ACT 4: 'WHERE LITTLE FEARS GROW GREAT...'
Ghosts of the past … And an overseas trip sows dark doubts…
29. With Something of His True Complexion
In the days that followed his return to Malfoy Manor, it was hard to avoid Draco Malfoy.
The Malfoys were the front-page focus of the Daily Prophet, and the news-pages were bursting with 'insider' coverage about the flamboyant and expensive plans for Lucius's funeral arrangements.
There was to be a small, private ceremony, to be followed at a later date by a larger, commemorative 'spectacle' - the grand opening of a Mausoleum at Malfoy Manor, where Lucius's remains would be finally laid to rest.
Hermione wondered who the hell was driving this tasteless fiasco… She couldn't imagine for one moment it was Draco.
Whenever Draco appeared in the Daily Prophet, he was flanked by Ephraim or Sylvestra (or both) - although Narcissa, her face shielded by a black, lace veil, was by his side, when he was spotted paying a visit to Gringotts Bank. The Daily Prophet's roving rumour-monger, Agatha Thrussington, penned a three-thousand word analysis of Narcissa's tortured suffering, based on observations of her stately comportment, the finely-tailored cut of her black bombazine robes and the deep-set lines of grief etched on her face that Agatha had, somehow, detected under the thickly-woven lace of her veil.
Lucius's death had swept away any dark suspicions about Draco's past. Draco was instead portrayed as a sympathetic figure, more wronged against than wrong-doing. It helped that the Ministry published a statement exonerating him from the 'baseless rumours and scandals' of criminal activity he'd formerly been accused of.
The Malfoy brand and his social standing was further cemented by what Hermione dubbed 'The Golowitz Effect'.
Ephraim - an attractive, popular cheerleader for Silas Witchell's New Brooms reforms - was odds-on favourite to become Mayor of Hogsmeade in forthcoming elections.
Sylvestra, too, had become something of a celebrity. Her imperious blonde beauty regularly graced the front of Witch Weekly. The magazine's latest edition featured a gushing interview, where she expressed her 'heart-felt grief' at the passing of Lucius.
This media blitz felt suspiciously contrived to Hermione. She didn't want to jump to sordid conclusions, but sometimes it was hard not to… She was also struck by the lack of a single mention of the real Mrs Malfoy. Katya had been erased.
From Draco himself, there was silence.
It seemed unfair to Hermione that the media was obsessed by the Malfoy/Golowitz psychodrama, and yet REAL news stories, like the disappearance of Padma Patil and Anthony Goldstein, were ignored. Intelligent, resourceful witches and wizards didn't just vanish into thin air! It was about time the Ministry made a bigger deal out of this… Frustrated, Hermione wrote a letter to the Daily Prophet Editor, Angus McCrackle. She hoped to pique his interest, sparking a full-scale 'Missing Persons' media campaign - but he didn't reply.
Next, Hermione visited WWN's headquarters in Hogsmeade to ask about Parvati Patil. She was told that Parvati was 'somewhere in Papua New Guinea' – as she was producing a new travelogue series, 'What Witches Wear' – a guide to the differing 'costume' habits of the world's wizarding population. Parvati was due to arrive at The Kilimanjaro Hotel in Dar Es Salaam within the next week: Maybe Hermione should send a message there?
Hermione also arranged a meeting with Ernie Macmillan, Anthony's ex-flatmate and former friend from Hogwarts, to see if he could cast any light on the situation; but he cancelled on her at the last minute.
No one seemed to give a damn.
XXX
Harry was still upset with Draco for triggering the Feinsnapp Protocol. He was now convinced that the British Ministry and certain figures at Vendome had conspired to secure Draco's release.
'Mind you, if Draco gets us some inside track on Golowitz, it'll all be worth it. Have you heard from him?' Harry asked, stopping by Hermione's kitchen for a crisis meeting once the copious Vendome paperwork wrapping up Draco's transfer had been finalised.
'No, I haven't,' Hermione admitted, sombrely. 'Have you?'
'Not a word.'
To make matters worse, Harry's role throughout The Kerpin Affair, (as it was now described in the media), was being subjected to some unwanted scrutiny by Auror HQ.
'I'm getting a bit too much heat on this,' Harry complained. He'd decided to flee to America for a quick snoop-around Gilgad's bases … Alaska, in particular.
'Isn't their research centre somewhere in Ohio?'
'It's moved to Juneau… Did Rose like that Russian doll?'
'She hasn't seen it yet,' Hermione said, as she set to making them both a cup of tea. 'Her actual birthday's this Friday. We'll be at my parents' house.'
'That'll be nice for your Mum and Dad.'
'Yes, it will.' Hermione couldn't help but compare Harry's reaction to Ron's when she'd told him that Rose wouldn't be spending her 'actual' birthday at The Burrow. He'd accused her of deliberately upsetting his Mum and not appreciating everything she did for them.
'I'm hoping your trip to the Ukraine proved a theory about Svetlana and those Roses, Harry,' Hermione said, buoyantly, quickly trying to banish her sharp differences with Ron from her mind. They'd become a constantly chiming refrain these past few days. She brought their cups of tea to the kitchen table, where Harry was slumped wearily on a chair. 'In fact, I learned a lot last week… despite being banned from the Ministry Library.'
'You what?'
'Yes. Ridiculous, isn't it? So, I went to Hogwarts.'
'Why've you been banned?'
'Ephraim … I'm sure of it. Playing silly buggers because I didn't fall in line with his stupid plan. His influence at the Ministry is growing, Harry.' She told him about the new department for Muggle Business Relations and the fireplace in Zoltan Guldstern's office connecting directly to Arcana. 'And Padma Patil's gone missing. I suspect she's with Tony… who's also still missing.' She stopped short here. She didn't want to reveal too much about Tony Goldstein's thesis; not while Harry was still sore with Draco.
