Coming Back Late by Paracelsus

Rating: PG13
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 7
Published: 29/05/2008
Last Updated: 15/11/2012
Status: In Progress

We remember the scene from DH: Harry was struck down by the Dark Lord, and his spirit seemed to
go to King's Cross and confer with Albus Dumbledore. Suppose, instead of returning directly to
his body, Harry's spirit returned late? Come watch as the last chapters of the last book
unravel and reweave.




1. I:  How It Ended
-------------------

**(A/N:** This annoying little plot bunny attacked me on my recent trip to Malaysia, and I
found that the only way to get it out of my head was to write it down. It's my favorite kind of
AU, a "what-if" story: I tweak *one element* of the Potterverse and then watch the
new dominoes fall. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten my other stories.

My thanks to my beta for this story, **MirielleGrey****,** who *so* needed Yet One
More Hobby. And ten points to anyone who spots the tie-in from *The Incredibles.***)**

**(Disclaimer:** I should hope the fact that I'm discarding the Epilogue in favor of my
own interpretation should convince you that I'm not Jo Rowling. If it doesn't, maybe the
emptiness of my bank account will.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**I: How It Ended**

*

"Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that
it is not real?"

Dumbledore's closing words continued to ring in Harry's ears – well, Harry's mind –
as the vision of King's Cross faded from view. Harry would be returning to his body now, that
having been his choice: he would awaken in the clearing, in the very midst of Voldemort and his
Death Eaters. That meant he'd have to continue to play dead, he knew, until he had the chance
to kill Nagini… then, and only then, would he be able to confront Voldemort for the final time.

But he couldn't feel his body.

Harry tried wiggling a toe (surely that would go unnoticed by his enemies, since he was wearing
shoes). Nothing happened. He couldn't seem to remember how to wiggle. In fact, he didn't
feel like he had a body at all. He felt like a breath of air, or a cloud, light and floating, and
not located in any one spot.

Gradually, he began to see his surroundings. He got the impression of looking *down* at the
clearing: there was his body lying limp, there were the Death Eaters, there was Voldemort being
helped to his feet by Bellatrix Lestrange. Interesting, that… it looked as though Voldemort had
fallen when Harry had been killed. Dumbledore had been right again: Voldemort's use of
Harry's blood had linked them together even more firmly. Harry could see all of this, but not
through his eyes: he saw from on high, as a disembodied spirit.

*Oh, I get it now. I'm having one of those Out-of-Body Experiences that Aunt Petunia's
bridge club used to talk about. Erm, maybe Trelawney said something about them, too – I wasn't
paying attention. All right, fine, an Out-of-Body Experience. Can I please get back to having
an* In-*Body Experience now?*

But Harry's point of view didn't change. He continued to watch from above as events
unfolded. He couldn't hear any words, but he watched as Voldemort cast a few Cruciatus Curses
at his body. Then Hagrid was forced to pick up Harry's body and carry it out of the clearing,
with Voldemort and the Death Eaters close behind.

*Hey! That's my body! Hagrid, stop! I'm not really dead, Hagrid, don't cry, but I
need my body back!*

The last of the Death Eaters had left now, and still Harry's consciousness was suspended
over the clearing. He tried to follow, so that he could reanimate his body in Hagrid's arms…
but he had no experience with disembodiment. He didn't know how to move, or what to do – he was
totally disoriented. But he *had* to get back to his body!

One possibility came to mind. Desperately, he cast his sight around the clearing again, seeking
a glint of metal… *There! There it is. Let's hope this works…*

There it was indeed, the ring with the Resurrection Stone, lying where he'd dropped it.
Harry had to assume that he was still its master, that it would respond to him as though he were
alive – and simultaneously, that it could affect him as though he were dead. In his current
twilight state, after all, both might be true.

He focused on his sight of the ring, tried to imagine what it had felt like on his finger…
recalled the feeling when he'd summoned Sirius, Remus and his parents…

And Harry opened his eyes. Which was a wonderful thing! He had eyes again!

But then, why was he seeing the clearing in black and white?

He looked down at himself. His form was more than a ghost, but less than a person… yet it was
real enough to allow himself to act like he had a body again. He could move his head, stretch his
hands in front of him (he noted that the Resurrection ring was now on his finger – it felt very,
very heavy to his semicorporeal self). Most important, he could walk… he could go after Voldemort.
He immediately set out, realizing after a few steps that he was heading back to Hogwarts.

It was slow going. The ring weighed him down, so that it was a struggle to keep it on his finger
– yet he *had* to keep it, to maintain even this semblance of a body. A couple of times, he
was forcibly reminded that, while his body might not be fully solid, the ring *was.* He got
the hang of it, eventually, and managed to avoid any further obstacles – but it was still taking
longer than Harry liked.

He put the time to good use, planning what he would do when he rejoined his body. *Assuming I
can kill Nagini, right off… well, then I have to face Voldemort. I'm master of the Stone, and
the Cloak – two of the Deathly Hallows. Can I use them, somehow, to counter the Elder Wand?
Voldemort's its master, since he killed Snape, right there in the Shrieking Shack… and Snape
had killed Dumbledore…*

*Half a mo.* *Didn't Dumbledore just say that he'd* planned *his death along
with Snape? That he did it that way on purpose, to break the Wand's power forever? So Snape
wasn't ever the Wand's master… which means Voldemort isn't, either.*

*But then… then when Dumbledore died, who* did *become the Elder Wand's
master?*

When he finally emerged from the Forbidden Forest, he was afraid he was too late. The massed
Death Eaters and their allies were in front of the castle, confronting the defenders of Hogwarts.
Voldemort was monologuing, of course, and Neville Longbottom knelt before Voldemort… the Sorting
Hat on his head.

And as Harry watched, Neville reached up and, in one smooth motion, pulled the Sword of
Gryffindor out of the Hat and struck Nagini's head from her body.

There was a great tumult in both armies. The Death Eaters surged forward, forcing Hogwarts's
defenders back into the castle. Harry could sense that the fighting continued within the castle,
but for the moment, he paid no attention to it. He'd spotted his inert body, lying abandoned
and forgotten on the ground.

Carefully he walked over to it, circled it once, regarded it from all sides. Then he laid his
spectral body down on top of his physical body, and was delighted when they began to merge. He
closed his eyes as a wave of vertigo swept through him.

After another moment, Harry cautiously opened his eyes. They were his physical eyes this time,
he could see in color. He could hear again. He could feel his arms and legs – *boy,* did they
ache! That settled the matter: he was definitely back in his body. Painfully, he struggled to his
feet. The Ring, somehow, was still on his finger; the Cloak, still under his clothes. He reached
into his pocket and brought out the wand he'd been using: Draco Malfoy's wand.

*Draco's* *the only other person it could be,* Harry told himself. *He disarmed
Dumbledore the night he died, and disarming must have been enough. Draco became the master of the
Elder Wand, even though he never knew it. And I disarmed Draco, so…*

He raised the wand and, just as he had in the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, he filled
his thoughts with the image of the item he wanted. It helped that, if he was right, the item in
question would know that it was Harry's, and would cooperate… might even lend its power to the
spell. "*Accio* Elder Wand," he said, softly but firmly.

From far off he heard the *ksssh* of a breaking window, then a streak in the air coming
right at him. Trained Seeker's reflexes kicked in, and Harry dropped Draco's wand and
raised his hand in time to catch the missile. It was the Elder Wand, the Wand of Destiny. He'd
done it.

Even as his fingers closed around the Wand, Harry felt a cold shiver run through his body. It
was the complete opposite of the tingly warmth he'd experienced when he'd purchased his
first wand at Ollivander's, a geologic age ago. But he knew it had the same significance:
beyond doubt now, the Wand was his. All the Deathly Hallows were his. Harry had become… well, not
Death itself, nor Death's master – Dumbledore's talk at "King's Cross" had
dispelled that notion – but Death's vizier, as it were. He could not order Death… but he could
give orders in Death's name.

*I came back to my body too late, blast it,* Harry thought. *If I'd come back while
we were still in the clearing, I could have stopped Voldemort there. But now there's been
fighting, and more deaths. And they're* still *fighting in the castle, I can hear it now.
Voldemort must have stolen someone else's wand when his own went flying.*

*This has to stop* now. *I don't dare take the time to stumble in there and confront
Voldemort: people are* dying! *I have to finish this now, and since I have all three Deathly
Hallows, I can do it.*

Harry closed his eyes again, and though his link with the Dark Lord had been severed with the
destruction of the Horcrux in his head, he knew his enemy well enough to picture him perfectly in
his mind. *Tom Marvolo Riddle,* he said in his head, and felt quite sure that Riddle could
hear him. *You called yourself the Wing of Death, as though it would make you safe from Death.
But Death comes for everyone, sooner or later. And now, it comes for you.*

*Die, Tom Marvolo Riddle.*

It seemed to Harry that Voldemort was struggling: he could feel his foe's fury, and an
attempt at avoidance (avoiding Harry? something in the battle?), and then an enveloping darkness.
He brought his awareness back to the physical world: had he imagined it, or was there was a pause
in the distant noise of battle? Then there came to his ears a tremendous roar of voices, and even
some cheering. Harry could tell from the sounds that the battle was over. Lord Voldemort was no
more.

It was over. At last, after all these years, it was finally *over.* Harry could stagger
back into Hogwarts, greet his friends and teachers, and…

His eyes opened to see the Elder Wand in his hand.

*And then the whole farce starts all over again.*

*How many people have died because of this Wand, these Hallows? If I go in there and explain
how I survived, how many new enemies will I make? All the Dark-Lord-wannabes who want the
Wand's power? Dumbledore let himself be killed – actually* planned *to be killed – so that
the Wand would lose all its power forever. Can I do less?*

*I… I have to finish what he started. I can't ever let myself be disarmed, or beaten in
battle.* Ever. *And the only way to do that… is to leave.*

*If I leave now, it'll be so easy. Everyone already thinks I'm dead. They'll be
able to get on with their lives, with the least amount of fuss. All they need is a body to bury. I
can do that.*

Harry looked around and spotted a fallen log, at the edge of the Forest. A quick wave of the
Wand – he didn't even need an incantation, it was so powerful – brought the log to his feet. He
Transfigured the log to look like his dead body, complete with clothes, even with glasses. He even
put Draco's wand in its pocket.

After a moment's thought, Harry Transfigured a branch to look like his own holly-and-phoenix
wand, the wand Hermione had accidentally broken. He still wanted to keep the pieces – maybe the
Elder Wand could repair them – but it would be suspicious if they weren't found on the body. He
slipped the faked wand pieces into another pocket.

*One more thing I should do… I need to do. It's only right.* A last wave of the Wand
conjured a piece of parchment from thin air. He paused, considering, then made the parchment
dirtier, more wrinkled… rather more expected for a parchment he'd supposedly been carrying in
his pocket. Harry began to dictate, and words appeared on the parchment: explaining how he'd
discovered that he, Harry, had been a Horcrux, and that's why he had to die. Willing his
possessions to Ron, and Hermione, and his new godson Teddy. Saying goodbye.

He heard voices from the castle… someone was coming. Quickly he stuffed the parchment into the
body's pocket, next to the phoenix wand. Whipping out his Invisibility Cloak, he discovered
that it had altered color: it was less silvery, more pearly-grey, as though the addition of the
other two Hallows had changed it. Harry wrapped the Cloak around his body, and was surprised when
it conformed itself snugly around his limbs – morphing from a cloak into a full-body suit. The
Cloak *had* changed: there was no danger of, say, a foot accidentally being seen now.

Resolutely, Harry turned away from the approaching voices and walked calmly back to the Forest.
He didn't look back to see who was coming for his body, didn't want to be tempted from his
path. This was the best way, the *only* way, really, to remove the threat of the Hallows'
power forever. Just as he'd walked with open eyes to his death, now he would willingly walk
into exile. And yes, it would be painful at first, but at least there would be no battles in his
future. Harry felt he'd earned that much, at least.

*I've had enough trouble for a lifetime.*



2. II: How It Started Again
---------------------------

**(A/N:** Many thanks to all who reviewed the first chapter! I realize that you were, in
effect, taking up the story on faith, and I am honored by it. I'll try to live up to it.

There are a couple of clues in this chapter that this story diverges from Canon from the moment
Neville lops off Nagini's head. It will be become inescapable, of course, as the story
progresses.

Thanks again to my beta, **MirielleGrey****,** who keeps me correct. Any mistakes still
left are, of course, my own fault.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** Nope, I don't own these characters. But that doesn't mean I
can't make them do what's right, instead of what's easy.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**II: How It Started Again**

*

"Lupin," said Ted Lupin, hearing the nervousness in his voice, and hating it,
"reservation for two."

He kept his eyes fixed on the maître d' of the *Idée Fixe,* as the man impassively
scanned his reservation list. Ted wished now that he'd dared to alter his appearance to
something more, well, *mature.* Not that there was anything immature about being fifteen, but
maybe a squarer jaw or a steelier eye would convince the maître d' that Ted knew what he was
doing.

On this, his first solo foray into Muggle London. At a very posh restaurant. With a *very*
beautiful girl.

He snuck a sidelong glance at his date, and was reassured. So many other girls wanted Ted to
morph into the boy of their dreams… only Tori had insisted (i.e., demanded) that he never morph his
features, even a little bit, but that he always be himself. Ted was determined to be the best
"himself" he could be, for her.

"Ah yes, M. Lupin," replied the maître d' with a hint of Parisian accent.
"Your table is ready. This way, please?"

They followed the maître d' into the dining room, and Ted began to relax. That wasn't so
bad after all. He ought to have known his guardian angel would be watching after him. Ted
hadn't been able to contact him, but he *must* have seen the reservation list – and
besides, he knew everything. He'd certainly know that Ted and Tori would be dining here
tonight. All would be well.

And the food would be outstanding.

Ted knew they were collecting glances (and a few stares) as they made their way to their table,
but it was understandable. Even with her Veela charms muted, as they must be in a Muggle setting,
Victoire Weasley was stunningly attractive… somehow, tonight, looking much older than her fourteen
years. Ted was more than content to let his date be the center of attention; instead, he fell back
slightly and eavesdropped on snippets of conversation from other tables. Maybe he'd hear
something he could use during his own dinner talk with Tori.

One snippet caught his ear: "… you hear about those lost children? Thank goodness they were
rescued in time, their families had just about given up hope… no, the rangers said it was just good
luck…" *That* was a snippet Ted didn't dare mention to Tori, alas, but he
couldn't help smiling anyway. Guardian angels everywhere, seemed like.

He made a show of holding Tori's chair for her, and was rewarded with her dimpled smile.
"I hope you're not too disappointed," he said as he took his own seat. "It's
supposed to be really good French cuisine…"

"… for the English, you mean?" she smirked.

"All right, it probably doesn't compare with your grandmother's cooking, but give
it a chance." Privately, Ted was willing to match the fare at the *Idée Fixe* with the
best France could offer, but try telling that to a Frenchwoman. Even a half-Frenchwoman.

They placed their orders – Tori asked for *lapin aux pommes,* while he chose the *filet
de boeuf Wellington,* which he considered a thoroughly British dish despite its French name –
and chatted about inconsequentials as their glasses were filled with sparkling perry. Ted wished he
could try to order wine, he'd been curious to see what it was like… but he knew better than to
try. Sometimes, being underage sucked.

Their salads arrived, crisp and fresh, and Tori switched topics in a lower voice. "So do
you know who the new Gryffindor prefects will be?" she asked.

Ted shook his head. "Not me, that's all I know. I don't seem to be the role model
McGonagall's looking for." He lowered his voice further. "I *am* hoping to make
Quidditch captain this year, but we won't find out about that until tomorrow at the Sorting
Feast."

"Yes. Back to school tomorrow." She sighed, then smiled radiantly. "I *am*
glad you asked me out tonight, Teddy. One last night of freedom – and in, er, *regular*
London! *How* did you find this place?"

"Oh," Ted waived his hand airily, "you know I like spending time on this side of
the wall. It's right amazing what you can find on the Internet… I still wish your father would
let me show you what it can do."

"I don't think it's the Internet that bothers Dad so much, as it is the small,
isolated, *private* little workshop where you use it." Tori's eyes danced with mirth
as she added, "Besides, I've heard of some of the things you can, er, download. Music? And
the *pictures?* Scandalous, I mean *really.*"

"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean, m'dear," Ted replied with a smirk.
"And hey, are you saying your father doubts my intentions towards you?"

"Oh no, I think he has no doubt at all."

"Ho ho." Ted left it at that. If he felt *he* was too young for a seduction, he
was sure Tori was. They'd made it clear that, when they were old enough, and if they were still
dating… then they'd see what happened. For now, though, flirtation was fun. "Tell him
I'm not *nearly* as afraid of him as I am of your Mum," he added, just to be
provocative.

Tori gave a mock shiver. "Don't blame you a bit, *cheri**.* Just be warned,
Mum's seeing me to the Express tomorrow."

"I shall be the perfect gentleman, then," Ted replied in an upper-crust accent.
"If only not to alarm Rosie. She's a firstie this year, remember. Don't want to scare
her off before she's Sorted."

"No fear, Teddy. She idolizes you, you know." Her smile turned warm and she laid her
hand atop his. "Perfectly natural, really," she added softly.

Ted couldn't help blushing… and she made no move to remove her hand from his, which caused
his blush to deepen… He was rescued from his embarrassment by the arrival of the soup course.
He'd ordered French onion, of course, and was pleased to see its cheese crust had been baked
on. Tori, just to test the kitchen's mettle, had ordered bouillabaisse… she regarded it
skeptically, fully expecting it to be merely fish stew, and filled her spoon.

And that was when disaster reared its ugly head, sniffed the air hopefully, and prepared to
pounce.

"Now you see, if this were *real* bouillabaisse, the fish would be served separate
from the stock," Tori lectured, as the first spoon of soup came to her mouth. She sipped,
swallowed, and nodded. "Not bad," she allowed. Another spoonful, and she declared,
"Why, that's quite *good.*" A third sip, and she set down her spoon and stared
incredulously at Ted.

"What?" he asked nervously.

"Have you *tasted* this?!" Without waiting for him to answer, Tori raised her
hand frantically. Their waiter arrived with astonishing promptness.
"*Pardonnez-moi**,*" she said, deliberately reverting to a strong French
accent, "but I just wished to say 'ow delicious zis is! I 'ave not tasted anything
like zis since I was last in Marseilles!"

"Thank you, mademoiselle," beamed the waiter. Ted was shocked to see that Tori was
actually using her Veela power on the poor man – in public! In front of Muggles! Merlin's
beard, what was she *thinking?!*

"Would you do a small favor for me?" She opened her handbag and rummaged for a moment,
bringing out a folded slip of paper. "Would you please deliver zis to your chef and tell him
'ow *marvelous* an artist he is?"

"But of course, mademoiselle," the waiter replied, taking the paper. "At once. I
may say we at the *Idée Fixe* are quite pleased with our *sous**-chef…* versatile at
many tasks, but a particularly deft hand with soups and sauces." With a slight bow, he left
them, heading for the swinging doors that led to the kitchen.

"Tori, what do you think you're *doing?*" hissed Ted.

"Taste the bouillabaisse," Tori answered obliquely. She was watching the waiter
intently.

Helplessly, Ted slurped a spoonful of the soup. "Okay, so?"

Tori spared him a glance. "Sorry, I forgot. You don't drink a lot of wine at your
house, do you?"

"Huh?" Ted tried to regain some control of the situation. "What was on that paper
you gave him?"

"Nothing, it's blank. I just needed a reason for him to… *there!*" The waiter
had opened the swinging door and was offering the paper to someone in the kitchen. With a bound,
Tori was on her feet and darting for the kitchen, ignoring the astonished looks from the other
patrons.

*Oh God, NO!* In a panic, Ted pursued his date, grabbing her by the arm just as she reached
the kitchen door. The amiable waiter was still standing there, blocking her view. He turned as Tori
all but collided with his back. "Mademoiselle?"

"Forgive me, but I simply *had* to offer my personal compliments to your…" She
paused and looked around the waiter's torso. "Where is he?"

The waiter looked over his shoulder, puzzled. "I don't know… he was here but a moment
ago. I can assure you, though, M. Clayman was very pleased to receive your praise…"

"And he deserves it," Ted put in hastily, pulling Tori out of the kitchen.
"Thanks so much… I know the rest of the dinner will be just as good, so we should be
*getting back to it…*" He returned to their table, his hand still wrapped around
Tori's upper arm. *Literally* wrapped around: he'd unintentionally morphed his hand,
elongating his fingers to guarantee she couldn't break loose. She had no choice but to follow
him.

"What are you doing?" she demanded in a whisper. "Magic in front of
Muggles?!"

"My thoughts exactly, Little Miss Veela," he whispered back. "Why did
you…?"

She broke in to what he was about to say. "This Mr. Clayman – he must be a wizard, Teddy!
He must have Apparated out when he heard me coming!"

Ted kept his face neutral while he tried to salvage what he could from this fiasco. "All
right… one, a wizard wouldn't be working as a cook in a Muggle restaurant – I mean, think about
it, he'd be working in a wizarding restaurant. Two, even if he *was* a wizard, so what?
It's not like he's done anything magical in front of Muggles – unlike you. You Veela'd
that guy, and then made a scene so everyone'd be *sure* to notice! We'll be lucky if
the Obliviators aren't here any moment. People have had their wands snapped for less."

She gulped, only now realizing the enormity of what she'd done.

He released his hold on her arm, surreptitiously returning his fingers to normal, and adopted a
more conciliatory tone. "I'm sorry, Tori. I guess I saw you doing magic, and I
overreacted… but you have to admit, so did you." He took his seat; by reflex, she promptly did
the same.

"I did, I know I did! Oh, Teddy, I'm sorry…"

"'Sokay, I understand. You want to be a detective when you grow up." He gave her a
slightly mocking smile, as though to say he was joking but also serious. He knew perfectly well who
Tori wanted to be like when she grew up. Ted grew somber as he realized she was still upset.

"Tori, let's just… all right, if you're really worried, I can send an owl to the
Ministry tomorrow from Hogwarts, and ask them to check and see if everything's on the level
here." Ted caught her eye and tried to reassure her. "And in the meantime, let's see
if we can enjoy ourselves for the rest of the evening, 'kay?"

"You're right. Okay, I'll try. Thank you…" Tori gave him the apologetic smile
that (though he'd never admit it) always softened his heart, and settled down to her dinner.
After a minute or two, they began to make small talk about their upcoming Hogwarts classes, and Ted
congratulated himself on having averted a major incident.

He thus failed to notice that the cause of the incident, the small bowl of bouillabaisse, had
disappeared from the table.

*

Harry Potter, known to the staff at the *Idée Fixe* as Jacob Clayman, *sous**-chef
de cuisine,* let himself into his flat well after eleven that night – which was still earlier
than he normally did – and leaned back against the closed door. He took a moment to try to calm his
nerves. That had been *far* too close a call, that evening. What in Merlin's name had
Teddy been thinking…?!

And at that moment, as if in response, the phone rang. The restaurant again? He checked the
Caller ID, and didn't recognize the number; cautiously, he picked up the receiver.
"Hello?"

"Um, hi, Harry." It was Teddy. He sounded worried. *And well he should,* thought
Harry.

"Teddy?! Where are you? How in Merlin's name can you be calling me…?" In the ten
years since Harry had first sent a birthday gift (anonymously) to Teddy, never had Teddy ever
contacted him. Harry had always been the one to initiate their contacts. He couldn't imagine
how Teddy had even got his phone number!

"Er, online phone directory," Teddy said, as though it were obvious. *Well, to
someone of his generation,* thought Harry ruefully, *it probably was.* "I mean, the
waiter tonight said your name was Clayman, and I just reckoned your phone 'ud be in the same
name." There was a short pause, in which Teddy was plainly gathering courage. The next words
came out in a rush. "Harry, I'm sorry, about tonight I mean. I just wanted to show Tori a
good time on our last night before school, and you always talk about how good the *Fixe's*
food is… I didn't think there'd be any problem, and anyway, I thought for *sure*
you'd've seen my name on the list…"

Harry sighed. "Slow down, Teddy, slow down. Relax a mo. Yes, I might've seen your name
if I'd looked, but I've been running around quite a bit today. I never got the
chance." He sighed again, too exhausted to maintain anger. There was obviously no point in
berating the boy for not giving him any warning that he was coming – bringing any witch, much less
Victoire Weasley! – when he'd never been given Harry's number. *Although a note sent back
to the kitchen might've been nice.*

"Anyway…" Teddy's voice turned formal. "I won't do it again,
godfather."

"A-*hem.* I thought I told you to call me Harry." Harry had always called his own
godfather by his first name, and he insisted that Teddy do the same for him.

"Um, right, sorry." Then, with a meekness both knew was assumed, "And I thought
you were going to start calling me Ted."

They managed to share a laugh at that. "Well, anyway, *Ted,* we got lucky tonight.
Nobody from the Ministry saw fit to investigate. I'm guessing that none of the diners thought
it was anything more than a beautiful young girl being headstrong. No harm done," he finished,
lying smoothly. In point of fact, he'd already had to do some damage control with his
employers, and he could look forward to a lot more work tonight.

"Yeah, but now she's thinking there might be an unregistered wizard… you know, a
late-bloomer that never got registered with the Ministry? And I had to tell her I'd owl the
Ministry, just to calm her down…"

"Then do that. Only send the owl to the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department. They'll
check, confirm that no Muggle artifacts were misused, and that'll be that. Case closed."
Harry took a deep breath, preparing for his next deception. "Actually, this'll be a good
time for them to investigate. You see, the reason I was running around so much today is that
I'm getting ready to go on holiday."

"Oh, Merlin, I didn't know! Um, it's not…"

"No, no, nothing to do with what happened this evening," Harry hastened to assure him,
sounding very sincere. "I'd been planning this for about a month, now."

"Oh! Well, that's great news, Harry, you deserve a break. Where do you think you'll
go?"

"Switzerland," said Harry, choosing a country at random, and some inner imp prompted
him to add, "Reichenbach Falls. I've always wanted to see the place, it's supposed to
be stunning. Anyway, though, I'll be incommunicado until I get home, and you'll be back at
Hogwarts by then… so I'll get in touch with you around Christmas. Try to stay out of mischief
until then, if you can."

"If you wanted me to stay out of mischief, why'd you give me the Map? No, but
seriously, Harry, what if something important comes up? What if… what if there *is* still a
problem because of tonight?"

Ted had a point there. Harry was quite certain that the incident at the *Idée Fixe*
hadn't yet run its course. "Um, all right. Let me give you my mobile number – *for
emergencies only,*" he emphasized.

"You have a mobile…?" Ted began, then fell silent. He was once more confronting the
fact that his godfather lived in a very different world: a world where secrecy was, for some
reason, absolutely essential. *No one at all,* for *any* reason, *ever,* could know
about Harry Potter – even Ted was told only what he had a need to know. Harry had repeatedly
drilled Ted on this point, since he'd first made his identity known, and Ted knew better than
to question it.

Harry recited the number, then continued, "Memorize it. Do *not* write it down. Do
*not* program it into your own mobile – I assume you're calling on a mobile? From your
workshop?"

"Yeah! I got it this summer so I could keep in touch with some friends – and this way,
their parents don't see owls or anything. As long as I'm far enough away from magic, it
works fine. Won't work at Hogwarts, of course." Ted gave Harry his own mobile number.

"All right, then," said Harry. "Go back to Hogwarts, and don't worry about
anything except Quidditch, you hear? Tonight was an accident, and accidents happen. Nothing to
worry about." He laughed. "I'll send you a postcard. Unsigned, of course. Have fun
this year, Ted. Oh, don't forget that special package… and listen, you be careful with Tori
Weasley. Don't do anything compromising, if you know what mean."

"Oh, I won't, Harry," Ted promised. "Like I told her tonight, her Mum is
downright scary. Oh, and Harry? Good work with those lost kids." The relief was evident in his
voice. His guardian angel was on the job again, and all would be well.

Harry smiled. "Thanks. Be well, Ted."

"'Bye."

Harry hung up the phone and immediately lost his smile.

He rolled up his left sleeve to reveal the Elder Wand, strapped to his forearm. He wore it there
at all times, just as he always wore the Resurrection Stone, just as the Stealth Cloak was always
tucked around his waist under his clothes. He unbuttoned his shirt now, unstrapping the Wand and
taking out the Cloak. With a flourish, he swirled the Cloak around his shoulders. The Cloak settled
and fit itself snugly around his body.

When Harry had first learned that his father's Invisibility Cloak was a Deathly Hallow, he
had a hard time believing it. After all, for something that was supposed to hide its wearer from
Death, it did a poor job: Dementors weren't fooled by it, heck, even Mad-Eye Moody's
magical eye could see through it. Once Harry had the other two Hallows in hand, however, the Cloak
changed dramatically. Its color became pearly-grey; it fitted itself to the shape of its wearer;
and it became, not merely an Invisibility Cloak, but a Stealth Cloak. When he wore it, Harry was
invisible, inaudible, scentless; he left no footprints in snow, made no swath in fog; neither mail
owls, nor the goblins of Gringotts, nor the magic detectors of the Ministry, could find him. For
all intents and purposes, when he wore the Cloak, Harry didn't exist.

Which was why he'd worn it continuously for the first year after Voldemort's death.
Never removing it, not for sleeping, not for eating, not even for bathing (*Scourgify* and
*Tergeo* inside the Cloak worked well enough). He still slept in the Cloak, for safety's
sake.

And now, he would again wear it continuously, until he was sure that any Ministry investigators
were stymied.

*I ought to've known Teddy'd be the weak chink in my armor,* Harry thought,
striding to the center of the flat. *If I hadn't promised Remus… but I did. And Remus and
Tonks died fighting at Hogwarts, to buy me time. Wizarding debts don't take my convenience into
account, now do they?*

He cleared his mind as he readied the Wand for use. *'Course, I gave the restaurant staff
a different story than the one I told Teddy,* he recalled. *I explained my sudden
disappearance from the kitchen tonight as just stepping outside to take a phone call – from my
brother-in-law, who was telling me about my sister's sudden illness. I told them I had to leave
for a week or two, family emergency and all that. Have to admit, they were pretty understanding
about it.*

*A week or two should do it, one way or another. By then, I'll know how closely the
Ministry's watching… and whether Jacob Clayman has to disappear for good. Probably, yes.
Luckily, Howard Seaker is up-to-date.*

A wave of the Elder Wand, and Harry's possessions began to shrink. He shifted his focus
slightly, and his clothing marched out from the bedroom and began to fold itself neatly. He went
everywhere in the flat, removing all trace of the individual who lived here.

With a thought, he conjured a trunk and watched as all the items in the flat packed themselves
into it neatly. The contents of his larder went, sagaciously, into a separate box. Harry might have
been able to do the same spells with his holly wand, but the Elder Wand would leave no magical
traces. And the spells were easy as pie with the Elder Wand, much faster – and time was most
definitely of the essence.

*The first time I met Arthur Weasley, he'd just come home from a set of nighttime raids,
looking for Misused Muggle Artifacts. So I have to assume that someone from the Ministry is on the
night shift – and could be at the restaurant right now. If not now, then certainly by this time
tomorrow. I have to be long gone by then.*

*After all, it's not Tori's mum* I'm *worried about. It's Tori's
aunt.*



3. III:  The Witch Who Won
--------------------------

**(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.



4. IV:  Pieces on the Board
---------------------------

**(A/N:** Those of you who are anxiously awaiting word on Hermione will have to suffer a bit
in this chapter… but rest assured, next chapter will more than make up for it.

**MirielleGrey** is my beta for this story, though if I'm lucky, I may draw her
10-year-old daughter into the vortex as well. (Insert evil cackle here.) My thanks to her, though
honorable mention must go to Robert Howard and Leslie Charteris.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** Well, if Harry and Company *did* belong to me, you can bet some things
would make more sense!**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**IV: Pieces on the Board**

*

There was a Healer watching him, but at least she was unobtrusive, sitting in the corner of the
Minister's office, and not hovering beside him like a mother hen. Cushions kept him propped up
in his chair, and a blanket was wrapped around his legs, but his robes were well-tailored and
didn't let his body's gauntness show. Kingsley Shacklebolt might have to yield to the
realities of his physical condition, but at least he could salvage a bit of his dignity.

"Thank you, Diggory," he said, as the Head of Regulation and Control of Magical
Creatures concluded his report. "We'll want to keep moving forward with the Werewolf
Registry reforms, of course, but it sounds as though things are well in hand." He coughed, and
sipped from a goblet filled with green potion. "Let's move on. Department of
Mysteries?"

Croaker, Head of the Department, gave the same three-word report he always gave at the
Minister's weekly briefings. "Nothing to report."

Shacklebolt nodded; no news (from the Department of Mysteries) was usually good news.
"Right. Department of International Cooperation?"

Kerricks, Head of the Department, gestured silently to his young protégé. Zabini cleared his
throat and began, "The Benelux Ministries have finally agreed, in principle at least, to our
proposal for free trade…" He continued for a few minutes, speaking in a low, pleasant voice
that never lost his listeners' attention. Everyone around the table was nodding in appreciation
as he concluded his report.

"Thank you, Zabini." It was obvious to Shacklebolt why Kerricks had Zabini give his
reports: the young man was a charmer. International Magical Cooperation could do no wrong, if
Blaise Zabini said it was well. "Let's wrap this up so we can get on with the day.
Department of Magical Law Enforcement?"

Robards, Head of the Department, passed a sheaf of parchment around the table. "Take one
and pass it on," he said. Given that Magical Law Enforcement was easily the largest Department
in the Ministry, a written summary was far less tedious than a verbal report would be.
"You'll see the usual number of actions taken by our Aurors, Enforcers, and other agents.
The statistical report shows no increase in Dark activity this year. At the moment, the Swivingham
prostitution ring is attracting the most attention, and that case'll be brought before the
Wizengamot within the week."

"'Attention'? A bloomin' media circus," snorted Diggory. "I'm
still surprised it wasn't thrown out of court."

"Granger's built a solid case," Robards countered. "I don't think
they're going to slip away on a technicality."

"*Technicality?*" The disgust in Diggory's voice was unmistakable.

Further discussion was curtailed when the Minister began to cough again. The coughing fit was
longer this time, more violent, and the Healer was halfway to Shacklebolt's seat before she was
waved back. "I'll be all right," he managed to wheeze, taking another pull from his
goblet. "Thank you for your concern, ladies and gentlemen. Robards, I'm pleased to hear
about Granger's progress. I want all Departments to be ready to offer any assistance she may
request. If there's no further business, this briefing is done." He caught Croaker's
eye as the Department Heads stood and shuffled towards the door.

Croaker came to Shacklebolt's side and gave the Healer a mild glance. She nodded and
retreated back to her corner, giving them privacy. He nodded in return and looked down impassively
at Shacklebolt. It was typical of an Unspeakable: he wasn't about to volunteer information,
even to the Minister of Magic.

"Did it work?" Shacklebolt asked.

Croaker didn't pretend to misunderstand. "No."

"So what happens now?"

A slight shrug. "We keep trying."

Shacklebolt scratched his ear thoughtfully. "Has it occurred to you that your best course
of action may be to simply walk away from this? We've done without it for a long time, really:
we don't execute criminals anymore. Not that Azkaban's a holiday resort."

"We've been denied access," said Croaker stonily. "We want to know
*why.*"

"And that's part of it, isn't it? How dare *you* be denied access, eh?
Shoe's not very comfortable when it's on the other foot, is it?"

Stung, Croaker for once responded with more information. "We still have the runes that
appeared; we *will* crack the code…" He fell abruptly silent as he realized how much he
was saying.

"Well, keep me informed," Shacklebolt concluded. "Though I still say you should
let sleeping dogs lie. It's not as though we ever knew what the thing really
*was.*"

A wintery smile tugged at Croaker's lips. "If we knew what it really was, it
wouldn't be in the Department of Mysteries."

*

Outside the Minister's office, Amos Diggory was managing to hold on to his temper, but it
was proving a struggle. An *outrage,* that's what it was! What was the wizarding world
*coming* to?!

Someone fell into step beside him. He looked up to see Blaise Zabini walking with him. "You
look troubled, Amos," he ventured.

Diggory champed his jaws and didn't respond for a moment. "I agree that Swivingham is
slimy," he said eventually. "I think his whole organization is foul. He certainly ought
to be put away."

Zabini nodded sympathetically. "A disgrace to the name of wizard."

"But for Granger to…" Diggory swallowed his words and fell silent. They continued down
the corridor, Zabini patiently waiting.

"And the worst part? That Swivingham could actually find customers! Willing to *pay*
for a roll in the muck!" burst out of Diggory. "Do they feel *no* shame?"

"That, of course, is what Granger will emphasize in her prosecution," noted Zabini.
"Without paying customers, Swivingham's offense wouldn't have been so… lurid." He
gave a graceful sigh. "I don't blame her, of course; she can't help the way she was
raised. Have you ever seen the Muggle tabloids? They air their dirty linen in public on a daily
basis."

"I suppose I must get used to it," grumbled Diggory. "The Minister wants us to
cooperate fully with her as she goes to trial…"

They'd reached the door to Diggory's office. He nodded farewell to Zabini and stepped
inside. Zabini caught the edge of the door before Diggory could close it.

"There are… degrees of cooperation, Amos," he said softly. He gave Diggory a
conspiratorial smile, released the door, and continued down the corridor to the lift.

*

"Hello, hello! Good to see your smiling faces," said Neville Longbottom, sitting on
the corner of his desk. "Welcome to your fourth year of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Take
your seats, that's it, let's get started." He looked cheerfully around the classroom
at all the familiar faces – this was his fifth year teaching Defense, and he'd been with each
of these pupils from their first days at Hogwarts.

"Now last year, as you'll recall, we covered Dark creatures of various types, and a few
examples of Dark objects. This year, we'll begin focusing on the Dark spells themselves:
curses, hexes and jinxes, spells applied directly on one wizard by another. We'll start this
week with the mildest of curses – though they're really not that mild, are they? – compulsions.
Forcing someone to act against their will or wish." He smiled and folded his arms over his
chest. "Who can tell me the most powerful such compulsion curse?"

Half a dozen eager hands shot up, and Neville again marveled at the turn his life had taken. If
someone had asked him, when *he'd* been a fourth-year taking Defense, whether he'd
ever be teaching the class – and a respected practitioner of the subject, to boot – he'd have
laughed in their face. But as the leader of the D.A. in his seventh year… as the man who'd
summoned Gryffindor's sword to destroy the last Horcrux… he was respected, even liked, by his
students, and he couldn't be happier.

He fleetingly wondered, as he nodded to a volunteer, if they'd respect him as much if he
weren't teaching a "sexy" course like Defense Against the Dark Arts. If he were
teaching, oh, say, Herbology…

"The Imperius Curse?"

"Yes, one of the Unforgivables. It's the best known of the compulsion spells, and
certainly the Darkest – but not the only one. Muggle-Repelling Charms, Notice-Me-Not charms: they
could be called milder forms of compulsion, wouldn't you say?" One of the girls had kept
her hand raised. "A question, Miss Vincent?"

"Professor, what about love spells, or potions? Are they Dark magic? And, well, there are
magical creatures that can force a person to like them… if that's done against their will, does
that make them *Dark* creatures?" Miss Vincent was pointedly *not* looking at Miss
Weasley as she asked the question. For that matter, it seemed the entire class was looking
everywhere except at Miss Weasley as they waited for him to reply.

Miss Weasley, for her part, was looking fixedly straight ahead, with the shuttered look that
meant she was trying not to explode – either in tears *or* in anger. Neville sighed and looked
Miss Vincent in the eye. "You're probably referring to the Persian slinkfur. It's
true, the slinkfur loves to be petted, and sends psychic 'pleasure' signals to anyone who
approaches. But such creatures are no more Dark than, say, the Cheering Charm you learned in your
second year… and for the same reason. Would anyone care to guess what that is?"

He paused just long enough, then answered himself. "Because such magic may influence how a
person *feels,* but it can't dictate how the person *acts.* They aren't really
compulsions, strictly speaking. Even under the strongest love potion, a person can control his
actions – *if* he's got anything resembling a spine." This last part was delivered
without a trace of a smile, and he took some satisfaction as Miss Vincent shrank down slightly into
her seat.

Neville decided the point was made, and continued with his lecture. "Not all compulsions
are necessarily Dark, mind you. Those entered with the willing consent of both parties, for
instance – starting with the Unbreakable Vow. Powerful, yes, and dangerous, certainly – but not
Dark. Somewhat less severe are magically binding contracts, wizards' oaths, and the like, where
the parties' own magic is used to constrain their actions." He paused, and looked
speculatively over his class. "Um. Are you old enough?" he wondered out loud.

Several of the boys sat up straighter, as though to make themselves taller and therefore
'old enough'.

"Yeah, I'd say so." His smile returned. "May I assume that some of you have
entertained… daydreams… about being married someday?" He held up his hands in mock terror.
"No, don't *tell* me! I don't want to know!"

It got some "eww's" and some laughter, as it often did. And Neville noted that it
brought a blush to the cheeks of two or three witches, as it also often did.

"Well," he went on, "that's an example of magical oaths. When a couple says
their marriage vows, it's magically binding on them – the Muggle concept of 'divorce'
has no basis in the wizarding world. It really *is* 'until death us do part'… your own
magic will see to that." He gave a reassuring shrug. "Of course, that same magic usually
serves to keep people from marrying the wrong person – it's easy to see if one's magic is
incompatible with someone else's. So relax." He paused, and couldn't help adding in
his mind: *As I myself found out, in the nick of time.* Aloud he added, "Besides, none of
you are *that* old enough yet."

The class laughed again, and Neville was pleased to see that Miss Weasley had joined in, her
earlier angst forgotten. Neville fancied the young Veela would have no more trouble, on that point
at least. "But back to Dark compulsions. Who here can tell me about the Ironbound Book of
Skelos?"

*

"You know," said Ron, "no matter how rotten a week I've had, I can always
count on your sunny disposition to cheer me up."

Draco Malfoy stared balefully at Ron from the other side of Azkaban's visiting room. It was,
perhaps, the only room in Azkaban that made a pretense of interior decoration… only a pretense,
though, a splash of abstract colors in a frame, hung crookedly on one wall. It was certainly more
for the benefit of the visitors than the inmates.

"Go to hell." Malfoy's voice was hoarse and scratchy. His complexion, which had
always been pale, was now an unhealthy white – except for the bags under his eyes, which were
almost black.

"Sorry, I'm only a visitor here." Ron reached into his rucksack and pulled out two
butterbeers. "But come on… have a drink with me. You know, for old time's sake." He
opened the bottles and set one on the small table next to his chair: the table flexed its legs and
walked across the room, stopping next to Malfoy's chair. Malfoy eyed the bottle but made no
move to take it.

"It's not poisoned," Ron said encouragingly.

"No. I couldn't be so lucky." Malfoy snatched up the bottle and drank deeply from
it.

"Got some pasties in here, too," Ron offered. "As good as they used to serve at
Hogwarts – remember those golden days? Oh, now, don't be such a sourpuss. Pasties have
*got* to be better than whatever gruel you usually get. 'Course, whatever you used to feed
your house-elves is probably better, too…"

Malfoy drained the bottle. "Weasel, the dementors are bad enough. I shouldn't have to
put up with your torture, too."

"Why, Malfoy, what a coincidence. I said that about you for years." Ron smiled
beatifically. "The difference is, now you *do* have to… and I don't."

"*Damn you!*" Malfoy screamed, and raised the bottle as though he were going to
hurl it at Ron's head. Instead, he checked himself and delicately set the bottle back on the
table. When he spoke again, he'd regained some control, but his voice throbbed with rage.
"Why the hell do you come here? To see me rotting away? As some kind of sick, petty
revenge?"

Ron leaned back in his chair. "Oh, gee, let's see. If all you ever did to me was go on
about my family and how poor we were compared to yours… well, *that'd* be sick, petty
revenge. But…" He started counting on his fingers. "Spiking that mead I drank. Letting
Death Eaters into Hogwarts. Trying to kill Dumbledore. Nearly killing us. Your *wonderful*
hospitality at Malfoy Manor. Attacking us in the Room of Lost Things." He grinned at Malfoy.
"Naw, I'd say this is *healthy, well-deserved* revenge."

"Don't you understand?! I had no choice–"

"And Harry even saved your life at that last one. Your thug fried the Room with Fiendfyre,
and he still flew in and *saved* your whiny arse. Heck, if Harry'd lived, he probably
would have tried to keep you out of Azkaban… that's the sort of bloke he was, always giving
people another chance." Ron's grin had turned feral, and its message was clear: *But
I'm not Harry.*

They glared at one another across the visiting room. Malfoy was the first to break the eye
contact. "Guard!"

Ron raised an eyebrow. "You prefer the comfort of your cell?"

"Over sitting here watching you gloat? Damn straight. I've got better things to
do." Malfoy stood defiantly as the door opened to admit one of Azkaban's human guards.
"Weasel, my actions may have put me here. I've made my own hell. I admit it." He
smirked, almost the same smooth smirk he'd worn as a Prefect and member of the Inquisitorial
Squad. "But so have you, Weasel. The difference is, I'll admit it… and you
won't."

Ron lowered his brows. "What the hell are you talking about…?"

Malfoy cut him off, and the malice fairly danced in his voice. "Heroic Ronald Weasley! Got
the fame, got the girl, got everything he'd always wanted – and doesn't even have to stand
in the Boy Wonder's shadow any more." The smirk broadened. "And then it all fell
apart. *Sucks,* doesn't it? God, how you must hate your life."

He walked out of the room with his head high, as though the guard were escorting royalty instead
of a prisoner. And as Ron watched him leave, his face changed from puzzlement to despair, before
settling on anger.

*

It was another sleepless night for Harry. They'd been common, almost routine, in his first
year of exile, but it had been months since he'd had a night this bad. They were nights spent
recalling his past, the friends and loved ones the Hallows had forced him to give up… recalled with
a vague, unsettled feeling that never identified itself. Distantly, he wondered if he should be
worried by it.

After several hours of staring at the dark ceiling, Harry decided that he might as well get some
use out of insomnia. He rose from his bed, slipped out of his room and headed for the front
desk.

He'd discovered that, after midnight – if no guests arrived to require attention – the
inn's night clerk would retire to a cot in the manager's office. Harry had taken advantage
of this, and of the Stealth Cloak, to use the computer at the front desk in the small hours of the
morning.

A quick glance showed that the clerk was down for the night. He took a seat in front of the
computer and, with a few keystrokes, logged onto the clerk's Internet account. He wasn't
nearly as expert with computers as Ted Lupin, but he could browse the Net well enough for his
purposes. Two purposes, mostly.

*I can't go back to being a chef,* he thought with some regret. *Not even under
another name: Jacob Clayman's style was far too distinctive. It was my own fault: I needed the
job, they asked for a demonstration, and I had to give myself an "edge". A few
well-chosen magical spices, and* voilà. *And of course, once I had the job, I had to keep on
with the spices… it was only a matter of time before some wizard noticed. And also of course,
it* had *to be Tori Weasley. I don't dare assume she hasn't told, um, anyone.*

*So no* haute cuisine *for me anymore.* *Mmm, gardening? Lawn maintenance? God knows
I've years of practice…*

At the moment, there were no online listings for job opportunities in gardening. Harry
considered using his savings to start a small lawn care business of his own… once it was safe to
come out from under the Cloak. In the meantime, he brought up websites that summarized local news
and police logs, in pursuit of his other purpose: looking for those who needed help – who he was
*able* to help.

*It's not as though I could end world hunger or stop a war,* he reflected wryly. *A
couple of times, I've been lucky enough to be on the scene of a disaster – but I can't
avert calamities on a regular basis. I'm not Superman – he at least had super-hearing. By the
time* I *hear about a disaster, it's usually too late. But I* can *help scam victims,
or accident victims…*

He stiffened as one police report caught his eye. *Or victims of abuse…*

The report took only moments to scan. Domestic disturbance… constables called twice in one week…
husband appeared drunk both times… wife refused to file charges, claiming all was well… Harry
couldn't be completely sure, since the police report wouldn't give the most important
details… but a clandestine visit to the house would soon show him the truth of the situation.

And then, perhaps, a little behavior modification, courtesy of the Elder Wand.

*Not Superman, no,* he decided with a grim smile, as he logged off the computer. *But
maybe Simon Templar.*



5. V:  The Day The Universe Changed
-----------------------------------

**(A/N:** My thanks to **MirielleGrey,** my beta for this story, who read it over and
found my errors. Any still left are my fault, and mine alone.

A couple of lines here are from Edmund Burke and T.E. Brown, and ten points to the reader who
spots them first. The chapter's title is taken from an old PBS science documentary by James
Burke, which I found too appropriate not to use.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** Jo Rowling created the Potterverse, and it is hers… but she quite obviously
doesn't understand it at *all.***)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**V: The Day The Universe Changed**

*

*"Dearly beloved," intoned the Officiant, the tufty-haired wizard who'd presided
over Bill and Fleur's wedding, "we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in
the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony…" He
was staying with the C of E ceremony, at the request of the bride's parents, and Hermione felt
a thrill as she heard the words course over her. She squeezed her bridegroom's hand, and smiled
broadly as Ron squeezed her hand in return.*

*Now the Officiant had come to the most dreaded line in the marriage ceremony. "Therefore
if any man can shew any just cause, why these two may not lawfully be joined together, let him now
speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace."*

*Hermione turned her head, ostensibly to face Ron, but in reality to survey the crowd out of
the corner of her eye.* *She could think of at least three people who might find it amusing to
ominously clear their throat at this point, or shyly raise a hand – George Weasley being foremost
on the list – and she was determined to glare each into submission before the thought even crossed
their minds.*

*But no one even pretended to raise an objection – they were all too happy for the lucky
couple. Hermione brought her attention back to her fiancé Ron, and his best man Neville. Both were
watching her, one with affection, the other with amusement, as though both had guessed what was
going through her mind.*

*And then someone* did *clear his throat. "Er… well…"*

*It was the Officiant! Horrified, she turned to face him, only to find it was no longer the
tufty-haired wizard – it was Harry. He looked from Ron to Hermione apologetically. "I'm
sorry, guys, but I had to live with your rows for too many years. And I mean, face it, the things
that interest each of you bore the other to tears! Are you sure you aren't, y'know, rushing
into this?"*

*He stepped between them, forcing them to let go their clasped hands, and faced Ron.
"Mate, her working habits drive you crazy, and she'll always be pushing you more than you
like. Plus, in a few years, she's going to be a force to be reckoned with at the Ministry. Are
you sure you want to spend the rest of your life being known only as 'Hermione Granger's
husband'?"*

*He turned to face Hermione. "Luv, he'll always prefer the easy road and the quick
fix, and he'll try to get you to slow down more than you like. In a few years, he'll be an
easy-going bloke while you'll have worked yourself to a frazzle – are you sure you want to
spend the rest of your life frustrated that he's not trying to do the same?"*

*She wanted to argue, she wanted to refute his words – she wanted to list, categorically, all
the wonderful, happy things she and Ron shared in common…*

*But the thing she and Ron shared in common… was standing between them.*

Hermione woke up with a gasp.

She spent a moment lying motionless in her bed… the bed in which, despite all the years of
separation, she still slept on the side away from the window. Hermione didn't usually have
dreams like this one, or at least, she didn't remember them on waking. Now she remembered the
vision with painful clarity, clarity that left an ache in her breast, somewhere deep where she
couldn't dismiss it.

For the dream had been a lie, an awful lie sent solely to torment her. After all, Harry had
*not* interrupted her wedding to Ron and told them to call it off. Harry hadn't been
there.

Harry was dead.

He had been dead fifteen years. Four months. And, since it was now just before dawn, nine
days.

And by this time, she occasionally had days when she did *not* miss him terribly. Such days
were rare, and she felt guilty the day after.

Things would have been different, she was sure… *so* different… if Harry had lived.

Perhaps he would have been a moderating influence on Hermione and Ron: keeping their squabbles
mild, intervening when necessary. They might have dated longer, had a chance to grow more used to
one another, married later. (Of course, at the same time, Harry *might* have continued to date
Ginny… but if her actual behavior after his death was any indication, they would probably have
split up quickly.)

Yes… *Harry* would have come with Hermione to finish their seventh year at Hogwarts.
*Harry* would have supported her as she strove to rise in the Ministry, where she could make a
difference for *all* magical races. *Harry* would…

…wouldn't have left her, any more than she had never left him.

She seized one of the pillows and hugged it tightly to her chest as she curled over on her side.
Maybe if she hugged it hard enough, it would dull the ache that throbbed there and refused to die
for five thousand, six hundred and eleven days.

*

Today she couldn't quite keep her eyes off the resplendent Potter Memorial as she made her
way through the atrium, but she only spared it a brief glance. No one in the lift seemed inclined
to engage her in small talk, for which she was thankful. She arrived at her office to find Sylvia
chatting with Dennis Creevey. Dennis looked up as she entered. "'G'morning, Hermione.
I have an update on our Mr. Clayman…"

"Ah. Give me a moment, then, and we'll review what you've got." She entered
her chambers… and stopped abruptly. "Canby, what are you doing here?"

Canby was an elf, a free elf, who had come to Hermione some years before and begged for
employment. (He would never say, but Hermione always suspected he'd belonged to a borderline
Dark family who'd fallen on hard times following Voldemort's fall.) Hermione would not hire
Canby for her household, but she'd made sure the Wizengamot legal staff hired him for clerical
work. Since then, he'd proven his worth many times over… but never more so than during the
investigation for the Swivingham case.

He stood now in Hermione's chambers, wearing a sleeveless tabard of the style that all
well-dressed house-elves wore these days, and an expression of mortification.

"Forgive Canby, Miss Hermione," said the elf, "but we're having a problem
with the… the witnesses."

"Problem?" asked Hermione in alarm.

He nodded regretfully and delivered the bad news. "They… they are refusing to
testify."

"*WHAT!?*" The elf winced at Hermione's sharp tone, and she immediately
softened it. "But… but they *can't* refuse, Canby! Their testimony is the key to our
entire case!"

"Hermione?" Dennis and Sheryl come to the door in response to her shout. She looked
stricken, while he looked confused. "Hermione, what's the problem?"

She whirled to face him. "Dennis, you must've heard we've been pursuing Jack
Swivingham for months now. You know who I'm talking about?"

"Well, yeah, they say he's been running the sleaze that's been cropping up in
Knockturn Alley. They say he's got his hand in all sorts of dodgy pies: drugs,
muscle-for-hire…"

"And the sex trade." Hermione glanced at Canby, but thankfully the elf was showing no
sign of punishing himself. "Only he's not a procurer of witches. He procures female
elves."

"Oh, Merlin! I hadn't heard *that.*" Dennis looked properly shocked… if
anything, slightly nauseous. "Sex with *house-elves?* And he… he actually found
*customers?*"

"You're such a naïf, Dennis," snorted Sheryl. "There's no activity so
slimy that *some men* won't pay good Galleons for it."

Dennis blushed, but he kept his eyes on Hermione. She could see the wheels turning in his head,
and waited to see if he reached the right conclusion.

"You're prosecuting Swivingham under the *prostitution* laws," he said
slowly. "But historically, those laws didn't apply when the sex-slave was… literally a
slave. Chattel. Property. The laws only applied in cases of involuntary indenture or…" He
stopped, and an admiring smile spread over his face. "So if you could convict Swivingham of
organized prostitution, you'd set the legal precedent that the elves were…"

"Were free beings by right, whose freedom was unjustly stolen." Hermione nodded,
impressed. "Very good, Dennis. A fair few of our upper management still haven't sussed
that out." She paused and scowled. "But evidently *someone* has. The
'depositions' last week… I doubt now they were any such thing. They were an excuse for
intimidating witnesses."

"The girls… uh, elves in question?"

Hermione nodded curtly as she turned to Canby. "Canby, we need to schedule a
counter-deposition for those witnesses, at *once.* I believe we're allowed that, by the
rules of the court."

"We can schedule, and we can summon," said Canby doubtfully. "But they will not
talk, Miss Hermione. They would not even tell Canby *why* they will not talk, although Canby
can guess." He looked steadily into Hermione's face. "Loyalty to masters. Desire to
please masters. House-elves keep masters' secrets, even after leaving service."

"Not always," responded Hermione. "I can think of one exception… hmm." She
paced a moment, lost in thought, before she looked up again. "An idea. Sheryl, please send an
owl to Shell Cottage, and ask Fleur if I can bring some guests to Dobbywatch today."

*

She was sure she must present an unusual sight, even to Fleur Weasley, who had seen many unusual
sights in her life. Hermione walked up the flagstone path to the front door of Shell Cottage, with
half a dozen elves around her huddling close to one another… and, as they drew nearer the door, to
her as well. They were all female, and young by elven standards – but their ears, noses, and other
features were less pronounced than for many of their kind, which by human standards made them,
well, not unattractive. They kept glancing nervously, furtively, around them, and hunched down as
though afraid of being noticed.

Fleur opened the door before Hermione could knock. "*Bonjour,* Hermione! I'm glad
you could come… we've missed you." She gave Hermione a Continental peck on each cheek
before stepping back and smiling at her entourage. "And I see you brought…?"

"These are Whimsy, Briony, Sylph, Brillig, Fatima, and Chalice," Hermione introduced
them, lightly touching one or two of them as she did so (quickly removing her hand before they had
a chance to flinch).

"Well, any friends of The Witch Who Won are welcome here," Fleur told them, and with a
graceful gesture invited them into her home. Hermione followed behind, hoping her grimace had gone
unnoticed… she hated, hated, *hated* the nickname she'd received after defeating
Voldemort. Just like Ha… like Harry had hated *his* nickname for doing the same, years
earlier.

But in this latest legal skirmish, she needed every advantage. And with the elves, she had two
of them, which she again *hated,* but which she would be foolish to ignore: She was The Witch
Who Won, and she was the best friend of the Defender of House-Elves. So Kreacher had named Harry
while leading the elves in the Battle of Hogwarts, and among elves the name had stuck.

"I hope you don't mind," Fleur said in a low voice as they made their way through
the house.

"The title?" Hermione shrugged. "*Ce qui sera, sera…*"

"Not that," Fleur put in quickly. "But I didn't know you were coming today,
and… well, Arthur's here with Telly."

Hermione pursed her lips but said nothing. It probably wouldn't matter, either way… and in
any case there wasn't much she could do about it at this point.

They arrived in the Cottage's back yard. The garden here was impeccably kept, courtesy of
the daily visitors. On a stone bench near one end of the garden, Arthur Weasley sat with his
six-year-old grandson Telemachus. (The Weasley clan was still trying to settle on a workable
nickname for Percy's youngest: "Lem" and "Gus" seemed too plebian, but
"Telly" was too undignified for Percy's taste. *Probably why Fleur uses it,*
Hermione reflected.)

Two house-elves sat cross-legged on the ground in front of them, looking with rapture at the
central feature of the Cottage's garden. Elves came from across Britain, across Europe, on a
sort of pilgrimage to see it and tend it: probably the best-maintained grave in England. The grave:
dug, not by magic, but by the sweat of Harry Potter's brow and the blisters of his hands. The
headstone: personally carved by the noblest wizard in elven history, in memory of the elf he'd
befriended.

**Here lies Dobby, a free elf.**

Many house-elves might shy away from true freedom, but they all admired the devotion and heroism
shown by Dobby. If it resulted in a few more house-elves considering freedom a good thing, Bill and
Fleur were perfectly willing to open their home to pilgrims. The elves, in return, tried to be
considerate of their hosts, and did not come at all hours, but at pre-appointed times. Hence,
Dobbywatch.

They also repaid the Weasleys' hospitality by tending the grounds. They *did* make the
garden a lovesome thing, God wot.

Fleur now turned to her new guests. "Have you been to see Dobby before today?" she
asked the closest… Brillig, it was. The house-elf shook her head, slightly less scared now.

"Who are these?" piped a new voice. Hermione turned to see Telly asking Arthur. Arthur
seemed slightly befuddled, as he so often did these days.

It was Brillig who answered… she seemed to have appointed herself the spokeself for the group.
"We is here to see the great Dobby. We is here as friends of The Witch Who Won."

Telly looked puzzled. "What did she win?" he asked his grandfather.

Hermione attempted to intervene, but Arthur had already begun to reply. "Everything. And
then she gave it to all of us."

Arthur put his arm around Telly and hugged him close. With a wave of his other hand, he invited
the attention of the assembled house-elves. "You see, many years ago, the Dark Lord ruled. He
was an evil man, and those were evil times for everyone. Wizards *and* elves. Some of us
worked against him, but he was powerful. But it had been foretold, there was one wizard who could
defeat him…"

"Harry Potter!" said all the elves in unison, excitedly.

"Yes," Arthur nodded, "Harry Potter. But what none of us knew, until it was over,
was that the only way Harry Potter could defeat him… was to die. When Harry died, the Dark Lord
could die. But it still took a brave, powerful witch to kill him."

Arthur was no longer seeing Telly, or the elves, or the garden. His eyes were filled with scenes
from fifteen years earlier. "We were all fighting desperately," he said softly. "The
last battle, and we had to win or lose everything, and we all knew it. At first we thought we were
winning… centaurs, elves, giants, humans, all fighting against the Dark Lord's forces. And your
grandmother… oh, she was magnificent, Telly. She killed the wicked witch. Bellatrix Lestrange. But
then…" He choked, and began to weep. "Oh, Molly…"

"What, Granddad?" whispered Telly, wide-eyed and solemn.

"Then the Dark Lord killed your grandmother, Telly. And he started to kill everyone in the
room. He… he was more powerful than all of us. Even after someone disarmed him, he could summon two
more wands and continue the attack, and it's very hard to do magic like that, you know. But
Hermione Granger…"

"Aunt Hermione?"

"Yes, Aunt Hermione. When he tried to kill *her,* she blocked his curse. Then she
started dueling him, hitting him with spell after spell. We'd never *seen* anyone cast so
many spells so fast, Telly! He tried to block them, and counter-attack, but she was faster than
him… and her last spell broke through and hit him... and he fell to the floor, dead." Arthur
smiled, but it was faint and tremulous. "And every evil thing in that room stopped fighting
when they saw him dead, and they surrendered to *her.* To no one but her. And that, child, is
why your Aunt Hermione is called The Witch Who Won."

All the elves' eyes flashed to Hermione at Arthur's words, and she felt she should say
something. "I was *one* of those trying to stop Bellatrix before she and your grandmother
dueled," she said quietly.

She fell silent, reliving the scene. She had become a true berserker in that battle, determined
to kill Voldemort for Harry. The only reason she had taken on Bellatrix, in fact, was because
Bellatrix stood between her and Voldemort. Looking back, she could barely believe she'd been so
aggressive, so vicious, so *merciless* – the tiniest hesitation on Voldemort's part was
all it took for her to launch her strongest *Reducto* straight into his heart.

Hermione knew she'd had to do it, but she took no pride in it, and she never wanted to have
to do it again.

She turned her mind back to the reason she'd brought the young house-elves to Dobbywatch.
"*This* is why we fight, Brillig," she told the elf, aware that the others were
listening to every word. "Right and justice do not win unless we fight for them. All that evil
needs to win is for the good people to do nothing." She could not directly ask them to
reconsider their decision to testify: witness tampering was now as proscribed in wizarding law as
in Muggle law, thanks to Shacklebolt's reforms (and hers). But she could make clear what she
thought was the right thing to do… what Harry and Dobby would think was right.

Feeling suddenly tired, Hermione excused herself and left the garden, returning to Shell Cottage
and, with luck, a cup of tea… or something stronger.

*

"Well?" asked Sheryl when Hermione arrived back at her chambers.

"They still haven't said they'll testify," Hermione replied wearily, "but
at least now they're considering it again. We probably won't know for sure until the moment
they're on the stand. Merlin, *they* may not know before then." She paused and picked
up note from her desk. "Dennis?"

"Said he'd come back again when you weren't so busy."

With the Swivingham trial imminent and its myriad details clamoring for attention, Hermione
really felt she'd spent as much time as she could afford on a mystery wizard who cooked for
Muggles. On the other hand, she *was* looking into the situation as a favor to Fleur, for her
would-be-sleuth teenager – and Fleur *had* just done her a favor, by permitting her to bring
six house-elves to Dobbywatch on very short notice.

"Any word on the monitors?" Hermione asked Sheryl.

Sheryl shook her head and gestured to the corner of the office, where some quills were poised
over sheets of parchment; one was writing words. "Swivingham hasn't said anything… well,
perhaps when his solicitor was visiting him in his cell, but we had to turn off the monitor for
that. Right now he's…" She glanced at the parchment. "Singing bawdy songs to himself.
Something about a hedgehog."

"Hmf. He seems pretty chipper for someone awaiting trial," Hermione muttered in
disgust. She *would* get the elves to testify, she *must!* In the meantime, however, she
should wrap up this minor matter so that she could concentrate on matters of greater import.

"See if Dennis is free now," Hermione sighed. Sheryl nodded and returned to her desk,
where she wrote a brief note, folded it into a paper airplane, and with her wand launched it into
the inter-office slipstream.

Dennis wasted no time in arriving at the Senior Counsel's office. "Thanks again for
seeing me, Hermione. I know you're busy, I'll keep this brief."

"No, no, I need *some* details if I'm to report accurately," said Hermione,
but with a smile that said that she nonetheless appreciated the offer. "I take it you returned
to the restaurant?"

"Yeah, but nothing new to be gleaned there. Clayman's employee records don't give
much more than his address, which we already have, and some personal data, which we have no way of
verifying. None of the staff had a photograph of Clayman, either."

"You at least got a physical description?"

"I got six descriptions, from six people. Which one would you prefer?" Dennis grinned
at Hermione's look of surprise. "I interviewed them separately. Each of them was very
specific about Clayman's appearance – and no two agreed in all details." He reached into a
pocket of his robes and pulled out a small device, a gymbaled hoop mounted on a round handle.
"No trace of Memory Charms or Obliviation, either. He must have used a very slick little
*Confundus* charm, clean as a whistle."

"Why is he so anxious to remain anonymous?" Hermione muttered. "Anything at his
flat?"

"Yes indeed, two things – both of which point to the fact that he's a wizard. First, I
went over the flat again in greater detail, and any trace of this guy is *gone.* Right down to
hair or spit or DNA fragments. *Nothing* that would identify him. It would be impossible for a
Muggle to do such a thorough job, so it had to be a wizard."

"So we've since concluded," commented Hermione. "And the second
thing?"

Dennis's grin had turned smugly triumphant. "The fact that he doesn't really
understand modern Muggle technology. His phone has Caller ID, and it retained the number of the
last person to call him." He placed a slip of paper on Hermione's desk, with a phone
number written on it. Hermione began to be seriously worried.

"Dennis," she said, her voice rising, "*please* tell me you didn't try
to do a search by magic through Clayman's telephone? You *know* what magic does to
telephone or computer networks! It took us *weeks* to clean up that mess with British Telecom
three years ago…"

"Which is why I've spent three years cultivating contacts within BT and BT
Mobile," smiled Dennis. "They think I work for New Scotland Yard. I asked them about this
number, off the record of course. They wouldn't give me a *lot* of information, but they
did verify that it's a mobile phone number… registered to one T. R. Lupin." He leaned back
in his chair and watched Hermione's gobsmacked face as she processed this bombshell.

It took her a gratifyingly long moment to do so.

"Are you saying… Teddy Lupin *knows* this Clayman?" Hermione said at last.

Dennis shrugged. "I'm saying Teddy Lupin called Clayman's flat on the night he and
the Weasley girl had dinner at the *Idée Fixe.* Whether it was to warn Clayman that he'd
been outed, or to get his recipe for bouillabaisse, well, that I *can't* really say… but I
know the way to bet."

*

*Circe, I don't remember when I've had this long a day,* Hermione thought tiredly,
as she arrived home. She dropped her briefcase by the front door as it closed, hung her cloak on
the peg in the hall, and went to the kitchen to scrounge some dinner.

Bottlebrush, her silver tabby Kneazle, was waiting expectantly in the kitchen next to his food
dish. "Yes, yes, you silly thing," murmured Hermione as she filled his dish,
"you're not going to starve." She opened the icebox, brought out the makings of a
salad, and began to assemble it as she reflected on her day. Her main priority, she knew, should be
on finding a way to get Swivingham's house-elf sex-slaves to testify.

And yet, her thoughts kept coming back to the mysterious Jacob Clayman. *Did Teddy know
Clayman from someplace else? Teddy's said to be knowledgeable about Muggle computers – for a
wizard, anyway – so perhaps they met online? But that doesn't tally with the other
facts…*

She shook her head, ate her salad without really tasting it, and returned to the living room.
She Summoned her briefcase, opened it, and spread the papers on the low table in front of the sofa…
glanced over them… and decided that she couldn't *bear* to look at them tonight. Instead,
she went to one of her many bookcases and looked over her library of books. She passed over the
volumes that had come from Grimmauld Place, which Harry had willed to her, and instead selected a
novel by one of her favorite Muggle authors, Dorothy Sayers.

But *Murder Must Advertise* didn't distract her, as it usually did.

Playing with Bottlebrush didn't distract her, either.

She started three letters to Rose before giving up the task as a lost cause.

In the end, she got ready for bed, whispered "*Nox*" to kill the lights, and
crawled under the covers. Her bad dream had disturbed last night's sleep – she needed a full
night of sleep tonight. She closed her eyes and attempted to clear her mind of all thoughts.

No such luck. Hermione's brain seemed to be on overdrive: thought and reasoning flooding
through it, as they hadn't done for, well, it seemed like years. For the moment, she
surrendered to the trains of logic that were using her head as a waystation.

*Assume Teddy knows Clayman… the timing of the phone call and Clayman's disappearance
strongly suggests it. Why didn't Teddy say anything about him to Victoire? Is he trying to hide
him… or protect him?*

*If Teddy swung that way, I might have suspected a love affair with an older man. But from
what Fleur's said, he's not only quite straight – and something of a flirt, as well –
he's genuinely attached to Victoire. So he must be protecting Clayman… for some other reason.
What?*

*Is Clayman a criminal, perhaps? If so, he's astoundingly good – we have no evidence of a
crime here at all! Even the use of the magical herbs and wine in Muggle food: as long as our
secrets aren't revealed, there's no law against that.*

*But this Clayman does seem to want to be anonymous. Perhaps* he's *protecting
someone, someone who'd be ashamed that this powerful wizard was working as a Muggle
cook…*

*No way of knowing. All I know is that Teddy seems to be the one doing the protecting.*

*It's not a lover. It's not a family member. Teddy's too close-mouthed about this
for it to be a casual acquaintance. Is there a pattern to his behavior? Do I know of anyone else
who's acted like this?*

Hermione rolled over and tried to settle more comfortably into her pillow.

*Well, there was Harry. This was exactly how Harry acted with Sirius. Fiercely protective of
his…*

Her eyes flew open. *Of.* *His. Godfather.*



6. VI:  The Game is Afoot
-------------------------

**(A/N:** This chapter breaks some of the Laws of Paracelsus, or at least my usual
story-telling patterns. First, it picks up immediately where the last chapter left off, which I
don't tend to do much. Second, it's a shorter chapter than my usual standards – but
attaching it to the next chapter would have made the latter a *longer* chapter than my usual
standards. My thanks to my beta, **MirielleGrey,** for her review and suggestions.

Remember, boys and girls, a computer without a password is like a window into your life. I
borrowed this chapter's title from the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Oh, and if you look up
the quote on the plinth, I feel sure you'll recognize it.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** Despite my repeated use of the *Authoritatem Tranferro* charm, the
Potterverse still belongs to Jo Rowling.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by Paracelsus**

*

**VI: The Game Is Afoot**

*

*Ridiculous,* Hermione told herself sternly. *Out of the question. Not possible. One of
those crazy notions that come in the middle of the night.* She clenched a fist and pummeled it
repeatedly into the mattress next to her.

*Harry is* dead. *I gave the eulogy at his funeral! He* can't *be alive! And if
he* were *alive, he wouldn't have needed to hide! He'd have been hailed as a
hero!*

*Which,* declared a second voice in her mind, *might well have been sufficient reason for
him to leave. He'd always hated his fame.*

Hermione shook her head angrily, willing the second voice to be silent, and tried to return to
her previous logical process. *Well, it does appear that Ted is protecting Clayman the same way
Harry protected Sirius. But there are other reasons, other possible relationships, besides
godfather and godson. It doesn't mean Jacob Clayman –*

*"Jacob" and "James" are the same name in different languages,*
objected the second voice again. *A potter is a man who works in clay.*

*That's my* point! *If Harry* were *alive, and he* were *in hiding, he
wouldn't choose such an* obvious *alias!*

*Given that he once chose "Vernon Dudley" as an alias? Sure he would.*

*But he would have let us know he was alive! If he contacted Teddy Lupin, he would certainly
have contacted* me!

*Unless he had no choice.*

*Stop it! STOP IT!*

Hermione swung her legs out of bed, startling Bottlebrush, and seized random bits of clothing
from her dresser. "I'll show you," she said aloud. "I'll *prove* it to
you – I'll *prove* he's dead. *Then* you'll believe me…" She froze in
mid-motion, then continued to dress while muttering, "I'm talking to myself. I'm
having an *argument* with myself. Oh, Merlin, this can't be good…"

*

Her sudden Apparation in the atrium at the Ministry of Magic would have caused quite a stir, if
anyone human had been there to see it at that hour. Hermione had been in too much haste (or perhaps
not awake enough) to coordinate her outfit, and her morning hair had *always* been dreadful –
as a result, she looked rather like a younger version of Mrs. Figg.

As it was, she *did* startle three or four house-elves who were giving the Harry Potter
Memorial a thorough polishing. *No wonder it always looks so gaudy,* Hermione thought grumpily
as the house-elves frantically disappeared, *they probably clean the damn thing every
night.*

For the first time in many years, she allowed herself to take a good, long look at the Memorial.
The larger-than-lifesize bronze statue of Harry gazed at some faraway horizon; by its pose, it
seemed to be taking a first step towards that distant destination. It stood atop a plinth of smooth
black stone, with a few words carved thereon.

**IN MEMORIAM: Harry James Potter. Born 31 July 1980. Died 2 May 1998. John XV:13.**

No mention of the titles Harry had hated: *The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One,* blah blah
blah. Just a simple elegant epitaph… Hermione had seen to that.

She turned her attention to the glass case next to the statue, containing relics of Harry's
life, all neatly labeled. His Quidditch robe, with "Potter" emblazoned on its back; his
copy of Scamander's *Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them,* with Harry's
"marginal notes"; photographs taken from the album Hagrid had given him.

And his wand, snapped in two – by her, accidentally, but still by her – with the pieces set end
to end.

*If Harry were alive, he'd be wandless,* Hermione thought to herself. *He
wouldn't be able to perform the level of magic that this Jacob Clayman seems capable of. And
that* is *Harry's wand, I'd recognize it anywhere.*

For good measure, she raised her own wand and pointed it at the case. "*Specialis
Revelio,*" she commanded. Harry's wand shimmered momentarily, then again lay motionless
in the case, unchanged.

*That settles it. If there were any other magic on those wand fragments, the Revelaspell would
have shown it.* Hermione started to turn away from the case, then paused.

*But if the Revelaspell had found nothing,* she reluctantly forced herself to admit, *I
wouldn't have seen* any *change.*

Her wand felt like lead as she raised it to the case again. The words had to be forced from her
lips. "*Finite Incantatem.*"

Harry's wand started to Transfigure, a very little bit, then began to revert to its previous
form.

"*NIHILO INCANTATEM!*" she screamed at the top of her lungs.

The wand immediately Transfigured, its outlines fluidly altering, turning rougher, darker. It
became a dried-up broken branch, ugly and wild. Hermione let her wand fall to her side as she
stared at the old branch without blinking, without breathing, trying desperately to make sense of
what her eyes were telling her.

*

At approximately the same hour of the morning, Harry Apparated into his inn room, weary but not
yet sleepy. He gave a thought to the provender in his icebox, decided he wasn't really hungry,
and plopped down onto the bed. He didn't bother to open his Stealth Cloak, or even turn on the
lights.

*That actually went better than I expected,* he thought. *The husband could be a jerk,
now and then, but the alcohol was his real problem – he was actually a decent enough bloke when he
was sober. And his wife really does love him.*

*I had to make sure he quit drinking, of course… and make it look like it was his own
decision. I used the idea of Fred and George's Nausea Nougats, but cast it as a spell*
inside *his mouth. And a permanent Cheering Charm on him as well, which gets triggered every time
he's nice to his wife.*

He smiled and put his hands behind his head. Satisfaction at having again done service to the
community lasted a few minutes, until restlessness began to niggle into his mind.

*It's kind of odd that I'm still not sleepy. Mmm, I suppose I could whip up a
Dreamless Sleep Potion…*

*But on the other hand, now* would *be a convenient time to check again for groundskeeper
jobs.* Harry dithered for a minute between his vague desire for sleep – or rather, his vague
discontent at not having slept – and his eventual need for money. It was the realization that he
could, at the same time, check the Web to find people who needed help that got him off the bed and
on his way to the inn's front desk.

*It's better this way,* he reminded himself. *If I can help, I should… maybe I
can't save the world again, but I can help this little corner of it. Not that anyone will ever
know, but it's still the right thing to do. People* would *be proud, if they knew.
Hermione would.*

And hard on the heels of that thought, unbidden, came an image of Hermione at Hogwarts, beaming
at him for having done something right – he didn't even remember what, it was her smile he
recalled. The memory caused him to stop dead in his tracks.

Why was he thinking of Hermione *now?* He'd avoided any thought of Hermione for… well,
it felt like eternity. At first, because it had been painful to remember her; lately, because he
felt guilty it *hadn't* been painful. She seldom came into his thoughts these days… when
she did, it was with an undefined regret that soon dissolved, along with her face, into the grey
background of his mind.

*It doesn't matter,* he told himself firmly, before the past could intrude itself again
in still greater detail. *To all of them – Hermione, yes, and to Ron too – to Luna, Neville,
Ginny – to* all *of them, I'm dead, and I have to stay dead. They'll have gone on with
their lives by now. They'll have careers, got married, had kids. The last thing they need is me
coming back to haunt them, like a bad rerun of Banquo's ghost.*

He nodded, confirming his decision, and continued to the inn's front desk… blithely unaware
of how metaphor was gradually becoming reality.

*

Kreacher opened the door of 12 Grimmauld Place a crack, but wouldn't admit Hermione.
"Madam Granger-Weasley," he said in his gravelly voice. "My Mistress does not
receive visitors at this hour."

"I don't need to see her, Kreacher," said Hermione, now acutely aware of how
bizarre she must appear, "but I *do* need to have a look at Teddy's
workshop."

"Kreacher regrets, Madam Granger-Weasley…"

"Why, Hermione!" came a new voice. "This is an unexpected pleasure. Kreacher,
show her in." Kreacher immediately opened the door wide and stood at attention as Hermione
entered the house. Andromeda Tonks was coming down the stairs, tying the sash of her night-robe
around her waist. She and Teddy had moved into Grimmauld Place following the end of the war – after
the deaths of her husband and daughter, her old home had too many sad memories.

Andromeda took in Hermione's haphazard appearance with barely a flicker of surprise.
"It must be something important, to bring you here so early. Kreacher, prepare coffee for two
in the drawing room… unless this is *very* urgent, Hermione?"

"Could you bring it to Teddy's workshop?" Hermione asked the elf. He nodded
courteously and left for the kitchen, without once muttering under his breath, about Mudbloods or
anything else. Hermione watched him go, as always amazed at the changes that time – or rather,
Dromeda – had wrought.

Harry had willed 12 Grimmauld Place to Teddy, as his godson and the last of the House of Black.
Ownership of Kreacher came with the bequest… but if Kreacher had initially been disinclined to
serve Harry, as a half-blood, he was tenfold unwilling to serve Teddy Lupin, son of two half-bloods
*and* a werewolf-metamorphmagus hybrid.

It had taken Andromeda Tonks (*née* Black) just one day to straighten Kreacher out. She had
merely declaimed, in icily patrician tones, that the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black expected
certain standards of behavior and deportment; that retainers who did not meet those standards
brought shame onto the House; and that Kreacher's services would be dispensed with unless he
too met them.

Teddy might be Kreacher's owner, but Andromeda was unquestionably his Mistress.

Kreacher stood straighter these days, and no longer mumbled. He kept himself well groomed, and
like Canby wore a sleeveless tabard – jet black, with the Black family crest on the left shoulder –
which he insisted was *livery,* never *clothes.* The style was proving popular, even
among free elves.

"Teddy's workshop, you said?" asked Andromeda, concerned now. "He's not
in any trouble, is he?"

"No, no," said Hermione hastily. *Not yet, anyway,* she added silently. "But
I have to check something on his computer." Honesty compelled her to add with a sigh, "I
suppose it could have waited until morning, but I wouldn't have been able to sleep."

Obligingly, Andromeda led Hermione through the house. Though Grimmauld Place had been cleaned up
considerably in the last fifteen years, it would never be a light and airy home; Andromeda had to
cast a *Lumos* spell as they walked down the hallway to the back door.

She stopped Hermione before opening the back door. "Remember," she warned, "no
magic." Hermione nodded her understanding and slipped out the back door. She crossed the
walled yard to a smaller building standing separate from Grimmauld Place. Originally a carriage
house when the Place was built, it was distant enough from the main house to allow the new owner to
use it as his workshop – devoted to modern Muggle technology.

At the workshop door, a sign proclaimed "NO WANDS ALLOWED – NO EXCEPTIONS" next to a
rack of wand holders. Hermione obediently deposited her wand in one of the holders before opening
the door. Inside she found a room similar to Arthur Weasley's shed, but pristinely neat. There
were a variety of electronic toys and gadgets, but the centerpiece of the collection was a 48-cm
flat screen with a wireless keyboard and mouse. Hermione sat down in front of it and turned on the
power.

*Oh, Teddy, no password protection? Did you really think no wizard would know how to use your
little toy? That was foolish…*

She checked his e-mail first: Teddy had a fair number of contacts (Muggle friends, and possibly
Muggleborn wizards during the summer), but none of them were Jacob Clayman. No recent messages
(even in the Deleted bin) concerning any restaurant; nothing that sounded like a meeting with
anyone. If Clayman (i.e., Harry) had contacted Teddy electronically, there was no record of it
here.

Next were Teddy's telephone records – Teddy evidently paid his phone and wireless bills
online, using a Muggle bank account. (*And how could a minor like Teddy set up an account,
anyway?* she wondered in passing. Another datum.) However, those records didn't list the
numbers Teddy had dialed.

Bringing up Teddy's Internet connection, Hermione checked his browser history, bookmarks and
favorites. There were two or three music sites, search engine sites, news sites, personal
networking sites, a couple of rather, er, *graphic* sites (she rolled her eyes, but had to
remind herself that she wasn't Teddy's guardian)… in short, what might be expected for a
fifteen-year-old male. Nothing to suggest any connection to an older wizard, whatever his name.

Grasping at straws, she went to his root directory to see if there were any files or folders
he'd deliberately kept out of his personal documents folder. Most were software- or
system-oriented, but there was one whose anomalous name stood out: *File:GA.* Intrigued, she
opened it.

File:GA was a folder containing numerous image files and links to websites, two or three dozen
at least, going back years. The most recent, posted on the same evening as Teddy and Tori's
date at the *Idée Fixe,* was an image file of an online news account: two children lost in the
woods, given up for dead, had been miraculously recovered.

She opened another at random: it told of a family trapped in a burning building, saved by a
freak rainstorm.

And here: A young widow with two small children, trying to make ends meet, saving pennies in a
jar, discovered a rare coin worth thousands of pounds.

And here: A corporate embezzler, caught when his bank balance suddenly showed a ten million euro
overdraft, triggering an audit.

And here, one of the earliest entries: An old woman with a rare blood type, who needed an
operation, had *three* volunteers with the same blood type walk into the hospital and donate,
on the same day. None of them could explain what had prompted them to do it. "My guardian
angel must have been watching over me," the woman was reported as saying.

Hermione nodded when she read that. *File:GA,* she thought. *File: Guardian Angel. Yeah,
right. File: Saving-People-Thing would be more like it.*

No jury would convict, based on this evidence – but Hermione considered herself much more
intelligent than any jury. She was utterly convinced. Harry was alive and in hiding, and Teddy was
protecting him. She was *sure* of it.

But how to prove it? And, once proven (*if* proven), how to find him? Did she even
*want* to find him?

The last question answered itself. If Harry was alive, she *had* to find him. She had to
*know.* After that...

Well, either Harry was dead, or he was going to *wish* he were.

*

The sky was lightening with the promise of dawn when Hermione finally left the workshop.
Kreacher and Andromeda were waiting for her at the back door. Kreacher held a silver tray with a
cup of coffee, a cream pitcher and a sugar bowl; Andromeda was sipping daintily from her own cup of
coffee. "Did you find everything all right?" she asked.

"Yes, thanks," Hermione replied absently, taking her cup. She remained deep in thought
for a few seconds. "Dromeda," she finally said, "are you busy this
evening?"

Andromeda raised one eyebrow in inquiry.

"I have two interviews… no, *three* interviews to conduct," Hermione explained,
remembering a remark from a recent owl. "As soon as I can arrange it. And for one of them –
the most important one – your presence is required."



7. VII:  Target Lock
--------------------

**(A/N:** I'd like to thank all those who've reviewed the story to date: you keep me
on my toes, which is how I like it. And sevenfold thanks to my beta, **MirielleGrey****,**
who gives these the once-over before I pass them along to you.

Once again, I am indebted to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. When you see it, you'll know
why.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** The Potterverse belongs to Jo Rowling. Harry and Hermione belong only to
themselves.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**VII: Target Lock**

*

Hermione's sleep was disturbed by a very polite but persistent owl tapping at her window.
Her eyes opened to full daylight. "Merlin!" she exclaimed, looking at the clock by her
bed. After returning home from Grimmauld Place, she'd only intended to kip for a couple of
hours… not until almost noon!

Frantically, she jumped from her bed and opened the window. The owl landed on the bed – thank
*goodness* it hadn't decided to perch on her bare shoulder! – and offered her the
parchment in its talons. It was a note from Shacklebolt's office, requesting her to meet with
him over lunch.

Of course, coming from the Minister of Magic, a "request" was as good as a direct
order.

Now approaching panic, Hermione grabbed her wand and raced around her bedroom, peeling off
clothing as she selected clean (and coordinated) robes for wearing to the Ministry. She leapt into
the shower, performed the quickest ablutions in the history of bathing, and was drying herself with
her wand even as she stepped back into the bedroom. A quick Switching Spell caused the clean robes
to array themselves on her body. Hermione checked the result in the mirror, smoothed a bit of
recalcitrant hair, and Apparated to the Ministry with seconds to spare.

She arrived at the Minister's office to find a table set for three. Kingsley was already
seated at the head of the table. The other guest was Croaker, Head of the Department of Mysteries.
He regarded her woodenly as she entered.

"Madam Granger," the Minister smiled – he didn't rise to meet her, and she would
have insisted he sit if he'd tried – and with a gesture invited her to join them. Their lunch
was light yet tasty: slivers of fish wokked with vegetables, served over pilaf. She and Kingsley
kept up a stream of small talk, with the casual ease of two former comrades of the Order of the
Phoenix. Croaker maintained his wooden silence, eating lunch with mechanical precision.

Finally, Hermione sighed and set down her fork. "What may I do for you, Mr.
Croaker?"

Croaker beetled his brows. "Do for me?"

"One assumes that was the purpose of our lunch today." She looked from Croaker to
Shacklebolt inquiringly.

Shacklebolt glanced at Croaker and cleared his throat. "Yes, well, Madam Granger – that is,
Hermione – we were wondering how well you knew Albus Dumbledore."

She blinked in surprise. "Well, we weren't exactly close… I can count on my fingers the
number of times we spoke. Har…" It was her turn to clear her throat. Her voice was reasonably
calm as she continued, "Harry was much closer to him than I was."

"And yet Dumbledore remembered you in his will."

"More as a way to evade Scrimgeour than anything else." Hermione grimaced at the
memory of the late Minister. "I'm not saying Dumbledore and I didn't get along, but we
weren't exactly bosom buddies."

Unexpectedly, Croaker spoke. "Did Dumbledore ever discuss Grindelwald with you?"

"Not really," Hermione replied, taken aback. "Of course, I know the story Skeeter
put out in her book, years ago, about Dumbledore and Grindelwald being, well, very close. And
everyone knows that Dumbledore was also the one who defeated Grindelwald in 1945… some say he
killed him, but that's not true."

Croaker's eyes never left her. "No?"

"No. Voldemort killed Grindelwald, just a few months before the Battle of Hogwarts."
Hermione returned Croaker's gaze. "He entered Nurmengard, where Grindelwald was
imprisoned, and killed him there."

He inhaled sharply. "You're sure."

"Very. May I ask what this is about?"

"No." Croaker turned to Shacklebolt. "This does raise a new possibility, though I
suspect the fact that Granger could give us this information remains the most likely
interpretation. If you'll excuse me…"

"Does this have something to do with that blocked door in the Department of
Mysteries?"

Croaker and Shacklebolt fell silent, staring at Hermione. She gave them her small, tight smile,
the one she tended to reserve for elderly males: *Why yes, I* am *that intelligent, so kind
of you to notice.* "Oh come now, gentlemen. I have to walk past the Department of Mysteries
every time I go to the courtrooms. And your people aren't nearly as discreet as they like to
think they are."

She leaned forward in her seat. "I've just proven I can help you, even if I don't
know anything about your problem. Imagine how much *more* help I can give if I *do* know
about your problem." She waited expectantly.

Shacklebolt finally spoke. "Croaker? Unless, of course, you have other options you're
pursuing…?" Croaker scowled at the Minister, then at Hermione. She continued to wait.

"As you say," Croaker finally admitted, "there is a blocked door in the
Department… as it were. The door itself can be opened, but no one can walk through the doorway now.
The block comes from the *inside.* We first discovered the block some weeks ago; it has
resisted all attempts to break through it."

"You 'discovered' the block," Hermione pounced on the word. "Do you mean
it had been there longer, and you never noticed?"

"It seems probable: that room is very seldom used."

"How much longer? *Which* room?"

Croaker gave a tiny, stern shake of his head. The message was clear: there were some Mysteries
he would still refuse to share. "More recently," he continued, "observers could see
through the door a set of runes that had appeared on… inside the room. Some of them have just been
deciphered. They seemed to point to you."

"Me?" asked Hermione in surprise.

"The rune for Voldemort, and the rune for Grindelwald… in conjunction with the rune
symbolizing one who kills or executes. We had thought the last referred to you, since you killed
Voldemort… but now, if Voldemort did indeed kill Grindelwald, the runes may refer to that event.
We'll need to contact International Cooperation, and arrange to send some Unspeakables to
Nurmengard… it might be important to see what's there."

Shacklebolt nodded in agreement. "I'll talk to Kerricks. In the meantime, Hermione,
thank you – I'm sure Croaker appreciates your help. And I want you to know how pleased I am
with your work on the Swivingham case – a bold step forward. I assume you'll want to get back
to working on that?"

It was an obvious dismissal. Hermione excused herself from the table and left Shacklebolt's
office to return to her own. She did indeed have interviews to arrange… but they had nothing to do
with Swivingham.

*

"Oooh, Captain," cooed Tori, clinging to Ted's arm in a scathing parody of some of
the older-but-less-mature witches, "what a big, shiny *badge* you have."

"It's magic, you know," replied Ted, keeping a perfectly straight face. "If
you stroke it, it…" he paused for effect, "*purrs.*"

"Oooo-*oooo-*ooooh!" she squealed in three-part harmony. "Later tonight,
will you… *show* me?"

Ted leaned closer. "I'll show you my… badge… if you'll show me your…
birthmark," he murmured suavely.

They stared soulfully into each others' eyes for a few more seconds, until they could no
longer keep straight faces. They burst out laughing at the same time.

"You two are *so* weird," said River Jordan from behind them. "D'you
think you could, like, not block the door? Some of us want to eat dinner while it's still
hot." The second-year managed to push Ted to one side as he stomped into the Great Hall.

"He has a point," chuckled Ted, and the two of them joined the tide of students
entering the Hall for their evening meal.

"By the way," Tori remarked as they took seats at the Gryffindor table, "which of
my dormmates told you about my birthmark? I want to know who ratted."

Ted's face showed surprise. "You actually have a birthmark? I was just taking the
mickey."

She eyed him skeptically, but before she could say any more, Rose approached them. "Uh, hi,
guys," she said, looking wistfully at the empty seat next to Ted.

Tori gave him a Look, the one that meant *Be* *nice.* Ted sighed inwardly. "Hi,
Rose, have a seat. How was Defense today?"

"Okay," Rose told him, scrambling into the seat, but she still looked nervous. She
lowered her voice as she reached into her bookbag. "But, um, Professor Longbottom stopped me
as class ended, and he gave me a message – and asked me to give messages to you two, too." She
pulled out two small scrolls, tied with red ribbons, and handed them to Ted and Tori.

Ted quickly unrolled his scroll and read it. "He wants me to meet him in the Defense
classroom after dinner tonight. He doesn't say why, though…"

"Same here," said Tori, scanning her own scroll. She glanced at Rose, who nodded and
held up her own scroll. "No reason given? Teddy, what have you done now?"

"Nothing! For once, my conscience is clear." He sighed aloud this time as both Tori
and Rose smirked at him. "*Honest.*"

They ate their dinners in relative serenity, despite the fact that neither Professor Longbottom
nor Headmistress McGonagall were at the head table. At the appointed hour, they excused themselves
from their classmates and headed for the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Ted wasn't
surprised to find McGonagall and Longbottom already there. He *was* surprised to find his Gran
there, along with four of the Weasley Clan: Bill, Fleur, Ron, and Hermione. They sat in a
semi-circle of chairs near the Professor's desk – facing three empty chairs that were obviously
for Ted, Tori and Rose.

Mystified, the three students took their seats. Ted expected McGonagall or Longbottom to say
something, but instead Hermione stood and addressed the room. "Thank you all for coming… I
appreciate it, especially on such short notice. I'm here to ask a few questions of you
three." She smiled at the students reassuringly. "Let me emphasize, none of you are in
trouble. But you may have some information that we need, so I'll have to question you a
bit."

She gestured to the seated adults. "The Headmistress and your Head of House are here in
their official capacities, to make sure I don't overstep my bounds. Given that you're all
minors, I've asked your parents and guardians to be present as well."

Rose looked puzzled at that, and Ron leaned forward in his seat. "She can't be here as
your mother if she's here for the Ministry," he explained softly.

"Indeed," interrupted McGonagall. "Madam Granger-Weasley, are you saying this is
a *formal* inquiry by the Ministry? If so, are we to know what it is about?"

Hermione turned to face McGonagall. "Headmistress, I'm hoping to keep this from
*becoming* a formal inquiry. As for what this is about…" She paused, seemed to consider,
then continued, "Let's hold off on that for the moment. I promise it will all be
explained." Drawing a deep breath, she concluded, "But I must ask you all to keep the
results of this interview confidential – *absolutely confidential.* Do you agree?"

The other adults looked at one another in surprise, and a hint of concern. "We'll take
wizarding oaths if you'd like, Hermione," Neville began.

"No," she cut him off with a small smile, "no, Professor, that won't be
necessary. After all we've been through, I trust you all." Her gaze included Ron as she
spoke. "I can rely on your discretion." She waited a moment until everyone in the room
had indicated their assent, then turned back to the students.

"Rose, let's start with you. Did you bring your new book with you as I asked?"

Rose nodded and dug into her bookbag. "Here," she said, holding up a small
leather-bound book. "Thank you again, Mum and Dad, it's really a *cool* gift!
I've already used it for my first Potions essay…"

Hermione accepted the book and leafed through it. "Hmm? The pages are *blank.* Rose,
explain to us how you've 'used' it."

"Huh? I thought you knew…" Rose looked from one adult to the next in confusion.
"Well, it's sort of a catalogue of all the books in the Hogwarts library. I can… I can
write a subject on the first page, and the rest of the pages will show me all the books in the
library on that subject."

"I never… how *cool!*" blurted Ted. "A *search engine* for the library!
Does it give you the page numbers too, and quotes?"

Rose nodded, smiling at Ted's approval.

"A wonderful gift, and very thoughtful," agreed Hermione, still looking at the
book's pages. "Just one problem: I didn't give it to you. Ron, did you?" Ron
shook his head.

Hermione opened the book to the front flyleaf. "Mm, but there *is* an inscription.
'For our budding Rose'," she read, "'in hopes that it will mean less library
time and more fun time. We are so proud of you!' Which we are," she added with a smile for
Rose. She held the book open and showed the flyleaf to the other adults. "Anyone recognize the
handwriting?"

Ron shook his head, as did the others. "Actually, it looks artificial," suggested
Bill. "Like it was written by a Quick-Quotes Quill, instead of a person."

"Artificial, yes." Hermione tapped the inscription with her wand.
"*Specialis* *Revelio,*" she said, and then struck the inscription more
forcefully. "*Specialis* *Revelio,* dammit!" She ignored the shocked looks,
from the adults as much as the students, and peered at the handwriting as it started to alter, then
reverted to its stylized form.

She looked again at her daughter. "How, exactly, did you receive this gift?"

"Um, it was in my trunk, on top of my stuff," said Rose. "Wrapped with a bow and
everything. That's why I thought it was from you or Dad."

"Sorry, I wish it were. We didn't put it here, which means… it had to have been put
there by someone who handled your trunk after you left us." Hermione let her gaze rest on
Ted's face. Ted blinked back, the perfect picture of puzzlement. Hermione gave it one more
moment before she continued, "Unfortunately, Rose, you're a first-year, and so your
luggage was separated from the other students'. Anyone might have had a chance to put something
inside, while you were taking your boat ride across the lake."

She handed the book back to Rose. "Thank you, dear. I've no more questions for you. You
can go back to Gryffindor Tower now."

McGonagall spoke up. "Actually, I wonder if I might examine the, er, search engine for a
few days. I'd very much like to see if we could duplicate the charms that make it work… it
sounds like something that would make a most welcome addition to the Hogwarts library." Her
unspoken corollary, that it was an unfair advantage if only one student had access to it, was
understood by all. Looking very downcast, Rose surrendered the book to her Headmistress.

"You can stay here if you like, Rose," volunteered Ron. "I reckon you've a
right to know what's going on." He gave Hermione a dark look that said he'd argue the
point – loudly and strongly – if she objected. She shrugged and turned back to the students.

"Victoire," she said, "would you please tell us about your bouillabaisse."
Hermione noted with inner satisfaction that Ted's face went perfectly blank at those words.

Relishing the attention, Tori told what happened at the *Idée Fixe* on her date with Ted.
"The *sous**-chef* must have Disapparated when he heard me coming," she
finished. "From that, and the elf-made wine in the soup, I concluded he must be a wizard. The
waiter called him Clayman, but I'd never of a wizarding family of that name, so I deduce he
must be Muggleborn, which correlates with his desire to work amongst Muggles…"

"*Thank* you, Victoire," said Fleur firmly. The girl subsided, but her shining
eyes never left Hermione.

"Teddy, how did you come to choose that particular restaurant?" Hermione asked.

Ted shrugged slightly. "I found their website on the Internet, and they'd got a lot of
very good reviews. I wanted to take Tori someplace special."

"Did you know Chef Clayman was a wizard before you made the reservations?"

"Um… well, our first hint was when Tori jumped up from the table and headed for the
kitchen. I couldn't even taste anything special about the soup." He smiled at his
girlfriend. "Some of us have better-trained taste buds, I guess."

"Did you *know* Chef Clayman?" Hermione met Ted head-on and looked him squarely
in the eye. "Have you ever spoken with him?"

Ted spread his hands. "Sorry," he replied easily, "that was the first time
I'd ever been to the restaurant."

"Is that a 'no'?"

He gave a sigh of long suffering at the density of the adult mind. "That would be a
'no'."

Hermione kept her gaze locked on Ted. He looked back at her, sincerity written across his
features. Finally, she gave him a gentle smile. "Do you know, Mr. Lupin," she said
softly, "if I didn't already know the truth, I'd have believed your every
word."

She spun in place to face Andromeda Tonks. "Mrs. Tonks, as Mr. Lupin's legal guardian,
I must ask your permission to administer Veritaserum." Gone were the gentle smile and soft
voice: the Senior Counsel for the Wizengamot was speaking now.

"One moment, Madam Granger-Weasley!" McGonagall protested.

"Headmistress, he has just crossed the line. Everything he's said has been evasive,
never directly answering the question… surely you noticed? But his last answer was an out-and-out
lie." Hermione's eyes flashed with indignation and a hint of anger as she looked from
Neville to McGonagall. "I *cannot* permit false testimony to impede this
investigation."

There was a moment of silence, broken by Neville's quiet voice. "I trust you, Hermione.
As Teddy's Head of House, I concur with whatever you decide." He glanced at McGonagall,
pinch-lipped but raising no objections, then looked at Andromeda. "Well?"

Andromeda sighed and nodded her permission. "You're as bad as your mother, Teddy,"
she added.

"I keep *telling* you: my *name* is *Ted,*" he fumed rebelliously.

Hermione snorted. "Well then, *Ted…*" She reached into her pocket and brought out
a vial of clear liquid. Stepping over to Neville's desk, she poured a small tumbler of water
from a carafe sitting there. Carefully, she tipped three drops of Veritaserum into the water.
Putting the vial back into her pocket with one hand, she offered the tumbler to Ted with the
other.

He accepted it with an air of injured resignation. "If this is what it takes for you to
trust me…" He poured the potion down his throat. He waited a second, regarding the adults with
a cocked eyebrow that said *Are you satisfied?* before offering the empty tumbler back to
Hermione. She reached for it…

… and as their hands touched, her hidden hand flashed out of her pocket and slapped his
outstretched hand. "Ow!" he cried, dropping the tumbler. It shattered on the stone floor
as everyone reacted with shock.

She gave a superior smile and showed the adults the needle she'd palmed in her hand. In
dawning horror, Ted looked at it, then at his own hand, where a drop of blood had oozed from the
slight puncture wound.

"Should you choose to take up criminology as a career," Hermione told Tori
didactically, "you'll learn why Veritaserum isn't usually given to witnesses during a
trial. It's considered untrustworthy… because you can't be sure you've dosed your
witness. The defendant's lawyer, or someone in the audience, can Transfigure it into water…
heavens, the witness himself can do it as he drinks, before it hits his stomach, if he's good
at wandless magic."

She drew her wand and, with a murmured "*Reparo**,*" reassembled the shards
of the broken tumbler.

"But…" Tori looked at Ted. "But Teddy can't do wandless magic…"

"No, but he *is* a full metamorphmagus. He can extrude a pouch on the inside of his
throat and catch the Veritaserum in that. And we'd have all believed his testimony implicitly,
because after all, we *saw* him drink it." Hermione gave Ted a mocking smile and laid the
end of her wand against his larynx. A quick whisper, and she smacked the wand against his throat,
causing him to involuntarily gulp.

"Oh, what a shame, Mr. Lupin," she continued. "Now you've had a *double*
dose of Veritaserum." She waited a moment, until his eyes turned slightly glassy. Then she
leaned over him. "Your name?"

"*Ted* Remus Lupin," he gritted out.

She flicked a fingernail on his Captain's badge. "What position do you play on the
Gryffindor Quidditch team?"

"Chaser."

"Who taught you how to use your metamorph powers to evade Veritaserum?"

Ted tried to clamp his lips together, but the truth forced itself out. "Harry
Potter."

"*WHAT!?*" cried several of the adults, but Ron's voice was the loudest. He
jumped to his feet. "What, is he *insane!?* How the hell… Are you … Is Harry really
alive, then!?"

"I don't know," said Ted.

"Ronald! Please take your seat and don't interrupt!" snapped Hermione. In a calmer
tone, she continued, "By the way, Tori, this is another disadvantage to Veritaserum: you have
to choose your questions carefully. The way Ron phrased his last question allowed Mr. Lupin to
answer as he did… after all, Harry *could* have died since they last spoke." Hermione
swept her gaze commandingly over the others, making sure there would be no further interruptions,
before turning back to Ted. "When *did* you last speak with Harry?"

"The night I took Tori to the *Idée Fixe.*"

"To warn him he'd been outed as Jacob Clayman?"

"Yes."

"When did you speak to him before that?"

"During the summer… early July."

"For what purpose?"

"He had something he wanted me to give Rose."

"The 'search-engine' book?"

"Yes."

Rose had been watching Ted and Hermione during their exchange, her gaze bouncing back and forth
like a tennis ball at Wimbledon. At this last admission, she did a double-take and stared at Ted
with an awe that bordered on worship.

"When did he *first* contact you, Ted?"

"He directly contacted me the summer after my eleventh birthday. Indirectly, he'd been
sending me birthday gifts in secret since I was five."

"Why all the secrecy?"

"He never told me."

"Why do you *think?*"

"I don't know."

"All right, then. Why did he contact *you,* as opposed to anyone else?"

"I'm his godson."

Hermione paused, and her expression softened slightly. "Oh, of course. A wizard's debt.
He had no choice." Her face hardened again. "Where is he now?"

"On holiday."

"Where did he say he was going?"

"Switzerland. A place called Reichenbach Falls."

Everyone in the room was startled when Hermione threw back her head and laughed uproariously.
"*Touché,* Harry!" she cried. She calmed down after a moment and added, mostly to
herself, "Of course, that might be his way of telling us not to come after him…" Seeing
the bewildered looks on the adults' faces, she explained, "Reichenbach Falls is where a
famous hero in Muggle fiction faked his death to avoid enemies. It's a *message,*
don't you see?"

She looked again at Ted's glazed expression. Her laughter had quite died as she asked,
"Did he ever say why he felt he had to fake his death?"

"No."

"Did he give you any *hints?*"

Ted swallowed nervously. "When he told me I couldn't tell anyone he was alive… he said
something under his breath. I couldn't hear it clearly."

"What did it sound like?"

"He said it was because… because his death was hollow. Something like that."

Hermione froze. Face pale, she stood motionless for almost a minute. "Oh, sweet
Merlin," she finally whispered, "it *can't* be…"

"Hermione?" Fleur asked in alarm. "Hermione, what is it?"

"It's… it's…" Hermione gathered herself and turned once more to McGonagall.
"Headmistress, I think we've finished with the interviews here. Could we go back to your
office?"

"My office?" McGonagall was looking confused, a rare sight.

Hermione addressed the stunned adults, her manner again turning brisk. "I had some evidence
before coming tonight that Harry might be alive: the wand on display in the Ministry atrium
*isn't* his wand, it's a Transfigured twig! Tomorrow I intend to apply for an
exhumation order, and confirm that the body buried in Harry's tomb is likewise a Transfigured
fake."

There was a general outcry of protest from the adults at the idea of disturbing the Chosen
One's tomb. This time, Neville's voice carried over the rest. "Hold on, Hermione, I
was right *there.* I *saw* it… it was Harry's body, I'm absolutely
sure…"

"And I was sure that was Harry's wand, Neville, but we were both wrong. There's no
question in my mind but that Harry's alive right now, and in hiding. Until we can find him, I
remind all of you to keep this to yourselves. Tori, Rose, would you please escort Ted back to
Gryffindor Tower? He's going to need a good night's sleep before that double dose of
Veritaserum finally wears off. Neville, Fleur, Bill, Ron, Dromeda, thank you again. Headmistress,
we *really* need to go to your office."

McGonagall found herself being bustled down the corridor by a bushy-haired force of nature.
Hermione seemed absolutely committed to – fixated on, obsessed by – whatever tasks lay before her.
For once in her life, McGonagall was unsure what to say or do. Finally, she brought up a point that
had occurred to her during Ted Lupin's questioning.

"Madam Granger..." By this point in the evening, the single name seemed more
appropriate than the hyphenated surnames. "If you believe Mr. Potter is still alive, and
you're intent on finding him… well, I'm surprised that you didn't ask Mr. Lupin if
*he* had any way of contacting Mr. Potter."

A faint smile graced Hermione's lips. "No. No, I didn't, did I?"



8. VIII:  Discovered Check
--------------------------

**(A/N:** Two chapters ago, a short chapter. Last chapter, a longer one. This chapter, a
shorter one again… but my wonder-beta **MirielleGrey** persuaded me that the chapter has to end
as it does. She also gave me the idea for the title. Thank you, Miri.

One of the lines here was adapted from a similar line by Spider Robinson… but I think *he*
got it from Heinlein, so I'm clear.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** That's not *my* Epilogue. Those aren't *my* interviews.
And I definitely don't deal in anvils. So no, I'm not Jo Rowling, and don't own any of
this.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**VIII: Discovered Check**

*

Rose Weasley's thoughts were whirling as she tugged on one of Ted's elbows. The
interviews in Professor Longbottom's classroom… the revelations about Ted, and *Harry
Potter!* Ted was actually working to protect the greatest wizard who ever lived… The Boy Who
*STILL* Lived! And, Circe, was that her *own mother?!* Wow, was she ever brilliant, but…
wow. Rose promised herself, then and there, that she was *never* going to cross her Mum ever
again, or even *try* to hide anything from her.

The Veritaserum was still causing a certain grogginess: Ted was stumbling and trailing behind
the two witches. They had to help him back to Gryffindor Tower, one on either side, and it was slow
going in places – particularly on the trick staircases. It allowed Rose to play back the interview
in her mind.

Finally, her curiosity got the better of her. "Teddy? How do you know it's Harry
Potter?"

"Mm. What do you mean, Rose?" Tori asked. She seemed distracted, as though half her
mind were somewhere else.

Rose shrugged. "Well, Teddy's never seen Harry Potter, right? Really, when you think
about it, this could be *any* wizard… *saying* he's Harry, *talking* like Harry,
maybe even *looking* like Harry… but how would any of *us* know?" She tugged on
Ted's arm again. "I'm kind of surprised Mum *didn't* ask you. So how
*do* you know?" she asked again.

With a direct question put to him, Ted had to answer truthfully… but that didn't mean he had
to answer responsively. "Things he's said. Things he's given me."

"Oh. You mean, like the book he gave me?"

"Yes."

"*Why* did he give me that book, Teddy?"

"I asked him to."

"You *did?*" Rose's heart soared. "*Why?*"

"To remind him of his past."

"Oh." Rose could make very little of that answer. After a moment, she went back to a
previous topic. "So what did he give you, to convince you he was Harry Potter?"

"A Map."

Rose regarded Ted quizzically. "What's so special about a map?"

"He said it was from one Marauder's son to another." Ted struggled to set a
brisker pace forward. He needed to shake off the effects of the Veritaserum as quickly as possible
– and warn his godfather that his cover was about to be blown sky-high, just as soon as Hermione
got the exhumation order from the Ministry. He had a day's grace, at most…

The trio's progress came to an abrupt halt as Tori stopped short. She gave a gasp, and her
bright blue eyes widened… then narrowed dangerously. With more force than necessary, she swung Ted
around to face her. Seeing her expression, he was uncomfortably reminded that Veela powers included
the throwing of fireballs.

But she spoke pleasantly enough. "Rosie, you're going about it all wrong. You can't
ask open-ended questions, or you're leaving him a loophole to wriggle through. No, this is how
you do it…" She considered very briefly. "Teddy, are you a metamorphmagus?"

He blinked… he certainly hadn't expected anything so innocuous. "Yes," he replied
readily.

"You can assume other human forms?"

"Yes."

"Even female forms?" Tori took a step closer and lowered her voice. "Anatomically
correct female forms?"

*Uh oh.* "Yes."

"Have you ever done so in the girls' shower?"

Sweat broke out on Ted's forehead. "Yes." *Please don't ask, please
don't ask, please…*

Tori took another step closer. He could feel her body's warmth, see the honeyed smile on her
face. "Was *I* in the shower at the time?"

*Oh God, she figured it out. That damn birthmark…* If Ted could have metamorphed his vocal
cords into silly string at that moment, he would have done so – but the Veritaserum wouldn't
let him. "NNnnnnnngggggggyyyyes."

With her fingertip she tenderly caressed his face, smiling sweetly all the while. She lowered
her voice further, and told him in seductive, dulcet tones, "You are so dead, they'll have
to bury you twice."

*

In the Headmistress's office, Hermione stared at the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, trying in
vain to think of a response to what it had just told her.

Professor McGonagall found it for her. "You manipulative old bastard!"

Dumbledore looked pained. "I've been guilty of many things, Minerva, but acquit me of
that at least."

"You've always known Harry's Cloak was a Deathly Hallow," interjected
Hermione. "And now you tell me that you hid the Resurrection Stone in the Snitch you willed to
him. Making sure, of course, that he could only retrieve it when it was too late to help him. *I
open at the close.* Yeah, right."

She strode up to the portrait and jabbed a finger at it. "And *now* you're saying
that you *also* always knew that Harry was a Horcrux! Before we read his farewell message, you
*knew!* And you always *expected* him to die facing Voldemort! No *wonder* you never
taught him anything that might be *useful* in your lessons together… like, oh, how to
*fight!* Sacrificial lambs aren't *expected* to fight!"

"My hope was that Harry himself would realize the need to be, as you put it, a sacrificial
lamb," replied Dumbledore. "If he went to his death willingly, the deep magics of his
mother's protection would keep him alive. He had to die, to destroy the Horcrux within him, but
it would not be a *permanent* death."

"No, of *course* not! It would only be a *little, temporary* death! Hardly even
an inconvenience!" Hermione turned her back on the portrait and stomped away angrily.

"But if he *had* returned from his… temporary death," put it McGonagall,
"would Potter have been able to summon the Elder Wand from Voldemort's hand? It *did*
go flying during the battle, but we all assumed it was due to a random *Expelliarmus*
charm…"

The portrait looked grave. "Let us hope not. Not one man in a million could safely be
trusted with all three of the Deathly Hallows. I certainly could not have been… I could not even be
trusted with only two of them. It's why Severus and I went to such lengths to insure that the
Wand would lose its power forever."

"Saying nothing to me about it, as usual," McGonagall retorted. "And just how did
you plan to accomplish this?"

"By choosing to die of my own free will, in the manner of my choosing. Had I, the
Wand's master, died undefeated, killed by Severus at my own request, there would have been no
successor master."

"But that didn't happen!" Hermione had spun around and was facing the portrait
again. "The Wand still had plenty of power in that last battle. So *somebody, somewhere,*
must be the Wand's master." She looked away, eyes unfocused, as she considered what
she'd heard. "But… but if he didn't die… and if *he* chose as *you* did… oh
my God, of *course* he would. And *that's* why…"

She drew a deep breath and looked up at McGonagall and Dumbledore. "That's why he
left."

*

That night, Ted lay in his bed with the curtains drawn, as though he were trying to sleep – but
sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. He was, after all, still fully dressed, even though in
bed... and he'd brought with him the two items he'd need to warn Harry.

The evening had been painful enough. Tori had wasted no time in conferring with all the other
Gryffindor girls, who sent many a furious glare in his direction. Now every single one of them was
giving him a shoulder so cold it could freeze the fire in the fireplace. Even *Rose* was
refusing to speak to him… as though he'd even *be* in the first years' shower! Geez,
did they think he was some kind of *pervert?*

He'd conscientiously limited himself strictly to fourth years and above. Not that anyone
seemed to appreciate it.

The one silver lining in the toxic waste dump that was his current life was that Tori and Rose
had kept his Veritaserum dosage a secret. All the girls, mindful of his "offense"
(Ted's thoughts insisted on the quotes), would have taken advantage of his current state to ask
all sorts of incriminating questions, if they'd known. And the guys, if *they'd*
known, would have been curious to learn all the details of the girls he *had* seen in the
showers. Not that Tori hadn't cowed *them* into shunning him tonight, too.

Ted had no doubt that, within a day or two, he'd be experiencing a much more…
*palpable…* retribution as well. He couldn't suppress a shudder at the thought.

*If you're ever taken captive, don't let them give you to the Veela.*

Snores from the fifth-year boys' dormitory were beginning to compete with one another.
Cautiously, Ted opened his curtains a crack and peeked out. No one looked awake; no one was
suspiciously motionless in pretended sleep, either. Silently Ted emerged from his bed and crept to
the window, the two items in his hands. He opened the window wide, checked his dormmates again to
insure they still slept, then stepped onto the windowsill.

In one hand he held his mobile phone; in the other, his Levinbrand, that worthy successor to the
Firebolt. Ted mounted the broom and jumped off the windowsill into the midnight sky.

And headed straight up.

*People always accuse me of breaking the rules,* he thought with a mental grin, *when all
I really do is test their limits. Well, usually…*

The phone, like any advanced electronic device, wouldn't function at Hogwarts at all: even
if there were no active magic being practiced near it, there was simply too much ambient magic in
the castle itself. If he tried to use his phone anywhere around the school, its circuits would fry.
And leaving the school grounds, of course, would earn him a detention.

But if he flew high enough, he could get far enough away from the castle to allow the phone to
work – while technically never crossing the boundaries of the grounds. The big question now was,
how high was "high enough"?

And he *dared not* make a mistake, and ruin the phone. He *had* to warn Harry – and
he'd only get one chance.

So upward he flew, until he could see the lake and the forest shrunken at his feet, until the
chill of the air began to be painful. Ted remembered another trick he'd learned: he metamorphed
his lungs, enlarging them like those of Himalayan sherpas or the natives of Peru. He continued to
breathe normally now, even at his current altitude. (What was it, a mile? Mile and a half? He
shouldn't go *too* high, or he'd have no signal strength.)

He had to risk it. Cautiously, he turned on the phone's power. It seemed to be all right,
which was a good sign. He dialed the number Harry had given him… listened to the ringing on the
other end.

*For emergency use only,* he reminded himself. *Well, this certainly qualifies.*

Ringing. Ringing. Still ringing. *Harry, please, for your own sake, wake up and answer the
phone!*

*

Motionless. Perfectly motionless, Harry sat on the edge of his bed, "listening". It
was the only analogy he had for the extension of subtle senses no human could fully appreciate or
understand. He didn't understand them himself; he only knew what they told him.

Somewhere very close, someone was dying.

It was a relatively peaceful death, a gentle departure for an elderly man. A slowing of the
heartbeat, in sleep. He was… he was in one of the rooms here at the inn. Very close to Harry. Very
close to death.

Moments like this served to remind Harry that the two were *not* one and the same. The
moments had been rare, in the years since he'd acquired the Deathly Hallows, but they'd
happened often enough for him to know what was happening. Death was at work, and Harry must not
interfere.

He could neither speed the old man's passage, nor prevent it. And he knew better than to
try.

*There.* Harry felt it brush over him and through him, soft as down feathers, colder than
interstellar space. The departing soul, journeying to… Harry couldn't say. He'd always felt
as though the soul should be traveling *up* or *down,* but no: it passed *through,*
like a bird winging through the empty sky. The idea diminished him, in some nebulous way.

He shivered slightly. Death could not find Harry, wrapped as he was in the Cloak – as he always
was, these days – but its presence was always disquieting. Whenever he sensed someone nearby
succumbing to Death's touch, Harry took care to remain alert, quiet, and inconspicuous.

So when his mobile phone on the dresser began to warble, he was understandably startled.

*Probably the manager of the restaurant, wondering when I'll be returning,* he thought,
returning to the mundane. He rose from the bed and stepped to the dresser. *He's just about
the only person who'd be calling me… who even has my mobile number…*

But as he picked up the phone, the display showed an entirely different number: one given him by
his godson less than a fortnight earlier.

Hurriedly, Harry peeled the Cloak away from his head and neck so that his voice could escape. He
accepted the call. "Hello? Ted, is that you?"

"*Harry!* Thank Merlin you're awake!"

Harry didn't bother to mention that he hadn't been sleeping. "Ted, I'm warning
you, if this is about one of your pranks gone wrong, or anything less than the direst…"

Ted interrupted him. "*She knows!*"

Harry paused. "*Who* knows, Ted?"

"*Hermione* knows! *Everything!* She came to Hogwarts tonight and I had to take
Veritaserum and she made me tell her that you were still alive…!"

Harry started to speak, but Ted overrode him. "And *yes,* I tried the trick you showed
me with the pouch in my throat, but she knew about that *too!* And she said she was going to
dig up your body tomorrow and show it *wasn't* your body, which would *prove* it to
everybody!"

"All right, Ted, calm down," ordered Harry, knowing now he had to wrap up the
conversation quickly. He glanced around the room at the few of his belongings he'd unpacked –
he didn't want to abandon them if he didn't have to, but he couldn't use magic to
Reduce them for transport until the phone was safely turned off.

"What's done is done," he went on. "I don't blame you, so don't you
blame yourself. If Hermione dosed you with Veritaserum, you really had no choice."

"But… but…" Ted sounded distraught. "But they *know!* McGonagall, and
Longbottom, and Tori's parents, and *Gran**!* How'm I supposed to explain to
*Gran* that I was spending summers with…"

"With your godfather," Harry finished firmly. "Just tell her the truth, Teddy. It
won't matter: they still won't find me. I'm afraid this means I won't be contacting
you at Christmas after all… and I don't know *when* I'll see you again."

Now Ted sounded positively wretched. "But… I'll still be able to call *you,*
won't I, Harry? I mean, if something else happens? If I take precautions and
everything…?"

"Ted, I plan to ditch this phone the moment we hang up. So I really have to get
going…"

"Wait, hold on, Harry, it'll be okay. We can still talk, *really.* I *told*
you, magic can't track through phones or the Internet, right? It's impossible – the magic
crashes the system. I mean, you *must've* learned that at Hogwarts, same as I
did…"

"Ted," Harry said with emphasis, "if I learned *anything* at Hogwarts, it
was to *never* underestimate Hermione Granger!"

"And yet somehow," came a hard, cold voice from behind him, "you keep doing
it."

The bottom dropped out of Harry's stomach. Slowly, not hearing the buzz of static from the
now defunct phone, he turned in place. Hermione was standing at the foot of his bed, her face a
mask carved from furious stone, her wand's glowing tip pointed right at his head.

Fifteen years of exile had just been thrown out the window. His two worst fears were now
realized: Hermione Granger had found Harry Potter – and the Master of the Deathly Hallows was being
held helpless at wandpoint.



9. IX:  Flint and Steel
-----------------------

**(A/N:** Anyone expecting a fluffy sweet reunion might want to step outside for a while.

My thanks once again to **MirelleGrey,** who beta'd the story… and to all my reviewers,
who keep me honest. Which is not to be construed as an admission that I'm not.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** The guys who invented the transistor never envisioned the Internet. Jo
Rowling created a whole universe, but never realized all its implications. That's *our*
job, isn't it?**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by Paracelsus**

*

**IX: Flint and Steel**

*

He stood unmoving and watched her eyes closely as they took in the sight of him, from his
disembodied head – all that could be seen of him, with the Cloak covering the rest of his form – to
the phone seemingly floating in mid-air. Her wand never wavered: it stayed pointed right at
him.

The eyes came back to look directly into his own. Harry had never suspected that brown eyes
could *blaze,* but he knew better now. He remained in place, like a stag at bay, watching for
signs of an imminent attack.

"So," Hermione finally said in a tight, controlled voice, "you *are*
alive."

If she was talking instead of jinxing, he had a chance. He gestured with the dead phone.
"How did you find me? I thought magic couldn't… through phones…"

She snorted. "I expected Ted to try and warn you, so I put a transcribing spell on him
tonight – the one we use at the Ministry to monitor what prisoners say. Only I set it up to report
location, as well as words. Lo and behold, it started reporting his voice at Hogwarts *and* in
Manchester. After that, it was a simple step to… to…" A puzzled look flitted across
Hermione's face… then her eyes rolled upwards into her head and she began to collapse to the
floor.

Harry was instantly beside her, tossing away the phone to get one arm around her waist, while
the other plucked her wand from her limp hand. He got her to the bed and gently lowered her onto
it. For some reason, it didn't occur to him to levitate her.

"And yet somehow, *you* seem to underestimate *me,* too," he murmured.

Using the Elder Wand for fifteen years had taught Harry a fair bit about raw magic. In
particular, he'd discovered that the lessons taught at Hogwarts were based on, or at least
reinforced, a fallacy: the idea that wand motions were important. Maybe they *were* important
for first-years, like pronunciation was. But just as spells could be performed voicelessly, or even
wandlessly, they could be performed with a wand – but without wand motions.

Such as the Somnius Spell he'd just cast, using the Elder Wand strapped to his forearm,
without a single word or gesture.

He turned away from the bed and began to Reduce and re-pack his belongings. It made a good
excuse to avoid thinking about what he had to do next. *But actually,* he told himself,
*that decision was made fifteen years ago. I did think it would be easier on everyone if they
thought I was dead… but it doesn't matter if they know I'm alive, so long as they can't
find me. If I can't be found, I can't be fought.*

*It's time to leave England, looks like. Should've left years ago – I've only
stayed here because of my commitments to Ted. But he's almost of age now, and I can complete my
godfatherly duties from abroad if need be. Probably not Europe, it's too near, and too
magically populated. Canada, maybe.*

Just as it hadn't occurred to Harry to levitate her, it didn't even cross his mind to
Obliviate her. If it had, he might have justified not doing it by the fact that she wasn't the
only person Ted had named as knowing he might be alive – but in truth, the idea of Obliviating
Hermione was literally unthinkable.

