Chapter 9: Hermione:

A Drop of Water

"I to the world, am like a drop of water
That in the ocean seeks another drop,
Who, falling there to find his fellow forth,
Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself:
So I, to find a mother and a brother,
In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself."
—Shakespeare, A Comedy of Errors

Earlier that evening—
Monday, April 2, 2007
Nott Manor

"You live here?" Hermione asked.

The corridor from the kitchen to the Floo was pretty if one liked the aesthetics of a barren medieval castle. But after the fourth empty room they passed, Hermione began to notice the barrenness more than the romantic tilt of the light.

"I do," Nott responded with a sideways glance. "Family estate and all that."

"Ah," she said. "I'm not familiar. Do family estates typically lack furniture?"

Nott smirked. "The ones with Lords who don't care to redecorate after Ministry raids do, I suppose."

Hermione's walk faltered. "Oh." She controlled her expression as she rushed to keep up with her host's long stride. She knew that the estates of Death Eaters had been thoroughly stripped during those long summer months after the battle, between trials, funerals, and rebuilding. But it had been over eight years since then, and Nott, apparently, had never been inclined to buy a couch.

"Relax, Granger," Nott chuckled. "It looks better now than it did before. Minimalism—isn't that what the Muggles call it?"

"Right," said Hermione with an indulgent smile, though complicated feelings were swirling within her. She struggled with the realization that she was in the former home of a Death Eater currently serving a life sentence in Azkaban.

But she still needed to figure out what to make of Theodore Nott, his healer's almanac, empty castle, and knowledge of Muggle terms. And his smug blonde friend.

"Just in here," Nott said, turning right to enter a doorway leading to another empty room, this one featuring a large fireplace with a bowl of powder on the stone mantle.

He strode over to the fireplace, flicked his wand to light a flame within it, picked up the Floo powder, and held it out to Hermione.

She took a scoop of powder and threw it into the flames. They turned green. Before she stepped in, she turned to Nott.

"Thank you again, Nott. I'll try not to unwittingly trespass the next time I'm lost in the woods." She stepped into the fire.

"Now, now … we've just shared a tender moment of healing. I think you can call me by my given name."

Hermione looked at him skeptically but felt there was no harm. "Okay, Theodore."

The dark-haired wizard smiled at her, and Hermione thought that maybe Slytherins were not so bad when they were smiling. She said, "You'll give that vial to Malfoy, won't you?"

Theodore inclined his head. "As you wish. Pleasant travels … Hermione."

She nodded and pronounced. "St. Mungo's Hospital!" And then she was gone.

Four hours later—
Grimmauld Place

The sun had long set by the time Hermione arrived home that night. Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was quiet, and the open doorway to Harry's bedroom revealed that her friend was still not home. It was almost nine o'clock, so Hermione figured an urgent case at the DMLE must be keeping him out yet again. Their department, like hers, needed to be more staffed.

She sighed, rubbed a kink from her neck, and headed straight into the bathroom for a hot soak in the tub.

When Hermione flashed away from Nott Manor, she first spent a couple of hours at the hospital locating Kirkpatrick and making sure he was alright. She found him in the waiting room with a blissfully blank expression on his face.

He was physically fine and apologetic for taking the portkey without her, but primarily he was hungry. After a healer fixed his arm and healed his scratches, Hermione took him to a Muggle cafe and bought him a sandwich. He ate while she reviewed the paperwork she would fill out regarding their incident. Hermione was sure that Kirkpatrick did not absorb anything, but she at least could say that she tried to train him for fieldwork in the future.

After Kirkpatrick left, Hermione stayed at the cafe and filled out all the forms with meticulous detail. She also updated the main file on the Oak Clan. She added an urgent note to avoid all broom travel over the forest, particularly near the full moon—something Hermione assured herself she would have done even without Malfoy's unsympathetic comments.

Finally, she penned a letter to the Wiltshire Conservancy confirming that the department had met with the dwarfs and received a verbal confirmation that the clan would be moving away from the unicorn's territory. It was a bit of a stretch, but Hermione felt it was the best the Ministry would ever do under the circumstances.

As Hermione relaxed into the hot water, the shock from her and Kirkpatrick's fall from their brooms caught up with her, and she began to feel sick. They both could have been far more injured than they had been. Honestly, there was a reason she hated and avoided broom travel. She would bring up this experience to Harry the next time he tried to get her to play pickup Quidditch.

She also felt extremely uncomfortable about their interactions with the dwarfs—specifically how Gorig-nak called her Fire Queen and the adulation they all displayed. Hermione included everything in her report, but she planned to bring the issue to Octavia in the morning anyway.

"'Don't flinch,' she says," Hermione scoffed. Octavia could have been more helpful.

After an hour in the bath, Hermione dressed in her night clothes. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she flexed her ankles. She allowed herself to think about her second interaction with two inscrutable Slytherins in as many weeks.

Theodore Nott was a surprise beyond the fact that she accidentally found herself in his kitchen, of all places. In Harry's office weeks ago, he had been standoffish. Of course, the fact that he was potentially connected to a criminal investigation must have been unnerving. But today he had been a shocking source of comfort, and Hermione was impressed and grateful for the way in which he had healed her ankle.

The healer's almanac he had brought out was well-worn, with notes in the margins and dog-eared pages. It was obvious that Nott was a practiced wizard, even if he wasn't a professional healer. Hermione wasn't sure whether her new knowledge of that or his Mastery of Charms changed her opinion of him. Still, she had left his house in a better state than when she entered it, which a younger version of herself would not have believed.

Malfoy had unsettled her.

She had never considered the possibility that she and Malfoy read the same books or had vaguely the same interests. Hermione cast this aside as another in a series of strange coincidences that kept thrusting her into Malfoy's path. The other books on his nightstand were probably an encyclopedia of snake venoms and a ledger of his investments—nothing to do with her.

