Chapter 17: Hermione

The Circle of an Empty Day

"The circle of an empty day is brutal and at night it tightens around your neck like a noose." ― Elena Ferrante, The Days of Abandonment

Thursday, May 3, 2007
St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

When Harry woke in St. Mungo's the afternoon after Hogwarts, he was calm.

"They aren't sure," Hermione said, holding his hand. "It's too soon, and your wounds are responding well. We have to wait until—until…"

"Until I transform or not, on the next full moon," finished Harry with a nod. He squeezed her hand and rolled his shoulders, wincing in pain at the bandaged gouges. Hermione could smell the acrid fumes of the silver ointment the healers had applied in the early morning hours.

She hadn't slept yet and was still wearing her torn dress robes. Looking down at the frayed edge of her bodice, she picked off a loose sequin with her free hand.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked.

"Am I?" She repeated. "Are you?" She felt tears prick her eyes. "Harry, I'm so sorry. I should have done something—"

"Stop it," said Harry firmly. "No one was hurt or killed. The students are safe—I will be fine." He looked off into the sunlight streaming through the enchanted window. "Who would I be if I believed that being a werewolf meant my life was over?"

Friday, May 4, 2007
The Office of the Minister for Magic

"Absolutely not!" Hermione said forcefully, holding herself back from standing up and making a scene.

"Hermione," Octavia warned in a low tone to Hermione's right. Across the desk from them, Kingsley held a grim expression, and to Hermione's left, Gawain Robards sat stoically in a too-small chair.

"You are suggesting the incarceration of innocent people," Hermione continued in a more even tone. She felt the heat rising at the back of her neck.

Kingsley replied, "It is one night of supervision per month, just for the full moon—"

"—in prison," Hermione cut in. "And a complete ban on travel!"

Kingsley let out a weary sigh. "The DIMC led six hours of negotiation with the French and Italian ministries. There have been near-constant protests in the atrium. This is a compromise. After what happened on Wednesday, we must do something."

"We are going to round up werewolves because they can't prove their innocence ten years after this Ministry began incarcerating Muggle-Borns because they couldn't prove that they didn't steal their magic," Hermione retorted. "The international community won't stand for this." And neither would she.

"Minister," Octavia jumped in quickly, "This sort of policy will have long-lasting deterrent effects on werewolf registration and will affect our reputation outside of Europe. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures must document its objection."

Hermione could feel her heart beating wildly. The Ministry for Magic would require werewolves to be under Ministry supervision during the next full moon. There weren't enough holding cells for so many people, which meant Azkaban for Joseph and his pack—for the Goodwins and every innocent werewolf on their own across Britain.

"So documented," Kingsley replied wearily. "I also personally object, but as Minister, I must work with our allies, and this is the solution—for now."

"Sorry, Minister," Robards said gruffly. "The DMLE does not have the space or manpower to intake so many people, especially if you want the investigation to continue into the attacks themselves."

"We have weeks to make space and bring in more Aurors," Kingsley replied.

"Might I suggest house arrest or closed sanctuary for larger packs and imprisonment only for those who cannot call upon a pack affiliation?" Robards offered. "Everyone will be under Ministry supervision—but Azkaban will not be required in all cases."

Hermione huffed. It would still be incarceration by any other name.

"That may work. I need to discuss it with the DIMC," Kingsley nodded.

The meeting ended soon after. Octavia ran off to a scheduled Floo call with some American werewolf representatives to get broader international support. Hermione was even more furious that she had to mediate a dispute between two ghosts and a wizard about an apple orchard—as if that were important.

How could Hermione be so powerless to stop this from happening? And what were these attacks about? Who were these rogue werewolves? What if Harry—

"Miss Granger." Robards caught up to her partway down the corridor from Kingsley's office.

"Sir?"

Robards scratched his short grey beard and asked Hermione to follow him across to an alcove with a potted fern that concealed them mainly from the handful of people in the Minister's section of the Ministry.

"How is Potter?"

Hermione said. "Great, of course," looking around nervously for any listening ears. "He will be back on Monday."

Robards nodded slowly. "You, me, and a couple of healers at the hospital are the only ones who know the extent of it."

Hermione made no reaction. "The minister?"

Robards shook his head. "Potter just has some minor scrapes and exhaustion."

