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"So what are you going to do?" Her friend, the new Minister, asked the question in a friendly manner, with a gleam in his eyes that made it obvious he thought he knew her answer.
But he didn't. "Nothing," she said plainly.
Kingsley indeed looked flabbergasted. She knew he'd been talking to the Weasleys while she resettled her parents in Australia; they must have given him some ideas. And since she returned, their conversations had been about her health, with little mention of post-war plans.
"There's nothing for me in the Ministry, Kingsley. You have to know that," she chided. "I'm just an outsider with modern delusions, at best. The kindest they'd do to me is laugh behind my back after sticking me in a glorified water closet and stealing my work to advance their niece's careers. I refuse to become the show pony they'd trod out for my teenage achievements; I'd rather capitalize on them myself."
He nodded along through her whole tirade. She knew he'd understand. "So what do you want to do? And how can I help you make it happen?"
Ostensibly, he asked the same question, yet this time, a wave of relief passed through her body. "I wouldn't even know where to start," she said after a moment.
He understood. Similarly to the study sessions they shared in Grimmauld Place when the war was only heating up, Kingsley listened to her ramblings while turning them into bullet points she'd been too distracted to create. It turned out she had many small-scale goals that, according to him, were mostly achievable. She thought she'd need money, at least, but he just had her wait in his home office before gathering supplies. Hermione raised an eyebrow at his return.
"For the adoption ritual. We'll deal with everything else afterwards," he said calmly, rightly understanding from her expression how overwhelmed his words made her. "You haven't accepted jewelry from anyone," he asked, as if an afterthought.
She clutched onto the question like a lifeline, even though it confused her. "Jewelry? Why would anyone buy me jewelry? Who would spend frivolously on me? And why would I accept it?"
Kingsley chuckled. "Well, at least we won't have any suitors to muck things up." He frowned. "Why wouldn't people be sending my future daughter tokens of affection?"
"I'm the muggleborn swot, Kingsley," she failed at saying without inflection. What they were doing was starting to feel real. "I'm not getting interview requests or presents like the others."
"What about mail from the other people that owe you a life debt?"
"Others? What are you talking about? How do you owe me a debt? l... what?"
He wasn't trying to back out, he merely wanted to provide additional reasoning for the ritual. Kingsley owed her a life debt after she protected him from atop a thestral. After settling it, Hermione's newly created father lectured her, giving her a deep dive into the wizarding culture she wouldn't have learned through Hogwarts: debts, courting, and rituals.
Hermione went to Grimmauld Place afterwards in a bit of a rage, invoking the phrase Kingsley taught her that would compel anyone in her proximity that owed her a debt. Harry was brought to his knees. She heard two softer thumps from upstairs, where she'd distantly realized Ron and Lavender must have been stopped from having sex. "Did you know about this spell," she asked Harry. "Did you know that this would happen?"
The weight of his debt kept him from looking up, but he was too stubborn to accept it. "Mione," he coughed, "what are you doing to me?"
"Discovering how much of a debt you owe me."
"Blimey," he exclaimed, sounding more like his roommate, "nothing I've said made anyone feel like this."
She acknowledged the debt and gave him the space to get up. "You knew the spell?"
"The Wizengamot had to show it to me before they gave me my Order of Merlin," he replied after catching his breath. "I'm sure you'd already read about it, though."
"When? When I was trying to keep us alive? When did I have the time for purely recreational reading?"
Hermione huffed, suddenly weary. She needed space. "I'll talk to you about your debt later," she said distractedly, rushing out the door, too worked up to use the floo.
Harry's pleas, as well as the calls from the stairs, were disregarded.
"I, Blaise Amaro Zabini, swear my service and aid, my wand and strength, my eyes and perspective, to the pursuit of your goals. I vow this loyalty to you and your descendants, for me and my descendants, up to three generations, lest our magic be torn asunder."
The weight of a loose cord hung loosely on her wrist, a constant reminder of the bond he'd begun to form. She was more apprehensive than she'd imagined, in part because his vow included more than they'd originally discussed. But after the stories Kingsley shared to scare her into correctiveness, it was imperative that she returned his offering in equal measure, even if it was more than she'd planned.
"I, Hermione Jean Granger-Shacklebolt, reciprocate my protection to Blaise Amaro Zabini and his line, all three generations, in return for his vassalage. My wand will be his strength, my ears his counsel, and my House his aid, lest my magic be torn asunder."