Malfoy was mean, coarse, and infuriating, as always, but … he also seemed different. When he had summoned the debris from her hair, the pretense of superiority had faded from his face, leaving his expression blank. Hermione couldn't stop herself from admiring the sharp slant of his jaw and the delicate curve of his upper lip, rigid with concentration as he cast nonverbally. It had been mesmerizing.

She shook the memory out of her head. This was Malfoy—yes, he was pretty, but he was also historically bigoted and seemed to hate Hermione specifically on top of that. The best-case scenario would be if she immediately returned to her previous plans of never seeing him again. She added Nott—Theodore?—to the list of people she would be okay not seeing, as well, considering that he and Malfoy were apparently always in each other's company.

Hermione wore her fuzziest socks and climbed under the rosy duvet on her large four-poster, leaving the cream-colored drapes open. As her head sank into the plush pillows, she wondered why she ever bothered to leave this bed each day.

Hermione looked forward to a week of pure office work now that Anderson's creature specialists were back from the field. Over the last month she had been doing fieldwork significantly more than she should as Deputy Head of the department. She thought of the thick stack of parchment on her desk representing the future Remus Lupin Memorial Bill for the Rights and Protection of Wizards and Non-Magical Beings with Lycanthropy.

Hermione hadn't told Harry yet that she had convinced Octavia to name the legislation in honor of Professor Lupin. It would officially be announced upon its formal introduction to the Wizengamot next month, but Hermione planned to tell Harry, young Teddy Lupin, and Andromeda at Teddy's birthday party in two weeks. She smiled to herself at the thought.

She turned off the lights with a flick of her wand and drifted into a much-needed slumber.

It didn't last long.

Hermione gasped awake at the sound of banging and shouting at her door.

"Hermione! Hermione, wake up!"

She grabbed her wand and turned on her lights in one smooth, practiced motion, even though she was still half asleep. Just as quickly, she heaved off the covers and rushed to the door, flinging it open.

In the hall was a disheveled and exhausted-looking Harry, still in his red Auror's robes, with his invisibility cloak draped over his arm and some papers in his hands.

"Harry? What's happened?" Hermione asked, cotton-mouthed.

"It's not good," he said and handed the papers over to her. She took them, still somewhat bleary-eyed, and recognized the familiar typeset of the Daily Prophet.

As she read the headline and subsequent article, Hermione's heart sunk into the pit of her stomach.

WEREWOLVES ATTACK MONTAUROUX, FRANCE: FRENCH MINISTRY IN CHAOS AS ROGUE PACK TEARS THROUGH TOWN

Jacqueline Jensen
Foreign Correspondent

At least twenty werewolves of unknown origin rampaged through the French town of Montauroux just after midnight this evening, causing widespread physical damage to both Wizard and Muggle neighborhoods and directly confronting French magical law enforcement officials in a violent clash that resulted in injuries to five wizards and the escape of all of the werewolves involved.

It is unknown at this time whether any of the five injured wizards—all members of the French Auror corps—were bitten by the werewolf attackers.

No Muggles were directly harmed by the attack. However, the French Ministry released a statement that thirty Muggles who saw the werewolves had their memories modified. Other Muggle exposure to the violent rampage has been presented as a pack of rabid dogs that escaped from a nearby shelter for unhoused Muggle pets. French Minister for Magic Antoine Siffer has released an additional statement characterizing the attack as "The greatest threat to the Statute of Secrecy seen in this millennium" and has called for Ministries across Europe to account for all of their registered werewolf packs to account for this "unprecedented" attack.

The rest of the article was of little significance. However, it was accompanied by unnerving images of broken windows, slashed awnings, and Muggle automobiles with claw marks denting the hoods.

Hermione stopped reading and looked up at Harry in alarm. "What time is it?"

"Four thirty," Harry responded quickly. "I was supervising a stakeout in Knockturn when this special edition was being delivered around. As soon as I saw it, I figured you should know. The sun will be up in two hours."

"This is exactly what we most feared would happen," Hermione said, almost to herself. She swallowed her anxiety and suddenly reached up to wrap her arms around Harry. "Thank you."

"Sure," Harry mumbled. "Good luck. Looks like you're in for a rough one."

Hermione didn't reply, but she definitely agreed.

Twenty Minutes Later—
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Ministry of Magic

Hermione tore through the Ministry. It was early in the morning but still felt like the middle of the night, and only one or two other harried witches were trying to get a head start on the day, and one wizard at the check-in desk reading the very same evening edition of the Prophet that she had read minutes earlier.

On Level Four, Hermione could already sense a shift in the atmosphere. Most of the corridors she passed were still dark, but the area with her, Octavia, and Anderson's offices was brightly lit. Octavia's doorway was cracked open slightly, and Hermione could hear the murmur of voices inside.

She knocked, and a moment later, she was surprised to see the Minister for Magic open the door.

"Hermione, why am I not surprised to see you here?" Kingsley greeted her with a rueful tilt to his mouth.

"Minister," she said, surprised, and he stepped aside and gestured for her to go into the office.

Hermione walked in and saw Octavia standing behind her desk.

"Oh Hermione, good, you're here," Octavia greeted her. She vanished a parchment on the top of her desk and added. "I don't even need to send you this owl post."

"I just read the evening edition of the Prophet," Hermione replied. "What's the situation?"

"I'm off, Octavia—remember what I said," Kingsley said. "Hermione," he nodded, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder, and then left, closing the door on his way out.

"Bad business, Hermione, let's talk," Octavia said, and the two witches sat facing each other from either side of Octavia's desk.

Octavia took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. "I've had a Floo call with the French Minster for Magic and another with Alexandr Sabo in Serbia. I've agreed with Minister Siffer that we will check in with the three registered packs in Britain—today, if possible—and report back to France by the end of the week. Sabo knows as little about what happened as we do. The previous werewolf activity he warned me about was not near as violent as the incident in Montauroux overnight, and it was thousands of miles away. It's unheard of for any one pack to move so quickly, but he did say that there haven't been any outstanding reports to him yet about activity similar to last month occurring this evening."

