Chapter 11: Hermione

It Seems Very Pretty

"'It seems very pretty,' she said when she had finished it, 'but it's rather hard to understand!' (You see, she didn't like to confess, even to herself, that she couldn't make it out at all.) 'Somehow it seems to fill my head with ideas – only I don't know exactly what they are!'" — Lewis Carrol, Through the Looking Glass

Sunday, April 15, 2007
Tonks House

Drs. Wendell and Monika Wilkins of Sydney, New South Wales, knew they had formerly been Drs. Walter and Helen Granger of Hampstead, London, but they never returned to those identities. When the difficult, confusing, and painful process of reconciling their current and former lives had been complete, they decided they preferred Australia's more laidback lifestyle and temperate climate. And so, their twenty-year-old daughter, whom they had briefly forgotten, brokered the sale of her childhood home, and Wendell and Monika Wilkins bought a high-rise flat with views of Watsons Bay.

And when Hermione Granger felt homesick, she retreated to the closest place that reminded her of her now-lost childhood home.

The home of Andromeda Tonks and Teddy Lupin was special.

Since discovering she was a witch, Hermione Granger had stayed in a number of truly magical homes, including Hogwarts Castle, the Burrow, a flat in Diagon Alley, and, of course, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. But Tonks House was unique for the reason that it was not unique at all. It was completely mundane.

Yes, what made the house truly magical—in a metaphorical sense—was that it was not. It was a Muggle house in a Muggle neighborhood, and the only indication that wizards lived there was that one could access the perfectly ordinary living room via Floo.

The kitchen had a gas stove and an automatic dishwasher. According to Andromeda, the dishwasher had never once functioned in all the time they had lived there, but its presence was delightful all the same. In the sunroom at the back of the ground floor, there was a pair of white-washed wicker rocking chairs with yellow floral cushions, and Hermione always lingered around them on her visits. They were the same wicker rocking chairs that her parents liked sitting in during summer afternoons at Hermione's childhood home. They had probably come from a chain department store.

Suffice it to say that Tonks House felt like home.

When Hermione began visiting Andromeda and Teddy regularly in the years after she had finished her NEWTs, she often told them about how wonderful the home made her feel and hinted at her surprise that Andromeda Tonks, born to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, used a rubber garden hose to water the azalea bushes lining the driveway.

"Ted loved this neighborhood," she had said wistfully. "His parents gave us money for the down payment when we were married. I, of course, had nothing. I had Ted, though," she smiled, "and then I had this house. I won't ever live anywhere else."

On the Sunday of Teddy Lupin's ninth birthday party, Hermione sat with her legs dangling on the back porch railing of Tonks House, delightfully watching as three-year-old Roxanne, five-year-old Dominique, and eight-year-old Victoire surrounded the birthday boy on the lawn. Infant Molly babbled in her mother's lap nearby. A pregnant Fleur elegantly perched on a blanket next to them with a wide-brimmed straw hat shading her face from the sun. Roxie, Dominique, and Victoire ran around picking up various objects, including flowers, blades of grass, sticks, dirt, and baby Molly's pink pacifier. She laughed excitedly as Teddy changed his hair color to match.

Meanwhile, under the big oak tree, a group of full-grown adults played the most childish game of exploding snap Hermione had ever witnessed. Harry, Ron, Angelina, Bill, and Percy teamed up against a solo George, though Arthur stood behind him and let out a "woo!" of appreciation occasionally. Based on the flush of Ron's cheeks, Hermione suspected that George was winning.

Lavender was missing. Ron told them she was inspired by something and working hard at their flat. After lunch, he pulled Hermione aside and confessed that it was Hermione's outfit for the Victory Ball. "She's mad about it," he had whispered frantically. "Consumed."

"Will there even be a ball, now?" Hermione asked, eyes wide.

Ron nodded. "Yes, she personally confirmed it with Shacklebolt's undersecretary. She's mad,

Mione! And you'll come for a fitting next Saturday, no excuses." He clutched her shoulders.

Hermione agreed, but she was alarmed. She reminded herself that this was not for her. It was for Lavender. Doing this would make her best friend's wife and old schoolmate happy, and if she had to spend a single evening in an outlandish set of robes, well … she could swallow her pride and do it.

In the distance, Ron yelled, "It's not fair! He only has one ear! The explosions don't bother him!"

"Very sensitive of you, Ronnie-kins. I could cut yours off if you want to make it even," retorted George. Hermione chuckled under her breath.

Behind her, Hermione could hear the clanging of dishes in the kitchen as Molly and Andromeda washed up after their lunch. They declined her offer to help, so Hermione came out and, not feeling up to exploding snap or conversation, found her elevated perch. Teddy was growing up so fast, and as she watched him humor his young friends, her heart ached. It reminded her of Professor Lupin indulging her excessive questions on hinkypunks leading up to their defense final in third year.

A hand touched Hermione's right shoulder, and she jumped but smiled when she saw Andromeda with two glasses of lemonade next to her. She swung one leg over the rail and leaned back against a post as she accepted a glass with a thank you.

