"You have chosen to be Aurors" said the Minister of Magic.
It was the official 'Welcome to the Auror department' ceremony, and the newbies were almost the only ones present –most seniors having more important things to do–. So this seemed mostly like being at school. Ron hated lessons. Imparting them, as much as receiving them. But he stuck to the speech Hermione had helped him write.
"You are the very first generation of recruits to have never –ever- been in war. And that's good, because as terrifying as it is to fight Voldemort or Grindewald, it is always the kind of rush youngest Aurors expect. Peace is beautiful and, for most, boring, filled with day-to-day patrols and paperwork. Don't get disappointed. Don't lose your discipline. Don't forget your training."
He looked at each one of their faces, as Hermione had instructed him to. They wore solemn –and slightly scared– expressions. They were so, so young. All he wanted to say to them was 'bloody hell, are you all out or your minds?' but he didn't need Hermione to roll her eyes to know that he couldn't be that informal.
"And we hope you all know what you are up to… because here, you will stop seeing all black and white. You will bring into custody people that are really not that different from yourselves. People that used Unforgivables on children, to protect their own. People who defend great values at the price of blood, theirs and others'. And you will be tempted to let them walk, or even follow. If you can't resist it, quit. Now."
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When she apparates, the second thing Hermione registers is an intense smell of humidity and something organic going to waste. The cold air gives her goosebumps, more than the semidarkness. According to protocol, she keeps the wand raised and turns around, scanning the surroundings: closed doors, dusty and sombre windows that exhibit suspiciously human looking bones, a dirty coloured cat landing from his jump in a defence position. However, she knows she's safe; the first thing perceived was Harry's presence, and the fact that he isn't scared.
However, when she spots him, she gasps and steps back, more shaken that she had been if she had spotted a horde of vampires in waiting. Her eyes hesitate between the two figures. She mustn't be that surprised: she has lost count of the times she has found them like this: alone, side by side, the smile on their faces an obvious remnant of their previous conversation. Again, she feels like the fifth wheel. Outcast. Wounded. Cornered. She fears that beast inside her ribcage; she'd like to believe herself above bearing a grudge against her own sister.
-Hermione -her partner greets.
Her gaze stays on him. The last ray of sunlight, reflected in the window behind him, draws around the boy-who-lived a halo very much in tune with the legend. Dazzled, she frowns. The sorcerer has raised the wand, mirroring her. He smiles. Upon perceiving it, his friend finds it easier to breathe. It might even be worth anything.
-Harry -she responds.
She takes a look at Duham, who, in turn -wand raised but not alert- observes not the target, but her mentor, with starry eyes. 'This is my place', Hermione recalls, almost angered, forcing back the disconcerting mixture of feelings. Jealousy. Fear. 'It's my place'. Harry is her place ... at work, at least: it's a partner thing. A right. Patrols are her duty. It's Duham who is out of place. It costs her. Not to retreat, costs her. Not to feel bad about it. She spent too much time giving Ginny space. Too many years. But Ginny wasn't such a threat: she had her place, respected hers. Deep down, Hermione always knew that her own intimacy with Harry was, in spite of everything, greater. Intact, untouchable. What they shared. What they had shared forever. Duham is a threat.
Greater, now.
"First year", he begins, "when we faced Snape's seven bottles, you mentioned several things that were more important than books and intelligence..."
Hermione just stares at him: identity verification isn't standard during patrol. The wizard eyes the girl. 'Let's teach her well', he seems to say.
"Friendship and bravery," she recalls, firm voice, immobile wand.
She is very much aware that her friend isn't that comfortable with her lately, but in Duham's presence. At first, it was strange and hurtful, and she tried to speak to him, she even dared probe his state of mind through the connection they share -feeling like an intruder. Everything she could perceive, behind carefully closed doors in her partner's mind, was confusion -in him, as well; maybe bigger than it was in herself-, and a storm of raging feelings when they were all alone, that quietened in company. It made her curious at first. It doesn't matter anymore. To say she misses the familiarity, the intimacy, in which she relies, would be to call the sea a drop. Everything in her trembles and shivers looking for his warmth, as a junkie suddenly deprived of heroin.
"Ask", he suggests at last.
The beast in her chest is the one who speaks.
"To what music did we dance in the forest of Dean?
