Careers (Hermione, PG)
Title: Careers
Author: thistlerose
Rating: PG
Warnings: language
Prompt: 29. Death does not frighten me, but dying obscurely and above all uselessly does.--Isabelle Eberhardt
Summary: Rome wasn't built in a day. Beta read by midnitemaraud_r. Approx. 1,200 words. Post-series, no spoilers.
When Hermione Granger went to work for the Ministry of Magic they gave her the smallest office in the building, apparently thinking that it would faze her.
It didn't.
She had to shrink her desk by several inches in order to wedge it into the tight corner, and she had to bring all her potted plants and most of her books back to her flat. But there was enough room on the desk for her most essential books and scrolls, for the wineglass full of tiny white seashells that she'd collected on holiday in Provence, and for one framed photograph of Ron. Crookshanks's wicker basket fit snugly beside the desk. And really, that was all she needed. Crookshanks hissed at anyone who came by to make snide comments, but Hermione didn't care what people said or thought of her, so long as they did not interfere with her ability to get her work done efficiently.
"You really don't care?" Ron asked her once, over supper, after admitting that he'd hexed a wizard whom he'd overheard badmouthing her.
"I don't care," Hermione declared, stabbing her linguini her with her fork and twirling it around on her plate, trying to catch as much clam sauce as she could. She had a glass in her other hand, and the white wine in it sloshed against the sides as she spoke. "Let them think I'm completely barking mad-"
"They do," muttered Ron.
"Let them." She was feeling giddy that night. She'd had her first meeting with the members of her team earlier that day, and while some had seemed considerably less than happy about their assignment, Hermione was undaunted.
"Well," Ron said, looking a little uncomfortable. "Don't think I'm not going to stick up for you-"
"You can stick up for me," Hermione said. "And I'll stick up for the ones who really need defending." Ron seemed stung, so she smiled, and she went to sleep that night with her head pillowed against his shoulder.
It wasn't a fun job, and it wouldn't have been even if she'd had the support of everyone in the Ministry.
"But I think you like going toe to toe with Dolores Umbitch," Ginny said once, when she and Hermione met for coffee at the café down the street from the Ministry.
Through the café's window Hermione could see Ginny's motorbike - Harry's really, once Sirius's - gleaming black in the sunlight. She rarely got to see Harry or Ginny these days; they were almost always off hunting escaped Death Eaters. Sometimes Hermione envied them, as their work often seemed much more glamorous and exciting than what she did.
"All right," Hermione said, grinning and lowering her coffee mug, her gaze still on the motorbike. "Yeah. I've got a printed copy of the Act, and once - just once - I lost my temper and I grabbed it and I waved it right under her nose. I'd have ended up beating her with it, I think, if Crookshanks hadn't sprung at her."
Ginny swallowed a mouthful of croissant and snorted. "You'd think after the centaurs she'd've realized it's no good messing with you."
"You'd think," said Hermione calmly, "that after the war we'd all have realized that the system has to change."
"You're working on changing it."
"Yes," said Hermione.
It wasn't fun, and it wasn't always particularly rewarding. For every Dobby, she sometimes thought, there seemed to be ten Winkys.
She'd lost track of the times she'd heard, "My house-elf hasn't even read the Act…"
"Have you let him?" Hermione or one of her team members would interrupt.
"…And doesn't want to. And if he did, it wouldn't make the slightest difference. He's happy where he is."
"Is he happy," Hermione would ask, "or has he been conditioned to think he is?"
Sometimes the house-elf would answer for his or herself. Nooby is happy. Flippy wishes the human would take nasty paper away and not come back. Toki's mistress needs her.
More often, it was the human who did the answering.
"I don't care," Hermione would say, careful to let no trace of weariness creep into her voice, "this is the law, and you don't have to like it. My team and I have reason to believe you're abusing your house-elf. There are penalties for that, these days."
"Are you threatening me, you filthy little Mudblood?"
That was another line Hermione had become used to hearing. Some of her team members bristled, but to Hermione it was just a word, and couldn't hurt her.
The hexes could, though.
"You're going to tell me who the fuck did this, right?" Ron said to her once as she sat on the toilet lid in the bathroom of their flat and he tenderly applied salve to her blistered cheeks.
That time it had been Morella Edgecombe, Marietta's mother.
"That slag?" Ron said when she told him.
