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“Ugh!” Hermione choked on her morning coffee as she read the morning edition of the Prophet. She threw the duvet off her legs and sprung to her feet, pacing the room with irritation. “Can you believe this bullshit? This absolute hogwash?”
She picks the paper back up and shakes it out, stiffening the thin parchment. Ink smears her sweaty fingertips and she puts on a mocking news-caster voice. “Hermione Granger, running for Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot appears frazzled before the press. Wild hair astray and visible stain—it was hardly noticeable!” Hermione drew a deep breath, full of indignation, and carried on, “—on her blouse to address her campaign before the race truly begins and the polls open. One must wonder, with Miss Granger’s young age and barely put-together appearance, if she is ready for the position.”
She stopped her pacing just long enough to take another sip of her coffee and tucked a thick, straying curl behind her ear. Setting the cup down hard enough for it to spill onto the coaster and dribble onto the hardwood of the bedside table, she continued her diatribe. “ Meanwhile, her opponent, Charles Weasley, appeared before his candidates fresh from the field. The young and dashing Dragon Master displayed several signs of Dragon Battle as he addressed the crowd and made his candidacy known. If one thing is apparent here, it is that if this Mr Weasley can handle a dragon, he can certainly handle a courtroom!”
With the end of the article, Hermione stopped stalking through the bedroom. She threw the tainted copy of the Prophet onto the bed and ran her hands through her hair. “What kind of double standard bullshit is this? I had just come off of a twenty-seven hour man-hunt with the Auror unit—successfully, might I add—with one or two hairs out of place and a poor excuse for a coffee stain on my blouse, while you—you literally appear with smoking holes in your shirt after playing with baby dragons, but I’m the unqualified candidate?”
Charlie set his coffee down carefully and swung his legs out of the bed. Hermione watched him approach, entirely unsure if she wanted to throttle him or to accept the warmth of his open arms. She allowed him to engulf her with his broad frame and rested her cheek on the expanse of his chest. Her hands hung limply by her side as her one act of defiance. Accepting comfort from the enemy was bad enough, she hardly needed to offer it back.
“You know you can’t put any stock into her words, ‘Mione. That witch has always had it out for you. You knew it wouldn’t be easy with her covering the race.” Charlie ran his calloused hands up and down her arms in a warming gesture. “She’s getting back at you the only way she can. And she knows you can’t do toot sweet about it.”
Hermione knew it was well-intentioned, and that his words were full of truth, but still, it stung.
“I’ll never be free of her,” she muttered, pulling away from Charlie and his big, comforting warmth. “She can’t find out about us, Charlie. It’d dash both of our hopes for Office.”
“Hmm,” he pondered, opening the top drawer—his drawer—from the large chest in her room. From it, he pulled some clean pants and socks and laid them on the bed. She watched him prepare for his day while she picked up her pacing again. Sometimes, his ability to keep his cool really irritated her. Other times, she appreciated his calm sensibility. Watching him now, she knew she was starting to get twitchy.
“Wouldn’t it be better if we went public now? Better that we’re the ones to announce it, rather than having it found out.”
“Ha!” She laughed, genuinely irritated. “I wouldn’t survive it, you know that. It’d be the death of my political career. You—”, she threw her right hand carelessly in his direction. “—You’d be the guy who scored the brightest witch of the age and despite that being me , I’d be the whore who took up with her ex’s brother in an attempt to climb the ladder—“ she laughed bitterly again, “never mind that Ron and I were never actually together! That’s what the public wanted, neat and tidy." She dusted her hands together sarcastically. "Harry and Ginny. Hermione and Ron. Who cares what the truth is—not the media, that’s for sure!”
He stared at her stoically from the other side of the bed while she grew more and more frustrated. He was contemplating her and her statement, she knew. Charlie Weasley was a kind and gentle man, despite his rough exterior. He never gas lit her or made her feel anything other than what she was worth, but still, he was a man—a white, Pureblood man, and he’d never know what the prejudice she faced daily felt like.
“You’re right,” he soothed in the manner that belonged only to him—an ability to touch her soul from the other side of the room. Understanding without pity. “That’s how it would come out. Maybe,” he cleared his throat uncomfortably. “It was a mistake to run at the same time. You want this more than I do, I’ll just er,” he shifted uneasily on his feet, breaking eye contact with her, and she knew exactly what he was trying to say.
She lifted an accusatory finger at him and shook it. “Don’t you even think about it! You want this position, need it to make the sorts of changes you want to see in the system—important changes, Charlie. Don’t you even consider dropping out of the race—not for me!”
