You know what I'm going to say here, but I guess I have to do it anyway. HP is not mine. Germany is certainly not mine. Nothing else is mine.
Chapter 3
The teenaged trio purposefully exited the plane and headed towards the nearest bank of lockers in the Franz Josef Strauss International Airport in Munich, Germany. Their destination had been recorded on a scrap of paper that Hermione had memorized, and then destroyed, prior to their departure from London Heathrow. Inside the locker, opened by a key that had been hanging from Ron's neck since meeting with Remus, was a single envelope. Harry took it, and led the way to the Europcar rent-a-car desk. From there they picked up the Volkswagen Crafter that was waiting for them, under assumed names. On the hour and twenty-minute drive between Munich and Nuremberg, Hermione found herself questioning Harry on the security measures they had enacted. Ron, being the only one of the group who understood German, was driving.
"I don't think I really want to know, but what's with all the security?" Call her old-fashioned, but prearranged vehicles and fake identities inside airport lockers did not strike her as the best way to start an expedition.
Harry's eyebrows rose, and Ron's head tilted almost imperceptibly towards them. "Between the two of us, well we've made a lot of enemies. This is the only way we can guarantee safety, for you and for ourselves." Harry was quite pleased with his explanation. It may not have been entirely truthful, but it was pretty close and it kept their inquisitive friend satiated for the remainder of the drive.
About an hour later the three archaeologists entered their apartment in the Lette'm Sleep hostel in Nuremberg. It was a simple enough place; two bedroom, one bath, kitchen facilities, and a rather comfortable great room. On the coffee table were three manila folders. Three standard-sized suitcases stood around the table. Harry picked up the folders and dispersed them, according to their labels.
Each one contained a falsified identity. Included were birth certificates, British passports, driver's licences, credit cards, and a short document explaining the history of the new identity. Harry, for example, was now Professor David Warner, a respected professor of English literature. Hermione, demonstrating Remus' clear sense of humour, was Abigail Warner, David's long time wife and museum curator. Ron was simply Lord Henry Wyth, Professor Warner's wealthy friend. In each of the suitcases they found clothing, personal belongings appropriate to their new personalities, and a disguise kit. In Harry and Hermione's cases, they also found wedding rings and a marriage certificate annotated in the year 1942. They split up to change, and reassembled an hour or two later.
Harry's black hair was sprinkled with grey, and beginning to recede. Greying mutton shops were sprouting from his jaw and upper lip. He wore a white Oxford shirt with a spread collar, a charcoal single-breasted suit coat, and khaki trousers. Coloured contact lenses eliminated his glasses and turned his noticeable green eyes to a more subtle brown. When he drummed his fingers on the table, as he was doing now while he and Ron waited for Hermione, you could see faint ink stains on the pads of his fingers and the side of his right hand. His back was slightly bent when he sat, and the dark circles under his eyes needed little accentuation.
While Harry looked the part of a world-weary professor, Ron was the complete opposite. His hair, which had been dyed black, was slicked back to expose his forehead. A short full beard disguised his chin, and coloured contacts turned his blue eyes hazel. He was wearing a black dinner jacket suit and a velvety grape-coloured waistcoat. A scarlet tie, black boots and white gloves completed the regal ensemble. His hands were clasped behind his comfortably straight back, aristocratically thin eyebrows furrowed slightly. The clicking his boots made on the hardwood floor as he paced back and forth was beginning to wear on Harry's nerves.
Hermione examined all of this in the blink of an eye that followed her opening the door to the washroom, and preceded her stepping into the great room. Two sets of eyes were immediately trained on her when she did so, which in turn finally stopped the irritating clicking. Her hair had been bleached to a pale blonde, tamed (Hermione could scarcely believe this. For eight years she had searched futilely for something that work half as well as that), and pulled back in a long ponytail. She was wearing a short-sleeved blouse the colour of almonds. A pair of comfortable denim jeans covered her legs, which Harry in particular noticed were rather long and shapely. Her eyes, once deep brown pools, were now blue and piercing. She flushed slightly when she noticed a golden band on Harry's left ring finger, a nearly identical model on her own. Ron, not missing a beat, drew a small key from his pocket and used it to unlock a wardrobe standing innocuously in the corner. Hermione peered around him.
It was filled with guns. Handguns, shotguns, semi-automatics, automatics, and machine guns. Muzzle-loaders, percussion caps and everything in between. He withdrew a Lupara-style shotgun, which went under his jacket, and passed a Webley Mark VI revolver to Harry. Hermione took a very hard look at the Uzi submachine gun that was handed towards her next. She had never in her life fired a weapon, and was not keen to start. "Take it." Harry advised, seeing her inner conflict. "We don't know what may be waiting, and better safe than sorry." She saw the logic in that statement and, slowly, took the weapon. The firearms concealed remarkably well, almost like magic. Mentally striking another task off the list, the trio sat down at the table to discuss strategy. Harry spread a map of the area, and Ron poured over it for a moment.
