A/N: Here you go, kids. Hope you like it!
And Tome Raider always gets the details right! ^_^ You're the best.
Standard disclaimers apply.
Chapter Ten: Must Be a Full Moon
Hermione looked up from her newspaper and saw that Fleur Delacour-Weasley had arrived.
Fleur looked terribly neutral, especially with her huge designer dark glasses, as she sat across from Hermione for brunch. She set her bag on the third seat with a pointed flourish.
Hermione thought Fleur hadn't looked this intimidating since she and her coven of gorgeous girls and pretty boys first sashayed down the halls of Hogwarts.
"Ginny said she will not come today," said Fleur, folding her hands primly on her lap.
Hermione sighed, folding her paper and setting it aside. "She's pissed about my date last night, isn't she? And you're taking her side on this one. Great. Of course you would. Chaucer Blythe was perfect."
Fleur flagged a waiter and asked for coffee to start. She then snootily told the waiter to come back in five minutes to take their orders. The waiter most willingly complied, casting Fleur longing glances as he left.
Hermione had to watch and wait for Fleur to remove her immaculate gloves, her glasses, and then smooth her perfectly businesslike robes and suit into perfect crimps, before she settled her elbows primly on the table to talk.
"I am not taking her side," Fleur said. "I take no sides unless I believe in ze cause, and zese is not a cause I believe in-zis throwing men at you to date. I think it is about as tasteful as Dolores Umbridge's fashion sense, so unlike ze rest of ze Wizarding World, I feel no need to pair you wiz anyone you do not wish to be paired wiz. What concerns me is zat you are getting addicted to being un'appy."
Hermione stared at her, open-mouthed. This was too much to take in at once. And Fleur had only just arrived! "Excuse me?"
"You are wallowing in your misery. Ze angst of it gives you some kind of satisfaction-like self-inflicted punishment."
Hermione frowned. "I absolutely resent that!"
"Of course you do. Ze truth is sometimes unpleasant. I know all about unpleasant truths. For instance, I still will not accept zat Bill will never wake up, even if it `as been a bit over seven years. We sometimes do not like to listen to certain truths. It does not make us bad people-only miserable ones."
Hermione sighed. She knew, at least, that Fleur wasn't just talking about her now. In the last few years, Hermione realized that Fleur was quite capable of talking about Bill's coma nonchalantly enough, injecting it in casual conversation, but Fleur didn't like talking about her feelings concerning it. She was never ashamed to say it made her sad, or miserable, but she refused to appear broken, which said a lot about Fleur, even if Hermione wasn't sure it was healthy.
It was perhaps why she and Fleur had gotten along so well the last few years. Unlike all of Fleur's other women acquaintances-especially the Weasley ones-who seemed to think having emotional discussions about it would make her feel better, Hermione never pushed. Hermione sent Bill fresh flowers and chocolates at their house every few weeks. She could tell Fleur appreciated this greatly, and while Hermione liked to drop by Fleur's house, usually with Angelica with her, her visits to Bill were never made heavy by melancholy talk of what could have been.
In turn, Fleur never nagged Hermione of finding Angelica a new father, so this little tirade of Fleur's was a bit of a surprise. In fairness to Fleur, she hardly ever moralized, so really, Hermione could stand to listen to her during the rare occasion that she did.
Still, what Fleur was saying now as very hard to swallow.
Taking a deep breath, Hermione tried to compose herself and looked over the menu calmly as she spoke. "Is that what you really think, Fleur? That I want to be miserable?"
Fleur shrugged one shoulder elegantly, picking up the menu as she did so. "Eet is easier zan finding true `appiness."
"I'm very happy. Angelica is all I need."
Fleur's eyebrow lifted from behind her dark glasses. "Such bullshit will not work on me. I am practically a single mother myself. Losing ze man you love leaves a painful void, no matter how much we love our children."
Hermione pursed her lips momentarily. "I do not need a man to make me happy."
"I should certainly `ope not, but zere is no shame in wanting to `ave someone to love like zat again."
"Good lord, Fleur! You're relentless today!"
"I am sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, but it is ze truth, and someone `ad to say it properly. Everyone keeps telling you: Find a boyfriend! Find a new daddy for Angelica! Zey are all ee-diots. Zey are missing ze point completely. I, `owever, `ave `it it right on the mark. You are a woman full of love to give and you need to share it wiz someone special. Zat is what you need to do. Mon dieu! Do I `ave to be both ze beauty and brains of zis family? I pretend to be ze dumb blonde, just to make it easier for everybody else, yet no one uses zeir heads, and so I am forced to showcase my devastating perfection. It is no longer my fault zat everyone appears ugly and stupid compared to me." Fleur set the menu down with a slap, grabbing the glass of water to cool down with.
Hermione knew that Fleur was not being sarcastic. Fleur was dead serious-her vanity was, after all, legendary, but Hermione could never hate Fleur for it, even if at times like this, Hermione had to remind herself, "Fleur has many, many wonderful qualities that make up for her spectacularly healthy ego."
It was true-in every way. The kindness in Fleur's heart was sincere and warm underneath the cool exterior, she was fiercely loyal, she never forgot things like birthdays or your favorite kinds of flowers, and she liked making things for her loved ones, like beautifully decorated cupcakes, edible invitations, embroidered handkerchiefs and scarves, or shimmering, delicious angel-shaped cookies.