Hermione nodded, processing all the details. "It's possible this was a pack of entirely new werewolves. A first transformation—unprotected, without Wolfsbane, and in such numbers on top of that—would certainly become uncontrollably violent."

"It's a possibility," Octavia agreed. "But we still need to do our part to account for the werewolves that this Ministry is responsible for."

"Right. I just don't see how they could be involved at the moment," Hermione said. "The Goodwins make three, and the Dearborn pack—they're many, but definitely not suspect, as far as I'm concerned. And then there's eleven last I checked under Livingstone. Then the lone wolves, of course, but…it's unprecedented for them to join up for something like this."

"You and I both know Livingstone isn't above fear-mongering for sport if she's put up to it."

Hermione shuddered, thinking of Yelena Livingstone, who, like Remus Lupin, was transformed by Fenrir Greyback, but unlike Remus, she was enamored by Greyback's wild nature. She was a witch who first transformed during the height of Voldemort's power, but she was too new a werewolf at the time to be truly involved with the violence of the Snatchers and Death Eaters. After Remus killed Greyback during the Battle of Hogwarts, and several of his deputies were imprisoned, she ended up in a position to lead those left over from among Greyback's protégés.

The pack held a very precarious agreement with the Ministry not to bite anyone in exchange for maintaining a magically reinforced area outside to transform during the full moon. The idea that Livingstone's pack would team up with werewolves unknown to terrorize Europe did not seem quite so far-fetched to Hermione.

"Did the French Minister say whether any reported injuries were bites?" Hermione asked. It also did not seem too far-fetched for Livingstone to take advantage of violence and chaos to get around her agreement with the Ministry and grow ranks.

"No, the injuries were all from a collapsed awning caused by wayward spellfire," Octavia told her. "It's something to be thankful for, but I'm afraid the real damage is already done."

Hermione didn't need to ask what was damaged because it was abundantly clear to her that the legislation their department had worked so hard to write and garner support for was facing a major roadblock. "What was Kingsley here to talk about, if you don't mind my asking?"

Octavia pursed her lips before speaking. "He recommended pulling the Lupin Bill from the Wizengamot schedule next month."

"Abandon it this late?" Hermione demanded.

"Forcing a vote on this bill now will not turn out in our favor. I've already had a note from Warlock Allard just before you got here demanding a meeting," Octavia replied.

"This attack was an aberration and only proves further that more regulations and protections are needed, particularly safe spaces for werewolves to transform during full moons." Hermione's voice raised slightly, and her hands clenched into fists in her lap. She felt the tingle of magic in her fingertips and took several quick breaths to calm down.

"You don't need to convince me, Hermione—and I'd recommend pulling back that tone when we meet with Allard." Octavia leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms.

"Sorry," Hermione reluctantly said. "It's hard to stomach the thought of all of the good in the legislation going out the window because of one night. What can we do?"

"We're not pulling the bill right away, Hermione—we still need to see what the public reaction is going to be to this," Octavia told her in what Hermione recognized as her gentlest tone of voice. She continued gruffly, "The first thing we need to do is check in directly with each of the packs. I will hopefully be in meetings with International Magical Cooperation soon, trying to establish a line of communication throughout the European ministries about this issue. Can I rely on you to gather a team, check in with the three known packs, and account for their whereabouts this evening?"

"Yes," Hermione replied with a sharp nod.

"Good. I'll pull the files of the registered non-pack-affiliated werewolves and get whoever's free to be ready to make home visits over the next couple of days. When Priscilla is in, I'll have her send owl notifications with magical receipts this morning. It's the best we can do with the available staff."

Hermione nodded again, thinking about how much work would be needed to mitigate this crisis. She choked down a surge of anguish for the delay and potential death of Lupin's Bill.

"The sun will be up," Octavia checked her pocket watch, "In eighty-three minutes. Better check in with Livingstone first. If they're at the protected clearing directly at sunup, it will do much to confirm their innocence in this. Do not," she pointed at Hermione directly, "go alone. In fact, I want you to head down to the DMLE and bring some senior Aurors with you—no trainees who don't know the right end of a wand."

Octavia pulled a parchment from her desk drawer and scribbled a note quickly before enchanting it to fly out of the room. "There. I've personally sent a note to Robards. It's too early for any of our staff to be in to go with you, but there should be Aurors on duty. I trust that you can lead this."

Understanding the gravity of the situation, Hermione looked across into Octavia's eyes and responded, "Yes, I can handle this. I'll leave a memo for Geraldine to take over my schedule."

"Good," Octavia said. "Of you go. And don't lose hope. We will work this out. This department is not giving up because of fear."

Hermione sent her memo to Geraldine, one of the senior analysts specializing in Beings, and then headed directly to Level Two without delay. On her way to Head Auror Robards' office, she was surprised to run into Harry, who was still just as disheveled as earlier but with suspicious brightness in his eyes.

"Harry, what are you doing here?"

"Had to come back to file my paperwork, and then I saw Robards was in," he said. "He just mentioned that Magical Creatures will need assistance accounting for all the packs, and I volunteered."

"You volunteered?" Hermione asked, eyes wide. "Harry, don't be ridiculous. You've been up for an entire day already. Go home and sleep."

"Nope," Harry replied. "I'm coming. I've already taken a double dose of invigoration draught, and I'm not sleeping for the next eight hours at least."

Hermione felt the tug of something at her heartstrings. "You shouldn't have done that."

"Too late. Wang is also on duty right now. I'm grabbing her, and then we'll be ready to go straight away," Harry replied cheerfully, unaware of Hermione's disapproving stare. He set off toward his marked door and called over his shoulder. "Robards is in his office!"

Hermione rolled her eyes and marched toward the doorway, reading Head Auror Gawain Robards in gilded lettering.

Knocking on the open doorjamb, Hermione announced herself. "Mr. Robards."