That meant that Harry's secret, the fact that he may be infected with lycanthropy, was mostly secure. Hermione had made sure the three Hogwarts students did not see anything the other night, and she got Harry out with her portkey as soon as Neville and McGonagall came in response to Harry's patronus. A burst of gratitude bloomed in her chest for Robards's discretion.

"I will get house arrest approved with the minister and DMLE, sod the French," Robards went on. "We can make an arrangement off-books." Robards leaned in close enough for Hermione to smell his peppery cologne. "You make sure Potter is secure during the moon. Either nothing happens, or … it does happen, and we file some paperwork instating you as an auror-guard. Everyone is safe and covered."

"I'll do it."

On Sunday, Hermione cleared out the basement at Grimmauld Place. Ron came over to help, and together they replaced the wooden door with silver-enforced iron panels that Kreacher had procured for them. Harry spent the weekend with Teddy and Andromeda.

On Monday, Hermione visited the Goodwin residence. Phillip marveled at the difference Wolfsbane made during the previous moon while his mother smiled with her arms around his shoulders on their sitting room couch. Hermione smiled for the first time in days.

"We haven't told Walter yet," Mrs. Goodwin said. "But just the fact that we are under control is such a relief."

"He will come around if this goes smoothly for a few months. And if we can still get the medicine, that is?" Philip asked hopefully.

"Of course," Hermione assured them, hoping Harry's contact would come through again. "But there's another issue, unfortunately…"

On Tuesday, Hermione visited Joseph Dearborn at his law offices near Fleet Street. He worked in a mid-rise modern building with large windows, grey carpets, and Dell computers running Microsoft software. It was so Muggle, so unlike anything in the Ministry, that for a brief moment, Hermione imagined what her life might have been like were she not a witch. Would she have pursued law? Animal rights? Medicine? Would she have been a policewoman, a detective? Would she have pursued a higher university degree? As she contemplated her current situation in the DRCMC, she also wondered about the other choices she could have made—even as a witch.

"It's funny," Joseph said after Hermione had explained the Ministry's plans for the next full moon. "I've spent the last decade learning how to fight for rights and defend people in the Muggle world. And here I am, completely at a loss for how to do so in the Magical world."

"Well, I've spent the last decade learning how to fight for rights in the Magical world, and I still don't know what to do," Hermione replied, halfway lost in thought. Joseph sat beside her in a matching armchair by a window overlooking the bustling street below.

"Any update on these attacks?" Joseph asked. "If you can reveal anything, that is."

"No arrests or suspects," Hermione admitted. "The entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement is at a loss. The lack of evidence at the crime scenes is a bit unnatural."

Harry had admitted to her yesterday that Robards was under unfathomable international pressure and spent more time mitigating angry members of the Wizengamot than leading the investigation. This left Harry as the lead Senior Auror to foot the brunt of the legwork. So far, the DMLE had interrogated fifty percent of the country's registered werewolves and had combed through each of the attack sites three times.

The blood that she and Harry found at the crime scene did not match anyone they had interrogated, and there wasn't enough of it to do a basic tracking spell. The Ministry was unwilling to perform any blood magic beyond tracking, something that Hermione vehemently agreed with in principle. But the more tired Harry looked—and the more angry glances she received from her fellow DRCMC employees for her hardline stance on werewolf rights—the more she was eager to end these months of madness.

"I have to say that answers would really bring some relief." Joseph sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"You seem to be handling this very well," commented Hermione.

She could sympathize, but it was beyond her to fully understand what Joseph, his pack, and even poor Harry were feeling. The Goodwins, separated from the Magical World, maintained confusion and emotional distance after she explained the situation to them. In truth, it did not affect them very much. Mr. Goodwin would not take an Auror's supervision very well—but when the moon rose, it would make no difference to him, especially if he continued to reject Wolfsbane.

"I appreciate your confidence, but," Joseph hesitated, and for a moment, Hermione became acutely aware of the decade of life that the man had lived beyond her. "The pack hasn't been this restless—demoralized—in all the time we've been together. The aconite is helping, though." He smiled. "Thank you for that. It's one thing we don't have to worry about."

"That was all Harry," Hermione told him. "I really had nothing to do with it. I'm glad that it's taken something off your shoulders, though."

"I read The Prophet," he replied. "You speak very well on all these matters. I know more people will listen—eventually. Change is a marathon. You're helping, even though it may not feel like it."

"You're right. I don't feel that way," Hermione admitted after a moment. She choked down a wave of disappointment, the pressure welling in her throat. "I can't stop this policy from being enacted."

