(A/N: Before anyone asks, I sincerely doubt the goblins would adhere to British "banking hours".
I've begun reposting this story over on fanfiction.net, under my other pen name of alchymie. In the process, I'm slightly amending and tightening the story - thanks to the suggestions and concrit of you, my Portkey readers! If that proves to be an incentive for readers to review here, I won't complain.)
(Disclaimer: Somewhere, there's a Platonically ideal Harry and Hermione, of which Rowling's "creations" are pale imitations. Mind you, their love isn't Platonic.)
*
"Coming Back Late"
by Paracelsus
*
XXXVIII: Threats Foreign and Domestic
*
Judging by her expression, Harry mused, Hermione feels ridiculous. She hates that.
He'd just finished "conferring" with the manager of the theatric troupe. Harry had been worried that he'd have to Confund the manager - which he would have hated to do, but this was an emergency - but it turned out that cash had a powerful magic of its own. It had taken every euro Harry had on him, but the manager had agreed.
Now Harry stood back, out of the way, as the troupe lined up for their next bit on the stage. Hermione stood among them, her eyes glued to Harry, and her expression all but shouting, This had better be worth it, Potter. Harry smiled blandly, and waited until an announcement in Greek was made on the stage, distracting the performers. Then he pointed his ironwood wand at himself, and concentrated.
I did it just a few minutes ago, he reminded himself, when I didn't mean to. I should be able to do it now, on command. C'mon, let's go! Lateo! Oculus fallo! Noli me animadvertere, dammit!
He knew he'd succeeded when Hermione's gaze turned momentarily vacant, and her eyes began to wander. She was looking at the backdrop of the stage, at the dancers, at her feet… at anything but Harry. He'd done it: he'd recreated the potent Notice-Me-Not charm that had allowed him to run through the crowds unnoticed. It was better than Disillusionment, better even than invisibility: those could be beaten by someone who was actively looking for him. This way, that same someone would forget to even try to look.
With a smile for Hermione that he knew she'd never see, Harry slipped around to the side of the stage and scanned the crowd. He spotted one of Hermione's assailants, the bulky man, at once: not only from Hermione's description, but by the way he too was scanning the crowed, more surreptitiously… looking for Hermione.
Quickly, Harry made his way across the square, tracking as he did so the bulky man's position and movements: the man was moving slowly, trying to stay near Hermione's last reported location while looking as though he were simply meandering along with the crowd. The other two assailants weren't immediately visible… and of course, there was at least one more Cartel thug in the crowd somewhere, as yet unidentified. Well, that would be Harry's job.
He reached the shops on the side of the street opposite the stage. One of the merchants had left a ladder propped against the building; Harry decided it would serve his purposes nicely. Confident now that no one would notice him, he moved the ladder so that it was under an upper-story window, and climbed the ladder to the top. He stretched up his arms, gripped the open window sill, and jumped up. He scrambled his feet against the wall to gain extra purchase as he pulled himself up. With a final heave and a mid-air twist, he ended up perched on the sill, facing the street.
After a moment, he spotted the unshaven bloke with the nose jewel, some meters from the bulky man. They were evidently running a search pattern, spreading out so as to cast as wide a net as possible. It gave Harry an idea where the other pursuers might have placed themselves.
At this point, he half-closed his eyes and let his vision blur… while he brought another, entirely different sense in focus.
*
Hermione waited behind the stage, wondering again why she'd allowed Harry to talk her into this. Granted, it seemed a good plan, both in terms of attracting the attention of her attackers and keeping the Muggles unaware of magic. But it left her feeling very exposed, indeed.
Because the plan's greatest risk - and it was considerable - was that the agents of the Cartel might no longer hesitate to use magic. They'd foregone magic earlier, to avoid detection, and to make the attack on her to look like a Muggle robbery. But by now, they'd thrown a curse; they'd cast an Anti-Apparation field; it wouldn't be long before Enforcers or Aurors came to investigate. The Cartel might simply hex her, the moment she showed herself, and leave immediately.
