The witch looked at her silently, carefully glancing up and down at her. Her upper lip curled into a sneer that, upon her glancing back down at the parchment Hermione and handed her, turned into a disparaging smile. "I am afraid, Miss Granger, that you would not be a good fit as an assistant at Twilfitt and Tattings."

Her cheeks reddened. "I can assure you that I have ample experience working directly with clients and with formal procedures, Madam," she said obstinately. "I may not have worked in a clothing store directly, but—."

"Be that as it may, Miss Granger," the woman said overly sweetly, "Twilfitt and Tattings is currently interested in different qualities in their assistants." Smiling, she handed the parchment back to Hermione. "Perhaps at another store?"

Hermione grounded her teeth as she accepted her parchment back. Other qualities—! "I can understand, Madam. Thank you for your consideration," she said forcibly.

Turning away, she opened the door brusquely and headed into the warm afternoon enveloping Diagon Alley. Coming to a stop outside of the polished exterior of the high-end clothing store, marred only by a few torn posters bearing the portrait of the old Minister for Magic.

Hermione forced herself to breathe in deeply. This had been the twelfth store in Diagon Alley to reject her. Her first picks—The Ministry Press, Obscurus Books, Flourish and Blotts, and Amanuensis Quills—had long-since rejected her three days ago. The stores she had applied to afterwards hadn't offered her any change in luck, deeming her either overqualified or not the right fit for the profile. Magical Menagerie had been looking for specialized aides, as had been Eeylops Owl Emporium and Slug and Jigglers Apothecary. Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment had wanted people with less experience, as had, as it had turned out, Scribbulus' Writing Instruments.

Scowling, Hermione glanced down at her wristwatch. It was nearly four in the afternoon, the time Mrs Weasley had told her to arrive at the Burrow—she still had time to try to try her luck in at least another shop.

Hermione gripped the strap of her beaded bag as she resumed her way through Diagon Alley, choosing to walk through its emptier edges. It was still strange to see how quickly the street had recovered a semblance of normality. Most of the shops had long since reopened, with only a few remaining closed. Bright signs hung from any available surfaces between them, filling the area with the colour, and vibrant exhibits in the windows allowed glimpses into the shops' crowded interiors.

A thought struck Hermione mind as she walked past Knockturn Alley's entrance. Stopping abruptly, she regarded the dim and dour street. She had nothing to lose, not really. She had had no luck at Diagon Alley over the past days, and it was likely that any stores she applied to would respond to her in the same way the owner of Twilfitt and Tattings had.

Hermione bit her lip. She wanted nothing to do with the ill-reputed street, but she needed to pay her rent.

She entered Knockturn Alley after a few moments of hesitation. Walking briskly through the cobbled street and feeling weary at the memory of how Dolohov had approached her inside her own flat, she brushed the wand held within the holster at her wrist.

She had just passed by The Starry Prophesier when she saw a piece of parchment reading 'Assistant Required' hanging from a shop's window. It would have been difficult not to recognise it—Borgin and Burkes had a notoriety of its own amongst the other shops filling Knockturn Alley.

Clenching her fists, Hermione walked towards the familiar store. Whatever reaction she received couldn't be any worse than the ones she had already been given.

A bell rang as she pushed the door open. Though air was stagnant and slightly musty, with the faintest telltale traces of what she knew to be sulphur, the space itself was clean. The walls were lined with bookshelves throughout the entirety of the store, only leaving enough space for a narrow staircase leading to the second floor at its far back. Between them, in the open expanses of the floor, were a number of tables tailored for showcasing the various items for sale. Atop them, close to the back of the shop, were a number of clear glass cases containing items both strange and expensive.

Hermione pressed her lips together and stepped forwards. "Excuse me?" she called.

There was silence, broken only by the creaking of floorboards above. Soon, the steps of the staircase at the far back groaned under the weight of a stooping wizard with dark, oily hair Hermione quickly recognized as Eadgar Borgin. He hadn't changed since she had last seen him years ago, when he had kicked her out of the shop.

Borgin regarded her silently, eyes tracing all the features of her face as he walked deliberately towards her. His mouth twisted downwards. "Miss Granger," he said gruffly.

"I wanted to ask about the job opening," Hermione asked tersely.

"The job opening?" Borgin repeated.

"Yes. I saw the sign and wanted to apply for the position."

