Chapter 46: Moondust

Clutching his files, Harold rushed through the hall, knocking rapidly on Madam Bones' office door. He'd told her what he could by Auror mirror, but the rest he needed to say in person. Immediately.

Madam Bones opened the door, and Harold remembered the last time he'd come for his report, how she'd torn him down. How he'd failed, again, to get answers.

Now, finally, he had one.

"What is it?" she said, her cutting gaze warning him that this had better be good.

He shut the door, emitting in a breathless gasp, "I think I know how they're getting things past the security system."

Silencing him with a sharp gesture, she rose from her desk, casting a long list of security charms.

"Speak," she said.

Harold set his folder down on the desk, opening it. "They're using a magical amulet."

She examined the stylized drawing of the enchanted object, which graced the top of the pile.

"…A necklace," repeated Madam Bones.

"Well, yes, a necklace. It's ancient magic. I only discovered it because my brother used to work with the South African government, and he heard a fable about it. A mother loses her son in the mountains, and the strength of their love created a bond that sent him food and supplies, until he found his way safely back to her."

He pushed up his glasses, the bridge of his nose sweaty. "It was just a hunch, but I did some research in the Archives." He paused, spreading his notes to find another page. "It turns out the fairy tale describes a real object from around Merlin's time, so powerful that it could by-pass our security systems. The amulet comes as a matched set, and any object can be passed through them, from one person to the other."

"Any object?"

Harold nodded. "Yes. Magical or non-magical, large or small, and across any distance. If an item is moved between countries, it will not be logged into the customs system, due to the magical properties that obscure its identity."

Madam Bones said sharply, "But you don't know they have this. There is no conclusive proof."

"Well…no, I suppose not. But if they do, it would explain a lot of what's going on. We could do more investigation to confirm it."

The director searched through the files. "I don't suppose you found the instructions on how to make one?"

Harold shook his head. "No, Ma'am. I found this information in the Hall of Memories, not the other section of the archives."

The Artefact Archives existed in two types. The first was the Repository of Magical Artefacts. It included vast quantities of written documentation about spells, enchantments and magical objects. Every known magical item within England had a file there, including directions on how to create and destroy them. While it was a treasure trove of information for any researcher or historian, the Repository was mostly used by the Customs Department. Every time an enchanted item entered the country, it triggered a spell that cross referenced the information in the Repository, and logged it in Harold's records.

And then there was the Hall of Memories, an extension of the Hall of Prophecy. This section recorded information from past wizards and witches—such as famous speeches, duels, and important events—that had been passed down through their collected memories. This is where Harold had gone to find information about the magical amulet.

The Hall of Prophecy was, essentially, a giant pensieve. No one knew how it collected its information, or why it chose specific memories to record and not others. Perhaps it was due to the importance of the person, as Dumbledore and Grindelwald's experiences were extensively catalogued. But it also included mundane memories that seemed to have no purpose being there.

For various reasons, the Hall of Memories was not as frequently used as the Repository. For instance, it did not include instructions on how to cast the spells and enchantments—that would be impossible due to the interdict of Merlin—nor did it promise that the information from the memories was accurate. However, if you knew what you were looking for, it could be very useful. After weeks of searching, Harold was able to find the transcribed memories of a witch and wizard in Norway that had each worn a set. Their memories showed exactly what the amulets looked like, and how they were used, and their limitations.

It had taken him ages to find the information, since the filing system in there was crap, but he didn't think asking to overhaul the data system was appropriate at the moment.

"The enchantment seems to involve an act of sacrifice," continued Harold. "The caster would need to love someone enough to imbue a part of themselves into the object. We could start a file for it in the Repository, make sure future entries are logged, but…I'm not sure if that will help us find who currently holds it."

"No, now that the amulet is in England, our logs won't pick it up," said Madam Bones tartly. "Unless the person who wears it leaves or re-enters the country. Such a ridiculous flaw in our system." She stood, pacing back and forth behind her desk. "Start the file anyway. Contact the Department of Foreign Affairs and tell them to further restrict the issuance of port keys to level 7—not just intercontinental, but inter-district. I'll have to speak to the Minister about restricting Apparition within the country as well. We'll put the Unspeakables on the task if we have to."

Harold didn't know if that was possible—it would be like outlawing running.

"We'll need to discuss this further at a later time. For now, get back to work."