'None of this is good,' Harry said, stroppily. 'It's fast feeling like everything's going to shit, actually.'
'Not everything.' Hermione told him all she had learned from the Hogwarts Library and Neville; that the necklace charms were Zametsky Roses and likely worked as communication devices.
For the first time since arriving, Harry gave her a genuine smile. 'Well, Hermione, our research in Russia definitely supports the theory that Svetlana Kerpin's family came from Zametsky. Her parents were Alexei and Olga Koldun.'
'Neville mentioned the Kolduns.'
'Officially, Alexei was the Soviet Union's leading expert in ballistics technology,' Harry said, 'but unofficially, Koldun was the most famous wizard in Siberia – a grand master at transfiguration.'
'So, Svetlana never lived in Zametsky herself?'
'I don't think so. She lived in a Siberian town called Yakutsk – by a river - The Lena.'
'As in Rozella's boat.'
'Exactly,' Harry agreed. 'Svetlana was a Muggle school teacher – possibly a Squib, actually. And a revolutionary type - wound up in jail.'
'Really? What did she do?'
'Dunno… But while she was locked-up her husband – a diamond miner called Nikolai Kerpin – sued for divorce, and when she came out she moved to Moscow, where her younger sister, Anna Koldun, was making a great name for herself at Moscow State University.'
'All very interesting, Harry,' Hermione said drily, 'but did you actually find any connection between Svetlana Kerpin and Katya Malfoy?'
Harry smirked, clearly sensing her impatience.
'Svetlana's sister was considered something of a prodigy; an acclaimed sociologist but also working in the 'Magical Matter' department. And in 1980, she was awarded a special dispensation from the Soviet President – Brezhnev – to present a paper at a conference in Zurich.'
'Magical Matter'… Was that what she thought it was?
'Anyway, somehow – and I honestly have no idea HOW - Svetlana accompanied her sister on this trip to Zurich, where they defected.'
Hermione's ears perked up.
'Svetlana's sister, Anna, was then offered a job in Geneva and she married a Frenchman.'
Hermione took a sharp intake of breath. 'So, THIS Anna is the same Anna who was part of The Geneva Group?'
Harry nodded. 'Anna Koldun married Reynaldo Cornec and became Anna Cornec of The Geneva Group. And I'm afraid, that's as far as we got.'
Hermione's mind flitted to the photograph of Anna Cornec - her face scrubbed clean away - alongside a much younger Ephraim Golowitz. There had been that lingering sense of intimacy ... And then there was Svetlana's relationship with Katya and little Magda.
Hermione was feeling stunned and a little annoyed with herself. She'd known it … deep down she'd known it all along. She recalled the newspaper article with the photo of Iona Golowitz and her strained smile, standing tall and erect alongside her towering, handsome husband, glowing with rude health and youthful energy, at their mansion in Mendocino. She remembered Sylvestra's blonde curls and wide-eyed prettiness. There had been no sign or mention of Katya.
Iona Golowitz had brought up another woman's child, of that Hermione now felt sure. Katya had been the love-child of Anna Cornec and Ephraim Golowitz – meaning Svetlana was Katya's aunt.
She could feel Harry's eyes boring into her from behind his glasses.
'It all makes sense,' she muttered. 'Wow, Harry. You've put it all together.'
'Well, we tried,' he sniffed. His mouth twitched irritably. 'Couldn't bloody move for minders.' He drained his cup of tea and stood up.
'Leaving so soon?'
'Unfortunately, yes… I've booked a Portkey out of Paris to Portland. You heard anything from your Danish mate, Henrik?'
'We exchanged texts yesterday. He's researching the Auckland Volcanic Field for some reason… nothing to do with Gilgad… he's one of life's catastrophists; but I think you'd like him, Harry.'
Harry nodded. 'How's Ron?' he asked, as he headed out of the door.
Hermione shrugged, trying to appear casual. 'Haven't seen much of him to be honest. Rose's birthday party was at The Burrow on Saturday because Ron's away all this week – he's in Moldova with Tana McLaughlin and Tom Bennet, interviewing disgruntled bookmakers...'
'Not quite Section A stuff, is it?' Harry snorted. 'More like Section B. That's Bennet's territory.'
XXX
In truth, Hermione was relieved that Ron was out of the country.
Neither had mentioned their fierce argument, but Hermione was starkly aware that there had been a subtle yet distinctive shift in the tectonic plates that underpinned their marriage. She wondered how long this had been going on and realised the strain might have been showing more than she thought when Molly and Ginny turned up at her house one morning, purportedly to bring some 'extra' birthday presents for Rose, before she absconded on her treacherous trip to London.
Molly fussed around Wisteria Cottage in her usual manner, suggesting 'improvements' and offering 'advice' - but her conversation was peppered with random observations: 'Did Ron really have to work so hard?'; 'Was there a need for all this constant travel?'; 'Maybe she (Hermione) could try out some new recipes? A well-fed man wouldn't feel the need to spend so much time at the office.'
Over afternoon tea in the garden, (they'd been blessed with a decent day's sunshine), Ginny was quick to point out that Hermione's own absences from home had compromised Ron's ability to do his job properly – and now he was having to make up for lost time. She claimed to speak from 'bitter personal experience' that Section A was a tough and competitive working environment and Ron needed even more support than usual if he was to survive and thrive.
Hermione quietly smouldered, offering yet more tea and confounding Molly with a plate of buttered scones - bought from a Muggle supermarket…
'Your baking has shown marked signs of improvement,' Molly clucked in appreciative tones. 'Confirms my view that you should be the one who hosts Gabrielle and Briek this year.'