But if they were caught by surprise, they might hesitate… just long enough…
On-stage, the announcer was praising the dancers, to scattered applause. Hermione listened carefully: her Greek was not fluent, but she knew a few phrases, and one in particular that she'd told Harry to pay the announcer to use…
The announcer's voice took on the cadence of someone deviating from the usual script. Hermione paid closer attention, and caught the words thumos Athenaios - "spirit of Athens". Her cue was coming up…
"Show time," she muttered. The wound on her hip continued to pain her; firmly, she told it she couldn't deal with it at the moment, so stop hurting. Squaring her shoulders resolutely, she marched onto the stage just as the announcer finished with the words: "Pallas Athene!"
Hermione strode forward on the stage with all the confidence she could muster, head high and chest out, holding herself as a goddess (or an actress playing a goddess) ought. Her costume was borrowed from the troupe's wardrobe, Transfigured as needed: a helmet with a horsehair crest, and a bronze-colored plastic chestplate (which Harry had magically molded, somewhat generously, to her figure). Below the waist she wore a long, flowing white skirt. In her left hand was a round shield, in her right hand a spear. Her appearance might have been an anachronism in ancient Greece, but here in modern Athens, it was a decent romanticized vision of the goddess Athena.
The dancers and the announcer, who shared the stage with her, led the audience in a round of polite applause. Hermione kept her eyes on the crowd; the moment she spotted the handsome young man who'd tried to knife her in the bookshop, she smiled broadly. She waited for the moment of recognition.
Recognition came swiftly. His dark eyes locked on hers - and widened slightly. At once she brandished the spear overhead as though in victory - and thereby allowed the knifeman to see her wand, gripped in the same hand as the spear, flat against its haft.
She gave the Cartel assassin just enough time to register her wand's presence - to draw his own wand halfway out of its sheath - then she dramatically swung the spear, and the wand, as she cast a nonvocal spell with all the power she could give it. It was nothing more than a simple Cheering Charm, though she'd modified it to be cast over the entire crowd. But her hunters didn't know that.
*
There. Harry could sense a subtle change in the raw magic around him… if one pretended ambient magic was a pool of water, there was definitely a current forming. Indeed, if he kept his eyes half-closed and unfocused, he fancied he could see it gather towards the stage, where Hermione was lifting her wand. Quick, now, look everywhere… track the flow, spot the eddies…
On the far side of the square, a bright spark: a hard-faced woman, lean and strong, and Harry could see the tip of a concealed wand in her hand. She'd raised her arm to use the wand, but now she was slowly lowering it… she hesitated, unsure, her expression watchful, wary…
A wave of pastel blue washing over the crowd: Hermione's Cheering Charm. It was funny, really, watching how people's faces lit up as the Charm spread…
Five silver flares, scattered: Shield Charms. In the audience full of Muggles, five witches and wizards had protected themselves from whatever spell their quarry was casting - and in doing so, betrayed their identities and locations to Harry as though they'd shouted aloud.
Immediately, Harry brought his eyes back into focus and shot off five Stunners, pushing himself to cast as rapidly as possible. The Cartel roughs were all facing the stage - as were their Shield Charms, to deflect Hermione's magic. Their unprotected backs were to Harry, and he intended to give them no chance to realize their error.
He was trying for speed, not power: he dared not allow them to attack Hermione while she was exposed and vulnerable. At best, he expected his volley to weaken them, not disable them totally. So he was mildly (and pleasantly) surprised when all five of the roughs were Stupefied into unconsciousness. As the nearest thug began to buckle at the knees, he hastily cast his follow-up set of charms: "Mobilicorpus!"
The five figures jerked upright, looking rather like marionettes. Under Harry's painstaking guidance, they began to walk to the side of the square, to an alley between two storefronts. Now that he'd isolated them, Harry could see that three of them fit Hermione's descriptions of her attackers. There was also the hard-faced woman, a bit older than the others; Harry tentatively pegged her as the leader of the group. And there was a fifth wizard whose face looked familiar, but for the moment it escaped Harry's memory.
Overhead, the sky seemed to flicker for a moment, as though a cloud had blocked the sun and moved away again. With his concentration on his Mobilicorpus spell, Harry didn't realize for a moment what had happened. When he did, he smiled grimly. Anti-Apparation spells gone? Good. So we should be seeing the local Aurors any minute now.
