Disclaimer: The similarities between myself and JKR exist only in my gender, and my writings dabbling in her world. I am not she and she is not me and all I own is this laptop and the tiniest of OC's and plot lines.
Note: This chapter was nearly impossible to write and I wasn't sure where to split it but bear with me, I will get you down from this cliff...one way or another ;) Please continue to review, I simply love hearing what you guys think.
Victory is always possible for the person who refuses to stop fighting.
Napoleon Hill
"I'm telling you we've got the little bitch now."
It always astounded Emmanuel that no matter which sector of the ministry he found himself working in, from the Admin Services to the Law Enforcement squad, there were always, always, men like Duncan Arrows. The large dark haired wizard was one of the few men in Burges' operation completely and utterly devoid of his own private aims. At first Emmanuel had esteemed the man, admiring his ability to play his hand so close to his chest before he came to the somewhat disappointing realisation that the man was sporting five aces and a suit of jokers. He had no game, no goals, no secret agendas.
To sell your soul was inevitable on the road to personal success, to freely give your soul away was simply deplorable.
Which wasn't to say such men weren't useful. No, but even their undeniable necessity didn't negate the disgust they evoked in Emmanuel. If you must rip another person's world apart, if you must dominate over a mostly innocent public with neither pity nor remorse, at least do so for some great cause, such as personal gain or career advancement.
Brutality, to men like Duncan Arrows, was an end, not a means.
Emmanuel sighed and put such reflections aside, leaning heavily against the welcome witches' desk as he buried his face in his hand, rubbing his brows and gathering a somewhat shaky patience.
"This is not some Knockturn Alley witch were dealing with gentlemen, I don't think you completely comprehend what Hermione Granger means to me."
Emmanuel's voice was light and pleasant, and to the ignorant observer free of any threatening overtones. Needless to say, the brawny wizard in front of him, and the shorter stouter man to his left whose name Emmanuel had forgotten for the moment, froze immediately. One could reasonably assume they'd been hit by a particularly viscous jinx were it not for the look of sheer terror in their eyes.
Honestly, the men were ridiculous. They could at least wait until he got to the threatening part to wet themselves.
"Now, I want you to wait here for her, then escort her upstairs to the lab. I need a private audience with Miss Granger if I'm going to, well, enhance her acquiescence."
The two morons laughed along lewdly, a sure sign they'd failed to understand so much as half of what was said. There was, in their eyes at least, no difference between subtlety and innuendo. Losing his patience somewhat he abandoned all attempts at adult conversation and broke the orders down into directives even they couldn't fail to comprehend.
"You two. Wait by the floo station. Watch every grate and so help me Circe, if you tear your eyes away for even a second, they're not all that will be torn when I'm through with you, understood?"
"Yes Sir."
It was unfortunate that brutal men were only ever capable of responding to equally brutal words, but if far from eloquent threat were what it took to achieve his ends, Emmanuel could stoop to such levels.
Sighing once more Emmanuel turned away from the two fumbling oafs and made his way across to the hospitals stairwell. With his mind so flown ahead of him, far upstairs in the experimental potions wing where he could all but taste his impending victory, he failed to notice the healer standing a few metres away, grasping two muggle coffees as if they were lifelines and staring at him with a look torn between horror and disgust.
Hermione Granger had never particularly been a coffee person. Like most proud British subjects and Hogwarts alumni, she'd been born and bred on Tea and tea alone. It was only her time at St Mungo's that had set her on the path to progress from tea, to sickly fluffy cappuccinos and further along to steaming tall blacks.
To say it was a refined taste would be a lie; She'd become hooked on the cheap instant stuff served in the Hospital cafeteria, mostly on Lucy's insistence, before she'd branched out on her own and tried the far superior muggle café down the street from the magical hospital.
It was a wonder the place was as quiet as it was, located on a few metres from a designated apparition point. Indeed, the quality of the coffee and convenient location meant it was only the timidity of most wizards refusing to venture into the muggle world that kept it a little known secret. Hermione hadn't even brought Lucy here- although that was more out of her own selfish desires than any genuine belief that her friend wouldn't approve. It also meant she could enjoy a second, or sometimes even third cup of coffee free of any judgement; As far as Lucy was concerned the cheap cafeteria crap they shared each morning was her first for the day.
But above all, the place was her own private sanctuary. A five minute break each morning with a steaming cup of coffee not only rescued her from the Burrow; the tiny slot of alone time was also infinitely more preferably to apparating or flooing directly into the busy, over-crowded waiting room. More often than not any witch or wizard with just the faintest scrap of lime green material about their person were molested but a horde of impatient patients; Some of who had the nasty and unexpected habit of spouting flames, as Hermione had once learnt the hard way.
And so it was that Hermione briskly walked down the cool city street, draining the last dregs of her coffee before disappearing to the muggles around her through a perfectly unsuspecting dilapidated window display.
