Chapter Seven

Spies Like Me

Hermione stopped at a shopfront window, eyeing her reflection. Dear God, her hair was a nightmare! It had been wild and loose yesterday when Voldemort had seen her. Looking like this, there was no way she wouldn't be recognized. All he had to do was tell his followers 'find the Muggle-dressed girl whose hair looks like who-did-it-and-ran!'

Shaking her head, she spared a moment to fish inside her bag for an elastic band. It was still early enough in the morning that she could hope no one of consequence would spot her, anyway.

But, she reminded herself, while carefully finger-combing her mad locks down into order and starting to pull them flush against her scalp in a tight braid, that also meant Gladrags Wizardwear wasn't likely to be open just yet. She winced and cringed as she worked to make her hair at least appear neat—never an easy or painless task with a mane like hers—at last bundling up the end of the braid in the elastic band.

Nodding to her reflection, she started walking again. Now that her nerves were starting to settle a bit, and the delicious scents from the bakeshop further along were wafting through the air, she realized she was hungry. And caffeine deprived.

If she'd had the presence of mind, she would have grabbed some of the leftovers from the food Rosmerta had sent them off with last night. Of course, that would do nothing for her need of coffee—or a spot of really strong tea—but at least her stomach wouldn't be gnawing on itself right now.

She held in a sigh as she cast a glance back toward the Shrieking Shack. How stupid she'd been. She should've known at least one of them would still be questioning her very presence, never mind her story—especially after Peter. But still it stung, even if she was aware her anger wasn't wholly reasonable.

Reaching the bakeshop, she plastered a smile on her face and stepped inside. Behind the counter, a plump little witch beamed at her, ruddy cheeks adorably sprinkled with flour.

"Morning Miss. What'll it be?"

"Coffee, please, um black, two sugars. And, uh, what sort of scones d'you have?"

"Oh, if I might suggest?" the bake-witch crinkled the bridge of her nose as she nodded. "I would choose our chocolate-strawberry, were I you. Goes perfect with that first morning cuppa."

"Sounds lovely. I'll have that, then, thank you."

Hermione waited, looking about as her order was rung up. She thought she might be too agitated to stay still for long, and so spared a moment to be thankful paper cups weren't simply some Muggle convention, or she'd be stuck sitting in here. Of course, the kind she'd find in Hogsmeade or any Wizarding establishment that allowed takeaway had a minor enchantment that enabled things to dispose of themselves. Paying and letting the baker keep a nice tip, she pocketed the rest of her money and wandered toward the shopfront window, peering out into the street.

Her heart slammed against her ribcage at the distant glinting of sunlight off pale, silver-blond hair. Swallowing hard, she watched the person draw close enough to make out their features. Oh, dear lord . . . . That was definitely a young Lucius Malfoy.

And he seemed to be coming this way.

Hermione backpedaled, trying to keep her features schooled. The baker had just set her items upon the counter, she only glanced at them. "Sorry, but d'you by chance have a wash room? I'm just feel the need to wash my hands, real quick, if that's all right?"

"Certainly, right back there," the other witch said, pointing.

Forcing a smile, Hermione nodded toward her purchase. "I'll be right back for those, thank you."

She hurried in the direction indicated, and it seemed just in time, too. Right as she stepped into the small corridor leading to the washroom, she heard the shop's door open. Turning, she carefully ducked her head back to peer around the bend in the wall. She told herself she was being stupid, Lucius Malfoy in 1981 wouldn't know her from Eve, however, given that he was a known supporter of Voldemort's espoused ideals of pure-blood supremacy—didn't it ever bother any of them that they were pure-bloods bending knee to a half-blood? That point always bugged her, that they were so goal-oriented, the means to their end didn't matter—and she was dressed like a Muggle right now.

That was when an idea struck her.

Popping her head into the washroom for a quick look, she smoothed some water over her hair to calm any fly-aways and made sure she looked tidy. She even went so far as cast a minor glamour charm on her hair, lightening it to a deep blond, and switch out her t-shirt for another from her bag so she was not dressed exactly as she'd been when Voldemort had seen her, before squaring her shoulders and trooping back out toward the counter, her head held high. Her quick-change had taken all of half a minute, she thought.

As she reached for her coffee and scone, she met his gaze in a cool, sidelong glance. She barely kept her features schooled as his lip curled in that Malfoy sneer of disgust she recalled so well. A Mudblood giving him a snooty look? Well, how dare they! Blah, blah, blah.

