Flawed Design

"You don't have to do this."

Hermione could still remember the way Harry squirmed in his seat as he answered.

"No, we do, Professor. They won't have it any other way. It's what's right. My whole life I've been forced into a position of power... this isn't any different. And I think everyone knows that, that I won't abuse my position because I don't want to be Minister in the first place. Besides... I think it's what Dumbledore... what he intended." The words put a pained expression on his face. His fingers tapped on the arm of the chair, unable to sit still.

"Potter, you've done more than your fair share of self-sacrificing – you too, Granger. You both need not take this on, especially not for the sake of others. The Wizarding community will get by, one way or another. We always have."

"It's different this time," Harry pointed out darkly.

McGonagall bowed her head, her fingers rubbing her deeply lined temple. "I don't think you understand how this could defeat you," she said quietly.

Though unbeknownst to her the true extent of McGonagall's words, Hermione had a nerve struck then. Her pulse pounded in her ears, as she looked fiercely into the eyes of her old teacher.

"Minerva," she said as confidently and neatly as she could. "We have to do this, and we will."

She could not remember a time when her professor's face looked as hopeless as it did then.

That was her last meeting with McGonagall. The biweekly tea they had for a few short months enjoyed so thoroughly dwindled away to nothing, losing touch with each other almost entirely. Hermione had pushed all thoughts of this loss, whatever the possible magnitude, out of her mind and out of her conscience.

So when she received the letter requesting a visit from her old Head of House, Hermione couldn't help but feel surprised. When she arrived, McGonagall had decided a walk in the garden would be more appropriate. The cool spring air rippled through her robes as they wandered through the gardens.

"How have you been?" McGonagall began, her eyes looking so weary and her face so drawn that Hermione felt inclined to ask the same of her.

Hermione pushed back a stray curl and drew her eyes over the variety of colourful blooms just beginning to wilt. "I've been well, thank you. And yourself?"

"Never mind me." McGonagall waved the question aside, as if her recently celebrated seventy-third birthday had instead been thirty-five. "I want to know about you."

The older witch's eyes narrowed, taking in every inch of Hermione, who tried to suppress a wince as she was vividly reminded of the many times as a student when she had been under quite a similar gaze.

McGonagall's impenetrable gaze seemed, at least, not to be soul-stripping. "You've cut your hair."

"It's easier to manage," Hermione replied politely, fighting the urge to reach out and touch her now chin-length pin curls. She bit her lips before the words, "I just don't have the energy anymore," slipped out.

"Ah. Quite understandable." McGonagall's eyes flicked up and down, surveying Hermione to no end. "It does show your years, my dear."

Hermione wasn't quite sure what to make of that. Instead, she let her eyes wander, drifting along the endless clear grey sky. It felt so close, almost captivating. The impulse to reach out her hand as high and far as she could was one she struggled to restrain.

"How is the potion coming along?"

Hermione jolted into focus, taking in a long breath of cool air to clear her mind. "The potion?"

"The Polyjuice Potion, of course." McGonagall stared at her flatly.

"Whatever are you talking about..." Hermione's brow furrowed, and her eyes met the professor's with a sudden suspicion. "We've only just begun... how on Earth could you know about that?"

If Hermione hadn't known better, she would have sworn there was a twinkle in the old woman's eye. "Hermione, you are not as stealthy as you might hope."

"Minerva, I assure you I made no pointed decision to keep this information from you, nor from any members of the Order. I was not aiming to be stealthy, as you put it," Hermione replied quickly, an edge to her voice she hadn't expected.

Whatever foolish notion of a twinkle that Hermione might have had vanished instantly as McGonagall's expression darkened, her observant eyes suddenly intruding. "Then, pray tell, what were you trying to achieve?"

"Absolutely nothing!" Hermione snapped, turning sharply to face McGonagall. "I deemed that particular information unimportant. It was merely a case of an inexperienced brewer attempting to expand his knowledge as he saw fit, given his new position and the tedious situation we are all currently living in. Knowledge is a weapon these days, as you should very well know."

Hermione's eyes flashed, and she paused for a moment, a sudden breeze pushing past her. "I don't know what information you received, or how you could have possibly received it, but I would have thought you held a little more trust in my judgement."

McGonagall no longer seemed to be watching her; instead her eyes were focused amusedly on something behind Hermione. In fact, Hermione noted with a start of indignation, it appeared very doubtful that the professor had been listening to her at all.

A slight smile fell upon the Headmistress' lips. It was shockingly close to smug, but somehow held a glimmer of respect; appreciation for something Hermione obviously failed to see or recognize. Their eyes met, and Hermione felt only further irritation in the woman's odd actions.

"Ah, now I see it," McGonagall murmured, her words soft. "There's a passion there that wasn't there before."

Hermione stared. It took her a moment to realize the professor was speaking of her.

"Well, the war changed us all," she fumbled heatedly, utterly lost.

"That it did, my child." The professor gave a long, tired sigh that seemed to shake her to the very bone. The smile, however, remained. "You must be strong, Hermione."