He smiled at her, his lopsided, goofy smile that she knew was reserved solely for her. He jumped onto the unmade bed and bounded across it to her within a second. He scooped her up into his arms and kissed fire into her lips. A fire that never dwindled between them, a fire that melted her like a marshmallow in its flames, and as he carried her toward the adjoining bathroom, searing burning kisses onto her neck, she lost the heart and the ability to say what came next.
That if he dropped out of the race because of her, and their relationship was found out, Rita would reduce her to the kind of woman who used only her wiles to get her way.
As she approached her office, there was a smattering of applause from her co-workers. A small acknowledgment of her intention to campaign. Some threw sympathetic glances her way, knowing that the race hadn’t started out well for her—purely because of the article.
There were several envelopes and an unsigned bouquet of Snapping Dragons on her desk. She smiled to herself as she stroked the soft petals of one of the dragons. As she did so, it sneezed a little puff of smoke, but looked up at her sweetly. Charlie wasn’t as subtle as he thought he was. Thankfully, there were plenty of explanations if anyone came asking. The cards were almost all well wishes from friends or other colleagues, congratulating her on taking the next step in her career. However, hidden amongst the many friendly notes were several spewing hate.
I don’t care who you are, or what you’ve done. You didn’t grow up in this world, so who are you to govern it?
Take a step back, Mud Blood. Potter can’t save you now!
Who’s going to vote for a Muggleborn when there is a Pureblood in the race?
A woman in power? What would a woman know about running something as big as the Wizengamot?
Hermione discarded them as easily as she read them. She’d been receiving hate mail ever since her fourth year at Hogwarts when Rita Skeeter first started to spread venomous lies about her. None of it was new, none of it held any power over her. She’d learnt to let go of it as easily as water off a duck’s back. Meaningless words from people who she’d previously thought as meaningless to her…
But now they were voters, now their voice could actually negatively affect her. What if people who thought like this were in the majority? Silently, she thanked Merlin that Charlie, while her opposition, was not someone who would represent a crowd like this. Dwelling on it now would do her no good. She swiped the offending letters off the desk and into the bin where she incinerated them. The Snapping Dragons craned in their vase to get a good look at the smoke and flames. Their sweet faces and disposition put a little smile on her face as she picked up the case file on top of her in-tray and got to reading.
Charlie was in the kitchen when she arrived home later that evening. The sight of him standing over the stove, preparing a meal for them was in itself a reason to be smitten with him—and eternally pleased that she had given him a key. He had inherited his mother’s skill for cooking and put it to use often, much to her delight. Cooking had never been her forte and her experience on the run with Harry and Ron had put her off for life.
“Thank you for the flowers,” she whispered in his ear and planted a kiss on his cheek. “The little guys are very sweet.”
He smiled toothily at her as he continued to stir the risotto on the stove, his cheeks flushed from the heat and perhaps a little pleasure at her words. She moved away to get plates and cutlery.
“Did they set fire to anything?” He called over his shoulder as she approached the small dining table to set it.
“Not yet, thank Merlin. I did have to face them away from all my files, though. Could you imagine if all those prosecutor notes went up in flames?” She laughed, “I’d be the talk of the office.”
“Aren’t you always?” He winked, dropping a tea towel onto the table and setting the hot pan of salty, creamy rice on top of it.
“Mmm,” she inhaled, leaning over the pan to catch the steam. “Smells incredible. It’s a good thing politicians don’t need to cook, or I’d be done for.” She took her seat and poured them both a glass of wine.
“Who knows,” he grinned as he spooned some onto her plate, maybe they will invent a cook off and it won’t be only my clothes that are left with smoking holes in it this time?”
She glowered at him as he took his seat next to her. “What?” He quipped, “too soon?”
She swatted him with her napkin, rolled her eyes and dug into her tea. It was ridiculously good and she forgave him instantly. Chicken, lemon and thyme merged perfectly together in the rich dish and she really was grateful that whoever ended up being elected, it wouldn’t come down to their skills in the kitchen—which was, funnily enough, exactly where some hate mail said she’d belonged. If only they knew.
Three weeks into the race for Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Hermione Granger is taking a stance on the controversial issue of Marriage Law. Ever since the war, an on-going debate has gone back and forth with the public and the Ministry. Magical folk, both young and old were lost in the thousands during the war and many believe that the only answer to repopulation is enforced marriage, resulting in reproduction. The law is set to be carried out within the year, lawfully requiring any single person over the age of twenty-five to enter an arranged marriage. The young friend of Mr Harry Potter himself is, as of yet, unmarried. Relationship status not-with-holding, if Miss Granger was to settle down, the question remains on how she would raise her children whilst also upholding the responsibilities of the highest law we as Wizard-kind hold.