*I wish I didn't have to blindside her like that, but I hadn't much choice. At least I
could disarm her with a minimum of fuss. I'll be sure to leave her wand next to her, where she
can find it, before I…*

He paused, then resolutely completed the thought. *Before I leave again.*

Harry pulled the Cloak's hood back up, letting it remold itself over his head, as he turned
for one final look at Hermione. It was the first time he'd looked at her that evening, really
*looked* – and it was the first he'd seen of Hermione since the Battle of Hogwarts. Then,
she'd been an adolescent witch, her face streaked with sweat and grime, robes torn and dirty
and burnt in places, adrenaline and fatigue competing in her voice. When thoughts of Hermione had
come to haunt him in years past, that image was the one that came most often.

He was therefore unprepared for the Hermione he now saw: a witch in her full flower of
womanhood, no longer slim awkwardness but lithe grace, with features glowing in beauty even as they
showed the signs of confidence and competence.

All cognitive processes crawled and came to a halt. He couldn't stop looking at her.

He knew it was imperative that he leave at once, but he *could not* stop looking at
her.

*Leaving them all back then, when they all thought I was already dead – that would save them
from pain, that made sense, that felt right,* he finally told himself. *Leaving her again now,
when she knows I'm alive – that would only be convenient.*

*And though you may have forgotten the fact, Harry old son, the Hat* did *put you in
Gryffindor.*

After a long, long moment, he sat down on the edge of the bed. Reluctantly, he pulled back the
Cloak's hood to expose his head again. He examined Hermione's wand, still in his hand, and
yielded to a whim: He pointed it at her unconscious form and said softly,
"*Rennervate.*"

The spell flashed from the wand's tip into Hermione's body, as he felt sure it would.
*Not that it means her wand is mine now… I've always been able to use her wand a little.*
He watched carefully as she gave a small moan, then opened her eyes. They flicked around the room,
settling on his head.

Her expressionless mask immediately slammed back into place. "I would have expected you to
be long gone by now," she said coldly.

*Well, now that it's known I'm alive, there doesn't seem to be much point in
hiding away and faking my death anymore,* were the words Harry intended to say.

"It hurt too much to leave you the first time. I couldn't do it again," is what he
said instead, to his vast surprise.

Hermione's eyes went wide. She struggled into a sitting position on the bed and reached for
her wand, still in Harry's right hand. Reflexively Harry offered it to her… and as he was thus
occupied, her own right fist shot out, connecting squarely with his face.

He tumbled backwards off the bed, bleeding from the mouth, and looked up from the floor to see
Hermione standing over him in what might charitably be described as a towering fury. "*It
hurt YOU too much!!??*" she screamed. "*Hurt YOU?! God DAMN you, Harry Potter, you
LEFT me!!*"

"Er, yeah," Harry said, moving backwards on his hands and buttocks until his back was
against the dresser. "But I had to, honest. I *had* to leave the wizarding world,
Hermione – at the end, let me explain, at the end of that battle I had all of the…"

"I *know* about the Hallows, dammit!" she shouted. "Dumbledore's
portrait finally got around to telling me all about them. I *know* you had the Ring and the
Cloak, and I figured *out* you'd summoned the Wand, and I *know* that's why you
felt you had to leave. I'm not *talking* about that!" She spun away from him, hugging
her arms tightly around her torso.

He got to his feet carefully, watching her. He brought one hand to his bleeding mouth, but
decided against healing it for the moment. "Hermione," he tried again, "I wrote the
message with my will, remember? Where I explained that I was a Horcrux…"

"And that you had to die if the rest of us were to defeat Voldemort. I remember,
Harry," she interrupted again. "I remember it *very* vividly, thank you. I'm not
talking about that, either. Quite." She glowered angrily over her shoulder at him.

Harry shook his head slowly. "Then I'm sorry, but I don't understand what
you…"

"*You LEFT me – left US!*" She'd turned to face him again, her arms uncrossed
and fists clenched at her sides. His apparent lack of response seemed to inflame her own anger.
"When we came back from the Shrieking Shack, and the entire castle heard Voldemort's
little ultimatum. Ron and I went to his family to *comfort* them, remember? We thought you
were right beside us, but when we looked up, you were gone. And *I* was worried, but Ron said
oh no, you *wouldn't* be so *stupid* as to actually *go* to Voldemort…"

"I went to Dumbledore's office," he said calmly enough, "to use his Pensieve.
For those last memories Snape gave me."

"And *then* you went to Voldemort," she replied, not at all calmly, "without
*one word* of goodbye. After all we'd been through, after all we'd done together… you…
you…" Her voice broke, but though words failed her, the glare was eloquent.

"You weren't to be found," he persisted. "And there was no time to look. And
even if…"

"*Oh, for God's sake!*" Hermione suddenly erupted. "Will you
*please* take off that damned Cloak?! I feel ridiculous talking to a floating head!" The
total irrelevance of her demand took Harry aback. Before he could react, she strode quickly up to
him, grabbed two handfuls of Cloak, and yanked it open.

Neither of them was prepared for what happened next.

Harry drew in a great, shuddering breath, as though he'd fallen into an ice bath. His green
eyes turned huge, and as Hermione watched, they brimmed and overflowed with tears. Harry began to
weep uncontrollably, staggering to one side and bracing himself upright on the dresser.

Hermione watched open-mouthed as Harry continued to sob. It took her several moments to convince
herself that this was not some sort of trick or ruse. "What is it, Harry?" she finally
asked, keeping her voice neutral.

"The man…" Harry choked out. "Oh God, that poor man…"

"What man, Harry?" Hermione continued, in the same even voice.

"The one who just died," he wept. "I felt him die, it was like a release for him,
but oh sweet Merlin… and his *wife,* she's still asleep next to him, how's *she*
going to feel when she wakes up and finds him…" His hands fumbled with the edges of his Cloak,
preparing to draw them closed again, and suddenly Hermione understood.

"Oh, no you don't," she snapped. She came up to his side and batted at the air
near the Cloak's edges, where his still-invisible hands had to be. "Off! Take it off
*now!*"

His eyes came up to meet hers. The dispassionate look from minutes before was long gone,
replaced by an almost tangible remorse. "Hermione…" he began.

"*Shut up!* Take off the bloody Cloak and just *shut up!*" Whatever Harry
was about to say, Hermione did *not* want said while he was in the throes of some magically
induced mood swing. Instead she pulled more of the Cloak away from his body. Hermione was not to be
denied: through sheer force of will she got Harry to cooperate.

Once removed from his body, the Cloak had become visible, a pearly grey in color. Hermione was
certain it had been silver when last she'd seen it. Beneath the Cloak he was dressed in singlet
and light trousers, which looked as though they'd been worn (and slept in) for at least a week.
"How long have you been wearing this?" she demanded.

"Um? A couple of weeks, almost. Since…" Harry paused and wiped the tears from his
cheeks, as he considered what to say. If she'd questioned Ted under Veritaserum, then she had
to know about Jacob Clayman. "Since Ted and Victoire's dinner at the *Idée
Fixe.*"

"Every waking hour?" Hermione wrinkled her nose at his appearance. "Yes, I would
think so. And before that?"

He sighed in defeat. "I've been sleeping in it for fifteen years. It guarantees no one
can detect me."

"Such as the Ministry," she nodded sharply. "Well, that stops as of right
now."

Harry stiffened at that. "Stops?"

"Yes, stops. Harry, I know why you thought you had to leave… but it's time to come back
now."

She gave him no reason, merely stating it as an unarguable fact. *If she thinks that, then she
doesn't really understand why I had to leave,* Harry thought. The surge of emotion had
abated somewhat, and he was able to collect his wits… and recall his purpose. "As far as the
Deathly Hallows are concerned, nothing's changed," he said firmly. "I can't ever
let myself be defeated, or even disarmed. Which…"

"'Even disarmed'? *Oh!*" Hermione said in quick comprehension. "That
explains the unprovoked attack when I arrived!"

He couldn't help wincing. "I'm sorry about that. But you were holding a wand on me.
The Hallows gave me no choice." He regarded her steadily, making no attempt to evade her gaze.
"Just as I had no choice about exiling myself. I couldn't stay in the wizarding world… and
I can't go back."

She said nothing at first. Harry watched as Hermione processed what he'd told her. When she
spoke again, her voice was still hard, but no longer as cold: there was a trace of sadness in it
now. "You're wrong, Harry. You can't stay away. You'll end up destroying
yourself." She gestured at the Cloak, now lying in a tumble on the bed. "Look at what the
Hallows are doing to you. The Cloak seems to actually cut you off empathically, as well as
visually. I'm astonished you can still feel *anything* for other people."

"That's not true," he objected. "I try to help people all the time…"

"Anyone else would have stopped trying years ago," she tried not to snap. Hermione
wanted to shake him by the shoulders, and *force* him to understand. Her anger at him burned
as hot as before, but its focus was blurring: from resentment at his treatment of her, to
frustration at his obtuseness. The Hallows were *damaging* him – didn't he realize the
risk he was running…?

The question answered itself: of course he did, and he didn't care. He'd long ago
accepted the risk, as the only way of ridding the world of the Hallows forever.

Hermione dropped the line of argument as unproductive. She tried a different approach: making a
conscious effort to soften her voice, she said, "Harry, what about all the people who care for
you? You owe it to them to come back. And there's so much you can do to help, Harry… so many
things that still need to be accomplished."

He squeezed his eyes shut and screwed up his face in pain. "Hermione…" he began. He
hesitated, then opened his eyes and continued more firmly, "I think… I think I'm doing the
greatest service I can do by eliminating the Hallows. I mean, would it make any difference to
reform the wizarding world, if… if it's torn apart by war? The last two Dark Lords have both
wanted the Elder Wand – so if there *is* no Elder Wand, maybe there won't be a next Dark
Lord. The only way to do that… is to die without passing it on. And the only way to do *that…*
is to not be around to be challenged."

There was no response she could make to that.

With unfathomable sadness, he added, "I know people care for me, Hermione. And… and I care
for them, too, more than I can say. But I've already died for the wizarding world. I mean, I
didn't fake dying – I *died.* I don't think I can *owe* them more than that. I
won't come back… for them."

Hermione would not let herself falter. She would not cry; she would not beg. "So you intend
to stay 'dead', then?"

He raised a hand, palm outward in supplication. "Please, Hermione, don't make my
'non-death' public. I know you were planning on digging up my body to prove it's not
me…"

She never thought she'd be able to laugh, but she did. "That was a spur for Teddy –
excuse me, Ted – to make sure he contacted you tonight. Honestly, why would I make such a public
show, right after insisting that everyone in the room keep the matter quiet?" She sobered and
looked Harry in the eye. "You want me to keep your secret, Harry? I will. You want to destroy
the Hallows? More power to you. You insist on destroying yourself, and dying alone, to do it? Be my
guest – I can't stop you. After all, it's For The Greater Good. Just like it says at
Nurmengard."

With those words, she Disapparated. Harry collapsed on the bed and covered his face with his
hands. And for the second time that evening, he wept uncontrollably.

Which proved Hermione the stronger of the two: she waited until she had undressed, showered, and
climbed into bed before she allowed the tears to finally flow.



10. X:  Chinks in the Armor
---------------------------

**(A/N:** Once again, my thanks to **MirielleGrey,** who proofs these chapters before I
send them on to you.

For those of you who are actually keeping tabs on the chronology of this story: I made a slight
error in counting days, not enough to affect the story line, but enough to peeve me. From the hints
I've dropped, it's clear that the story – from Chapter III onward – is set in September,
2013. This chapter therefore begins on the evening of Thursday the Twelfth. And yes, I know what
the next day is.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** Random spot check: still not my characters. Will keep checking periodically.
Just in case.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by Paracelsus**

*

**X: Chinks in the Armor**

*

One good thing about being a pariah: when a bloke needed privacy, he was sure to get it.

Ted Lupin sat in one of the plush armchairs of the Gryffindor common room. It was late; almost
everyone had headed for their dorms. The few hardy souls remaining were pointedly not interested in
him. For tonight, that suited him very well… he had business. Ted touched the pocket of his robe
again, and felt the reassuring crackle of the note inside. It had come to him this afternoon on the
Quidditch pitch, folded as an airplane, and all it said was *Gryffindor fire, midnight;* but
that was enough for Ted.

"Ted?" He looked up to see Tori standing before him, a level look on her beautiful
face. "Ted, we need to talk." Ah yes, those wonderful words every male was thrilled to
hear.

"Tori, I've already said I was sorry. Repeatedly." Ted *did* want to have
this discussion, but not right now. Right now, he needed her to leave. It was getting close to
midnight…

"I know, *mon cher,* and as soon as I've exacted my revenge, I'll forgive you
completely." She lowered her voice. "I mean we need to talk about your…
*godfather.*" The last word was mouthed silently.

*This,* on the other hand, was *not* a discussion he wanted to have. Ted's face
went blank, a reflex based on years of training. "Everything I can say, you heard last
night," he said curtly.

"Ted, what has he been doing for all these years, that he needs to have everyone think
he's dead? Have you been *helping* him? What's he…"

He lowered his brows sternly and shook his head. "I can't talk about *any* of
that, Tori. They aren't my secrets, and I gave my promise. It was bad enough I was forced to
say what I did." He looked away from her into the fire, hoping to put an end to the
conversation.

"Forced by my aunt, you mean?" Curse it, why did she have to be so sympathetic all of
a sudden? "Ted, I… I'm sorry about that, honest I am. I know you're upset, and
you're right, it wasn't fair of her to dose you with Veritaserum…"

"That?" He snorted with bitter mirth, still looking into the fire. "Actually,
that was classic pranking. *Beautiful* – like the Weasley Twins at their finest. I've got
to admire her technique, if nothing else." Which was true, so far as it went.

"Then…" Tori sounded puzzled. "Then why are you down here so late…
moping?"

"I'm not moping. I'm just… sorta *persona non grata* in the fifth-year dorm
right now." He turned his head to look at her. "They're kind of upset that I'm
not willing to share the wealth from my Adventures in Shower-land."

"What did they expect? That you'd somehow change them into metamorphmagi and bring them
along?"

Ted didn't reply in words. Instead, his hair grew longer and blonder, until it was a perfect
match for Tori's hair. He turned his eyes blue to match hers as well, and softened his jawline
somewhat. He didn't morph further, keeping the rest of his facial features – but waiting to see
how long it would take supersleuth Victoire Weasley to make the correct deduction.

Not long at all, as it turned out. "They want… they want you to *model…!?*" she
sputtered in outrage. "*Me!?* As in… all the *way…!?*"

"Not just you, if it's any consolation. There are three or four girls' names that
keep, er, coming up."

"Euurgh! Well, then, it's a good thing you're *not* in the fifth-year dorm
right now, because it's about to get very *uncomfortable* there in a couple of
minutes…!"

"Oh, it's not just the fifth-years," Ted assured her. "You know Watkins, the
seventh-year Prefect? He took me aside right before dinner… wanted to know if I could, ah, model
Prudence Boomhalter for him." Ted morphed back to his usual appearance, though he made his
hair jet black.

"Watkins?" Tori looked at him aghast… she'd *liked* Watkins. After a moment,
her expression became quizzical, finally dissolving into a soft smile. "So the fact that you
are, as you say, *persona non grata…* does that mean you're *not,* ah…?"

He raised one eyebrow and affected an upper-crust accent. "I may be a scoundrel and a
rogue, m'dear, but I am *still* a gentleman."

She promptly sat in his lap and gave him a hard, passionate kiss. Sadly, it was also a
*brief* kiss: she broke away before it could develop into a full-blown snog session. Her face
remained inches away from his, though, and their gazes met and locked. The soft smile continued to
hover on her lips, which Ted took to be an encouraging sign. "I'm forgiven,
then?"

Tori blinked for a moment in sudden confusion, then pursed her mouth in thought. "Mm, some
final penance is still required. If you bring my breakfast to the common room on Saturday –
we'll call it even."

Rising gracefully from his lap, she added, "Of course, I still have to decide what to do
about your gonad-brained dormmates, but not tonight. I'm off to bed now, luv… don't stay up
too late."

"I won't," promised Ted. He barely waited until she was headed for the stairway to
her dorm before turning back to the fireplace. That had been close, very close… it was just past
midnight… thank Merlin he'd distracted her…

And Harry's head appeared in the fire. Furtively, Ted glanced over his shoulder at the
now-empty common room, and back to Harry. "Hi, Harry. Wow, your timing is perfect… I was
afraid you'd be spotted."

Harry smiled. "By the girl? I took a trick from my own godfather: I 'flashed' my
head through the fire for a quick look, to check the scene before making my appearance." He
chuckled and added, "So… do you morph your tongue when you kiss her?"

"Ew," Ted began, then paused. The idea had merit…

He put the idea aside for later consideration. "Harry, are you all right? When our phone
call last night cut off…"

"I'm fine," Harry said. "I'm sorry about the cut-off… some magic
happened, and the phone was ruined."

"You mean Hermione managed to track you down – even through the BT phone system? Wow, she
*is* good. No wonder your phone got zapped."

"Well, that's why I'm Flooing you tonight, to let you know I'm okay." He
hesitated, then met his godson's eyes frankly. "*And* to emphasize again that none of
this was your fault."

"I made you a promise," Ted said, falling morose again. "I should've found
some way to keep it."

"Not your fault," Harry repeated.

"No… it was 'Auntie' Hermione's fault," said Ted, his resentment coming
back to the fore. "She made me break my word to you – in front of witnesses. In front of
*Tori…*"

"Ted…" Harry's voice held a note of warning.

Ted ignored it. "Her and her so-called 'interview' – 'inquisition' would be
more like it. And she *used* me to track you down! Who the hell gave her the
*right…*"

"*Enough!*" barked Harry. "*That's enough!* You do not *get*
to criticize her!" His voice had gone well beyond warning now. Even through the Floo fire, his
green eyes were cold. "Not to me."

Taken aback, Ted stammered, "I, I'm sorry, Harry. It's just… she made me betray a
trust!"

"If it comes to trust, I've trusted Hermione Granger with my life. Now I'm trusting
her with my secret, just as I trust you." He sighed and smiled ruefully. "I'll say it
again, Ted, you didn't betray me: Veritaserum is considered, what's the word, *force
majeur.* And Hermione won't ever betray me, either. It's okay."

Ted didn't reply immediately. "If you say so," he finally conceded.

"I do. It's one thing I'm absolutely certain about. Please… Ted, I ask this of you,
as your godfather, please don't hate her."

With a sigh in return, Ted said, "Right, then… I reckon she needed to find you, no matter
what." Shrewdly he added, "And she found you. How'd that go?"

"It," began Harry, and stopped. He tried again: "The thing is." After
another moment, he came up with, "See, Hermione and." Ted decided it was only fair that
he enjoy the spectacle of his high-horse godfather at a loss for words.

"We had… issues," Harry finally said. "It… didn't end well. But… but some
things she said…" He fell silent again.

Ted waited for Harry to continue. After a minute, when Harry seemed lost in his own thoughts,
Ted ventured, "At least she didn't exhume your body today…"

Harry looked up. "We don't need to worry about that," he replied. "Ted,
I'll be replacing my mobile; I'll get the new number to you the same way you got my note
earlier today. But I've decided…" He hesitated, then continued more diffidently,
"I've decided that, in case of emergencies, Hermione needs to have it too. For
*emergencies,*" he stressed, and waited to see if Ted would challenge this. When Ted said
nothing, he continued, "So I'm assuming you know where Rose lives?"

"Rose? Don't you know… oh, of course not, you wouldn't have needed me to deliver
her gift if you could've done it yourself." Ted shrugged nonchalantly. "I've
never been there. Really, most of my contact with the Weasley family is through Tori and her folks.
I mean, it's not as though you were around to introduce me. I could ask Rose
tomorrow…"

"I had to borrow someone else's Floo to contact you tonight," put in Harry,
"while they're away. I won't be able to do it again tomorrow. I'll find out some
other way, then…"

"Rose lives with her mum outside Wookey Hole," came a new voice. "They call their
place Enthalpy House, but heaven help you if you ask what that means." Ted turned in shock to
see Tori's head peeping over the back of the divan. "I'm sorry," she said
fearfully, "but I saw your face in the fire and I knew Ted was going to talk to you and I know
Ted can't tell me anything but…"

"You mean, while you were kissing *me,* you were looking at the fire…?" Ted fell
speechless at this evidence of perfidy.

Harry gave Tori, or at least the top of her head, an appraising look. "You're Tori
Weasley, aren't you? You heard Ted's confession yesterday under Veritaserum?" he asked
her. When she nodded, he sighed and said, "Come on, then. It seems we have to enlist
you."

Tori wasted no time in moving to Ted's side by the fireplace. "I swear to you, Mr.
Potter, I'll take any oath you like, but I'll keep your secret safe. You must be on a
*very* important mission, if you've had to remain in complete hiding all these years – as
a *Muggle,* even!"

He laughed softly. "Keep the secret as well as Ted has, and that'll do. Thanks."
Harry glanced at Ted and smirked. "Beauty, brains, *and* loyalty – this one's a
keeper, lad."

Both Ted and Tori blushed bright red, but Tori didn't flinch from Harry's eye.
"Why, thank you, sir, I agree. Are you paying attention to him, Ted? A man would have to be a
fool to throw away all *three* of those."

Harry seemed to choke on something, and had to cough to clear his throat. "Yes," he
managed to finally say. "Good… good point. All right, I need to be off, but you'll get the
new number tomorrow, Ted. Remember, it's only for emergencies… I still expect to be gone for
the foreseeable future. Good to finally meet you, Tori." With a small *pop,* Harry's
head disappeared from the fire.

Ted looked at his girlfriend with an increased respect. "*Nice* parting shot, that.
What was that all about…?"

"Weren't you listening?" Tori rolled her eyes. "*Men.*" And she
would say no more, despite Ted's best puppy-dog look – which, from a metamorphmagus, was rather
impressive.

*

As the two witches made their way through the atrium to the lift, Aurora Sinclair felt sure her
co-worker would address her once they were in the lift together, alone. Zinadia had that
"antsy" feel about her.

She smiled to herself as she proved herself right, the instant the doors slid shut. "I hear
you're going to a Fire Party tonight."

"My second one," replied Aurora. "Good food, good music, good people – Friday
nights don't get any better."

Zinadia gave a wistful smile. "Must be nice."

"Mm hmm, it *is* nice." Aurora lowered her voice to a more intimate level.
"The nicest thing, of course, is just the chance to mingle with… well, you know, Our Own Kind.
Just to be ourselves, without having to worry about politics or watching what we say… you know,
relaxing and acting naturally…"

Her co-worker nodded. "And Zabini's home… well, from what I've heard, it's
impressive. Not overwhelming like the Malfoy mansion used to be, but, um…"

"Elegant," Aurora nodded in response. "Rather like its owner. It's what
you'd expect of Blaise Zabini, after all."

"Oooh, yes," giggled Zinadia. "I'll bet that's the *best* part of a
Fire Party, getting to be up close and personal with *him…*"

"Oh, I don't get my hopes up. I know better than to try and get between Blaise and
Flame. That's why they call them their Fire Parties, you know." They shared a quiet laugh
together at this, while Aurora eyed Zinadia speculatively. "Listen, you know that sometimes we
can bring a guest, if we're willing to vouch for them…" Zinadia was bouncing on her toes
in anticipation as Aurora finished, "Are you interested?"

"*Tonight?* I'd love to! Uh, you'll have to help me pick out what I should
wear, I mean is it casual dress or evening wear or…"

The lift doors opened and the two witches looked up. Immediately, they were transfixed where
they stood – while the smiles remained on their faces, it was only because they were frozen
there.

With an expression as dark as a thundercloud, Hermione entered the lift. Her nods to Aurora and
Zinadia were cordial enough, but it was patently obvious that The Witch Who Won was seething.

Aurora's self-preservation instincts kicked into overdrive. Thunderstorms, after all, were
notorious for striking more than the intended target. "Oh look, this is our floor," she
said quickly. She grabbed Zinadia's wrist and stepped forward.

"Um, no it isn't…"

"Yes it *is,* Z," hissed Aurora, and pulled her co-worker out of the lift just as
the doors slid closed. Hermione barely noticed their departure.

Whether through luck, or through some silent message transmitted ahead of her, Hermione met no
one else between the lift and her office. She stormed into her rooms, slammed her notebook down
hard on her desk, fell into her chair, and put her head in her hands. The memos and letters on the
desktop that would normally jostle for her attention sat prudently quiet.

Sheryl waited a moment for Hermione to regain her composure before making so bold as to peep
through the doorway. "Anything I can do?"

It was one of the things Hermione liked about Sheryl. Anyone else might have started with
exploratory questions: *What's wrong? How are you feeling? Are you et cetera?* No, Sheryl
went straight for the fix.

"In the years we've worked together," Hermione finally said, not lifting her head
from her hands, "have I ever asked you to do something intrinsically demeaning to your job
title or position, like fetching me coffee?"

"Black, no sugar?"

"And as strong as possible. Thank you, Sheryl."

By the time Sheryl returned with a steaming mug, Hermione had recovered to some extent. The
letters on her desk had been read but not answered; three references had been pulled from her
bookshelves and were lying open on her desk. "I've just come back from Magical
Creatures," she explained, accepting the coffee. "I spent the entire morning there,
trying to get them to help me find a way to persuade our witnesses to cooperate. You'd think
*someone* there would be knowledgeable in elven psychology, wouldn't you?"

"Well, yeah, I'd think so. Especially now, when they're having to deal with more
freed elves than ever…"

"*HAH!*" The acid scorn in Hermione's voice could etch platinum.
"They're still mired in the same troglodyte mentality that's worked *so* well
over the centuries. 'Browbeat and marginalize.' First they refused to see that I might have
a problem – just *order* the elves to testify! And then one imbecile suggested that the elves
weren't competent to testify, because they could be ordered to say anything – not even
*realizing* how contradictory that was!" Another tome joined the three on the desk.

"In the end, I had to go to Amos Diggory to get anything worthwhile," she concluded.
"He said their best expert on house-elves was doing field work this week, and hard to reach...
but he'd contact her and have her Floo me as soon as possible." Hermione looked
disgusted.

"I'm impressed," said Sheryl dryly. "You managed to get through that entire
tirade without once using the word 'stonewall'."

Hermione breathed through her nose until she was somewhat calmer. "It's not the first
time I've faced tactics like this," she noted. "Kingsley and I have had to deal with
plenty of stalling for each reform we've enacted."

"That's a point! I mean, the Minister did say you were to have every Department's
full cooperation. If you're not getting it… well, couldn't *he* do
something?"

"As it happens, I'm meeting with him this afternoon… he wants to hear the final case
against Swivingham before it goes to trial Monday." As she said this, she was reminded of
something; she moved aside two of the books and began to rummage through the papers on her desk.
"But I don't want to bring up Diggory's stalling tactics if I can avoid it.
Kingsley's so frail these days… he shouldn't have to deal with this sort of mess."

"And besides, you've always been his 'go-to girl' – you've handled messes
like this before now, am I right?"

"Yes, that's true too… oh dear, the notes for the case. Where are they – oh!"
Hermione lightly smacked her forehead. "I remember now, they're scattered all over my
coffee table. And I really need to research house-elf motivation… Sheryl, where's Canby? He can
go to my home and collect the notes for my meeting."

"Canby, I believe, is currently making sure that the personal needs of our six witnesses –
particularly Brillig – are being adequately addressed," said Sheryl in her driest voice
yet.

"If he ends up compromising our star witness – in *any* meaning of that word –
I'll ship him to the Ministry field office in the Falklands, I swear," Hermione
mock-growled. She and Sheryl both knew that Canby would do nothing of the sort: as Hermione had
when she'd taken the elves to Shell Cottage, he would avoid any direct mention of the
Swivingham case. "All right, fine, he can take Brillig with him, but he has to get my notes
back here before my meeting with the Minister!"

Sheryl nodded and turned to go. "Oh, and Sheryl?" added Hermione, lifting a sheet from
the stack of daily letters, "I've a note here from Ron, asking me to lunch with him today.
Will you please let him know that I'm not available? And that it's not just an excuse,
I'm really *not* available?"

Another nod, this one with sympathy, and Sheryl left Hermione to her research. Though it took a
couple of minutes for Hermione to buckle down and work. She was well aware, *painfully* aware,
of why Ron wanted to have lunch with her. And what – or rather, *who* – he wanted to
discuss.

Even if she weren't swamped with work, she would find an excuse to avoid talking about Harry
– she'd given her word. She wished it made as good an excuse to avoid thinking about him.
She'd managed to avoid it for two days… trust Ron and his lunch invitation to steer her
thoughts back in that unwelcome direction.

*Back from the dead – literally, according to Dumbledore,* she thought. *But ever since,
he's been in hiding. From the wizarding world. From me. After I stood by him! The… the
ungrateful* berk! *I could have* helped *him!*

*Except I wouldn't have helped him destroy himself. And that's just what the Hallows
are doing.*

*Well,* fine! *If he wants to play the martyr, that's* fine.

*Except you can't* play *the martyr if no one's watching. If it's a lonely
sacrifice… he* is *a martyr.*

Listlessly, Hermione turned a page of the book in front of her and tried to focus on the text.
Harry had made his choice – stupid, pig-headed and *hurtful* though it was, it had been his
choice – and she could do nothing but accept it. After all, she couldn't locate him again: he
was too canny to remain in that hotel room, he was almost certainly no longer there. She had no way
to find Harry now. Even if she wanted to.

Even if she still – despite everything – missed him terribly.



11. XI:  Fresh Perspectives
---------------------------

**(A/N:** For those of you who've requested to see other members of the Potterverse: this
chapter's for you. My thanks as always to **MirielleGrey****,** my beta Who Can Fix
Anything.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** Credit must go to Jo Rowling for creating the characters; but I take some
small credit for the situation in which they've found themselves.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XI: Fresh Perspectives**

*

Roswitha, the proprietress of the Three Broomsticks, met Neville as he came in. "Thanks for
coming," she said in a low voice. "He's actually been fine so far, but I just
didn't want things to get, you know, out of hand."

"Understandable," Neville agreed. Roswitha had taken over the Three Broomsticks
following her cousin Rosmerta's retirement; though she was capable enough, she was years
younger than Rosmerta, and hadn't her experience in handling potential crises. "Where is
he? What's he had?"

"He asked for a private room in the back. So far, three firewhiskeys and a plate of
sandwiches. He hasn't touched the sandwiches."

Neville thought quickly. "Bring us a couple of butterbeers, please, and put it all on my
tab." He made his way to the back room and entered with an air of confidence. Ignoring the
sour look from the room's sole occupant, he took a seat at the table opposite him, picked a
sandwich off the serving plate, and began to eat.

Ron glowered at Neville. "I'm not drunk."

"I didn't say you were. Hello, by the way."

"No, but you're here because I'm drunk, aren't you." Ron considered his
words for a moment. "Or on the way."

"Maybe a little." Neville knew it would, in fact, take more than three shots of
firewhiskey to get Ron *really* drunk. Their only visible effect so far had been to make his
speech more emphatic, if anything. "Of course, if you insist on getting pissed, I can't
very well stop you – I have one more class to teach this afternoon. But at least have something to
eat first." He offered Ron the plate of sandwiches.

Ron took a sandwich and bit into it, just as Roswitha bustled into the room with two
butterbeers. She left them on the table, deftly scooped up the used shot glasses, and made a
graceful exit before Ron could swallow enough to ask for stronger drink.

"Hmph. It's a bleedin' conspiracy," Ron muttered. Nonetheless, he accepted the
butterbeer. They ate and drank in silence for a few minutes.

"I'd planned on meeting Hermione here for lunch," Ron finally said. "She sent
word this morning, she was too busy. Something about a big case on Monday."

"Sorry to hear it," said Neville. "When did you ask her to lunch?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Okay, it was this morning. I get it. She couldn't change her
schedule that quick, I should've planned ahead, I *get* it."

"Her work for the Wizengamot is pretty important," Neville noted mildly.
"It'd be hard for her to drop it on the spur of the moment, even for family."

"Yeah. Family." Ron took a deep swig of butterbeer. "Or even for me."

Not knowing what to say to this, Neville said nothing. He was startled when Ron straightened in
his seat and declared, "She dropped everything quick enough earlier this week, though,
didn't she?"

"Slightly different circumstances," Neville extemporized. He knew exactly what Ron was
talking about – it had been on his mind for the last two days, too.

"Not from where I sit." Ron thumped the bottle onto the table and met Neville's
gaze challengingly. "So what did *you* think about that dog-and-pony show?"

Neville opened his mouth to reply, but Ron surged onward. "He *can't* be alive,
Nev! It's… it's crazy! *You* were there when You-Know-Who marched on Hogwarts – hell,
you were closest! Was that or was that not Harry's body?"

"It looked like it… but then, I was kind of preoccupied at the time." Neville sipped
as he regarded Ron thoughtfully. "I do remember how broken up Hagrid looked, when he carried
Harry's body out of the forest. And, well, Hagrid's no actor."

"*Exactly!* *Exactly!* And… and look at Kreacher! I mean, I like Teddy Lupin well
enough, but there's no *way* Kreacher would consider Teddy his master if Harry were still
alive! And Merlin's beard, the goblins track inheritances better than anyone – they
wouldn't have passed Grimmauld Place to Teddy if Harry were still alive!"

"Nor, for that matter, would you and Hermione have received *your* bequests,"
said Neville.

Ron deflated slightly at that. "I didn't want his damned money," he said after a
moment. "It was… just one more Harry-hand-out…"

"I really don't think that's how Harry meant it, Ron," protested Neville
firmly. Which Ron already knew, and they both knew it – but Neville also knew there were moments
when Ron believed the truth of what he'd just said, even if he wouldn't normally admit
it.

After the Final Battle, Ron had chosen not to return to Hogwarts with Hermione and finish his
schooling. Instead, he'd joined with George to reopen Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. He made
good money… but if he'd thought George would accept him as a partner, as a replacement for
Fred, he seriously miscalculated. Ron worked hard, he contributed good ideas for new gags, and he
helped the business to flourish – but his brother's employee he would always remain.

Once Hermione had received her NEWTs (setting a modern record), she'd accepted Minister
Shacklebolt's personal offer, to help with codifying wizarding laws with an eye to making them
fairer. Between that, and Neville's own year with the Aurors in an advisory role, Ron had seen
a window of opportunity: he applied for Auror training, convinced that his exploits fighting
Voldemort and Death Eaters would make up for his lack of NEWTs. He quickly learned otherwise. The
Aurors *would* have accepted Harry, without question, and Ron might well have got into Auror
training on Harry's coattails… but certainly not on his own merits.

It would be all too easy for Ron, in his darkest and bitterest moments, to credit Harry Potter
for anything he had in his life – including his failures. Small wonder, then, if Ron looked askance
at the possibility that Harry might not be dead.

"Look, Nev," said Ron, shaking his head as though to clear it. "Look... if Harry
miraculously came back to life today, I'd be happy. You *know* I would. I mean, you and
I've been good friends over the years, but Harry was my best friend all through school. I'd
be glad to hear he was alive – but he's *not.*" He picked up the bottle again, but
didn't drink from it… instead, he stared at it moodily. "He *can't* be. So why
was Hermione so all-fired sure he *is?*"

"Well…" Neville scratched his chin. "At a guess, because Ted Lupin said under
Veritaserum that he is."

Ron shrugged. "Only proves that Teddy honestly thinks Harry's alive."

"Why would he think that, though? It can't be some idle fancy on Ted's part. The
amount of detail in what he told us…" Neville scowled. "I think we have to assume an
imposter, Ron. Someone representing himself as Harry to Ted. The question is *why.*"

"An imposter? Huh. I suppose, yeah…" Ron finished his butterbeer quickly and raised
his voice. "Roswitha, darlin'! It's gettin' pretty dry in here!"

The door opened, and both Ron and Neville turned to greet the Broomsticks' landlady. But
Roswitha had someone else beside her as she entered the room. "Hello, Neville," said
Ginny pleasantly. "Cheers, Ron. A bit early in the day for ruining your liver, isn't
it?"

Ron goggled at his sister for a second, before giving Roswitha a reproachful look. "Anyone
else I should expect? Madame Pomfrey? The Temperance League, maybe?"

Roswitha blushed, but stood her ground. "See, here's how it is, Mr. Weasley: I'll
keep serving as long as you can keep ordering them, but only if there's someone to see you home
after. *Or* I can stop right now. Your choice."

"I think, between the two of us," Ginny smoothly interposed, "Neville and I can
take care of this. Why don't you bring Ron one for the road, as it were? And a Cliodna's
Choice for me. Neville? No?" She joined Ron and Neville at the table as Roswitha left to fill
their orders, flipping her waist-length hair over the back of the chair as she sat down.

"You're lucky, actually," she continued cheerfully. "Play-off training
doesn't begin until next week. So when I got Roswitha's owl, I was free to pop over."
She smiled at Neville. "I haven't seen you in a while, Neville. How're you and Susan
doing?"

"As well as always," replied Neville. Whenever their paths crossed, Ginny never failed
to ask after Susan. His relations with Ginny were currently friendly enough – on the surface,
certainly – but neither of them could forget their history.

"Glad to hear it," said Ginny. "So… what were you talking about so intensely when
I showed up?"

Neville couldn't help giving Ron a warning look. Ron responded with an almost-but-not-quite
roll of the eyes, to say that he didn't need the warning. "We were playing
'what-if' games," Ron said. "You know, what our lives would've been like if
Harry hadn't died."

Ginny blinked, obviously not expecting that answer. "Well, I probably wouldn't be
Chaser for the Harpies," she said candidly. She didn't need to elaborate; her pursuit of
Harry before he'd died was well known to the other two. "And Neville probably wouldn't
be a professor," she added.

"Oh, I imagine I would," Neville objected. "I enjoy working with students, after
all."

She shook her head pityingly. "Harry would be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, not
you. I mean, think about it. If he'd lived, he'd be… well, the Boy Who Lived. Not to
detract from what you did," she added reassuringly, "but compared to Harry? He'd have
put you in the shade – even if you *weren't* letting him. Which you would've – you let
The Witch Who *Won* do it to you, after all."

"Hardly a question of 'letting'. We both played our parts – but in the Final
Battle, people will remember that I killed Voldmeort's snake and *she* killed Voldemort.
She *earned* her title, I'd say."

"You organized the resistance at Hogwarts – even after Luna and I left," Ginny
insisted. "You fought as well as anybody in the Battle. You could have parleyed that into some
major clout, if you'd wanted. You could have been a real mover and player in today's world,
and you *know* I'm right."

Neville sighed. They'd been over this ground many times during their brief relationship,
before it fell apart, and he felt not the slightest desire to go over it again now.

Their drinks arrived, putting a hold on the discussion. As soon as Roswitha left the room,
however, Ginny picked up the thread. "And what about you, Ron?" she asked, turning to her
brother. "D'you reckon you'd be an Auror by now, if Harry'd lived? You and
Hermione could've made a great team: you'd catch the dark wizards, and she'd try
them."

"I think," Neville interrupted sharply, "we've just about played out this
game. Let's drop it, shall we?" He was irritated by Ginny's jibe at Ron – with its
catty reference to Ron's and Hermione's estrangement – and it showed in his voice. This was
his classroom voice now, the one that expected immediate compliance.

Rather to his private surprise, he got it. "Sorry," murmured Ginny shamefacedly,
looking down at the drink in her hands. "I *was* being mean, wasn't I? I'm sorry,
Ron… Neville…"

Neville's expression showed he agreed. All he said, however, as he rose from the table, was,
"No worries. Well, I need to get back to Hogwarts. Ginny, you sure you can see him home?
He's really not…"

"Not that pissed yet," Ron confirmed. "And I *am* sitting right here. No,
Gin and I will finish our drinks, catch up on our lives, and then she'll take me back to my
rooms in Diagon Alley. I'll be right as rain in the morning." He caught Neville's eye
and nodded in appreciation. "Thanks, Nev."

Nodding back, Neville took his leave of the Weasley siblings. He couldn't help but feel a
little sorry for Ron: his life hadn't turned out at all the way he'd hoped, at the end of
the War. Neither had Neville's, come to that, but in Neville's case it had turned out
*better* than his hopes. In particular, while he and Ginny had grown close as comrades-in-arms
during the War, and after the War sought comfort with one another for their losses, he'd
realized in time that it would be a huge mistake for them to marry.

In that respect, he'd avoided Ron's mistake.

*

*Well, that went a* little *better than I expected,* thought Hermione as she Apparated
back to the Ministry. *At least we have options now.*

Her afternoon meeting with Shacklebolt had included Robards; between the three of them,
they'd finalized her strategies for the Swivingham trial on Monday. Several strategies, in
fact, depending on whether the exploited house-elves would testify or not. There was still other
evidence that could be presented – financial records, surveillance reports – and humans in Jack
Swivingham's organization that might cooperate in exchange for a reduced sentence.

And as they left Shacklebolt's home, the Minister had quietly pressed a sealed envelope into
her hand, murmuring "From Croaker" as he did so. Hermione suspected it contained more
information about the blocked door in the Department of Mysteries – perhaps even the newly appeared
runes that Croaker had mentioned. Not that Hermione thought she could decipher them more easily
than the Unspeakables' own rune-readers, but she'd already agreed to help however she
could.

It would all make for a busy weekend, but Hermione was used to being at the Ministry on
weekends.

As she approached her office, she heard a familiar voice waft through the open door. "…
don't worry, it's a common mistake. I don't know why anyone would think Rolf would even
be interested in me that way – after all, he *is* older than me. And I'm still taking care
of Daddy, you know…"

"Hello, Luna," Hermione called out, before entering the office. Luna Lovegood stood
chatting with a bemused Sheryl. Her blonde hair had been bleached almost white by the sun, which
had unfortunately left her skin slightly burnt. As Hermione approached, Luna turned and reached out
for Hermione's hands, smiling broadly.

"I heard this summer's trip was to Morocco," Hermione said. "Welcome back!
What did you find?" Hermione had long since learned that, every once in a while, one of
Luna's strange imaginary creatures wasn't all that imaginary. Her annual summer trips with
Rolf Scamander had brought several new species to light, such as the ypotril two years ago.

"Nothing definite. We visited the Atlas Mountains, looking for tragopans. We found some
spots that might have been nests, but no other signs." Luna shrugged and smiled. "If we
go back next year, we'll keep looking."

Once upon a time, Luna would have taken those indefinite nests as positive proof. *Time has
tempered her, too,* Hermione reflected. Aloud she said, "Well, come inside then. What
brings you here? I'm always happy for a visit, but I have to keep it brief…"

"The Jack Swivingham prosecution," nodded Luna. "Yes, that's why I'm
here."

Hermione paused. "Do you mean… are *you* the Magical Creatures' expert on
house-elves?"

"Well, as much as anyone can be. I'm not officially an employee of the Department, but
I *do* hire out to them on special occasions." They entered Hermione's rooms and took
seats as Luna continued, "I gather Mr. Diggory sent an owl to Morocco to find out if I was
available. Luckily, I'd arrived home days earlier than I expected – in fact, I came to the
Ministry today to check on the status of plimpie overfishing. Mr. Diggory *promised* he'd
do something about the plimpies, which are close to extinction, you know…"

"Yes, no doubt, no doubt. Now about the elves, Luna…" Quickly Hermione summarized the
current situation with the six elves she hoped would give testimony. "They won't even say
*why* they won't testify," she concluded. "But given the timing of the
'depositions', I'm assuming some sort of pressure was put on them."

"It would be easy enough to do," commented Luna. "Probably the most important
motivation in house-elf psychology is the desire to serve humans. Certainly it's one of the
strongest. I'd even say it was genetic, just as some breeds of dog are naturally-born
retrievers." Luna paused, curling her hair around her finger in thought. "Their desire is
to serve, mind you, not *necessarily* to please. I've known cases where an elf would risk
his master's displeasure because the elf was sure it was serving faithfully."

"You're thinking of Dobby, I assume?"

"Dobby's the prime example, yes – but then, Dobby was extraordinary in so many
ways." She tapped her teeth with her fingernail, considering. "Perhaps I could speak with
one or two of them? Sometimes the questions they *won't* answer are more instructive than
the ones they will."

"Of course. Sheryl, is Canby at hand?" Even before Sheryl could reply, Canby had
appeared by Hermione's side with a puff of displaced air. "Oh, Canby! Good. Miss Lovegood
would like to talk to one or two of our guests… probably Whimsy and Chalice…"

"Will be no need, Miss Hermione!" chirped Canby. "All our guests have told Canby
they will testify at trial!"

There was utter silence, which Luna seemed compelled to fill. "Well, that's wonderful!
Your name is Canby? You must have been very persuasive to have convinced *all* of
them!"

"Oh, no, miss. They is deciding on their own! Brillig is telling them…"

"Telling them?" Luna prompted. Hermione had still said nothing.

"T-Telling them the great Dobby would have wanted this! It is… it is as Miss Hermione said
at Dobbywatch. Dobby fought to save Harry Potter, fought for right, and now we *all* must
fight for right. And so they will."

"This… this is very sudden, Canby," Hermione managed to say. She broke into a warm
smile, wrapped her arm around Canby and gave him a quick squeeze. "But very, very
welcome."

Canby blushed as Hermione released him. "Thank you, Miss Hermione. But Canby did nothing.
They are wanting to help Miss Hermione, because *she* has done so much."

"I don't know about *that…* but in any event, this is splendid news."
Hermione paused and cast her mind over the commitments she'd already made for the weekend.
"I like to review the prosecution witnesses' testimony one final time before the trial
begins, just so there are no surprises. We'll have to do that Monday morning *very* early…
shall we say, six? Canby, will you be here then to help me?"

With nods so enthusiastic that his head looked in danger of falling off, Canby assured Hermione
that he would do all in his power to help. Upon Hermione's nod of dismissal, he teleported out
of the room. Hermione glanced at Luna happily. "Well, I'm sorry you came in here for
nothing, but I *do* thank you! Perhaps after this trial's done, we can get together and
just talk…"

"Of course," said Luna absently – or rather, more absently than usual. Puzzlement
creased her brows.

"What?" asked Hermione, noticing.

Luna shook herself. "Oh, probably nothing. But it's… I can't help but feel
Canby's not being strictly forthright about the elves' sudden change of heart. Remember,
what they *don't* say is more important than what they *do…* and Canby wasn't any
too specific about their reason for switching."

*

When Hermione arrived home, the first thing she noticed was a bit of parchment on the low table
where all her case notes had been spread. It wasn't like Canby to leave an item behind… Upon
closer inspection, it was a stiff card made of pasteboard, not parchment, with the words *For
Emergencies* neatly handwritten on it.

The handwriting seemed familiar, somehow, but for the moment, Hermione couldn't identify it.
She went to the kitchen, expecting to find Bottlebrush waiting by his dish as always. But
Bottlebrush wasn't there.

"Bottlebrush?" called Hermione, walking rapidly back to the living room. Bottlebrush
was settled on the sofa – she'd been so wrapped up in her usual evening routine, she'd
missed seeing him – looking steadily at the bit of pasteboard. Now thoroughly mystified, Hermione
picked up the card to get a better look at it.

Even as she recognized the handwriting as the same unnaturally perfect script in the flyleaf of
Rose's book, the letters began to change shape. They quickly reformed into a telephone number,
followed by a glyph: a bisected circle within a triangle.

Only a handful of living people, including Hermione, knew that glyph to be the symbol of the
Deathly Hallows. And of those, only one would be using it as a signature – on a piece of Muggle
pasteboard.

She dropped the card back onto the table and watched the pen-strokes flow and reform into the
words *For Emergencies.* Evidently it took the touch of her fingers to cause the phone number
to appear. Hermione was willing to bet that the Transfiguration was keyed to *her* fingers
alone. *Which would require a sample of my tissue… blood would work best. But where could he
have… ah, of course. Hair from my comb, saliva from my toothbrush, any number of sources once he
had access to the house.*

*And how* did *he gain access to my house?* she wondered. Like all high-level Ministry
officials, Hermione had several levels of magical protection on Enthalpy House; the memory of
Scrimgeour's assassination, though it was sixteen years earlier, had never been forgotten.
After a moment, she shrugged it off as another example of the Hallows' power.

*So Harry's decided to share his phone number with me. Great. Maybe after* another
*fifteen years, we'll start trading Christmas cards.*

She walked back into the kitchen, her emotions turbulent. Harry had made it very clear he'd
never rejoin the wizarding world. That was certainly the impression he'd given! Why, then,
would he seem to open the door to the possibility, by giving her a means of contacting him? He
*had* to know that, sooner or later, there would come a crisis that needed Harry Potter's
aid.

And in such a crisis, he'd left the decision to come back in her hands.

*I don't* want *it to be my decision! If Harry's going to come back, let him come
back of his own free will! Not under duress, or "for emergencies", but because he*
wants *to come back.*

*I* want *him to want to come back.*

The thought brought her up short in the midst of feeding Bottlebrush. He *had* regretted
staying away, once the Cloak was no longer deadening his feelings. She could see the remorse on his
face. But he also believed he was doing the right thing, the only possible thing under the
circumstances – and for the life of her, she couldn't see any other way to break the
Hallows' power.

She pondered the question for a moment longer. The Hallows themselves would have to be well-nigh
indestructible, to have survived intact all these centuries; the only power capable of destroying
them was the power that had created them, the power of Death. There was no way around it: to
eliminate the Hallows, Harry had to die… without transferring the mastery to anyone else.

Either way, Harry wouldn't be returning.

Dejected by her analysis, Hermione quickly ate a light snack and returned to her sofa. She
picked up the card again, and watched in a detached way as the lettering reshaped itself into the
phone number. *It's just as well he keyed the Transfiguration to me,* she thought
randomly. *Most people wouldn't understand the sign of the Deathly Hallows… they'd think
it was…*

For one second, she froze in place, staring at the card. Then she dashed to her briefcase and
scrabbled through it, eventually finding the envelope from Croaker. Ripping open the envelope, she
snatched out its contents: a folded packet of parchment, sealed with black wax.

She was familiar with the seals used by the Department of Mysteries… they were made of the same
wax as in their candles. "I am Hermione Granger," she told the seal, and with a spurt of
blue fire it cracked open at once. Impatiently she shook off the wax fragments, unfolded the
parchment, and scanned it for the item she was absolutely *certain* must be there.

*

Ten minutes later, she was standing in a call-box in Soho, dialing frantically. "The party
you are calling – Howard Seaker – is not available. At the tone, please record your message,"
came the unemotional voice-mail recording.

"Howard Seaker? Oh, *please.* Fine, you know who this is, you were at my house today.
Come back there the *moment* you hear this message – because I may have a way for you to
safely lose those three crosses you've been carrying."



12. XII:  Answers Beget Riddles
-------------------------------

**(A/N:** Some chapters come easier than others. This one, for some reason, wasn't an
easy one. Here's hoping it does its job. The next chapter, I'm sad to say, may take even
longer, but for Real Life reasons. I'll try to get it out as soon as I may.

Many thanks to all who have reviewed (and, I trust, *will* review). Double-thanks to my
beta, **MirielleGrey****,** who volunteered to beta even while on vacation, and who gave
suggestions for the title.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** Fair use. 'Nuff said.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XII: Answers Beget Riddles**

*

Hermione made ready for bed in a state of extreme dudgeon. Harry had not come to Enthalpy House
in response to her message – he hadn't even sent a reply. *So much for
'Emergencies',* she thought disgruntledly as she doused the lights and climbed into
bed.

Her head had barely touched the pillow before a flash of silver darted into her bedroom. It
stopped in front of her face and took the form of a tiny silver stag. "I'll be right
there," Harry's voice said in her head, and the Patronus messenger dissolved into
mist.

Even as she reached for her wand to brighten the room, there was a tiny puff of air and
Harry's figure was suddenly framed in the window. "Hermione? Oh, damn, I'm sorry, you
were asleep. I'm *sorry,* but your message *did* say…"

"It did… I mean, *I* did," she said, bringing up the lights. "It's all
right – thanks for coming."

"Um… um, well… it sounded important. I'm, uh, I'm sorry I didn't get your
message… I was, er, out in the field, and couldn't take my phone with me."

"Playing guardian angel again?" Hermione began, before it came to her that Harry
wasn't sounding very articulate… and couldn't seem to take his eyes off her. With a start,
she remembered what she wore to bed this time of year – or more accurately, how *little* she
wore to bed. Thin camisole and knickers, to be precise.

She felt her face grow hot with embarrassment, and tried to mask it with her usual brisk manner.
"Oh for goodness sake, Harry, it's nothing you haven't seen before. Honestly, we spent
weeks together in a tent, and you hardly gave me a second glance *then.*"

"Sorry," repeated Harry, averting his gaze. But his lopsided smile suggested that he
may have given Hermione more glances than she'd noticed. "I'll, er, just wait in the
other room, shall I?" He made a quick exit, eyes averted all the while.

Five minutes later, wearing hastily-thrown-on sweats, Hermione came out of the bedroom to find
Harry sitting on the couch, Bottlebrush purring in deep contentment on his lap. "Well,
that's a surprise," she commented. "Bottlebrush doesn't usually make friends so
quickly."

"Bottlebrush, is it? Hello there, Bottlebrush…" He gently scratched under the
kneazle's chin; the purring grew louder. "I suppose you got him after Crookshanks died…
what, two years ago?"

Hermione stared at Harry.

"There in your bedroom," Harry confirmed, nodding at the door. "You found him on
your bed… died in his sleep, of old age. Well, he *was* old for a cat, or even a
kneazle." He smiled gently at Hermione's astonishment, and held up his hand to display the
Resurrection Stone ring. "I can feel passages, Hermione, like the old man the other night. I
can sense… currents… where Death's been. The details aren't always clear, but the
threnodies help sometimes."

"Th-thren…?"

"Threnodies." He held a finger and thumb a couple of inches apart. "Little
things, kind of like butterflies, but I think they live on the same Death currents I can sense. And
they sing…" Harry sighed as Hermione gave him a look she usually reserved for Luna Lovegood.
"Right, you remember the thestrals? Most people can't see them, because they live in more
than one world… well, believe me, thestrals are only the beginning."

She nodded slowly. "I do believe you. I do indeed." Hermione sat on the other end of
the sofa. She looked searchingly at Harry's face, but didn't say anything for a moment.
When she spoke, it was with deep concern. "And what about you, Harry?"

He understood. "I'm still in this world…" he said, but he looked away from her as
he said it.

"And you're slipping away a little more every day… Never mind," she said quickly
with a shake of her head. She didn't want an argument to start. "I'm just glad you
came. I may have discovered a way to destroy the Hallows without your needing to die."

He quickly turned his head to face her again. "The Elder Wand is the main problem… it's
the Deathstick, after all. And I think it even powers the other two. But we can't destroy it,
Hermione – it's too powerful for that. And I don't dare just lose it, like throw it into
the North Sea or something. It's like that ring in the Tolkien books, it would find a way to be
found again. And in the meantime, its magic is still…"

"I wasn't thinking that," Hermione interrupted, pulling out the document from
Croaker. "I was thinking more like, 'Return To Sender'."

She definitely had his full attention now. "The Department of Mysteries has noticed that it
can't get into one of its many rooms," she began, unfolding the parchment and spreading it
on the low table. "There's some sort of barrier across the doorway. I volunteered to help
them figure out the cause, and they gave me these runes that appeared inside the room. Now,
*they* interpreted these symbols to refer either to me, the destroyer of Voldemort, or to
Voldemort, the destroyer of Grindelwald." She pointed to one rune: a bisected circle within a
triangle. "But what they don't realize is that this *isn't* the rune for
Grindelwald, it's the rune…"

"For the Hallows," Harry finished. "The same mistake Krum made when he met
Lovegood."

"So the runes *really* refer to the destruction of the Hallows," concluded
Hermione. "And given what I know of the Department, the runes are almost certainly on the Arch
– the one in the Death Chamber." She didn't need to say more: the details of the room
where Sirius Black died were surely etched in Harry's memory.

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "So I just hand the Hallows over to you, and you take them to
the Death Chamber and bung them through the Arch, and that's it?"

"Er, no, not me," said Hermione slowly. "I can't get in – that barrier,
remember?"

She watched as the hands stroking Bottlebrush froze in place. Horror began to spread across his
face. "Hermione," he whispered pleadingly, "Hermione, I… I
*can't…*"

"Only you *can.* You're the Elder Wand's master. Only you can get through the
barrier – I'd bet it's there to keep out everyone but you. It's simply too much of a
coincidence that the Death Chamber should seal itself off when the Hallows are united."
Hermione tried very hard to sound reasonable.

"It's not just that. It's… I'm supposed to be *dead.* I can't go where
magical people can see me… and I *really* can't go waltzing into the Ministry of Magic!
They'd stop me… I wouldn't get anywhere *near* the Arch…"

"I thought your Invisibility Cloak…?"

"I, uh…" For a moment, diffidence overcame the anguish on his face. "I
haven't worn it for the last few days, you know."

"This one last time, I don't think it will matter," she said in matter-of-fact
tones. Inwardly, Hermione felt absurdly pleased that he'd listened to her. "Once the
Hallows are gone, after all, it won't matter if everyone knows you're alive." She gave
an exasperated sigh as Harry continued to hesitate. "We'll come up with some cover story,
if you like. But *you* have to do this."

Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded.

Hermione wasn't reassured by his sudden silence. "Well, then," she said briskly,
"let's get some sleep, and we can be at the Ministry tomorrow morning. Harry, you can take
the sofa here…"

"Actually, I'm not particularly sleepy," he said apologetically. "I don't
seem to sleep much these days… anyway, there are a couple more, er, 'field errands' I was
hoping to do tonight…"

"No," she interrupted firmly. "You have to stay here." In a flash, she'd
connected his reluctance and his sudden silence with his past behavior, and she saw what he must be
planning.

"What…"

"I mean it," she interrupted him again. "I *know* what you're thinking:
you're thinking you don't need to expose yourself to the Ministry when all you need to do
is *vanish* again! It won't work, Harry Potter. You're staying right here where I can
keep an eye on you!"

"Hermione…"

She stood to face him as he sat. "Do I have to *chain* you to that sofa?" she
demanded.

Bottlebrush laid back his ears, hissed, and jumped off Harry's lap. Harry regarded her
silently, a touch of grimness tightening his mouth. Hermione had a moment to realize that, if
she'd used that tone of voice with almost anyone at the Ministry, they'd be scuttling to do
as she bade; if she'd spoken to Ron that way, it would have guaranteed a furious shouting
match.

But not this man.

He'd fought against bullying and abuse his entire life. Even when they were at Hogwarts, he
seldom gave in to her bossiness. Harry wouldn't argue – but he *couldn't* be
browbeaten.

When he spoke again, there was a faint but unmistakable growl in the edge of his voice.
"They'd better be *really good* chains."

"Oh, Merlin, I didn't… I didn't mean…" Hermione's mind was a whirlwind of
thoughts and emotions. Without input from her brain, her mouth began to work on its own:
"I'm sorry, Harry, I didn't really mean I'd *chain* you, but you were
*dead* and gone from my *life* and now you're *back* and I *can't* give
you up again. I'm just afraid you'll leave… again…"

By this time she'd sat heavily on the sofa next to him. She had to press her lips together
to keep from babbling further. She'd ruined it, ruined everything, before it had even had a
*chance* to heal… she'd let her anger, her anxiety, her *pain* control her, and they
were driving him away as surely as his own noble intentions. She kept her gaze lowered, unable to
meet his eyes, which she knew would be cold and angry.

So Hermione didn't expect to see his hand enter her field of view, coming to rest atop her
own hand. "I'm not leaving," he said very softly.

She still didn't raise her eyes. "You *did,*" she whispered.

"Yeah." Neither of them moved or spoke for a long minute.

"It's too late tonight," Harry said at length, "but we *really* need to
talk." He paused. "I will be at the Ministry tomorrow," he promised. "What
time?"

Hermione *did* look at him then. He gazed back at her solemnly, with a slight apprehension
in his green eyes. *He means it,* she told herself, and felt the knot of tension in her chest
relax. *He said he'll be there, and he'll* be *there.* The parallel to their
long-ago interview with Rita Skeeter wasn't lost on her.

"Nine thirty," she replied. "You should wear the Cloak, at least at first. Meet
me in the Ministry atrium." The relaxation in her chest made her feel almost giddy; she
couldn't resist adding, "I'll wait for you by the big statue on the black pedestal.
You can't miss it."

*

Saturday morning found Hermione standing in the Ministry atrium, next to the display case at the
Potter Memorial. For the first time she could remember, it didn't give her heart a pang to view
the large bronze statue. In fact, she actually found the items in the glass display case… well,
amusing. *I'm glad I transfigured Harry's "wand" back, though.* That
*might have been awkward to explain.*

She stiffened, but managed not to cry out in surprise, when she felt a small object press
against her ear. Soft and button-shaped… it was one end of an Extendable Ear. Through the bud she
heard Harry's voice in her ear: "I never looked that good in my *life.*" She
didn't turn her head, but gave a quick smile to acknowledge she'd heard him. A glance out
of the corner of her eye showed exactly what she expected to see: nothing.

*Well, a memorial statue has nothing to do with life, does it?* Hermione would have liked
to say it aloud, but for the moment, secrecy was still in force.

She turned away from the Memorial and towards the lifts, and felt the button recede from her
ear. Careful to restrain her pace – neither faster nor slower than normal – she strode to the
lifts, where a witch and a wizard stood waiting. She gave them both a smile and a greeting.
"Good morning, Hutchings, Fenchurch."

"Morning, ma'am," said Fenchurch. They fell into the habitual silence that
descends upon people gathered watching the lifts' numbers change.

"It… it's a lovely day, isn't it?" suggested Hutchings.

"It certainly is," agreed Hermione, slightly surprised. She'd had few dealings
with Hutchings, who worked in the Floo Network Authority.

"Yes, we thought so, too," put in Fenchurch. Which was even more surprising: she
barely knew Fenchurch by sight. *Are they making… small talk with me?* she wondered. Not that
Ministry employees never made small talk, but they rarely seemed to do it with her.

Two lifts arrived; Hutchings and Fenchurch entered the one going up with affable nods at
Hermione. She took the downward lift to the ninth level. None of her senses offered a clue that
Harry was in the lift with her – no slight change in air pressure, no sound of breathing, nothing –
but she knew he was there.

Arriving on the ninth level, she proceeded down the corridor to the black door leading to the
Department of Mysteries. Opening it, she looked into the round, many-doored foyer, lit by its odd
black candles – she stood in the doorway to the corridor and left the door open. "I'm
Madam Granger, and I need to speak to Croaker," she announced.

Nothing happened. She waited another moment, then entered the foyer (inconspicuously touching
her wand's tip to the door as she stepped through). Once the door closed, the foyer's walls
immediately began to revolve, fast enough to blur their features. Finally the room slowed, stopped,
and one of the doors opened to admit Croaker. He regarded Hermione, silent and impassive.

"I need to see the runes for myself. They're on the Arch in the Death Chamber,
aren't they?" Hermione asked without preamble.

Only a slight crease of his eyebrows betrayed Croaker's surprise. "The runes you were
given were an accurate transcription," he said after a moment.

Hermione shook her head. "The relative placement of a series of runes has as much meaning
as the runes themselves." She took the parchment from her pocket and unfolded it to show the
symbol of the Hallows. Pointing to it, she said, "This one, for instance, is centered on the
Arch's lintel, isn't it?"

Croaker hesitated, and Hermione pressed her advantage. "And they aren't in a row, as on
this sheet, but on multiple lines, yes? So a rune on the bottom line could apply to *two*
runes on the top line, yes?" She said nothing further, trusting her point had been made.

Evidently it had, though Croaker gave no acknowledgement of the fact. With a tiny wave of his
hand, he motioned her to another of the doors. He pushed it open and entered – Hermione following
immediately behind – and called out. "Eldritch. Show Granger to the Death Chamber." With
a final, unreadable look at Hermione, he took his leave.

Eldritch was… grey. No other word was as apt: his hair and beard were short-cropped and grey,
his eyes unnaturally pale; even his robes exuded an air of dusty huelessness. But he was
personable, where Croaker was not. "This way, Madam Granger."

Shortly they'd arrived at the door to the Death Chamber. Looking through it, Hermione could
see the rows of low benches, and in the center the Arch. It had indeed changed since the last time
she'd seen it, when she was sixteen: now the Arch was completely covered with scores of graven
runes, glowing a dull red, like coals against the dark stone. But the black veil that fluttered as
though in a breeze, even in the still air – that hadn't changed.

"So… this barrier…" Hermione said to Eldritch. "Is it merely a barrier, or is it
more, er…?"

"Active?" Eldritch shook his head and stretched out a hand. "Not as far as we can
tell. It won't hex you to touch it. You simply won't be able to get through." He drew
back his hand and added, "Try it."

Tentatively, Hermione reached out with her fingertips. At the very center of the door frame,
they stopped abruptly. It didn't feel *like* anything – it wasn't as though there were
an invisible glass wall, or stone wall, or whatever – but her fingers would go no further. "I
didn't realize the Arch was so far from the door," she said. "Do you have a set of
omnioculars I could borrow?"

"Not omnioculars," said Eldritch reprovingly. Hermione recalled that omnioculars could
record a scene; obviously, the Unspeakables would never permit that. "But we have a set of
opera glasses," he added. "It's what we used to transcribe the runes for you.
I'll go fetch them, back in a moment."

Hermione stepped away from the door as Eldritch walked away. That would give Harry plenty of
working room. She tried not to look as though she were watching carefully… she was curious as to
exactly how he'd breach the barrier.

Eldritch returned with the glasses in his hand. "Here we go. You'll probably want a
chair to sit in as you read them. My own concern was whether there were more runes on the side of
the Arch we *can't* see."

"If so, there's not much we can do about it," commented Hermione, taking the
glasses. She hefted them experimentally, buying a minute more time…

"*Yeow**!*" cried Eldritch. Hermione had felt it too: a wave of shock, like
an electrical shock, passing through them. It caused them both to jump into the air and twitch for
a few moments.

Eldritch was staring at the doorway. "That came from inside!" he cried. He reached
into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a spell residue detector, like the one Dennis Creevey
had used when investigating 'Jacob Clayman'. "Michaels! Brymston!" he shouted
over his shoulder as he fiddled with the device. "I need the Number Two Analyzer here
*now!* And bring three – no, *four* resonance jars! Excuse me," he added brusquely
to Hermione, all but shoving her away from the doorway as he thrust the device forward.

Hermione watched as two more Unspeakables, clad in green robes, pushed a cart loaded with gear
up the corridor to the Death Chamber. She imagined the looks on their faces when Harry Potter made
himself visible in the Chamber, threw the Deathly Hallows through the Arch, and walked out to
greet…

Suddenly, a cold weight settled into her stomach. *We assumed the barrier and the Hallows were
linked – that the barrier would disappear when the Hallows were destroyed. What if we were wrong?
If Harry destroys the Elder Wand, and then can't leave the Chamber…!*

Wide-eyed and speechless, she watched the Unspeakables assemble their apparatus… looking past
them into the Chamber, waiting for Harry to appear, Hallows in hand, preparing to throw… if only
she could catch his eye and warn him in time…

She jumped again. The Extendable Ear nub had been pressed to her ear.

"It wouldn't let me in," said Harry.

*

"You're sure you did nothing?" asked Croaker, as he escorted Hermione back to the
Mysteries foyer. By now, there were a half dozen wizards and witches clustered around the doorway
to the Death Chamber, all testing to see if the burst of shock-magic would recur.

"I hadn't even started making notes on my copy of the runes," said Hermione
calmly. "All I'd done was touch the barrier, and Eldritch did so before me."

Croaker didn't respond, but he continued to eye Hermione with that unblinking gaze. She gave
him little mind; her thoughts were on Harry's words: Having said he couldn't get in,
he'd said nothing further. She *wished* there'd been some way to ask him questions,
but even whispers would have been heard in that small space. Discussion would have to wait until
they got back to Enthalpy House.

They arrived at the foyer to discover that another outsider had arrived. Blaise Zabini was
delivering a portfolio of official-looking documents to two senior Unspeakables. "The passes
are good for one week," he was explaining to them. "You'll be granted full access to
Nurmengard, but you won't be permitted to remove anything. I couldn't convince them to
permit photographs, but you can make all the tracings you want…"

Zabini stopped upon seeing Croaker and Hermione. "Everything else you'll need is in the
packet," he concluded, with a charming smile. He accepted the Unspeakables' thanks
graciously but hurriedly. He quickly turned his attention to Croaker and Hermione.

"So, Croaker old man, I see you've recruited Granger. Don't tell me she's
considering a career change, from law to research? Not that you wouldn't be outstanding as an
Unspeakable, Granger."

"Granger's been helping us resolve a small anomaly," said Croaker. "I'll
let you both out now." Only an Unspeakable, in theory, could select the exit from amongst the
identical doors of the foyer.

Hermione promptly strode to the proper door and held it open for Zabini… and, she hoped, for
Harry. She'd unobtrusively tagged the exit when she'd first arrived, after all – Just In
Case. (A precaution she'd learned from her first, illicit, visit to the Department of
Mysteries.) The opportunity to score on Croaker *and* Zabini was simply too great to pass
up.

She nodded farewell to Croaker, who remained standing in the foyer staring incredulously at her,
and gently closed the door behind her.

"By the way, it would appear congratulations are in order," smiled Zabini. "I
understand the witnesses against Jack Swivingham have agreed to cooperate fully."

"They have," said Hermione, wondering how he knew. Granted that she hadn't told
anyone to keep it secret, the elves had only come to their decision the day before.

"And I must say, I'm impressed with *how* you convinced them," he continued
smoothly. "In some ways, Granger, it's a pity you couldn't have been Sorted into
Slytherin."

"Beg pardon?"

"Oh, come now, don't be so modest. Starting a rumor that Harry Potter has returned from
the dead? Sheer genius!" Zabini applauded softly.

"I *didn't…!*" Hermione suppressed the urge to look around for Harry. It
would be pointless: either he wasn't there, or he was invisible. Hermione fervently hoped that
he was gone, and couldn't hear this…

"No, of course you didn't. Of course." Zabini gave her a knowing smirk.
"Still, the elves believe it, and that's what counts, eh? They'd do anything for their
great hero. Genius, I say again. I wish *I'd* thought of it."

Hermione looked Zabini straight in the eye. "You must be mistaken, Zabini. I have not
started, or spread, *any* tale about Harry. Alive *or* dead." *Are you listening,
Harry?* she called silently. *I didn't do this! I promised I'd keep your secret, and
I* have! *Are you listening?*

Zabini cocked his head and regarded her curiously. "Well," he said after a moment,
"it doesn't matter, I suppose. The elves will testify against Swivingham on Monday…
anything else is superfluous. You'll certainly end with another jewel in your cap."

"Jewels in my cap are fairly superfluous, too," she retorted. "Far more important
is the chance to clean up the seamier side of the wizarding world – and put the head of this filthy
criminal cartel in Azkaban where he belongs!"

For an instant, Zabini's eyes narrowed. The smile remained on his face, but it had lost all
pretense of affability. "I quite agree," he said. "Scum like Swivingham are a
disgrace to the name of wizard." Then his smile broadened, and the bonhomie returned so
quickly that Hermione couldn't be sure it had vanished. "Good luck on Monday, then,
Granger. We're all looking forward to your victory in court."

He gave a slight bow, one hand over his heart, and strode briskly down the corridor towards the
lift. Hermione didn't follow him… she was waiting until Zabini was out of earshot.

Then she whispered, "Harry? Harry? Please, Harry, come back tonight. You were right, we
need to talk… Harry?"

But whether Harry had been standing beside her all along, or had already left, the response was
the same.



13. XIII:  Unfogging the Past
-----------------------------

**(A/N:** As ever, I am indebted to **MirielleGrey** for her support and beta-skills. Any
errors left over after she's scanned my copy are my own fault. The chapter's title is a
play on the title of one of Harry's Divination textbooks.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** This is Paracelsus. See Paracelsus write. Write, Paracelsus, write! See
Paracelsus get no money for writing. See Paracelsus deny that he is Jo Rowling. Deny, Paracelsus,
deny!**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XIII: Unfogging the Past**

*

Hermione tried to leave the Ministry as quickly as she could, but she promptly discovered that
the Senior Counsel to the Wizengamot couldn't arrive in the Ministry, even on a Saturday,
without people descending on her, bearing items that required her *immediate* attention. Even
after escaping the press of business, she was still stopped several times on her way to the
Apparation point in the atrium, by people asking if she'd heard "the latest rumor".
No one, thank goodness, seemed inclined to actually *believe* that Harry had "come back
from the dead"… but interestingly, none of them dismissed it out of hand, either.

It wasn't until late afternoon that she arrived back at Enthalpy House, only to discover it
empty… seemingly so, at least. "Harry?" she called out tentatively, and then more
urgently when she got no reply. In a rush she looked for some sign that he'd been there:
searching among the mail (from Ron, from professional journals, from others) for another charmed
bit of pasteboard, dashing from room to room to see if he'd left items there.

*I was afraid of this,* she told herself frantically. *He heard Zabini's remark, and
now he's sure that I've told everyone he's not dead. He's decided he can't
trust me…*

There was a tiny, almost silent *pop* of air, and Harry Apparated into her living room. He
regarded her with a neutral face, and raised a paper sack in one hand. "Hungry?" he
asked. His tone was like his expression, neither hostile nor cheerful.

Hermione couldn't tell what was going through Harry's mind, but she knew she needed to
clear the air at once. "Harry, I don't know how a rumor got started about your return,
much less why Blaise Zabini is giving me credit for it. But please believe me: since we met in your
hotel room, I haven't told a *soul* about you. At *all.*"

Harry didn't react to her words at first. "I brought sarnies," he finally said,
still in that neutral tone. "D'you prefer beef or chicken?"

"Chicken. Harry, *please* believe…"

"I do," he said curtly, without waiting for her to finish. He sat at the coffee table,
unpacked the paper sack, and offered her a wrapped sandwich. Hermione hesitated, then accepted the
sandwich and sat on the sofa, neither too close to him nor too far away. She very much wanted to
continue probing him, making sure he accepted her word, but something held her back for the
moment.

Harry broke the quiet. "You're nervous," he shrewdly noted – but though his voice
was mild enough, his eyes were hard. "But really, I believe you: you haven't told anyone
about seeing me in my hotel room." He paused, sighed and raised his gaze to meet hers
directly. "But Ted said something about an interview, where you first brought up the
possibility of my survival. In front of a crowd."

*Ah.* Hermione saw where his thoughts were headed. "Yes, but I only stated the
possibility, Harry; it wasn't confirmed. More important, every person in that room can be
trusted. *You've* trusted them all, Harry, in the past." She counted on her fingers.
"Professors McGonagall and Longbottom. Bill and…"

"'Professor' Longbottom? *Neville?*" Momentarily, Harry sounded both
surprised and pleased.

"He's very popular with his students, so I'm told… Bill and Fleur. Andromeda Tonks.
Ron. Ted, Victoire, and Rose…" She frowned suddenly. "I've tried to teach Rose the
importance of keeping confidences, but she *is* only eleven. She might have blurted it where
people could hear."

"Mph – but probably not people who'd report to Blaise Zabini so quickly," Harry
mused, turning again serious – *almost grim,* thought Hermione. She'd succeeded in
identifying his attitude: that of a man who felt himself wrongly done by, but trying nonetheless
not to rush to judgment. "Portraits, perhaps? Could any of the school portraits have overheard
you?"

"Only Professor Dumbledore's, in the Headmistress's office. And you *know*
those portraits are pledged to serve the Headmistress." Hermione took another bite of her
sandwich, thinking hard how she might demonstrate her innocence. "The easiest way to trace the
rumor would simply be to *ask* Canby where he and the other elves heard…"

"No," put in Harry hastily. "Er, no, that won't be necessary."

"What? But why not…?" Hermione began, but she didn't need to finish. The scene
flashed before her mind's eye, complete in every detail: *Harry comes to Enthalpy House to
deliver his "Emergency contact" card – at the same time that Canby and Brillig arrive to
gather my notes for my meeting with Kingsley!* "I… I don't bloody *believe* it! I
wracked my *brains* looking to persuade the elves to testify, and *you* just show up
and…!"

"I didn't *tell* them to do anything – I didn't even know who they
*were!*" protested Harry, suddenly on the defensive. "And I *pledged* them to
secrecy…"

"Are you serious? Are you freaking *serious?*" Hermione slammed the half-eaten
sandwich onto the table and glared furiously at Harry. "Let's pretend that two nuns enter
a chapel and find Jesus Christ standing there. And Jesus tells them, 'Oh, this isn't the
Second Coming, I'm not supposed to be here, you'll keep my secret, won't you?' Do
you *honestly* think those nuns *could* keep a secret like that? And even if they did,
don't you think when they rejoined their convent, the other nuns might *notice* a change
in their behavior and act accordingly? For God's *sake,* Harry!"

"Uh, I really think you're overestimating…"

"*No,* Harry, I don't think I *am! Oh, honestly!"* Unable to remain
seated, she stood and stalked to the opposite end of the room, folding her arms over her chest. She
fumed as she waited for Harry to respond… coldly, or angrily, or whatever… but didn't expect
what she heard next.

Harry was *chuckling.*

She whirled and fixed him with her blackest glare. He appeared not to notice. "Okay,
you're right. However the rumor got started, it wasn't through you."

"Oh, *thank* you," she said witheringly. "And what convinced you…?"

"The way you're acting right now," Harry explained calmly. "If you'd
imagined a way you might have let it slip, even accidentally, you wouldn't have suggested the
elves as the source, and you wouldn't be so upset. I mean, you were never a very good actress,
Hermione." At her scowl, he grinned and said in a falsetto voice, "You see, Mr. Borgin,
Draco Malfoy is my friend, and I want to get him a present, oh but *obviously* I don't
want to buy something if he's already reserved it…"

Hermione couldn't help it; the matching grin broke through her temper as she recalled the
incident in Knockturn Alley. "All *right,* I admit that wasn't exactly one of my more
brilliant moments." She uncrossed her arms and put her hands on her hips as she continued to
scowl – but only a mock scowl now – at Harry. "And may I just point out, Mr. Potter, that
I've had plenty of time to improve my acting skills."

"Now that you're a prosecutor? And a wife and mother? Maybe," allowed Harry,
"but not *that* much, I don't think."

Somewhat mollified, she returned to the sofa. They finished their sandwiches in silence. There
was so much they had to say to each other – and Harry's remark about "wife and
mother" touched on only one of them – but for the moment, Hermione was content to sit on the
sofa and eat.

She was just about to break their silence when Harry did so first. "I couldn't get
through the barrier this morning. Even when I hit it with the strongest *Reducto* spell the
Elder Wand could generate."

"Was that when Eldritch and I felt that… shock wave?"

He nodded. "Yeah… some kind of backlash. I felt it too."

"But then – don't wipe your hands on your trousers, Harry, I have serviettes – but then
why would the Death Chamber have such an impenetrable barrier over its door? I was *certain*
it was to restrict access to you alone, with the Hallows. So is it just…"

"It's *not* impenetrable," interrupted Harry. "Someone got through just
before I lost patience and tried the *Reducto.*" At Hermione's inquiring expression,
he elaborated. "Someone's… soul. Someone had just died, and I could feel their passage.
Remember the old man in the inn? It was like that: I *felt* someone's soul pass through me
today. The threnodies were following, but I couldn't quite make out who it was from their
song."

She couldn't help gaping at him… not only at what he said, but at his matter-of-fact way of
saying it. "Are you saying the *Arch* is where our souls go when we die?"

He blew out a breath. "Well, we'd already figured it was a portal to the afterlife,
didn't we? 'Course, *everyone's* soul can't go through there: I mean, how many
people die every minute, worldwide? There'd be a huge crowd of souls in that case, but I only
felt one pass through while I was there."

"Possibly the Arch is only for magical people, and Muggle souls go elsewhere," said
Hermione, thinking out loud. "Or maybe there's more of them besides the Arch… legend tells
of a cave in Greece, where Heracles and Orpheus made their descents to the Underworld. Or maybe the
Arch is merely the druids' means of physically embodying and localizing the portal…"

"My point is, I felt the soul go past me, *through* me, through the *barrier,*
and into the Arch," Harry concluded. "Whatever the barrier's supposed to keep out, it
isn't the spirits of the dead."

"Which raises the question again: what *is* the barrier keeping out?" Hermione
pondered. Neither said anything for a few moments.

"Maybe it's not supposed to keep anything out," Harry finally suggested darkly.
"Maybe it's keeping something *in.*"

*

After delivering his thoughts about the Death Chamber, Harry found himself with nothing else to
say – or rather, nothing *safe* to say. He'd come to the Ministry at Hermione's
prompting, but he'd given no thought to what he'd do if her plan had *worked* – if he
had, at one stroke, rid the world of the Deathly Hallows. Uncomfortably, he realized he'd then
have no excuse for not rejoining the wizarding world… if he'd stayed away, it would be a true
rejection of that world, and everyone in it.

And while Harry didn't care if he never saw *some* people in the wizarding world ever
again, he'd realized in the last few days that there were others who he'd missed… missed
very much indeed. Foremost on that list was the bushy-haired inquisitor on whose sofa he was
sitting.

So far, their conversation had concentrated on the events of the day – though that included
clearing up their misunderstanding about discretion. Harry knew, however, that wouldn't last.
He felt reluctant to intrude any further into the affairs of the wizarding world – Hermione's
world, if no longer his – and even more reluctant to share the details of his world.

Their lunch concluded, he stood politely and said, "Well, it was a good idea… and I think
your notion of other portals is worth checking out. Especially the cave in Greece… maybe it
won't have a barrier across *it.* Thanks loads, Hermione. You still have my emergency
number, so…" He made the vague motions usually made by visitors about to take their leave.

"Ah, yes, Howard Seaker's mobile." Hermione laughed but didn't stand along
with Harry. "Howard Seaker, Jacob Clayman… how many pseudonyms do you have, Harry?"

He shrugged. "Warren Locke… Nigel Chanter… I thought Hal Jameson was a little *too*
obvious, even for me." He didn't mention others he'd devised, such as Neville Thomas
and Ron Granger, which he'd discarded early in his exile as too painful to use.

"But Jacob Clayman was your favorite. Or, at least, you used it longest." Harry must
have looked surprised, for she sighed and explained, "How long does it take to advance to
*sous-chef* status, Monsieur Clayman?"

"Years," Harry conceded. Without thinking, he'd reseated himself on the sofa.
"Mind you, I had an advantage in my choice of spices. Mallowsweet in particular is good in
sauces served with roast lamb, much better than mint, really…"

He stopped as Hermione laughed again. "Oh, Harry, I'm just trying to picture you as a
gourmet chef. You *must* cook for us sometime, honestly. I'd really like to taste your
skills."

"Maybe," he hesitated, "maybe someday." He smiled ruefully.
"'Course, those 'skills' were how I was finally caught, weren't
they?"

"I don't suppose it ever occurred to you that wizards might visit a Muggle
restaurant." Hermione turned serious. "You cut yourself off so completely…"

This was striking a bit too close to home. Harry tried to make light of it. "Well, after I
started having regular contact with Ted, I learned a little bit about what was going on. I only had
one restriction: I didn't want to hear *anything* to do with Quidditch. Mind you, once
that had been barred as a topic of conversation, he didn't have a lot to say."

"I daresay you heard a lot about Victoire Weasley, then," she smiled.

"*Oh* yes."

"Anything…" Hermione hesitated. "Anything else?" She tried to keep the smile
on her face, but it kept flickering away.

He gave a half-shrug, not looking at her directly, but at a spot two inches to her left.
"Well, I knew about Rose, of course… I suppose she told you about the book I gave her."
He dropped the topic… he couldn't say more about Hermione's family life if he wanted to
avoid mentioning her marriage to Ron. And everything he could see around him – from the neatness of
the room, to its lack of Chudley Cannons memorabilia – told him that, whatever turn Hermione's
life had taken, it didn't include Ron at Enthalpy House.

Her penetrating glance suggested that she knew exactly what he wasn't saying. Harry was
saved by a timely interruption: a tapping at the window. After a moment's pause, in which she
obviously debated whether to ignore the tapping, Hermione rose from the sofa. Going to the window,
she opened it to admit an owl with a scroll in its beak.

She took the scroll and, when she saw that the owl was waiting for a reply, unrolled it at once.
"It's from Edwin Lovinett," she read aloud to Harry, "the solicitor representing
Jack Swivingham. He's requesting a meeting with me and his client, tomorrow, on a matter of the
utmost importance and… hm." She glanced up at Harry. "And confidentiality."

"Who's Jack Swivingham?"

She looked momentarily astonished that he should ask. "It's too long to explain,"
she said. "But he's a criminal I intend to put away for a very long time. The elf you met
yesterday will be one of the witnesses against him."

"Sounds like he wants to cut a deal," said Harry encouragingly.

"Yes, it does, doesn't it?" She found a quill, scribbled on the back of the
scroll, and handed it to the owl. The owl launched itself out the window. "I'll see him
tomorrow at noon," she told Harry, sitting down again. "That'll give me time to work
out any details before the trial begins on Monday."

"Well, then." He stood once more, trying to display the signs of imminent departure.
"If you're going into the Ministry tomorrow, you'll need a good night's sleep,
so…"

"Stay."

He barely heard the single word, she said it so softly.

"Please," she added. Her gaze was steady on him… not pleading, but not at all
tentative. "Please. I'd like you to stay."

Somewhere, his voice had gone on holiday. It took Harry a minute, or possibly hours, to find it
again. When he did, he responded with a single word of his own. "Ron?"

Hermione turned pink, but didn't avert her gaze. "Ron lives in Diagon Alley, in a flat
above their shop. We're…" She cleared her throat and continued, "Yes, we're
married, but…" She stopped, looking far less than her usual confident self, and swallowed
heavily. "It's a long story," she concluded.

Harry locked eyes with her. "Do you love him?" he asked quietly.

"It's not that simple," she replied, "not anywhere near as simple as
that." She said no more, merely waiting… for Harry to make the next move. Which he did, by
sitting back down on the sofa near her.

Hermione clasped her hands together and stared at them, as though they contained the words she
wanted to say. "Ron and I were married a few years after you'd… after the end of the
War," she finally began. "We'd always been close, after all, and he'd seemed to
mature so much in the last months of the conflict. I mean, he started to genuinely care about some
of my interests. And he, well, he made me laugh, at a time when I never thought I'd laugh
again. He could always do that. And…" She paused.

"And I was dead," Harry nodded.

Her answering nod was filled with a deep sadness. "I'd lost you – I couldn't bear
to lose Ron, too. So when he asked me to marry him, I said yes."

Harry could see how it must have been. The War was over, and the losses had been great… the two
survivors of the Trio had each clung hard to their one remaining friend.

"But even then – even then, we had some… friction," Hermione continued carefully.
Harry could only imagine the disagreements, arguments, and outright fights contained in that one
word. "I went back to Hogwarts to finish my seventh year – Ron decided to work for the
Wheezes. And when I got my NEWTs and Kingsley offered me a job at the Ministry, Ron found out he
couldn't do the same. None of which would've mattered, of course, if only he'd been
happy at how it all turned out – but he saw himself taking a second place to me, and he
couldn't bear that."

She wasn't looking at Harry now, or at anything in the room. Harry guessed that she was
watching scenes from the past – scenes she'd replayed in her mind many, many times over the
years. "I don't know what went wrong… or maybe, it was never really right to begin with…
but we argued over so *much,* Harry. Even when I was first working with Kingsley, fighting to
correct the most blatant injustices in our government: rights for all magical beings, an end to
bloodline discrimination. And at first Ron seemed to genuinely care about my work. But the more
time I spent at the Ministry, the less he seemed to care… almost, you know, like he'd used up
what to say and couldn't think of anything."

*No,* Harry reflected, *I'd reckon "Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches"
wouldn't cover a situation like this.* He made very sure to keep the thought to himself.

"So I was putting in more and more time at the Ministry, just to get away from home. And of
course, he didn't like that I was advancing in the Ministry so rapidly as a result. It seemed
as though every night was spent in either yelling or not saying *anything.*" Hermione
sighed wearily.

"And then you got pregnant with Rose," guessed Harry.

Hermione looked up at him in surprise. "I've been trying to help people… secretly… for
a fair few years," Harry explained. "I've watched domestic catastrophes unfold. A
baby can either cement a relationship, or blow it apart."

"Don't think for a moment that Ron doesn't love Rose," Hermione said quickly,
firmly. "He loves her very much, and so do I. But…"

"But that was the straw that broke the camel's back, as it were?"

"As it were." She sighed again and once more met his gaze. "So, to answer your
question: I don't know that I'd call it 'love', but I suppose I do still care for
Ron, somewhat. But I can't live with him." She gestured at the room around them. "He
moved out when Rose was five."

"But you're still married, then?" For a moment, Harry had to wonder if Hermione
had stayed with Ron to avoid damaging her Ministry career – then he rejected the thought as
unworthy. Hermione had despised Percy for putting career before family: she would never do that
herself.

Her expression turned incredulous for an instant, before she visibly recalled how little he
still knew, even after all these years, of the wizarding world. "Vows in the wizarding world
are enforced by the users' own magic, Harry. You certainly remember the magically binding
contract that kept you in the Triwizard Tournament? Well, if anything, marriage vows are stronger.
Ron and I *can't* divorce – hell, we can't even cheat on each other."

She stood jerkily. "So you see, it's perfectly safe for me to invite another wizard to
spend the night in my home. Don't feel any qualms on *that* account. It's simply
that…"

"I never assumed that was your intention, Hermione," he said quietly.

Hermione's words fumbled slightly, then she continued, "It's simply that I'd
like to have my oldest friend – whom I'd thought dead for years and years – I'd like to
know that he's close by. That he's alive, and safe, and near. That's all." Though
she didn't say it in so many words, there was a sense of *Is* *that so much to ask?*
in her tone. Harry was quite sure that Hermione wasn't even aware it was there.

She'd shared the details of her life with him… and she'd made her case. She would not
ask again, Harry was certain of that. The next move was once more his – and he was acutely aware
that his choice would dictate the courses of the rest of their lives, one way or another.

But for the first time in what seemed forever, he felt he really *had* a rest of his
life.

Even before his conscious mind realized he'd made his choice, his mouth was responding with
a seeming non-sequitur, delivered from a perfectly straight face. "Eggs?"

She was taken aback. "W-what…?"

"Eggs. Do you keep eggs in your icebox? Maybe some bacon, or some mild cheese? If you
don't, I know a little all-night shop in Kensington that has pretty good quality…"

She blinked at him three or four times before a delighted smile spread across her face.
"Oh! Um, no, I don't eat breakfast all that often. Um, usually I just grab a pastry on my
way to work."

Harry stood and faced her. "Well, if you wouldn't mind decking out the sofa with
pillows and such, I'll make a grocery run and be back in two shakes."

It was truly amazing how swiftly she closed the space between them, to envelop him in a massive,
spine-cracking hug. And the awkwardness he expected to feel, about putting his arms around her and
returning the favor, somehow never materialized.



14. XIV: Delicate Negotiations
------------------------------

**(A/N:** The letter from Ron was inspired by a suggestion from **Particle
Accelerator.**

My thanks, once again, to **MirielleGrey,** my gold-standard beta, who showed me how to
tighten some of the scenes in this chapter.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** Don't be silly. Of *course* I don't own Harry Potter or any of
the other characters. I'm just insisting they reach their full potential.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by Paracelsus**

*

**Chapter XIV: Delicate Negotiations**

*

The omelets were light, almost soufflé-like in their airiness, with veins of molten bleu cheese
running through them, and bits of perfectly crisp bacon sprinkled overall. "Small wonder if
the girls can't keep their hands off you," joked Hermione as she finished eating, "if
this is the sort of breakfast you can cook."

Harry smiled slightly but didn't respond to the jibe. Instead, with a tiny jerk of his head
he levitated their empty plates over to the sink. "Coffee?"

"Yes, please." She'd actually had a restful night's sleep, though she
wasn't sure the same could be said of Harry: she had got up to use the lavatory around three
a.m. and saw that he was lying awake on the sofa, hands folded behind his head, staring at the
ceiling. She'd returned to bed without saying anything.

She watched him now over the lip of her cup of coffee, as the dishes and pans cleaned themselves
in the sink. The casual ease with which he manipulated magic was impressive, but a topic for
another time. Right now, she wanted to discuss his return to the wizarding world – if she could
find a safe way to broach the subject. Hermione was reluctant to disturb the concord they'd
reached last night.

Habit asserted itself: she started puttering amongst the items that had arrived in the post on
Saturday. Very quickly she came across the message from Ron. She opened it, started to read, and
felt the blush blossom on her face; hastily, she slipped it into the bottom of the stack of
papers.

Not hastily enough, unfortunately. "Is that Ron's handwriting?" Harry asked.
"What's he have to say?"

"Erm," Hermione said, trying through sheer willpower to keep the blood from rushing to
her face, and failing. "It's… a reminder. My birthday."

"Oh, that's right! Your birthday is this week, isn't it? And he's giving you a
party? That's pretty good of him…"

"Not exactly. He's… inviting me to a, a *private* party. As it were." *To
hell with the blushes,* she decided, and raised her head to look straight at him. "We
*are* still married, after all."

It took Harry a moment to decipher her meaning. When he did, it was *his* turn to blush.
"*Ohh.* So, uh, you're *not* really, uh, separated, then?"

"We're very much separated, Harry. But as I said last night, our wedding vows are
enforced by our own magic." Hermione swallowed a quick gulp of coffee to clear her throat.
"I suppose if I were Narcissa Malfoy, I'd have worded my oath to allow occasional
'liaisons', as long they were discreet. Instead, Ron and I were married using the Church of
England ceremony. As a concession to my parents, you understand."

"Yeah, you said you couldn't cheat on each other. So… that, uh, means no sex at
*all?* For *either* of you?" Harry was bright red now, and no longer looking
directly at her.

"Pretty much," said Hermione, scarlet-faced but determined to get the matter out into
the open. "Though there *are* charms that make objects vibrate…"

"Right. Got it."

"You'd probably have a better idea than I would about *Ron's* options,"
she concluded.

He closed his eyes as if in pain. "I'm sorry," he finally said.

"I gather that Arthur's pressuring Ron to have more children," she continued
doggedly, taking a perverse amusement from his embarrassment. "A son, this time – to carry on
the Weasley family name, you know. So far, all but one of Arthur's grandchildren have been
girls. I don't feel we should *have* any more children, given how our marriage has turned
out, but you know Ron…"

"Please. *Enough.*"

"Welcome back to my world, Harry. It hasn't been all skittles and beer while you've
been gone." Hermione saw the opening in the conversation and took advantage of it… gambling
that his current discomfort would leave him ready to make concessions. "So… when do you plan
to let everyone know?"

"Let everyone know?" Harry blinked at the change of subject. The blush faded rapidly
as his eyes came back to look at her again. "That I'm 'back', you mean? Hermione,
I'm… I'm not…"

"You're not coming back? Is that what you're trying to tell me, Harry? Because if
you…"

He raised his hand, palm towards her, in a quieting motion that was an unmistakable command. The
several logical arguments she'd been primed to deliver came to a screeching halt, tumbling over
one another in her head. Quite uncharacteristically, she fell silent and let him speak.

It took Harry a second or two to find the words. When he did, they carried an air of quiet
authority very similar to Kingsley's. "I'm not 'back' until the Hallows are
gone. The whole *point* of not coming back was to destroy their power – especially the
Wand's. Until then…"

*Blast.* Unfortunately, the same rationale that had kept him away for all these years was
still in force, and she'd never convince him otherwise. Nonetheless, she voiced her challenge.
"So what was yesterday, then, if you're not returning to the wizarding world?"

Surprise flashed over his face. "Yesterday was you asking," he said simply, as though
it were obvious.

Hermione would not allow herself to feel the glow of pleasure at his words. "And what if,
tomorrow, Ron asks?"

"Ron *won't* ask, because Ron won't know."

*True. Ron may have been present when I questioned Ted, but he won't know for certain
unless I tell him – and I promised to keep Harry's existence secret.* She couldn't help
pressing, "Or Ginny?"

"Pfft."

The dismissive snort wasn't what Hermione had expected. "Really?" she asked in
tones of disbelief. "Because when last I saw the two of you, you certainly seemed to be in
love."

"It was fifteen years ago," Harry said shortly. "People change."

*You don't know the half of it,* thought Hermione. She knew she should drop the matter,
change the subject. But his sudden change in attitude – in a heartbeat, he'd turned testy,
almost surly – and his casual dismissal of opportunities lost, annoyed her for no reason she could
name.

"Yes, I suppose you must have changed," she said sweetly. "A Muggle, a success in
your field, and obviously single? You must have had your *pick* of women, Harry. Fifteen
years…"

He shook his head in warning. He was definitely not smiling, as he had at her earlier jibe.

She paid no heed, irrationally determined now to get under his skin, irritate him as he'd
irritated her. *If I have to reveal the secrets of* my *sex life, so does he.* "Why,
you probably wouldn't even have any trouble picking them up. A simple spell to stimulate
libido, I imagine? All that magic *does* have its uses, I see…"

The room's temperature abruptly dropped. The chill seemed to radiate from Harry's body
language his face, his *eyes.* Hermione realized she'd crossed the line, but it was too
late. Even his voice was icy now. "I've been using the Elder Wand," he told her,
"*all* the Hallows, to *help* people. To try and make up for some of the wrong
things that've been done to them in the name of magic – even if they never realized
it."

He stood. "In fact, there are a couple of 'projects' I've been working on, that
I've neglected. I should probably attend to them… and you, I daresay, need to be getting to the
Ministry for your meeting."

He didn't simply Disapparate away – that would have been as rude as slamming down a Muggle
telephone. But his curt exit, walking from the room to Disapparate a moment later, was just as
final a last word.

*

Though she truly wasn't in the mood for it, she kept her appointment in the Ministry atrium.
Edwin Lovinett, junior partner of the legal firm Gouging & Lovinett, was waiting for her there.
He was a prim, middle-aged wizard, fastidious and precise, in a robe of conservative cut. Hermione
had a hard time reconciling his respectable appearance with the clientele he represented… starting
with the Malfoys just after the War's end, and continuing up to his current client.

"Ah, Madam Granger-Weasley," he greeted her, shifting his briefcase so that he could
extend a hand to shake. "So good of you to see me on such short notice. My client was most
desirous to discuss matters with you, without the distractions of a courtroom. Thank you
again."

"Not at all," she said, forcing a smile. "Shall we?" She gestured towards
the lifts.

They took the lifts to the ninth level, walking past the Department of Mysteries to the
courtrooms, and thence to the prisoner holding cells. Lovinett made some attempts at conversation,
almost as a professional duty, but Hermione really wasn't up for verbal fencing. She was trying
too hard to banish the memories of the morning, and her abominable treatment of Harry.

They arrived at the cells: a barred door with a guard's desk beside it, opening to a
corridor of barred doors. A burly MLE agent sat at the desk, reading the *Sunday Prophet.* He
looked up as they approached. "Morning, ma'am," he said to Hermione.

"Good morning, Nelson – or rather, good afternoon," she replied, handing him her wand.
Lovinett did the same. Together they waited as Nelson carefully weighed their wands, handed them
receipts, and slid the wands onto a rack. They would retrieve their wands when they emerged from
the cells.

Nelson turned his head to look at the barred door. "Open," he told it, and then as it
clanged open he called out down the corridor, "Open number five!" With a grunt he nodded
for them to proceed, as he returned to his newspaper.

*I hope I don't have to speak to Robards about lax discipline in his ranks,* thought
Hermione as she walked down the cellblock. *Nelson was hardly paying attention at all… and he
should be escorting us to Swivingham's cell.*

The cell was hardly luxurious, but here and there she spotted a few items of comfort: a
form-fitting bed instead of a cot, a linen tablecloth for the area where the Ministry elves brought
meals. They were clear evidence that the current occupant was used to the finer things in life, and
was able to obtain them even in prison. He was lounging on the bed, humming to himself, when
Hermione and Lovinett walked in. "Ah, if it isn't the ever-charming Witch Who Won,"
he laughed. "Welcome back, lass."

Jack Swivingham was a large man, well over six feet tall, broad-shouldered and bulky. His
ebullient manner and booming voice filled any room with his presence. Still, his pot belly bespoke
a lack of physical exercise, and he'd evidently been treating his thinning hair with potions –
his stay in cells had caused his hairline to recede drastically.

Hermione turned one of the cell's chairs to face Swivingham and settled herself into it
without waiting for Lovinett. "You called this meeting," she told Swivingham.
"What's on your mind?"

Swivingham sat up on the bed as Lovinett moved the other chair closer to him. "I hear that
Harry Potter's come back to life."

"So rumor has it," agreed Hermione unhelpfully.

"Which has confused my poor house-elves into thinking they have to appear at the
trial," Swivingham continued mournfully. "I have to say, Granger, that was a clever ploy
on your part."

"I wish I could claim credit for it," Hermione noted. "Not that I hadn't more
than sufficient evidence to send you to Azkaban without their testimony, but it'll certainly
make my job that much easier." She smiled at Lovinett. "And yours, I'm not sorry to
say, that much harder."

"Ahem. That is why my client has requested this meeting," said Lovinett, opening his
briefcase. "In exchange for a reduced sentence, he will agree to plead guilty to a lesser
charge of…"

"No," interrupted Swivingham.

Lovinett stared at his client in concern. "Jack," he said softly, "don't
throw away this last opportunity…"

"I won't," said Swivingham. "I intend to take *full* advantage of
it." He leaned forward and looked at Hermione with a hardening face. All traces of jollity
were gone from his voice when he spoke again. "In exchange for total immunity from
prosecution, I'll give you the Lords."

"The Lords?"

"Of the cartel. The *real* one."

Hermione was confused, but would not allow herself to show it. "Swivingham, it's well
known that *you* ran all the under-traffic in Knockturn Alley. The prostitution ring was only
one part of it – there were drugs, fencing…"

"Did I run all that?" Swivingham grinned. "Strange that you didn't charge me
with anything but procurement, then. But let me offer you some food for thought." He gestured
with both hands, describing a petite female figure. "Fatima. Probably the best looking of my
'working elves', wouldn't you say? From a human point of view, anyway. And – let me
guess – probably the least communicative of the six you've got." He waited for Hermione to
acknowledge his point. Her silence was acknowledgement enough. "Didn't you ever wonder how
a British house-elf received such a… Levantine name?"

Swivingham smiled again as Hermione fixed her most penetrating stare on him. He had her full
interest now, and he knew it. "Another example: you know the sorts of drugs available in
Knockturn Alley. Silverleaf. Runecap extract. I hear you can even acquire some Muggle drugs. Their
new synthetics don't do much for magical metabolisms, of course, but the classic organic-growns
are always popular – blond hashish is the current favorite. Do they even *grow* cannabis in
Britain, I wonder?"

"This… would have to go far beyond Knockturn Alley," Hermione said slowly.
"You're talking about a major international cartel. And you're, what,
second-in-command?"

"Ah, Granger, you flatter me. I do run the businesses here in Britain… regional manager, if
you like. But I take my orders from the Lords. How would you like to get your hands on *them?*
Promise me immunity and a free ticket out of here, and I'll give you names, dates, bank
accounts, everything you'll need to go after them." Swivingham sat back, quite satisfied
with the impact of his words.

Hermione was thinking furiously. To accept Swivingham's offer would mean not prosecuting him
for procurement or running the prostitution ring – the strategy by which she'd hoped to strike
a blow for elf rights. But if there *were* an international criminal cartel doing business in
Britain – throughout Europe – that would be too great a target to ignore.

"You're asking me to buy a pig in a poke," she shot at him. "Any promises of
immunity would have to depend on the level of cooperation we got… and how effective your
information turned out to be."

"Oh, it's good, sweetheart," Swivingham assured her. "Trust me, it's
good. By the same token, I want that promise of immunity in writing. This is where you come
in," he added as an aside to Lovinett.

"As your legal counsel, Jack," Lovinett replied in a low voice, "I have to
*strongly* advise against entering any agreement like this with the current Ministry…" He
glanced at Hermione under lowered brows, and she understood he was requesting privacy. She stood
and stepped outside the cell door, swinging it nearly shut; she scrupulously looked away from them,
as they conferred in low voices.

Eventually, Lovinett called Hermione back into the cell. Both men were very tense –
Lovinett's face was pinched in disapproval, while Swivingham had broken out in sweat – but
seemed ready to conclude the deal. "I can draw up an instrument right here," Lovinett
began stiffly, "if you care to call in the guard as a witness…"

"Actually," put in Hermione, "any agreement of *this* magnitude needs to be
co-signed by the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. I can contact Robards as soon as we're done
here… we should certainly have something ready for everyone's signature tomorrow morning,
before the court convenes."

"Good enough," said Swivingham, wiping his brow. "I'd insist on getting
Shacklebolt's agreement, too," he added candidly, "except I don't think he's
going to be around long enough to keep his end of the bargain."

Hermione sniffed disdainfully. "We'll see you in the morning, then, Swivingham,"
she told him. "Oh, and do please bear in mind: if so much as *one word* of your
information is dodgy, the whole deal's off, and you're back in the dock." She led
Lovinett out of the cell – the door automatically shut behind them – and out of the cellblock.

"No further visitors until tomorrow," she instructed Nelson, as she retrieved her
wand. "Mr. Lovinett, while I'm sure this wasn't what either of us had in mind for
today's meeting, I think we can call it productive. If you'll come by my office tomorrow
morning, we can hammer out the final details of the agreement."

She all but flew back to her office and wrote a précis of the day's meeting, which she
promptly owled to Robards. Hermione wanted the matter done and the decision out of her hands, a
*fait accompli.* It would be a Pyrrhic victory: Magical Law Enforcement would get kudos for
eradicating a criminal cartel, but at the cost of losing a round in her long fight for elvish
rights.

In particular, she dreaded having to explain to Canby that all his efforts preparing for the
trial – including his work with the witnesses – had been for naught… and that the elves were no
closer to emancipation than before.

*

It was late in the evening when Harry Apparated back to Enthalpy House. The house was silent and
dark, and at first he wasn't sure he'd be welcome. He'd been snappish and cold with
Hermione over breakfast, refusing to share details of his life although she'd been sharing
hers… in the end, leaving in a huff without even letting her speak – or explaining himself.

How could he possibly explain about Ginny? It had taken him years to figure it out himself – he
had no idea how he might explain it to anyone else. To Hermione. Or to the Weasleys, for that
matter.

But if Harry ever *did* find a way to return to the wizarding world, he'd better also
find a way to explain. Certainly Ginny deserved the explanation, if no one else.

He was reassured to see the sofa had been decked out with pillows and coverlet, again… Hermione
had expected (hoped?) he'd be returning tonight. Harry could hardly blame her for not waiting
up for him – if for no other reason than that it postponed their inevitable discussion/apology
session until morning.

A quick Transfiguration changed his Muggle street clothes into pyjamas, as he'd done the
night before. Almost out of habit he set protective spells around the house: he might not be
sleeping in his Stealth Cloak any more, but he wasn't about to neglect his defenses. He was
making ready to climb under the coverlet when he heard a sound in the silent house.

The unmistakable sound of Hermione weeping.

It gave him a moment of queasy hesitation. He'd *never* been comfortable with crying
females, never known what to do – but he'd had fifteen years to learn, a little. And he
bitterly remembered his failure to console Hermione, when Ron had left her crying in the Forest of
Dean.

Quietly he went to the door of Hermione's bedroom. It was closed but unlocked; he opened it
enough to pop his head into the room. In the darkness he could make out Hermione on her bed, softly
weeping. Harry couldn't tell if she knew he was there.

He slipped inside, hesitated again, then noiselessly stepped to her bedside and knelt there.
Hermione's back was to him; he could now make out that she was curled up slightly, hugging a
pillow. It helped, somehow, that she wasn't looking at him – in that disconcertingly direct way
she had – and the darkness of the room helped, too.

Keeping his touch feather-light, he began to stroke her hair. She hiccupped once, then the
crying continued unabated. She wasn't going to tell him why she was crying, then… but he
thought he could guess.

Harry drew a deep breath. "I'm afraid to come back," he said, his voice barely
more than a whisper. "It's the Hallows, yes, but not *just* the Hallows, it's… I
was born under a prophecy, and I fulfilled it. I almost feel like, without the prophecy, what
*use* am I to the wizarding world now? At least the Muggles I can help."

Her weeping had slowed. She *was* listening, then. "And I was sure… well, I'd
convinced myself… that no one would miss me. That you'd all, y'know, get on with your
lives. I hoped you'd remember me occasionally, but really, you were better off without
me." He fell silent, simply stroking her hair, ever so gently.

Hermione was sniffling now, not crying. After a minute, she spoke in a voice no louder than
Harry's. "When you died – that day when Voldemort and his Death Eaters came out of the
Forest, and Hagrid carried your body for us to see…" She said no more, and Harry wondered if
she would continue.

She whispered, "I died too."

As there didn't seem to be anything to say to this, Harry said nothing. He knew Hermione was
incapable of leaving it at that.

"Part of me just… died, Harry. I'd dedicated my life to helping you – in Hogwarts, and
then I gave *up* Hogwarts, I Obliviated my own parents – I gave up *Ron* to help you.
When I thought you'd died, it was like there was a hole inside me where you should have been.
Don't *ever* think you weren't missed, or that you have no value. Don't…"

Another pause. "Don't ever think you weren't loved," she finished.

He sensed she was done for the moment. *My turn again.* Harry let the silence settle into
place for a time, while he gathered his thoughts. He paused in stroking her hair, and began to lift
his hand from her head.

"Don't stop," she quickly added.

With a mental shrug, he resumed his stroking. *I suppose it's because she's a cat
person,* he mused, *that's why she likes this.*

"About Ginny," he began, and felt her stiffen under his hand. He tried to put his
hard-earned thoughts into order: if there was *anyone* he could explain this to, it was
Hermione. "Something happened that year, and I don't know… I don't know if it was all
the fighting, or the fact that I was getting ready to die – they do say that clears the mind,
don't they? But… I didn't want her near me in the battle. And when Voldemort made his
ultimatum, and I went to him in the Forest… to die… well, I saw Ginny, and I could have said
goodbye. I could have comforted her when Fred died, too. I could have done… lots of things… but the
point is, I didn't."

"I see."

"And it took me years to understand, but I know now… I didn't really love Ginny, not
really. I never did. There was a lot of lust, I know that *now,* lust on both our parts, I
think. We were teenagers. But… I didn't know anything about love, Hermione. I mean, I
wasn't about to learn it from the Dursleys, was I? It took me *years* to figure that
out."

"I see." Pause. Then she rolled over in bed to face him. It was too dark to make out
her expression, but her eyes were shining. "And now?"

"I've helped a lot of people who needed help. I've seen people who stayed by each
other, no matter how hard things got. If that was love… then I guess I know what love is. Love is
putting the other person first. Isn't it? You'd know better than me."

Slowly, cautiously, her hand came up to touch his face. "Maybe once," she whispered,
"but not now." His eyes must be adjusting to the darkness, finally: he could see a
tentative smile make its way to her face. It disappeared as she turned solemn. "I am so sorry
for what I said this morning, Harry."

He let his hand come to rest onto her head, no longer a stroke, but a caress. "Me too. For
what *I* said. For.. for everything, y'know? Then *and* now. I… I should have trusted
you."

With a smile no longer tentative, Hermione took his hand between both of her own, snuggled with
it into her mattress, and closed her eyes. Harry concluded that the sofa wasn't for him
tonight. With a wistful sigh, he *Accio'd* his pillow from the other room and settled into
a sitting position by the side of her bed… his hand still clasped between hers.

Oh, he'd be stiff in the morning, but he'd spent worse nights… and there were many kinds
of comfort.



15. XV:  A Strike at the Heart
------------------------------

**(A/N:** I'm all the more grateful to our sterling beta-reader,
**MirielleGrey****,** because she had to work under extraordinarily stressful conditions: a
couple of irritating visitors named Gustav and Hannah. Many, many thanks, Miri.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** You can tell I'm not the esteemed Ms. Rowling, because I go back and
re-read the story already posted. Not to mention all the helpful reviews…**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XV: A Strike at the Heart**

*

Being both Monday morning, *and* the day she'd either close the deal with Swivingham or
open his trial, Hermione didn't expect as fancy a breakfast as yesterday's, just her usual
pastry and coffee. Pastries she got, but they'd been Apparated in from Paris; coffee she got,
but it was brewed from Kona beans, freshly ground.

*A girl could get used to this,* and she immediately squelched the thought before it could
go any further.

She spent a moment checking the morning post – there to find Robards's response to her owl,
agreeing to the plea bargain and grant of immunity for Swivingham. Hermione had expected he'd
jump at the immediate win without worrying about their long-term goals, but the fact still dejected
her.

*Ce* *qui sera, sera,* she sighed to herself, and slipped Robards's letter into a
folder. She added a note to the guard staff at the holding cells, to increase the security on
Swivingham until all the deal's details were made final. *If he's telling the truth about
these Cartel Lords, he may be at risk once his evidence becomes public.* The folder went into
her briefcase.

"Good luck today," Harry offered as he stood from the table. He'd "dressed
Muggle" again, in clothes that suggested country rather than city.

"Thanks. Will you be, er…?


"'Field work' today? Yeah, and probably tonight, too. There's this old couple
in the Lowlands, they've owned and run a dairy farm for fifty years or more, and they don't
really want to sell it, but it's hard times for small farms these days…"

"I get the picture," she smiled. "There's a spell for increasing milk
production, by the way: *Lactus**.* Of course, it's usually intended for new mothers
who've just had twins, but there's no reason it shouldn't work on dairy cows."

"*Lactus**,*" Harry repeated. "Thanks…" He hesitated, then added,
"And thanks for… well…"

"No, Harry, thank *you.*" Her smile turned warmer. "When I think of how
miserable I was when I went to bed last night, and how much better I feel this morning…"

"Yeah. I know what you mean." He took a step towards her, hesitated, then slowly –
giving her every opportunity to decline – leaned forward to lightly kiss the top of her head. Far
from declining, Hermione closed her eyes and gave a soft hum of contentment. Harry quickly
straightened and stepped back; he opened his mouth to say something, but no words emerged. Instead,
he gave her a shy smile before turning and leaving the room to Disapparate away.

For a rarity, Hermione took a few moments to linger over her coffee. She couldn't help the
smile that spread itself over her face, she couldn't suppress it if she tried – and she
didn't want to try. She didn't remember the last time she'd slept so peacefully, so
*blissfully.* Even some of her nights with Ron, where she'd lain in welcome post-coital
languor, didn't compare to last night, simply falling asleep with Harry's hand pressed
between hers.

Harry had never been comfortable with feelings, neither his own nor others'… his aunt and
uncle had seen to that (and that blasted Cloak hadn't helped matters any). Certainly, he'd
never liked talking about them: it had always been through Harry's actions that he'd made
his feelings known. So last night's admissions, she sensed, had been a tremendous breakthrough
for both of them. Hermione hoped Harry felt better for it – she knew *she* did. She still felt
a residuum of anger over their past – issues of abandonment and mutual boneheadedness, she admitted
it – but the anger had been washed clean of bitterness.

Healing had begun.

*Of course, he won't be staying around for long,* she mused. *He still thinks he has
to avoid the wizarding world, as the only way to avoid any confrontation that might lose him the
Wand. I'll have to work on that. There* must *be a way of eliminating it without Harry
dying! He survived Voldemort, he can survive this, too! He* has *to!*

She paused. Something about that last thought… something about Harry, about Voldemort… it
niggled at her subconscious. Hermione tried to bring it out for inspection, but for the moment it
eluded her. She waited a few seconds to see if it would surface on its own… then she gave a mental
shrug and went back to her preparations for what promised to be an important day at the
Ministry.

*

Once at the Ministry, Hermione set a brisk pace, not pausing to talk to any of those who might
delay or distract her. She went first to her office, and immediately wrote the warning for the
guard staff. *Increased security – two guards, not one – for this week at least,* she thought,
as she folded the note into an airplane and sent it on its way. *And eventual witness relocation,
possibly – again, assuming Swivingham's telling the truth.*

Next, she sat down to draft the agreement with Swivingham. It took only two drafts; the final
wording went into the folder with Robards's message, which she tucked under her arm as she
headed for the lifts to the ninth level.

At the holding cells, she surrendered her wand to the guard – Ferrers, it was today – and made
her way to Cell Five. The door opened, she stepped inside – and froze in horror.

Swivingham was hanging by his neck from the ceiling, his belt a makeshift noose, his eyes rolled
back, his tongue black and protruding.

"Ferrers!" yelled Hermione. "*Ferrers**!*" The guard ran up,
coming to a full stop at the sight of Swivingham's corpse. "I want Forensics down here
*now,*" she ordered him. "I want the duty roster for last night – the names of
*everyone* on duty from DMLE. And send word to Head Robards – he'll want to see this for
himself." Ferrers gratefully took his leave, while Hermione stood stock-still in the cell
doorway, wishing she dared disturb the crime scene by looking for her own clues.

*I guess Swivingham* was *telling the truth,* she thought morbidly.

In remarkably short order, four MLE investigators, including a somber Dennis Creevey, had
lowered Swivingham's body to the floor. Two began to run tests on it; the third began to cast
spells around the cells, testing to be sure its Anti-Apparation wards were intact. Hermione
watched, staying well out of the way, as Creevey approached the cell door itself.
"*Tempori* *Incantatem,*" he said, tapping it with his wand. A stream of mist
issued from the lock, coalescing into five tiny, translucent clocks: time marks. Hermione knew that
the first clock showed the time of her own arrival, minutes before.

Gawaine Robards entered the cell block and joined Hermione, watching the forensics team at work.
One of the medical analysts spotted him and trotted over. "First-level spells complete,
sir," she reported in clipped tones. "Cause of death is exactly what it appears to be.
Broken vertebrae, slow strangulation – death by hanging. No other trauma or injuries."

"Time of death, Franklin?" asked Robards.

Franklin, the analyst, glanced over at her teammate, who had just completed another test. He
nodded affirmatively. "Between midnight and two," Franklin replied. "Could be a bit
earlier, but can't be much later. We'll know more after we get the body to the
morgue."

"But *why?*" wondered Hermione quietly to Robards, as they stepped out of the
cell to allow the analysts room to work. "Why would he commit suicide? *Now,* of all
times?"

Robards shook his head. "He must've heard the rumors, and known that the elves were
going to testify against him after all. He *knew* he was going to Azkaban, and decided he
couldn't face it – and took the easy way out." At Hermione's stunned look, he
elaborated, "It's happened before, after all. I recall one prisoner, at the end of the
First Voldemort War, accused of being a fairly high-ranking Death Eater – he slit his wrists with a
chicken bone."

Hermione shuddered at the image, but pressed her point. "No, but I'm talking about his
plea bargain. If he was so willing to cut a deal Sunday afternoon, why kill himself Sunday night?
It makes no sense!" She turned to Creevey, and so missed Robards's puzzled look. "Who
else came into this cell last night?"

Creevey gestured with his wand, and the log book from the front guard desk came into his waiting
hands. He flipped its pages, checking them against the miniature clocks by the cell door.
"According to *Tempori* *Incantatem,* before you arrived this morning – the door was
last opened…" He glanced down at the log book. "…when you and Lovinett interviewed him
yesterday at noon."

"No, I mean since then."

"*Nothing* since then… until you opened the door this morning."

"No… that's not possible. Someone had to've come in, killed Swivingham, and made it
look like suicide. He *wouldn't* have killed himself, after cutting a deal with
us!"

"What deal?" asked Robards.

"The…" Hermione stopped and stared at her superior. "The plea bargain," she
said slowly, "granting him immunity from prosecution in exchange for information against his
own bosses. The Lords."

"His… 'bosses'? Granger, I thought Swivingham *was* the boss in Knockturn
Alley! And no plea bargain would have been valid without my approval!"

Without saying another word, Hermione opened her folder and produced Robards's message. She
handed it to him silently and waited for him to read it.

Robards's face showed confused shock when he looked back to Hermione. "This… is my
handwriting… but… but I never wrote this."

"I think you did," said Hermione, quietly but forcefully. "I think you've
forgotten. I think we need to see the Spell Reversal specialists." She grasped his forearm.
"And I think we need to go *now.*"

Robards started to protest, but Hermione was no longer listening. "Creevey, have one of our
Legilimens meet us at Spell Reversal. Ferrers, you'll have to accompany us, too – we need to be
able to clear you. You relieved Nelson when you started your shift, yes? Good. Grimaldi! Bones!
Find Nelson and bring him here *on the double* – and be warned, he may be a fugitive at this
point, so use appropriate caution, but *bring him!*" She waited just long enough to
receive acknowledgements of her orders, then she left the cell block briskly – pulling her superior
along behind her.

*

"If anyone else had tried to tell me this," Kingsley Shacklebolt said, two hours
later, "I would have dismissed it out of hand." His keen gaze went from Hermione to
Robards, before landing on Peasegood, the Ministry's foremost expert on Memory Charms.
"You're absolutely certain, Arnold?"

"No question of it, Minister," replied Peasegood. "His memory has definitely been
altered. Whoever Obliviated him knew what they were about: the lost memory was erased promptly,
before it had time to imprint from his short-term to long-term engrams. Within the last twelve to
eighteen hours, I'd guess."

Shacklebolt nodded thoughtfully. "Last night, then. That makes sense: they'd have to do
it before our weekly briefing this morning. You'd certainly have told me and the other Heads
about this plea bargain with Swivingham. And – correct me if I'm wrong, Arnold – it
would've been much harder to Obliviate many people than just one."

"If you want their altered memories to still match, yes."

"Hmm. And no chance of recovering whatever was Obliviated?"

Peasegood pursed his lips. "I wouldn't say *no* chance, Minister, but slim. St.
Mungo's has been working on Gilderoy Lockhart for over twenty years, and he's only just
started to regain a few genuine memories."

"Which means no way of telling who did this to me," said Robards angrily, "except
it was probably someone I trusted enough to let into my home!"

"Well, it could have been done through the window, or even the Floo," said
Shacklebolt. "What puzzles me, Granger, is why it wasn't done to you as well."

"The standard Ministry security spells set on my home were recently… augmented,"
replied Hermione carefully. It seemed the most likely explanation: given the habits of secrecy
Harry had developed over the years, it would've been very much in character for him to have
added his defenses to her own. At least, she *hoped* that was the explanation, and not
*Well, the culprits had broken into my house and were about to Obliviate me when they spotted
Harry Potter, raised from the dead and sitting by my bed!*

"Well done. Now we need to do the same for the Ministry's *internal*
security," Shacklebolt said forcefully. He abruptly broke off in a series of rough hacking
coughs. Immediately, his attendant Healer stepped forward with a goblet of potion.

"You need to calm yourself, sir," she told him in a low voice as he sipped. "The
stress…"

"I know," he replied, equally quiet. "Just keep me going for a few more days,
Emily, that's all I ask." He handed the goblet back to her, wiped his lips with the back
of his hand, and returned to the matter at hand. "Arnold, I want you to work with our
Legilimens on Ferrers. Make certain his memory's whole, *and* that he's telling the
truth. When we find Nelson, I'll want the same done for him." His stern nod was a
dismissal.

Shacklebolt waited unto Peasegood had left the office before he resumed. "If not for
Gawaine's Obliviation, I would have accepted Swivingham's death as suicide. Hell, I still
can't see how it could have been anything *else.* He was alone in his cell. No one went in
that night, and there was a guard outside the cell block. He…"

"Did he have dinner?" interrupted Robards.

Hermione glanced at the analysts' preliminary report. "Yes, curried lamb."

"So *someone* could get into the cell," said Robards grimly.

"The Ministry *house elves?*" Hermione whirled on the Head of Enforcement,
prepared to deliver a stingingly indignant lecture, but Shacklebolt cut her off.

"Our elves need not have been culpable," he pointed out. "They might have simply
delivered his food, as usual – and the food could have been doctored. You know as well as I that
there are potions that cause severe depression." Hermione nodded in agreement; Harry had
described to her the potion Dumbledore had been forced to drink, the night of his death.
"Which the flavor of the curry would've hidden. Swivingham could easily have been driven
to suicide that way."

"We'll have to wait until all the autopsy tests are done, then," said Hermione,
ceding the point. "I'll instruct Franklin to check for mood-altering potions." She
glared at Robards. "I *cannot* believe the Ministry elves would *murder*
anyone."

"I wasn't thinking of the Ministry elves, exactly," said Robards, not flinching
before Hermione's glare. "There are six *other* elves who might welcome the chance to
strike back at their former master. They were, after all, prepared to testify against him… maybe
their change of heart went a little further."

Hermione was rendered speechless for a moment. But only a moment. "*Not possible!*
I've worked with those girls…"

"If it wasn't elves, and it wasn't suicide, then it had to have been one of the
guards on duty," Robards retorted. "No one else came into the cell block, and *no
one* opened Swivingham's door!"

"It could have been done through the bars of the door," Hermione shot back. "A
really powerful mood-altering spell, a solid Imperius Curse, an Hallucino Hex…!"

