A Forbidden Birthright

Chapter Forty Two

Ron's death had officially made it to the papers, both local and international. Hermione knew this because she was sitting in the office of the Headmaster of American school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Ilvermorny, and had just caught site of the newspaper sitting on his desk. The headline was in bold ink, screaming at her. 

Announcer Ron Weasley's Death brings Death Toll in Ritualistic Murders to Two.

She scanned over the article and the speculations the writer imposed. While much of it wasn't far off, several possible conclusions were outrageous, such as both Lord Voldemort and Gellert Grindelwald had risen from the grave and teamed up to wreck havoc for their deaths. She herself had watched Voldemort crack and turn to ash and then fade away into nothing, and Grindelwald had been killed by the very wizard the were claiming he had joined forced with. It was absurd. 

"Ah, Professor Granger, what a delight," a voice said from behind her and she rose from her chair and turned to greet the Headmaster. 

Elric Favor was a short, stuffy man with a wide belly and a face that sagged with age. His fingers were thick and pudgy and slightly damp when Hermione shook his hand. His eyes, however, were a startling blue and bright with his intelligence. He certainly didn't look like much, but he had been the chosen predecessor of the previous Headmaster Agilbert Fontaine,  who had died unexpectedly only a few years prior. Unlike most of the teachers, Elric hailed from Britain, and even though he spent most of his years in America, a soft accent could still be detected in his words. 

"Thank you for meeting with me, Headmaster," Hermione said as she took her seat across from Elric, who was doing much huffing as he tried to pull himself up into his chair. Once he had done so successfully, he heaved a sigh and smiled, mopping his bald head with a handkerchief.

"Yes, yes, of course. I would never deny a fellow wizard or witch my time should they ask and I have some available to them. And for the great Hermione Granger to request an appointment with me? Hah!" He guffawed obnoxiously and, Hermione felt, unnecessarily.  "I could never say no!" Elric laughed again and then began to shuffle around in his desk drawer. "You know- oh, I know it's here!- this might not be a good time, but while I have you in my company, would you mind- and I do hope this isn't to much to ask but, would you sign your book for me?" He withdrew his arm from the drawer, for it had nearly been swallowed up the the elbow, and he held out a worn book triumphantly. 

Hermione blushed. "You give me too much credit, sir." 

"Nonsense! You wrote this, didn't you? Please, have a quill." 

An inkwell and quill flew rapidly from a nearby shelf, slamming into the desktop in front of her. Several drops of ink splattered, but the Headmaster didn't seem to notice. He smiled at her encouragingly and leaned forward a little, waiting excitedly as she rotated the book and opened the cover. 

"I never would have expected you to write stories, Ms. Granger- or, oh, I do apologize. I've messed up, haven't I? It's Mrs. Malfoy, isn't it? How foolish of me. Please forgive me, I make a mess of names!" He barreled on before Hermione could stutter a correction. "With your reputation, I would have anticipated some kind of history book, or even- and if you ever do this, which I hope that you do, I think I will be sent over the moon with such excitement- herbalist books. Ha! Wouldn't that be wonderful? But no, no, instead, you gave those of us who are less fortunate with words a wonderful piece of magical literature. Are you familiar with Jane Austen, Ms. Granger? Oh, what am I saying? Of course you are, you're muggle born! How could I forget? Dare I say that you, Ms. Granger, are like the modern, magical version of dear Jane Austen. Simply lovely. How unexpected of you, becoming a romance novelist." 

Before he could manage another word without a breath for the next five minutes, Hermione quickly interrupted, her cheeks flushed, "I do not like to consider myself a romance novelist. While I do, perhaps, dabble in that genre, becoming a writer is not the only successes of mine to note. I am a former politician, you know." She felt somewhat rude for correcting him, but she'd always hated whenever somebody referred to her as a romance novelist. Anytime it was mentioned, she suddenly felt as though her work was juvenile and that she was worth more than that. Although she was a dedicated writer, she rarely spoke of it, as she considered it to be a guilty pleasure even if it was well known.