Chapter Four
French Toast
Ron landed with a resounding thud on the floor of a dingy apartment in downtown Munich. Grumbling to himself that he still hadn't managed to be able to land on his feet when travelling by portkey, he stood up and dusted himself off. His first thought was that his mother would have a heart attack if she'd been forced to live in such a place – absolutely everything was covered in dust, dirt, or a combination of the two. Even Ron wrinkled his nose at the condition of the couch, which looked rather moth-eaten. A shabbily put-together coffee table stood in front of the couch, and on the opposite wall was – surprisingly – a television set. From the bits and pieces of information Ron and learned from his father and Harry, Ron guessed that the set was probably from the 1970s, but he couldn't be entirely sure. On the far wall was what Ron assumed was a door leading to a small balcony, but it was covered in thick tapestry curtains that looked almost antique but were also a bit moth eaten.
On his other side, to his right, was the kitchen. The floor – which probably used to be white – was a dingy yellow color and made of cheap linoleum. The cabinets were all made of plywood and painted white, but they naturally were covered in a thin layer of dirt and were covered with handprints. A tiny table with two plastic chairs stood beneath the small window. The appliances looked to be from about the same era as the television and Ron wondered if they even worked at all anymore. His stomach growled and he realized he was going to be forced to figure out how to cook on his own. Pushing that horrifying thought away, he walked down the small hallway which contained three doors: two on the right and one on the left.
Trying the first door on the right, he found a tiny bathroom. The floor was covered in the same linoleum that graced the kitchen and the small sink and toilet were made out of very old porcelain that had yellowed the same way the rest of the place had. The sink had rust stains all inside of it around the faucet and drain and the toilet hadn't fared much better. The small corner shower looked almost too small for Ron to step into and was also decorated with rust stains. Wondering if Robertson just totally and utterly failed at cleaning spells, Ron tried the second door on the right.
What he guessed was Robertson's bedroom greeted him, and Ron was slightly surprised to see that it was marginally cleaner. The bed wasn't dirty, anyway, though it was unmade. The floor looked well traveled, but the tall dresser and nightstand both had a nice layer of dust on top of them.
It wasn't until the final door – the door on the left of the hallway – that Ron reached the jackpot. Beyond that door was a room that was clearly magically enlarged and so spotlessly clean that it erased all of Ron's doubts about Robertson's magical cleaning abilities.
It contained a vast, fully functional, and expertly stocked potions laboratory. Ron was almost blinded by the bright whiteness of everything it contained. Even the cauldrons on the center table were made of glass, not pewter or iron like at Hogwarts. Some were empty but others contained potions that were still brewing. Along every wall were white cabinets with glass doors which held every sort of potion ingredient imaginable, and some that Ron had never even heard of. Along every surface were parchments, scattered everywhere. A quick glance at a few told Ron that they were all most likely notes on each potion Robertson was making, had ever made, or ever planned to make, but he knew that he would have to look into every nook and cranny of this laboratory to see if he could find anything useful at all for Simon.
Sighing, he sat down on a stool in front of the table and commenced reviewing every last piece of parchment he could find.
Hermione landed in Harry's fireplace and stepped out, coughing and sputtering. She brushed a few soot spots off of her slacks before she realized that the house was totally quiet. She heard no footsteps, no water running, nothing. Checking her watch, she saw that it was only eight thirty and she presumed that Harry was probably still asleep.
Hermione debated for a moment on whether she should sit and wait for him to wake up, or go home and come back later, or to march upstairs immediately and wake him so she could unload all her worries on him.
It didn't take long for the last option to win out, but as Hermione walked up the stairs she tried to convince herself that she had decided on that choice because it was Harry's right to know everything about this mission as soon as possible, and not because she simply wanted someone to talk to and share her worry with…
Harry lived in a moderately sized home in a suburb of London. It was decorated as many bachelor's homes were: sparsely. Hermione wondered how long it would take once he and Ginny got married before Ginny put a woman's touch on everything in the house.
