Unofficial Portkey Archive

Harry Potter isn't mine. He is Ginny's in canon but Hermione's in the only kind of fan fiction I would ever write.

With that said, please enjoy Chapter 2!

Chapter 2: Trouble, Trouble, Doyle and Hubble

"What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?"

Langston Hughes, If

A wise witch once said, "Forty-year-old wizards shouldn't be riding around on broomsticks, pretending as though they're schoolboys again." Harry Potter was not yet forty, although he was getting there much faster than he would have preferred, but after nearly colliding with a flock of geese and doing a rather impressive yet completely unplanned barrel roll while flying from work on his old racing broom, he was beginning to see just how right that witch was. (The witch in question was Molly Weasley, who was scolding Charlie Weasley for straining his back while playing a pick-up Quidditch match with some of his nieces and nephews. If there was any one fact about married life that Harry was sure of, it was that it is always fruitful to think of one's mother-in-law as a wise witch.)

'I reckon I made the right choice in becoming an Auror instead of a professional Quidditch player,' Harry thought to himself somewhat ruefully as he once again had to manually right his broomstick after a strong gale of wind blew him off course. Even as the rough broom ride reminded him that he was no longer seventeen, it also allowed him to clear his mind after an unpleasant day at the office. 'After several weeks' worth of unpleasant days at the office, more like,' Harry added grumpily. He could not figure out which part of what he was currently doing he disliked more: helping busybody Ministry officials stab the wizard who had done the most to help him in his career in the back by turning over any files that might incriminate him, or submitting to pointless inquiries and seemingly endless departmental audits in order to prove to the idiots now in charge that he wasn't guilty of any wrongdoing himself.

To make matters worse, he had been asked by the new head of the MLE to testify against his old boss and mentor, Croesus Palmer, who had just weeks ago been removed as Minister of Magic. Harry would have to speak before the entire Wizengamot, a prospect he was not looking forward to, particularly since he had precious little to testify about. He had never seen Minister Palmer take a bribe, falsify financial records or any of the other things they were now accusing him of doing. In point of fact, he was almost certain that the old man was being set up, although as of yet he had no proof of this.

Taking special care not to run into anything else that might decide to share his airspace, Harry pointed his broomstick toward the ground and began his descent into Muggle London, a disillusionment charm keeping him concealed from the good people of Soho. He was supposed to meet a former colleague of his who had recently been taken off of a case that had now been reassigned to Harry; a case that was giving the Department of Magical Law Enforcement fits. 'The Manchester thirteen.'

As it was now hovering only a meter or so off of the ground, Harry dismounted his broom, shrank it and placed it in his pocket, removing the disillusionment charm as he did so. He had left work dressed in casual Muggle clothing so that he wouldn't have to worry about changing out of his Auror's robes once he had arrived in London's West End. He had been told he would find his fellow Auror, Edmund Hubble, at a bar on Charing Cross, not far from here.

Harry walked nonchalantly through the streets of London, doing his best to blend in and draw as little attention to himself as possible. His meeting with Hubble was far from official and would likely draw the ire of the new head of MLE, Roger Gavindale, if he were ever to find out about it. Truth be told, Harry enjoyed these covert meetings in the Muggle world, where he could keep his presence a secret without changing his appearance and where nobody would gawk at him because of his scar. It also made it much easier to tell when he was being followed.

A tall, grey-haired bloke in a three-piece suit was keeping pace with him about fifteen meters behind, always making turns down the same streets as Harry did. 'It could be nothing,' Harry thought to himself. 'But you don't get to live very long as an Auror if you aren't just a little paranoid.' He turned down the next available alleyway and, once he was certain there were no Muggles looking on, draped his invisibility cloak around him. The cloak now just barely covered his feet so that he had to crouch slightly as he walked.

'I must look ridiculous,' Harry mused, 'walking down the streets of London in a crouch with this cloak over me.' Harry Potter no longer resembled an Auror so much as a member of the Ministry of Silly Walks. 'It's a good thing nobody can see me.'

Fortunately for Harry, he reached his destination quickly. He had never been to this particular London bar before, but the sign reading 'Ku Bar' and the long line of men waiting to get in made the location rather obvious. Unfortunately for Harry, he had not managed to shake the man following him by donning his invisibility cloak, which doubtlessly made him both a wizard and a professional. 'I suppose I'll have to do something a bit more creative to get rid of him.'

Harry Potter had been to enough Muggle establishments in his career to know exactly what the long line of men outside the bar meant. The management had some kind of quota system for men and women, forcing the bouncer, a very tall heavyset man with a mean expression on his face, to keep the crowd outside until more spots opened up. Harry took a moment to ponder the situation. Although he might be able to sneak into the bar under his invisibility cloak, there was no guarantee that the wizard following him didn't have some way to see through it. With this in mind, Harry began to formulate a very simple plan; one that he hoped might prove effective. He would have to magically change his appearance, however. 'So much for being naturally incognito in the Muggle world,' Harry thought to himself.

While quickly making his way around and through the line at the Ku Bar, Harry performed a series of spells to make his hair longer and sandy-blonde, his face somewhat pockmarked and his gut noticeably larger. He also cast a spell that would allow him to see normally without his glasses, although the effect would only be temporary. Placing his glasses next to his shrunken broom inside one of his trousers' pockets, he walked up to the bouncer, the invisibility cloak still clutched tightly around him. "Confundo."

As Harry's spell hit him, the bouncer's eyes glazed over and he seemed to stagger slightly. "They don't pay you enough to stand around here, keeping these blokes out," Harry whispered in the bouncer's ear. "Go home now and don't come back until they raise your salary."

