Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I'm only playing. And thanks for letting me.
A/N: Been a long time, eh? Needless to say, all of this is now AU past HBP. Only about 3 chapters to go now. Thanks for sticking around, I know the story's been slow to get to the point. It probably still is.
***
--Chapter Twelve--
So now she's gone and destroyed them, before they even began. Although that's not technically correct because they had begun so long ago, if she were to talk about beginnings, she'd be struggling to find a precise moment. Oh, of course, there's the train and Neville's toad, then the mountain troll, but really, she can't claim she knew then that everything she'd do for the next ten years were to end up centred around Harry bloody Potter.
Like a story that began off page, when she wasn't looking, then wound in and out of the writing because often there were no words, and much of the tale in parentheses, footnotes, mere addenda to having the world to save. Then it turned out that they had it all wrong; the real story, the one that mattered, was in the footnotes, parentheses, addenda, and that's why things happened the way they did, why she found a different curse, why he trusted her, why their city went up in flames.
What's going to happen now?
A bleary eye scans her surrounds, but she can't see the bottle. The armchair sucks her in with its musty stink and broken springs. She puts a blind hand out and after a long moment, locates the bottle by the back leg of the chair. Whoever thought of Firewhiskey in tea were out of their minds, but it's certainly working. Already a thick fog's drifting over the sharp peaks and trenches of her own stupidity. She tosses down the contents of her mug, grimacing as if she's just walked into a cobweb. Her eyes drift shut.
Time passes. She doesn't hear the creak of the door, but knows when he's in the kitchen. She feels him standing near, his eyes on her. She feels a sudden urge to laugh out loud, a memory surfacing through her stupor. The last time she got drunk, she sang all the way from Hogsmeade to the castle, and Ron still claims to shudder at the thought of it. Reaching the castle, she had sat down on the steps at the front door and refused to budge. Finally, Harry carried her up to her room near the library; she drooled on his shirt, observing loudly from her vantage point that he had nice ears. The next morning, he'd taken advantage of her hangover to prise a solemn promise which she hadn't broken till now, hadn't felt the need to--Never again. You'll always stick to Butterbeer.
She wonders briefly what he'll do now. He hasn't budged, his eyes haven't moved, burning over her. She doesn't have to try very hard to feign sleep. He doesn't try hard to hide the fact that he knows. A moment later, his arms reach over, digging her out of the chair. In the ensuing movements--being lifted out and held close, the tucking of limbs and bracing of weight--she manages to conceal a long sigh in a warm fold of shoulder and neck.
Night swings inside her eyelids as he makes his way across the living room, up the stairs. His breath brushes her forehead with each slow step. If she opens her eyes, his mouth would just be a small motion away, one of her hands free to hold his face. She could so easily fix this, give the words back to the story with nothing said at all. She's drunk, she has courage. She's just about lift her head when there's a thump; another door groans open. She breathes in, suddenly recoiling; her room.
Well, what did you expect?
He sets her down on the bed. The sheets are cold. He leaves the room and returns minutes later. She feels herself being shifted again, a pillow slid under her head, a heavy quilt over her.
Her pillow and her quilt, that smell of him.
A heating charm takes only a second to cast, after that there's no reason to linger. The hollow house ensures that she hears his footsteps all the way down to the kitchen, and then the faintest clink of glass.
*
Tonks arrives early next morning, and Harry stumbles out of his chair at the sound of voices and a door being opened. Peering out of the window on his way out of the kitchen, he grimaces at the morning interrupted by a thin, tedious film of rain. His back and shoulders are stiff from sleeping with his head on his arms on the table, the beginnings of a headache at his temples. By the time he gets to the hallway, Tonks is well on her way to a full-blown tirade, but it's at Hermione he stares.
She's showered and dressed, her damp hair gathered over one shoulder. From the way she holds her head and the slight crinkle of her eyebrows, he can tell that she too has woken up with a headache, much worse than his. Her eyes are faintly red-rimmed, her nose peeling, but other than that, she looks awake and alert, dressed warmly to go out, her bag on the floor beside her. In fact, it looks as if she was on her way out when Tonks came in.
Trying to ignore the sudden bristle of panic in his mind, he turns to Tonks. She's in the middle of pulling off her cloak with a loud rustle of irritation, her soaked shoes already kicked under the umbrella stand.
"--not a single fucking Portkey worked within two hours of being activated. Two fucking hours. If Hogwarts was just some dingbat's idea of a joke, why the hell can't we make a flipping Portkey work? And when did they decide to put cameras in Muggle phones--that idiot Scrimgeour--just because my father's Muggle-born he thought I should've known and told him!
"And nobody knows what to do if a fucking spell doesn't work. They just stand there, flapping their hands--for god's sakes, find some other way to do what you want to do! Muggles do it all the time! If you can't, don't stand there looking useless, at least make an effort to look like a thinking, capable human being! I swear, some of my so-called colleagues, they can't think on their feet--it's a fucking joke!
