Resistance
Chapter Three: Stratagem
Hermione stared somewhat apathetically at the school robes that she had spread out on the lower bunk of the room she would normally be sharing with Ginny. She ran her fingers over the soft black material, and thought somewhat despondently of her alma mater. Had it really only been two weeks since they'd graduated? It seemed more like years. Some of the very soul of Hogwarts had gone out from it with Dumbledore's passing, even though Professor McGonagall had done her best and was a very competent Headmistress. But by then, war and rumors of war had become rampant, like some kind of insidious contagion, and parents had been pulling children from school left and right. Hermione had seen Harry take their incomplete education onto himself as well, adding it to the already prodigious mantle of guilt that he wore.
Hogwarts was dangerous because he was there. And that was why the children left. Hermione suspected that he knew that that was only partially true, but it didn't stop him from feeling badly about it.
She missed Hogwarts. And the way its demise had been brought about made that even more painful. She tried to imagine the drafty stone hallways, punctuated by suits of armor and smart-alecky portraits, now alive with masked Death Eaters, doing some errand or other for the Dark Lord. She imagined the Gryffindor common room, its squashy chairs and roaring fireplaces violated. She wondered what had happened to all the house-elves.
She could see Harry and Ron, hunched over a chessboard, laughing - in one of those light moments, that had become so rare before the end - one of those times when Harry got to remember that he was, in fact, not yet eighteen. Her eyes closed, and the sound that rattled out with her next breath was very nearly a moan of pain.
But when she opened her eyes again, they were level, calm, determined. She lifted her wand, trying to concentrate, trying to remember, and focused all of her not inconsiderable effort, attention, and power on those black school robes lying on her bed. She lengthened the sleeves and enlarged the cowl, tapering both to dramatic points, ensuring that the folds would swath her form, draping her head so that the features of her face would not be very visible.
When she had finished, she donned the robes, pulling the hood over her tousled curls, immediately casting her face into shadow. Trembling hands tucked her wand into her robe, into a long thin pocket, where she could retrieve it easily. She lifted stoic features to the mirror hanging opposite, and shuddered to see her pale, set face, contrasting quite drastically with the inky robes and heavy hood. She stepped closer to the mirror, studying herself carefully, and completed her work, by casting a mild Distraction charm onto the fabric, a smaller, simpler version of what the Ministry had used at the World Cup. Wizards who were really trying, of course, would be able to overthrow its effects, as well as those that she actually sought out and addressed, but those who weren't expecting anything of the kind would suddenly find their attention drawn to the shop window across the way or the barfight over at the pub.
As she reached the door, she suddenly stopped, reaching beneath her collar with one hand, to clutch at the small key that hung on a golden chain. When she felt the reassuring length of its barrel under her fingers, she sagged visibly. It was the key to Harry's vault at Gringotts that he had given to her last summer. He had told her that he had left everything to her and Ron anyway, so she might as well take it, in case she ever needed it.
The weight of quite a few Galleons hung in her purse, which was concealed beneath the voluminous robes. But she wasn't sure how easy it would be to acquire what she needed to acquire, and one never knew when some `persuasion' could come in handy. Harry, forgive me, she pled mentally, cringing at the thought of giving Harry's money, giving Lily and James' money to pay off Death Eaters.
Cautiously, she opened the door and peered out. The corridor was shadowy, the only light streaming out from under Ginny's door, and coming from the War Room. Hermione could hear the tinny noise of the Wizarding Wireless, and she marveled momentarily that it was still on the air. She had a sudden vision of commentators hiding in basements and changing locations often, as they had done in occupied countries in the past, but she brushed it away. The question was: Who was in the War Room, and could she slip by them? Ron is going to kill me! she thought.
And why can't you just tell him? He said he'd do anything you needed him to do, part of her asked.
He just got his dad back. They're in there with Ginny. Can I ask him to leave? Can I ask his father to put one of his last remaining sons in further danger? She slid down the hall, moving soundlessly, hearing the low murmur of male Weasley voices emanate from Ginny's room. They had spent a good deal of time in there, both yesterday when Mr. Weasley had returned, and earlier that morning as well. She paused outside the door, and leaned toward it, straining her ears, in time to hear Mr. Weasley say,
"…so proud of you. Thank you for taking care of your sister, Ron. And I'm - I'm glad you were there w - with your mum when - when - "
Hermione careened away from the door as if she been propelled, brushing furiously at the tears that sprang again to her eyes with the backs of both hands. Dammit! she thought furiously to herself. Whoever saw a crying Death Eater?