*
Hermione posed theatrically with her spear outstretched, and watched as her Cheering Charm spread through the crowd. If nothing else, it was causing the audience to applaud this time with more than indifferent politeness. She waited, smiling confidently, while her knotted stomach reminded her that she wasn't really all that confident.
It wasn't until she saw the knifeman begin to crumple, then be pulled erect, that she felt those knots loosen a bit. A tiny bit.
She could now see her pursuers being herded to a quiet spot - five in total? Yes, the three she'd seen earlier, plus an unknown woman, and - she gasped as she saw the fifth, recognizing him from the hostel on Aeaea! So that's how the Cartel knew where to find us! Quickly, before the man turned away, she memorized his face; with any luck, it would provide the ICW with more leads to other Cartel members.
Her relaxation must have been apparent, for the audience applauded again with yet more enthusiasm. Hermione played to the crowd for a moment, stepping to the very edge of the stage and thrusting the spear outward.
And no one in the crowd was more surprised than she, when a large tawny owl chose that moment to descend from the sky and perch on her spear.
The applause this time was fervid and wild, from the dancing troupe as well as the audience, as Hermione and the owl stared at one another. The owl ruffled its wings in a thoroughly disgruntled way, sidled down the spear's haft towards her, and stiffly extended one foot. There was a scroll of parchment tied to it, and even from a distance Hermione could make out the official seal of the Wizengamot.
It had taken a day longer, and the message had traveled hundreds of miles farther, than originally expected. No wonder the owl looked so put out.
*
Amongst Muggles, the hamlet of Berwick-upon-Tweed is mostly notable for being about as far north as one could go in England without crossing into Scotland. Amongst wizards, Berwick-upon-Tweed had a more sinister significance: it was the sole point of contact between the Unplottable isle of Azkaban, in the North Sea, and the rest of Britain. With the security measures instituted since Voldemort's defeat, the only transport from Azkaban was a small ferryboat, run by the Ministry of Magic, shuttling between Azkaban and Berwick twice daily.
In the ferry terminal at Berwick, Andromeda Tonks sat patiently, ignoring with disdain a half-dozen prisoners and their MLE guards. Those unfortunates were waiting to be taken to Azkaban, to serve their prison terms; patently, they were dreading the trip. Andromeda, by contrast, was waiting to receive two parolees from Azkaban.
A bell announced the afternoon ferry's arrival. Andromeda stood and watched the door that led to the boarding ramp. Minutes later, a lone human guard was escorting Narcissa and Draco Malfoy into the terminal room. The years in Azkaban had left their marks on them: their blond hair was prematurely grey, and Narcissa's was cropped short. Their faces were pale from lack of sunlight; they were dressed in non-descript Ministry-issue robes.
The guard stopped at the doorway, ready to assist in loading the waiting prisoners, while Narcissa and Draco continued inside. Narcissa at least had a smiling face for her sister as she approached. "Dromeda, it is so good to see you," she said. "Thank you for coming to greet us."
"How could I not?" Andromeda replied, taking Narcissa's outstretched hands and kissing her on the cheek. "Welcome home, Cissy… and nephew," she added to Draco. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you." Said with utter graciousness, it was a veiled reminder of how the Blacks, including Narcissa, had disowned Andromeda after her marriage to Ted Tonks.
"So come," Andromeda continued, "let's get you settled into your rooms at Grimmauld Place…"
"If you don't mind, aunt," Draco cut in, "I think a visit to Diagon Alley should be our first order of business." Azkaban had seemingly left more than a physical mark on him: he wasn't as loud or arrogant as Andromeda had been led to expect. Still, he wasn't ready to defer to others, either… even to a relative to whom he was indebted for shelter.
"Gringotts," he amplified when Andromeda didn't immediately reply. "And Ollivander's."
"We've some savings in Gringotts," Narcissa explained, "which the Ministry has promised to restore to us. And of course, we need new wands." Having been convicted and sent to Azkaban, their old wands would have been broken - a detail now left discreetly unmentioned.
"And new clothes as well," conceded Andromeda. "Very well, we can go there first. Sunday afternoons aren't that bad, once term's begun at Hogwarts." She paused, then added casually, "Be sure to Apparate just inside the wall from the Leaky Cauldron. That's the designated Safe Apparation Point for Diagon Alley." The suggestion that much had changed since the Malfoys were sent to prison, and that they should tread warily now that they were out, was not lost.