"I can imagine you saw it," the older wizard cut her. "I can remember you, Miss Granger. Both you, and what you have done in the past. Why would a witch such as yourself be interested in the position I seek to cover?

Hermione clenched her fists and straightened her back before looking straight at the stooping man. "I didn't know my reasons were important," she bit back. "I am interested in applying. Isn't that enough?"

Borgin's expression twisted further. "I value my employees, Miss Granger."

Sighing, Hermione ran a hand through her hair. "I have recently come to a situation in the Ministry that has forced me to start looking for a secondary job," she explained, looking away from the greying wizard's eyes. "A shop assistant position would be ideal for my purposes."

"Situation?"

"The terms and conditions of my position within the Ministry of Magic were changed." Breathing in, she opened her beaded bag and reached for the piece of folded parchment she had been carrying since starting her job hunt. "Would I be able to present my curriculum for the job opening?"

Borgin's eyebrows rose. "Curriculum? I have no interest in your job experience or N.E.W.T. Results, Miss Granger," he said harshly. "What Borgin and Burkes looks for in employees is different from what the Ministry and other Diagon Alley shops are interested in. Not since Caractacus Burke has this been a normal establishment." He paused and squinted his eyes, regarding her again. "What can you offer me, Miss Granger?"

"How will you be able to tell without looking at my past experience'"

"I know perfectly well what your results in those exams were, Miss Granger, and have some idea of what your role at the Ministry entailed. I am afraid that in hiring individuals I am interested in looking beyond such official results, however," he said. Frowning, he gestured at the objects on the tables around them. "I am looking for someone capable of independent thought and reasoning, who is capable of enough focus and dedication to deal with the customers that frequent Borgin and Burkes and know the merchandise we trade with."

Hermione nodded. Slowly, she glanced at the area around her. It wasn't anything like the stores in Diagon Alley. Strange and crowded with objects, there remained in the air a certain scent of dark magic. It was sinister and unusual, and was located in a street that could be nothing but dangerous. Still… she thought, balling her fists again, I don't have a choice.

A few seconds had gone by in silence by the time she finally replied. "I am excellent at research," she said confidently. When Borgin nodded thoughtfully, she quickly continued. "I can memorise and discover just about anything, no matter the task. I know for a fact that out of the other employees working at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures I was the one with the best results."

The older man rubbed his chin. "I see," he said, thoughtfully. Squinting, he stared at her, regarding her silently again. "Perhaps you may have what it takes to fulfil the position of an assistant at Borgin and Burkes, Miss Granger, though I still find it surprising that you would be interested in a store such as this over some of the more open ones at Diagon Alley."

Her eyes widened. "You do?" she asked, feeling her grip on the piece of parchment she had taken out of her beaded bag slip. "Why?"

Borgin's mouth twisted downwards again. "Despite what our previous encounters may have been like, Miss Granger, and what your previous affiliations to the Ministry may say of you, it is plainly clear that you have what it takes to succeed in a position here."

"What is your reply, Miss Granger," Borgin asked, turning to look at the stairway behind him, "would you be interested to work at Borgin and Burkes?"

o-o-o

The smell of the food Molly had prepared still filled the air when the family broke apart and went their own way, with the matriarch joining Lavender and Ginny in The Burrow's garden. Hermione followed her friends to the sofas surrounding the fireplace, preparing herself to reveal just where she had managed to find a job at.

A pair of eager looks fixed on her as soon as they sat down close together. "So, you managed to find a job already, Hermione?" Ron asked.

"Just before coming here." Hermione bit her lip. "It's part-time, in a store near Diagon Alley. I'll be working three times a week. There's another wizard working full-time, but I don't know who it is yet."

"That's good, at least." The redhead smiled. "You'll be taking the position the ministry offered then?"

"Most likely," Hermione said grimly. "There is more going on than meets the eye—I can't give everything up and ignore it."

"What store is it?" Harry asked, leaning forwards.

Hermione's eyes darted to her friend's nervously. "You probably won't like it." She breathed in deeply. "In Knockturn Alley, at Borgin and Burkes."

Harry stood up. "Borgin and Burkes?" he asked incredulously.

"Out of every store I applied to, Borgin was the only one to take me seriously. The only one," she said angrily, balling her fists.

