"That's it, Miss Granger, just a bit higher!"
Obediently, Hermione raised her wand, levitating the garlands closer to the ceiling, and regretting, for the hundredth time, having signed up for Professor Flitwick's annual Christmas-decoration campaign.
"No, not that high….just a bit to the left…"
Truthfully, she was just about ready to hex the diminutive wizard. Oh, it had been fun for the first thirty minutes, but now, after hours spent wrangling with mischievous ornaments, fighting off Peeves, and suffering Flitwick's obsessive perfectionism, Hermione was at the absolute end of her patience.
"Now, just lower it just the tiniest bit...and...that's just the spot!" Flitwick squeaked, satisfied at last. "Now could you help me over here? I want to put Christmas hats on all the suits of armour."
"Certainly, Professor," Hermione snapped, snatching the box of hats from him a bit too forcefully and nearly knocking him down.
He'd caught her in a bad moment: sneaking back into the castle after her meeting with Agatha, she'd been too flustered to realize what she was agreeing to.
And what an odd meeting it had been.
One would think that a seedy pub would be empty at 8 in the morning on a Sunday, but when Hermione arrived at the One-Eyed Harpy, nearly every nook and cranny was occupied by some dubious-looking character. She thought she'd caught a brief glimpse of Mundungus Fletcher deep in conversation with a disgraced Puddlemere United Chaser, but couldn't be too sure.
Pulling her cloak down over her face, Hermione strode up to the bar and asked for a Butterbeer.
She thought she rather deserved it after her very best Apparition so far. The twins were constantly reminding her that they'd done it perfectly on their first attempt, while Hermione had splinched herself not once, but six times in their first practice session. There was also that pitiful attempt earlier this week, when she'd spent a full thirty minutes vomiting her insides out in the alley behind the Ministry. But no one ever had to know about that.
But today...today was perfect. Oh, how she wished she could throw it in their glib little faces.
"Excuse me, sir? I asked for a Butterbeer," she repeated to the hunched figure behind the counter.
"Oh I heard you," the proprietor snapped, turning to face her. To her horror, Hermione realized that the barman was in fact a witch, and moreover, clearly the namesake of the One-Eyed Harpy.
"We don't sell that swill here, girl," she barked before Hermione could stutter out some awkward apology.
"Oh...erm..uhh, what else do you have?"
Instead of a reply, the witch pointed to a plaque above their heads, which was so grimy that many of the menu items were no longer legible. Hermione could barely make out the names of such libations as the Fiery Flobberworm, the Reaper's Revenge, and the Barmy Boggart.
"Let's have a couple of Vipertooths," a voice commanded from beside her, and turning, Hermione saw that Agatha had arrived. "And you'd best give me the good stuff from the back."
The one-eyed witch turned upon the newcomer in surprise. "Agatha, you old slag, I haven't seen you 'round these parts since the war! Don't think I forgot, either." She tapped her forehead for emphasis. "You owe me twenty Galleons."
"Not on your life," Agatha snarked, and they cackled together for a moment like a couple of old friends who'd remembered a private joke.
Then, the older witch dragged Hermione over to a table in the corner, and their drinks followed soon after, levitating through the crowd with surprising agility.
The Vipertooth turned out to be an innocuous-looking, fizzy, green drink. Thinking herself fortunate, Hermione picked it up and took a sip. It was lemony and sweet.
"Mmmm...what's in this?"
Her companion gave her a considering look. "Dragon piss," she deadpanned.
Hermione choked, and, to her great embarrassment, sprayed an entire mouthful over the tabletop.
Agatha let out an enormous peal of laughter.
"A-ha! Gets them every time!"
It was indeed funny now that Hermione remembered it, but at that moment she had been mortified and furious.
Having finished dressing every suit of armor in the main hall in fuzzy hats, she moved onto the Transfiguration corridor.
Agatha had told her that Bode had been taken to hospital, and would likely be spending the winter in the Spell Damage Ward.
"I wanted to congratulate you on your little coup with Malfoy, by the way," she'd thrown out, an apparent non-sequitur.