"Teddy is a good sport," said Hermione before siping. It was delightfully sweet, with large ice cubes and lemon wedges floating inside.

"He is such a sweetheart," Andromeda agreed with a smile as she looked out over the lawn. I promised him if he could manage today with the young ones, we'll have an outing to a football match with the neighbor's kids next week. Triplets," she sighed exasperatedly. "Two boys and a girl, Merlin help me. But it'll be good for their mum to have a night off, I think."

Hermione nodded and smiled.

"How are you doing, dear? You're quiet today." Andromeda's wide eyes looked at her in concern. Her light brown hair flowed down to her shoulders in gentle waves, and her beautiful long-sleeved yellow sundress made Hermione feel under-dressed in her denims and white blouse.

Hermione let out a breath and responded. "It's been a rotten couple of weeks."

Hermione, Octavia, and Geraldine had been in near-constant meetings with French ministry officials, Wizengamot members, Kingsley's staff, and the Department for International Magical Cooperation, not to mention long Floo calls with their counterparts across European ministries. And they had nothing to show for it. Hermione knew Octavia believed in the rights of werewolves as human beings, but in the face of angry warlocks with frightened families, she capitulated too much for Hermione's liking.

Officially, the Remus Lupin Bill was postponed indefinitely. Octavia assured her that this was a good thing and that the delay would allow the political situation to calm down and for people to regain their sense of justice and morality. Of course, when the French magical police caught the attackers, it would greatly ease everyone's worries, and they could continue on with their advocacy mostly unchanged.

Except the French magical police had not caught the werewolf attackers. No one had, and there were no leads. The French Ministry had reviewed memories of witnesses to the attack, and no one could identify any of the wolves, despite a decades-old law that required French people with lycanthropy to have their appearance recorded in ministry records by submitting to an observed transformation for one full moon.

It seemed as though everyone was just waiting to see what would happen—if any other attacks would occur at the next full moon. Not a single member of the Wizengamot would listen when Hermione brought up Wolfsbane. Her calls for greater investments in the potion fell on deaf ears, as did her suggestion to bring Joseph Dearborn and his pack members to speak on their behalf. It made her angry. Livid.

With the bill postponed and negotiations at a standstill, Octavia considered sending Hermione to help with the Pest Advisory Board, a group of three middle-aged wizards who were notoriously bad at filling out paperwork. "You can instill some good sense and organization into them," Octavia told her brightly. Hermione thought it was more likely that she would be their secretary in addition to her other duties overseeing half the department.

Meanwhile, all of the owls Hermione had sent out to greenhouses, apothecaries, and wildlife refuges with inquiries on aconite returned with negative replies. Harry assured her that he "had a contact" who would help but wouldn't be specific about it. He only revealed scant details: "I met him at a conference," and, "Er…he's French."

Hermione loved Harry, but she did not have faith.

Just that morning, Hermione checked her Muggle cell phone and heard a message from Philip Goodwin saying that he and his mother would take the Wolfsbane potion on a trial basis. He didn't mention whether his father knew of their plan, but Hermione doubted they had informed him. Hermione was genuinely delighted that they were willing to open themselves up to the potion—medicine, as she always emphasized—but now she was in a spot where she needed to procure at least two doses within two weeks. She had no idea where to turn, and even if she felt confident in brewing it herself, she didn't have any aconite or time.

Pulling herself from her reveries, Hermione gave Andromeda a wary look. "It's been a very rotten couple of weeks."

Andromeda rubbed Hermione's shoulder warmly. "I heard. It's a bad business." Her face hardened for a moment. "People forget that werewolves can be heroes, too. I'm trying to protect Teddy from the rubbish in the newspapers, but I think he knows what's going on. He keeps asking to see photographs of Remus."

"If Teddy ever wants to talk about his father with someone, I'd be happy to tell him all about what an incredible person Professor Lupin was," Hermione said.

"Thank you," replied Andromeda, who looked out over the lawn again. "Harry has been such a help. He's here twice a week and more, sometimes, to play with Teddy, and I know he speaks about Remus and Nymphadora."

Across the way, Hermione spotted Harry making a quick snatch, narrowly escaping an explosion of purple dust with his Seeker's reflexes. Ron was shouting in support.

"And then, well," Andromeda continued, "I never expected this of Draco, but his statement in the Prophet yesterday moved me."

Hermione startled. "…Draco Malfoy gave a statement to the Prophet?"

Andromeda nodded, her face inscrutable. "A short one, but he wrote that werewolves should not be judged by their worst example. I'm not very close with him, but I wonder if he was standing up to Lucius, in his own way, and all the fear and hate he has been writing."

Hermione said nothing, still processing the idea that Malfoy felt anything even slightly pro-werewolf, much less published it in a newspaper. She had been at the Ministry all day yesterday and hadn't had a moment to read the paper. In fact, she had been avoiding the press for a few days, finding the articles egregiously sensational and discouraging. She wondered whether Andromeda had a copy nearby.

"I invited him here, actually," said Andromeda.

"Here?" Hermione gaped.

