(A/N: My thanks to all who've reviewed! I appreciate each and every comment… they help temper my skills. And double thanks to my beta, MirielleGrey, who has to slog through this before it gets to you.
For those who are wondering, npower is not a typo. It's a British power utility.
Please be aware that the next chapter won't be posted quite as promptly as the first three have been. Once again, Real Life beckons. Demands, actually. I'll post as quickly as I may.)
(Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, nope. Don't make money from doing this, nope nope nope.)
*
"Coming Back Late"
by Paracelsus
*
III: The Witch Who Won
*
"Ma foi, I swear," murmured Fleur Weasley, surveying Platform Nine and Three-Quarters critically, "it seems as if we have more first-years this year than last - again."
"Well, maybe everyone waited until You-Know-Who was killed," suggested Victoire helpfully. "To, you know, have kids."
"And your point would be what, My Prime Example?" her mother responded dryly. Victoire knew quite well that she'd been born on the first anniversary of Voldemort's defeat - her name was a dead giveaway, after all - and she was perfectly capable of subtracting nine months from that date.
"Um, well… that you and Dad were first out of the block?" Victoire hurriedly scanned the platform, seeking - and finding - a change of subject. "Teddy! Over here!"
Ted Lupin came trotting over to them, his wheeled trunk following a couple of paces behind. He had a respectful greeting for Fleur and a broad smile for her daughter. "Morning, Madame Weasley. Salut, Tori! Where's your dad?" Hand over his heart, he gave them a slight, whimsical bow. He'd kept the regular features and light brown hair that he'd worn to the Idée Fixe the previous night, but his eyes were glinting with red and gold as befit a true Gryffindor.
"He had to stay home for Dobbywatch," replied Tori, who couldn't help grinning. "My, my, aren't we in the mood for a Sorting. Subliminal suggestion, much?"
He grinned back. "Well, the more ickle firsties that aren't scared of Gryffindor before they even arrive at the school, the more new Gryffindors we end up with. And anyway, I promised Professor Longbottom."
"Speaking of first-years," put in Fleur, "have you seen your cousin Rose yet, fille?" Victoire shook her head.
"I thought I saw red hair," Ted looked over his shoulder, "back there. Shall we reconnoiter?" With his head turned, he missed the significant looks that Fleur and Victoire traded one another.
*
They'd chosen one of the more private corners of the platform, and Hermione Granger-Weasley had cast unobtrusive Notice-Me-Not charms around them as well. There were still the occasional passersby who eyed her curiously, but at least they wouldn't interrupt.
"No, don't be ridiculous," she was now telling her daughter Rose, "of course you won't be Sorted by wrestling a troll. I'm surprised you ever listened to your Uncle George - that joke must have whiskers, he's been telling it so long now."
Rose grimaced and pushed a lock of hair away from her face. She greatly disliked her hair, which combined the fiery red of the Weasley clan with her mother's unmanageable locks. One or the other, she felt would have been fair; getting both, decidedly not. "How then…?" she began.
Hermione shook her head. "I won't say… but rest assured, you'll be Sorted correctly. Just be yourself, and it will all work out well."
Ron nodded agreement. "Of course, if you're sorted into Slytherin, we'll disinherit you," he added with a smirk, "but no pressure."
"Ronald!" she hissed as she glared icily at him. Rose's eyes had gone wide with anxiety, bordering on panic.
Hermione dropped to one knee so that she could look Rose in the eye. "There's nothing wrong with Slytherin - despite what some people still think," she added with an acid glance at Ron. "All four Houses have their good points, and their bad points, and all have produced outstanding wizards and witches."
"But if I am Sorted into Slytherin…"
"Then you'll still be our daughter, and we'll love you very much," Hermione finished, giving Rose a hug. "We're proud of you, Rose, and no amount of Sorting will ever change that." She maintained the hug but said no more, pointedly waiting for Ron to back her up.