"Hermione?" came Tonks' curious voice, just before Hermione stepped into the light that marked the entrance to the War Room. Her pulse rate accelerated to such a rapid pace, that Hermione marveled that Tonks didn't seem to hear it. Her palms became instantly drenched, and she felt the blood surge into her face.
"Hmm?" she managed to call out, not trusting herself to say anything further and avoid her voice wavering or cracking. She quickly tore the hood from her head, as Tonks poked her head out of the door. Perhaps, there in the shadows of the corridor, the robe would not appear to be anything more than just that - a nondescript black wizarding robe of the type that was a dime a dozen.
But her Distraction charm was working, and Tonks suddenly turned back into the room, saying loudly, "Damn! I forgot that I was supposed to - "
Hermione didn't stay to hear the rest. She had fled toward the stairway, mounting it quietly, and emerging from the hidden door into the chaotic clutter of genius in progress that was the Weasley twins' laboratory. Even that somewhat frightful sight caused Hermione a twinge of sadness, as she thought of the half of that dynamic pair that was no more.
She crouched carefully on the floor, and quickly performed the series of spells that would tune her wand to the wards. Only a select few knew these, and the order in which they were performed changed intermittently. With her wand tuned properly, she should be able to pass outside of the wards with no one in the Shop being any the wiser.
Satisfied that she had performed it correctly, she stepped through the door marked `No Admittance' into the store proper. She was careful to stay out of the line of sight of the windows, three of which were broken, and her black cloak helped her stay nearly unseen in the shadows. She swallowed hard at the scorch marks on the walls, and the way the door had obviously been replaced on its hinges after being blown off. It was hanging rather crookedly, and there were cracks in the plaster surrounding the door frame. Most of the Weasleys' merchandise appeared to be largely intact, but Hermione supposed that a joke shop would be largely ignored, at least in the first days of the chaotic scramble for survival.
She shunned the main entrance, with its repaired door and the tinkly bell above the glass front. It would not do, she thought, to be seen coming from a supposedly abandoned shop owned by a couple of known blood Traitors. Instead, she moved toward the back of the store, stepping carefully so as not to set off anything that would explode, wail, or whistle shrilly. The back door was a non-descript grayish brown, and she rather suspected that it was by this entrance that Arthur Weasley had entered last night, after being let through the wards by Fred. She opened it and stepped through, unconsciously holding her breath as she did so. There was not even a ripple of awareness in the wards; she had adjusted her wand correctly. Even so, she waited for a moment, listening, afraid she would hear some sort of commotion, as what was left of the Order was brought to bear on her. But there was no sound, no motion. As she set her feet into the gravel of the walkway that ran between the buildings and emptied out into Diagon Alley, she breathed a sigh of relief, shutting the door gently behind her.
She pulled the hood up, the cowl shielding her face from view, as she discreetly merged into the foot traffic of Diagon Alley. Black cloaks of one sort or another abounded everywhere, and there were shouts of crude laughter from several street corners. Florean Fortescue's shop, which had been abandoned for nearly two years, appeared to be quite full, wizards and witches animatedly discussing something. Hermione eyed them with barely concealed loathing; the only wizards who would be out looking for news, eager to hear it, would be those that followed the victor. Ollivander's had been looted - again - and empty and half-crushed boxes were strewn across the muddy surface of the Alley. Here and there, Hermione's sharp eyes noted an abandoned wand, lying discarded among the cobblestones.
Flourish and Blotts had met a similar fate. The window had been blasted out by wandfire, and the door to the bookshop was completely gone. The store looked like it had been partially burned, but books had spilled out of the window display, where they had fallen haphazardly in the street to be stepped on and torn by people who didn't even notice. All of Hermione's sensibilities were outraged, as she stopped to pick up on blue leather-bound book that had landed face down in a particularly sludgy area. The cover had mostly been ripped away from the spine. Without even looking at the title, she tucked it into her robes, after brushing the worst of the mud off of it, vowing to repair it when she returned to the Shop. Half-afraid she'd be caught, she moved hastily away from the store she loved, thinking ridiculously to herself, I just stole a book!
She paused only briefly by the apothecary's shop, which was dark, and appeared to be completely empty. Overturned baskets were piled in the gaping doorway, and the gaily striped awning was torn and hanging raggedly. She was not surprised, and headed where she thought she'd have to go all along.
She hesitated as she reached the entrance to Knockturn Alley, and instinctively reached up to make sure that the hood of her robe was still shading her face. She had correctly assumed that any business to be done would have to be conducted in Knockturn Alley, while the more upright shop-owners and customers of Diagon Alley would be in hiding or in flight. The people milling about Diagon Alley today were up to more nefarious deeds, she was sure.