Harry pressed his lips together, unhappy. "I know, Hermione, but the people that man knows…"

"I am as unhappy about it as you are, Harry, believe me," Hermione said hurriedly. "Every other storeowner I talked to just offered apologies or insulted me on account of being muggleborn. Only Borgin—."

Ron's eyes widened. "They dared?"

"It's unbelievable." Harry exclaimed, dropping himself back onto the sofa. "This entire thing's unbelievable. You're the best student to have come out of Hogwarts in decades. For them to treat you like that is—."

Hermione remained silent for a number of seconds as Harry talked on, feeling grateful for her friends' anger. "The amount he offered as pay really surprised me," she said, once things had gone quiet. Leaning back into the sofa, she thought back to the storeowner's offer. "It's more than the Ministry; if I were to work full-time it'd amount to more than the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures paid me."

Ron scoffed. "I can't believe that. If anyone's a worm it's Borgin."

"Apparently, he believes it necessary to ensure employee loyalty and dedication."

"Loyalty?" he huffed. "He provided information on collaborators as soon as the war finished. It's the only reason the Ministry tolerates him."

"I know," Hermione said softly, "but, if it were true, I can see the logic of it. It's far better to ensure you have good employees than bad ones." Pausing, she regarded the fire burning within the chimney. "I can still remember some of the trials he declared at, though."

"I don't think I'll ever be able to forget that," Harry said, looking down. His expression soured. "On that topic…" he said softly, frowning deeply. "Can you remember Festus Pyrites?"

Hermione nodded. She didn't think she'd ever be able to forget how Minister Pius Thicknesse raged at the Death Eater when he had provided evidence at his trial, or how that very same man had acted as a key witness against his own ex-colleagues. He had been offered a handsome deal by the Auror Office; at least that was what the Daily Prophet had reported.

Ron leant forwards. "What happened?" he asked.

Harry's lips pressed into a thin line. "Robards has declared the entire matter to be classified but…" he muttered, looking up at the ceiling. "He was reported missing three days ago. There was no sign of a struggle in his house, but he's nowhere to be seen."

Hermione's eyebrows rose. "Missing?" she repeated. "With Death Eaters still avoiding capture that's—." Unbidden, the image of Dolohov's form flashed through her mind, and she looked away from her friends with a scowl. Could he have…?

"Hermione?" asked Ron worriedly.

"It's nothing, just—." She breathed in. "I hadn't told either of you this yet, but the other day, when I returned to my flat, Antonin Dolohov was waiting for me inside."

"Dolohov?" Ron said incredulously. "Bloody hell, what did he do?"

"How did he break in? Are you sure it's safe?" Harry asked anxiously

"Nothing beyond petrifying me," Hermione said breathlessly, reliving the memory for a brief second. "He said that he was there to make an offer to me. A deal. Once he left I casted detection charms and redid my wards—nothing."

"Are you sure?" Harry followed.

Hermione nodded. "He also left me this." Reaching to her beaded bag, she rummaged through it and pulled out the book Dolohov had given her. Its title, Full History, Cases, Applications, and Variants of the Memory Charm glistened under the warm light of the room. "I don't know how he got to know about my parents, but it's clean."

Harry drew his wand and cast a series of charms and counter-curses before grabbing hold of the book. "A book. He really just gave you a book." Glancing at it suspiciously, he opened and flicked through the pages quickly. "This doesn't look legal," he muttered. "I wonder where he got it from."

Hermione nodded, and thought back to the strange book. She had read it completely already, if not in as much detail as she could have. It was a rare volume on memory charms—one of the best she had seen. Though more historical than practical, it branched into some lesser-known variations of the charm which had gone unmentioned in other books she had read. "It's a commentary on memory charms. As far as I can tell it's been out of print for decades," she finally said. "Its ownership is not illegal per se, but its production and sale is a different story."

"There must be something more to this," Ron said with a scowl. "Dolohov is—. You can't believe this is all there is, Hermione."

"I don't," Hermione said, shaking her head. "I can't understand why he appeared like he did and offered me a deal just like that, but there must be more to this."

Ron nodded along. "The bank accounts," he mused, turning to meet Harry's eyes, "and Pyrites. Do you think he's involved?"

"He must be, he was one of the most loyal Death Eaters around," Harry said forcibly. His frown deepened, and he looked at Hermione gravelly. "Did he say what he wanted in exchange?"

