Grace

It was her new alarm clock. They were always precisely on time, standing outside her window at six a.m. sharp, each crying out the mantra, "Long live Harry Potter!", until it became a thunderous roar. She could always ignore the first hundred or so.

Every morning she'd find her way to the kitchen, her hair pulled back into a severe, unforgiving bun at the nape of her neck, with her work robes in shades of grey and stiffly ironed. She would find Harry already sitting there, a faraway look on his face and a hot cup of coffee in his hands.

"Morning, Hermione," he'd say as she helped herself to a cuppa.

"Morning, Harry," would be the generic reply as she took her seat. They sat together in silence until they could no longer postpone the inevitable.

Every morning they'd leave the house at a quarter to eight. Before the door could even be closed behind them, they'd find themselves swarmed and separated in the endless crowd. Hermione would avoid the prying eyes and lecherous hands, fighting her silent fight through the ocean of people.

She'd always be the first out. If it took him longer than fifteen minutes, she'd go on without him. The Ministry had to open, and she was the only one, save for Harry, who could do it.

There would always seem to be an innumerable amount of people standing and waiting outside the gates. Every morning she couldn't help but approach with dread, knowing she would have to spend another ten minutes, at least, outside and under the bounds of the suffocating gratitude of the Wizarding Community.

She then meticulously checked each and every Ministry employee via potions, spells, and pointed questioning for positive identification – it was the new dictum, forced upon Harry by the people. No mistakes. It was not a suggestion, but a threat. All she could do once she got inside the safe, solid four walls of her office was collapse.

In the beginning, she cried. Her body would wrack with powerful, uncontrollable shudders as she gasped and clutched her blotchy face. Her entire person would fill up with an overwhelming feeling of betrayal, and she'd sob until it was subdued.

Now, she just stared. There was a photo on her desk of her, Harry and Ron in fourth year, around the fire in the Gryffindor common room. She'd watch their miniature figures moving around until she became encased in the image, her fingers almost tingling with the heat of the fire. There was a rare moment in the picture where Ron cast a small glance at her out of the corner of his eye, his ears brightening to a shade of light puce.

Her mounds of paperwork would eventually call to her, broken only at midday when Harry would appear at her doorway, a procession of subordinates trailing along behind. Bless his heart; he'd always try to be polite as he shut the door in their eager faces.

"Tough day," he'd exhale, the lukewarm sunlight pouring through the window, reminding them it was barely even noon.

She'd look at him with barely registered eyes and steel herself as he went on to explain the new legislation the members of the revised Wizengamont had pitched and how they had managed to back him into a corner on this one, as well.

"Not that I know a good legislation from a bad one," he'd say quietly. "I'm not cut out for this."

Sitting down in a chair opposite Hermione, he'd run a hand through his messy black hair, a familiar action with newfound motive. She'd take his free hand and they would sit together, tense and exhausted, until that inevitable knock at the door would force them both to their feet again.

On this particular day, it had been the exalted Adjudicator of Wizarding Affairs, Henry Duke. The large, domineering man required Harry for a signature or two, which her friend did with obvious resignation, his eyes in a tight squint as he attempted to decipher the fine print. Hermione stood perched at his shoulder, much to the disdain of Duke. She could hardly comprehend the thought process of the public, unanimously appointing this emotionless thug of a man to overlook all Ministry Affairs. But that was how everything was done these days, through unopposed election, unless one dared face a revolt.

"It's all right," she whispered softly into Harry's ear, and he nodded slowly, signing his name in the spaces provided.

Duke turned to her next, requesting her assistance with certain logistics of the Polyjuice Potion. He barely looked at her as he spoke and turned to face Harry as soon as the last word had left his mouth.

"Nothing major, I assure you, Minister," he said to Harry, whose glazed look told them both he couldn't care less.

Still, Harry managed a bleak nod and wordlessly exited the office, giving Hermione only the briefest of kind glances before shutting the door behind him with an eerie silence.

"Miss Granger, I just want to be absolutely positive on the facts," he explained, clasping together his grubby sausage fingers. She did not meet the cold grey eyes sweeping her face. "Please, take a seat."

Hermione mused on the absurdity on asking someone to take a seat in their own office, but kept quiet, offering instead a polite smile as she sat.

Duke's eyes flashed around the small office. Anyone else would have been pacing but Duke stood completely still, the urge to move apparently absent. Even Hermione felt the powerful urge to twitch in the silence.

"Before operation goes ahead, I just want to be sure of the causes and effects," he explained slowly, his eyes now steady on her. The urge to twitch got stronger. Hermione pursed her lips, looking up and holding his gaze.

"Absolutely. I put together a brief overview last night." Hermione flicked her wand and a large, neatly packed brown folder appeared, a far cry from anything resembling brief. "It has any possible information you could require."