Andromeda chuckled. "Don't look so scared. He declined, of course, but I still take the time to ask him for tea now and again. He never accepts unless Narcissa is in town, though, so I haven't seen him since the fall."

"Huh," mused Hermione. At Andromeda's questioning look, she elaborated, "I suppose I assumed you and Mrs. Malfoy were still estranged."

"We're not as close as we once were, certainly, but Narcissa feels freer after Voldemort's true death," Andromeda said. "And I am trying to hold on to whatever family I have." She smiled. "That includes you, by the way. Feel free to come by whenever it suits you."

"I will," Hermione said gladly, temporarily putting aside all thoughts of searching for the Prophet.

"Oi! Mione!" Ron called. "Come over here and referee, would you? George is cheating, I'm sure of it!"

Andromeda laughed, "It's getting heated, you'd better help out."

Hermione rolled her eyes and hopped off the railing. "It's not customary to referee a board game, Ronald," she called back and started walking over.

Later that afternoon—
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Grimmauld Place

When the party had dispersed, and Harry and Hermione returned to Grimmauld Place, she fished in the pile of papers they left in the kitchen with the post for yesterday's Prophet. Part of her still didn't believe that what Andromeda said was true, but when she found the paper and flipped it below the fold, the headline LORD DRACO MALFOY SPEAKS OUT screamed at her in black ink.

She sped through the words, incredulous. Then, she read the statement again.

Not inherently monsters?

Protecting their rights as human beings?

Who had written this statement? Hermione had a hard time believing it was Draco Malfoy unless someone possessed his body or was playing a terrible—wonderful—prank on the smug-faced wanker.

"Harry," Hermione called out. She momentarily looked around the empty kitchen before flitting up to the next landing. "Harry!"

She heard rustling up on the bedroom level and continued upward. "Yeah?" Harry called back distantly from his room.

Hermione reached his door and huffed in exertion. "Harry," she said. He was sorting through some Auror files on the floor of his bedroom, which were only visible today because of the tremendous daily efforts of Kreacher.

"Hi," he replied absentmindedly.

"Did you see this?" Hermione asked, holding out the paper in her hand.

"Er, see what?"

"This," Hermione emphasized, pointing to the article in question. "A statement from Lord Draco Malfoy in yesterday's Prophet."

Harry quirked his head and stood up from the ground, "From who?" He took the paper and read, eyes pinballing in their sockets. "The fuck," he murmured. "Huh, good for him."

"Why would Malfoy write this?" Hermione wondered aloud.

Harry looked up from the Prophet and flushed. Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"Er, well, he probably—I mean, I have no idea. Why would I know what goes through Malfoy's head?" He looked down at the paper and up at Hermione again. "Is this…good for you?"

Hermione crossed her arms. "It is precisely the attitude I have been trying to convince all of magical Europe to adopt all month. I just never expected my most vocal ally to be Malfoy, of all people."

Harry hummed, looking back down. "Odd."

"You haven't spoken to him since that day in your office, have you?" Hermione asked. She realized that despite her several recent encounters with Malfoy, she had no idea what he did in his life, aside from spending time with Nott and perhaps collecting expensive potion ingredients.

"I … haven't seen him in my office since then," Harry nodded slowly, brows furrowing. "Maybe he cares about werewolves?"

Hermione's laugh escaped her like a bark. "Sure," she said skeptically. "Or maybe he fought with his father, lost a bet with his suspicious friends, or was possessed. He could be dead for all we know! I am more willing to believe that, honestly."

Harry nodded again. "Those seem more likely." He let the paper drop onto the pile of papers on the floor before him.

Suddenly, a fat orange blur darted through Hermione's legs and plopped atop the fallen Prophet. Crookshanks let out a tired mewl and pierced Harry with his yellow gaze.

"Crooks!" Hermione exclaimed, her face breaking out into a delighted grin. "Where have you been, my baby boy?" She leaned down to pick up her cat and the paper in one fell swoop, nuzzling into his fur, which smelled faintly of honeysuckle.

"You know where he's been," Harry replied, rolling his eyes.

Hermione looked up in bewilderment. "You don't mean … still?"

"I saw them cuddling."

When Hermione had moved into the townhouse in November, shrunken trunks and Crookshanks in tow, Kreacher had been displeased. But the moment the half-kneazle touched the Ancestral Black floorboards, the House Elf came to life in a way that she and Harry had never seen before.

Kreacher loved Crookshanks. And it was a source of simultaneous satisfaction and displeasure that her cat had been spending less and less time with Hermione—and more and more time with Kreacher. Hermione would have been worried had she not gotten the vague impression that Kreacher would have died for her familiar.

"Not … in the nest?"

"Kreacher, and Crookshanks, and centuries of Black family memorabilia, snuggled together like … like a bloody buffet." Harry shuddered.

Hermione lifted Crookshanks further into the air to inspect him. She had to blink a few times.

Around his pudgy neck was a silk cravat with a repeating pattern of the Black family crest and motto Toujours Pur.

"This is quite unsettling."

"Indeed," replied Harry, who had already returned to his paperwork.

