"Someone for You" (Hermione Granger, Mundungus Fletcher)
Author: Anonymous
Prompt/Prompt Author: When Hermione finds Mundungus passed out drunk in front of her home, she finds there's more to him than she thought. / janejenajeny
Title: Someone for You
Characters: Mundungus Fletcher, Hermione Granger
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Word Count: ~1,900
Summary: Mundungus Fletcher is a strange man. But that doesn't mean Hermione can't be friends with him.
Author's Notes: Much thanks to G., and to the mods for running this fest!
The first look Hermione got of him was nothing but a glance, as befitted his low station in the Wizarding world. He was a dingy old man, and she was a sleek, intelligent girl of eleven who already knew she was destined for greater things. He was an eyesore-a dirty heap of loose flesh and fabric huddled on the shining street of Diagon Alley, a sharp contrast to the bright storefronts and cheerfully smiling witches and wizards wearing funny robes walking briskly to wherever they needed to go.
Hermione craned her neck around her parents' solid bodies to catch another look at the man. She'd never seen a homeless person before-well, sometimes their headshots appeared in the paper when they died. But that didn't tell her much about them. Unidentified homeless man, between the ages of forty and sixty years old, found dead of natural causes in Edgerton Park. She lived in the medium-sized town of Westington, Gloucestershire. Everyone there was wealthy, or at least rich enough to afford a flat.
Her mum absentmindedly batted her head back in response. Her parents' glances flickered right over the man, and Hermione could sense their disapproval. Even they knew what kind of person he was.
She'd read a quote in a book once-"Poverty knows no country lines, no boundaries, nor demographics." It had sounded attractively poetic to her, so she'd written it out on an index card and put it in her box of quotes. It came back to her then. Poverty, apparently, was present across magic and genetics as well.
"Don't stare," her mum said. Her breath was hot on Hermione's ear. Hermione nodded silently, though she felt a bit irritated by the reprove. She was just curious, after all, and her parents had always encouraged that. They were Muggles, after all. They didn't understand wizarding ways, while she had studied up on them and read about it extensively.
Hermione's thoughts cycled back to the man that night. She honestly didn't know what to think of him. She felt bad for him, of course, but mostly she was curious. What could ever bring someone to live like that? How could he stand it? Being dirty and cold and smelly all the time, never having the chance to buy any more books or learn something new. She didn't know how he did it. She could never live like that.
--*--
Hermione was not surprised when she met him again, four years later, when she was about to start her fifth year at Hogwarts. "And this … is Mundungus Fletcher," Mrs. Weasley said disapprovingly, though Hermione knew she tried not to show it.
The man-Mundungus-lifted his head up from his bottle and grunted sullenly. He hadn't changed at all from the first time she'd met him. He was still dirty and disgusting, and now Hermione could see his rudeness and ill breeding.
"Hello," she tried to say as kindly as she could, and extended her hand out to him. Mundungus didn't take it, and eventually Hermione dropped it back to her side in silence.
"How have you been?"
He raised his head and squinted, his eye bleary and red-veined. "Bleedin' 'orrible, wot with the Order runnin' around and You-Know-Who muckin' things up. I was 'anging in Diagon 'fore Dumbledore come up to me, dragged me here saying things 'bout needing my 'elp, the bleedin'-"
"Why don't you run upstairs, Hermione? Ron's been waiting for you," Mrs. Weasley said, her face strained, as Mundungus fell silent and took another swig of whatever alcoholic beverage he was drinking.
"Shouldn't we-" Hermione said, gesturing vaguely in his direction.
"No, it's fine," said Mrs. Weasley, glancing up to Ron's bedroom.
"Hermione!" Ron's voice cried out.
Hermione nodded in their general direction and ran upstairs, all thoughts of him slipping from her mind like water from a sieve.
--*--
After Voldemort died and Muggleborns were free and the war was finally, finally over, there were still remainders of it left behind. They were the three heroes of the war, after all; they needed to reassure and guide, be symbols and beacons and yet down-to-earth, accessible for the people who needed them most. Or, at least, that was what the Quibbler had called them. Hermione had worried about what people would think of that, but nobody had paid it any mind-it had gone back to its stranger roots after its service during the war had concluded. Hermione liked the quote anyway, so she'd written it on a piece of parchment and stuck it in her quote box.