She was able to breathe once the phantom weight strengthened and tightened around her wrist; the bond was sealed and official. It meant she was able to turn her ire towards her acquaintance slash library table sharer.
"I only broke loose some rubble to save you from one spell! One! And in sixth year, Blaise," she sighed. "Just what are you playing at?"
A sharp glare told him she didn't want to hear any rigmarole. He sighed. "I was a Slytherin, Mia; one that ran away. What better way to return without eyes questioning me than swearing allegiance to the newly elected Minister's daughter?"
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose and silently counted to ten in Greek. "I wish that didn't make sense."
He grinned, cocksure, before pulling out and dangling a vial within her reach. "And now I've got an excuse for stealing from that bitch that birthed me; I can claim it's for my liege."
She made for the golden potion carefully. "What is it? I know it won't hurt me after everything you said in your vow."
"A golden ticket to make sure they never forget what was done to you," he said, a grin still plastered on his face. "You can have your father test it, but since it isn't technically legal in Britain, I suggest you ask for discretion."
Blaise wasn't kidding. She had literally become the Golden Girl she'd been called. The Kintsugi potion made her scars flash with gold. They crisscrossed her arms, bisected her breasts, and the thin band around her neck garnered speculative male attention. It did wonders for her self-confidence, despite the reception she received from some of her friends. Ron, very quickly, expressed his displeasure with the gilding potion, though Hermione thought that had more to do with the color it gave her. She told him it was fine, that they didn't have to see much of each other; Hermione invoked his life debt by having him run interference with his mother. Molly Weasley had opinions that'd do nothing for her growth. Ron didn't have to grit his teeth trying to find something nice to say about her; he could keep his thoughts to himself while distracting his mum. Some might call that a full-time job.
It wasn't always easy to think of the Minister as her father, but it was far less awkward than remembering not to call him Kingsley in public anymore. Though Hermione barely left the home he invited her to share. She was getting better at cooking, and occasionally went to the Ministry to deliver him home-cooked lunches. He even complemented her salmon cakes and courgette muffins before taking his first bite.
"I just wish you were doing more than cooking," he said before breaking off a bit of the savory muffin. "Though I appreciate the outcome."
"But I've always wanted to learn, and I actually enjoy it."
It was a revelation that surprised her. Cautious of her accidental magic, Hermione's parents shied away from giving her access to the household appliances. Her knife cuts for potions were perfunctory, based on her innate need for perfection, but they'd gotten better when her confidence in the kitchen grew.
Cooking wasn't the flashiest, nor the highest bullet point on her list, but it was something she could control, from start to finish, without outside influence or intervention.
Her new father frowned as she tried to explain, then proceeded to surprise her by calling a handful of wizards she recognized into his office. They exchanged the barest of pleasantries. "I was outmaneuvered when the vote came down against awarding my daughter an Order of Merlin with Messrs. Potter and Weasley, but if your plan was blocking her to keep her unaware of the debt she holds against us all as a society, I won't hesitate in calling your Houses out."
He was calm, collected in his anger, and the faces across from them seemed to pale with every word. "The Wizengamot ruled a debt was owed, even if Harry Potter was proven not to be fully responsible for our semblance of honor."
"And I'm sure you all breathed a sigh of relief after ruling out Ronald Weasley, that it was just the muggleborn?" It would certainly explain some of the grumbling she'd last heard out of her fair weathered friend.
Her father, who the Wizengamot officials were only beginning to see as such, turned to her with the smallest nod of approval. She wouldn't tell him that it was only his presence that gave her the confidence to say anything.
"I may not like it, but people have called me the brightest witch of an age for a reason. Though I have to think it's more logic than anything, and that some families might have benefited from the adoption my father performed."
She felt the hand on her shoulder like a finger to her lips; she knew she went a little overboard. Looking up at him while projecting exactly what she next wanted to say, Hermione waited for a sign confirming he opened up his mind enough to approve of her choices. He gave her shoulder a little squeeze moments later.
"That debt of honor will be repaid when the Wizengamot awards me the same Order of Merlin, with the same or comparable gratuities that were given to Harry."
"And as she had not been adopted until after her recognized services were rendered, my daughter will be the first OM1 muggleborn witch recipient." He stood up sharply, forcing the men to do the same. "I'll see you, Chief Warlock, by the end of the day, to make sure Friday morning's opening is scheduled accordingly."
"When did you learn projecting? I'd only taught you occlumency." Hermione wanted to laugh; she'd never seen him pout. "I thought we'd go over Auror-level mind magics together."
