"639 days, 11 hours, 21 minutes and 43 seconds." Thought an irate Hermione as people returned to their desks, immediately concentrating on their assignments and duties, "They've already forgotten the war and horror that accompanies it."

Moving to her designated desk, on the front of which her name was spelled out, she sat down contemplating the atmosphere in the Auror department.

Most were willing to ignore her; fully concentrating on their work, a few were glancing briefly up at her, sympathy plain in their eyes, conveying to her that, much as they wanted to stick up for her, fear of retribution from the 'untouchable' pureblood faction in the department was enough to dissuade them from any overt support.

Yet more than a few were looking at her in outright hostility. Their sneers, belying the true murderous aura emanating from their black eyes, were enough to freeze even the bravest as their condescension reached a new level of arrogance and superiority, even after a war had shown class and lineage to be almost redundant as a factor in society.

Snapping out her reverie, briefly, to hear the goings on in the department; of the numerous illegalities that had sprung up, which had 'somehow' started again despite the ministry claiming to have 'halted these horrid practices'. These were mainly due to the inability of the ministry to deal with issues, such as the refusal of the Muggleborn Societal Recognition Act to illegal trade in Class A dangerous goods.

"...did you hear? They've called a meeting in the IWC. I wonder if it's because of..him." spoke a nervous blonde witch to her colleague in an undertone, to avoid prying ears.

Hermione however prided herself in her acute senses, especially now, as she suddenly stilled, hearing the topic of Harry come up.

"Apparently they're debating the use of an international taskforce to bring him in."

A wizard passing by chipped in, "According to my cousin, who works in the IWC, 25 nations have pledged to support this motion. The group assembled has some of the toughest wizards and witches in recent history to be included." He paused, glancing both ways, before continuing in an almost undetectable voice, "'Mad' Mikhail is amongst the group suggested...well at least that's what my cousin says. He only saw him for a millisecond, but..."

At this point both witches had paled; the mention of 'Mad' Mikhail had rooting them to the spot. The blonde suddenly started to look around her, afraid that 'Mik' was behind her, instead turning to see her boss looking directly into her eyes, a grin on his face.

Erik, after helping the blonde to right herself after suffering a mini heart attack, assigned a junior Auror to escort her to the healer's station in the ministry for a heartburn potion.

Turning to the raven haired witch who, if possible, had gone even whiter, and the wizard, who looked nervously at his boss, very aware that he had brought up a taboo topic in the department, he quickly ushered the wizard back to his desk and back onto the 'Kinfler' case and ordered the witch to return back to the scrolls and parchments from various owls about crimes occurring in the south East district.

Spotting a rigid backed Hermione, face down, trying to ignore the exchange in front of her, he approached her, striding purposefully towards a, now thoroughly, nervous Hermione.

"Hermione? Are you alright?" spoke Erik, trying to ascertain the problem she was apparently going through.

He was surprised to see Hermione lift her head with a sunny disposition plastered upon her face.

"I'm fine sir. So, what's my first assignment?"

Erik, pausing momentarily to reorganise his train of thought with a look of internal chaos spread across his face, as if determining if she was actually alright or had merely spoken those words to appease her boss, eventually settling on deciding to accept her word, at least for the moment.

"Actually Hermione, could you go to my office and wait there, I won't be long."

Surprised, Hermione was about to question her boss as to why, but decided against that course of action, merely agreed and started to walk a few steps before halting.

Turning to Erik, who was looking confused, she managed "Umm..Where is your office sir?"

Erik, chuckling, directed her to the main hallway and to the far office on the left hand side.

Moving briskly towards the hallway, aware of many pairs of eyes on the back of her head, ignored the eyes and moved to her destination, internally wondering why Erik needed to see her?

Moving to the indicated office, she grasped and turned the doorknob and strode into her boss' office. When she opened the door, her eyes were bombarded by numerous details about Erik's life outside of work.

The office: containing two filing cabinets, an old mahogany desk, a simple wooden chair and sideboard was moderately sized for his rank; not too big or too small, giving the appearance of a man who was unconcerned with his status or the opinions of those who complained of his 'humility'; making them look bad to the general public and ministry personal.

