Unofficial Portkey Archive

(A/N: Today's chapter is brought to you by the letter M, as in MirielleGrey, who beta-reads each chapter and advises me on myriad issues.)

(Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Harry. Or Hermione. And Jo's welcome to the Deathly Hallows. The plot, now, that's mine.)

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"Coming Back Late"

by Paracelsus

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XVI: Fairy Tale Lessons

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Bedtime stories had never been part of Harry's nightly ritual during childhood. The Dursleys wouldn't have wasted their time with him, for one thing; besides, most children's stories involved magic, which was anathema on Privet Drive. So it wasn't until he'd started primary school that Harry learned of the Brothers Grimm - and their tale of the Elves and the Shoemaker.

From the first, Harry had always wondered why the shoemaker didn't grow lazy and dependent on the elves, and be unable to fend for himself once they'd left. (If Uncle Vernon had been the shoemaker, that's exactly what would've happened.) Harry took the tale to heart, now, in his role as guardian angel: use the power of the Deathly Hallows to benefit, not curse - but don't leave the beneficiary worse off than before.

In the case of the Cheswrights, the old dairy farming couple, Harry had to be sure that their current problems were more due to bad luck than bad habits. Once he'd satisfied himself of that, he happily spent the day subtly increasing milk production on their farm. Harry was sure just a few days' extra milk would let the Cheswrights pay their immediate bills - and keep their farm for at least another year.

Mind you, Harry never questioned why the elves would help the shoemaker in his time of need. To Harry, that part of the story was self-evident.

The sun had just slipped under the horizon when Harry called it quits for the day. He debated for a moment whether to return to Jacob Clayman's flat to sleep - no reason not to, after all, it's still mine; the rent's been paid until the end of the month - but decided he should at least check in with Hermione first. As a courtesy.

He Apparated to Enthalpy House to find Hermione sitting listlessly on the couch, Bottlebrush nearby watching her intently. The contents of her briefcase were strewn across the low table in front of her; the evening edition of the Daily Prophet lay folded on the couch next to her. She looked up and smiled at Harry's arrival, but the smile didn't make it into her eyes. "H'lo, Harry. How did it go today? Any luck?"

"I think so, yeah. I used the Lactus spell you taught me, but gradually, so it won't look too strange. I even had to switch from the Elder Wand to my old holly wand, just to keep it low-key. In a day or two, I'll taper off just as gradually, and that'll be that." Harry frowned slightly as Hermione didn't seem to respond to the good news. "Hermione… what's wrong?"

With a dejected sigh, Hermione handed him the Prophet. He unfolded it to see banner headlines: KNOCKTURN KINGPIN KILLS SELF! Swivingham suicide tables trial! Ministry in disarray - sloppy security faulted! There was a photograph, presumably from the paper's files, of a large man, bold-eyed and grinning, who nonetheless showed signs of fraying around his handsome edges from living too high. "This… this is the bloke you were going to put away, right? The same bloke whose solicitor sent the owl on Saturday, asking for a deal?"

"Yes, that would be him." Hermione accepted the newspaper back from Harry and dropped it on the table. Neither of them noticed that she moved slightly on the couch to make room for him, or that he sat next to her without hesitation. "But despite what the Prophet says, Harry, it was no suicide. Swivingham was murdered, right in his cell." She gave him a summary of the discovery of the body, and the facts that had been uncovered to date. Harry listened, growing more and more shocked.

"I don't want to accuse any of the house-elves," she finished, almost in despair, "but if it was one of them, they certainly had good excuse. The only other suspect is a human - Eddie Nelson, one of the guards on duty that night - and he's not to be found. Which Robards is practically taking as proof of guilt."

"Uh huh… I'd wondered why the Prophet has Robards practically breathing fire here. Appointing a review board for the Ministry's security, vowing to…" He glanced at the paper on the table. "'To spare no effort to prevent future occurrences'," he quoted. "Yeah, when he'd like to tell them that he intends to nail the killer, or something. You're sure this is something to keep secret?"

"For the moment. The news will break later this week - we're trying to get some international help - but for now, at least, it lets us control the story."

"Um. Any chance it really was suicide, not murder?"

"Not really. The killer, or killers, were trying to keep Swivingham from giving evidence about these so-called Cartel Lords. They Obliviated Robards and snatched my letter to him, which took some pretty cool nerve…" Hermione stopped and regarded Harry in appraisal. "Did you do something to my protective spells last night?"

