Chapter 21: Hermione

Tend a Rose

"Where you tend a rose, my lad, a thistle cannot grow." ― Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

Earlier that evening—
Friday, June 30, 2007
Diagon Alley

Three hours to moonrise.

Hermione felt the knot her chest grow tighter as she walked down the cobbled street. The last remnants of daylight faded behind the rooftops of Diagon Alley as night crept closer. The Ministry's mandatory curfew was about to take effect, and most of the shops were already shuttered, their owners hurrying home to safety.

It was the end of Hermione's shift—she was not "allowed" to work during the full moon anymore, even as a junior Auror. Dozens of other DMLE Aurors would now report to the Avery Estate, the Goodwin's House, the Livingstone clearing, and the Ministry holding cells to observe the werewolf transformations diligently. To treat vulnerable people succumbing to the debilitating effects of a magical disease because, by default, they were criminals and not people.

Thinking of it made her sick.

Soon enough, Hermione handed off her patrol to another Auror, exchanging a few words before she disapparated, the image of the front door of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place clear in her mind.

But rather than her usual destination, the sitting room, she appeared on the front stoop, her fingers grazing the door handle before she turned away. She needed space and time to think. The park across the street beckoned, a small pocket of Muggle normalcy where visitors went unaware of the magical chaos around them.

She walked to the same bench where she had spoken to Philip just a few days before. During this sunset hour, the park was alive with activity—children laughed and played on the swings, couples strolled hand in hand, and a group of teenagers lounged on the grass, their carefree chatter carrying through the air. None of them cared about the full moon.

Hermione pulled out her phone and checked it for messages. Nothing. She sighed, leaning back against the bench, trying to calm the racing thoughts in her mind. Octavia had written back, assuring her that the Goodwins would be cared for, but she couldn't shake the nagging worry that something might go wrong. The desperation in Philip's voice haunted her.

Suddenly, her phone buzzed in her hand, jolting her from her thoughts. The caller ID showed an unknown number, but Hermione recognized it instantly. Her heart skipped a beat as she answered.

"Hello?"

"Hermione, it's Philip! He's gone!" Mrs. Goodwin's voice was frantic, laced with panic. "I—I don't know where he's gone! He was here, and then—then he just disappeared!"

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. "When did you last see him? Where could he have gone?"

In the background, Hermione could hear raised voices, the deep rumble of Mr. Goodwin shouting something unintelligible, followed by Mrs. Goodwin's muffled sobs as she tried to answer. "He's a good boy, Hermione; he wouldn't hurt anyone, you know that! He's terrified of what happened to us. … He wouldn't do this on purpose."

"I know," Hermione said softly, trying to soothe the woman's fears. "I'll find him. But I need to know if there's anywhere he might have gone—somewhere he feels safe?"

"I don't know! Maybe the woods outside town, but we've already looked there!" Mrs. Goodwin's voice cracked. "Please, Hermione, you have to find him before—before—"

"I will," Hermione promised. "Stay where you are. Are the Aurors there?" Mrs. Goodwin wailed in reply, though Hermione could hear a yes somewhere. "Good, tell them what's happening, and I'll handle it from the outside."

She ended the call, her mind racing with possibilities. Philip couldn't have gone far—he wouldn't risk hurting anyone. She was sure of that. But the full moon was almost here, and there wasn't a second to waste.

Hermione stood, her feet already moving toward the apparition point and Ministry, when something silver and ethereal darted in front of her, stopping her in her tracks. The ghostly shape of a wolf patronus hovered before her, its eyes gleaming.

Joseph Dearborn's voice echoed from within the Patronus. "Hermione, we have an issue here at my estate with the Ministry and a boy named Philip Goodwin. Can you come by—urgently? It's almost moonrise."

Thirty Minutes Later—
Avery Estate

"He showed up at my office on Fleet Street," Joseph said, looking every bit like a werewolf on the verge of succumbing to the full moon. It was the tiredest and most anxious she had ever seen the thirty-eight-year-old wizard, and it unsettled her. "I wasn't even there—my secretary had to call me in. And he wouldn't let me take him home, just kept saying that you told his parents once that I could help."