'Here?' Hermione almost screeched. 'But our house is tiny.'
'I just thought, with you at home now, it might make for a nice change.'
Molly always accorded Fleur's sister, Gabrielle, and her dashing husband, Briek Bertel, 'Royal Visit' status. Hermione assumed this was largely on account of Briek because Molly had never warmed to Gabrielle, insisting she had secret 'designs' on Harry. Gabrielle's marriage to an ex-rock star, twenty years her senior, had thrown Molly into a tumult of disapproving confusion, (loudly voiced, after three glasses of prosecco, at Gabrielle's wedding reception), but Briek was suave charm personified and soon won Molly over.
Hermione liked him enormously and was equally fond of Gabrielle, feeling she was subjected to unfair criticism. For reasons never divulged, Gabrielle was unable to bear children. This entirely private matter was a persistent topic of hot debate amongst the Weasleys.
Despite this, Hermione had no desire to play Happy Hostess. She protested, justly, she felt, that Gabrielle would rather stay with Fleur at Shell Cottage.
'Stuff and nonsense!' Molly exclaimed. 'They were delighted to stay at The Burrow last year! Gabrielle said it was her best visit yet.'
Gabrielle had clearly calculated that courteous flattery was her best survival tactic.
'And you know how much they like you and Ron and the children… it could make this year's visit all the more special,' Molly cooed.
The next day, Hermione was all too happy to get away from Ottery St Catchpole and head to the comparative calm of her parents' house in London. Her father, Robert, had planned a jam-packed roster of activities for Rose and Hugo.
Jean, however, had her own plan – a night at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden with her daughter.
XXX
It was Valentine's Day. Hermione expected the place to be half-empty, but she soon realized that the opera was a popular place for a spot of romancing, based on the high proportion of dolled-up dates and nervous chatter in the Stalls. The opera house itself was a feast of rich crimson furnishings, ornate, gilded architraves and a glorious cornflower-blue domed ceiling. Old-fashioned lamps lined the tiered balconies and dimmed to a soft rose-gold hue when the opera was about to begin.
It was her mother's favourite, Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin. Browsing the programme, Hermione wasn't entirely sure it was optimum fare for a night bloated with such high romantic expectations: Missed opportunities; Loving those we shouldn't, when we shouldn't; Succumbing to a loveless fate… She suddenly felt rather glum. However, within ten minutes of curtain-up, she realized she was wrong. It was impossible not to be moved by the lush music and the passionate singing. And this production featured an oddly effective motif – a pair of young, beautiful dancers enacting the inner lives of the main characters, as they sang and acted their roles.… She could almost hear Ron's voice in her head moaning that it was 'too bloody poncey.' But as the opera progressed, Hermione began to find it rather moving, even disturbing.
The younger, artless selves twirled and danced, reveling in the simple beauty of their youth and freedom. They indulged their instincts, their passions, and railed at their misfortunes and mistakes. Their older selves grew increasingly jaded, world-weary, worn down by the rigours of social conformity and stultifying routine, unable to grasp any opportunities to change course.
She was lost in thought as she followed her mother out of the auditorium during the interval. There was a long, curving banquette between the entrance to the auditorium and the doorways leading to the main lobby. Hermione sat down to read her programme, while her mother went to buy them ice creams and chat to a friend she had spotted in the lobby.
'I think this must be one of my favourite operas,' a familiar voice said beside her.
Hermione spun round in surprise. 'What are YOU doing here?' she asked Ephraim Golowitz. He was the last person she expected to see in a place like this. She was immediately adrenalized, prepared to run if necessary. Her hand instinctively clasped the wand pendant dangling around her neck.
Ephraim was immaculately dressed in a smart, Muggle suit. He grinned at her, baring perfect, gleaming white teeth. 'I love opera. Probably more than anything in the world.'
Hermione quickly scanned the area. There was a bunch of well-dressed people hooting with laughter directly in front of her, and a string of dewy-eyed couples parked at various intervals along the banquette. A solitary man unearthed a sandwich from his lunch-box, and a large lady a few feet further along, was pouring herself a cup of tea from a Thermos flask.
'Where's your usual entourage?' she asked, suspiciously.
'I've come alone,' Ephraim replied. His eyes glittered with unalloyed glee when he looked at her. 'I haven't been stalking you, if that's what you're thinking, Hermione. This is one of life's truly glorious coincidences…'
She stared at him uncertainly.
'Having said that,' he demurred a little, 'I spotted you in the Stalls earlier. You were most distracting.'
'Well, that's ruined the rest of the show for me,' she snapped. 'Where are you sitting?'
'To the side - Stalls Circle, front row – facing you.'
She'd have to change seats… except, it was a full house.
'I'm surprised you've found time to get away from your media whirlwind,' Hermione said sarcastically. 'Your profile has benefited enormously from Mr Malfoy's death.'
'Oh, it's a bit of a bore, to be honest, Hermione,' he said breezily. 'I'm glad to catch a break.' His robust American voice was a little softer, more subdued than usual. His brash swagger toned down… Maybe it was being in a Muggle-heavy environment?
'You strike me as a man who thrives on attention,' she said snidely.
She was fighting an urge to ask after Draco…
He laughed. 'We all need our private space.' He gestured at the crowds milling between the lobby and the auditorium. 'And this is mine.'
'Hardly private. And so many Muggles!'
He shrugged. 'And why would that bother ME?'
'I doubt you much like the company of Muggles. And opera's very much a Muggle artform.'
'I love and value beauty wherever I see it,' he murmured softly. He furrowed his brow in consternation and eyed her quizzically. 'You appear to be struggling under a serious misapprehension, Hermione. I have no reason to hate Muggles. I'm not one of THOSE wizards. On the contrary, I want to be equal with them; to share their world and for them to share ours, without any fear or misgivings or discrimination.'