"Again, that means one of the guards. All of those spells require wands, and visitors
surrender their wands before they enter the cell block. Only the guards are armed."

"It almost doesn't matter," ruled Shacklebolt. "What matters is that a
prisoner in Ministry custody *died* last night! Bad enough if it was merely lax security on
the part of Magical Law Enforcement – but your Obliviation, Gawaine, proves it was more than that.
I think…" He paused, considering. "I think we must take Swivingham's story as fact.
Lords of an international Cartel – who wanted Swivingham dead before he could spill their
secrets."

"Which is all well and good, sir," said Robards, "except that the only evidence
of such a Cartel was Swivingham's word. We hadn't a clue of their existence before
that."

"I would imagine that we *had* clues, but too few to detect any pattern to them,"
replied the Minister. His manner turned formal, decisive, that of a born leader; only the tremor of
one hand betrayed his body's weakness. "We need to work through the International
Confederation of Wizards, see what other Ministries might have uncovered, pool our information. Mr.
Robards, work with Mr. Kerricks to arrange a conference this week – give it your top priority.
Thank you."

"Thank you, Minister," Robards and Hermione murmured, as they turned to leave.

"A moment, Madam Granger," added the Minister. He waited for Robards to exit before he
softly said, "All right there, Hermione?"

Hermione nodded, half-smiling. This was no longer the Minister of Magic for the United Kingdom;
this was her friend Kingsley, her comrade-in-arms from the days of the Phoenix, terminally ill but
valiant to the end. "I'm fine, Kingsley. Oh, I was upset that we lost the chance to bring
the elves closer to freedom, but…"

"But that day will come. There'll be other chances," nodded Kingsley. He paused,
lost in memory. "We've worked so hard together, you and I, Hermione. We *have* made
great strides… more opportunities for Muggleborns, goblins on the Wizengamot… have faith, the day
will come." He held out his hand; Hermione clasped it gently. "But you know as well as I
do, I won't be here to see that day. No," he spoke over Hermione's protest, "be
honest. If I see Christmas, I'll be lucky. Hermione – will you be up to finishing the job? No
matter *who* the Wizengamot chooses to succeed me?"

She understood what he was saying… and who he believed his successor would likely be.
Particularly given the lead role the Department of International Cooperation would have in any
investigation of the Cartel Lords. "Kingsley, trust me, if Blaise Zabini gets in my way, I
will skin him *alive* and hang his hide on my *wall.* I'll reserve a place of honor
for it."

"Good girl." Kingsley closed his eyes momentarily, as he let go of Hermione's
hand. "Now, if you'd just send in my secretary… we're going to have to explain to the
press exactly why the Trial of the Century has been cancelled. And I have to decide whether to
maintain the suicide story – for now, anyway – or announce he was killed by persons unknown. A
preemptive strike, as it were, so that *we* control the story before it leaks. Not that
I'm looking forward to the *Prophet's* inevitable sneers about our security…"

"I'll leave you to it, then," said Hermione. As she made her way to the door, she
saw the Healer heading for Shacklebolt's chair, a new goblet in hand.



16. XVI:  Fairy Tale Lessons
----------------------------

**(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.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by Paracelsus**

*

**XVI: Fairy Tale Lessons**

*

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."



17. XVII: Payment Due On Past Mistakes
--------------------------------------

**(A/N:** I feel I should remind my readers that Ginny was Not At All A Nice Person in the
last two books. Sorry.

Beta proofing provided by **MirielleGrey****,** who advised on some of the behavior we see
– or rather, *don't* see – in this chapter. I tried not to infodump, but you've got to
admit I've answered a great many questions.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** No, there has been no recent realignment of the Cosmic Axis to make me
suddenly owner of Harry Potter and his world. Pity, that.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XVII: Payment Due On Past Mistakes**

*

Under Hermione's hard scrutiny, Ginny began to fidget. She wisely said nothing further, and
after a moment, Hermione said, "Sit down. I'll make some tea – and this had better be
good."

Tea took only seconds, using magic, and Hermione was back in the living room with a tray of
three cups before Ron and Ginny had settled onto the sofa and chair, respectively. Hermione set the
tray on the table, ignoring the paperwork already there, and selected a cup for herself. She sat on
the sofa, the only spot left to sit, but as far from Ron's end of the sofa as she comfortably
could. "All right, let's start. Ron, do you know what this is about?"

Ron shook his head. "Gin showed up at my flat and said she had to talk to you, but
*absolutely* not in your office. Convinced me it was a matter of life and death. Beyond
that…" He shrugged helplessly.

"I see. All right, Ginny, start at the beginning." Hermione restrained her urge to
interrogate Ginny… at least for the moment.

Ginny took a moment to sip her tea and collect her thoughts. "When I saw today's
*Prophet,* I recognized the man in the photo. We've met before. I didn't know at the
time his name was Jack Swivingham," she added hastily, "and I *certainly* didn't
know what sorts of dodgy business he was involved in! He…"

"Where could you have met him, Gin?" Ron interrupted. "Don't tell me
you've been slumming in Knockturn Alley! That's no place for…"


"A decent young witch like myself," finished Ginny. "Merlin, Ron, you're
channeling Percy again! *No,* I haven't been to Knockturn Alley, thanks for the vote of
confidence. No, I've seen him at…" She hesitated, and kept her gaze on Hermione as she
finished, "…at Blaise Zabini's manor house."

"*Zabini**?!*" Ron's tone was a perfect blend of incredulity and
disgust.

"*Will* you get over your old anti-Slytherin prejudices?" Ginny snapped.
"Blaise is a respected politician in the Ministry – and a rising star there, practically a
member of the Minister's cabinet. He's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Perhaps," said Hermione neutrally. "So how did you come to be at his
home?"

"Blaise will occasionally have a few people to his manor," Ginny explained, evidently
choosing her words with care, "private, informal get-togethers. I don't know if
you…"

"Fire Parties?" Hermione put in dryly, and smirked at Ginny's surprised look.
"Oh yes, tales of them have reached even my ears. For obvious reasons, I've never been to
one." She looked at Ron and explained, "As far as I can tell, Ron, they're
*very* exclusive parties, by invitation only… and only Purebloods seem to get
invited."

"It's not a *question* of blood, Hermione," said Ginny defensively.
"Blaise isn't *like* that. He'd never have reached his current position if he
believed the old supremacist line – you know that as well as I do."

"I know that no modern politician can afford to *spout* the old supremacist
line," rejoined Hermione. "But he certainly believed it when we were at
Hogwarts."

"Well, then, he's changed," Ginny insisted. "Some people do, you know! Fire
Parties are just… just a chance for folks who've been raised in a common culture,
*wizarding* culture, to get together and relax. There's nothing sinister about
it!"

"And yet, somehow, I feel sure that Ron, or your father, would never be invited."
Hermione shook her head sharply. "Never mind. I assume you met Swivingham at one of these
parties?"

"Not as a guest," hedged Ginny. "He was… that is…" She paused, obviously
trying to find the right words. "If you've heard of them, you've probably guessed that
a fair bit of, shall we say, social networking goes on at a Fire Party…"

"Is that how you were invited? Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, figure in the public eye
and all that?"

"Not exactly. I was seeing David Midgen at the time – back when he was starting up his new
music network, the alternative to WWN, you know? He brought me to Blaise's first party,
and…" Ginny stopped.

"And you've been attending them ever since? How… upwardly mobile of you," said
Hermione sardonically.

"So why're they called 'Fire Parties'?" put in Ron, in an attempt to
lighten the mood. "Does Zabini have a volcano in his living room, or something?"

"It's a play on Blaise's name," Hermione replied absently. "His, and his
co-host's… hostess, I should say…" She broke off abruptly and stared at Ginny's fiery
red hair, as the penny dropped loudly in her head. "Blaise and Flame," she finished
softly, her voice a challenge.

Ginny met her gaze without flinching. She said nothing.

Hermione waited.

"Yes," Ginny finally admitted, equally softly.

"You're Flame… you've been the hostess for Blaise Zabini's
'old-boy-network' social gatherings," Hermione spelled it out. "Are you and
Blaise…?"

Ginny lifted her chin defiantly. "I don't think that has any bearing on the current
discussion."

"*I'll* be the judge of what does or doesn't have any bearing on our
discussion," Hermione shot back, while Ron stared at his sister as though she'd just
sprouted horns. "You were describing the 'networking' that goes on at these parties –
is Zabini involved in that directly? As a facilitator?" Ginny hesitated again, and Hermione
pressed on, very sure of her ground now. "May I assume that there's a back room or two at
Zabini Manor, where deals get made and bargains get struck? Purebloods consolidating their
influence and power? Call it what you like, Ginny, that's the reality of it!"

"Hermione, please understand…"

"And if Swivingham wasn't a guest, why was he there? Providing, oh, let's call it
'entertainment'?" Hermione's voice had turned scathing. "Since I doubt
you'd call it by its right name…!"

Stung and ashamed, Ginny lowered her gaze to the floor. "The back rooms only," she
mumbled. "I didn't know about it, Hermione, I swear. I kept seeing this bloke, but it
wasn't until I read today's paper that I knew who he was, and what he'd been doing at
the Manor."

There was another moment of silence. "Well," said Hermione at length, "I daresay
it would embarrass Zabini if the public learned that he'd hired a Knockturn Alley crime boss to
provide hookers and illegal drugs for his parties, but I don't see that as a threat on your
life."

"No," agreed Ginny, "there's more," and she gulped her tea. "I, er,
don't suppose you have anything stronger…?" At the looks she received from Hermione and
Ron, she took another gulp, then set the cup down. Drawing a deep breath, she began, "We gave
a Fire Party last Friday. There were some new guests, I'd never seen them before, and Blaise
didn't introduce them to the general crowd as he usually does for newcomers. They seemed to be
very important wizards, by the way Blaise was talking to them. They went straight to the back room.
I followed – normally I host the main party, you see, so I stay there, and Blaise plays host to the
back rooms – but this time I went back there, and I overheard Blaise talking."

"With these new, important guests?" Hermione prompted.

"Yes. Um, Swivingham wasn't there Friday, of course… he was behind bars. I heard Blaise
saying something about how Swivingham was sure to be convicted now, because his elves were going to
change their minds and agree to testify at his trial."

"How did he know that?" Hermione asked sharply. "This was Friday, you said? The
elves had only told *me* on Friday – it couldn't have been more than a few hours before
your party!"

"He figured the elves would testify, because of the rumor about… about Harry." Ginny
fell silent, waiting.

If Ginny had been alone in Hermione's living room, Hermione might have accepted that Zabini
had heard the rumor somewhere inside the Ministry. One look at Ron's red face and gaping mouth,
however, and the truth flashed complete in Hermione's mind. "You *told* her, Ron?!
After I *trusted* you to keep it to yourself, you *told* Ginny about Harry?"

"Hey, it wasn't like I was taking an advert in the *Prophet!*" Ron shouted.
"I was only telling *Ginny!* She's *family!* And anyway, I think she has a right
to know if someone's pretending to be Harry, don't you!?"

"Besides, he was three sheets to the wind," Ginny noted quickly. "It's not
his fault, Hermione, don't blame him."

Hermione turned her fury on Ginny. "And then *you* turned right around and told
*Zabini**…!*"

"He didn't believe it, though," Ginny said. "He didn't believe there was
an imposter… he, er, thought it was a ruse by you to trick the elves into testifying. He was
actually pretty impressed."

"Am I supposed to be *flattered?* I asked that it be kept *secret!*"
Hermione had no way of knowing whether Harry was listening, but she hoped he was, and that he
understood what had happened. She wondered in passing whether he'd be angry enough to confront
Ginny – and so confirm his existence.

In the meantime, she needed to bring the conversation back on track. "So Zabini was telling
these guests that Swivingham was going to Azkaban?"

Ginny nodded. "And that… that he'd probably betray them."

Hermione jumped on this. "He used *those words?*" It seemed incredible – but if
the Cartel Lords were responsible for Swivingham's murder, and Blaise Zabini had a hand in it…!
The implications were staggering. She kept them to herself, however: she still had nothing
concrete.

Ginny licked her lips nervously. "I, I think he said, 'He'll probably betray us now
to save his skin.' And then it was, 'Don't worry, I'll take care of it. He'll
set a good example.' Or close to that." Ginny twisted her fingers together. "And then
I saw today's *Prophet,* and read all about Swivingham, and I knew he didn't kill
himself – Blaise had him killed. I, I didn't want to believe it, but…!"

Ron spoke up. "Does Zabini know you overheard him?"

"I don't know. They nearly caught me – I had to knock and go into the room with them,
and pretend I had a question for Blaise. You know, so I wouldn't *look* like I was
eavesdropping. But if Blaise suspects anything…!"

"He might not have you killed," said Hermione calmly. "He might simply have you
Obliviated." She didn't explain that this seemed to be the Cartel Lords' preferred
method of dealing with problems: there were obviously advantages to keeping their existence
unknown. Swivingham had evidently been a special case: either they couldn't find a skilled
enough Obliviator who had access to his cell, or, as Ginny's tale suggested, they were making
an example of him.

Hermione's words didn't seem to reassure Ginny. She drained the dregs of her cup and set
it back on the tray with a thump. "Hermione, what can we *do?*"

"*We* can keep calm." Hermione fell silent, considering. There was, she judged, a
real risk to Ginny's life: Even if Ginny knew no more than she'd just told, the fact that
she was Hermione's sister-in law might lead Zabini to assume the worst. Moreover, Hermione was
quite sure that Ginny *did* know more than she was telling, even if she didn't realize it.
If she'd been present at most of these Fire Parties, she might well have seen chance
encounters, heard bits of conversation, which when added together might be damaging to Zabini. And
such scattered memories would be nearly impossible to Obliviate without detection… while killing
was so easy.

"Tonight, you'll spend the night here," she finally said, hoping Harry was
listening. "As I told Ron, my house defenses have been augmented recently… you'll be safe
here. Tomorrow, I'll bring in one of the Department's evidentiary Pensieves. I'd like
to see for myself the conversation between Zabini and his guests… to determine how dangerous it
would be for him, and thus for you."

"And if Hermione doesn't think it's dangerous," said Ron, "then you
should probably go to Quidditch practice this week, as usual. If Zabini isn't suspicious, you
don't want to *make* him suspicious, right? Act normally – but you might want to beg off
the next Fire Party, say you're sick or something. The less direct contact with him, the
better."

"Yes, Ron, I'm sure you'd love that," said Ginny, with her usual tartness when
dealing with her brother. She became somber again as she said to Hermione, "And… and if you
look at my memory, and you decide it *is* dangerous?"

"Magical Law Enforcement has some safe houses tucked away, here and there," Hermione
assured her. "There'll be no trouble putting you up in one…"

"No! If it's through the Ministry, then Blaise can know! He can find me!" Ginny
insisted. "He has…." She stopped.

"Spies everywhere?" guessed Hermione, then in a voice of comprehension, "Or
should I say *sympathizers?* Ah, I see. No wonder you showed up inside an overnight bag. No
telling *who* might be watching the Floo." She took a sip from her cup of tea – and
nearly spewed it out in surprise, as she felt something press against her ear. The bud of
Harry's Extendable Ear.

"Don't trust her too far," came Harry's voice. "She's not the threat
to the Cartel Lords – *you* are. And if Zabini's working for them, and she's working
for Zabini… she may have been sent here. By them. To get at you, when they couldn't."

It was a thought worthy of Mad-Eye Moody at his most paranoid. Hermione knew that Ginny could be
mean-spirited and spiteful on occasion, but she'd always believed Ginny to be a basically
decent person. Hermione had a hard time believing Ginny could be *evil,* or that she'd
invent a story just to have the chance to strike at Hermione.

But then, she'd not have believed that Ginny would ever associate with Blaise Zabini, with
his Pureblood beliefs – which Hermione felt sure he maintained, even if he kept them to himself for
political reasons.

*Constant vigilance.*

"You can sleep in Rose's room, Ginny," she said at last. "I'll put
additional wards in place, just to be sure." She heard Harry murmur, "I'm on
it," as the bud withdrew from her ear, and knew he'd understood: additional wards on the
room itself, in case it was Ginny who proved to be the danger.

"Zabini might not have any plans for your head," she concluded, "but we'll
take no chances. Once I've reviewed the Pensieve, we'll know what to do next."

"*Thank* you, Hermione," said Ginny in relief, and she seemed genuinely grateful.
"I'll try not to be a bother." She stood, slung the overnight bag over her shoulder,
and headed for the door to Rose's bedroom.

"Yeah, thanks, Hermione," said Ron; but while he likewise seemed grateful, he made no
move to rise. Instead, he leaned forward towards Hermione and lowered his voice. "Y'know,
it might be best if I spent the night, too. Like you said, just to be sure. An extra person around
can't hurt security, don't you agree?"

She just barely kept from rolling her eyes at his transparency. "Of course, Ron, if you
think so," she told him sweetly. "You can sleep on the sofa."

He twisted his mouth in annoyance. "Not exactly what I had in mind."

"I know exactly what you had in mind, Ronald Weasley, and my answer's the same now as
it was before," she said, her voice low but firm. "What part of *No* don't you
comprehend?"

"The part that keeps a husband and wife out of their marriage bed!" he answered hotly,
no longer bothering to keep his voice down. "God damn it, Hermione, this is beyond ridiculous!
I know we've had our disagreements, but…"

"*Disagreements?* Ron, we were *never* compatible! It was a mistake for us to
marry, and I can't have you *around* anymore! When I told you we were through, I
*meant* it!"

"Well, maybe you should've thought of that *before* you insisted on using your
parents' stupid wedding ceremony! Because you can *say* we're through all you like,
but we're still stuck with each other! You can't have anyone else, and neither can I! What
good are your brains if you can't figure out a way to *fix* this!"

"Why, of course, Ron! Since it's our own magic that enforces our vows, all we have to
do to 'fix this', as you put it, is become Squibs! No magic, no problem! Is *that*
what you want?!" They were both on their feet now, facing off in high-pitched
confrontation.

"No, dammit, but we aren't Muggles either! If we'd done a regular wizarding
ceremony, we wouldn't be *in* this mess!"

"Right! Because I've noticed how much importance wizards attach to little things like
fidelity! Small *wonder* Swivingham could find customers! I'm sure you're sorry
*you* couldn't be one!" Hermione screamed.

"Oh, I doubt he felt any need," came Ginny's voice from the bedroom door, a silken
voice, gleeful at the barbs it was about to deliver. "I mean, the new clerk at the Wheezes is
more than willing to accommodate him. What's her name again, Ron – Felicia? Or is that
pronounced Fellatia?"

Both Hermione and Ron stared at her aghast, speechless with rage and mortification. As usual, it
was Hermione who found her voice first. "For someone whose life expectancy depends on my good
will," she said in a dangerously quiet voice, "you don't know when to keep your mouth
*shut.*"

Smoothly, Ginny began to respond.

"*Shut,*" emphasized Hermione. Ginny lost her smile and closed her mouth.

Hermione waited a moment, until she was certain her point had been made, then turned to Ron.
"True or false?" she asked, in the same laser-quiet voice.

Ron's face was brilliant scarlet by now, but he responded as he characteristically did, with
a frontal assault. "First of all, what the hell business is it of yours? You've made it
clear *you're* never gonna do me again, so what do you care if someone else does? And
second of all, since we *can't* cheat on each other, whatever I did with Felicia
wasn't cheating, was it? We weren't having sex! So get off my back!"

She stood, frozen and silent, staring at this stranger in her living room, wondering what had
happened to the man she'd thought she'd known well enough to marry. When Hermione spoke
again, she was pleased that there was no tremor in her voice, and no hint of moisture in her
eye.

"Very well, Ron. I'll get off your back." She stepped close to him and jabbed a
finger in his face. "And *you* get out of my house. *Now.*" She took a step
back and added, with stony finality, "And forever."

Ron looked like he wanted to continue arguing, but in a rare display of prudence, remained
quiet. He shot Ginny a venomous look that promised dire retribution, and Disapparated.

Hermione turned on Ginny. "Good night," she said in curt dismissal, and headed for her
own bedroom. She found herself hoping that Harry put *really solid* wards on Ginny's room,
sufficient to block anything from entering, like oxygen.

"Hermione, wait," said Ginny miserably. "I'm… I'm sorry. After all
you're doing for me, that was way out of line. I had no business…"

"You've never lost an opportunity to humiliate Ron," Hermione interrupted.
"Ever since we were in Hogwarts. I'm not the only one who rates an apology." She
tried to leave the matter there, but indignation spilled forth. "And you're damn
*right,* you had no business! *Yes,* Ron and I made our mistake when we were younger – I
admit it, and we're paying for it. No one's sorrier than I am. But I don't really think
you're in *any* position to rub our noses in it, Ginny!"

"No, I'm not. And I'm *truly* sorry."

Hermione's indignant anger couldn't be contained. It didn't occur to her, until
later, that she was sounding forth to the person who had sparked the confrontation in the first
place. "And how can he say that… *that…* isn't sex? How can he honestly
maintain…!"

"I'm guessing," Ginny offered, "that if the magic of your vows let him do it,
then it was all right under those vows."

"The *intent* was sexual gratification with another woman, Ginny. And magic is powered
by intent, as much as by the specific words. It certainly violates the *spirit* of our
vows."

"But if Ron's *intent* was to be bound only by the specific words?"

"Then… then that would mean… from the very beginning… he'd never considered our
marriage to be…" Hermione broke off, then gave a short bark of bitter laughter. "Our
marriage. Right. We don't have a marriage, do we? We have magically enforced wedding vows. Not
a marriage."

"I'm sorry, Hermione," Ginny said again. But this time, the words carried entirely
different weight.

"As am I, Ginny. As am I." Wearily, Hermione nodded goodnight and turned to her
bedroom.

Ginny's voice followed her, a temptress. "Hermione, if there's no marriage to save…
and if Ron's found a way to find some pleasure despite your bindings… why shouldn't you do
the same? Is it so unthinkable?"

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. "Yes, Ginny, yes it is. It *is* un…"

*Harry, smiling as he prepared breakfast for her.*

*Harry, sitting all night by her bedside, for no other reason than to hold hands.*

*Harry, staring at her in cami and knickers, unable to take his eyes off her, bringing
blushing warmth wherever his eyes touched her.*

*Harry, who wouldn't come back for the wizarding world, but who came back for her.*

*Harry, noble, stubborn, self-sacrificing, infuriating, irreplaceable, and* decidedly
*more fanciable than ever.*

"…thinkable," she sighed, and closed the door behind her.



18. XVIII: Behavior Modification
--------------------------------

**(A/N:** Longest chapter to date… but I doubt anyone will object. Thanks once again to my
esteemed beta-reader **MirielleGrey** for her aid. Any remaining errors are, of course, entirely
my own fault.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry or Hermione, obviously. I'm just borrowing them
from Jo for a few minutes. I intend to return them in better condition than I found
them…**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XVIII: Behavior Modification**

*

*Maybe it's a good thing the Cloak started deadening my emotions again,* Harry fumed
silently. *Otherwise I might've hexed Ron right there in Hermione's living room.*

*As it is, I'm* still *boiling.*

After Ron had been sent packing, Harry had remained at Enthalpy House just long enough to see
Ginny settled in Rose's bedroom, and to add an alarm spell to the extra wards on that room – to
alert him should she leave the room in any manner, for any reason. Then, gritting his teeth,
he'd Apparated to Diagon Alley for the first time in fifteen years.

Most of the shops had closed at dusk, but there were still witches and wizards mingling down the
Alley. Harry had pressed himself against a wall, his fear of being discovered reaching almost
claustrophobic levels. But he'd kept calm, looking up and down the Alley until he spotted
Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Ron lived in a flat above the shop, he knew.

He now watched the windows of the flat, as the evening wore on. One by one, the few remaining
open shops closed their shutters… only the Leaky Cauldron stayed open late. The crowd of
pedestrians thinned, until the Alley was deserted. Harry remained still, maintaining his vigil,
until he saw the lights in the flat's window go out.

At Hogwarts, and at the Burrow, Ron had always been able to fall right to sleep. Harry gave it
another half-hour, just to be safe. Then he walked down to the shop, drew the Elder Wand from the
straps on his left forearm, and began to probe. It was much the same as Dumbledore had done, when
he and Harry had tried to retrieve the locket Horcrux from the cave grotto: no flashy spellwork or
incantations, but quiet probing of the defenses.

The Wheezes' defenses felt like a standard anti-Apparation hex, combined with an alarm spell
and a couple of others that he'd never seen… probably unique, with nasty effects, given the
proprietors.

In short, nothing capable of keeping out Harry. *The barrier to the Death Chamber was the
first I've found that I couldn't get through,* he thought. *Any other barrier… well,
if they wouldn't stop Death, they won't stop me. And compared to the wards on
Hermione's place, or the Ministry, these are simple.*

He Apparated silently into the flat, not even a pop of air announcing his arrival. He'd had
to guess at the flat's layout, and by good fortune he'd guessed right: he arrived in
Ron's bedroom. Ron lay on his bed, snoring as loudly as Harry remembered.

Harry was tempted, oh so tempted, to awaken Ron with some nasty hexes of his own. But it would
mean revealing himself to Ron, followed by the inevitable explanations. Harry'd been unwilling
to do that, even before the evening's earlier revelations; now, he simply didn't know if
Ron could be trusted with the secret.

Instead, Harry decided a little psychological conditioning was in order.

He placed a glamour on his own features, to soften them slightly and make him appear younger,
closer to Ron's last memory of him. More glamours were cast around Ron's head, not on it
but around it, to distort his perceptions into a surreal effect – emphasizing negative emotions
below Ron's threshold of perception, like a milder form of a dementor's gloom. Finally, a
low-powered *Confundus* charm insured that Ron would be uncritically receptive, unable to
analyze what he would see and hear.

With that, Harry slipped the Elder Wand back into his sleeve and stepped out of the Stealth
Cloak. Deliberately, he lowered his voice half an octave and assumed a stern expression – *not
hard to do,* he noted. "Ron!" he intoned, laying his hand on Ron's shoulder.

Ron snorted and half-opened his eyes. "Wha…?" he said groggily, then realized a
stranger was in his bedroom. He opened his eyes fully as he batted at the hand on his shoulder –
and froze, the action uncompleted, as he recognized Harry's form in the darkness.
"*Harry?!*"

"Yes," said Harry, still in that sepulchral tone. He said no more.

"But – but you're *dead!* No, this is a trick, you're the imposter who's
been messing with Teddy Lupin! You *can't* be Harry Potter, he's
*dead!*"

"Yes."

Ron's face paled. "Yes?" he echoed feebly.

Harry didn't respond, letting the *Confundus* and the distorting glamours do their
work. He saw with satisfaction how Ron's eyes were sliding wildly from side to side, the whites
showing around the edges.

"Harry… listen, Harry, mate, what *is* this? Are you a ghost? H-Harry, *say*
something. What's…"

Harry decided Ron had worked himself into enough of a lather. "I left Hermione in your
care."

"You left…? B-But Harry, it's not my fault! Well, not *all* my fault! You gotta
understand, Hermione's got even *more* mental since you died. She's more of a swot
than ever…"

"I trusted you," Harry broke in, "and you hurt her." He let the words roll
off his tongue, like a Shakespearean actor playing Hamlet's father. "I am," and he
paused for effect, "disappointed in you."

Ron was trembling now, breathing heavily and sweating hard. *Good,* thought Harry, and he
leaned closer. "Stay away from her. Never hurt her again. Or you – will – pay." Without
gesturing, he used the Elder Wand to cast the Somnius Spell on his quondam best friend. Ron's
panicked eyes rolled back into his head, and he went limp on the bed.

Satisfied, Harry dispelled the glamours and retrieved the Cloak. *When he wakes up,* he
thought as he draped the Cloak over his shoulders and let it mould to his body, *he'll
remember this only as a nightmare… but maybe he'll stop being such an arse with Hermione. God
knows she deserves better.*

He Apparated back to Enthalpy House, arriving in the living room. The house was dark; Ginny and
Hermione were in bed asleep, then. A quick check of the wards on Ginny's room confirmed she
hadn't left it. Harry sighed and glanced over at the sofa; he was a little surprised to see
Hermione's legal paperwork still scattered over the floor and coffee table. He gathered them
together with a wave of his hand. Once the sofa was cleared, he made ready to bed down for the
night, still wrapped in the Cloak.

*No,* he berated himself, *I need to get out of this Cloak. Hermione's right, if I
wear it too long it'll damage me.* But he wasn't about to leave Hermione to deal with
Ginny alone, should the need arise – Harry still wasn't entirely convinced that Ginny
wasn't a threat, either directly or as a spy. There was no help for it: he'd have to spend
the night in Hermione's bedroom. He hoped she wouldn't mind.

He slipped quietly inside and closed the door before removing the Cloak again. Hermione was in
bed, seemingly asleep, but her troubled expression showed she hadn't been happy when she'd
retired. Another mark against Ginny, in Harry's book.

The pillows and coverlet he'd used the previous night were neatly stacked in the corner of
the room. Harry sat down in that corner, where he could keep an eye on both the door and Hermione,
tucked one of the pillows behind his head, closed his eyes, and waited for sleep to come.

*

The sky outside the window was slate grey, but growing lighter by the second; reddish highlights
were beginning to blossom as Harry watched. It had been another sleepless night for Harry, still
sitting in his corner, and he didn't feel the least bit fatigued.

And now he was beginning to be seriously concerned.

*When was the last time I slept – a full night's sleep, not a catnap? Has it been anytime
in the last couple of weeks, since the debacle at the* Idée Fixe? *If I did, I don't
remember it.*

*I mean, I've done without sleep a few times, when I was out helping people. That little
girl in her nursery, a few years ago… things like that. But this is different, this is… like
I've lost the* need *to sleep.*

*It must be the Hallows, somehow. They're a tremendous source of power, after all – maybe
they're energizing me, keeping my body from needing sleep. But why? And why start now?*

Harry knew he should ask Hermione about this, and he would… just as soon as they'd dealt
with the Cartel Lords, and Zabini, and all. *One crisis at a time,* he thought wryly.

He heard Hermione stirring in her bed, slowly returning to consciousness. She moaned slightly
and began to breathe more rapidly… the remnants of some morning dream, Harry guessed. He was
wondering whether to wake her, when her head began to roll slightly on her pillow – her eyes
opened, blinked to shake away the cobwebs, and spotted him in the corner. "Harr…?" she
began.

Quickly, Harry held up a hand in a plea for silence. His left hand gestured at the closed
bedroom door. "*Muffliato**, Imperturbus,*" he cast in rapid succession.
"All right, it's safe to talk – she won't hear a thing. G'morning,
Hermione."

Hermione blinked twice more, yawned and came immediately awake – she'd always had that
enviable ability. A sort of mental discipline that came with being a genius, Harry suspected.
"Mmm. Good morning, Harry. Did you spend the night in that corner? That can't have been
very comfortable…"

He dismissed it with a shrug. "Didn't want to sleep in the Cloak… and being visible on
the sofa didn't exactly seem a good idea, either. Besides, this way I could keep an eye out…
just in case."

"Um." She sat up in her bed… Harry noted in passing that she'd slept in
long-sleeved, opaque pyjamas. "You don't honestly believe that Ginny's been planted
here… that her story last night was all a fabrication…!"

"Yeah, well, constant vigilance and all that." He showed her the stack of legal
paperwork he'd collected. "The less she sees, the better – even if she *isn't* a
plant. Both she *and* Ron seem a little too easy with other people's secrets." He
looked stonily at the door. "I don't think I'm ready to trust her with mine."

"Oh." Hermione turned slightly pink. After a moment she said softly, "Thank you,
then."

He laughed, and threw back at her the words she'd said the night before. "If I
can't trust *you,* Hermione Granger, I am well and truly screwed."

"Harry! Language!" she laughed with him. For a moment, it seemed that whatever cares
she'd borne from the night before were gone.

But she turned serious again soon enough. "Well, I've still got to deal with the mess
left by Swivingham's death. Are you visiting your dairy farmers again today?"

He nodded. "Just a day or two more... they should be able to cope with their problems by
then."

"Of course. And will you… be staying here again tonight? I know you don't want Ginny to
know…"

"Hermione, I want to stay as long as there's any chance that… well, you know… that you
won't be all right. If that's all right." Harry gave a wry half-smile. "I like to
think I can learn from my mistakes."

"I appreciate that."

"But, um…" Harry hesitated, wondering how best to say this next bit, wondering how she
might take it. "As soon as the, uh, 'Swivingham mess' is done, I should be leaving
again. For Greece," he added hastily, before she could take his words the wrong way. "I
want to look around Greece… see if I can find that cave you mentioned, the one that leads to the
underworld. If it's like the Arch, if it's another portal to the afterlife, I should be
able to chuck the Hallows there."

She gave him a penetrating look. "You've changed your mind, then? I thought you'd
still planned to hold onto the Hallows until you died undefeated."

"Yeah, well, that's still my fallback plan, but I'd rather not wait that long. In
case I didn't mention it before, these things are *dangerous.*" Harry kept to himself
his worries about his lack of sleep. "The sooner the world is shut of them, the
better."

"I couldn't agree more." Hermione was still giving him *that look,* as though
she knew what he was thinking, even without his saying it… that she understood the danger the
Hallows presented to *him.* After a moment, she continued, "And you know, the
country's history is rich with magic – there are any number of magical sites in Greece to
visit. Or so I've heard. I've never been there."

"Me either. Okay, then," agreed Harry absently. Hermione smiled slightly, and he
suddenly wondered if he'd just committed himself to something without realizing it.

And was surprised, after a moment, when he found he didn't mind being committed, really. Not
at all.

"Right," he said, standing and stretching, "So I should be off, I reckon. Back to
my flat – Jacob Clayman's flat, I mean – shower and change. Let *you* shower and, um,
change. Think you can handle breakfast on your own?"

"Oh, I think I still remember how," Hermione replied, smiling wider. She swung her
legs out of bed, took two quick steps, and had him in a hug before he could react. "Thank you,
Harry. Thank you for everything."

"You too," Harry mumbled into her hair as he returned her hug. It was not until much
later that he wondered if *Thank you* might have some other meaning.

*

Hermione's thoughts were uncharacteristically disordered as she Apparated into the Ministry
of Magic that morning. Indeed, it would be fair to describe her thoughts as chaotic. To go to bed
after hearing the awful revelations from Ron and Ginny – to transition from a disturbing dream (the
details of which remained maddeningly nebulous, except for glimpses of green eyes and black hair)
to waking with Harry sitting at eye level – and now to racking her brains into some approximation
of cognitive function upon arrival at her office. There was too much to be done today for her to be
distracted, by anything or anyone.

Evidently, the Ministry had decided to be more than usually chaotic that day, too. Hermione
walked into her office to find Croaker waiting for her. He didn't wait for a greeting, but
pressed an envelope into her hand, murmuring "The runes have changed." He started to
leave, but Hermione caught his arm.

"Changed how?"

"What had been a statement now seems to be a warning," Croaker said shortly. He looked
deliberately at the envelope in Hermione's hand, as though all further explanation were inside
it, and left without another word.

Next came the memos regarding the Conference on International Crime. True to the Minister's
request, it was being convened "within the week" – indeed, on Thursday. And, as she ought
to have expected, it would be chaired not by Magical Law Enforcement, but by the Department of
International Cooperation. *I have* got *to prove that Zabini's involved with the Cartel
Lords before then,* she vowed. *If he's allowed to run that Conference, it might as well
not bother to convene.*

She penned a request to have one of the Department's evidentiary Pensieves brought to her
office… paused as an idea struck her, gave a small secret smile, and added a line to the request
before folding it and launching it into the interoffice slipstream. *I can only hope Ginny's
memories can show us something useful – damaging to Zabini. Of course, in that case, she's
definitely in danger. Which means I'll have a semi-permanent house guest. Oh joy.*

Finally, she received a visit from Grimaldi and Bones, the Enforcers tasked with finding Eddie
Nelson. They'd found Nelson at the home of a friend… nursing a hangover that even Sobriety
Potions couldn't fully cure. "One of his pals is getting married next week," Bones
explained, "and it looks like the stag party turned into a drinking contest. Eddie smelled
like he'd been embalmed in Ogden's Finest."

"Which he practically *was,*" added Grimaldi.

"Hmph," sniffed Hermione. "Well, as soon as he's regained some semblance of
coherence, take him down to Peasegood to see if his memories match his story. Keep me posted – and
good work, both of you."

And all that was before morning break.

Once Grimaldi and Bones left, she leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes wearily. It
looked now as though Nelson wasn't Swivingham's killer after all… but in that case, she had
no suspects. And Robards would certainly renew his suspicion of the elves, either directly or as
accomplices. Although Hermione knew the killer had used the Imperius Curse on Swivingham, she
couldn't tell Robards *how* she knew – without bringing Harry into the mess.

*But it* had *to be one of the guards,* she told herself. *No one else had a wand!
Unless… unless someone else sneaked into the cell block, and Obliviated the guard to forget
they'd been there. Since Ferrers showed no sign of Obliviation, that means it was on
Nelson's watch. We'll see what Peasegood finds.*

A tentative knock sounded on her door. "Um, ma'am?" asked Dennis Creevey
carefully.

She didn't take her hands from her eyes, hoping he'd get the hint. "Yes?"

He drew breath, as though gathering all his courage, and said, "I think I have a lead on
the Swivingham death."

Hermione immediately sat upright and pinned him with her gaze. "Let's hear
it."

Dennis came into her office and shut the door behind him. "It was something Mr. Robards
said to you, the day we found Swivingham's body," he began, placing a stack of file
folders on the desk. "I don't think anyone else heard but me. Something about it happening
before?"

"Yes, an accused Death Eater, at the end of the First Voldemort War," nodded Hermione.
"Sliced his wrists with a chicken bone, of all things." She frowned. "That
*does* sound like an Imperius-induced suicide, now I think about it…"

"Well, I went back through the old records," said Dennis, his confidence growing with
Hermione's interest. He opened the first folder. "Obadiah Castle, Dark Mark on his
forearm, charged with eleven counts of murder and torture. But the records show," and he
flipped through the pages, "that Barty Crouch had offered him the same sort of deal as
Karkaroff. A reduced sentence in exchange for naming unindicted Death Eaters."

"*In-*teresting." Hermione snatched up the folder and scanned its contents
eagerly. Dennis waited a moment for her to look up from the pages.

"By an odd coincidence, two days after Castle's death, another suspected Death
Eater's case was thrown out for lack of evidence. The man claimed total exoneration, of
course." Dennis slid the second file over the desk. Hermione's eyes widened at the name on
the outside of the folder.

"And by a yet odder coincidence," concluded Dennis triumphantly, "they had the
same defense attorney." He flipped open the second folder and laid his finger next to a name.
Hermione slowly began to match Dennis's smile.

Her smile abruptly vanished. "But as you just said, this *could* be coincidence.
It's suggestive, but it's not proof. And he'll be sure to point that out."

Dennis nodded. "So what do we do next? Would this be enough to bring him in for
questioning, at least?"

"Yes, but to no purpose. He would deny complicity, we'd have no tangible evidence, and
he'd walk away. And if he *were* the guilty party, we'd have accomplished nothing but
to warn him that we suspect him."

"Veritaserum…"

She shook her head and tapped the folders with one finger. "Not without more solid evidence
than this."

"Then what…?"

Hermione lowered her gaze and chewed her lip in deep thought. After a moment, she looked up at
Dennis. "Well, first I talk to Robards," she said slowly, "and see if he'll give
me *carte blanche* without explaining why. And then, Dennis, you and I take a little
trip." She smiled warmly at Dennis's confusion. "It's only fair you should come,
Dennis. This is excellent work."

*

The guard shut the door to the visitor's room at Azkaban, leaving Draco Malfoy looking
around in puzzlement. If he'd been brought here for one of Weasley's gloat sessions,
Weasley ought already to be present. Instead, Draco was alone in the visitor's room.

He was not to remain alone for long. The door opened again, and Narcissa Malfoy was escorted in.
"What is going on?" she demanded of her guard. "I insist that you tell me!" The
guard said nothing, merely releasing her arm and leaving, closing the door behind her.

Draco was incredulous. "Mother?" He took a faltering step towards her, then rushed to
embrace her. "It's been so long…!"

The door opened a third time, and Lucius Malfoy was shoved inside. The years in Azkaban had
treated him less kindly than the other Malfoys: as a convicted Death Eater, his cell had fewer
human guards, and more dementor guards. His hair was unwashed and matted, his complexion sickly,
his eyes sunken and haunted.

Lucius spun back to the door as it slammed shut. He was about to scream at the departing guard
when he realized he wasn't alone in the room. He turned, saw his wife and son – and the embrace
quickly became a three-way hug.

"My husband… what is this about?" Narcissa ventured at length to ask.

Lucius shook his head warningly. He rolled his eyes to indicate that they were undoubtedly being
watched.

The opposite door opened to admit Hermione and Dennis. "Good afternoon, everyone," she
said pleasantly. "Let me set your minds at ease from the start. I've dismissed the
observers, and taken a few other precautions… I wanted to guarantee us perfect privacy."

The entire Malfoy family glared with undisguised hatred at the Muggleborn witch who had ruined
their lives. "What the hell are *you* doing here?" spat Draco. "Couldn't
the Weasel fit us into his schedule today? Or are you proving to him how much better you can be at
gloating…?"

Narcissa placed her hand on her son's shoulder, silencing him. "What do you want?"
she asked Hermione in more moderate tones.

Hermione gestured to the Malfoys to sit down, as she and Dennis took their own seats on their
side of the room. "Not much," she told them, opening her briefcase. "A little
information. A modicum of cooperation."

Lucius coughed hoarsely. "Indeed," he said, in an attempt at his old patrician drawl.
The effect was spoiled by the roughness of his voice, which had seen so little use. "And why
should we aid a sworn enemy? You can hardly expect us to help you out of the goodness of our
hearts, after all you've done to us."

"Oh, no, the goodness of your hearts is far too small to be of any use," Hermione
agreed. She pursed her lips in thought. "I could easily have got a Ministry order, doped you
with Veritaserum up to your eyeballs, taken what I wanted – and returned you to your cell."
Her cool look implied that the option was still open.

"But I thought it better to offer you an incentive – cooperation is *so* much more
pleasant," she continued with more sympathy. "Which does raise a dilemma." Hermione
leaned forward slightly. "Mr. Malfoy, as a convicted Death Eater – and ranking high among
Voldemort's followers – you were sentenced to life without parole. Very little I can do about
that, I'm afraid. But it seems you have information I want."

She glanced at Narcissa and Draco. "Mrs. Malfoy and Draco were never given the Dark Mark,
never convicted of being Death Eaters. So they *weren't* given life sentences – and
*do* have the possibility of parole. But sadly, I feel sure they were never party to this
particular information."

Hermione looked back at Lucius, and couldn't suppress the superior smile of a person who
knows she has the upper hand. "That's why I asked that *all* of you be brought to
this discussion today. We can consider any information as coming from you as a group… and any
reduction in punishment applying to you as a group."

Lucius stared stonily at Hermione, but said nothing. Narcissa and Draco looked hesitantly from
the Malfoy patriarch to the slender witch who held their fates in her hand.

Dennis broke the silence. "Maybe we were wrong, Madam Granger. Maybe there *are* other
Malfoy heirs to carry on the family name. I thought for *sure* old Draco was the last of his
line."

Draco drew a hissing inward breath. "Creevey, you brown-nosing little…" His mother
tightened her hand on his forearm, and he bit off what would have been a scathing retort.

"'Course, he's not begetting any heirs in *here,*" Dennis added to
himself, almost as an afterthought.

"Point… made," grated Lucius at last. "In return for freedom for my wife and son,
then, along with the restoration of the Malfoy estates and assets…"

"Oh, those have long since been confiscated by the Ministry," said Hermione with a
show of regret, "to help pay for the damages caused by Voldemort's regime. You might still
have some savings in your Gringotts vault, which could perhaps be restored to you." She
extracted a file folder from her briefcase and set it to rest on her lap. "In return for
cooperation now… which may include court testimony under Veritaserum later."

Lucius Malfoy bowed his head in assent. "What do you wish to know?"

"The First Voldemort War… the one that pretty much ended when he was defeated by a
one-year-old baby," began Hermione, watching the snarl pass over Malfoy's face, "you
were accused of being a Death Eater even then."

"And was completely exonerated by the Ministry," put in Lucius sharply.

"And had your case dropped by the Ministry," corrected Hermione. "Come now, it
was thirty years ago, you can tell me how you managed it." She nodded encouragingly.

Something like a smirk appeared. "By calling in favours, in some cases," he said
easily. "With social status and influence, one can amass a fair few. In other cases, judicious
amounts of money, to the right government officials."

"That surely wouldn't have been enough to clear you… if they thought they had enough
evidence to accuse you in the first place."

Lucius's smirk vanished. His brow furrowed as he stared at Hermione, trying to glean from
her body language what she wanted, what she already knew, whether she was bluffing. Hermione
returned his gaze unwaveringly, revealing nothing.

"You must be thinking of Obadiah Castle," he grudged after a minute. "Yes, Castle
claimed he could finger me as a Death Eater, but he must have known he couldn't support such an
accusation. I suppose that's why he killed himself. His faith in Our Lord and His Cause was…
lacking."

"How was it arranged, Mr. Malfoy?" Hermione asked. Her voice was soft velvet – with
Damascus steel just underneath.

"Ah," said Malfoy, now knowing what the interview was about. Visibly, he debated
whether he should continue to cooperate, or try to bargain again.

Narcissa moved slightly. "Lucius," she whispered, and he turned to look at her… and
they communicated without speaking for a long minute, as by her facial expressions Narcissa pleaded
for the fate of their bloodline.

At last, with a sigh, Malfoy turned back to Hermione. "Castle and I employed the same
attorney. The man came to me the night before Castle died… told me that Crouch was offering Castle
a deal, which would likely get me Kissed. And I was told that, for a sufficient…
consideration…" He shrugged. "My attorney could make Castle, and the problem, go away. He
didn't say how, and I thought it prudent not to ask. But it was done."

"You paid your attorney to kill his other client, in order to have your case dismissed. Is
that right, Mr. Malfoy?" persisted Hermione.

Malfoy swallowed and said, committing himself to his path, "That is exactly right, Madam…
Granger."

"And the attorney's name?

He made one final attempt to prevaricate. "Surely it's there in your records…"

"That's not how this works," Hermione reproved him. "Upon your own testimony,
tell me his name."

Malfoy nodded with an air of resignation – an acknowledgement that the Muggleborn witch had won.
"Edwin Lovinett."



19. XIX:  Gathering Intelligence
--------------------------------

**(A/N:** "Dear Diary: Suckiest month *ever.* Less said of it, the better.
Couldn't have got through it without support of my friends. Especially **MirielleGrey,** who
had plenty on her plate without being a beta too. Love, P."



Seriously, thank you all for your patience, as I've tried to reconstruct this chapter
following the tragic death of my hard drive. I hope this chapter can slake your thirst. Until the
next chapter, of course.



I've used the concept of the Jungian collective unconscious in others of my stories: I
frankly don't see how some of the Potterverse's magic can work without it.**)**



**(Disclaimer:** This can't be JKR: Even *I* write faster than *she*
does.**)**



*



**"Coming Back Late"**



**by Paracelsus**



*



**XIX: Gathering Intelligence**



*



"What I can't figure out," Hermione said to herself as she and Dennis made their
way to Azkaban's Apparation Point, "is how Lovinett could have done it. I *saw* him
give up his wand to the guard – not that anyone could smuggle a wand past the guard desk's
sensors, anyway…"



Dennis shrugged. "We'll ask him after we've hauled him in. I mean, *now* we
have enough solid proof to use Veritaserum, right?"



"Right – but we don't haul him in yet." At Dennis's astonished look, Hermione
explained, "I went to extraordinary lengths to keep our visit to Azkaban today a secret. I
don't want to show our hand until we're ready."



"But I don't see…"



"*Why* did Lovinett kill Swivingham?" asked Hermione gently. "*Who* is
he working for?"



"I don't know…" Dennis began, then caught himself. "But you think they're
the ones who had Robards Obliviated?"



"It would seem so, yes."



"Lovinett did *that,* too?!"



"Probably not. If Lovinett were skilled with Memory Charms, why not Obliviate Swivingham,
instead of killing him?" Hermione recalled Ginny's story, with Zabini calling Swivingham
an 'example' – but until she had a chance to review Ginny's Pensieved memories, those
suspicions were best kept to herself.



For a moment, she slipped back into lecturer mode. "Right now, nobody knows that
Swivingham's death was anything but suicide – nobody but us, and the ones responsible. If we
arrest Lovinett now, the guilty ones will know *we* know – and we're not in a position yet
to arrest them as well. But they mustn't be given a chance to respond, either – flee, hide, or
counter – so for now, we hold off on Lovinett." Hermione gave a grim half-smile at her
colleague's impatience. "Only for now, Dennis. As soon as we can collect Lovinett in a way
that doesn't tip off his employers, we will."



"Whatever you say," said Dennis, still impatient but willing to trust The Witch Who
Won. "Do you have a plan, then?"



"I've an idea, yes. It will require a good deal of coordination and advance
preparation." Hermione sighed and couldn't help wincing. "Not least of which will be
the humble pie."



*



*Ginny watched Blaise's retreating figure in puzzlement. Whatever reaction she'd
expected from him, upon hearing Ron's news of an imposter Harry, it hadn't been that look
of sharp attention… followed by quick excuses and rapid departure. He was returning to the drawing
room, where his three mysterious guests were being privately entertained, and Ginny couldn't
imagine why they'd be interested in this bit of gossip.*



*Especially as Blaise had insisted it wasn't true, but merely a ploy on Hermione's
part.*



*She hesitated, turned the hesitation into a wait, and gave Blaise enough time to return to
the drawing room and close the door. Then Ginny quietly followed him down the hall, stopping in
front of the closed door. Years of growing up at the Burrow came in useful: she stood nonchalantly
by the door, not looking at all as though she were listening intently.*



*The voices through the door were faint at first: she couldn't distinguish words. Then
Blaise's voice rose above the others. "Because I've just learned that Granger's
spreading a rumor that Harry Potter's come back from the dead,* that's *why. The
elves* will *respond to that, I assure you. Oh yes, they* will *testify – making the
verdict certain."*



*Another voice spoke up, in a sharp German accent. "Then Swivingham will to your Azkaban
Prison be sent after all. Hm. Does your Ministry have an appeal process we might attempt? If not,
at the very least we can a goodly bonus guarantee him, once his term he's served…"*



*"No,* we've *no options left," replied Blaise, "but* he *does.
He can turn Crown's Evidence in exchange for immunity from prosecution. And that's exactly
what he'll do. You gentlemen have no idea of the horror that is Azkaban, but trust me,
Swivingham will do anything to avoid it. To save his own skin, he* will *betray
us."*



*There was a hubbub of angry voices as several people tried to speak at once. Ginny tried to
focus on specific comments, until one smooth voice spoke. "I think we're agreed," he
began, and the others fell silent at once, "that it would be in everyone's best interest
that our good friend Jack remain silent. Our faithful servant would not wish to be forsworn, after
all… and it would be merciful to keep him out of Azkaban, if what you tell us of it is
true."*



*"Setting an example to the end," said Blaise after a moment. "Very well,
gentlemen, I'll take care of it. It shall be done discreetly–" Blaise stopped talking… a
little too quickly. Ginny realized he must have heard or suspected her presence, and was even now
heading to open the door.*



*She didn't hesitate: before he could reach the door, she knocked briskly.
"Blaise?" she called, in a perfectly natural tone.*



*The door swung open immediately. Blaise stood filling the doorway, his face carefully
neutral; behind him Ginny could see his three visitors. "I'm sorry to interrupt," she
said apologetically, "but there's an owl from the Ministry here for you."*



*Visibly, Blaise relaxed a bit. "Of course," he said easily. "If you'll
forgive me, gentlemen? Duty calls." He left the drawing room, closing the door behind him, and
motioned Ginny to precede him to the manor's foyer, where owls usually arrived.*



*"Sorry," she said again as they walked. "I know you like me to stay with our
main party, but if the Ministry is owling you on a Friday night, it must be
important."*



*"No, you did right."*



*"And Aurora Sinclair brought a new guest tonight. I thought you might want to bedazzle
her with the famous Blaise Zabini charm." Ginny smiled impishly, and Blaise returned her smile
automatically.*



*"First the owl, then our guests," he promised. Ginny knew there would be an owl
from the Ministry waiting for Blaise at the foyer. Every Fire Party, at least one owl arrived from
the Ministry, sometimes more than one. She'd never disturbed Blaise with their contents – she
knew the back room sessions were important, politically – but simply read the messages, which were
often trivial matters, and dealt with them on her own initiative with no one the wiser. She was
perfectly capable of handling such routine details, and events had always proven her right.*



*The owl waiting in the foyer wouldn't bear anything vital, but it would be from the
Ministry, and would give Ginny the excuse she needed to be loitering outside the drawing room door.
As long as she enjoyed Blaise's confidence, that was all that mattered to her.*



Hermione and Ginny emerged from the Pensieve. Each took a moment to regain her bearings;
Hermione recovered first. "And you haven't seen or heard from those three wizards since
Friday?"



Ginny swayed on her feet slightly, still dizzy from the trip into her own memory. "Um, no.
I didn't even learn their names. But you can see why I got so worried, when I read about
Swivingham's death yesterday…!"



With a swirl of her wand, Hermione collected the memory into a flowing silvery thread, wrapping
it around her wand's tip. She delicately removed it from the Pensieve before replying.
"Yes, but even in the worst case, you should be safe enough," she told Ginny, as she
deposited the memory into a glass phial. "After all, there wouldn't be much point in
killing or Obliviating you, when we've effectively got your testimony in here." She held
up the phial, now filled with silvery fluid.



"You could use that in court?" Ginny asked. "Whether I'm there or
not?"



"Well, yes. That's exactly what this is for, after all," pointed out Hermione,
patting the Pensieve's rim. "This is one of the Ministry's evidentiary Pensieves. As
the name implies, it displays the memory exactly as you experienced it, providing an eyewitness
account. No more, no less."



Ginny nodded, then furrowed her brows. "But Memory Charms?"



"Would be apparent as a blurring or discontinuity in the flow of events. If necessary,
we'd have a Ministry Obliviator scan the witness for Memory Charms."



"Ah," said Ginny, her doubts not quite dispelled.



Together they made their way to the kitchen, where Hermione had set out the Indian take-away
she'd brought home with her. "I need to restock my larder, if you're to be staying
here more than a few days," she joked.



"I'll pay you back," Ginny offered, taking a seat at the kitchen table. "And
this smells heavenly, thanks."



They make inconsequential small talk as they ate. Ginny was as easy and personable as Hermione
remembered; several times, she had to catch herself as she fell back into old habits, from their
shared nights in the bedroom at the Burrow. She had no doubt that Ginny was making a conscious
effort to get back on her sister-in-law's good side.



It wasn't until they'd nearly finished their dinners that Ginny returned to the issue of
her Pensieve memories. "So, then," she said, pushing away her plate and somberly meeting
Hermione's gaze. "Now you've seen it, what do you think?"



Hermione chose her words carefully. "Nothing you heard was an unambiguous death sentence
for Swivingham. If this memory were presented as trial evidence, I don't doubt that defense
counsel would show how it could be interpreted in more than one way."



"That's true," said Ginny, brightening. "Blaise never really said anything
about Swivingham being *killed,* did he? I *knew* he couldn't be involved in anything
shady…"



*Who exactly are we trying to convince, Ginny?* asked Hermione silently.



"I mean," continued Ginny blithely, "if they were all talking about something
criminal or dangerous, wouldn't you think they'd put an Imperturbable Charm on the door? Or
Silencing Charms, or *something?*"



"Mm hmm. On the other hand, using those charms would demonstrate to everyone in the manor
that he had something to hide."



"Oh. Yeah. I suppose…" said a deflated Ginny. After a moment, she looked up at
Hermione with a hint of a smirk on her lips. "So why'd you have an Imperturbable Charm on
*your* door last night?"



Hermione was unprepared to have the tables turned on her. "Oh! Um. Well, no reason, I
suppose…" she fumbled.



Ginny's smirk widened. "Come on, you can tell me."



"Well… I didn't want to say, but…" Hermione played at hesitation, as an excellent
excuse occurred to her. "It was because… well, I'm sorry, Ginny, but you
*snore.*"



The smirk vanished immediately. "I do *not* snore!"



"Yes, you do, I'm afraid. I mean, you snored back when we roomed together in the
Burrow, but nothing like last night. And I'm not talking little ladylike snores, either."
Wickedly, Hermione imitated the loudest, most adenoidal snore possible, and added, "And I
thought *Ron* was bad." She gave an apologetic shrug. "Sorry, Ginny."



"Hmph," Ginny scowled, crossing her arms. Pleased that she'd diverted Ginny's
curiosity, Hermione began to clear the dishes and put them in the sink.



"Speaking of Ron," said Ginny abruptly, "he Floo-called here twice today. Said
something about not being able to see you in your office."



"I was in and out most of the day," Hermione confirmed.



"Anyway, after his last call, he owled you a message." Ginny indicated Hermione's
desk, where a hastily tied scroll sat among her paperwork. Intrigued, Hermione went to her desk and
opened the scroll. She read it silently… then read it again, to be sure.



"*Well?*" Ginny demanded at length, unable to contain herself.



"Well, I'd have to say this is the most fulsome screed of remorse and contrition that
I've ever had the dubious pleasure of reading." Hermione glanced from the scroll to Ginny
and translated, "He says he's really, *really* sorry."



"Well, that's good, isn't it?"



"As far as it goes, I suppose." Though she knew Ginny dearly wanted to read the note
for herself, Hermione re-rolled the scroll and slipped it into her pocket. There were certain
details in the note that she didn't want to share… at least not with Ginny.



"Well, I need to return the Pensieve to the Ministry tonight," she announced. "I
can pick up some groceries while I'm out, so decide what you'd like to eat while you're
here. And, er, is there anything else I can pick up for you? I know I don't have a lot of
diversions in my home…"



"I was listening to Rose's WWN hookup most of the day. But… if you could pick me up a
copy of this month's *Modern Quidditch,* that'd help," said Ginny gratefully.



"I'll do that," laughed Hermione. "Why don't you wash the dishes, while I
pack the Pensieve?" Upon Ginny's eager nod, she left the kitchen and headed straight for
her bedroom. Closing the door behind her, she hissed, "Harry? Are you there?"



Harry's head appeared. "So what did you see? I didn't want to try following you
into the Pensieve… didn't know if I'd be visible inside it, Cloak or no…"



Hermione overrode him. "Can you come with me back to the Ministry?" she asked
urgently. "I've no time to explain, I don't want Ginny to suspect anything – but can
you meet me there? In the Atrium again, and follow me to my office? It's *very* important,
Harry."



His jaw clenched once… then he resolutely nodded and wrapped the Cloak over his head once more.
Hermione quickly grabbed one of her pillows, stripped off its pillowcase, and returned to the
living room just as Ginny entered from the kitchen. Together they slipped the Pensieve into the
pillowcase for transport… then with a friendly nod to Ginny, Hermione Disapparated.



*



At the Ministry, Hermione shut the door to her office and glanced around. "You can come out
now," she announced quietly. She waited a moment, and added, "Trust me, Harry,
please."



The air shimmered as Harry shucked off the Cloak. He immediately stepped to the door and put his
ear to it, listening. He raised his left hand, where the Elder Wand was strapped, as though he were
about to cast a warding spell… despite its being after hours, and the Ministry being nearly
unpopulated, he clearly felt very exposed and vulnerable being there.



Evidently, whatever protections he detected on the room seemed to satisfy him: he lowered his
hand without casting anything. "All right, Hermione, what's on with this? I'm guessing
you want me to see Ginny's memory in the Pensieve…?"



"Yes and no," Hermione replied, pulling the phial from her pocket. *A little
explanation,* she thought, *might help distract him enough to settle his nerves.* "An
evidentiary Pensieve is limited, deliberately so, in what it can show us. But in theory, a Pensieve
can draw on more than the memory being displayed: it can extract memetic information from the
gestalt of the collective unconscious itself. "



"Uh huh. And what's that mean, when it's at home?"



"It means a powerful Pensieve can actually show details that the memory's observer
didn't herself see." She walked behind her desk and, with a grunt, picked up a large,
heavy wooden box. She set the box on her desk as she continued, "Unfortunately, the spells
needed to create such a powerful Pensieve have been lost for generations. There are only a few left
in the world. One of them, as you may recall, belonged to Albus Dumbledore."



"Yeah," said Harry with dawning understanding, as he recalled his sixth-year lessons
with Dumbledore. Now that he considered, his Pensieve trips into Tom Riddle's life *had*
seemed far more detailed than would be possible if only a single person's memories had been
used: events behind closed doors, or out of the person's line of sight, had been fully visible.
"So I'm guessing that you've got Dumbledore's Pensieve there?"



"Right in one," smiled Hermione, lifting the box's lid to reveal the rune-graven
stone basin. "I sent a note to Professor McGonagall earlier today. She's been good enough
to loan us Dumbledore's Pensieve in the past." She opened the phial and poured Ginny's
memory into the waiting Pensieve. "Of course," she added, "precisely because it
*does* show more than one witness's experience, it can't be used as evidence in a
trial – but that won't matter to us, if it points *us* in the right direction. And I think
we'll both want to see this."



And seizing Harry's hand, they plunged into the roiling silvery mist.



*They entered the memory at the point where Ginny was listening by the drawing room door.
Without letting go of Harry's hand, Hermione walked through the door – literally through it, as
though it were an illusion – and found herself in the room with Zabini and three others.
"Because I've just learned that Granger's spreading a rumor that Harry Potter's
come back from the dead," Zabini was saying forcefully, "*that's *why. The
elves* will *respond to that, I assure you. Oh yes, they* will *testify – making the
verdict certain." He sat back in his seat and regarded the three wizards before him: dressed
in elegant robes that bespoke wealth without flaunting it, they carried an air of authority… and
danger.*



*The wizard on his left met Zabini's gaze coolly. Hermione noted him carefully: thin, with
high cheekbones, wispy blond hair, and deep-set blue eyes. Calluses on the bridge of his nose
suggested he normally wore spectacles. "Then Swivingham will to your Azkaban Prison be sent
after all," he said in a sharp German accent. "Hm. Does your Ministry have an appeal
process we might attempt? If not, at the very least we can a goodly bonus guarantee him, once his
term he's served…"*



*Zabini made a slicing gesture with one hand. "No,* we've *no options left,
but* he *does. He can turn Crown's Evidence in exchange for immunity from prosecution. And
that's exactly what he'll do. You gentlemen have no idea of the horror that is Azkaban, but
trust me, Swivingham will do anything to avoid it. To save his own skin, he* will *betray
us."*



*The German wizard began an angry retort, but was interrupted by the second wizard, the one on
Zabini's right: swarthy skin, curly black hair, massive muscular build. He favored heavy gold
jewellery. From the Mediterranean, Hermione guessed; his accent sounded neither Italian nor French,
but some polyglot blend. "You put too much faith in these dementors of yours," he
snarled. "I 'ave never believed they're the deterrent you and your Ministry claim.
It's not as though we've 'ad problems in recruitment, after all."*



*"Amazing, then, that you ever saw the need to approach me, Castigni," Zabini
riposted. "Or do you think your gains here would have been as great, or as rapid, without my
aid?"*



*"Irrelevant to the discussion," put in the German. "Swivingham will not to
betray us be moved if your dementors aren't fearsome enough to discourage crime in the first
place…!"*



*The third wizard, who sat directly facing Zabini, had yet said nothing. He looked to be from
the Middle East: hawk-nosed, a trim black beard, wearing a neat turban. He accepted a goblet of
some foaming drink from a young, female house-elf, and sipped as he listened to the growing
argument. Finally, he handed the goblet back to the elf and raised a finger. "I think
we're agreed," he began smoothly, and the others fell silent at once, "that it would
be in everyone's best interest that our good friend Jack remain silent. Our faithful servant
would not wish to be forsworn, after all… and it would be merciful to keep him out of Azkaban, if
what you tell us of it is true." He smiled serenely as he watched Zabini, and waited.*



*After a moment, Zabini gave a jerky nod of reluctant understanding. "Setting an example
to the end," he said slowly. "Very well, gentlemen, I'll take care of it. It shall be
done discreetly–" Abruptly, Zabini stopped – his head swiveling to look at the closed door.
Raising his hand for silence, he quickly rose from his chair and took a step – as a brisk knock
sounded.*



*"Blaise?" came Ginny's voice through the door.*



*Hermione nodded, satisfied by what she'd seen. She turned to collect Harry… to see him
kneeling before the house-elf, studying her features closely. By elven standards, indeed by human
standards, she was quite comely. Her only garb comprised a long translucent veil, strategically
arranged to cover without concealing, and held in place by a fine gold chain around her waist.
"She reminds me of one of the elves that visited Enthalpy House," Harry said,
unnecessarily whispering.*



*"Brillig," Hermione automatically supplied, then gasped as she looked more closely.
The house-elf in the Pensieve was obviously the Arab's personal servant – but more importantly,
she was the very image of one of the witnesses against Swivingham! The elf named Fatima…*



*"Swivingham hinted there was a… Levantine connection to the Cartel Lords," Hermione
said softly. She took Harry's wrist, pointed her wand upward, and together they left the
Pensieve scene.*



"'Levantine'?" Harry asked.



"One of the six witness elves, one you haven't met yet, is named Fatima,"
explained Hermione, as she hurriedly collected Ginny's memory from the Pensieve. "She
looks almost *exactly* like the elf servant we saw. Enough to be sisters! It *can't*
be coincidence."



"Wizards have bred house-elves as servants for centuries," Harry commented.
"Stands to reason that someone, somewhere, would breed them for looks, as well as everything
else." He shrugged. "And it makes sense it would be in Arabia. What do they call those
girl-slaves in Paradise – *houris?* Pretty house-elves would be like *houris* on
earth."



"In every way," muttered Hermione in disgust, as she replaced the lid on the Pensieve
box. Small *wonder* Swivingham imported elven sex-slaves from that region! Hermione was
willing to bet that Fatima had been charged with instructing the other elves on
"technique".



"So…" Harry began to pace back and forth in Hermione's office. Since the office
wasn't all that big, he was more or less reduced to constantly turning in a circle. "So
what does this tell us, then? Are these three wizards the Cartel Lords that Swivingham worked for?
From what we heard, I'm guessing that Zabini killed Swivingham, or arranged it – does Zabini
work for the Lords, too, or is he *one* of them? And did we hear… there *was* a name
mentioned! 'Castigni' – does that ring a bell with you?"



"No, but I wouldn't have expected it to: we know how the Lords prefer to remain
anonymous. Mm, we can forward the name to the various Ministries in Europe, see if anyone has a
dossier on him. And we have physical descriptions for all three of them, which we can also
forward." Hermione took out a sheet of parchment and began to make notes. "As for
Swivingham's murder, I made some progress on that today. I know the agent Zabini used, but not
the method. I'm still working on a plan, an idea really, to bring the agent in for questioning,
without anyone being aware of it." She scribbled furiously.



"Working on an idea?"



She did *not* want to discuss the details of her plan with Harry, lest he offer to help
with the worst part of it. "Er, yes. Right now, I'm trying to find a way to persuade the,
er, target to accept a Portkey." She swept her quill in the air between them, dismissing the
topic, and went back to Harry's previous comment. "And, from what I saw, I'm guessing
that Zabini's *not* one of the Lords, but he's hardly a hireling as Swivingham
was."



"Ah. More like Fudge, under Malfoy's thumb?"



"More like an ally, I'd say," she replied, now comfortably in her element.
"Think about it: Zabini has an agenda, a *political* agenda. For that, he needs political
influence. He's got plenty of that already – Merlin, he's tapped to be the next Minister of
Magic when Kingsley passes on. Therefore, any *entente* he may have with the Lords *must*
serve to increase his influence, or it does him no good. No, he won't jeopardize his agenda by
becoming part of a criminal cartel, no matter how high he could rise there."



"But then, why would he…?"



"Work with the Cartel at all? Agendas need financing, Harry." Hermione looked up from
her note-taking to watch Harry, still pacing around the office – except what she'd taken for
nervous energy was instead a constant monitoring for intruders. He'd picked his Cloak up off
the floor, and looked ready to vanish under it at anyone's approach. "Oh, honestly,
Harry," she tsked, "do you think you're the only person who augments the standard
wards with their own spells? Of *course* I've put extra defenses on my office."



"Oh. Uh, right. Of course, sorry…" Harry stopped pacing, a trace of embarrassment on
his face. "Yeah, you've probably been doing that for years, haven't you?"



Tempting though it was to let Harry believe that, honesty forced Hermione to say, "Um, no.
Only for a couple of days. Since the night I *didn't* get Obliviated." She rolled her
eyes at his smirk. "*Yes,* thanks to *your* extra defenses."



"Just checking." His smirk turned into a warm smile as he raised his hand, as though
laying it against a curtain to feel its material. "Hm, I recognize *Cave Inimicum* and
*Salvio Hexia,* but there are a couple here I don't know."



"I like to think I've learned a *few* things since the Horcrux Hunt,"
Hermione smiled back.



"Me too." Harry's smile turned rueful. "'Course, it would have been hard
*not* to have learned since then – I was so incredibly stupid. Most important quest of the
War, of my entire *life,* and what did I do to get ready for it? I watched you pack."



"You let me do what I do best. When the fighting started, I let you do what *you* do
best. I was often afraid that I was, well, a liability to you in combat…" She paused, brows
lowering, as a sudden thought occurred. "Harry, when you were using the *Lactus* charm
for that farming couple, did I hear you say you used your *holly* wand? The one I… I
broke?" At his nod, she continued, "But I thought Mr. Ollivander told you…"



"Ollivander didn't reckon with the Elder Wand. He only thought of it in terms of
killing, remember? 'The Deathstick', he called it. But using it, I was able to fix my old
wand – a simple *Reparo* was all it took." A half-grin on his lips, he bent down to look
Hermione in the eyes. "Have you been feeling… *guilty* about breaking my wand? For all
this time?"



"No! … Well, perhaps a little." Hermione hunched over her parchment and resumed
writing notes, well aware of her red face. Trust Harry to pick up on that… She began again,
"So, anyway, Harry, you don't have to worry about being in my office. There are enough
wards to keep anyone noticing."



"I appreciate that, thanks." He looked slightly more relaxed.



"And certainly more wards than you had when you visited Ron in Diagon Alley last
night."



There was a pause so long that Hermione wondered if her friend had been Petrified. At long last,
he sighed resignedly and said, "You weren't supposed to know about that."



"Ron wrote me a *very* apologetic letter today. In which he made *repeated*
reference to 'how Harry would have wanted things'. I got top marks in Arithmancy –
let's assume I can add two and two, shall we?" Feeling more secure now that Harry was on
the defensive, she raised her head and pinned him with a gimlet eye. "Harry, I appreciate what
you were trying to do, but I can fight my own battles. Certainly my battles with Ron are between
him and me."



"I know. I saw you battling last night, remember? My little sojourn wasn't about
fighting your battles for you, Hermione. It was… it was…"



"It was what? I don't see what else I could call it but your assuming that I
can't…"



"*NO ONE gets to…!*" Harry stopped, drew a long, deep breath, and continued more
quietly, but with no less force. "No one – *no one* – gets to hurt you, and get away with
it. It has nothing to do with defending you or sheltering you or fighting your battles for you or
*anything* like that. It's just…" He stopped again, and looked at her almost
pleadingly – as though he expected her to complete his thought aloud, as she so often did.



But for once, she was at a loss for words: too astonished by his sudden vehemence to speak.



"It's like Scotland," he finally said. He thrust his hands in his pockets and spun
away from her. "I'm sure you know the motto of Scotland."



*'Nemo me impune lacessit',* Hermione's memory supplied. *'No one
assaults me with impunity'. Except in Harry's case, it's 'No one assaults* me
*with impunity'. Sweet Merlin, was* this *the man who refused to come back to the
wizarding world? Who so reluctantly came to the Ministry two days ago? Yet he risked everything to
go to Diagon Alley last night to deal with Ron…*



"Funny thing is," said Harry, still unable to face her, "a month ago, I'd
have said that for Ron, too." It was eerie, how his thoughts seemed to parallel her own. He
was almost mumbling as he finished, "But, but not after… after last night."



"Or Ginny?" she whispered.



"Or Ginny."



Without hesitating an instant, Hermione rose from the desk, walked up behind Harry, and wrapped
her arms around him. He stiffened momentarily at her touch, then relaxed as she pressed herself
against his back. Hermione rested her cheek against his shoulder and simply held him. She
wouldn't embarrass him further by making him face her, but she was determined to give gratitude
and affection in the only way, at that moment, that he could accept: her embrace.



When Harry started to lean back against her, she knew he understood.



A deliberate change of subject was needed, to break the tension. "Well, speaking of Ginny:
her Pensieve evidence probably isn't enough to endanger her life. But Zabini wouldn't know
that. If he suspects her at all, he may take action against her 'just in case'. As much as
I'd prefer otherwise, she should spend at least one more night at Enthalpy House."



"As you say," he sighed after a few seconds. "At least she was a good girl today:
she didn't try to breach the wards or contact anyone."



"You know that…? Oh, of course you would."



"Yeah." Harry covered her hands with his own, and squeezed them gently. Then he
stepped forward, out of their span, and turned to face her again. "I assume I'll be in
your bedroom again tonight? Right, then I'll wait here a bit… give you a chance to, um, get
ready for bed before I Apparate in."



"*And* stop at the market for provisions," Hermione reminded him, stepping back
to her desk. She folded the parchment and placed it in her pocket along with the phial of
Ginny's memories. She was about to Disapparate when Harry said, in a voice so quiet that she
almost didn't hear it, "And Hermione? You weren't a liability."



His green eyes were fixed on her now, bright as jewels, and piercing to her soul. "You were
*never* a liability," he went on. "If I were going into battle tomorrow … I'd
…" Harry paused, seeking the right words, and finished, "There's no one I'd
rather have by me." A smile flashed on his lips, born of relief and thanks, before he swirled
the Cloak over his shoulders and vanished from view.



There was no logical reason why that tribute, those words of acknowledgment, should cause
Hermione's heart to beat more wildly, nor her eyes to sting. She hastily wiped them with the
back of her hand, gave a return smile of thanks to the seemingly empty room, and Disapparated while
she still trusted herself to not say anything.



20. XX: Queens' Gambits
-----------------------

**(A/N:** What with the Thanksgiving holiday, yet another business trip, and giving my beta a
well-deserved break, this chapter has taken more time than I liked. I had a choice of a long, very
late chapter, or a short chapter now and another coming soon. I opted for the latter – I hope no
one's disappointed.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** After nineteen disclaimers, if you haven't yet absorbed the concept of
my non-Rowlingness, a twentieth application probably won't convince you either.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XX: Queens' Gambits**

*

*How in seven hells could Hermione* ever *think she's a liability?*

In the wee hours of the morning, Harry sat on the floor of the darkened bedroom at Enthalpy
House, next to Hermione's bed. He'd done better last night than the night before: he'd
remembered the existence of Cushioning Charms, and had applied them to the floor and wall. He even
thought he might actually have dozed off for a few minutes, sometime during the night. He
couldn't say for sure.

It had been a wakeful night like so many before – and unlike any other. He hadn't used the
time to plan his next "guardian angel" project, as he'd done on sleepless nights in
the past. He hadn't spent the hours monitoring the wards, or checking to see that Ginny had
tried nothing suspicious. He hadn't even spent the night worrying about the effect the Hallows
were having on him, or seeking a way eliminate them forever – though Merlin knew he ought to have
been.

He'd filled the hours watching Hermione as she slept.

It astounded Harry that Hermione might see herself as *anything* less than superbly
capable. Oh, her flaws were real, and he was well aware of them; she'd made mistakes, some of
them huge, and he readily acknowledged the fact. But as far as he was concerned, those were like
smudges on a stained glass window, barely noticeable amidst the sunlight shining through.

*Even in battle – who fought by my side at the Department of Mysteries? At the café after the
Death Eaters attacked Bill's wedding? At Hogwarts? I told her the truth last night, there's
no one I'd rather have by my side in a fight.*

*Except I'd never want her in a fight, because I'd be so scared of anything happening
to her.*

He'd begun to worry, earlier in the evening, when he'd Apparated to Enthalpy House –
hidden under his Cloak, of course – and discovered that Hermione hadn't yet arrived, despite
her leaving the Ministry a good half-hour before he had. He'd fretted in the living room,
silently watching Ginny work the *Daily Prophet's* crossword puzzle, growing more and more
worried that Hermione was roaming about, while minions of the Cartel Lords wanted to Obliviate her,
or worse. He tried to comfort himself that Hermione could buy groceries anywhere in Britain, Muggle
or Magical, so the chance of her being spotted was slim.

But that comfort had been dashed when Hermione'd arrived with groceries – and the latest
issues of *Modern Quidditch* and *Quaffle* *& Snitch* for Ginny. Which could
only have been obtained in a wizarding shop, greatly increasing her risk! Not until almost bedtime,
when Hermione had mentioned to Ginny (undoubtedly for Harry's benefit) that she'd
"borrowed" the magazines from the Department of Magical Games and Sports, did Harry
relax.

*And now, here I am, sitting on the floor watching her, as if she were going to disappear any
minute.*

He lifted his head slightly to look at her bed. Hermione carefully slept on one half of the bed,
as she always did – as though years of married life had made a former necessity into a habit. The
empty half of the bed was reserved space, as it were. Reserved for the husband whom Hermione
couldn't divorce… but who thought nothing of pleasuring himself with another woman.

Out of nowhere, Harry remembered a complaint Ron had once made, just after the Quidditch World
Cup: *"Why is everything I own rubbish?"* Harry had maintained a sympathetic silence
at the time, not really having an answer to give. He had an answer now.

*Because when anything good* does *come into your life, you whinging git, you toss it
aside.*

Hermione had told him of the breakup of her marriage, but the raw fact hadn't sunk home with
Harry until Monday night, when he'd seen her and Ron argue… and she'd thrown Ron out, once
and for all. Now, staring at the empty half of the bed, Harry found himself wondering if there was
anything he could do to help – anything at *all.* He'd helped so many others over the last
fifteen years; surely the Master of the Deathly Hallows could help here as well. But he knew,
without needing to think it through in detail, that Ron's and Hermione's marital problems
were beyond even the power of the Hallows to repair. Even when it came to simply breaking the power
of their vows, so they could divorce… well, only one idea had come to Harry, and to his credit, he
had immediately rejected it, with the deepest sense of shame. Ron might be a whinging git, but he
didn't deserve to have the power of Death remove him from Hermione's life.

*I have to be better than that,* he told himself. He still stared at the empty half of the
bed with a certain resentment.

Hermione made the soft sound, halfway between a sigh and a moan, that Harry had learned meant
she was awakening. Harry's attention came back to her face as she snorted softly, licked her
lips, and opened one eye. "It's safe," Harry told the eye. "Good morning,
Hermione."

Both eyes opened. "Morning, anyway," she grumbled as she sat up. She was wearing the
opaque pajamas again, Harry noticed – probably because of the change of season, he told himself
firmly, and *not* as a sop to their mutual embarrassment. "I should shower and head to
the Ministry early. I've a lot to do today."

Harry tilted his head curiously.

"Tomorrow's the opening session of the Conference on International Crime,"
Hermione explained, correctly interpreting his unspoken question. "Which Zabini, of all
people, is chairing! If he's really in the Cartel Lords' pocket, the whole Conference
becomes a pointless waste of time, at best. He'll use it to cover his tracks, or consolidate
his position to the point that even *with* hard evidence, I wouldn't be able to prosecute
him. He might even deliberately divert suspicions away from the Lords. So not only do I need to
find that hard evidence… I need to find it *today.*" She swung her legs out of bed and
stood. Briskly she walked to one of the bedroom's bookcases (there wasn't a room in
Enthalpy House that had no bookcases) and pulled a volume off a lower shelf.

"Ginny's Pensieve memories, I take it, won't produce any results in time?"
Harry stayed on the floor, watching as she leafed through the tome.

"They pointed us in the right direction… they showed Zabini was responsible for arranging
Swivingham's murder. And I already know who his, er, agent was … but *proving* it is
something else again. I have to find a way to do that today." She broke off at that point,
unusually for Hermione, and Harry wondered why she was reluctant to talk about it.

One possibility occurred to him. He tried a gentle probe. "You mean, that 'idea'
you mentioned last night? Getting a Portkey to your target before he knows about it?"

"Erm, yes. I'd thought about owling him, with the envelope uncharmed but the letter a
Portkey. But the type of business he's in, he's sure to have Secrecy Sensors checking his
mail – much more complete Sensors than Filch *ever* used. So that won't work."
Without meeting Harry's eye, Hermione tossed the book onto the bed. She stepped to her wardrobe
and began to search for clothes.

"Hm, yes, I see your problem," Harry said seriously. "But there must be a way to
deliver a Portkey without being spotted. If only you knew some bloke who isn't stopped by
wards, and who had a Cloak that could keep Sensors from detecting him. *That'd* be
brilliant."

The robes fell from Hermione's hands. She spun to face him, her mouth a round O of
astonishment.

"I assume you were going to get around to asking me sooner or later," he noted
matter-of-factly. "I just thought we might save some time."

"I was…" Hermione swallowed, the surprise on her face fighting with indignation. She
cleared her throat and started again. "I *wasn't* going to ask you. How could I?
You've made it clear you want as little to do with the wizarding world as possible."

Harry nodded in agreement. "But I thought I *also* made it clear," he added,
"that I was *not* abandoning you, *ever* again."

Her expression turned neutral, but with a hint of speculation. "Not abandoning me means
staying," she said after a moment.

He closed his eyes helplessly at that. He *couldn't* stay, *couldn't* be part
of the wizarding world, not as long as the Hallows were intact and he was their Master, and she
surely understood that. "Hermione, that's a discussion for another time," he finally
allowed, opening his eyes. "Maybe I could sort of, y'know, be on call, like I am with
Ted." He stood and dusted his backside, then met her gaze squarely. "Right now, though,
we have a Portkey to deliver."

By the set of her mouth and the light in her eyes, Harry could tell that she was intent on
continuing the discussion right then and there. He timed it perfectly: just as she was drawing
breath to speak, he added, "*And* we're on a deadline."

Hermione closed her mouth, swallowing whatever she'd been about to say. Harry knew he had,
miraculously, won an argument with Hermione Granger – or at least, postponed *losing* an
argument.

After a long pause, Hermione spoke again, somewhat edgily. "The target is Swivingham's
solicitor, Edwin Lovinett." She picked up the fallen robes and draped them over the edge of
the bed, then found a scrap of parchment and a quill, and began to write. She didn't stop
talking as she did these things. "Dennis Creevey connected Swivingham's death to a similar
death after the First Voldemort War, and Lovinett was involved on both occasions. Oh, I still
haven't deduced *how* he could have done it – but we've enough evidence now to bring
him in for questioning. Under Veritaserum, and that's something *else* I need to do today,
put in a requisition for Veritaserum."

She finished writing on the parchment, and blew on it gently to dry the ink. When she handed it
to Harry, her voice had lost its edge. "Here's the address of his law office. When
everything's ready, I'll give you a Ministry-approved Portkey – I'm sure you could make
one, but I don't want him able to claim this wasn't an official proceeding – and we'll
schedule when you'll use it. We'll have to work on a pretty tight schedule, but if it's
done right, we'll corral Lovinett without anybody even knowing he's gone."

He nodded as he accepted the parchment, noting the address wasn't on Diagon Alley, as
he'd expected, but on Queen Street. "Anything else while we wait?"

Hermione shook her head. "Not for you. There are other… arrangements… that have to be made,
but *I* need to… well, let's just say I can't delegate them." Her face showed a
moment of apprehension, before it broke into its first smile that morning. "But now, Mr.
Potter, if you'll give a lady a few minutes' privacy, I need to shower and dress."

He relaxed into a responding smile. "Yeah, I'll go back to my flat and do the same.
Call me on my mobile when you want me. Or send your Patronus – my flat's private."

"I will," she promised, then stepped closer to him. "And Harry? I really
*wasn't* going to ask – but I'm awfully glad you volunteered. Thank you." She
leaned in and gave him a firm kiss on the cheek. Then she stepped back, smiled warmly, and waited a
moment, watching him.

It was all Harry could do to stand there in a daze, blinking at her – his brain seemed to be
simultaneously frozen in place and racing in overdrive. His hand slowly came up to touch his cheek,
where she'd kissed him.

Hermione's smile broadened. She made little shooing motions with her hands – he managed to
kick-start his brain enough to take the hint. He unbuttoned his pajama top, unwrapped the Cloak
from its usual place around his waist, draped it over his shoulders, and Disapparated.

*

When it came to breakfast, Hermione reflected, Ginny was perfectly competent – probably some
remnant of kitchen training from Molly, when she was growing up in the Burrow – but though they
made a filling breakfast, she couldn't help comparing Ginny's scrambled eggs to Harry's
omelets, just a few days earlier.

(But really, though, there *was* no comparison.)

"Well, I'm just glad I'm able to help out around here," Ginny declared when
Hermione had thanked her for breakfast.

"It shouldn't be for too much longer," Hermione assured her. "I want you to
spend one more night here, just to be safe. Zabini is chairing an international conference
tomorrow, which should draw his attention from anything that might have happened at your last Fire
Party."

"Not that I saw anything that would have, er, compromised him, though – right?"

"Not that I could identify." Hermione finished her coffee in a long gulp, which let
her drop the topic. "You could probably go back to the Harpies' training camp tomorrow, if
you like. I'll give Ron credit for that: the more you stay with your normal routine, the less
suspicious you'll appear."

"Um, yeah. Ron." Ginny pushed a bit of egg around her plate with her fork. "I
know nothing really excuses what he did, Hermione, but…"

"I can't help but think," interrupted Hermione, smiling but with a certain
asperity, "that however you were *planning* to end that sentence, you'd be better off
stopping there."

Ginny cleared her throat. "Right, got it. Sorry, Hermione. I just want..." She trailed
off.

"Want everything to be better?" Hermione's expression and voice softened. "Me
too, Ginny, me too." She stood and carried her dishes to the sink. "Thank you again for
breakfast, Ginny. Shall I bring back anything tonight?"

As Ginny shook her head, Hermione picked up her briefcase and Disapparated. Ginny busied herself
cleaning the breakfast dishes, waiting to see if Hermione had forgotten anything. After a few
minutes, she decided Hermione wouldn't be returning before evening.

Drying her hands, she left the kitchen and tried the door to Hermione's bedroom. The door
opened easily, which was as she'd expected: from what she'd seen, the Imperturbable Charm
was only used at night. Ginny didn't enter the bedroom; instead, after a quick glance around
the room, she quietly closed the door again… before heading for her own room. She hadn't
anticipated this turn of events… but if the years had taught her anything, it was to Be Ready. If
she was leaving tomorrow, tonight would be her last window of opportunity.

And she *would* be ready.

*

Sheryl watched in amusement as a slightly befuddled Hermione entered their offices, glancing
back over her shoulder. "Morning, ma'am."

"Good morning, Sheryl. Um." Hermione shook her head. "Grimble just asked if I
wanted to be part of the Pumpkin Pool this year."

"Grimble runs the Pumpkin Pool *every* year. 'Whose pumpkins will be biggest by
Hallowe'en?' It's his pet passion."

"Well, yes, I knew about it… but still, he's never invited *me* to join
before." *It's odd, how many people have stopped to say hello in the last few days, or
make small talk,* she thought. *Odd, but rather nice, really…*

She gave a mental shake and returned to the present. "Well, let's get to work. Sheryl,
would you contact the Potions lab, and tell them I'll need some Veritaserum for a field
interrogation today? I'd like it by noon, just to have some leeway. Then contact the Auror
stockroom for a set of Patches – or no, send Creevey, have *him* contact the stockroom. Tell
him to specify 'open destination'…I'll take care of completing the locator charms.
Assuming this works…" she added in an undertone.

She barely heard Sheryl's acknowledgment as she stepped into her chamber. Once they had
Lovinett in custody, and dosed with Veritaserum, they might learn how he'd killed Swivingham.
But Hermione's experience in courtroom interrogation had taught her to only ask questions to
which she already knew the answers.

*When Harry called up Swivingham's shade, we learned that the Imperius Curse had been used
on him, to make him kill himself. That's undeniable. Lucius Malfoy implicated Lovinett in the
death of Castle, with the same* modus operandi. *That's equally undeniable. Therefore
Lovinett performed the Curse on Swivingham, and therefore* had *to have a wand inside the
cell. But I* saw *Lovinett surrender his wand to Nelson at the guard desk. Again,
undeniable…*

"He *had* to take one inside – but he *couldn't* have!
*Uurrghh**!*" she cried aloud, resisting the urge to pull at her hair.

Sheryl popped her head through the door. "Did you call me?"

"No," said Hermione, lowering her hands from her head. "Just trying to reconcile
two impossible conditions." Seeing the interest on her clerk's face, Hermione waved her
in. "Brainstorm with me, Sheryl. Lovinett had to bring a wand into Swivingham's cell. How
could he have done it? You know the security charms on the holding cell block as well as I
do."

"Yeah." Sheryl nodded thoughtfully as she entered the room. "You both had to give
up your wands to the guard. Are you thinking he might have had a second wand? Most wizards only
have one… at any given time, I mean… I mean, the wand chooses the wizard, and it's rare that a
wizard gets chosen by *two* wands."

Hermione shook her head. "Even if he'd *had* a second wand, the security charms
check for wands, to prevent them from being smuggled in to the prisoners. He couldn't have had
a wand – not and get it past the guard's desk undetected."

"And Nelson may be a sloppy guard, but even *he* wouldn't have tried to hide a
security breach with you standing right there." Sheryl chewed her lip. "What *did*
he take into the cell? What did *you* take in?"

"That's just it. We didn't take *anything* into the cell." Hermione
paused, recalling the scene to her mind. "I didn't take anything, certainly. Lovinett had
his legal paperwork, but the guard's desk would have spotted a wand if he'd tucked it
amidst the papers…" She blinked. "Inside his briefcase," she finished softly, her
eyes glazing. Sheryl watched curiously as Hermione remained motionless, as still as a statue, for a
long minute.

"Pumpkins," she eventually murmured. Her eyes clicked into focus again, to see
Sheryl's bewildered expression. "*Big* pumpkins," she clarified, and
couldn't resist grinning as her clerk's bewilderment grew.

"You… took… big pumpkins…?" Sheryl said, very slowly, still trying to make sense of
Hermione's words.

"Heavens no, of course not. But big pumpkins tell me how the murder was done."

*

Enshrouded in stealth, Harry stood in the corner of Edwin Lovinett's chamber, at the offices
of Gouging & Lovinett. It was getting close to four in the afternoon, and Lovinett had been in
and out of his chamber for the last two hours, with no signs of settling down.

Harry fingered the Patch he'd been given by Hermione. The Patch was an Auror-issue Portkey,
specifically designed for search-and-snatch missions like this one: an adhesive patch, similar to
the nicotine patches used to quit smoking, save that this patch was infused with a *Portus*
charm instead of drugs. This Patch's charm was set to activate three seconds after the backing
was peeled away – Harry would have that long to slap the Patch onto some exposed area of
Lovinett's skin.

*Four o'clock, Hermione told me,* thought Harry, *or as soon after as possible, when
the target is both alone and unobserved. So far, he's been neither.*

There was a flutter of wings outside the room, as the afternoon owl-post arrived. A few minutes
later, letters in hand, Lovinett entered his chamber – carefully closing the door behind him, Harry
was relieved to see – and sat down at his desk. With a silent *Colloportus* on the door, Harry
made sure that no one could unexpectedly barge in and interfere.

Cautiously, Harry left his corner and maneuvered behind Lovinett's chair. As Lovinett opened
the first envelope, Harry opened the Cloak, just enough to bring out the Patch. He resealed the
Cloak and held the Patch ready.

Out in the office's foyer, the grandfather clock chimed four.

In a single motion, Harry tore the backing off the Patch and slapped it onto the back of
Lovinett's neck. The solicitor looked up as if stung, turned around in his seat to stare
through Harry's invisible form – and vanished a second later.

*Right, that's done. But now how are we supposed to keep the rest of Lovinett's office
from noticing he's up and gone? I suppose I could create some sort of diversion… a fire,
perhaps? Hermione said I could leave now, so she must have something planned, but still…*

There was a pop of air, and Lovinett reappeared.

Harry immediately backed to the wall and readied his wand. *Lovinett* *got away?! But no,
if he’d escaped from wherever the Portkey sent him, he wouldn’t have come back here! Was the
destination warded, and bounced him back, or…?* He considered his options… stunning Lovinett and
side-along Apparating him, perhaps, but where to take him…?

Meanwhile, Lovinett had stepped back to his desk and was looking on either side of it.
"Briefcase?" he asked himself, then "Ah." He lifted the briefcase from the
floor, set it on the desk, and carefully opened it. He looked inside, then scooped all the legal
paperwork from the desktop and unceremoniously stuffed it into the briefcase.

It gave Harry a moment's pause: he'd been watching the solicitor for two hours, and this
was atypical behavior. His manner had always been exact, precise, and neat.

Snapping the briefcase shut, Lovinett started to pick it up, hesitated with his hand near the
handle, then lifted the briefcase by its sides and tucked it under his arm. He started for the
door. Harry aimed his wand, preparing a silent *Stupefy* spell, but holding it in check while
he watched. Something about Lovinett was off…

Lovinett tugged on the doorknob to no avail. He took a step back and cleared his throat –
ostentatiously. Expectantly.

*He knows I'm here!* Harry thought in sudden understanding. *Oh, Hermione, you*
are *the clever one!*

He cast a *Finite* on the sealed door. After a moment, Lovinett tried the door again. It
opened easily. "Thank you," he primly told the air, and headed out of the office. Harry
couldn't resist following as far as the open doorway and looking out.

"I'll be leaving for home now," Lovinett told his clerk. "See that my
appointments for today and tomorrow are rescheduled, if you please. I will, of course, be available
in case of emergencies – but *try* not to have any emergencies, hmm?"

"Edwin? What's this?" A portly wizard, somewhat older than Lovinett, had appeared
from another chamber. From his age and his familiar address to Lovinett, Harry guessed this must be
the senior partner, Geoffrey Gouging. "I can't recall a time when you've left the
office early."

"This afternoon's owls brought some distressing news," replied Lovinett.
"What with the Ministry and its Conference on International Crime, and all. I've come to
the decision this would be an excellent time for me to be… shall we say, unavailable?" He gave
the other wizard a knowing smile. The man nodded appreciatively.

With an affable nod in reply, Lovinett continued on his way. Invisible in the doorway, Harry
could only smile and shake his head in admiration, before Disapparating away, his own task
done.



21. XXI:  Rubicon Crossing
--------------------------

**(A/N:** Some of you have been waiting patiently for this chapter. Some of you, not so
patiently.

Thanks again go to **MirielleGrey****,** my peerless beta!**)**

**(Disclaimer:** I did not write the Half Blood Prince, it tasted like a moldy quince. I did
not write the Seventh Book, the plot gets worse each time I look. I did not write the Epilogue, I
don't want folks to diss my blog. I say it near, I say it far, this tale is not by
JKR.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXI: Rubicon Crossing**

*

"All right, then," Hermione told Dennis Creevey, looking down at Lovinett's bound
and gagged form, "if you and Bones will escort our guest to his new accommodations, I'll
be along presently." She handed Dennis the Portkey she'd finished charming.
"Don't worry," she added to Lovinett, "your new home will have anti-Apparation
charms just like here." She nodded to the massive gate rising next to them, where the great
winged boars looked over the entrance to the Hogwarts school grounds.

"Not one of the Ministry's official safe houses, I take it?" Dennis asked with a
grin.

"Oh, my goodness, no. No telling *who* might come looking for us there," Hermione
replied, in a chipper voice than nonetheless conveyed menace. She spoke for Lovinett's benefit:
the information would keep him off-balance from the start. "This is one of the secure
locations Lee Jordan used for Potterwatch broadcasts. Alastor Moody'd set them up, a couple of
years before his death, and *no one* could make a place as secure as Mad-Eye Moody. We'll
be *quite* undisturbed."

"*Ex-*cellent," said Dennis brightly. He looked up from Lovinett at the two young
witches, blonde and redhead, who stood a respectful distance away. He kept his smile fixed in place
as he lowered his voice, speaking for her ears only: "I *still* say we could've found
a way to divert them."

"Little chance of that," Hermione muttered. "Keeping them close was the most we
could hope for." She looked Dennis in the eye. "I'm bending enough regulations here
as it is. Did you think I *wanted* to run a covert operation from Hogwarts?! It was the only
way to keep it *truly* covert."

"Including from spies within the Ministry, you mean," nodded Dennis. His smile turned
grimmer. "Thanks for trusting me, then."

"How not?" Hermione watched as Creevey and Bones hauled Lovinett to his feet. The
solicitor didn't try to struggle, but his outraged expression spoke volumes. Creevey thrust a
bit of parchment in front of Lovinett's face. "Warrant for your arrest," he explained
quickly, before putting it back into his pocket. "Must keep things legal." Checking to
ensure he and Bones had firm grips, Dennis raised the Portkey – a Muggle biro – and clicked the end
with his thumb. The three wizards promptly vanished.

Hermione sighed as the remaining two observers joined her. "Right, you two. I've let
you stay and watch, as I promised. You've seen all there is to see – now will you return to
Gryffindor Tower, as *you* promised?"

"We *haven't* seen him come back safe and sound," Tori pointed out.

"We don't mind waiting a few extra minutes, Mum," said Rose more respectfully.
"All the classes were let out early anyway… something about an accident in Transfigurations,
and some animals getting loose. Professor Zebulon was pretty upset."

"So was Headmistress McGonagall," added Tori, "with Professor Zebulon."

Tori's hint of blackmail had been well delivered: Hermione did not need to be reminded that
the Headmistress hadn't been told of their presence on Hogwarts grounds. A little
counter-pressure of her own seemed called for – Hermione assumed the formidable expression that had
caused many a Ministry intern's knees to quake. "Now listen to me, *both* of
you…" she began sternly.

She was met with a fierce glare – not from Tori, but from her own daughter. "You
*said,*" Rose firmly reminded her, with a righteous air that brought Hermione up short.
*Merciful Lord, please tell me I didn't act like this when I was her age. Please.*

"Yes," she finally sighed. "I *did* say, didn't I?" Hermione wished
she had the luxury of finding a chair in which to slump, close her eyes, and rub her temples to
relieve the stress. *Once these two showed up, keeping them here was the lesser evil, remember: I
couldn't have them telling the Headmistress. The less she knows, the better.*

*The less* anyone *knows, the better. Ginny had the right idea, though she was concerned
with Zabini. Justifiably, as it turns out. And I've gone to all these lengths to keep him, or
any possible spies, from suspecting I've arrested Lovinett. The Veritaserum was a routine
requisition; but I did nothing else that anyone could see. I avoided the Ministry safe house. I had
Dennis requisition the Portkey Patches, but even that was pushing my luck.*

There was a pop of air, and Lovinett stood before them. He grinned and began to speak – then
spotted Tori and Rose, and promptly lost the grin.

*Requisitioning Polyjuice Potion as well would have raised* too *many red flags,*
finished Hermione in her head. "Any problems?" she asked Lovinett aloud.

Lovinett shook his head, without taking his eyes off Tori and Rose. "May I ask what you two
young ladies are doing here?"

"'Young ladies' – I like that," said Rose indignantly.

"I suppose you might say," Tori smirked, sidling up to Lovinett, "that we were up
to no good, and managing mischief."

"*You took my MAP?!*" The voice was no longer that of Edwin Lovinett. His
features began to morph, until Ted Lupin's face reappeared. It was not a happy face. "You
broke into my dorm and *stole* my *Map?* How'd you even *know* about
it?!"

"Um," said Rose, suddenly cowed. She swallowed nervously, then continued, very
earnest. "That night when you had the Veritaserum? You mentioned Marauders… and I remembered
Uncle George telling me about them once, so I owled him."

"He had *lots* to say," affirmed Tori, unfazed by Ted's black look.
"About Maps, stolen property, passwords, everything. He was quite eloquent on the topic,
actually."

"So when you left in such a hurry this afternoon," finished Rose, "we, um, well,
we only *borrowed* the Map, just to see what was on. And we saw the dots with your name and
Mum's name, and then yours disappeared, and well, we had to check it *out,* didn't we?
Wouldn't *you?*"

Ted glowered at the two of them a moment longer, before turning away huffily to confront
Hermione. "Here," he said curtly, extending the briefcase at arms' length. "I
brought it, just as you asked. *And* I left a false trail. Do I get to know why?"

She accepted it carefully by its sides, not touching the handle. "I'm not totally
certain myself," she replied in strict truth. "It wouldn't be fair to share untested
theories with you. But when I know for certain, I'll tell you. You… you have my word on
it." Hermione drew herself up, fully aware that her daughter was watching her in critical
expectation, and took a deep breath. "Mr. Lupin. I deeply regret my actions last week. They
were unwarranted… and wrong. My only excuse was my anxiety for, for a certain other person. But
that's insufficient excuse. I… I'm sorry."

Ted swallowed the snarky reply that first came to his mind. He could now feel Tori's eyes,
watching *him* as Rose had been watching Hermione. He gained a moment's respite by
reaching under his sleeve and peeling the Patch from his forearm. When he spoke again, he'd
schooled the surliness out of his voice… most of it, anyway. "Yeah. I, uh… I understand. You
were concerned about…" He flicked a glance at Tori and Rose, and continued without missing a
beat. "Him. No, um, no permanent harm done, I reckon." He actually managed a wry
semi-shrug. "And anyway, a prankster should expect to be pranked."

"*Good* boy," cooed Tori, while Rose beamed proudly at her mother.

*

Hermione left Dennis and Bones waiting for Peasegood at their "secure location" – he
would be able to verify whether Lovinett's earlier story to Hermione had been the result of
edited memories, as she'd first assumed, or merely a lie. She'd already confirmed her own
theory on the murder method.

She Apparated into the living room at Enthalpy House – and stood speechless in surprise. The
room was decorated with festive red and gold balloons and sparkly streamers. On a platter on the
table sat a small cake, with a single lit candle planted atop it.

From the kitchen came Ginny's voice. "Happy Birthday, Hermione!" The kitchen door
opened to admit Ginny, wearing one of Hermione's aprons (a wedding gift from her mum, which
she'd never used), and waving a wooden spoon. "Hope you like pasta carbonara – it was best
I could do, given what we had on hand."

"Ginny?" Hermione turned slowly in place, taking in the decorations. "Ginny,
what…?"

"Well, technically, your birthday's tomorrow, but since I'm leaving tomorrow… well,
I wanted to do this for you tonight." She gestured at the cake. "Spice cake from my stash
– Be Ready, that's my motto. C'mon, make a wish and blow out the candle, then we can have
dinner."

"Oh. Of course." Hermione sat down on the couch and, with scarcely a pause, blew out
the candle. "Your stash?"

"From my overnight bag… well, you saw how much it can carry." Ginny waved her hand
from head to feet, reminding Hermione of how she'd been smuggled through the Floo Network.
"I keep an emergency stash there, clothes, cosmetics, provisions and such – and I happened to
have a cake there, too. And I Transfigured some scarves and stockings into decorations, and presto!
Instant birthday party."

"Well, thank you, Ginny." Hermione rose and gave Ginny a quick hug. "Thank you! I
truly wasn't expecting this – I'd almost forgotten about my birthday, what with everything
that's happened this week."

"I thought maybe," Ginny smiled. "Sorry there's no prezzies, but we'll
make do. Now come on and have some dinner. You must be famished."

*

All in all, it was a pleasant evening. Ginny had found a light classical selection on WWN, which
they left playing in the background. They'd both steered clear of any discussion of Blaise
Zambini or Fire Parties, unsurprisingly, but Ginny shared some amusing anecdotes from her career
with the Harpies. Hermione was almost reluctant to cut the evening short… but, as she explained to
Ginny, she had much work to do before she could sleep. *As well as some very private
discussions,* she added silently.

Once in her bedroom, she set down her briefcase, closed the door and, almost as a reflex, cast
the Imperturbable and Muffling Charms. Thus assured of privacy, she surveyed the bedroom with her
hands on her hips. "And how much of that did you help with?"

Harry emerged from under his Stealth Cloak. "Nothing, honest. I came straight here when the
wards detected her Transfigurations, but she was putting up balloons and all I could do was watch.
I didn't even 'help' with the carbonara, and let me tell you, that showed great
restraint on my part."

"Yes, I'm sure you could have done a better job, Monsieur Clayman." She tilted her
head as a thought occurred to her. "Unless you… ah, I see. *You'd* planned to cook a
birthday dinner for me."

"You *said* you wanted to try my cooking. Oh, well, there's always tomorrow night.
So much for surprise." Harry shook his head in mimed sorrow, then gave her a mischievous grin.
"Mind you, I *did* sneak a taste of pasta tonight when neither of you were looking."
He waggled his hand. "Professionally speaking, not bad at all."

"So glad," she laughed. "And thank you again for delivering the Portkey to
Lovinett. I assume you stayed long enough to see the last act of that play?"

"With the second Lovinett? Yeah. That was someone under Polyjuice, I take it? I can see now
why you were on such a tight schedule…"

"Not that tight: I didn't send in the substitute until I had Lovinett in hand. No, I
couldn't safely get Polyjuice Potion on such short notice. No, that was…" Hermione cleared
her throat and gave a nervous cough. "That was Ted. Lupin," she added.

Surprise flitted on his face before it went somber. He sat down on the bed and stared at
Hermione. For a minute, he showed no reaction at all, and Hermione began to feel anxious. Finally,
he asked, "So, uh… you and him?" He didn't elaborate, but Hermione understood what he
meant.

With equal economy of words, she replied, "Better."

He nodded slowly. "Thank you," he said, and meant it. He said nothing more for another
moment, before smiling slightly and changing the subject. "Well? Has Lovinett told us anything
yet?"

"Not yet. First, we have to make sure his own memory hasn't been tampered with. Once
we're satisfied about that, *then* we question him under Veritaserum. To be honest, I
haven't much doubt what we'll learn, but unfortunately, my certainty isn't the same as
legal proof. I *was* right about how Lovinett smuggled a wand into Swivingham's cell,
though." She gave him a broad smile that was as good as a taunt.

"Um. All right, I'll bite: how?"

"He *didn't,*" she told him triumphantly.

Harry waited another moment, then let out a long-suffering sigh. "You're evil,
Hermione."

"Why, *thank* you, Harry. Let me put it this way: he did it the same way Hagrid
brought a wand into Hogwarts, to engorge the Hallowe'en pumpkins every year."

"But Hagrid hasn't *got* a wand. Oh, well, he did once, but it was snapped when
they kicked him out of school as a kid. 'Course, he still kept the pieces…" Harry stopped
and raised an eyebrow at Hermione. "Inside his umbrella."

"Yes! Yes! I was so obsessed with how Lovinett could have smuggled a wand in his briefcase
– when what he actually smuggling *was* his briefcase! The handle has a wand core, like
Hagrid's umbrella!"

"Which I assume you tested with *Priori Incantatem,* or you wouldn't be so happy
about it. Very clever, Hermione." Harry applauded noiselessly, grinning. "Does this mean
you can arrest Zabini before the Conference starts tomorrow?"

"Not quite yet. We still need Lovinett's verbal testimony – confession – call it what
you will, but he has to implicate Zabini before we can move against him. Of course, once that's
done, tying him in with the Cartel Lords should be straightforward – the little polecat'll
probably turn Crown's Evidence himself." Hermione smiled and opened her briefcase.
"So while I'm waiting, I thought I'd indulge in a little light reading."

"Light reading?" Harry craned his neck to see what she held. "Oh Merlin,
*more* ancient runes?"

"Croaker gave me this, a couple of days ago," she explained. "He told me that the
runes on the Arch have changed since our last visit. I simply haven't had a chance to think
about it before now." She unfolded the parchment and looked it over in silence for a
minute.

"Yes," she said eventually, showing him the parchment. "See here, and here?"
She pointed to two runes, not to be found in the classic futhark. One was the bisected circle
inside a triangle, the symbol of the Deathly Hallows. The other was an ovoid with a long curled
tail, like a misshapen letter Q. "That seems to be the symbol for Voldemort… well, I suppose
it *does* look like a stylized Dark Mark. But these gaps in the sequence appear to be new… and
there are a couple of new runes included, as well. Hm."

Harry waited without saying anything, but with mounting impatience. Finally, Hermione refolded
the parchment. "A warning against something, but I can't see what. The gaps make it harder
to interpret. In any case, I certainly won't be able to finish translating it tonight. I'm
sorry, Harry… I'm *sure* it's something to do with that barrier across the
doorway…"

"Don't fret yourself, Hermione. I mean, with the Conference tomorrow, your first
priority is Zabini." He shrugged and smiled. "I've kept the Hallows for fifteen years
– a day or two more won't make any difference."

"I can't help worrying. I worry one day *will* make a difference. I worry about
what the Hallows are *doing* to you." She sat on the bed next to him and looked him in
the face. "I mean, it's all been so gradual, you might not notice any new effects until it
was too late. After all, we know the Cloak has tampered with your emotions, and the Stone's
made you sensitive to Death currents… when would the Wand start affecting you, too?"

In the instant before Harry's face went perfectly blank, she saw the flash of guilt – and
she *knew.* "Oh, for the love of…! *Harry James Potter!* Why don't you
*tell* me these things!? How else am I supposed to *help* you?"

"But it's nothing, honest! I didn't want to trouble you over something trivial,
when you've got so much to worry about already!"

Hermione folded her arms across her chest and glared at him, with equal parts incredulity and
fury. It seemed to loosen his tongue, a bit. "It's just, well, I've noticed I'm
not sleeping as much as I used to. I'm not tired," he hastened to add, "not a bit. I
just don't sleep as much."

"Uh huh. How many hours of sleep do you get a night?" Hermione demanded. She saw him
about to prevaricate, and added, "On average, Harry. Roughly."

"Erm, well… roughly, on average…" Harry coughed and looked away. "Zero," he
mumbled.

She was shocked out of her anger… but only partially, and only for a moment. "And you
thought that was *trivial!?* Don't you see what's happening? Not needing to feel, not
needing to sleep… soon, you'd probably stop needing to eat. The Hallows are drawing you into
the Nether World, Harry, one step at a time!"

"But, no, they wouldn't be able to do that. I mean, look at the Story of the Three
Brothers – none of *them* were sucked into the Nether World. The Hallows have never affected
anyone like that before…"

"No one's ever been the Master of all three Hallows before! Harry, this settles it –
you *have* to get rid of the Hallows!"

He looked at her helplessly, almost despairingly. "You think I don't know that? I'm
open to suggestions."

Hermione quickly went through the possibilities in her head. The Hallows couldn't be
destroyed by any magic she could conjure: even magic potent enough to destroy a Horcrux had left
the Resurrection Stone almost unscathed. The best option was still returning the Hallows to their
maker… but how? Necromantic rituals, she was sure, wouldn't work in this case: using death
magic against Death wasn't the brightest of ideas. There was the cave in Greece, which legend
said led to the Nether World, but it might not exist… might not be readily found if it *did*
exist… and might even have the same barrier across it as the Death Chamber in the Department of
Mysteries. As for other portals to the afterlife, none were familiar enough for Hermione to suggest
them without more research – and she was now convinced Harry was running out of time.

"We haven't much choice," she said after a minute. "We'll have to go back
to the Department of Mysteries. There must be *some* way to get through the barrier, there
*must!*"

Harry shrugged. "Don't suppose anyone's tried using a house elf to get in… I've
never forgotten how the elves can Apparate to Hogwarts when humans can't." He raised a
quick hand to forestall her response. "I know, I know, they have a different sort of magic
altogether. That's what I mean: maybe an elf *can* get in. 'Course, with the runes
changing…" He hesitated.

"With the runes changing into a warning," Hermione finished his thought for him,
"an elf would probably be risking his life if he actually got inside. And," she added,
interpreting his unhappy look, "you don't want to endanger any more lives, even elfin
lives."

"No… it'd sorta defeat the whole purpose of getting rid of the Hallows, wouldn't
it?" Harry sighed dejectedly and ran his fingers through his hair. He leaned forward as he
tried to think, elbows on knees and head in his hands. "Maybe, if the barrier's only
across the door… I could break through the wall, or down through the ceiling from the floor above?
But people would be *sure* to notice…"

"They might not notice if they were distracted by something else," she suggested.
"Like the opening of a very attention-grabbing International Conference, say."

Harry turned his head slightly to look at her out of the corner of his eye. "Especially if
the Wizengamot's top gun marched in to arrest the Conference chairman," he said after a
moment. "Try to make it dramatic, would you?"

"Of course," Hermione replied gravely. "I'll bring a half-dozen Aurors with
me, in matching Hussar uniforms."

"Carrying halberds," he agreed, equally straight-faced. "They stand at the door
in two files."

"My honor guard, of course, so naturally they'll precede me. And then I enter the
Conference hall, riding my magnificent white stallion."

"Hey, I asked for drama, not fantasy… No, you'll come striding into the hall in your
form-fitting leathers, with a billowing cape and bearing Gryffindor's sword. You'll stop in
the center of the hall, commanding everyone's attention, and point the sword at Blaise Zabini,
crying…"

"*J'accuse**!*" they said in chorus. Hermione struck a theatrically
heroic pose and pointed her finger imperiously.

Harry's straight face twitched as he tried to contain his amusement. Hermione saw the
twitch, and couldn't suppress a tiny snort of laughter. Within seconds, both of them had burst
out laughing. The release of the tensions of the day caused the laughter to redouble on itself –
and seeing the other one helpless with laughter caused each of them to laugh all the harder.

By the time their paroxysms of mirth had been spent, Hermione was sprawled back on the bed,
helpless with hiccups, while Harry lay curled on the floor holding his sides. "N-no
f-fair," Harry eventually managed to say. "You caught me off guard. I'm not used to
laughing like that…"

"Me *hic!* Me either," she said, wiping her eyes. "Are we pathetic, or
what?"

He'd struggled to his knees, and now rested his arms on the bed. It brought his head level
with her own. Harry started to say something, then paused in the midst of the first word. He was
looking Hermione right in the face, and though she could tell he was trying not to show any
reaction, he was clearly looking at her in… well, the only word was *wonder.*

"Yeah," he finally said, his voice gentle, soft, caressing, "pathetic, that's
us."

He cleared his throat hoarsely, and got to his feet. Harry smiled – a bit uncertain, it seemed
to her – and glanced at the bathroom door. "Er, I can change into my pajamas in there, give
you some privacy…"

"Let me use the loo first," she said quickly, rolling off the bed and onto her feet.
Hermione flung open the wardrobe, snatched her own pajamas from the bottom, and hurried to the
bathroom. She locked the door behind her and turned on the faucet. But she didn't immediate
wash her face, or brush her teeth, as she normally would. She looked at herself in the mirror
instead.

*You saw it, didn't you?* Hermione asked her reflection.

*Oh, yes indeed,* her reflection replied, *he was* looking *at you. With that look.
We know what that look means, don't we?*

*It means he's actually seeing me as a desirable woman, instead of a non-male best
friend.* She quickly splashed water on her face, then patted it dry with a towel. *Which would
have been wonderful – fifteen years ago.* Before *I swore unbreakable marriage vows.*
*There's not much I can do about it now.*

Her reflection raised one scornful eyebrow. *Oh, so now we're the Witch Who Gave Up, are
we?*

Hermione scowled at her reflection; its scorn continued unabated. *Fine.* *We'll just
see about that.*

Quickly she brushed her teeth, finished her nightly ablutions, and shucked out of her clothes.
She hesitated only a second before she put on her pajamas – *only* her pajamas. When she
emerged from the bathroom, Harry was standing at the door holding the pajamas he'd brought from
the Clayman flat. She gave him an encouraging smile as they moved past each other… and if she
misjudged the distance between them and lightly brushed against him as they passed, it didn't
seem to bother him.

When Harry returned to the bedroom, the lights were out… but the moon shone through the window,
giving enough light to allow him to navigate the room. Hermione was already in bed, eyes closed. He
was moving to the corner of the floor where his pillows and coverlet were stored, when she spoke:
"I'm sure you'd be more comfortable up here."

"Um, yeah," he mumbled, "comfortable," in a tone suggesting he'd be
anything but. She smiled without opening her eyes, and waited.

"It's just…" he started again, and hesitated, at a sudden loss for words.
"Sharing a bed? Isn't that, um, not allowed?"

"It wouldn't be allowed," she agreed, "if we had sex in bed. But a snuggle…
well, that's just a horizontal hug. We'll simply need to be careful with our hands."
Hermione didn't know exactly how her magic would enforce her marriage vows if she or Harry
attempted anything more overt – obviously, she had no practical experience on the matter! – but the
possibilities, especially when it came to Harry, were too horrible to tempt.

She sneaked a peek through half-closed eyes. Harry wasn't moving, which meant he wasn't
moving away. She pulled back the duvet from the unoccupied half of the bed, in open invitation.

He accepted.

Harry slid under the coverlet, settled himself, and turned his head to look at Hermione's
face. Her eyes were fully open now, reflecting the bright moonlight, and her smile was tender,
warm, and very warming. She placed her hand on his shoulder – and pushed.

He took the hint and rolled onto his side, facing away from her. She moved closer, snuggling up
behind him, pressing herself against his back. Involuntarily, he tensed as she put one arm around
his waist, carefully resting her hand on his chest.

"Is this all right?" Hermione asked softly. "Do you think you can try to
sleep?"

"It's all right," Harry replied, tacitly sidestepping the issue of sleep. He was
acutely aware of her breasts pressed against his back – and she seemed to have forgotten her bra
when she changed into pajamas. Those pajamas were long-sleeved and opaque, but their silken fabric
transmitted sensation all too exquisitely.

"Relax," she urged. "This surely isn't the first time a woman's held you
in her bed." There was a hint of interrogative in her voice… rather a strong hint, actually.
He ignored her unspoken question, as he had at breakfast on Sunday, but he did seem to relax
somewhat. Hermione pressed herself closer, smiled blissfully, and closed her eyes for slumber.

With Harry in her arms.



22. XXII: Declarations and Discoveries
--------------------------------------

**(A/N:** I could whine and kvetch about how busy my Real Life has been recently, or I could
thank my readers for their patience. So: I'm sorry this chapter took so long – many thanks for
your patience. Extra thanks to **MirielleGrey****,** my Beleaguered Beta.

And besides, I think you'll mostly enjoy this chapter.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** "Fair use," he chanted, "fair use, fair use, fair
use."**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXII: Declarations and Discoveries**

*

The rhythm of Hermione's breathing, the warmth of her body at his back, the sheltering
darkness of the room, should have lulled Harry into sleep, if anything could.

Evidently, even those weren't enough.

It was sometime after midnight, he guessed. He was keeping very still, so as to not disturb the
sleeping woman whose arm was draped over him. Harry had been playing a sort of game, drawing on
what he'd learned about wild magic through his mastery of the Elder Wand: eyes closed, he tried
to sense the flow of magic through Hermione's body, gently in and out, like breathing. He
wondered if it was something all wizards and witches did while they slept. Harry wouldn't
know.

After all, this was the first time since mastering the Wand that he'd slept with someone
magical. A witch, to boot. A beautiful witch. A *brilliant* witch.

A witch, he'd come to realize just hours before, whom he loved very, very much.

He didn't know why it should have been such a surprise, when he did realize it. *Beauty,
brains, and loyalty.* How extraordinarily lucky he was to have found all three – in her. How
incredibly blind he'd been not to have seen them in her years before. And what kind of fool
would he have to be, to risk losing her now.

Even though, strictly speaking, she wasn't his to lose. No matter: he would *find* a
way to be with her. Notwithstanding that he still had to remain isolated from the wizarding world…
or that they could never share affection more physical than a hug or a chaste kiss… that their time
together might be a series of exquisitely uncomfortable nights, like tonight. No matter.

*I love Hermione. The rest… the rest is noise.*

Harry's reverie was broken abruptly by a needle-like prickling at the base of his skull.
Carefully he shifted, trying to move without awakening Hermione. He froze when he felt her arm
tighten. "What is it?" she whispered… as much to tell him she was awake, judging by her
tone, as to gain information.

"Someone outside is testing the wards," Harry replied. Now that he knew she was awake,
he moved more decisively: sitting up in bed, he slipped the Elder Wand out from its bindings on his
left forearm. He held it at the ready, its tip faintly glowing in the darkness, and cocked his head
as though listening – probing.

Almost immediately, he lowered his wand. "They're gone. Whoever it was, they didn't
want to hang around: a quick try at the wards, just once, then they left. Afraid they might be
caught if they stayed in one place, I suppose." He smiled grimly as he slid the Elder Wand
back into its sheath. "And they'd be right."

"I'm surprised it's taken them so long to come for me," Hermione said
quietly.

He shrugged. "They may have been making more subtle probes all week," he admitted.
"There're always minor brushes against the outer layer, random magic for the most part. I
didn't pay them any mind. This, though… this was the first concerted effort. Gee, it's
almost like they're afraid you're about to catch them or something."

"Imagine that." There was dry humor in her voice. She started to settle back into the
mattress, then paused as he failed to follow her.

"*Lumos**,*" he said, and soft light gathered around them. "Um,
Hermione, this may be a good time to give you your birthday present." He saw her blink in
confusion, and added, "Well, technically, it *is* your birthday."

"I thought you were going to cook me dinner?" Hermione sat up next to him, as always
waking up promptly.

"I was… am. And I was going to give you this with the pudding – but now I think you should
have it right away." A silent *Accio* brought the gift box to his waiting hand. Harry
handed it to her with a slight flourish. "Happy Birthday, Hermione."

Hermione carefully unwrapped her gift without tearing the paper. *That, at least, hasn't
changed,* thought Harry in amusement. The paper came away to reveal a long, flat velvet box –
very obviously a jewellery box. She flipped the cover open, and gasped. Inside was a necklace,
comprising a solitary star sapphire as large as her thumb, set in ornate silver and hanging from a
simple silver chain.

"You like sapphire, right?" Harry asked, a bit anxiously. "I mean, you always
favored blue, and it's your birthstone and all…"

"It's lovely, Harry! Thank you!" She flung her arms around his neck and hugged him
tightly. He put his arms around in return, and they embraced for a long minute.

When they broke apart, Harry took the box from her hands. "I'd like you to wear it
now," he said, extracting the necklace from its box.

"Now? You mean, tonight?"

"And tomorrow, and the next day," he said, hesitant to break her happy mood with the
explanation. "See, I charmed the stone to act as a… well, as an anchor point for my special
wards, the ones I put on your house. When you wear this, you'll be as protected as you'd be
here in Enthalpy House."

"Ah," Hermione murmured. "I see. And our anonymous would-be intruder just now… he
reminded you of this? You think he's a harbinger, and that I might need this extra
protection?"

He nodded. She didn't seem displeased by his concern, thank Merlin; she made no protest
about how she could protect herself, as he'd half-expected. Instead, she put her hands behind
her head and lifted her hair off her neck. It was a clear suggestion that he fasten the
necklace's chain around her neck.

Which he lost no time in doing. Harry leaned towards her as his hands fumbled behind her neck…
his cheek brushed hers, ever so delicately, and he had to suppress a shiver as the warmth of her
skin touched his.

Hermione looked down at the star sapphire nestled just above her breasts. She lifted it,
bringing it closer to her face so that she could examine it more closely. "Harry… did you
personalize this in some other way? Because I know it sounds odd, but I could swear I feel… well,
*you,* your presence, here in the jewel."

"Really?" he said, slightly surprised. He took the jewel from her fingers, the chain
still around her neck, and peered at it. "Huh… I assure you it wasn't intentional.
Something to do with when I keyed you to the wards, a few days ago?" Smiling gently at her, he
gave the stone a quick kiss before handing it back to her. "Happy accident, I guess."

She let the sapphire fall into place against her chest as she nodded to him in thanks.
Protectively, she covered the gem with her hand, pressing it to her – then went wide-eyed in
surprise. "I felt that!" she exclaimed, touching the point where the sapphire lay.
"Your kiss – I felt it here!" A smile spread over Hermione's face: clearly, she was
seeing possibilities open with this new discovery. She raised the jewel again and offered it to
him.

It took Harry a moment to catch on. When he did, his smile matched hers. *It's not quite
the same as kissing her myself, but a piece of sapphire's not likely to run up against her
vows.* He took the jewel in his fingers and gave it another kiss… a softer kiss, more tender
than his first quick peck. He returned the sapphire to her…

…and watched, gobsmacked, as she loosened a button on her pajama top, slipped the sapphire
inside and pressed it to her left nipple. She sucked in a deep breath, then released it slowly as
her face melted into a happy smile.

"Um… ummmm…" Speechless, he watched as Hermione withdrew the jewel, leaving her top
unbuttoned. Harry couldn't have pulled his eyes away from her even if Voldemort and Grindelwald
together had reincarnated at that moment and begun singing *Ode to a Hippogriff* in two-part
harmony.

