Disclaimer: I'm not J.K. Rowling; I'm only visiting her universe for nonprofit fun and edification. (No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended).

ooo

It's coming on to one o'clock as Draco finishes the last of his letters, affixes his seal, and consigns the first of them—the missive to Bill Weasley—to Augusta's owl.

Standing in the Owlery at Longbottom House, his cloak wrapped about him in the chilly fog that blows through the cupola, he looks at her and says, "Thank you."

His face looks pale and solemn and very young, and less like his father than she could have imagined. Its expression reminds her of Tonks, in her very rare moments of repose; there's a sweet candor that is tremendously moving, the more so as Draco has apparently spent most of his life trying to become an imitation of his father.

Impulsively she kisses him on the forehead, as if he were a much younger child than he is, and says that she's proud of him, that there are grown men who couldn't manage what he has just done. (Your father, for one, she thinks, but does not say.)

He looks at her with those pale eyes, that gather the diffuse light of the foggy winter afternoon, and there's a moment in which she glimpses not only her daughter resurrected but a bit of Regulus too… on the very rare occasions that he was merely a child, and not the standard-bearer of the Noble and Most Ancient House.

They descend the winding stairs. "You'll be back?" he asks, as they reach the foot.

"I don't know if that will be tonight," she says. "The meeting might run rather late. But in any case I will be back. Your cousins have invited you to visit."

He frowns.

"My late husband's people," she says. "They want to make your acquaintance." She adds, "New Year's was rather too soon; the Minister would have had to approve it, and there weren't enough Aurors." What she doesn't add, is the very specific requirements that make them even more short-handed: they need an Auror or Aurors who not only can pass in Muggle London, but who do not bear too strong a grudge against the House of Malfoy.

Given what the insiders know about her brother-in-law's part in the return of the Dark Lord, that number is vanishingly small. Even those who might have had Pureblood supremacist sympathies have rather shifted with the wind: hence the cult of her dead daughter.

"You've seen a bit of Muggle London," she says, "but that's from the outside. Now you have an invitation. You'll behave yourself creditably, won't you?"

He looks puzzled, rather than disdainful, and nods slowly.

"Now I really must go, but you'll be all right, won't you?"

He says, "Neville will be coming back."

Understood, of course, is that Hermione will not; she'll be accompanying Andromeda to the meeting of the Remus Lupin Foundation.

Indeed, just as she's looking out to the terrace to find a handy spot from which to Apparate, Hermione and Neville troop in, bringing with them the cold sharp smell of snow and cold, and their rosy good cheer. Neville kisses Hermione goodbye, full on the lips, which is rather startling given they're in company, and takes Draco's arm, suggesting that they might have a game of Exploding Snap, or perhaps he might like chess? At any rate, the afternoon can be whiled away…

Andromeda is reminded of an older brother gamely taking responsibility for a younger one, but there's something else as well, because Draco blushes.

ooo

When she arrives at St. Mungo's once more, Mrs. Finch-Fletchley has arrived; she's sitting in the reception area of the Dangerous Creatures ward, wearing plum silk, low-heeled pumps and pearls, and chatting with Healers Smethwyck and Derwent. Bill stands outside the ward, holding his wand inconspicuously at the ready, Auror-fashion; Parvati informs Andromeda that Fleur, Padma and Seamus are standing guard inside, one on each side of the patient's bed.

Apparently they're taking the threat from the Auror corps quite seriously. Ron Weasley has been sent home, because his liaison with the Aurors is strictly unofficial and he might be compromised by his presence at their meeting.

What's unsaid: Ron is more in the position of a spy than a liaison, and as he's not an officer of the Foundation, there is no need to call attention to his affiliation with them. The tone is already shaping up to something more appropriate to wartime; their gathering already resembles those of the Order of the Phoenix.

Dean and Luna have arrived by another route; they emerge from the lift along with Hermione, who's still wearing her Muggle walking clothes, with open traditional robes—Hogwarts school robes, with the insignia of Gryffindor—casually thrown over them. Andromeda is not sure that she approves of the new fashion, but it seems to be catching on, especially among those who wish to affiliate themselves with the Order or with Dumbledore's Army after the fact… well, Hermione would not be guilty of that. It's simply the way she dresses. The contrast of her jeans and hiking boots with Mrs. Finch-Fletchley's silk and pearls is rather amusing, though, when Andromeda thinks of her own youthful impressions that there was one form of "Muggle costume" just as there was a single, rather amorphous, form of Muggle.

