The wind whipped and wrapped around them like icy winter arms, making it hard to breathe. Getting their bearings, Hermione and Severus looked around, trying to discern where they were. A light dusting of snow coated the eastern sides of the trees that lined the path near them. Currently, though, they were both on their knees in a frozen flower bed, the hard mulch making patterns on Hermione's knees through her tights. Severus got up first, shooting bursts of air at their legs and then applying warming charms.
"Are we in St. James' Park?" Severus asked quietly when he was done. "Or Hyde?"
"Definitely St. James', see, there's the path to Buckingham," she replied, giving him a coy smile. "We'd best get our sighting done so that we can get on with the shagging, right?"
"Diagon Alley it is, then," He said, taking her arm comfortably in his. Snape seemed comfortable with the tube, Hermione thought, and they made their way quietly from St. James' north to Charing Cross Road, where the entrance of Diagon Alley awaited them. On one side, a large Virgin Records shop loomed high and on the other, an ubiquitous Barnes and Noble. Smack in the center, four stories smaller than the great chrome and glass buildings on either side of it, sat the Leaky Cauldron, with four chimneys puffing up different colored smoke.
"Armed?" Hermione whispered as Snape held open the door for her, the old bells above the door chiming merrily. He nodded, and they presented their fronts to the bar, so usually crowded.
Today, though, the long oak bar was nearly empty, with only one tiny wizard at the far end drinking a gillywater on the polished surface. Old toothless Tom was quietly toweling out cups at the other end of the bar, muttering to himself. He looked up as Hermione and Snape made their way to the counter and his mouth gaped open.
"Saints alive," he whispered, his pale blue eyes growing wide. "Get in here."
He hobbled faster than Hermione had ever seen before and ushered them into his back room, a tiny, windowless office with bright orange carpet on the ground. There wasn't any dust and it seemed that Tom was a competently organized buisnessman- there were little stacks of files sitting upright with neat labels.
"Tom," Hermione began after the door had closed behind them. "What's going on?"
He was shuffling through drawers filled with stacks of letters and papers in his scratched and bleached desk and did not answer until he came back up for air with a stack of envelopes neatly tied together with twine. "I'm to get these to you if I see you," he said, thrusting the letters towards Hermione. "Rumor around the continent is that you're still fighting the fight, Miss Granger."
Hermione kept her lips in a thin line, not answering.
"Take these," Tom pleaded, shaking the letters at her. "I'll bet every Potter sympathizing establishment on the Alley has these letters too. There are some people desperate for help or to help."
Snape stepped forward, drawing his wand and quietly mumbling several detection spells over the stack. He handed them to Hermione, who immediately severed the twine and ripped into them.
"Who are they from?" Severus whispered, his lips only millimeters from her ear.
Hermione scoffed, even as her dark eyes were scanning down the page. "Spanish Magical Consul. Fucktard. Could you leave us, Tom?"
Tom did as he was asked, and Severus threw up wards on the door and walls. "What does he want?"
"Help, it seems," replied Hermione. "Not a whole day after we left, Jimenez had another meeting, with the Death Eaters this time. I can't believe we were in the same city with Death Eaters and we didn't even know it."
Severus pressed. "What happened?"
"Jimenez is dead," Hermione replied flatly. "With him dead, want to join our side. I'm going to have to send a legate to Granada to meet with the interim leader, Amaranta Morales. Bugger all."
"Shall we have a working dinner?" Severus almost-joked, taking the first letter and scanning it.
Hermione nodded. "We'll take a break for rogering me silly later on in the evening, right?"
He bit the top curve of her ear. "Count on it."
Tucking the other letters into her bag, all from the Spanish Magical Government, they emerged from the small office and nodded to Tom, who caught their eye and grimaced and mouthed a blessing on them as they left.