"That's right," the giant of a man guarding the door exclaimed suddenly. "I'm not paid enough to do this! I'm going home!" As the former bouncer stalked off, Harry quietly removed the velvet rope keeping the crowd outside, stashed his invisibility cloak under one arm and disappeared into the throng of people now entering the Ku Bar. If the berk following him wanted to track him inside the bar, he would have his work cut out for him.

Once inside, several things became abundantly clear to Harry. The first thing was that he would have to put his glasses back on, as the spell he cast to help him see without them had already worn off (and caused him to nearly run over a very short, leather-clad bloke). Also, he had obviously been dead wrong about why there were no women in the line outside the bar, because there were no women inside the bar either, unless you counted the pictures of Judy Garland, Liza Minelli and Marlene Dietrich along the walls. The Ku Bar was, in point of fact, a gay bar. 'Not that there's anything wrong with that,' Harry thought to himself as he subtly used his wand to make himself look even heavier and more pockmarked. 'I just hope Edmund Hubble knows that all we're here to talk about is the Manchester thirteen case.'

Harry had been reluctant to ask Hubble to meet him in private, as the two men hadn't even seen each other for years, not since they were just out of Auror training. They had both been fond of Croesus Palmer back when he was the head of MLE and had gone to Hogwarts at around the same time, but otherwise had little in common. Still, Harry had a nagging feeling that something vital had been left out of the official case files; something that might explain why thirteen pureblood teenagers died so mysteriously in the same city on the same day. He only hoped Hubble could shed some light on the situation.

"Harry?" a voice boomed out from a table towards the back. "Harry Potter? Izzat you?" Sitting there in a rather large woman's blouse and a tartan kilt was Edmund Hubble, who was now waving his arms frantically in order to get Harry's attention. Embarrassed, Harry made his way over to Hubble's table quickly. "Blimey, you look different. You've changed your hair, put on weight…and bloody hell, what happened to your face? Some blighter curse you with smallpox or something?"

"It's a disguise," Harry hissed as he sat down across from Hubble, his cheeks flushing in a mixture of anger and mortification. "How did you know it was me, anyway?"

"Your scar, of course," the other man answered as Harry began reversing the charms he had used to alter his appearance. "The glasses helped, too. Hey, this wasn't supposed to be a secret meeting, was it? 'Cause I sort of sent a memo to Roger Gavindale, asking whether it would be alright for us to meet here or if he'd rather us all get together in his office. You know, make it into a party." Harry glared at him sharply for a moment and then Hubble smiled. "I'm only having a laugh, of course. Gavindale doesn't know we're here."

"He might," Harry said grimly. Edmund Hubble's smile vanished. "I'm fairly certain I was followed here."

"Might not have been him, though," Hubble pointed out. When Harry said nothing in reply, he added, "Cor, it wasn't him, was it?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't think so." Given that he had emerged from complete obscurity out of some top secret division of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement shortly after Voldemort's defeat, Roger Gavindale had attained an almost mythic status among his fellow Aurors and the rumors were growing even wilder now that he was head of the department. One such story said that Gavindale was a complete master of disguise, able to effortlessly pose as anyone or anything, even magical creatures. Harry did not put much stock in these stories. "He sure didn't look like him."

Edmund Hubble breathed an audible sigh of relief. "So, Harry, how've you been?" Before Harry could answer, he added, "I have to say, mate, now that you're not disguised as a pudgy plague survivor, you don't look half bad. Been taking care of yourself, have you? Working out and such?"

"Not really," Harry answered warily. "Scope," he began, using his fellow Auror's old nickname from their training days, "you do know that this is a gay bar, don't you?"

Hubble snorted. "What? You're having me on."

Harry eyed him seriously. "Didn't you notice that there aren't any women in here?"

"Rubbish," Scope replied with a wave of his hand. "There's a girl standing right over there."

"That's a man dressed like a woman," Harry insisted in a harsh whisper. Hubble shot him a look of disbelief. "He has a beard."

Edmund Hubble's eyes widened. "Harry, you've got to believe me, mate, I didn't know. When you asked me to pick someplace outside of the wizarding world for our meeting, I panicked and asked a Muggle on the street where two blokes could meet privately without anyone thinking it strange." Harry had a hard time not snickering at that, but managed it somehow. "I'm completely clueless about the Muggle world. My grandparents were Muggles, but I never saw them much. Of course, I don't think they would have taken me to a place like this, even if I had seen them more often." Hubble looked down at himself self-consciously. "Am I dressed alright?"

'Sure. If you were supposed to be a Scottish cross dresser,' Harry thought to himself. Out loud, he said, "Your blouse is a little big for you. Aside from that, your outfit's aces."

"Right," Hubble said, suddenly regaining his composure. "So, Harry, how are the wife and kids?" His brow furrowed into a deep frown. "Your wife's not going to think there's anything funny going on here, is she? You know, because of where we're meeting and everything."

Harry smirked. "If Ginny doesn't know what team I play on after three kids, I think the relationship was doomed from the beginning." A quick glance at his watch told him that it was now just past five thirty and Ginny was expecting him back by six. "Not to cut the pleasantries short, but could we get down to business? The wife and kids don't like to be kept waiting."

"Alright, then," Hubble replied with a nod. "I'll answer any question you've got about the Manchester thirteen case, Harry. But first let's have a pint, yeah? I'm parched." Harry nodded grudgingly and resisted the temptation to look at his watch again. He had promised Ginny he would watch Lily while she went shopping for a new dress (that he had attempted in vain to convince her she didn't need) and she wouldn't be very happy if he showed up late with beer on his breath. "Hey, you there. Yes, you with the blonde hair. Would you mind coming over here and taking our order?" Edmund Hubble turned back to face Harry. "Watch this one closely, Harry. He looks like he could bench press Hagrid."

