A/N: And so, we finally discover what has Hermione in such a strange mood. Enjoy!
~*~
For the first time since he had come to St. Mungo's as an apprentice, Harry bade Healer Smethwick a quick farewell and hurried off the moment his wristwatch chimed half past seven, leaving the older Healer staring down the corridor in confusion. Harry had a reputation as a hard worker, and it was normal to see him helping out around the hospital until eight, nine, even ten o'clock, but, as a trusted friend had once told him, sometimes there were more important things.
As he had one of the later shifts, he didn't run into anyone on his way to the men's locker room, which he supposed was for the best. He had a feeling that one confused Healer was enough for one night-they had a tendency to gossip amongst themselves.
The locker room was even smaller than the break room, but he was lucky enough to be the only one there and managed to change out of his robes and into a less conspicuous shirt and jeans, tucking his wand into his back pocket and hiding it under his jacket. A quick look in the spotted and cracked mirror on the far wall assured him that he looked like a perfectly ordinary Muggle. This done, he stepped back into the quiet corridor and made his way down to the lobby, where he would find the building's mandatory Apparation points, at a brisk walk, trying not to externalize his rush but also feeling anxious to check on Hermione. Finally, he stepped onto one of the blue tiles emblazoned with the Ministry logo and turned on his heel before being tugged through space and dropped behind a large trash bin in an alley a block from the Leaky Cauldron. Though he knew that the bin was heavily protected by Notice-Me-Not and Muggle-repelling charms, he still checked around the corner before stepping out into the alley, for fear of calling down the Ministry's wrath.
He slipped out of the alley and onto Charing Cross Road, blending in easily with the Muggles as he passed them on his way to the doorway that only he could see. The door, much more polished now than it had been the first time he had walked through it, opened silently-also a change-and he stepped into the quiet, dark pub. Two wizards in Magical Law Enforcement robes raised their hands in a greeting that he returned with a polite smile, already focussed on the only figure at the bar. He knew, even from the doorway, that it was Hermione. Who else would be wearing Ministry robes and tucking an unruly piece of very curly hair behind one ear?
He took the stool beside her. Behind the bar, he caught sight of Neville giving him a grateful smile from around the kitchen door.
"Hey," he said, lightly touching Hermione's shoulder in greeting. She turned to him and smiled slowly.
"Oh, hey," she replied. Her cheeks were very red. "Didn't think I'd see you here," she added, slurring a little.
"Yeah, funny how that worked out," he said, slowly pulling the bottle of Firewhiskey that sat on the bar away from Hermione. "So, how's everything?"
She frowned. "Not so great."
"What's wrong?"
He was surprised to see a tear splash onto the polished wood of the bar before she put her head down on her crossed arms. He stood up and rested a hand between her shoulders. He could feel her shaking a little as she wept, and something hot swelled in his belly, making him wonder if he was going to need to brush up on his duelling skills in the near future.
A few minutes passed before she finally sat up and wiped her tears away with the back of one hand. She was quiet for a moment, looking down into her glass, before she murmured. "I got fired."
Harry blinked.
"You were fired?" he repeated in disbelief. If either of them was ever going to be fired, he would have thought that it would be him. Hermione was a good worker, polite and respectful, not to mention determined and passionate about her job. Harry could not imagine her doing anything to warrant even the smallest reprimand.
She nodded.
"What happened?" he asked softly.
"I didn't do anything wrong," she said.
"I'm sure you didn't," Harry said soothingly. "What did they tell you?"
She sniffled. "Nothing, just left a notice on my desk. Bloody cold. But everybody knows why, anyway."
"Why?" he asked.
She put her head back down. "'Cause I'm just a Mudblood," she muttered.
He tensed. The word seemed even worse when it came from her lips. "Hermione…"
"It's true; they're clearing all of us out. The purebloods are getting all kinds of support again, with Monroe and everything, and the Minister's a big baby."
Harry frowned. Patrick Monroe had been all over the Prophet for months after he rallied a group of Muggleborn extremists-the anti-pureblood movement having arisen shortly after the end of the war against Voldemort-and eventually led them to assassinate a distant relative of the Malfoys. The pureblood backlash had been intense and was still going strong, supported by a maliciously smug "We told you so" sentiment, and the Minister seemed to be deflecting the heat onto the Aurors in the interest of self-preservation, allowing the Prophet to blame them for Monroe's freedom despite their round-the-clock efforts to find him. There had been weeks, Harry knew, when Hermione had not gone home for days, operating on coffee and whatever fitful naps she could find time to take at her desk.
"So his solution is to fire perfectly good Aurors instead of letting them catch Monroe and actually cut off the source of the problem?"
She sniffled again. "People are saying that the Muggleborn Aurors are slowing things down, hiding evidence, trying to help him, because, y'know, having the same magical blood as he does makes all of us agree with murder." She hiccoughed and reached for her glass again, but he caught her hand in his and held it.
"People are idiots, 'Mione," he said as he put an arm around her and gently guided her off of her stool, steadying her when she swayed a little. "They just think and do whatever the Prophet tells them is best."
"Like parrots," she said, putting her head on his shoulder. "Really stupid parrots. They should have one as their mascot. Big green parrot in bloody Slytherin robes."
"Exactly," Harry agreed. He nodded to Neville, who gave him a thumbs-up from the kitchen. "You should ask Dean to draw one for the Prophet."
A tiny smile tugged at the corners of her mouth before fading away.
"'M tired, Harry," she murmured.
"I know," he said. "That's why you're going home." He shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to her. "Here, put this on."
"Why?"
"It's cold outside, and Muggles aren't accustomed to seeing people wandering around wearing robes."
"Oh, right." She put on the jacket with what looked like great concentration and then laid her head on his shoulder again. "There."
"Great," he said as he led her to the door. The cold blast of air that hit them when he opened it made her blink and seemed to revive her a little, for which Harry was grateful, since it let him lead her down the street and to the Apparation point without too much wobbling and weaving. When they arrived, he put his arms around her waist, not sure that she would be able to hold on to him on her own.
"What're you doing?" she murmured from his shoulder. She seemed unbothered, but he felt his cheeks grow warm all the same.
"We have to Apparate, 'Mione," he reminded her. "I don't want to lose you along the way."
"Mm, okay," she said, and Harry-still blushing-quickly Apparated away with her in tow.