The only words Hermione could find were, "Could you excuse me for a moment?" A notion her feet seemed in eager agreement with. She did not pause for McGonagall's reply. She led herself blindly through puddles and shrubbery, increasing her pace as she reached the edge of the forest. Her thoughts were drowned out by her pounding heartbeat, and she collapsed on the trunk of a tree, panting for breath.

There were beads of fresh sweat on her face that she quickly brushed off, her breathing heavily laboured – not from the exertion, but something else. Something that had been plaguing her for months now, that she couldn't quite put her finger on. Being a Muggle, she was well-read in all kinds of psychiatric disorders, and Post Traumatic Stress disorder seemed to fit perfectly, given her circumstances. But no, something in the back of Hermione's brain disagreed violently. Her entire body, in fact, seemed to scream in protest of this train of thought, and Hermione fell back hard against the torso of the tree.

If only she could steal away a moment where her thoughts were silent and her heartbeat steady. Perhaps then she could think – she could make sense of it all. But even then, there would be her work at the Ministry – slovenly and lonely, far below her aptitude. It was an insult working under Duke – he treated her more as an obedient dog than an employee – no, employer!

But what had she done to stop him, to put him in his place? Absolutely nothing. The war heroine had proved to be nothing more than a pathetic lapdog.

Her fingernails dug into the hard soil as another wave of panic swept over her, leaving her utterly exhausted. Her breath was raw and coming out in stiff gasps, but somehow she still heard it.

It was a soft, feminine voice. It struck Hermione as familiar, but distant all the same. Like some long lost acquaintance, perhaps, one she had been searching for all these years. A strange, warm blanket of comfort surrounded her, the eerie voice calling out over and over in her head.

"Hermione."

It called to her, so she rose to her feet. She let her feet guide her, and she broke into a run. The forest was getting deeper and darker, and she was only vaguely aware she was venturing into unknown territory.

It stuck out like a sore thumb. What must have been a very ordinary tree seemed to reach out to her, and she suddenly had the affirmation that she had gone the right way. She knelt at the base, the dark making it hard to see anything around her. She reached out a cautious hand, a strange fear overtaking her in the seconds before she touched it. But when she did, that ever so comforting warmth wrapped around her once again, making her forget it was a particularly chilly day in mid-October, and that she was deep into sparse, dark areas of the forest.

Hermione drew her wand. "Lumos," she whispered. Everything was illuminated. Her breath caught as she stared at the words engraved in the old tree, not understanding them, but lost in them.

"As you have never imagined... Love."

It felt like hours before she even thought of rising to her feet and Apparating home.

---

"Spoke with Ron today," Harry mentioned conversationally, pushing a particularly dismal batch of canned green peas around on his plate.

Hermione continued scrubbing dishes. The only sign that she gave that she even heard him was the excess force she was now putting into cleaning the plate in her hands.

"He invited me over for lunch," Harry persisted, unprompted. "At Grimmauld."

"Well, where else?"

"I don't know..." Harry took a small, unenthusiastic bite of his meat, chewing it with a look of minor disdain. "He says he finds it homey. Only no one comes around, anymore."

"Everyone's busy, Harry."

"I know that." Harry took another small bite, rubbing his temples as he slowly swallowed. "He can't help but miss his family."

With Bill and Fleur taking up a semi-permanent residence in France, Molly and Arthur shutting themselves up in the Burrow save for emergencies, Charlie back with his dragons, and Ginny completely absorbing herself in helping George get the joke shop back on its feet, he didn't have much of a family left. Suffice to say her and Harry weren't offering any support – but how could he expect anything else? They were up to their eyeballs being responsible adults, instead of gallivanting around a Quidditch pitch, thinking all the world's a stage...

Hermione let out a slow breath, slowing her washing and allowing a pang of guilt to hit her. When she had started allowing herself to think such horrid things, she'd never know.

"I heard you had a few words with him at the Ministry." Harry's tone was flat. The topic seemed to be brought up purely in the favour of conversation. She snuck a glance at him. He was staring blankly down at his food, his face drawn and pale, lined with worry and much too thin. He'd been looking roughly the same for the last five months.

"I've been having words with everybody lately, it seems." Hermione resumed her scrubbing, drawing out the process as she reached the very last dish.

"Really?" He didn't sound interested.

"I don't know what's come over me," she said, thinking of McGonagall.

"I see." She heard the clatter of dishes, and Harry's plate appeared beside her, barely touched. Hermione looked up at the man beside the plate, who was attempting to stifle a yawn.

"You should really make an effort with Ron," he muttered half-heartedly. "You two have barely spoken in weeks."

Hermione's eyes snapped up to Harry. "You really should make an effort with Ginny."

"Don't." His voice came out hoarsely. He didn't meet her gaze.

"Okay," she said after a moment, studying his hard expression. "I won't. I'm sorry."

Harry moved back, his palms pressed on his forehead as he let out an exhausted groan.

"Merlin," he muttered.

Hermione turned at the sound of a stopper being pulled out, forgetting about the dishes.

"Do you want to stay up with me for a while?" he asked, already collapsing back on the couch with a tumbler of Firewhisky in his hand.