"I, um...I'm not sure what you mean, I -"
"Of course not," the older with interjected with a grin. "Nevertheless, scuttlebutt has it that Fudge is avoiding Malfoy's owls. Too much to expect an inquiry, though."
"Oh," was all Hermione could manage, trying to ignore the small bubble of vindictive glee rising in her chest. Somehow, it seemed indecent to revel in successful revenge in front of this witch. It was one thing to assault Draco and trap Rita Skeeter in a jar, and then show off to her friends. Because Ron and Harry didn't judge the uglier sides of her character. But this was someone whose good opinion she craved.
"So, tell me how long you've been sneaking into the Ministry," Agatha said conversationally.
"O-only t-twice," Hermione stuttered, blindsided. "I swear!"
"You fluster too easy, girl. With the kind of trouble you seem to get into, I'm surprised you haven't given yourself away a hundred times over."
"Yes, well. I'm working on it." And she really was. Unfortunately, she seemed to suffer from the characteristic Gryffindor malady of perpetual foot-in-mouth.
The older witch wanted to know all about her research, and was able to understand many of the subtleties, having once worked for the Time Subdivision (as well as, seemingly, every other office in the D.o.M.).
"I've brought some of my notes. Perhaps you want to take a look?" Hermione asked, uncertain.
She was used to people beating a hasty retreat at the first whiff of "notes", but was pleasantly surprised when Agatha grabbed the parchment impatiently, pulled out her pince-nez, and began to read.
She shuffled through the papers for a quarter-hour, and then her eyes widened in shock.
"You've done it," she declared, her voice half-anger, half-disbelief.
There was no point in asking what she meant. Or denying it.
"Yes."
"You realize that no one has crossed the Threshold since - " She stopped short, and changed directions abruptly. "The consequences - the known consequences, that is - have been catastrophic."
"I know. I read all about it, and I took precautions. You see, the problem last time was that they-"
"Went back to far. Yes, I've thought so too. And since I can see that you've done your research, you know that all of the effects don't manifest right away. There's no way you can tell me for certain that this insane little stunt you've pulled hasn't done irreparable damage."
"I…I realize now how reckless it was, and the truth is… something's wrong with me. Strange things have been happening. I'm seeing things. Things are… disappearing."
Agatha closed her eyes in deep frustration. "You idiot girl. If you came to me for advice, I'm sorry to say that I can't help you. I wouldn't even know where to begin."
"But you can help me find information. Please… I just made a stupid mistake, and now I'm so scared... " Hermione pleaded with her eyes.
The older witch stared at her long and hard. Gradually, her gaze turned from anger to pity.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"Sixteen," Hermione lied.
"Too smart for your own good, huh? And too foolish to realize your own limitations. The curse of youth."
"Please," Hermione whispered, "I just want a chance to fix what I've done. I know… I know that all this might be irreversible but, I've got to try."
Agatha took a long draught of her fizzy green concoction, seemingly gathering her thoughts. "The Ministry banned all practical research in time-travel back in the 70s. They've got the Unspeakables turning chickens into eggs, and nonsense like that. The department's a bloody disgrace nowadays. Nobody there will be able to help you."
"I figured as much," Hermione said. "Their research, umm… left a lot to be desired. But I was hoping you knew somebody from the old days?"
"Ehh, most of 'em kicked the bucked long ago. Ole' Min's still around I bet. She's the last researcher to have made any serious advancement in the field. Used to run that department, if I recall. Ran it right into the ground, too. After she was gone, the higher-ups were too scared to hire anyone competent ever again."
"Min?" Not Minerva Mcgonagall, surely? "Where can I find her?"
"Judith Mintumble. She took her retirement in the North Sea."
"You mean Azkaban?!" Hermione squeaked.
Then she remembered: she'd read about the Mintumble case all those months ago in Grimmauld Place. "So it's hopeless, then." The feeling of disappointment was overwhelming.
