Chapter Two - First Subject
Hermione leaned her head in her hands and let out a long, heartfelt groan. The day was rapidly going downhill, and it was barely lunchtime. Her shoulders slumped; sleep had been a commodity all too rarely attainable lately. Come to think of it, her palms made a soft, comfortable pillow; she could just drift away.
A diffident knock at her door forced Hermione to bring herself back to the present.
"Come!" she called, knowing it would be her Secretary, Office Manager and Gopher, Denis Creevey.
Denis entered the room, the rubber soles of his shoes making no sound on the thinly carpeted floor. Although the younger Creevey was considerably taller and broader now than in his Hogwarts days, he was still smaller in height than Hermione.
"Ambassador," he began, "Thirty minutes ago, Harry Potter and his companions made unauthorised access into the Room of Requirement in Basement 3. I understand, however, that they now have official leave to use the facility and you have made their authorisation retrospective?"
Hermione pressed her lips together hard but refrained from any untoward comment; Denis had a thousand-and-one ways to exact revenge, every one of them different.
"That is correct, Denis," she replied.
"Some of them are in pretty bad shape, Ambassador," Denis continued in a more moderate tone. "They need immediate medical attention. I have taken the liberty of assigning a Mediwizard to them."
Hermione's eyes snapped wide.
"Whom did you ask?" she demanded sharply. Denis gave a small smile.
"Ginny Weasley, of course," came the reply. Hermione's relief was palpable; Denis gave a dry chuckle.
"Ambassador," he said gently. "May I respectfully request that you trust me to perform my offices with the flair and understanding for which you employed me in the first place?"
Hermione's lips twitched again.
"All right, Denis," she replied. "I should really stop barking, shouldn't I? Now that I've got myself a first class guard dog!"
Denis gave a moue of mock-annoyance at the description, but his resulting smile robbed the expression of any seriousness.
"There is, however, one small problem." Denis' fingers clutched the edges of his clipboard against Hermione's temper. He looked up.
"We have cast as many Normality Charms as we can on the Room," he told her. "Colonel Potter is certain that he can maintain the smokescreen for as long as eight hours with little or no strain. Our problem is that Empire techno-wizardry is now so effective that even the redoubtable Harry can go no higher than a 60 per cent camouflage without detection. Any more, and the Securitates will be on us in a heartbeat. If we can keep them out of the basements, I believe they'll find nothing untoward on the premises. However, if they insist on searching the lowest levels, then we absolutely must keep them away from B3, or the jig will be well and truly up."
Denis looked back at his notes and sighed.
"A pity Alastor Moody isn't with us any more," he remarked, making a few check marks in the margin.
"Too true," sighed Hermione, rolling her shoulders to ease the tension in her neck. "He knew more about Confundus Charmwork than the whole of the Ministry put together."
Abruptly, there was a rush of flames in Hermione's fireplace. She and Denis turned automatically to see the worried face of one of the front lobby receptionists.
"Ambassador," squeaked the young witch. "We've got a bit of a situation in the building. There's a group of - of, well, Death Eaters on their way up. They wouldn't wait, and they ignored Security. Short of putting our lives on the line, we couldn't."
"All right, Melanie, thank you." Hermione's tone was firm but reassuring. "I'll take it from here. Inform security from me that they are not to blame for this unwarranted intrusion."
The girl's face relaxed into a relieved expression and her image winked out. Hermione turned to Denis, her eyebrows raised enquiringly, but there was no time for speech. They both turned as the office door opened abruptly admitting a group of six tall figures, all cloaked and hooded in the Death Eater uniform of the Securitates; the Military Police. Two black- clad figures peeled off from the main group, stationing themselves either side of the office door. Another, flanked by two acolytes, approached Hermione's desk; he was evidently the spokesman for the group.
"Ambassador Granger," the man began, his voice at once reedy and muffled by the hood. "We have reason to believe that a group of rebel spies have taken refuge in the Alliance Embassy building within the last hour or so. We are prepared to accept your ignorance of the entire matter if you will undertake to hand the miscreants over to us without further ado. If you co- operate fully, we will use every means at our disposal to ensure that no blame attaches to the Embassy or to you personally. However, should you choose not to co-operate, the consequences could be serious, particularly to someone in your delicate political position."
Oh, yes! Hermione was not impressed. Every means at your disposal? As soon as you've got them, you'll close us down. Just the merest hint of insubordination would be enough for Lucius Malfoy to execute each and every one of us!
"I'm sorry, I really have no idea what you are talking about," Hermione replied composedly. She nodded swiftly to Denis. "Would you care for refreshment? Coffee, tea - I'm afraid we have no butterbeer, but perhaps it's too early in the day for you?"
The hooded figure gave a soft hiss.
