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Hermione sighed. "Simply because the centaurs didn't care about the laws. Really, those laws didn't affect them anyway.
They've got their own land and they never venture off of it.
The laws that Umbridge put in place simply ensured that if they ever did want to leave their forests, then they'd be breaking the law and be subject to imprisonment or death.
Most likely death, since even imprisoning a centaur would amount to being a death sentence for the free-spirited race."
Her mother nodded, giving Hermione hope that she understood why they'd focussed on the werewolves first.
"But what about the house elves? I thought that that was where your passion lay, in getting laws in place to protect them," Jane asked.
Again, Hermione sighed. "Yes, that is my ultimate goal. But obtaining rights for the house elves is always going to be an uphill battle. And it's not one that we'll win anytime soon.
Our goal at the moment is to be taken seriously as a legal department by obtaining wins for other magical species first before tackling the hardest cases."
Seeing her mother frown allowed the tension that had just arisen in Hermione to dissipate slightly. She, at least, could see the injustice of it all.
"What you need is a sponsor," her mother suggested. "Someone high profile and with a great deal of political or public clout that could get the ball rolling for you."
"Yes. Well. I thought that we had someone like that," Hermione stated. "Unfortunately, he's been travelling the world for the last five years and refuses to come home!"
"Speaking of which," her mother said, a small smile turning the corners of her mouth upwards, "there's a letter for you on the desk in the library."
Hermione's eyes lit up and she quickly slurped down the rest of her tea. Then, with a nod of acceptance from her mother, she raced from the room.
"Thanks for the tea," she called over her shoulder.
The Granger Library was in reality simply one of the spare rooms on the bottom floor of their house. Three of its walls had been covered with floor to ceiling shelves and then filled with books collected from the three Grangers.
The fourth wall consisted of a small desk to the right of the large bay window and a comfy armchair to the left of said window.
The bay window, itself, had been fitted with a plethora of pillows and a rug and was often the most sought-after place in the house for reading.
Hermione's eyes lit up at the sight of the white envelope sitting in the exact centre of the desk and her pace increased as she raced across the room to snatch it up.
With her eyes glued to her name and parent's address written in her best friend's messy scrawl, she shuffled sidewards until she could sit in the corner of the bay window.
Pillows were placed under her bum and against her back as she settled in for what was sure to be the highlight of her day, let alone her week.
The stamp in the corner of the envelope caught her attention.
"America," she whispered, unaware that she'd even spoken out loud.
Flipping the envelope over, she blinked in surprise. There, on the back, was a return address. Harry never wrote a return address.
And really, what would have been the point? By the time that she would have received his letter, he was sure to have moved on.
The fact that there was an address this time caused her mind to whirl with the possible reasons for it being there.
Harry may be her best friend, but their relationship had become decidedly one-sided the last few years. He was able to write to her, always using muggle post, sending her letters care of her parents.
But those letters were by no means regular. Sometimes she might receive two or three a month; and then at other times, he might go two or three months without sending a letter.
Occasionally, Harry'd let her know where he was heading next and, whenever he did, she made sure to send a letter there for him to collect. Not that that happened very often.
And as for seeing each other, well, she could count how often they'd met up in the last five years using the fingers of one hand. And it was always Hermione portkeying out to see him; he never once ventured back to Britain.
Hermione opened the envelope carefully, making sure not to tear it where the return address was. Three pieces of paper fell out into her hand - an average length letter then, for him.
Placing the envelope to the side, she opened the paper and turned it around.
Dear Hermione,
Before you say it, yes, I know I'm a prat, inconsiderate, the worst best friend in the world and whatever other adjectives and phrases that your brilliant mind can come up with. I should have written much, much sooner than this.
Hermione nodded her head in satisfaction. And yes, while she could easily think up half a dozen other words and phrases to describe Harry's lack of communication skills, the fact that there was a letter in her hand - with a return address on the envelope - meant that she'd save them up for later. For example, when she wrote back to him.
As I'm sure that you've already sussed out, I've finally stopped moving about and have a fixed address that you can write back to or even visit me (hint hint).
But I guess that I should really tell the story of what's been happening with me in a logical order, just like I know you've always tried to bang into my head to do.
Hermione scowled at the paper in her hands. Of all the times for Harry to take her advice, he had to do it now? She was half-tempted to skip ahead to find out why he had an address in the United States of America of all places, but her own sense of following a logical course of action prevented her.
Besides, what were the odds of Harry actually sticking to a logical order? More than likely, if she skipped ahead, he'd get side-tracked by something and she'd be forced to backtrack.
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