Walking side-by-side with death
The devil mocks their every step, ooh
The snow drives back the foot that's slow
The dogs of doom are howling more
"No Quarter" – Led Zeppelin
There was nothing quite as satisfying as an egg salad sandwich on a sliced croissant; complete with a leaf of crisp lettuce and bright vermillion tomato... bliss.
Well, unless that egg salad sandwich was accompanied by a triple shot of espresso, lovingly topped with a shake of ground cinnamon, it might be reasonably amended.
Naturally, there were inferior egg salad sandwiches out there: espressos that left one feeling entirely unenergized, and perhaps as if they'd been cheated out of the experience... But the Ministry's canteen always got it spot on. Right on the money.
Harry slapped his thigh in pleasure while he ate, to the great amusement of his lunchtime companion. It was something about using house-elves, he mused aloud. They were the most consistent cooks he could name: after all, could she name him a single time the gravy at Hogwarts ever tasted anything but exactly the same from meal to meal?
Hermione shook her head no, her humour souring a bit at the reminder of how her food had been prepared. For her own self she'd selected a slice of mushroom quiche. She was enjoying it thoroughly, though she'd been restrained enough not to loudly demonstrate her enjoyment to the entire cafeteria. She preferred to enjoy her treat with a bit of privacy—she didn't allow herself the luxury of eating out often. Normally her breakfasts were her preferred berry yogurt that she kept stockpiled in her fridge at home, and her lunches were variable, but often of the instant variety—something she could add hot water to in the office between meetings or trips to visit people at home.
The first week of November had them both in a somewhat wistful mood. It had originally been arranged for Harry to meet with Hermione and Ginny for lunch that day to catch up, but his wife was swamped with her coaching duties, finally having returned to her post after her extended maternity leave.
What a woman, he mused. His lips turning up as he sipped his espresso. He was considering her newest plans for Team England—the intricacy of the plays... she'd come up with plans that were devious enough to make her twin brothers blush. Well, George at least. He chose not to linger on that thought.
She was pushing fouls, hard. Each play designed to have one player positioned toward the ref in order to conceal a bit of blagging here, or a bit of blurting there. Hell, Malfoy would have been proud to have been one of her fliers. She was being particularly vicious this year. Much of their play menu was dependent upon the Hawkshead Attack Formation, which, upon reaching the other team would confusingly dissipate, and the chasers would rapidly regroup into a Parkin's Pincer.
Even in practices and skirmishes against members of her own team who knew to expect it, he hadn't seen it fail yet. It could be planned against, but with how tight Ginny had the team operating, it was damn near impossible to defend against. The woman was an absolute tyrant on the pitch.
"Harry? Harry—!" He came to with Hermione snapping her fingers in front of his dazed face. She was barely controlling a laugh. "What's going on in there?"
"I have the best wife, Hermione." He said, his voice a bit dreamy.
Hermione giggled, her nose dipping down into her cappuccino as she snorted inelegantly, and her shoulders shook. "That you do. Are you thinking back on your vacation? How was it?"
He shrugged his shoulders, but his green eyes were bright. "It didn't last long enough, and it's been a month now, but I think we're still feeling on cloud nine."
"You ought to plan one for next year now—try to make a habit of it," Hermione cajoled, hoping Ginny would appreciate her interference.
"Hey, yeah—that's not a bad idea. Where do you reckon we should go next year?"
His friend shrugged and lifted a forkful of quiche to her mouth. "I can't speak for Ginny, she seems like a beach kind of girl,"
Harry sighed again, his smile distant. He was imagining his wife in her cerulean blue bikini number and sari wrap, the sapphire waves crashing against her freckled shins. She'd been radiant. "She seems happiest there, I'd wager."
"Well then my suggestion of the Alps likely wouldn't suit."
Harry laughed, "Ginny in a snowsuit? Not so much. She's not fond of the cold. Then again, she might enjoy muggle snowboarding."
"I could see that," Hermione conceded.
"Is that where you'd go then? The Alps?"