The gruff, portly older wizard looked up from the papers on the surface of his desk. He was standing in his white shirtsleeves and brown trousers, red uniform robes draped over the back of his chair. Hermione looked around at the messy office, which everyone but those who knew Robards would assume to be utterly disorganized.

The rear wall was covered with magical photographs of crime scenes, pages from active case files filled with writing, and a dozen or so wanted posters. Hermione recognized an image of the rune stones Harry had spoken to her about. Then she spotted two faces that had haunted her—and many—for the last decade.

The faces were those of Antonin Dolohov and Thorfinn Rowle, the last of Tom Riddle's Death Eaters still at large. It was quite a coup when Dolohov and Rowle escaped during transport from the DMLE's holding cells to their life sentences in Azkaban. They had disappeared without a trace, leaving behind one dead Auror, who was taken down by the killing curse, and another Auror consumed by a dark purple curse that was horribly familiar to Hermione. She felt the tinge of pain around her torso, where she bore the purple scars from the night at the Department of Mysteries, every time she thought about it. The Auror had died two days later in St. Mungo's, and Dolohov and Rowle hadn't been seen since.

"Ah, Granger, good," Robards greeted her. "I just got Randall's memo. Potter and Wang will accompany you to check in on the werewolves. Be careful with that Livingstone, but I'm sure I don't need to say that to you." Robards scratched his short salt-and-pepper beard and glanced back at his papers, looking older than Hermione had ever seen him.

"Thank you, sir. We appreciate the assistance," Hermione said, smiling.

"It's a bad business in France, is what it is. This isn't a rogue pack gone off course—it's a coordinated incitement of fear," the Auror said. "It reminds me of the things Greyback used to do the first time You-Know-Who was around. They didn't have the presumption of authority then—didn't control the entire Ministry of Magic, I mean. There were more guerrilla attacks and outright fighting."

Hermione hummed in agreement.

Robards looked up, appraising her. "You'd still make a great Auror, Granger. Any chance I can lure you away from Magical Creatures and out of the reserves?"

The DMLE tried this every time they went on a hiring spree and every other month besides that. Hermione smiled and gave her practiced answer. "I'm comfortable where I am now. Thank you, sir."

He waved her off. "Go on then, get out of here."

Hermione made to leave but hesitated. "Is everything alright, sir?"

Robards looked up at her blankly, then sat down and back into his leather chair. "I'm afraid there's been a lot of bad business recently. But nothing we can't handle, of course."

"Of course," Hermione agreed, though the tiredness in Robards's eyes concerned her. "Thank you again." With one last look at Dolohov's hardened black eyes, she turned and left.

Sunrise—
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Restricted location

Hermione side-alonged Harry and Senior Auror Megan Wang—a fifty-year-old veteran of the Auror force with a taciturn demeanor and a killer knack for long-distance tripping hexes—just outside the Livingstone pack's Ministry-protected clearing a few minutes after sunrise. The exact location of the clearing was a secret that only Hermione and several other Ministry officials knew about as part of their agreement with the werewolves.

The sky was lavender and pink, and the air was crisp with a chilly early spring wind. The three of them faced what appeared to be an empty grass-filled meadow bordered by a line of young trees, and the meadow was empty with the rising sun causing the dewdrops on the grass to sparkle.

Hermione nodded to Harry and Megan and walked forward to the border. She raised her wand to the level of her eyes and cast spells to take down several of the protective enchantments. A shimmery haze filled the air, and suddenly, the forms of bodies lying in the grass appeared.

As Hermione counted out twelve people, she felt relieved. There was no way the pack could have taken part in an attack on Montauroux and returned to this clearing undetected while transformed in the middle of the night.

Hermione moved into the clearing with Harry and Megan flanking her. She looked around for the head of long, wavy, auburn hair that she knew would belong to Yelena Livingstone and spotted her sleeping on her stomach at the far side of the clearing. Because the sun had risen just minutes earlier, all the werewolves were completely nude in their human forms, which Hermione had warned the Aurors about. She carried a bundle of conjured robes in her beaded bag.

She pulled one out and approached the sleeping woman.

"Good morning, Yelena," Hermione announced. Yelena and the two other people lying nearby began to stir. She repeated firmly, "Good morning, Yelena."

The witch groaned and flipped over onto her back, exposing her large breasts and more of her tanned skin to the early morning light.

Yelena squinted up at them and groaned loudly, closing her eyes again. "Fuck off."

"Some robes for you," Hermione went on, unfazed. She had dealt with Yelena many times before, and a firm and unflappable demeanor was the minimum requirement for getting through a conversation. Hermione held the robe in her left hand, keeping her wand down but firmly gripped in the other.

"Come back in eight hours," Yelena said, stretching luxuriantly in the grass. "Or, you know, never. That would be better."

Hermione dropped the robe next to her body. "We need to talk—now. Ministry business, I'm afraid."

"You are still a frigid bitch, Granger. Go back to your cubicle," Yelena hissed harshly, turning back onto her stomach. The muscled planes of her back rippled as she stretched out.

"There was a major werewolf attack in the South of France last night," Harry spoke out with an angry tinge to his voice. "Is all of your pack accounted for?"

Yelena perked up at the sound of Harry's voice—a male voice, Hermione thought bitterly—and flipped quickly back into a sitting position facing them. She looked Harry up and down, and her dark brown eyes began to glow with knowing desire. She glanced over to Megan as if realizing for the first time that two people stood behind Hermione.

"Why—Harry Potter himself," she drawled, ducking her chin. "An honor. You, I would be delighted to talk to." Hermione had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes as she watched Yelena lean back on her hands and thrust her bare chest forward.

"Er…right," Harry started, uncomfortable. He leaned down, picked up the robe Hermione had dropped, and held it to Yelena. "How about you put this on first and then answer my question?"

Yelena smiled, showing two rows of bright white teeth that would have been dazzling if not for their pointed tips. It perverted the natural beauty of her face in a way that was both menacing and morbidly alluring. The first time Hermione met Yelena, she recoiled at the sight, but now she knew what to expect from the werewolf. Yelena got up on her feet and stood in her naked glory in front of the three of them.