However, when Fleur did bust out the vanity, Hermione had to search deep within her memories to remind herself that she actually did have a true, loving affection for Fleur.
This was one of those times, and checking any caustic remark that may have flown from her lips, Hermione chose one of the safest replies. "I don't know what to say."
"It does not matter. I only wish for you to zink about it. And ze truth is Ginny did not skip lunch because of your failed date with Chaucer. I do not zink she knows of it yet. She skipped lunch because she `ad some shopping to attend to-something about a fashion show she was invited to at ze last minute."
"Oh."
"I am sure, `owever, zat when she finds out what `appened, she will be quite annoyed with you. She did mention zat she talked to Ron zis morning-and she said `e seemed upset about some-zing. Did you two fight again?"
"Wow. No other guess? Is that the only reason anybody can think of that could possibly get Ron upset?"
Fleur's gaze didn't flinch in the least.
At that point, Hermione didn't know what was worse-being miserable or being predictable.
"It was a stupid argument," she muttered.
"I am shocked."
Hermione glared at Fleur for a bit. "And I found out he still has feelings for me."
"Again, I am shocked."
Hermione stared at her incredulously. "Why am I the only one upset by this?"
"You are not ze only one. I shall wager zat `e is upset by it as well-probably more so. It must be terribly upsetting to be in love wiz you."
"Now, you're just being unkind. Not everyone can be as charming and beautiful as you, Fleur."
Fleur's facial expression softened. "'Ermione, my dear, I know my loveliness can be terribly intimidating, but what I said `ad nothing to do with your `charm' and `good looks'."
"I like how you say charm and good looks like they were in open-closed quotations."
Fleur dismissed her snark with a mildly impatient wave of her hand. "All I mean is zat `e is not ze only one `ung up on someone `e cannot `ave."
Hermione frowned. "I'm not hung up on Harry!"
"I dizn't even say `Arry's name."
"Right! But that's what you were zink-er, thinking!!"
Fleur paused, a thoughtful look on her face. "My dear, I was recently informed that you `ave a picture of `im in ze Muggle refrigerator, where you keep ze eggs, and you spelled it so no one but you would see. Zis is the main reason I brought up your addiction to misery."
Hermione's eyes widened, feeling her face grow hot. "Who told!" she demanded.
"Angelica told Julien, and Julien told his grandmother, and Molly told me. Do not worry. Molly zid not tell Ginny. Merlin knows, zat girl is exasperated enough of you as it is."
"I'm just everyone's little project, aren't I?"
"It is ze only thing zat makes you interesting."
The waiter brought the breadbasket and Hermione took a piece. "Ah, yes. I keep forgetting how utterly blasé I could be."
"I joke. People like to `elp other people to make zem feel good about zemselves. Zar are worse ways to feel good, so you must not take it against zem. Zey are zinking of you, and it is not `ealthy to `ave your ex-boyfriend's face-"
"Father of my child," Hermione corrected.
"Comme il faut! It is not `ealthy to `ave the father of your child's face pasted on ze egg-rack."
It actually gave Hermione pause.
"When you say it that way, it does sound wrong," she grumbled. "If I had known that I would hear nothing but lectures from you this morning, I would've faked a headache."
"Zat is to get out of sex, cherie. Ze only excuse I will accept for you to miss brunch is getting run over by ze Knight Bus."
Hermione sighed, buttering her toast. "One can only hope."
"Getting run over by a trolley is not glamorous," Fleur said absentmindedly as she summoned the waiter back to take their orders.
If Hermione thought getting expelled was worse than death, Fleur thought looking unglamorous was the worse possible fate.
The waiter returned and he took their orders. Fleur stopped lecturing after that, reverting conversation to French artists, English playwrights, and a Bulgarian Bonbon who just happened to be on the cover of the latest issue of Which Broom.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Olivia popped her head through Hermione's office door. "Ms. Weasley is at the Floo. She sounds upset. Should I tell her you're out?"
Good ole Olivia…
"I'd love it if you did that, but I'll take her Floo, anyway. Might as well get all the scolding over with in one day…" Hermione was sure she sounded as tired as she felt. Dragging her bottom out of her seat, she trudged to her in-office fireplace.
Olivia's eyebrow shot up questioningly, but did not voice her inquiries. Nodding, she disappeared to transfer Ginny's Floo.
Hermione settled on the comfortable sofa chair as her fireplace burst to life. Ginny materialized through the green flames, a deep scowl casting scary shadows on her face.
"How did your shopping go?" Hermione chimed, a smile pasted on her lips.
"I can't believe you ruined your date with Chaucer," Ginny said. "Do you even realize how eligible he is?"
Hermione matched her scowl. "Did he forget to tell you that he was the one with the family emergency?"
"Ugh, I couldn't even begin to imagine how horrible you must have been. He wouldn't give any details. He's too nice for that, but to think he actually admired you before the date! Now, he doesn't even want to talk about you!"
"Now, wait a minute. I was in my best behavior! Especially because I wanted to see that opera!"
"The opera! Oh, I see. Never mind that he's good-looking, self-made, intelligent, and an overall nice guy. You were nice to him for opera tickets! Now it makes absolutely no sense why he ditched you."
The sarcasm was palpable.
When Ginny said it like that, it made Hermione feel wretched about her behavior.