Hermione was as stressed as she could ever remember being, surpassed only perhaps the week leading up to taking her NEWTs. She had many questions about the investigation and what to expect from Harry's situation. What would they do if Harry had lycanthropy? She wanted to ask Joseph about his first transformation, but that felt too personal—like crossing a line. She also did not want to raise any suspicions about Harry's injuries, even though she was fairly certain that Joseph wouldn't speak of it to anyone.

The horror and pain that werewolves went through seemed overwhelming, but she wondered if thinking so was presumptuous of her, too. All the emotion that Hermione had kept at bay for Harry's sake was about to burst out of her pores. She took a deep breath through her nose and closed her eyes.

Joseph cleared his throat, and Hermione looked up to find him offering a cotton handkerchief to her with a large, calloused hand. She accepted it and dabbed her eyes, giving the werewolf a questioning look.

"Habit from my pureblood mother," he said, and she handed the fabric back to him. He reached over to give her hand a squeeze. Hermione blushed and looked out the window to avoid meeting his eyes.

"Thank you," she said. She cleared her throat to avoid any silence and stood. "I should go. Please let me know if you need anything before the next full moon, especially if the DMLE raises any trouble."

"I will," he replied, standing up to lead her to the door of his office. Hermione was surprised when he pulled her into a hug. She allowed herself to be held for a moment, comforted by the size and strength of him. He was tall and smelled like coffee and fresh-cut grass, and she wrapped her arms around his waist for half a second before pulling back.

On Wednesday, Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt announced the Night of Terror Public Safety Act, requiring people in Britain infected with lycanthropy to surrender to the DMLE for three days for the full moon. It also allowed for government-supervised house arrest for groups of five or more lycanthropes. Werewolves could not travel internationally and were required to report any domestic travel exceeding one hundred kilometers to the DMLE.

And then, Hermione went to work.

Three weeks later—
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
The Office of Hermione J. Granger
Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures

Hermione crumpled up the parchment in her hand, threw it in the bin, and conjured blue flames to render it to ash.

She had just received her third lukewarm nothing-response from her counterpart at the Canadian Ministry after repeated requests for diplomatic aid. She began another reply but gave up.

The Americans blew them off; the Turkish and Chinese governments were inscrutable, as always. The Brazilian Ministry was sympathetic but had little to offer regarding manpower or advice. The Pan-American Werewolf League had condemned the British Ministry's actions, but the declaration had made almost no impact—The Prophet had devoted a single column to covering their statement on page 12 of an evening issue. Meanwhile, Lucius Malfoy had become a regular columnist and was even seen meeting with the French Minister for Magic and Warlock Allard of the Wizengamot at a popular lunch spot in Paris.

To top it off, a meeting with the Japanese ambassador about how his country managed its unusually high werewolf population turned into "an incident" when Gerald Anderson apparently insulted the ambassador's wife due to an issue with the automatic translator. Kirkpatrick was responsible for getting a working translator box to the meeting, and Hermione refused to let herself consider his ineptitude, or else her thin facade of control would evaporate.

Hermione even resorted to meeting with Blaise Zabini at the DIMC that morning. The former Slytherin's office was decorated with souvenirs from many European nations and what appeared to be a scale model of the Bangkok Golden Buddha.

"A gift from the minister's daughter," Zabini told her with a wink.

"Listen, Granger," he had said. "You have to slow your broom here. We've had two months of violent incidents, and the public deserves a response. It's not jail, it's supervision—safety! Who can say no to that?"

Hermione gave him the thirteen-minute version of her speech on the humane treatment of werewolves and its relationship to the administration of wizard-being relationships in the magical world.

He replied with a disgusted expression, "You will not win here, Granger." She left without saying goodbye.

In a matter of weeks, Hermione's years of advocacy had fizzled into nothing. No one aside from perhaps Octavia and Harry understood her point of view. Why wouldn't anyone acknowledge how dangerous this was? This constituted the beginning of an authoritarian government, something that set a precedent for the monitoring and policing of private activity with no checks or balances on the Ministry's power.

Hermione had barely slept in weeks. At the Ministry, she made no headway with members of the Wizengamot; even Aberforth Dumbledore and Griselda Marchbanks, her two most vocal supporters in past months, had declined her latest requests for meetings. She also neglected the rest of her DRCMC duties. She had already received a warning from Octavia, and Hermione delegated as much work as she was willing to Geraldine, Priscilla, and Daniel, the latter of whom managed to misspell the word "crup" on a departmental memo.

