Chapter Text
It was an extraordinarily dull day, the kind that left a headache from the constant meetings of budgets, staff changes and new policies that would be passing through the commons.
In truth, she was only needed for two of the several meetings that day, but to fashion she attended all the meetings. A constant figure, a reassurance to the people that the Prime Minister cared about all things. In essence, she could barely recall anything of interest from any meeting, other than the Minister of Defence having lettuce stuck between his teeth.
It had calmed, albeit slightly, the commotion at Number 10. The scandal will forever leave a stain on British politics, it is not how she ever wanted to become elected. She wanted to win the people's vote, win an election and bring into effect a better Britain. This was not meant to be the case, the failure of the government, the scandal had rocked the party so awfully they had scrambled to secure their seats.
She had been thrust up into the seat of Prime Minister, not because she was elected, not because her party believed in her, but because she was strict. Known for obeying rules, to ensuring everything that passed through the commons went without so much a hitch. The second youngest Prime Minister in the history of the UK and turned to because the party feared their loss of power.
It was a gamble, she was untested, and she had managed to secure her political career without gaining favours. She was a law to herself, which made it dangerous for the party, for the ones who funded them.
The first two days of office she never saw the inside of it, she had her phone, her tablet and laptop, she was prominent in all meetings. The third day she had barely spent ten minutes in her new office far too busy to sit, to think. She had to fix the party, was needed to attend bills, the commons and reassure the public that everything was okay. They could trust her.
It would be foolish of the public to trust her, she knows this, after all she is a politician. As much as she strides to keep her word, deals are needed and she's no fool, she will break promises.
This is not the government she would have elected, not the people she would have hand picked to run with. However, she had to ensure the party survived and if the papers were only focused upon her single life then she was already moving the country away from a scandal.
Subconsciously, she shifted in her seat, wondering how many Prime Ministers had sat in this very seat before her. This was perhaps the first time she had truly taken in the idea of being Prime Minister. This was her office, she was in charge, she tried not to dwell on the thought for fear of spewing her lunch.
The papers might have moved on from the scandal, but the value of the pound was truly in the toilet. The meetings were meant to enlighten her, to inform her how they could improve the value of the pound. Except, she remains oblivious and in truth she feels her government was no less knowledgeable.
The report half open on her desk offered no insight, a report full of technical words but no context. It reminded her of University, when she needed to hit her word count and would use long pointless sentences just to summarise a very simple matter. The pound was worth nothing until the Government showed stability.
A cough startled her from her thoughts, the report forgotten, she wondered if she had missed her secretary knocking on the door, who had maybe entered without her knowledge. Except the room is empty, only the warmth of the light, the empty fireplace and the portraits lining the walls.
Perhaps the sleepless nights had caught up with her, maybe the stress had finally made her snap. It was nearly after eight pm, she should retire and start fresh in the morning.
There was no mistaking the second cough, she had jumped to her feet in response. If this was some prank, some trick if someone had left a walkie-talkie in the room, she would shove it up…
“Ah, good I have your attention! You, Prime Minister, are one tough woman to speak with.”
The portrait is talking to her. The frog-faced man in the oil painting is talking to her. It must be true, madness runs in the family, was she going to be like her great uncle? Would she hear voices and claim she could hear snakes whispering?
She picks up her cold tea and sniffs, was she slipped something? Did someone spike her drink? Did she spike her own drink? Perhaps she is dreaming and she'll wake up in her chair very shortly.
“Very difficult to pin down. Never in my time have I had to wait this long!” The indignation in the mans voive. “Never mind you are here now. The Minister of Magic has requested an audience with you. They would have preferred to have done this sooner, and they hate to be kept waiting.”
“Minister of Magic?” By all the saints, she had truly become unhinged.
After all the scandals, this is just what her party needs. The new Prime Minister to become unhinged and put in a psych ward.
“Prime Minister! If I could have your attention please, we are on a schedule. The Minister of Magic must speak with you, today.”
“This is some trick, it's hilarious, truly it is. However, may I remind you that having any recording or electrical device in the Prime Minister's office is a breach of security and I will be informing MI5. Regardless if this is a prank-”
“Prime Minister Granger! I assure you, there is no prank at play. For centuries I have introduced Prime Ministers to the Minister of Magic. It is a tradition. It is essential.”