"Come now, you're a clever girl. We have supposedly top-notch security down at the D.o.M, you know. In fact, the same dunderheads from the Auror office set the wards for both us and Azkaban. Which reminds me: I need to send a howler to that maggot, Scrimgeour."
"But...but…" Hermione sputtered, "Azkaban is impenetrable!"
"I think Sirius Black might disagree with you there," Agatha chuckled darkly.
Sending wary glances in every direction, Hermione leaned over the table. "Are you suggesting," she whispered furiously, "that I break into Azkaban to talk to Judith Mintumble?"
"I'm not suggesting anything," the older witch said, slow and deliberate. "But you should consider that the poor sods who work there aren't able to produce a Patronus after a couple of months. Dementors, and all that. Just food for thought."
And Hermione had been thinking about it furiously ever since. In fact, her first order of business after finally escaping Flitwick was a visit to the library. If her twelve year old self could only see her now, sneaking into the Restricted Section under Madam Pince's very nose! She'd been a closet rule-breaker even then, but these newfound levels of recklessness surprised even Hermione.
After nearly an hour of fruitless searching, Hermione pulled out a book called Protecting your Magical Home from Werewolves, Vampires, and other Diabolical Creatures. It turned out to be a rambling treatise proclaiming all "half-breeds" and non-humans to be vicious, blood-thirsty killers and recommended full-scale extermination. Of course, Hermione found this truly abhorrent reading, but was glad she persevered when she came across a section discussing Dementors.
The author explained that every guard and visitor to ever step foot in Azkaban was protected by a charm which made them effectively invisible to dementors by suppressing emotions. Hermione thought back to Sirius' tale and how he'd been able to survive and eventually escape in Animagus form. It was essentially the same thing; as a dog, he would have had only the simplest of emotion and would thus have been equally "invisible".
But there was one problem. She'd never even heard of a spell that could do that.
Hermione shut the book in frustration, drawing a suspicious look from the librarian.
Another dead end.
A few days later, Dumbledore's Army had its last meeting before the winter holidays. A gnawing feeling of deja-vu plagued Hermione as she thoughtlessly sparred with Neville, all the while watching Cho flirt with Harry out of the corner of her eye.
"Ow!" Neville grunted, landing on his arse for the tenth time as Hermione's spell hit home.
"Sorry, Neville!"
"Don't be. It's not your fault I'm rubbish," he moped, pulling himself up gingerly.
"You're not!" Hermione reassured him once again. "You've improved loads since September. You just need to believe in yourself!"
"Yeah, right," he muttered. He turned in the direction of Hermione's gaze. "They look cozy over there, don't they?"
Hermione shot Neville an irritated look.
"Actually, I just remembered, I have to ask Harry something…" She started in the direction of the giggling couple, but fingers grasped her shoulder. It was Fred.
"Come on, let's get back to the common room," he told her.
"But I have to - "
"Merlin's bollocks, 'Mione, can't you see they want to snog?"
She could see it, in fact, and it made her want to punch something. Specifically, something green-eyed and spectacled.
Half an hour later, her worst suspicions were confirmed when Harry wandered into the common room in a daze. Predictably, Ron couldn't wait to mine him for details while Hermione, desperate to tune out the conversation, pulled out a sheet of parchment and began a letter to Victor.
"Congratulations on your win against Portugal last week, she wrote. I caught the end of the match on the wireless and, according to Ron, your "Wronski Feint" in the final quarter was the clincher. I'm not sure what that means, but he assures me that it's terribly impressive.
I hope you are doing well. I went to Madame Puddifoot's a few weeks back and thought of you - she's still serving those awful Hagfish scones! Remember the time you took a bite out of one and then spit it out - all over my face? To be honest, I've really been missing our chats lately. You always gave me good advice, and I could certainly use some right now."
Victor and Hermione had exchanged a few greetings in the library, but the first time they'd really talked had been at that nauseatingly saccharine little tea shop. Ironically, she had gone in there to avoid him, or more specifically, to avoid the entourage of giggling fangirls following him through the streets of Hogsmeade. Krum seemed to be the only thing her fellow Gryffindors could talk about lately, and Hermione couldn't decide whether she resented him, envied him, or admired him. Certainly she'd daydreamed about being an international Quidditch star with a coterie of beautiful French girls shadowing her every move.
