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When Hermione Granger had made the stunning decision to forgo her Ministry-decreed marriage, she had not been alone. Many of the muggleborn witches and wizards who had also been oh so graciously appointed to reform through the power of love, the poor misguided pure and half bloods who had sought their elimination, had done the same. They had, upon hearing the news, hidden en masse. Most had gone to ground in the safe houses and hide-y holes created for the war, and then kept out of fear. Out of necessity. However, there were a few who did not escape in time.
One of those was Hermione Granger. The brightest witch of her age fell. Not to the Ministry, or the Aurors, or even the Death Eaters. Instead, she fell to those whom she had always fallen to. Her friends. Harry, Ron, the Weasley’s all had assured her that Kingsley wouldn't allow the Wizengamot to get away with it at every step. And then, when they finally couldn’t ignore the signs any longer, it was George who was her downfall. He tested a prototype on an unwitting Hermione, and so when she returned to consciousness days later, she was met with a ministerial summons.
The whole British Wizarding World watched her stride into the courtroom, but they missed the conversations she had before she entered. If anyone had cared to trace the first catalyst of her decision, they would have found that it started with those conversations. It was Professor Dumbledore’s gentle insistence that Hermione give the Death Eaters a second chance, for the greater good. It was Molly Weasley’s carefully condescending pat on the back, as she reassured Hermione that at least now she could finally retire from her job. It was the way that Hermione realized that she was the only member of the Order of the Phoenix who had been affected. That is, she was the only muggleborn witch within an order that espoused the equality of bloods.
So while Kingsley read out the decree and all the stipulations, Hermione ignored him. Instead of listening to how she would be banned from using contraception as that would prevent true unity, and how she would take her husband’s last name, she simply stared. Running through her mind was a simple question. Was it worth it?
Were her experiences at Hogwarts worth it? The shunning, petrification and trauma. The words inscribed on the back of her hand, the purple scar bisecting her chest, the spasms that still lingered. Were they an even exchange for the wonder of magic? The way a feather defied gravity, the beauty of her otter, the intelligence of her half-kneazle. More importantly, would this be worth it? Could Hermione give up another part of herself to belong to this world of magic?
It seemed like too much. Hermione was used to sacrifice. She understood why her parents spoke only English at home, to the point where Hermione wasn’t sure she could recognize their native language. She learned to ignore the words and things her classmates threw at her. She knew to keep her voice even, and not show anger. It barely bothered her anymore. But in the world of magic, she didn’t have to deal with that discrimination. Instead, the hatred was for her blood, and it showed in the slur carved along her arm.
She was so tired. At least in the muggle world, Hermione could run back home to the arms and words of her parents. She could comfort her body with the leftovers hidden in the butter container. She could let loose her soul by moving her hips to the beat of the music. She had a community, she had a people Here? She had a name. The Brightest Witch of her Age. She had her friends, at least sometimes.
With a low chuckle that went unheard, Hermione refocused her gaze. And, with her decision made, she interrupted the Minister of Magic as he stood before the Wizengamot denominating the conditions for her existence in the world, as if the blood she had already spilled wasn’t enough.
And then she asked.
“And if I don’t?”