A.N. Hi everyone! Welcome to my story, and thanks so much for reading! This is my first big writing project, so these first chapters are a bit rougher than more recent ones–I'm at the point now of going through and revising them as I have the time. Aiming to shorten this chapter and the next one significantly, to get to the goings on of Chapter 3 more speedily.

All feedback most appreciated; and thanks so much for the follows, favorites, and reviews! :)

Chapter 1

Hermione Granger was at the Ministry of Magic to interview for a job. And, much as she hated to admit it, she was very, very nervous. Clutching her folder of extra resumé copies, she accepted her wand back from the wizard at the security desk, bobbed her head in thanks, and hurried towards the lifts.

She'd arrived later than Harry, and she recognized no one around her as the grilles slid shut. Two thin wizards in saffron robes were listening with grim expressions to a low murmur coming from the tip of the nearer wizard's wand. Behind her, a secretary's nose and eyes were visible over the top of the heap of parchment rolls he carried. Hermione felt a twinge of sympathy, especially when a memo from the ever-present flock above their heads seemed to recognize the secretary as its intended recipient and zipped down to begin poking him urgently in the side of the head.

"Floor?" asked the burly wizard who had entered the lift last, and it took Hermione a moment to realize he was looking at her.

"Ah, ninth, please." She was going to be early for her interview. But it would be foolish now to ask for a different floor. And she couldn't stop in to visit Arthur or Harry anyway–they had no idea she was here. This was an interview that she had kept from almost everybody, partially because she feared she was unlikely to succeed, and partially out of an obscure feeling that she wasn't supposed to talk about it. They hadn't said so explicitly. But it felt inherently odd to speak about becoming an Unspeakable.

The lift gradually emptied, and Hermione reached the ninth level alone, the usual cool, female voice intoning, "Level Nine, Department of Mysteries." Hermione stepped into the corridor, an expanse of shining black stone, and was struck viscerally with the memory of her only other visit to this department. The Death Eaters, the battle, her own wounds. The eerie wonder of the rooms they had passed through, a wonder she had ignored in her determination to work efficiently past her own sickening fear. Setting aside an echo of that fear, Hermione approached the black door to the Department of Mysteries for a second time. Somewhere underneath her nerves, she felt–strangely excited.

She pulled a letter out of the pocket of her robes and peered at it again. Even though she had memorized its brief contents on the afternoon that she received it, about a month ago now. It read:

Dear Ms. Granger,

Your application has been received, and we are prepared to interview you on the afternoon of August 15th. Ask for Grainne Fenshaw.

Yours sincerely,

Colin Fenderburgh

Secretary, The Department of Mysteries

Here went nothing. Hermione raised her hand to the door. Before she could knock, it swung open with a gentle sound, like a sigh. As soon as she stepped into the circular room beyond, the door snapped shut behind her. And then, as they had in more of her dreams than she cared for, the walls began to spin. When they settled, Hermione found herself facing an uncompromising ring of blank black doors.

She had been thinking about this, and she had decided that there was only one logical thing to do. Or, at least, to try first. She cleared her throat. "Grainne Fenshaw, please."

A door to her left swung open obligingly, with another sigh. Walking through, Hermione found herself in a very dark, wood-paneled corridor. It was lined with doors, each painted a different color. In the middle of each door there was a plain brass plaque. Leaning closer, Hermione realized that these bore names: the plaque closest to her read, Odolpho Tierney - Time. The next read, Ellena Vivaldi - Love, Eros. Names, and–could these be sub-departments?

Hermione finally found her goal twenty-some doors down. A deep violet door bore a name plaque reading, Grainne Fenshaw - Mind, Thought. She squared her shoulders, and knocked. There was a pause, and then a reedy voice called, "Come in. It's open."

