A/N. Guys, my birthday has passed (sorry I didn't post on the day of, I've been swamped with work, they're adding a bunch of hours because of the holiday season). AND IT'S ALMOST REMMUS'S FIRST BIRTHDAY! I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas! What was your favorite gift this year? Mine was a new tattoo!
Thank you all SO much for the reviews last chapter, they really lifted my spirits! I'm just happy and relieved to hear that the reviews didn't drop because you hated it!
Writers block suchs.
…~oOo~…
Chapter Fourteen: In Which They Play Charades
It was another bad day. Chelsea's head hurt constantly. There was almost always movement and flashes in her peripheral vision. It was putting her on edge and she didn't like it. She found herself to be more uncomfortable than usual, which was saying something.
"… tell me what Muggle 'politician' was the crutch of Grindelwald's ultimate plan to dominate Europe and, ultimately, the world?" Miss Hermione asked.
Silence ensued. Adam scratched his nose, Yvette swatted a fly, and Chelsea was still rubbing her head, trying to massage out the headache. Her professor's words sounded as if they were coming through a tunnel.
Their teacher sighed. "Anyone want to guess? He's quite infamous. Come on, guys. Yvette, do you have a guess?"
Yvette just huffed and shook her head.
"What does it even matter?" Adam demanded. "We're leaving at the end of the month, anyway. What's the point in continuing lessons?"
Hermione gave him an admonishing look. "Because this is a school. And someday, you might return to the magical world and it's my duty to make sure you know something of its history and how it works."
"We're not even really part of the magical world now, so it's not like we'll ever be," Adam said, sounding annoyed but also disenchanted. "You tell us all about these awesome places and these awesome people and we've never seen any of them, we just have to trust you. Well, what's so great about the wizarding world if it can't keep the peace for more than a decade? All we've been learning about is their wars, after all. The Goblin Wars, Grindelawald's War, the First Wizarding War, the Seconing Wizarding War, and it seems it's going for the trifecta, isn't it?"
Unfortunately, he was right. With a sigh, Hermione perched herself on the edge of her desk and considered his words. "You're right," she told him. "You're completely right. Before the Goblins, it was Salazar Slythern, and as far back as you can imagine, we've been at war. But it's also a world worth fighting for. For every evil witch and wizard I've met, I've met even more good ones. Right now it may not look like the odds are in our favor, but it won't be that way forever. And someday children will sit behind desks, just like you are now, and ask how the peace can be kept if there's been all this war… it will be because we didn't give up.
"Now," Hermione continued, putting on her teacher face again. "Who was it? The so-called politician? Anyone? World War II era? He was quite infamous…"
…~oOo~…
"I'm not saying she doesn't belong 'ere," Mag said under her breath, yanking a bobbypin out of her giant nest of multi-colored hair. That day, she'd braided a lot of it and wound it into a messy bun of plaits. "I am just saying is it suspicious for 'er to come back out of nowhere."
"It's not out of 'nowhere'," Chelsea said begrudgingly. She paused, cocking her head at Mag getting down on her knees next to the door. "What are you doing? You have a wand, don't you?"
"Tracked by the Ministry," Mag said as she picked the lock with a bobbypin and a pocketknife.
"Mine's not," Chelsea said, deeply confused.
"Yes, but it's so much more fun this way," Mag said, hearing the lock click and then pushing open the door. "I'm getting pretty good at breaking and entering the Muggle way."
Shaking her head, Chelsea just entered the house with Mag. It was a musty old place, covered in a thick blanket of dust. Chelsea cast a Lumos and looked around. The floorboards creaked under each step they took.
"Anyway," Mag said as they began looking around. The walls were filled with portraits of famous people. "Let's get back to the Yvette crisis."
"There's no crisis," Chelsea said simply.
"She just dropped back into our lives! Out of the blue! No explanation, no warning!"
"That isn't a crisis," Chelsea said again, rolling her eyes. In the old sitting area was a desk. She slid open the drawer carefully and found a large stack of parchment. The ink on the pages had faded, but the words were still partially readable. The last page was cut short mid-sentence. Curious, Chelsea took the manuscript and put it in her saddlebag. If nothing else, the Professor would certainly be interested.
