Sometimes, Fate Throws You A Fuzzy Pink (or Purple) Furball

by germankitty aka Dagmar Buse

The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures confiscates George Weasley's Pygmy Puffs. Soon after, the little fuzzballs overrun the Ministry, and why does one throw a hissy fit when confronted with Auror Potter's direct superior? (Inspired by the Star Trek: TOS episode "The Trouble with Tribbles" for a prompt-based fest) Background H/D, fluff with some plot.

Sometimes, Fate Throws You A Fuzzy Pink (or Purple) Furball

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and basically everything you recognize belongs to JK Rowling and associates; no profit is being made by their use.

A/N: Written for the 2016 Harry/Draco Pet Fair over on LiveJournal, to a prompt by Semperfiona – "basically, 'The Trouble With Tribbles'." For those who don't know, it's an episode from Star Trek: TOS, which in turn was based on the 1905 short story 'Pigs is Pigs' by Ellis Parker Butler. As a long-time Trekker, I couldn't let that one pass me by, so … here's the result. Many thanks to my Beta Candamira, for doing an exceptional job, as usual. All remaining gaffes snuck in after she was done and are entirely my fault.

Harry and Draco are an established couple here, but their relationship takes a bit of a backseat; there's too much chaos at the Ministry to allow much sexy!tiems, sorry. Think of it as fluff/humor, with some plot. If you liked it anyway, why not pass by the feedback box on your way out?

A/N II: No magical creatures were being harmed in the writing of this story.

Hermione Granger, newly-appointed Undersecretary for the Beast, Being and Spirit Division within the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, sat behind her desk and permitted herself a large smile.

I've made it. I'm finally in a position where I can do some good.

In the five years since she'd joined the Ministry of Magic after finishing her education, she'd learned the hard way that she wouldn't be able to free all house-elves or change Werewolf legislation with just the stroke of a quill, or through the fervour of her convictions. In all honesty, it galled her having to crawl when she wanted to leap, jump and run, but she'd finally accepted that not everybody was as zealous as she.

I'll get there, though. One day, all magical creatures will live free!

But for now, she'd have to start small. She opened her briefcase, long equipped with similar charms to her trusty beaded bag, took out her notes and sent her private 'work library' to the shelves lining the wall with a flick of her wand. Now what would be a good starting point … maybe … hmmm … ah! The breeding and keeping of pets. Crups and Kneazles. Yes. Then on to Aethonans and other domesticated animals. She nodded to herself. Owls had their own sub-department which was very well-run; no need to micromanage them. An investigation into where the Magical Menagerie got its stock from wouldn't be amiss, either, to determine whether they caught and collected animals in the wild, or bought them from special breeders. Some of their stock was certainly imported …

With a will, Hermione set out to prepare one of her infamous lists. She needed to know if there were private breeders of magical animals, and if yes, what the regulations and supervision parameters were. Her quill flew across the parchment. Definitely look into taxation. Maybe she could find some more revenue for the Ministry … Why, I might even be promoted to Department Head much sooner, if I manage to please the Minister enough!

She sighed dreamily. Oh, there was so much she needed to research! And then she'd get to formulate guidelines, and sets of rules, and she'd actually be able to enforce those! Hermione shivered a little in delight.

Everything will be done by the book, though. Sensibly and politely. I'll never issue arbitrary decrees just because I want to change the rules to suit me. After all, I'm better than a certain toad-like person with an unfortunate penchant for pink!

For now, to work, though. Determinedly, Hermione Summoned the first batch of files. Every successfully-completed task began with research, which was, after all, what she did best … even if she did say so herself. Quill held ready, a stack of parchment at hand, she opened the first folder. Time to find out where to start.

{.".}{.".}{.".}

George Weasley was not a happy man as he hurried across The Burrow's grounds. He'd received a Floo call from his mother that someone from the Ministry of Magic had asked to 'inspect' their Puffskein patch. Nearing the enclosure, he saw three men, two of which were already trying to herd his Pygmy Puffs towards several large wicker baskets.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" he shouted.

The third wizard, a short, pudgy man in mousy-brown robes who had remained outside of the enclosure, turned and gave George a rather supercilious look.

"I should think it's rather obvious, Mr Weasley. We're confiscating your illegal livestock."

George stopped next to the man. "My Pygmy Puffs aren't illegal. And who are you, anyway?"

"Roderick Tattlecombe, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," the man replied pompously, flapping his robe's lapel to show the badge pinned to it.

"Yeah, whatever," George waved him off. "You can't just waltz in here and take them!"

His just-short-of-aggressive stance didn't seem to faze Tattlecombe at all.

"Actually, yes, we can, Mr Weasley. And we will."

Merlin, the guy sounds worse than Percy ever did!

"On whose authority?" George grated, trying hard to keep his temper with the obnoxious little bureaucrat. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the two goons Tattlecombe had brought along had started to pick up all twenty-seven of his Pygmy Puffs, dumping them into the baskets that looked a lot like the cat carrier Hermione used to transport Crookshanks in. Like the cantankerous half-Kneazle, the Pygmy Puffs were less than impressed and scurried back out as soon as the men's backs were turned.

"Why, the Ministry's, of course. More specifically, the Undersecretary in charge of the Beast, Being and Spirit Division within DRCMC, if you must know," Tattlecombe said.

Hermione!? What the—

"On what grounds?"

"Breach of the Ban on Experimental Breeding."

George goggled. "But Pygmy Puffs are not experiments! We breed them, yes, but they're naturally small specimens of perfectly ordinary Puffskeins—"

Roderick shook his head in an unmistakably patronizing manner, raising George's blood pressure another few degrees. "Mister Weasley. As can easily be verified by a glimpse at the relevant chapter in any standard copy of Fantastic Beasts, Puffskeins are neither pink nor purple – like the subspecies you're keeping here. No, they are custard-colored, which, if I'm not mistaken, generally means some shade of yellow. Nor do they usually fit into a teacup," the man officiously told a fuming George, then held up a hand before George could do more than open his mouth. "Take it up with the Undersecretary. I'm taking these critters to the Ministry, and that's that."

He turned and addressed one of the two men collecting the fluffy furballs like so much windfall. "Withering! Stop mucking about. Help Rashid and get on with it, will you?"

"Almost done, boss," the man called back. At least they were handling the Puffs gently, latching each basket's lid closed as soon as one was filled.

"You are free to file a notice at the Ministry to have your property returned," Tattlecombe told George even as he scribbled out a brief report, cast Gemino on it and signed both copies. One, he handed to George. "Provided you can produce a valid breeder's license and a certificate from a Ministry-accredited Creatures Expert that your livestock hasn't in any way been modified by magical means – and have paid the appropriate fines you have accrued since you started selling them in 1996, of course – you should have no problem getting them back. Eventually."

George barely refrained from crumpling up the document in frustration, jamming it unread into a pocket instead. "And exactly how long is that going to take? It's less than two months until the holidays; those Pygmy Puffs make up a goodly portion of our sales. By confiscating them, you'll be cutting significantly into our profits!"

"All the more reason for you to get this sorted as soon as possible, is it not?"

"Do you even know to care for them properly?" George ground out. "They're used to be out in the open—"

"They'll be taken care of just as they should," Tattlecombe replied. "We have conducted extensive research on their care; be assured that everything is going to be done by the book. In this case, literally. And that's all you need to know for now, Mr Weasley. Good day."

With that, Roderick Tattlecombe proceeded to thread a length of rope through the baskets' handles, leaving George to stand helplessly sputtering at the gate to the Puffskein patch. At a signal from him, Withering and Rashid lifted the whole lot and also grabbed the rope as Tattlecombe tapped it with his wand.

"Portus. Ministry of Magic, Level Four!" The rope began to glow in the typical blue of a Transportation Spell.

George took a hasty step forward. "Wait! You don't know, they have a few special n—"

He was too late. In an instant, the Portkey engaged and the three men plus the wobbling baskets were whisked away, taking with them all twenty-seven Pygmy Puffs.

{.".}{.".}{.".}

There was a knock on her doorframe. "Madam Granger? We have the herd of dwarf Puffskeins from Weasley's …"

Hermione barely looked up from the parchment she was perusing. "They're Pygmy Puffs, and it's not a herd, it's called a poffle," she said distractedly. "Maintenance should've set up a few hatches in the small courtyard behind the Tea Room where Mrs Symonds can feed and water them; put them in there for the time being."

Really, why did people insist on bothering her with these insignificant details? Couldn't they see that she was hip-deep in crafting a tax code for importing, breeding and selling pets? A simple application of common sense – and attention to the memos about caring for the various creatures they were confiscating and which she'd sent out days ago – would be enough, but nooo, people in the Department refused to listen to a word she'd said. And not just once, but several times. Well, let them do their jobs for once without her direct supervision.

"Yes'm." The reply was polite enough, if rather surly. Hermione couldn't care less as she scribbled a note into the margin of the document she was working on. After a few moments, she looked up to see Withering and Rashid still lingering just outside her office, several wobbling baskets at their feet.

"Mrs Symonds has been assigned two elves to help her set up the habitat; there should be more than enough straw to line the hatches, a few water bowls and a trough to put feed into. See that the Pygmy Puffs are safe and secure, then you can go." She sighed impatiently when the two wizards didn't immediately move from her doorway. "What are you waiting for, written permission? Go!"

Rolling her eyes, Hermione nevertheless once more checked the how-to and to-do checklist she'd written, a copy of which she'd personally affixed to a pillar next to the hatches. Finding everything in perfect order, she gave herself a mental pat on the back. Everything was exactly as Newt Scamander had laid down in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them; she'd done her job well – as always. Now everybody else simply had to follow her instructions to the letter.

And as long as they do that, what could possibly go wrong?

{.".}{.".}{.".}

"And that's it for the quarter, Minister."

"Very good report, as always, John," said Kingsley Shacklebolt, stacking the roll of parchment on top of the other departments' quarterly reviews. He always kept Law Enforcement for last because as an ex-Auror himself, he couldn't help but be especially interested in the goings-on over there.

"Thank you, sir." Head Auror John Dawlish leaned back in his chair and accepted the glass of gillywater a Ministry elf put at his elbow before popping away as quietly as she'd come in. Sharing drinks with his former colleague-turned-boss after presenting his report had become a welcome routine over the years.

Shacklebolt smiled and saluted him with his teacup. "Have you made a decision about O'Halloran's replacement yet?" he asked after a few sips.

Dawlish inhaled deeply. "Actually, I have," he replied, bracing himself. The appointment would likely not go over well with the Minister, but what with the post-War reforms, there was little Kingsley could do to interfere without cause.

And thank Merlin for small favours!

Kingsley noted the suddenly terse tone and folded his hands precisely on his desk blotter. "And who is your choice for Squad Leader?

The Head Auror met the intense gaze with icy calm. "Carlo Marcelli."

"A capable man, from everything I've heard," Shacklebolt commented mildly, albeit with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, he is. Very competent in all aspects of the job. He'll do well."

"Mmhm." Shacklebolt remained silent for nearly a full minute, then said, "So would Potter."

