CHAPTER 1

It began to rain as Hermione stepped into the tavern.

She shut the door firmly behind her, ignoring the eyes of customers who turned to survey her at the sound of the bell. Curiosity clouded their gazes as they took in her professional attire, the crispness of her white linen shirt, and dark pantsuit, and the undeniable formality of the practical brown leather handbag. Her hair, which was a mess from the dampness, was tacked haphazardly behind her head in a chignon, and dark circles spanned her eyes under thin wire-frame glasses.

Brushing the first few drops of water off the lapels of her jacket, Hermione glanced around the room until she caught sight of a familiar head of bright red hair in the crowd. Ron was seated near the bar, and he waved cheerfully as he caught sight of her. Smiling back, she walked towards him, ignoring the sharp pain in her ankles from the towering heels she had chosen to wear that morning, and the slow broil of a headache that was preparing to form behind her temples. As she drew level with the table, she un-slung her handbag with a sigh of relief and fixed it around the back of her chair.

'You look like hell,' said Ron, standing up and kissing her cheek. He stepped back and then surveyed her a little more closely. 'Not slept in a while, have you?'

'I haven't had a chance,' said Hermione, taking the seat opposite him. She kicked off her heels and arched her ankles, sighing with satisfaction as she did so. 'I've had a horrible, hectic day.'

Ron made a sympathetic face over his tankard of beer. 'That bad?'

'Two drug scandals and a case of man-slaughter. I don't know why they don't understand that I'm a corporate lawyer, and I don't have time for their petty little problems.'

Ron raised an eyebrow as she glanced around to flag a waiter. The room was unusually crowded for such an out of the way spot, and was brightly lit, with checked table clothes and polished wood. A portly man in an apron approached them.

'What can I get for you?'

'A glass of wine, please, and a turkey sandwich. Could you get the wine first?'

'We've got Bordeaux and house.'

'Bordeaux. Unchilled.'

The waiter nodded and departed with an air that Hermione noted- with satisfaction- was competent and professional. As soon as he did so she turned her attention back to Ron, who was still observing her archly.

'What?'

'Petty little problems?' he repeated, still holding his eyebrow aloft. It was a habit of his that Hermione didn't like. His eyes were very narrow, and his face became so tight when he expressed himself like this that it shone with contempt. She fumbled, trying to understand what he was saying.

'Huh?'

'Your two drug scandals and case of man-slaughter.'

'Oh,' she said, remembering her previous words. 'Well- I suppose that wasn't the most diplomatic thing to say. But don't you think it's true?'

'I don't see how being a drug addict is petty, nor going to Azkaban for it.' said Ron, with a hint of amusement.

Hermione brushed this aside with a wave of her hand.

'Not like that,' she said, dismissively. 'What I meant was that it's all very petty to me. Yes, I know, Ron, it's very callous of me- there's no need to look like that.'

The portly waiter materialized beside her, and set down a glass of wine. Hermione dropped her eyes to its color, admiring the way the lights in the tavern glinted off its velvety surface. She raised the glass, and said, 'Cheers.'

'To your callousness?' asked Ron.

'To my competence.' She took a sip of wine, and then said, 'How was your day?'

Ron shrugged. 'So and so,' he said, 'Harry's sorry he couldn't come, by the way. He's still in the office. Last I saw, he was buried behind a mound of paperwork.'

Hermione frowned. This was the third of their traditional Friday night dinners that Harry had missed- in a row. He had seemed very tired the past few months, always jumpy and irritable. It was an unpleasant thought, but she had to admit she was worried about him.

'Don't,' said Ron, observing the look on her face.

'Don't what?'

'Worry for him so much. He's a big boy. He can take care of himself.'

Hermione frowned. 'How did you know I was worrying?'

'I know you,' said Ron, with a laugh. 'You just frowned and started chewing on your lip, not to mention your face gets the most maternal expression ever. It's strange to see someone who calls herself robotic to look so maternal.'

'Firstly,' said Hermione, taking a sip of wine and raising the index finger of the hand that was wrapped around the goblet, 'I don't call myself robotic. I call myself efficient. Is that such a bad thing?'

'I think it's brilliant.'

'Thank you, because so do I. You'd appreciate it a lot more if you ever worked in the legislative department. The number of bungling fools who try and avoid making decisions just so that they wouldn't have to bear the consequences of it later it stupendous. You'd think they'd have the brains to know the difference between right and wrong, but they don't.'

'Are we talking morally, now?'

'No, but that's equally important. I was talking more in terms of common sense.' She made such a contemptuous noise as she set the goblet back on the table that Ron chuckled.

'What's the second thing?' he asked.

'I was coming to that. I'm not maternal about Harry. I care about him as a friend. And I know he's perfectly capable of taking care of himself. I'd just like to be there if he needs help.'

Ron smiled. 'That makes two of us,' he said, easily. 'Don't fret too much, though. He'll come to us if it becomes too much- he always has.'

