This 30K fic features a Hermione who has been betrayed by her old friends. This has caused her to be even more ruthless and less ethical than she is in canon (ask Rita, Dolores, or Marietta if you think otherwise). This is not a perfect Hermione, this is her with a touch of Bellatrix.
I wish it was Hermione with a touch of Indigena Yaxley, but I'm not good enough to attempt writing that yet!

Devout Harry fans may want to avoid this fic. Ron and Ginny fans... honestly, why are you even here? :)

Inexperienced fanfiction readers who can only see Hermione in Damsel-In-Distress or Ethically-Pure or HBP-type roles will definitely want to avoid this fic.

Three wizards and two witches sat around a round table in an elegant drawing room. Their ages ranged from fifty-five to a hundred and forty, and they were the chief decision makers in Magical Britain. Their influence came from the number of votes they held or controlled in the Wizengamot, their economic prowess, the oaths of secrecy and loyalty they took, and the fact that no-one else suspected they existed.

For instance, when voting in the Wizengamot on contreversial issues, they were very careful to arrange votes so that their respective voting blocs could not be identified with Arithmancy.

Their aim was conservative - preserving the Status Quo in Magical Britain so that the older families, particularly theirs, called the shots. Not all believed in Pureblood superiority, but the end results were often the same.

Of the five, four were from Light families while the fifth was traditionally neutral. There had been a couple of former members from Dark families, but they had met their end during the Voldemort war. And there had been Albus Dumbledore, of course. While he was a loose cannon at times, he had a knack of getting his pawns to agree to the most confagled plans imaginable because of the air of trust he projected.

The loss had meant that the clique had lost the majority of Wizengamot votes they usually had, but this would be rectified in about six months. The heirs to the two Dark families were incompetent or unambitious spoiled scions and their fathers' votes would soon be retrieved.

Today they were discussing the fate of the Boy Who Lived. In particular, his romantic future now that the Dark Lord had been dead for six months.

"I take it," said Amos Diggory between sips of his beverage, "that it is not a given that Mr Potter will end up with Miss Weasley?"

"It is by no means a given," replied Selene Longbottom, the oldest member of the group. She had always been a keen student of liaisons, and had several files on Potter and those close to him. The information from her great grand-nephew, who had been a classmate of some of the parties in question, had been very useful. "He is young, hormone-ridden, and craves a family. She's pretty and plays Quidditch. They actually have a thirty percent chance of partnership success, much of it due to his closeness to the Weasley family in general. However, Hermione Granger is a more suitable long-term match for him, when he has gained some maturity."

"Granger? The Mudblood?" asked Christopher Tompkins, owner (via several front companies) of the Daily Prophet and seventeen major newspapers on the Continent. "Unacceptable."

There were no objections to either of his assertions.

"Are you sure about your analysis of the Weasley girl?" asked Diggory. "I have known her since she was little, and she seems a nice young catch for any wizard."

"You have answered your own question, Amos," replied Longbottom. "She is a girl, not a woman. Granger, on the other hand, has been a woman for a couple of years now."

Raphael Snicksmith, who had been quiet so far, looked up from the file on Hermione Granger that Longbottom had handed out to the group. "Even without her attachment to Potter, this girl - sorry, woman - is a nasty piece of work. Imprisoning journalists, disfiguring a Pureblood classmate for breaking secrecy in a school club, organizing a rebellion against the Ministry, nearly killing a Ministry official - all by the time she was sixteen! Such actions might be admirable, but not in a Mudblood."

There were murmurs of agreement.

"If she and Potter ever got together, they would blow our world apart," mused Diggory. "And she clearly has no respect for established truths. Freeing Elves, for Merlin's sake!"

Longbottom looked around. "Anastasia," she called out to the only member of the group who had not expressed an opinion yet. "What say you?"

The alluring and much-married Anastasia Zabini looked up from her finely manicured nails. She looked bored, but they all knew her mind was moving faster than any of theirs.

"That seems obvious, Selene," she said in a soft voice that had destroyed many men. "She must be destroyed. Not killed - that would just make her a martyr. Her reputation must be destroyed. She must be eliminated from our society, preferably by Potter himself, before she is in a position to destroy us."