"Another?" Her smile now impish, Hermione offered him the sapphire again.

"I… uh, I…" he sputtered.

"Biiiiirthdaaay," she sang.

Somehow, he managed to reassemble his wits. "Birthday. *Your* birthday. Right. But
only once more. We… we have a lot to do tomorrow." She nodded in agreement.

Harry took the sapphire in his fingers, looked it over carefully… still puzzled how he
could've imbued the stone with such an oddly personal affect. Deciding it was a problem for
another day, he brought the stone to his lips. He closed his eyes, imagined himself kissing
Hermione – as he now *wanted* to kiss her – and gave that kiss to the sapphire: a slow,
lingering, sensual kiss. If it was to be the last one that evening, he wanted to make it count.

He released the stone to let it dangle from its chain in her hands. Harry was a little surprised
to be the one drawing the line with Hermione like this – traditionally, that had been her role! –
but it was the right thing to do, he felt. One more birthday "kiss", as it were, for the
night… though he would happily have given her a thousand, if he'd been free to do so…

Hermione watched the sapphire swing from its chain for a moment, as though hypnotized. Then,
with that impish grin, she drew the necklace over her head, freeing the gem. Meeting Harry's
gaze boldly, she hooked a thumb around her elastic waistband, pulled it from her body, and thrust
the gem into her pajama bottoms and between her legs.

With a flaming crimson face and an inarticulate gurgle, Harry clamped his eyes shut and rolled
away from Hermione. The very *thought* of what Hermione was doing was enough to cause his
loins to ache… and her deep, throbbing, just-shy-of-orgasmic moan didn't help matters at all.
Not. At. *All.*

He felt, rather than saw, her arm snake around his torso again – he opened his eyes a crack to
see the star sapphire beseeching another kiss. "*Nox**,*" he managed to croak,
and blessed darkness descended to hide his red face.

"Oh, dear," came Hermione's voice, gentle and contrite. "I'm sorry,
Harry, I was just playing. I didn't mean anything… that is, I assumed you were familiar with
this sort of teasing, that you'd be comfortable with it…"

"Given my vast experience with women?" he asked tiredly. "Hermione, you've
been dropping hints about my love life for a week now. Is it that important?" *To you,*
he didn't add, but the words were clear in his tone.

Her hand withdrew from his torso. After a moment, it began to stroke his upper arm, trying to
reassure him. She no longer held the sapphire… presumably she'd dropped it somewhere behind her
where it wouldn't bother him further.

"Your private life is none of anybody else's business," she said hesitantly after
a moment. "But… when it comes to us…"

His heart leapt at her use of the word *us.* And though he didn't interrupt her,
something must have shown in his body language. "When it comes to us," she repeated with
more confidence, "well, there are limits to how, er, demonstrative we can be with each other.
My stupid, *stupid* vows make certain of that. But…" Hermione's voice faltered an
instant, then continued, "but you have no limits on *you,* Harry. I'm sure, over the
years, there were times you… that is, I know men have needs, and I *understand,*
Harry…"

"Um… Hermione? Do you really think I'm desperately in need of going out and picking up
some bimbo for a one-night shag?" Thankful as he was for the darkness hiding his face, Harry
wished for that moment that there was enough light to see Hermione's face.

"Well, no, I'm certainly not suggesting you go out and…"

"I mean, I'm pretty sure that's the sort of *carte blanche* Ron wishes
*he* was able to have." *Oh, to blazes with caution,* Harry decided, and rolled over
until he was facing Hermione. He could make out her shape, but not her expression… which was
probably just as well. It would have been nice to see what she was thinking, but that would have
made it impossible for him to continue this discussion. "Granting permission implies I need
it."

Hermione was silent for a few seconds. "Perhaps I assumed…" she began stiffly.

"Well, yes," Harry interrupted, before she could work herself into a snit.
"Justifiably, I think, but yes. So let's not make assumptions." His hand reached out
to find hers. "Let me say it right out. Y'see, I'm very dense in a lot of ways, but I
*did* realize something last night."

"Oh?" Her voice was no longer stiff – if anything, it was a little breathless.

"Uh huh. I realized that I am in love with one Hermione J. Granger. Who's been my best
friend since I was eleven. Who's stayed true, even when I abandoned her – and who thwapped me
repeatedly until I saw the light." He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly.
"No matter how much it hurt."

"Ah." She made no move to draw closer to him… but she made no attempt to pull her hand
away, either.

"So even though circumstances have arranged that I can't rip off her clothes and make
passionate love to her, I think she does indeed have the right to grant me permission to play the
field." He pressed her hand to his mouth again, not to kiss it, but so that she could feel his
grin. "Which I have no intention of using."

Of all the responses she might have given, Harry didn't expect her to start sniffling.

*Oh crap, I've bollixed it up again. Again! What did I say wrong?* Hastily he put out
his other hand, found her face, felt the wetness of tears. "No! Hermione, I'm…"

"Don't you *dare* apologize, Harry Potter!" she scolded him through her
tears. "I'm crying because I'm *happy,* dammit!"

"Ah… right. Of course you are." Harry released her hand so that he could stretch his
arms around her. They ended up with her head against his chest and his chin atop her head. Harry
was careful to cant his lower body slightly away from her; certain parts of his anatomy didn't
need any more encouragement.

Her exasperated snort, so characteristically Hermione, told him she knew perfectly well what he
was doing. She seemed to be steeling herself to continue, determined to get the words out before
her nerve failed her. "But I'm serious, Harry. Just because *I* can't engage in
sex doesn't mean *you* can't… or, or shouldn't. I won't think the less of you
if you, er, pursue other venues."

Harry didn't immediately reply. He'd been extremely reluctant to share his sexual
experiences with her… but he saw now that nothing less would reassure her. "Twice," he
finally said, almost inaudibly.

"Twice?" she repeated, puzzled, before she realized what he was talking about.
"Oh! *Twice.* But… you mean, in fifteen…?" Hermione paused a second, then nodded,
accepting the information. "All right. Once with Ginny, and…"

"No," he interrupted harshly. "What made you think Ginny and I did it?"

"She… ah. I see. She allowed us to assume that." Hermione fell silent; Harry could
sense she was straining not to ask questions. *Not quite what I expected, considering the
interrogation I got after my first kiss with Cho. Well, we've all grown…*

"It was a day seminar – hosted by Le Cordon Bleu." His voice was low again, slow and
measured… confessorial. "I met her at lunch, and we seemed to hit it off… so we met again at
dinner, and then in her hotel room. She was a bit older than me, more experienced. She expected me
to be more experienced, too. When it became clear I didn't much know what I was doing,
she…"

Hermione waited for him to continue. "She?" she prompted.

He hadn't realized how much it still hurt. "She laughed."

She nodded, but didn't say anything. When it became clear she *wouldn't* say
anything, Harry felt a surge of gratitude such as he'd seldom felt before. He tried to joke
past his hurt. "I was about ready to become a monk after that."

He broke off. Hermione nodded again… he realized it was her way of showing she was listening, of
encouraging him. "Then a few years later," he continued, "one of the waitresses at
the *Idée Fixe* set me up with her younger sister. Uni student, bright and fresh, no
expectations. We got along pretty well, really."

Again he broke off, and she couldn't contain herself. "*And?*"

Harry shrugged. "*And* she was a Muggle, *and* I was a wizard, *and* I was
living under a false identity to boot. I couldn't share my life with her, couldn't share my
*self**.* The excuses just kept getting clumsier and clumsier… Anyway, after a few months
she got a scholarship to some American school, and we both considered it time to end the
relationship."

"Oh, Harry. I'm sorry…"

"It's okay." Gently he began to stroke her hair, as he had several evenings
earlier… reasoning that if the magic of her vows permitted it then, it should permit it now. Of
course, *then* he'd only thought he "cared for" her. He hadn't yet figured
out that he *loved* her.

*Which, of course, shows how much of an idiot I've been.*

"It's okay," he repeated. "I can now say that I've known sex, and
I've known love – and of the two, I much prefer love."

"A sentiment with which I totally agree. Frustrating though it may be," Hermione
murmured, resting her head against his chest. He continued to stroke her hair… his hand didn't
seem able to stop. "Do you know," she continued after a pause, "there've been
times when I had to hug my pillow like this – I thought, because I needed physical contact so much.
But then, I could've had physical contact any time I wanted… if I were willing to put up with
Ron. I needed *you,* Harry." She snuggled closer. "And you're *much* better
than a pillow, I must say."

Harry sighed slightly, and she immediately picked up his thought. "I *know* we
can't do this every night. It *is* frustrating… and if we keep tempting my vows'
magic, sooner or later we'll be burned. But if… if we could just do this, every now and
then…"

"Happy Birthday, Hermione," he said softly.

Her breathing lengthened… she was growing sleepy again. "And for the record, Mr.
Potter," she mumbled to his heart, "I love you too."

He nodded, ever so slightly, as though to say *I know.* His patient hair-stroking
didn't stop. When a gentle snore issued forth, Harry smiled to himself. One hand continued to
stroke the bushy mane of hair… the other felt around on the mattress behind her until it found the
star sapphire necklace.

One last birthday kiss, as much for him as for her – to be a surprise, when she discovered it –
and he dropped the gem back onto the mattress.

*

Hermione awoke again, just before dawn, to the distant sound of someone calling her name. She
came to full alert almost immediately, and turned her head to greet Harry.

Only to discover that Harry had rolled over onto his side again, facing away from her.

"Um, good morning," she greeted him. "Did you hear something…?"

He tilted his head without rolling back. "Hear…?" He was interrupted by someone
calling Hermione's name again. "It sounds like it's from your Floo
fireplace."

"It sounds like Dennis Creevey!" Hermione was instantly out of bed and throwing on a
robe. She strode to the door, and paused as she canceled the security charms on it. "I'd
better talk to him," she said, looking over her shoulder, "a call this early can't be
good news. Do you…" She quickly turned her head again to face the door, but not before
she'd seen why Harry had rolled away from her during the night. *A morning riser in more ways
than one,* she thought with amusement. *I wonder if sleeping in the Cloak was damping that
reaction, as well as other emotions. Probably, judging by his embarrassment now.*

"You're already keyed to the wards," Harry said hastily. "I'll just, um,
make myself scarce."

"Can you wait for me in my rooms at the Ministry? I want to coordinate our efforts today –
see if we can get you to the Arch while everyone's busy with the Conference." Barely
waiting for Harry's agreement, Hermione flung open the door and rushed to the fireplace.
"I'm here, Dennis," she told the flames, kneeling before them.

Dennis's head appeared. "Hermione, we have bad news here. Peasegood and the Legilimens
have spent all night checking Lovinett's memory…"

"Don't tell me his memory's been Obliviated?!"

"Not quite. His memory's been *sequestered.* Peasegood says there's a set of
memories that's been blocked, walled away by an *outside* Occlumens. Lovinett himself
can't access those memories without someone telling him a code word. And if *we* try to
access them, there's a failsafe in place that will wipe Lovinett's mind. Maybe completely,
according to Peasegood."

"*Damn!*" Hermione pounded the floor with her fist in frustration. "Does
Peasegood have *any* ideas for how to get past the blocks?"

Dennis waggled his head. "He wants to keep working at it – I assume he wouldn't do that
unless he had some hope. But if he guesses wrong, Lovinett ends up in Vegetable City."

Hermione remained motionless for a moment, thinking frantically. "These… mental
blocks," she said slowly, "these blocks surely wouldn't have been put in place
without Lovinett's knowledge or permission. His conscious memories might match the story he
tells, but he *must* be aware those memories are false. Play on that, Dennis. Emphasize what
we *can* prove: that his memories *have* been tampered with, and that that he *did*
cast the Imperius Curse on Swivingham. We can convict him of *that,* if nothing else, whether
he remembers it or not!"

She jabbed a finger at Dennis as he nodded his understanding. "Maybe then he'll
remember a few random details that *weren't* blocked – like, say, accepting a payment from
our dear Mr. Zabini. Oh, and be sure to remind him that client-attorney privilege can't be
invoked on an agreement he claims never happened!"

"Hermione – what are you doing?" Ginny had emerged from Rose's bedroom,
ashen-facing and gaping.

"Wait one, Ginny," Hermione said, not taking her eyes off Dennis's face.
"Dennis, you understand?"

Dennis grimly smiled. "Apply pressure until something crystallizes. Got it, boss. I'll
contact you at the Ministry the moment we have anything." With a swirl of green flame, his
head disappeared from the Floo.

Hermione barely had time to get off his knees and to her feet when Ginny was in front of her.
"What *is* this? Did I hear you say something about Blaise? Hermione, I thought we
decided he was innocent!"

"Ginny, you showed up here Monday night because you were *scared* of Zabini! Remember?
You were afraid, because you thought he might be involved in Swivingham's death!"

"I was overreacting! And besides, that was before you looked at my Pensieve memory. You
said Blaise didn't have anything to do with it, based on what I saw!"

"No," sighed Hermione in exasperation, "that's what *you* said. *I*
said a clever lawyer would argue that your memory didn't implicate Zabini. Not iron-clad,
anyway." She started for her bedroom. "Look, I have to go straight to the Ministry, and I
need to shower and dress…"

Ginny surprised Hermione by following her into the bedroom, still arguing. Hermione was relieved
to *not* see Harry: either he was under the Cloak, or (more likely) he'd already
Disapparated. Probably to Clayman's flat for his own shower and change of clothes, before
meeting her in her office.

"If my memory can't implicate Blaise, it's because he's not involved! He'd
have no reason to want Swivingham dead, anyway – the man was about to be sent to Azkaban, for
Merlin's sake, which is punishment enough. You can't just go around and accuse a
high-ranking Ministry official of ordering a murder, simply because you don't like
him!"

Hermione whirled angrily to confront Ginny. "Is that what you think of me, Ginny Weasley?
After over twenty years, do you *really* think so little of my integrity!?"

Ginny flinched only slightly. "You just told Dennis that you wanted a connection with
Blaise… I'm sorry, Hermione, but it does sound like you're trying to dig up dirt on him!
You're almost as bad as Ron, you won't even *consider* that he's reformed – that
he's trying to make our world a better place!" She caught Hermione's gaze and held it.
"Lay off him, won't you?" she pleaded softly.

Their gazes stayed locked for several moments. Hermione took that time to review everything
Ginny might have seen or heard at Zabini Manor. *Either she's the most accomplished liar and
actress ever born,* Hermione concluded, *or she really doesn't know about the Cartel
Lords.*

"Ginny," Hermione finally said, "try to believe this, because I'll only say
it once. If Blaise Zabini hasn't done anything illegal, I will never trump up charges against
him just because I disagree with his politics." She saw Ginny begin to relax in satisfaction,
and hardened her voice as she continued, "And if Blaise Zabini *has* done something
illegal, I will never *fail* to bring charges against him just because you're sleeping
with him."

Into Ginny's shocked silence, Hermione added, "Now, since you were planning on
returning to your flat today, or possibly attending your Quidditch practice, perhaps you should get
ready to leave, since I need to do likewise." She watched as Ginny backed away with something
like a sob, and turned to her wardrobe to pull out the clothes she'd be wearing to the Ministry
that day.

She heard Ginny stumble against the bookshelves on her way out of the bedroom. Hermione gave no
more thought to her sister-in-law… but if she'd turned her head, she would have seen that Ginny
had removed one of the books from the bookshelf as she left.

*

*It wasn't a lie,* Ginny told herself. *I* was *worried about my safety when I
showed up at Hermione's home, truly. But that's only because I'd panicked – Blaise
would never hurt me, I'm far too useful to him. As I'm about to prove.*

Extremely rare was the wizarding business that stayed open twenty-four hours a day. In that
respect, the Muggle world was a hell of a lot more convenient. She waited now at the photography
counter at an all-night pharmacy, as they developed her roll of ultra-sensitive high-speed
film.

*When Dad first brought that old gadget home, years ago, he didn't even know exactly what
it was,* Ginny recalled. *I'm the one who recognized it as a camera, and who took it to a
Muggle shop… where they fixed it* and *told me what it was. And what it was, was
perfect.*

An old camera indeed, no larger than her two fingers together, but a precision optical
instrument for that. Predating transistors, powered by a wound spring, virtually silent, it was
made to go unnoticed by Muggles. The fact that it had no magic to be detected – and no electronics
to be affected – made it equally unobtrusive in the wizarding world. Ginny had taken to carrying it
everywhere with her, in her Extended overnight bag – just to Be Ready.

*A quick Transfiguration in the midst of my party preparations – did Hermione think I
didn't know about all the monitoring wards on her house? – and one of her books was able to
hold my camera until I needed it. Last night. Snapping one picture of her bedroom every half hour
until the roll of film ended.*

One *of those pictures should show the face of Hermione's lover.*

*Let's face it, Blaise is brilliant, but he's such a male. He can't see the most
obvious things, sometimes. When he told me at our last Fire Party about the recent upswing in
Hermione's mood – how she was being friendlier to Ministry workers, and they to her – he had no
clue to the reason. Sweet Circe, once I arrived at Hermione's home, it was plain as day!
Suddenly upbeat? Extra blankets and pillows? Bedroom door made Imperturbable every night? She's
been getting laid!*

*I mean, if* Ron *could find a way around their marriage vows,* Hermione *certainly
could.*

*As soon as I have the photos, I'll know who she's been shagging. And that might just
be the lever I need to get her to drop this pointless investigation of Blaise. It's obvious
she's trying to discredit him, before today's International Conference secures his position
as heir apparent. After all, that's why I suggested to him that his department chair
it.*

*No, I've been far too valuable to Blaise. And by the end of today, it will be clear to
him, too, beyond doubt. I think I'll enjoy being the wife of the next Minister of
Magic.*



23. XXIII:  A Page from Machiavelli
-----------------------------------

**(A/N:** A shorter chapter, to whet your appetite. Once again, my thanks to all those who
read and review: you help me temper my craft, and I am deeply in your debt. As for those who read
and *don't* review: I know you're out there, I can hear you breathing.

Fullest gratitude, of course, must go to **MirielleGrey****,** my trusty Beta. Any
mistakes remaining are solely my own fault.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** Yes, this story was written by J.K. Rowling. On even-numbered days. On
odd-numbered days it was written by Lewis Carroll. Oh, and on Leap Day it was written by Jean-Paul
Sartre. Sheesh.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXIII: A Page from Machiavelli**

*

*No,* Ginny thought wildly, practically hyperventilating as she flipped through the
photographs, *it's not possible.* *It can't be. It can't. It CAN'T…*

*

If Harry had been nervous being in her office late Tuesday night, when all other Ministry
employees had left for the evening, he was three times as nervous being in her office early
Thursday morning, with people already beginning to arrive for work – not to mention the bustle of
preparation for an international Conference. Hermione had to repeatedly bring his attention back to
the issue at hand. "Do no Ministry elves work in the Department of Mysteries, then?"

"Some do, Miss Hermione," answered Canby. His professional demeanor was actually quite
remarkable, considering that he was in the same room with The Witch Who Won *and* The Defender
of House-Elves. "But Mysterious elves don't associate with other Ministry elves. They are
like Unspeakables that way."

"So no way of knowing whether they've been inside the Death Chamber since the barrier
went up, then?" she pressed. Regretfully, Canby shook his head.

"Which means we're back to Plan B," said Harry. He wore the Stealth Cloak, with
only his head uncovered – ready to vanish in an instant should a stranger approach. It was very
odd, talking to a disembodied head, but Hermione refused to let it bother her. "We ignore the
door, blast a hole through the wall and enter the Chamber that way."

Hermione nodded reluctantly. "The Conference is scheduled to convene at ten," she
noted. "It'll take a few minutes for the speeches and all to be thoroughly underway. This
being the opening session, I imagine some of the senior Unspeakables will attend – that should thin
the ranks inside the Department, if only a little." Her eyes flicked to Canby. "Canby,
you may be required to provide a distraction while Harry tries to get into the Chamber. Are you
certain you're willing to, well, let the Ministry be damaged…?"

"Canby is paid by the Ministry," the elf replied proudly. "Canby *works* for
the Wizengamot Senior Counsel. Canby *does* what Miss Hermione says."

She couldn't help smiling, even as she sighed and shook her head. Elves rarely gave their
loyalty to an abstraction, like justice or the Ministry; she'd tried hard enough to appeal to
that with Swivingham's "working elves", Brillig and the others, but with only limited
success. No, their loyalty was intensely personal, as Dobby's had been to Harry. She ought to
have known that Canby would attach himself to her.

*I have to be careful not to take advantage of that,* she reminded herself firmly.

"Right, then. We'll wait until after ten before we try anything. In the meantime…"
Harry looked with some agitation at the closed door. "Is there some room where we could wait,
that's a little less public? I really don't feel comfortable sitting here all
exposed."

"You could pull up your hood and vanish in half a second, and no detection charm on the
planet could find you," Hermione pointed out. "Still…" She gave Canby an inquiring
look.

The elf briefly considered, then bobbed his head shyly. "There are elves' quarters,
Miss Hermione. No wizard or witch ever goes there. None would see Mister Harry there."

"Except for the Ministry elves," said Harry, "and… I mean, I hate to say it, but
Hermione seems to think that if they see me alive, I might, um, disrupt…" He glanced
uncomfortably at Hermione, looking for help.

"Some private rooms were set aside for our witnesses, Mister Harry," Canby quickly
added. "Brillig, Whimsy, and the others. They are already knowing about you. We will even make
rooms larger for you, if you are wanting it!"

Harry smiled wanly. "I can always sit on the floor… anyway, it's only until, say,
ten-thirty or so. Sounds good, then. Shall we?" He extended his hand to Canby, who stared at
it for a moment in amazement.

Canby brought his gaze up to Harry's face, and squared his shoulders. "Mister Harry
Potter," he said with dignity, "it would be Canby's honor." Solemnly he took
Harry's hand.

Harry quickly looked over at Hermione. "You'll let me know if we hear from
Dennis?" he asked quietly.

"I'll tell you as soon as he calls," she promised. Hermione had already summarized
her Floo call from Dennis, earlier that morning; she'd also explained that, as their
"really safe house" had no Floo connection of its own, they had to wait for Dennis to
contact her again. "And in the meantime, I'll keep pursuing other possibilities. Thank
you, Canby… and thank you, Harry." With a pop of air, Harry and Canby vanished from
Hermione's rooms.

Hermione spent a few moments trying to devise alternative plans, should Dennis and his team
prove unable to access Lovinett's sequestered memories. *Some way to connect Zabini to
Swivingham's murder – or to the Cartel that ordered it.* *Mm, Lucius Malfoy might have
more information: Lovinett had been his attorney, after the First Voldemort War. Did Malfoy
recommend Lovinett's services to the Cartel? Through Zabini, perhaps?*

There were several avenues she could follow, but none that were certain to bear fruit quickly –
and she needed to neutralize Zabini *today,* if possible. As the chairman of today's
Conference, he'd use his influence to direct attention away from the Cartel, or send the
various Ministries down blind alleys. Not to mention consolidate his personal power within
Britain's own Ministry. Hermione was *not* going to let that happen.

But at the moment, she had very little idea how to stop him.

She flicked a glance at her wristwatch and groaned. The first delegates would be arriving for
the blasted Conference now, through pre-arranged International Portkeys. And while Robards and
Kerricks, as Heads of their Departments, would be present to greet the more important delegates,
she felt sure that Blaise Zabini would be personally welcoming each new arrival. With a warm
handshake and that *charming* smile. Dammit.

Standing, she straightened her robes and headed out the door towards the lifts. As she did, her
hand paused on the star sapphire that rested just above her breasts – under her robes, where it
wouldn't raise awkward questions. Hermione smiled as she remembered slipping the necklace over
her head as she dressed that morning. She strongly suspected that Harry had kissed the gem one last
time during the night… and she was saving that stored kiss for when it would do the most good.
During the lunch break, perhaps.

The lift took Hermione down to the Atrium level: large meeting halls had been opened off the
Atrium, so that the visitors wouldn't need to take the lifts to the Conference. She stepped out
of the lift as its doors opened – and froze in surprise.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was sitting in the Atrium, in a very handsome wheelchair that almost
resembled a mobile throne. His face looked positively gaunt, but he was greeting newcomers with
evident delight.

"Sergei! Welcome! I'm pleased you could be here on such short notice. Well, yes, this
is an important issue, one on which I feel our collective Ministries need to pool our resources.
Your Enforcement people provided you with case files? Excellent." He turned his head and
spotted Hermione. "Ah, Madam Granger! Sergei, have you met our Senior Counsel, Hermione
Granger-Weasley? Madam Granger, Direktor Sergei Volshev."

"*Zdravstvuite**, gospodin,*" murmured Hermione, as Volshev sketched a hasty
bow. She shook her head with a smile as he seemed about to address her. "And that, I'm
afraid, exhausts my conversational Russian."

"A pity. Your accent was refreshingly impeccable," he smiled in return. With a nod to
Shacklebolt, Volshev wended his way through the growing crowd. Hermione watched him for a second
before turning to Shacklebolt.

"If you're thinking about scolding me," he said, quickly and quietly,
"don't. I had to come in today: some documents needed to be delivered to the Wizengamot –
in person." He smiled coolly and added, slightly louder, "And moreover, this Conference
was my idea in the first place. I wanted to at least be present for its opening." Shacklebolt
seemed to be looking over Hermione's shoulder as he spoke. She turned slightly to see who was
approaching this time.

Blaise Zabini stepped up to Shacklebolt's chair. "And it was good of you to come,
sir," he said smoothly. "Thank you. Though I think Madam Granger will agree that you
shouldn't exert yourself."

"I'll leave the exhausting bits of the next two days to you, Mr. Zabini," nodded
the Minister. "I'll have my opening remarks, of course… and perhaps I'll look in on
some of the sessions, as time permits." Watching them, Hermione had to suppress a smile of
admiration: Kingsley's presence took the wind out of Zabini's sails quite effectively. No
one could gainsay the Minister's right to preside over the Conference, and war-hero Kingsley
Shacklebolt was perhaps the one person who could eclipse Zabini's rising star.

*Did Kingsley know that Zabini would use the Conference to spotlight his candidacy? Kingsley
had to've suspected it – he's nobody's fool. I still wish he hadn't come today,
though: his health is all too precarious.*

Hermione stepped back from Shacklebolt as he greeted another newcomer. Unexpectedly, Zabini
likewise took a step away, to stand by Hermione's side. He regarded her with a neutral
expression for a moment, before raising one eyebrow at her – much as a grandmaster might
acknowledge his opponent across the chessboard. All he said, however, was, "Well, this should
help keep the agenda on focus."

"I think it's sweet," came a new voice. Ginny Weasley, elegantly dressed, had
appeared at Zabini's side. She squeezed his arm and smiled at him. "It's rather a
touching gesture, Blaise dear, when you think about it. Passing on the torch to the next
generation, and all that."

Zabini blinked at Ginny in surprise… then a calculating smile grew on his face. Hermione kept
her own expression carefully schooled, to hide her sudden dismay. Ginny had just provided Zabini
with the perfect spin for Shacklebolt's presence – if Zabini played it right, he might yet end
the Conference with his political influence enhanced. It would all depend on how Shacklebolt played
*his* part… and whether he had the physical strength to do it.

Ginny gave Zabini a quick kiss on the cheek, then turned to Hermione. "Can you spare me a
few minutes, Hermione? Girl talk," she lightly added as an aside to Zabini. He laughed and
waved them off.

"Let's go to your office," Ginny said in a lower voice. "Someplace where we
can talk *privately.*" Her emphasis on the last word raised the hairs on the back of
Hermione's neck.

They took the lift in silence. Hermione led the way to her office in silence. Ginny waited in
silence, but only until Hermione closed the door. "Do you still have my memory?" she
demanded, before Hermione could speak.

"Your…? The memory we reviewed together in the Pensieve? Yes, of course." Hermione
stepped to a short cabinet, opened it, and brought out the phial filled with silvery mist. She made
a motion to hand it over, but stopped as Ginny raised her hand.

"Good," Ginny said. "Keep it."

Hermione regarded Ginny in surprise. She'd expected Ginny to insist on having her memory
returned to her, so it couldn't be used against her precious Blaise. "You… *want* me
to keep custody of it?"

Ginny gave her a curious half-smile, and gestured towards the chair behind Hermione's desk.
As they seated themselves, the redhead seemed to be choosing her next words with some care.

"I think you've always had the gift – even back at Hogwarts – of accepting what your
eyes told you," she began obliquely. "No matter how much you disliked the answer, you
never shied from seeing it." Her mouth gave that quirk again. "Hermione… you saw Blaise
just now. I think you've started to accept what your eyes are telling you: he's going to be
our next Minister of Magic. But I know," she added quickly, forestalling Hermione's
protest, "I know you have, well, reservations. You don't trust him – again, going back to
our Hogwarts days. And you're worried that a Zabini Ministry might turn back the reforms
you've made, under Kingsley Shacklebolt."

The speech had obviously been thought out in advance. Hermione found herself clamping her lips
shut, waiting to see where Ginny's line of reasoning would lead.

"I suppose, if I were in your shoes, I might be worried too," Ginny said
sympathetically. "I mean, *I* know that Blaise has the best interests of the wizarding
world at heart, and that he'd try to do right by everyone, *including* the Muggleborn. But
you've no way of knowing that. And you're scared of what he might do when he's in
power."

"You could say that, yes," said Hermione neutrally.

"And that's exactly why I want you to keep my memory. It's not proof of anything
criminal – even you admitted that it wouldn't stand up in court – but Blaise would probably
find it embarrassing. And the Minister of Magic can't afford embarrassments like that. So with
that memory, you've got a handle on Blaise. What's the term, 'checks and balances'?
That memory gives you a way to check Blaise, if you feel he's going too far over the line.
Which should give you some reassurance – enough to let you accept him as Minister, d'you
think?" Ginny sat back in her chair and waited for Hermione to respond.

"So," Hermione said slowly, "you're telling me I shouldn't object to
Zabini becoming Minister… because I have this threat to hold over his head. But the threat's no
good if he doesn't know it exists…"

"On the contrary," Ginny corrected her, "if he knew it existed, you might worry
he'd start a PR campaign to soften its impact. No, keep it safe, for the day you think he's
about to cross the line – trying to disenfranchise the goblins again, or something. *Then*
tell him you have it – show it to him in a Pensieve. It's as I said, a Minister can't
afford a scandal. He'll give way to you."

"I don't understand, Ginny. Even stipulating Zabini *does* become Minister – why
are you undermining his position? I thought you wanted him to…"

"I'm *not* undermining him, really," Ginny said, and that half-smile had come
back to her face. "Since I know you won't actually *use* this threat, except for
something really important – important enough to risk scandal, I mean." She reached into an
inner pocket of her robes and brought out a set of photographs. "Checks and balances,
remember?" she added.

She leaned forward and spread the photos on the desk in front of Hermione, who picked one up and
stared at it. It was a bit grainy, taken in poor light, but it very clearly showed Hermione in her
bed – *with Harry.*

"My dear brother's not made much of a secret of your marital woes," Ginny said,
with an apologetic grimace. "I mean, personally, I can hardly blame you for taking a lover –
but you can't afford a scandal any more than Blaise could. And since everyone knows about your
vows, they'll also know that you couldn't evade them without trying extra-hard. This
couldn't be an impulsive, one-night-stand sort of affair."

Hermione dropped the photo and picked up another. Like all of them, it was a Muggle photo: the
figures in it didn't move. However, unlike the others, it showed a well-lit scene: Harry and
Hermione sitting in bed, their arms wrapped tightly around one another. *He must have just given
me my birthday present,* she thought dazedly.

Ginny evidently expected Hermione to say something at this point. When nothing was forthcoming,
she resumed, "And as I said, I can hardly blame you. Especially since you've found a lover
who looks so much like Harry." *That* got Hermione's attention, Ginny saw.
"I'm guessing this is your Harry stand-in – the one you used to convince Swivingham's
house-elves to testify. Blaise would be surprised, I think, to learn he exists… he still thinks you
invented that rumor out of thin air." Ginny shrugged. "But it stands to reason, if the
rumor alone didn't convince the elves, you'd have something physical to show them –
some-*one,* I should say. And I admit, the resemblance is striking – even *I* was taken
aback for a moment."

Her voice lowered to a purr as she concluded, "But I think it's safe to say that I
*know* what Harry looked like in bed." Her smirk was both knowing and dismissive.

Ginny watched as Hermione let the photo fall from her fingers back onto the desktop. Her eyes
stared, unfocused, at the images strewn before her. Ginny waited another moment, then spoke again
in a more conciliatory tone. "I… I didn't want things to get to this point, Hermione,
honest. I *tried,* remember? I *tried* to convince you to lay off Blaise. But really,
it's better this way. Blaise will be Minister, and you'll have your job… and, well, will
anything have changed? If Blaise ever *does* break the law, you can still go after him. All
this means," and she gestured at the photos, "is that you won't rush into anything
that would make a stink. And since you've got my memory, it'll keep Blaise from doing the
same."

She sat back in her chair, well aware that her position was ironclad. Hermione was a pragmatist
– she couldn't have reached her current position without recognizing certain political
realities – and she'd accept Ginny's proposal. Why, it wasn't even fair to call it a
"threat", really, since both Blaise *and* Hermione were checked… checks and
balances, that's all it was…

"I… I…" Hermione seemed to be finding her voice at last. "I… don't know what
to say…"

Holding back her triumphant smile, Ginny opened her mouth to respond… only to leave it gaping as
Hermione rose to her feet, her face devoid of emotion.

"Except what the Duke of Wellington once said," Hermione continued more firmly. She
planted her hands on the desktop and leaned forward, never taking her eyes off Ginny. Those eyes
flared with sudden wrath as she finished speaking, in a voice gone deadly quiet, anger expressed in
precise diction: "Publish and be damned, Weasley."

For one long moment, the room was utterly still. Without conscious intent, Ginny found herself
no longer sitting – but on her feet, backing slowly away from the cold rage that was The Witch Who
Won. She tried to speak, but only a humiliating squeak emerged.

Hermione hadn't yet moved, but her furious glare hadn't left Ginny's face. It came
to Ginny, quite clearly, that the only thing saving her from a great many excruciating,
debilitating hexes was Hermione's self-restraint – which was fast crumbling. Hastily, Ginny
reached behind her for the doorknob, fumbled the door open, and in a rush had escaped the room with
the door closed behind her.

Not until Ginny was gone did Hermione give way to a fit of furious tremors. She collapsed back
into her seat and raised her fists before her, as though trying to throttle her anger – or possibly
her sister-in-law. *I took her in! When she thought her life was in danger, I took her into my
home! And she could do* this *to me in return? And look me in the eye and claim it was For The
Greater Effing GOOD!?*

One finger at a time, she unclenched her fists, and breathed deeply to try and purge the fury
from her system. The red haze that had filled her vision was slowly dissolving. After a moment,
Hermione had recovered enough to let her gaze skip randomly around the room. It came to rest on the
photos, still spread over the desk, showing Harry and her in various stages of cuddling or sleep.
*She never slept with Harry,* she thought, tartly and somewhat irrelevantly, *she has no*
idea *what he looks like in bed!*

*Still,* she realized as she calmed, *Ginny ought to've recognized Harry, regardless.
Did Harry's wards on Enthalpy House affect how others might see these pictures, perhaps? Or…
no, it* couldn't *be that ridiculous.*

*Sure it could,* another voice in her head interjected. *Ginny hasn't matured – why
should her image of Harry mature? Subconsciously, she expected him to still be eighteen years
old.*

Hermione couldn't help snorting, in combined amusement and disdain. *Yes, Ginny, I'm
perfectly capable of accepting the evidence of my own eyes. You should consider trying it
sometime.*

She held one hand in front of her. It no longer trembled, nor seemed ready to clench into a fist
of its own volition. Hermione conjured a hand mirror, gave her face a critical once-over, and
applied a quick freshening charm. With that, she decided she'd calmed sufficiently to return to
the Atrium and rejoin Kingsley.

She left her offices and walked briskly down the corridor to the lift. There were two people
waiting for the lift to arrive, and one of them had unmistakable fiery red hair. Hermione felt her
stride falter briefly, then she willed herself to keep walking. If Ginny fancied herself a sort of
*éminence* *grise,* she wouldn't be making a public scene. Hermione could simply
ignore her.

The wizard standing next to Ginny turned at Hermione's approach. He smiled at her, obviously
recognizing her – though Hermione couldn't place his face. Ginny hadn't even acknowledged
her presence, which didn't surprise her greatly. She took one more step – and time suddenly
slowed to an absurd crawl, as Hermione abruptly realized…

… that Ginny was staring vacantly ahead, unresponsive…

… that the unknown wizard had pointed his wand at Hermione…

… that Hermione wouldn't be able to draw her own wand in time…

… that the wizard said something, too softly for Hermione to hear, but she could read lips well
enough…

"*Obliviate**.*"



24. XXIV:  Taking Initiative
----------------------------

**(A/N:** Yep, we rejoin our story immediately where it left off…

My thanks go to **MirielleGrey,** my Wonder Beta… and to you, my readers. I know it's
been said before, but I'll say it again: if you're enjoying this story, please tell your
friends – and if you're not, please tell me.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** *Some collective nouns:* A paladinate of Harrys. A concordance of
Hermiones. A randomness of Rowlings. A fair use of fanfiction. A poverty of Paracelsi.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXIV: Taking Initiative**

*

Even as Hermione drew her wand, she knew it would be too late: there was no time to erect a
Shield before the intruder's Obliviation spell struck her. Nonetheless, she attempted to hurl a
fast Stunner at her opponent, in the hopes that, once begun, the Stunner would fire even after her
mind had been blanked.

Except that her mind *didn't* blank!

There were times to stop and analyze, and there were times to simply *act.* The middle of a
magical combat situation qualified as the latter. "*Stupefy!*" Hermione cast, now
running at full tilt towards the intruder.

Astonishment flashed on the stranger's face, a snarl replacing the smile of a moment
earlier. A skilled flick of his wand parried Hermione's Stunner. He seized Ginny, still
vacantly staring, and roughly shoved her into Hermione as she came near. Hermione caught Ginny by
the shoulders and thrust her aside, as the wizard brought his wand back up.
"*Caedero!*" he hissed.

"*Protego!*" Hermione responded, deflecting the attack. *Hacking Hex,* she
thought wildly, *nasty…*

The wizard was bolting down the corridor, away from the lifts, towards the emergency stairs. He
continued to throw curses behind him as he ran, forcing Hermione to maintain her defenses. She
pushed herself to run faster… if she couldn't bind him magically, she'd tackle him
physically. She still didn't recognize the wizard, but she now knew who he must be – and she
wanted him captured, alive.

The commotion was starting to draw attention: a few fellow Ministry employees were emerging from
office doorways. The intruding wizard grimaced, then thrust his hand into his pocket and brought
out a glass bottle. He hurled it to the floor as Hermione came within grabbing distance of him.

And the corridor promptly plunged into pitch blackness.

Hermione stumbled, tried to maintain pursuit, and with a jarring thud ran headlong into the
corridor wall. She remembered this darkness now, from her sixth year at Hogwarts, and knew its
cause: Peruvian Darkness Powder. The Ministry had since banned its importation, but evidently the
wizarding criminal element still had a few remaining stockpiles.

Fortunately, she knew the proper counter-spell. "*Zephyrus!*" she cried, and a
breeze immediately sprang from nowhere to clear away the darkness. Unfortunately, in her few
seconds of blindness, the assailant had made his escape: he was nowhere to be seen.

Co-workers were beginning to approach her, inquiries on their lips, but Hermione had no time to
spare for them. She rushed back to the lifts, where Ginny sat dazed on the floor. Hermione examined
her, carefully but quickly: she didn't seem physically harmed, but the vacant stare hadn't
left her face.

*Right, then.* *And Dennis doesn't have a Floo connection available. Dammit, I
didn't want to advertise this ability, but…* Hermione formed a terse message in her mind:
"Send Peasegood at once." Then with a flick of her wand and a quiet "*Expecto
Patronum,*" her Patronus-messenger sped away in a blur of silver.

Message sent, she turned her attention to the gathering Ministry employees – including, she was
glad to see, several Aurors. "I'm declaring the Ministry to be in emergency lockdown, as
of *now.* I want the entire building sealed: *all* communications suspended, and *no
one* leaves without my authorization!" She pointed to each Auror in turn as she continued,
"Floos disconnected, Portkeys disabled, Anti-Apparation protocols activated, *stat.*
Montagu, go to the Atrium and inform Head Robards – he'll want to organize a floor-by-floor
search. Until then, everyone is to remain *where they are.* Any questions?"

No one questioned her.

*

The common room of the elves' guest quarters was cramped, to be sure – Harry had to remove
his Stealth Cloak, since he kept misjudging where he was stretching his invisible limbs, and
knocking items off tables – but as long as he sat cross-legged on the floor, he was comfortable
enough. He resisted Canby's repeated offers to raise the ceiling for him, suspecting it
wouldn't go unnoticed elsewhere in the Ministry.

But in consequence, he found himself at eye level with the Ministry elf, as they debated on the
best way to enter the Death Chamber in the Department of Mysteries – which, Harry discovered, put
him at a bit of a disadvantage. "No," he reiterated yet again, "I don't want you
risking your neck to try to appear inside the Chamber. Not unless we know for a *fact* that
Mysterious elves have been in that room."

"It would be no risk," Canby insisted. "If elves can't appear in the Chamber,
Canby's attempt will fail. If the attempt succeeds, Canby will fetch Mister Harry and bring him
into the Chamber."

Harry sighed. How he wished he could simply forbid Canby to risk his life. *The last thing I
need is another death on my conscience. I still remember poor Dobby…* But Canby wasn't
Harry's to command – even though Harry probably *could,* by capitalizing on his mythic
status among elves. He sighed again and ceded the point. "Fine… but *only* if all else
fails," he emphasized.

"Then how else shall we try?" Canby asked.

"Hm. Find a spot away from the door to the Chamber, and drill a tiny hole in the
wall?" offered Harry. "Where no one will notice… say, behind a tapestry or something? If
it works and I can get through the wall, then I make a *big* hole. That's the part where
you distract the Unspeakables."

"Could perhaps get into an argument with Mysterious elves," Canby mused. "A very,
very *loud* argument…"

"If they're anything like Unspeakables, you probably can't get a rise out of
them."

Canby waved off the suggestion. "Oh, they are so sure they are better than other elves…
Canby can always point to spots of dirt they missed cleaning." His sudden, wicked grin was
worthy of Fred or George at their finest, or rather, their worst. "Even if Canby must supply
dirt himself…" He stopped speaking abruptly, jerked upright as though jabbed with a pin.

"What's wrong, Canby?" Harry asked in concern, as Canby tilted his head and spread
his bat-like ears as though listening.

"Emergency lockdown of the Ministry," Canby reported after a moment. "Everyone to
be staying in their rooms while Aurors search." Seeing the sudden alarm on Harry's face,
Canby hastened to add, "They will not be searching elves' quarters, Mister Harry! Looking
for a… a wizard, they are. Wizards do not find their way to elves' quarters."

*I could, now that I've been here,* thought Harry. He kept the thought to himself,
while he brought up a more immediate objection. "But what if they ask an *elf* to search
the elves' quarters?"

"Then Canby will volunteer to be searcher," the elf said simply. "Please stay
here and be safe, Mister Harry. Canby must go to Miss Hermione now." Canby gave Harry a
reassuring pat on the shoulder, and vanished with a loud pop of air.

Resigning himself to waiting, Harry looked around the common room. Had he ever given the matter
any thought, he supposed elves' private rooms would be decorated in some bizarrely eclectic mix
of hues, styles, and gimcracks… rather like Dobby's wardrobe. Instead, the common room was
minimalist, almost Spartan, in its décor: muted earth tones, side tables with flower vases, and a
frame on one wall containing an abstract splash of black and white. Doors led to other rooms,
presumably the guests' bedrooms; Harry didn't see a door that looked like an exit, though.
After a moment's thought, he realized that house elves wouldn't need an exit door.

He felt a tentative touch at his elbow. Turning his head, Harry found himself face-to-face with
the female elf he'd met at Enthalpy House. She was shyly (nervously?) offering him a goblet of
pumpkin juice. Harry reached out to accept the goblet, and noticed how the elf had to control her
flinch. *She's scared,* he was shocked to realize, *scared of* me. *Scared that I
might touch her.*

Quickly recovering, Harry gave her a friendly smile, hoping to allay her fears. "Hello.
You're, um, Canby's friend, right? Brillig?"

She went from timid to delighted in a heartbeat. "You – you are remembering Brillig!"
She looked over Harry's shoulder and raised her voice. "Brillig *told* you he would
remember!" Harry followed her gaze to see five other elves cautiously emerging from their
"dorm rooms": all female, and all staring at him with various mixes of fascination and
reserve. They wore neither the tea-towels Harry associated with Winky (the only other female elf
he'd really known), nor the sleeveless tabard Canby favored. Instead, they wore short-sleeved,
knee-length shifts, white and unadorned – but fitting well enough to make clear that the elves
were, without question, female.

*These are the elves that were going to testify against Swivingham. His, um, his "working
elves". No wonder they're nervous about a man invading their private rooms.* Harry
glanced back at Brillig. "Are introductions in order?" he asked her softly.

Brillig met the other elves' eyes, and seemed to gather consensus. "These are
Briony," she said, with a gesture at the first elf, and continuing, "Chalice, Whimsy,
Fatima, and Sylph." Each one bobbed her head as her name was given. Harry smiled more warmly
and nodded in return to each, but made no overt movement towards them. Which seemed to reassure
them, a little: Sylph and Chalice took a shy step closer.

"Those are nice names," he told them. "Mine's Harry – I'm pleased to meet
you."

"*You* are great Dobby's friend Harry Potter," Sylph clarified.

"Er, yes," said Harry, still trying to put them at their ease. "And I count
myself very lucky to have had Dobby as a friend. Dobby was a… a noble elf, in so many
ways."

Half of them were quickly losing their reserve, their fascination for the Defender of
House-Elves growing stronger. Briony, however, seemed inclined to take exception to Harry's
last comment. "Dobby? Dobby was… was a *free* elf," she said, somehow making the
term sound unclean.

"He was," Harry agreed. "Dobby wasn't afraid of hard work." He saw that
he'd dumbfounded Briony, and pressed his point. "Good elves don't mind hard work, do
they? Well, freedom is *very* hard work. Easy to let someone else tell you what to do, all
day, every day – but hard to have to think, to *choose,* to take responsibility. I know humans
find it hard work, so I imagine elves find it hard work, too. It takes a very special kind of
person to be free." He paused, seeing Dobby in his mind, recalling his fierce insistence on
doing the right thing, no matter how it might hurt… and Harry smiled fondly. "That was Dobby,
all right."

To his other side, Brillig drew in a deep, fervent breath. If Harry had looked at her just then,
he might have been disconcerted to see the nearly worshipful expression on her face… and
uncomfortably reminded of Hermione's analogy with Jesus and the nuns. But at the moment, his
attention was drawn to the one elf who was still holding back from him: Fatima, who looked so much
like the servant-elf to the Arab Cartel Lord in the Pensieve.

*Hermione was sure this Fatima had some connection to the Cartel, once. If I can just get her
engaged in the discussion…*

"Freedom… well, once you have freedom, you want all those close to you to have it,
too." Harry paused to gulp his pumpkin juice, then set the goblet on the nearby table. "I
don't think Dobby had any family," he went on. "I think he'd have told me if he
had children, or brothers, or anything. But if he did, I think – I *know* – that Dobby would
have wanted them to be as free as he was."

Oh, *that* got her notice.

"I guess I don't know much about elf families," he concluded ruefully.
"It's stupid of me, I know… I'm sorry…" He looked around the room in
invitation.

Brillig took over her role as spokeself for the group. "Elves is having brothers and
sisters, of course, Mister Harry," she told him. "Elves is certainly having children –
how else is there being more elves?" There was a general giggle at that. Brillig sobered
quickly as she went on, "If elves is lucky, elves is having mates for life."

"If elves is *not* lucky," Fatima put in abruptly, harshly, "elves is never
having mates, only having breeders. Masters is telling elves when to breed, and with
whom."

Harry nodded. "Like your former master, Jack Swivingham." As the elves nodded in
return, his eyes fixed on Fatima. "And like your master *before* Swivingham."

Fatima maintained her harsh expression. She said nothing.

"Your sister's *current* master," Harry finished gently. It was a shot in the
dark, but Harry felt sure of his ground.

And the shot struck home. Fatima's stark façade crumbled in astonishment. "Mister Harry
Potter *knows* about Ayesha?!" she cried piteously.

"I know some things about some things," Harry hedged. "I know she still waits on
him, bringing his food and drink." Fatima's eyes widened, and he felt confident enough to
add, "And he's, er, 'training' her… the way he 'trained' you?"

The misery on her face showed Harry he was right – and it was more than he could bear. He
quickly turned to Brillig. "See, that's just not right," he said earnestly.
"Human, or elf, or any being whatever, that's not *right.* No one should be able to
tell us where we may love, or deny it from us. Love is too precious."

He'd started to turn back to Fatima, wanting to draw her out further, when he felt tiny
fingers dig into his bicep. Brillig had fallen to her knees, wrapped her arms around Harry's
arm, and was hugging it to her bosom with an iron grip. "Oh, *yes,* Mister Harry,"
she sighed in ecstasy. It *might* have been religious ecstasy…

Harry managed to move his free arm in time to prevent Sylph from seizing it in a similar grip.
He wanted at least one hand to drive his point home – and gain Fatima's cooperation.
"It's not right," he repeated. "If we can find Ayesha, there's a chance we
can free her from…" He let the sentence dangle, hoping Fatima would respond.

"From ibn al-Afrit?" Fatima finished doubtfully. "He is being a hard master, he
will never…"

"She will never be free if we don't *try,*" Harry persisted. "We have to
try. I promise you I will try, if you will help." He saw her starting to waver: he caught her
eye, and held it. "You have my word, Fatima."

Sylph squealed excitedly, and this time she succeeded in capturing Harry's other arm above
the elbow. Fatima still kept her distance, undecided. Harry managed to extend his lower arm – Sylph
didn't loosen her grip, but didn't try to stop him, either – and reach out his hand to
Fatima. In supplication.

Fatima hesitated one more moment. Her mouth tightened – and she stepped forward and took
Harry's hand. In agreement.

Chalice and Whimsy crowded around them in excitement. From behind Fatima, Briony cheered her
friend. Thus surrounded and held, Harry was acutely aware of the elves' proximity – and,
embarrassingly, of their attractive forms. Really, except for the ears, and skin tone – and the
fact they were four feet tall – they looked very much like seventh-year female students at
Hogwarts. They even had hair!

Like students at Hogwarts.

Taught by professors at Hogwarts.

And that thought was followed by an idea so incendiary, yet so filled with potential, that Harry
was almost glad Canby chose that exact moment to reappear in the common room, bringing Hermione
with him.

"Harry!? What in Merlin's name are you *doing?*"

"Um…"

"Mister Harry Potter is promising to help the elves again!" cried Brillig happily.

"Well, one in particular," Harry said hastily, forestalling elven imaginations from
running rampant. "I promised Fatima we'd try to free her sister Ayesha – you remember
seeing her sister? – from her current master, ibn al-Afrit." Harry delivered the last words
with only a slight emphasis, but Hermione immediately picked up on their significance.

They now had the name of a second Cartel Lord – and judging from Ginny's Pensieve memory,
the most influential.

"If ibn al-Afrit is convicted of crimes," Hermione slowly said, as she sat down on the
floor next to Harry, "and house-elves were victimized in the commission of those crimes… yes,
I should think the Ministries, or the ICW, would guarantee their freedom."

"Thank you, Hermione," Harry began, then broke off. His eyes had focused on
Hermione's face. Suddenly oblivious to the elves around him, he shook Brillig and Sylph off his
arms and leaned towards Hermione. His fingers came up to not-quite-touch her cheek, where a mottled
bruise was darkening. "Where'd this come from? Hermione, what happened?"

"Oh…" Hermione brought her own hand to her cheek, and winced as she felt how extensive
the bruise was becoming. "There's been some unpleasantness."

"Miss Hermione was attacked," Canby told Harry, with a reproachful look for Hermione.
"It is why the Ministry is in emergency lockdown now."

"Ginny was attacked first," Hermione said quickly, before Harry could storm out of the
elves' quarters in anger. "Obliviated. I happened along at the wrong time, and was nearly
Obliviated as well. When that didn't work, he tried a more direct approach."

"You're all right, though? I mean, you weren't hurt, or, or…?"

"No, I defended myself quite creditably, thank you. Except for his first attack on me, when
he tried to Obliviate me – *that* one I only avoided thanks to my birthday gift." She
fingered the sapphire where it lay beneath her robes, so that he could see its outline. "I
didn't even remember it was there until later, actually – my reflexes took over."

"Then how…?" He gestured again at her bruised face.

"He used Peruvian Darkness Powder to escape," Hermione said in disgust, "and I
ran into a wall." Her irritated glare said that Harry laughed at his own peril.

The Master of the Deathly Hallows had long since learned to recognize danger when it confronted
him. He didn't so much as crack a smile. "Oh," he deadpanned.

She waited a moment, until she was satisfied he wouldn't take the mickey… then turned away
and relaxed slightly. "Anyway…"

"Try not to do that," he added, still deadpan, his timing perfect.

She whirled to glare at him again, but he brought up his left hand to her face. There was a
brief glow, as the Elder Wand did its work, and her injury was healed. "I mean, the gem only
wards spells… it doesn't make you invulnerable. You can still be physically hurt." He
lowered his hand and regarded her tenderly. "Try not to do that," he said again, but this
time without a trace of mockery.

It was impossible for Hermione to maintain her glare after that, though she certainly tried.
"*Anyway,*" she pressed on, "the Ministry's in an uproar, and I thought I
should see you while I could, inform you what's happening." He nodded, ready to listen.
She continued, "Ginny's more or less recovered from the attack. I brought Peasegood back
to see her: he says the attacker was trying to edit a specific memory, but I interrupted him and
his Memory Charm went awry. As a result, Ginny's lost about a week's worth of
memory."

"Friday's Fire Party," winced Harry, "seeing the Lords."

"And everything since." For once, Hermione didn't elaborate; Harry suspected that,
this time, he didn't want her to. "We still have her Pensieve memory," she said after
a moment, "but I doubt she had a chance to tell Zabini about it, else she wouldn't have
been Obliviated. And Zabini… well, I know he's an actor of the first water, but I'd swear
he's genuinely upset about Ginny's attack today."

"We need to keep in mind that Zabini's *not* a member of this Cartel," Harry
said slowly, thinking aloud. "It's as you said a couple of days ago, he works *with*
them, not *for* them. The Cartel Lords want anonymity – *they're* the ones who prefer
Obliviation. It was Zabini who went for the kill – and only the one time. It had the feel of a… a
loyalty test…"

"So today's attacker was from the Cartel… erasing memory, erasing evidence. Robards,
Ginny… although how did they know Ginny would be at the Ministry today? She must have told Zabini
she was meeting him here, and he told the Cartel…"

"Or else Ginny wasn't their primary target today. You were." Harry scowled at the
thought that Hermione was still at risk. "Who was the attacker? Have the Aurors caught him
yet?"

"Not yet, they're still searching. I couldn't identify him, so he's not a
Ministry worker… except he was *in* the Ministry already… but he could have been Polyjuiced…
Damn. Too many possibilities." She chewed on her lower lip, lost in thought.

"Did he say anything?" asked Harry. "Er, besides spells? I mean, one obvious
source of strangers at the Ministry is…"

"… is today's International Conference," Hermione said in unison with him, which
caused her to smile for the first time. "I considered that. But no, he only spoke
incantations, and I didn't notice any particular accent. But then, I wasn't paying
attention to that." She cocked an eyebrow at Sylph, who was trying to re-bond with Harry's
arm, and said sweetly, "Rear of the queue, please." Once the abashed elf had relinquished
her spot next to Harry, Hermione slid beside him and wrapped her arm around his waist.

She was very pleased that his arm had found its way around her waist in response.

"The Aurors have my description of the assailant," Hermione continued.
"They'll search every floor, room by room, until they find him. Which is why, during
lockdown, everyone stays in whatever room they're in." She snorted. "Obviously, all
the delegates and their staffs are being kept in the meeting room on the Atrium level, until this
is sorted out. And again obviously, the opening session of the Conference has been delayed. It
gives my team with Lovinett a little more time to break through his Occlumency – get the evidence
we need to stop Zabini."

"You're going to be pissing off some fairly high-powered people," noted Harry.
"Foreign *and* domestic. The sort of people that don't appreciate being
inconvenienced just so Aurors can do their jobs. They could make your job difficult, down the
road." He smirked as Hermione formed an indignant reply. "And you don't much
care," he added in approval. "I know."

She squeezed him tighter and leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder… heedless of the
mixed looks she was receiving from the elves. They shared a quiet moment together: they both knew,
somehow, it would be their last for some time to come.

"I need to return to the Conference very soon, before they miss me," she said at
length. "As you say, if I'm going to inconvenience a room full of delegates, I'd
better be there for the show. If only to remind them why they've convened in the first
place."

He nodded. "And y'know, if everyone's confined to their offices, this is a perfect
time for me to try to break into the Death Chamber again. Less chance I'll be noticed,
eh?" Getting to his knees, he retrieved the Stealth Cloak from where he'd put it after
earlier removing it, and began to drape it over his shoulders.

"If Mister Harry will wait," said Canby, stepping towards Hermione, "Canby will
take Miss Hermione to the Atrium, then come back for him…"

"No need," Harry interrupted. "I've been to the Department of Mysteries once
– I can find my way there again. Take care of Hermione first, please, Canby… then join me when you
can. We'll try some of our ideas together." He settled the Cloak into place and vanished
from view; the faint puff of his Apparation was almost anti-climactic.

Canby sighed and shook his head. "Mister Harry is very much like house-elves, isn't he,
Miss Hermione?"

"Mm hmm, in some ways," Hermione said, but her mind was elsewhere. She had to admit,
she was loath to go back to the Conference and confront Zabini – without having *something* in
hand she could use to stop him! Oh, if worst came to worst, she'd show Ginny's memory to
the assembled delegates, but it wasn't enough: at most, it might associate Zabini with
Swivingham's death, and that weakly. The memory didn't even prove that the three wizards
were the Cartel Lords, let alone that Zabini was working hand-in-glove with the Cartel.

*Even Lovinett, if he testified, could only show Zabini ordered Swivingham's death –
I'd lay odds Zabini never told Lovinett about the Cartel. Though Lovinett's sequestered
memories do suggest the Cartel's Obliviator paid him a visit… Face it, Hermione, the only
people who can show Zabini's connection to the Cartel Lords are either dead or
Obliviated.*

She paused. *Or have no reason to testify. Yet.*

*Perhaps, just perhaps… I can give them one.*

Canby was at her elbow, ready to leave. "One moment, Canby," Hermione said slowly,
considering an idea. She turned and addressed the female elves. "You six were prepared to
testify against Jack Swivingham… because it was the right thing to do. Are you still prepared to do
the right thing?"

Hesitantly, wondering where The Witch Who Won was leading, they nodded.

"And more to the point, will you help us free Ayesha, as Fatima asked, so they can be
together again? And not have to work… like *that…* any more, ever?"

More enthusiastic nods this time, and Brillig took Fatima's hand in encouragement.

"Then I need your help," Hermione said firmly. She stretched her arms out, as though
to bring the elves together into a conspiracy, and they didn't hesitate to gather around
her.



25. XXV:  In Zugzwang
---------------------

**(A/N:** There was just no good place to break this chapter.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** Just as Lord Voldemort chose a new name, so shall I! Henceforth, let me be
known as… *Prince Natural Gossi-Owls!* Which, for those of you who aren't born anagramists
like Tom Riddle, unscrambles to mean "Paracelsus is not Rowling."**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXV: In Zugzwang**

*

Ron Weasley was growing less happy by the minute. Almost the very moment he'd arrived at the
Ministry, he'd been herded into a large room filled with people in an uproar. He was told, by
the Auror who'd marched him in, that he could either stay there or be Stunned, his choice. He
was told his stay would be indefinite. He was told, in no uncertain terms, that he couldn't
send a message back to the shop, to tell George his "morning break" had been
extended.

What he *wasn't* being told was why.

The room, at least, had a coffee and tea service laid out. Presumably, for the people who were
already here… foreigners, most of them, to hear them talk. Ron *did* recognize two of them
from photos in the *Daily Prophet,* years ago: members of the International Confederation of
Wizards, back when they'd had to replace Dumbledore. Shaking his head, Ron took his coffee and
a hastily-snagged pastry and retreated to a chair in the farthest corner of the room.

*What am I even doing here?* he wondered. Stuffing the pastry into his mouth, he reached
into his pocket and brought out the note he'd received early that morning. He read it over
again. *Someone wants to meet with me this morning, regarding Ginny's 'welfare and
safety'. Huh. I guess I wasn't the only one to be worried – not that I really much care
what Little Miss Blabbermouth is up to now. Why they couldn't talk to Dad? He works right here
in the Ministry, after all.*

He spotted Blaise Zabini across the room, talking to Kingsley Shacklebolt. *Could this have
something to do with Ginny and Zabini? I tried to tell her he was no good for her. Or… could Zabini
have sent the note? Naw, he'd have signed it…*

Ron had a good mind to walk right up to Zabini and tell him to stay away from his sister. But he
had wit enough to know that, first, it would make him look like a school boy, and second, it might
even prove counter-productive. Oh, and that it was none of his business, that too.

Still, Ron kept his eyes glued on Zabini as he separated from Shacklebolt and circulated about
the room, not trusting the berk an inch. It gave Ron something to do, as he waited to be let out of
this room so he could keep his appointment with the mystery note-sender.

*

The corridors of the Department of Mysteries were deserted, with the Unspeakables confined to
their offices (or, some of them, in the Atrium conference hall). Eldritch's strange monitoring
device was still in front of the open-but-impassible door to the Death Chamber, and Harry gave it
wide berth. There were no tapestries or portraits on this section of the corridor wall,
unfortunately, but there *was* a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, which would hide Harry's
activities very nicely.

A *Silencio* on the bookcase first, to keep any sound from echoing down the corridor… then
*Mobilibancus* lifted the bookcase slightly and shifted one end away from the wall. Harry
waited until there was room for him behind the case, then lowered it gently to the floor. With the
Elder Wand in hand, he squeezed behind the shelves and placed the Wand's tip against the stone
wall that separated him from the Chamber.

"*Foro**,*" he murmured. A beam of blue light began to drill a neat
quarter-inch hole into the stone.

He had to stop at one point, to blow dust out of the hole – which necessitated removing the
Cloak from his face. He was just about to replace the Cloak and continue drilling when Canby
appeared by his side. "Progress, sir?" he whispered. Harry was pleased the elf had the
forethought not to say his name aloud.

"Almost through, I think," Harry whispered back. He aimed the Wand back into the hole
and reapplied *Foro* again. After another minute, he withdrew the wand and again blew dust
from the hole. "I think that did it," he told Canby. "Let's try it." He
inserted the Wand's tip into the hole. "*Reducto**!*"

The Wand shot out of the hole like an arrow, expelled by the sudden discharge of energy. Only
Harry's superb reflexes allowed him to snatch the Wand in mid-flight before it could clatter
against the back of the bookcase, or fall to the floor. He could feel the shockwave of magic crawl
prickling across his skin, just as it had the first time he'd tried breaking through the
barrier; judging from the way Canby's ears stood erect, he'd felt the shock too.

"It isn't working?" Canby asked.

"No. The barrier seems to be everywhere in the room – flat against all the walls,
apparently. *Bleeding crap!*" Harry rubbed one eye wearily.

"Then… then there is no help for it," Canby said slowly. "Canby must see if
*he* can enter the Chamber."

"Wait a mo." Leaving his face uncovered – a necessary risk for the moment – Harry
stepped back from behind the bookcase. Canby immediately moved it back into place, covering the new
hole in the wall, as Harry stepped to the door that led into the Chamber. He gently moved the
monitor apparatus to one side, so that it no longer blocked the doorway, and with a quiet
"*Finite Incantatem*" assured that it wouldn't record what they were about to
do.

"I don't suppose there's any way I can talk you out of this?" he asked
resignedly. Solemnly Canby shook his head. "Right, then," Harry went on, "I'm
going to Silence you so that we don't attract attention. Then I want you to try to appear in
the Chamber right here, right in front of the door, so that if it looks like you're hurt I can
*Accio* you straight out of there. I hope."

"With luck, it won't be needed," said Canby. Turning to face the door, he waited
until Harry had applied the Silencing Charm. Then he closed his eyes and squinched up his face in
concentration.

Two things happened in rapid succession. Canby vanished and reappeared just inside the doorway –
and in the next instant, he was propelled forcefully out the door as though shot from a cannon. He
collided with Harry and the two tumbled to the floor in a jangle of limbs.

"What was *that?*" Harry asked when he could catch his breath. He quickly
cancelled the Silencing Charm to hear Canby's reply.

"Canby… Canby isn't sure," replied the elf, obviously confused. "It felt
like… like Canby was being *blown* from the Chamber." He looked wide-eyed at the door,
then back at Harry. "It is not a barrier, Canby thinks. It is a… a coldness… *filling*
the Chamber! Pushing out everything like a strong wind."

"Uh *huh.* So it *is* keeping things out, and not in." Harry stood and
stepped to the Chamber door. Experimentally, he extended his hand: as before, it was stopped,
blocked from entering. And as before, it didn't feel solid, as an invisible wall might: his
hand simply would go no further. It *didn't* feel like a rushing wind of any sort… but
then, on this side of the doorway, there was no reason it should.

Through the door he could see the Arch, with its mysterious Veil fluttering gently. It had done
so when Harry had visited the Chamber the night Sirius died, fluttering as though in a slight
breeze, though the air in the Chamber had felt deathly still. He supposed it might still flutter
gently, even if a mighty wind were somehow being sent through the Arch from beyond.

*Why are you keeping everyone out?* he silently asked the Arch. *Why are you keeping*
me *out? It's not as though I plan to hurt you, I only want to get rid of the Deathly
Hallows. I'm only Master of the Deathly Hallows because I don't have any other
choice…*

His gaze fixed on the runes graven across the Arch… runes that glowed ember-red against the
black stone. Harry might have thought the runes had always been carved there, remaining unseen
until they'd started glowing – but the fact that the runes had altered themselves dispelled
that notion. And they were some sort of warning now, according to Hermione…

With a start, Harry leaned forward and squinted to sharpen his vision. Hadn't Hermione said
there were gaps in the runes now? He couldn't see any gaps in the gravings on the Arch. Either
the runes had altered themselves yet again, or… "Canby," he said softly, "come look
at the Arch. Look at the runes. Can you read them?"

Canby trotted to Harry's side and peered at the Arch. "Canby cannot read the runes,
sir," he replied, equally softly.

"Do they cover the entire Arch?"

"No, sir. There is… gaps."

*So I can see runes that no one else can see. Well, that's just splendid. Now if only I
could* read *the damned things, we'd be making progress!*

Harry hadn't studied Ancient Runes, as Hermione had; he knew runes existed, and that was
about the extent of his knowledge. But he had a Seeker's eye for detail, and he used it now to
compare the runes on the Arch with what he remembered on the parchment Hermione had shown him.
Amidst all the other runes were two new ones, which he didn't recall from the parchment – runes
repeated several times, runes he now suspected filled the gaps in Hermione's copy. One symbol
was shaped like a bolt of lightning; it didn't take much thought to suss out that it must refer
to him. The other was a variant on the symbol for the Deathly Hallows: the bisected circle within a
triangle, but the whole within a square. Or… maybe not *quite* within…?

He squinted more closely, then conjured a pair of opera glasses. Looking through the glasses, he
could see the symbol clearly: the vertical straight line, within a circle, within a triangle – all
within, or surmounted by, a square with the bottom side removed. Three lines at right angles, the
three top sides of a square, drawn as though hovering over the Hallows' symbol. Or, perhaps,
covering it.

*A cover?* *A box? A container?* Harry racked his brain. *No, not for the Hallows –
the Hallows can't be contained. What is it, then, and why is it with the Hallows'
symbol?*

*It must symbolize something else. Like the line symbolizes the Wand, and the circle's the
Stone… some other object with roughly that shape. Three-quarters of a square… two uprights and a
top…*

And Harry couldn't help it. He burst out laughing, so hard that he couldn't stand. It
was laughter at himself, laughter at his predicament, laughter with more than a tinge of
bitterness. Laughing, because the alternative was crying.

He sat heavily on the floor and covered his mouth to suppress his laughter. Canby looked at him
in astonishment, but Harry couldn't explain without giving away his secret. But oh, how he
wished Hermione were there with him to share his discovery.

*All these years, I've been calling myself the Master of the Deathly Hallows. I should
have known that couldn't be the truth.*

*I'm only Master of* three *of them.*

*

From his corner, Ron noticed various people's reactions when two wizards slipped into the
conference room, one wearing the blue robes of an Auror: Concern, fear, expectation. The new
arrivals went straight to Shacklebolt and Robards, and Zabini made a beeline for the group. They
shared low murmurings for a minute or so.

"A *week?!*" Zabini had made no effort to lower his voice. He stared at the Spell
Reversal specialist, who fell silent. By voice, by expression, by every sign Zabini seemed aghast
and outraged.

"Don't sound so shocked, Zabini," growled Robards. "This is exactly the sort
of attack we called this Conference to counter." He addressed the Auror who had accompanied
the Spell Reversal specialist. "Any word on the search, Montagu?"

The Auror shook his head. "We're working our way down, floor by floor, sir. I've
two agents in the stairwells, and three watching the Floo fireplaces and Apparation point. Oh, and
the phone booth entrance."

"We convened this Conference," Zabini told Robards with icy courtesy, "so that
the national Ministries might pool our resources to address the rise in international crime.
Smuggling, even drug trafficking. But this – this *unwarranted* assault on an innocent
bystander could be no part of our brief!"

"Why not? The attack on Miss Weasley was no different than my *own* attack!"
Robards smiled thinly. "Oh, hadn't you heard? *I* was Obliviated on Sunday night, in
the sanctity of my own home. We have proof of the attack, though of course I haven't yet
recovered the stolen memories."

"*Wait a minute!*" Ron interrupted, suddenly realizing what they were saying. He
bounded from his corner and marched up to the group, as the assembled delegates watched with
growing interest. "You never said it was *Ginny* who was attacked! Is she hurt?
Where's is she? What happened?"


"She was Obliviated, Mr. Weasley," Shacklebolt said, "right here inside the
Ministry. She's lost," he glanced at the Spell Reversal specialist for confirmation,
"about a week's worth of memories, but she's physically unhurt."

"We *will* find the culprit," put in Robards.

"See that you do," said Zabini in a low voice. "And I'll want to go to see
her as soon as possible."

"Fine. Right after I do," put in Ron savagely.

Zabini didn't reply directly, but his glance at Ron clearly said the redhead wasn't
worth his time. He dismissed Ron and turned back to Robards. "I know the last few days have
been trying for you, Gawaine… but still, I'm not sure I understand how your Department could
have grown so lax as to allow this attack in the first place. But it seems quite clear that it
could have nothing to do with your own attack – or the purpose of this Conference."

"Oh, now, Zabini," came a new voice at the door, "don't sell yourself short.
I feel sure you understand everything *perfectly* well." Hermione Granger-Weasley strode
confidently into the hall, a Magical Law Enforcer behind her. At her nod, he closed the door and
stood in front of it, arms crossed.

Hermione was, in fact, much less confident than she looked. She knew that diligent work, by her
and Creevey and others, might well produce solid evidence – given time. But it might not. And in
that time, Zabini would have consolidated his political influence further… while the Cartel Lords
would have taken their own steps to protect themselves. If Hermione was to keep the initiative, she
had to act *now.*

But her only course of action carried considerable risk, should it fail.

Zabini was about to reply, but Ron spoke first. "Hermione? What's this about?"

She frowned slightly and shook her head, as if the signal *Not* *now, Ron* was a
conditioned reflex, before his presence fully registered. "Ron? What are you doing
here?"

"I came to talk to someone about Ginny," here Ron dug the note from his pocket as he
spoke, "something about her welfare and safety, and it looks like I was right to worry! Is it
about… well, *you* know what…" He offered the note to Hermione.

She barely succeeded in hiding her astonishment that Ron hadn't understood the implications
of that note – fortunately, her expression was still one of being slightly put out, which helped.
Mechanically she accepted the note, but her attention wasn't on it, or Ron. Instead, Hermione
kept one surreptitious eye on Zabini, while the other was monitoring the room, waiting to see who
would react to her possession of this message…

*There!* Upon seeing the note, one of the wizards from the Greek delegation had given a
tiny start, then begun to turn, taking a step behind one of his colleagues – not moving fast enough
to attract attention, but enough to obscure Hermione's view of him. She pointed a finger at
him. "*Halt!*"

His colleague promptly moving out of the way, the wizard straightened and raised his hands
slightly in a gesture of cooperation. Zabini, meanwhile, had showed no reaction to Ron's note…
which, given it was Zabini, meant nothing.

Hermione approached the wizard with an outward show of calm, not drawing her wand, knowing that
Robards, Montagu, and the Enforcer at the door were covering her back. "And you are?"

"Sabas Doukas," he replied quietly, "clerk for our deputation." His face was
completely different from that of the wizard who'd attacked her and Ginny. But a dose of
Polyjuice Potion would make facial features irrelevant. More important was the fact that he was the
same height and build as the attacker – and Hermione knew that Aurors using Polyjuice always tried
to find a form close to their own build, so that their trained responses weren't thrown
off-balance by a body of unfamiliar size or weight.

She held out her hand. "May we examine your wand, please." Phrased as a request, her
tone made it a order.

Doukas 's eyes slid around the room, noting the interest of all the delegates – but more
importantly, of the Aurors. Slowly, making no sudden movements, he reached into his pocket. After a
moment, an expression of surprise filled his face. "I… I appear to have lost it."

Hermione nodded. "As I expected. Oh, it must have been a wrench for you to throw it away: I
know how attached we grow to our wands, they *did* choose us after all." She turned and
stepped backward so that she could address Shacklebolt and Robards, while still keeping Doukas in
her field of view. "I've no doubt that we'll find his wand in the stairwell. And that
*Prior Incantatem* on it will yield a positive result for Memory Charms. And that Doukas will
claim it was another wizard who used his wand to attack me and Ginny."

"I *do* claim that!" Doukas said, with more force.

"In that case," replied Hermione cordially, drawing an empty ampule from her pocket,
"you won't mind if I take a small sample of your blood?"

He stared at the ampule, motionless, mute, expressionless. Hermione felt a qualm of doubt… which
she covered, as she frequently did, by talking.

"The Aurors will continue searching, of course," she said didactically, "but I
came here, to the international delegates. I was certain the culprit would be here amongst
them." She looked around the room at the assembled witches and wizards, some of whom were
beginning to swell indignant at her words, and raised a finger as though lecturing. "The
culprit used Peruvian Darkness Powder to escape. That's been banned in Britain… but it's
still available in other countries. Reasonable that the wizard who used it brought it here from one
of those countries. The Slavic states, for instance." She fixed her gaze back on Doukas.
"You *are* Macedonian, are you not?"

"All very interesting, Madam Granger," put in Zabini, who seemed to have regained his
*sang froid,* "but very circumstantial. As is the wand… even if it were his, well, as you
yourself note, these aren't *proof.*"

"Taken separately, I agree. And even if his blood tests positive for Polyjuice, that's
still not *proof.*" She gave Zabini the frosty half-smile for which all the upper levels
of the Ministry had learned a healthy respect. "But cumulatively, it *would* be evidence
sufficient to hold Doukas for questioning… under Veritaserum. And then, I suspect, proof will come
readily." She turned back to Doukas. "Your blood. I won't ask again."

His lips curled in a snarl, and Hermione recognized the expression – and in that instant, knew
she'd found her attacker.

Doukas lunged towards Hermione. But she'd anticipated this – she sidestepped, one hand
guiding his body away and down while her foot stay in place to trip him. He started to tumble,
turned the tumble into a well-practiced roll, and came out of the roll immediately back to his feet
– with a knife in his hand.

The roll had taken him some distance from Hermione, and towards the door. Doukas instantly made
for the nearest person between him and the door: Ron. The flurry of action had taken Ron by
surprise; before he could react, he found himself held from behind, one arm twisted behind his back
and the knife at his throat.

"Let us all stay calm," announced Doukas. "I would not enjoy making Madam Granger
a widow."



26. XXVI:  No Turning Back
--------------------------

**(A/N:** Originally, this was going to be the second half of Chapter XXV, but the whole
thing was just becoming too unwieldy. But I have a clear picture of where we're going, and how
we're getting there… in the words of King Henry (*The Lion in Winter*), all I need is a
little quiet confidence.

Beta-work provided by the MiriGrey Proofreading Company, **MirielleGrey****,** president
and CEO. Any mistakes still here are my own fault.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** No, I don't own any part of the Potterverse. But there's a
difference between ownership and stewardship.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXVI: No Turning Back**

*

"You're in a sealed room with Aurors inside and outside," Robards told Doukas with
enforced calm. He kept his movements slow and deliberate, his hands in plain sight; the other MLE
personnel in the room took their cue from him. "Portkeys, Apparation, and Floos are all
blocked. Do you honestly think you're going to leave?"

"As a matter of fact, I think precisely that," said Doukas. "Since surely,
keeping Weasley alive is more important than keeping me prisoner."

Ron, Hermione knew, was for once showing both sense and restraint. He didn't struggle
against his captor, nor did he do anything to remind Doukas of the knife at his exposed neck. Only
the clenched fists at his sides hinted at his eagerness to fight, given the slightest opening.

Doukas's eyes flicked briefly to the Enforcer before the door. "You. Unlock the door,
then step away from it. The rest of you, stay back. Leave your wands where they are." He began
to back slowly towards the door, keeping his face to the room, and keeping Ron as his shield.

Ron gave a dry cough and cleared his throat. "Uh, where are we…?"

"To the Apparation Point in the Atrium. Granger, I expect it to be unblocked by the time I
arrive. Once there, I'll simply release your husband and be away."

"Having Obliviated him as well? That *is* why you sent him that message, asking him to
come to the Ministry today?" Hermione retorted.

"He won't, Hermione," said Ron quickly. "He's just going to Apparate to
safety. No *wand,* remember?" He emphasized this last bit as though relaying a secret
under his captor's nose.

Doukas paused, scowling, just in front of the door. "What are you saying,
Weasley?"

"Er, n-nothing, nothing," Ron stuttered. "Let's go. Sooner you're gone,
the sooner I don't have a knife tickling me."

"Yesssss…" drawled Doukas suspiciously, still paused at the door. "It occurs to
me," he said after a moment, "that you are only shielding me on one side."

"Um, well, there *is* only one of me…"

"And that between here and the Atrium, there are ample opportunities to be attacked from
multiple directions. *Surely* that could not be why you are so eager to be taken
there?"

"Furthest thing from my mind," Ron replied, in the tone of voice Fred and George had
always used to proclaim their own innocence. Hermione was speechless at Ron's seeming
ineptitude – was he *trying* to put Doukas on his guard?!

"Of course. But I think, just to be safe, I will have a wand after all. *Your* wand,
Weasley. Which pocket?"

Ron sighed in defeat. "Front right."

"Excellent. Don't move." Doukas emphasized his last words with a slight increase
in pressure on the knife tip into Ron's throat. Ron stood perfectly motionless as Doukas
reached around him, into his pocket, and pulled out a wand.

"Now we can go. Your body on one side, a good Shield Charm on the other –
*SKATA!*" As Doukas tried to use the wand to cast his shield, without warning it turned
into a foot-long rubber haddock. In that instant of surprise, Ron shoved the hand holding the knife
away from his throat, bent at the waist, and kicked backwards at Doukas's knee.

Doukas avoided the kick, but Ron's action gave the others in the room a clear shot at
Doukas's torso – and Montagu, Robards and Hermione all fired their Stunners at the same moment.
Dropping the fish and the knife, Doukas collapsed to the floor.

Ron, still standing, looked behind him at the fallen wizard. Then he stooped and retrieved the
haddock, which he displayed to the room with a flourish. "Weasley's Wizarding
Wheezes," he cheerfully proclaimed. "Accept no substitutes."

*

*We should all have seen it,* Harry imagined himself explaining to Hermione. *I mean, the
Hallows are artifacts made by Death and given to mortals. Right? So what does that make the
Arch?*

He smiled to himself as he imagined Hermione's response, and his reply. *No, it wasn't
in the story of The Three Brothers, but so? Maybe the Arch wasn't made at the same time as the
Wand, the Cloak and the Stone, or for the same reason… but Death* had *to've had a hand in
its making. You can't tell me a physical portal to Death's kingdom could be built without
Death's permission! Quacks like a duck, waddles like a duck… it's a Hallow.*

He stood and stepped to the door again. Extending both hands, he pressed them against the
barrier and leaned his weight into it. It was a bit odd, his hands feeling nothing solid but his
body's weight supported from falling. He fixed his eyes on the fluttering Veil, allowing its
random movements to mesmerize him.

*For some reason, then, it must not want the other Hallows to join it. It's keeping them
out – keeping me out, and keeping out everyone else, too, just in case. But again, why me? Is the
Arch afraid I'm going to master it, the same way I mastered the other Hallows? Don't see
how I could. It's a bit large to "possess"… I certainly couldn't cart it around
as I do the first three.*

*But… but if I controlled access to it, that'd be mastering it, wouldn't it? Deciding
which souls went Onward, which ones were trapped here… wow. Talk about playing God. If I controlled
all four Hallows, I really* would *be Death's vizier. Hell, what could Death do that I
couldn't?*

It took a few seconds for this last bit of internal dialogue to be fully absorbed into
Harry's head. When it did, he suddenly found it difficult to breathe. He must have turned very
pale, because Canby noticed. "Mister, um, sir? Is everything all right?"

Harry couldn't summon the coherence to answer, even to shake his head. *Oh. My. GOD. The
effects the Hallows are having on me! Not feeling emotion, not sleeping, not stopped by wards…
Hermione was right, at some point I'd probably stop eating. But the Hallows aren't drawing
me into Death's realm.*

*They're changing me* into *Death.*

*

The two Aurors had taken Doukas to the holding cells, and there was a notable relaxation in the
air of the conference room. "Well, now that your criminal has been captured, Gawaine,"
said Zabini with an almost affable nod to Ron, "perhaps you should authorize lifting the
lockdown." He didn't wait for a reply, but turned to Shacklebolt. "Obviously, sir,
this appalling turn of events has disrupted the Conference's morning session. I'd like to
reschedule it to reconvene this afternoon, let's say at two." In a lower, confidential
voice he added, "That will give me time to make sure Miss Weasley's doing all
right."

Zabini again didn't wait for a reply, but turned to address the assembled delegates. He
opened his mouth to speak, then paused and looked expectantly at Robards. "The
lockdown?"

Robards, in turn, looked inquiringly at Hermione. She inhaled deeply. *This is it,* she
thought, *showtime**.* "There are still some threads that need untangling. I'm
keeping the lockdown in place until then. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's
necessary."

"Necessary *how,* Granger?" Zabini demanded. "You *have* the culprit.
You'll soon have the proof. What more do you need?"

"A great deal." She raised her voice so that all in the room could hear. For her plan
to work, she needed the audience. "Let's start with the fundamentals. Why were we
attacked? Me, Ginny Weasley… and Ron was set up to be attacked, with a letter luring him here
today. Why?"

Zabini shrugged. "Ask the prisoner. With Veritaserum, you should get the answers you
want."

*Possibly not,* Hermione thought to herself. *Doukas's* *incriminating memories
have likely been sequestered, just as Lovinett's were.* But this wasn't the moment to
bring up that suggestion. "Fortunately, we already know why we were attacked. Remember,
Doukas's intent wasn't physical harm, it was Obliviation. That's the Cartel's
*modus operandi.* Their calling card, if you will."

"Ah yes, the international Cartel of crime." Without being overt, Zabini made it sound
like something from a cheap detective thriller. "I understand there've been rumours of
such a thing, but not much in the way of evidence." He looked around at the delegates and
spoke to them. "There's certainly enough crime already crossing our borders… more than
enough to require our full attention. No need to compound the problem by assuming the existence of
criminal masterminds, surely?"

"Not so much of an assumption," came a voice from the crowd, and Volshev stepped
forward. "I admit I was skeptical at first, but when your Minister contacted our Minister
personally, I started taking it seriously. A little digging showed several cases, unsatisfactorily
resolved… but easily explained, once we took Memory Charms into account. Memory Charms which would
have to have been carefully orchestrated by a central authority."

The delegate from Denmark nodded in agreement. She lifted a file so all could see the case
records she'd brought.

"Fine," chuckled Zabini, raising his hands in acquiescence, "fine. A Cartel.
We'll make certain to give it higher priority when we set our agenda this afternoon. Along with
our other pressing items…"

"I can't think of a more pressing item than a secret organization, flouting national
boundaries and laws, attacking our citizens at will," Hermione shot back.

For the first time, Zabini looked irritated. "You're placing an awful lot of credence
on some unconnected case files and the ravings of a Knockturn Alley pimp."

"Swivingham, you mean? You call them ravings? He did say he took his orders from the Cartel
Lords…"

"Of course he did! He'd say anything to keep from going to Azkaban. He was
desperate."

"Possibly." Hermione smiled sweetly. "On the other hand, he insisted that his
becoming an informant be kept secret. He only told me and his attorney. Edwin Lovinett. Where did
you hear about it, Zabini?" She paused, and helpfully added, "It wasn't from
me."

His face darkened, but he made no reply.

"One might conclude it was from Lovinett, I suppose," she continued thoughtfully.
"But Lovinett wasn't just Swivingham's attorney, he was Swivingham's
*murderer.* He went into Swivingham's cell ready to cast the Imperius Curse, and force his
client to kill himself. Which is odd, since Swivingham told Lovinett about the Cartel Lords the
same moment he told me – Lovinett couldn't have gone in *prepared* to kill him. And
moreover, Lovinett didn't seem to remember the conversation afterwards."

"Memory Charms," said Robards with a nod.

"Exactly. As Direktor Volshev put it, it's easily explained once Memory Charms are
taken into account. Lovinett's in custody now…" Hermione noted with satisfaction how
Zabini had gone very still at this. "And it turns out his memories were sequestered – by an
expert. Fortunately, we have experts of our own." She deliberately left it there, not offering
specifics.

"Wait then, wait," broke in Ron. "So this Greek chappie who nearly cut my throat
just now – you're saying he wrote the note to me, to get me here, to Obliviate anything Ginny
*might* have told me about Swivingham? And he Obliviated Ginny?"

"And tried to Obliviate me, too, yes," Hermione reminded him, somewhat tartly.
"All to get at one specific memory of Ginny's."

"Not to mention my own Obliviation," Robards put in, "about Swivingham's
agreement to testify against the Cartel Lords. Which was done the same night he was murdered – all
less than twenty-four hours after he talked to Granger. How *did* you learn about
Swivingham's agreement, Zabini?"

"Hey, maybe it was from Swivingham himself!" Ron loudly suggested. "Swivingham
*did* attend your Fire Parties, after all."

"I don't appreciate your insinuation!" shouted Zabini angrily. "As though a…
a lowlife scum like him would *ever* be invited as a guest in my home!"

"Not a guest," grinned Ron. "More like a caterer?"

"Weasley…!" Zabini began, then visibly took hold of himself. He turned to Shacklebolt
and said, with icy dignity, "Sir, these are innuendo, pure mudslinging – charges that they
can't prove and I can't defend. *Worse* than slander, they're irrelevant to any of
our discussions on international crime, much less a nebulous Cartel."

"'Irrelevant'? Hardly," rejoined Hermione. "And you, of all people,
should know that I don’t make charges that I can't prove." *Eventually,* she amended
silently, and raised a hand. "But to answer the Head's question: I'm well aware that
you didn't hear about Swivingham's deal from Lovinett." With a smile, she dropped her
bombshell. "Lovinett heard about it from you."

There was a moment of silence in the room as Hermione's words were digested – silence that
immediately exploded into an uproar of voices, all demanding to know what Hermione meant. She had
to raise both hands and call out several times before the hubbub subsided.

"Zabini knew on Friday night that Swivingham's elves would testify against him at his
trial," she said, ticking off the points on her fingers. "He realized that Swivingham
would plea-bargain with the Ministry: offer to lay information against the Cartel Lords in exchange
for immunity. Zabini contacted Lovinett, and arranged for him to eliminate Swivingham – and to
allow his memory of their agreement to be sequestered, so that he'd do the job never
consciously knowing any of the details."

"Ridiculous!" Zabini scoffed, but Hermione saw a tic growing in one eye, and knew
she'd cracked his façade. *This might work after all,* she assured herself.

"It might be, if it weren't true," she shot back at once, not giving him a
moment's respite. "You ordered Swivingham's murder, and you ordered the Obliviation of
Head Robards as follow-up. You tried to have *me* Obliviated that same night, as well… and
today you almost succeeded."

"That… that is utter slander!" he shouted.

"It's only slander if it's not true!" Ron shouted back. Hermione shot him a
quelling look, and he subsided for the moment.

She resumed, "As I said, Obliviation is the calling card of the Cartel Lords. I would
imagine it was ibn al-Afrit who ordered it." Zabini sucked in breath as though struck in the
stomach, and Hermione knew she'd struck home. She pressed her advantage. "It's his
style. Castigni, after all, is more the bludgeoning type."

"Castigni?" asked the delegate from Italy, suddenly alert. "Ibn
al-Afrit?"

"Lords of the Cartel," declared Hermione to the room at large. "International
Lords of Crime. Invisible, all-pervasive – and associates of Blaise Zabini. They were guests at
your manor last Friday, when you plotted together to protect your secrets – by murdering Jack
Swivingham!"

"*LIES!* *LIES!* You have no proof!" Zabini screamed.

She raised her voice to match him. "Ginny Weasley was the proof! She *saw* them… she
*heard* you! *That's* why the Cartel Obliviated her!"

"Easy to say, Granger, *after* her memory's gone! You spin accusations like
cobwebs, with as little substance!"

"I said she was Obliviated – I never said her memory was gone." Hermione reached into
her pocket and pulled out the phial of silvery memory, holding it up for all the room to see.
"She gave it to me, voluntarily, long before this morning's attack. Shall I show it to
everyone now?"

Stunned into silence, Zabini stared in horror at the damning glass bottle in her hand.

"Oh, and rest assured, Zabini," Hermione added, with the air of one delivering the
*coup de grace,* "Ginny Weasley's far from my only witness." With the phial in
one hand, she raised her other hand and snapped her fingers.

And at that prearranged signal, with a loud *crack,* Fatima appeared in the conference room
by Hermione's side. Brillig and the other elves had followed Hermione's instructions
perfectly: Fatima was now dressed only in a diaphanous veil, bound around her waist with a slender
chain. She remained silent, her gaze lowered, as instructed.

It was the final brick in the structure of the bluff Hermione had built. As she'd realized
in the elves' quarters, the one who could most thoroughly implicate Zabini was Zabini himself.
Though she knew she'd eventually have evidence against Zabini, at this moment, she
*didn't* have it. Her only hope was to bluff, to stampede Zabini into incriminating
himself.

Wizards didn't go into the Ministry elves' quarters, and she'd kept her six
witnesses safely away from outside interference. There'd been a slight risk that Zabini had
availed himself of Swivingham's "services" at some point, but Hermione had deemed it
very slight. She was confident Zabini had never seen Fatima before. But he *had* seen her
sister Ayesha: serving drinks to ibn al-Afrit that night in Zabini Manor.

Fatima looked very like her sister, and now they were dressed identically.

Hermione waited for the recognition to dawn in Zabini's face. She gauged his reaction
carefully, and when she saw the first glimmer of panic, she spoke in a quiet but penetrating voice.
"'Amazing, then, that you ever saw the need to approach me, Castigni'," she
quoted, in a fair imitation of Zabini's voice. She smiled as Zabini's eyes snapped to glare
at her. "'Or do you think your gains here would have been as great, or as rapid, without
my aid?'"

"No… no…" He looked around the room wildly, his eyes coming to rest on Kingsley
Shacklebolt. The Minister sat very still in his mobile chair, his expression as deliberately
neutral as a judge's. Zabini breathed deeply and raised himself to his full height, regaining a
measure of poise. "It's a *house-elf,*" Zabini told the Minister, with just the
right touch of disdain… but he couldn't completely rid his voice of something close to
pleading. "It can be ordered to say *anything…*"

"Including the truth." Fatima had raised her gaze to stare stonily at Zabini.
"Was no objection to elves speaking against Swivingham. Should be no objection now."

*Perfect, Fatima,* thought Hermione. She gestured with the phial. "Weasley's
memory. Ibn al-Afrit's elves. Lovinett. All point to one conclusion: you've been working
hand-in-glove with the Cartel Lords. When Swivingham threatened to spill all your secrets, you
ordered him eliminated. You ordered me and Robards Obliviated. You ordered *Ginny*
Obliviated…"

"*No! Not Ginny!* She was to be left alone! I would *never* hurt her, I
*love* her!" Zabini protested.

Hermione smiled her half-smile of victory. She'd done it. She'd pushed Zabini over the
edge – and everyone in the room, including the Minister, had heard what amounted to a tacit
admission of guilt. Hermione opened her mouth to pronounce the indictment…

… and was interrupted by Ron thrusting his furious way forward to confront Zabini. "*You
did this to her, you Slytherin bastard!*" he screamed, drawing his wand.
"*Goddammit**, I* knew *you'd get my sister hurt!*"

"Weasley, stand down!" Shacklebolt commanded.

Ron was too incensed to listen to anyone. He pointed his wand at Zabini's head, who glared
back with a mix of anger and contempt. "Spare me your empty theatrics, you pitiful loser. You
don't *dare* assault me."

For a brief moment Ron stood motionless, face ugly but his hand steady. He might have lowered
his wand, obeying Shacklebolt's order, if Zabini hadn't chosen that moment to add with a
smirk, "After all, even *if* your little wife gave you permission to do it, your
*sister* is the one with balls in your family."

And Zabini immediately raised a Shield, as an enraged Ron fired a series of nasty hexes. He held
the Shield in place at first, not counter-attacking, until Ron realized none of his hexes were
penetrating.

Ron's next curse was *Sectumsempra**.*

"*No,* Ron!" cried Hermione, and moved to intervene. The Conference delegates
were starting to panic, most retreating to the far walls to be out of range of ricocheting curses.
And Zabini, having ducked Ron's more vicious curse, was preparing to respond in kind: his wand
was raised, and aimed at Ron.

Ron fired one more hex, which Zabini deflected. Then Zabini fired three curses in rapid
succession. Ron dodged the first curse while trying to raise his own Shield… and almost had it in
place when the second curse struck. It penetrated the half-formed Shield and sliced open his
shoulder.

Even as Hermione stepped in front of Ron, her own Shield securely in place to cover them both,
she saw in horror that Zabini's third curse hadn't been aimed at her husband. Fatima
clutched her stomach with a gasp, then collapsed to the floor.

"Enough!" yelled Shacklebolt, trying to be heard over the tumult. His voice, gone
reedy and thin, could barely be distinguished. "Zabini, Granger, *stop this.* You're
endangering innocent bystanders!"

"I am not some ruffian to be set upon this way! *Stupefy!*" Zabini launched a
Stunner at Hermione, but her Shield held firm, deflecting the spell into the floor. "Stand
down, Granger! Your imbecilic husband fired first!"

Her only reply was a Stunner of her own. Again, Zabini blocked it.

"*ENOUGH, I say!*" Shacklebolt had reached the limit of his patience. He stood
from his chair – and though his legs were shaky, the hand holding his wand was perfectly steady
with years of Auror practice. "*Incarcerous**!*"

Instantly, heavy ropes shot through the air, to entangle themselves around Hermione and Zabini.
Bound from ankles to shoulders, arms pinned to their sides, the two adversaries glared at each
other for one more moment before each lost their balance and fell to the floor.

"Brawling – in the very heart of the Ministry – putting bystanders at risk!"
Shacklebolt snapped, trembling with outrage. He paused a moment, wheezing for breath, and
continued, "Granger, I am appalled. Of all people, *you* should know better! And Zabini,
even if you *were* defending yourself, your actions only compound the charges against
you!" He paused again, gave a quiet gasp, and began once more, "Gawaine…" Then he
stopped, gasped again, and fell heavily back into his wheelchair, one hand pressed to his
chest.

*

Robards hadn't tried to stop the impromptu duel, once it had started – rather, his primary
concern was to keep the assembled delegates from harm. He'd relaxed, slightly, when Zabini and
Granger were hogtied: let them cool their heads, and the public rebuke would do them both good.
He'd stepped forward to see to Weasley's injury when he heard the Minister's voice
fail.

He turned his head, took in the emergency at a glance, and cast about for the Minister's
Healer. But for once, there was no Healer accompanying Shacklebolt – the Minister had come to the
Conference to meet with the delegates and promote an ideal, and bringing a Healer would have sent
the wrong message. Now, when medical help was needed, there was none in the room. "Call for a
Healer *now!*" he shouted at Montagu, as he sprinted to Shacklebolt's chair and knelt
before it. "Sir? *Sir?*"

*

Zabini narrowed his eyes as he watched the commotion around Shacklebolt's chair. *How
fortunate,* he smiled secretly. *This couldn't be better.* He'd kept hold of his
wand – it was beneath the ropes, but still in his hand, still ready for use. And unlike Weasley,
*he* didn't have to aim it to use it.

"*Incarcerous**,*" he mouthed without sound. He waited a moment, until he
was sure the spell had taken effect… then he slipped the wand between his fingers and snapped it in
two. It would be perfect: with his own wand broken, the spell couldn't be traced, and Kingsley
Shacklebolt would take the blame. And from the sound of things, Shacklebolt wouldn't be
available to defend himself. Then, once the dust had settled, he could smooth over his current
predicament as he always had: a deft word here, a judicious donation there, and always a subliminal
appeal to sympathies that so many wizards still held without even knowing.

*

Hermione had fallen facing away from the Minister's wheelchair. She winced as his rebuke
echoed through the hall: yes, she'd had to engage Zabini in a wandfight, and she'd done her
best to minimize injuries to the bystanders, but she still should have found a way to stop the duel
before it had started. Then Kingsley fell abruptly silent – and Robards was calling for a
Healer.

She tried to roll over, to see what was happening. Suddenly, new ropes appeared, winding
themselves around her neck, her throat, her mouth. Her eyes bulged as the new ropes began to
tighten… slowly, inexorably choking her.

Her cry for help was smothered by the ropes over her mouth. Her struggles to attract attention
were lost amidst the furor around Shacklebolt's collapse. Her wand had fallen from her fingers
when she'd been bound – and her attempt to summon a wandless, non-vocal spell was hampered by
the increasing lack of oxygen.

*No,* she thought desperately as her vision went spotty, went grey, went black, *no,
please. Help me. Somebody help me.*

*Harry…*

*

Harry had given up trying to blast through the barrier by raw power alone. He was trying a new
tactic: letting his magic slither across the barrier like quicksilver. He was probing for fissures,
cracks, any flaw in the barrier's "surface". If he found one, he'd focus all his
resources on breaking that one point. All he needed was a thin tendril of magic reaching to the
Arch, and he'd be able to cancel the barrier, he was sure.

The moment of intense cold took him aback. Harry recognized it immediately, of course: a soul
passing Onward. It had happened before, the first time he'd confronted the barrier. He could
feel the soul's gentle passing, delicate but freezing, as it went through his body, through the
barrier, and (he knew) through the Veil.

Seconds later, right behind the departing soul, came a flurry of tiny creatures, winged and
singing. The threnodies, attracted by the currents of Death. Fleetingly, Harry wondered what they
would have to say about the person whose demise had attracted them…

And then his attention was not so fleeting, as the threnodies' song penetrated his brain.
"*Steadfast and true, like Phoenix song, he strove for right in midst of wrong. Let none the
incorruptible mourn, who kinglike was a warrior born.*"

Harry felt his stomach clench. *"Kinglike". Kingsley? That soul was Kingsley
Shacklebolt? Dear Merlin, I knew he was ill, but I hoped he could last long enough for me to say
goodbye once the Hallows were gone…*

He didn't finish the thought. Another soul had wended its way to the doorway, and again
Harry felt it as it passed. Its touch was feather-soft, as always, and piercingly cold, as always –
but this time, Harry felt a pang as the soul went by, almost as though it were trying to reach out
to him.

He sensed it pass into the Chamber and towards the Arch, and then a new flurry of singing
threnodies swarmed around him. "*She as an equal treated slave, and freedom's rights she
fought to save. Her mind so quick, her heart so brave, her love to Chosen One she
gave.*"

"No," a shocked Harry whispered.

"S-Sir?" asked Canby. The elf stepped back, fearful, as a nimbus of dark green energy
began to form around Harry.

"No." He squeezed his eyes closed, forcing the tears out, and shook his head in
denial. "*No. NO!* She *can't be…!*"

Desperately Harry launched himself at the barrier, and as before was barred from entering the
Chamber. He could *feel* Hermione's soul now, flying through the Chamber and towards the
Veil – flying Onward to Death's dark kingdom. For one anguished moment he even considered using
the Resurrection Stone to stop her soul from departing – but he knew that, even if he succeeded,
having her back that way would be a hollow mockery of what they might have had in life.

With all his vast power, there was nothing Harry could do to swerve her soul one iota from its
path through the Veil.

Its path… through the barrier.

*It's* not *impenetrable!* Harry thought in sudden determination. *The
barrier's* not *impenetrable – a soul going through the Arch passes through the barrier
first. Which means I can go through, too… if my intent isn't to reach the Arch, to possess the
Arch as a Hallow… but to pass through the Arch.*

*Death owes me something for my good behavior all these years, I think. What was it Dumbledore
said? "The true master does not seek to run away from Death." Fine, then. I don't
seek to run from Death – I seek to* meet *Death. Through the Arch!*

Awkwardly, he stumbled forward a step… then another, and another. With Canby watching in growing
terror, Harry walked with increasing purpose through the doorway and into the Chamber… down each of
the many steps that led to the ancient Arch.

*I promised I wouldn't leave you again, Hermione. Wherever you go, there I will follow.
And I* will *rescue you… or die trying.*

And with that vow echoing in his head, he strode up to the Arch and without hesitation plunged
through the Veil.



27. XXVII: In the Land of the Next Great Adventure
--------------------------------------------------

**(A/N:** In this chapter, I did borrow somewhat from another writer – much better than I –
but I gave due credit at the appropriate place. Credit is also due **MirielleGrey****,** the
lovely Beta-reader standing beside Door No.3.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** "No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money," said Samuel
Johnson. I make no money from this work, the characters not being my property, so I must be a
blockhead – albeit a satisfied, well-rewarded (non-monetarily) blockhead.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXVII: In the Land of the Next Great Adventure**

*

Not a photon of light, nor an erg of warmth. Harry could feel his body's energy being
steadily leeched, even as he made his way through absolute darkness. The very air was deadly still:
no drafts, no scents, no sounds but his own footsteps… in what felt like fine sand.

He *thought* he was walking forward in a straight line, but there were no sensory cues to
confirm it. All he had was the Stone, telling him that a soul had passed this way, moments
before.

If the concept of "moments" had any meaning here…

*I wish I could make some light,* Harry started to think, before he caught himself.
He'd become so used to trying to avoid Death's notice… now he realized that, for once, he
*wanted* Death to notice him. And if the Stone was still working, here in the heart of
Death's realm, then the other Hallows should work as well. "*Lumos**,*" he
murmured, and the Elder Wand responded with a bubble of radiance – which revealed absolutely
nothing. Nothing but infinite blackness above, and a flat featureless plain that vanished into
darkness.

Teeth chattering, Harry decided to try a Warming Charm on himself… maybe it would counteract the
numbing cold. He opened his Cloak – *yeah, Death's gotta see me, or how else can I
negotiate?* – and was about to cast the Warming Charm when he realized that he had something
gritty in his hand. He held the Wand, still glowing, closer to his hand for a better look.

It was a handful of crumbling fabric.

Beneath the Cloak, his clothes were disintegrating on his body, literally rotting away by the
second. By the light of his wand, Harry saw his wristwatch corroding into decay – his shoes were
falling apart at the seams – his glasses were disintegrating off his face. He brushed the fragments
away from his eyes with the back of his hand – then looked at his hand in horror, at the swollen
joints and liver spots that had sprung up there.

*My own body's decaying, along with everything else! This – this must be how Sirius died!
The life sucked out of him…*

Harry started to run, still following the Stone's guidance. At the rate his body was
deteriorating, he knew he hadn't very long at all, minutes at best. He *had* to reach his
destination, whatever it was, before then – had to survive long enough to talk to Death, and rescue
Hermione…

He stumbled, fell upon arthritic knees, and forced his aching body to rise and resume
running.

The second time he fell, it was to his hands as well as knees, and he hadn't the strength to
rise again.

Weakness was spreading through his body like basilisk venom. He collapsed flat onto what
he'd thought was sand, and which now turned out to be powdery ash. *Ashes, ashes, we all fall
down,* he thought dizzily.

Numbness was rapidly replacing the weakness. Harry felt like his body was emptying, growing
lighter… his spirit felt airy, ready to fly free. It was, he dimly realized, an oddly familiar
feeling, but the exact memory eluded him…

*Of course!*

He managed to clasp his hands together and get his fingers around the Stone. He turned the ring
three times and mumbled, "Harry Potter." Just as he had in the clearing in the Forbidden
Forest, fifteen years earlier, he pictured his own spirit captured by the ring, given form, wearing
the very Stone that kept it anchored… in this case, to his body.

Never before had Harry attempted to use the Hallows to actively interfere with Death – but he
couldn't help Hermione if he were dead. *And you* did *want to get Death's
attention, old son. Well, if this doesn't get it, nothing will…*

After a moment, he took stock. He was still freezing, but he was getting no weaker… his
condition appeared to have stabilized. Carefully, he got to his feet, eased the Cloak off his body,
and examined himself. His clothes were gone, rotted away, and he looked like a refugee from a
geriatric nudist camp – but he was still alive, alert and functioning. With a shrug, he tied the
pearly-grey Cloak around his waist, more for his dignity's sake than his modesty's, and
began to walk again, as brisk a pace as his aged body could take.

*I could have seen it then, when I "called" myself back to the clearing, if only
I'd thought about it,* he reflected as he trudged. *If I can summon my own soul with the
Stone, then I can keep it in my body. Only my own, I think… when I summoned other souls, I
couldn't move them around like I can my own… but face it, Xenophilius Lovegood was right after
all. The Master of the Deathly Hallows can make himself immortal. Wonder why Voldemort never
tried* that *tactic.*

*Doesn't mean beans if I can't get Hermione back, though.* He forced himself into a
faster pace.

*Really, though, I should have realized it all those years ago. Back in the Forbidden Forest,
when I had just come back from…*

With no transition, the surface beneath his feet changed from soft ash to hard pavement. The air
grew warmer, and the ambient light began to grow, as Harry stopped in place and swung his head
around. *Aw, no… NO. Merlin, it's official. Death has the lamest, tritest, unimaginativest
imagination in the freakin' universe.*

Harry gave a deep, dismayed sigh as he stood at the center of Platform Nine and Three
Quarters.

*Exactly like last time… or no,* he corrected himself, looking more closely, *not
quite.* It was as if the Platform had been sliced out of King's Cross, lifted up, and
planted in the center of an expanse of grasslands. Except for Harry, the platform seemed to be
empty… *almost* empty. Harry could sense the presence of others, but couldn't quite see
them: it was as if they were visible out of the corner of his eye, but vanished when he tried to
look directly at them.

He stepped to the edge of the platform, where the Hogwarts Express stood ready. Except there
were *two* Hogwarts Expresses, side by side on parallel tracks. Curious, Harry walked to the
very end of the platform, his eyes following the tracks as they left the station. Some distance
away, the parallel tracks diverged: one set of tracks led to a distant horizon, with sunlit meadows
and inviting forests. The other tracks led directly into a dark tunnel in the side of a hill, with
no visible exit.

"Good Lord," he said aloud, "could we *get* any more clichéd?"

"Hey, don't blame me," came a voice from just behind him. "This is all out of
your head, not mine."

Harry's head swiveled to see who had spoken. He saw a young woman, early twenties at most,
who might easily have been taken for Harry's younger sister. The mop of unruly, jet-black hair
was the same, as was the slender frame and pale complexion; the eyes, however, weren't green,
but a deep, deep black. Indeed, she favored black, to judge by her Goth-style clothing: skin-tight
black trousers, a black tank-top and short-sleeved jacket that left her midriff uncovered. Her only
bit of color, in fact, was a gold ankh necklace.

She looked down and examined herself, and giggled. "And I must say, I had no idea you were
a Neil Gaiman fan."

"Well, yeah," Harry said dryly. "I was always fond of Timothy Hunter, the
character really resonated with me…"

"I daresay," she replied, equally dry. Her face relaxed into a gentle smile.
"I'm sorry, Harry, I thought you'd appreciate a different setting. I wanted you to
feel comfortable when we talked."

"Thanks." Harry fell silent, watching her. She stood, watching him in return, that
gentle smile on her lips. Harry initially felt the urge to outwait her, not to speak until she
spoke first – but he rejected the notion almost as soon as it occurred to him. Death had infinite
patience, after all – quite literally.

"So," he said after a few moments, "you know why I'm here."

She shrugged one shoulder and waggled a hand. "I've a good idea. Supposing you were to
come out and say it."

"All right. You've got something I want: Hermione Granger. I've got something you
want: three of the Deathly Hallows. I propose an even swap."

"*Three* of the…? Oh." She tutted in amusement. "That silly old Arch. Has it
been acting contrary again? I keep telling it and telling it…"

"Wait, wait… the Arch is *alive?*"

"Well, aware, anyway – as aware as the Elder Wand is, I suppose. And I'm guessing the
Arch has been talking lately? Glowing red runes, yes?" She chuckled at Harry's look of
confusion. "Harry, there are countless artifacts throughout the world that tap into my power,
or interact with my realm. A Shinto shrine in Japan… a holy relic in Rheims… and yes, I suppose you
could call them Deathly Hallows. But no mortal could ever master them – they're
*mine.*"

"Then, the runes? The barrier? Those aren't your doing – that's the Arch?"

"Yeah," she shrugged. "It's just jealous, that's all. It's never
liked the Hallows, doesn't want them around – it thinks they're wastrels or something. And
it has a point. The Arch, all my other artifacts – they're mostly there to make my job easier.
But the three Hallows? They make my job harder."

"So you should be glad of the chance to be rid of them," Harry quickly said, getting
back to his point. "You get what you want, I get what I want. It's a win-win
situation."

She tilted her head to one side, looking like a dark version of Luna. "Except, didn't
you intend to dispose of the Hallows anyway? Hadn't you exiled yourself from your world,
planned to keep them until your death, to put an end to their power? If you were going to get rid
of them in any case, you're not giving up much in trade."

He was tempted to tell her that he *would* be giving up a lot, since the Hallows, the Stone
in particular, were keeping him alive in her realm. He saw no point in admitting that weakness,
however. *Ironic, actually, now I think of it. If I'd only let myself die after coming
through the Arch, I'd have died undefeated, and the Hallows would've lost their power, just
as I'd always intended. 'Course, then I'd have nothing to offer Death – well, that and
I'd already be dead. Details, details…*

"If I'd got rid of them in any case," he responded instead, matching her words and
tone, "wouldn't I have been doing you a favor? All I want is a favor in return."

"You know I don't work that way, Harry," Death sighed ruefully.

"You can. You *have.*" Harry raised his hand to show her the Stone. "If the
tale is true, you made a deal with the Peverell brothers – that's why the Deathly Hallows exist
in the first place."

She scowled at that. "That 'tale', as you so quaintly call it, hardly cast me in
the best light!" Harry didn't speak or move, but continued to hold the Stone where she
could see it, and after a moment she sighed again and relaxed. "But yes, I did give them the
Hallows. Different times, though, Harry… different circumstances."

"But… but there's no reason you couldn't do it again. Please. It's not as
though you won't have her again eventually. I'm asking for a… a reprieve, that's all.
So that we… we can be together in *life.*" He emphasized the last word, making it clear
that being together in death would be a pale substitute. "And I'll hand over the Hallows,
so you'll never have to worry about interference again."

"Hm. Are you saying I should be worried about interference now?"

Her attitude of non-confrontational non-cooperation was getting on Harry's nerves. He spoke
more sharply than he knew was wise. "You know as well as I do that I could make your, um, work
a lot harder. I've already fixed things," Harry gestured one last time with the Stone
before letting his hand fall to his side, "so that you can't take me until I'm ready.
I could block souls from coming here… I could probably send back all the souls already here. I
could…"

"Disrupt the natural order of things in the worst possible way," she broke in mildly.
"Not really a good way to enjoy life with your beloved, is it?"

"I *could,*" he pressed, heedless of her interruption, "even become, well, a
competitor. The Hallows have been good training for your job… and it's like they're
preparing me for it…"

Death rolled her eyes. "Yeeesh, *somebody* thinks well of himself." At his blank
look, she shook her head in mock sorrow. "Harry, you can't carry around powerful tokens
like the Hallows and not feel *some* affects. *Yes,* you took on some of my attributes –
so? You got Parseltongue from Riddle – you took on some of *his* attributes – did that make
you a Dark Lord?" She put her hands on her hips and gave him an exasperated snort. "And
once again, you're not giving up much in trade. You were worried you'd *have* to
become me. Giving up something you didn't want in the first place? Harry, Harry,
Harry…"

By reflex, Harry began to run his fingers through his hair. He hastily dropped his hands when he
realized how little hair he now had left. "I'd say it's more important whether
*you* want it."

"Point, that." She gazed at him, the gentle smile returned to her lips but her eyes
somber, and said nothing more.

He was moved to make one last appeal. "But I *don't* want any of that. I don't
want to disrupt the natural order, like you said. I don't want to fight you for your job… or
for anything else. That way, neither of us wins. My way, we both win. It's better to cooperate
than fight, right?"

Her smile turned wistful. "I'm sorry, Harry," she said after another pause.
"I can't make deals."

*Well, there it is. Some Master of Death* I *turned out to be.*

Feeling hopeless, Harry looked around the platform. If he squinted, he could now see a multitude
of faint shapes, barely visible – human shapes, but barely present, far less substantial even than
ghosts. He couldn't make out any details beyond the fact they were there – he certainly
couldn't identify any individual. Each of them seemed to each be carrying a tiny candle, a
flickering flame held close to their breasts. They were queued up on the platform, waiting to board
one of the two trains.

He turned back to Death. She was still standing there, still with that wistful smile on her
face. She gave no sign that she was expecting him to do anything – indeed, her casual attitude
suggested there was nothing he *could* do – but on the other hand, she wasn't rejecting
him, either. She hadn't dispelled Platform Nine and Three Quarters, for instance.

*Master of Death.* The words insisted on repeating themselves in his head. *Master.*
*Of. Death. It's such a ridiculous concept, when you think about it – how can anyone
"master" a universal presence? And it* is *universal: even worlds, even stars,
eventually die. Death has eternity. It literally* can't *lose.*

*But…* the idea percolated into his mind, *but that doesn't necessarily mean it has
to win.*

*You can't have a winner, after all, if there's no contest.*

*To defeat Death, all you have to do is die.*

With a deep breath, Harry drew himself up. He looked her in the eye as, with a businesslike air,
he untied the Cloak and let it fall to the ground. He dropped the Elder Wand onto the folds of
cloth. Still holding her gaze – if only to keep it from wandering – he pulled the ring off his
finger and displayed it before her. Then wordlessly he opened his fingers and let the Stone fall to
join the other two Hallows.

Her gaze *did* wander downwards for a second, but her only reaction was a slightly raised
eyebrow and a slightly wider smile. Then she was opening her arms to him, and without hesitation he
walked into Death's embrace.

It was actually quite nice: her chosen avatar had snuggly curves in all the right places, and
the body felt warm and yielding in his arms. He felt his consciousness, his *being,* begin to
blur, but strangely felt no fear. After all, there was nothing to be afraid *of…* it
wasn't as though he hadn't done this before…

*And at least I'll be with Hermione again…*

Abruptly, he felt his mind grow sharper, and his body more… more solid, for want of a better
term. Death had taken a step back from him, and now there was mirth in her eyes to match the grin
on her lips. "An unconditional act," she said, with a note of approval. "You yielded
the Hallows without surrendering them. You were giving in without in the least giving up – and with
love still foremost in your heart. Love." She gave a low, musical laugh. "You'd think
I'd have learned by now."

Harry was almost afraid of the hope that was starting to blossom inside him. "Does this
mean…?"

She nodded, then turned serious. "But Harry – I have to make this clear. The next time we
meet, it'll be for keeps. The final curtain. Department of Doornails. No more special
consideration for former masters of Deathly Hallows. Got it?"

"Got it." He glanced down at his wizened body and grimaced. "Not that you'll
have to wait very long, with my new age. But as long as I can spend the rest of my life with
her…"

"Let me worry about that."

He nodded thanks, and started to turn to the throngs of nearly invisible presences queued on the
platform – though, he suddenly realized, without the Stone he shouldn't be able to see them –
unless Death was taking care of that detail for him. He stopped as Death cleared her throat
meaningfully. He turned back to her, only to see her looking small and forlorn, with big hopeful
eyes fixed on him.

"Harry?" she asked in a little-girl voice. "Don't I get a thank-you
kiss?"

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. "*Now* who's being cliché?"

She tried to pout at him, which was difficult to do given the mischievous grin that kept
breaking out on her face. Really, for an anthropomorphic manifestation of a metaphysical
abstraction, she was actually pretty cute.

After a moment, they both burst out laughing, and she took his arm. "Come on, hero.
Let's collect Hermione, and the two of you can go back together. You should probably think
about what you're going to say when you arrive."



28. XXVIII:  Life Is Details
----------------------------

**(A/N:** My last few weeks have been, without fear of exaggeration, Total Chaos. My sincere
thanks to all of you for your patience… and to **MirielleGrey****,** my alpha-and-omega
beta.

For those who haven't been tracking the story's internal chronology, this chapter (like
the last couple) takes place on 19 Sept 2013. Yes, I did it on purpose.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** All right, we'll settle this by majority vote. If you think Harry and
Hermione belong to Jo Rowling, raise your left hand. If you think they belong to me, raise your
right hand. If you think Harry and Hermione belong to each other… *vox* *populi vox
dei.***)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXVIII: Life Is Details**

*

Eldritch would probably have stayed in his office in the Department of Mysteries, obedient to
the Ministry's lockdown protocols, if he hadn't heard the clap of thunder from the Death
Chamber. He'd spent too much time and effort trying to solve that particular Mystery to ignore
a signal like that, Ministry protocols be damned.

Stopping only to collect his spell residue detector, he ran down the corridor to the Chamber
door. The Number Two Analyzer stood to one side – and some fool had turned it off! A quick flick of
his wand and it resumed its function. Eldritch saw one of the Ministry house-elves standing near
the door, but gave it no more mind than usual… the elves knew by now, surely, about the impassible
barrier across the door…

And as he thought of it, he absently brushed his fingers across the barrier – and nearly fell on
his face, as his fingers encountered no resistance. The barrier… was *gone.*

He looked into the Chamber. The Arch was still there, but the Veil – the Veil wasn't merely
fluttering as though in a gentle breeze, as it usually did. It was flapping wildly as though in a
gale! The sight so astonished Eldritch that, for a moment, he didn't notice what had changed in
the Chamber.

When he did notice, he shouted over his shoulder without taking his eyes off the scene.
"Brymston! Michaels! Come here *now!*" He crouched down, using the doorframe as
cover, and kept his wand trained on the Arch. Eldritch hoped he wouldn't need reinforcements,
but at this point, he didn't know *what* to expect.

For the runes had vanished. The Arch had resumed its former appearance: ancient, featureless
stone once again.

And *something* besides wind was disturbing the Veil. For the first time in the recorded
history of any magical race, something was coming *out* of the Arch.

*

The cold air smote Harry's bare skin, and he squinted into the light as he emerged from the
Arch. His hands were close to his breast, cupped together, sheltering what looked like a candle
flame without a candle. He couldn't travel magically and carry it – no Apparation of any sort –
he would have to walk, as fast as he dared without losing that tiny flame.

Urgency seemed to lend strength to his old bones: he found himself taking the stairs out of the
Chamber two at a time. There were Unspeakables at the door, whom he ignored: his gaze was fixed on
Canby. "Where is Hermione?" he asked, his voice tight.

"C-c-conference room, s-sir," stuttered the elf.

"Clear the way for me."

Canby nodded sharply and dashed away. Harry started to follow. One of the Unspeakables made a
move to block his way, to ask some question, to hinder him for some totally inconsequential
reason.

Harry spared him one glance.

The Unspeakable hastily stepped back. Harry didn't break stride… he walked rapidly after
Canby, keeping his precious cargo safe. Canby made sure every door was open, every corridor
cleared, so that Harry didn't have to do anything but keep walking.

He looked neither right nor left at the eyes he knew would be staring at him. Panic was growing
deep in his stomach, panic born of an irrational fear of being noticed, of being crowded, of
*crowds.* But Harry kept his roiling anxiety under iron control, so that it neither showed in
his face nor slowed his steps. He allowed himself to think of nothing but his goal.

*Hermione.*

By the time he reached the conference room on the Atrium level, he knew he was being followed by
a pack of curious Ministry employees, with Eldritch and his team of Unforgivables at the lead. He
ignored them, as he swept his eyes across the scene before him, picking out individual tableaux
from the chaos and confusion:

There was Ron, sitting on the floor, one hand holding a bloodied shoulder, while a green-robed
wizard, presumably a Healer, probed the wound with his wand.

There was Fatima, lying flat on the floor, motionless – unconscious or dead, Harry couldn't
tell – with a gaggle of house-elves clumped around her. Harry couldn't see what they were
doing, but it didn't bode well for the elf.

There was Kingsley Shacklebolt. His wheelchair's back had been folded (or Transfigured)
back, and its leg supports brought up – turning the chair into a functional hospital gurney. His
body lay upon it, stilled in death; Gawaine Robards was pulling Kingsley's cloak over his face
with an air of sad finality.

There… *there* was Hermione. A crowd of witches and wizards, some from the delegations,
others from the Ministry, were standing around her body; their faces showed everything from
bewilderment to shock to sorrow. Croaker was kneeling next to her, cutting away the last of the
ropes. He was making tiny adjustments to her limp hands and feet, straightening her body and making
it lie neatly… an oddly touching gesture from the inscrutable Head of the Unspeakables.

But all activity, all conversation, all movement ceased when Harry entered the room. Harry told
himself that it was the sight of a naked old man that had seized their attention: surely, in his
current state of decrepitude, no one would identify him as the young hero dead these many
years.

Canby had begun to lead Harry to where Hermione lay – then, seeing Harry stride quickly to her
side, moved away to join the elves around Fatima's body. Harry didn't notice… nor would
have noticed if a pack of dinosaurs had chosen that moment to stampede through the conference room.
His attention was far more focused on Hermione than it had ever been on a Golden Snitch.

Croaker made no move to get out of the way as Harry approached. Harry ignored him. Kneeling
beside Hermione's body, he brought his cupped hands from his breast to hers. Cautiously he
opened his hands, releasing the tiny spark of light he held between them… the spark drifted
downwards, and seemed to hesitate for an instant before it was absorbed into her body.

Her chest rose and fell. Hermione gave a husky cough, licked her lips, and forced her eyes to
open. "H-Ha…?" she whispered.

His sense of relief was so sudden, and so complete, that he almost felt he'd gone
weightless. The knots of anxiety in his stomach dissolved away, and he found his face actually
*relaxing* into a smile. "Hi," he said softly, as though the two of them were alone
in the universe.

"I…" Hermione struggled to sit up. Her eyes never left Harry's face. "I
thought I'd…"

"Well, yeah," he nodded, "but it's all right now." Gently he caught a
stray wisp of her hair and tucked it behind her ear. His smile broadened as a touch of pink colored
her cheeks. "Happy Rebirthday, Hermione."

He was expecting what happened next, and so wasn't surprised when she flung her arms around
his neck and squeezed him hard enough to cause his vision to blur. As much as he wanted to return
the favor, Harry couldn't help but feel that a freshly revivified body was a fragile thing… so
he kept his own embrace exquisitely gentle, but no less heartfelt.

It was also an embarrassing reminder that he was still naked as the day he was born. Without
breaking out of the hug, Harry raised his voice. "I, erm, I don't suppose anyone has a
cloak I could use?"

"Here," came a voice Harry recognized, and a cloak draped itself over his shoulders.
Harry looked around to see Ron standing next to him, staring down in incredulity. His shirt had
been cut away from his shoulder, where a faint scar was the only remnant of his wound.
"She's not dead after all… and you… sweet Merlin, it's not possible…!"

"He came out of the Arch!" The words burst out of Eldritch in a sort of agitated awe.
"He came from *beyond* the Veil! We all witnessed it!"

