Unofficial Portkey Archive

(A/N: WWN, the Hogwarts train… let's face it, wizards got some really good ideas from Muggles. Not that they'd ever admit it.

For those tracking the story's chronology, this entire chapter takes place on the evening of Monday, 23 Sept 2013. Anent the discussion of magical races: it's established in canon that vampires are "non-wizard half-humans". The ratings of Beings and Beasts are taken mostly from Scamander's Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. No, seriously.)

(Disclaimer: It's a statistical certainty that, somewhere out there, there's a real-live married couple named Harry and Hermione who are getting really tired of all the crap they have to take.)

*

"Coming Back Late"

by Paracelsus

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XXXX: Two Worlds, One Evening

*

Harry had always known that Hermione's vocabulary was impressive, but he never realized she knew all those words, nor that she could string them together so impressively without pausing to draw breath. "Do you kiss your daughter with that mouth?"

"Shut it," she snapped, and returned her black glare to the newspaper Fleur had just handed her.

It was the Monday edition of le Moniteur Magique, the Parisian equivalent of the Daily Prophet, and its front page was devoted to the ICW raid in Athens on Sunday. A normal, straightforward, almost "dry" news spread - were it not for the two photos that accompanied it. The first showed Hermione portraying Pallas Athena, with an owl caught in the very act of alighting on her spear. The photo had been taken by one of the Muggle tourists, evidently - as seen in the fact that the images in the photo didn't move - and must have been shot when Hermione was on the dance troupe's stage, acting as bait and distraction for the Cartel's thugs.

But while that photo was embarrassing enough, it was almost harmless… in comparison with the second photo.

"How… how did they… how could…" Hermione spluttered.

"Paparazzi," Harry said, as though the word explained it all. When Fleur raised an eyebrow in inquiry, he continued, "You can always count on paparazzi to have the very best in photographic technology. They didn't get anywhere near us in Athens, but I'd bet there was at least one telephoto lens…"

"Not that!" interrupted Hermione angrily. "This!" And she jabbed her finger at the second photo.

Fleur looked surprised. "You mean you weren't…?" She raised her hands placatingly, as Hermione transferred her death glare from the newspaper to her. "Bien, bien, but then I too have to ask how…"

"Muggles have a little toy they call Photoshop," explained Harry. "Um, get Ted to explain it to you sometime. But I suppose it was inevitable that wizard photographers would come up with a magical equivalent, sooner or later."

Ostensibly, the second photo showed Hermione just as the Healer had finished treating the wound on her hip. She still wore the Pallas Athena costume, but the costume in the photo had been not-so-subtly doctored. The chestplate now looked like bronze-colored body paint, showing every physical detail of her torso, with special attention given to her nipples. As for the skirt, Hermione remembered that the Healer had cut it to give access to the wound, but it had still mostly covered her; in the altered image, the "skirt" was a loincloth less than an inch wide, covering exactly no more than was necessary to keep the photo from being pornographic. (And, not coincidentally, implying that Hermione favored Brazilian waxes.)

Hermione's mood, Harry decided, could best be described as smoldering icy. "Tell me," she now asked Fleur, "is this the Moniteur's work? I mean, I know the French love a scandal - would the Moniteur deliberately cater to that? Or do I have to hunt down that particular photographer?"

Fleur shrugged. "If one must hazard a guess, I would say le Moniteur printed the photo just as they received it - so they could claim, in all sincerity, that they did not falsify the record. Là, it will be interesting to see if this version of it has been released anywhere besides France."

"I'm more concerned with where it's going to be released. If it's on the front page of the Moniteur today, I'm sure it'll be on the front page of the Prophet tomorrow!"

"I, er, I don't suppose," Harry put in, "that you could Floo the editor tonight and just ask…" His voice trailed off under Hermione's contemptuous glare.

After a moment, she plastered a vacuous smile on her face. "Hello there, Mr. Editor," she chirruped, "this is the new Minister of Magic. You may have seen a photo of me today in some French newspapers. I was soooo embarrassed by it! Would you please not print it? You promise? Oh, thank you!" She dropped the fake smile and snorted derisively. "I can think of no better way of guaranteeing they will print it."

He conceded the point by sighing and slumping. "I guess I don't know enough about the Prophet to suggest anything else. Sorry."

