Disclaimer: I'm not J.K. Rowling; I'm only visiting her universe for nonprofit fun and edification. (No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended).
ooo
Hermione steps through the Floo into the familiar kitchen of the Burrow, as the green flames flare around her like an uncanny veil. As she crosses the hearthstone, she feels a pang of yearning too strong to be nostalgia. If only it were the uncomplicated Burrow of her second or third year, the place of refuge with her foster-family in the magical world… well, Harry's foster-family, and hers by adoption, or by virtue of her tag-along status, her present mind adds with some bitterness.
Of course, there's no time for this sort of adolescent maundering, as Percy takes her arm with friendly firmness, and draws her off, while Molly looks on. It's plain to her that Molly is far from greeting her as an honored guest, which only confirms her suspicion that it was someone else who invited her.
Percy is asking her something about the Ministry, and she realizes that she's being prompted for shop talk. Well, that would be all too easy to provide: there would be the flutter about the new surveillance databases that the Ministry is planning to bring on line, an initiative he is doing his bit to forestall. "The Pureblood scriveners won't do a thing out of principle," he says, "but for sheer self-interest… well, some of them are time-servers and some of them actually earn their salaries, but all of them recognize that this could make them redundant."
Hermione smiles. "You mean that you prompted them a bit."
"The Muggle precedents were persuasive," he says, and takes a considered sip of his Firewhiskey. Percy doesn't drink, well, except for that conference at the Three Broomsticks. He'd said that he wasn't partaking for the duration ("we have to be coherent to sort this mess")… so this is curious. She frowns, looking at the tumbler. He whispers, "Not to worry. It's safe." He adds, "But watch me at dinner, and don't touch anything I don't serve myself."
They're standing in a gloomy corner of the front room as Luna and Dean amuse baby Teddy, who's apparently begun to walk, if only unsteadily; he reaches for the cartoon dragons that Luna conjures, loses his balance, and sits down on the floor rather abruptly. He doesn't cry, because yet more wonders are produced for his amusement: friendly frisking centaurs and faintly smiling Thestrals that look as beneficent as such creatures ever can… Not for the first time, Hermione thinks that Luna's version of the world is rather different from anyone else's.
Percy's hand is on her elbow, as if he were rather urgently inviting her to dance.
"So do you have any idea?"
"It's not Andromeda Tonks, that much is for certain," he says. "Not Harry or Ron, or Dean or Luna. Obviously. But anyone else…" He looks into the depths of the glass, and at that moment, there's a brisk shout from George that he's coming through, and Percy is jostled; the drink spills on Hermione's jeans, and Percy flicks his wand to Vanish it.
He adds in a rather louder voice, as if George had not been there, "And so of course they don't want a thing to do with anything Muggle, but when I said the words 'redundant' and 'mass unemployment', well and a bit of leaving the right sort of thing lying about for them to read didn't hurt matters."
Hermione frowns. "So we have…"
Percy smirks. "The beginnings of an aristocratic Luddite revolt." He smiles. "Which certain parties remind me the southerners wouldn't remember too well, but it's more than remembered in the North."
Hermione says, "I'm not clear on this. They wouldn't have the faintest idea how to break it." She knows that, because as a good hacker, she built the thing to be hacker-proof, so far as she could …
"Ah yes, but there are sins of omission," Percy says. "There are letters that fail to go out, and disappearances, and unaccountable delays…"
"But the higher-ups were quite keen on it… the improved Trace, the whole lot… the blood status paperwork." She feels a sudden cold spurt of fear. "They'll have us all if we're not careful." But I'll be first in line, just like last time.
Percy says, "Kingsley's found the ones who scotched the business with the Auror trainee offers."
"Oh, is that so? And what does he propose to do?"
"With them? Not clear. He can't very well sack them, I don't think. But there are other things… I suspect there might be a very unpleasant lateral transfer in their futures."
"Well, I suppose that's good news, but what about your scriveners' revolt?"
"Not mine. They understand self-preservation. It's not politics, any more." He smiles. "And I made it clear to them just how much faster Kingsley would have found them out if it had been a matter of filing their every bit of correspondence in your database."