Hermione cocked her head to one side and studied him, eyes narrowed. 'You've become very influential in recent months, Mr Golowitz, and the tone of our society is changing rapidly. There's an increasing number of so-called anti-discrimination measures targeting Muggle-borns, for example. I can't help but draw my own conclusions.'
'The Minister is his own man.'
'Are you sure about that?
Ephraim pursed his lips petulantly. 'My wife, Iona, was a Muggle-born. Awful woman as it turned out, but that was nothing to do with her heritage. Although her family was ghastly… They were Muggle Politicians. Her father was a Senator; desperate for me to follow in the hallowed family footsteps.'
'And now you're doing just that,' Hermione said pertly.
'I don't think a measly mayoralty of a diddly squat township in Scotland was quite the political future my father-in-law envisaged for me. It certainly wouldn't have been enough to please my wife…'
'And yet, here you are,' Hermione sighed regretfully. Where had her mother got to? She was beginning to worry. 'Why didn't you enter politics in the US? Why come here?'
Ephraim pondered this. 'Oh, I tried…but the media. They asked too many tricky questions. That's the downside of being a wizard, I suppose. We always have so much to hide. It's impossible to weave a credible narrative – the type voters can buy into… It's much easier here, as an outsider. Especially in wizarding circles.' He beamed at her. 'In that respect, you Muggle-borns are enviable, you know. You have a viable childhood. You can bat for both teams.'
Hermione had never really thought of it as an advantage. But there was an undoubted logic to what he was saying.
'But surely you could just lie?'
'Perhaps? But how many lies can you hold in your head at one time? I was already pretending I had a happy marriage. That was stressful enough.'
Hermione blinked rapidly, shocked that he was being so open with her. Either that or he was playing a part. Probably, the latter.
She couldn't help but think, though, about what she'd learned from Harry.
'Is that why you had an affair with Anna Cornec?' she asked, surprised at her own boldness. Although, in truth, the words had slipped out before she had a chance to stop them.
His eyes twinkled. 'You're a very smart woman… and I'm flattered you've taken such an interest in me.'
She felt a surge of blue flash through her as he spoke… for some reason, this made her bolder still…
'I take it Katya wasn't Iona's daughter, then.'
'No. A love-child. And a very LOVED child, too… and her mother - well –' he trailed off a little, momentarily lost in thought. 'Well, let's just say this opera captures the spirit of what happened between us. Missed opportunities. Lost love.'
'I don't see you as a man who craves love, Ephraim,' Hermione mused. 'Craves ATTENTION, maybe? But not love.'
'Interesting. And you might be right. I don't NEED love. But I want it... But isn't that the same for all of us, Hermione?' He stared hard at her face and his eyes were a blistering blue. She felt strangely scalded.
'I don't know.' She could feel her cheeks glowing pink. It wasn't because of HIM. But she had feared, for a brief moment, that he'd seen something inside of her that she didn't want to face up to.
The bell was ringing, announcing the end of the interval, and her mother still hadn't returned. 'I'm going to go and find my mother,' she said, standing up. Ephraim stood up too; transitioning back to his usual towering, formidable presence. Passersby immediately seemed to unconsciously cower in his wake.
'There you are!' Jean gasped, clutching her daughter's arm. 'It's the strangest thing… I went to the bathroom and got completely lost! I've been to this place countless times. I don't know what came over me. And I seem to have mislaid our ice-creams.'
Hermione bristled with indignation and shot Ephraim a furious look. He smirked smugly in return.
'Mrs Granger,' he said, in his most charming, avuncular tones. He shook her hand cordially. 'What a pleasure it is to meet you. I'm Ephraim Golowitz.'
'Oh?' Jean replied, staring at him in unabashed admiration. 'Hello….' She glanced at Hermione.
'I was just chatting with your lovely daughter about the opera… Glorious singing and the chorus is in particularly splendid form tonight, don't you think?'
'Yes – yes. Very much,' Jean said eagerly.
'I love the sound of Russian singing,' Ephraim sighed. 'It has a such a melancholy sweetness to it.'
Jean smiled appreciatively. 'I completely agree with you,' she said in warm tones. 'Even when happy, it sounds so terribly sad.'
Ephraim's face twitched a little at this. Maybe it was her mother's genuine earnestness that had unnerved him? Hermione thought.
The bells were clanging louder, more emphatically.
'We have to go,' Hermione said, ushering her mother away from the undeniable allure of Ephraim Golowitz and his penetrating gaze.
Ephraim abruptly switched attention to Hermione. To her surprise, he took her hand and kissed it with pompous chivalry. She instantly retracted it, outraged.
'Happy Valentine's Day, Hermione,' he purred, and withdrew into the thick of the crowd pushing their way back to their seats.
'Gosh,' Jean said, round-eyed. 'What a handsome, charming man!'
Hermione threw Ephraim's retreating back a look of pure venom. 'No, Mum. He's evil. Pure evil.' But in her haste to get back to their seats before the lights went down, Jean wasn't listening.
XXX
Rose's birthday tea-party was a cosy affair. She happily feasted on chocolate cake and fizzy drinks and Jean and Robert gave her a delightful silver pendant necklace, which bore an uncanny resemblance to one of Katya's roses.
Hermione's Aunt Rita was there, loud and rumbustious as ever. She gave Rose a garish pink dress. To Hermione's disappointment, Rose instantly whipped off the Marizel dressing-up costume that Hermione had given her and donned Aunt Rita's gift instead. Sadly, Hermione's uncle was absent. He had suffered 'one of his funny turns' just as they were leaving the house, Aunt Rita announced in exasperated tones.
