Chapter 2: The Ministry of Magic are Morons

Improbable Felicity

Chapter 2: The Ministry of Magic are Morons

Hermione hefted her book bag over her shoulder and pushed her way through the glass door into the office. A pretty girl looked up from her computer, a practiced, professional smile upon her lips.

'Good morning,' she said. 'Welcome to Security Solutions. How may I assist you?'

The reception area was tastefully decorated, much like a top barrister's office, with dark wood and thick carpet. The elegant chairs in conversational groups held two people who had picked up magazines from the carefully fanned selection on the coffee table and who were reading whilst they waited.

Hermione stepped up to the chest-high counter behind which the receptionist sat. 'Good morning,' she responded pleasantly. Dropping her voice to a whisper, she added, 'Chocolate Frog.'

The receptionist handed her a plastic badge attached to a metal clip. 'Third door on the left,' she said softly, returning her attention to her computer keyboard.

Hermione walked purposefully down the hallway to the third door on the left and placed her hand on the doorknob. Almost instantaneously, she felt the detection ward as it washed over her skin. In the next moment, the doorknob turned beneath her hand and she entered the room beyond.

The look and feel of a Muggle legal firm fell away and she was in a comfortable wizarding environment. Parchment airplanes of different colours winged down the corridor, disappearing through doorways, and another receptionist, this one a handsome wizard, looked up from the Quidditch magazine open on the desk before him. 'Good morning,' he said brightly. 'Welcome to McGonagall, Moody and Associates. Do you have an appointment?'

'I'll take it from here, Bunting,' a stern voice said, and Hermione and the receptionist turned at the same moment to see an unsmiling Minerva McGonagall approaching. 'You see to the appointment book and pop around to send the statements by Muggle post, Bunting. I am not paying you to ogle the Kenmare Kestrels!'

'Yes, Professor McGonagall,' Bunting replied, blushing and closing the magazine, looking for all the world as if he were a third year caught with a magazine hidden in his Transfiguration textbook. 'Right away, ma'am.'

Hermione smiled warmly and took the hand held out to her by her former teacher.

'I'm so pleased to see you, Miss Granger. Thank you for coming. Shall we go to my office?'

Hermione agreed and followed McGonagall down the corridor. As they passed doorways, Hermione glanced in curiously. In the second office on the right, she saw two wizards struggling with a device that resembled a deployed airbag in an automobile – except that it was continuing to grow and expand. One wizard stood at the wall with a long metal pole, poking at the rapidly growing airbag, whilst another had leapt up onto his desk and was ineffectually stabbing at the airbag from above. Hermione bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud and glanced at the sign on the door as she hurried to catch up with McGonagall; the sign said, Department of Alternative Measures.

At the end of the hallway, Hermione and McGonagall entered a large room flooded with sunlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows occupying two walls.

'I would say Security Solutions is doing well,' Hermione said admiringly.

'Very well,' McGonagall agreed, indicating that Hermione should sit in one of the straight-back wooden chairs before the large, tidy desk. 'I don't need all this space, but the larger clients appreciate the appearance of prosperity, so it is necessary.'

Hermione nodded. 'Do you have an alternate office in which you meet with the Muggle clients?'

McGonagall seated herself behind her desk, shooting Hermione a sharp glance from her beady eyes. 'You know about that, do you?'

Hermione shrugged. 'You have premises with an entrance on Diagon Alley and another on Charing Cross Road; you have a Muggle reception area and a Muggle receptionist as well as wizard ones. You're obviously doing business on both sides of the street and succeeding admirably.'

'Yes, we have a generic office in which we meet with the Muggle clients. Mr Finch-Fletchley and Mr Thomas are quite useful for those contacts; both Muggle-born, you know, and quite comfortable crossing back and forth between the worlds.' The door behind McGonagall opened, and a house-elf entered, carrying a tea tray.

'Hello, Winky!' Hermione said with genuine warmth.

The elf placed the tea service on the desk before McGonagall before curtseying to Hermione. 'Good day, young miss,' she squeaked. Winky did not tarry, but left again the way she had come.

'Winky and a few of the older house-elves elected to come with me when I left Hogwarts,' McGonagall said matter-of-factly, pouring tea into the china cups. 'They decided to interpret their service as to me, as headmistress, rather than to the school. I can't say I blame them; I could not bear to remain, either.'

