Unchain My Heart

I don't have anything to do with publishing the Harry Potter books and I am not J.K. Rowling. I haven't even met the woman nor have I been to England since she became famous, so there's no way that she's me or that I could take credit (or cash) for what she's done (unfortunately for both me and my bank account).

I don't want to do much of an intro here, as I feel the story description says it all, but just to give you fair warning: although this is a Harry/Hermione story, original characters will be prominently featured. This chapter should give everyone a good indication of what that balance will be like. Also, this chapter is set a month or so after the events of Chapter Thirty-Six of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows", but before the epilogue. The rest of the story, as the story summary suggests, is set after the epilogue. Now without further ado, please do enjoy!

Chapter 1: The Return of the Doggerels

As the sun began its descent over the Atlantic Ocean, the village of Tinworth in Cornwall was transformed into the perfect image of peace and tranquility. The fading sunlight painted the sky in brilliant shades of red and gold. The moon’s ghostly pale outline was visible just beyond the few, lazy clouds that wandered across the horizon, ushering away the sun as though it were a guest overstaying its welcome. In the distance, the soft roar of the ocean could be heard as its waves lapped along the coastline, crashing against the shore in a rhythm that seemed as old as time itself.

In an open meadow stood a ruined cottage, its thatched roof partially caved in and one of its walls missing entirely, as if it were part of a Muggle movie set. With the roof mostly gone, the house’s tall, sturdy stone chimney now seemed terribly out of place. Pieces of broken furniture were strewn about the floor haphazardly, but most of the house, with its full-sized kitchen and two bedrooms, remained in reasonably good condition. In short, it made for an ideal place for young children to hide.

“Neuf, huit, sept,” a French girl’s voice called out from one corner of the house, her eyes hidden beneath her forearm. “Six, cinq, quatre, trois, deux, un…ou etes vous?” The sound of little boys giggling filled the old cottage and echoed throughout the meadow, making it perfectly obvious that they were hiding inside an old cabinet in what used to be the kitchen. Still, the girl made a show of looking for the boys, often in ridiculous places, causing them to laugh even harder. At last, with a devilish smirk, she opened wide the cabinet door, causing it to bang loudly against the wall. “Vous etes ici!”

Two young boys emerged, their blond hair mussed and their clothes rumpled from their stay inside the small cabinet. They began to applaud the girl enthusiastically. “Tres bien, cousine Gabrielle! Tres, tres bien! Maintenant vous…”

But before the boys could suggest that their cousin Gabrielle hide while they searched for her, the fireplace was illuminated by a jet of green flame, startling all three children. As a large figure emerged from the Floo, Gabrielle Delacour withdrew her wand from the front pocket of her sun dress. Although she was strictly forbidden from using magic away from Beauxbatons, Gabrielle did not want to face a potential adversary without being prepared.

The three children viewed the strange new figure with suspicion. He was a wizard of medium height but stocky build, with a bulbous paunch that hung far over his waist. He was balding, but what hair he had left was curly and fiery red, framing his scalp like a diadem made from autumn leaves. For a moment, Gabrielle wondered if this might be a relative of her older sister’s husband, as fiery red hair was their trademark. His dark eyes stared bemusedly at the three of them from behind a thin set of spectacles that had come to rest on the end of his nose. “I am so terribly sorry,” the man began, a chagrined expression on his face. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Do you children live here?”

Gabrielle was the only one of the three children who could speak any English, but her mouth did not seem to be able to form the words properly now. She could only shake her head ‘no.’ As the large man looked around the cottage, he winced. “Well, I would certainly hope not. This is no place for young children to be staying. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have to come through here myself, but I’m afraid my home has not yet been reconnected to the Floo network and…well, I’m sure you find all of that perfectly dull. It’s getting quite late. Would you children like me to escort you home?”

The boys looked back at him blankly. Gabrielle’s face bore an apologetic expression as she said in a very quiet voice, “I speak English…un peu,” using the French phrase for ‘a little’ because she could not think of its equivalent in English.

The man’s eyes contained a sudden glint of recognition. “Vous etes francaise, non?” He began to address the children in flawless French. “You are relatives of Fleur Weasley, aren’t you?”

“Oui,” Gabrielle Delacour replied with a relieved nod. “Je m’appelle Gabrielle.” She then introduced her cousins, Michel and Pierre.

The man exchanged pleasantries with the children and then introduced himself. “I am Erasmus Doggerel, member of the Wizengamot and a neighbor of Bill and Fleur Weasley. I am delighted to meet you.” Doggerel began to rub his chin thoughtfully. “You know, I have a son very close to your age. He has a somewhat frail constitution, but perhaps someday when he is feeling well he could come out and play with you.”

The boys seemed hesitant to agree to this, but Gabrielle did so instantly. “We would like that very much.”

“Splendid,” Doggerel replied, his expression brightening noticeably. As he stepped down from the fireplace, the floorboards creaked beneath him. “You should really run along now. This house doesn’t seem very structurally sound.”

Michel and Pierre, still half-afraid of this mysterious apparition who had popped up unexpectedly in their favorite place to play, dashed off without a word. Gabrielle turned back to face Erasmus Doggerel before departing and rolled her eyes. “Boys,” she said disdainfully, as though this summed up the entire situation perfectly, which perhaps it did. “It was nice to meet you, Monsieur Doggerel.”

“And you as well, child,” Doggerel replied with a warm smile. Once the little French children had departed, Erasmus Doggerel trudged through the meadow until he reached the dirt path that would lead him to his home. ‘Home at last,’ he thought fondly. As much as he enjoyed traveling abroad, there was simply no substitute for returning to his ancestral home in Tinworth, with its lovely green pastures and breathtaking ocean views. Although he and his family had only been in Italy a few months, a far shorter time than when Doggerel had served as Cornelius Fudge’s attaché there, it felt as though he had been away for ages. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he could not return home that made his time away from it seem so very long.

‘Who would have wanted to come home?’ Doggerel asked himself rhetorically. ‘With that madman running the country through his puppet, it’s a wonder I even have a country to come back to.’ There was no sense in dwelling much on that thought, however. The dark wizard known as Lord Voldemort was dead, his reign of terror over and the Pius Thicknesse government thankfully gone with it. The new Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, seemed a decent enough fellow, if a smidgeon inexperienced.

There was a sudden spring in Doggerel’s step as he thought of his recent meeting with Minister Shacklebolt. Unlike Cornelius Fudge, who often took his talents for granted, or Rufus Scrimgeour, who had consigned him to sitting in a dust-laden, half-forgotten office in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, Kingsley Shacklebolt had promised him a position of prominence within the new government. The Minister of Magic had said nothing of it directly, but Doggerel had it on good authority that it was between himself and a wizard named Horatio Harefoot for the office of Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.

‘Of course it could go either way,’ Doggerel mused. ‘Harefoot’s an accomplished wizard in his own right, although he is half-blood.’ No half-blood or Muggleborn wizard had ever held the position of Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, or if they ever had done so they had concealed their true parentage from everyone else, a scenario that Doggerel felt was far more likely. Shacklebolt was bound to do away with all of the laws and edicts favoring purebloods that had come about during the brief tenure of the Thicknesse government, but still…tradition was tradition.

In the distance, Erasmus Doggerel could just make out the shadowy form of his palatial estate, Tindalwood. Unhappily, his home had been ransacked by Death Eaters after his family’s flight to the continent and many of the belongings they had left behind were either stolen or ruined. Repairs were only now being made to the house and they were taking much longer than he had anticipated. ‘Well,’ thought Doggerel with a measure of delight, ‘perhaps the news I bear will help to speed things along a bit.’

As he drew closer to home, the aging wizard could smell something wonderful wafting out of his windows. ‘Concetta must be cooking something.’ Although he was not a man of prejudice by any means, he had had doubts about marrying a Muggleborn witch. Concetta had erased them all, however, by proving herself to be a dutiful and charming wife. She was also an excellent cook, which was very fortunate indeed, as the Doggerel family had embarrassingly few house elves. It had been Concetta’s parents with whom they had stayed while abroad, on the pretext of spending the winter months in a warmer climate to improve the health of Erasmus’ son, Varian.

Erasmus Doggerel could not help the frown that furrowed his brow as he thought of his only child, a sickly and weak boy of seven. Varian’s health actually did improve while they were in Naples, but his unpleasant disposition did not. He made it perfectly clear that he did not care for his stepmother and would not address her parents as his grandparents, no matter how many times Erasmus had coaxed him to do so. He was quite humiliated on Concetta’s behalf, of course, but what could he do? The boy clearly took after his mother Desdemona, who was Erasmus’ first wife. She was a strong-willed, stubborn and shrewish young witch who was also, unfortunately for the male population of wizarding England, quite beautiful. Tragically, she had died while in childbirth with Varian.

Doggerel gave Tindalwood a cursory glance as he approached it, the familiar sea green brick exterior already looking polished and new once more. Ivy vines climbed up to the chimney top and down again to cover a canopy protecting a small vegetable garden, which likely still needed a good degnoming. ‘Perhaps the Delacour children would like to make a few sickles…’

“Good evening, Master Doggerel,” a small squeaky voice called out to him as he opened the door. It was his old gray house elf, Bentback, who was scrubbing the wall enthusiastically with a washrag. “We house elves is working as hard as we can, sir. Bentback is sorry that everything isn’t like Master wants it already…”

Erasmus Doggerel gave his house elf a patronizing smile. “I’m quite certain that you’re doing the best you can, Bentback. Tell me, do you think you could have the house ready to entertain visitors in a week’s time?”

Bentback’s already wide eyes grew larger. “A week? Master is not giving Bentback much time…” The house elf seemed to forget his place momentarily, but quickly came to his senses, cowering as he added, “But of course Bentback will do everything he can to make certain the house is ready.”

“Excellent!” Doggerel replied as he clapped his hands together cheerfully. “I’ve already informed the Minister of Magic that we will be hosting a Victory Ball here in a week’s time.” Bentback let out a small cry of dismay, but Doggerel did not seem to notice. “Tindalwood used to be abuzz with social events; a veritable hub of polite wizarding society. Do you remember those days, Bentback?”

The gray house elf’s head turned slowly in Doggerel’s direction. “Yes, sir. Bentback remembers.”

“Ah, but do not sound so sad, my little friend,” Erasmus Doggerel replied encouragingly. “Those days will be here again soon. Tindalwood will return to its former glory, I will be named Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and perhaps one day I shall even become the Minister of…” A loud crash from upstairs silenced Doggerel momentarily. Bentback winced. “What was that?” Doggerel asked his house elf in a panicky voice. “Was that something breaking?”

“It came from young Master Doggerel’s room, sir,” Bentback remarked, his voice weary. “The young master is very upset. He…he found his mother’s portrait and…and…oh, I’m afraid you’re not going to like this, Master Doggerel, but they blasted a hole clean through it. Mistress just sits there in the frame, still and lifeless…”

“Oh dear,” Doggerel replied with a sheepish expression. “I suppose I should have a word with the boy.” Bentback said nothing else as Erasmus Doggerel ascended the staircase to the second floor, finding his way to Varian’s room with ease.

A scrawny, silver-haired boy of seven sat on the edge of his bed, looking hopelessly glum. He stared transfixed at his mother’s portrait, not bothering to look up at his father as he entered the room. The broken remains of a vase Concetta had given Varian on his last birthday were scattered below his dangling feet. “We never should have left Tinworth,” he declared in a mournful whisper.

“I understand how you feel,” Erasmus told him in a voice that was at once compassionate and stern. “It’s quite difficult to see so many of the things that were so precious to us in ruins. But, of course, you know why we had to go.”

“Other people stayed,” Varian pointed out, crossing his arms in a pout. “Harry Potter didn’t leave, did he? He stayed and fought Lord Voldemort.”

Erasmus scowled. “Harry Potter had a lot of help from others, including the wizard who’s now the Minister of Magic.” Erasmus waved his wand and a wooden chair scooted closer to Varian’s bed. The elder Doggerel sat down in it and placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. “I met with him today, you know.”

Varian’s pale blue eyes now possessed a gleam of excitement. “You met Harry Potter?!”

Erasmus playfully ruffled his son’s hair. “I don’t mean Harry Potter, you silly duckling. I mean the Minister of Magic. Really now, Varian, I’m a very important man. Why ever would I meet with Harry Potter?”

Varian plopped his chin down into the palms of his hands in a gesture of resignation. “If you were really important, you could meet Harry Potter.” Varian’s thick silver eyebrows furrowed together in a frown. “The Minister of Magic isn’t sending us back to Italy, is he?”

“I should say not,” Erasmus replied with a warm smile. “In point of fact, he’s invited me to take our family’s rightful place among the Wizengamot. There’s talk that I may even be named Chief Warlock.”

Varian looked dubious. “Is that good?”

Erasmus Doggerel nearly did a double take. “What do you mean ‘Is that good’? Of course it’s good. It’s marvelous! Why, the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot is one of the most ancient and cherished offices in the wizarding world!”

“If you say so,” Varian muttered under his breath. His eyes returned sorrowfully to the now ruined portrait of his mother. “Do you think it will ever be like it was again?”

His father nodded slowly. “Things will get better for us, I think. We Doggerels are made of stern stuff. Why, just look at you. I’ve been talking to you for two minutes now and I haven’t heard you cough, not even once.” There was a twinkle in Erasmus Doggerel’s eye as he looked down at his son. “I have also informed the Minister of Magic that there will be a Victory Ball here in a week’s time. Do you happen to know who frequents those?”

“Harry Potter!” Varian Doggerel exclaimed ecstatically. “And his best friends Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger! Oh Dad, d’you really think they’ll come? D’you think I could meet them?!”

Erasmus couldn’t help but chuckle softly at his son’s excitement. “I’ll make sure of it.” His hands smoothed the blankets of Varian’s bed. “Now perhaps you should get some rest before dinner. You look a little peaked to me.” With no more than a mutter of feeble protest, Varian consented. The mattress quickly adjusted itself to his frail frame as he stretched across the bed.

“Dad,” Varian called after his father as he began to depart. “Read me a story.”

With a knowing smile, Erasmus Doggerel plucked a very old and worn copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard from the bookshelf and sat back down in the wooden chair. “Which one would you like to hear?” he asked his son.

Varian thought it over for a moment and then cried out, “The one that starts, ‘Once upon a time, a heroic wizard and his lady love…’”

“Very well.” His father cleared his throat and lit his wand as he began to read. “Once upon a time, a heroic wizard and his lady love were walking through the forest, searching for a place to rest their heads, when they came upon a beautiful bubbling brook…” By the time he’d read the word ‘bubbling’, however, Varian was fast asleep. “Lumos finite.” As the light disappeared from his wand, Erasmus closed the book, returned it to the shelf and quietly left the room. That story would simply have to wait for another time.

***

Harry Potter stood alone in the twilight, his dress robes fluttering slightly in the cool evening breeze. Reverently, he ran his fingertips over the words he had once etched in stone. ‘Here lies Dobby, a free elf.’ Now that the war was over, there had been many funerals held for those who were murdered by Voldemort and his Death Eaters, many more than Harry could personally attend. Alastor Moody had been given a proper wizard’s funeral, as had Remus Lupin and Fred Weasley. But the only ceremony that had been held for Dobby was the informal one that had taken place only moments after the house elf had been buried. ‘He deserves better,’ Harry thought. ‘He was as brave as any of them.’

“Harry!” the heavily accented voice of Fleur Weasley called out from inside Shell Cottage. She held the front door open with one arm and baby Victoire in the other. “Harry, what are you still doing out zere?”

“Saying goodbye,” Harry answered her with a wan smile, “to an old friend.”

Fleur did not seem terribly impressed by the reason he gave. “You are going to be late for ze ball if you do not go now.”

Harry’s enthusiasm for attending yet another victory ball was limited, to say the least. The ‘Victory Ball’ had started out as a way for the wizarding world to reassure itself that Lord Voldemort was gone forever and to honor those who had given their lives so that this could be so. What they had become was a way for politicians to curry favor with each other, a turn of events that Harry openly detested. “Couldn’t I go with you and Bill instead?”

