Bridges
Chapter Eight: Suspension Bridge
For a brief instant, Harry was conscious only of the curious sensation of Hermione's fingers twined through his. But then, they were there - in the ultra-posh lobby of Galleon Court, and all his Auror senses sang into active mode. He eyed a smartly dressed attendant, who was watching them with lofty suspicion from a high mahogany desk, and whispered to Hermione out of one side of his mouth,
"How do we go about getting to his flat?"
Hermione was still anxiously fiddling with the key that she had tucked into her other palm. At Harry's question, she visibly started and then quickly dropped his hand, as if embarrassed.
"The key grants access to the private Floo conduits - that will take us to the appropriate floor. Then we use the key again, along with a wand-print security check, to gain entry to his flat." Harry whistled.
"He really is paranoid, isn't he? How'd he cotton on to this place?"
Hermione shrugged, and mustered a smile for the desk clerk, as they crossed the large tiled expanse toward the row of marble-hearthed fireplaces. Her low heels clicked smartly on the smooth floor.
"There are a lot of celebrities and very wealthy eccentrics living here, from what I understand. You'd fit right in," she added dourly. Harry regarded her for a moment, trying to decide whether or not he was being insulted.
"But how does he afford something like this on a Healer's salary?" he asked, deciding to ignore her last remark.
"I always wondered about that. But he's always been sort of … flamboyantly confident, almost arrogant," she mused. "I've always assumed that he comes from money."
She stuck the key in a gold-plated slot to the right of the fireplace, and gave it a quarter turn, just before tossing in a handful of Floo powder.
"Fifth floor," she enunciated clearly. Harry couldn't help but dart a glance over at the attendant, who was clearly all ears. The flames glowed green, and they stepped inside.
On the fifth floor, they made their way down a wide hallway lit by floating crystal chandeliers. The thick nap of an elaborate Oriental rug was beneath their feet, and magical works of art donned the walls in gilded frames. Here and there were polished mahogany end tables topped with crystal vases or heavy golden candela brae. It was like walking through a museum, Harry thought.
"So how'd you end up dating a bloke like Alan Callaghan?" he asked casually, thinking that nobody seemed further from Hermione's no-nonsense style. Hermione cocked an eyebrow at him, as if assessing his motivation for asking such a question; he braced himself for an onslaught of words, but she did not pursue the point.
"He seemed nice enough at work," she said, startling him by being forthcoming. "Of course, every time I saw him, I couldn't help but think… you know. Still, he - he seemed so interested, and he - he really wouldn't take no for an answer, so I - I figured, what was the harm in trying? But then, then I just couldn't do it. I saw - I saw her little blue body, struggling to breathe properly, the curled up fingers that gripped mine, I heard her little weak, hoarse cry," her voice faltered, and Harry instinctively slipped one arm around her. This movement seemed to bring her back to herself, and she sniffed loudly, continuing, "every time I looked at him, I thought of her, and - and plus, I think he was more of a fan of yours than of mine." She tilted one corner of her mouth up, clumsily trying to lighten the moment.
"What?" Harry wrinkled his nose.
"He was always asking me about you, where you'd been, what you were doing now, why you were `hiding', how close we were… some of his questions got rather inappropriate; sometimes I wondered if he'd guessed it. And then there was the whole ordeal of admitting to myself - if not to anyone else - that I couldn't answer his questions, even if I wanted to, that you… you didn't care enough to even let me know how you were."
Harry tried to protest, feeling very much on the defensive, but she continued talking.
"He tried to grill Ron too, a few times, but Ron wouldn't stand for it - Ron never did like him very much."
Imagine that, thought Harry, but he said nothing.
They arrived at a heavy wooden door, scrolling lettering proclaiming it #575.
"Anyway, he didn't seem to hold it against me or anything - after it was over, I mean … and it was nice to have someone… around… for a change." There seemed to be no incrimination in her words, but Harry still felt the guilt like a Bludger to the chest.
"I think we've already talked about this - and the circumstances under which I would have been `around'." She cut her eyes at him, and then turned toward the door, without further response.
She inserted the key into the keyhole, and held her wand tip up to a glowing indicator just above it. Something whirred, the indicator turned green, and they heard the latch click as it disengaged. Hermione turned the handle and opened the door, but stopped almost immediately inside the entryway.
The light was uncertain, flickering ominously as a lone candle guttered low on a side table. And it was obvious that something was very wrong.
