Chapter Ten
Of course the carton was missing. Hermione wasn't surprised. In hindsight she should've taken better precautions. It wasn't unreasonable to suspect Fenrir would come inside her bedroom at some point while she was asleep to check to make sure she was still all right. Leaving the files out in the open must've been too great a temptation for him to resist. If she'd seen her own name written across something in such large letters, she couldn't say she would just leave it alone. There was nothing to be done about it now. It had become his decision whether he would share it with her or not. Perhaps that was the most fair option available. It was, after all, about him.
Feeling infinitely better after her potions and a long nap, it wasn't even a struggle for Hermione to get out of bed a second time. The chalky aftertaste of a potion lingered on her tongue again and she felt rumpled in her nightgown after so long in it. Deciding she could uncover the mystery of the missing file carton later, she made her way to her bathroom to take a long, hot shower.
As she stood under the hot spray of the water, all her mind could focus on was the very real possibility that the fearsome werewolf she'd stripped naked for in her window just a short time earlier was somewhere in her house. Was he in the spare bedroom across the corridor from hers or downstairs? She didn't think he would be keeping watch from her garden again after being invited inside, but she couldn't honestly say that she understood the man. Should that not have frightened her more than it intrigued? Nobody could deny the simple truth that all rationality seemed to exit her head when it came to anything having to do with Fenrir Greyback.
Once out of the shower and dressed in clean comfortable clothes that were more modest and appropriate than just her nightgown, Hermione left the safety of her bedroom to find out what she'd missed in her absence. No doubt Fenrir would be expecting her to seek him out to demand he return his stolen file she hoped he'd only hidden it and not completely destroyed. When properly motivated, she'd been known to be persuasive. Maybe it wouldn't take much to convince him to give it back.
Much of the downstairs was dark due to the setting of the winter sun at such an early hour, but a sliver of bright light shone underneath the kitchen door. Unsure what she might find inside, she pushed it open with a little trepidation. Fenrir glanced up at her arrival.
"Where did you find this?"
He sat at the kitchen table surrounded by disorganized piles of parchment and countless small scrolls. Not even bothering to hide the dusty carton in the middle of the table, she took it as a good sign that he wasn't likely to forbid her from looking. She waited to answer him until she was seated in her usual chair across from his.
"The wizard in charge of the Ministry Archives has been trying to clear out space in the Archives by foisting old files on me for years. I've managed to keep him from being successful, but a few days ago he unleashed a new weapon in his fight."
"What kind of weapon?"
Unsure how to explain her penchant for collecting and championing undesirable and unwanted creatures, she waved her hand and sighed.
"He sent someone with the files whom I can't say 'no' to."
"A former lover?"
The combination of Fenrir's raised eyebrow and the thought of anything physical happening between Pius Thicknesse and her forced a laugh she couldn't control. While she supposed Pius was an attractive man once he shaved off his ridiculous and distinctive facial hair in an effort to blend in easier with the rest of wizarding society after his humiliating fall from grace, she found the very idea of some kind of sordid past with the man insane. The corner of Fenrir's mouth twitched as she laughed in an attempt not to smirk.
"Definitely not. All of the file cartons expanded at once in my office. That's how I hit my head. I saw your name on the outside and I…"
"Was curious?"
"Exactly. What's in it? I never had a chance to look inside before you stole it."
There was no heat behind her accusation and the return of his smirk seemed to indicate she didn't insult him. When she started to pick up pieces of parchment to read, he didn't stop her either. Another good sign. Fenrir let out a deep exhale.
"A lot of things I've forgotten and some things I never knew."
Hermione couldn't deny she was even more intrigued following his non-answer. Perhaps she shouldn't have been as frustrated with Edgar Bletchley's insistence she take the files. There was no telling what secrets she might uncover about the Ministry's past treatment of werewolves. If there was proof they'd been cruel, perhaps she would find getting the restrictions that still existed a little easier. One could only hope.
"I need a break."
