Author's Notes: In all honestly, this chapter was just fun to write. At first I was struggling because I didn't know how to end chapter twenty, and when this idea popped into my head I seized it and squeezed it for all it was worth. And though Hermione's, er, behavior may seem a bit OOC, I think there is a perfectly good excuse for it, as you will notice for yourself.
Just the other day, I sadly realized that in a month, this story will actually be AU - in other words, null and void. As overjoyed as I am at the fact that soon another year of Harry's life (real Harry, not fake-Harry-who-is-probably-terribly-OOC in this fic) will be in my hands and I will no longer be forced to re-read Order of the Phoenix to satisfy my hunger, I am still majorly bummed. I doubt I will be able to finish BCD before July 16th, and then there will be no point for any of you to continue to read this because Hermione'll probably be killed off or Jo will do away with Auror headquarters, both of which will completely nullify this story. Anyway, if, by some miracle, I do happen to finish BCD, then there's no problem...if not, then I do hope you'll all come back and finish reading this, only to pretend Hermione hasn't died and Aurors do still exist.
And I thought this would be an appropriate time to answer questions I've recently received in reviews, seeing as the next chapter is unbelievably long and I probably will do away with Author's Notes altogether. No, I most likely won't, because I absolutely love writing them, but what I'm saying is I won't have any room for answers then. So here you go!
Flower of Scotland: You didn't ask me anything, but thank you for the kind words of encouragement back in chapter nineteen. They were greatly appreciated!
jamc91: It's Hermione/Ron, or at least, is going to be. Eventually, I promise. I'm getting there.
crystalshine: Sorry, no Harry/Ginny. Ginny doesn't develop any romantic interests, but who knows about Harry?
Liles in the pond of Doom: Thanks so much to both of you for reviewing my story and getting me hooked on yours (which, as you know, I'm very interested in)! And also, thank you for tipping me off about the Africa thing... yes, I know it's a continent and not a country, I didn't completely fail eighth grade social studies. I'll fix it, someday. And no, Bella is not Bellatrix.
silentmaniac: You too didn't ask me any questions, but you reviewed every single chapter and for that I must salute you.
Someone who asked me what my title meant: Sorry, I don't remember who asked, but I do remember the question. I named it "Behind Closed Doors" appropriately, and if you haven't realized it by now, then I'll explain it at the end of the story.
The numerous people who commented on my horrid flashback brackets: Er, yes, I had to address this. I apologize for those; I look back and realize how ugly and haunting they are and have every intention to DELETE THEM as soon as I have the chance. So, just never mind them. Thank you.
And, as always... review!
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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: THE ROGUE CHIMAERA
The clock in the Entrance Hall began to chime, signaling the beginning of a new hour. A brown-haired professor stood beneath the large clock, her eyes fixed upon the staircase just ahead of her. She was bouncing from one foot to the other, glancing around as if expecting someone else to be in the Hall with her, though it was obvious she was alone. For the first time in days, there was no uproar to be heard on the other side of the stone walls; it seemed as if the winter weather, which had been uncharacteristically ferocious as of late, had decided to take a break for the holidays. The witch in the Hall was thankful for that, for in a few moments' time (hopefully, assuming the person she was waiting for showed up when he was supposed to) she suspected she would be traveling across the snowy grounds of Hogwarts, and she honestly had no interest in doing so amongst extremely high winds.
When the seventh and final chime rung about the Hall, the witch straightened, for a person had appeared on the staircase she had so earnestly been watching for the past ten minutes. A man decked out in winter garments with a mop of messy black hair descended towards the woman, who now wore an expression of extreme annoyance. The man's face broke into a grin as his boots smacked against the shining marble floor, making for the only sound in the large foyer, as the chimes from the clock had died out several seconds before. He came to a halt facing the stern professor, now grinning even wider. Finally, the woman opened her mouth to speak.
"You're late, Harry Potter, for this so very secret night of fun you have planned."
"Couldn't find my scarf, if you will," replied Harry, still smiling. "You know the dangers of the cold; I could come down with something as serious as the flu. Then what would happen to our night of fun?"
"Stop smirking," Hermione snapped, folding her arms and glaring. "Let's get whatever this is supposed to be over with so I can finish my grading. And perhaps on our way back, we could make a little stop at the –"
"No. No bookstore," Harry cut her off. "That's one bad habit I intend to break you of."
Hermione growled and turned around to throw open the front doors. The brilliance from the white exterior was nearly blinding; but within moments, the two people had disappeared from the school, leaving the Entrance Hall looking quite empty and forlorn once more.
