Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Or Britain's Next Top Model. Or Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
This takes place 5 years after the fall of Voldemort. It is not DH, HBP, OPh compliant in that I play fast and loose with which characters are alive. For that case, and other instances, this piece may even be considered Alternate Reality. For major characters, Remus and Tonks are alive, as is Sirius Black. I do bring up how Sirius is here, but a bit later on. I do not have a beta so all mistakes are homemade from scratch. This story is HG/SB.
The Key of S
Chapter 1: The disadvantages of dinning out.
I hate Ginny Potter.
I do not hate Ginny Potter for the usual reasons that green-eyed witches glare hexes her way.
I do not hate her because she hit the wizard marriage lottery when she snagged Harry. After being his best friend for many years, that only garners my sympathy.
I do not hate her because she is a wildly successful professional. I am more than comfortable in my profession.
I do not even hate her for her lush red hair and stunning looks. While I am not a contender for Britain's Next Top Model™, I am finally comfortable with my curly brown mane, plain brown eyes, and slightly top-heavy shape. Really. Usually.
No. I hate Ginny Potter for her ability to talk me into doing things I do not particularly desire to do. Take now, for instance. I am sitting at a banquet table for what is the third hour for the Ministry's 5th year anniversary commemoration of the defeat of Voldemort. I have sat through rambling speeches on everything from education to street cleaning, only to be prodded to smile on command.
I would not be suffering the constant flash of cameras or the dismal dinner offerings of overcooked chicken and undercooked potatoes if Ginny had not relentlessly badgered me about showing up. I had managed to ignore her little army of owls pecking away at my window. I had even managed to duck the pointed questions from mutual friends. Then, she started playing dirty.
*3 weeks ago*
"Do it for Harry's sake. He needs you there. Ron will be out of the country at some sort of conference. He needs to know that someone else will be there for him to talk with." She raises her eyebrows in the beseeching manner that always turned Arthur to mush.
"Harry understands why I do not want to go. If he really wanted me to, then he would ask." I counter as I glare at the limp salad currently taking up residence on my plate. I know it is pointless to glare; it is not the salad's fault that I really want pasta in some sort of lovely cream sauce. Lunch at Louis' generally puts me in a good mood. The quaint little restaurant had a 1950s theme played out in cheerful black and white checked floors and over-stuffed red vinyl booth seats. However, my trousers are telling me things about my current diet that made salad the prudent choice. Hex it.
"No he wouldn't. He's Harry. You have to come." Her manicured fingers punctuate her words as she waits for my guilt to creep in. Well, it is not coming. Never. Not. At. All.
Damn it.
I huff and arrange my limp lettuce into piles according to size. "I do not like that particular kind of attention." I rally one last time and try to ignore the unsettling feeling in my stomach. My body may have caught on to my impending defeat, but my mind sallies forth in hopeful denial.
"You get attention all the time." Ginny interrupts with an irritated sigh. "Since you and Luna started your business, everyone seems to be trying to get 5 minutes of your time." Her simile is a mixture of confusion and pride. I cannot say I blame her on that account. Three years ago Luna and I opened Wayfarers, a small research/investigation agency. I handle most of the inquiries regarding objects, curses and the occult. Luna handles unique phenomena, rare creatures and unusual events, like crop circles. I still do not fully buy into her Gold-backed Slinkers mating frenzy theory for the circles, but her husband Rolf, a small fellow who reminds me of a besotted Ricky Ricardo (sans the accent), does. I guess that is how love works.
Ginny's impatiently tapping salad fork alerts me that I am having a conversation with her and not a stare down with my salad. I pick up on clues like that; hence, the whole successful career in research and investigation.
"That's not what I mean. They are going to ask all of those old questions again. 'What happened between you and Ron? Where did you go for those two years?'" I wheeze in my best Skeeter impression.
Ginny's smile widens and she leans across the table towards me. "What did happen between you and Ron? Where did you go for those two years?"
I pluck up my glass of water for a quick sip. "Nothing happened between Ron and me. That's why we are not together. And I went where I pleased for those 2 years." I idly wave to the waiter for our bills.
Ginny laughs. "See, you already have the answers for the really hard questions. There is nothing keeping you from attending. Besides," she continues on between bites of her salad, "if you just told them where you went, they would leave you alone. It's the whole 'woman of mystery' persona that entices them." I snort here. She raises her eyebrows again. "Beside the point, I know. It would be good for your business. Harry really would appreciate it. Remus cannot come. Sirius will not come. You would not leave Harry by himself. He's already looking forward to seeing you."
