The bill had officially passed.
It took nine hours of persuasion and victim testimony. Nine hours of sweaty palms and spinning thoughts and pounding ears. She'd dressed in her best robes, she'd tamed her unruly hair, she'd practiced her closing statement until the very last minute.
The odds hadn't been in her favor — that she knew.
Yet there she was, cutting a slice of celebratory cake, and the act was signed into legislation. Surreal wasn't the word. It was positively mystifying.
"Congratulations, Granger," said Corner. He parked beside her, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. The stuff was the lifeblood of the Ministry of Magic, a Pepper-Up Potion for weary bureaucrats of every department. "I heard it was quite the show."
Hermione sucked some icing off her thumb.
"Thanks." She grinned. "I honestly didn't know if they'd approve all the testimony requests I submitted . . . I'm glad they did, though."
He nodded. "Wish I could've been there, I would've paid good gold to see the Wizengamot's faces when the elves came in. Half those prunes were probably pissing their trousers."
Hermione snickered. "They did look a bit anxious."
"Of course they did! Were probably waiting for their own little slaves to march in and start airing their dirty laundry. The Prophet would've had a field day . . ." He sipped his coffee. "I assume they needed names to sign off on your requests, though."
"Obviously. Something about species bias."
He rolled his eyes. "Typical."
"It's rubbish." Hermione sunk her fork into her cake and took a bite — a well-deserved bite, at that. She hadn't eaten all day. Mouth still full, she added, "I've said it a hundred times before: Victim testimony should be the standard. Not just for elves, either. Had the centaurs been able to speak two months ago, they might've gotten their land deal."
The system was backwards, and so long as traditionalists plagued the Wizengamot, it would remain that way. Even seven years after the war, the panel was still chockfull of elderly wizards that hated everyone who didn't look like them or share the inbred blood running through their decrepit veins. Little did they know, Hermione Granger, a Muggle-born, was on a mission to dethrone them all.
In due time, of course.
"You might be onto something, honestly — considering today's blowout," Corner said. "It was unanimous, right?"
"Not unanimous, no. Someone voted nay."
"Just one?"
"Just one."
"Impressive. Who was it?"
"Fawley."
"Ah, so the Death Eater."
"Not legally," Hermione said, raising an eyebrow.
Corner laughed at that, but his glee was short-lived. His face fell as their least favorite coworker stepped into the office, both his mess of hair and business robes disheveled beyond fixing, a broom strapped casually to his back. Like always, he was late — and sweaty.
He trudged towards them without a shred of poise or purpose. Hermione suddenly wished she'd eaten her cake at home.
"What're we celebrating?"
"Hermione's bill passed," Corner answered.
"What bill?" asked McLaggen.
He seized the cake platter and pulled it towards him, illustrating little to no regard for where he stuck his dirty hands. To Hermione's horror, he swiped his finger through the icing and popped it in his mouth.
"Cormac —"
He raised his eyebrows at her as he did it a second time.
Hermione grimaced. There would be no returning for a second piece — not now that it was soiled with his noxious saliva.
"Never mind," she muttered.
"It's for the 'Cormac, never mind' bill?" he joked. "Doesn't sound worth celebrating to me."
"It's for the House-Elf Protection Act, you nonce," Corner growled.
"Which one's that?"
"The one she's been working on for the last two years?" Corner sounded properly incredulous, and Hermione felt the same way. McLaggen wasn't very bright, but it was all she'd been talking about for ages.
He blinked vacantly. "Oh. Sounds brilliant." His lips then curled into a coy smile. "Congratulations, Hermione."
She nearly gagged at the way he said her name. The man had been fascinated with her ever since their sixth year at Hogwarts and no matter how many times she told him she wasn't interested, he continued to persist. She wasn't sure if he was stupid, vile, or both.
"Thanks," she said stiffly. "You know you're an hour late, right?"
"I'm on night shifts."
"Yes, and night shifts start at seven."
McLaggen shrugged. "I've got a light day today."
Corner smirked over the brim of his coffee mug, sharing a private joke with Hermione that neither of them needed to speak aloud. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes and picked up her unsullied piece of cake.
Her desk — and sweet silence — beckoned her.
Keen to finish the week's paperwork, she plopped into her seat and reached down to open her drawer. A few signatures while she poked at her cake, and she'd free up her entire Friday morning. It seemed a worthy sacrifice, even if she did have to spend it with McLaggen.
There was much to be done now that the act was in place. Getting ahead was crucial.