It was a good life, Philippe Santos mused, being part of a family that valued money, influence, hard work, secrecy, ethics, and flexible definitions of whom the ethics applied to. It made for interesting times. His former lives as a mercenary, theologian, nurse, and gendarme had prepared him well for being Head of Security for the Baret Group of companies.

It was an open secret that there was a murky dividing line between the Baret Group and the family that owned it. The Baret family was based in Switzerland, and was one of the most powerful clans in Europe. Their history could be traced back over three thousand years, but they had never had any problems with incorporating new blood - in fact, they encouraged it. All that mattered was magical prowess and mental intellect. And physical competence, Philippe supposed. The last seemed to happen by itself - good genes.

Santos' division - Security - meant many things. Mostly, it was about protecting family members, company assets, visitors, and so on. But it also encompassed a variety of less salubrious teams - Dagger teams - that performed espionage, intimidation, protection against intimidation, even assassinations.

What was a practising Catholic doing running a force of assassins? Admittedly, this wasn't a question that any 16th century Roman would have thought of asking, but that was another matter.

True, there were some missions that he reluctantly ordered, such as the elimination of certain human rights activists who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. But most missions involved eliminating corrupt functionaries in Muggle governments or transfiguring a Dark Wizard into a goldfish in a cat's water bowl. With a cat nearby.

If his younger, very rigidly ethical, self could have seen Philippe Santos now, he would have been mighty ... displeased? Disappointed? Discombobulated? Driven to murderous thoughts ... before remembering the ethical rules that prevented him from acting on them?

Philippe decided he didn't want to think about that, and focused instead on the files on his desk of possible new recruits for the Dagger teams. Most members typically lasted five to eight years before they decided to retire with their substantial savings and have a life. Or they were divorcees or widow/ers who had already had a life and wanted a few years of mindless work before daring to face life again.

There was a knock on his office ten minutes later. He recognized the silhouette of his niece Marie immediately, and cast a spell to open the door and let her in. It opened, signifying that the other automatic checks for Polyjuice and Imperius curses had turned up negative.

"Bonjour, ma cherie," he said, walking over to kiss her on the cheek.

"Bonjour, Tonton Philippe," she replied, before turning serious and handing over a newspaper.

"What's this?" he asked, opening it. "The Daily Prophet? Why do I want to read this English Pravda?" Then he caught sight of a name, and halted. He sat down at his desk again and thumbed through the files he had been about to look at. Ah - there it was. Hermione Granger. British First Generation Witch, Credited, according to Goblin statisticians, with fifteen percent of the victory against their Dark Lord Riddle. Curse Breaker. Hobbies included reading, more reading, rock climbing, and - according to the newspaper in front of him - murdering romantic rivals.

Three days later, Marie Santos walked with two bodyguards, half a dozen prison guards, and a Ministry official through the dank corridors of Azkaban to a maximum security cell. She barely kept her face impassive as they passed by prisoners who alternately stared at them with glazed eyes right out of photographs of Bergen-Belsen or proposed that she come in and 'play' with them. The smell of urine was pervasive. She was glad for her physically intimidating Dagger bodyguards, Alonzo Chabal and Igor Kaninsky.

After what seemed like an eternity, they came to a cell at the end of a corridor. The smell of blood was fresh, even for a human nose. She glanced at Igor. Three Ministry guards entered it and stomped over to a small figure slumped in the corner. One nudged the figure with his boot, before kicking it. It groaned.

"Get up, you scarlet woman!" said another guard, reaching down and ruthlessly pulling the figure up by its arm. The figure screamed, and Marie decided that things had gone far enough.

"Stop that, you idiots!" yelled Marie, stepping forward and shoving the guards aside. Surprised, they made to stop her, before meeting a burly arm from Alonzo.

"Stand aside," said the Ministry official, quickly making his way to the front. He began casting a bunch of diagnostic spells at the prisoner, before realizing that the magic suppression wards prevented wands from working properly. Still, it was easy to see that the prisoner wasn't supposed to be alive. Some of the bumps under her skin looked decidedly bony, and most of her face and arms were blackened and charred.

"By the gods," he muttered. It was only the look of genuine shock on his face that kept Marie from verbally eviscerating him. He stood up quickly and turned to the guards. "Alright, you and you, go find me the Chief Guard and bring him so he can explain to me why a new prisoner is almost dead! You two, get a Healer. You two, get the fuck out of this cell and stand guard outside."