"She's been back for three days and she's already moving in on Adam," Mag pointed out. "You're not at all concerned?"
Chelsea replied casually, "Why would I be?"
"Because, you and 'im are –"
"Stop," Chelsea said, holding up a hand before Mag could go further. "Can we please be done with this conversation?" she said pleadingly.
"Not until you admit that something 'as to be done."
Chelsea stared at Mag, waiting for her to explain exactly what she meant.
"Yvette is trouble! It's 'er fault we got into such big trouble with the Professor five years ago. With the pie incident."
"That was our fault," Chelsea said, arching an eyebrow. "We stole from her and blackmailed her."
"You obviously remember the entire situation differently than I do."
Chelsea sighed. Sometimes Mag was downright delusional. She would prefer to remember things how she wanted to remember them and expect everyone else to just play along.
"Don't just stand there and do your Chelsea Thing," Mag said, her nose scrunching. "I don't see you as often now. Just staring and sometimes blinking or shrugging isn't a very nice thing to do to a friend who's all cooped up in the Ministry most days."
"Sorry," Chelsea said, slightly embarrassed. "I just… don't have much to say."
"I know," Mag sighed. "You never really did."
Shrugging, Chelsea said again, "Sorry."
"Quit saying sorry. It's not a big deal. It's just 'ow you are." Mag paused for a moment. "Though, you really should 'ave someone you can talk to. Besides the Professor."
"I don't…really talk to her either," Chelsea said, finding a very old bottle of scotch in the liquor cabinet and put it in her bag as well. A certain someone had a birthday coming up who would especially enjoy that. "I do, I just… don't. It's complicated."
"Do you talk to 'er about Adam?"
"Why are you so hung up on Adam today?" Chelsea asked, needing to know.
"You're sleeping with 'im," Mag stressed. "And now 'e is showing the first tart to come around a little too much attention, I think."
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Chelsea said, "Adam is my best friend."
"No. 'E is your fuck buddy."
Chelsea made a sound of frustration. "And that means he's no longer my friend?"
"That is exactly what it means."
"Where do you come up with this stuff?" Chelsea demanded, getting steadily more annoyed.
"It's common knowledge to anyone that isn't Chelsea Baker."
"Can we please just find the snake skin," Chelsea said, hating that she was so obvious to the social norm.
"Okay," Mag said, looking around the room apprehensively. "This place is pretty creepy."
"Of course it is," Chelsea said quietly. "It's been abandoned since '97 when Bathilda Bagshot died."
…
"Chelsea, are you alright?"
Wrenching upward, Chelsea almost knocked her head into Adam's. Adam had been bent over her, poking her cheek, trying to prod her from her slumber on the breakfast table. She blinked wildly, looking around, her breath coming in short, quick pants.
She seemed relieved when she saw she was at breakfast. But then embarrassed to find quite a few sets of eyes looking at her curiously.
"You almost fell asleep in your porridge," Adam said. "Missed it by an inch."
"Are you okay, though, Chelsea?" Margot asked.
"I'm fine, Mag." And then Chelsea's eyes widened when she realized what she'd said.
Margot's brow furrowed. "Mag? No one's called me that before…"
"S-sorry," Chelsea said, her cheeks burning deep red. She dropped her hands in her lap and stared at them.
"Don't apologize," Margot said, her blue eyes suddenly bright. "I like it, actually. I've always dreaded my name, but now… Mag. Yes, I do quite like it." The more she mulled it over, the more she seemed to like it.
Covering her face, Chelsea wanted to smack herself.
"It is good," Yvette said with an evil smile on her face. "Mag the Hag."
"Yvette Lane the Ultimate Pain," Margot – now Mag, apparently – shot back without even blinking.
"Mag the Drag!"
