A/N:
For nottonyharrison.
Originally written as part of a Fic Exchange Challenge, on Granger Enchanted.
I was called in as a last minute writer when someone dropped out of the challenge, and had to write this little fic in a couple of days. It was also for a writer that I have massive respect for, and the added pressure terrified me :D As I'm reposting it, I dedicate it again to the awesome nottonyharrison, and hope she's doing awesome, wherever she is, and whatever she is doing. Disclaimer: As ever it is my sorrow to report that none of these lovely and delectable characters are mine, they belong to J K Rowling. I just kinda… ruffled them up a bit… just a bit… totally didn't make them a bit messed up. Honest! Anyway, plot's mine, character's not. Enjoy!
MINISTER FOR MAGIC MURDERED!
Murder Most Foul In London!
Kingsley Shacklebolt, our beloved Minister, who has guided our shattered land through trial and tribulation since You-Know-Who's death, has been killed. Murdered in his office, by unknown hands, Mr Shacklebolt was found this morning by the Junior Assistant, Romilda Vane…
With a rustle of paper, the man behind the large desk dragged another copy of The Prophet in front of himself, hiding the picture of the 'distraught' Romilda Vane. Bitch had been lapping up the attention when the reporters had quizzed her, loving her moment in the limelight. The Minister was dead and the little glory seeking… He glanced down at the words in front of him, ignoring the other man in his office.
HIGH LEVEL AUROR WANTED FOR QUESTIONING!
Aurors To Question Hermione Granger About Minister's Murder!
The Auror's office today issued a plea for War Heroine, Hermione Granger, to contact them about the murder of the Minister for Magic, which took place yesterday. Senior Undersecretary, Oliver Wood, pleas for the powerful witch to contact him. Their past relationship is known to all; how much effect this will have on how he handles her questioning will…
"Oh, fuck off." The next paper was slammed down with force
"You're gonna have to make a decision, Mr Undersecretary."
The low drawl was irritating and the dark-haired man glared at the speaker. "I'll decide, Mr Malfoy, when I'm ready!"
WAR HEROINE WANTED FOR THE MURDER OF MINISTER FOR MAGIC!
Hermione Granger Wanted For Murder!
Today, this reporter was told by sources close to the Undersecretary and Acting-Minister, Oliver Wood, that War Heroine, Hermione Granger, was wanted in connection with the murder of Kingsley Shacklebolt. This shocking revelation has led to outcry in the Wizarding world, many refusing to believe that such a champion for freedom as Miss Granger could possibly have had anything to do with such a terrible crime.
But this reporter knows, first hand, how brutal and manipulative Miss Granger can be. 18 years ago, I was held prisoner by Miss Hermione Granger and tortured, forced to write only what she would allow. It surprises me not at all that her aggressive and domineering attitude has culminated in such a terrible murder…
"Gods, this fucking woman, she's just talking shit! Merlin, this is a nightmare. The press is all over this…"
"Wood, focus! Stop reading the newspapers and just give the order to slip the leash." Draco leant forward, into the light. His face was scarred, marring his once-good looks; the large, jagged scar ran from the bridge of his nose, over his lips and down to the point of his chin. The Head of the Auror Office had had a rough life after the Battle of Hogwarts; recovering his credibility after his family's abrupt U-turn, training for the job and helping to track and capture the large amount of Voldemort's Captains and Lieutenants that had avoided capture. The scar was a gift from a Dark wizard's pet Hippogriff, which had taken exception to Draco's attempt to imprison the creature's master; the wizard was long buried and the Hippogriff's head decorated Draco's wall now.
There had been so many wizards and witches that had escaped justice, and like rats and sinking ships, or cockroaches with the lights flicked on, they had scattered to the corners of the country and vanished. Each one slowly came back though, setting up their own little empires and bases, recruiting like-minded people and staging raids and attacks against civilisation.
The Auror Office had been stretched to capacity and could barely cope; whenever they got one, he or she was rescued, or ended up getting released on a technicality. Memories were long and many still remembered the power these men and women held. Few were willing to risk their family's safety. That was when Hermione, one of the leading lights of the Hit Witch and Wizard Team, suggested a secret office, within the select team; a real hit squad—specially trained Aurors that would go above and beyond to take down the leaders that couldn't be captured without risking them walking free. If they just, mysteriously and unexpectedly, died, then there was no problem. There was only so many heads that this Hydra could produce.
