The Implications of Forever

Harry

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——Chapter 3: Harry——

The moment Hermione's feet hit the dark marble of the Ministry floor, her senses were flooded with voices and bodies and camera flashes and questions and everything all at once. People rushed to her like predators to prey–an entire crowd of no less than seventy witches and wizards hungry for something, anything , from the Golden Girl. She supposed she was , and had long been, prey–this was the curse of being a war hero. Anonymity and privacy were far and few once you aided in saving the world. After all, Greeks devoted shrines and statues to Heracles for his 12 labours; heroism was the first door on the left in the long hallway of fame.

At first, when the last head of the war was severed and the world returned to some sense of normalcy, Hermione appreciated the attention–wrote it off as gratitude and signed any piece of parchment that was shoved in her face. She even kept a muggle pen in the pocket of her denims for the rare occasion that an onlooker forgot a quill. She had saved them, after all. She held the Apples of Hesperides in both hands with pride.

But the saviour complex dissipated within a few years, once the blue ink of her twelfth ballpoint began to run dry. She grew to wholly resent the very thought of purchasing another box of pens, so she simply didn't. She learned to say no to the reporters thirsty for an insider's scoop on her life and to shake her head when another sheet of parchment was thrust her way with the hopes of a signature. Harry and Ron never mastered this skill, and Hermione was left to hear the tidbits of their lives that she had rather not known through the front page of the Daily Prophet.

Like every restaurant Harry took Draco to. Every meal they had shared. Every shopping spree. Every vacation. Every anniversary. Every public kiss. Everything.

But here, in this damned Ministry lobby, Hermione Granger did not feel like a saviour, or Heracles. She felt like a nudist at a carnival promoted to children, but intended for adults. She was exposed, and the people around her were not fans; they were vampires eyeing her neck and licking their lips, preparing for their first taste of blood in 5 years. It was as if the whole wizarding world had crowded into the Ministry's main lobby in wait of her return–it was a welcome home party she was not privy to.

Rita Skeeter pranced to the front of the crowd, staring at Hermione over the top of her glasses. She could see the headlines now: Golden Girl finally comes home. The first line would speculate where she had been. Inevitably Skeeter would accuse her of eloping with a random man off the street; that was a popular trope in her columns.

"You've gone blonde, Miss Granger." Skeeter commented, a fresh sheet of parchment and a feathered quill floating above her head, which scribbled utter nonsense furiously. Skeeter smirked like Dr. Suess' grinch and Hermione felt the urge to reach out and claw the smug look off the woman's face. But she couldn't do that. Not in public.

"I like the new look." A stranger piped.

"Tell us, where have you been?" Another witch screamed at a volume no sane person should ever attempt.

Hermione's ears rang–head spun–legs shook. She was too drunk for this, and even sober, her blood would boil nonetheless. She was not a goddamn celebrity. She never was, but especially not now. She wanted to shout this over the noise–shout louder than the reporters and every single stranger in the room. She wanted to hex them all, force them to look at anything–anyone–but her.

Instead, Hermione clung to Harry, pleading with him with her eyes to do something–anything. "Harry," She mouthed.

Harry simply nodded. "Get lost. All of you." He barked. He held Hermione's shoulder and shoved her through the horde of witches and wizards, who did not, in fact, get lost . The crowd followed her until they hit the protective ward which kept the general public from entering the Ministry's main headquarters. They continued to flee from Ministry employees once inside, travelling down a long hallway into a room with a grand metal door. Inside was a comically large desk with files scattered all around its surface. No less than four mugs sat on various corners of the wood. The room reeked of coffee.