Hogsmeade, in Hermione's opinion, looked positively stunning. She had always enjoyed the wizarding village most during the Christmas holidays as a child at Hogwarts. The entire scene – snow fluttering from the sky, the tops of the houses covered in layers upon layers of glistening white sheets, decorations present in every shop – reminded her of her own childhood, when her parents would take her into Muggle towns for shopping. She had always thought the crooked little road looked a bit like something one would find on a holiday card, save for the vampires, hags, broomsticks, and other various magical articles present. Merry voices rung out down the road, celebrating the eve of Christmas, while people could be seen running hurriedly from store to store stocking up on last-minute gifts. Obviously, as nearly the whole student body was home for the holidays, the visitors of Hogsmeade weren't, to Hermione's great relief, energetic adolescents on a fervent sugar high.
The hour was late and the sun was nearly wholly concealed behind the hills in the distance. The twinkling lights strung around the tops of the shops (which, Hermione knew, were tiny little fairies compacted together) provided a suitable amount of light for the late-evening shoppers. Hermione quite liked Hogsmeade this way.
"Harry, would you mind telling me where exactly we're headed?" she pleaded to her friend for the fifth time. Harry, who had long ago given up attempting to answer her, only shook his head.
They continued to travel down the teeming street, Hermione still utterly confused as to where Harry was taking her. She wondered what had brought on this sudden wave of spontaneity over her friend, who was usually opposite the "going out at night" type. From what Hermione knew, Harry was often too busy researching for Auror things she wasn't informed about, owling important people, or brooding in his room to socialize.
Harry finally came to a stop at the end of the road in front of a shabby-looking brick wall bearing only one despondent door. Hermione wondered why she hadn't noticed this before, but as it was awfully simple and grungy, she wasn't surprised. Harry stood staring at the wall for a moment, perhaps wondering if they had arrived at the right place, before taking out his wand and glancing behind him. Most of the shoppers weren't at this end of the road and those that were close enough weren't paying attention to the odd couple in front of the brick wall. Hermione was completely baffled and began wondering for a fleeting moment if Harry had possibly gone mad, until he commenced in tapping the wall, muttering. Her worst suspicions were then confirmed.
But to her surprise, the dilapidated door opened, and Harry drew back, stuffing his wand back into his pocket. "Thought this was the right place!" he told Hermione enthusiastically. "Wasn't sure for a moment, though. I heard about this from a rather, er, extroverted old friend from the Ministry. Never thought I'd end up finding myself here."
Now the door was wide open and Harry ducked in, beckoning for Hermione to follow. They entered a narrow and dim passageway totally devoid of candles which, Hermione thought, was rather skeptical.
"What is this?" she demanded, tugging on Harry's sleeve. "Harry, how do you know we haven't just walked into the lair of a vampire or something? This is oddly suspicious."
"Relax," Harry commanded her. "Look, you've seemed really tense lately," he added, still stumbling through the constricted corridor. "Between teaching and the Death Eaters and Lestrange, I know you haven't had any time to enjoy yourself."
"I don't need any time to enjoy myself," Hermione countered.
"It's Christmas Eve," said Harry, continuing on as if he hadn't heard Hermione's protest. "You can't sit up at the castle and grade papers, for Christ's sake. So as a friend, I took it upon myself to bring you here."
They had arrived at the end of the hallway where yet another worn door faced them. Harry gave it a push and it opened; he stepped forward across the threshold and Hermione followed. When she saw the room beyond, her eyes widened and her jaw dropped in both disbelief and amazement.
"Harry – you brought me to a nightclub?"
Harry turned to Hermione and grinned amiably. "The Rogue Chimaera," he commented, having to raise his voice against the vociferous noise of the room. "Best bloody club around, I've heard. You'll enjoy yourself here, trust me."
"I think I'll be lucky if I don't get mauled by a chimaera."
The room was large and circular and contrasted greatly with the place's exterior; Hermione had expected to be led into a room as equally shabby as the corridor outside. Instead, the Rogue Chimaera appeared to be a rather trendy and attractive place, packed with a vast crowd of wizarding folk. There was a band playing on the elevated stage (more fairy lights surrounded the wild-looking players, illuminating them in a different glow from the rest of the room), providing the club with quite catchy music, Hermione had to admit. One entire side of the room was devoted to a bar, where countless creatures of all shapes and sizes sat gulping down glasses and engaging in strident conversation. Behind the bar was a large beast that greatly resembled an octopus, its many arms and legs holding drinks and passing them out to shouting customers at a remarkable pace. Another corner of the room housed rather enticing armchairs and sofas, all of them filled with joyous, laughing people very much in the holiday spirit.
On the ceiling in the center of the room was a glass box containing, Hermione noticed in slight agitation, an extremely large fairy. It fluttered around the box, its magnificent wings changing from green to gold to red every few seconds, casting a colored glow about the room. Floating lamps were scattered in a pattern throughout the air, on the whole granting the club with some very nice lighting. The final thing Hermione noticed was the faux snow – or perhaps it was real? This being a wizarding club, it could very well be enchanted and most likely was – falling from the top of the room, setting the place in a holiday mood. However, the snow seemed to disappear just before reaching the heads of the guests. Hermione was greatly reminded of the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall.
