Hermione never bothered to display her Order of Merlin.

The handsome golden medallion was threaded onto a soft emerald ribbon, and it sat gently on a bed of velvet in the fine mahogany box it was offered in; most who received such an honor would crack the hinges and keep it displayed as a token of distinction, a trinket to display on a wall of certificates and diplomas. With the award had come a hefty sack of galleons, and for the last five years, Hermione had lived frugally on the winnings in effort to turn her whole attention to the restoration of her parents' memories. She hadn't pursued employment in the last half decade, but now, she stood in her new flat in Cambridge with the knowledge that if she wished to keep current on the payments, she'd have to find work soon.

The Wilkins had a sizeable savings fund from their lucrative dental practice, but now that Hermione had released them, they would need it to rebuild their stolen lives. Hermione tried very hard not to think about it, or the money she had stolen from them in the early days to ensure her Order of Merlin prize didn't deplete too quickly.

The Order of Merlin itself sat discarded one of her dresser drawers, untouched and unseen. Each time she looked at it she was reminded of everything she had lost to get it, and this felt frighteningly bitter for someone who had once coveted accolades so ardently. The inscription on the box, First Class, should have thrilled her. It didn't.

Her new small, furnished flat was far from grand, but it definitely had its charm. Hermione sat at her new breakfast nook and smoothed the Help Wanted pages of the Daily Prophet over the table and glared critically at the current job openings.

Hermione never regretted not returning to Hogwarts to finish her seventh year—she firmly believed she had proved herself as a witch, and anything else she needed to learn she could do on her own—but she now felt the sting of being a Hogwarts dropout. Most advertised positions called for a current certificate of excellency, which she didn't have. Bookkeeping, potions making, cursebreaking, even tending to a library…all these occupations were barred from her due to her lack of completed formal education. She didn't have any desire to become an Auror like Harry or Ron, and the thought of turning to the Ministry for employment, no matter how surely they would welcome her as Harry Potter's friend, turned her stomach. She couldn't in good conscience align herself with an organization that decreed slavery legal. Harry's previous statement that Hermione might be pressured to foster a Death Eater herself was too vile to even consider seriously.

It left few options.

Despite her urgency, a tiny flare of her dangerous pride remained. Hermione knew she wouldn't be able to stomach working in customer service, as a shopkeep, pouring tankards in a tavern…it shamed her to know this about herself. She had been so bright, so clever—after all of it, she still wanted to be in a position where she could use her mind, to make a difference. Where her abilities could be admired, not looked down on with pity because of her wasted potential. Such a position didn't seem to exist, and in a fit of frustration, Hermione gripped at the newspaper and started to ball it into her fists. She did not want to have the Ministry of Magic as her only option, and on name alone.

A posting on the Wanted page stopped her furious shredding. Just there, squirreled away in the bottom corner—Charms Master sought at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Hermione gaped at it and finally smiled. Quickly, she summoned parchment and a quill and began to write out a letter to her second contact, one she was excited to talk to—Headmistress Minerva McGonagall. Unfinished education aside, Hermione knew the position was as good as hers if she only bothered to ask.

Fenrir Greyback, infamous werewolf and previous brutal enforcer for the defeated Lord Voldemort, stood in a charmed holding cell in the Ministry dungeons, his clawed hands gripped tight around the spelled-metal bars that kept him from lunging at the DMLE officials milling about near the desks on the other side. He had stopped his pacing for now—he stared with awful yellow eyes at the auror who had put him in the cell and allowed a low growl to reverberate from his chest.

"Come on, Dole. Let me out and we'll talk this out like men, eh? I promise I won't bite ya. Not even a little," Greyback lied. He willed his voice sweet and licked his pointed teeth. "The full moon isn't for another two days and I'm as harmless as a pup. C'mon, don't you want to? I know how badly you want to hit me, ever since we were in school…"

Conrad Dole, Junior Auror and bored of Greyback's taunting, didn't even look up from the report he was quilling at the desk just beyond the reach of the holding cell. "Settle down, dog. If you keep this up we'll send you back early to the Grand Crechaire for a tune-up."

Greyback flinched. The Light Blight on his right forearm still burned with awful pain, and soon, the shaking would start. He had been through this before…he knew what was to come. He could howl for how terribly helpless it made him feel, and if there was one thing Fenrir Greyback was not, it was helpless. "No need for any of that," he rasped. He squeezed the bars of the cell tighter. "Let me out now. We can settle this. I didn't mean what I did to your wife all those years ago, I promise. You should let me out so I can apologize."