This was a whole new perspective that Hermione hadn't bothered to give thought to until now. She bit her lip for an anxious moment. "Could he tell? Lord, that's embarrassing. I think he could. He left me the opera tickets after all…"
"Goodness, I don't know, Hermione. He didn't say. Argh! You're impossible, you know that?"
"You're not the first Weasley to say so, believe me."
"I believe you!"
With that, Ginny disappeared from the Floo in an explosive puff of green smoke and soot.
It was the Wizarding equivalent of slamming a phone down, except that it was ten times as unpleasant. Hermione had to get a wet wipe to clean the soot from her nose and she had to Scourgify the stains from her suit.
She rose and went back to her desk just as the department director walked through her door.
He was middle-aged man with graying hair. He was small of frame and quite thin. He wore conservative black robes and a quirky red bowtie. His kind eyes masked the killer-instinct that merited him the directorship in their prestigious little publishing house. Although he claimed to be glad that he got sorted into Ravenclaw, rather than Slytherin, like his father, there was that bit of Slytherin in him, still.
Olivia trailed after him looking severely displeased. "Mr. Shrewdbury is here to see you," she said, as if it wasn't already obvious enough.
"It's Shrewsbury, actually," said the director, scowling.
"Oh," said Olivia dryly. "Shrewsbury. My mistake."
Before Olivia could say anything else, Hermione hastily interrupted. "Erm, thanks, Olivia. I can take it from here."
Olivia left in a huff.
Hermione gestured for her boss to sit, and they settled in their seats, her desk between them.
Mr. Shrewsbury looked pensive for a moment before he spoke. "A budding new author has requested your expertise and I simply cannot say no."
Hermione cast him a suspicious look. "The last time you looked like this, you assigned Drew Peacock to me."
"Trust me when I say this author makes Mr. Peacock seem as charismatic as a Veela."
Hermione decided to withhold her opinion about Veelas-particularly part-Veelas. "It's Rita Skeeter, isn't it? Oh, God, I've been dreading this day ever since I found out she started writing romance novels."
"No, no. It isn't Ms. Skeeter."
Hermione waited for him to go on. When he didn't, she said, "Any minute now."
Mr. Shrewsbury looked chagrined. "Well, I'll just say it, then. It's Mr. Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."
She stared at him, frozen with shock. There was a ringing in her ears and she turned absolutely red with suppressed annoyance. "And your excuse is that you cannot say no? Couldn't come up with a better one? How about he held you at wand-point? I would've believed you, you know!"
"He's on the board of directors for this year's Reader's Desk Awards. Quite a few of our pubs have been nominated, and if I may remind you-Mr. Peacock's Rune Singer is one of the nominees for Best Fantasy Fiction novel."
Hermione seethed inwardly. "Again, you could've said he held you at wand-point!"
Mr. Shrewsbury shifted on his seat. A sure sign that he was going to take a different approach. "I read Mr. Malfoy's manuscript. It's solid content, but he isn't a natural writer, so he'll need quite a bit of help. He said that he wanted you or he'll go to another publishing house. I simply cannot pass up the chance of publishing him. His book will make a killing-I can already tell. It's about his life and times in forced service of Voldemort, from Hogwarts to the last days of the Death Eaters, to his time in Azkaban. His association with Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange is enough to make this book a best seller!"
Hermione pursed her lips. "Does he mention Harry?"
Mr. Shrewsbury paused. "Not in a bad way. The animosity between them is apparent, but Mr. Malfoy defers to him as some sort of annoying hero…"
"Does he mention me? Did he mention that he called me Mudblood? Are you going to let me have that printed if he does?"
Mr. Shrewsbury winced at the term, but he nodded. "Mr. Malfoy does not pretend to be a saint, if that's what you mean. Yes, he does mention that word several times, but it falls within the context of his intentions, that this is an unabridged autobiographical story. It is the main reason, after all, that he wants you to be its book editor, so that there is no doubt that the racism on paper is looked upon as a telling of his tale, rather than a blatant display at bigotry."
"Doesn't want to lose the Muggle-born market, does he?"
"I'm quite sure that comes into play."
"Well then, I won't do it. I refuse to do the assignment."
"At least read the manuscript first before you refuse," begged Mr. Shrewsbury.
"No. Like I'd want to read the sordid details of his degenerate life."
"But you testified for him before the Wizengamut! You shortened his sentence in Azkaban!"
"I didn't shorten his sentence, Mr. Shrewsbury, his solicitor did, and the only reason I testified for him was because I believe in justice. It doesn't mean I like him."
"If you don't take this assignment, I'll fire you."
"Fine," replied Hermione with a stubborn frown.
For a moment, it looked as if Mr. Shrewsbury would make good on his threat, but then his shoulders sagged. "Please? If I can't get you to agree, I'll be fired."
Hermione looked at him suspiciously. "Is that true?"
"Well, not really-"
"Then my answer is still no."
Mr. Shrewsbury appeared to have one last shot in his locker. "He's going to publish this book anyway, whether you take him or not. If you accept this assignment, you'd at least be able to screen the manuscript for lies-particularly about you, Mr. Potter, and Mr. Weasley."
Hermione paused. Mr. Shrewsbury had finally presented a point worth considering. "That's unethical. As a book editor, I can only correct errors in spelling, grammar, and creative context, fact or not. We publish books, not the news…"
"I'm just saying."
Hermione leaned back on her cushioned seat and swiveled her chair, turning to the row of framed pictures artfully arranged on one of her shelves. The smiling faces of her loved ones taunted her.
