Author's Notes
I cannot begin to tell you how many places I started I stopped this chapter. I worried it was getting too long. I worried over flashbacks. I worried about having something from Ron's PoV and then Hermione's Pov. How many OCs is too many? I fretted quite a bit.
Finally, my mother aka the-world's-most-devoted-Snape/Hermione-fan (I should mention she's only reading a RoMione story because I'm the one who wrote it) scolded me for being too stingy with my chapters, and instructed me to just lump it all in. So you can thank my mum for the length of this chapter.
You can also thank my beta. Not only has she been tirelessly supportive of my writing, but she took the time to track down the correct grammar one uses when one writes about chess pieces - who knew?
All this to say: here it is, Chapter Eleven! There are a few new OCs that make brief appearances while we get to watch Hermione in stealth-mode at her office. I hope you enjoy.
(I do not own the rights to Harry Potter and his world. That lovely privilege belongs to the talented J.K. Rowling.)
Chapter Eleven
Ron watched Hermione disapparate into the night. How could his world suddenly seem less vibrant without her there? How was such a thing possible?
Already his skin was humming with longing, craving to be near her. He wanted to finish what they'd started. He wanted to run his hands over the soft hollows of her body and unravel all her secrets.
He groaned internally. If he were some sort of ladies' man or any sort of rogue-ish wizard, he would disapparate after her, and crush his lips to hers before either of them could think beyond the moment and their desires.
Instead Ron found himself helping his dad with a hover charm to move the tables back inside.
"It was nice to see Hermione again," his father said while they manoeuvred the first table back through the patio door.
"Watch your end Dad, it's drooping."
"And your mother's invited her back."
"Mm-hm," Ron agreed, focusing on settling the table in the kitchen. He glanced over to his father and found that Arthur was peering at Ron thoughtfully over his glasses.
"I always liked Hermione," he said at last.
"And why shouldn't you? She's a sweet girl, after all," Molly said from the kitchen, as though she hadn't spent the first half hour of Hermione's presence berating her.
Ron and Arthur had to look away from one another to keep from laughing, and Ron was thankful that his mother was too focused on stacking the plates in her preferred order to notice their silent exchange.
"Nightcap before you pop off?"
"Thanks Dad, but I should really be off. It's been a long couple of days, and tomorrow's only going to be make it longer."
"Another time then."
"G'night." Ron raised his wand and disapparated.
He wasn't ready to be alone in his apartment, not yet. His mind was still racing, still full of that night at Hex, full of the mad rush of seeing Hermione, kissing her, fighting with her, discovering her all over again and realizing that there was still so much he had to learn.
Darker than these thoughts, bubbling below all them, was the case. There was Bellatrix's son, the dead medi-witch who'd provided postnatal care, the blood-magic journal, Long live the King and the fact that Narcissa Malfoy was marked down as Bellatrix's emergency contact. It all had to mean something. It had to fit together.
He did not disapparate to his apartment. He didn't even return to the Ministry. All that would be waiting in those offices were lists, case files and unanswered questions.
He thought briefly of popping into the Leaky Cauldron. Neville would most likely be there helping Hannah tidy up, but Ron didn't apparate there either.
In the late hours of Sunday, Ron found himself standing before the twisted wrought iron gate of an old manor surrounded by acres of lush green land. He peered through the gates absentmindedly and stared out upon the far reaching grounds. Ron could make out gardens with azaleas and witch's primrose; a flower that gave a ladylike sigh at the subtlest of breezes.
"Auror Weasly," came a voice from the other side of the gate.
Ron looked down to see the orbed eyes of a house elf staring up at him through the twisting iron. Ron wasn't very talented at remembering all the different elves' names, and he felt a little guilty that he'd spoken with this particular elf many times and still had no idea what to call him.
He could practically hear a fourteen year old Hermione sounding scandalized and explaining to Ron the importance of names and manners and the general oppression of the poor creatures.
"Is he busy," Ron asked.
"It's late, Auror Weasley."
"So he's not busy?"