Hermione didn't mind it, truth to be told. There was something reassuring about the fact that people drew comfort from her presence. But it got very tiring, after a while, and she sometimes wished she could just go home and rest.
She closed her eyes, hiding them behind the pamphlet. The sun was shining, making her sleepy, and her thighs were sticky with sweat. It was the one-year anniversary of Dumbledore's death, and the Ministry had decided to rededicate the grave. It was supposed to boost morale. She didn't know how this would boost anything, but judging from the teary eyes coming from almost everyone else as some Ministry official droned on and on, she was probably the only one.
"C'mon," Ron hissed, poking her. Everyone was silent as the man stopped speaking and stepped down from his podium. "We have to go up to the coffin."
The sweat stung her eyes as she and Ron and Harry and the rest marched out in a procession. The preservation charms had done their work, Hermione noted; Dumbledore looked just as clean and pristine as he had a year ago. She felt numb; dull. She bent her head and nodded at his corpse, then silently walked back to her seat.
"What-"
Mundungus Fletcher was at the end of the line, walking out towards the grave. She and Ron weren't the only ones who had noticed him. Hermione saw the others staring, some surreptitiously, but most not. They pointed at him and whispered.
He paid no mind to them, however. His back was crooked and bent, and he stared at the ground; Hermione wouldn't be surprised if he didn't even know they were there. He simply shuffled in a straight line, following the others, until he reached the white marble of Dumbledore's grave.
He nodded silently to the corpse and walked away, until he disappeared from their sights.
Everyone, by then, was back in their seats, but they all seemed rather nonplussed. She didn't think they knew him. He'd done his part in the war, and then he'd just kind of gone away. He hadn't even been punished for abandoning them, during the battle of the seven Potters. She thought she'd seen him at the Hog's Head before, but other than that, nothing.
But there were more speeches to listen to, and then drinks at the bar with her friends, and after that there was sleep, and sex, and of course some studying, and soon enough those unspoken questions drifted away like a phoenix on the wing.
--*--
More than two years passed before Hermione saw him again, and this time it was an accident. She walked into the Hog's Head one December night; it was cold outside, and she needed something hot to warm herself up. "Butterbeer, please," she said to Stan. Stan Shunpike had replaced Aberforth after he had died six months ago, and Hermione felt a pang every time she saw him instead of the familiar, gray-haired man she'd used to see almost every day behind the dirty counter. That was why she didn't go there often, anymore. It just wasn't the same.
But tonight she was tired, and it was cold and snowing outside, so here she was sipping butterbeer of dubious origins in a chipped coffee mug.
"Firewhiskey, please," a man muttered, and sat down by the only available seat, which was next to her. Stan silently gave him his firewhiskey; Mundungus didn't have to pay, she noted. He took several gulps that dribbled down his chin. He wiped them off with the back of his hand, and sighed, relaxing into his seat.
"Hullo," Hermione said. She didn't particularly want to talk to him, but she felt that she should. She knew him from the war, and she felt she should at least be polite. "How are you?"
"What d'ye want?"
"Nothing," Hermione said. "Just making conversation …."
"Mm." He took another swig, and that seemed to loosen up his tongue a bit. "Fine." His piggy little eyes darted back and forth, before resting on her. Well, her breasts. "You?"
"Great. You know. Work's going well, and all. So what have you been doing?"
"Eh …," he said, settling back in his chair. "I been wandering 'round Knockturn, mostly. Selling stuff. Cleaned out the Malfoys pretty good," he said, brightening up. Hermione giggled. "That'd make up for the job on the Thatchers, 'bout a couple months back. We was caught by some hit-wizards. Bleedin' awful, that was …." He shuddered.
"Now what's a pretty girl like you doin' round abous?" he slurred, draining his glass. "This place isn't fo' you folks, innit?
Hermione shrugged. "I just wanted something to drink. I like the atmosphere."