She took a deep breath, and plunged down the crooked stairs that led into Knockturn Alley. Almost instantly, the buildings seemed to grow taller and grayer and closer together, appearing to almost loom over the lane in a quite menacing fashion. Ill-dressed folk gathering in the shadows of the stoops and side-streets leered at her from the darkness, and she clutched her robe more closely to her, placing one hand gently over the purse, so that the clink of Galleons would not invite more trouble. She swallowed hard as she was roughly jostled by a hag, hoping to keep her heart out of her throat.
She paused in the middle of the square, as Knockturn Alley opened out in front of her. She recognized Borgin and Burkes, and began to walk slowly, hoping that her eyes weren't too obviously scanning the signs hanging in front of the shops. Her task was made more difficult by the fact that most of the signs were weather-beaten and worn with age, with some of the lettering faded nearly completely away. She continued to stroll, eyes never ceasing to move, as the traffic milled and flowed around her. No one appeared to give her even the slightest bit of notice.
And then she saw it. A faded sign, hanging by only one corner instead of two, with a mortar and pestle, once painted bright red, depicted on it. The legible letters of the sign read "-ecary."
Thank Merlin! Hermione thought to herself, as she cut across the street, hesitating only for a moment, before pushing the door open and entering the shop. A stale smell overpowered everything, as she walked into the dimly lit establishment, heralded by the dull clank of a cowbell fastened over the door. Straw baskets and cauldrons of every conceivable size were scattered here and there, filled with various potions ingredients. Small measuring scoops hung from the containers by thin cords. She appeared to be the only customer in the shop.
"Kin I help ye?" came a rusty old voice. There was a shuffling sound, and a very old woman, bent almost double from a hump on her back, came out of the back of the shop. One eye protruded, while the other was nearly hidden in a wrinkled flap of skin, reminding her uncomfortably of Mad-Eye Moody. A scant handful of yellowy teeth had clacked together when she spoke.
Hermione watched her for a moment, looking for some kind of glint of recognition in the unsettling eyes, but saw none. Still, she felt safer shrouded in the shadows of her robes, and did not lower her hood.
"No, thank you," she whispered softly, from a throat that suddenly seemed incredibly and impossibly dry. She moved gracefully in and out of the random piles of baskets, occasionally consulting a list, scooping out dry ingredients into small bags, and doling wet ones into glass flasks. She moved to and from the counter, lining up her measured crushed lacewing flies, powdered dragon scales, and milkweed sap, where the old woman began carefully corking up the bottles, weighing them and tallying up the price.
At length, Hermione approached the counter with her last ingredient, she addressed the proprietor.
"Have - have you any vampire fangs?" Her stance was rigid, tense, as if poised for flight. The crone's sparse eyebrows soared up into her straggly hair.
"Don't get much call fer vampire fangs," she remarked, but bent under the counter and pulled out a locked lead box, which she opened with her wand.
"I - I just need two," Hermione said, her jaw trembling as if she were cold. The old woman shook two bright white, pointy teeth into her wrinkled, rough palm, and locked the box back up. She folded the fangs neatly into a square of brown paper that she then tied with string, and punched a final number into the register.
An impossible number floated above the register in glowing green. Hermione gaped.
"For this?" she said. "You've got to be joking." The woman appeared unfazed, blinking coolly at her customer.
"The fangs alone be a thousand Galleons apiece," she replied. "And, as fer the others…well, supply an' demand, dearie. Don't know when my nex' shipment'll even get here, and ol' Snaggle's got to eat, ye know. Be rather unsettled times now, though I `spect that'll pass soon enough, now the Dark Lord's in charge."
"I - I don't have that much," Hermione stammered, cursing her wobbly voice. Snaggle smiled unpleasantly, and her yellow teeth were nearly enough to turn Hermione's stomach.
"'F yer lookin' fer cheap, then ye'll want the basket over yon in the corner." She indicated a wicker container, half as high as Hermione, piled over with coarsely ground off-white material, not dissimilar to crushed marble. "Human bones, that be. Bit of a glut on the market lately. On'y 2 Knuts fer an ounce."
Hermione wavered visibly on her feet. Human… she thought dully, seeing Bill's unmoving body being kicked by the Death Eater, hearing Ron's choked voice as he talked about his mother's death. She felt the bile rising in her throat, as saliva rushed into her mouth, and knew that she wouldn't be able to stop it.
