Hildegarde winced as she rose to her feet, clutching her stomach. The wounds beneath the charmed bandages shrieked and yawned, yet the elderly witch let out little more than a sharp sigh. A thoughtful receptionist immediately scuttled from her desk, keen to help. "I'm fine!" Hildegarde barked. Hand raised, frown apparent, it was clear that although help may have been necessary, she did not want it. The receptionist took a step back, cautiously, as if trying to calm a near-ferocious bloodhound. Ever since the attach, people had treated Hildegarde like cotton wool: it was endless. For Merlin's sake, she thought, I've lived through the bloodiest wizarding war of our times and still, they try to buckle me into a wheelchair.

Hoisting herself up on a mahogany walking stick, Hildegarde frowned at the apparatus - a sorry reminder of her fragile state. The healers said it was temporary. She demanded that it did not become a permanent fixture. There were too many ancient witches clambering about with zimmerframes and crutches, and Hildegarde Austerlitz would not become a stereotype.

"Mr Greyfriar will see you now," the receptionist stammered, attempting to inject some sympathy without causing any more offence.

"Yes, I heard you the first time." The bark was gone, but a coldness lingered; she'd been injured, badly, but that didn't make her a flaming idiot. Truth betold, however, Hildegarde was in a pretty terrible state. The Aurors had dragged her from the wreckage of her home with a whole list of injuries. One broken arm remained in a sling, one eye blackened and bruised, cuts and bruises covering every inch of skin and a fractured kneecap. Still, they'd said she was lucky to be alive.

Another brush with death had only hardened her resolve. Instead of rotting away with the loopy geriatrics in St. Mungo's, Hildegarde had discharged herself as soon as she was physically able. It was time to return to the front - time to really show the old guard that there was life in the old girl yet. Those who spoke of Hildegarde as a relic of the Voldemort-era enforcement department did so in secret; she could pack a punch, both magically and verbally, and criticizing her return to work so soon would only result in a terrible telling off. Finally reaching the door, she clicked it open. Old friends didn't need a warning knock.

Squeezing herself into the tiny, cramped office, Hildegarde's face softened at the sight of him. Knox Greyfriar. Her old comrade, her friend and ally on the front. They'd supported each other on a professional and personal level throughout the years, Hildegarde backing Knox for Hogwarts and he being around during the time Ms. Austerlitz became a widow. "All these years and you still refuse something a little grander," she muttered, casting her eyes around the office. "You could've at least tidied up."

A rare smirk was cast in Greyfriar's direction. Despite her injuries, Hildegarde could relax and took no time in dumping herself in the seat opposite.

Knox accomplished the very difficult and hid his shock at Hildegarde's tumbled state.  She looked like a battered inferus, for Merlin's sake.  But thank the fates she was alive.  And walking.  And being sly to the clerk out front.  It somehow helped his efforts to spare her his shocked sympathy.

He caught her almost-smile as she laid eyes on him, and returned a much more open grin.  Immediately she made some critical remarks about his space, he took mock offense.  His face aghast, he spread his arms and turned from one side to the other, as if taking in the entire space.  "But I did! This is as good as it's looked in weeks!" he declared in a booming voice.

The small office wouldn't have been so cramped probably if Knox had been less of a dragon about records, back-dated Daily Prophets and his own copies of tomes of magical law.  Every inch of wall was bookshelving, and he'd managed to squeeze in another small rolltop desk in addition to the large, open main desk at the center.  Every surface was stacked with papers and pyramids of rolled parchments.   

He had a chair ready for her, but he came round the desk to greet her anyway.  He took her small hand in his and shook it gently - cold as ice, she was! He stood nearby with a guiding hand as he gestured she take the seat, ready to help her if she needed assistance lowering into the chair. 

"They're hard-up for space, you know.  Even Jason MacDonnell doesn't have one of the nice ones," he said of his offices.  "It only looks so small because I take up so much space."

When she was settled, he got settled himself.  He said, "So.  You're not dead.  Not for lack of effort, I've heard.  They leveled the whole house, I've heard.  What a mess."

His words were irreverent, but his tone belied a genuine horror for what someone had tried to do to old tiger.

