Hermione leaned against the wall of the infirmary hut and watched. The camp was busy. A handful of children chased each other around a large pine tree, laughing and swatting at each other with branches and open palms, wrestling in the dirt. Their single minder, a woman only a few years shy of Ancient Gudrun, sat back against another tree and snoozed with a year-old Witch Weekly over her face. Three men chopped firewood, and a hunting party was returning with a wild boar and a great many small furry animals of indeterminate species. Every single one of them would go into the stew pot together. (To werewolves, it was quantity that mattered, not taste.)