Harry kept looking at the line of trees behind Yelena in the distance but held out the robe in front of his torso. Yelena stepped directly up to him and grasped the fabric. She closed her eyes and smelled Harry, breathing in a loud rush of air through her nose. Harry didn't flinch, but Hermione noticed the tension around his eyes.

Yelena smirked and stepped back with the robe in her hands. She shook out the fabric and draped it over her shoulders, slipping her arms through the sleeves gracefully. She did not bother tying the sash. The robe left the inside curves of her breasts exposed, as well as the flat center of her stomach, navel, and a thatch of auburn pubic hair. Hermione had to give the witch some credit for confidence, at least. She was more than forty years old and undeniably beautiful. That didn't change the fact that she was, for lack of a better phrase, morally despicable.

Yelena defiantly placed her hands on her hips and jutted her chin out in Harry's direction. Behind her, Hermione heard Megan snort softly.

At this point, Hermione noticed the other people in the meadow stirring, including one male figure who had risen to his feet far opposite where the group was gathered.

Harry met Yelena's eyes again and repeated his question. "Is all of your pack accounted for?"

Hermione was reminded, not for the first time in her life, that Harry had the capability to be formidable—to wield an air of authority that inspired and intimidated. From her angle, she couldn't see his eyes. Still, Hermione had a fairly good idea of the flash of emerald that Yelena was facing.

The auburn-haired witch raised her eyebrows in appreciation, curled her plump lips back partially to lick the surface of her alien teeth, and responded, "Last I checked. We are, of course, trapped in this glorified paddock during the night."

"The Ministry thanks you for your continued cooperation in preserving public safety," Hermione said. It was an often-repeated response to Yelena's complaints. She crossed her arms over her chest.

"You wouldn't mind if my partner and I checked on that, do you?" Harry asked Yelena, gesturing for Megan to come and join him.

"Of course not, sir," said Yelena, who inclined her head in performative deference.

Harry and Megan pulled out quills and notepads from their pockets. Hermione took out the bundle of robes from her bag and handed them over, and the Aurors set off into the far reaches of the meadow.

"As we mentioned," Hermione spoke up to get Yelena's attention, "there was a major attack in France last night. Over twenty werewolves ran through the town of Montauroux, France. Do you know anything about that?"

Yelena turned to face Hermione with a glint in her eye. "An attack? Was anyone bitten?"

"No," replied Hermione.

Yelena pouted. "A shame. I love a first transformation. There's so little to excite me these days."

"Were you aware of any packs planning to gather in France for the moon last night?" Hermione repeated with more volume.

Rolling her eyes, Yelena mocked, imitating Hermione's tone, "No, I was not aware." She smiled, "Sounds like it was fun, though."

"It was not," said Hermione. She relaxed her arms from their folded position. "I'm sorry to say, Yelena, that this attack likely means a delay or even a death to the legislation for your civil rights that I have been owling you about for many months."

"I don't read owls from Ministry goons, Hermione dear—you know that," Yelena said dismissively.

From behind Yelena, the man Hermione had spotted awake earlier approached. He was now wearing loose corduroy trousers, a deep purple fur-trimmed dressing gown over his arm, and a wand in his hand.

Yelena turned toward him. "Thank you, Lester." She then removed the loosely draped robe that Hermione had conjured. She dropped it onto the ground, pinching it delicately in disgust, and pulled on the luxurious fabric of her own clothes, this time having the consideration to tie the sash in an elegant bow.

Yelena then took her wand and vanished the robe on the ground. "Is that the type of thing you have at home? Because it's horrid."

Ignoring this, Hermione said, "I would think having access to the rest of this forest here as the first Ministry-protected Werewolf Sanctuary would have been of interest to you." She didn't believe for a moment that Yelena had not read any of the owls she sent.

"A sanctuary is just a prison by another name," Yelena snapped, eyes flashing. "Our wolves want to be truly free. I think this pack can hold out for something we want."

Hermione was immediately concerned by the implication of Yelena's words. "I'll remind you, Yelena, that any transformation outside of this meadow that leads purposefully or accidentally to the infection or death of any witch, wizard, Muggle, magical being, or creature will result in you and your entire pack in Azkaban."

"Yes, you've made that very clear," hissed Yelena, who gripped her wand tightly. Hermione instinctively angled her body in preparation for an attack.

Yelena took a slow step toward Hermione. "We don't want your sanctuary, jobs, or Wolfsbane." This last word Yelena spat out in revulsion. "We are fine on our own."

"Very well," Hermione responded, unflinching, in her calmest voice. "I'll continue to fight for those who want those things, then."

"Hmph," snorted Yelena, who stepped back.

Hermione could not remember how many times she had pointed out to Yelena and her pack that having access to free Wolfsbane, a larger sanctuary, and job security in the magical world did not mean that they needed to drink the Wolfsbane, use the sanctuary, or take on any jobs in the magical world. She knew Yelena was independently wealthy and supported housing and food for her pack members, which she controlled tightly as Alpha.

Hermione continued. "Do you know of any pack in Europe or elsewhere who would coordinate an attack on Montauroux?"

Yelena let out a sharp breath through her nose and stepped back. "We don't talk to packs on the Continent."

Hermione quirked an eyebrow. "Has any European pack talked to you?"

The werewolf smirked. "Very clever, my dear Hermione, but again—no. We don't deal with foreign wolves here."

Hermione saw Harry and Megan approaching from her left. "Very well," she said, nodding. "Thank you for answering our questions. I'll be in touch about the legislation,"—Yelena scoffed—"and would you please let us know if you hear anything about a lone wolf or a pack who may have been involved with the attack last night?"

Harry had reached them at this point, and Yelena eyed him with dark desire. Harry paused a few steps away, looking uncomfortable, before addressing Hermione.

"All the names check out against the registered list, Hermione," he said, handing her the notepad.