"And nobody has the slightest idea what to do with Muggles, they don't even know how to talk to one without patronizing. Do you know what a disaster this is going to be? We think we're so high and mighty with our bloody magic, if that Sally woman is right, we're going to end up with nothing!"
Finally extricating herself from her cloak, she dumps it on the troll leg which wobbles with the impact. Then she turns to glare at Harry and Hermione, her breath puffing out in irate clouds.
"You know, if you were ever serious about it, now's the time to make up your mind about becoming an Auror. Really, it's about time you got off your arses and decide what you're going to do. Both of you! You've spent enough time cooped up in this godforsaken house and it's helping no one."
She takes a deep breath and lets it out, rubbing her hands briskly over her face. Harry glances at Hermione, but she moves over to the dressing table with the discoloured mirror, fingering a small brass gargoyle. Tonks makes her way across the hallway and drops to a stair. Her short hair's plastered to her scalp, the dripping water seems to stain her skin with the bleak blue of her hair. Her eyes are weighted with lilac shadows, her bony arms sticking out of her black work-clothes. Collapsed into an exhausted lump and backlit by the landing window and fishtank, the only immediate mark of life on her is her clouding breath. She looks up, her voice suddenly devoid of steam.
"I'm sorry. I'm wet and hungry and feel like I haven't slept for months." She yawns. "I would've gone straight home, but--" she rakes a hand through her hair "--I had to tell you, I was hoping I'll get a moment to tell you last night…Harry, we found Snape."
Hermione sets the gargoyle down with a clatter. Harry blinks. "What?"
Tonks heaves a sigh.
"When I got called to Hogwarts, I was in this little town near Exmouth. Shacklebolt has people posted all over and someone reported a wizard who was--behaving very strangely." She scratches her head. "It didn't sound like Snape at all, but I went anyway."
"You should've owled me." Harry doesn't even try to keep the peevish note out of his voice. Tonks shakes her head.
"There was no time. And like I said, I didn't think it was him."
She hesitates as if she herself couldn't fully believe her next words.
"The report was about a wizard who was last seen performing tricks to a Muggle audience. Like…like a juggler or conjurer, a Muggle magician. Shacklebolt's man realised that they weren't just Muggle tricks, but he didn't recognise Snape. But something made him call Kingsley rather than the Obliviator office."
She laughs dryly before continuing.
"Snape is the most…secretive man I've ever known. Can you imagine him parading some cheap Levitation charm or a transfiguration to raise a laugh? And from Muggles?"
Hermione sits on the stair next to Tonks. "But it was him? It was Snape?"
"Yes, it was him all right."
"Then…where is he now?"
"He's dead."
Harry turns away, running both hands through his hair. Tonks carries on, her voice still laced with incredulity.
"He'd been in that inn for weeks. Always drunk to the hilt, stank something terrible, but the innkeeper let him stay because of the…tricks. Basic charms, by the sound of it, some involving probably the last of his stash of potions. There was always a crowd, the owner said--a Muggle called Dawkins. But then just a few days ago, the tricks changed. Instead of harmless transfigurations, twice he'd thrown what sounded like a stunner at the audience. Didn't hurt anyone, thankfully, his aim was so bad."
After a moment's rummaging, she pulls out a handkerchief from her pocket and blows her nose.
"But then yesterday, he'd done a…a Levicorpus. On a woman. She was hysterical, so was the crowd. Her boyfriend punched him. Not particularly viciously, as these things go, but when he got off, Snape was dead."
Harry moves through the hallway, absently fingering the filthy frames of the remaining portraits. Something brushes his forehead and he looks up to see a thick, ineffectual cobweb dangling from the serpent-shaped candelabra overhead. He barely hears Hermione's hushed voice.
"But how?"
There's a small pause and a creak, and turning around, Harry sees Tonks lean her head against the railing.
"I think…he was out of his mind. Literally. And very ill. He'd been putrid--when alive, I mean. Hadn't washed or shaved for weeks. And Dawkins said that he chattered all the time, sometimes just muttering to himself, but sometimes to whoever dared to get close. Dawkins said it was nonsense, but I think if any of us listened, someone magical, we would have known what he was going on about."
Hermione leans forward, her chin propped on her hand, arm balanced on knee. Tonks sits up and looks at each of them in turn. "It's just so bizarre. None of it sounds like Snape, does it? To be so…unguarded, careless. He was so completely out of it."
"Perhaps it wasn't him, then. Perhaps it was someone else."
Aware of the sudden brusqueness in his voice, he slides his hands in his pockets, turning away. His gaze drifts past the baroque gas lamps that have remained cold for months, their metallic hold on the walls weakening due to the crumbling plaster beneath the old wallpaper.
