When she arrived at the DMLE, Harry was waiting in her chair — leaning back, with his feet resting on her otherwise pristine desk. "Nice work Hermione. It really was a well-executed plan, not that I'd expect any less."
"Really Harry? I eat off of that!" She shoved the offending boots off her desk playfully, shooting a quick Scourgify spell at Harry's boots and her desk for good measure. "It was, wasn't it, and Courtenay was brilliant! Pucey didn't suspect a thing."
"Pucey always was a bit daft." Harry shrugged. "He's not a known Death Eater," he mused. "But given that the case relates to Dark Artefacts, the Wizengamot is probably going to turn the trial into a bloody circus, anyway. We're going to need to make sure the paperwork is crisp."
"Is it ever anything less?" She arched a disapproving eyebrow at him, but didn't put any bite behind her words.
While Harry's nagging could be annoying, it was just his way of dealing with stress, and she'd learned to let it roll off of her years ago. It was his way of trying to exert control over the situation, and as Head Auror, it was important for Harry to maintain control — at least where others in the department could see him.
When they'd offered Hermione the position as Head Auror last year, she'd declined — happy to let Harry lead the department instead. She loved her job as an Auror, but she detested politics. Besides, if she was honest with herself, she would have been utter rubbish at navigating the political complexity demanded of the role. As a result, poor Harry was the one finding himself stuck between the Wizengamot, Minister, and the department. She didn't envy him in the least.
Shacklebolt and other key members of the Ministry were up for reelection this year, so the politicking was worse than usual. Though the war had ended eight years ago, it was still recent enough that politicians were always quick to capitalise on an opportunity to remind wizards of any part they might have had in defeating Voldemort's reign of terror. Which, in this case, meant a highly publicised Wizengamot trial where officials could be seen condemning a Dark Wizard — and likely claiming some level of responsibility in uncovering the smuggling ring. Hermione just hoped that they wouldn't be assembling the full Wizengamot over a (literal) teacup — she was sure Rita Skeeter would have a field day with that headline.
"Still on for drinks at the Leaky after work, Hermione?"
"Wouldn't miss it," she said cheerily, waving over her shoulder as she walked towards the conference room, passing Harry's own office and his hopeless stack of paperwork — the irony was not lost on her. Why the man refused to hire a secretary to help, she had no idea.
In the main conference room, she found her team had reassembled and were already midway through their debrief. She watched from the threshold, proud of how far the young Aurors had come since joining her squad. With such high casualties in the war coupled with high turnover rate among survivors, most of the department had less than five years of experience. She always felt responsible for them, and worried that their lack of collective experience in the field might put them at risk, but she was glad that (today at least) they'd all go home safe. In this line of work, you could never take that for granted.
It was nearly 11 pm on a weeknight, so the Leaky Cauldron was mostly empty, and Ron spotted her right away. He poured her a Butterbeer and slid it towards the empty seat next to Harry, who was already sipping a glass of whisky; Firewhiskey by the smell of it. Hermione wrinkled her nose — the spicy drink didn't appeal to her in the least.
"All right 'Mione? Harry told me you put another of those nutters behind bars."
Likely objecting to Ron's characterisation of "nutters," Harry shook his head.
Drinking deeply, she sighed. "Honestly, I can't believe how daft these purebloods are. Even after the war, they seem to be under the misguided impression that they can do whatever they bloody well please. The aversion to honest work is astounding, truly."
Ron nodded, clearly understanding they did not lump in him with other purebloods since the Weasley's were considered blood traitors; not that anyone would so flagrantly call attention to their prejudice these days by using that term publicly.
"They're all mental," Ron agreed.
Harry shifted uncomfortably. He disapproved of such talk — said that it held them back and continued to pit people against one another — bloody naïve, if you asked her.
Instead of trying to dissuade them again, he changed the topic. "I owled Shacklebolt after the bust, he sends his thanks, of course. I'll get more information from him tomorrow, but he thinks it will be a full assemblage of the Wizengamot. So get your team ready for another bloody circus."
Hermione swore into her drink.
Ron's eyebrows raised, and he whistled low, cleaning a glass that was probably already spotless; he liked playing the part of barkeep.
"You'll need to make an appearance, of course, as the Lead Auror on the sting. I'd take you off of these cases if I could Hermione—"
"But I'm the best." She nudged him in the ribs good naturedly.
"But you're the best," he agreed, "and we can't afford to faff around when it comes to the Dark Arts. Just— let me know if it gets to be…" He paused, searching for the right words. "Too intense."
She nodded, and Ron looked at her with concern.
