Cry Out, Curlew

Chapter One

-Prologue-

If you will not allow them to live like men, why are you surprised when they survive as beasts?

-Hermione Jean Granger

Hermione Jean Granger, premier witch of her age, had worked at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures in the Being division for only three months and she despised it. The bureaucracy, the hypocrisy, and the stubborn resistance to reform were the same under Kingsley's administration as it had been in the era of the buffoons that had preceded him. She understood that centuries upon centuries of tradition could not be changed in a single day, but Hermione was beginning to think she could achieve nothing here.

Common sense might tell her that the words of a very new member of the office might not carry much weight, but the response from her coworkers to her ideas told her what she'd feared. The people in this office were often transferred here for disciplinary issues or sheer incompetence and those that were here by choice displayed attitudes eerily reminiscent of Macnair—anything less than human (and that description seemed to cover an unsettling wide array of creatures capable of complex and sentient thought, as well as uncontrollable monsters) needed harsh laws to "keep them in their place." Punishments were harsh and immediate, often after only the scantiest of investigations. Even when investigations were carried out, they were by necessity brief, for the department was perpetually underfunded and now was chronically understaffed as dozens of members of the Ministry were on suspension until their actions during the previous administration could be investigated.

Silently, behind tall Occlumentic walls, she often thought, It's no wonder so many other beings sided with Voldemort. Especially in the case of werewolves, whose unfortunate curse only manifested itself three days a month, yet spelled the end of all opportunity for advancement in wizarding society. Made less than wage slaves, employment of any kind was difficult for them to procure. It had been a situation not unlike Hitler's Germany-a man with charisma and vision had been born into an era of desperation and had taken full advantage of a public willing to believe in him and his ideals.

But these were all only subconscious thoughts as she marched into the department on a chilly August morning. Despite what one might think if one had known her at Hogwarts, her briefcase did not bulge with papers, nor did she have a stack of books piled high as her nose, just waiting to topple. After Hermione's discovery of the undetectable extension charm and liberal use of it during the war, it had become second nature to be prepared to use her wand at a moment's notice, something impossible when trying to juggle tomes twice the weight of dearly departed Crookshanks. Now she could carry a virtual library of legal texts, back issues of Ministry decrees, and select reference tomes with doing permanent and irreversible damage to her vertebrae.

Hermione's suit was neat but not costly. Wages were the bane of low-grade civil servants even in the magical world and she barely made enough to cover the payments on a now defunct potions shop with a second floor flat that she now called "home". But Hermione was mostly indifferent to her pay, for it wasn't material gain that had led her to the Ministry. Being a popular war heroine and holding the best N.E.W.T. scores of the decade, she'd had far more lucrative offers from the private sector. She'd turned them all away politely, caught up in her dream of making a real difference and the only place she could do that was within these hallowed halls.

After seven years of an education as unlike a normal Hogwarts career as a wizarding curriculum was from a Muggle one, Hermione ought to have known better. But Voldemort had been defeated and though their losses had been significant, they hadn't been insurmountable. She'd been as caught up in their victory as anyone. Things would be different now. But nothing had changed, not really.

And that was infuriating, more so than being the easily dismissible new member of her department. The Anti-Muggleborn legislation had been thorough and it had passed like plague into law as panic gripped Wizarding Britain. Muggleborns could not exist in the magical world without sponsors. If they were employed, they were subject to a different rate of pay than their pureblood peers. And they could be expelled from the magical world in a heartbeat. The first and the last had been quickly repealed, obviously, but there were still significant clauses still in effect. And those clauses, now that the reform-mania had quieted and more cautious minds ruled the day, were being repealed at the speed of arthritic turtles. The cause of Muggleborns was close to Hermione's heart, but the sheer time devoted to examining every bill pertaining to Muggleborns passed during the Thicknesse administration meant less time was given to other beings who faced near total alienation from magical culture.

However, Kingsley was not Thicknesse and he was leaning very hard on his Wizengamot to institute immediate reform to prevent smaller uprisings in Voldemort's wake. Any creature classified as a Being under the code of magical law was eligible for employment and providing basic qualifications were met, interviews within the Ministry had to be granted to minority races such as werewolves, vampires, or veela. There had been some sneering going on about Kingsley instituting hiring quotas next, but Hermione doubted that Kingsley could risk his current majority in the Wizengamot by instituting such a controversial policy.