Mrs. Finch-Fletchley rises to meet her, and indicates that it's a pleasure to see in the New Year with her, although the circumstances could certainly be better. She greets Hermione as well, and thanks her for her attention to the case that lately has arisen.

Healer Smethwyck says that the patient is awake now, and has been reassured of his safety.

Hermione looks somewhat sardonic. "I'm not sure I would be reassured under the circumstances."

Smethwyck says that he's been asking after her. Hermione sighs and seems to be suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. "Well, I'll visit him, if you insist. But after the meeting."

ooo

The matter is simple, of course: they have a diplomatic crisis. Kingsley Shacklebolt is going to be obliged to convey to the Muggle Minister that one of his own citizens has been turned to a werewolf, and will need to be sequestered in St. Mungo's every full-moon period for the rest of his natural life. The immediate window of peril, of course, is the period from moonrise to moonset on the night of the full moon, but the period of disability is a bit longer; the patient is likely to be short-tempered and impulsive in the few days before full moon, and then exhausted from the transformation for two to three day afterward, even with the mediation of the Wolfsbane Potion.

For a solid citizen of the Muggle world, this means a mysterious disappearance three or four days out of every month, at a minimum, and (as Mrs. Finch-Fletchley points out) not all full moons are on the week-end.

Bill points out that the previous policy of the Auror Department needs to be overturned, if not exposed in its full barbarity.

Hermione adds, somewhat cynically, that the fates seem to have favored them this time, by singling out a wealthy and well-connected victim. The unexplained death of Nigel Black, young banker in the City of London, would have set off a furor that neither Minister would have found pleasant…

Healer Derwent adds that there is another complication, a practical and perhaps a political one, not directly related to the werewolf issue. When the Aurors confronted the werewolf pack in Manchester, they unexpectedly found someone else already combating them… a dirty, scrawny adolescent refugee who nonetheless had both a wand and sufficient presence of mind to have Apparated to a defensible position to deal with twelve attackers. The report makes it clear: some four or five of them had already been Stunned by the time that the Aurors arrived on the scene.

Derwent goes on to say that the girl had been living rough for at least six months, pretending to be a Muggle, as best one could without having any real contacts to depend upon in that world. Which is to say that she had been hiding on both sides of the border, evading several kinds of predator…

When she refused to identify herself, the Aurors took her into custody along with the werewolves.

Hermione has been frowning through the entire recitation, and now she demands, "Where is she? What did they do to her?"

Andromeda is a little startled by Hermione's tone—which is that of a Wizengamot prosecutor—given that Derwent is both a St. Mungo's Senior Healer and Hermione's superior at the Ministry.

Derwent proceeds calmly, as if Hermione's query had been merely conversational, "She is under my care in Spell Damage." She lowers her voice. "Not medically appropriate, of course, but probably the safest place for her, under the circumstances." She adds, "I think we should continue this conversation in a more confidential setting."

ooo

Confidential turns out to mean silence, under the shelter of something rather more sophisticated than Muffliato, and within sight of Nigel Black's hospital bed, which has already been cordoned off from the rest of the ward, as much to hide him from the other patients as to veil from his eyes the workings of a magical hospital.

Derwent says that she already had suspicions as to the girl's identity, confirmed when Professor Slughorn answered the summons from Hogwart. He calmed the patient sufficiently for her to be willing to accept from his hand the necessary nutritive Potions and, once she had talked at some length about her experiences, a dose of Dreamless Sleep.

Her testimony about conditions in certain corners of the wizarding world is far from reassuring. The shattered remains of the Death Eaters and the Snatchers are rallying into something that may be a threat—if not immediately, then in the future, by virtue of their fear of the reprisals that have been enacted across the British Isles—and on the other hand, the terror on the part of neutral locals, that sees any stranger as a possible Death Eater.

Her position had been anomalous, as a Half-blood who had connections to some of Voldemort's youthful auxiliaries, but who had assisted Professor Slughorn with the logistics of the evacuation of underage students and the coordination of incoming auxiliaries at the Hog's Head preparatory to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Hermione's frown has deepened. "If she was on the right side in the war, why didn't she come forward?"

Derwent says, "She didn't feel safe. They've already tried to kill her once. In Hogsmeade, six or seven months ago. The day you and Mr. Longbottom rescued Draco Malfoy. She's been on the run since then."