Mundungus grunted and handed his glass to Stan for a refill; he filled it silently.
Hermione slowly sipped her drink in silence until she finished it, watching the snow as it fell outside frosting the dirty window in white.
"What time is it?" Hermione suddenly asked. She had to go home soon, or else Ron would worry.
"'Bout eleven o'clock."
"Oh. I should go," she mused. "What about you?"
"Just stay 'ere, maybe. What's it to you?"
"Why don't you come home with me?" Hermione asked impulsively, though she regretted it right after, when Mundungus looked at her like she had sprouted another head.
"No."
Her face fell, and he softened. "Don' mean to be rude, but-"
"It's okay," she said hurriedly. She decided to change the subject. "A few years ago-I'm not sure if you remember this, but-I was just wondering, why did you attend Dumbledore's funeral?"
He shrugged. "Couldn't make it the first time around, 'nd it's right to pay your debts, innit?"
"What debts?"
"Well, aren't you a nosy one."
Hermione blushed. "I'm just curious."
"Ah, well," he said. "This isn' for a lady's ears-"
Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but he talked right over her. "But less jus' say he'd got me outa tight place once or twice, eh?" He winked. The iris of his eye was surprisingly blue, almost the same shade as Dumbledore's, Hermione noticed. "Contacts in the Wi-zen-ga-mot."
"Well, I'm glad that he helped you," Hermione said impatiently. She tried to be tolerant, she really did, but sometimes she just couldn't stand stupidity. She got up. "I have to go."
Hermione reached forward and squeezed his hand. "I'll see you soon." And she knew she would. They weren't friends-yet-but they could be. Hermione was an open-minded witch, after all. She had Muggle friends, magical friends, Squib friends. Friends who were Death Eaters. Friends of every economic bracket and age and size. And perhaps, if she became his friend-maybe she could help him. The possibilities were endless.
"It's a wonderful world …," she sang, waving to him as she walked away.
And it was.
Mundungus waved back, and perhaps it was just the alcohol she had breathed in, but it made her breath catch with something strange, and unexpected. Hope, perhaps. Or joy.
She tried to convince herself it wasn't pity.
Prompt/Prompt Author: When Hermione finds Mundungus passed out drunk in front of her home, she finds there's more to him than she thought. / janejenajeny
Title: Someone for You
Characters: Mundungus Fletcher, Hermione Granger
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Word Count: ~1,900
Summary: Mundungus Fletcher is a strange man. But that doesn't mean Hermione can't be friends with him.
Author's Notes: Much thanks to G., and to the mods for running this fest!
The first look Hermione got of him was nothing but a glance, as befitted his low station in the Wizarding world. He was a dingy old man, and she was a sleek, intelligent girl of eleven who already knew she was destined for greater things. He was an eyesore-a dirty heap of loose flesh and fabric huddled on the shining street of Diagon Alley, a sharp contrast to the bright storefronts and cheerfully smiling witches and wizards wearing funny robes walking briskly to wherever they needed to go.
Hermione craned her neck around her parents' solid bodies to catch another look at the man. She'd never seen a homeless person before-well, sometimes their headshots appeared in the paper when they died. But that didn't tell her much about them. Unidentified homeless man, between the ages of forty and sixty years old, found dead of natural causes in Edgerton Park. She lived in the medium-sized town of Westington, Gloucestershire. Everyone there was wealthy, or at least rich enough to afford a flat.
Her mum absentmindedly batted her head back in response. Her parents' glances flickered right over the man, and Hermione could sense their disapproval. Even they knew what kind of person he was.
She'd read a quote in a book once-"Poverty knows no country lines, no boundaries, nor demographics." It had sounded attractively poetic to her, so she'd written it out on an index card and put it in her box of quotes. It came back to her then. Poverty, apparently, was present across magic and genetics as well.
"Don't stare," her mum said. Her breath was hot on Hermione's ear. Hermione nodded silently, though she felt a bit irritated by the reprove. She was just curious, after all, and her parents had always encouraged that. They were Muggles, after all. They didn't understand wizarding ways, while she had studied up on them and read about it extensively.
