General Hargrove
"You knock," I whispered to Ron. "The general is expecting us. It's not a big deal."
"No, you. This was your idea. I'm just here because my dad is thousands of miles away." Ron gestured at the closed door, from which hung a cloth banner of a bird perched on a flaming sword, the Hargrove family crest.
All the stories I'd heard of General Hargrove portrayed him as both humble and personable. Unlike many in his position, he did not order special food or furniture befitting his position; he lived just as his soldiers on coarse, monotonous fare, in sparse barracks quarters. When Ozernyy Zamok still had time for all-hands meetings, Hargrove was known for his good listening and an uncanny ability to take soldiers' suggestions and bring them into being at the base. He also gave credit to the soldiers who had proposed the ideas instead of lumping them together with his accomplishments. Though Hargrove's position kept him busy with Important Things, enough people had been able to get audiences with him to build his reputation as an expert conversationalist, a man able to forge connections with everyone from barely-literature foot soldiers to people of long-term wealth and station.
Of course, these qualities still couldn't dispel the awe and intimidation that his title produced.
Ron and I had arranged this meeting with the general to talk about starting a Muggle technology initiative at Ozernyy Zamok. A few weeks after Samuel's death, I had remembered Arthur Weasley's passion – however eccentric – for Muggle items. Ron had agreed to talk to his dad and see if he'd be willing to act as a liaison with the base for bringing about my idea.
Now we were about to seek the general's endorsement. This was a meeting on which fortunes, maybe even lives, hinged. To say nothing of my promise to Samuel.
(I really had to stop thinking like that. The pressure was heavy enough already.)
"Together, then," I said to Ron in a voice that allowed for no nonsense. "On three, we'll do it at the same time. One, two, three."
Together our timid little tapping just amounted to a knock. For an instant, I worried the general hadn't heard us, and we'd have to do it again. But the door did swing back, though no one stood behind it. Well inside the room, the general looked up from a table he was arranging for tea. He must've used magic to open the door.
"Enter," he said, more invitation than command.
Very little distinguished Hargrove's quarters from those of his men, save for the quiet and solitude. A barracks room, empty and unused, lay between the general's room and the nearest one the soldiers occupied. Consequently, Hargrove's space was a quiet oasis. Like mine, it consisted of empty beds and dressers, though here, most of the beds had been pushed against the wall so he could set up his office.
Although General Hargrove had no fireplace, a flame the size of a small wine cask hovered in the air between his bed and table, a surreal, beautiful sight. From the heat it emitted, I assumed it served as a substitute.
"Let me know if either of you are too cold or warm," he said when Ron and I entered. "I can adjust the temperature using my fire cube." He motioned to a cube of glass on the table and the tongue of flame within it, so still, it didn't seem real.
"How fascinating! I've never heard of a fire cube," I said. My face colored a bit as the words left my mouth. I wanted to seem professional, not starry-eyed. I hoped he would still take me, Ron, and our request seriously.
The general smiled warmly. "It is a magical item of my own invention," he said. "The small flame that I generated is recreated in a larger form outside the cube glass. The glass, of course, is made from a special crystal with its own mystical properties. The story of how I obtained it would take too long to tell." He sighed. "Gathering materials for such objects and creating them was my hobby in days that I had more time."
Unsure what to say, I nodded enthusiastically, caught Ron doing the same out of the corner of my eye.
"Would you like some tea?" General Hargrove said. He was a good host, I thought, filling the conversation gap with something to move it along and make it grow, especially when his guests were somewhat intimidated.
As he poured, I found myself admiring his delicate fingers. They resembled Snape's, but I felt no regret at the reminder. Instead, I found myself appreciating his dark, thick brows; the golden brown of his skin; and darker brown of his silky hair. Like most at Ozernyy Zamok, he wore it long, in a ponytail in his case. Save for some stubble, however, he had no beard to speak of. He was very young for a general, I thought, warming my hands around the chipped mug he pushed toward me. That must be why circumstance found him here.
His eyes, I found, changed color, seeming golden one moment, brown the next, then green. One thing remained constant in their mercurial hazel depths: his undivided attention.
Hope fluttered its wings in my stomach. Maybe with his help, we could turn things around at this base. Maybe it would happen sooner than the usual crawling, inching nature of Ministry.
At Hargrove's unvoiced invitation, I explained my idea to bring Muggle technology to Ozernyy Zamok. "I would take on a collateral duty to be available to help the wizards with the learning curve. But there is one more person this plan would involve, a subject matter expert named Arthur Weasley."
"Arthur Weasley is my dad," Ron explained. "He's always been interested in Muggle artefacts and worked for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office before the war started. Since the war's started, he's become interested in err, war machines and things. With Hermione to drive the initial strategy and help him focus…"
Hargrove's eyelids flicked up. I could tell it was dawning on him as to why I had brought Ron, who, until now, had simply sat there like a stone statue. "Which department is your father working in now?" the general asked.
Ron flushed. "Base Sanitation."