That's where he found her: sitting by herself in a room full of couples, nose in a book.
"May I sit vith you?" he'd asked.
"If you like," Hermione had said, trying to infuse as much discouragement into her tone as possible. "What happened to all of your… admirers?"
"Ah, I hav come here to escape," he chuckled. "But to be honest, their attentions are vasted on me."
It took Hermione a full minute to understand his implication.
"Why...why are you telling me this?"
"Vell, ve have that in common I think."
"You don't know what you're talking about!" Hermione snapped.
"Very vell," Krum raised his hands defensively. "But if you must protest, then I vould suggest not to stare at the Beauxbatons girls."
Hermione shut her eyes in mortification at having been so easily spotted. "Oh, god."
The proprietress chose exactly that moment to come by with a fresh pot of tea, and the topic was dropped for the moment as they ordered. But all too soon, curiosity go the better of Hermione.
"Does anyone else know… you know, about you?"
"My manager has vorbidden me to say. He thinks it vould end my Quidditch career and it is true. The British are very conservative and my country is so even more."
"Oh. But that's seems terribly unfair, doesn't it?"
"I hav become used. The vorst is to have to talk to the fans, but I cannot say no."
"I can imagine. Did you know that you are Europe's second most eligible bachelor, according to Witch Weekly?"
Krum nodded. "I have to take photographs for calendar. Very annoying, but good publicity, so I say yes."
"So you're just going to keep up appearances? For forever?"
"Von cannot play Quidditch very long. Most get injured and retire in 10 years. But I love to play, so vor me it is OK to vait."
Victor was hardly a thrilling conversationalist, but it turned out that he shared Hermione's love for Arithmancy and Theory of Magic and was more than happy to discuss both for hours on end. Unlike Hogwarts, Durmstrang took a neutral stance on Dark Arts education, so examining Krum's old textbooks proved very instructive for Hermione, who, up to that point, had steadfastly refused to so much as glance at anything considered "dark" for fear of contamination.
At first she had avoided it on principle, telling Victor that a tolerant attitude towards Dark Magic was the reason Grindelwald had risen to power so easily.
"You forget that he lived here for many years," Victor had replied.
"But he was already evil when he came!"
"That may be true, but it vas not because of Durmstrang. My family vas educated there for generations and they all opposed him."
"But I just don't think it's a good idea to teach magic like that to children! They start thinking it's OK to use it!"
"And ven they are faced vith You-Know-Who, they vill need to know! Britain has not taught dark magic for centuries but it has bred the most Dark wizards of all countries. And it is because the regular people don't know how to defend themselves!"
She'd never considered that before. In fact, it was that conversation that would later inspire Hermione to organize the D.A. and even imitate the Dark Mark with her charmed coins. She considered herself to have matured greatly since that point, having now come to understand that there was neither good nor evil knowledge, but only the purpose towards which it was used. And her purpose, obviously, was always righteous.
She continued her letter.
Last time you wrote, you asked me if there was a witch in my life, and there is. Sort of. We spend a lot of time together and we've become quite close since the beginning of term. At first, I though she reciprocated my feelings, but yesterday I finally admitted that I've been deluding myself.
She cornered me after Herbology and asked me to help her get a date with Harry. She even asked me if she should kiss him! And I was shocked, if you can believe it. Of course I had to tell her to just go for it, be herself, whatever. Now, I just feel like a colossal idiot. I know you hate when I say this, but I keep wishing I'll wake up in the morning and just miraculously be normal again.
Normal. That brought back its own slew of memories. Memories of getting rat arsed with Victor after the Yule ball. Losing her shoes in the Great Lake trying to swim to the Durmstrang ship. Trudging back to castle at dawn - soaking wet, stinking of fish, and covered in kelp - only to be caught by a thoroughly amused Albus Dumbledore and offered a Sherbert Lemon.