Fenrir moved from the table to the other side of the kitchen to start brewing tea. Distracted from the file momentarily to watch him once again move confidently about the kitchen, Hermione had to fight the urge to laugh. Who knew the notorious homicidal murderer also possessed a domestic side? She only looked away when his devilish smirk and the indecent raise of his eyebrows told her he was well aware she was staring.
Not wishing to give him another reason to tease her, especially considering neither of them had yet to bring up her strip show, she picked up the first scrap of parchment she could reach. Appearing to be some sort of journal entry, she wasn't sure what to make of it. There were symbols and abbreviations she'd never seen before on any other Ministry form or correspondence.
26th of January, 1960
Potential O.M. subject, 30 years of age, 5 years since bitten. Will need to conduct further surveillance. Goes by the name Fenrir Greyback. Legal name -
It was rude to laugh at a person's name. They weren't responsible for the decision. Parents sometimes chose ridiculous names and their children bore the brunt of that mistake. Despite knowing all of that, Hermione was unable to keep from snorting.
"Hezekiah Clark Smith?"
Turning to look over his shoulder, Fenrir narrowed his eyes in clear annoyance. Many in his past likely screamed in terror at the facial expression but Hermione didn't find it the least bit scary.
"Only my mum ever called me Hezekiah when she was angry. Everyone just called me Clark."
"Hezekiah is a very interesting name."
"You're absolutely right, Hermione."
"Touché."
Her renewed giggles lightened the mood enough he smiled again. She was able to control her laughter by the time he crossed back to the table with teacups for both of them.
"I was named after my grandfather. He and his sister had the worst names. Don't know why my dad had to name me that. His name was George. I think I would've rather been called George. When any of the other children found out my real first name…"
His heavy sigh said more than words ever could. Children could be cruel. Adults too, for that matter. Many times in her life Hermione wished her parents named her something else. Maybe she wouldn't have been teased quite so much.
"I certainly understand. Wait… Hezekiah Smith. Any relation to Hepzibah Smith?"
The disgusted wrinkle of his nose threatened to send her into another fit of giggles. Such a bizarre effect the man had on her.
"She was my grandfather's older sister. Horrible woman. I hated her. We used to visit her and I always got in trouble for touching something I wasn't supposed to. How anyone could expect a small curious boy not to touch anything in a house that was crammed floor to ceiling with useless junk my Aunt Hepzie called 'treasured antiques', I'll never understand."
"Aunt Hepzie?"
All attempts to try to keep her laughter under control were forgotten. Hermione didn't know how it was possible for someone to make a name like Hepzibah even more unattractive. Fenrir watched her with a raised eyebrow and a serious expression, but it was impossible for him to hide the beginnings of a grin at the corner of his mouth.
"I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't laugh, but Hepzie sounds a lot like a Muggle virus often called 'Hep C'."
"Sounds appropriate. Aunt Hepzie was like a plague on the lives of the people unfortunate enough to be around her. Suppose I should've been sad when her old house-elf accidentally poisoned her, but I wasn't. Is it terrible to admit that I was relieved?"
Never, even in her wildest nightmares, would Hermione have imagined she would be sitting at her kitchen table having tea with Fenrir Greyback and enjoying herself quite so much. A tiny fear in the back of her mind worried that she'd perhaps hit her head just a little too hard in her office and maybe she was insane. She never would've guessed that he was an excellent conversationalist. Everything he said she found fascinating. What more could she learn from the man she'd feared as a monster for so many years?
"Actually, your aunt's house-elf Hokey didn't accidentally poison her at all. That's not common knowledge. The Ministry has been trying to keep the secret for years to prevent the Ministry from looking like a fool, but considering you are one of her relatives, it's only fair you should know the truth."
"I always suspected there was more to it than we were told. So it wasn't an accident? Hokey had a backbone after all? Aunt Hepzie treated her house-elves terribly. Just like she treated everyone else. We were all beneath her. Can't say I blame the old girl for killing her on purpose."
"Oh no, that's not what happened at all. Hokey was completely innocent. She had nothing to do with your aunt's death. It was Voldemort."