"Not for the sport, mind you, but yes. I think I'd prefer to curl up in the lodge in front of the fire with a book and a hot toddy."
"Yeah, that sounds like you, alright." Harry gave her a winning smirk in response. "I'll be sure to remember that for if you ever find a gentleman friend that wants to take you somewhere nice."
Hermione stiffened in her seat. "That'd be the day."
Sensing her discomfort with the change in topic, Harry steered her back to where he thought she might feel better. "How was James for you? I asked Molly when we picked him up, but I'd rather hear it from the horse's mouth."
"Well, if he'd misbehaved, it's a bit late to punish him now," she responded with an easy laugh.
"Did he?" Harry asked, suddenly serious.
"No, he was a perfect little gentleman. I had to try and keep him from saying the word 'Loony' after Eileen said it about one of the people out in Waldweirness, but I think by the end of it I got him to understand that it wasn't a very kind thing to call someone." Hermione sipped her cappuccino, bringing the cup away after it'd crested her lip and left her with a foamed milk moustache. "We really enjoyed our time together, though I think Crooks was a bit more ambivalent about having a toddler trying to pet his tail."
Harry barked out a laugh, "Yeah, he likes tails, and doesn't have much experience with other people's pets. I'm pretty sure you're the only person we know that has one."
"Luna and Neville keep pets,"
"Yeah, but not the kind they usually let wander around the house. Besides, James has never visited with them."
"That's true," Hermione leaned back in her chair. "I suppose you'll be needed back on the second floor soon."
"Nah, I got a bit more time," he mumbled, checking his wristwatch. "For being Deputy Head, I don't often feel like they're dying without me, you know? Not like in those first few years when there were dark wizards to catch still."
"Well that's good, isn't it? I'm guessing there haven't been any more 'new' Death Eaters."
Harry shook his head, his expression grim. "That's just it. There have been. More than I think I'd expect. But even then... it's almost too easy—they always just sort of turn up, and when we find them, they're never in a right state to fight back. Anyway, that's not what my time's been taken up with these days. I'd rather it was."
Hermione furrowed her brow, her quiche now all but forgotten. "What's eating you, then?"
The Auror scowled about the room, checking that no one was closer than ten feet away, and then that they were all appropriately occupied. Even so, he felt better casting a surreptitious Muffliato. His friend's eyes widened fractionally in response to his clear paranoia.
"They have us going out and conducting these 'audits,' Hermione. It's freaky shit. I'd say two thirds of my time now is taken up with interviewing business owners about their taxes—and I honestly haven't found anything untoward yet."
"What kinds of businesses are being audited?"
"All kinds, that's just it. Last week it was Ollivanders', and the week before, I had to impose upon Rosemerta—none too pleased, she wasn't. I'll be surprised if she doesn't spit in my butterbeer next time I show my face there. And I haven't figured out how to tell Ginny this, but..."
"... But what? Who was it?" Hermione asked, her face ashen.
"George. The order for it came in days before we left for Spain... a whole month ago. I wasn't able to view the file—it had been redacted." Harry sank low in his chair, finding his appetite had rather wilted in the face of remembering the details of his work. "I tried to ask Gerald—one of our aurors who I think did George's interview—but he told me I was too close, that I couldn't know."
Hermione was fairly sputtering by now, her eyes wide and nervous. "Have... have you told Arthur and Molly? Have you asked George? What about the interviews you conducted, what were you instructed to ask?"
"Just a bunch of weird shit, 'Mione. Really weird. As it was sold to me, no-one is or was officially 'under investigation' but, then I'm not sure why they singled out the businesses they did. We asked about their filings, which I would have guessed would be normal for tax purposes, and we brought along years of past statements: and curiously, none of it looked as if anyone had been hiding any of their profits, or over-stating their deductions and expenditures... and I felt so awful about it, Hermione. They all seemed quite betrayed—and I guess I would have felt that way too." He gave a weak shrug. "We asked to see their books, we had to conduct a visual inspection of the premises, and do some sort of cursory inventory, but then there was no actual field for it in the paperwork. Like it didn't matter." He quaffed the rest of his espresso, his eyes averted, searching his memory for details that might shed light on the audits.
