What the Thunder Said

A/N: I'm making a note at the beginning here to prepare you all. This chapter's a bit of a downer, but it cried out to be written. I'm also afraid that you won't be seeing any of Sevvy or 'Mione until next chapter. Tune in next week for our regularly scheduled entertainment! (Next week equaling, obviously, whenever Chapter 6 is finished.)


Chapter Five: Requiem in Red

It was ten o'clock on a Thursday morning, and the British Museum was surprisingly busy.

A group of schoolchildren, decked out in matching t-shirts advertising their summer program, wandered past. The duo of young counselors were carefully herding the flock of fledglings past the huge winged lions, reduced guarding galleries now that the Assyrian empire was a thing of the past. They guided their class into the Egyptian rooms, and Elisabeth heard one young voice excitedly clamoring over the "Rose bowl" stone.

An American, if ever she heard one.

A few art students ambled past, headed for one of the broad flights of steps. She noted the sketchbooks under their arms, the jaunty berets on their shorn heads. Young arts students, apparently, still very caught up in the drama of playing the Intellectual.

Unlike past visits, she did not have time today to watch the visitors come and go. She drew an unsteady breath and headed for the Greek galleries.

The Elgin Marbles. She knew her way through the series of rooms like the back of her hand. How many times she had followed the bobbing head of her daughter through these corridors! How many times she had watched those bright little eyes gobbling up details, nose hovering close to fogged glass, quick mind devouring the informational plaques beside each display.

It had been Hermione's favorite retreat as a child. With every step, however, Elisabeth Granger's heart grew heavier. My daughter is missing. She passed a gaggle of Japanese tourists, each plugged in to their recorded walk-through tours and goggling at a set of Grecian urns. My daughter is missing. Past a silver jar, the lalysos cup with swans and fishes. My Hermione is gone.

They had moved to London, to a quaint townhouse in Notting Hill, when Hermione was five. They opened their practice in the city; Granger & Granger, Doctors of Dentistry. The real reason, however, for the relocation was the schools; Hermione, with a flicker of intelligence unusual in one her age, would be going to the finest primary schools. The precocious five year old helped her father paint the door to their happy little house red.

Hermione and her father had always been close; he helped her wade through his scientific journals. They'd take turns spinning the globe in his office, landing on countries and discussing geopolitics. John had taught his only child the fine art of mathematics. They fought bitterly and laughed a great deal. It was a strange relationship.

It was Elisabeth, however, that Hermione clung to. They looked more like sisters, sharing those irrepressible nests of brunette hair, the same straight little noses, matching inquisitive brown eyes. And they tackled London with youthful energy, hand in hand, set on knowing the city inside and out.

And from that desire was born the monthly trips to the British Museum. Hermione called it the most wonderful place, the most fabulous museum in the world.

When the strange letter—carried by an owl, no less, from a place they had never heard of—appeared on the kitchen table, it was Elisabeth who let her daughter leave.

John had laughed, at first, as if it were a joke. Elisabeth could only think, however, of watching her daughter wander the Museum. And she remembered an incident when Hermione was eight. They had paused, on their way to the café, beside the Pantheon exhibit. Beside the Elgin Marbles.

Hermione had watched the marble friezes intently, her lips parted in rapt wonder, and Elisabeth saw it then: the marble figures, glowing faintly, and Athena… smiling down at Hermione, whispering something that only the girl seemed able to hear.

She had thought it was a trick of the light. But that is what she thought of when that thick parchment was dropped in Hermione's scrambled eggs.

She had let her daughter traipse off to that strange school in Scotland. That, after all, was why she found herself alone in British Museum, early for a meeting she was dreading.

It was still very surreal. The phone had rung four days ago, late in the evening. Elisabeth was still up, looking over a file on one of her particularly ornery patients. She stumped her toe on her trek across the study, finally picking up the receiver on the old rotary phone.

The caller on the other end sounded, ironically enough, as though he had very little experience with phone calls, let along phone calls of this nature.