The first pair of guards had long gone, but the second remained, looking rather nervous.

"Well?" demanded the official. "Get the fucking Healer!"

"Er, Mr Davies, sir," said one of them, "This is Azkaban, sir. We have no medical facilities. Or a Healer."

"Have one Floo in from St Mungo's then! Oh, never mind," continued Davies, remembering that there was no Floo in Azkaban. "What about a room with medical supplies, then, for when you lot get sick or injured?"

"It's on the same corridor as the Chief's office, sir, at the other end."

"We can pick her up and take her there," said the other guard, moving forward. He was stopped by Igor, who was a foot taller than him and has twice as much muscle. "Or not."

"You think we're going to allow you neanderthals to touch her?" asked Marie. The guards stepped out of the cell hurriedly.

Davies stood up, looking lost now that he was alone with the team from Baret. "I don't suppose any of you have medical training," he asked hopefully, noticing that Ms Santos' other bodyguard was kneeling next to the prisoner, speaking softly while he opened a potions first aid kit that he had taken from somewhere in his robes.

"Believe it or not, Alonzo is a trained Healer," said Marie.

Davies was surprised - the alleged Healer looked more capable of putting people in St Mungo's than getting them out. Still, the man looked competent, if the way he was carefully administering vials to a groggy and whimpering Hermione was any indication.

"Thank Merlin for that," he said instead. "I don't know what happened here, but she needs help." He looked up from examining the floor. "How are you going to get her out of here now?"

"Don't worry about that," replied Marie, motioning to Igor. He was taking some items from his robes. Two small rods, which he then pulled apart into seven foot long poles. A folded cloth, which opened up into a large rectangle.

"You lot carry stretchers in your pocket?" gasped Davies.

"You know what a stretcher is, Mr Davies?" asked Marie, cocking her head.

"My wife is Muggleborn," he exclaimed, keeping his voice low to avoid the guards outside hearing anything. "Her mother introduced me to Muggle movies." He grinned for a bit. "The in-laws seem to enjoy explaining every damn thing in them to their stupid ignorant son-in-law. Even ... even that scene in When Harry Met Sally."

Marie chuckled.

Alonzo looked up to see if Igor had finished assembling the stretcher. Seeing that he had, he motioned to bring it over. They began discussing how to get her onto it without hurting her more than they had to.

"Do you know Granger personally?" whispered Marie after watching the two men for a while.

"Of course not," replied the Ministry official, while he gestured that this was not a conversation he wanted to have here. "Everyone knew of her, though. She has quite a reputation."

Two hours later, the group - sans prison guards - were two miles away from Azkaban island.

"We should be out of the reach of the wards any moment now," announced Davies, observing a crystal in his palm. It was flickering faintly, and then died out. "Right, we're good."

Marie nodded and pressed a few buttons on a controller. There was a huge feeling of being squeezed, and then their boat was in the middle of a large bright room with several people in labrobes and overalls waiting.

Hermione was screaming her head off, and Alonzo was barking out instructions to some of those waiting. Davies figured they were Healers too.

"Will she be alright?" asked Davies, worried. His question was addressed to Igor, who had been with the Healer as he cast unimpeded diagnostic spells on the broken witch.

Igor snorted, and glared at him. "Requesting dismissal, Ms Santos," he asked Marie, ignoring the British official.

Marie was surprised, but nodded. "Your lot must have really done a number on her," she said to Davies as her bodyguard left. "He's off to the gymnasium to break a few punching bags. Alonzo will probably be doing the same later."

"And yourself?" asked Davies with a sigh.

"First, Mr Davies, I would like you to tell me everything you know about her," replied Marie, motioning him to follow her. They left the arrival room and headed down a corridor.

"Call me Roger." He glanced at his watch, noting the time. "I'm off duty now."

"Alright, Mr Roger," she replied with a grin as they entered a large and comfortable office. "Welcome to my humble abode. Have a seat. Coffee or tea?"

"Thank you for your hospitality to a member of a corrupt and prejudiced government," replied Roger Davies, sitting down on a sinfully comfortable armchair. "And forgive me for my rudeness, but is there any chance you have anything ... a little stronger?"

"Absolut?"

"Delightful."

"Diluted?"

"I'll drink from the bottle at this point."

