Seven Preposterous Things

Had Hermione Jane Granger not been born a witch, her course would have been clear. She would have selected an area of interest, possibly law or chemistry, and settled into a period of concentrated study at university. It should have gone without saying, she wouldn't have stopped until she'd exhausted her chosen field, at which time she would seek out either a place within a respected firm, who would appreciate her intelligence, or a research position. Research was, all things considered, ideally suited to her temperament. She imagined life as a researcher would be endlessly fascinating, regardless of field. The unknown was infinite; the process of unravelling the mysteries of the universe like a poorly constructed jumper couldn't help but occupy one's full attention.

As things were, the partnership of Granger and Granger DDS had indeed given life to a small, but singularly irrepressible witch; even if, for the first time since she'd received her Hogwarts letter, Hermione had started to wonder if life in the magical world really was all it was cracked up to be.

There were no magical Universities. Mostly, as far as Hermione could tell, because there simply weren't enough students. That left the apprenticeship option, which was no option, at present. Every single expert in every single field Hermione had contacted, and she had left no rock undisturbed in her quest, refused to consider an apprentice who didn't have at least two years practical experience in their area of study.

To add insult to injury, everyone she knew seemed intent on steering her toward one of the two professions she had categorically ruled out years ago: teaching and healing. Not only was the pay scale for teachers insultingly low, but as far as Hermione could see, as a full time activity, teaching promised to be both tooth-grindingly frustrating and mind numbingly dull. Healing might offer an ever so slightly better salary, but that was offset by the constant stream of ill and injured people. To be truthful, Hermione didn't really like sick people. It was a personality flaw, she knew. Still, she didn't think that the sinking feeling she had when she imagined the life of a healer was so much something to be overcome as a warning to be heeded.

In the end, she applied to, and was accepted by, the Aurors, right alongside Harry and Neville. Ron worked across the hall in the office of Magical Games and Sport. If anyone was under the impression Percy Weasley's obsession with cauldron thickness was tiresome, they had obviously never sat on Ron's sofa while he regaled Harry with the intricacies of quaffle, bludger, and snitch standards.

She and Ronald had tried to date, but that had ended abruptly when he assumed she would take on his laundry. Hermione regretted the break-up occasionally, mostly because he was quite a bit better in bed than he had a right to be.

They remained as much friends as ever, though, and he was a remarkably good person to drink with and curse the unfairness of the world. Behind the affable face, there was thick ribbon of bile and vindictiveness. She supposed to some degree it was what they had in common: the understanding that life was unfair. She need hardly note that Harry was part of this society of rancour as well. Harry was practically the chief executive officer.

Hermione had been rather keen on branching out and meeting new people when she left Hogwarts. Unfortunately, that was rather more difficult, not to mention awkward and uncomfortable, than she had imagined. She had always believed she would make a better adult than a child. In some respects this was true; she appreciated being able to make her own decisions, thank you very much. But socially things had changed little since her first day on the Hogwarts Express. There was still a great gaping conversational chasm between her and other people most of the time. People who seemed to think being "smart," was the Alpha and Omega of Hermione Granger. It was useful in that she could push through her ideas fairly often on the job, when she wasn't locked away in an office with forms like the peasant girl spinning straw into gold. Truly, the amount of paperwork generated at the Aurory was staggering. Adult life in general was rather more dull than anyone had let on, and being "the bright one" was pain in her arse because it made her feel like a poorly-written character in the novel of her own life. Maybe that was the trouble: it wasn't the novel of her own life. It was Harry's story; one where the part she played most often was deus ex machina. Being reduced to a plot device would annoy anyone, but there was little chance of change until Harry had his final assignation with He-whose-name-made-some-people-lose-control-of-their-bladders. That wasn't a joke either. She'd made the mistake of saying the name "Voldemort" aloud, in front of Ron's assistant, and caused the poor wizard to wet himself.

What sort of world was it where Ron Weasley had an assistant?

She admitted he was more enthusiastic about his job than she'd ever seen him about anything, but giving him an assistant was a bit much if you asked her. Not that anyone did.

At least she didn't have to date him.

Dating was one thing in her life that appeared to be working out fairly well. Since Madam Pomfrey's impromptu dentistry during fourth year, she'd been attractive enough. After leaving school, she learned the rather astonishing fact that a witch didn't have to make a nitwit of herself, and flirt like Lavender Brown, to go out with a wizard; all she had to do was ask him. She never had met with refusal yet. Somehow, her attention didn't last longer than a week or two before she spotted the next bit of potential on the horizon, leaving the last behind her, read and discarded like a cheap paperback. It seemed even the wizards who appeared to be fascinating at first glance were painfully simple on closer inspection. Still, there were plenty of single wizards in Great Britain she hadn't dated yet. Sometimes she wondered, with vague horror, if perhaps all males were at their core exceedingly dull.

So it was that on this particular Tuesday when Hermione Granger awoke groggily after her accustomed hour, the bed she left was still occupied by a not-yet-discarded wizard. It had been a four-day weekend. She was vaguely uncomfortable leaving a wizard unsupervised in her flat, but she shook it off as she made her way to work. She didn't have another choice; she was going to be late as it was. In any event, Ted was having tea with his mother, and she already knew he preferred to sleep late. He wouldn't have much chance to root around in her things, even if he wanted to. Besides, it was an unabashedly glorious morning. Bright and sunny, freakishly lovely, even. The sort of day when the entire population, both Wizard and Muggle, seemed to be under the influence of a cheering charm. She dismissed the idea as silly, whistling a few toneless notes in reply to the sparrow twittering on the corner lamp post and nodded to a Muggle who passed her wearing obscenely high heels. Unless her eyes deceived her, flowers were blooming between the cracks in the pavement. Curiouser and curiouser; though harmless enough. She was going to have to go through the usual suspects to see who might amuse themselves casting a spell over the entire city. She was certain Moody would be ranting when she got into the office but couldn't quite bring herself to worry. He always found something to get worked up over.

