Chapter Text
At the age of six, Hermione Jean Granger knew for a fact that she wanted to be a primary school teacher. School was her favourite place after all, as it had the largest collection of books she’d ever seen. A few years later, she reasoned perhaps the astronaut profession would suit her best, because she had grown to enjoy staring at the stars. She would lie with her bedroom window slightly ajar, a cool summer breeze drifting towards her. Sometimes, she would swear the stars were twinkling in Morse Code, attempting to tell her a secret. Then, she thought she would make a rather lovely librarian, maybe at the library just down the road that she visited every Saturday with her father.
Until the age of eleven, Hermione hadn’t a clue that she would later aspire to greater things, for she did not even know the world she would become so intertwined with even existed. Hermione dreamed of a mundane existence until the very moment the ivory envelope slid beneath her door. She’d opened it with a furrowed brow, her foot tapping anxiously beneath her. At first, she’d thought it to be a cruel prank, something her peers had concocted to further torment her. But, slowly memories of confusing happenstances came to mind. The time she had fallen from the sycamore tree in the garden, and walked away without even a singular scratch. Or the time she hadn’t wanted to leave her grandmother’s and suddenly no one was able to open the front door. Yes, there had certainly been many, many confusing instances and so-called coincidences when it came to Hermione Granger.
From the moment she received her letter, the futures Hermione had once envisioned turned to wisps of smoke in her mind, evaporating into nothingness. Suddenly, these dreams were replaced by the tales of magic she read about in her books, quests in far-off lands searching for magical artifacts and grand battles to defeat the evils of the world. It all seemed rather exciting to the young witch, though she had no way of knowing that she would unfortunately encounter these realities in tenfold. At the young age of eleven, however, Hermione became enraptured with the now very real possibility of existing amongst magic.
Yet, today, as she skims that morning’s Prophet, wiping a smudge of strawberry jam from the corner of her mouth, Hermione wishes she would have resorted to a mundane muggle existence after all.
“That bastard!” she exclaims to no one in particular. Crookshanks raises his head half an inch, perturbed by his mother’s outburst. She leaves her last piece of toast on her plate with a scowl, storming through the floo. The flames turn to green, and the witch disappears, leaving behind only a crumpled piece of newspaper in the hearth.
MCCLAGGEN FOR MINISTER
By Rita Skeeter
Cormac McClaggen, the enigmatic philanthropist, playboy, and Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award winner has officially tossed his hat in the ring, announcing his candidacy for Minister for Magic. He, of course, is the only candidate who has stepped forward since Hermione Granger, a policy analyst, announced her own campaign earlier this month.
“I've always believed in action over words," McLaggen declared, a mischievous glint in his eye as he addressed a captivated audience at the Leaky Cauldron. “While some may prefer endless debates and theoretical solutions, I believe in practical magic. It's time for a Minister who can make decisions in real-time, not someone who needs to consult a library every time an issue arises."
After becoming one of the youngest self-made millionaires in Wizarding Britain from the launch of his Celestial Broomstick line, used by the majority of the teams in the Great Britain Professional Quidditch League, McClaggen’s candidacy is sure to be a breath of fresh air for a large portion of the galleon-conscious wizarding population.
“Granger might be well-versed in spells and charms, but there's more to leading the wizarding world than reciting incantations. McLaggen grew up in this world and embodies the true essence of our community. Granger, on the other hand, while she's undoubtedly intelligent, there's a certain innate understanding of our world that McLaggen brings to the table. It's not just about book smarts; it's about having a genuine connection to our roots. We need a Minister who can truly relate to the everyday experiences of wizarding folk, and Cormac McLaggen is just that," says an anonymous supporter, one who proudly placed a MCLAGGEN sign of support on his office door.
That quote alone had been enough to send Hermione into a tizzy, confirming all the worries about public perception she had had since announcing her candidacy. She hadn’t been planning on running this year. No, if one were to consult Hermione’s fifteen-year plan, one would see that she had this feat scheduled three years down the line. After she had her first book published, of course, but before possibly marrying. It had been one delirious evening of elf wine with her now-campaign manager that changed her mind. She still isn’t sure how the witch managed it.
“PANSY!” She shouts, storming through the manor, her expression ablaze. She allows her feet to pound into the ground, somehow convinced that the rattling of the pureblood portraits lining the walls would solve all the acts of oppression they had no doubt perpetrated.
“Mione!” Theo grins, emerging from his room with his toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. “I’m guessing we’ve seen the article?” he asks upon witnessing her fury, his expression shifting to one of fear. His bare chest is exposed, and therefore a potential target for one of the witch’s infamous hexes.
“Yes I’ve seen it, obviously!” she replies, flipping him off. She knows that Theo has never wronged her in the slightest, but his mere association with the article as both a pureblood and a man is enough to receive the brunt of her wrath. Not even pausing to tell the wizard to clothe himself as she normally would, she rounds a corner in a huff, immediately coming to a halt at the sight of her friend.
“Darling,” Pansy coos, pulling Hermione in for a hug. The witch’s hair falls perfectly at her jawline, her appearance alarmingly put together for six thirty in the morning. She smells of rose petals and patchouli and Hermione finds her mere presence calms her nerves significantly.
“I knew they would take that angle,” she begins, fighting back tears.
“It makes them look like elitist twats,” Pansy assures her. “If anything, that article will create a larger political divide than we anticipated.”