"Please hold my order. I'll be back with your money," she blurted in a rushed, garbled voice, and fled the store desperately, not even hearing the cowbell, as she plunged through the door, back out into Knockturn Alley. There was a large, moldy-smelling rain barrel at the corner, and she ran to it, clamping her fingers on the damp rim, and depositing the contents of her stomach into it.
Slowly, she stood up, brushing her hands absent-mindedly against her robes, and readjusting her hood around her clammy face. She had a bad taste in her mouth now, and she desperately wanted a drink of water. There were people milling all about, but they were people whose worldview was the polar opposite of hers. She suddenly felt very alone and very vulnerable.
A door clanged open with a heavy metal sound. A crumpled figure hunched in a dim corner looked up at the sound, a weary long-suffering look on his face. It was Harry, although his face had since been rendered nearly unrecognizable.
Hermione clung to the dissipating shreds of her resolve, and held them together through sheer force of will. With renewed purpose in her step, she returned down Knockturn Alley the way she had come, plunging gratefully into the still slightly more palatable air of Diagon Alley, and headed toward the imposing marble edifice of the wizarding Bank.
~~**~~
Gringotts also appeared to be operating normally, but almost everyone within was black-cloaked, and seemed to wear identical sneering expressions. Those fools who had ventured out on normal errands - as if anything could be construed as normal ever again, Hermione sniffed - were quickly dragged to one side, detained, and questioned. Many of them, she surmised, were probably looking for funds to get out of the country, and she wondered if the contents of their vaults would be confiscated.
Even though it felt as if the eyes of everyone in Gringotts' vast lobby rested on her, she managed to walk quickly across the marbled floor to an available representative, her robe billowing out behind her impressively, her footsteps clicking quietly, but decisively, on the stone. Her hood remained up, but her head was held high, and her back was straight, and she hoped that she was giving off some kind of air of authority and entitlement.
"I need to make a withdrawal," she spoke quietly to the goblin in question, and carefully detached the key from its hidden chain. As the goblin's knobbly little fingers closed around the key, and he saw the vault number, he paused for an almost imperceptible moment, clearly surprised - even for a goblin.
He lifted his eyes to hers, and Hermione met his gaze squarely, her lips pressed tightly together, almost pleadingly. His beady black stare flickered over to a knot of Death Eaters, almost immediately returning to her.
"You are … Miss Claudia Whitaker?" he asked, in an appraising tone, after consulting what Hermione assumed to be some kind of signature card.
"No, I'm Her…mione," she drew out, lowering her voice until it was practically inaudible. The goblin appeared to have gone momentarily deaf.
"You are Miss Claudia Whitaker?" he repeated, and Hermione suddenly realized what he was doing. She could not help but be impressed. Harry had thought of everything.
"Yes," she said, and the affirmative came out sounding almost like a question. "Yes," she repeated more firmly, "I am."
"This way please," the goblin said, descending from his high stool, and leading her through the double doors, behind which the carts waited to take the clients on a wild ride. He climbed into the cart, and indicated that she follow him. A dizzying whirlwind and a couple of steep climbs and steeper dives brought them to the Potter family vault. Hermione clambered from the cart, testing her legs carefully, and stood before the metal door, somehow feeling unworthy of being there.
"It is fortunate that you came today, Miss…Whitaker," the goblin offered, startling Hermione by speaking so plainly. "It would be…wise…if you did not come again. Perhaps you would wish to close out your account?"
Hermione had slid the key home, as the goblin spoke, and, as he asked his last question, the tumblers clanked, and the vault door opened. Hermione was amazed at the vast quantity of gold that was arrayed before her, not including artifacts, old paintings, and chests - of what, Hermione could only speculate.
"I'm not prepared to - to take this today," she said, and almost immediately heard Ron's derisive voice say, Are you a witch, or aren't you? The goblin agent had evidently not even seen this comment as worth replying to, because he merely raised his stubby arms over his head, and brought his hands toward each other, clapping them together with a sound that managed to echo disproportionately loudly in the cavernous tunnels.
There was a rumble and a large puff of dust that set Hermione to coughing. When she looked up, the vault had simply disappeared, and she squeaked in astonishment. At her feet, approximately the size of one of those hotel safes esconced in suite closets, was the entire Potter vault. She looked at the goblin for permission, and he nodded. She drew her wand, and shrank the vault further, until it was about the size of small paperweight, and slid it into her purse, where it tinkled lightly among the Galleons.
She climbed back into the cart, somewhat bewildered, and justifiably so, she thought. Before the wagon plunged off into the abyss, she took one last look at the rough stone alcove that gaped where the Potter vault had once been. Taking news of that back to Voldemort is going to get some Death Eater killed, she mused, with unabashed glee.