"Erm, yeah," coughed Ron, "Ravenclaw, well, you'd do fine there, of course, smart as you are… and, erm, it's almost impossible to go wrong with Hufflepuff…" He sighed. "Just don't worry about it, Rosie," he summed up. "Whichever House gets you, they're getting a damn fine student, right?"
"Not quite how I'd have phrased it," Hermione said, straightening, "but essentially yes."
Rose nodded. "It would be nice to be in Gryffindor, though," she said, somewhat wistfully. Ron was about to say something about all the Weasleys always landing in Gryffindor when she added, "Then I'd be in the same House as Teddy."
"Why, I do believe I heard my name," drawled a new voice. Ted stood at the edge of the Notice-Me-Not field: the charms kept him from looking directly at them, but he'd morphed the corners of his eyes to expand his peripheral vision. One side of his mouth crooked up. "Um, may I…?"
"Oh. Oh, yes, we're done here." Hermione canceled the charm field as Fleur and Victoire approached. "Hello, everyone," she added, the animation fading from her face.
"…h'lo Teddy…" Rose managed to choke out. If there'd been any doubt that she was a Weasley, her bright red face would have dispelled it.
He dealt with her crush as he always did, by ignoring it. "Is your trunk here? Tori and I are about to find a compartment, we can find one for you too… and maybe you'll see some of your dormmates-to-be."
Victoire smiled at Rose and extended her hand, as Ted took possession of Rose's trunk. "Come, cousine, this is where the adventure begins." They made their farewells to Fleur, Hermione and Ron and started for the Hogwarts Express. The adults watched them go… and both Fleur and Ron noticed the brightness of Hermione's eyes.
"Have to say, there goes our finest achievement," Ron said in a low voice. Hermione nodded, her eyes still on Rose.
"So how go things with you?" Fleur asked Hermione. "Any new word on the Minister?"
Hermione blinked, and switched from maternal mode to professional mode in a heartbeat. "Still failing. His mind is still clear, at least, but he spends four days a week at home in bed. I don't dare ask the Healers, of course… but I doubt he'll survive past Christmas, poor man…"
Standing to one side, forgotten, Ron cleared his throat. "Well, uh, if you two don't need me, I'll be heading back to the shop. George is waiting for me."
"Oh, of course," Hermione responded, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. "Thank you for coming today, Ron. It meant so much to Rose for us both to see her off."
"Wouldn't have missed it," he responded in all sincerity. "Um, I'll be in touch." With a wave to his sister-in-law, Ron headed for the Platform's Apparation Point. Hermione turned back to Fleur. "And, as I was saying, Kingsley's illness puts all our plans in turmoil…"
Fleur flicked her gaze for an instant to Ron's retreating figure, and she suppressed a sigh. She couldn't help but worry about Hermione's increasing bouts of melancholia. Rose was the only thing that could brink a sparkle to her eyes anymore… Rose, and on occasion, her work for the Wizengamot.
Certainly not the man whom wizarding law insisted was her husband.
Well, perhaps Victoire's little adventure last night will pique her interest, thought Fleur. "I'd like your opinion on something," she said, reaching into her purse. She brought out a sealed tumbler and offered it to Hermione. At Hermione's questioning look, she continued, "Victoire brought it back from her date with Teddy. He took her to dinner in Muggle London."
A flick of Fleur's wand opened the seal on the tumbler. "Victoire managed to Transfigure a bit of crockery into this, and apply a Warming Charm. Quite clever of her, really, considering the circumstances. Taste and tell me what you think."
Puzzled but willing, Hermione sipped from the tumbler. "Bouillabaisse," she said immediately. "I remember it from holidays in France; my parents used to take me there as a girl. Hm… not bad. Not too much saffron here, which is good, and they must have used a white wine stock…" She paused, her tongue between her lips, then took another quick sip. Her eyebrows went up. "You said this is from Muggle London?"
"Ah, good, you can taste it, then?"