The desk and sideboard were covered in personal effects, such as a moving picture of an attractive blonde woman holding a small girl, around three or four years of age; a half eaten breakfast muffin and half full cup of coffee; a bottle of 25 year old fire-whiskey and accompanying glasses filled with Douglas's un-meltable iceblocks; and today's Daily Prophet along with its main competitor, the Weekly Warlock.

Picking up the Weekly Warlock, Hermione reminisced on the recent upheaval in the Newspaper market.

The Weekly Warlock had begun as a minor newspaper in the mid-90's under the thumb of Denarius Wiester.

The Wiester family was a noble family, yet not ancient, having formed in the late 18th century in North-West Germany, around the city of Hannover.

In the Early 19th century, after the Napoleonic wars (The First European Magic War), they had emigrated to Britain in hopes of creating their fortune in the rising Ministry of Magic for Britain; which had for centuries been snubbed by the continent for its puny wizarding population compared to many older and more established magical nations; barely one hundred thousand at the time, and for its isolationist tendencies from wizarding 'disputes' between houses and later, nations.

For two centuries almost the family had been regarded with outright derision, thus explaining why no family member had risen higher than second in command of the Magical Forestry Division, a division that rarely got any public notice and was considered a career ender.

However, the family's fortune was to change due to the son of Denarius; Robert.

The paper, in 2 short years under Robert's Management, had risen to become the rival of the ancient and prestigious Daily Prophet, which had noticed a decline in readership and subscriptions after first attacking the Boy-who-lived, now styled as 'the-man-who-made-people-crap-themselves'; Dark Lord Potter.

Despite being a 'radical' newspaper; and it was, the general consensus was that 'The Weekly Warlock' was a great deal more 'open' in regards to its direct competition. However, the paper also spouted off populist articles, generally trying to appeal to the masses through human interest stories (i.e. aww...look at that newborn baby dragon..you know.. the one the Japanese Ministry sent us).

Due to her years of negative press, alongside Harry and Ron, and hurtful mail from the less than tolerant readers of the Daily Prophet, never having forgotten the Bubotuber pus incident, Hermione was unashamedly Critical and Cynical of any article published in any paper.

Thus, as she read through the paper, she grew colder and colder as the paper had almost no articles that could hold her interest.

Moving to the middle of the paper, containing the obituaries, she briefly examined the paper, pausing, wide-eyed, at a particular obituary of a name she had almost forgotten.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Staring at the paper Hermione quickly read the accompanying words underneath, nearly suffering a heart attack in the process.

'Three times I have inscribed

In this fine paper of thine,

My murderous intentions and crimes.

Two years I have been sought,

For those crimes I have wrought,

At last people are getting the picture.

Getting closer I feel,

Believing the spiel

I hope you have not, Granger.

Meet me you shall,

When the time is right, my pal,

Forget me not, my friend, Granger.

Putting the paper down Hermione almost fainted. Resisting that reaction she again glanced down at the poem.

'Terrible poem Harry..absolutely Terrible.'

In her mind only Harry was capable of doing something like this, as no-one knew the name Tom Marvolo Riddle and if they did, it would only trace back to a wizard who had disappeared half a century ago.

'The poem was pretty straight forward,' thought Hermione, yet, with Harry, direct was better as he was usually straight to the point - most of the time... at least, when he was around her.

With everyone else Harry was reserved. Only when they had been alone together had the mask fallen, revealing the worried, anxious boy who she had met on the train in their first year – albeit briefly.

Mentally berating herself for digressing, she turned back to the task at hand; finding Harry.

'He's obviously getting into the HQ for WW. How do I go about setting up a sting without him cottoning on? And what did he mean by 'Believing the spiel'?'

Reflecting inwardly on this dilemma, she reflected on the million problems that could give the game away, she was startled when the door opened to admit Erik into his office.

Taking a few seconds to walk to his chair, sit down, straighten himself and place his two hands on the desk fingertips touching each over he posed the question which would change the wizarding world's future.

"Hermione..would you like to join the international taskforce in arresting Harry Potter?"