The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, forever cursed with an abysmally unmemorable name, churned it's forces like a great machine; cogs turning, steam whirling, and the tap tap tap chatter of the typewriters, scratch of pen upon the rows of desks a mile deep that extended into blackness. One could easily mistake it for some sort of prison camp; the drab uniform of its tired employees, the sniffer-dog workers with their heads bent crooked over desks full of papers about Somebody McSomebody who kept a Troll in his back garden, or dealt precious Occamy eggs to smelting companies run by terrorists. The forever hopeless hopefuls, on the grind day in day out. The ones with the pipe-dream for Magizoology, the once love for animals drowned out by years of slamming their heads in frustration against walls, the ones with a mission for justice for their fellow creatures, be it two legs or four, six or eight.

Hermione found herself in the middle of this, feet paddling frantically beneath her as she tried to keep afloat, swimming constantly against the tide of failure.

Apart from the general feeling that everyone was drowning out of existence, Hermione didn't spend much time addressing the emotional and personal needs of her colleagues, but rather on the task ahead of her. S.P.E.W, which started in fourth year after she witnessed Barty Crouch's house-elf Winky cry herself sick on account of her master's unwavering cruelty. It had been a laughing stock at school, and met with indifference from Harry and whining reluctance from Ronald. She had not, and would not let the protestation of the men in her live, specifically the latter, stop her.

Society for the Protection of Elfish Welfare, as it was officially known, had earned her a place in the department and a minor fast track. As with most cases in her life, the team which she pitched her concept to was all-white, who coughed their way awkwardly through the presentation, and asked "But what about those families with a history of elves under their care?"

It was not until the mild but commanding presence of Kingsley Shaklebolt, who had been watching from the back of the room, patiently explained that S.P.E.W was bigger than house elves, and that to ignore it would be to condone emancipation and send a rather unsavoury message to the 20% of the population who weren't white, and particularly to those who shared the complexion of Hermione and himself. Hermione gave him a wry smile. She would not have put it so kindly.

And so she found herself here, the main floor of the department for the regulation and control of magical creatures researching the case of Blonky the house elf in her overtime.

"Granger." Sung a little voice from her right as he wheeled his chair over to her desk. Small brown eyes set just too far apart, arched eyebrows and a grin that made him look like a demonic frog. All that, with being an almost-handsome despicable little prick.

"Granger, pssst!"

Came the voice again. Hermione inhaled with her eyes shut to hide the unimpressed eye-roll.

"Yes, Levin?" Hermione conceded, turning to face him with an upright posture, an icy tone in her voice.

"Have you finished Grouse's report?"

"Yes." She replied, as though it was obvious. He had ruptured her rhythm, and she was not impressed that he had brought her mind back to a task she had finished two days ago when she had things to do.

"Right, well, can I see your results? Yours are always so in depth so they are far the best for comparisons, obviously, because you are you talented."

Subtly was not Wynston's strong point. When they had first met he had asked her out for a drink. Hermione declined, naturally, and she caught him no more than five minutes later leaning on another girl's desk with that same old smirk and sweep of his hair that he called charm. But when he was milking it so much, he was obviously desperate. Lazy people got like that and there were no lows they wouldn't stoop too. Hermione felt generous enough to save him that embarrassment.

"Fine. I thought people grew out of this kind of thing." She said, pulling open her draw and passing the file to him without so much as a glance.

"Oh come on Granger, you know you love it." He said in that gravelly voice. "Nothing gives you a greater kick than to save the day from the village idiot."

As much as she despised him, his words were bitingly true. "You wish, Wynston." She replied, rolling her eyes. Wynston liked you think he was a ladies man. She didn't socialise that much with the other employees, but she could guess it was more like wishful thinking.

"First name terms, are we? What does your boyfriend call you, 'Mione'?" He asked with a grin, moistening his lips.

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Glad you got rid of him, not a fan of, you know, the hair." He said, waving his hand around his head in a loose gesture with a sincere look on his face. "Fancy a drink tonight then?" He asked, flashing a devilish grin up at her.

"Absolutely not." She said with a scoff at his punchy tactlessness.

"Come on, Hermione, you know you want to."

"I'd rather get back together with Ron than want to." Hermione snapped, a little too suddenly. By some miracle, Levin seemed to read the signs and with his hands up in resignation wheeled back to his desk. Hermione swallowed. She hadn't realised how saying that name made her feel queasy. Because the breakup had been difficult. Evenings spent in Harry's company, the boy split in two, wanting him to understand, but every time she tried to talk about it she felt a crushing weight. Ron had not taken it well. He swore, raged, and vowed not to ever talk to Hermione again. She didn't want it to be that way, but it was, and she didn't understand why it hurt so much. Why it still did.

When she looked to Levin to say something, she realised his attention was elsewhere. Hermione followed his sight line to the man approaching her desk, and her heart sank a few leagues deeper.

"Granger, slacking are you?" Called the harsh voice of the overseer who had taken a particular liking to nagging Hermione like an impatient dog. She smiled politely, and made a gesture of returning her gaze to her desk. Between the chatter of the typewriters and 'things to do' she hoped he'd move on and badger another employee, but she knew he wouldn't. "Better. You can take these" he said, lazily tipping a two inch thick file of papers onto her desk.

"I have overtime to work on my own project."

"House-elves, wasn't it?"

"Yes, and-"

"Do these." He said with an almost-growl and a harsh look on those stony features before walking off to collect his coat. In all her six months at the ministry, she had never seen Dreyev delegate work to anyone else. It seemed to mirror that first potions class (and many to come) when Snape took an immediate disliking to Harry because of his fame, and to her because of her thirst for knowledge. The concept of her own 'fame' post-war was not something the had gotten accustomed to, but people like Dreyev reminded her of it daily with his little maxims of bitterness. He had since done everything he could to stop her from succeeding, be it overloading her or belittling her in front of colleagues; he did not take a shine to whom the papers called 'the golden girl'.

Hermione sighed, and flicked through the new pile of papers, and reached over to her coffee when a single phrase caught her attention. 'Department of mysteries'. Theodore. Her eyes scanned the rest of the page, and with a quick and sheepish glance around her to check no one was watching, slipped it into her coat pocket for later. She was sure that a page on the most secretive department in the ministry wasnt supposed to end up on a junior's desk, but it had, and she would seize the opportunity with her arms open.