"Taste it? Isn't it obvious? This… this was made with elf wine!" Hermione looked aghast. "How in heaven's name did elf-made wine end up in a Muggle restaurant's kitchen?"
"Oh, it gets better," said Fleur. "Perhaps I'm more accustomed to the taste of French dishes, but I can detect at least two magical herbs they used as flavorings, in addition to the saffron and garlic. Subtle, but unmistakable. Victoire let me taste it last night, and we reached the same conclusion: her dinner was cooked by a wizard."
Hermione handed the soup back to Fleur. "Interesting. I suppose it could be a Squib, someone who chose to make their living amongst Muggles rather than wizards…" She regarded Fleur thoughtfully. "Except you'd hardly be bringing something so minor to a Senior Counsel for the Wizengamot, would you?"
Fleur gave a Gallic shrug. "Victoire says Teddy promised to bring it to the Ministry's attention… but she feels he's dismissing it too lightly. She is feeling very clever, rather the detective, and wants to see the matter through. She's trying to live up to her role model, after all."
As Hermione hesitated, Fleur pressed onward. "At the very least, this is a potential violation of the Secrecy Statutes. And surely there are some in Magical Law Enforcement who wouldn't mind doing a favor for The Witch Who…"
"Please don't," interrupted Hermione with a pained expression. "Fine, Fleur, I'll start some inquiries. Do we have an address?"
*
The same morning sun that shone on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters shone most irritatingly in Harry's eyes. He snorted, tried to roll over in his bed, and finally gave up sleep as a lost cause for the moment. With a grunt, he swung his feet to the floor and sat up in bed. No one who might have been in the inn room would have seen or heard anything at all - Harry slept, as he always did, with the Stealth Cloak wrapped around him.
Harry would have liked to use a Fidelius Charm on himself, as the best way to hide the fact of his existence. Initially, he hadn't the skill for such a complex charm, though he certainly had the power. Eventually, he came face-to-face with a hard truth: the Deathly Hallows defied all attempts at concealment. They might obscure themselves, but no outside force might do so. (It made sense: even Dumbledore, who easily used the Fidelius to hide Phoenix HQ, and who had much more incentive to hide the Elder Wand, couldn't do it. Come to that, it explained why Harry's father had left the Cloak in Dumbledore's care: if James and Lily Potter were to be hidden under the Fidelius, the Cloak couldn't go with them.)
So Harry had to resort to subterfuges such as he had last night. Oh, he could probably have found an empty house and settled in, a squatter, as Horace Slughorn had been the first time they'd met - but on the other hand, that was one of the many things he loathed about Slughorn.
After vacating his flat, he'd Apparated to Manchester. At a modest inn on the edge of town, he slipped behind the front desk and watched the night clerk as she worked… learning the system. Just before the night shift ended, Harry had waited for the clerk to be distracted, then entered a two-week reservation for an empty room into the inn's computer, programmed a room key, and slipped a stack of pound notes into the tiller. The day clerk would assume the night clerk had done it.
Thus Harry had his room at the inn, honestly paid for. He hadn't even needed to Confund anyone this time, for which he was grateful - he hated Confunding. The "Do Not Disturb" sign was now on the door, and he would remain undisturbed while he planned his activities.
Now let's see, where was that newspaper…?
Absently, he brought the Reducio'd box of food out of his pocket and levitated it over to the room's tiny kitchenette, while he pored over the local newspaper. The box enlarged itself, opened, and spewed food items into the air, which automatically sorted themselves onto shelves or into the icebox, as appropriate. Except for diverting a bit of pastry to his open hand, Harry gave the process no thought.
Orphanage, he thought to himself, finding the news article. Yes, an old building, needing a lot of repairs. A public appeal for donations. Well, I'm afraid I can't give money: Jacob Clayman's savings may have to last for a long while. But I can pay them a visit this afternoon, and make sure they need fewer repairs than they think. Their hot water boiler will never break down again, and it'll consume a lot less gas. Wish I could make it use no gas at all, but that would look suspicious - still, I can forge a letter from npower saying they've fixed their leaky gas lines, reducing their bill.