After a moment the elf sighed, resigning himself. "Follow me," he said and escorted Ron through the gate and across the manicured grounds. "A civilized wizard would announce himself by owl," the elf (Ron had come to think of as the Head Elf) said as they made their way toward the Manor.
Ron bit back a smirk. After enough years of dealing with this manor he'd learned that it doesn't pay to upset the elves. They could withhold tea and biscuits. They could mysteriously have trouble finding the 1966 Ogden's (sherry casked) Firewhisky. No, over the years Ron simply learned that he was best off acknowledging that he hadn't grown up with staff and would never appreciate some of the nuances and niceties required to be in such a posh place.
"Never been known for being civilized," Ron said with a shrug.
"Oh we've no doubt," the elf said gravely.
Once inside, Ron knew his way, but was escorted regardless. He was led to the family parlour through a door off the foyer. The room was warmly lit with the orange light of hovering orbs that circulated around the room. Despite the rather mild temperature outside, there was also a fire crackling brightly in a smooth, stone hearth.
"Auror Weasley. I wasn't expecting you, was I?"
The speaker was seated in a wingback chair, wearing a smoking jacket and carpet slippers. His pointed features were obscured by the book in front of him. His sleek, pale hair was brushed back off of his face and tucked behind his ears. It was kept a little longer than when he'd been in school. His first liberty after his father was exiled.
Ron gave another shrug. "Just in the neighbourhood. Not here in any official capacity."
Draco glanced up from his book. He was going to make Ron ask, Ron realized.
"Board's not still set up, is it?" Ron caved and shoved his hands into his pockets, forcing himself not to look around the room for their unfinished game.
Draco didn't answer straightaway. He marked his place, rested his book on the spindly side table that looked like it was capable of tottering along after it's master, and rose from his seat.
"It's just as we left it," Draco said with equal nonchalance, leading the way to a small sitting table with a Wizard's chess board carved into the wood. Bored, chattering pieces were spread about the game, halted in their strategies and attacks from when last Ron and Draco had played.
"Well look who decided to grace us with their return!" Said a disgruntled pawn. "I've had that rook staring me down for weeks!"
"Oy," called the rook. "You don't know what I'm going to do. You could just be a decoy. What makes you think you're so bloody important?"
Ron's right hand bishop shook its head and glanced to Ron for guidance as if to say: Please finish this match. Please!
Draco gestured for Ron to sit then turned to the house elf, still standing just within the door frame.
"Nod, a pot of…" Draco looked Ron up and down for a moment. "Cocoa please and deux pots."
Nod inclined his head in a slight bow and vanished with a sound like the crack of a whip.
"Duh poe?" Ron raised an eyebrow.
"They're bowls for drinking cocoa. I'm fairly certain it's a French custom."
"I'd be fine with a mug."
Draco gave him a smirk that not so long ago Ron would have thought of as arrogant. After so many years though Ron had come to think of that smirk as warm and joking.
"I promise you'll like it," Draco said arching one elegant, blond eyebrow.
Ron chose to ignore Draco's last comment and leaned forward in his chair to examine the game more closely.
"I can see you covering that smile," Draco needled. "You're trying to forget about the escargot."
"Piss off. Anything'll taste alright in butter and garlic."
Draco cracked a full toothy smile at that. "Oh, there's an untrained aristocrat in you. You have a very refined palate, and —"
"Stop distracting me you git, or I'll kill your queen."
"Well, I never," the black Queen cried, feigning a faint with her hand to her forehead.
Ron moved his knight and the game was on.
Ron couldn't pin down the moment that he'd started to like to Draco. Ron had long suspected that Auror work would bring him back in touch with the wizard he'd loathed so wholly during school, and he was right. Not a few months into his life as a fully fledged Auror and Ron was assigned to debriefing Draco Malfoy on the most recent Malfoy Manor raid.
He'd expected a cold, distant blood-purist full of sneers and contemptuous looks down his pointed nose. Instead Ron met Draco.
"Auror Weasley, now is it?" Draco had managed a look of disgust, but Ron could tell that his peer's heart wasn't in it. Draco looked two steps away from intentionally splinching himself. His eyes were hollow and distant. His skin was sallow and waxy. His hair was long enough that he had a it braided down his back.
