Mischief and Meddling at the Ministry…

25. Arrant Knaves All

Draco was still sleeping when they arrived at the Hotel Danemark the following morning. This didn't stop Harry from loudly barging into Draco's bedroom, leaving Hermione to fidget around the kitchenette making coffee.

She was still feeling sore and subdued after the previous night's events, despite Harry's best attempts at healing spells on some of the worst of her bruises. It had felt like a covert operation, and she was feeling a little ashamed for it.

Ginny and the children had been in boisterous spirits over breakfast - although Ginny raised an eyebrow at Hermione's exhausted, shuffling demeanour. Harry had then been forced to sneak into the guest bedroom and attend to Hermione, which had involved her stripping down to her underwear while he soothed the patchwork of bruises on her torso and thighs. It was only Harry… but there was an element of silent tension between them that Hermione could have well done without.

Draco had a raucous, barking cough – likely the after-effect of the fire. Harry closed the door of the bedroom; meaning Hermione could only hear a hushed burble of conversation. She presumed Harry was talking about her outburst last night. Their voices were momentarily magnified when Harry pushed open the door to collect their coffees from the kitchen and then drifted off again once he returned to the bedroom.

'It'll be bloody freezing!' Draco suddenly yelped in outraged tones, followed by a string of forceful expletives. Clearly Draco wasn't enjoying Harry's suggestion that they head off to Moscow in the middle of January. Draco's audible grunts of disapproval were countered, in turn, by Harry's more measured tones as he outlined his plan.

By breakfast, Harry had already reported the fire at Svetlana Kerpin's residence to both the French Ministry of Magic and the Muggle Gendarmerie and offered a reasonable – if fictitious – account of what had transpired there.

He had then applied to the Russian Ministry of Magic for permission to allow him and Draco to visit their archives for twenty-four hours. This was the stipulated period for international wizarding cooperation before a Muggle visa process was enforced. Harry had a Russian Ministry contact that he hoped would act as one of their guides. This was part of the problem when dealing with the Russians, Harry had told her. Their Ministry insisted that any visitors were 'accompanied' at all times. Now it was a question of waiting for an official permission to travel. It was rarely granted quickly, Harry warned, but the sooner they could get some background on Svetlana Kerpin, the better. 'There has to be a damned good reason why Ephraim's guys came rooting about her place last night,' he griped.

'There's a great restaurant on Strastnoi Boulevard,' Draco was now saying in ebullient tones. He'd clearly begun to see the advantages of a trip to Moscow but was immediately thwarted by Harry. 'This isn't a jolly jape, Draco, it's a fact-finding mission,' he intoned, in the manner of a cantankerous parent curbing the enthusiasm of an over-excited infant.

'Is Hermione coming?'

Hermione's ears pricked up.

'We've decided it's best she head home and put in some hours at the Ministry library,' Harry said smoothly.

No, WE bloody didn't! Hermione bridled, that was YOU, Harry Potter!

'Right … Okay,' Draco said in a blasé manner that riled Hermione even further, followed by, 'she's not going off to see that Danish bloke, is she? I don't think that's such a good idea, you know – travelling on her own like that. New Zealand's a long way.'

Oh lord, not Draco as well, Hermione thought sourly. She'd already suffered enough of Harry's over-protective clucking today, and it was barely mid-morning.

'Yes, she realises that. After all, she's only met this chap, what is it? Twice?' Harry said. 'I'll go with her once we're back from Russia.'

Hermione groaned in quiet exasperation. The truth was she'd been dog-tired this morning - unable to marshal her defences against Harry's cogent arguments. Her lack of steeliness at the time was now beginning to rankle.

'I was just telling Draco that you're going to look into these roses,' Harry said. 'The symbol you saw at Svetlana's house,' he added in more insistent tones, trying to catch her full attention.

She nodded wearily.

The bedroom door was wide open. Draco was lethargically pulling on a t-shirt over his jeans, mussing up his hair in the process. His bed looked like he had been fighting the sheets all night, rather than sleeping.

'Morning, Hermione,' he yawned, with a vague wave of his hand. There was no sign that he cared about what had happened last night … even remembered it.

He turned to rummage in a bag at the foot of a wardrobe, retrieving a pair of socks. He sat on the bed to put them on.

'Yes…' Hermione said, thinking she should take her cue from Harry. 'That rose symbol is pretty unique. And it's the connection between Svetlana and Katya.'

Draco nodded, struggling to stifle another yawn. 'Good idea,' he said. He looked up at Hermione, a keen look on his face. 'Is there any more of that coffee?'