For the first time in her professional life, Hermione longed for her Time Turner again so that she could simply do more work.

When she went home to Grimmauld Place, her evenings were spent worrying about Harry, who said he was fine but whose eye bags grew bigger and bluer each night.

Hermione had nothing to give him, nothing she had accomplished. The other day she was so frustrated that she penned her most scathing and in-depth manifesto on the Wizarding World's mistreatment of werewolves and how it compounded the prejudicial history of policies against Muggle-Borns, House-Elves, and squibs. She included the names of every Ministry employee who made her work near-impossible and even called out Kingsley himself for lack of action. She signed it with a flourish, placed it beneath a stack of parchments on the corner of her desk, closed her office door, and cried. It wouldn't make a difference.

She was tempted to owl Viktor Krum, who did not owe her anything but was kind enough to help Hermione or even just listen to her troubles on a long-distance Floo connection. But Hermione was skeptical of even a famous Quidditch player's ability to sway public opinion on werewolves these days. There was nothing else to do but wallow in the emptiness of time until the moment came.

Sixty-three hours to moonrise.

Someone knocked on Hermione's office door, startling her to awareness. Gerald Anderson walked in without waiting for an answer.

"Granger," he began, "I needed those analyses of the crup breeding farm request two days ago."

Hermione cursed under her breath, looking down at her inbox and the pile of parchments on her desktop. She remembered writing something, but did she return it to Anderson?

"I thought I did—oh, I'm sorry," she grumbled. "I'll re-do those now, then. I have the requests filed, at least. I think."

Anderson let out a breath through his nose so harshly that it disturbed the tendrils of his dark mustache. "Granger, if you're going to be Deputy Head of this department, you must get your priorities straight."

Hermione bristled. "I have my priorities straight."

Anderson laughed cruelly. "Let me tell you what you have." He lifted a finger. "You have a piece of half-baked legislation that's dead in the water." Another finger, and then, "You have a meter-high pile of dismissals and rejections from every Ministry in the modern Magical World." Another finger. "You have an office full of pissed-off employees who are tired of your self-righteous dragon dung." Another. "You have me, your 'equal,'"—at that word, he lilted his voice mockingly—"and guess what, I don't give a shite about your precious packs of diseased degenerates at the moment." A fourth finger popped up. "You have a boss—who is coming to the end of her well of patience for your independent diplomatic endeavors, by the way." The last finger of his hand came up. "And, of course, you have your reputation. But I would be careful, Granger, because you may not have even that anymore if you continue nagging people to their wits' ends."

She saw red. Hermione could not recall when she had last felt such anger. Anderson smiled smugly, and she wanted to burn the mustache off his pudgy face. She imagined the flames consuming him in an icy blue blaze and then extending to burn down the entire building.

"How can you work here," Hermione asked, voice deathly calm, "when you care for nothing but yourself?" She saw his eyes narrow and added, "A pedigree crup is more important to you than a person with a magical disease? I'll never be that way."

"It's time you stop trying to save werewolves and start doing your job to regulate and control them."

"I care for people."

"Then stop being so selfish," Anderson spat. "You are not the most important person in the world. Have some humility, sit down, do your work, and let the adults around here deal with this international crisis. You may be smart, but you have a hell of a lot to learn about governance."

"And what have you done if you're so much better than I am? You have seven years more experience than I, around here—what have you accomplished?"

"Watch yourself," Anderson sneered. "I don't have an Order of Merlin; I don't have dinner at the Minister's house at Christmastime, but I'm much more reliable than you. Who exactly do you think you are? Running off doing solo fieldwork on random days of the week, disdaining your direct reports, dropping everything the moment the Auror's Office needs something as little as proofreading—it's obvious that you put yourself and your friends above everything else."

"That's not true," Hermione replied quietly. He was twisting all her work into nothing. She worked so hard. "And that's enough, Anderson. I'll get your paperwork to you by the end of the day."

"Forget it. Just give me the requests, and I'll do it. I'm sure Harry Potter will need you for something in a few minutes."

At the sound of Harry's name, Hermione lost the last of her patience. Wordlessly, she summoned the crup farm requests from the cabinets behind her. Her spellwork was shaky, and the neatly stacked parchments appeared in a messy pile in her arms. She threw them across the top of her desk toward Anderson and hissed, "Fine. Take them!"