Hermione nodded mutely, accepting her cup from McGonagall. The final confrontation of the war had laid waste to many areas of the castle, for it had been fought on the Hogwarts grounds. It was very difficult to imagine going back there. When Professor McGonagall had decided to retire from teaching and move to London, the rebuilding project had been left safely in the hands of the new headmaster, Filius Flitwick.

The former headmistress cleared her throat and readjusted her square-framed spectacles upon her nose. 'Hermione, I understand that you are studying at Muggle university.'

'Yes, professor – Birkbeck College in Bloomsbury. Muggle maths is my primary subject. I am quite interested in working out how to integrate the theory of differential equations into the study of Arithmancy.'

A small smile tugged at McGonagall's lips as she observed Hermione's bright-eyed response. 'Your passion for learning warms the heart of an old teacher, you know.'

Hermione flushed at the praise. Professor McGonagall was a terrifically clever witch in her own right, and she did not hand out compliments very often. 'Ideas are exciting to me – I like chasing an idea the way Harry likes to chase the Snitch – and I'm fairly sure I get just as excited when I catch it, too.'

McGonagall chuckled. 'I think I have a proposition which may interest you.'

Hermione put her teacup on the desk. 'What kind of proposition?'

'I believe that someone with your skills would be a valuable asset to our team here at Security Solutions,' McGonagall said. 'Furthermore, I think you would find the work endlessly fascinating.'

'But I have another term of study before I leave uni,' Hermione protested, her mind already racing ahead to consider the possibilities. 'How can we provide wizarding solutions to Muggle security problems? Isn't that in violation of the Statute of Secrecy?'

'It would be in violation if we used magic to provide the security, yes,' McGonagall replied. 'However, we use Arithmancy to predict likely problem areas for the Muggle businesses and our Muggle computer programmers design the necessary deterrents.'

'You employ computer experts?'

'We have Mr Finch-Fletchley and Mr Thomas, who are both competent in that area, and we also contract work to an outside Muggle source when necessary.'

Hermione's eyes had taken on a far-away cast. 'There are so many ways Arithmancy might be used to project the probable areas of concern for both Muggle and wizard businesses – not to mention the application of theory to designing magical wards ...'

'I hope you'll consider our offer, Hermione,' McGonagall said. 'I have found it something of a comfort to work surrounded by and associated with members of the Order – people who understand and know the life I've lived. You might benefit that way, as well.'

Before Hermione could answer, the door through which Winky had disappeared opened and Alastor Moody entered, talking. 'The first batch was released today, Minerva. Six of them! The Ministry of Magic are morons!'

He stopped when he saw Hermione and surveyed her carefully, his magical eye spinning rather wildly. Hermione resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest and lifted her chin to meet his gaze. 'Good morning, Mad-Eye,' she said politely.

'Good morning to you, missy,' he grunted. 'Are you going to come to work with us, then?'

'Alastor!' McGonagall interrupted sharply. 'We've only just begun to speak of it. Don't press her for an answer now!'

'Who has been released, Mad-Eye?' Hermione asked curiously.

'Six convicted Death Eaters,' he snarled, stumping across the room and stopping to stare out of the windows. 'Your old school friends Malfoy, Crabbe, Zabini and Goyle were all released into the custody of their mothers – isn't that touching?' He turned his head and spat with force into McGonagall's waste paper basket. 'Scum!'

McGonagall's face screwed up in distaste and she waved her wand, Vanishing the contents of the bin. 'Really, Alastor,' she scolded.

'Who were the other two, Mad-Eye? The Death Eaters who were released?'

'Gibbon and Jugson; released to their wives,' he sneered.

'But what about Professor Snape?' Hermione demanded. 'Hasn't he been released?'

McGonagall sighed and removed her glasses, rubbing her eyes with one age-spotted hand. 'There is a slight technicality preventing Professor Snape's release,' she said. 'He has no family.'

'No – no family?' Hermione shook her head. 'They can't keep him for that! Surely he has a cousin or something ...'

Moody laughed sourly. 'His Muggle relations, the Snapes, are useless. They aren't magical folk, and so don't meet the requirement for custody.'

'But what about his mother's family?' Hermione said fiercely.

'He's the last of the Princes – we haven't been able to find so much as a distant cousin living in all of the United Kingdom.' McGonagall replaced her glasses. 'And we have truly tried to find one,' she added quietly.

'Then he has to get married,' Hermione said. 'If he marries, he can be released to his wife.'

Moody barked a harsh laugh, and McGonagall shook her head in the negative. 'Thus far, we have been unable to convince him that this is a viable alternative.'