He narrowed his eyes in the suspicious expression she'd seen him use before. When he didn't come right out and call the very idea nonsense, she felt a little bit of encouragement.
"Aunt Hepzie died the same year I was bitten. That was years before the Dark… before that bastard tried to get power. He must have only been…"
"About thirty, but yes, it was him. It's a long story."
Fenrir gestured to the darkness outside of the window.
"I'm not going anywhere. Especially not when it's dark and you're not at your full strength yet. And considering your anti-Muggle wards are just appalling. Did you intentionally make them so useless or do you really not know how to cast them?"
There was a definite note of teasing in his tone that drew a smile out of Hermione. She wasn't going to take his bait. Her wards were just fine. She didn't need a lecture on her personal safety again.
"How much do you know about the lengths that Voldemort went to make himself immortal?"
"What do you mean by 'immortal'?"
"The usual definition. Since you're asking that, I'm guessing you know nothing. That's all right. He wasn't very open to any of his followers."
The clearing of his throat and the dropping of his gaze to his teacup was the only indication he provided that he didn't care to be included in that infamous group. She had so many questions about his past and why he got involved with Voldemort in the first place, but she knew it was hardly the time to ask him. What would happen if she insulted him so badly that he stood up, walked out the door, and never came back? A sinking in her stomach followed. She didn't want to even imagine him leaving forever. What was happening?
"Nor to anyone else. He was very suspicious. For some reason he thought there might be people out there who wanted to see him dead."
He lifted the corner of his mouth into a half-smile. Some of the tension was gone, but it never left entirely. Perhaps that was something she would need to be more careful with the longer she spent in his presence.
"Do you know what a horcrux is?"
"I've certainly heard the word, but it's always been whispered and any time I asked, no one would tell me."
Trying to be as careful with her descriptions as possible, Hermione gave him a quick overview of what they were and how they were made. There was a reason why most people didn't know what they were. Even just thinking about them left her feeling disgusted and like she needed to take a long, hot shower. When she sketched out the basics, his half-smile was replaced with a scowl.
"That's horrible. And coming from me?"
"I hardly think you're the same person you used to be. Don't say that."
It was possibly the first time that either of them said aloud any reference to just how awful of a monster he'd been in the past. Yes, he confessed to being the one that turned her assistant Robert during the last year of the war, but other than that, they'd danced around the past. She thought about how he did talk about that horrible night in Malfoy Manor when he referred to her knowing full well what would've happened to her if he'd been granted her as a prize. Lasting only a few seconds, neither of them pressed for more elaboration. The implication was bad enough.
"But yes, I'll agree with you that it's horrible. It's evil enough to want to make a single one. He wanted to make seven. Unsatisfied to turn just anything into one of his horcruxes, he sought out items that had extreme value in the wizarding world. He wanted to have something that belonged to all four Founders. He was almost successful, managed to find three. Two of them belonged to your aunt. She'd bought the Slytherin locket not understanding that it belonged to his mother.
"Then she showed the young Tom Riddle a gold cup that belonged to Helga Hufflepuff. Your aunt claimed that it had been passed down in her family for generations. He was so eager to have both items that he stole them, killed your aunt, and then modified Hokey's memory to make it look like she'd accidentally poisoned your aunt. No one figured out the truth for decades. Voldemort used your aunt's murder to create one of his horcruxes."
"Serves the old bitch right for hoarding all of that junk."
"Are you one of Hufflepuff's descendants?"
A bright grin split across his face. Years fell off with just the change of a simple expression. It was difficult to believe he was as old as he really was. There was something more to his age and his advanced life than Hermione understood. Most werewolves lived shortened lives, cursed lives. What made him so special? How was he nearing eighty years of age and still looked like he was in his early-thirties?
"Yes, I am. The old bitch didn't like to be reminded of that. Always thought her nephew married beneath him. She looked down on my mum and me. Treated us like we were rubbish. But yes, I am one of Helga Hufflepuff's descendants through my dad. Was even Sorted in her House. Does that surprise you?"