Croaker's attention was now pinned on Harry. He forced himself to ignore Croaker as he
slowly stood to face Ron. He drew the borrowed cloak closed around him. "Yeah, Ron, it's
me. Harry."

"No… no, you're dead! I mean, *Harry's* dead!"

Harry sighed and looked around the room. Everyone was watching and listening, even those who had
arrived to take charge of Shacklebolt's body. Harry had taken Death's suggestion seriously,
and had spent the time walking back to the Arch coming up with a story he *hoped* was
plausible. "In the sense that I was beyond the Veil, Ron, I *was* dead."

He pitched his voice slightly louder so that the entire room could hear. "When I left
Hogwarts that night to face Voldemort – I hope you got my last message, Ron, where I said I was one
of Voldemort's Horcruxes? – anyway, when I faced him, I knew he couldn't be beaten unless I
died by his hand. And Voldemort *did* hit me with the *Avada* *Kedavra* – but it
didn't simply kill my body." He gestured with one hand from his head to his feet. "I
don't know whether it was a reaction between his spell and the Horcrux magic, or our connection
through my scar… but he ended up sending me *physically,* soul *and* body, into the realm
of Death. And that's where I've been ever since… until now."

Harry glanced down at Hermione, trying to rise from the floor, and offered her his hand.
"When Hermione died," he said, pulling her to her feet, and squeezing her hand slightly
to warn her of what he was doing, "I sensed her soul… and the way it came into Death's
realm showed me the way out, as well. And I brought her with me, and now… now we're *both*
back." He gave Ron a lopsided grin – which, though he didn't intend it, dispelled most of
Ron's doubts by its authenticity. "Came back late, maybe… but we're back."

"A living human, spending fifteen years in the land of the dead," Croaker said slowly
as he likewise stood. "Almost unbelievable… but if he *did* emerge through the
Veil…" Croaker glanced at Eldritch for confirmation; Eldritch nodded once, firmly.

"*NO!* This is *lunacy!*" Blaise Zabini had been released from his ropes,
and now stood to one side with a Magical Law Enforcer holding either arm. "This is the
imposter that Granger found to play Potter, to gain the house-elves' testimony! Everyone in the
Ministry knows about it!"

"Why don't you shut up," growled Robards.

"Listen to me, all of you! This is just another of Granger's tricks! How can you be so
gullible?!"

"His tale's easy enough to prove," said Hermione briskly. Harry was pleased to see
that she'd recovered some strength; at any rate, she seemed her usual businesslike self. And
she'd picked up on his story without batting an eyelid. "If this is Harry, then the body
that's in Harry's tomb can't be real. I'm guessing, when Voldemort realized
he'd sent Harry to the Nether World, he created a replica of Harry's body – he *had*
to show us a body, or we'd never believe he'd defeated Harry." Hermione gave her tight
half-smile. "Plus, there are other tests of identity we can use… Gringotts is particularly
good at that sort of testing."

"Yeah, okay… but I don't think it's necessary," said Ron. With a slowly
growing grin, he reached out a hand to clap Harry's shoulder. "It's you – it's
really you! And Merlin, *look* at you! If you've been on the other side of the Veil all
this time, hell, that explains…!" He made vague gestures at Harry's face.

"Right," said Harry, returning Ron's smile, glad that his explanation was being
accepted. "That explains the way I look… my age…"

"Tell me about it," Ron interrupted, growing excited. "I mean, you haven't
aged a *day.*"

Harry blinked. He looked down at the hand that still held Hermione's. It wasn't the
veined and age-spotted hand of the ultra-centenarian he'd been when he'd confronted Death.
It wasn't even the calloused hand of the thirty-something *sous**-chef de cuisine*
he'd been just a month earlier. It was the hand of the teenager he'd been when Voldemort
had killed him… the hand of a seventh-year Hogwarts student.

The voice of a laughing young woman sounded in the back of his mind: "Retirement benefits…
and thanks for taking such good care of my Hallows." Which was a nice gesture on Death's
part, but Harry would have appreciated a little more warning.

He looked up from their clasped hands to give Hermione a nervous smile. Strangely, she
didn't return it. Rather, she delicately disengaged their hands and took a step away. She was
looking, not at him, but at the various Ministry Department Heads present in the room, waiting for
one to take control of the chaotic situation.

"Right, then," she said after a moment. "Gawain, as the senior Department Head
present, I'd be grateful if you could make the arrangements for Kingsley… funeral, his family,
you know what needs to be done. Canby? About Fatima…?"

"Elves will make the arrangements, Miss Hermione," said Canby somberly. The other
house-elves gathered around Fatima's body nodded in sad agreement.

Hermione nodded her thanks in return. "I'm sorry," she told Canby quietly, then
shifted to Croaker. "Harry," she said, keeping her eyes on the Unspeakable, "it
might be best if you were to go with Croaker here, so that he can confirm your identity. You'll
arrange for a Gringotts goblin, Croaker?"

"I will," said Croaker evenly. "And my department may also have a few questions
for Mr. Potter, regarding his experience."

Harry wanted nothing less. As far as he was concerned, it hardly mattered whether the wizarding
world acknowledged his return – and he did *not* want to answer anyone's questions
regarding the Afterlife. The gawking wizards and witches around him were causing him to grow
anxious again, and he was strongly tempted to simply Apparate away – but he'd started this
little drama, and he owed it to Hermione to play it to its end. Though why Hermione was refusing to
look at him…

As he allowed Croaker to lead him away, he might have taken some comfort in the fact that
Hermione *did* look at him, watching him leave. She waited until Harry was gone before turning
to Montgu, the Auror.

"Montagu," she continued, and there was steel in her manner now, "take Zabini to
a holding cell. I want it, and him, stripped of *anything* that could harm so much as a mouse.
I want *no one* in that cell except Zabini. Outside the cell I want a three-man guard watching
him at all times – and I *mean* at all times, twenty-four hours a day – and with staggered
rotation of shifts. I want his food, his drink – hell, I want his *air* triple-checked for
toxins. We are *not* having a repeat of the debacle with Swivingham!"

"Got it," Montagu replied smartly, and he joined the two Enforcers in escorting Zabini
away.

There was a pause, as Hermione surveyed the assembled delegates to the International Conference.
Before she could decide on the best way to address them, however, Volshev turned to face his
fellows. "The aims of our Conference were good," he said smoothly. "They still are,
and I would suggest we ought still to convene to discuss them. With all that has just happened
within the British Ministry, however," here he gave a slight half-bow to Hermione, "I
cannot help but think that we should reschedule for a later time. Does this meet with
everyone's approval?"

From the general nods and murmurs of agreement, it did indeed. "Needless to say,"
added the French delegate, "we hope you will accept our sincere condolences for the death of
Minister Shacklebolt. He was a formidable leader. He will be sorely missed."

"Thank you," said Robards. He glanced at Hermione and lowered his voice. "Madam
Granger, it looks like things are under control for now. No one would think less of you if you
needed a quiet moment to yourself, after what's happened…"

"I'm fine, Gawain," Hermione began, then wavered… so much *had* happened, it
was true… "Promise you'll call for me if…?"

Ron stepped forward and tugged on Hermione's arm. "They will. They always do.
C'mon, love, a few minutes' kip in your office and you'll feel like a new
woman."

*

*If Death was going to give me a new body,* Harry thought irritably, *it would've
been nice to get new eyes, too.*

His little sojourn beyond the Veil had resulted in the disintegration of everything he'd
been carrying or wearing, including his glasses – as a result, he was developing a headache from
squinting at his surroundings. Right now, he was squinting at Artok, the goblin sent from the
Trusts and Wills section of Gringotts Bank. Artok seemed to require a great many drops of
Harry's blood for his tests, and Harry was running out of fingertips to prick.

"He is definitely an heir to the Potter family vault," Artok reported at length.

Eldritch and Hopkirk, from the Magical Records Office, looked at one another. "Well, James
Potter was the last of the direct male line," said Hopkirk, "and he only had one son,
Harry Potter."

Artok smiled toothily, which among goblins was not a warm or friendly expression. "Which is
not conclusive. Harry Potter could himself have fathered sons before he died."

Harry snorted. "Riiiight. Simple arithmetic says I would have had to 'father' any
kids when I was fifteen, if they're to be my age today. And the professors at Hogwarts really
try to discourage fifth-years from shagging – much less procreating. Not that I was emotionally
ready to shag *anyone* that year." *Not even Cho,* he added silently, *nor she
with me. Certainly not anyone else.* "And besides, if I *had* got a girl pregnant at
the age of fifteen, do you really think she'd have kept it quiet all these years?"

"I've yet to fully comprehend why you humans do *any* of the things you do,"
Artok retorted. "All I know from these tests is that you are a scion of the Potter
bloodline."

"Well, why don't we see if I can open the Potter heirloom chest, which was specifically
charmed by James and Lily Potter so that only their son Harry could open it?" Harry countered.
"Or would that be too obvious a solution?"

Artok glared suspiciously at Harry. "How did you know about…?"

"Gee, maybe because I *am* their son Harry?"

Harry and Artok matched glares for a few moments, before the goblin turned to Hopkirk. "If
he can open the Potter heirloom chest, *that* will be conclusive proof. The difficulty, of
course, is that the chest is no longer in the Potter family vault – strictly speaking, there
*is* no Potter family vault any more, its ownership having been transferred under the terms of
Harry Potter's will."

Harry couldn't help laughing, though it sounded far from amused. "So I can't get
into the vault unless I can open the chest, and I can't get to the chest unless I can get into
the vault? I think the Muggles call that a 'Catch-22' for some reason."

"Whatever," said Hopkirk with a shake of her head. "Can we get authorization to
take this gentleman into the vault, then? From whomever *is* the current owner?"

"Well, yes," grudged Artok. "I can send a message to my superiors, who will
arrange to contact the current owner. I couldn't tell you how long it will take…"

"Please send your message at once, then," Eldritch told the goblin. "In the
meantime, Mr., er, Potter, do you think you might answer some questions we have about the
Arch?"

"In the meantime," snapped Harry, "do you think I might get some
*clothes?*" He was still wearing nothing more than the cloak Ron had loaned him.

Eldritch looked mortified. "I'm sorry about that, but Head Croaker was concerned that
any disturbance in your ambient environment might affect Mr. Artok's determination."

*That does it. That bloody well does it.* Harry closed his eyes and prepared to Apparate to
Jacob Clayman's flat (he still thought of it that way), both to get a change of clothes and to
get *away.* Away from the probing, prodding, and poking… away from the sodding Ministry…

A moment later, he remained unmoved, still seated in a featureless room within the Department of
Mysteries.

He barely suppressed a groan. *You're not the Master of the Hallows any more, old son.
Wards and barriers affect you like they do everyone else, now. You'll have to make your way to
the Ministry's Apparation Point – even assuming the lockdown's been lifted.*

*Still… I wonder if Eldritch could wrap his mind around the concept that the domain of Death
looks exactly like King's Cross station.*

*

The lift doors had barely closed when Ron's arms encircled Hermione and held her close.
"Oh, Merlin," he breathed, "I thought you were gone forever…"

"I thought I was gone, too," admitted Hermione softly. She said nothing more, and
while she didn't push Ron away, she didn't exactly yield to his embrace, either. Ron
didn't persist.

He led her to her rooms, past a wide-eyed Sheryl (giving her a look that begged for privacy),
and into her private office, closing the door behind them. There was no place in the office to lie
down, he noted, but her desk chair was plush, and could be set to lean back… it would have to do.
Ron led Hermione straight to the chair and watched as she allowed herself to collapse into it.

In truth, Hermione would have liked nothing better than to curl up in fetal position and make
the world retreat for a few hours. She had died – and more to the point, she *remembered*
dying. She vividly remembered the process of dying, and she certainly remembered being *dead.*
She recalled what seemed like floating in ice-cold water, slowly drifting towards a distant ray of
light, inviting and warm – only to be plucked from the water and held safely in two hands, kept
snug and sheltered as she was taken away from that seductive light back to the living world.

She'd known full well whose hands had carried her home: The same hands that had embraced her
upon her return to life, the arms that had enfolded her in love. Ron's embrace in the lift had
been a pale, weak substitute.

But at that moment, the real thing would have been too overwhelming.

It was *all* too overwhelming. Cold shivers began to chase each other down her spine and
across her face. She had *died…*

"Erm," Ron cleared his throat. "Yeah. It's been a hell of a month, hasn't
it?"

She felt a flash of irritation at the inane comment… which, to her surprise, helped ground her
in reality again, which she found comforting. Hermione wondered, just for a moment, whether Ron had
intended that.

"Yes," she agreed wryly, "that it has."

"I'm just… I'm glad you're alive," Ron said simply.

Hermione couldn't help smiling at that. "Thank you, Ron."

Ron made no further attempt at physically comforting her; oh, he knew she'd accept it, but
he also knew that it wouldn't really comfort. Besides, in his opinion, Hermione needed to be
*doing* something – useful activity, the best therapy for his supremely competent and
efficient wife. She'd always hated admitting weakness. "So," he ventured after a
moment, "I suppose there's a lot of messy details to clean up now."

"A great many, and quite messy," she nodded, mentally ticking off her list: getting
warrants from the International Confederation of Wizards for ibn al-Afrit and Castigni, securing
Zabini, following up with Dennis Creevey, writing her summary to the Wizengamot on the day's
events…

"Will you really be opening Harry's tomb later today? To see if there's a body
there?"

"Today or tomorrow... I think we have to, Ron. Personally, I have no doubt…"

"Neither do I," he interrupted with a flash of a smile. "I mean, Merlin knows I
saw his bare backside plenty of times at Hogwarts: in the dorms, and the Quidditch locker
room…"

"And between the goblins and the Unspeakables," Hermione continued doggedly, "his
identity should be easy enough to confirm – but an empty tomb will be the final proof."

"Right," he nodded. "'Course, you mentioned doing that last week." The
words were out of his mouth before he could stop them; after a second, he realized he didn't
want to stop them. Ron *wanted* to have this out.

Hermione gazed fixedly at him, her eyes trying to penetrate into his thoughts. Calmly he
returned her gaze. "After your interview with Teddy Lupin, remember? It's odd, really,
when you stop to think about it." Ron paused a moment, watching Hermione, who'd
uncharacteristically shut her mouth tighter than a clam.

"Think about it," he repeated. "Teddy tells us Harry's alive. Under
Veritaserum, mind you. And you announce you're going to open Harry's tomb and prove it.
Then all of a sudden, nothing comes of it. I start wondering if there's an imposter.
Zabini's sure you made the whole thing up to psych out the elves. Then…" Ron caught what
he was about to say, and continued with scarcely a break. "Then *bang,* Harry's
returned from the dead. With eyewitnesses saying he came from beyond the Veil."

Ron stopped and waited, watching Hermione all the while. The silence grew longer, neither of
them willing to be the first to break it.

Finally, Ron took a step towards the door, away from Hermione. His tone was remarkably mild, for
Ron. "I think I deserve to know what's going on. I think *everyone* who was there
when you interviewed Teddy deserves to know what the bleedin' *hell's* going on.
Don't you?"

Hermione gave no sign that she agreed. It had happened more than once, throughout their
relationship: every so often, Ron would prove that he wasn't at all stupid. Indolent, insular,
and inattentive perhaps – but *not* stupid. Hermione could only wish he hadn't chosen this
particular moment to prove it again.

And she *couldn't* say anything. Ron might have the right of it – at this point, they
probably all *did* deserve to know the full truth – but the truth wasn't hers to divulge.
She'd given Harry her promise, and she'd always meant to keep it. And especially now, after
he brought her *back* from the *dead* (she shivered again), how could she *not?*

"Well," Ron said at length, "think about it. I was hoping we could celebrate your
birthday at some point – and now we should totally celebrate your *re-*birthday, as Harry put
it. My thought was, some sort of lunch party… this Saturday in Hogsmeade, at the Three Broomsticks,
so Rose could be there too. And then, I reckon, you could share whatever you feel like
sharing?"

He took her continued silence as acquiescence, and with a nod, left the room, closing the door
quietly behind him. He headed down the corridor to the lift, determined to see Harry next. There
was one recent incident that stuck in Ron's mind, one he hadn't mentioned to Hermione: a
nightmare in which Harry had ordered Ron to leave Hermione alone. At least, Ron had *assumed*
it was a nightmare, at the time. Now…

Well, now he needed a few minutes' conversation with Harry. Maybe he could find out from
Harry what he couldn't learn from Hermione… and besides, Ron was sure that he could prove it
was the real Harry Potter, just by talking with him. After all, there were things known only to the
two of them…

*Like what happened with that damned locket Horcrux,* Ron recalled in a sudden pang of
torment.

But when he arrived at the Atrium level, Ron saw that he was far from the only person who wanted
to see Harry. The Ministry was crowded with the delegates from the International Conference, with
reporters, with gawkers and onlookers – all wanting to see if The Boy Who Lived lived again, and
all being held back by a team of Enforcers and Unspeakables, who were finding ever-more-imaginative
ways of saying *no.* Ron *might* be able to use his status as Harry's friend to get
past them, but it wasn't likely, and would probably take way too long.

His talk with Harry would have to wait for another day. Shrugging, he turned and headed for the
Apparation Point, intending to return to Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. He owed George an
explanation for his absence, after all… and he felt sure George would find eye-witness details of
the day's events would be tremendously interesting.

And Felicia, too. Ron knew she'd prefer to get the details from him than from the *Daily
Prophet.* Besides, Ron had been guiltily avoiding Felicia for the last couple of days, and that
was hardly her fault. He needed to find time to take Felicia aside and talk to her privately, make
it clear that she'd done nothing wrong, and apologize to her, perhaps over a bite to eat.



29. XXIX:  Not Broken But Fulfilled
-----------------------------------

**(A/N:** Oh yes, you've been waiting for this chapter.

I didn't finish the story within a year of the first chapter's posting: I still have
many loose threads to tie up. But we're nearing the finish line, surely. Multiple thanks to my
beta, **MirielleGrey****,** who I know for certain has had more on her mind this
week.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** See, *I* know when I've left loose threads that need tying. And I
try to tie them. So I can't be the author of *Deathly Hallows,* now can I?**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXIX: Not Broken But Fulfilled**

*

Hermione was tense. Hermione was fidgety. Hermione had not really been given a chance to recover
from her brush with Death. And Harry still hadn't emerged from the Department of Mysteries. She
didn't know what the Unspeakables were doing with Harry, but she had a strong notion it
shouldn't be taking this long.

Hermione wanted nothing more than to take Harry and *go.*

Yet at the same time, Hermione wasn't sure she wanted to be anywhere near Harry right now.
She didn't *like* it when diametrically conflicting states co-existed in her mind; they
certainly weren't helping ease her tension.

As much as she would have liked to retreat to Enthalpy House, there to burrow into her bed with
a pillow over her head, there was too much to be done. What with the attacks, and the arrests, and
the deaths – not to mention the resurrections – the Ministry was thoroughly unsettled, and none of
the Department Heads seemed to be taking charge. Either they were already busy, as Robards was, or
they simply didn't feel that a smoothly-running wizarding government was part of their
brief.

So Hermione found herself "playing Mum to the Ministry" and dealing with a plethora of
niggly details. She had just finished talking to Kingsley's two executive assistants, making
sure they would continue to carry out the mundane daily functions of the Minister's office for
the short term… until the Wizengamot selected a new Minister. (When one of them asked when that
would be, Hermione had replied, "Not a moment too soon.")

Now she was walking back to her rooms, hoping there would be a reply from the ICW to her message
earlier that day. Pursuit of Castigni and ibn al-Afrit could *not* be delayed… With luck,
there might also be a status report on Blaise Zabini waiting for her.

"Oh! There you are! Er, good to see you, Hermione," a familiar voice said. "I was
just coming to your office." Arthur Weasley fell into step beside her, a concerned look on his
face.

"Good to see you too, Mr. Weasley," she greeted him, smiling but not breaking stride.
"You're not often on this floor, though. What's on your mind?"

"Harry," he said, with a touch of diffidence.

She didn't stop in her tracks, but she did slow considerably. "Harry?" she
repeated, willing her voice to stay level. There was no *way* Arthur could have found the same
objections to Harry's story that Ron had…

"Er, yes," said Arthur. "I was wondering… that is to say, Hermione, you know
I've never presumed on our relationship…"

This was true. Throughout her rise in the Ministry, Arthur Weasley had never taken advantage of
the fact that he was the father-in-law of The Witch Who Won. He'd never used it to seek
preference for promotion, nor had he ever approached her directly for favors. Some might attribute
it to a total lack of ambition, understandable for a widower whose children had left the nest; but
Hermione knew that, for all his seeming woolgathering, Arthur Weasley was a wizard of honesty and
integrity.

For him to approach her now, therefore, meant that the matter must be very important,
indeed.

"But I was, well, wondering," he continued, "if you could… well, could you get me
in to see Harry? No one's seen him since Croaker took him away – and by now there's just a
*mob* of people waiting to catch a glimpse of him. I wouldn't stand a hope of getting past
that crowd, much less past Croaker. But if you could take me there… I mean, no one would deny
*you…*"

Hermione was astonished. "Arthur… why?" She'd never thought him the type to be
attracted by fame or notoriety.

He looked surprised that she should ask. "Well, the boy's just come back to us – and he
hasn't a Knut to his name, has he? No place to stay, no food, no clothes… I was going to offer
the Burrow. He can certainly stay with me – as long as he likes. Indefinitely."

"Oh, of course." Hermione beamed at him, while inwardly chiding herself. Of
*course* Arthur would extend shelter to Harry, as he'd done so many times in the past. He
had no ulterior motive: Arthur would do no less for *any* of his sons. And he certainly
thought of Harry as one of his own children.

But that reminded her that Arthur's *other* children (some of them) might prove
awkward… and Hermione knew, as Arthur did not, that Harry already had a flat and funds in the
Muggle world waiting for him. She found a diplomatic excuse for putting him off. "I can try,
Arthur, but even Kingsley had trouble getting into the Department of Mysteries sometimes. And then,
too, I think we should let Harry get used to being in the land of the living again… before deluging
him with everything that's happened since he left." She gave Arthur a sympathetic
half-wince, half-shrug. "Molly's death, for instance…"

"Oh! Oh, yes, certainly!" Arthur responded hastily. Hermione felt a twinge of remorse
for having brought up Molly, but it seemed to have worked. At any rate, Arthur left her at her
office door with a thankful smile.

*

Harry was hungry. Harry was tired. Harry still hadn't been given anything to wear. And Harry
hadn't been allowed to contact Hermione. It was early evening, he'd spent most of the day
in this drab room in the Department of Mysteries, and Harry was transitioning from *irritated*
to *supremely pissed.*

When at last Croaker entered the room, Harry gave him no chance to speak. "Right, then,
listen up! I've been patient. I've been cooperating with you, right? So if I don't
start getting some cooperation in return, I'm walking, and you can't stop me. I mean, I
*really* need something to wear besides this cloak, and I've had bugger-all to
eat…"

Croaker only appeared to hear the last bit of Harry's vent. "It's true?" he
asked Eldritch. "No food or drink?" The grey wizard shook his head. Harry looked from
Croaker to Eldritch, and back again, and the penny dropped.

"Oh, so *that's* it. It's been a few hours, nothing past my lips, and I
haven't changed my shape – so that must rule out Polyjuice Potion. Glad we've cleared that
up. *Now* can I get some supper?"

"We had to be sure," said Croaker unapologetically. "As for leaving, I had
assumed you would wish to stay here. Where else would you go? Any property you might have owned has
been bequeathed elsewhere."

*Jacob Clayman's flat,* Harry almost retorted, but he knew doing so would open a can of
worms that he'd only managed to seal. "I'll go into Muggle London and find a homeless
shelter, if I must. *Anywhere* but here."

Croaker nodded minutely. "And would they feed and clothe you as well? With no
money…"

Harry interrupted angrily. "Am I getting fed and clothed *now?!*" He took a
smidgen of satisfaction in seeing Croaker retreat a step, and Eldritch shrink slightly into his
chair. He didn't notice – or couldn't feel – the wave of cold magic, like a chilling draft,
that had swept through the room at his outburst.

He drew a slow breath, exhaled just as slowly, and continued with a certain deliberation.
"Look. I am *not* staying here tonight. I'm leaving. You can take that as settled.
Let *me* worry about where I go once I leave here. It's not like I haven't had to fend
for myself in the past. Thanks for your concern," he added sardonically.

"Very well," said Croaker, deftly recovering. "You'll have to leave from the
Atrium. Shall I escort you there? The crowds may have thinned by now."

"Crowds. Oh, *crap.*" Harry slumped back in his seat and closed his eyes in pain.
"Please tell me they're not all here because of *me.*"

Croaker said nothing. No muscle in his impassive face could be said to form a smirk.

"Is there any chance," Harry said after a moment, "that I might get a Portkey out
of here? I assume the lockdown's been lifted… I could take a Portkey out of here to someplace
isolated, then Apparate to where I'll spend the night."

"Interesting. Our records show that Harry Potter didn't know how to Apparate."

"No," snapped Harry, opening his eyes to scowl at Croaker, "your records show
that Harry Potter never got his Apparation license. Which, when you consider that Thicknesse was
Minister when I turned seventeen, makes perfect sense. Like I'd show up for my license after
Voldemort's followers took over the Ministry!"

Eldritch spoke up. "So you admit you'll be Apparating without a license."

"Only if you admit I'm Harry Potter," Harry returned.

Croaker ceded the point with a brief nod. "As for a Portkey, unfortunately, they…"

"Are readily available," put in a new voice, and Hermione stepped into the room.
"Ah, here you all are. My, what a snug little hidey-hole they've found for you,
Harry…"

Harry's face lit up at her entrance. Eldritch looked affronted that someone not an
Unspeakable could so easily find their way through the Department of Mysteries; Croaker simply
looked resigned, as though he'd expected no less from The Witch Who Won.

"Anyway, it happens I've some Portkey Patches," Hermione continued. "I'd
be perfectly willing to charm one for whatever safe location Mr. Potter wishes. I'm a little
surprised he hadn't already suggested it to me…"

Harry heard the hint of inquiry in her voice as she trailed off… he tried to tell himself that
he was only imagining the hint of reproach as well. "I probably would have, if I'd been
allowed."

"Ah." Hermione allowed her gaze to slide over Eldritch before settling on Croaker, who
stared stonily back. "Right then," she said after a moment. "Harry, are you ready to
go?"

"Oh *Merlin,* yes." He stood, one hand holding his cloak closed, and gave her a
grateful smile. She returned his smile, but nervously; Harry noticed again that she was finding it
hard to maintain eye contact. He felt a flash of irritation, followed by puzzlement, then worry,
all boiling down to *Why* *doesn't she want to look at me?*

"Erm… and where will you be taking him, Madam Granger?" Eldritch asked. "In case
we have further questions."

"A *charming* village called None-of-Your-Business-on-Thames," murmured Harry,
before Hermione could respond. This time he was rewarded with a smile that lasted more than a few
seconds.

"I will see that any legitimate messages for Harry are properly forwarded," Hermione
primly told the Unspeakables. Seizing Harry's wrist, she produced a Patch from her pocket,
peeled away its adhesive backing, and slapped it onto the spot where her fingers touched his skin,
so that the Patch touched them both.

One dizzying ride later, they found themselves in the enclosed back lawn of Enthalpy House. With
the tall fence, and the gathering twilight, it was unlikely that they were spotted by Muggles.
Hermione looked around in a moment of confusion, before recognizing the backside of her home.
"This can't be right… I was *sure* I charmed the Portkey to take us directly into my
living room…"

"The wards," said Harry. Out of habit he raised his left hand, intending to
"feel" the wards… then dropped his hand with a grimace as he remembered that he no longer
had the Elder Wand. Yet for a moment, he fancied he'd felt *something…* "We augmented
the wards on the house to keep out anyone – Apparation, Portkeys, whatever. And that's a
Ministry Portkey, so…"

"So the wards didn't acknowledge its right of entry – and we landed here,"
finished Hermione, peeling the Patch off her hand. "And from here, you can Apparate back to
your flat and… and get what you need, clothes and such."

"Right. I can grab some things, and be right back…"

"I…" Hermione swallowed and turned her face away from him. "I'm not certain
that would be a good idea, Harry. I could use some time… I mean, with everything that's
happened…"

"With everything that's happened," Harry put in quietly, "I would have
thought you'd want to talk about it, at least."

"And I do – in *excruciating* detail," she said, her usual brisk manner
reasserting itself for a moment. "I want to know, of course I do, but…" She faltered,
then continued more timidly, "But I need to absorb what's happened first. I need time to
think about it. It's not any one thing, it's, it's *everything.* It's…
it's just too much to deal with – but I *have* to, now, thanks to…" She stopped
abruptly, with an appalled look on her face. Then, mortified by what she'd almost said, and
unable to speak further, she Apparated into her living room.

If she thought she could run away from her conflicting feelings that way, it was one of the very
few times in her life she was quite wrong.

"Thanks to what?" Harry demanded, Apparating next to her a second later. "Thanks
to *me?* You *wanted* me to come back, Hermione! You can't ask for more
'back' than this!"

"I *know! Yes,* I wanted you back… but… but not like *this!* Not with the
Ministry turned upside-down and Kingsley Shacklebolt dead and *me dy…*" She choked on the
last word and turned away from him, squeezing her eyes shut to prevent tears from leaking out.

"And the Deathly Hallows gone."

Surprise momentarily banished her inner turmoil. Hermione opened her eyes to stare at Harry. He
gave an uncomfortable shrug. "It's a little hard to explain, but the short version is that
I gave them back to Death, and Death gave you back to me." He waved his hand over their heads,
indicating the house's wards. "'Course, the *effects* of the Wand are still with
us, *they* didn't fade. Good thing, I reckon…"

"So… you made it through the barrier… and then went through the Veil…" Hermione said,
very slowly, piecing her thoughts together, "to bargain with Death… so you could bring me back
from the dead… and get rid of the Hallows… so you could rejoin the wizarding world."

Harry smiled shyly and tried for a bit of humor. "That's an *excellent* summing
up, counselor." Hermione fell silent, blinking at him in a stunned sort of way.

And then she found her voice. "*Were you out of your fracking MIND!?*" she
shrieked, raising trembling fists in front of her. Warily, remembering the last time she'd
punched him, Harry backed up a pace, one hand coming up to protect his mouth. "Did you even
*consider* what might have gone wrong with that so-called plan? What if you'd *died,*
like Sirius? What if you *hadn't* died but been trapped behind the Veil forever? What
if…"

"What if you had stayed dead?" he shot back. "Do you think I cared a rat's
arse about living, if you *didn't?*"

She continued as though she hadn't heard him. "And did you even *consider* the
effects of your dramatic entrance today? Sweet Circe, they'll be hounding you for the rest of
your *life!* Endless talk about how you escaped from the Netherworld – cheated Death
*twice,* your life and mine – The Boy Who Lived *Again,* with eternal youth thrown
in!" Hermione spun away from him and faced the wall, wrapping her arms around her stomach as
though it ached. "Making the rest of us feel like utter *hags…*"

"Say what?" Harry was amazed that this, of all issues, should be the one affecting
Hermione the most – *Hermione,* of all people. Yet from her voice, from the rigid lines of her
back, it was obvious even to Harry just how distraught she was. He took a tentative step towards
her.

"*Please* don't," she bit off, causing him to halt, "just… please,
Harry, just leave me be. Just *go.*"

It was to Harry's everlasting credit that he totally disregarded her demand. He stepped up
behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders – not heavily, but clearly with no intention of
letting them be shoved off. "I told you before, I wasn't leaving you again," he said
in a low voice to the back of her head. "And I haven't. And I *won't.*"

She drew breath to respond… and as she did, he glimpsed a flash of silver chain on the back of
her neck. A wild impulse surged through him, and without bothering to think it through, he
tightened his hands on her shoulders and spun her to face him.

And before she had a chance to speak, he pressed his hand to the spot just above and between her
breasts, where a slight lump was outlined beneath her robes.

The breath caught in Hermione's throat. Wide-eyed and round-mouthed, she stared into
Harry's face. It was as he'd hoped: she was receiving the kiss he'd given her star
sapphire, that last loving kiss he'd given… Merlin, had it been only that morning?!

"Feel that," he told her, his voice intense, husky, deep. "That's how much I
love you, Hermione. It may've taken me *forever* to figure out, but I'm not stupid
enough to walk away from it. Not *ever* again. Not…"

Whatever else he might have said was lost, as she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged
him as though their lives depended on it. He put his hands behind her back and held her close,
delighting in her warmth, the scent of her, even the unmanageable hair that tickled his nose and
threatened to make him sneeze.

"When I came for you," Harry whispered after a moment, "through the Veil… my body
started aging, really fast. I must have been, oh, about Dumbledore's age when Death finally let
me bring you home. But I didn't reckon you'd care. Hell, *I* didn't care, as long
as we were together. Now my body's gone the other extreme – but either way, my mind didn't
change. We're *together,* Hermione. Nothing else matters."

"It *does* matter," she mumbled, half exasperated and half despairing at his male
thickheadedness. "It's *entirely* different. Dammit, Harry, I'm almost old enough
to be your *mother* now! What will people *say?*"

"Oh, I dunno. Something like, 'How about that sexy Granger witch, huh? She must be
something *wicked* special, if she can keep that young stud Potter happy…'"

Almost against her will, Hermione found herself laughing. She pulled out of their hug just far
enough that she could see his grinning face. "Let's test that," she retorted, and
brought up her hands to grab fistfuls of his cloak near the collar. She yanked him forward and
planted a saucy kiss on his lips.

A kiss that lengthened, that grew from saucy to searing, as their hands found better purchase,
as their bodies molded together, as their mouths opened hungrily to one another.

Hermione moaned, sounding in pain though far, far from it. Her body was recalling sensations
that her conscious mind had nearly forgotten, and she wanted more. She adjusted her position, to
press as much her body as she could against Harry's, and together they deepened the kiss.
Hermione reveled, positively wallowed, in the sensuous pleasure of feeling her lips on his, on her
breasts against his chest, of her thighs pressed against his loins…

And with that rampant reminder, they both realized exactly what they were doing. Harry and
Hermione broke apart abruptly and stared aghast at one another, panting and panicking.

"We can't," Hermione finally whispered.

Harry gave a nod that was closer to a jerk of the head. "Right. Your vow."

"My *wedding* vow," she choked out. "It won't let us *do…*
this."

"Your own magic would stop it," Harry mumbled. "Or else…" He looked
horrified. "Or else you might *lose* your magic – become a Squib. My fault, Hermione, I
should never have let it get this far…" He relaxed his hold around her, and prepared to push
her gently away.

*How like Harry to try to take all the blame himself,* thought Hermione distractedly. *I
was letting "it" get this far as much as he was…*

*But…* it flashed through her mind, *but… my magic should have* stopped *us from
getting that far… the magic of my vow…* And realization dawned on her.

"My vow won't let us do this," she recited deliberately, as though reading from a
list, and lunged forward to snog Harry again. Reflexively, he took a step backwards, with Hermione
still pressing forward, and backed into an obstacle at knee-height: the couch. Harry fell backwards
onto the couch, with Hermione on top of him, straddling him. "False," she announced.

"Say *what?*" Harry was thoroughly flustered. It hadn't escaped either of
their notice that his cloak hadn't stayed closed when he'd fallen.

"Breaking my vow will make me a Squib," she continued, drawing her wand and waving it
over her. "*Evanesco**!*" Within seconds, her clothing was gone, banished to
limbo, leaving her dressed only in her sapphire necklace. "False again."

By now, Harry could only make inarticulate gurgling noises.

"So…" Hermione leaned low over Harry, guaranteeing him a full view between her
breasts, and gave him a smile that was both triumphant and just a little bit predatory. With that
smile, and the gleam in her eye, and the mane of bushy brown hair cascading over her shoulders, she
reminded him of a lioness eyeing a gazelle. "Soooo… by a process of *reduction ad
absurdum…* we can only conclude that my vow has ceased to be."

"But… but…" With a visible effort, Harry raised his gaze to her face. "But… you
said those vows were permanent…"

She nodded happily. "Mm hmm. Until Death us do part."

"Until Death…" Harry blinked rapidly, and she could *see* the light dawn in his
eyes. He was gratifyingly quick on the uptake: it only took a moment more before he was matching
her, grin for grin. "So when you died, the vows died too? Except *you* came back…"
He laughed, a deep rich joyful laugh, and ran a hand through her hair. "So," he added
invitingly, "what do we do for an encore, eh?"

Her smiled grew broader, if that were possible. "Biiiiiirthday," she sang, just as she
had that morning.

"So it is," he agreed, and his hands moved lower on her body. "Come here,
you."

"Several times, I trust," his lioness purred, and pounced.



30. XXX: One Foot In Front Of The Other
---------------------------------------

**(A/N:** A couple of reviewers have asked how many more chapters are in store. In the past,
I've been a remarkably poor judge of how long my stories would end up being. Still, I've no
desire to have this turn into a neverending history of the Potterverse – this story's plotlines
*will* reach resolution. Of course, to do that in a reasonable time, I've had to make this
chapter the longest to date. I'm so sorry to have to subject you all to this, but, hey,
them's the breaks. At least you didn't have to suffer the way my beta,
**MirielleGrey****,** did.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** Der! XY chromosome? Not a billionaire? Never even *seen* Scotland? What
part of "I am not JK Rowling" does anyone find ambiguous?**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXX: One Foot In Front Of The Other**

*

The first thing that came to Harry's notice, when he woke up in the wee hours before dawn,
was that he *was* waking up.

Waking from sleep – it had been so long since Harry had slept that he'd almost forgotten
what it felt like. If he'd needed any more proof that the Deathly Hallows no longer affected
him, he now had it.

The second thing that came to Harry's notice was Hermione: gently snoring,
*delightfully* nude, and using him as a full-length mattress. They hadn't moved from the
positions they'd been in when they'd fallen asleep together: she fully atop him, and he
fully inside her.

His expression turned goofy – really, there was no other word for it – as the last night's
events came back to him. Somehow, they'd never made it off the couch and into the bedroom
(Harry vaguely recalled Hermione performing some enlarging charms on the couch, but his attention
was understandably elsewhere). Both of them were *so* eager, and so nervous – understandable,
he supposed, since they were each coming out of a long sexual drought. But more to the point, each
of them had initially been more concerned about the other's physical gratification than their
own. Which made for some fumbling and awkwardness at first, but they'd resolved the problems by
the end of their second round of lovemaking.

Round three had been just about perfect. And round four was even better, because it ended with
their falling asleep while still joined. Maybe *that* was why Harry had slept so well.

The *third* thing that came to Harry's notice was a gentle brush across his brow… from
above. He looked up and squinted into the semi-darkness, to see a pair of bright yellow eyes
staring back at him. Bottlebrush was perched on the sofa's back, curious and only moderately
resentful. After a moment, when Harry failed to respond, the kneazle reached out his paw and gently
swatted Harry's fringe again.

*Thanks to your foolery,* his look seemed to say, *I didn't get any dinner last
night.*

*Neither did I,* Harry felt like replying. *Deal with it.* He didn't say anything
out loud, of course – he was enjoying Hermione's closeness too much to want to disturb it in
any way. Her body pressed against his, her warmth, her scent… even her weight, and why hadn't
he ever imagined that being squashed under his lover's weight could be so pleasurable?

*Lover.* Harry sighed in utter contentment.

Bottlebrush gave a plaintive meow and swatted his paw again, this time on Hermione's head.
"G'way," she mumbled, then lifted her head to look Harry in the face. "Not you.
Him. *You* stay right there."

"I wouldn't dream of moving. Good mornimmmph…" Hermione had evidently decided that
there were better morning greetings than mere words… and better uses for their mouths. Harry tried
to show his approval of this concept, and the next few minutes were spent in a thorough
lip-mashing.

Hermione only came up for air when they heard the tapping on window, telling them an owl was
requesting entry. With a final buss that promised this would be only a brief interruption, she
reached down to the floor by the couch and felt around for her wand. Once she found it, she used it
to open the window and admit the owl. Bottlebrush gave her an affronted glare as he hastily jumped
off the couch's arm, an instant before the owl landed there. It stiffly held out its leg to
allow Hermione to remove the tiny scroll, which she did without moving from atop Harry.

"Ah," she said after quickly reading the message. "Gringotts has contacted the
owner of the vault that used to be yours, Harry. They've agreed to open it for you, so you can
prove that you're you. Eldritch – he's the one who wrote this, asking me to
'forward' it to you – will meet you at Gringotts tomorrow, or I should say today, this
morning at nine. Thank you," she added as an aside to the owl, which shook itself haughtily
and flew out the window.

She watched the owl leave, then brought her head back down to rest her chin on his chest. She
regarded him somberly. "Harry… about yesterday," she began.

"Yeah," he said quietly, not letting her finish. "It was a pretty, um,
*full* day, wasn't it? Perfectly understandable if we got a little freaked out…"

"If by 'we' you mean 'me', I'm forced to agree. And… and Harry, I have
to admit I'm *still* a little freaked out, as you put it. Heart surgeons routinely bring
people back to life in Muggle hospitals – but those people don't remember being in the land of
the dead! It was so cold, so dark... but it felt so, so inviting in a way, as well. A small part of
me wants to… to go back."

Dismay must have showed on his face, for Hermione immediately butted her forehead against his to
look directly into his eyes. "A *very small* part of me! The rest of me wants to stay
right here – with you, my Orpheus, my love, forever."

*My love…* words that sounded like phoenix song to Harry's ears. He reached up to
entangle his fingers in her hair, gently rubbing her scalp with his fingertips. She gave him a soft
hum of contentment, then brought her head upward so that she could softly brush her lips against
his.

"So… nine o'clock," she said in a voice gone husky, "that's about four
hours from now…"

Harry cleared his throat and assumed a matter-of-fact tone. "Yeah. Yeah, that should give
me enough time to Apparate back to my flat, get some clothes and my spare glasses… give me a chance
to wake up…" He *almost* managed to keep a straight face as he said this, but something
must have slipped. At any rate, a slow, anticipatory smile began to blossom on Hermione's
face.

"Mm, yes, wake up," she purred, rising to a kneeling position over Harry and
stretching her arms over her head. The sapphire bounced atop her breasts – and her smile grew
broader as she saw how Harry's eyes darted to it, moved south slightly, and turned
*hungry.* She started rocking her hips as she continued, "Well, it does seem to me that
*someone's* already awake. *Oooh**,* yes! A bit of a surprise, since he's
still in bed…"

"Rise and shine," laughed Harry, and put his hands on her hips to bring her closer.
Hermione moaned delightedly as together they found their rhythm and rocked all the harder.

Round five was shaping up to be *outstanding.*

*

Hermione stared at Gawaine Robards in utter incredulity. When she'd arrived at the Ministry
and received the note to come at once to Robards's office, she hadn't anticipated
*this.* "No."

Robards said nothing, but his eyes were hard and determined.

"*No,*" Hermione repeated. "If this is a joke, Gawaine, it's not very
funny."

"Not a joke," said Robards quietly. "And not really a surprise, either. We were
prepared to offer the same deal to Swivingham, after all."

"Dismissal of all charges? Total immunity from prosecution?!" Hermione looked wildly
around the office, as though she expected George Weasley to jump out from behind a potted plant and
yell *Gotcha!*

"In exchange for Zabini's complete cooperation in bringing the Cartel Lords to
justice," Robards affirmed. "Yes."

"If we drop the charges, Zabini will claim exoneration! You *know* he will, Gawaine!
Damn it, this is Lucius Malfoy all over again!"

"Hermione…" Robards stopped, and seemed to gather his thoughts. He began again.
"Madam Granger… I trust you've seen this morning's reports from the ICW? They've
apprehended Castigni, but ibn al-Afrit has so far evaded capture. Nor were they the only Cartel
Lords – merely the two you succeeded in identifying. Their lieutenants… the Cartel's internal
organization… those will quickly slip through our net, unless we act *now.* That means we need
the information in Zabini's head."

"Then why can't we pump him full of Veritaserum until it bleeds out his ears, and
*get* it!?" Hermione flung her hands into the air in exasperation as she paced about the
room. Her question was rhetorical, and Robards knew it; both of them understood why they
couldn't apply such direct methods to Blaise Zabini.

"You must admit," Robards added sardonically, "his timing's
perfect."

Hermione took another turn around the room, growing calmer as she slowed to a stop. She chewed
on her lower lip, a habit she would have claimed she'd lost, as she considered. "But he
must know," she said, thinking aloud, "he *must* know his life wouldn't be worth
a leaden Knut if he testified against the Cartel. Swivingham was example enough, surely…" She
tapped her chin pensively, then asked, "This bargain… was it his idea or ours?"

"His." Robards gave her a grim smile. "And before you ask, he made it verbally to
one of his guards, *not* through a solicitor. No one's been in his cell, per your
instructions."

"Then let's get a Memory Charm expert down there, and make sure his memories
haven't been tampered with," said Hermione. "It's unlikely, since we hustled him
into cells right away, precisely to *prevent* any possible tampering. If he had his full
memories of the Cartel yesterday, when I confronted him, he should still have them now. But
let's make certain, all right?"

"All right," nodded Robards, making a note on the parchment on his desk. "And
*if* the scan turns up clean, I'll sign off on this plea-bargain. What about Doukas? Has
the Greek delegation said anything about him?"

Together they continued their brainstorming session, hammering out their priority tasks for the
day. Hermione promised to report back to Robards's office before she left for the day.
("For the weekend," were his words, but neither of them believed it.) For her own part,
she was pleased with how the Head of the Department was taking her suggestions to heart. The years
of working side by side, Hermione told herself, had taught them to respect the other as an
equal.

*

Canby, if asked directly, would deny that he was bonded to any human. Canby was a free elf, he
would insist. He was paid *wages* by the Ministry of Magic, after all. The fact that he
sometimes *acted* as though he were bonded to a human was the purest of coincidences.

That said, if The Witch Who Won ever told Canby to go jump off a cliff, Canby would make the
trip to Dover in record time.

He waited now in the inconspicuous way of elvenkind, present in Miss Hermione's outer office
without being seen by anyone. Miss Hermione had arrived that morning – looking practically
*radiant,* about which Canby had his opinions but reserved judgment – and had been handed a
note by her clerk Sheryl. She'd dashed into her room for a second, then left again.

If he concentrated, he could sense Miss Hermione's current location: the office of the Head
of Magical Law Enforcement. Miss Hermione was a frequent visitor to that office. Canby judged that
her work there would be more important than his business with Miss Hermione. He would not
interrupt; he would wait here for her return.

Though, truthfully, the matters he wished to discuss would take only a few minutes. Miss
Hermione would want to know that Fatima had been properly remembered. Canby would tell her about
Fatima's "funeral" – he would use the human term, though the elf ceremonial would
hardly seem like a funeral to humans – which had taken place at sunset yestereve.

And then there was Fatima's sister Ayesha, who would soon be arriving in England from
foreign lands. True to Miss Hermione's word, the indictments against ibn al-Afrit had prompted
the ICW to emancipate any of his elves that might be called to testify against him. Ayesha had
chosen to come to England, to take her sister's place in whatever needed doing.

And finally, Canby was curious about the remaining witnesses in his care, and what was planned
for them. *Were* they still witnesses, now that Jack Swivingham was dead and no longer to be
tried? Canby suspected so: Swivingham had had his own organization in Knockturn Alley, and his
elves might well have overheard things while working for him. Which meant that they would still be
the guests of the Ministry for the time being… so Canby assumed, but he wanted Miss Hermione's
confirmation.

Once he had Miss Hermione's authority to back him up, Canby could persuade them to remain
patiently in their rooms, and not strike out on their own. Perhaps Canby could show them some of
the opportunities England offered to free elves… unbonded to humans.

*

Harry considered leaving behind his borrowed cloak when he Apparated to Jacob Clayman's
flat. The flat was private, after all, so no one would be scandalized if he suddenly materialized
there in the nude. Plus, he really didn't want to keep Ron's cloak a moment longer than
necessary – and after last night, it was rather in need of cleaning.

But that reminded him that he didn't want to leave it at Enthalpy House, either. A cloak
loaned to Harry Potter, found in Hermione Granger's home? If someone *should* show up
there, he didn't want to leave any clues as to what had happened last night. Oh, neither he nor
Hermione had any reason to be ashamed, once Hermione deduced that her wedding vows had been
dissolved – but any announcement would be on *their* terms, in *their* time, thank you
very much.

So Harry arrived at Clayman's flat (he still thought of it that way) with the cloak wrapped
around him. The flat was as he'd left it, with all clues to his identity neatly cleared out. In
the center of the living room was his goal: the trunk he'd conjured and packed, the night
he'd first fled. He'd been living out of it ever since, unpacking and repacking as needed,
and it had followed him from hotel to inn to open field, and now back to this flat.

With a smirk, he shrugged Ron's cloak from off his shoulders, wadded it into a ball, and
tossed it in the general direction of the kitchen. He'd have clean clothes now, not to mention
his spare glasses – everything he'd need, magically shrunk and packed…

Using the Elder Wand.

*Oh, crap.* Harry raised his left hand and stared at his forearm, where for fifteen years
he'd kept the Elder Wand strapped. *I don't have the Elder Wand anymore. I don't
have* any *wand anymore! How am I supposed to get my clothes!?*

*I suppose I could use Hermione's wand to unpack my things. Right. Just Apparate back to
the Ministry, still wearing only Ron's cloak, and walk into her office? Uh, no.*

*Or I could send her a Patronus-message and ask her to bring it here… if I had a wand to
summon a Patronus! Aargh!*

In frustration, he beat on the trunk with one fist. Obviously, if he planned on rejoining the
wizarding world, obtaining a new wand would have to move to the top of his to-do list. And after
his spectacular entrance from the Department of Mysteries, Harry figured he was committed on that
point.

But he had half an hour to find some clothes and show up at Gringotts, or he'd never be able
to prove his identity to some wizards' satisfaction. Getting a shower would be nice, too, but
he'd do without if he was running late.

With a deep sigh, he closed his eyes and pressed his hands against the trunk. Harry would swear
he could *feel* the spells he'd used to shrink and pack his belongings: the atoms
themselves shrunken and overlapping, the very fabric of space folded up like some intricate
origami, in sneering defiance of the laws of physics.

*Everything was so simple when I had the Elder Wand,* he thought in despair. *I
didn't even need an incantation. Just picture in my head what I wanted… and the Wand's
power took care of the rest. Everything neatly packed.*

*It would need such a tiny tug to unpack it. Just a little untwist… right… there…*

And Harry went flying as the entire contents of the trunk violently erupted outward, each item
expanding in its arc to add to the mayhem. He landed on his arse several feet from the now opened
trunk, with a pillowcase over his face and a winter scarf tangled around one leg. He started to sit
up, and felt more items of clothing being flung at him – and heard the more ominous sound of his
living room furniture thumping forcefully against the wall. The opposite wall, thank Merlin, but
Harry didn't feel like pressing his luck: he stopped trying to rise, but instead lay flat and
waited, until the sounds of upheaval slowed and finally stopped.

He waited another moment, just to be sure it was safe, then slowly stood up with a chuckle.
*Well, maybe the effects of the Hallows aren't completely gone after all,* he thought as
he began to peel off the bits of garb. *I guess all that practice trying to sense the flow of
magic paid off…*

"Oh!" exclaimed a high-pitched voice, and Harry's chuckle froze in his throat.
"Oh, this is a *terrible* mess Mister Harry is making! Mister Harry needs help, that much
is plain!"

Harry whipped the pillowcase from his face and turned around. Brillig stood in the center of the
room, surveying the chaos, her hands on her hips and her head shaking slowly.

"Brillig?" he blurted. He realized his mistake at once when Brillig turned to answer
him. The elf's eyes went wide and her mouth gaped. With a blush as furious as any
Weasley's, Harry held the pillowcase over his privates with one hand, in a belated attempt to
preserve his modesty. With the other hand he made a twirling motion at Brillig, to get her to turn
around.

Mesmerized, Brilling made the same twirling motion back at Harry.

"W-Will you *please…?!*" he hissed, barely articulate. "Not… can't you
*see...* I'm… no clothes…"

"No clothes?" Brillig brought her wide eyes back up to Harry's face, and Harry was
astonished to see them fill with tears. "Oh, *thank you,* Master…"

And before Harry could correct her choice of words (or say anything, really), the elf crossed
her hands in front of her to grasp the hem of her shift – and with a practiced, fluid motion she
pulled it over her head. Needless to say, the shift was the only article of clothing she wore. And
it didn't help Harry's composure in the *slightest* to learn, in the moment before the
shift cleared her head, that Brillig could have posed as a Page Three Girl with no trouble at
all.

Brillig carefully folded her shift and set it aside. Then she stepped closer to Harry and
quickly knelt before him, resting on her knees and toes. She assumed a submissive posture with her
hands folded in her lap and head lowered. "How may thy handmaiden please thee, O my
master?" she asked, her voice no longer as high-pitched. For a female elf, it was positively…
*sultry.*

Desperately trying to jumpstart his brain, Harry guessed that this must be one of the behaviors
Swivingham had required his "working elves" to learn from Fatima. Certainly her words,
both in phrasing and in delivery, smacked of a ritual or a convention of some sort. But it made no
sense that she'd offer herself – in *that* way! – to *him!* She was *done* with
prostituting to humans! She was a free elf, she should be looking to mate with another elf!

And yet… Harry caught Brillig glancing up at him through her lashes, giving him a look both
demure and… hopeful. This *couldn't* be an act, could it?

He cleared his throat, and prayed his voice wouldn't crack. "First of all," he
said firmly, "I'm *no one's* master. No human's, and no elf's. Do you
understand?"

He waited until he saw a minute nod of her head before he continued, more gently, "And
second of all, Brillig, *you're* no man's property. You're free of all that, and
you should cherish it. Do you understand?"

The elf raised her head to stare at him. Her face was stricken. "But Mast… *Mister*
Harry… you said, no clothes…"

Harry could have smacked himself. *Stupid! Stupid! If giving clothes to a bonded elf grants
freedom – then an elf who surrenders her clothes must be bonding! She thinks I offered to bond with
her!*

*At least, I* hope *that's what she thinks I offered her…*

"But thirdly," he said, his mind racing, "um, thirdly… I can't accept any
service, even paid service, right now." An idea flashed through his mind, and he gestured
around the flat. "I live as a Muggle, amongst Muggles. You know how we have to keep magic
secret from them, Brillig. And yeah, I know elves are good at not being seen, but even Muggles
would notice if you were here, working, day after day. For me to have an elf here – a *paid*
elf," he emphasized, "just isn't possible."

Brillig looked puzzled. "Mister Harry is living amongst Muggles… *oh!*" she
exclaimed in sudden understanding. "Brillig remembers! Mister Harry has been here in secret,
not telling wizards! But Mister Harry is not in secret any more?"

"Not since yesterday," he said ruefully, relaxing a bit. She seemed to be taking this
better…

"So Mister Harry will need a home amongst wizards!" In an instant, the elf was on her
feet and had rushed up to Harry. He tried to keep the pillowcase in front of his groin, not quite
sure of her target… so he was taken off guard as she seized his free hand in both of hers. Before
he knew what was happening, she was kissing his hand. "Mister Harry must not worry, Brillig
will find *wonderful* home for him! Some place amongst other wizards, with nice large house
that needs an elf's care!" She gazed up at him, her face radiant with happiness.
"And… and Brillig will even take *wages!* One Galleon, just like the Great Dobby! But no
more!" she told him, suddenly stern. "Would not be seemly to take more than Dobby took.
That is *very* important, Mister Harry, so you must promise Brillig!"

"Ah, er, um…"

"Oh, *thank you,* Mister Harry! Brillig will begin at once! *Thank you!*"
And snatching up her shift from the floor, the elf vanished from the room with a crack of displaced
air.

Harry stood blinking for several seconds. *Well,* he concluded glumly, *that certainly
could have gone better.* At least he'd bought himself a little breathing space: he could
wait until he joined the wizarding world before he had to explain to Brillig that he really
wasn't in the market for an elf.

As housekeeper or *anything* else.

In the meantime, somewhere in this mess was his spare set of glasses, and he was now in the
unenviable position of being too nearsighted without them to be able to search for them.

*

In the foyer of Gringotts Bank, Eldritch glanced at his watch for the third time in thirty
seconds. "Madam Granger assured me she would forward any message," he muttered.

"Considering where he's been these last few years, I'm prepared to cut him some
slack, Mr. Eldritch," Andromeda Tonks replied tranquilly. She was only half-attending to the
grey Unspeakable; she kept her eyes on the entrance to the foyer. Seconds later, she was rewarded
by the sight of a young man trotting briskly into the bank. Andromeda didn't bring his arrival
to Eldritch's notice, wanting a moment to study the newcomer.

She'd only met Harry Potter the one time, when the Order of the Phoenix had used her home as
a way station for Harry and Hagrid. The few minutes she'd spent with young Potter had been
enough: the young man who was now looking frantically around the foyer was definitely the same man.
He was even, as he had then, wearing clothes slightly too large for him.

Eldritch had noticed Harry by this point, and was motioning him to join them. "It is nine
oh-seven," he said by way of greeting.

"Sorry," Harry shrugged. "I had a little difficulty rustling up some
clothes." The last half of the sentence was delivered with a certain frostiness, and Andromeda
couldn't help smiling at Eldritch's discomfiture.

"Harry," she began, and he turned his eyes on her. Those bright green eyes were just
as she remembered. The smile upon seeing her was genuine.

"Mrs. Tonks? Hello! I should've realized that Teddy would end up with my vault… a lot
of the Black estate ended up there."

"Harry," she began again, "I'm glad of the chance to meet with you, here at
Gringotts. It will help facilitate the return of much of your property…"

"No," he interrupted hastily, "that's all Ted's now. My will was executed
exactly as I wished – and let's face it, Mrs. Tonks, I *was* dead. Well and truly dead, by
any reasonable definition of the word. The goblins followed my last wishes perfectly…" Harry
didn't look around, but his eyes danced as with a shared joke; Andromeda knew that he knew the
goblins were eavesdropping. "And I'm satisfied with how things turned out," he
concluded.

Andromeda smiled to herself: she'd expected this response, and was ready. "At least
accept this." From her handbag Andromeda produced a small money pouch filled with Galleons.
"I must insist you not argue with me, young man. You came back into this world owning nothing
but your skin. Let your friends – your family – help you while you get back on your feet. I assure
you, this is only a fraction of what our entire world owes you."

Put that way, Harry had no choice but to accept. Andromeda quickly closed her handbag, so that
no one would see the letter it still contained.

"Well then," said Eldritch briskly, "shall we do what we came here to do? The
Potter heirloom chest awaits you, sir…" He was, Andromeda noted, careful neither to use
Harry's name, nor deny it was his.

The three made their way to one of the tellers, where a goblin watched alertly as Andromeda
produced her vault key. "Acting on behalf of Ted Lupin, I authorize the opening of his vault,
and the admission of these two wizards." She handed the key to the goblin, then calmly
extended one finger.

With a swift motion, the goblin stuck a pin into Andromeda's outstretched finger, and
allowed a single drop of blood to fall on the key. Andromeda watched dispassionately as the blood
was absorbed into the metal key, which promptly gave a momentary golden glow. "All seems to be
in order," said the goblin, who turned and shouted for an escort.

"You won't be accompanying us to the vault?" Eldritch asked.

She shook her head. "I expect there'll be plenty of opportunities to catch up with
Harry in the future." She smiled knowingly at Harry, with this reminder that they would be
meeting again Saturday in a much more private setting… and was a bit puzzled by his lack of
response. "In any case," she added in a clear dismissal, "I am already convinced as
to his identity."

Once Eldritch and Harry had left with their goblin escort, Andromeda retired to a bench in the
foyer to await their return. She paused only a moment before surreptitiously casting privacy charms
around herself. With a nod, she put away her wand and, bringing out her handbag, drew out the
letter. She'd received it only that morning, and to say she had been surprised was an
understatement.

The letter was from her sister, Narcissa Malfoy.

Andromeda had already read the letter several times before coming to Gringotts; she fancied she
had its contents memorized by this point. Nonetheless, she unfolded the letter and scanned it
again. None of the words had changed – which was not a farfetched concern, given it was from
Cissy.

*She's being released from Azkaban… her and her spawn, Draco. And of course she considers
herself destitute: Malfoy Manor, their lands and holdings, were confiscated when her husband was
proven to be a Death Eater. So she's asking for my help while they re-establish
themselves.*

*Oh, Cissy. Have you forgotten? Do you think* I've *forgotten? Forgotten your scorn
when I was disowned from the House of Black for the sin of marrying a Muggleborn? Forgotten the
deaths of my husband, my daughter? She was as much a Black as your get, dear sister.*

*You* must *have forgotten, Cissy. Because not even you would have the unmitigated gall
to ask for my help, otherwise.*

She closed her eyes and sighed deeply. With Harry Potter's return, a great many shadows from
the past had returned as well. Most were easily dealt with… this one, much less so.

*But it's as I just told Harry,* she reminded herself. *Family is there to help when
one's down on their luck. I daresay one can't get more "down on their luck" than
spending fourteen years in Azkaban. And Narcissa* is *family, a trueborn Black.*

*Nonetheless, it will do no harm to extract a promise from my dear sister before I'll
agree to help them: an acknowledgment that my grandson Ted, by blood and inheritance, is the Head
of the House of Black. Won't* that *stick in her craw!*

*

Arriving back in her offices, Hermione was only mildly startled to see the knot of people
waiting for her, all with bits of Ministry business that they seemed to think needed her approval.
She was more startled to see that one of the waiting wizards was Ron. A serious, unwontedly quiet
Ron, bearing a large manila envelope.

Sheryl noticed her glance around the room. "I was going to ask them each to take a number
for faster service," she said, "but I don't know how many of them would get the
joke."

Hermione managed a smile at that. "Have we heard from Dennis this morning?"

"Peasegood dropped off a note," said Sheryl, handing it over, "saying that The
Subject is being kept *Stupefied* until he, Peasegood, has another chance at him. At the
moment, he's busy with our Higher Profile Subjects."

"There are disadvantages to being the Minstry's best Memory expert," Hermione
sighed. Unfortunately, Arnold Peasegood was not only their best expert on the subject of Memory
Charms, he was head and shoulders above their *second* best expert.

She was about to ask which wizard had arrived first when Sheryl tapped the back of her hand with
a fingernail. Sheryl caught Hermione's gaze, looking her firmly in the eye, and silently
mouthed the word *Ron.* Hermione blinked in surprise; Sheryl gave a barely imperceptible
nod.

Well, this was as good an opportunity as any to give Ron the news that their wedding vows had
been dissolved. She still wasn't sure how to tell him how she knew, but it would work itself
out. First, she'd let him conclude whatever business he'd brought… that would give her a
bit more time to think. "Gentlemen, I'll be with you all shortly," Hermione
announced. "Ron, did you need to see me?"

"Yeah," he said. He didn't elaborate, which was unlike Ron.

She ushered him into her office and closed the door behind them. "I wanted to give you your
birthday present," Ron said without preamble. Hermione was surprised again: Sheryl's
demeanor had suggested that Ron's business was important.

"I didn't think it could wait until tomorrow," Ron went on. "There'll be
too much else to talk about." *His* demeanor was harder to define: it reminded her of the
rare times during their marriage when he'd really wanted a serious discussion on an important
matter – and *didn't* want it to end in a shouting match. Which seemed rather much, for a
birthday present…

Ron handed her the manila envelope. Quickly, she tore it open and brought out what appeared to
be a Muggle legal document. Its wording appeared to be standardized and formulaic – and at the top
were the words *Decree Absolute.* Below that were their names, *Ronald B. Weasley* and
*Hermione J. Granger,* as they'd appear in the Muggle world.

The Decree Absolute was the final document in the Muggle divorce process. According to this, a
Muggle court had granted them a divorce.

Ron continued talking as Hermione stared at the document. "I got this from, um, well,
she's Muggle-born and her brother dug it up for me. I reckoned, since we weren't married in
the Muggle world, we didn't have to bother with their whole divorce business. That can take
*months,* they tell me. This way, our own Magical Records Office can slip this into whatever
records the Muggles keep, just like they do for births and deaths and such."

Hermione kept her gaze on the paper, so she could avoid meeting Ron's eyes. Inwardly, she
was both hurt and touched. It was obvious to her what was coming, she'd deduced it the moment
she saw the Decree; and while part of her had longed for it for years, another part was saddened
that it was now here.

Still, she'd been prepared to inform Ron, so couldn't complain that he was informing her
instead. And secretly, she couldn't help but be amused by the timing. And, really, for Ron, it
was a considerate gift. Far be it from her to spoil his presentation.

"If it were that easy, Ron," Hermione said softly, "we could have done it
*years* ago. But a wizarding marriage won't be affected by this…"

"No," said Ron seriously, "but this is just a formality, to cover all our hoops.
We'll probably want our own Magical Records Office to have a copy, too… make it official and
all. Y'see, we've done something that's never been done before in the wizarding
world." A dramatic pause, then: "We're not married any more."

She looked up and feigned surprise. "Of course we are! Our marriage is enforced by our own
magic, and the vows we took. Where we promised to be together forever…"

"Nope," Ron corrected her. "For life." He grinned at the confused look on
Hermione's face. "Until Death us do part, Hermione. When you died yesterday, it broke the
power of our vows. The moment you died, we stopped being married."

"I see!" she exclaimed, then stopped and assumed a thoughtful expression. "No,
wait, it sounds plausible, but it may not have happened so cleanly. This is speculation. After all,
as you noted, it's never happened before."

Predictably, the blood came rushing to Ron's face. "Erm," he coughed, "no,
it's not speculation. I'm pretty sure our vows are gone." Hermione smiled quizzically,
and he mumbled, "Okay, I'm *absolutely* sure."

She gave a slight snort of mirth, and decided she'd strung him along far enough. "I
won't pry," she said gently. "So – my birthday gift is… freedom? Being rid of the
hyphenation?"

He relaxed at the easy manner in which she was accepting his news. "Hey, last time we
spoke, you *did* allow as how it was something you wanted." He smiled ruefully. "All
right, that *both* of us wanted."

"Yes, well… thank you for telling me, Ron. I appreciate it." She laid the document on
her desk, reached across and squeezed Ron's hand warmly. "And I hope this means we're
still friends, even if we can't be spouses. I *do* care for you… I just can't
*be* with you."

"I know what you mean," he grinned, then turned serious again. "But yeah, I hope
we stay friends, at least. We're still going to be seeing a lot of each other,
y'know."

Her surprise this time was completely unfeigned. "Oh, Merlin, I hadn't considered!
*Rose!* What about Rose?"

"Hogwarts for most of the year, and summer hols with you," said Ron, with a readiness
that suggested he'd given it some thought. "As long as I can be there for Christmas, and
spend a day now and then with her, I'm good with that. What I was worried about was
how…"

"How we're going to tell her," Hermione finished his sentence with him.
"Well, she should certainly hear it from us, not from another source… we should do it
together, and soon."

They stood silently for a moment. It was Ron who voiced what they were both thinking. "So…
Saturday, after your Rebirthday Party, then."

"My Rebirthday Party." Hermione rubbed her forehead. *Where I'll also be
explaining all about Harry's disappearance, exile, and return.* *About which I haven't
yet spoken to Harry.* "Well," she finally said, "it's going to be one hell of
a party, isn't it?"



31. XXXI: Multipronged, Queen-side
----------------------------------

**(A/N:** Still a few loose ends to tie up… and we haven't even reached Hermione's
Rebirthday Party. Don't worry, we'll get there, we'll get there. As long as I have
**MirielleGrey** as my beta, I can face the world.

I've said it before, but I'll say it again: If you're enjoying the story, please
tell your friends. And if you're not, please tell me.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** The characters of the Potterverse are the product of Jo Rowling's brain.
The believable way they act in this story, obviously not.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXXI: Multipronged, Queen-side**

*

Mnemosyne Fleming waited at the guard desk leading to the holding cells, while the guard perused
her pass into the Ministry's holding cells. "This looks in order," he smiled.
"You're authorized to keep your wand, miss. He's in cell number seven. Open!" he
told the outer door, which obediently swung open. Mnemosyne collected her pass, nodded thanks, and
proceeded down the cell block.

She had no trouble finding the correct cell: there was a second guard posted in front of it.
After hearing about Madam Granger's orders regarding Blaise Zabini, Mnemosyne wasn't
surprised. "Legilimens Fleming," the guard greeted her – Kelly, that was his name.
"Haven't seen you in a while. Are you here for Doukas?"

"Our Memory people are spread a bit thin today," she told him. "Mr. Peasegood
thought I could do the most good here. He's told me what to look for." A sequestration of
specific memories: the subject himself could not recall the memories, and would be unaware of
having them, until they were released into his conscious mind. Peasegood believed they were keyed
to be released only when the subject received a code word, or possibly a code phrase.

No one could be certain that Doukas's memories *had* been sequestered, but given the
nature of his employers, it was imperative to find out. As a full Legilimens, Mnemosyne could
detect sequestration, now that she knew what to look for… perhaps not as surely as Peasegood, using
Engram Patterning, but certainly faster. Of course, if she found sequestered memories, she
wouldn't be able to affect them; that would be for the Obliviators, persons much more skilled
at Memory Charms than she.

"He's actually been pretty quiet this morning," Kelly noted, readying his own
wand. "Not like last night. Shoutin' for the head of the Greek delegation, for his wand,
for firevodka, all manner of demands. Didn't get any of 'em – strict orders, no
contacts."

"Good," said Mnemosyne, moving to stand directly in front of the cell door. Kelly
stood to one side, where he could cover her with his wand without being seen from within the cell.
"Not even the house-elves, I assume?"

"Served 'im breakfast me own self," Kelly snorted. He aimed his wand and barked,
"Open cell number seven!"

The cell door swung open. After a moment, Mnemosyne stepped into the cell. Doukas was reading at
the small table, the remnants of his breakfast service pushed aside. He seemed to be lingering over
his coffee – and ignoring her presence altogether.

"Sabas Doukas?" she demanded. He made no acknowledgment.

Well, for the job she came to do, she hardly needed his active cooperation.
"*Legilimens**,*" Mnemosyne said smartly, pointing her wand at his head.

And promptly recoiled in horror.

*

Sheryl was waiting for Hermione when she'd finished with the last of the wizards who'd
queued at her office that morning. "I know I'm not the only working mother at the
Ministry," Hermione groused, watching him leave, "so why am I the one playing
'Ministry Mum' today? Honestly, all they wanted was my opinions on their ideas – a pat on
the head, really. Even Canby wanted to talk to me, about our elf guests." She rubbed her eyes
wearily. "Everyone wants reassurance in times of trouble, I suppose. It's not like I can
actually authorize any of their plans…"

"Get used to it," Sheryl said quietly.

"Used to it? What do you…? Ah." Hermione raised one eyebrow. "You've got your
*I**'ve-been-listening-to-the-scuttlebutt* look on your face."

"Mm hmm." Sheryl leaned closer. "I heard from Mavis in Finances that the
Wizengamot council chambers haven't been readied for a session today."

"What!? But… but why not? The Wizengamot needs to convene as soon as possible, and select
the new Minister! We can't go on very long without a head of government…" Hermione paused.
"Well, it would be upsetting in a lot of quarters if we tried…"

Sheryl wasn't done. "What's more," she continued, "Agnes in Floo
Authority says they got a request today from Giles Yarborough – asking to have his home taken off
the Floo Network for the rest of the month."

That brought Hermione up short. It wasn't too unusual for families to disconnect their
fireplaces from the Floo Network for short periods… for example, if they were leaving for a
holiday. However, Yarborough was an old, crusty curmudgeon, not given to travel. He was the
patriarch of an ancient Pureblood wizarding family: exactly the sort of wizard who, though never a
supporter of Lord Voldemort, might still be sympathetic to the Pureblood faction.

*And* Yarborough was a sitting member of the Wizengamot.

Either way, the odds that he was actually leaving on holiday – at *this* moment – were
negligible.

"Let me know if you hear of anyone else 'rusticating', as it were," Hermione
softly said after a moment. Sheryl nodded her understanding.

*

Blaise Zabini sat stoically in his chair, placed directly in front of the door to his private
cell. Arnold Peasegood was seated on the door's other side, facing Zabini through the bars. The
older wizard twitched his wand again, for perhaps the twelfth time; Zabini watched as a new set of
spots of colored light seemed to dance before his eyes before joining the kaleidoscopic pattern
above his head. He declined himself permission to react.

Two Aurors stood behind Peasegood, wands in their hands but not pointed directly at anyone.
Zabini knew the third Auror was outside his field of vision, wand aimed and ready to respond,
should anything untoward happen.

Another twitch of Peasegood's wand. More spots of light. Zabini kept his sphinx face
securely in place.

Finally, the Obliviator swept his wand in a broad arc and binned the light display. "Well,
Mr. Zabini," he said slowly, "I can find no evidence that any of your memories have been
tampered with."

Zabini inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. "You'll inform Gawaine
straightaway, then?"

"Per his instructions, yes."

"When you do, would you also inform him," Zabini said coolly, as though they were at
one of the Department Heads' morning briefings, "that I wish my solicitor to review any
agreement before we both sign."

Peasegood pursed his lips for an instant in disapproval. "I'll relay your
message," he said neutrally, standing and backing away from the door. Nodding his thanks to
the guards, he left the cell block. The three Aurors took their seats, far enough away from the
door that they could converse in low voices without Zabini overhearing – but still keeping the cell
in view.

With a casual shrug, Zabini slid his own chair back to the small dining table. He was well aware
of Peasegood's opinion of him, but he knew the Obliviator would pass on his message. Whether
Robards would act on it was another issue. Certainly Zabini would not be allowed to *speak*
with a solicitor: the "No Visitors" rule would be absolute in his case. It wouldn't
be legal, but Zabini decided not to press it. The important point was that there were now no bars
to Robards accepting his deal.

Retrieving his *Daily Prophet* from the remains of breakfast on the table, he folded it in
half and lay down on the cell's bed to read. It was a delicate game he was playing, and the
appearance of ease was important. The last twenty-four hours had been a setback, a severe one, and
his position certainly looked bad – but he wasn't out of the game, not yet. He'd had a week
to prepare other stratagems, and they were now in play. Zabini might yet recoup his losses.

He wondered idly how the *Prophet* would word the headline when the charges against him
were dropped.

*

Hermione arrived back at Robards's office at a dead run. Peasegood was there, as well as one
of the Ministry's Legilimens, Fleming, who was literally wringing her hands in distress.
"What's happened?" Hermione demanded.

"Doukas's mind has been wiped," replied Robards curtly. "He's
gone."

Mnemosyne tried to take control of herself. "I went to his cell this morning to check his
mind for sequestration, as… as Mr. Peasegood asked. When I arrived, I thought he was ignoring me,
just *pretending* to read… being an uncooperative prisoner, I mean. We get them every so
often, ma'am, and it's usually simpler to just get on with my work, but…"

"She knows that, Miss Fleming," Peasegood interjected quietly.

"I mean, not even Gilderoy Lockheart had his mind erased so completely! Even *Krups*
have more brain activity! I didn't do it, I swear I didn't…"

"Of course you didn't. Your Obliviation skills are nowhere near the level such a
drastic mindwipe would require," Peasegood pointed out.

"We can likewise rule out Kelly and Fraser as suspects, for the same reason," said
Robards, naming the two guards at the holding cells block.

"I don't believe it," Hermione growled slowly. "I. Don't. *Believe.*
It. *Another* attack on a prisoner inside the Ministry? Just as with Swivingham? *How* in
Merlin's name could this have happened!?"

Robards coughed. "Both the guards swear that no one went past them, that Doukas had no
visitors at all. No contact whatsoever, not even a lawyer. He'd just finished breakfast, so
we're checking for potions. Beyond that…"

Hermione shook her head sharply. She began pacing, eyes on the floor, thinking furiously.
"We know Doukas was able to Obliviate… he Obliviated Ginny. It's why he was at the
Ministry yesterday in the first place. Could he have Obliviated *himself?"*

"Well," began Peasegood.

"No," she answered herself, not stopping, "no, obviously not. He had no wand. And
he wasn't capable of wandless magic, else he'd not have wanted Ron's wand when he held
Ron hostage. Um, um, um…" She paced another circuit around the room before she glanced up at
Peasegood and Fleming. "Is there such a thing as a *timed* Obliviation?"

"You think he might have performed it on himself, in advance?" Mnemosyne blurted. She
had watched in fascination as Hermione had brainstormed.

"Not necessarily. It wouldn't surprise me if the Cartel kept more than one Obliviator
on tap. Doukas could have had the charm performed on him before he was sent here. It doesn't
matter… the question is, can Obliviation be timed to take effect hours after it's been
cast?"

Everyone looked at Peasegood expectantly. "I… have never heard of such a thing," he
said slowly. "But I admit, I'd never heard of sequestering memories, either, before I saw
it in Lovinett's mind. Sequestration, at least, I can understand: the charm is in place and
working, it needs only the trigger. A key word, as I've told Creevey. But to *delay* the
charm's action… with no visible effect before the time expires, and full effect
afterward…" He twisted his mouth, pondering.

"Tranfigurations can be timed," Hermione noted, thinking of several Weasley Wizarding
Wheezes.

"There's a world of difference between physical objects and mental engrams,"
Peasegood scowled. "No. No, I can think of no way to time-delay a Memory Charm."

"Keep thinking about it – *hard,*" Hermione ordered him. "Because it
doesn't do us much good to go after the Cartel, if every defendant and potential witness turns
into a vegetable before we can even hold the trial."

*

By mid-afternoon, it had become plain to everyone in the Ministry that the Wizengamot would not
be convening that day. And in the meantime, two more members of the Wizengamot had become
"unavailable"; while the remainder were ready to convene, tradition dictated that a new
Minister of Magic be chosen by a full session.

Of course, tradition also dictated that the new Minister be chosen promptly, within a day at
most. To postpone the selection was almost unheard of. Within the Ministry, the general reaction
ranged from unease, through annoyance, to outrage. However, the populace at large was still
unsettled by Kingsley Shacklebolt's death: he had, after all, been enormously respected. So, as
much as everyone recognized that a successor was needed, the push to choose that successor was not
yet strong.

Which disgusted Hermione no end.

"This," she told Sheryl as she stomped back into her office, "this has to be the
most blatant power play I've ever witnessed. Do they *honestly* think they're fooling
anyone?"

"'They' who?" Dennis Creevey followed Hermione into the room, a roll of
parchment in hand. "Hello, all. See, this is what happens when I leave you by yourselves for a
few days. *Man,* you've been busy here."

"You might say so," said Sheryl at her driest.

Hermione sighed heavily and turned to Dennis, who offered her the parchment. "Welcome back
to Bedlam," she greeted him, accepting his report. "By 'they', I mean certain
elements of the Wizengamot. It would appear that they aren't ready to name a new
Minister."

"Why not? They aren't volunteering to run the government themselves, are they? I mean,
it's not exactly the Roman Senate…"

"I almost wish it were. No, the situation's fairly convoluted, but I think I see
what's happening. And I really have to give Blaise credit: this is political manipulation at
its finest." At their inquiring expressions, Hermione fell into her usual lecturing habit.
"We've been working for years to reform wizarding legal procedures, haven't we? To
make them fairer. Well, now he's using our own reforms against us. Remember the reforms to the
Wizengamot Charter of Rights? Particularly the clauses regarding Ministry employees?"

"Yeah, I think so," said Dennis. "They were supposed to make it harder for the
Minister to intimidate Ministry workers into toeing the party line… preventing another Thicknesse
or Fudge. Things like no coercion of Ministry employees, no loyalty oaths…"

"No Veritaserum," Sheryl cut in, beginning to see what Hermione meant. "Top-level
Ministry personnel can't be forced to take Veritaserum without the joint approval of their
Department Head, the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, and the…" She stopped as she realized
what she was about to say.

"And the Minister," finished Hermione. "Except at the moment, we don't
*have* a Minister. So Zabini is exempt from invasive magic such as Veritaserum. Leaving him
free to plea bargain with Gawaine: cooperation in return for having the charges dropped. And
without those charges on his record, the Wizengamot could select him as the new Minister with a
'clean' conscience." The last words were delivered with heavy irony.

There was silence for a moment. "You're right," Dennis said. "They can't
believe people wouldn't notice that."

"As long as the traditions are observed," said Sheryl, "I don’t think they
care."

"I just wish I knew what sparked those three to act so… so *precipitously,*"
fumed Hermione. "I knew they favored the old wizarding traditions, but I never figured them to
be reactionaries… certainly not to *this* degree. Zabini must have swayed them to his side –
into his Fire Party," she said in an acid aside, "well before his arrest. And now it
looks like he's calling in favors."

"Yeah, but… but he still has to give Crown's Evidence against the Cartel," Dennis
objected. "Wouldn't that make him, like, the shortest-serving Minister of Magic in
history?"

Hermione sighed again. "I'd think so, but… I don't know, I just don't know. I
*must* be missing something… something crucial. Perhaps he's gambling that the
Cartel's use for him as Minister outweighs any damage his testimony might cause them. *I*
wouldn't make that gamble, but I'm not in the dire straits Zabini is."

"Then maybe Head Robards should hold off on finalizing the deal with Zabini until after the
Wizengamot meets," suggested Dennis. "They *can't* put it off
indefinitely."

"But we need to go after the Cartel *now,*" Sheryl reminded him.
"They'll go underground otherwise, Memory Charm their own employees, restructure. We
can't give them time to do that."

"And believe it or not, I don't tell Gawaine Robards how to do his job," Hermione
said firmly. She ignored the skeptical expressions on their faces, and continued, "To guard
against future tampering, I *will* suggest that Zabini's testimony be in the form of
Pensieve memories. Mm, and I can send an owl to the ICW, telling them about Doukas and warning them
to keep Castigni secure. Though I'm not sure how." She paused, brows furrowed in
concentration, before giving her head a slow, grim shake. "That's about all we can do for
the moment."

*

Harry slipped into Ollivander's shop, quickly closed the door behind him, and leaned his
forehead against it as he released a long-held breath. *Calm down,* he told his racing pulse,
*just calm down. There's nothing here to be afraid of.*

With Eldritch and Artok watching like hawks, Harry had easily opened the Potter heirloom chest.
The fact that one of the items in the chest – a baby rattle – had chosen to starting singing to
him, calling him by name, was icing on the cake. They'd both had to concede that he was, in
truth, Harry James Potter.

That, of course, meant that Harry couldn't leave Gringotts until he'd assured the
goblins, in writing with multiple copies, that he didn't hold Gringotts or its employees
responsible for the loss of his worldly possessions, that they had simply been executing his wishes
per his will, that he expected no indemnification against his losses, and so on and on.

He *had* taken the opportunity to open a new vault. And he was very grateful for Andromeda
Tonks's gift of cash: it meant he could spend money without anyone wondering where he'd got
it. Harry's last stop before arriving at Gringotts that morning had been to Barclay's,
where he'd withdrawn some of Jacob Clayman's savings; pounds converted to Galleons, they
now rested in his new vault, and Harry could make some much-needed purchases.

But he hadn't reckoned on the crowds.

He'd been spotted the moment he set foot outside Gringotts's doors: a double-take by a
passing pair of witches, followed by heads popping out of shop windows as he walked, and a knot of
wizards and witches a few paces behind him. He could *hear* the whispers spread like wildfire
down the length of Diagon Alley, could *feel* their curious eyes on him. Thank Merlin no one
actually approached him, but their attention was more than enough.

Harry had fought the urges to either run to his destination or to slink there. He'd walked
down the Alley at a reasonable pace – spine stiff, to be sure, and meeting no one's eyes, but
not allowing himself to run. He would *not* allow himself.

He *would* conquer this.

Surreptitiously, he wiped his hands on his trousers as he straightened and turned to look around
the shop. He honestly hadn't expected Ollivander's shop to still be in business: he
remembered all too well rescuing Mr. Ollivander from Malfoy Manor, and the old man had seemed very
frail – and that had been fifteen years ago.

Harry forced a cough, to announce his presence. After a moment, a short stout man bustled out
from between the stacks of boxed wands. "Yes, hello? Can I help… ah, young man. What can I do
for you? I expect you've had an accident at school, have you? Need a replacement wand?"
Not waiting for a reply, he snapped his fingers. A measuring tape jumped from the counter and
stretched itself down Harry's right arm.

"It happens every year," the stout man continued, as the tape moved to Harry's
left arm, then wrapped itself around his brow. "Some young man suddenly realizes this is his
last year at Hogwarts, and NEWTs are approaching, and he panics. Overgripped your wand, I expect.
Or whiplash, was it?"

"No," Harry replied, beginning to relax and be amused. "It just… fell
apart."

"Hah! Haven't heard *that* one before. And what wand type was it before it
'just fell apart'?" The tape, done with Harry's head, hovered in mid-air waiting
for its next instruction.

"Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches."

"Hum." The stout man looked curiously at Harry. "Not a usual combination, that.
Let's see…" Another snap of his fingers, and the measuring tape came to his hand. He
looked carefully at it, jotted some numbers on a scrap of parchment, then opened a ledger book and
started turning its pages, searching.

Harry could tell exactly when the penny dropped: the man abruptly paused, his finger on the page
of the book, and his face turned white. He looked up at Harry with wide eyes and goggling
mouth.

"I'm afraid so," Harry said diffidently.

The man worked his jaw, but no sound came out for a moment. Then he seemed to recall his wits.
"Grand-da!" he yelled, not taking his eyes from Harry. "Grand-da, it's…! Wait
right there!" he shouted at Harry desperately, as though afraid Harry might evaporate.
"Don't move!" Pausing just long enough to make sure that Harry wasn't moving, he
darted back through the shelves and vanished.

Moments later, the stout man returned, walking slowly, with an old man leaning on his arm. Harry
recognized Mr. Ollivander… and as the old man raised his gaze, it was clear he recognized Harry. A
broad smile split his wrinkled face.

"Bless my soul, for once the rumours were correct. Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back.
And you're here for a new wand, my, my… Caleb, help me here, if you would?"

The stout man gently lowered Ollivander into a chair, then brought him the book and the
parchment with Harry's measurements. "I'll start with the holly collection, shall I,
Grand-da? We've a good variety in stock–"

Ollivander waved him away. "No, I think not. The wands from my workbench, I think.
You'll find them on the curing rack. Caleb's my grandson," he confided to Harry, as
the stout man scuttled away. "Not a bad lad, but still learning the business. He doesn't
yet have a *feel* for the right wand, if you know what I mean, Mr. Potter. His idea to look
among the holly wands… or those with phoenix cores, for that matter…"

"Erm, those would've been *my* first guesses," said Harry.

With an indulgent smile, Ollivander said, "Your first wand chose you when you were eleven,
Mr. Potter, with little experience with your magic. Subsequent events have shaped you, and shaped
your magic… and you are a great deal more powerful now than you were then. I daresay you'd
burst a new holly wand at the seams, directly you tried it." He rested his chin on his clasped
hands and looked off into the distance.

Harry had forgotten how *odd* Ollivander could act. After a moment of silence, he felt
bound to say something. "I remember buying my first wand from you… we had to try dozens before
we found the right one."

"I too remember, Mr. Potter," replied Ollivander, still staring into the distance.
"And if we were to sample our usual stock of wands, I suspect we would have to try many more
to find your match today. At eleven, you were untrained: you couldn't simply use any wand, but
only the wand that chose you. Today, you could *use* any number of wands, even another
wizard's wand, without their being a perfect match for you. Finding a genuine match thus
becomes that much more difficult." He smiled enigmatically.

"Fortunately," he continued, "having my grandson run the shop has allowed me the
luxury of time. Time I've spent in research, Mr. Potter. I've been experimenting with new
woods, new cores – and I can't help but feel that *there* is where we shall find the wand
that chooses you."

*

For a wonder, Hermione had a moment to herself, with no one clamoring for her attention, no
explosions elsewhere in the Ministry. She retired to her office, closed the door (giving Sheryl a
look that promised retribution for any intrusion that wasn't the direst of emergencies),
flumped into the chair behind her desk, and let her head fall into her waiting hands.

*I'm missing something,* she chided herself. *I'm missing something*
important. *It's there, I know it is, and I'm missing it. I* hate *when my mind
doesn't do what I expect it to do.*

No epiphanies revealed themselves to her.

After a moment, Hermione sighed and sat up. She was still Senior Counsel, and as such had an
abundance of paperwork tasks. She'd put them off far too long, caught up as she'd been in
other concerns. Perhaps the sheer mindlessness of paperwork would germinate some fresh ideas.

She picked up the first sheet, saw that it was the final deposition on a case she'd resolved
two months earlier, and dropped it unread. Suddenly, she couldn't *bear* the thought of
reviewing it. Scanning the top of her desk for something, *anything,* she could legitimately
use as an excuse for ignoring the pile of paperwork, her eye fell on Dennis Creevey's
report.

*Well, let's see how they're faring with Lovinett,* she decided, unrolling the
parchment and smoothing it flat.

The report summarized what she already knew: that some of Lovinett's memories had been
sequestered from his conscious mind. Presumably, they were the memories of his dealings with Blaise
Zabini. Peasegood was of the opinion that the memories would be restored once Lovinett received a
code, a key word or phrase.

"*Unfortunately, Peasegood hasn't made a lot of progress in breaking through the
sequestering,*" Dennis's report continued. "*Partially because he's been
called back to the Ministry to deal with more urgent matters.* *Partially, because he's
moving slowly and carefully, to avoid the Charm's fail-safes. Peasegood has a plan he wants to
try, when he comes back here. He explained the technique to me in what he called 'layman's
terms', meaning he considers us barely out of infant school; essentially, it's like taking
a plaster cast of a lock to see what key will fit it. Once he's done that, he'll have a
better idea of what key words to try. He estimates three to seven days before he's ready to try
breaking the charm.*"

Three to seven days. With another sigh, Hermione released the parchment and watched it roll
itself up again. There would be no arguing with that estimate: when it came to Memory Charms,
Peasegood was the best man for the job.

*But… but perhaps we can narrow the search a bit…* Hermione chewed her lower lip and began
to think in earnest.

*We have to assume the "key word" is an actual word, not a series of nonsense
syllables. The key has to be recognized by Lovinett's consciousness in order to affect it, I
suspect. Besides, it would be too easy for someone to mumble, or have a real word drowned in
ambient noise, and Lovinett to hear it as nonsense syllables. No, logically it must be a real
word.*

*By the same token, it can't be a common word. The Cartel wouldn't risk Lovinett's
memories being restored accidentally, by overhearing casual conversation. So we can eliminate words
like "pudding" or "owl" or such. Given that Lovinett's a solicitor, we can
likewise eliminate words used in the legal profession, like "tort" or "nolo
contendere". Nothing he might be expected to hear in the course of his daily affairs.*

*So: words which are recognizable as words, but extremely uncommon. Well, there's no
shortage of* those. *Leptodactylous. Belesprit. Philotimy. And a host of others. I could name
dozens more off the top of my head, but then I've always been good at word games…*

And Hermione froze.

Seconds later, she was pelting down the corridors of the Ministry as fast as her feet could take
her, praying she wasn't too late to avert catastrophe.



32. XXXII:  Fulfilling Commitments, Large and Small
---------------------------------------------------

**(A/N:** Given how he's spent the last few years, it stands to reason that Harry would
be a bit more adventurous in his culinary tastes than Hermione.

The goblin members of the Wizengamot were mentioned all the way back in Chapter XV. And my
theories about Artifaction as the goblins' form of magic were used in some of my other stories,
like *Restoring Hope* </shameless plug>.

Harry's epiphany in the chapter's last bit seems absolute and inescapable, based on what
canon has given us.

This is by *far* the longest chapter to date, but it needed to be. Thanks as always are due
to **MirielleGrey****,** my Beta Who Can Grow People.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** I am in awe of those who create universes. My own forte is *exploring*
universes, quite a different thing. Evidently, many people with the first skill are woefully inept
in the second skill. Especially those with surnames that rhyme with Bowling.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXXII: Fulfilling Commitments, Large and Small**

*

"When you've dressed yourself," said the Healer at St. Mungo's kindly,
"just come down to the ground floor and find Admin. They'll have a quick bit of
parchmentwork for you, and then you'll be free to leave."

Ginny slowly nodded. "And you're sure nothing can be done about…?"

The Healer looked sympathetic. "I'm sorry, dearie, I know how frustrated you must feel.
But those memories are gone. We only kept you for overnight observation, just to make certain there
were no other damages to your mind, and there don't seem to be. Mentally, you're the same
person you ever were… minus a few days of memory. And physically, you're in tip-top shape,
which was only to be expected for a Chaser of your skill." She gave Ginny a reassuring smile
and a pat on the arm, before leaving the room.

Ginny took her time slipping out of the hospital gown. She vaguely recalled being brought to St.
Mungo's: very disoriented, unable to track her surroundings, and only slowly regaining her
sense of time and place. Evidently she'd been visiting the Ministry – Ginny guessed she'd
gone to support Blaise as he chaired his Conference on International Crime. She remembered urging
Blaise to chair the Conference, as a way of cementing his position within the Ministry – and as
heir apparent to Kingsley Shacklebolt.

She glanced down at the side table, where that morning's *Daily Prophet* lay. From its
banner headlines, it was clear that the Conference had been completely eclipsed, relegated to
back-page status. There'd been an attacker within the Ministry – *she'd* been
attacked, hit with a Memory Charm. The attacker had also gone after Hermione… and was then caught
by Ron. *Ron!*

And then… the newspaper seemed to gloss over the details, but… then there'd been a fight,
and Hermione and Blaise were involved, and Shacklebolt had died, and *Hermione* had died! And
then… she'd been brought back to life. Brought back to life by a hero, himself risen from the
grave: Harry Potter.

Harry.

Ginny closed her eyes for a moment, trying to sort through her feelings. Harry… Harry was alive
again. Harry had spent a decade and a half trapped behind the Veil, according to the
*Prophet.* Harry had heroically freed himself by bringing back Hermione's soul, following
its path back to the living world. In a sense, he owed his return to her… and she certainly owed
her life to him.

Another glance at the *Prophet* showed its front-page photo, grainy and amateurish,
probably taken by one of the delegates at the Conference: it showed Hermione sitting on the floor,
Harry kneeling beside her, and the two were embracing for all they were worth. The angle of the
photo was such that only Harry's head, arms and upper torso could be clearly seen, but he was
obviously in his altogether. Hermione's face was in profile… but on the half that was visible,
the expression could only be described as blissful.

Ginny had no illusions about what Hermione must be feeling for Harry now. She remembered
perfectly how *she* felt when Harry saved her from the basilisk – and that was small beans in
comparison to this. She felt a pang of sympathy for Hermione. But Hermione was married to Ron, with
vows that couldn't be set aside. And Harry had *always* treated Hermione as the sister
he'd never had; that wouldn't have changed while Harry was in the kingdom of Death.

Indeed, to judge by appearances, *Harry* hadn't changed while in the kingdom of Death.
Harry hadn't aged at all: he looked exactly as in her last memory of him. Ginny glanced at her
reflection in the mirror as she buttoned her blouse. She was trim, in excellent form, her hair
shone like fire, and she knew she looked damned hot – for her age.

The idea of a mature woman romantically involved with a schoolboy was… troubling, she had to
admit. A bit squicky, actually. But this was *Harry.* He wouldn't find her age a problem.
Why, he seemed to have a preference for older women, if his experience with Cho was any indication.
And he *was* seventeen, healthy, and male… No, Harry would come back to her, just as she'd
always imagined. And he'd do so at the moment when his fame couldn't be brighter.

That fame might be useful to Blaise's career. If Blaise's fortunes could be tied to
those of The Boy Who Lived Again… well! Ginny didn't doubt her ability to persuade Harry to
join with them. She knew exactly what "arguments" (she smiled coyly to herself) would
sway him best. And Blaise would certainly not complain about the results.

Now if only she could contact Blaise and discuss these developments with him. For some reason,
none of the messages she'd sent to him at the Ministry had been received.

*

Blaise Zabini had grown thoroughly tired of re-reading the *Prophet's* lead story,
complete with its sidebars and speculations. Thankfully, the story had downplayed his role in the
conference room – his actions, and the accusations leading up to them – but that was its only
redeeming feature. Otherwise, it was simply an effusive paean of adulation for Harry
I-Cannot-Be-Killed Potter. With a generous dollop of Granger-Gelato as icing.

*At least Potter's homeless and penniless, even if he* is *alive again,* Blaise
reflected. *And clueless as well: he'll have no idea of what's been happening in the
world, these last fifteen years.* He, *at least, won't prove a hindrance to me.*

Outside his cell door, the three Aurors on watch sat up straighter as footsteps sounded in the
corridor. Seconds later, two wizards stood framed in the doorway: Gawain Robards, and, amazingly,
Tiberius Ogden, the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Blaise hadn't expected Ogden to be
included in his deal… Robards must be taking it seriously indeed.

"Gawain… Tiberius," he greeted them easily, folding his *Prophet* and tucking it
under his arm as he rose from his cot. "Good afternoon. I trust all is well with
you?"

Ogden gave Blaise a smile of greeting in return. Blaise acknowledged the elderly wizard, but
otherwise paid him scant attention. Tiberius Ogden was an ineffectual hand-waver, who'd been
pleased as *punch* when he was chosen to be Albus Dumbledore's successor as Chief Warlock.
He'd proven an amateur politician at best, content to let the Minister of Magic dictate the
Wizengamot's agendas. Doubtless Shacklebolt had found that very useful.

*Doubtless the next Minister of Magic will find it useful as well,* Blaise thought in
anticipation.

Robards regarded him neutrally for a few seconds, before brandishing a roll of parchment.
"I've prepared our agreement, if you'd care to look it over…"

Blaise strolled to the cell door and accepted the parchment through the bars. "Of course
I'll look it over, but… didn't Arnold deliver my message?" He knew Peasegood had, and
he knew he wasn't going to be allowed a solicitor, but there was no harm in gently digging at
Robards. This breach of the Wizengamot Charter of Rights was quite illegal, after all.

Robards let the dig go by him. "Yes," was all he said, as he gestured at Blaise to
read. With a slight sigh, Blaise unrolled the parchment and reviewed the wording. It was, he noted,
a Magically Binding Contract… not that he'd expected anything less.

He glanced up at Robards with one eyebrow raised. "The language is rather broad, don't
you think, Gawain? 'Assist Magical Law Enforcement and the Auror Corps to the best of my
ability'? Please. That wording would require me to donate my entire fortune to you, if you ever
ran over budget." He pointed to the clause in the document. "How about, mm, 'Answer
truthfully, to the best of my recollection, any questions from Magical Law Enforcement and the
Auror Corps pertaining to the Cartel," he countered.

With a nod, Robards flicked his wand at the parchment. The clause vanished momentarily, then
reappeared with Blaise's wording… with an addition. "'…and provide Pensieve support
for those answers upon demand'," read Blaise aloud. "Reasonable."

They worked their way through the contract, until both were satisfied with its wording. Blaise
handed it back to Robards, who produced a self-inking quill from his pocket. He signed the contract
and passed it to Ogden. Ogden seemed befuddled as always, but he signed readily enough at
Robards's urging. "Well, if you're sure you don't need me anymore…" he
smiled. "I should be heading back to the Council chambers… still some minor cases to hear
today…" With an affable nod to everyone, he departed.

Another person took his place at the cell door: a young woman, carrying a valise in one hand.
She looked somewhat familiar… Blaise racked his memory until he recalled that she worked in the
Department of Magical Catastrophes. She worked under Peasegood, and she was… Mnemosyne Fleming –
not an easy name to forget! Under Peasegood, but, he remembered, not as an Obliviator…

She was one of the Ministry's Legilimenses! "Now I *must* protest, Gawain! Using
Legilimency on me is a flagrant violation of the Charter of Rights. I haven't yet signed your
little contract, after all." He made his voice sound scornful yet unconcerned, even while he
was hastily preparing Occlumency shields within his mind.

"I'm not here to invade your memories," Fleming told him. "I'm here to
see that they're uncontaminated."

"Your rights are safe," added Robards sardonically. "But we're not sealing
any bargains until I'm sure you haven't been tampered with." He nodded at Fleming, who
raised her wand and pointed it at Blaise.

*"Legilimens,*" she said clearly.

Blaise was now very glad he'd waited until the last moment before completing his plan. He
left his Occlumency shields mostly lowered – enough to prove that he *could* hide things from
Fleming, but chose not to. Blaise could feel Fleming's psychic magic washing over his mind: a
curiously gentle feeling, not like the ripping of memories typical of Legilimency. It lasted only a
few moments.

"Clean," reported Fleming.

"Of course. Are you *certain* Arnold spoke with you today?" Blaise asked mildly.
He returned Robards's scowl with a tight, patronizing smile as he reached for the contract and
quill. A quick scan showed nothing had been added or removed… flattening it on the table, he
scribbled his name at the bottom. The parchment made a soft *thrumming* sound, showing the
Magical Binding had been sealed.

He rolled up the parchment again. Retaining the quill in one hand, he tossed the contract back
through the bars of the cell door with the other. "What's next?" he asked
nonchalantly, seating himself at the table.

"Next comes questioning," Robards responded, tucking the contract into his breast
pocket. "I'll ask you some specific questions, and depending on the answers, I'll have
Fleming here extract certain memories for safekeeping. In case of, let's say, accidents."
Behind Robards, Fleming was rummaging in her valise; Blaise could see one of the Department's
evidentiary Pensieves, as well as some implements he couldn't identify.

"Reasonable," yawned Blaise, every fiber of his body affecting an aura of boredom.
"I trust you've arranged for refreshments? For yourselves, if not for me – I can see this
will take a while." He withdrew the *Daily Prophet* from under his arm and began to
unfold it to its back page. "Fortunately, I can keep myself amused until you're
ready…"

"*INCENDIO!*"

The *Prophet* burst into flames in Blaise's hands. Hastily he dropped it onto the
floor, and tried to put out the fire with his feet, but the flames were persistent: within seconds,
nothing remained of the newspaper but fine ashes. Angrily, Blaise brought up his eyes to see who
had treated him so shabbily.

And saw Granger, triumphantly brandishing her wand.

"*Damn,* Granger, I realize it wasn't a pretty photo," Blaise snarled,
"but that's hardly *my* fault, is it!? Either sue the *Prophet* or learn to use
a mirror, but don't take it out on *me.*"

Robards, Fleming, and the other Aurors were staring in shock at Granger. "Hermione…?"
Robards began.

"Sorry, Gawain," she said, lowering her wand, "but I didn't have time to
explain… and I was sure you'd want at least *one* witness kept alive and intact."

"For Merlin's sake, how much longer do we have to put up with your endless
insinuations?" Blaise turned to Robards. "Gawain, any promise of cooperation was based on
the assumption that I'd be treated with a certain amount of fairness and dignity. Including
Granger in these proceedings gets me neither! She's already proven her bias against me – and I
don't have to put up with her attitude any longer." He crossed his arms in a gesture of
finality. *If need be, I can raise questions about the Charter of Rights again… or find little
details in the contract to cavil at. Anything, to distract them, and put off the questioning until
tomorrow…*

"I'm not staying." Granger smiled at Blaise. It wasn't a pleasant smile.
"I just had to make sure you could carry out your side of the bargain, that's all."
She looked back at the others. "It was the crossword puzzle," she explained.

Blaise remained stoic. Robards and his cohorts stared at Granger blankly.

She sighed in the way Blaise had learned to recognize: she was about to lecture. "Remember
when Peasegood first discovered that Lovinett's memories were sequestered? He was afraid that
trying to break through the sequestration would erase *all* of Lovinett's memories. And
now we've seen that happen – to Doukas. Obliviation, sequestration, full mindwipe – they're
all variants of the same Memory Charms. If one can be set to trigger with a key word, why can't
*all* of them? Doukas was prepared by the Cartel for his mission, with a Memory Charm set to
wipe all his memories upon receiving the key word." Granger glanced back at Blaise. "And
they prepared you as well, didn't they, Zabini? Probably just sequestration in your case, not
full mindwipe, but I couldn't take the chance. I'm surprised *you* did, quite
frankly."

"But… I tested him," Fleming said in confusion. "Mr. *Peasegood* tested
him…"

"That's the brilliance of it. I've got to give you credit, Blaise, it was quite
ingenious." Granger returned her attention to Fleming. "You and Arnold checked for signs
of sequestration. And you found none – because none of his memories *are* sequestered.
*Yet.* But as soon as he receives the key word, the memories we want would be squirreled away.
We probably wouldn't have thought to keep checking him for sequestration, and he could give you
perfectly honest testimony – to the best of his recollection – while still withholding the
information we need."

"Then you know what the key word is?" asked Robards.

"Well, no… but I know how it was delivered. Mnemosyne, when you found Doukas this morning…
you said you thought he was ignoring you, right? That he was sitting at the table? What was he
doing?"

"I thought he was…" Fleming's eyes widened, and she stared at the pile of ash on
the floor of the cell. "He was reading…"

"This morning's *Prophet,*" Granger finished with her. "We've been
assuming the key word had to be spoken – but there's no reason it couldn't be in print, is
there? It came to me just a few minutes ago: The key word can't be a common word in daily use.
But it mustn't attract undue attention, either. So where could you expect to find recherché
words and not think them out-of-place? Word puzzles."

Now she was watching Blaise again, gauging his reactions. He was absolutely determined not to
give her a gram of satisfaction as she continued, "In this case, the *Prophet's*
daily crossword puzzle. Again, it was a stroke of brilliance. How better to widely broadcast the
command in a perfectly innocuous way?"

She gave Blaise that smug half-smile of hers, the one he detested, then turned back to Robards.
"If you compare today's puzzle clues with tomorrow's, there'll be at least one
that's repeated. If I were the Cartel, I wouldn't stake everything on the chance that
Zabini sees the *Prophet* every single day. They'll have redundancy measures. The key word
will appear several times, over several days."

"Which means," put in Robards, growing excited as the possibilities came to him,
"that if we were to subpoena the *Prophet* for the names of the authors of the puzzles on
those days, we might get another lead to the Cartel."

"Certainly worth trying," Granger agreed. She locked gazes with Blaise and gave him a
small half-bow, half-salute. *Yes, quite clever of you,* she seemed to silently say, *but
not clever enough.*

Fists clenched by his sides, Blaise seethed in impotent fury. He knew no power of Obliviation
could ever erase the memory of her smile of victory, and at that moment he would cheerfully have
volunteered all he knew of the Cartel, accepting the consequences, if for five minutes he could
have his hands around Granger's throat.

*

"And here's the last for today," Sheryl said, handing Hermione the case file for
her signature. "You remember, Brock and his Statute of Secrecy violations? Three-member
Wizengamot panel heard the case, and it looks like Smith's elocution lessons paid off. Brock
got hit with a hefty fine this time."

"Good. This *is* his fourth offense," Hermione nodded, flipping through the file.
"Open and shut case, really, but I'm still glad Nehemiah got the verdict. He's needed
a win for weeks, now." She began to sign the file off, then paused as she read the attendees.
She glanced up at Sheryl. "You did say a three-member panel…?"

"For a minor case like this? That's normal, isn't it?"

"Yes… but evidently we could have had our *pick* of judges for the panel. It looks as
though most of the Wizengamot were available today. Including our Chief Warlock… *and*
including Forgelock and Gemhoard!"

Sheryl shrugged. "I think they were holding themselves ready for a summons, just in case
someone *did* convene the full Wizengamot today. To elect a Minister, I mean."

"Well, yes, but for goblins to wait on humans?" Hermione shook her head in amazement,
then quickly signed her name to the case file and handed it back to Sheryl. "And I strongly
doubt the full Wizengamot is going to convene this late on a Friday night, anyway."

"And speaking of which…" Sheryl waggled her fingers in farewell as she grabbed her
cloak from its peg on the wall. "Don't stay too late!" came her parting shot as she
rushed out the door.

*She always says that,* noted Hermione in amusement. But for the first time in a long time,
she felt inclined to follow Sheryl's advice.

It had been a *very* full day: preventing Zabini from snookering Gawain; warning the ICW
about the sequestration triggers, lest Castigni try a similar stunt; disinterring the fake body
from Harry's tomb (it had been a Transfigured log), which together with the Gringotts evidence
established Harry's identity beyond any doubt. And of course, all the minor crises that people
insisted on bringing to her. She'd barely had a moment to herself all day.

Which was good. Constant work kept her from dwelling on that darkness, deep and inviting, from
which she'd been rescued barely thirty hours earlier. She didn't *want* to dwell on
that land beyond the Veil, morbidly fascinating though it might be. So far, the only other thing
that could make her forget her brush with Death, besides hard work… was Harry.

Sweet *Aphrodite,* but she loved that man.

It made telling him about her Rebirthday Party that much harder.

Hermione drew a deep breath, and slowly let it out. She put the last few documents into her
briefcase and snapped it closed. Wand raised, she concentrated a moment on her thoughts of Harry –
happy thoughts all – and said aloud, "Curry take-away for dinner." A flick of her wand
and a murmured "*Expecto* *Patronum,*" and her Patronus-messenger was speeding
its way to Enthalpy House. Harry hadn't *said* he'd be returning to her house that
evening... but he'd certainly implied that he'd be sleeping there for the foreseeable
future.

With a smile on her lips, Hermione wended her way to the Atrium, there to Apparate to her
favorite Indian market to pick up dinner.

*

"Hi! I got your message!" Harry announced cheerfully as she Apparated in her living
room. "And you're in luck, I know this *great* little place in Southall with
take-away. Some *Rogan josh,* a little *Murgh* *makhani…* I asked them to go easy
with the spices, I didn't know how hot you prefer your… um…" His enthusiastic monologue
slowed and stopped as he saw the paper take-away cartons in her hands.

"Um…" Hermione looked embarrassed. "I meant *I* was bringing home curry, not
that I expected *you* to…"

"Ooops," he mumbled.

She had to laugh at that. "Don't *worry,* Harry. With the day I've had,
I'll take all the comfort food I can get. It means a little more in the icebox, that's
all." She eyed him speculatively. "You got *naan**?*"

"I got *naan**.*"

"Then life is good." She carried her tandoori chicken and fish biriani to the table,
there to join the curries Harry had brought, and they sat to eat. After a few bites, Harry waved
his fork at the take-away cartons. "Comfort food?" he inquired.

"Rose only left for Hogwarts this month," Hermione explained dryly. "For a
working mother, 'comfort food' means 'any food I myself don't have to
cook'." She saw him duck his eyes and return to his eating, and softened her remark.
"But, yes, I've always enjoyed Indian cuisine. This is *good,* Harry."

"Ah. Glad I could help, then." He spooned more rice into his dish. "Rough day,
then?"

"Mm… calling it a *full* day would be closer to the mark. I'd rather hear about
yours, first. You made it to Gringotts, I understand?"

"And established my identity, no problem," he nodded. "From there,
Ollivander's… got my new wand, and it didn't take nearly as long as I thought it
would." With a smile, he drew it from his pocket, brandished it theatrically, and levitated
Hermione's glass of tea.

"Nice. Do you mind if I…?" She held out her hand, and Harry dropped his new wand into
her palm without hesitation. He grinned at her astonished reaction. "What is this *made*
from? It's so…"

"Heavy? Hard? Yeah, Ollivander told me he's been experimenting with his wands. That
wand's one of his better efforts: ironwood."

"There are several types of ironwood, Harry. Did he say which kind?" She hefted the
wand slightly, getting accustomed to the extra weight, then flicked it at her glass of tea and
caused it to settle back onto the table. "Is it Brazilian ironwood, South African, Borneo
*bilian**…*?" *Or,* she continued silently, *is it the ironwood I suspect it
is?*

"He called it *lignum vitae.* The core is even more unusual: gryphon heartstring.
Ollivander said, as far as he knew, it was unique among modern wands."

"Given the ferocity of gryphons when they're attacked, I would imagine so."
Hermione debated on lecturing Harry about the symbolism of his new wand, then decided against it.
If Harry wanted to know, he'd ask, and she'd happily tell him. *But let's face
it,* she smiled to herself, *that wand is entirely appropriate for the Boy Who Lived To Save
Others.*

"Well, after Ollivander's," he resumed, "I went back to my flat for a bit,
then I went out into the field." Harry looked at her over the tops of his spectacles.
"My, er, special projects, you'll recall. I just wanted to follow up with them while I had
the chance. The Cheswrights, the old couple with the dairy farm, remember? They're doing loads
better… they didn't need any more help from me. Um, I think they're the only ones you know
about…"

Harry paused, considering. There was the husband who'd turned abusive to his wife when he
was drunk – *that* case had turned out strangely, but luckily, better than Harry'd hoped.
The Cheering Charm he'd cast on the man, triggered when he did something nice for his wife, had
become a sort of Pavlovian conditioning. Now he was constantly looking for new ways to please her –
and from what Harry could observe, she was most certainly pleased.

"Does this mean you're giving up the 'Guardian Angel' business?" Hermione
asked.

He shrugged. "It's harder to do without a Stealth Cloak, don't you think?" He
smiled shyly at her and added, "Besides, I don't know that I'll have time for that, if
I'm living full-time in the wizarding world again."

Which was the perfect segue for Hermione to tell Harry about her Rebirthday Party, and how their
friends and family deserved the truth about his long disappearance. She opened her mouth… and lost
her nerve. Instead, she fiddled with Harry's wand for a moment, before thrusting it back to
him.

He took it with a quizzical look at her face, as though he could sense that she'd had
something to say but had decided to remain quiet. "So…" he said after an awkward moment,
"you were going to tell me about *your* day."

"Ah, *my* day," said Hermione, seizing on the opportunity for postponement, and
rapidly gave Harry a summary of Doukas's mindwipe, Zabini's plea bargain, and how in the
end he'd been forced to cooperate with his memory intact. She concluded with her concerns about
the Wizengamot, and why some members were delaying the selection of the new Minister.

"Tiberius Ogden, our Chief Warlock, can't convene the full Wizengamot, as tradition
demands," she finished. "As far as I can see, all three of our holdouts come from
old-fashioned Pureblood families. Oh, they may not have agreed with Voldemort's methods, but
they wouldn't object a bit if his *goals* had been met. They see themselves as saving
traditional wizarding culture – and they *don't* see it has bad parts as well as good.
They'd prefer Zabini as Minister, warts and all, because they believe he'd help them save
their traditions."

"Mm. I imagine they can't be *too* blatant about it, though," Harry
sympathized. "I mean, the only time I ever saw the Wizengamot was when Fudge had convened the
full lot of them for my trial. When I was tried for defending myself against dementors, just before
our fifth year, remember? Once Dumbledore reminded them they needed to be fair, most of them
*were* fair. If they're to have any legitimacy, they *have* to be, well, at least
*seen* to be fair."

Hermione nodded. "Which is how Kingsley and I got so many of our reforms made into law:
basic fairness for everyone. More rights for Muggleborns, better representation for *all*
races – did you know the Wizengamot has two goblin members now?" She smiled at his
open-mouthed surprise. "After all, if the Wizengamot is going to ratify laws that affect their
race, it's only fair that they have a say in those laws."

"Wow… I never would've believed it. I mean, last I heard of goblins, they were still
mad at us for keeping their artifacts and not letting them have wands!"

"That was part of the accord Kingsley came to with them. Really, the goblins only wanted
wands as a sign of status. It's not like they *need* wands. Their magical artifacts will
do just about anything a wandcast spell can do."

Harry hesitated. Her point touched on an idea he'd had, days earlier, while he was waiting
in the elves' quarters at the Ministry. He hadn't dared bring it up with Mr. Ollivander…
but Hermione would surely know the answers. "Can goblins even *use* wands?"

The question brought her up short. After a moment's reflection, she replied, "They
should, at least in theory. Why else would they want them? I suspect they couldn't use
*our* wands, though… they'd have to have wands designed for them, for their special magic.
You *do* know that most magical Beings have their own special magic, don't you,
Harry?"

"I know that goblins are experts in artifacts: Gryffindor's sword, their bank vaults.
Ron's Great-Aunt Muriel's tiara. And I think the goblins made an unbreakable helmet for
Hagrid to give to the giants…"

"Plus, I suspect it was goblins who actually made Dumbledore's Deluminator. They were
probably following his directions, but still…" Hermione smiled as Harry listened intently.
"Artifaction is the goblins' speciality, you see. Their magic doesn't express itself
as charms and spells, as ours does, but in the magical devices they create."

She paused and watched carefully as he waved his wand and began to levitate the dishes into the
sink. While it wasn't the level of control he'd shown a week earlier, when he'd still
been Master of the Hallows, he *did* seem to perform the charm with much less effort than most
wizards. Hermione was determined to explore just how much mastery Harry had of his magic, with his
new wand – a very powerful wand, as she could tell from using it.

"Now, giants… you mentioned the giants a moment ago," she continued. "They're
a different case altogether. Giants never had a great deal of magic to begin with, and it's
almost entirely spent in simply keeping them alive. The square-cube law would…" Harry's
puzzled expression stopped her for a second. "The square-cube law, Harry. Dating from the time
of Galileo? If you enlarged a man until his height was doubled, his bones and muscles would
increase by four times – the square of the height – but his weight would increase by *eight*
times, the cube of the height. You'd reach a point where, if all other factors remained
unchanged, he'd collapse under his own weight."

"Oh. Okay, you're saying that giants' magic is used to fight this law? To keep them
from collapsing?"

"Exactly. Their magic makes them proportionally stronger, and more impervious to damage.
Which is why giants are so resistant to hexes."

"Uh huh." Harry looked lost in thought. "And I suppose merpeople's magic is
used to keep *them* alive under water. And the centaurs… well, their special magic is, what,
Divination?"

"Divination and Healing," Hermione amended. "The greatest Healer who ever lived
was the centaur Chiron."

"So… giants and merfolk *can't* use wands. And goblins and centaurs would need
wands tuned to their own special magic. They can't use *humans'* wands. Have I got
that right?"

"Yes, pretty much. You see the problem now that we've had with some of our more
tradition-bound wizards, who seem to think that the wand is the measure of civilization…"

Harry stopped her. "Then why have a law against it?"

The abrupt question caused her to lose her train of thought. She sat blinking at him in
confusion. "I beg your pardon?"

"Think back to the incident in the campground, after the World Cup we saw. Ireland vs.
Bulgaria," he clarified as an aside. "Remember how Barty Crouch Junior was there,
invisible, and he stole my wand to cast the *Morsmordre* spell. And poor Winky was blamed,
because she happened to be there with my wand? Remember how Mr. Diggory yelled at her, Hermione?
*I'll* never forget." He leaned forward and looked grim. "Clause Three of the
Code of Wand Use: No non-human is permitted to use a wand. But if they *can't* use a wand,
why bother with a law?"

Hermione had no ready answer. She sat back in her chair and thought hard. Harry gave her the
space to think, busying himself by placing the leftover curries in the icebox. A tap of his wand
brought the teakettle to a boil within a few seconds; he measured leaves into the teapot, poured in
the boiling water, and covered the pot with a tea cozy.

"It must come back to… status," Hermione finally replied. "As I said a moment
ago, for many wizards the wand is the very emblem of their magical essence. For a grown wizard to
surrender his wand is tantamount to cutting off an arm or a leg. In a sense, it *defines*
them. To wield a wand *means* to be a wizard, and vice versa. And therefore they wouldn't
want any other magical race to be able to make that claim, and take away their
uniqueness."

Harry knotted his brows in thought. "Okay. Yeah. Okay, I suppose that makes sense. I
guess." He waggled his head, expressing his ambivalence at the notion that a person's
worth was measured by a stick.

And he still had that look of intensity on his face. Hermione's curiosity was piqued.
"Why is this so important, Harry?"

"Well, er, it's an idea I had… while I was with your witnesses a couple of days ago.
Swivingham's 'working girls', uh, elves." He twisted his mouth in deprecation.
"It's probably a stupid idea… I mean, after all the hard work you've put into it, this
*can't* be the answer…"

"*What* can't be the answer?" She found herself drawn deeper into his thought
processes… and slightly irritated that he couldn't tell her in plain English what he was
thinking.

Harry rubbed his nose, choosing his words with care. He decided to come to the point gradually.
"Our professors at Hogwarts… they all had wands, didn't they?"

Hermione sighed impatiently. "Yes, Socrates, they did."

"Ha ha. Bear with me, please." He leaned forward again, intent on making his argument
persuasive. "They all had wands. Well, in Hagrid's case, he had his wand when he was still
a student. But he was allowed to *have* a wand, right? And Flitwick – I remember someone
saying he had a drop of goblin blood in him."

"His great-grandfather," Hermione affirmed. "Professor Flitwick is one-eighth
goblin, not that it matters."

"It would matter a *lot* to Voldemort's Death Eaters. Halfbloods and Mudbloods
were bad enough, but half-*breeds?*" Harry shook his head. "But Flitwick had a wand;
Hagrid had a wand; Madame Maxime had a wand. Heck, Fleur Delacour had a wand, and *she's*
a quarter Veela. Socially, they might be looked down on by the Pureblooded bigots – but legally,
they couldn't be denied wands. Legally, they're all humans."

"Because they all have human ancestry! At *least* half-human, in Hagrid and
Olympe's cases, and much more for the others. Legally, they'd *have* to be treated as
humans."

Harry fixed her with a hard look. "Is that an actual law? Is it actually written down in
the law that anyone with human ancestry is considered human?"

"Of course it's…" She paused. "Every witch and wizard has the right to carry
a wand, by law. Non-humans may never carry wands, by law. It's *implicit* that all wand
wielders are human, but… you're right, Harry, wizarding laws are based on the assumption that
the offspring of a human is human. It's axiomatic, but never explicitly stated."

"Then you need to explicitly state it as soon as possible." He leaned back in his
chair with a satisfied smile.

"I… I don't understand. Why is it so urgent that…?"

"Because humans may not be enslaved," he said, slowly and distinctly.

"Because humans…" Hermione began to repeat his words, then stopped. Her eyes grew
huge, and her hand flew up to cover her mouth. "You *can't* be serious!"

"Look at it the way I did, and tell me if I'm wrong." Harry began to tick off
points on his fingers, tapping them on the table for emphasis. "Your witness elves, Brillig,
Fatima and the rest. If you didn't know they were three or four feet tall – if you ignore their
ears, and skin color – wouldn't you say they looked *just like* human girls?" He gave
Hermione a moment to absorb that point, then continued. "Fatima told me that elves have to
mate where their masters tell them, and with whom. Didn't we agree that elves were bred by
humans? That some elves, like Fatima, were bred for beauty as well as other traits? *Human*
standards of beauty?"

Another pause. Harry opened his mouth to make his next point, but Hermione spoke first. She
spoke in a low voice, a voice of discovery. "I knew it was true in human history. From the
earliest records of slavery… masters have always taken advantage of slaves, forcing them into sex.
I should have realized Swivingham didn't invent house-elf prostitution – he only brought it
into the light. And if humans are cross-fertile with goblins or giants, there's no reason they
can't be cross-fertile with elves. Magic trumps genetics, evidently."

Her gaze locked with Harry. "You're saying that house-elves have human
ancestry."

"Yes."

"Your hypothesis, then, is that the original reason for Clause Three was to keep anyone
from discovering that fact? And that reason, never being directly stated, has been all but
forgotten, subsumed under wizards' desire to remain dominant among magical races?"

He half-closed his eyes as he parsed through her statements, then nodded in confirmation.

"I concur." Hermione stood and began to circle the table, hands clasped behind her,
thinking furiously. "Pass that one law, just as you described it, and house-elf slavery would
end overnight! Which makes it absolutely *imperative* that the Wizengamot convene and select a
new Minister – one who's *not* Blaise Zabini! It should be Gawain, I think – Gawain
Robards, Harry, currently Head of Magical Law Enforcement – the Head of that Department has
traditionally been a favorite for the Minister's position, and he's been sympathetic to our
cause for years. I'm *sure* his name would come up in any discussion – if we could just
get the Wizengamot together to *discuss* it! Aaargh…"

"Well," offered Harry, "maybe tomorrow you should contact this Tiberius Ogden,
and see if he'd be willing to go against tradition… convene a *less* than full
Wizengamot…"

"Oh!" Hermione stopped short, her cheeks pink. There was no help for it now, she had
to tell him… "Um, it can't be tomorrow. Tomorrow is… well, Ron's taken to calling it
my Rebirthday Party." Harry cocked his head curiously, and she hastened on, "It was
originally going to be simply a birthday party, on the Saturday after my birthday, in Hogsmeade, so
Rose could attend. Now… well, now Ron wants to invite others…"

"Um, I suspect he already has. I think Andromeda Tonks was kind of hinting about a
get-together on Saturday…" Harry fell into a reserved silence.

"Ron…" She hesitated, then continued, speaking even more rapidly, "Ron was there
when I interrogated Ted Lupin, and made him admit you were still alive. Ron thinks I owe everyone
who was there a complete explanation. But I *won't,* Harry, not without your permission. I
*promised* you…"

"Um… Hermione, I really don't want to the truth to get out… too many people wondering
where I've been for fifteen years… I concocted a pretty good cover story, I think, and I'd
like to keep it intact." He brooded for a moment. "Ted knows most of the truth already…
I'd imagine he's shared it with Tori Weasley by now… who else?"

