(A/N: The letter from Ron was inspired by a suggestion from Particle Accelerator.
My thanks, once again, to MirielleGrey, my gold-standard beta, who showed me how to tighten some of the scenes in this chapter.)
(Disclaimer: Don't be silly. Of course I don't own Harry Potter or any of the other characters. I'm just insisting they reach their full potential.)
*
"Coming Back Late"
by Paracelsus
*
Chapter XIV: Delicate Negotiations
*
The omelets were light, almost soufflé-like in their airiness, with veins of molten bleu cheese running through them, and bits of perfectly crisp bacon sprinkled overall. "Small wonder if the girls can't keep their hands off you," joked Hermione as she finished eating, "if this is the sort of breakfast you can cook."
Harry smiled slightly but didn't respond to the jibe. Instead, with a tiny jerk of his head he levitated their empty plates over to the sink. "Coffee?"
"Yes, please." She'd actually had a restful night's sleep, though she wasn't sure the same could be said of Harry: she had got up to use the lavatory around three a.m. and saw that he was lying awake on the sofa, hands folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. She'd returned to bed without saying anything.
She watched him now over the lip of her cup of coffee, as the dishes and pans cleaned themselves in the sink. The casual ease with which he manipulated magic was impressive, but a topic for another time. Right now, she wanted to discuss his return to the wizarding world - if she could find a safe way to broach the subject. Hermione was reluctant to disturb the concord they'd reached last night.
Habit asserted itself: she started puttering amongst the items that had arrived in the post on Saturday. Very quickly she came across the message from Ron. She opened it, started to read, and felt the blush blossom on her face; hastily, she slipped it into the bottom of the stack of papers.
Not hastily enough, unfortunately. "Is that Ron's handwriting?" Harry asked. "What's he have to say?"
"Erm," Hermione said, trying through sheer willpower to keep the blood from rushing to her face, and failing. "It's… a reminder. My birthday."
"Oh, that's right! Your birthday is this week, isn't it? And he's giving you a party? That's pretty good of him…"
"Not exactly. He's… inviting me to a, a private party. As it were." To hell with the blushes, she decided, and raised her head to look straight at him. "We are still married, after all."
It took Harry a moment to decipher her meaning. When he did, it was his turn to blush. "Ohh. So, uh, you're not really, uh, separated, then?"
"We're very much separated, Harry. But as I said last night, our wedding vows are enforced by our own magic." Hermione swallowed a quick gulp of coffee to clear her throat. "I suppose if I were Narcissa Malfoy, I'd have worded my oath to allow occasional 'liaisons', as long they were discreet. Instead, Ron and I were married using the Church of England ceremony. As a concession to my parents, you understand."
"Yeah, you said you couldn't cheat on each other. So… that, uh, means no sex at all? For either of you?" Harry was bright red now, and no longer looking directly at her.
"Pretty much," said Hermione, scarlet-faced but determined to get the matter out into the open. "Though there are charms that make objects vibrate…"
"Right. Got it."
"You'd probably have a better idea than I would about Ron's options," she concluded.
He closed his eyes as if in pain. "I'm sorry," he finally said.
"I gather that Arthur's pressuring Ron to have more children," she continued doggedly, taking a perverse amusement from his embarrassment. "A son, this time - to carry on the Weasley family name, you know. So far, all but one of Arthur's grandchildren have been girls. I don't feel we should have any more children, given how our marriage has turned out, but you know Ron…"
"Please. Enough."
"Welcome back to my world, Harry. It hasn't been all skittles and beer while you've been gone." Hermione saw the opening in the conversation and took advantage of it… gambling that his current discomfort would leave him ready to make concessions. "So… when do you plan to let everyone know?"
"Let everyone know?" Harry blinked at the change of subject. The blush faded rapidly as his eyes came back to look at her again. "That I'm 'back', you mean? Hermione, I'm… I'm not…"
"You're not coming back? Is that what you're trying to tell me, Harry? Because if you…"
He raised his hand, palm towards her, in a quieting motion that was an unmistakable command. The several logical arguments she'd been primed to deliver came to a screeching halt, tumbling over one another in her head. Quite uncharacteristically, she fell silent and let him speak.