"Alan?" Hermione called, her voice an uncertain gasp. She took a couple of steps forward, but Harry spied a dark pool of liquid protruding from around the corner, and he grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back.
"Stay here," he said roughly, withdrawing his wand, and slinking through the vestibule to the central room of the flat. The dying candle threw his looming shadow unevenly over the wall.
"Harry!" Hermione's voice was a hiss of protest and concern.
The room had been trashed. Furniture was overturned, drawers were pulled out, cabinets left open, cushions shredded; papers and debris littered the floor, and a few blackened gouges pocked the walls in a testament to a magical duel.
The pool of blood extended a couple of feet past the crumpled body of a wizard, who had been just out of line of sight of the door; he was shrouded in robes that had once been yellow, with one hand out flung, and his wand just beyond his reach.
"Hermione," Harry said in a loud whisper, "call for an emergency Owl. We need the MLE. Send Ron one as well."
"The Floo - " she suggested, but he overruled her.
"Stay by the door," he ordered, as he studied the body impassively for a moment, and then quickly searched the rest of the lavishly appointed flat to assure himself that they were alone.
When he reentered the living room, Hermione was standing there, staring in shock down at what had once been Alan Callaghan. Tears had pooled in her eyes, and were dripping silently down her cheeks. This rather annoyed Harry for some reason.
"I told you to stay back there," he said peremptorily, trying to mask his irritation.
"I'm not some helpless witch who has to let the big strong wizard save the day," Hermione sniffed, lowering her brows at him.
"In spite of everything that's happened today, I'd rather not see you killed, if I can possibly help it," Harry replied, not especially nicely, as he cast a spell that Hermione did not know. Instantly splashes of various colors were seen all over the room, on the walls, the floors, and Alan himself. Harry prowled around, examining the colors and their placement from various angles.
"That's a Tracer?" Hermione asked, her fascination with seeing him in this professional role seeming to momentarily overcome her shock and worry.
"Yes," Harry replied tersely. "They used several Locator spells first, then finally tore the place apart, using hexes and - and more mundane methods."
"Then they were looking for something," Hermione pointed out obviously. "Did they find it?"
"There's no way to know." He waved his wand at the body, and it gently turned over, face up. Hermione tried to conceal a flinch; Harry knew that even all her Healer training couldn't overcome the shock of the sight of someone she had known well. "Whatever it is or was, they tortured him to find it out. Avada Kedavra is nice and clean - this wasn't."
Hermione looked at him oddly.
"You seem … rather blasé about all this, if you don't mind my saying so."
"I'm an Auror, Hermione. Crimes like this are part of my job." Harry sounded weary. "We can at least try to determine what they were after. You knew him fairly well. Can you tell if anything's been taken - without touching anything?"
Hermione made a slow thoughtful circuit of the room, noticeably trying to avoid looking at Alan Callaghan's body. She ventured into the bedroom, and checked a hall closet, before returning.
"His satchel isn't here," she informed him. "He always brought work home with him: patient files he was updating or test results or potion interactions. I don't see how that could be of any interest to anyone though - it's very esoteric. Harry?"
He appeared not to be listening to her at all, and, instead, was crouched over the body, examining Alan's other hand, which had remained tucked near his body, and was crusted with blood. He used his wand to open Alan's fingers, and gently withdrew a torn scrap of paper. He looked up at Hermione, and had a sort of déjà vu moment, involving the word pipes.
"What does it say?" Hermione asked faintly. Harry caused it to hover in midair and unfold itself, taking great care not to touch it. Four letters could clearly be seen, scrawled in dark ink.
--dlow
Without looking at it again, Harry conjured an Evidence Storage Unit, and sent the scrap soaring into it. He was swearing under his breath, as he activated Alan's private Floo and shouted into it. Hermione thought she heard Tonks' voice on the other end.
"Someone needs to get to St. Mungo's immediately, and double the guard on Annemarie Ludlow. No one is to be allowed in her room without express permission." He withdrew from the fireplace and continued to swear and pace. "Damn it all to hell - what could they possibly have to do with each other?" The dancing green flames sank back down into embers. Harry ran both hands through his hair in a gesture born of utter frustration. "Where the hell is Ron?"
"What's going on?" Hermione asked.
"Why would Callaghan be interested in the Ludlow family? Was Mrs. Ludlow pregnant again?"
Hermione's eyebrows soared upward, in pure surprise.
"If she was, she hadn't let on about it."
"Would he have any reason to see Annemarie?"