Fleur screwed up her nose in disgust, as though she had just encountered an unpleasant odor. “You want to go with us to his Aunt Muriel’s funeral?” Harry nodded. “You did meet Aunt Muriel, yes?”

“Yes,” Harry admitted, thinking back to their informative (if painfully awkward) conversation at Bill and Fleur’s wedding. “It’s not as though I knew her well, I just wanted to show the Weasley family that I care.”

“We already know that you do,” Bill said as he stepped into the doorway, replacing his wife as she took Victoire inside the cottage. “We wouldn’t even mind so much if you came along, except that Aunt Muriel stipulated in her will that her funeral was to be for immediate family only. I believe her exact words were ‘I don’t want half of England standing around gawking at my corpse.’” Harry couldn’t help the downcast look that came over his face. “You will be able to see Ginny afterward, you know. She’s staying with Fleur and me for the rest of the summer to help out with the baby.”

Harry smiled bashfully. Was his attempt to spend some quality time with his girlfriend really so transparent? “The way I see it, Harry, you have two choices. You can either go to the ball and dance and smile and shake hands and pretend as though you’re having a good time or you can stay here and baby-sit Victoire with Gabrielle, who, as you might recall, still has quite the crush on you.”

Harry thought the matter over for about two seconds. “How do I get to Tindalwood from here?”

***

The Tindalwood Estate was located less than a kilometer from Shell Cottage as the hippogriff flies. The old castle was perched on a hill overlooking the ocean and most of its windows were arranged so that those inside would be able to take in the magnificent view. The beach below looked particularly inviting, as though its elegant white sands had never before been explored by man or wizard. “I’m sorry, miss,” a singularly pompous voice called out loudly, interrupting Hermione Granger’s awed appreciation of her surroundings. “Your name isn’t on the list.”

“Look again,” Hermione insisted with a smile, although her tone was somewhat less than polite. “The name is Granger, with a ‘g’.”

With a sigh of boredom, the man’s eyes returned to the lengthy piece of parchment in his hands. “I am sorry, miss. Your name simply isn’t here.”

“Why don’t you try looking under the name ‘Harry Potter’?” a voice from behind him suggested. It belonged to a stocky, balding red haired man with glasses. “I believe I listed her name alongside his.”

“Ah,” the young wizard manning the door cried out. “Yes, here it is. You may enter.”

As Hermione made her way inside the castle, the red-haired man followed her. “Why didn’t you just tell the man that you were here with Harry Potter?”

“Because I’m not,” Hermione retorted sharply. “For all I know, Harry’s not even coming to this ball.” As a matter of fact, Hermione hadn’t heard from Harry in over a month. She suspected that he had wanted some time alone and had gone somewhere overseas to get away from the hustle and bustle of postwar England. Still, it was rather annoying that she hadn’t heard anything from him. Her irritation with Harry over being ignored in this way was difficult to conceal at times and this was fast becoming one of those times. “Besides, I’m not exactly in the habit of name-dropping.”

The large wizard looked suddenly taken aback. “But…Harry Potter will be here, won’t he? I promised my son that he would be.” Realizing how desperate that must have sounded, the man, who Hermione now assumed to be the host of this ball, gave her what might pass for a charming smile. “Surely Mr. Potter would not allow such a lovely young woman to attend a Victory Ball unescorted.”

Hermione gave him a very wide, yet clearly fake, smile. “I’m afraid Mr. Potter wouldn’t be my escort even if he were here. Ron Weasley is my boyfriend.”

One of the stocky wizard’s red eyebrows rose. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Hermione huffed in irritation. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“I appear to have offended you,” the balding man interrupted her as he gently took hold of her arm to keep her from escaping. “That was certainly not my intention. In my excitement at the prospect of Mr. Potter’s arrival I seem to have forgotten my manners. I am Erasmus Doggerel.”

“Hermione Granger,” Hermione introduced herself with the barest of curtsies. “But then you knew that already.”

“Indeed,” Doggerel replied with a polite chuckle. “Nevertheless, it is a pleasure to meet you in person.” Erasmus Doggerel glanced over his shoulder and motioned with his hand to someone across the room. “Come with me. There’s someone I would like to introduce you to.” With mild hesitation, Hermione did so.

“Miss Granger,” Doggerel said with a wily smile, “this is the Senior Undersecretary to Minister Shacklebolt, Ursula Maladie. Undersecretary Maladie, this is Hermione Granger.” Maladie was a middle-aged witch with dark curly hair that was graying at the temples. Her gloved hand reached out and shook Hermione’s.

“I simply had to meet you, dear,” she enthused with a knowing smile. “I have an aide who attended Hogwarts a few years ahead of you. She says you’re the brightest in your class.” Hermione blushed slightly at the compliment. “Of course she often does so using terminology that is quite unflattering.”

“Really?” Hermione replied with a raised eyebrow. “And just who is your aide?”

“Miss Marietta Edgecombe,” Maladie informed her, her smile now becoming a sly smirk. “I suspect you may be the reason she feels the need to use so many glamour charms on her face.”

Now it was Hermione’s turn to smile knowingly. “Perhaps.”

Undersecretary Maladie waved her hand dismissively. “In any event, the girl has a bright future ahead of her. As do you, Miss Granger. Tell me, have you given any thought to taking a position within the Ministry?”

“I’ve had offers from several different departments,” Hermione answered her indirectly. “But I still haven’t found one that seems right for me.”

“Drop by my office sometime, dear,” Maladie offered. “I would be delighted to help you consider your options.”

Feeling a sudden boldness in the presence of this high-ranking Ministry official who had apparently taken a shine to her, Hermione said, “Actually, I was hoping to find a job which would allow me to help underprivileged magical creatures. House elves, in particular.”

Erasmus Doggerel, who up until this time had been silent in the presence of the two women, guffawed loudly. “What sort of help could you possibly offer a house elf? They already have the only things they care about: a home, a family and the sense of satisfaction that comes from hard work. What more could you give them?”

“Their freedom,” Hermione answered him quickly, as her eyes flashed with anger. “House elves deserve to be paid wages for their work.”

“There is nothing a house elf hates more than being set free and they will refuse all attempts at remuneration,” Doggerel countered. “Believe me, Miss Granger, you will achieve nothing by meddling in the affairs of house elves.”

“Oh hush, Erasmus,” Ursula Maladie chided him with a gentle slap of his forearm. “Miss Granger comes from a generation of young wizards and witches who have recently vanquished Lord Voldemort. They are entitled to their dreams, no matter how impossible they may seem to us.” As Maladie continued speaking, Hermione caught sight of something odd through the window. On a balcony overlooking Tindalwood Estate, there sat a single tennis shoe with a sock and part of a leg sticking out of it. Clearly, someone did not want to be seen. “I foresee great changes ahead for wizarding England.”

“As do I,” Hermione responded with a smile. “It’s been wonderful meeting you, Undersecretary Maladie, but if you would please excuse me, I believe I need some fresh air.”

***

After successfully maneuvering herself past a hundred other Victory Ball guests, Hermione Granger decided to investigate the mysterious shoe, although she thought she had a pretty good idea who it belonged to. ‘Harry.’ But why was he avoiding everyone? And, perhaps more to the point, ‘Why is he avoiding me?’

As she stepped into the open air of one of Tindalwood’s more spacious balconies, Hermione waited for Harry to say something, anything, to reveal his presence to her. When he did not, a rather mischievous idea came to mind. Leaning over the balcony with an anguished expression on her face, she heaved a dramatic sigh. “Oh dear,” she began. “Whatever am I to do? Ron’s asked me to marry him, but I’m terribly in love with Harry.” The sound of a gasp coming from the direction of the mysterious tennis shoe was all the confirmation Hermione needed. With a mocking swoon, she continued, “If only I weren’t carrying his child…”

Hermione could hear the soft swoop of a cloak falling away from the figure behind her. As a small smile of victory began to slowly form on her lips, she heard the familiar voice of Harry Potter. “If you knew I was there all along, you could have just said so.”

Without turning around, Hermione replied, “What I said worked well enough, don’t you think?”

Harry managed an embarrassed chuckle. “I guess it did.” There was a moment of silence between them and then Harry asked, “What was it that gave me away?”

As she turned to answer Harry’s question, Hermione took the opportunity to look him over. His cheeks were beet red, his hair looked as though it had been tussled by a rough broom ride and there was a smudge of dirt on his forehead. “You neglected to cover your foot with the invisibility cloak. A rather dangerous mistake for someone who wants to become an Auror, wouldn’t you say?” Before he could reply, she gave him another once over. “I don’t know if it’s your fault, though. You look as though you’ve grown several centimeters since I last saw you.”

“Have I?” Harry asked self-consciously as he looked down at his feet. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“I suppose I should be cross with you,” Hermione declared as she folded her arms over her chest slowly. A gleam of happiness in her eye gave her away, however, and Harry wasn’t fooled for a minute. “Flying and apparating all over the globe, without even taking the time to send an owl to your friends.”

“I wanted to be by myself, Hermione,” Harry explained, his eyes darting away from Hermione’s, “and besides, there was something I had to do. Alone.”

It didn’t take long for Hermione to figure out what he was talking about. “You hid the Elder Wand, didn’t you?” A smile lit up her face. “Oh Harry, that was the very best thing you could have done with it. If you had held onto it, every power hungry wizard in the world would have been coming after you and…” Her voice softened abruptly. “And I’d imagine that’s the last thing you would want right now.” Harry nodded silently. After a group of necromancers had broken into Dumbledore’s tomb, he had decided it wasn’t safe to keep the Elder Wand there. Part of what he had been hoping to accomplish by leaving England was to find the perfect place to hide it. “There aren’t many wizards who would have given up the Elder Wand willingly, you know. Even Dumbledore didn’t.” When Harry didn’t respond to that, Hermione decided to pry a little. “Did you hide it someplace clever?”

Harry smiled with genuine amusement. “Oh yes. Very clever. Nobody would ever think to look for it there.” Harry’s smile grew larger as Hermione stared at him expectantly. “I’m not telling you where it is, Hermione.”

“Well, of course not,” Hermione replied with a dismissive chuckle. “It would be far too dangerous for you to tell me where you hid it.” She continued to look at him hopefully. “But I don’t think one little hint would hurt anything…”

Harry decided to indulge her. “Fine. One hint.” Hermione’s eyes widened in anticipation. “I hid the Elder Wand where nobody who would ever want to find it would want to look.”

Hermione’s eager expression turned into a frown of disappointment. “That’s a terrible clue. It could mean anything!” She let out a groan of frustration as Harry laughed at her predicament. “Is it on top of Mount Everest? At the bottom of the ocean? In the belly of a dragon? Wherever Dolores Umbridge stores her knickers?” Harry laughed even harder at that one as Hermione punched him in the arm. “Tell me!”

“My lips are sealed,” Harry said solemnly. But before Hermione could pout over it, he added, “But if anyone ever does figure out where it is, it will be you, Hermione.”

“Thanks,” Hermione replied shyly. As Harry turned to face the stars, she asked him, “What was it like out there? Out on your own, away from England?”

“Exotic,” Harry answered, his voice flat. “Exciting, at times. Lonely.” Hermione inched closer to him as he began to speak very softly. “I found myself looking up at the stars a lot. I kept thinking about all of the people that I cared about who were looking up at the same night sky here in England. And about all of the stars that were around years ago when my parents were still alive.” Hermione looked over at him with a winsome half-smile. “I know I sound like that cartoon mouse from An American Tail…”

“Fievel,” Hermione supplied helpfully.

“But it’s true,” Harry continued insistently. “The stars can be comforting.” He pointed to a particularly bright star. “You see that one? That’s Sirius. It’s also called the Dog Star, which is rather fitting, if you think about it.”

“D’you think about him a lot?” Hermione asked earnestly, her eyes temporarily leaving Harry’s to look at the star. “Sirius Black, I mean.”

“I’ve actually spent a lot of time thinking about him lately,” Harry said, his eyes never wavering from the stars above them. “Not just him, but Dumbledore and Remus and…well, everyone that I’ve lost. And, after I thought about that for a while, I decided that I don’t want to lose anybody else that I care about. Not for a long, long time anyway.”

“Does that include me?” Hermione asked playfully as one of her eyebrows rose. “Because you didn’t write me even one letter while you were away and…”

“Here.” Harry removed a piece of parchment from inside his robes and handed it to Hermione. “I wrote it a week ago but I never could bring myself to actually send it.” Despite the fact that Harry was standing right in front of her, Hermione opened the letter and proceeded to read its contents. Harry, meanwhile, returned to stargazing. “Do you believe in fate, Hermione?”

Hermione’s eyes traveled from Harry to the letter and back again, her eyes blinking rapidly. “Harry, this letter says that everything you own is to be distributed evenly between the Weasley family…and me…in the event of your death.”

“Centaurs can look at the stars and see the future, or at least see how it might go,” Harry went on as though he had not heard her. “Our entire future could be written up there for the centaurs to read, only we’d never know it.”

“Harry, I can’t accept this,” Hermione said somberly as she closed the distance between herself and Harry. “Besides, you’re not going to die…”

“I could have been wrong about the Elder Wand, Hermione,” Harry interrupted her softly, “or Voldemort might have really killed me instead of just the Horcrux inside of me when he used the killing curse on me. There are a thousand different ways that I could have died over the last seven years.”

“But you didn’t!” Hermione reminded him. She was blinking back tears now and her expression was pained.

“I didn’t,” Harry confirmed grimly, “but I could have, had things gone differently. If fate hadn’t been on my side.”

Hermione shook her head, unwilling to let Harry think this way. “I don’t believe in fate,” she said authoritatively. “Prophecies are just mystical guesswork. Stars are just balls of flaming gas millions of light years away. Tea leaves are just…well…tea leaves. It’s all a bunch of nonsense.” Hermione placed the now rumpled piece of parchment back into Harry’s hand. “I don’t want this.”

“Hermione…” Harry began, but she was having none of it. With an air of urgency, Hermione grabbed Harry’s shoulders and forced him to look her in the eye.

“Now you listen to me, Harry James Potter. You are going to live to a ripe old age, become an Auror, build the family you’ve always wanted and live happily ever after. You’ve gone through too much already for things to happen any other way.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in fate,” Harry teased her, his voice now barely more than a whisper. Hermione’s hands released their tight grip on his shoulders and they slid down his arms slowly. “How can you possibly know what’s in store for me?”

“Because I know you, Harry Potter,” Hermione replied earnestly. “And I…”

“Oy, you two,” Ron Weasley called out from behind them. Harry’s head turned quickly in his best mate’s direction. Ron’s expression was half-suspicious, half-amused. “What’s going on out here?”

“Nothing,” Harry answered quickly as Hermione’s hands fell away from his arms. “We were just talking.”

Ron frowned, although he no longer seemed suspicious. “I didn’t even know you were back from…wherever it was you went.” As Hermione moved to stand beside him, his expression turned openly friendly. “It’s good to have you back, mate.”

Harry smiled with genuine warmth. “It’s good to see you again, too, Ron.”

“I thought you were going to your Aunt Muriel’s funeral,” Hermione inquired of Ron. “Isn’t that why you said you couldn’t come?”

“I’ve been to too many funerals lately,” Ron remarked glumly. “Besides, the food’s better here. Have you seen the size of the buffet table?” Hermione rolled her eyes, but an indulging smile had spread over her face. She was clearly glad to see her boyfriend.

“Did Ginny come with you?” Harry asked Ron.

“‘Fraid not,” Ron answered him. “We talked it over and figured the older relatives wouldn’t ask about one of the boys, but seeing as Ginny’s the only girl, it might be a bit obvious if she skived off.” At Harry’s disappointed look, Ron slapped him on the shoulder encouragingly. “Cheer up, Harry. She’s coming by Bill and Fleur’s cottage after the funeral. You can see her then.”

“Why don’t we go inside?” Hermione suggested, seemingly eager to get Harry’s mind off of the fact that Ginny wasn’t here and that he had suddenly been thrust into the role of third wheel. “I know our host was eager to meet the three of us and now that we’re all here…”

Harry shook his head. “You two go on. I’ll be fine out here.”

“Really, Harry, there’s no point in coming to a party and then hiding from everyone under an invisibility cloak,” Hermione reproved him mildly. “As long as you’re here, you might as well have a good time.”

