"It's stirring," Draco repeated Theo's words, pulling them from their silence.

They were sitting beneath the docks at the waterfront. The tide had receded enough and a drying charm made a mat of crunchy algae to sit on. Despite both being raised as pampered aristocrats, imprisonment had stripped them of their delicacy.

Theo passed Draco their charmed rams horn of coffee (and a dash of liquor). Of all the working magical artifacts that Theo up-kept, this one was well loved and oft used. Especially after a particularly bad episode.

"I haven't felt it in so long, it took me out."

"I imagine I'd have a similar response," Draco said. "Why you and not me?"

He finally spoke the thing they'd been wondering for the past few hours while Theo ate and dressed and drained his doom tub.

"Dunno. Could be just in my mind."

Theo said it, not Draco. Though, Draco had thought it at least once. That was a sensitive point for Theo — that maybe his mind had been so assaulted that he could no longer trust the thoughts and sensations it furnished him. When you share your mind with an invasive consciousness for long enough, that tended to happen.

"Maybe. More likely though a residual side effect we know little about. I've always been of the opinion that it's a lifelong mark, regardless of his living."

"Ah, but —"

"Change is only a decision away. Your choices are stronger than your past." They both mocked.

That wasn't how the Mark worked. The Ministry knew that, but evidently did not care. They fell into another pensive silence after that.

Theo rubbed at his arm as if trying to work out a tight muscle. Whatever was happening, it hadn't eased up with Theo's mood.

Draco hadn't felt the burn of his Mark since the Dark Lord fell before his eyes at the hands of Harry Potter. The connection simply died without protest. He had expected something more, something painful. And he half expected a delayed ripping or burning for the next few years. It did not come.

For Theo, it had been the same way. Goyle too.

"Theo," Draco started cautiously. "Is this something you want to pursue? Is it enough that you want an answer? I can... dig."

Theo didn't answer at first. He was like this when matters were serious and while he liked to poke fun and was a quick wit about it, he also knew the time and place.

"It is."

"Okay."

Draco knew what that would entail.


"We have virtually nothing," Susan concluded bluntly after a they'd together scrutinized and compared and drudged up information regarding the missing and dead witches and wizards.

Hermione had already concluded as much, but Susan had been so eager to pitch in and research, and Hermione wasn't going to pass up another set of eyes on the case again. After all, Susan had been the one to notice something was amiss when Hermione hadn't. She had mentally flagellated herself for the mistake as her version of counting sheep the night before.

"Not entirely nothing," Hermione reviewed. "We know that they all left Britain in the past six months, for various reasons, and were establishing new lives until about a week ago. We also know that there's a pattern of where they ended up, though without a map and other data I can't conclude that this is outside of the normal pattern. These are large population hubs."

"In other words, nothing."

"Yes," Hermione admitted. "Until we have more information, the Ministry would see this as unfortunate, not criminal or conspiracy."

"I'll put in requests for records at each ministry. Give me to the end of the day for that."

Hermione nodded, surveying their work for anything they might have missed.

"What do we know of their blood status..." she almost didn't want to go down that line of inquiry. Since blood purity was not such a point of stigma anymore, the ministry used it less and less as a demographic marker. It was still recorded but not surveyed for determination so attentively.

So they one by one noted the blood status and other species delineation of the Lost. Some were just standard wizards, but many had small, possibly dormant percentages of werewolf, Veela, sprite, merfolk, pixie, and even centaur. This could simply be consistent with general population occurrence. But it was the reason why a report like that even landed on her desk in the first place. She had to know whether they'd left voluntarily or because of a violation of rights or treaties.

"It seems so random, yet not..." Hermione was getting exasperated. Susan was right. They didn't have enough to go on. She could also decide to drop this and wait for more information to land on her desk. But Hermione was not one to aspire the mediocrity.

She rubbed her temple.

"Put in those requests and we can stop for today. No use in bashing our faces against a wall."

Susan's eyes widened at the slip in professionalism.

"I mean, thank you for your work. I'll see you tomorrow."

She slumped back in her chair and sent the Lost files and her corresponding notes off into the corner — she'd deal with them later. Of all the reports to spend precious time on, emigration was hardly dire. Death though, another case. Besides and ironically, she'd been neglecting that House Elf conditions memo.

She had started at the Ministry in the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and very quickly realized that the department functioned much like Animal Control in the Muggle world did — considering all non-human creatures as an inconvenience to be removed, (perhaps) spayed, and relocated. It had been both infuriating and inspiring for her as it gave her a mountainous project adorned with layers of red tape to throw her fervor at. She'd been the department nuisance — terror, really — but her public reputation as Golden Girl and ability to get interviews published in the Daily Prophet put enough heat under the crusty butt of the Ministry higher ups to dissolve the department and resurrect its scope of responsibility as the Department of Intermystic Relations.