"What'll it be?" a somewhat familiar voice asked. Harry looked up at the large bloke taking their drink order and started. "Harry?" Dudley Dursley asked in a weak voice. "What…what are you doing here?"

Harry stared at his cousin blankly for a moment, not quite knowing what to make of his presence here. "I could ask the same of you, Dudley."

"I'm sorry," Hubble interrupted in confusion. "D'you two know each other?"

"Edmund 'Scope' Hubble," Harry said as he waved his hand in his fellow Auror's direction, "meet my Muggle cousin, Dudley Dursley. Apparently, he serves drinks here."

"I'm a bouncer here," Dudley corrected him. "That's all. It's just that I threw my back out a few weeks ago and they're having me do other things 'til I'm on the mend." He leaned in closer to Harry and added, in a very small voice, "Don't tell Mum and Dad you saw me here."

Harry looked incredulous. "Dudley, I haven't even seen your parents in twenty years and I'd rather not see them anytime soon."

Dudley Dursley's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Wait a mo. What are you doing here…with another bloke…who's dressed like that?"

Edmund Hubble gave his kilt a curious glance as Harry answered, "Official wizarding law enforcement business, that's what. If sometimes we have to show up in odd places or dress strangely, so much the better. It keeps the criminal element guessing."

"My bo…erm, one of the other bouncers just walked off the job a few minutes ago, right about the time you came in," Dudley said, a mildly menacing sneer making his lip curl. "You didn't have anything to do with that, did you?"

"Of course not," Harry answered with a confident smile. "And if you keep asking me stupid, impertinent questions, I'll do the same to you."

When neither Harry nor Dudley said anything for a moment, Hubble cut in, "Right. So I'd like a firewhiskey in a tall glass…"

Before Dudley could register his confusion, Harry cut in, "Just bring us two beers, Dudley. Banks Original, if you've got it." Dudley took their order and walked off quickly, while Hubble gave him a befuddled look. "Muggle bars don't serve firewhiskey."

"Maybe the Muggle world wouldn't have quite so many problems if they did, eh?" Hubble asked teasingly. "So, about my outfit…"

"Scope," Harry interrupted, his tone now all business, "what do you think killed the Manchester Thirteen?" He was tired of playing games, eager to get home yet still more eager to get answers that he wasn't sure he would get anywhere else.

In the space of a moment, all of Hubble's cheerfulness and bluster vanished. "I haven't the foggiest, Harry. I wish I could tell you that there was something else there, something more than what made the papers…"

"But there has to be!" Harry exclaimed loudly, drawing unwanted attention from some of the Muggles sitting around him. Sheepishly, he lowered his voice and slunk down slightly in his seat. "Thirteen perfectly healthy teenage witches and wizards don't just die for no reason."

Hubble's voice fell to a whisper as he replied, "If you talk to the crowners down at the morgue, off the record, they'll tell you what killed 'em. Textbook killing curse deaths, that's what they all say. O' course, the only thing wrong with that theory is…"

"None of the witnesses saw anyone use the killing curse," Harry finished with a groan. "They didn't see anyone hit any of the victims with any spell." Beyond the fact that there were no obvious suspects, some of the crime scenes were well nigh impenetrable, with wards upon wards cast to keep undesirables out. If someone had snuck around unseen, using the killing curse on thirteen different people, they would have had to have been incredibly magically talented. "Could they all be lying? Covering something up?"

"We spent a week on that theory, Harry." Hubble paused as Dudley brought them their drinks, gave them a very odd, anxious glare and then scampered away. "They're the friends and family of the victims; people who've been screaming and crying to the press, the Ministry and anyone else who'll listen that Magical Law Enforcement isn't doing their job properly."

"Which is how the case ended up in my lap," Harry complained.

"Well, that and the fact that Gavindale hates you," Scope said with a wry smile. "A few of the witnesses had shady pasts and some of the victims' families were suspected of collaborating with the Thicknesse government. There are people who might have had reason to kill one or two of them…" The Auror's voice trailed off as he took a drink of his beer.

"But not all thirteen," Harry said. He ran his fingers through his thick black hair as the questions continued to pile up in his mind. "What about the End-of-Timers?"

Hubble grimaced. "They're a harmless lot, really, aren't they?" The 'End-of-Timers' were a group of mystics who went around predicting disasters before they happened, all of which were supposed to culminate in some sort of doomsday. The only problem was that a lot of their prophecies hadn't come true. They had, however, predicted a catastrophe in Manchester on the day thirteen young witches and wizards died, which both made them more credible and potentially more dangerous. "I worked some of their cases about the time they first started making noise. So far as I know, they were never brought in for anything more serious than disturbing the peace."

"But you did bring some of them in, didn't you? For questioning?" Harry asked him.

"Oh yeah, of course," Scope answered with a humoring nod of his head. "I don't know if you've ever questioned one of them before, Harry, but it's not for anyone who's lacking in patience. Their answers make Professor Trelawney's Divination class seem lucid and informative by comparison."

Harry smiled at that. Hubble then cocked his head to the side and gave him a serious look. "D'you really want a piece of information that didn't make the papers? Something related to the case that nobody else has even paid attention to?"

"Yeah," Harry answered with a mirthless chuckle. "That's exactly what I've been after."

Hubble laid a manila folder on the table, although Harry had no clue where he had been keeping it all this time. He opened it up to a picture of a beefy, scarred wizard who any first year Auror would peg as a criminal. "That's Brutus DeRossi. A professional lowlife if ever there was one. Would work for any dark wizard as could pay him up front in coin."