The question burned her throat, but she forced it down: Why on Earth was Duke asking about Polyjuice?

"This is greatly appreciated," he responded, taking the folder brusquely from her outstretched hand. Duke studied her with unwavering repentance for a long moment. "Would you care to join me in my office for a short moment?" Before Hermione had a chance to respond, the large, imposing man snapped his fingers and Hermione felt a nauseating pull at her navel before landing ungracefully on the floor of a completely different room, the walls still spinning around her.

Great sod, she thought with malice, trying to stand. She could hardly hide her contempt at this new practice of instant transportation within the Ministry; her own realm of thought pointed out that if Inner Ministry employees could access these teleports, presumedly an infiltration could be possible at the hands of an appropriately skilled wizard. But of course, who would listen to her?

Duke's office was much smaller than Hermione's and most unjustly so. The space was crammed with boxes of paperwork and otherwise, and there was barely room for a desk and two chairs, which she took the liberty of placing herself in, not willing to hear his grating voice request it of her again.

He did not sit. His strong, protruding jaw seemed even more so as he towered over her, his eyes just meeting the top of her face. His features, in all, told quite a story – they weren't unkind, but just as the man they foretold of a person who wasn't to be bothered. Despite his age, he had few signs of it, other than a growing bald patch amidst tight grey curls – his expressions were mainly bland and expressionless, quite like the monotone range of his voice. But of course, the Wizarding Community didn't vote for him for his good looks and pretty voice; they voted for him because of his promises. They voted for him because he swore for protection and order; admittedly, the two things Duke knew how to do best.

"Miss Granger." His low voice snapped her out of her reverie. The formal address brought a ghost of a smile to her face. She hadn't heard herself referred to like that much since her Hogwarts days. His dark eyes glinted in the dim office light. He cast a swift glance at the folder of information still in his hands. "First, I must thank you for this. Again, the Wizarding Community owes you a debt." Hermione internally scoffed at the comment – perhaps a little overdramatic?

"I hope you have been in well spirits and good health – celebrating your newfound peace to the highest degree," he continued in an even duller tone. Hermione doubted it was pertinent she respond, so she offered a diminutive smile instead. "However, I have a very serious matter to discuss with you today. That is..." He paused momentarily, lacing his fingers over his chest. "There are questions being raised in concern to your dedication to your government."

"What?" Hermione snapped into acute focus. "That's... that's absolutely ridiculous."

"I'm sure it is, Miss Granger. However, a simple guarantee from myself and others alike will hardly stop people from talking. It is my duty to investigate the issue at hand to the lengthiest and deepest extent."

"Mr. Duke, I can assure you there is no need for investigation. As I said before, any such accusations are entirely ridiculous and unfounded. As you may fondly remember, Mr. Duke, I helped form this establishment." Her eyes pierced into his and for a moment she thought she saw distress.

It took a moment for her companion to respond. "As I am well aware. But perhaps you forget, Miss Granger, that this establishment was not formed from a single mind – or a handful of minds, at that. The wizarding public have created this." He stood back and gestured grandly with one arm. "And they lead it to this very second. That," the word was enunciated with far too much meticulousness than Hermione could appreciate, "is where concerns have been raised."

A thousand different angry retorts raced through Hermione's mind. The man did not once let her out of his steely gaze. Hermione inhaled, full of emotion and spirit, but with her exhale found herself empty handed and appallingly – defeated.

She sighed deeply, letting her eyes fall to the floor and dutifully examine floor patterns. Damn it, Hermione, where did your spirit go? "I can only hope then, that the questions can be put to rest by the declaration of my sincerest dedication." The words came out in a whisper, but she could feel the environment before her drastically changed. Duke seemed to exude pleasure.

Hermione felt tender and worn in the silence. She felt so oddly inferior to this man to whom she was... superior. In technical rankings, of course. He was clearly at least thirty years her senior. He was also a man who had spent years working as a lowly employee of the Ministry, the terms ambition and power prosperous youthful notions to him. In lieu of magical protection, and effectively destruction, he instead relied on a jaw-dropping knowledge of legal systems and all their compliances to hold his place of respect among his peers. A wizard by blood, he was truly a Muggle at heart; the man only used magic for efficiency.

Hermione had no idea how to deal with such a man. So instead she resigned herself to simple obedience. A sickening thought, no matter how much she tried to mollify it.

Not able to stand the prickling silence any longer, Hermione rose. "Everything you need is in there," she said with a nod to the folder, rising swiftly from her chair. "Excuse me."

The door was shut behind her before the man had a chance to respond. Directionless, she wandered through the corridors, her heart pounding nauseatingly in her throat. Her fingertips grazed the whitewashed walls as she walked on, the cool stone sending a chill up her arm. Her head buzzed with a million different thoughts, so loud she was certain every passerby could hear. A sickening sensation of panic filled her and her thoughts began to bellow, sending harsh vibrations throughout her skull. Her high collared robes became unbearable, and her forearms itched under the heavy grey fabric, tickling her barely healed marks of war.