Her modest heels clicked against the flagstones as she strode past the partially open doors of Nigel Brimble's office. He headed the Being Department, but it was not his voice that pierced the quiet hum that was the sound of the Ministry preparing for another long day. "I'm afraid we can't hire one of your kind in this department," the high-pitched voice of Pippa Parfit, Mr. Brimble's secretary, simpered. "It simply can't be done. It would be a conflict of interest, you see."

Those words pricked Hermione's formidable curiosity and she paused just beyond the door. A low, reasonable voice answered Parfit. "I won't allow my condition to interfere with my work."

"No, no, it simply cannot be done," Parfit reiterated. "Given the sensitive nature of our work and the cases in our care, many of which involve the punishment of your race for crimes committed under the orders of You-Know-Who, I cannot in good conscience allow you on our staff. And I'm certain Mr. Brimble would agree," she added primly.

Who died and promoted you to Human Resources? Hermione thought darkly. The upstanding blood purists certainly committed their share of crimes. By your logic, we shouldn't allow purebloods to work in magical law enforcement. The scar on her forearm, a permanent reminder of her "place" in the Wizarding world, gave a brief twinge of phantom pain. She ignored it, for the wound was long healed. And she hadn't the courage yet to probe the deeper scar it had left.

Before that woman, Mudblood had been only a schoolboy's taunt.

But before her thoughts could turn too far inward, Parfit spoke again. "Besides, your kind needs only blood to live, don't they? And the Society for the Tolerance of Vampires has programs to place you in low-cost housing. So surely you could look elsewhere for employment. Somewhere rather less public?"

Hermione's eyes narrowed and she half-pivoted on her heels to glare at the door. And who would grant a vampire an interview without being required to do so? We're still in a state of recovery. The only offers of employment he'd be likely to receive would be for jobs that were at best unsavory.

When a soft, "Please," met her ears, Hermione's ability to not interfere evaporated and she knocked briskly on the doorframe, entering before an invitation was issued.

Pasting an expression of surprise on her face, she said, "Ah, Ms. Parfit. I was hoping to speak with Mr. Brimble, but I suppose that you'll do as well."

Noting the woman's flabbergasted expression with satisfaction, Hermione forged ahead without ever once glancing at the being who sat across from her. "I understand that it's reasonable to share a single secretary as junior members of the department, but poor Ms. Cooper was already complaining about being overburdened before I arrived. And, let us be blunt, I process more paperwork than most of the senior members of this department. If anyone needs an assistant, it is I. Please consider this a formal request."

Parfit's puffy face turned deep red and she spluttered. "That's outrageous!"

"Outrageous? My productivity rate is unmatched. If I had an assistant, it's quit feasible I might even make progress on the record room. You know that the legal department threatened to make a formal complaint if they were involved in another case where we'd lost another being's paperwork. And just last month Magical Law Enforcement wanted to hold us accountable for the vampire rampage in Southwark. What little reputation this department has is at stake, Ms. Parfit. Surely there must be room in the budget to protect that. And it's not as if I'd require specialized skills for the position. Entry-level, minimum wage. Basic filing skills, the ability to take dictation, and a willingness to run errands. You could almost recruit off the street."
During her speech, the fussily-dressed woman had puffed up so that she resembled a toad. "You, Miss Granger, are a junior member of this department. You do not," her voice went even higher than usual, approaching a screech, "get to do things such as march into this office, demand we hire someone, and expect that your request will even be considered. No matter who your friends are."

"I think," Hermione said, voice low, for she was somewhat ashamed of this tactic but wasn't unwilling to use it, just as she would have been content should the centaurs have killed Umbridge, "that you ought to take a moment to reconsider, Ms. Parfit. After all, perhaps my friends wouldn't appreciate your interview technique. At exactly what point did this gentleman fail his interview? Was it the moment you realized he was a vampire?" Hermione stepped closer to the older woman. "That kind of behavior is illegal nowadays, Ms. Parfit. Oh, I know well enough that it's hardly an offense that people are usually prosecuted for, but I find it upsetting. Forgetting for a moment my junior status, what do you think the weight of a request by Hermione Granger might be?"