“Blimey, Harry,” Ron exclaimed. “Hermione’s telling you to go have some fun, and you know how she usually is.” Hermione turned to look at him crossly. “Seriously, mate, you have to see the buffet table. It’s almost as long as a Quidditch pitch.”

Harry stifled a laugh. “I appreciate the thought, but I think what I really need is some peace and quiet.”

“Suit yourself,” Ron said somewhat sadly, as he linked his arm with Hermione’s and the two of them re-entered Tindalwood.

“So tell me, Ron Weasley,” Hermione said pointedly, “just exactly how am I, usually?”

Harry did not get to hear Ron’s reply to the question. It was just as well. His best friends’ relationship was none of his business. He had more important things to think about. ‘Like my life. Where exactly does it go from here, now that I don’t have to worry about killing a dark wizard any more? Do I really want to spend my adult life hunting down more of them? And what kind of an Auror would I make, really?’ Almost as soon as that thought occurred to him, he heard footsteps behind him. Harry spun around and leveled his wand at the intruder.

Luna Lovegood looked down at Harry’s wand appraisingly. “Nice wand,” she remarked, as she tilted her head slightly to one side. “Is it new?”

“No,” Harry answered sheepishly before lowering his wand. “I did repair it recently, though.”

“You can really tell,” Luna informed him brightly. “I understand why you would want to show it off.”

Harry grimaced. “Sorry about that.” Luna walked past him and leaned over the balcony, pausing to admire the view. “What brings you out here?”

“The lure of solitude,” Luna answered dreamily. “There are hundreds of people inside, talking as though if they stopped the world would come to an end. But out here there’s only me, the wind, the stars and hundreds of thousands of miniature sand gnomes, ready to poison me with the venomous secretions of their gums.” She spun around to face a bewildered Harry. “Luckily, I brought repellant. Would you like some?”

Luna presented Harry with a pink vial of steaming liquid that appeared rather venomous in its own right. “Thanks, but I think I’ll take my chances.”

Taking no offense whatsoever, Luna dabbed some of the concoction on her own skin, which briefly made parts of it turn bright pink. “And what about you, Harry? Do you still want to be alone?”

Harry thought back to that moment, right after Voldemort died, when Luna had been the only one who knew that he wanted privacy. “Honestly, no. There’s someone I’d rather be with, but she’s not here.”

“Ginny Weasley,” Luna said matter-of-factly. “She’s the girl you fancy, isn’t she?”

Harry nodded. “It doesn’t seem like much of a celebration without her here.”

Luna smirked as she dabbed sand gnome repellant on her cheeks, turning them temporarily bright pink. “Somehow, I think you’ll have plenty of time to celebrate with her.” She nodded in the direction of the party inside. “You should really go in there. Most of the rich and powerful wizards and witches in England are inside that room. I don’t know if you’re going to finish your Hogwarts education or not…”

“I’m not,” Harry informed her. Hermione had decided to make up seventh year, but Harry and Ron had both chosen not to. Perhaps it wasn’t the best decision for their respective love lives, but both of them had seen and done too much to go back there and sit through another year of school.

“…but you should give some thought to your future,” Luna finished. Gesturing at the gathering of older witches and wizards inside, she added, “They certainly have.”

Harry followed Luna’s gaze to the chattering crowd, happily enjoying themselves inside Tindalwood. “When I choose what to do with the rest of my life, I want to do it on my own terms. I don’t want to be just a name on a door or a famous face in an advert. I want to do something important. Something that has meaning to me.” Harry once again draped his invisibility cloak around him, until only his head could be seen. “That’s why I don’t want to be seen right now. If some ambitious politician got their claws into me…”

“If you really don’t want to be seen right now, Harry,” Luna advised in an even tone, “you’d best cover your head. Someone’s coming.”

Harry quickly pulled the cloak up over his head, taking only a moment to make sure that he did not leave either shoe visible, and turned to face the person who had just stepped onto the balcony. Far from the socialite or up-and-coming Ministry official he had been expecting, it was a frail-looking boy of about seven or eight with silver gray hair that shone white in the light of the moon. “Hello,” Luna greeted the lad with a serene smile.

“Hello,” he replied with a hint of uncertainty in his voice. There was a moment of silence and then, in a rushed voice, he asked, “Have you seen Harry Potter?”

“I’ve seen Harry Potter many times,” Luna answered slyly. “We were at Hogwarts together. I was often helping him do something that was against school rules, but they were usually very silly rules in the first place. Why do you ask?”

“You’ve met Harry Potter?” the young man asked incredulously, a star-struck look now set in his eyes. “Did you help him beat Lord Voldemort?”

“Lots of witches and wizards fought in the Battle of Hogwarts,” Luna told him, “and I was one of them. But it was Harry who actually defeated Voldemort.”

“Wow,” the boy exclaimed. Once he had given himself enough time to digest this news, the boy stuck out his hand. “I’m Varian Doggerel.”

Luna reached for his hand and shook it gently. “Luna Lovegood.” Luna then stole a quick glance in Harry’s general direction and added, “We should really get you inside. The wind has a bit of a chill to it tonight and those thin pyjamas you’re wearing don’t offer you any protection from sand gnome bites.”

“Alright,” Varian grudgingly agreed, although he seemed disappointed. “D’you think Harry Potter would know how to fix a portrait?”

“I don’t know,” Luna answered instantly. “I’d have to have a look at the portrait first to see.”

“Come on then, I’ll show you,” Varian replied as he grabbed Luna by the hand and began pulling her inside the house. “It’s in my room.”

Once the Doggerel boy and Luna were gone, Harry shook his head wistfully. He remembered being just as awestruck when he had first entered the wizarding world and holding Dumbledore in almost as high a regard as Varian now held him. ‘It’s a funny thing about your idols. When you really get to know them, you often find out they’re every bit as flawed as you are.’ His thoughts lingering on Dumbledore for a moment, he added to himself, ‘But you miss them when they’re gone all the same.’

Harry could not escape the feeling that he needed someone like Dumbledore or Sirius or Remus to talk to about his life and where it was headed. The only person left whose advice he really took to heart was Hermione, and she had her own future to think about. But, as he looked at the assortment of witches and wizards enjoying themselves inside the palatial Cornwall estate, one piece of advice from Hermione was beginning to ring true. There was no point in standing outside unseen at a party, particularly one to which he had been invited. ‘Besides, Ron knows I’m out here and he’s rubbish at keeping secrets.’

After stashing his invisibility cloak inside his robes, Harry took one last look at his picturesque surroundings and then opened the balcony door, only pausing a moment to marvel at the fact that he was standing here now, alive and well, having survived the events of the last year. An entire world full of people had now earned the right to make their own choices, free from the spectre of an evil wizard controlling their lives. The destiny of every witch and wizard was now in their own hands.

A victorious grin appeared on his face. Whatever life had in store for him, Harry Potter knew that he could handle it. After seven years of fighting for his life and against seemingly impossible odds, he had finally defeated Voldemort. Compared with that, the problems of life that now loomed on the horizon seemed rather trivial. ‘After all,’ Harry thought to himself, ‘what could possibly happen to me that would be any worse than what already has?’

Thanks for giving the first chapter of this story a read. If you'd like, you could leave a review and tell me what you thought. Chapter 2 will be out in three weeks. Hope you have a happy new year!

InsaneTrollLogic

Built by Text2Html

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.

Damage Control, Part A: I seem to have scared away some Portkey readers with my story description. In trying to make the plotline sound suitably intriguing, I think I may have done myself a disservice. Rest assured that from here on out, this story will not feature R/Hr or H/G as couples, but does mention the reality of their pairings throughout. You won't have to read about any of the OBHWF pairings doing anything disgusting like snogging or adding members to the Weasley brood. The attempt I'm making in "Unchain My Heart" is to build a bridge between canon and the Portkey ships. You may judge for yourself whether or not I end up succeeding.

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.

That being said, thanks for reading and if you care to leave a review, it would be appreciated.

InsaneTrollLogic

Built by Text2Html

I don't own Harry Potter and therefore cannot persuade him to realize Hermione's the perfect girl for him except for in fan fiction.

Thanks to everyone at Portkey for all of the support and great reviews I've received! You guys are the best. Now on with Chapter 3...

Chapter 3: Strangers on a Train

“And now I know you’re dissatisfied with your position and your place
Don’t you understand it’s not my problem.”

-Bob Dylan, Positively 4th Street

“The deceased is Edmund Hubble, age thirty-eight. Caucasian male, approximately sixteen stone, 1.9 meters. Estimated time of death is 1900 hours on 25th November, 2017. At this time, cause of death has yet to be determined…”

“He’s been murdered,” Harry Potter’s voice interrupted the crowner angrily, his breath forming a cold vapor in the pre-dawn chill of London in late autumn. The two men stood in the alley where Hubble’s body had been discovered only hours before by curious Muggles and where it still lay lifelessly on the pavement. “That much should be obvious.”

The crowner’s cold, dispassionate voice soon continued as though Harry had not interrupted him, an official Ministry variation on the quick quotes quill taking down every word he said. “…our preliminary examination leads us to believe it was not natural.”

“You could show a little respect, you know,” Harry snapped at the wizarding medical examiner, a bald, gaunt little wisp of a man with no emotion visible on his face. “He was one of ours.”

“The dead are the dead,” the crowner answered him with a small shrug of his shoulders. “Who they once were is of no importance.”

“Maybe not to you,” Harry muttered under his breath, “but it is to me”. As the crowner signaled that he was done here, Hubble’s body was levitated into the back of a white van that would carry it to the morgue. Harry watched the scene unfold with sadness in his heart and a strong sense of guilt churning around his insides. If only he had stayed a little longer with Hubble last night…

“Friend of yours, Potter?” the pitiless and entirely unwelcome voice of Roger Gavindale called from behind him. There was no love lost between the new head of the division of Magical Law Enforcement and its most famous Auror.

Resisting the urge to hex him into next week purely through force of will, Harry replied, “More like an old acquaintance. We went through training together.”

A thin smile crossed Gavindale’s craggy face. “Let me guess. He had some sort of humourous nickname like ‘Sparky’ or ‘Spanky’ or something.”

Harry did not smile back. “We called him ‘Scope’.”

“Ah, yes. I thought I remembered reading something about that in his file,” Gavindale replied as he stroked his thin beard. “A reference to the Hubble Telescope, I assume.”

“Actually, no,” Harry said, this time with a smile, albeit a defiant one. “He had really terrible breath, so all of the other trainees chipped in and bought him a bottle of Scope mouthwash. When we gave it to him, he had no idea what it was and drank half of it before we stopped him and told him what it was really for. He spent the rest of the night at the healer’s station, convinced he was going blind.” Harry chuckled at the memory but Gavindale’s face remained impassive. “I guess you had to be there. Anyway, he was ‘Scope’ from then on.” The smile vanished from Harry’s face as he thought of what had happened to Hubble. “Who in the world would want to kill him?”

“As much as I’m sure Mr. Hubble would have been touched that you’re here to harass our crowners on his behalf, this isn’t your case, Potter,” Gavindale informed him coldly. “So unless you have something useful to add to the investigation…”

“I reckon I do,” Harry interrupted him. “I know why he was here.”

Gavindale’s eyebrows shot up, making his high forehead and receding hairline all the more apparent. “The plot thickens. Tell me then, what brought our Mr. Hubble all the way out to Muggle London last night?”

“I did,” Harry admitted sadly. “I invited him to come have a pint with me after work.”

Roger Gavindale’s friendly tone, as noticeably fake as it had been, vanished entirely. “Where?”

Harry heaved a sigh of defeat. “The Ku Bar.”

His boss laughed mirthlessly. “The gay bar a few blocks down?” Harry nodded. “Are you sure you were only old acquaintances?”

“Hubble picked the location,” Harry explained in frustration. “He didn’t know it was a gay bar. He didn’t even notice it until I pointed it out.”

Gavindale snorted derisively. “Am I to believe you only met for a friendly chat at a Muggle bar in the middle of London?” When Harry said nothing in reply, he continued, “You were talking about the Manchester Thirteen case, weren’t you?”

“There’s nothing wrong with Aurors meeting after hours to discuss their cases,” Harry snapped. “Or at least there wasn’t until you took over.”

Although Gavindale was a head shorter than Harry, he now drew himself up as if to serve as a reminder that he held the superior rank here. “I reassigned the Manchester Thirteen case in hopes of dispelling some of the wild rumours that had been going around about it. The exercise was pointless if the new Auror to whom I’ve assigned the case seeks out these rumours from an ‘old acquaintance’.” Harry seethed inwardly but said nothing. “Consider yourself removed from the case, Potter, and from this crime scene. Be happy I didn’t suspend you, because I surely could have.”

“If you don’t mind, sir,” Harry said with as little derision in his voice as possible, “I’d like to make a statement to the Auror investigating Hubble’s murder.”

“You already have,” Gavindale told him casually. “I’ll be taking the case myself.” A look of surprise and befuddlement came over Harry’s face. “The murder of an Auror is a gravely serious matter. I want everyone in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to know just how seriously I take it. I’ll do everything within my power to find Edmund Hubble’s killer.”

As Gavindale turned away from him dismissively, Harry called after him, “Do you really mean that?”

The MLE Chief did not turn around as he replied, “Don’t test my patience, Potter. I always mean what I say.”

“Then who are you giving Hubble’s last assignment to?” Harry inquired curiously.

Now Roger Gavindale did turn his head in Harry’s direction. “You mean guarding the new head of OSPRE on a European retreat?” Harry nodded sharply in the affirmative. “I only assigned an agent as a courtesy to Minister Maladie. Given the circumstances, I’m sure she would understand that I couldn’t spare anyone.”

A deep frown creased Harry’s brow. “Have you considered that that could have been a motive for Hubble’s murder? Maybe his killer was trying to make sure that the person he was assigned to protect had no protection.”

Gavindale did not seem convinced. “I suppose it’s a possibility.” He gave Harry an appraising look. “You’re volunteering for this duty, I assume.”

“I am,” Harry answered him frankly. “I owe Scope that much, I think.”

Roger Gavindale thought the matter over for only a moment. “Very well, but this is not to be a vacation. I fully expect detailed reports from you throughout.” Harry agreed to this and turned to leave. “Oh and Potter? Pack quickly. I believe the train you need to board leaves in less than two hours.”

***

Hermione Granger had always loathed tardiness. Even when she was using a time turner to get to a good number of her classes in her third year at Hogwarts, she had prided herself on being as prompt as possible. Almost twenty years spent working for the Ministry of Magic had only heightened Hermione’s intolerance for lateness. Her eyes darted angrily to her wristwatch. ‘The Auror was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago. He’s holding up the train. What could possibly be keeping him?’

Hermione’s sour mood was not being helped by the inescapable feeling she had that both her Auror guard and her little sabbatical to Switzerland itself were entirely unnecessary. ‘Mr. Doyle should be working on Operation Immigrant and I should be back at OSPRE, making sure half a dozen other projects get off the ground. There’s no real reason for me to leave the country right now.’ If Hermione hadn’t known how important the project was to Minister Maladie, she would have sworn this little paid vacation was the handiwork of Marietta Edgecombe.

Edgecombe had been Ursula Maladie’s assistant since her days as Senior Undersecretary to Kingsley Shacklebolt. More importantly to Hermione, however, she had been a rival adviser to Maladie, almost always telling her to do the opposite of whatever it was Hermione recommended. Although the new Minister of Magic rarely took Edgecombe’s advice to heart, there had been times when she had cost Hermione approval of a project she wanted or a piece of legislation she had dearly hoped would pass.

Much to Hermione’s chagrin, Marietta Edgecombe had been named Ursula Maladie’s Senior Undersecretary once the latter became Minister of Magic, a position Hermione had expected she might receive herself. This gave the former Ravenclaw and traitorous D.A. member considerably more power than before and Hermione had no doubt she would be willing to use it against the witch she likely still blamed for the scars on her face. ‘It was over twenty years ago, for pity’s sake,’ Hermione thought to herself. ‘She should just get over it.’