Worst of all, she'd drunkenly propositioned Victor, having been convinced at the time that she could make herself "normal" though sheer force of will alone. Unfortunately, he was not receptive to her carefully-argued five-point disquisition on the subject and she responded by vomiting on his dress-robes. It was one of the most embarrassing nights of her short life.
Hermione finished writing and stuffed the long scroll into an envelope, together with an interesting article about the magical properties of different broom wood from Transfiguration Today. Harry had gone to bed early and Ron was desperately trying to cajole her into writing one of his essays, so she figured now was as good a time as any to post the letter.
Evening had fallen and the halls of Hogwarts stood empty. She took the North corridor, where a massive dung bomb explosion had blown out the windows a few days ago, which Filch seemingly hadn't gotten around to fixing yet. The Weasley twins were the likely culprits, but of course no one, including Hermione, could prove it. Rain guttered in through the broken glass, drenching the floor boards and seeping into her socks.
Eventually, she passed a couple of Hufflepuffs locked in an amorous embrace behind the statue of Lachlan the Lanky, but couldn't even summon the energy to deduct house points.
Leaving them to it, Hermione made her way down the corridor. She'd just turned the corner, when a familiar voice stopped her dead in her tracks.
"Miss Granger."
Snape. Well, if it wasn't her lucky day.
"Good evening, Professor." She'd been on the verge of nattering at him nervously, but she took one look at his face and shut her mouth. He was deathly pale, and seemed decidedly more vampiric than usual.
"Sir? Are you...alright?"
Snape's eyes narrowed to tiny slits, and he descended upon her. "Don't be impertinent, Granger,' he snapped, studying her face with suspicion. "What are you doing here? Where are you going?"
"I, um… well, I'd like to send a letter. And it's before curfew, professor."
"I see. So you're not planning to run off on some reckless escapade with your half-witted compatriots tonight? Because, if you are, Miss Granger, I can assure you that this time neither the Headmaster nor your Head of House will be able to shield you from the full brunt of the consequences."
"We're not going to do anything, Professor," Hermione ground out, fighting down irritation at his casual insults.
Looming over the much-smaller Hermione, Snape drew closer, forcing her back against the wall. If he was trying to intimidate her, it was certainly working.
"See that you don't. The Headmaster assures me that you are the brains behind the so-called Golden Trio, and, if so, I will consider you to be personally responsible if Potter gets himself killed through sheer stupidity. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes sir," Hermione said through gritted teeth. Snape usually behaved as little more than a petty tyrant, but this outburst was extreme, even for him. He was clearly having a bad day. Maybe someone had put a GreaseHead potion in his pumpkin juice again.
"Now, off with you, Miss Granger. And five points from Gryffindor."
With that, he twirled on his axis and stormed off in a flurry of billowing robes, leaving Hermione staring after him, mouth agape.
Shaking her head at the gall of the man, Hermione decided to go to Owlery anyway.
As she drew closer to the top floor of the tower, she heard muted voices and stopped, listening hard to the barely-audible conversation above.
"...come on, Draco, what's taking you so long? I promised to meet up with Daphne in like 10 minutes."
"Just hold on, alright? I need to finish this letter."
"Why's it so important to send it tonight anyways? Can't it wait until after the party? Potter and the Twin Ginger Numbsculls don't get banned from Quidditch for life everyday, you know. And I heard Zabini got ahold of some Firewhiskey, you don't want to miss that."
"Oh, grow up, Pansy! I don't give a damn about the party! That insufferable cow Umbridge has me wasting time reading people's mail when I'm supposed to be keeping track of Dumbledore for Father! I need to send a report every night, and your constant whining really isn't helping!"
There was a long pause.
"Don't be such a git, Draco, I'm just trying to cheer you up a little."
"Well you can't. You want to know why? Because everything's gone to shit. He's taken over the Manor, He's watching Father's every move, waiting for him to slip up so He can punish him. Mother's too terrified to leave her room, keeps sending me letters trying to convince me to transfer to Durmstrang. And I can't do anything for them! I can't even manage to send one lousy note every day like I'm supposed to!"