"Er, yeah. Force of habit, I guess, I always set up extra defensive wards when I sleep… especially now that I'm not sleeping in the Cloak…"

"It wasn't a criticism, Harry, far from it! Your wards are probably the only thing that kept me from being Obliviated! If that had happened, we'd never have known about the Cartel Lords at all - no memory of a plea bargain, no written record, nothing."

"Well, good," began Harry, then stopped in dismay. "Wait, though, doesn't that mean they'll still be after you? They must know that they didn't succeed last night. Although… don't Memory Charms work best when the memory is recent?"

"Before it's had a chance to integrate into the long-term memory, yes. Even then, it's not beyond the reach of a skilled Obliviator, but I don't know what resources these Lords might have. Still… I was lucky that I went straight to my office this morning, without letting myself be stopped. And since then, I've been on my guard - or I've been here, in my now well-protected home."

"Okay. Any other possibilities? What about the solicitor bloke, um, Lovinett? If they were willing to Obliviate you and Robards, they'd have gone after him, too…"

She nodded in glum agreement. "We spoke with Lovinett this afternoon - he couldn't remember anything about the Cartel Lords. He still recalls our interview with Swivingham, but as he tells it now, we were trying to negotiate a plea bargain, and Swivingham rejected it. Lovinett said he was showing wild mood swings." Hermione shrugged. "Edited memories, of course, intended to support a finding of suicide. Whoever these Lords are, they're thorough."

"Yeah," Harry said slowly, as an idea came to him. "Yeah, but they can't think of everything. Especially if they think those things are only from a children's tale." He held up his hand to display the Resurrection Stone on his finger.

Hermione stared at it, as comprehension dawned. "Of… course," she breathed, "of course. I assume it works as it did in the Tale of the Three Brothers? Well, why shouldn't it, the other two do, more or less. But have you actually used the Stone this way, Harry? Can it really bring… bring back…?"

"It brings back the dead," said Harry firmly. "It doesn't bring the dead to life. There's a big difference. Beedle the Bard, and Xenophilius Lovegood, and even Dumbledore - none of them understood that, really. Well, I guess Dumbledore did, after he was dead…" He shook himself. "Never mind. The point is, we can ask this Swivingham what happened to him. If you're willing."

She didn't answer immediately, continuing to stare at the Stone, and Harry went on. "Er, and yeah, I've used the Stone to do this. Not in a long, long time, mind you."

Her eyes flicked to his. "Is it dangerous, then?"

"Not physically." Harry didn't say any more.

After a moment, Hermione nodded her understanding. "Well, then…" She drew a deep breath. "Let's do it."

It was very simple to do, really, considering the cosmic powers they were invoking. Harry turned the ring on his finger three times, and pictured the wizard in the newspaper photograph; drawing on a common memory should make it possible for both Harry and Hermione to see the spirit. In a clear voice he said, "Jack Swivingham."

And just like that, with no flash of light or other warning, Swivingham was there, seated in one of the chairs across from them, as though he'd been in the room all along. He appeared to be solid, much more solid than a ghost, but he looked… monochrome, like an old daguerreotype. The other senses' perceptions were also "off" slightly, in ways the rational mind couldn't define but was forced to accept: he might be present, but he wasn't full "there".

"Granger," he greeted her, but with his eyes on Harry. "Looks as though the rumors were true after all."

"Be grateful for that," said Hermione. "It gives you a chance to finish what you started."

Swivingham's eyes turned to her. His smile wasn't quite as suave as it had been in life. "And what might that be, lassie?"

"Help put away the Cartel Lords. You said you had names, dates, bank accounts, all sorts of information to give, remember? Thanks to this last chance, you still can."

He snorted with laughter, but there was no real amusement in it. "That was in exchange for something, don't you remember? Quid pro quo? Things have changed a bit since then, girlie. What can you possibly offer me now in exchange for my help?"

Harry could see that Hermione was nonplussed by this. He stepped in smoothly. "From what I've read about you, friend, you haven't exactly been… comfortable… since you died." He watched as an involuntary shudder shook Swivingham's features, and smiled to himself. "Every minute you're with us here is a minute not spent there. That's got to be worth something to you. The more you cooperate…" He left the offer dangling.

Hermione immediately picked up the thread. "And on a more theological note, every good act reduces one's ultimate punishment. If you've had a taste of that, you've plenty of reason to help us. Forgiveness comes with atonement."