She arrived at Harry's bedroom door and was unsurprised to see that it stood open. As Harry lived alone and without any pets, there wasn't much reason to keep the door closed. She stepped quietly inside the room and to the side of Harry's queen sized bed. It was a four-poster, reminiscent of his days at Hogwarts, but it was easily the most extravagant thing in the room by a long shot. Harry was sleeping on his stomach with his arms poking out and resting above his head on the pillow.
He was snoring, but not nearly as obnoxiously as Ron did, Hermione noted.
"Harry…" she said quietly. Naturally, that achieved nothing.
"Harry," she said again, a bit louder this time. He still didn't move. She lightly touched his shoulder and pushed him a little.
"Harry…" she said, drawing his name out. He stirred, then quieted. Hermione huffed.
"Harry James Potter!" she snipped sharply, and Harry's eyes shot open. In the span of close to two seconds, he gasped, jerked in the bed, squirmed around, and reached for his wand on the bedside table before he realized that it was Hermione standing over him.
She handed him his glasses and he put them on, panting.
"Jesus, Hermione, what in the bloody hell…" he grumbled, then glanced at his bedside clock. "Shouldn't you be at work?" he asked.
"I was," she answered. "That's why I'm here."
"And that's supposed to mean…?"
Hermione sighed.
"Just get up and get some clothes on. I'll be in the kitchen making tea," she said, and walked back downstairs and to the kitchen. With a few flicks of her wand there was a fire under the tea kettle and two tea cups with tea bags in them waiting on the table.
Harry tromped down the stairs just as the kettle was whistling. Hermione poured the boiling water into both of their cups as he sat down. His hair was still mussed from the bed – though, Hermione supposed, it always looked like that – and he was wearing a plain pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. His feet were bare and his eyes were a bit red from tiredness.
"I apologize for coming over unannounced and waking you," she said as she sat down.
"S'okay," said Harry, not looking at her and stirring his tea. "Isn't Simon wondering where you are?" he asked.
"Simon… gave me the day off today," she explained. Harry looked up at her curiously.
"That's unusual."
"Yes, well, it came with the clause of coming here and briefing you on what Ron and I were told this morning when we arrived at work."
Harry regarded her curiously. "Does this have to do with that Robertson guy I was helping you guys research?"
She sighed heavily.
"Yes, Robertson has everything to do with this…"
"Go on…"
"You saw the article in the paper, I'm sure, that said he'd been sighted?"
Harry nodded.
"Yes, well… apparently the Ministry managed to capture him."
"Oh?" Harry asked curiously. Hermione nodded. "What did they find out in his questioning?" he asked.
"Unfortunately... not much," she admitted. "It seems that he modified his own memories, and then broke his wand and removed the core so that they can't be recovered."
"So he knew they were coming for him, then?" Harry said.
"Yes. It also appears that his memory job was botched so badly that he's caused himself to go insane… They said they found him sitting on a deserted street corner muttering to himself."
"Poor bloke," said Harry.
"What they did find out," Hermione pressed on, "is where he was living – in Munich, Germany – and that he was back into making and selling illegal potions and that he had a laundry list of clients he was going to sell to."
"Where's the list?" Harry asked.
"They're not sure," Hermione said. "He didn't have it in his possession so they think it's at his apartment." She sighed. "This morning they sent Ron to go look for it."
Harry's eyebrows raised.
"Ron is also charged with the responsibility to stay there as long as necessary – perhaps even months – to arrest everyone on the list in secret in the guise of Robertson. No one knows he's been caught. As far as the rest of the world knows, he's still at large. The Ministry wants his clients to play right into their hands."
Harry just stared.
"Simon has asked me to brief you on Ron's mission and to recruit you as his temporary full-time replacement until he returns, whenever that may be. He's not allowed to come home at all while he's on this mission."
Harry let out a long breath.
"That's great for Ron, that's for sure, but… how are you taking that?" he asked. Hermione bit her lip before replying.
"I'm fine. We've all been through worse, after all…" she said. Harry wasn't convinced, but let it drop.