The wizard flinches, and his partner is no less surprised. Fear and a tremor that is not only of fear, goes from one to the other, before the innocent look of the girl who is soon given no attention. Which is what Hermione wanted - a part of her, anyway.
The forest. Neither of them remembers it so well, more like a recurring dream, and of all the memories they share, it's the only one they never recall, like in a tacit agreement, like an instinct. There is something uncomfortable about it. 'Too close'.
-I never knew the name.
-Hum -the immediate answer comes.
Harry pauses, breathes, eyes the girl whose presence, now, he also regrets. A second of silence. The voice trembles a bit when it's raised, alone, in surroundings that are desolate yet safer than they were at the time. It's a bit hesitant, a bit out of tune, a bit too full of things that cannot be said. Hermione's wand comes down a little. She would like to close her eyes and let herself go, but she doesn't want to miss Harry's expression, again intimate, again bright on her.
Her personal drug.
None of them perceives the knowing look of the youngest, the brief smile exchanged with empty walls.
Harry's voice sounds grave and naked. Hermione follows the notes, a humming so low that only makes her throat vibrate, remaining unheard, until they stop, simultaneously, where they stopped dancing the previous time. They are alone, but they aren't, and the two of them are acutely conscious of the presence of the girl at their side.
Hermione forces herself to address this one.
"Name of your white stuffed animal," she asks, not paying attention.
"Hedwig," Duham replies quickly before asking: "When did you first tell me who were my parents?"
"I haven't" Hermione answers.
They both lower the weapons. Duham does it first, a half smile on her lips. Hermione really isn't in the mood for smiling.
And again the tension is back in Harry's eyes, and Hermione wants to crash her head against the closest wall to the best Dobby style. What if now he isn't comfortable with her, even in Duham's presence? Irrational and unfounded fear, and therefore as powerful as fear of the dark.
The wizard, at last, steps back, shaking himself mentally, deafened by an inaudible alarm. The smell of syrup and pumpkin surrounds him, stronger than ever. He doesn't breathe until he has stepped by them and taken the lead.
Without a word, Hermione goes past him and takes the lead from him, the wand raised.
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"Ronald, you must know something…!"
His voice is that of a cornered animal. Ron calculates quickly how many days until full moon.
"It's not within my jurisdiction, Bill. Sorry"
"¡But it's Gabrielle...!
"The government there..."
"You can't ignore the situation there, how disastrous…! Look" he choses persuasion, "Fleur stood by us during war, she sheltered you, feed you, she bet her life even though this wasn't her country. ¡We can't abandon France like this".
"And we thank her, with all of our hearts, but we have to keep Britain safe" Ron replicates mechanically. "Sorry, Bill. You have no idea of the consequences of war, of how it affects us still."
He feels the prick of the Oath, and hopes the abrupt end of his response isn't that evident.
"Look, I'll look for Gabrielle, and I promise I'll return her to you, if it can be done. Leave already so I can get started.
He sees the conflict in his brother's expression, but finally this one gives up. Ron isn't fooled. The discussion will go on once the first demand is fulfilled.
"You promised, Ron."
It sounds strange as his brother retreats from the chimney. Ron moves inmediately to the phone, picks it up, lets it ring once.
"Gabrielle Delacour"
"What's with her" the voice speaks, menacing.
"She's family. Give her back"
"She's French" the voice answers, demanding an explanation.
"She's family" he repeats.
The silence weights. 'Family'. 'Sacred'.
"If it's among us, she'll be spared"
The tone seems to resound in the whole room, and it costs Ron a moment to distinguish that it's not the phone, but the chimney's alarm. He activates the communication and a head at first unrecognizable appears, facing the other way.
"How does it work, dear?"
It spins out of control for a moment, making strange noises, until it remains half to the side.
"Ronald?
"Mrs Granger" he calls, patient.
"Is Duham around?"
"The Ministery of Magic is quite big, Mrs Granger" he answers.
Being Minister has taught him some diplomacy, after all.
"Oh". She sounds dissappointed. "It has been almost a month since she last contacted us, Ron. I'm sorry for the interruption" and though she doesn't use a particularly despective tone, Ron finds it increasingly evident how inferior the Wizarding World seems to the muggle, in all its politics; who calls the Minister to its office to ask him to mediate in family affairs? "but could you please tell us how is she?