She glances across the room; Harry is staring at her with a pale face and a stricken expression, what would look sullen and resentful if it were anyone else. Ginny is staring at her as well, with much-too-bright eyes, and knocking back a teacup that she'd wager doesn't have a drop of tea in it… or not tea exclusively. Her expression is belligerent, that blazing look she remembers all too well from the birthday party. Not a good sign, no.
She says to Percy, "So … what's the plan? Is there one?"
Percy drops his voice and says, "Not here."
The Floo flares in the kitchen; it's Lavender arriving. Xeno Lovegood stands up from his colloquy with Andromeda Tonks, and offers her his arm with old-fashioned courtesy. Lavender smiles that brave crooked smile, and then beams as she sees Hermione, and says, "So where's his red-headed majesty?" Percy smirks and bows, and Hermione assists Lavender into the chair in the front room, as she laughs and says, "No, I meant, is Ron about?"
Harry turns and runs up the stairs, followed by Ginny. Lavender watches them with an oddly canny expression; she flicks her wand discreetly and mutters something that sounds rather like Muffliato, and only then smiles. "No Extendable Ears, then. So Harry's told me they've got Grimmauld Place ready, and Ron and I will be doing night watch." She frowns briefly. "That is, if Harry's really going to do it this time."
Percy's smile shows all the lines in his face. "He's not going to have a choice. He knows what we're bringing into play, and there's one chance." He looks significantly at Hermione.
Ron comes bounding down the stairs, his face alight when he sees Lavender, and for a brief moment Hermione feels a pang of regret. She'd forgotten how absolutely gorgeous he is, with his fair skin slightly flushed and his eyes bright. He falters when he meets her eyes…
… and she steels herself to break the awkward silence, except the lump in her throat won't quite let her. It's not fair, it's Christmas, the first Christmas of the peace… and then the sensible voice that's imitated from her mother says, "Oh honestly, Ron. It's perfectly all right. I've known for the last two weeks. Congratulations, the both of you. And merry Christmas."
Ron says, "Would you like something to eat?"
Lavender laughs, and Hermione feels herself relax as Ron does as well. "Pregnant women don't eat all the time, though I do appreciate the offer. I can wait until dinner."
Hermione says, "I'm making tea. Anyone care for some?" It's clear that Percy isn't offering her a Firewhiskey, and she feels the need of something to keep her hands busy just now. Ron nods, as does Andromeda. Luna's apparently wanting tea as well, since cups and saucers are now swooping and diving through the dance of cartoon dragons and centaurs and Thestrals.
Hermione goes into the kitchen, and Percy follows her like a bodyguard. Good thing that, she thinks, because there is Molly marshalling the last of the feast. Percy sets the kettle to whistling, and Hermione Summons the cups and saucers. Molly Weasley's filing system for kitchen things is apparently engraved on her nervous system.
They sit companionably in the front room in a straggling half-circle, but there's no more conspiratorial conversation, because Andromeda Tonks is sitting there with Teddy on her lap. Harry and Ginny are still upstairs, which makes Hermione regret the opportunity. She still doesn't know the plan, only that it apparently requires a time-turner. She has to restrain herself from touching the place where the tiny hourglass hangs on its gossamer chain under the loose black tunic. She was reluctant to relinquish her cloak when she arrived, and she's keeping it over her shoulders, and hunching a little… Percy looks at her significantly, and she says, "I'm feeling chilled."
He says, "Then have more tea, by all means." And she'd swear he adds, silently, and stop thinking about the time-turner, or you'll have everybody in the room staring at your chest.
She really isn't good at this conspiracy and skulking-about business, after however much practice.
Fortunately she's upstaged by Teddy Lupin, who has decided that he wants more of the cartoon creatures, not less (for Luna's last efforts are gently fading into transparency, as she sips her tea with her wand tucked behind her ear). Nor do Luna's reassurances that there will be creatures later reassure him, because of course he's not of an age to understand the notion of later. He wriggles, and fusses, and finally bursts into tears, in spite of his grandmother's attempts to soothe him.
