Notes:All right, here's the second revised chapter! For those of you new to EC, this was originally written before the release of HBP, so it's AU from that point on.
Disclaimer:It's all Jo's but the Gobjobbles. Those are, indeed, a product of my over-Snorkacked mind. Enjoy!
Chapter Two: ...And Into the Fire (A Hermione Day)
o:o:o
Time here all but means nothing
Just shadows that move 'cross the walls
—"Time," Sarah McLachlan
o:o:o
Hermione awoke, skin coated with a fine layer of cold sweat and pulse pounding in time with the driving bass that echoed through the flat's walls. She irritably pounded her fist into the wall, though she knew it would do little good. "Bloody gits," she hissed at the oblivious neighbors, rubbing sleep out of her sore eyes. "Not even seven o'clock..."
Kicking her legs out from under the blankets, she stretched and started towards the kitchen of the flat she shared with Luna. Coffee—she needed coffee. Her limbs dragged with weariness (it had been another late night), and whatever nightmares had haunted her during the night had left a sour taste in the back of her mouth. Thankfully, they had at least not left an imprint on her memory. She knew what they consisted of, anyway—they hadn't varied for years. Silky blond hair falling in a curtain around her, pain writhing like living snakes through her veins, and those red, red eyes. She shuddered and hugged herself as she padded across the kitchenette and opened the cupboard.
Before her fingers could even brush against her favorite mug, the cabinet began to speak to her in a rather strident facsimile of her roommate's voice. Hermione shrieked, startled, and hugged her mug to her, backing away. "Oh, Loony," she muttered mutinously. "I'll get you for that one, I will."
Grudgingly, Hermione cast a modifying charm at the cabinet, so that the message (which was half over before the rush of blood in her ears subsided enough to make hearing it possible) would start again. Giving it one last glare for good measure, she began to fix her morning cup.
"Wotcher, 'Mione! Before you send me a hexed Howler, let me just say this—working until four-thirty on an article and then getting up at seven—EVERY DAY—is just not healthy. And I would know. Mediwitch here, remember? So I turned off your alarm and called you in sick."
Hermione choked on her coffee and spluttered, spraying the cabinet and the counter beneath it. She glanced back at the clock and groaned; it was almost ten already. "Brill, Luna, thanks," she muttered caustically. Her friend's blithe (and slightly abrasive) voice continued to pour nonchalantly out of the enchanted cupboard.
"And don't even think about sneaking out—I told your boss that you were taking a mental health day, and she agreed with me so much, that she promised (Sorcery Scout's oath, nonetheless) to have Prophet security escort you back home if she saw you on premises. See? Even that hard-nosed bint agrees with me! So. I'm going to drop your article and photos off on my way to St. Mungo's, where Ms. Wattersley will instantly be taken by your Herculean perfection and mind-boggling skill and place it on the front page, as it deserves." Hermione snorted as laughter crept into the recording of her friend's voice.
"No worries, then—nothing work-related, either, or you'll be hearing it from me. And I may just have to recruit Ronald to help berate you (you know he'd be glad to help)—"
"You're not fooling there."
"—so be a good little girl and do as Nanny Loony says. Enjoy your day off. Oh, and I know there's a Red-nosed Gobjobble in that miniwave thingamajig, so be careful around it, all right? They're known to be quite bothersome if irritated. Just leave it out some sprouts and sour milk and it'll be happy. Well, ta then, I've got to go or I'll be late!"
Hermione stared at the cabinet in disbelief, slowly shaking her head. The enchanted recording began again, and she closed it, cutting off the young mediwitch's orders. Leave it to Loony.
Gobjobbles, indeed, she scoffed. Still, she couldn't help but eye the microwave warily as she passed it. I think I've been spending too much time with that girl. She sighed and shifted her full cup gently between her hands; it was burning the skin on her palms. She had a day all to herself. On her own. By herself. All alone.
Crookshanks meowed up at her; his quashed face had a strangely worried air to it this morning, and Hermione only looked back down at him, a grin spreading slowly across her face.
Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.
o:o:o
"Maybe this won't be so bad after all," she mocked herself irritably, tossing a copy of Witch Weekly down onto her lap. For the third time in exactly nine minutes and twenty-eight seconds, she glanced up at the two clocks by the wall. The first, a perfectly normal Muggle clock, read thirteen minutes of eleven. The second, a cousin to Molly Weasley's rather amazing timepiece, showed her that everyone on it had something to be doing—universally something in which an interruption would probably not be welcome.