What would Harry and Ron say?
"You've gone mad!" likely.
She turned to face Mr. Shrewsbury again. "I'll read his manuscript."
"Excellent!"
"But if it's really bad, I'm not doing it. I don't care if he publishes lies about me with another publishing company. I have half-a-mind to believe that my word is more credible than his when it comes to public opinion."
Mr. Shrewsbury grinned broadly. "I'll go tell him the good news. He's waiting in my office, you see…"
"But, of course," said Hermione, dryly.
"I'll have him come over right away.
"No time like the present."
Mr. Shrewsbury took off looking far too pleased with himself for Hermione's tastes.
Hermione took several minutes telling herself that she had done something very stupid, and that the entire thing was a mistake. Also, that this company did not pay her enough to put up with shit like this.
She hadn't had much to do with Draco Malfoy the last few years since she testified for him in court. She had avoided him on purpose and much preferred to stay away from his circle of friends. It might have been different if he had anything to do with the disappearance of Excalibur, him being one of the three people-him, Ron, and Snape-outside of Avalon who knew of its existence, but when Draco Malfoy was found unconscious in one of the barges out of Portree to Britain, apparently Stupfied by Snape since their meeting in Voldemort's castle, there was hardly any question about whether or not he had taken the sword and hidden it.
Hermione admitted that she was a glad about that. It meant she didn't have to be forced to socialize with him on any level.
Except now…
After several minutes of pensive silence, she was called out of her thoughts by Olivia's "hemm!" outside. Hermione wearily called her in.
Olivia stood at the door.
"Draco Malfoy," began Hermione tiredly, "will be arriving shortly."
She heard Draco's voice outside, asking someone the way to "Granger's" office.
"Offer him something to drink. If possible, something poisonous," Hermione added carelessly.
"I heard that," Draco said from outside.
"To kill him?" asked Olivia. "Or just to weaken him sufficiently?"
Draco poked his head through and sneered. "Oh, you have this one trained really well."
Olivia looked indignant at the word "trained." She shot Malfoy a glare then left in a huff, practically pushing Draco aside to let herself out.
"Charmed!" Draco called after her.
Hermione cast him a glare of her own. "Give me your manuscript, sit, and don't talk. I have better things to do than listen to your prattle."
"And I'm the one who spent a year in Azkaban."
"You got off easy if you ask me."
Draco walked into her office, his expensive suit underneath the expensive robes was tailored to perfection. His platinum blonde hair was long and tied back in a ponytail.
Hermione had seen him in the papers, but she hadn't made an effort to see him up close and in person, even if they happened to attend the same events in the past few years. Now that they stood in her office face to face, she could only stare in shock.
"Good lord," Hermione breathed. "You really do look like your father."
Draco frowned. "Ugh. I'm much better looking than my father."
"No comment," Hermione said, holding her hand out and snapped her fingers impatiently. "Fork over the manuscript."
Scoffing, Draco swished his wand and levitated a palm-sized stack of parchment sheets tied with twine on her hand. It enlarged in the next second, weighing Hermione's arms enough to have them thumping heavily to her desk.
"As usual, you can't shut up about yourself," Hermione muttered, hauling the stack closer and untying the twine. "A quarter of it are probably lies and half of it probably isn't interesting."
"It's at least more interesting than that boring drivel you submit to those swotty magazines."
"They weren't meant for the entertainment of the dimwitted, if that's what you meant," she said absently, turning to the first page of his manuscript.
Immediately, she grabbed a quill and dipped it in red ink, scribbling corrections and notations all over the page before flipping on to the next. She did the same thing, marking up the page with her vicious red-inked quill, slashing, looping, and dotting with symbols that her staff of copy editors and proofreaders would understand. When she got to the third page, she was relentless, and at the fourth page, she looked up, and Draco was staring at the marked-up sheets she had set aside to dry.
"Rate you're going, it'll bleed to death," he said, staring at his pages with a raised eyebrow, his earlier bravado slightly diminished.
"Yes," said Hermione haughtily. "Your grammar and spelling is passable, but it's atrociously styled, your text is full of unnecessary contradictions, improperly grouped ideas, and at times tedious diatribe. You overdo the descriptions, and sometimes, it reads like you've detached yourself from your own experiences. It seems like you want to tell a good story, but you just want to get it over with."
Draco huffed, gesturing to the manuscript. "It's finished isn't it?"
"Do you mean that literally or figuratively?"
A scowl darkened his pale face. "Mr. Shrewsbury said you agreed to take this book."
"That doesn't mean I'll kiss your arse, Malfoy. I didn't become this good of a book editor by inflating the egos of novel writers. That's Mr. Shrewsbury's job."
Draco glared at her and bolted from his seat, gathering the marked and unmarked pages of his manuscript within the circle of his arms.
"Aw," said Hermione, her voice dripping with acidic sweetness. "Did I hurt your feelings?"
"Should've known… Muggle-borns with a chip on their shoulder the size of England…" he muttered on his way to the door.
Hermione gave a derisive laugh. "Oh, is that what you think? That it's about blood again? Typical Slytherin."
"Self-righteous. Typical Gryffindor!" he shot back, disappearing beyond the door, his footsteps receding.
Olivia popped back into the room. "Humph. Pompous asses, those Malfoys."
