The same man who had shoved Hermione aside two days before was just getting settled in at the Ministry information desk. Hermione's lips pursed by themselves as she walked up. "Excuse me."
He looked up to greet her, and the prescribed smile fell from his lips.
"Are you going to shove me around today?" Hermione asked.
"N-no. No, ma'am!" He leaped to his feet. "I'm so sorry about the other night, ma'am. I thought you were—"
"You thought I was someone it was all right to shove around. If you've changed your mind since then, can you please direct me to the Werewolf Registration Office? For research purposes only." She said the last sentence loudly enough to be heard across the atrium, and several people turned around.
"Here, I'll show you," he said, stepping around the desk.
"No, thank you. Directions will be fine."
He paused, not sure whether to continue around the desk or take his seat again. "It's on Level 4. Right-hand hall, 7th door on the right."
"Right-hand hall," Hermione repeated. "That would be in the 'Beasts' division."
"That's right, Ma'am."
"Doesn't that strike you as odd? Sending people down to the Beasts division to register themselves?"
The young clerk chewed on his lip, trying to figure out what to say without setting her off. "It's been that way since before I started working here, Ma'am."
"But doesn't that strike you as wrong?"
"I… I'm just the Info Desk guy, ma'am. I don't think it's my place to question it."
"That's the problem, isn't it? No one does." Hermione walked off before he could say anything else.
The lift took her to Level 4, and she once again turned down the hall marked "Magical Beasts". As she counted doors, she noted the departments she was passing. "Hippogryph Registration", "Pest Removal", "Pet Disillusionment." She felt insulted walking past these; how must an actual werewolf feel?
The seventh office was the last before a corner and across from the Werewolf Support Services Office. Today a sign hung on the Support Services door reading "In consultation. Estimated time remaining" with a picture of a stopwatch underneath. As she was about to turn into the Registration Office, she realized she might want to stop in there afterwards. She turned back to look at the stopwatch, and was at the right angle to see down the adjoining hall and into the Werewolf Capture Unit, as the sign above it proudly proclaimed. Six or seven desks were arranged inside, as well as an office on the back wall. The Hunters were still dressed in dragon hide, despite the full moon being two days before. The department even had a receptionist.
Imagine walking out after registering yourself and looking straight into a department of people hired to hunt you if you step out of line. It was like if the Death Eaters had a department of Snatchers when they took over. A shiver ran up Hermione's spine. What exactly had the Werewolf Capture Unit been reassigned to during the war?
"Are you lost, Love?" asked the woman inside the registration office, looking up from the book she was reading.
"No, I'm in the right place," Hermione said, stepping inside.
"Well, have a seat. Are you registering or checking?"
"Doing research, I hope." She sat down at a table beside the wall as the woman reached up to a shelf and pulled down a binder. A tri-fold piece of paper fluttered out of it and landed at Hermione's feet. "What's this?" she asked, picking it up. The title on the front was "Advice for the Newly Furry: A Brief Introduction to Life As A Werewolf."
"Looks like one of those W.A.G. pamphlets. The last person to register must have left it. I can throw that away."
Hermione flipped it over; on the back was written, "Werewolf Advocacy Group. If you need to talk to another werewolf, come by any time, day or night. Owen Milburn" and then an address. "Can I keep it?"
"No fur off my tail, as my clients say." The woman set the binder in front of Hermione. "Here are the current entries. If you need anything historical, let me know who and I'll pull it out for you. It only goes back four or five years, though. Everything earlier was destroyed during the war."
With a thank you, Hermione opened the binder. The first entry was for Nicole Adams, and the middle-aged woman in the photo sat with her head down and her shoulders hunched, looking around like she expected someone to hit her. Laid around the photo was an orderly form filled in with the bizarrely neat handwriting only produced by a self-writing quill—or possibly Dolores Umbridge, but she had died in Azkaban. Name. Date of Birth. Date of Infection. Source of Infection, which was listed as "Unknown". Bite record: none.
Home address? Was Hermione actually seeing that? Work address?! "Um, Ma'am, don't you need to see my ID or something before you let me look at this?"
The woman looked up from her book again and stared at her blankly. "Why would I need that?"
"Don't you need to make sure I have a legitimate reason to see this information?"
"Why wouldn't you?"
"Why wouldn't I?" Hermione echoed. "There's all sorts of private information in here, including addresses! Why would I need to see that?"
"A person has a right to know if they live near a werewolf."
"But you didn't ask for my address. You just plunked this down in front of me."