"Then here's where it really... Here's where it really departed from being a friendly visit. Hermione, we had to inspect their arms. We were looking for Dark Marks... As if all of them were under suspicion of being sympathizers. People that I know weren't—people who fought with us against Voldemort in the war."
His friend's face was dark, her hair starting to frizz with her agitation. She had the look she'd sported so often in the past, first when considering whether Snape might have been after the Philosopher's Stone, and then at least several times a year after for each of their adventures together. "Who did you report to?"
"My supervisor. He barely looked at the reports. Only wanted to know whether we'd found any Marks."
Hermione's eyes were grim. "The audits were just pretense then."
"It would seem like it, yeah.
"We're to check back on those businesses every three months—like the status of their arms will change."
"But there's been no official complaint made against anyone? There was no actual evidence of fraud?"
"None. There's no way they can even appeal—because there's no crime to argue against. They're simply... under investigation. And it's to be ongoing."
Hermione took a deep sigh and pitched over her knees, rubbing her eyes so hard that Harry would have been surprised if she didn't pop a blood vessel.
"Do you remember a few months ago? We were eating at that little place in Croydon, and I mentioned that I think there's a reason young people are marking themselves again?"
"Yeah, I remember 'Mione, and maybe your explanation works for some of them... but last week we found someone marked who wasn't even pureblooded. He was the son of a half-blood and a muggle. It didn't make any damn sense."
Hermione stared at him, perplexed. "How do you know what his parents are?"
"Well it's relevant, isn't it? Since Aethelfromm took office we've been required to list blood status on all reports." Shrugging, he pushed his sandwich to the center of the table, feeling unable to finish. "Anyway, it was strange, yeah, but not too strange, is it? I mean, Tom Riddle had a muggle parent. And Snape was, in the end, not a Death Eater where it counted, but his dad was a muggle and he joined up."
"Yeah, but those were unusual cases— both Voldemort and Snape took extreme care to renounce their fathers,"
"He did." Harry confirmed. "It seemed an essential part of his little graveyard ritual I was forced to participate in fourth year." He found himself sneering in distaste.
"Did this new Death Eater have it out with his non-magical family?"
"No... his mother was distraught—the muggle woman? She couldn't understand when we told her that her son had been sentenced for being a Death Eater. He had been estranged from his father, in fact. The one with wizarding heritage. Bad divorce, apparently. It seemed to me that he and his mother had a close bond. He kept begging to see her before he was taken to have his sentence carried out."
Hermione appeared on the verge of tears. "His sentence..."
"Death, Hermione." He felt mildly annoyed with her. She knew it as well as he did. It should have been the forgone conclusion.
"How long did they take? They didn't ask his reasons, or..."
"The sentence was handed down in five minutes. Most of that wasn't spent deliberating, but waiting for all the members of the Wizengamot to file in. Aethelfromm delivered it himself. I'm not even sure I saw them speak to one another."
"And how soon after...?" Hermione's voice was strained, her eyes frantic.
"Immediately, 'Mi. As always. We escort them into the room, the executioners take over from there." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Small mercy, I don't have to dispose of the remains afterwards."
"But then what happens to them? Did they give him back to his mother at least?"
Harry was beginning to fluster. Feeling as if her interrogation were a personal condemnation of his own involvement. "I don't know that—why do you even care so much anyway? Did you know this guy? Harvey Jergins?"
She shook her head, no. But he could tell there were still tears in her eyes. "It just doesn't seem right, Harry. You said they didn't even discuss why... or how... if they want to stop a new uprising of Death Eaters don't you think they'd at least interrogate the ones they're finding?"
"I'm not sure it would have done much good, actually. He just kept bawling for his mum."
Hermione slammed her fists down on the table in tandem, shaking the china. They were only spared the attention of the other patrons because of his efforts to conceal their conversation. She wasn't looking at him however, her eyes were swimming with worries and trained off on the floor somewhere to her right. She had her fists clenched so tightly that her knuckles were white and bloodless.