It really was curious what people could overlook. Muggles and Wizards alike; While any person sporting healer robes would be instantly beset upon on the far side of the waiting room, Hermione was able to travel through the street entrance entirely unprovoked. Just as she congratulated herself on evading the clamour of those around her, Hermione was forced to come to an abrupt halt in the middle of the foyer as the figure of Lucy violently shoved past her.
"Lucy?! Lucy are you okay?"
The blonde girl spin around with a vitriol that suggested Hermione was the one who'd gone out of her way to bump into her.
"What do you care? Run upstairs, Emmanuel's looking for you."
"What?" Hermione couldn't be anything but dumbfounded as she faced off the glaring young witch.
"Yeah, you heard me. I overheard him just now, on to his cronies about how much you 'meant to him', what is he? Getting you upstairs for a quick fuck before work?"
"What!? Lucy I don't know what you heard-"
"Save it Granger."
Hermione physically flinched at her friend's cold voice.
"I don't give a damn what you're doing or who you're doing it with, but I thought we were mates. I'm not interested in your lies. To think I told you I was interested in that git."
"I'm not lying! I have nothing to lie about!" Hermione's exasperation with the absurdity of the entire situation was clear in her voice, and it seemed to enrage Lucy even further.
"You're at work two hours early by happy coincidence then?" The girl fired off, her arms folded in front of her, her face still drawn into a scowl.
"I- I came in early to look over the Caligula research." Try as Hermione might to embed this answer with sincerity, it still sounded like a lie to her ears- namely because that's precisely what it was.
"The research locked in Sullivan's office? Under full security clearance?"
Full security clearance?
"I didn't realise the clearance had- I thought it would be with the other folders."
"You didn't know because it got moved last night, while you left early. Probably to get in another fuck with your ministry bloke, I don't remember seeing him then either."
"Lucy! I told you I'm not fucking anybody!"
"Whatever. Your man's cronies are waiting in the floo chamber for you- ready to escort you upstairs, better not keep dear Emmanuel waiting."
Hermione's half stuttered reply was lost on the witches' retreating form, her denies swallowed by the growing din of the waiting room.
What the hell had just happened? Hermione's mind raced through the conversation, replaying her friend's furious words over. Emmanuel was upstairs waiting for her- his men waiting to escort her upstairs? Hermione had no idea what sort of conversation Lucy had overheard but it was perfectly plain that Emmanuel wasn't waiting upstairs for any 'quick fuck'.
They knew that she knew.
They knew she had no intentions of marriage and it was quite possible they knew of her various efforts in sabotaging their research.
She had to leave. Now.
So why on earth was she still rooted dumbly to the spot in the heaving. Busy waiting room?
… the ones locked in Sullivan's office…under high security clearance…
Whatever St Mungo's had found must be important; that or potentially damaging to the ministries cause.
Hermione knew the gut feeling staying her movement, keeping her grounded to the waiting room floor. She would never get another chance to look at that research. If she ran now, she'd never know just what was in that folder.
Where the hell was Perkins?
Stupid question. Perkins was at home, probably still in bed. Arthur had often wondered what it must be like to live the older wizards perfectly normal life.
Lovely wife. Lovely Daughter. A modest flat in Peckham. Nice. Quiet. Comfortable. No seven screaming kids, no ram shackled falling-down house, no Commander of a wife, no detention letters from Hogwarts every other afternoon, no Hogwarts toilet seat on his bog, no enchanted diary bewitching his daughter, no security measures or moral duty to protect the saviour of the Wizarding world, no life pledge to the Order of the Phoenix, no killer magical python attack, no family outings to the Battle of Hogwarts.
Suffice to say, Arthur could only faintly chalk up such comparisons to the 'grass being greener' and that entire ruck.
No; Perkins was at home with his wife in bed and Arthur had to find a way to get to Grimauld Place without using the floo or being seen, in order to warn his almost daughter-in-law that the Ministry of Magic was now after her.
And he had to do so without being absent from work and subsequently arousing suspicion. Which meant he needed Perkins to cover him in the event of any raids or random spot visits from higher up.
Arthur paced his tiny office assessing his options, while trying not to dwell on the many, many things that could go horribly, horribly wrong.
Molly's ire, for instance, when she learnt their floo was being traced on account of Hermione efforts to avoid marrying their son.
That or, Kingsley flooing him and discussing what they knew of the law, or worse still Hermione sending a message and mentioning her subversive intentions; At this stage Arthur didn't want to imagine any such repercussions. Every possibly consequence he could think of paled in comparison to what might happen if Emmanuel reached Hermione before he could warn her.
Arthur resumed pacing the small floor space not yet dominated by filing cabinets or desks. Glancing once more at the clock, Arthur took a deep breath and ran through his options once more.
It was only Molly's voice in the back of his head that stopped him apparating straight to Grimauld Place now; consequences be damned,
It was amazing that after a full year of Auror training Harry returned to Grimauld Place completely out of breath from only a quick sprint down the road. If Ginny had been up and about and not still in bed she would have teased him mercilessly, but as it was, when Harry returned through the kitchen, clutching at the stitch in his side, it was only the disembodied head of Kingsley Shacklebolt waiting for him, floating in the emerald embers.