Hermione still felt entirely confused about the whole situation—Kreacher, Crookshanks, and Draco Malfoy included—but she sensed she would not get any more discussion out of her friend. She left Harry in his room and meandered down the corridor to her own room, stroking Crookshanks into a purr and thinking.

Even if Malfoy had wanted to rebel against Lucius, why would he do so publicly, especially when most magical Britain seemed to be on Lucius's side? That was not a particularly "Malfoy" thing to do.

And what might this article mean for her department and her legislation? It was admittedly nice to have someone who was not her speak out in favor of the werewolves' rights, but Hermione's heart still sank. Unless the attacks stopped and things remained calm for a time, she was not optimistic of anything happening in their favor, even with—and this did matter to some people—a well-known pureblood on their side. Malfoy was also a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, an institution that still meant a lot to those who held power within the Ministry and the Wizengamot, despite Hermione's rightful belief that it was fake and ridiculous.

Hermione felt exasperated. She had about twenty letters to reply to, 10 feet of parchment to review and a restless energy in her chest. She quite literally did not have any more time to ponder the enigma of Draco Malfoy, nor the possible motivations for his manifesto in the Prophet, be they altruistic or otherwise.

She sighed. The last thing Hermione wanted to do was sit at a desk and read—very out of character for her. Nevertheless, she felt like the sizzling thread of a firework about to explode between her shoulder blades. Squaring her shoulders, Hermione placed the Prophet on the top of her bed and nuzzled Crookshanks as she exited her room and continued downstairs toward the basement. Perhaps some target practice would help clear her mind.

Two Days Later—
Monday, April 16, 2007
The Ministry for Magic

Hermione did not have time to report to the Improper Use of Magic Office. Still, she could not ignore an official summons. She huffed in frustration almost every other breath as she made her way up two levels to the office, wondering what could possibly be the issue.

Since the attacks in France, the DRCMC had been in a state of constant tension, exacerbated by increasingly sensational media headlines. Anderson was constantly giving her stares of superiority, and Hermione fielded an equally constant string of meetings with her counterparts across Europe, all of whom were dealing with similar issues.

She was busy. And now, first thing in the morning on a Monday, of all days, she had to traipse around the Ministry to settle an unknown problem. It had better be a good problem, she thought bitterly, as opposed to the issues she had to deal with in her normal duties.

When Hermione exited the lifts, Level Two was a complete disaster. She looked to the left, toward the Auror Office and DLME, and figures in the red and orange of the Auror corps were running around with raised voices. To the right, she spotted the Improper Use of Magic Office further in the distance, though she could tell it was in a similar state of chaos.

Was that smoke?

Hermione walked briskly toward the office. Inside, a line of disgruntled wizards and witches waited. A long desk with three harried clerks behind it was covered in papers. And behind them, a floor-to-ceiling filing cabinet had been tipped toward the wall, with many of its drawers askew and papers strewn across the purple carpet. Hermione vaguely recognized two Aurors who hunched on the ground near the cabinet.

She watched, interested and a little worried, as one Auror, a tall man with a dark complexion whom Hermione knew to be a Senior Auror with Harry, lifted a small object with dragon hide gloves on. The other Auror, also wearing gloves, held her wand and followed her colleague delicately as he slowly walked toward the door, where Hermione stood with her mouth slightly agape.

"Out of the way, Ma'am."

Hermione rushed to the side, allowing the Aurors to pass. And then, she hurried over toward the desk. She noticed a familiar face among the clerks, who were busy tidying the office. Two attempted to right the cabinet with physical force and a stabilizing charm.

"Katie?"

The witch looked up from her crouched position.

"Hermione!" Katie Bell exclaimed, standing and placing her messy pile of parchments on the long countertop. She tucked a strand of her straight blonde hair behind one ear. "Hi."

"What happened?" Hermione asked, concerned. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, all fine. Just stunned for a moment. We were attacked by a rune stone," Katie replied as if she could not even believe what had happened. "Apparently, some stones are involved in an ongoing investigation down the hall."

"Oh, Harry told me about that. But everyone is uninjured?"

"Yes, just annoyed, really."

"How did a stone get here?" Hermione inquired. That was very poor case management if it had come from the evidence room. She thought darkly of Terry, who was a case manager, but shoved the thought out of her mind.

"No idea," Katie said, sighing as she neatened the pile of parchments. "But why are you here?"

"I was summoned," Hermione replied, pulling the bright yellow notice from her pocket. "No idea why."

"Huh," Katie remarked. "Well, I'll just help you, then."

"No cutting!" a gray-bearded wizard in a green polka-dotted robe groused from behind Hermione. He stood alongside the other wizards and witches, waiting for help.

"She works here!" Katie quipped, and the man frowned and crossed his arms. Katie huffed. "Don't mind them. Just come with me into one of these offices."

Hermione followed Katie to the opposite wall of the office, where a few glass-paneled wooden doors stood in a line. Hermione avoided the eyes of the other waiting customers, feeling slightly guilty for jumping ahead of them. Then again—she did work there.

