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Chapter 12: No Word and Digging for Information:

It had been two days since she had heard from Draco and she wasn't the least bit concerned. No sir, it didn't bother her in the least. If she never heard from him again, she would be just fine.

She dressed in a pretty, bright orange dress and sandals, grabbed an apple, a bottle of water, a notebook, a pen, and stuffed everything in a large bag. She went out the door and locked it (with magic thank you very much).

She decided to walk to the village. It was such a pretty day, and she didn't want to waste one second of her holiday. She wanted to enjoy everything: every ray of sunshine, every cloud in the deep blue sky, every breeze that blew her hair in her face. She wanted to savor it all, because no one knew how long it might last. She would have to go home and re-enter the real world some day.

But not today.

She found the hall of records and opened the door. There was a little bell on top of the door that clanged when she entered. There was a long counter across the room dividing the small building from a makeshift lobby, which consisted of three hardback chairs lined up along the wall of windows. A man came up to the counter and smiled. It was Phillip Cranston.

"Mr. Cranston, what are you doing here?" she asked.

"I might ask you the same. I work here. Well, let me rephrase that. My great uncle works here, but he's been ill lately, so I come in once or twice a week to do his job, which consist of sitting around and doing nothing. Now, what are you doing here?"

"I need some information," she said. She wasn't sure she wanted to, or could, trust this man. He did work for Draco, and according to Harry, Draco was a prime suspect in the case of the missing letters. Hermione almost laughed at herself when she thought of it in that perspective. She said, "I want some information about Miriam Weasley, the former owner of the cottage where I'm staying. It's kind of for my book, although my book is fiction. Anyway, let's just say I'm curious about her."

"Well, I grew up here, and I can probably tell you a bit, and I'm sure there's records on her here," he said. He lifted a piece of the counter so she could join him on the other side. As she crossed over he said, "Too bad my uncle Morris isn't here. He probably knew her personally. He's 102 years old."

"What?" she laughed. "That's old, isn't it?"

"Not that old, for wizards. Some grow to be much older," he said. He started to pull out a drawer in an old file cabinet, which was at the back of the room, in the last row. He said, "Here are copies of her records. Her birth certificate and death certificate should be in there." She leaned over his shoulder and then took the fragile papers from his hand.

She read aloud, "Miriam Constance Weasley, born April 14th, 1906." She read some more and said, "She was born in this village." She continued to read and said, "It says she was the only child of a Robert and Ophelia Weasley. So, how was she related to Mr. Weasley?"

"You mean Percy Weasley's father?" Phillips asked. "I went to school with Percy. He was always such a stuffed shirt."

She laughed and said, "He still is."

Phillip pulled open another drawer. He said, "Let's see, U, V, here it is. W. Let's look up Robert Weasley. Yes, see, his father was a George Weasley. That might be Percy's grandfather."

She said, "I don't know if that was his name or not, but could be. So Miriam wouldn't have been Mr. Weasley's aunt, but his cousin?" She seemed confused. She read Robert's file. She said, "Why would he call her his aunt?"

"Maybe she was so much older than him, and he thought of her as an aunt. Sometimes the relationship lines get messed up along the way," Phillips explained. "Find out first if George is Mr. Weasley's father."

She nodded. She said, "Can I have copies of all of these?"

"Sure, do whatever you want. I need to go upstairs for a moment." She took her wand and copied all of Miriam's records, as well as the other Weasley's records, into her notebook by touching the tip of her wand to the page, and then touching it again to the notebook. When she was finished, she called up the stairs, "Mr. Cranston?"

Phillip walked back downstairs. "Yes, Miss Granger? And you may call me Phillip, if you'd like."

"Phillip," she repeated, "will you tell me where the local graveyard is? I want to see her grave."

"Why, you made a copy of her death certificate didn't you?"

"I didn't see one in there," she said.

He frowned and looked back through the files. "Well, it has to be there. My uncle keeps very accurate records."

"Maybe someone removed it," she said.

"Doubtful. This place might look antiquated, but there's very powerful protection spells on all the records. For instance, if you had tried to make copies without asking first, you would have not been very pleased." He smiled.

She couldn't help but smile back. She leaned forward and asked, "What would have happened?"

"Let me ask you something," he said, "would you look as pretty as you do now if you were bald?"

She laughed and said, "Oh the horror."

"Seriously," he said, "there are protection wards and charms on everything, so a file like that couldn't have just disappeared."

"Maybe she didn't die here in the village," she wondered aloud.

"Let's go to that graveyard and find out. Now you have me curious," he said.

They walked along the cobbled streets and Hermione said, "I have to admit, I didn't like you at first."

"I couldn't tell," he said dryly. Then he said, "But seriously, I was there to more or less break your date with Malfoy, so of course you didn't like me. Do you like me better on closer inspection?"

"Maybe," she said.

He said, "You are much too truthful for me. I don't know how to deal with someone so forthright." He led her down a small alley, and then past a large, wooden, grey boarded up church. He pointed beyond the building and said, "The graveyard, my dear."

"Well, on to work," she replied.

They both searched the large graveyard for hours. Sometimes they searched separately, and sometimes in tandem. She found herself telling him everything, though she wasn't sure why. She told him about the letters, the paintings, and the fact that someone stole them all. She told him she just had to find out if Miriam and Otto Malfoy were married or not. She didn't tell him about the last letter, the only one she had left. So far, she hadn't told anyone about that, and she wasn't sure she ever would. However, if the last letter was true, then they were never married.