"He did; two pieces of information—one for each of my parents," Hermione confirmed. "He didn't specify about what exactly, but he gave me that book after stating his terms."

"What I don't understand," Ron began to say, "is how he knows about your parents. Did someone at St. Mungo's talk about it?"

"I'm not sure," she said quietly, shaking her head. "I have an appointment with Alix MacMillan again tomorrow. An update, apparently. Perhaps I'll get to know how then." Judging by the wording of the letter the owl had delivered it hadn't seemed too serious, but one could never tell with official communications.

Harry's frown deepened. "You must be careful, Hermione, especially with your parents. Dolohov hasn't done anything yet, but if he so much as gets a single chance—."

The tell-tale taps of an owl's beak against a window suddenly rang across the empty living room. The three of them turned sharply to face it, confused at the abrupt intrusion of the bird.

Ron stood up. "An owl?"

Harry nodded. "It is. I've never seen it, though."

Neither had Hermione, for that matter; not such a large, brown owl. Yet there it was, perched on the windowsill. "It has a parcel," she said, looking at the wrapped box held between the bird's talons.

"Was your family was expecting mail, Ron?" Harry asked tersely.

Ron shook his head. "Not that I know." With that, he walked towards the window and opened it. The bird flew into and dropped the large box onto his hands before flying straight back out. Holding it, Ron walked back towards them. "It's quite heavy," he said.

Harry drew his wand and casted a number of spells silently, some of which unfamiliar to Hermione. A full minute went by. "Nothing," he said. "There are no curses on the box or its contents."

"Should we open it?" Ron asked, regarding the box suspiciously.

"Yes, just to make sure it's safe. If it's a delivery for Mr or Mrs Weasley we can apologize later."

Harry and Hermione leant forwards as Ron tore the coarse brown wrapping paper open, quickly revealing it to be nothing but a simple delivery box. The redhead pulled its lid open in a single, fluid move which stopped abruptly as he saw a pile of feathers.

Hermione bit her lip. The feathers were covering something, but she couldn't make out the shape.

Swallowing, Ron tore through the remaining wrapping paper. Slowly, the patchy and prickled skin of what unmistakably was a featherless owl came into view. It was covered in dried splotches of blood.

Hermione's heart started to race. Eyes darting towards the carcass of the dead animal, she swallowed and pressed her lips into a thin line. Pigwidgeon. That is definitely Pigwidgeon, she thought, but who—? "Ron?" she asked.

Her friend didn't respond. Standing up abruptly, box in hand, he strode out of the living room, towards where Mr and Mrs Weasley would most likely be. Behind him, Harry followed.

o-o-o-o-o

The hall that was revealed upon the lift's arrival to St. Mungo's fourth floor proved not to be too different from the foyer. The crowd of wizards filling the bright room was sparse, with only a few sporting disfigurements and spell damage. Around them, healers in lime-green robes walked between groups of people, asking questions and making notes on clipboards.

Readjusting the strap of her beaded bag, Hermione started to walk down the single corridor and entered Section B of the Janus Thickey Ward.

A young witch, slender and with dark, brown hair, was standing outside of Alix MacMillan's office by the time she arrived. It was Tracey Davis—the assistant healer who had, quite by chance, been assigned to the healer in charge of her parent's case.

Her old schoolmate turned and smiled sweetly as she saw her approaching the office. "Granger? You're early today."

"I am," Hermione said, nodding stiffly, "I hope it's still alright?"

"Quite. Healer MacMillan's expecting you." Turning, Davis opened the office door, and Hermione stepped in behind her.

The room that greeted Hermione had changed very little since her first meeting with the healer almost five years prior, upon her return from Australia following the war. Though small, it was deceptively spacious, with its white floor and walls giving the illusion of space that truly didn't exist. A single bookshelf stood at a side, filled with magical periodicals specialised in healing and in mental damage. Besides it, at the room's centre, a birch desk with two small plush chairs in front of it occupied the majority of the space. It was here that Alix MacMillan—the mother of the boy who had been in her year—was sitting.

Alix MacMillan smiled at her as she entered the room, her expression gentle and welcoming despite the straight posture she kept. Her hair, as blonde as her yearmate's had been, kept in a neat knot at the back of her head. "Ah, Miss Granger. I was hoping to see you."