When they once again screeched to a halt, Hermione paused before the double doors that would lead her back into the lobby, adjusting her hood more securely around her head and face.
"We appreciate your business, Miss Whitaker," the goblin said blandly, surprising Hermione by taking her hand and shaking it firmly. "We hope you will return…when days are…improved." Hermione nodded at him gravely, and stepped back into the brighter environment of the lobby, feeling somewhat heartened. The goblins might not have felt either able or willing to declare themselves for one side or the other, but she had gotten the distinct impression that they were not at all backing Lord Voldemort. She felt the heft of the shrunken vault in her bag, and smiled again.
"Be assured of it," she told him, and exited. The walk across the lobby did not seem so long this time, and she forced herself to keep her stride natural, even though she very nearly wanted to break into a run.
Her Distraction charm seemed to be doing its job, and a few moments later, she was entering Snaggle's Apothecary once again.
"There she is!" the old crone cried gaily, causing Hermione to start with alarm, but she was again the only customer present.
"I told you I'd be back," Hermione replied stiffly, angry at being startled. "Did you hold my order?"
"Did more'n that, dearie," said Snaggle, the bulbous eye rolling significantly toward Hermione. "Even packaged it up fer ye, all tidy like." She indicated a brown paper parcel, tied with twine. Hermione reached into her purse, opened the tiny vault, and pulled out a pile of miniature Galleons, spilling them carelessly across the counter.
As she shrank the parcel, and tucked it in beside the vault, Snaggle tapped the Galleons with her wand, causing them to expand to normal size, and rain off of the counter with a sound like wind chimes. Her slimy teeth clacked together with joy, as her mismatched eyes lit up avariciously.
Hermione had turned to go, when Snaggle spoke again.
"Lookin' fer som'un, are ye?" Hermione froze, stood unmoving for a moment, and turned slowly back to the old shop owner. The younger witch fixed the hag with a look that, had it been directed at any Gryffindors, would have sent them shrieking for the nearest escape route.
"Excuse me?" Hermione asked, in the loftiest tone she could manage, her cloak billowing around her.
"Yer ingredients," the old witch babbled. "Fer a Locator Potion, i'n't it? Ye'll do better to bathe a divinin' rod in it."
"I'm not dowsing for water!" Hermione said, more sharply than she intended, and Snaggle chuckled hoarsely, as she bent under her counter again, surfacing with a forked willow branch.
"I'm just tellin' ye what I know," she said, with a shrug. "Dip the divinin' rod into the potion once it's finished brewin'. Be a sight more accurate than yer wand."
"How - how much is it?" Hermione asked faintly, and the old witch named a price that was outrageous, but not exorbitant. She fished the additional Galleons from her purse, and handed them to Snaggle. Then she heard a sound that made her heart beat a quick tattoo, and then stop altogether.
The cowbell above the door to the shop rattled loudly. Even as Hermione closed her hands around the willow rod and turned, she was aware of indistinct black-cloaked figures rushing toward her.
"'Bout time ye got here," Snaggle addressed the newcomers in an accusing voice, and for an instant, Hermione, ridiculously, felt betrayed. She froze for only half a moment, like a deer in headlights, and fled for the back of the shop, guessing that Snaggle had erected anti-Apparation wards, and not wanting to waste time testing the theory. She skidded around a narrow corner, colliding loudly with an uneven stack of crates and baskets. The tower toppled around her, and she ducked, trying to shield her head with her arms. Dust, small mushrooms, and some kind of unidentifiable powder rained down on her. She knocked one remaining crate heedlessly out of her way, and stepped on something firm and round that made a squelching noise. I don't even want to know, she thought, pushing the rest of the way through the crowded storeroom to the back door, overturning containers and scattering ingredients willy-nilly in her wake. She slid through the rickety wooden door, swinging loosely on its hinges, allowed herself one deep breath, and eyed the Death Eaters stationed at the mouth of the alleyway. They had not yet seen her. A clatter and string of curses inside the building indicated that the other Death Eaters had found the mess she'd made.
She took two tentative steps toward the alley, preparing to bolt for it if she needed to, and felt the shiver of power as she stepped through the anti-Apparation wards. Thank Merlin! she thought, lifting her eyes heavenward, briefly. Snaggle had made an error in not extending the wards to the where the small side alley emptied into Knockturn. But then, the Death Eaters had also obviously expected her to try to force her way out through the front door.