My mind accepts what my stomach had guessed earlier. I was going. Ginny learned to punch those guilt buttons from Molly. If I did not yield gracefully, she would probably hit me with an Imperio when my back was turned. I know Harry is having a hard time of it lately. We all do when the anniversary comes around. I have been working a great deal and not coming around to the Potter house as often as I should. My defeat must have registered on my face because she moved in for the coup de grace.
"Besides, Violet could use the help. If we were both wearing her designs, think of what it would do for her business. She does have excellent taste, regardless of the fact she is dating my brother." Ginny gives me a sly smile that I can not help returning. "Don't you want to help Violet?" She coos.
Violet Merlot is a tiny whirl wind of short cropped blonde curly hair and curves who began her design career at Madam Malkin's shop. That is where she met Ron. I was worried that her artistic temperament would clash with Ron's general temper. So far they seem to be getting on well after one year. What I especially like about Violet is how easily she accepts the friendship and history between Ron, Harry and me. She does not ask embarrassing questions or make awkward implications about our relationship. It takes a rare person to accept the amorphous bond between the three of us. Closer than family and yet not lovers is not a demographic you find on questionnaires. So far, she has handled us all very well.
Violet is muggle-born as well. I think that is why I like her designs. She does standard muggle fair like formals, suits and such. Her wizarding work tries to fuse the muggle and wizard fashions together. While not always successful, her results are interesting. I employ my "put-upon" groan to signal my defeat. "If it will help…"
Ginny smiles her triumph.
*Present*
That is why I hate Ginny Potter.
Not that Violet is currently in my good graces either. The "gown" she sent me (a scant hour before the ordeal was to start) is more like a skein of silk with aspirations. The café-au-lait colored top is a low but sculpted bustier, with gauzy lacing up the front. It has a corset effect. One deep breath and the girls will make an appearance. It flows into a tight floor length pencil skirt of the same color, which would be a more traditional witch fashion, if it were not for the slit up the back that is so high, I fear my knickers are going to be featured on the evening news. We all know where that leads. To finish it off, my feet were seizing up in the four inch heels I needed to toddle around on to keep the hem from dragging the floor.
In a valiant effort to keep everyone's attention off my assets and on my face, I am wearing diamond and pearl cluster earrings and the matching necklace that Harry had given me when I had announced the opening of Wayfarers. However, I suspect my attempt has failed.
The stately old wizard across from me, a retired Muggle Studies professor whose name I cannot recall, has his eyes glued to my chest in the avid hope I would have a hay fever attack. Or at the very least an agreeable sneeze. I doubt the old goat has even realized that I have a head.
I was lured here under totally false pretenses, as supporting Harry has consisted of sending him the occasional smile. Kingsley seated him at the table across the room from me. He and Gin are sandwiched between Ministry dignitaries. I grace the table with older academics.
A polite smattering of applause tells me that I have pouted my way through the next to the last speaker regarding the debt the wizard world owes to all who opposed Voldemort. I quickly join in with the rest of the golf-clapping crowd and plaster on my patented "I'm listening" smile, which I usually reserve for rambling clients.
The Most Honorable High Wizard Augustus Trinkle is doddering towards the podium when a discrete server taps my shoulder. "Pardon me, Ms. Granger. An urgent owl has arrived for you." I smile and thank him as I palm the small roll of parchment. It has Remus Lupin's private seal. I use my thumb nail to slide it open.
Dear Hermione,
24 West King's Way.
Urgent business of the highest order.
RL
Frying pan or fire? Which is more fun? As much as I want to leave the abysmally boring dinner, I had hoped it would be due to my aching feet rather than "business of the highest order," which is Remus' little code for Order business.
After the defeat, Remus stepped in to lead the Order. It is more of a monitoring body now. They track down Death Eater rumors and pursue potentially suspicious activities that could be related to the dark arts. He quickly formed an amicable partnership with Kingsley in this latter regard. Wayfarers had done the occasional odd job for them. I had opted out of the order before my brief two year hiatus after the war. I had not managed to wander back into its ranks again. I cannot say whether or not I miss it.
I murmur my goodbyes to my entranced dinning companion and take my cleavage to the nearest apparition point.
24 West King's Way is in one the border residences for the wizarding community, with access to the muggle world. Not unlike my own neighborhood.