Hermione sniffed. "Three, two, one…"
Mr. Shrewsbury stormed back into her office. "What in Merlin's name did you do, Ms. Granger?"
"Paper cuts, I think," Hermione replied, calmly putting to rights her work desk. She suppressed the hidden smile that threatened to emerge from he lips. She didn't want to upset Mr. Shrewsbury anymore than she already has.
Mr. Shrewsbury's jaw dropped. "You just cost us his vote on every Reader's Desk Awards category we got nominated in!"
"If his opinion in the Reader's Desk Awards mean anything, then it's not much of an award-giving body, is it?"
Mr. Shrewsbury reddened dangerously. His hands fisted and he looked like he was ready to explode, but he said nothing, and turning, he stalked out of her office without a backward glance.
Olivia watched him go. "He seems displeased."
"Indeed. I seemed to have displeased far too many people today. Must be a full moon."
"Well, as a matter of fact, it is."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hermione swiveled the tea in her cup, listening to the mingling laughter of Angelica and Julien outside the drawing room.
The children loved Grimmauld Place. Its dark and haunted hallways fired their imaginations, the forbidding décor the perfect backdrop for reenacting tales of secret societies gathering to fight an unspeakable evil.
She sighed. Such tales Remus told around the time of the full moon.
He was locked in the dungeons now, there to remain until the full moon passed. In the darkness of captivity, he was free from the rays of the moon, and he was secure in the thought that he could harm no one. Around this time, Hermione always paid Remus and Tonks a visit. They could always use the company around full-moon nights.
Remus and Tonks lived in Grimmauld Place. Its ownership remained with Harry up until his death, its title automatically accruing to Angelica as soon as she was born. Technically, Hermione had legal rights to the guardianship of the house, but she ceded the right to Remus, who appeared to need it most, anyway.
Hermione had no intention of taking the house back, and while Angelica would have to make the choice of what to do with the house when she came of age, Hermione doubted she would throw the Lupins out.
It was odd how Wizarding magic worked when she gave birth to Angelica. Hermione remembered that it began with Grigott's and the goblins. She had been at St. Mungo's nursing a newly born baby when the letter from Gringott's arrived.
Upon reading the note's contents, she found out that according to their records, the rightful heir of "one Harry Potter" had been born on the 28th of July, and that therefore, all rights to his vault had been officially transferred to the newborn's name. The "newborn's" accounts were ready for official guardianship. Guardianship then naturally fell to her, the mother of Harry Potter's heir.
Odder still was the fact that the Hall of Records in the Ministry immediately confirmed that Angelica was indeed Harry's daughter.
Hermione at first thought that it certainly made proving paternity easier in Wizarding society, but she later found out that while the magic governing the Hall of Records was always accurate in terms of the information it recorded, documents could very well be taken, hidden, or destroyed. Of course, while it was never easy to simply erase or alter a person's history with the stroke of anyone's wand, especially considering the Record of Births and Deaths Library was synchronized with institutions like Gringott's, Wizarding schools, maternity wards all over Britain (Wizarding or Muggle), and other such related departments in the Hall of Records like the Archive of Family Trees and the Room of Prophecies, it was not completely impossible. There have been a few cases in the last one thousand years that a few questionable individuals attempted to manipulate the records to suit their criminal schemes, though it has been put on record that each attempt had been thwarted. Of course, it only meant that the Hall of Records was not infallible, and that it was entirely possible that a handful of manipulations might have worked, just that nobody knew it, which was the way it went with successful deceptions.
"Didn't Remus just put a fresh coat of paint on that wall three months ago, Tonks?" Hermione asked, eyeing one of the drawing-room walls. Its newly-beige paint was redeveloping the yellowing patches the new coat of paint had attempted to cover in the first place.
Tonks sighed. "Yes. I swear, this house… anything Remus does to it gets spoilt. It's deliberate. It's because he's a werewolf, and the house's old blood refuses to give him the courtesy of being considerate of his efforts. It's not as bad with me, you understand. Even if I'm half-blood, I've got the Black blood in me, so it acknowledges me, but Remus? Forget about it." Her blue hair flashed several different shades in her agitation.
Hermione reddened. "I'm sorry."
Tonks reddened in turn. "Oh, that was horrible of me, wasn't it? I'm a wretched bitch. Remus and I are very grateful you gave him guardianship of this house, Hermione."
Hermione waved away her apologies. "And it's what Sirius and Harry would've wanted, anyway. You have every right to complain about the moods of this house as anyone does. It really is a cantankerous place. I only hope it's worth the trouble."
"Oh, it is. It truly is. You don't know how many times Remus and I have been thankful that we don't have to pay rent for a flat in London, especially with the prices these days. And of course, when the full-moon comes around, the dungeons of the house are perfect for him."
Julien and Angelica came bursting through the drawing room doors. Julien, Fleur's eight-year-old son, was possibly the most beautiful boy Hermione had ever seen. His hair, instead of being a bright, Weasley red, was strawberry blonde. His blue eyes were lovely and he was long-limbed enough for everyone to suppose that he would grow up to be tall and trim. There was no doubt that his Veela blood would only make him more irresistible as he got older. For now, he was only a boy who played games and rolled through the dusty secret-doors of Grimmauld Place with Angelica.