The elves would need education programs, and lessons on salary negotiation, and —
Her boss's office door flew open.
"Granger!"
"Yes, sir?"
"I'd like a word."
"Oh! Yes, of course!"
Hermione tried to contain her pride as she pushed her plate away. The Head of the Department had been uncertain about her bill since its conceptual birth, but finally, she'd proven what she could do — that she was the asset to the department she knew she could be. He'd taken a chance on her, and it had paid off at last.
Recognition came with patience, and she'd been patient for two years.
The walk to his office felt much longer than it was.
By the time she got there, he was already seated at his century-old desk, a scroll lying in front of him. The desk was an ostentatious thing, a slab of mahogany inlaid with silver, topped with a phoenix quill and his name on a golden plaque. Seniority had treated him well.
"Shut the door."
Hermione did as she was told. Excitement bubbled in her chest as she prepared for the inevitable flurry of praise. If she were lucky, maybe he'd apologize for ever doubting her. Maybe he'd ask her to lead the new Elf Liaison Office she'd been pitching. Even a raise would suffice.
"Sit."
She smoothed her robes and took the wingback chair across from him. His hands were laced, his pinkie jiggling anxiously. A gold ring glinted in the candlelight.
"Long day in front of the Wizengamot," he said.
Hermione nodded, smiling. "Just over nine hours. It was well-worth it though, considering the outcome."
"Right," he said flatly.
He sounded much less enthused than she'd expected. There was a crease between his thick eyebrows, and his beady eyes kept darting between her and the scroll of parchment before him.
Something was wrong.
"Sir . . . what's going on?"
He fingered the scroll, his expression only growing more and more strained. A lump was forming in Hermione's throat, a warning that he had not invited her into his office to celebrate.
Perhaps she bought the cake too early.
"I don't know how to tell you this," he started, "so I'm just going to come right out and say it. You're being reassigned."
"What?"
He didn't falter. "I'm pulling you off the elf project — for good."
"But why?" Hermione pressed, getting to her feet. "I was brilliant today! Almost everyone signed the petition, including Shacklebolt —"
"You made a fool of us," he interjected. "You filibustered until you got your way. That's not the way we get people on our side."
"I gave elves a voice! I hardly consider that filibustering —"
"You think nine hours on the floor is normal, then?"
"Considering they've been enslaved for hundreds of years —"
"It was unprofessional!" He jabbed a finger at her. "You're too attached to them. You can't badger people into changing their minds like that, no matter the cause. It's a blight on the department."
"So I'm supposed to just let the Wizengamot trample on their rights?" Hermione asked, taken aback. "That's not why I joined this department, Tim —"
"Caldwell," he corrected her. "And nobody said anything about trampling on anyone's rights . . . This department expects a certain level of propriety. I told you that from the start."
"Propriety doesn't always get bills signed!" Hermione shouted.
"It's not all about bills, Granger, you know that."
"Then what is it all about? If we aren't demanding justice for the individuals we represent, then why are we even here?"
Caldwell clenched his jaw. "There's no sense in arguing about it. My mind's made up — and Shacklebolt's is too. He already signed the papers."
Suddenly, her fire dwindled.
It hadn't even been an hour since her presentation, and Kingsley had been there. How did Caldwell have time to get him to do the paperwork? Was the Minister just as eager to remove her from her project? Was he just as embarrassed by her methods as Caldwell was?
Her stomach turned at the thought as Caldwell slid the scroll of parchment towards her. She stared at the thing, unwilling to face whatever reality was penned upon it.
"You're being moved to Vampire Support Services."
Vampire Support Services?
Of all the jobs in the department, it was the worst of the bunch. Not to mention, she hadn't worked the night shift since she was an intern, and that wasn't even the most glaring detail.
The fact of the matter was: Vampires terrified her.
"Vampire Support Services," she repeated. "That's McLaggen's job."
"Surely you don't have a problem with that?" He asked it like a question, yet they both knew it was anything but.
"No," Hermione lied, her arms crossed. The parchment seemed even more dangerous now, containing a new, warped timeline that she was not ready to join. Working with McLaggen was awful without having to cross paths often. Working side-by-side with him — and with vampires, no less — well, that seemed like Hell on Earth. "It's just — I've never worked . . . closely . . . with vampires before."
"You're afraid of them."