*
After examining the meager funds in her Gringotts vault, Narcissa looked positively grim… but yielding to necessity, she withdrew a sizable fraction of them. Andromeda had thought she'd take more, but apparently her sister was showing uncharacteristic economy. (It also suggested that Narcissa would have to be in much direr straits before she requested a loan from Andromeda. Almost a pity, that: it gave Andromeda one less lever on her sister.)
Their next stop was Ollivander's. With the needs of Hogwarts students taken care of during the summer, the Malfoys expected to find the shop empty, and themselves served immediately. They weren't prepared to find another customer in the shop - and quite surprised to discover who it was.
"No," Blaise Zabini said meditatively, balancing a wand between thumb and two fingers, "no, it's still not quite right. There's no, mmm, no warmth, if you know what I mean."
"I do," said the short, stout shopkeeper, taking the wand from Zabini and setting it aside in a pile with several others. "Not to worry, sir, we'll find the proper match for you. Good afternoon, ladies, sir," he added, turning to the new arrivals. "If you will give me just a few minutes, I'll be available to serve you."
Narcissa gave her sister a puzzled look, which she correctly interpreted as This isn't Ollivander. "Caleb Ollivander," Andromeda explained quietly, "his grandson." Raising her voice, she addressed the merchant. "If this will take long, we can return later. We have other shopping to do…"
The younger Ollivander gave Zabini an appraising look before replying, "Er, yes… I don't mean to inconvenience you, ladies, but that might be best. It would allow me to give you all my complete attention."
Andromeda and Narcissa nodded in unison, and prepared to leave the shop. However, Draco shook his head. "I'll catch up with you at Madam Malkin's," he told them. He tilted his head slightly towards Zabini.
"Indeed," smiled Zabini, eyeing Draco with tolerant amusement.
"Ah," said Narcissa. "Of course. We'll wait for you there, then, Draco." She handed Draco some Galleons to pay for his new wand. With smiles all around, the two sisters left the shop. As the door closed, they could see Zabini and Draco lowering their heads towards one another for a private conversation.
The two witches took their time strolling down Diagon Alley, stopping on occasion to peer into shop windows and make inconsequential remarks. It was Andromeda who broke through the small talk. "So, then, Cissy… have you thought any further about what I wrote to you?"
"I have," Narcissa admitted, "and I spoke to Draco about it this morning… though we hadn't much time on the ferry. But we're beholden to you now," a tacit admission that, for some time to come, their fates depended on Andromeda's good will, "so we agree, in principle, with what you propose."
Andromeda raised one elegant eyebrow. "'In principle'?"
Narcissa sighed. "Dromeda," she said quietly, "don't let's play games. We are of the House of Black. We both know what that means - the history, the traditions, the status. And now you demand that Draco and I acknowledge, as Head of our House, a half-grown youth who has but one-quarter Black ancestry, twice on the distaff side."
"And who is," Andromeda calmly noted, "the nearest male heir of Orion Black with no stigma attached to his name." Privately, she was surprised that Narcissa hadn't objected to Teddy's blood status, as most Blacks through history would have done. Acknowledging the son of two half-bloods as the Head of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black would make a mockery of Toujours pur… which Andromeda wouldn't mind in the least. She'd be glad to see an end to that racist credo.
Narcissa acquiesced to her sister's point with a resigned nod. "And as I said, we agree to this… in principle. But if we're to acknowledge him as Head of the Blacks, he must be a Black." She looked her sister in the eye. "It is not unreasonable to insist on this."
Andromeda stiffened. "My grandson is a Black," she said frostily.
"In all but name. So let him be a Black in name as well. If he will agree to that, Draco and I will acknowledge him as Head of our House - with everything that implies."
She hesitated. To have Narcissa and Draco acknowledge her grandson as Head of the Blacks would obligate them to support him publicly, regardless of his blood status or anything else. (Not that Andromeda expected her grandson to found a new line of Black patriarchs… but that concern would be for the next generation, not hers.) Moreover, being Head of the Blacks would immensely enhance Teddy's social standing in the wizarding world… no small thing, once he was of age.