Anderson stepped forward to grab the papers, lips curling. "Use the extra time to clean up in here. It's a sty."

He slammed her door on his way out.

Hermione sunk into her chair, breath shaky. Time passed.

Sixty-two hours to moonrise.

Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Hermione meandered through the busy cubicles of the DMLE, the potion vial concealed deep in the pocket of her robes. It was small and cool to the touch, but as far as Hermione was concerned, it might as well have been a bomb ready to explode.

Tincture of silver, diluted with moondew and stewed in pitch blackness for twenty-nine-and-a-half hours.

It wouldn't do anything. The book in which she had discovered the recipe was full of pseudopotions and astrological divination. The next page suggested that bathing in a mixture of frogspawn and green tea would mitigate the effects of the Dementor's Kiss. But if there was even the tiniest sliver of a chance that drinking this would prevent the lycanthropic infection from setting in … well, it was worth a shot.

It wasn't toxic, in any case.

Hermione arrived at Harry's office, but the door was closed and locked, and no light escaped through the jamb. He must be out. Hermione frowned. Harry had told her that he was taking it easy this week. The full moon was tomorrow, for Merlin's sake.

A commotion rang out from the corridor. Hermione turned around to see what the noise was about. It sounded like fighting, though the words were indistinct.

A moment later, a group of Aurors appeared, dragging an older woman who half-struggled as one Auror held firmly at her elbow. She had long white hair and wore a plain brown robe.

"I told you, I didn't attack anybody!" the woman cried.

None of the Aurors responded. The woman, who must have been at least seventy, maybe eighty years old, let out a sound halfway between a wail and a sob. "I've been a werewolf for forty years! I've never done anything to harm anyone."

The group disappeared down the corridor, heading, Hermione now knew, toward the DMLE holding cells. Hermione could feel her heartbeat inside her head as the smoldering ember of anger grew inside of her.

She tore her eyes away from where the woman had disappeared and spotted Harry trailing down the same corridor before turning toward his office where Hermione stood. He looked awful—exhausted, irritated, and sullen.

When he spotted Hermione, he sighed deeply.

"This isn't right," Hermione said. Her voice was almost a growl.

"I know."

Thursday, May 31, 2007
Number Twelve Grimmauld Place

Tonight was the night. Aurors were reporting to half a dozen pack sites over the country. Everyone would be on alert until sunrise. On top of that, Aurors were on duty in case an attack broke out again. No wizard in Britain, France, or Italy was permitted out of their homes after sundown. These sorts of restrictions had yet to be seen since the height of Voldemort's power.

Megan Wang was overseeing Joseph's pack personally, and the Goodwins were helped by their usual Ministry representative. Robards sent an excessively safe five Aurors to patrol around Livingstone's field.

And, off the books, Hermione was on duty at Grimmauld Place.

"How am I supposed to feel?" Harry asked as they shared a cup of tea in the kitchen.

Hermione checked the clock. Half six. Thirty-eight minutes until moonrise.

"Not sure," she replied. Her tea had gone cold. "Sorry. I wanted to ask Joseph or someone else about their first experience, but I didn't want to raise any questions."

"I wish I could ask Remus."

Hermione's eyes began to well. "You're handling this so well, Harry. He would have been so proud of you."

"Nothing to handle yet," he said, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. "I'm so tired. Maybe I'll just curl up and sleep through the night."

Hermione rather thought a violent bodily transformation would prevent that but said nothing and tried to hold herself together. Thankfully, Ron arrived soon after.

"Hullo," he greeted, giving Hermione a hard hug around the shoulders from behind before moving around the table to pat Harry on the back and sit beside him.

"How are we feeling?" Asked the redhead.

"Normal," said Harry, who drained the last of his tea.

"That's great!" Ron smiled, adding, "Isn't it?"

"We're not sure," Hermione said. "Cutting it a bit close, Ronald." Twenty-nine minutes to moonrise.

"Lav wasn't feeling very well, so I went to fetch her a steak." He turned to Harry. "Do you have any cravings, mate?"

"I haven't been able to eat all day," Harry admitted. Hermione had noticed that he hadn't been able to eat much all week.

Hermione got up and turned to the stove to hide the tear that fell from her eye. "More tea?"