"No," Hermione said quickly. "Of course not. I —"
"You're prejudiced," he deduced. "It's fine to admit it. Not many people know much about vampires, and the ones that do don't exactly like them. That's just fine. Our job isn't to like them. It's to manage them."
"I'm not prejudiced."
"Cautious, then," Caldwell amended. "Either way, the paperwork will be complete as soon as you sign that."
"And if I don't sign it?"
"Then you're out of a job," he said nonchalantly. "You're to swap caseloads with McLaggen by tomorrow afternoon. You start night shift on Monday."
"Wait. McLaggen's taking my project?"
"He knows how to work with people," Caldwell said. He pushed the scroll towards her and raised his eyebrows. "You don't have a problem with that, do you?"
Hermione wanted to scream. The best day of her career had suddenly become the worst, and she still saw no good reason for it. In another life, she might have shouted at him. She might have quit and started another non-profit. She might have even incinerated the parchment on his hideous, overpriced desk.
Yet, in her twenty-four years, she had learned that there was nowhere else in the Wizarding World where she could make such a difference. Her triumphant morning was proof.
She snatched the scroll from his desk and stormed out of his office.
Whether she liked vampires or not, one thing was certain: She was going to do a much better job than ruddy McLaggen.
Thursdays weren't often busy for the Leaky Cauldron. Regulars ran up their tabs, refilling their pints until they fell asleep on the bar. Travelers checked in and headed straight off to their rooms. Once in a while, Tom would utter a swear word or pans would clatter in the kitchen, but all in all, it was quiet — another far-from-extraordinary Thursday.
Hermione felt far from extraordinary too.
She nursed a butterbeer, silently replaying the day's events as she stared at the firewhisky sitting on the bar before her.
It wasn't hers, of course. Hard liquor had always made her stomach roil. She much preferred something fizzy and sweet — something that could calm the nerves, but wouldn't thieve her composure.
The pub door opened.
A mop of jet black hair bobbed inside, and though his face was obstructed by a woman's hat, Hermione knew that cowlick like she knew the back of her own hand. She waved him over to join her.
"Oi! Potter! Good t'see yeh!"
"Izzat 'arry Potter?"
Harry offered a weak smile to the strangers turning to look at him. They all watched with interest as he approached Hermione, goggling as he shrugged off his jacket and plonked onto the stool beside her. Even after seven years, the reactions remained the same.
"Sorry I'm late," he breathed. "Had a raid over in Knockturn Alley, took a bit longer than expected."
"It's fine," Hermione said, glaring at an ogling housekeeper. She slid his drink towards him. "Here — I ordered for you."
"You're the best . . . Firewhisky?"
"Of course."
"Perfect." He hugged his tumbler and grinned. "Heard the big news, by the way. I knew you could do it."
"Ah, right . . . Thanks."
Harry frowned. "What's wrong? I thought we were celebrating."
"We are." Hermione peered down into the foaming pit of butterbeer. It didn't feel like much of a celebration. In fact, it felt more like mourning. She sighed. "Well, I don't know. Caldwell sort of . . . ruined it."
"Ruined it how?"
Nervousness festered in her gut. Harry had always been her biggest supporter. He came to share her moment in the spotlight with her, a sprig of social justice in a cruel world — yet, the deck was loaded. Instead of laughter and joy, she brought bad news. She'd let him down.
"He reassigned me," she mumbled into her pint.
"What? Why?"
"He said that I badgered the Wizengamot."
"Well, did you?"
"Of course not! I did my job," she asserted, a bit annoyed he even asked. "I was firm in my stance, yes, but you're supposed to be when you're a sponsor."
A mischievous smile tugged at Harry's lips. "Did you pull out the old spew badges?"
"No," Hermione scowled. "I only told them it's wrong to enslave living, breathing, intellectual beings — which shouldn't be a divisive topic, but God forbid these infernal pure-bloods give up their free labor!"
Harry softened. "Wizards are a bit behind sometimes."
"Sometimes," Hermione scoffed. "Try almost always."
"Yeah, you're probably right." He leaned onto the bar and rested his chin in his palm, fatigue glossing his jade eyes. He let out a yawn. "So what's the reassignment?"
"Vampire Support Services."
Suddenly, he was alert. "You're joking."
"I'm not," Hermione said grimly. "I'm on night shift starting next week."
"Merlin . . . Just 'cause Caldwell didn't like your bill?"
"He was skeptical of it. If he hated it, he wouldn't have approved it . . . He claimed it was my approach, but honestly? I don't think he likes me."
"That makes it worse."