One hour, fourteen minutes, and fifty-three seconds had passed since she began her Hermione Day, as she had mentally begun to call it. Fifty-three minutes and nine seconds ago, she'd begun to realize that maybe a Hermione Day wouldn't be quite as fun-packed as she'd hoped. In fact, so far it had been rather boring.
She had had her ice cream for breakfast, but she and Luna had both been so busy lately that it had gone relatively untouched for weeks, and had a horrid case of freezer burn. Three bites into it, and she'd had to dump it, lamenting the starving orphans in Sudan and resolving to donate to a soup kitchen at some point in the near future.
Her breakfast plans quite literally down the drain, she had opted for a luxurious bath, a welcome change from her usual economical shower. Fifteen minutes later, she'd been waterlogged and pruny, and so thoroughly doused in the scent of white tea-infused body wash that Crookshanks sneezed whenever he came near her. She thought it smelled nice—but the realization that she'd been sniffing her own arm at the apparent slight of a cat soon had her worrying more about her sanity than her scent. Instead of applying the usual quick straightening charm, she'd left her hair to dry naturally—which meant curls. Lots and lots of curls. She'd forgotten how much of a nuisance they were; she'd gladly resort to the glamour charm now, but if applied to dry hair, it tended to result in a poodlescent, umber afro, at least in her own experience. She'd opted for a utilitarian bun instead.
So—unfed and overly-perfumed, she now found herself lounging lackadaisically on the old, comfortable sofa that served as the divider between "dining room" (or table with four chairs) and "living room" (or coffee table, sofa, chair, and magicked hearth). Sunlight poured in through the generously-proportioned windows, but Hermione's mood was dark.
"If I only had something to work on," she moaned at Crookshanks, who was curled up in a pool of sun a few meters away. He looked up at her complaint, regarded her steadily with large eyes, and then curled back up.
Scowling, Hermione blew an errant curl out of her face with an irritable huff. "Some help you are, you little beastie."
He did not deign to respond.
Hermione stuck her tongue out at him, caught herself, and groaned again. "Have I fallen so far?" she moaned melodramatically, falling back with the back of one hand pressed against her forehead. "Oh, woe is me. I have absolutely nothing to do, for my best friend's taken all of my notes with her (though at least she was thorough), the ice cream was spoiled, and so is my cat."
To this rant Crookshanks only contributed a purr, which Hermione couldn't help but think was rather mockingly sympathetic.
"Fine then," she snapped, sitting up. "If you're so brilliant at wasting time, tell me: who should I go pester? You're obviously not up to the task yourself."
For several long moments, she waited. For several long moments, he drowsed. She was halfway through a haughty little sound of victory when he stood, stretched, and walked over to the bookcase. With one large paw he batted at a thick tome with a rather unremarkable green cover. Hermione, nonplussed and vaguely discomfited by this show, stood and pulled out the book he'd chosen.
"Defensive Stratagem for the Cornered," she read. After a moment, she pursed her lips speculatively and then looked down at her cat. "You, beastie, are freakishly intelligent, d'you know that?"
He purred as she bent to scratch his ugly head, and rubbed the length of his body against her legs, his bottle-brush tail twining around her calf. After a moment she stepped away and traded the book for her hat and sweater.
"To the Floo then!" she said, approaching the magicked fireplace. She often thought of it as her pièce de résistance—after all, not everyone could rent the average flat and enchant a fully functional fireplace (connected to the Floo Network, no less) into it. Hermione nodded proudly at it, took up a pinch of Floo powder, and threw it down into the grate. "The Ministry of Magic!"
o:o:o
"Can I help you?" the secretary asked without looking up from her nails. Hermione recoiled from the woman automatically, but resolvedly pasted a smile back on her face and faced her. Just because everything about the woman reminded her of Rita Skeeter didn't mean she couldn't be a... a reasonable human being.
The woman snapped her gum.
Right, Hermione, stop being such a prat. She cleared her throat, and the woman looked back up, arching one eyebrow. A sneer planted itself across her middle-aged face, and Hermione could almost read her thoughts—what did this ratty little girl want, with her faded sweatshirt and that god-awful hat?
