The Wizarding world was still in a state of recovery. Nearly two years had passed since the final battle, yet still, the effects of Lord Voldemort linger. Muggles were still scared to walk around their neighbourhoods at night, and the occasional rogue Dementor floated into inhabited areas. The magical community were still wary of a Death Eater resurface. Dozens were still unaccounted for, and every new face to show in the Ministry of Magic was met with intense scrutiny. Trust was far more difficult to earn these days; even the Minister for Magic, Kinglsey Shacklebolt, was unable to walk into his office without being scanned for deceptive charms.

Even though it was the middle of Summer, rain was lashing down on the windows of Hermione Granger's London apartment. The young witch was dreading her walk to the tube, made even worse by the fact that she'd yet to unpack her umbrella from the moving boxes. She still couldn't quite believe she now owned a flat; no one else's, no more sharing, just her. She had never felt more free.

"Fuck it, I'll floo," she muttered to herself, snapping the blinds closed. She drained the last of her coffee from her mug before going over to the large fireplace. She hated travelling by floo powder, but since you still couldn't apparate into the ministry (and she refused to use those ghastly toilet's set up during the war), she was left with no other choice. She smoothed over her work robes, plucking a stray cat hair off her sleeve, and picked up her small jar of floo powder. She threw it into the fire, which immediately erupted into green flames, and stepped in. "Ministry of Magic – Atrium," she said clearly, tucking her elbows in tight and clutching her handbag to her chest as she started to spin.

Moments later, she stepped out of one of the many Ministry fires. She'd barely taken a few steps before one of the attendants walked up to her. "Name and wand please, Ma'am."

The security checks didn't bother Hermione. She had even written some of the procedures herself, and knew that they were necessary. "Hermione Granger, Magical Law Enforcement," she said, handing over her wand. The attendant scanned it with his, and handed it back.

"Have a good day, Hermione," he said kindly.

"Thanks, Terry, you too" she smiled, before walking through the golden gates. Even though some of the higher offices still had shattered windows and needed to be repaired, the Atrium was nevertheless a breathtaking sight. The god-awful statue the previous Ministry had erected, of muggles in their rightful place, had been blown to smithereens and replaced with a sculpture of a phoenix, in honour of the Order. She looked fondly at it as she walked past, like she did every morning.

As she walked to the lift, she gave a smile to a few people, and greeted some with pleasantries. After working here for nearly a year now, people had gotten over the fact of seeing a member of the golden trio walk among them. She looked like everyone else; tired eyes, holding far too many files, hair stubbornly growing bushier as the heat increased. Nothing special.

Without paying attention to where she was walking, she had found her way to her small office. A fresh cup of coffee was waiting for her on her desk, along with a few memos. She recognised Harry's writing on one – suggesting they have lunch together later – and, to her surprise, a note from Minister Shacklebolt.

Hermione,

I have a job opportunity I'd like to talk to you about. Please stop by my office at 3pm.

Kingsley, M. O. M.

She furrowed her brow. Whenever Kingsley offered her a job, it was usually because it was something too difficult to do himself. She'd lost count of the amount of hours she had spent in the Department of Mysteries, using her extensive magical knowledge to identify a variety of confiscated items found in raids, along with still having to do her real job.

She wrote quick replies to both Harry and Kingsley and cast a silent charm so the parchment would fold into aeroplanes and fly from the room. She was looking forward to lunch. With all three of them now having full-time jobs, it was hard to see Harry and Ron as much as she'd like. There were fortnightly dinners as the Weasley's place, but she hadn't been for months. Just as she was dedicated to school work at Hogwarts, she was just as dedicated to her job, often working overtime and bring files home with her when her insomnia struck. It had been a common thing since the war. She couldn't remember the last time she slept and woke up feeling rejuvenated.

With a long day ahead of her, she took a gulp of coffee and averted her gaze to her in-tray. It had doubled in size since she left last night. Her department was currently in the final stages of planning security for the upcoming quidditch season, and it looked as though the Auror's had finally approved their measures.

They had been critisized by a select few Daily Prophet reporters about how they should be spending money on re-building efforts, but most of the public disagreed. It was something positive to look forward too, but the Ministry had certainly learned from their mistakes from the world cup six years ago. Members of Hermione's team had even invented new protective spells to keep the area safe. It truly had been a fascinating process, and she had documented every minute of it. Being able to record spell-tests had just added to her thirst for knowledge.

She got to work, reading through the notes and suggestions. Who ever had written the majority of it had very hard to read handwriting, and by the time lunch came around, she had a splitting headache. She saw a familiar shadow pass by her glass window and, sure enough, a knock sounded on her door. "Coming, Harry," she said, taking a swig of pain-killing potion she kept at her desk. She grabbed her bag and headed for the door, headache slowly disappearing.

