Chapter Text
When Ginny arrived through the Floo at Number 12 Grimmauld Place after a long day of Quidditch practice, she was surprised to find not one, not two, but three agitated and ruffled-looking owls tapping insistently on her living room window.
Ginny balanced her broom against the fireplace, tossed her bag of Quidditch gear carelessly in the corner, then hurried to open the window latch.
The three owls immediately swooped in, one after the other—a rumpled tawny barn owl, an energetic minute owl who peeped incessantly, and an annoyed eagle owl who seemed to be considering simply swallowing the tiny owl whole to make the annoying chirping stop. They lined up along the back of her sofa, then turned their heads to stare expectantly at Ginny.
"Well, aren't you a fine trio," she intoned flatly. Ginny inspected their legs, finding three identical scrolls, each closed with a familiar seal.
The barn owl held its leg out first, and she untied the letter carefully. The owl hooted, then nipped at her hand reproachfully. Ginny rolled her eyes, summoning a bowl of owl treats, and handed one to each bird, tutting when the eagle owl turned its beak up at her offering.
She set the bowl of treats on a side table and opened the first scroll, while the two owls not too snooty for a snack busied themselves with their treats.
*
Ginny,
I think I may have made an error at work. Please contact me at your earliest convenience. It is rather urgent.
Hermione
*
A mistake at work? Hermione? Ginny highly doubted that. And why the hell would she be asking Ginny for advice? Hermione had one of the most important roles at the Minister of Magic's office. She practically ran the country!
The second owl, the stoic eagle owl, extended his leg next, then hurried out of the window the moment Ginny had removed the scroll.
*
Gin,
I fear this may have spiralled out of control. It started off as an innocent white lie, but now I think I'm truly fucked. Floo call me as soon as you get this.
Hermione
*
After the tenor of Hermione's second note, with the use of a heavy-handed expletive no less, Ginny began to grow alarmed, barely noting the barn owl flapping away through the window and up into the evening sky, nor the minute owl climbing directly into the bowl of snacks.
"What in the world have you done, Hermione Granger?"
When she turned to retrieve the last note, she found the smallest owl up to its neck in the bowl of owl treats. Ginny cleared her throat impatiently, and after a little squirming, its tiny clawed leg—still tied with the note—pushed its way to the top of the bowl. She quickly untied the note so the owlet could go back to its feast. Now nervous, Ginny unfurled the last scroll.
*
Ginny!!!!
I am freaking the fuck out!! I didn't want to put this in writing, but I think you might be ignoring me, and I'm not kidding around—this is an emergency!!!!
*
Ginny scoffed in annoyance, but her stomach clenched in concern all the same. Hermione had all of her friends' schedules practically memorised. Ginny had Quidditch practice nearly every day until half six. She couldn't be ignoring Hermione if she was fifty feet in the air on a broom!
Her eyes hurriedly scanned the rest of the message.
*
I… gods, Ginny, I can barely write this down… I've informed the Minister that I got engaged!
*
Ginny blinked. She reread the words to make sure she hadn't just had a stroke, then finished the letter, her confusion only increasing with each word.
*
Owl me as soon as you get this so we can figure out how to unfuck this situation. If I even can…DON'T TELL RON.
*
She read the entire message again. Then she stared out the window, trying to make the words make sense in her brain. Then she read all three of them one more time.
A loud clatter jolted her from her deep bewilderment. The little owl had lost its balance and was on the floor, completely covered by the bowl, the owl treats scattered across the floor.
Just then, she heard Harry call from the foyer. "Gin? You home?"
Walburga Black's shrieks of "—tarnishing these hallowed halls, you snivelling speckled slayer of the Dark Lord!" were immediately silenced as he hurried up the stairs toward the sound of the little owl's muffled pips. "What happened in here?"
In a daze, Ginny flicked her wand, setting the little owl free and clearing up the owl treats.
"Is that Hermione's owl?" The now very full minute owl waddled slowly across the rug toward him. Harry knelt down to scratch his feathers then looked up at Ginny with curiosity. "What's she got to say?"
Still stunned from the series of increasingly deranged missives, Ginny could only do one thing. She burst out into hysterical laughter, hinging forward at the waist, tears of mirth soon streaming down her cheeks.
"Harry—" She attempted to convey the development, but could only gasp through guffaws. "Here…read…these…"
She shoved the three letters in his hands, laughing even harder as he read, his face growing pale and flustered.
"Engaged?!"
"Apparently," Ginny laughed.
"But she hasn't got a boyfriend!" Harry turned one of the letters over, looking for an explanation in a postscript he would not find. "Right? She's single. Right?!"
"Yes, she is technically single."