Dole stiffened but didn't stop writing. Just out of Greyback's sight he flicked his wand beneath the lip of the desk and cast a quick silencing charm around his workstation—he could now only hear the werewolf if he cancelled the spell, and the quiet was blessed.

Greyback continued his taunts on the junior auror to no avail. Finally, from the shadows of the cell behind him, a new voice sought to answer his pleas for freedom. "I don't think he can hear you," a peculiar voice told him.

Greyback whipped around to face the back of the cell. His had been the end of a long line of them, right on the corner where the aurors sat—the cell next to his, separated by just bars, he had thought to be empty. From beneath a pile of traveling cloak that he had assumed to be left behind, a man emerged with a face he hadn't seen in many, many years.

"Crouch," Greyback hissed. He approached the bars separating them now cautiously, surveying the thin, tall man in front of him with a wary eye. "Back in your natural habitat, aren't you? Hiding away in the shadows, never to be seen."

Bartemius Crouch, Jr. had always been a strange edition to the Dark Cause, in Greyback's opinion. He was from a well-to-do family, quiet, and didn't carry any of that obvious brutality the rest of them wore like armor; he had been loyal and effective, yes, but he still remained a curious mystery. Willow-like, spidery. Their Dark Lord had finally favored him with the Mark in the buildup to the second war, and it had been to much discontent that he had. So many others who coveted the Mark felt that one slip of a man whom apparently did their Lord's bidding out of the spotlight didn't deserve to have it in the first place.

Barty lunged for the bars between them and finally came into the light, his pale hands grasping fiendishly at the bars and his pointed face sneering at the werewolf with gritted teeth. "Don't call me by his name!" the wizard hissed madly. After so many years hidden from sunlight it almost seemed to Greyback that the man hadn't aged a day; his wine-dark eyes and reddish hair still suggested some desperate grasp on dying youth, especially when he shook like an offended schoolboy, impotent and unable to retort other than a plea for stop. Greyback knew better than to underestimate him.

The werewolf chuckled. "Don't like being reminded of your father, do you? I bet it still stings. To be the son of the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement…what shite. Such a horrible legacy to have, so shameful. Did he really disguise you with Polyjuice as your own mother during her deathbed visit? I heard he kept you under the Imperius and an invisibility cloak like a little dirty secret. And you were, weren't you?"

Barty retracted his hands from the bars of the cell and jerked his head, swiftly getting his overgrown bangs out from in front of his eyes. The slightest dart of a pink tongue sliced to the corner of his mouth before retracting again, a tic the man had never been able to shake. The wizard's gaze was blinding, unrelenting; a coil of unease reminded Greyback that Barty had always been good at keeping quiet and watching, and there was no tell what he might have made of the werewolf in front of him. It was with prickling self-awareness that Greyback took a step back, as if the measly distance could remove him from the disgraced Crouch son's scrutiny entirely.

"Our Dark Lord didn't treat me like a dirty secret, did he?" Barty replied with a curious lilt. His face was expressionless now, his previously white-knuckled hands loose by his sides. His mercurial nature was unsettling to Greyback, who couldn't make sense of the dangerous teetering between madness and careful self-possession. "He favored me with the Dark Mark, but you never got one, did you? Filthy half-breed."

Greyback gave an angry growl of warning but didn't lunge closer. "You always called yourself his most faithful, but it's easy to make such a claim when you've spent the better part of two decades either hidden away or pretending to be someone else," he said.

Barty blinked. He looked down the long line of his nose at the werewolf, sharp chin raising, and as if coming to some private conclusion, then shrugged and simply turned away. He retreated back under the cover of the crumpled traveling cloak on the low bench against the wall with a dismissive air that Greyback hated—he had always been dismissed. Never given the respect he deserved, werewolf affliction aside. "You wouldn't have seen me at all if I hadn't called for you," Barty sing-songed to Greyback, the words tossed over his shoulder as if carelessly discarded. "I only came out to see if it was really you. So many filthy half-breeds teeming around the Inner Circle, all vying for our Lord's favor…you're all interchangeable, really."

"Our Dark Lord is gone," Greyback warned darkly. He stepped closer to the bars separating their cells, now lulled to security by the sight of the Crouch son situating his long limbs under the traveling cloak, artfully covering himself as if it were just a pile of cloth and not hiding a dangerous mage. "There's nothing but Hell Itself left now, Barty. Will this be your first round with the Crechaire? You don't know what you're in for now that they've finally captured you. I'm almost surprised that you managed to stay gone for as long as you did." Greyback took care to ignore Barty's taunts about his lupine nature. He couldn't get his teeth on him, anyway, even if he took the words to heart. Not with the bars in the way.