Swivingham closed his eyes; this time, the shudder took his entire body. When he spoke, it was with unexpected venom. "You. Pathetic. Mewling. Infants." He opened his eyes and looked at Harry and Hermione with agony and hatred competing on his face. "You have no idea what you're talking about. A few hours here, to return to an eternity of that? Infinity minus ten is still infinity, you half-blooded cretin. And you…!"

He turned on Hermione, and now the hatred had no competition. "You filthy, mudblooded bint! How dare you presume to lecture me on forgiveness? I've earned forgiveness simply by putting up with people like you! How…"

"Enough!" shouted Harry, while Hermione sat stunned. This wasn't the convivial sybarite she'd interviewed in his cell: this was another wizard altogether, afroth with anger - no, not anger, contempt, for her, for Muggleborn, for pretty much everyone.

She tried to find a way to use that emotion, to reflect it back on him, to get answers. "All right, then, don't do it for yourself. Do it for revenge. They murdered you in cold blood, Swivingham. This is your last chance to get back at them."

"Pfah! You mean this is my chance to help you get them! Do you think I'm as stupid as you, you scumbred waste of magic? I wouldn't help you even if…"

"I said ENOUGH!!" In a bound, Harry was off the couch and over the low table, scattering papers. With one hand on Swivingham's collar, he hauled the procurer out of his chair and held him suspended, feet dangling. Harry's eyes were glowing, literally radiant with dark green energy; flickers of virid St. Elmo's fire danced around the hand at Swivingham's throat. "Tell us how you died! Now!"

Swivingham's lips curled in a sneer even as his hands clawed at the iron grip at his throat. "I - hanged - myself," he got out. "Mortal sin, innit?"

Emerald fury blazed. "Imperio!"

Swivingham froze, staring at Harry, before he started to chuckle. "Nice try," he rasped, "but that's not going to make me help you."

Slowly, the deathly green faded from around Harry's form. He lowered Swivingham to the floor, but without releasing his hold on his throat. Harry granted Swivingham a small, hard smile. "Oh, on the contrary. You just helped immensely." The smile vanished, abruptly and completely, as Harry tightened his grip again. "And I'm done with you," he growled. "Maledictus in aeternitam."

And the last view of Swivingham's face, in the instant before he faded away, showed all other emotions giving way to purest terror.

Harry's empty hand fell to his side; his shoulders slumped; his head bowed wearily. After a moment, he managed to say, "That wasn't a curse, Hermione. That was a prediction."

"I… good. I wouldn't want to think you… yes. Good."

She was staring sightlessly at the space where Swivingham had been - deeply shocked, he suddenly realized. Quickly he rounded the table and knelt by her side, taking her shoulders in his hands. "Hermione?" He was afraid he'd pushed her away, shaken her by his final words, or by the raw power he'd displayed.

It was almost a relief when she whispered, "The vitriol… my God, the hatred…" Hermione had to breathe deeply several times before she could compose herself and look Harry in the face. "He never showed any of that while he was alive. He dealt with all sorts, Purebloods, half-bloods… with never a sign that he despised people so."

"Yeah, well, they say there's nothing like being dead to strip away all your pretenses, all your false fronts. No reason for them anymore. Death is honest." He smiled grimly. "Brutally honest."

"In morte veritas, is that it?" Hermione managed to smile back. "Is that why you haven't used the Resurrection Stone in, what did you say, years?"

"Yeah." Seeing that she wouldn't be satisfied with a one-word answer, Harry settled himself beside the sofa. "The first time I ever used the Stone was the night I, erm, died. When I saw in the Pensieve that I was a Horcrux, I knew I had to die - and I intended to die, without fighting or anything, I was resigned - but going to meet Voldemort was harder than I thought it'd be. So I used the Stone to bring back my parents, and Sirius, and Remus. They…"

"Please tell me they weren't like that, Harry!"

"No! Nothing like Swivingham. More like… they were sad that I had to die, and happy I was joining them, and proud I was doing it of my own free will." Harry smiled wistfully.

"Hmph," she grumbled waspishly. "That was rather different from what your parents' spirits told you, when they appeared in your duel with Voldemort during the Triwizard Tournament."

Harry was surprised at her tone. "Maybe, but it was what I needed to hear just then."

