Chapter Text
Department: Unnamed
Author: Hermione Granger
Status: Compromised
Directive:
All personnel will adhere to established procedures to ensure a controlled and stable working environment.
Intended Outcome:
A structured department with clearly defined authority, minimal disruption, and consistent adherence to protocol.
By the time Hermione Granger pronounced the plant dead, she had transformed the room.
Not aesthetically, perhaps. Aesthetics were secondary. Tertiary, really, if one was being honest, and Hermione generally preferred to be honest unless honesty interfered with efficiency, in which case it could be revisited during the next scheduled review.
The office retained the unmistakable quality of a neglected Ministry space: parchment-coloured walls, an oversized window, and a desk bearing the patina of bureaucratic abandonment. Her footsteps disappeared into the stone floor, leaving only the ghost of movement behind her. The air was cool, mineral-tinged, and faintly stale, as though it had been sealed inside a policy failure.
The enchanted window displayed autumn leaves drifting in golden light, which might have been charming if it had not been January and therefore factually offensive. Hermione had attempted to correct it, naturally.
She had begun with simple weather-alignment charms, because one did not immediately escalate to complex spellwork unless one was reckless or employed in the Department of Magical Transportation. When the window responded inappropriately, she had moved to containment.
Within ten minutes, she had identified the same cluster of leaves (three oak, one maple, all with identically curled edges) passing the window repeatedly in the same descending arc before reappearing at the top with mechanical precision.
By twenty minutes, she had confirmed the breeze moved with metronomic consistency. Each gust arrived at exact intervals.
After half an hour, she concluded the display resembled a magical painting rather than a window. The light never shifted, the shadows never deepened. Autumn never progressed toward late afternoon. The whole thing remained perpetually, insultingly itself.
Hermione made the mature administrative decision to ignore it. This was not avoidance. Avoidance implied fear, and Hermione Granger was not afraid of a window.
When she had first stepped inside, the room had contained:
- three uneven stacks of files
- a chair with a slight but concerning wobble
- a dead plant, though she had held out hope for twenty-seven minutes
- and a lingering sense that whatever had previously occupied the space had ended badly
She had begun with the files.
The crisp snap of each page as she sorted it by category was deeply satisfying; a small percussion of order being imposed upon institutional neglect. Her quill scratched quick notations in the margins as she assessed, grouped, cross-referenced, and quietly judged the standards of whichever anonymous civil servant had abandoned them in this state.
The physical work grounded her. The resistance of parchment. The soft thud of organised files being placed into designated sections. The faint smear of old ink across her fingers. By the time she had finished, the room felt less like a failed experiment and more like a space awaiting competent governance.
Now, an hour later, it contained:
- a cleared, functional desk
- neatly sorted files divided into five labelled categories
- a temporary but efficient filing system
- a drafted intake form, with a secondary version prepared in case the first proved insufficient
- and a plant formally declared deceased and relocated to the windowsill for “aesthetic closure”
The leaves drifting past the glass caught briefly on the plant’s brittle stems, then passed through them without resistance. Hermione chose not to dwell on that. Dwelling had not been scheduled.
She squared her shoulders and picked up the final stack of unsorted incident reports. This new department, ill-defined, under-resourced, and apparently housed in a room with a passive-aggressive window, still remained necessary. Its purpose was clear enough: to handle magical incidents that defied categorisation.
A mandate with alarming breadth, insufficient staffing, and absolutely no meaningful appreciation for the emotional wellbeing of the person expected to organise it.
What it still lacked was a name, which she needed formalised by day’s end.
Preferably something:
- Precise
- Professional
- Not alarming
She underlined NOT ALARMING twice.
Gods, she did love a good list. Lists were civilisation. Lists were proof that humanity had once looked into the abyss and said, yes, but in what order?
Behind her, the leaves swirled slightly faster than they had before. Nothing to panic about. Hermione turned to the next report.
Incident: self-replicating teacups. Currently at 317 units. Escalating.
“Hmm,” she murmured. “Manageable.”
The door opened and Hermione’s quill stilled mid-notation. She did not look up immediately. One did not reward interruption with instant attention.
“Unless you have documentation,” she said, already reaching for a blank form, “you’ll need to submit—”
“It’s not a report.”
She glanced up sharply.
Harry Potter stood in the doorway, Auror robes crumpled as if he had stood from his desk and decided to roll all the way to Hermione’s office. His green eyes swept the room with the same methodical assessment he had used since they were children hunting Horcruxes; corners, shadows, exits, her face.