"Will you just let me sit down!" Hildegarde grumbled as Knox tried to help her into the little seat. "I've been attacked by a bunch of hicks, not a bunch of Horntails." Although her voice was tinged with annoyance, it was less volatile, less scathing than the reception granted to the poor secretary. Anybody trying to help Austerlitz was a thorn in the side. Knox's aid, however, was slightly welcomed; he'd earned a little reliance over the years, and Hildegarde was still quietly happy her old comrade still cared. He was the sort that wasn't overly doting - he'd never sought her respect, which made their friendship all the more genuine.

Shuffling around in her seat till a certain level of comfort was gained, Hildegarde still tutted and rolled her eyes. Bloody Ministry-issue furniture; cheap and disposable. Even Hogwarts was more welcoming, and that was saying something when you were greeted by hundreds of annoying, smiling, youthful faces every single day. "And rightly so. MacDonnell isn't any better than the likes of you and I - no matter what the accounts office bestow upon him." The Ministry hierarchy was always worthy of a notorious Austerlitz frown.

Returning Greyfriar's gaze, Hildegarde sighed as he quite matter-of-factly recounted the events that had left the old woman in such a battered state. Her bones ached, yawning for something greater than magical remedies and ointments.

"I should be dead, completely eliminated. They didn't mean to scare me, they meant to annihilate me." She paused, twisting her mouth. "Complete snakes, couldn't dare to take me on head-to-head, couldn't dare to have a proper duel on their hands. They had to throw in the explosives and destroy the entire cottage in the process. Public assassinations are always the most brutal; they wanted front page news and it worries me Knox, it worries me for what is in store. My own health is expendable in the greater scheme of things, that I understand, but this?" Hildegarde raised her arms, somewhat resigned. "This seems like a declaration to me."

She attempted to cross one leg over the other, but the elderly witch winced in pain as her muscles refused to co-operate. Hildegarde stifled a small groan of pain. The face and bandages were sorry indications, she didn't want to add verbal mutterings to the equation. Ruffling around in her handbag, Hildegarde took a quill and an old battered piece of parchment.

"Which is why I've reconsidered my retirement. Now is not the time to be sat at home reading historical theory, if you follow? I want revenge, Knox, revenge before they target another." She lightly threw the parchment onto the table, a very old document requesting Hildegarde's presence amongst the Wizengamot. It was aged, but these invitations lasted a lifetime. Refusals could be withdrawn once more. "Read it."

She wasn't a witch Knox could imagine as a target.  That was one thing about magic - it was an equalizer.  Witch or wizard, old or young, it was your wand that made your match.  And Hildegarde was very very good.  It was shocking.  Unimaginable that this could have happened.  And even more bizarre that she had survived.  All the worse for them, he thought to himself. 

Hildegarde railed across from him, a nasty vindictive creature (totally forgivable), but he could tell the she was afraid.  Perhaps not of violence, but of the meaning of that close call.  It was difficult not the think of the message someone had tried to send when they'd beat his son within an inch of his life.  Had they meant for him to live? Or die? And did it matter?  But the result of his salvation had been a new life.

And what was this?  "Reconsidering retirement?" he asked even as he obeyed her orders to read the parchment.

It was old and curled like it hadn't been unfurled for a long time.  He recognized the document as official Wizengamot business, but it took him a moment to actually sift through the formal, loopy script.  But then all the pomp began to read familiar.  Knox had received one like it over a year ago. 

It was signed Tarron Knight, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot; and undersigned by then Minister of Magic Marcus Annwyl. 

Knox looked up with a look of gravity and surprise.  "I didn't know about this.  Uh, but you of course plan to accept!"

He handed it back and slipped his glasses off again.  He almost laughed.  "But you must! Merlin's Bones, Austerlitz, what's kept you?"

"Of course you had no idea about this," Hildegarde bluntly snapped, "it had nothing to do with you." Though her viciousness was frightening to others, to people like Greyfriar it was totally affectionate. The small number of people that Hildegarde actually carded for were often met with the same reception. Her whole tone was sarcastic, as if poking fun at people meant that she truly did hold them in high regard. Resting a bruised, battered arm on the table, the old witch sighed. This time, however, her usual cynicism induced a sharp shooting pain in her chest. Ugh, those idiots at St. Mungo's said this would stop.

"I had no intention of joining the Wizengamot initially," she began to explain, rolling her eyes despondently. "A bunch of relics that are more autocratic than audacious, no offence." Hildegarde smirked for a moment. "Back then, it was far different and I was disaffected with the whole Ministry after Bernard's death. Not that it was their fault, quite the contrary, it was my own grief that prevented me from rejoining." Her conviction was immediately diluted with a shrug, as if her past beliefs were immediately tossed away with the slightest of gestures.