Hermione paused, her scowl slowly being replaced by a speculative pursing of her lips. "But on the other hand," she said slowly, "we know people who do know enough about the Prophet… or at least, publishing in general." She nodded decisively, her decision made, and turned to the fireplace. Grabbing a handful of Floo powder, she hurled it into the fire, and barely waited for the flames to change color before thrusting in her head. "Luna Lovegood!" she called.

"Luna Lovegood?" echoed Harry in confusion. He turned to Fleur, who shrugged. "The Quibbler?" she offered. Harry caught her meaning: Luna's experience with the Quibbler might provide some insight in how to deal with the Prophet. Though privately, Harry had his doubts…

Still, Hermione's call to Luna did bring more immediate concerns to Harry's mind. "Um, sounds like there'll be four of us for dinner. You'll be eating with us, won't you?" he asked Fleur politely. Honesty compelled him to add, "Not that there's much in the larder. I think stir-fry's the best I can hope to do…"

Fleur laughed gently. "I would not normally impose, no… but I confess I'm curious as to what advice dear Hermione expects to receive from little Luna,"

*

Luna, at least, didn't seem in awe over Harry's new status as The Boy Who Lived Again: she treated him much as she would if he'd been on a very, very long holiday. And her advice to Hermione turned out to be no more radical than a letter owled to the Prophet's editor and publisher, reminding them that the libel laws on the Continent were different from those in Britain, and that they would be prudent to double-check any representations of the new Minister of Magic for accuracy before they were published.

Her opinions on Harry's activities since "returning to life" were more pithily expressed.

"Do you know, I've always thought that Professor Hagrid's classes on Magical Creatures were more suited for future dragon handlers than the usual run of Hogwarts students. I mean, after all, Harry, did you really think his classes on Blast-Ended Skrewts were all that useful? I'm sure a few classes on elves would have been far more beneficial… at least then, you might have avoided your current foolishness."

"But it isn't foolishness!" Harry insisted. He wished he could explain to Luna more fully, especially about the elves being bred by humans - which included inbreeding with their slavemasters. But he understood that the facts of elven ancestry had to be kept quiet, until Hermione could get the laws changed defining humans. (Briefly, he wondered if Hermione had told Fleur: technically a half-breed but accepted as human, she'd be almost the perfect poster-child for the new law.)

So, failing that, Harry instead concentrated on defending the specifics of his most recent elven encounter. "I'm showing Brillig what it means to be free - y'know, things a free elf ought to know! And I've managed to do it without bonding with her, which would've set her back to square one!"

"I see." Luna looked thoughtful. "So you honestly believe she's not bonded herself to you? Because, you know, it sounds as though she has, and this new elf Ayesha with her. Oh, no formal wording may have been said aloud… but what an elf doesn't say can be more important than what she does say."

"No. No, no, no. I impressed on them both the need for free will. And I even explained to them how paid elves can obey orders without needing a bond with a human: commitments, contracts, that sort of thing." Harry drank the last of his tea. "It's not as though I had much choice in Ayesha's case: she truly had nowhere else to go. And in Brillig's case, I really think I'm getting through to her… I'm making progress…"

"Which is more than I was able to do, when Brillig and Swivingham's other elves were staying at the Ministry," put in Hermione.

"But Harry…" Luna fixed her unblinking blue eyes on him. "You just told us you used Dobby as an example, to persuade them."

"Well, sure, of course. Dobby's probably the best example of a free elf: an elf who actually wanted to be free…"

"An elf whom you befriended. An elf who, because of that friendship, worked tirelessly for you - in the end, giving up his life for you." Luna let the statement sit in the air over the table, before calmly returning to her fried potatoes. "This is quite tasty, Harry," she complimented him.

Harry glanced quickly at the other two witches at the table. Fleur looked amused; Hermione looked frostily unamused. He made one last attempt. "The point is, Dobby had free will. Dobby chose his actions. It's why his death was heroic, it's what made him so special…"

"Yes, Dobby chose to follow you, and to obey you - out of love for you. And you held him up as an example for Brillig and Ayesha, did you not? And asked them to choose as he did?"

"I said… that is, I… I…" Harry pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Aw, hell."

"Oh, no. Not yet. That depends on you," Hermione said in unmistakable warning.