Hermione nodded and sat in front of the now-familiar healer. Behind her, Tracey Davis closed the door and moved to stand at one of the room's sides. "I was told you there had been news?" she asked.

"Ah, yes. There has been an update in your parent's case." Alix smiled gently. "You see, Miss Granger, there was recently a review of the long-term cases we manage in this department. There is no easy way to say this, but I am afraid this review included your parents' case."

"Included them?" Her heart skipped a beat, and the palms of her hand began to get clammy. "How so?"

"It has been decided that your parents' case is to be discontinued, Miss Granger."

"Discontinued?" she cried, balling her fists. "I thought they were making progress after the examination that was done last month!"

Alix MacMillan shook her head. "Given that they are muggles and medically-speaking functioning perfectly, it has been decided that there is no case to be examined at all, Miss Granger," she said softly. "The heads of the hospital are all terribly sorry about what you had to do to your parents, but it has been decided that the case has been too much of a drain on St. Mungo's resources."

"Is there any way to appeal this decision?"

"I am afraid not, Miss Granger," Alix said, frowning. Somewhere behind her, Tracey Davis moved to stand beside her. "The decision to examine these cases was undertaken considering the recent cuts in funding and a change in policy. Only witches and wizards may be treated at St. Mungo's for a period of time exceeding four years."

Hermione leaned back. Blinking rapidly, she looked up at the office's pristine ceiling; distantly noticing how she was breathing faster. "Why?" she finally managed to ask, after a few seconds had gone by. "That is hardly—."

"Miss Granger," the healer interrupted, her voice the same modulated and pleasant voice as before. She bent forwards and rested her elbows on the desk. "I am afraid that it is not a matter of how the case has progressed. If they were wizards it would be different, but given that they are muggles and nothing has worked until now…"

The older woman stopped here and turned to face Tracey Davis before gesturing something at her slowly. The younger girl Hermione remembered from Slytherin nodded and brought forwards a bound stack of parchments, which she handed to Hermione with a smile.

"I am very sorry, Miss Granger, I truly am, but there is nothing we can do," the healer continued. "Given the situation, I suggest you consider yourself lucky that they can function normally in society. The strength of the memory charm they suffered was considerable."

"I wasn't informed of this. To change the state of the case after so long—." Hermione's hands tensed around the folder. "What am I supposed to do?" she bit.

"The folder Tracey has given you contains all of the research we undertook related to your parents, as well as the information pertaining to their case. As it is being discontinued, we thought it better for you to have it, rather than destroy it as protocol dictates." Alix MacMillan smiled, and gestured at it. "I hope it is of use to you, should you decided to continue investigating the matter by yourself."

Forcing herself to breathe in slowly, Hermione looked back at the healer. "Is there is something that can be done? A way to appeal this and reinstate the case?"

The older woman smiled at her sadly and leaned back. "Like I said, Miss Granger, I am truly sorry; but the decision has been made. I hope that you manage to find a cure for the memory charm you cast on them during the war. However…" She frowned and looked down briefly, before looking back at her. "You should know that at this point it is my professional opinion that it is likely they will never recover."

Hermione rose from her seat, hands still tense around the folder. "What do you mean?" she demanded.

"I merely stated my professional opinion as a healer, Miss Granger. I do not think there is anything else we can discuss that is not contained within that folder, however much I regret it." Alix said, shaking her head. Turning her body more fully she looked at Tracey Davis, impassive at her side, and gestured towards the door. "If you could call the next patient in, Miss Davis? Thank you."

"I understand. Thank you for your help," she said, feeling her heart drop. Pressing the folder against her chest, she began to walk towards the office's door. Besides her, Tracey Davis followed, silent. Stopping abruptly, she turned back towards the healer as a single thought flashed unbidden through her mind. Dolohov knew about my parent's case.

Alix smiled, but the impatience building underneath was clear. "Yes, Miss Granger? Is there something else you wish to ask?"

Hermione swallowed, and managed to gather her thoughts just enough to ask the question the had tormented her since the Death Eater had appeared in her flat. "Do I have a guarantee that the details concerning the case have been kept under secret?" she asked quietly.

"Of course, Miss Granger. All details pertaining to the cases St. Mungo's handles are treated with utmost confidentiality," the healer answered drily.

Hermione's eyes widened. That couldn't be true, or, if it was, it only meant that Dolohov had found a different way to access the information. The question was how.