I understood his embarrassment. Arthur's department had been closed due to the war, and he had been reassigned to an area in dire need of personnel. The more Ron had told me when I had broached the subject with him, the angrier I'd felt. Why didn't the wizards consider technological development a priority? It was so short-sighted of them! But, I reminded myself, the Dark Forces probably thought the same way. And if I could prove my point by winning Ozernyy Zamok back, maybe enough Ministry people would listen and I could change the course of the war itself. To say nothing of my promise to Samuel.
"That shouldn't be too difficult," General Hargrove said. "Is there anything else?"
"Funding," I said. "We won't know for sure until we've drawn up a plan with Ron's father." I'd been torn on this point. I had wanted to draw up a simple plan in advance, but Ozernyy Zamok was cut off from the Ministry's network of fireplaces. Not that there would have been time. Ron of course was on-call, and with Samuel deceased, and Jared forced to assume his duties, Intelligence at Ozernyy Zamok had become a daily race against the clock, a gamble of competing priorities.
Owls took ages, and I couldn't use a falcon for something like this, not while it was considered a personal project. Naturally, Ozernyy Zamok had nothing like email. (The irksome part was that I felt certain that Arthur Weasley did.)
Hargrove set down his half-finished cup of tea. "Before the war, you'd have a difficult time getting Ministry funding for a project. As it was, the bureaucracy would take a year to navigate through."
"Even for a small-scale project like this one?" I said, feeling my proposal slipping through my fingers. "It's only one base."
"Yes, I'm afraid so. And the war's current path has made everything take three times as long."
Three times as long was bad enough. But was Hargrove hinting that the Ministry might be losing ground in the war?
I had to disregard the ominous statement for now. It wasn't what I'd come here to discuss. The war had to come first. (The possibilities would haunt me later, however; that I knew.)
"Understand, it won't be possible," Ron cut in with a typical soldier's brusqueness.
"Via the Ministry," Hargrove said. "But the Ministry is not the only source of money in this world."
"Who else is there?" I said. "We're up here in the middle of nowhere. And we're all Ministry people."
"You've intrigued me. I would l like to provide the funding," Hargrove said.
"But sir!" I was shocked. As a general, he well-paid...in theory. But with the Ministry's now-questionable stability, was that still true?
"Let me assure you that I can afford it," Hargrove said. "If it makes you feel better, draw up a budget and present it to me. Be as conservative as you feel you need to."
"Sir…" My head whirled with the possibilities.
"You've made her very happy, sir," Ron said for me. And thank goodness. My mind was going so fast, it might have been some time before I could form coherent sentences again, at least when speaking to General Hargrove.
"I am delighted to aid in your initiative, Intelligence Officer Granger, Private Weasley. I hope to see you again soon."
I all but danced from the room.
In the hallway, Ron turned to look at me. His own eyes mirrored my excitement. "Well, I wasn't expecting that," he said.
"Isn't it wonderful?" I hadn't felt this excited since getting new textbooks at Hogwarts and considering all the new possibilities their contents would open for me.
"And not just for us. My dad will be thrilled to get out of Sanitation. He might just die of happiness if someone actually respected his work and thought it was useful."
"I'll draw up the budget as soon as I have a free minute and send it to him. Once he gives his input, I'll show it to the general first chance I get."
"Well, Hermione, I've got a watch to stand, and I'm sure you have lots to do. Congratulations!" Ron gave me a strange look halfway through saying these things, as if another subject had stolen his attention.
"Thank you, Ron!" I started to turn to go, but stopped. My friend had remained standing there.
"Err, was there something else?"
"Actually…" Ron looked torn. He glanced around, then motioned me closer.
I obeyed, my curiosity piqued.
"It's Harry," Ron said. "Something's been on his mind these past weeks, something big. He has this faraway look all the time. The time he should be resting, he's always reading a book or making notes on a scroll. It wouldn't matter as much if it were you, but…this is Harry. Since when has he been such a scholar? He doesn't sleep much; when he does, he tosses and turns. Sometimes I hear him moaning, but nothing that tells me anything about what's going on. All I know is he's afraid."
"That's awful," I said. "What can I do to help?"
"I was hoping you'd speak to him," Ron said. "I've tried to bring it up, and he's claimed nothing is wrong. I didn't want to push it because I think he specifically doesn't want to discuss it with me…for some reason"
"I'll talk to him at my first opportunity," I said. "I'm so glad you told me."
"Thanks, Hermione." Ron reddened slightly. "We were best friends at Hogwarts. I'll never forget those years. I don't want anything to happen to either of you."
"Ron…" I felt so touched by his words, his self-consciousness at the vulnerability they revealed.
Ron cleared his throat. I guess he'd had all the sentimentality he could handle for the moment.
Still, I reached out and touched his hand in what I hoped came across as a reassuring manner. Ron's wintry blue eyes met mine; his fear for our friend, yes, fear, sent chills darting across my arms.
I drew back, and Ron broke our gaze. Then, as if it'd never happened, he turned, strode with brisk confidence down the hall to his waiting duties.