*

Their meeting place had to be Muggle in nature, since they couldn't risk being seen together by anyone in the wizarding world - even by house elves, which thus precluded Zabini's manor house. Ginny's unfortunate Pensieve memory had demonstrated that, all too clearly.

Blaise had toyed with the idea of a Muggle pub, but decided against it: too great a chance of growing too comfortable there, and ordering, say, butterbeer. In the end, London had so many cafés that they could be considered anonymous; he'd chosen one, more or less at random, and had Virgil deliver its address to another elf - who'd deliver it to another elf, and thence to his guest. All perfectly circumspect and discreet.

Zabini sat now in the café, eating a slice of chocolate cake (which, considering it was Muggle-made, wasn't too bad), surreptitiously watching the door, and waiting.

With the tingle of a small bell, the door opened to admit Draco Malfoy - dressed, as Zabini was, in middle-class Muggle clothing. (Unlike Zabini, he looked distinctly uncomfortable in them.) Malfoy spotted Zabini at once, and quickly crossed the restaurant to seat himself in the chair opposite Zabini. "Coffee," he muttered… to Zabini.

Zabini sighed and signaled for the waitress. "A large cup of coffee for my friend, please. Black? Yes, black. And I could use another cup as well." He waited until the waitress had fetched the coffee and left them, before saying in a low voice, "I see it's still beneath our dignity to speak with Muggles."

Malfoy sipped his coffee and made a sour face. He didn't reply at once, but his eyes flicked around the café. "Are we safe here?"

"Now that you've arrived, we will be." Blaise reached into his bag (temporarily Transfigured to look like a Muggle rucksack) and brought out a small widget he'd appropriated from the Department of Magical Catastrophes. A twist of the knob on its end caused the knob to glow gently. "There. A Notice-Me-Not charm, which won't be detected by the Ministry… and can't be traced to our wands. We'll be quite undisturbed." Blaise reminded himself to cast a Confundus on the waitress just before they left.

"As you say." Malfoy took another sip; it seemed to steady him. "Right, then. I assume you'll get around to telling me why you asked to meet with me here?"

"What, no small talk? No witty give-and-take? Ah, well." Reaching again into his bag, Zabini brought out two newspapers, which he slid across the table to Malfoy. "My Department gets copies of the news from across Europe and North America. These are today's; have a look."

Draco cast his glance over the newspapers. One was in French, le Moniteur Magique; the other, Das Orakel, was in German. He knew enough of both languages to grasp the gist of the lead articles: they both described Sunday's raid in Athens by the ICW. The main difference was that the French paper devoted several inches of print to Granger personally - including some obviously enhanced photos of her - while the German paper was plain text, and concentrated more on details of the raid.

"So," he said after a few moments, "she's gone international."

"Yes, I'm guessing she's a major thorn in the Cartel's side at the moment," agreed Zabini. "Only guessing, of course. I can't know, since my knowledge of the Cartel is limited."

Malfoy nodded and took a larger swallow of his coffee. Since running into Zabini at Ollivander's, he'd picked up a bit of news: the fact that charges had been filed against Zabini, and then dropped, was hardly secret. But he realized, as most wizards and witches did not, what penance Zabini would have to pay for that. "I do hope," he said, with a faint hint of his old schoolboy drawl, "that you worded your Contract so that you aren't forced to volunteer information, at least."

Blaise raised one eyebrow. "Astute," was all he said… but between the two former Slytherins, it was acknowledgement enough.

"Not that it matters," Malfoy continued. "Your Cartel won't have to do anything to neutralize her. If she's the same as she was at Hogwarts, she'll use her new position to launch some grand crusade that will offend even her support base. I'd expect a vote of no confidence by the end of next year, at the latest."

"Do you think the Cartel would wait that long, given how effective she's shown herself against them?" Zabini tapped the Orakel's front page with a fingernail. "From this account, they weren't trying to Obliviate her, as they would anyone else. They want her eliminated. I'm guessing this is no longer merely a business affair, on their part. It's a vendetta."

"You seem quite familiar with the Cartel's ways of thinking… for someone who knows so little about them."

Zabini shrugged with one shoulder, and took a bite of cake. "Do you know Scrimgeour's biggest failure as Minister?" he asked suddenly. "Lack of imagination. Knowing that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had returned, he still failed to prepare for what eventually happened - because he hadn't the imagination to see what his opponent might do. Scrimgeour never really took the initiative in that war: he only reacted to events. In the end, it got him killed… and the Ministry fell."