"Mum!" Angelica cried. "Can Julien sleep over at our house? I told him about Shrek, and how funny it is, so now he wants to see the movie and I can't really lend him the DVD because they obviously don't have a player at their house. And maybe I'll invite Millhouse and Pramilla, too, may I? It would be loads of fun! Please?"
Hermione's eyebrow arched. "Darling, even if it's Friday, have you forgotten that tomorrow's a school day for you? Detention, remember?"
Angelica's excitement deflated and Julien frowned.
"What did you do? Fight someone else's fight again?" Julien huffed, stomping off. "Honestly, you've got to stop defending those swots. If they can't fight for themselves-"
Angelica went after him. "Mum said we should always fight for those who can't fight for themselves, and she said dad used to do it all the time back then, too. But that's beside the point. It was really my fight this time, I swear."
"But, of course," Julien said dryly, in a perfect imitation of his French elders, accent and all.
They slipped out the door and Hermione could still hear them discussing.
"This wouldn't have happened if you were home schooling with the rest of us, you know," Julien grumbled.
"I'm part-Muggle. I want to know that side of me. Hey, listen Jules, I had that dream again…"
Their voices faded.
"It's uncanny how you can see Harry in that little tornado," Tonks muttered.
"You mean the way trouble seems to follow her around?"
Tonks chuckled. "That, too, but I was thinking more along the lines of having a saving-people thing."
Hermione sniffed. "Yes, well… so long as there are no prophecies about her and a madman, I think I'll be able to cope."
They were silent for a bit, each drifting into their own thoughts.
Hermione thought about Tonks and Remus.
Tonks had remained with the Ministry as an Auror. Still as clumsy as ever, but still a worthy Morphmagi. She was invaluable in catching Dark Wizards, and while real missions were few and far between during these days of peace, the Aurors have kept busy by policing the portals between the dark creature underworld and humans. They weren't real portals, of course, but Tonks insisted that there was a line that kept the human Wizarding populace safe from the creatures' darker pursuits. Hermione didn't ask for details. The Auror department had enough bored Aurors to see to it. They certainly didn't need a Know-It-All nosing in on it, whether or not Hermione was dying to ask just how sentient these dark creatures were.
She let her mind wander to Remus. He still lived his harried life of taking odd jobs here and there, but on a more regular basis, he acted as a journalist for the Quibbler. Remus pursued the more unsavory stories of the occasional murders and robberies in the seedy cracks and crevices of Wizarding London. Every once in a while, he would break out with something more popular, like the last Quidditch World Cup, or Dolores Umbridge getting sacked from the Ministry for suspicion of using Unforgivable Curses, but Remus mostly liked keeping to the shadows.
"I have a confession to make," Tonks suddenly said, her face reddening-naturally, not like a Morphmagi.
Hermione eyed her warily. This was most unusual.
"I checked the Hebrides Confrontation files again," Tonks continued.
Hermione frowned as her stomach turned. She wasn't upset with Tonks, but talk of that final battle always unsettled her. "Oh."
Tonks cast an embarrassed smile. "I couldn't help it. It's that unsolved case that continues to plague me, even after all these years. Doesn't it plague you?"
Hermione wasn't going to argue with her about what she felt for that particular incident. Every time she happened to think about what happened, it left her emotionally drained, so each time it resurfaced in her mind, she told herself, again and again, that all possible sources and clues to solving that mystery had either died, been destroyed, withered by time, or simply disappeared.
It was the Horcrux of her worse memory. It took a piece of her soul and made the memory live that terrible life in her head.
No, she couldn't blame Tonks for obsessing over it all these years, returning to it every so try to find new clues; new ideas, as if thoughts of those hadn't been exhausted the last time.
And really, it wasn't Tonks's fault, either, that it brought Hermione such pain each time it was brought up.
Hermione nodded calmly, taking a biscuit from their plate of pastries. "Every once in a while, I recall it, and think about it."
"I read through the file again. Checked back on past leads. Read all the reports… still points to the same thing, doesn't it?"
Hermione sighed quietly. "We don't know that to be fact, Tonks."
"But H-Harry said so, didn't he? He said there was a traitor. In the Order."
"He didn't say there was. We discussed the possibility, because he said Voldemort had other ways to find out where we were-and I think Harry just… he had a hunch, maybe, but he didn't out-rightly say there was a traitor."
"How else could Voldemort had known, then? How could he have known that you, Ron, and Harry were headed to the McFusty's? There were only a handful of us who knew why we were even there, and they were all accounted for-Shacklebolt, Arthur, McGonagall, Mad-Eye, Remus, and me."
Wearily, Hermione counted off the possibilities. She had done this hundreds of times. "It wouldn't have taken a Quantum Arithmancist to make the connection, Tonks. You and a platoon of Order members head to the McFusty clan's castle in the Hebrides… it would be entirely probable to suppose that you were there on a rescue mission, because everyone must've known we'd been taken."
"Yes, but apart from the six of us, nobody even knew we were going there until the Portkeys brought us, so whoever this traitor is, he had to have informed Voldemort or his minions about our location when we were already there. Every single member of that outfit was accounted for at all times. Nobody snuck out; nobody sent owls; nobody used the Floos, messenger spells, or Patronuses. I was the only one who sent a Patronus out, and the only Patronus coming in was Harry's…"
"Perhaps Harry's Patronus led them to you," Hermione said tiredly. "Or perhaps it was simply that we got tracked. We were careful to cover our tracks, but our trail could have been found, anyway, and they might have headed us off."