"I seriously doubt it," she answered, looking thoughtful. "He was strictly obstetrics. Although… he did pick up a shift in emergency every now and then, when demand got heavy or a regular Healer was out. Tabitha did mention that Annemarie had broken her arm, a few months back. I suppose there's an outside chance he could've treated her then."
"I need the records for that treatment - just to be sure. Can you get them for me?"
Hermione nodded abstractedly, but then just stood there, gazing at him as if she had never seen him before. With effort, Harry made himself stop his detailed survey of the flat, and cupped one hand around Hermione's shoulder.
"I know this is not easy. And I know you've lost a friend, and I'm sorry for that. But Annemarie's life could be at risk - is at risk, unless we suss this thing out. You understand?"
"Yes, of course," Hermione murmured, and began moving toward the door, a path that took her past Alan's body. She stopped, gazing at it for a moment, and then bent forward alertly, only just restraining herself from picking something up.
"Harry, look at this," she called quietly, and indicated some purplish fluff protruding from an almost invisible inner pocket of his robes. Harry leaned forward and edged it out carefully, using his wand.
The lavender feather belonged to a rather expensive looking quill, with a broken spine, having apparently been smashed during the struggle.
"It's his quill," Harry said, gesturing as if to place it in storage with the other items in evidence.
"It's his Dicta-quill," Hermione corrected him, emphasizing the important descriptor. Harry's eyes instantly blazed with interest.
"Do you think there's anything left on it?" he asked.
"There's only one way to find out." She tapped it with her wand, and said, "Clemency." When Harry slanted a questioning look at her, she supplied, "It's his mother's name."
The password seemed to have done the trick, as the quill leapt up into the air and hovered there, feather furling as if in a light breeze. Alan's voice began to issue from the quill, startling them both, thought it was crackly and occasionally difficult to hear.
"-creased dosage of fertility potion, but I shouldn't like to go any higher, as the risks outweigh the benefits. Concerns were voiced to Mrs. Gladwell and her … indicated their understanding. Return appointment in 10-12…." There was a long, slightly staticky silence, and Harry made a motion of dismissal, when suddenly the Dicta-quill fluttered again. "Met with Simon Ludlow this afternoon for further negotiation. … suggestion of what I know to be … but sent him into a frenzy. He is quite willing to continue … cooperat… to keep this story from…ophet, but he is becoming quite insistent to know the true origins of… concerned for the girl… will not let things stand as they… " A loud squeal drowned the next few words. "-Merlin that Hermione has my key. The papers are charmed …like pages from …ather's Medical Index. Hermione will know how to access them… if anything happens to me, she - " There was another loud protest from the quill, and then they could get nothing additional from it.
"He was blackmailing the Ludlows," Hermione's voice was tinged with faint disgust. "But why? And concerned for the girl? What girl?"
"I guess that answers how he affords this flat," Harry remarked wryly, and then speared her with a look of chagrin. "I don't like that he is involving you in this." His mind was filled with the image of frenzied Ludlows and bloody corpses. "Where is this Medical Index he was talking about?"
"Glimfeather's Medical Index," Hermione said, walking toward the bookshelf, and pulling out a thick, red leather-bound volume - one of the few that had remained undisturbed on the shelf. She flipped through a few of the fine onionskin pages. "Why did he think that I - " she began, but her eyes fell on the quill, and she quickly tapped the pages with her wand, and said, "Clemency," again.
The index glowed briefly, and then a few pages toward the middle transformed into sheets of parchment. Hermione began to flip through them, and then froze, a look of mystified horror commingled with pain flaring onto her face.
"Hermione, what is it?" Harry said, alarm shooting through him at the look on her face. She dumped the heavy tome unceremoniously on the roll-top desk, and held up two sheaves of paper, one in each hand.
"Birth records," she informed him. "Lily's and Annemarie's."
~*~*~*~
When Harry entered their flat, he was instantly greeted by the sound of someone singing. It took him a moment to pinpoint the voice as Hermione's, and this struck him as somewhat out of character for her. He dropped his bag just inside the door, and began sifting through the post on the counter, as he watched her move around the kitchen, putting dishes away, hips swishing slightly as she sang.
"You seem… chipper," he remarked absently, as his eyes fell on a cream-colored envelope from Portus Global Travel. He hefted it in his hand, but did not open it, knowing that it contained two all-expense paid passes for an extensive and exclusive Mediterranean cruise, wizarding style. He lifted the flap, getting the barest glimpse of a gilt edge inside. "Hey, Hermione…" the words poised on the edge of his tongue, want to go on holiday with me?