She took out a couple of glasses and filled them up. She handed him one, and the bottle, before sitting on the ergonomic swivel chair behind her desk. They didn't bother to toast, but simply drank. Roger, she noted, downed half the glass at once, which was rather impressive. He didn't cough afterwards.

"Penny's going to kill me," he said after a minute.

Marie waited for him to go on. From the extensive briefing notes her secretary and her uncle's staff had given her, Roger Davies, Pureblood wizard, had married Penelope Clearwater, Muggleborn witch, a year before. He was a rising functionary in the Department of International Relations, which was one of the few places in the Ministry where marrying a Muggleborn could actually work in one's favour, as it allowed British representatives in other countries to be seen as more ... centrist than the British Ministry. It had definitely helped in this case in the negotiations between her father and the British Ministry for custody of Hermione Granger, especially since Clearwater was acquainted with the younger witch.

"Penelope, my wife," explained Roger, even though he suspected Marie knew that already. "She's a friend of Hermione's. Not a close friend, but they and some other Muggleborn witches meet every month for drinks and whatever witches discuss when they're together. Anyway, she's adamant that Hermione has been framed, and that she would never kill Ginevra Weasley. Hermione didn't think highly of Ginevra; Penny deduced that from what she didn't say. But it's a huge leap from there to murder."

Marie made notes, before looking up. "According to my notes, Ronald and George Weasley, brothers of the deceased, both witnessed Hermione Granger stab Ginevra Weasley with a poisoned dagger in their shop before Disapparating. The two witches had just had a loud argument about Harry Potter beforehand, where Ginevra had told Hermione to 'stay away from her man'. Furthermore, while there were several witnesses to Hermione Granger having lunch in Hogsmeade at the same time, the authorities did find a Time Turner in her apartment, invalidating the alibi. What is your opinion on that?"

Roger smirked at her and refilled his glass with 100 proof Swedish vodka.

"What does Penelope think?" asked Marie, accepting the fact that Roger Davies was a diplomat. Right now he would still be able to answer negatively if he was ever asked under Veritaserum about expressing his opinion when it was contrary to the Ministry's.

"What does she think? Two words - poppycock and Polyjuice. She says if Hermione had ever wanted to off Ginevra, she would not have got caught."

"And the Time Turner?"

"She says that if Hermione had one, she would have made far better use of it."

"I see," said Marie, making a few notes.

There was silence for a couple of minutes as Roger looked at the office. "I presume here is Zurich?"

"Close," she answered, without any elaboration.

Roger rolled his eyes. "On a terrestial scale? As supposed to, say, astronomical?"

"Close enough," offered Marie with a smirk. She looked at her notes again. "Tell me about how she ended up in Azkaban. At the trial, she was not offered Veritaserum or a wand to swear on her magic that she was innocent. Why?"

"Regulations," replied Roger with a grimace. "By the Marsden-Rottweil Act of 1748, a Muggleborn accused of murdering a Pureblood, in a situation not involving self-defence, is not automatically granted rights to such means unless requested by her legal representative.

"Who was her legal representative?"

"Joan Ashcroft," replied Roger. "One of the most qualified barristers in my Ministry. A rising star. She is from an ... old family." In other words, as he knew she would understand, a family that would not traditionally welcome the existence of someone like Hermione Granger.

"Was Ashcroft chosen by Granger?"

"By the Malfoy-Arsquith Subrule of 1905," recited Roger, "Muggleborn defendants in 'crimes of passion' are automatically assigned legal defence from the Ministry's top-ranked legal staff to better protect them."

"Why am I not surprised," muttered Marie. "Out of interest, your people are aware that they are in danger of sanctions from certain countries? You are familiar with Apartheid South Africa, I presume?"

"If you have any messages that you would like me to carry in an official capacity to my superiors, I would be glad to receive them," said Roger with a poker face.

"Continue with your story of the trial, please."

"Alright," said Roger. He took a sip of vodka. "It did not take long for Granger to be sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban. She only avoided the Kiss because the Newarry-Adelhaus Law of 1433 prohibited anyone with an Order of Merlin from immediate death or equivalent sentences."

"I am surprised Ashcroft brought that up."

"Their law has long been incorporated into the written Magical contract between the Ministry of Great Britain and those who accept an Order of Merlin."