“Hey, ’Mione,” he said, a familiar lop-sided smile spreading across his face.
His hair fell across his forehead in its usual state of rebellion, that same stubborn cowlick which had resisted seven years of Molly Weasley’s magical combs, and basic social responsibility.
He was still lean, much to Molly’s distress, but filled out now with the kind of strength that came from fieldwork rather than vanity. He stepped inside properly, and the door swung closed behind him with a soft click.
Hermione’s expression softened before she could stop it.
“Harry,” she said, relief flickering through her voice. “What are you doing here?”
“Kingsley sent me.” He moved closer to the desk. “Said you’d need someone from the Auror Office.”
Hermione straightened, shifting from friend to colleague with what she felt was admirable professionalism.
“Yes. I did request a liaison.”
Harry glanced around again. His gaze lingered on the files, the reorganised surfaces, and the general state of controlled chaos she had imposed upon the space.
“This is it?”
This is what you left the Auror Department for?
Of course, he would never say it. Chances were, he was not even thinking it. Harry’s thoughts were usually kinder than her projections of them.
“This is the department,” she said firmly.
His eyes drifted to the window and narrowed.
The leaves were moving faster than they had been moments before. Not enough to warrant alarm. Alarm was for structural collapse, cursed artefacts, and people who used blue ink on official forms. But there was a wrongness to their descent.
One cluster fell, disappeared at the bottom of the frame, then reappeared at the top.
Harry’s hand rose unconsciously, as though he might touch the glass to verify that it was still solid.
“’Mione,” he said carefully. “Are those leaves moving really fast?”
“No.” The answer came too quickly.
Regrettable.
Harry looked at her. Hermione looked at the report. The report, at least, understood boundaries.
“Right,” he said quietly.
“It’s decorative,” Hermione said, because technically it was, and technical accuracy remained one of civilisation’s last defences.
“Ministry windows tend to be, ’Mione.” A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “So what exactly are we doing?”
Hermione’s posture shifted into something more formal. This was helpful. Formality gave the body something to do when the mind was pretending not to track the speed of leaves.
“We are identifying, assessing, and containing magical incidents that fall outside standard Ministry jurisdiction,” she said. “Experimental magic, cursed objects, unintended consequences, anything that doesn’t have a clear protocol.”
Harry blinked. “So… everything no one else wants to deal with.”
Hermione hesitated. “In simplified terms, yes.”
Harry grinned, bracing both hands on her desk and leaning forward. “Brilliant. When do we start?”
“As soon as I have a functioning team,” Hermione said, smiling at his enthusiasm despite herself.
Behind her, the leaves tapped softly against the window. Tap. Tap.
Harry glanced back. “It’s definitely doing something.”
“It is not doing anything,” Hermione said firmly.
It was, of course, doing several things. But acknowledging several things would create expectations of response, and response required prioritisation, and prioritisation required an agreed departmental structure, which they did not yet have.
Therefore: decorative.
“You’ll be responsible for field coordination, threat assessment, and ensuring compliance with Ministry safety regulations during active incidents,” she continued, ignoring Harry’s sceptical look with excellent administrative discipline. “I’m going to need you to—”
A delicate knock cut her off and the door opened slowly.
Hermione sat up straighter. “You’re going to need documentation if—”
“Sounds absolutely delightful, but I’ll give it a pass this time,” came a cool voice.
Pansy Parkinson stepped through the doorway as though entrances were a form of power and she had spent years perfecting the theory. Her dark hair fell in a sleek, precise bob that caught the light when she tilted her head, each strand aligned with the discipline of a hostile committee.
Something about her appearance seemed to immediately rub off onto the room. The scattered papers looked less chaotic. The worn furniture appeared less shabby. Even the looping leaves seemed to slow, as though the room itself had decided to behave in front of better-dressed company.
Pansy paused just past the threshold, sharp eyes moving over the desk, the files, the window, and then Harry.
She lifted a perfectly arched brow.
“Well, you’re still alive then,” she said, mildly amused. “You really commit to the whole ‘Boy Who Lived’ brand. I commend it.”
Harry let out a short laugh, pushing a hand through his hair.
“Barely. And that’s largely your doing. You told both parties the containment breach had already been noticed by the Minister’s office,” Harry said. “And that if it escalated, it would turn into a formal inquiry.”
Pansy tilted her head. “Mm.”
“They stopped arguing about who was responsible and started agreeing very quickly. No one wanted to be the one blamed in writing.”