Hermione stares into the witch’s eyes, finding them to be filled with nothing but genuine protectiveness. The witches had become exceptionally close over the years, a bond neither had foreseen in the slightest. Pansy had practically forced herself into Hermione’s life after a particularly impactful therapy session. Upon unpacking her prejudices, she realised that her hatred toward the Gryffindor had merely stemmed from jealousy and nothing else. Well, there may be some other contributing factors, but Pansy frequently chooses to ignore the sneaking suspicion she had that an attraction to the wizarding world’s golden girl could have also been an underlying reason. But, no matter, because Pansy had decided that life was certainly far too short to spend time and energy hating other witches when the wizards of the world had that well and under control.
“Now, those who were on the fence may lean our way,” she smiles, smoothing Hermione’s hair and tucking a piece behind her ear. “Well, the more progressive ones at least,” she adds, her lips pursed.
“Cormac is a wanker,” Theo adds, appearing out of nowhere, still shirtless.
“When did you get in?” Pansy asks.
“Just now,” he winks.
“Date went well I take it?” Hermione asks, deciding to delay her thoughts on the campaign for the time being. Theodore’s love life is far more entertaining, that much is certain.
“Well, enough that I’m satiated, but not well enough that I will be floo’ing any time soon,” Theo replies, wiggling his eyebrows.
“You’re a pig,” Hermione scolds him with a frown.
“I have yet to meet a wizard who checks all my boxes, Mione, you’re the one always telling me I need to raise my standards,” he goads, retreating to his wing of the manor.
After the war, neither Theo nor Pansy had fancied living by themselves, finding the eerie silence of their respective manors to be terribly lonely. Now, after many Pansy-approved renovations, the Nott Manor is home to them both. Theo had been a package deal after befriending Pansy, meaning that Hermione now has enough of a brotherly relationship with him that she has seen parts of him she wishes she could obliviate from her memory. However, she has also grown to be extremely protective of him and his antics, providing him with a much-needed motherly scolding from time to time.
“Let’s have some tea and chat, love,” Pansy smiles, guiding her into her office. A minimalist white marble desk sits in the center of the space, showcasing Pansy’s prised possession: a vintage typewriter. The warm, honey-hued walls give the office an exceptionally cosy sort of feeling. The large stained-glass windows line the east-facing wall, beams of sunlight casting the room aglow.
“Now, we know based on initial polls that you have the overwhelming majority of witches’ votes,” Pansy begins, gesturing towards the settee.
Hermione nods, lowering herself onto the cushions, listening and allowing her eyes to glaze over as Pansy prepares her tea.
“We all want a witch in charge,” she continues. Having been raised as a witch in pureblood society herself, Pansy knows perhaps more than anybody that it is time for a change in modern British wizarding society. She is firmly of the belief that the patriarchal undertones of pureblood beliefs have been shoved into policies, bills, and laws for far too long. It’s archaic that she had been raised to be a bride and mother and nothing more. That is certainly not a future she wants for her unborn hypothetical daughter, and she knows that Hermione is their best shot at a reality where witches are invited to have a seat at the table, rather than serve the hors d'oeuvres to those present.
“Not the purebloods, people over the age of 45, or 76% of wizards,” Hermione corrects her, listing her lowest polling populations from memory. It’s exactly as she’d suspected, which is perhaps why it stings even more so than anticipated. For a moment, she had tried to convince herself that she was being pessimistic, that somehow her fears would be proved incorrect. But alas, for the first time perhaps ever, Hermione was upset to be proven right.
The purebloods view her as an invasive, albeit persistent weed attempting to snake its way into the society they had carved from stone over the past several hundred years. Those over forty-five view her as too young, too inexperienced. Somehow, however, she suspects that they will not feel the same about Cormac. Intriguing, though hardly surprising – wizards are rarely held to the same cursed standards as witches it seems.
Though she has spent the past five years working as a policy analyst, climbing the ranks of the ministry, and passing hundreds of bills, she is being painted as less qualified than Cormac – a spoiled prat who used his daddy’s money to start a racing broom company. While Hermione spends countless hours of her week working to better the lives of those in wizarding Britain and beyond, Cormac is known for frequenting brothels and pubs.
It makes her feel sick to her stomach because she knows if she were a wizard, she would be facing a small fraction of the criticism she currently does. Her every move would not be critiqued and inspected under a magnifying glass. She would be toasted to at galas, celebrated as a visionary, and handed the role of minister on a silver platter.
But, unfortunately, it seems that being one-third of the golden trio isn’t enough to outweigh the fact that she was born a witch and a muggleborn one at that.
“I hardly think it’s possible to gain the votes of the decrepit old wizards plaguing our society,” Hermione sighs.
“Nonsense, we will come up with a plan,” Pansy assures her friend. She secretly hasn’t the foggiest what this plan may manifest to be, but she’s certain she’ll be able to come up with something. After the past five years working with Witch Weekly as one of the head journalists, Pansy has developed a certain knack for twisting a narrative.
“Now, off you go,” she says to the witch. “You have the press conference in an hour, and you won’t be getting the votes of any decrepit old men unless you cast a detangling charm on that mane of yours.”
Hermione nods reluctantly. “Still on for wine night tonight?”
“Of course, and invite Ginevra,” Pansy winks.
“You act like I have a choice,” Hermione replies with a smile. Her flatmate hardly requires an invitation to partake in their weekly indulgence of a bottle of Zabini Vineyard’s finest Sauvignon Blanc.
“And wear that green pantsuit I had delivered for you!” the witch shouts as Hermione disappears into the manor.