Luckily for me, it is a short walk from the apparition point. The building itself is an older 3 story flat with a lovely brown stone exterior and charming architectural details above the windows and doors. The front steps boast actual wrought iron railings in a curving vine pattern meandering to the entrance. I must admit even in the wizarding world with its propensity for Victorian revival, you rarely see such attention to detail in the building arts. Those details tell me this structure is old, probably the residence for a more established wizarding family. While it is not common for older wizarding families to occupy border neighborhoods, it is not unheard of either.
As the damp night air is starting to chill me through my wrap, I clack up the stairs as fast as my heels will allow, and knock at the door.
Remus Lupin meets me. I know we have moved beyond the student/professor relationship, but he forever looks the role of the benign academic to me. His slightly rumpled blue robes match his rumpled graying hair. It looks as if he has been pushing his hands through it. "Hermione." His low greeting and slight smile do not match the furrows of concern on his forehead.
"Hello, Remus." I chirp as I scoot inside. I know there should be something more professionally reassuring I could say, but I have never been able to cipher out what it would be at these times. When in doubt, get to the point. "What can I do for you?"
Remus hesitates for a moment and mutters "lumos." A tasteful foyer is revealed. A Victorian-era hall tree of dark walnut stands ready to receive cloaks. Its lovely hue is off-set by oak flooring and a small oriental-style hallway runner. All of the pieces look authentic. There are walnut pocket doors on each side of the foyer and a staircase in the back that gracefully rises out of the light's range.
The most unusual aspect of the décor is the rather bland landscape painting by the entrance. It is an uninspired view of a moor, in muggle-style. The ornately carved framed gives the impression that, like the rest of the furnishings, this too is original to the era. But wizarding houses rarely, if ever, sport such pieces. They just could not get used to pictures that did not move or annoy in any manner.
It is then I notice Remus watching me take in the ambiance with a half smile on his face. I smile back. "It's a lovely home. Are we meeting with the owner?"
"Yes and no," Remus replies. "Two hours ago the owner's house elf, Nodkin, appeared at the residence of Jack Flourish, of Flourish and Blotts. This home is owned by Julius Flourish, Jack's great-uncle. Nodkin informed the household that Julius was ill and not responding. He said he had found his master on the floor when he returned from errands. Jack tried to enter the house, but found it to be warded against visitors and the floo disconnected. He called the Aurors. The responding officer removed the family from the area and informed Kingsley as to what he found. Kingsley called us."
"What did he find?" I know I am jumping ahead, but there is something about this I do not like.
"Julius Flourish was lying in the center of his den. He was dead. There are two rather long cuts from wrist to elbow on both of his arms." Remus' tone lowers. "At first glance, the officer suspected suicide, but then noticed that no blood was present. The officer called in Kingsley because it appears as if Julius died from blood loss. The responding officer also noted that there appears to be the residue of some magic in the office."
"Why is that strange? He was a wizard." I point out.
"He was a squib. The traces of magical force the Auror found were not house elf magic. That is why you are here. It looks as if someone cast a circle in the den. I was hoping you would look at what remains." Remus' gaze is beseeching and professional.
"I shall. Have you done any additional spellwork?" It will be easier to determine what happened if little additional magic had been done.
"Just to confirm the cause of death. We have kept the area as pristine as possible." He gestures to the set of door to my left. "The den is through there."
I move forward toward the doors. "One more thing," Remus hesitates for a moment. "We are doing this unofficially. We only have about 45 minutes at the most before Kingsley's people must come and secure the scene." He stops and looks into my eyes. "Julius is still in there."
I swallow. I hate dead bodies. I have had enough dead bodies for this life. I have dreamed of the dead for years. I never want to see another dead body again. Not even mine. "Thank you. I'll be fine." I peep. I am such a liar. Remus does not look convinced, but he nods.
I shrug off my modest black wrap. It is slightly damp from the evening air and I do not want any drips to disturb the crime scene. I see Remus raise one eyebrow. "Do. Not. Ask." He grins and takes my wrap as I push open the door.
The den, like the foyer, is decorated in Victorian fashion. The floor is a continuation of the oak from the foyer. The walls are dominated by large built-in bookcases, also of oak. They reach from the floor to the vaulted ceiling. Be still my heart. The shelves currently house volumes of impressive leather-bound texts.
There is a library desk at the far side. It is walnut and boasts an account's lamp, a leather blotter, professional magnifying glass and several piles of papers. There are no windows, but two more muggle style landscapes of the same bland school as the first hang on what little wall is exposed. There is a large wingback black leather chair behind the desk and a matching one to my immediate left.
A dead man is in the center of the floor.