"Ambassador," he began, with an emphasis on her title bordering on the insulting. "Ambassador, may I remind you that you are in occupied territory. You have a duty to your staff and to your country, not to mention the government of this land, to avoid any and all collaboration with rebel nationals, squibs and Muggle-borns."
"Which would be a difficult task for me to fulfil," Hermione interrupted, with an edge to her voice like a scalpel. "Seeing as my own parents are Muggles."
The shudder of horror that passed through the spokesman's body was visible to all present.
"I was aware of your." he began in strangled tones, ".pedigree, and it behoves you not at all to."
A gloveless hand landed on the man's shoulder, effectively silencing his speech. The sixth hooded figure, motionless until now, inclined his head towards the spokesman, murmuring close to his ear. During the pause that followed, Hermione found herself examining the hand without any thought as to why. It was pale and slender with very long fingers and pale, oval nails. The colourless skin made the fingers look almost transparent, fragile and delicate.
"My Lord," the spokesman protested in shocked tones. "It is my function to protect those of noble blood from the contamination of having to converse with such as these. You cannot wish to sully yourself by communicating with this woman in any other manner than through me."
The man broke off with a whimper of pain; those frail fingers pressed tendon to bone with a vice-like grip that would have done justice to a manticore.
"Just go and wait by the door, Marley, there's a good chap," a low, cultured voice murmured. "You wouldn't want me to accidentally dislocate your shoulder, now would you?"
The hand released its grip and Marley sagged in relief and fright. Gingerly, he massaged the hurt muscles, cowering as he retreated towards the doorway. The other figure did not so much as twitch.
Hermione was puzzled. Automatically, she had begun to rise from her desk but this strange, muted act of violence had frozen her part way. Now she completed the action and stood undaunted, head held high as she confronted the faceless hood.
"Who are you, sir?" she asked politely. The Death Eater did not reply, but merely lifted the edge of his hood and cast it back over his shoulders. Pale blonde hair emerged, long and tied in an intricate knot at the base of his neck. Delicate, almost feminine facial bones gave the face an ethereal beauty. Silver-grey eyes regarded her coolly below eyebrows so pale they were almost non-existent. His face was impassive. Hermione's eyebrows almost disappeared into her hairline.
"Malfoy," Hermione gasped, truly surprised. "Draco Malfoy? Great Merlin, I thought you were dead!"
The thin lips twisted in a faint smile that could have been a smirk; Draco Malfoy bowed respectfully to the Ambassador for the Alliance.
Hermione leaned her head in her hands and let out a long, heartfelt groan. The day was rapidly going downhill, and it was barely lunchtime. Her shoulders slumped; sleep had been a commodity all too rarely attainable lately. Come to think of it, her palms made a soft, comfortable pillow; she could just drift away.
A diffident knock at her door forced Hermione to bring herself back to the present.
"Come!" she called, knowing it would be her Secretary, Office Manager and Gopher, Denis Creevey.
Denis entered the room, the rubber soles of his shoes making no sound on the thinly carpeted floor. Although the younger Creevey was considerably taller and broader now than in his Hogwarts days, he was still smaller in height than Hermione.
"Ambassador," he began, "Thirty minutes ago, Harry Potter and his companions made unauthorised access into the Room of Requirement in Basement 3. I understand, however, that they now have official leave to use the facility and you have made their authorisation retrospective?"
Hermione pressed her lips together hard but refrained from any untoward comment; Denis had a thousand-and-one ways to exact revenge, every one of them different.
"That is correct, Denis," she replied.
"Some of them are in pretty bad shape, Ambassador," Denis continued in a more moderate tone. "They need immediate medical attention. I have taken the liberty of assigning a Mediwizard to them."
Hermione's eyes snapped wide.
"Whom did you ask?" she demanded sharply. Denis gave a small smile.
"Ginny Weasley, of course," came the reply. Hermione's relief was palpable; Denis gave a dry chuckle.
"Ambassador," he said gently. "May I respectfully request that you trust me to perform my offices with the flair and understanding for which you employed me in the first place?"
Hermione's lips twitched again.
"All right, Denis," she replied. "I should really stop barking, shouldn't I? Now that I've got myself a first class guard dog!"
Denis gave a moue of mock-annoyance at the description, but his resulting smile robbed the expression of any seriousness.
"There is, however, one small problem." Denis' fingers clutched the edges of his clipboard against Hermione's temper. He looked up.
"We have cast as many Normality Charms as we can on the Room," he told her. "Colonel Potter is certain that he can maintain the smokescreen for as long as eight hours with little or no strain. Our problem is that Empire techno-wizardry is now so effective that even the redoubtable Harry can go no higher than a 60 per cent camouflage without detection. Any more, and the Securitates will be on us in a heartbeat. If we can keep them out of the basements, I believe they'll find nothing untoward on the premises. However, if they insist on searching the lowest levels, then we absolutely must keep them away from B3, or the jig will be well and truly up."