Tap, tap, tap. The bricks flipped backwards on themselves familiarly and revealed the once colorful, vibrant main street of Wizarding Britain. The cobbles, once dusted with fresh, white snow, were grey and grimy, covered in a thin, watery layer of mud and sand. Quality Quidditch Supplies was gone, in its place only large wood sheets, nailed over the windows. A heavy wind had battered the hanging sign until it hung only at one point. Further on, at Eeylops, only two mangy, old looking owls opened their tawny eyes at the couple from inside the store. Closed, it said on the door, for the New Year's Holiday.
Florian Fortesque's had been recently sacked, it seemed, because underneath the broken glass, the building was still incongruously bright, its purples, greens and pinks still visible and cheery behind the graffiti. The snow crunched as Hermione stepped and when she pulled her boot away, she saw that she had stepped on, and broken, one of Florian's ice cream bowls, peach colored and emblazoned with their slogan in the center, "If you see this, its time for more!".
A little cry exited her throat as she bent to pick up the three pieces of the bowl. Taking them from her, lest she slice her finger on the porcelain, Snape quickly threw a reparo charm at the shards, piecing it back together firmly and stowing it in Hermione's beaded bag.
"Thank you," she whispered, as they continued down the alley.
It seemed as though life had ground to a sudden, yet expected halt here in the alley. The only place, it seemed, that was doing a brisk business, was Grigott's, where Hermione and Snape were headed. Up the wide, marble steps and past the crimson and gold liveried goblin and into the never changing world of money. Money, they saw, was still up and running. The cool shining key Hermione retrieved from her bag was held carefully by a long fingered goblin who immediately set aside the large pile of sapphires he was examining through a loupe.
"Hermione Granger," he whispered, running his fingertips lovingly over the ridges in the key, "follow me."
Hermione and Severus followed, past the carts on the trachs and into a small, but luxuriously appointed office. Behind a desk, made entirely of a single piece of glimmering dark stone, sat a small, fat goblin with a ledger spread open in front of him.
"Hermione Granger," he addressed her. "I am Colmey. Please, have a seat."
When Hermione and Snape were comfortably seated and offered coffee and tea, which neither of them accepted, he dove into the meat of the conversation.
'I see that after Mr. Harry Potter's demise, joint account 740 has become a grade one account. With a grade one account, only an authorized goblin can open it. I am sure you will be pleased with the increased security measures on your account."
Calmly, as though she were asking for sugar in her tea, Hermione asked, "Where do you stand, Colmey, and Gringott's, in this war?"
"Gringott's takes no sides," he hissed. "No side but their own."
"Do I have your word, then, as a trustworthy goblin, that Voldemort has not and will not take over this establishment?" Hermione demanded.
Bowing his grey, wrinkled head low, Colmey acknowledged the ancient platitudes Hermione invoked. "You have my word, sister of men."
Snape sat stony and silent in the chair next to Hermione, his back eyes taking in every detail of the conversation between his lover and the small goblin.
"There's more," continued Hermione. "State your business. You wouldn't call us back here to just discuss my account's status upgrade."
"We have discovered an item from a vault that the last living link has been severed. This item," said Colmey directly, getting up to stroke his long fingers down a cabinet door, "this item, I believe, will mean a great deal to your cause."
"Why are you showing us, then?" Severus asked quietly, distrustfully.
"Gringott's has not and will not choose a side. Their managing director has," he responded, directly to Hermione, pointing at the little plaque on his desk: Colmey Sanhee, Managing Director.
"Master Snape is my deputy," Hermione retorted. "You may address him freely."
From out of the cabinet Colmey withdrew a thin, leather bound book, closed with a strap, which he handed directly to Hermione. Sliding her fingers under the strap, she tried to pull it from its tab to open the book. Again, she tried. And tried.
"What is this?" she asked, handing the book to Severus.
"I believe this to be the diary of Rowena Ravenclaw," Colmey pronounced. "None have been able to open it thus far. I suspect only a true Ravenclaw would be able to open it."
"We've a few of those in spades," Hermione muttered.
"Rumor has come to my ears that you and yours are searching for the lost diadem."