Their electric bulbs won't need replacing any more, either. And maybe there'll be other "fixes" I can do, as well… inconspicuous, little, but they add up. Harry had to smile. It's one more way the Hallows contribute back to the community, and about time, too.
He finished his pastry, dutifully applied a Tergeo charm to his teeth, and Disapparated from the inn.
*
It was a few days later that Hermione arrived in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic. She nodded to the guard on duty, and today succeeded in reaching the lift without once looking at the Harry Potter Memorial. She could never bear to look at the larger-than-life statue of Harry, or the glass case filled with memorabilia - she'd convinced herself it was because the Memorial was too gaudy.
Still, it could have been worse: it could have been in honor of Neville Longbottom - or her.
The lift opened and she entered, to find Blaise Zabini and two of his satellites already inside. "Morning, Zabini," she greeted him.
"Morning, Granger," he replied cordially, using her "professional" name (most of her Ministry co-workers felt "Granger-Weasley" too unwieldy for regular use, and she refused to answer to simply "Weasley"). "Busy day today for you… doesn't the Swivingham trial begin today?"
She shook her head. "Defense got an extra week for depositions," she said emotionlessly.
"Ah," he said as the lift stopped and he stepped off. "Well, not to worry - I'm sure you'll dispense the justice they so richly deserve." As always, it was hard to tell whether Zabini was being supportive or sarcastic. In that regard, he hadn't changed much since his Hogwarts days: never openly opposing Draco Malfoy's faction within Slytherin, but never openly supporting it, either; neither a bearer of the Dark Mark nor a defender of Hogwarts from Death Eaters.
He'd cheerfully slit my throat, reflected Hermione, but only if he could make it look accidental.
She arrived at her offices, greeted her clerk in passing, and entered her chamber. On her desk, a number of memos already vied for her attention. (Literally: they bobbed up and down on her desk like hungry chicks in a nest. Someday, Hermione would do the research and discover who'd invented that spell, so that his body could be disinterred and thrown to the dogs.) She'd read them in a minute… she was still thinking about her encounter in the lift.
Blaise Zabini. He'd been an attractive boy at school, and he'd grown into a very handsome wizard. He was doing good work in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, from all she'd heard. And, in any discussion of who might succeed Kingsley Shacklebolt - discussions that were growing more frequent as Kingsley's illness grew worse - Zabini's name kept coming up.
Hermione couldn't really say she disliked the man. She could say, unequivocally, that she didn't trust him, but she would be hard pressed to explain why. The fact that Harry -
(She paused to steady herself, and take a deep breath.)
The fact that Harry had witnessed Zabini getting cozy with Malfoy, their sixth year, and agreeing completely with Malfoy's agenda - even though he wouldn't ally himself with Malfoy - wasn't something she could share with others. But it told her that Zabini certainly didn't embrace all the reforms that Kingsley had been instituting, these last fifteen years. Instituting with her active help, she was proud to say.
But his personal charm, his work record, and - she hated to admit it - his Pure-blood status, made him a likely candidate to be Kingsley's successor. If Kingsley had a nominee of his own, he hadn't yet said anything. At the rate his health was failing, if he didn't say something soon…
With a shake of her head, Hermione settled into her chair behind her desk and began to open her waiting memos. Two memos on upcoming cases to be tried (she set those in a tray for more detailed reading later); a letter from Rose, delivered by owl that morning (gushing with details of her Sorting into Gryffindor - of course - and thanking Hermione for her present); a warning from the Department of Mysteries to ignore any sudden loud noises between 11 and 3 tomorrow (she had to wonder what they were testing down there)…
Ah, and a letter from the Improper Use of Magic Office, responding to her query. She nodded and raised her voice so the clerk in the outer office could hear. "Sheryl, could you send a note to Dennis and ask him to talk to me today?"