"It was him, Harry. He had the Dark Mark still on him. And…there was a scar down the back of his neck, running up a little way into his scalp. A foul, festering thing. I saw him get that scar. So did you."
A small pause clings to the chill in the hallway. The hex the castle had unleashed on Severus Snape on the day Voldemort died looked like a curl of smoke wafting down from the enchanted ceiling; Snape's scream had filled the Great Hall. Recovering from that moment of distraction, Harry had caught sight of the tail end of a killing curse arrowing towards Lupin, Bellatrix Lestrange on the other end. Across the Hall, Tonks was watching, frozen.
Walking over to the tarnished mirror, Harry picks up the brass gargoyle Hermione had set down. Tonks blows her nose again, almost talking to herself.
"I don't think Snape had anything to do with anything after that night in the castle. And he most certainly wasn't after you, Harry. Hell, I don't think he'd have known you if you poked him in the eye."
In the silence, Harry resumes his aimless pacing. Hermione climbs up the stairs, feeds the fish, then returns to her perch next to Tonks. The light gets busy in the tank, odd liquid shapes darting down the stairs. Wandering back to the mirror, Harry picks up the gargoyle again without really seeing it. Tonks stirs. "Kingsley's man sent word a few days ago, when the stunners started, but Kingsley was too busy. When news came the second time, it was too late."
Too late for what, he wants to ask, but raising his head, he catches sight of Hermione's eyes on him in the mirror. He turns around.
"So, I guess you're right." He flashes a thin smile.
"About what?"
"About Malfoy. Extraction."
She doesn't answer, but refuses to look away.
Harry shrugs. "Malfoy doesn't have the brains to work out something like extraction. Snape does. Did. I figured they'd have been working together. But it doesn't look that way, does it?" He switches his gaze to Tonks.
"So if it's not extraction, if it's not Snape, then who's dangling the carrot for Malfoy? I've never known him to put himself in danger unless someone bigger and more rotten than himself told him he had something to gain."
A furtive expression flits across Tonks's face. "What's extraction?" she says quickly, looking from one to the other. Harry looks at her more closely. Once before too, a couple of weeks ago, he'd been about to ask what she was hiding, why she worked such long, odd hours if there were no more than two high-profile Death Eaters to round up. Later when he thought about it, he assumed she was busy because of the state the Ministry was in. Now he's not so sure, but before he can frame his question, Hermione interrupts.
"So where's the…body now?"
"At the coroner's office." Tonks stretches wearily. "It would have been too much trouble, too many people to Obliviate. So we let the Muggles keep him and do…whatever they do. Not like there was anyone to claim his body, anyway."
The house seems so quiet, Harry can hear every sullen drip of the waning rain outside, every wingtip scraping in the roof overhead. Then suddenly, like cracking ice, his foot meets the carved leg of the dresser. Fleetingly, he sees Hermione straighten up, eyes wide, and Tonks' confused stare. The dresser wobbles and the brass gargoyle rattles to the floor. Its hollow jangle loud in his ears, he strides to the door, wrenches it open and bursts out into the grey, washed out street.
*
During the final five or six months of the war, the Order spotted a distinct change in tactics in Death Eater activity. Direct attacks on major sites were replaced by small skirmishes and seemingly minor break-ins. Weeks went by without any reported deaths. The Dark Mark distorted the sky less and less.
Opinion was divided, just as the ranks fighting the war against Voldemort. The Ministry lost no time congratulating itself though Scrimgeour had done no more than stay in the sidelines and wait for the Order to make a wrong turn. Within the Order itself, some congratulated themselves for having systematically diminished Voldemort's ranks; surely the weakening nature of the attacks was a sign of a retreating enemy. Voldemort himself was reported to be in not very good shape; each Horcrux destroyed sapped his strength.
But others, especially those who'd taken potions class at Hogwarts during the sixteen years before Dumbledore's death, knew better. Despite their seeming randomness, the Death Eater attacks had very definite effects on the magical world. People found themselves waiting for a full-scale attack anytime, and the waiting made it worse. The minor incidents turned out to be just as, or even more, crippling than a full-scale attack. They put pressure on an already stretched Order for better vigilance over various far-flung spots in the country, with no immediate results. The Ministry rushed to slacken the state of emergency, taking away some of the powers the Order had been granted early in the war. Overall, the deep, stultifying uneasiness and confusion was more oppressing than the grand displays of violence people were used to from Voldemort after his return.
In short, Tom Riddle's grandiose, dramatic methods were being replaced by the trademark insidiousness of Severus Snape.
Harry never thought that Voldemort conceded fully the command of his army to Snape. Control was crucial to Tom Riddle, even in appearance, but he has no doubt that the final turn of the war was of Snape's engineering. Voldemort knew Harry well, but Snape knew him better. What's more, Snape also knew Hermione. It was Snape who set them up with the Incinerator, to burn London down, to execute unknowingly Voldemort's final flourish of power.