Harry looked the same as he always did, same messy hair and brilliant green eyes, but for some reason, was attempting the 'I haven't shaved in 5 days' look. She wasn't sure if it suited him. "Terrilo's ok?" he asked as they walked down the hall.

Hermione nodded, she was a regular customer at that café. Their steak and stout pie was legendary. "How did the raids go last week?" she asked.

"So-so," Harry replied, " but at least Narcissa Malfoy didn't try to fight our warrant. I was worried she might kick up a fuss."

For a moment, her mind flashed to the horror's she had been subjected to at Mafloy Manor, but she pushed it back. That was the past. Narcissa had earned her freedom, and was free to live on as a witch, although Hermione did her best to avoid the woman, despite her friendship with Draco.

"The few things we found weren't actually dark magic at all, but they're certainly interesting," he continued, before launching into details. Hermione listened attentively, and didn't break eye contact, even when their meals had been brought out. She loved seeing Harry so happy with his work. Although at first she thought him foolish to not return to Hogwarts after the war, she could now see that he'd made the right decision for his career. He's one of the youngest Auror's the Ministry has ever had, and given the fact he killed the Dark Lord, could easily be the most successful.

As their lunch talks carried on, Hermione kept glancing at her watch. She didn't have much time left until she had to leave to meet Kingsley, and she knew security on the Minister's level look a lot longer than the usual procedures. She regretfully said farewell to Harry, with a promise to try and come to the Weasley dinner on Friday, before hurrying back to the Ministry. She headed straight for the lift, pressed button B1 and waited as the iron elevator whizzed her around the building.

Upon arrival, she surrendered her wand to be scanned, while another guard scanned her mind for enchantments or illegal potions. She answered a few basic questions and was finally allowed through. Just as she got to Kingsley's receptionist, the man himself strode in, smiling. "Good to see you, Hermione," he said, gesturing for her to follow him.

"And you," she replied as they entered his office. It hadn't changed since she had last been there, and the armchairs were as comfortable as ever.

"Let's get straight to business," the minister said, sitting opposite behind his mahogany desk. "A captured Death Eater let something slip at his latest parole hearing, something we feel we need to investigate. While it sounded like a crazy story, we have to remember that Voldemort himself was crazy. It could be plausible. He did know more about magic – especially dark magic – than anyone else on this planet."

Hermione nodded, curiosity getting the better of her. "What did the prisoner say?"

"It was about those Dark Mark tattoo's that they all had. He claimed that some worked like the Imperius curse, leaving the Death Eater completely under Voldemort's control."

"Some..." Hermione repeated. "That's interesting." She was unsure whether she believed it, but looking at it from a non-biased point of view, it wouldn't surprise her if someone had created a charm capable of that. Especially someone as skilled as Lord Voldemort

"Apparently," he continued, "these special tattoo's were only placed on those who joined under the age of 17."

"Voldemort probably didn't want them changing their minds when they grew up," Hermione sad in a low voice.

"My thoughts exactly."

"So what does this have to do with me?" Hermione asked. "Do you want me to see if that kind of spell is possible? Because, honestly, it wouldn't surprise me. Voldemort's hardly the first dark wizard this world has known. Even Snape invented dark curses, and as a teenager, at that."

At this, Kingsley looked at her rather guiltily. "We're already testing that theory. I'd like you to interview and document the Death Eater's we end up choosing. To record their progress, if they make any. Minerva mentioned a few months ago now how you had once said you'd prefer to work at St Mungo's, rather than the Ministry. Consider this a branching effort fr your career, if you're interested."

Hermione replayed the words slowly in her mind. Minerva was correct, St Mungo's was her desired job, but the thought of facing a Death Eater terrified her. They had stolen almost everything from her in the past. Destroyed her completely, forcing her to make decisions no teenager should ever have to make, and her parents were still missing in Australia two years later. "Are there any Death Eaters alive who joined before they became of age?" Most of Voldemort's followers were dead, some were still on the run, and the few that remained in England were either in Azkaban or St. Mungo's.

"There are three confirmed at the current time," he said. "One being Draco Malfoy, who I'm under the impression you are good friends with."

Draco. Of course. Again, Hermione nodded. "You'd be correct. I'm more than happy to interview him over this. He hates talking about the past, but he generally opens up a bit more to me than anyone else. With the exception of Tori, and his mother," she added fairly.

"Excellent," Kingley said, leaning back in his chair.

"And the other two?" she asked, already dreading the answer.

"Bellatrix Lestrange, and her brother-in-law, Rabastan. Rodolphus Lestrange joined when he was 19, but his then fiancée and brother were only 15 and 16 respectively."