The frown relaxes into an expression of puzzled and then triumphant cogitation. "I know her, then." She says, "Professor Slughorn talked to me about having her noted for a posthumous commendation, only he wasn't sure that she was dead. It's Millicent Bulstrode, isn't it?"

Derwent nods, grimly. "Quite a clever girl, Miss Bulstrode. She's survived at least six lunar cycles on the werewolves' own territory, and hasn't been turned. And she knows quite a bit about their haunts, which might simplify some aspects of our domestic situation with the werewolf problem."

The foreign situation, of course, remains complex, which no one needs to state; Fleur stands guard like a rather too good-looking Valkyrie, at the foot of Nigel Black's hospital bed, with Padma on one side of the bed and Seamus on the other, sitting relaxed but alert in chairs alongside the bed, as if they were visitors cheering a rather popular patient… which initial impression of conviviality is contradicted by their drawn wands.

They turn to the matter at hand: what will they demand of Kingsley Shacklebolt, not Andromeda's old friend but the Minister for Magic? And how might they make those demands stick?

It's a Slytherin question, posed in Slytherin terms. Power, and skillful means. All of the eyes in the room go to her. Hermione has her arms folded, and her fingertips tap absently on the opposite elbow: right hand to left elbow, and it's clear she's thinking about her wand, even if it isn't in evidence. Bill Weasley stands guard at the open door of the cordoned-off room, and the set of his back tells her that he's listening intently for the answer. Seamus and Padma look at her, their postures mirror images of each other—not a couple, but warriors united in the same cause—while Parvati cocks her head to one side, echoed by Lavender (who's her true twin). Luna and Dean stand, relaxed and watchful, waiting to hear what she will say.

Snakes travel in a straight line, and Andromeda's eyes meet those of Boudicca Derwent, her sister in that House.

Then she turns to Justin and Mrs. Finch-Fletchley. "Would you happen to have social contacts with the Muggle Minister?"

Mrs. Finch-Fletchley smiles and nods. Great Merlin, if she'd been a witch she'd have Sorted into our House, Andromeda thinks. "Side channels," she says, "I think I understand. Minister Shacklebolt will not be the sole conduit for information."

Andromeda says, "And he'll know it, too, and watch his step."

Hermione's expression is puzzled and blank for a fraction of a second, and then hardens into a bright, feral smirk. "And not a breath of it will be official, will it?" she says. There's a keen pleasure in her face, and Andromeda is reminded again of the rumors that Rita Skeeter's hatred of this girl is more than political, that it's personal, the way that successful blackmail is personal.

Justin says, "That means we'll need our own intelligence network. He's not precisely restraining the Aurors—or they're a power unto themselves."

Dean clarifies. "None of us who were classified as Muggle-born got invitations." His teeth show in a disconcerting way as he says the next thing, "I was the test case. When they decided I was Half-blood, there was an invitation."

Fleur says, "Shacklebolt's a decent man, but he doesn't have the power." She considers the shaft of her wand, as her pale fingers deftly roll it. "On the other hand, we have auxiliaries… Not all of the old Order or the Defense Association belongs to the Ministry." She smiles. "A balance of powers."

There are a lot of Slytherin smiles in this decidedly mixed group.

The demands are simple: there will be no more killing of Muggle werewolves. If the intelligence from Millicent Bulstrode proves as useful as anticipated, the risk of that scenario may be considerably reduced. Which then brings them to the next demand: the direct repeal of the Umbridge legislation, given that they will be assimilating and rehabilitating multiple cohorts of adolescent werewolves, and those no-longer-children will need education and training, and then jobs, and respectable positions, once they attain to adulthood; otherwise, they will lapse back into predators for sheer survival…

"And then Greyback will have won," Lavender says, with considerable ruthlessness, "and that's not something I want to see."

Justin says that the brewing and distribution of Wolfsbane Potion will be both financed and controlled by the Foundation, with the new St. Mungo's lycanthropy ward as the distribution point. Which is to say, that the Muggle world will have a substantial stake in the whole business.

What's not said: and a debt thereby will be incurred.