Very sorry to inform you … missing … hasn't come in to work …filed for vacation, hasn't returned yet. Her throat went dry at the memory. Have you …? No? We had hoped … her parents would know … any idea of her whereabouts … No, do not worry. We will contact you shortly … thank you.

She had let the phone ring in Hermione's flat for a full seven and a half minutes. Nothing.

Her daughter had, in fact, planned a vacation. She was Apparating, she told her mother over the telephone a few weeks prior, to a small wizarding Inn in the Greek Isles. "I need a vacation," she said, her voice odd. "Besides, I think I may be able to work in peace."

She was very intent on spending an uninterrupted two weeks to herself.

Elisabeth had pieced together the story as best she could, using what little the Ministry of Magic—strange fellows, all of them—would tell her. Hermione had worked up until her scheduled vacation, leaving work late on a Friday afternoon. She had gone back to her flat, apparently, to pack.

She never checked in at the quaint little Inn. And when the dedicated, never-absent Miss Granger failed to show up for work after vacation, her coworkers at the Department of Magical Research and Innovations grew worried.

Her daughter was missing. And she had been missing, apparently, for three and a half weeks. And Elisabeth had known nothing of this tragedy.

The questions had gotten worse as the days progressed. Can you tell us anything about your daughter's work? Her private studies? And then the stab to the heart: Do you know of anyone who would wish Hermione ill? Anything that she was working on that could be considered controversial?

She paused, at long last, at the Elgin Marbles. She found herself searching Central scene of the east frieze of the Parthenon for some clue, some advice. Athena was lacking in sage wisdom, and Hephaistos, smith of the gods, was stony and still.

She had been telling herself, for three days, that Hermione was well. That all would be well. That, in no time at all, she and Hermione would be browsing the endless galleries once more. Discussing the upcoming renovations. Planning a trip to the British Library.

She was early for the appointment, but the uncomfortable looking agent arrived shortly. He seemed slightly unhappy that she was already in attendance. "Mrs. Granger," he offered stiffly. "I am, ah, Stephen Dougherty. I'm an- an Auror." His voice was pitched low, and he snagged a handkerchief from his pocket to mop at his brow before extending his hand to her.

She realized that he was really quite young.

"Ah. An Auror." Hermione had mentioned them, especially after several of her school friends joined their ranks. They sounded a bit like detectives, or wizarding police. She could not bring herself to smile, but habit brought pleasantries to her lips. "A pleasure to meet you."

He merely nodded. She noticed that his hands were shaking.

"Thank you for your cooperation over the past few days. The Ministry is very thankful." She nodded mutely, and he paused. He glanced up at the friezes, licking his lips. She felt her breath grow shallow.

"Please, Mr. Dougherty- please, just… just tell me about my daughter."


He studied the floor tiles, now, before offering her a truly remorseful look. And then he seemed to find himself and his composure, remembering the training that had earned him the little Silver Wand badge on his collar.

"Miss Granger was recovered from captivity two days ago." Elisabeth's eyes widened. Two days! "She was taken to the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for medical attention. We were not aware of this and the full conditions of her rescue until sometime yesterday morning."


Oh. Dare she breath a sigh of relief? Rescue. Such a beautiful word. And yet… something in the Auror's countenance worried her.

"I am very sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. Granger. Your daughter passed away yesterday as a result of wounds inflicted during her kidnapping."

Such strange, foreign words. Passed away. Elisabeth felt her knees begin to give, her throat tighten, a keen build up in her chest. Oh. Oh. No no no no no.

He was still speaking, she was vaguely aware "…have the body in our custody…would appreciate a final confirmation…very sorry…the entire Ministry…our deepest condolences…return the body to your family…"

Her hands did not work. She tried to stopper her mouth, stopper the scream that was building there, stopper her mind. She wanted to shut down; she felt herself slipping, and then an arm at her elbow.

My daughter is dead. They were words she had prayed never to think, to utter.

Athena and the gods continued their frozen play and Elisabeth Granger let herself be led away by the young Auror, let herself be dragged off to identify the body of her only child, let herself be pulled from the place she and Hermione had loved with all their hearts.