He met Malfoy's gaze. "If Granger, or Robards, expect to fight the Cartel Lords, they'll have to try and imagine what the Cartel Lords will do next. So, you see, it's reasonable for us, for me, to speculate here… and it breaks no agreement I might have with Magical Law Enforcement."

"How very creative of you," Malfoy drily replied. "Very well, then. I take it you asked me here so that we might… speculate together. Two heads are better than one, are they not?"

"When we met at Ollivander's last week, you intimated you had some thoughts on how someone might Deal With Granger." Blaise gestured with his fork. "Unfortunately, you expressed yourself rather vaguely at the time."

"No one can offer details if they don't have details, my dear Blaise. My thoughts at the time were broad concepts, no more… and fairly obvious to anyone who had to deal with her at Hogwarts. She was always a stickler for the school rules - except when they might get Potter or Weasley hurt. My main point, as I recall, was that Granger will sacrifice her principles to achieve a Greater Good." He stared speculatively into his coffee cup. "I wonder what Greater Good your Cartel can offer her."

"Stop calling them my Cartel," snapped Zabini, nettled.

"My apologies. Well, if mention of the Cartel makes you uncomfortable, there are always our Pureblooded brethren. Quite conservative, some of them; one might even call them reactionary. How many of them oppose Granger's policies? How many would like to see someone else as Minister? What Greater Good could they offer her to step down?"

Zabini considered. "Mm, no," he said at length, "no, that wouldn't be a profitable line of thought. Granger's an idealist. As you said, she'll probably mount some high-minded crusade as soon as she's consolidated her power. That would be her Greater Good, as you call it, and she won't be able to carry it out if she steps down as Minister."

"Ah." Malfoy continued to stare into his cup, not directly meeting Zabini's gaze. "Well then," he went on more softly, "continuing to speculate: if there's no carrot available, her enemies will try a stick."

"Threats? Against The Witch Who Won?" Like a finely tuned violin, Blaise's voice held undertones, subtle but clear: incredulity mixed with scorn. "She defeated the Dark Lord in single combat, Draco. I strongly suspect she won't be intimidated by threats."

"Threats against herself, I would agree she won't. That was true even back in school. But threats against Potter or Weasley…? Those would always cause her to, shall we say, reconsider her position."

"Hmph. Possibly so - back in school. It would be a different story, nowadays. I don't know if you heard…" Zabini paused. "Come to think of it, I'm surprised the Prophet hasn't said more about it. It certainly didn't escape the Moniteur's notice… Suffice to say that Weasley no longer has the attraction for Granger that he once did. And as for Potter: well, he's been gone fifteen years. That's more than enough time for friendships to cool. Being back only four days would hardly rekindle any lost feelings there."

"I suspect you underestimate the strength of those feelings… but no matter." Malfoy finally raised his gaze from his coffee cup, to look Zabini squarely in the eye. "I wasn't thinking of Potter… or of Ron Weasley."

"That…" Zabini found his words catching in his throat. He gulped from his now-cold cup, and found his voice again. He spent a second bringing it back to a calm, controlled modulation before replying, "That would be an extraordinarily perilous course of action."

"If it failed." Malfoy sat straighter, and smiled for the first time since entering the café. "Granger's enemies, therefore, would need a plan ensured not to fail. And once accomplished… well, what need would there be to remove a Minister so… compliant?"

"What… what plan do you imagine… Granger's enemies devising?"

"Broadly speaking, I don't believe they could, really. The Cartel couldn't do it: Granger's wise to their methods now, and I think we can safely assume she won't make Scrimgeour's mistake. Pureblood reactionaries - I'm sure you know the type, there must be a few in your Fire Party - well, they haven't the specialized skills or knowledge."

"But you… know someone who does?" Blaise leaned forward. "What skills or knowledge? What did you have in mind? Be specific."

Malfoy shook his head. His smile was sly; his silence, all-telling.

"Draco," Blaise said heavily, "this is not a game anymore. You tried playing games at Hogwarts, and we all know where they landed you. So tell me now what…"

"I know!" The snarl exploded out of Malfoy as though it had clawed its way from his heart. His suave expression was gone, replaced by a rictus of anger and horror. "Don't even try to lecture me about where I 'landed', damn you! You have NO! BLOODY! IDEA!"