Two volumes on legal precedent regarding prostitution in Britain had been opened and perused before Dennis Creevey stuck his head into her office. "Hi, Hermione. You wanted to talk to me?"
"Yes, Dennis, come in." Hermione stretched an arm behind her and took a manila folder from the shelf. "Thank you for looking into that report of rogue magic for me."
"The fancy restaurant? No problem, it was fun. I let them think I was writing a food column for the local paper." Dennis took the chair next to Hermione's desk and carelessly swung one leg over the other. "Open-and-shut case, really. No magic done in the presence of Muggles, no Muggle artifacts cursed… it really looks like some wizarding foodstuffs accidentally ended up in their kitchen. Misdelivery, I'm guessing."
"Did you interview the chef, this…" Hermione opened the folder and read from the sheet inside. "This Clayman? Is he a Muggle, wizard, Squib, or what?"
"He wasn't there. Seems his sister had a medical emergency… he had to take an unpaid leave." Dennis shrugged. "I'll talk to him when he comes back."
"And the timing didn't seem suspicious to you? This person who might have violated our laws up and disappears, on the very night the violation may have occurred?" Hermione's eyes were beginning to flash dangerously. "Did you, perchance, make the effort to visit him at his home?"
"Well, uh, yeah, I tried." Dennis uncrossed his legs and sat straighter in his chair. He tugged nervously at his collar. "I got his address from the restaurant's employee records. But it's as I said in my report, the address must've been mistyped or something. The flat at that address was empty. No sign that anyone lived there."
"It was dusty, then? Unfurnished? Electricity turned off?" Hermione paused to let Dennis to realize where her thoughts were headed. "No? Creevey, it takes years for a cook to advance to sous-chef status. I sincerely doubt the restaurant owners had a wrong address for all those years. I think you had the right address, and I think our man did a bunk that night and cleaned up after himself very thoroughly." She lifted the memo she'd received from the Improper Use of Magic Office so he could see it. "But strangely, there was no record of magic use at that address on the night in question."
"Oh. Well, then, Clayman couldn't be a wizard, could he…" Dennis's relief died away under Hermione's steady gaze. "Except… if he moved all his stuff out of the flat that same night…"
"Exactly. If he did it the Muggle way, he must've had a lot of help, and surely one of his neighbors would have noticed. Perhaps you might ask them if they heard anything." Hermione tapped an imperious fingertip on the papers in front of her. "But if he used magic, he had to know how to keep his magical signature from being detected by the Ministry. Which makes him, not just a wizard, but a powerful wizard. Not the sort who'd be playing chef at a Muggle restaurant, don't you agree?"
She stood, and Dennis hastened to do the same. "I want to know what he was really doing there. Why he left so precipitously. Who he is. So please go back and do some serious checking, this time." Throughout the discussion, she hadn't once raised her voice; she had no need. Scalpels didn't have to be loud.
Nonetheless, he had to point out the difficulty. "There's still the part about no obvious crime having been committed. No Muggle saw magic, no one was cursed…" He cleared his throat before continuing. "I can't ask for one of the Ministry's Legilimenses without more evidence of wrongdoing than we have."
Hermione gave him a half-smile. "Dennis, I'm sure an investigator who wants promotion as much as you do will find a way to demonstrate his talents without needing a Legilimens." She handed him the folder and added, "Start with Clayman's neighbors, then his co-workers. See if they've noticed anything… unusual." She nodded in dismissal and sat down again, her attention already returning to the open reference books on her desk.
Dennis took the opportunity to leave quickly, counting himself lucky to have escaped with his skin (mostly) unflayed. He would go back to the Idée Fixe at once, and do a thorough check… both magical (spell residues) and Muggle (phone records). The latter would set him apart from his co-workers, give him visibility.
Yeah, this time he'd do the thing right, as he ought to have done the first time… do it, in other words, the way she would do it. The woman who had killed the Dark Lord Voldemort: Hermione Granger, The Witch Who Won.