"Yeah," Hermione agreed. She took a sip of butterbeer. "I'm definitely not happy about it."
"I wouldn't be either. He's making you work with people that literally want to drink your blood."
"They can't help it," Hermione said weakly. She groaned and rubbed her face. "That doesn't make it any better, though, does it?"
Harry shook his head. "No, it doesn't."
Hermione sighed in defeat, her eyelids heavy from a long day and the topic at hand. She craned her neck to get a good look at the door. "Is Ron coming?"
"Doubt it," answered Harry. "He said he'd try, but Parkinson had some dinner he had to be at."
"Seriously?"
After bullying Hermione for years, Pansy Parkinson had taken it upon herself to date one of her best friends. As if the woman's audacity weren't bad enough, Ron was even more ensnared by her than he had been Lavender Brown in their sixth year — and that was saying something.
"Jealous?" Harry mused.
"No. I just don't get what he sees in her."
"Yeah, me either." Harry smirked. "Maybe she's a vampire and she hypnotized him."
"That's a wives' tale. They don't really do that."
"Amortentia, then," Harry said, sounding rather sure of himself. "The only explanation."
"Definitely Amortentia."
They laughed together — the type of laughter Hermione needed after the miserable day she'd had. She was always grateful for Harry. Somehow, he helped her make sense out of her life when she needed it most. For being the bright one, she seemed to miss out on the important things all too often.
He helped her see them again.
Their laughter petered out after a time, Harry punctuating it with a sip of firewhisky. He cleared his throat.
"So erm — your new vampire job. What's that entail?"
"Studying them," Hermione started. Her face fell. "Managing clients."
"Clients?"
"I'm supposed to swap caseloads with McLaggen tomorrow. Don't give me that look, I'm already annoyed enough."
Harry held up his hands in surrender. "No look. Just listening to you."
Hermione surveyed him, but decided not to press the matter. "And the best part is I get to have weekly sessions with all of them."
"Weekly sessions?"
"Yeah," Hermione grumbled. "It's the Ministry's way of making sure they're not dangerous to magical folk — or Muggles, of course, though I suspect they care much less about that."
"So you, a witch, have to meet with dangerous beings to determine if they are or are not threats to witches," Harry summarized.
"It seems a bit counterintuitive, I know. They'll be chained — same as we do with werewolves . . ." Hermione faltered. "It's a bit barbaric, really. I suppose they are rather unpredictable, though . . ."
"Yeah. I've run into them a few times on the job. They're er — well, I wouldn't want to deal with them every day," Harry said. "You'll do great at it, though. If there's anyone that can do it, it's you."
Hermione preened. Meeting with him had been a good idea, embarrassing news or not. His warmth was exactly what she needed.
"You think so?" she asked.
"I know so," Harry replied. "And if not, I'll come talk to Caldwell myself." He flashed his Auror badge. "Taking my friend off her favorite project? Azkaban-worthy, in my opinion."
Hermione smacked his arm. "You're ridiculous."
"Or brilliant." He then glanced at his watch. "Shit. Ginny'll want dinner soon. I probably ought to go, I've already been late the past two days."
"Keeping a Weasley from eating? You must've had a death wish."
"Keeping a pregnant Weasley from eating," Harry corrected. He reached into his front pocket, Sickles and Galleons jingling as he pawed around. "She nearly Bat-Bogey'd me back up the Floo yesterday."
"Well, you wouldn't want to risk that again . . . See you tomorrow?"
"Of course." Harry stood and slapped three Sickles onto the bar. He leveled his gaze on her. "But we're getting curry."
The two of them got lunch together every Friday. It became a bit of a tradition for them over the years — one her new schedule would be robbing her of.
"Harry, it's the last lunch we'll be able to have together for a very long time. The least you can do is let me pick."
"No," he said sternly. "I'm not going to that vegetarian place again. I was stuck on the toilet for two days last time."
"If you ate more vegetables in the first place, you wouldn't have that problem," Hermione countered.
"If I stick to the exact amount I eat already, I won't have it either!" He started to back towards the door. "I'll tell Ginny you said hi, okay?"
"Please do. I'll try to stop in soon and see her."
"She'd like that." Harry smiled. "Try to get some sleep tonight, all right?
"I will."
The lie fell from her lips with ease. She never did like worrying him.
The Ministry was empty — virtually, anyway.
Bathed in darkness, the Atrium was not buzzing the way it usually was. It was not teeming with witches and wizards and goblins and elves. It was open and silent, a tranquil world without chaos and clamor.