Behind the door that Katie opened was a small room with a wooden table, four chairs, and an enchanted window overlooking the London skyline. Hermione smiled. It wasn't often that windows in the Ministry highlighted Muggle architecture.

"Let's see what we have here," Katie said as she sat on one side of the table, and Hermione joined her opposite. Katie pulled out the yellow summons and placed it on top of the filing parchment, tapping her wand in a pattern as she incanted wordlessly.

The relevant information appeared on the parchment. Katie set the summons aside and began to read.

"It says here that you were performing magic in a Muggle area of Greece and/or Türkiye," Katie stated, voice lilting upward in question. "Last week."

Hermione shook her head. "I haven't been out of the country since Christmas when I visited my parents in Australia."

"Huh."

"Could it be a clerical error?"

Katie sighed deeply. "I'm not sure. … As you've seen, the office has been a mess lately. And you just got this today?"

Hermione nodded.

"Well," Katie said, hesitating. "The issue did happen first thing this morning. I'll just file this with a warning. Merlin knows the Turkish government is bad at reporting things anyway. … You sure you haven't been traveling?"

"I wish."

"Same," Katie murmured as she pulled out a self-inking quill and made some notations on the parchment.

"Thank you, Katie," Hermione replied gratefully. Voices were audible behind her through the closed doorway. "These stones are quite the mess."

"Oh, I cannot wait to have whoever's making them in here," Katie replied sharply, brown eyes flashing. "If anything's an improper use of magic, it's those things. I'll have a knot on the back of my head from where I fell."

"I'm sorry," Hermione said with sympathy. "... Can I go? I have a meeting."

"Sure. Maybe I'll just stay in here for a while…quietly."

Two Days Later—
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
The Leaky Cauldron

"Hermione, how are you feeling?" Luna asked as she began to comb her fingers through Hermione's curls.

"Just fine," Hermione said, shifting slightly more into their booth to escape Luna's touch. "Why?"

"You seem to have the signs of Auralynx larva toward your mind center," the blonde replied, squinting deep to perceive what Hermione guessed was her inner ear.

Hermione struggled not to roll her eyes, to preserve the evening's peace. She had not seen Luna in months.

"Oh, you know," Hermione said as she attempted to smooth her curls back down, "I had an encounter with a fairy heard a few weeks ago—it's probably the remnants of their magic."

Luna gasped. "Oh, fairy-blessed Auralynx larvae are extremely beneficial!"

At that point, Ginny returned with their Butterbeers from the bar, setting down the three overflowing pints on the tabletop. "I think," the redhead groaned as she heaved herself across from Hermione and Luna, "that ponce just hit on me."

"Who?" asked Hermione.

"The one with the mustache," Ginny replied, pointing vaguely behind her. Hermione and Luna glanced over, and Hermione spotted a tall wizard the width of a maypole with a thick black smattering of hair on his upper lip. He hunched over the bar, talking to Hannah Abbott as she prepared drinks with a withering expression.

"Poor Hannah," Hermione muttered, wincing.

"She's alright," Luna said with her light, lilting voice. "He's about to succumb to a severe Nargle attack."

Ginny turned back toward the bar, and not a moment later, the wizard collapsed into a drunken heap on the floor.

"Huh," remarked Ginny with a shrug, turning back and taking a long draught from her pint. She moaned. "I needed that."

"How's the season?" asked Hermione, who took her own sip from the sweet, ice-cold brew before her.

"It's shit," Ginny returned with a look that would have been equally appropriate for a funeral. "The Harpies need some fucking beaters—excuse my language. I'm so glad we have this week off."

Hermione hummed in sympathy.

"I'm hoping since our season is shit, that Coach Robbins will let me try for the English National Team," Ginny continued.

"Ginny, that's marvelous—do you think it'll happen?" Hermione did not care for Quidditch but tried to keep up with Ginny's career. Since Ginny and Harry broke up two years ago, Hermione had to actually work hard to keep up with it on her own, with some help from Ron.

"Dunno, but they're having an open trial in July ahead of the European preliminaries. If my team continues like this, our season will be all but over by then." Ginny huffed out a breath and tucked a strand of her long hair behind her ear. "Or, we make a comeback, and I'll actually have something to fucking do on the pitch for the Harpies—excuse my language."

Hermione laughed. "Good luck either way, then. How about you, Luna?"

"Rolf and I are spending the summer in Tasmania to track the last red tricorn herd," Luna supplied with a dreamy smile. "If you make love in the presence of a red tricorn, it's said to increase fertility."

Ginny and Hermione met eyes and blinked. Ginny said, "That's great, Luna … are you trying for kids?"

"No, what makes you say that?"

"Just the … fertility and everything."

"That's just a fact."

"Right," Ginny laughed. "Of course. I knew that already. Didn't you, Hermione?"

"Of course," Hermione supplied, nodding. "It should be an enlightening experience."

"It will!" Luna smiled.

"And how about you, Miss Deputy Head? How's it going after … the attacks in France and everything?" Ginny queried, brows furrowing.

