Disclaimer: I disclaim any ownership to Harry Potter, et al.
Author's Note: To those who courageously wade through the symbolism and abstract to stay with me so far... thank you. For those who ponder the previous chapter's Gary Oldman trivia: the name of the pub. The Rose & Guild is from the play title "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead," a wonderfully satirical tangent from Shakespeare's "Hamlet" in which two witless messengers are sent by the depressed prince to their demise. In the film version of this, Gary Oldman portrays the loveably innocent Rosencrantz.
And please, if you've a moment and you've come this far, drop me a line / review. Honest feedback is appreciated by the by to see just what the readers like, don't like, question. Just a word ever so often to let me know you're still out there, eh? Thanks!
Oh, and this is another short chapter, with little action yet much conversation. But it really does have its purposes, as you'll learn later. Trust me. And please bear with me a bit longer on the 'non-action'.
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Chapter 2: Conversations Left Unsaid
"Have you tried the scalloped Grindylow, Sir Jameson? It's quite the thing," Mortimer Bailey said between bites, his laden fork already poised just steps from his half-full mouth.
"My dear sir, I cannot move past this delightful Yorkshire Pudding. Who'd have ever thought titchy bits of Satsuma could compliment such a dish? Not I, surely." Any further comment was cut short as his own lips wrapped about his silver, crested spoon. Hermione rolled her eyes. Their evening meal had begun with unabashed praising of the courses served. It then moved on to Quidditch, but returned to proper black pudding cooking techniques and mulling wine. It did hesitate for the briefest of moments on the fair treatment of house-elves (at which Hermione immediately honed into the discussion), but with one satisfied moan of culinary pleasure, had again fallen back to dining delicacies.
She toyed with her own meal, staring unseeingly at the runner beans between her tines.
"'Tis grand, sure," their host Chairman O'Shea interrupted with a smile, "but have ye indeed set upon these most enchanting apples? To be sure I've never set my eyes upon such beauty," he added, reverently holding aloft a large, polished deep-green apple. It was all Hermione could do not to snap to the party that it was only a bleeding apple, not some sanctified relic. What happened to the murmurs of treatises of trade between Romania and Ireland? The snippets of debate she'd heard in the entry hall over British-American educational exchange? Where were the intellectual discussions?
"Indeed I have, Chairman," Bailey answered with an excited brush to his voice. He was obviously delighted to share his experience. "Upon my visit to Glastonbury Abbey years ago, a priest offered a nosh of simple fare, but I recall vividly the beauty and succulent flavour of the apples he offered. Like none I'd ever encountered, I tell you. It seems they were a gift from the Mistress of Avalon…"
Hermione ground her teeth. Her mentor was obviously warming to his subject, and she could dismiss any hopes of meaningful conversation before pudding.
"Merlin himself frequented the Isle of the Blessed, where his protégé Arthur was interred. It is, as a matter of course, unplottable. The High Priestess there protects its location both for its unsurpassable fruit and artefacts of our history."
"Artefacts?" Diplomat McCaine prodded. Hermione's attention rose slightly. At least it was history, even if it did border on food. Ron would love this.
"Oh yes," Bailey continued, his fare forgotten as his voice hushed as though imparting juicy gossip. He leaned in over the table, encouraging his fellow diners do the same. "It is rumoured that the very wand used to defeat Grindelwald is displayed upon the garden altar there. It was never used again after that battle, and was donated as a gift of history to Merlin's great-something granddaughter. She was named after his wife Nimüe, I hear. But 'tis all speculation, of course," he qualified, his voice returning to normal as he reclined once again in his chair.
"Grindelwald. Now there was Dark Wizard if ever I'd seen one," commented Lady Bain, Ambassador for Northern Irish International Commerce. "Was just a wee lass when he came into the picture. Dark times, they were."
"Those were nothin' to the reigns of You-Know-Who," O'Shea said, his words a slight tremble. Murmurs of agreement rounded the table.
"Yes, but he's gone now, isn't he?" McCaine's aide asked from Hermione's end of the table.
"Not quite," Lady Bain answered. "He's only gone again. Rufus Scrimgeour won't discuss it, but the Ministry hasn't let up on security and intelligence."
"No one rightly knows what happened that night two years ago," O'Shea said. "The Prophet had gone on about You-Know-Who showing up personal-like in Muggle London then disappearin' again in the Ministry. There was a grand fight there again, just like two years before. And once again Harry Potter was in the strife of it. Only he and his companions know the tale, and they've said nary a word."
Hermione's skin prickled. She didn't like where this conversation was headed, but she knew she couldn't change its course. Her only hope was slip out of range.
Hoping for inconspicuousness, she set down her fork gently and subtly edged back her chair. An exit lay directly behind her, naught but metres. If she could only…
"Harry Potter?" Bailey enquired. "Why, my Hermione is best friends with the young man."
No, no. Please, no, Mr Bailey. Please don't. Don't ask. Please…
"Receiving owls all the time from him. They were at school together, if I recall. In fact, it seems she was there with him on the night in question." He turned and looked down the long table at her, his voice raised. "What-say, Hermione? What really happened that night? Did You-Know-Who really die?"
Hermione's eyes were wide, the fear coursing through her apparent on her face. This is what she wanted to avoid. This is what she absolutely did not want to discuss. And this is what everyone else wanted from her.