Hermione’s interest sharpened. That departmental dispute had been the talk of the Ministry for months and the subject of all Harry’s post-dinner rants at Grimmauld Place, which meant Hermione had heard more about it than any person who had not personally caused it should ever have to endure.
“You didn’t actually notify the Minister,” she said.
Pansy turned to her. “Of course not. That would have complicated things.”
“So you lied?”
“I took an educated risk,” Pansy corrected smoothly. “The Minister would have noticed sooner or later.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No,” Pansy agreed. “It was more useful.”
Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “She bought us enough time to stabilise the breach before anyone realised they weren’t under investigation.”
“How disappointing for them,” Pansy replied.
“Very.” He paused. “Thanks.”
Pansy waved a hand. “Please. If people insist on being predictable, the least we can do is use it.”
Hermione watched her, quill feather resting against her lip.
“That was… strategically manipulative,” she said at last, with reluctant admiration.
Pansy’s smile sharpened. “Yes. It was.”
“And you’re here to propose that as what… a repeatable method?”
“A service,” Pansy corrected. “To your new department.”
“That is not a recognised—”
“It will be.” Pansy reached for a quill. “Social Strategy and Reputational Risk Mitigation.”
Harry blinked. “That sounds official.”
“It sounds billable,” Pansy said.
Hermione stared at her. “That is not how departments are structured.”
“It is if you want them to function.”
Harry glanced between them. “I’m not saying she’s wrong.”
Hermione pressed her fingers to her temple, which was not a sign of distress. It was merely a pressure-based recalibration technique.
“Kingsley assigned you here,” she said flatly.
It was not a question, and Pansy did not insult either of them by pretending to answer it. Instead, her attention shifted past Hermione to the window.
She didn’t necessarily lose focus, she simply seemed to reassign it.
“Is that meant to do that?”
Hermione closed her eyes. For one brief, glorious second, darkness contained no leaves.
“It’s decorative.”
Pansy stepped closer, head tilting as she watched the slow drift of gold beyond the glass. A cluster passed once, soft and unremarkable. Then again, immediately.
“No,” she said pleasantly. “It’s repeating.”
“It is not repeating.”
“It’s definitely repeating.”
Behind her, Harry glanced over. “It’s repeating.”
Hermione made a note to revisit the concept of loyalty with him later.
Pansy hummed, pacing in front of the window with her hands on her hips, heels clicking a steady rhythm against the floor.
“I do enjoy a room that commits to a theme,” she said. “This one seems to be going for contained instability.”
“That is not the theme.”
“No?” Pansy glanced over her shoulder, wicked dark eyes resting briefly on Hermione’s hair. “Pity. It suits you.”
Harry let out a traitorous snort.
“Oh, this is going to be excellent,” Pansy said.
Hermione glowered. This was not excellent, this was undisciplined. There was a difference. A critical one, which apparently no one in the room had the decency to acknowledge.
“Don’t worry, Potter,” Pansy added, catching Harry’s expression. “Us girls know how to resolve conflict without devolving into hexes. Don’t get your Auror knickers in a twist.”
Harry opened his mouth. A heavy-handed knock saved him from whatever regrettable thing he had been about to attempt.
Hermione straightened immediately.
“Documentation is req—”
“Nope, but I come bearing competence!”
Ginny Weasley burst through the door like she had been launched from the other side.
She charged in, momentum carrying her several steps into the room before her boots struck the floor with a solid thud. Papers fluttered. The window’s looping leaves stuttered. Even the light looked briefly jostled before settling around her presence.
Ginny was still moving even when still. Energy radiated from her shoulders, her bright expression, the way her blue eyes swept the room all at once. Her red hair was pulled back in a practical braid that had begun to come loose, copper strands escaping around her face.
Her Auror robes hung on a frame built from years of Quidditch; broad-shouldered, balanced, ready to shift direction at speed. There was a smudge on her cheek suggesting she had come from somewhere more active than a Ministry corridor, which Hermione chose not to ask about because she already had one window behaving insubordinately.
Ginny gave Pansy a curt nod.
“Thanks for sorting that containment bollocks,” she said. “I had to listen to this one banging on about it for months.”
She nodded toward Harry and Pansy dismissed the thanks with an elegant wave.
Ginny turned to her husband, expression brightening. She blew him a kiss and watched, with obvious satisfaction, as Harry Potter turned a deep and immediate shade of pink.
Finally, she turned to Hermione. Her grin warmed into something genuine, and Hermione couldn’t help smiling back.