Harold left, the first time he'd been dismissed without a scathing admonition.

Progress.


When the young Customs Director left, Amelia continued pacing, lost in thought.

Thirty years. That was how long she'd been head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. In that time, she'd sacrificed everything to fight Voldemort. Her parents, her brother and his family, countless brave friends and Aurors. All of them, killed in a senseless war. If it had lasted much longer, Britain would have had no heroes left to give.

And here they were again, at the brink of another war.

Amelia wished more than anything else to avoid that, but the pressure was crushing. She reminded herself, always, that it was for her niece Susan—for the Aurors and their families—that she did this, and that helped her carry on.

But she was going to lose.

This morning, her Intelligence Operatives informed her of several gruesome facts. The Factionists had bombed another building, this one in the English countryside. No one was hurt, which added to a disturbing trend. Why had none of these bombings killed anyone?

Because it was a distraction.

Amelia at first thought it was a terror tactic, meant to scare the Ministry into capitulating. But if the enemy had a portal that allowed unlimited access to weapons transport, then they would have gone bigger. They could have nuked the entire city of London by now, and they had not done so. But these small bombings were still tying up her resources, forcing her to send her Aurors off searching for information about where the next bomb would be, consigning many of her best operatives to security detail.

Meanwhile, the enemy had time to plan, time to set their pieces in motion…but for what?

There were spies in the Ministry, this she knew. She'd worked hard to eradicate them. The ones she'd captured had revealed little—most of them were low ranking members, and all they spoke of was "power." They wanted power, they deserved it, and the Ministry was taking it from them. Magic was being lost, it was all Harry's fault, and it was time for the people to get what was theirs.

This is what the low ranking pawns wanted—at least, before they died by self-suicide. But what did their leader want? Who was their leader?

More information from the Intelligence Operatives had given her a suspect: Bellatrix Black.

A woman with long, blonde hair had been spotted on stage at the Factionist meetings. She delivered rousing speeches to engage the crowd and spur them on to acts of violence. She'd recently been exchanged with another woman with curly black hair, who delivered the same speeches. The Factionists were getting bolder, not hiding their identities with Polyjuice anymore.

Which meant they likely had powerful magical defences that she wasn't currently aware of.

Amelia knew that Bellatrix hated the Order of the Phoenix, and Dumbledore by extension. She blamed them for her imprisonment, for defying Voldemort, and because Dumbledore attacked her sister, Narcissa. Her involvement explained some of the senseless violence, and well as why several people had recently arrived at St. Mungos, driven to mental insanity by their attackers.

Amelia frowned. None of this explained why the victims were targeted, however. Many of them were leaders in their fields—professors, lawyers, scientists—but not all were supporters of Dumbledore. Some were not affiliated with the Ministry or the Order of the Phoenix in any way whatsoever. She refused to believe it was random targets—unless Bellatrix was crazier than she'd once thought.

The only reason that made sense—based on their targets—was that the Factionists were seeking information. But, as of yet, they'd made no demands from her, no requests for the Ministry to release information from their vault. So it must be information she wouldn't be willing to give, or that she didn't have. But why terrorize innocents, why make themselves targets? Why not be more secretive, why not make allies with people who actually had information to give?

Then again, perhaps all of this—the bombings, the spies, the people driven insane—could be a distraction too.

As hard as she tried, she couldn't find enough information to piece it all together. Dumbledore might have figured it out, the crazy old loon, but he was gone. They'd lost their strongest wizards, and the Elder Wand, as well as access to the collection of Prophesies that might have shown them a way to win.

She pulled the Line of Merlin from her drawer. It did not react to her, as it never had.

The Wizengamot had lost their real leader, too.

Worse, she had no idea who the real heir might be.

The Ministry was not strong enough to handle another enemy as cunning as Voldemort. They did not have enough Aurors—they hadn't even taken on a new one in years. The heroes had all died, with only a remnant left behind. They needed someone strong enough to defeat an intelligent enemy.

Amelia had heard a prophesy last summer. The Seer said that Britain could be saved by the one who wields the Sword, leading them once more to victory in hard times, as did Godric Gryffindor. If there was the smallest chance this was true, then she could not wait any longer.

She cast her Patronus, and sent Mad Eye a message. It was time to put that piece into play.

"Go to Hogwarts. I want you to begin training Hermione Granger. Prepare her for a war."