Instead of getting rattled, as the baker fetched his coffee—clearly even Death Eaters needed a jolt of caffeine in the morning, but she took that to mean his Lord'd had him out all night, or dragged him out of bed in the wee hours of dawn, otherwise at this hour, he'd likely be home just finishing up a proper breakfast—she turned her attention on the woman puttering about behind the counter. Hermione was very careful not to give Lucius too long a look at her entire face.

Tipping her head every so slightly toward him, she said in a low voice, "The Malfoys of Wizarding France send their regards."

Those icy grey eyes shot wide. God, it was unsettling how much he resembled a taller, broader-shouldered Draco. Huh, now that she thought on it, Draco Malfoy probably wouldn't look all that bad if he grew his hair longer, like his fathers. Oh, but what was she thinking? Right now Draco was a year and a half old.

He didn't speak, merely giving her Muggle attire a confused once-over.

She smirked, grabbing her cup and taking a slow, grateful sip. "Don't look like that," she whispered, mustering up every recollection of that combination of acid, impatience, and boredom in Draco's tone whenever he'd addressed her during their first few years at Hogwarts. "How else is one supposed to blend in with filthy blood-traitors, and their even filthier little Mudblood friends?"

His brow furrowing, Lucius shook his head. "Who are you?"

"No one of consequence. Other channels of communication being compromised, coming here in person was the only option." She knew perfectly well what he'd take away from that statement—contacting his relatives would be out of the question, she was the means of contact.

As he took his coffee from the portly witch—whose smile had lost some of its cheeriness, clearly she was aware something was going on here, and not simply because one of her patrons had popped back from the washroom looking different from how she'd gone in—he flashed a mirthless, tight-lipped grin at Hermione. "A word outside, if you would?"

She started to answer, only to find his hand gripping her elbow to tug her out of the shop behind him. "Well, since you're asking nicely," she answered in hissing breath as he continued to pull her until they were around the side of the shop in a shadowed little alleyway. At least the diminished light in here would help keep her features obscured a bit. Even if he saw her face-to-face after this, he'd be unsure if she was the same witch.

He relinquished his hold, but stood with his back to the mouth of the alley, blocking her from the street. "My family sent you?"

Rolling her eyes, she took another sip. "We'll leave it at we've relatives who travel in the same circles." That wasn't too far from the truth—both the Malfoy and Granger families had roots in France, she knew that much, and she remembered one thing that stuck with her from all those spy dramas her dad loved watching. The best lies were the ones that held a grain of truth.

"Anyway," she hurried on before he could ask anything more. "We know about your Dark Lord's failure last night to locate the Potters. Pettigrew has been compromised, and your leader will understand that means he's no longer of use. Leave him imprisoned with the ruddy Order. He doesn't have enough valuable information on any of your cohorts, anyway. Not anything that isn't already suspected, but can't be proven."

His jaw dropped at the wealth of information she divulged so simply. She could only know of this if . . . if she had some sort of inside track. "How do you know all this?"

Hermione relished this moment as she flicked her gaze over Lucius Malfoy as though he'd just proven himself the village idiot. Oh, he didn't like that. "Because we have ears everywhere. Why else would there be need for any of us to masquerade as a damn Mudblood, Malfoy? Think!"

Lucius scowled.

"But I'm not here to quibble over what's already done. Which brings us back to your Dark Lord." She took the opportunity to tear into her scone, at this rate she thought it just might go stale in her hand before she got to have a bite. When she was done chewing and swallowed—no proper pure-blood would be caught dead speaking with their mouth full—she continued. "I can tell you, we know if he'd succeeded last night, it would've ended him, not the Potter child."

"You're joking."

"Not in the slightest. That turn of events was foreseen. We know . . . ." She made a show of softening her expression before going on. "I know that what you want isn't about him, at all. Your loyalty isn't to him, it's to what he's promising."

His face fell completely. "How could you—?"

"Don't ask too many questions," she snapped, hiding a grin at how funny it was to see him jump at her abruptness. "I know a great deal about you, Lucius. Most of it I find highly repugnant, but one thing I find admirable is your love for your family. That is the message I'm here to deliver. Whatever happens from here on out, you make whatever decisions will serve to protect them. Family above all else. Do you understand?"

Hermione was perfectly confident that this was the man's Achilles' heel. She delivered her 'message' with conviction, because it truly was the one thing about the Malfoys she found admirable. Nothing came before their family. Their behavior in the last hours of the Second War had proved that, while his own willingness to turn on his fellows and provide information to the Ministry after the First War had shown where his loyalties lay.