Hermione shrugged. "I don't think she cared about losing her house-elf half as much as she cared about paying me back for what I did when Marietta betrayed the DA to Umbitch - I mean Umbridge. Ow."
"Told you this stuff would sting. Hold still. And hold your hair out of - like that, yeah. Maybe…"
She found herself looking at the curled ends of his lashes. "Maybe what?" she demanded. "Maybe I should try a different approach? Or maybe I should give up? I worked hard for the House-Elf Protection Act. We both did. I'm not-"
"I wasn't saying to give up," Ron interjected, meeting her gaze again. "I'm just saying… People are set in their ways."
"Well," said Hermione, lifting her chin - Ron took the opportunity to dab at it with the salve - "I think it's time they were unsettled."
But it would be a long time before people - most people - were truly ready to change. After five months at her job, Hermione was finally ready to admit that. It came to her late one December afternoon, while she was in her tiny office, filing reports. It occurred to her that there were just as many reports of house-elf abuse as there had been when she'd first started, and the realization slammed into her chest with the force of a mallet.
She let her papers fall from her hands, watched helplessly as they slid to the floor to capture the interest of Crookshanks. Watched for a few moments as he batted at the papers with his claws. Then she put her arms on her desk and dropped her head against them.
She was never sure how long she sat like that, head down, shoulders bowed, hair spilling over everything. She was dimly aware of Crookshanks crumpling the pages of her reports as he played. It had to have been a long time because her neck was stiff when she finally lifted her head, and her fingertips had begun to tingle. There was no window in her office, so she could not see if it was afternoon still, or if night had fallen.
She stretched, arching her back and cocking her head from side to side. It was Friday, she thought, which meant that she had the weekend to refuel. She supposed that she would feel better on Monday.
"I've learned to take breaks," she told Crookshanks, who was blinking up at her with his small yellow eyes. "That's something new. If I can change, maybe there's some hope."
She used her wand to get the papers off the floor and neatly stacked on her desk. Then she knelt and opened her arms to Crookshanks, who sprang into them, pushed his squashed, ugly face against her chin, and began to purr thunderously. Hermione rubbed her face in his orange fur.
"Let's go home. I haven't finished. I mean, I've only just started."
08/15/05
Author: thistlerose
Rating: PG
Warnings: language
Prompt: 29. Death does not frighten me, but dying obscurely and above all uselessly does.--Isabelle Eberhardt
Summary: Rome wasn't built in a day. Beta read by midnitemaraud_r. Approx. 1,200 words. Post-series, no spoilers.
When Hermione Granger went to work for the Ministry of Magic they gave her the smallest office in the building, apparently thinking that it would faze her.
It didn't.
She had to shrink her desk by several inches in order to wedge it into the tight corner, and she had to bring all her potted plants and most of her books back to her flat. But there was enough room on the desk for her most essential books and scrolls, for the wineglass full of tiny white seashells that she'd collected on holiday in Provence, and for one framed photograph of Ron. Crookshanks's wicker basket fit snugly beside the desk. And really, that was all she needed. Crookshanks hissed at anyone who came by to make snide comments, but Hermione didn't care what people said or thought of her, so long as they did not interfere with her ability to get her work done efficiently.
"You really don't care?" Ron asked her once, over supper, after admitting that he'd hexed a wizard whom he'd overheard badmouthing her.
"I don't care," Hermione declared, stabbing her linguini her with her fork and twirling it around on her plate, trying to catch as much clam sauce as she could. She had a glass in her other hand, and the white wine in it sloshed against the sides as she spoke. "Let them think I'm completely barking mad-"
"They do," muttered Ron.
"Let them." She was feeling giddy that night. She'd had her first meeting with the members of her team earlier that day, and while some had seemed considerably less than happy about their assignment, Hermione was undaunted.
"Well," Ron said, looking a little uncomfortable. "Don't think I'm not going to stick up for you-"
"You can stick up for me," Hermione said. "And I'll stick up for the ones who really need defending." Ron seemed stung, so she smiled, and she went to sleep that night with her head pillowed against his shoulder.
It wasn't a fun job, and it wouldn't have been even if she'd had the support of everyone in the Ministry.
"But I think you like going toe to toe with Dolores Umbitch," Ginny said once, when she and Hermione met for coffee at the café down the street from the Ministry.