~*~*~*~

Harry Potter deposited a handful of Knuts in the pouch at the owl's claw; it was second nature for the Auror. Today, however, he was blessedly relaxed. He had filed for vacation time back in June. The second week of August was always slow, his supervisor had told him. "Talk all the time you want, Harry. You deserve it."

For now, he was simply concentrating on eating his Fizzy Flakes. He glanced at the wriggling banner: The Daily Prophet fairly danced across the top of the newspaper. August 10, 2001. Friday, Harry noted with regret. Three more days of relaxation; he was really quite refreshed, having stuck to his oath to distance himself from all things Ministry, if only for his week of freedom.

The "newsie" bird deftly plucked a beakful of cereal from Harry's bowl, hooted his appreciation, and launched himself in the direction of the window. Harry's spoon found its way back into the chipped bowl. With a satisfied smile, the handsome young man reached for his paper and rolled off the rubber band.

His heart sank. One day of good news too much to ask for? Harry thought sourly. And he doggedly read beyond the headline.

BREAKING NEWS: MINISTRY CONFIRMS TAKING, DEATH

by Ebinezer Bartomew

Rumors of another Taking were confirmed last night at an evening press conference. The Ministry of Magic spokeswitch, Elsa Harbinger, made a short speech from the newsroom at Ministry headquarters. While the conference left many questions unanswered, the news released is still bound to shake the entire wizarding world.

"The latest Taking occurred on July 13. The circumstances surrounding the Taking are still unclear," Harbinger said. It is also unclear why the Ministry was not aware of this Taking until, at earliest, the beginning of this week. "The victim was recovered alive on Wednesday morning. Unfortunately, the victim passed away on Thursday due to complications."

The Ministry hesitated to release the name of the victim. However, after prodding from the press and eventual consent from Ministry leadership, Harbinger revealed the identity behind this latest crime. "Hermione Granger, age 20, was Taken from …

His hands began to shake. Harry dropped the paper, trembling, and stared for a long moment at the typecast words.

Hermione Granger is dead. The headline was rearranging itself, becoming all the more flashy and outraged. HERMIONE GRANGER TAKEN, DEAD: Ministry leaving questions unanswered.

He frantically skimmed the rest of the article, hoping that this was some cruel mistake, hoping it was a misprint. The illustrious Mr. Bartomew went on to describe Hermione's famous school record and promising work with the Ministry.

When her record number of NEWTs and Head Girl status was revealed, there was no mistaking the identity of the article's protagonist. It was one of the last sentences in the article that jumped out at him, though.

As previously mentioned, the reasons for Granger's kidnapping remain at large. Some wonder, however, if Granger's friendship and ties with Harry Potter led to her targeting and downfall. Only time will tell.

His head was swimming. Harry leapt to his feet, stumbled into the flat's tiny bathroom, and emptied his stomach into the cool porcelain basin. He began to shake all the more violently.

How had he not known of this? How? He faintly, then, remembered Ginny glancing at him across the tiny dinner table.

"There's a message for you from the Ministry," she said, poking at her broccoli. Her eyes flitted towards the silvery Messenger Spell. It had come to the flat while he was out, and she had tacked it to the refrigerator. His wife twirled her fork skillfully between her fingers. "It's vague, but they sound rather flustered. They said it was important. Questions for you regarding one of the Takings, or some such."

"They know I'm on vacation. If it's important enough, they'll drag me in eventually." And he resolved not to so much as open the little scroll.

Another wave of nausea brought him to his knees. The walls were thin, and he heard Ginny stirring in the bedroom adjacent to the water closet.

"Harry? Harry, are you all right?" Slippered feet on the tiles, a tousled red head poking around the slightly ajar door. Her brown eyes widened slightly. "Darling, what's-"

He drew himself up slightly, bracing his hands on either side of the toilet. "Hermione-" She looked merely confused. "The paper." He fought back another wave of sickness.

When he managed to stand up, he wiped his mouth weakly on the back of his sleeve and tottered in to the living room. Ginny, pale and frozen, stood with fists drawn tight over her little mouth. It seemed as if she could not wrench her tearful eyes from the garish headline.