Dawlish twisted his mouth. "Not at the moment." He paused, then added, "Not until he … learns to follow proper procedure. If you catch my drift, sir."

The Minister's look sharpened. "And by that you mean until he lives his life to a standard you approve, don't you?" he asked.

Dawlish just shrugged. "He's living with Malfoy. That makes Potter a liability at best, a security risk at worst."

"Because Malfoy's a man?"

Dawlish snorted. "Malfoy could be a garden gnome for all I care – if he didn't have a Dark Mark. And that's the only reason. Sir."

Kingsley sat back, his dark eyes never leaving the Head Auror's face. "The boy was exonerated by the Wizengamot, if you'll recall. He was under considerable duress when he took the Mark, as well as still a minor. What's more, Harry couldn't stand him at Hogwarts and now seems to trust him enough to allow him into his home … and life. Doesn't that count for anything?"

Dawlish pursed his lips as he pondered the question. "A man in love is … vulnerable," he said at last, his face carefully schooled to neutrality. "Not that I'm accusing Potter of deliberate misconduct, but I'd rather be careful than sorry."

For a long while, Shacklebolt sat very still, then got up, thereby officially calling an end to their meeting. "Very well. I'll accept your judgement … for now." He waited until Dawlish had risen as well and turned to leave. Just as the other man was about to open the office door, though, the Minister's deep voice rumbled across the room. "There'll come a day when you'll have to defend that judgement better than you did today – and not just to me. Remember that, John."

Dawlish halted briefly, then gave a stiff nod without looking back. And closed the door behind him.

{.".}{.".}{.".}

Down on Level Four, Edna Symonds opened a fresh bag of nutrient-enriched kibble and measured out a pound-and-a-half, as per the instructions she'd been given. She poured the pellets into the low trough, cast several Aguamenti to fill the water bowls, then left the small courtyard. Like every day, she closed up her Tea Room for the night at six-thirty pm on the dot and went up to the Atrium to Floo home. She'd check on the wee beasties again in the morning.

Once everything was quiet, one Pygmy Puff scurried over to the trough. After a few cautious sniffs and licks, it climbed inside and started to chomp down. Soon, the rest of the poffle enthusiastically followed suit.

{.".}{.".}{.".}

At 12 Grimmauld Place, Draco was in the kitchen when Harry arrived, chopping and slicing with the efficiency and precision he'd learned from Professor Snape – only it was parsnips and carrots for dinner, not potions ingredients. A few moments later, just as he was sprinkling extra-virgin olive oil over the mixture of seasoned vegetables, he found himself hugged from behind and then Harry's lips nuzzled his neck like every night when he came home from work.

"Hold that thought," Draco admonished his lover, trying half-heartedly to squirm out of the embrace. "Let me just put the pan in the oven."

A moist tongue-tip traced his right earlobe, eliciting a small moan. "Must you?"

"If we want a proper dinner tonight, then yes," Draco replied, his voice just a tad husky.

He bent over to open the oven door and nearly let the pan of veg drop when his arse inadvertently rubbed against the front of Harry's trousers and was met with a very suggestive, teasing thrust.

Sighing with mock exasperation, he completed his task and closed the oven. Turning within Harry's arms, he slid his hands around Harry's neck and into his tousled mop of hair. "Not that I don't appreciate the sentiment or your intent, Potter, but as usual, you have lousy timing," he snarked, rolling his eyes at Harry's pout.

"No matter how romantic it may sound in theory, we're not made to live on love alone," he murmured. "It may feed our souls, but we need to look after our bodies, too." Draco brushed a kiss against Harry's mouth. "And while I happen to be rather fond of your body, I'm also quite famished."

"Feeling's mutual." Harry smiled, some of the usual tension of a day at the Aurors' Office leaving his frame as he leaned forward to share a proper 'welcome home' kiss. "Mmm. You taste almost as good as it smells in here." Another, deeper kiss.

"What do you mean, almost?" Draco huffed, giving him his second-best Patented Malfoy Glare.

As he'd hoped, the expression made Harry laugh and earned himself yet another kiss and teasing grope on his backside.

"Sorry, I meant better, of course." Harry grinned.

"Hmph."

"Love you, too." Harry chuckled, but obligingly released Draco, took a step back and started to set the table.

Soon the meal was ready and both sat down to eat. As usual, Harry was complimentary about Draco's cooking and certainly did the food justice, but Draco could sense that his lover's thoughts weren't as fully focused on him and his efforts as they should be.

Telling himself that it was a very Slytherin thing to wait until an opportune moment – he was most certainly not trying not to spoil Harry's appetite! – Draco curbed his curiosity until they'd retired to the living room. Once they were both ensconced in their favourite armchairs, a jug of cider and chunky Spanish-made glasses within easy reach on a handy side table, he seized his chance as soon as Harry leaned back with a contented sigh.

"So … how was work?" Draco asked softly. Harry had been an Auror for nearly six years now, and should have been promoted quite some time ago. Arguments that he was too young, that he needed more experience and so on were wearing rather thin the longer it took – and Draco knew it wasn't just in his admittedly biased opinion that the current opening was just right.

Harry froze momentarily, then made his expression go blank and turned his face towards the window. "Okay."

Draco surreptitiously rolled his eyes. He could tell by the sparse answer and clipped tone of voice that it had been anything but.

"Right. Any news on who made Squad Leader?"

A resounding silence filled the space between them.

"Harry?

Harry sighed in resignation, knowing he couldn't hide anything from his lover. "Marcelli. As I've more or less expected."

Draco sat up. "Marcelli? But he's only been in Britain for a couple of years!" he exclaimed indignantly.

"He's still older than me, and has seniority."

"Technically maybe because he was a poliziotto back in Florence, but you've been with MLE ever since we left Hogwarts!"

Harry gave him a wry look. "I have just the bare minimum of N.E.W.T.s, and made an O. in only one of them. Whereas Marcelli had excellent grades across the board, graduated the Accademia di Pubblica Sicurezza near the top of his class, is generally more experienced in all protocols and has a much more polished way of handling people – according to Dawlish, anyway."

Draco snorted. "Dragonshite. He has more experience in and is better than you at buttering up Dawlish, you mean. How that sorry excuse for a lawman ever became head of MLE escapes me!"

"If you say so." Harry shrugged and rotated his neck to loosen tight muscles. "Kingsley had very little choice when Robards retired; the post needed to be filled, and Dawlish was the only one even remotely qualified. And to be fair, he is a competent administrator."

"He's also still an arse, though," Draco grumbled. "You're the best they have in the field, and how in Merlin's name do they expect you to gain experience in anything if they keep sticking you behind a desk, writing up other people's casefiles?"

"I do get to go out on cases," Harry protested, but was cut off almost immediately.

"Patrolling country fairs on Sundays and checking whether some Anglesey sheep farmers aren't moving their fences into Muggle territory two or three times a year?"

Squirming uncomfortably, because Draco was essentially right despite exaggerating, Harry tried to drag up something more significant and Auror-ly he'd been doing. A memory of long, cold hours staring at a darkened warehouse in the dead of an extremely rainy night surfaced, and he brightened – if only for the initial thrill he'd felt when he'd been given the assignment. "There was that stakeout in Hull, on the Svindeley case …"

Grey eyes stared at him. "That was at Beltane, over six months ago. Also, nearly everyone in MLE knew that Svindeley would be attending the rites at Glastonbury with his wife's family – as he's done every year for the past twenty years. They only sent you there because nobody else would've been eager enough to go." Draco drew a deep breath. "Or stupid enough not to see that the Department was merely giving you what amounts to a pat on the head while milking your reputation as a sop to the public!"

Harry flushed and opened his mouth to protest, but swallowed his words when he met Draco's flat, implacable look. Much as he hated to admit it, Draco's assessment was spot-on.

"Yeah, well …"

With a sigh, Draco got up to perch on the armrest of Harry's chair, sliding an arm around Harry's back. "Harry, you deserve the promotion! You've worked for it, you've done the time and the legwork like every junior Auror, and it's high time Dawlish and the other idiots in the Ministry acknowledge that fact and give you the damn job!"

All Draco got in reply was yet another shrug. Exasperated, he shook his head and squeezed the strong shoulders. "You know I'm right," he said. "Why don't you demand what's your due for once? Who knows, they might even give it to you if you just asked."

Harry slumped and rested his forehead against Draco's chest. His voice was slightly muffled by the soft cashmere of Draco's sweater when he finally replied. "It's not that simple."

No, it wouldn't be. Draco had a fairly good idea what the reason behind Harry's side-lining at work was. He'd been touted as the up-and-coming Auror while still in training and in the year after, but ever since they'd gone public with their relationship, Harry's career hadn't merely slowed down, it had come nearly to a full standstill. In fact, Draco had overheard whispers at the Ministry that it might be better if Harry withdrew from the Force altogether 'if things didn't change'. 'Things' meaning me.

"It rarely is," was all he said, though. Right now, he had no intention to rouse that particular sleeping dragon.

{.".}{.".}{.".}

Hours later, they lay curled up together in bed, only the waning moon shedding some light into the room. They'd made love slowly, but the afterglow wasn't as fulfilling as it ought to be. Draco could tell that Harry's mind was elsewhere … and it didn't take a genius to know where it had gone. Gathering all his courage, Draco addressed the hippogriff in the room.

"It's because of me, isn't it?"

There was no need to elaborate; both knew that the question referred to Harry's missed promotion and all the other problems at work they both had to deal with on an almost-daily basis. It was spoken quietly enough that Harry could ignore it if he wished.

"Nobody's said," Harry sighed at last, turning his head on the pillow to press a kiss against Draco's hair. "But I guess so," he admitted, refusing to give Draco anything but complete honesty.

A ball of lead seemed to form out of nothing in Draco's stomach. It took all of the composure his father had drilled into him from an early age to let him reply without a quaver in his voice.

"Then maybe I should go," he said even more quietly. It was the very last thing he wanted to do, ever, and he'd be ripping out his very heart if Harry took him up on it. But he'd do it in a heartbeat if it was in the noble idiot's best interest.

"Don't you dare!" Harry's arms tightened around him as hard and fast as they had on their mad flight through Fiendfyre all those years ago. "You're not going anywhere – and neither am I!"

"But your job—"

"Can go hang, for all I care," Harry said, fisting his hand in the pillow. "And before you start bringing up those people who don't want to spend time with both of us, like some of my so-called friends? I don't give a flying fuck about them, either." Draco winced; his own friends hadn't exactly jumped for joy, either, when they moved in together. Harry took a deep breath to calm himself, then exhaled slowly. "It's as if they don't really care about me – us – being happy, you know? They just seem to want to control who I want to be with. Well, screw them; I have Teddy, and Andromeda – and most importantly, I have you."

"You should have more. You had more, once." Once, before me. Before we fell in love.

Harry leaned up on one elbow and cupped Draco's cheek, making him meet his eyes. "Listen to me – yes, I'm hacked off at the situation at work. I know that I deserve better, and not just because you're telling me so. But I knew the consequences when I chose you. And I don't regret it, not one bit. You mean more to me than anything. Or anyone. Get it?"