"I just meant you could talk to them about Wolfsbane," Hermione replied in a frantic, hushed breath. "You know—I told you about the Goodwins."

It was a very tense situation at the Avery Estate. Four angry Aurors, including Harry—whom Hermione had called—were standing sentry in the drawing room facing an antsy Philip Goodwin. The teenager sat on the threadbare couch, clearly aware of how much trouble he was causing but still holding a defiant expression.

"I know," Joseph replied. "But I couldn't force him. We were in my Muggle office, and he threatened to run away. He agreed to come here, though. And then I called you."

Hermione nodded. "I'll try to get him to go home. His father refuses to take Wolfsbane, and their wolves clash during the moons, even though Philip does take Wolfsbane now."

Joseph sighed wearily. "It sounds like an Alpha conflict. Philip is almost seventeen now. With two adult males, even if you're keeping your mind with the potion … someone needs to submit."

"I don't know what to do," said Hermione, looking desperately over at Philip, then to Harry, who was trying to calm down the tired and angry Aurors who had tried tracking Philip down. "Is it dangerous for him?"

Joseph scratched the stubble at his chin, and Hermione noticed the brown hair was turning gray along his jawline. "There's always a chance. Philip can stay here tonight. We are all on Wolfsbane, and my wolf is in complete command of this pack. … Or he could go home and see how it works out with his parents tonight."

"You'd let him stay tonight?"

Joseph nodded. "He shouldn't roam the estate. He'll be unfamiliar to the others. I can keep him in one of the attic rooms. None of the other pack members stay inside—we usually run around the grounds. There's enough time to ward the room—for the guards to ward the room." He eyed the disgruntled Aurors.

"I'll talk to him. Thank you," Hermione said, reaching out to rub Joseph's upper arm. The man nodded, and Hermione turned away to Philip.

Hermione approached Philip cautiously, her heart heavy with concern. The teenager sat hunched on the edge of the couch, his arms wrapped around his knees as if trying to make himself as small as possible. His defiance had waned since she arrived at the Avery Estate, replaced by fear and exhaustion. He looked up at Hermione with a sullen expression, but there was a flicker of relief in his eyes.

"Philip," Hermione began softly, sitting beside him on the edge of the couch. "I know things have been challenging for you lately, and I'm sorry you feel like you can't go home."

Philip's lips pursed into a firm line, but he kept his gaze fixed on the worn carpet beneath his feet. "It's not safe there," he muttered. "My dad won't take the Wolfsbane, and when the transformation happens, he—he's not himself. Even though the Wolfsbane makes me calm, he's not. He's scary, Hermione. I can't do it anymore."

Hermione's heart ached for him. "I understand," she said gently. "And you're right to be scared. But running away won't make it any better. Your parents love you, Philip, and they're worried about you. They want you to be safe like you want them to."

Philip's shoulders slumped, and for a moment, he looked like the scared sixteen-year-old boy he was. "I know, but what if something happens? What if I can't control it or my dad can't? I don't want to hurt them."

Hermione glanced over at Joseph, who watched the exchange with a careful, measured expression. The older werewolf had been through more full moons than Philip could imagine, and his calm presence was reassuring. She knew that if there was any place in the wizarding world where Philip could be safe tonight, it was here.

"Joseph has offered to let you stay here tonight," Hermione said, sounding as reassuring as possible. "He's experienced, and he can help you. You'll be alone in a room upstairs and safe, and no one will get hurt. We'll put a magical barrier around the room, and the Aurors will make sure nothing goes wrong."

Philip looked up at her, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "What about my parents? They'll be mad that I didn't come home."

Hermione shook her head. "I'll talk to them, Philip. They'll understand. We'll figure out what to do after tonight, but for now, it's important that you're somewhere you won't be in danger or dangerous to other people."