Gwen pulled a face. 'Hardly a turn,' she said disparagingly. 'I think the chemo drugs are killing Dad quicker than the cancer.' She smiled listlessly. Hermione felt an acute surge of affection for her cousin, but all she could do was pat Gwen's arm in what she feared was an ineffectual show of solidarity.
After tea, Alfred and Hugo were instantly engrossed in the latest Space Force 7 comic and Rose was being happily fussed over. Hermione snuck out of the living room and ventured into her parents' study, where a gleaming white computer – her father's pride and joy - hummed smugly on the desk. She swiftly logged into her email, glancing furtively at the door to ensure she wasn't interrupted. A message from Henrik was winking at her in the inbox. She clicked the attached file and quickly scrolled through the photos of the Gilgad installation in New Zealand he had emailed.
She could barely suppress the disappointment that settled dismally on her. The site was deserted - a few, ramshackle breezeblock sheds and a gaping, empty hangar set amidst a scrubby wasteland. There were a few interior photos - collapsed shelves and ripped black bin bags strewn across a concrete floor – signs perhaps of a quick getaway, but nothing else.
There was a fuzzy-looking photo of a pudgy-looking woman with a floppy perm, her dimpled arm draped over a young girl's shoulders. The girl was thin and sallow with stringy black hair and a vacant expression on her face. The picture was labelled 'Shona and Kai, 2011.'
And that was it.
Shona and Kai were standing in what looked like an office. There were papers and pictures pinned to a cork wall behind them and, sprouting from behind Shona, a framed photo. Hermione clicked on the photo to enlarge it. Even though the photograph was blurred and indistinct she could still make out two figures. One she immediately recognized – the sleek black hair and pinched features of Torquil Haast. The other man beside him was shorter and sporting a crisp, cream suit. Unfortunately, his face was swallowed up by wisps of Shona's frizzy hair so she couldn't identify him.
Her eyes scanned Henrik's latest email. He would be back in Wanaka today.
'The two guys who were running the place,' Henrik wrote, 'were Torquil Haast and Zoltan Guldstern.'
Hermione's eyes darted to the picture of the short man in the cream suit. The mysterious Zoltan Guldstern! Ephraim's plant at the Ministry.
'I've got someone lined up to talk to us. Sooner the better.'
Harry was gallivanting God-knows-where in America; this left, her. Hermione.
Except, Ron had sent a vague message yesterday to say he was now heading to Romania. Maybe she could ask her parents to keep Rose and Hugo over the weekend?
Hermione emailed Henrik back, shut the computer down, and hastened into the living room.
XXX
The officious-looking chap at the International Portkey Terminal had been right. Sana'a was most certainly not a place to get stuck in. She arrived to the sound of gunfire and the pungent smell of cordite in the air… There was a nerve-wracking charge for the Portkey heading straight to Cochin, but Hermione was jostled aside and forced to wait an hour in the suddenly still and forbidding, pitch-black Yemeni desert, for the next Portkey out – which wasn't to Pagan, as the officious-looking terminal attendant had assured her would be a quick route to New Zealand - but to Masirah, an island off the coast of Oman.
Fortunately, there was a Portkey at Masirah that took her onto Galle in Sri Lanka, and from there to Makassar in Sulawesi. This wasn't ideal and the constant Portkey changes were driving her to the point of sickly exhaustion, but at Makassar she lucked into a private Portkey transit with a group of avid whale-watchers heading to Kaikoura, a small township on the East Coast of New Zealand's South Island.
It was a glorious summer's morning in New Zealand, although the strong sun hurt her eyes. Her fellow travellers side-Apparated her to a shed on the outskirts of town so that she could Portkey onto Wanaka.
It had taken just under seven hours to journey across the world and she was now about as far from Ottery St Catchpole as she could imagine. She was weary and emotionally drained; nerves jangling. And she never relished the unpleasant, after-effects of Portkey travel.
All such feelings were washed away in an instant by the glorious vista that presented itself when she stepped out of the busy motel car park, which served as the local magical transport hub, onto a lightly trafficked promenade running alongside the shoreline of Lake Wanaka. Gently undulating hills and mountains framed the lake at its farthest side. The barren, burnt sienna rocks bathed in bright, white sunshine and tipped with gleaming white snow, contrasted with the clear, cerulean waters below. Feathery plane trees fringed the shore and a neat line of wood-panelled buildings lined the roadside to her right, facing the lake.
She breathed in deeply, revelling in the cool, fresh air that filled her lungs. There was a gentle serenity, a gauzy, dreamy quality to this place that invigorated her. For a moment, she could forget that she was heavy-limbed with exhaustion and that her taupe linen blouse was soaked with sweat and sticking uncomfortably to her armpits.
'Welcome to Wanaka!' came a deep, friendly voice behind her.
She swung around to meet the sparkling blue eyes, tanned features and large, outstretched hand of Henrik Thyssen. She clasped his hand eagerly and he led her towards an awaiting Jeep.
To her surprise, Harry was at the wheel, looking remarkably relaxed and even a little supercilious, Hermione thought sourly.
'What the hell are YOU doing here?' she demanded, as Henrik deftly manoeuvred her into the backseat of the Jeep. 'I thought you were in Alaska!' Her voice was almost drowned out by the harsh grinding of gears and gritty roar of the Jeep's tyres as Harry flung the vehicle into an about-turn and surged away from town in a flurry of thick, sandy dust.
'We've been waiting here for over two hours,' Harry retorted.
'I missed the connection to Pagan,' she said, grumpily.
The Jeep clunked and groaned as he moved through the gears with sharp, jagged movements. 'Why? What happened?'