"Her training auror says she's a strong girl."
Despite the strange angle in which the muggle remains, surely to avoid another episode of spinning, Ron thinks she's frowning, so many times he had seen that expression in his own wife..
"Yeah, sure. Please remind them of the monthly lunch. Thank you."
The lady extracts her head from the chimney in a single forcefull move, and for a second she feels like trowing up. When she finally raises her head, her husband is at the door.
"This time I went with Ronald" Mr Granger approaches and extends the hand that doesn't hold the glass of water, helps her up, ignores the crack coming from her knees -no longer that young-, as his wife adds. "She seems to be doing OK."
"You worry too much. Children must leave the nest."
"But that much silence? And did you see how she was when she left?"
"I didn't like it more than you did. And all of that magic…" he twists his face and his fingers comb gray, almost nonexistent hair. "Hermione didn't have to fight for that world, and Duham, neither. I think Hermione, as a child, wanted to be a dentist.
His wife eyes him, looking in her magically clouded memories for some clue of that one in particular. She sighs. With her youngest, it's far easier.
"The other day I found Duham's owl. It ended up losing all the plush and turning gray, but she wouldn't sleep without it. Do you remember? She was such a sweet, sweet girl.
"And her imaginary friend. What was the name?" the father recalls, walking to the door.
The woman shrugs. By the moment Duham was old enough to pronounce a name clearly, she wouldn't speak about it. Mrs Granger thought that imaginary friends, though normal in infancy, didn't last that long.
Those had been dark times, and Mrs Granger doesn't like to remember them. There wasn't a clue of Duham's family history, her parents might have psychiatric problems, Hermione herself wouldn't remember who they were -and with the Grangers' background, it wasn't hard to imagine that info had been magically erased too, Mrs Granger preferred to imagine it as the magical version of the "accouchement sur X", in this case in particular she held a serious grudge against whoever wanted to keep her identity secret to that expense, seeing how they had to consider to medicate the girl as a mentally ill patient.
The lady sighs, skipping memories and fragments of a puzzle that might never be put together properly. Fortunately, that's already in the past.
"At the end, I'll have to consider myself lucky if I see her once monthly" the woman protests.
She leaves to attend dinner, and from then on she only thinks of leftovers and of the book she's currently reading -something about possession, she hopes that's not as real as wizards turned out to be.
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Hermione feels her partner right behind her, watching the flanks, ready to act at any sign of danger. Under her shoes, something wet and doughy like guts. The slimness of a wild-eyed werewolf disappears in an alley. She wonders how they are supposed to fight back to back, as they use to, with a third party to accommodate.
Her partner hasn't thought about that.
The smell is subtle, but there's no truce, and it drags him to thoughts that he drowns before letting them come to the surface. In front of him, Hermione's rigid back. When he turns he faces the little sister, who offers him a gazelle smile. They both move as seasoned fighters, but the youngest one lets her sex and age show in her steps. He isn't a fool, nor is he unexperienced. Knowingly or not, Duham flirts, and she has been doing so for a while: in class, when he adjusts the angle of her wand, or while training physically; after classes, when she sits by his side in meetings, always a bit too close. She's lovely and beautiful. Why the hell is it not working?
Darkness surrounds them before they even notice. The simultaneous spelling of two female voices: "Lumos"; at once, two pathetic beams of light. His own fingers clench around the wand, whose light join the others. Between beams, darkness is even deeper. Yellow eyes follow them wherever they go, once in a while magic light reflects on them. Hermione has extended a shield around all three. A rat slips between the girl's feet, who protests between clenched teeth, upset by her own cowardice, even as she cringes from the animal. Harry is tense like a rope. He doesn't wonder how much of it has to do with being at night in the alley, and how much with his own partner.
Perhaps for that reason, the crunch makes them startle and assemble instantly; Duham reacting slightly late, she puts her back against the elders' shoulders. Harry and Hermione, both, hesitate. He is the one who moves to make space for her, forming a triangle, even as he mentally punishes himself for having brought her. This should be easy. Patrolling is routine. But it's him who assumed the responsibility of bringing the apprentice, and will have to rely on her skills. And first of her class or not, he does not feel comfortable with that. He thinks of Hermione, whose fear distillates within him; Duham is her family, and it's clear that she is the most vulnerable one, a curse from the proper angle and she'll be dead even before finishing her training. He curses himself, promises to protect them both, and finds himself almost as powerless for it as when he was eleven and saw Voldemort be revealed under the turban.