He hesitated, biting his lip. Hermione could see the fear in his eyes, the anxiety of being torn between wanting to protect his parents and the real fear of the full moon. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he nodded.

"Okay," he whispered. "I'll stay."

Hermione let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding.

She stood up and looked over at Joseph, who gave her a nod of approval. The Aurors, still tense and on edge, seemed to relax slightly as the situation de-escalated.

"I'll make sure he's settled," Joseph said, stepping forward. "We'll get the room warded, and I'll keep an ear out for him through the night."

"Thank you, Joseph," Hermione said again, her voice full of gratitude. "I can't tell you how much this means."

Joseph waved her off. "He's a good kid. We'll get through this."

Hermione turned back to Philip, now standing, looking more composed. "I'll let your parents know where you are. They'll be worried, but I'll ensure they understand you're safe."

Philip nodded, and he managed a small, shaky smile for the first time that evening. "Thanks, Hermione."

She squeezed his shoulder gently. "Anytime. Now, go with Joseph, and try not to worry. We'll handle the rest."

As Joseph led Philip away, Hermione felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her. The day had been long, and the emotional toll of worrying about Philip had left her drained. But there was still one more thing she needed to do.

She walked over to Harry, standing near the door with the other Aurors. He looked at her, his expression softening.

"You did good, Hermione," he said quietly.

Hermione gave him a tired smile. "Thanks, Harry. I hope he'll be okay."

"He will be," Harry assured her. "Joseph knows what he's doing. And you made the right call."

She nodded, though the weight of the situation still pressed heavily on her. "I need to see his parents and tell them where he is."

"I'll go with you," Harry offered. "We can apparate together."

Hermione was grateful for the offer. She knew the conversation with the Goodwins wouldn't be easy, but with Harry by her side, she felt more capable of handling it. As they prepared to leave the Avery Estate, she glanced back at the house, hoping this night would pass without any more complications.

"I'm going to be in so much trouble," Hermione groaned as they made to leave.

"I'll cover for you," said Harry. "Philip needed you here tonight."

Hermione nodded, hopeful that this situation wouldn't further derail her position with the DRCMC.

Two Days Later—
Monday, July 2, 2007
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
The Ministry for Magic

The full moon was over, and Philip had returned home to his parents.

Mrs. Goodwin was relieved, and Mr. Goodwin was incandescently angry when she and Harry showed up at their home less than an hour before moonrise on Friday. There hadn't been much time to argue, though. Harry had taken Mr. Goodwin aside and, with a quietly furious voice, had talked the man down. Soon after, Mr. Goodwin fled into their reinforced basement without another word. Mrs. Goodwin had just been thankful that Philip was safe.

Hermione only hoped the family could solve their difficulties before the next full moon. She had received an owl from Joseph, though, that Philip was welcome at the Avery Estate whenever needed. He had even given Philip the number of his own Muggle cell phone, and he provided that number for Hermione as well, which surprised and delighted her. It was so rare for wizards to keep Muggle technology.

Hermione stepped into the Auror's office. The acrid tang of lingering potion fumes wafted out of the open door to the evidence room. She wrinkled her nose, glad she was set to patrol with Galway again today.

Other than the incident with Philip, the full moon had passed over the weekend without another attack anywhere in Europe, a fact that caused Hermione to let out a breath that she did not know she had been holding in for months. That was two cycles without a werewolf attack. The most optimistic part of her considered this a landmark on the road back to progress: keep things calm, be patient, and then—finally—get back on track toward equal rights.

As Hermione made her way towards the assignment board, she spotted Harry and Robards, deep in conversation as they passed. Harry's usually bright green eyes focused on something beyond her, his expression tense and preoccupied. When he noticed her, he raised a hand in a quick wave, but his gaze never fully met hers. It was strange of him, and Hermione felt a slight pang of unease.

Usually, Harry would have stopped to chat or offered her a reassuring smile. But today, he seemed distracted.

Brushing off the odd interaction, Hermione continued across the bustling office. As she approached the central corridor, she caught sight of Galway walking toward the lifts with Megan Wang. They were suited up in full uniform. Hermione felt a flicker of confusion.