They were still in his office, finally eating the lunch she prepared. He was trying to grill her longer than she had the courgettes. "Then you shouldn't have left me with the books before I ran off," she quipped. His eye roll somehow came off as affectionate. "I practiced every night in that bloody tent, trying to calm Harry down in his sleep."
"Did it work?"
She nodded, though her thoughts were far away. "Sometimes."
They shared the rest of their meal in silence, but Hermione was comforted with his presence, and all he had already done that day. He bussed a kiss against her cheek before opening the door and sending her on her way, and for the first time in years, Hermione felt true parental love.
She placed a notice-me-not charm before somewhat distractedly leaving the Ministry through the non-magical entrance. It wasn't often that trouble found her anymore, especially when she wasn't in the wizarding world, but she kept vigilant. Distracted or not, Hermione still noticed the sickly red spell before it could catch her clavicle.
The spellfire prompted a parry from behind her. She had figured it was Auror Savage, Kingsley's old partner he assigned as her bodyguard, but it was Blaise. "Alonso wanted to talk with your father," he said, rolling his eyes while watching her further subdue the wizard that attacked her. The man hadn't been as good as he thought he was; only after the two had him subdued did they notice Antonin Dolohov's face, before it bubbled and changed back to reveal the man who bought faulty polyjuice potion. "Do you want to do the honors," he asked her after confirming the man's left wrist had a faded skull tattoo.
Blaise understood her stance without being reproachful. He vanished her attacker's ropes seconds after she sent an overpowered severing charm to his neck. Death Eaters, pardoned or not, deserved the same fate they rendered to at least the one person they had to kill upon initiation.
Auror Savage took their statements dispassionately as soon as he met them outside, though the faces of the trainers behind him lacked his composure. Hermione wanted to roll her eyes at the display; Harry had seen worse during the war. Blaise couldn't hold his tongue, and asked him what unnerved him so.
"It's just different, you know," Harry said, lifting his hand to the back of his neck in a display of sheepishness. "I haven't been on a case yet where anyone died, only burglaries and that fire crab arson. Why do you seem okay with this?"
She and Blaise shared a look after the pointed question. "I fought in the war," he said simply.
"Same," she added.
If Harry looked a little disappointed at Hermione for taking Blaise's side, she barely noticed. It wasn't the first time they'd been on opposing sides since the war, and she didn't think it'd be the last.
Her relationship with Harry had changed when she started collecting on the debts owed her. He just hadn't understood how little Hermione actually had: she'd been an orphan without an inheritance, in a society that only grudgingly accepted her. She wasn't going to work in the Ministry, and there were no prospects in a prejudiced, xenophobic society for a black muggleborn with perfect A.S.P.I.C.s.
He wanted to think differently. She called him an idealist. Clearly, he still disagreed, even when evidence of people still trying to take her out lay quite literally at his feet.
"Well, you two did the right thing here," Auror Savage said.
Harry stopped sending her disapproving looks to turn gobsmacked at his superior. "What!?"
"This is textbook self defense," her bodyguard said slowly. The mulish look on Harry's face said he disagreed, possibly so he could lay blame on Blaise. Harry didn't particularly agree with his vassalage.
"I know Proudfoot took you on without full credentials," he went on, placatingly, "but surely you've read through the manuals since. Or were you too caught in your staring contest to watch the results when I cast prior incantato earlier?"
Harry might have looked towards her while babbling semi-coherently, but Hermione was too upset by his implied accusations to come to his aid this time.
"So I'm guessing that was part of the reason you didn't want to work at the Ministry?"
She nodded. "People expected me to go into the DMLE, and I didn't want to just be reduced to the smart member of the Golden Trio again."
"I was just that weird Italian in Malfoy's year that didn't want to cosy up to him, I get it. Only for me, adulthood isn't as insular as the Slytherin common room."
Hermione snorted at Blaise's attempt at levity while they waited in her father's waiting room for his and Auror Savage's return. She expected a higher detail soon, along with quicker calls for Azkaban reform.
The severity of the dementors' powers was used as an excuse to lessen verdicts rendered to petty criminals, but a justice system wasn't delivering justice if it only worked for those the courts believed were the worst of the worst.
"You have thirty days."
"Pardon?" Hermione looked up from her latest symbols project. Once she realized how easily her runes work could be translated into other dead languages like Coptic and Phoenician, she exchanged cooking classes for ancient studies. Her father seemed supportive, so she was shocked by the parchment rolls he covered her work with.