Hermione huffed off to the kitchen, wondering how and when she'd become their house-elf.

'And go easy on the milk this time, will you?' he called.

She deliberately ignored his request, allowing the milk to flow fast and free into his coffee mug until it was cresting at the rim, threatening to spill over.

Draco emerged from the bedroom fully dressed. He eyed the bland, beige coffee with unabashed distaste but, after one quick look at the peevish glare Hermione was levelling at him, he chose not to comment, gulping the coffee back in one quick swoop instead.

'Remind me to get you a new wand,' Harry said to Draco. 'It'll be Ministry issue – but it's better than nothing.'

Draco glanced uneasily at Hermione. He pushed his tousled hair back from his face with his hand. 'I guess you'll be visiting Ollivander's?' he asked tentatively.

Harry hadn't even mentioned her lost wand at breakfast, so it was a relief to hear this from Draco, and his nervousness in broaching the subject was oddly touching. She suddenly felt ashamed at her crabbiness towards him, but somehow it seemed easier to vent her frustration and fear at HIM, than Harry.

She blinked back tears - glad that neither man had seen them - and her hands shook involuntarily as she scrubbed the coffee stains out of a mug with an abrasive wire scourer.

Her wand, her beloved wand … She felt vulnerable and lonely without it.

'We should discuss last night,' Harry said in brisk, businesslike tones.

He blithely flipped through the contents of the box file containing background on Jeroboam that Draco had given Hermione. He paused and pulled out the photograph of The Geneva Group. He sat down in the armchair and placed it on the coffee table in front of him.

Hermione looked around for a towel to dry her hands.

'Well, they obviously knew the house was plottable and might even have known that we were already there,' Draco said, as he passed Hermione a towel. 'Hermione was dead right to be worried about Ephraim having a spy at Auror HQ.' He gave her a lingering look as he spoke.

'It wasn't Auror HQ who sanctioned our visit – it was Vendome,' remarked Harry.

'Who's Vendome?' Hermione asked.

'It's Auror slang for the French Ministry's Department of Magical Law Enforcement,' Draco explained. Hermione smiled. It was hardly a surprise that Draco knew that. He'd likely had dealings with 'Vendome' himself at some point in his chequered past.

Harry removed his glasses to wipe them clean, then picked up the photo of The Geneva Group to study it. 'Do you think this might be Svetlana?' he asked, pointing at the picture of Anna Cornec with her face scrubbed out.

Draco perched himself on the sofa opposite Harry and took hold of the picture. He gazed at it, a perplexed expression on his face. 'I don't remember this,' he muttered. He turned to Hermione. 'Was this in the box when I gave it to you?'

'Yes,' she replied, 'but it's not Svetlana Kerpin. It's Anna Cornec – she worked with Ephraim and Jeroboam.'

'Well, SOMEONE really didn't want to be reminded of her,' Draco murmured. He chewed his lower lip pensively, momentarily lost in thought.

'We have to wonder, though,' said Hermione, 'exactly what is Ephraim's connection to Svetlana?'

'This has to be about Katya… somehow. It's all about Katya,' Draco observed. 'We know Katya and Svetlana were friends, or – or maybe even relatives?'

'Do you still have the photo we found last night?' Hermione asked.

He nodded and patted his jeans pocket.

'Can I take a look at it?' Harry asked, hand outstretched. Draco fished it out, rather reluctantly, and handed it to Harry.

'Going back to what Draco said …. the thing I really don't get, is why Ephraim's men were at Svetlana's house at all – what exactly did they want? What were they looking for?' Hermione said, joining Draco on the chaise longue.

'Well, obviously they wanted to find something and take it before the Ministry got their hands on it,' Draco declared.

'No, that's not obvious at all…' Harry said tersely. 'The house had been ransacked from top to bottom. You saw the state the place was in! And they've had plenty of time already. Svetlana's licence expired months ago and the place has been empty since Christmas.'

'That's true. Maybe we're guilty of jumping to conclusions here?' Hermione said. 'ANYONE could have been in there. As you say, Harry – the house has been empty.'

'It could have been Muggles?' suggested Draco.

'Or someone from Vendome? They're corrupt enough,' Harry said crankily.

'Or someone else rich and powerful with friends in high places, who despises Ephraim… someone like Jeroboam…' Hermione mused, earning herself a mystified look from Harry.

'Now who's jumping to conclusions? That's most unlike you, Hermione. There's zero evidence connecting Jeroboam to Svetlana Kerpin… or Katya, for that matter.'