So, yes, I'd have liked to kill him. Just for that, if for nothing else.
He's circled Grimmauld Square twice before heading out into the city. Some small streets are still full of crumbled asphalt, creating mazes of shallow puddles that take some concentration to navigate. He's soaked to the skin. An Impervius was briefly considered, then forgotten. He hasn't the slightest idea where he's going, drifting down streets transformed into rivers and runnels through his blurred glasses.
It hadn't taken long for things to fall into place after the final night at Hogwarts, missed signs and obvious clues collated and filtered through the expertise of hindsight. At the inquiry at the Ministry that had gone on for days, he watched in helpless fury as Hermione tried to hold her head up under the scrutiny of a fleet of questioning eyes, drilling her about the Incinerator. She'd been in charge of research, no one wanted his or Ron's input, much less their belligerent attempts to defend her.
Among those present were Fred, who with George had helped with spells and potions during the war, Scrimgeour and various Heads of Departments, and a dozen members of the Wizengamot. Yes, it was strange for books and scrolls to appear in the Hogwarts library that she couldn't remember being there before. No, not everyone could access the restricted section, specially after it was secured further for use in the war; only a powerful witch or wizard could get through the complex security measures. Yes, the curse was tested, and found to be fool-proof. Yes, that in itself was strange. And yes, someone had spotted an intruder once, a familiar gait and a profile, but the man had got away.
Yes, she should have known.
Sighing, Harry pauses and looks around him. He has no idea how long he's been out, but notices that the rain seems to be easing. The waning drops steal filaments of brightness from shop and street lights. Finally casting an Impervius over his glasses, he turns into a busy square, dodging umbrellas. The bright colours of a fruit stall catch his eye, and walking past, he almost misses what's right next to it.
He stops dead and stares. The fruit stall shares its makeshift plastic awning with a newspaper stand, and through the bodies crowding around, Nick's face stares out from the front of a broadsheet.
Pushing through to the front of the stall, Harry picks up the paper. The Wonderful World of Magic screams the headline, bolstered with an equally prominent subtitle, Exclusive: Eyewitness account of a Hidden World. The story takes up three-quarters of the page. Next to Nick's mug-shot in one corner are several shots of Hogwarts from the night before, with some spectacular views of the forest, lake and valley. Rummaging in his damp pocket for coins, Harry scans the other papers along the stand. All contain variations of the headline from the first one without the advantage of the exclusive. Cult, Hoax or Conspiracy? reads one, England's Best Kept Secret reads another. Both contain pictures from the night before and Harry winces at a circle zooming in on a wand in the hand of a witch in a long, black robe. He picks up a copy of each paper, pays, then crosses the street at a run. Settling on the shaded steps of a shop with a bright pink door, he spreads the papers out on his knees.
All three seem unable to make up their minds. The words 'cult' and 'conspiracy' crop up often, and even Nick's eyewitness account contains a heavy dollop of caution from the reporter writing it up. Thankfully, thinks Harry, for Nick seems to have had no reservations. There are detailed mentions of spells and charms, and merry accounts of an outing in Diagon Alley, Quidditch and the ghoul in the Weasley's attic. Thinking that Nick would do well to stay out of Hermione way for the rest of his life, he looks anxiously for any reference to the burning of London. Finding none, he folds the papers and leans back against shop door.
Across the street, the newsstand carries a roaring trade. With many of its customers crossing the road to the bus stop next to the shop where he huddles, Harry eavesdrops freely. Incredulity seems to be the order of the day, though not the kind of incredulity he would have expected. Smiling despite himself, he listens as one man in a bowler hat stabs ferociously at the paper in his hand, bemoaning in colourful language the demise of honest, incisive, serious journalism.
He sits there for about ten minutes, watching the bustle around him. Despite the damage, the city seems never to have paused. On the far side of the square, some buildings are still painted with long, black brushstrokes of smoke from the fire. Rain's put a damper on some construction sites, but he can see work in progress inside a shop on his left, buckets of paint gathered around two ladders, and two men and a woman in overalls. The rain's stopped.
His stomach growls, his previous anger turning sour in his gut. He turns one of the papers idly on his knee, pausing at the property listings. He wonders if Hermione's still home, whether she waited for him before leaving for wherever she was dressed to go. His gaze drifts past a long-suffering line of traffic. Something white catches his eye and he finds himself peering at a sprig of tiny green-white flowers blossoming along the strip of earth against the pavement. There's a small flutter of movement from inside the shop. He cranes his neck, realising that he's sitting on the steps of a bridal shop. A woman turns in front of a mirror, draped in voluminous white, head inclined, an appraising eye on her reflection. Another woman, a tape measure between her teeth, squats at the trailing hem. Harry stares, startled by the idea that for some, beginnings are possible.