Hermione's face drained of colour at the mention of the first name. There had been a rumour that she had survived the battle, mainly because nobody believed Molly Weasley capable of casting a killing curse. A good stunning spell, perhaps, but not an Unforgivable. "Surely you can find someone else to do this, Kingsley" she whispered, frowning. "Those two were – are – monsters."

The Minister sighed. "If what our source said is true, they might not be. They might have been forced to be monsters, without realising their actions weren't their own. The reason why I am asking you, Hermione, is because I know you can see good in even the darkest of minds. You have forgiven people who didn't necessarily deserve it. Your friendship with young Draco Malfoy perplexed many yet you make it work. If it gets too much, you can leave at any time. I just want to see how you go."

"Please let me think about this," she said after a while, mind racing. "I'll talk to Draco, but as for the other two..."

The minister nodded. "No rush. I thought perhaps you don't decide until after you hear what Mr Malfoy has to say?"

At this, Hermione chuckled softly. Oh, Kingsley, you're smart, she thought. "Deal." She felt disgusted at herself for even suggesting this, but the logical part of her mind pushed her vocal chords into submission. "Just in case it is true, perhaps the Lestrange's should be moved from Azkaban. You can see what they're like without Dementor's wreaking havoc on their minds. If they have been oppressed by Voldemort, you're not going to know until they're free from that island."

"Already thought of," he agreed, "they're being transferred to St Mungo's this evening."

At the finality of his tone, Hermione turned to leave, but one more question was niggling at her. "Wasn't Bellatrix on the list of the dead?"

"It appeared that Molly's curse had similar effects to Draught of Living Death potion. She regained consciousness on the afternoon of May 3rd. We decided to keep that quiet, for everyone's well-being," he explained. "She's been in an unmarked cell in Azkaban since. Mad as ever, apparently."

Hermione nodded. Her mind was moving too quickly to think of anything else to ask coherently. "I'll write to Draco and set up a meeting. I'll keep you informed."

As she left, she tried to control her breathing to get her heart rate down. It didn't work, and by the time she had made it through the security checks to her office, it was almost time to go home. She stood behind her desk, staring up at the ceiling, hands tangled in her curls. Her professionalism kept her calm in the Ministers office, but she couldn't keep that mask on forever.

Calm down, Hermione, she told herself. As she sat in her chair, she re-organised her thoughts. Instead of focusing on the bigger picture, she repeated over and over that all she had to do right now was talk to Draco. No Bellatrix, no Rabastan, just Draco, one of her closest friends. They had coffee every week, this hardly changes anything. It took her a while, but eventually, she had calmed down enough to write a letter without her quill shaking too much.

Draco,

The Minister has given me a new project concerning you, and I need to ask you some questions. Any chance we can re-schedule Saturday's dinner to tomorrow night? Heads up – it's about the war. Sorry in advance. Drink as much Gigglewater as you need.

H.

She looked at the stack of papers still on her desk. She was certainly not in the right headspace to work any more, so she quickly packed her things and left, taking half of the files with her in case she felt better at home. As she bade her co-workers and assistants a good evening, she hurried to the post office on the floor below to owl her note to Draco before flooing home, mind still running in circles.

She had just settled in her nice hot bath, working out the kinks in her back, when her doorbell sounded. She tried to ignore it at first, but it became more persistent. Grumbling darkly, she quickly dried herself off and threw on a light dress. She cursed as she saw the time – 10pm. Who on Earth goes around ringing people's doorbells at this hour?


"Draco?" she asked in surprise as she opened the door. On the threshold, the tall blond gave a very apologetic smile. It was only then that she realised he wasn't alone – standing behind him was Narcissa Malfoy, her features completely expressionless. Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"Sorry for the late hour," he said, "but I think I know what you want to talk about. Mum was told earlier that Bellatrix was part of a new Ministry inquiry about Dark Marks or something. She probably knows much more about it than me." Behind him, Narcissa nodded slowly. "I bought wine. Still an insomniac?" he asked, trying to ease the tension.

Hermione laughed. "Are you?" She opened the door completely, waving the two blondes in. "Sorry about the mess, only moved in a few days ago," she said, clearing some boxes of her leather sofa. "Still haven't unpacked."

While Draco set about helping Hermione remove the boxes from the coffee table, Narcissa hovered awkwardly by the door. Her heart was hammering, and Hermione noticed she grew paler and paler. "Have a seat, Mrs. Malfoy," the brunette said.

"Mum. It's fine," Draco said when she didn't move.

The tension in the air made Hermione feel that Draco had spent more than a few hours talking to his mother this evening. It was clear that this information Kingsley had gotten had some basis in truth, although as to what extent, Hermione didn't know. Given the Malfoy matriarch was at the home of a muggle-born, she knew it must be serious.