Draco stared into the brilliant green eyes with the same wonder he'd felt when he'd found out that Harry returned his feelings.

"I think you actually mean that," he whispered.

"Damn right I do."

{.".}{.".}{.".}

"Madam Granger?"

Already halfway out of her office, Hermione stopped, sighing. "Yes, Mrs Symonds. What is it?"

"Do you have a moment?" the elderly witch asked, plucking at the short floral-patterned smock she wore over her robe.

Hermione deliberately made a small show out of checking her watch, which showed a quarter past nine o'clock. Edna Symonds hunched her shoulders, but didn't budge. "If it's really just a moment."

"Yes, of course." Mrs Symonds nodded diffidently.

"Well? What's the problem?" Hermione asked, tapping her foot after a minute had passed in silence.

Edna cleared her throat. "It's those pinky Puffs," she said in a rush. "You see, Mr Rashid and Mr Withering put them into those hatches, as per your order, three of them with five Puffies each and two with six on account of there being twenty-seven altogether and leaving one hatch empty altogether in case we needed to separate a few, you know, and—"

"I couldn't care less how many Pygmy Puffs are in each hatch as long as each creature has adequate room as stipulated by Scamander in his book," Hermione interrupted. "If I remember correctly, the hatches are big enough to hold up to a dozen individuals; you did well to give them more space. Please come to the point."

Mrs Symonds hesitated for a few seconds more, then blurted, "All hatches are full now. And at least half of the wee Puffies don't even fit."

"Excuse me?" Hermione frowned.

"They had babies," the Tea Room Witch explained. "Lots of them, too."

"What? How is that possible?"

"Well, I suppose the usual way," Mrs Symonds said, giving Hermione a look as if she were a particularly dim child.

Hermione bristled. "Very funny. Am I to assume that some of the Pygmy Puffs were gravid when they were brought in?" An unexpected inconvenience, but surely nothing that couldn't be dealt with – if everyone followed the procedures she'd set up, of course.

"Why, yes." Mrs Symonds' smile turned distinctly smug. "And there's no way of knowing how many others are about to become mammas, or how soon the babies will start getting frisky themselves."

"Merlin." Hermione was beginning to feel faint. If half – well, either thirteen or fourteen – of the original Pygmy Puffs were female and actively procreating, and nine of them already done or well on their way, there was a better-than-good chance that the other four or five wouldn't be far behind. Which meant they would have to house, feed and clean up after anywhere between twenty-eight and forty more Pygmy Puffs in the near future! Hermione shuddered at the thought of even greater numbers if the newborns should reach sexual maturity while still at the Ministry.

This could get … complicated.

"I, er, thank you for bringing the matter to my attention, Mrs Symonds," Hermione said rather weakly. "I'll look into it and will get back to you as soon as possible."

"You do that, dearie," Mrs Symonds said, patting Hermione's arm – a gesture she would normally not tolerate. "I'll go and feed the Puffies now; good thing even the babies can eat out of the troughs right away, isn't it?"

"Ye- yes, I think so," Hermione muttered, staring into the middle distance. For once, she had no ready answer – and if she were totally honest with herself, she had no idea at all how to get out of this predicament.

Mrs Symonds nodded and turned to go. Just when she reached the entrance to the Tea Room, she looked back. "Don't be late for your appointment, dear!" she called to Hermione with a cheery wave.

A quick glance at her watch was enough to send Hermione from apprehension straight into panic. Not only did she have to liberate more funds from somewhere within her already-stretched budget to feed and house a much bigger-than-expected horde of pink and purple balls of fluff, she was also going to be two minutes late!

{.".}{.".}{.".}

The courtyard behind the Tea Room on Level Four was getting crowded. Edna Symonds looked at the roiling and bouncing mass of creatures with some despair. Over the last few days, it had become increasingly difficult to reach the food troughs and water bowls for refilling without running the risk of trampling a few of them to death. Also, the constant low hum of their coos and trills was making her very sleepy.

Madam Granger had left very explicit instructions to care for the Puffies herself, but in all honesty, their numbers had grown so much that she was no longer able to do it. Not if she wanted to run her Tea Room – the job she was being paid to do – the way it should be. She'd tried to tell Madam Granger, but after the latest brush-off she'd thrown up her hands and called in a couple of Ministry elves to help her again. They were smaller and lighter, and weren't getting distracted by the incessant cooing like ordinary witches and wizards; maybe that would ease the situation.

What was more, the elves wouldn't go tattling to Madam Granger, either.

Satisfied that she'd done her best to stay on top of things, Edna went back to serving tea and snacks to hard-working Ministry employees on their well-deserved breaks.

The Ministry elves did an admirable job of feeding and watering the Pygmy Puffs, and even cleaned up the courtyard as best they could. However, nobody had told them to keep track of numbers or do general maintenance … and so failed to notice the crack at the bottom of one glass wall. What with by now over four hundred Pygmy Puffs crammed into a space meant to hold less than a quarter that much, this crack soon turned into a small hole just big enough for a determined Pygmy Puff to squeeze through.

Where one went, others soon followed – into hallways and air vents, up stairwells and down lift shafts. And it didn't take long at all until the first group reached the Ministry's Atrium.

{.".}{.".}{.".}

George flumped down at The Burrow's kitchen table with a frustrated groan. "How the hell do you stand it?" he groused, fixing his eyes on his father and older brother who was putting in a rare appearance for dinner.

"Language!" Molly scolded automatically as she floated the serving dishes towards the table.

"Stand what?" Percy asked, accepting a plate of roast chicken from Molly with a smile of thanks.

"The Ministry, what else," George grumbled, fiddling with his cutlery. "It's been three weeks since that goon from Magical Creatures has taken my Pygmy Puffs, and I'm not one step closer to getting them back!"

"Have you met all the requirements, then?" Arthur wanted to know.

"Yes, of course." George began ticking items off on his fingers. "Got my breeder's license, a livestock vendor's permit, had both Professor Kettleburn and Hagrid sign a certificate that I'm competent to care for Class XX creatures, provided documentation that the Pygmy Puffs are kept in a 'species-appropriate habitat', were given the right feed and showed them sales bills proving that the original pairs were imported legally."

He ran both hands through his hair, exposing his missing ear. "I even paid the stupid taxes, dammit – even though they hadn't even been in force when we started selling the Puffs!"

He paused to eat a few mouthfuls of Molly's excellent-as-usual food. "How many more hoops do I have to fly through until I get my property back?" he whined.

Arthur hummed in sympathy. "It's a sad fact that some Departments produce more than their fair share of bureaucracy than others," he remarked. "Burying us in scarlet ribbon, as the Muggles say."

"I think it's 'red tape', Dad," Percy corrected mildly, having heard the expression from his ex-girlfriend Penelope. "Having firmly-established rules and regulations for everybody is a good thing," he continued, "but I must agree, in some cases it can be taken to unwarranted lengths."

George stared at him open-mouthed. "Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?" he wanted to know.

Percy raised a wry eyebrow. "I've merely learned to look at the whole forest," he said. "Not that I stopped believing that each tree is important, but …" He shrugged and accepted second helpings. "Thanks, Mum."

Molly smiled. "You're welcome, dear." Then she turned to George. "Can't you talk to the department head directly? If you just asked nicely, I'm sure Hermione would—"

George snorted. "Not likely. She's all but reverted to the way she was when she started at Hogwarts – a rule-worshipping, bossy know-it-all who thinks every answer can be found in a book. She flat-out refuses to speak to me."

"Surely she's not that bad," Mrs Weasley said, sounding scandalised.

"Can't get an appointment, official or otherwise. Neither can Lee nor anyone else from the shop. Trust me, I've tried – repeatedly."

"George is exaggerating," Percy said slowly, "but not by much, I'm afraid. While it was deplorable how far Ron and Harry used to lead her astray—"

"Managed to loosen her up, you mean," George mumbled into his mug of Butterbeer.

Percy ignored him. "They did lead her astray," he repeated more firmly. "However, Hermione has unfortunately started taking certain things to extremes since she and Ron went their separate ways. She has become inflexible to such a degree that she won't even admit the possibility that she might be wrong."

"I just wish she'd tell me where she keeps my Pygmy Puffs, and whether they're being properly looked after."

"Oh, I know that," Arthur said. "They're housed in a small inner courtyard near the Tea Room on Level Four; Edna Symonds who runs the concession is looking after them." He adjusted his glasses, not quite hiding an impish smile. "Actually, only the day before yesterday a few of the little buggers managed to escape – some even made it up to the Atrium and fell into the Fountain. Eric Munch at Visitor Registration had to fish them out, it was quite a sight," he chuckled.

"Magical Sports and Games caught one, too," Percy said. "The department head's secretary took it back personally. Said they were cute, but rather distracting – also, that she's never seen so many in one place at the same time. 'Like one of those Muggle ball pits, only just in pink and purple pastels' – her words, not mine."

"What?" George blanched and half-rose from his chair. He was gripping the edge of the table.

"Well, according to Edna a few of your Pygmy Puffs were pregnant," Arthur replied, astonished at George's reaction. "I thought you knew? The first litters were born within a week, but it seems there have been more since then. Small wonder a few escaped, I'd say."

George sat back down and covered his face. "I tried to tell Tattletale before he Portkeyed away," he moaned, "but he was too fast. And now Hermione won't listen …!"

"It's Tattlecombe. Why, what's wrong with a few more Puffs?" Percy asked, trying to ignore the alarm bell beginning to clang at the back of his mind when he saw how agitated George was becoming. "I thought you were trying to increase your stock for the holiday sales anyway?"

"In a controlled fashion, yes," George said, forcing himself to calm down by taking deep breaths.

"The thing is, Puffskeins – and therefore Pygmy Puffs – breed at an astonishing rate if you feed them too much. As long as we control their diet, we can keep litters down to four or five per female. Separating males and females as soon as possible obviously helps, too. But if they have unlimited, unrestricted access to the enriched kibble Scamander recommended in Fantastic Beasts and can breed at will …"

"… they'll turn into a sea of fluffy locusts," Percy realised, his face going ashen. "Merlin!"

"Exactly."

"Just how many are we talking about?" Molly wondered, having listened with great interest – she'd enjoyed taking care of the poffle confiscated from their Puffskein patch.

George sighed and took a sip of Firewhiskey that Arthur had wisely poured by now – strictly for medicinal purposes, of course. "Well … the four we were trying to breed last month could've had seven or eight young each, which adds up to around sixty Pygmy Puffs altogether. I originally had twelve females; if the other eight have birthed by now as well, that'll have doubled the number. A typical litter is about half male, half female … who will start breeding within a fortnight if you don't watch it." His short laugh held more than a hint of hysteria. "Also, their gestation period is only ten days."

Percy was no slouch at numbers. "But … but that'd mean that by now, roughly sixty new females have given, or are about to give, birth to another … four-hundred-and fifty Pygmy Puffs," he whispered in shock.

"Don't forget my original twelve," George muttered, refilling his glass. "They'll be going at it again as soon as they can. Probably already have."