"Rumors speak many things," Severus replied, "but say nothing."
Colmey ignored Snape. "Mayhaps you will suss out the location of the diadem from this book."
"Many thanks and blessings on your scales," Hermione said, taking the journal back from Snape and holding it close to her chest, her breath heaving.
"I will take you to your vault myself," Colmey replied. "Come."
The ride down was uneventful, but harrowing, as usual, but what Hermione and Snape found in the vault was the most surprising. Colmey placed both of his hands on the flat surface of the door and after the various clinks, clicks and clunks had subsided, the door melted away and they were let inside.
"Holy fuck," Hermione gasped as they stepped into the olympic swimming pool sized room, filled top to bottom with glittering towers of gold galleons, silver sickles and little bronze knuts.
"For once, Miss Granger," Severus said, his face nearly unaffected, "I must concur with your vulgarities.
"Colmey!" Hermione cried. "I had no idea the vault was this full! How much is in here?"
Calmly, Colmey withdrew a parchment with numbers that Hermione did not understand. "I see your confusion. The twelve million galleon sale of Mrs. Narcissa and Master Lucius Malfoy's Piedmont villa has just been cleared."
"Their what?" Hermione gasped.
"I've been there," Severus chimed in, rather uncharacteristically. "Narcissa loved that place. Its a shame they've sold it."
"In Italy?" continued Hermione.
Colmey said, "I took care of the sale myself. Lovely place, I think you agree Master Snape. Five bedrooms, overlooking the sea. Lovely."
"I think the world's gone crackers," she replied. "Well, I suppose we're set for the moment. I could take it all out and buy myself one hell of a skating rink diamond, though."
Severus frowned. "Do you like diamonds, sweet?"
"I like sparkly things, Severus," Hermione assured, "but I'm not looking for one of those diamonds any time soon. I buy my own."
He said nothing, but they got back into the carts for their trip to the surface. The wind whipped at their faces as they marched back into the street, mostly deserted. The hour was tolling in the distance: nine o'clock.
"We're going to be late," Hermione told Severus. "But we need to be seen somewhere, I think, where we're sure it will get back to Voldemort."
"Apothocary," Severus said, steering Hermione gently by her elbow into the first shop on their right. "You're very interested in Brown Recluse carapace today, I think."
They bought half an ounce of the carapace, the apothocary jittery and jumpy the whole time.
"Thank you for your business, Master Snape," the little white-haired man said as they turned to leave. "Will we be seeing you more often now?"
Snape glared. "I tend to gather my own ingredients, Silbernius. You know that."
Silbernius nodded as they left, his left eye twitching erratically.
Onto the tube they went again, this time on the Bakerloo line north to Paddington, where, following Ginny's hastily scribbled directions, they found the restaurant they were looking for. Completely French, it was immediately apparent that if they could not speak the mother tongue, they would be escorted with a sneer. Thankfully they had both spent enough time in France to get by, but to be bombarded with such was strange and foreign in their homeland. In a heavily accented deep voice, the host gave them a distrustful look, although their command of French was acceptable. Regardless, after showing adequate respect to french cuisine, they were escorted to the back of the quite crowded restaurant and seated in a small booth with a bouquet of amaryllis in a vase with several candles. The menu was a la francais, and heavily wordy.
Sighing and resting her head on the back of the upholstered bench, Hermione sighed, simply glad to be away from the non-stop hustle and bustle of the fake colonial.
"What a fortnight," Severus commented, idly scanning the menu.
A fortnight? What happened two weeks ago? Christmas. Merely five days ago they had been on the run. It had been less than a fortnight since Harry died. Less than a month. They had destroyed another horcrux. They had rescued Katie and Ron.
A fortnight.
Hermione sat flabbergasted, her fingers paused in the air over her menu. "Holy fuck."
"A bit surreal, isn't it?" Severus replied, not looking up from his menu. "Two weeks ago I was still in my comfortable apartment in France, looking over my notes."