And, rather to her surprise, she found that, given this last opportunity to keep the Black name from dying out, in her deepest heart she welcomed it.
But, by implication, Teddy would be repudiating his own heritage - the names of Lupin and Tonks. Andromeda had to admit, she had no idea how Teddy would react to the suggestion. She rather suspected he wouldn't take it well.
A compromise seemed in order.
"If Ted and I had cared about such things," she said slowly, "my daughter would have been Nymphadora Black-Tonks. Had she continued the tradition, her son would have been Teddy Black-Lupin. He would agree to that change, I imagine."
Narcissa pursed her lips. "Teddy Lupin-Black," she countered, giving the Black surname pride of place.
"Black-Lupin," Andromeda repeated firmly. She waited for her sister to concede.
After a moment, Narcissa gave her sister a wry smile. "The important thing is that he will be named Black."
"As you say." By now they'd reached Madam Malkin's shop. Within its confines, they might be more easily overheard… and this discussion was not for everyone's ears. "I'll put it to him when he comes home for Christmas break," Andromeda stated, tabling the topic for the moment. "He will make his decision… and then you and Draco can make yours."
*
Thankfully, when the Enforcers from the Greek Ministry of Magic arrived at Monastiraki, they brought a Healer with them. More importantly, they also brought full Aurors from the International Confederation of Wizards. The ICW was already in active pursuit of the Cartel - they had Castigni in custody, and probably more - and they took Hermione's warnings about memory sequestration very seriously, indeed.
"It was young Ioannou who tipped them off," the lead ICW Auror told her. His name was Prevoost, and though he was from Belgium, his English was excellent. "Works at the hostel on Aeaea where you're staying. He told his uncle, who told Varvara Stavros, who assembled the team that attacked you." He indicated the hard-faced woman, unconscious but levitated into a standing position. "She's just the Cartel's local factor, but she'll have passed reports up the command chain. We'll learn her contact, which will give us their contacts…"
Hermione nodded in approval. The Healer had gone straight to work on her hip wound, first conjuring a stool and forcing Hermione to sit, then slitting her skirt up the side all the way to the waist, finally applying some potion-infused salves. Hermione tried to ignore what the Healer was doing, to focus entirely on Prevoost's briefing. "And of course I don't have to tell you…"
"To take them swiftly and keep them isolated? The word from my superiors, dear lady, is that you already have." Prevoost grinned at her embarrassment.
The Healer stood up, gestured at Hermione, and spoke to Prevoost in Greek. Prevoost nodded and replied; the Healer gave Hermione a brief, professional smile before packing his back and departing.
Prevoost helped Hermione to her feet… then glanced over to the other detainees. Like Stavros, they were held in levitation, under the watchful eyes of a dozen Enforcers - and a black-haired youth who seemed jarringly out-of-place amongst the cadres of Magical Law Enforcement. Prevoost canted his head towards Hermione, speaking more confidentially. "Madam Granger, I hesitate to ask, but… one hears such wild news reports coming out of England these last few days…"
She had to laugh. "I can only imagine…" she began, but the laughter died in her throat as she saw what was obviously a reporter, cameraman in tow, making a beeline for them. "Speak of the devil?"
Prevoost followed her gaze. "Ah, yes. I would've wanted to have words with the press in any case… I need for them to sit on some aspects of this story for now. I fear that means I must allow other aspects to be more publicized."
"You'd better be talking about yourself," Hermione retorted, growing angry. She was excruciatingly aware that she was still dressed in her Pallas Athena costume - which, thanks to the Healer, was now showing a good deal more leg than she liked. The last thing she needed was to be photographed wearing that! And her original outfit, the clothing she'd worn when they arrived in Athens, was presently Reduced in size and tucked into Harry's pocket…
And as if in response to her thought, she felt Harry's hand come to rest gently on her elbow. She wasn't even aware that he'd left the group of Enforcers. "If you've done all you can do here, maybe it's time we left…" he murmured.
"I do believe you're right," she replied, just as softly. Raising her voice, she addressed the lead Auror. "Mynheer Prevoost, since you feel you need to publicize aspects of this case, perhaps you should go do so now. I'd be grateful, though, if my role's not one of those aspects mentioned." Gesturing at her outfit, she added dryly, "For obvious reasons."