Through the café's window Hermione could see Ginny's motorbike - Harry's really, once Sirius's - gleaming black in the sunlight. She rarely got to see Harry or Ginny these days; they were almost always off hunting escaped Death Eaters. Sometimes Hermione envied them, as their work often seemed much more glamorous and exciting than what she did.
"All right," Hermione said, grinning and lowering her coffee mug, her gaze still on the motorbike. "Yeah. I've got a printed copy of the Act, and once - just once - I lost my temper and I grabbed it and I waved it right under her nose. I'd have ended up beating her with it, I think, if Crookshanks hadn't sprung at her."
Ginny swallowed a mouthful of croissant and snorted. "You'd think after the centaurs she'd've realized it's no good messing with you."
"You'd think," said Hermione calmly, "that after the war we'd all have realized that the system has to change."
"You're working on changing it."
"Yes," said Hermione.
It wasn't fun, and it wasn't always particularly rewarding. For every Dobby, she sometimes thought, there seemed to be ten Winkys.
She'd lost track of the times she'd heard, "My house-elf hasn't even read the Act…"
"Have you let him?" Hermione or one of her team members would interrupt.
"…And doesn't want to. And if he did, it wouldn't make the slightest difference. He's happy where he is."
"Is he happy," Hermione would ask, "or has he been conditioned to think he is?"
Sometimes the house-elf would answer for his or herself. Nooby is happy. Flippy wishes the human would take nasty paper away and not come back. Toki's mistress needs her.
More often, it was the human who did the answering.
"I don't care," Hermione would say, careful to let no trace of weariness creep into her voice, "this is the law, and you don't have to like it. My team and I have reason to believe you're abusing your house-elf. There are penalties for that, these days."
"Are you threatening me, you filthy little Mudblood?"
That was another line Hermione had become used to hearing. Some of her team members bristled, but to Hermione it was just a word, and couldn't hurt her.
The hexes could, though.
"You're going to tell me who the fuck did this, right?" Ron said to her once as she sat on the toilet lid in the bathroom of their flat and he tenderly applied salve to her blistered cheeks.
That time it had been Morella Edgecombe, Marietta's mother.
"That slag?" Ron said when she told him.
Hermione shrugged. "I don't think she cared about losing her house-elf half as much as she cared about paying me back for what I did when Marietta betrayed the DA to Umbitch - I mean Umbridge. Ow."
"Told you this stuff would sting. Hold still. And hold your hair out of - like that, yeah. Maybe…"
She found herself looking at the curled ends of his lashes. "Maybe what?" she demanded. "Maybe I should try a different approach? Or maybe I should give up? I worked hard for the House-Elf Protection Act. We both did. I'm not-"
"I wasn't saying to give up," Ron interjected, meeting her gaze again. "I'm just saying… People are set in their ways."
"Well," said Hermione, lifting her chin - Ron took the opportunity to dab at it with the salve - "I think it's time they were unsettled."
But it would be a long time before people - most people - were truly ready to change. After five months at her job, Hermione was finally ready to admit that. It came to her late one December afternoon, while she was in her tiny office, filing reports. It occurred to her that there were just as many reports of house-elf abuse as there had been when she'd first started, and the realization slammed into her chest with the force of a mallet.
She let her papers fall from her hands, watched helplessly as they slid to the floor to capture the interest of Crookshanks. Watched for a few moments as he batted at the papers with his claws. Then she put her arms on her desk and dropped her head against them.
She was never sure how long she sat like that, head down, shoulders bowed, hair spilling over everything. She was dimly aware of Crookshanks crumpling the pages of her reports as he played. It had to have been a long time because her neck was stiff when she finally lifted her head, and her fingertips had begun to tingle. There was no window in her office, so she could not see if it was afternoon still, or if night had fallen.
She stretched, arching her back and cocking her head from side to side. It was Friday, she thought, which meant that she had the weekend to refuel. She supposed that she would feel better on Monday.
"I've learned to take breaks," she told Crookshanks, who was blinking up at her with his small yellow eyes. "That's something new. If I can change, maybe there's some hope."
She used her wand to get the papers off the floor and neatly stacked on her desk. Then she knelt and opened her arms to Crookshanks, who sprang into them, pushed his squashed, ugly face against her chin, and began to purr thunderously. Hermione rubbed her face in his orange fur.
"Let's go home. I haven't finished. I mean, I've only just started."
08/15/05