Harry examined the picture carefully, wondering idly if he had run into him before. "You think he's behind the Manchester thirteen killings?"

"Not unless he did it as an inferi," Scope answered him drolly. "Crowners put his time of death six to eight hours before the first case was reported out of Manchester." Harry looked up at him curiously. "Found him dead in an alley in Liverpool. Killing curse. No sign of a struggle. We've got no solid lead on a suspect, no clues, no nothing."

Harry was skeptical. "So you think this DeRossi's murder is related to the others?"

"The pillock was Muggleborn, but graduated from Durmstrang. D'you know how many Muggleborns have made it through Durmstrang, Harry? I could count them all on one hand." Harry began scanning the dark wizard's file as Hubble spoke. "DeRossi was tough as nails and crazy as a loon, but he wasn't stupid. When we found the body, his wand was still stuck in his waistband. Whoever killed him took him completely by surprise."

"A professional thug like DeRossi could have been killed by anybody," Harry pointed out, deciding to play devil's advocate. "It doesn't necessarily lead to the Manchester killings."

Scope shook his head. "If it was any of the usual gang of morons who make up the criminal underbelly of Liverpool, someone would have gone bragging about it by now. I've had a gut feeling about this one ever since it hit my desk. It's all related somehow."

Harry exhaled deeply. "Right. So three months ago someone used the killing curse on thirteen pureblood witches and wizards in Manchester, all of them between the ages of seventeen and nineteen, without being seen or detected in any way, shortly after murdering a Muggleborn dark wizard in an alleyway in Liverpool. And what exactly would the motive be for this bloodbath?"

Hubble shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. Better, probably." Harry took a swig of the brew in front of him, inwardly daring Ginny to say one word about it when he got home. This case was already getting to him and he'd only been on it one day. "Some wizards don't really need a motive, you know. Could be a serial killer."

A chagrined half-smile crossed Harry's lips. "Quite the case I've been assigned, isn't it?"

"I sure hope you can do more with it than I did," Scope told him, a tinge of regret entering his voice for the first time. Amid the confusion of the details and the mystifying nature of the crime itself, Harry didn't really take the time to stop and think about the thirteen families out there, wondering who killed their brothers and sisters; their sons and daughters. He did not care to think about what he would be like if one of his children had been among the slain. "But look at it this way, Harry. If you crack it, this could be your big break. The case that makes your career."

Harry laughed bitterly. "You know how that goes as well as I do, Scope. If I come anywhere near breaking a case open, Roger Gavindale swoops in and does all the dirty work. Of course, he also gets all the credit and I spend another year without a promotion."

Hubble gave Harry a sympathetic look. "I never have figured out why he has it in for you, Harry. But maybe things'll be different, now that he's head of the department." Harry doubted this, but did not care to say so. "Bloody hell, I used to think I'd be head of the department by now. Was I just dreaming?"

"You're a damn good Auror, Scope," Harry assured him. "One of the best I've seen. The only reason Gavindale's head of MLE is because he's got connections."

"He's got the only connection that matters now, at any rate," Hubble muttered. No one knew exactly how a bond had been forged between Roger Gavindale and the new Minister of Magic, Ursula Maladie, but they had been obvious political allies for as long as Harry had been an Auror. "I still say it's a slap in the face to all the witches and wizards at MLE who actually fought against Voldemort. Nobody even knows what Gavindale was up to when Pius Thicknesse was running the country. We just have his word that he was off on some secret mission." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "You don't really think that Rich Myrtlebank was mixed up in this Palmer bribery scandal, do you?"

Harry shook his head 'no'. Myrtlebank had been Croesus Palmer's own mentor at Magical Law Enforcement and was appointed as its head once Palmer stepped down to become Minister of Magic. Now both of them were sacked, charged with several counts of corruption. "If you want to know the truth about it, I don't even think Palmer's guilty."

"Neither do I," Hubble chimed in enthusiastically. "Blimey, it's so good to talk to someone who's not enthusiastic about throwing our old chief under the Knight Bus. It seems like everyone else has suddenly forgotten how great he was to work for."

"He was a great boss and a great friend," Harry said with a smile. Memories of his early days at the MLE flooded his mind. "I wish there was something I could do for him."

"You don't think the Wizengamot will clear him, do you?" Scope asked.

"I don't think it matters anymore," Harry admitted sadly. "His image is tainted, his career is over and we're stuck taking orders from Maladie and Gavindale." Croesus Palmer would not be remembered fondly, as Harry had once hoped he would be, as the man who gallantly gave up his much more rewarding Auror career to take over the helm of government when Horatio Harefoot went nutters.

Hubble's eyes lingered in his beer. "Can I ask you a personal question, Harry?" He nodded in reply. "Do you ever feel like something's…I dunno…missing in your life? Something important?"

Harry thought about that for a moment, seeking to answer him the best he could. "I know both of us have had setbacks in our careers…"

"I'm not so much talking about the job, Harry," Scope cut him off gently, "as I am life itself. Don't you sometimes feel like there should be more to it than there is? I dunno if I'm doing a good job explaining it…"

"I don't think life ever turns out the way you expect it will when you're young," Harry answered him somberly. "Some days you wake up and wonder how you ever got here and where all the days when you were young and carefree went. It's just a part of getting older."

Hubble smiled sadly. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

Harry stole a quick look at his watch. 'Fifteen minutes to six. That gives me just enough time to make it home if I leave now.' "Much as I've enjoyed catching up, Scope, I really have to go…" As he spoke, he placed enough Muggle currency on the table to pay for both drinks and leave Dudley Dursley a generous tip.