Remus Lupin set up the last of the tables, shifting them into place with the flick of his wand. Candlelight illuminated his workstations, casting a cheery glow over the materials he'd set up for research. Spell books, tablets, and all the enchanted items from the Headmistress's office, plus a hundred more besides that he kept in a storage chest.

He surveyed his workspace with satisfaction, noting how much more room there was here than in his usual office in the Ministry. It also let in more light, or at least it would during the daytime. He could almost call himself content with his Hogwarts position: drinking tea, reading, and studying artefacts to his heart's content.

It would be perfect, if not for the other part of his job.

He sighed and crossed the room to a desk he'd specifically set up for the purpose. He withdrew from within several objects and laid them on the table. They were small, nondescript, and highly illegal to own.

He picked one up, and got to work.


I'll be working in the lab, said his message, dated at 10:30 pm. Come meet me. I want to see you.

Hermione took the stairs two at a time. She was trying not to fly too fast, but it was 11:09 and she was already late. Her heart fluttered with expectation and fear as she got closer, her hesitation growing into hope. He'd asked for her, wanted to see her, maybe he wasn't trying to avoid her after all…

She found the lab, abruptly stopping to take a deep breath and, by old habit, ran a hand to smooth her hair into some semblance of order.

Heart pounding, Hermione opened the door, surprised to hear voices within.

"Come on, Padma!" cried Dean, slamming some papers on the lab table. "This new spell is going to work! I checked it over and over, just to be certain before I told you. I used the balloons the Weasleys made, and even if their invention was a failure, I know the enchantments they used are always reliable. We can use their spell to make the Remembrall sense magic in increments, maybe even different types of magic."

"I know," said Padma, standing still as a statue. "I'm not doubting its usefulness, or your abilities."

"So, then, why don't you want to test it out?"

A frustrated sigh. "I said I will, Dean."

"No, you said you'll do it later, when I'm not around to help you." Dean folded his arms. "I'm trying to be understanding, and I know you have different work habits than I do, but I can't help but think that you are doubting my abilities."

"Dean…"

"No, I want you to be honest with me. Am I not smart enough for you, Padma? Do you think I'm dead weight that you have to carry around? Because I'm not leaving this project, it's just as much my work as it is yours."

Padma, who'd seemed so calm up against Dean's rage, finally snapped.

"Yes, it's our project!" she cried, her hand beating her chest. "It was always ours, from the beginning, back when we were testing with Faraday cages. I wanted to see this project through, I believed in you and your vision. You're smart, you're brave, you're charming and handsome and I…I've been so stupid."

Her eyes dropped to the table, tears filling them. Hermione felt a pang of something awful running through her chest, a premonition, but she couldn't look away.

"You kept spending time with her," she said softly. "You invited her to our project, and you would light up when she was around. I just felt so angry, and I couldn't force her to leave, but I couldn't be around you both without feeling sick. I know, I was wrong to push you away, but I…desperately wanted you to light up like that for me, and you never did." Her shoulders hunched. "Sometimes I feel like I'm just a brain to you. A person you use until you don't need me anymore."

"No!" Dean grasped her shoulders. "You're so much more than that, Padma! Give yourself some credit!"

"Then why didn't you ask me to the dance?"

There was a moment of silence, where Hermione's heart felt wrenched even further into misery. Dean was looking at Padma now, with raw, confusing emotion.

"I honestly thought you didn't want to go," he said. "You never said anything about it."

"I asked the Weasleys to make those dance shoes," she said, her mouth twisting into a pained smile. "Because I thought if I could dance, then maybe I would make a suitable partner for you, and then I would ask you myself. But then the shoes didn't work, and I didn't have the courage. I kept thinking that you wouldn't want me, you'd just take me out of pity, wishing you'd had a partner who was fun and flirty."

"Never," he said, shaking his head. "I would have enjoyed every moment."

Hermione pressed a hand to her chest, her world spinning. The other hand gripped the door frame.

"What am I to you, Dean?" Padma whispered, tears falling. "Because you're the world to me."

He didn't say anything for a long moment, his eyes studying her. "Padma…it's…I think I…"

In that moment, Hermione's hand crunched a hole in the door frame, and they both turned to look. Dean's face drained of colour. "Hermione!"

"It's okay, Dean," she said, her voice trembling. "You don't have to explain anything."