"That might mean nearly a thousand Pygmy Puffs in a month," Percy breathed. "With even more to come if we can't get through to Hermione and make her see reason." A sudden, horrifying thought made him snatch the glass away from his brother and gulp the fiery liquid in a single swallow. "Just think – if it's true that they can't be properly contained anymore, as Dad said … what if they got out of the Ministry? Into Muggle London?"

"Oh my," Molly gasped, pressing a hand to her chest while Arthur sat down heavily and groped for the bottle of Old Ogden's.

"Yeah. And good luck with convincing Madam Undersecretary she's made a mistake by refusing advice," George mumbled, procuring fresh glasses for himself and his father. "I certainly haven't had any."

Percy stood and went to the window, staring out into the darkened yard as he sipped his second drink more slowly. He was methodically going through the options, thinking hard about what could be done without giving Hermione a way of refusal.

We'll have to go strictly by the book, he mused. Any unconventional means will likely be rejected by her out of hand, she's just that stubborn and convinced she's right. No, what we need to find is a legal way to convince her …

Suddenly, it was as if Lumos Maxima had been cast simultaneously from a dozen wands right into his mind. Legal. Of course! He turned back towards George and their parents.

"You need an Arbitrator," he announced without preamble.

"What? Why?" George wondered.

Percy was actually bouncing on his feet, he was that excited. "She won't talk to you; so get an expert to do it for you," he said. "It's perfectly legal, and proper procedure. If there's one thing Hermione won't disregard, it's that."

For the first time that evening, a slow smile began to show on George's face. "Perce, old boy, that might actually work."

"I'm sure it will," Percy replied. A devious grin quirked his mouth, proving his true Weasley heritage. "There's sure to be someone in Administration Services who would love to take your case."

"Sounds like you already have someone in mind, brother mine," George grinned back.

"As a matter of fact, I do."

"Oh? What's their name?"

So Percy told George, and for the first time in his life had the satisfaction of rendering his younger brother speechless.

{.".}{.".}{.".}

Draco was sitting in the tiny office he'd been assigned as a Wizengamot clerk at the Ministry of Magic in an out-of-the-way section on Level Two, close to the archives. As usual, he was transcribing the Wizengamot minutes, filling in the relevant references that the official scribes' dictaquills couldn't insert during sessions or trials. Also as usual, he jotted down his own notes, observations and conclusions on a separate piece of parchment. He'd prepare his own summation afterwards, just to keep in practice.

Around lunchtime, he called one of the Ministry elves to bring him a pot of tea and some pastries, preferring to take a break at his desk rather than visit the main cafeteria or even just the Tea Room on Level Four. Mrs Symonds was generally nice enough to him, but the same could unfortunately not be said about most of his co-workers.

He shrugged fatalistically and poured himself a second cup, sparing a fleeting smile for the mug Harry had given him last Christmas. 'If at first you don't succeed – try the Slytherin way!', it read in angular green script. Wish it were that easy.

Swallowing the last few bites of his Chelsea Bun and wiping his fingers on a napkin he kept in a desk drawer, he drained his tea and reached for his quill to get on with his job, no matter how tedious he found it, when someone knocked on his door.

Surprised, Draco sat up. Who could that be? Nobody ever visited him – at least not anybody who'd be polite enough to knock. Well, only one way to find out.

"Enter," he called.

The door opened, and pretty much the last person he'd ever expected to see strode into his office.

"Weasl—" To his chagrin, Draco had to clear his throat twice before he could speak properly. Fighting a blush, he tried again. "Good morning, Weasley." Much better! "What brings you here?"

George Weasley grinned in a way that made Draco profoundly uneasy. Whenever he'd seen that expression during their shared time at Hogwarts, it had meant all hell was about to break loose – usually to the detriment of any Slytherin unlucky enough to be within ten feet of the redheaded menace and his departed twin.

It had been even worse when they'd faced off on the Quidditch pitch.

Bracing himself for an announcement of the impending apocalypse, Draco did not expect the quite rational statement Weasley made.

"Malfoy, hello. I have a bit of a legal problem, and was told I need an expert to deal with it." The grin widened. "Someone mentioned your name."

Wondering briefly who could have been mad enough to send George Weasley to him, Draco managed to compose himself and quickly conjure a chair for his visitor, making the office even more cramped. Gesturing Weasley to take a seat, he tilted his head in genteel curiosity. "I do hold a certificate from the Académie Magique de la Sorbonne in Paris, qualifying me as a débateur," he replied, "but I have not worked in that capacity here in Britain because my accreditation hasn't gone through channels." Yet.

Draco swallowed at the knowing look George sent him; it figured that the man – plus whoever had sent him here – knew that he wasn't trusted enough to argue the Law in his homeland because of his Dark Mark. No matter that he'd taken it under duress and rejected most of the old pureblood agenda years ago, people still saw him as 'that Death Eater brat'. Undeserved and unfair, maybe, but Draco was a realist – it would take him longer than just a few years to live down both his father's legacy and his own past.

Gathering his dignity around him like a cloak, he straightened in his seat and assumed a mien of polite, professional interest.

"However, if that circumstance doesn't bother you—"

"It doesn't," George interrupted, "as long as that means you can Arbitrate a dispute."

"A débateur can do that, or take matters to court, if necessary."

"Great. You're hired."

Just like that?! Sounds like more than a simple dispute! But Draco was not about to insult a gift hippogriff. Not when it meant that here was his chance to do something he had trained for. Drawing a deep breath, he nodded his acceptance. "Right. In that case – what can I do for you, Mr Weasley?" His quill was already poised over a fresh sheet of parchment.

"You can debate the Ministry on my behalf. More precisely, I want you to take action against the Undersecretary of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," George stated calmly.

Draco's eyes widened even as his pulse sped up. This was an opportunity he hadn't dared dream of, not for a long, long time. To have it dropped into his lap like this, and from a Weasley, too, was almost too good to be true. Containing his sudden excitement with a major effort, he asked the next logical question. "And that would be …?"

"Hermione Granger."

Draco's quill broke with a snap.

{.".}{.".}{.".}

Harry was on his way back to his cubicle, fighting the start of a tension headache due to one snide remark too many when he saw a flash of purple near one of the artificial windows dotted around the Ministry. Curious, he went to take a closer look and was surprised to find three tiny Pygmy Puffs clustered together against the wall.

"Well, hello there, little fellers," he said, smiling automatically. Ever since Ginny had introduced him to Arnold back in his sixth year, he'd harboured a secret fondness for the little furballs. "What are you doing here?"

Naturally there was no answer, but the trio cooed and purred when he scooped them up.

"You look rather lost," he murmured, stroking the soft fur. The cooing got louder, easing the anger he felt over the new Squad Leader's frequent innuendoes about his and Draco's relationship. There was nobody around who looked like they'd misplaced their pets, but a long, dreary underground corridor certainly wasn't the place for them. Deciding that he could spare a few minutes to take them somewhere safe, Harry stuck his head through the first office door he could find. Luckily for him, the occupant's secretary wore a familiar face.

"Hi, Bulstrode," he greeted the witch behind the desk.

"Potter," Millicent grunted. "What do you want?"

Cheerful as always. Harry grinned; the former Slytherin wasn't the most congenial person, but he knew not to take her gruffness personally. He showed her his fluffy handful. "Look, I found these little guys down by the window," he started, only to be interrupted by Bulstrode's loud groan.

"Morgana's knickers, not again! That's the fourth time this week they've got loose on this level. I swear, it happens once more and I'm going to forget myself and cast an Unforgivable on the idiot who brought those fuzzy menaces into the Ministry!"

Somewhat taken aback by her reaction, Harry frowned. "I thought they were someone's pets?"

"We should be so lucky. No, all it needs is some careless moron who's too daft to properly close the door to their current habitat."

"What, they live here?"

"Behind the Tea Room, up on Level Four," she told him. "No idea why, and no, I don't want to know, either. Just take them back and out of my sight!"

"Sure," Harry said. "Was planning to, anyway, just trying to find out where. Thanks for the information."

"Hmph."

"One might almost think you didn't like these cuties," Harry grinned.

"Whatever gave you that idea, Potter?" Millicent asked, dripping sarcasm. "I can't stand the noise the floofy critters make," she went on, barely without pause. "Most people think it's soothing and crap, but all it does is make me feel queasy. Drives me up the nearest wall!"

"I see," Harry commented lightly, fighting to hide his growing amusement. His grin widened when he noticed the almost-imperceptible twitch around Bulstrode's lips. Seemed the big Slytherin girl wasn't as unaffected by the wee beasties as she'd like to pretend.

"I'd like to get rid of this 'furry little problem', as Brocklehurst calls them, before they overrun the whole Ministry," Millicent grumbled, unaware of the small flinch Harry couldn't quite suppress at the reminder of Sirius' description of Remus' lycanthropy. "Now scram, or I'll have to hex you and your purple fluffballs!"

Seeing her reach for her wand, Harry just waved and scrammed.

Once on Level Four, he made it to the Tea Room and sought out Mrs Symonds, noting that the normally friendly and cheerful woman seemed rather frazzled.

"Hello, Edna," he called out. "Aren't you missing someone?"

The plump elderly witch sighed when she saw the trio of Pygmy Puffs cradled in the crook of his arm, trilling happily. "Oh good grief, more of them," she muttered, stepping out from behind her counter. "Where were they?"

"Level Two, Auror offices hallway," Harry replied. "Which is really no place for them."

"Neither is my Tea Room," Edna said with uncommon acerbity, yanking back a curtain that was obscuring the view into what used to be a charming little glassed-in courtyard. Now, it was a sea of purple and pink, teeming from wall to wall.

Harry stared. "Merlin."

Mrs Symonds looked as if she would've preferred another appellation entirely for whoever had saddled her with the ball-shaped animals. "Just throw them in with the others, Auror Potter. Better be quick about it, too, afore even more get out."

"How are they escaping, anyway?" Harry wanted to know as he watched the elderly witch cautiously open the courtyard door just a crack.

"Not a clue," Mrs Symonds said. "I'm always extra careful in here – can't have them get into my cakes, right?" She stepped aside. "Hurry up now!"

"Sure."

As quickly as possible, Harry dropped one Pygmy Puff after the other onto the mass of pastel fur, pushing a few trying to squeeze through the narrow opening back with his foot. It took almost five minutes before the door was locked again with all Puffs safely ensconced behind glass.

"Who's responsible for this?" he asked, buying a cup of tea to go from the exhausted witch.

"Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," Edna sighed as she handed Harry a few Knuts in change along with his tea. "Beast, Being and Spirit Division, rather. Where they have too much regulation and hardly any control, if you ask me."

Incredulous, Harry shook his head. "Really? But surely Hermione – uh, Madam Granger, I mean – would've found a way to—"

"It's on her orders they're here," Mrs Symonds interrupted him, exasperation clear in her voice and expression. "That nice Mr Weasley has tried to take them off our hands immediate-like – they're his, you know – but she won't hear of it. Says everything needs to go by the book." Edna shook her head. "Only, nobody even knows which book but her," she muttered under her breath.

Harry winced. He could still remember Hermione's slavish adherence to whatever facts she managed to glean from her research. Not that it hadn't helped him on numerous occasions in the past, but he'd honestly thought that she'd outgrown that tendency.

