The Catalyst
*
*
Chapter Three: Perspective Skewed
Hermione's feet made no noise on the plush Oriental rug, sinking into the luxurious nap, as she crossed the office of Almeric Dudgeon to stand before the fireplace. Everything seemed surreal now; she marveled at the bustle of the corridors of St. Mungo's, as she had moved from the hidden conference room to the executive offices immediately above. Patients were still being admitted; healers were treating spell damage, mediwitches were dosing potions, and orderlies were using Sterilizing Charms on the equipment. She was supposed to be on duty, but now she was borrowing the Chief Healer's Floo to contact Harry about a child that neither of them had known they had.
How could everything look so normal, when everything felt so different?
Someone had taken something from her - while she had recovered in this very facility, a patient, injured… one of these friendly, calming faces? One of these who had sworn to first do no harm? Her stomach bucked and roiled, threatening to eject the lovely lunch she'd had with her very best friends. She recalled the heat of the sunshine as it coated her hair and shoulders, which brought to mind Ron's annoying and yet endearingly familiar assumptions, and the sound of Harry's laughter…
… and now - here in this very hospital - there was a little girl, who was part her and part Harry.
She knelt on the shiny marble hearth, bracing herself against the gleaming gold trim and taking a moment to collect herself before tossing in a handful of Floo Powder.
"Brigadoon Broom Design."
"Fly the Future on Brigadoon Brooms," came a musical Scottish brogue, the motto coming in the casually rushed way of something that was said often. A merry round face, fronted by an enormous walrus mustache that all but obscured his mouth appeared in the flames. The disconnected voice became much livelier when he saw her. "Hermione! Always good tae see you. But I'm afraid Harry's no' here. He's headed out tae - "
"Clampshaven," Hermione finished for him. She shook her head in chagrin at her too-late remembrance. "You're right. He told us as much, but I'd forgotten."
"Be glad tae leave him a message for ya."
"No, thank you. Brig, do you mind if I come through? I'll just Apparate on up to the testing field. This will be quicker than going all the way down to the St. Mungo's Point."
"Floo's always open for you, Hermione. Nothin' wrong, I hope?" His voice withdrew as he stood, and she could see the edge of his worn leather apron, where it brushed the shins of his heavy work khakis.
"No," her voice echoed tinnily in her ears, as she whirled through the Network. She stepped into a large room that was part design studio and part carpentry workshop. Lamps hovered above parchment-topped drafting tables, and pieces of brooms were strewn about in the very definition of orderly chaos. Gareth, one of Brig's designers, was hunched over a table in the far corner. "Not at all, Brig. There's just an… important piece of information I need to pass on to him, that's all." But she couldn't quite meet the concerned gaze of Harry's boss, and she was sure that he had noticed it.
And why did she feel compelled to march out to a broom speed-testing facility, interrupt Harry's work day, and tell him some news that would be thoroughly unexpected and almost certainly unwelcome? There wasn't anything Harry could do now, that he couldn't do this evening. Although, if the little girl was to be adopted quietly, without the news leaking from the notorious sieve that was St. Mungo's, then she and Harry needed to sign the paperwork sooner, rather than later.
But she knew that her excuse, while good, was still just that - an excuse. Her hand was trembling slightly, and she rested her fingertips against the edge of a table, hardly paying attention to what she touched. I've got to find Harry because I'm about to fall apart, she finally admitted inwardly. He keeps me grounded, when I feel like I'm going to fly in all directions at once. I need him to tell me that everything's going to be all right.
Ron's initial reaction would be suspicion, she knew. Even if it lasted for only a split second, his knee-jerk response would be one of betrayal. The tricky part would be navigating through Ron's hair-trigger temper without anyone saying anything unforgivable. Throughout their rocky courtship, they had managed to perfect a kind of balancing act, a detente of sorts, knowing what buttons to avoid or push, what topics to broach or leave unspoken, precise ways of wording things that would not set the other one off. Hermione had not been joking when she had told Harry it was tiresome. And now here comes something else to complicate things further, she mused wearily. Why does this have to be so hard? It shouldn't be so hard, should it?
"You like that, eh?" Brig's voice broke into her thoughts. She looked up, startled, to see his ruddy face beaming, as he nodded toward the table nearest her. Her fingers were resting lightly on a broom handle that - Hermione's attention was truly snagged then - appeared to be a beautifully rich, swirling wood grain, but in fact, was not.
"It's - it's an alloy," she breathed in wonder, taking in the length of the broom, all the way to the tip of the smoothly sculpted straw, twigs perfectly aligned and twisted into a near point at the end. It looked sleek, aerodynamic, fast. Hermione was no broom expert, though she had absorbed more than she ever cared to through this job of Harry's, but even she could tell that this broom was special, a work of art. "Brig, this is lovely."
Brig's grin grew wider.
"Harry'll be thrilled to hear ya say that." Hermione's eyes widened in astonishment.
"Harry designed this?"