“I must have missed this in the handover.” She replied dryly.
“My dear girl, it's not as though Prime Minister Boyd was able to discuss this! The world would think him mad, such a shame he was caught with his secretary. Such a shame, he was a decent fellow.”
“He embezzled money from the party and paid for prostitutes.”
“Yes, I distinctly recall the ladies. Now, Prime Minister, do you consent to the visit from the Minister of Magic or not? Time is really pressing.”
“Fine.”
“Excellent, I knew you to be a smart girl.”
“What's your name?”
“My name? My name is Ulick Gamp, the very first Minister of Magic.”
“Well, Mr Gamp be this a prank or not, I will not be referred to as a girl. It is either Miss Granger or Minister, I am not a child and I don't appreciate the patronising tone.”
“Oh my.” He brushes down his robes, a funny sight to see of a portrait. “You will get along brilliantly with the Minister I am sure.”
With those words he disappears from view, walking off the portrait as though exiting the stage. “Mad, I've gone mad.” She whispers to herself collapsing back into her chair.
Should anyone appear through her doorway she will press the panic button and this whole joke will fall apart. She must admit it's very cleverly done, quite amusing, she had expected to be punked but this level of creation was something else.
Not a minute later the man appears back in his portrait, almost breathless. She waits, one eyebrow raised at the portrait, and the normally stoic man avoids her gaze. The seconds tick by, and the portrait shifts uncomfortably, he even checks a pocket watch.
She will applaud the creativity, truly she will, but this joke has lasted too long and she is tired. She rises from her chair, wondering if this has been some strange dream or -
With a whoosh of air, the fireplace erupts, drowning the room in a tint of red. It roars with energy; she feels the vibration in the floorboards as she collapses back in her chair with fright, clutching her chest.
She thought it was an ornament piece, she never thought the fire was real. To her utter amazement, a figure emerges from the fire, a foot at first a booted foot.
Within seconds a woman appears, a tall woman with wild black hair that is partially pinned back. A cloak billowing behind her, the air in the room seems to still as though absorbed by the momentum.
The boots pad heavily towards the desk and the woman turns the darkest black eyes upon the Muggle Prime Minister. Shocked, utterly amazed and shocked, she remains frozen in her chair.
“Good evening.”
She had not expected such an elegant voice from the woman, with the wild hair, strong jaw and towering figure she had not expected such refined but husky tones.
“What in God’s name…” She trails off at a loss of what to do.
“Ah, ah, my dear Minister, please refrain from hitting your panic button. We don't want a repeat of last time. Poor Bode, Bude… Gamp what was that idiot's name?”
“Boyd, Minister. His name was Boyd.” the portrait calls out.
“Right, right. Boyd. I thought he was going to shit a niffler, quite fitting if he did I suppose.” With a smirk the woman brushes her hair out of her face. “Prime Minister Hermione Granger, I am Bellatrix Black the Minister of Magic.”
“Magic?”
“Yes, we have worked in unison for many years and in truth, it'll be highly unlikely you will see me again. The next time my office and your office will speak again will most likely be when one of us leaves office.”
“I've gone mad.”
“I can't comment on that.”
A hand offered, and Hermione shakily takes it shocked to find this person truly exists. It's a fleeting handshake before the woman is wiping her hand on her cloak before she moves back towards the fireplace.
“Wait!” Hermione orders, forcing the woman to pause. “Is that it?”
“You were expecting more?”
“You can't just barge into my office, declare there is some other world, and then leave. That's if I believe you.”
“Whether you believe me or not is of little consequence. We are already behind schedule due to your tardiness.”
“My tardiness?
“We should have met when you took office, but now we are behind.”
“Forgive me for having a country to run, a country you live in, may I add.” A flicker of annoyance crosses the woman's face. “Now, should you be telling the truth, I'd be damned if you are going to waltz in here tell me there's a magical kingdom then waltz out again. What are the rates? Taxes? What laws and governs are there? Do you have schools? How many of you are there?”
“Merlin's beard you are going to be a pain.”