And, of course, there was a dance floor, which occupied nearly two quarters of the room. The song was upbeat and lively to match the dancing of the club's visitors. There was one hooded figure Hermione greatly suspected to be a hag doing some sort of strange dance alongside a short goblin about a fourth of her size. Another couple, looking to be an ordinary witch and wizard, were doing acrobatic flips through the air, despite many yells from the below crowd. On the other side of the dance floor was a group of leprechauns clearly doing a sort of Irish jig quite off-key with the music. Hermione's stomach lurched. She was a horrible dancer.
"Harry, I can't do this!" she yelled.
"What are you talking about?"
"I've never been to a club before!" Hermione said. The band finished their upbeat song to many wild cheers and applause and, seconds later, began playing through another, even crazier than the first. "I – I can't dance!"
"Sure you can!" said Harry, still grinning. He appeared to be enjoying the club and, probably, enjoying Hermione's reaction to it. "I saw you dance at the Yule Ball in fourth year, remember? I've seen worse."
Hermione gulped. She hadn't expected Harry to bring her here. She just didn't fit in at clubs and she hardly ever went to parties (usually only black-robe ones for work). Yes, work was her thing, and though it often restricted her from having many friends, she hadn't ever minded – until now. She just never viewed herself as much of a socialite type because really, she wasn't. During all those years traveling the globe, being the hero she never had to chance to be during her schooldays, Hermione never had the time to settle down and take pleasure in entertainment.
"Hermione," Harry said seriously, whipping around to face her and lowering his voice. "Look, I know that Ron can be a bit of a git sometimes, right? Don't let him get you down. I thought bringing you here might get your mind off things, and mine too," he added as an afterthought. "It's the holidays, after all."
"Well," Hermione began, moving her eyes across the room once more and taking in the overwhelming surroundings. "I suppose I could give this a try. I appreciate the thought, anyway, Harry."
"Great," Harry said, looking genuinely pleased. "I'll go get ourselves a couple of drinks… I dunno about you, but I'm parched."
"No, I'll go," Hermione said bravely. Harry looked slightly amazed. She felt like quite a prat; Harry was only trying to improve her spirits and though he oftentimes lacked good judgment, his heart was in the right place. She wanted to make an impression that she was grateful for his generosity and, more importantly, could handle herself in the middle of a nightclub. Drinks. Right. Not so hard, she thought.
"If you insist. Bring me back, erm, just a Butterbeer, please."
Hermione nodded and within moments was making her way across the room to the bar. Several people she expected to be more than a little inebriated jostled her along the way, raving on like absolute lunatics. The composed witch ignored them and finally reached the long, chrome table, claiming a seat and stuffing herself into it. A hooded figure was seated next to her, its face completely masked by darkness. It turned its head towards Hermione (or, at least, what she presumed to be its head) and grunted before looking the other way and gulping down the rest of its fizzy drink.
A witch suddenly popped out of thin air on the other side of the bar, startling Hermione. She was dressed in something Hermione never would have dreamed of squeezing herself into, her long blonde hair flowing down her back. The men alongside the bar began hooting raucously, their mouths open and drool forming on their lips. Hermione inwardly groaned. Another half-Veela, she thought bitterly.
The witch advanced towards Hermione, her eyes sparkling, but upon noticing she was indeed a female and not a male, the half-Veela's smile disappeared only to be replaced by a quite unbecoming scowl.
"What'll you have?" she asked Hermione in a tone that suggested she clearly had better things to do than serve an out-of-place Hogwarts professor.
"Erm, a Butterbeer, and -"
"The mulled mead is brilliant at this time of year," remarked a squat goblin on the other side of Hermione, pointing to his own tankard that was larger than his head. "I'm on my fourth by now." He let out a small hiccup and giggled.
"No, no, elderflower wine is positively the best," countered an aged witch from two seats down with vivid purple hair. "You don't want to go with anything else, dear."
"Red currant rum!" exclaimed a voice behind Hermione. She whipped around in her seat to find what was clearly a vampire standing behind her, his face broken into a grin, revealing his fanged teeth. "It's an excellent substitute for blood, you know."
"We aren't all vampires here, Vern," remarked the witch behind the counter. She was glaring at Hermione, becoming more impatient by the minute. "Do you want a drink or not?" she asked Hermione cynically.
"Yes, I'll have, er –"
"If you don't go with the mulled mead, you won't know what you're missing!" squealed the miniature goblin, accidentally knocking over the remainder of drink to the female bartender's annoyance.
"We're running a special on sherry, would you just like a glass of that?" she suggested irritably.
"Yes, sure," Hermione said quickly, wanting more than anything to simply escape from the creepy bar guests. She had never even heard of half the drinks on the menu above the bar, as alcoholic drinks were not amongst her favorites, and would take whatever; she honestly didn't mind and probably wouldn't drink it anyway.