"Did you like what you saw, Harry?" asked Yelena, stepping directly up to Harry so they were chest-to-chest. To his credit, Harry did not flinch. "I think you would make a great wolf—those eyes, thick hair, and…" She trailed a long, painted fingernail down the center of his chest. "Well," she said, "other things." Yelena leaned back to look up at his face.

"I'm fine, thanks," Harry responded, stepping away to join Megan behind Hermione. Yelena's smile did not fade, nor did she break her gaze away from him.

Hermione realized they had two other stops to make and said, "Goodbye then, Yelena. Please be in touch if you hear anything—it's in your best interest that we find out what happened."

Yelena waved her off silently, already turning away to her beta Lester, and the three visitors turned to leave.

"That woman is off-kilter," Megan mumbled as they approached the meadow's edge. "Did you see those teeth?"

"This pack embraces the animalistic nature of the wolves within them," Hermione said judiciously, though she took a moment to run her tongue along the straight edge of her own teeth.

"I think you'd make a great wolf, too, Harry," teased Megan with a nudge of her elbow into his arm.

"Oh, lay off."

Thirty Minutes Later—
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Avery Estates, Northumberland

"The last communication I had with another pack was last week with Massimo, one of the betas in the Neve Pack," said Joseph Dearborn, who looked tired as he nursed a chipped Delftware cup in his hands.

They were all sitting in the sparse drawing room of what had once been Avery Manor. The ornate floral wallpaper was peeling off in the corners, and the dark wood flooring was scratched and worn down. Hermione and Harry sat side-by-side on a red-striped sofa, Megan was on a nearby matching armchair, and Joseph stood by the wood-paned window.

"Is that the pack that lives in the Italian Alps?" asked Hermione with interest.

"It is," Joseph nodded. "We were corresponding about potential work for Ralph in my pack. He's having trouble holding a job at the moment. I would hire him myself, but he's not particularly academic." He sighed and shook his head slightly. "Anyway, the Neve Pack runs its own business that straddles the Muggle and Magical, giving ski lessons in the winter and hiking tours in the summer. I thought something athletic would be more up his alley."

When the Death Eater Silas Avery and his son were killed during the Battle of Hogwarts, it was a surprise to everyone that the line of inheritance led to Joseph Dearborn, a half-blood wizard who had never had any contact with the extended family of his dead mother, an Avery who had been disowned for getting pregnant by a Muggle.

After being bitten by accident in Thailand during a grand tour of Asia when he was twenty-two, Joseph found himself a fully trained wizard—and unemployable. He retreated to the Muggle world and studied to be a barrister while chaining himself alone in his Muggle father's basement during full moons. At thirty-eight, he still worked exclusively in the Muggle world at a law firm in London.

Upon news of his remarkable inheritance of the Avery Manor and Estate, Joseph had been thrust into a fortunate position. He spent years seeking out lone werewolves like him who were tired of solitary transformation and invited them to the estate. Over the years, the wolves had formed a pack with Joseph as their leader, and they now made up more than seventy.

"I hope it works out for Ralph," said Hermione with a sympathetic smile. Her mind whirled through nine job opportunities she could propose in the Muggle and Magical worlds, but she held her tongue. Joseph's pack was large but very insular. The fact that he was reaching out to other packs for assistance said a lot about their desperation.

"Thanks," Joseph replied, inclining his head.

"Can you think of any pack, to your knowledge, that might want to cause terror this way?" Hermione asked.

"Well, Livingstone certainly has the knack, but I don't think this is her style," Joseph replied. He scratched the dusting of stubble on his chin. "It reeks of Greyback."

Hermione nodded. "I thought the same. … I'm so sorry about the bill, Joseph. It does not look great, but I'm going to fight as hard as possible to reduce the vote's delay."

Joseph smiled, his brown eyes crinkling at the edges. "I know you will, Hermione. You've always made it clear that you're fighting for us."

Joseph had a world-weary ruggedness about him that someone without his affliction could have put off for another decade. But since getting to know him, Hermione thought that his appearance suited him—the fine lines around his mouth, eyes, forehead, and silver temples of his brown hair all added to his sense of wisdom. He was clad in faded Muggle denims and a white cotton shirt; the sinewy lines of his bare feet were pale against the wood floor.

"She tends to do that," chimed Harry, who smiled at her. To their right, Megan was organizing their notes on who had been present at the estate when they arrived.

Hermione nudged Harry with her arm slightly and then addressed Joseph again. "How are you doing with Wolfsbane?"

"The best we can. It's bloody expensive. Shelby and Alessandra are excellent brewers, but the ingredients alone are becoming astronomical." Joseph's smile had faded. "I have to admit, that's what hurts the most about a delay in the bill. The Ministry subsidies for Wolfsbane would have been a godsend."

"Sorry," Harry interjected, confused, "but I thought you inherited the Avery fortune?"

"I inherited a dilapidated manor house, a ledger full of debts, and barely enough gold to cover them. At least there's some land here. But no," Joseph shook his head, "we do not have the money to cover Wolfsbane for everyone monthly. But forget the cost for a moment. There's also not any to buy."

"How bad is it?" Hermione gazed up at him stonily.

Joseph sighed and set his teacup down on the windowsill. "We have enough aconite for three cycles at most, maybe less if there's a failed batch. The last month, I haven't been able to find a supplier in Britain with more—or at least one willing to sell. I'm worried because aconite takes three—"

"Three weeks to fully mature for use in potions. I'll see what I can do," said Hermione, who pulled out a pad of paper and Muggle pen and jotted down the note.

"I have to admit, that's what I had hoped. I was planning on owling you this week."

"I've not heard of a shortage of aconite," Megan said, looking up from the papers on her lap. "Is it widespread?"

"This is not common knowledge," began Joseph. "But what I've found out over the last nine years is that during the months that Voldemort was in power, Greyback's pack set fire to essentially all of the major wild aconite blooms in the country. Growing aconite in greenhouses is extremely difficult, so he severely damaged the supply. The blooms have not returned to what they once were."

