Are You A Witch?

[apollinav]

I wasn't sure where to post this ficlet, or whether to post the ficlet at all.  So feedback is appreciated.  It's about 1,000 words.

I am not trying to make a political statement with this fic, and I’m not trying to be controversial.  It was inspired simply by a conversation with an adjudicator with the US Citizenship and Immigration Services.  And I’ve taken liberties with the process detailed in the fic.  My only thought to share is this: if you’re a natural-born citizen of the country of your choice, don’t take your privileges for granted.

“Are you, or are you not, a witch?” she asked a second time, and Hermione was dragged forcibly from her flashback of Ron asking her the same question by the sour official before her.

“Of course I’m a witch,” Hermione snapped back.  “Sorry,” she amended in a softer tone.  “I’m just very nervous about this.”

The grey-robed witch, sporting a flashy silver badge that read Officer Anderson, arched an eyebrow that easily bespoke, ‘You ought to be.’

“On what grounds?”

“Pardon?” Hermione asked, nonplussed.

“Were you born a witch?”

“Yes, of course,” Hermione easily answered.

Officer Anderson looked pleased and pulled a thin stack of golden Ministry paperwork from a file.  “Then this should be quite easy.  Fine then, Miss Granger, are you pure-blood or half-blood?”

Hermione’s brow creased slightly.  “Neither.  I’m Muggle-born.”

She watched with growing distress as Officer Anderson’s lips thinned in disapproval.

“Then you are not a witch by birth,” the officer announced simply.

“Of course I am!”  What a stupid question, Hermione thought.  Magic wasn’t something that had just popped her over the head one day.  It certainly wasn’t a prize won out of a cereal box, either.

“Miss Granger,” Officer Anderson said, in a voice that warned of growing impatience, “Your parents were both Muggles?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” She nodded.

“And until you were aware of your abilities, is it true that you believed you were a Muggle?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied warily.

“Then you were obviously not born a witch.  You adopted, not inherited, Magical culture.  It is simply a fluke of science that you became a witch.  We classify those of your kind as Magical on the grounds of Ability, not Birth.”  Sighing forlornly, Officer Anderson replaced the thin stack of golden parchment, and pulled out a heavy sheath of pistachio green parchment.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and strained to get a better look at the fine print on the paperwork.

“Well, I suppose if we start on this now, I may have to skip lunch, but at least we can get the ball rolling and put you into the system.  Mind you, this won’t clear you for full-Magical status - good Lord, that could take years - but at least your documentation will be in one file.  Also, if you think it would help your case, you might consider hiring a lawyer.  As a Muggle-born, some of this language may be unfamiliar to you, and a lawyer could help sort it out.  But that’s on your expense.  We don’t provide free legal counsel.  If you want to read up about the laws, you may be able to petition to see the legal library in sub-basement two of the Rutherford district office.  It would also be helpful, Miss Granger, if you also spoke Gobbledygook.”

Officer Anderson paused to take a breath and Hermione sat back, stunned.  

The war had ended.  Voldemort and his minions had been soundly defeated.  Yet Voldemort’s legacy lived on.  The Megalomaniac had heightened fears about state security, and raised uncomfortable questions about the right of Muggle-borns to call themselves wizards and witches.  So that even after his death, the questions lingered.  And eventually, the fear-mongering and blood-status debate collided during the first-ever Wizarding Census.    

“Now then,” Officer Anderson began politely, taking up her quill.  “How long have you been a witch?”

“I’m sorry?” Hermione asked, genuinely perplexed.  She was still stuck on the idea that she was not a witch by birth. 

“When did you start manifesting your ability?”

“Since I was four, I think?  So, maybe twenty-three years?”

Officer Anderson jotted down her answer.  “And since then, where have you resided?”

“Uh… Well, there was the house I was born in.  We were there until I was eight.  Then we moved to Kent.  And I went to Hogwarts at age eleven.  And my  Apprenticeship in Dublin immediately followed.  Then I moved to London, and I’ve been there ever since.”

Officer Anderson shook her head despondently.  “Oh no.  You’ve moved five times in the twenty-three years since manifesting magic!  I must say, Miss Granger, that doesn’t bode well for you.  The council might consider you to be unstable or risky.  You may be required to remain in your current residence for the next decade or two as a show of good faith.”

“But my flat’s tiny!  It's just a temporary place until I can get hired on by Hogwarts,” Hermione blurted.

“Already, your chances of getting full Witch-status are stacked against you, dear.  Moving now would put your case file in jeopardy.”

“Ma’am, just how long is it going to take to process my case file?” Hermione asked with a stone in the pit of her stomach.

“Realistically?  Probably twenty-five to thirty years, give or take.   First we’ll fill out an exhaustive inventory on your past, employment documentation, and demographic data.  Then that will get routed through our main office, and you will be assigned a case officer.  Your case officer will do periodic check-ups and inspections of your house and your use of magic, and make a determination as to whether you’re more Muggle or witch.  Then a decision will be made by the District Officer.  And if you choose to appeal the findings, that could hold up the process.  Once the determination is made, you’ll be required to take and pass an exam covering all aspects of magical life.  And if you pass, then you’ll be granted Magical status.  But don’t worry, as a witch, you’ll probably live until you’re 100.  So what’s a quarter-century here and there?  Remember, this is for the safety and security of our entire population.”

She sat back, dumbfounded, and stared at the pistachio paperwork that she just knew she would grow to hate.

“Question number three,” Officer Anderson began again…

 

Comments

[apollinav.livejournal.com]

Thank you, but it's kind of an awkward piece regarding where it fits in with the rest of most fanfic pieces. I took Annie's advice and posted to OWL.