The tumult inside grew louder, and Hermione quickly visualized her destination, and Apparated away.
She rematerialized in the alley running alongside Flourish and Blotts. If anyone had a method of following her somehow, she did not want to lead them to the Shop. She stood for a moment, crouching in the slanting shadows beside the building, to catch her breath. She fluttered her hands slightly, as if willing her heartbeat to slow down. Diagon Alley was not really the Diagon Alley she knew and felt comfortable in, she thought, watching the long strip of striped awning flutter in the breeze, but it was a sight better than Knockturn Alley.
She did a quick inventory of herself, making sure she still had her purse, and that her ingredients were still tucked safely beside the Potter vault. Her hood, robes, and the ends of her hair were tinged gray-white, from the coating of powder that she had dislodged onto herself, and she brushed at it half-heartedly, not willing to spend any more time in even this sheltered location. Taking a deep breath, she re-entered Diagon Alley.
She circled through various back alleys for a while, all the time keeping her eyes on Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes. The door hung crookedly, reset on its hinges, and the jagged windows looked like gapped, crooked teeth. Nothing moved anywhere near it. She wound her way closer, unwilling to approach it directly from Diagon Alley itself, and finally made her way to the utilitarian rear door, quickly tuning her wand with shaky fingers, and passing through the wards.
She retraced her steps back through the store, and silently entered the Weasleys' lab. She pointed her wand straight up at the ceiling, and quickly muttered the incantation that would reveal the hidden door. A door-shaped section of wall rippled behind what appeared to be a large metal rack full of bottles and boxes. She reached through the rack, and groped blindly until her hand hit something that felt the approximate size and shape of a door handle. She wrenched it open, and the door passed harmlessly through the rack, it being a mere illusion, as she moved to step through the door onto the wooden steps leading down to the Shop.
She nearly tripped over Ronald Weasley, who was sitting hunched on the top step. She closed her eyes, with an expression of something like pain, as he stood slowly, and closed the door behind her. Oh, damn! She thought, realizing that she probably looked inexpressibly guilty.
"Where the hell have you been?" Ron asked, his face flushing nearly as red as his hair.
"What the hell were you doing sitting there?" she argued back, feeling incredibly defensive. "I could've broken my neck. Are you trying to get me killed?"
"No, I think you're the one trying to do that!" he shot back.
"I went to the bank!" she retorted, and Knockturn Alley; got chased by some Death Eaters, her guilty subconscious added.
"By yourself?" Ron was incredulous.
"You were busy!" she said angrily, and then felt badly. Her comment wasn't at all fair. He had been visiting with his father who was miraculously alive, and his injured sister. And she hadn't even actually asked him.
They had descended the stairs, during their exchange, and Hermione now found herself in the War Room, facing everyone else in the Shop, save Ginny. She turned flashing, defiant eyes toward them, knowing that she had gone about this all the wrong way, but still feeling inclined to rationalize her actions.
"You went to the bank?" Tonks asked in a disbelieving tone, aping the casual way in which Hermione had said it. Hermione unfastened her robes, and draped them carelessly over the back of a chair, and lifted her purse strap over her head. She opened the purse, and dumped the contents of it onto the surface of the table. Galleons clattered everywhere, and the small cube rolled over twice, finally coming to rest with a small thud.
"I got Harry's vault," she said mulishly. All eyes went to the cube lying innocuously on the table.
"That's his vault?" Ron asked, reaching for it, and flipping open the tiny door with two clumsy fingers. The minute key still rested inside the lock. He paused, staring at it, and lifted his eyes back to Hermione. "Where did you get his key?"
"He gave it to me last summer. In case anything happened." Ron was eying her with an odd, speculative look, but she didn't have time to ponder the meaning of it, because Remus was speaking.
"You walked into Gringotts, announced that you wanted access to Harry Potter's vault, identified yourself, and then just waltzed out with his entire fortune?" he said, punctuated his statement, with an incredulous laugh.
"The goblins are discreet, you know that," Hermione told him, lifting her chin stubbornly. "He recognized the vault number. Harry's name was never spoken. And he had signed me onto his account with an alias. He is not an idiot. And neither am I!"
Ron muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Could've fooled me."
"Can't we use it? Won't this make things easier?" Hermione looked at them all in turn, pleading with them to understand her. "You know he won't mind."
"Hermione, that's not the point," Tonks said gently.
"Then what is the point?" Hermione asked, her voice beginning to sound frazzled. She had walked a long way today, while wound up like a mainspring, and she was really very tired.