"Well," Harry began a short while later, standing at the open door to the basement, the steps leading down into the soft illumination on the lower level. "I guess I'll just …" He took off his glasses and handed them to Ron, then took his wand from his trouser pocket and handed it to Hermione. She cradled it carefully and set it on the kitchen table.

Hermione brought Harry into a fierce hug, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and nuzzling into his neck. "I love you. Everything will be fine, no matter what."

She let him go, and then Ron followed suit. "We'll be here all night."

"Thanks," he nodded to both of them. "Time?"

"Ten minutes," Hermione said.

Harry waved a final goodbye and descended the stairs. Hermione shut the door behind him, closed the silver latch, and added a basic barrier ward around the doorway.

Ron conjured them both some fairly comfortable padded chairs, and they waited.

Five minutes to moonrise.

"Feeling okay, Harry?" Hermione called.

"All good," Harry's voice rang out from below, muffled by the thick panel of the door.

One minute to moonrise.

"Something must be happening by now, right?" Queried Ron.

Hermione shrugged, and Harry's voice called out again, "Still human! Has it happened?"

Hermione looked at the ticking hand of the clock. Three, two, one, moonrise. "Moon's out!" She called in reply. "How's it going?"

"Yeah, still me! Um … Maybe I should stay down here just in case?"

Hermione and Ron made hopeful eye contact.

Two hours later—

"You'd think wizards would know more about this stuff," Ron offered from his prostrate position on the camp bed he had conjured.

Hermione certainly agreed. It was remarkable how few accounts of first transformations were published. Although, it made some sense when one considered how much people were giving up when they admitted to having lycanthropy. Everyone responded differently, though, and Harry's wounds were relatively small compared to someone like Lupin, who was severely gouged by Greenback as a child.

If only the Lupin Bill could pass, Hermione would have a foothold to begin genetic testing, potion development, analyses of moon phases, and their effects on the overall werewolf population. Enough of this fear, prejudice, and guesswork. But she didn't say that now; it was not the time.

"Do you think he needs to stay in there all night?"

Hermione frowned. "It's best to be safe, I think." She raised her voice. "How are you doing, Harry?"

"Bloody bored!" came the reply.

Eight hours later—

The sun rose, and Ron opened the heavy metal door.

Harry's tired face smiled back at them. "Worried for nothing, it seems."

Hermione let out a sigh of relief.

Two hours later—
Friday, June 1, 2007
The Ministry for Magic

After the relief of sunrise, Harry went straight to his bedroom and fell into a dead sleep. Hermione envied him deeply. She was too wired to think about closing her eyes, so she decided to head to the Ministry to see firsthand at the DMLE whether any attack reports had come in. She also needed desperately to catch up on the work she had neglected over the last three weeks. Knowing that Harry was unchanged after the May 2 attacks lifted a great weight off her shoulders. She was hopeful again. Everything would be alright. She would show Anderson and Octavia how much she cared about her work, werewolves included. She was Hermione Granger.

When she approached the Auror's Office, the atmosphere was quiet. Hermione wasn't familiar enough with the operations of this part of the Ministry to know whether this was a good or bad thing. Was it quiet because no news had come in or because all personnel were out responding to a violent attack?

As she entered the Auror's section proper, Hermione heard murmurings inside the slightly open door of Robards's office. She knocked on the jamb, and Robards's voice told her to come in. As the door creaked open, Hermione saw the Head Auror and one of Kingsley's undersecretaries, who scampered off after nodding to Hermione.

"Granger," Robards greeted, dropping his voice down to a murmur. "… Potter?"

"All clear, sir," she said, and his aged face broke out into a rare smile.

"Good." He clapped his hands together, and Hermione could not help but smile with him. "Very good."

"Any news?" She asked, pointing to the corkboard with the information on May 2. She noted a photograph of the Hogwarts greenhouses with her enlarged boulder crumpled against the castle's walls.

"All quiet, no reports coming in from our team, the Italians, or the French," he replied, and Hermione could see the relief in his eyes. She let out a breath that she did not know she was holding in.

"That's good."

"It is," he said with a moment of hesitation. "Doesn't help us get to the bottom of this mystery, though. I'm afraid some will take this as the Night of Terror Act being a success."

Hermione's stomach dropped. "I hadn't thought of that."

"It's something that the Minster will definitely consider. My guess is this policy will continue on for some time."

"Right," Hermione said faintly, wondering when despondence would sink in. When had she last slept? Yesterday for an hour in her office, maybe.

"Get some rest, Granger."