"Thank you," Narcissa said eventually, easing down into an armchair. Her back remained rigid, and her hands were clutched so tightly together her knuckles were white. "I must say, I was expecting more hostility," she admitted. Draco rolled his eyes before he went searching for some wine glasses.

Hermione sighed. "At the end of the day, you did the right thing," she said. "After Kingsley mentioned your sister's potential history to me, I knew I'd have to talk to both you and Andromeda."

Narcissa nodded. "The Death Eater that talked. Personally, I do believe what he said is partially true. Draco can confirm, the tattoos are more than just a method of contact."

The young witch stood up and rummaged in her handbag for her notebook and pen. After seeing the damage Rita Skeeter's quick-quotes quill did, she could never bring herself to use magic to take notes. She loved being able to be a muggle from time to time. Despite what the older witch sitting in her living room had once believed of her blood, Hermione was proud of her heritage.

Draco, who emerged from the kitchen with three glasses of wine, sat down next to his mother. "I'm sure you already know what you want to ask me," he said. "Go ahead. Some of my memories are a bit clouded, but Mum can fill them in."

Hermione nodded, pen poised and ready to take notes. For once, she was glad she wasn't tired. Her mind had stopped going mental. She simply had to know what the Dark Mark was truly capable of. As soon as she had gotten home, she had accio-ed her Healer books from some of her boxes to look up on how they handled psychology in the wizarding world. The procedures were slightly different than the muggle ones, given the fact wizards have access to a variety of truth potions and mind relaxants to assist in recovery. "Assuming the curse isn't real," she began, "did Voldemort have any other way to force you to do his bidding, or was it out of choice?"

"Threats. And I knew he would follow through," Draco said after a silence. The relationship change between the two younger people in the room was evident. They were now interviewer and interviewee. Hermione knew the answers already, but he didn't expect her to break the rules for him. As he'd learned in their final year of Hogwarts together, she was adamant about protocols and professionalism regardless of the situation.

"Did you notice your personality change once you had been branded?" She had debated over what word to use to describe the tattoo. To some, it had been displayed with pride, yet others had been ashamed by it, and possibly tricked into getting it. As the world recovered from the war, she realised there were a few people that had had no choice in joining Voldemort – it was either follow him, or die. She had fought hard for lighter sentences on those who had been coerced.

"Looking back now, I realised I had changed," he admitted. "But at the time, we were all in a constant state of fear than all emotions blended into a mess."

"I thought it was depression, at first," Narcissa said quietly, "which would be anyone's logical first thought. I went to Severus for help, as you know. But sometimes, the real Draco would break through. Just a scared 16 year old boy in an adult's fight."

Hermione wrote down the assumption. "Same symptom as depression, regardless," she murmured. She knew that any of this would be damn near impossible to prove. This all happened during war. Everyone's memories were sketchy, everyone would have fallen into situational depression, regardless of what side they were on, with the exception of a few Death Eaters. "How do you see it differently, looking back?" she asked.

At this, Draco turned to his mother, who held his shoulder, staring intently into his grey eyes. With that bit of encouragement, he turned to Hermione again. "Dumbledore knew," he said, voice shaking. "He didn't admit it, but I could tell. He offered me protection - and my mother - said we could be moved to an Order safe-house within half an hour. Every time...every time, I fought so hard to say 'yes' to his offer, but it wouldn't come out. I always said 'no'."

"That is odd," Hermione agreed. "It certainly sounds like there could have been some sort of control happening."

"If it's true, what would this mean for Bella?" All pretence of aristocracy was gone from Narcissa Malfoy's voice. She was breathing rapidly, and Hermione noticed her eyes were watery and desperate.

Hermione swallowed hard; any mention of Bellatrix was enough to make her want to run. "I don't know. You have to understand, your sister-"

"-Did horrible things, yes," Narcissa interrupted, "but if she was forced to do this by magic, then..."

"Then we are going to be in for some very trying times ahead," Hermione answered diplomatically.

"Kinglsey said she was being moved this evening," Draco said, "any chance we'd be able to see her at some point?"

Hermione looked at both Malfoy's sitting before her. To think that this family was feared for so long; they looked broken and defeated, a shadow of their former selves. "You'll have to ask the Minister, but I'll mention it when I see him tomorrow." she said.

Draco nodded, and gave his mother's hand a squeeze. "We should probably get going, it's quite late," he said apologetically. "Dinner still on for tomorrow, yes?"

"Absolutely," Hermione smiled, before showing them to the door. After hearing the cracks of them disapparating, she leaned back against the door and slowly slid down to the floor, taking a long sip of wine as she did so. Damn you, Kingsley, she thought. There was no way she could refuse his offer now. The concept was just too intriguing.