"Yeah, I reckon I should go too," Hubble chimed in. "I have a debriefing just before dawn. Got a new assignment babysitting some Ministry bureaucrat who's taking a paid holiday."

"Sounds rough," Harry teased him with a chuckle. "Think you'll be able to handle it?"

"Go on and joke about it," Hubble replied, a pained expression now on his face. "I didn't become an Auror so I could play nursemaid to some political hack who just happens to be in the Ministry's good graces at the moment. Give me hardened criminals any day."

Harry laughed at that. "It can't be as terrible as all that, can it? Not everybody who works for the Ministry is so bad."

Scope scoffed. "Oh yeah? Name one who isn't."

*****

"Hermione Granger." Looking up from her desk, Hermione saw that the man who had spoken was standing in the hallway outside her office, his eyes seemingly glued to a clipboard.

"Weasley." When the stocky, balding man looked up in confusion, Hermione explained patiently, "It's Hermione Granger-Weasley. The name is hyphenated."

"Oh," he replied, clearly unready to accept information that was not written on the clipboard. "So this invoice isn't for you then?"

"Give it here," she said resignedly. Barely taking the time to look at what she was signing, Hermione scrawled her own name at the end of the form and handed it back to the rather slovenly looking man. "Is this the last shipment?"

"Yes, ma'am," he answered mechanically. "This is everything."

"Good," she told him with a relieved sigh. Hermione Granger-Weasley had been promoted five times since going to work for the Ministry of Magic and every time she'd ended up with a new office. Moving everything she had from the old one to the new never got any easier, though. "Maybe now I can start getting some actual work done."

"Actual work," the man laughed derisively under his breath as he left the room. "Yeah, right."

Hermione took offense at that snide remark, but chose to say nothing about it. Only a few days earlier she had been named head of the Office of Special Projects, Research, Etcetera (or OSPRE). Her department was always getting a lot of negative press as a do-nothing government boondoggle, when in actuality it had produced an impressive body of research on spells, potions and incantations and had played a crucial role in the discoveries of such innovations as synthetic dragon's hide and indestructible parchment.

The most rewarding part of what she did here wasn't exactly in her job description, however. Over the years, Hermione Granger-Weasley had become an informal policy adviser to Ursula Maladie, sometimes helping her draft legislation or serving as a sounding board for her ideas. Maladie was the witch who had taken her from a young woman little known to the wizarding world other than as Harry Potter's brainy best friend and made her into the valued political ally, comrade and confidante of one of the most powerful witches in Britain. She was also one of the few who had the courage to speak out against Pius Thicknesse's Voldemort-engineered coup (without going into exile first) and had been a prescient early critic of Croesus Palmer's government. Now that Palmer was thankfully no longer in power, Ursula Maladie had replaced him as Minister of Magic, becoming only the third witch to hold the office.

'She's an inspiration to all of us,' Hermione thought fondly. 'When we first started out, I never would have dreamed we'd make it this far.' For as long as Hermione had known her, Ursula Maladie seemed to have a particular talent for being on the right side of every issue from the start. Now the Wizengamot had finally recognized her fantastic political acumen and given her the nation's highest office. Hermione's only regret was that they hadn't been able to do more for house elf rights, although that was hardly Maladie's fault. The Rebellion of Magical Creatures had sapped the Wizengamot's good will toward less fortunate beings. Of course that was all over a decade ago and with Maladie now holding the reins of power… 'It's the best shot we've had at real reform since Horatio Harefoot stepped down.'

"Hermione Weasley," another male voice called from outside her door. "I've a delivery here for Hermione Weasley."

"It's Hermione Granger-Weasley," she corrected the man politely without looking up from the form she was filling out.

"I just read what's on the card, miss." Rather than the boxes full of her personal items she'd been expecting, this man was carrying a vase filled with roses. Once Hermione realized that he was here to deliver her flowers, she promptly gave him a nice tip and sent him on his way.

Hermione sat the vase on her desk and examined the card attached to it. "'Congrats on your new job, I know you'll do great. Love, Ron,'" she read aloud to herself. A rueful smile crossed her lips. Ron had written her the exact same note the other four times she had been promoted and always sent it with a dozen red roses, although Hermione strongly preferred white ones. 'Oh well. I suppose it's the thought that counts.'

While she loved her husband dearly, Hermione often wondered if they had rushed things; if she had gotten married too soon. It was no secret that the most successful witches in the Ministry were unattached. She had often had to miss important meetings to stay home with her children, and would refuse to come in at all when they got sick. (She had stayed home a few times to take care of Ron as well, as he dubiously claimed to be unable to open a can of chicken noodle soup while running a fever.) Of course she wouldn't give her husband or her children up for the world, but she was slowly beginning to realize that as wonderful as it was to watch her political mentor in the Minister's chair, she would likely never reach that goal herself. Not that she was entirely certain she even wanted the job, but…

'It's nice to be able to dream about it once in a while,' Hermione told herself reassuringly. She had never been the type to sit comfortably on the sidelines, watching others fight her battles for her. It had been difficult these last dozen years or so, seeing so much of what she had worked for disregarded, ignored or voted down. Yet now that Maladie was Minister of Magic, hopefully that would change. 'I can finally start getting things accomplished; things I've wanted to do for so long.'

"Hermione Granger-Wesley," a loud and brash voice exclaimed outside her door. It came from a man whose face was obscured by the rather large cardboard box he was carrying.

"It's Hermione Granger-Weasley," she exclaimed, slamming her palms down on her desk in annoyance. It was bad enough that so much paperwork came to her with her first name spelled wrong. Now her last name seemed to be giving people trouble, too.