Along with the suspicion that he would once again come face to face with Draco Malfoy, Ron had indulged many times in the fantasy of what it would be like to stare down his old bully, knowing that this time he had the power to bring that snivelling, arrogant git into the Ministry for questioning. In that moment though, Ron found that he felt, of all things, sorry for Draco. Ron knew only too well what it was to be noticed for all the wrong reasons.
"Yeah," Ron said with a shrug. "Guess they'll let in anyone these days."
Draco gave a ghost of a smile. "Beat me to it," he said. "I suppose you want to know about the dungeon, and… and all the rest of it."
And in that moment, Ron made a decision, and gave another shrug. "Yeah, but we don't need to get into it just yet. Got any tea? I could murder a cuppa."
"Quite frankly Weasley —"
"Ah, ah, ah. It's Auror Weasley now, and I doubt you want to say something I could use against you."
From the dull grey of his eyes Draco stared daggers, but he rang for an elf and requested a tea service.
Several minutes passed in silence until the a young elf with sparkly magenta eyes rolled in a tea trolley with a polished silver service.
Ron couldn't contain himself. "You drink tea with this?"
Draco's brow furrowed as though the Auror had sprouted an extra head.
"What did you expect? The skulls of muggles? I'm not a monster Auror Weasley. I actually detest my father and what he put us through. I loathe and despise every artefact your department extracted from my home and I hate the majority of my childhood and formative years!"
During his last burst, he hurled the shining teacup across the room and into the fireplace, where it made a bright ting against the stone.
Draco was breathing hard and his cheeks were flushed.
Ron couldn't help himself, he dissolved into a fit of laughter. "Oh Malfoy," he said through tears. "I only meant - " he gasped for air. "My mum's tea pot is this cracked orange monstrosity made of pottery or something. I've never seen a tea this posh."
Draco stared at Ron blankly, while a feverish blush crept up along the back of his neck.
"This," Ron gestured to the tea service. "This is brilliant. My mum would be falling all over herself. Is it your mum's?"
"I…" Draco was lost for words. He stared at Ron with squinted eyes, trying to unravel the game the Auror was playing.
While Draco stared, Ron accepted the cup handed to him by the house elf and took a grateful swig.
"Yes," Draco said at last.
"And I know you're not a monster Draco. I've read your file. Three sessions a week with St. Mungo's mental health ward? Your mandatory sessions ended a year ago."
Draco accepted the teacup that his elf held out to him. She seemed completely unphased by her master's outburst. In fact, Ron noted, there was deep sympathy sparkling in her eyes.
"Believe it or not," Draco said while bringing the cup to his lips. "I've made real improvement."
They never did discuss the raid that afternoon. Instead, Ron noticed a Wizard's Chess board carved into the parlour table and they started to play.
"Once I could beat him, Father didn't play against me nearly as often."
There was something soft in Draco's voice. He stared across at the white pieces as though it had been far too long since he'd seen someone move one.
Ron was standing, hands in his pocket. Then he slid his far left pawn forward two spaces and waited.
Ron had to debrief Draco over a period of weeks, and both wizards found that it was much easier to tackle the list of abhorrent objects uncovered in Malfoy manor while bishops and rooks shouted instructions and criticisms.
While Ron and Draco played in the early hours of a fresh day, a silver tray appeared on the side table with a steaming silver pot that smelled of rich chocolate, a small silver bowl of whipped cream and two gleaming ceramic bowls, which Draco filled with dark cocoa. He spooned two generous dollops of cream on top and held out a bowl to Ron.
"How'm I supposed to hold that thing?"
"I'm sure you'll manage."
Ron took the chocolatey behemoth and couldn't help but enjoy the sensation of heated ceramic under this hands. The cocoa and cream slid down his throat thick and velvety, tasting of pure decadence.
"This isn't cocoa mate. But you're right, this is delicious."
Draco gave another smirk and sipped at his own bowl while Ron's rooks took one of his pawns. The game went on in silence. Draco slouched in his chair in a most ungentlemanly manner, with his elbows resting on the arms of the chair and his fingers steepled in front of him. His grey eyes, alive with strategy, gave away nothing.