"But you said Harry confirmed how they didn't know until the last hour…"
Hermione shrugged. "Sometimes Harry had visions, and sometimes they were just dreams, but Voldemort had used visions to trick Harry before…"
"What would be the purpose of making him think there was a traitor?"
"To sow dissent? Mistrust? If he didn't succeed in capturing us the first time, suspicion like that could tear the Order apart from the inside while he swallowed England whole."
Tonks sighed, slumping on her seat. "Just doesn't make sense, is all…"
Hermione nodded. "Yes, well… anyone who could shed light about it is dead, gone, or both. Bellatrix and Snape disappeared from the face of the earth, Harry is dead… a lot of people are dead. That trail is cold, for now, and we don't even know if Bellatrix or Snape knew anything. It could've been Voldemort's itty-bitty secret."
"Have you given up on it completely, then?"
Hermione thought about it and felt the usual sense of misery. "I don't know… but the leads have been exhausted years ago, and it-it hurts me to keep thinking about it when there's nothing…"
Tonks looked apologetic. "I'm sorry. I should've been considerate of your-"
"No, no. Tonks, if you ever, ever find a new lead, you must tell me. You must, alright? But other than that…"
"I understand." Tonks then steered conversation to other things, and Hermione was grateful for it.
Later, they kept Remus company in the dungeons until Hermione begged off, telling them she had to get the children home.
Hermione dropped Julien off first. Fleur was very grateful that Hermione had taken Julien from her that night. It was always quite difficult for Fleur around the time of the full moon, too.
With Julien dropped off, Hermione and Angelica headed home.
Hermione Apparated them from the nearest Apparating station and they walked the rest of the way home.
It wasn't very late in the evening. It was possibly no later than 8:30, but the residential streets surrounding their home were quiet. There was still lively activity coming from most of the lit windows of the houses lining up the streets, but there were seldom any people out, walking.
Holding Angelica's tiny hand, Hermione looked up through the canopy of manicured trees and saw full the moon.
"Mum, can I borrow your pink pendant again?"
Shook out of her thoughts, Hermione peered at Angelica with open curiosity. "Of course, darling, but what for, if you don't mind me asking?"
Angelica shrugged. "It's pretty. I like to look at it. Sometimes I play pretend with it."
"Pretty…" said Hermione, turning the strangely inappropriate word in her mind. "It's got a hairline fracture inside it."
"I like that it does. It's different. Has a story in it."
Hermione had never liked that story in particular, but Angelica didn't have to know it. She had always told Angelica, "It was the pendant I was wearing when your father saved my life."
And that was what Angelica knew of it, so Angelica's constant fascination of the pendant was no surprise.
"It's in my secret place," Hermione said. "You know the password, don't you?"
Angelica grinned and shook her head. "Nooo."
Hermione smiled, squeezing her daughter's hand affectionately. "Let's see how good in math you are. Complete the last two in this sequence: If 1=3, 2=3, 3=5, 4=4, 5=4, 6=3, 7=5, 8=5, 9=4, and 10=3, then what equals 11 and 12? Complete the sequence and you have your complete password."
Angelica giggled. It was a melodious staccato sound.
Sometimes, Hermione thought that giggle was everything she lived for.
"Oh, mum, but that's so easy!"
"For you, maybe. But it'll stump quite a few people. Give me the answer, anyway. I can't have you pretending you know when you really don't!"
Angelica rolled her eyes. "11=6 and 12=6!"
"Clever girl. Now, use the pendant well, because the password will be changed next time, and you'll have to figure the riddle out again."
"I always figure your riddles out."
"One day, I might stump you."
Angelica giggled again. Evidently, she didn't think Hermione would ever stump her.
They reached home and Crookshanks met them at the door. He circled Hermione's ankles as Angelica shot up the stairs to Hermione's room. Hermione followed at a more leisurely pace, picking Crookshanks up in her arms. When Hermione reached the landing, Angelica was already shooting out of Hermione's bedroom with the crystal in her hand.
Angelica was grinning. "I've a riddle for you, mum!"
Hermione laughed. "Let's hear it."
"Finish this sentence: `Sums are not set as a-.' If you finish that sentence, you have your password."
"What-password for what?"
"Not telling!"
"Alright, but your riddle-"
"That's the only clue you'll get!" She rushed into her room and shut the door.
It actually gave Hermione pause, and she grudgingly admitted that the riddle had her stumped for now.
Trust the genius imp to stump her own mother with a riddle.
She set Crookshanks aside and peeled off her shoes. She took a moment to relax on her reading chair. In a few minutes, she would have to make sure that Angelica cleaned up before bed. For the meantime, she wanted to just close her eyes and forget the events of the day.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With Angelica cleaned up and tucked into bed, Hermione readied for bed, as well.
As she finished up and emerged from the bath in her nightwear, a gust of wind blew through her balcony doors, lifting the filmy green curtains in gentle cascades of sliver-grey embroidered vines.
Crookshanks's ears perked and he lifted his head from his paws, eyes affixed on the balcony outside just before he bolted from the bed and past the glass doors.
"Crookshanks," Hermione whined softly.
She was ready for bed in her tank and boy-shorts. She didn't want to be stepping out of her room, even if it was in her own balcony, but she didn't want to be leaving the balcony doors open for Crookshanks, either.
She could see him sitting precariously on one of the corners of her railing, looking through the bars and down the street.