But then, he too thought a beginning was possible only one night ago.
He hunches against the cold, now making him shiver, and glares at the hem of pale blossoms decorating the pavement.
Why does it always have to be so complicated?
*
Hermione pauses at the lip of the narrow stairwell stoppered with the old oak door. It didn't take her long to confirm her 'facts.' First, she visited the library at St Mungo's, which now housed much of the collection salvaged from the Ministry. She leafed through scores of archival records and research reports, locating what she sought quite quickly. Creating a distraction was easy enough and in no time her bag was stuffed with a bulky research report.
Then she visited the office of The Quibbler. Luna and her father were both there, feverishly working on a special edition of the paper. Trying to feel her way around without inciting too much curiosity, and almost shouting to be heard above the sound of the two ancient printing presses, Hermione found that Mr Lovegood did not know about Sally's bone wand. She was relieved; she trusted Mr Lovegood, so did Harry, and Luna has always been a good friend.
All that was left now was to confront Sally.
I shall not go overboard, she promises herself. I shall not act like Harry's keeper, I shall not reach automatically for the vilest jinx I can remember. I shall give her a chance to explain.
Unless of course there was a good reason.
She takes a deep breath and walks down the stairs, leaving muddy boot-prints. There's no handle or knocker on the door, no keyhole. It's too dark to see but she thinks the door's set at an odd angle. She raps on the wood sharply, waking only a faint echo up the stairwell. She tries twice more but there's no response.
Standing back, she reaches for her wand. Looking up again at the door, she realises that the odd angle of the door is due it being open. Only a crack; the wood is so heavy that her knocking failed to move it.
Holding her breath, she steps in. A dismal sequence of everlasting candles hiss into life. Pausing for a minute to be sure she's alone, she stares around curiously.
Something's not right.
A desk stands to her right, clear except for a few bits of parchment and string. Next to the desk is haphazard chair, as if it was moved aside in haste. Pencil shavings litter the floor in a circle; a waste-paper basket too has been removed. An empty cardboard box stands on the floor in the middle of the room.
Further inside, various objects glitter on a series of a floor-to-ceiling shelves. Stepping close, she notices that there are gaps on the shelves and faint shapes etched on dust of objects held there previously. Further along, two shelves of books host the same gaps, some books lying sideways over the extra space. Absently, she drifts over and straightens two heavy, tattered volumes, fingers dancing over their spines. Bending to pick another off the floor with a small cluck of disgust, she spots a small shoebox wedged behind the desk, half-hidden by a cluster of rolled up charts.
She drags it out, sets on the desk and tips the lid off, her breath already cold in her lungs. The photographs are on top, marked at the back with the Daily Prophet logo: three glimpses of Harry at the Triwizard Tournament, one in the arena with the Hungarian Horntail, two from the official shoot presided by Rita Skeeter. A wad of yellowing newspaper cuttings come next. Right at the bottom is a Gryffindor tie, a couple of Chocolate Frogs cards, and a small plastic replica of a Gryffindor's sword.
A shadow fills the doorway and she whips around.
"Miss Granger."
Her wand held at an angle, she glares. Rufus Scrimgeour raises his eyebrows. "Hardly the person I expected to see."
"Where is she?"
Scrimgeour steps inside, his arms crossed behind his back. Hermione throws a quick look over his shoulder to make sure he hasn't brought an entourage with him. He seems to be dressed less carefully than normal, his robes pinned sloppily over one shoulder. His limp seems more pronounced, as if he was carrying a heavier burden than usual.
He smiles suddenly, taking Hermione by surprise. "If you mean my daughter, in light of what happened, she didn't think it was safe for her to stay in England."
Hermione sets her jaw. "You didn't think it would be safe for you if she stayed."
The smile drops out of sight. A moment passes. You're not going to stare me down. A candle flickers and dies, not making much of a dent in the dimness. Scrimgeour makes an abrupt gesture.
"Miss Granger. I love my daughter, she loves me. Despite…the occasional disagreements we have, we're family and I'm responsible for her safety. The kind of…ideas she was propagating last night, very publicly--now, they're not the type of sentiment the wizarding public would take to very kindly in times such as these"
Hermione laughs. "Surely that's a flimsy excuse even for you? To say that people will be hounding her just because she dared to speak what no one wants to admit." She pauses and lowers her wand. "That magic's running out."
Scrimgeour drops his arms at his sides. A small twitch of disgust or decision passes across his face. "So. You believe that too."
"Yes, I do."
"And does Mr Potter think so too?"
"I don't speak for Harry."
She holds his stare for a moment longer, then turns towards the open box. She piles the photographs and other oddments back inside and sets the lid down. Taking her time, she returns the box to where it was hidden. She turns around to face Scrimgeour again.