“I hope you’re not thinking anything really brilliant.” Startled, Hermione looked up to see Harry Potter sitting across from her with a wide smile on his face. “Seeing as I’m interrupting you and you’re paid to think. I’d hate to be accused of wasting Ministry resources.”

“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, flinging her arms around him and giving him a tight hug. “What are you doing here?” Before Harry could answer, she continued, “Wait. Don’t tell me you’re…”

“The wizard who’s supposed to be watching out for your safety on your Swiss vacation?” Harry finished for her. “I’m afraid so.”

Hermione frowned. “I was told to look for someone named ‘Hubble’. Edwin Hubble, I think it was.”

“It took some doing, but I managed to land the assignment for myself,” Harry told her without exactly lying. “A trip to the continent with an old friend sounded great compared to the cases I’ve been dealing with lately.” In fact, Harry hadn’t even known that it was Hermione he was supposed to protect until Ginny mentioned her promotion a few hours earlier while helping him frantically pack a suitcase, but there was no need for her to know that.

Hermione smiled appreciatively. “Well, I’m certainly glad I’ve got one of the Ministry’s very best Aurors around to protect me.”

Harry shook his head in befuddlement. “I can’t believe the Minister of Magic thought you needed someone to protect you. You probably know more defensive spells than I do.”

“Maybe Minister Maladie is being a little overcautious,” Hermione conceded grudgingly, “but sometimes a little extra caution can be a good thing. I’m sure you’ve found that to be true in your line of work.” As Harry nodded, Hermione inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. She was eager to avoid discussing politics with Harry, as she knew he had been a big supporter of Croesus Palmer, the wizard Ursula Maladie had replaced as Minister of Magic. “Besides, didn’t you say that my mind was practically a Ministry resource?” she asked him teasingly as she tapped her forehead lightly with her index finger. “I’d say this is worth a little extra effort, wouldn’t you?”

“Given how many times it got me out of a jam while we were at Hogwarts, I’ll have to agree with you,” Harry chimed in with a chuckle. “So, Miss New Director of OSPRE, why is the Ministry of Magic sending that world class brain of yours on holiday at a time like this?”

“Now is as good a time as any, I suppose,” Hermione answered him somewhat cagily. “I haven’t had time to start any important projects yet and my assistant, Mr. Doyle, is quite brilliant himself…”

Harry interrupted her with a puzzled frown. “But without Ron? Or Hugo?”

Caught off guard by his interrogatory questions and eager to keep the true purpose of her trip a secret, she replied testily, “I’m sure that with all the corruption investigations going on, Minister Maladie would prefer to keep our department’s expenses to a minimum.” Hermione winced inwardly as soon as the words were out of her mouth. ‘Brilliant job avoiding a political discussion, Hermione,’ she chided herself.

Harry remained silent for a moment, as if unsure of what to say next. Hermione could hear the train’s wheels grind beneath her as it pulled out of the station and idly wondered when it would reach Switzerland. This could quickly turn into a very long train ride.

Harry must have decided against defending Croesus Palmer, because the next words out of his mouth were, “So how are Ron and Hugo?”

“Fine,” Hermione answered swiftly, relieved to now be on to a safe topic of discussion. “They’re both into as much mischief as ever, but I think Hugo misses Rose more than he lets on.”

Harry smiled knowingly. “Lily’s the same way. She spends half the summer furious with James and Al but then once they’re gone she hardly knows what to do without them.”

“It won’t be long before all of our children will be gone away to Hogwarts,” Hermione declared wistfully, “and not long after that, they’ll graduate and start their own lives. That means getting married, having children of their own…”

“Which will make us grandparents,” Harry threw in with a sigh. “I don’t think I’m ready to be a grandfather. I’m not sure I can even remember any more Weasley names. I can barely keep all of Percy’s kids straight as it is.”

Hermione laughed at that. “I suppose I am getting a bit ahead of myself. Still, it doesn’t seem so long ago that we were at Hogwarts ourselves.”

“No it doesn’t,” Harry agreed with a smile. “Every time I get nostalgic for those days I remind myself that half the time I was either fighting Voldemort or trying to foil some plan of his.” Once memories of Voldemort began to fill his mind, his expression became grim. “I think that’s why I’ve never been able to accept McGonagall’s offer to become Hogwarts’ Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Well, that and the fact that my kids would be mortified.”

“I’m sure Headmistress McGonagall was disappointed when you declined,” Hermione replied, “but Rose simply adores Professor Demaree. Defense Against the Dark Arts is her favorite subject.” Harry was staring out the window now, watching the countryside around them vanish as the train rose into the air to carry them over the English Channel. His eyes seemed stormy and distant. It was a look Hermione was familiar with and she was unwilling to let her best friend dwell too much on unpleasant memories. “Have you seriously considered teaching as a profession?” Harry’s head turned slowly away from the window and his own thoughts. “I think you’d be quite good at it.”

“I’ve given it some thought,” Harry said. “I must admit I’ve become rather disenchanted with Magical Law Enforcement.”

“Is it really Magical Law Enforcement you’re unhappy with?” Hermione asked, leaning forward slightly in her seat and lowering her voice. “Or is it Roger Gavindale?”

“They’re one and the same now, aren’t they?” Harry asked rhetorically, a hint of anger entering his voice as he did so. “Thanks to Ursula Maladie, he’s head of the department.”

“He won’t be department head forever,” Hermione assured him confidently. “I have quite a bit of sway with Minister Maladie. Maybe I could convince her that she should replace Gavindale…”

Harry shook his head ‘no’. “Maladie won’t fire Roger Gavindale. They’ve been thick as thieves for as long as I can remember.”

Hermione bristled, clearly unhappy with where the conversation was going. “Well, at least they’re not actually thieves, like some other leaders I could name!”

Harry now stared intently at her, as if truly seeing her for the very first time. “What are you saying, Hermione?” he asked her, his voice slow and even.

“You know exactly what I’m saying,” Hermione retorted. “The wizards that you liked working under so much were crooks, Harry. They robbed the Ministry blind!”

Harry’s eyes blazed angrily. “So that’s it, then. They don’t even get a trial. They’re already guilty, according to you.”

“Oh, of course they’ll have their trial,” Hermione threw back at him. “But they never would have been dismissed from their posts if the evidence against them hadn’t been overwhelming.”

“They stepped down, graciously, so that the investigation wouldn’t be a distraction,” Harry corrected her, his diction slow and deliberate. “And once they did, Ursula Maladie couldn’t wait to put herself into the Minister of Magic’s chair.”

“That isn’t fair and you know it!” Hermione exclaimed, inching ever closer to Harry as she spoke. “The Minister’s job was hers for the taking when Horatio Harefoot went mad, but she knew the country needed a leader with a background in law enforcement during the Rebellion of Magical Creatures.”

“Smartest decision she ever made,” Harry muttered.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Do you really think so? Smarter than taking me under her wing when I wasn’t even out of Hogwarts? Smarter than helping me advance in my career every step of the way, just as Croesus Palmer did for you?”

“Advance in your career?” Harry scoffed. “All Ursula Maladie has ever done is hold you back.” When Hermione squawked with indignation, Harry continued, “Can you honestly say that you’ve accomplished half of the things that you wanted done when you went to work for the Ministry?”

“That isn’t how things work in the realm of politics,” Hermione explained through clenched teeth.

“Listen to yourself,” Harry replied incredulously. “Would you have settled for an answer like that from someone in the government twenty years ago?”

“I’m not seventeen anymore, Harry,” Hermione reminded him huffily. “My expectations have become more realistic. The world doesn’t change overnight just because one person wants it to.” Harry shot her a look that said she was only proving his point with every word she spoke. “What do you want me to do, Harry? Complain about how I can’t accomplish everything I want because my ‘terrible boss’ keeps getting in the way? Pardon me if I don’t see the point of that.”

“You would if your boss was Roger Gavindale,” Harry replied, his voice now very low. Hermione belatedly realized that he had taken what she said personally in a way that she hadn’t intended. Had she been feeling perfectly calm and rational, she would have apologized immediately.

Unfortunately for them both, she was not feeling particularly calm and rational. “I know your personalities have always clashed, Harry, but I’ve never understood why you refuse to see Gavindale as anything other than your enemy. Look at all the good he’s done.”

“You mean solving all of my cases for me, killing or capturing dark wizards that I was supposed to track down and making sure that I never got the chance to complete an important assignment?” Harry asked her sarcastically. “No, I reckon I never have gotten around to thanking him for all of that.”

“Roger Gavindale brought in every former Death Eater that went into hiding after the war. Doesn’t he deserve some credit for that?” Hermione asked him pointedly.

“He’s already gotten enough, I think,” Harry assessed glumly as he shot Hermione a betrayed glare. “I can’t believe you’re taking up for him over me.”

“This isn’t about choosing sides, Harry,” Hermione said, as though she were a teacher trying to explain a very simple lesson to an inattentive student. “It’s about getting you to see things differently. Holding a grudge against your superior doesn’t help anything. It certainly isn’t going to get you that promotion you’ve been after.”

“I didn’t become an Auror to jump through political hoops and kiss the bums of witches and wizards I can’t stand,” Harry exclaimed angrily.

Hermione grimaced. “I’m afraid that if you want a career in government that’s exactly the sort of thing you have to do from time to time.”

“Then maybe I’ll find another line of work,” Harry declared defiantly. “I don’t much care for being coddled like I’m fresh from Auror training.”

A frown creased Hermione’s brow. “Coddled? Is that really how you feel?”

“D’you know how I was able to take this assignment?” Harry asked her, now truly in high dudgeon. “Gavindale yanked me off of the Manchester Thirteen case. That’s the third case I’ve been pulled from since he took over the department and that was just a few weeks ago. If Gavindale keeps taking important cases away from me, I’ll end up doing nothing little jobs like this one for the rest of my career.”

“So protecting me is a nothing little job?” Hermione asked him, her eyes blinking rapidly.

Harry shook his head ‘no’ as enthusiastically as he could. “Of course not! That’s not what I meant at all…”

“What did you mean, then,” Hermione asked him, a pained expression registering on her face as she looked at him expectantly.

“I…I meant…” Harry stammered helplessly. Failing to fill the awkward silence that followed, Harry watched as Hermione crossed her arms and deliberately averted her gaze from him.

Harry spent the next few minutes sinking into the routine of Auror surveillance, watching people on the train as they moved around, mentally marking emergency escape routes and hoping desperately that the time would find a way to pass more quickly. He suddenly wished that someone else were here as a buffer between Hermione and himself; someone like Ron or Ginny. ‘Why did they have to send us off alone together?’ Harry groused to himself.

It was then that Harry realized that he truly had no idea where they were going (aside from ‘Switzerland’, which is a fairly large place). “So…” Harry began awkwardly, “where exactly are we headed anyhow?”

Hermione did not look at him as she answered, “Grindelwald.”

“Grindelwald?” Harry repeated quizzically. “The dark wizard who wanted the Deathly Hallows? The one who Dumbledore defeated and Voldemort killed all those years ago?”

Although her gaze remained fixed outside the window, Hermione rolled her eyes. “Obviously not. Grindelwald is a small ski resort town in Switzerland.” Offhandedly, she thrust a brochure in Harry’s direction. “We’re staying at the Hotel Narcisse.”

***

The Hotel Narcisse was an enormous monstrosity of a building. Its marble Doric columns stretched fifty meters upward, holding the remaining twenty-plus stories aloft with ease. A gigantic statue of a figure from Greek mythology, presumably Narcissus himself, seemed to preen in front of the entrance. A lengthy reflecting pool in front of the hotel mirrored the building exactly, making it appear even larger to the naked eye. It was almost enough to make the Alps surrounding them seem ordinary by comparison.

Had Harry been in a mood to continue his argument with Hermione, he could have pointed out that if the Ministry had truly wanted to be frugal, they might have picked someplace to send them that wasn’t quite so obviously expensive. He was rather tired of getting the cold shoulder from Hermione, however, and so declined to bring it up. “Nice place, isn’t it?” he tried casually, attempting to elicit any kind of response from her that wasn’t simply hostile or dismissive.

“It’s a bit grandiose for my taste, actually,” Hermione answered him somewhat tersely. “Would you mind grabbing the rest of my luggage?”

Considering that he had already toted all of their baggage from the Zanzibar Transoceanic Express (their first train) to the Berner Oberland Bahn (their second) and then again to the taxicab that had carried them to the hotel, Harry wondered why she even bothered to ask. Suppressing the urge to simply levitate their luggage with his wand (since they were in front of Muggles at what was, after all, a Muggle resort), Harry dutifully carried everything into the lobby, placing the bags gently on the plush red carpeted floor as he arrived at the front desk.

“So our rooms will be adjacent then?” Hermione asked the blonde woman standing behind the counter.

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied in a distinctively English accent. “The gentleman who arranged the accommodations was quite insistent on that point.”

Harry suddenly found himself completely unable to stop staring at this woman. Although he was quite sure that he had never met her before, she seemed familiar somehow. There was something faintly alluring about her and for a moment he wondered whether she was part veela, as he had never been so immediately and completely captivated by anyone.

“May I help you, sir?” the woman asked with a puzzled frown. Her demeanor remained entirely professional as Harry stood there dumbstruck, unable to make his mouth move to answer her.

Hermione, meanwhile, was furious. “I suppose I’ll have to show you where our rooms are, since it’s obvious you weren’t paying a bit of attention to what she said.” She grabbed Harry by the arm and began pulling him along behind her (and none too gently either). “You can leer at strange women on your own time. Honestly, you’re as bad as Ron.” After she thought that over for a moment, she added, “Well no, not quite.”

Harry finally regained his senses enough to ask, “What happened to our bags?”

Hermione sighed deeply. “The staff already took them to our rooms, which you would know if you hadn’t been staring at the concierge like a lost little puppy.”

“I…I’m sorry,” Harry stammered. “I’m really not sure what came over me. That’s never happened before.”

“It’s not me you have to apologize to,” Hermione told him coolly, “at least not for that.” When Harry continued to look sheepish, she added, “I’d really like to get settled in my room, Harry. I’ll see you later.”

“Fine,” Harry responded in a resigned voice. “I’ll see you later.” There were any number of things he could busy himself doing right now. In fact, Harry suddenly felt the urge to bury himself in Auror work and forget all about his little tiff with Hermione and the unusually captivating woman at the front desk. He would simply have to find other things to occupy his mind.

***

This task proved far more difficult than Harry had anticipated, however. Even as he sent an owl to both Roger Gavindale and Ginny saying that he had arrived at his destination (although the letters were otherwise quite different in tone and substance), he remained on edge from his row with Hermione and still could not shake the strange feeling that had come over him upon seeing the blonde English woman. It was a bit of an eerie sensation, rather like running into a close relative you never even knew you had.

Once he had cast protective wards around Hermione’s room (both of the standard variety and a few of the more creative ones he had come to use frequently over the years), he was finished with the basics when it came to protecting someone from an attack by a witch or wizard. Since they were staying in a Muggle establishment, however, he had to be prepared for non-magical threats as well. Among other things, this meant flashing around impressive (but fake) Muggle law enforcement credentials to the hotel staff and contacting local Muggle authorities.

As it happened, this also meant that Harry would have to speak with the woman behind the front desk who had rendered him speechless earlier. As he approached the counter, he decided to start the conversation off by making amends. “I suppose I owe you an apology for gawking at you the way I did.”

“It’s not the first time it’s happened,” the blonde woman replied with a shrug. She was about Hermione’s height, had delicate, impish facial features and appeared to be a few years older than Harry. “A lot of men that come through here are looking for easy hook ups with the help. There’s not much in the way of a social scene here.”

“I think you’ve misunderstood me,” Harry assured her as he pointed to a golden ring on his right hand. “I’m married.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time for that, either,” she pointed out with a worldly smirk. “You don’t have to apologize to me, though. It’s water under the bridge.”

Harry gave her face a careful examination once more, trying to place where and when he had seen her before. There was something so familiar about her… “Have we met before?” he asked, perhaps a little rudely.

The blonde looked thoughtful for a moment. “Did you attend boarding school in France?” Harry shook his head. “Ever backpack through Eastern Europe?” Again Harry said ‘no’. “Have you been to an Amo Maro concert?”