Taken aback by the sudden vehemence, Zabini raised both hands, palms outward, trying to calm the mercurial dragon across from him. Prudently, he didn't continue his comment… and the momentary pause allowed Malfoy to regain his composure. The half-insane face disappeared, his polished look returned, as quickly and smoothly as though he'd taken off a mask - or put one on.

"In any case, Blaise, you're mistaken," he said, quite calm again. "A game with high stakes remains a game. And the stakes are very high, here: so high that wealthy Purebloods, or high Ministry officials, or even Cartel Lords, probably couldn't afford to lose. Ah, but a lone agent? An independent, with little to lose? He might think the payoff worth the risk."

"No one's said anything about payoff…" began Blaise.

"No, no, of course not. This is all mere speculation." Malfoy cleared his throat. "Still, if some lone agent were to deliver a compliant Minister into their hands, I have no doubt he'd be richly rewarded. The Cartel Lords, for instance, might… oh, let us say, appoint him as Swivingham's replacement in their organization. Quite a lucrative position, I gather." He smiled thinly as he added, "And I'm sure the conservatives, and even the high Ministry officials, would find ways to show their appreciation. All very discreetly, of course."

He regarded Zabini a moment longer, before lifting his coffee cup and drinking deeply. He said nothing more, but simply waited… and watched Zabini. Zabini, for his part, finished his chocolate cake in thoughtful silence; his own face gave no hint as to what those thoughts might be.

"If the main threat to Granger were indeed a lone agent," Zabini said at last, "a single, unpredictable wizard… I don't see how we could possibly defend against him. And without something concrete to offer Robards, with nothing but empty speculation… well, mentioning this would only be wasting his time."

He smiled politely at Malfoy. "Still, this has been a productive meeting. Draco, I hope you don't mind if I forward some of your ideas? I've other wizards with whom I brainstorm; I feel sure they would be sympathetic to your… speculations."

"I could ask for no more," Draco said agreeably, finishing his coffee and rising from the table. "You'll cover the tab, I trust? I'm afraid I'm still a bit short on pocket change."

*

He'd reassured Hermione that he would, somehow, make things right with Brillig and Ayesha. He'd excused himself to clean up the kitchen after dinner, to give Hermione a chance to visit with Luna and Fleur in the living room. Now Luna and Fleur had said their good-byes and Flooed away, and Harry realized just how late the hour had grown. He and Hermione were now alone in Enthalpy House, alone together for the first time all day. "So let me guess," said Harry. "You chatted with Fleur this evening about speaking in front of the Wizengamot. Softening them up for the new law… what are we calling it, anyway? The 'Person's a Person No Matter How Small' Act?"

"I'll think of a name once the wording's pinned down," Hermione replied wearily, not responding to his attempt at humor. Now that their guests were gone, she could afford to collapse… which she did, onto the sofa. Harry contemplated her for a moment: he'd seen her in this state at Hogwarts, physically exhausted but nerves keyed up. He wasn't sure what he could do to help her, to make her feel better… though he suspected that, if he did get her to relax, she'd fall right to sleep.

Should he talk to her, perhaps, keeping the conversation light? Harry couldn't think of anything to say that wasn't totally inane, like So how was your day, dear? Of course, standing in place like a statue wasn't on, either…

One possibility came to mind, vaguely recalled from a time years ago, a time spent with Laura, his uni-student girlfriend. Although, in that case, it had been Laura's suggestion… still, she'd seemed to enjoy it… it was worth trying. Harry knelt on the floor in front of Hermione. Without waiting for permission, he slipped off her right shoe and began to rub the sole of her foot.

He'd only thought to relieve some of her day's stress. Truth to tell, he hadn't expected her to start purring. "You have exactly ten years to stop that before I call the New Zealand Aurors," she breathed.

Harry chuckled, happy that he was indeed helping, and spent the next few minutes concentrating on foot massage therapy. He quickly learned, from the variations in her purrs (and occasional moans), when he was hitting sensitive spots that needed extra attention. After several minutes he had to pause, to flex his fingers and give them a moment's respite. She immediately kicked off her other shoe, extended the left foot, and waggled it imperiously in front of him. He accepted the inevitable and resumed the massage on the second foot.