And yet, nothing could quell Hermione's sense of urgency. She hurried to the lift and boarded with purpose, jabbing the giant "4" that glowed upon her touch. The lift moved much more swiftly without all the unnecessary stops, jerking to a halt after just a moment. She deboarded and peered around the lobby for some sign of a caretaker or anyone else.
There was no one.
Unfortunately, there was someone on the other side of the office doors.
Hermione needed to see him — he was the reason why she was there to begin with — but now that she was, she contemplated going home instead. Spending the evening with him didn't sound like her idea of fun, especially without another soul in sight.
It's just one night, she told herself. Just get it over with.
She pushed open the doors.
"You're here awfully late," McLaggen greeted her. He leaned back in his chair, hands intertwined behind his head. "Thought you went home."
"I met with a friend," Hermione answered shortly. She craned her neck. "I was hoping we could trade our caseloads . . . I suspect we both have a lot to get up to speed on."
"An all-nighter then," he deduced. A suggestive smirk stretched across his face.
Hermione wanted to slap it off of him.
"It'll be a few hours at most."
McLaggen considered her for a long moment, his gaze trailing up and down her body in the most uncomfortable manner. Finally, he nodded.
"Sounds ace," he said. "I have an appointment at three. Other than that, I'm all yours."
"We'll be done before then, I'm sure."
Hermione had no desire to spend the next five hours alone with him. She crossed the room and stopped in front of her desk, bending over to reach her drawers, all too aware of his eyes likely lingering on her backside. A color-coded stack of files awaited her there — files that were now, regrettably, his.
"I was curious though . . ." she went on, spinning around. "How many clients do you have? I know you're the only representative in Vampire Support, but considering the estimated population of —"
Before she could finish her sentence, McLaggen was seizing a messy stack of files from his lower desk drawer. He heaved them onto his desk with a grunt.
Hermione's jaw dropped.
"Is that your caseload?" she asked, not only shocked by the state of it (there were papers jutting out everywhere — it was a nightmare!), but also by the sheer volume. How was McLaggen, of all people, managing such an immense clientele?
"Sure is. Every known vampire in the U.K. Don't worry, though — only around thirty of them actually check in for their compliance sessions. The rest of them get turned over to the D.M.L.E."
"Thirty? And you handle them all individually?"
"Most of them, yeah," McLaggen said. "The families usually come in together though — makes it a bit easier . . . Well, except for the McMullonses. The mother-in-law is a bitch on a good day. You'll learn that right quick."
Hermione blinked. She couldn't believe how much he'd been doing. Worse yet, she feared what he wasn't doing.
"Cormac . . ." she started. "I think we might need to pull that all-nighter, after all."
The false moon loomed above, and Hermione leafed through the parchments on her desk, completely alone. McLaggen was long-gone.
His notes were sparse and his penmanship was abysmal, but the more she read, the more sympathy she felt for him. Horrific testimonies were detailed in those records, testimonies she would soon be hearing herself.
It was no surprise that some of her new clients were murderers, or that others fed off their pets. They were mild cases. Others had tried to attack their caseworkers, their lovers, and even their children. Then, there were the inevitable no-shows — those that decided not to live under the rule of others, and instead returned to what nature intended.
McLaggen had been dealing with some smarmy characters.
Hermione missed the house-elves.
Her tired eyes slid to the clock above her desk, then to her watch, as though the hour may be different. The timepieces, large and small, ticked in unison. It was nearing five in the morning.
The sooner she got used to the night shift, the better. It would make Monday less of a shock.
She grabbed the next folder off the top of the pile, grimacing after reading what the vampire had done to a hag in Belfast. Apparently, he was over nine-hundred years old and didn't speak any English. Those meetings would be interesting.
Without pause, she stacked the file to her right and seized another from her left.
She flipped it open. At a glance, it was a rather scant case, with no previous sessions on record. They were either newly infected, or very secretive.
Curious, her gaze traveled to the top of the registration page, wondering just who this mysterious vampire could be.
She let out a gasp.
There, in his heavyhanded signature, was a name she was not prepared to see. It was the same thick lettering she recalled from nasty notes and prefect meetings, the very one that was carved in the bathroom stall near the Room of Requirement. The way the vowels looked the same, and the way the looping consonants had no loops at all. There was no mistaking that handwriting.
Draco Malfoy, notorious Death Eater, was a vampire.