It took Harry a second or two to find the words. When he did, they carried an air of quiet authority very similar to Kingsley's. "I'm not 'back' until the Hallows are gone. The whole point of not coming back was to destroy their power - especially the Wand's. Until then…"
Blast. Unfortunately, the same rationale that had kept him away for all these years was still in force, and she'd never convince him otherwise. Nonetheless, she voiced her challenge. "So what was yesterday, then, if you're not returning to the wizarding world?"
Surprise flashed over his face. "Yesterday was you asking," he said simply, as though it were obvious.
Hermione would not allow herself to feel the glow of pleasure at his words. "And what if, tomorrow, Ron asks?"
"Ron won't ask, because Ron won't know."
True. Ron may have been present when I questioned Ted, but he won't know for certain unless I tell him - and I promised to keep Harry's existence secret. She couldn't help pressing, "Or Ginny?"
"Pfft."
The dismissive snort wasn't what Hermione had expected. "Really?" she asked in tones of disbelief. "Because when last I saw the two of you, you certainly seemed to be in love."
"It was fifteen years ago," Harry said shortly. "People change."
You don't know the half of it, thought Hermione. She knew she should drop the matter, change the subject. But his sudden change in attitude - in a heartbeat, he'd turned testy, almost surly - and his casual dismissal of opportunities lost, annoyed her for no reason she could name.
"Yes, I suppose you must have changed," she said sweetly. "A Muggle, a success in your field, and obviously single? You must have had your pick of women, Harry. Fifteen years…"
He shook his head in warning. He was definitely not smiling, as he had at her earlier jibe.
She paid no heed, irrationally determined now to get under his skin, irritate him as he'd irritated her. If I have to reveal the secrets of my sex life, so does he. "Why, you probably wouldn't even have any trouble picking them up. A simple spell to stimulate libido, I imagine? All that magic does have its uses, I see…"
The room's temperature abruptly dropped. The chill seemed to radiate from Harry's body language his face, his eyes. Hermione realized she'd crossed the line, but it was too late. Even his voice was icy now. "I've been using the Elder Wand," he told her, "all the Hallows, to help people. To try and make up for some of the wrong things that've been done to them in the name of magic - even if they never realized it."
He stood. "In fact, there are a couple of 'projects' I've been working on, that I've neglected. I should probably attend to them… and you, I daresay, need to be getting to the Ministry for your meeting."
He didn't simply Disapparate away - that would have been as rude as slamming down a Muggle telephone. But his curt exit, walking from the room to Disapparate a moment later, was just as final a last word.
*
Though she truly wasn't in the mood for it, she kept her appointment in the Ministry atrium. Edwin Lovinett, junior partner of the legal firm Gouging & Lovinett, was waiting for her there. He was a prim, middle-aged wizard, fastidious and precise, in a robe of conservative cut. Hermione had a hard time reconciling his respectable appearance with the clientele he represented… starting with the Malfoys just after the War's end, and continuing up to his current client.
"Ah, Madam Granger-Weasley," he greeted her, shifting his briefcase so that he could extend a hand to shake. "So good of you to see me on such short notice. My client was most desirous to discuss matters with you, without the distractions of a courtroom. Thank you again."
"Not at all," she said, forcing a smile. "Shall we?" She gestured towards the lifts.
They took the lifts to the ninth level, walking past the Department of Mysteries to the courtrooms, and thence to the prisoner holding cells. Lovinett made some attempts at conversation, almost as a professional duty, but Hermione really wasn't up for verbal fencing. She was trying too hard to banish the memories of the morning, and her abominable treatment of Harry.
They arrived at the cells: a barred door with a guard's desk beside it, opening to a corridor of barred doors. A burly MLE agent sat at the desk, reading the Sunday Prophet. He looked up as they approached. "Morning, ma'am," he said to Hermione.
"Good morning, Nelson - or rather, good afternoon," she replied, handing him her wand. Lovinett did the same. Together they waited as Nelson carefully weighed their wands, handed them receipts, and slid the wands onto a rack. They would retrieve their wands when they emerged from the cells.