“There’s a big no,” Harry answered her with a laugh. “No offense, it’s just not my kind of music.”

“None taken,” the woman replied with a dismissive bob of her head. “Well then, unless you’ve been to this hotel before, which I’m fairly certain you haven’t, you’ve never met me before. But you could meet me now, if you tell me your name.”

“It’s Harry,” he said with a friendly grin as he extended his hand to her, “Harry Potter.”

Her eyebrows rose as she shook his hand. “Well, now. There’s a coincidence.” When Harry frowned, she explained. “My name’s Potter, too. Chloe Potter. D’you think we’re related somehow?”

Harry shrugged. “Distantly, maybe.”

A knowing smile crossed her lips. “Yes, maybe so.” For a fleeting moment as their hands touched, Harry felt a strange sensation overtake him, something akin to queasiness coupled with the always eerie feeling of someone walking over your grave. Once again he was rendered speechless and left floundering in a state of complete awkwardness, this time without Hermione or anyone else to bail him out. Obviously hoping to ease the tension a bit, Chloe added, “Perhaps we should break out our family trees. See if we have a Great Aunt Irma in common or something.”

“Wouldn’t you know it? I’ve forgotten mine at home,” Harry managed to joke half-heartedly.

Chloe smiled widely for the first time, highlighting her impish features and making her expression seem faintly mischievous. “A common mistake. I never leave home without mine. Of course, it’s tattooed in a very delicate area…” Harry tilted his head to one side, trying to decide whether or not she was joking. “Yeah. Just showed up there one morning after a particularly wild Amo Maro concert at Stonehenge... Oh, but I’m just rambling now. Was there something else you wanted?” she asked, indicating the manila folder tucked underneath Harry’s arm.

It took Harry a moment to remember the reason he had felt the need to approach this woman again so soon after making a fool out of himself in front of her. “Erm, yes.” Fumbling in his trouser pockets for a moment, he finally managed to produce the fake I.D. he needed. He then attempted to coolly and casually hand it to Chloe. “I need to ask a favour.”

“Interpol, eh?” Chloe asked rhetorically as she returned Harry’s I.D. to him. “Of course. What do you need me to do?”

“My contact here in Switzerland may leave a message for me,” Harry explained, “and if he does, I need to know immediately. He’ll give you his name, here...”

Chloe read the name aloud as she took the otherwise blank business card from Harry’s hand. “‘Robert Orr’. Hm. Rather like Bobby Orr, the great Canadian hockey player.”

“Yeah, he hates people asking him about that all the time,” Harry lied, “‘Oh, are you related to him?’ and the like, so when we communicate I always address him as R. Orr. Oh, and if anything comes for me marked ‘R. Orr,’ would you please make sure I see it immediately?”

“Of course, sir,” Chloe agreed automatically. “Would you like to use the lobby telephone in order to contact Mr. Orr?” Harry’s eyebrows rose at the question. “I assure you, Mr. Potter, that you are not the first member of Interpol to stay at the Hotel Narcisse. Most law enforcement agents prefer to use the lobby phone rather than the one in their room or their cellular phone so that their precise location will be more difficult to trace…”

“Yes, thank you. That’s very thoughtful.” If Chloe found it rude that Harry interrupted her, it did not register on her face. Without another word, she removed an older model touchtone phone from the counter at her desk and placed it in front of him. Once he was reasonably certain that the mysteriously familiar concierge’s attention was focused elsewhere, Harry picked up the receiver and dialed the number he had dialed a thousand times before.

Although there was still strict separation between any and all Muggle law enforcement organizations and wizarding Britain’s MLE, for more than a century liaisons had been put in place to help smooth things out when witches and wizards ran into a snag while on a mission in the Muggle world. You can’t always obliviate everyone, after all. For as long as Harry had been an Auror, his contact had remained the same: a cocksure, arrogant old wizard whose beard ran all the way down to his pointed shoes named Themistocles Hale. “Agent Orr, please,” Harry said after hearing the click indicating someone had picked up on the other end.

“So I’m R. Orr again, eh?” Hale’s thoroughly-not-amused voice queried. “Not terribly original, lad. One of these days some witch or wizard is going to overhear you and your cover’s going to be blown.” Hale thought about that for a moment and then added, “Then again, look who I’m talking to. If you’re seen by anyone from the magical world, your cover’s blown anyway. You know, you really should use a fake name and a disguise now and again…”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Harry replied impatiently. “Now can we please go through the standard protocol?”

“Fine,” Hale said with a bored sigh. “What do you have for me today?”

“It should be just a routine watchdog case,” Harry told him in as soft a voice as he could manage without making his words inaudible, “although the circumstances behind it are a bit out-of-the-ordinary.”

Harry then took a few moments to describe the infuriating, macabre and seemingly coincidental series of events that led to him landing the assignment of Hermione’s Auror bodyguard in this Swiss retreat (although he deftly coded his language whenever his words might seem strange to an eavesdropping Muggle). “You’re protecting Hermione?” Hale asked perplexedly. “Isn’t that rather like a lion being sent to keep watch over a bear?”

“I reckon you could see it that way,” Harry muttered with a rueful smile. “It hasn’t exactly been going well so far. The lion and the bear had a bit of a political disagreement.”

“Not very professional, lad,” Themistocles Hale chided him mildly. “D’you mind if I ask you a personal question about your relationship with Hermione?”

Harry suppressed a groan. “If I minded, would that stop you from asking?”

The answer to that question was obviously ‘no’ as Hale continued, “You and Hermione are old friends from Hogwarts, right? She married your best mate and now you’re like one gargantuan family and all of that rot, am I right?” He did not wait for Harry to answer as he went on, “How much time have you spent alone with Hermione since you were teenagers?”

Harry ran his hand through his perennially disheveled hair. “Look, if you’re insinuating that there’s anything improper going on between me and Hermione…”

“I’m not insinuating anything of the sort,” Hale interrupted with a dry chuckle. “But if I’m right, and I always am, you only see her now when you’re with family…at Christmas or on birthdays or at Platform 9 ¾ when you see the sprogs off to Sprogwarts. She’s your sister-in-law, your best mate’s wife and your wife’s best girlfriend. Now what you need to find out is: after all of that, is Hermione still your best friend?”

Harry’s tone became defensive. “Of course. I…” But as he thought about it, he finally began to question what he had taken for granted for nearly twenty years. Even as the bonds of family had tied Harry and Hermione together, the friendship that had existed between them in school, the deep mystical bond he had never dared to define that kept them together even when Ron repeatedly took himself out of the picture, had somehow gotten lost in the shuffle. “I…I suppose I never gave it much thought.”

“Now would be a good time to give it some, don’t you think?” the old man asked smugly. “Alone with her and away from everyone else on what amounts to a paid vacation in Switzerland…”

“I’m not on holiday,” Harry exclaimed with a touch of anger that was mostly directed at himself, “and neither one of us should act as though I am. That’s how I got into trouble in the first place.” He exhaled softly and slumped back against the counter, as if in defeat. “The truth is I’m worried about her. Whoever murdered Hubble could already be here, just waiting for the right moment to strike.”

“Did she say anything about why someone might want to harm her?” Hale inquired curiously.

Harry winced. “I, erm, didn’t actually get around to asking her. We more or less skipped straight from the pleasantries to the arguing.”

Harry could almost hear Themistocles Hale’s disapproving frown. “Well then, I suppose my next question is obvious, lad: why are you talking to me when it seems you have so much more to talk about with Hermione? If I were you, I’d bring an appropriate peace offering, jewelry or flowers always seem to do nicely, and haul my so-famous-I-don’t-have-to-change-my-name-in-the-Muggle-world bum to wherever she’s staying to beg her forgiveness.”

The next two words he spoke were the ones Harry most dreaded saying to Themistocles Hale. “You’re right. That’s exactly what I need to do.” As the dread dissipated, a warm feeling of gratitude replaced it. “Thanks for the advice.”

Slightly embarrassed, Hale became dismissive. “Yes, yes. Fine, lad, fine. I’ll fill out all of the paperwork while you go make nice with your little friend.”

“Ha…er, Orr? Would you mind doing one other thing?” Harry asked, his eyes cagily returning to the blonde concierge as she spoke with one of the Hotel Narcisse’s other guests. “Run a name for me, see if it comes out clean. Chloe Potter.”

***

Soft, echoing whispers flowed into the mind of Hermione Granger-Weasley like a gentle summer stream, filling it with many wondrous thoughts and ideas. Arithmantic symbols seemed to dance gracefully around in her head, as though there were beautiful music playing that Hermione could not hear. A sudden drowsiness had overtaken her, making her eyelids feel so very heavy and her extremities grow numb. Hermione’s favourite quill remained in her hand, however, seemingly writing on the parchment below of its own volition.

A loud thump aroused her from her stupor. As Hermione’s eyes shot open, the whispers stopped and the symbols vanished from her mind, taking the feeling of tranquility that had accompanied them as they went. Her mood, which had not been overly pleasant to begin with, took a decided turn for the worse. Grouchily, Hermione began to search for what had caused the disturbance…and only a moment later discovered rather sheepishly that it was the very thing that caused her to be here in the first place.

Hermione kneeled to the floor and scooped up the ancient artifact in her hands, gingerly placing it back on the writing desk where she had been attempting to solve the up-until-now unsolvable mystery of how exactly the item she was now staring down at was supposed to function. To the naked eye, it appeared to be nothing more than a heart-shaped brooch with gold trim and a long gilded chain. The reality, however, was far more impressive.

Or it would be, if anybody could ever get it to work. The best brains at OSPRE were most of the way there in figuring out how it was supposed to operate in theory, but… ‘What use is a theory if you can’t test it?’ Hermione asked herself in frustration. ‘There has to be a catalyst… a piece of the puzzle we’re missing. If only I knew where it was found or by whom…’ Yet all of that information was classified and Hermione still lacked the proper clearance to be apprised of it. ‘I’ll bet Marietta Edgecombe has the proper clearance,’ she whined inwardly, puncturing the corner of the parchment with her quill (and idly imagining it was Edgecombe’s face) as she did so.

“Am I interrupting something?” a man’s voice from inside the room asked, startling Hermione and making her drop the quill from her hand. A quick scan of the room assured her there was no intruder present, allowing her pounding heart to beat normally again. The source of the voice was the charming fireplace that sat in the corner of her suite, which had apparently been connected to the Floo network, seeing as how the head of her assistant, Todrik Doyle, was now sticking out of it. “Goodness! I didn’t frighten you, did I, Madame Director Granger-Weasley?”

“No, of course not,” Hermione covered feebly. “I was… surprised for a moment that you were able to establish the Floo connection so quickly.” She had been expecting Doyle to contact her and seeing as though they couldn’t use owls in a Muggle establishment, the Floo did seem the most obvious choice.

“The Hotel Narcisse has always been a very magic-friendly establishment," Doyle assured her. Then, looking almost as though he had said too much, he continued, “I must apologize again for giving you an incomplete copy of my notes. It was a thoroughly foreseeable and avoidable error…”

“Think nothing of it, really,” Hermione replied offhandedly as she leaned over the writing desk to rummage through Doyle’s notes on Operation Immigrant, searching for where the missing page went and, incidentally, giving Doyle a rather nice view of her behind. “It could happen to anyone.”

The young, brown-haired wizard smiled coyly, nodding his head in the direction of the desk. “You’ve been hard at work, I see.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked with a frown. “Oh, this?” she asked rhetorically, holding up the parchment she had been writing on only a few moments earlier. “Just some random scribbling that popped into my head. I haven’t even had time to look it over just yet…”

“May I?” Doyle inquired politely. Anxious to find what page was missing and get this over with, Hermione handed her brilliant assistant the scrap of paper. His brow furrowed in befuddlement as he read it. “But…this is it. This is the information that was missing from the notes I gave you.”

“What?!” Hermione turned around to stare at Doyle in disbelief. “Are you having me on?”

“I was just about to ask you the same question, with all due respect, of course,” Todrik Doyle added meekly. “It took me weeks to complete these equations. Did you really finish all of this in only a few hours?”

“I…I suppose I did,” Hermione answered him, flabbergasted. “Although I’m still not sure how I could have possibly managed it…”

“You’re being too modest again,” Doyle assured her with a proud grin. “It’s becoming something of a bad habit with you. And all this time I thought you didn’t have any.”

“You obviously haven’t seen me first thing in the morning,” Hermione replied with a wry grin, realizing a moment too late how embarrassing this was, given that she had found out from her best friends only yesterday that Mr. Doyle fancied her. She tried to stop herself from blushing, but failed rather miserably.

Todrik Doyle’s expression turned faintly rueful, but he managed a polite smile. “Yes. Obviously.” Doyle then made a show of clearing his throat, as though to subtly announce that he was about to change the subject. “Has your stay at the Hotel Narcisse been pleasant thus far?”

Hermione struggled for a way to say anything other than ‘no’. “It seems nice. I must admit I haven’t much time yet to explore it…”

The young Irish wizard was far too perceptive to be fooled by this. “Something’s upset you, hasn’t it? Is it your Auror guard?” When Hermione didn’t respond right away, he continued, “I can send an owl to Roger Gavindale and have a new agent there within the hour…”

“Please don’t,” Hermione begged him, her eyes closing involuntarily. With a sigh, she admitted, “It’s Harry. We…we had something of a disagreement.”

“Harry?” Todrik Doyle asked as one of his eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Harry Potter?” When Hermione shook her head ‘yes’, Doyle laughed mirthlessly. “Pity. I was hoping Gavindale would take the matter of your security more seriously.”

Hermione spun angrily to glare at her assistant. “Harry’s a fine Auror! One of the very best!”

Doyle flinched and held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “I would never dream of saying otherwise. But everyone inside the Ministry knows Gavindale doesn’t entrust Potter with assignments he considers to be important.”

Hermione sat down and put her head in her hands. ‘Everyone in the Ministry knows. Harry must feel so humiliated…’ “So everything he said was true,” she said softly, not really intending for Mr. Doyle to hear.

“I…I certainly didn’t mean to give offense,” Doyle stammered awkwardly. “I was only trying, in my own wholly inadequate way, to…to make sure…”

Hermione smiled thinly as she turned slightly to face Todrik Doyle’s head, which was now framed in green flame. “It’s alright, Mr. Doyle. You’ve more than done your duty with regard to ensuring my safety and I’m sure I’ll have a lovely time at the Hotel Narcisse but right now I think I could use some rest.”

Todrik Doyle recognized a face-saving opportunity when he saw it. “Of course, Madame Director Granger-Weasley. Have a pleasant evening. I look forward to seeing you again upon your return.”

Hermione said nothing else as Doyle’s head vanished from her fireplace. Distractedly, she began to rearrange the pieces of parchment she had been frantically searching through only moments earlier. As she did so, something small fluttered slowly down to the floor, something that had apparently become wedged between the folds of paper. Once Hermione reached down to pick it up, she recognized it as a photograph that had been taken of Ron, Harry and she while they were still at Hogwarts. The image of the three of them laughing and smiling, Ron playfully elbowing Harry in the ribs as Hermione rolled her eyes and tried her best to hide her fondness for both boys, brought a much-needed smile to Hermione Granger-Weasley’s face. Had things changed so much since then that Harry and she could now be at each other’s throats over who’s in charge at the Ministry?

A knock at the door interrupted her inner musings. Hermione rushed to answer it, almost instinctively knowing who would be standing behind it. It was Harry, holding a bouquet of white roses and looking as utterly miserable as she had ever seen him. “I’m really sorry, Hermione,” he began, but was instantly cut off by Hermione enveloping him in a bone crushing hug.

“You haven’t a thing in the world to be sorry about,” Hermione assured him in a rushed voice. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. The way I treated you…”

“D’you think we could both agree to just forget the last few hours and start over?” Harry managed despite Hermione’s arms squeezing him so hard he could barely breathe.

Hermione released Harry from her grasp and gave him a beaming smile. “I think that sounds like a wonderful idea.” She then looked down at the white roses he had been holding and gave a small gasp. “Oh dear! The flowers…” Their petals were crushed and wilting and some of the stems had broken in two.

Harry gave the mangled roses an appraising look. “I think they might still be fixable. May I come in?”