Silence enveloped the stately dining room. All eyes bore upon her form, curious and eager. Bile rose in her throat. The nightmarish memories began to cloud her mind and vision. She could not do this again. She would not do this – not for Bailey, not for a room full of diplomats, not for anybody.
Casting aside all pretense of stealth, Hermione rose abruptly, knocking back her high-back chair, turned and fled the room without a word. Calls followed her departure, but she ignored them, just as she ignored the guards at the front entrance. She was through the massive oak doors and down the curved garden steps before her blindness was complete. She paused limply, drained, and squeezed her eyes shut, allowing the saltwater to flee and restore her vision.
Why did he have to bring it up? Why? He knew she didn't like to discuss that event. After learning her relationship with The Chosen One, he'd plagued her with questions about that night for days. Respectful though she was, she had emphatically refused its discussion. And he had let it go, accepting her decision. Until now.
He didn't understand. None of them did. They weren't there. They didn't see what she had seen. They didn't face what she and her friends had faced. For her it was worse than the first fight in the Ministry in her fifth year. It was worse even than the attack on Hogwarts. Dumbledore's death was horrid, but she hadn't witnessed it. And she'd never witnessed him.
"Ms Granger?" A voice from behind startled her. She quickly brushed the tears from her face and composed herself.
"Yes?" she replied, her back remaining to her intruder. She concentrated on clearing the croak from her voice.
"Are you going to be all right?" His voice was young, sympathetic, friendly. She turned, finding herself facing a young wizard, not much older than she if at all. She'd seen him before, his dark features and short black hair distinctive in the Irish location. His voice was London, his face India. His black eyes reflected his tentative smile.
Her lips returned the gesture in reassurance.
"Yes. I'll be fine, Mr… er, I'm sorry. I don't know your name," she admitted, her sorrow temporarily forgotten in her lack of preparedness.
"Raj. Raj MacGregor." He held out his right hand in offering. Hermione clasped it distractedly, her face quizzical.
"MacGregor? But…" Her eyes blatantly took in his appearance. He laughed.
"I know; I get that all the time. I take after my mum. She was from a small village outside Calcutta. My dad's from Glasgow originally."
"Oh. But you've not a Scots accent," she reasoned, a brow quirking in thought. He released her hand as he answered, his smile still light and genuine.
"We moved about as I was growing up. I had a governess after Mum died." His voice softened as though a pain he'd long since hidden had resurfaced briefly.
"I'm sorry," Hermione said, sincerely so. She wondered at what had happened to leave him motherless at a young enough age to require a governess, and why he so had one rather than attending Hogwarts or another school of sorcery.
"It was long ago and –" Whatever he was going to say was cut short by the calls from the front door. Mr Bailey and Chairman O'Shea were calling to her, asking after her state. Though Hermione was sure they were genuinely concerned, she suddenly found herself with no desire to be in their company, questions and looks of pity, confusion or blatant curiosity thrown at her. She needed space.
"I'll be all right, sirs," she called back to them, hoping she sounded stronger than she felt. "I just need a bit of time, if you don't mind." Their assent was implied with their slight nods and retreating forms. Hermione sighed. "Thank you, Raj, for your concern. But I'll be fine, just as I said."
She turned and began to walk away aimlessly, the pebbled garden path giving gently beneath her feet.
"Would you mind my company?" Raj asked after her. He sounded hopeful, as though permission granted would be a rare joy. She paused, turning her head but slightly.
"If you wish."
His long stride caught quickly up to her, and she continued on, her gaze following the path as her mind wavered betwixt painful memories and current concerns.
They walked in companionable silence for a while, the fading light giving way to dusk, the dusk slipping into nightfall. Ground torches along the path lit themselves, guiding the pair through the landscaped grounds.
"Why did you move about so much?" Hermione enquired after a time. Her eyes remained on her surroundings and her step never faltered.
His answer was immediate, as though he'd been expecting the question.
"After my mum died so suddenly, my dad devoted all his time to his work. He's a map maker; we've traveled all across Britain, the Continent…" He heard her unvoiced question, and replied after a pause, "She was killed by one of his Death Eaters, just before his first downfall. I barely knew her."
Hermione stopped suddenly, her surprise evident. She wasn't expecting his answer a'tall, but even less so its content. Raj stopped after a couple lonely strides and turned to face her.
"Don't," he said, raising his palm to her. "Don't say it. It doesn't make my loss worse than others' just because she was murdered by his followers. Many lost more, often more brutally. Your friend Harry – he lost both his parents, and nearly himself. And, it seems, he's been marked as a personal vendetta as well."
"He has," Hermione supplied immediately, reluctant though she was to discuss Harry's business. But she felt she owed it to him to set the record straight. "And he's lost not only his parents, but the closest he's ever had to a father figure in both Dumbledore and Sirius. And Sirius never even had a chance at life." Raj nodded, a look of empathy upon his face. Then his brow furrowed darkly, his jaw set.
"One day, Ms Granger, Lord Voldemort will get his comeuppance. I promise you." With that he turned abruptly and set off back down the path.
Hermione watched him fade into the darkness, disconcertion flooding her thoughts. She'd seen determined, cold fury in his eyes, heard it in his voice, and not the slightest hesitation in using Voldemort's name. So her only question had become: who was Raj MacGregor? Really?