"Ah. Please continue."

"After the trial, the Ritual of Vengeance was held, as per the Barry Rule of 1231."

"A law without two sponsors?"

"Perhaps things were different in the 13th century. A more innocent time," suggested Roger Davies with a straight face. "Now, the Barry Rule permits a wizard whose wife or fiance has been killed to Hex the convicted murderer with any spell other than the Unforgivables. Potter chose to cast Aduro at his former friend's face. The fire spread to most of the rest of her body before he lowered his wand."

"This was not done in public."

"It is a private ritual, though details of it are made known for the edification of the public."

"And she received no treatment for it before being sent to Azkaban."

"Apparently not."

"Do you think Potter is aware of the limitations of her trial?"

"He is not generally known as the first person to ask if you wish to see the subtleties of a situation," he offered diplomatically.

Marie thought for a while. She offered Roger another drink. He looked tempted, but declined, saying that he had to take his wife out on the town in a couple of hours.

"What of the broken bones?" she asked, looking at her watch.

"How many were there?" asked Roger, leaning forward.

"Twenty two. Both her arms, legs, some ribs, a vertebra. Were she a Muggle, she would be twice dead by now."

"Damn. I honestly don't know where those came from."

"If it was possible, I would let you know how she recovers."

"Thanks," he said ruefully. "I hate getting Obliviated."

"I know what you mean," said Marie. "I would have liked to have asked your wife some questions as well. But you know the agreement, considering you helped write it."

Roger shrugged. "It's safer that way. Hermione's death in Azkaban will be announced in a couple of days. Nobody in my Ministry will know that she was extricated by you lot." He stood up and leaned forward to shake her hand. "Pity I won't remember any of it, but it's been an honour to meet you, Ms Santos. And if it is at all possible for me or, more importantly, my wife to meet Hermione later without breaking the rules of the contract, we would greatly appreciate it."

Marie nodded. "It is nice to know that your Ministry has employees with civilized views. Your Portkey is waiting in the Departure Lounge, Roger. I will walk you there."

"One last question," asked Roger as they prepared to leave her office. "Why did Baret go through so much effort to retrieve Granger? I'm not going to remember it, so ... feel free."

"Would you believe me if I said we are altruists who can't stand to see a travesty of justice?" she answered with a bright smile.

"Not particularly," he muttered wryly, showing her out the door. "After you."

Elsa Jones lay in the hospital bed, doing the Times crossword. It reminded her of what she had done with her father every holiday. It had been six months since her old life had ended, since Hermione Granger had 'died'. She was, she thought ruefully, now the reincarnation of Lindsay Wagner. Each of her arms and legs had wands embedded in them, her body was home to more magical sensors than she could count, and she had a nice new pleasant face that still shocked her whenever she looked in the mirror. At least she was still a brunette, though with a very different shade of brown.

What else did she have? Broken heart, check. No friends, check. Loss of faith in humanity, check. A sense of impending doom, check.

There was a knock on the door. She sighed, and remained silent. There was no way she was inviting said doom into her hospital ward. As expected, the door opened regardless.

"Good morning, Elsa," said Philippe Santos pleasantly. He had a large bouquet of flowers, which he placed on a vase on top of her television. So she would see them all the damned time, she figured. "How are you doing today?"

"Your weapon is doing fine," she replied sweetly. "You do know I can banish those flowers with a flick of my wrist. Thanks to my fancy new weapony hands."

"If you should choose do so," he replied, equally pleasantly, "Might I suggest that you send them two doors down to the left, where there is an old woman who hasn't been visited by her errant sons in three months and cries about that every day?"

"Go to hell, you guilt-tripping bastard," muttered Hermione. "Why don't you get me something a useful, like a dartboard with Harry Potter on it so I can practice my flame throwing?

Philippe smiled and sat down on the visitor's chair. "Ah, but Elsa, that is your old life. This is your new life. Let the old life, the old hurts, go."

Hermione looked elsewhere. She didn't want to acknowledge that he had a point.

"You're bored, aren't you?" he asked.

She said nothing.

"Have you considered the offer of the Baret Group?" he asked. "I have to say, it is a generous offer."

She remained silent for a while, before casting Muffliato. "Look, I just don't understand it, alright?" she huffed. "Why are you doing all this for me? Why get me out of Azkaban, fix me up, and then give me a choice? What happens if I refuse?"