"The other business owners you had to interview... who were they?"
"I... what?" he stumbled, thrown by the change in direction.
"Humour me."
"Well, I told you the first few I knew of... erm... There've been so many—"
"Who did you interview last week then?"
Harry sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I had to make a trip to Scotland: there were about three in the Wizarding district there. A shop that provided owls and magical husbandry equipment—run by Lucretia MacSuain, a tailoring service and weaver by the name of Wallace Turnbull, and this ancient inn outside of city limits somewhere around Inverness. The proprietors were... erm... Lolly and Robert Brun...
"And then four or so spread around England. A café owned by Jack Marlowe in Liverpool, two of the Greengrass relatives apparently own a string of flower shops spread out here and there, and the last stop was with a Brooks. Bernard, I think. He operates a traveling news stand in, believe it or not—"
"Waldweirness-on-Thames." Hermione finished for him. "I know Bernard. Lovely man..." she reflected twisting her hands together. "Harry—all of them... every last one... they're all purebloods."
He snorted, disbelieving. "That's not the common thread, Hermione—"
"Yes, it is," she urged, her head and shoulders dropping to hunch over the table, her hands flying wildly in excitement. "Greengrass is one of the sacred twenty-eight families... the Bruns are a part of the Brown family, the Scottish branch. The Turnbulls and MacSuains are positively ancient—there are stories of them serving as magical advisors to clan chieftains hundreds of years ago! I know Bernard is a pureblood because he mentioned it very offhand once while we were chatting..." She paused, swallowing. "I can't speak to the Marlowes but I bet you anything they're regarded as being a pureblooded family. If you won't look, I will."
"Fuck—what the hell is your point?"
"Did any of them do anything wrong?"
"I already told you they hadn't!" Harry returned hotly, his indignation rising.
His best friend appeared troubled, and as if she were chewing on a piece of unidentifiable mental gristle. "I don't know what the point is, that's why this is upsetting! Just watch, Hannah's family is one of the twenty-eight... so is Ron's for that matter. They'll be on there next. And Luna and Neville. Ron and Hannah were lucky enough to marry before it was prohibited but Luna and Neville took a portkey to South America to circumvent the law. I bet they'll make you ask about that too." She spat, her voice as bitter as he'd ever heard it."
"You think they're going around keeping tabs on all the purebloods then."
"It's a bit more than that, Harry. They're imposing specific prohibitions on them. And while part of me understands the edict against Death Eaters—none of us want that coming back, hell—they didn't even deliberate? They didn't even ask what his plan was? Who marked him? Who were his accomplices? And to seemingly blame it on all the purebloods when we're finding half-bloods and those with mixed heritage are marked-up—what about this makes any sense to you?"
He sighed deeply, feeling all at once as if he'd heard just about enough for one afternoon. "I don't know that I agree with you, 'Mi, but if I agree to look into it, will that make you feel better?"
Hermione twisted her napkin between her hands, her face fraught with tension. "I suppose... for Merlin's sake give a thought to discretion, though, Harry. This isn't exactly a comfortable line of questioning for the Deputy of the MLE to be investigating."
"I'm not investigating anything. You've not given me enough to go on for that, even as best friends." Hermione's face was crest-fallen. "It's not personal, Hermione—I need more evidence first. But I will keep my eyes and ears open... and I'll try to see if the pattern continues."
She heaved a sigh of relief. "That's all I want. That's enough..."
Harry dispelled the muffling charm from around them and tapped with three fingers on the table four times, to signal to the house-elves to vanish their plates and cutlery. They rose together and pushed their chairs in table-side in tandem. "If there's anything I'll let you know, but I advise you not to hold out for any answers—"
She snorted inelegantly, "That's not the attitude I'd expect from the boy who imagined himself as the veritable Sherlock Holmes of Hogwarts."