Vivid flashbacks raged through her memory, and her heart flared open in the pressure cascading through her body. Every image she'd tucked away hoping to bury and forget burned in the forefront of her mind, shaking her entire body and throwing her into a state of pure defencelessness. Her breathing became rapid, and fear gripped her; she was surely going crazy. She was losing the one thing had she left...

"Hermione."

Her sanity.

"Hermione, I'm so glad I've found you."

She looked at him blankly, frozen in the midst of her panic attack.

"Do you have plans for dinner tonight? I tried calling – stupid of me, really, you're always busy... of course you'd be here."

Hermione let out a little breath, closing her eyes for as long as she could get away with. The haunting images of Tonks, Remus, Fred and the rest of them slowly began to dissipate.

"How's Quidditch going, Ron?"

The redhead smiled sheepishly, looking positively jolly at her interest.

"Great, it's been going wonderfully. There's never been such a demand for the sport! You wouldn't believe how many autographs I've signed. It's bloody brilliant." He chewed his lip thoughtfully for a moment. "What about you? How's work? How's Harry? Odd, I feel like I never see you two anymore..."

He looked up at her with a genuine smile, and Hermione snapped. "Work? So glad you asked. It really is an honour to do this, Ron. Every day, getting that satisfaction of knowing we're really making a difference here by sitting around and agreeing to pass laws that are slowly turning our society into some kind of robotic colony. I mean, Merlin, just thinking about the good possibility that one day, maybe, we'll discover a potion that will turn everyone's brain to mush, so nothing bad could ever happen again is absolutely exhilarating! Forget the fact that we'll all be lying side by side on the floor fascinated by tile patterns and utterly satisfied with spending our whole lives as useless, unproductive invalids!"

Ron blinked at her, and Hermione could feel the anger slide off of her, puttering away to nothing. Why were her emotions so out of control?

Every inch of sunshine Ron had with him just moments ago turned to utter shite, and his ears were their familiar bright red.

"What is it with you? Every day, you've added another stick to all that kindling up your arse! Light a match and get over yourself. Smile for once!"

The comment stung, but she couldn't gather up the fury she had moments ago.

"You don't understand what we're going through," she said flatly.

"Then tell me!" he roared. A few people turned, taken aback.

"Ron, you're making a scene," she hissed through her teeth.

"I don't care!" His arms folded defensively.

Hermione just stared at her old schoolmate. When had they grown so far apart? When had they stopped being able to understand each other? How could he not feel... what she and Harry were feeling so powerfully?

"Hermione, why can't you just explain to me what's going on?" He looked at her, the way that had turned her legs to jelly just months ago. Back then, she would have broken down, spilled her heart out. But now all she saw, all she felt, was pity. He looked so young and confused.

"Ron," she began weakly, "if you can't feel this," she lowered her voice dramatically, aware of their public location, "then you can't understand."

His faced screwed into an expression of sheer incomprehension. "How do you know I don't feel what you feel?"

Hermione looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time in the entire encounter. They were blue and happy, just like they had always been. He moved a step closer, bridging the gap between them. She could smell that familiar smell: peppercorn, fresh mint, and something so distinctively Ron. His broad chest was inches away from her face, and she could feel his heat radiating off him like wildfire.

For a moment she almost gave into the comfort. Almost wrapped her arms around him like old times and let his embrace fix all her problems. But she took a step back, her heart still a slow, dull pound in her chest. She wasn't that easily mended anymore.

"I know, Ron, because you're still you." She gave him a half-hearted smile. "You're still okay." The corners of his eyes crinkled -- confused -- but they were full of hope. Hermione couldn't meet his gaze. "And, no, we're not on for dinner. I'm sorry Ron, but you deserve better than me."

"No, Hermione," Ron replied, glints of tears evident. "There's no one better than you. I get that you're... messed up right now, and I'll leave you alone if that's what you want. I... I love you, Hermione."

For a moment everything was suddenly crystal clear. Ron reached for her face, a long, freckly hand stroking her cheek. She gave herself to him, let his hand guide her head back and then slowly forwards for a soft kiss. His lips lingered on hers and her eyes closed, everything suddenly blank. Her hand touched the nape of his neck, immersing itself in his hair. She could smell him so strongly from the light sweat on his skin to all the pheromone reminders of his life – their life – at the Burrow.

She broke away mercilessly, tearing herself away with all the inner strength she possessed, otherwise she was sure she'd have remained in his embrace forever.

"Bye, Ron."

His voice was weak. "When will I see you again?"

Instead of answering, she turned her back to him and walked down the hallway.