"Galway!" she called out, taking a few steps toward him. He turned, his expression neutral. "Where are you off to?"

"Patrol," he replied, adjusting the strap of his wand holster. "Auror Wang and I are covering the Northern Quarter today."

Hermione frowned. "I thought we were supposed to be on patrol together."

Galway shrugged, glancing at Megan, who checked her supply belt one last time before heading out. "Guess they had other plans."

Hermione nodded slowly. Something felt off, but she couldn't quite grasp it. She turned back towards the assignment board, hoping for some clarity.

The board was an old, enchanted relic, with names and assignments appearing and disappearing as the day's tasks were distributed. She scanned the list, her heart sinking when she saw her name:

Granger, H. – Mail Inspection Duty

Mail inspection was a task typically reserved only for when the Post Office was desperate for help. It was a tedious job that involved sifting through an endless stream of letters and packages to ensure nothing dangerous or cursed slipped through the cracks.

She stood there momentarily, staring at her name on the board, feeling the weight of disappointment settle heavily on her shoulders. The buzz of the office seemed to fade into the background as she grappled with her frustration.

Hermione turned away from the board, her gaze drifting back towards Harry's retreating form as he and Robards disappeared into a meeting room. Something was off. With a resigned sigh, Hermione made her way towards the mailroom.

Three Days Later—
Wednesday, July 4, 2007

The Mail Room of the Ministry for Magic was not where Hermione Granger had envisioned spending the better part of her week. The small, windowless space was crammed with shelves stacked high with packages, parcels, and letters, all of which she was tasked with inspecting for curses, hexes, and illegal substances. She'd been at it for three straight days, each more tedious than the last.

Hermione sighed as she flicked her wand over yet another letter addressed to Harry James Potter, Senior Auror. Ridiculous pink hearts surrounded the words. Like the last three, this one was glowing faintly with a poorly cast love charm. She gave it a cursory glance before tossing it into the trash bin. The paper erupted in flames as it fell into the metal can, the charm disintegrating along with the rest of the garbage—honestly, the nerve of people.

" Harry," she muttered, shaking her head as she grabbed the following package on the pile. The entire day had been like this—trashy love charms, goo-filled parcels, and an assortment of pointless fan mail.

At first, she'd assumed her Auror Mail Duty was just part of the regular rotation, but she was sure this was no coincidence by now. She knew that Octavia and Robards wanted her off cases with werewolves, but the emergency with Philip was an extenuating circumstance—having her on mailroom duty would not have prevented her from stepping in.

She let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing her temples, as she eyed another suspicious envelope. This one shimmered with a glamor charm that made the writing twist and shift under her gaze.

Becoming a temporary junior Auror had seemed like a good idea at the time—a way to gain new skills and lend a hand where she could be useful. But with every cursed parcel and bewitched letter she inspected, it felt more and more like she was wasting her time. All she wanted was to return to her regular duties as Deputy Head of the DRCMC, where she could do something truly useful. Something important.

A noise behind her made her pause. Hermione looked up to see a man standing in the doorway of the Mail Room, looking thoroughly confused. He was lanky, with a slightly hunched posture, and his eyes darted around the room as though he wasn't entirely sure how he'd ended up there.

Daniel Kirkpatrick.

"Daniel?" Hermione called, lowering her wand as she watched him. "Are you alright?"

His head whipped toward her, relief flooding his face as he hurried over. "Oh, thank Merlin, Hermione! I've been looking for you everywhere. They said you were down here today."

Hermione frowned, setting the suspicious note aside. "What's wrong?"

Daniel took a breath, glancing nervously around the room before lowering his voice. "It's Mr. Anderson. He's given me … this impossible task and I don't know what to do."

Hermione bristled at the sound of Anderson's name. She had not seen him since leaving the DRCMC last month, and she hadn't allowed herself to consider her suspicion that Anderson had leaked her unpublished, confidential draft memo to The Prophet. In the back of her mind, she was concerned about their working relationship once she inevitably returned to the DRCMC, but … that was a consideration for another day.

