’s most secretive location. It was almost as if they were holding back, resorting to basic offence and standing defence.
“Get out of here!” Carrow ordered, knocking one of his opponents down with a stunning hex. "Form to retreat!"
They started to move when a disorientation spell hit her in the back.
It was a feeling like no other to have your thoughts smashed out of your head with an iron cast. Hermione turned groggily, eyes blown with shock, staring at the Unspeakable of Time that'd tried to invade her mind earlier.
Once a snake, always a snake.
His face was serious, stern, but his lips were trembling. Determination so fierce it looked like fire ignited his eyes.
“Granger!” Bell yelled, sprinting towards her, but he wasn’t fast enough.
The Unspeakable threw his hands over her shoulders and shoved her towards the cliff, chunks of rock tearing her dress.
It took her a moment to shrug off the disorientation, especially considering Bell's and Greenaway's frantic screams. Carrow and Selwyn seemed to have unleashed a fiery hyena of spellfire at their opponents, oblivious to the blatant betrayal happening not too far away.
“I’m sorry,” the Unspeakable of Time said, advancing on her, wand in hand, "I'm so sorry. I wish it didn't have to be this way."
That was the moment Hermione broke the hex and sweep-kicked the bastard off his feet.
Furious, she straddled him to drive her fist into his face with jolting force. And again. And again. And again.
The Unspeakable screamed, attempting to throw her off, but Hermione's form was impeccable. Blood gushed out of his nose, mixing with… Tears? Was he crying?
Hermione wasn’t a thirteen-year-old teenager anymore. She had learned how to throw a mean punch. She was about to throw another one when Carrow shrieked.
She snapped her head in his direction, panicked to see that a vicious purple curse was shooting at him. A Purple Curse. Crazed, she conjured the quickest counter-curse of her life. A flash of gold interfered with the roaring purple spell, erupting into a blast. The two seconds she took to do that were enough for the Unspeakable to suddenly shoot up, grab her and shove her off himself in one frantic struggle.
Her wand flew in a direction she couldn’t track.
Losing ground, she grabbed desperately at the closest thing. She caught the time-turner hanging off his neck with both of her hands.
The time-turner shattered.
Hermione Granger fell into the River of Time, followed by the screams of her fellow Unspeakables and the deafening collapse of the Ministry's bowels.
She met the Sands of Time with a loud splash.