Barty didn't answer him, now hidden from view. Despite his height, the wizard was slight enough to fold in such a way that the large cloak looked simply ruffled, abandoned. Greyback shifted angrily and pressed closer, his curiosity—and maybe jealousy—getting the better of him. Greyback had been one of the unlucky who were rounded up and captured right after the end of the Battle of Hogwarts…his more skilled peers had managed to escape, but as reliant on his brutality as he was, his cunning wasn't up to snuff to avoid the unrelenting doggedness of the Order of the Phoenix. "C'mon now, give us a song. How did you do it? How did you escape the Ministry all those years ago? I know you avoided the Dementor's Kiss back in '95 but no one knows how you managed to get away after you were sentenced. There's no one else but me to tell now, is there? How did you do it?"

Barty didn't answer him.

In a rage, Greyback shook the bars of the cell and howled. "Tell me!" he growled, nearly spitting in anger. "Tell me now!"

Junior Auror Dole, sensing the one-sided altercation rising between the two prisoners, cancelled his silencing charm with a smart flick of his wand and called to Greyback in reprimand. "Oi! Get back from the bars or I'll send you to the Grand Crechaire before that numbing potion sets in. Back, dog, back!"

Greyback again whirled to face the auror, sneer on his face. "Do you really think your little potions numb the pain?" he spat.

Dole was tiring of the werewolf. It was against policy, strictly, but Greyback wasn't entirely just a wizard, was he? No one would care what happened to the creature even if he were to mark it properly in the intake report. He pointed his wand lazily—"Stupefy."

Greyback slammed to the floor, immobile and stunned.

Dole sighed. He dearly hoped this would be the last time Greyback would come down to the DMLE holding offices for intake; if only they could get him to stop throwing off the enchantments of the phoenix wardmark they could stop him from brutalizing his fosters. This would be the third time the werewolf had been arrested for further placement after killing his host families.

Why Minister Hammond kept fostering him out instead of sentencing him to death was anybody's guess, but truthfully, Dole wasn't paid enough to care. He hadn't cared much about anything since Emma, in fact.

Somewhere just beyond the slumped body of Fenrir Greyback, Barty Crouch Jr. peered through the folds of the traveling cloak he hid under and stared hard at the werewolf laying in the adjacent cell. Just there, right on the tanned expanse of Greyback's meaty forearm, was the blood-red Light Blight tattoo Rookwood had warned him about the year prior. Barty turned his gaze away from the felled werewolf and rubbed at his own arm, certain he was to be forcibly imprisoned once more.

I can take it, he thought. The Imperius Curse, awful as it was, was almost an old friend after all this time.

Minerva's letter of reply to Hermione's came swiftly. She barely had to wait two hours before a large barn owl, standard Hogwarts owlery issue, came pecking at her sitting room window.

The missive was sealed with maroon wax with the impression of the Gryffindor crest—though Headmistress now, the old witch clearly still held her favorites, even though she had likely given up her post as Head of House. Sharp fondness had nearly brought tears to Hermione's eyes as she peeled lose the folds and devoured the short message printed tidily inside.

Miss Granger,

I expect you at the southern gate of Hogwarts Castle no later than two hours past noon on February 17. We have much to discuss.

Yours,

Headmistress Minerva McGonagall

The letter was everything Hermione had expected it to be—commanding, prim, and to-the-point. The familiarity of McGonagall's sharp demeanor was a balm on her frazzled nerves; so many things had changed, but so many things were still the same. It was a small comfort.

She had four days to prepare, then. Her original message to the Headmistress hadn't included her desire to be brought on as charms instructor, fearful that Minerva might have to gently let her down via post; it shamed her to think it, but Hermione privately hoped that her old Head of House would have a harder time turning her down if they were to meet face to face. It was a Slytherin maneuver and slightly manipulative…but Hermione knew this might be her one shot.

Meeting with Harry the week prior had taught her something valuable; now that Hermione had all but made her reappearance into wizarding England known (for even if Harry didn't tell anyone, the gawkers at the Leaky Cauldron surely would), she had to find herself some sort of protection from the Ministry's influence. Taking up residence under Minerva's care would solve her unemployment and political vulnerability all at once. Past wrongdoing aside, it seemed much less likely that she would be pressured to take a Death Eater ward if she was an active instructor at Hogwarts. Surely they wouldn't let such criminals around the students?

A pipe dream, she knew. But Harry had only mentioned non-marked members of the Dark being sent there for the rebuilding effort…she, Hermione Granger, would most likely be pressured to take one of the higher-profile prisoners. Someone awful and flashy and with a recognizable name, so they could be paraded through the Prophet as an example of forgiveness.

Hogwash, all of it.

