Chapter Text
February 10th, 8:47 AM — Ministry of Magic, Atrium
The lift descended with a groan that suggested mechanical failure was not a possibility but an inevitability.
Albus Severus Potter stood with his back pressed against the brass railing, watching the enchanted paper aeroplanes circle overhead like confused vultures. Beside him, his brother James was checking his reflection in the polished metal of the doors—adjusting his collar, smoothing his hair, performing the small rituals of a man who had learned early that appearance was nine-tenths of power.
"You'll want to stand up straighter," James said, not looking at him. "First impressions matter. Especially here."
"I'm standing perfectly straight."
"You're slouching. You always slouch when you're nervous." James finally turned, and Albus was struck—not for the first time—by how much his brother had changed in the five years since leaving Hogwarts. The easy grin was gone, replaced by something more careful. More calculated. He looked less like their father and more like Uncle Percy—all sharp angles and measured words.
"I'm not nervous."
"You should be. The Ministry isn't Hogwarts. There are no house points here. No detentions. Just consequences."
The lift shuddered to a halt. A cool female voice announced: "Level Two. Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
The doors opened onto a corridor of polished marble and moving portraits—former Ministers, mostly, their painted eyes tracking the brothers as they passed. Albus noticed that one frame near the end of the hall was empty, its brass nameplate recently polished but bearing no name at all.
"Dad was supposed to bring me today," Albus said. "He promised."
"Dad is busy." James's voice was clipped. "He's been busy since the Minister—since the transition. You know how it is."
"I know what you told me. I don't know if I believe it."
James stopped walking. He turned to face Albus with an expression that was half warning, half weariness.
"Minister Granger," he said carefully, "recognised the importance of family. She chose to step back from public life to help her daughter with the new baby. It was a personal decision, and we should respect it."
"That's what the Prophet said."
"That's what happened."
"Then why wasn't she at Christmas?"
The question hung in the air between them. The portraits on the walls seemed to lean closer, their painted ears straining.
"What do you mean?" James asked.
"The family gathering. At the Burrow. Uncle Ron was there. Rose was there. Hugo was there." Albus met his brother's eyes. "But Aunt Hermione wasn't. Rose said she was 'resting.' But she's been 'resting' for four months now. And no one's seen her. And no one talks about her. And whenever I ask Mum, she changes the subject."
James was quiet for a moment. Then he placed a hand on Albus's shoulder—not roughly, but firmly. The way you might restrain a dog that was about to run into traffic.
"There are things," he said, "that you're not ready to understand. Family things. Political things. Things that are complicated in ways that don't fit into neat categories of right and wrong." He paused. "For now, the official version is the true version. Do you understand?"
"No."
"Good. Understanding would be dangerous." James released his shoulder and resumed walking. "Come on. We're going to be late."
They took another lift—this one older, slower, with brass fixtures that had long since tarnished—down to Level Three. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was quiet at this hour, its corridors empty except for a witch in lime-green robes who hurried past without making eye contact.
"I could have been in Romania by now," Albus said.
"Excuse me?"
"Uncle Charlie. He invited me to work at the reserve. Said I had a natural affinity for dragons. Said he could use someone who wasn't afraid of getting burned." Albus kicked at the carpet as he walked. "Dad said no."
"Dad was right."
"Dad didn't even consider it."
"He didn't need to." James's voice had gone flat. "The Weasleys are... complicated right now. Politically. There are questions being asked about certain family members. About their loyalties. About their judgment."
"Their judgment about what?"
"About who to trust. Who to believe." James glanced over his shoulder, checking that they were alone. "About what happened to the Minister. About why she really left."
Albus felt something cold settle in his stomach. "You're saying Uncle Charlie is in trouble?"
"I'm saying distance is wise. For now. For all of us." They had reached a door marked MISUSE OF MUGGLE ARTEFACTS OFFICE in faded gold letters. James paused with his hand on the handle. "Your assignment here isn't random, Al. Dad chose it specifically. He wants someone he trusts—someone he trusts—keeping an eye on things."
"Keeping an eye on what?"