"Oh, I'm sorry. What is your address? I can use a sorting spell to see if anything's nearby."
"I'm not here to see if any werewolves live near me!"
"Then what's the problem?" the woman asked.
"The problem is that you put a ton of private information in front of me without so much as asking why I wanted it!"
"Why do you want it? I'm sure we can find whatever you're looking for."
"That's not the point!" Hermione said. "My point is I… I could be a serial killer looking for lycanthropic victims, for all you know."
The woman giggled. "You aren't, are you?"
"Of course I'm not, but that's not the point! You don't know!"
The woman steepled her fingers in front of her lips. "Love, you're obviously flustered. I can understand where that's a lot of information in a go. What are you looking for? I'll help you find it."
Hermione opened her mouth to explain the problem again, but a tiny voice in the back of her head advised, get the information you want first, then rant. "Could you sort it by date of infection?"
"Of course." The woman stepped to the table, closed the binder, and tapped it with her wand as she ordered "Dispono Date of Infection". She opened it again, and this time the first entry was for Nona Ashland, Date of Infection: 23 August, 1919. "There you are."
As the woman went back to her book, Hermione pulled out her notebook and quill and started copying information, pointedly ignoring the addresses. If someone wanted to be found, an owl would find them. When she finished, she counted the ones bitten in the 1960s, and found only 6 of the 71 total were. Hadn't Razvan said there were 100 cases by 1970? "Excuse me, ma'am. Are there a lot of werewolves not registered?"
"Not as many as there used to be. The amnesty we had a few years back helped a lot. The Hunters think there's maybe two dozen they're after, and I'd guess that many again are too afraid to register but keep their noses clean. It'll probably go up next year when they have to pay for an update."
"I don't understand. I was told nearly 100 people were bitten in the '60s."
"They may have been," the woman said gently, "but most werewolves just don't live 30 or 40 years after being bitten."
"What?"
"I'm sorry. That's just how it is."
That couldn't be right. Hermione cast an Arithmancy spell on the list, and beside each name appeared how long they had been infected, with the average written at the end: 17 years. Seventeen? Hermione sorted the list by length of infection. Nona Ashland was the longest, at 83 years, but Remus Lupin was second with 38.
"Are you all right, Love?"
"What causes that, do you know?"
"All sorts of things. Lycanthropy is a rather serious disease. There are complications sometimes. Sometimes people don't eat enough, and it makes them sicker. Do something dodgy and get sent to Azkaban, or fight arrest and the Hunters win. Or there are poachers."
"Poachers?" Hermione repeated.
The woman nodded. "Potion ingredients are supposed to come voluntarily from the human form, but…" She shrugged awkwardly. "Wolf form is more potent, or so I'm told. And there's sick people out there who want pelts. That's why I always tell people to come here for their transformation. I know the Isolation Center isn't the nicest place, but it is safe. No one's going to get to them with the Hunters right there."
Hermione put her hand to her mouth. Was that really the choice werewolves had to make? Risk poachers, or go in those awful boxes?
"Were you looking for someone in particular, Love?"
"No. I'm just trying to understand some things." She closed the binder and stood up. "Thank you very much for your help."
"My pleasure. Have a good day, Love."
Hermione stepped into the hall, where the Werewolf Capture Unit was again staring her in the face. The "In Consultation" sign was still on the Werewolf Support Services office, although the stopwatch was closer to zero. She leaned against the wall and slid to a seat, looking at the list in her notebook. Seventeen years…
Then she noticed something else on the list. Wrinkling her brow, she sorted by source of infection. Fenrir Greyback was listed for 37 entries, more than half! That couldn't be right, could it? During the war, Remus said that Greyback planned his bites, but could it really be that many? More importantly, could it be that many of the survivors, if so many werewolves had died? That couldn't be right. Even if it wasn't, though, so many people blaming him was an important point for her research. Maybe there was somewhere she could find out.
Hermione stood, brushed herself off, and took the lift to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She made her way through the various hallways and cubicles towards Harry's desk, but before she got there, she heard Tonks say, "Leanna climbed right over the baby gate and bounced all the way down the stairs and all over the living room like a Superball before we caught her. She thought it was great fun, but Remus is a neurotic mess about it."
"Does he have any other setting?" Was that Roma Darcy's voice?
"Yes, if you get him drunk enough," Tonks answered. "I honestly don't know what that girl is going to do next."
"I do. If you have any bookcases, she'll be going up those."