Ron was leaning forward, elbows perched on the table with his bowl of cocoa in hand. He could feel his mind pulling back, and he very nearly let out a small noise of satisfaction. All the pieces clearly laid out and all the possibilities apparent. This was like rising out of the muck of his overworked brain to find solace in the calm of his true mind.
He slid a pawn forward, knowing that he could have the game in five moves.
He took another sip of cocoa.
"Where's Astoria," Ron asked.
"France. We replaced our China pattern and she's bringing the heirlooms to my parents."
"You needed another set of China? I don't even own one."
"It's like a wizard's chess move. Astoria's been slowly claiming the manor. The China is just a pawn."
"Really? Your mum'll be cross over dishes? It's just some frilly vines around the edging isn't. They all pretty much look alike."
"Only to an untrained eye Ronald (Draco always seemed to enjoy Ron's glare whenever his full name was bandied about). To people like my parents, China is status and taste."
"The almighty taste," Ron echoed in mock reverence.
"Merlin forbid a home be seen with anything that hasn't been handed down through seven generations. That would simply reek of trying."
"Agrippa's tits! We can't have that."
A smile cracked Draco's reserved facade and he slid his bishop to take one of Ron's knights.
"I do have a question or two," Ron admitted.
"You usually do."
"I try not to." Ron slid another pawn, ignoring the threat he was creating for his other knight. Four moves.
Draco didn't respond. After a minute he moved his queen halfway across the board, leaving Ron's knight alone.
"Does the phrase Long live the King. Mean anything to you?" Ron took one of Draco's pawns with his rook. "Check."
Three moves.
"No, but I'm guessing it should. Is it new?"
"We think so."
"I'll keep an ear out. What else?"
"You're stalling. You're in Check."
"I'm aware. What else?"
"What… I don't know." Could he really delve into this topic? How did he even broach the idea of Draco having family by Bellatrix Lestrage?
"Did you ever have - did your mum ever talk about a cousin, like a cousin that would be around our age."
Draco slid his king to the left, evading Ron's attack, but not for long.
Ron was ready to slide his pawn into place; then he noticed it. In moving his pawn he was about to leave his queen wide open. On his next turn, Draco would take Ron's Queen.
Draco gave Ron a bored look. "Oh just come on. Play the game properly."
"Keep your hair on."
Draco straightened in his chair. "Merlin's balls. Move that pawn and line me up for checkmate. I can see that I can't move my king far enough and that anything I do to take down any significant piece will take longer than it will take you to have me surrounded. Just make it quick." He shook his head. "Five bloody moves," he muttered under his breath.
Ron was still staring at his queen.
"Sacrifice the queen, already."
"Oy!" Ron's queen shouted, shaking her fist.
Ron hesitated one moment more before continuing to play. He felt oddly unsettled watching Draco take his last stab at glory by sweeping the White Queen from the board, before Ron declared checkmate. Something about the whole exchange left a bitter note in the air.
Draco consoled himself with a sip of cocoa. He looked thoughtful for a few moments, his grey eyes like a garden wall blocking Ron from the inner sanctum. Not for the first time, Ron wondered what it must have been like growing up in a world with no siblings - no one to call your bluff. His own eyes couldn't hold back such secrets. Fred or George would have poked and prodded the thoughts out of him in moments. Charlie would have taken the piss. Percy would have scoffed. Ginny would have teased. Bill would have tussled his hair.
What must it have been like to cultivate such a secrecy? Harry'd even confided that he knew Draco to be a frustratingly skilled Legilimens. The closest thing Ron could compare it all to was the way he felt when he played Wizard's chess - the ability to cordon off and compartmentalize.
Ron refilled his cocoa while Draco perused his own memories. For all Ron knew, Draco was concocting a brilliant lie. Months ago, Ron may very well have been suspicious of such a thing - only… only he'd read Draco's files. Paroled wizard's of the Second War were not privileged with closed St. Mungo's records.
Ron knew much more than he cared to.
