tap, tap, tap.

Hermione heard the relentless little nuisance of the memo tapping against the heavy mahogany door of her office. It was moments like these that she found the most difficult. She would notice her dissatisfaction and become disgusted with herself for allowing the annoyance to faze her at all. Compared to a war, compared to the prejudice surrounding blood purity, compared to her relationship with her par-Monica and Wendell Wilkins, what right did she have to be annoyed?

Ron and Harry both had moved on in their separate ways and seemed to find joy in every minute detail of their post-war lives. Ron- who'd lost a brother, was happy, smiling, and a social butterfly, chatting up every witch who would listen to him. Harry who'd lost...well everyone save for the Weasleys and herself, was marrying the girl of his dreams, was leading the Chudley Cannons to their first Quidditch League finals in centuries, and wore such an air of contentment that his presence was essentially a draught of peace. What right did Hermione have to be haunted by her terrors, much less a paper aeroplane memo?

"Madame Granger," Perseus Felonius stepped into her office before she could invite him in. Typical.

"Yes, Persius?" she asked, trying to keep the edge out of her voice. Perseus Felonius was a new recruit to the Department of Mysteries: and a bright one, but he carried this smarmy sort of stick-up-the-arse attitude that reminded her of a young Percy Weasley. Well that's rich, insufferable know-it-all...pot….kettle...etc. she thought.

"Madame Crady is asking after your presence in Death this afternoon." and before Hermione could mutter a 'thank you, Perseus,' the young man gave a very odd, very stiff bow and ducked out of her office.

Lenora Crady was the old, motherly head of the subdepartment of Death, that reminded Hermione a great deal of a gentler Minerva McGonagall. She was the only Unspeakable that remained after the war following the corruption investigation. A majority of them had been fired, some were sent to Azkaban, and many quit, deciding to spend their lives in a less...intense environment. The Department of Mysteries was subsequently left in the hands of old Lenora Crady who single-handedly rebuilt it. The best and brightest minds of the world were recruited, wizarding schools were consulted, and Crady selected young Hermione Granger to head the entire department. For the first year, they split the duties between them, but in the end, Lenora was so invested in her job to leave it behind. It was quite funny really, a gentle old woman having such a fondness for researching death, but Hermione couldn't fault her for a thing. Her work was brilliant, meticulously executed, and Lenora herself remained sharp as a tack and so full of life.

The memo that had been rapping on her door sailed over and unfurled itself before her:

Hermione, my dear,

I would love to take tea with you this afternoon and discuss a theory. It'll do you some good to get out of that dusty old office anyway.

Looking forward to it,

Lenora

Hermione smiled and silently chided herself once more for her earlier annoyance towards the memo.

"Hermione, my dear, I'm just finishing up a request for Magical Creatures, I'll be just a moment." Hermione sank down into the most comfortable of velvet couches and slipped her feet out of the work pumps she wore. She let her feet fall down onto the cushy persian rug beneath the couch, which would have been a ridiculous thing for any sensible ministry witch to do in any other circumstances. Hermione thought fondly back to her interview with Lenora in which the old woman suggested she do exactly as she was doing now. Hermione remembered thinking that 'Madame Crady' was positively barmy. But as soon as she'd followed her directions, Hermione felt all of the tension leave her body with a soft rug underfoot. 'Textures are meant to be touched.'

Lenora finished her memo and instead of sending it off with a flick of her wand as was customary, she did it the Lenora way: with a huge smile, she picked it up as a child would and put all of her upper body strength into giving it a strong throw, the kind of throw that would send an ordinary paper aeroplane into a loop-de-loop. Hermione couldn't help but smile.

"It's the best part of the job," Lenora said with a laugh. "I hope your week has been treating you well thus far." She strode over and took an armchair opposite Hermione who leaned forward as her friend sat down. "I've been thinking extensively about the findings in last month's report regarding the physical makeup of the veil, and wonder about the potential of sending one of it's materials through."

Hermione was dumbfounded. "I take it that you're not talking about shale stone," she offered, which earned a laugh.

"No, my dear, thestrals."

A week had passed since Hermione met Lenora in her office for tea. Lenora's plan for the project had just been delivered to Hermione's desk for approval. Hermione sat fascinated by each step the witch had laid out, but she was also feeling trepidatious. Hermione had considered that Lenora would be focusing more time on the veil after last month's report but hadn't really considered the very real possibility that the old woman would make significant progress regarding the centuries' old magical landmark. Hermione knew better than to doubt Lenora's intellectual prowess and was faced with whether or not she should inform Harry. That retrieval from beyond the veil was not even on the table at this point, but a part of her felt that he had the right to know that the object that had killed his godfather was being tinkered with.

Hermione approved Lenora's project plan and sent it through to Magical Creatures for them to approve based on the ethicality of using thestrals, threw on her cloak, and left for home.

Home for Hermione these days was at Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

After their final year at Hogwarts, Hermione, Harry, Ginny, and Ron all moved into the old townhouse and refinished it into their own London lions' den, complete with old Kreature who'd taken to wearing red and gold elf's robes, and being as friendly as the cantankerous old elf could possibly be. Ron moved out a year ago to a flat with his brother George after hearing the rest of them complain one too many times about his constant forgetfulness of silencing charms when he brought a witch home. Harry and Ginny were also moving out as soon as their house in Godric's Hollow's sale was finalised. As she stepped out of the hearth she heard a soft crack to her right.

"Kreature would like Mistress Hermione to give him her traveling cloak for washing, please."

"Thank you very much, Kreature. I hope that you had a nice day." Hermione said to the elf as she handed him her cloak.

"Kreature did, and he has so many more nice days than he used to," the elf said pensively and disapperated with another crack.

Hermione discarded her things in her room and then headed down to the kitchen where she correctly assumed she'd find her friends. Ginny and Harry appeared to be very deep in discussion about quidditch strategy but put a temporary halt to their conversation to greet their friend.

"Hey, Hermione!"

"Wotcher, Hermione!"

The three friends talked spiritedly for an hour or so, until Kreature brought their dinner to them and they tucked in. Dinner was delicious as was to be expected these days, now that Kreature was in better spirits and was cooking for people he cared for. It wasn't until dessert that Hermione broached the subject that had been making her nervous. Both Harry and Ginny took the news just as they took every other piece of news recently, exceedingly enthusiastically. Hermione begrudgingly had to explain to them that this by no means meant they had any idea if crossing the veil was possible, or that they weren't even entertaining the idea that Sirius Black could be retrieved, but as she explained this to Harry and Ginny, even she became excited about the prospect of learning more.

After a nightcap, Hermione headed upstairs to have a bath and unwind from her day. As Hermione sat in the old marble bath and let the warm water ease her muscles she decided that she wanted to be as involved in this project as possible. She felt as intrigued by anything as she had for years, and decided to chase the interest.

As she climbed into bed, Hermione let her mind wander to the man who'd fallen through the veil. She knew that Harry certainly had his reasons for missing his godfather. But Hermione deeply regretted her last interactions with the man. As she'd grown older, and more weathered from the war, the more she'd recognised the importance of what is conveyed when speaking and interacting with those you care about. Her final exchanges with him were nattering and nitpicking him for his understandable cabin-fever, and disapproving of his wish to live vicariously through Harry. For a time, Hermione even blamed him for his own death. It was simply easier than having to grieve for someone she cared for. It wasn't until she realised that the memory charm she'd cast on her parents was irreversible, that Hermione allowed herself to grieve for all those lost to the cause, Sirius Black included.