Not giving away any of her inner turmoil, she nodded silently and opened the door. She walked back through the corridors absentmindedly, only distantly aware of how the crowds of people going through the fourth floor. Barely noticing the lift's downwards movement, she pressed the folder against her chest and resumed her way out of St. Mungo's in a daze that lasted until she was outside the building completely and a muggle church's bells started ringing.

A lump caught in Hermione's throat. Drawing in a shaky breath, she felt for her bag and placed the folder inside it. Breathing in deeply, she forced herself to think through Healer MacMillan's words. Her parents' case had been discontinued, yes, but that wasn't all. She had been given a folder with all of their case's details. She only needed to research more.

Unbidden, the thought of how research so far had gone ran through her mind. If what Dolohov had said was true, as the book he had given her pointed at, success wasn't something she'd ever see by herself.

A rush of anger coursed through her at the memory of the foreign man. Her wards had been untouched, and after his leaving she hadn't found anything strange anywhere in her flat. Worse yet was how his appearance coincided with the dark news Harry had shared and the horrifying state in which Ron's owl had been delivered to his family home. Ron was right—it was impossible for the man not to be involved in some way.

Tightening her jaw, Hermione opened her bag and searched for the dark volume the Russian wizard had given her. Opening and flicking through it, she scanned the variety of diagrams and theoretical arguments surrounding the Memory Charm before shutting it loudly.

It didn't matter; nothing did. She only had to read through her parent's file again, and later, prepare for her new role within the Ministry. There was no need to rush ahead blindly. Not with a man as dangerous and untrustworthy as Dolohov.

o-o-o-o-o

Hermione cut through the hallways of the second floor quickly, her heels clacking against the marble floor. It was drastically different to the fourth floor. Its hallways were wider, their flooring set in white marble instead of the dark, polished wood she had grown used to.

The open doorway that greeted her upon arrival at the archives' sub-department of the Wizengamot Administration Services was no less impressive than the rest of the floor. It was an open arch flanked on each side by a set of columns that rose up at its sides, meeting the ceiling. A granite tablet with the words veritas aequitas—truth and justice—loomed above it, dominating the entrance.

Drawing in a breath, Hermione stopped beneath the archway and allowed herself to contemplate the full breadth of the room. It looked splendorous. The floor plan featured a number of separate offices with embellished wooden doors. Portraits lined the walls, featuring a number of witches and wizards in archaic-looking ministerial official robes. At the back, a number of windows offered a clear view of the ministry's atrium and its statue of the magical brethren.

"Excuse me, Miss Granger?"

Looking to the side, Hermione met the eyes of the middle-aged witch who had addressed her. She was sitting behind a large desk by the room's entrance, wearing some of the most formal black robes Hermione had ever seen.

Hermione smiled. "I am. I was told to come here for my new position."

"That you were," the witch replied curtly. "Mr Fawley is currently meeting with a member of the public, but he wished to meet you in his office."

"Ricbert Fawley?" she repeated, "the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot?"

The witch frowned. "Of course. As the official head of our department, Mr Fawley always welcomes our new employees." Turning slightly, the witch pointed at one of the two offices in front. "He's right ahead. You will have to wait for a few minutes, though I do not think it should take too long."

Hermione nodded her thanks and walked towards the office. Taking off her long brown overcoat, she sat down on one of the plush chairs lined against a nearby wall. Only springing up when the office's heavy wooden door opened, revealing two men. First was an unfamiliar old wizard, most likely Ricbert Fawley. Behind him followed a young blond man she recognised instantly, but who she hadn't seen since the war.

The old wizard spoke with an appeasing, if sad, voice. "I am sorry, Mr Malfoy, but if your request wasn't approved I am afraid that you cannot search for the information you seek in the archives."

Draco Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "This is outrageous," he said irately. "I should have access to the records."

"I do personally agree with you, Mr Malfoy, but I truly cannot do anything beyond what we already discussed," the old wizard replied. "However, should you get an acceptable signature on your request I will be more than glad to provide you access."

"We both know that will never be allowed to happen given the review that the Minister's aide made of my case."

The old wizard grasped his hands together. "Miss Umbridge's review of your case, though unfortunate, is not the end of the road. Mr Malfoy, I can assure you there are still other avenues at your disposition."