Hermione opened the door, and her first impression was of clutter. Her second was that this room was like a cross between a library and a nest. The walls, fairly narrow, were lined with bookshelves. The books on them were piled at such different angles, and so many individual sheets of parchment were pinned up and poking out in rolls, that the neat linears of the shelves could barely be made out. The center of the room was dominated by a wide desk, every inch of which was covered in papers and notebooks, except for a huge, old-fashioned gas lamp at one corner, burning with a magical steadiness.

It was the woman behind the desk, however, to whom Hermione directed her attention. She was small and sinewy, with close-cropped curly gray hair. She was writing furiously in an open book, but she finished her sentence–jabbed a period into the paper–and set down her quill, looking up to fix Hermione with pale eyes.

"Ms. Fenshaw? I hope I'm not interrupting. I'm Hermione Granger, and-"

"I know who you are," said Fenshaw. She held up one hand, and rummaged, coming up with a wand. She waved it, summoning a straight, wooden chair in the small area in front of her desk. "Sit, make yourself comfortable. I want to finish this paragraph while I've still got the thought."

She said it casually, but Hermione remembered that "Thought" had been on the door plaque, and wondered how serious a process she had actually walked in on. Fenshaw gave no sign, merely beginning to write again. Hermione sat gingerly, and leaned down to tuck her folder under her chair. This unfortunately left her with nothing to do with her hands. She put them in her pockets.

A small movement caught the corner of her eye, and she looked to her right. A black cat was regarding her unblinkingly from where it lay, framed between two books, its tail draped towards the shelf below. It twitched its tail again, and Hermione gave it a faint smile. It seemed unimpressed–but then, cats were rarely impressed.

"That's Nero," said Fenshaw. "He hates everybody but me, so don't try to pet him." She put down her quill and actually closed her notebook this time, and then she steepled her hands over it. "So tell me, Ms. Granger. Why should I hire you?"

Hermione took a deep breath. "Well, as much as I can without knowing the details of what it is that you do, I think I would be good at it." Fenshaw had raised a single eyebrow, but Hermione continued. "I'm… good with magic. All kinds, really. I'm good at research. And I'm good at solving problems. And what's more–I really, truly want to do this. To learn about memory, like I wrote in my application. Memory and muggles. I've always been interested in, well, social causes, you see. House elves. Muggles. Muggle-borns, given that I am one myself. If I weren't interested in memory, I would probably be trying my hand at law, instead of interviewing with you."

"I see. Why such an interest in memory, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione had deliberately left this out of her application. Written on a page, it had seemed too desperate, and risked being pitiful. In person, she was hoping it was her drive that would come through instead. "My interest in memory is very personal," she explained. "Ever since I erased my parents' memories." Fenshaw's eyes widened a touch, and Nero slipped down from his perch and hopped up onto the desk, where he turned to watch her. "It was not an accident," Hermione continued. "I erased–I should stop saying that, as I didn't Obliviate them. I replaced my parents' memories, at the beginning of the war, so that they could move to safety, fully believing themselves to be other people. The difficulty is that, when I finally tracked them down in Australia, I couldn't undo the spell. I've been in touch with St. Mungo's for months, and I spent most of my last year at Hogwarts researching. I don't think anybody at all knows how to reverse the spell. I knew that was a risk when I cast it, of course. That it would be permanent. And, well, I would do it again. To save them. And at least they seem happy. But–I suppose I am somebody who has trouble giving up. I have to try to get them back. And if I can learn more about how magic works in the mind–well, maybe I can serve the wizarding world in the process." There was a pause. "I didn't know to come here on my own, of course. I tried to propose research at St. Mungo's. When I had bothered them enough, they sent me to you."

Fenshaw looked thoughtful. "What do you mean, precisely, when you say that you 'replaced' their memories?"

"I ended up casting a Rementire spell on them. Obliviating is so blunt and so specific, you see, it just erases things. And a Glamour was too simple–at least the kind that I had the time to create–and too easily undone."

Fenshaw nodded. "And so you cast a Rementire, and their minds filled in their own details, around the structure you provided. Clever."