She saw understanding dawn on the face of her opponent. "There aren't any free assistants at present," Parfit said tightly. "You'll have to speak to Mr. Brimble if you want to interview for one."

Hermione allowed herself to smile faintly, sensing victory. "As I said, one might almost interview off the street. Assuming he didn't meet the exacting standards of the position you were interviewing him for, perhaps this gentleman here might meet mine. You shouldn't worry," she said with saccharine sweetness. "Mr. Roget's position has been open since he retired. Now, I'll trust your judgment-taking into consideration my requirements, is this gentleman suitable?"

Parfit trembled with angle, but at last she managed to force an affirmation through her lips.

A victorious smile stole over Hermione's face, but was quickly quashed. "Excellent. Then we might as take care of the preliminary paperwork now." For a moment Hermione thought she had pushed too hard and Parfit would show signs of rebellion, but she grudgingly shoved a stack of forms into Hermione's hands and stalked out of the office.

Now, for the first time since she'd entered the room, she looked at the being whom she'd defended instinctively. A quick glance at his resume revealed a name and confirmed his being status: Alastair Lloyd, vampire. He was almost cadaverously thin, cheeks gaunt, dark hair almost falling into his eyes. Physically, he had died in his late twenties, if she was asked to speculate, though his pallor and general state of dismal health made him appear older. His suit and robes were obviously old, but they were meticulously cleaned and pressed.

"Why don't we adjourn to my office?" Hermione offered kindly.

Lloyd watched her with the nervous wariness of an abused animal, not rising from his seat until she'd already stepped toward to door. Once on his feet, it was obvious he was a great deal taller than her, which might have been unnerving had he not looked as brittle as a dry twig.

Hermione led him further into the department until she came to what had once been a disused closet, but now served her well enough as an office with the application of several long-term spatial charms. Opening the door and ushering the vampire inside, Hermione invited him to sit in the single spindly chair that did not hold three times its weight in old records.

She had settled behind her desk before Lloyd worked up the courage to meet her eyes, but his question was surprisingly direct. "What do you wish of me?" he asked.

Hermione blinked. "I will admit to perhaps a tiny bit of overstatement, but the truth is I could use an assistance. And you wouldn't have come to the Ministry if you didn't need a job. Being a vampire doesn't interfere with use of a Dicto-Quill, does it?"

For the first time, Lloyd looked startled. "I do not know."

"It will be more convenient if you can, but so long as your handwriting is legible and you're willing to take dictation by hand, it shouldn't be a problem. Your main task at present will be aiding me in the record room-the filing system isn't terribly sophisticated. The files are separated by race, then each subgroup makes use of a different system. House elves, for example, are filed under the family they're registered to, then by birth year. Vampires are sorted by Sire, then alphabetically. Werewolves are alphabetical by surname. And goblins claim that keeping their records here is a violation of their civil rights, so they keep their own records and we have to apply to see them. Or, at least, those are how the records are supposed to be filed," she grumbled.

"You actually intend to hire me on as your personal assistant," Lloyd said slowly, as if he was feeling out the shape of the words.

"I have already hired you as my assistant, so far as I am concerned," Hermione pointed out. "What sort of position were you looking for when you came here to apply?" she asked curiously.

Lloyd's hollow face with its large, large eyes had the look Sirius had sometimes worn, like he was a dog beaten down by the world, "I would have taken anything," he said softly. "The new regulations require that a vampire have a registered Sire or Master or hold gainful employment, otherwise they fall under the purview of the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures."

Hermione's eyes widened. "What? That bill should never have passed!" she protested, sorting through the papers that had been neatly tagged and stacked on opposite corners of her desk until she found the daily record of the Wizengamot proceedings. Tugging them out with such ferocity that the whole stack nearly toppled, Lloyd leaped from his seat just in time to stabilize it as Hermione began scanning the ones she hadn't found time to read yet.

There, in black and white, she found that the bill had indeed been passed into law with a significant majority. Though the dense legalese also made an allowance for wizard sponsorship of a vampire, the terms as outlined made it appear that said vampire would have to declare himself a thrall of said wizard, classing him as property rather than a being. As she read the attached tax legislation, fury sparked in her blood and tiny flares of magic, like magnesium sparks, gathered around her hands.