Denis looked back at his notes and sighed.
"A pity Alastor Moody isn't with us any more," he remarked, making a few check marks in the margin.
"Too true," sighed Hermione, rolling her shoulders to ease the tension in her neck. "He knew more about Confundus Charmwork than the whole of the Ministry put together."
Abruptly, there was a rush of flames in Hermione's fireplace. She and Denis turned automatically to see the worried face of one of the front lobby receptionists.
"Ambassador," squeaked the young witch. "We've got a bit of a situation in the building. There's a group of - of, well, Death Eaters on their way up. They wouldn't wait, and they ignored Security. Short of putting our lives on the line, we couldn't."
"All right, Melanie, thank you." Hermione's tone was firm but reassuring. "I'll take it from here. Inform security from me that they are not to blame for this unwarranted intrusion."
The girl's face relaxed into a relieved expression and her image winked out. Hermione turned to Denis, her eyebrows raised enquiringly, but there was no time for speech. They both turned as the office door opened abruptly admitting a group of six tall figures, all cloaked and hooded in the Death Eater uniform of the Securitates; the Military Police. Two black- clad figures peeled off from the main group, stationing themselves either side of the office door. Another, flanked by two acolytes, approached Hermione's desk; he was evidently the spokesman for the group.
"Ambassador Granger," the man began, his voice at once reedy and muffled by the hood. "We have reason to believe that a group of rebel spies have taken refuge in the Alliance Embassy building within the last hour or so. We are prepared to accept your ignorance of the entire matter if you will undertake to hand the miscreants over to us without further ado. If you co- operate fully, we will use every means at our disposal to ensure that no blame attaches to the Embassy or to you personally. However, should you choose not to co-operate, the consequences could be serious, particularly to someone in your delicate political position."
Oh, yes! Hermione was not impressed. Every means at your disposal? As soon as you've got them, you'll close us down. Just the merest hint of insubordination would be enough for Lucius Malfoy to execute each and every one of us!
"I'm sorry, I really have no idea what you are talking about," Hermione replied composedly. She nodded swiftly to Denis. "Would you care for refreshment? Coffee, tea - I'm afraid we have no butterbeer, but perhaps it's too early in the day for you?"
The hooded figure gave a soft hiss.
"Ambassador," he began, with an emphasis on her title bordering on the insulting. "Ambassador, may I remind you that you are in occupied territory. You have a duty to your staff and to your country, not to mention the government of this land, to avoid any and all collaboration with rebel nationals, squibs and Muggle-borns."
"Which would be a difficult task for me to fulfil," Hermione interrupted, with an edge to her voice like a scalpel. "Seeing as my own parents are Muggles."
The shudder of horror that passed through the spokesman's body was visible to all present.
"I was aware of your." he began in strangled tones, ".pedigree, and it behoves you not at all to."
A gloveless hand landed on the man's shoulder, effectively silencing his speech. The sixth hooded figure, motionless until now, inclined his head towards the spokesman, murmuring close to his ear. During the pause that followed, Hermione found herself examining the hand without any thought as to why. It was pale and slender with very long fingers and pale, oval nails. The colourless skin made the fingers look almost transparent, fragile and delicate.
"My Lord," the spokesman protested in shocked tones. "It is my function to protect those of noble blood from the contamination of having to converse with such as these. You cannot wish to sully yourself by communicating with this woman in any other manner than through me."
The man broke off with a whimper of pain; those frail fingers pressed tendon to bone with a vice-like grip that would have done justice to a manticore.
"Just go and wait by the door, Marley, there's a good chap," a low, cultured voice murmured. "You wouldn't want me to accidentally dislocate your shoulder, now would you?"
The hand released its grip and Marley sagged in relief and fright. Gingerly, he massaged the hurt muscles, cowering as he retreated towards the doorway. The other figure did not so much as twitch.
Hermione was puzzled. Automatically, she had begun to rise from her desk but this strange, muted act of violence had frozen her part way. Now she completed the action and stood undaunted, head held high as she confronted the faceless hood.
"Who are you, sir?" she asked politely. The Death Eater did not reply, but merely lifted the edge of his hood and cast it back over his shoulders. Pale blonde hair emerged, long and tied in an intricate knot at the base of his neck. Delicate, almost feminine facial bones gave the face an ethereal beauty. Silver-grey eyes regarded her coolly below eyebrows so pale they were almost non-existent. His face was impassive. Hermione's eyebrows almost disappeared into her hairline.
"Malfoy," Hermione gasped, truly surprised. "Draco Malfoy? Great Merlin, I thought you were dead!"
The thin lips twisted in a faint smile that could have been a smirk; Draco Malfoy bowed respectfully to the Ambassador for the Alliance.