He adds that Professor Slughorn has been teaching the Wolfsbane Potion production process to the NEWTs revision group at Hogwarts, and he understands that there are several promising leads for the cadre of volunteers or paid staff who will be moved into action each full-moon under the current plan. Slughorn is looking for a permanent assistant, an apprentice or lieutenant to oversee those efforts; the choice of that person will depend upon the outcome of the NEWTs.

ooo

The conference with Kingsley Shacklebolt is brief, and the company select: herself, Justin Finch-Fletchley (his mother absents herself, as befits the power behind the throne), Bill Weasley (whose affiliations are not Ministry), Boudicca Derwent and Hippocrates Smethwyck (for testimony on the clinical underpinnings of the political proposal).

It is the first time that she's seen true weariness in Kingsley's face, and no trace of his old pleasure in the game. He knows that their safety depends upon following this politically risky course; he knows as well that there are weapons being held in abeyance, behind the arras as it were.

He accedes to their demands with a swiftness that feels anticlimactic.

It's only four o'clock in the afternoon by the time that Andromeda finds herself released from her duties to the Foundation. Except for the guard detail, the others go home. Derwent and Smethwyck indicate to Andromeda and Hermione that the patient wishes to talk to them.

Hermione sighs with distinct ill-grace, the first time she's in the least resembled an adolescent. "Oh very well," she says. She says to Andromeda, "Only out of duty. I am not some angel of mercy."

Seamus and Padma move discreetly to the corners of the room, as Andromeda takes a chair on one side of the bed and Hermione on the other.

Nigel Black is pale, likely from the loss of blood, for his already pale skin has a waxy cast to it, and his lips are almost colorless. His hair, against the white pillow, is pale brown, damp and spiky, with sweat and whatever sort of stuff he'd applied to it by way of dressing (because he'd been at a New Year's Eve party, after all). He's wearing a pale green St. Mungo's hospital gown, whose low scoop neck shows his sharp clavicles and the ugly mass of angry red scars from the surgical repair of his right arm. Andromeda tries to avert her eyes from those, or at least not stare at them too obviously.

Hermione says, "Mr. Black."

He turns his head to stare at her. "Miss Granger." He smiles, and the sardonic lines of it clinch for her the question of his membership in the House of Black; that smile would sit quite comfortably on the face of Sirius or Regulus or even sulky little Draco, and it calls attention to the familiar bone structure. "I suppose I ought to admit that you were right. Or rather that your little paramour was, though I didn't quite know what he meant by your own kind."

Hermione replies, "Oh yes, and your influential connections include my schoolmate. So much for droit du seigneur, eh?" In spite of her plain annoyance, she laughs. "It's a small world, isn't it, Nigel Black?" She doesn't stop laughing, and there's an hysterical edge to it. "Nigel Black. Oh gods, Nigel sodding Black." She says, "You don't know how many times I bit my tongue to avoid asking you if you were related to that Black family."

Andromeda darts a quelling glance at Hermione, which has precisely no effect, because she has her hands over her eyes and her shoulders are quivering, whether with suppressed laughter or tears it's not clear.

When she does look up, her eyes are wet, but her lips still twitching. She masters herself and says, "And let me tell you for the last time, Draco Malfoy is not my paramour. Nor, for that matter, does he have any aspirations to the Turner Prize. Though I will agree with you that he has one of the ugliest tattoos in the British Isles."

Nigel glares at her.

Hermione giggles, a rather un-Hermione-like sound. "And I'm a poor excuse for an angel of mercy, but you'll have to excuse me, because I had maybe four hours of sleep last night." She suppresses the giggles with a visible effort, and sits back in the chair, her arms hugging herself as if she might fly into pieces otherwise.

Andromeda says, "Mr. Black, I believe. You'll excuse Miss Granger, I trust. She is rather exhausted. This business has led us all a merry chase." Finally managing eye contact with Hermione, she draws herself up and glowers, and Hermione flinches. (It's not sporting to so consciously resurrect her appalling sister, but a la guerre comme a la guerre. That lack of dignity is out of place in a hospital room.)

He turns to her.

"Who are you? Are you one of those Lupin Foundation people?"

"Yes, in fact. Andromeda Black Tonks, at your service." She lets the birth-name sink in for a minute, and adds, "Honorary president of the Foundation, but more to the point…"

"A possible connection on this side of the border," he says, holding the phrase with tongs. "They've interrogated me already about the supposed property on Grimmauld Place. You're a witch."

"Yes," she says. "As is everyone here. The ones who aren't wizards, that is."

ooo