"But now, I certainly am reconsidering my retirement. What use is writing history books when I can be out beating seven shades of troll dung to the cowards who did this to me." She relished the opportunity to curse the terrorists into the middle of next month, wand outstretched, eyes blazing, pleads ignored and mercy unemployed. "If I'm back in the Ministry, in a senior position, perhaps we can accelerate the whole process. Ignoring the injuries, I got off pretty lightly. Who knows when this will happen next?"

Hildegarde paused, reclining in her chair. "Besides, I think I look darn fabulous in an honorary robe."

Reconsidering retirement indeed!  From the sound of Hildegarde's explanation, it was though she wanted to rise from the ashes with all the destructive life-giving power of a new phoenix! But something bothered him about her new joie de vivre.

Usually Knox might have obliged her joke about the robes with a booming laugh and agreement - she was a stately beast and he believed that plum robes and a large square hat would suit her - but he instead had a tentatively grave look on his face.

"While I'm very happy to hear you're considering joining our autocratic and audacious ranks, you do understand to be appointed to the Wizengamot is a position of great honor... and service, Hildegarde.  Now, I know you shall forgive for saying so as you always do, and I've only held the post for a year, but the Wizengamot is no place to settle personal matters."

He leaned forward and turned his head.  "No matter how pressing they might be.  Your voice has been set apart as one of reverence and love of law and country.  You can't be thinking of corrupting that."

Knox Greyfriar was all over concerned now.  It all seemed like a hell-bent crusade now, not a happy and lofty advancement of career, a return to healthy living. 

"Of course I hold grudges, it's what I do best," she tutted, shaking her head as if Knox had said something incredibly silly. "But I'm reconsidering this retirement as a duty, as a service. This whole debacle has spurred me onto something greater, and whilst it has triggered me to join the Wizengamot, it's not the heart of the reason. I believe I can provide something better for this country as a whole - corruption has nothing to do with it. Whether I'm sat behind a desk in Hogwarts or in a Ministry office, I'll always be a grumpy old wench, you know that better than anybody Greyfriar."

It was true. Whilst the attack had ignited something quite ferocious in Hildegarde, she knew better than to let it taint her vision of a better Britain for all wizarding folk upon its isles. Besides, what was the point? She was an old woman, a relic herself, and probably knew more about law and order than most. Merlin only knew the things she'd seen during the War and all subsequent troubles - and none of it was pretty.

"This isn't a platform for personal matters, Greyfriar. It's a position to induce change and protection for all." The tiny woman's hand had formed a fist on the table. Knox was wise to challenge Hildegarde, and she respected his opinion and concern, but this was final.

"So say we all..." Knox responded, his worries only barely alleviated.  Hildegarde was a fighter if only she was backed into a corner.  And there were a plethora of corners cropping up lately. 

He'd wondered himself during nights laying awake about his own situation.  Accused and sentenced before the court he was a part of and now trying to clear his name.  He couldn't decide whether he was abusing his influence as a Wizengamot Elder to be heard, or if he had no influence at all.  Things felt like they were going nowhere.  But then, fifty years ago he wouldn't have even been able to have a public life anymore.  Fifty years ago, he'd have had to move to South American and let his friends believe he was dead rather than live a life as a werewolf in the public eye.

He sighed and then the old bear smiled again.  "Well, I hope you're prepared.  Orientation's quite a long to-do.  But you will have a fine office just like this one to look forward to."

"The red tape is of course expected; I wouldn't expect anything less than hyperbureaucracy from the Ministry," she smirked, exchanging a knowing glance with her old comrade. Hildegarde never made compromises or exceptions, but in this case, she had to admit defeat. In her old days as a strategist, you didn't have all this paper-pushing file-ordering troll dung; you made decisions, you committed to them and that was that. If anything went wrong, you took the blame. The new state of order in the Ministry was much different. Everything was regulated, everything was kept 'on record' - as if waiting for one to slip up so they could present a back catalogue of error. Nevertheless, Hildegarde knew this was unavoidable. It had been the same in Hogwarts and the old battleaxe had to blunt her blade, so to speak.

Knox steered the conversation to an office and she shrugged indifferently. A dull ache shot through her shoulder to which Hildegarde tried to hide a wince. "I only need something modest." Nothing would compare to the domed, statue-laden halls of her Hogwarts classroom, but such a vision was tarnished by the thoughts of quaking youths and angst-ridden teenagers. Anything had to be better than that. "Mind you, at least I can give you some tips on housekeeping." She grinned again. Greyfriar's tidying up hadn't gotten better over the years; paper-pusher he was not, and Hildegarde admired him for it.