Just as Hermione was putting away Minerva's letter and started undressing for a bath, more tapping came from her front window. She hadn't been expecting more post—with her heart leaping into her throat, she considered that this letter might be from Ron.

The eagle owl at her window was severe and didn't care for gentle pets on the head; it didn't peck at her hands, but something in its tawny eyes suggested that it was more the type to lunge for the eyes anyway. Hermione couldn't remember Ron having such an owl, but then again, she had been away for such a long time…so many things could have changed in that timeframe, and perhaps this was evidence of yet another thing she had missed.

Her hands trembled as she untied the letter from the owl. Once free, the owl took off through the window once more—not expecting a reply, then.

Hermione scanned this new letter with hungry eyes. At first pass it was clear it wasn't from Ron; the parchment was too fine and folded too neatly, the black seal much too intricate, and the tight script effortlessly elegant in a way Ron's hand could never produce.

Her anxiety mounted as she reached the crux of the letter.

I look forward to meeting you, Miss Granger.

With regard,

Gregory Hammond, Minister of Magic

The next morning, Hermione found herself sloshing through high grass and sodden earth as she worked her way steadily through the afternoon downpour. The Burrow loomed close on the foggy horizon, the leaning structure of hastily-added levels at once familiar and foreign. She had taken care to stay away from drink the night before so she'd be sober and clear for this next conversation, care that she wished she had taken at Harry's that first visit.

Hermione had seen this coming even if she had hoped otherwise. Damnable emotion, hope—a small spark of it still burned in her chest each time she thought of her old friend and once-lover. Ron Weasley was a splinter that she couldn't seem to remove from underneath her fingernail…a dull pain when she ignored it, sharp and hot when she tried to poke. Five years ago it had been easier to run away than it had been to face her issue with him head-on. Returning to his doorstep felt a little too close to an admission she had been wrong.

She'd been back nearly three weeks and still he hadn't tried to contact her. Surely Harry would have mentioned it? She had returned the Grimmauld Place thrice—though she still hadn't seen Ginny and had only met baby James for a brief moment—so it wasn't farfetched to believe that Harry would mention her at some point. Harry had been reluctant to talk about Ron altogether, but she had chalked it up to him not wanting to gossip, not wanting to "take sides". Privately Harry's stance on the matter infuriated Hermione, but she knew their rekindled friendship was much too fragile to pry.

So here she was. Rainsoaked, irritable, and knocking on the Burrow's door with a curled fist. Ron still hadn't removed the anti-apparition wards or magical suppression spells on the grounds to his parents' old property, a precaution that had been taken in the war but was obsolete now. Hermione hadn't thought to bring a muggle umbrella when she left Cambridges.

A minute passed after her knock, then two. She knocked again, louder. She knew better than to expect Molly or Arthur to answer; they had both died in the final battle, and as far as Hermione was aware, Ron was the only Weasley child who bothered to return to the family home. Bill and Fleur had made permanent residence of Shell Cottage. George, who had been but a shell of a man after Fred's death, had built a flat atop the Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes shop in Diagon Alley. Charlie was still in Romania. Ginny was living at Grimmauld Place with her husband now. All who was left—

—the door finally opened—

—was Ron.

And there he was. Seeing him was a physical blow; he towered over her still, shoulders broad and arms thick, and he had a dusting of red five o' clock shadow over his jaw. Blue eyes the same, but now lined with age. Skin less pale—he had been getting sun. Same freckles, but more, and his hair was closely cropped and neatly parted instead of shaggily falling into his eyes how she remembered. His mouth was neutral slack when the door first opened, but as seconds stretched to eons between them, it seemed to harden with awful recognition. A muscle jumped at his jaw as he gritted his teeth.

Hermione tried to muster a smile. Ron, seemingly angry and stunned to see her all at once, attempted to close the door right in her face without saying a word.

"Wait!" Hermione called, one hand coming out to hold the door open with a firm smack. "Ron, please—I came to talk to you."

Ron could have easily shut the door despite Hermione's barrier hand, but he didn't. She chose to see that as a good sign. "I don't have anything to say to you," he said. His voice had her shivering; lower than she remembered, flat, but the same. So achingly the same that it brought tears to her eyes.

She sucked at her bottom lip and fought for something to say. She was so tired of fighting. So tired of forcing people to see her, remember her. She removed her hand from the door and stepped back. Her eyes couldn't find his face again, and hideously, she was aware her embarrassment was shining scarlet on her cheeks. She roughly brushed her damp hair back from her face and forced a laugh. Unnatural. High. "You're right. I'm sorry. I should have taken your lack of post as sign enough that you didn't want to speak."