"There was no media coverage of this, for obvious reasons," Hermione added. "And on top of the lack of natural supply, the import-export of aconite is almost nonexistent."

"Why?" Harry asked, turning toward her, perplexed.

"Aconite is only used for the Wolfsbane potion, some rarely made acuity potions, and poison," responded Hermione. "Poisons that use aconite are highly potent and nearly untraceable once ingested, so it's tightly regulated across ministries. The legislation I've been working on would set aside funds to hire potioneers through the Ministry of Magic so that any aconite imported would not leave government hands in its pure form."

"I'd think international ministries would want to cooperate to supply ingredients for the Wolfsbane potion. It's in the global interest of limiting the spread of lycanthropy," Harry said.

"It's prejudice," said Joseph.

"Wizards know the Wolfsbane potion as something to help werewolves only—it's not perceived as something that helps the public good." Hermione sighed sadly.

"Greyback believed that the Wolfsbane potion was a desecration of the werewolf doctrine. It all starts with him. But he was the desecration," Joseph spat. "We'll be fighting against his perversion of our condition for the rest of our lives."

Hermione remembered the feeling of coarse fingers on her neck, rancid breath on her face, and a gravelly voice in her ear.

Delicious girl…What a treat…I do enjoy the softness of the skin…

She shuddered at the memory of Greyback and how close she had come to something worse than death the day they were snatched.

Harry seemed to remember as well. "Greyback was the worst of the worst of Tom Riddle's followers."

Hermione and Joseph nodded silently, and no one spoke for a while. Hermione decided it was probably time to move on to the last pack since she could see the sun shining brightly through the window.

"I think we should probably get going to see the Goodwins," Hermione said to Harry. She turned toward Megan in the opposite direction and asked, "Is everything in order, Megan?"

"Looks like it," she replied. The papers were folded and bundled in her lap. "You have quite the pack here, Mr. Dearborn."

"Joseph, please," the werewolf responded, and Megan nodded.

"Thanks for talking, Joseph. I'll be in touch," Hermione told him with a subdued smile. She stood up and held out her hand.

Joseph stepped forward toward her, and Hermione was surprised when he took her hand in both of his and kissed her knuckles lightly.

"Thank you, Hermione." He smiled and released her.

She blushed. "Oh, yes, well, it's my job—and my pleasure."

Joseph and the Aurors exchanged normal handshakes, and then the three Ministry employees left the estate, walking down a deserted gravel drive to the apparition point.

"That," Megan said, "is a good-looking man."

"I'll say," Harry agreed. Hermione turned to him in surprise. He noticed her and added, "Up all night victim to a magical disease, and the bloke looks like he had a full night's sleep and a day at the spa. Remus always looked like he was trampled by a hippogriff after a full moon."

"I suppose so," replied Hermione, though the realization was only just dawning on her.

"It's nice to see at least one werewolf appreciating your work," Harry said. "And he likes you."

"We've been working together on and off for over three years," Hermione shrugged. "I'd be more alarmed if he didn't like me."

"That's not exactly what I meant," Harry smirked.

Hermione kept walking briskly, not wanting to talk about what Harry was implying, especially while on an assignment and in front of Megan, whom she did not know very well. She decided to lean into her professionalism and changed the subject. "This last pack is a family of three Muggles who were bitten by an unknown werewolf while on a camping trip. It happened ten years ago, during the war, and they're still very reluctant to accept help from the Ministry."

"Do they know about wizards and witches, or do they think we're Muggles?" Harry asked.

"They know about the magical world now. Becoming werewolves classifies them—unfortunately—as magical creatures, so they are not bound by the statute of secrecy."

"What an awful way to find out about magic," Harry remarked with a shake of his head.

"True. But it's a miracle they're alive at all," Hermione replied. "Lycanthropy is a magical disease. It's extremely rare for Muggles to survive a werewolf bite. In ninety-nine percent of known cases, Muggles die from the severity of the bite or the disease itself. In this case, all three Goodwins survived the attack. I actually spoke with a researcher in Canada a couple of years ago, and he adamantly believes that the Goodwins—both the mother and father—must have magical genes in their family pools, even though they are not magical themselves. I haven't been able to find anything in their genealogy, but it's fascinating to think whether there is a property of the magical genome that could be harnessed to prevent death in Muggles involved in Werewolf attacks—I suggested it to Octavia when we were discussing the legislation last year, but of course, if we can't even get aconite into the thing it's ludicrous to think the Wizengamot would sanction this sort of research, especially involving Muggle DNA sequencing."

Harry and Megan were silent next to her. Hermione blushed. "Sorry, I'm rambling."

"No, that's very interesting, Hermione," Harry assured her. "I just forget how complicated all of these things are." He smiled, "You're very impressive sometimes, you know that?"

Hermione let out a breathy chuckle. "I think meeting Mr. Goodwin will help ease you of the notion that I'm impressive."

One hour later—
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
The Goodwin Residence, Fulham

"We don't care about any bloody Frenchmen! We do just fine on our own, thanks. As if we'd go to the bloody South of France for a romp in the night. Complete insanity."

Mr. Goodwin was more irritable than he had been during any of the previous times that Hermione had met him. It didn't help that he had missed the warning owl she had sent before their arrival, and the three of them had awoken the Goodwins from their beds.

Harry, Hermione, and Megan were cramped on the sitting room couch while Mrs. Goodwin sat blearily in her dressing gown on an adjacent armchair. Their sixteen-year-old son Philip was on the one remaining armchair, openly not listening as he curled his knees up to his chest and attempted to sleep.

Mr. Goodwin stood in front of them by the mantel of the white stucco fireplace in all his two meters of height with a loose robe draped over his pinstripe nightclothes. His thick brown brows made the frantic look in his eyes all the more intimidating. Hermione spotted the red tinge of a new claw mark peeping out from his collar and disappearing under his clothes. She pursed her lips.