"I'm here if you need me, and of course I'll come in as Ron's replacement," he assured her. She smiled.
"Thanks, Harry."
"I'm guessing all of this is confidential? I mean, I know Ginny and Mrs Weasley at the very least are going to want to know where Ron is…"
Hermione paused.
"Yes, it's all confidential. We can just tell them that he's been called away on a mission for an undetermined period of time and that all of the details are classified."
"Mrs Weasley is not going to like that," Harry noted.
"No, she's not, but I'm not losing my job just to make her feel better," Hermione said.
"I know. I wouldn't either. Ginny will probably take it better," Harry said. "Maybe we should go tell Ginny and then have her tell her mother herself?"
Hermione giggled. "Nice idea, but that's not very fair to Ginny."
"Better her than you," Harry said, smiling.
"That's no way to talk about your fiancée!" Hermione scolded him.
"Hey, it's her mother not yours," Harry reasoned.
"Well, I'm all for the idea of going to tell Ginny, but how about we let her decide who tells her mother?"
"All right by me," said Harry. He glanced at the clock above the stove. "It's only nine, George's shop doesn't open until ten. Why don't we go out and grab some breakfast at the Three Broomsticks before we stop by to see her?"
"Sounds lovely as long as you're buying," she said coyly.
"I can manage that, I think," said Harry, standing. "Just let me go upstairs and put on something a little warmer…"
Ten minutes later they were sitting down in the Leaky Cauldron and the barman had walked up to them to take their breakfast orders.
"Start you both with some coffee?" he asked.
"Absolutely," said Harry, before Hermione could respond. Two mugs of coffee immediately appeared in front of them.
"And for breakfast this morning?"
"I'll have the oat—" Hermione began, but Harry cut her off.
"Two of the French toast platters, please. One for each of us. And bring extra syrup and sugar. Strawberries wouldn't hurt either."
The barman raised an eyebrow but chuckled as he walked away.
Harry beamed at Hermione. She glared in return.
"What on earth was that about?" she demanded.
"I absolutely refuse to pay for your blasted oatmeal and yogurt you insist on eating for breakfast. If I'm paying, you're eating something decent."
"Oatmeal and yogurt is decent…"
"Decent for someone who is trying to lose fifty pounds, not you," Harry finished. "In case you haven't noticed, Hermione, you don't need to lose any weight. Live a little. Eat something ridiculously sweet, fattening, and awful for you."
Hermione scowled.
"Please? For me?" he asked. She wrinkled her nose at him.
"Fine. Just this once I will compromise my healthy eating habits for the sake of Harry Potter…"
"Thank you," he smiled. She continued scowling. "Oh come on, Hermione, it's not that bad… lighten up and at least give me a smile… you're so beautiful when you smile."
She couldn't help but to smile at that comment but she tried desperately to ignore the small flutter of butterflies it awoke in her stomach. Ron didn't compliment her appearance much… he said she looked nice every once in a while, and on rare occasions a stellar word like "gorgeous" would slip out, but other than that, he was very sparse in the adjective category.
"Are you saying I'm not beautiful the rest of the time?" she asked, smirking.
"Maybe," he jabbed. She glared at him. "I'll change my answer if you finish the whole plate of French toast," he said. She rolled her eyes.
"If I didn't know better I'd think you were twelve…" she said.
"I try," he smiled. "Ah, here we go…"
Hermione looked up to see the barman arriving with two identical steaming plates. He put one down in front of each of them.
"Enjoy!" he called as he walked away. Hermione stared down at the plate in front of her and felt her stomach gurgle at the prospect of having to polish it all off… On the plate lay three large and thick pieces of perfectly cooked French toast, drenched in syrup, topped with strawberries, and sprinkled all over with powdered sugar.
A glance at Harry showed he was positively beaming.
"You've got to be joking…" she muttered.
"I think you can do it," Harry said. "You can't say it doesn't look amazing…"
He was right. She definitely couldn't deny that it was probably the most delicious looking dish she'd seen in a very long time.