"Oh no! I think you're right! You know, Teddy was never like that at her age. She's going to give me grey hairs."
Roma burst out laughing just before Hermione turned the corner. Tonks was sitting at her desk and had transformed herself into a hag, although her arm gave her away. She'd lost her right arm almost to the shoulder in the Battle of Hogwarts, and her wooden prothetic looked like it belonged on a ball-jointed doll or a marionette.
"Oh, wotcher, Hermione," Tonks said, returning to her usual form. Her hair was bright green today and short, sticking up like blades of grass. She waved, but accidentally hit herself with one of her wooden fingers and gave a small 'ouch'.
"New arm causing you trouble?" Roma asked.
"No, I'm just a huge klutz. The arm's absolutely brilliant. I can actually feel things with it, believe it or not."
"You two know each other?" Hermione asked.
"Mr. and Mrs. Lupin have helped me wrangle my kids after transformation a few times," Roma said. "Speaking of, I heard you had a bit of culture shock the other night."
"Yes, Hermione, how are you?" Tonks asked.
"I'm fine, really."
"Mad enough to spit Sickles, I imagine," Roma said.
"I can't believe how the Hunters acted!" Hermione said. "Madam Darcy, I hope you and your family weren't hurt because I was in there."
"We weren't there. I'd go feral again before I'd go into one of The Boxes."
"I thought other places weren't safe."
"And the Isolation Center is?"
"I swear every time Remus goes in there without his potion, he comes out with a dislocated shoulder," Tonks said.
"Aren't you worried about poachers?" Hermione asked.
Roma shook her head. "It's more common for poachers to pretend to be Healers and go after lapdogs with fake cures."
"I've heard of a poacher going to an approved location and picking someone off twice in my career," Tonks said. "Both times, a few weeks later we found a body that had gone through a gang hexing, and nearby was the message 'these wolves bite back.'"
"The goblin mafia's packs," Roma said knowingly. "I give them a wide berth, but they do a good job of cleaning up what the Ministry won't. No, Miss Granger, I don't worry about poachers when I transform, and I'm certainly not going into The Boxes to avoid them."
"How do you find out about those other places you can go?" Hermione asked.
"Word of mouth, mostly."
"Technically, the Ministry keeps a list of approved transformation locations," Tonks said.
"They don't let anyone see it, though."
"They don't let werewolves see the list of places you're allowed to transform?" Hermione asked. Both Roma and Tonks shook their heads. "That's insane!"
"That's the Ministry all over, isn't it?" Roma asked. She cocked her head toward the hallway, and a second later, Harry walked up with some manila folders.
"Here are those case files you asked for, Madam Darcy," he said.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Potter."
"Are those to help you find Niddy?" Hermione asked.
"Oh, I already found him. It's in the hands of the solicitors now."
"Let me guess: Violet Macnair," Tonks said. Roma nodded. "Did she use Imperius?"
"Certainly looks that way."
"Ugh! Just get me the evidence, and I'll drag that little hag in by her hair. She can have the cell right next to her father if she misses him so bad."
"You won't get her that way," Harry said. "House-elves were reclassified as Beasts last year. Right, Hermione?
"I'm afraid so. And it's not illegal to cast an Unforgiveable on an animal."
Tonks made another sound of annoyance deep in her throat and said to Harry, "I bet we get another Azkaban escape attempt soon."
"I don't think Macnair's in a state to escape," Harry said.
"He's not dead. That's a state to escape."
Roma cleared her throat. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Potter, Mrs. Lupin, Miss Granger." She nodded to each of them and left.
"Well, it's above my paygrade," Tonks muttered. She leaned over and touched Hermione's arm. "If you don't need me, I'm going to warn Remus that Lee-Lee will be going up the bookcases next."
"Hi, Hermione. What's up?" Harry asked as Tonks followed Roma towards the lifts.
"I was hoping you could help me with my next research project. Could I get a copy of Fenrir Greyback's criminal record?"
"What in the world are you researching that needs that?"
"I haven't really narrowed it down yet. I want to understand more about werewolves, and I think he's going to figure in. See?" She showed him the list she'd copied from the Werewolf Registry.
Harry looked at her scars pointedly. "Hermione, you know dragging him back up is a terrible idea, right?"
"Like you've never had a terrible idea in your life. Please? It's really important to me."
Harry sighed. "Give me a few days, and I'll see what I can do."
"Thanks, Harry. I owe you one."
"You owe me six, but who's counting?"