Hermione sighed deeply. "Not good." Yesterday, she and Octavia had spent the entire day monitoring the interrogation of thirty non-pack-affiliated wizards with lycanthropy in the DMLE. Zacharias Smith's interrogation technique needed a lot of work. "Just … not good."

"Sorry." Ginny reached out to rub Hermione's hand in sympathy.

"I really don't think werewolves are to blame," Luna said, swirling the foam of her Butterbeer with the tip of her finger. "The lunar patterns this year are really unstable, and it's greatly interfering with pack bonding. Rolf and I were reading the astrological charts, and the alignments were not conducive to filial cooperation. Something else is happening, I think."

Hermione hid her internal groan behind another sip of Butterbeer as Ginny eyed the space between Luna and Hermione warily.

After Hermione swallowed, she said, "Thanks, Luna—I'll suggest that to my superiors at the Ministry."

"I could owl you the charts if you like."

Ginny coughed, and Hermione glared across the booth. "Thank you, Luna, I would appreciate that."

"Unfortunately," Hermione pressed on after Ginny's coughing had subsided. "The Victory Ball is scheduled for the night of the next full moon, which is putting a damper on the evening and making the entire situation at the Ministry more ridiculous."

"Just reschedule?" Ginny suggested with an obvious tone.

"No one seems to have enough power to do that. Either that or there's a conspiracy to send me to an early grave through stress." Hermione rubbed her temples, soothed by the coolness her fingertips absorbed from her drink.

"These balls are old hat for you now, aren't they?" Ginny offered with a sympathetic smile. "I'd say just find a hot date and dance the night away until someone tells you there's something to worry about."

Hermione snorted. "Okay."

"Why?" Ginny pressed, leaning toward her. "No prospects? Have you dated since Terry?"

"Well … no." Hermione pursed her lips. "I—I actually hadn't thought of it." And she really hadn't.

"Why not?"

"It's been busy at work. After my injury and Terry everything, I had a lot to make up for. And then I moved in with …" she trailed off, nervous.

"Harry, yes, go on," Ginny filled in, rolling her eyes. "You can say his name. We talk, you know."

"Right," Hermione nodded. "I moved. The department's been busy…"

Ginny tilted her head and then shook it before replying. "To be honest…you can do a lot better than Terry. Maybe you need just a little something to bounce back—romantically…"

"I don't know—"

"…and sexually. Sex is preferred, actually. Romance optional." Ginny finished firmly, causing Hermione to sputter with indignation. "Don't you agree, Luna?"

"Regular orgasms have wonderful effects on one's magical core. Since Rolf and I started experimenting with creature-inspired positions, I've been able to do a lot more wandless magic," the blonde said with an alarmingly banal tone, and then Luna lifted her two hands to the rim of her pint and concentrated deeply, causing the buttery foam of her drink to lift into a pyramid-like point.

Hermione gaped. Ginny clapped, laughing in delight, and said, "Luna! Wait … wait, wait, this is because of sexual experimentation?"

Luna nodded. "I've been marking the positions that work best for my aura and which aren't as effective." To Hermione's growing consternation, Luna pulled out a pocket-sized notebook from the folds of her mauve-striped robe, opening the pages to show Ginny, who was leaning halfway over the tabletop at this point.

Hermione covered her face with her hands and muttered, "Merlin."

"Wow … Bowtruckle in a grotto—"

"That one needs practice. My flexibility is not quite up to snuff," Luna supplied. "I personally have enjoyed the Sleeping Acromantula the most thus far, but the Stargazing Centaur was the most … powerful."

Ginny grabbed the book from Luna's hands and started flipping through eagerly. "Can I make a copy of this?"

"Of course."

Ginny pulled out her wand and recited a duplication charm—twice, causing Hermione to look up sharply. Ginny was holding out a small leather-bound book to Hermione. A third copy.

"I really don't need—"

"Oh, shut up and put it in your beaded monstrosity, Hermione," Ginny quipped.

Hermione recognized Ginny's "Molly Voice," rolled her eyes, pulled out her bag, and held the opening out to Ginny, who dropped the book into the bag's depths. Hermione was half certain she'd never see it again, which comforted her.

"Thanks, Luna," Ginny continued, unfazed, handing the original notebook back to their friend. "But back to the issue at hand. Who can you ask to the ball?"

"Nope," Hermione rejected flatly. "I'm going to be too stressed. I can't even think of a date right now."

"But someone friendly would make the evening better. What about Viktor?" Ginny said, her face lighting up. "He'd drop anything to help you."

"I'm not asking Viktor to schedule an international portkey for one evening," Hermione said wearily, though she agreed that Viktor certainly would drop everything to help her if she asked. She owed him an owl, in any case.

Ginny pouted. "Fine. But keep him in mind for your sexual experimentation."

"Ginny."

"Alright! But what are you wearing? I'm so sad I can't go. I'd love to have an excuse to buy new robes right now."

Hermione replied hesitantly, "Oh … actually, Lavender is making me something."

"Lavender," monotoned Ginny. "Sister-in-law Lavender?"