He strides further inside the room. His boots are stuck with mud and bits of grass. Hermione watches as he paces to the far end where another door, one she remembers, shimmers with blue light. Turning back, he speaks briskly, as if he is keen to finish his business with her and get on to other things.
"In light of what's happening, the Wizengamot is considering mandatory recruitment of all able witches and wizards. We need as many hands on deck as we can get. The Auror department will be expanded, and several other departments in the Ministry will be restructured to respond to…growing needs. The Department of Magical Catastrophes and Muggle Relations, for instance, will be given similar training as Aurors. And--" he pauses to look at her "--we will bring in legislation to recruit officers for these."
Hermione's unable to contain the note of disbelief in her voice. "You mean conscription."
With a dry laugh, he makes a dismissive gesture. "Well, now, that's too--what's the word--militaristic, no need to be so dramatic." His gaze hardens again and he speaks carefully. "Miss Granger, what I'm trying to say is, you might want to inform Mr Potter that it would be in his interests to take up the…offer I forwarded him many times of a place in the Ministry. Because soon, it will not be an offer. It will be the law."
Hermione laughs. "You're unbelievable. You're threatening Harry now?"
Scrimgeour smiles; a flat, condescending smile. A plume of rage runs up her spine. But before she can summon proper words, Scrimgeour turns, the flourish back in his gait. He waves a hand at the candles in sconces overhead.
"Do turn the lights off on your way out, Miss Granger. Thank you."
Pushing the chair back into place in passing, he almost swirls past her, undeterred by the miserable attempts of his heavy, wet cloak to billow decently.
*
"Harry? Harry, where are you?"
He steps out of his room just as she rushes in. Colliding, he grabs her arm to steady her and finds her pressed up close, droplets from his damp hair over her face. Suddenly, it seems as if there's nowhere else to go, but then she shifts, he turns and the distance is back.
"Sorry…" Mumbling, she steps back. He picks up the towel he's dropped and strides into his room.
"What's going on?"
He drops the towel in the hamper and begins to pick up his rain-drenched clothes off the floor. His hair drips on his t-shirt. With a hiss of irritation, he reaches for a fresh towel. She stands at the doorway and slips her bag down her arm.
"Harry, Sally's gone."
He straightens. "What?"
Hermione takes a few steps inside the room. Her boot encounters a shirt on the floor and she picks it up, dropping it in the laundry hamper.
"I've just been to the Ministry, to see her."
"To see Sally? Why?"
She drops her bag on the floor and sits down on his bed. "Harry, sit down. I know you're angry with me, but--"
"I'm not angry with you." He shoves the lid down on the brimming hamper and pushes it with his foot to a corner of the room. Reaching for the bundle of Muggle newspapers lying on top of Hedwig's cage, he drops them on the bed next to her. "In fact, I've got something to show you."
She picks up the papers, then hisses through her teeth. "The bastard!" She riffles through all three, then returns to the one featuring Nick. Towelling his hair vigorously, Harry moves across the room and leans against the window, facing her.
"It's actually not that bad. I was listening to some of the talk around, and many don't really buy it. You know, the idea of a hidden magical community. I mean, even the papers don't seem too sure despite the running the darn stories."
Having finished scanning the stories, Hermione shakes her head. "Well, it won't stay that way for long." She folds the newspapers briskly and tosses them aside. "There are lots of people out there who are genuinely suspicious. And lots of magic leaking. Don't you remember how The Quibbler reported that many Muggles had spoken out about the fire? About how it hadn't seemed normal, how none of the Muggle fire engines couldn't put it out and they had to wait for it to just die in its own time? We're exposed, Harry. Too late to stop it now and soon, we won't even have the means. It's just--" She makes a vague gesture, searching for words. "The building of Hogwarts marked the beginning of our separation from Muggles. And the Ministry, well the whole purpose of the Ministry is to keep things secret from Muggles. But now they're both useless, aren't they?"
He watches her as she stares at a vague point across the room. Her hair's frizzed up in the rain, spread out in tendrils and ringlets over her shoulders. There's a frown on her forehead and her eyes are still faintly red-rimmed.
"Why'd you go to see Sally?" he says, trying to distract himself.
She glances at him and pulls off her gloves, tossing them in the same direction as the newspapers. "Harry, she's not who she seems."
He laughs. "You don't say?"
She makes a small sound of exasperation. "Look, when she was talking about extraction the other day, she didn't tell us everything. She conveniently forgot to mention that it wasn't just magical objects and creatures she was studying in relation to extraction, but--" She looks at him, then quickly looks away.
"But what?"
"Humans. It's possible to extract magic from humans. From witches and wizards."
He lowers the towel and slides his glasses back into place. It's so fucking obvious, he thinks, now that it's been pointed out. Why hadn't he thought to ask?