'I realise that, but sometimes I feel we're just… pawns, stuck in the middle of a bigger game –' her mind instantly flitted to Miguel Culebra and his final warning – 'this cold war between Ephraim and Jeroboam, that's being going on since… well, since THEN,' she explained, pointing at the photo of The Geneva Group.

Harry narrowed his eyes, a bemused expression on his face.

'Okay, forget I said it. It was just a hunch,' Hermione muttered, wondering why Harry was being so pig-headed.

'It's worth thinking about,' contended Draco. He gave Hermione a brief, sympathetic smile.

'Nope. It's not,' Harry stated. He carefully placed the photo of Svetlana, Katya and the baby on the table, next to the photo of The Geneva Group. 'But if we're speaking hypothetically then let's imagine that last night was the first chance Ephraim had to get inside Svetlana's house. Logically, his guys were sent there to take something – something Svetlana had that Ephraim wanted...'

'They'd have been sorely disappointed,' Draco drawled.

'Or, maybe they were trying to find something to help YOU, Draco?' Harry said, '… a new lead to help exonerate you from Svetlana Kerpin's murder? And we were just in the way…'

'But surely they'd leave that sort of thing to the Ministry?' Hermione remonstrated, 'seeing as they're supposed to be in charge of the case.'

Harry shrugged. 'Ephraim likely knows just how slack those bastards at Vendome can be.'

'There's another possibility,' Draco said with a deep sigh. 'Last night was a golden opportunity for them to get hold of ME.'

Hermione spun round to face him. 'You mean, to take you away?'

A regretful, almost guilty look scuttled across Draco's face. 'Well, based on your little chat with my father-in-law – he desperately wants me back home.'

'When you got permission to access the property, Harry, did you say you were taking Draco with you?' Hermione asked urgently.

'Not in so many words, but…' Harry trailed off, then, 'Vendome knows that Draco is under my protection - at least until this murder enquiry is resolved. Our 'access' last night, however, wasn't strictly official.'

'Even so, last night was possibly the one time since leaving St. Gaspard's that my likely whereabouts – in an unsecured location - was known by more people than just … us,' Draco speculated. 'They cast an Anti-Disapparition jinx, remember? We were pretty much trapped there.'

Harry peered at Draco hawkishly over the top of his glasses. 'I told you that guy who ran off wasn't aiming at YOU… He was only interested in taking ME down.'

Hermione didn't like the turn this conversation was taking.

'Are you sure you didn't recognise him?' Harry asked Draco, in sharp, demanding tones.

'Positive. It was dark and he was running,' Draco replied coolly. 'I know most of Ephraim's security team. Joel and Erwin are no more… obviously. Same as the other one, whom I didn't recognise. But there's also Karl and Troy – they stick closely to Ephraim.' Hermione instantly thought of the security detail in Golden Square. 'And there's Josep, who works with Selwyn – he's a hunchback - and Grimm, who's ridiculously tall…'

Harry shook his head.

'Which leaves Hulda – she's one very scary chick.'

'It definitely wasn't a woman.'

'Well, whoever it was, Ephraim now knows, for sure, that Draco was at Svetlana Kerpin's house… with all that entailed,' Hermione interjected. The memory of Draco stabbing Joel in the face flashed, unbidden, into her mind. 'This is very dangerous for him. Like you said last night, Harry - we need a new plan.'

'Do we? I'm not so sure we do now.' Harry's eyes glinted strangely as he spoke. 'I can use official channels to inform Ephraim that Draco is informally 'assisting' me with the Kerpin case – that provides him with some cover. And continue to press my contacts at Vendome to review Draco's custody status as quickly as possible – and hopefully get him out of here and back to Malfoy Manor. He'll be much more useful THERE than here.'

Draco eyed the pokey apartment with disdain. 'The sooner the better, please.' He switched his attention to Hermione. 'You should visit Malfoy Manor,' he said in a tone of forced brightness.

'Why ever should I do that?' she asked, aghast. The last thing she wanted was to come across Ephraim…

'My roses … the jewel box in Katya's room. If these rose charms are in any way significant – and seeing as Svetlana has been sending them to me, we can assume they are – then we should secure them as soon as possible,' he said.

'He's right,' agreed Harry. 'And see if you can track down the Matryoskha that Bill was telling us about too. I reckon Katya read something in those parchments that drove her away.'

'You do?' Draco arched an eyebrow quizzically.

'So, how exactly do you propose I get in?' Hermione asked Draco in sardonic tones. 'Just breeze in through the front gates?'