"Bill and Fleur. Ron and Rose. Neville. Andromeda Tonks. Professor McGonagall. They're
all trustworthy, Harry, and I can make them take magical oaths this time if you think I
should…"

He waved it away despondently. "No, no, I understand. You need to make things right with
these people. All right, you can tell them, but please impress on them that I *really* want
this kept close." He stood from the table; his eyes didn't quite meet Hermione's as he
added, "You might want to hold off about telling them about, y'know, you and me. I'll
leave that up to you." He managed a shaky smile. "I, um, just remembered some things
about one of my 'special projects' that I forgot to do. I should probably take care of that
before it gets too late."

With that, he exited the kitchen, only to Disapparate away a second later. It left Hermione
confused, until she realized what had prompted his words. Harry was having difficulty finding his
place in the wizarding world again – his fear of crowds would highlight any feelings of isolation.
And now, having learned that he'd *not* been invited to her Rebirthday Party, he was still
expected to allow all his secrets to be revealed there.

*Betrayal* would be too strong a word for how Harry was feeling, but *abandonment* was
probably too weak.



33. XXXIII:  Equinox Eve, When More Than the Season Turns
---------------------------------------------------------

**(A/N:** I am lamenting the recent loss of two extraordinary fanfic authors – or rather, two
extraordinary people, who were also excellent fanfic authors. Please, take a moment, and raise a
glass to the memories of **simons_flower** and **fenriswolf****.** Thank you.

While I'm mentioning other authors, I've taken the name of Susan's home from a story
by **seel'vor****,** over on ff.net; it was simply too clever not to use. There's
also a Kafkaesque scene in this chapter, which you may recognize when you see it.

I keep promising the Big Birthday Scene, and I keep having other scenes demand my attention
first. Still, I felt sure you'd all want this bit of development, *now,* rather than wait
for a much longer chapter, *later.* We'll see the party next chapter, I swear. If nothing
else, my beta-reader **MirielleGrey** will keep me in line.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** *How to distinguish J.K. Rowling from Paracelsus:* One is from
Scotland; the other is not. One is a best-selling author; the other is not. One owns the rights to
a seven-book series that has earned millions; the other does not. One has written works filled with
gaping plot holes, dei ex machinis, and massively unconvincing romance; the other… well, you make
the call.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXXIII: Equinox Eve, When More Than the Season Turns**

*

Giles Yarborough scowled as he poured another snifter of century-old brandy from his decanter.
It wasn't that he was displeased with the recent turn of events, far from it. It was simply
that his features naturally fell into a scowl unless he willed them otherwise. As far as he was
concerned, it was part and privilege of reaching the age he had.

He'd instructed his house elf to refuse all owls. The fireplaces were no longer connected to
the Floo Network. Yarborough was "not at home" to all callers. And wizarding etiquette
absolutely forbade anyone from simply Apparating into his home, uninvited, unannounced. In short,
he had effectively isolated himself, and would remain so until the moment was ripe.

*Damn Kingsley Shacklebolt, anyway,* he groused, moodily settling back into the chair in
his study. *Things were bad enough without him shoving in his oar. You'd almost think he*
knew *he was going to die Thursday.*

Distantly, he heard knocking at his front door. He picked up his book from the side table,
opened it, and took a slow sip of brandy. It was getting late in the evening – the caller probably
wasn't one of his fellow Wizengamot members, then. A reporter, perhaps. Well, Tippy would deal
with the importunate intruder, and Yarborough could return to his contemplations…

So Yarborough was thoroughly surprised when Tippy poked his head through the study door. The elf
waited, as protocol demanded, for his master to speak first. Yarborough finished reading the
paragraph before raising his eyes. "Yes?"

"Excuse Tippy, Master," squeaked the elf, "but the Chief Warlock is being here,
and is asking to be speaking with Master. Tippy is telling the Chief Warlock that Master is not
taking callers, no, but…"

He raised an eyebrow at that. *Ogden, here?* *Actually coming to me, rather than vice
versa? By gad, there must be more pressure for a new Minister than I thought. Pressure on him.
Good. Perhaps it will make him readier to listen to reason.*

"Show him to the study, Tippy," he ordered, and resumed reading. Moments later, he
heard footsteps at the study door, and raised his eyes again to greet his visitor.
"Tiberius," he said, smoothing his face into a smile, "how good to see you. That
will be all," he told the elf, who bobbed his head and retreated, closing the door behind
him.

Setting aside his book, Yarborough rose from his chair to clasp Ogden's hand. "Really,
old fellow, I wasn't expecting visitors during my little sabbatical. Very good to see you, yes
indeed." He gestured with his snifter. "Care for something to take off the night chill?
The Cognaçais never produced a finer."

"Don't mind if I do," Ogden accepted cheerfully, and the two ancient wizards spent
a moment with their snifters, savoring the bouquet before carefully sipping. "Superb,"
announced Ogden. "I've always said you had impeccable taste in wine, Giles."

Yarborough smiled again, the quintessential polite host. *It's too late for a social call,
you old fool. How long will it take you to come to the point of your visit? We both know what it
is.*

Ogden took another sip of brandy. "But I fear your timing in the political arena is
somewhat less so," he added, quietly but firmly.

*Well, that was more direct than I was expecting.* "I'm not sure I know what you
mean, Tiberius," he said, continuing the play. "I've simply taken some time away
from…"

"Codswallop," Ogden interrupted – he *actually* raised his voice and interrupted!
It was almost amusing. "You know as well as I what's happening here. We have an obligation
to convene *at once* upon a Minister's death – not dally until the candidate we might
favor becomes available."

"If such a candidate is head and shoulders better than any other choice, should we saddle
our government with an inferior Minister, merely to avoid appearing laggard?" In a way,
Yarborough was glad that the issue was now in the open. He'd longed to have this discussion
ever since Shacklebolt first took ill. "Come now. The slightest of delays to provide us the
best possible Minister – that doesn't seem like a bad bargain."

"Carry that reasoning too far, Giles, and we might convince ourselves to wait months, even
years, for the 'best possible Minister' – even stipulating we could all agree on who that
might be," rejoined Ogden. "While in the meantime, the Ministry must struggle on without
direction, failing even in its primary responsibilities."

"Oh, you're exaggerating, surely. The Ministry bureaucracy can carry on for a good
while, I suspect, without needing our appointee to tell them what to do." Yarborough raised
his glass in mock salute before taking another sip of brandy. It was time to begin negotiations in
earnest. "Still, there's no denying that we *are* expected to select a new Minister
with all deliberate speed. We *will* need some time to prepare, and of course the general
populace will want their opinions heard. So – I would think Tuesday will be the earliest we could
reasonably begin…"

"I'm convening the full Wizengamot tonight."

Yarborough snorted. Automatically, his features had fallen back into their usual scowl.
"The full Wizengamot convenes when the full Wizengamot *chooses* to convene, Tiberius. No
one *summons* us…"

"Cornelius Fudge did. If you'll recall, he once summoned the full Wizengamot to try a
trivial offense – a charge of Underage Magic. Utterly ridiculous, but as Minister of Magic, he had
the authority, and we were forced to assemble." Ogden looked uncomfortable, as though he'd
have preferred to be anywhere else but here confronting Yarborough. He finished his brandy in a
gulp, set the snifter on the sideboard, and squared his shoulders. "And I find it written in
our By-Laws that the Chief Warlock likewise has the authority to summon the full Wizengamot. The
fact that Albus Dumbledore never did so, doesn't mean he couldn't. You know as well as I,
Giles, that wasn't how Albus worked."

"No," conceded Yarborough, "no, it wasn't." Though he gave no sign of
it, inwardly he was plagued with sudden doubt. He didn't recall that clause appearing in their
By-Laws – but he had to admit he didn't know the By-Laws well enough to be certain it
wasn't there.

*It must be so,* he concluded silently. *This is Tiberius Ogden. The blitherwit
hasn't the* stones *to bluff me.*

"So you've come to tell me this – personally? I daresay I'm flattered."

"That, and make sure all was well with you. Not confined to your bed with dragonpox, or
somesuch. I *am* glad to see you up and about." Ogden extended his hand. "Well,
Giles, you'll forgive me, but I fear I must be pressing onward – I still need to visit Wimple
and Harkiss tonight." Those were the two other members who had retreated into seclusion.

"The Wizengamot will meet tonight at ten o'clock, in our chambers," he continued.
"Most of us have been there all day today, you understand…"

"A bit over the top, since only three needed to be on call," Yarborough reminded him.
Three members of the Wizengamot were always available at the Ministry, should Magical Law
Enforcement need a panel to judge a minor case that day. More members would be called in, of
course, should a major case need empanelling.

"Perhaps they felt they should hold themselves ready," said Ogden. "I hope Wimple
and Harkiss prove as amenable as you have." He sighed, as though in regret. "My fear is
that they might simply not show up, even after being officially informed of the summons."

*You dodderer, I'm surprised the possibility even occurred to you. I certainly don't
intend to leave* my *home tonight at your beck and call. You* still *won't have the
full session tradition requires…*

"Because, should that happen," Ogden concluded, "I'll have no choice but to
call for a vote to replace them."

Yarborough choked on his brandy. "You can't!"

"Well, I can, actually. It's the same procedure we follow when one of our members dies
or resigns, after all: the remaining Wizengamot votes in a new member to fill that seat." The
Chief Warlock gazed coolly at Yarborough. "And I would suggest that, once having been
officially informed of a summons to attend, a member who chose *not* to attend – and who
wasn't ill, of course – had effectively resigned. Proven nonfeasance of office."

"I… I would… would expect either Harkiss or Wimple to contest his removal." Yarborough
was forcing himself to remain calm with great difficulty. "Popular sentiment… gross abuse of
power… and it's not as though we had candidates at hand to replace them!"

"Oh, but we do," Ogden said equably. "For instance, I was thinking of Neville
Longbottom."

Yarborough's scowl became a snarl of pain and surprise. Neville Longbottom: Leader of the
Hogwarts Resistance. A hero of the Battle of Hogwarts. Scion of an ancient Pureblood family whose
lineage made Yarborough look like an upstart parvenu. Order of Merlin, First Class. Former advisor
to the Auror Corps. Young, handsome, charming, and popular, Longbottom could have any empty seat on
the Wizengamot for the asking – and probably any occupied seat, for that matter.

Nevertheless, Yarborough made one last attempt at derailment. "Longbottom?" he scoffed
disdainfully. "Longbottom hasn't the slightest interest in government. He could have had
Merrythought's seat, when she died seven years ago, but he preferred to remain a
teacher."

Ogden nodded. "But seven years ago, Harry Potter wasn't available to ask a favor of one
of his best friends."

They locked gazes, the moment of silence becoming a long, stretched minute of mute tension.

"Ten o'clock is too late," Yarborough finally said. "Many of our more elderly
members are barely able to stay awake at that hour. Let us say, Monday at noon."

"Let us say, *tomorrow* at noon."

"I will be there," grated Yarborough. He turned away from Ogden, not wishing to give
his opponent anything that might be construed as satisfaction, and waited for Tippy to escort Ogden
out.

*

Tiberius Ogden returned from Wimple's home with a spring in his step, or perhaps a jaunt in
his Apparation. He arrived at the Apparation Point in the Ministry Atrium, and with a nod to the
late-shift guard, took the lift down to the ninth level of the Ministry. From there it was a short
walk downstairs to the Wizengamot chambers – and his private office as Chief Warlock.

He nodded and beamed at the many Wizengamot members still in the chambers, milling about
restlessly. Several of them returned his glance with one of expectation, but Ogden gave his head a
quick shake to put off their inquiries. Not permitting himself to be caught in a conversation, he
strode directly to his office, entered, and swiftly closed the door behind him.

"You were right, lad," he said, half amazed and half exultant. "You were
absolutely right. Giles *was* deliberately holding back. And Harcourt and Wendell were
following his lead…"

Harry rose from his chair in the corner of the room, where he'd been writing a letter to his
godson Ted. It had taken his mind off the crowd of people, on the other side of the door – and
besides, Ted deserved to learn the truth of Harry's life before anyone else.

He gave the Chief Warlock an encouraging smile, while inwardly wondering if the old gentlemen
were playing with a full set of gobstones. Hermione'd certainly known that the three recluses
were making a political move – it had been so obvious. Even Harry, unversed in politics, knew that
when someone showed a radical change in their behavior, it was worth investigating.

All he said, however, was: "I'm glad I could help, sir. Things just weren't adding
up, somehow."

"No, no, they certainly weren't. Thank you so much for waiting here whilst I…
er…"

"Delivered your ultimatums?"

Laughter bubbled from Ogden's lips. "Yes, exactly! I never *dared* attempt a
maneuver of this magnitude before, and now to do so *three* times in one night…!" He
sobered somewhat, regarding Harry with a small, avuncular smile, and after a moment gave
Harry's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Did I ever tell you how much you impressed me, the
first time we met? Fudge's ridiculous hearing on your bout of Underage Magic. You would have
faced Fudge and his jackals, with no support whatsoever – *we* had no idea Dumbledore would
show, after all, so how could you? – and yet there you were, unapologetic and unafraid." He
ducked his head, almost bashful, and added, "I, er, I resigned from the Wizengamot because of
Fudge's actions, you know."

"I know," Harry nodded.

"I've always found your courage to be, well, inspirational," Ogden confessed. He
stepped to the bookcase by the desk, resting his hand on one of the shelves. Harry now saw that the
shelf contained several books and pamphlets, devoted to… him. *Great Wizards of the Twentieth
Century, Revised* was nestled among some thinner books; Harry was disgusted to see one prominent
volume, *Chosen To Die: The TRUE Story of Harry Potter,* by Rita Skeeter. Recalling
Skeeter's hatchet job on Dumbledore's life story, Harry swore to buy himself a copy – for
the sole purpose of tearing it to shreds and stuffing it down Skeeter's throat.

But Ogden was still speaking. "And this evening, facing our recalcitrant members, I
imagined you present in the room, watching me as I brought them to heel, and I…"

Harry forced a light laugh. "Enough," he said, raising a hand in protest.
"Enough! You're going to give me a swelled head. Just remember, *I* wasn't there
tonight, sir – everything you've done, you did on your own."

"Yes, I know… but I just wished to thank you, nonetheless. For spurring me… and also, for
everything you've done in your life… you know, it's seldom one has a chance to thank a hero
posthumously. And I can only imagine what a shock it's been for *you,* to return to the
land of the living. This…" With a jerk of his head, Ogden indicated the Chief Warlock's
office, where he'd given Harry much-needed privacy. "This was the least I could
do."

Harry couldn't help but grimace at the recollection. He'd had to steel himself to come
to the Ministry this evening. True, he'd tried to convince himself that it was a Friday
evening, when few would be working late, and the chance of being seen was slim. And it had almost
worked – oh, the guard at the front desk had done a triple-take, between the unusual wand and the
recognition of The Boy Who Lived Again, but otherwise his luck had held until he'd reached the
Wizengamot chambers.

Where, faced with at least twenty people who recognized him at once, and had begun to approach,
he'd frozen in place at the entrance. His mouth had gone suddenly bone-dry, which only made
sense, since his palms were sweating so badly…

And the Chief Warlock had shown that, while politics might not be his forte, he was a master of
social situations. He'd immediately bundled Harry into his private office, putting a door
between Harry and the world. And Harry, once he'd calmed somewhat, had explained his errand –
and his request.

A request which Tiberius Ogden was now proud to report had been accomplished. "In just a
minute I'll inform the members outside that the *full* Wizengamot will be convening
tomorrow, at noon – with the selection of the new Minister of Magic being our primary order of
business." He gave Harry a sly smile and added, "I don't suppose you'd care to
nominate anyone…?"

Harry shook his head twice, hard, but with a disarming grin. "Don't look at me!
I've been *way* out of touch, remember? I don't even know who's in the running. As
long as it's…" He caught himself before he finished the sentence. *As long as it's
not Blaise Zabini* had been what he was about to say – and that, after all, was the whole reason
he'd braved the trip to the Ministry in the first place! Hermione couldn't promote her
vision of elven freedom if Zabini were Minister.

But he couldn't say that to Ogden. He couldn't even tell Ogden what he knew about Blaise
Zabini. Otherwise he might have to explain *how* he knew. "As long as it's someone
Kingsley Shacklebolt would have approved," he finished. "Pity no one thought to ask
*him.*"

"Well, but poor Kingsley was mortally ill…" Ogden paused, and frowned slightly.
"One would have thought, though, that *being* so ill, he'd have taken especial care
to recommend a successor. Wasn't like him to be so… ah well, *de mortuis nil nisi bonum*
and all that."

"Yeah," said Harry slowly, as a notion occurred to him. To gain a moment to think, he
folded closed the letter he'd written, and addressed it to Ted at Hogwarts. "Do you have
an owl I could borrow? I'd like to send this tonight."

"Not a problem, my boy," Ogden responded genially, accepting the letter.
"Wizengamot owls are among the best in the world – they have to be. Anything else I can do for
you? You've but to name it."

"Mmm, just wondering… *if* Kingsley'd wanted to recommend a successor, who would
he talk to?"

Ogden blinked, as though the idea were new to him. "Oh. Well, I suppose… he'd have
discussed it with me, as Chief Warlock. Failing that, of course, he could have simply owled his
recommendation here to the Wizengamot chambers."

"It wouldn't get, um, lost accidentally? I mean, what if there wasn't anybody here
to receive the owl? Or what if… what if he'd brought it here himself?"

"*Brought it himself?* In *his* condition?" Ogden shuddered. "No
matter. In either case, my boy, there would be someone here. There are always at least three
members on call in our chambers. You know, to provide a speedy trial, in case the Department of
Magical Law Enforcement has a minor malefactor…"

Harry couldn't stop himself. He took a step closer to Ogden – his expression suddenly
intense, his emerald eyes gleaming with some arcane light from within – and he stopped the Chief
Warlock's discourse with a single, focused word. "*Three?*"

"Er, yes, the minimum necessary for a judicial panel…" Ogden fell silent as the
implications finally dawned on him. "You *don't* think… I mean, even *they*
wouldn't *dare…!*"

"Oh, I don't think they'd dare *destroy* a letter from the Minister of
Magic," Harry said darkly, "but it might get *misfiled.* Not discovered again until
it was too late." His gaze met Ogden's. "I think, if I were you, I'd confirm
*which* three of your gang were on call Thursday, when Kingsley died. And then I'd do a
thorough search of your chambers here, before tomorrow's meeting. And finally, I'd keep it
all very close to your vest… if I were you."

"Close to my vest?" Ogden seemed unfamiliar with the idiom.

"Well, let's say that if you find anything… *interesting…*" Harry smiled.
*As long as it isn't Zabini's name,* he amended internally. "Then you should save
it as a surprise for tomorrow at noon."

*

Neville Longbottom stared blearily at the owl that stood on his desk, waiting for a reply.
*What did I do to deserve, not one, but* two *owls from the Chief Warlock this evening?*
he griped silently.

The first owl had brought a short note, giving no explanation, but asking him merely to
"keep himself available by his Floo connection" around ten o'clock. That hour, of
course, would have fallen right in the middle of his scheduled night-time patrol of the school.
He'd had to arrange with Zacharias Zebulon to swap patrols, and Zebulon had been unwilling to
swap: Neville had been forced to remind Zebulon of his little Transfiguration mishap earlier in the
month, the repercussions of which were still causing headaches among the Hogwarts staff.

But he'd arranged to be available, and ten o'clock had come and gone and… nothing had
happened. And then came this second owl, with the message that "the crisis had passed."
*Crisis?* *What crisis? And why was it so important that I be available? I have to wonder if
Tiberius is growing just a bit senile – maybe he's confusing me with my dad, or
something.*

He turned over the parchment, scribbled "Thanks for telling me. Good night," on its
back, and refastened it to the owl's leg. "And this is *it.* No more owls tonight,
thanks," he told the owl. The owl did a thing with its wings which Neville interpreted as a
shrug, and took off.

"Errrrrrgh…" Neville sighed and tried to rub some of the fatigue from his eyes.
"I suppose it's not too late to find Zebulon, and swap back," he muttered to himself.
"Finish tonight's patrol…"

"*Or* you could come to bed," said a voice from behind him, as two slim hands
found his shoulder muscles and began kneading them.

He felt the tension begin to melt away, and his good humor return. "Ah, Miss
Trollope," he smirked, "putting in for *another* private tutoring session?"

A thwap to the back of his head was his reward. "That had better be the only thing
*anyone's* putting in *anywhere,*" his lover scolded him. "Prat." She
softened the sting of her words by circling around to Neville's front and planting herself on
his lap, her arms around his neck.

"Strangely enough," he said mildly, "so far this year, I've had almost
*no* seventh-years ask for some 'one-on-one' time with the Defense Professor. By a
remarkable coincidence," and he smiled as she settled into his lap, wiggling her bottom as she
did so, promising more to come, "the news about *us* seems to've made the rounds with
amazing speed." He pulled her close to him, and they shared a passionate kiss – while he
combed his fingers through her hair.

Susan Bones had preferred to keep her hair plaited while they'd been at Hogwarts. A few
years ago, she'd considered cropping it short, in the style of her late Aunt Amelia. That, of
course, was before Neville had remarked in passing how much he'd always liked her hair.
She'd ended up *not* cutting her hair, rather the opposite: now it was a cascade of long
dark tresses, flowing past her waist.

She still kept it plaited during the day – it was too long to manage, otherwise – but she let
her hair free at night, so Neville could admire it. As he was now…

"Anyway," she continued, "let Zacharias finish tonight's patrol, since
you've already swapped schedules." She paused, tilting her head, considering. "What
exactly did he *do,* by the way? To be beholden enough to you to…"

"He was sloppy." Neville tried to return to the kissing, but Susan pulled back
slightly – wearing the expression he recognized as her
*I-want-explanations-mister-and-I-want-them-NOW* look. *She probably learned it from her
aunt, years ago,* he decided. Sooner or later, he'd have to find a way to resist it.

"Zebulon decided his fourth year Transfiguration classes needed a change from the
established curriculum. Instead of Transfiguring guinea fowl into guinea pigs, he decided it would
be fun if they were Transfigured into aardvarks instead." He couldn't keep the disgust out
of his voice as he continued, "And, with his usual foresight, he made no provision for
*caging* the bloody things once they were Transfigured. So naturally, they escaped. The entire
staff's spent the last two weeks hunting them down – and we *still* haven't caught
them all."

Susan began to giggle. "You mean to tell me, that somewhere at Hogwarts there's an
aardvark…?"

"Actually, somewhere there are *two* aardvarks… humph." Neville sighed in
exasperation.

"In any case," said Susan, refusing to be diverted, "Zacharias doing the rounds
tonight means *you* can be rested for Hermione's party tomorrow. But only if you come to
bed *now.*" She rose from his lap, took him firmly by the hand, and tugged him from his
seat. Obediently he followed her into the bedroom.

"Bossy witch," he growled as she began to unbutton his shirt, "are you going to
be like this when we're married?"

She paused in her ministrations, and gave him a wry half-smile. "From your mouth to
God's ear," was all she said, but Neville knew she was as bothered by their situation as
he was. They loved one another, they'd discussed marriage for years – and this summer,
they'd finally decided to take the plunge – but ironically, precisely because they were both
Purebloods, their path was barred by practical difficulties.

Both Neville and Susan were the heads of their bloodlines. Extensive holdings came with those
positions. Neville had and held Longbottom House, which had been his family's home for more
than 700 years; he spent every summer there, though he had quarters at Hogwarts during the school
year. Susan likewise owned *her* family's ancestral home, The Ossuary. It was unthinkable
that either should sell their house: both felt a strong filial obligation to keep the property in
the family.

It made planning for a life together somewhat difficult.

Their mood more somber now, they finished preparing for sleep. No more was said between them
until they were in bed together, with the lights out. Neville held Susan close in his arms, while
she used his shoulder as her pillow. "Something odd *did* happen today, though,"
Susan finally said softly. "I was asked if The Ossuary was for let."

"You really think someone's interested?" Neville murmured.

"Hard to say. I mean, whoever it was, they only sent their house-elf to inquire, which
doesn't exactly inspire confidence, does it?" She sighed deeply and snuggled closer.

"Ah well, we'll see," he said sleepily. "Wish I could bring you with me
tomorrow…"

"I wasn't invited, love," she reminded him. "And anyway, didn't you say
you're going to have your hands full with your Three Little Gryffindors?" Susan smiled to
herself as Neville's breathing grew regular. "I'll be fine. Now sleep, darling.
You'll need your strength in the morning. *Trust* me."

*

Harry didn't know exactly what reception he expected upon his return to Enthalpy House, but
he was fairly sure that a frenzied tackle wasn't it.

He stumbled backwards against the wall, but managed to stay upright as Hermione wrapped her arms
around him. "Whoa, whoa, *whoa,*" he said as soothingly as he could. "I
wasn't leaving for good, honest. I *told* you I had some errands…"

Hermione loosened her grip slightly, just enough to draw back and look him in the face. Her
expression, oddly enough, showed none of the anguish or concern he might have imagined, given the
greeting he'd just received. No, her expression was… well, *fierce.* Harry was
uncomfortably reminded of how many times she'd been described as *brilliant but scary,*
and always aptly.

She brought her hands from behind his back to seize the front of his shirt. Without saying a
word, she walked firmly backward, drawing him along, until they arrived in the corner of the living
room she used as her study. Standing on the desk was a standard postal owl, with a small scroll
tied to one foot.

Releasing her grip, Hermione turned and addressed the owl. "Go ahead, deliver it." The
owl gazed steadily at her. "Harry Potter," she prompted it, "care of Enthalpy House.
You have the address. Please deliver it." As though puzzled, the owl cocked its head at
Hermione. It didn't so much as glance at Harry.

After a moment, Harry tried for a light remark. "Ah, me. Snubbed again…"

Her fierce gaze, transferred back to him, cut off any further comments. "You've been
back in the wizarding world for a full day now, at least. Have you yet received *any*
mail?"

"Er…"

"As I recall, after your *Quibbler* interview, you received dozens of owls. I would
have expected ten times that for a hero returned from the dead. Offers of business deals, offers of
support – hell, offers of *marriage!* But you've received *nothing.*" Hermione
gestured at the postal owl, still waiting patiently. "That gave me an idea… so I set up this
experiment to verify it. This owl doesn't seem to sense your presence – even when you're
standing right in front of it!"

With something akin to anger, she turned back to the owl and untied the scroll from its leg.
Then from her pocket, Hermione pulled out another small scroll and offered it to the owl, which
took it in its beak. "All right, then, you can take *this* one," she muttered. With
a flap of her hand, she shooed the owl off the desk and watched it fly out the window.

"I can only conclude," she finished, confronting Harry once again, "that
disposing of the Hallows didn't *quite* eliminate their effect on you. Owls couldn't
find you for fifteen years – and it looks like they still can't." She thrust the scroll at
him almost like a dagger. "*Here.*"

With a certain trepidation, Harry unrolled the scroll to read:

**Madam Hermione Granger** *requests the presence of **Mister Harry Potter** at a
celebration to be given in honour of her being brought **back to life by him** on Saturday
that's tomorrow at noon and don't let's even bother with the favour of a reply because
if you so much as **consider** not attending I will **cancel** the entire party because there
is **no way in hell** I would have it without you. Git.*

He looked up from the scroll to discover Hermione standing *very* close. He couldn't
understand why she was still glaring at him – or why she'd begun jabbing at him with her
finger. "The next time you think there may be a problem," she told him frostily,
"with your returning, with your friends, with *us,* talk to me about it. *Don't.
Just. LEAVE!*" She maintained the furious look for another few seconds… then softened, and
added more quietly, "Please, Harry. I'm always so scared you'll go away again. Please,
*please,* talk to me?" The last word was no longer a demand, but a humble request.

"I'll…" Harry swallowed nervously. "I'll try, I promise. I mean, I know
my reaction these days to trouble is avoidance… but I've already promised I wouldn't leave
you." The words caused them both to relax slightly. He gestured with the scroll. "And…
er, I would of course be delighted to attend. I can shop for a gift tomorrow… but I'll be
there. Thank you, Hermione."

Only after he'd seen the broad smile spread over her entire face did he relax
completely.

"Right, I think we should assume that Ron *tried* to invite you, but that his owl
couldn't find you," Hermione said, embracing him again. "Not that it matters, since
this is *my* party and I can invite whomever I please. Honestly, Harry, did you think Ron
would deliberately exclude you? Of, if by some mental lapse he wanted to, do you think I'd
*let* him?"

Put that way, it *did* sound a little juvenile. Harry was about to say so when he found
further speech impeded… Hermione's mouth being pressed against his, and all. The cognitive
portions of his brain gave a figurative shrug and went on holiday for the next several minutes.

"So," she said, once they'd relocated to the couch, "I didn't finish
telling you about my day. Ron brought me a birthday present." She paused dramatically, and
finished, "A divorce."

"He… *what?* But I thought…" Harry was taken aback, but only for a moment.
"Oh! You mean… he figured out, just like you did, that your wedding vows were gone?"

"And he thought he'd surprise me with a formal notice for the Records Office,"
Hermione nodded. "I am now officially, as they say, foot-loose and fancy-free. Or I
*would* be," she added thoughtfully, "if my fancy weren't already taken. I blame
*you* for that."

"Yeah, that's me, always striking while the iron's hot… well, *something* was
hot," he grinned.

She blushed slightly, but continued, "I guess I'm bringing this up because, well, we
*will* both be at my party tomorrow. Along with Ron… and Rose."

Harry sobered at once. "Ah, I see. You plan to tell Rose…?"

"Ron and I need to tell her that we're still her parents, and that we still love her –
but that we're no longer married." Hermione bit her lip worriedly. "I doubt it will
come as much of a shock to her. I mean, we've worked hard to keep our, er, frictions out of her
sight, but I'm sure she's aware of them." She met Harry's gaze evenly and
continued, "But in the interests of minimizing her distress, I'd like to hold off telling
her about *us.*"

"'Hold off'?" Harry was momentarily unsettled. "*Not* tell
her…?!"

"*Not* because I'm ashamed of being with you, Harry, or because I don't think
she'd approve! It's not that at *all!* Only, I don't want to force too many
changes on her all at once. Once she's accepted that Ron and I are no longer married, we can
ease her into the concept that you and I are together."

"Um, all right. How long do you reckon that will take? Maybe… tell her at
Christmas?"

"Even that may be too soon… but let's tentatively plan on that, yes." She moved
closer to him and put one arm around his waist… her body language reassuring him that she still
wanted him with her, that any issues with Rose would pass. "You could continue to stay here,
if… if you want. I know *I'd* love it. But… but it might make it easier for Rose to accept
us if, at least at first, you were to live somewhere else. I'm hoping you'll still spend
most of your time here, because goodness knows I can hardly bear to be separated from you, and I
can only hope you feel the same way…"

He chuckled, and cut off her rambling with another kiss. "Hermione my love, I don't
want to cause any problems between you and your daughter. I suppose I can find someplace else to
stay for a while. Clayman's flat is probably out, but… oh." He cut off abruptly as he
recalled the earlier scene at Clayman's flat.

"Harry? What is it?"

"Er. Well, I didn't finish telling you about *my* day, either. When I was at
Clayman's flat this morning, Brillig showed up. She, er, she offered to… um… bond with
me."

There was a moment of eloquent silence.

"You said no, of course," Hermione finally said flatly.

"I certainly *tried* to say no, but, er, you know, elves don't speak English all
that well…" At Hermione's indignant glare, Harry sighed and looked away. "Right. I
wasn't emphatic enough. I will be, next time."

"For your sake, I hope so." She reached out a finger to his chin and turned his head
to face her. "Because let me remind you: if our reforms become law, Brillig will be legally
human. She won't be able to 'bond' with you as a slave. *Your* idea, I might
add."

Hermione told herself it was ridiculous to be concerned about Harry losing his heart to… to an
*elf.* Still, for the moment she avoided mentioning the fact that, as a legal human, Brillig
would be free to marry any wizard who fancied her. *That* was a fact best left unspoken until
after their reforms were made law.

For now, she made her voice stern. "And I would *strongly* suggest you not consider
hiring her as a free agent. I've *seen* the way she looks at you, Harry Potter, and while
I know you'd never take advantage of her, she'd *certainly* try to take advantage of
*you.*"

"Plus, it would break poor Canby's heart." He leaned forward until his face was a
scant inch from hers. "But more important, there's only one female of *any* race I
want sharing my bed, and I'm looking at her now."

Hermione laughed at that, a laugh born of relief and a pure, bubbling joy. "Is that
so?" she asked, artfully maintaining the distance between their mouths, despite his efforts to
merge them. "I will point out, good sir, that we haven't actually *done* it in a bed
yet."

Harry joined in her laughter. "Is *that* so?" he asked, and repositioned his
hands until they touched her bare skin.

The next instant, he'd Side-Along Apparated her from the living room to the bedroom – from
the couch to just an inch above the bed – and, clean contrary to all known theories of magic,
he'd Apparated both of them *out* of their clothes. They fell onto the bed, still
laughing, still holding one another, as Harry concluded, "Well, we'll just have to remedy
that, won't we?"

And they did.



34. XXXIV:  A Very Merry Rebirthday To You, Yes You
---------------------------------------------------

**(A/N:** *NOT* a good few months for me, sorry.

I'm only now starting to recover – but that said, I'm back now. I want to thank all
those who worried about my welfare… it was not misplaced, and I appreciate it. I've a couple of
chapters left in which to wrap up the story, tying up various loose threads (or else giving enough
hints to let the readers tie them up as they prefer… which I don't mind in the least). Many
thanks to my best of betas, **MirielleGrey****,** who, had she known what she was signing up
for, might not have answered that e-mail two years ago.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** (Jeez, *two* disclaimers.) Disney inspired the title of this chapter; I
own nothing of Disney's. J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers inspired this entire story; I own
nothing of Rowling's or the Warners'. I'm not making money from this work, and more to
the point, none of them are *losing* money from this work, so let's let everyone get back
to their fair-use pastimes, 'k?**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXXIV: A Very Merry Rebirthday To You, Yes You**

*

*It felt wrong. And it was confusing, which made it doubly wrong.*

*This new place was… inviting. One normally associates "inviting" with
"warm". Only this was cold… so dark, and so very, very cold. She could tell she was being
welcomed in this new place, but in the same way the sea welcomes a sinking ship. It's not as
though the ship has a choice.*

*Neither, for that matter, does the sea.*

*She did her best to look forward to this next great adventure, but she couldn't shake an
icy pang of regret. Very sharp regret, piercing her heart… if only she could remember what it
was.*

*And suddenly, there* was *warmth. Not the distant, aloof light that beckoned her onward,
but a much more personal warmth: two gentle hands surrounding her, sheltering her, sustaining her.
They drew her from this chilling, inviting darkness and bore her back whence she'd come. She
didn't object, for her thoughts grew clearer with every step of the journey back. It was as
though the warmth of the hands brought their own light, brought clarity. The warmth of those hands
meant she had no further use for hoary regret. For she knew those hands.*

*Harry's hands.*

Hermione slowly opened her eyes. Pre-dawn light was filtering through the window, giving a rosy
tinge to Harry's skin. She was spooned up against his back, with her arms around his torso.
Odd, when she'd been dreaming of *his* arms around *her.* Not that it mattered a
whit, she realized: it was infinitely comforting either way.

"And you're *so* better than my old pillow," she murmured.

"Mmmm?" Harry mumbled.

*Never mind,* she told him, silently and indulgently, and gave the back of his neck a kiss
before she snuggled in closer.

"Mmmmph," he mumbled again, more strongly. "Whuh time zit?"

"Far too early. Go back to sleep."

For a moment, she thought he had indeed gone back to sleep. Then he began to rouse from bed,
carefully disengaging her arms from around him. "'s your party," he said, only
slightly better than mumbling. "Got t' get ready…"

"At *this* hour?" Hermione was puzzled – they had several hours before the party
began.

"Your present," he explained, growing more coherent. "Thin's to do…"
Standing, he swayed for a moment before picking up his new wand from the nightstand.

Puzzlement had been replaced by dismay – she'd have much preferred him to stay in bed with
her. She'd been *hoping* that he'd prefer it, too. "You're going out?
*Now?* But I'd thought… well, that is, I thought we'd go to the Three Broomsticks
together…"

A Summoning Charm and a Switching Spell had brought Harry's clothes from the sofa (where
they'd been discarded the night before) and arrayed them on his body. He stretched, was
rewarded with a popping sound from his shoulder, and turned back to smile at Hermione. "If
I'm back in time, yeah, we definitely should go together… but no matter what, I'll meet you
there." His smile grew tender. "I'll *be* there, love," he said very
earnestly.

And with an almost inaudible puff of air, he Disapparated. Presumably back to Clayman's
flat, for shower and clothes… a daily ritual which grew more irksome every day. Hermione
*almost* changed her mind about Harry not yet moving into Enthalpy House; she had to remind
herself with some force that Rose would need time to accept the new developments in their
lives.

"You'd *better* be there, mister," was all she could find to say.

*

Waiting at the massive front doors of Hogwarts, Ted Lupin fingered again the two scrolls in his
pocket – the scrolls he'd received just the evening before. One was from his godfather,
revealing in detail the secrets he'd had to keep from Ted for so many years – secrets Ted only
knew in vague outlines. *Given all that's happened,* Harry had written, *I thought you
deserved to have the facts.* The scroll confirmed Ted's belief that some of those secrets,
at least, would be shared at Hermione's Rebirthday Party today.

The other scroll was from the rebirthday girl herself, keeping her promise to tell Ted all she
could about the Lovinett caper he'd helped her with, earlier that week. Not that she could yet
tell him all that much, but it was her willingness to keep her word that impressed him.

*There may be hope for the overbearing control freak yet,* he told himself in charity.

Voices from down the corridor caused him to straighten expectantly. He caught a glimpse of
straight silvery blonde hair, and behind it a bird's-nest of fiery red, as Tori and Rose turned
the corner. Professor Longbottom was with them, talking with them as they approached. "Because
by rights, Miss Weasley-Minor, you wouldn't be allowed into Hogsmeade until your third
year," the Professor was explaining. "Even under these special circumstances, you
can't go to town unless your Head of House accompanies you. Besides," he added more
cheerfully, "I was invited, too. Oh, good morning, Mr. Lupin."

"Morning, sir. Are we waiting for anyone else?" Ted thought it prudent to ask… though
he was fairly sure of the answer.

"No, we're the lot. The Headmistress *was* invited, but had to decline,"
Professor Longbottom replied, as the doors automatically opened before them. "The press of
Hogwarts business, I'm afraid. I promised to tell her if anything interesting happened."
His tone made clear that he fully expected that eventuality. With an expansive gesture, he motioned
the three students to walk ahead of him. They set out down the path to the school's gates, Ted
taking the lead, the girls falling into place on either side of him.

"Pity this isn't really a Hogsmeade weekend," he commented. "Rose, we could
show you all the best spots in town…Honeydukes, the Shrieking Shack, the *important* places… I
mean, yeah, the Three Broomsticks is great and all, but there's a lot more to Hogsmeade than
that."

"Until then," added Tori, "Ted and I will have to visit those places alone. For
the next two years. At *least.*"

If Rose caught the subtext of Tori's last remark, she gave no sign. Well, she *did*
give a quick, cheeky grin, but she'd been doing that a lot since she'd caught Ted
impersonating Lovinett. Not quite as awestruck as she was at the start of term, no indeed.

"You think I'll be able to get a butterbeer today?" she asked them eagerly.
"I've heard of that…"

Ted couldn't help but smile. It had become something of a rite of passage at Hogwarts: the
First Butterbeer. Ordered by every third-year on their very first Hogsmeade visit. Even the kids
who grew up in Hogsmeade looked forward to it, having been too young before then to be allowed in a
pub. Leave it to Rose to want a two year head-start on her classmates. "I dunno," he
drawled. "I imagine your mum will say you're still not old enough. Although," he
added thoughtfully, "if they let you have a butterbeer, maybe they'll let me have some
wine…"

"Wine?" inquired Tori, arching an eyebrow.

He twisted his mouth ruefully. "Our date at the *Idée Fixe* showed up kind of a gap in
my education, don't you think?"

"Oh, you do that every time you open your mouth," Tori assured him smugly. "But
yes, your ignorance of wines is, beyond doubt, simply appalling. I *told* you to visit Shell
Cottage more often last summer – we'd have served you wine every night with dinner.
*Maman* thinks everyone should have at least a minimal appreciation of fine wine – even the
English."

"Prime. Can she vouch for me today?" Ted put on his most innocent expression.
"*One* glass?"

Tori eyed him speculatively. "Mm, maybe I should be the one vouching for you… after all,
I'm the one who's got to walk you back to Hogwarts." She gave his arm a reassuring
pat. "Don't worry, I'll try to make your first time an enjoyable experience."

Ted returned a slight smile of acknowledgement, while hiding his surprise. Yeah, he and Tori had
been semi-flirting since before the start of term… but until now, they'd been careful not to do
it in front of Rose.

"A Chenin Blanc, I think," Tori continued, warming to her subject. "It's a
good choice for a novice: sweet and uncomplicated. Later I'll let you try something with a bit
more subtlety: a Vouvray, maybe, or eventually a Pouilly-Fuissé, that one's *very*
nice…"

Unexpectedly, Rose broke in. "Sounds like a good plan. White wines are a good introduction,
'specially if you don't limit yourself to French stuff…"

"And how would *you* know anything about wine?" Tori demanded.

Rose shrugged. "I *do* read." She looked back at Ted, who was maintaining an
uncharacteristically discreet silence. "'Course, once you've tried the whites, you can
move on to red wines. Reds are supposed to have a *lot* more character than whites."

"Well, yes, traditionally," allowed Tori, "although there *are* exceptions
both ways. The problem with reds, of course, is that you have to wait *years* until
they're properly matured, if you want to enjoy the more interesting nuances." She sniffed
dismissively. "*Young* reds are hardly worth drinking."

"On the other hand," Rose pointed out, "the whites reach their peak so quickly –
a year? Two years? And then, just as quickly, they go sour. While a good red continues to improve
as it ages, until it reaches its full body and flavor."

Tori smiled sweetly. Ted was all too painfully familiar with that sweet smile; the better part
of valor told him to fall back a pace or two, letting the two girls continue their discussion
without him being right there in the middle. "Mm, that *can* be the case with the
reds," she said, "but in those cases, the varietal in question was a quality vintage to
begin with."

"Oh, I don't think that's something Ted needs to worry about," Rose replied,
just as sweetly. She met Tori's gaze unabashedly

Ted continued to retreat until he found himself by Professor Longbottom's side.
"They're, uh, they're not really talking about wine any more, are they?" he
softly asked the Defense Professor, who was looking far, *far* too amused.

Longbottom paused to consider his words. "If I were you, my boy," he said
confidentially, "I'd stick to butterbeer."

*

They arrived at the Three Broomsticks to catch Madam Roswitha, the proprietress, bustling out
from the private parlor. "The rest of your party's already here," she told them with
a smile. "I've just brought in your lunch, and put a Warming Charm on – eat whenever
you're hungry." A hint of slyness crept into her smile as she added, "*Bon
appétit.*"

Hermione was standing at the door when they entered the parlor. She greeted Neville warmly, Rose
with a big hug, a bright smile for Tori and a somewhat more tentative smile for Ted. He nodded
affably and let the others receive the brunt of her attention. Watching her, it seemed to Ted that
she kept half an eye on the room outside the door, as though she were expecting more guests to
arrive.

Ted had only a moment to reflect on this before he was caught up by his grandmother. "Stand
straight and let me look at you," Andromeda declared. "Staying out of mischief this term,
I trust?"

"As I always do, Gran," he grinned.

"Hrmph." Andromeda's mouth pursed skeptically. "Well, if it were anything
serious I'm sure I would have received an owl by now." She glanced over Ted's
shoulder, saw Ron moving to the center of the room, and lowered her voice to add, "We'll
catch up on news later. Right now, I think the party's about to begin."

"Ahem," announced Ron loudly. "Thanks, everyone, for coming today – I appreciate
it, and I know Hermione does, too. We, er, we don't have any real festivities planned… except
lunch, of course…" That got a laugh from the guests, all of whom were familiar with Ron's
love of food. "But this is the day to celebrate our Hermione's birth, and more
importantly, her recent *re-*birth." He beamed at Hermione as the other guests
applauded.

"Of the two, I have to say the latter ranks more highly with me at the moment,"
Hermione responded wryly as the guests chuckled. "But yes, thank you all for coming. May I
suggest we eat first, and save… er, talking for later?" She motioned to her guests to queue at
the sideboard. Hermione held back, making sure she was last in the queue… always with one eye to
the door. It wasn't obvious unless one were watching her closely – and Ted, who *was*
watching Hermione closely, thought he saw disappointment flash in her expression, before it was
covered with a social smile.

Ron and Bill were first to the sideboard, chatting and trading recent family moments. Fleur
followed her husband, with Tori and Rose next in queue. "Huh," Ron remarked as he began
to fill his plate, "S'funny… I don't recall the Broomsticks ever doing fancier than
bangers or shepherd's pie." He hesitated over some of the dishes, looking doubtful.

Fleur, always the gastronome, came to his rescue. "Well, that *is* shepherd's pie,
in that pot," she told him, pointing. "This is poached salmon, with…" She touched
the tip of her little finger to the dish and brought it to her tongue. "With dill sauce,"
she continued. "Not at all bad."

"A bit beyond the Broomsticks' touch, in my day," put in Bill. "Maybe the new
owner – what's her name, Ron? Roswitha? – maybe she's trying for something a bit more
adventurous."

"If so, she has good tastes," Fleur replied. "As well as an understanding of her
customers. None of this is *haute cuisine,* to be sure, but…" She studied a meat pie for
a second before taking a knife and slicing into it. "Strasbourg pie. The filling is *pâté de
fois gras,* do you see? All the dishes are like this: country fare, but well prepared."

"Sounds good to me," said Ron, and helped himself to the shepherd's pie. Fleur
continued to inspect the offerings on the sideboard, until her gaze paused at a casserole dish with
a baked crust of bread crumbs. "Surely that is not… It is! *Cassoulet**.* Did she
use local game, I wonder…?" She ladled a sample onto her plate and took a delicate taste.

Momentarily, her face went blank, as though she were searching inward. Then without warning,
Fleur thrust her plate at her startled husband and marched out of the parlor.

"Ooookay," said Ted in a low voice. He glanced at Tori, who shrugged. "My
mum," she whispered to him, "what can one do?" It was Tori's usual comment
whenever Fleur got a bee in her bonnet; the only thing to do was to stay out of her way.

Half the guests had served themselves from the sideboard, and taken seats at the table, when
everyone heard a commotion outside the door – noise growing louder by the moment. Noise which
eventually resolved into words: "Ow! *OW!* C'mon, ten minutes, I only need ten,
*five,* oh dammit Fleur, *stop!*"

And into the parlor strode Fleur, with her finger and thumb leading Harry by the ear.

The party gawked in amazement: only Ted had the presence of mind to observe the others'
reactions. Hermione's face had lit up brightly upon seeing Harry; Rose's jaw dropped, and
she almost seemed to forget how to breathe. Ron and Neville looked as though they would have rushed
to Harry, to poke and prod him and make sure he was the genuine article. But no one moved:
Fleur's dramatic entrance left them stunned and immobile.

In the gobsmacked silence, Harry freed his ear from Fleur's grip with a swat of one hand and
an angry jerk of his head. "I wasn't *finished,*" he told her through clenched
teeth.

"*Pas de ça,* Harry," responded Fleur. "The meal is served; what is left to
do?"

"The *cake,*" Harry snapped. "I wasn't finished icing the *cake.*
You know, the *birthday* cake!?"

"Er," came a hesitant voice from the doorway. Rosewitha stood there, having followed
Fleur and Harry from the kitchen. "Er, I could do that for you, Mr. Potter. I wouldn't
mind, honest! And it would give you a chance to be with your friends…" Her words faltered in
the face of Harry's glower.

After a moment, the glower softened into resignation, as Harry gave a despondent sigh. "Et
tu, Roswitha?" He regarded the landlady a moment longer, trying to gauge her culinary skills,
before gesturing with his hands. "You do the top first, and then work down the sides," he
instructed. "Light, circular strokes…"

"Mlle. Roswitha does not need to be told how to ice a cake," Fleur interrupted
sternly. "Sit down, Harry. No, don't bother getting food, I will bring you your plate.
*Sit.*" And she all but forced him into an empty seat at the table – providentially, the
empty seat Hermione had been saving.

Harry sighed again, glanced back at the door where Roswitha was still shyly waiting, and flapped
his hand at her, as though to say, *Go ahead and do it.* Roswitha beamed and left quickly.
Harry gave Hermione a quick sidelong look, and shook his head sheepishly. "Well, you
*did* say you wanted to sample my cooking. Happy Birthday, Hermione."

Hermione said nothing in words, but her hand found Harry's beneath the table – and the
squeeze she gave made clear she would never let him go.

"It's true, then?" Bill leaned forward and fixed a sharp gaze at Harry.
"Victoire's story – about finding you working as a chef in a Muggle restaurant – that was
true?" Tori preened smugly, but had the sense to say nothing… though her expression spoke
volumes.

"*Alors**,* Bill, of course it's true," Fleur said, sliding a filled
plate in front of Harry before taking her seat next to her husband. "How else would I know he
was here today? The mysterious M. Clayman had quite the distinctive style. Adding wild muskseed to
the *cassoulet* – I will have to remember that one."

"Right, right, whatever," said Ron, leaning forward and starting to scowl. "So –
all this time, when we'd thought You-Know-Who had *killed* you…"

Harry jumped in. "He *did* kill me, Ron. Let's have no confusion about that. I
went into the Forest that night expecting to die, and I *died.* That part of the official
history is true. And last Thursday, at the Ministry – when I came through the Veil out of
Death's domain – *that* part's true, too. It's, uh, everything that happened in
between that's not what most people think." He looked around the table. "But before I
can tell you exactly what happened, I need you all to agree to keep it secret. Seriously secret. I
mean it – trust me, once you hear, you'll understand why."

The guests looked at one another. Neville broke the pause. "I told Hermione a few days ago
that I'd be willing to take a wizarding oath, Harry. I think we're all still
willing."

"I don't need anything that formal…" Harry started to say.

"Actually, Harry, maybe you do," Ron interrupted. "Since the last time we all got
together and promised to keep mum, the word got out anyway." He met Hermione's eye
unwaveringly. "It was me. I told the story – told it to someone I thought wouldn't blab,
but that's not the point. I was wrong. So I can't speak for anyone else, but I think I
*need* to have some kind of binding put on me."

"Ron, it's not that easy to…" protested Neville.

Ron snorted mirthlessly and pointed a finger at Hermione, who had remained silent throughout.
"Nev, old bean, I'll bet you Galleons to gobstones that our Hermione has already thought
of this, and has a bit of parchment in her bag – with jinxes on it just like the ones she put on
our old D.A. membership list. Hopefully not as nasty, though?"

Hermione blinked in surprise. Lifting her purse into her lap, she opened it and brought out a
parchment sheet. "Not as nasty," she agreed, "but more effective. The D.A. jinx only
told us *after* Marietta snitched on us. This one will actively prevent it if anyone should
try."

"Yeah? What does it do?"

Her only reply was that quiet, confident half-smile that caused everyone in the Department of
Magical Law Enforcement to tread warily. Ron closed his mouth with a gulp.

"Ah. Well, perhaps you'll allow me to hold off on signing my name," said Neville,
calmly enough. "I *did* promise Minerva that I'd tell her about today's events,
after all. I trust no one would have any objection to my doing so?"

Harry glanced quickly at Hermione, raised an eyebrow in inquiry; she gave the slightest of nods
in reply. "Of course not, Neville," Harry said, with scarcely a hesitation. "All
right, Ron, you sign Hermione's scroll. Anyone else who thinks they might need help keeping
this secret, should sign their names too. But I know for a fact," and here he turned his gaze
on Ted, "that a promise is all that's needed to keep a secret – if you mean it."

*

Once everyone present had promised, one way or another, Harry settled into his chair and started
eating. He wasn't particularly hungry – tasting while cooking was a chef's traditional
prerogative. Rather, eating was a calculated move on his part: he hoped, by example, to get the
others eating as well. Listeners with mouths full of food weren't likely to interrupt, he felt,
and well-sated eaters might be less combative in their questions. Not that questions would dismay
Harry much: he'd already decided to stick to the truth where he could. An abridged edition of
the truth, but the truth nonetheless.

"Since Thursday, I've had a chance to hear the official version of what happened, the
night I died," he began. "That bit's all true: I *was* one of Voldemort's
Horcruxes. I *did* go to Voldemort in the Forest that night, and he *did* hit me with the
Killing Curse… and I died. But I didn't *stay* dead. I came back… minus the Horcrux. Mind
you, I came back too late to help with your final fight against Voldemort and his Death Eaters –
but from what I understand, you all did just fine without me."

"I saw your dead body," Neville said quietly. "You didn't… *stay*
dead?"

Andromeda Tonks spoke up. "You actually rose from the dead? *How?*"

Harry couldn't help grinning. "Except for me and Hermione, everyone at this table was
born and raised in the wizarding world, am I right? How many of you remember the Tales of Beedle
the Bard?"

Only Fleur and Tori didn't raise their hands. The others looked puzzled, wondering what
possible connection Harry's death and resurrection could have to a set of children's
stories. It was Ron (who, after all, had been with Harry and Hermione when Lovegood had explained
the Tale of the Three Brothers) who saw it first. "It was the Hallows, wasn't it, Harry?
You're saying you got *all* the Deathly Hallows? You're… Master of Death!?"

"When I walked into the Forest that night, I was Master of all three Hallows," Harry
said, sobering. "The Cloak, well, I'd had that since my first year at Hogwarts. The Stone,
it turned out, was inside the Snitch that Dumbledore'd left me in his will…"

"Rendering it utterly *useless* until it was too late," grumbled Hermione. It was
obviously a sore point with her.

"And the Elder Wand… well, it turns out that when Draco Malfoy disarmed Dumbledore, that
night on the tower, he became Master of the Elder Wand – even though he never knew it. So when I
disarmed Malfoy, at Malfoy Manor, *I* became the Master of the Wand – even though *I*
didn't know it. But yeah, that night in the Forest, I was Master of all three
Hallows."

(Harry chose not to bring up the idea Dumbledore had suggested, when they'd met for the last
time at "King's Cross": that Harry's blood in Voldemort's body had somehow
anchored Harry to life. It sounded too much like having his own Horcrux for Harry's comfort…
and frankly, given Harry's first-hand experience with Horcruxes, it just didn't *feel*
right to him. Survival through being Master of the Hallows, even without knowing it, at least
sounded plausible… at any rate, Harry hoped his friends would accept it, because otherwise he had
no explanation.)

"So, as the Master of Death," Ron concluded, "you could decide to come back to
life. How did you…?"

"Wait a moment, Harry," Neville interrupted. "You say Voldemort killed you?
*Honestly* killed you?"

"I was honestly dead," Harry affirmed. "My spirit went to the land of the dead
and everything. Hey, I *had* to die – it was the only way to destroy the Horcrux inside
me."

"Hm, all right, but… but then, why didn't Voldemort become the new Master of the Elder
Wand? From what I recall of Beedle's stories, isn't that how the Wand went from Master to
Master?"

Harry smiled wryly. "Believe me, Neville, I've had plenty of time to wonder that
myself." He turned to Hermione. "You were there in the Shack when Voldemort killed Snape.
Remember that?"

"I do, yes," she frowned. "He killed Snape because he thought Snape was the
Wand's Master. He knew the Wand wasn't performing properly for him, so he took what he
thought were the necessary steps."

"And that, in itself, should have been a clue," Harry pointed out. "After all, if
Grindelwald could steal the Wand from Gregorovitch, and become its Master, then Voldemort should
have been able to steal the Wand from Dumbledore's tomb to become its Master as well –
*regardless* of who its prior Master was."

"So the fact that he wasn't…" Hermione said slowly, thinking hard. Her brown eyes
seemed to focus on far infinity as her brain processed everything she knew about the Hallows, about
Lord Voldemort, about Death…

Sharply her gaze snapped back to Harry's face. "Voldemort had made Horcruxes! And by
doing so, he'd isolated himself from Death's influence!"

"He'd *cheated* Death," Harry nodded. "Heck, by making one of the
Hallows into a Horcrux, he *insulted* Death. And Death didn't like it, not one little
bit."

"Harry, you're speaking of Death as though it were a man," Fleur admonished. Her
attitude seemed a touch patronizing to Harry, and he had to swallow his flash of irritation.

"Girl," he corrected her, causing her to frown in return.

Hermione waved the issue aside. "Whatever the case, it's always problematic to mix
Death magics together. I think it's safe to say that, when Voldemort altered the influence of
Death on him, the artifacts associated with Death would no longer work properly for him. Voldemort
could *never* have been Master of the Elder Wand, no matter *who* he killed to get
it."

"Fascinating though all this may be," interjected Andromeda, sounding very
businesslike, "I'm more interested in hearing what you did *after* you returned to
life, Harry – and *when* exactly this took place. You were Master of the Wand – may I assume
you're the one who summoned the Wand from Voldemort's hand during the last
battle?"

Reluctantly, Harry nodded. Given a choice, he would have glossed over the details;
Andromeda's question was a little too specific for his liking. "From the sounds of things,
the battle ended almost immediately after that. And that… *that* was the point at which I
decided the Hallows had to be destroyed. And I've spent the last fifteen years working on
that."

"So you just… up and left," said Bill, half-asking and half-concluding. "Because
if you stayed and told everyone you were alive…"

"He'd have to explain that he was the Master of Death after all," finished
Hermione. "Can you *imagine* what a mess his life would have been after that? The number
of people who would have wanted favors? The *Ministry's* reaction?"

"I wasn't thinking of any of that," Harry corrected. "It was more like… the
only way to destroy the power of the Wand, and I guess all of the Hallows, was to die undefeated.
That's what Dumbledore intended to do, when he had the Wand… but it only took one slip on his
part for Draco-I'm-So-Inbred-It's-A-Miracle-I-Have-Opposable-Thumbs Malfoy to become Master
of the Wand. I couldn't risk that. And the only way to avoid it… was to leave." He sighed.
"Looking back on it, I think the Hallows themselves were helping me make the decision… keeping
me from feeling regret. Being the so-called Master of the Hallows didn't mean they weren't
affecting *me.*"

"So you lived as a Muggle," Tori burst out, "and took a job as a chef. Where
*I* found you."

"Where you *detected* me, *petite.* It was Hermione who found me – and figured
out a way to destroy the Hallows without me waiting to die undefeated. Or committing suicide, if I
didn't care to wait."

"Not funny," Hermione growled.

"No, it wasn't." Harry sipped his butterbeer. "Ahh. Merlin, I've missed
this. Right, so Hermione deduced that binning the Hallows through the Arch in the Department of
Mysteries – returning them to Death – would get rid of them permanently. I went to the Department
of Mysteries to do that, on Thursday… and I was there when Hermione died. So I, uh, I went through
the Arch after her…"

"You *what!?*" exploded from Ron and Neville together, while Ted managed to keep
his own remarks to a strangled "guh". This part of the story he *hadn't*
heard.

"I went through the Arch," Harry repeated, "and negotiated with Death, as you
might say… and left the Hallows behind in exchange for bringing Hermione back." He smiled
warmly at her. "And the rest, you know."

"Damn," muttered Ted in awe, "damn, damn, damn. Just when I thought I've
heard it all…" Harry shrugged modestly and returned to his food. He pretended not to notice
Andromeda chastising her grandson for language.

Ron leaned forward again, a sure sign he was coming to his point. "Let me get this
straight," he demanded, his voice rougher. "Your trip to the Ministry on Thursday… that
was when you returned to the wizarding world? No other visits before then?"

*Ah, of course,* thought Harry, *Ron's "nightmare" of me, warning him to
treat Hermione right.* Harry hadn't given specifics of the timing of his return: he wanted
everyone to accept the unspoken assumption that there'd been a gap between Hermione tracking
him down and his trip to the Department of Mysteries. The last thing he wanted was for Ron to
suspect where he'd been spending his nights, this last week.

Not because he had any reason to be ashamed – but because it was nobody's business.
*This* part of the tale, Harry *wasn't* willing to share.

So Harry put on a puzzled expression. "Not as such," he replied. "Well, I was in
contact with Ted for years, as you all know now. I had obligations to fulfill, godfather
obligations… luckily, he turned out to be a decent bloke to be around, which was an added
bonus." He grinned at Ted, and Ted grinned back. "But we kept all that in the Muggle
world."

Ron wasn't satisfied. "You never came to, uh, to Diagon Alley…?"

Harry looked convincingly surprised. "Why would I come to Diagon Alley? I was trying to
stay *hidden* from the wizarding world!" His gaze was level, his eyes wide, and he
didn't flinch from Ron's stare. Harry at seventeen couldn't lie worth a damn, and
certainly not to Ron. Harry at thirty-three-but-*looking*-seventeen had well-honed talents of
deception… and asking a rhetorical question wasn't even lying, technically.

And, patently, Ron was buying it. He sat back in his chair, looking momentarily bemused, before
obviously dismissing the matter, smiling warmly again, and returning to his food.

Under the table he felt Hermione's hand squeeze his thigh, and looked up to see her watching
him with an *almost* neutral expression. Only the slight tightening of her lips told Harry how
put out she was… probably because he was still hiding bits of the full truth. *Or more likely,
because I didn't warn her in advance I was going to do it – or tell her what my story was going
to be.*

He ducked his head toward her and gave a quick, pleading glance. *Follow my lead,* he
wanted to mouth silently, but didn't – he could only hope she got the message.

"I suppose I can see why you wouldn't want a great deal of this made public,"
Andromeda said thoughtfully. "It would reflect badly on you, should the idea spread that
you'd abandoned our world – oh, I understand why you thought you had to leave," she
smoothly forestalled Harry's protest, "but that's how many would see it. And while we
wouldn't go out of our way to publicize your story, I don't see that it would do any real
harm if it got out, either."

Harry blinked – now *Andromeda* was sounding like she was lecturing him. What was up with
everyone today?

He took another sip of his butterbeer to give himself a moment to gather his thoughts. "If
it were only my… well, call it my convenience," he said at last, "I'd ask you not to
talk about it, but I wouldn't bind you to silence with oaths or the like. My reasons are more
important." He sighed. "Voldemort nearly took over the Ministry, but he did it from
behind the scenes. Don't you remember the point when he himself took the offensive, when he
personally led his armies? It was only after he'd got the Elder Wand."

He waited under he saw nods of understanding around the table, then continued. "Now think
back to Grindelwald…"

"I'm not *that* old, Mr. Potter," Andromeda put it dryly.

"Duly noted," Harry smiled. "Think back to what we've been taught about
Grindelwald, then. *He'd* been working for power behind the scenes, too, only it was with
Hitler's *Zauberstaffel**.* And *he* didn't act publicly until
*he'd* got the Elder Wand… when was that, Hermione?"

"Early in 1942," supplied Hermione, "coinciding with the completion of Birkenau.
No one's ever been able to prove that at least some of the deaths there were used as human
sacrifices in magical rituals, but personally, I'm convinced of it." She raised a hand as
Harry looked about to continue. "Your point, I think, Harry, is that the last few Dark Lords
all sought the Elder Wand, and became most dangerous only after they'd acquired it. I find
myself agreeing."

"Um, actually, Harry… wouldn't that be a reason," Ted ventured, "a
*good* reason to tell people the Elder Wand was gone, then?"

"Oh, but that wouldn't prevent future Dark Lords from rising," Harry explained.
"It'd only cause them to skip a traditional step along the way. No, I think it's
better for future Dark Lords to keep looking for the Wand – and not finding it."

Ted smirked wickedly. "I like it! A prank on Dark Lords wannabes! If they waste enough time
looking for the Elder Wand, maybe they can be stopped a little sooner." He raised a finger in
deliberate imitation of one of his teachers. "Ah! But if we can't tell anyone Harry
destroyed the Elder Wand…"

Tori joined in. "… then we can't tell anyone that Harry ever *had* the
Wand…"

Rose piped up. "… which means we can't tell people he left the wizarding world to live
with the Muggles, or they'd want to know *why…*" She blushed and fell silent.

Which left it for Ted to summarize. "… so we have to make sure they believe the official
version, that he's been beyond the Veil for all these years!"

"In a nutshell," Harry affirmed, clapping his hands softly at their performance.

*

Once consensus had been reached that no one present would tell Harry's tale, the Rebirthday
Party continued in a far more relaxed vein – certainly from Harry's point of view. No one
insisted on interrogating him further, which helped immensely. He ate and drank, and listened
attentively: as Neville told anecdotes from his Defense classes; as Bill described the
globetrotting he'd done over the years, working for Gringotts; as Ron brought him up to date
with the world of professional Quidditch. At Hermione's request, he showed off his new ironwood
wand, passing it around the table (Hermione gave a brief lecture on ironwood's properties as
she used it to refill Harry's glass), and letting everyone marvel at its density.

Everyone, in short, seemed to be relaxing a bit, and enjoying the conviviality of the party.
Everyone, that is, but one person.

After her one outburst, when she'd been caught up in excitement thinking aloud with Ted and
Tori, Rose Weasley had fallen silent again. She seemed to concentrate on her food – at any rate,
her gaze never left her plate – and she resisted her parents' occasional efforts to include her
in the conversation.

*Well, she* is *the youngest person here,* thought Harry, *and that's got to be
awkward.* He waited until Ron's end of the table was laughing at some remark… then he leaned
forward slightly, to bring his head closer to hers. "We haven't been formally
introduced," he said, his voice low and confidential, "but I'm very glad to meet you.
You're Rose, yes?" He smiled kindly. "Did you like the library index? Ted thought it
would suit."

With a bright blush that betrayed her Weasley heritage, she nodded mutely. Harry's further
attempts to draw her out were interrupted with a hail from Bill – and a reminder that, alas, the
interrogation was *not* yet over. Far from it.

"So what are your plans, Harry, now that you're back?" asked Bill. "I mean,
do you have a place to live? And what about work? I daresay any Quidditch team in the country would
be eager to have you…"

Harry shook his head. "For my fame, maybe, Bill. Not for my skill. Remember, in real time,
I haven't played Quidditch in years." He smiled wistfully. "I have to admit, though,
I'm looking forward to getting back on a broom. As for where I'll live…" He glanced
sidelong at Hermione, and gave a nervous cough. "I was sort of hoping I could impose on my
heir and godson."

"Live at Grimmauld Place? Well, of course!" Ted exclaimed. "By rights it ought to
be yours, anyway. And old Kreacher will go into heart palpitations when he sees you…"

Andromeda cleared her throat. "I do not think that's advisable, Harry. Not that I
disagree with Teddy, but… well, Teddy, this is a bit of the news I wanted to share with you. My
sister has written me, and has asked to live at Grimmauld Place for the foreseeable future. With
certain conditions, I plan to permit it."

"Your sister… Narcissa *Malfoy**?*" Ron asked incredulously. "When in
Merlin's name did *she* get out of Azkaban!? And more important, *how!?*"

"Early next week. It was through a bargain she made with the Ministry – I don't know
the specifics." She glanced at Harry as she added, "Her son Draco is also being released,
and I plan to permit him to stay at Grimmauld Place as well, under the same conditions. You can see
why you might not wish…"

"Right, got it." Harry didn't look at all pleased… but more to the point, Ted
noted, neither did Hermione. In fact, she was eyeing Ted as though *he* were responsible for
inviting the Malfoys into Grimmauld Place. After a moment, she nodded to herself, as though
she'd reached some conclusion – and turned back to Harry, dismissing Ted from her thoughts. Ted
couldn't contain a small sigh of relief… *dodged another hex,* he thought.

"I suppose, if there are no other options…" Hermione began.

"Actually, Harry…" Neville began at the same instant. They stopped talking
simultaneously and flashed smiles at each other. Each gestured for the other to continue, until
Hermione won the politeness match.

"Actually, Harry," Neville began again, "there's one place for you to stay
that's obvious. *More* than obvious: people will *expect* it, I imagine. Certainly
so, if you intend to maintain the public perception that you've spent all these years behind
the Veil, and come back the same age as when you left." He smiled serenely and dropped his
bombshell. "You'll have to return to Hogwarts and finish your seventh year."



35. XXXV:  Rain of Anvils
-------------------------

**(A/N:** No, of *course* this chapter doesn't say everything I wanted to say. Yes,
of *course* this means the story will be prolonged even further while I wrap up loose ends.
One of these days I've *got* to learn pacing. I'm sure my long-suffering beta reader,
**MirielleGrey,** will appreciate it.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** If I never *claimed* to be JK Rowling, or making money off this story,
how can I *disclaim* it? Logically, don't you have to *do* something before it's
possible to *un*do it?**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by Paracelsus**

*

**XXXV: Rain of Anvils**

*

Neville smiled serenely and dropped his bombshell. "You'll have to return to Hogwarts
and finish your seventh year."

Harry was too nonplussed to speak at first. After a moment, deciding that Neville was making a
joke, he began to laugh. "Oh, I don't *think* so, Professor." His laughter died
when he saw most of the other adults at the table were seriously considering the idea.

"I'm not joking, Harry," Neville insisted. "Aren't you seventeen? Or, I
should say, isn't that what you want people to think? To the vast majority, if you're
seventeen, then you're a seventh-year student at Hogwarts, period. So if you want to reinforce
the public perception of you…"

"And you know," Bill added gravely, "almost any employer is going to insist on
seeing your NEWTs, even if you *are* Harry Potter." His attitude seemed more than a
little patronizing to Harry, for some reason – just a touch shy of condescending, in fact, and
Harry found it rankling.

It moved him to object more strongly than he might have. "Fred and George did fine without
NEWTs, as I recall. NEWTs aren't mandatory. I'll find work – it's not like I'm
*really* a helpless teenager, after all. Besides, it's too late to go back to school now,
term's already begun."

Neville waved the objection aside. "We're barely three weeks into term. You should have
no trouble catching up with the rest of your class – as you say, mentally you're not a
teenager. And if you *do* need help, I feel quite certain we can find a seventh-year willing
to tutor Harry Potter for a couple of weeks."

"That's true, Harry," Ted felt bound to interject. "We could ask Prudence
Boomhalter, she'd be a perfect partner for yoomgkph-*OW!*" The termination to his
suggestion was caused by Tori's elbow to his ribs arriving only milliseconds before Rose kicked
him in the shins under the table.

"*You,*" Tori hissed in his ear, "are *not* helping." Rose's
face was as red as her hair, but that didn't keep her from looking daggers at him.

"I wouldn't need a tutor in any case," Harry snapped, now thoroughly nettled.
"I could probably *teach* most of those classes… the practicals, anyway."

"Then it wouldn't be any hardship for you to finish school," Fleur pointed out
reasonably. "And it would give you a bit of breathing room, while you decided what to do with
the rest of your life."

"*What to do with…!*" Harry brought himself up short. "That's it,
isn't it? Yeah, I *thought* something was a bit off with everyone today." He stared
huffily at the adults around the table… but his voice, when he spoke again, was almost gentle.
"I'm not a child, ladies and gentlemen. In point of fact, I'm the same age as our good
Defense Professor over there. I only *look* like a teenager."

"We know that…" Neville began.

"Do you? You're sure not *acting* like you know it… or it may be that you know it
in your heads, but you're reacting automatically to what you're seeing. And what you see is
a teenager, so…" He shrugged. "Eh, I suppose you can't help it." He turned to
Hermione. "I'm just grateful there's *one* person who still sees me as an adult.
Thank you."

"Well, it helps that I *did* actually see you as an adult," Hermione responded,
"before you were, erm, rejuvenated." She gave him a quick, nervous smile that vanished
almost as soon as it appeared, before lowering her gaze to her plate. Her next words seemed
decidedly forced. "But I, I have to, to agree that schooling is important, Harry… as is
getting your NEWTs. I returned to Hogwarts to finish *my* seventh year, after the war, you
know, and I don't regret it."

He regarded her quizzically for a second, before pitching his voice low, for her ears. "But
would you regret it if *I* did?"

Her reply was barely more than a movement of her lips. "I'm torn." Beneath the
table, her hand fumbled atop his leg, seeking his hand, seeking reassurance.

"Got it," he breathed, as their hands found one another and clasped. And indeed, Harry
did understand Hermione's conflict. To her, a good formal education was paramount, absolutely
indispensible. It was a cornerstone of her beliefs, and always had been. She'd labored over her
schooling for years, and pushed him and Ron to do likewise. It would be unthinkable for Harry to
have a chance to complete his schooling, and reject it.

Except, as her desperate grip on his hand told him, now that he'd finally come back she
couldn't *bear* to be parted from him anew.

Harry returned his gaze to Neville, but spoke for Hermione's benefit. "Well, I
don't have to decide right this second, surely. I'd like a chance to think it over. A few
more days won't affect my class standing, seeing as I'm already three weeks behind. And in
the meantime, you should probably run this by Professor McGonagall – I mean, she *is* the
Headmistress. And who knows? She *might* have some, well, some reservations."

"Doubtful, that," said Neville, but he looked thoughtful. "But you're right,
I should… I mean, courtesy if nothing else… and there *are* probably some logistical problems
to be addressed…"

Ron gave a sudden bark of laughter. "Like how she's going to deal with the sons of
Prongs and Moony together in Gryffindor?"

Neville's open mouth showed *he* hadn't considered that aspect of Harry's
return. "Oh! Ah… well, er…"

"Oh, no worries, Professor," Ted put in, with a truly impressive show of gravitas.
"No worries in the least. After all, we all *heard* Harry say he doesn't have his
invisibility cloak any more. So honestly, how much trouble could we get into?" He lifted his
glass of wine to Harry, who nodded in acknowledgment, and took a demure sip.

*

Roswitha, bless her heart, had done her best with the cake. *No,* Harry chided himself,
*be fair, she's done quite a decent job of it. I could see only one, maybe two spots where
I'd have gone back and fixed it.* (Harry had to admit that he probably wouldn't have had
time to add the icing drop flowers.) The meal done, Ron stood and announced, "Thank you again,
all of you, for coming and celebrating with Hermione and me. I reckon we've all got a lot to be
thankful for." He beamed at Hermione for a moment, then continued, "We've got the use
of the parlor until three, so feel free to hang about… keep eating, catch up with the news,
whatever you like."

Most of the guests, including Harry, rose from the table at this invitation. Harry decided
he'd snag a few last morsels of salmon, and meandered over to the sideboard. The party became a
socializing event, where guests formed groups of two or three that chatted for a few moments before
breaking up and reforming. Harry spotted Andromeda with Ted (with Tori on his arm), and thereafter
lost track: he found himself chatting amiably, and privately, with Bill and Fleur, finally
convincing them of his adult status.

Once he broke away from Bill and Fleur, he linked up with Ted and Tori. "Ted, that was
inspired," he greeted them.

"It was that," agreed Tori warmly. "Almost makes up for his earlier *faux
pas.*" She ignored Ted's scowl and continued smoothly, "So, er, Harry, are you
*really* considering coming back to Hogwarts? Or did you just want everyone to stop talking
about it?"

"A little of both," Harry admitted. "I really don't see the point of it, but
it seems to be so important to… um, everyone…" His eyes scanned the room over their heads as
he said this.

"Well, you *did* spend fifteen years puttering around as a Muggle," Ted shrugged.
"One more year in limbo ought to be easy enough." When Harry didn't respond, Ted
turned his head to follow his gaze. Hermione and Ron, wearing serious expressions, had gathered
Rose and were speaking to her in low tones.

"Take it outside," Harry muttered under his breath. Tori raised an eyebrow to Ted in
inquiry; his slight shake of the head conveyed his own puzzlement.

Across the room, Ron and Hermione took Rose's hands. "Ron and I are walking Rose back
to Hogwarts," Hermione said to the party. "Please, enjoy yourselves – and thank you all
again for coming!"

"Family chat?" Ted asked Harry quietly.

Harry nodded. "Tori, you and Rose are pretty close, aren't you? You might make yourself
available this evening… in case Rose needs to talk."

"I can do that, sure. Harry, what's this about?"

"Something you should let Rose tell you," Harry said firmly.

*

Hermione was satisfied with how things had worked out. This, she felt, would be an ideal
opportunity. She and Ron could walk with Rose to Hogwarts, not a brisk walk but taking their time;
the walk would give them the privacy and intimacy they needed to tell Rose about their divorce.
Hermione was fairly sure that, while Rose might be surprised and dismayed, she wouldn't be
shocked.

They were barely out the door of the Three Broomsticks and on the street when they were
ambushed.

"Madam Granger, what was your first reaction to the Wizengamot vote?" "Madam
Granger, do you plan to continue the policies of your predecessor? Even expand on them? What
changes *do* you plan?" "Mister Weasley, what was *your* reaction to the
news?"

"What? *What!?*" Hermione held up her hands and tried to command silence, or at
least impose order on chaos. It had been years since she'd been confronted by so many
reporters, all at once. Obviously, they'd known of her Rebirthday Party, somehow – well, it
hadn't been a secret, exactly – and had been waiting for Hermione to leave the party, to be in
a public thoroughfare, before they pounced.

She was forced to raise her voice. "All of you, *quiet down! Please!* What in the
world are you talking about?!"

"Today's Wizengamot vote, Madam Granger," piped up one reporter, before the others
could speak. "They met just two hours ago and elected you the new Minister of Magic!"

This set off another blizzard of questions: "Any comment on the *unusual* timing of
today's vote, Madam Granger? Why it was delayed? Then scheduled for today?" "Madam
Granger, were you aware that Shacklebolt wrote a letter of endorsement for you before he died? Did
he ever discuss it with you?"

"Kingsley wrote a… *what?*" Hermione was thoroughly taken aback. She had never
suspected, never *dreamed…*

*

*Ahhh,* thought Neville as he watched the scene unfold, *so* that's *why
Tiberius wanted me to 'be ready'.* All at once, a great many things seemed to fall into
place.

"Neville? Did you find out what all the commotion's about?" Harry and Ted were
approaching the parlor window where Neville stood, attracted by the noise outside. Neville raised
his hand in the universal sign for *shush,* and the two fell silent as they joined him. He
nodded at the scene outside.

It only took Harry a few seconds to absorb what was happening. When it did, his face clouded,
then turned pale. His breathing quickened – but his spine stiffened. He began to step away from the
window, towards the door…

Ted laid his hand on Harry's arm. "Hold on a moment, Harry."

"She needs my help," Harry said hoarsely.

"Uh huh, and it wouldn't take much. All you'd have to do is walk past them. Those
reporters would drop Hermione like a soggy crisp, if they had the chance to interview The Boy Who
Lived Again. That's what you're thinking, am I right?"

Harry gave a curt nod, and made a motion to brush Ted's hand from his arm.

"Okay, but let's hold off a moment," Ted suggested. "Plenty of time to
intervene, if you need to."

Harry looked strangely at his godson, who returned his gaze blandly, and told himself that he
couldn't be *that* obvious. For in truth, Harry's stomach was churning at the thought
of making himself the reporters' target. He would rather have thrown himself to wolves – which
he would readily do, for Hermione's sake. But surely, there was no way for Ted to have known
about his acute social anxieties…

Unless Harry *was* that obvious.

"You haven't seen Hermione in action, these last few years," Neville put in
mildly. "She's pretty impressive. Ted's right, let's give this a chance to play
out…" He broke off in mid-word, as their combined attention was suddenly riveted to the events
on the other side of the glass.

*

The reporters – there looked to be no more than half a dozen, though they gave the impression of
a mob – were still peppering Hermione with questions. She'd barely had to time to *begin*
formulating an answer to one before another came hot at its heels. For the moment, though, she was
holding her own against them.

Ron felt far less sure about his own ability to do so. Moreover, while it went against his grain
to back away from any confrontation, he had Rose to worry about. *Get her away from these
vultures,* he reasoned, *before something bad happens, and then come back and help
Hermione…*

Quietly, he placed his hand on Rose's shoulder, and with a gentle pressure suggested they
move away from the scene. Rose was, thank goodness, too flummoxed by the verbal assault to resist.
Casually, inconspicuously, they edged away from the impromptu news conference. For a moment, Ron
thought they might be lucky enough to escape notice.

Given the history of his life, Ron ought to have known better than to trust to luck.

"And what about you, Mr. Weasley? Any comment on Madam Granger's election?"
"Can you tell our readers, Mr. Weasley, how you managed a magical divorce when it's never
been done before? And was the divorce deliberately timed to take effect before the
election?"

"*Shut up,* you berks!" Ron shouted, but it was too late.

"Dad?" Rose quavered, looking up at him. Hermione rushed over to join them, kneeling
to bring her head level with Rose's.

"Darling, we were about to tell you," she said as soothingly as she could.
"Please understand, this doesn't change how much either of us love you…"

Ron tried to chime in, but the questions continued to hammer at them, unabated. If anything,
they were growing louder, not only to compete with each other, but to break through the private
family moment: "Madam Granger, how will your election affect custody? Mr. Weasley, will you be
keeping your daughter if her mother is too busy with the Ministry?"

And then one reporter went too far, even for the press. "Miss Weasley? Miss Weasley, can
you tell us what *you* thought when you heard about your mother's election? How will it
feel being at Hogwarts when your parents are divorced? Do any of your classmates…"

Rose's lower lip trembled as she fought to keep hold of her newfound sense of maturity. She
failed: instead, she turned her head and buried her face against her father's side. Outraged,
Hermione rose to her full height and turned savagely on the assembled reporters. She drew breath to
rail at them, too wrathful to care about her exact choice of words or their possible impact. Then
she realized, with grim satisfaction, that the reporters had fallen abruptly silent. They'd
stepped away from her, doubtless intimidated by the expression on her face…

She didn't notice Ron and Rose, behind her, suddenly hugging each other for warmth, nor the
wave of arctic coldness that washed over everyone in the street… nor the icy horror on the faces of
the reporters, as though the angel of Death had reached into their chest cavities and prodded their
hearts with one bony, accusing finger.

*

"*No,* Harry!" hissed Neville. "You can't!" He had an iron grip on
one of Harry's arms; Ted had seized Harry's other arm and was holding it equally fast. It
was the only way they could prevent Harry from diving bodily through the window and attacking the
reporters with his bare hands.

On the surface, Neville felt surprised: given the freezing flash that Harry had just radiated,
Neville had half-expected Harry's body to be ice-cold. Deep down, Neville was even more
surprised: he would never have imagined himself brave enough to physically restrain a dangerously
powerful, dangerously *angry* Boy Who Lived Again. His face was twisted with rage, and Neville
almost imagined he could see green lightning flash from his eyes.

"Those soulless *bastiches!* Those pustulous, scum-sucking *leeches!* Let me
*go,* you two… as bad as *dementors,* have they no *shame,* I won't *stand*
for this…"

"You won't have to," Neville insisted, happy his voice didn't waver.
"Just watch…"

*

"The Wizengamot has not yet formally announced the results of their session today,"
Hermione sternly told the now-silent reporters. "I know this because, if they *had*
chosen me to be Minister, they'd have done me the courtesy of informing me before making a
general announcement. And I've not been informed of any such thing."

Her gaze swept over them, daring them to interrupt. "*Since* I've not been
informed, I have of course not given *any* thought to *any* possible agenda for the
Minister's office. Time enough for that, *after* – and *if* – I receive the position.
Until then, it's fruitless to ask me any policy questions – though I would anticipate
there'd be no radical changes in the direction of Kingsley Shacklebolt's
policies."

She took a step forward, and suppressed a smile as the reporters nervously took a matching step
backward. "No matter what the Wizengamot has decided, I remain an official in the Ministry,
and as such I am, naturally, always open to questions from the press. *BUT!*"

Her voice rose sharply on the last word, then descended to the quiet, incisive, razor-precise
tones that were more compelling than her shouting – tones that might have been described as
"soft", except there was nothing whatsoever soft about them. "*But:* my family
is off-limits. My *daughter* is off-limits. There are lines you will not cross, gentlemen –
doubly so, should I gain the title of Minister! – and before you even *think* of evading this
issue, just remember the title I had *before* I joined the Ministry."

She didn't explicitly say the words *The Witch Who Won,* but they were hardly
necessary.

"Now, if there are no further questions," and her voice, her stance, and her flashing
brown eyes made it abundantly clear that there weren't, "we'll be returning our
daughter to Hogwarts. Good afternoon to you all." Hermione held out one hand; she felt
Rose's hand slip into it. With a quick glance to be sure that Ron held Rose's other hand,
she nodded one last time at the thoroughly cowed reporters and resumed her walk down the main
street of Hogsmeade.

*

"See, Harry, *that's* the Hermione Granger we've come to know and love,"
Neville said, releasing his grip on Harry's arm. Harry had… not relaxed, but at least stopped
struggling, once Hermione had begun delivering her dressing-down. He now watched wordlessly as Ron,
Rose and Hermione sauntered past the poleaxed reporters and continued towards Hogwarts.

Harry finally spoke in a low voice. "She's always been brilliant *and* scary. And
nobody knows better than me just how capable she is. But… Minister of Magic? Neville, has there
*ever* been a Muggleborn Minister of Magic?"

"Not that I can recall. And believe me, I think I would."

He nodded, and then nodded again, reaching a decision. "Ted, I'm afraid you're
going to have to continue the Marauder traditions on your own, after all. Neville, I won't be
coming back to Hogwarts. Not this year, which means probably not ever."

"Well… if you say so, Harry," said Ted hesitantly. "But you could
still…"

"She's going to need me," Harry interrupted. "She's going to need every
bit of help she can muster. There are still a lot of blood purity elitists, and they'll be
fighting her every move. You *know* what I'm talking about, Neville!" He paused, and
added more quietly, "And she'll be lucky if fighting her agenda is the *only* thing
they do. No, I have to be there for her."

"She's hardly a pushover, Harry," Ted reminded him. "I mean, she *is*
The Witch Who Won."

"And these days, that probably has a bit more cachet than The Chosen One," Harry said
with a wry half-smile. "But if I can open just a few doors that wouldn't open otherwise,
it'll be well worth it." He fell silent, pensive.

"Right, then," Neville said at length, "if you're sure, Harry… I have to
agree, she can use all the support she can get." He too fell silent, before drawing a deep
breath. "Mr. Lupin, would you mind asking the Weasleys if they could escort you and Miss
Weasley-Major back to Hogwarts? I'd like to remain here for a bit longer."

Ted immediately noticed the change in address, recognizing Neville's shift from "family
friend" to "Hogwarts professor". "Yes, sir, not a problem. Talk to you soon,
Harry?" He gave his godfather a warm smile before breaking away and seeking out Tori.

Neville watched Ted go for a few seconds, then turned back to Harry. "You didn't look
shocked to hear her called The Witch Who Won. I take it you knew already?"

"I heard," Harry grimaced. "I'm sure she hates it as much as I hated
*my* titles."

"Uh huh." Neville eyed Harry skeptically. Neither said anything for a moment.

It was Harry who broke the stalemate. "Something on your mind, Neville?"

"Just wondering something. Y'see, I was there when Hagrid brought your body back to
Hogwarts, the morning of the Battle. I remember the entire scene, quite clearly. So I was listening
*very* carefully earlier, when you described how you came back to life."

"It happened just as I described it, Neville," Harry said, face and voice carefully
neutral.

Neville nodded, then seemed to change the subject. "Hermione *did* tell me about the
prophecy, after everything had settled down… seemed to think that I deserved to know, given how it
almost applied to me. Well, that, and how close I came to being tortured trying to save it."
They shared a smile at the memory, before Neville cleared his throat and lost his smile. "But
y'know, it's a funny language, English. Have you ever noticed how many English words have
more than one meaning?"

Harry stood stock-still. He looked Neville in the eyes and slowly shook his head, silently
mouthing *No,* and trying by facial expression to get Neville to lower his voice.

"For instance," Neville continued, seemingly oblivious but watching Harry closely,
"the word *either.* Normally it's, like, a choice: 'either-or', one thing
*or* the other thing. But it can also mean 'each', one thing *and then* the other
thing…"

"Enough," Harry whispered desperately. "Let it *go,* Neville…"

"'Either must die at the hand of the other'," Neville mused, although he now
murmured his words for Harry's ears alone. "Voldemort killed you in the Forest, you were
quite clear on that point. To fulfill the prophecy, you must have returned the favor – so when did
you find the chance? After you came back to life, obviously… and you told Andromeda you summoned
the Wand from Voldemort's hand, which would have happened, let's see, just
before…"

"God damn it, Neville, *enough!* You've made your point!" Harry glanced
around to see if anyone had been close enough to hear their conversation. "Yes, fine, I admit
it. But you can't tell *anyone,* Neville. You *especially* can't tell
*Hermione!* It's just as I said, as Minister she'll need every scrap of advantage she
can get. To the public, she *has* to be The Witch Who Won. Which she *wouldn't,* if
she thought it wasn't true! You *know* she wouldn't, and she *must! Promise* me
you'll keep it secret!"

"The credit should go where it's due…"

"It has, trust me, it has. I've heard the stories of that last fight – she
*earned* her title." Harry shrugged with one shoulder. "And it's not like I need
it, particularly. *Please,* Neville."

Neville pretended to consider the matter, though in fact he'd crafted his response before
he'd started talking… when he'd first deduced who'd actually killed Voldemort. "On
one condition," he finally told Harry.

"Let's hear it," said Harry cautiously.

"I'm, well, I'm looking to marry in the next few months – yes, thanks," he
added, as Harry smiled and made the appropriate congratulatory noises, "thanks, I appreciate
it. Susan Bones, you remember Susan of course? But there've been some hassles, some
difficulties… anyway, there are details we need to arrange, and that means days I'll have to be
gone from Hogwarts. And for those days I'm absent, I need a guest lecturer."

Harry raised one eyebrow. "I am *supposed* to be a *teenager,* Neville. I'm
barely older than your students. Makes it rather hard for me to be their teacher, don't you
think?"

"Being the same age as your pupils didn't stop you in the D.A. You *have* the
skills, Harry – didn't you just tell us you could teach the practicals if you wanted? Right,
then, Mr. Boy Who Won't Die, time to put your Galleons where your gob is." Neville grinned
as Harry rubbed his nose dubiously, thinking.

"We're talking, what, one day a month?" Harry eventually asked.

"More or less," Neville agreed. "Might be a bit more… I've no way of knowing
how long it'll take to smooth out our wedding details. And, yes, I *will* clear this with
Minerva." He left it at that, though he would have liked to keep the pressure on: *This is
the price for my silence, pay it or suffer the consequences.* But he knew from experience that
pressuring Harry only made him more stubborn.

And in the end, he couldn't have Harry calling what was, after all, a bluff.

"I'll need to see your course syllabuses," Harry said… muttered, actually.

"Come to my office at Hogwarts Monday, after classes. I'll have copies ready."
They shook hands on the deal, Harry inwardly relieved that he'd gotten off so lightly… and
Neville outlining what he'd tell Susan that evening.

*

Ginny was shocked by Blaise's appearance. Oh, to anyone else, he would look as though he
were entering the Ministry Atrium with his usual confidence and elegance – but to Ginny's eye,
he looked *haggard.* Immediately, she put into the background all the things she wanted to
discuss with him… taking his arm in hers, she simply said, "Let's go home."

Blaise looked at her as though he were having difficulty focusing on her face. Then his features
seemed to minutely relax. "Yes, let's," he replied. "Sitting room?" When
she nodded her agreement, they Disapparated together.

They arrived in the sitting room of Zabini's manor house. Blaise immediately released
Ginny's arm, strode to the liquor cabinet, and poured himself a shot of firewhiskey. He downed
it neat, in a single gulp, his hands steady.

He spoke without looking at Ginny. "I intend to resign my post at the Ministry. Oh,
it's customary, at a change of administration, for all the senior officials to offer their
resignations – but I intend to follow through. I want it to be *my* choice, not the new
Minister's."

"Blaise," said Ginny evenly, "what's happened? Where have you been?"

"I've been in… protective custody," Blaise replied. He poured another shot of
firewhiskey, but didn't drink; he kept the crystal tumbler gripped tightly in his hand.
"It turns out, my dear, that I had privy information about the International Cartel Lords…
enough to give Gawain Robards the option to prosecute me as a co-conspirator, if he chose. So, to
prove my innocence, I've spent the last forty-eight hours… cooperating with the
Aurors."

"And you've proven your innocence to everyone's satisfaction?" Ginny knew full
well Blaise was shading the truth for her ears. As though she couldn't read between the lines
as well as anyone.

"No charges will be brought against me." He downed the second shot of firewhiskey as
quickly as the first. "But unfortunately, that came too late to be considered in today's
Wizengamot vote." Blaise turned to face Ginny. "I doubt it's public knowledge yet,
but the new Minister of Magic will be… your sister-in-law."

"*Hermione!?*"

"Ha! Yes, I suspect that will be a great many people's reaction." Blaise glanced
down at the tumbler in his hand, and visibly decided against a third drink. He tossed the tumbler
into the liquor cabinet, heedless of whether it broke or not, and strode to one of the large plush
chairs. He didn't so much sit as collapse into the chair, staring stonily forward.

After a minute of tense silence, Ginny cleared her throat. "These Cartel Lords… they're
the ones who had me Obliviated?" At Blaise's terse nod, she continued more quietly,
"Is there any chance they'll want to do the same to you?"

Blaise's eyes flicked momentarily towards her. "Now that I've been debriefed? No,
*that's* not a concern." It wasn't necessary to point out the obvious:
Obliviation might keep the Cartel's secrets, but more lethal spells made for an excellent
object lesson.

"We'll take extra precautions," Ginny said decisively. Blaise didn't
reply.

She walked over to him and sat on the edge of the chair, caressing the back of his head.
"We'll *deal* with it," she said, quietly but firmly. "Okay? Okay."
She paused to let that sink in, then went on, "About your resigning…"

"I will hardly be alone," Blaise noted dispassionately. "I feel quite sure
there'll be any number of resignations, from the Ministry, from the Wizengamot… tolerance for
Muggles is all well and good, up to a point, but when it comes to *serving* under one of
them…"

"Which is exactly why you shouldn't resign, love."

He finally looked directly at her. "Ginny, I know your family has always had a soft spot
for Muggles, but do you truly want them overthrowing *our* culture?"

"She's not a Muggle: she's a Muggle-*born.* There's a world of difference.
She understands the superiority of magic, otherwise she wouldn't still be living in our world.
I'm not saying Hermione won't try to make changes," Ginny said quickly, raising her
hand to forestall Blaise's objection, "of course she will, and with the best of
intentions. That's why you shouldn't resign."

Blaise's eyes narrowed slightly. She had his full attention now, and his brain was starting
to work in its normal manner. "Damage control, then? Are you saying I should stay at the
Ministry to clean up Granger's mistakes?"

"Not quite. You're staying at the Ministry precisely because others are resigning. They
aren't broad-minded enough to work with the new Minister, but you are. You'll be the
go-between for Hermione *and* her opposition. You'll be the one who'll actually get
things done." Ginny began to massage the back of his neck.

"And besides," she continued, "I know Hermione better than just about anyone. She
*does* mean well, but she doesn't understand our world, and she's not exactly patient.
Sooner or later – and I'm guessing sooner – she's going to attempt some huge legislative
reform. It won't be a little thing, like Kingsley'd do, it'll be something *huge.*
And hugely unpopular. It might be a necessary change, maybe even the *right* thing, but
she'll approach it all wrong. So even if she manages to push the thing through, there'll be
a call for a vote of no confidence."

Ginny moved her fingers from his neck, to entangle them in his hair, as she shifted her weight.
"Whereupon, a more *traditional* candidate – one who's already proven he's a
consensus builder – will look very," she slid from the chair's arm into Blaise's lap,
"*very,*" and draped her arms around his shoulders as she finished,
"attractive." Her eyes danced as his arms reflexively encircled her waist.

"Tell me," Blaise said thoughtfully after a moment, "were you *always* this
politically savvy, and I simply didn't notice?" Ginny smiled, and though she didn't
reply in words, the kiss she gave him might have been a reward for his newfound insight.

"One more thing," she said when they broke contact, "you need an ally who can
broaden the base of your support. One that Hermione can't touch. Literally *and*
figuratively."

"Literally *and* figuratively? What do you…?" Blaise frowned. "It's
Potter, isn't it? You actually think I can recruit Potter? We *never* got along, and
I'm sure the last thing he remembers about me was my departure from Hogwarts. He'd never
trust me."

"But he'd trust me," Ginny said simply. "And remember, he's spent the
last fifteen years on the other side of the Veil. He doesn't know anything about the current
political situation. If I convince him that Hermione, for all her good intentions, is a bit of an
extremist – easy enough, I only need to remind him about SPEW – and that you represent moderation…
if he thought you were the one most likely to make the wizarding world safer… well, Harry's a
pragmatic bloke. If he could work with Severus Snape for the greater good, he'll have no
problem working with you."

"Mm hmm, perhaps… *if* you convince him. That's a fairly large 'if''.
Just how, exactly, do you plan…?" Blaise fell silent as Ginny placed one fingertip over his
lips.

"If it would upset you to know the answer," she told him with a sly smile, "you
shouldn't ask the question."

Ginny kept her finger in place a moment longer, until she saw in his eyes that he understood.
Then she leaned forward to kiss him again, more thoroughly… thereby receiving his tacit approval to
her plan.



36. XXXVI: Status Far From Quo
------------------------------

**(A/N:** Life has only gotten a *little* better recently. I do intend to finish this
story… I can only hope I still have readers when that happens. Heartfelt thanks to you all for
staying with me.

I will admit that we don't have a lot of action-adventure in this chapter: it's mostly
tidying up from Hermione's Rebirthday Party (indeed, by the story-clock it's still Saturday
afternoon). But you can't build an edifice without a little ground-breaking.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** Still not JK Rowling. Still no theme park in Florida based on my stories.
Still toiling in obscurity.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXXVI: Status Far From Quo**

*

Bill eyed the great oaken doors of Hogwarts with an air of nostalgia. "Sometimes it's
good when things don't change," he murmured.

"I'll settle for their not changing *quite* at breakneck speed," Fleur
responded. She turned to Tori and Ted. "*Mes* *petites,* it was a pleasure to see
you again, so soon after seeing you off. I trust you may find your own way back to Gryffindor
Tower…?"

"Erm, we might want to wait a moment longer," Ted cut in, glancing past Fleur's
shoulder. She turned her head to see Hermione, Rose and Ron, hand in hand, coming around the side
of the castle. They'd evidently taken a stroll around the school grounds and continued their
"talk", rather than cut it short, or try to compress all that needed to be said into the
walk from Hogsmeade.

There had been quite a lot that needed to be said.

Rose seemed unusually subdued, and Hermione and Ron were trading worried looks over her head.
"Ah, and here we are," Hermione announced, more for the need to break the silence than to
impart information. "Rose?"

Reluctantly, Rose released her parents' hands. She looked searchingly up into Ron's
face; he nodded. "Christmas, princess," he said gently. "I promise."

"Both of us are only an owl-flight away," Hermione added.

"I know," mumbled Rose. She seemed uncertain about whether to hug her parents, or
which to hug first. Ron took the decision out of her hands by embracing Hermione, with Rose between
them, and the three shared a family hug for a long moment.

When Rose stepped away from her parents, Tori was there to put one arm around her shoulders.
"Let's go back to our rooms, shall we? Do you mind?" Tori gave Ted a sidelong glance
and shook her head ever so slightly, to warn him not to join them, and he obediently fell back a
pace. Rose seemed to accept Tori's company… at any rate, she made no protest as the older girl
steered her through the doors and into the castle.

Left alone on the front steps, Ted found himself in the unusual position of fifth wheel. It was
clear that the four adults were aching to discuss everything that had happened that day, and were
pairing off to do so: Ron with Bill, Hermione with Fleur. Ted raised his hand half-heartedly and
turned away towards Hogwarts's doors.

"And speaking of Christmas, Ted," Fleur said unexpectedly, "we'd be pleased
if you could spend a day or two of your holiday at Shell Cottage with us." Bill looked
surprised, but some silent communiqué passed from his wife to him, and he kept silent.

"Erm," replied Ted, caught off his guard. "Thanks. I'll speak with Gran, but
I'm sure there won't be any problem… Boxing Day, then?" There would at least be no
problem with Tori's father on the full moon: that would fall at least a week before Christmas
that year.

"But of course," she smiled brightly. Ted found himself smiling back; feeling suddenly
upbeat, he gave the adults a jaunty wave before disappearing into Hogwarts.

"I felt that. Behave yourself," Bill chided Fleur.

"*Pfui**.* If our daughter can't sway him, what hope have I?" She kissed
him, tenderly but quickly. "Have a nice family chat, *mon* *cher.* Try not to come
home too late *or* too inebriated, yes?"

"Just inebriated enough," agreed Bill. "Hermione, congratulations, if that's
the right word, and good luck. Shall we, Ron?" With an affable nod to the ladies, he steered
Ron towards the gates of the grounds, there to Disapparate to a pub somewhat more private than the
Three Broomsticks.

By unspoken agreement, Hermione and Fleur began strolling towards the lake. They steered wide to
avoid clusters of students, who were lounging on the grass enjoying their Saturday. "So,"
Fleur said after a moment, "*is* 'congratulations' the right word?"

"For what?" rejoined Hermione. "Becoming Minister of Magic? Or my divorce from
Ron?"

"Divorce is never a cause for congratulation, I suspect," Fleur said somberly.
"Even when it's both desirable and needful. One doesn't congratulate a surgery patient
for the *necessity* of the surgery… only for surviving it."

"Ow! Rather too apt an analogy, Fleur. I mean, Ron told me about our divorce yesterday, but
its full impact didn't hit me until we were talking about it with Rose. She *seems* to be
taking it well, but…" Her words trailed off uncertainly.

They walked in silence until they reached the water's edge. "You and Ron seem to have
taken the right tack with her," said Fleur. She selected a smooth stone, balanced it in her
hand for a second, then sent it skipping across the surface of the lake. "That you both still
care for her, both still be there for her…"

"Ron will always be Rose's father, no matter what happens," Hermione declared,
picking up a stone of her own. She cocked her arm, preparing to send the stone skimming after
Fleur's.

"You mean, no matter *who* you start seeing?" Fleur asked.

The stone veered violently to the left, missing the lake altogether, as Hermione fumbled and
nearly fell into the water. "What? I… I…" Unable to say more, she stared at Fleur in
dumbfounded horror. *How!? I thought we were so discreet! We didn't do anything, didn't
say anything…*

She was therefore greatly relieved by Fleur's response. "I don't mean to imply
anything, *ma loutre,* but I know very well that your last few years with Ron haven't been
pleasant – for either of you," Fleur said hurriedly. "It would be astonishing if you
*didn't* someday find a man who could make you happy. It's certainly nothing of which
you should be ashamed!"

"Ah! Yes! Um, yes, I… I see what you mean. That is, well, in time…" Hermione knew her
face was flushed, but hoped Fleur would attribute it to mere embarrassment about the topic. She
picked up another stone, but didn't throw it at once.

"And – again, in time – I think Rose will come to understand that as well," Fleur
concluded reassuringly. When Hermione didn't immediately respond, she gave a Gallic shrug and
added, "*Bien sûr,* as the new Minister, time may be in short supply at first."

Glad of the change in topic, Hermione turned back to the lake and sent her stone flying.
"As I told those newshounds, I'm not officially Minister until I hear from the
Wizengamot." She canted her head, considering a new idea. "Though… I mean, if I
*were* named Minister, I certainly see areas where I could do some good. And Fleur… for one of
them, I could use your help." *Along with Flitwick,* she added silently, *and Hagrid…
or perhaps Olympe might be a better choice…*"

"*Certainement**,* of course…"

"In any event," Hermione concluded, "there's an old adage about counting your
chickens before they're hatched."

"Or in your case, owls." Fleur gave a short, melodious laugh. "You'll hear
from them soon enough. Perhaps you should enlist Harry's help as you start your new duties. If
he's not returning to Hogwarts, he'll need a job… and the two of you would deal well
together. And it would certainly give the press something else to write about: The Boy Who Lived
Again, working for The Witch Who Won…"

"*No.*" Abruptly, Hermione's attitude switched from embarrassment to cold
intensity. "I'll not have that title used any more. We'll find another if we must, but
I won't call myself… *that…* any more. I *couldn't.*"

Fleur was taken aback by her sudden vehemence. "Well, if that's what you… that is to
say, certainly, whatever you wish. But… Hermione, I know you've never cared for that title, but
you can't deny it's proven useful, and you may need to use it again… if only to force
people to take your position as Minister seriously."

"Why shouldn't they? Because I'm Muggleborn? The first Muggleborn Minister that
Britain's ever had? Eeeurgh!" Hermione was working herself into a temper, she knew, which
was hardly fair to Fleur. She closed her eyes and tried to relax, as Fleur made anxious soothing
sounds. At least this was a plausible reason for being upset.

After a moment, Hermione felt it was safe to open her eyes again. "Right. Well. I think I
can count on Gawain Robards's support. And once everyone sees I have *him* behind me,
they'll fall in line soon enough." She knew her face was still pinched in irritation.
Hermione could only hope that Fleur would assume her sudden mood change was due to worries about
being a Muggleborn Minister – it would keep her from pressing for other reasons.

*It had been bothering me for* days. *That niggling question about Harry surviving
Voldemort, I* knew *there was something peculiar about what he said. I can't* believe
*it took me so long to figure it out!* Hermione gave an exasperated snort, receiving another
concerned look from Fleur. *But at least I won't have to carry that ridiculous title
anymore.*

*

The Floo fireplace at the Leaky Cauldron was a little too public for Neville's taste. There
was a working Floo fireplace in his office at Hogwarts, but it was only large enough for talking,
not for Floo travel; Neville didn't feel like walking back to Hogwarts only to leave again.
Wishing for the hundredth time that the wizarding world had better methods of communication,
Neville left the pub and made his way to the Hogsmeade post office.

While they had their usual delivery owls ready for service, the post office *did* offer a
Floo fireplace in a fairly private corner. Neville took a moment to compose himself, then flung a
pinch of Floo powder into the fire and called, "Susan Bones! Are you there, my
lovely?"

"*So* glad you narrowed that down," she smirked as her head appeared in the fire.
"I'm at The Ossuary. Do you need me to come to you, or…?"

"Be right there," he promised, breaking the Floo connection. He exited the post
office, with a smile of thanks to the clerk; once in the street, he Disapparated to the ancestral
home of the Boneses.

Whereupon he was immediately hugged from behind by an enthusiastic Susan. "Mine! Mine mine
mine!" she declared, before turning him in place and kissing him properly.

"Oh yes, definitely yours," Neville agreed once they broke apart. "So did you
have a nice day…?" He stopped, embarrassed, as he realized they weren't alone.

Susan followed his gaze. "Oh! I'm sorry, I ought to have introduced you. Neville, this
is… Brillig, did I say that right? She's the elf whose master…"

"Employer," corrected Brillig proudly. The elf was dressed in the current fashion for
house-elves, a sleeveless tabard of a deep crimson hue, but with no crest displayed on it.

"Whose employer is inquiring about letting The Ossuary. We've been discussing the
conditions of the lease, you know, rent and so forth." Susan shook her head ruefully.

"Is a fair amount, we agreed," Brillig reminded her, sounding as close to reproof as a
house-elf could.

"But nothing is final until I meet with your employer and approve his tenancy," Susan
countered firmly. "Face-to-face, I must insist on that. If everything's in order,
we'll sign the lease together, and he can move in on the First."

The elf looked uncertain. "Brillig must… must talk about this with her employer," she
said after a moment. "He is wanting peace and quiet. Brillig may not know until tomorrow… or
day after. Will Miss be agreeing to this?"

"Of course. Please let me know when your employer's reached a decision. I *do*
look forward to meeting him." Solemnly they shook hands. Then with a bow to Susan, and another
to Neville, the elf vanished.

"Sounds as though Little Miss Brillig drives a hard bargain," Neville chuckled.

"As hard as goblins! A good deal more polite, I'll grant her that, but…!"
Susan's shoulders slumped slightly as she expelled a carefully held breath. "Well,
it'll be interesting to see just how much her mysterious employer values his anonymity. I
won't give over The Ossuary to just anybody, sight unseen, I won't!" She settled
herself on the love seat and patted the cushion next to her. "So come tell me how the
Rebirthday Party went?"

Smoothly, Neville sat down next to her and wrapped an arm around her, while mentally reviewing
the events of the Party. There were certain details he couldn't repeat, not even to Susan.
True, he'd been absolved of any need to swear an oath or sign a contract, but that was because
Harry and Hermione trusted him – which compelled him to try to be worthy of trust.

One detail, though, was too good a tidbit not to pass on. Besides, it would be in the *Daily
Prophet* soon enough. "So then… Harry was at the Party, and someone suggested that he
return to Hogwarts and finish his seventh year, as Hermione did." He smiled as Susan snorted
in disbelief. "You're right, of course. He decided against it – but not for the reason you
think. He wants to be available to lend his support to the new Minister of Magic."

Susan's gaze sharpened. "I'd heard the Wizengamot was convening today –
*finally!* – but I hadn't heard they'd announced the results of the vote."

"They haven't yet… they need to notify the new Minister first, before they announce it
publicly. But of course, they couldn't reach the new Minister today, since she was busy
celebrating her Rebirthday." *Five,* counted Neville silently, *four, three,
two…*

"*HERMIONE!?*"

"According to the reporters who waylaid her as she left."

She gaped for several moments, then closed her mouth and briskly nodded, absorbing the
information. Susan had always been better at the politics of the wizarding world than Neville; he
suspected it was her aunt's influence at work. "Well, well," she said after a pause,
"that would explain why the Chief Warlock sent you those owls last night, wouldn't it? It
was probably a close vote, and he'd want your weight behind Hermione's candidacy."

"But then he told me not to come… the 'crisis had passed', I think were his words.
And besides, if the vote was today, why'd he ask for me last night?"

"As a pressure tactic, I'd imagine. After all, my dear, to a hidebound conservative,
the only thing worse than a successful Muggleborn is a Pureblood who *supports* successful
Muggleborns. Ogden may have been preparing to use you as a threat… he may even have threatened to
put you on the Wizengamot itself. Yes, I know, you'd never want a seat, but his opponents
wouldn't know that."

"I, hm, I wouldn't say 'never', exactly."

Her gaze was so sharp now that Neville almost felt like a butterfly pinned to a board. He met it
without flinching. His decision had crystallized in his mind the moment he'd heard of
Hermione's election: it was necessary, it was *right,* and he wasn't about to
apologize for it, to Susan or to anybody.

"When I heard she'd be Minister, I knew right then that she'd need all the support
she can get. I've let other opportunities slip by in the past, I know – but not this
time." He managed a tight smile. "After all, I expect there'll be a few resignations
in protest, don't you?"

"I can see it happening, oh yes." Susan sighed and looked away. "Of course,
*I* could run for one of those empty seats, I suppose. That way, you can remain at Hogwarts. I
know how much you love teaching there…"

"My thought," he interrupted, "was that we'd *both* run for the
Wizengamot. When I said 'all the support she can get', I wasn't exaggerating. I'd
planned to speak with Minerva as soon as I got back to Hogwarts." Neville smiled as he
anticipated the question forming on her lips. "Not to worry, love. I've already located a
replacement for the Defense position. Not that I've told him yet; I'll have to break him in
gradually."

*

Hermione returned to Enthalpy House feeling decidedly morose. Yes, the Party had been fun, for
the most part – there were a few tense moments, of course – but any pleasure she'd had in the
company of friends, family and Harry had been flensed away by the Party's aftermath: dealing
with reporters, discussion with Rose, settling with Fleur. At this point, she was quite ready to
call it a day.

So when she Apparated into her living room, she was surprised to find Harry, sitting on the
couch with his feet propped on the coffee table, thumbing through a book. "Wotcher," he
greeted her, looking up as she appeared, "how'd the talk with Rose go?"

"No storms," she sighed, "but hardly smooth sailing. We'll see how she reacts
once she's had time to absorb it."

He nodded. "Right. What's the most interesting magical site in Greece?" At her
astonished look, Harry elaborated. "You remember when we were talking about portals to the
Nether World… you said Greece had lots of historical sites that were interesting, magically
speaking. If you had to pick *the most* interesting, just *one,* which would it
be?"

Twisting her head to one side, Hermione managed to read the title on the spine of the book in
Harry's hands: *"From Achelous to Zeus: A Wizard's Guide to Greece."*
"Well, er, I suppose the island of Aeaea. It was Circe's island, you know, that Odysseus
visited, and it still retains strong echoes of her magic. The Greek Ministry even made it
Unplottable to keep Muggles from finding the place and getting cursed accidentally…"

"Sounds perfect." Harry tossed the book onto the coffee table and, reaching behind the
couch, produced an overnight valise. "How quickly can you pack? Just for one night, we'll
come back late Sunday."

Hermione jabbed a finger at the valise. "Where did you…? Oh, of course, you stopped at your
Clayman flat before coming here. Harry, it's a sweet idea, but I can't simply…"

"On the contrary," he broke in, "you not only can, it's your only chance. As
soon as you get that owl from the Wizengamot, you'll be officially the Minister of Magic – and
if being Senior Counsel was a lot of work, I can only imagine what being Minister must be like. It
may be years before things slow down enough for you to take a day off." (Left unsaid was
Harry's thought that, as a confirmed workaholic, Minister Granger was unlikely to take a
holiday no matter how slow the work.)

"So, if we want a moment's respite from all the lunatics out there, it's really now
or never – or rather, for years to come, I should say," he concluded. "And we *did*
sort of agree, didn't we, that it would be nice to visit Greece together…"

She stared at him in bewilderment, with desire and disbelief warring on her face. "Harry,
it's… it's out of the question! Even if I chose to go, it takes time to arrange
international travel! There are proper channels to be followed! Merlin, the Wizengamot's owl
would probably find me while I was waiting in queue!"

"Um, it's kind of why I asked how quickly you could pack," replied Harry
diffidently.

"What part of 'proper channels' did you not understand?!"

"I figured, if we used a Ministry-approved Portkey, wouldn't that satisfy the
legalities?"

"That's my point! To get a Ministry-approved Portkey requires an application to the
Department of Magical Transportation, which, given this would be an International Portkey,
would…"

Harry smiled and raised his wand. "*Accio* Portkey Patches," he said clearly.
Seconds later, the remaining Patches (of those Hermione had requisitioned for Lovinett's
arrest) came sailing to his open hand.

Hermione eyed the Patches with disfavor. "Well, *yes,* those are Ministry-approved,
but they've hardly the power for international travel…" Her voiced trailed away as
Harry's smile turned smugly broad. Obviously, he thought his own magical power was sufficient
to boost the Patches' range all the way to Greece. Hermione found it difficult to dispute the
idea: as she'd already observed, effects of the Hallows still lingered on Harry.

"One last splurge," he said after a moment, his voice a temptation, "one single
day we can just be together, without having to worry about Hallows or Cartels or *anything*
worse than sunburn. You can take up your new job Monday morning, refreshed and recharged and ready
to take on every old stodgy, calcified traditionalist in England."

"You make it sound so appealing," Hermione grumbled, but there was a twinkle in her
eyes now that belied her tone. Harry waited hopefully.

"Give me a moment," she said at length. She closed her eyes and furrowed her brow in
concentration – then flicked her wand sharply with a murmured "*Expecto*
*Patronum.*" A silver streak flashed from her wand and through the window.
"Normally, I'd use an owl for a message like this," she explained, opening her eyes,
"but I don't have time to call for one, and you *can't.* Owls still can't see
you, can they?"

"Erm, haven't had a chance to check yet, really…"

"No matter." With a brisk stride, Hermione disappeared into her bedroom. Though Harry
could no longer directly see her, he could hear her as she opened her wardrobe and began rummaging
through her clothes. "Did you pack any food?" her voice carried back through the open
bedroom door. "You in particular probably shouldn't eat any food that comes from
Circe's island. I *assume* the Greek Ministry's cleansed the place of her magic, but
there's no point in taking chances."

"I packed us a picnic supper for this evening. For tomorrow… hm, if we're not eating on
Aeaea, well, we could Apparate to Athens or something…"

"Uh huh, especially if we stick to the Muggle part of the city. Not that I expect many
people in Greece to recognize you on sight… And you packed appropriate clothes? You do realize the
Mediterranean will be a good deal warmer than here?"

"Yes, mum, I did. I even packed a swimsuit and tanning potion, just in case…" Harry
broke off as Hermione reappeared, carrying a slightly larger valise than his, and wearing a
brightly colored sundress that flared and swirled below her waist – and, above her waist, fit her
like a coat of paint. (It was certainly snug enough to reveal the outlines of her bra, had it been
there.)

"Swimsuit? Whatever for, Harry?" Hermione asked in mock innocence. "Surely your
little travelogue must have mentioned how many beaches Greece has for sunbathing *au naturel.*
Didn't it?"

"It, ah, that wasn't covered… I mean…" He covered his crimson face and looked
down. When he spoke again, there was rueful amusement in his voice. "You're evil,
Hermione. Have I told you that you're evil?"

"Why, Harry Potter, you sweet-talking charmer, you." She walked up, waited a moment to
see if he would lower his hand from his face, then kissed the side of his neck instead. *That*
caused him to lower his hand. "Seriously, though, Harry, this was a delightful notion. And
you're right, this is just what I need – what *we* need – before I take up my new duties.
Thank you."

"My pleasure," he smiled. "I just thought we should seize the moment, as it were:
it's such a small window of opportunity."

"Of course. And were you waiting for a similar window of opportunity to tell me you
weren't returning to Hogwarts?"

Harry chuckled wryly. "Who told you? Ted? Oh, Fleur. Then she must have told you I only
decided about Hogwarts after I overheard the reporters telling you about your new job." He
shrugged. "It just seems to me that giving my support to The Witch Who Won is more important
than taking my NEWTs…" His voice trailed off as he realized Hermione had gone deathly
still.

"I understand," she said, after a moment. "Finding the right moment to divulge
important information can be… important."

"Yes, exactly," he agreed, puzzled by her response. Her voice had been light, but her
stance was rigid, and he couldn't understand why.

"For instance, there wasn't a right moment before the Party to tell me *all* the
details about your little flight of fiction this morning, I *do* understand that…"

"Yyyyyeah, sorry about that, but it all worked out. I managed to dispel any notions Ron
might have had, after his 'nightmare'. And you played along beautifully…"

"And I simply can't *imagine* the right moment to tell me that I'm *not*
The Witch Who Won."

*Oh crap bleeding crappity crap.* In shock, Harry watched Hermione as she fell back a pace,
arms akimbo. "I suspected something was amiss when you told me you'd fulfilled the
prophecy. It was such an odd wording: *you'd* fulfilled it? Not if I was the one that
actually killed Voldemort. But today you finally described exactly *when* you came back to
your body, and I *knew.*" She was beginning to show anger now as she added, "And you
never *told* me?"

Harry felt his face go sphinxlike, a conditioned response to confrontation… honed by years of
avoidance while in hiding. He realized, even as it happened, that it was the wrong response:
Hermione was no longer rigid. She stood apart from him now, fury written on her face as she waited
for him to say something, *anything.*

"You needed to be The Witch Who Won," he finally admitted. "You still need to be.
And you're too honest to use a title you didn't think you'd earned."

"But my using a fraudulent title unknowingly was just fine, was it?" Hermione spat.
"Harry, I swear to God, if I hadn't promised to keep your secret, I'd be talking to
the *Prophet* right now – telling them how Voldemort *really* died. I don't
*like* this precious title, I don't *need* it, and I don't *want
it!*"

"Hey, 'Chosen One' here," Harry said pointedly.

"Oh, so *your* title justifies *mine?!*"

"No… but it does give me a certain insight on the necessity of hateful titles. *And*
it means you don't get to go all emo on me about your own title. Anybody else, maybe, but not
me."

She drew a deep, indignant breath and regarded him frostily. "I do *not* go
'emo'."

Harry judged that appeasement was now in order. "Perhaps I spoke poorly," he soothed.
"I know I promised we'd talk more, but you're right: there simply hasn't been a
good time to tell you this. And compared to the Swivingham case, to the Elder Wand, to everything
else… well, you have to agree it was a lower priority."

Hermione paused, saying nothing, but still glowering at Harry. "I just find it
disturbing," she said, a bit more calmly, "that after all your assurances that you'd
*talk* to me about things, you're still keeping things from me. Things which, *you*
have to agree, I've a right to know. *Were* you planning to tell me?"

"Let's just say I was hoping the subject never came up, and let it go at that." He
raised a placating hand. "I know, I know, I need to stop doing that. Hermione, I'm
*sorry.*"

She looked away, her glower softening but still present. Finally, she gestured at the Portkey
Patches still in his hand. "As you've been at pains to point out, if we're leaving at
all, we'd best leave *now.* But we *will* finish this discussion… later. When you
packed our supper, did you include something to drink?"

He blinked at the seeming non-sequitur. "Um, yeah. Three-quarters of a bottle of elf wine,
left over from your Party."

"That should do. *In vino veritas,* as they say." Hermione marched up to Harry,
took firm hold of his collar with one hand, plucked the Patches from his grasp with her other hand,
and looked him squarely in the eye. "And I intend to put that little platitude to the test
this evening. So if there are any other bits of important information – for which you haven't
found the 'right moment' to tell me – I suggest you have them ready." She waited a
beat to make certain she had his undivided attention… then her expression gentled as she added,
"Because I intend to do the same."

*

Tori quietly closed the door to the first-years' dormitory behind her. *I wish I could
have been more helpful,* she sighed, *or at least more of a comfort.* Still, Rose was both
intelligent and level-headed, qualities which would stand her in good stead in the weeks to come.
And Tori had managed to extract a promise from her young cousin, that any future troubles should
*not* be bottled up inside, but brought to Tori for disposal.

Her emotions felt drained away, and she would have *loved* to retire to her own dormitory
for the night, but she owed Ted an update. Tori made her way down the stairs to the Gryffindor
Common Room, scanning for Ted's face: his hair might change with his mood, but he almost always
wore his usual face. Unless he was pranking someone, of course.

She spotted him in the window embrasure, with the window open. Mercifully, no one else was
nearby, or seemed to be paying him close attention – which meant they'd have privacy for their
chat. As she approached, she caught a flash of something silver sitting on the windowsill – and
recognized it as a Patronus. And Ted appeared to have been talking to it! "I've only ever
seen one of those," she said as she drew close. "Professor Longbottom showed us his
Patronus last year. This isn't yours, is it? Whose is it?"

"Guess," Ted said sourly. Now that she was nearer, Tori could tell that the Patronus
had the shape of… an ermine? No: an otter. Whom did she know whose avatar might be an otter…? After
a moment, she shook her head.

"Your former Aunt Hermione," he told her. "Dispensing a little unsolicited
advice." He rubbed the back of his neck in irritation as the Patronus evaporated. "Which
I would resent a lot more," he added grudgingly, "if it didn't make so much damn
*sense.*"

"Ah." Tori waited another moment, then decided Ted wasn't ready to share the
message with her – and pressing him would probably trigger an explosive rant on Hermione's
perceived moral failings. "Anyway," she said, "I just had a long talk with
Rose."

"Oh, yeah. How is Rose? Has she recovered from her shock? About her parents, I
mean?"

"A bit. I don't think it was the *fact* of the divorce that was such a shock – the
whole family knows Uncle Ron had moved out years ago – I think it was more the way she learned
about it." Tori sighed and surveyed the Common Room. "Of course," she added without
looking at Ted, "everyone else will learn about it too, soon enough."

"I see what you mean, yeah. The *Prophet,* for one, will have a field day with it.
First Muggleborn Minister of Magic, and also the first witch to actually beat the magic of her
wedding vows? I can just see the gossip columns now." Ted gave her a sideways glance.
"Are you thinking that her classmates might give her a hard time about it? 'Cause I'm
sure you and I can squash anyone here in Gryffindor who tries…"

"You might have your own troubles to deal with, Mr.
My-Godfather-Is-The-Greatest-Wizard-Since-Merlin. I can't imagine *that* little tidbit
won't be making the rounds soon."

Ted gave her a grin filled with mischief, and changed his eyes and hair to match
Harry's.

"And *that* is something I recommend you *never* do again! At least if you ever
want Rose to stop crushing on you," Tori said sharply. "Or didn't you notice the
effect Harry was having on her, all through lunch?"

The raven hair turned immediately back to brown, as Ted stared at her in astonishment.
"Rose? Crushing on *Harry?* He's old enough to be her dad!"

"But he *looks* not much older than you. I may be wrong, of course," Tori allowed
generously, "but it certainly looked as though she were smitten at first sight."

"Oh, that's good. That's just *too* good," Ted snorted in amusement.
"Don't worry, Tori, I won't take the mickey on Rose – but oh, will I ever take it on
Harry!"

She frowned at his obtuseness. "If I were you, I'd keep my lip buttoned about it. If
Rose *does* crush on Harry, it won't be comfortable for *any* of them. Especially
once she realizes that Harry's already taken. Or didn't you see *that* at lunch,
either?"