She left Robards and walked like a zombie to her office. The first paper memos of the workday were gliding up and down the corridors, but it was still quite early. Even Hermione didn't usually arrive for an hour. She noticed that the light in Octavia's office was on, but other than that, only one junior analyst was scribbling away at his desk. Hermione knew she should go to Octavia to apologize for her recent work and discuss the lack of news from the full moon night, but she could not bring herself to walk into her boss's office just yet. A moment to herself to gather her thoughts would be welcome.

The latest Prophets were stacked on the newsstand down the hall, and Hermione grabbed the topmost paper, tucking it under her arm and bringing it into her office. She closed the door, then decided to leave it partially open in case anyone needed her. She had her door closed more often than not over the last three weeks.

Hermione waved her wand and incanted a tidying spell that set the myriad of papers on her desk into one neat pile. She would organize them later when she found the energy. She sank into her chair and pulled out the Prophet, wondering if they already had coverage of the lack of attacks. Sure enough, the main headline on the front page read "EUROPE SAFE? NO WEREWOLF ATTACK DURING FULL MOON."

And then she saw the rest. The leftmost column on the front page, above the fold:

SCATHING MEMO BY HERMIONE GRANGER RIDICULES MINISTRY AND LAYS OUT DANGEROUS PRO-WEREWOLF AGENDA

She froze. She read the words again. Her heart beat quickly, and she could feel the thump-thump of rushing blood in her ears.

… centuries-old prejudicial politics …

… disgusting power-plays by tenured employees of the DIMC …

… my own department has become a tool for enacting a bullying regime …

… Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt betraying the ideals that many died for …

"What?" she whispered. Her mind was whirring, trying to understand. The words were familiar, but she had never even finished them—and anyway, she would never publish them. Where—?

She looked at the stack on her desk, tossed The Prophet aside, and began rummaging through the myriad parchments. Where was it? Where was it? Her fingers were desperate as she flipped through the sheets. It was not there. But it did not matter in any case because it was in The Prophet. Who had taken it? She thought back to every meeting she had in the last week, every person who stepped into her office. Octavia, Priscilla, Daniel, Gerald—but of course. I must be him. Who else would? But … how could he?

Hermione's hand began to shake as she thought through the implications of what had just happened. The first step was to demand a retraction from The Prophet, then apologize and explain—to Octavia and Kingsley most of all. But was it too late? How could she make up for her stupidity?

She was angry, tired, and frustrated, but she would never express her anger in public. The Prophet had spread many lies in her lifetime, and this was just another. Her colleagues would understand.

Four hours later—
The Office of Octavia Randall

"Leave of absence?" Hermione repeated, stomach sinking lower than the Department of Mysteries.

"Yes," Octavia replied from behind her desk. Her hands were folded neatly on top of the open Prophet between them.

Hermione had explained. She had apologized. Octavia had nodded. Yes, of course Hermione would never publish in The Prophet. Yes, she knew Hermione hated The Prophet and gave interviews only when she had to. No, Octavia did not believe Hermione meant what was written. Yes, she did agree that Kingsley would also understand in time. Yes, she did understand that The Prophet was printing a retraction.

Hermione did not know how to respond. She implored, "I can make this right."

"I know," Octavia replied, using a dreadfully careful tone. "But it's not only about The Prophet, Hermione."

"I know that I've been stretched thin," Hermione argued, shaking her head. "I have not been at my best, but I will do better, I promise. I just finalized the ghost arbitration deal this morning, and—" she faltered, mourning her words even before she uttered, "I'll drop the Lupin Bill for now. I'll stop with werewolves altogether as Deputy Head, if—if you think that's best."

Octavia sighed and looked at Hermione with an inscrutable expression. After a moment, she opened one of her desk drawers and pulled out a thick cream-colored file, opening it.

"June 1999, NEWTs, Outstandings in all seven subjects attempted. July 1999, Auror's Exam passed with Dueling and Protective Charms Certification. Rejection of Junior Auror trainee position offer and enrollment in the Auror's Reserves. July 1999, interview with me," Octavia paused to look up from what Hermione realized was her employee file.

"August 1999, Junior Analyst, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. May 2000, Promotion to Senior Analyst, Beings Specialization, House-Elf Relocation Department. September 2002, Incident Report, Merpeople. July 2003, Incident Report, Fwoopers," Octavia winced, and Hermione did as well, remembering that particularly awful afternoon. Why was Octavia reading out her work history?