Draco nodded tersely. "Thank you for your time, Mr Fawley."

"I am at your disposition should you need any more advice, as you know."

"Of course."

Draco turned to leave, only to stop abruptly as he saw her. Paling slightly, he looked at her silently for a few seconds before offering a polite, if tense, nod. Startled, Hermione replicated it and observed silently as he started walking away.

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione turned sharply away from her ex-classmate and faced the older wizard. "Yes. Mr Fawley, right?" she asked, slowly taking note of his appearance. He was older than she had initially though, judging by the wrinkles on his skin, and stood not much taller than she herself did. His hair, a silvery white not quite like Dumbledore's own, fell down to his chin in straight, neat lines. A pair of thin spectacles rested on his nose, only hiding away his eyes slightly.

The wizard smiled and gestured towards the office. "Yes. I was expecting you, Miss Granger, please do come in."

She nodded and entered the office, taking a moment to observe the grand space as Ricbert Fawley closed the door behind them. Bookshelves lined most of the walls, each overloaded with files. A desk with several piles of parchment and grey folders dominated the centre of the room, with two plush bright-red leather seats in front.

"Please have a seat, Miss Granger," the old wizard said with a smile, gesturing at the seats before walking around the table and sitting on a worn-looking armchair.

Hermione smiled. "Thank you." Taking a few steps forwards, she sat on the right-hand seat and placed her overcoat and bag atop her lap.

It didn't take long for the Chief Warlock to speak. "It is a pleasure to see you here today, Miss Granger. I believe you were the person in charge of the Amendment to the House-Elf Charter of Rights the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was recently preparing?"

Her face lit up at the memory of the bill she had had the chance to work on. "Yes, I was trusted with its drafting."

Fawley nodded and crossed his arms at his chest. "I recently had the chance to read the text, Miss Granger. It was great work. I dare to say that the department has suffered a great loss with your untimely departure. I'm pleased to have someone of your calibre here with us, I foresee a bright future ahead of you."

"Thank you, Sir," Hermione said bashfully, not entirely sure of what to say.

"Onto the matter at hand, though" Fawley said decisively, leaning forwards. "I presume you read the letter with the offer which was given to you?"

"I did."

"Very well, your position will require little explanation then," he said, smiling. "As you know, you will be working within the archives themselves, sorting any new files and entries."

Hermione nodded, recanting the parchment she had been given when she had been fired. "Yes. As well as putting together the requests made by Wizengamot members of private witches and wizards of information they may wish to access."

"Precisely," the Chief Warlock confirmed. "Though it may not sound like much, it is work such as this which is at the very foundation of the Ministry, Miss Granger." He glanced down at the desk and pulled up a sheet of parchment. "Should you need it, here are the details relating to the post once more. Including payment amount and days."

"Thank you," she said, taking the piece of parchment. Quickly reading over it, she folded it and placed it within her bag.

"Now, if you want, I can take you to the office of the witch who'll be your direct supervisor in this job, who should show you around and introduce you to where everywhere is," he paused briefly, standing up. "I do believe that she should be around your own age. She joined us after the recovery of the Ministry at the end of the war."

A few knocks rang within the room, making them both turn around. Before Fawley said a word the door opened, and three men Hermione only knew from Daily Prophet articles and Ministry hearsay came in. First was the man she knew to be Alfred Blishwick, the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic; a middle-aged man with dark hair streaked with grey and a clean-shaven face, holding a folder of some sort against austere working robes. After him was Hannah Abbot's father, the Senior Court Scribe of the Wizengamot. Tall and stout-looking, he had the same facial features her classmate had once had, greying blond hair merely shades off her own. A bright silver chain, clasped from a button of his inner robes, displaying an elegant pocket watch as it hung by his pocket.

Behind them both was Cormac's uncle—Tiberius McLaggen; a Ministry veteran who had found himself in more positions of departmental authority than she could remember. The tall, greying man with hard blue eyes was one of Kingsley's advisors, though the job title understated the experience and sheer political prowess he possessed. He had graduated Hogwarts on the year Grindelwald had been defeated, quickly moving on to work at the Ministry. From there he had been the British Representative to the International Confederation of Wizards for decades, as she had discovered during her final year at Hogwarts after the war. A position which had been inherited, against all odds, by his brother—Cormac's father.

