Three days…

She had almost come to terms with the loss of her magic, but her career?

Who would she be without a reason to get out of bed in the morning?

Hermione watched tendrils of steam rise from the mug and set the Ever-Heating pot back down on the break room counter. She pulled out the little plastic case out of her robe pocket. The screen remained stubbornly blank. Still no word from Dr. Metzker.

Breathe, she reminded herself as her stomach clenched uncomfortably.

All around her on the walls, moving pictures of the faces of former Death Eaters grimaced and snarled at her. Everyone in the Ministry had memorized the faces of those that had gone into hiding after the war, who had not yet stood before the Wizengamot for their crimes. Everyone was tasked with reporting them if they ever caught sight of them.

Ron had been on several of these recovery missions. He'd gotten whisked back to St. Mungo's for treatment of wounds and curses more times than Hermione had over the last year. At least they released him with a strengthening potion or a Fast Heal, never questioning his sanity or quelling his hope for a full recovery.

She sipped her tea and pondered the posters on the walls. In between the wanted posters were handmade notices put up by Ministry employees with pictures of their family members and friends. On closer look, Hermione realized she had met a few of these people in passing. One was a Squib who she'd seen around with Neville a few weeks ago. "Emilia Greaves last seen on Berkshire Lane", the caption read. These wizards and witches were asking for answers while the Ministry stood by and did what it did best: nothing.

THESE were the people Hermione had vowed to help. THIS was what she needed to make the Ministry take notice of, and her boss wanted to shut it all down and toe the Ministry line. Ironic, since the Minister put her there to do the exact opposite of adhering to their current policies.

"Convince Gringus Alabastor that the change is necessary, and you will have your case presented to the Wizengamot." Those were the terms under which the Minister of Magic had given her this position. But what was going to happen if Gringus Alabastor decided that Hermione Granger was no longer convincing? Would the Minister allow him to sack her?

She'd resigned herself to the fact that the pixies would not have their day anytime soon, but these people needed someone to stand up for them. For this, she had to keep her job and keep fighting. Gringus Alabastor was not going to turn their department back into a self-serving bureaucracy that turned a blind eye to the suffering of people they deemed insignificant.

Hermione took a tentative sip of her tea, and thankfully, her stomach gurgled into submission. A few minutes later, the caffeine kicked in and masked the sickly sensations she'd been fighting off all morning.

Her boss had been throwing around a new slogan for their department: "Make the wizarding world a safer place." Safer for whom? Safe wasn't necessarily fair. Certainly not for these missing people. She knew firsthand how the Auror Department operated, and sometimes it wasn't fair, but they were trying to do the right thing. What was Gringus Alabastor trying to do?

"Look," Henry said, walking into the breakroom. He looked like he'd kicked a puppy. An entire litter of them. "If you didn't… after yesterday, we thought you might have moved on, and… well, I can't be Hermione Granger's magic wand forever, yeah?"

She nodded with a tight smile. Hermione had seen Henry's CV come across her boss's desk the day before they had hired him. He had brilliant marks, and his spell-casting skills were full of finesse and grace. If she hadn't known any better, she'd have thought he would have wanted to go into some kind of performance magic, but those jobs weren't so available in a post-war economy. While her job was the only thing holding her together, Henry's job was the only thing holding his family together. He needed this job like he needed food and water, and his two aunts and ailing mother depended on him to provide for their livelihood. The war had been cruel to a lot of people, and Hermione would not allow herself to dish out more cruelty to a bloke who had already had his share.

But she needed this job, too. What was she going to do now?

The answer flew straight into her tea, in the shape of an airplane memo. Hermione snatched it out of the dark liquid and unfolded it before the tea could make the ink run, revealing a narrow, hurried script. Her appointment request had been granted. Today. 11:30AM in a part of London she'd never been before.

"I got the appointment," she said to Henry. "Have you heard of this place?" She held out the memo to Henry.

"Yes, but Gringus said not to take you anywhere today. He's supposed to be out all day at meetings, but if he comes back and sees that I'm gone… I can't…" He looked almost sick from saying no.

"You're right. This is about proving that I can still do my job, right?"

Henry nodded, looking like he'd gotten a splinter stuck under his nail and was worrying it away by wringing his hands together. He was a good guy. Helpful and kind, and passionate about helping the people that had come through their door over the past year.

Hermione pursed her lips. "Do you think you could get me directions, at least?"

Henry's pained expression worsened, as if all his fingers had suddenly acquired splinters, and his hands had turned into useless, wrung out appendages. "I'm sorry. I can't…"

Hermione knew that look. She had it every day in front of the mirror before she went to work. This job might be the only thing keeping her sane, but it was the only thing keeping Henry afloat too.

"Never mind. I'll handle it." Now all she had to do was figure out how to get across town in an hour. Hermione set her mug in the sink. When she made a move to go back to her office, Henry put a hand on her arm.

"I truly wish I could help more. But…"

She sighed. "I know. I don't blame you for wanting to keep your job."

"Take the stairs," he said gently. "The lift gets cranky this time of the morning."

"I've got this, Henry," she said, trying to make the worry stop its mean tango dancing all over his face. "I can find my way."