The Aurory was empty; she'd quite forgotten they were assembling at the Atrium level. She braced herself as she hurried to the meeting.

When she made her way inside, Alastor Moody was in fact the first person she saw, though she hadn't expected to see Bellatrix Lestrange waving his decapitated head on a stick. She had to fight the urge to laugh in a mixture of hysteria and dark humour. A lung full of the thick sweet smell of human blood caused her morning tea to rise in her gullet sickeningly, and she was glad she hadn't taken the time for something more substantial. At least twenty-five wizards were splayed out on the marble floor. As far as she could see they had been turned completely and precisely inside out. Guts curled and snarled and spilled like so much yarn on the blood-slicked floor.

Years of preparation did their job, and Hermione shielded herself and ducked behind the receptionist's desk, in that order. Despite the legless and armless torso she shared the position with, it was an ideal vantage point. Using the mirror she kept in her pocket for just such occasions, she could see what was happening and throw curses, all from a hidden location. Methodically, she began scanning the great room for people she knew. Neville, of all people, appeared to be fighting off Death Eaters near the floos. She sent a curse flying in the direction of the dark wizard he was currently locked in combat with. She aimed well enough, but not soon enough, to stop the Death Eater's cutting spell shearing the side of Neville's head, taking his right ear off. To his credit, Neville didn't even pause as he fired off curses at the other Death Eaters.

Order members and Aurors kept pouring in, but the Death Eaters were waiting. It was the smartest tactical move she'd ever seen them make. She supposed, as she sent well aimed curses toward the white masked figures, if one only had a limited number of smart moves one ought to save them to use at the end of a conflict.

Moment by moment, more workers arrived by floo. Between them, she and Neville saved perhaps half of them. The others were picked off by the Death Eaters; some turned wrong side out, some cut in half, others burnt alive. Whenever she could, she scanned the room looking for the same person, she imagined, as everyone else: Harry Potter.

And then, what seemed like years later, he was there. He was rumpled. His hair stood up in the back. His glasses were slightly askew, and she had never seen a more beautiful sight in her life.

"Tom Riddle," Harry called out.

"Harry Potter," called Voldemort in return. That was Voldemort? Despite Harry's descriptions, she hadn't expected him to look so young or so human.

All movement paused as they stepped toward each other, then erupted with more fury than before. There were two Death Eaters flanking Harry. Hermione was somewhat surprised when they pointed their wands at Voldemort. She didn't hear the spells, but it didn't appear to matter. With a flick of his spotless hand, Voldemort sent them flying backwards. One slammed hard, if not fatally, against the wall, but the other slid on a pile of entrails, careening round the bloody marble floor until his body hit hers full force. At first she thought the sickening crack she felt as he hit her was only her wrist, but one quick flex and she realised it had been her wand. Her wand was broken. Fuck!

She positioned her mirror along the edge of the desk and took a look at Harry. She could feel the hot breath of the Death Eater on her neck, as whoever it was worked to keep themselves hidden behind the desk as well, but she had too big an investment in the outcome of Harry's duel with Voldemort to waste her time wondering precisely who had decided to turncoat.

"I've taken off my mask, Hermione," a low familiar voice said. "Please don't do anything to draw attention." But she still wasn't going to turn around.

Or perhaps she was.

She turned her head to find the person pressed up against her was Professor Snape bleeding copiously from his nose. Not that he was a professor any more. It was flustering enough that when she turned back to the mirror, it took a moment before her brain was able to process exactly what the green light around Harry's limp but floating body meant.

They'd lost.

Snape clamped his hand over her mouth.

"Do not speak," he hissed in her ear.

A great roar went up on all sides, so it was hardly necessary. Those who opposed Voldemort appeared to have come to the decision that martyrdom had more appeal than they'd previously imagined as they rose like a wave against the Death Eaters who fought back, laughing.

A Death Eater who almost casually cursed Nymphadora Lupin turned his head to scan the high domed room.

"I am going to remove my hand from your mouth, make no sound," Snape said, wiggling strangely against her.

After a moment's groping, Snape produced a small oyster tin wrapped carefully in a handkerchief. A portkey, obviously. She struggled despite knowing that wherever Snape was taking her it could hardly be worse than where she was. It mattered little. The last sight she saw before Snape forced her hand to the oyster tin was Neville firing a volley of curses at Bellatrix Lestrange.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next thing she saw, once everything stopped spinning, was a wall of white tiles and a row of lavatories. They were in a public loo. And so, she realised looking to her immediate left, were Draco Malfoy and Millicent Bulstrode... and a cat. Peeking out from Bulstrode's robes was the head of a very unhappy cat.

"What have you done?" Hermione said, pulling her hair out of her face and turning around to look at Snape.

"Other than save your life?" he answered, spitting a mouth full of blood onto the pristine floor.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"The last place anyone would look, Granger," Bulstrode said, stroking the cat's head.

"Which is?" she asked.

"Dallas, Texas," Snape said, tilting back his head in an effort to staunch the bleeding.

Hermione was unnerved by the way Draco looked from Snape to her and back again.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author's Note: Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine, we all know that.

Thanks: Shiv for very good, very clear Beta