And then there was the vertaserum. On Ron's third visit, while they were still playing their second game of Wizard's chess, Draco owled the Auror's Department and insisted on it. What Draco had to prove to Ron Weasley, was anyone's guess, but Draco had indeed insisted that they conduct the remainder of the debriefs with the insurance of the serum.
So Ron waited, and when Draco spoke, he could not help but believe him.
"My immediate thought is 'no'," Draco said at last. "But... honestly I'm not sure. I've never known of any cousins my own age."
Ron was sure he picked up a note of sadness in Draco's tone.
"I'll need to visit the villa - have a chat with mother. Give me until Tuesday. I'll know something then."
"I should take it with me, shouldn't I," Hermione asked Crookshanks.
It was Monday morning and Hermione was wearing fitted tweed dress pants, and a spring green blouse. Half of her hair was swept back, although the curls still fought the clutches of her hair clip, springing out in rebellious tendrils.
Around her neck rested a delicate gold chain ending in a glass rose. It felt warm and right, nestled just below her collarbone.
She hadn't put on any shoes yet, and she stood sock footed next to her bed, staring down at the empty Ollivander's box that waited to cradle her wand in its velvet bedding. The wand however was still in her grasp.
Crookshanks was curled up around the box like a fluffy orange guardian. His yellow eyes gave her a questioning look.
"I mean I'm working with the Ministry now, aren't I? I should have my wand."
The real question of course was where she was going to keep it. She wasn't a teenager or a student. She couldn't simply keep her wand in her jeans' pocket anymore. She knew that some witches had elegant leather arm guards that concealed their wands, but Hermione had never invested in one. There was really nowhere she could keep a wand on her person, and in the end she felt she had no choice but to keep in her handbag.
On the tube, she felt certain that someone would sense the presence of the wand there. She felt certain that someone would ask. She even started having vague fears of her wand accidentally setting off different pieces of technology in the office, or somehow crashing their wireless server.
Hermione was so lost in thought that she nearly jumped out of her skin when Lucy and some of their office cohorts gave a warm greeting.
"Good weekend, Hermione," asked a slender, dark haired man named Gerald.
She nodded. "And you?"
"Had to take Olivia to two birthday parties, one on Saturday and one on Sunday. I spend more money on stranger's children than on my own sometimes."
Some coworkers nodded in agreement – those who had kids of their own.
Lucy and another younger coworker named Marlene shared the half smiles of women who had no children to worry about, and eased themselves away from the group with a practiced shuffle until with the three of them were standing by one of the office windows.
"So," Lucy fixed Hermione with a firm look. "Tell me everything. How was catching up with Ron?"
"Who's Ron," Marlene jumped in.
"Old boarding school chum," Lucy supplied with waggling eyebrows.
"Really?" Marlene's bright blue eyes, grew wide in anticipation. "So… was it just as you remembered? Was he better? Was he worse?"
"He – we didn't get that far," Hermione confessed. In university, if Hermione shagged with a boy she would have been beat red in the face. Now, it felt more embarrassing not to have slept with someone. "We had a lot to discuss and I sort of ended up at his parents' for Sunday dinner."
Marlene and Lucy stared at Hermione as though she'd announced she was taking up recreational sneezing.
"He took you to his parents'?" Marlene's voice was pitched so high that Hermione quickly glanced around the rest of the office to see if anyone had stopped to stare at them. "Christ Hermione, Judy and I didn't meet each other's parents for six months. We pretended we didn't have any."
Something in Marlene's words smacked hard. Hermione had known that she would never be able to properly introduce anyone to her own parents - not Ron, not anyone… not as a lover or a partner or a husband. She'd known this for years, but Marlene's tone, her words, and now yesterday night at the Burrow, all of it brought the reality to the forefront of her mind as though a hand had gripped her heart and was squeezing with all its might.
"Um, well I already knew his family really well. It's –"
"Complicated," Marlene and Lucy finished for her.
"When isn't it?" Lucy added. "Boys are supposed to be the easy ones and somehow it's always: I love you, I can't see you, I want you to meet my parents but in two years, I don't believe in marriage but I want kids, I really like you but I just don't want to live together…"
"Did we stop speaking about Hermione," Marlene asked with a hint of cheekiness in her smile.