Hermione paid the bartender, who stuffed the coins down her shirt and moved towards a warlock with a peculiarly pointed hat, and ambled across the room to where Harry was standing, watching the entertaining band with interest. She handed him his warm Butterbeer and exchanged a quick "Cheers" before he raised his mug to his lips. Feeling quite stupid watching him, she did the same with her glass and, momentarily forgetting what she had ordered, began to down the cup. The drink trickled down her throat, a strangely sweet yet nutty tang engulfing her mouth. Hermione let the taste linger for a few seconds, enjoying its flavor, before finishing off the glass in a final gulp. It actually wasn't bad, she reasoned. In fact, she liked it quite a lot. It was better than pumpkin juice or Butterbeer at any rate; why hadn't she discovered this mysterious drink before?
"What's that you had?" Harry asked, pointing to her empty cup.
"Mmm, I don't remember," Hermione answered unconsciously. "It was awfully good, though."
Harry chuckled and took another swig of his frothing Butterbeer. "Want to go get a seat? We can't stand around here all night, unless you want to dance, of course," he added, stifling an obvious smirk.
Hermione pretended not to notice Harry's amusement and agreed. He led her across the room, carefully avoiding the crazed dancing of some of the clubbers while exchanging hellos to random people nearly falling over themselves along the way. Hermione had to bite her lip to keep from giggling at the appearance of some of the dancers; she had no idea the wizarding world had such a nightlife, and a wild one at that. Still, she was trying to get used to this interesting place, wondering if perhaps she might have an enjoyable night after all, even though the bookstore would have been perfectly acceptable, too. She couldn't let Harry know that, of course; somehow, she was going to have to convince him she was having the time of her life.
They arrived at a pair of chubby round chairs, looking ideal for relaxation. Harry sunk into one, letting out a sigh of comfort, and Hermione followed suit. They gazed out across the dance floor, grinning at the antics of several enthusiastic characters, especially the group of leprechauns in the corner who now, to Hermione's utter hilarity, were forming a sort of pyramid. Hermione realized it was in the shape of a Christmas tree, obviously to symbolize the holiday spirit, and was amazed when the leprechauns began singing harsh carols at a pitch to deafen the room. Obviously, singing was not a talent among leprechauns. Within moments, a bossy-looking wizard had appeared alongside the pyramid, shaking his fist at the drunken creatures and shouting something about public indecency. The pyramid quickly dissolved as the thwarted leprechauns scattered, a bolder one bellowing at the retreating back of the wizard, and from the looks of his gesturing, Hermione could only guess what he was raving on about.
"Enjoying yourself yet?" Harry leaned over and asked.
"Maybe," Hermione replied, still engrossed by the lone shouting leprechaun who was now being forcefully escorted off the dance floor by two broad men. "This place is fascinating, Harry. How did you find out about it?"
"Funny you should mention that," Harry said. His face suddenly broke into a wide smile. "Like I said, an acquaintance mentioned it to me long ago, and I thought I would never find use for this place. He's here, actually," he added, surprising Hermione. "Would you care to meet him? Funny bloke, he is. I think you'd like him."
"He's here? Well, yes, I suppose –"
Harry stood to greet a person behind Hermione that she could not see. Hermione craned her neck around to meet the mystery man that had passed along the location of this interesting club, wondering what kind of fellow he could be. Anyone so fanatical about a place like this had to be a bit out of their mind, Hermione presumed.
She stood next to Harry to properly look into the face of his, as he had said, old friend from the Ministry. And she paused, her breath stopping in shock and slight disgust.
"Keleher! Good to see you, mate," Harry exclaimed, clasping hands with a man who was grinning amiably back. "And thanks again for the recommendation."
It was none other than Braedon Keleher, the flying professor at Hogwarts. The annoying, egotistical, womanizing, and admittedly handsome flying professor Hermione and the rest of the staff had come to despise. This was Harry's friend who had given him the site of the Rogue Chimaera? Hermione couldn't believe it. But then again, she wouldn't put it past Keleher – now that she thought about it, this seemed very much a place for him to spend his nights. He was most likely one of the regulars at the bar for that irritated half-Veela witch.
"And this is my friend, Herm –"
"Hermione!" Braedon exclaimed, looking positively overjoyed at the sight of Hermione standing beside Harry, wearing an obvious expression of sour revulsion. "How wonderful to see you!" He leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek; normally, by now, Hermione would have reached out and slapped him across the face, but this time she was rooted to the spot in shock and it seemed as if her body momentarily forgot how to function.
"You two know each other?" Harry asked, an amused expression crossing his face.
"No, we –"
"Of course!" Braedon explained, unable to take his eyes off the witch who so looked like she wished she could hex him. "We both teach at Hogwarts, Harry, remember? Hermione and I go way back."