She looked at the clock. It was nearly midnight. Surely, it was going to be one of those nights. Drawing a long breath, she poured herself a cup of lukewarm tea, wishing she hadn't brought up Ginny.

---

Her sleep had been, in a word, restless. Dawn broke much too soon, and as soon as the yellow sunlight fell upon her face, she woke, feeling as though she had hardly been asleep. At a quarter to six, with an hour or so to go before she absolutely must be up, she turned the clock round in a fit of irritation and covered her head with pillow, willing herself into a few more minutes of slumber.

Upon waking for the second time, only precious moments engulfed in sleep, she lay still, blankets pulled up to her chin, and stared at the ceiling. Her dreams had been obscure and unsettling, flashes of familiar and unwanted faces prodding her consciousness still even in wakefulness. Ron had been a recurring theme, his freckly, utterly unperturbed smile taunting her, driving her to a state of complete hopelessness. Her heart panged, and she blinked rapidly, as though pushing back tears that were not present. The boy she had loved so dearly for so long had never felt so strange, so distant. She could not grasp hold of him as he was now, but she still felt shrouded by the memories, so much more distinct and real than where they were now.

The most painful of all her recollections was the clearest in her mind; it still felt fresh and new. It was a memory that most would prize, recall with glee and warmth, but she felt cold as she drifted over it now in her mind. Her skin prickled as it drifted into the forefront of her thoughts, overtaking reality as her thoughts did so often now.

It had been her first time, and it had been awkward, to say the least. There had been a significant trace of punch drunk victory in the air, and it was against her better judgement that she allowed herself to be led into his bedroom. Their first kiss was still fresh on their breath as they clumsily let their hands travel to every place on the other that they had spent years fantasizing about. Their veins were filled to the brim with second-hand electricity, so they didn't search for passion in their fumbling advances. So much of what had happened was a jumbled memory in Hermione's mind. It seemed like everything had happened in a simple blink of an eye.

When it was over, Hermione had watched him sleep. Her own naked body was curled up in the corner, avoiding the moonlight that splashed onto the bed. She hadn't felt anything then; she could only remember watching him with a blank mind, catching murmurs of excitement still raging downstairs, assuring her that their absence was still unnoticed. Any exhilaration had been painfully drawn from her by that time, replaced only with a startling sensation of purely physical discomfort.

The next morning, neither could bear to meet the other's eyes. Hermione had wondered briefly if she had done something horribly, inexcusably wrong the night before. But, she reasoned, how on Earth would he know? He was just as inexperienced as she, if not more so. Hermione could hardly imagine that Ron and Lavender had gone much farther than undignified poking and prodding.

Ten days had passed before either of them finally worked up the gall to speak.

"Was it horrible?" Ron asked, coming to an uneasy stop before her one night in the library of Grimmauld Place.

"No," she replied, setting down her book. Ron could barely meet her eyes, and his flaming red ears were highly prominent. "But it wasn't good, I don't think."

"Oh." Ron made to sit in the armchair, but on a second thought spun on his ankle and started to pace, his hands wringing together forcefully. "Is this the sort of thing that takes ... err, practice?"

"Maybe," Hermione said softly, an unidentifiable feeling settling in the pit of her stomach.

With hesitance, he kissed her, and in a moment of blindness, Hermione began to wait. As he laid her down, his body grinding against hers for the second and incredibly vivid time, she had held her breath. It would come any moment, she was absolutely positive. She moaned when he kissed her neck because she knew it was coming. Her act of pleasure would be true in a moment, and the page would finally be turned to reveal the next, final chapter. The one where she lived happily ever after with the man she was destined to be with.

It was too late by the time she realized she was a naive fool. Her first time had been rushed, forgettable, and uncomfortable, but her second time had been complete agony.

So many years worth of yearning came to an abrupt halt that day. Everything she used to find extraordinary about Ron Weasley suddenly couldn't be more mundane. He wasn't spontaneous, he was forgetful. He wasn't creative, he was sloppy. Every exciting notion she had built up about Ron had come crashing down and try as she might, she couldn't pick up the pieces fast enough. A part of her was desperate to keep these quickly retreating feelings.

She couldn't understand how she could possibly have had a sudden change of heart after all these years. It simply wasn't logical. But every time he touched her, she had to make a forceful, conscious effort to not shrink away. Those long fingers would leave glossy sweat marks on her pale skin. They would press against her hips, her breasts, and the nape of her neck with such an aimless, unaware passion. He wouldn't reassure or encourage her to respond; in fact her involvement seemed entirely unnecessary. The depth of her revulsion made her stomach turn, and she could never remember dressing as fast as she did that day. The excuses she hurtled at him as she sped through the door were pathetic.

To go on pretending didn't seem like much of an option, but approaching him with a mouthful of, "You see, Ron, I'm just not attracted to you in the slightest anymore!" didn't seem particularly doable either.

There was a coward's way out and she took it. She hadn't spoken to him in three weeks before their encounter in the Ministry. As far as she might have shoved the whole affair into the back of her mind, Ron certainly hadn't forgotten about it.