Nelson turned his head to look at the barred door. "Open," he told it, and then as it clanged open he called out down the corridor, "Open number five!" With a grunt he nodded for them to proceed, as he returned to his newspaper.
I hope I don't have to speak to Robards about lax discipline in his ranks, thought Hermione as she walked down the cellblock. Nelson was hardly paying attention at all… and he should be escorting us to Swivingham's cell.
The cell was hardly luxurious, but here and there she spotted a few items of comfort: a form-fitting bed instead of a cot, a linen tablecloth for the area where the Ministry elves brought meals. They were clear evidence that the current occupant was used to the finer things in life, and was able to obtain them even in prison. He was lounging on the bed, humming to himself, when Hermione and Lovinett walked in. "Ah, if it isn't the ever-charming Witch Who Won," he laughed. "Welcome back, lass."
Jack Swivingham was a large man, well over six feet tall, broad-shouldered and bulky. His ebullient manner and booming voice filled any room with his presence. Still, his pot belly bespoke a lack of physical exercise, and he'd evidently been treating his thinning hair with potions - his stay in cells had caused his hairline to recede drastically.
Hermione turned one of the cell's chairs to face Swivingham and settled herself into it without waiting for Lovinett. "You called this meeting," she told Swivingham. "What's on your mind?"
Swivingham sat up on the bed as Lovinett moved the other chair closer to him. "I hear that Harry Potter's come back to life."
"So rumor has it," agreed Hermione unhelpfully.
"Which has confused my poor house-elves into thinking they have to appear at the trial," Swivingham continued mournfully. "I have to say, Granger, that was a clever ploy on your part."
"I wish I could claim credit for it," Hermione noted. "Not that I hadn't more than sufficient evidence to send you to Azkaban without their testimony, but it'll certainly make my job that much easier." She smiled at Lovinett. "And yours, I'm not sorry to say, that much harder."
"Ahem. That is why my client has requested this meeting," said Lovinett, opening his briefcase. "In exchange for a reduced sentence, he will agree to plead guilty to a lesser charge of…"
"No," interrupted Swivingham.
Lovinett stared at his client in concern. "Jack," he said softly, "don't throw away this last opportunity…"
"I won't," said Swivingham. "I intend to take full advantage of it." He leaned forward and looked at Hermione with a hardening face. All traces of jollity were gone from his voice when he spoke again. "In exchange for total immunity from prosecution, I'll give you the Lords."
"The Lords?"
"Of the cartel. The real one."
Hermione was confused, but would not allow herself to show it. "Swivingham, it's well known that you ran all the under-traffic in Knockturn Alley. The prostitution ring was only one part of it - there were drugs, fencing…"
"Did I run all that?" Swivingham grinned. "Strange that you didn't charge me with anything but procurement, then. But let me offer you some food for thought." He gestured with both hands, describing a petite female figure. "Fatima. Probably the best looking of my 'working elves', wouldn't you say? From a human point of view, anyway. And - let me guess - probably the least communicative of the six you've got." He waited for Hermione to acknowledge his point. Her silence was acknowledgement enough. "Didn't you ever wonder how a British house-elf received such a… Levantine name?"
Swivingham smiled again as Hermione fixed her most penetrating stare on him. He had her full interest now, and he knew it. "Another example: you know the sorts of drugs available in Knockturn Alley. Silverleaf. Runecap extract. I hear you can even acquire some Muggle drugs. Their new synthetics don't do much for magical metabolisms, of course, but the classic organic-growns are always popular - blond hashish is the current favorite. Do they even grow cannabis in Britain, I wonder?"
"This… would have to go far beyond Knockturn Alley," Hermione said slowly. "You're talking about a major international cartel. And you're, what, second-in-command?"
"Ah, Granger, you flatter me. I do run the businesses here in Britain… regional manager, if you like. But I take my orders from the Lords. How would you like to get your hands on them? Promise me immunity and a free ticket out of here, and I'll give you names, dates, bank accounts, everything you'll need to go after them." Swivingham sat back, quite satisfied with the impact of his words.