The ever dashing and daring Charles Weasley is also as of yet unmarried. We can only wonder which lady will be lucky enough to match the wild dragon tamer. Interestingly enough, Mr Weasley has made no comment on his plans for the Marriage Law Act. Will he support it or will he abolish it if he is elected? Either way, the race will likely come down to the little policies and who the public have the most confidence in.
Hermione swiped the morning edition of the Prophet off the kitchen counter, straight into her recyclables, muttering obscenities under her breath. Did no one else see how the scales were always tipped against her? Why did it matter how she would raise children in that position when there was no mention of how Charlie would raise children? Why was it automatically assumed that child rearing was the woman’s role? Why were her capabilities questioned while her opponents were not? It was unjust, unfair and it made her blood boil.
She was so sick of working harder than everyone else, certainly harder than any of her male colleagues and taking twice as long to receive recognition. Her whole career, starting her first day at Hogwarts, she had been a step ahead of everyone else—always. Perhaps if she wasn’t a Muggleborn, perhaps if she didn’t have a certain tint to her skin colour, perhaps if she wasn’t a woman.
Deep down, she knew, if all of that went away, she’d be unstoppable. If she were a Pureblood, if she were white, if she was a man… then she’d be The Man, and no one would question her run for the top position. Again and again she was attacked in view of the public through the Prophet and she was done with it.
She was going to meet with Rita Skeeter.
Making an appointment with Rita was not something Hermione looked forward to. It was also not an easy feat to achieve—surprising in that her current political status did not make Rita want to interview her, but also not so surprising. Given their history, Rita was likely as afraid of what damage Hermione could do to her, as Hermione was of what Rita could do.
One week later, frustrated with the lack of response from both Rita and her assistant, Hermione ambushed her first thing in the morning at the offices of The Daily Prophet .
“Rita,” she called as she saw the woman exit the staff kitchen, steaming cup of tea in hand.
Rita Skeeter looked up, spotted Hermione and ducked around the nearest corner. Grinding her teeth and preparing herself for a chase, Hermione set off after her at a half jog.
A whip of greying blond ringlets disappeared around yet another corner and Hermione started to wonder just how big the office could be. Finally, she cornered her in the women’s bathroom, one abandoned flowery cup of tea on the basin and a stall door locked firmly, green purse visible through the small gap at the bottom.
“Come on, Rita, I know you’re in there,” Hermione coaxed. “What are you going to do? Morph into a bug and fly out of here?”
“Hmph,” came the reply and the door flew open. “Miss Granger, whatever can I do for you?”
Hermione pursed her lips, irritated. She knew Rita wouldn’t be easy to talk to, but literally having to chase her into a bathroom stall seemed so childish. What she wanted to do was scream and yell, to remind Rita of their agreement from many years before, but even with what she came to say in mind, she knew she needed to tread carefully. She took a deep breath and a moment to harmonise her thoughts before starting.
“Rita, I didn’t come here today to antagonise you, nor to threaten or belittle you. I came here today in an attempt to put our past behind us and implore you to think seriously on the ramifications of your reporting. Charlie Weasley is a personal friend of mine and a wonderful man.” She tried not to fidget or shift in any manner that would give Rita a sneak peak into her true feelings. If anyone could figure it out, it was this conniving woman. As it was, she could see the reporter’s eyes narrowing in thought and distrust.
She powered on nonetheless, “He has done many great things for man and beast alike in his career. The Wizengamot would be lucky to have him step off the council and into the head chamber. I would not mourn a law system with Charlie at the helm. Continue to report great things about him, please.”
She stepped back and rested her body against the wall, showing Rita that she was no threat—that she was only there for a friendly conversation. She interlocked her fingers and let them rest against her legs. “But I have done some pretty good things, too. My whole career has been in the law system. I worked as an Auror for several years before switching offices within the department and dismantling outdated and horrifically boorish laws. I have held a seat on the Wizengamot for years and have slowly moved up the ranks.” She took a deep breath and looked into the other woman’s eyes, willing her to see her for who she was now, and not the child she used to be.
“I am qualified for this position, Rita. I am ready for this position and your articles belittle me.” Hermione allowed a little fire to enter her eyes, her voice. “They succeed only in telling the public that I am of child bearing age—and unable to have children while taking charge at work. You talk about my hair and my clothes and my demeanour, but never my accomplishments. All the while you build my male counterpart up.”