"Oh," the man replied simply. "I thought that was a typo. Sign here for receipt, please." As Hermione signed the form he handed her, he whined, "Why'd you have this stuff hand-delivered anyway? Why not just levitate it over or send it by Floo?"

"I would have," Hermione answered him after she returned the signed form to him, "but many of the items I needed to transport are quite…" Once the man looked the form over and decided everything was in order, he let go of the box, letting it crash to the floor. "…fragile," Hermione finished, her teeth grinding in frustration.

The delivery man, who Hermione could now see possessed uneven teeth and a scraggly beard, winced sheepishly. "Yeah, sorry about that. It was so heavy, I only assumed…"

"It's fine," she interrupted impatiently. "Everything's fine. It's already forgotten. You can go now."

For a moment the man looked as though he might have been waiting for a tip, but gave up that idea rather quickly and exited. Shortly after his departure, Hermione opened the box with her wand and began removing the items inside, checking to see if any of them had been damaged. Luckily, most of them were intact, although her favorite coffee mug, which had the words 'World's Greatest Boss' written on it and then 'World's' crossed out and replaced with 'Universe's', had split evenly into two pieces and no longer had a handle. "That inconsiderate, rude little…"

"Cheer up, boss," a friendly voice called out from the doorway. A tall raven-haired beauty in a black pants suit entered her office, followed soon after by a much shorter blonde wearing a pink sweater and jeans. These two witches were Morgana Murdstone and Amy Brewer, respectively, both of whom served as her secretary and were among her very best friends. "It only set us back five sickles," Morgana continued.

"We could make another one for you, if you'd like," Amy chimed in, her voice as chipper as ever, "or even fix that one up as good as new. There's a bloke over on seventh floor who does wonders with…"

Hermione held her hand up to stop Amy from going on about the bloke on seventh floor. "I appreciate the thought. Really, I do. But you know a good coffee mug just isn't the same after it's been broken, no matter how many spells you use to fix it." She sighed as she turned the ruined cup over in her hands. "I suppose I'll just have to throw it out."

"Shame, that," Morgana replied with a smirk. "Amy and I have such fond memories of that cup. Filling it with coffee each morning, then being testily ordered to refill it with coffee about five minutes later…"

"Three minutes at the most," Amy corrected her.

"You do know that I can fire you both, right?" Hermione asked them with a Cheshire cat grin. "There's no shortage of people looking for work in OSPRE's secretarial pool right now."

"Yes, but none of them could annoy you quite as much as we do," Morgana told her.

"True," Hermione replied simply, a small laugh escaping her lips and the burdens of her new post temporarily forgotten. Morgana and Amy always seemed to know just when she needed cheering up.

"Ron sent you red roses again?" Amy asked in disbelief as she looked over the vase of flowers sitting on Hermione's desk. "Doesn't it ever sink into his thick skull that you like white ones?"

"Men don't normally pay attention to that sort of thing," Hermione answered her, her tone deliberately casual. "Besides, it's the…"

"Thought that counts," Amy and Morgana finished for her in unison, rolling their eyes as they said it.

"Have I really said that so many times that you can quote it by heart?" Hermione asked, a little taken aback.

"Hermione, my dear, dear duckling," Morgana said sympathetically, "you say that every time Ron does something like this. Without fail."

"But it's true, though, isn't it?" Hermione asked, her eyes darting between Morgana and Amy, searching for confirmation. "He didn't have to send me anything. I certainly wouldn't have thought less of him if he hadn't." She gave them both a slight scowl. "But I don't think it's possible that the two of you could think any less of him."

"You're just saying that because we've made it perfectly plain that we don't like him very much," Amy pointed out.

"And because we've sometimes wondered aloud how he ever landed such a pretty, intelligent witch as yourself," Morgana added. "We've got a running bet on it, actually."

When Hermione glared at them, Amy explained. "My money's on a love potion. Something subtle yet powerful."

"As for me," Morgana threw in without missing a beat, "I've always pegged Ron as the type of wizard who would buy one of those sleazy 'Make Any Woman Want You No Matter How Much of a Wanker You Are' dating guide books."

"Well, you're both wrong," Hermione snapped. She was now genuinely growing angry with her friends, who rarely missed an opportunity to rag on her husband. "Ron and I may not seem to have much in common, but…he makes me laugh. And we've always known how to press each other's buttons…"

"I had a relationship like that once," Morgana said as Hermione's voice trailed off. "At university. It was a lot of fun and games for a while, but nothing serious. I can't imagine having married the git."

"You can't imagine having married anyone," Amy told her friend with a devilish smile, to which she only replied with a shrug of indifference. "Hermione, you know we were only taking the mickey out of you. We're your friends and we care about you. Don't forget that. We're just looking out for what makes you happy."

Hermione crossed her arms. "And if that means being a little nicer to Ron when he comes by later to pick me up for dinner?"

"We'll do our best," Amy replied.

After the blonde witch nudged Morgana, she added, "Fine. But all bets are off if he calls me 'Megan' again."

"Fair enough," Hermione declared with a nod of her head. "Now did you two come in here just to remind me how awful you think my husband is, or did you have something else in mind?"

"Something else, of course," Amy answered her, as she triumphantly held up two bottles of champagne. "Now that the last of your junk has finally arrived, I believe it's time to celebrate your new promotion."

"And our new raises," Morgana threw in with a laugh, "which I hope take effect soon. Champagne isn't cheap, you know."

Hermione's expression became deadly serious. "As a high-ranking Ministry official, I must inform you that it is illegal for Ministry employees to imbibe spirits on Ministry property while on the clock."

"Why do you think we stuck around 'til after quitting time?" Morgana snickered. "Here, have a glass, Hermione, and give us a toast."