Stubbornly, Hermione straightened the skully, pulling it down further over her errant curls. "I'm Hermione Granger of the Daily Prophet," she said in her most dignified voice. "And I would like to know if the Minister has any spare time today."
The disdain dropped right off the woman's face. "Hermione Granger? Oh Merlin!" She began to fuss with her crispy hair, and a huge, sycophantic smile pasted itself across her face. "Blanche—Blanche Underwood—I'm your biggest fan, Ms. Granger!"
An expression of mingled horror and confusion passed over the young reporter's face as the Minister's secretary scurried out from behind her desk and took possession of her hand, pumping it vigorously. "Erm—nice to meet, you, Bl—"
"Those exposés about the War were phenomenal, but that piece this morning—on the Godric's Hollow slayings—oooh, it was amazing!" the woman crowed, beaming down at Hermione.
"Um—thank you," she managed, grimacing. Apparently Blanche took it as a smile, though, for she only squealed girlishly one last time, squeezed Hermione's hand to the point of pain, and then hurried back behind her desk.
"Today, you said?" Blanche flipped open a rather hefty organizer. "Let me check his schedule. Ahem. Free time, second of June."
Two slots began to glow, one of which seemed to have been earlier that morning.
"Well, lucky you! He's got an open slot at one. I'll go ask him, Ms. Granger."
As the woman disappeared into the Minister's office, Hermione collapsed into one of the supplied straight-backed chairs and looked around. The antechamber no longer resembled a tacky pub, as it had under Fudge, but a workplace—and, more importantly, a government building. The photos of Fudge shaking hands with reluctant celebrities had been replaced by paintings of former Ministry officials and other famous witches and wizards. Further down the wall, Hermione recognized a portrait of Phineas Nigellus, the most unpopular headmaster ever to grace the halls of Hogwarts, which she had previously seen in the house on Grimmauld Place.
"Hello, Phineas," she said.
"Oh, it's the Muggleborn." He sneered, but Hermione knew that he didn't detest her on principle any longer—after all, it was Hermione who thought to bring him along when they had to evacuate headquarters, that summer after sixth year. She still remembered the row with Harry—he's our best link to Hogwarts, slimy git that he is! And so, even though the anticipated attack by Death Eaters never occurred, Phineas had ever since been much kinder to the Muggleborn witch; in any case, however tainted her blood was, she seemed to be the only one able to comprehend his eminence. "Here to visit your mongrel friend?"
"Be kind, Phineas," Hermione said sternly. She was about to continue when Blanche reappeared, grinning horribly.
"The Minister says he'll be more than happy to meet you at Fortescue's Café at one for a late lunch. Will that work for you, Ms. Granger?"
"Perfectly. Thank you... Blanche."
"You're very welcome, Ms. Granger! Before you leave—might I, perhaps, get your autograph?"
A little flushed and flustered but highly pleased, Hermione signed the parchment that Blanche pushed towards her, inwardly forgiving her for her resemblance to the insufferable Skeeter. With one last thank-you, Hermione left the office and headed back up to the ground floor, stopping once to chat with Tonks when they passed in the hall.
That wasn't to be her only brush with Aurors that day, it seems. No sooner had she entered the elevator, than a voice shouted, "Hold that lift!" She pressed the 'hold' button, and a moment later, Blaise Zabini stepped in beside her. "Granger," he said stiffly by way of a greeting.
"Zabini."
There was a short pause. "The article was good. Exactly what we asked of you."
"I live to serve," she replied venomously. A brief sideways glance showed Blaise's eyebrows shooting up. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and cleared his throat.
Hermione, however, was in no mood to chat. Withholding evidence—withholding the truth! I don't know what the world's coming to, when a newspaper can't print a true story that so deeply involves the wellbeing of its readers! They reached the ground floor, and, her eyes flaring and jaw clenched, Hermione swept out of the elevator past Blaise, ignoring his farewell completely.
Well, there's a good mood down the drain, she thought bitterly as she walked the few blocks between the Ministry building and the Leaky Cauldron. Ugh. Breathe, 'Mione, breathe. Don't let that serpent ruin your day. Breathe. See, look, sunshine. Pretty day. Everybody's happy. Be happy, damn you.
It took all six blocks, but when Hermione reached the Leaky Cauldron, it was with a smile on her face if not entirely in her heart. "Afternoon, Tom," she said as she passed the bar, behind which he was polishing glasses.