Guess she reverted to being a know-it-all. He suppressed a sigh; it was the main cause that had led to the current rift in his relationship with Hermione – her insistence that Draco wasn't the right partner for him because of a whole alphabet soup of reasons she'd quoted from books. He'd tried convincing her that he was happy, but she stubbornly refused to listen, so …

Harry shook off the morose thoughts. This was neither the time nor place to revisit their falling-out.

"Well, I'm sure everything will work out eventually," he merely said. "I'll leave you to it, then – and if you need any help, don't hesitate to call me. Good-bye, Mrs Symonds."

"Have a good day, Auror Potter," Edna replied, watching him go. What a nice young man. Pity he's taken up with the Malfoy boy, though.

{.".}{.".}{.".}

"You can't accuse the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures of improper behaviour," Draco explained to George Weasley, ignoring a fascinated Harry who was listening in from the parlour to the conversation currently taking place in the niche they grandly called their office at 12 Grimmauld Place.

"Even if that is what happened. Because technically, you were in violation of the laws cited in here." He lifted the document Roderick Tattlecombe had left with George.

"But half those laws hadn't even been in effect when we started breeding Pygmy Puffs," George protested. Given the row he'd witnessed between Ron and Harry over the latter's relationship with Malfoy, he'd halfway expected to be denied access to their home at the old Black residence, but to his relief Harry had been perfectly polite when he'd arrived the next evening to discuss his case.

"I know, but unravelling that particular Acrumantula web is going to take weeks, if not months – time you don't have, am I right?"

George nodded grudgingly. "Yeah."

"So, our best bet for a speedy resolution is trying to prove that by refusing any kind of communication with you, the department is actually endangering the well-being of your Pygmy Puffs. By their own rules and guidelines, as established by the current Undersecretary, they will be obliged to return your confiscated livestock to you at the earliest opportunity," Draco said smugly. "See here – it's right in the book: chapter 5, subsection 23, paragraph 14, point 3." He gestured at the large tome on his desk, titled The Ministry of Magic's Guide to the Proper Keeping and Care of Magical Creatures, Class X to XXX.

He was going to love besting Granger for once. And on her home ground, too!

George scratched behind his remaining ear. "Well … to be honest, it's not exactly the Pygmy Puffs I'm worried about," he admitted with a somewhat nervous laugh. "They're generally a sturdy lot, and we've always made sure they were healthy, too. And as long as I get my stock back by mid-December, I'll be okay."

Draco frowned. "I don't understand," he said. "I thought the potential loss of revenue during the pre-Christmas and Yule sales was your reason to seek Arbitration?"

"Nah." George waved his hands airily. "Not having to feed the Puffs is actually saving me money – enough to make up a few missed sales, anyway."

"Then why—"

"It's the Ministry," the redhead blurted. "You see, if Hermione is following what's written about the care of Puffskeins in Fantastic Beasts to the letter – and you know she is – there's a very real danger that my twenty-seven Pygmy Puffs will have completely overrun the whole building by the end of next week. If not sooner," he concluded, slumping into the chair in front of Malfoy's desk.

"Excuse me?" In his peripheral vision, Draco noticed that Harry was suddenly sitting up. "Explain," Draco ordered.

So George did – about the Pygmy Puffs' rapid procreation cycle, how their diet needed to be modified to keep it in check, and about the necessity to separate males and females as soon as possible.

"How do you know all that?"

Slowly, George drew a small booklet that had clearly seen much better days and looked very well used out of his pocket. "This is confidential information that's not in Fantastic Beasts," he said, clearly reluctant to share. "Nobody who's not a breeder knows."

Intrigued, Draco picked it up and read the title. The Business of Livestock Farming, written by none other than Grover Pasturage, the wizard who had founded the Magical Menagerie back in the early eighteenth century.

"There's even a section that says overcrowded living conditions can make Puffskeins multiply even faster," George went on. "It's no problem as long as they're living on a free range – like our patch at The Burrow, you know? They'll kind of regulate themselves if they ever run out of space. But if they're getting overfed on a regular basis, and given food with a high nutrient content, too …"

"They'll breed like mad," Harry said from the doorway, his expression a cross between horror and laughter. "Merlin, no wonder they keep escaping!"

"What?" – "They do?" both Draco and George exclaimed simultaneously.

"Oh yeah," Harry murmured as he came in and perched on the edge of Draco's desk. "For the past two weeks or so, we've been finding them all over the place – in offices, hallways, on the stairs, the Atrium …"

"Did any fall into the Fountain of Magical Brethren again?" George wanted to know. "'Cause that's what happened last week, Dad says."

This tipped Harry over from rueful amusement into outright laughter. "Not that I know of, but it wouldn't surprise me at all!"

{.".}{.".}{.".}

Harry was forcefully reminded of that conversation as soon as he stepped out of the Ministry's phone booth entrance on Monday morning and entered the Atrium.

There were Pygmy Puffs everywhere.

Several large groups had piled up in front of the public fireplaces, making Floo entry or exit all but impossible. The Wand Registration desk was covered in pink and purple, and despite the early hour the wizard on duty already looked near-hysterical as he tried in vain to do his job. The lift doors were jammed open, and more Pygmy Puffs came bouncing in a fairly steady stream up the stairwells.

Harry shook his head in disbelief as he took in the sheer chaos caused by creatures smaller than a junior-league Bludger. Then his eyes fell onto the newly-restored Fountain of Magical Brethren and started to laugh despite himself. At least a dozen of the furballs were happily bobbing in the basin, ducking and chasing each other like tail-less tadpoles in a pond.

Then he noticed five more scrambling up the Fountain's gilded centrepiece. He had no idea how they were doing it, given that they had no hands and the statue's surface was wet and slippery, but somehow or other they reached the very top – the centaur's head. The Pygmy Puffs halted and Harry tensed, holding his breath. Sure enough, the next moment all five of them dive-bombed into the basin, splashing water everywhere.

Harry simply lost it.

He was still wheezing with laughter, tears streaming down his face despite the general mayhem around him a full five minutes later … and thus missed the arrival of the thoroughly pissed-off Head Auror.

"You find this situation funny, Potter? Then I'm sure you won't mind taking care of it," Dawlish said with a disgusted sneer. "I want the Atrium, Floos, lift and staircases, as well as every. Single. Office cleared. Now. Round up all these creatures at once!"

"Y-yes, sir," Harry replied, trying to control himself. "I'll get on it right away. Is it okay if I recruit help, though? Maybe a couple of elves?"

It was fairly obvious that Dawlish would've loved to deny the request, but despite whatever issues he had with Harry, he had to admit that the situation had gone beyond the capabilities of just one man.

"Whatever, Potter," he said curtly. "Just get it done, the sooner, the better."

"Yessir."

{.".}{.".}{.".}

Around mid-morning, Hermione received a memo ordering her to one of the smaller meeting rooms near the Wizengamot chambers. There was no further reason given, but as her Department often had to deal with quite a number of both major and minor complaints – usually when magical creatures had somehow come to the Muggles' attention – she wasn't unduly worried.

So she gathered a few legal briefs she thought she might need and dutifully presented herself at the meeting room right on time. Much to her surprise, she didn't find a couple of Aurors or an Obliviator waiting for her as she'd expected, but rather George Weasley, accompanied by none other than Draco Malfoy.

"What are you doing here?" she sniffed disdainfully as she took a seat on one side of the large table and set out her scrolls, parchment and ink.

"I'm here to arbitrate the complaint of Mr Weasley versus the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," Malfoy said calmly, sitting down right across from her, George to his right. Only now did she register that he wasn't wearing the usual, nondescript brown robes of a Ministry clerk, but the open-faced black robe with pleated white jabot and red knee-length stole typical of of the French judiciary system.

Hermione dimly remembered that Malfoy actually was entitled to do so.

She bristled. "Are you even qualified to arbitrate here in Britain?"

"Yes," Malfoy said. "Under international treaty with the ICW, any degree obtained by a British citizen in another signatory country is automatically validated after a period of two years, provided they work in their chosen field."

As Malfoy was being employed as a Wizengamot scribe ever since his return from France, it definitely counted. Even if his certification was still held in limbo.

Inwardly fuming, Hermione gave a terse nod and set up the mandatory dictaquill to record the proceedings. "Very well. Now, what is this nonsense about a complaint?"

Malfoy forbore to comment on her choice of words and opened the leather folder he'd brought, handing a document across the table. "My client postulates that the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures has confiscated his property, namely a poffle of twenty-seven Pygmy Puffs, under an ex post facto law," he explained. "That said poffle has since been kept in unsuitable living conditions as well as having had their optimal diet changed to such a degree that the Pygmy Puffs in question have started breeding at an excessive rate. Not only has the Department thereby gravely endangered the health of Mr Weasley's livestock, but can – and will – also be held accountable for any loss of revenue Mr Weasley may experience, should he be prevented from reclaiming his rightful property with due haste."

Malfoy paused for a moment, then continued. "Further, my client claims that the Department's representative in charge of the matter has repeatedly refused to confer with him even when he made it clear that all he wanted was to advise the Department about the proper care and handling of his Pygmy Puffs. And, failing that, to return his livestock after duly procuring all the relevant forms, paying whatever recompense the Ministry is entitled to under the abovementioned ex post facto laws."

Hermione was so astonished, she actually stopped taking notes once she'd parsed through the legalese.

"You – you're accusing me of not only illegal confiscation of Class XX magical creatures, but actual mistreatment of them?" Why, the nerve!

"In short, yes. But not necessarily you personally, Madam Undersecretary," Malfoy replied. "However, the department you represent, certainly." His expression was carefully bland, giving nothing away.

"Don't try that innocent act with me, Malfoy," Hermione spat. "I'm sure your client—" she shot a venomous look at George, who just blinked innocently at her, "has also informed you that nothing happens in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures that doesn't pass my desk, or ultimately bears my signature ever since I've been appointed Undersecretary for the Beast, Being and Spirit Division!"

"Are you accusing Mr Weasley or myself of enacting a personal vendetta against you, Madam Granger?"

That was exactly what Hermione suspected they might be doing, but knew very well that such an accusation would have much more serious consequences than determining whether the situation might escalate from a mere complaint into a serious case.

"No," she muttered crossly. "But I assure you, every step of the procedure has been handled by the book." The very idea it hadn't was preposterous. But just in case Malfoy could make the complaint stick, she'd better find a way to handle this thing, fast. "That being said, I may grant you the possibility of action having been taken ex post facto, and will immediately launch an investigation. Ditto regarding your claim of communication having been refused," Hermione said slowly, thinking hard. Somebody would be held responsible, and the way things looked at the moment, it might well be her. For one selfish moment, she couldn't help hoping George's requests had been filed in such a way that no direct blame could be placed on her and – the horror! – be entered into her permanent record. "However, I categorically deny any kind of mistreatment of those Pygmy Puffs – I left very detailed instructions with the person who is supposed to look after them!" So Mrs Symonds just couldn't, or wouldn't, follow my instructions? Then it's hardly my fault if something went wrong!