She wished so badly that she hadn't been found out, that she would have had time to process all she'd seen before she'd been forced to do this.

Dean seemed distressed and guilty, though he had no reason to be. He could have kissed Padma, and it wouldn't even be cheating, not really, no. Because he'd never really been hers, had he?

"Hermione, I don't want you to take this the wrong way, we were just—"

"Take her to the dance, Dean," said Hermione. "It's clear that she wants to go with you. You spent all this time working on the project, instead of talking to me, but really, you were doing it to make her proud." Hermione's voice caught. Attempting to smile and be magnanimous was too difficult, so she just said, "I hope you both have a good time. Goodnight."

She fled the room before her heart could burst.


Daphne and Neville spent their Friday afternoon as they always did, studying Herbology in the conservatory.

Neville huddled beside a small row of potted plants, pruning them carefully. Daphne sat on a cushion, highlighting in her Herbology textbook to prepare for midterms.

Her eyes kept wandering from the page over to him. Usually, while he worked, he would ramble about plants, excited to find someone who would listen, but today he was quiet. She studied his face, his downturned mouth hinting at sadness.

"What's wrong, Neville?" she asked.

Neville shrugged. "Had a bad day."

"Why?" He kept pruning, and she closed her book. "Come on, you can tell me. I'm a good listener."

"I suppose…" he sighed. "It's so embarrassing to talk about. But maybe it will help."

He set down his sheers, turning to sit cross legged on the grass, facing her.

"I…umm…I asked a girl I like to the dance, and she rejected me."

Daphne tried hard to hide her surprise. He'd asked someone else, and not her?

"Who was it?" asked Daphne.

"Luna," he replied. "And she didn't just reject me, she taunted me. She claimed she had an alien fiancé. If she'd just said no, then maybe everyone wouldn't have started laughing."

Daphne remained silent. She wasn't entirely sure it wasn't true. Not that she believed in aliens, of course, but if they were…well, if you'd placed a bet on who would snag an interplanetary boyfriend first, there was no way Luna wouldn't win.

Neville sighed. "This whole time, I thought if I finally got up the courage to talk to her, she would like me. In my daydreams, we always had these amazing conversations. She would smile and laugh with me, we would tell each other all our dreams, but…"

He shrugged, his fingers playing with a fallen leaf. "She doesn't even want to be my friend. She'd prefer an imaginary boyfriend over someone who is right in front of her." He swallowed. "Maybe I never really knew her. I was in love with someone who doesn't exist."

Daphne placed a hand on his shoulder. "Don't be so hard on yourself. You loved her with all your heart, and I think that's amazing. Maybe someday soon you'll find a girl who appreciates that about you."

"But where would I even find someone like that?"

Her heart pounded, urging her to tell him.

"Oh just…around."

It occurred to her that if Neville could confess his feelings, then well…why couldn't she?

"I don't have a date to the ball yet either. So, if you want," she said, trying to sound light-hearted, "We could go together."

He smiled softly, and shook his head. "Thanks, but you don't need to be my pity date."

"It's not a pity date!" she exclaimed. "I really, really like you, Neville!"

Neville froze, realization hitting him, and she wished she could stuff the words back in her mouth. She hadn't planned to let him know her true feelings until after he'd agreed to go as friends, and then she'd amaze him by arriving in a beautiful gown, and they'd have a romantic moment while slow dancing...

He didn't speak for a long, long moment, and then he said, "Oh."

She'd never thought one word could hurt so much. He said nothing more, so she prodded, "Well? Is that a no, or…"

"Umm…I don't know. I never thought of you that way before."

Her heart plummeted. Never? Still, years of unrequited love had prepared her for this. She didn't want to live in this limbo anymore, and she knew a way out.

Squaring her shoulders, she said, "Then start thinking of me that way."

She leaned forward to kiss him.

Eyes widening in alarm, he jumped back. Daphne fell forwards, her mouth connecting hard against his chin. In a daze, she pressed a finger against her bruised mouth, but it didn't hurt, dwarfed by the immense confusion about what had happened.

Frazzled and anxious, Neville reached for her, "Daphne, are you okay? I'm sorry—"

She felt her entire body going numb from sheer shock and embarrassment.

So, that's what you think of me.

She scrambled off the floor, to her feet.

You're afraid to even touch me.