Sitting up ramrod straight, Hermione was floored. "You've got to be kidding me. It seems like years."
"I have lived a thousand years," whispered Severus, looking up at last, an indecipherable expression on his face.
Hermione thought. "What is today? Saturday... two weeks ago, I was in Liverpool with Tonks and Ron. We were staking out one of the potential death eater hide outs."
"I was, like I usually am on Saturday nights," Severus replied, "in front of my fire with take out. Indian, last week. Saag paneer and a saffron lassi."
"From Bassanti? That place we got dinner a lot?" asked Hermione, deciding what she wanted to eat and closing her menu.
He nodded. "I thought of you, when I looked over the menu and saw poulet tikka. I was torn between your rose water lassi and my saffron."
"Oh god," replied Hermione. "What I wouldn't do for a rose water lassi."
Severus smiled a rare smile for her. "Those months were...comfortable."
"They were," she answered.
The waitress appeared, and in a bored, accented voice, she asked, "Oo'd oo like zu ohrdair?"
"La dame serait comme un verre de vin maison rouge," Severus calmly transitioned into French, "et je voudrais avoir une eau de vie. Deux verres d'eau et, s'il vous plaît"
Hermione's French was decent, definitely much better than Draco's, but Severus' was exquisite. It was casual and elegant, falling off his lips like drops of water. He had a comfortable way of speaking, and totally french manner, his lips barely moving, each beautiful sound blending to the next glorious beat.
"Oui. Avez-vous décidé ce que vous aimeriez pour le dîner?" the waitress replied, her voice just that much more interested.
"Hermione?" Severus asked, gesturing to her.
She stumbled for a moment, "Pouis-je...no, pourrais-je avoir les moules cuites à la vapeur... dans le vermouth?"
"Oui. Et pour vous, monsieur?" she asked, turning her attention back on the handsome dark-eyed man.
He handed over his menu. "Coq au vin, s'il vous plaît."
As she left, Hermione said, "I'd forgotten how good your French was, Severus."
Inclining his head in thanks, he responded, "I do not think that I told you, but my Mother's Mother was french. Aspeth Rosier."
"I can imagine that you spent happy summers frolicking in Provence. Tall grass, elegant old lady with black and silver hair," Hermione replied.
"She would have been a Ravenclaw," Severus mused his eyes up and to the corner of the room. "She would have loved reading the diary."
Before their entrees had arrived, Severus and Hermione were deep in discussion- first about Ravenclaw's diary, then about who their choice would be to read and decipher the book, followed by where the blasted diadem could be.
By the time dessert arrived, they were deep into a tactical division of the Order, Hermione scribbling on one of the cloth napkins at the table with an ink pen. Severus, Luna, Ron and Draco would be sent to Albania to search for the diadem while Hermione, George, Bill and Fleur would scour the Riddle House. Fred, Charlie, Neville and Katie were headed to the South London Orphanage where Riddle grew up.
"And the other matter of the evening," Hermione said, digging her fork into her gâteau, the chocolate cake passing her lips with a heavenly sigh. "What should we do about Spain?"
"Do you ever stop?" Severus asked her, not ungently, as he carefully, precisely cut with the side of his fork into his dessert, clafoutis aux Cerises.
Shaking her head from side to side and reveling in the feeling of her hair against her cheeks again she said, "Not really. Ever. We'll have to send someone. Using Spain as a base instead of the United States would be nice, I think. Better commute."
Snorting a bit, Severus replied, "I hardly think that going over a thousand kilometers can ever qualify as a commute."
Hermione shrugged, a good natured smile on her face. "We need to go to that little town in Portugal again, after this is over. Presuming we're alive."
"It was quite nice," returned Severus, putting down his fork and circling his fingers around Hermione's wrist on the white table cloth. "I don't really remember it, though. All I could think about is that you and I were going to be without supervision for an undisclosed amount of time very soon."
"Minx," Hermione said, scratching lightly at the tender underside of his wrist seductively.
"Shall we depart, then?"
"We shall."