Half an hour and a very full stomach later proved that.
"I don't think I'm eating anything else for a week…" Hermione groaned.
"You'll change your mind on that, I'm sure," said Harry. Hermione glared at him.
"Well, I finished it. Every last bite. Going to change that answer from earlier?" she demanded. Harry smiled.
"Yes, Hermione. You are beautiful all the time, every last second of the day, even after you've been fighting an epic battle for my sake, or when you've first woken up in the morning, or when you're wearing a baggy night shirt…" He paused, then cast his eyes down at his own empty plate as he continued softly, mischievously, "or when you've been crying and I'm holding you in my arms…" – he saw her stiffen out of the corner of his eyes – "and especially that wonderful night together by the fire in the tent…" As he said this he glanced up and met her gaze. Neither of them said anything for a moment.
"Harry…"
"Yes, Hermione?" he answered quietly.
"I… we haven't… I mean… we never…"
"Talked about it?" Harry finished.
"Yes… exactly…" she said. "It was… almost like it never happened."
"I thought that's the way you'd want it," he admitted. "Especially after Ron came back."
"Yes, I did… I mean, no… I… Harry… you know I enjoyed it…"
"As did I."
"And I wanted it, I wanted it so desperately…"
"But you loved Ron."
"And you loved Ginny!" she hissed.
"I did. And still do." He paused. "Why did you want it so badly, Hermione? Why did you want us to share something so special? Not only sex, but each other's virginity?"
"Do you regret it?" she asked quietly, not meeting his eyes.
"No," he answered. "I don't."
"Neither do I," she whispered.
"But why, Hermione?" Harry asked again gently.
"I was lonely… I was scared… We lived in that tent never knowing if we were even going to see the next sunrise… I couldn't bear the idea of dying alone, feeling unwanted, never having had that physical pleasure…"
"Before we kissed you'd said to me that you didn't want to die alone. I will never forget that. Hearing you say that is what broke my resolve."
Hermione gazed at him in silence for a moment.
"It just felt… right… to do it. You were my best friend, I was closer to you even than Ron… it just seemed like we were supposed to share something that intimate…" she explained.
Harry looked at her calculatingly.
"Whether it was right or not, I'm not sure," Harry began, "but I can say with total assurance that I do not regret it and I am glad I could share something so special with you."
Hermione smiled a small smile at him. "You're always going to be my best friend, Harry."
"You, too," Harry replied. He looked up as the barman walked over.
"Everything was satisfactory, I trust?" he asked them.
"Excellent," Harry answered.
"Yes, it really was," Hermione agreed.
"Anything else I can get you?" the barman asked.
"Oh goodness, no, I couldn't possibly eat anything else!" Hermione exclaimed. "Just the check will be fine."
The barman smiled at her.
"Madam, everything for Harry Potter is always on the house," he said, and walked away.
Hermione stared after him, dumbfounded, before turning on Harry.
"You lying, cheating, dirtbag!" she cried. "You weren't paying at all! I could have ordered anything I liked!"
Harry was beaming.
"Are you really going to get mad at me for giving you the most delectable thing you've eaten in a month?"
Hermione spluttered for a moment before giving in.
"I suppose not…"
"I thought so," Harry said. He glanced at his watch. "It's a bit past ten. Care to head over to see Ginny?"
"Might as well," Hermione replied. "No use putting off the inevitable."
"I'll let you do the talking," Harry said. "I don't want to reveal anything I shouldn't."
"Thanks," Hermione said. As they stood up and went out the back door and through the entrance to Diagon Alley, Hermione found herself wondering about Ron and what he had found when he got to Robertson's flat. She briefly wondered if he'd be able to manage everything on his own… but then, of course he could. If Simon had faith in his abilities, why shouldn't she? Of course, she couldn't deny that things would be going a lot faster if he'd sent them both…
She mentally shook herself. Simon was head of the Auror office and his orders were law. There was no use trying to justify good reasons to herself why she should be there with Ron.
She just plain missed him. Already. Simple as that.