A very unwelcome voice, one she'd more and more often refused to listen to since she'd – Broken up with Ron. Had a falling-out with Harry – joined the Department, suddenly spoke up within her mind.

Isn't it? What if your instructions weren't enough? And then, You've been wrong in the past. Have you forgotten that sometimes not every answer can be found in a book? The voice fell silent again.

Hermione felt her pulse start hammering. It had been a hard lesson for her to learn the first time, when she had still been a child at Hogwarts. What if she had missed certain things – had, in fact, made a mistake?

"I personally researched every aspect of their care," she stated as firmly as she could, trying to regain control of the situation. "Every step was followed exactly as detailed in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them!"

George buried his face in both hands. "I knew it," he groaned sotto voce. "Malfoy—"

Malfoy stopped him by grasping his wrist and shaking his head 'no'. George subsided with a reluctant grimace, and Malfoy turned back towards Hermione. "I do not doubt that you believe you have done your research to your usual exacting standards, Madam Granger," he said, still unfailingly polite despite his now piercing glance. "But are you willing to concede that you might not have been in possession of all the pertinent information?"

"I most certainly am not," Hermione sputtered, her momentary fear of exactly that forgotten as soon as the suggestion was made by a person she'd never liked. "Newt Scamander's work is the officially acknowledged reference for all magical creatures, and I assure you, if everything has been handled by the book as it should have, the Pygmy Puffs are just fine!"

This was more than George could take. "Good grief, Hermione, is your nose so stuck in just one book that you won't even consider the idea there could be more?" He made a grab at Malfoy's folder, snatched up the booklet by Pasturage and shoved it at her across the table. "It's all in here!"

She picked the slightly dog-eared copy up with a moue of distaste for its state and very obvious suspicion. "The Business of Livestock Farming by Grover Pasturage? What is this?"

Malfoy sighed. He'd hoped to hold the book in reserve for a while yet, but the infamous Weasley temper had scuppered his strategy. Oh well. Since that basilisk has already been slain ... "This, Madam Granger, is a guideline for those who breed magical creatures professionally," he said.

"While based on information quite accurately published in Fantastic Beasts, Pasturage has established modifications that have been empirically proven to facilitate keeping those creatures in a domesticated environment. As opposed to in the wild." He quirked his lips in a wry grin. "Please, feel free to take a look."

Hermione glared at both men, but nevertheless sought out the chapter about Puffskeins, quickly skimmed the first few paragraphs and felt herself blanch. 'Don't overfeed … don't overcrowd … provide enough range for exercise … accelerated breeding … litters easily increasing by a third, if not double the normal size …' With shaking hands, she let the booklet drop. "Oh, Merlin," she whispered. "But surely someone would have told me …"

Belatedly, Hermione recalled that Mrs Symonds had made several attempts to talk to her about some problem or other after she'd reported the original twenty-seven Pygmy Puffs had started to breed. But Hermione had been too busy – and if she was being honest with herself, too uninterested – to pay much attention, and had deliberately ignored the elderly witch.

"You haven't even noticed that your floor ‒ heck, over half the Ministry ‒ has been overrun by Pygmy Puffs, have you." Malfoy's voice was incredulous.

"I … no," she said dazedly. "I must've been distracted …" No way was she going to admit – certainly not to Malfoy, of all people! – that she tended to get quite absorbed in reading a book or file even on the walk to and from her office, and therefore would likely miss anything short of a pitched battle taking place around her.

"No doubt by something earth-shatteringly important like the correct way of folding those memo paper planes," George grumbled. "It's Percy and his cauldron bottom thickness all over again!"

"Hush, Weasley," Malfoy hissed. He had no idea what the man was talking about, but he couldn't afford to be distracted right now. Not when it looked as if they were finally getting somewhere with Granger.

Hermione ignored the by-play as she once more flipped through the booklet's pages. "I've never even seen this text before," she murmured, feeling increasingly aghast. At last, her head snapped up. "Where did you get it? And why isn't all this common knowledge?" she asked through gritted teeth.

Both men exchanged a look. "It is ‒ for those who know where to look," Malfoy said at last. "If you do, you can even order the book by owl."

George glowered at him just on principle, then shrugged inwardly. The Kneazle was out of the bag already. "Trade secrets," was all he would say.

"Knowledge shouldn't be secret," Hermione protested with some vehemence, stung in the very core of her beliefs. "Everybody should have free access to all information! Why, that—"

"Don't be daft, Granger," Malfoy interrupted her incipient rant. "This may be true for some things, like Healing spells that benefit all, for example, but surely even you wouldn't give every idiot unlimited access to something potentially dangerous – or deadly?" His grey eyes flashed, and Hermione winced as the sheer intensity in them reminded her of just such a piece of knowledge, unthinkingly given to and then cast by an incompetent Vincent Crabbe. It had nearly killed both her, her friends and Malfoy himself.

"No, of course not," she started, but Malfoy wasn't finished yet.

"Even such a minor restriction aside, do you maybe expect a ... I don't know, a Potions Master, say, to share their every invention with all and sundry just like that?" He snapped his fingers.

"Yeah, just use your common sense – if you still have any that's not been buried under your precious rules and regulations, that is," George piped up.

"I beg your pardon?" Past terror instantly forgotten, she stiffened in her seat and gave both men a narrow-eyed glare. "If this is some outdated Pure-blood nonsense …"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Salazar, for all your vaunted brains you can be downright stupid," he said, forcing himself to remain calm. "It's got absolutely nothing to do with blood status, or someone's lack thereof. In fact, I'm fairly sure even the Muggles do things the same way. It's about business, Granger."

"Business?" she echoed with a frown, not following.

"Naturally. What do you think would happen if all traders and craftsmen, manufacturers, inventors and the like suddenly no longer had exclusive access to whatever makes their product or their skill unique?"

She didn't want to admit it, wished with all her might that she wouldn't have to, but for all her faults Hermione Granger was at base an honest woman, and she could still think.

"They might lose their livelihood," she sighed, visibly deflating.

"Exactly," George said gruffly. "And that's why Pasturage's book is only available to those who breed magical creatures professionally." He gave her a tiny, wry smile. "Breeding Pygmy Puffs is only a very small part of what I do at Wheezes, but that doesn't make it any less legitimate than brewing Butterbeer or making Floo powder. Fred and I may not have had a breeder's license when we started—"

"Because back then, you didn't need one," Draco interjected with a raised eyebrow in Granger's direction, daring her to object.

"Yeah, that … but we still have the monopoly on Pygmy Puffs, and they're making us money because they're different from ordinary Puffskeins. The sounds they make are soothing, they're pretty and cute ..."

"They're pink. And purple," Hermione huffed.

"You say that as if it's a crime," George grinned. "I'll have you know, most little girls are crazy about the colours!"

"Most little girls have no sense of taste," Hermione replied automatically, then couldn't help adding, "or rather no sense, full stop."

Realising she was getting too catty for her own comfort, she shook herself. "Forget I said that. We're getting off topic, gentlemen," she said, suddenly all business. There really was only one way to resolve this whole mess with as little loss of face for the Department as possible ‒ she had to take full responsibility. Even if it kills me. "Very well, I'll look through your documentation and if everything is in order will make sure that everything gets taken care of by the end of the business day tomorrow. Is that agreeable, Mr Weasley, Arbitrator Malfoy?"

Draco fought the impulse to preen at being addressed by his title for the first time since he'd returned from France. As this had been an official procedure, the matter would go into his record, and just maybe help him to eventually do the job he'd studied and trained for. Also, he hadn't expected to win at least a partial victory quite so fast.

"If Mr Weasley has no objection …?"

"Tomorrow's fine with me." George rubbed his hands, not bothering to hide the huge smile spreading across his face.

"Then I declare the Arbitration between Mr George Weasley and the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, represented by Madam Undersecretary Hermione Granger, successfully concluded," Draco said. "Fiat."

"Fiat," Hermione agreed with a sigh, then stared at the hand Malfoy was holding out to her. "Er, Malfoy?"

"It's customary to shake hands when reaching an agreement like this," he explained with a small smile and gracious nod. Mother would be proud to know I do remember my manners. When it suits me.

"Oh. Of course." She blushed and laid her hand in his, secretly surprised that his grip was firm, impersonal and … not entirely unpleasant. As she stopped the dictaquill, copied and signed the transcript and gathered her things, Hermione fleetingly wondered how her life would have turned out if Malfoy hadn't been such a git when younger; she'd always secretly enjoyed matching wits with him. Or if Harry had accepted Malfoy's offer of a handshake all those years ago on their first ride on the Hogwarts Express and they'd all been ... well, maybe not friends, exactly, but at least not enemies. Hard on the heels of that thought, a small pang coursed through her as she allowed herself to truly miss her friend for the first time in way too long .

Malfoy had surprised her today; he'd been polite throughout, the ultimate professional, and hadn't once fallen back into the behaviour that had so antagonised and insulted her during their schooldays. Hermione grudgingly conceded that dealing with him hadn't been half as bad as she'd feared. Perhaps continuing being civil to him might be ... doable? Especially if it helped repair her relationship with Harry? After all, she'd only temporarily forgotten the lessons being friends with Harry had taught her once. She could easily relearn those lessons - she knew she could!

Not today, though. Today, I need to deal with these blasted Pygmy Puffs!

{.".}{.".}{.".}

Harry and his mini-squad of elves had spent an exhausting morning clearing Level One and Two – the Minister's Offices and Magical Law Enforcement.

Level One had thankfully remained mostly uninfested; the personnel there tended to work cloistered within their offices, so it was a simple matter of accio-ing any strays out of the hallway as the Minister's guards wouldn't let anyone or anything get even close without the right authorization ‒ written in triplicate. Harry rigged a large net out of Conjured rope and transported the Pygmy Puffs via elf magic into the small hall on one side of the Atrium where he'd cordoned off the lifts with some ornamental floor-to-ceiling screens that had been Transfigured solid as well as magically reinforced. At least people could now use the lifts again to get from one level to the other, provided they were cautious and didn't sneak peeks behind the new 'walls'.

With a relieved sigh, Harry took the Ministry elves upstairs.

He'd already known that Magical Law Enforcement on Level Two was bad; except for Dawlish's, the Squad Leaders' and other Senior Aurors' offices, MLE was one big open space with dozens of cubicles, equipment closets, filing cabinets and desks providing plenty of hiding places for the pastel-coloured nuisances. Well, and they've apparently not invaded the archivists' wing, or Draco would've complained already.

"Good thing their fur is so bright; at least they're easy to see," he grumbled to Mandy Brocklehurst who'd taken pity on him and lent a hand for half an hour. She just smirked, patted his back and blithely wished him 'Happy Hunting' before flouncing back to her now Pygmy-Puff-free desk, to continue working on her no doubt extremely more interesting case files.

The people in Magical Accidents and Catastrophes were very pragmatic and had simply set up creature-repelling wards days ago that kept their space clear. It didn't stop the Pygmy Puffs from trying to enter Level Three, but they were constantly being bounced back by the invisible barrier and ended up in a great, heaving pile at the entry. As he was Levitating the beasties into the large, soft net to be carried to the Atrium by his elves, Harry decided that overall, he should be thankful for small mercies.