“Kingsley?” Hermione said, though she already knew the answer.
“When isn’t it Kingsley?” Ginny said lightly. “Apparently I’m ‘field-capable, adaptable, and unlikely to panic under pressure.’”
Harry nudged her with his shoulder. “That sounds about right.”
Ginny’s gaze flicked to the desk – the ordered files, the intake forms – and then to the window.
A cluster of leaves drifted past. The same cluster drifted past again, faster.
Hermione followed her gaze before she could stop herself, then looked away with such speed that surely no reasonable observer could call it engagement.
“Okay,” Ginny said slowly. “No, that’s not right.”
“It’s decorative,” Hermione said immediately.
Ginny snorted. “No shit. But why is it looping?”
“It is not looping.”
“It literally just looped, Hermione.”
“It did not.”
“It definitely did.”
Behind her, Harry said, far too helpfully, “It did.”
Hermione shot him a look. “Must you encourage this?”
“I’m observing.”
“Poorly.”
Pansy, still watching the window, added, “They’re also speeding up.”
“They are not speeding up,” Hermione said.
The edge in her voice was uncalled for, but frankly, so was everyone else.
Ginny turned back to the glass as the breeze picked up, subtle but unmistakable, sending a small flurry of leaves skimming rapidly across the surface.
“Right,” she said. “Completely normal.”
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose firmly. Not because she was losing control, but because control occasionally required manual reinforcement.
“So, Ginny,” she said, lowering her hand and straightening, “you are here for field coordination.”
“Yes,” Ginny said brightly. “And morale.”
Pansy gave a small hum. “That feels optimistic.”
“It’s necessary,” Ginny said.
Hermione opened her mouth to explain that morale was not a formal operational category when a loud bang echoed from somewhere behind them.
Everyone looked at the window. There was silence and then, a second bang. The glass rattled violently.
Harry frowned. “Was that—”
The window did not shatter, it erupted.
The frame burst inward with a sound like a thunderclap, sharp and violent and in the contained space of the underground office. Glass exploded but not into shards so much as a sudden rupture of pressure that sent papers spiralling from Hermione’s desk.
And then the leaves came.
A torrent of gold and crimson erupted through the broken frame on a violent gust of wind that had absolutely no business existing underground. It carried the scent and chill of actual autumn air, whipping through the office, catching in hair, scattering files, ricocheting off walls, and toppling the formally deceased plant from its place of aesthetic closure.
This was precisely why one should not ignore small procedural deviations. It was also, regrettably, not the time to tell herself, I told you so.
In the centre of the maelstrom, a figure emerged.
A figure came through the window like he had been flung from another dimension. Half-falling, half-diving, he caught the sill with one hand, used the momentum to roll across the desk – Hermione’s desk, which had very recently been organised – and landed in a crouch on the office floor.
He straightened slowly, brushing leaves from his brown hair with absent precision. It fell into green eyes that were sharp, bright, and disturbingly delighted.
“Good,” he said, glancing around the devastation with mild approval. “I was hoping that would work.”
Hermione stared at him.
There were, technically, several appropriate responses. None of them passed through her mouth.
“What,” she said slowly, “did you just do to my window?”
He looked back at the frame, where the illusion of autumn had resumed business as usual. If anything, it had intensified. Leaves whipped past in aggressive spirals, the same cluster looping so quickly it blurred before snapping back to the beginning.
A twig flew toward the glass. There was no glass. The twig hovered, then dropped inside the office.
He tilted his head. “It was already unstable.”
“It was decorative,” Hermione said, her voice dangerously thin.
“Yes,” he agreed. “And now it’s interactive.”
Another gust pushed through the opening, scattering the last remnants of Hermione’s neatly stacked papers across the floor. She kept her eyes fixed elsewhere. The papers did not exist until she scheduled time to acknowledge them.
“That’s definitely worse,” Harry muttered.
Ginny stepped closer to the window, peering out with interest. “Okay, now they’re definitely speeding up.”
“They were always speeding up,” Pansy said lightly. “Hermione simply didn’t want to notice.”
“I noticed,” Hermione snapped. “I chose not to engage.”
“Bold strategy,” he said, ruffling his brown hair. “Didn’t hold.”
Hermione took a step toward him, holding herself together by sheer administrative will.
“You came through a sealed, charmed Ministry window.”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“You broke a sealed, charmed Ministry window.”
“I interacted with it.”
Behind him, the leaves slammed against the open frame again, faster now, the looping pattern collapsing into something increasingly erratic.