Lloyd's wariness had returned to his body language and Hermione forced tamped down on the hot anger. "Well," she said tightly, "that is that, then. So, you're Masterless, then?"
"Sireless," he corrected. "My Sire was killed during the war. But even if I had found a Master willing to accept me into his clutch, in these days their protection is...uncertain."

"How so?" Hermione asked curiously.

"The Masters of London have begun to disappear. Their progeny believes them dead. And when the Masters are not safe, who is?"

Shock washed over Hermione at that revelation. While her knowledge of vampires was limited to what had been taught in the classes at Hogwarts, she'd always been under the impression that while the mundane vampire was something that could be thwarted as easily as a kappa, Masters and Sires were almost different beings entirely. Not restricted by an aversion to sunlight, capable of exuding pheromones that impaired judgment in humans and demanding obedience from mundane vampires, Sires especially could be defined in a single term: apex predator. For anyone, even wizards, to kill even one represented what was almost an ecological shift.

Hermione worried at her lip as she considered the implications and possible repercussions. Harry hadn't mentioned anything, which could well mean that the cases had never been reported or simply that he wasn't privy to the information. After all, a case involving vampires would be immediately handed over to the Sub-Human Task Force. But surely, if the abductions and murders had been reported, her department ought to have been consulted to pull the records of the missing Masters.

"Miss Granger?" She'd been so busy following the threads of possibility in her mind that she didn't notice that Lloyd had been attempting to pass her a sheaf of papers that bore the seal of the Hall of Records.

"Oh, sorry," she said, flushing as she accepted them. Before she broke the seal, she knew what they were. Lineage papers. Though their record room kept the files, only the Hall of Records could issue certified copies. By law, as a vampire, Lloyd was required to present his papers to his employer. It was a safety issue, just as a werewolf would be obliged to inform an employer of his condition during his interview. Most mundane vampires did not inherit the special qualities of their makers, but upon occasion it occurred. And while some of those aberrations were only odd, some were alarming. Flesh-eaters. Hypnotists that put female veela to shame. And even a line whose bite caused a progressive necrosis that could almost literally melt the flesh from their victim's bones.

Hermione glanced over his records. His Sire had been Christian Fell, which explained his ability to take daylight employment. Most of Fell's direct progeny inherited his immunity to sunlight. As she traced the line of his descent beyond Fell with curiosity, she spoke aloud. "Though I'm flattered, these really should be presented to Mr. Brimble."

"If you will pardon my presumption, I would rather those papers be in your hands," Lloyd told her. "After all," he pointed out, "it was your decision to hire me. You have the most right to know the risks."

Hermione carefully laid his papers before her on the desk, then rose and joined him on the other side of the desk, removing the physical barrier between them. Lloyd stepped backwards, never letting her draw too near.

"And you have the same right, Mr. Lloyd. Because I do not intend to spend my entire career organizing the record room of the Being Department," she said vehemently. "I will change things. It was our society that facilitated Voldemort's rise. Every day, people live in fear of their fellow creature simply because they do not understand-!" She bit down hard on her lip, reminding herself that while she wanted Lloyd to be aware of her goals, she couldn't let herself be so carried away by her own rhetoric she drove him away.

Though the same brand of passion that had led her to create S.P.E.W. still motivated her, Hermione remembered all too well the dismal response to that campaign. She did not quite understand why other people had not taken up a cause that seemed so obvious, nor did she truly believe her approach had been wrong, but she knew that it had not worked. And Hermione Granger did not squander effort endlessly.

But, for once, Lloyd did not seem frightened, though a strange emotion lingered in his eyes. "Understanding is a difficult and uncomfortable journey," he said softly. "It is not something many people embark on willingly. But force is not the answer. Force can only build resentment."

"But if something does not change," Hermione replied, "no one will. I'll learn more about Beings than any magi-sociologist, memorize the law codes-whatever I must do to give myself the advantage. And, along the way, I believe a path, no matter how hard, will become clear. And I won't allow anyone to stand in that path."

Lloyd assessed her quietly, then he offered his hand. His skin was cool and dry, his grip undemanding yet not limp. "It will be pleasure to work with you, Miss Granger."

Hermione beamed at him. "You aren't allowed to change your mind about that later," she told him cheerfully. "Welcome to the Ministry."