"Because you had to be a willing sacrifice… and of course, you couldn't know that your death would be temporary. I know, Harry, Dumbledore explained it." She sniffed and muttered, "Doesn't mean I have to like it." In a more normal voice, she added, "And you haven't used the Stone since?"

He sighed. "Once. That first year, when I was wearing the Cloak continuously, to fool all the magical ways of finding me - the Ministry, the goblins, the stuff at Hogwarts, owls, elves, everyone - so that everyone would be sure I was dead. Didn't have a Muggle identity yet, so I was living in the backcountry and doing a lot of scrounging. Kind of like Sirius, which I guess was appropriate. One night, I got so lonely… I used the Stone."

"Who did you summon?"

"Ah, nobody, as such. I didn't have anyone specific in mind… so the Stone chose." He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked away from her. "I got Snape."

"Oh," she said in a low voice. "That couldn't have been fun."

Harry glanced briefly at her before he averted his eyes again; he seemed unable to continue talking while she was in his field of view, visibly responding to his words. "You know Snape gave me his memories, just before he died. I viewed them in Dumbledore's Pensieve. I never told you what I saw, did I? Well, let's just say… I understand now why he did everything he did. But I don't have to forgive him. He was Dumbledore's man, right enough, and he was… he was extraordinarily brave. But he was a petty, caustic, twisted, unforgiving son of a bitch for all that. I do not forgive him."

He looked at Hermione then. "And when the Stone brought him back that night… well, that's how I knew what to expect from Swivingham. He was not a good man, and I. Do. NOT forgive him." He glanced down at his ring. "I really think the Stone's the worst of the Hallows, not the Wand. At first glance, it's…"

"It seems so… innocuous," Hermione concurred. "Harmless… even beneficial. And yet it's nothing of the sort, is it? I don't wonder that you haven't used it since."

"Yeah." He flashed a relieved smile at her, pleased at her quick understanding, and not at all surprised.

With a slight shake, Hermione brought herself back to the present. "Well, death may have made Swivingham truthful, but he was hardly cooperative. I'm afraid we're back to where we started. Unless…?" She cocked a hopeful eye at Harry. "You know something. I can tell."

"Well, yes, we did get one bit of information from him," Harry said with his tight smile. "The Imperius curse didn't work on him."

Hermione blinked. "Did you expect it to? He's dead."

"But he was physically here - for all intents and purposes, anyway - and he had a mind and will. Yeah, it should've worked. But it didn't. And I really doubt he was strong-willed enough to throw off Imperius so easily." His smile broadened. "So under what circumstances would the Imperius Curse not work?"

Her brow furrowed in thought; she chewed her lower lip, and for an instant Harry flashed back to the Gryffindor common room, where the brightest witch of her generation revised her class notes. "Stipulate he has a will to be affected, and isn't strong enough to throw it off… then the Curse must be blocked somehow… no shield was cast in this case, though, but if…" She smiled in triumph. "If he were already under the Imperius Curse…!"

He nodded and tried to speak, but her words continued to rush forth. "Of course, it's so obvious now! Once a subject is under Imperius, any attempt by another wizard to use the Curse would be expelled. The Curse must have been a carry-over from his death, just as ghosts still wear the clothes in which they died. And that means - that means Swivingham was murdered, by someone using the Imperius Curse and ordering him to kill himself! Which eliminates any elves, because it takes a wand to cast Imperius, and only humans have wands! Oh, this is excellent!"

"Glad you approve," said Harry dryly.

"So then… if we accept that no one else could have entered the cell block without detection," Hermione stated, "that only leaves the two guards on duty that night, Nelson and Ferrers. And our Obliviators and Legilimens have cleared Ferrers, so as I said earlier, that leaves Nelson, who's looks like he's done a bunk. I have to admit that weighs against him…"

"Er, Hermione," he interjected quickly, "should you be telling me all this? Isn't this, well, sensitive information…?"

The look she gave him would have warmed a marble statue to its core. "If I can't trust you, Harry Potter, I am well and truly screwed."

"Hermione! Language!" he mock-scolded, trying to maintain an expression of shock. His laughter rather spoiled the effect. She laughed with him, and he thought for a moment that she was going to take his hands in hers, or give him one of her enthusiastic hugs. For that one moment, it almost felt as though he'd always been with her, as though he'd never left.