"She's- I ran all the way down the street…she missed your patronus… She's gone."
The Crackling of the hearth burnt brighter for the slightest moment as Kingsley let loose a curse even Mundungus Fletcher would have blushed at.
"Have you heard from Arthur?" Kingsley questioned, quickly regaining his composure.
"What- No. What's happened?"
"Hermione didn't mention the ministry wizard asking her questions last night, then?" Kingsley's tone held no surprise and held nothing but resigned acceptance for the situation.
"What? So they know? But if she's gone in… we've got to go to St Mungo's! We can pull her out before-" Harry's outburst was neither resigned or accepting, and Kingsley was quick to shoot it down.
"If she's already in St Mungo's then barging through the front doors is hardly subtle. She still has a chance of leaving unnoticed if we get a message to her- a message, not a large scale rescue mission Harry."
"Send her another Patronus!" Harry's patience was wearing thin. How could he be expected to sit here while his best friend had put herself in danger? Why the bloody hell had Hermione gone into work without telling him?
"Harry, a Patronus doesn't simply find a person. You need a location. If it did magically zone in on a recipient communicating with you three during the war would have been a lot easier. Now if I send a Patronus smack bang in the middle of St Mungos, what do you think the odds of it reaching Hermione are? More so, when she's alone?"
"But-" Harry's protests fell short as he attempted to reign in his Auror training. He was not the same boy who'd rushed into the Ministry with a teenage gang on the back of Thestrals. There was a way around this. As Ginny said, there was a way around everything.
"Maybe she spoke to Arthur, Kingsley. Maybe she spoke to him when she got home, maybe he'll know what to do."
"I've already tried Flooing him. He's at work. He won't be able to leave work now without raising suspicion. Harry, if they suspect Hermione of running they're not above watching the Weasley's simply on the grounds of association. I've been in the Auror office long enough to know that."
"Well I could just pop in to see him, say I'm on the way to Auror training and-"
"And what makes you think you'll be able to then leave without raising alarm? You're Harry Potter, Hermione Granger is your best friend and equal part of the 'Golden Trio'. You popping in to see Arthur then leaving wouldn't be taken as exactly normal either."
"Why is he at work now anyway?" Harry huffed impatiently, trying desperately to consider a new option.
"Molly said he got called away on a raid."
"…The thing about growing up with Fred and George is that you sort of start thinking anything's possible if you've got enough nerve."
"A raid."
Mrs Dodges had lived in Grimauld Place for nigh on 30 years, and the inexplicable sounds of a particularly decrepit Harley Davidson motor revving into life had plagued her since the first week. None of the other tenants owned a bike, or had relatives or visitors who rode one. Indeed, when she had knocked around asking, they'd turned her away with patronising smiles and assurances that, should they ever spot her phantom bike, they would let her know immediately. Her husband, now passed, had allowed her what he termed 'her little quirk' and had swiftly learnt that assurances it was 'probably next door's vacuum cleaner' were not well received.
Even after the noise disappeared completely from the square for a good thirteen years, the thought would pop into her head at random intervals, leaving her wondering, often late at night, whatever it was that had caused it and wherever it had gone. Her scream of surprised rage then when four years ago it returned one night completely and utterly inexplicably, had given the neighbours plenty of fodder in mocking her convictions. The return of the noise was short lived, and she hadn't heard it in a good three years, but she knew, without really knowing how, that there was some reasonable situation. She was not mad.
Sitting at her window, nursing her morning tea and the day's first cigarette Angela Dodge looked out at the peaceful square, still slumbering beneath the morning dew and free from the stream of passer-by's about to pass through. It was a testament to the timeless façade of London that looking down at the completely empty street, she could imagine sitting here twenty years ago with little difference an-
VROOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMM
The tea clattered to the floor, dousing out her smoke as it went down. Angela flew to the window, the aches in her joints and pain in her hips forgotten, and saw emerging impossible from the gap between number 11 and number 13, a flying, black Harley Davidson complete with mangled sidecar.
She had screamed for her husband before she remembered his death five years ago. Pulling her dressing gown around her, she hobbled down her stairs making her way down the stairs.
She would make sure her neighbours saw this.
She would make sure someone saw it.
She couldn't be mad.
Perkins had just drained the last of his morning cup of coffee when a pink slip of parchment appeared before him. Sighing into the last dregs of his cup, he abandoned the rest of his breakfast and pursued the note.
"I'm off love. They've pulled a raid on a joint in London. Some idiot's fired up a flying motor cycle."
Let me know what you think: Even if that requires a lot of swearing and quite possibly a tone that could be regarded as threatening. I promise not to alert the authorities and I might even lend you a rope ladder or something, to help in your mountaineering efforts.