"What did Gerald give you?" she asked, dreading the answer.

Daniel shifted uncomfortably. "He wants me to draft a new law about mermaids. Something about regulating their interactions with wizards on the coastlines and whether they can use enchantments when near non-magical vessels. But—" He swallowed, looking even more lost. "But there are all these conflicting statutes, and I don't know where to start, and Anderson said it was urgent but didn't give me any guidance, and you remember how long Cardiff took—"

Hermione's jaw clenched. She did not mention that Cardiff took so long because Daniel was ostensibly flirting with the Chieftain's daughter and refusing to advance the diplomatic conversation.

Her personal opinions aside, she knew exactly what this was. Anderson wasn't giving Daniel real work—he was giving him busy work. With the current Wizengamot schedule, the Warlocks would not take on any non-urgent legislation—and all creature legislation was non-urgent to them—until the following calendar year.

Anderson gave Daniel a task to keep him out of the department's actual cases, which made her furious. Although she may have been frustrated with Daniel's bumbling tendencies at times, he was eager enough, and she had always tried to help him along, to give him things that would help him improve. Now, Anderson was sidelining him.

"Of course he did," Hermione muttered, half to herself. She pulled her beaded bag from the chair beside her and began rummaging.

Daniel watched her wide-eyed, clearly unsure of what she was doing.

"Just a moment," she said, pulling out a heavy book with a satisfied huff. "Here. This should help." She handed him the thick volume on Mermish case law, flipping it open to reveal a section written in Mermish.

Daniel's eyes lit up with recognition. "Oh! Thank you! I didn't even think to look for something like this." He skimmed the page eagerly, his enthusiasm bubbling up. "You know, I can read Mermish quite well—"

"Yes, Daniel, I know," Hermione said with a small smile. After all, it was the only reason he'd been hired in the first place. And how could she forget the week they spent on that gods-forsaken dock in Cardiff with him translating for her?

He looked up at her, beaming. "Thank you! This will be a huge help. I—well, I should get back to it. Anderson's expecting the draft soon."

"Good luck, Daniel," Hermione said, watching as he hurried out of the Mail Room, clutching the book like a lifeline.

Four hours later—

The door creaked open again; this time, it wasn't Daniel stumbling in but Priscilla.

Hermione looked up in surprise. Priscilla was one of her senior analysts—diligent, sharp, and only a few years younger than Hermione. She didn't wander around the Ministry unless there was a good reason.

"Priscilla?" Hermione called, confused. "What are you doing here?"

Priscilla hurried over, looking around nervously before hastening to Hermione's side. "Daniel told me you were here," she whispered urgently.

Hermione raised an eyebrow and glanced around the room, which was otherwise empty. "There's no need to whisper. No one's here but us."

Priscilla nodded, looking slightly embarrassed, and pulled up a chair beside Hermione. "Sorry, it's just … well, the department's a mess."

Hermione's heart sank. "What's wrong?"

"It's Anderson," Priscilla said, leaning in closer as though unable to help herself. "He said the Spirit Division is low on work—"

"But that's ridiculous," Hermione cut in, her voice sharper than she'd intended. "The DMLE has had at least three new reports of poltergeist activity just this week."

Hermione had not been spying. … Much. It was within her DMLE clearance that she could access the daily intake reports.

Priscilla nodded frantically. "I know. But Anderson said it anyway and sent Winston Clark to the Goblin Liaison Office."

Hermione's eyes widened in disbelief. "But Winston is almost eighty. He's worked with ghosts and poltergeists his entire career. He doesn't know anything about goblins."

"Exactly," Priscilla said, looking exasperated. "And today, he managed to offend a representative from Gringotts—badly. The goblin stormed out before the office could negotiate a funds transfer from the Investment Office to the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Now they're saying the English National Quidditch Team might not have uniforms for the championships this summer."

Hermione groaned. "What a mess."