"Technically…"
"However…" Ginny collapsed onto the sofa, rubbing her stomach, aching from the laughter. "Over the past few months, Hermione has been taking creative liberties with the truth to stay in the fuddy-duddy Minister's good graces. And now…I think it's finally caught up to her."
Harry sat slowly down into the adjacent armchair. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"You know how Minister Montague is an old-fashioned, sexist moose?"
"Moose?"
"Whatever." She shook her hand impatiently. "I couldn't think of a better big dumb animal. Point is, he only promotes employees who have settled down, married, maybe popped out a kid or two. Sort of looks down on single people. Thinks they're flighty and unreliable. Especially women."
Harry curled his lip in disgust. "Hermione is forcing herself to get married to someone just to get a promotion?!"
"I'm sure she's not actually—"
At that moment, the Floo roared to life, and a very rumpled Hermione spun out of the hearth. In one hand, she gripped a half-full bottle of champagne that was now likely saturated with ash and completely undrinkable. In the other, she held a partially eaten baguette that had come through the Floo miraculously unscathed. Not bothering to vanish the soot covering her robes, she fell to her knees and flopped face down on the area rug with a moan.
"Hermione?!"
Harry and Ginny crept forward, taking stock of their friend. She lay perfectly still, then let out a gurgling burp followed by another miserable sound of abject despair.
"Hermione?" Ginny asked again tentatively. "What's happened?"
The overstuffed minute-owl wasted no time and made its way to its owner, and began pecking at the baguette, occasionally scraping the skin of her hand with its overenthusiastic beak. After a particularly brutal jab, Hermione hissed and pulled herself to seating, stretching her legs straight out in front of her, her hair no longer finding the constraints of her plait necessary, her eyes bloodshot and puffy from what was likely an afternoon of crying.
She looked between Ginny and Harry expectantly. "Well? Don't just stand there gaping at me. Get some glasses! We've got an engagement to celebrate!"
###
It had all happened so fast. The words came tumbling past her lips before she had fully formed a coherent thought. All because the Minister had mentioned he was hosting a couples-only work retreat in the spring.
Setting aside how livid it made her that the Ministry allowed such blatant favouritism towards those in long-term relationships, she knew she only had herself to blame for trapping herself in her own web of lies.
Looking back at the thorough job she did of weaving together fib after fib over the last six months, it was actually remarkable she had made it this long without getting caught.
At first, it had just been an excuse to avoid post-work drinks at the Leaky—"Sorry, can't join! I've got a date!"
Then, riding the high of how well that lie got her out of an evening spent with coworkers she didn't particularly like, one date turned into dating, turned into having a serious boyfriend. Being in a fake relationship had a lot of advantages beyond being a convenient reason to beg off. The elder women around the office stopped trying to set her up, men kept their ogling at bay now that she was off the market, and of course, the Minister was tickled pink, eyeing her and a few others for a potential move to his inner circle.
Although many were curious about the identity of her secret lover, she had a few airtight excuses to give. She could hide behind the fact that she liked to keep her personal life private, that her "boyfriend" wanted to focus on their budding relationship outside of the prying eye of the media. No one questioned her—and why would they? She was almost always working, so whatever man she managed to snag would only get her on the weekends, and after her scandalous break-up with Ron Weasley, could anyone blame her for being camera-shy?
But the lying couldn't last forever, and the cracks were beginning to show. The Minister was becoming quite insistent that she bring her "special friend" over for dinner, because apparently, he could only have even numbers at his table. But did she really need to engage the nuclear option of a fake fiancé? All for a stupid work event with mandatory team-building exercises and scummy pools and overcooked steak and underwhelming breakfast buffets?! The entire thing was so bloody stupid, but she was not in a position to raise a stink about the Minister's inequitable standards when she had already stuck her neck out about seventeen other outdated policies.
Hermione was not one to back away from a challenge. If she wanted a seat at the table, she had to play ball. Unfortunately, she just decided to do so in the most daft way imaginable.
Hermione could be calculated. She could be conniving and even ruthless if she had to be. But she wasn't a particularly good liar. Especially not when she was desperate. And the truth was, she was desperate to be considered for this promotion. It was down between her and another long-term Ministry worker— married and with a baby on the way. Every time they were all in a meeting together, Hermione could practically hear the ticking of the social clock reverberating between her ears.
Living alone. Painfully single. Only a cat and owl to feed. No dates, not even a one-night stand in months. Tick tock, Hermione.
If it wasn't for this stupid job, Hermione probably wouldn't have minded so much that everyone else around her seemed to be pairing off and buying houses and pushing out sprogs. She wasn't particularly interested in being constantly exhausted and financially strapped to a big mortgage and never-ending childcare expenses. Hermione got a full eight hours of uninterrupted sleep every single night! Exactly none of her clothes had been puked, sneezed or pooped on. She had a significant little nest egg she had been investing in that grew each month untouched.