"Yes, way back about three months," Hermione added dryly.
"Ah," was all Harry could muster, amusement evident in his voice.
"How do you two know each other?" Hermione demanded. She was slightly flabbergasted that Harry had actually called this repulsive slug of a man his old friend.
"Braedon used to work in the Department of Magical Games and Sports," said Harry, "before he was offered a position up at the school. Once got me the best bloodiest tickets in the country to a World Cup a few years back. I owe this man, Hermione."
"Good match, that one," Braedon mused wistfully.
"I see," Hermione muttered, narrowing her eyes at Braedon who was still gazing lustfully at her. "Tell me," she asked with a hint of contempt in her tone. "When you show up late for your Flying classes, is it because you were here getting drunk out of your mind?"
"Er –" Braedon paused, and began laughing nervously, glancing at Harry.
"I think I see someone I know over there," Harry invented quickly, feigning interest in an invisible person across the room. "You'll be all right, Hermione? I'll only be a minute." With that he scuttled to the other side of the room, obviously wanting to avoid getting in the middle of a fight. After years of having to endure Hermione/Ron arguments, he had gained quite a bit of knowledge and always knew the exact time to disappear in order to stay uninvolved.
"Hmph," Hermione said haughtily, turning her back and beginning to leave Braedon as well.
"Hey, wait," he shouted, stepping forward and grabbing her arm gently. "Come on, don't leave. What's up with you?"
"None of your business."
Braedon chuckled, his hand still gripping Hermione's arm. "Feisty, you are. Listen," he said quickly before she could confront him for referring to her as feisty, "let me buy you a drink. Please? You just can't leave yet. You don't want Harry thinking he brought you here in vain, right?"
Hermione halted and turned around to face him, a question forming on her lips. Was it that obvious she stuck out in a club like this? Was that the thought on everyone's mind – Look at that girl, see her? She doesn't belong here. True, Hermione knew the people surrounding her weren't her friends, they weren't even remotely her type, but she wasn't about to let people stereotype her like that, especially Braedon Keleher.
"Fine," she said, prying the Flying professor's arm off her own. "Go get me the, er – the one that's on the special, whatever it's called."
"Sherry?" Braedon asked in surprise.
"Yes, that."
Braedon disappeared into a sea of people once again and Hermione fell back onto the cozy chair, letting it swallow her up. She sighed. What was she getting herself into? For a moment, she honestly wished Harry would have listened and taken her to the bookstore instead. Or better yet, she wished she were curled up in front of the fireplace in the staff room, simply grading essays with a nice cup of hot chocolate. The music was getting to her head, getting inside her ears and pounding with determination; the smoky smell of the club was traveling down her throat, tickling it and making her choke. I'll tell Harry I'm getting tired and we should head back up, she considered, attempting to think of the best way to break it to her friend that she was not, as he had hoped, having the time of her life.
Braedon reappeared with two glasses in tow, Hermione's sherry and a flamboyantly orange drink of his own. He sunk onto the chair next to her and handed her the glass, swapping a cheers (a rather forced one on Hermione's part). Hermione watched as Braedon took an elegant sip of his drink, then looked up and began smiling at her once more. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Hermione, in an attempt to avoid awkward conversation, lifted her own cup to her lips and began to pour it unceremoniously down her throat. The wonderful, exclusive taste burst into her mouth again, warming her insides (even though the drink was cold) and making her feel rather bubbly. Several seconds later she had, once again, drained the entire glass, to Braedon's astonishment. She felt a distinct dizziness, perhaps it was; her head suddenly felt much lighter and the dark thoughts that had been swirling around in it all night quickly evaporated. She decided she very much liked this drink.
"I can't believe you just drank that whole thing," Braedon said. "You amaze me, Granger."
Hermione giggled, and then mentally slapped herself for doing so.
"I'll, uh – I'll go get you another," Braedon offered. "Don't go anywhere," he added with a wink as he set down his orange drink and traveled back up to the bar. Hermione watched him leave and then, in an uncharacteristic move of curiosity, reached out to grab his glass, bringing it to her nose. She sniffed, then, deeming the drink not poisoned, tipped the cup into her mouth. This, whatever it was, was much thinner than her sherry and cooled her mouth, then her tongue, then her throat. It had a very distinct citrus taste and was rather tangy but Hermione didn't mind; she decided she liked this one, too. Actually, the club served very good drinks – why was everyone else still drinking pumpkin juice when they could be having this?
Hermione saw Braedon reappear some ten feet away and quickly set down his drink, nearly knocking it over while doing so. He approached her, beaming, and handed her another sherry before sitting down and taking his own drink. He raised it to his lips but didn't drink it; instead, his eyes were focused on Hermione, watching her intently.
"Well, aren't you going to drink that?" he asked.