As she'd hoped, her appeal to his sympathy was the right approach to the kindly Belgian. "Of course. I'll go brave the ravening hordes solo, then… you two should hop back to your hostel, and then," with a significant look at Hermione, "return to England in advance of your new duties." Prevoost lowered his voice and added, "I trust I am not premature in offering my felicitations."
With a smile, he strode forward towards the waiting journalists, as Hermione and Harry fell back a couple of paces. Hermione felt sure that, by keeping their distance, they would avoid the scrutiny of the press. "Aeaea?" asked Harry, his hand still on her arm.
"Aeaea," Hermione agreed, "and home." With a nod to synchronize their magic, they Disapparated away.
In their haste to depart, neither Harry nor Hermione paid much attention to the camera equipment used by the European journalists. If they had, they'd have noticed it was far more up-to-date than that used by their British counterparts. After all, paparazzi is the same word in Greek as it is in Italian.
*
The Portkey Patch brought them from Aeaea back to the exact spot they'd started, the living room of her cozy cottage, Enthalpy House. Hermione sighed as she stripped the Patch from their joined hands. "I suppose the first thing I need to do is inform the Wizengamot that I'm back." As Harry started to protest, she shook her head. "The owl that found me in Athens? It brought my official notification that I am now the Minister of Magic. Oh, there'll probably be a formal investiture ceremony, Monday morning, but I'm Minister right now."
She saw Harry twist his mouth in thought - and in sudden dismay, she realized what he was trying to find the words to say: It's not official until the investiture, you don't have to start being Minister right this second, do you? It would have been a typical response from Ron - on a good day. Not explicitly unsupportive, but urging her to take it easy, not to be such a swot… She was unhappily sure Harry was about to take the same line with her, and was only hesitating to find the gentlest way to say it.
After a few moments, he cleared his throat. "Right then, you'll have to call up another owl - I can't, after all, sorry - and let everyone know you're home. If a crisis comes up, the Ministry needs to know where to find you." A brief hesitation, then, "Erm, Hermione, is there anything we should do before tomorrow? Anything you need me to do?"
And Harry found himself with a double-armful of extremely grateful and appreciative witch. He returned the hug, as he tried to figure out what he'd said to merit it. "Is this what you need me to do?" he joked. "Because, y'know, I'd be doing this no matter what."
"Oh, shut it, you," she mumbled into his neck. "Just… don't ever leave, Harry."
"I've already…" he began to say, but was interrupted by two loud cracks in rapid succession. Followed by two high-pitched voices speaking simultaneously:
"Miss Hermione is back! There is much to… OH!"
"Oh, Mister Harry! Brillig has found… OH!"
Startled, Harry and Hermione broke from their hug, although they kept their arms wrapped around one another. Standing on either side of them were Canby and Brillig, totally motionless except for their eyes, which flicked from each other to Harry and Hermione and back.
In that moment of stasis, Hermione noticed several things: both elves wore fashionable tabards, but where Canby's was the plum color of the Wizengamot, Brillig's was a suspiciously Gryffindorish crimson. Both elves held envelopes in their hand, which they seemed to regard as important. And both elves were regarding the other with a look that seemed… assessing?
"Canby had wondered where Brillig had gone," Canby said after a moment.
"Brillig is a free elf; Canby has said so, many times," she replied with a trace of acerbity. "Brillig is employed now, just like Canby."
"Erm…" began Harry, but the elves were too busy with each other to heed him.
"Canby is happy to see Brillig get a job, but hopes it is not with another household. Not when so many other opportunities were available…"
"Oh, like Canby's? Canby is always talking about how he is working for The Witch Who Won! Brillig is working for the Defender of House-Elves!"
"Harry!?" Hermione asked sharply.
"Erm," explained Harry.
"Right, then," Hermione declared, breaking free of Harry's arms and moving between the elves, silencing them. She paused, but only for a quick moment - then, making a snap decision, she stepped up to Brillig and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Harry," she said with elaborate courtesy, "would you be so good as to speak with Canby and deal with his business? I'll deal with Little Miss Brillig, here." She barely waited for a response before shepherding Brillig out of the living room and into the kitchen, where they'd have privacy.