“I require answers.”
“Well in future, don't be late.”
“I didn't know you existed until 5 minutes ago. Now will you answer my questions?”
“No. If you require anything, speak to Gamp. Now watch me waltz away.”
With a flash of flames, the woman steps into the fireplace and disappears.
*****
“Tea?”
A shake of the head, she doesn't anticipate being here long, she has a question she needs to ask. With a slight bow of the head, the waiter steps away from the table.
When she first came to this old establishment, she hated it, trapped in the tradition of years passed. Even the waiting team seemed to be born in the Victorian age. Nevertheless, to progress her political career she was well aware that she had to attend such functions. Politics was less how much you knew and more who you knew when it came to progressing in her career.
“I wasn't expecting to see you so soon.” calm, the aging hand dips the hobnob into the tea. “I truly wouldn't worry my dear, the pound will rise, it wasn't worth the visit to see this old face. You know these biscuits are terribly bad for you, but they taste so very good.”
“John.” On any other occasions she would endure John's ramblings, but today her patience is thin. “This isn't about the pound.”
“Oh? Surely you have much more important things to be doing than sitting here with me my darling? You are the Prime Minister!”
There's a gleam of pride in his eyes, he had backed her from the start. At first he didn't like the newest politician causing waves, but then they met officially. Ever since then she had the help of a retired Prime Minister to assist her.
She would love nothing more than to sit, talk and relax away from the craziness of being PM for a few minutes. However her schedule is packed and she had to fight with her secretary to squeeze in a visit here. “It's about the painting.”
The biscuit breaks apart, crumbling all over the table a large chunk vanishing into his cup of tea. He waves off the approaching waiter before he brushes the crumbs from his suit.
“We don't talk about the painting.”
“So it's real?”
“We don't discuss this.” John reiterates folding his hands together and slipping into his professional self one last time.
“The fireplace…” she trails off, it sounds mad to discuss, but she needs to know if she's going crazy.
“Hermione, focus on the job.”
“A woman stepped out of the fireplace, a painting talked, how… how can I continue as though nothing has changed. There's a whole world out there, one we had no knowledge of.”
“A woman? Interesting. Scrimgeour must have lost his reelection, oh but he did share his fear that, what was the name? Oh yes, Black was running for Minister. I never thought it would be a woman. How fitting.”
“You spoke to him frequently?” Hermione enquired.
“No, no, only three times. The first introduction, the second he made me aware there would be dragons and the third…”
“Dragons?”
“Not so loud.” John shushes her before patting her hand.
“At least I know I'm not going mad.”
“Perhaps you are, perhaps we all did, the stress of being Prime Minister may have turned us all into lunatics. If it's any comfort, you are not alone.”
It is no comfort to know she could be crazy but not alone in her madness. As days ticked by, she watched the painting to see if it would move and until she decided to do something about it.
She was, after all, notoriously stubborn, which was both a blessing and a curse. Not one to stand aside and wait, she worked her connections to see if there was a away to get around the portrait. Simply removing the painting did not work, so she would have to get creative.
****
“You know,” The voice, so unexpected, shocked her from her deep slumber. She had fallen asleep in her chair, her desk astray with paperwork.
The boots propped up on her desk not there when she had drifted off. The woman sat in the seat opposite her, the other Minister if she were to be politically correct. The fire was the only source of light in the room and it had definitely not been lit when she drifted asleep. The light bathed the dark haired woman in an unnatural glow as she sat arms folded.
“We've had people try to destroy the painting, some have removed the wall. There has been holy water thrown at the painting, poor Mr Gamp has seen many, many crazy things over his years. Even an exorcism from a Pope at one time. You, Prime Minister Granger, are the first to try to use Magic.”
She blushes scarlet under the scrutiny of the woman who has the audacity to sit with her feet propped on her desk. “Aren't you meant to announce your visits?” Hermione enquired wiping her mouth aware she had drooled on her arm in her sleep.
“Under the normal civil circumstances, yes. However, you, a muggle, dabbled in the unholy dark Magic. A council was formed as such and I was sent to ensure you didn't summon a Hextric in your idiocy.”
“Hextric?”
“A multi-headed creature with four arms, known to visit the different worlds.”