"Daphne?"

She turned and fled the room.


Please talk to me, Hermione. I feel really bad about what happened.

Lying in bed the evening after the Awful Event, she read Dean's letter with equal parts scorn and complete disinterest.

Sure, she missed him, and what they could have been. In all likelihood, she would never find love again and be alone forever.

But Dean was suffering too, she guessed, from being embarrassed. But since he had a real-not-fake girlfriend now, she decided that as far as she was concerned, he could go right on suffering.

A small quiet voice insisted. You know you wanted him to be happy.

Hermione trembled, tears falling down her cheeks again.

I know, but…why does everyone get to be happy but me?

Hermione bit her lip, the press of her alicorn teeth almost cutting her.

Harry ran away from her. Boris had cursed at her. Dean liked her, but chose a normal, Slytherin girl instead.

The unspoken fear, the one she kept hidden deep, deep down, rose up.

Nobody will ever love me because I'm a freak.

Her mind tried to show her counterexamples of loyal fans who adored her, but she steadfastly ignored them. Those were false praise. Everyone who'd really known her, who she'd tried to make a connection with, turned away eventually.

Someday, everyone her age would pair up, and she would live on as the protector of their children, and their children's children…

She curled up in her bed, scrunching the warm blankets up to her nose.

You're sixteen, her mind reasoned. You've got plenty of time to find not stupid science boys. You won't be alone forever.

Hermione sighed, bit her lip again, and waited for the hole in her heart to heal.


A few hours later, she glanced at the clock. Friday, 11:00 pm.

Hermione sat up, noticing the chocolate smears all over her night clothes. Grimacing, she cast the cleaning spell on her pyjamas, and made her way down to the kitchens. If she planned to make it through the weekend, she needed more supplies.

When she arrived, she saw Daphne Greengrass, sobbing into a bowl of chocolate swirl. Blinking back her tears, their eyes met.

They observed each other in silence. It was the sort of sad that didn't need words, but was instantly recognized when seen, especially when you were going through it yourself.

"In this place," Daphne said. "We don't count calories."

"What are calories?" answered Hermione.

Nodding in solidarity, Daphne pushed an open carton of rocky road in Hermione's direction.

After that, it wasn't long until the sugar rush dominated the conversation.

"Boys are soooo stupid," said Daphne, drizzling chocolate syrup on her Cherry Garcia. "Who needs them?"

"Yeah," said Hermione, digging into her third bowl of rocky road, topped with bananas, peanut butter, and triple fudge caramel syrup.

"You know what I don't get? With all this magic we have, why haven't witches invented jerk repellent bracelets yet?"

"Oh, those would go flying off the shelves!" replied Hermione, repeatedly stabbing a bit of frozen banana. "What I wouldn't give for a stupid science boy repelling charm."

"Uggh, you're right. Let me tell you, Neville is such an idiot, one time he…well there was that other time…" Daphne trailed off.

"Wait, Neville?" Hermione knew him as the sweetest boy in Hufflepuff, which was saying something. "He rejected you?"

"Yeah," said Daphne. "Why, who rejected you?"

"Dean Thomas," she replied.

Frowning, they both spent a moment deliberating over their bowls of ice cream.

"Uggh, it's so hard to even find things to hate about them!" complained Daphne, throwing up her hands. "What are we supposed to complain about?"

"I know!" cried Hermione. "They're perfect gentlemen and it's not fair!"

"But you know what, it doesn't matter," assured Daphne, patting Hermione's arm. "They rejected us, so they obviously don't know what's good for them. Therefore, idiots."

Hermione nodded sharply. "That's right!"

"I mean," continued Daphne, waving her spoon in circles. "Look at you. You're Hermione Granger, for crying out loud. You're practically the most famous celebrity in Britain. Who's he waiting for, Mariah Carey?"

"Thank you," she was smiling. "And you're easily the most gorgeous girl in Slytherin, not to mention the sweetest, who would seriously turn you down?"

"Aww, thank you," Daphne responded, scraping at her bowl. "Oh man, where did all the ice cream go?"

"I don't know," said Hermione, wiping chocolate off her chin. "House elves, I bet."

"Well, that does it, we're going to need more ice cream," said Daphne. "Come on, let's buy something chocolate, sprinkles and probably waffle cones."

Arms linked, they set off for Hogsmeade.