Hermione looked from Moody to McGonagall and back again. 'No one will marry him?'

Moody shrugged and McGonagall followed suit, although she did it more slowly. 'Perhaps someone would agree to marry him, Hermione – but he will agree to marry no one.'

'But that's just stupid!' Hermione said earnestly, unconsciously wringing her hands. 'It's so unfair for him to be in prison to begin with – it's just wrong – and it would be a tragedy for him to stay there all because of some senseless, picky rule! In his case, it's simply pointless!'

Moody stared at her. 'Do you care about old Snape, Miss Granger?'

'He is a hero!' she said hotly. 'He never did anything but try to teach us things we needed to know, and he always protected us, even when we didn't know he was doing it!' Unaccountable tears sprang to her eyes. 'No one seems to understand how his life has been ruined by a stupid decision he made when he was seventeen years old – yes, it was a big mistake, but he's done more to rectify it than most people ever do in their entire lives. He lived a constant lie from the moment he swore allegiance to Professor Dumbledore until the day Voldemort died, and then, even when we gave evidence from the headmaster's records of all those years, no one cared! They still sent him to Azkaban!'

Hermione stood and walked to the window, staring at the street below, as if to hide her distress. When she spoke again, her voice was so soft it was as if she spoke only to herself. 'He loved Dumbledore – anyone who watched the Pensieve memories could see that. Why couldn't they understand that Professor Snape has been in prison his whole adult life?'

Moody and McGonagall exchanged a significant look, entirely unsure of how to answer the simple question.

The prisoner laboured over the parchment, the quill in his hand scratching relentlessly across the paper. Conditions at Azkaban Fortress had improved immeasurably since the defection of the Dementors, and the prisoner's advocate had been fierce in fighting for privileges for him. Due to her efforts, he had a small table, a chair, parchment and a self-inking quill – only one at a time, of course, and it had to be left on his table at all times, or he would lose the privilege of using it.

Not all of his advocate's efforts had succeeded – she had failed in obtaining more than twice-monthly showers, or the use of a wand or a razor for shaving. His beard was wild, itchy, and down to his chest; his hair had grown halfway down his back and was worn tied back from his face with a strip of cloth he had torn from his robes. His cell, in addition to the table and chair, held a pallet on a metal shelf chained to the wall and a chamber pot, which was emptied at the discretion of the guards. Not surprisingly, he was not a popular person with the men set to guard him; most of them had been his students and had from five to seven years of loathing to repay, with interest.

Doggedly, he completed the written part of the proposition and began to sketch; his freehand drawing was not the best, but he was certainly not permitted a straight edge or a protractor. He glanced at the roughly hewn window; if he stood upon the metal shelf and leant perilously to one side, he could look out and see the angry sea crashing against the unforgiving rock upon which the prison sat. His intimate knowledge and months of study told him that he had less than an hour of daylight left, and prisoners were not permitted candles, lamps, or torches. He redoubled his efforts; Minerva would arrive tomorrow for her twice-monthly visit – which coincided with his shower days, oddly enough – and he wanted to have the report ready for her.

Harry let the heavy front door close behind him and dropped his bag by the ugly troll's leg umbrella stand before heading down to the basement. When he came into the kitchen, it was to find his housemate seated and pouring pumpkin juice into goblets.

'What happened to you?' she demanded, abandoning the jug of pumpkin juice and crossing to him. 'You look terrible!' Harry's face was scratched and battered; one eye was spectacularly blackened.

He grinned tiredly and made a comical face. 'We had Stealth and Tracking today. I tripped over the hem of my Invisibility Cloak and landed on my face.'

She gave him a swift hug, then released him. 'Shall I heal you now? Or after we eat?'

Harry's stomach rumbled audibly. 'After we eat,' he said. 'Is that shepherd's pie?'

She smiled indulgently as he fell into his chair and took up his fork with a little moan of pleasure. He was still such a boy sometimes.

'Hermione,' he said, after swallowing a mouthful of pie, 'have I told you I love you lately?'

Hermione huffed but looked pleased, nonetheless. She seated herself and studied him. 'At least you can repair your own glasses now,' she observed. They ate in companionable silence for a while, until she put aside her fork and said tentatively, 'Harry, I saw Professor McGonagall today.'

Putting down his goblet of juice, he grinned. 'Did you run into her in Diagon Alley?'

Hermione shook her head. 'No, she asked me to her office – she wanted to talk to me about a job.'