“So, you want me to talk you up, is that it?” Rita scoffed. Moving to the sink, she disposed of her cup of tea and rinsed it out. Slowly, she set it aside and washed her hands. She picked up a clean towel from the pile, dried her hands daintily and dropped the towel in the provided basket. Hermione waited patiently for her to be finished before continuing.
“No, that’s not what I’m asking—”
“Good, because you’re a wretched girl who doesn’t deserve it. You should see the reader responses I get. The people love to see me bring the Golden Girl down—”
Hermione’s frustration and disappointment reached its peak and she threw her hands up in disgust. “That! That is exactly what I am talking about, Rita! You’re intentionally bringing me down—and not just me! Your words have a lasting impact!” Hermione started pacing the small room and Rita retreated into a corner, no longer feeling in control of the conversation.
“Don’t you see, by bringing me down, highlighting only my flaws, you’re showing every woman, every girl that no matter what they do, they’ll never be good enough. It is possible to separate my good ideas and power moves from things like what I’m wearing, or wondering if I was rude. If you don’t it shows that no accomplishment a woman can earn will ever compare to what a man was born with—power. Women will never be seen as equal if we can’t even build each other up. What man will take me seriously when a fellow woman is actively working to bring me down, hmm?”
Hermione stopped pacing abruptly and looked Rita in the eyes once more. “Haven’t you ever lost a potential promotion to a man? Been skipped over, even though you were better, because a man was available?” Rita’s face twitched in a manner that told Hermione that she had. “That’s all I’m asking for. Stop trying to reduce me to what I look like, or who I’m dating. Don’t push me up, just make it equal. Give a woman a fighting chance, I,” she hesitated, “that’s all I came to say. Thank you for listening, and sorry for chasing you in here.”
Hermione turned tail and left Rita Skeeter to her thoughts. She thought some of what she had said had gotten through, though she wasn’t nearly as calm as she intended to be—nor had she used any of the flattering material she’d thought up on the way—but she hoped Rita had heard her. Only time would tell.
A week later and Hermione hadn’t seen either hide nor hair of Rita Skeeter, and she was thankful—sort of. Honestly, it had been a long, hard week with the campaign and work combined. Given that she had no idea how Rita had taken her words, silence on her behalf may just be golden. She wasn’t expecting Charlie tonight and was looking forward to drinking half a bottle of wine and gorging herself on a cheese platter in front of a rom-com. Every now and then, she just needed to switch off, and tonight was the designated time.
She had just placed the platter on the table, poured a glass of crisp, dry white, settled on the couch and picked up the remote when her front door came crashing in. She jumped to her feet, wand in her hand and pointed directly at her intruder—Charlie.
“Sorry,” he said bashfully. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but—” he brandished the evening edition of the Prophet at her, “—I was so excited, have you seen it?”
“I, no, I haven’t yet.” Despite Charlie’s sunny disposition, she was apprehensive as she took the paper from him. It was already open to the page he wished her to see—a side by side profile of them both, written by one Rita Skeeter. An in depth composition as to their personal and professional achievements. Hermione scanned Charlie’s first, a smile on her face. It was a very good profile for him, and she meant what she’d said to Rita—the Wizengamot would be lucky to have him as Head Warlock.
Almost reluctantly, her eyes moved over and began to read her own profile.
Hermione Jean Granger, born in September 1979 to Muggle parents, attended her first year of Hogwarts alongside none other than the Chosen One, Vanquisher of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Harry Potter. Together with Ronald Weasley, the three formed one of the most formidable groups to be reckoned with. Harry Potter has been known to say many times that he never would have been able to defeat the Dark Lord without the help of his friends, Miss Granger among them.
Her efforts during her school years were unrivalled, even amongst the peers who had the privilege to grow up with Magic. Her will to do and become the best never dwindled over the years, achieving top scores in all examinations. She was a great asset in the Second Wizarding War, earning her an Order of Merlin—First Class. After all of this, Miss Granger did not stop. She joined the Auror Academy, became a top-notch Auror and then took a seat in the office to update several outdated laws. Miss Granger has served our world and our laws faithfully over the years and her accomplishments for her age are comparable to almost none. It would be easy to believe that she would uphold our Government to the highest degree and be a fair and just Head Warlock.”
A lone tear slid down Hermione’s face. Was the article perfect? No, but in comparison to how Rita had shone the light on her before, it was unparalleled. Rita had put their differences aside and had heard her. Now that the scales were tipping to an even balance, Hermione finally felt as though she had a shot.
She looked up at Charlie’s grinning face and saw his eyes glistening, too. A partner who was happy for her success, even when it meant it could mean his failure. How did she end up so lucky? She dropped the paper where she stood, took his face in her hands and kissed him until he dropped that goofy smile she loved so much.