Sure, her parents were beginning to hint about grandchildren. Sure, she hadn't been laid in months. Sure, her pathetic little magical dildo was losing its vibrating charm after only three months of overuse. That was beside the point.
The point was there was absolutely nothing wrong with being a strong, single, career-minded woman. But no one else in the Minister's office seemed to agree, and now she had to scramble to find a man willing to assist her in this ludicrous charade or else she could kiss that promotion goodbye…along with her dignity. What was left of it, anyway.
At first, after practically shouting her news not a few moments after the retreat was announced, she felt stupidly confident that this would all work out fine. Then, after the meeting ended, and the congratulations began, and the 'When's the date?'s and the 'Who's the lucky guy?'s began to stack up, the gravity of Hermione's fuck up began to settle deep inside of her bones.
She managed to brush everyone off for now, citing her fiancé's preference to spread the news through a proper announcement.
Great, she thought. Now I have to find someone willing to announce a fake engagement in the fucking Prophet. Knowing Skeeter, she'd be begging for a front-page photograph to go with.
She considered backpedalling. Just show up the next week in fake tears, announcing her heart had been broken a second time. Hermione could imagine the looks of pity, the words of faux encouragement to 'get back out there,' the renewed offers to set her up with Clarice from accounting's nephew—Clarence, with the hairy mole. The prospect made her want to vomit. She would do whatever it took to avoid her colleagues' condescension as long as humanly and magically possible. Even if this disaster was her own fault this time and not the result of Ron's decision to boink his secretary. The Fucker.
Her desire to find a way to un-engage herself quickly vanished when the Minister himself popped into her office to congratulate her, handing her a lovely bottle of Veuve Clicquot.
"Now, I must insist you and your lucky man come have dinner with me and the missus. I'll have Scarlett put it on the calendar for two Sundays from now. We'll do a roast." He did not wait for any objections, but pulled her into a strangely affectionate hug, smushing his wet lips against her cheek as if she were his own goddamn daughter. "We'll make an honest woman out of you yet, Ms Granger. Soon to be Mrs…."
Her anxiety reached its zenith as she realised that this sexist pig expected her to change her name when she did eventually get hitched. Actually, she wanted to clarify, at the very fucking least, she would be hyphenating, thank you very much! Instead, she smiled demurely and assured him that as soon as the announcement was finalised, she would send a copy directly to his desk.
After the Minister closed her office door, she puked in the bin.
It was a blur after that. A few hastily-scribbled missives to Ginny and Pansy, a trip to Tesco to buy the biggest baguette on sale because emergencies like pronouncing a fake engagement call for copious amounts of carbohydrates. Then, while heavily disillusioned (in more ways than one), she sat on the bank of the Thames just outside Whitehall, chugging her wine and alternating throwing scraps of her baguette into her mouth and then to the ducks, letting her tears fall freely.
She was fucked. There was no way she could possibly unfuck this. Who in their right mind would agree to marry her on such short notice? Or alternatively, and somehow much more outlandishly, pretend to want to marry her?
She thought of her nest egg. Maybe for the right price…
At some point, she made her way to the nearest Floo and landed gracelessly on the Potters' rug, hating herself and every single goddamn choice that had brought her to this fate.
Ginny and Harry hovered above her as she took a large bite of what was left of her baguette and exchanged nervous glances.
"You're engaged, Hermione?" Harry inquired tentatively.
"Evidently," she hiccuped. She took a sip from her bottle of bubbles and immediately choked on the ashy aftertaste. "Blech."
"Dare I ask…to whom?" Harry attempted to gently pry the ruined wine and nibbled baguette from her clutches. She snarled, and he flinched, retracting his arms quickly.
"As soon as I figure that out, you'll be the first to know."
"Oh, Hermione, there's got to be a better way—"
"Just shut your mouth, Harry. I don't need your judgement, I need your ideas, and if you haven't got any, then all I need from you is more baguette." She threw the crust of her first round at his stupid, scarred forehead then burst into tears.
"I'll take it from here, love," Ginny interjected. She knelt beside Hermione and grabbed her shoulders firmly in hand. "Let's see. A few more bottles of wine, a bushel of bread, and Pansy, for starters?"
Hermione nodded miserably.
Ginny pulled her into a hug, cooing soothing words into Hermione's hair just like Molly would, and it occurred to her that Ginny was going to make such a fucking good mother one day, and the thought made Hermione cry a little harder.
"I'll just…more bread, then?" Harry backed away slowly, careful not to step on the tiny owl passed out on the floor in a food coma.
"And more wine!" Hermione and Ginny called together.
They would need that and a lot more if Hermione were to have a prayer to get on the other side of this disaster unscathed.