"Yes?"

"Lavender, who married my brother in a dress featuring sequins, beads, feathers, and ermine fur?"

Hermione winced. "She said it would be to my taste. I'm actually going for a fitting this weekend."

Ginny whistled. "Good luck."

"It can't be that bad."

Four Days Later—
Saturday, April 21, 2007
303 Diagon Alley, Apartment 10

Hermione fidgeted while she balanced on the stool, swathed in what she thought was far too much black tulle. As Lavender pinned, tucked, and circled around her, Hermione began to regret having Molly's leftover shepherd's pie for lunch. She tried to stand tall as she sucked in her gut and actively ignored the lingering taste of garlic in the back of her mouth.

The incomplete dress hung loose on Hermione's frame over her shorts and undershirt. The gathering of fabric crossed over her chest in such a way that Hermione couldn't yet imagine what the final product would look like. She was acutely conscious of her exposed arms and wrung her hands together in front of her.

When Lavender circled to Hermione's front, she began, "Lavender—"

"Don't worry," Lavender replied, pins hanging out of the corner of her mouth. She met Hermione's eyes as she crouched down to her ankles. "There will be sleeves."

Hermione blushed and appreciated not having to say anything about it. Even if she thought she looked as though she were going to a funeral at the moment, Lavender gave her flashes of hope that Hermione might actually be comfortable in the final design.

Parvati lounged on the couch nearby, babbling about various topics in the latest Witch Weekly issue that she held. Harry was on the cover, yet again, in a picture taken from far away as he helped a little boy reach a box of Sugar Quills at a stand outside a sweets shop in Diagon Alley. The headline read Harry Potter: 'I am ready for kids!'

He wore his Auror's robes in the picture, and even from where Hermione stood, she could see the garment was tight around his shoulders. Hermione would not think about bulging muscles or the like on Harry of all people, but she made a note to help him adjust his uniform size. It was a simple charm, after all, and an Auror should have maximum mobility, particularly in the wand arm. Teenage witches would have to swallow their future disappointment.

"No mention of me, again," complained Parvati. "I swear it's as if my installment never aired."

"Installment?" Hermione queried.

"Yes, my installment of Potterwatch."

Hermione scoffed. "You're listening to that program?"

Parvati sat taller in her seat to better see Hermione from her immovable position. "Of course!" She exclaimed. "How are you not? Don't you want to hear what that slag Romilda Vane is going to spread about you?"

"Me?" Hermione was at a complete loss. "What do I have to do with it?"

Parvati rolled her eyes. "You're one of Harry's paramours."

"I'm what?" Hermione yelped and twisted slightly, causing Lavender to prick her ankles. "Sorry," she said, even though Lavender was too absorbed in her project to reply other than with a soft grunt. "What do you mean I'm one of Harry's paramours?"

"Don't you remember all the rumors about Viktor Krum stealing you away from Harry in fourth year? Romilda has been teasing your episode for weeks, but I reckon it will be a while before she features Hermione Granger. To build suspense, you know. You and Ginny are the real headliners, after all." Parvati sighed and laid back. "Ginny will be the finale, I suspect. I was on last night. Hardly anything about me as a witch, just a ridiculous narrative about lonely Harry Potter, Triwizard Champion, feeling adrift and rescuing two sisters and his best friend in one fell swoop after turning down twenty other witches who asked him."

Hermione chuckled. "That's one way to put it." However, she made a mental note to owl Ginny about this Potterwatch fiasco. Maybe Ginny had some creative ideas for how to deal with Romilda Vane.

"Exactly," replied Parvati. "And there was no mention of what I do or my latest book! I was at least hoping for a slight boost in sales, but maybe it'll still happen. She did get my name right, at the least."

Parvati wrote beginners' books on how to read tea leaves. Hermione read all three, even the latest installment titled a saccharine Brewing Future Love. The actual divining aspects of it were complete rubbish, in Hermione's opinion, but she appreciated Parvati's combining the standard Hogwarts curriculum with traditions from India and Japan. If only Parvati would commit to a different topic. But Hermione had long ago abandoned speaking her true thoughts in favor of being supportive. She could at least appreciate Parvati's business sense and the books' popular appeal.

"Well, I suppose you should have gotten something out of it," Hermione remarked. "She didn't even ask you to participate in the program?"

"No, Romilda is focused on objective distance," replied Parvati skeptically, rolling her eyes. "Rubbish. It's just so she can say what she likes without facing us."

Hermione hummed thoughtfully. She definitely did not want to know the answer, but as she fidgeted on her stool, mind whirling, the questions slipped out. "What is she teasing then?"

Parvati perked up at Hermione's interest. "Well last night the Yule Ball was the focus, so she said something along the lines of… let's not forget about Muggleborn Hermione Granger who attended the ball with an international quidditch star, blah-blah, and who will be the focus of a future episode."

Hermione groaned. Her letter to Viktor would include a warning, then.

Lavender stood up and fluffed the pinned fabric of the skirt around Hermione's legs. "How does the waist feel? The length?"