'Easy. Ask my mother if you can come for tea!' Draco grinned. 'If you visited during the day, it's unlikely Ephraim would be there. And remember, nobody saw YOU last night. That guy only saw Harry and me,' he added in reassuring tones.

'And if you do come across Ephraim,' Harry said crisply. 'Play nice. For now.'

XXX

Ron was already home by the time Hermione got back to Wisteria Cottage. He was tired but excited, regaling Hermione with a blow-by-blow account of his trip to America. She tried hard to appear interested but was wondering throughout how the hell she could dispatch Grumio with a message to Narcissa Malfoy without Ron noticing and demanding an explanation.

Her only hope was to send Narcissa an owl from the Ministry instead, as she planned to use the library there on Monday morning. She also wanted to meet up with Padma. She'd Floo-called her a few times to offer some friendly reassurance, but Padma wasn't responding, so Hermione's best bet was to try and catch her at work instead. It was very troubling, Hermione thought. What exactly were these supposed 'allegations' into Padma's working practices? She had no doubt that this was all Ephraim's doing. He'd been far too gloating. He was using Padma to get at HER, she felt sure of it. It scared her to think of what he might do next.

Maybe Bill was right? Maybe she should promise to launch that investigation into Los Rojos after all? Except … she feared them too … feared for her children and the people she cared about.

It was a no-win situation.

XXX

The next day, she grabbed a chance to sneak a call to Henrik on her mobile phone. She was walking home from Sunday lunch at the Burrow with Ron and the children when Ron offered to take the kids for a quick play in the park – 'to burn off Granny's Yorkshire puddings.'

Hermione noted with some irritation that her phone's battery was running low – she had to think about getting it charged at some point.

Henrik's voice sounded fuzzy and the line was distorted. Hermione made a quick calculation and realised that she'd probably woken him up. 'I'm so sorry!' she gasped. 'I didn't think.'

'Hey, relax. I hadn't got to bed yet!' Henrik bellowed in jovial tones. Hermione could hear glasses clinking and loud chatter and the deep growls of an electric guitar being tuned up in the background. 'Hold on,' Henrik said. Voices surged and then receded and a door creaked open, followed by the clump of feet tramping on gravel.

Henrik's voice returned at a normal pitch. He was panting slightly. 'You still there?'

'I can't talk long, I -'

'No, me neither. Look, I've had a money job come up. Shark attack in New Plymouth. I'm popping up there for a few days. I was going to call you tomorrow to say … in case you were thinking of still coming out here. I've taken some shots of that Gilgad facility I was telling you about. It's completely trashed but I'll email some pics to you if you like – you got an address you can text me?'

Hermione panicked momentarily and then remembered she had an old account set up on her parents' computer.

'Sure.'

'There's not much to look at,' Henrik said, almost apologetically. 'I spoke to a few folks about what was going on up there. They're kind of … cagey, I guess. But I managed to get a few names. Hold on …' Hermione could hear a rustling, scrabbling sort of sound, as he rummaged through his pockets. He was taking an awfully long time about it and her battery was going to expire at any moment. 'Goddamn,' he muttered vehemently, 'I haven't got 'em with me but I'll mail them to you - one of the guys was called Hart or Harris, something like that. And there was a Turkish chap too.'

'That's fine, Henrik, just email me,' Hermione said, anxious now to break off the conversation before the phone went flat.

'Will do,' Henrik promised. 'Hey, if you do still want to come out, I can set up an interview with one of the workers from the plant if you like?'

'That'd be great. I've – I've also got this friend, Harry Potter, who really wants to meet you too! He's following your investigation with great interest … he could be very useful.'

Henrik was silent at the end of the line. Hermione remembered how paranoid Henrik was. Someone new popping up out of nowhere and muscling in on his work was bound to make him suspicious. 'Harry's in … law enforcement … well, not in the NORMAL sense … more kind of freelance, I guess …' She blushed, aware that she was babbling nonsensically.

Henrik cut her off. 'You trust him? Really, truly trust him?'

'With my life!' she blurted, with a little more emphasis than she'd intended. She cringed in embarrassment. She could sense that Henrik was grinning at the other end of the phone.

'Okay, Hermione, that's cool by me. Just drop me a line when you're all set.'

Before heading home, Hermione texted Henrik her old email address and then texted Henrik's contact details to Harry. She quickly jabbed the 'send' button and the phone went blank.

XXX

Hermione's first port of call the following morning was Ollivanders in Diagon Alley.