"Oh, right." Hermione tipped the sherry into her mouth again and began to drain the glass, but stopped abruptly, nearly choking. There was something definitely different about her drink this time; where was the eccentrically sweet yet nutty flavor that warmed her mouth? Instead, she felt as if she were swallowing cold daggers, the cold traveling up to her head, making her rather dizzy. And since when were there two Braedon Kelehers seated next to her?
"You sure this is the right one?" she asked, hiccupping.
"Of course," Braedon reassured her, taking a swig of his citrus drink. "Sherry, is it not?"
Hermione shrugged and downed the rest of the cup, thankful for it to finally be gone. She cast her glass aside, definitely not wanting any more cherry, or whatever it was called. Obviously, by the third time, it didn't taste quite so good anymore. It didn't make her feel quite so good anymore, either, she realized. Where had this headache come from?
"So, Hermione Granger," Braedon began in a rather deep, husky voice. "You fascinate me, you really do, what with your strict school teacher façade and all. I never knew you to be such a gregarious woman after hours. It's quite attractive, actually."
Hermione hiccupped again.
"You know, I heard from a very reputable source that you aren't, shall we say, very gifted when it comes to flying," said Braedon. He reached out his hand towards Hermione's and began stroking it. "What are you doing later tonight?"
"I'm – hic – sleeping, like normal people."
"Ah, well, I had an idea," said Braedon. His hand was now tightly clutching Hermione's and Hermione, who was too busy holding her breath in hopes her annoying hiccups would vanish, hadn't the strength to pull away. "Perhaps I could give you a little lesson, in flying, that is. I'm quite skilled with the broom, you know. We could go out on the pitch, just you, me, and the stars. What do you say? Then we could get to the sleeping part later."
Suddenly, Hermione's senses kicked back in. Her hiccups were gone, though her headache and hazy vision were not, and she promptly yanked her hand away from Braedon, who started. What was she doing? What was she doing, sitting in the middle of a nightclub next to a man such as Braedon Keleher, hiccupping profusely, while allowing this dog to stroke her hand, let alone even touch her? She stood, with a half a mind to slap Braedon, but as she was not entirely sure where his cheek was, decided against it. "I have to go now," she spat, grabbing her cloak and stumbling slightly. "If you come anywhere near me, I'll be sure – be sure to – I'll hex you, or something," she finished lamely, her head pounding awfully. She couldn't even form a coherent thought anymore. Braedon stood and watched her retreating back, his face screwed up in confusion. Hermione thought she heard shouts of, "Wait! Hermione!" but didn't waste time trying to figure out if it was Keleher or not. Her legs felt as if they were made of jelly and the faces of the crowd around her were blurred; the only sensible thought she could form was to find Harry. She couldn't take any more of this.
Harry, however, was nowhere to be seen. Images and colors were swirling past her in a dizzying rainbow; for a moment, she thought she saw a man with black hair and dark robes standing off to the right side of the room, but she couldn't wait to find out. She had to sit down before she collapsed. The bar was nearest, so Hermione, still clutching her cloak tightly against her chest, made her way past a group of tap-dancing dwarves to the long, chrome table. Thankfully, the irritable bartender was nowhere in sight. The last thing on her mind was to order another shurry, or whatever it was. She frankly couldn't remember anymore.
The bar was rather empty now, as compared to when Hermione had first visited it. Two seats down on her right was a man with a large, green eyeball protruding from his forehead. He was moving his finger in a circular motion, swirling around a spoon in his cup and muttering to himself. Hermione jerked her head to her left, accompanied by much more throbbing in her temple, to find two hooded figures about three seats away, apparently deep in discussion. She laid her head gingerly on top of the counter and closed her eyes. The excruciating pain in her head didn't disappear, though; if anything, it only intensified. She desperately wished for Harry to find her so they could return to Hogwarts. All she wanted to do now was fall onto the four-poster in her cozy dorm and sleep.
The voices from the two men on her left began drifting towards her and something about their tone attracted Hermione's attention. She knew she would not be able to walk if she tried, so all she could do was wait at the bar for Harry. He'd find her eventually. In the meantime, she decided to let the nearby voices occupy her mind; they were speaking loudly, obviously not expecting anyone around them to listen due to the clamor of the club.
"… a stupid mistake," one man was saying in between gulps of his drink. "Apparently, a group of Aurors showed up a short time after, only to find the village in ruins. Bellatrix seems to be getting frustrated, but burning down the Muggle village only gave those damn Aurors a fresh lead. I suspect she's gone a bit off her rocker," the man added, leaning in towards his comrade.
Bellatrix… that name sounded oddly familiar to Hermione. Who was Bellatrix? Her throbbing headache wouldn't let her think properly, so she wasn't entirely sure.
"Nice to know you've been enjoying yourself, Consuelos, while I've been stuck here on my arse corresponding with that witch," the second man said, spitting out the final word in disgust. "She's one hell of a nightmare, let me tell you. And when I haven't gotten recent news from Bellatrix, she often hexes me, even."