'I got stuck in the Yemen. That's what happened.' Hermione launched into a furious explanation about her wait at Sana'a in the middle of an insurrection and her complicated journey afterwards, before realising with a queasy thud that she had been rattling on about Portkeys and Side-Apparition… 'Shit,' she said, under her breath. Henrik…
Harry and Henrik exchanged knowing glances. She was sure Harry was smiling.
'You've told him, haven't you?' she said in outraged tones to Harry.
'I was halfway to working it out already, Hermione,' chortled Henrik. 'You wouldn't be the first magical folk I've come across, you know.'
He threw her a wink over his shoulder and then leant forwards and rummaged in a bag at his feet from which he plucked a can of coke.
'Hey, take this, it's a bit warm, but you must be thirsty.'
Hermione drank the coke, a little dazed. Henrik was right. She was parched. It was a hot day and the sun was blindingly bright overhead.
Would they have to Obliviate him? she wondered, hazily. He seemed remarkably unfazed; more preoccupied with fighting to open a large map in a small, confined space than by sharing that same space with two people capable of hexing him into oblivion. His finger traced a long, sinuous line which curved away from the lake to their right and up into a mottled green and brown stretch of land, which led into a range of mountains stretched across the landscape before them.
Hermione momentarily found herself transfixed by Harry driving. She hadn't even realized Harry could drive! She'd never had the time, inclination, or indeed, the need.
Her head flopped and bounced against the window as the Jeep headed into less well-manicured terrain. Her eyes slid slowly shut, a languorous warmth easing through her … That was the problem, she thought, the longer she lived in the wizarding world, the less-equipped she was to handle life beyond it. Being magical was a gift beyond a Muggle's wildest dreams, but in other ways, it was a form of lifelong dependency. Not that it mattered, of course. A life without magic was unthinkable … This train of thought idled its way through her head as she basked in the welcome warmth of a Southern summer; sunshine dappled her face and a gentle breeze wafted from Harry's open window…
The Jeep crunched to a halt, sending up a spray of gravel that loudly peppered the windscreen. Hermione woke with a start, her heart racing. The coke can she'd been holding when she fell asleep had slipped from her grasp and her sandals were splattered with brown, sticky liquid.
She inched open her eyes and peered out at a dusty, rock-strewn wasteland scooped out of the side of a mountain. She looked behind her. The road they had been travelling veered precariously downwards, weaving its way between scrubby boulders towards a narrow valley and a fast-flowing river.
Her eyes drifted upwards. Above them was a high, craggy peak. To her left was a disused ski lift.
Harry was already out of the Jeep. He opened Hermione's door and offered his hand to help steady her as she climbed out, blinking into the sunlight.
'You look beat,' he murmured, pulling her into a close embrace. A flood of velvety sage green engulfed her.
'Hey! You guys! The abandoned buildings are around here,' Henrik called, marching purposefully towards a triangular passageway cleft into the rock. 'They didn't leave much.' They surveyed a huddle of deserted Portacabins with broken windows. 'Thought you should see the site anyway, but we should get to Shona's. She's expecting us.'
'Who's Shona?' Hermione whispered to Harry.
'Used to work here.'
Hermione gazed at her bleak surroundings. 'Doing what?'
'She claims this was once a manufacturing plant,' Henrik said, with a nonplussed shrug of the shoulders. 'There was an old hangar building – it's been dismantled - about there …' He pointed to a sizeable area – the size of two tennis courts side-by-side – where the ground was level and less stony.
'What did they make here?'
'Thin, plastic tubing, mainly. She's no idea what it was going to be used for.'
'And no one thought to ask?' Hermione asked, perplexed.
'There's no fathoming some folks, is there?' Henrik said gruffly.
Harry was scooting his foot though the dust. He stopped, bent over, and picked up a small, white tube, no more than a couple of centimetres long and a millimetre thick, and promptly pocketed it.
Hermione studied the high grey rocks surrounding the site. Their faces were rough and misshapen, except for one flat area, about four metres in diameter.
'Hold on,' she muttered. She unleashed her wand, pointed it at the rock face, and muttered an 'Alohomora.' Nothing happened, but she felt certain that this even surface had in fact been a door.
Harry quickly followed her line of thought and ran his hands along the rock.
'Stand back!' he yelled.
Hermione guessed what he was about to do and pulled Henrik towards the Portacabins. Harry unleashed a fierce 'Expulso!' and a loud explosion ripped through the stone, sending up a choking cloud of dust.
Henrik looked startled, but his eyes were round with wonder.
Harry clambered over the fallen rocks and headed into the darkness beyond. Hermione and Henrik were close behind, following the glowing tip of Harry's wand.
The ground crunched underfoot. Hermione muttered a quick 'Lumos'. There were thousands of thin plastic filaments identical to the one in Harry's pocket.
She caught sight of a scrunched-up piece of paper buried under a pile of stones. She dashed to retrieve it, half-stumbling. The paper was torn and faded. She ran her wand over it, muttering 'Aparecium', then illuminated the paper from behind with the wand light … There was a faint chunky typeface at the top - a letterhead, perhaps?
Her heart sank. It didn't say Gilgad Inc. as she had hoped, indeed expected, but Herb Healing.
Precisely when had this site been in operation? And when had Henrik said there was a sudden death event in the area? It had been a couple of years ago… As one of the company's top executives, surely Draco knew about this production plant? But when she'd shown him the list of Gilgad facilities close to Dark Flux sites, he'd denied it. A cold, ball of doubt sank into her stomach.
She screwed the paper up and stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans.
She stared ahead at Harry and Henrik, retreating deeper into the murky gloom.
They disappeared behind a jutting rock, but Hermione could still see the light from Harry's wand dancing in the distance. She jogged towards it, took a sharp left, and almost collided with Harry and Henrik, who were standing at the entrance to a long thin room.