Hermione had begun to turn away when Ron wrenched the door wide open. He stepped outside to the stoop and made to grab her arm, but didn't, instead curling his jerking hand into a hard fist. She spun to face him and saw him angrier than he had ever been, teeth bared and shaking. "My lack of post? Hermione Granger, I wrote every month for five bloody years. You don't get to come to my door after all this time and accuse me of not trying."

Hermione hadn't been talking about the still-unopened stack of letters she had kept back in her flat, untouched. They were a relic from her time in Melbourne that she couldn't bring herself to get rid of, but she couldn't force herself to read them, either. "That's not what I meant! I've been back for three weeks and you still haven't tried to come see me!" she shouted back.

Ron crossed his arms and let out a humorless laugh, rocking back on his heels and turning his gaze skyward. The rain, a mere drizzle now, was beginning to dot at the pale fabric of his trousers and bring a subtle curl to the ends of his hair. "Right, right. I've forgotten that you're incapable of making the first move. You're really still like this? Incapable of change, always repeating the same patterns? Always expecting the first apology, first contact?"

Hermione swallowed hard to prevent herself from rising to the oncoming argument. Ron had always been this way—always able to get under her skin, rouse her, make her furious. "I didn't come here to fight," she tried, biting the words out through gritted teeth.

"So why are you here? Do you even know what day it is?"

Hermione threw up her hands in frustration. "Why should the day matter? I came here to talk. Same as I did with Harry. There's a lot of time between who we were then and who we are now…I just miss you." The admission had left her lips before she could think to swallow it back.

Ron laughed again. "You never fail to surprise me. You truly don't know what day it is. This is rich."

Hermione was about to spit out more words she'd regret when Ron stepped back inside of the Burrow and held the door open. He made a mocking sweep of his large hand and said, "In that case, come on in and let me remind you."

Hermione's mouth snapped shut, angry words extinguished for now. She could do nothing but follow.

The half-eaten heart-shaped tart on the kitchen table was the first clue, and the pink gift bag surrounded with crumpled red tissue paper was the second. Lavender Brown, the final and third clue, was in the kitchen admiring her new necklace in her reflection of a conjured looking glass when Ron hauled Hermione inside and planted her by the table.

Valentine's Day. Hermione Granger had turned up at Ron's home on Valentine's Day, and now that she was actually paying attention, she could see evidence of it everywhere. The hickey still red on the side of Ron's neck. The jumper he wore, bright white with garish red hearts, obviously hand-knitted, probably a present from Lavender. Lavender Brown herself, bright-eyed and happy, turning to Ron with a beatific smile as he reentered the kitchen. "Who was at the door?" she asked him happily. The blonde hadn't spied Hermione yet, eyes still shining at Ron, and when they finally noticed her they went wide, her mouth dropping.

Ron clapped his hands together once, the loud smack echoing in the kitchen like a thunderclap. Outside, as if the sound had summoned it, the rain redoubled its efforts to drown the Burrow in torrential downpour. If not for the lights the kitchen would be completely taken by shadow, no afternoon light to relieve it. "So, introductions. Lav, this is Hermione, I'm sure you remember. Hermione, this is Lavender. Who you also remember. My fiancée."

The words passed over Hermione in a wave. Nausea claimed her stomach. She had to say something, anything to dispel the awkwardness she'd dragged in from their front stoop. Hermione keenly regretted her decision to come instead of write, instead of read Ron's monthly letters, so she said, "Lavender, I'm so—"

Lavender didn't let her finish. The blonde banished the mirror with a flick of her long, slender wand and hurried to the table, pulling out a chair and summoning a saucer. "Hermione, yes! Of course I remember. Do come in—Happy Valentine's Day love, come get some tart."

Hermione knew better than to argue. Numbly and still staring, she dropped into Lavender's proffered chair with an artless plop.

One of these days she would learn to expect the unexpected. Not today.

A/N: Here we have it...Hermione, as always, is struggling to find herself a place in the wizarding world. We see a pinch of Greyback, a little of Barty, and the barest suggestion of Ron. Next up, world's most uncomfortable conversation! When I set out to write this story I had an idea to write absolutely filthy, nasty smut between Hermione/Antonin/Barty. As we can see, I am incapable of writing anything that isn't an excruciating slow burn. Gotta get those good feelings of hatred and self-loathing out for Hermione.

Quick note: the word "Crechaire" is a medieval Gaelic word for "tattooist". Someone very specific is applying the Light Blights to the Death Eaters and I'm very excited to share who...

Thanks again to everyone who has read, reviewed, and favorited; I'm very grateful and hope you continue to interact 3