The words touched a chord with both of them, and they lapsed into a nostalgic silence. Hermione found herself thinking of their seventh year, when they had gone traipsing through the woods on the lookout for Voldemort's Horcruxes. It wasn't a pleasant memory. She didn't revisit it often, and she found herself shuddering as she did so.

Don't. She pushed the thoughts from her mind, and glanced up as the waiter placed a plate in front of her. The sandwich looked robust, stuffed with red meat and a sort of thick sauce that stained the bread. A side order of salad leaves and fresh onions, with bright gold carrots accompanied it.

'Thank you.'

She bit into the sandwich and felt some of the tension in her stomach melt away. Chewing contentedly, she transferred her attention back to Ron.

'You've gone quiet.'

'So had you.'

'Relapse,' she said, wearily. Both of them knew what it meant. Ron pursed his lips.

'It doesn't do us any good, thinking about the war,' he said, a trifle gently.

'I know,' said Hermione, wearily. She looked across the table at Ron, at the soft understanding in his eyes, and suddenly felt all the pressure that she had thought had melted settle back on her shoulders. It was too much, she thought, to have to sit there and watch him care so much for her, too much to know that although they had spoken about this before, he still expected them to become something more than friends some day. Somehow, with Harry retreating further and further into his work, Ron seemed to be inching closer to her, as though trying to steal precious moments they could get when they were alone. And even though she loved Ron more than anyone in the world-

'I have to go to the bathroom,' she said, abruptly pushing her chair back and standing up. An expression of surprise crossed Ron's face, and she knew what he was thinking: that it was the mention of the war that had made her so fidgety. She stared stonily at him for a moment, and when he inclined his head slightly, she turned and left. She pushed her way to the bar, and leaned over it, trying to catch the bartender's attention.

He caught sight of her and leaned over the counter.

'Can I help you, miss?'

'Could you tell me the way to the restroom, please?'

'Sure,' he inclined his head towards a narrow corridor that led out of the restaurant, and said, 'Last room.'

'Thank you.'

She glanced over her shoulder once as she set off down the corridor. Ron was hunched over his beer, staring broodingly into it. From the raw, somewhat tender expression on his face, she thought she could guess exactly what he was thinking. He was probably worried about her reaction to the things he had said, was probably trying to piece together how to make things better for her- how to take care of her.

Why does it bother me so much that he wants to take care of me? That's what every girl wants, isn't it?

She puzzled over the question as she walked down the corridor. It was narrow, lit with plastic lampshades that cast a whirlwind of soft pastel lights on its bare stone walls. Logically, she mused, she should love it that Ron cared so much about her. It was what every girl wanted, after all. She had absolutely no business feeling claustrophobic every time he spoke gently, or gave her an understanding glance.

He's just taking care of me.

But as soon as she thought it, she realized that that was the problem. Ron never realized that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. He spent all his time and energy into wondering how to make things alright for her, and never stopped to wonder whether she may like them just as they were. He had practically appointed himself as her nanny, she thought, a little distastefully.

She shook her head as she neared the end of the corridor, trying to dispel the confusion this sudden revelation had caused her. The walls came to a blank dead end in front of her, furnished with a small picture of a pink-cheeked shepherdess in a gilded frame.

She blinked.

There were two doors in front of her, one to the right and another to the left. She frowned and then moved towards the left one. Her fingers closed around the icy-cold knob, and she pushed it open.

The moment Hermione stepped into the room, she became painfully aware of two things.

The first, was that there were three people in it. One of them was tied to a chair like a chicken, hanging forwards against his bonds, with straw colored hair falling over his face. The other two were dressed in dark robes, and were pointing their wands at him, one of them digging into the spongy flesh of his temple.

The second, was that she was screaming, loudly and shrilly. Because at the exact moment that she stepped into the room, one of the robed men flexed his wand, and said, 'Avada Kedavra.'

For two seconds, all Hermione could look at was the frozen expression of horror on the face of the man- corpse- that was not slumped forward. His mouth was drawn back against clean white teeth, and his eyes were stretched wide with fear. He seemed to be looking directly at Hermione. She tasted bile at the back of her throat, and struggled to swallow it down.

She heard a step and the noise of the door snicking, and whirled around. In the second it took her to turn, someone said, 'Expelliarmus!" and she felt her wand zoom out of her pocket.

A third man- one she hadn't seen yet- had stepped neatly between the exit and herself, and had bolted it with a decisive flourish. He twirled her wand experimentally in his fingers, digging the tips into the gnarls in the wood as though trying to memorize it. He was dressed, like the other two, in dark robes, with a hood pulled low over her face. All that visible to Hermione was a narrow jaw, pale chin, and a soft, malleable mouth, that was now faintly pursed with contemplation.

'What do we do?'

She started and twisted around at the voice. Her hand instinctively went to her pocket, but then she realized that she had been disarmed, and that the man at the door had her wand. Part of her shock melted away, and was replaced by a cold, knotted sensation of fear. The two men near the chair had stepped away from the corpse, and taken a step towards her. One of them was braced against the wall of the room. For the first time, Hermione noticed her surroundings: the naked light bulb that hung from the ceiling, raw wooden rafters, and a complete lack of furnishing. The room looked like it hadn't been used in years: a patina of dust covered the floor, and she could what looked like grease prints on the wall.