Rubbing her bare arms, she hastened from her bathroom to her balcony, grabbing her robe and throwing it over herself along the way. With the robe loosely worn, she stepped out to the balcony to fetch Crookshanks. The mosaic-tile flooring was chilly against her bare feet so she hurried her task.
The bare streets below were quiet and dimly lit, the decorative trees alternating on both sides.
Crookshanks gave a plaintive little mew as Hermione picked him up, his tail swishing from one side to the other in irritation.
She tried to lean Crookshanks over her shoulder but found him to be difficult. He craned his neck, just so he could keep his eyes on whatever it was he appeared to target.
Crookshanks gave a somewhat mournful wail.
"Now, what are you on about?" Hermione looked and saw no sign of another cat, ground-hopping birds, stray squirrels, or even flying ladybugs.
As she turned to go back inside, Crookshanks scampered to return to his earlier spot.
Sighing in exasperation, Hermione tried to get Crookshanks again when from out of the darkness, she saw a flash of snowy white flit by the corner of her eye, so sudden that it sent her heart racing.
She gasped, looking frantically up and around her, peering at her surroundings. She checked the trees and power lines for any sort of bird.
She saw a few Starlings, and oddly, a crow, but there were no snowy white birds.
The disappointment was startling, and after a moment's consideration, she rolled her eyes in disgust.
Really, Hermione… what are you going to do with Hedwig?
She turned her attention back to Crookshanks and practically yipped when she saw a man, or a maybe a shadow of a man, down in the street, just where Crookshanks's attention was affixed.
Hermione blinked, and there was nobody there.
There was absolutely nothing to suggest that there had been someone standing there.
"You've driven me insane," Hermione grumbled, picking Crookshanks up more firmly and rushing back into her room.
She slid the glass panel shut and locked it.
Crookshanks hopped to the floor, sitting on his haunches to stare out the glass door.
Shaking her head, Hermione slipped beneath her sheets and paused when she noticed that one of her wall hangings-a montage of quaintly drawn and colored animated characters, signed by the artist-was tilted.
She frowned. Like someone knocked it-
"Oh, for heavens sake, Hermione," she whispered disdainfully.
You've gone and spooked yourself.
She adamantly decided that she would right the picture in the morning. She was not going to let her paranoia take her out of bed.
Reaching for her lamp, she shut the lights, and closing her eyes, she drifted off to sleep with Crookshanks standing guard by her glass doors.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A muffled shuffling of pages and the violent rattling of shelves-the sound of a book bound into silence.
Angelica glanced at the spectacle with mild curiosity, resisting the urge to pull it out of its shelf.
Tearing her gaze, her eyes fell upon an unfamiliar door, and it was cracked open.
She stepped closer, afraid that the answers would evade her before she knew them, but she reached the door, and she pushed it open.
It was a garden under the light of a clouded moon, with thick strangling vines, vicious thorns, and knotted trees. The ground felt damp beneath her feet.
The forbidding chill of isolation penetrated through her with the piercing sounds of unfriendly animals. There was the distant roar of beasts, shrieking prey, and scuttling bottom-feeders all around her.
She was planted on the spot, like her feet were taking root. Movement was futile, and she realized to her horror that slowly, she was growing petrified from the toes up.
Her scream pierced the night, sending the crows in startled flight. Leaves overhead shook and fell. Crawlies and creatures scampered away from her, yet, something approached. Something was heading in her direction.
She couldn't move, and she tried-tried so desperately to wake from the dream, but she couldn't. She was trapped and powerless.
Then she saw it. It was there.
At first she thought they were pinpricks of red in the shadows. Beastly eyes that had no soul to warm them, but the red faded, as if they were never there. Perhaps it was just her fear that tainted her imagination.
A man stepped out of the dark, his face masked by a streak of shadow.
Angelica tried to speak; to ask for help, but she couldn't even move her lips.
He came closer, and for a heartbeat, the moon cast a light upon his features, before he fell to the shadows once more.
He reached for her. Or she thought he did.
"You can't be here," he said in a gently admonishing tone. "It's poison…"
It made no sense, no matter how she turned the words in her head. This was nothing like her mother's riddles. This had no trick or logic. No answers.
The deep kindness in his voice did not help relieve the powerful itch of curiosity, nor the petrifying enchantment that threatened to suffocate her.
The paralysis crawled higher up her legs, stiffening her joints.
"You have to go," he insisted.
And before she could cry out in frustration-try to make him understand that she couldn't move, couldn't leave, she felt the magic-his magic-pushing her away, an invisible force shoving her back through the portal from whence she came.
The door slammed after her, and she fell rolling on the cobbled floor.
She could move again, and her voice had returned. She was unhurt. Unharmed.
Scrambling to her feet, she tried the door again. This time it was sealed shut. Immovable.
The wooden door began to meld with the stone, grain rippling into hard adobe slabs.
She thumped her fists on the disappearing door, crying for it-for him to let her back in, but no one responded, and her memories of him were fading as she began to wake from the dream.
~~
Angelica squeezed her eyes shut even as sleep left her. She clung to remembrance desperately, looking back on what she saw when the moonlight fell upon his face.
It had been too fast. She was unable to make out the details-except for one.
His eyes had been her own-the same, striking green.
TBC
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A/N: I'm working on the next chapter as we speak. Have a wonderful weekend!
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