The former proprietor, Garrick Ollivander, had passed away five years ago. His nephew, Aloysius Ollivander, had inherited the family business and the famous shop had undergone a major facelift – much to Hermione's chagrin. She'd rather loved its formerly dark and dusty incarnation, crackling with chaotic magical energies. Instead, a pristine white counter and rows of neat boxes arranged alphabetically on gleaming shelves greeted her.

Aloysius Ollivander was an avuncular chap: slightly stooped and balding, wearing immaculate robes and sporting a broad, toothy grin. He welcomed Hermione most cordially, registered polite sympathy that she had lost her wand, and asked her to place her 'wand' hand on a glass sphere, which was resting on a mahogany pedestal.

This was clearly the 'modern' way to match a person to a wand, Hermione thought wryly, but she did as he asked. A surprisingly forceful surge of magic jolted through her.

'That'll do!' Aloysius Ollivander chortled.

Hermione quickly withdrew her hand, shaking it slightly to offset the strange tickling sensation that surged from her palm to her fingernails.

The glass ball pulsated with a whirling kaleidoscope of colours – blues, greens and purples, but a swirling cloud of ashen grey soon swallowed these up.

'Hmmm, interesting …' Aloysius said, furrowing his brow. He leant closer to the ball and squinted into its depths. He shot Hermione a cursory, sidelong glance, then stared back at the swooshing grey, which was fast fading. 'Looks like you've changed somewhat since your last wand, Mrs Weasley,' he commented. 'Vine wood with a dragon heartstring core, wasn't it?'

Hermione nodded mutely, her insides squirming nervously. She didn't want a DIFFERENT wand. She wanted what she knew and trusted.

'Don't worry. Change is completely normal. It happens more often than you'd expect. Now then, let me see,' Aloysius clucked, his fingers trailing the neat line of boxes. He paused, alighting on a brown cardboard box marked 'Sortilége' – was that a 'brand' name? Hermione thought. She pursed her lips tightly in disapproval.

'Try this one,' Aloysius said, slamming the box onto the smooth white counter. He continued to study the boxes on view; standing on his toes to reach for a white box perched on the highest shelf, before shaking his head and moving on to its neighbour. This wand was wrapped in a diaphanous, shimmering silver material.

Hermione plucked the first wand from its brown box and swished it, pleasantly surprised at the soft thrum of magic that tingled through her.

She smiled. 'This feels nice.'

Aloysius nodded effusively. 'Thought you'd like it,' he said in cheery tones. 'A delicate piece of handicraft. Delightfully Gallic. The wand-maker is based in Carcassonne and he always fashions such beautifully honed wands … note the delicate carvings he has etched into the wood here.' Aloysius sighed, seemingly captivated by its demure beauty. 'Such refinement is rarely seen.'

Hermione caressed the slim, pale wand with her fingertips. A luminous shimmer of magic cushioned her touch. 'Is it powerful?'

'It's eleven inches, rosewood, with a kneazle whisker core. More than sufficient.'

Aloysius was watching her beadily. 'Well… perhaps this one might suit you better,' he said, unfurling the silver package. The material flowed away from the wand like molten silver. This wand was more roughly hewn and a darker wood.

Hermione grasped it and gasped, surprised at the intensity of magic that coursed through her. She felt electrified and a little frightened.

'Sometimes we have to make a choice,' Aloysius said, a perspicacious twinkle in his eye.

Hermione tittered nervously. 'What is this?'

'Twelve and three-quarters in length, walnut with a dragon's heartstring core – a particularly potent combination I find, and only useful in the hands of those with the determination and inner grit to truly master it.'

Hermione gave Aloysius a sharp look. This was the same type of wand that Bellatrix Lestrange had owned, she felt sure; the wand she'd been forced to use all those years ago when her own beloved wand had been confiscated by snatchers working for Voldemort. Mercifully, her old wand had been found amongst a collection of similarly stolen booty in an old chest at Malfoy Manor, once Voldemort had fallen. She'd rarely felt so relieved as when her hand clasped that wand again. It had felt powerful and invigorating. It had felt part of her. How she craved that familiar surge of affection and surety...

'It was one of my uncle's last wands,' Aloysius said, sorrowfully. 'Not as finished a product as the first wand I showed you … but sadly, he ran out of time.'

She caressed the wand, marvelling at the way her heart raced ever so slightly as the magic thrummed hotly through her. A rich, velvety purple flooded her mind. A purple fading to grey then to white…

It was an ugly old thing; that was for sure. And did she really want this flood of energy at her disposal when she was simply doing a quick Scourgify? Or, indeed, the fluttering anxiety that seemed to accompany it. And for some unaccountable reason that was sending her stomach into somersaults, she felt like Draco was standing in the room with them; she could feel that odd, prickly, vibrating sensation that so often set the hairs on her arms on end when he was close by. Except he wasn't. He was far away in Paris. Or maybe even Moscow.