"Afternoon, Miss Hermione. Nice article, this morning."
She felt her good mood begin to return in small increments. "Thanks," she said before heading out back. She counted bricks, tapped the right one with her wand, and stepped out into the sun-flooded streets of Diagon Alley.
It seemed like every witch and wizard within a hundred kilometer radius of London had decided to go for a little shopping trip that morning. Hermione glanced around, and then down at her watch: just a few minutes past eleven. So. What am I supposed to do for two hours?
Unsurprisingly, Flourish and Blotts had the greatest draw on her; ten minutes after arriving in Diagon Alley, she was steadily working her way through the display cases brimming with new arrivals. Her fingers trailed lovingly over the embossed titles, the smooth leather, the old-fashioned bindings—she was an all-around bibliophile, of course, but there was something undeniably special about magical books. Drowning in the delicious scent of old vellum and parchment, she pulled a copy of the newest edition of Hogwarts, A History out to peruse it.
The books were crammed into the shelf so much that its neighbor fell into her hands along with the thick tome, a slim volume with a black cover and a spidery design on the front. Hermione frowned, flipping it over; there was no sign of a title on any side. "What's this, then?" she murmured to herself, and, setting Hogwarts, A History aside, let it fall open into her hands.
The thick parchment pages fell back to reveal a heart-stopping, accurate portrait of an all-too familiar face. Silvery blond hair, left to grow long, framed a finely shaped face as pale and clear as alabaster. Dark gray eyes met her gaze, challenging and proud. The portrait lifted its chin to stare at her briefly, one eyebrow raised, and then looked away. Below it lay a name in tidy script.
Draco A. F. V. Black
1980 –
Imprisoned in 1998
The only heir to magical powerhouse Lucius Augustus Malfoy, Malfoy the Younger is most infamous for providing a safe haven for his late father's compatriots during the beginning of the Second War, and for the murder of Charles Weasley, son of the current Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
It was only when she remembered to breathe that Hermione found herself able to close the volume again. The covers slammed shut in her hands, and it was forced rudely back into its spot.
Every muscle in her body was twinging with remembered pain; her breath came in ragged gasps, barely controlled. "Get a hold on yourself," she muttered under her breath, gritting her teeth and walking stiffly away from the bookcase, ignoring the urge to sprint out the door and the whole way back to her apartment. "It's just a picture."
It's just a picture... just a picture. Lucius is dead. He's dead, 'Mione, and you know it—you killed him yourself. Stop being such a prat and get over it. What's done is done. It's just a picture.
Despite this stern self-lecture, she couldn't quite shake the feeling that, if she turned quick enough, she'd see the elder Malfoy sneering down at her, wand raised, cruel lips ready to pronounce the Cruciatus Curse. She shuddered again and hurried away from Flourish and Blotts, shouldering past protesting wizards she didn't recognize.
o:o:o
"Hello, Professor."
The middle-aged man lounging in a secluded corner of the café, legs crossed and eyes locked dreamily on the pretty day outside the window, looked up abruptly and dropped the menu that had been hiding his face. "Hermione! Old habits die hard, I see," he said with an irresistible smile. He stood to embrace her.
She hugged him gladly. "It's so good to see you again, Remus! It's been far too long."
"It has," he agreed, releasing her and pulling out her chair chivalrously. "You look great—your work agrees with you. Apropos, why aren't you at work?" he asked, giving her a mocking stern stare. For all of his 'coolness,' as Ron put it, he was still a teacher at heart. "Skiving off?"
Hermione laughed softly. "Actually, Luna seems to think I've been overworking. She turned off my alarm and called me in on a mental health day." Her smile widened sympathetically at the sound of the Minister's baritone chuckle.
Soon the levity wore off, though, and he fixed her with a solemn gaze. "I get the feeling this isn't merely a visit between old friends. Am I right?" he asked quietly.
Hermione flushed; she scanned her menu for a few moments to give herself time to think up an appropriate response. "I know it's been forever since I've dropped by—"
"No—no apologies, now. You're a grown woman with your own life. I didn't expect you to spend all your time hanging around with an old man like me," Lupin said with that same paternal smile.
She smiled, slightly abashed. "Well, it's about the Godric's Hollow slayings."
"A fine article, if I may say so."
"Thanks. But—there's something about it that's bothering me. Actually, there are several somethings about it that are bothering me," she said, pausing as a waiter appeared to take their orders. When he left, she continued. "I'm sure Kingsley has filled you in."
