Devil In His Own Way

THE INVITATION

It was an early morning in June when Hermione woke to the sound of her alarm clock buzzing on the dresser. She waved her wand at it and groaned, rolling over to pull the pillow over her face. The morning sun was filtering in through the thin white curtains that adorned the window beside her bed. On especially sunny mornings like that one, she regretted putting her bed flush against that particular wall. She made an absent promise to re-arrange the bedroom furniture once she got a break from work.

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement felt as if it was in a constant state of chaos. It had taken nearly five years, but any remaining witches and wizards who had shown sympathies to the Dark Lord's mission were almost all rounded up and charged. Much of the Ministry's success had to do with Harry—he'd risen quickly through the ranks, leading Auror missions into Wizarding Europe's furthest reaches within a few years. One mission had even taken Harry and his team into Argentina in search of a rogue group of wizards known only as  Them  to people outside of the Auror's office.

Hermione's spent most of her days in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures,  actually  working on the second floor in the Aurors offices. The remaining giants who had supported the Death Eaters during the Second Wizarding War had been rounded up and awaited sentencing. The Ministry had also discovered the last of the rogue Dementors and were reluctant to send them back to Azkaban without punishment. They had to decide how to prosecute them, and the Ministry was worried about overstepping boundaries against Magical Creatures in such a delicate time. The war was still fresh on everyone's minds, and the Ministry was determined to come out looking clean and diplomatic as ever.

Dressing quickly and shoving a piece of toast in her mouth as she ran out of the door had become Hermione's daily routine. She made it to the office just in time—8 am sharp—and headed to her desk where she knew a stack of memos and reports would be waiting. The receptionist greeted Hermione warmly as she stepped out of the lift, a smile spread across her lips. Hermione couldn't remember the witch's name for her life; the only thing she could remember about the receptionist was that she happened to date the son of one of the Aurors. They'd met at a Ministry gala or something like that.

"Good morning, Hermione," the witch stood, her high arching ponytail swaying with every movement she made. Her lips were always a unique shade of glittering pink, and her teeth were as white as the marble top to her desk. "This is Mr. Ashburn, an administrator for the Wizenmagot. He's here to discuss the sentencing of the--"

"I can take it from here, Clarice. I believe I left a memo on your desk Friday afternoon."

That was her name. Harry Potter had appeared to Hermione's left, and he stepped past her to shake the man's hand. The witched looked down at her desk and then back up at them, a soft blush on her cheeks. He shot Hermione a quick look that said  you owe me one  before he began to lead the man toward his own office. The pair walked away, and Hermione let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

She'd completely forgotten about her meeting with Mr. Ashburn. And Harry, her ever-present friend who had more than enough energy for ten Aurors, had taken it upon himself to meet the man for her.

Hermione walked into her own office and closed the door, wanting to keep everyone else out. Most of the floor was used to her door remaining closed and knew that Hermione's office was strictly appointment only. The office itself felt small, but that was due to the abundance of bookshelves that Hermione had put up around the place. Two massive, mahogany shelves stood behind her desk, and two smaller ones framed either side of the door. Two armchairs sat at an angle facing her desk, and a fern was growing rather large in the corner by the window. Off to the right sat an accent table, upon which sat her own tea set. She waved her hands over the pot and whispered the charm, her spirits lifting when steam began to waft from the spout. She poured herself a cup and got to work sorting through her inbox.