It was Wednesday. Hermione Granger, nineteen and the youngest trainee
at the Ministry of Magic, was in her office. The office was tiny, dark and
dingy. It had one small window behind Hermione's desk and cardboard boxes
crammed with files and reports. Despite being such an unattractive and
uncomfortable place, it was very quiet and peaceful. It was in the same
corridor as a dozen storerooms and the Centaur Liason Office, so
Ministry members rarely bustled up and down here. Hermione's office had used
to be the thirteenth storeroom.

Hermione was almost in tears. Her superior, Percy Weasley, had sent
her out of a meeting after reading a report she'd written aloud to everyone.
He'd called it, 'childish' and 'unprofessional' among other things, and had
told her sternly that until she could get her act together and learn to
write a proper report, she could not attend meetings like everyone else.

She put her head tiredly into her hands. Hermione hated stress. She'd
always been so good at everything she'd done. Now, as the youngest trainee,
she was working two hours later than everyone else AND surviving on a measly
salary of two Sickles a week. That was one Sickle less than most of the other
trainees.

Brushing a lock of bushy brown hair out of her eyes, she took a deep
breath and resisted the urge to cry. I'll do something constructive, thought
Hermione. Write a letter to someone, or something.

She pulled out a bluejay feather quill and a sheaf of parchement.
Without really thinking about it, she wrote 'Dear Ron,'. Hermione stared at
it questioningly for a moment. She decided to continue the letter. She hadn't
heard from either Ron or Harry in the last two months. She didn't know whether
Ron had a job yet. Harry was playing reserve Seeker on the Godric's Hollow
Gunners, the same team his dad had played on. But Ron- well, Ron had always
seemed to be good at slacking off.

'Dear Ron,
How's things? Work at the Ministry is challenging. Do you have a job yet?
How are your family? I hope they're well. My rent just went up, can you
credit it? Sometimes I feel like my landlord is deliberately trying to make
things difficult for me. You're lucky to still live with your family, even
if you moan about them constantly!
Love,

Hermione.'

Yes, that looked all right. Not like she was struggling or anything.
Nice and light.

Hermione decided to use an office owl. Anyone could use those, and
they were free. The trouble was, you weren't supposed to use them for any
old personal letter. Those owls were for business, and emergencies.
Hermione decided that if she met anyone she knew in the office Owlery, she
would just tell them that the note was to her mother, telling her that she
would be home late. Only about four people in the whole building knew that
she didn't live with her parents, and all of them were in the meeting that
Hermione had just been kicked out of. It was a pretty safe plan.

The office Owlery wasn't like the Hogwarts Owlery. It was very
small in comparison, and modern. The perches and water trays were made of
steel. Hermione strolled up and down, looking for a suitable owl. She felt
a nolgastic pang as she stopped in front of a small Scops owl, not unlike
Ron's Pigwidgeon. This one was lighter in colour, though. Hermione pulled
the letter from her pocket, where she'd put it for safekeeping. She reached
up to tie it to the owl's leg, thinking about how Ron would react to a note
from his old schoolfriend-

"Hermione?"

Ron was standing in the doorway, staring at her. She almost dropped
the note. "Ron?" she asked.

"What are you doing here?" they said together.

"I work here," said Hermione. "You?"

Ron grinned and picked up a green bag stuffed with newspapers at his
side. "I'm delivering." He offered her one. "Want one?"

Hermione politely declined the offer. "I haven't a Knut on me."

"Why are you in here?"

"Sending a letter," she replied smoothly. "Er- it's for you."

She handed it to him. He put it into the pocket of his robes.

"So..."

"So..."

They were silent for a moment. "What IS it exactly, that you do?"

Ron said, "Don't laugh, but I deliver Daily Prophets. Locally. You
know, in Diagon Alley and that. It'd be a waste to use owls for local
deliveries."

"I see," answered Hermione. "How does, ah, delivering pay?"

"Seven Sickles a week."

Hermione felt betrayed, somehow. "You earn more than twice what I
earn, then."

"Really? God, I didn't see that happening, believe me. I mean, you
work at the Ministry and all... Plus you've always been better than me at
this sort of thing. It's just... you, somehow." He tactfully changed the
subject. "It must be great working here."

Hermione shrugged. "If you like working overtime and having older
Ministry members looking at you like you're a beetle or something."

Ron looked taken aback. He looked at Hermione shrewdly. "Say,
Hermione, d'you get lunch breaks?"

"Half an hour on Fridays. Why?"

At the mention of her pitiful lunch breaks, Ron winced noticably.
"Where do you go for lunch?"

"Florean Fortescue's. Why?"

"That's an ice cream parlor!"

Hermione grinned rather wickedly. "Terrible, aren't I? Well, if
you know anywhere else than makes food for a Knut or two, feel free to
tell me about it."

"Well- I was wondering. Do you want to meet there this Friday?"

"What the heck. It might be fun. Erm- how long do YOU get for
lunch?"

"Ah. I, er, get... an hour and a half."

"Lucky you."

They were silent again, but it was a pleasant kind of silence.

"I should really be going," said Ron apologetically. "These
Prophets don't sell themselves, you know."

"Oh, right," said Hermione, stepping into the corridor. "Sorry.
Bye."

"Yeah, bye."

"See you."

I'm meeting my friend on Friday, Hermione thought. In Florean
Fortescue's.

She definetely walked with a spring in her step that afternoon.