'Think carefully,' Aloysius said in a low, breathy voice, seemingly pitched close to her ear, even though he was still positioned on the other side of the counter.

Most peculiar, Hermione thought, both excited and repelled by the harsh-grained wand throbbing in her hand. Aloysius's words echoed inside of her head. 'Sometimes we have to make a choice.' For some unfathomable reason, that simple little phrase seemed to encompass so much more than which wand to choose.

'I'll take it,' she said breathily to Aloysius. There was something dark and ripe with meaning in the way his eyes met hers.

'Then I wish you the best of your new wand, Mrs Weasley,' he said in a high-fluting, courteous voice that didn't quite match the moment.

XXX

Padma wasn't at the Ministry. The receptionist at the Department for Magical Law Enforcement informed Hermione - in a somewhat misguided attempt at jocularity - that Padma 'was on the same broomstick' as herself; meaning she had also been 'temporarily suspended, pending further investigation'. The receptionist suspected she was already gallivanting somewhere hot and tropical with that boffin boyfriend of hers.

Hermione wished this was the case but thought it unlikely. She had worrying mental images of Anthony Goldstein squirreled away in a dark, underground laboratory, working on a top-secret Dark Flux project for Ephraim and Torquil. As for Padma. All she could do was badger her with incessant owls and Floo-calls and hope she responded.

XXX

The Ministry Library, situated on the same level as the Wizengamot courtrooms, was a capacious vault with high Gothic ceilings, manned by an army of officious-looking elves.

Hermione whiled away many a peaceful hour here perusing its well-stocked shelves, so she was on friendly terms with Albert, the rickety old elf who guarded the library entrance. But this morning he frowned deeply as she approached.

'My most humble apologies, Mrs Weasley.' The elf twitched nervously and paused to clear his throat. 'I'm afraid you cannot enter the library today.'

'Why ever not?' Hermione asked, stunned. Other witches and wizards were sauntering nonchalantly in and out of the library behind him.

Albert shrugged helplessly. His long ears quivered uneasily. 'Those are my instructions.'

'But everyone else-' she stuttered plaintively.

Albert shook his head regretfully. He shuffled awkwardly, unable to hold her outraged gaze.

'You mean it's just ME who cannot enter.'

Albert nodded vociferously in return. 'Sorry, Mrs Weasley.'

Hermione stepped forward. She could feel her new wand, tucked into the sleeve of her robes, smouldering against her arm.

Albert flinched a little and turned large, soulful eyes on her. 'Orders. From them above.' He cast a quick, furtive glance at the ceiling.

This was infuriating! She hadn't actually been disbarred from the Ministry. She'd Apparated into the main atrium unhindered; free to avail herself of the Ministry's public facilities.

'Thank you, Albert,' she said abruptly. She turned about heel and strode towards the service lifts. She would storm into Mr Jinks's office! Maybe HE could provide an explanation.

In the lift, her hand hovered momentarily over the button for Level 2, and then passed it, pressing -1 instead – where the Ministry Owlery was located.

A rich vein of hatred bubbled up inside of her. He'd warned her that he had the 'power' to make things happen at the Ministry. 'This is YOUR doing!' she spluttered, arguing with an imaginary Ephraim inside her head.

She glanced at her fellow passenger in the lift; a thin streak of a lad, laden down with a heaped armful of parchments, who quailed a little at being trapped, alone, with a crazy woman. She threw him a simpering smile as he shuffled out of the lift at its next stop as fast as the teetering pile of papers in his arms allowed him.

The Owlery was a shady nook nestled on the infrequently visited uppermost level of the Ministry. The sounds and smells of London echoed above them and the shadowy gloom was punctuated by streaks of natural light, afforded by grilles in the ceiling. A line of well-groomed barn owls with eyes like round, luminous orbs were perched in a line.

Luckily, they were the only other living creatures in the room - apart from Hermione herself. She grabbed a quill and a sheet of Ministry supply parchment provided for employees' use – and dashed a note off to Ephraim Golowitz. Sod Harry and his stupid exhortation to 'Play nice!'

'I have been banned from the Ministry library. Is this YOUR doing?

Leave me alone!' she seethed.

She quickly attached the parchment to a waiting owl and rapidly dispatched it up the shoot that connected the Owlery to the outside world before she could change her mind.

But she'd forgotten to sign it!