"I should have guessed you had an ulterior motive for hanging around the office this late," Hermione told them with a knowing grin. "Oh, alright. If you insist." She held her sparkling glass of champagne high. "To the two greatest secretaries any boss could want."

Amy wasn't about to let her get away with that. "And to the greatest boss any secretary could want."

"May the dream never die," Morgana concluded. Soon after, the three of them clinked glasses and drank.

"And just what was the dream, Morgana my dear?" Amy asked as she wiped the lipstick from her champagne glass. "I sometimes forget."

"Mm," Morgana replied just as she swallowed another sip. "I think it was, 'Equality in the workplace,' 'an embarrassing amount of riches' and 'living on a tropical island with our millionaire bodybuilder boyfriends'."

"I think that was just your dream, Morgana," Hermione teased her. "This is really too much champagne for the three of us to handle without getting tipsy, and," she pointed at Morgana before she could cut her off, "before you say anything, I am not getting drunk on a night I'm going out to dinner with my husband. D'you think anyone else in the office might like a glass?"

Amy shook her head. "Who else is even here? You're the only one who won't go home at closing time. Everyone else is headed for the floo before the whistle blows."

Hermione looked thoughtful. "I think Mr. Doyle said he'd stop in after his meeting with Minister Maladie. Maybe we should save him some." Amy and Morgana shared a look. "What? Does he not drink?"

"On the contrary," Morgana answered her, "I'm sure there is nothing Mr. Doyle would like more than to share a glass of champagne with you, Hermione." Amy did her best to hide a giggle behind her hand.

Hermione was confused. "So…you're saying Mr. Doyle has a drinking problem? There's nothing funny about that, you know." Morgana chuckled while Amy giggled louder. "Alright, what am I missing that's so humorous?"

"She…she really doesn't know," Amy said between gales of laughter.

"Wait," Hermione said, holding her hand up in an attempt to stop them from laughing. "One of you fancies Mr. Doyle." This elicited only more loud laughter. "That's it, isn't it? Well, I can't say I blame you. He is quite handsome."

Morgana managed to stop laughing hysterically long enough to remark, "Ooh, that's good, Hermione, very good. Be sure to repeat that when you offer him the champagne."

"Alright, that's enough," Hermione said firmly, cutting short the merriment of her two favourite employees. "Will one of you please tell me what it is about Mr. Doyle that you find so terribly amusing?"

"We're really sorry, Hermione," Amy said as she wiped a tear of laughter from her eye. "But it made it that much funnier when you asked us if we fancied Mr. Doyle."

Hermione shook her head in confusion. "Why?"

"Why would we even bother to look in Todrik Doyle's direction, when it's so obvious that his heart belongs to someone else?" Morgana asked with a smirk.

"He's seeing someone?" Hermione asked, a puzzled expression making her brow furrow deeply. "Funny. He's never mentioned a girlfriend to me." This caused fresh wild giggling among her two secretaries. Hermione nearly roared in exasperation. "Enough! For pity's sake, will you please just tell me what you're on about?"

"Mr. Doyle fancies you, Hermione," Amy blurted out before Morgana could stop her.

"Fancies me?" Hermione repeated incredulously. "You're crazy."

"We're not," Morgana retorted forcefully. "Todrik Doyle is absolutely head over heels for you, Hermione. I can't believe you don't see it."

Hermione frantically searched her two friends' faces for any indication that they were joking, but found none. "He's…he's barely out of Hogwarts," she stammered.

"He's twenty-three," Amy corrected her. "There's only about fourteen years' difference between you."

"And I…" Hermione continued in disbelief, as though she had not heard Amy, "I'm in my late thirties. I'm starting to get grey hair! I've had two children!"

"Oh come off it, Hermione," Morgana chided her, although her tone remained friendly. "You're still a very attractive witch and if you took more than two seconds to think of yourself as anything other than a working mother, you'd realize that."

Hermione desperately wanted to scream as she flashed her wedding ring at her two secretaries. "I'm married! He must know that it would be impossible…that it could never happen, not in a million years…"

"Wizards in power have affairs with younger witches all the time," Morgana said casually. "Why shouldn't powerful witches be allowed to do the same?"

"Because it isn't right when either of them does it," Hermione replied firmly. "I am not going to cheat on my husband with a man half my age in the name of equal rights."

"So you're not ruling it out entirely, then?" Amy asked cheekily.

"Oh, of course I am," Hermione assured her, although an expression of anguish crossed her face. "But what in blazes am I supposed to do now? I won't have the slightest clue how to act around him."

Her mind wandered to the moment when she first met Mr. Doyle, less than two years ago. He was fresh from university, having graduated at the top of his class, but was still so incredibly eager to prove himself and to impress her. Doyle had quickly risen within OSPRE to become Hermione's executive assistant; her right hand man. In truth, Hermione had never felt that anyone she worked with was able to match her mentally, not even Minister Maladie. That all changed when she met Todrik Doyle.

'I've never felt so connected to someone intellectually,' Hermione admitted to herself as she did her best to sort through her feelings. 'But there's no corresponding emotional connection, at least not for me. Maybe there could be if things were different…'

But things weren't different. She was married to Ron Weasley and they had two children. Hermione knew she could never cheat on her husband and break up their family. She was happy or, at the very least, content with the way things were. 'And besides, it's too late to change things now.' If Todrik Doyle did make a move on her, she would simply have to let him down gently.

As if that very thought had summoned him, Mr. Doyle appeared suddenly in her doorway. He was on the tall side, although no taller than Morgana, with longish brown hair, blue eyes and a strong jaw line. "Madame Director Granger-Weasley," he began with a shy smile. "May I speak with you?"

