Blaise and Hermione apparated to Westminster. Silently they began walking to their destination. Ten minutes had passed since they left the hotel when Blaise realised that his mind had been occupied with Hermione Granger ever since she had stepped out of her room. He became angry with himself. That was too long. It was the unexpected change in her that had been occupying his mind, her more subdued manner, her sparser use of words. At school she had been harsh, blunt, immediate. Now she thought everything through carefully, chewing on it, before expressing herself in the briefest of words. He used to enjoy watching Draco insult her just because he liked seeing her hackles rise before she would launch her own verbal assault. Sometimes he had even insulted her himself, just for her reaction. It was true that later on she would often allow insults directed at herself to slide, but she had never allowed anyone to attack her friends unchallenged. But he just had insulted her friends, and all she had said, with a little frown puckering the space between her eyebrows, was "Good." She had chosen not to hear the insult, and how often did she do that, even if it had been a poor blow?
He knew it was an effect the war was having on her. He couldn't decide whether it was positive or negative. It was a benefit in that she remained more rational at all times. She had been able to turn that bookish brain into a force that dealt daily with harsh practicalities, and that was a tremendous asset to the Order. But at the same time, the fire had gone out of her. It seemed nothing could stir her up, to excitement or anger, from the placid blankness she had settled into. There was no spark in her anymore. And because of this, he could no longer recognise her as Hermione Granger. But why did he even care? He didn't; it was only that she was a member of the group with which he had thrown his lot. Each one of them carried great responsibility. If any one of them failed or cracked, the rest would suffer. He wasn't risking everything just so a Muggle-born could be the weak link that landed him on the receiving end of the Dark Lord's wand.
Blaise hadn't been pleased when the Order had chosen him to accompany Granger on this mission. He didn't want anything to do with her. Never had. He just wanted to stay as far away from her as possible, and he believed the feeling was mutual. So why the Order would force the two of them to work together on a task of such proportions was beyond him. But they had insisted, dropping descriptions like "brightest witch," "loyal," "nondescript," and "one of our most trusted members." Privately he had interpreted "smart aleck," "goody-two-shoes," "unattractive," and "duplicate of Harry, Lupin, and etc." Just the kind of person he didn't want to be going with anywhere. But here he was, walking alongside her anyway.
He told himself to stop thinking about her already and to focus on the task at hand. The problem was, he didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to be going to the Ministry of Magic like he was now, prepared to spring out high-ranking prisoners. There, just thinking all that in one go made him want to run in the other direction and sling a few firewhiskeys down his throat before apparating to the ends of the earth, where he could forget and be forgotten. He hadn't asked for this. He had wanted to calmly await the outcome of the war while he sat in an easy chair in the Zabini Villa on La Maddalena. He didn't want anyone to bother him, and he didn't want to bother anyone. All he ever wanted was a comfortable life of anonymity, with as little association with wankers as possible. But the Dark Lord and his followers had not allowed him that option, and after a few too many encounters with pushy Death Eaters, Blaise had realised that he had to make his choice or it was going to be made for him. So he had chosen the Order, mostly because he didn't want to make a mess killing someone and killing wasn't something he thought Order members were routinely asked to do. Maybe it wasn't, but he was discovering the Order had no problems with routinely asking its members to go on suicide missions. The Order functioned as though all its members had death wishes. Come to think of it, most of them probably did. That would explain so many things, like the incident with Tonks, Lupin, and the Weasley twins in Diagon Alley last week. Or the fact that Harry and Ron were nine days late owling the Order. Things like that.
He really had to stop thinking. It didn't do any good. He was going to do this because he had to, and that was all there was to it. He was a dead man already, either way, so it wasn't like this altered his lease on life. And there was no Zabini Villa waiting for him to go back to anymore. They approached the entrance to the Ministry, and he steeled himself. This was it.
The night before there had been a frenzied, late-night meeting of the Order of the Phoenix. It was Percy's fault. Ever since his restoration to his family's good graces, Percy had kept a portrait in his flat that was linked with one at the Burrow. Last night he had used it to contact his parents with some critical information. Tomorrow (today now) the Ministry of Magic was going to put two high-ranking political prisoners on trial. The identity of these prisoners was as classified as of yet, but tomorrow certain members of the press would be allowed to attend the trial. That was all.
Arthur and Molly had quickly owled every member of the Order whose whereabouts were known, and so it was that every member who could be there on short notice had ended up in the living room of the Burrow. There were not many people there. Most of the surviving members of the Order were out completing various missions. But the few who could make it were trying, with foreboding, to process the significance of the information. Harry and Ron had not been seen in thirteen days and were nine days late in owling, and everyone's fear was that the two boys were the prisoners in question.
As the night grew old, the Order formulated a plan. It required three to four members, almost a third of those present. Hermione, Fred, and George had volunteered immediately. It was decided that Fred and George were uniquely suited to complete the half of the mission that had could have been completed by only one member. Hermione would be assigned the most important half of the mission. Hermione's half required a second member's participation. After putting their heads together to decide the best member for the job, the Order had asked Blaise to do it. With some persuasion, he had said yes.
That was how the next day found Blaise and Hermione posing as members of the Daily Prophet to gain entry to the Ministry of Magic, while Fred and George sabotaged Rita Skeeter on her way to the Ministry. Really, it was a perfect plan, thought Blaise. Just the kind of thing the Weasley twins liked to do, and hadn't everyone always spotted Granger as a writer? Well, when they weren't spotting her as a librarian, lawyer, auror, healer, or any of the other things "the brightest witch of her age" could do well. The part he didn't follow was why the Order had spotted him as a photographer. He looked down with dislike at the bulky camera in his hands. Well, the ruse was working, and apparently the Weasley boys were doing their job well. Granger had marched up and sweetly demanded entry while flashing her press card. Security had passed them through to higher-ranking security, where they went through the same routine. They were questioned. Granger did all the talking. Blaise stalked behind her and watched. No, Rita Skeeter wasn't coming today; she was ill. No, Granger (or Sybil Watson now) wasn't new to the Daily Prophet; she had been working there as an editor for some time. It was just now that she was taking on some writing responsibilities. Yes, it was unusual for a new writer to be covering something this high-profile, but due to her long employment with the Daily Prophet, her senior editors had confidence in her. And - here she added a wink - she could assure them that her coverage of this story would be a hundred times more electrifying than anything Rita Skeeter could whip up. Those no-good prisoners would be wallowing in their due.
Having never worked with Granger before, Blaise was surprised at her versatility and capability. Here he had just been musing over her apparent depression, and now she was doing a brilliant imitation of a second Rita Skeeter. They were passed through without further comment.
The plan was to lay low until they knew who the prisoners were. If it were Harry and Ron, they had to flesh out and execute last night's hastily formulated escape plan on the spot. If not, they were to play it by ear. There were a few other members whom the prisoners might turn out to be, and Hermione and Blaise were expected to consider the risks against the benefits before pursuing any course of action. Yeah, that sounded great. He was basically supposed to decide whether two people would live or die today. And here he had joined the Order so he wouldn't have to deal with things like that.
A/N: The story title and the titles of chapters one and two are taken from the same-titled songs sung by Frank Sinatra.