Her heart was perhaps racing far faster than she would care to admit. The book, the blasted book she had brought through other sources, she had tried a banishing spell. It seemed natural in perhaps the madness she found herself in. Now she feels foolish, perhaps mental-
“Your face.” A cackle erupts from the woman opposite her it lasts a good few minutes before the woman calms herself down once more. A hand reaches down and lifts the book, the book Hermione had brought. “You should have seen your face.”
“You were lying?” She tightens her jaw before clenching her hands together. This woman was infuriating.
“You're a muggle, you are magicless, the only thing running through your veins is blood. And this! This is some cheap voodoo rubbish.”
With those words Black tosses the book into the fire which engulfs the pages eagerly.
“I paid for that.” Hermione mutters staring at the flames hungrily devouring her book.
“Waste of money.”
“So there's no such thing as Voodoo?”
“Oh there is, but it's Dark magic, banned in the wizarding world. Punishable by the kiss.”
“The kiss?” What? Did the punishment in the magic world mean a person receives a unwanted kiss? What was this bewildering world? Did they even have laws? Police?
“A kiss from the Dementors,”
“Dementors?” Hermione interrupts.
“They guard Azkaban prison where we send undesirables. The use of the Dark Arts can be a grievous crime and as such results in the highest punishment. Dementors are dark, wraith-like creatures that feed on human happiness and cause despair. A kiss from them will suck the soul from your body and leave you a shell of a human.”
She waits for the laugh, for Black to cackle, except the woman is admiring her nails as though they were discussing the latest Emmerdale episode.
“How is a De… Dementor?” Black nods to the correct name. “Real, but a Hextric is made up? That's, that is just.”
“Uh-huh,” Black nods not really listening. “Terrible I know.”
“It's barbaric. This is the twenty-first century and you are still sentencing people to death? Not even death, worse than death you are making them essentially comatose. What happens to their bodies who cares for them?”
“Cares for them? They are undesirables there is no caring for them. They are no longer able to feed themselves, so eventually they die.” A shrug of the shoulders.
“No.”
“Excuse me?” Black replies, paying full attention to Hermione now.
“I will not have capital punishment exist in my Country. This was abolished in 1998, I don't care if you are Magical or not. I don't care to understand how any of this works, but you are a representative for the United Kingdom. You are the Minister for your world. We are United, you cannot have capital punishment still active on British soil.”
“You, do not tell me what my people can and cannot do.” The low voice retorts as booted feet land on the wooden floor.
“I am the Prime Minister,” Hermione retorts, rising to her feet. “More than that I was once a representative to the European Union. I studied law in University and I certainly will say without a shadow of hesitation, I will not have any capital punishment in Britain. Is that understood? Or you Minister, are in violation of the European Convention on Human Rights! You are violating the rights of your people, who despite being magical are still human!”
Chest heaving, Hermione tries to calm her anger. The pent up frustration from this woman waltzing into her office weeks ago all tumbling out. She expects a fight, she expects Black to react, to patronise to dismiss her.
Black remains unnaturally cold, the jovial attitude slipped away during Hermione's speech and a mask of indifference replaced it. Slowly, Black rises to her feet, the height difference prominent as she stares down at Hermione with fury in those dark eyes.
“You're new.” The tone is low, huskier and much darker than previously. “You will learn. Do not comment on things you know little about.”
“I know humans.” Hermione retorts.
“That may be, yet you know not of the Creatures that dwell in my world. Stay out of Magical affairs Miss Granger, for your own good. This is my only warning.”
“Are you threatening me?” Hermione demands.
Except, Black ignores her and takes a slow walk towards the fire. Powder in the woman's hand, Hermione hadn't noticed that previously. Is that how they travel through the flames without injury?
“Threaten? Me? Not at all.”
With a flash of green the woman vanishes from sight leaving only Hermione and Mr Gamp watching the fireplace.
“I say,” Mr Gamp announces minutes later. “You have a backbone you do girl. Not many dare tell Black what to do, not many love to tell the tale either.”
“I'm not scared of her.” Hermione retorts inwardly relieved the woman didn't argue.
“Well, that makes one of us.” Mr Gamp mutters.