A mew, and a ray of light falls on a black cat, while the others finish scanning the area. Hermione has cast a couple of spells between her teeth. Finally, she sighs, relieved.
"Let's go," he suggests, taking the vanguard this time.
Hermione looks at the cloak on her partner's back, sees Duham take a step towards him, and without thinking she reaches for him, catches up first.
"Harry…"
He walks faster, leaving her behind.
The woman falls silent and follows him, as fast as she can. Distance between them remains dangerous. Her heart leaps when a door opens giving way to two hooded figures, who turn towards the aurors in silence. Hermione reaches Harry, almost breathless, the wand clenched. She thinks she recognizes one of the figures -a man, almost her age. As for the other, the cloak obscures his features. "Isn't that step familiar?" the auror asks, watching the hooded figure, slightly taller than him.
They are about to ask for identification, when the suspects disappear.
Hermione sighs and turns to Duham, who looks frankly annoyed. Neither of the elders has realized that, in spite of their silent competence for who is in front, in the line of fire, both have moved simultaneously to protect the apprentice, effectively keeping her out of the action. To keep her alive and well, that's all Hermione cares about. Indulging her self-esteem, she now allows her to move forward, not before scanning the surroundings, as Harry does, by her side, verifying that they are, at least, as out of danger as can be expected. Her eyes rest on the doorframe a second before Duham's voice call:
"Mia, does it look familiar?"
Hermione approaches it and bends down, checking the suspects' prints, before standing by her side. Harry sees them aim the slight beams to the upper part of the doorframe. His wand, instead, points to the surrounding darkness. Single words reach him: Wales ... runes ... Merlin? Hermione follows the doorframe, to the right and down, ducking as Duham leans to her side. They talk so fast and in terms so ... hermionish ... that it's hard to follow the dialogue.
To make it harder, just then his mobile sounds, startling everyone: Luna, in one of her senseless and random intrusions. "Harry, do you have some of Sirius' music, by chance?". The auror thinks of his godfather, of the whole lot of old disks he found just a few years ago in his room, and it takes him a whole minute to remember Luna still sometimes refers to Stubby Boardman the singer as "Sirius". In his mind, the animagus half laughs half barks, and it has been a while since his godson remembered him that clearly, so he smiles too as he assures Luna he'll try to find some. A welcome distraction. The women still discuss something feverishly. Turning off the cell, Harry approaches.
"What is it?"
They both turn at the same time. Harry blinks. For a moment, he has captured the image of the sorceresses looking into each other's eyes, like one of those strange paintings, where someone sees himself in other timeline, and synchronized movement hasn't but reinforced the effect. Meanwhile, half of the explanation has been lost. The rough engraving in stone hardly illuminated, doesn't mean anything to him. Is that a dragon, or a snake? Hermione rolls her eyes, noticing his distraction. Duham has cleaned part of the window with the sleeve of her cape, trying to see through.
"We have no excuse to go in" Hermione protests in a frustrated whisper.
"Let's go" Duham urges and try to take the lead, until Harry, with gentle firmness, leaves her behind.
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"Minister"
Ron flinches and turns to Luna, hiding his left hand vehind his back; the parchment in his fist protests at his grip. The blondie doesn't look away from the digital map on which he was leaning, her expression, whimsical as ever.
"He also writes to me" she comments.
"How…?"
The woman ignores his question and paces towards the table.
"Wismartles know when you like them. They come to you, they let you hold their tentacles. That's how he became so smart, you know?" she asks, turning to Ron with a bright smile as if saying something meaningful. "Myrddin liked wismartles, exactly as much as all the other magical creatures. It did not matter where they were from. We all live on the same Earth, after all. It's not nice when the place where you are born matters more than yourself."
Ron tenses while Luna, index finger on her chin, bends in an almost perfect arc over the image of the United Kingdom, on which red flags shine.
"Al understands. He doesn't like to be judged by his origin. He also likes wismartles; It's a shame he doesn't see them, yet. You know about the raid, right?" she adds, changing the subject without any change in her voice, "we'll be here at five, if you want to come..."
Ron stares at her, wondering how much of her wisdom, or her imprudence, he must fear.