"On whom." James pushed open the door. "Arthur Weasley has been running this department for forty years. He knows things. He's seen things. And lately, he's been saying things that make certain people nervous."
"You want me to spy on Grandpa Arthur?"
"I want you to watch. Listen. Learn." James's expression softened, just slightly. "Dad believes in you, Al. He knows you see things other people miss. He knows you ask questions other people are afraid to ask." A pause. "That's why he put you here. Not as a punishment. As a test."
Before Albus could respond, a voice called out from inside the office:
"James! Is that you? And you've brought young Albus! Come in, come in—mind the toasters, we've had an infestation—"
Arthur Weasley emerged from behind a tower of cardboard boxes, his robes dusty, his spectacles askew, his spine curved in a way that hadn't been there five years ago. He looked old, Albus realised. Properly old. Not the cheerful grandfather who had taught him to de-gnome a garden, but something more fragile. More tired.
"Mr. Weasley," James said formally. "I'm delivering your new assistant, as requested."
"Yes, yes, excellent." Arthur shook Albus's hand with both of his own—a gesture that was warm but also, Albus noticed, slightly trembling. "So good to have family in the department. So good to have someone I can trust."
The emphasis on the last word was unmistakable. Arthur's eyes met Albus's with an intensity that didn't match his doddering demeanor.
"I'll leave you to it, then," James said. He gave Albus one last look—be careful—and then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
The office was chaos.
Shelves lined every wall, piled high with objects that hummed and clicked and occasionally sparked. A rubber duck sat in a place of honour on Arthur's desk, next to a telephone that had been taken apart and reassembled incorrectly. Filing cabinets overflowed with papers. A ceiling fan rotated backwards, stirring the dust motes into lazy spirals.
"Now then," Arthur said, settling into a chair that creaked ominously under his weight. "I suppose you're wondering what we actually do here."
"Protect Muggles from magical objects, isn't it?" Albus said. "That's what it says in Hogwarts: A History."
Arthur's expression flickered. "That's what it used to say. And that's what we used to do." He gestured at the cluttered shelves. "For decades, our job was simple: find magical objects that had fallen into Muggle hands, confiscate them, and ensure no harm was done. A noble calling. A necessary one."
"And now?"
"Now..." Arthur stood and walked to the window—a small, grimy thing that looked out onto a brick wall enchanted to show a sunny meadow. "The world has changed, Albus. The Muggles have changed. They've become... aggressive. Ideological. They've developed strange ideas about how society should be organised. They've created technologies that spread these ideas faster than we can contain them."
He turned back to face Albus.
"Our mission now is protection—but in the other direction. We protect wizards from Muggle influence. From their propaganda. From their corrupting philosophies."
Albus frowned. "What kind of philosophies?"
"Oh, all sorts. Dangerous nonsense about 'equality' that ignores natural magical hierarchy. Subversive notions about 'choice' that undermine traditional family structures." Arthur's voice had taken on a recitative quality, as if he were reading from a script he'd memorised but didn't quite believe. "The Muggles are waging a war on our values, Albus. A war on our way of life. And this department is on the front lines."
He gestured toward a large wooden crate in the corner of the room—newer than the other containers, its surface marked with warning labels in red ink.
"The confiscation box. Items seized in the past month alone. Books, mostly. Magazines. What they call 'social media printouts.' All of it filled with poison."
Albus walked to the crate. Not because he was particularly interested, but because standing still felt impossible. The air in the office was thick with something—dust, maybe, or the accumulated weight of forty years of secrets.
He began to flip through the contents. A paperback novel with a lurid cover. A newspaper clipping about something called 'Brexit.' A child's toy that played a tinny song when you pressed its stomach.
And then—
A magazine. Glossy, Muggle-made, its cover dominated by a photograph of a young woman with brown hair and intelligent eyes. She was wearing something simple—a sweater, maybe—and her expression was calm, confident, entirely self-possessed.