The older witch continued, "January 2004, Co-Writer, Revised Werewolf Sanctuary Agreement, Wizengamot approval. May 2004, incident report, Livingstone Pack. February 2005, passage of Dobby's Bill for the Promotion of the Safety and Welfare of House-Elves. October 2006, Injury Report, Three-Day Hospitalization, related to DMLE Investigation 1994B, Arrow Coven." Octavia paused to sigh deeply. "One week medical leave of absence. November 2006, Promotion, Deputy Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. February 2007, provisional Wizengamot approval to consider Lupin's Bill. March 2007, Incident Report, central meadowland fairies. April 2007, Injury Report, Oak Clan Dwarves."

Octavia met Hermione's eyes and continued, "Total Ministry for Magic Tenure: Seven years, nine months, seventeen days. Total Leave Time: seven days. Total Sick Days: two. Total Vacation Time: thirty-one days."

Hermione blinked, unsure of what to say.

Octavia dropped the sheet she was reading from. "Almost eight years and only thirty-one days of voluntary leave since you graduated. And before that, intensive study, and before that—a war, during which you sacrificed enough to earn an Order of Merlin and nearly die, I'm sure, ten times over. Hermione, what do you want to do?"

"What?" Hermione said dumbly.

"What do you want to do—with your life? Where do you want to go, here?"

"I have so many things I want to do," Hermione replied quietly.

Octavia sighed and pierced Hermione with a look resembling pity, concern, frustration, or something in between. She responded, "Taking a step away will be good for you. You were injured in October, and since then, you have not slowed down or had a moment to breathe."

"That wasn't my fault," Hermione protested. "And the vampires—"

"It still happened," Octavia cut in. "Hermione, everyone expects great things from you. I'm sure that my job will be yours in the future if you want it," Octavia pressed her with a knowing glance. "I personally want more for you. I love this department, but it certainly does not come with as much respect as I would have gotten elsewhere. You should consider that because even with some bad press, you still hold a lot of respect for how you carry yourself, your accomplishments, and your determination. Right now, you are burned out, making mistakes, getting sloppy with your work, and losing papers—some of which make it into the wrong hands. The welfare of all werewolves is not your sole responsibility. Despite how you may feel right now, I do care very much about the backwardness of what this country is doing."

"I know," was all Hermione could say.

Octavia pursed her lips. "Three months."

"Three Months?"

"Three months," Octavia repeated. "It's the holiday time that you chose not to take over the last eight years. You don't need to go on holiday, although I hope you do, but you must step away."

A while later—after Hermione had returned to her office, vanished her trash, and made the quick decision not to take anything with her—she closed her door quietly and made to leave the building. From the corner of her eye, she spotted Anderson standing in the doorway of his office a few yards away, and Hermione turned to look at him. His mouth was pressed into a straight line, barely visible underneath his mustache, and his arms were crossed.

"I hope you got what you wanted," she said, unable to stay silent but equally unable to muster the energy to curse him out, as she deeply wanted.

He blinked. "Bye, Granger."

Hermione, too tired to interpret his tone, turned away.

On Saturday, she slept.

On Sunday, she slept until Harry came looking for her, and then she told him everything.

On Monday, she woke at her normal work time, tamping down the impulse to get ready for the office. One hour passed, and she could feel her legs itching, so she woke and dressed normally. She made breakfast and ate it. She made tea and drank it.

She conjured a target in the basement and blasted it to smithereens. She did it again. And again.

She went to her dustiest bookshelf, pulled out a filthy romance novel that she had pilfered from Ginny years ago, and read the entire thing sprawled on the sitting room sofa.

She took a nap.

Kreacher began to pity her and served her afternoon tea. Crookshanks sat in her lap.

And all the while, she thought.

At five o'clock, she moved. She Flooed to the Ministry Atrium and walked straight to the DMLE. She greeted no one and made no eye contact, though she could tell that people were looking at her.

The DMLE was bustling with end-of-the-day activity. Several Aurors and analysts nodded to her. She acknowledged them and walked right through Robards's open door. Robards, Harry, and another Senior Auror stood inside before the Night of Terror board. They turned when she walked in.

"Hermione," Harry said, eyes wide with confusion.

"Granger, what's the issue?" Robards asked, ever on task.

"Sir." Hermione took a deep breath. "Instate me."

Up Next: Draco's birthday & a surprising party.