*****
Hermione’s brooding evening was interrupted, quite unexpectedly, by an owl shrieking outside. She starts when it lets out its first cry, but then, as it continues, she pads to the window and peers out. It takes her a moment to spot it, but there, on the ledge of a window across the street and down two, sits a large bird, only visible because of an ideally situated street lamp. It appears to be carrying something, and she wonders whether it is attempting to create a nest there. It seems an absurd place. The bird also appears to be tapping on the window, and Hermione winces, a slight sense of pity for any occupants rising inside her. If the bird has claimed the house as its home, she doubts they would get any sleep. There were probably laws about owls, protecting them, or something. It wasn’t the area of law she was familiar with, but she could look it up…
Distracted by the idea of research, she turns, frowning and deep in thought, before heading back to her chair by the fire. It is a small luxury, but Hermione has always had a slightly romantic notion that to read by the fire in an evening is somehow dramatic enough for a heroine yet peaceful enough not to inspire the universe to thrust her into some epic drama. Besides, it warms her as she reads - for once, for pleasure instead of work.
As she sits down again and picks up her book, Hermione catches sight of a spark escaping from the flames and tumbling over the logs to die in the hearth. Fireplaces, she considers mournfully, do now have the misfortune to remind her of the curly-haired menace, the one thorn in her otherwise smooth and ordered world. Oh, sure, there are challenges. Her role as Prime Minister means that she never stops, is always surrounded by flocks of people needing her, wanting something, never revealing their hand, and always expecting her to have the answer, no matter what. It can be infuriating, exhausting, and disastrous, but it is also rewarding, challenging, and everything she wants when she first decides to become a part of the political world.
But that woman…
She shouldn’t get under Hermione’s skin so much. It is infuriating because she comes out of nowhere and is the only person around Hermione who doesn’t seem to give a rat's arse that Hermione is Prime Minister. Worse, this only fuels Hermione’s tiny insecurity over the fact that she hasn’t won the seat with the support of the public. It has been handed to her, and it doesn’t feel won. Everyone else makes her feel like that doesn’t matter. Bellatrix Black makes her feel like it wouldn’t matter if she won it or not.
Grinding her teeth, Hermione closes her eyes, inhales sharply, and decides to push the woman from her mind. She can already intrude at will in her office, but this is home - her sanctuary. She won’t let her invade her thoughts, too.
She sips at her wine and flips over the page. The book is a little saucy, but no one is around to judge her. She bites her lip as the plot intensifies, with the lead getting hot under the collar. Time ticks on, the subtle tick-tick of the clock on the mantle and the crackle of the fire soothing her. One more chapter, and then she'll go to bed. It isn’t that late. She glances up at the clock. 10:27 pm… Yes, one more chapter. She has to be fresh for the morning. She turns back to the book and begins to read chapter 10.
The fire erupts, causing her to shriek and flinch away, and then that woman steps out. Glancing down, Black spots her cowering and smirks. Hermione, heart thudding, clears her throat and straightens her dressing gown.
“What the… you can’t just come bursting into my private—”
“Yes, yes, feel free to revel in moral outrage about my intrusion into your evening instead of focusing on the fact that I would not do so unless there’s an important matter that requires urgent discussion.” Black sniffs, dropping into the chair opposite with so much ‘flop’ that it’s maddening how elegant she makes it. Hermione narrows her eyes.
“I’m pretty sure that nothing is so urgent that it risks walking in on me in a state of…” Hermione trails off as she realises Black has spotted her book, the front cover making clear what it’s about, and is smirking with one eyebrow steadily climbing higher. She snaps it closed and places it on the table beside her. “What?”
“Nothing,” Black responds with a dry amusement that sets Hermione’s teeth on edge. “Bit of light reading?”
“What I read in my own time is none of your-”
“Touchy, aren’t we?” Black cocks her head to the side, and her smirk widens. “Just what kind of state do I catch you in?”
Hermione, against her wishes and better judgment, flushes.
“I thought you said you have an urgent matter to discuss?” She clears her throat, summoning a glare that feels a little imperious. “Unless you just come to waste my time.”
Black’s eyes narrow, and she raises her chin.