Hermione twisted her torso and felt the lightness of the tulle rustle around her ankles. Perhaps it wasn't too much fabric. "It feels nice," she said.

Lavender pouted. The scar bisecting her eyebrow puckered with her expression. "Don't go assuming anything. You can't see the vision yet, and I'll not have you grumbling around to Harry and Ron. You are going to look bloody perfect."

Hermione nodded. "I trust you. Thanks for working so hard on this." And it surprised Hermione to feel that, despite any misgivings that Ginny may have shared, that she meant her words. "What will you be wearing, Lavender?"

Lavender smiled, clapped her hands excitedly, and rushed into the bedroom down the hall. Hermione stood, still pinned and afraid to move down from her stool. She met eyes with Parvati, who smirked knowingly and shrugged.

Lavender flitted back into the room with a garment in her hands and held it out in Hermione's direction. It was a set of robes made of a shiny material that Hermione believed was satin. The fabric was a silvery sky blue, and it had a plunging neckline that would have gone down to Hermione's navel. But Lavender was significantly taller than Hermione, so she supposed it would fit Lavender modestly. The sleeves went down to an elbow length before opening up to a long cuff extending down to the floor, and the skirt was form-fitting down to ankle length. On top of the dress portion was a lace-trimmed sleeveless robe with a silver clasp at the neck.

"It's beautiful," Hermione murmured.

"Thanks!" Lavender beamed. "I was trying to decide between this and a crimson color with a bit more volume, but I feel this fits more with my complexion."

"I get the red," Parvati called from the couch.

"And yours is going to be the showstopper," Lavender said, meeting Hermione's gaze again. "Are you bringing a date?"

Hermione frowned.

"No, I'll be going alone this year."

Lavender nodded. "Well, if you end up bringing someone, let me know because I'll not have a pathetic set of rags clashing with my masterpiece. In fact," she pointed at Hermione, "yes, go stag. It will make you shine all the more."

"Just make sure you don't arrive with Harry," Parvati suggested with a wink. "Not that rumors of a sordid romance matter, but I don't want Romilda Vane to have the material."

"Romilda? Oh Merlin, don't bring her up," Lavender groaned. Hermione and Parvati met eyes and laughed at the evidence that Lavender had missed their entire conversation. Lavender continued, "I've had quite enough of the press recently. Romilda, Witch Weekly, and the Prophet can hurl themselves into the Channel for all I care."

Lavender set down her robes carefully on a nearby chair and gestured for Hermione to raise her arms. She complied, and with a wave of Lavender's wand, the pinned dress floated up, off Hermione's body, and over to the corner of the room where it hovered and stilled.

Hermione stepped down, stretched her legs, and pulled on her simple black dress and casual robes from a hangar by the door. As she dressed, she commented, "I've had enough of the Prophet myself with all the werewolf coverage. It's made work a nightmare."

"It's certainly a bit much," Lavender agreed, flopping beside Parvati on the couch. "Now add incessant requests for interviews about the worst day of your life."

Hermione stilled her fingers, which had been buttoning up her robe. She was an idiot. Of course, Lavender would be intertwined with it all. She was attacked by Fenrir Greyback and had survived at great personal cost.

"How many interview requests have you had?" Hermione asked, concerned.

"Once per day since the France attack," Lavender sighed, rubbing her temples. Parvati rubbed her shoulder in support. "And twice per day since bloody Draco Malfoy. I just burn all of my post now."

Hermione's brows shot up. She wondered what about Malfoy's statement made the situation worse for Lavender, aside from keeping the story alive, as it were. But Hermione realized that any mention of Fenrir Greyback by name would make Lavender a person of interest, and she felt a surge of sympathy for her friend.

At the Ministry, Malfoy's statement had made the rounds all week. Hermione had a pointed conversation with Octavia on Monday, during which the older witch emphasized that the piece might be a piece of gossip in pureblood circles who were still concerned about their post-war image but nothing more. It did not change anything about the state of the werewolf rights bill or any of the broader international situation.

Hermione's life went on in a tornado of unchanged stress, and she had forgotten about the entire piece of writing until she overheard two witches in the bathroom later in the week. One of them commented that they had forgotten all about Draco Malfoy and wondered whether "he was still fit." The other one commented that there was no way he was as fit as Harry Potter anyway, and Hermione promptly tuned them out.

Lavender continued speaking. "It's nice of him to speak out and all—if he was compelled for any good reason, that is—but would it have killed Malfoy to just do nothing? Now the journalists have a mind that persistence will wear down me and whomever else they're harassing."

"I'm sorry," Hermione said with a frown. "Do you want to file a formal complaint? Harry and I have done it a couple of times—Ron once, too, I think."

"No," Lavender said firmly. "Ron already suggested that. I don't want to draw any more attention to myself. Let them get tired. I think people will forget, eventually."

Hermione pursed her lips in sympathy, sincerely hoping that Lavender's words would be true. For Lavender's happiness, Philip Goodwin and Dearborn's pack, and other werewolves looking for peace.

Up Next: Draco is blackmailed (in a good way). Plus, the Victory Ball!