At long last, Andromeda gathers up the little one and carries him upstairs. A moment later, the Floo flares once more, and Bill and Fleur step through; Hermione intercepts the look of distaste that flashes across Molly's face before she puts on her mask of holiday hostess. Fleur proffers a bottle of elf-made wine, which Molly receives with a pantomime of delight. While the mother-in-law and daughter-in-law are exchanging ritual pleasantries in the kitchen, Bill takes both their cloaks and then comes into the front room. He greets Ron with a handshake, and claps Percy on the back. "So, this is it, eh?"
Percy nods. "Andromeda's upstairs. Best to keep her out of it."
Bill nods. "It's awkward enough for her, I would imagine. No point in giving anyone suspicions that she was conspiring with us."
"Augusta said that she'd give her asylum at Longbottom House if it came to it." Percy's eyes flick toward the staircase, and he adds, as if it weren't a complete non sequitur, "So there's the usual holiday fuss at the Ministry. A New Year's ball, as if they were hosting the Triwizard and they'd personally defeated Tom Riddle… oh and they were expecting the second coming of Merlin into the bargain, and wanted to put best foot forward for the occasion."
Ah yes, because Andromeda Tonks is descending the stairs, with a look of weary relief. At the very same moment, Molly Weasley announces that dinner is served, and invites them to gather about the long table.
There's a friendly milling-about as the seating arrangements sort themselves, and for a moment it's the warm place she remembers—until George's voice cuts through the tumult, "I need to have the good ear facing the funny side of the family." Hermione wonders everyone else doesn't hear the hostility in it, though Percy certainly does, sitting as he is on the side of George's ruined ear. He stands up and walks around the other side of the table to sit at Hermione's left side. He leans in and says in a low voice, "I'll watch my mother. You keep an eye on George." She doesn't need to remember what else he said earlier, not to partake of anything he doesn't indicate is safe.
ooo
Hermione talks politics with Percy and watches George and feels the tension as everyone pretends it's just an ordinary Christmas. Arthur had proposed a toast to the first Christmas of the peace, "and may it be peace in earnest," but nobody really believes that, do they? Certainly not the author of the werewolf report, nor his son the high commissioner of refugees, nor herself, the foreign spy in the castle, nor Ron nor Harry the trainee Aurors, nor for that matter anyone at this table. She keeps catching Luna casting anxious glances at her father as if he might disappear at any moment… poor Xeno, who was interned in Azkaban in the late confusion about the Death Eater sympathizers… well, if that had been confusion and not revenge. No, she won't think about that at dinner, not when she's supposed to be keeping an eye on George, who's talking to Xeno about the shop, and sounding cheerful. It takes her a moment to realize what's strange about his single voice: he still leaves pauses, where his twin would have chimed in.
No. That's another lump in the throat. Too many people missing, and in the face of that last darkness it becomes a little less material whether she liked them or not.
Though she'd like to resurrect Severus Snape and ask him, rather strenuously, just what he thought he was about with Sectumsempra, which perversely continues to be the score-settling spell of choice in the post-war. Vengeance has a life of its own, long after the original author has been resting… in a sort of peace, she would suppose, these six months and more.
Yes. Six months in the world's timeline, it's been, since she watched Professor Snape bleed to death…
All the people at this table have been living in the short timeline. She's just been reading for a week, during which the sun never rose. The flickering candlelight and magical lamplight cheer her, like the colors of things after her visit to Azkaban. Yes, she's been in the figurative if not literal presence of the Dementors this last week, the week of Christmas Eve seven times over, and the solution is clear… She watches as Arthur Weasley smiles at Lavender's witticisms about her wooden leg (her knee doesn't straighten properly, even after months of rehabilitation appointments) and Ron pours her another glass of pumpkin juice.
She savors the elf-made wine, which isn't a delicacy that one drinks in one go, even in honor of a Christmas toast. The bouquet reminds her of incense, and then flowers, and then in another moment, the scent of oranges (the groves of paradise)… what a curious vintage. She remembers as a child wondering about the taste of ambrosia, and she thinks this might approximate it. Percy inhales its fragrance with his eyes closed in inquisitive bliss, the way a wine-taster might… or a Potions Master, doing the test by nose that precedes a full assay.