No, Hermione hadn't chosen the name and in fact thought it a bit twirly — a subversive way the ministry intended on undermining her work and mission of improving rights and living conditions for all magical creatures so that they might coexist equitably. Its tone likely reflected their sentiments about her vision. Regulator seemed harsh in contrast. It was what it was.

She'd then, in her free time of course, studied for and passed the Solicitor's bar before the age of 21 so that she could not only directly propose new policy but have a direct hand in prosecuting non-compliance.

It was an enormous weight of responsibility but that's how she preferred it. The pressure and scrutiny and expectation, it kept her grounded, contained.

With another periodic report on House Elves that sounded much like the previous period's complete, Hermione looked up to see two memos floating off to the side of her desk as if afraid to interrupt.

The first one was from Susan Bones confirming that she'd sent out their requests for records.

The second was a blood warded interdepartmental scroll.

That was odd. Those tended to be sent to departments that dealt with top security matters such as curses, development of poisons and antidotes, criminal matters.

Oh.

With a prick of her letter opener, Hermione broke the skin on her index and pressed it to the wax seal. She healed her skin with a silent spell as the seal faded into the paper and the scroll unrolled itself flat upon her desk.

To Mrs. Hermione Granger,

This is a formal notice that Bellatrix Black Lestrange will face a parole council.

As a Minsitry employee and solicitor with high clearance and prosecutorial privilege, and as a victim of Ms. Lestrange's crimes, your position toward this case is confounded.

We ask that you return our letter with a statement providing whether you will approach her parole hearing as a witness or as a supporting solicitor. Your chosen position will nullify the other.

To be clear, should you choose to assist in the Ministry's defense of her continued incarceration, your witness account of her crimes against you will be expunged from record. Should you serve as witness, your access to all information and personnel pertaining to the case will be entirely restricted.

We await your decision.

Signed,

Office of the Wizengamot

The speculation in The Prophet had been correct and this letter confirmed it with an impersonal twist of the knife. No one had bothered to put their own name on it.

Hermione pushed back in her chair, too stunned to muster any hint of feeling. She had known that it would only be a matter of time before Bellatrix would attempt escape. It was somewhat odd that she had waited this long and was even taking a formal route. While it had been sickeningly satisfying to hear the verdict and sentencing announced and have the knowledge that justice had been served, in this moment Hermione wished that Molly's curse had killed Bellatrix, not just taken her wand arm.

She was still numbly placid about the whole thing when she emerged from the underground metro station in Muggle-appearing clothes. Today she had added a gold and red scarf as a nostalgic homage. It seemed a bit juvenile but it made her happy nonetheless when she glanced at herself in the reflection in the stainless steel wall plating of the stairwell.

She bought a crisp white wine that evening. Time stamped 6:18pm.

She was mentally weighing the impossibility of her ultimatum when Levi broke her from her thoughts.

"Hard case today, Mrs. G?" He was hanging from the bars atop the play structure.

"You could say that."

"Mum says you probably work on high profile crime. Says she can't find anything about you in the papers, but that's probably just to keep you safe."

Hermione nodded without actually confirming. She sometimes liked the assumptions that her neighbors had about her. It meant they thought about what her life was like, or could have been like without magic.

"Mum also says that sometimes no matter what the bad guys get away."

Hermione nodded again. Kids were like little passive aggressive seers sometimes.

"Sometimes I pretend I have special powers and can curse them away! Ya ha!" Levi swung off the bars and landed before charging away flapping his arms without so much as a goodbye.

Okay, maybe the intuition wasn't quite so attuned.

Regardless, that particular interaction with her talkative adolescent neighbor had at least broken her spiraling thoughts and even teased a small smile from her.

If only it were as simple as cursing her issues away.

Ron was again on the sofa reading the paper when Hermione walked through the front door. He'd had business at the Ministry this week but otherwise nothing else putting demands on his time.

A flick of her wand toward the kitchen and the preparatory performance began.

Ron looked up from his paper as Hermione began her outerwear removal process and nearly looked back down in habit but his eyes caught on her scarf and a grin of boyish delight crossed his face.

He let out a laugh Hermione hadn't heard in months, which caught her too.

"I haven't seen you in red and gold since — " he gulped back a degree of awe. "Graduation."

A wave of embarrassment swept over her. She'd meant to de-glamour it at the door but had been preoccupied to say the least.

"Oh this, it's nothing."

"No, Mione," Ron even put down his copy of The Prophet. He stood and moved toward her where she stood frozen at the door. "It's not nothing."

"Ok," she conceded with a stiff upper lip. "I was feeling somewhat...sentimental."