"Right, this is our location," he indicated a small building, "And this is the castle." Rather unnecessarily he indicated the large block that signified Nuremberg Castle. "Here's the breakdown: We have reasonable evidence to suggest that the target is within the castle, but we don't know for sure. We face an unknown number of hostiles between here and there, and possibly within the structure itself. None of our weapons are permitted under the German Weapons Law, so they must remain concealed. This also means that we will have limited ammunition. Because the castle is such a tourist attraction, we will have from 1800 hours tonight until 0900 hours tomorrow morning to find and extract the spear." His summary did not sound very hopeful to Hermione, but Harry was looking rather relieved. Ron glanced at his watch. "It is 1542 hours right now, so we have a little over two hours to kill."
"I for one would like to take my lovely wife out for a quiet dinner." Harry suggested, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Ron chuckled right along with him. Under any other circumstances Hermione would have been highly irritated by him. Of course she did realize that they had to play the part of a married couple, which meant spending quality time in public locations, but there was something about this man. She knew so few people her own age at all, let alone males, but this specimen felt different. He felt like someone she could be comfortable around, and that made the prospect of pretending to be his wife rather pleasant.
"Oh please David," she sighed dramatically, getting into the part. "You know airplanes always make you tired, and I've been wanting to see Courtroom 600 for quite some time." If Ron's approving grin was anything to go by, she had done well.
Harry shot her a pleading look. "Come now Abby, it's been far too long since we've done anything together. And Henry doesn't mind, do you?" Ron shook his head solemnly, indicating with a simple gesture of his hand that they should go enjoy themselves. "Then it's settled. Come on, I know a place with excellent sausages. And a magnificent view to boot." Conceding that her 'husband' was not going to relent, Hermione allowed her feet to carry her after his slightly hunched frame.
***
Harry had been right: the sausages at the Heilig Geist Spital had been exquisite, as had the view of the river Pengnitz. They had enjoyed a meal of Saure Zipfel, sausages in vinegar-onion sauce with horseradish and bread, followed up by a couple of glasses of a truly excellent Trockenbeerenauslese wine. Not too much, of course. Actually Hermione was surprised to find such a high quality of beverage. From what little she actually knew about wine, she was sure that TBA wines were extremely rare and expensive. She had just plucked up the courage to comment on their luck, when he suggested they go and meet 'Henry.' They arrived back at the hostel with a quarter hour to spare, enough time for the old couple to take a walk around town with their old friend. That they happened to pass by Nuremberg Castle just a few minutes after closing time was naturally just a coincidence, right?
As soon as they were successfully inside, there was no further need for the disguises. Contacts were removed, facial hair was pulled off, and clothing was dumped in a closet. Ron had been wearing his coveralls underneath his tuxedo, and Harry had turned his blazer inside out to reveal the more familiar leather jacket. "Alright, let's go." Harry decided after unfurling his fedora. He led them casually down the hallway.
Maybe it was just Hermione's imagination, but the castle seemed several degrees colder than the town had been. Her education had been sparse over the years, but the one thing no one could avoid were the Nazis. In retrospect the entire town had felt colder than it had any right to at this time of the year. Maybe it was just her unease at being at the site of the infamous Nuremberg Rallies, or the location of the signing of the Nuremberg laws, or even the location of part of the Flossenbürg concentration camp. It was as though she could feel the evil in this place, even though it sounded absurd to her.
Anxious feelings aside, the castle was actually a mythical treasure hunter's dream. They encountered no traps, just a large maze in the basement. Ron decided they should try it, though Hermione had no idea how he knew that. Fortunately she knew the trick to mazes, though it was unnecessary in this case. The structure seemed to follow the principles of a turf maze, and they crossed no junctions. The most curious thing about the construction was that it seemed quite a bit larger than the castle had appeared from the outside. She put the thought out of her mind, attributing it to a trick of the shadows, until a high-pitched welsh voice called out from behind them. "Hey there, don't you know it's rude to show a lady your back?" it taunted.
They turned, Harry and Ron very slowly, and encountered a trio of figures. If there sizes were anything to go by they were full grown, but each of them wore a full black robe and hood. Their faces were hidden behind black masks. The robes were loose, but one of them was obviously a woman. Her black hair was barely contained by her mask. One of the others was tall and broad, and the third was tall but slender. Each of them was holding a wooden stick, varying in wood type and length. Hermione did not fail to notice that both her companions were eyeing the wood carefully.