Dean and Luna are talking about painting, and the extraordinary portrait of Gabriel Thomas that is now in the possession of his widow, Dean's mother. Derwent must have provided him with that excerpt (she hopes it was an excerpt) from the Pensieve depositions of Rodolphus Lestrange… who lies in Azkaban Prison, a dead husk… nonetheless kept alive. For what purpose? Derwent told her the standard operating procedure, which is not being followed in this case…
No. Christmas dinner is neither the time nor the place to meditate on being and nothingness, and in any case she's been charged with watching cheerful George Weasley, who's doing a bit of sleight of hand with bright folded foil, to the childlike delight of Xeno Lovegood. She imagines George might have been a quite creditable stage-magician of the Muggle variety; there was no wand deployed in that little performance, at least that she could see.
Luna says that the portrait of Dean's father is quite dashing, very much in the style of Sargent, though of course a proper wizarding portrait.
Hermione leans across to Dean, and asks if he's heard about the Sargent portrait at Longbottom House. "Portrait of Miss Emily Chattox. Not in the catalogue raisonné."
Dean's face lights; if she were an artist she would question the curious paradox whereby his dark complexion radiates sunshine… so that he's always put her in mind of a sunflower. "No, I haven't heard of it," he says. He looks at Luna, "Now you aren't going to claim that Sargent was a wizard."
"Oh no," says Luna, "but he was an extraordinarily clever Muggle."
"So there's a story, isn't there?" Dean says.
Hermione says, "They had to Obliviate him. The daughter of the house was fooling about with Felix Felicis."
Dean smirks and rolls his eyes. "So they Obliviated him, but did they pay him?"
"It was Sophonisba Chattox who commissioned it, so my guess would be yes," says Andromeda Tonks, and then adds with the faintest touch of stringency, "She had a name for probity in money matters." As one would expect from Augusta Longbottom's mother, Hermione thinks. Although I'm not sure what she would think of her great-grandson recommending that I rob banks in preference to memory charms ... It's in the nature of the holiday, she supposes, to bring the whole year crashing in on one … and then she looks up the table at Harry, sitting at Molly's right hand and cheerfully exchanging jibes with Ron, at the opposite end of the table, about the Chudley Canons and how they're only doing so well because everyone else in the Quidditch world is thoroughly demoralized at the World Cup ban. As their eyes meet, his good cheer dies into play-acting. There are things afoot here, and Harry has never been much of an actor.
Percy at her left says something in a low voice about the improved Trace, and asks her what she knows about the Muggle methods; he's only recently caught up on the sort of thing they do with CCTV. "It's a sort of Muggle camera, isn't it?"
"Well, yes," she explains, "but it captures moving images."
"Then it's like a wizarding camera."
"Yes, I suppose, but it works on completely different principles. For one, the images aren't sentient. Which isn't to say that they don't tell very interesting stories sometimes."
Percy frowns. "But how does it move, then?"
"It's a succession of still pictures," she says, "only they flash one after another, to fool the eye." Across the table from her, George is making something curious with his napkin, some sort of talking animal, which would be more appropriate if little Teddy were at table, though it's only Xeno, with his flowing locks and mild glance, to appreciate George's efforts.
Percy's face lights in comprehension—he's actually quite fanciable in the moment of understanding - but really, she oughtn't to be thinking such thoughts about Percy, because it feels as if she's thinking them about Ron by proxy, and Ron belongs to Lavender, and Percy himself to his Dark Lady, no not Dark in the Dark Lord sense, but the Lady of the Sonnets, that is if Percy wrote sonnets, which he might, given just how smitten he seems to be with his unknown inamorata …
"So are your Luddites doing anything about the improved Trace?" Technology transfer is a funny thing, she thinks; in this case, the notion of technological revolt has leapt across nearly two centuries, from desperate Muggle weavers to Pureblood witches and wizards.