Ron approached her almost cautiously and when he reached her, he gently reached down to take her hand in his before looping his other hand across her back and pulling her into an embrace. He rested his cheek on the top of her stiff head and let out a deep sigh. She softened somewhat.

"I miss it, too."

And with those words, they were thrown back in time, early enough that the trauma of war and loss hadn't yet taken years from them. Back when Hermione's greatest mortification was red ink on her essays that did anything but assign top marks, and Ron's was fumbling during Quidditch practice.

"What do you miss most?" She mumbled against his chest.

They didn't talk about Hogwarts much anymore. And it wasn't because the memories hurt like pain or were regretted. Their nostalgia was less so the classes and the activities, but more the inspired pursuit of discovery and the stability of the bonds between them all. Between the two of them. Now, everything felt... frail. It was that stark contrast that kept Hogwarts out of conversation. Could they allow themselves this stinging indulgence?

"The chicken."

Hermione gasped and pulled back to look at him.

"Ronald! No way!" She was scolding all over again.

"I'm serious," he grinned. "I'm not sure what the House Elves had up their, er, rags but I haven't had chicken like it since. Trust me, Mione, I've been all over the world and Hogwarts feasts take the lead on chicken." His eyes went glassy and he stare off as if remembering an old lover.

"I almost believe you," she smirked back.

"Well, what's yours? No wait — I've got this. The assignments. No, I can do better than that. The exams!"

"Very funny." She jabbed him in the ribs.

"Fine. The rules. Breaking them."

A wry smile touched her lips.

"All of those things, yes. The castle and the way it was alive with old magic, like you could never know it entirely. I miss our classmates..." Especially the ones who'd been killed. "The professors..." Snape. "The trouble we'd get in and somehow always get out of..."

"More often than not it would mean we won the house cup out from under Slytherin..." he added with pride.

And so they let themselves indulge in the memories of a more vibrant time, of course dancing carefully around the details about how their friendship had formed and fluxed through puberty and jealousy and become the marriage they had today. It was nice. They exchanged more words and felt more connection than they had in... a while.

They were still standing in the entryway. Ron still had his arm behind Hermione's back and she'd interlaced her fingers behind his waist.

In that moment they were seventeen again, she could see a flicker of youthful hope behind his eyes and he looked at her with the same insecure awe he once had.

Hermione felt a hollow longing break free. She lifted up on her toes and let layer of her guarded countenance slide away. She wanted to reach him again... His grip on her tightened.

Not to pull her closer, but to hold her away.

"Come, let's go eat before the food gets cold."

Her guards slammed back into place before the sting on rejection could reach her. The glamoured scarf faded away.

"Right," she murmured. "Got a bit carried away."

The throwback to Hogwarts did open up their ability to talk to one another again, though they moved on to other topics of conversation over dinner.

Ron had another Auror related trip he'd be leaving on soon — this time to Brazil to track down a fugitive snake breeder who'd been apprehended with a trunk full of venomous pythons near centaur-governed lands in Ireland. He'd managed to slip his guards during transport and had only recently been spotted at an Amazonian trading post.

He'd be going with Harry, of course, and he promised to apologize for his behavior last week and they'd resume their weekly gatherings at the Leaky Cauldron when they returned.

Hermione gave him an update on her ongoing work with the House Elves and mentioned the Lost cases nonchalantly as if it wasn't burning a hole in her conscience. She told him of the Wizengamot's ultimatum, to which he had very little reaction and seemed to chew on the news. She still didn't know what she was going to do, and Ron offered very little input.

That night as she got ready for bed, she threw on an extra jumper. It wasn't the fall air that was making her so cold. It was as if the warmth of her home were leeching out and no matter what efforts she made to warm it, it gave nothing back.

As she drifted off, she assured herself that she had definitely been referring to her home.


The following few days — a weekend — passed without event. Ron had left for Brazil and his absence was hardly noticeable, Hermione admitted to herself. She only admitted these things in increments. Too much all at once might... break something.

She spent the weekend curled up with Crookshank on the couch with a book on Southeast Asian magical sociopolitical revolution and a cup of warm cider. She only left to visit the Muggle farmers market for peaches and squash. She owled Ginny to again offer her regrets and support.

Come Sunday evening she was bored and ready to be swept up in a slog of reports and requests about things completely unrelated to her personal life. There was something about the misfortunes of other creatures that gave her a guilty sense of personal solace.

Hermione was just performing a final cleaning charm on the living area when Harry's patronus burst through the heat vent. Harry's voice echoed through the glowing stag. He sounded urgent.

Hermione, I hope you haven't responded to the Wizengamot yet as I believe you ought to know something. I shouldn't be telling you this — it's confidential DMLE intel.

Draco Malfoy just requested a visitation with Bellatrix Lestrange.