Level Four … he shuddered even as he bypassed the Department for Magical Creatures to use the loo, then take a quick break for lunch. It was there that the Pygmy Puffs had been housed in the first place and they'd pretty much taken over by now, clinging to walls and even the ceiling, huddling in corners and slipping into every room that wasn't kept locked at all times. Harry wondered briefly how Hermione could've failed to notice the mayhem, but wisely decided not to ask and left the creatures to Creatures for the time being.

In direct contrast to MAC on Three, the staff in International Cooperation one level up could be seen sitting around, drinking tea, petting and stroking the pastel fluffballs; they were apparently being cooed into a near stupor for their efforts. Of course that meant that no real work was getting done on Level Five, but in Harry's opinion that was pretty much par for the course – like most Aurors, he believed that whatever new law or regulation cooked up by the ICW and then filtered through here meant more work for everyone at best, or was utter nonsense at worst. Kind of like being in the EU must be for the Muggles, he supposed, even as he gently but firmly plucked the first Pygmy Puff out of the hands of a reluctant clerk and handed it to Atticus, the lead elf.

He started cursing when he inspected Magical Transportation on Level Six; some bloody idiot had had the bright idea to simply portkey and/or Apparate any Pygmy Puffs they found to some remote island location in the Hebrides, from where they'd have to be retrieved at some later point. They even had the gall to boast about how clean and tidy their domain was now that all office detritus had been turned into Portkeys, and how much practice everybody had gained in precision Apparition. In short, they'd caused one giant headache for some unlucky sod.

Which is most likely going to be me. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Harry wanted to hex the lot.

He probably should have expected that Magical Games and Sports on Level Seven had stopped taking the situation seriously; like the people on Level Five, nobody was doing any work, but playing with the little furballs instead. They were arranging races for the Pygmy Puffs down one corridor, let them loose on a homemade obstacle course in one office – both 'events' conducted complete with betting pools run by Ludo Bagman, of course – and someone was seriously trying to figure out how to rig harnesses for the purple Puffs to hitch them to carts made out of parchment and wooden discs cut from a broken broomstick before racing them gladiator-style with the pink ones as 'drivers'. To top it all, a Muggleborn employee had even rigged a kind of netted hoop, attached it to a wall close to the ceiling at the far end of the main hallway and was trying to teach his colleagues the finer points of slam-dunking. Thankfully, he'd remembered to cast Cushioning charms for both humans and Pygmy Puffs.

To be fair, the Pygmy Puffs seemed to enjoy the attention if their loud coos, purrs and trills were any indication; by now, Harry thought he might very much enjoy banging his head against the nearest wall until it all went away.

The Unspeakables on Level Nine and Ten had their own ways of dealing with invaders; they had simply sealed off every access tighter than a Gringotts high-security vault.

Harry wasn't sure, but when he was talking to the hooded person who'd basically told him to 'go away and not bother, the Department of Mysteries could handle the situation by themselves, thank you very much', he thought he'd glimpsed a tiny pink Pygmy Puff peeking out of a pocket of the Unspeakable's robes. As he valued his life too much, he didn't mention it – and if they were going to experiment on the little buggers, Harry really didn't want to know.

Which, after finally having cleared Level Four, left only Level Eight: the Atrium. Easily the biggest open space outside of the court rooms and the Wizengamot itself, with exit and entry Floos, the Phone Booth passage and several emergency staircases.

Harry sighed. So did his merry band of elves This is going to be one hell of a long day.

{.".}{.".}{.".}

It was almost the end of working hours when Atticus finally shuffled up to him, a relieved look in his large brown eyes.

"We is being done, Auror Harry Potter sir," the elf said. "All levels are being clear of Puffies."

"Thank you, Atticus," Harry replied. "Please tell Perry, Mason, Ally and Gomez that I'm very grateful for their help and that I'll bring by a couple of Butterbeers soon for you all to share."

The elf's droopy ears perked up. "Auror Harry Potter sir doesn't have to do that," he started, twisting his spindly fingers, but Harry interrupted him with a kind smile and pat on one bony shoulder, waving at the other four elves.

"Nonsense. You deserve a treat after all you've done for me. Just make sure you don't overdo it, huh?"

Atticus gave him a reproachful look. "We is Ministry elves," he said with a dignified sniff. "We is knowing to hold our drink."

"Of course," Harry said hastily. "Anyway, thanks again."

"You is welcome, Auror Harry Potter sir. Good-bye." The short creature signaled his fellows and the lot disappeared in a series of quiet 'pops', leaving Harry to survey the once again Pygmy Puff-free Atrium.

Slowly he sauntered over to the lift banks to check his Transfigured screens one last time before calling it a day when he heard the Phone Booth entry engage. Wondering who could be coming to the Ministry so close to closing time, he turned and was delighted to see Luna Lovegood and Padma Patil step out into the high-ceilinged space.

"Hello, ladies," he greeted them with a smile after Eric Munch had performed the mandatory wand check at the Registration desk. "It's been a while."

"Hello, Harry," Luna chirped, stretching up to kiss his cheek. She was one of the few people who had unreservedly accepted Harry and Draco's relationship from the very beginning, and that was one reason of many why she would always hold a special place in Harry's heart. "I was visiting Padma at St. Mungo's and decided to come along," she said in her usual dreamy voice.

"I have a date with Terry," Padma explained, returning the brief hug Harry gave her. "We really must start planning our wedding."

Harry grinned. "Just let me know when I need to go looking for a gift," he said with a wink. "Do you want something practical, or rather something gaudy but utterly useless?"

Padma whapped his arm in mock outrage and was about to reply when she was interrupted by the arrival of Millicent Bulstrode at one of the lifts. The tall Slytherin stormed over and unceremoniously dumped two Pygmy Puffs, one pink and one purple, into Harry's hands. Both creatures were being uncharacteristically squirmy and seemed to chitter and hiss rather than coo and purr.

"You forgot to collect these, Potter," she snarled. "I told you the other day to keep the bloody critters away from me!"

"Sorry, Bulstrode," Harry said contritely, fumbling a little until he had a secure grip on the beasties. "I honestly thought we'd found them all." As soon as he took hold of the furry little things, they immediately calmed down and started making their customary sounds again.

"Hmph." Millicent glowered at him for a few long seconds. Then she huffed. "Well, they were hiding in the bottom drawer of the hindmost filing cabinet. Almost anyone could've overlooked 'em."

Coming from her, this was almost a gushing apology, and Harry took it as such. "No problem."

"Why were two Pygmy Puffs hiding in your filing cabinet?" Padma wondered. "Are they someone's pets and got lost?"

Both Harry and Bulstrode exchanged a look, groaned in unison and began filling in the two former Ravenclaws on what had been going on at the Ministry over the past twenty-two days.

"Oh my." Luna was giggling by the time they were done, her pale blue eyes sparkling with mirth. "Poor George."

"Poor George?!" Harry sputtered. "Are you sure you're commiserating with the right person?"

"Well, obviously he was the first to be wronged," Luna explained. "But of course I also feel for Hermione, Mrs Symonds, and all the lovely Pygmy Puffs," she amended.

Millicent bristled like an outraged Fwooper. "What about us Ministry ghouls who've been tripping over them at every corner since forever?" she demanded to know.

"Two weeks," Harry corrected her, then ducked under her ferocious frown. "Erm, yeah. And what about me, Atticus and the other elves?" Harry added, less than amused. "We've been rounding up Pygmy Puffs since seven o'clock this morning!"

"Would you rather hunt Dark Wizards and be cursed than catching harmless creatures with soft fur that make pleasant sounds?" Luna retorted, bringing Harry up short. He had complained often enough about the less-than-exciting tasks he was given, but when it was put like that ...

"There's no way I can answer that without coming off like a total prat, is there?" he said sheepishly, scratching the back of his head.

"No, and how smart of you to see that! Maybe I should write an article for The Quibbler," Luna teased with a wide smile. "I can even picture the headline: Harry Potter, Puffskein Hunter Extraordinaire!"

"As long as it's you and not Skeeter, I suppose I could live with it," Harry chuckled over Padma's small groan and Bulstrode's much louder snort. "I'm sure whatever you wrote would be a lot less sensational than some of the things I've been called by her in the past."

"At the very least it doesn't give you yet another hyphenated, over-the-top title," Padma commented drily. "Anyone still remember Rita's series of articles in The Daily Prophet after the final battle? What was it again, 'The Chosen One: From Boy-Who-Lived to Man-Who-Won'?"

Harry winced, wishing the notorious reporter to the deepest part of the Antipodean rainforest once again. "I'd rather you didn't," he muttered, blushing, then cleared his throat. "Ahem. Anyway, I'm just glad the whole thing's over. George is going to pick up the lot tomorrow morning, and things can go back to normal. Well, at least as normal as they ever get around here, that is."

"Can't be soon enough for me," Millicent grumbled. "Not only were the critters making me queasy, they've started giving me a headache, too."

"Queasy how?" Padma asked, ever the Healer, and pulled out her wand.

Bulstrode scowled at Padma. "Queasy as in, my stomach couldn't decide whether it was merely something I ate, a Constipation hex gone wrong, or the beginnings of a serious illness. Why?"

Luna waved her hand. "It's probably just Wrackspurts," she said airily even as Padma cast a light diagnostic spell.

"Keep your delusions to yourself, Lovegood," the former Slytherin muttered. "They have nothing to do with me!"

"No, there really is something," Padma murmured. "Hold still for a minute, will you?" She cast another, slightly stronger diagnostic spell at the irate young woman. The pale greenish-blue light grew stronger as she passed the tip of her wand across Millicent's torso. "Hmm. I can't be sure without taking a blood sample, but it looks as if you've been potioned somehow."

Harry froze, feeling his Auror instincts kicking in. Bulstrode wasn't a friend, but she was a Ministry employee, a co-worker if not exactly a colleague; this could potentially be quite a serious affair. "Are you sure, Healer Patil?" he asked, whipping out a piece of parchment to take notes.

"As sure as I can be without a more detailed exam, Auror Potter," Padma answered firmly.

"What the fuck?" Millicent exclaimed. "Potioned? Me? With what?"

Luna hummed to herself, petting one of the Pygmy Puffs Harry still held. "It looks like a mild dose of Amica Corde Elixir, I think," she murmured. "It always shows up turquoise under the spell Padma just cast. Daddy wrote an article about it last year."

"What in Merlin's name is Amica Corde?"

Padma tucked her wand back into the sheath sewn to her robe's sleeve. "A mild Love Potion," she said. "Nothing like Amortentia or the like, just … a little nudge into the right direction, if you will. Hence its name, the friendly heart."

Bulstrode stared at Padma for a full minute, her expression vacillating wildly between shame, rage and … excitement? "I'm gonna kill Theo!" she exploded at last. "Of all the sneaky, underhanded things to do to me!"

Harry blinked. "Theo? As in … Theo Nott?" he asked, somewhat gobsmacked. Nott was even shorter than him and definitely on the weedy side, whereas Bulstrode was – how did Draco put it when he was feeling uncommonly kind? Junoesque, that's what. Which, in Harry's opinion, was just a poncy way to call her tall and built like a female champion weight lifter. To think that Nott would resort to slipping her a love potion, no matter how mild … the idea was mind-boggling.