“Of course,” Hermione agreed, the smile returning to her face as she re-entered her suite with Harry following close behind.

“Rosa rennervate,” Harry said, tapping the bundled white roses with his wand as he did so. Within moments, the flowers looked much healthier, although they were no longer quite as beautiful and vibrant as they once had been.

“I’m impressed,” Hermione told him with a playful smile. “Are you often called upon to resurrect plant life while on assignment?”

Harry smiled back at her and Hermione was reminded briefly of how much she enjoyed his boyish charm. “While on assignment, no. In my garden, yes.”

“How strange,” Hermione said with a curious frown as she conjured a small glass vase with water in it and placed the white roses in it. She then put the vase down on her writing desk in such a way that it would obscure the red brooch sitting there. “I’ve been to your new house at least a half dozen times and I’ve never seen any garden.”

“It’s quite a ways away from the main house,” Harry explained, his expression somewhat chagrined. “I’m afraid Ginny doesn’t much care for it, so she probably skipped showing it to you altogether when she gave you the grand tour. You know, it’s funny, after all the hours I spent slaving away in the Dursleys’ garden, I would never have dreamed that I’d ever want to have one of my own. But there is something rewarding about watching a seed you put in the ground sprout up and become a life, fragile yet thriving, and then nurturing it until it becomes a thing of indescribable beauty.” Harry gave the white roses sitting in the vase a second look, his eyes widening in surprise. “Look at them now! You can hardly even tell they were damaged. I’ve been using that spell on my own roses for years and I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Hermione’s eyes registered surprise for a moment at the roses’ now pristine appearance but as Harry drew closer to her writing desk she seemed eager to change the subject. “Yes, it is quite something, isn’t it? You know, Harry, we haven’t had anything to eat since this morning and I’ve heard there’s a wonderful French restaurant downstairs. Why don’t we go give it a try? It would be my treat.”

Not quite taking his eyes from the flowers, Harry nodded. “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.” Once they left the room, Hermione allowed herself to relax a little. Now that she and Harry were no longer angry with each other, perhaps this could be something of a holiday after all.

Moments later, however, Hermione was beginning to doubt this proposition. While they were seated quickly at the restaurant, they had been roundly ignored by all the waiters and waitresses for nearly half an hour, despite several frantic attempts by Harry to get their attention. Finally, he had had enough. “This is ridiculous. I’m going to have a word with the maitre’d.”

Only a minute or so after Harry had left, another man took his place at their table. Just as Hermione was about to reprove him for this, she noticed that he had a gun in his hand. She also noticed rather quickly that it was pointed in her direction.

Chapter 4 in three weeks. Thanks again for reading!

InsaneTrollLogic

Built by Text2Html

I am not the creator of Harry Potter, nor do I see money from his adventures on page and screen. I just like to write not-for-profit accounts of the love life he could have had if he had chosen what was right instead of what was easy.

Chapter 4: The Couer de Temps

“No matter what I do, no matter what I say
No matter how I try, I just can’t turn the other way
When I’m with someone new, I always think of you
Guess my heart has a mind of its own.”

-Connie Francis, Guess My Heart has a Mind of Its Own

“You’re keeping something from me.” Hermione looked at the disheveled, firearm-wielding man sitting across from her without the slightest hint of fear, as she could quickly disarm him with her wand at any time and worry about the obliviation that would be necessary to make the Muggles sitting around them forget all about it later. Instead, she regarded him with a small measure of pity. There was such pain and desperation in his bleary eyes that her curiosity overruled her natural sense of self-preservation. Hermione would not use a disarming spell on her unwanted dinner companion yet, although her wand remained pointed in his direction underneath the table. “Something that wants to be with me. Something that calls out to me, screaming in my head, night after night…”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hermione assured him, shaking her head in confusion. “Maybe you could put that away,” she said, pointing to the weapon in his hand, “and we could talk about this like normal, rational, unarmed…”

“You know,” he told her stridently, his voice now a cold whisper. “You came here to hide it from me, but I found it anyway. Can’t hide it from me, not ever. It beckons me, always…” Hermione looked away from him then, somewhat guiltily. “So you do know what I’m talking about, don’t you? Take me to it. Now!” the man growled through clenched teeth. Then in a much softer voice, he added, “It misses me.”

Although Hermione was now aware of just exactly what it was that the man wanted, her confusion had only deepened. “So…you’ve actually seen it? You know what it is?”

“Don’t be foolish, little girl,” the man said with a wolf-like predatory grin. Hermione now noticed that he had a light, scruffy beard and looked vaguely familiar to her. “I was chosen to guard it. I kept it close to me for years… someone had to keep it warm after you threw it away. It never did forgive you for that, you know.”

“You’re not making sense,” Hermione told him, a deep frown creasing her brow. “I’ve only had it for a few hours…”

The conversation ended abruptly as a right cross landed solidly against the man’s jaw.

When he came to again, the man who had held Hermione at gunpoint was no longer in the Hotel Narcisse’s French restaurant. The room he was now being held in had few distinguishing features apart from being small and poorly lit. A team of Aurors stood around him doing their best to look imposing, but his attention wasn’t really drawn to them at all. Sitting in front of him was the wizard who undoubtedly had knocked him cold and strapped him to the chair in which he now sat, the one who he had been half-hoping and half-dreading to meet here. “Harry Potter,” he said aloud, his voice slurring slightly.

“Alonzo Caswallawn,” Harry replied with a slight nod of his head. “Now that we know each other, maybe you’d like to tell me why you tried to kill my best friend.”

“Wasn’t going to kill her,” Alonzo muttered, affecting a slightly pathetic, whiny tone. “I’m a squib, not a simpleton. Can’t kill a witch with a gun. Not a witch like her, anyway.”

“You were trying to sell her the gun, maybe?” one of the other Aurors, a husky man with a thick red beard, asked with a sarcastic chuckle. “So pointing it at her was…what? An aggressive sales pitch?”

A scathing glare from Harry Potter silenced the man instantly. “You were picked up last year for inciting a riot at Leicester Square, along with a half-dozen or so witches and wizards who admitted to being End-of-Timers. You, however, kept your mouth shut, made bail and disappeared.” Harry leaned forward in his chair, which was sitting directly across from Caswallawn’s, his wand held casually, almost carelessly, between his fingers. “Now no matter what else happens, you’re going back to England to stand trial for that. Whether or not you’ll be charged with anything else…say ‘attempted kidnapping’ or ‘attempted murder’… is entirely up to you.”

Alonzo Caswallawn looked up at Harry with a thin smile and defiant eyes. “What do you want from me?”

“Right now I’m looking down at a puzzle that’s missing so many pieces you can’t even tell what kind of picture it’s supposed to make,” Harry explained, his voice tight but not entirely unfriendly. “Thirteen dead teenagers in Manchester, just after a major disaster was predicted by your gang of doomsayers. ‘Scope’ Hubble, formerly in charge of that case and the wizard who was originally assigned to protect Hermione while she was in Switzerland, also murdered. And now you, someone with obvious ties to the End-of-Time movement, pull out a Muggle weapon and threaten her. Somehow everything I’ve just said is related. The pieces fit together perfectly, I’m sure of it. If you’d like to take the time and show me how, I’d be willing to go easy on you. If not…

“Well, if not, we actually have a bit of a legal gray area. You see, waving a gun around isn’t exactly a crime the way the MLE figures things and yet we can’t turn you over to the Muggle authorities because of your knowledge of the wizarding world. It’s sort of a legal limbo that squibs can fall into when they perpetrate Muggle-style crimes against witches and wizards. You’d be amazed how long you can be held without even being charged with anything…”

Abruptly, Harry stopped speaking. What had begun as soft laughter from Caswallawn had become jarringly louder, drowning out every other sound in the room. “You really have no idea what’s happening, do you?” he asked rhetorically, his eyes bugging out maniacally as he spoke. “The house is burning down all around you and you’re wasting your time searching for who spilled red wine on the living room carpet.” Alonzo’s jovial attitude vanished in an instant. “It’s all coming to an end. Soon. Sooner even for you than for anyone else, Harry Potter. You’re the next to go after the seventeen in Manchester.”

Sensing a threat, some of the other Aurors moved in to flank him, but Harry waved them off. “Seventeen? Are you saying there were more people killed who we never found?”

Alonzo Caswallawn gave a single bark of contemptuous laughter. “Can’t find bodies of people who never were. Ghosts without faces; rows of blank headstones and no one to mourn the loss.”

Harry had precious little patience for this man spouting gibberish. “Can you tell me who killed them? Who killed Hubble?”

“A shadow and the one chasing after it,” Caswallawn answered with a knowing smirk. “It doesn’t matter, though. Everyone’s time is coming. The end is near. The end of everything.”

Just as Harry wanted to tear his hair out in frustration, he was reminded of what Scope had told him the night he died: interrogating an End-of-Timer made Professor Trelawney’s Divination class seem ‘lucid and informative by comparison’. He was now beginning to see just how right Hubble was. “You’ve all been spouting that same nonsense for years now. It’s not going to do you a damn bit of good and, quite frankly, I don’t have time for it. Now can you give me a name or not?”

“I could give you loads of names,” the smug squib retorted, the cat-who-ate-the-canary grin never leaving his face. “Fakes you’d recognize, real ones you wouldn’t. They’re just letters arranged a certain way. What you’ve done is far more important in determining who you are.”

Harry slammed his fist against the wall in anger, refusing to unleash his fury on Caswallawn while he still might have information worth extracting. “This is your last chance, Alonzo. Tell me something useful and I’ll ask them to go easy on you.”

The squib shook his head ‘no’ in a continuous small jerky movement. “Not interested in lighter sentences or comfy prison cells, empty promises of hard time spent softly. I only want what I came for. I want the Couer de Temps. If you give me that, there are things I could tell you. Wondrous, amazing things…”

Once he mentioned what he was after, Alonzo Caswallawn watched Harry Potter’s eyes light up. Clearly his interest had been piqued, just as the squib had planned. “Would you take your men outside for a moment, Billings?” Harry said in a deceptively calm voice to the red-bearded man who had spoken out of turn moments earlier. “I’d like to continue interrogating Mr. Caswallawn alone.”

“Cor, Potter, you know that’s against Gavindale’s new policy on…” The look Harry gave the Auror made it perfectly clear what he thought of Roger Gavindale’s new policies. “I wouldn’t have a problem with it at all, honest, if it weren’t such a huge safety concern.”

“The only weapon in the room would be my wand and Caswallawn is a squib,” Harry reminded the other Auror briskly. “I can’t imagine how he could possibly pose a threat to me.”

Billings looked somewhat sheepish. “‘S not you I’m worried about. If he claimed abuse…we all remember what happened with the Bannerman case…”

Harry held his hands up, palms open, in a gesture of reassurance. “He won’t have a scratch on him when I’m thru, I promise.”

Billings rubbed his beard in deliberation for a moment, then nodded curtly. “Fine. But my men will be waiting right outside if anything funny goes down.” With a gesture from the ranking Auror on scene, the other Aurors filed out of the room, leaving Harry alone with Caswallawn.

“Funny things have been happening for years now,” Alonzo Caswallawn offered out of the blue. “But I’ve been the only one in on the joke. Sometimes I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. That’s why I need it so, you see. It tells me…”

“I need you to tell me exactly what you’re talking about,” Harry interrupted him sternly. “This item you keep blathering over. It’s something of Hermione’s, I gather.”

For the first time, Caswallawn’s eyes grew stormy. “It isn’t hers. She couldn’t stand to keep it; gave it away to someone else. Someone unworthy. Someone not me. Once it was with me, it was so happy…” he trailed off dreamily.

“Tell me what it is,” Harry said, feigning a casual tone. “What does it do? Why do you want it?”

“Someone has to keep it safe,” Caswallawn assured him as he struck something of a gallant pose. “It’s been abused…lied to…there’ve been terrible things done to it…”

“I want to know about it,” Harry cut in, this time more insistently. “What does it look like? What does it do?”

“It feels pity,” Caswallawn attempted to explain, his manner dazed yet oddly serene. “It feels…everything. It’s a heart, after all. That’s what it was made for.”

“A heart?” Harry queried, a puzzled expression replacing his typical gruff Auror ‘game face’ he used around the usual suspects. “Are you talking about a real heart or…or is it a jewel or a stone of some kind?” He had seen something out of the corner of his eye in Hermione’s room earlier; something that she had been trying to hide from him. Harry was now beginning to suspect that what this loon was on about was exactly what she hadn’t wanted him to see.

Alonzo’s eyes widened and a goofy grin formed on his face. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you? Take me to it, please. I never meant any harm…never meant to hurt anyone…certainly not her…it still cares for her, in spite of everything…”

“I’m not letting you anywhere near her again,” Harry told him, his expression instantly fierce and protective.

Caswallawn smiled coyly. “They weren’t able to take it all from you, were they? You still defend her with your life.”

“And always will,” Harry told him confidently. “You’d do well to remember that.”

“I’m the only one who remembers anymore,” the squib End-of-Timer grumbled to himself. “It’s because of the Couer de Temps, you know. It showed me how not to forget everything that happened…” Caswallawn looked up at Harry pleadingly. “Talk to her. Tell her I didn’t mean it. Tell her I need to see it again, to hold it just once more…”

For a fleeting moment, Harry considered lying to this man, telling him that he could have this thing back from Hermione and that he could keep it once they were through. However, nearly two decades spent as an Auror had taught him not to deceive a suspect in such desperate straits…not even a squib. Besides, there was just something so deeply sad about the man, something in his eyes… “I’m sorry, Caswallawn. That just isn’t going to happen.” Harry exhaled slowly, trying his best to maintain a patient demeanor. “If you won’t talk sensibly to me about anything else, can you at least tell me about the End-of-Time movement itself? Does it have a leader? Was someone involved with your group responsible for the murders in Manchester?”

“You want to know about the Great Prophet,” Alonzo Caswallawn told him in a singsong voice. He giggled giddily. “You’ll meet soon enough. Once you have one, how could anyone resist trying for the matched set?” Just as Harry turned away from him with a low growl of muted frustration, Alonzo continued, “You’ve been waiting. Waiting your whole life to become who you were meant to be. You won’t have to wait much longer, Harry Potter. Once you meet the Great Prophet, everything will become clear.”

Harry opened the door and gave a hand signal to Billings. “I think we’re done here. You’ll be taken back to England for trial…”

“So will you,” Caswallawn interrupted him, his tone calm but fierce. “But yours is the one that really matters.” Two Aurors unbound him, seized each of the squib’s arms and began to lead him out of the room. “The stars look to you now, Potter. Never forget that. The stars look to you.”

After Alonzo Caswallawn was led out, screaming and raving, Harry stood alone, trying his best to remember just where he had heard that particular turn of phrase before.

***

Hermione Granger-Weasley was beginning to feel like a prisoner inside this hotel. A pair of Aurors stood guard outside her room, presumably waiting for someone else to attack her, although she found that to be an incredibly unlikely possibility. ‘All this fuss over a squib with a gun that I could have effortlessly turned into a toad the first moment he sat down beside me,’ Hermione thought scornfully. She hadn’t wanted the man arrested and interrogated by Gavindale’s goons; she’d wanted to find out what he knew for herself. He certainly seemed to know things that she didn’t about the Couer de Temps.

‘Could he really have been the one who found it?’ Hermione asked herself idly. ‘Could he have been the one who had it all this time?’ It would certainly make the legend surrounding it seem to be little more than a poorly concocted fairy tale.

Hermione looked up but said nothing as Harry entered the room, concern written all over his face (although not literally, of course). “Are you alright?”

Hermione shook her head yes as Harry sat down on the bed beside her. “I don’t see the point of having those Aurors outside, though. I was never really in any serious danger.”

Harry frowned. “Someone just tried to kill you, Hermione.”

She rolled her eyes in response. “A squib pointed a gun at me, Harry. I came closer to being killed the time Rose tried to levitate a pair of scissors into her bedroom.”

“Is that why you didn’t disarm him?” Harry asked her probingly, his eyebrows rising slightly as he waited for her reply. “Because you didn’t think he was a threat?” Instead of answering, Hermione rose from the bed and walked away from him to face the window. “You’ve seen him before, haven’t you?”