"Designed it and built it. All his own work. Must say I was impressed."
"I - I didn't know he - he - " Hermione felt like her disbelief was doing Harry a disservice, but Harry was - well - Harry. He was athletic, quick on his feet, with a natural reserve and good instincts about people; he had always seemed to harbor both a general dislike for structure, and a penchant for mischief. Since the end of the war, the front he had presented to people was a kind of casually guarded one. None of this appeared to lend itself to an artist's sensitive soul. She thought she knew Harry better than almost anyone else in the world, and she had never expected that he hid within himself a master craftsman.
"Still waters run deep in that `un, aye?" Brig's twinkling gray eyes seemed to read the exact path of her twisted thoughts.
"Undoubtedly." She let laughter color the edges of her voice, as she reluctantly lifted her hand from the broom shaft. What other talents did Harry have that he was, perhaps, only now able to express and experiment with? She wondered if their daughter would be as special as he was.
That thought was like a merciless net, gathering her scattered musings back together, refocusing her on her purpose. She took a deep breath, and then tried not to act so much like she was steeling herself for an unpleasant task, as she bid a cheery farewell to Brig. Nevertheless, she had the distinct impression that not much escaped the hearty Scot. His nod was almost sympathetic, as he met her eyes for a moment; his attention had returned to Harry's broom by the time she stepped into her turn.
Even the gentle crack of her Apparation echoed slightly off of the low, rolling hills that surrounded the Brigadoon test flight facility at Clampshaven. She, Ron, and Ginny were on Harry's authorized list, and she felt relieved that she would not have to go round the front and through security. She had joked that she was worried she was signing her life away, when she filled out the paperwork for the authorization.
"Corporate espionage is rampant. Have to keep everything hush-hush, you know," Harry had told her with a serious mien. The mirthful twinkle in his eyes had given him away, and she had swatted him upside his head with her newly signed document.
Hermione threaded her way through a thin screen of young trees, and onto the field itself. She squinted her eyes against the glare of the low afternoon sun, then finally shaded them with her hand, as she searched for Harry. He really had become more smiley, almost-but-not-quite approachable, as the war had become a more distant - though never forgotten - memory. His work was something he found fun and fulfilling, not merely an obligation or a means to an end. Ginny was lively and vivacious, nudging him out of his comfort zone and encouraging him to venture out into society and try new things. The burden he'd carried since he was eleven years old had been lightened, if not lifted, and though he still tried to become broody and guilt-ridden from time to time, he also seemed content to let Ginny, Ron, and Hermione distract him out of such episodes.
She had to admit that she liked this Harry. He was still media-shy and too impulsive, but he still had the noblest heart of anyone she knew, and unconstrained generosity to those he named friends.
He's seemed so much lighter lately. And now I'm going to take that away from him. She sighed, as she spotted him soar over a rise, head south, and then veer suddenly in her direction when he caught sight of her. There was movement on the field, and Hermione saw Harry's assistant began to head in her direction as well. Her shoulders sank and her eyes rolled skyward. She liked Morty just fine, but this was assuredly not the kind of bomb you could drop in front of other people.
Harry made a graceful landing, scarcely a meter in front of her, and hopped off of the broom almost before it had fully stopped moving. His hair was wind-tossed, and his flight had whipped color into his face. His eyes were lively and welcoming.
"Hermione! What are - " Just that quickly, a shadow flickered over his expression, as though a cloud had darted in front of the sun. "What's wrong? Is everyone okay?"
"Everyone's fine, Harry. I needed to - I didn't intend to worry you, but - " She wrung her hands nervously, and noted that her palms were clammy. Her eyes flicked over to Morty as he approached, clipboard and quill in hand and a Muggle stopwatch around his neck. She looked back at Harry, but didn't speak again. She knew she wouldn't have to.
"That was some flight, Boss," Morty panted, slightly flushed from his trot across the green. His hair and clothing were in their perpetual disheveled state; he seemed to always look as if he had just been roused from sleep. He was at least a couple of years older than Harry, but insisted on referring to him as `boss'. Hermione privately thought that he did it solely for the purpose of irritating Harry. "It's getting great speed going straightaway, but there's 30% per cent slow down when it corners."
"That's no good," Harry commiserated. He took the clipboard from Morty, and scanned the first couple of pages, where Hermione could see detailed diagrams. He made a couple of quick jots with the quill. "Maybe there's something off with the shaft angle. Go on and write it up, and get the report back to Brig. I'll bring the broom, and be back shortly." There was clear, albeit polite, dismissal in his tone. Morty had opened his mouth to say something else, but closed it, and set off for the gap in the trees through which Hermione had just come. Hermione figured that he was going to get outside of the wards, and then Apparate round front, rather than cross the entire length of the testing field from the inside. A moment later, a crisp crack confirmed her hypothesis.
"All right then, Hermione," Harry said in his best don't-even-try-to-hide-anything-from-me voice. "What's going on?"
-->