Ron appeared in the Potters' living room a moment later, his white face contrasting horribly with shocking red hair. He clutched his own copy of the Daily Prophet close to his chest. He glanced from his best friend to his little sister and then back again. Apparently the Ministry had not contacted Ron—who had, until fifteen seconds ago, been in eastern India studying ancient Defense Against the Dark Arts methods—either.

"Bloody hell." And then his face crumpled and the three moved together simultaneously, meeting in the middle of the room and sinking to the carpet and crying out in three separate voices, an intensely braided howl for a dead Hermione.

~*~*~*~

It was a Muggle funeral, lacking the incantations and wand salutes and eventual funeral pyre of wizard origin. And yet, Hermione Granger's funeral was well attended by Muggle and witch alike. Sunday morning dawned bright, and the August afternoon was glowing with sunshine.

St. Martin-in-the-Fields cast a faint shadow over the cemetery. The Grangers were vaguely religious, but they had belonged to no church; it seemed fitting that they chose one of Hermione's favorites for her funeral.

Trafalgar Square was strangely quiet. Mourners found themselves glancing up at the gothic spire on the church, set strangely atop a Greek-style temple. When she was little, her parents had brought her to the free concerts in the mornings. And occasionally when she was older she would go alone, sitting in the worn pews and listening with closed eyes to the soaring voices of the choir. And then she would venture out to the Square and buy a small bag of seeds to feed the birds and study Lord Nelson's statue with a piecing, thoughtful gaze.

Despite its Muggle renderings, despite the Church of England priest, the great majority of guests were wizards. The younger ones—school friends—had managed to select somber black suits and ties, modest little dresses with matching gloves. Here and there, though, Elisabeth caught sight of a few absurdities: the crescent-moon glasses, the tip of a wand peeking out from under a cuff, a set of purple slacks.

It was small comfort, but there it was.

The Weasleys had turned out en masse, standing together with red hair blazing in the afternoon sun. Elisabeth recognized Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley; they ventured over, before the ceremony, to offer condolences. Ron seemed most shaken; he had withdrawn into himself, looking ironically small in that tall frame. A tiny little man—who, Elisabeth realized with a jolt, was an old professor of Hermione's—was sobbing miserably into wrinkled hands. A giant of a fellow—Rueben Hadrid, if Elisabeth remembered correctly—sank down beside the itty-bitty wizard and sobbed just as wretchedly. She started at the sight of all of the Hogwarts staff materializing silently beside the grave.

The stream of well-wishers, of tearful coworkers, of sobbing classmates, of quiet neighbors seemed never to end.

Elisabeth cried quietly into her husband's shoulder as they lowered the gleaming casket into the earth. More than anything, she felt empty. It was like an ache in her abdomen, as if something had been wrenched from her middle-aged body, as if her womb mourned for the loss of the life she had borne.

And somewhere in the back of her mind: not right, not true, not right. She had once imagined, in the midst of a morbid spin, that she would know, just know, if her husband or daughter died.

Folly, that.

It would be a long while before she summoned the strength to visit Trafalgar Square again.

~*~*~*~

It had been closed-casket funeral. Which was probably for the best. Transfiguration, even cast by the most powerful wizards, had its limits. And Hermione Granger's cold, still corpse was beginning to look a bit fuzzy around the edges. Albus Dumbledore lingered at the fresh grave, studying the marble marker after nearly all had left. Minerva gave him a last, worried glance and disappeared as well into the darkness. A moment later, the Headmaster watched a tabby cat dark out across the Square, frightening the poultry.

A sad sort of smile peeked around his white beard. Success, yes, but a melancholy success if ever he had seen one. A fresh stab of guild pierced his conscience.

There was no other way.

Should anyone ever dig up that lovely mahogany casket, they would find a very peculiar body indeed. Hermione Granger, September 19, 1980 – August 8, 2001, was reduced to a paperweight. One that Albus had been rather fond of, actually, and one that he would miss. He said his eulogy to the paperweight—"goodbye, then, and good luck"—and Disapparated.