She sat down at a writing desk, panting with excitement. Gradually her fierce anger began to dissipate. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and allowed her dark surroundings to close in on her. Her pulse was slowing and the heated fog that had descended on her was clearing.

It was a good thing she hadn't signed that letter, she decided. How foolishly impulsive she'd been! It was most unlike her. Her life, her sense of self… Everything was coming apart at the seams.

She could feel her new wand thrumming against her skin. She pulled it out and laid it flat on her palms and squinted at it through the murky gloom. It emanated a faint, unearthly violet glow. A whiff of purple magic … Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but she felt sure it was there and that only she could see it. It belonged to her, and her alone. A secret little bond between her and the wand.

Feeling stronger and much revived, Hermione composed a new note – in much neater and less scrawled handwriting than her note to Ephraim – politely asking after Narcissa Malfoy's health and wondering if they could perhaps meet up sometime? She didn't specifically mention tea at Malfoy Manor, but seeing as Narcissa rarely stepped out of her home …

The owl scooted up the shoot, half-colliding with another owl heading in the opposite direction.

The advancing owl butted rudely into her. A note was dangling from its feet. Hermione instantly recognised the parchment as the one she had just sent to Ephraim.

She cursed silently as she unfastened the parchment and quickly scanned the note. It was short and to the point.

'Mrs Weasley,

You continue to fail to do what I have kindly requested of you – a small vial of your memories would suffice, for starters. And, crucially, our dear mutual friend is still beleaguered in an alien land. If you wish to discuss the matter further, then I am at Arcana for the next hour. You can floo directly from Zoltan Guldstern's office located on Level Three, opposite the portrait of Grogan Stump.

Yours,

Ephraim Golowitz

Hermione impetuously scrunched the note up and hurled it to the floor.

XXX

Hermione rarely visited Level Three, which was where the Department for Magical Accidents and Catastrophes was located. Even so, her appearance there had attracted a high degree of interest from a couple of witches who were sitting close to the swinging double doors that accessed the department.

'I'm looking for a portrait,' Hermione said in halting tones to the elder of the two, who was gawking at her curiously through large, horn-rimmed spectacles. There was something familiar in her features, Hermione thought, but she couldn't place the face.

'A portrait, you say?' squawked the be-spectacled lady.

'Yes. Of Grogan Stump. He was a veteran logician, I believe. Worked in the Department of Mysteries for sixty-seven years … something like that.' The two witches gazed at her with blank, lifeless expressions. 'I understand his portrait is located opposite Zoltan Guldstern's office.'

The witch with the glasses screwed up her face in confusion. 'Never heard of him!' she declared. 'I think you must be in the wrong department, Mrs Weasley.'

Hermione sighed. Here was a prime example of one of the chief drawbacks of being so well-renowned in the wizarding world. This little 'adventure' – or, more correctly, series of 'misadventures' – would be common gossip throughout the Ministry by the end of the working day. Worse still, Ron might catch wind of it.

'Oh, come on, Muriel,' the younger witch said. 'Zoltan Guldstern? He's the good-looking one. Heading up that new Muggle Transactions office, or whatever its name is.'

Muriel looked suitably admonished. 'Of course. Muggle Transactions.' She pointed to the double doors Hermione had just passed through.

'Go back that way, walk about fifty steps …'

'More like thirty,' the younger witch interrupted.

'… And there should be a door to your left. It's easily missed. Behind that door there's a corridor. Take a left, then a right, then another right–'

'Another LEFT,' her companion said emphatically.

Muriel shot her a contemptuous look and continued. 'Go left and at the end of that corridor you'll find what you're looking for.'

Hermione thanked them and re-traced her steps. She followed their instructions, although Muriel had been absolutely right when she said the door leading to this particular section of the Ministry was easily missed. It was a white door set into a chalky-white wall and would have been easily missed without prior instruction.

This part of the Ministry was wholly new to her, comprising a labyrinthine network of dark, narrow passageways. The corridor leading to Mr Guldstern's office was the longest and narrowest of all. The sole source of light was a weakly glowing candle in a holder perched above the sober-faced portrait of Grogan Stump. He was a stern man with grizzled features and small, diamond-shaped eyes almost swallowed up by thickly creased, wrinkly skin. She was sure he was sneering at her and she was tempted to say something suitably barbed and witty, but nothing sprang to mind.

To her surprise, the door opposite was swung open with some force and a small, timorous-looking man in a faded tweed suit was ushering her inside.

Hermione ogled the sign above the door announcing that this was the Office for Muggle Business Relations – not 'Transactions'. It sounded rather important, Hermione thought, in view of the increasing cooperation between the two economies. So why was it stuck out here?