"I'll be signing my confirmation shortly and I'll be back in public life before you know it. Anything I need to know beforehand? Any young hot-shots trying to oust the old guard?" Even walking into the hallowed halls of the Ministry, there were a sea of faces Hildegarde no longer recognised. She was one of the relics of the system, but she refused to let it be a crutch. Old-fashioned was needed - old-fashioned was good. "I know you and I are a dying breed, Greyfriar. Solidarity is not something the youngsters champion."

"Knight wouldn't allow that," Knox said, thoughtfully considering Hildegarde's question.  He pulled a drawer out from his desk and withdrew a small wooden box.  He set it on his desk between he and Hildegarde and flipped the lid off.  Inside were thick cigars that smelled of cloves, dampness, and were colored faintly blue. 

He took one for himself and lit it with the end of his wand.

He was referring, of course, to Tarron Knight, the long-time Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.  A powerful wizard, but solid.  The Wizengamot was considered very stable and honorable under his leadership, despite the occasional controversy that had always been with the court. 

"I'd watch for Oscar Whitman though."  He inhaled and the end of the cigar lit up blue.  And from his mouth he exhaled three pale blue smokey rings.  "The lad's a firebrand.  Preposterous..." he grumbled.  How such a young wizard had achieved the post was a farce but in a body of more than 80 members, both elder and junior, his singular influence was perhaps negligent.  But Whitman's Purist leanings were no secret and Knox wanted nothing to do with him.

"Oh! And Madam Knight.  Aisling." Tarron Knight's wife and a member of the Muggle Worth Excuse Committee.  "Get on her good side.  She can stir your cauldron for you."

"Manners don't cost a knut," Hildegarde tutted, sliding the box towards her. "But decent cigars do." Delicately taking one of the thick tobacco logs, she placed it between her lips and followed suit with a wand ignition. She may not have been a big drinker, nor a smoker, but these small vices were what kept her normal from time to time. Over the years during her previous stint at the Ministry, Hildegarde had found herself excluded from the male-dominated circles of authority (they were the old days, after all).  The only way to keep up was by joining such ranks with a good glass of firewhiskey and a quality cigar.

Taking a long drag, she felt the aches and pains of the recent accident almost float away. She'd forgotten how good such things were. Temperamental twinges became dull aches - if only a momentary process, it was better than nothing. Exhaling a thin stream of pretty blue smoke, Hildegarde leaned forward on the desk listening intently.

"I've heard all about this Whitman character, the family are a blood nightmare," she replied sharply. The images of the clan fell into her mind. Maeve, the Hogwarts tyrant but History of Magic bloomer was the only positive she could draw on the spot. "Merlin only knows how he sneaked into the Wizengamot. What are your thoughts? Financial? Reputation? Despite my own concerns I know the family hold a great deal of sway."

Greyfriar gave her hints to Madame Aisling Knight - a name she didn't recognise. "Get on her good side?" Hildegarde smirked, taking another prim drag on the cigar. "We both know I've never been a schmoozer."

Not a schmoozer?  "Then don't," he shrugged with a contented smile that came from the comfort of unguarded conversation with old friends.  Perhaps Hildegarde wasn't looking for friendships.  "She's friendly, though.  Nothing to fear." 

It had been a genuine suggestion.  A good witch to know, Aisling Knight, and not only for her intimacy with Warlock Knight, but for her own pull with her Department, her own resourcefulness, her own interest in the best for their people.  But that was well.  Where Knox was honey, Hildegarde was vinegar.  And that suited them both just fine.

"The Whitmans," he went on, "are entitled, privileged and troublesome.  Oscar is capable enough - he's certainly had the benefit of his family's money - but their involvement is insidious."  He scowled involuntarily, a topic coming to his mind that he'd been trying to ignore.

He suddenly leaned forward on the desk, coming quite close now to Hildegarde, a man with a desperate and pained face.  A man vexed by demons.

"My son's dating Maeve Whitman." 

His concern over this fact could be comical, even.  Of all the lofty and mighty decisions and circumstances he and Hildegarde had faced and would face again, what bedeviled Knox Greyfriar was his young son's growing into a man and doing what he wanted without his sayso.