Tiberius entered the office slowly, silent and unreadable by contrast to the two more expressive wizards who had proceeded him. Fawley didn't meet his eyes.

Alfred Blishwick, the youngest out of the three, was the first to speak. "I hate bringing this to you again, Ricbert," he said, gesturing widely with his folder, "but Robards has brought up again the werewolf issue in the north."

Fawley's expression dropped. "The werewolf issue—. I already made my position on the proposed solution known."

Oeric Abbott shook his head. "Ricbert, I'm sorry, but you know something needs to be done."

The old wizard narrowed his eyes. "You all know my position on this matter."

Blishwick's eyes widened. "Ricbert, innocents are—."

Abbot placed a hand on Blishwick's arm, quieting the man. "Did you read the interviews that were published just this weekend?"

Fawley's expression twisted into something resembling anger. Before he could reply, however, Tiberius stepped forwards and spoke from the middle of the room. "Gentlemen," he said in a surprisingly soft voice. "Though we all agree that this is a most pressing matter, perhaps we should remember that there is an employee who is getting held up in our discussion."

Fawley's eyes widened comically and darted to hers. "I am very sorry, Miss Granger," he said apologetically, "but it seems I will be getting held up in a meeting now."

"It isn't a problem," Hermione said gently. "I can go to meet my new supervisor alone. Where can I find her office?"

"I wish I could introduce you myself, but I suspect this meeting will be lasting quite some time." The older wizard sighed and glanced at the door. "You will find the office at the end of the first corridor you will see when leaving this office, to the left."

Alfred Blishwick smiled at her politely. "I am sorry for interrupting your meeting like this, Miss Granger; urgent ministry business, as it were."

Hermione forced herself to smile at the Senior Undersecretary. He had been the one approve the decision to fire her from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. "It's not a problem."

Still smiling, she turned to face Fawley again and thanked him before walking out of the office and through the corridor he had mentioned, keeping an eye out for the office the older wizard had indicated.

It didn't take her long to reach the office. Knocking on its polished wooden surface, she waited patiently. A few seconds went by before she heard the scraping of a chair, followed by a feminine voice. "Come in."

The office she was faced with upon opening the door was tinier than Fawley's. Its walls were mostly bare, with only a few bookshelves hiding the room's polished walls. At a side of the room an oak desk occupied most of the space. Sitting behind it, with the same distinctive curly, reddish-blonde hair she remembered, was Marietta Edgecombe.

The young woman's expression soured as soon as their eyes met. "Ah. Granger. I was told you would come," Marietta said, looking back down at a piece of parchment on her desk.

Hermione's eyes were quickly drawn to the jagged scars spelling 'SNEAK' across her face, badly hidden beneath a layer of makeup thick enough to make the otherwise near-transparent hairs of her cheeks fully visible. Flattening her lips, she stepped forwards. Just how unlucky could she be? "Mr Fawley told me to come here for the job."

"Yes, yes," Marietta spat. "You'll be working under me, it seems. Funny set of events, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry if I am late. Mr Fawley—."

Marietta waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, that doesn't matter. You can go start immediately in the archives."

"Pardon?"

The witch's eyebrows pressed into a deep frown. "Start, Granger. At the archives."

Hermione forced herself to breathe in deeply. "What am I to do?" she asked as politely as she could.

Marietta waved at the door. "Go to the main archives floor and sort the new arrivals. Once you finish, return to me."

"Main archives floor? But I don't know where or how it is organised yet," she said indignantly.

The other witch sneered. "None of that attitude here, Granger. No matter what the unfortunate events between us in Hogwarts were this is a serious working place."

Gritting her teeth together, Hermione forced herself to nod. "Could I have some directions, if it's alright?" she finally asked, after a few seconds had gone by.

Marietta looked back at her desk and waved her hand at the door again. "I'm sure that someone who was a student as bright as you will have no trouble finding its location. Don't disappoint me."

Hermione nodded again and turned to leave the room; fists clenched tightly. Closing the door behind her, she stormed down the hallway again.

A/N: I'd like to thank everyone that has followed, favourited, and reviewed this story so far. I wasn't expecting quite the reaction the first chapter got, but it's been great to see that it was enjoyed. Once again, all the errors are my own and thank you for reading!

Chapter three will be up in a week, with more plot developments to add to what happened in this chapter. No Dolohov in this one, but he may appear again fairly soon.