Regarding his friend with grave eyes, Harry shrugged on his outer robe. "Times change, Hermione. And no matter what we fancied ourselves, we were wrong more often than we were right."
"I suppose... I'll see you around Harry. Give Ginny my love?"
"Yeah, of course." He said, over his shoulder. He'd already turned from her and had taken a step toward the lift.
The ride down to his office was too short to give him much time to think deeply. He still wore the frown deeply etched across his features by the time he seated himself behind his desk once more.
"Gerald!"
The man in question peeked his head up over the partition. "Yea, boss?"
"You were the one to interview George Weasley a few weeks back, yeah?"
The man gave a sheepish grin. "You know I can't say anything about that. Not to you, anyhow."
"Figured as much. I thought I'd ask who else you've spoken to."
Gerald's head disappeared again and the vague noises of someone scraping a heavy object along the floor was all Harry could make out from the other side. Moments later, Gerald appeared again, having drug his chair bodily around to Harry's space. He had a parchment file-folder sitting innocently enough in his lap. Licking a finger, he began to leaf through.
"Let's see..." His finger listed down one scroll and then another, "Lots a' these were done by other Aurors. Yeah..." he paused on a few highlighted in his own preferred blue ink, "I did old Eeylops. A monastery out in Gloucester—they accept alms and donations—Abbot was a man named John Chesterton. Then there was Aleksandr Goldstein, in Yorkshire—"
Harry held up one hand to stop him, "Any relation to Anthony Goldstein?"
"Father, I think,"
"What's the business there?"
"Erm... a bakery. One of the oldest in Yorkshire is what Mr. Goldstein said."
"But Anthony was a half-blood..." Harry murmured, mostly to himself.
"What's that?"
"It's nothing... I just..." Harry pulled down the file from Gerald's hand, reading upside down. Elphabius Evan Eeylops—pureblood. John Ronald Keith Chesterton—pureblood. Aleksandr Semyonovich Goldstein—pureblood...
"Didn't take long on Mr. Goldstein anyhow, his wife tried to run me off."
Harry perked up. "She did, did she?"
"I told her I was just there asking questions. When I asked to see his arm she about screamed her head off and took after me with a broom—a broom of all things! Didn't look like a magical one though—one of those plastic muggle ones."
"Think she was a muggle then."
"Well it sounded like you knew that. You said their son was a half-blood..." Gerald accused, his eyes penetrating and suspicious. "What's that about anyway?"
"What do you mean?"
Gerald took a quick look around them, but with all of the conversations flying about them, it was unlikely anyone could overhear their own. "Well, why'd you say it?"
"It just seems like an awful lot of purebloods on the list, is all..." Harry defended, feeling himself oddly wrongfooted in front of someone who was ostensibly below him in the Auror's hierarchy. He sighed... he liked Gerald enough. He was a good sort. Finally, he chuckled to himself, exasperated at his own hesitancy.
"It's nothing, really Gerald. I was talking to a friend at lunch today. Got to talking about the audits—"
"Well I hope you didn't tell this friend that we were coming for him..."
"No, not at all—she doesn't even own a company."
"She?"
Harry reached up to rub at his eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted. "Yeah, she. Hermione."
Gerald's bright eyes seemed to gleam in recognition, "Oh, of course."
"Yeah," Harry continued. He was quite used to people knowing about whom he was speaking when he mentioned either of his best friends by their first names. "She said it was odd that everyone on my list was a pureblood, is all. And it looks to be the same for your list—"
Gerald sat back into his chair that he'd brought with him, appearing resentful. "What if they were? Are, I mean? 'Bout time someone sees if there's any funny business with their finances."
Eying him wearily, Harry realized that his previous caution may not have been enough. "I suppose..." he responded, his voice as even as he could make it.
"What's her deal anyway—" Gerald snarled, suddenly. It was most out of character for him, and Harry was instantly weary of the change in temperament. "Far as I can tell only You-Know-Who sympathizers give a toss what happens to purebloods. I thought she was from muggle stock! What's she doing turning on her own kind—"
"I didn't say she was!" Harry was now sitting up, his green eyes glinting with danger. How had the conversation gotten away from him so quickly? "Who are you to question her, Gerald? She fought by my side for seven years against Voldemort!"