Hermione nodded again. “He looked familiar when I first saw him, but I couldn’t place from where. Then I remembered that he delivered some personal items to my new office yesterday.”

“Did he do anything out of the ordinary? Did he say anything to you?” Harry asked her gently.

“He lingered in the room for a moment or so after he had brought everything in,” Hermione told him with a soft, innocent smile of remembrance. “I thought he wanted a tip…”

“But that wasn’t what he wanted, was it?” Harry asked, his tone of voice now much graver. “Did he see it in your office? Is that how he knew you had it?”

“No, he couldn’t have. I wasn’t even given it until…” Hermione’s voice stopped suddenly as she realized that Harry had tricked her into giving more away than she had wanted to. Much more. “What did he tell you?”

Harry shrugged. “A bunch of rubbish, mostly. Although he did mention something he called a ‘care day tom’. Something he was under the impression you had stolen from him.”

She turned around to face him then, a deceptively calm smile set on her face. “Well, since that’s obviously nonsense, too, it was all a bunch of rubbish, then, wasn’t it? You know, we never did get anything to eat…”

“You really should stop trying to distract me with food,” Harry advised her kindly as he put his hand over her waist to stop her from heading for the door. “I’m not Ron, you know.” Hermione gave him an obviously genuine smile of affection. “You’re keeping something from me.”

Hermione closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I wasn’t.”

“And I wouldn’t be doing my job if I wasn’t trying to get to the bottom of all of this,” Harry countered. “I’m supposed to be protecting you. How do you expect me to do that if I don’t know why you might be attacked?”

Her eyes opened again and looked at Harry accusingly. “But you weren’t surprised when I was attacked, were you?” Hermione asked him, rounding on him as if she were trying to take back some of the moral high ground in this discussion. Harry’s hand dropped away from her abruptly, as though it had been burned. “Do you really expect me to believe that you replaced the Auror who was supposed to be my guard because you wanted a trip to the continent with an old friend? Didn’t you think I would find it odd that a team of Aurors were ready to move the moment Caswallawn threatened me?” Harry swallowed nervously, but did not respond. “You’re keeping something from me, too.”

“The Auror who was supposed to guard you was murdered,” Harry admitted without further hesitation, making Hermione’s jaw drop in surprise. “Last night.”

Hermione shook her head in disbelief, making her bushy hair sway back and forth as she did so. “Do they know…do they have any suspects?”

“None that I know of.” Hermione sat down next to Harry on the bed once again, taking the time to smooth the comforter down with her hand before doing so. “Gavindale’s taken over the investigation himself, so there’s really not much more I could do. Nothing, of course, except for taking the last case he’d been assigned on the off chance that Hubble was killed so that you wouldn’t have anyone to protect you.”

“Harry, you don’t think it’s related, do you?” Hermione asked worriedly. “Hubble’s murder and…and the attack on me, I mean.”

“I don’t think Caswallawn murdered Hubble, for what that’s worth,” Harry answered her honestly. “As to whether or not the two are connected, I think that’s still up in the air.” He shot her a knowing half-smile. “Of course, you could tell me why you were really sent here in the first place…”

“I’m not supposed to,” Hermione replied, using the same tone of voice she had used at Hogwarts when she was reminding her two partners in crime, as well as herself, of what the rules said only moments before she agreed to break them. “The information is classified.”

Harry patted Hermione’s knee. “I hate to break it to you, Hermione, but I stumbled upon some of your classified information while interrogating an insane squib deliveryman. I don’t think it’s as much of a secret as your boss would like.”

“It’s not that I think it’s such a well-guarded secret, or that I don’t trust you,” Hermione admitted with a slight moan in her voice. “It’s just that…the Ministry has ways of keeping its employees from sharing state secrets. Magical ways. Nothing like an unbreakable vow, mind you, but if I told you all of the particulars…” She got up from the bed again and began to pace about the room, clearly deep in thought.

“I suppose…” Hermione said thoughtfully, rubbing her chin as she spoke, “yes, there must be someone out there right now reading it…a scholar or a child from a really old wizarding family…there’s no way they could track them all…”

Harry was now utterly befuddled. “What are you talking about, Hermione?”

Hermione pivoted on her heel to look Harry in the eye, her expression more lively than he’d seen it all day. “Have you ever heard of something called Merlin’s foe box?”

“No,” Harry answered. After waiting a moment to see if Hermione were serious about this, he continued, “Should I have?”

“Oh, I suppose not,” Hermione admitted ruefully. “It would have made things easier, but…it’s a very old legend, older even than the tales of Beedle the Bard, although the stories from the foe box were combined with Beedle’s in some of the earlier editions.”

“So these are children’s stories?” Harry inquired skeptically.

“Yes,” Hermione said, “but then again, so was the Deathly Hallows. There can be a lot of truth hidden in the stories a society tells its children.”

Harry conceded that with a nod and allowed himself to relax slightly. “Alright. Tell me about Merlin’s foe box.”

“Legend has it,” Hermione began as she moved one of the room’s more comfortable chairs so that it was now sitting directly across from Harry and sat down in it, “that there was an enchanted chest where Merlin kept a large assortment of magical items he’d captured from his enemies over the years. As you might imagine, he had quite a few of them.”

“Gee, I wonder what that’s like,” Harry muttered under his breath. Then in a louder voice he added, “Wait, d’you mean dark magical objects? Why would Merlin want to keep those?”

“By and large, it wasn’t really anything like that,” Hermione reassured him. “The things Merlin kept in this chest weren’t necessarily objects used in dark magic, but they were powerful enough that he worried about whose hands they might end up in after he died. Transforming himself into various large sea creatures as he went, Merlin took this ‘foe box’ full of items he’d captured from his vanquished enemies into the deepest part of the ocean he could reach, leaving it there with wards around it designed to make sure that only a wizard as powerful as Merlin himself could ever retrieve it.”

“What does this have to do with what’s happening now?” Harry asked, his expression thoroughly conveying his confusion.

“Patience, Harry,” Hermione replied as she did her best to hide a smile, but didn’t entirely succeed. “Good stories take time to tell. Now, where was I? Oh yes. Francois de Beaumarchais. I take it you haven’t heard of him either.” Harry shook his head ‘no’. “He was one of Merlin’s most persistent foes. After twice having his wand destroyed and finding himself rather humiliatingly banished to the South Pole, de Beaumarchais swore that he would forge a new wand, one Merlin couldn’t destroy. A wand of fire.”

“He made the wand from fire?” Harry asked quizzically. “Is that even possible?”

“It is just a legend, Harry,” Hermione reminded him chidingly, “and actually he made it from the branch of an ash tree and something he had to trade a fair amount of wizard’s gold for…phoenix ashes. De Beaumarchais planned to use them as the core of this wand. Even if Merlin found a way to destroy it, it would regenerate in a burst of flame…”

“Just like the phoenix does,” Harry finished for her, as he was suddenly intrigued by the idea. “Quite brilliant, that. I wonder if Ollivander ever thought of it…”

“Perhaps,” Hermione said after considering it for a moment, “but I’d imagine he would have thought better of it had he heard all of what happened to de Beaumarchais.” At that, Harry fell silent, waiting for Hermione to finish before he made further comment. “His first mistake, of course, was in seeking out Merlin for revenge. The ensuing duel was one of the epic battles of wizard legend…but only ended in a draw. Once Merlin walked away from it in one piece, however, it didn’t take him long to figure out where to go.

“There was a jeweler that had done Merlin many favours over the years whose name was Romulus Goldsmith. By all accounts, he was the most widely sought after maker of rings, necklaces and other bejeweled magical objects in all of wizarding England. Instead of simply approaching Goldsmith as a friend and asking him for another favour, Merlin decided to be somewhat devious. He disguised himself as a peddler who needed a special gilded cage for his pet phoenix, as it seemed that whenever his phoenix burst into flame while he was traveling he had a hard time keeping all of the ashes from being scattered by the wind. He wondered whether or not Goldsmith could devise a cage that would magically contain and bind the ashes of a phoenix. The wizard jeweler instantly agreed.

“After weeks of equally brilliant spellwork and metalwork, Goldsmith presented the peddler with the finished product. Merlin paid him double what he had originally promised, took the cage to his next encounter with de Beaumarchais and managed to capture his ‘wand of fire’ with a simple summoning charm, containing it effortlessly in the birdcage Goldsmith had made for him. The French dark wizard spent some more quality time in Antarctica and all seemed right with the world again. It should have been a happy ending. It wasn’t.

“It didn’t take a genius to figure out who had made the phoenix cage for Merlin…which was quite fortunate for de Beaumarchais, as he obviously wasn’t one. He was evil though, evil and petty and scheming. He had plenty of time to plot his revenge as he endured the long, arduous journey back to England. His knowledge of Romulus Goldsmith was limited to the two things everyone in the magical world knew about him: that he was a master of his trade and that he was also madly in love with his wife, Matilda.

“Because of the great demand for his services Goldsmith traveled extensively, which would keep him away from his beloved wife for weeks at a time, a prospect that both of them loathed. To make up for it somewhat, Romulus would send Matilda a sample of the local wine from everywhere that he went in a magical decanter that he had devised himself. It functioned as something similar to a pensieve; with every drink, Matilda Goldsmith could experience Romulus’ memories of his trip. She could see the Sphinx or the Alps just as easily as if she were there standing next to him. She could be with him in his memories even if she couldn’t be with him in person. It brought her great comfort.

“One day when Romulus was off selling warming bracelets in Kievan Rus’, Matilda Goldsmith received his decanter by owl post. As she began to drink its contents, however, she was tormented by awful memories, all of them false of course: Romulus cheating on her with another witch, Romulus dying in a plague, their home burning to the ground. It was poisoned. Francois de Beaumarchais had managed to intercept Goldsmith’s magical decanter and his owl, using the confundus charm to fool it into delivering the poisoned wine to Matilda, just as it had a hundred times before.

“Romulus Goldsmith returned home to find his wonderful, beautiful wife dying a slow, agonizing death. He tried everything he knew of to fight the poison and keep the woman he loved alive. He was only prolonging the inevitable. After three months of ineffective healing potions and strengthening charms, Matilda Goldsmith died. Francois de Beaumarchais had his revenge.

“To say that Romulus Goldsmith didn’t take his wife’s death well would be a terrible understatement. He devoted his life and considerable magical prowess to bringing his beloved Matilda back to life again. He met with necromancers and practitioners of the dark arts, but was…dissatisfied would be putting it mildly, with what they could offer him. Ultimately, Goldsmith became determined to find a way to travel back through time in order to prevent his wife’s murder from ever taking place. Unfortunately, however, he had no idea how he was going to do that.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Harry interrupted somewhat meekly, “but why couldn’t he just use a time turner? Or didn’t they have those back then?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the rules of using a time turner already, Harry,” Hermione replied teasingly. “While you can change the past when using a time turner, you can’t alter the way you originally experienced it. That’s how wizards have gone mad, you know.” For a moment, Hermione seemed lost in thought and reluctant to proceed with the tale. After a few seconds, however, she shook her head and continued, “Romulus Goldsmith spent every waking hour with his wife before she died. It simply wasn’t possible for him to use a time turner. He needed something that would let him change his own past.

“Goldsmith spent nearly a century searching for a way to accomplish this seemingly impossible feat. He traveled to every corner of the world, researched countless legends and myths and met with hundreds of wizards who turned out to be little more than braggarts and madmen. Finally, returning home in despair after decades of fruitless efforts, Romulus Goldsmith happened upon a secluded village in France that held something extraordinary…something he soon became sure held the answers he had been looking for all along. A group of secretive, reclusive wizards had discovered it and were keeping it cloistered inside in what might pass for their ‘monastery’, far away from the world and its temptations. Goldsmith had no idea what it was at first, but he seemed to sense its power almost instinctively. He later said that it called out to him by name…”

“What was this thing, exactly?” Harry asked, his body tensing almost involuntarily. He got the feeling that whatever answer Hermione was about to give him, it would shed more light on the situation at hand than anything else had thus far.

“Goldsmith only knew it by the name it called itself,” Hermione answered him. “‘Le Couer de Temps.’ The heart of time: a collection of magical energy without form or substance, but with such a strong effect on those around it that no one could possibly doubt its presence. Once they became properly introduced, Goldsmith poured his heart out to it, so to speak. The Couer de Temps soon learned of his quest to travel back to the past and save his beloved wife from an untimely death.

“It was fascinated by Goldsmith’s story, by his years of desperate searching, but most of all by his undying love for Matilda. Sheltered from the outside world by the French wizard monks who found it, it had never seen or experienced love. It wanted…needed… to learn more.”

Harry shook his head in confusion. “I’m sorry, but…how? Did it write him notes? Or could this thing…this ‘heart of time’…talk?”

Hermione let out a soft sigh of exasperation. “I don’t know if I can adequately describe it to someone who’s never felt it for themselves…that is to say, someone unfamiliar with the story,” Hermione corrected herself quickly. “It’s as though it seeks out what you feel, what your deepest desires are, and connects with them. Your heart is filled with a strange, satisfying warmth and your mind with thoughts that aren’t entirely your own…”

“You’re beginning to sound like that lunatic Caswallawn,” Harry informed her warily. When Hermione shot him an offended glare, he decided to be diplomatic. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” When Hermione seemed to be somewhat mollified by his apology, he asked, “So what happened next?”

Hermione’s expression grew distant as she continued. “Although the Couer de Temps yearned to learn more from Goldsmith it wasn’t able to leave the monastery. The wizard monks had set up powerful wards around it, binding it inside. They feared what it might do or what use it might be put to, left on its own out in the world. For the time being, no pun intended, Romulus Goldsmith was forced to leave empty handed. Once reunited with the tools of his trade, however, he was able to forge a pendant made of gold and rubies with a miniature portrait of Matilda Goldsmith inside, a shell that the ‘heart of time’ would be drawn to and where it could be held inside safely, away from the prying eyes of the monks. Goldsmith promptly smuggled it out inside the magical piece of jewelry underneath his robes and apparated away to England.”

“He was that sure that this ‘Couer de Temps’ was what he was after?” Harry asked, a hint of disbelief entering his voice.

“I can only imagine the things it must have shown him,” Hermione replied, her eyes glossing over slightly as she began to picture what Goldsmith had seen. “Wonders of the ancient world. Great wizards of history and fables. Perhaps even the beginning of time itself.” Her focus returned quickly and her eyes met Harry’s again as she added, “He was convinced. This was the very thing he had spent most of his life looking for.”

“So did he do it?” Harry asked her bluntly. “Did the Couer de Temps take Romulus Goldsmith back through time?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied after a slight pause. Her last chance to keep Harry from learning everything had passed now. Whether or not she had done the right thing by telling him was now a moot point. There was no turning back. “The Couer de Temps was able to take Romulus Goldsmith back decades into his own past, to the time when he was still a young wizard. To the time when his wife Matilda was still alive.”

“So was it like going back with a time turner?” Harry asked with an inquisitive sort of frown set on his brow. “Were there two of him walking around now?”

“Yes,” Hermione answered quickly, “and no.” Harry’s frown did not go away. “Going back through time with the Couer de Temps isn’t like using a time turner, Harry. In order for you to re-experience and reshape past events you’ve already lived through, it sort of has to ‘re-make’ you. The you that existed in the present is destroyed by the Couer de Temps only to be recreated in the past, along with the Couer de Temps itself.” Harry’s frown now seemed to be permanently etched on his face. “Think of it as being reborn.”

“Or born again?” Harry offered, only slightly tongue-in-cheek.

Hermione smiled thinly. “You could see it that way, I suppose. The Couer de Temps disrupts causality, allowing the prospective time traveler to be freed from the chain of cause and effect that shapes our normal temporal reality.” Realizing she had probably lost Harry somewhere back there, she added, “Theoretically, Romulus Goldsmith could have gone back in time and killed his parents years before he was ever born without causing a time paradox.” She thought that over for a moment. “Of course, if Goldsmith had given that as his reason for wanting to change the past, I doubt the Couer de Temps would have been quite as sympathetic.”