EMMA WATSON: THE STORIES BEYOND HOGWARTS
Albus stared at the cover. The woman looked familiar, somehow. Not because he'd seen her before—he hadn't, he was certain—but because something in her face reminded him of someone else. The set of her jaw. The particular quality of her gaze.
He opened the magazine.
"Ah." Arthur's voice came from directly behind him—closer than Albus had expected. "I see you've found one of the more problematic items."
"What's wrong with it?"
"Page forty-seven. The interview."
Albus flipped to the page. A headline read: EMMA WATSON ON TURNING 30, SELF-PARTNERING, AND FINDING HAPPINESS ON HER OWN TERMS.
He skimmed the text. Words jumped out at him: pressure to marry... societal expectations... I'm very happy being single... I call it being self-partnered...
"I don't understand," Albus said. "What's dangerous about this?"
Arthur's face twisted into something between disgust and fear.
"Self-partnered," he spat. "Do you see what she's doing? She's telling young women—Muggle and magical—that they don't need partners. Don't need families. That they can be complete all by themselves." He stabbed a finger at the photograph. "This woman is an agent of destruction, Albus. She played a role—a sacred role—and now she uses her influence to undermine everything that role represented."
"It's just an interview. She's just talking about her own life."
"Nothing is just anything. Everything is connected. Everything is political." Arthur took the magazine from Albus's hands with a gentleness that belied his words. "This woman's ideas spread. They infect. They convinced good witches—loyal witches—that they could walk away from their responsibilities. Their families. Their husbands."
He stopped. His mouth opened, then closed.
In the silence, Albus heard himself say:
"Is that what happened to Aunt Hermione?"
Arthur went very still.
"I thought," Albus continued, "she left to help Rose with the baby. That's what everyone said. She wanted to be a grandmother. She wanted to focus on family."
"Yes." Arthur's voice was barely a whisper. "Yes, that's what... that's the official..."
"But that's not true, is it?"
The old man seemed to deflate. His shoulders sagged. His hands, still holding the magazine, began to tremble more visibly.
"She read things," he said. "Muggle things. She never stopped, you know, even after all these years. She kept one foot in their world. And somewhere along the way, she started to believe their lies. Started to think that her marriage was—that my son was—" He stopped. Swallowed. "She left, Albus. She just left. Walked out of her own life like it meant nothing. Like he meant nothing. Like thirty years of family meant nothing."
"But the official story—"
"The official story is what we tell people so they don't panic." Arthur looked up, and Albus saw something in his eyes that might have been grief or might have been fear. "The Minister didn't retire to spend time with her grandchild. She disappeared. And no one—not your father, not the Aurors, not anyone—knows where she went."
The door opened.
James stood in the threshold, his expression carefully blank.
"Albus," he said. "A word."
Arthur flinched. He seemed to realise, suddenly, how much he had said. The magazine dropped from his fingers, its glossy pages scattering across the dusty floor.
"I should get back to work," he mumbled. "Lots to do. Lots to catalogue. You understand."
He retreated to his desk, hunched over a stack of papers, suddenly very interested in a form that required his immediate attention.
Albus followed James into the corridor. The door swung shut behind them with a soft click.
"What did he tell you?" James asked.
"Nothing."
"Don't lie to me, Al."
"I'm not lying. He told me nothing." Albus met his brother's eyes. "He told me the same nothing everyone else has been telling me for months. The nothing that doesn't add up. The nothing that leaves a Minister-shaped hole in every conversation."
James was quiet for a long moment.
Then he said: "Dad wants to see you. Noon. His office. Don't be late."
"What about?"
"I don't know." James's expression flickered—just for an instant—into something that looked almost like sympathy. "But I think you're about to find out why no one talks about Aunt Hermione anymore."
He walked away.
Albus stood alone in the corridor, the enchanted paper aeroplanes circling overhead, the portraits watching with their painted eyes.
On the floor of the office behind him, barely visible through the crack beneath the door, Emma Watson smiled up at the ceiling from her scattered magazine pages.
Self-partnered, Albus thought.
And for reasons he couldn't quite name, the word lodged in his mind like a splinter—small, sharp, and impossible to ignore.