"Of course," Hermione replied, her tone friendly but guarded. "Come in, Mr. Doyle."

Doyle winced slightly. "Alone. Please."

Amy and Morgana exchanged an amused look. As Amy led the way out of Hermione's office, Morgana leaned over and, with a wink, whispered in her boss' ear, "Don't do anything I wouldn't."

From out in the hallway, Hermione could distinctly hear Amy say to Morgana, "As if there's something you wouldn't do."

"So," Hermione began somewhat awkwardly, "how was your meeting with Minister Maladie?"

Doyle smiled thinly. "Productive. Do you mind if I take a seat?" Hermione nodded and Todrik Doyle sat down in the chair in front of her desk. The sudden closeness made Hermione uneasy and she inhaled sharply, although Doyle didn't seem to notice. "Thank you. It seems the new Minister of Magic has been reading your reports and is quite pleased with my work."

"She should be," Hermione told him with a proud smile as her eyes tried to look anywhere but into his own. "The work you've been doing lately has truly been exceptional."

"I am aware of the great responsibility I have been given at such a young age," Doyle said with so much fervor it seemed as though he was practicing a speech. "I pledge to you, personally, that I will not give you or Minister Maladie cause to regret your confidence in me. I will not fail you, Madame Director Granger-Weasley."

"You needn't always call me by my title, Mr. Doyle," Hermione assured him, although she did her best to keep her tone professional. "For one thing, it takes half an hour to say."

Todrik Doyle laughed, but his expression turned serious again in short order. "I, erm, have something for you."

"Something?" Hermione queried curiously. Doyle removed a small, undecorated parcel from his overcoat and handed it to her. "Oh." Hermione's heart sank. She found herself desperately hoping the gift would not be overly generous or personal. "You really didn't have to get me anything, you know."

"It isn't a present from me," Doyle informed her. "It's from the Minister of Magic herself. Go on, open it."

With only a moment's hesitation, Hermione did so. Once she realized what was inside, she beamed at Todrik Doyle. Had Amy and Morgana remained in the room, they might have mistaken what she found in the box for a romantic gift, but Hermione knew better. "So then…Operation Immigrant…"

"Has been approved," Doyle finished for her as he flashed her a winning smile, "and I believe the Minister of Magic has chosen exactly the right person to head it up."

"She's chosen you, of course," Hermione replied quickly. "You're who I recommended to lead the project."

Doyle shook his head. "The Minister wouldn't hear of it. You were her first and only choice." Hermione had expected some sign of sadness to show itself on Doyle's face, but there wasn't any. He seemed genuinely happy for her.

"That's not fair!" Hermione sputtered involuntarily. "You're the one who's put all the work into this project! I've hardly done more than proofread your equations…"

"You're being overly modest," Doyle told her gently, "as usual. Operation Immigrant is in capable hands." Hermione was still dumbstruck over this news, so Doyle continued, "Minister Maladie has asked that you take a leave of absence to lay the groundwork for the project."

If it were possible, Hermione looked even more shocked than she had before. "A leave of absence?!"

Doyle's tone became more conciliatory. "Think of it as a paid holiday. I've arranged for you to stay at one of my favorite resorts in Switzerland. I truly think you will enjoy yourself there. I have always found that the surroundings are conducive to… enlightenment."

Hermione blinked rapidly, still in something of a state of shock. "When…when would I have to leave?"

"Tomorrow morning," Doyle answered her nonchalantly. "Here are the boarding passes for your train. Oh and I'm afraid your husband will be unable to accompany you. For security reasons, you understand."

"But…" Hermione said with a frown, "there are two boarding passes here." Was this some sort of roundabout attempt by Todrik Doyle to arrange for the two of them to leave the country together on a romantic getaway?

"Of course," Doyle explained simply. "One is for you and the other is for the Auror guard Minister Maladie has arranged to accompany you."

Hermione's frown deepened. "Does the Minister of Magic really believe it's necessary for me to be guarded by an Auror while on vacation in Switzerland?"

Todrik Doyle nodded sharply. "Given the significance of this project and your importance to it, I would think the answer should be obvious. Your protection is vital." Doyle looked pensive. "I only hope that Roger Gavindale has chosen one of his best agents for the job."

*****

Edmund Hubble darted quickly into an alley, the screams of a terrified elderly Muggle still ringing in his ears. From the woman's hysterical description of what attacked her, Hubble had surmised that a manticore must be on the loose in London, improbable as that seemed to be. He felt a bit foolish chasing after something he hadn't even seen himself and more than a bit foolish for sticking around Muggle London just to try something called 'pizza', although it had proved surprisingly tasty. 'If there is a manticore out here, I don't know what I'd do about it. Call in reinforcements most likely, if I live long enough.'

Hubble's glowing wand ran slowly along the length of the brick wall, exposing only rubbish bins and the truly awful smelling rubbish they contained, a few overly healthy rats and one large red tabby cat with a deformed, stumpy tail. 'That must be the "manticore". Muggles have some imagination.' Edmund Hubble ended the spell keeping his wand lit and began to apparate out when he felt a hand grip his shoulder. Once he turned around to see who it was, a relieved expression came over his face. "Oh. It's only you, Harry. You scared the life out of me." Hubble frowned as he lowered his wand. "I thought you had to be somewhere. Family emergency or something."

The face of Harry Potter gave Edmund Hubble a friendly parting smile. "Avada kedavra."

Damage Control, Part B: I know what you're thinking (as, in addition to being insane, I am psychic): this story is just like a thousand others you've read where Harry is framed for murder. I assure you it is not and, if you have enjoyed the story so far, I ask that you not give up on it now. I have more surprises up my sleeve.

InsaneTrollLogic

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