"Sorry, mate," remarked the man known as Consuelos, draining his cup.
"What's Bellatrix planning to do with that records book, by the way?" the other man asked. "The one of Potter's, I mean. Pretty bloody valuable if you ask me; we could seriously use that to our advantage."
Potter. Now, Hermione was sure she knew that name. Who could that be? Oh, right, Harry. She wondered if these men were possibly more friends of his she didn't know about. Why else would they be talking about him?
"You're right, it is valuable. When she originally told me of her plan to steal it, I honestly didn't believe it could be done. She astonishes me, Bellatrix," said Consuelos with a hint of admiration in his voice. "But she's taking her time, studying everything the Aurors have written down line by line. Do you know, they know nearly everything by now?"
"No!" exclaimed the other man, aghast.
"Well, actually, not quite everything. The morons have yet to pick up on a few very key pieces, thankfully. Our entire plan would be screwed otherwise. They are becoming wiser, though," said Consuelos, speaking with evident hatred, "thanks to those three up at the school. In fact, they know more themselves than the whole damn Ministry of Magic put together."
"Potter, Weasley, and Granger, you mean?"
Hermione started. This time, she definitely knew the name Granger – it was her own. Hermione Granger. They were talking about her. Could she have possibly known the men? She chanced a glance at them, her vision blurring harshly for a moment at such movement, but when it cleared, the men were still indecipherable, as their cloaks were pulled over their heads.
"Yes, them," spat Consuelos. "I told Bellatrix our plan could be ruined with them involved, but she simply brushed it aside and said it only made the situation even direr. And what with Potter and his friends so very close to everything, I said the chance of them finding out was too great. Bellatrix's a hard-headed, if not sometimes foolish woman, but she claims she knows what she's doing. And she's working through someone very gifted and reliable this time."
The second man nodded his head in silent agreement. "It's in the papers now, did you see?" he said after a moment. "About us, I mean. She told the Ministry about us. Does Bellatrix know about this?"
Consuelos sighed. "Of course Bellatrix knows, Anthony, you blithering idiot," he hissed. "She ordered it to be done. How dare you even question her authority?"
"Sorry, sorry," Anthony muttered. "Didn't know. I don't understand why, though. I thought she wanted to keep our return a secret?"
"She did, at first," Consuelos explained, as if his time were being wasted talking to his rather dull companion. "But don't you understand? She wants the wizarding world to know about our return. It's going to completely throw them into chaos. They've all been thinking for the past six years that they're safe, and we were gone for good. This will show them how wrong they are. And having the Ministry in a mess, with the Aurors working against them by now, is all part of the plan, Bellatrix says. It's a vital part that will allow for her to finish the job."
Hermione let out another unexpected hiccup, causing both men to look her way. She kept her head down, hoping they wouldn't end their conversation because, even though Harry was taking an awfully long time to find her and take her back up to the school, she was rather enjoying their interesting discussion, whatever it was about. The pounding in her head had becoming nearly unbearable, though, she realized. Her eyes began to droop and her legs and arms felt very weak; she could barely move them. She honestly considered falling asleep on the counter, but the two men continued talking, and she willed herself to stay conscious just a bit longer.
"There's one thing I still don't understand," said Anthony. "What do the students at the school have to do with anything? She's always reporting to me what's going on up there, and I don't understand the point of controlling kids into doing horrendous things when we have bigger issues at hand. Why is Bellatrix wasting her time –?"
"God, Anthony," Consuelos cried out with a groan. "You're a Death Eater, for Merlin's sake. You're supposed to know these things, man!"
Anthony mumbled a quick apology, saying nobody ever told him anything.
"Fine, I'll explain it again," said Consuelos with a sigh. "You better listen this time. It's pretty obvious if you think about it. First, force the students into doing devastating things that'll distract the Ministry. That'll get them to stop thinking about us for once. And what with the records book gone and all, it's pretty difficult to get any work done; of course, the Aurors can use what they wrote down elsewhere, but I can guarantee you that it isn't very helpful. Then, Bellatrix said that we move on to controlling more important people when they don't expect it because they are so wrapped up in the happenings of Hogwarts – members of the Ministry of Magic, for instance. That'll get us inside the Ministry, where we can start really making an effect. It's only a matter of time before Bellatrix is the new Ministress of Magic. In the meantime, out in Eastern Europe, she's concentrating on that blasted book we found. You know the one, Gnomi Elencho or whatever the hell she said it was called."
"I've heard of it," said Anthony. "Laos told me that she was having trouble deciphering it, and –"
"Yes, but Bellatrix can pull off anything. She'll manage to figure it out eventually. It's what we've been looking for, and now with our hands on it and the person she's working through, we can finally complete the plan."
"Wow," breathed Anthony. "She is an absolute genius. We just may be able to pull this off. Hell, I just don't want to go back to Azkaban again. Only… there's still one thing that stands in our way, mate," he finished dejectedly.