Hermione's thoughts cycled back to the man that night. She honestly didn't know what to think of him. She felt bad for him, of course, but mostly she was curious. What could ever bring someone to live like that? How could he stand it? Being dirty and cold and smelly all the time, never having the chance to buy any more books or learn something new. She didn't know how he did it. She could never live like that.
--*--
Hermione was not surprised when she met him again, four years later, when she was about to start her fifth year at Hogwarts. "And this … is Mundungus Fletcher," Mrs. Weasley said disapprovingly, though Hermione knew she tried not to show it.
The man-Mundungus-lifted his head up from his bottle and grunted sullenly. He hadn't changed at all from the first time she'd met him. He was still dirty and disgusting, and now Hermione could see his rudeness and ill breeding.
"Hello," she tried to say as kindly as she could, and extended her hand out to him. Mundungus didn't take it, and eventually Hermione dropped it back to her side in silence.
"How have you been?"
He raised his head and squinted, his eye bleary and red-veined. "Bleedin' 'orrible, wot with the Order runnin' around and You-Know-Who muckin' things up. I was 'anging in Diagon 'fore Dumbledore come up to me, dragged me here saying things 'bout needing my 'elp, the bleedin'-"
"Why don't you run upstairs, Hermione? Ron's been waiting for you," Mrs. Weasley said, her face strained, as Mundungus fell silent and took another swig of whatever alcoholic beverage he was drinking.
"Shouldn't we-" Hermione said, gesturing vaguely in his direction.
"No, it's fine," said Mrs. Weasley, glancing up to Ron's bedroom.
"Hermione!" Ron's voice cried out.
Hermione nodded in their general direction and ran upstairs, all thoughts of him slipping from her mind like water from a sieve.
--*--
After Voldemort died and Muggleborns were free and the war was finally, finally over, there were still remainders of it left behind. They were the three heroes of the war, after all; they needed to reassure and guide, be symbols and beacons and yet down-to-earth, accessible for the people who needed them most. Or, at least, that was what the Quibbler had called them. Hermione had worried about what people would think of that, but nobody had paid it any mind-it had gone back to its stranger roots after its service during the war had concluded. Hermione liked the quote anyway, so she'd written it on a piece of parchment and stuck it in her quote box.
Hermione didn't mind it, truth to be told. There was something reassuring about the fact that people drew comfort from her presence. But it got very tiring, after a while, and she sometimes wished she could just go home and rest.
She closed her eyes, hiding them behind the pamphlet. The sun was shining, making her sleepy, and her thighs were sticky with sweat. It was the one-year anniversary of Dumbledore's death, and the Ministry had decided to rededicate the grave. It was supposed to boost morale. She didn't know how this would boost anything, but judging from the teary eyes coming from almost everyone else as some Ministry official droned on and on, she was probably the only one.
"C'mon," Ron hissed, poking her. Everyone was silent as the man stopped speaking and stepped down from his podium. "We have to go up to the coffin."
The sweat stung her eyes as she and Ron and Harry and the rest marched out in a procession. The preservation charms had done their work, Hermione noted; Dumbledore looked just as clean and pristine as he had a year ago. She felt numb; dull. She bent her head and nodded at his corpse, then silently walked back to her seat.
"What-"
Mundungus Fletcher was at the end of the line, walking out towards the grave. She and Ron weren't the only ones who had noticed him. Hermione saw the others staring, some surreptitiously, but most not. They pointed at him and whispered.
He paid no mind to them, however. His back was crooked and bent, and he stared at the ground; Hermione wouldn't be surprised if he didn't even know they were there. He simply shuffled in a straight line, following the others, until he reached the white marble of Dumbledore's grave.
He nodded silently to the corpse and walked away, until he disappeared from their sights.
Everyone, by then, was back in their seats, but they all seemed rather nonplussed. She didn't think they knew him. He'd done his part in the war, and then he'd just kind of gone away. He hadn't even been punished for abandoning them, during the battle of the seven Potters. She thought she'd seen him at the Hog's Head before, but other than that, nothing.
But there were more speeches to listen to, and then drinks at the bar with her friends, and after that there was sleep, and sex, and of course some studying, and soon enough those unspoken questions drifted away like a phoenix on the wing.