'I've never heard of you,' she said bluntly to the little man in the tweed suit.

'We haven't been here long,' he replied, in a tight, nasal whine.

Hermione gawped at the disordered state of the office. There was a desk piled high with a medley of parchments and pamphlets and an empty, rusty birdcage. There were a couple of hard-backed wooden chairs ranged on either side of this desk and an imposing marble fireplace that occupied almost the entire length and breadth of one wall.

'Are you Mr Guldstern?' Hermione asked the little man, who was busily shuffling papers on the desk.

He emitted a high, whinnying laugh, which quickly petered into a stuttering wheeze. 'Oh no, Mrs Weasley. I'm Mr Guldstern's secretary. He just stepped out. But as you're not here to actually meet HIM, that's neither here nor there, really, is it?' He grinned at her and pointed to the dark, gaping mouth of the fireplace.

'Step inside. There's some Floo powder on the mantelpiece.'

'Where do I say I'm going?' she asked, clutching a handful of green Floo powder.

'Executam Arcanorum should do the trick,' he squeaked.

'Not Arcana?' Hermione asked. A sliver of icy apprehension was creeping up her gullet.

The little man's eyes popped angrily. 'Hurry along now, Mrs Weasley! He's waiting!' Mr Guldstern's secretary made a dismissive gesture with his hand and continued to rifle through the mounds of paperwork on the desk.

XXX

The prim receptionist at Arcana was similarly supercilious.

'Mr Golowitz is unavailable. He's tied up in meetings for the rest of the day,' she trilled.

Hermione gazed around the lobby in growing vexation.

'But he's expecting me!'

The receptionist shook her head, implacable. 'He's not here.'

Hermione jabbed her finger irritably at the receptionist's computer. 'Maybe he left a message for me?' she fumed.

The receptionist sighed. Her carefully polished fingernails tip-tapped at a keyboard as she studied her computer screen.

'Mrs Weasley, you say …' So, he had left a message, Hermione thought. 'Nope. Nothing.' She tossed Hermione a disdainful look.

'Are you quite sure about that?'

'Absolutely,' she said, stony-faced. She briskly beckoned over a man who had been waiting in line behind Hermione.

Hermione grudgingly forsook further argument. She crossed the lobby and headed out into the chill London air. She turned to look at Arcana's impressive plate glass and chrome headquarters. Its windows stared back at her, blank and faceless. She fancied Ephraim, sporting an amused, malicious smirk, was gazing down at her.

XXX

To Hermione's surprise, Ron was already home, even though it was only mid-afternoon. He was sitting at the kitchen table ploughing through a voluminous pile of papers.

'What's all that?' she asked.

'Betting slips, mainly,' he grunted in reply. 'A note came for you,' he added testily. 'Just a few minutes ago.' He poked at a piece of screwed-up parchment lying next to his pile of papers. He watched, eyes narrowed, as she picked it up and proceeded to smooth out the creases.

It was from Narcissa Malfoy.

Hermione chanced a glance at Ron. His expression was guarded, his eyes hard.

'Didn't realize you were such good pals,' he said in acid tones.

'It's not like that,' Hermione mumbled, but she could feel heat rising to her cheeks as she spoke. She turned away to read the note.

It was merely a thank you for her kind enquiry and an invitation to afternoon tea, tomorrow.

'Oh, and an owl came from Harry, too,' Ron said.

'For me?' Hermione asked, her heart beating a little faster. She was desperate for news.

'I opened it. Hope you don't mind. But seeing as he's my best friend–'

'What did he say?'

'Just that he's going away for a couple of days and will get in touch when he gets back. He wishes us well - BOTH of us - the usual stuff…'

So, they'd received the due permissions to go to Moscow – and in record time by the sound of it. Strange, she thought, that Harry had applied for Draco to go too, particularly when, yet again, he would be 'exposed' in an unsecured environment.

She recalled Ron once saying that if Harry was working with Draco on this Dark Flux case, he would be 'sticking close to the bastard to see exactly what he was up to.' Maybe that was it? Harry didn't want to let Draco out of his sight.

Harry clearly didn't trust Draco, she thought soberly. Perhaps, he never would?

She envied them, though. At least they were together. With Harry and Draco so very far away, she felt very alone and unprotected … and tomorrow she would be marching headfirst into the lion's den.

XXX

CHAPTER TRACKS:

"WELCOME TO MYSTERY" by PLAIN WHITE T's

"ELEPHANT" by TAME IMPALA

Disclaimer: I own nothing except my original characters.

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