"We give you a pension, start you on a new life," he answered easily. "You'll never hear from us again."

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"Did you know that our Goblin analysts give you fifteen percent of the credit for eliminating Voldemort? Primarily for all the Hexes and battleplans you created and used, especially the last one."

"Bullshit," she replied.

"His elimination was very beneficial for us. By our calculations, you saved us several million galleons for that achievement. Consider this a small 'Thank You'."

She averted her eyes again, never having been good with accepting praise - primarily for lack of practice since she received little.

"Forty percent went to Lily Evans, twenty percent to Severus Snape, five percent to Albus Dumbledore, and ten percent to Harry Potter, and ten percent to all and sundry."

Hermione didn't comment, to Philippe's pleasant surprise.

"The Headmaster made a lot of mistakes," she mused, staring into the distance. "Sometimes I thought he wanted us to lose, that he wanted to set Harry up to die. They're right about Professor Snape - I wish I could meet him now. Just to say thanks."

Philippe averted his eyes.

"The figure for Harry's mum seems a bit high," she queried.

"I can explain that," he said. "The ancient protection she obtained for her infant son could only be accessed through an incredibly complex series of charms that she mastered. Our teams took five years to figure them out."

"You know what they are?" she exclaimed, turning to look at him excitedly before she could stop herself.

"We employ lots of smart people, Elsa. Many of the results are classified, but if you joined us, you'd get access to quite a bit of it."

"Subject to various oaths, of course?"

"Of course. But do you care?"

No, mused Hermione, she didn't care. She cared about knowing, not about others knowing she knew... not any more. Her old life was so warped by her Harry-saving complex that she didn't quite know what to make of it. At least Harry was saved from marrying a groupie, she figured. Pity about the cost.

She shook her head mentally. He was distracting her from the key issue here.

"But you'd be hiring me to be a fucking assassin," she hissed, "not a researcher!"

"First of all, I can arrange for you to have a part-time researcher position in the Arithmancy division. It would be good for you and them. Your old name has come up before in recruitment not only from the Dagger teams, but also from the Aritmancers. I can make that happen without having to tell them that you were Hermione, so I won't be breaking the contract."

The contract was a reference to what the members of the Baret extraction team had signed with British Ministry officials that hid the truth of Hermione's fate. It prevented any of the individuals involved tellling anyone else that Hermione Granger had become Elsa Jones. It wasn't a particularly strong contract, but was still Magically binding.

"I'm not sure I want to murder anyone," said Hermione after a minute.

"You've killed before."

"That's war. It's different. I cannot see how I could be part of a Dagger team without at some point having to murder someone in cold blood."

"What if that person was a serial rapist?"

"I would rather see him go through the justice system," replied Hermione.

"Because, you of all people, know how reliable justice systems can be."

Hermione turned away, biting her lip. "That was an exception," she mumbled. "I would still want him to go to jail - alive."

"You know how few rapists go to jail. You know how few victims go to the police, let alone go to court. Besides, people break out of prison."

"Fine!" she cried. "I would kill the damn fucker! There - happy?"

"Not yet," replied Philippe. "Look, you will have to kill, often in self-defence. You may not have to murder someone, but I cannot promise that. You will, however, have to be tolerant of other members of your group using any means necessary to complete a mission. Including harsh interrogations and murder."

She appreciated the lack of sugar coating. "What if they're innocent?" she asked.

"That could happen. Not usually with interrogations, because we use truth serums and Legilimancy for that. We're very, very good with our intelligence. In the past twenty years, there have been only five cases where we killed people we should not have killed. I would know, because the first of the five instances was my fault. I didn't sleep properly for months. We are human. We make mistakes. Overall though, we make the world a better place."

"Better for Baret."

"Baret makes the world a better place. Our humanitarian works are extensive."

"You realize how irrelevant that is to my decision?" questioned Hermione. "For all I know, you lot framed me so I'd lose my friends. So I'd lose Harry. My last connections to society. I know what kind of people are perfect for this kind of work. Smart. Angry. Numb. Alone."

Philippe raised his palm. "Wait." He raised his wand to his temple, and intoned, "I swear on my magic that to my knowledge, the Baret Group had no part in framing Hermione Jane Granger for the murder of Ginevra Molly Weasley." He lowered his wand.