He's hard to miss. Julius is an older balding gentleman. He looks like he is only an inch or so taller than me. He is--was pudgy with jowls and a comfortable level of padding that spoke of too little exercise. He is so pale. There are cuts on both of his arms, but no blood. I can see the incisions, but nothing to indicate bleeding. Even vampires leave some blood in the victim. I am glad his eyes are closed. I can pretend he is sleeping. I know I am staring. I cannot look away.
Remus clears his throat. I jerk my eyes back to him. "How do you know that the blood loss caused his death?" I croak. Very professional.
He shakes his head. "Jones, the responding officer, did a cause of death spell when he arrived on the scene. I also cast one and had similar results." He gestures to the floor. "You can see the remains of a circle and some other marks. It is best there by the desk."
I studiously take in the floor as I skirt Julius and move towards the desk. By the front of it you can still see the faint glow of a line. I follow it for a couple of steps before I see what could be markings. I kneel and draw my wand.
"Attollo nota." I gently move my want back and forth over the mark. I am trying to coax my energy into the magic marks so the edges will be more defined. It takes a great deal of focus. No more thinking of dead Julius a few meters behind me. No sir. Not thinking about him at all. My energy slides across the floor in a white haze. Nothing appears.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I slowly breathe out and focus on the floor. I wait a bit and recast the spell, focusing on one more promising area. I gingerly feed energy into the mark. Too much and I will eradicate it. Too little and I will not be able to make it out at all. This task difficult enough in itself without the threat of falling over due to numb feet. It is an odd little balancing act, but I feel my energy "catch" and start to steadily move into the marks. It is almost as if the marks are trying to drink from me. Normally the spell does not react this way, but it may be an effect from how recently the circle was cast.
My reward comes as the edges of a few faint marks become clearer. I can see this portion of the circle. Inside of it looks to be to distinct sets of runes, overwritten with other runes. From a quick glance I think I make out the Norse markers for journey and gift, but the overwriting is too distracting for me to be sure. My energy is still feeding into the runes and I am starting to get a bit light-headed. "Do you have a scroll?" I call. I briefly register hushed voices and footsteps behind me. I need to concentrate on the images or they will fade. A scroll floats over my shoulder.
Flick and swish. They are now transferred to the scroll. It takes a moment before I can stand. I shift and wonder if I am going to be able to stand up. How long had I been trying to raise these marks? I am saved from the potential embarrassment of falling face forward by an elegant hand that reaches down to capture mine. I look up into the face of Sirius Black.
He draws me up to my feet, which are now tingling from the happy return of my blood flow. That is something to tingle about. I mean that is what the tingling is about. If there is tingling. Blood flow would be the cause of it. Bugger.
Even in heels I come up to Sirius' shoulder. His dark black hair falls in waves to his shoulders. His eyes hold concern. His mouth forms a slight frown. He is wearing robes of a similar fashion to Remus'robes, only in a grey that matches his eyes. He extends his other hand to steady me. "Easy now," he rumbles in a low baritone.
I have always enjoyed Sirius' voice. It has a lazy quality that can make you shiver no matter what he is saying. I have not properly talked with him in over two years. Harry lets the odd detail drop every now and again. That is how I know he does work for the Order. His pictures and social schedule are well documented in the papers. His skin has a glow to it that I have not seen in a while. Admittedly, the last time I saw him, Remus had just brought him back from the other side of the Veil.
Wizards often underestimate Remus. They assume that being a werewolf keeps you from being a resourceful wizard. He had made contact with a witch in California who had similar success in bring someone back from the other side. A few email exchanges later, and Remus was throwing some serious magic around. No pun intended. It was a wonder he was not arrested.
Sirius tilts his head. "Kingsley's men cannot stall any longer. We need to go." He guides me to the door, keeping himself between Julius and me the entire time. His hands are warm. I only now register how cold and tired I am. I must have spent more energy than I had originally thought. I am taking small steps to keep my balance until my head clears. It feels as though I am still feeding energy to the marks, but I know broke the connection.
"Where to?" I murmur.
"12 Grimmauld Place." Answers Sirius.
"4 Bodkin Way." Answers Remus.
I am standing in the foyer with Sirius pushing me past Remus toward, what I assume, is a servants' exit. "Where?" I call.
"12 Grimmauld Place. I will apparate us, if you do not mind." Sirius is already herding me ahead of Remus. I hear Remus mutter something to Sirius and then call out "Fine. I have her wrap. I am right behind you."
Sirius pulls me close to his chest. He towers over me. He smells nice, like spices and the woods. How do men stay so warm? I lean my head on his chest as the world explodes in dark dots.
Attollo nota=Rough Latin meaning Raise Marks.