Only then did she reply to his earlier question. "Yes, I did ask Fleur to appear before the Wizengamot. She'll talk about her experiences as a hybrid - I intend to start using that term instead of 'half-breed', it has fewer negative connotations - anyway, the prejudice she's faced simply for being part-Veela. Despite the fact that she has the right to a wand, and therefore must be human. I intend to have Professor Flitwick and Madame Maxime appear as well. Madame Maxime in particular will have strong stories of discrimination to tell."

"Mm. Maybe Hagrid should talk to them, too? Not instead of Madame Maxime, necessarily, but in addition to? He's British, where Madame isn't, and a lot of the Wizengamot will know him… I mean, he was a fixture at Hogwarts for decades…"

"During which time - I'm sorry, Harry, but you know it's true - he got a reputation for being oafish and not entirely safe. It's precisely because so many of the Wizengamot think of him that way, that I don't want to call him up. No, I think three respected members of the wizarding community - hybrids of humans with three different magical races - should be enough to convince the Wizengamot. I should have no problem passing our law… although I don't plan to dawdle. I don't want to give anyone a chance to poke it for problems!"

"Such as the fact that it would include house-elves by default?" He switched back to her right foot and extended the massage to include her calf. "Three different, um, 'hybrid' races, huh? Humans with Veela, with giants, goblins… hey, are we sure there aren't any others? Half-leprechauns, maybe, or half…" His fingers and his speech both stopped abruptly.

"Leprechauns aren't Beings," murmured Hermione. "Magical races are demonstrably cross-fertile - but, I suspect, only sentient magical races. You were saying? Half...?"

"I, uh, I seem to recall stories from Greek myth… where centaurs were portrayed as, um, lusty." Harry started his massage again, more slowly now.

"Centaurs? Eww, Harry! Let's please limit ourselves to the physically possible!"

"Right. Because Hagrid's dad mating with a giantess presented no problems at all." He shrugged. "Judging from the centaurs we've met, the Greek myths were just that: myths. I can't see any of the centaurs in the Forbidden Forest wanting to mate with a human." He didn't add, Lucky for Umbridge, but he knew if he'd thought of it, Hermione would too.

"And trolls, despite having rudimentary language, aren't considered Beings any more than leprechauns," she said, getting into the spirit of his inquiry. "Hags and werewolves can't have children… mmm, vampires are partially human, but they've no active magic… and besides, I can't see any human wanting to mate with one…" She thought for a moment longer, then nodded decisively. "No, Fleur, Filius and Olympe should suffice nicely, thank you…"

"Have we checked with the merfolk in the lake?" At Hermione's incredulous stare, Harry shrugged again. "A lake with mermaids living in it, right alongside a school full of horny teenagers. Hogwarts has been by that lake for a thousand years. Would you care to bet that, in a thousand years, not one of those teenagers snagged a mermaid on his fishing pole?"

Hermione made no response. Usually, Harry would take this as a sign that he'd won his point… except that her stare was beginning to unsettle him. He lapsed into silence, continuing to minister to her feet and calves until his fingers began to ache.

"I'd like to point out," Hermione finally replied, her voice slightly challenging, "that it could just as easily have been a teenager catching a merman in her fishnet."

He conceded the point with a nod and an apologetic smile, and she continued more reflectively, "But in that case, the mother would have been human. If there'd ever been a child of such a union, we'd certainly know about it. On the other hand, if the mother were a mermaid… well…" She took a deep breath, exhaled, then cocked her head at Harry and waggled her eyebrows. "Goodness, Harry, I had no idea your imagination was so… erotic."

He stood, giving her a cheeky grin. "What can I say? I have uncharted depths." He started to offer his hand, to help her off the sofa, then thought better of it. Instead, he drew his wand and swish-and-flicked it at her. His lips formed the words Wingardium Leviosa, but he didn't say it aloud - and as he suspected, his new wand performed the spell just fine.

She didn't react to being levitated, but took it in stride. But she did raise an eyebrow when he began to move her to her bedroom. "What's this, then?"

"What's it look like? I'm putting you to bed." He positioned Hermione over the bed, and lowered her as gently as a feather. "You had a long, stressful first day on the job, Minister. A good night's sleep is just what the doctor ordered."

Harry expected her to object, one way or another: verbally at the very least, or leaving the bed at once. But no: Hermione simply lay there, quite relaxed, her eyes half-closed (and, though Harry didn't know it, watching his every move). With a nod to her, and a muttered "Nox," he doused the lights and turned back to the doorway.