Hermione was stunned for a moment. "Er. Thanks," she muttered. "To your knowledge, though."

"Would you ever swear an oath without that clause?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Do you know who did it?" she asked.

"We have not tried to investigate that," he admitted. "You've been on our radar for a while as a recruit, ever since one of our agents pulled a memory from a bothersoem fiction writer that a fifteen year old chit of a girl had stuffed her in a jar for a few months. He included the observation in his report as a footnote, but it was intriguing enough to warrant further investigation."

Hermione looked aside. "Rita was a mistake," she admitted. "I should removed all the oxygen from that jar when I had the chance. And never told anyone I did it."She paused, remembering how Harry had mentioned that at her trial as an example of her ruthlessness. Bastard. She'd done it for him.

"I thought you had issues with murder?"

"Rita Skeeter isn't human," she muttered, knowing the dual standards she was maintaining. "It's not like I had the choice with the absence of anti-slander laws. Maybe I'm closer to being a Black Widow than I'd like. Which would give you a semi, I know. Look, I'm in the middle of a paradigm shift right now, alright? Grant me my inconsistencies."

"Alright," replied Philippe. "Back to my story then. Baret was pretty close to making you an offer actually, because we really need more Curse Breakers. When we heard about what your people had done to you, we hopped in immediately. We used the opportunity it provided. We did not make it."

She looked at the flowers on the television. She wondered why only one was red.

"You're bored," he stated. "Join us, and you'll never be bored."

Hermione sighed. "Hand me a quill."

Philippe Santos did so.

Tempus Fugit.

The brunette pants on the treadmill as she goes through her hundred and fourth day of physiotherapy.

"You've got to learn to use your two pairs of wands in coordination," says the trainer as he prepares the simulation room for the fourteenth time that day. "Let's try again."

"You try simultaneous casting with that wand up your arse," mutters Hermione as she focuses.

"Ready to jump out of this plane with a broomstick instead of a parachute, Kitty?"

"Tatyana, you gorram bitch --- aaargh!"

"Our mission, should we choose to accept it..."

Delta leader Daniel Katic ducks as his four team members shot streams of water at him.

"We're just going to leave them there?" yells Elsa at Daniel over the drone of the helicopter. "They're just kids for chrissake!"

"We can't save everyone!" he screams back. "It's a war!"

She almost slaps him, but her arm is held back by the team's Healer. She hits his large chest a few times, and them starts weeping into it. She hasn't slept for fifty hours, and is at the end of her tether.

"It's so wrong, Alonzo," she cries.

Her teammates look aside. They are no strangers to human suffering, but this mission is worse than most.

As Daniel looks out of the closing door of the rising helicopter, he sees the faces of the two children Elsa is crying about, and the betrayal written on them. They will feature in his future nightmares.

The raiders of the refugee camp in the Sudan scatter as a lioness dashes at them, mauling them, breaking their necks.

One of the survivors would say later that the beast was walking on air.

Two casually dressed women sit in an Irish pub, arguing about whether Céline Deville is a better goalie than Sarah Bouhaddi.

A blonde woman walks in, and heads towards the bar. She glances at them, makes eye contact with one of them, and gapes. She starts walking to them, but they Apparate out.

She stares at the empty cubicle, her world just having been turned on its head.

"So what do you lot do in your spare time?" asks Daniel Katic, the leader of Dagger Delta. It is the end of a long day of training, and the five Delta members are sitting in a comfortable lounge around a roaring fire.

"Spare time?" asks Terry D'Acosta incredulously. "What's that?"

Daniel raises an eyebrow. "For that, we'll start with you, Terry."

"Right, well, I play poker and fly paper planes," he replies. "And I - er - moonlight as a gigolo on weekends."

"Isn't moonlighting against company policy?" asks Tatyana.

Terry sticks his tongue out at her.

Daniel rubs his forehead. "Never mind. Tatyana, you're next. Feel free not to tell us everything."

Terry sniggers. Hermione sends a pillow flying across to the room to his face. He ducks it, and it shoots past before looping in the air and hitting him from behind. Everyone laughs.

Tatyana Rudenko shrugs. "Martial arts, surprise, surprise. And I follow the fashion scene."