Priscilla bit her lip, hesitating. "I was thinking … I remember a few years ago—"

"Goblins don't like me," Hermione interrupted quickly, cutting off whatever Priscilla was about to suggest. "I robbed Gringotts, remember? I've never had much involvement with the Liaison Office because of that."

Priscilla blinked. "But you apologized or something, didn't you?"

Hermione sighed deeply, lowering her hand and looking at Priscilla with a tired smile. "I … not exactly. An apology doesn't mean much when you've broken into their most secure bank vault, stolen their treasures, and blown up half the place trying to escape."

Priscilla winced. "Right."

Hermione took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair, thinking for a moment. "Alright, tell Winston to return one of the haunted brooches from the Spirit Archives to the goblin he offended. If I remember correctly, a few pieces in the archive were originally goblin-made."

Priscilla nodded, clearly hanging on Hermione's every word. "And you think that'll fix it?"

"Hopefully," Hermione said with a slight shrug. "Goblins are big on ownership. Returning one of their artifacts should help smooth things over. Just one, though. Best to save the others in case this happens again. They won't mind that a spirit haunts it. Goblins consider imbibed power as part of the patina of their metalwork."

Priscilla jotted down a note on a scrap of parchment. "Got it."

"Then," Hermione added, "encourage Winston to … take some sick days. At least until the investment transfer is complete. If Anderson is against monitoring the poltergeists, you might suggest he work on some of the audits of haunted mansions in the Highlands that we'd planned last year. That's more his area, and he should focus on it. He's getting close to retirement, and it would be a disaster if he left without recording some of that institutional knowledge."

Priscilla looked relieved, nodding enthusiastically. "I'll tell him. Thank you, Hermione. Really."

"You're welcome," Hermione replied, giving her a small smile. "Good luck sorting this out."

Priscilla stood, still frazzled but comforted by Hermione's advice. "Thanks again. I'll get right on it." She turned to leave, then paused at the door. "And … I miss you."

Hermione waved her off with a half-hearted chuckle. "I miss you too, Priscilla."

As the door closed behind Priscilla, Hermione leaned back in her chair again, staring at the ceiling.

Two Days Later—
Friday, July 6, 2007
Number Twelve Grimmauld Place

"I'm just saying," Hermione said, her voice edged with irritation, "I didn't spend years fighting dark wizards with you to end up inspecting mail for suspicious packages. No one has mail inspection duty for five straight days. They literally ran out of mail for me."

Harry, sitting across from her at the Grimmauld kitchen table, sighed. "They ran out of mail?"

"I'm incredibly efficient," Hermione sniffed, crossing her arms.

Harry ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "Hermione, you're banned from the biggest investigation, which limits your options. And then, after what happened with the firedrake—"

Hermione snapped, her frustration boiling over. "That wasn't my fault! Galway stunned himself, and I had the situation completely under control."

"And then with the moon—"

"You agreed I had been right to intervene," Hermione cut in. "I couldn't stand by and wait when Philip's mother was frantic with me on the phone."

Harry sighed deeply, wearily. "I know. You did the right thing. It's just a big old mess with Madam Randall, Robards, the Minister, and the DIMC. I want to protect you from getting into a situation where they would reprimand you or—or punish you. I know how much your career means to you, Hermione."

"I know. But," Hermione huffed, "What's the real issue?"

Harry sighed wearily, hesitating for a moment before giving her a weary look. "The DIMC is exerting its influence. They are trying to control every aspect of the Night of Terror investigation, including micro-managing the DMLE roster. They insisted not only on keeping you off the case but on keeping you off the street altogether."

"What?" Hermione hissed. "How can they do that? Why would they do that?"

"They're steamrolling Robards in the interdepartmental meetings, throwing the fact that we have no leads in his face and insisting on trying it their way."

"And I'm in the mailroom because of that?"

"Not just that. It's a whole confluence of things. Issues with other Aurors who have had poor interactions with lycanthropy-related cases in the past. I've never seen interference like this."

"Who's doing this, exactly?"