'What the fuck?' Henrik mouthed.
Hermione could hardly believe what she was seeing. Two rows of empty cots, some broken or overturned, were lined up against the walls facing each other. The floor was a sea of smashed-up wooden and glass debris. Hermione spotted a plastic rattle, shaped like a rabbit, buried in the ankle-deep dust.
The dark room echoed with the sounds of their breathing and the scrape and shove of furniture being moved as they explored. Their footsteps rang out, loud and ringing, filling the eerie gloom closing in on them.
'Strange place for a crèche,' Hermione mused. She had a bad feeling about this.
Henrik ran his hands through his hair. His eyes bulged fearfully in the dim light radiating from Harry's wand. 'Gotta say, guys … this place is super, super creepy. I dread to think what was being done in here.'
Harry's eyes met Hermione's. 'Let's get out,' he said.
'Maybe we should go and talk to this Shona person?'
XXX
Shona lived in a white, wooden bungalow with bow windows framed by pink gingham curtains and a veranda facing the lake. Hanging baskets overflowing with pink geraniums framed the doorway and dripped water onto their faces as they impatiently waited for Shona to answer the door.
Hermione instantly recognized Shona from the photo Henrik had emailed. She bustled them indoors, effusively greeting Henrik as her 'dear friend', and led them into a small living room stuffed with plump, pink furniture. Every available inch of the walls was adorned with a colourful kaleidoscope of moving photographs.
General introductions were made and a pot of tea was presented with four china teacups. Shona apologized for the absence of her teenage daughter, Kai, indicating a large, framed photograph of a surly-looking girl with multiple nose-piercings and heavy black eye makeup.
Harry seated himself opposite Shona, who looked a little nervous. 'Come on, Snuffy,' she said, pulling a fluffy white Pomeranian dog with a spiteful face onto her lap.
Harry solemnly explained that he was an Auror from the European Auror Co-Operative Ventures bureau in Paris and that their investigations concerning the activities of Gilgad's site were of paramount importance to an ongoing investigation. Shona blanched and swallowed hard. Hermione was beginning to see that Harry had that effect on people, but it never failed to surprise her. However, Shona turned out to be a doughty sort, and she was soon smiling gamely and answering Harry's initial questions about Gilgad's operations with impressive vigour and recall.
Harry plucked the thin, plastic tube from his pocket and presented it to Shona.
'Do you recognize this?' he asked.
'Yup. That was one of the things they were making. There was a big ole building up there, full of machines and noise – I showed a photo to our friend here.'
'But do you have any idea what it actually is?'
Shona shrugged. 'Nope. Drinking straws for mice, one friend of mine said.' She let rip with a loud, grating laugh. Snuffy woke up with a start and then his head slumped back to its resting place against Shona's well-padded stomach.
'We found the crèche,' Hermione said.
Shona's forehead wrinkled in confusion. 'Don't know about any crèche … But there was a Wellness Clinic, if that's what you mean? They did all sorts of tests on us – but good tests, nothing scary,' she hastened to add.
'But why were there so many cots?'
'An all-woman workforce,' Shona said. 'Some pregnant. Some had babies. The company was real good. They took special care of these ladies! Take my friend, Arlene… She fell pregnant and they bought her a fancy house, down by the island, and gave her loads of tests and wellness potions and daily check-ups … anything she wanted, she got it! She was treated real nice. But then there was that nasty outbreak … The bossman? He moved Arlene and her newborn baby, Joyana, to a fine new place, up by Gladstone Bay - though Arlene weren't EVER in any danger, if you ask me … was just Muggle-borns died that day. Anyway, Arlene's moved on now. They all have. Dunno where to…'
'One moment – did you say that they BOUGHT the pregnant women houses?' Hermione asked, dumbfounded.
'Those girls were treated like Queens!' Shona said with a broad grin.
'Were ALL the pregnant girls treated this way?' Harry asked. He was edging so far forward on his chair, Hermione feared he might topple off.
Shona thought about this for a moment. '… I think you were better treated if you'd shown that you worked hard,' then let out a loud guffaw that startled Snuffy from his sleep. 'Though I've gotta admit, Arlene was a great girl, but boy, she was darned lazy. Maybe the bossman had a thing for her? He was a bit of a smoothie - exotic-looking fella. All the girls thought he was the bee's knees.'
'And this was…?'
'The guy on the photo – up there! All dressed up like a real gent.'
She pointed to a framed photo on the wall. There was Shona, giggling maniacally, shaking hands with a dapper-looking fellow in a double-breasted pin-stripe suit.
At least it wasn't Draco, Hermione thought. That would have been a blow too far.
'So, you're saying these folks treated you well?' Henrik cried out.
'Sure did!' Shona said proudly. She shifted slightly in her seat to reach out for her cup of tea. Harry leaned forwards and passed it to her.
'Thank you,' she said sweetly.
Henrik's face was reddening. 'But you told me that Gilgad was the worst thing to happen to this place!'
Shona laughed. 'Oh, my dear boy, looks like you got the wrong end of the stick. There was nothing wrong with Gilgad – though that was only the Yank side of the business, you realise – it's just that before they came, we were such a close-knit community. But the money changed all of that. Always does, I find.' She motioned with the hand holding the mug of tea towards a string of photos on her mantelpiece. Hermione had registered these photos when they first entered the room, but Quidditch team photos rarely held her interest for long.
