One of the upsides of spending a year on the run from fanatics was it gave a marvellous perspective on misery. Hermione knew she had endured worse weeks than this one. Quite a few, in fact. She might be wretchedly forlorn but she was not in any physical danger. She had food on the table and a roof over her head.

Quite a nice roof, if she were honest. Marcus had used Crookshanks and an almost-apology to convince her to look at another of his family's properties. It was a Victorian-era flat in Maida Vale. Small but crisp, and filled with bookshelves. His scholarly great-uncle had used it as a refuge from his relatives. He had only two interests beyond literature judging from the décor; maps and cushions.

The little apartment reminded Hermione of her grandfather's study. The only thing missing was the smell of pipe tobacco. Crookshanks had hidden under one of the leather couches and had refused to come out. When Marcus had moved the couch so she could retrieve him, the half-kneazle had sped away to hide under the bed in the spare room.

So she had agreed to stay there, if only until she could bear being in her parents' house without them. Moving in had been quick, unfortunately. The speed of the shift had left her time to fret. About her mother and father and Ron and Harry. There was only so much research she could do before she needed a solicitor.

Which the Flint family had, naturally. That got things moving. By Thursday, she had something to take to the Ministry. The difficulty was she could easily win herself an exemption and have the Wizengamot dismiss her objections out of hand. A class action was necessary.

Which was how she found herself at a party so Slytherin the invitations should have been in Parseltongue.

Initially, Marcus had handed her his address book and gone to Quidditch practice. After owling the people in it she knew from Hogwarts, she had hit the first snag. They could not freely congregate in groups larger than three due to the provisions of their paroles except for very specific circumstances. Which had to be verified by the Ministry.

That had caused some spousal swearing. Hermione had listened involuntarily impressed to the rant. Marcus had quite an extensive vocabulary of invective. What he did not have was any contacts at the Ministry. The Flint seat in the Wizengamot had sat in abeyance since his father's return from Azkaban almost fifteen years ago.

Out of the country during the war, Marcus had not claimed the seat after he had reached adulthood at seventeen. Once he had returned to Britain, he had simply ignored the Wizengamot's owls. When Hermione had asked how he could do that, he had conceded it had taken a bit of effort.

Finding an excuse compliant with the parole requirements had fallen to her. Marcus was quite happy to run errands, shout at people and fend off Howlers but he appeared allergic to correspondence. Hermione sent owls, received owls and conspired.

The end result was a lavish birthday for Lucian Bole, who had spent the war blamelessly and ostentatiously in New York with his mother's family. The Cowells had threatened to disinherit him if he joined what they termed the 'idealist's war'. So he was clean as far as the Ministry was concerned.

The Slytherin Beater had agreed to hosting the Polyjuiced conference biddably at the request of his former Captain. His only stipulation was an open bar. Hermione had frowned at that, she wanted to coordinate a legal action not a bacchanal, but Marcus had agreed. He soothed her by explaining Bole could only hold one idea in his head at once. He was not their target.

They needed Theo Nott, Alun Rosier and Leota Yaxley, who were smart and stable. Marcus briefed her on all the invitees, rattling details off the top of his head while she took notes. Nott she knew from school but Rosier had gone to Beauxbatons and Yaxley to Durmstrang. Everyone else was weight for the appeal.

Thus Hermione found herself in heels and a new cocktail frock discussing caveats with the son of a Death Eater, the nephew of a Death Eater and the niece of a Death Eater. Nott would not meet her eyes but Rosier and Leota were all business.

"Forty if he was a day!" Pansy Parkinson's acid voice interrupted the strategy meeting in the corner. Hermione turned to see an already sloshed witch hanging off her quasi-husband's muscular arm. He looked impatient. When Pansy noticed the new Mrs Flint's attention, she smirked. "I feel so sorry for you, Marcus. At least you made her do something with her horrid hair."

"Shut the fuck up, Parkinson." Marcus had been doing the rounds confirming his marriage and intimidating anyone who commented on it when Parkinson had latched on.

"All right for you, Flinty. She's young enough to give you an heir. What do I get? Some pikey with a moustache. He drinks lager!" Pansy protested, waving her Manhattan at the bar as though her assigned spouse was lurking there. "He probably can't even get it up any more."

"Then you appeal on the grounds of barrenness." Hermione said tightly, thankful she had stuck to ginger ale. Getting pissed in a viper's den was not on her agenda. "Have you read the provisions?"

"I have better things to do." Pansy made a rude noise and finished her fourth little drinky. She was so ecstatic to be out of her house she didn't even mind talking to the Mudblood. "You're the swot." She started to giggle. "I bet that's why the Wizen-thingy gave you to him. So you can read him bedtime stories before he fucks you into the mattress."

"I do not hit women, Parkinson, but I will bloody merrily push you through a Floo." Marcus dragged her away from his wife before Hermione decided to let all his friends suffer. The private hearth was flaring by the minute as people arrived. He left the party still hauling the cackling witch along with him.

And walked right into a Weasley.