Hermione was thinking furiously. To accept Swivingham's offer would mean not prosecuting him for procurement or running the prostitution ring - the strategy by which she'd hoped to strike a blow for elf rights. But if there were an international criminal cartel doing business in Britain - throughout Europe - that would be too great a target to ignore.
"You're asking me to buy a pig in a poke," she shot at him. "Any promises of immunity would have to depend on the level of cooperation we got… and how effective your information turned out to be."
"Oh, it's good, sweetheart," Swivingham assured her. "Trust me, it's good. By the same token, I want that promise of immunity in writing. This is where you come in," he added as an aside to Lovinett.
"As your legal counsel, Jack," Lovinett replied in a low voice, "I have to strongly advise against entering any agreement like this with the current Ministry…" He glanced at Hermione under lowered brows, and she understood he was requesting privacy. She stood and stepped outside the cell door, swinging it nearly shut; she scrupulously looked away from them, as they conferred in low voices.
Eventually, Lovinett called Hermione back into the cell. Both men were very tense - Lovinett's face was pinched in disapproval, while Swivingham had broken out in sweat - but seemed ready to conclude the deal. "I can draw up an instrument right here," Lovinett began stiffly, "if you care to call in the guard as a witness…"
"Actually," put in Hermione, "any agreement of this magnitude needs to be co-signed by the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. I can contact Robards as soon as we're done here… we should certainly have something ready for everyone's signature tomorrow morning, before the court convenes."
"Good enough," said Swivingham, wiping his brow. "I'd insist on getting Shacklebolt's agreement, too," he added candidly, "except I don't think he's going to be around long enough to keep his end of the bargain."
Hermione sniffed disdainfully. "We'll see you in the morning, then, Swivingham," she told him. "Oh, and do please bear in mind: if so much as one word of your information is dodgy, the whole deal's off, and you're back in the dock." She led Lovinett out of the cell - the door automatically shut behind them - and out of the cellblock.
"No further visitors until tomorrow," she instructed Nelson, as she retrieved her wand. "Mr. Lovinett, while I'm sure this wasn't what either of us had in mind for today's meeting, I think we can call it productive. If you'll come by my office tomorrow morning, we can hammer out the final details of the agreement."
She all but flew back to her office and wrote a précis of the day's meeting, which she promptly owled to Robards. Hermione wanted the matter done and the decision out of her hands, a fait accompli. It would be a Pyrrhic victory: Magical Law Enforcement would get kudos for eradicating a criminal cartel, but at the cost of losing a round in her long fight for elvish rights.
In particular, she dreaded having to explain to Canby that all his efforts preparing for the trial - including his work with the witnesses - had been for naught… and that the elves were no closer to emancipation than before.
*
It was late in the evening when Harry Apparated back to Enthalpy House. The house was silent and dark, and at first he wasn't sure he'd be welcome. He'd been snappish and cold with Hermione over breakfast, refusing to share details of his life although she'd been sharing hers… in the end, leaving in a huff without even letting her speak - or explaining himself.
How could he possibly explain about Ginny? It had taken him years to figure it out himself - he had no idea how he might explain it to anyone else. To Hermione. Or to the Weasleys, for that matter.
But if Harry ever did find a way to return to the wizarding world, he'd better also find a way to explain. Certainly Ginny deserved the explanation, if no one else.
He was reassured to see the sofa had been decked out with pillows and coverlet, again… Hermione had expected (hoped?) he'd be returning tonight. Harry could hardly blame her for not waiting up for him - if for no other reason than that it postponed their inevitable discussion/apology session until morning.
A quick Transfiguration changed his Muggle street clothes into pyjamas, as he'd done the night before. Almost out of habit he set protective spells around the house: he might not be sleeping in his Stealth Cloak any more, but he wasn't about to neglect his defenses. He was making ready to climb under the coverlet when he heard a sound in the silent house.
The unmistakable sound of Hermione weeping.
It gave him a moment of queasy hesitation. He'd never been comfortable with crying females, never known what to do - but he'd had fifteen years to learn, a little. And he bitterly remembered his failure to console Hermione, when Ron had left her crying in the Forest of Dean.
Quietly he went to the door of Hermione's bedroom. It was closed but unlocked; he opened it enough to pop his head into the room. In the darkness he could make out Hermione on her bed, softly weeping. Harry couldn't tell if she knew he was there.