'Yeah… we were close as can be. So much GLORY! You've no idea …' She trailed off, a wistful look in her eyes. 'That was me a few years back.' She pointed to a younger, thinner Shona, leering at the camera. 'I was a beater for the West Wanaka Witches. Okay, not the most original name – but that was the point… We were all WITCHES – an all-girl team!' She gave Hermione an exaggerated wink. 'We topped the New Zealand Quidditch League three years on the trot! And we weren't just a Quidditch team - we were an almighty coven! The most powerful witches in the Southern Hemisphere I'd warrant!' She nodded bullishly, daring them to contradict her...
Powerful witches … Dark Flux. 'Did you have a Gimlott's problem here?' Hermione asked.
Hermione caught a glimpse of Henrik's face and realized Harry hadn't explained THAT much to him about the wizarding world. He was clearly baffled by the direction this conversation was going in.
'We prided ourselves on the purity of our blood!' Shona sneered, eyes flashing angrily. 'Sure. There might have been a few Gimlott's cases over the years – but you never saw sight nor sound of them. We weren't the sorts to go washing our dirty linen in public.'
'But there were SOME cases, you say,' Hermione persisted, ignoring her brazen bigotry. Gimlott's meant Epsilons... What if West Wanaka – like Zametsky before it, and possibly other communities who had suffered Dark Flux outbreaks – had a particularly high concentration of Epsilon blood types?
Shona was looking increasingly uncomfortable. 'Arlene's father had Gimlott's,' she confided. 'Never known a nicer man. Was a shock to find out he was a HALF-BLOOD! Arlene was mortified, poor girl.'
Hermione turned away, feigning interest in the photograph of the suited 'Bossman' on the wall instead. She didn't want to risk catching Harry's eye – even by accident.
'You said earlier that Gilgad was only the YANK side of the business,' Harry asked.
'Yeah - there was the two brothers, Torquil and Selwyn – they worked for the Americans. But they weren't here much. Selwyn was such a sweetheart,' she said dreamily. 'He managed the Wellness Programme.'
'What was the OTHER side?'
'That was Mr Guldstern.' Shona pointed again to the man in the photo. 'He oversaw day-to-day operations for the BRITISH company.'
'Yes. But what was the name of this company?'
'Oh, that was Herb Healing. At least that was the name on my payslip…'
Hermione could almost hear the whirring of Harry's brain as he digested all of this.
XXX
Harry was quiet as they drove back towards Wanaka. Henrik was firing questions at Hermione – 'What's Quidditch? What's Gimlott's? What's a Half-blood?' She was happy to explain – anything to ignore the unsettling morosity that had descended on Harry.
'I think we should head back to Paris,' Harry said abruptly. He turned to Henrik. 'Come and have a look at our centre of operations.' He glanced at Hermione in the rear-view mirror. 'We can drop you home first.'
Henrik could barely conceal his excitement. His tanned face cracked into a gigantic grin. 'Would we be taking one of those Porkies you were talking about?'
'PORTkeys,' Hermione corrected.
'It'd be great if you had a chat with one of my colleagues, Francoise, if that's okay?' Harry said to Henrik. 'She's the official record-keeper for this investigation.'
'You guys might be interested in another batch of sudden mysterious deaths I've started looking into?' Henrik volunteered. 'A Hmong village up by Doi Nang Non in Chiang Rai, Thailand. Gilgad has a facility there, too.'
'Sure... could take a look,' Harry agreed.
'Harry, you can't possibly attempt to prosecute a case against Ephraim solely based on geographical coincidences,' Hermione said tartly, raising her voice from the back of the car. 'You need something to prove Ephraim's intent to weaponise Dark Flux, and more importantly, someone to TESTIFY against Ephraim in the Wizengamot.'
Harry met Hermione's eyes in the mirror. There was a cocky gleam in his eye. 'Zoltan Guldstern. That's our man. We want him to explain this weird obsession his company had with the pregnant ladies... Try and meet him,' he said crisply.
'I can't just waltz into his office,' Hermione said petulantly. 'Wouldn't it be better to try and shortcut this process and approach Saul Jeroboam again? He's been keeping tabs on Ephraim for much longer than we have.'
Harry vehemently shook his head. 'Historically, he's been Ephraim's biggest commercial rival. No one would take him seriously. That was Ephraim's problem, too… It's why he involved YOU.'
'What we need is Katya Malfoy,' Hermione sighed. 'She'd be the most compelling witness of all.' Dead or alive.
'No fresh leads. But I've got a Muggle friend working on it.'
XXX
Hermione was exhausted when she finally got back to her parents' house at Parsons Green. The children were already asleep. They were heading back to school in the morning, meaning there was no chance for a lie-in. She'd have to get up early to Apparate home. But before she collapsed into bed, she had to do something...
XXX
From: Crook Shanks Cots Cribs & Co, Parsons Green, London
Dear Mr Draco Malfoy,
Further to our inspection of the Wanaka facility, we are happy to certify that the plant has ceased operations and the site has been cleared. However, a number of our outstanding items remain, notably in the baby wellness centre. Gratitude was expressed by those staff who used these facilities and the company's extremely generous house-buying scheme for mothers-to-be. Such corporate kindness is rarely bestowed - even extending to the relocation of a newborn during a time of crisis!
Yours faithfully,
C Shanks
Hermione cast a concealing spell, dressing it up as a letter from a New Zealand land agent regarding Mr Malfoy's purchase of a vineyard in Otago. The fact that this letter would be sent to Draco at Herb Healing in the Muggle Post with a London postmark would hopefully alert him to the fact that a revealing spell was needed… This was potentially vital information and she hoped Draco would work it out, because despite everything, despite Harry's misgivings, she still trusted him.
XXX
CHAPTER TRACKS:
"DARK NECESSITIES" by RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS
"EUGENE ONEGIN" by TCHAIKOVSKY
"BUZZCUT SEASON" by LORDE
Disclaimer: I own nothing except my original characters.
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