“I’m not in the habit of wasting anyone’s time.” The woman looks tired, Hermione realizes, now that her heart has stopped beating out a samba. She narrows her eyes, studying her. Dark circles and a stretched, almost wild gaze suggest she’s been awake for too many hours on the trot. She knows that look; she sees it in her own eyes.
“Okay,” she sits back, taking a breath. “You scare the shit out of me and have no respect for boundaries or privacy, but I accept that we share similar roles. What is it that’s so urgent?”
Black gives her a shrewd look, obviously a little suspicious of Hermione’s change in temperature.
“We’ve had an escape… from Azkaban.”
Hermione’s eyes narrow again.
“The prison where you strip people of their human rights?”
Black’s eyes narrow, too.
“Our high-security prison for those who deserve the worst punishments, yes.”
Hermione grits her teeth.
“And who has escaped?”
“You don’t need to know that,” Black dismisses her, waving the question off like it's a fly that has minorly irritated him. “All you need to know is that we’ll catch him, but there may be some… incidents in the meantime. We’ll clean them up as best we can.”
“That’s unacceptable,” Hermione snaps. “We should be able to warn people. Put out a notice; tell people not to approach him, or—”
“Do you really think?” Black interrupts, rising from the chair and putting her hands on the arms of Hermione’s, bringing her far too close for Hermione to feel comfortable. She swallows the rest of her statement and sinks back a little. “That any of you muggles could do a thing if one of our most dangerous criminals decides to hurt them? All it takes is a flick of our wands, and you’d have no power, no escape…”
Hermione’s breath catches, her eyes going a little fuzzy around the edges, and then she sucks in a breath and narrows her eyes, pulling her public politician mask back on.
“Just because you have magic doesn’t mean you should underestimate us.”
Hermione thinks she sees a flicker of something that could be surprise, maybe even a sign that Black is impressed, before the woman curls her lip.
“Just because you are Prime Minister doesn’t mean you get everything you want, pet.”
The lower register of her voice leaves Hermione speechless for a moment, and if it weren’t for the arresting darkness of Black’s eyes, she might submit to the sudden urge to look at Black’s lips.
“Funny,” she replies, mortified that her voice sounds husky. She clears her throat. “I thought it did.”
Black's irises spread like inky pools, pulling Hermione’s gaze and then… the contact breaks as Black steps back, smirking, and flops back into her chair.
“Sirius Black.”
Hermione blinks.
“Sorry?”
“That’s who has escaped.”
Hermione remembers the articles about him, the whispers at cabinet meetings, and the crazed eyes staring out of photographs.
“He’s a wizard?”
“Yes.” Black waves it off like it’s nothing. Wait…
“Sirius… Black?”
Eyes sharpen.
“Took you a second.” He tilts his head to the side. “Thought you were supposed to be a smart one?”
Hermione scoffs.
“He’s your… brother?”
“Cousin.” Black’s eye twitches ever so slightly.
“And were you going to tell me that little detail…?”
“Well, Granger,” Black curls her fingers over the ends of the arms of the chair and leans forward. She looks almost dangerous like that. “I’d rather expect you to make the connection as you do. You might get the job unconventionally, but you get it with your brains.”
That is… almost a compliment.
“So,” Hermione chews her lip, an old habit she tries to break. “How are you handling… all of that?”
Black narrows her eyes.
“What is this? A sleepover? Therapy session?”
“No, I just—”
“We’re not going to braid each other’s hair and talk about our feelings. This is business. Politics.”
“I get that.” Hermione snaps. “I’m just saying it’s got to be hard, and I can’t imagine you can talk about that with anyone on your side.”
Black’s eyes flicker, and then she scowls.
“You know nothing about my life, Granger.” She stands up, sliding her hand into her pocket and pulling out a little pouch. “I’ll let you know when we’ve apprehended him.”
“Wait, but—”
Black throws some powder into the fireplace and steps inside.
With a whoosh of green flame, she’s gone. Hermione is left staring at her fire as it settles back to its original orange flames, feeling like she’s just had the rug pulled out from underneath her.
What a mess the Wizarding world is in if this chaotic, intense, snarling woman is their leader.