"Ah, come off it Harry, can't you get that other bloke to do it? What's his name? Combs, Cambridge…"
"Courtenay?"
"That's the one. Have him do it. Hermione doesn't need to listen to that rubbish again."
"Wish I could, mate." Harry shook his head again, looking like he truly regretted it.
"You know that's not how it is, Ron. People expect to see me there," Hermione responded morosely. "My squad expects to see me there, especially if they end up calling the entire bloody Wizengamot. They do this with every trial that's even remotely connected to the Dark Arts."
"Well sure, but that doesn't mean it makes it any easier, or that it's the right decision," Ron glared at Harry.
Shrugging one shoulder, she trailed a finger along the rim of her pint, a sign of her rising anxiety. The trial would inevitably involve speculation on Pucey's part in the war — his whereabouts, dealings, and associations — in order to determine if he had been a supporter of Voldemort that had escaped justice. While the world at large considered Hermione Granger — the brightest witch of her age, war heroine, and star Auror — to be unflappable, her small trusted group of friends knew the truth of her struggles.
Listening to testimonies related to the war was often difficult for her; they usually triggered her own memories from that time — memories she'd give anything to forget. She felt she hid it well; the rapid beating of her heart and tightness in her chest were often the only indications of stress. Many people struggled with flashbacks after the war, of course, and hers had lessened with time. Everyone had suffered, and she had many people who looked up to her; she couldn't let her discomfort show.
"It will be fine, Ron," she assured him. "I can deal with it."
She grasped her forearm, sitting quietly for a minute as the memories threatened to drag her down. The ugly scar was a constant reminder of the deeper scars lying hidden beneath the surface of her skin; she could feel the raised shape the letters beneath the glamour which kept it hidden.
Harry, always the perceptive one, reached over to squeeze her hand. Taking a deep breath, she returned to the conversation, changing topics, hoping to include Ron more since he tended not to engage as much in their "shop talk."
Ron topped off their drinks, teasing Harry about the fact that he still couldn't find a barber who could consistently tame the unruly bit at the back of his head. It made Hermione smile to see Ron enjoying himself. Ron had struggled harder than most after the war to find a place where he fit, and he seemed to truly love running the Leaky. Being part of the Golden Trio, many expected him to become an Auror too — or perhaps join another Ministry office. He'd played pro quidditch for a while, but making a career of it had seemed to take all the wonder out of the sport and he'd quickly become dissatisfied. On a whim, he'd purchased the Leaky a few years ago when the owner had shared late one night that she was retiring. Ron had immediately offered to purchase it despite Hermione's concern that he had no experience in business.
As it turned out, Ron had a surprising talent in running a business. After taking ownership (afforded thanks to his quidditch earnings), he'd poured his heart and soul into the place. Hermione had rarely seen Ron really try at anything; he was generally happy to let Harry, Hermione, or any of his many siblings make the decisions. But, like a man possessed, he'd spent months planning a refreshed menu with Molly's help. He'd even asked Hermione for some of her favourite Muggle recipes, which she'd happily indulged.
Once he had the menu finished, he'd closed the pub for a week, to freshen up the interior. You'd have thought it was the start of a third wizarding war for all the uproar it caused. The results had been a stunner. Flaking walls had been whitewashed, while any exposed beams had been refinished and stained a deep espresso. The floor had been replaced with a modern light-grey herringbone, with dark coloured high tops in the fresh, brightly lit space. Ron's proudest addition (aside from the menu) was the living edge bar top he'd had installed, made from a Whomping Willow that was struck by lightning and hadn't recovered. It wasn't the Whomping Willow, but he clearly still held a grudge and considered this a triumph over the species as a whole, akin to how some Muggles mounted deer heads on their wall.
He was, Hermione had to admit, well-suited for this. Good-hearted and friendly, he drew people in — his former pro-quidditch career and world-saving heroics also helped. Where previously the Leaky Cauldron had been a place to grab a drink if you had nowhere better to be, last year it had beat out the prestigious Three Broomsticks in the Great Wizarding Pub rankings. The article from The Daily Prophet was framed and hanging prominently behind the bar. Now, he continued to tweak the menu and play with new drink flavours with a level of frenetic excitement rivalled only by Fred and George as they had created new instruments of mayhem back at Hogwarts. Choosing to work in the pub itself instead of managing from afar, he claimed it gave him a better read on the business, but Hermione strongly suspected he just enjoyed being around other people.
She finished her Butterbeer and watched Harry and Ron rib one another, feeling faintly detached. It was good to see her friends happy, but she wished she could say the same for herself.