"He has."
"Then you'll have noticed the remarkable similarities between these killings and the attacks on Lily and James Potter," she said, not pulling the blow. She heard the Minister of Magic suck in his breath abruptly, surprised by her forthrightness. "Remus, there's no way that the similarities could be just a bunch of coincidences. No way. They're too alike in too many ways."
"I agree," Remus said carefully, "but I'm afraid I don't understand why you wanted to talk to me about it. Shouldn't you be discussing this with Kingsley? He is in charge of the case, after all.
"He is, but he's also the one that threatened to have me practically drawn and quartered if I printed a single word that he hadn't sanctioned. He said it's a case of 'ignore the attacker, and they'll lose interest,' but I don't buy that. I knew I could get a straight answer out of you, and I know that you know I'm trustworthy. So. Why all the secrecy, Remus?" she asked shrewdly.
He was eyeing her with surprise. "Merlin. You have grown up, haven't you?"
"I'm very much capable of thinking for myself, if that's what you mean," she said.
"Hermione, I'll give you the answers you want on one condition."
"And that is..."
"That I'm telling 'Mione, my old friend, student, and comrade-in-arms, and not Miss Hermione Granger, investigative reporter for the Daily Prophet. Understand?" he asked. She offered her hand, and they shook on it briefly before he continued. "Kingsley, as you know, is a very old friend of mine, but I won't pretend that we work well together. He's too..."
"Secretive?" she offered.
"Yes. Secretive and defensive. This is completely between you and I—but I'm afraid that I can't entirely trust him," he admitted, hands spread wide. Hermione frowned, both at the comment and at the realization that Remus must have been holding this in for quite some time. He needed a confidant—and Hermione resolved to schedule these little luncheons more often from here on out.
"I agree with everything you've said," he continued. "It is suspicious, and I can't understand why Kingsley isn't doing more to investigate this. I've actually been thinking—" He stopped, as though afraid of the effect that his words might have. "I've been thinking of launching a covert investigation of my own. It's completely within my jurisdiction, and it's not without precedent. But what I need," he said, looking at her seriously, "is someone to chronicle the counter-investigation—every nicety, every detail, every move that every one of my agents makes."
Her eyes narrowed and brightened, and her heart beat just a shade faster. "Are you asking?"
"I am, if you'll do it. Like you said, I know that I can trust you without compunction. Will you be my chronicler? The pay's not much, but it won't require you to quit your job—and from what you said, it sounds like Wattersley wouldn't be completely averse to you taking a few days off now and then."
She nodded, scarcely able to believe that their interests coincided so neatly. "Of course I will. Who will I be working with?"
"Well, I already have half a dozen possible agents lined up, but I want to keep this small and manageable. At most, I will hire twelve. At most. But you'll all be partnered up, and you'll be obliged by magical contract to share everything you know with your partner, in the event that..." he seemed to lose the inability to speak.
"That one of us dies," she said. Her voice was tender, though, and she patted her old professor's hand bracingly; the war had hit her hard, but she was young enough to recover relatively fully. Not all of her comrades-in-arms had had it so easy.
"Yes," he said. "I would like each partnership to have someone relatively innocuous—that would be you, in this instance—and someone who the Death Eaters might have an interest in." He grimaced.
"Not Zabini," she said quickly.
"Unfortunately, it's worse. Mind, you can always back out—up to a certain point."
A muscle tautened in Hermione's stomach, and she shifted uncomfortably. "Who is it?"
"The resident of cell fifty-seven, Azkaban Prison."
The waiter appeared a moment later with their meals, and Remus staunchly refused to discuss her partner any further, no matter how much she pleaded. He resorted to pleasantries, and she, reluctantly followed suit. The meal was good, but her curiosity was so strong that she barely tasted a bite of it, and ended up leaving half of her grilled chicken salad untouched.
Finally, Remus pushed his chair back and stood, and Hermione did the same. "I'll have Fortescue put the meal on my tab—no, don't worry, I can certainly afford to pay for a little lunch at such a reasonably-priced place. Save your money. And I'll send you details on exactly how we will get your partner released." He stopped, looked down at her, and then gave her a hug. "I'm proud of you, 'Mione."
She watched him leave with mingled feelings of affection, ambivalence, and more than just a shade of burning curiosity.