"Yes, Theo bloody Nott," Millicent confirmed, yanking him out of his musings. "I'll kill him," she repeated, sounding almost cheerful all of a sudden.

"Um, Bulstrode … Auror here?" Harry said uncomfortably, pointing at his badge. "I can't stand by and let you make threats against someone …"

"Don't worry your messy head, Potter," she waved him off. "First I'm gonna shag him into the mattress, and then I'll kill him. Several times over, in fact." She gave them all a rather alarming smile, then grabbed Padma's arm. "After you've flushed the potion out of my system, that is. Can you do that, Patil?"

"Er, easily," Padma stammered, looking as flustered as Harry felt. "All it takes is a Purging Draught and a Detoxifying spell …"

"Then let's get on with it," Bulstrode declared and started pushing Padma back towards the once more working public Floos. "I have a scoundrel to deal with. See you whenever, Potter!"

A few moments later, she and Padma had vanished in a gust of green flames, leaving a thoroughly-bemused Harry and dreamily-smiling Luna behind.

"Did she really just say—"

"Yes, Harry."

"Bulstrode and Nott?"

"Yes, Harry."

"But, but she's … and he's … they're ..." he shook his head, at a loss for words.

"No more unlikely a pair than you and Draco, don't you think?" Luna said mildly, giving him a look that was equal parts admonishing and all-knowing. Harry felt instantly disarmed.

And that's Luna all over again. Harry sighed to himself and let it go. He wouldn't have her any other way, and knew it.

"You're completely right, as usual," he conceded, slinging an arm around the slight blonde's shoulder. "Don't ever change, moon-girl," he said fondly, then gave her a small shake, nodding at the two cooing Pygmy Puffs he still held. "C'mon, let's put these two stragglers with the others, and I'll buy you a drink at the Leaky before we both go home. How's that for a plan?"

Luna's face lit up with pleasure. "Worthy of the Headmaster," she said earnestly, but with a twinkle in her eyes that almost rivalled Dumbledore's.

Harry laughed. "I'm not sure that's a compliment, but whatever. Let's go!"

He led her over to the Transfigured screens, gave Luna the two Pygmy Puffs to hold and used his wand to open up a small hatch, big enough to push them through. Just as he was about to take them back, one of the lifts arrived from a lower level and his new superior officer, Carlo Marcelli, stepped out.

"Auror Potter," Marcelli said coolly, his face carefully blank. Not that Harry minded; there was no love lost between them. Still, courtesy and protocol demanded that he returned the greeting.

"Squad Leader Marcelli," he replied, and instinctively attempted to salute. Unfortunately, the gesture thrust the Pygmy Puff in his hand almost directly into the man's face.

In the blink of an eye, the placid, cooing ball of purple fluff transformed into a spitting, bristling menace as it threw the mother of all hissy fits.

All three of them froze until Luna's calm voice broke the silence. Harry flicked a glance in her direction and felt his jaw drop.

Luna had drawn her wand and was pointing it at the Italian Auror with an unwavering hand.

"I knew it was Wrackspurts," she said, sounding quite satisfied.

{.".}{.".}{.".}

Harry finished work at a regular time, but contrary to his usual habit didn't shuck off his Auror robes as soon as he entered Grimmauld Place. Instead, he went in search of Draco.

He found him in the small conservatory they had added in the back when they'd moved into the house. There was barely room for the L-shaped wicker bench, low table and matching lounger, but it was enough for them to enjoy a view other than the rows of terraced houses and unkempt commons at the front. What was more, a few well-placed weather charms allowed them to enjoy fresh air through open windows even this late in the year while they sat in comfort within the glass structure. At the back of the garden, a small potted evergreen had been hung with Muggle solar-powered fairy lights and gave off a soft glow in the darkness.

"Hey." Harry bent down to kiss Draco hello.

Draco put aside the book he'd been reading, stretched out his long legs and returned the kiss with interest. "Hey yourself," he replied huskily, cupping Harry's cheek for a moment before running his hand down his chest in a gentle caress. "You're a bit early – I've ordered dinner to be delivered at eight."

"I'm not very hungry yet." Harry waved off his concern and sat down next to his lover who obligingly scooted back a little to give him room. "I'm just glad to be home."

"Why, did something happen at work?" Draco asked.

"You could say that," Harry said, opening the top two buttons of his scarlet robe. "They finally determined why the Pygmy Puffs reacted so violently to Marcelli."

Intrigued, Draco sat up. The incident and subsequent interrogation of the Italian Auror had been the talk of the Ministry over the last forty-eight hours. "They did?"

"Yeah."

"And? Come on, Potter, spill!"

Harry had to smile; Draco all-afire with curiosity was one of his favourite sights. The way his grey eyes lit up, how his lush lips were eagerly parted and most of all that little crease between his fair brows – Harry loved it all. Even if he wouldn't dare in a million years to admit to Draco that he found him irresistibly cute.

"Well … turns out that Luna's assertion of Wrackspurts being responsible wasn't too far off the mark," he started. "And before you say it, yes, I know they most likely aren't real. But according to Luna, all types of Puffskeins have an affinity for Wrackspurts – which allegedly are creatures that cause confusion in someone's mind."

"Ah. That's why the Pygmy Puffs reacted to Millie, because the Amica Corde Elixir had addled what few wits she has - assuming Lovegood's right and Wrackspurts do exist?"

"Uh-huh. Bulstrode's moving in with Nott, by the way. And George is all but beside himself that he can market his Pygmy Puffs as some kind of mind-control detectors now – and you're not going to believe this, there's actually been a suggestion made that the Ministry keep a few around for random personnel checks!"

Draco smirked. "Hopefully under better-controlled conditions?"

"As if Hermione would have it any other way!"

"Right." Draco laughed. "And Marcelli? Was he also being potioned?"

"Sort of," Harry said. "Turns out someone had very carefully Confunded him back in Florence to gain information about the work of the Italian Aurors. Something to do with the Mafia, I think - it's all very hush-hush. Rather than release him when he moved to Britain, though, they kept him under by sending him a steady supply of Chianti wine."

Professor Snape had drilled Draco very well; he made the right connection almost immediately. "This Chianti wouldn't have been laced with traces of arsenic, by any chance?"

"It was," Harry nodded. "How'd you know?"

"Arsenic isn't just a poison," Draco explained. "It can also cause confusion, among other things, which would certainly help keeping an Auror off one's trail." He paused. "Plus, it's a very old method to 'improve' the taste of wine … and if you keep the amount small enough, you can actually build up a degree of immunity against it. Provided it stays small, that is." He lifted an eyebrow, a small smirk playing around his lips. Harry wanted to kiss it away. "Or you're going to die a rather messy death. Historically, it was a method very much favoured by the Borgias."

Harry whistled softly. "To whom Marcelli is distantly related on his mother's side. Wow." Then he chuckled. "Anyway, he was absolutely mortified when it all came out – says that he had no idea, and I tend to believe him. Nobody can fake things that well."

Draco wasn't as convinced, but let it slide for the moment. "So what is going to happen to him now?"

Harry shrugged somewhat uncomfortably. "He resigned voluntarily before Kingsley could fire him."

"As he very well should," Draco said indignantly. "Can't have a senior Auror under some foreigners' influen—waitaminute!" He suddenly gripped Harry's lapels. "Who did they name as his replacement?"

Harry managed to keep a straight face for about half a minute before he broke out into a wide grin. "Who do you think they picked?"

Draco nearly forgot to breathe. "You?" he finally asked. At Harry's nod, he jumped up and yanked him into a hard embrace. "At last! I knew they couldn't overlook you forever," he crowed.

Harry laughed, and to Draco it sounded as if he'd never done it so exuberantly before.

"Wish I'd had your confidence, but I'm glad it happened," he murmured against Draco's neck.

He fumbled a bit until he could withdraw the shiny silver badge proclaiming him a Squad Leader one-handed from his pocket – he refused to let go of Draco completely – and let Draco pin it to his robe, right above his heart.

Gently, Draco pressed a kiss against Harry's mouth. "Congratulations, Harry. You deserve this."

"Thanks, Dray." Now if the Ministry would only give you the recognition you've earned ...

They held each other for a few minutes, then Harry extricated himself from Draco's arms. "I'd better go and put on something more comfortable," he said with a slight smile. "Didn't you say dinner will be delivered by eight? It's a quarter to already."

"If I'd known we have something to celebrate tonight, I'd have made reservations at Le Gavroche," Draco pouted. "Instead, we're just having Rogan Josh and Palak Paneer from the Delhi Diner down the street."

"I happen to love their Rogan Josh," Harry soothed him. "But how about we break open a bottle of that wine your mother sent for your birthday to go with it and keep the Michelin-star restaurant for when you get hired as an Arbitrator?" Behind his glasses, Harry's eyes deepened to a true emerald green. "Because I'm in the mood for a very special dessert … and good as they are, I doubt Le Gavroche has it on the menu."

He drew Draco against him once more, this time letting him feel the growing hardness against his belly. "Well?"

Draco tried, but couldn't keep up his petulant expression. Not when something else was very definitely up.

"An acceptable substitute," he sniffed with laughing eyes. "It's a date."

{.".}{.".}{.".}

Little did they know as they lay sated in their large bed later that night, replete with good food, better wine and the best sex they'd had in a very long time, that a large tawny owl was waiting patiently on their window sill, an important-looking parchment tied to its leg. It invited Draco Malfoy, Esq., due to his 'impeccably professional conduct and thorough knowledge of the Law demonstrated in a satisfactorily resolved dispute', to present himself forthwith at the Ministry of Magic to receive his accreditation as an Arbitrator.

The document had been signed by Kingsley Shacklebolt in person – on recommendation by the Undersecretary for the Beast, Being and Spirit Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, one Hermione Granger, and bore the Ministry's official seal, traditionally set into wax as purple as the Wizengamot members' robes. The attached ribbon, however, was not made of silk, as custom demanded.

It was made of fuzzy velvet. In pink.

Finite Incantatem.

Final A/N:
The name "Grover Pasturage" is derived from "grower" ( = breeder), and pasturage is a synonym for "animal husbandry".

Draco's débateur robes are an amalgam of two authentic present-day French (judges') court robes.

An ex post facto law (corrupted from Latin: ex postfacto, lit. 'out of the aftermath') is a law that retroactively changes the legal consequences (or status) of actions that were committed, or relationships that existed, before the enactment of the law.

fiat means a legal, authoritative decision that has absolute sanction. From the Latin for "let it be done," the word fiat is a binding edict issued by a person in command. (A variation of the ubiquitous "So mote it be", which I hate with a passion!)

Poliziotto: Italian for "Policeman" ( = Auror)

Accademia di Pubblica Sicurezza: Italian for "Academy of/for Public Security" ( = their Auror Academy equivalent; both terms courtesy of Google Translate)

Le Gavroche is a real, two-Michelin-starred restaurant in Upper Brook Street, London.