He slipped inside, hesitated again, then noiselessly stepped to her bedside and knelt there. Hermione's back was to him; he could now make out that she was curled up slightly, hugging a pillow. It helped, somehow, that she wasn't looking at him - in that disconcertingly direct way she had - and the darkness of the room helped, too.
Keeping his touch feather-light, he began to stroke her hair. She hiccupped once, then the crying continued unabated. She wasn't going to tell him why she was crying, then… but he thought he could guess.
Harry drew a deep breath. "I'm afraid to come back," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "It's the Hallows, yes, but not just the Hallows, it's… I was born under a prophecy, and I fulfilled it. I almost feel like, without the prophecy, what use am I to the wizarding world now? At least the Muggles I can help."
Her weeping had slowed. She was listening, then. "And I was sure… well, I'd convinced myself… that no one would miss me. That you'd all, y'know, get on with your lives. I hoped you'd remember me occasionally, but really, you were better off without me." He fell silent, simply stroking her hair, ever so gently.
Hermione was sniffling now, not crying. After a minute, she spoke in a voice no louder than Harry's. "When you died - that day when Voldemort and his Death Eaters came out of the Forest, and Hagrid carried your body for us to see…" She said no more, and Harry wondered if she would continue.
She whispered, "I died too."
As there didn't seem to be anything to say to this, Harry said nothing. He knew Hermione was incapable of leaving it at that.
"Part of me just… died, Harry. I'd dedicated my life to helping you - in Hogwarts, and then I gave up Hogwarts, I Obliviated my own parents - I gave up Ron to help you. When I thought you'd died, it was like there was a hole inside me where you should have been. Don't ever think you weren't missed, or that you have no value. Don't…"
Another pause. "Don't ever think you weren't loved," she finished.
He sensed she was done for the moment. My turn again. Harry let the silence settle into place for a time, while he gathered his thoughts. He paused in stroking her hair, and began to lift his hand from her head.
"Don't stop," she quickly added.
With a mental shrug, he resumed his stroking. I suppose it's because she's a cat person, he mused, that's why she likes this.
"About Ginny," he began, and felt her stiffen under his hand. He tried to put his hard-earned thoughts into order: if there was anyone he could explain this to, it was Hermione. "Something happened that year, and I don't know… I don't know if it was all the fighting, or the fact that I was getting ready to die - they do say that clears the mind, don't they? But… I didn't want her near me in the battle. And when Voldemort made his ultimatum, and I went to him in the Forest… to die… well, I saw Ginny, and I could have said goodbye. I could have comforted her when Fred died, too. I could have done… lots of things… but the point is, I didn't."
"I see."
"And it took me years to understand, but I know now… I didn't really love Ginny, not really. I never did. There was a lot of lust, I know that now, lust on both our parts, I think. We were teenagers. But… I didn't know anything about love, Hermione. I mean, I wasn't about to learn it from the Dursleys, was I? It took me years to figure that out."
"I see." Pause. Then she rolled over in bed to face him. It was too dark to make out her expression, but her eyes were shining. "And now?"
"I've helped a lot of people who needed help. I've seen people who stayed by each other, no matter how hard things got. If that was love… then I guess I know what love is. Love is putting the other person first. Isn't it? You'd know better than me."
Slowly, cautiously, her hand came up to touch his face. "Maybe once," she whispered, "but not now." His eyes must be adjusting to the darkness, finally: he could see a tentative smile make its way to her face. It disappeared as she turned solemn. "I am so sorry for what I said this morning, Harry."
He let his hand come to rest onto her head, no longer a stroke, but a caress. "Me too. For what I said. For.. for everything, y'know? Then and now. I… I should have trusted you."
With a smile no longer tentative, Hermione took his hand between both of her own, snuggled with it into her mattress, and closed her eyes. Harry concluded that the sofa wasn't for him tonight. With a wistful sigh, he Accio'd his pillow from the other room and settled into a sitting position by the side of her bed… his hand still clasped between hers.
Oh, he'd be stiff in the morning, but he'd spent worse nights… and there were many kinds of comfort.