"Warlock Allard and Rosenquist the head of the DIMC are glued together," Harry admitted. "Plus Blaise Zabini and the French Ambassador De La Mar."

Hermione recalled Zabini's words to her in May when Hermione was frantic and worried about Harry. You will not win here, Granger.

Hermione paused, "Do you think I'm making a huge mistake?" She got the sense from Harry's tone that her being in the DMLE at all was an issue. "Not just taking a three-month vacation? Or doing … something else."

"That's not what I said," Harry said, and if Hermione had to describe the look on his face, it would be guilt.

"It's how you feel, though, isn't it?" Hermione retorted. She suddenly could not get out her words coherently, conflicted as she was. "You don't want me in the field after— … but how about your injury—"

"No. Your injury," Harry cut in. "You were injured, too, in case you've forgotten. Two days in the hospital. It happened less than a year ago, and you weren't even an Auror then."

"Well, guess what? I don't want you in the field risking yourself, but I would never ask that of you, Harry."

Harry removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Hermione, you have more talent and—bloody survival in your little finger than most of the department put together. I think while you're working with us from now on—just to have some quieter assignments…"

Hermione huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "I've been milling through expired potion packages in the mailroom for a week. Before that, I was sent to save a kneazle from a tree."

"You're a junior auror on temporary reassignment," Harry replied. "Don't you want to return to Magical Creatures once your leave ends?"

"Yes," Hermione muttered. "But I don't see why I can't be of real help while I'm in the DMLE."

"You are helping," Harry said. "You're covering things unrelated to werewolves—by requirement—and freeing up more staffing to the investigation. Which is going nowhere, anyway," Harry added, revealing some of his frustration. "And now this whole fiasco with the rune stones just got much worse."

"What happened?" asked Hermione. She had missed the last staff briefing because, for the second time in her life, she had opened mail with undiluted bubotuber pus and had to run to First Aid to get an antidote. Somehow, it was worse when the mail was not even addressed to her.

"Another stone turned up at the International Portkey Departures Center. It knocked out three staff members and caused twenty portkeys to leave without passengers. We're lucky it didn't attach itself to one of the portkeys and cause another international incident."

"It's been months since the last stone," Hermione recalled. "Is there any pattern?"

"No, just a bunch of dead ends. I—I'm a bit at a loss. Robards is under tons of pressure from the minister. And all this craziness has resurrected old complaints—Kingsley even brought up the fact that Dolohov and Rowle have been at large for years. I'm worried that Robards might get replaced or pushed out. Which would be a terrible idea because he's the only one people listen to."

Hermione reached over to grab Harry's hand, a bit of her previous anger fading. It did not escape her that the lycanthropy scare took a lot out of Harry. Even though she was frustrated with her situation, she didn't want to take it out on him.

She said, "It's not your fault, Harry. You're working so hard, and I don't mean to add to your stress. I'll keep inspecting cursed mail. … I'm just … frustrated. The Ministry has to stop treating Joseph Dearborn and the other werewolves like criminals," she added bitterly.

"There hasn't been an attack since the mandatory curfew and supervised transformations were set in place," Harry replied, squeezing her hand and keeping his gaze on the tabletop between them. He hesitated for a long moment before speaking again. "Robards told me this could become a permanent policy. They're already talking about hiring more part-time guards."

Hermione bristled. "They can't do this forever."

Harry scoffed. "You should be in some of the DIMC meetings I've attended recently. Warlock Allard recently suggested that if we keep this up long enough, all the werewolves will eventually die."

"He didn't," Hermione uttered in shock, dropping Harry's hand.

"Don't worry. Madam Randall gave him a piece of her mind—" Harry quickly assuaged her, and Hermione was grateful that Octavia continued the fight, even though Hermione had disappointed her. Harry said, "But it speaks to the mood, you know? We're at a stoppage point, and everyone is very shaky."

Hermione could not help but say, "Harry, you should speak up, too. It means something coming from you."