"Isn't that all taking your work home, O Dear Femme Fatale?" asks Terry.

"Want me to do like Kitty, with a gorram anvil?" threatens Tatyana.

Terry shuts up.

"Elsa?" asks Daniel.

Tatyana throws her arm around the younger witch. "Ellie darling, we know you read, seeing how much time you spend with the maths geeks..."

"You calling me a geek?" huffs Hermione.

"You are our maths geek," replies Tatyana fondly. "You're our favourite geek, the light that shines upon us across all of geekland, the ..."

Hermione claps her hand over the blonde's mouth before she can spout anything more.

"What else do you read?" asks Alonzo. He too, does not speak much. Not that anyone has to, with Terry and Tatyana - the Tees - around.

"Er - comics," says Hermione quickly.

Much surprise is expressed by her colleagues.

"What kind of comics?" asks Daniel.

"The funnies, mostly," explains Hermione. "Far Side, like. It's nice to be able to - to laugh, sometimes."

The other members of Delta suspect (and Alonzo knows) that Elsa has had bad experiences in the past. They all have, really, and hide them in various ways. Perhaps it was because no-one who had had a normal upbringing would ever have the despondency to join a Dagger team. Or just the way they were recruited.

Alonzo quickly speaks up before Daniel asks him to, so that he can distract attention from Hermione. "I'm a hooker," he admits.

There is silence in the room before Daniel - Daniel, of all people! - starts laughing. Soon everyone is laughing, except Hermione. Her jaw is still somewhere on the floor. Then she grins.

"Rugby?" she asks Alonzo.

He grins back. "Yeah, I play for an amateur club in Milan." It's easy to floo between cities in Europe if money is not an issue.

"I am sorry," says Tatyana. "What does this rugby sport have to do with being a prostitute?"

"It's a position in a rugby team," explains Hermione. "Like a full-back or striker in football. It's called such because the hooker has to hook the ball with his feet in a certain way during a scrum. A scrum is ... an opportunity for the players to stick their heads between the bums of the other players." She giggles and has another sip of rum.

The others stare at Hermione for a bit, resolving to get her tipsy more often.

"The bums, Alonzo?" asks Terry.

The Healer considers how to explain this, and fails. "Is there a Pensieve in this house, Daniel?"

The Delta leader reaches into his robes - which are lying on the coffee table next to him - and retrieves a small bowl from a pocket. He tosses it to Alonzo, who fumbles but catches it.

"Just how many things do you have in your pockets, Leader One?" asks Terry.

Daniel grins. but does not answer. The others don't expect one. Each of them carries at least a hundred shrunk items in their robes, but they suspect he carries over a thousand. There's a betting pool on it among members of all the Dagger groups.

"While Alonzo gets his memory," says Daniel, "I'll say my bit. I'm a boring old man, really. I collect coins."

"That's it?" asks Tatyana. She pauses, knowing that he's a Charms Master. "What do you do with the coins once you collect them?"

"Put them in albums," he replies. "I can show you some."

"What kind of coins?" asks Hermione.

"Oh, Muggle, Magic, Goblin, Elf, all kinds."

"There are Elf coins?"

"Sure," replies Daniel. "From the time before we enslaved them."

Hermione looks very interested, and wants to ask more questions, but Daniel raises his hands. "Don't worry, I'll bring them in to work next week. Right now I want to see what a scrum is."

Satisfied, Hermione leans back, content. As she watches Alonzo's memory with the others, she muses that maybe this Elsa gig isn't so bad.

A/N: Indigena Yaxley, created by lightningonthewave in the Saving Connor series, is the greatest Death Eater, Snape aside, in fanfiction and canon.

Gorram is a bastardization of 'god damn' found in the Firefly series.

Tempus Fugit is a Latin saying meaning 'Time Flies'. It does not officially mean 'Time Fudges Things', but that's true too.

Lindsay Wagner played the role of the Bionic Woman - a woman almost killed in an accident who now has lots of hardware inside her - in the 1980s TV series.

Pravda was the state-run newspaper in the Soviet Union. It ... dabbled in the truth, on occasion.

The scene in When Harry Met Sally is the one in a restaurant, just before the bit where the Director's mother turns up. Apparently Meg Ryan had to perform it several times that day before the director was satisfied. Er. That sounds very wrong.