By her face, Brillig looked torn, not wishing to abandon the Defender of House-Elves, but not willing to set herself against The Witch Who Won, either. "Brillig is having news for Mast… Mister Harry," she protested.
And we'll discuss that slip of the tongue presently, Hermione promised silently. "Harry's busy with Canby at the moment," she replied. "But we're a team, he and I. We work together. So you can tell me the news." As Brillig hesitated, she added, "Unless it's a secret?"
"N-no, miss, not a secret, exactly, but… it is being Mister Harry's business…" The elf peeked up at Hermione's expression, which was carefully neutral, and was encouraged to continue. "But Mister Harry was looking for a home amongst wizards, so he would not to live with Muggles any more, and Brillig has come to say she has found him a home! It is large, and very nice, and is good enough for Mister Harry - but, but the owner insists to meet Mister Harry before she agrees to lease!" She opened the large envelope in her hands, and pulled out a legal-looking document.
Hermione calmly held out her hand, and after a moment of internal struggle, Brillig placed the document into it.
Quickly Hermione unfolded the document and scanned it. Wait, Susan Bones? The Ossuary? I don't understand: that mansion's been in her family for generations, why would she ever give it up? Even on a temporary basis? In any case, the Ossuary wouldn't suit Harry, it's far too roomy for a single occupant, and far too grand for someone of his tastes…
She raised an eyebrow at the amount of the rent. "This… is a very modest rent for such an impressive house, Brillig…"
"Thank you, miss," beamed the elf.
"But you do understand, don't you, that even this amount is beyond Harry's means at the moment? He has no job, no gold in Gringotts - how did you think he would pay for this?"
"Oh!" Brillig was crestfallen. "Had not thought… masters is always having money…" Her ears drooped as she considered the matter… then she braced herself. "Brillig is… is a good elf," she said resolutely. "If Brillig must find money for Mister Harry…"
"If Brillig is thinking to bring in money for Harry Potter the same way she did for Jack Swivingham," Hermione interrupted, gently but firmly, "Brillig had better think again."
Seeing the stricken look in the elf's face, Hermione knelt to look Brillig eye-to-eye. "Quite apart from the illegality of it, Brillig, it's morally and ethically wrong. It makes you into property, when you should be a free elf. And it would reflect very poorly on Harry, don't you think? He would be the first to forbid it."
The last point affected Brillig most strongly. "Yes, you are right, yes, Mister Harry would forbid it. He has said as you say, that Brillig is a free elf, and that Mister Harry is no one's master… he said it when he hired Brillig…"
Hermione deduced the talk must have taken place at Jacob Clayman's flat. Harry had mentioned the encounter, though in typically Harry fashion, he'd left out most of the details. She realized now, Harry simply hadn't had any opportunity, in the interim, to speak to Brillig again and correct her assumptions… this absurd situation wasn't really his fault.
The thought sparked a question, which she put to Brillig at once. "How did you find Harry there, at his Muggle flat? For that matter, how did you know he was here? I thought Harry was still undetectable by magic. Certainly the owls can't track him…"
"Oh, Brillig is always knowing where her Mast… Mister Harry is!" Brillig chirped happily, and Hermione's heart sank.
Slowly she stood, looking around the kitchen to avoid the elf's eyes, and thought hard. There's just no way to resolve this dilemma without breaking Brillig's spirit, just as Winky's was broken, she told herself sadly. She's bonded herself to Harry, even though she can't admit it - and Harry won't permit it - but it's happened nonetheless.
Given house-elf psychology, Harry might have to formally become her master, just so he's able to manumit her! If that would even work…
I wonder if Luna's still in town, I could use her advice. And wouldn't that make Harry laugh.
I hope he laughs when he hears he now has a house-elf servant again. And a big house he can't afford, and wouldn't like, and doesn't need, seeing as he prefers privacy and wouldn't entertain… no big formal parties for The Boy Who Still Lives…
Hm.
"Brillig," she said slowly, thinking it through, "I know you were looking forward to telling Harry your news… but would you let me tell him instead? I think he's more likely to consider the advantages and disadvantages, if he were talking with me." She gave a warm smile to the suddenly hopeful elf. "And who knows? Maybe we can find the rent money somewhere after all."