"What d'you mean, Harry's already taken? Are you talking about all those years he
spent with the Muggles? He didn't say anything about…" He stopped short, his mobile face
showing his sudden dismay. "You're not talking about… you don't mean… *her!? NO,*
Tori! I know you think she practically walks on water, but Harry'd never…"

"*She can use his wand, Ted.*"

Tori's meaning was clear. Ted knew that Professor Longbottom had talked about compatible
magic making compatible marriages – he mentioned it to every fourth-year Defense class at some
point – and there was no better measure of magical compatibility than being able to use
another's wand as though it were your own.

"And Harry used Hermione's wand, back when they were hunting for the Horcruxes,"
he murmured thoughtfully. "Still, that only means their magic is compatible. The same could be
said for brothers, or best friends, or… It doesn't guarantee they'll fall in love and get
married."

"But if they *do* fall in love and get married," argued Tori, "it'll be
built on rock, not sand."

"Spare me your metaphors," Ted muttered. "Harry and… *her?* I thought
Gryffindor Girls were supposed to be lionesses, not cougars – *OW!*" He rubbed his
shoulder where she'd smacked him.

"First of all," she said sternly, "they're the same age. You just *said*
so, Ted! And second of all, you'd best be careful not to say anything like that around Harry –
not if you want to stay on his good side. Or don't you remember the chewing-out he gave you
from the fireplace last week?"

"I remember, I remember. And I *am* trying hard not to hold a grudge against her,
honest. For Harry's sake. Maybe for Rose's sake, too – and maybe even yours,
super-sleuth." He scowled, lost in thought. "'Course, even if you're right, I
don't know that she'd be *good* for Harry. She's going to be Minister and he
*hates* publicity… I mean really, what does he *see* in her? Yeah, I know they've
been friends since forever, but still."

"I don't expect *you* to understand," Tori informed him haughtily, "but
*I* think it's very romantic. A love so strong even Death couldn't kill it! It's…
it's *beautiful.*" She sniffed slightly.

Ted's scowl slowly changed to a quizzical look, with which he regarded her for a long
minute. "So I'm not romantic, am I?" he asked in a lower tone.

"You do have your good moments," she admitted, "but let's face it, men just
don't have any *real* romance in their souls. It's not your fault, I
suppose…"

Tori stopped as he drew his wand. For one instant, she was afraid he meant to hex her; then she
wondered if he intended some demonstration, some romantic gesture, to disprove her words. She
didn't know what he intended – but was completely unprepared for what he did next.

Ted offered her his wand.

For some reason, her eyes could see nothing but the handle of his wand. For some reason, her
lungs couldn't properly take in oxygen. "You… you just got through saying it didn't
prove anything," she whispered.

"No, I just got through saying it's not the final word," he replied softly.
"But it can certainly be a *beginning* word." He waited patiently, not withdrawing
his wand, not forcing it on her either.

In exquisite slow motion, her fingers came up to wrap themselves around Ted's wand. He
released it as she lifted it to eye level, inspecting it as though she'd never seen it before
in her life. After a moment, she gave it an experimental twirl. "Erm,
*Orchideous**?*"

And Tori was rewarded with the sight of a wreath of flowers encircling Ted's brow.

Ted didn't act surprised. He tilted his head and rolled his eyes upward, trying to see the
flowers… and his gentle smile for Tori was nothing like his more usual sardonic expression.
"Good. That gives us something to start with, don't you think? Now all we have to do is
figure out where to go next." He reached out to retrieve his wand from her hand, and in the
process, succeeded in entwining his fingers with hers.

She put on an air of primness, trying to lighten the moment. "I believe the usual idiom,
good sir, is 'taking it to the next level'." Tori's fingers made no attempt to
escape from his – which meant, as he brought back his own hand, he also drew her closer to him.

"Next level," Ted repeated. He started to lean towards her, hesitated, and looked out
at the Common Room. "Yeah, well, in my opinion, the next level doesn't need *quite*
so many witnesses." He brought her fingers up and brushed them against his lips – not quite
kissing them – and turned oddly formal. "Would you care to watch the sun set over the lake
with me, m'dear? 'Roaming in the gloaming, we two', as the locals might say?"

Not trusting herself to speak, Tori gave a single nod. With his free hand, Ted removed the
wreath from his head, extracted the largest of its flowers, and proffered it to her. Accepting it
with a murmur of thanks, she held it to her face and inhaled its bouquet, while Ted linked his arm
with hers. And together, heedless of any looks they might have gotten from their fellow
Gryffindors, they made their way out of the Common Room.



37. XXXVII:  Ebb and Flow
-------------------------

**(A/N:** We had some technical difficulties with the last chapter… they've now been
resolved, if you care to re-read it. Plus, some reviews, and some of my responses to reviews, seem
to have Disapparated. So this time, let's cross our fingers and hope for the best, shall
we?**)**

**(Disclaimer:** HP7 is coming soon, and for the first time, I'm hoping a Harry Potter
movie is *nothing* like the book. For what it's worth, neither is this story.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXXVII: Ebb and Flow**

*

Blaise Zabini had never expected to feel that vibration in his temples again.

For a moment, he lay motionless in the darkness, gauging whether the buzzing under his skin was
genuine or a product of morbid imagination. Finally, convinced that the sensation was real – and
judging it too dangerous to ignore – he slid his feet from under the duvet and sat up in bed.

"Blaise?" Ginny called sleepily beside him.

"It's nothing, Flame," he told her quietly, using his pet name for her.
"I'm too wound to fall asleep, is all. Thought I'd put the time to good use."

Ginny nodded; this wasn't the first time Blaise had made a virtue of insomnia. "Still
say you should try Sleeping Potion," she mumbled.

Zabini managed a chuckle, leaned over to kiss her brow, and stood from the bed. He navigated the
darkened room with the ease of long familiarity, grabbing a pair of reading glasses and Ginny's
wand from the nightstand, and a dressing gown from its hook on the door. He closed the bedroom door
behind him and made his way to his study. Once there, he gathered some Ministry documents from his
desk and settled into his favorite comfy chair, looking just as though he were going to review the
documents.

Instead, after hooking the reading glasses behind his ears, he tapped them with Ginny's wand
and whispered, "*Adsum**.*"

The earpieces of the glasses began to vibrate in synch with the vibration in his own temples.
After a moment, the buzzing began to die; as it did so, Zabini closed his eyes, to avoid the moment
of vertigo that always accompanied this charm.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw Svartalfer in the lenses of his reading glasses. The
thin-faced Aryan wore his own set of glasses, charmed to link with Zabini's. Svartalfer's
expression was more pinched with disapproval than usual – which wasn't surprising, Zabini
supposed.

"Zabini." The word sounded in his ears through his glasses' earpieces. It lost
none of its disdain along the way.

Zabini cleared his throat and began to carefully subvocalize, as he'd been taught for this
charm: his lips barely moving, the barest thread of sound escaping. "I see you've evaded
the authorities."

"No thanks to you. At that, I have fared better than Castigni and ibn al-Afrit,"
Svartalfer scowled. "You, also, seem Azkaban to have avoided." His tone, though hardly
friendly, wasn't as accusatory as Zabini might have expected. Either the Cartel's current
difficulties were more cosmetic than real, of no true concern to them, or else…

*He wants something,* Zabini realized. *He wouldn't have summoned me to talk if I
were to be simply killed or Obliviated. He still needs me.*

Zabini would not allow his sudden surge of relief to show in his face. His voice remained less
than a whisper: "I assume you've arranged…"

"I have to a secure facility retreated," Svartalfer interrupted. "Retrenching our
agents, our top priority for the foreseeable future is. Many have been arrested; many are
fugitives. How remarkable, that for once the ICW have so immediately acted."

"Blame Gawain Robards for that. He's used Shacklebolt's death to mobilize the
international Enforcers."

"And has armed them with information by you provided."

"Which was *not* my fault," Zabini shot back. "Your Memory Charm expert
didn't provide a failsafe for sequestering my memories. I was forced to give them up
intact."

"Then you did not receive the key? Why?"

Zabini hesitated, unwilling to confess the full truth, and Svartalfer jumped on it.
"Granger. It was Granger, *nicht* *wahr?* Again and always now, Granger. She has
*more* than an inconvenience become. She is a… liability."

"She'll be worse than that soon enough. Hadn't you heard, Svartalfer? She's to
be our next Minister of Magic. Merlin only knows what agenda she'll pursue once she's in
office."

"Yes." The Cartel Lord said nothing more for a long minute, his cold blue eyes
measuring Zabini… as though Zabini were being weighed in some imaginary balance, to see if he were
found wanting. Zabini returned his gaze steadily, but silently. *Let's see if Svartalfer
comes out and says anything. Let* him *commit for once.*

"Assassination of a political leader is too overt… too messy," Svartalfer said at
last. "Our preferred *modus operandi* it is not." The unspoken implication, however,
was plain enough.

His mouth had gone abruptly dry, making it even harder to whisper. "Plus, in Granger's
case, rather difficult to manage," Zabini replied. "You must give me some time…"

Svartalfer gave him a tight, wintry smile. "Your offer is unnecessary, my friend. She is
not your Minister *yet* – and my sources say she unexpected folly is showing. Ah! I see you
did not know. *Sehr* *gut.* Perhaps, then, you will not displeased be, by news shortly to
come." His expression became tranquil, almost benign. "And should fortune favor you when
your Wizengamot again meets, I trust your friends in mind you will keep. We may yet together for
our mutual profit work."

"I… would look forward to that," Zabini responded courteously, profoundly thankful the
charmed reading glasses wouldn't show the cold sweat that had broken out over his entire
body.

*

When Harry had suggested lunch in Athens, Hermione mused, he probably had no idea what happened
in Athens on Sundays.

The Monastiraki flea market was in full swing around them, with vendors hawking their wares from
carts, open-air bins, and storefronts. They'd early on found a small sidewalk café for their
meal; as the crowds had gathered, Harry had grown progressively more nervous. Hermione held his
hand in sympathy, and it seemed to help.

"Relax, you're perfectly safe," she reassured him. "No one here is going to
recognize you, after all."

"Yeah, well, there's a reason it's called '*irrational* fear',"
he muttered back. With a deep breath, he straightened in his seat and made a visible effort to be
more cheerful. "Y'know, if you're interested in shopping, I think we passed a used
book store on our way here…"

"Oh, no, Harry," she laughed, "I'm not so easily distracted as I was as a
schoolgirl." She paused. "*Old* books?"

"Probably." His smile at her response was genuine. "Would you care to
go…?"

"You haven't finished your breakfast," Hermione pointed out. "And if we lose
this table, we'll never get another." Plus, having Harry navigate the street traffic would
bother him more than merely watching it flow by. Keeping her back to the crowds, she discreetly
Transfigured her napkin into a paper cup, and transferred her remaining coffee into it. A quick
Warming Charm completed the job. "I'll be back in ten minutes, I promise. If the waiter
returns, have him bring me another coffee?"

The bookseller was not far down the street, and Hermione located the shop with ease. As
promised, the books were quite old, with rich leather bindings and the delightful musty smell that
Hermione loved. She scanned the shelves for any books that might be of magical interest.

"Are you looking for something in particular?"

The voice had a Greek accent. She looked up to see a handsome young man, smiling and prepared to
wait on her. Too young to be the shop owner… his son, probably. She wondered in passing how
he'd known to speak English to her, then decided it must be obvious she was a tourist.

"I was looking for books on the occult," she told him, using her stock phrase when
dealing with Muggles. "Any Eastern European lore of that sort."

"Ah. Yes. Let me see…" The young man walked up to her and reached past her to grasp a
book on the shelf.

He brought back his hand – and she noted with suddenly sharp clarity that it held, not a book,
but a dirk, slender and pointed, which he had palmed. He'd positioned his body so that no one
else in the shop could see it. Instinctively, she stepped backward – and bumped into another man
who had approached her from behind, silently, blocking her retreat. The second man's hands were
close to her elbows, not pinning them, but ready to do so.

Still smiling, the helpful, handsome young man said softly, "This is for Sabas
Doukas," and struck.

*

Zabini awoke a bit later than his wont – understandable, considering his night – and to the
smell of coffee brewing. A quick side-glance confirmed that Ginny was already up. He rose from bed,
stretched and touched his toes. Shrugging his dressing gown over his shoulders, he made his way to
the parlor, where a full coffee service was on display. Also on display was Ginny, delightfully
deshabille in a thigh-length silk kimono, close-fitting and showing every curve.

She was writing on a piece of parchment, but looked up and smiled at him as he snagged his first
cup of coffee. "Morning, sleepyhead. *You* must have been productive last night: you came
to bed quite late."

"Mm. Yes, I think I can say I'm now ready to face the week." Zabini busied himself
with adding cream and sugar to his coffee to avoid further questions along that line. He arched one
eyebrow and nodded inquiringly at the parchment before her.

"Oh, this," she frowned. "I tried to send an owl to Harry this morning… arrange
to get together with him soon, over lunch or something… but the owls didn't even seem to know
his name, or where to find him. I'm wondering if they think he's still dead, or
something." She scratched another line on the parchment, then lifted it and blew on it to dry
the ink. "So I thought I'd try another tack. I'm writing my coach on the Harpies.
I'm sure Harry would be delighted to receive a season pass to all the Harpies' matches… and
it would be good publicity for the team as well."

"And what more natural that he discover you there, an old 'friend'," (his tone
lent the word deeper significance), "as it were, and the two of you reconnect." Blaise
kept his voice matter-of-fact, and willed his emotions to accept Ginny's plan in a spirit of
cold calculation. He was disturbed to discover that he wasn't quite successful.

His thoughts were detoured by the arrival of Virgil, his paid house-elf (Zabini had long ago
seen the political advantage in freeing and re-hiring his family's house-elf) appearing at the
parlor door. "Excuse this one, Master," he said, "but there are visitors from the
Ministry."

"Visitors? I was expecting an owl…" Zabini began to rise from his chair, but stopped
as Ginny laid her hand on his forearm.

"They come to you… you don't go to them," she reproved, but with a smile.
"Show them here," she told Virgil.

Zabini reseated himself, with a smile of thanks for her reminder. It was a lesson that most
Slytherins were taught from a young age, and which Ginny seemed to know instinctively: *Treat
others as though their deference is your right.*

He adjusted his dressing gown to look spontaneous but neat – let the visitors see they'd
interrupted his morning, it would put them off their balance from the start – and tasted his
coffee. After a moment,Virgil returned, escorting a witch in her late twenties, carrying a
briefcase… and another elf, wearing a Ministry tabard. Zabini quickly searched his memory for the
witch's name.

"Sheryl Binder, isn't it?" he smiled, rising graciously to extend his hand,
"from the office of the…" And he almost faltered as his mind finally made the
connection.

"Of the Senior Counsel," she confirmed, taking his hand. She didn't seem to notice
his momentary pause. "Thanks for seeing me."

He gestured her to a seat with a restored aplomb. "Coffee? I take it you've come on
behalf of our new Minister," he said, sitting down again next to Ginny. He could feel Ginny
squeeze his arm; he pressed his arm against her hand in reply, but otherwise kept his attention on
charming his guest. "Or our *ex officio* Minister, I should say. I believe you've
been serving as her clerk?"

"Yes, that's right," Sheryl acknowledged, accepting a cup. "I thought I'd
help out with the transition of office… take care of the routine mess. You understand, of course,
nothing's official until the Wizengamot invests Madam Granger, but…"

"But she'll have enough to do without needing to worry about every fiddling
detail," agreed Zabini cordially. "I believe it's *pro forma* for all Department
Heads and their deputies to offer their resignations – we serve at the Minister's pleasure,
after all – and I assume that's why you've come. If you'll wait here a moment, I have
the letter ready in my study…"

"Actually, sir, we were hoping it was indeed *pro forma* in your case," Sheryl
put in. "Because it looks like your boss, Mr. Kerricks, has decided to resign in earnest. I
guess you're the acting Head of International Cooperation now… I think Madam Granger would be
inclined to make it permanent. If you're willing," she added, seeing Zabini's
astonishment.

"This is… unexpected." And indeed it was: both that Kerricks should resign, and that
Granger should promote him. *She knows about my involvement with the Cartel – why would she want
to keep me around? As Department Head, no less?*

"I'm honored, of course," he murmured, temporizing, "if Madam Granger is
willing…?"

"I'm sure she will be," smiled Sheryl, and her wording gave Zabini the answer.
*Aha! Granger's gone into seclusion – Binder can't locate her – so she's taken the
initiative on herself! And it doesn't sound like Granger told her lackey everything she
suspected about me. With the dismissal of all my charges, I'm now exonerated in the
Ministry's eyes – and I* am *far and away the most qualified person for the post.*

*By the time Granger reappears and is sworn in as Minister, I'll be in place… and
it'll prove rather embarrassing to dismiss me at that point.*

*And of course,* he congratulated himself slyly, *everyone still believes it was
Shacklebolt's spell gone wrong that strangled Granger. The truth of* that, *at least, will
never come to light.*

"Well, then… provisionally speaking, I would be pleased to work with Madam Granger,"
he replied with a broad smile. "And certainly act as the Head of the Department *pro
tempore.*"

"Splendid! Well, then, I need your signature on a few documents here. And I expect the new
Minister will wish to meet with you Monday morning."

"Certainly. Let's go to my study and look these over first, shall we? Will you excuse
us, my dear?" Giving Ginny a heartfelt kiss, Zabini rose from the table and led Granger's
minion out of the parlor and down the hall. "By the way," he added quietly, when they
were alone, "did Kerricks say *why* he was resigning?" His attitude was casual… mere
minor curiosity, nothing more.

"No specific reason that I heard… simply something to the effect of 'it was
time'." Sheryl met Zabini's gaze forthrightly. From what he knew of his former
superior, Zabini had no trouble divining her unspoken message: *Kerricks* *wouldn't work
under a Mudblood.*

Ginny's insight of the evening before was looking to be square in the gold. Zabini hid a
satisfied smile as he ushered the clerk into his study.

*

Back in the parlor, the Ministry house-elf waited for Blaise and Sheryl to leave before clearing
his throat. "Excuse Canby, miss… but while they are busy, may we speak?"

"Of course," Ginny said, a bit surprised. Not at the elf's demeanor – he was
obviously a free elf in the Ministry's employ – but at the fact he might have any business with
her.

"Canby only wonders if now would be convenient to collect the pictures you promised Miss
Hermione."

"Pictures? I don't recall promising Hermione any pictures…" Ginny furrowed her
brow in thought.

"Earlier this week?" Canby suggested helpfully.

"Oh!" That explained it, Ginny thought. "I'm sorry, er, Canby, but I
wouldn't be able to recall anything Hermione and I talked about this week. You may have heard
how I lost my memory on Thursday?"

"Was so much happening that day, miss. It would not be surprising." Canby looked
wistful. "It was only… the pictures would mean much to Miss Hermione, and she was looking
forward to receiving them…"

"I'm sorry, Canby," Ginny said more firmly. "I simply don't recall
anything about any pictures. I don't have any idea where they might be. Miss Hermione will have
to be disappointed, I'm afraid."

The house-elf looked so crestfallen that Ginny felt herself wondering why. "Are these
pictures so important, then?"

"Canby doesn't know, miss. Canby only wants to please Miss Hermione…" The
elf's voice died away, but Ginny thought she understood now. *Another example of a free elf
bonding itself to a human, pretending to have a "master" again.* *Really, I think
Blaise is right when he says the elves are happier when they have a house to serve. Freeing them
doesn't seem to make them better off.*

"If miss will permit," the elf suggested, turning hopeful, "*Canby* can find
the pictures. House-elves are good at finding things for humans. Is one of a house-elf's
duties, so our magic can be used to do it."

"I really couldn't tell you where…" Ginny began, then reconsidered. "Well,
I've no objection to your looking, in any case. Virgil!" Summoned, Virgil appeared by her
side in a *pop!* of displaced air. "Virgil, Canby here is going to look for some pictures
I've misplaced. I give permission for him to use his magic for that purpose. I want you to help
him search, all right?"

"*Thank* you, miss," beamed Canby, and left the parlor in Virgil's company –
the main reason for their visit to Zabini Manor having been accomplished.

*

The young man stabbed upward, the dirk coming from below to slip between her ribs or eviscerate
her stomach. In the same instant, Hermione reacted instinctively – by throwing the contents of her
coffee cup into her attacker's face. The man cried out sharply as the scalding liquid hit, and
tried to stifle his cry as he pressed his attack – but half-blinded by the coffee, his aim was a
touch wide.

Twisting desperately to one side, Hermione evaded the dirk while positioning herself to deliver
a kick at the man behind her. He staggered back, groaning; the part of Hermione's mind that was
still calm and methodical catalogued his description, to be passed on to the Aurors, *brown hair,
three-day growth of beard, small jewel in left nose piercing…*

With a bound, she was away from the two men and ducking behind a display table. Outnumbered, and
disadvantaged by the presence of Muggles, she decided retreat was the better part of valor.
Crouching low behind the table to avoid being seen, she tried to Disapparate.

And nothing happened.

*Anti-Apparation wards! These two weren't taking any chances,* she thought wildly.
*How far do the wards extend?* There wasn't time to ponder overlong; the men were coming
for her again. Hermione stood quickly from her crouch, grasping the edge of the table as she did,
and with a heave upended the table and its contents. The men dodged the falling books, but the
resultant alarm among the bookshop's customers gave her the opening she needed. She threaded
between two other patrons and managed to get out of the shop into the street.

Her initial thought was to rejoin Harry. Together, they'd be far better suited to repel an
attack. But once in the street, she spotted another man, bulky and grim-faced, between her and the
café where Harry waited. And he was making his way towards her.

At once, Hermione darted in the opposite direction, weaving through the crowds, doing her best
to avoid causing a disturbance. *We daren't get into a magical battle here! There are too
many innocent bystanders! And even if there weren't, a fine thing it would be, for the British
Minister-elect to violate the Secrecy Statutes before she's even sworn into office! I'm
surprised my attackers care about that…*

*They're from the Cartel,* she immediately concluded. *Their primary defense is
anonymity. They wanted this to look like a Muggle affair, a robbery or such. With no sign that
wizards were involved, the Greek Ministry wouldn't have given it a second thought.*

She wasted a second glancing behind her: Bulky Man had been joined by Handsome Young Blade, and
they were following her as quickly as the crowds permitted. The third man, Nose Jewel, wasn't
immediately visible, but Hermione had no doubts he was closing in as well.

*The Cartel want anonymity. Maybe I should make a scene, then? Scream for help… make up a
story about a lost child, or something… No. It would put every passerby at risk. Muggles against
wizards, they'd stand no chance.*

She'd come to a larger street, filled with more throngs, more street vendors – the Plateia
Avyssinias, if the guide books she'd perused had been right. She made another attempt to
Disapparate, again without success. The crowds here seemed to include more foreign tourists: at any
rate, the locals appeared to be catering to them, with more signs in Roman letters, and what
appeared to be actors or dancers performing on a low stage. The audience were taking photographs of
them.

Their cameras had electronic flashes…

Even as the idea formed in her mind, Hermione was making for the crowd near the stage,
surreptitiously drawing her wand. She tried to concentrate on a happy thought – hard to do when one
is running for one's life! – and waited until the dancers had completed a particularly involved
routine. Waited for the applause. Waited for photos to be taken.

The moment the flashes began, she whipped her wand downward. "Under attack. Can't
Apparate. Come at once," she recited in her mind, and "*Expecto*
*Patronum!*" from her lips. The tiny silver streak sped from her wand to the ground, lost
amidst the bursts of electronic light, and zipped away, hugging the street.

It was an advantage her attackers didn't know she had. Using Patronuses as messengers had
been a closely guarded secret of the Order of the Phoenix; except perhaps for Shacklebolt's
lynx appearing at Bill and Fleur's wedding, all those years ago, only a select few had ever
seen the method in use, much less knew it existed. Certainly Hermione had never advertised her
ability to use it. Her attackers thought they'd isolated her. They were wrong.

Now she needed to stay alive until Harry arrived. Unfortunately, if she hid, Harry might not
find her in time. She had no choice, she'd have to stay in the open – but keep moving, keep one
step ahead of her pursuit.

She'd reached the far side of the audience in front of the stage. Up on the stage, the
dancers had been replaced by a pair of jugglers, keeping half a dozen clubs spinning in the air
between them. As Hermione began to dodge away, looking for cover in an unoccupied shop, the
jugglers earned a round of applause, and more photos were taken.

And as the cameras flashed again, a bolt of deadly magic shot towards her from the street
somewhere before her.

If Hermione hadn't already been dodging to one side, the curse would have struck her
squarely in the stomach. As it was, the curse sliced along the outside of her hip, leaving a bloody
gash that burned intensely. She stumbled, nearly knocking over a very fat tourist – and taking
advantage of his size, she ducked around him, dropped to the ground, and rolled under the
stage.

She didn't remain in one place, though her wound was causing terrible pain. Hermione crawled
on elbows and knees to the back of the stage, where the performers made ready before going on. The
troupe had erected several lightweight screens there, to form small enclosures, for costume changes
and prop storage; Hermione waited an instant, making sure no one was watching, before emerging from
under the stage and darting behind one of the screens.

There she collapsed onto a folding chair, finally giving way to a fit of the trembles. She
pressed a hand to her wound, wincing, and drew it away covered in blood. *Healing charms,* she
thought wildly, *which healing charms can I do here?* Episkey *is for breaks, not wounds or
burns…*

First things first: the pain. For pain, she only knew the Anodyne Charm, which didn't
relieve pain as well as potions, but it was better than nothing. Hermione cast it on herself,
regaining a measure of calmness as the pain dulled. A quick *Diffindo* sliced away the
smoldering bits of her skirt that were closest to the wound, leaving it exposed. Then, gritting her
teeth, she pointed her wand at her wound. "*Aduro**,*" she hissed.

The burning pain returned fivefold, as the charm cauterized the wound and staunched the flow of
blood. Hermione knew it was only a temporary measure, but it would last until a Healer could deal
with it.

"Hermione? I know you're here," Harry's voice said from the other side of the
screen. Seconds later, it spoke again. "I came as quick as I could. How, how bad is it?"
Somehow, even though it was clearly audible to her, Harry's voice sounded… strangely
distant.

Vaguely, she felt as though she ought to be responding, but she didn't raise her eyes.
Instead, she kept her gaze firmly focused on her wound. After a moment, for no reason, she
transferred her gaze to her left foot. At the same moment, she thought she felt… *something…*
come to rest on her hand. The touch seemed familiar, but she couldn't quite place it…

"Hermione?" Harry's far-off voice said, "what's wrong? Why aren't
you…" The voice cut off with a sudden intake of breath. "Damn. Damn, damn,
*damn.*"

And with those words, Harry's presence came rushing back into her senses like a bracing sea
breeze. His hand was on her hand; he was bending over her, peering worriedly into her face. She
could look up again, look *at him* again. She realized at once what he'd done, and that he
hadn't known he was doing it until just now.

For his sake, she kept her voice light. "That's one heck of a Notice-Me-Not Charm
you've got there, buster."

He lowered his gaze, disturbed. "Wasn't *my* doing," he mumbled.

"I think it was, Harry, at least subconsciously. You've had a fear of crowds since you
came back – you've dreaded attention. It looks as though your magic has found a way to make
sure you don't get it."

Harry looked sharply at her. "My magic? Or… a leftover of someone *else's* magic?
Like how owls can't find me?"

"Evidently so…"

"Or how *I* found *you?*" She must have looked puzzled, for he continued,
"When I still had the Wand, I could sense the magic flow through you, in and out, as you
slept. Today, I sensed when you did that Anodyne thingie… and I followed the current of magic here,
to you."

It was all very plausible, and corroborated with the mastery of magic Harry had shown with his
new ironwood wand: a remnant of the awesome power of the Deathly Hallows, lingering on their former
Master. Hermione promised herself they would investigate further, when they had a free moment –
then put it aside. "We can worry over it later – we have more immediate problems."

Hurriedly she filled him on the events since she'd left for the bookshop. "They're
definitely from the Cartel," she concluded, "since they mentioned Sabas Doukas."

"And there're three of them, you say?"

"Three that I spotted. There's at least one more. Someone had to have been ahead of me,
to curse me from that direction." She shook her head glumly, and gave him the conclusions
she'd reached. "Harry, we can't count on the Greek Aurors getting here in time – the
Cartel has put Anti-Apparation spells over the entire marketplace – and there are too many innocent
bystanders here. We need to get away, that's the safest for us *and* the crowds – but
*we* can't Apparate, either. We'll have to use the Portkey Patches, even though
they'll take us back to England without our luggage…"

"The Patches are *with* our luggage," Harry replied. "I left them on Aeaea –
didn't figure we'd need them for a quick jaunt to the mainland." His fingertips
hovered over her wound, as though he was trying to summon the healing power the Elder Wand had once
given him. "You know – the same reason you didn't wear your birthday present."

"My sapphire," Hermione groaned. Her sapphire necklace, with its near-impregnable
protection against magical attacks! Yes, that *would* have been useful in a firefight!
Inwardly, she berated herself for her abysmal stupidity…

"You can punish yourself when we get home," Harry snorted, reading her thought.
"You can do lines… 'Constant Vigilance' five hundred times, or something. For now,
*focus.*"

She bridled at him, but his attention was no longer on her. Harry was visualizing the street,
gauging their enemies… *planning.* "I feel sure," he said slowly after a few
seconds, "that I could take any of those goons, one-on-one. Hell, I bet I could take
*all* of them – if we could catch them off-guard. So that means…"

Harry looked her in the eye. "Two things. We need to target them, and we need to distract
them."

"Well, distracting them should be easy," she said dryly. "I only need to show
myself."

His expression was intent and somber, and with a start, she realized that was exactly what
he'd had in mind.

Harry gave Hermione a chance to object, to tell him she wouldn't risk herself that way. When
she met his gaze with a look of determination, he nodded… as though to say he'd expected
nothing less from her. "As for targeting them," he continued, "you can identify them
for me… before you show yourself and distract them, I mean…"

"But that leaves at least one of them I *can't* identify," Hermione pointed
out. "Maybe more. And if they try something in this crowd before you can get to
them…"

He bit his lip. "Right. We need to make sure they don't pose a threat to bystanders… or
to you, for that matter… while smoking out the ones in hiding…" He looked around the screened
area, at the props and ethnic garb used by the troupe to entertain tourists. Slowly, for the first
time since he'd found her, a smile spread on his face.



38. XXXVIII:  Threats Foreign and Domestic
------------------------------------------

**(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 *un*supportive, 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* per*mit 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."



39. XXXIX:  Transitions Great and Small
---------------------------------------

**(A/N:** I want to thank you, my readers, for your extraordinary patience: not only waiting
for this chapter, but waiting for my replies to your reviews from the *last* chapter.
Don't think I didn't read them, every one of them – or appreciate them. It's just been
very hectic for me, these days. (And for some reason, writing this chapter was like pulling
*teeth.*)

I had thought of describing some investment ceremony for the new Minister of Magic, or even
giving her some token of office – some big flashy medallion like the Lord Mayor of London wears –
but we never saw Fudge or Scrimgeour wearing such tokens in canon, and I doubt the Wizengamot would
invent one in the interim.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** Before Rowling, chop wood, carry water. After Rowling, chop wood, write
fanfiction, carry water.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXXIX: Transitions Great and Small**

*

Sheryl gave the closed door to Hermione's chambers another nervous glance. She'd known
there would be confusion and chaos, that Monday morning, with everyone preparing for the Wizengamot
to convene. She'd thought it would be easy enough amidst the chaos to slip away for a moment of
privacy, without anyone noticing. Which was true, for Sheryl Binder.

Not so true, for the Boy Who Lived Again. Even if he *hadn't* arrived at the Ministry
practically hogtied to Hermione Granger at the wrist.

And in the end, it hadn't been at Sheryl's insistence, but at Canby's, that Harry
had excused himself from Hermione's side and joined them in this closed room.

A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. She turned to see Harry emerge
from the evidentiary Pensieve on Hermione's desk. Harry took a few seconds to regain his
bearings. When he did, his first words were to Canby. "That was when you…?"

Canby nodded grimly. "It seemed the best chance."

"Thank you," Harry said quietly. He turned his gaze to Sheryl. "And thank you,
too, ma'am. I mean, well… it's one thing to hear rumors, but to see it like
that…!"

"Don't thank me," Sheryl hastened to say. "It gave me no pleasure… but I
truly felt it was something you needed to see, *before* today's Wizengamot
session."

"Forewarned is forearmed?" Harry's smile was wry. "Not that I think
she'll try anything today: too much else happening."

"Oh yes," confirmed Canby with ears suddenly erect and a grin spreading on his face.
"In fact, Canby hears something about to happen right now."

The door burst open to reveal Dennis Creevey, older and much taller than Harry remembered him
but still recognizable. "Just got word from the Wizengamot," he said in a rush.
"It's time."

Harry nodded. "Is Hermione…?" he began.

"She's already gone on ahead." Dennis anticipated Harry's next question.
"She's pretty nervous – I don't think I've ever seen her so nervous. I'd
swear, there's a circular groove in the floor out here now, from where she was
pacing."

Harry sighed. "Well, a promise is a promise." He looked around the room at
Hermione's three lieutenants – and, he now knew, her loyal supporters. "I wouldn't
force this on you, not if you hate this sort of thing as much as I do – but in fairness, you
deserve to be there. A lot more than I do, I'm sure. Anyway, wish me luck?" And bracing
his shoulders, he strode from the room, heading for the meeting chambers of the Wizengamot.

*

"The votes have been re-tallied," announced Chief Warlock Ogden from the high benches
of the chamber, where the full complement of the Wizengamot sat assembled. He gestured to either
side and added, "To include the votes of our newest colleagues." In the higher benches,
those newly chosen members of the Wizengamot stirred self-consciously; Neville tugged nervously at
the collar of his plum-colored robe of office.

Ogden smiled beatifically on the audience seated before him, composed of journalists, Ministry
officials, and the movers and shakers of wizarding society. "I am pleased to confirm the
selection of our new Minister of Magic – one of the youngest in history – Madam Hermione Jean
Granger!"

To the applause of the audience and Wizengamot (some more enthusiastic than others), Hermione
took her place next to the Chief Warlock. She waited for Ogden to be seated, and for the applause
to die, before facing the crowd and clearing her throat. "Good wizards and witches," she
began, barely concealing her anxiety – until she spotted a mop of unruly black hair in the last row
of seats.

And her confidence soared at the sight of it.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt will be sorely missed," she continued in a stronger voice.
"He was a remarkable man, and his achievements as Minister were no less remarkable. His shoes
would be hard for anyone to fill. I can only promise to do my best." She paused and looked
around at the audience. "The best honor to Kingsley's memory is to preserve his work, and
continue it. I plan no changes from the policies of my predecessor. I believe Kingsley's
policies have helped make wizarding Britain, on the whole, a better place. And I believe, working
together, we can make our world better still. To this end, and to you all, I pledge all my effort.
Thank you."

*Well, that has to set a record for the shortest acceptance speech ever given by a new
Minister,* she thought with satisfaction as she took her seat. *I should win a few points
for* that, *if nothing else.*

The Chief Warlock rose, made some concluding remarks, and with a bang of his gavel declared the
Wizengamot session adjourned. At once, the plum-robed members descended from the benches as the
audience left their seats to come forward to meet them.

It is, of course, part of any politician's job to delightedly mingle with her constituents.
Hermione knew she'd have to do the same, if she were to be an effective Minister. Yet she also
knew, as she started shaking hands with a firmly fixed smile, that it would be the part of the job
she'd loathe the most.

She managed to maneuver herself through the throng so that she could meet up with Neville and
Susan earlier, rather than later. "I hear from Harry that congratulations are in order,"
she greeted them, her smile becoming genuine.

"It's not common knowledge yet," Susan said, standing close to Neville without
*quite* holding hands. "But yes."

"We've not set a date," added Neville, knowing that Hermione would be curious.
"There are still all too many details to be settled."

"Mm, yes, I daresay," Hermione nodded. "Perhaps I can help with one, at least.
What evening this week would be convenient for us to finalize letting The Ossuary?"

Susan blinked. "The Ossuary… Brillig was *your* house-elf? Hermione, I never
realized…!"

"No, no," Hermione quickly assured her, "not mine, not even working for me, but
the offer *is* on my behalf. I just think the Minister of Magic should have a presentable home
for official functions – more presentable than Enthalpy House, at any rate."

"'For *official* functions'," Susan repeated thoughtfully. "Then you
won't be living there on a permanent basis…?"

"I haven't decided yet… but I expect I'll need a caretaker living there
full-time." Hermione turned her head to spot Harry, who had retreated to the farthest corner
of the room and was doing his utmost to remain inconspicuous.

Susan followed her gaze. "Ah… I imagine it's a bit overwhelming for him," she
murmured sympathetically.

"Yes, well," said Neville before Hermione could respond, "I'm sure, with a
little help, he'll learn to cope."

*

*Interesting,* Zabini mused inwardly as he mingled with the crowd, making witty small talk
without needing to think about it. *When Ogden introduced Granger, he emphasized her age: how
young she was. No mention of her being The Witch Who Won… and certainly no mention of her being the
first Muggleborn Minister.*

*Easy to see which issues will be downplayed in the new administration – and thus, which will
receive priority.*

Up to the very moment Granger had arrived in the Wizengamot hall, Zabini held out hope that
Svartalfer's hints of action against her, early Sunday morning, would bear fruit… that
Monday's Wizengamot session would be convened to find a new Minister, rather than invest one.
Either Svartalfer had been overly optimistic – a quality Zabini would never have credited him – or
Granger had dealt the Cartel yet another setback. Unfortunately, the charmed spectacles worked only
one way: he couldn't contact the Cartel, but rather, had to wait until they contacted him. He
now suspected it would be a long wait.

So Zabini would have to make his own plans for Dealing With Granger.

To that end, he'd kept a watchful eye on the door before the investiture began… so had seen
Potter slip into the room almost at the last minute. Potter now looked distinctly uncomfortable; he
was keeping a distance from the rest of the crowd; he was obviously here only at Granger's
insistence, then. So Granger *was* trying to co-opt Potter's fame and popularity, in
support of her position – or her policies.

The latter, Zabini decided. The Wizengamot vote was all the support she needed for her position,
in and of itself. *So if she needs Potter's support for her policies, they must be radical
indeed. Ginny was right about that, too.*

*Let's hope she was also right about her ability to woo Potter to our side.*

The random motions of the people in the room had brought Zabini up to Amos Diggory. "I
heard about your promotion, Zabini… well done," said Diggory. "A mite surprised you
accepted it, though."

"My history's shown I can work with the new Minister, Amos," Zabini replied
easily. "As well as with others who, shall we say, can not."

"Hrrm. Well, I don't know if you'll have got the notice, but the new
Minister'll be keeping on with Kingsley's weekly meetings with the Department Heads. First
one will run longer than usual: she's asked for a report from each Head, summarizing everything
that's going on within their Departments."

"Fair enough. Did the notice say when? Surely not today?"

"Meeting's been put off until Wednesday morning, to give us all a chance to
prepare." Diggory grunted and jerked his head in Granger's general direction. "Decent
of her, I suppose."

Out of the corner of his eye, Zabini saw someone making a beeline towards Potter: Gwenog Jones,
former captain of the Holyhead Harpies, now their manager and coach. He wished, not for the first
time, that there was some audial equivalent of the Supersensory Charm – something that would let
him listen to private conversations from a distance – but he'd managed without it before
now.

Still chatting, he began to maneuver Diggory, ambling towards a spot halfway between the exit
and where Potter and Jones stood. It looked for all the world like a simple strolling conversation.
Zabini was well-practiced at this technique: it only required a fraction of his attention to be
devoted to Diggory. The rest was focused on the other conversation.

He was rewarded, as they drew past, with a snippet of speech from Jones: "… no
photographers, no press releases, nothing like that. I mean to say… this isn't a promotional
thing, Harry… this is a thank-you thing."

"Oh," said Potter. "Oh, uh, well, in that case… I mean, sure…"

Zabini didn't need to hear more. His voice continued discussing Wednesday's meeting with
Diggory, while his mind went further afield, exploring this new development. With any luck,
Ginny's plan would shortly prove a success: even if Potter's cachet couldn't be brought
to the side of the Fire Party, it would be enough that Potter *wasn't* seen to support the
new Minister.

But just in case… Zabini had to admit, he was none too eager to embrace them, but… just in case,
he needed to at least consider Malfoy's suggestions for Dealing With Granger.

*

"That should do it," Neville concluded. It was Monday evening, and as arranged, the
Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts had met with his temporary substitute teacher in his
classroom at Hogwarts – there to discuss the course syllabus. Given Neville's class schedule,
they'd agreed that Wednesday next would be a good day for Neville's absence: the classes
would be devoted to "practicals" on that day, at which Harry excelled.

It also allowed Neville to slip Harry some of the course textbooks, suggesting he study them in
case "theoreticals" ever came up in class.

"It's just one day," Neville said comfortingly, as Harry looked dubiously at the
texts. "Susan and I need to talk to our families, is all."

"Uh huh," said Harry, still giving the books a skeptical eye. "And when the
Wizengamot needs you to sit on a case, that'll be just one *more* day, won't it? When
*were* you planning to tell me you and Susan had been elected?"

Neville shrugged. "Susie knew that some of our more reactionary members would resign in a
huff, once Hermione was chosen to be Minister: that's when we decided to make our bids for the
seats. Hey, Dumbledore was Chief Warlock *and* Headmaster at the same time: surely I can be a
mere Wizengamot member *and* a mere Defense Professor without too much trouble." He
sighed and caught Harry's eye. "You said it yourself, Harry: Hermione needs all the
support she can get."

Harry echoed Neville's sigh. "As you say…" he began, then jerked his head up at a
sudden rap at the door. By reflex his right hand went to his left forearm, stopping when he
remembered that he no longer kept a wand there.

"'Salright," Neville said hastily. "I invited him. *Come in!*" he
called to the door. The door opened and a grinning Ted Lupin sauntered into the classroom. "I
figured you'd want to see him, since you were here and all," Neville continued with a
smile, "but you wouldn't have been allowed to wander through Hogwarts to find him… not
until you're on staff, anyway." After accepting thanks from both Ted and Harry, Neville
retired to his inner office and left them to themselves.

"I'm not sure whether to be worried you're here, Harry," Ted joked, settling
into a seat as Harry did the same. "All this conspiracy with Professor Longbottom… tsk, tsk,
doesn't bode well for us poor students." He turned serious as he added, "All the
same, I *am* glad to see you. I, um, wanted to talk about, well, this." Reaching into his
pocket, he pulled out a scroll of parchment and proffered it to Harry.

Harry unrolled the parchment and began to read. He quickly looked up at Ted. "Hermione
wrote this to you?"

"Yeah… a little advice. I got it just after the Party." Ted gestured for Harry to
continue reading.

When Harry was finished, he re-rolled the scroll and returned it to Ted. "So she's
actually advising you to make a will, hm? I can see one might think that's a trifle morbid… but
you know, it's never really a *bad* idea. She, uh, she mentions the Malfoys?"

"Apparently, it was Gran's announcement at the Party – you remember, that they'll
be staying at Grimmauld Place for a while – that prompted Her Nibs to write me," Ted said,
with just enough lightness to his voice to forestall any reproof from his godfather. "She
seems to think I might be in some sort of danger."

"Without a will, your grandmother Andromeda is your heir, as next-of-kin," Harry
pointed out. "If you predecease her, she inherits Grimmauld Place and all that goes with it –
everything I'd willed to you, what Sirius had willed to me. And she's getting on in years,
Ted: no one would think it strange if she died soon after you did. And if you were dead, *her*
next-of-kin would be…"

"Her sister Narcissa – and my cousin Draco." Ted waggled his head. "Yeah, but
does that really put me in *danger?* I mean, do you honestly think either of them'd
actually murder me, just to get Grimmauld Place? Seriously, now."

"Seriously." Harry rubbed the side of his nose, collecting his thoughts.
"Seriously, they see you as a half-blood… which in their minds is another way of saying
'sub-human'. Seriously, Draco tried several times to kill Dumbledore – not to mention
trying to kill me – he's proven he's not above killing, Ted. And I've never heard that
a stint in Azkaban ever changed anyone for the better."

"Sooooooo you think he'd kill me."

"I think he might be *tempted* to kill you – if you didn't make a will that
removed the incentive. Stopped anything before it could start, as it were. And it's not like a
will's hard to arrange."

Ted sighed morosely. "'Course, under other circumstances, I'd have named Gran my
heir in any case. But that would sorta defeat the purpose now." He flicked his fingers at the
roll of parchment. "And Dear Aunt Hermione reassures me that any bequest doesn't have to
be permanent… only until I 'beget heirs of my body'." The tinge of bitterness in his
last words was very slight… but Harry was surprised it was there at all. This, he guessed, was what
had truly prompted Ted's desire to meet with him today.

"We *did* have a talk about that, a couple of years ago, I believe," Harry said.
"It, well, it didn't seem to bother you then." He waited, watching Ted closely. When
Ted remained quiet, Harry added, "Do I gather it bothers you now?"

A very teenaged shrug was his reply.

"Tori Weasley?" Harry offered gently.

Ted shot him a quick but smoldering glare. "She doesn't know."

"Neither does Hermione," said Harry, "or she wouldn't have brought it
up."

"Yeah." Ted subsided and slumped back in his chair. He said nothing more, but after a
moment his eyes and hair began to change to match Harry's. "I guess there's a sort of
symmetry to all this," he went on with a ghost of a smile. "You will the Place to me, I
will the Place back to you… Oh, yes, it has to be you. You'd let Gran continue to live there, I
can trust you for that. And you might even say it's the ultimate deterrent for Cousin Draco, if
he knows *you* get the Place if I, er, how's it go? If I meet an untimely end."

By this point, Ted had morphed into… not Harry's twin, but a reasonable extrapolation of
Harry's younger brother. Harry couldn't help smiling at the unspoken display of affection.
"Neither of us is dying any time soon," he said more cheerfully. "This is insurance,
nothing more."

*

Harry Apparated back to Enthalpy House that evening to find the cottage dark and empty, save for
Bottlebrush. It didn't surprise him greatly: he felt sure Hermione's first day as Minister
had been a full day, indeed. The moment Harry had solidly materialized, Bottlebrush marched into
the kitchen and began to pace in front of the icebox. It was easy to see what *he* considered
important.

"All right, all right, hold on…" Harry opened the icebox, while he tried to recall how
much Hermione had usually fed Crookshanks.

The sharp *pop* of Apparation behind him told him Hermione had finally returned home.
"Hello, my love," he called. "You're just in time. How much food…?" He
straightened, turned away from the icebox, and froze. Brillig stood just behind him, blushing
brilliantly, and very obviously trying to pretend that she *hadn't* been pretending that
Harry'd been addressing her.

Next to Brillig was a shy young elf, female and (by human standards) attractive… but she
wasn't one of Swivingham's "working elves". *I* do *recognize her,*
Harry thought after a second, *she was serving ibn al-Afrit, in the Pensieve vision. Poor
Fatima's sister… what's her name, again? Ayesha, that was it.* Ayesha was keeping her
gaze firmly on the floor, hands clasped demurely behind her; it was clear she wasn't
comfortable being at Enthalpy House. Or possibly, in the presence of the Defender of
House-Elves.

He decided not to embarrass the newcomer by addressing her directly. Instead, he nodded casually
to Brillig, affable but businesslike, as he imagined an employer ought to be. It felt very odd,
employing a house-elf… somehow, odder than outright *owning* Kreacher had felt, years ago.
*Not that I was particularly enthused about owning Kreacher, either…*

But last night, after Canby and Brillig had delivered their news and departed, he and Hermione
had discussed the matter – *quite* thoroughly. And in the end, Hermione had convinced him of
the necessity of taking Brillig on as a paid servant – despite the risk that close association
would only make her more infatuated with him. *At least I don't have to formally bond with
her,* he reminded himself, *I don't think that could possibly end well.*

"Ah, hello," he now greeted them pleasantly. "Have we heard anything yet about
letting The Ossuary?"

Brillig shook her head. "No, Mister Harry, but Miss Hermione will be meeting with Madam
Bones later this week, so all can be settled by month's end. Brillig is eager to begin her
work, Mister Harry!"

"I'm sure you are," he smiled. He'd agreed with Hermione to live in The
Ossuary, at least for now: Hermione would be the lessee of record, and Brillig would be the actual
caretaker for the property. It seemed the smoothest solution, given that he wouldn't be moving
into Enthalpy House any time soon, alas.

"And…" Brillig hesitated, and put a hand on Ayesha's shoulder. "And… Mister
Harry, this is Ayesha. She is Fatima's sister, and Mister Harry must remember, he promised
Fatima that Ayesha would be free. And Ayesha *is* free now, Mister Harry!" she added
hastily. "When hit wizards came for her old Master, and he ran, they is telling Ayesha she is
free!"

Harry nodded. As Hermione had explained, Ayesha would have to be freed from her bondage to be
able, physically able, to testify against her former master.

"So… so now Ayesha is coming to England, Mister Harry, and… Canby said she could stay at
Ministry with Sylph and Chalice and the others… and she *did,* Mister Harry, Ayesha *did*
go to Ministry, but…"

"She wasn't welcome there?" Harry asked in surprise.

"They is always calling her Fatima," explained Brillig helplessly. "Mister Harry…
does you know a home that needs a hardworking elf?"

Dimly, Harry could see how painfully awkward it must have been for Ayesha, being called by her
dead sister's name… and probably being compared to her as well, behind her back (or even to her
face). The thought crossed his mind that, to make Brillig willing to "share" Harry,
Ayesha's plight *must* have been dreadful.

"Um… I haven't been in touch with very many wizarding households since my return,
Brillig," he said slowly. "And I don't know if Hogwarts is hiring… or the Ministry… I
don't even know who to ask, but I can find out. Until then…" He sighed. There really was
no alternative.

"Until then, I suppose she can stay at The Ossuary. I mean, not to work – keeping The
Ossuary tidy is hardly enough work for one elf, never mind two – but as a guest." He smiled
encouragingly at Ayesha, and was surprised when she raised her eyes from the floor to *glower*
at him.

"No," she said, with an odd musical lilt in her voice. "Ayesha will work. Ayesha
is *wanting* to work. There must be so many things needing doing for Master…"

Before Harry could even draw breath, Brillig was interrupting Ayesha with a fierce intensity.
"*Not! Not* 'Master'! *Never* 'Master'! Mister Harry is *no*
elf's Master, that is the *rule!*"

"More to the point," Harry tried to interject, "as a free elf, Ayesha, no one is
*your* Master…"

His words went unheeded by the two elves. "If he is telling Ayesha what she must do, is he
not Master?" she asked Brillig indignantly. "Even *paid* elves is told what they
must do, and they does it!" She put unmistakable scorn into the word "paid".

"When house-elves obey masters, it is because they is *compelled.* When Brillig obeys
Mister Harry, it is because she *wants* to! And Mister Harry is very generous, *that* is
why he pays his elves – "

"*No,*" said Harry more loudly, and this time he caught their attention. They
fell silent at once; Harry let the silence linger a moment before continuing, "People… pay
people to do jobs, don't you see? Humans pay humans… and Hagrid, he was paid, too… and of
course the goblins pay goblins, but they also pay humans, like Bill…" He realized he was
rambling, and tried to marshal his thoughts so that the elves could follow them. "The point
is, when someone's hired to do a job, they *choose* the job, freely. That's what it
means to be free: you get to choose. And once you agree to the job, it's like a contract, you
compel *yourself.* No one else makes a free person do anything, he makes himself do it – and
the free person who hires him, *he's* contracted to pay. That's how it *works*
with free people."

He stopped, somewhat embarrassed to have fallen into a Hermione-like lecture mode – though not
nearly as eloquent, he admitted ruefully – but determined to let these elves know what it meant to
be free. If Hermione's proposed reforms became law, Brillig and Ayesha wouldn't be merely
freed elves, but legally humans: an enormous shift in status, and possibly some new
responsibilities as well.

*Merlin, if the elves're ruled to be humans, I wouldn't be surprised if some Ministry
flack decides to tax them,* he thought irrelevantly.

Harry became uncomfortably aware that the elves were still silent – simply staring at him with
wide eyes. Their expressions were, for once, quite unreadable, which made him more uncomfortable
still.

"The great Dobby was a free elf," Brillig finally said, in a soft voice. "Dobby
chose…"

"Yes, exactly," agreed Harry, pleased that he'd managed to make his point. Dobby
had made his own choices, once he'd been freed from the Malfoys' clutches: where to work,
how to live… in the end, how to die. And Dobby's fame among elves would make the option of
choice seem more attractive, more *glamorous,* to Ayesha and Brillig. *I should've
thought of that myself…*

Ayesha and Brillig turned their gazes from Harry to each other. Each elf stared into the
other's eyes for what seemed like Harry to be a long time… as though some silent communication
were passing between them.

Finally, Ayesha turned back to Harry. "Ayesha would… would not feel right, accepting
charity," she said slowly. "There must be *something* Ayesha can do…"

Harry had never heard an elf use those exact words before. "Well…" he said, racking
his brain, "well… we haven't let The Ossuary yet, but when we do, I'll need my clothes
and things moved into it. Brillig, you remember you found my flat, where I was living amongst
Muggles? Show Ayesha where it is, and then, once The Ossuary's lease is final, you can move my
stuff from my old flat. Okay?" It was a trivial task for her, given the power of elven magic,
but Harry judged it was exactly the sort of household duty that would appeal to Ayesha. *It ought
to satisfy her need to be needed,* Harry told himself.

"Until then… um, until then… Brillig, you mentioned Dobby just now. Ayesha, have you been
to Dobbywatch?" He recalled Bill and Fleur mentioning, at Hermione's Rebirthday Party, how
Dobby's grave had become a sort of shrine amongst elves. Maybe a visit to the grave of the most
famous free elf in history would help reinforce what Harry'd said about freedom.

Brillig brightened at once. "Oh, it is beautiful! Ayesha will enjoy seeing it! And there is
always gardening to be done at Dobbywatch, too!"

Harry fervently seconded the notion of garden work at Shell Cottage, and somehow managed to send
the elves on their way without actually seeming to kick them out. Once they were gone, he took a
deep breath and released, glad he had (for the moment, at least) dodged a hex. And if he'd
helped Ayesha, even a little, to understand what it meant to be a free elf, then it was all to the
good.

*Now then,* he told himself, opening the icebox again, *first Bottlebrush's dinner,
then our own. Hermione should be home soon, and she probably won't have found time to eat all
day…* He was again interrupted, however, this time by the voice of someone calling through the
Floo.

Sighing in exasperation, he dried his hands and went to the living room, where he discovered
Fleur's head floating in the Floo fire. "Why, hello, Harry," she greeted him, raising
one eyebrow. "I didn't know you were staying at Enthalpy House."

"I'm not," he replied, kneeling in front of the fireplace to bring his head level
with Fleur's. "I *am,* however, cooking dinner, or trying to. If you're looking
for Hermione, she's still at the Ministry…"

"Can you bring me through her wards?" Fleur interrupted.

Harry thought it best not to mention that the wards were, in fact, his. "Yes, but… I mean,
Fleur, dinner isn't going to be anything fancy tonight…"

"Oh, I'm not inviting myself to dinner, Harry," she replied with a quick smile,
"tempting though the notion may be. No," and here she turned serious again,
"I've received something tonight – something I feel absolutely sure Hermione will want to
see before tomorrow morning."



40. XXXX:  Two Worlds, One Evening
----------------------------------

**(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**

*

**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 *un*amused. 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 mer*man* 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.*



41. XXXXI: Guardians On Duty
----------------------------

**(A/N:** No, I didn't get as far with this chapter as I'd intended, but I thought it
better to post this now, rather than make everyone wait for a giant chapter in a few weeks. *Mea
culpa.***)**

**(Disclaimer:** So far as I can determine, the new "Pottermore" website would be
better named "Pottersame". Fanfiction, now, *that's* Pottermore.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXXXI: Guardians On Duty**

*

Standing in The Ossuary's vestibule, Harry looked again at the sheaf of photos in his hand.
"I still can't decide whether to preserve these forever or *Incendio* them right
now."

"Well, given what Canby and Sheryl went through to retrieve them," smiled Hermione,
"it seems a pity to simply destroy them." She nodded at the clearest one, which showed
them hugging in bed, and added, "Besides, they're comforting in a way. They're a
constant reminder to me that you only *look* like a callow youth."

"Oh, ha ha ha." The photos themselves had been saved by Canby, who had spotted them on
Hermione's desk the day she'd been killed and revived – fully visible to anyone who might
have entered the room – and had squirreled them away before they were spotted. Canby had gone on to
find the original negatives in Zabini's manor house – practically under Zabini's nose, had
he but known! – and rescued them as well. Though the photos were less scandalous now than
they'd been when they were shot, they were still an embarrassment – or, as Canby had phrased
it, "nobody's business but Miss Hermione's."

"Yah, well," rejoined Harry, "to *me,* they're a constant reminder that
we shouldn't trust Ginny."

"We've been over this already, Harry. We *can't* punish her: she's been
Obliviated, she's lost her memories of that entire week. We can't in fairness punish her
for doing something she doesn't remember doing."

"You're ready to punish Lovinett for something *he* doesn't remember
doing."

"Lovinett committed murder, and we can prove he did it whether he remembers or not. Ginny
may have betrayed our trust, but that in itself isn't a crime. And as for the attempted
blackmail… I'm not bringing charges." Hermione flapped one hand in a gesture of finality.
"Which isn't to say I disagree with you: she's not to be trusted. You'll keep that
in mind Saturday?"

"When I visit the Harpies? Of course. I'm pretty sure it was Ginny's idea, too.
Poor Gwenog Jones was sincere enough, but…" Harry squared the sheaf of photos into a neat
stack, which he tucked into his pocket. "The tricky part," he added thoughtfully,
"is going to be sticking to our cover story. I'm not supposed to know *anything* of
what's happened while I was 'beyond the Veil'… except maybe what I might've picked
up in the *Prophet.*"

"Oh, yes, the *Prophet.* That reminds me…" Hermione proffered half a dozen
envelopes, each addressed to him. "The Ministry's had to set up a mail drop for you: once
people figured out that owls wouldn't come to you, they decided to send the owls to *us*
instead. It's not part of anyone's duties, really, but I've had several volunteers: to
sort and store your mail, until you can come to collect it. These? These, I thought you'd want
to see sooner." She handed him one envelope with a flourish. "This, for instance, is from
Hogwarts, and it feels like a prefect's badge. I'm guessing it's a staff badge, so that
you can walk through the castle safely." She waited until he'd accepted the envelope and
tucked it into his pocket, with the photos, before offering the others. "And these are from
various newspapers: the *Prophet,* the *Moniteur**,* some others. I've no doubt
they're requesting interviews."

Harry eyed the second set of envelopes but didn't immediately move to take them. At length
he said, with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, "What do you want me to say to them?"

"Whatever you… *oh!* No, Harry, I'm not trying to pressure you into giving
interviews! Not at *all.* Talk to reporters, or don't – say anything you like, or say
nothing at all. It's entirely up to you."

"I thought Fleur'd told you," he continued, in the same dull tone, "why I
decided not to go back to Hogwarts. Because I thought you might need me… need my support."

"But not if it means doing things you hate, like interviews," Hermione insisted
firmly. "I wouldn't *ask* that of you."

Harry shrugged resignedly and reached out for the envelopes. Hermione moved them away from his
hands, out of reach, as she suddenly recalled their bedside conversation, earlier in the month.
"You're thinking you're useless now, aren't you? That the prophecy's
fulfilled, and you don't have a reason to *exist* anymore? That's it, isn't
it?"

He shrugged again and looked down at the floor, unable to meet her gaze. "I just need to
earn my… I mean, I don't feel right accepting charity." He felt a pang as he realized he
was echoing Ayesha's sentiments. At that moment, they matched his own perfectly.

"*Oh, honestly!*"

Those words had been the closest a schoolgirl Hermione would ever come to an expletive, and they
brought Harry back to earth immediately. He looked up again to see the Minister of Magic standing
two feet away, hands on waist, one foot tapping impatiently, and a very no-nonsense scowl on her
face. "Let's get something straight, Mr. Potter," she told him sternly. "You are
*not* being offered charity. I expect you to pull your own weight – and *not* as a
cheerleader for my policies as Minister!" She stepped closer to him, poked a finger into his
chest, and added in a lower voice, "And not as my gigolo *or* my boy-toy,
either."

Briefly, his sense of the absurd broke through his despondent mood. "Aww, you never let me
be your boy-toy…!" Turning somber again, he lowered his voice to match hers and continued,
"I know we'd talked about me being caretaker, sort of, for The Ossuary… but I won't be
moving in until next week. Besides, with house-elf help that'll take up maybe five minutes of
my day, tops. And at least I *know* I can be a cheerleader for your policies. I can *do*
that, talk to Tiberius Ogden and any fence-sitters in the Wizengamot…" He reached for the
envelopes in Hermione's hand. "Influence public opinion…"

"But not because you think you *have* to," Hermione insisted. "I mean it,
Harry."

"*Have* to?" He snorted in amusement. "Hermione, look at all the people I
helped while I still had the Elder Wand. Did I *have* to? Of course not… I had a choice in the
matter, every time. But…"

"But being who you are, you couldn't have chosen otherwise," she finished softly.
"I understand that, Harry, but… but the cases aren't parallel…"

"Hermione." He looked her in the eye and spoke quite simply. "Let me
help."

She didn't say anything. After a moment, he reached again for the envelopes, and this time
she didn't move them away from his hand.

"Don't worry," he said after another moment, "I'll try not to be
*too* obvious."

"I appreciate that." Hermione glanced nonchalantly over Harry's shoulder at her
Auror escort, who had withdrawn to a discreet distance to allow them privacy while still keeping
Hermione in view. "Not being too obvious is *so* rare these days, don't you
think?"

"It won't last," Harry tried to console her. "This is just Gawain Robards
reacting to the *Prophet's* story, the one about you in Athens, that's all. There
aren't enough Aurors to spare one as bodyguard… otherwise Fudge would have insisted on having
one. Yours will be around just long enough for Robards to make his point, then she'll be
reassigned. You'll see."

"I don't know… Gawain seemed adamant." She smiled and added, "At least he
admitted that Enthalpy House has better protection than anything the Ministry could provide.
I'll be guard-free at home… or rather, I should say, Auror-free." Her smile had turned
anticipatory.

*

Harry gave his first interview that very afternoon. While he might have granted it to any
British publication, for personal reasons he'd decided on *le Moniteur Magique:* as he saw
it, he had a bone to pick with the French newspaper, on Hermione's behalf.

*Nemo* *me impune lacessit,* after all.

Consequently, he Apparated to Paris and sought directions to the *Moniteur's* editorial
offices with a certain gleam of determination in his eye.

M. Chretien, the *Moniteur's* managing editor, was surprised but delighted to see
Harry, and quickly arranged for a private conference room for himself, Harry, and a senior
reporter, a M. Sondeur. "And perhaps a quick photo session when we're done," he added
hopefully, waving Harry to a seat.

Harry remained standing. "Oh, and speaking of photos," he said pleasantly, "I was
wondering if you know the name of the photographer who provided you with that *artistic* photo
of our Minister of Magic. You remember, the one you published Monday?" He held up a hand.
"I don't need to *know* his name, I just want to be sure *you* know the
fellow."

"Ah, yes," said Chretien, whose delight was now suddenly tempered with caution.
"Yes, I'm familiar with the young man. He is not one of our staff photographers, you
understand, but we have purchased samples of his work from time to time."

"Even when they're pretty obviously faked up?"

Chretien spread his hands and gave Harry a most Gallic shrug. "What can one do? We accepted
the photograph at its face value. *Le Moniteur* made no alterations, we would never do that.
And of course, there is no way to tell if the photographer himself has altered a photo…"

"Actually," Harry interrupted, "there is. I mean, Muggles can tell if a
photo's been changed, and I assume anything Muggles can do, a wizarding organization such as
yourselves can do better." He waited a beat, to see if the gauntlet would be picked up. When
Chretien said nothing, Harry continued, "Moreover, there is the rather simple solution of
*asking.* Or even, y'know, requiring the bloke to sign a Magically Binding Contract that
his work hasn't been, shall we say, enhanced." Harry still hadn't taken a seat, and
his body language said plainly that he was prepared to walk out on the spot – *without* giving
the coveted interview.

"I seem to recall our publisher making that very point, just this morning," Chretien
recovered with aplomb. "Before now, you see, we had always accepted our staff at their word…
but it's clear now that sterner measures are needed. I assure you, M. Potter, henceforth any
photograph purchased by *le Moniteur* must be accompanied by a sworn declaration of
authenticity – *magically* sworn."

"I am satisfied to hear it," replied Harry, at last taking his seat and turning to
Sondeur. "Shall we begin?"

The interview itself proved to be a double conversation. Rather to Harry's surprise, Sondeur
and Chretien weren't as much interested in his personal life as they were with his afterlife:
they wanted details about his fifteen years spent in the Realm of Death. Harry, for his part, tried
to steer the discussion so he could bring up the Delacour family and, more especially, Olympe
Maxime. "French wizards and witches have entrusted their children to her care for
generations," he pointed out. "No sane person could think her a threat merely because of
the conditions of her birth. In that regard, France is far advanced over my own country."
Harry *knew* that last bit would cause his praise of Mme. Maxime to be printed in full. So
Britain, learning of the high regard in which this "hybrid" was held, would be readier to
pass Hermione's new law. And once Britain had passed such a law, could "advanced"
France do less?

"Yes, yes, but this land beyond the Veil," pressed Sondeur, "*le domaine de la
Mort…*"

"All I can tell you is how it appeared to me. Which, by definition, will not be accurate: I
was a living person, I wasn't in my proper place, any more than ghosts are in *their*
proper place on *our* side of the Veil. But to *me,* it was… well, think of a train
platform."

There was a moment's pause. "A train platform."

"It's a *metaphor,*" Harry said as charmingly as he could, and as though it
explained everything. He wished he could make his eyes twinkle, as Dumbledore was always doing.

"Mmf, yes. It would have to be." Chretien regarded Harry skeptically, and apparently
decided that he would get no further information. "Well," he said, rising from his seat,
"we do appreciate your speaking to us, M. Potter. Thank you, and if you should recall any
further details of your experience…"

"I won't hesitate to contact you," Harry finished, as they shook hands. With a
smile and a nod, he left the conference and wended his way out of the building to the nearest
Apparation point.

While back in the *Moniteur's* conference room, Chretien allowed himself to smile only
once Harry had left. "Of course," he reflected to Sondeur, "my concession to M.
Potter only applies to photographs we buy after today. It would not apply to any photos we may have
*already* bought from a certain paparazzi, *n'est-ce* *pas?*"

"No professional takes only a *single* picture," agreed Sondeur. He hesitated,
then continued, "But perhaps I should make sure there were no further alterations made… just
to be safe. Not that the *best* of the photos needed any."

*

*Hufflepuff* *booked the Quidditch pitch* all morning *tomorrow,* Ted thought in
disgust, as he stomped into the Great Hall for breakfast. *And Slytherin booked it for the
afternoon. Their teams aren't* that *bad… they're just trying to keep* us *from
getting any practice before the matches begin.* Ted had to schedule some solid practice time for
his Gryffindor team, and soon; evening practices on weekdays were hardly a decent substitute.

Mechanically, he served himself eggs and bacon, with a purpleberry muffin on the side, while he
pondered his next steps. Ted knew he should be worrying about his classes that day – it might be
Friday, and less than a month since term began, but every professor was already harping on about
his OWLs at year's end – but frankly, the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain had other priorities at
the moment.

He paid no attention to Peeves, cackling somewhere in the rafters; Peeves wasn't bothering
the Gryffindor table, after all. And he barely registered Rose's arrival, as she took a seat
beside him, until she tapped his arm and cleared her throat nervously. "Ted? I… I was
wondering… if you could, erm, do me a favor."

"Hm?" *Maybe I should talk to Ravenclaw, we can double-book for* next
*weekend,* that'll *show 'em…*

"Can you show me what Harry Potter used to look like?"

Quidditch was immediately forgotten. Ted looked sternly at Rose, and injected just a hint of
frost into his voice. "What's this, then?"

"Well…" Rose twisted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. She extracted a week-old copy
of the *Daily Prophet* from her bookbag and lowered her voice to barely a whisper. "Most
of the time you knew him, he was an adult. He only turned *our* age when he rescued Mum. I
know what he looks like *now…* I, erm, just wanted to see what he looked like
*before.*"

Ted said nothing, and kept his expression neutral, while he thought quickly. The request seemed
harmless enough… still, Tori *had* warned him against doing it… but then, Tori hadn't
considered that Rose might actually *ask…* He glanced around the Great Hall: he and Rose had
arrived a bit early, so there weren't many students at the tables yet. And nobody seemed to be
paying them any particular attention…

"Okay, but just for a moment," he told her. "You'll have to imagine that
I'm wearing glasses." And with that, he restyled his hair into an unruly jet-black mop,
changed his eyes to emerald green, and morphed his features to that of his godfather at a mature
thirty years of age. Rose watched intently as he morphed, comparing his face with the photo on the
*Prophet's* front page – showing Harry and Hermione embracing, just after they'd
returned from the dead.

Ted held Harry's image for a few seconds, turning his head slightly from side to side,
giving Rose a good look. Then he abruptly resumed his usual appearance. "That should do, I
think."

"Uh huh." Rose was still staring at him intently. She didn't seem to have blinked
at all; Ted wasn't quite sure she'd heard him.

He snapped his fingers in front of her face, and had to smile as she seemed to awaken from a
trance. "Oh! Erm, yeah, erm, that'll do, thank you, yes…" By now she was blushing
scarlet in embarrassment. Ted made a gesture at the food on the table, and Rose immediately began
serving herself, grateful for the diversion.

"And good morning to all," came a new voice, and Tori came up behind Ted to caress his
neck as she slid into her seat beside him, on the other side. She smiled warmly at him, leaned
forward to look past him and greet Rose – and paused in mid-crane. Immediately she turned an
accusatory glare on Ted. "What did you *do?*"

"Why do you always assume I've done something?" Ted responded, in a completely
unbelievable voice of injury.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I wasn't specific: what did *you* do to make Rosie
*blush* like that? Since you *are* the only person sitting near her…"

Ted sighed. He really didn't want a ruckus this early in the morning. Fortunately, he'd
evolved several time-tested strategies for dealing with Tori; he settled on Deflection. "I
think if Rose wants people to know, she'll tell them."

Tori's sharp eyes flicked back to Rose's red face, scanned the rest of her immediate
surroundings, and came to rest on the *Prophet's* front page, where it lay to one side of
Rose's plate. Half a second later, she drew in an angry hiss of breath and turned back to Ted.
"You *didn't!*"

*There are definite disadvantages,* he complained internally, *to only associating with
super-geniuses.* He made a valiant effort to look her in the eye, and not to cringe.

"'smy fault," Rose mumbled into her plate. "I asked him to. I just wanted to
see something, 'sall."

"Rose," Tori began, her voice an odd mix of patience and exasperation.

"Look, can we not talk about it? Please? I *know,* okay? I'm not stupid. I
*know* that's just how he looks now, and I *know* how old he really is, and I
*know* he'd never… with… but… but…" Rose brought her gaze up to meet Tori's.
"He's just so… so…" she finished in despair, for once rendered almost totally
inarticulate.

"Yes," Tori agreed gently, "he is." She elbowed her boyfriend in the ribs.
"Switch places with me, would you? Rose and I need to chat by ourselves."

Obligingly, Ted slid his plate to one side, and rose to allow Tori to take his seat. He tried to
tell himself that he should feel relieved that Rose had transferred her crush from him to Harry;
still, there had been something undeniably flattering about being the object of a girl's
fantasies. Even an ickle firstie's fantasies.

Before he could take his seat and continue his breakfast, they were interrupted by the arrival
of the morning mail owls. They artfully dodged Peeves, who was trying to make them drop their
packages, and descended to the tables. One owl was headed for the Gryffindor table, and for a
moment, Ted wondered if Harry were sending him a message.

Instead, the owl landed before Rose, and dropped in front of her a large flat package wrapped in
brown paper. Rose and Tori broke off from their discussion in surprise.

"For me?" Rose asked the owl. It bobbed its head and gave the package a little push
with its beak. Intrigued, she rewarded the owl with scraps from her plate, and waited until it had
eaten and flown away before inspecting her new possession.

"Addressed to me, all right," she told Tori, who was watching with interest, "but
there's no return address. Let's see…" She carefully unwrapped the paper without
tearing it (a trait she'd learned from her mother) to reveal an impressive looking book with a
glossy cover. "*History's Greatest Witches,*" she read the title aloud.
"Newly Released Second Edition! Wow, I think someone sent it to me because of Mum! It probably
has a chapter about her becoming Minister of Magic!" Growing more excited, she shoved her
plate away from her, plunked the book in its place, and prepared to open it and read.

"Can I see that, Rose?" Ted said from directly behind her, and his long arm reached
over her head to pluck the book from the table. Ignoring her indignant protest, Ted keenly examined
the book's cover, taking great care not to open it. "Sometimes they'll say more about
the book on the back cover," he said cheerfully, his face showing only friendly, casual
interest.

Behind his face, it was another matter altogether. Ted's stomach was churning and his mind
was racing. *Oh Merlin, now what do I do? I can't give it back to her but I can't explain
why but if I have to I will and dammit Tori's watching me she still doesn't suspect I need
a Deflection!*

He could think of nothing better than fomenting chaos by casting hexes – at the Slytherin and
Hufflepuff Quidditch captains, he decided, that at least would be vaguely plausible – but in the
next instant, the decision was taken out of his hands.

"Ha ha haaaahh! *Gotcha!*" cried Peeves, throwing water-balloons filled with ink
at the Gryffindor table.

There was immediate shrieking and dodging, with various degrees of success. Tori was hit in the
back of the head; the ink stained her hair dark blue, and droplets splattered both Ted and Rose.
Enraged, Tori whirled, brandished her wand, and cast a series of furious curses at the poltergeist.
He dodged and launched another water-balloon.

"*Iacto**!*" cried a new voice. The water-balloon reversed course in mid-air
and hit Peeves squarely in the face. Sputtering and snarling, his face indigo, Peeves flew from the
Great Hall.

Headmistress MacGonagall lowered her wand. "Every year I promise myself I'll rid the
school of that pest," she said to no one in particular, "and every year ends with him
still in residence. This year, I *swear…*" She eyed the stained students and addressed
them. "Is anyone hurt? Does anyone need assistance removing the ink…? The incantation is
*Dealbo**.* Miss Weasley-Major, you seem to have taken the brunt of it; if you hurry, you
can change your clothes before classes begin."

"Oh no, classes!" cried Ted. "I'm almost late for Potions! Tori, Rose,
I'll see you both later." He turned and trotted out of the hall, and fortune continued to
be with him: no one took notice that, amidst the confusion, he'd stuffed *History's
Greatest Witches* into his bookbag.

*

Ted made a point of lingering after his afternoon Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Professor
Longbottom seemed to read his mind: he waited until everyone else was gone before saying, "Is
something on your mind, Mr. Lupin?"

"Sir, I was wondering… well, that is to say, I need to talk to Harry. Right away."
When Professor Longbottom didn't react, Ted added, "It's *very*
important."

"Has there been an accident in the Owlery?" Longbottom asked mildly.

"Not as such, but… the problem is, the owls still don't seem to've figured out that
Harry's alive again. I tried to send him an owl, lots of students have tried, but the owls
won't even try to deliver messages to him." Ted's eyes flicked meaningfully to the
door leading to the Defense Professor's office, which contained one of the few fully functional
Floo fireplaces at Hogwarts.

Again, the Defense Professor seemed to read his mind. "We don't normally encourage such
direct contact during the school year, Mr. Lupin. If this is truly an emergency…" He paused.
"Has Harry told you where he could be contacted?"

Ted shook his head.

"Then I can't very well tell you, either. I can pass on any messages, if you
like."

"It's… sir, I need to talk to Harry about it."

"Important *and* secret? If this is an issue regarding your personal life, I'm
afraid that doesn't qualify as an emergency. I know it seems like the world to you,"
Longbottom said sympathetically, "but it's not as though lives were at stake here, after
all." He paused again, giving Ted another opportunity to explain, but Ted remained silent.

"Well," said Longbottom at length, "if it helps, Harry will be substituting for
me next week, on Wednesday, and you can speak to him then in perfect privacy. Is there anything
else, Mr. Lupin?"

"No, sir. Thank you," said Ted steadily, and left the classroom.



42. XXXXII: Attack and Counter, Parry and Riposte
-------------------------------------------------

**(A/N:** I have shamelessly borrowed a line from the immortal Bill Watterson in this
chapter. Ten points to the first reader who spots it.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** Oh, come on, has anything changed since my last disclaimer? Still not my
characters. Still not making money from this story.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by Paracelsus**

*

**XXXXII: Attack and Counter, Parry and Riposte**

*

He'd hinted to a few people, in *strictest* confidence of course, that he planned to
secretly spy on the Hufflepuff and Slytherin practice sessions today, to get an idea of whatever
new tactics they might be developing. Thus, without anyone actually saying anything openly,
everyone would be unsurprised if he wasn't around, and no one would come looking for him.

*Easy part's done,* Ted told himself grimly.

He'd tried, last night, to contact Harry. He'd repeated his stunt of flying straight up
from Hogwarts Castle on his Levinbrand, until he was far enough from the castle for his mobile
phone to work safely. But his call had gone directly to Harry's voice mail, which told him
Harry's mobile was turned off… from which he inferred that Harry was now permanently back in
the wizarding world. Harry wouldn't be available for phone calls any time soon.

Ted had left a voice message anyway, just in case.

He'd also considered breaking into the Defense Professor's office and using the Floo
fireplace without permission, but rejected the idea. Judging from the legends he'd heard, Harry
had once done exactly that, back when *he'd* been a student at Hogwarts – and he'd had
Professor Longbottom's help to do it, so Longbottom would be quite aware of the possibility.
And Ted didn't think Longbottom was foolish enough to not guard against it, either.

And on reflection, Ted *still* didn't know for certain where Harry was staying, so
unless Harry'd given him personal name status on the Floo Network, he was reduced to taking
hopeful pot-shots.

He'd even tried the trick he'd seen a few days ago, of sending a message via Patronus.
(Ted hadn't even known one *could* send a message via Patronus, until he'd received
such a message from "Aunt" Hermione.) But, one, Ted wasn't quite sure how to alter
the *Expecto Patronum* charm so that it would carry a message; and two, he was ashamed to
admit that his own Patronus wasn't yet corporeal. He could manage a thick mist, which would get
the job done in most cases. Somehow, he was quite sure that this wasn't one of the cases.

So now here he was, standing in a hidden niche just outside the Entrance Hall, about to try a
stunt he'd never tried before in his life. *It should be possible,* he reminded himself
firmly, *my mother could do it; hell, she* had *to be able to do it. Even if I fail, I have
to try.*

*Of course, if I* do *fail, this'll be my last day of sunlight for, oh, at least a
month.*

Ted gave another nervous glance down at his hands. In one hand, he held a small pocket mirror –
useful for looking around corridor corners, but today serving another purpose. In his other hand,
he held the Marauder's Map, folded to display Professor Longbottom's private rooms. The dot
labeled "Neville Longbottom" was still there… right next to the dot labeled "Susan
Bones". Ted hadn't known that Madam Bones would be visiting Hogwarts today, but he
certainly wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath; held it for a slow count of ten; released it slowly.
And concentrated on the form of Professor Neville Longbottom. Concentrated on his hair, his face,
every *wrinkle* in that face; his posture, the way he held himself when motionless; his gait,
the way he carried himself when walking; his meals, the foods he preferred when eating at the head
table…

And Ted Lupin focused the image inward, and willed himself to *become* Neville Longbottom –
not merely in outward appearance, but deep down to the very cellular level.

When at last his body felt like it had stopped morphing, he opened his eyes and examined himself
with great care in his pocket mirror. As far as he could tell, the resemblance was perfect. He
nodded, slipped the mirror back into his pocket, and brought out his wand. A quick Transfiguration
altered his robes to better fit his new form – and from a student's cut of robes (with
Gryffindor trim) to a professor's. Ted even made certain his shoes matched those which
Longbottom had worn to breakfast that morning.

Finally, unable to think of any other detail that needed adjustment, Ted straightened his
shoulders and walked out the giant double doors, into the outside air… and headed along the path
toward the school gates. He wished, for approximately the thousandth time since his first year,
that all the secret tunnels and passages leading out of Hogwarts hadn't been sealed up, after
the final battle with Voldemort. Not leaving even *one* passage intact, he felt, was a
deliberate slap in the face to future generations of pranksters.

He saw Stull, the castle's caretaker (Filch's successor, and had Ted but known, a vast
step up) cleaning some of the ground-floor windows. Ted wasn't certain how Longbottom and Stull
dealt with one another, so he gave the caretaker an affable but neutral nod as he continued to
walk.

"Off to town, are ye, P'fessor?" Stull hailed him.

Ted smiled and half-raised his hand in greeting. "A quick errand, but I mustn't dawdle.
Don't work too hard." He quickened his pace and strode briskly to the great gates. Of
course Stull knew he couldn't Disapparate from the Hogwarts grounds; he would have to trust
that Stull wouldn't notice "Longbottom" still hadn't Disapparated, once he was
through the gates.

And he passed the gates easily. No invisible magic halted his footsteps; there were no alarms,
and no pursuit. He'd done it: the wards of Hogwarts saw him as Neville Longbottom, who was free
to come and go at will. Mere glamours and body Transfigurations wouldn't have been enough to
fool the wards, and Ted had long ago decided not to attempt passing them with his usual level of
morphing. But this extra-deep morph, though significantly harder to achieve and maintain, fooled
them quite nicely.

Next stop: Hogsmeade.

*

In the meantime, breakfast in the Great Hall had been served, during which the Saturday mail
owls had arrived. Ted would have been glad to see that Rose had received no new packages. He
wouldn't have paid any attention to the mail received at other Houses' table… such as the
Slytherin table.

Lapis Flint was a first-year Slytherin, and so shared most of her classes with the Gryffindor
first years. She hadn't paid a great deal of attention to any of her classmates; in particular,
as far as Rose Weasley went, she neither liked nor disliked the girl, apart from her obvious mania
to be first in every subject. As an owl landed in front of her and offered her an envelope, that
was all about to change.

*Huh,* she wondered as she tore the envelope open, *I wonder who'd be writing me.
It's too soon for Mummy's weekly letter…* She unfolded the page, but before she could
begin reading, the letterhead jumped out at her: the stylized logo for *Witch Weekly,* her
favorite magazine!

In growing excitement, she read:

*Dear Miss Flint:*

*We wish to thank you for being a devoted subscriber to* Witch Weekly. *As such, we felt
you would appreciate this special opportunity to help our magazine in the months ahead. With the
recent Wizengamot election,* Witch Weekly *is starting a new column devoted to our new
Minister of Magic, Madam Granger.*

*You, being in your first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, are in a unique
position to observe the new Minister's daughter, Miss Rose Weasley. There are many details
about the young woman which, our editorial staff feels sure, will shed new light on the
Minister's attitudes and actions as she takes office.*

*Please don't think we would ask anyone to spy upon Miss Weasley, or invade her privacy in
any way! Not at all! It's simply that any information which would be apparent to any of her
classmates – her favorite foods, what clothes she prefers when not wearing school robes, her
opinions on the wizarding world in general – may be considered common knowledge, and therefore
shareable to the public.*

*If you would consider sharing such details, they'll help us make* Witch Weekly *that
much more informative and far-ranging a publication, with the sort of features you enjoy most!
We've enclosed some pre-addressed note sheets for your use; and please, accept this small sum
as a token of our gratitude. We look forward to a long and illuminating correspondence.*

*Yours truly,*

*Madison H. Prewett, Assistant Editor,* Witch Weekly.

The five Galleon coins slid neatly and silently into Lapis's palm; instinctively, she
clenched her fist to prevent anyone else from seeing them. As nonchalantly as possible, she gave
one of the note sheets a quick scan: yes, it seemed she would receive another five Galleons for
each sheet she sent in. There were spaces for noting Weasley's dress, her meals, her
schoolwork, her habits, her health, what she said in public… all of which, as the letter said, was
public knowledge. And really, there wasn't any harm in sharing what everyone already knew, was
there?

Already, Lapis was planning what she would do with her newfound wealth. Why, she could send in a
report at once: after all, she'd been in classes with Weasley for almost a month, there were
*lots* of juicy details for *Witch Weekly* to digest.

*

Ted changed his features to a rather bland and unobtrusive face, chosen more or less at random,
before arriving at Hogsmeade: he wanted no connection in anyone's mind between this visit and
Professor Longbottom. His first stop was the post office. The owls there would be as unable to find
Harry as the owls in the Hogwarts Owlery, but the post office at least boasted a Floo fireplace he
could use.

Throwing a pinch of Floo powder into the fire, Ted thrust his face into the flames – and once it
was safely out of view from the postal clerk, morphed it back into his own features. He really had
only one guess where Harry *might* be. "Enthalpy House!"

Nothing seemed to happen. "Harry? Harry, are you there?" he called. "It's me,
Ted!"

Still no response. Well, so much for the idea that Harry might be staying at the Granger
residence. Enthalpy House had really been Ted's next-to-last resort; he wouldn't have even
tried, had Tori not put the notion into his head that Harry might be getting down with That
Woman.

Sighing, Ted removed his head from the fire, hurriedly threw in another pinch of Floo powder,
and gave one last try. "Harry Potter!" He didn't expect this to work: simply calling
a person's name into the national Floo Network wouldn't generally get hold of that person
without their prior permission. But he had to try.

Oh, well, it was worth the try.

Ted resumed his anonymous face before straightening up from the fireplace. "Thanks,"
he nodded to the postal clerk, and left the building. *Well, crap, without Harry covering for me,
I don't have a choice. I'll* have *to tell Professor Longbottom… no, wait a minute,
hmm…*

*Maybe not immediately, though. Maybe I can postpone it with the old
'hide-in-plain-sight' gambit. It's worked before.*

And with that thought, Ted altered course and headed for a specific shop on Hogsmeade's main
street.

*

Cold, crisp autumn wind in his face. Green sward beneath him, crystal blue skies above him, and
a new Nimbus 5000 propelling him. And for the first time in over sixteen years, that once-familiar,
all-encompassing exhilaration, born of the freedom he always felt when flying.

Harry soared over the practice pitch of the Holyhead Harpies, reveling in the feel of the broom
in his hands. He hadn't realized, hadn't *truly* realized, just how much he'd
missed this; and the problems of house-elf slavery, and of garnering further support for the
Wizards Patrimony Act, seemed for that moment to be remote and trifling.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Eluned Price, Seeker for the Harpies, easily keeping pace
with him, returning a smile to the joyful grin that threatened to split his face. When Price had
offered Harry the broom and invited him to a "friendly bout", he'd been sure Price
had been mocking him… or at the least, condescending to him. But she honestly seemed to be enjoying
the sheer fact of *his* enjoyment; either Price was a kindred spirit who, like him, loved
flight for its own sake, or she was a more empathetic person than she initially appeared. Either
way, Harry was grateful.

"Spotted the Snitch yet?" she called.

He laughed. "Haven't been looking!" he hollered back. He *hadn't* been
looking, actually, hadn't even *thought* of the Snitch – in fact, he promptly did a loop
in mid-air just for fun. Just as promptly, Price matched both his maneuver and his laughter.

"Well, *one* of us needs to catch it so we can put it back in its box," Price
shouted eventually, "so start looking!" And she began to fly what Harry recognized as a
search pattern, a slow zig-zag down the pitch. He straightened his Nimbus and flew away to her
left, so that the sun would be behind him, and began his own search pattern along a line at right
angles to hers.

In the end, he was first to spot the Golden Snitch, and *almost* managed to beat Price to
it. They were neck and neck for just a few seconds, and afterwards, he was convinced he'd stood
a good chance. But then Price did some sort of fancy barrel roll that caused him to veer and slow
just a hair, for just a fraction of a second – but that was all the professional Seeker needed. Her
fingers closed around the Snitch and she was arcing away before Harry had quite registered what had
happened.

"Good one!" he panted, as she returned to his side with the Snitch struggling in her
hand. "Should've known you'd get it first… but *man,* that was fun! Thanks, Ms.
Price!"

"The pleasure was mine, Mr. Potter," Price replied. "C'mon, we'd better
head back to the clubhouse." And she dipped her broom and plummeted from the sky. To anyone
not a Seeker, it would have looked like a death-defying dive; to Harry, who'd done his fair
share of Wronsky Feints in his day, it seemed perfectly natural, and he immediately followed
suit.

Gwenog Jones met them as they alighted in front of the clubhouse. "What kept you two? The
Chasers and Beaters finished their practice twenty minutes ago."

"Just having fun," Harry said briefly – he and Price were still catching their breath
– but he gave Jones a smile to show he'd enjoyed himself.

"Ah. Well, they should be out of the showers by now… I thought we'd all meet and mingle
in the lounge, Harry, we'll have refreshments, drinks, whatever you like. The rest of the
team's probably already there – shall we join them? Price, you can join us as soon as
you've secured the Snitch."

Harry nodded and started walking in the direction Jones had gestured – where, sure enough, there
were the sounds of voices, glasses, and cutlery. Jones fell back a pace to stay with Price.
"Well?" she asked quietly.

"Well," Price echoed with a shrug, "you heard him. We were just having fun. And
he *was,* too: it's not often you see anyone getting into the flying like that."

Jones relaxed slightly. "Ah. Good. Then you wouldn't call Potter a threat…"

"I didn't say *that.* He's got no polish yet, but he's *good.* I beat
him to the Snitch today for two reasons, and two only. I had to use one of my special moves, one
that I'd been saving for the Cup finals… thank Merlin no scout from another team saw it. And
second…" Price smiled wryly. "He *was* just having fun. He wasn't even
*trying* for the Snitch until the end." With a shake of her head, she trotted away to
replace the Snitch in its case, leaving Gwenog Jones pondering whether she might persuade Harry
that there were *lots* of career options more fun than professional Quidditch.

Harry, in the meantime, had made his way to the lounge and the anticipated food and drink:
mostly *hors d'oeuvres* for the food, but the lounge had a well-stocked bar. Harry,
wishing to keep his wits about him, declined butterbeer or stronger drink; he received a tall glass
of sparkling cider with a touch of pomegranate juice, and carried it to the buffet table.

Most of the Harpies were already gathered around the buffet: at least ten of them, which meant
both the first team and the reserves were there. They greeted Harry, but didn't crowd him, for
which he was grateful: it wasn't too large a group, he wasn't feeling *anxious,*
exactly, but he still felt more comfortable with groups of two or three at a time. He gathered
himself a small plate of food, and withdrew to the side of the room.

As it turned out, whether by accident or design, they *did* approach him in groups of two
or three: to greet, inquire, and socialize. All very friendly and, as promised, low key. Harry felt
himself starting to relax, and had to remind himself to keep Constant Vigilance. After all, a
certain redhead hadn't yet made her appearance.

He found himself gravitating to those Harpies who were closer to his own age (chronological if
not physical). Soon enough, he was deep in discussion with Rae Davies, the reserve Keeper, as she
described her first chance at League play: at a game from the previous year. "Hughes, our lead
Keeper, was still recovering from a Bludger to the head, so they put me in. So there I was, facing
Puddlemere's Keeper, Wood…"

"*Oliver* Wood?"

"Yeah, that's right, you were on the same team at Hogwarts, weren't you?"
Davies grinned. "Wish I could say he's mellowed with age, but no such luck. Because
what's happened, he's got our Chasers totally shut out, while I'm trying to be in three
places at once, right? And he starts *screaming* at me – screaming *advice.* Which I
pretty much *have* to ignore, don't I? I mean, the opposition giving you advice is bad
enough, but *taking* it?"

She was laughing now, an infectious belly-laugh, and Harry had to grin. "Even if it
works," he guessed.

"*Especially* if it works, right. Well, I pretend I'm ignoring him, and he shuts
up eventually… but it's Wood, after all, and he *is* a first-string Keeper. So I wait for
a bit, see, and then I start trying out what he said. And in the end," she finished
triumphantly, "we only lost to Puddlemere by ten points."

Harry nodded appreciatively: if Puddlemere United was as good today as they'd been fifteen
years ago, losing to them by only ten points was a noteworthy accomplishment. "Wish I
could've seen it…" he began, but was interrupted by Jones's approach.

"Harry, we've a tradition here at the Harpies for our guests," she told him.
"Group photos with the team." She waved at the walls of the lounge, where there were
indeed many framed photographs. Harry recognized a few of the celebrities posing with the team: one
photo showed the Harpies gathered around Cornelius Fudge, another had members of the Weird Sisters
band amongst the team. (One Weird Sister held a set of bagpipes: the image would try to bring the
chanter to his mouth to play, only to be smacked by the Harpy standing next to him.)

"For our clubhouse," Jones hastened to add, "not for our publicists."

Harry couldn't think of any reason not to accede. He obligingly allowed Jones to lead him to
the center of the room and turn him to face a camera, mounted on a tripod some distance away. He
stood in place as Jones arranged her players on either side of him, forming two rows.
"Everyone face the camera," she finally called out, taking her own position and pointing
her wand at the camera. "Ready… aaaaand…"

At the last moment, Harry felt an arm slip from behind him and across his torso. He had no
chance to react before the camera's flash went off, with a burst of brilliance and a puff of
purple smoke. As soon as his vision cleared, he turned in place to see whose arm it was.

Ginny had given some thought to this moment, and prepared carefully. Her hair had been brushed
until it shone, and was hanging long, as she'd worn it at school. Her face was artfully made up
to suggest freshness rather than sophistication. Her Quidditch robes, in the team colors of gold
and dark green, suited her complexion perfectly – and were better fitted to her figure than most of
the others in the room. Every detail of her appearance was a subliminal connection to Harry's
days with her at Hogwarts.

"Hello, Harry," she said softly.

Harry had also given some thought to this moment, but he was unprepared for the jolt to his
stomach upon confronting Ginny. On an instant, his newly-teenaged body remembered the long hours it
had spent with hers, and demanded more. It took a moment for his adult mind to put down his
body's betrayal, but for that moment, he stood staring slack-jawed at his onetime girl
friend.

She didn't seem displeased by his reaction. She gave a demure smile and waited for him to
respond, quite sure now of her ground.

He decided to take advantage of his reflexive reaction, and play along. "Ginny," he
said, making his voice sound dazed. He made no move toward her. "You… you look…"

"Thanks," she said with a broad smile. "It's wonderful to see you, too,
Harry. It's like a miracle, isn't it? And look at you…" She reached out and brushed
his fringe with her fingertips. "You haven't changed, not at all."

"Well, you've changed a *little,*" Harry replied shyly. "But only a
little. I mean, really, you're the same person you were in your fifth year… my sixth… you
remember?"

If possible, Ginny's smile broadened. She started guiding Harry away from the center of the
room. "How could I forget?" she chuckled. Falling back half a step behind him, she
quickly glanced at her teammates – the glance at once requesting privacy and warning poachers.
"It's sweet of you to say so."

"Yeah… sixth year… that was quite the year, wasn't it?" Harry continued. "Our
last quiet year together, I reckon – except it wasn't all that quiet. What with Cormac
McLaggen… or Won-Won and Lav-Lav… or how about the Slug Club?" He returned her chuckle.
"Remember Slughorn's first meeting, on the train? How you put Blaise Zabini in his place?
I'll never forget that."

Ginny paused at the mention of Zabini. After a brief hesitation, she replied, "Ah. I
suppose you've been talking with Ron, then."

Harry turned serious. "We've spoken, yeah, but not about you. And besides, Ron
wouldn't know anything about your cute little kimono." He watched in satisfaction as
Ginny's face froze into an immobile mask. Plainly, she was ransacking her memory, trying to
deduce what Harry might have heard, and where. He gave a diffident shrug and added, "Well, I
*have* been dead. One gets glimpses." *No harm in setting a few doubts in her mind,*
he felt.

"Oh," she said, suddenly subdued.

On impulse, he reached out and touched her forearm. "Ginny… it's not my place to say
anything. I was dead. It's only reason that the rest of the world should move on… that
*you* move on. All I want to ask is, are you sure? I mean, Blaise Zabini pretty much stood for
everything Dumbledore's Army was created to fight *against…*" This hadn't been
part of the script he'd envisioned in his head, but of a sudden he *had* to try to
dissuade her… for the sake of the younger Ginny he'd known.

Ginny brought up her other hand to cover his. "But it's different now, Harry.
*Blaise* is different now. He understands the need for, for diversity in our society – he
*welcomes* it. Diversity in birth and blood, and diversity in thought… a difference of opinion
doesn't make a person a traitor, after all, or even an enemy. He *knows* this."

Harry sighed. He wished he could tell Ginny about Zabini's statement on the Hogwarts
Express, which he'd never shared in detail: *"I wouldn't touch a filthy little blood
traitor like her whatever she looked like."* But he found he couldn't bring himself to
repeat the words… and doubted it would help anything if he could. "Ginny, your loyalty to him
does you credit… and it's probably better than he deserves. That may be how Zabini acts, these
days – but I can't believe it's how he thinks."

"I can," she insisted. "Blaise and I, we've talked a lot. I *know* how
he thinks now, and it's not like at Hogwarts." She took a deep breath, entwined his
fingers with her own, and filled her voice with all the compassion and wisdom she could muster.
"He's changed. People do change, Harry."

He looked Ginny squarely in the eye. "Yes," he said, quietly, flatly. "People do
change." He extracted his fingers from hers, and concluded, "I'm sorry…"

The sentence was never finished. With an all-too-familiar blazing look, Ginny lunged forward,
took Harry's face between her hands, and – to the sound of laughter and polite applause from
the other Harpies – gave him a fiery, passionate kiss.

Immediately, Harry broke the kiss and backed away from her. "*No,*" he said
firmly, refusing to allow anger to seep into his voice. "That's long since over. I'm
sorry, Ginny, but we're done." Deliberately, he turned away and began to walk back to the
center of the room.

"*Harry,*" called Ginny, and the anger in *her* voice was very evident. In
two quick strides she caught with him and seized his bicep… intent on stopping him from leaving
her.

He spun in place, wrenching out of her grip, and his ironwood wand in his hand quicker than the
eye could follow. The *Incarcerous* spell came so fast that no observer could have told
whether it was done non-verbally. Thin ropes appeared from mid-air, to bind Ginny's legs from
ankle to knee.

Even as she tumbled to the floor, Ginny was crying out in something approaching panic.
"Harry, please, *no!* Not this! This killed Hermione!"

"*WHAT?*" Harry yelped in shock. A flick of his wand banished the ropes. "I…
Ginny, I didn't mean to *hurt* you… you said 'Hermione'?"

"Yes," she muttered, waiting for a second to see if Harry would help her to her feet.
When no help was forthcoming, she rose from the floor, acutely conscious of her teammates'
astonished gazes. "Kingsley Shacklebolt used that spell on Hermione, but he lost control of it
when he died, and it *killed* her. You can understand why I'm a little nervous
about…"

"Yeah, I do understand now. Hermione's your friend, after all." Harry said it
absently, with no trace of irony. "Sorry about that, but I didn't know… I mean, the
*Prophet* didn't go into any details about the incident…"

"Blaise was there when it happened, he told me about it." She dismissed thoughts of
that day with a flip of her hair and a pleading outstretch of her hands. "Harry, please, this
isn't like you. We're friends – we're almost *family* – *that* hasn't
changed! What have I done to you to deserve being treated like this?"

*You're consort to a Pureblood bigot who thinks nothing of allying with criminals if
it'd let him set the clock back twenty years,* Harry replied silently. *You took advantage
of your best friend's generosity to collect evidence for blackmailing her. And I can't talk
about those, because I can't tell you how I know.*

"You've chosen a path," he finally replied.

From his memory Harry summoned up the youngest Ginny, who once put her elbow in a butter dish;
the bold Ginny, who reminded him there was always a way to his goal if he had nerve enough; the
fighting Ginny, who battled the Dark Lord's forces in her last two years at Hogwarts. He
summoned them, and set them alongside the adult Ginny now before him, professionally successful and
socially ambitious; and to all of them he said, with sad finality: "Good-bye."

And amidst the total silence in the Harpies' lounge, he turned away from her and left the
room.

*

"Well!" exclaimed Tori as she sat down for dinner. "I was *wondering* if
we'd see you today! You didn't tell anyone," *by which I mean you didn't tell
me,* was the metatext, "where you'd be."

"No," agreed Ted easily, slinging his bookbag from his shoulder, "no, I
didn't." She made a circular motion with her fork, her usual signal for him to continue
talking. "No one saw me today, which is fine. I got a lot done." He lowered his voice and
added with a conspiratorial smirk, "I could fill a *book* with what I know now about
Hufflepuff's new tactics."

Tori nodded, as though to say she'd expected no less. Ted glanced across the table, where
Rose was hesitantly approaching them. "Speaking of books…" he said, and reached into his
bookbag. He extracted *History's Greatest Witches* and presented it with a flourish to
Rose, as Tori watched with interest. "Sorry, didn't mean to keep it… just, y'know, get
it away from Peeves and the ink, and all. And then today, things've been a little crazy."
Which was truer than either of the girls knew.

Rose accepted the book eagerly, plopped down at the table opposite Ted and Tori, and proceeded
to delve into her new treasure. She stopped at the entry on *Granger, Hermione,* and
immediately became oblivious to her surroundings. Ted and Tori exchanged an amused look.

"So," Tori said after a moment, helping herself to some sliced ham, "our first
match is against Slytherin. Learn anything about *their* tactics?"

"I learned Hill's such a lousy shot with the Quaffle, the hoop's probably the
safest thing on the pitch," Ted replied drily. "Merlin, if it wasn't for gravity, he
couldn't hit the *ground.*" They shared a chuckle at that.

"It's a capital mistake," came an adult voice from behind them, "to
underestimate your adversaries." Professor Longbottom approached them, his manner cordial.
"The lesson applies to more than my Defense classes, Mr. Lupin."

"Oh, I know it, sir," Ted assured him.

"Mm, let's hope so. I've grown fond of having the Quidditch Cup in my office, you
know." Longbottom looked thoughtful. "I'd like to discuss the Gryffindor team with
you, Mr. Lupin… between the two of us. Would you stop by my office some time after dinner? I'd
appreciate it." He nodded and continued to the head table.

Tori watched Longbottom leave, then turned curiously to Ted. "Ted? Is there something you
want to tell me? No, let me rephrase that: something you *ought* to tell me?"

He shrugged. "I won't know that," he answered with a perfectly maintained
nonchalance, "until I talk with the Professor."

*

As he calmly walked down the corridor, Ted wasn't as calm as he appeared. Professor
Longbottom's sudden appearance at dinner was… well, Ted hoped and prayed it was mere
coincidence. And Longbottom had given no sign he knew of Ted's absence that day… Arriving at
the Defense classroom, he schooled his features into tranquility – easy enough for a metamorphmagus
– and told his nerves to get a grip, before he entered the room. A door within the classroom led to
Professor Longbottom's office; the door was standing open. Longbottom was sitting at his desk,
grading some essays. Ted knocked on the door jamb.

"Ah, come in, Mr. Lupin. Take a seat." Longbottom gestured at the chair in front of
the desk, facing him. Ted sat down and waited politely as Longbottom finished grading the essay in
his hand, set it on the stack of parchment, and gave Ted his attention.

After a moment of mutual silence, Ted cleared his throat. "Er… you wanted to discuss the
team with me, sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Lupin," Longbottom said mildly. "I wanted to know what you thought the
team's chances would be this year, given that their Captain and star Chaser is about to be
suspended from the team."

"Oh." Suddenly Ted's stomach was twisting, and it wasn't from his dinner.

"You know," Longbottom continued, reminiscing, "I once lost fifty House points
*and* served a night's detention – for being out of bed past curfew. I should take that
into account in deciding an appropriate punishment for leaving the school grounds without
permission." His eyes, no longer mild, fixed on Ted's face. "The only reason I
haven't already assigned your punishment, and docked points, was that I wanted first to hear
*why.* Whatever your reason, I can't imagine it would be sufficient – but I confess
I'm curious."

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes still locked on Ted, and waited.

Ted forced himself to clear his dry throat. He knew that, if he tried to spin a story, no matter
how plausible, Longbottom wouldn't believe it. And the truth was so fantastic that Longbottom
might not believe *that,* either. Which left him very little to say.

So he was surprised when his mouth, quite independently of his brain, *found* something to
say.

"I need to tell Harry."

Longbottom looked surprised. "Still? Just like last night? Mr. Lupin, if I wouldn't
contact Harry for a personal crisis then, I certainly won't do so after you've broken so
many…"

"It's not a 'personal crisis', Professor," interrupted Ted desperately.
"It's what you said last night: it really *is* a matter of life or death."
Longbottom's gaze had focused and sharpened, like a magnifying lens – appropriate, since it
felt like it was burning Ted where he sat – but Ted refused to flinch from it.
"Please."

At long last, Longbottom sighed and stood. "You'd best hope, for your sake, that
you've not exaggerated," was all he said, as he stepped over to the Floo fireplace. He
muttered inaudibly over the pot of Floo powder, then tossed a handful into the flames.
"Hogwarts staff. Harry Potter."

Within moments, Harry's head appeared in the green flames. "Neville? What's…"
He fell silent as he spotted Ted standing in the background.

"Congratulations, Harry," nodded Longbottom. "It's your very first
disciplinary action as a staff member. He insists on involving you. Are you free at the moment to
come in? Staff can Floo into the school nowadays."

Harry nodded. His head vanished; seconds later, he emerged from the fireplace in a crouch.
"Right, then," he said, straightening. "What's this about? Ted?"

Ted realized belatedly that having Harry at Hogwarts was going to be harder than he'd
thought: he couldn't lie to his godfather, it was physically impossible. "I left the
school grounds without permission today," he confessed forthrightly. "I went to
Hogsmeade, because I had to find some way to contact you. I truly think it's that
serious."

Harry and Neville traded looks. "Go on," Harry said evenly.

Reaching into his bookbag, Ted brought out a pair of dragonhide gloves and put them on.
"This came in the mail yesterday," he said, and reached again into his bookbag to
carefully, oh so carefully, bring out *History's Greatest Witches.* "Someone sent it
to Rose. Don't touch it, either of you, without gloves." He set the book on the desk and
took a respectful step back.

He now had the full attention of both the Leader of the Hogwarts Resistance and the Boy Who
Lived Again.

"Isn't that the book you gave to Rose at dinner?" Neville asked.

Ted shook his head. "When I couldn't reach Harry, I bought a duplicate copy in
Hogsmeade. I gave that one to Rose. She doesn't know anything's wrong. I thought, until we
had some idea what was going on, it might be better to keep things close, y'know?"

Cautiously, Harry approached the desk, drawing his wand as he did. A flicked gesture, and the
book opened itself; the pages began to slowly turn, one at a time. Harry watched them intently… and
Ted licked his lips. "Professor," he murmured, "look at his eyes…"

"I see it, Mr. Lupin," Neville replied, fascinated. For the green of Harry's
irises had expanded, to fill the entire eye… and Harry seemed to be using his eyes to see something
other than light, some vision beyond optical.

The pages abruptly stopped turning. "One of the legacies of the Deathly Hallows,
gentlemen," Harry said softly. "I'm sensitive to the currents of magic. I can see
where it's being used… and where it's *been* used." He smiled at the picture on
the opened page: Hermione, somberly accepting the position of Minister of Magic.

At Harry's nod, the pages resumed their turning, stopping again only when they reached the
book's index. "You were right to be concerned, Ted," Harry said at last. His voice
carried strange harmonics that neither of his listeners had ever before heard. "Some
potion's been applied to those two pages – something I don't recognize. Did either of you
notice anything unusual about them?"

Neville and Ted shook their heads. "They looked more or less like every other page in the
book," volunteered Neville.

"To me, they look… I'd call it oily. A sort of oily grey, like a grease stain."
The former Master of the Hallows shook his head sharply, and Harry returned to them. "On the
upper corner of each of those two pages. Just where someone would grasp the page to turn it… on the
two pages Rose Weasley would almost certainly turn to first."

"The index… and the chapter on her mum," said Ted shakily, as he saw what Harry was
implying.

"Dear Merlin." Neville sat down heavily, looking stunned at the news. "Mr. Lupin,
I may have to rescind your punishment yet. How on *earth* did you know?"

And this was the moment Ted had been dreading. He could only pray that his guardian angel was
still on the job. "It just… felt like something was off," he said, waving his hands as
though they could express what words couldn't. "It just smelled wrong,
y'know?"

And he could see at once that Harry understood. "In other words, instinct," he said
with a nod of sympathy. "Your subconscious putting together the clues, but not telling you
why. I hate to think how many times I had to rely on instinct, during that damned Horcrux hunt… but
then, I didn't have a lot of other options."

"So what's this potion supposed to do?" Neville asked, recovering his poise.

"Don't know," said Harry, examining the book again. "I'm not familiar
with this specific blend of magics, it's new to me. But it's puzzling: it doesn't look
particularly dangerous. I mean, the trace doesn't look *good* to me, but I don't see
quite how…" His voice faded; his eyes narrowed. Another flick of his wand turned the pages of
the book again, until Hermione's entry was displayed. "Hold on a moment… that's
not…" He fell silent again.

Neville and Ted watched as Harry used his wand to flip the pages back and forth, showing first
the index, then Hermione's entry, then the index, then Hermione's entry again. "I need
a clean glass phial, Neville," he said at last. "And two scalpels, or styli, that you
don't mind throwing away."

Mystified, Neville went into the Defense classroom, and returned with a small phial and two
small knives. With a quick *Aguamenti,* Harry half-filled the phial with water. Then he used
one knife to scrape the page of Hermione's entry – taking greatest care to not touch the page
with his skin – and dipped the knife into the water. He used his wand to turn to the book's
index, and with the other knife, again scrape the page. When he dipped the second knife into the
water, he drew a long, hissing breath.

"We definitely need to keep this *quiet,*" Harry announced, in a tone that
brooked no contradiction. "And we definitely need a Potions expert… or at least, someone more
expert than us." He sighed, and with a final wave of his wand, sealed the phial. "And
since this was intended for Rose Weasley, our choice of Potions expert is pretty obvious, don't
you think?"



43. XXXXIII: Forced Re-Evaluation
---------------------------------

**(A/N:** We met Joanie Vincent all the way back in Chapter 4; Agnes Mayfair, in Chapter 31.
I'm trying to conserve characters, you see.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** I've borrowed slightly in this chapter from the work of William Goldman.
And quite a bit from J.K. Rowling, but that goes without saying – as should the fact that I do not
profit thereby.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXXXIII: Forced Re-Evaluation**

*

*Monday, 30 September*

*Dear Ms Prewett: Here's my "sharing sheet" for Witch Weekly this week. Also, I
didn't put it on the sheet, but you should know that Rose Weasley looked sick in Charms today,
so Professor Flitwick sent her to the Hospital Wing for some Pepper-Up Potion. People are saying
she may have wizard's flu. Before she got sick, she seemed to be very excited that her mum was
the new Minister, but now she's not saying a lot about it. I put other details on the sharing
sheet, and I'll have another sheet ready when Rose gets out of the Hospital Wing.*

*Yours sincerely, Lapis Flint.*

*

"And I've reset the Floo connection, and here are the keys and such," Susan Bones
finished, sliding a fat envelope across Hermione's new desk at the Ministry. "The Ossuary
is now officially let to you. I thought perhaps we might celebrate this evening by having dinner
together, you and I and Neville…"

"Thank you, Susan," replied Hermione, accepting the envelope, "but perhaps I
could take a rain check? I'm… not up for socializing tonight…" Her smile looked wan.

"Rough Tuesday, Minister?" Susan grinned, nodding at the other parchments piled high
on the desk. Her grin died when Hermione didn't respond in kind.

"It's not that. It's… Madam Pomfrey sent me an owl this morning. Rose has to spend
the night in the Hospital Wing." Hermione shook herself and smiled more brightly. "Poppy
reassures me it's probably nothing, but better to be safe than sorry. I suppose I'm simply
worrying too much."

"I don't think it's possible for a mother to worry too much," Susan said
sympathetically. "Hope Rose feels better soon… and we'll definitely take a rain
check." She gave Hermione a quick hug and left the Minister's office, almost bumping into
Blaise Zabini as he was going in.

*

*Right, then, I've read through the first five chapters of each year's textbook,*
Harry thought wearily as he leaned back and rubbed his eyes. *To cover the
"theoreticals", if any come up tomorrow. I really, really hope they don't. I
don't care what Neville says, I'm pants as a teacher.*

He looked around the master study at The Ossuary. He'd officially moved in that day – true
to his promise, he'd asked Ayesha to transfer all his belongings from Jacob Clayman's flat,
and he was bemused to note how many items had been cleaned, pressed, repaired, or otherwise
improved during the transfer. It boded well for leaving the elves to tend the place in his
absence.

Harry sighed, stretched, and glanced at his watch. *About time for dinner, I guess. I can whip
up something simple – Susan did say the larder would be well stocked. And then tomorrow, Hogwarts.
Oh, and I need to remember to bring a little something for Rose; she's probably going
stir-crazy in the Hospital Wing.*

He left the study and headed for the kitchen, but he never made it there. He stopped, quite
surprised, in the dining room, where he found the table lavishly set for one. Brillig and Ayesha
stood hopefully by the table; both were now wearing identical crimson livery.

"Um, so," he said cautiously, "what's all this…?"

"It is Mister Harry's first night in his new home!" exclaimed Brillig. "And
we are helping him celebrate! Brillig and Ayesha have prepared a *wonderful* feast for Mister
Harry, for Brillig knows how Mister Harry enjoys food…!"

"And this is giving Ayesha a chance to be of use," Ayesha put it hurriedly, "by
serving Mister Harry dinner, for she has waited on masters and knows how it is properly
done…"

"But we are also remembering that Mister Harry wants Ayesha to be a guest, and not to be
working," rejoined Brillig, more loudly, "so Brillig is here to wait on Mister
Harry…"

"Enough!" Harry raised a quelling hand, and the two elves instantly fell silent. They
continued to watch him intently, expectantly, and Harry couldn't help sighing. *So now
they're competing for my attention? I have to choose which of them serves me dinner? And what
do I do with the one who's* not *waiting on me…?*

He sighed again, scratched his nose, and stalled for time to think by pretending to inspect the
table layout. *Three forks, two knives, one soup spoon; soup bowl on the plate, plus a separate
bread plate; water and wine glasses.* *My goodness, how fancy a meal did these two prepare,
just for me?*

*Just for me… hmmm…*

"Something bothers me about how this table's set," he said quietly.

Immediately, Brillig and Ayesha were on either side; Brillig was all but wringing her hands, and
Ayesha couldn't help bouncing from one foot to the other in her anxiety. "Oh, we is not
doing it right? Mister Harry is displeased with us…?"

"Nothing that can't be quickly and easily fixed," Harry hastened to assure
them.

"Yes, yes!" they chorused eagerly. "Tell us what we must be doing!"

"Well," said Harry, trying to be natural, as if it were the most obvious thing in the
world, "we need two more settings, just like this one, *here* and *here.*" And
he gestured to either side of the setting on the table.

Ayesha looked puzzled, then excited. "Mister Harry is expecting company to
arrive?"

"No," Harry smiled, and waited to see if either elf would pick it up. It took a few
moments…

Brillig's head swung abruptly to stare at Harry's face, her mouth agape, her eyes wide.
"You… you cannot mean… oh, Mister Harry must be joking!"

"Ask Canby if I'd joke about something like this," Harry said, now perfectly
serious. "Or ask Dobby."

Her anxiety now beginning to tinge with fear, Brillig looked down at the table setting, back up
to Harry, across to Ayesha, back to the table… growing more frantic by the second. Though Ayesha
could tell that the other elf was upset, she still hadn't cottoned to the reason.

Again, Harry gestured to either side of the place set for him at the table, and tried for a
lighter, more helpful mood. "We'll bring the food out from the kitchen and put it here
between us," he suggested, "and each of us can serve ourselves…"

Horrified, Ayesha jumped backward as though she'd been bitten. *Ah. She's sussed it
out. Right then, time to play the sympathy card.*

"I spent a lot of years eating alone, you know," Harry reminded Brillig, "when I
was in exile from the wizarding world. Honestly, you'd be doing me a big favor if you'd
join me tonight…" He let the sentence hang, open-ended.

Brillig swallowed nervously. Neither elf said anything; neither elf made any motion. After a
moment, Harry tapped the empty tabletop on either side of his place setting, and smiled as
encouragingly as he knew how.

Whether it was to help Harry in his 'hour of need', or whether it was due to the
ingrained obedience of house-elves, Harry never quite knew. He only knew that, within seconds, two
more place settings had materialized on the table, and Ayesha and Brillig were diligently bringing
out dish after dish of prepared food: an eclectic mix of solid British fare and Middle Eastern
cuisine.

He noted with some amusement that neither Brillig nor Ayesha would sit down before he did, but
he decided not to make an issue of it. It was enough that they were actually sitting at the same
table, dining together. *Like equals,* Harry thought in satisfaction. *If this doesn't
get the lesson across, I don't know what will.*

"So what are we eating tonight?" he began, feigning ignorance to draw the elves out of
their nervousness and into conversation. "This looks like, mm, lamb? And is that cumin I
smell…?"

*

"Yes, the thirdies I tutor are having *such* a hard time with Dark creatures,"
said Alice Shrewsbury, in a voice just loud enough for Tori to overhear but not so loud as to make
Alice's intent *too* obvious. "You know, identifying them from a distance."

"Really?" responded Joanie Vincent, who like Alice was from Ravenclaw. "What, are
they overthinking things again?"

It was Wednesday morning, and the fourth-years' Defense Against the Dark Arts class was
*supposed* to have begun already, but Professor Longbottom had yet to open the classroom door.
All the students were standing out in the corridor, waiting for the Professor. There was some
milling about, but in general, the students tended to congregate along House lines… with notable
exceptions. Such as the cluster of girls centered around Alice Shrewsbury.

Or such as Tori Weasley, standing by herself.

Something odd had happened over the summer holidays. Back when she and her classmates were all
first-years together, she'd happily hung out with most of them, boys and girls alike… but that
was three years ago. Now a lot of the boys seemed to be keeping their distance, and had trouble
talking to her – though they certainly had no trouble *looking* at her. Well, Mum had
explained about that: they couldn't help being that way, being boys, any more than she could
help being an attractive girl (who kept her Veela powers *very* firmly under control, thank
you). And anyway, Ted's qualities more than made up for her male classmates'
awkwardness.

But Tori hadn't expected so many of her *female* classmates to likewise be keeping
their distance – not all of them, thank Merlin, but a good fraction. And the glances *they*
shot her way were far less appreciative.

Still, none of the girls had seemed outright antagonistic – except Alice's little clique,
who'd been taking pot-shots at her since term began. Tori wouldn't let them see how much
those shots hurt – she wouldn't give them the satisfaction – instead, she ignored them with
dignity.

But it didn't seem to be helping.

"Evidently so," continued Shrewsbury. "You'd *think* they'd be able
to see that any creature that can hurt you, or make you hurt yourself, is a Dark creature. It seems
so *obvious.* Hinkypunks? Lure travelers into the bogs to drown – Dark creatures. Basilisks?
Poisonous and petrifying – Dark creatures. It's *obvious.*"

"Dementors? Suck out your souls," offered Vincent. It was becoming almost a game
between her and Shrewsbury, alternating suggestions.

"Werewolves? Tear you limb from limb, if they don't make you another
werewolf."

"Veela? Sap men's wills."

"Vampires? They can enthrall you *and* drink your blood. They're Dark *two*
ways."

"Ooh, that's a *good* one, Joanie. I can't think of any other Dark creature
that can hurt you *and* make you hurt yourself. I suppose you could breed two Dark creatures
together. What d'you think, Victoire? Breed a Veela *and* a werewolf? Would that make a
*double* Dark creature?"

Stung into rage, Tori lost all semblance of dignified composure. She spun in place to hurl
invective at the smirking Ravenclaws. Before she could say a word, however, a new voice broke
in.

"Okay, first of all, five points from Ravenclaw. Second of all, didn't you learn
*anything* about Dark creatures last year, you lot? Veela aren't Dark creatures, and Miss
Weasley's father *cannot* be a werewolf. And third, five *more* points from
Ravenclaw. Now inside, everyone. Let's get started." The classroom door was open now, but
it wasn't Professor Longbottom standing there, waiting for them to enter. None of her
classmates yet recognized him, but Tori did: it was Harry Potter.

She wanted to burst into song, but she settled for a sly, secret smile. This was going to be
good.

"Who…?" began someone in the crowd.

"Mr. Longbottom had business away from Hogwarts today. I'll be teaching in his place.
Now – *inside.*"

Harry said nothing further until the class had, with some muttering, taken their seats. He
called roll, noting particularly when Shrewsbury and Vincent timidly answered to their names. Once
that was done, he stood in front of the classroom and addressed Alice Shrewsbury. "You
*did* cover Dark creatures in your third year, right? Well, if you'd been paying
attention, you'd know that werewolves can't have children." His eyes snapped to Joanie
Vincent. "Twelve inches of parchment, from each of you, detailing the reasons why. Due Friday,
and don't think I won't let Mr. Longbottom know to expect it."

He sighed and added, more softly, "Plus, I should know better than anyone that Bill
Weasley's not a werewolf. After all, I was nearby when he was attacked by Fenrir
Greyback."

One of the other students began to protest. "But… but that's ridiculous! You'd have
been a baby when that happened! You may be in Professor Longbottom's NEWT classes, but that
doesn't mean you can teach *us!*"

"Ah, well, I'm afraid you're wrong on several counts, Mr. Berkeley. I was older
than you when Bill Weasley was hurt. And I can indeed teach you – want to see my staff badge? And
I'm not in *any* of Mr. Longbottom's classes, NEWT or otherwise. He's not my
teacher – in fact, once upon a time, I taught *him.*"

Berkeley blinked several times, then his jaw dropped and his face went bloodless. "You…
y-you're Ha… H-H-Har…"

"Harry," Harry helped him say, and added, "Potter. That would be me, yes. Any
further comments from anyone?" His eyes swept across a classroom that had fallen suddenly,
wholly, and absolutely silent. Tori was tempted, *very* tempted, to make some cricket chirps
under her breath (she could always blame Ted's influence on her), but decided not to push her
luck.

*

The arrival of a Hogwarts owl on Wednesday afternoon had sparked near-frenzy in the office of
the Minister of Magic. Upon reading the message, Minister Granger looked distraught, almost
tearful: she cancelled her appointments for the rest of the day, sent a quick message to Ron
Weasley, and announced that she had to go to Hogwarts immediately. The office rumor mill quickly
deduced that the health issues with the Minister's daughter had taken an abrupt turn for the
worse.

"Trust me, I understand completely," opined Agnes Mayfair, who worked in Floo
Authority, and whose opinion seemed to be the consensus among the Ministry staffers. "If one
of *my* daughters had fallen badly ill when *they* were at Hogwarts, I'd have been up
there like a shot. *Any* caring parent would."

"Mm, I can only imagine," Zabini sympathized.

*

Ted gave the letter one last dubious read before tucking it in his pocket and sending the owl on
its way. Rather an odd letter, really, not at all what he was expecting… and definitely something
he wanted to discuss with Harry.

The news that Harry Potter was substituting for Professor Longbottom had spread through Hogwarts
like wildfire. After the morning's Defense class with the fourth-years, there were only two
other Defense classes, the second-years immediately after lunch and the sixth-year NEWT class; but
Ted was willing to bet that both of those classes had been fully attended… with a few
"auditors" as well.

Although he'd listened to the grapevine closely, Ted hadn't heard any speculation about
Harry's Defense skills. No one was publicly challenging the claim that this seventeen-year-old,
who'd missed his last year at Hogwarts and never taken NEWT's, was nonetheless eminently
qualified to teach all Defense classes, all years. Either it was assumed that Harry had spent his
year before the Battle of Hogwarts in hiding, studying and training (a logical assumption, really),
or that he'd learned deep, arcane secrets of magic while trapped beyond the Veil. More likely,
though, Ted figured, no one was even wondering about Harry's skills: he was simply Harry
Potter, the Chosen One, and his prowess was accepted without question.

He glanced at his watch. Harry's last class for the day would be over shortly; if Ted could
arrive at the classroom as the sixth-years were leaving, he'd have Harry's undivided
attention until dinner. Nodding to himself, he left his dorm and headed down to the Gryffindor
common room, intent on making his way to the Defense classroom with all due speed.

A plan that was interrupted almost before it had begun, upon discovering Tori Weasley waiting
for him in the common room, a determined gleam in her blue eyes. "Off somewhere
again?"

"Wanted to talk to Harry, soon as he's free," Ted shrugged casually.

The determined gleam faded, replaced by concern. "There's a *new* problem,
isn't there? Is it something I can help with?"

"*New* problem?" he asked quizzically. There would be no shaking Tori off,
obviously. He waved at her to precede him through the portrait hole, and waited until they were in
the corridor before speaking again. "It's not a problem *per se.* I just got a letter
from Gran, and I wanted to talk to Harry about it, that's all."