"That's because I am," she lilted at him, not seeming to notice his unfinished salutation. "You'll never believe what happened today. It - " She seemed to notice the expression on his face for the first time, part anxious trepidation and part hopeful interest. "What's the matter?"
"What? Oh, nothing," he stammered, his eyes darting guiltily down to the travel passes, and then tucking them quickly into the anonymous remainder of the post.. "Tell me what happened."
"I got in!" she chirped triumphantly. Harry looked at her blankly, and she tutted at him. "The internship on the Continent… working with Eugene Spurgeon… Healer training…?" She kept adding bits of information until Harry's eyes cleared, and he managed a comprehending,
"Oh!"
"It's very hard to get in. I only hope - " she bit her lip, sounding anxious. "I hope I got in on my merits, and not on - not because … well, you know the - "
"Not because of me," Harry finished for her dully. "Of course you didn't. They'd be mad not to take you - you're brilliant, and it's never had anything to do with me!" He meant the words sincerely, but the bitter weight of disappointment was in his gut.
She looked at him more closely, angling her head so that she could peer into his face, and came around the counter where she could lay one hand on his arm.
"What's wrong, really?" she asked.
Harry could feel her hand searing him through the sleeve of his shirt, and his heart seemed to begin an erratic tempo within his chest. He opened his mouth to speak.
Hermione has done everything you've wanted for so long, I'm not sure she knows how to live differently. Ginny's voice rang in his mind so suddenly that he started, sure that the youngest Weasley had suddenly materialized into their midst.
"Nothing," he lied, forcing a smile onto his face. "That's fantastic news, Hermione. They couldn't get anyone better."
She hummed happily at him, her cheeks glowing with pleasure, and Harry wanted to believe that it came as much from his sincere compliments as it did the internship. A thought occurred to her, and she fixed him with apologetic eyes.
"I'm afraid I won't have very much more time to enjoy this lovely flat, Harry. Healer Spurgeon is rather used to having his own way. He's insistent that the new intern begin at the start of term."
"What? When? You've had hardly any time to relax - to do something that you want - " He trailed off when the realization hit him; this wasn't work for Hermione, this was expansion, this was opportunity. She was looking forward to it.
His shoulders slumped slightly, and she patted his arm companionably, imagining that she understood.
"it's only three years," she said. "I've heard that third-year interns even get Christmas off. And - and you could - you could come see me in Prague - I'm sure I'd have to have a little spare time." She sounded like she was placating a child, and it annoyed Harry. Did she really think that a visit here and there would make up for her long absence, for the delicious taste of possibility that had tantalized, but seemed never meant to happen?
Hermione must have read his expression, albeit incorrectly, because her upbeat tone faltered, and she added, "I mean, if you want to…"
"I don't know if I could get away," he told her. "I mean, Auror training starts in October, so I'll be swamped as well." He shrugged and smiled at her; imagine that, we're such busy and ambitious young wizarding folk! was unspoken in the timbre of his voice.
"Yes, I've heard it can be quite demanding," Hermione said, and suddenly the stilted tone was back, as if she were speaking cordially to a perfect stranger, making pointless conversation to pass the time.
Something constricted in Harry's chest; it had not been like this - never like this - until he and Hermione had…
"Are you sure there's nothing wrong?" Hermione's crisp voice - trimmed with an edge of empathy - broke into his thoughts, and he blinked at her for only a moment before replying.
"Absolutely. Quite sure." The sigh escaped completely against his will, and he pushed his lips upward into a smile to counteract it. He lofted the post back onto the counter, with what he hoped looked like a casual toss, and mumbled something incoherent about being knackered.
When he closed the door to the sanctum that was his room, his heart was pounding as if he'd just dueled a small squadron of Death Eaters. When he dashed the back of one hand across his forehead, he found it damp with perspiration.
I knew it, he thought desperately. I knew I was going to mess everything up, and I have. I've gone and fallen in love with Hermione Granger.
*~~~~~*
"Do doctors normally keep transfigured records hidden in charmed books?" Harry asked, his tone suggesting that he already knew the answer.
"No, it's quite irregular. I - I haven't the slightest idea why he would keep something like this… there's no reason… " Hermione appeared fluttery and unnerved. The hand that clutched Lily's record was shaking visibly, with enough force that the parchment rattled audibly.