Hermione wished there weren't a lump in her throat. It still threatened to rise every time she had to talk about her parents, though she hadn't actually cried about it in several months. "Yes. Well, it seems to have come out well, as far as my spellwork is concerned. The problem is that it's not an illusion that I can simply turn off again, like a Glamour. Their minds are the minds of–the people they are now. So you see my problem."

Fenshaw opened her notebook briskly, startling Nero. "I do, and you're correct in believing that no solution exists. So far." She gave Hermione a slightly toothy grin. "Can you come in to start on Monday?"

…

Hermione arrived in front of Grimauld Place with a pop. Casting a glance around for unwanted witnesses–they kept the house warded as it had been during the war, more out of paranoid habit than serious lingering danger–she tried to wipe all traces of her day off her face. Joy wasn't a safe thing to be getting used to. Then she opened the door and walked in.

The entrance hall was dark; it appeared that Kreacher had turned down the lamps again. The elf's taste verged towards the funereal. Hermione flicked her wand, and the red and gold bulbs hanging from the ceiling filled the hall with a warm glow. She had installed them at the beginning of the summer, originally collaborating with Arthur on an adaptation from a muggle chandelier that he had gotten a bit too enthusiastic about. The result, simplified, was surprisingly elegant.

The Gryffindor color scheme had the advantage of cheering up the dark house, and it appealed to her, Harry, Ron, and Ginny–all the more because it seemed to irritate Kreacher. Hermione liked to think that their relationship with the elf had become one more of teasing than of genuine combat; at any rate, as much as Kreacher was never bubbly in the way Dobby had been, his grumbling these days seemed more fond than anything else. Hermione suspected that this might have to do with a few concessions she had convinced Harry to make on matters like Black family antiques, which Kreacher had been allowed to hoard and curate to his heart's content in a particular section of the attic. He now lived up there in a kind of nest amongst them, and Hermione was fairly certain that his general compliance about decorating changes had to do with this. That, and the fact that none of them ever really took Kreacher to task anymore for low-level interference like talking to the portraits or keeping the house gloomy while they were all out at work. They knew it made him happy, and keeping Kreacher happy made life at Grimauld Place run smoothly. It also helped assuage Hermione's guilt over the fact that they hadn't freed the elf. She had persuaded Harry to have a talk with Kreacher about it over a year ago, and the elf had been horror struck at the thought of leaving the home of the Blacks. He had made such an extra effort after that to take special care of all of them that Hermione had started to feel guilty for having made Harry have the talk in the first place. She now contented herself with being as nice to Kreacher as she could.

"Kreacher, I'm home!" she called. From the look of the coat rack, Hermione was the first one home today. She wandered down the hall, poked her head into the kitchen to confirm that the noises she could hear were Kreacher cooking–the elf gave her a respectful nod but muttered something that sounded like "Mistress Hermione mustn't try to help cook again, Kreacher doesn't need any help" into the pot he was stirring–and continued into the library. There, she curled up in her usual armchair and picked up a book she was reading on pensieves.

A few hours later, she heard the front door open, and voices that she recognized as Harry and Ginny. Ginny and Hermione had moved into Grimauld Place after they graduated from Hogwarts at the beginning of the summer. Harry and Ron had decided to go straight into the Ministry as junior Aurors rather than returning to school for a year, and had been living at Grimauld Place together and studying for some extra certifications for the past year to make up for their lack of N.E.W.T.s. Hermione thought it had made a lot of sense for them–for Harry in particular, after the intensely practical training of their final year of the war–but it had left her relatively lonely at Hogwarts. As a result, she had become much closer with Ginny and with Luna Lovegood, and it was nice to get to keep seeing Ginny on a daily basis.

Hermione put down her reading, and tracked the noises down to the kitchen. Harry and Ginny were setting dinner on the table.

"Hermione!" said Ginny immediately, "How was the interview?"

Hermione slid into the chair opposite them and smiled, trying not to look too smug. "They hired me. You're looking at the Department of Mystery's newest Unspeakable."