"Who said I didn't?" Harry replied, annoyance seeping into his tone, and Hermione immediately felt guilty. "I'm doing the best I can. These meetings are firestorms, Hermione. Everyone is shouting, and it's hard to get a word out. We must be patient and hope no one gets hurt at the next full moon because we've got bloody nothing to go on! I can't just bulldoze over the issue."

Hermione's eyes flashed with anger at the word "patient." The memory of Malfoy's condescending tone only fueled her resentment.

Harry seemed to sense her emotions, and his face softened slightly, but his voice remained firm. "I know it's not fair, Hermione, but if we keep pushing right now, we might worsen things."

Hermione almost growled. Sensing her unease, Crookshanks mewled, appearing as if from thin air. He jumped on the table in front of Hermione and rubbed his fuzzy face against the side of Hermione's arm where it rested on the wood, and she smiled, bringing up one hand to scratch behind his ear.

"I see," she murmured. "You only spend time with me when I'm upset. I guess that's better than nothing."

Silence hung between Harry and Hermione as they sipped at their tea. Hermione's mind began to wander. She felt inept. Impotent. As someone who always knew what to do, or research, or say—how did she get into this position? Red tape followed her wherever she went.

People liked her—mostly.

People respected her—she thought.

People needed her—so they said.

Her mum always told her she was good at everything and that the whole world was open to her. However, Hermione knew that reality was slightly different from that utopia. She could do anything, academically, but the gap between potential and reality was widening every year.

Choosing to work for the Ministry after Hogwarts had felt like the right thing at the time, especially in Magical Creatures, where she hoped to make a difference for house elves, werewolves, and other marginalized beings. She was eager to change the society that had allowed the rise of not one but two Dark Lords in one generation. But it seemed people forgot the lessons of war far too quickly.

"I thought," she began, leaning her chin in her hand, eyes drifting to the scratched surface of the kitchen table between her and Harry, "that after everything we fought for—everything we lost—the Ministry would change. I believed that." Crookshanks purred softly beside her, brushing his bushy tail against her arm as if in agreement.

Harry sat across from her, listening quietly as he had done a thousand times before. He was inherently patient, and Hermione was grateful for that and jealous of it. She sighed, "Why is bureaucracy so oppressive?"

"What are you going to do?" Harry asked softly.

Hermione blinked, surprised by the simplicity of the question. She hadn't expected him to ask. The truth was, she didn't know. Or rather, she didn't want to admit that she did know.

"I can't just sit there and do nothing," she finally said, her voice steadier now. "If I can't work on the Night of Terror case or publicly advocate for the rights of werewolves, then I'll have to find another way to make a difference. I can make things easier for you … and the Aurors."

"The other Aurors," Harry cut in. "You are one of us, even if you've been doing the mailroom for a week, Hermione."

Hermione leaned forward slightly, her mind beginning to click into problem-solving mode. "The DIMC is interfering, but who handles the Auror scheduling?"

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, I've been doing it lately. Dawlish is supposed to, as Head Auror, but you know how he is—off consulting with other Ministries eight days every week. He passes everything off to me. Then Robards is supposed to approve everything, but he barely glances at the paperwork."

"Let me do it."

Harry looked a bit skeptical. "What? The scheduling?"

"Yes," Hermione insisted. "You know I'm good at that kind of thing. I can organize it so you and the Aurors have proper shifts, rotations, and backup when needed. You'll be more efficient, less stressed, and that'll free you up for more important tasks."

Harry hesitated.

"I'll keep assigning myself to the mailroom," Hermione conceded, though it caused her some internal pain. "No favoritism."

He studied her for a moment, then sighed with a small smile. "All right, Hermione."

She smiled back, grateful and a little relieved. It wasn't the grand change she'd once imagined, but it was a start. If she couldn't revolutionize the system from the top, she'd start from the ground up. One task at a time.

"Great," she said with a satisfied nod. "Now, go get me the current caseload and scheduling roster, and I'll see what kind of mess I need to fix."

Up Next: Draco takes on an apprentice. Plus, the return of Wimbledon!