The other man flinched. It was amazing that after all this time the stupid self-styled moniker still inspired terror in those who hadn't even fought against his special brand of tyranny.
"You don't know Hermione Granger," the Deputy Head snarled, barely able to contain his sudden agitation on his friend's behalf. "You've no right to question her."
Gerald, for his part, seemed suddenly cowed.
"Sorry, Potter—you probably have the way of it... maybe I don't have the right to question her... It's just my training is all—"
"What training would lead you to believe that a muggleborn witch, a war hero, was a pureblood supremacist, hmm?" Harry questioned, his manner quite like it was in the interrogation room.
"Well I guess it's after your time, isn't it? You got here before the guidelines changed. They told us we ought to be weary of anyone speaking ill of muggleborns."
Harry almost growled. "Which she wasn't doing."
Gerald looked sheepish. "No... but well... isn't defending purebloods and their shit a step in that direction? I'm not supposed to stand for anyone speaking ill of the muggleborns—"
"She wasn't!"
"—particularly when not in the company of any—"
Harry groaned aloud, hardly believing what he was hearing. "She IS muggleborn, Gerald!"
His subordinate frowned at him, stubborn. "But there weren't any others about... Leads to bad places, they said. Just a hop, skip and a jump from another 'Magic is Might' statue—"
"You've got to be... you really think Hermione Granger would rise up to be the next Dark Lord? The next Voldemort? That she'd go out and curse her own family for the pleasure of it? Have you entirely lost the plot?!"
Finally, Gerald had the good grace to look slightly shame faced. "I guess not, Potter. I didn't mean any offense. I'm just following the training I was given..."
Harry sighed deeply. "S'alright, Gerald. I'm sorry to blow my top like that—but... I mean... that's just out of line, there's no way anyone could think Hermione would turn into some muggle-hater, it's not in her."
"I'll take your word for it," his employee said, standing as he did so and preparing to drag his chair back to its proper place.
The Deputy Head eyed him wearily from under his glasses and fringe, looking all the world as if he was nearing fifty and not thirty. "Do." Then he motioned him off, not unkindly, but with a firmness that belied his dwindling patience.
The rest of the day was quite unremarkable. Harry viewed the new audit requests with a novel sense of trepidation and found himself displeased upon discovering that they were almost entirely directed toward pureblood-owned businesses, but there was little else out of the ordinary. Gerald had seemingly resigned himself to scribbling out at his own small desk adjacent to his own.
He took little notice of the memos flying overhead, finding them more an annoyance than the usual source of amusement.
If he had been paying closer attention he may have noticed that only one was sent from Gerald that day, immediately following his conversation with the man, and headed directly toward the filing desk for reports and other paperwork of that nature. The paper was a lime green, the new colour assigned for the latest report the Wizengamot's legislation had requested they file (so new in fact that there had only been a handful processed by that time).
Long after Harry had flooed home, and the night watch had arrived, coffee and tea held in magical carafes toted by all, the night-clerk at the record's desk made it to the lime green memo, unfolding it carefully and processing it with due diligence. An Informal Instance of Ill-Will.
She tutted softly. Someone must have said something truly dreadful.
Her pink shellacked nails clicked along the wooden doors of the filing cabinets as she rolled past them in her wheeled chair. A, B, C, D—no, E, F, there, G. She pulled open the cabinet, unsurprised as it revealed a shelf that seemed to extend back into the wall for nearly a mile. 'GR,' That would be a ways away. She had to use her wand to force the files to scroll. A quarter to the end, she'd located the file for Granger.
Mmmm, yes. A Ministry employee. Pity, that. She tucked the green memo into her folder with a smart pat.
They carry news that must get through
To build a dream for me and you, oh, oh, oh
They choose the path where no one goes
They hold no quarter
They ask no quarter
"No Quarter" (reprise) – Led Zeppelin