"Sorry," Lucy mumbled, shooting Hermione an apologetic look.
When work settled into its usual rhythm, Hermione found herself staring at the computer monitor like it was suddenly a foreign object. She'd just spent a weekend full of rooms that adjust to your feelings, flying place settings and magic spells. How could she possibly be back? She suddenly felt out of place in her own world, a step ahead her, with her skin ill-fitted. Paperwork seemed to pass before her eyes like a forgotten ancient language, familiar and yet foreign.
Almost instantly she found herself opening her messenger window just to escape the strangeness of it all.
Herm: We didn't shag. I went to his parents' house. I even met his boss! All that, and we didn't shag. Is that weird?
Luce: What? You're reading too much into this. you said yourself that it's complicated. Sex isn't just sex, it's history.
Luce: Did you guys ever shag before?
Herm: No.
Luce: Boarding school? and you didn't shag? Now, see, that's weird.
Herm: :P We were really, really good friends, and there was a lot going on. Also, he was thick, and jealous, and I was completely stuck up and stubborn and - it took me ages to admit that I liked him.
Luce: So there's all this pressure for the sex to be as good as you imagined it?
Herm: No, I don't think that's the problem. Actually, I think it will be amazing! We didn't exactly spend the weekend knitting.
Luce: I'm lost now. You think the sex will be brilliant. You even like his family. What exactly is the problem?
Hermione found that she had some very important phone calls to answer and important coffee to sip before answering.
Herm: *deep breath*, I think I still like him. I think that I REALLY like him. And sex, shagging, I think it's going to mean something.
Luce: I'm sorry. Isn't that what you want? Isn't that what all of us want?
Herm: Lucy, for as long as you've known me, how many boyfriends have a I had?
Luce: 0.
Herm: exactly.
Luce: OMG. Hermione Granger, you are terrified of having feelings for someone!
Herm: Ugh. I can imagine you smiling right now.
Luce: Hermione fancies a boy! Hermione fancies a boy! (I'm singing that btw)
Herm: I hate you.
Luce: Only because you're busy using all your positive feelings on a boy!
Luce: In all seriousness though, if you're worried about the sex then wait. There's no time limit on sex, especially when you have a complicated history. Marcus and I slept together straight away and waited for it to mean something, and look how that turned out. You have the opposite problem. Roll with it.
Herm: I'm a horrible friend. How was the rest of your weekend?
Luce: pathetic and lonely, but thank you for asking.
As the day wore on, Hermione raced through forms and processing, stealing spare moments to search through the database, not quite certain what she was after, but hoping it would be clear once she stumbled in the right direction.
Names. Ordinary and intriguing names whizzed by.
Joshua Barnes
Age: twenty-six
Born: Vancouver, Canada.
Hector Wiseman
Age: twenty-six
Born: Paris, Texas.
Already her task felt hopeless. Depending on the circumstances an applicant could have changed their name. They could have assumed another identity with polyjuice. They could have simply lied and used false documents. Bellatrix Le(s)trange's son could be any of the names flashing on the monitor screen.
Except…
Well it wasn't really much to go on, was it? Nothing to go on but a panic attack over a last name, and a name that would likely have been changed, at that.
Thomas Strange. That had been the name, the last name Hermione entered Friday night before the club, before Ron and before magic had found a way of sneaking back into her world.
Ridiculous. Surely a small organization of dark wizards smuggling someone into the country or out of the country would think to change a wizard's last name.
Except…
Well except the muggle world wouldn't think of Lestrange or even Strange as, well, strange would they? It was just another name with no real significance. Wasn't that exactly what the Auror department was looking for?
She'd even felt something off about the name the moment she'd looked at it, as though it was significant. That in and of itself didn't mean much… except Thomas was also His name, wasn't it? Voldemort's name: Tom Riddle . Thomas Strange.
Was it such a reach?
Could it be a place to start?
She pulled up Thomas Strange's immigration paperwork from the database. The words In Progress were in green next to his name, and they sent an unexpected chill down Hermione's back.
Tap, tap, tap.
"Is that an owl," asked someone in the office.