"Easy now Travers, no need to make a scene." Harry placated. His hand was straying towards his belt, hopefully going unnoticed.
The slim one, who was apparently called Travers, cackled. Quite literally, he cackled. It was not a pleasant sound. "Absolutely right, maybe we'll just kill you quickly. After all, we don't want to stain these hallowed walls." The woman whimpered slightly. "Easy Bellatrix, I promise we'll get some nice muggles for you to play with later." He soothed. Hermione had no idea what a muggle was, but it seemed to keep 'Bellatrix' happy. All three sticks rose, and the beginnings of a word began at the back of three throats. Harry chose that moment to act.
With a practiced flick his whip came sailing through the air, snapping neatly on Travers' wrist. He released his 'weapon' with a howl of pain. Harry screamed out to Ron and Hermione to "Shoot," and they both did. The shotgun shell, and the couple dozen .45 SCP rounds that burst forth from Hermione's Uzi, vanished in midair. They were never seen again on this earth. Not even waiting for an order, Ron fired his shotgun into the air ad dropped a sizeable portion of the ceiling down between the archaeologists and their attackers. Acting with a single mind, all three of them turned and sprinted off in the opposite direction. They had no idea how far they had left to go and no way to determine that information, so they were left with no option but to run until they were killed or reached the center. Hermione fervently hoped for the latter.
Every so often another black robes figure would materialize nearby them, and every time all three of them would fire several rounds back. Ron ran out of ammo first, and Harry second. Each of them pulled out a length of wood similar to those used by their assailants, which in turn had been almost non-stop firing bolts of brightly coloured light at them. Each bolt caused a small explosion to occur in the stonework where it hit. When Hermione herself ran out of ammunition, Harry tossed back a stick. It was polished mahogany, about three-quarters of a foot long. It felt warm in her hands. "Point that behind you, and yell 'Reducto.'" Harry instructed, sensing rather than seeing her confused look. She tried it, and heard a scream of pain as one of their aggressors fell. "Good job." Harry tossed back, approving.
***
After far too long of running and dodging strange lights, they were finally granted a reprieve. The air felt warmer here, so Hermione could only assume that they were nearing their objective. After she had caught her breath, and before her friends had caught theirs, she assaulted them with the most obvious and all-encompassing question she could think of. "What in the name of Hell's Eighth level is going on here?" she asked, more than slightly furious at being left out of such a large thing. And she was supposed to trust these two.
Harry smiled. "Eighth circle? That's good, the fraudulent. Sorcerers are encased in the fourth sub-level, am I correct?" he chuckled, but the sound faded with another determined look from Hermione. He sighed. "Okay, you'd better sit down. As you have apparently guessed, Ron and I are wizards. Those people chasing us are called Death Eaters, they're the minions of an evil wizard named Voldemort." He leaned back as though that explained everything. It didn't, but it was a good start.
"And what does this 'Voldemort' want exactly?" she asked apprehensively. She was not yet entirely convinced of these men's sanities, but it was rather hard to doubt them.
Ron shrugged. "What do all men with power want: more power. In this case, he wants to rule the world." He gave a helpless gesture with his hands. "A bit of a cliché, but what're you going to do?"
Harry's startlingly green eyes flickered open again. "I get the feeling you don't believe us. Permit me to demonstrate." He drew his own rod, which Hermione guessed she should now be calling a wand, and waved it at the floor. In no time flat she was sinking into cement-coloured quicksand. She pulled herself out, onto the stable ground to her back, and the sinkhole was gone as soon as it had come. There was only Harry, looking rather triumphant. "Bottom line, and the reason we're telling you this rather than making you forget about the entire incident, is that you have to potential to become a very powerful witch." Her eyes widened. With that much power, she could avenge her parents.
The idea didn't seem so appealing, in retrospect. Now that she had witnessed first-hand the kind of person wanton killing could create, she wasn't sure she wanted to bear the burden. "Why didn't you tell me before?" she asked, sounding a little overwhelmed.
Ron looked downcast. "We didn't figure you needed the burden. You just lost your parents, we didn't want you to have to deal with this too." Hermione did not respond, just rolled onto her side to try and get some much-needed rest. As such she didn't notice Harry's hand extend towards her shoulder, falter, and retreat.
Ain't Remus so evil? Lol
Everything about Germany is accurate, I believe. The TBA is the highest classification of wine in Germany or Austria. They are extremely rare, and are almost never seen outside of private wine auctions. Needless to say Hermione provides a small hint at their origin.
Finally, anyone who has no idea what Harry and Hermione are talking about with the 'eighth circle of hell' stuff are directed towards the work of Dante Alighieri. Specifically the Divine Comedy.