The easy option was to always assume any person with the least bit of interest in joining the Death Eaters or having anything to do with Lord Voldemort was a Slytherin. Hermione knew that she had been guilty of making the assumption that all Death Eaters were Slytherins and all Slytherins were potential Death Eaters, but she knew that wasn't fair. There were Death Eaters from all Houses. Even Gryffindor though no one cared to be reminded of that uncomfortable fact.
Likely she would've been surprised to discover the fearsome Fenrir Greyback was a Hufflepuff if she hadn't seen him in recent weeks. The more she thought about it, the more it made sense that he fit some of the descriptions of the members of Hufflepuff House. Or rather, it made as much sense as anything else she'd learned about him. She'd certainly witnessed his loyalty, diligence, and dedication. She also couldn't deny that he was patient. How many weeks had he stood outside her house watching her without speaking? Though it all seemed at odds with Greyback the monster, she'd seen another side of Fenrir the man.
"I learned a long time ago that Hufflepuffs can be just as dangerous as anyone else if they or their loved ones were crossed. Sometimes more."
His loud laughter was once again unlike the horrible sound it had been during the war. There was something that changed him fundamentally after the war ended. Her curiosity was out of control. She wanted to know everything she could possibly learn. Looking back at the piles of parchment littering her table, she wondered if there was something in the box she could find that would explain why.
Every spare moment Hermione was awake for the rest of that long weekend she had her nose in the dusty files. If she could keep her eyes open, a feat that became more difficult with each healing potion Fenrir insisted she drink, she was devouring more. She was grateful that despite the carton being potentially filled with private information about his past, he didn't mind her interest. If anything, he encouraged her to keep digging. Though he never came right out to admit so, she got the impression he didn't remember a lot about his past.
One abbreviation that she continued to read over and over again was 'O.M.'. She'd never seen it before. When she dug to the very bottom of the box, she found two forms that had the words "Operation Moonlight" scribbled out instead of the abbreviation. Its date was earlier than most documents she found so she had to assume whomever was writing the journal entires and filling out the other paperwork was eventually encouraged to use the abbreviation. Whether that was for brevity's sake or for concealment purposes, she couldn't be sure. Not until she learned what the program or operation was all about.
Fenrir didn't recognize the name. When she first said it out loud, he laughed and made a cutting remark about how it sounded like something one might read about in the Auror of Knockturn Alley book series. She was too disappointed that he didn't know to ask for clarification about books she'd never heard of before.
As she read through countless journal and log entries that didn't make any sense during the day, Fenrir excused himself. Always back to her home before the sun was down, she was curious to know how he spent those hours. If he hadn't been sleeping every night in her spare bedroom, she would've assumed he'd just gone home to sleep before resuming his nightly surveillance of her house. Everything changed the night she invited him to come inside. Never rescinding her offer, he continued to make himself at home. She never asked him why he continued to guard her house, but she knew it was because of the Muggle and his apparent dark plans. Just as she'd been a little afraid to know why the werewolf followed her around, she didn't want to ask him to explain why he was so convinced she was still in danger.
"Where do you go during the day?"
The question just slipped out of her mouth Sunday evening. In an effort to keep her off her feet, Fenrir had taken it upon himself to cook breakfast and dinner each day. He was standing over the cooker patiently stirring some fragrant sauce that made her mouth water.
"Nowhere exciting, I promise. Now tell me more about this form you found. You said it was just a list of dates with either the words 'success' or 'failure' next to them? Were you able to find anything that might explain what that meant?"
Realizing she was being put off yet again, Hermione tried to hide her frustrated sigh. The man had his secrets. She knew that from the very beginning. Trying to force him into revealing more than he wished before he was ready was bound to blow up in her face. The last thing she wanted to do was insult him or infuriate him enough that he threw up his hands, decided any association with her wasn't worth the aggravation, and left. She'd gotten used to his comforting presence. Sleeping at night with him just a shout away had never been easier. Until he was ready, she would let him have his secrets.
"No, but I'm hoping when I get back to my office in the morning that I can find something useful in some of the other file cartons."