And that's when he heard the firm "Accio!" from the bed. Harry was yanked backwards, to land on the edge of the bed… where he was immediately seized from behind.

"Well then, doctor," Hermione announced softly in his ear, "you'd better do your best to tire me out." She embraced him, her arms wrapping around his chest, as she switched to lecture mode. "Honestly, Harry, you can't expect me to listen to you talk about sex and then just sleep, do you? And I'm still in my clothes… tsk, tsk, fine job of putting me to bed, mister." Her hands wandered, one firm against his stomach, the other moving lower, as she whispered, "We'll have to work on that…"

*

The last house on Spinner's End was, remarkably, not listed in any records kept by any Muggle institution - it appeared on no tax rolls, for instance - so was effectively unknown to them. On the other hand, being a thoroughly Muggle house, the Ministry of Magic paid it no heed, either. Though neither Unplottable nor protected by a Fidelius Charm (the Ministry might have noticed those), it was so anonymous that it didn't need to be.

Indeed, most of the people who'd ever known of the house were now dead. Bellatrix Lestrange, Peter Pettigrew, Lord Voldemort… and of course its former owner, Severus Snape. All dead. Only two living people knew the house even existed: Narcissa Malfoy, who had visited once. And the one in whom she'd confided the secret.

Squalid little place, really, Draco thought to himself, standing in front of the entrance at a respectful distance. Did Snape actually grow up here? It would explain so much.

No one had entered the house for at least sixteen years, not since Snape shut it up for the last time to return to Hogwarts as its Headmaster. All of Snape's possessions - his Potions stores and equipment, his library, his notes - were inside, untouched and waiting. And somewhere amongst all that, Draco knew, would be the specific magic he needed: mentioned in passing by Snape, during a Slytherin house meeting, years ago.

Of course, I'm not such a fool as to think Snape left his house unguarded, he thought as he drew his new wand and cautiously approached the door. But I also know Snape wasn't such a fool as to not prepare against the eventuality of his own death. He had to have permitted access to a few select people: Mother and Father, for certain. And therefore me.

He touched the tip of his wand to the door knocker, and steeled the nervousness from his voice. "I am Draco Malfoy," he told the door firmly. There was a soft, musical chime, almost inaudible even in the quiet night. Gingerly he grasped the doorknob and tried to turn. His fingers remained intact, but the knob wouldn't turn.

Alohomora had no effect. It was just like Snape to make his doorway into an intelligence test. And Draco knew better than to try to enter the house any other way than through the door.

The door knows it's me: that chiming sound acknowledged my name. He'd want me to enter… but not the Aurors, or anyone from the Phoenix, even if they used my name. So how do I prove that the person now using my name is, in fact, me? A riddle? Or something that only Snape and I would know? Or…

Ah, of course. Yes, so much happening at once that summer, he'd have been a bit rushed. He'd not have wasted time inventing a spell, he'd have used something that had already been used. At Malfoy Manor.

Pocketing his wand, Draco rolled up his left sleeve. The Dark Mark was still there, only slightly faded with the passage of years. He raised his arm to show the Mark to the door knocker. A louder chime sounded, and there was a click behind the door. Draco lowered his arm and gave the door an experimental push. It swung open noiselessly. He stepped inside, drawing his wand again just in case.

Dust covered every surface. The room was cramped and ugly, but to Draco, the room's most important features were the floor-to-ceiling bookcases covering every wall - stuffed to overflowing with Severus Snape's personal library. A quick inspection showed that, despite the grime and seeming clutter, the books were in fact meticulously categorized: books on curses here, books on history there, books on herbology, on potions…

Best get to it, then, Draco told himself, flicking his wand at one of the chairs to clean it. He made certain the door was closed, and the windows shuttered, before casting a Lumos charm. He pulled a likely-looking book from its shelf and settled down into the chair. Right now, Granger's still in transition, still pulling everything together for her Ministry. It'll take some days before she realizes the hole in her security. I have to act against her by then.

Against Hermione Mudblood Granger, Minister of Magic for the United Kingdom. Draco smiled grimly. So you think your Cartel is pursuing a vendetta, do you, Blaise? Pfah! Let me show you how vendetta really works.