It had worked for years, the small, secret, six-person team travelling the country and the world, tracking and 'dealing' with the various problems that the normal Aurors and Hit Wizards couldn't deal with; sometimes together, or in pairs, but most often alone. They would find them, distract them, and then take them out; magical Black Ops. But now, suddenly, that leading light and most capable—some said ruthless—hit-witch in the team, was implicated in the murder of the Minister.
"This was not... Getting them involved is not the way I wanted this handled." Slumping back in his chair Oliver sighed and rubbed his eyes with one hand. All his anger drained away as a wave of exhaustion swept over him instead. After a moment he waved at Malfoy, a bitter grimace on his face. "Fine, fuck it. Release the dogs. Take her down, however you have to."
"Right decision. They'll get the job done." Draco stood and turned to leave but a word from Oliver stopped him at the door.
"Draco. Just… tell them to… to make it…"
"She won't suffer, Oliver," Draco said with a sneer. "I can promise you that much."
Deep in the depths of the Welsh countryside was a tiny hamlet called Ffair Rhos, or Fair Moor. It was quiet, peaceful, and way off the beaten track, which suited Hermione Granger fine. Her little safe house, hidden out in these hills and valleys, was perfectly secret, known only to a very few.
There were several, scattered across the British Isles. However remote they were, that didn't make them all safe though. It all depended on who was doing the looking.
Moving quietly, Hermione crept through the single story house. After disarming the various Charms that protected the front door—along with several nasty jinxes—she began a slow and careful sweep of the property. She moved through each room in turn, working her way towards the back of the house, scanning each exterior window and door as she went. She paused briefly by one window, listening intently.
Moving on, she entered the bedroom and stopped again, surveying the area. Nothing appeared to have been touched in the few months since she had been here. Sheathing her wand she stared at the wardrobe for a long time, stepping closer, eyes fixed on the doors.
With a sudden yell, she kicked the door, splintering the lower half and damaging the base slightly. The sound of splintering wood echoed through the building. The door swung open on its hinges to reveal an empty wardrobe.
Hermione turned and stepped away before she felt a presence behind her and the point of a wand was pressed into the back of her neck. She gave a small smile. "Evening, Zabini."
"How'd you know it was me, Granger?" The dark-skinned man's voice purred along her skin. He had a voice like chocolate; dark chocolate, she thought with a small laugh.
"How could I forget my favourite student?" Hermione lifted her hands to the side, showing them to be empty. "Besides, you always make the same mistake whenever you break one of my security charms. Now what did I tell you the last time?"
She felt a hand slip around her waist, sneaking up her body to squeeze one of her breasts. She heard, rather than saw, the smile in his voice. "Can't really remember, seeing as I was busy fucking you when you told me."
"Keep aware of your surroundings, Blaise."
With the crack of splintering wood, the base of the wardrobe gave way under its own weight and fell forward. Hermione pistoned her elbow backwards, jabbing the tall wizard in the stomach and rolled to the side. She got clear in time to see Blaise pinned beneath the heavy unit. As the man swore and struggled, Hermione found her feet, took two rapid steps and kicked Blaise's hand, knocking his wand away from him. Crouching down, her face set in a stern mask; she grabbed his collar and swung a brutal right hook into the side of his face.
"Why are you here?" Her voice was cold and tight, an anger barely under control.
"Ow! Fuck'sake! Why do you think!? Wood's turned the whole Auror office to finding you."
"Why are you here?"
"Because they couldn't find you, of course. All of us have been pulled off of our missions and brought back home. A lot of bad feeling about it too… kinda screwed up several weeks of work for me, never mind the shit storm it's caused for the Ice Queen."
Hermione cocked her head and punched him again. "So how did you find me?"
"Fuck," Zabini grunted, spitting out blood. "We all know where your hideouts are, Granger. Between us we've probably seen them all, and each other's."
"Strange that Parkinson didn't find me first. She wouldn't have fucked up the entry, like you did, and I'd already be dead."
"She says she's checking out your base in Scotland, but she asked us to pass on a message, if someone else found you first. Said that she'll 'finally get to pay you back for that Romanian Hustle'. Apparently you'd know what that meant."
Hermione stopped, fist raised, a handful of Blaise's shirt in the other. Surprise flitted through her, emotions changing and shifting on her face. Zabini just watched until Hermione gradually became aware of his scrutiny and stilled her features once more. "Thanks, Zabini," she said at last, releasing him.
"Hey, no problem. A little help?"
Stepping back, Hermione grasped the edge of the wardrobe and lifted it, Blaise pushing upwards from underneath. Setting it back against the wall Hermione offered the man a hand, pulling him to his feet.