Tori fell into step beside him. "What's up with your Gran?"

He shrugged again. "Eh, she wants to how I'd feel about changing my name. It sounded a
little off, really: I've never had any problem being Ted Lupin. But she seems to think
there'd be some advantages to being Ted Black. Can't say I'm too keen on it,
though."

"Ah." Tori didn't comment immediately; when she did, it was obliquely. "You
do know, right, that you'll still be *you* no matter what your last name is?"

"Well… yeah, obviously." Ted raised an eyebrow at her, but she seemed reluctant to
elaborate. Which, come to think of it, wasn't like Tori.

He was about to ask what she'd meant when their stroll was interrupted by a streak of
silver. It flashed up the corridor, stopping just in front of Ted, and coalesced into the shape of
a tiny stag. "I'm on my way to the Hospital Wing," it said in Harry's voice.
"Meet me there."

The Patronus messenger dissolved into vapor, leaving Ted shaking his head. "Need to find
out how they do that," he said to himself, then glanced at Tori. "Well, I did want to
talk to Harry, so if you'll excuse me…"

"Like hell," she retorted sharply, and linked her arm in his. "This is about Rose
again, isn't it? Fine, you can tell me what's going on as we walk."

"What do you mean, 'again'?" he said quickly. "Didn't you hear that
Rosie's sick – she spent last night in the Hospital Wing. Harry must be visiting her…"

"Please, Ted. Despite appearances, I'm not a dumb blonde. Haven't you figured that
out yet?" With her free hand, she began to tick off points. "Rose gets a book from a
mysterious admirer. You take it away from her before she can read it. Next day you give her a
different copy of the book – and I *know* it wasn't the same book she received, because
you left the price tags on, twit."

*Damn!* Ted would not allow a groan to escape his lips, but it took an effort.

"And the very same day," Tori pressed, "Professor Longbottom calls you into his
office – about Quidditch. *Quidditch**?* He's *never* been that big a Quidditch
fan."

She fixed him with an iron glare and concluded, "And ever since, Rose has getting sicker
and sicker. No appetite on Sunday, a little out-of-it on Monday, clumsy and weak enough for the
Hospital Wing by Tuesday. Ted, she's my cousin! You have to tell me! *What's going
on?*"

"Well, that's a fair question," said Harry's voice from behind them. He had
come up silently and was now giving Ted a look of commiseration. "Blame me for Ted not telling
you anything, Tori. It wasn't because he doesn't trust you, but because I trust
*him.*" He gave the girl a brief smile and added, "But I suppose, having enlisted
you once, we can enlist you again. Come." He took the lead and walked purposefully down the
corridor, with Ted and Tori trailing.

Ted and Tori were startled, upon arriving at the Hospital Wing, to see an Auror standing sentry
at the door. She silently nodded to Harry and allowed them inside, where they were met by Madam
Pomfrey. "I'm glad you're hear, Mr. Potter," she said, taking Harry by the elbow,
with a curious glance at Ted and Tori. "The Minister arrived a few minutes ago, but it
didn't seem to rouse Miss Weasley…"

"*Rouse?*" exclaimed Tori.

"Miss Weasley fell into a coma a couple of hours ago," Pomfrey told her. "There
seems to be little I can do, and the Minister wanted to be here, just in case she awoke one last
time before…" Her voice died away.

Tori's eyes grew wide. Slowly, she shook her head, while her lips formed a silent
*No.*

"I've put them in the isolation ward," Pomfrey concluded. "Not knowing
what's caused this, I thought it best." She steered them through the ward, where a couple
of students were recovering from injuries, to the far end of the room. Pomfrey's office door
was there; another door stood closed next to it. She knocked twice at the second door, waited a
beat, then opened the door.

Rose was lying motionless in a hospital bed, her eyes closed. Hermione was seated by the bed,
holding her daughter's hand, warily watching to see who would come through the door. On seeing
Rose's inert form, Tori gave a little involuntary cry of pain.

And on hearing her cry, Rose opened one eye in alarm. "Don't freak, Tori, it's
okay," she stage-whispered.

"Sshh!" hissed Hermione.

"Yeah, Rosie, you're supposed to be on your death bed," Harry reproved. "We
could have been *anyone,* after all." He closed the door behind them and added,
"Fortunately, we're all in this conspiracy together. And that includes Tori now, Hermione
– she takes after you *far* too well, I'm afraid. Deduced a plot on remarkably scant
clues, she did."

Tori had remained frozen in place, jaw dropped and her eyes pinned on Rose. Everyone in the room
noticed when those eyes began to smoulder. "Death bed, is it?" she said in a darkly
ominous voice. "How utterly appropriate." She transferred her glare to Ted and continued,
"And you're *next* on my list, goob! Unless you tell me *everything,* right
*now,* I swear I will *personally* shove ashwinder eggs up your nose and a salamander up
your *arse* until they *meet!*"

Gathering permission from Harry with a pleading look, Ted quickly gave Tori an account of
bringing the book to Harry and Professor Longbottom – accurate, as far as it went, but distinctly
giving the impression that Harry had discovered the threat, with his sensitivity to magic.
"Since Rose looked to be the target," Ted finished, "Harry asked your Aunt Hermione
to try to analyze what potions were used. She'd have to know about this, anyway, since Rose was
involved… and the fewer people in the know, the better. And she says it's some kind of
*binary* poison…"

"Two synergistic potions, absorbed through the skin," Hermione took up the tale.
"Neither potion alone is all that dangerous – which is how the book could get into Hogwarts
without triggering any alarms – but taken together, they become an incredibly potent nerve toxin. A
single exposure leads to dizziness, sleep, coma, and death, all within a few days."

"You mean… Rose? All this week, you've been… faking your death?" Tori demanded.
"Merlin, Harry, it sounds like something *you'd* do! Oh, wait, *that's*
right…"

"We all came up with it together," Hermione intervened drily.

"Yeah," agreed Ted, equally dry. "You might say Rose is our… um, tethered
kid."

Rose blew a raspberry at Ted and turned smugly back to Tori. "Hey, I was good enough to
fool *you,* Lady Sherlock," she said. "Mum and Harry explained things, and they
*asked* me if I was willing to help, and I said yes. But it's been pretty boring, mostly.
Except for a couple of times when I had to – *gakk**!*" She fell back dramatically
onto her pillow, eyes closed and her tongue lolling from one side of her mouth.

"More to the point," continued Hermione, "if the poisoned book wasn't seen to
do its job, whoever sent it might send something else, something more stealthy – and more lethal.
And we might not be lucky enough to catch the next trap in time."

"Plus, while there may be some sinister people who'd want *Hermione* dead,"
Harry put in, "we couldn't quite see why anyone would want *Rose* dead." He
stepped to the bed, where Rose was still overacting her death scene, and pinched the girl's
nostrils shut, adding, "Of course, they don't know her as well as we do." Rose gulped
air, opened her eyes to glare at Harry reproachfully, and batted his hand away. "We were
waiting to see if something more would happen," Harry concluded. "Poppy, I gather
something has?"

The matron nodded and started to hand Hermione an envelope, sealed and addressed to Madam Poppy
Pomfrey. "It arrived just before you did. I've left it undisturbed."

Hermione made a motion towards Harry, and Pomfrey gave the envelope to him instead. Everyone
watched in fascination as Harry shifted to what Ted had privately nicknamed his 'magic
vision': suppressing the normal use of his eyes, instead calling up a visual interpretation of
the eddies and flows of ambient magic.

"No charms or spells on the parchment," Harry reported after a moment, "but there
*is* a concentration of strong potion. Um, I don't recognize it… but it doesn't appear
to be a hazard." Delicately, he opened the envelope and drew out a sheet of parchment, folded
around a small glass ampule. The ampule contained a few drops of oily liquid, pale gold in
color.

He handed the ampule to Hermione while he read aloud from the parchment. "*To Madam Poppy
Pomfrey: the contents of the phial will revive Rose Weasley. You must use the entire contents;
administer orally. She will…*" He looked up, caught Hermione's eye, and read the next
lines with heavy significance. "*She will require a dose like this one every five days
henceforth to avoid a relapse. Missing even a single dose would have severe consequences. We will
supply the next dose when it is needed. Please tell Miss Weasley's mother that we will be in
touch.*"

"*'Be in touch?'* They intended to poison Rose… and then promise the antidote?
Conditional on my 'good behavior', no doubt!" Hermione pressed her lips together in
disgust. "Who would *do* such a thing?" She held the ampule to the light, examining
its contents with one eye narrowed.

"We'll know that when we hear what they want," said Harry thoughtfully.
"Here, Ted… Tori, Rose… do you recognize this handwriting?" He passed the note directly
to Ted, who held it very close to his face while scrutinizing the writing.

"I can't tell if it's the same as the address on the book's wrapping," Ted
said, "but it does look like a Dictation Quill writing, so that probably doesn't
matter." He offered the note to Tori, who snatched it from his hand and performed
*Specialis* *Revelio* on it.

"Well, Miss Weasley-Minor, I daresay this is the point where I announce your miraculous
recovery," said Madam Pomfrey briskly.

"Keep her one more night," instructed Hermione, "since we don't know how fast
this antidote is supposed to act. And it'll give me a chance to analyze the stuff." She
bit her lower lip in thought. "Notice that they supplied barely enough to do the job… so there
wouldn't be any extra to study, and possibly synthesize. Though if it's like the potions on
the book…!" She broke off and shook her head.

"What about the potions on the book?" Rose prompted.

"They're simply not possible." Hermione met Pomfrey's gaze. "I don't
claim to be an expert in Potions, but…"

Harry, Ted and Tori gave simultaneous snorts of disbelief; the unison effect made Hermione
redden and furiously scowl at them before going on. "*BUT* I would've said that
tarantula blood and runescap spores were fundamentally immiscible – not to mention the
fractionation of the iocaine!" She gestured with the ampule. "I've no doubt I'll
find something of the same here. Somehow, someone has found a way to do what all the textbooks say
can't be done."

"So we're looking for… what?" wondered Tori. "A genius Potions master
researcher – who doesn't publish?"

"Yeah. Doesn't sound very plausible, does it?" Harry responded lightly. His eyes
met Hermione's, and it was obvious they'd had the same thought… and that they weren't
ready to share it. Ted let it slide for the moment, trusting he could ask Harry about it later,
when they were alone.

"In any case," Pomfrey said, refusing to be diverted, "if you wish to continue
with your bit of dramatic interpretation, you should leave now. Miss Weasley is 'still too ill
to receive visitors'."

Pomfrey, like McGonagall, had found that being at Hogwarts for so long had given her an
advantage over much of the wizarding population: generations of students had been conditioned to
obey her without argument when she spoke in a certain way. As she was speaking now.

Accordingly, Rose's visitors shuffled towards the door, with Tori promising to visit again
before she was released (and with Harry slipping a small book on the nightstand next to her bed,
causing Rose to blush and mumble thanks). Once out of the Hospital Wing, Hermione gave Harry a
discreetly chaste kiss on the cheek and followed her Auror escort down the hallway to the main
doors of Hogwarts. She was mildly surprised when Tori fell into step beside her.

"So, do you think Rose…" Tori began, but immediately fell silent when Hermione gave a
quick shake of her head and tapped her ear in warning.

"It's all up to Madam Pomfrey now," Hermione said, her voice a study in
resignation. Tori understood: the best way to keep a secret was simply not to discuss it, even in
hints, even when you thought you were alone.

"I need to get back to the Ministry, Victoire," Hermione continued. "What's
on your mind?"

"Just… some girls said some things today," Tori said. She seemed unsure of her ground,
then began again. "Aunt Hermione, my dad… he really isn't a werewolf, right? I mean, Mum
and I know he gets cranky at the full moon, and Mum always serves his meat rare…"

"If he were a werewolf, I promise you'd know," said Hermione firmly.
"I've seen a werewolf transform, up close, and it's not something they can possibly
hide… or that you're likely to forget. It's… frightening… on an almost visceral
level." She shivered, then smiled reassuringly. "Yes, the werewolf curse itself is a
contagion, and your father has a mild – *very* mild – case of it. But he's not a
werewolf."

Tori nodded. "Plus, werewolves are sterile, so he couldn't have had me."

"He couldn't have had you, that's true – but werewolves aren't sterile. They
simply can't have children."

When it became clear that Tori didn't understand, Hermione gave in to her natural tendency
to lecture. "It's easy to equate the werewolf curse with, say, an infectious disease, like
a virus. But it's not. It's a curse, it's a form of magic, and therefore its power
depends, among other things, on intent. Most werewolves, for all but one day a month, want nothing
to do with it – it's only on the full moon that they have no choice, and it's only then
that a werewolf's bite spreads the curse, and makes the victim a werewolf in turn. But Fenrir
Greyback…"

"He's the one who infected Dad."

"Yes, him. Fenrir Greyback *embraced* the curse. He *enjoyed* the terror it
created, the power it gave him. And so he could infect your father even in human form, when the
moon wasn't full. Passion, a craving for violence, a need to dominate: all of these will
strengthen the werewolf curse."

Hermione paused and looked sidelong at her niece. "Now let's consider sex."

Tori immediately choked and started coughing so hard that their Auror escort had to stop and
look back at them, waiting until they were ready to continue walking.

"I'm proceeding on the assumption that you've heard about sex but never experienced
it," said Hermione severely. "If my assumption is wrong, I *forbid* you to disabuse
me of it."

Tori gave her aunt a bitter, resentful look for making her uncomfortable. That was supposed to
be *her* job.

"Studies have shown that men, even the gentlest and most loving of men, tend to lose
themselves at the moment of climax," Hermione continued in a deliberately clinical voice.
"Measurements of brain activity show decreases in the cerebral cortex and an increase in the
limbic area – the more primitive part of the brain, you understand, the part we inherited from our
primate ancestors. This does *not* mean that all men become violent during sex!" she
added hastily, seeing Tori's horrified expression. "But it *does* mean that they tend
to… shall we say, embrace their animal side."

She waited a second, then concluded, "Which, for a werewolf, has unfortunate consequences,
as we've seen."

Tori knitted her brows as she digested the new information. "So you're saying that a
man – still in human form, no full moon – can still spread the curse, during sex? Infecting his
partner…?"

"You're drawing too close an analogy with viruses again," Hermione admonished.
"Yes, the werewolf curse can be transmitted at the moment of sexual climax. But not
transmitted to his *partner,* no. If conception occurs, the curse is transmitted to the
*fetus.*"

"And then the *baby's* a werewolf?" Tori asked incredulously.

"Possibly, if it were born. But they're never born – they never come to term. Once the
mother begins gestating, the next full moon turns her fetus into a wolf fetus. Human mother, wolf
fetus – tissue rejection. The mother suffers a miscarriage." Hermione sighed. "And that,
dear, is why werewolves can't have children. I rather imagine the point isn't emphasized in
your class discussions on werewolves. It certainly wasn't in *my* third year – even though
it's accepted knowledge in our world."

Tori steeled herself to come to the point – the point that had bothered her ever since Defense
class, the point for which she'd started the conversation. "Aunt Hermione – wasn't
Ted's father a werewolf?"

Hermione fixed Tori with a stony stare, and said nothing for a long moment. When she finally
spoke, her voice held an unmistakable note of warning. "*Remus* *Lupin* was a
werewolf."

"I see." Tori swallowed, her suspicions confirmed, and heeded the warning. "Well,
all right then. It…it doesn't change anything about Ted."

"No," Hermione said, giving Tori a pleased smile, "you're quite correct, it
doesn't."

*

Meanwhile, Ted and Harry were finishing the most urgent item on what both recognized was a list
of topics to be discussed in this rare moment of privacy. "You're *certain,*
Ted?" Harry pressed.

"Absolutely. Whoever sent the book is the same person who sent that note with the antidote.
Well-handled, both of them." Ted grimaced. "No idea exactly *who,* of
course."

"Of course." Harry laid a hand on Ted's shoulder. "We'll let everyone
think that I'm the one who discovered this… just like the poison on the book. No one should
question it. But Ted… fair warning, Ted. If any of this comes to trial…"

Ted's response was barely audible. "We'll tell the truth."

"Right, then." Harry gave Ted's shoulder a squeeze, conveying equal parts sympathy
and pride, then he dropped his hand. "So. You were coming down to see me, I think, before my
Patronus intercepted you?"

"Yeah, and you've got to show me how to do that," Ted responded, somewhat more
lively, as he retrieved Gran's letter from his pocket. "But anyway, I wrote to Gran about
the best way for me to make a will… like we talked about, a couple of weeks ago. She wrote back
today." He handed the letter to Harry and waited for him to read it.

When Harry was done, he refolded the parchment and returned it to Ted. "Add the Black
surname to your own? Ted Black-Lupin?"

"You have to understand Gran. What's she'd *really* like is for me to change
my name to Ted Black, but Black-Lupin will do. Apparently, if I make a will as Ted Lupin, and
*then* change my name – add Black to it, whatever – then I have to make my will all over
again. I don't see why, but it probably has something to do with the House of Black."

"That might explain why you'd want to change your name before making your will –
*if* you'd planned to change your name – but it doesn't explain why she thinks you
should be a Black at all."

Ted shrugged carelessly. "I *am* a Black, Gran's always said so. It's not like
I'm the *last* of the Blacks, though…"

"Nnno," mused Harry slowly, thinking it through. "No, but you may be the only
Black in a position to claim Headship of the House of Black. I don't know if that's a
purely family matter, or if the Wizengamot has to be involved, but either way, it'd be more
acceptable if Black were part of your name." He looked up at Ted and added, "I'm a
little out of my element here. It's not like there's a House of Potter or
anything."

"So… do you think I should?"

"What I think is irrelevant. This has to be your decision, Ted. Although… if you *do*
decide to do it, I'd feel happier if you kept the Lupin part of your name as well." Harry
smiled ruefully. "I feel like I owe it to Remus to try to persuade you to that."

Ted hesitated. "D'you really think this is about Headship of the House? I wish Gran
would say *why* she thinks this is important…"

"Hmm, tell you what," suggested Harry. "There's a Hogsmeade weekend coming up
soon, isn't there? Have your Gran meet with you at the Three Broomsticks – talk about it face
to face. Maybe the reason isn't something she feels comfortable putting on parchment." As
Ted nodded his approval of the idea, Harry added, "Even if it's only to make your Gran
happy, a name change isn't that important. You'll still be you."

Ted gave Harry an odd look. "Funny. That's almost exactly what Tori said."

"Yeah, well, Tori's smart," Harry smiled. Ted grinned, gave a jaunty wave, and
turned to return to Gryffindor Tower.

"You have to tell her, Ted," Harry said softly, all levity gone.

Ted froze in place for a moment, waiting to see if Harry would continue. When nothing more
seemed forthcoming, Ted continued walking, not looking back at Harry nor acknowledging his words by
any sign.



44. XXXXIV: Flexible Planning Is Key
------------------------------------

**(A/N:** Thank you, gentle readers, and thank you again, for your patience. I hope to make
it up to you with a nice, long chapter here… longest chapter in the story to date, in fact.

Some internal chronology: the chapter opens on the evening of the same day – Wednesday, 3 Oct
2013 – which closed our previous chapter. Some quick scenes to finish the week, then the last half
of the chapter takes place on the following Monday.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** You don't need to see the disclaimer. These aren't the Rowlings
you're looking for. Move along…**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXXXIV: Flexible Planning Is Key**

*

"Severus Snape," declared Hermione.

"*Has* to be," Harry agreed. "Do you know any *other* Potions geniuses
who were too paranoid to publish their discoveries?"

"Strictly speaking, I wouldn't know about *anyone* who didn't publish, so the
question's sort of meaningless," Hermione noted primly, "but I acknowledge your
point."

After leaving Hogwarts separately, Harry and Hermione had reconvened at Enthalpy House, where
Harry was now engaged in what he feared had just become a Sacred and Unshakeable Nightly Ritual:
rubbing Hermione's feet. Not that he minded in the least, but he didn't want it to become
merely part of a humdrum routine.

Little danger of that for the moment: they were on Hermione's bed, with Harry seated,
Hermione lying supine with her feet in Harry's lap – and Hermione having doffed a good deal
more clothing than just her shoes and stockings. *Need to look into backrubs at some point,*
Harry decided. He said nothing for a few moments, as he concentrated on massaging her soles and
calves.

"Nothing like this was in the Half Blood Prince's book, though," he said
eventually. "Nil about binary potions, of any kind. And believe me, I'd have
noticed."

"Mm hmm. I'd still put money on Snape being the source," said Hermione, closing
her eyes. "As you just said, we'd be hard pressed to find another Potions researcher with
the necessary combination of expertise and secretiveness. And also, this sort of technically
challenging yet Darkly purposed potion would've been exactly Snape's preferred line of
research."

"Yeah, that's true, it would. Hmm, suppose he originally created it for Lord
Voldemort…?"

"Then we should be searching for one of Voldemort's inner circle, a high-ranking Death
Eater. But I can't imagine who that might be, Harry. The Ministry was fairly thorough after the
War ended – unlike last time! – and I can't think of *any* high-rank Death Eaters who
escaped Azkaban this time around." Hermione grunted softly as Harry's fingers found a
sensitive muscle. She drew a deep breath, filling her lungs; held it for a slow count of ten;
exhaled, then repeated the cycle.

Harry was too fascinated by her deep-breathing exercise to continue either massage, discussion,
or coherent thought in general.

"Other than Death Eaters, I wouldn't have said Snape had many confidantes,"
Hermione went on after a moment, "but if he *did* have, it would probably have been
someone from his school days. Almost certainly someone both Slytherin and Pureblood, given his
history… someone who, currently, might be described as a conservative radical, perhaps?"

"Erm, Hermione, I think we may be overlooking the obvious thing to do," said Harry,
pausing in his ministrations. "Can't we set a team of Aurors or investigators on the case?
We *are* talking about attempted murder here, at the very least! Magical Law Enforcement
should be looking into it… I'm sure they could find something…"

"That *would* be the obvious thing to do," Hermione said slowly, "and if I
were the blackmailers, I'd therefore take steps to prevent it. I feel quite sure that my first
communiqué from them will demand my silence… 'or else'. So I need to *look* like
I'm cooperating, to put them off their guard." She paused, and her mouth tightened as
though tasting lemons. "Plus, if this *is* the work of radicals – all right, I'll
come out and say it – people from the Fire Party crowd, I have to be careful in whom I confide.
I've no way of knowing if any given Enforcer or Auror might be a Zabini sympathizer, as it
were."

"You have your own sympathizers," Harry reminded her. "People who support you…
people you know you can trust."

"True, and I hadn't forgotten. Well, let me see what can be done – discreetly."
Her eyes still closed, Hermione raised her arms over her head and, with a low moan, stretched her
body elaborately,

"Okay, now I *know* you're doing that on purpose," Harry managed to choke
out.

She smiled archly. "And if I am, what do you propose to do about it?"

*Challenge accepted,* decided Harry. He unbuttoned his shirt and quickly stripped it off.
"Roll over," he ordered. He said nothing more, did nothing more, until Hermione was lying
flat on her stomach. Then Harry repositioned himself until he was on his knees, straddling her
waist, and he began to dig his thumbs into the muscles of her back. Experimentally at first, not as
familiar with these muscles as the ones in her legs… then with increasing confidence as his fingers
found knots of tension and kneaded them into submission.

Hermione's moans now were deeper, and if anything, more appreciative. "I wish you'd
told me you could do this earlier."

"Yeah, well, I thought a nice backrub might relax you," he said. He leaned forward
until his torso touched her back, brushed his lips against her ear, and whispered, "Because
next comes the *front* rub." And he smiled at the involuntary shiver that went down
Hermione's spine at the suggestion.

*

The expected message from the blackmailers was lying on Enthalpy House's doorstep the
following morning, dropped by an owl who chose not to linger. As Hermione predicted, it enjoined
her to silence. Its other demand, however, was not at all what she anticipated.

*Break off cooperation with the ICW regarding any "outstanding investigations",*
Hermione mused. *But nothing about the Wizards Patrimony Act, nothing at all.* *Either, a,
they don't understand the implications of decreeing all beings with human ancestry to be
legally human – which means they don't know about house-elves – or, b, it's of lesser
priority, and they'll get to it in their next demand – or, c, they simply don't care about
it. All of which argues strongly that the Cartel is behind this plot.*

*Which makes it both harder and easier to investigate.* The Minister nodded decisively to
herself, folded the note and put it in her pocket, and went back inside to finish the rest of the
excellent breakfast Harry had prepared.

*

Neville stared blearily at Harry through the Floo fire; Harry stared blearily back.
"I'm sorry, Harry, I know it's way early…"

"Oh, that's all right, Nev. I was awake anyway, re-cataloguing my leaf
collection."

Neville winced. "I *said* I was sorry. I just got the word myself: full Wizengamot
session today. I *think* we're voting on this new law of the Minister's, the Patrimony
Act. Susan and I need to be there…"

Harry sighed and rubbed his eyes with one hand. "Yeah, I know. You probably didn't get
much advance notice, either. So, um, you need me at Hogwarts again today?"

"If you could. Fridays are my fifth and seventh-years, I'm afraid: OWLs *and*
NEWTs. But don't worry, it won't be a problem! It's early enough in the term that you
can stick to the practical lessons. My lesson plan's in my desk, top left drawer…"

He dismissed Neville's apology with a flip of his hand. "I'll muddle through. You
go be a Wizenguy. I'll hold the fort, or the castle, or whatever." Harry paused and added,
more quietly, "And I'll keep an eye on Rose."

"Please." Neville shook his head. "I've managed to keep this whole business
with Rose from Minerva, but I'm *really not* looking forward to bringing her up-to-date on
what's been happening inside *her* school. Don't you worry about that, though, Harry,
that's my responsibility." Neville's head in the fire looked over its
'shoulder', called "Be right there!", and turned back to Harry. "Gotta go
now, mate. Thank you!" And with a *pop* of green flame, Neville's head
disappeared.

With another weary sigh, Harry stood up from before the fireplace and straightened his bathrobe.
*Well, Hermione did say she wanted the Act passed quickly, before anyone noticed the
implications. I've certainly tried to do my bit. And she's had her "expert
witnesses" among the Wizengamot for days now: Professor Flitwick spoke with the goblin
members, Madame Maxime concentrated on the younger set, and Fleur worked her charms on the old
gaffers. Talk about playing to your strengths…!*

*Of course, if the Act has any opponents, they'll have been canvassing the Wizengamot same
as we have… but quietly, behind closed doors. No way of knowing how close the vote will be. Yeah,
Neville and Susan both need to be there. Dammit.*

*With any luck, once this is done, Neville won't need me to teach his classes for a good
while.*

Harry's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a throat being cleared as unobtrusively as
possible. "Er, a-apologies, sir…"

"Yes, Ayesha?" Harry turned and addressed the young elf politely, keeping his eyes
firmly fixed on her face. She was wearing her tabard, thank goodness, which was a *lot* more
than she was wearing last night, when she'd tried to insist on being Harry's "bath
attendant". Harry had managed to send her away without damaging either her pride or his
composure; now he intended to act as though the whole embarrassing incident had never happened.

Clearly, Ayesha was attempting to do the same, but she was blushing too brightly to be
convincing. "Th-there is an elf from the Ministry here for you?"

"An elf from the Ministry? Canby?" With a broad smile, Harry strode to The
Ossuary's foyer, where he found Canby and Brillig standing… well, not together, but not at
opposite sides of the room, either. "It *is* Canby! S'good to see you," he said,
extending his hand.

Canby, with only the slightest hesitation (and sidelong glance at Brillig) took Harry's hand
and shook it gravely. "And you, Mr. Harry Potter," he replied. "Please forgive Canby
for arriving at – what is Miss Sheryl calling it? – at this ungodly hour, but…"

"But you wouldn't be here if it weren't important," Harry finished, gesturing
him inside. Inwardly, he was pleased that Canby was reacting as a free being ought… in front of
Ayesha and Brillig, no less. "What may I do for you?"

"Actually, sir, Canby has come for Ayesha." He looked at Ayesha and explained,
"There are questions about your former master, ibn al-Afrit. You have knowledge that might
provide answers."

"T-talk about old master?" Ayesha looked horrified. "Tell master's secrets?
House-elves do not…!"

"*Free* elves may say what they please," Harry corrected her gently.
"He's not your master any more, Ayesha. Dobby spoke against his old masters once *he*
was freed – Dobby even acted against them, to keep them from hurting me." As Ayesha hesitated,
he added, "And this is why you came to England, after all."

"Must… must Ayesha stay at Ministry?"

Canby shook his head reassuringly. "Ayesha may, if she wishes: there are many other elves
at Ministry. But Ayesha isn't *forced* to stay at Ministry. Ayesha is free."

"Canby is knowing *so* very much about being a free elf," put in Brillig sweetly.
"Canby has been a free elf longer than any of us."

"We're still looking for a home for Ayesha," Harry said quickly, trying to
forestall any bickering. "Until then, she's welcome to stay here helping
Brillig."

Ayesha looked up at Harry, then to Brillig – and Harry once more got the impression that the two
elves were silently communicating, not using words or facial expressions, but through some link
peculiar to their race. It only lasted a few moments… then Ayesha turned to Canby. "Ayesha
will answer questions… if she can come back here when they are done."

"Of course!" Canby assured her. He reached into his pocket and brought out a folded
sheet of parchment, which he handed to Harry. Then he gave Ayesha a bright smile and extended his
bent arm to her. She tentatively took his arm… and at Canby's nod, the two elves disappeared
with a loud *crack!*

"Hmph!" snorted Brillig, as Harry tucked the parchment into the pocket of his
bathrobe. "Brillig sees she must warn Ayesha about Canby! Canby is so sure he is Creator's
gift to elfwomen!"

Which raised a point Harry hadn't considered before. "Huh. Is Canby considered
good-looking for a male elf?" he asked, curious.

Brillig shrugged elaborately. "Canby's looks is *acceptable,* Brillig supposes. It
is not being Canby's *looks,* it is being his *attitude…*"

"Well," Harry said, as they left the foyer, "do as you think best, Brillig. But
I'm not so sure Ayesha needs a warning. After what she's been through with ibn al-Afrit,
Canby's probably a saint by comparison." He scowled. "Bloody ibn al-Afrit, I hope
they catch him soon. He's probably the one who trained Fatima, too – I bet he oversaw it
personally, the slime. Making all his elves serve drinks, and hold towels, and…"

"Ah!" said Brillig in satisfaction, "Brillig did not *think* Mister Harry
would be taken in by…!" She stopped in mid-sentence, realizing too late what she was
saying.

Harry regarded her with a sternly neutral face, until she began to squirm under his gaze.
"No more loincloths in this house," he said at last. "She may have had to wear a
loincloth for ibn al-Afrit, and for all I know, Swivingham made all of his elves wear them, too.
But in this house, elves wear clothes, is that understood? Tabards, if nothing else. Free people
wear *clothes.*"

"Yes, Mister Harry," said Brillig meekly.

"And I don't need *any* help with my baths, either," he continued
inexorably.

"Yes, Mister Harry."

Harry nodded, his point made, and decided to relent. "But now I *do* need to bathe,
and then get dressed, since I'm going back to Hogwarts today. So while I'm doing that,
Brillig, could you fix me a *light* breakfast? I'd appreciate it."

"Yes, Mister Harry!" And the elf scampered to the kitchen before Harry could change
his mind.

*

The seventh-year Defense class turned out to be fun, once Harry decided to bin Neville's
lesson plan. His own lesson plan was somewhat more direct: he cleared the students and furniture to
the sides of the classroom, stationed himself in the center of the room, and proclaimed,
"Fifty House points to the one who decks me."

The students seemed unsure for a moment, confused perhaps by the abrupt change in teaching
styles. Then Harry gave them all an evil smile and added, "What, are you trying to *bore*
me into submission?" *That* barb stung one bold Gryffindor into firing a Stunner at him,
and within moments everyone was trying their hardest to take down their substitute teacher.

Between Harry's ability to sense their spells almost before they'd left the wands, and
his own superb reflexes, the students didn't really stand much chance. He dodged or deflected
their hexes readily, sometimes using one student's jinx against another student… but he would
wait until a student had at least made a valiant effort before hitting them with a one-two
combination of *Expelliarmus* and *Incarcerous**.* In the end, Harry awarded twenty
points to the last two students standing – the only two who'd actually worked together as a
team to try to defeat him. Harry thought that was an important lesson worth encouraging,

Once class was adjourned, Harry had a couple of hours before his afternoon session with the
fifth-years. He decided to visit the Gryffindor common room and inquire after Rose. As he made his
way to the tower, he reflected on the note Canby had handed him that morning… the hastily scribbled
note enjoining him to secrecy. Evidently, Canby's visit to retrieve Ayesha had *not* been
an officially sanctioned visit… a bit of information Harry found interesting.

His staff badge made the Fat Lady sniff skeptically, but she swung her portrait aside without
requiring a password. Once in the common room, Harry was surprised to find a crowd of Gryffindors
(including Rose and Ted) watching with great interest as Tori performed a spell, under the guidance
of – Dennis Creevey?

"It's a useful bit of magic," Dennis was telling his audience, as Tori held her
wand to her temple and furrowed her brow in concentration, "even if you *don't* have
access to a Pensieve. Saving a memory this way guarantees that it'll be there when you need it
– really good for those of us who don't have total recall. And of course, Enforcers use it
almost daily, so if you're looking to work for the MLE when you leave Hogwarts, it's a good
one to learn." He nodded encouragingly at Tori, who slowly withdrew a silver strand of memory
from her head. "Any questions?" he concluded, snagging the strand with his own wand.

"Don't tell me you're thinking of becoming a Hogwarts professor, Dennis?"
Harry asked, startling the crowd.

"Hardly," Dennis laughed. "The Minister sent me to see how Miss Weasley's
doing. And then the *other* Miss Weasley," with a nod to Tori, "had some questions
about Magical Law Enforcement." He took advantage of the students' attention being
diverted by the arrival of the Chosen One to surreptitiously slip the strand of memory into a tiny
phial, which immediately disappeared into his pocket.

"So," he said, standing, "you're off to a tremendous start, Miss Weasley, but
you'll want to focus on your advanced Charms work, if you seriously intend to get into this
line of work." He glanced at his watch and added, "I need to get back to the Ministry; I
only came to see how Rose was doing. Any messages for your mother?"

"Tell her not to worry so much; Madam Pomfrey works wonders," said Rose. "And
tell her I've already nearly caught up with my assignments, I've only got one essay left to
write, and *that's* for Astronomy which is *never* hard…"

"Okay, okay, I'll tell her, I'll tell her," said Dennis, raising his hands in
surrender. "Harry, good to see you, but I really need to get going…" He paused only a
moment as Harry casually brought Canby's message partway out of his pocket, and finished
smoothly, "So if you could escort me out, I'd appreciate it."

With a promise to the assembled Gryffindors that he'd return soon, Harry left the tower with
Dennis. They waited until they were well away from the tower – in a corridor with no portraits –
before Dennis said quietly, "So you saw Canby this morning?"

Harry nodded. "Which I'm keeping secret, as requested," he answered, equally
quiet. "And now here *you* are… also secretly? Interviewing…?"

"Of course I'm not interviewing, Harry. That'd be something I'd do as part of
my official duties. Naw, I'm here on my own time… just, y'know, checking up on the
Minster's daughter." Dennis patted his pocket. "The fact that I might now have an
eyewitness account of when an owl brought a suspicious book to said Minister's daughter is
purest coincidence."

"Ah." Harry considered this for a moment. "Well, since I'm escorting you out,
do you want to leave by way of the Hospital Wing and Madam Pomfrey?"

"I've already seen her. Got the memory of *her* visit from an owl, too."
Dennis turned somber. "I don't know what the hell's going on in the upper levels of
the Ministry, Harry. All I know is that, for some reason, the MLE can't investigate this…
officially. The Minister can't ask… officially." He gave Harry a half-smile. "But
this isn't exactly the first errand like this I've run as a favor to Hermione."

"Then I won't say any more. Except, of course, to say thank you, Dennis." They
walked in silence for a few minutes.

"It won't be the same owl," Harry said abruptly. "These people aren't
that stupid. They won't use the same owl twice. They *certainly* won't use their
*own* owl."

"Harry, you'd be surprised how often criminals *are,* in fact, that stupid. But in
this case, I agree with you. The owl sent to Rose won't match the one who came to Pomfrey this
week." Dennis cocked an eyebrow at Harry. "But if you wanted to send an owl, but not your
personal owl, what would you do?"

"I'd… borrow a friend's owl? No, I'd go to the post office." Harry nodded
in thought. "Probably the Hogsmeade post office, it's the largest center for postal owls
in Britain, so more chance of being anonymous. Or maybe the London owl office, same
reasoning."

"My, you do show a certain aptitude for crime… yes, exactly. So once I compare Tori
Weasley's memory with Pomfrey's, those are my next two stops. Legwork's the boring part
of investigation, but it gets the job done."

Dennis's words brought back a notion that had been tickling Harry's mind for several
days now. He'd been stymied at first, knowing he needed information, but not knowing who he
might go to for it. Hermione, usually the obvious choice, was completely out of the question in
this case. Dennis would certainly want to help… but on the other hand, Harry wasn't certain how
much help Dennis could give.

Still, Dennis was here, and for the moment they had privacy… *Carpe diem,* Harry decided,
and chose a gradual approach to the topic. "So… you've done your fair share of
investigations, I reckon. Hm, were you part of the investigation into Hermione's
'death'?"

"Hunh? I hadn't heard about any investigation into…" Dennis looked momentarily
confused. "It was an accident, Harry. I mean, I wasn't there when it happened, but there
were dozens of witnesses. Everyone agrees, it was an accident. You weren't planning on blaming
it on Minister Shacklebolt, were you? I mean, the man was *dying.*"

"And lost control of his *Incarcerous* spell, from what I've gathered. No, no, I
wasn't trying to pin blame on poor Kingsley. As you say, it was an accident." Harry canted
his head, as though struck by a thought… although he'd planned his next comment from the start.
"You weren't there when it happened, you say? D'you happen to know who
*was?*"

*

For the most part, the new Minister was keeping to the routine established by Kingsley
Shacklebolt: Monday mornings, the seven Heads convened to report to the Minister on their various
Departments. On this Monday morning, Minister Granger listened silently to Diggory, Croaker,
Ventura, Zabini, Menderson, Edgecombe, and Robards, as each in turn – Robards last, per tradition –
summarized their past week's progress and plans for the upcoming week.

Zabini couldn't help but notice that Granger said no more than was necessary to any of them.
*Which is hardly her usual behavior,* he reminded himself.

"Thank you, Mr. Robards," she said as the Head of Magical Law Enforcement concluded
his report. She paused, tapping one finger on the conference table, as though searching for her
next comment. "First of all," she said at last, "you'll all have heard that the
Wizengamot approved the Wizards Patrimony Act last week. It makes *de jure* what had been
*de facto:* that those born of magical humans – wizards and witches – are themselves magical
humans in the eyes of the law. I don't anticipate this will add very much to your
Departments' workloads."

"It'll depend on how many frivolous complaints we receive," commented Robards.

Granger sighed. "There are limits to government's power," she lectured. "We
can outlaw discriminatory behavior, but our purview doesn't cover the prejudice that underlies
it. *That* must improve on its own… fortunately, in the long run it usually does." Her
gaze flicked around the room, pausing briefly at Zabini before settling on Diggory. "For the
*legitimate* complaints, we'll need to have procedures, in place and ready. MLE will have
to determine the severity of each complaint… and Magical Creatures will have to verify that the
complainant is, indeed, human. Will that prove difficult, Mr. Diggory?"

"No, ma'am," Diggory said… or rather, mumbled.

"Excellent. Please coordinate with MLE; I want preliminary procedures ready for my review
by next week." The Minister gave her cabinet a slight smile. "Next: something that
isn't so immediately urgent, but I need you all to begin planning for it. Those of you who
don't currently have children or grandchildren at Hogwarts might not be aware of it, but this
year's class is the largest in a couple of generations. After the fall of Lord Voldemort,"
and she raised a sardonic eyebrow as one or two of the Heads shivered at the name, even today,
"we experienced a spike in the birth rate: what demographers call a 'baby boom'. In
three or four years, the first of that boom will be leaving school and looking for jobs."

She tapped the table again, for emphasis, as she concluded, "*We* need to start now,
to make sure jobs exist for them."

Zabini could tell the others were as puzzled as he was. "Ah, what do you…?" he
began.

"Expanding manufactories to make new goods. Encouraging new shops where those goods can be
sold. Jobs in publishing, construction, service industries…" Granger turned to Ventura, the
Head of Magical Games and Sports. "Theo, correct me if I'm wrong, but the last Quidditch
team in the League was founded in, what, the 1820's?"

"The Falmouth Falcons in 1823," Ventura replied promptly. Theo Ventura was famous for
having every Quidditch statistic in history on the tip of her tongue.

"Almost two hundred years ago… because magical Britain hasn't had enough
professional-level Quidditch players to field a new franchise," said Granger. "But in a
few years, we will. The cream of the Hogwarts house teams – good enough to play in the League – but
the League won't have enough openings, if any. Do you think any investors might be interesting
in backing a *new* team?"

Ventura looked happily thoughtful. Granger turned back to Diggory. "The goblins will need
to be persuaded to free up capital for investment. Could the Goblin Liaison Office devise some
approaches?"

"I don't see why not, ma'am," replied Diggory, growing more enthusiastic.

"That's the sort of thing I want. All of you, set your Departments to thinking about
dealing with a population explosion of young wizards and witches. You've got three years – but
trust me, that won't seem nearly long enough." Granger coughed and turned to Robards.
"Lastly: I have some questions regarding what's being done right now, about the criminal
elements in Knockturn Alley."

"They're in disarray, Minister," Robards responded after only a brief hesitation,
"following Swivingham's death. Currently, my agents are busy coordinating with ICW Aurors
against Swivingham's bosses…"

"Yes, but Swivingham's death left a power vacuum in Knockturn Alley," Granger
interrupted. "I'd like to make sure that vacuum is *not* filled. After all, ladies
and gentlemen, our first responsibility is to Britain, not the ICW."

"Madam Minister," Robards began, somewhat more stiffly, "my Department hasn't
enough agents to deal properly with Knockturn Alley *and* the Cartel…"

"I'm not saying we should completely abandon our commitments to the ICW, Mr.
Robards," Granger said firmly. "But Swivingham's death is an opportunity that may not
come again, and we ought not to waste it. Let's hold off, for now, on our work with ICW Aurors…
get our own house in order, before expending resources abroad." She gave Robards a sympathetic
half-smile and added, "For now, Gawain."

As ever, Zabini's face gave no clue to his thoughts. He merely nodded, inwardly ticking off
a box in the timetable. *She makes it sound plausible,* he thought with a certain smugness,
*but it's compliance by any name.*

*

The meeting had ended, and the Heads were heading out the door, when Granger caught Zabini's
glance. Interpreting it as a request to stay, he lingered at the table as the others left the
conference room – only Robards remaining, he noted uneasily.

Thankfully, it was Granger who addressed him. "Mr. Zabini, I want you to coordinate with
the ICW, and make them understand that this isn't a permanent change of policy on our part. We
*will* resume our combined pursuit of the Cartel, once we've dealt with our own
problems."

"I'll bring out my best oil to pour over the waters, Minister," Zabini replied
with a small smile. He raised one eyebrow and added, "And you needn't worry that I might
let this slip into the wrong ears, either."

Granger met his gaze directly. "That *is* a concern, yes." Her tone was
diamond.

"Madam Minister," Zabini said formally, "the moment I gave my evidence to Gawain
here, any acquaintance I may have had with the Cartel Lords was severed completely. I've not
had any contact with them, nor do I expect to have. They've written me off." He let his
smile broaden slightly, adding that touch of charm and sincerity that had seldom failed him.
"I'm grateful for this chance to prove myself, Madam Minister; I won't let you
down."

"Mm-*hmm,*" Granger responded, showing an appalling resistance to his charm.
Clearly, he was still on probation. She glanced at Robards, who coughed gently.

"He *did* sign a Magically Binding Contract, Minister," Robards reminded her
quietly. "He has to tell us the truth on anything Cartel-related."

She seemed to accept Robards's word. "Well, then, Mr. Zabini, I'll expect you to
report to Mr. Robards *immediately,* should the Cartel Lords try contacting you again. In the
meantime, carry on." She nodded to Robards, who nodded back and added enigmatically, "On
your desk."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Zabini, and left the conference room in a cheerful frame
of mind. *Ah, the power of precise wording,* he reflected. *My Magically Binding Contract
with MLE does indeed force me to answer truthfully any questions they ask about the Cartel. But any
questions from the Minister of Magic – or any statements I might choose to volunteer – aren't
covered by the Contract. Imagine that.*

*I still have to wait for Svartalfer to contact me, alas, but I do believe I'll have good
news for him when he does.*

*

That same afternoon, Madam Pomfrey received another ampule of the antidote. The accompanying
note suggested it be administered to Rose Weasley without delay.

Poppy Pomfrey dated the note and initialed it, then placed it with the ampule in a locked drawer
of her desk. She then, to keep up the pretense, sent word for Rose to report to the Hospital
Wing.

*

Hermione returned to her office to find a sealed envelope on her desk, as Gawain had said.
Breaking the seal, she extracted two sheets of parchment: one was covered in Dennis Creevey's
handwriting, which he'd made neater than usual to fit as much as he could on the sheet. The
other was in block letters so carefully crafted that they looked like a typewriter font:
Canby's "handwriting".

The parchments were summaries, describing the pair's clandestine investigations over the
last few days. Dennis was on the trail of the blackmailers – clever though they'd been, there
was still a trail – and Canby was collecting evidence and testimony to forward to the ICW. All of
which was, to use the Muggle term, completely under the radar. Within the Ministry, only Gawain
knew what they were doing, no one else… which meant the Cartel wouldn't know, either.

There weren't many people Hermione could trust to do these jobs, do them well, and do them
in total secrecy – but she trusted Dennis and Canby. Satisfied, she replaced the sheets in their
envelope, resealed it with a Sticking Charm keyed to her alone, and filed it away for
safekeeping.

*

Since Harry's disastrous visit to the Harpies' training camp, Ginny had been outdoing
herself in the daily practice sessions: pushing herself and the other Chasers to the very limits of
their skill, and beyond. Today, if anything, the Chasers' performance raised them to a wholly
new level: two successive Keepers were quite unable to keep out the Quaffle, and the Beaters might
as well have aimed for empty air.

"Amazing game today, Weasley," Jones told her warmly as they were readying to leave
that evening. "Keep it up, and we're guaranteed to sweep the season! You scored
*eighteen times* today – that's worth more than the Snitch! With play like that, it almost
won't *matter* how good the opposing Seeker is!" Jones fell abruptly quiet at that
point, almost as though she knew she was treading on thin ice.

And while Jones was careful not to look for a reason for this competitive burst, Ginny knew she
knew.

*Damn Harry Potter, anyway,* she fumed as she prepared to Disapparate. *Does he think he
can treat me like dirt – humiliate me in from of my team – just because he rose from the dead, or
something? Pfft! Oh, I'll show* him. *He'll rue the day…*

She appeared in her flat just long enough to drop off her Quidditch gear, then Apparated to
Blaise's manor house, materializing in the front foyer. "Hello!" she called out,
unfastening the clasp of her cloak and hanging it over one of the pegs in the wall. "Hello? Is
anyone here? Blaise? Virgil?"

At once, Virgil was at her elbow. "Good evening, Miss," he said. "Sir is in his
study, if Miss would care to join Sir. Shall Virgil set the table now?"

"Yes, and dinner in half an hour," Ginny told the elf, striding from the foyer to
Blaise's study. She found him there, seated not in his favorite comfy-chair, but at his desk.
Papers were scattered across the desktop.

"Ah, good evening, Flame," he smiled. "A productive practice today, I
trust?"

"Very," she replied with a smirk. "I think we're going to *own* the
League this year. And your day?"

"It started out well enough… but then my office received our copies of the European papers.
Their weekend editions." He extracted one from the pile of papers and offered it to her.
"*Le Moniteur Magique.* I thought you ought to see it. Not *want* to see it, mind
you, but *ought.*"

Mystified, Ginny unfolded the paper to the front page – and barely managed to not shriek in
outrage. "What… what *is* this *shite**?*"

"A follow-up on a story they ran a couple of weeks ago – from Granger's visit to
Greece, just before she was sworn in as Minister."

Ostensibly, the main story concerned the Wizengamot's approval of the new Wizard Patrimony
Act, which Hermione had made her first priority after taking office. The new Act had seemed
harmless enough, and Ginny had given it little thought. The *Moniteur**,* from what she
could glean through her scanty French, was making a big deal of it, pointing out how it benefitted
some of wizarding society's most valuable members – such as France's own Olympe Maxime.

But a sidebar noted how the new Act had been endorsed by one Harry Potter, who was not only the
Boy Who Lived Again, it seemed, but the Boy Who Lived To Serve The New Minister. In *every*
way, apparently – as the accompanying photograph made *graphically* clear. It showed Hermione,
dressed (if that was the word) as a sort of Greek goddess – her torso wearing only body paint, a
tiny strip of fabric between her legs – with Harry holding her from behind. She leaned her head
back and against his neck, arching her body seductively, while one of his hands caressed her
breast.

Ginny looked up, her face twisted with outrage and fury, to meet Blaise's amused eyes.
"The picture's obviously been altered," he told her. "The *Moniteur*
printed a similar one two weeks ago, of Granger alone. It was faked then; it's faked now.
Neither her attire nor their, ah, behavior are anything but sensationalist imagination. It's
how the *Moniteur* sells, m'dear."

"Faked?" She studied the photo again. No, that couldn't be them… Hermione would
never anything so revealing – she would certainly never allow herself to be fondled in public. And
Harry? In their brief relationship, she'd had to train him where to put his hands! This photo
*had* to be fake. "Oh, sweet Circe – Hermione will be *furious!*"

She slapped the paper onto the desktop as she went on, "I can almost hear her already:
she'll be disavowing this story, this picture, so fast it'll set a new world's record.
She *has* to disavow it, or she'll lose all credibility! And she has to put some distance
between herself and Harry, too, to make people believe she means it." Ginny absently played
with her hair, twining it around her fingers, as she continued to reason aloud… her earlier fury at
seeing Harry so intimate with Hermione already forgotten. "Harry may have helped Hermione pass
this Patrimony Act, but if he stays around her, he'll be a liability."

Blaise was still watching her with amusement, but his eyes were shrewd now. "Do you think
so? Mm, possibly so. The picture wasn't in today's *Prophet* – it will be interesting
to see if it appears in tomorrow's – but rumors are already starting to fly." He picked up
the paper, unfolded it, and regarded the photo dispassionately. "Gossip about robbing the
cradle, you know, just the sort of thing that makes for bawdy scandal."

She felt her face grow warm as his implication became clear.

"I think," Blaise said after a moment's pause, "I think it might be best, for
the immediate future, if we kept some distance from Potter. Don't you agree?"

"You still need his support," she began mulishly.

"Not that badly, dear, not at the moment. Not at the cost of exactly the sort of innuendo
that Granger's starting to acquire." He stood and walked around the desk, to wrap his arms
around her waist. "And besides, I confess I wasn't too keen on the idea. I was never much
one to share."

Ginny felt simultaneously surprised, relieved, flattered… and conflicted. Yes, she still wanted
Blaise, but… she hated the thought of giving up Harry. *On the other hand,* she realized,
*if Hermione does distance herself from him, he'll be isolated. Let him feel abandoned for a
couple of weeks, and he'll welcome my attention.*

Still, she hesitated. "Then your position as Head of your Department… that's working
out as we'd hoped? Being the facilitator, gathering support…?"

"It's a slow road," allowed Blaise. "But there are other factors coming into
play; Granger may not be as much of a problem as we'd anticipated." And he smiled what was
intended to be a reassuring smile.

A smile which instead – just for a moment, but for the second time in a month – left Ginny
afraid of Blaise.

*

It had been a tricky problem, Dennis reflected. Someone who had been present at the scene when
Shacklebolt and Hermione died. Someone who was available to meet with them, which ruled out most of
the foreigners who'd attended the Conference. Someone who would have observed in detail, which
ruled out folks like Ron Weasley. Someone whose attention wasn't focused on a single detail,
which ruled out those who'd rushed to Shacklebolt's side when he'd fallen.

And someone loyal to the Minister, or better still, to Hermione Granger.

"This is Jason Moore," Dennis said, making introductions. "He was the Enforcer
who accompanied Madam Granger when she went into the conference room that day to confront Zabini…
guarded the door, didn't you, Jason? And this is…"

"Mr. Potter," finished Moore, extending his hand. "It's an honor, young
man."

"Thanks," said Harry in embarrassment. "Uh, did Dennis explain why we asked for
you to stay late this evening?"

Moore nodded, and they took their seats around the table. They were in a secure room in the
Department of Magical Law Enforcement, a room used for debriefing agents. Which, in a sense, was
just what was about to happen.

Dennis glanced at the evidentiary Pensieve set into the tabletop. "You really think
there'll be something to see, Harry?"

"One way or the other," said Harry. "Mr. Moore, thank you for consenting to do
this."

"Not a problem. And please, call me Jason." Moore set his wand to his temple and
concentrated, as Dennis reflected on how perfectly Moore fit the bill. If Hermione had picked Moore
to be by her side when walking into the lion's den, Moore must be trustworthy… His attention
came back to Moore, as the Enforcer extracted a memory from his head. Moore placed it into the
Pensieve, and exchanged a ready look with the other two wizards. Together, they touched the
Pensieve's surface…

"Oh, damn," said Dennis approvingly at Hermione's dramatic entrance.
"I've heard folks talk about what happened, but it doesn't compare to seeing it
live."

Harry waved him to silence: his attention was focused on the scene playing out before him. As
he'd explained to Dennis, everything Harry knew about that fateful day, he'd learned from
the *Daily Prophet:* he'd not wanted to press Hermione on the details of her own death.
Now, at last, he had a chance to learn those details for himself.

Like a hawk, Harry watched as Ron was taken hostage, and tricked his way out of it; as Hermione
accused Zabini of working with the Cartel, and summoning Fatima as a bluff; as Ron stupidly
attacked Zabini, giving Zabini the perfect excuse for eliminating Fatima; as Shacklebolt put an end
to the fight by hogtying Hermione and Zabini…

As Kingsley Shacklebolt collapsed back into his wheelchair.

At once, Harry started counting softly. "One, two, three…" He wasn't looking at
Shacklebolt; he ignored Robards and the others who rushed to Shacklebolt's aid. Instead, he
positioned himself so that he could watch Hermione while keeping the rest of the room in his field
of view. His voice grew inaudible after a bit, but Dennis was sure that Harry was continuing the
count.

Ropes made a sudden appearance around Hermione's throat and mouth. Harry immediately cast
his eyes around the room, seeking… *something,* Dennis was sure. Evidently, he didn't find
what he sought: he reluctantly relaxed after a few minutes, seeming content to watch the remainder
of Moore's memory play itself out. He watched as Hermione's death was discovered; he smiled
slightly as Croaker, in an oddly tender moment, started cutting away the ropes, arranging her dead
body respectfully. His attention shifted to Blaise Zabini, whose ropes were being sliced off much
less tenderly by a pair of Magical Law Enforcers. As they hauled Zabini to his feet, the halves of
a broken wand fell clattering to the floor.

"Yah," said Moore, in response to Harry's unspoken question. "He lost his
wand. Must have happened when he fell – landed on top of it, we reckoned."

"Ah," said Harry. He said nothing more, until the Pensieve memory showed him entering
the conference room: quite nude, and with Hermione's precious soul cupped between his hands.
"Thank you, we're done now," he said briskly (and though he had turned quite
businesslike, his blush was brilliant).

With a rush, they were out of the Pensieve and back in the Auror's debriefing room. Dennis
was about to thank Moore again, and volunteering the memory, when Harry spoke up. "I'd
like to review it one more time."

"Again?" Dennis was puzzled. "But… but you said you wanted to see what happened
the day you came back, and you have. What more is there to see?"

"Maybe nothing." He glanced at Moore. "It's your memory… it's your
call."

Jason Moore shrugged with one shoulder and gestured at the waiting Pensieve. "Be my guest.
D'you want company?"

"It should only take a minute." Harry had turned strangely curt; Dennis decided he
didn't need to join Harry in his second trip through Moore's memory. And indeed, it only
took a minute.

But when Harry returned from the Pensieve, both Dennis and Jason noticed the change in him.
Where before he'd been curt, now he was still: he stood, perfectly silent and perfectly
motionless, staring at the silver surface of the Pensieve without seeming to see it. There was no
visible tension – no fists, no clenched jaws, no trembling musculature – but somehow, both men
could sense something cold and deadly within the young man. A terrible, destructive maelstrom of
power, held quiescent through force of will alone.

For the moment.



45. XXXXV: Nemo Me Impune Lacessit
----------------------------------

**(A/N:** You all recall this installment's title from back in Chapter 19,
right?**)**

**(Disclaimer:** You all recall that I don't own these characters and make no profit from
this story, right?**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXXXV: Nemo Me Impune Lacessit**

*

There was something in the air at the Ministry…

Hermione couldn't put her finger on it, quite. But it did seem to her that, as she walked
the corridors that late afternoon, small clusters of people would abruptly fall silent at her
approach. Surely it wasn't the presence of her bodyguard: today's Auror had been careful to
walk several paces behind her, and in any case, her bodyguards had never caused a problem within
the Ministry before now. This was something else: not hostile *per se,* indeed, people smiled
as she drew near. But she couldn't help but feel that she was missing something… or, perhaps
more accurately, that she was being excluded from something, something private.

It had been a long time since schoolgirl cliques bothered her; she wasn't much bothered by
the Ministry staff's secrecy, either, as long as it didn't impede job performance. She felt
sure, if it was important, she'd learn about it sooner or later.

*

As it happened, that very evening.

"I suppose," she managed to not-scream through a throat constricted with rage, "I
should be grateful that you subscribe, Fleur. Merlin knows *when* I might have found out about
this otherwise."

"Well, probably tomorrow," responded Fleur with equal parts sympathy and amusement.
"When the *Daily Prophet* published it."

Fleur had Flooed Enthalpy House the moment Hermione arrived home. They now sat in the living
room, with the damnable *Moniteur* *Magique* lying on the coffee table. Try as she might,
Hermione could not take her eyes from its front page photograph, where her image writhed
appreciatively under Harry's roving hand.

"I'm sure the Ministry gets its copies as well," Hermione fumed. "No
*wonder* people were acting so strangely – they were *laughing* at me! Laughing behind my
back! Those foul little…" It dawned on her that the clusters of people who'd been acting
so secretively that afternoon had all been wizards. And this was just the sort of
'men-only' sniggery that would appeal to a certain type of male. Of which, evidently, there
were more in the Ministry than she'd ever realized.

The fire in the Floo flared green, and Luna's voice came through. "Hallo, Hermione?
Fleur? Is anyone there?"

"I took the liberty of contacting Luna," Fleur quickly explained before Hermione could
speak. "After all, she helped us the last time we had a problem like this. I felt sure her
advice would be useful again."

Hermione nodded reluctant agreement. "Hold out your hand, Luna, I'll pull you
over," she called. Within a very few minutes, Luna was examining the *Moniteur* with the
air of a connoisseur, while Hermione waited with suppressed impatience.

"Yes," Luna finally commented, "I can see where Harry would be upset."

Fleur clamped her hand down on Hermione's arm to forestall another indignant outburst.
"We were wondering, Luna, if there were anything Hermione could do about this," she said
patiently. "It's already public in France, but it isn't widespread in Britain yet. But
Hermione feels certain that the *Prophet* will not keep this story quiet, as they did the last
time."

"Oh, they won't *report* it," Hermione injected acidly, "no, of course
they won't. Their story will be the fact that the *Moniteur's* reporting it."

Luna's eyes flicked from the newspaper to Hermione's face. "And you don't think
the *Prophet* will mention that the *Moniteur's* photo is faked?" She canted her
head in a quick, birdlike manner, and answered her own question. "Well, they certainly
wouldn't *emphasize* the point, no. Hmmm." She returned her gaze to the photo; she
gave a quick, appreciative smile as Harry's image began to use both hands.

"You should simply ignore this, Hermione," said Fleur firmly. "Attacking the
press will only serve to emphasize what we'd like to see forgotten. It would give the photo
*more* weight, not less."

"But if I say nothing, it'll encourage worse to come." Hermione plucked the
newspaper from Luna's hands, ignoring Luna's small yelp of protest, and slapped it down on
the coffee table. "You see why the *Moniteur**,* the press in general, think they
can get away with this, don't you? Think! Has any other Minister of Magic had to put up with
this sort of personal attack? Did Kingsley? Did Scrimgeour?"

"Cornelius Fudge…" began Luna.

"Was challenged on his competence and ethics – both of which were, quite obviously, fair
targets. But I don't think even the *Quibbler* suggested that Fudge seduced
schoolgirls!" Hermione rubbed her brow as though to scrub away her thoughts before they
formed. "I'm Muggleborn, is why. I am the first Muggleborn Minister of Magic *ever.*
And too many wizards see me as an object of fun for that reason alone. I can't *afford*
this! I can't afford to have my authority further undermined by *any* suggestions
of…"

"Of what?"

All three ladies started at the sound of Harry's voice. The almost silent pop of air that
heralded his Apparation had gone unnoticed. Now he stood at the door to the kitchen, motionless,
his features expressionless to the point of emptiness. Hermione could tell he was upset, but
whatever problem he'd brought with him was lost almost immediately, as he caught sight of the
newspaper's photo.

It took only an instant for him to absorb the photo and its message. His expressionless face
turned positively murderous. "Ah," he said grimly, "I see. Right, then, so much for
journalistic integrity."

And he turned to leave.

Hermione was immediately out of her seat and stretching out her hand to him. "Harry, wait!
Look, I'm very sorry about this. I know it looks bad – I just found out about it, and I'm
as mortified as you are! We were just about to discuss what I might do to counter…"

"Not much you *can* do," Harry broke in. "The Minister can't take action
against a foreign newspaper. And any action the Minister takes against a British newspaper will
just make it look like you have something to hide. The Minister can't take any *official*
action." He gave her a small, tight smile that didn't extend past his mouth, and
didn't last more than a second. "Trust me, I know about official actions. Dennis explained
it all."

"This is different… a different situation altogether." Hermione couldn't speak
explicitly about her covert assignments to Dennis and Canby, not with Fleur and Luna listening. In
any case, this wasn't the time for a lecture. She strove for a neutral tone, firm but
reasonable. She didn't want to sound like she was either ordering him or pleading with him…
certainly not lecturing him. "Harry, I trust you more than anyone, you *know* that.
I'll trust you with tasks just as I trust Dennis, or Canby. But this problem is about public
perception, and it has to be resolved publicly – by me. Harry, please, let me deal with
it."

His mouth tightened. "Scotland," he said curtly.

She responded with a warm smile, which seemed to give him pause. "Yes, the motto of
Scotland. I *do* appreciate it… thank you. But this time, I have to deal with the problem –
and be *seen* to deal with it – on my own, if I want to maintain my authority as Minister. I
can't be seen as powerless." *Or dependent on The Boy Who Lived Again,* she
didn't add.

Harry stood unmoving for one more moment, before his shoulders slumped. "But what can you
do? As Minister, what can you do? You said it last time: asking the *Prophet* not to print the
photo is a sure guarantee they *will* print it. Pretty much all you can do…" He caught
her gaze and concluded quietly, "is disavow. Deny that we're…" He left the sentence
dangling, unfinished.

She shook her head slowly, her eyes never leaving his. "No," she said with simple
finality.

He seemed to lighten at that, if only a little. "No?" he echoed.

"No, of course not," said Luna unexpectedly. "For one thing, Hermione won't
lie. And besides, no one would believe her. I mean, it's so *obvious.*"

"*Thank* you, Luna," Hermione muttered under her breath. At least she'd
forestalled Harry from Apparating to Paris and confronting the *Moniteur's* editor
face-to-face. His smile for her seemed less forced now… less grim. She hoped, whatever problem
he'd had when he'd arrived at Enthalpy House, it was no longer important.

In the meantime, she needed a plan for dealing with the *Prophet.* She turned and addressed
Luna and Fleur. "The press never showed this sort of contempt to previous Ministers, even
female Ministers like Bagnold. They think they can get away with attacking me because I can't
retaliate – because my position is seen as precarious – because I'm Muggleborn." Hermione
spread her hands, inviting suggestions.

"You will *not* disavow," declared Fleur, "you will *not* deny.
Instead, you will do what no one will expect." She laughed. "And you will change the
playing field to your home ground. After all, *chère**,* there is one *other* way in
which you differ from previous Ministers."

*

Another sleepless night – but one markedly different from those he'd experienced while he
was Master of the Deathly Hallows. Then, he'd been energized to the point that he no longer
needed sleep. Now, he needed sleep desperately – but his mind was far too tumultuous to allow him
the luxury. Instead, he sat in The Ossuary's drawing room, trying to marshal his thoughts.

Harry had provided the three witches with "brainstorming fuel" (he knew a pizzeria in
Southampton whose fare was acceptable), then had left them to their plans – returning to The
Ossuary for the night feeling decidedly dejected. True, Hermione's reassurances had been, well,
reassuring: good to know that she didn't plan to issue a press release to the wizarding world
that began *Harry and I are just friends.* But Harry still felt as though the problems she was
about to face, once the *Prophet* published that blasted picture, were somehow his fault, and
his responsibility to fix.

At least the photograph had briefly diverted him from his earlier fury.

*Blaise* *Zabini. It* had *to've been Blaise Zabini. I was at the Arch, I*
know *how much time elapsed between Kingsley's soul going through and Hermione's soul
going through. I* know *Kingsley was dead when Hermione was being strangled – so it wasn't
Kingsley's* Incarcerous *spell that did it. It was Zabini's. In Moore's Pensieve
memory, I* saw *him mouth the incantation.*

*But Moore didn't hear it. And I can't tell anyone I was at the Arch, when I supposed
to be in the domain of Death. So I can't* prove *Zabini did it… but I know it was him.*
Ohh *yes.*

Harry was just a hairsbreadth away from Apparating to Zabini's home and taking the law into
his own hands. Only the knowledge that it would reflect badly on Hermione had stayed him… at least
initially, until he'd talked with her. And then, when he'd arrived at Enthalpy House,
seeing the *Prophet's* front page demand Hermione's attention, he'd remained
silent.

And he'd understood her tacit warning, and request.

*She trusts me like she trusts Dennis Creevey, and Canby. She sends them out to investigate on
the sly, so the Cartel's agents won't know. Right. So I can investigate on the sly as well.
I can take care of Zabini without her involvement… give her, what's it called, plausible
deniability. That's just what I'll do.*

*The question is how. I have to find proof that I can present in court. Moore's memory is
a start, but it's not ironclad. Because I intend to nail the bastard.*

*And if I can't… well, I can still pay Zabini a midnight visit.*

He glanced up and was surprised to see streaks of pink through the window… the sun was dawning.
Harry hadn't realized how late he'd stayed up, or how early it now was. Or how exhausted he
was… thank goodness he wasn't scheduled for Hogwarts that week. He doubted he could have given
a coherent lecture.

A soft knock at the front door caught his attention. Who would be visiting The Ossuary at that
hour of the morning…? He rose from his chair, quickly made his way to the foyer, and opened the
front door in time to catch Canby raising his hand to knock again.

"Oh!" the elf whispered. "Canby is so sorry, Mister Harry, Canby was trying not
to disturb…"

"You didn't, you didn't. I was already awake." Harry gestured Canby inside.
"I'm guessing you're here to collect Ayesha for some more questioning?"

Canby nodded. "Also to take Ayesha to visit Ministry elves. They have asked after her,
hoping she is well."

"Yeah," Harry said slowly. Something about the Ministry was sparking an idea in
Harry's head. "Canby, before we call Ayesha, I've a question. I hope you can answer
it… it's about the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

"Of course, Mister Harry." The elf looked up at him expectantly. Harry took a moment,
seeking a way to get the answers he wanted without revealing his purpose.

"There's a spell you use in Magical Law Enforcement," he began. "Hermione
mentioned it. It's some kind of transcription spell: it writes down what a person says. Are you
familiar with it? Good. The thing is, Hermione used that spell on my godson, Ted Lupin. And
Ted's worried that it might still be working."

"Oh, no need to worry, Mister Harry!" Canby chirped. "The spell does not last
more than a few days. When prisoners are being monitored, the spell must be renewed twice a
week."

*Damn. That's not very long at all.* Harry didn't let his disappointment show.
"Does it only work at the Ministry? No, wait, of course it doesn't: Ted was at Hogwarts
when Hermione cast it on him. I suppose you'd know more about that than I would…" He
trailed off invitingly.

Canby seemed happy to show off his knowledge. Possibly he wanted to impress the Defender of
House Elves… or maybe he'd simply spent too much time around Hermione. "*Scribo* is a
simple spell, keyed to special quills at the Ministry. It is not strong – it must be cast by
contact, not from a distance – but it is very suited for monitoring prisoners. It writes
prisoner's location, writes what prisoner says…"

"While at least *looking* like you're respecting their privacy, got it."
Harry couldn't help chuckling at that. "Okay, thanks for telling me. I can let Ted know
he's off the hook."

After Canby had left with Ayesha, Harry sighed and made his way to the kitchen. *Maybe
I'll think better for some breakfast,* he thought. *There must be* some *way I can
get the goods on Zabini. Mmm, maybe a few Extendable Ears planted in his home…*

He set a skillet on the stove, letting it heat while he cracked some eggs into a mixing bowl.
Moving with practiced ease, he slipped a pat of butter into the skillet while adding a dash of milk
to the eggs. *Spices, let's see, what sort of spices did Susan stock in her kitchen?
Cinnamon, or redseed, or…?*

"Mister Harry!" Brillig had arrived in the kitchen. 'Agitated' didn't
*begin* to describe her. "Oh, Mister Harry should not be cooking! That is why Mister
Harry pays Brillig! Sit, sit, and Brillig will make breakfast…!"

Harry smiled and shook his head. "I like cooking, Brillig. I like to think I'm good at
it – *ah!* She *does* have redseed!" The bottle of redseed didn't seem to have
its own grinder; Harry tapped some seeds onto the countertop and crushed them with the back of a
spoon. The powdered redseed went into the eggs, which Harry began whisking rapidly, keeping one eye
on the skillet.

Brillig watched, her anxiety ebbing, as Harry prepared to pour the eggs into the skillet.
"Master Jack was liking butterbeer in his eggs," she offered tentatively.

"I've heard of that," Harry shrugged, setting aside the bowl and retrieving a
plate from the cupboard. He maintained a running commentary as the eggs were scrambled.
"Butterbeer's too sweet, though, really. You add milk to the eggs to make them lighter, of
course, but I like a little zest too. If I were making a full breakfast, we'd have bacon, a
couple of cheeses… here, try this."

He filled a fork with scrambled eggs and pointed it at Brillig's mouth. She hesitated,
uncertain whether she was permitted to eat humans' food, then bravely opened her mouth and
accepted the offering. Her eyes widened. "*Ooh…!* The red is… like that funny
pepper?"

"Cayenne? Yeah, but redseed's better. Doesn't overpower the flavor of the eggs,
which is important if you've got fresh farm eggs like these." The eggs done to Harry's
taste, neither too runny nor too dry, he tilted most of the skillet's contents onto the plate,
then glanced at Brillig. "There's enough for two."

The elf was, of course, shocked by the suggestion that she eat Harry's food, *with*
Harry – but Harry was pleased to see that the shock didn't seem as strong as before, nor did it
last as long. It was just as well: Harry knew from experience that Brillig could follow recipes,
but her remarks on preparing eggs had surprised and touched him. He found himself curious just how
creative Brillig could be in the kitchen.

*It should be interesting to find out,* he decided as they ate their breakfasts at the
kitchen counter (Harry standing, Brillig seated on the counter). *I've never tried teaching
anyone how to cook –* really *cook, I mean. Heck, this may be fun for both of us.*

*

Blaise Zabini was likewise having a sleepless dawn. He was sitting at the desk in his study;
sheets of parchment were strewn over the desk, looking as though he were dealing with Departmental
minutiae – but he wore his enchanted reading glasses, in response to the buzzing summons he'd
received while in bed.

Svartalfter's image, at least, was expected. Unexpected was the other Cartel Lord visible in
the glasses: ibn al-Afrit. Each Cartel Lord wore one lens of a set of spectacles… which meant,
Blaise realized, that al-Afrit had joined Svartalfter in his secure location. Both Lords, after
all, were still fugitives.

"So Granger has now cut off aid to the ICW," Blaise concluded his report, "and
we'll still hold the means to influence her future decisions, as well."

"And this is due to you and your agents," confirmed Svartalfer. "Well done,
Zabini… though it has not yet much effect had. Local Aurors continue our local operations to
hamper."

"We are still retrenching, regrouping… replacing lost personnel," said ibn al-Afrit.
"Revenues will be depressed for the foreseeable future. We much fear this will reduce your
usual honoraria… for the moment."

"And my agent?" inquired Blaise. "Initiative must needs be rewarded…"

"He will have a high place in our new organization," ibn al-Afrit promised. He
frowned. "Though it is as my colleague says, the ICW still harasses us. Indeed, they seem
uncomfortably familiar with the details of our operations. You're *certain* your local
Aurors are not still providing information?"

"Quite sure. I was present when Granger ordered cooperation suspended. I've been
dealing with the international consequences personally." Blaise shrugged. "In any case,
with Swivingham dead and his local cadre dispersed, any sources of information here in Britain will
have long since dried up."

"I had in mind the house-elves we sent Swivingham…"

"The only house-elf who might have presented a threat was your own body servant – the one
Granger managed to bring to Britain to testify against me." Blaise saw the subtle dig strike
home, and gave ibn al-Afrit an urbane smile. "Alas, she was accidentally killed in the
firefight at the Ministry, the day Shacklebolt died."

"My Ayesha killed, you say?" The Arab's face went blank for a moment. "Well,
no matter," he said at length, "our priorities remain unchanged." He nodded to
Svartalfter, who picked up the thread.

"There are certain of Swivingham's stockpiles which we would useful find,"
Svartalfer told Blaise. "We will need access to them – and passage in and out of Britain for
our people – without your Enforcers' notice."

"I will arrange it, of course. The same drop as before," promised Blaise, wishing he
could call for Virgil to bring him coffee. The discussion didn't look as though it would soon
conclude, and he wanted to be at his freshest when he went to the office in a few hours. After all,
he trusted the *Daily Prophet* would act as he expected: those scandalous photos in
Monday's foreign news would be prime fodder for Tuesday's *Prophet.* And far be it
from him to fail to do his part: he'd already shared them with a few hand-picked Ministry
co-workers. The photos could only serve to damage Granger's reputation, and the wider they were
spread, the better.

*

Despite his shortness of sleep, Zabini arrived at the Ministry earlier than his usual time.
Forearmed with Ginny's insights into Granger's likely response, he wanted a good seat to
watch the show. Its entertainment value alone would be worth the foul taste of Pepper-Up Potion.
And he'd prepared several amusing (and risqué) one-liners to drop into conversations throughout
the day… each one chipping away a little more at Granger's reputation.

But oddly, when the morning *Prophet* arrived on his desk, the embarrassing photos
weren't there. Not on the front page, not even buried inside. In fact, the *Prophet*
didn't mention them at all, even to say that they'd appeared in the *Moniteur**.*
Surely Granger couldn't have…?

Electing discretion over pleasure, Zabini decided to hold off on commenting on the photos,
concentrating instead on gauging the mood of the Ministry: listening in on conversations without
ever appearing to eavesdrop. He would wait for Granger to arrive before choosing the face he'd
show his co-workers.

Which, as it turned out, was a prudent decision – for when Granger *did* arrive at the
Ministry, Zabini almost didn't recognize her.

Someone must have advised Granger on her appearance, because she didn't look her usual
non-descript self. Her bushy hair was more than merely tamed, it was *coiffed.* Her face was a
study in subtlety, made-up to look quite lovely *without* seeming glamorously made-up. She
wasn't wearing her usual robes, but something more form-fitting, flattering to her figure while
still undeniably suitable for the offices of the Ministry. It all combined to proclaim that
Hermione Granger was a youthful, attractive, *confident* witch.

Even worse, Granger had Mina Mignot in tow. Mina Mignot was a bright young reporter for the
*Daily Prophet:* smart, but in Zabini's view, not yet sophisticated. In other words, the
perfect person to write up Granger's spin exactly as it was given to her.

"It will still take time," Granger was now saying to Mignot as they strolled down the
corridor, a photographer trailing silently behind, "but I think the Ministry has just about
recovered from Kingsley's death. We're back on top of our responsibilities now, and
that's always a good thing."

"And how have you settled in as Minister? Experiencing any, shall we call it culture
shock?" asked Mignot. A notepad hovered near her shoulder, with a Dictation Quill scribbling,
leaving Mina's hands free.

Granger smiled broadly. "If I were, I wouldn't be the only one. You *have* seen
those photos from France, haven't you? Our poor European cousins just aren't quite certain
what to make of me." She actually *laughed,* damn her. "After all, I'm probably
unique, unprecedented, in their experience."

"Oh? How so?"

"I'm the youngest Minister of Magic in living memory – possibly in the last three
hundred years. Age is only a demographic, of course," and Granger waved a hand over herself in
modest self-deprecation, "but you have to admit, there's an undeniable… *freshness*
that comes with the territory."

"A breath of fresh air, as it were?" Mignot asked dutifully.

"As it were, and taking some folks by surprise, I suspect. Honestly, can you imagine anyone
faking a photograph like that of Millicent Bagnold when *she* was Minister?"

Mignot's face lit with appreciation. "Hardly! She was pretty crusty when *she* was
elected! And she was our last female Minister, too," she added, making the connection.
"Nobody'd have tried this sort of thing with a *male* Minister, would they?"

"I doubt it. What do you think, Blaise?" Granger added, turning to him unexpectedly.
"Would an elderly male Minister ever be subjected to this kind of muckraking? Would he even
*consider* it slander – or a compliment?"

Surprised and unprepared, Zabini could only temporize, struggling to maintain a smooth poise,
and painfully aware that more and more Ministry staffers were now listening. "Kingsley
Shacklebolt was too well respected… and Pius Thicknesse was, frankly, too feared…"

"And both old enough to be our fathers," laughed Granger, returning to the point she
insisted on making: that her age, not her Muggle heritage, had sparked the *Moniteur's*
moment of yellow journalism. She had, in short, completely shifted the battleground before
Zabini'd had a chance to fire his main salvos. Sly barbs were still possible, but now his
battle would be fought uphill.

*Well played, Granger,* he acknowledged as he retreated to his office, *well
played.*

*

Having agreed to this charade when Fleur proposed it, Hermione was committed to seeing it to the
end. She'd contacted the *Prophet* at once, and arranged for an exclusive interview. Then
this morning, reluctantly, she'd allowed Fleur to prepare her for it: sitting uncomfortably
while Skeekeasy's Hair Potion was applied; while Fleur painted her face, erased what she'd
done, repainted, over and over; while her wardrobe was critiqued with a scathing Gallic scorn, and
her best robes Transfigured. Merlin, she hadn't gone to this much trouble on her wedding
day!

Now she artfully maintained her cheery front, consenting to be photographed in her new look,
projecting an aura of vigor and vitality – pretending the tasteless jokes had been because she was
young, not because she was Muggleborn. She knew, intellectually, that it would not only enhance her
political standing, but confound her opponents: the ones who were hungrily waiting for her to fail.
It was the right course.

But neither her intellect nor her determined cheer could quite overcome the bad taste in her
mouth.

*It's been almost exactly twenty years since I was first called a Mudblood,* she
reflected sourly. *We fought a* war *over that prejudice. Is it too much to ask that I not
have to put up with it any more?*

Miss Mignot's voice intruded on her thoughts. "One more photograph, I think, Minister?
Of you behind your desk. I think we've enough for a full spread, with that."

Obediently, Hermione led them to her office. The Minister's office, it had formerly been
Kingsley's; his decorations and memorabilia had been packed up and forwarded to his family.
Hermione had been tempted to decorate here as in Enthalpy House, with many bookcases stuffed with
tomes. A little reflection, though, had led to the addition of some *objêts* *d'art*
around the room, hanging on the walls or displayed on small tables. She was proudest of her
statuette of Lady Justice: delicate features, blindfolded, scales in one hand and a sword in the
other. It was a reproduction of a 19th C. work, and she took secret pleasure in knowing
that the original, and the reproduction, were made by the hands of Muggles.

Hermione took her seat behind the desk and made sure she was sitting erect, head up, chest not
too obviously out, before giving the cameraman a confident smile. His camera flashed amidst a puff
of purple smoke (*flash powder,* Hermione thought irrelevantly, *how quaint*), and then
he was nodding to Mignot and packing his gear.

"You can read the story in the *Prophet,* probably by the end of the week,"
Mignot said. "I won't lie to you: my editors *may* decide to run those French photos
after all." (Which meant, Hermione knew, that they had already decided to do so.) "But
we'll blur your faces, and the, um, unpublishable bits…"

"Muggles call that 'airbrushing'," Hermione informed her.

"Sure, okay. But it'll all be part of the story of how the new young Minister is
bringing *vitality* to the Ministry, and all that. Trust me, it'll be tasteful."
Mignot smiled apologetically. "Hey, it'll *have* to be tasteful. Everyone in the
press knows what you said to those three idiots who ambushed you in Hogsmeade, the day you were
elected."

"Excellent," Hermione said gravely. "I do so hate repeating myself."

Mignot's smile faltered for a moment, before she managed to plaster it back into place.
"Erm, yes, well… and the rumors about you and Harry Potter? I'm sure you'll be wanting
to make *some* statement…?"

"That Harry was with me in Athens is beyond denial," Hermione stated, in what was
clearly a carefully rehearsed speech. (She reminded herself to stick to Harry's cover story as
closely as she could.) "Obviously, with Harry behind the Veil, he'd been effectively dead.
His return after so many years was a joyful time for him, and for all his friends. I count myself
fortunate to be Harry's friend, and we've spent a great deal of time together since he came
back – renewing our relationship."

"So… you're officially 'just friends', Minister?" Mignot grinned
cheekily.

Hermione gave a serene smile in return. "Friendship, certainly, but of the deepest and
truest kind. Certainly, there's no man to whom I feel closer."

"Such a pity, then, isn't it? That he's, what, half your age or
thereabouts…?"

Laughing, Hermione cut short the rest of Mignot's sentence. "I said it before, I'll
say it again: age is only a demographic." The reporter's eyebrows rose at the
implications, and Hermione continued, "Even before passing beyond the Veil, Harry had
experienced more in his life than most wizards of *any* age. It's experience that gives
maturity, not the ticks of a clock."

If she didn't know better, Hermione would have sworn that Mignot's eyes *glittered*
with anticipation. She all but leaned forward to catch Hermione's response, as she asked
softly, "What, exactly, are you saying, Madam Granger? For the record, are you and Harry
Potter any *more* than friends?"

"For the record," and Hermione paused dramatically, never losing her smile,
"Harry and I have been very close, we are closer today, and I would say we look forward to
growing closer still. I trust that answers your question, Miss Mignot?"

*

"Mere words cannot express," Tori declared, "how much I've looked forward to
this."

Ted was in total agreement. They were queued up with their classmates, waiting for that precious
moment when the gates of Hogwarts would open, and they would be free! Free, at any rate, to escape
Hogwarts for the day, free to forget classes and assignments due Monday – free to visit Hogsmeade,
which for once took precedence even over Quidditch practice. Already, Ted was planning how much
they could pack into their morning, since he had an engagement for the afternoon.

"If only because," she added, squeezing his arm, "I'll have to you to myself
for a rarity. *Not* sharing you with Rosie."

"Oh, cut her some slack," Ted admonished. "She's back in the Hospital Wing
this morning, did you hear?"

Tori nodded, her expression suddenly serious. Every five days, Rose would abruptly "not
feel all that well" and report to Madam Pomfrey. A couple of her fellow Gryffindors had begun
to remark on it; only Tori and Ted knew that Rose was pretending to receive her doses of antidote.
Her poisoners *probably* couldn't keep track of her comings and goings, not inside
Hogwarts… but why take chances? Rose would play her part to the hilt, until the blackmailers were
caught.

"I heard," said Tori somberly, likewise playing her part. "I hope she feels
better soon."

"Yeah, me too." Ted shrugged. "Not that you've had to share me with Rose all
that much, lately. She only has eyes for Someone Else now." He smiled an evil smile. "I
can't *wait* until he subs for Professor Longbottom on a day he has to teach the
firsties."

"On that day, *you* will behave, if you know what's good for you."

"We'll see." He lost his evil smile and looked almost solemn. "Is, um, is
there anyplace you'd like to visit first? Zonko's, or…"

"Why on earth would I want to visit Zonko's? Is my last name Zonko? Isn't the
Hogsmeade branch of the Wheezes just down the street? That would be 'no' and 'yes',
respectively. *Please,* Ted, try to show a little loyalty."

"To the Weasley name? Are you saying I don't?" He laced his fingers with hers, and
continued, "Whatever you'd like to do, love. I'm just sorry I can't spend all day
with you, but…"

"But you're lunching with your Gran. I *understand,* Ted. Don't fret, I'll
find some way to amuse myself." Tori squeezed his hand and smiled happily at him, and
Ted's problems seemed to retreat with remarkable speed.

All too soon, however, he found himself breaking away from Tori, with many apologies on his part
and dismissals on hers, and making his way to the Three Broomsticks. Gran had said she'd be
reserving one of the private parlors for them, which implied she wished privacy for their
discussion. First, about why she wanted him to change his name – what need did she see for it? –
and then, about the will Harry had suggested.

But when Roswitha, the landlady, had ushered him to the parlor, he was surprised to discover
that Gran wasn't alone. Gran hadn't mentioned that she'd be bringing anyone to their
meeting, much less that it would be…

"My sister Narcissa," Gran introduced them as he stood at the door, frozen in
astonishment. "Cissy, this is your great-nephew Teddy."

"Ted," he corrected automatically, entering the parlor and closing the door behind
him. He extended his hand. "Ted Lupin. Um, pleased to meet you… er, how shall I call
you?"

"Aunt Narcissa will do," Narcissa replied, taking Ted's hand with a smile. There
was no sign of hesitation or squeamishness on her part; from what Ted had heard about her, he'd
almost expected some. "The pleasure's mutual. Let me thank you for allowing us to stay in
your home, until we find our footing."

"Oh, no worries, no worries at all." Ted glanced sidewise at his grandmother, hoping
for an explanation. Wasn't this supposed to be a *private* discussion…?

"I asked her to be here," Gran said, gesturing to the chairs and taking one herself,
"to lend her suggestions about your legal change of name. The one I wrote to you
about?"

"Changing it to Black-Lupin, you mean?" Ted noticed a sideboard with three pitchers
and several glasses. A quick inspection showed butterbeer, water, and tea in the pitchers; he
poured himself a glass of water. His glance inquired whether Gran or his new Auntie likewise wanted
a drink; when they shook their heads, he took his seat, water glass in hand.

"Or Lupin-Black," said Narcissa. "Or even Black. But yes, in any event, having
the Black surname made formally yours."

"Is that really important, then?" Ted looked from Narcissa to Gran. "I mean, it
wouldn't change *me.* I'd be the same person, with the same parents, even if I changed
my name to Arglebarg."

The corner of Gran's mouth twitched upward, as it always did when she was trying not to
smile. "I rather imagine the Wizengamot would find it difficult to acknowledge an Arglebarg as
Head of the Most Noble House of Black."

"More to the point," Narcissa continued smoothly, "I and my son would find it
difficult to acknowledge an Arglebarg as Head of our House. Or anybody not named Black."

"Um… I didn't realize the House of Black *had* a Head. Or that it needed one – I
mean, we've been getting along fine without a Head for how many years? Since your cousin Sirius
died, isn't it?"

"We've been 'getting along', as you put it," said Gran severely, "but
I would hardly characterize it as 'fine'. A Noble House does better with a single Head to
whom its members can look for leadership. If you were Head of our House, anyone who would claim the
status of being a Black would have to acknowledge you." She met Ted's eyes and added,
"And support you fully, Teddy. In *everything.* Which will be no small thing, once you
reach your majority."

"I… seeeeee," Ted said slowly. "And I need to do this *before* making a
will?"

"It simplifies things tremendously, if the will ever needs to be executed – God
forbid," Narcissa replied.

He sipped his water, giving himself a chance to think. "So, um, *if* – *if* I
decide to do this, how do we go about it? You mentioned the Wizengamot; we don't have to work
through them, do we?"

Gran reached into her purse and brought out a sheaf of folded parchments. "They'd be
informed of the change, and may acknowledge your status – but for the change itself, all that's
needed is a filing with the Magical Records Office. Mind you, Teddy, it will be a magical filing:
not quite a Magically Binding Contract, but you won't be able to just change it back on a whim.
You need to be sure this is what you want."

"Um, I guess I'm not quite sure yet. I guess. I'd like to think about it some more.
There's no deadline, is there?" Gran shook her head; Ted noticed that Narcissa said
nothing, and kept her face friendly, but he thought he saw a hint of satisfaction there as well.
*Well, if Harry's right,* he thought, *the longer I put off making a will, the better
for her and cousin Draco.*

He extended his hand towards the parchments. Gran gave them to him, and he tapped them
thoughtfully against his chin. He made no move to open and read them. "One thing," he
said after a moment, "*if* I do this, I want to keep the Lupin name too. It was my
dad's name, and I want it to be mine."

"That should be no problem," Narcissa smiled. "And I commend you on your loyalty:
an admirable trait in the Head of a Noble House. And I quite understand your desire to keep up
appearances."

"That's twice you've said something like that, Cissy," Gran put in. "What
are you talking about?"

"About Ted's father," explained Narcissa. "Naming Remus Lupin as his father.
*You* know, Dromeda." She paused, momentarily uncertain. "Or have I misunderstood?
Was Remus Lupin *not* a werewolf?"

"Oh, he was a werewolf, Mother," came a new voice from the parlor door. "That
fact came out when I was a third-year, and he was our Defense teacher. Since he resigned as soon as
he was outed, we all knew it was true." Draco Malfoy entered the parlor and extended his hand
to Ted. "Hello, there. I'm your cousin Draco. I'm very pleased to meet you." He
paused, his hand outstretched, as Ted stood motionless as a statue.

"First cousin once removed, to be precise," Narcissa put in. "You bear the same
relationship to Draco that Draco bore to our last patriarch, Sirius."

Mechanically, Ted reached out and shook Draco's hand. By reflex, his expression had schooled
itself into the innocuous look he favored when accused of a school prank – showing absolutely
nothing of what he was thinking. "Draco, yes, I'm Ted. The pleasure's mine. Good to
meet you."

"Thank you," Draco said, relaxing slightly. "So, Ted… I understand you play
Quidditch?"

"Erm, yeah," Ted said, and then coughed. He cleared his throat and began again.
"Yeah, I made captain of the Gryffindor team this year. I play Chaser…" He coughed once
more and released Draco's hand.

"Ah, Chaser," Draco drawled. "A good position for learning teamwork, Chaser. I
played Seeker when I was your age… for Slytherin, don't you know…" He stopped, slightly
dismayed, as Ted started coughing again, more prolonged and violent this time.

"S-Sorry," Ted managed to choke out. "Got something down the wrong pipe…" He
was seized with another fit of wracking coughs. "'Scuse me a sec…" Seeing Gran's
alarmed gesture of dismissal, he darted for the door and made his way to the lavatory.

Once inside with the door bolted, he dropped the pretense of coughing and raised his hand to his
face. He sniffed carefully. There was no mistake.

*But* now *what do I do? I can't go back in there… well, I* can, *I won't
give anything away, I never do, my face always looks exactly like I want it to look… but then what
do I do? I wish Harry were here… he'd know what to do…*

One possibility occurred to him. He hadn't yet tried this trick, but it *ought* to
work… *please let it work!* Ted drew a deep breath and his wand at the same time. He
brandished it towards the narrow lav window, and tried to think of a happy memory. Well, that one
was obvious.

*The night I let Tori use my wand.*

As Harry had taught him, he filled his mind with that memory… then altered the memory slightly,
to incorporate the message he wanted to send. Then, before he could begin to doubt himself, he
flicked his wand and intoned, "*Expecto* *Patronum!*"

And out of the end of his wand there shot a shining, brilliant, silver… three-inch-long reptile,
with bulbous eyes and a curled tail. It perched on the ledge of the window for a split second,
regarding him with one eye askew, then flashed out the window and away.

*A chameleon.* *I finally get my corporeal Patronus, and it's a chameleon. An effing
lizard. Hex me now.*

Well, any port in a storm. Ted splashed some water on his face, left the lavatory, and returned
to the parlor. He arrived as Draco was explaining to Gran, "I'm sure any daughter of yours
wouldn't have played the field once married – even married to a, yes, well – so they must have
asked a friend to help them out. That's always been the general assumption, anyway. The
important thing, though, is that his mother was a Black…" Draco fell abruptly silent upon
seeing Ted in the doorway.

Ted was seething inside – if that story was "the general impression", why was this the
first *he* was hearing about it? – but his face remained bland. "Sorry about that,"
he told everyone casually, as though he'd heard nothing. "Must've been the caramels I
ate for breakfast."

"Caramels?" Gran asked pointedly, just as Ted had predicted.

"For energy," he explained. "You'd know about that, playing Seeker and
all," he added, turning to Draco with a grin.

Draco returned the grin. "I do know what you mean, but I never liked the sugar rush: it
didn't last. I always loaded up with carbs and caffeine before a game." He cocked his
head. "First game of the year should be coming up soon, eh? Gryffindor vs. Slytherin, as
always?"

"As always. Maybe you'd like to come to Hogwarts and, um, watch the game?"

"Not that game. I wouldn't know who to cheer for. But perhaps later in the year… when
you play Ravenclaw, perhaps?" Draco gave a light laugh and turned for the door. "Well, I
wanted to drop in and meet you, cousin, we'll be seeing much of each other – especially once
you've been recognized as Head of the Blacks – but I've still some things I need to do
today. Until later, Ted, ladies." Before Ted could think of an excuse to keep him in the
parlor, Draco opened the door and walked out.

And ran headlong into someone just outside the door.

Draco hacked and spit, stepping backwards into the room, massaging his throat. "Watch where
you're going, you blithering idiot, you nearly crushed my windpipe…" His tirade stopped
short as he recognized the figure who'd blocked his path. "*Potter?*"

"Malfoy," Harry responded, closing the door behind him. "Mrs. Malfoy, Mrs. Tonks.
You're all looking well."

"You're looking *very* well, for a dead person," said Draco coldly. "Is
there something you need here? I hesitate to point it out, but this is a private party."

"Which was his idea in the first place," Ted said quickly. "When I got Gran's
owl, he advised talking with her face to face. And he *is* my godfather."

"Your…?" Draco's eyes narrowed; his glance flitted from Ted to Harry and back.

"Well, he wasn't around to carry out the duties until now, but yeah." Ted turned
to Narcissa and spoke gravely. "I bear the same relationship to Harry that Harry bore to our
last patriarch, Sirius."

"I see." Draco's face looked as though he were eating lemons – but he drew himself
up and spoke without heat. "Well, Potter, I hope you do well by our young man. He has an
important role to play in society, and there are things he needs to know." *That you could
never teach him,* was the unspoken addendum. "If you will all excuse me now." He left
the room without waiting for a response.

Harry looked at Narcissa and gave a small smile. "He's never liked me."

"I am sure," Narcissa said regally, "my son is willing to let bygones be
bygones."

"If he doesn't rattle my chains, I won't rattle his," Harry agreed. He gave
Ted a hard look, and a silent message passed between them: they would talk alone later.
"So," he continued cheerfully, turning back to Andromeda and Narcissa, "what did we
decide on? Lupin-Black, or Black-Lupin?"



46. XXXXVI: No Escape From The Past
-----------------------------------

**(A/N:** I am indebted to an essay by Claire Jordan, on the Harry Potter Lexicon site, for
the location of Spinner's End.

At long last, I have a new beta-reader. The estimable **Bexis** has agreed to review my
prose, gently point out flaws, and offer suggestions. Any errors left over are still my own fault,
alas.**)**

**(Disclaimer:** The only payment I get from writing this tale would be your comments.
Certainly, nothing is subtracted from the Rowling estate.**)**

*

**"Coming Back Late"**

**by** **Paracelsus**

*

**XXXXVI: No Escape From The Past**

*

There were times – not many, but there *were* times – when Harry missed the Deathly
Hallows.

In particular, if he'd still possessed the Stealth Cloak, it would be *ever* so much
easier to infiltrate the Ministry on the sly. No longer an option now, of course. And even if Harry
once again managed his hypercharged Notice-Me-Not charm, he feared it might be detected: Ministry
security was still a bit higher than normal, and would be so until memories of the incident with
Sabas Doukas had faded somewhat.

So Harry arrived at the Ministry on Monday evening, just at close of business, when the great
majority of Ministry staff were trying to make their way to the Atrium, there to either Floo or
Disapparate home. Harry had Transfigured his robes to be a bit threadbare, grubby, with oil stains
here and there; he'd added a non-descript woolen cap. He'd rubbed a bit of dirt (not too
much) on his face and hands; his glasses were removed and in his pocket. He kept his eyes down,
focused on a coffee-stained and creased bit of parchment, and grumbled for all the world like a
Maintenance worker who'd been given a repair job minutes before quitting time.

He received maybe two sympathetic glances, but everyone seemed too intent on getting home to
their dinners to take much notice of him. Even the gate guard, who should have stopped him and
weighed his wand at the very least, motioned him onward with a jerk of his thumb and a snort.

Once through the crowds, Harry gave a sigh of relief and relaxed a trifle. *Worst part's
over,* he told his queasy stomach. The corridors to the lift were mostly empty; the lift itself,
unoccupied. He relaxed a bit more.

The lift took him to the ninth floor, where Harry expected to find the office of the Senior
Counsel to the Wizengamot likewise empty – the Senior Counsel having been made Minister, and there
being no junior Counsels that he'd ever seen. He paused outside the door, slipped his glasses
back in place, and walked inside.

There he was surprised to find Sheryl at her desk, sorting through a stack of reports, and
consulting a couple of large leather-bound books in the process. She looked up as Harry entered.
"Oh, hello, Harry. What brings you here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Harry grinned, though inside he was rapidly revising
his plans. "I'd have thought you'd still be working alongside Hermione – I mean, the
Minister – as an aide or something."

Sheryl shrugged. "Counsel's office still has things that need doing, even without a
Counsel." She gestured at the books opened on her desk and added, "And I'm studying
hard in the meantime. I think, if I can pass the examination, and with my clerking experience,
*I* might be named Counsel. Not *Senior* Counsel, not right away, but still."

"Good luck, then… Actually, I was hoping to find Canby down here. Is he around?"

"I can let him know you're here." Sheryl scribbled a note on a small piece of
parchment, which she folded into an airplane and launched out the door with her wand.
"Don't know where he is… it may take a few minutes."

"I don't mind waiting." Harry leaned against the wall, folded his arms across his
chest, and appeared to lose himself in thought. Sheryl returned to her parchmentwork, occasionally
using her wand to re-sort the reports in front of her, prior to filing them away.

Harry waited a few moments, until he was sure that Sheryl's attention wasn't fully on
him. Then he casually took a step towards the corner of the room, where a quill was poised
attentively over a sheaf of parchments. He wished now that he'd paid more attention to Ted,
when Ted had showed him the Supersensory Charm – but that had been two years ago, when he'd had
the Elder Wand, and hadn't really needed to memorize incantations. *Dammit**.*

He waited another few moments, confirming that Sheryl was engrossed in her work, then took
another step towards the corner and cautiously craned his neck to read the top parchment.

"Looking for this?"

Harry's face jerked towards the door. Canby and Hermione stood there, side by side, with
Hermione's Auror escort in the background. Harry had just a moment to register Canby's
sorrowful *Mister-Harry-how-could-you* expression, before his gaze was trapped by
Hermione's stern look. In her hand she held a large sheet of parchment filled with lines of
text: obviously dictation.

She marched into the empty office that had been hers, motioning Harry to follow. When they were
both inside, the desk between them, she whirled and demanded, "What do you think you're
doing?"

"Hermione," he said urgently, "if that parchment is what I think it is, it could
be very important. I put the *Scribo* charm on…"

"*Don't tell me!"* she angrily interrupted. "I can't *read*
this, I can't *know* about this!" She slammed the parchment onto the desktop and
struck it with her wand. Immediately, it began to smoulder and blacken, the edges glowing
ember-red. Horrified, Harry made an abortive motion to stop her, pausing only when he remembered
that the office door was open, and that Sheryl, Canby, and the Auror were all watching.

"You've put me in an impossible position, Harry," Hermione said in level, measured
tones. "This could have been a serious violation of someone's right to privacy. Made worse
by the fact that you misused Ministry-specific charms and resources – even though you aren't a
Ministry employee. And made more awkward for *me* by the fact that we know each
other."

"But Hermione," he tried to inject, "this was about…"

"*Fortunately,*" she overrode him, "fortunately for *all* of us, no one
has read this transcription since it was discovered, so no harm was truly done this time. But
Harry, please." Her expression remained hard, but her voice softened slightly. "Please,
you must see that I can't approve this cavalier abuse of Departmental resources… nor the
violation of *any* individual's rights. Please don't let me catch you doing this
again."

She waited a moment to hear what he might have to say, but Harry had turned sullenly mute. After
a pause, the Minister of Magic gave Harry a curt nod of dismissal and, skirting around the desk,
left the office and departed briskly down the corridor, Canby and the Auror trailing behind her.
Sheryl, after giving Harry an unreadably neutral look, returned to her own work.

Harry remained standing in place, staring poleaxed at the burnt parchment that marked the
spoiled outcome of his plan. He'd been so clever, arriving at the Leaky Cauldron upon receiving
Ted's Patronus, and casting the *Scribo* charm on Draco without his noticing, as they ran
into one another. With that charm at work, there'd been every chance Draco might have said
something incriminating, something that would link Draco conclusively to Rose's poisoning. He
couldn't *believe* Hermione would destroy such vital evidence! She wouldn't even let
him tell her his ruse concerned Rose – which he'd have *thought* would be *important*
to her!

"Canby was hurt, you know, Harry," came Sheryl's voice. She was hunched over her
work, not looking at him through the door, but her disappointment was plain to hear. "He came
in today and saw that the quill was writing, even though we don't have any prisoners in the
holding cells, and he knew exactly what you'd done. I think it was the fact that you used a
spell he taught you that hurt him the most."

"I never meant to…" he began, then fell silent. Any apologies were owed to Canby,
really, not Sheryl. Though Harry still felt as though nobody understood how *important* this
bit of parchment had been…

He suddenly peered more closely at the parchment. It had been charred and blackened, as though
held too close to a fire – but Hermione hadn't *set it* on fire, as she could so easily
have done. The edges were grey ash, but the main body of the page…

"*Imperturbus**!*" he immediately cast, before the fragile page could be
disturbed, or accidentally crumbled into dust. The main body of the page was still intact – and at
the proper angle, the quill's glossy black ink was still visible against the charcoal black of
the parchment!

*Clever Hermione,* he thought with a grin, as he dug into his pocket and brought out pencil
and notebook. *Of course, in front of witnesses, you said what the Minister of Magic had to say.
You had to look like you wouldn't accept illegally gotten evidence, even to the point of
looking like you destroyed it. But you left it for me to read. And you didn't tell me to stop
what I was doing: you told me not to get caught!*

Trying to balance haste and accuracy, Harry began copying the words on the blackened parchment.
The *Scribo* charm showed Draco's location, as well as his words. Harry could wish for a
date/time marker as well – and the other side of any conversation – but the charm wasn't
designed to provide those. Ah well, he'd have to make do.

*

Hermione prepared her own breakfast at Enthalpy House the next morning, and ate it alone. Harry
had spent his night at The Ossuary, which wasn't unusual… but he'd made no attempt to
contact her during the day, which *was* unusual. She wondered if he were sulking; she felt a
bit sorry she'd had to chastise him as she had. But he'd left her no choice, once he'd
been found out: people *had* to see her as impartial. Doubly so, as the first Muggleborn
Minister of Magic: Hermione had to be as Caesar's wife, with her actions above reproach, and
*seen* to be above reproach.

She pushed aside her empty plate and reached for the morning post, hoping to divert herself
before leaving for her office. The first item was, of course, the *Daily Prophet.* She opened
it to see, on the front page, the story by Mina Mignot: **New Minister Takes Ribbing in
Stride.** The story came complete with illustration: *not* the infamous photograph from
*le Moniteur Magique,* but an "artist's interpretation" in soft pastels, with
sketchy facial features and thankfully indistinct anatomical details.

*I was expecting to see this last week,* she mused as she rapidly scanned the text of the
article. *Ah, good, it* does *talk about my youth, not my Muggle parentage. I can live with
that: I'll outgrow that kind of comment. Annnd… yes, it does mention Harry. Mm, my
"closest supporter", very tactful.*

Her reverie was interrupted by the arrival of a tiny stag Patronus, which circled the kitchen
once before lighting on the table in front of her. "*Dear Greek goddess,*" came the
message in Harry's voice, "*dinner tonight, my place? Sincerely, your boy
toy."*

Laughing, Hermione framed a reply in the affirmative, and sent it off via her own Patronus.
*Well, so much for Harry sulking. He must have been as amused by the Prophet as I was.*
Greatly cheered, she Banished the dirty dishes to the sink and prepared for another day at the
Ministry.

*

Neville likewise saw the Tuesday *Prophet,* at the high table in the Hogwarts Great Hall.
Unlike Hermione, he hadn't known Mignot's article was coming… but having seen it, he found
he wasn't all that surprised. At first, he didn't read the article in great detail; rather,
after taking in the artist's sketch, he cast his gaze across the assembled students at
breakfast. Several pockets of students seemed downcast by the article – sixth and seventh year
girls, mostly – but Neville was primarily interested in one particular trio of Gryffindors.

At the moment, Mr. Lupin was holding the newspaper gingerly: he was shaking his head in apparent
resignation as he read the front page. Miss Weasley-Minor seemed on the verge of tears; Miss
Weasley-Major had an arm wrapped around the younger girl's shoulders, comforting her. A crush,
Neville supposed – certainly, by all the gossip of the castle's portraits and ghosts, there
were crushes aplenty on the new substitute teacher – but Rose's would be a more awkward crush
than the others. Neville pondered for a moment whether he should intervene… and if so, as Head of
House or as a family friend.

He'd just about decided that it was better, all things considered, to stay aloof of
Rose's personal issues, when another personal issue arrived via the morning owls. Neville took
the letter proffered by the tiny owl, read it, and sighed resignedly… he supposed it was only to be
expected.

*Neville: I know you know how to reach Harry. I HAVE to talk to him. TODAY, lunch at the Leaky
Cauldron. Tell him it's URGENT. – Ron.*

*

"Urgent, you said?" Harry asked politely. He took a sip of butterbeer and waited for
Ron to broach his subject. Once they'd settled whatever that was – though he had a very strong
hunch what Ron's issue would be – Harry had his own reason for keeping this meeting.

"Yeah," Ron replied, and fell silent. He didn't drink, but kept his eyes fixed on
Harry. You couldn't call it a stare, exactly, but it was just as unwavering.

After a minute, Harry broke the silence. "I'm bollocks at Legilimency, Ron."

Ron regarded Harry for another few moments, before extracting the *Prophet* from his pocket
and tossing it onto the table. The paper had been folded to display the sketch of Harry and
Hermione.

"Yeah, I saw that too," said Harry. "I also read the article, which I'll bet
is more than most people have done." He raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

Ron scowled. "Skimmed it." He tapped one finger repeatedly on the sketch.
"Hermione knew she'd be getting grief as Minister. That's not why I wanted to talk to
you. I want to talk about this."

"*'This'* is an artist's interpretation of a faked photograph in a foreign
newspaper," Harry said without heat. "What else is there to say about it?"

"The photo was taken in Greece, right? They may have faked some details, but you and
Hermione were in Greece together when it was taken, right?"

"You know we were, Ron." Harry sighed, took another drink, and leaned back in his
chair. "It was just after Hermione's Rebirthday Party… after the reporters told her
she'd been elected, but before the Wizengamot could confirm it officially. It was her last
chance to take a holiday for, well, years. Should she *not* have jumped at the
chance?"

"The holiday's not the *point,* Harry. *Greece* isn't the point, Harry.
You *know* what the *point* is, Harry!" Ron kept his voice low with an effort, but
Harry could see his face turning red. Some things never changed.

"All right, Ron. Just remember, *you* brought this up." Harry downed his
remaining butterbeer in a gulp and set the tankard down with a heavy clunk. "We went to Greece
together, yes, as you already knew from the photo. Yes, we stayed at the same hostel." Both
Harry's gaze and voice were perfectly level. "Same room." Pause, then more quietly,
"Same bed."

*Now* Ron was definitely staring.

"Do you need more details?" Harry concluded, very quiet now. There was no trace of a
threat in his attitude – but Gibraltar would have been no less immovable.

"No." Ron cleared his throat, hawked, and took a quick swallow. "No, I understand
just fine, thanks." He said nothing more, and an awkward silence descended.

"Well. Okay, then." Harry canted his head. "I must say, you're taking this
better than I expected."

"What's to take? The Boy Who Lived Again is having a go with the Minister of Magic.
Quite the natural thing, really, if you think about it."

"Don't do this, Ron. *Don't.* It's not as though you're married to her
anymore. You handed her the Decree Absolute yourself."

"And you didn't exactly let the grass grow under your *feet, did you?*" Ron
hissed with unexpected venom.

Harry managed to stop himself before he reminded Ron about Felicia – he wasn't supposed to
know about Felicia. Instead, he opted for a soft answer. "I've known her as long as you
have," he said, almost gently. "Loved her as a friend since before our voices changed.
Counted on her, right up to the day I died… and since. No, Ron, if anything, I think I let far too
*much* grass grow. I was stupid for years, too many years – before *and* after I died –
but not any more. So if you've got a problem seeing her with me, say so now."

Ron didn't reply, not immediately. He drank from his own butterbeer, looking off to the
side… he no longer seemed able to meet Harry's eyes. He sighed heavily, took another drink, and
pushed his tankard away. He leaned his elbows on the table and rubbed his brow, still not looking
at Harry. Finally, he mumbled, "Yah, well… I reckon if I've got a problem seeing her with
you, it's *my* problem, innit? Nothing 'ud change. You'd still be with
her."

"I'm so glad you understand that." Harry reached out and squeezed Ron's
shoulder; when Ron looked up, he gave Ron a wry smile. "Would it make you feel better if you
gave me the standard *If-you-ever-hurt-her-I'll-hurt-you-worse* speech? Or shall we take
that as said and move on?"

"Guh! Move on, move on." Ron bit into a sandwich, swallowed without chewing, and
added, "Although I *will* hurt you."

"Right. Moving on." Harry motioned Ron closer as he drew his wand and silently cast
*Muffliato* around their table. Even though there was little chance they'd be overheard in
the Leaky Cauldron, Harry recalled all too painfully what had happened in the Hog's Head,
during his fifth year, when he'd failed to take such precautions.

And despite the *Muffliato**,* he still couldn't help lowering his voice.
"Tell me what you know about Rose's 'illness'."

Ron was suddenly alert, no longer resentful but focused. "You know about…? Yeah, right, you
would. Okay, then, it started with a note I got from Hermione, telling me that I was going to hear
that Rosie was deathly ill, right? And that I was to act like it was true, but it wasn't. It
was a plot. I'm guessing someone was threatening Rosie to get at Hermione?"

"Got it in one," Harry nodded. "The plot was to poison Rose and make the antidote
conditional on Hermione's good behavior. They could tell the Minister to do anything, and
she'd have to do it. We caught it before Rose could be dosed, but so far we haven't caught
the ones responsible."

"Yet? But… I mean, Robards? The Aurors?"

"Hermione daren't use them. Why, would you believe it, Ron, there are people inside the
Ministry she can't *trust.* Imagine that." Harry shrugged. "Which isn't to
say she doesn't have her resources. And they're looking for the blackmailers… pursuing
several leads, from what I can gather. And you know what else?"

Ron shook his head.

"*We* are going to beat them to it," Harry finished with a triumphant grin, and
pulled out his notebook.

*

**Hogsmeade****.** *Same relationship as Sirius. Potter. Damn Potter.*

**Hogsmeade****.** *I'll show them. I'll show them all.*

**Spinner's End, New Mills, Lancashire.** *Yeah, that'll have to be enough.*

**Post Office, Hogsmeade.** *I need an owl. Domestic delivery.*

**12 Grimmauld Place****, London****.** *Good morning, Mother.*

**12 Grimmauld Place****, London****.** *As I told you, I had some things to attend
to. What do we have for breakfast?*

**12 Grimmauld Place****, London****.** *Let's just say I was working some of my
contacts. I am still looking for gainful employment, after all.*

**12 Grimmauld Place****, London****.** *Nothing concrete yet, I'm afraid. Most
people aren't exactly eager to hire an applicant with my résumé, shall we say. I'm going to
need a good word from someone.*

**12 Grimmauld Place****, London****.** *As a matter of fact, I'm meeting with
someone today. Don't worry, I shall be the soul of discretion.*

**12 Grimmauld Place****, London****.** *Oh, Mother, please. I can't speak for
you, but I don't intend to live on half-blood charity for a day longer than necessary.*

**12 Grimmauld Place****, London****.** *Of course not. I would never say that to his
face. Credit me with a little intelligence.*

**12 Grimmauld Place****, London****.** *Yes, well, don't forget, Potter's
presence changes everything. I mean, who do you think the half-blood will favor…?*

**12 Grimmauld Place****, London****.** *It's all a question of timing.
If…*

**12 Grimmauld Place****, London****.** *Mother, I don't want to know about your
plans. And trust me when I say, you don't want to know about mine. If you'll excuse
me?*

**The Crowned Hart, Godric's Hollow, Wales.** *Thank you for coming. I felt we needed
to keep each other up to date. Join me in a pint?*

**The Crowned Hart, Godric's Hollow, Wales.** *You won't mind if I do,
then.*

**The Crowned Hart, Godric's Hollow, Wales.** *From my end, everything's proceeding
smoothly. The girl is still reporting to Pomfrey every five days.*

**The Crowned Hart, Godric's Hollow, Wales.** *I told you I've cultivated a source
inside Hogwarts. And that reminds me, I'm going to need some more cash if we're to continue
using her.*

**The Crowned Hart, Godric's Hollow, Wales.** *Good. That brings us to the main reason
we're here. I'm running low on ingredients. Here's the list. I need you to arrange to
get them for me.*

**The Crowned Hart, Godric's Hollow, Wales.** *Because they're illegal, they're
expensive, and they aren't local. They have to be brought in. The iocaine from Australia, the
lightning wort from…*

**The Crowned Hart, Godric's Hollow, Wales.** *Because we don't dare run short. If
the girl dies, her value as a hostage is lost. Worse, it would put us at immediate risk. I'd
have thought this was obvious.*

**The Crowned Hart, Godric's Hollow, Wales.** *I overestimated my stocks. Many of them
had gone bad over the years. And… I suppose it won't hurt to tell you that I'm pursuing a
project of my own as well.*

**The Crowned Hart, Godric's Hollow, Wales.** *You don't need to know.*

**The Crowned Hart, Godric's Hollow, Wales.** *It can't be traced back to you, so
leave it. Just get me the supplies I need to further our plan. You're best situated to bring
them in, and do it, shall we say, clandestinely. Now, what developments on your end?*

**The Crowned Hart, Godric's Hollow, Wales.** *I understand. But it's unfortunate.
My straits are grown rather desperate.*

**The Crowned Hart, Godric's Hollow, Wales.** *All right, I'll be patient. I
haven't much choice, have I? But I can't wait forever.*

*

"That's all I could read of the transcript," said Harry. "Apart from some
bits I left out, like when he was singing in the shower."

"Draco bloody Malfoy," breathed Ron. "You think *he's* the one poisoning
my daughter?"

"Sounds like it, doesn't it? Mind you, none of this is *proof.* The ferret's
careful not to name names out loud. We don't know who he's talking to, here at the Crowned
Hart, and he never mentions Rose by name. But he *does* mention one ingredient that I
*know* was in the poison sent to Rose: iocaine. The mere possession of which is enough to send
him back to Azkaban, never mind anything else."

"So we need to prove he possesses it, and isn't only talking about it." Ron nodded
sharply. "Right, then, I think a visit to Grimmauld Place is in order, don't
you?"

Harry shook his head. "Not Grimmauld Place. Assuming Malfoy's the one who's… well,
whoever's behind this, they've already shown they're careful about hiding their tracks.
If it's Malfoy, he won't keep incriminating evidence where he's living. And… and
besides, I'd rather not involve Ted and Andromeda if I can avoid it."

"Mmmph." Ron acknowledged Harry's reasoning with a grimace, and peered more
closely at Harry's notebook. He pointed a finger at one line. "What's this, then?
Spinner's End? I don't recognize it."

"Neither do I. I've never heard of it before… certainly not in relation to any
Malfoy." Harry nodded approvingly. "Which would make it the perfect place for a Malfoy to
be, wouldn't it, if he was breaking the law." He raised a hand as Ron started to get to
his feet. "Of course, *we* don't want to be seen breaking the law either, Ron. If
nothing else, it would reflect badly on Hermione."

Ron retook his seat reluctantly. "Well, then, what exactly do *you* suggest?"

"I suggest looking before we leap, that's all." Harry smiled. "As it turns
out, my afternoon's free. Can you take the rest of the day off from work?"

*

"We should've brought food," grumbled Ron.

*There's no Leviosa charm powerful enough,* thought Harry, but he kept it to
himself.

They'd found a spot where they could watch the house on Spinner's End in relative
comfort, without being noticed. For good measure, Harry had Disillusioned them both. (He still
hadn't managed to recreate the powerful Notice-Me-Not charm he'd used in Athens – not on
command, anyway -- and in any case, it would've made it hard for them to converse.) Now they
sat like hunters in a blind, waiting for the prey to return to the nest.

For the tenth time, Ron asked, "You're *sure* this is the right place?"

For the tenth time, Harry replied, "I'm sure." He debated with himself, then
decided that explanations might forestall an eleventh time. "This is the only house on this
street with any signs of magic. I can *see* the wards on this place, and they're pretty
impressive. I can't tell what all of them do, but… let's just say it's a good thing we
didn't decide to Apparate directly inside."

"You can *see* the wards?"

Harry shrugged. "Not *see,* really, but I can't describe it better than that.
I'm beginning to wonder whether Dumbledore could… hold up." He craned forward, staring, as
a figure materialized in front of the door of the house. "We've company."

It was Draco Malfoy, sure enough. He carried in one hand a bag of what appeared to be groceries;
the other hand cradled two or three small boxes. Harry focused his magical senses, and was
surprised to discover that the boxes themselves were individually warded. The wards kept him from
sensing what was *in* the boxes, though the wards themselves were 'visible'. *A
careful plotter, right,* he told himself savagely. *Now what could be in those boxes
that's so sensitive you don't even want to* risk *setting off the Ministry's
detectors?*


"Here we go, Ron," he murmured, as he dispelled Ron's Disillusion with a tap of
his wand, "just as we rehearsed."

Ron nodded. He waited until Malfoy had opened the door – not using a key, he noted, but by
waving his forearm in front of the knocker – and was on his way inside. Then he darted from their
hiding place, arriving at the door just as it was about to close. One foot in the door kept it
open, as he perfunctorily knocked on the jamb. "Hi there, got a minute?"

"*You!* Get out!" yelled Malfoy predictably, and just as predictably began to
draw his wand. By doing so, however, he lost control of the door, and Ron easily used his superior
size to force it open far enough to step inside.

"You're trespassing, Weasel," snarled Malfoy. His wand was out now, pointed at
Ron's face.

"Call the Enforcers, then," Ron replied, much more casually than he felt. "Or hex
me, in a house where there's not supposed to be any magic users." He took a step into the
room, leaving the door open behind him. As Harry had told him, he kept his eyes moving around the
room, taking in details that might later be available in an evidentiary Pensieve: the stuffed
bookcases, the photograph on one wall, the long table on which rested a cauldron, beakers,
ingredient bottles…

Malfoy stood motionless, considering his options, while the wand never left Ron's face.
"I said get out," he finally growled. It confirmed Ron's suspicions: Malfoy very,
*very* much wanted to avoid drawing the Ministry's attention to this place. As long as the
door was open, breaching the house's extensive wards, Malfoy wouldn't try to use any
dangerous spells.

Ron certainly hoped not.

He raised his empty hands, not in surrender, but to show his peaceable intentions. "I just
thought we might have a little talk, that's all. Once we're done, I'll leave,
honest."

"I've had enough of your 'little talks' to last me forever, Weasel."
Slowly, never taking his eyes off Ron, Malfoy crouched to where he'd dropped his boxes and
groceries to the floor. He began to collect them with one hand, the other hand keeping his wand
trained on Ron.

"Oh, but we never talked about our children before, Malfoy. That's always an
interesting topic, don't you think?"

Malfoy froze in place. After a long moment, he sneered, "What in Merlin's name makes
you think that I *care* about your stupid spawn, Weasel? Other than the fact that there's
one more redheaded mistake in the world?"

"Oh, Malfoy, how can you say you don't care? I felt *sure* my daughter interested
you." Ron took another step. "You certainly seem to've been paying her
attention."

"I have no idea what you're babbling about." Malfoy reached for the last box on
the floor. As his fingers touched it, the box tumbled away. As it came to rest, the box opened and
spilled its contents onto the floor – including a transparent packet of white powder.

Malfoy scrambled to collect the scattered contents, but the lone packet slid along the floor,
seemingly of its own accord, staying just out of his reach. He made one more desperate lunge –
then, as he realized what must be happening, he swept his wand across the room. "*Cave
Inimicum!*" he cried, and his wand flashed red for an instant. Immediately, he followed up
with "*Homenum* *Revelio!*"

Harry stumbled as his Disillusionment charm was abruptly cancelled. *Damn,* he complained
silently, *I didn't think Malfoy was powerful enough to do that. Right, no more mistakes, I
can't afford 'em.* Slowly he straightened, keeping one foot between Malfoy and the
packet of powder… clearly ready to kick the packet away, even out the door, if Malfoy made a
threatening move.

"Doctor Iocaine, I presume?" he said quietly. The two pure-blooded wizards probably
wouldn't get the reference, but Harry couldn't help himself.

"Don't touch it, Harry," came a new voice. "Everyone stay where you
are." Of a sudden, Dennis Creevey and Canby filled the doorway, looking very official: Dennis
held his wand at the ready, while Canby held what was obviously a warrant.

"The Department of Magical Law Enforcement having detected the presence of an unlawful
Class C substance," announced Dennis in a loud voice, "we are here under warrant to
search these premises. All present are advised that anything they say may be used as evidence
before the Wizengamot."

"Mister Harry must have thought MLE is full of idiots," added Canby critically.

Harry gave him a rueful smile and stepped away from the packet of iocaine. "Mister Harry
thought MLE's hands were tied. I apologize."

"The Minister asked us for heightened magical sweeps for controlled substances…
particularly iocaine, for some reason," replied Dennis with a perfectly straight face.
"We would have knocked, but the door was already open. Mr. Malfoy, if you would please stand
up slowly and step away from those boxes…? And please leave your wand on the floor. Thank
you." He waited until Malfoy had backed away, then gestured for Canby to collect the
goods.

None of them realized that Malfoy's retreat took him closer to the Potions worktable. Malfoy
waited a moment, then edged slightly closer still.

Canby, in the meantime, was levitating the packet between his hands without touching it. He
breathed smoke on the packet, and a fingerprint became visible on one side. "It is
iocaine," he announced. "The finger mark is the same as…" He looked around, spotted
Malfoy's wand on the floor, and bent over to breathe smoke upon it as well. "As the mark
on this wand," he concluded grimly.

"That will do," Dennis nodded. "Draco Malfoy, I arrest you for the possession
of…"

"*NOOOOO!*" Malfoy screamed, suddenly wild. "*I'LL NEVER GO BACK
THERE, DO YOU HEAR ME! I'D SOONER DIE!*" With manic speed he reached both arms behind
him, and brought them forward again – in each hand now a flask of potion, one milk-white, one
blood-red.

Even as Dennis brought his wand to bear on Malfoy and began to cast a Full-Body Bind, Canby was
moving to protect the innocent bystander, Ron. At the same moment, Harry, who was closest to
Malfoy, leaped forward – drawing his wand as he did so – knowing there wasn't time to cast a
spell – hoping to physically restrain Malfoy from whatever he was about to do –

But Malfoy proved too quick, as he dodged Dennis's spell and, with a high-pitched triumphant
cackle, smashed the flasks together onto the floor just as Harry reached him.

And Harry's last thought was how much, in that moment, Draco resembled his Aunt
Bellatrix.