Harry gave a grin and a "Well deserved, 'Mione," while Ginny got up to give Hermione a dramatic hug of congratulations. "Partially," added Harry, "Because the things you work on already are semi-beyond most of our speaking abilities. What do they have you doing?"

Hermione made a face. "I'm pretty sure I can't tell you. Isn't that part of the deal?"

"Was worth a try. Ron and I are thinking of getting a bet pool going on who's going to manage to get any hints out of you, and when. Ron's theory is that it'll be when you discover something big enough to hit the Prophet as news."

"And your theory?"

Harry looked at Ginny, who smirked. "Ginny pointed out that if you were keeping a secret, we'd be lucky to find out about it even years later. Thinking back on the Time Turner, and the Marietta Edgecombe… incident… I think I'm in Ginny's camp." He gave Hermione an earnestly innocent smile. "So, you know, you do your thing."

Hermione laughed. "You're testing my loyalty to Ron with this bet, but I suppose he's set himself up for it. Anyway, that's one of the things I want to clarify with my boss when I start tomorrow. There may be some parts of it I'm allowed to talk about."

"You know," pointed out Ginny, "You've got a unique opportunity here. At this stage, you could tell us absolutely anything about your job, and we'd believe you. Hunting our old friend the Crumple-Horned Snorkack? Sure. Charming bowtruckles to execute perfectly choreographed dance sequences? Why not. The world needs it, really. Of course, what I really want to know is if you'll get to work with the brain tank," she wiggled her fingers like tentacles, "Mostly because I'm positive it would freak Ron out but that he'd feel too manly to say anything about it."

Hermione tried not to grin. "You know," she said thoughtfully, "I actually might get to work with those. No idea yet. But I'll be sure to drop ominous hints, regardless." She felt slightly awkward talking about Ron so much, though she couldn't have said why. "Speaking of Ron, Harry," she asked, "Do you know what time he's supposed to get in tomorrow?"

Harry shook his head. "When has Ron been known for planning and punctuality? We can at least be sure that it'll be tomorrow in time for him to unpack and get settled. We have a departmental meeting Wednesday morning that he's supposed to be at."

"Ah. Good. I mean–well, yes, good. I was just wondering whether I'd see him before work tomorrow or not. How do you think… well, I should say, do you think the mission in France went well? Ron seemed… I don't know. Off. In his last letter." Hermione tried not to look anxious as she said it.

Harry avoided her eyes. "I, um, I reckon it went sort of normally. Not every investigation can be a dramatic success, after all. And, you know, practice makes perfect."

Ginny snorted. "Just the motto we want for our law enforcement. Leave it to Ron. If he hadn't-" she broke off abruptly, and Hermione wondered whether Harry might have kicked her under the table. "Anyway, I suppose we can ask him all about it tomorrow. Hey, Kreacher, I think we're ready for dinner, if that's alright with–Merlin, that smells fantastic!"

Kreacher mumbled something inaudible, but he looked immoderately pleased with himself as he directed several hovering bowls onto the table.

The soup was, indeed, fantastic. After a couple of minutes, however, Hermione couldn't help herself. "What were you going to say before, Ginny, about Ron? With the investigation? If he hadn't something?" She tried to keep her tone casual.

Ginny turned pink. "Oh, nothing really. I just… Well, I think it's starting to show that he missed that last year at Hogwarts, is all. It seems to be going fine for Harry, though, so I'm sure that he's right about it just being practice. Ron'll polish up."

Harry had been looking back and forth between the two women as Ginny said it, and now he nodded a bit too enthusiastically. "Really, I've had some muckups too; there's nothing like field experience. And Ron's had some great cases, too. I'm sure it'll even out."

"Oh, me too!" said Hermione, but she wasn't sure that her bright tone had convinced anybody, because they all sank into a slightly awkward silence after that. Harry was probably right, though. There was no reason to borrow trouble. After all, Ron hadn't even mentioned a negative side to the investigation in his last letter.

And at any rate, after a whole month, it would be lovely to get to see him.