He shakes his head and blows air through his teeth. "Well, that's great. That gives us a whole new problem to deal with." He throws the towel across the room at the hamper; it lands neatly on top. "How do you know?"
She unbuttons her cloak and pulls it off. Kicking her boots aside, she settles on the bed, one leg tucked beneath her. "All those months ago, when we were trying to find stuff on Horcruxes, I came across her research report. The one that got her the position at the Ministry. I don't know if she told you, but both Horcruxes and extraction fall under preservation magic. That's how they're categorised." Thoughtful for a moment, she runs her fingers over the wrought iron bedpost.
"Except I didn't know the report was hers. I mean, the name meant nothing to me. Until yesterday when you introduced her…then later, when she started talking about extraction, it sort of fell into place." Reaching inside her bag, she pulls out a thick roll of parchment encased in a protective leather sleeve. "I went to St Mungo's today just to make sure."
He sits down beside her. Written in clear hand and watermarked with the Ministry crest, the report runs into several long pages. Sally's name is set in block letters on top.
"So…she actually extracted magic from someone?"
Hermione leans over, riffles through the parchment and points at a line of text at the bottom of a page. Harry takes a sharp breath.
"Anne Louise Page--that's--"
"Her mother. I checked." She pauses. "There's a consent form. So at least in theory, she agreed to it."
"Is she…is her mother--"
"Still alive? Yes, she is. I checked that too."
Harry runs a hand through his hair. He rolls up the scroll and sets it on the bed as if he wanted nothing more to do with it, as if he was handling something that disgusted him beyond words.
"Is extraction illegal?"
"No. But it's highly controlled, with an international decree. Magical research is the only reason you might be allowed to do it. And even then, there's a long preliminary test to make sure you're not up to something. With magical creatures, you have to prove you're not harming the creature in any way. Of course, with ones such as centaurs you'd have to get consent, just the same as humans, so I don't think there's ever been any extraction done there."
He leans back on his hands, staring through the window.
"If that was so…if it was all within the law and...she didn't force anyone, why would she be so cagey about it? If it was just research, why not tell us the full story?"
"That's the thing. I don't think it's just research."
She looks at her hands, fiddles with a button on her abandoned cloak, then curls her hand abruptly.
"Harry, her wand…it's made of human bone."
He continues to stare.
"They're banned in England. It's the same principle as wandless magic. A wand made of human bone is a stronger conductor of magic than one made of wood or any other material. There was a time, centuries ago when bone wands were used regularly by people who weren't that strong in magic."
Frowning, he sits up.
"Squibs?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
"Hermione, she's an Unspeakable!"
She flashes him a look.
"Being an Unspeakable doesn't always require you to be powerful in magic. It requires you to be intelligent and driven. Which she is."
He rubs a hand over his face and pulls the wet spots at the neck of his t-shirt. "So she's a squib, an Unspeakable, and she's pretty much obsessed with magic."
Hermione nods and her fingers reach once more for the loose button on her cloak. "Well, it is her job. Although…there's one more thing. In her room, I found a box. A shoebox full of pictures, paper clippings and…some other odd bits of…you."
He looks on, puzzled. She bites her lip. "As if she was keeping a record of what you've been doing over the years. She had some archive pictures from the The Prophet, you know, from the Triwizard Tournament. But mostly from recent times. A bit of a running commentary of the last couple of years."
"Hermione, what are you saying?"
She returns his gaze silently.
He shakes his head, incredulous. "You can't be serious--she's just not the type--I mean, sure, she's very dodgy and all but to go that far? Like you say, it's her job and she said she wanted my help with this--this magic running out thing. I'd say it's fair to do a bit of research about me before she actually met me, wouldn't you? I mean, it's not like she grew up here knowing all about Harry freaking Potter."
She throws her hands up. "I don't know. I really don't know. If she was planning to use you for extraction, I'd say she's pretty ambitious. But we already know that…I mean, for someone with no magical ability to even think of becoming an Unspeakable--I mean, not that you can't or shouldn't, but just the thought of it…" She trails off, catching the look on his face. He clears his throat quickly to hide his expression at the note of grudging admiration in her voice.
Tucking her hair behind her ear, she carries on. "Also, if extraction was what she was after, I don't think Mr Lovegood would have let her anywhere near you. He has a good nose for that kind of thing." She sighs and slumps her shoulders.
"I don't know, Harry…that's what I wanted to find out today."
"So what? She's just left?"
She shakes her head and reaches for the glass of water on his bedside table. He drags his eyes away from the line of her throat as she gulps the water down. Then, his blood speeding up for a different reason, he listens to her account of her meeting with Scrimgeour. By the time she finishes he feels the dull anger from the morning acidic in his belly again. He gets up from the bed and paces around the room, her eyes following.