Harry glanced between them. “I’m with her on the wording.”
He considered that. “That’s fair.”
Hermione pressed her lips together. A very small, treacherous part of her wanted to ask how he had done it. But that part was not in charge.
“You are Theo Nott,” she said flatly.
“I am,” he confirmed, as though this explained everything. “Assigned.”
“Of course you are.”
Ginny let out a quiet, delighted laugh. “Oh, he’s going to be fun.”
“We are not here for fun.”
“Useful, then,” Ginny corrected.
“Define useful,” Hermione muttered.
Theo had already turned back to the window, his attention drifting toward it like a compass finding north.
“You reinforced it,” he said suddenly.
Hermione blinked. “What?”
“The charm.” He gestured at a precise section of the frame where the leaves kept snapping back into place. “There’s a reset built in. See that point? That’s where it’s trying to return to.”
The leaves blurred. Snapped back. Repeated.
“It’s layered,” Theo went on. “Containment first, then illusion over the top to make it look harmless, then stabilisation to keep it cycling neatly.” He paused. “Very tidy.”
Hermione folded her arms. Reluctant professional respect was not the same as approval.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s called structure.”
Theo glanced at her, faintly amused. “It’s called rigidity. It doesn’t know what to do when something interferes.”
“It is doing exactly what it was designed to do.”
“No,” Theo said lightly. “It’s doing it too well.”
Behind him, the loop tightened. Faster. Sharper. The same cluster snapped back so quickly it blurred.
“It’s overcorrecting,” he added. “Which means—”
Another gust tore through the room, stronger this time, sending displaced parchment into the furthest corners. Harry swore under his breath. Ginny grinned. Pansy watched as though she had paid for excellent seats.
Theo finished, almost cheerfully, “—it’s about to get worse.”
Hermione refused to look at the scattered parchment. It was not scattered. It was temporarily redistributed.
“Your role?” she asked.
Theo considered this as though the question required scholarly engagement.
“Analysis,” he said finally. “Pattern recognition. Probabilistic modelling. Light predictive catastrophe.”
Pansy brightened. “Oh, of course you’ll be doing odds.”
“Always.” Theo pulled a small notebook from his pocket.
“Very handy for game nights,” Pansy offered Hermione. “Amongst other things, I’m sure.”
Hermione pointed at the notebook. “No.”
“Yes,” Theo said, already writing.
Ginny leaned over his shoulder. “What are we at?”
Theo scanned the room: scattered papers, rattling window, Harry’s distress and Hermione’s expression.
“Time to first structural failure,” he said thoughtfully. “Revised to—”
“There will be no—” Hermione began.
“—twenty minutes.”
“Thirty,” Ginny said immediately.
“Optimistic,” Pansy murmured. “Fifteen, now that Theo’s arrived.”
Harry looked between them. “Are you all just—”
“Yes,” Theo said.
Hermione turned, very slowly, back toward the window. The leaves were circling faster, tighter, compressing into the same repeated pattern until... pop.
The illusion reset. The breeze softened and the leaves slowed. The same cluster drifted past at a perfectly respectable rate… as though nothing had happened.
Hermione stared.
“It… it reset,” Harry said quietly.
“Of course it did,” Theo said, pleased. “That’s much more interesting.”
Hermione turned back to him, arranging her face into an expression of utter tranquillity.
“This,” she said, with terrifying calm, “is why there are protocols.”
Theo smiled faintly. “And this,” he replied, gesturing to the room, the team, the still faintly rattling window, “is why they won’t be enough.”
Behind him, the leaves drifted past again. Ginny grinned. Pansy looked delighted. Harry looked concerned.
Hermione reached for a fresh sheet of parchment to keep her hands busy, because hexing someone on her first day as head of a new department would create a poor precedent, even if several mitigating factors were already present.
“Right,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “We proceed methodically.”
The window gave a soft, almost imperceptible tap. Hermione kept her eyes fixed elsewhere.
“Oh,” Theo said, scribbling busily. “That’s new.”
The door clicked open. This time, Hermione glanced up sharply.
“Documen—”
The word cut cleanly off as the air left her lungs. Hermione went very still. She often prided herself on her self-containment. Therefore, she was not excessively proud of what followed, as cool grey eyes locked onto hers.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
Observed Outcome: Multiple unauthorised entries. Structural instability. Window noncompliance.
Status update: Remains compromised.
Addenda:
Granger: Control remains achievable with minor adjustments.
Nott: Control was never achievable.