"As I mentioned in my letter, Mr. Goodwin, we do not suspect you of taking part in any attack, and this visit is just a formality based on our agreement with the French government," Hermione told him. "I also wanted to let you know of the delay in the vote on the bill regarding your access to sanctuary, financial assistance, and the Wolfsbane potion."

"We won't take your potion," he hissed. "It's bad enough we have to deal with this disease—I won't have you make it worse."

"It's medicine, sir," Hermione snapped back. "And it will give you a peaceful night of transformation. I have offered several times to set up a meeting with other—"

"No," Mr. Goodwin interrupted. "We don't want to meet more wizards."

Hermione breathed in through her nose and replied, "I highly recommend trying the Wolfsbane medicine at least once. I will stay here myself to monitor—"

"No!"

"Very well. Have any other werewolves reached out to you directly?" Hermione dropped the issue and pressed on.

Mr. Goodwin was slightly red around the neck as he tried calming himself down. "Not since that pompous arse barrister you set upon us phoned last year."

Hermione glared. He was referring to Joseph, who had kindly offered to promote the Wolfsbane potion as something that could help their quality of life.

"His name is Joseph—"

"We don't care!"

"That's enough, Walter." Mrs. Goodwin spoke for the first time in her breathy, tired voice. Across the room, Philip was startled awake and looking around at them blankly. They were both also wearing fresh new scratches on their arms and necks.

Mrs. Goodwin stood up and tightened the sash of her robe before speaking again. "Thank you all for coming by, but we did not go to France last night and don't need any medicine. We're all very tired, so if you have more questions, can I request you come by another time?"

Hermione recognized a dismissal when she heard one. "Of course."

She, Harry, and Megan stood up together, and Hermione said, "Thank you for your time. I hope you have a nice rest."

They walked to the front door, and Harry held it open for Hermione and Megan. As Hermione crossed the threshold, she glanced back and saw Mr. Goodwin climbing the stairway to the second floor. She sighed and continued down the paved walkway to the sidewalk, feeling the presence of her companions behind her.

She didn't pause at the end of the drive or at the corner. After a moment, Harry caught up with her.

"You did great back there," Harry said, matching her pace.

Hermione snorted. "That was a disaster."

"Mr. Goodwin reminds me of my uncle," said Harry quietly. "In a bad way. I should have supported you back there."

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry," scolded Hermione. "You and Megan are my security details, not diplomatic representatives. I've been trying to get through to them since I took over werewolf relations two years ago."

"You're only one person, Hermione."

A shouting sounded out from behind them, and they all turned around.

"Wait! Wait!" Hermione was surprised to see Philip Goodwin jogging toward them, still in his gray t-shirt and red basketball shorts with the addition of some loosely tied white sneakers and a down jacket.

"Philip," Hermione greeted him with a neutral expression. "What's wrong?"

He caught up to them within a few steps and stopped, breathing heavily.

"Listen," he began, running a hand through his sandy hair. "I'm sorry about my dad. We had a rough night."

Hermione knew this from the scratches she spotted earlier and a new one she could now see stretching up Philip's left leg.

Philip continued, his blue eyes wide. "When we…when it happens, my"—he groaned—"my wolf. Lately, my wolf has been clashing with my dad. Really massive fights. We can't control it."

Hermione looked at him with concern. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," he spoke and paused. "I mean, no, not really. It's been a nightmare. More than usual, that is."

Philip was sixteen and unusually tall for his age, which made Hermione wonder whether the lycanthropy was accelerating his growth or whether the presence of another adult werewolf in his household activated some dormant dominance within him. Hermione bit her lip and weighed whether she should suggest the Wolfsbane again. Standing in the deserted suburban street, she looked around and decided it couldn't hurt.

"The medicine I mentioned will help you control your own mind during the full moon," she said.

"I'll take it," Philip said. "I don't care what my dad says. I'll try anything."

Though the warmth of triumph bloomed in Hermione's chest, it was quickly quelled by a new realization. "I can't give it to you without your mum or dad on board." She didn't mention that she wasn't certain whether she could even procure some.

Philip deflated and shuffled the toe of his right shoe on the pavement. He growled and looked up into Hermione's eyes. "I'll convince them. My mum, at least."

Hermione pursed her lips but nodded slowly. "Okay, if you can get permission from your mum. But I'll need to hear from her directly."

He swallowed and nodded. "Thanks. How can I reach you?"

Hermione pulled out her notepad and scribbled down the number of the Muggle mobile phone she kept to speak to her parents. "Here," she said, ripping out the sheet and handing it to him. "I'll probably not answer immediately, but leave a message, and I'll respond. I check that number every day."

Philip took the paper and nodded, placing it carefully into his pocket.

"It will be alright, Philip," Hermione assured him, mustering up all the cheerfulness she could.

The boy frowned, but all he said was, "Thank you."

With that, they parted. As Hermione, Harry, and Megan walked to the apparition point in silence, Hermione wondered whether it would actually be alright and whether it even could be anything resembling alright for the Goodwins, Muggles thrust into a strange world with a disease they could barely understand. And though they had managed together for the last ten years, Hermione could sense a shift in the tides.

The situation in France—and in Serbia, Bulgaria, and Romania, which she had not forgotten about—alarmed her. She felt the churning of stress in the pit of her stomach and wondered if circumstances would gradually calm down, as she hoped, or if the more likely option would occur: the situation escalating until all of the work she and so many others had done would be cast aside as dangerous and misguided.

She thought of Philip's desperation in the street, Joseph Dearborn's anger when he spoke of Greyback, and Yelena Livingstone's disdain for everything outside her own small pack. Could anything bring these people together? Could it give them some relief? Or would the rest of the world continue to operate against them?

Hermione also wondered—even with the support of Harry's earnest good intentions and Megan's sympathetic smile beside her—why she felt like she was the only witch or wizard who cared to be fighting for these people at all.

Up Next: Draco confronts Lucius again, and then he is forced into a meeting with his least favorite person.