"What the fuck does he want from me?"
Hermione leans against the bedpost, her legs crossed, hands slack in her lap. "Same as he always wanted, Harry. He wants you on his side. He thinks it might give him a boost. Give people something solid, something proven, rather than the promises he keeps making which he knows he can't keep. It's a been longer than a month, and everything's still in pieces--I mean, with magic, it shouldn't take this long to rebuild the city, should it?" She glances at him. "He knows he's in trouble and he thinks you can fix it. So if he can't get you on board by asking nicely…" she breaks off, shrugging.
Harry moves around his room, fussily setting things right. She watches in silence, her eyes patient. Half-open wardrobe doors snap shut, Hedwig's cage gets a fast-tracked cleaning. A window bursts open. Inhaling the sharp air, he returns and drops to the bed beside her.
"We have to find her. I don't know what she's up to, I don't care if she was planning to use me as some sort of lab rat, she knows more about this magic thing than anyone and we--I'm going to need her."
Feeling a small movement at his sleeve, a minuscule flinching or a hasty breath, he glances sideways at Hermione. Her profile is hidden by her hair, but he can sense a bitten lip, her hands curled. He looks aside, suddenly aware of how close they're sitting. After a long moment, she speaks softly.
"Harry, Are you really not mad at me?"
"No."
"Are you disappointed in me, then?"
"No."
She takes a deep breath and lets it out.
He reaches for a jumper bunched up against the headboard and pulls it on. "I love you."
There's that half-strangled breath again, and she lifts her head. His eyes linger on her worried lip.
"I'm sorry, was I not supposed to say that yet? Well, it's true. You can't have not known that. I love you and I don't know how to…"
Suddenly, he wants to get up, the stillness is too much. But he stays seated.
"Look, Hermione, I've missed you. I've missed us. Ever since the…end, it's just been one thing after another, one more useless excuse to just…just pretend that there was some other way to do things, other than…together. And you know, sometimes I wish we were--"
He pauses, frustrated with himself. He touches her bare forearm tentatively, slowly stroking her skin, desperate to guide his half-sentences and half-thoughts into a whole that makes sense. But it's she who leans over, her own hand in his. He kisses her gently, breathing the faint traces of muddy rain on her, the freshness of a turning month. His thumb presses on her trembling chin, an answering thickness in his throat. "Sometimes it seems as if before, those worst months were really the best, because then we were together--"
With a defiant noise deep in her throat, she pushes closer. "Harry--" Leaning back to brace her weight, he finds himself stretched out on the bed. "--but we are now--" She leans in, her knees straddling him, her arms bracketed above his head. Her hair falls out around them, completing the cocoon. Her nose nudges his open mouth, lips and tongue following. He tries to keep his eyes open just to see how hers darken, but fails. His fingers loiter on her skin--warm beneath her shirt, grooved along her spine. She presses down on him and he groans. His knuckles brush lace, then skin, then lace again and a nub beneath. She gasps. He smiles into her mouth suddenly and returns his hand to where it was, craving her response again. Just as she reaches to pull his glasses off, there's a sudden, sharp crack from the floor above, the sound of someone dropping something.
Fingers gripping her waist, he stares as the noise turns into a rattle, something not too heavy bumping down the stairs. There's a moment of sheer stillness, then they scramble off each other and off the bed. Hermione rushes out first and Harry follows her, hastily grabbing his wand off the table, taking the stairs at a run. Turning at the landing before the next flight of steps, Hermione stops, Harry almost crashing into her. She scoops a wand off the floor, her gaze lifting. Harry follows her eyes. At the top of the stairs stands Draco Malfoy, eyes wide, face as white as his hair, the door flung wide open in Buckbeak's room.
Harry pushes Hermione aside and bounds up the stairs. "Harry!" she yells, making a grab for his shirt, but he's quicker. Malfoy turns and darts inside Buckbeak's room. Harry reaches the top of the stairs just in time to hold the slamming door. Malfoy lets go of the door and Harry almost crashes to the floor. Praying that the window and trapdoor are shut, Harry lunges inside just as Malfoy scurries to the opposite side of the room, the bike between them.
"You slimy, thieving bastard!" He holds out his wand, the beginnings of a stunner at the tip of tongue. But at the last moment, he notices Malfoy's eyes go unfocused as if he was concentrating on something Harry couldn't see.
"No! You fucking--"
He lunges again grabs a handful of black robe. Malfoy's mouth opens in horror, and Harry feels an echo of it in himself. Behind them, he can hear Hermione's yell, and the house rattles with footsteps. He grits his teeth as black air squeezes him. His ears block up within seconds, but not before he feels the resounding crack of their own Apparating. He wrings his eyes shut, hoping for the first time in his life that Malfoy does have half decent magical powers.
--end chapter twelve--