“So if the Couer de Temps ‘re-made’ Romulus Goldsmith, did it change him any? Was he still the same wizard when he arrived in the past as he was when he left?” Harry questioned.

“A very astute question, Mister Potter,” Hermione retorted playfully. “Ten points to Gryffindor. But you’re getting slightly ahead of the story. Once he arrived in the past, Romulus Goldsmith discovered another slight side effect of traveling through time. A problem of basic physics, really: two objects can’t occupy the same space at the same time, or in this case, two identical magical cores can’t exist at the same time.”

Harry shot her a very strange look. “Meaning what exactly?”

“Meaning that both Romulus Goldsmiths were sharing the same pool of magical ability, much like two Muggle teenagers sharing a malt,” Hermione explained, “and since much of our magic is connected to the words we speak and the thoughts behind them, the brains of both the younger and the older Goldsmith were interconnected.”

“My brain is starting to hurt,” Harry complained jokingly. “Are you sure all of this came from a children’s story?”

Hermione blushed sheepishly. “Well…no. Some of it is my own theory based on what the written account says. I suppose it is a bit much, given that my source material is a centuries-old cautionary tale for children entitled The Stolen Heart of Romulus Goldsmith. Perhaps it would be safer for everyone if I were to stick to the story at hand.

“Suffice it to say, the younger Romulus Goldsmith now knew everything that his older counterpart did, including what was going to happen to his wife. Working together, the two wizards dispatched Francois de Beaumarchais in short order and saved the life of Matilda Goldsmith. Once again, it should have been a happy ending. And once again, it wasn’t.

“One Romulus Goldsmith walked off into the sunset with his beloved wife, now alive and well. And the other, the older, the one who had spent years looking for a way to restore her to life was left with nothing. The woman he loved, the woman he changed all of time for, was with another man.”

“But…the other man was him,” Harry pointed out, his expression utterly puzzled.

“In a sense, perhaps,” Hermione conceded. “But to Romulus Goldsmith, it wasn’t enough. It was torture knowing that the woman he loved, the wife he’d given up everything for, wasn’t with him. She wasn’t in his arms every night. It made it worse, much worse, that he could hear the thoughts of the other Romulus Goldsmith, feel his heartbeat accelerate every time he was with her and know firsthand of the love they shared, without experiencing it himself. It nearly drove him mad.”

“Sounds like he was a bit mad already,” Harry remarked. “I take it this didn’t end well.”

“What kind of a cautionary tale would it be if it did?” Hermione asked rhetorically. “Romulus Goldsmith the elder confronted the younger, demanding that he be allowed to see his wife. The younger, knowing full well what kind of deranged thoughts had been wandering through his older doppelganger’s head, naturally refused. The argument grew heated, curses were exchanged and in a matter of minutes the younger Goldsmith lay dead on the floor.”

“He actually killed himself?” Harry asked, his eyebrows rising dramatically in disbelief. “His other self I mean?” When Hermione nodded sadly, he asked, “What could he have been thinking?”

“He thought he would take his younger self’s place, of course,” Hermione answered him, her tone now low and somber. “He deluded himself into believing that Matilda would come to love him, just as she had before. Instead, she despised him. She told him that he wasn’t her husband, which, in an odd sort of way, was true. He was certainly no longer the wizard she had married. He was little more than an old man who had taken his love and his grief and turned it into an emotionally crippling lifelong obsession. You asked me before whether or not the Couer de Temps changed Goldsmith.” Harry nodded. “Maybe it did. Maybe it left something out when it remade him; some of his humanity. But somehow I get the feeling that the real tragedy of the story is that Goldsmith couldn’t ever let go of the past. Not even after he changed it.”

“What happened to the Couer de Temps?” Harry asked, his voice deliberately calm despite the anxiety welling up inside him.

“Goldsmith considered using it once more, to go back through time again and set things right. After thinking the matter over for a few days, he decided to drink a vial of poison instead. Before he died, he sent his owl, the same bird that had faithfully delivered his specially-made decanter to Matilda for years, to Merlin, carrying the Couer de Temps. It was sealed in Merlin’s foe box the very next day, never to be seen again.” Hermione looked as though she had closed a book in her mind. The story was over.

“Except, of course, that it has been seen again,” Harry pointed out, as anger and frustration that had been building throughout the story began to spill over. “By Caswallawn. By you. By others in the Ministry.” Hermione turned away from his glare, rising from her chair to stand once again by the window so that she could stare out at the snow-capped Alps. “How much of the legend is true? Can this ‘Couer de Temps’ really change the past?”

“I’ve already told you everything I can,” Hermione replied with a sigh of finality in her voice. “There isn’t really anything else worth knowing about it. You’re just going to have to let this drop, Harry.”

“Fine,” Harry replied, his voice tight. “If that’s the way you want it.”

“At least now you know something of the reason I’m…” she began, but could say no more before Harry whipped out his wand.

“Accio Couer de Temps!” As an expression of horror enveloped Hermione’s face, the heart-shaped gold trimmed brooch flew from its oh-so-clever hiding place (in the closet under her shoes) and sped toward Harry’s wand. Hermione attempted to grab it as it flew, but Harry’s free hand beat her there, snatching the precious artifact from the air. He gave her a thin, victorious smile, as though they were rival seekers playing Quidditch and he had just captured the snitch.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, Harry,” Hermione warned him, anger and surprise mixing in her voice as she spoke. “Give it back to me!”

“I will, but only if you answer my questions,” Harry assured her, his tone almost parentally patronizing, as though he were speaking to Albus, James or Lily. He held the Couer de Temps high above his head, well out of Hermione’s reach, gambling that she wouldn’t try and use another spell to take it from him. “Can this really do what that story you told me says it can? Could you go back in time and change the past with this thing if you really wanted to?”

Hermione glared daggers at Harry. “Yes,” she hissed. “Now give it here!”

“D’you realize what a dark wizard could do with this?” Harry demanded, his expression now grimmer and his voice deadly serious. “Or a former Death Eater? They could go back in time and bring Voldemort back. They could make sure he won instead of me.”

“This isn’t some Muggle science fiction time machine that you can program to do whatever you want,” Hermione countered huffily. “It wouldn’t ever let anyone go back unless it felt sympathy for them…for what they wanted to do. Nobody can go back through unless it’s for love…”

“How do you know it wouldn’t be sympathetic to someone like the Malfoys?” Harry demanded. “Or someone who ‘loved’ the way things were when Voldemort was around? It’s been in a box for a thousand years. I’d wager it’s probably not up on the latest news of the wizarding world.”

“I…I just know it wouldn’t ever do that. You have to believe me,” Hermione said. She had calmed down somewhat, but her seemingly desperate need to get the Couer de Temps back had not diminished. “Besides, we’re not even really sure how it works. I think there’s some sort of catalyst that we’re missing…”

“You should thank Merlin for that,” Harry told her. “Probably literally.” He shook his head sadly. “I can’t believe this thing’s in the hands of the Ministry.”

“I know you don’t much care for Minister Maladie…” Hermione began, but Harry cut her off quickly.

“It’s not about who’s in charge,” Harry explained as a sense of urgency crept into his voice. “No government should have this kind of power. Think of all the mischief it could get into.”

“But you’re not thinking of all the good it could do,” Hermione retorted. “We could go back and cure outbreaks of magical diseases, prevent wars, save lives…”

“Or start new wars and new plagues, killing generations of witches and wizards who otherwise would have led safe and happy lives.” Harry crossed his arms, tucking the Couer de Temps underneath one arm as he did so. “Awful things happen to wizards who meddle with time, you know. Or don’t you remember telling me that?” Hermione grimaced, but did not reply. “Do you know why The Stolen Heart of Romulus Goldsmith was called a cautionary tale? Because it was supposed to be a big, bold glowing ‘danger’ sign that says ‘Do not use this to go back and change the past. Best regards for a happy and time travel-free life, Merlin.’”

“What would you do with it then?” Hermione asked sharply.

“Well, since keeping it in a box underwater for a thousand years didn’t make it any less dangerous, I’d say the only option is to destroy it,” Harry replied earnestly.

Hermione made a sweeping gesture toward the Couer de Temps with her arm. “If that’s really how you feel, Harry, then go ahead. Use the reductor curse and blast it to pieces.” Harry’s eyes narrowed as he examined Hermione carefully, trying to gauge whether or not she was truly serious. “Well, go on. I won’t try to stop you.”

Harry removed the gleaming gold-trimmed ruby brooch from under his arm and cradled it in one hand, holding it in front of him as though he were Hamlet examining Yorick’s skull. True to her word, Hermione did nothing as he pointed his wand at it, fully intending to try every destructive spell he knew and blow it to smithereens. Just as the magic words were about to spill from his lips, however, a strange sensation came over him. Peace. Serenity like he’d never known. But most of all he felt love: warm, comforting and strong. He was soon intoxicated by it.

Suddenly some of what Hermione had said began to make sense. “I could go back and save Dumbledore…Remus and Sirius…my parents…” As he looked down at the Couer de Temps, mesmerized, he could hear the faint whispering of unfamiliar voices echoing through his head, telling him of the marvelous things it could do for him, if only he would let it.

“Harry?” Hermione tried tentatively. Her voice knocked him out of his stupor. As if stung, he flung the Couer de Temps aside, although Hermione managed to catch it before it fell.

As Harry collapsed on the bed, with cold sweat beading up on his forehead and a pale, shaken look on his face, Hermione looked him over sympathetically. “You see now what it is, don’t you? Not what it can do, that’s almost incidental, but what it is.” She leaned over and put her hand on Harry’s shoulder, rubbing it gently. “It’s love, Harry. Pure and untainted by lust or jealousy or pride or anything else we usually muck it up with.” She sat down next to Harry and wrapped her arm around his shoulder. “I’m sure you see now why neither you nor I nor Merlin nor Romulus Goldsmith was able to destroy it. It would be an unspeakably monstrous thing; a crime against nature.

“I understand why you wouldn’t trust the Ministry with something like this, Harry,” Hermione went on, her voice soft but full of conviction. “I wouldn’t ask you to do that.” With the hand that wasn’t currently wrapped around Harry, she held the heart-shaped item aloft. “What I am asking you to do is to trust me with the Couer de Temps. I’m the one who’s responsible for it now. And…I may be sounding a bit like that raving loony Caswallawn, but…I think we have a connection. It feels safe with me.

In a testament to how profoundly the Couer de Temps had effected Harry, he could not bring himself to scoff at her remark. “I know we’ve kept things from each other, and I know…I know we’re not as close as we once were. But I want you to know that I still trust you, Harry. With my life and more besides. With the fate of the world, if need be. If after everything you’ve heard, everything you’ve seen and felt, you’re still convinced the Couer de Temps needs to be destroyed, then we’ll do it together. Just say the word. But if you think I can be trusted to keep it safe, to work on it without being tempted to use it, in short, Harry…if you feel as though you can trust me…”

Hermione stopped speaking as Harry removed the Couer de Temps from her hand, placed it gently on her lap and then took her hand in his own. “I’ll always trust you, Hermione. Honestly, there’s no one I’ve ever trusted more.” Hermione’s eyes shone with pride. “I’m sorry you had to go through all of this.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t entirely forthcoming from the beginning,” Hermione added, her eyes dropping almost bashfully to stare at their joined hands. “I suppose I let my job get in the way of our friendship. Stupid, really. It won’t happen again, Harry, I promise.” Hermione gave Harry’s hand an affectionate squeeze as she said the word ‘promise’.

“I reckon I could demand an apology,” Harry said with a chagrinned half-smile, “except I’d feel like a heel, seeing as I did more or less the same thing. I think we’ve been friends long enough that we should be able to put something like this behind us.” He cast a furtive glance at the door. “Do you think we could maybe finally go out and have dinner? This time without a deranged maniac threatening to kill you?”

Hermione laughed then, a joyful release of pent up tension as much as anything else. “That sounds quite nice, actually.” Once she had a look at her wristwatch, however, her face fell. “Oh, but it’s so late. That French restaurant’s probably closed by now.”

“I think I could persuade the hotel management to make us something to eat,” Harry said somewhat suavely. “After all, as far as they’re concerned I’m the leader of a team of Interpol agents working to keep an important official in the British government, that would be you by the way, safe from a cold-blooded killer.”

“About your team of ‘Interpol agents’,” Hermione interjected, “d’you think you could send them away?” When Harry frowned, she added, “You can keep them on stand by, of course, just like they were before, but…I’d kind of like to enjoy myself tomorrow, maybe do some skiing…and I don’t much fancy having a half dozen clueless wizards tumbling down the slopes behind me with their skis on backwards, thinking they’re doing it to keep me safe.”

Harry had a hard time not laughing at the mental image that conjured. “Done. I’ll just have to keep a closer eye on you myself.” As they both got up from the bed and headed to the door, he added, “Although I wouldn’t get your hopes up about me joining you on the slopes. I’m rubbish at Muggle sports.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Harry, they have first-rate instructors here…” The two of them proceeded to have a perfectly mundane conversation that included absolutely nothing about ancient time travel devices, Merlin’s foes or people who wanted to bring their dead wives back to life. Harry relished every moment of it.

***

Themistocles Hale was just about to go home for the night, to be greeted by the very welcome sight of a warm bath and a hot toddy, when the red Muggle telephone he kept on his desk began to ring. With a weary sigh, he flicked his wand toward the receiver, making it fly into his hand. “Yes, yes, what is it now, lad?”

“I’m sending the other agents packing,” Harry informed him casually.

One of Hale’s eyebrows rose. “These would be the same Aurors you begged and pleaded with me to divert from the Silver Ermine investigation in Alsace-Lorraine?”

“Yeah,” Harry confirmed. “I think I can handle it on my own from here.” Before Themistocles Hale could think up a snide quip to make his profound displeasure known, Harry asked, “Did you find anything on that name I gave you?”

“The hotel desk clerk with your last name, you mean?” Hale replied and then, without waiting for Harry to answer, continued, “Yes, I think I did find something that might interest you. She’s not only the desk clerk. She owns the hotel. But, in my oh-so-humble opinion, it’s the nothing I found that really speaks volumes about the woman.”

Themistocles Hale could almost hear Harry’s frown over the phone. “What d’you mean?”

Hale’s bifocals slid down his nose slightly as he studied the parchment in front of him. “Her birth certificate, her education degrees…really, lad, everything a person accumulates over the time they live in this world right down to her dental records are obvious fakes. For some reason they were sealed by someone working for the Harefoot government, but once they saw the light of day it would have been plain as day even to a first-year student at Durmstrang that they weren’t on the up and up…”

“So you’re saying Chloe Potter…isn’t Chloe Potter,” Harry reasoned aloud.

“You always were quick to catch on to these sorts of things, lad,” Hale told him with a chuckle. “Still certain you can handle it on your own?”

“No,” Harry conceded as he exhaled deeply. “But until I know more I still want the Aurors gone. For now, at least.”

“Things going better between the lion and the bear?” the older wizard asked half-teasingly.

“Much,” Harry confirmed with a chuckle. “I’m about to have dinner with her. Right now, in fact. Keep in touch, Agent Orr.”

“You do know that I completely loathe that name, don’t you?” he asked, but Hale was now only speaking to dead air, a Muggle term he found most descriptive. With a ‘harumph’ he flicked his wand again and returned the phone’s receiver to its cradle.

As the old wizard grabbed his cloak and once again prepared to leave, one of the Ministry’s most irritating screech owls flew hurriedly past his desk, depositing a rolled up piece of parchment with the word ‘Urgent’ scrawled on it. Deciding his journey home could be delayed for a few more seconds, he deigned to unseal it and was immediately glad that he did. As he examined its contents, both of Themistocles Hale’s eyebrows now rose. “What have you gotten yourself into now, lad?”

Considering that I had to burn the Midnight Oil (and their beds, which were burning to begin with, but I digress) in order to have this chapter in by my own deadline, I'm not entirely certain I'll have Chapter Five up in three weeks. I will give it the old college try. However, given that my college days were filled with rampant procrastination and laziness, I'm not sure how much stock I'd put in this promise.

Anyway, thanks so much for reading, I like reviews and chocolate cake so feel free to leave either as you go, and Portkey rocks!

InsaneTrollLogic

Built by Text2Html