With Good Intentions

“Hey! You have a sec?”

“Depends; is your head out of your arse yet?”

Harry chuckled; Hermione’s patience with slow-witted behavior hadn’t moderated with marriage to the possibly guilty dark wizard.

“Not completely. So… Every village will have one of these?”

“If we can. Most of these families are still eking out a living. They can’t afford to seek care too far from their jobs.”

“I thought Malfoy Enterprises employed them all?”

“No, only those with skills the company can logically place in their villages. M-E,” she spelled out, “still has to make a profit.”

More children skipped, hobbled or rolled by Harry. Some of those carried in their parents’ trembling arms died in treatment.

“I still think he’s a dark prat. But… Maybe I should re-think what I think…”

“Maybe you should. Goodbye, Harry. Kiss James for me,” and she Accio’d small gifts, wrapped and labeled, that she’d purchased for the child since his birth and directed them to Harry’s off-duty arms.

“Git…” she called out over her shoulder as she turned to join her smiling husband in the patient playroom.

The click of her low heals on the terrazzo floor completely drowned out the increasingly physical confrontations the second shift aurors handled outside the clinic’s doors. Village beneficiaries of Granger-Malfoy philanthropy began their own protest against M.A.D.E.

For the first time, M.A.D.E. found itself bailing it’s own out of Ministry holding cells. It turned out that protesting the care of sick, injured, cursed, homeless or hungry children proved to be a marketing and reputation disaster for the group. The Quibbler savaged their callous disregard with the headline — 

“Who is the REAL Death Eater - Lucius Malfoy or Molly Weasley?”

The next day the Minister, standing beside his head auror — The-Boy-Who-Thought, pleaded with the community for tolerance and discourse rather than confrontation.