"You're a person that we all love very much," Remus said. "You're also incredibly intelligent, an excellent fighter, and a brilliant witch. We need you, your talents are vital, but we also don't want … any more loss. Running all over Diagon Alley two days after Voldemort smashes the Ministry is not the way to ensure your survival."
His words were also gently spoken, but Hermione steeled herself against them, squaring her shoulders resolutely.
"So, we're back to that again, are we? This fight - us - we're more important than Harry? I've got news for you, if we're going to win this thing, nothing is more important than getting Harry back!" Remus' arms hung loosely at his sides, as he looked at her helplessly. Tonks and Professor McGonagall exchanged glances. They appeared to be thinking that it would be pointless to once again argue with Hermione about the probability - or lack thereof - that Harry was still alive. And they would be right! Hermione thought vehemently.
"Look, I'm sorry that I left without telling anybody," she finally said. "I will not go anywhere else, without letting someone know. But I will not let you deny me this. I know he's alive, and I know that we don't have much time left. He - he wants to give up…but he hasn't yet." She thought briefly of her vision of him earlier that day, and the tired look of "again?" stamped across his battered features. "I'm going to find him." She infused her words with a simple dignity that made it difficult for the other Order members to look her in the face. "I've got work to do," she added, wearily, and turned for the sanctuary of the library.
"What's that in your hand?" Fred asked suddenly, calling Hermione's attention to the forgotten willow stick that she still held. She looked down at it distractedly.
"It's a divining rod," she said, as if it were patently obvious, but offered no further details. She paused by Mr. Weasley's chair, and laid one hand gently on his shoulder. "It's good to see you again, sir," she said warmly, and Mr. Weasley reached up his hand to cover hers, patting it gently, in his usual abstracted way. She wondered idly if his hair had always had so much gray in it.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ron stoop down and pick something up from among the pile of Galleons littered across the floor. As she strode down the hallway, she heard Tonks admonish Fred against enlarging the vault until they had dug a place out for it.
Her hand was resting lightly on the doorknob to the library, when she heard Ron's familiar tread in the hall. She looked at him questioningly, but he didn't speak until they were both shut inside the library.
"The bank wasn't the only place you went, was it?" he asked, almost accusingly, and tossed a small object onto her desk, before she could even reply. Her eyes widened as she recognized the small brown twine-wrapped parcel that she had completely forgotten about, while dumping out her purse.
"I went to the apothecary," she said stiffly, keeping her eyes on the shiny surface of her desk.
"In Diagon Alley?" he asked innocently, and she risked a look at him. His face was carefully bland. He already knows that shop was completely emptied by looters! She thought in annoyance, Fred probably told him.
"I think you know good and damn well where I went," she said sharply, her color rising.
"You went to Knockturn Alley? Today? Hermione, are you crazy?" His voice rose with each successive sentence. Her dark eyes flashed at him dangerously.
"What else was I supposed to do? I needed these ingredients!" she nearly shouted back.
"It isn't safe!" he protested back, as red as she was.
"Nothing is safe anymore! Don't you get it, Ron? It's not safe! And it never will be safe again, unless we stop this! And the only way we're going to stop this is - "
"Harry." He interrupted, finishing for her dully. She looked at him sharply, searching his face with discerning eyes.
"You said you believed me," she stated calmly, in a voice of quiet accusation.
"I do believe you, Hermione," he said in a heartfelt tone, looking at her with anguish.
"You have a funny way of showing it," she replied, more quietly still. Ron appeared to be thinking quite hard about what exactly to say next. He shifted his weight forward in his chair, and reached across the gap separating them, taking both of her hands in his.
"I don't want anything to happen to you." He said, so seriously and sincerely that Hermione felt her throat close up. "I - I don't think I could take it if something were to happen to you."
"Ron, I have to do this," she said in a trembling voice.
"Why?" It burst out of him suddenly, startling them both. "Why can't you let somebody wh - who's trained for this look for him? Why - why can't - " He realized where he was going and stopped abruptly, clamping his mouth shut.
"Why can't I let him go?" Hermione asked accusingly. "Is that what you were going to say?" He tried to protest, but she overrode him. "Why can't I let him go?"
"Hermione, that's not what I meant," he finally broke in wearily.