"I know you're not a Master, yet," he tacked on quickly, winking, "but this plan works best if I can present it fait accompli, and I trust you to be able to accomplish it."
She blushed from the implied compliment, but was still confused. Though he explained his plan quickly. The Wizengamot gave in and passed his feasibility study concerning prison reform, but the caveat was in the amendments.
"You've had ideas for years; I'm just hoping at least one of them is viable. I promise to use every back channel at my disposal to implement whatever you come up with."
Hermione hummed, mind racing. "Do you remember back when the Ministry thought Sirius Black was hiding out on Guernsey and sent dementors? It never led to anything, and they never followed up in the paper, but I was curious."
"Naturally," he agreed, with a teasing smile on his face.
"Well," she pushed forward, slightly flushed. "I'd already known the laws of Magical Britain didn't apply towards the commonwealth and autonomous islands, but it wasn't until my British-style French newspaper came a week later that I learned how Magical France offers the Channel Islands the same form of defence the crown does non-magically."
He had sat down, looking wholly interested, even if some of what she was saying must have been known to him, as the Minister. "I was surprised, then, that they hadn't seen what Fudge did as an act of war." Her eyes were bright as she spoke quickly, reliving her initial excitement. "Their story didn't even mention traumatized children, or muggles getting the kiss!"
"Come to think of it, I've never heard of dementor attacks outside of the Isles," he mused. "And there's been higher priorities for me than International Co-operation. Percy's been doing a fine job as Department Head, too."
"Maybe you should invite him into this," Hermione said, privately happy for the black sheep of the Weasley family. Studious, hardworking people that relied on logic should be recognized.
"You know something," her father said, narrowing his eyes at her.
"I've inferred," she demurred. "But I'll say that I think one or the two of you need to read through ICW meetings since Professor Dumbledore was relieved of his post without being replaced," she led. "And maybe beforehand."
There was quite a bit Hermione could say about the fallen Headmaster, but even after Rita's book, she wasn't sure what was right to say. And to whom.
Her father stood up, eyes assessing while she turned her focus towards the sheaths and parchments he covered her work with. Though the more she thought about it, the more overlap she started to imagine.
He had gotten her attention.
Wards were a pejorative classification that blanketed multiple fields of study the British population decided they didn't care for, at least past basic defence like shield and notice-me-not charms. The three of them were able to hide not only because of her ability to cast advanced spells, but also in part because of the snatchers' own incompetence. Her protections had proven to be enough, at the time, yet she still yearned for more, to diversify her arsenal, and better protect herself, if she were to ever need it. Runes might have been one of her favorite subjects, but once her mind was opened to the possibility of magic fueled words beyond Elder Futhark, she could easily see its application towards what her father wanted her to focus on.
Hermione's project became Azkaban, or more specifically, the island on which it was built. Even she couldn't do everything he was asking for within their tight deadline. Once they started adopting the ICW ordinances Dumbledore had lied about their countries adhering to, she was hopeful Britain would become privy to the European method for getting rid of dementors. She wasn't sure how much groveling her father would have to do, or if he'd have to owe a slew of favors, but if she could pull off the magic-null portable wardstone she'd been trying to create, the dementors would lose any reason to idle around a magically inert island, whether miserably de-magiced prisoners resided there or not.
In the end, Hermione finished under the Wizengamot's deliberately inane time-line. Back channeling with the ICW took longer.
But it would work. She never figured out what concessions he made to be let in on the secret of the literal light prisms that destroyed dementors, but she got the satisfaction of watching them destroyed while affixing the wardstones into the foundations of Azkaban, as they were sent fleeing, unintentionally, directly, into the light. She'd offer those memories to any muggleborn for free.
Though she wasn't entirely sure what happened next; Hermione woke up to her father's concerned face. "You exerted quite a bit of magic." The words young lady were implied by his admonishing tone. "I wish I could be more upset with you," he said after a moment. He sighed. "But one of the foreign overseers for the prisms was a Master of Ancient Languages and Logograms."
Hermione wasn't sure if she was supposed to be anything but puzzled. He sighed again. "Obviously, you knew adoption rituals and runes were the only legally permissible forms of blood magic in Britain," he enunciated. Hermione nodded. "Apparently, our last ruling against blood magic was what drove the Masters out. Your little display drove him to mark you with his blood as a Master in your own right. Congratulations, my girl, but try not to scare me like that again."
"What?"
His smile was teasing as he helped her sit upright. "The world is your oyster, I think they'd say. So," he said, eyes shining, "what are you going to do?"
. . .