'A job at a security company?' Harry frowned. 'You've still got a year at uni.'

'Only one term, Harry – and it's about time I started paying for some things around here.'

Harry frowned. 'Why? Everything's working all right – we're right on schedule, doing what we said we'd do. You have one more year of school, I have one more year of training, and then we'll be productive members of society.' He grinned; she knew he wanted to distract her from this well-worn argument.

Hermione shook her head stubbornly. 'Yes, but we were just out of Hogwarts when we made those plans, Harry. It's not right for you to support me like this. I should be paying my way.'

Harry pushed his hair off his scar-free forehead, staring at her as if she made his head hurt. 'What good is a vault full of gold if I can't use it to help my friends?' he asked reasonably.

'Two years of room, board, uni fees and books – Harry, I'll never be able to pay you back as it is.'

Harry pushed his plate aside. 'Hermione, if our situations were reversed – if my parents had died bankrupt and yours had died leaving you a fat bank account – would you just go on about your business and leave me on the street with nowhere to go?' Not surprisingly, Hermione teared up and Harry knelt, putting his arms awkwardly around her. 'You know you wouldn't do that to me. Please believe that I'm doing this because I want to – that it makes me happy to have you here – and worry about how to combine Arithmancy with calculus or something, instead of this, all right?'

He never had a handkerchief when he needed one, but he Summoned a box of paper tissues, and Hermione blew her nose and wiped her face. After a moment, Harry stood and pulled her out of her chair to give her a proper hug. 'I'm a terrible friend,' he murmured into her bushy brown hair. 'You're missing them again, aren't you?'

Hermione buried her face in his neck and nodded, sobbing. He stroked her back. Three years before, Hermione's parents, three of their patients, two dental assistants, and two office workers had been killed and burned beyond recognition by what the Muggle law enforcement officers had termed 'terrorist activity.' The entire building that had housed their practice had burned to the ground. Harry had known the 'terrorist' in question was Voldemort, who had been making every effort to draw the Order into the open.

Harry's rage and agony of remorse had only been intensified by the knowledge that Hermione's parents had just taken out a second mortgage on their home to pay for the recently upgraded equipment at the Granger Dental Clinic. Life insurance had been eaten up by paying the creditors; the bank had repossessed the house, and Hermione had been lucky to be able to remove her own personal belongings and mementoes of her parents' lives which were felt to be of too little value to be auctioned for their debts.

Harry had bought Hermione's books and supplies for her last year at Hogwarts, and had eventually induced her to agree to live with him at Grimmauld Place, whilst she finished her Muggle education. He had rather thought at that time that Ron would be living with them as well – that Ron and Hermione might even have been married.

But Harry had forced himself to acknowledge that Hermione and Ron would never be a couple. Soon after they had brought her home from hospital, Hermione had poured the Healer's parting news into the willing, if squeamish ears of Harry and Ron. Harry had given her a comforting hug, reminding her that she could always adopt a baby.

Ron had said nothing, not for several weeks. Harry had not found out until later that Hermione had been in the first floor sitting room the night Harry had invited Ron to find someplace else to live – that she had heard everything as their voices had clearly carried from the entrance hall.

'I'm not engaged to her!' Ron had shouted.

'I bloody well know where you sleep at night, mate!' Harry had retorted. 'You're her boyfriend. How would you feel if she was chatting up other blokes at the pub?'

Soon after moving back to the Burrow, Ron's renown as the chief designer of their battle strategy had brought a job offer from an American computer software company; he had moved out of the country and was now designing war games for which others wrote the computer programs. Harry had forced himself to know that Hermione and Ron would never be a couple when Ron had gone to America.

Yes, Harry had thought Hermione and Ron would marry – but then, he had also thought he and Ginny might have been married, too, and that hadn't worked out either, had it?

'Do you want to go to the cemetery to visit your parents' graves?' he asked quietly, stroking her hair. 'I'll take you tomorrow, if you want.'

Hermione stepped away from him and grabbed another handful of tissues, mopping up her face. 'Thank you, Harry, but no. I'm going to the Ministry library tomorrow to do some research for a petition to the Wizengamot committee on Law Enforcement.'

Harry stared, dumbfounded, at her back as she walked to the kitchen door. 'Why?' he said.

Hermione turned at the door and gave him a misty smile. 'Oh, it's nothing that would interest you. Would you see to the washing up?'

Harry Levitated the supper dishes into the sink and set them to washing themselves, wondering if he would ever understand women.