"Potter. And the other two."
"Right. What are we going to do about them?"
Hermione let out a gasp; a sharp pain shot through her head and she realized that her headache had now transformed into a severe migraine. Her vision blurred again until she could barely make out the bar on which she was practically laying. She suddenly wondered where she was, and what she was doing, and why she was going blind. What was her name, again? And where were those voices coming from? Perhaps from inside her own head?
"Well, Bellatrix has a scheme, all right," Consuelos remarked. "You do know why the other Death Eaters are slowly moving northwest, don't you?"
And that's when it happened – Hermione's eyes rolled up into the top of her head and her vision went permanently dark. She couldn't remember anything at all and felt as if she were going to be violently sick any moment. But before anything of the sort could happen, she slumped forward; her head smacked against the cold, chrome table, and she passed out.
"Hermione? Are you awake?"
Hermione thought she heard a very distant voice. It seemed to be calling her, and it sounded rather worried and urgent, but she didn't know how to get to it. Everything was dark; she couldn't remember where she was, or how she had gotten there. She tried to reach out but her arm wouldn't move. She opened her mouth to call, to beckon the voice forward, but no sound came out.
"Are you awake?" the voice repeated, much louder this time.
Suddenly, Hermione's eyes snapped open, and the darkness was gone. She found she was lying in a quite comfortable and large four-poster bed in a room she did not recognize. Daylight was streaming in through the windows, vast expanses of snowy grounds glittering in the background. With a groan, she turned her head to the side; for some reason, it was throbbing slightly, making the small movement quite painful. Then, unexpectedly, a face appeared, hovering over her and wearing an expression of powerful concern. Hermione blinked. She recognized this face.
"Harry?"
Harry grinned and drew back, heaving a large sigh of relief at seeing his friend regain consciousness. "Hey," he said, sinking onto the end of Hermione's bed. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got knocked by a hippogriff," Hermione murmured, struggling to sit up. Her head swirled and she felt a fresh wave of nausea wash over her, so decided against it and fell back helplessly onto her pillows again.
"Er – where am I?"
"In your dorm," Harry explained, worry flashing across his face again. "At Hogwarts. Remember?"
Hermione's eyes wandered the room and, taking in her surroundings, she realized he was right. So she was. But how had she gotten there? She attempted to plunge into her mind for the answer; unfortunately, it was all muddled, and she still couldn't remember anything, even though she felt like she had something to tell Harry. Something important.
"Harry, what happened to me? How did I get here?"
"You don't remember anything?" he asked cautiously.
"No, not really. My head hurts horribly, though, and it's even worse when I try to think."
"Just – just take it easy, all right?" Harry advised her. "Last night, you were – well, you were rather drunk, to say the least, Hermione. At the club, remember? The Rogue Chimaera."
"I was what?" Hermione gasped, appalled. Then, an image came to her mind, one of a shabby door at the end of a dark corridor. Past the door was a large, circular room, full of extravagant, dancing people and creatures. The nightclub. She remembered. But she still felt as if there were something else, something significant, tugging at the corner of her mind.
"I found you unconscious at the bar," Harry continued, watching her reaction carefully. "You wouldn't wake so I had to drag you out of the club, then we Apparated to the school gates, where I had arranged for a carriage to take us back up to the school. Luckily, we were unseen; imagine trying to explain a drunken Professor Granger to someone," he added wryly, attempting a small smile.
"I don't believe this," Hermione said. And she honestly couldn't. How could she allow something so irresponsible happen to her? "Do you know how I got – I got, well, you know –"
"It was Keleher," Harry muttered. His face was contorted in anger towards the man he had been warmly calling his friend just the night before. "I suspect he put something in your drink, I didn't stick around to find the sick bastard and –"
Something Harry had said seconds ago finally caught up with Hermione. I found you unconscious at the bar. The long, chrome bar. The irritable half-Veela bartender. The many suggestions on which drink to order. The man bearing the large, green eyeball. The two hooded figures in hushed discussion.
The two hooded figures. Their discussion.
"Harry," she said suddenly, cutting him off in the midst of recounting all of Braedon Keleher's disgusting antics of the night before, which, Hermione knew, she would love to hear at a later time. She reached out and grasped his arm tightly, words she had heard at the bar flowing back into her brain at a sickening pace. "Harry, last night, at the bar… I overheard – oh, God, I can't believe this. I can't believe they were there…"
"What, Hermione?" Harry asked. His tone quickly went from worried and concerned to anxious and restless, his face now full of urgency. He could tell by the look on Hermione's face that this was important. "Who was there?"
"Death Eaters," Hermione whispered, the two words escaping from her lips as if they were death themselves. She turned to face her friend who was staring at her in disbelief, a full story now on her mind. She finally remembered.
"I have something to tell you."