Though still tempted to bombard him with more questions about his daytime activities, Hermione kept them to herself. The rest of the evening passed in a companionable silence broken up only by compliments on his cooking and interesting tidbits of information one of them found while organizing the files into some semblance of order.
Beyond a few questions from Robert about how Fenrir ended up sleeping in her guest bedroom, much of the next week was spent digging through the other dusty cartons in her office. Just like Fenrir's, each of them mentioned Operation Moonlight, or more commonly O.M., in their files. Unlike Fenrir, however, all of the other files included a vital piece of information his did not: date of death.
"So you're saying that every single werewolf in these boxes are dead and their files all indicate they were candidates or participants in this Operation Moonlight?"
"Yes, all of them except…"
"Fen. This doesn't make any sense. I very discreetly asked around to some of my werewolf friends if they had ever heard of Operation Moonlight, but none of them had. Some even laughed when they heard the ridiculous name. Said it sounded like something out of…"
"The Auror of Knockturn Alley books."
"Well, yes. It doesn't sound real. And if it is, how do you explain that Fen isn't dead like all of the rest of them?"
Hermione could only shrug her shoulders at Robert's question. Until she knew what they were actually involved in, there was no definitive way to know. They were only speculating. Every night that week they'd both worked late and neither of them were any closer to finding the truth. All the cartons contained were logs and journal entries that didn't make sense to them. Somewhere in the Ministry there had to be a key, something they could use to figure out what it all meant.
"I'm just going to have to go down to the Ministry Archives myself to find out."
"Hermione, it's after seven on a Friday. We shouldn't even still be working. No one is going to be in the Archives. Let's just leave it until Monday."
"You should know me well enough by now to know I wouldn't be able to relax all weekend. It won't take me long and there's always a clerk down there until at least eight."
Recognizing he'd never be able to convince her otherwise, Robert wished her a good evening. As much as she knew he wanted to ask her more questions about Fenrir, he was polite enough to keep them to himself for the time being. They walked down the long corridor together. He turned to take the stairs up to the next level to catch the lift and she kept going to the Archives tucked away in its own quiet corner on the opposite side of their level.
Just as she suspected, there was still a clerk inside the Archives. Pius moved through the aisles humming softly to himself as he reshelved and reorganized the files returned that day. She could understand why the Ministry pariah preferred working the later shift. It was easier for him to be alone. No matter how much he tried to atone for the atrocities he committed and those he allowed to be committed as the Minister for Magic under the Imperius Curse, there would be some who would never forgive him, never even believe the claims that he was under one to begin with. When he saw Hermione standing at the counter, he smiled and immediately approached, leaving the rest of his reshelving for later.
"Please tell me you're not really working this late on a Friday night, Hermione. It's too depressing."
She had to laugh. It was hardly the first Friday night she'd chosen to work instead of go out and it wasn't likely to be her last.
"I had a question I was hoping you could answer. I won't be able to relax at all this weekend if I don't."
"I can't promise that I'll know, but I promise to try."
"Thank you. I've been reading the files in those cartoon you gave me over a week ago."
Pius' smile slipped for just a moment, but it was long enough for Hermione to notice. Why would he seem surprised that she'd looked in the boxes? It was only natural to feel curious. The more she thought about it, she remembered how he'd all but insisted looking inside the cartons would be a waste of time and then offered to show her how to shrink them down for long-term storage. What all did he know?
"Each file mentions something called 'Operation Moonlight', but I've never heard of such a thing. Do you know what it might be? Is there something in the Archives about it?"
"I've never heard of anything by that name."
Pius was just a little too quick with his answer to be believable. Realizing she was skeptical, he took a cautious look around the room to make certain they were still alone and lowered his voice to a whisper.
"Please don't ask anyone else about that, Hermione. It happened a long time ago, but there are still those alive who don't want anyone to know about it. Best to stop now before the wrong person finds out."
She wouldn't promise him that she would stop. Several minutes later as she walked outside in the cold and felt the familiar presence of her shadow following several paces behind to her Apparition point, she discovered she was even more curious than she was before she entered the Archives, something she didn't think was even possible.