"I stood out on the Hogwarts green, and watched every Order member except me and Harry die. I watched them take Harry. I watched them, knowing that every hope of the wizarding world would die with him, if he died. I was ready, Ron!" Her voice shook again, and her eyes were vague and distant. She thought of the crumpled bodies on the grass, and then - unwillingly - thought of the wicker basket in Knockturn Alley filled with whitish powder. Bit of a glut on the market lately. "I was ready to run out in the middle of them, to see how many I could kill before they killed me! And Harry told me not to. Even then, he was thinking of me, of you, of the rest of the Order! He is my best friend, my first friend, the one who made you - " here she twisted a smile at Ron - "help him save me from the troll. And I l - " she stopped, suddenly fearful of what she had nearly admitted out loud, and to Ron, no less. "And I owe him this. I owe him my life. If you were seeing what I've seen: Harry beaten to a bloody pulp, Harry screaming, bleeding, trying not to give in. Who knows what they're doing to him? If you saw it, you'd know - you'd know why I feel the way I do!"
Ron slanted an odd look at her. "Would I?" he asked cryptically. Hermione blinked at him, confused, and he waved it off with a "never mind" gesture.
"They are looking for us," she blurted suddenly, and, hoping he wouldn't get angry again, she quickly related her tale of the Death Eaters coming after her in the apothecary shop, omitting the grisly exchange about the bones.
"Dad said they were specifically looking for him and Percy at the Ministry," Ron recalled suddenly.
"They want us - anybody who's close to Harry," Hermione said. "For one thing, I think they know that we'd never knuckle under to Voldemort, that we would always fight him. But they want us to get to Harry. Voldemort wants Harry to break before he dies." Ron nodded, deep in thought.
"I guess that makes sense," he replied, after a moment. "Harry would probably defy Voldemort all day long, just to piss him off. But if - if he - " he suddenly seemed to have trouble speaking, but forced the words out anyway, "If Voldemort did - did anything to you, then - then - I don't know what it would do to Harry." Or you, Hermione thought fondly, as she looked at his rangy frame, hunched pensively in the chair.
"We don't have much time," Hermione added, speaking in a business-like tone. "Professor McGonagall was right. Voldemort's not going to want to risk keeping Harry alive. In fact, I'll wager that Voldemort hasn't even seen him up close yet; he's probably having his little stooges do all the dirty work. And he probably has him behind some kind of magical dampening field, so Harry can't do any…" she was speaking in that absent way she did, when she was essentially thinking out loud. "Yes! I'm sure of it. There was a glowing green ring in the floor, and Harry was standing in the middle of it."
"So when do we leave?" Ron asked, and Hermione smiled at him gratefully.
"I've got to brew up this Locator Potion. The shop owner said it would work better if we soaked a divining rod in it, rather than a wand, but I don't know if she was telling the truth, or just stalling me while the Death Eaters arrived," Hermione mused. "Anyway, I figured we'd try the Riddle house first - just to get it out of the way - I don't really think he's there. And then we ought to try the Malfoy and Lestrange estates first." She looked up suddenly, her eyes wide with alarm, as though she'd forgotten something. "We need ward detectors - strong ones too. I could have found them today - I know someone in Knockturn Alley had to have had them. I totally forgot…I should have put them on my list, but I thought I could remember one thing like ward detectors. I can't believe I - " She was rattling on without taking a breath. Ron stopped her.
"I'll get the ward detectors," he said. Worry blurred Hermione's features.
"Ron, I - "
"Let me take care of it," he insisted, in that same assuring voice. "Okay? Are we going to go looking tomorrow?" Hermione nodded and shrugged in a way that said, "well, I had hoped so." Ron looked at his watch.
"Then I'd better hurry," he said casually, rising to his feet. "I'll take Fred, and Harry's cloak. Can I borrow yours as well?" he asked, referring to the one still draped over the chair in the War Room.
"Of course," she hastily assented in a distracted murmur. She looked up at him suddenly, spearing him with a knowing look in her dark eyes. "Ron, you don't have to do this." He looked back at her, and smiled, one corner of his mouth turning up quirkily.
"'Course I do," he responded, with fake heartiness that was only slightly obvious. One corner of his mouth turned up in an actual smile. "It's for Harry, isn't it? You know I'd do anything for Harry." He quietly exited the library, and Hermione was left to wonder if Ron somehow meant more than just getting the ward detectors and rescuing their best friend. She sat alone in the library, a troubled expression on her pretty, intelligent face.
TBC
Wow! I got this whole chapter out in two really long marathon writing sessions. I almost couldn't type fast enough. That being said, I hope it's decent!
All reviews are appreciated so, so, so much; please leave one on your way out! Many thanks!
I also have a question about the rating. I don't plan to have any really bad language or explicit sex in this story. However, there are dark themes, death, people dealing with death, and there will be some torture/effects of torture described later. Does this merit an R rating? I don't want to shut out readers, but I don't want to traumatize anyone either.
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