The tall man fingered his jaw, his tongue exploring his mouth tentatively. "Think you broke a tooth." As Hermione walked around him he looked her in the eye and squared his shoulders. "Ok," he muttered, "make it look good."
"I will."
Her roundhouse kick knocked him unconscious and sent him spinning backwards to crash into the splintered remains of the wardrobe.
By the time the shattered wood had settled, Hermione had already Disapparated.
One Week Earlier…
The tall, broad-shouldered man stepped towards the offered chair, feeling his limbs tremble and threaten to give way beneath him. Strong but gentle hands supported him as he lowered himself down and he nodded his thanks to the woman at his side. His dark skin glistened in the lamp light, a sheen of sweat covering his bald head, and he coughed, a deep, hacking rasp that had a far more liquid sound to it than was healthy.
Kingsley Shacklebolt was not a well man, and for the last few weeks, he had been getting rapidly weaker. The cough never left him, no matter what charms or healing spells were cast upon him. The medi-witch caring for him was kind but she was unable to give him anything that stopped the pain in his chest and his head. It felt as if his body was trying to pull itself apart.
Coming here had been a last ditch attempt and only at the insistence of the lady at his side. The Minister looked at the dark-robed man opposite him. Despite hearing Harry Potter speak in the man's defence and explaining why Dumbledore had been killed, Kingsley still had trouble finding forgiveness in his heart for the hook nosed professor.
If Severus Snape understood the issue that Kingsley had with him, he gave no indication of it, or was not interested. He simply leant forward and spoke quietly and matter-of-factly. "I have examined your blood, Minister, and determined that you are dying. There is neither cure nor, in fact, any way to slow the effect. There is no way—or need—for me to sugar coat it."
The woman at Kingsley's side started to speak but Kingsley held up a hand to forestall her. "What is it, Severus?" Despite his weak health, the Minister's voice was still deep and rumbling and the lady beside him felt a surprising sorrow in her heart at the strength of this man, that he hadn't broken down and wept at the news.
"A slow-acting neurotoxin, Minister, and an extremely deadly one at that." Snape sat back in his chair, dark eyes flicking momentarily to the woman, stood by the Minister. Her hand rested on the chair back, just behind the dark man's shoulder. "You have, at some point in the past, been exposed to a Muggle-made compound called dimethylmercury. It is colourless, virtually odourless, and fatal, even at extremely small doses. How it was given to you I cannot tell, though from the look of your left hand, I would say that it was something you touched. You are right handed generally, are you not?"
Kingsley glanced at his hand, seeing the familiar scarring; raised and yellowed flesh that had been there for the last couple of months. "For everything but writing, yes. Why didn't the Healers detect it when they examined me? They thought that this was simply some kind of skin condition."
"As I said," Snape said, with an impatient twist to his mouth, "dimethylmercury is a Muggle creation. Our esteemed Healers do not keep abreast of chemistry in the Muggle world and our magic tends to be confounded by it. They wouldn't have tested your blood in the same way that I have either." The black-haired man stood and walked to his work bench. Collecting a sheaf of papers, he thrust these into the Minister's hands, seemingly eager for this meeting to be over with. "The levels of mercury in your blood are fatally high and the damage caused is irrevocable. You are dead already, Mr Shacklebolt, you have merely to stop moving."
The sound of a knife being drawn was loud in the office and Kingsley thrust out a hand to stop the woman from using it against the Potion Master. Snape, for his part, merely raised a bored eyebrow. "Whether you find this news distasteful is irrelevant. You asked me to tell you what ailed the Minister and I have done so."
"With your usual lack of emotion or consideration for his feelings," the bushy-haired woman said, her voice tight and angry. The blade in her hand twitched as she spoke and it seemed almost like she would throw it.
"I am not a Healer, Miss Granger," the tall man said, with a sneer, "so my bedside manner has never been a concern of mine. I state the facts. Now I suggest you sheath your weapon and take the Minister home so he can rest. The satchel by the door contains some potions that will ease his pain."
Kingsley hauled himself to his feet and Hermione rapidly slid the blade into its sheath, reaching out to lend him an arm. "Snape," Kingsley began but a hacking cough interrupted him and he doubled over, supported only by Hermione's strong arms. After a while, the fit passed and the Minister stood tall again. Reaching out a shaky hand towards the Potion Master, his damaged left hand clutched to his chest, he nodded his thanks. "Snape… Severus," he corrected himself, "thank you. Goodbye."
Severus looked at the proffered hand, and after a moment, clasped it tightly. "I hope you can find who did this to you, Minister."
"They will be found, my friend. Though not likely till after I am gone to my grave."