The place was massive, covering much land, and Hermione was about to give up when she heard Phillip call out, "I think I found it!"

She ran toward his voice. He was on his knees, moving aside vines and undergrowth. Hermione squatted down beside him. She read the marker. "Miriam Constance Weasley. Born April 14, 1906, died March 1, 1932. My, she was young. She died at age 25 years old, almost 26. That's younger than I am. That's so sad."

"Yes, it is," he agreed. She wished she had a camera to take a picture of the marker, but instead she wrote down the information in her notebook. She said, "She never married, apparently, or had children."

"Did you really think she did?" he asked.

"No, I was just commenting on the fact." She stood up and said, "The sun is so bright and it's so warm today. I think I'll go back to the cottage."

"Don't you want to see her picture?" he asked.

"Where's her picture?" she asked back, excited.

"Come with me." They walked back the way they had come, and he took her to an old stone building. It was a small house, and outside was a sign that read, "Historical Society."

They entered and a young woman was sitting at the desk. Phillip said, "Hermione, this is my younger sister, Adelphia. She runs the historical society."

"Does you whole family work for the village?" she asked.

His sister laughed and said, "Most of the citizens work for the village. Did you know during the off-season, there are only about 300 people who live here? During the summer months, like now, It swells to 5000 or more. Most of the people only have vacation homes here now, and the resorts and hotels are always packed with people on holiday. Our parents run one of the hotels."

Phillip leaned over toward Hermione and said, "The answer is yes, the whole family works for the village." He turned to his sister and said, "Delphie, will you look in the archives and see if you have a portrait, or a tintype, or maybe even a painting of a Miriam Weasley?"

She nodded and headed up the stairs. Hermione turned to Phillip and said, "Awfully good of you to help me, Phillip."

"Are you sure this is for a piece of fiction, and not for a piece of nonfiction?" he asked.

"It's more for my morbid curiosity, but I am writing a historical novel, which is a romantic mystery, and I have to admit, this is feeding my muse, so to speak."

He laughed as his sister came down with a small frame in her hand. "There wasn't one of a Miriam Weasley, but I said a little spell to draw out any pictures of anyone named Miriam and I found this. It's an old tintype photograph of a woman in a wedding dress, but the back says Miriam Malfoy."

Hermione and Phillip both took a deep breath at the same time and looked at each other. Phillip said, "I think your mystery just took on another turn."

Phillip ended up asking Hermione to lunch. She agreed. They were just being served their food when Malfoy walked into the restaurant, followed by Lucius and Narcissa, and a beautiful woman Hermione had never seen before. The woman was carrying a baby. A beautiful little baby. It had to be Draco's baby, Thomas Michael.

She ducked her head. Phillip asked, "Is anything wrong?"

He turned in his seat and saw who had entered. Just as he turned to look at them, Malfoy noticed Phillip and Hermione. He said something to his party and then walked over to their table.

"Phil, what are you doing here?" he asked. Hermione wondered why his question was directed at Phillip and not at her.

"It's called eating, my dear man," Phillip said. "I believe you are well acquainted with my lovely companion, Hermione."

Draco looked back over at his table. His father was now looking directly at them. He turned back to Hermione and Phillip and said, "Of course I know her. You bloody well know I know her." He took Hermione by the arm and lifted her from the seat. He moved her toward the back of the restaurant, near the toilets.

"What are you doing here with Cranston?" he asked.

"What are you doing here with your parents?" she asked. She wanted to say, 'and your child and his mother,' but she refrained.

"I'm sorry I haven't called on you since Saturday. It's been a strange weekend," he said.

"Is that your son?" she asked.

"Yes."

"He's a beautiful child," she said. She started to leave, but he grabbed her arm.

"Why are you here with Phil?" he asked again.

"He's helping me dig up things on Miriam and Otto," she said.

He let go of her arm and said, "Damn it, Hermione, just leave all of that alone. Someone apparently doesn't want you to find out anything about them, and yet here you are openly pursuing information!"

"It doesn't concern you," she begged.

"Everything you do concerns me," he said.

"Maybe you just don't want me to dig up any dirt that will soil your own name, huh?" she asked.

"I don't even know what you mean by that!" he said. "Listen, I have to get back out there. May I come see you tonight?"

"I don't think so. I don't want to mess up anything with you and your son, and I mean that sincerely. I'm not being spiteful, but until you can see me openly, you won't see me at all. I'm not Miriam. I won't be hidden away and shunned by you like Otto did to her."

"What?" he asked. "You are certifiable! One thing has nothing to do with another. Get out of your fantasy world. I'll come by tonight at seven."

He left her in the little breezeway. She took a deep breath, walked back out to a confused Phillip and begged, "I think I need a night out tonight, Phillip. I need to have some fun. This has been a sedate holiday so far. Care to show me what sort of nightlife this old village has?"

"I would be delighted," he said.

"Pick me up at 8:30," she said. She bent down, picked up her bag and walked out of the restaurant, head held high. Draco Malfoy would not act as if she was his dirty little secret. She had already been one man's dirty, little secret, and she would never be one again.

Coming up: Another Lie and a Letter