Hermione's head shot up. She stood so that she could see above her cubicle and found that others were standing as well, glancing along the large glass windows of the office floor where not one, but two owls, were flapping furiously and tapping to be let in.
"Is that a pouch on its leg?"
"Like a carrier pigeon?"
"Someone grab their mobile!"
Unless there's another witch in the building, those are definitely for me! With her coworkers expertly distracted, Hermione slung her bag over her shoulder and snuck to the ladies rooms.
She knocked on all the cubicles before locking the door to the toilets. Then Hermione crossed to the small window on the other side of the room. It wouldn't budge. All of the windows were locked above the third floor.
She put her handbag to the floor and extracted her wand, glancing over the shoulder again as though someone was bound to break the door down at any moment.
"Alohamora," she whispered. A tingling sensation ran through her whole body. A soft click announced that the window was now unlocked, and as if sensing the use of magic, the two owls appeared at the window, tapping furiously.
"Alright, alright get in."
They hooted softly, but urgently, the sounds echoing around the room. Their talons made little clicking noises on the tiles as each owl fought to be first deliverer.
"Yes, yes, you're both very good owls."
She recognized the tawny owl as the one from St. Mungo's and pulled his message first, stashing it in her purse to read in a moment, then she moved on quickly to the second owl.
"I think I have a snack bar in here…" She opened every pocket in her handbag, stumbling on a half eaten fruit and grain breakfast bar that she split between them.
With another glance at the door Hermione began to scan the message from St. Mungo's.
Ms. Granger,
St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries is pleased to inform you that your post-trauma medi-witch (Rosalie Knight) has developed a recovery program that be implemented immediately, following your approval. Please find enclosed a recovery schedule and details concerning various treatments.
You have been scheduled for a program confirmation appointment Thursday afternoon at 4pm. Your emergency contact will also be notified of this appointment.
Please send your confirmation as soon as possible.
Sincerely,
Deputy Dept. Head L. Brown
Trauma and Post-Trauma Care Ward
The next page was a small, thicker page, almost like card stock. It was marked with the embossed seal of St. Mungo's.
Post-Trauma Care Ward Recovery Plan of Action
Patient: Ms. Hermione Jean Granger (F) (Human)
Age: 27
D.O.B.: 19 September, 1979
Wand: 10¾ inches, Vine, Dragon Heartstring
Plan of Action:
Counseling
Pensieve, regression therapy (as required)
Cat's Cradle treatment (as required); trauma binding
Cat's Cradle? Hermione found herself staring over the treatment, searching for some sort of useful information beyond the children's' string game - and what exactly was trauma binding? For a moment she latched onto the instinctive feeling of I'll-just-have-to-check-in-the-library, but that sensation died in a breath leaving a gaping hole in its wake. She didn't own any magical books. Not much. Not anymore.
A deeper swell of happiness suddenly began beneath that sensation though. I'll have to pop into Flourish and Blotts, she realized. It was enough to make Hermione want to clock off for lunch early and apparate to the Leaky Cauldron.
The ruffled sounds of the second owl preening under his wing brought Hermione back to the present.
She needed to clear out of the ladies room before someone came knocking on the door.
The second message read:
Hermione,
So, maybe this is too soon, but it already feels like we need to see more of you. Keep the ball rolling. Are you free for dinner sometime this week?
Harry&Ginny
A little burst of delight swelled inside her at the note.
In a rushed hand, on the yellow sticky-notes in her purse, Hermione wrote out quick replies to return with the owls. On confirmed her Thursday appointment. Hopefully she would be well versed in various trauma care methods by then.
The other note, she tried not to overthink.
H&G,
Is tonight too soon? Meet me at the Leaky Cauldron around 6. Pints on me.
H
xx
They might not be able to find a sitter, but at least they'll know I'm game, she decided with a nod. She strapped the note to the owl before she had a moment to second guess herself.
"Now get out of here. Next time, wait until I'm at home to deliver the mail."
With a ruffle of their feathers at the indignation of being accused of doing their jobs incorrectly, both owls took off in silent flight, leaving only a smattering of bird dropping behind on the tiled floor.