"Everything will turn out for the best, Draco. And when it does, He will be grateful for all the work you did and reward you, OK?"
"Yeah, I guess. Listen, I don't think I can come with you tonight. I need to stake out Dumbledore's office and owl Father immediately if he leaves."
"Why tonight?"
"I don't know, there's some big international delegation going to Azkaban tonight, and you know Father just got appointed to the Advisory Board. Might be about that."
At this statement, Hermione drew a sharp breath. Silence followed.
"Did you hear that?" Pansy whispered.
Her companion didn't respond, but Hermione could just make out the sound of muffled footsteps.
On no! They're coming!
At first, she panicked, but soon enough remembered that it was only Malfoy and Parkinson. Not exactly the world's premier duelists, either of them.
Malfoy rounded the stair to the Owlery, wand drawn. "Who's there? Show yourself!"
Yeah right, ferret boy, Hermione thought snidely. She was completely obscured by shadow in her little alcove. Malfoy passed right by her, completely oblivious, and found himself on the receiving end of a mild Stunner.
Immediately, a flash of blue filled the air as a spell shot into Hermione's hiding place, shattering the stonework above her head.
"Potter? I know it's you, you rotten, eavesdropping little newt!" Parkinson shrieked.
The Slytherin witch volleyed a round of hexes at her hidden target, all of which were deflected by a strong Protego.
Hermione was (literally) backed into a corner. She couldn't keep her shield up forever, and soon Malfoy would wake up and she would be outnumbered. Thinking back to her sessions with Tonks and all she had learned, Hermione knew she would have to leave her hiding spot and go on the offense.
"Wrong as ever, Parkinson," she taunted, emerging from the shadows. "Which doesn't surprise me, considering you only avoid being at the bottom of the class because Crabbe and Goyle are such stiff competition." It was baiting, pure and simple, but Hermione knew that the other witch had a short temper and could get very reckless.
"Watch it, you little Mudbloo-"
But a lighting-quick Petrificus Totalus silenced her-mid sentence. Pansy fell on her side, stiff as a board; only her eyes followed Hermione's movements, dark with blame and contempt.
"Sorry," Hermione muttered. This war had given such sinister overtones to what should, by rights, have been just childish rivalries. But there was no time to dwell on that now. She Stunned Pansy, and Obliviated both her and Malfoy.
"Accio letter," she called, and a note wriggled free from the blond boy's satchel and into Hermione's waiting palm.
She open the scroll and read the single line of text: He's still here. Will send word if anything changes.
The fragments of a hasty plan began to come together in her mind - perhaps her most insanely reckless plan yet.
Professor Snape's words came back to her. It was almost as though he had foreseen what would happen tonight. How much did he know about Lucius Malfoy's schemes, or Draco's role in them? How much did Dumbledore know? Harry, who was endlessly insisting that Malfoy Jr. was up to no good, would gloat for days over this news.
Ascending the stairs to the Owlery, Hermione selected a couple of birds and sent both letters, but not before placing a tracking charm on the owl heading to meet Lucius Malfoy.
There wasn't a second to waste. She had to be on the grounds ready to follow that trace to its source before she missed her chance.
Passing the prone forms of her Slytherin classmates, Hermione took out a confiscated dung bomb from her book-bag and, with an apologetic wince, sent it flying into the wall, where it exploded in a shower of stone-dust and foul-smiling gas. There. A plausible cover for finding yourself unconscious on the Owlery steps.
Half an hour later, she stood by the gates, anxiously poring over a map of Scotland.
The minutes seemed to drag on as a tiny dot on the map moved resolutely south. Before she knew it, an hour had passed, and the dot seemed to be zeroing on its target: London.
She Apparated to an alley near Grimmauld Place, just to be closer, but didn't have to wait long to realize that the owl was making its way towards Whitehall. It was heading to the Ministry.
This time you won't let yourself get caught, she told herself fiercely. Because no one will be around to help you if you do!