And then the golden moment was broken by a rush of green flame from the fireplace. Through the flames could be heard a voice: "Hermione? Hermione, are you there?" Hermione's heart fell as she recognized the voice: it was Ron.

With catlike grace, Harry was off the couch and through the door into the bedroom, where Floo callers couldn't see him. Hermione, with a helpless look after him, turned to the fireplace. "Yes, Ron, I'm here."

Ron's head appeared in the flames. "Hermione, what's going on? I tried to Apparate, I tried the Floo, but nothing seemed to get through…"

"I've had to augment the security on my home," she said shortly. Of all the possible interruptions, this was the least welcome.

"Oh, yeah, I suppose so." Ron cleared his throat nervously. "Listen, I was wondering if I could come over… I really think we need to talk…"

"If this is about your letter, Ron," she interrupted evenly, trying to keep the sharpness from her tone, "there's not a great deal for us to discuss. I've made my position plain, time and again…"

"No, not about that," he interrupted back. "I don't mean that. I, uh, need to talk about something else." He gave her a nonchalant nod that was a Floo call's equivalent of a shrug. "Nothing urgent, just wanted to know if you wanted a party for your birthday. You know, like our party after Bill's wedding…"

Hermione was about to retort that a birthday party was the last thing she needed that week, when she thought back to Bill's wedding - how the wedding party had been attacked, and how she, Ron, and Harry had been forced to fight, flee and fight again. No one besides the Trio would have known any of the specifics of that episode… and Ron had been far too casual when he'd mentioned it.

There's a serious problem, life or death - and he daren't talk about it over the Floo Network.

"I… see," she replied slowly. "Give me a minute, then, Ron." She made a hasty exit to the bedroom.

There, as she expected, she found Harry unwrapping his Stealth Cloak from inside his tunic. "I'm sorry, Hermione," he said hastily as she entered. "I should have realized, I've outstayed my welcome. If Ron's coming to see you, I'll go…"

"Whatever it is, I'm afraid it sounds important," she told him. "I'll get rid of Ron as quickly as I can. But I need you to stay here, Harry. If nothing else, there's the possibility that the Lords will try to get me again tonight - and not stop at Obliviation this time." Privately, Hermione thought there was small chance of that. Her reputation as The Witch Who Won was, in her opinion, overstated and burdensome, but at least it meant she wasn't likely to be openly assaulted.

But as she hoped, it made Harry think twice about leaving. They were, slowly and painfully, working through the problems of his abandoning her fifteen years ago - he was not about to do it again now. And she wasn't above taking advantage of that fact.

Still, he hesitated. "Okay, I'll hang around… for a bit… but I, I can't face anyone yet! Not even Ron. I'll be under the Cloak, but I'll stay in here." With the Cloak over one shoulder, he loosened the bandages on his left forearm and brought out the Elder Wand. "Hold out your hands."

Hermione did so. He traced a figure-eight around her hands with the Wand's tip. "All right - you're keyed to admit people through the wards. I may go outside and add an extra layer of protection…"

"Just stay here," she told him firmly, and went back into the living room. Ron's head waited for her in the fireplace. "Ron, walk into the fire as though you were going to Floo here - you're not going to move, though, but just wait there - and hold out your hand. I'll bring you through."

"Great. Careful, I have some, uh, baggage," Ron said. His head disappeared, but the fire stayed green. After a moment, his right hand appeared. Hermione reached into the fireplace, grasped his hand, and gave a firm tug forward as she took a step backward.

Ron came through the Floo fire into Enthalpy House, his hair disheveled and an overnight bag hanging by its strap from his left shoulder. "Thanks, Hermione," he said, no longer nonchalant but deadly serious. "I wouldn't have bothered you, but we really need your help - and you're about the only one who can help."

"We?" she asked.

He nodded and bent down to open the bag. "In here. I got the idea from one of those children's stories, you know the one? Thumbelina?"

The overnight bag opened wide, and a very worried Ginny Weasley stood up from its interior. The bag obviously had an Undetectable Extension Charm on it, like Hermione's handbag once had. Useful, thought Hermione, if you want to avoid the appearance of being a long-term house guest.

Nervously, Ginny looked around the room, as though checking for traps. Her eye fell on the Prophet on the table, and she grimaced. "Yeah, Swivingham. I read about him. You know he didn't really commit suicide, right?" she said. At Hermione's astonished look, she nodded. "Yes. I know he was murdered. And I'm scared I may be next."