Percy shakes his head. "No, but Penelope and her lot have put rather a damper on it, by insisting it apply to Purebloods and Muggle-borns alike. No more exceptions for 'traditional cultural expression.'" Hermione frowns. "Dueling lessons and broom-flying practice." His smile is rather shark-like as he adds, "They might give up on that in any case, because they're far too busy since the Decommissioning. Muggle Liaison is having a headache…"
"Ah, Malfoy Manor is no longer Unplottable." Percy nods.
There's one of those odd silences when everyone at the table takes a breath at once, and then Dean says, "Do you think that Neville's Gran would be receptive to a request to view that portrait?"
"I don't see any reason why not," Hermione says. "I'll ask her when I'm at Longbottom House tomorrow. I think you'll like it. It's actually a wizarding portrait. Very talkative. I guarantee you will learn some things about Quidditch." And notable Pureblood lines, she's tempted to add but doesn't.
Lavender giggles, and Hermione feels her face heating as she smiles involuntarily. Yes, she has an invitation to Neville's house for Boxing Day, though … and then suddenly she realizes that she hasn't bought him a present. For his birthday, yes, but not for Christmas. Not for anyone, actually. She's been quite remiss and it's far too late. No, she had spent Christmas Eve reading about soul-sucking demons … well she supposes that Banishing them would be a gift, though nowhere near as personal a gesture as she ought to have made, and now that lovely book at midsummer looks like caprice. She hadn't been in love with him then, no, only flirting, feeling her oats in those clothes that seemed to have some of Tonks' personal magic in them yet. Though if her guess were right, Tonks wouldn't have flirted with a boy at all. No, not at all, except… "It wasn't ordinary times at all," she'd overheard Andromeda saying in the garden at midsummer. "If it had been ordinary times, I would have thought someone had dosed her with Amortentia."
George is doing something deft and clever, left-handed too, with the talking-animal puppet he's fashioned from the napkin… Hermione suppresses her irritation, as Arthur rises to suggest celebratory Firewhiskey. There are two bottles standing on the sideboard, across the table from her; one as yet unsealed and the other, from which Ginny has been discreetly replenishing her tumbler. Arthur unseals the bottle and fills tumblers for Bill, Xeno, Harry and Ron. Molly reminds him that they ought to finish the last of the other one; she refills her daughter's glass (Hermione flinches in disapproval—hasn't there been enough harm already from Ginny's drinking, without encouraging it?) and then Summons the glasses next to Hermione and Percy, to pour a finger or two in. Percy's face is carefully neutral, but he puts a staying hand on her wrist (just like Neville in the pub, telling her she's had one too many. Too late to do anything about that, but she really ought to mind Percy.)
Molly sends the dishes into the kitchen in orderly procession to wash themselves, and everyone stands up to continue the conviviality in the front room, Firewhiskey in hand. She absently lifts her tumbler to her lips, and then remembers, as Percy darts her a look and a brief shake of the head. Harry is standing next to her. "Could I have a word with you in the back garden, if it's possible?" The tone is casual, but his face is pasty-white and drawn. She puts down the tumbler and says, mostly for the benefit of those about them, "If it's just a minute," pulls her cloak about her and fastens the clasp. Harry throws on his cloak, and leads the way through the kitchen to the back door. Harry is still holding his tumbler of Firewhiskey.
In the blue snowy gloom of the garden, Harry pours out the Firewhiskey and listens to it hiss on the icy crust before turning to her.
"Percy told me that you have the time-turner again." Before she can make up her mind about how she feels about that revelation, he adds, "Before we do what we have to do, I want to go to Godric's Hollow. Like last year."
"Hopefully without meeting any snakes," she says with a shudder.
He shakes his head. "I'll be careful this time." They laugh, even though it's far from funny.
She nods. "I didn't bring you any presents."
"I don't need anything, and we all know…" He stops himself before he says, you don't have any money. Griphook's bargain hasn't changed her situation with Gringott's. "This is what I really wanted for Christmas."
"Well, then," she says, and takes his arm for the Apparition.
ooo