Family first, pure-blood supremacy second, everything else whenever the bloody hell they deigned to give it consideration. It should be their motto if it wasn't a bulky mouthful.

"I do," he said, his voice perhaps shockingly level.

"He is not as strong as he seems, and some day he will fall. When that day comes, you will act to spare your family, not him. Do you understand?"

Lucius nodded.

"Good. You are not to try to contact us or find us, you are not to compromise your place within your Dark Lord's ranks in the meanwhile." She paused to finish her scone and washed it down with the last sip of coffee. After the cup was empty, she tapped the side twice and it promptly vanished from her hand. Hermione withdrew her wand, noting how completely convinced Lucius Malfoy was that she was on his side, because he didn't even flinch. "You are to tell no one of our meeting. This conversation never happened. You don't even know who I am. We're clear?"

He gave her another once-over, albeit this one a tad puzzled. "I don't know who you are."

The witch smirked, nodding. "Exactly." She Disapparated on that note.

Though, she only reappeared in the alleyway behind The Hog's Head, she froze, listening for anything. Finding no one about back here, she crept toward the mouth of the alleyway to peek out at the bakeshop. She'd have given anything to have seen the look on Lucius Malfoy's face when she vanished.

Wouldn't the Order be happy to know one of Voldemort's 'most faithful' had no true faith in him, at all?

She watched Lucius backpedal out into the street. He turned, his expression somber, if still a bit confused, as he started along the road out of Hogsmeade.

Ducking back into hiding, she dispelled the charm on her hair and breathed a sigh of . . . she wasn't even sure if it could be called relief. It had all been true, or at least as true as she could make it, but now she knew for certain, that if the time came, if the option was there to choose between something the Dark Lord wanted and something that would ensure his family's safety, Lucius Malfoy would let his leader twist in the wind.

The knowledge gave her pause. Lucius couldn't be the only one who had some little kernel of decency buried way down deep in the darkest recesses of his otherwise worthless soul, could he? If she could figure out who those others were, what it was they valued something more than Voldemort's twisted promises?

Before she could think further on that, she spied two very familiar wizards coming down the block toward the bakeshop. It seemed a small wonder they'd missed Lucius dragging a blonde version of her out the door by a few minutes!

Honestly, though, were they following her? Oh, bloody hell, of course they were. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped from the alley and made a beeline for Gladrags which was just opening its doors for the day, in plain view of them.

She couldn't help but laugh. They had to know she wouldn't be happy if she found them following her. It was adorable, really. She didn't underestimate them, she realized as she entered the shop and went straight to the seamstress. No, no, they were underestimating her. They didn't expect her to think they'd do this after her blow up at them this morning.

An hour later, Hermione emerged from the shop, a cloak and extra robes tucked away in her beaded bag along with her muggle attire, and clad in a set of pretty, Ravenclaw-blue robes that fit her like a snug medieval princess gown. Next stop? The potions and tonics shop on the corner for a bottle of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion. She wouldn't have to worry about keeping her hair bound in some headache-inducing style if she could tame it's occasionally unbearable wildness.

As she stepped away from the curb onto the cobblestone street, she heard it. The faintest words of a song. Pausing midstride, she listened. The voice, though low right now, was beautiful—dulcet, with just the slightest edging of gravel to it.

While she concentrated, the soft words became clearer. Somewhere behind her, someone was singing a song that she knew was popular during this time period—hell, still was—on Muggle radio stations.

Turning on her heel, she followed the gorgeously voiced words of Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic. Rounding the corner, she found the pair seated on the pavement, backs to the wall, and tucked beneath the shadow of the building's awning. Leaning her hip against the brick wall, she folded her arms under her breasts as Sirius lifted his gaze to hers, smiling as he went on singing.

"With your whole 'rebelling means indulging in Muggle things,' phase, I should've guessed that'd mean you'd know The Police."

Remus didn't speak, merely looking up at her with apologetic eyes as Sirius continued on with the song.

A smile curved her lips. "Is this your way of saying sorry?"

They each nodded.

"Good!" She hurried over and smooshed herself between them to sit down on the ground. "Because I have loads to tell you two about what happened after I left this morning!"

Certain she had their undivided attention, she proceeded to let them in on her charade with Lucius Malfoy in a hushed voice. She was positive, from their reactions, that they were thinking exactly what she was about the entire thing.

That the Order could probably do with a few more spies like her.