'Joel, what do we do?' said one of them men behind her. He was talking directly to the man at the door, who still looked thoughtful- what was visible of him, anyway.

Hermione tried to clear her throat. 'Give me back my w-wand.' she said, her fingers clenching in on themselves and digging painfully into her palm. She had tried to keep her voice steady, and was annoyed when it wavered at the end. She was scared our of her wits, but she knew that displaying any form of weakness wasn't going to help her at all. She mentally judged the distance to the doorway, wondered if she could push Joel out of the way, but gave that up when she realized she didn't have a wand, and he could stun her anytime he wanted. She glanced around but there was no window in sight.

'What do we do?' asked the man at the wall, again. He was looking somewhat confused.

'What do you think we do?' asked the second man, who had retreated behind the chair.

'It isn't that simple, Bill.'

'Sure it is.'

Hermione opened her mouth and then closed it again. She had suddenly caught sight of a metal grilled vent about seven feet up the wall, behind the chair. A lone pipe ran a few feet under it. She frowned, and then glanced away from it, and back at Joel.

'Last time,' objected Bill, who spoke a little petulantly, 'It was over long before this.'

'I said it isn't that simple,' said Joel. He turned his half-hidden face to Hermione and spoke roughly. 'Did you come here with anyone?'

Hermione's mind flashed back to Ron, who was waiting patiently for her at the table. He would assume, she knew, that she needed a moment and would give her some time. She thought of Ron with his gentle eyes, and suddenly felt a burst of pain inside her.

'I said, did you come here with anyone?' asked Joel, harshly. His mouth was twisted down in a hard, unpleasant manner.

Hermione found her voice. 'No,' she said, striving to keep it calm. 'I came here alone- for a drink.'

His mouth relaxed a little, and she heard the third man behind her exhale audibly. Suddenly, her mouth felt dry and she wondered if she'd made a mistake.

'What's your name?' asked Joel.

Hermione debated lying, but then wondered what the point was. 'Hermione Granger.'

His head tilted back a little, and she wondered if he was surprised. 'Granger?'

'That's right.'

'Mudblood, are you?'

She didn't answer, but her lip curled distastefully. The sting of that word had gone; it had replaced by a general sense of disgust for anyone who used it.

'If you choose to call me that, yes.'

'Joel, what are we waiting for?' asked Bill. He sounded tense, ready to snap. Hermione felt strangely calm, although she knew exactly what they were talking about. Her eyes sneaked back to the vent, and she noticed that the grilling was in one piece, and was ridiculously loose. Two of the corners had snapped off. A hard shove would get rid of that, and a foot on the pipe would get her up to the vent.

But for that, she would need her wand.

'We'll take her back with us.' said Joel.

Both Bill and Hermione gasped: Bill from surprise, and Hermione from horror. Her mind made itself up in that moment. There was no way she was going to let them take her "back", wherever that was. The door was locked, and moreover the corridor outside was too long to make an escape through, but there was a chance- a minute one, but one, nonetheless- that she could make it through the vent. She glanced at her wand, which Joel still held, along with his own, and then put a hand to her head and fell dramatically to the floor, closing her eyes tight.

Bill swore. 'Did you curse her?'

'No, I think she fainted.'

'Well- what do we do?'

'I'll pick her up,' said Joel, 'And we'll take her back with us. Hang on-'

Hermione heard footsteps approaching, and tightened. Any moment now-

A hand closed around her wrist, and the next moment, her three inch Manolo Blahnik was soaring through the air. She made direct contact with Joel's crotch, and he let out a muffled yelp of pain. The grip on her wrist loosened, and she opened her eyes. Her wand was two inches from her face: he had dropped it, and cupped his fingers where she kicked him. She grabbed at it, and then hoisted herself to her feet.

In the second it took the other two men to understand what was happening, she had pointed her wand at them and screamed, 'Stupefy! Stupefy!' She didn't pause to see whether the spells hit their targets, but made straight for the wall with the vent. She kicked desperately, and locked the edge of one heel into the pipe. Grabbing at cracks in the wall with desperate fingers, she tried to hoist herself up, but at that moment the heel that had just delivered a hefty kick to Joel's crotch twisted viciously, and her ankle turned with a loud crack. Hermione yelped as the pain splintered up her ankle. Instinctively, her hands tried clasp it, and she lost her balance and fell to the floor with a thud that resounded in her skull. Spots danced in front of her eyes, and she blinked twice, trying to make sense of the voices coming from far away.

'Joel, are you alright!'

'Ignore me, you idiot, and get her!'

'Don't worry, she isn't going nowhere. I think she broke her ankle. That was some kick.'

'I said, get the girl. Stupefy her, and then we get the fuck out of here.'

'No,' Hermione whispered. She wasn't sure if anybody heard her. 'No- you can't take me.'

The next moment, she saw a flash of red light, and then everything went black.