"But Healers are permitted to access those records…" Harry prodded, throwing out that bit of information that he'd garnered earlier that day.
"For revisions, yes, or - or to consult with a colleague, or refer to a Specialist. But to keep - to hide? - in one's home? I don't understand it at all. And why - why her?" She flicked her gaze to the body in the corner, and then looked back at the papers she held, hissing in a sudden breath of shock.
"What is it?" Harry asked, moving instantly to her elbow, one arm going around her waist without forethought, as he peered over her shoulder. He heard Hermione swallow, before she pointed.
"Look."
Harry tore the duplicated record that he had made from his inner pocket, badly crumpling it in his haste to retrieve it. The one in his hand, and the one taken from the Index were identical in every way… except one.
Callaghan's record had a scrawled addition above Father's Name: Not Given.
Harry Potter. A small purple emblem blinked next to it.
"What's that mean?" Harry asked roughly, feeling a combination of vindication and hollow loss at actually seeing his name there.
"It's a medical stamp," Hermione answered him faintly, staring into middle distance. "Healers use it. It means - it means that something's been authenticated. It means that - that Alan had proof… somehow."
"Well, since he's obviously not above a little blackmail, there's no knowing who else knows about this now… to whom the information's been sold." Hermione seemed to dwindle a little, right in front of him. Her eyes were pained.
Harry's gaze fell on the parchment in Hermione's other hand, and wordlessly, they compared it to the duplicated one in his possession. There were no anomalies there.
"I don't understand…" Hermione repeated, and she looked as lost as Harry had ever seen her. He tipped her chin up so she would meet his eyes, and his thumb left the barest of caresses along her jaw line.
"You shouldn't be here," he said firmly. "You're a civilian. The victim was a friend of yours. You're probably going into shock. I - "
"Harry?" called a familiar voice from the hall, and Harry dropped his hand to his side like it had been made of lead.
"Ron? In here," he called, not without noticeable gratitude in his voice. Whatever connection had hovered between himself and Hermione was gone, whisked away like a tendril of steam on a breeze.
The ginger-haired Auror entered the flat carefully, with a contingent of the MLE just behind him. The other wizards and witches took almost no notice of Harry and Hermione, but immediately fanned out to perform their proscribed tasks. Tonks brought up the rear, and appraised the scene thoroughly before moving to speak with them.
"Wotcher, Harry," she said by way of greeting. "It never rains but it pours, eh?"
"Is there someone here who can escort Hermione home?" he asked, jumping right to the concern foremost in his mind. Tonks and Ron exchanged the slightest of glances, but mercifully, no one asked, why can't you do it?
Hermione waved her hand in annoyance, as if batting away his worry.
"I can most certainly leave under my own power, Harry Potter. I don't need to be baby-sat by some Auror."
"I'd feel better if - if you had - " Harry stumbled to a stop, and Ron wondered if his best mate knew that his feelings were parading out of his green eyes.
"Out of the question," she said. "I'm fine. But I would like to go home." She shot a questioning look at Tonks, who nodded.
"We can take your statement in the morning," the Head Auror replied.
"Thank you." Her smile was clearly forced. "Ron. Harry." The smile thinned further. Harry felt as if the wall between them was as wide as a quidditch pitch was long. He suddenly noted the parchment still in her hand, and said,
"Oh, let me take those." He conjured another Storage Unit, and deposited them neatly therein, by wand point.
Ron harrumphed loudly, and he and Tonks moved to another corner of the flat, ostensibly to supervise a MLE technician analyzing Harry's Tracer.
Hermione absently noted that he shrank the Unit and tucked it into his robes, rather than setting it neatly by the Floo, as he had the first one.
"Look," Harry finally said. "I'm not trying to suggest that you are anything other than perfectly capable. But - but Callaghan mentioned your name, and we - we've seen what these people can do. I'm - I just - I don't want to see you hurt."
Another false smile pulled tautly across Hermione's face, clearly stating that the right to worry over her was no longer his.
"I'll be fine, Harry," she said in a tone that put an end to the discussion, and deftly wound her way through the MLE members and out of the flat without a backward glance.
TBC
Sorry for the delay in updating. Christmas and three kids and (turning the big 3-0 this weekend…sssshhhh) … well, I can only hope that those following this story like it enough to forgive delays.
Working on the final chapter of "Resistance". And I can see there being 3 or 4 more of this one, at least.
You may leave a review on your way out, if you like.
lorien
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