--*--
More than two years passed before Hermione saw him again, and this time it was an accident. She walked into the Hog's Head one December night; it was cold outside, and she needed something hot to warm herself up. "Butterbeer, please," she said to Stan. Stan Shunpike had replaced Aberforth after he had died six months ago, and Hermione felt a pang every time she saw him instead of the familiar, gray-haired man she'd used to see almost every day behind the dirty counter. That was why she didn't go there often, anymore. It just wasn't the same.
But tonight she was tired, and it was cold and snowing outside, so here she was sipping butterbeer of dubious origins in a chipped coffee mug.
"Firewhiskey, please," a man muttered, and sat down by the only available seat, which was next to her. Stan silently gave him his firewhiskey; Mundungus didn't have to pay, she noted. He took several gulps that dribbled down his chin. He wiped them off with the back of his hand, and sighed, relaxing into his seat.
"Hullo," Hermione said. She didn't particularly want to talk to him, but she felt that she should. She knew him from the war, and she felt she should at least be polite. "How are you?"
"What d'ye want?"
"Nothing," Hermione said. "Just making conversation …."
"Mm." He took another swig, and that seemed to loosen up his tongue a bit. "Fine." His piggy little eyes darted back and forth, before resting on her. Well, her breasts. "You?"
"Great. You know. Work's going well, and all. So what have you been doing?"
"Eh …," he said, settling back in his chair. "I been wandering 'round Knockturn, mostly. Selling stuff. Cleaned out the Malfoys pretty good," he said, brightening up. Hermione giggled. "That'd make up for the job on the Thatchers, 'bout a couple months back. We was caught by some hit-wizards. Bleedin' awful, that was …." He shuddered.
"Now what's a pretty girl like you doin' round abous?" he slurred, draining his glass. "This place isn't fo' you folks, innit?
Hermione shrugged. "I just wanted something to drink. I like the atmosphere."
Mundungus grunted and handed his glass to Stan for a refill; he filled it silently.
Hermione slowly sipped her drink in silence until she finished it, watching the snow as it fell outside frosting the dirty window in white.
"What time is it?" Hermione suddenly asked. She had to go home soon, or else Ron would worry.
"'Bout eleven o'clock."
"Oh. I should go," she mused. "What about you?"
"Just stay 'ere, maybe. What's it to you?"
"Why don't you come home with me?" Hermione asked impulsively, though she regretted it right after, when Mundungus looked at her like she had sprouted another head.
"No."
Her face fell, and he softened. "Don' mean to be rude, but-"
"It's okay," she said hurriedly. She decided to change the subject. "A few years ago-I'm not sure if you remember this, but-I was just wondering, why did you attend Dumbledore's funeral?"
He shrugged. "Couldn't make it the first time around, 'nd it's right to pay your debts, innit?"
"What debts?"
"Well, aren't you a nosy one."
Hermione blushed. "I'm just curious."
"Ah, well," he said. "This isn' for a lady's ears-"
Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but he talked right over her. "But less jus' say he'd got me outa tight place once or twice, eh?" He winked. The iris of his eye was surprisingly blue, almost the same shade as Dumbledore's, Hermione noticed. "Contacts in the Wi-zen-ga-mot."
"Well, I'm glad that he helped you," Hermione said impatiently. She tried to be tolerant, she really did, but sometimes she just couldn't stand stupidity. She got up. "I have to go."
Hermione reached forward and squeezed his hand. "I'll see you soon." And she knew she would. They weren't friends-yet-but they could be. Hermione was an open-minded witch, after all. She had Muggle friends, magical friends, Squib friends. Friends who were Death Eaters. Friends of every economic bracket and age and size. And perhaps, if she became his friend-maybe she could help him. The possibilities were endless.
"It's a wonderful world …," she sang, waving to him as she walked away.
And it was.
Mundungus waved back, and perhaps it was just the alcohol she had breathed in, but it made her breath catch with something strange, and unexpected. Hope, perhaps. Or joy.
She tried to convince herself it wasn't pity.