Having just finished a day's work, Hermione dragged her utterly exhausted body home, tossed her briefcase onto the table, and collapsed onto the soft sofa, completely emptying her mind as she stared blankly into space.
After graduating from Hogwarts with outstanding marks, Hermione had thrown herself into the Ministry of Magic with lofty ambitions, hoping to use her "modest efforts" to improve the House-elves' miserable circumstances.
Yet such a headlong approach naturally left her crashing face-first into an immovable wall.
When she finally snapped out of her daze, Albert's warning echoed in her mind again.
That prophecy, which had seemed almost like a curse, had come true.
In the very month Hermione successfully joined the Ministry of Magic, she realized it. Having finally taken over the House-elf Relocation Office from her predecessor, she discovered that "this office" truly had nothing left but its name.
In the vast Ministry of Magic, no wizard truly cared about House-elves. They were not even willing to spare them a second glance, much less waste additional time on them.
What drove Hermione to despair most was that even the House-elves themselves did not care about such things.
Thus, even though Hermione insisted on staying in the Magical Creatures Management Control Division and worked to improve the treatment of House-elves, she achieved very little.
No, it would be more accurate to say she achieved nothing at all.
Rather than paying attention to House-elves who lived like slaves, wizards cared more about goblins whose interests clashed with their own. That was what had kept her busy at the Ministry lately.
As for harmless House-elves, who truly cared about them?
Well, Hermione did.
But what use was that?
Even when she and Harry had searched everywhere for Voldemort's Horcruxes, she had never felt as powerless as she did