"Are you just going to keep rhyming things with Mag? Really, try being creative for once," Mag said, seeming infinitely bored with Yvette's antics. "I'll help you get started. Bag, lag, slag, gag, shag, nag –"
"I think you can stop there, I think." They all turned to find Mr. Potter standing over their table, looking amused. "Try not to call one another names, okay? It isn't polite and Hermione wouldn't be thrilled to hear it."
"Where is the Professor?" Bag asked, not seeing Miss Hermione in the dining room.
"At a meeting," Mr. Potter said with a smile. His hair was rumpled, as usual, and his hands were tucked in his pockets. "You'll see her later for lessons."
Curious as always, Adam asked, "What kind of meeting?"
"That's Hermione's business," Mr. Potter said vaguely. Then he gave them each a look. "And no snooping, you understand?"
"Snooping?" Adam said innocently. "Us?" He wasn't fooling anyone.
Smirking, Mr. Potter said, "Right. Because you're all perfect angels. Stay out of trouble." He then left them and walked to the teacher's table.
…~oOo~…
"Kingsley, how have you been feeling?" Hermione asked, sitting down in the Grimmauld library across from the tall, thin man. He looked significantly better than he did when he was first sprung from Azkaban, but he was still no longer the large, powerful, proud man he'd once been. During the Second War, he'd reminded Hermione of an oak tree, but now he was merely a shadow of that strength.
His eyes burnt with determination, though. After all that time, Kingsley hadn't given up.
"Better," Kingsley said with a nod. "Much, much better. Which I have you to thank for." He bowed his head slightly in thanks.
"It was a team effort," Hermione said, with a smile.
Gripping his coffee between his large hands, Kingsley said, "I want to talk to you about the Pettigrew incident."
Hesitating only for a moment, Hermione nodded.
"Is there any weight in the accusations Pettigrew made?" Kingsley asked gravely. "About Teddy."
"No," Hermione stressed. "Teddy's birthday doesn't fall anywhere near Harry's and he has no mark that makes him You-Know-Who's equal. Peter Pettigrew was deranged and ready to do whatever it took to get him back in his master's good graces. He was never the cleverest man and even a stupider rat."
Kingsley looked mollified by this answer, nodding slightly. "Alright. It would be a new problem altogether if there was even a seed of truth in Pettigrew's claims."
"There isn't," Hermione said confidently.
"Good," Kingsley said, nodding his head. "I am relieved to hear it. Before you go, though, I have a few more things I'd like to discuss with you. I still don't completely understand what happened with Mr. Potter's… revival."
"We'll need a pot of tea for that explanation."
"I don't wish to take up all of your time –"
"Don't worry about that," Hermione said, standing up. "I'll be right back with tea and we can sort through all of this madness. I still don't understand it completely, myself."
"I have another meeting lined up, so I hope you don't mind if another Order member joins us."
"And who might that –"
"Me," a voice joined in, walking through the door from the foyer.
Hermione couldn't help but be slightly surprised to see Draco standing there in his suit, looking as aloof as ever, but also a tad suspicious. His suit was charcoal grey and his hair was neatly combed.
"Although," Draco continued, "I don't think the overlapping of meetings is a happy accident. Is it, Kingsley?"
Kingsley just folded his hands and said, "In only a short while you two have created quite a bit of madness."
"How so?" Hermione asked, her heart thudding for some reason – and it wasn't because Draco was in the room. She suddenly felt nervous like she had been sent to the Headmaster's office for a talking-to.
"You both had your hand in Mr. Potter's resurrection, you each have taken great strides forward in the cause, together you orchestrated Skeeter's blackmail and my emancipation, and now… there has been some talk in the Order about you two."
"Being in hiding makes them bored," Draco said rigidly. "The only thing they have to do is gossip. There's no weight in their words."
Eyebrows rose, Hermione looked over at Draco in surprise only to find he wasn't looking back. He wouldn't even meet her eyes. She suddenly felt something akin to…betrayal. Just the other day Draco had almost proudly spoken openly about their relationship in front of Harry of all people. They hadn't been hiding anything, but now it felt like they were. Or, rather, it felt like Draco was hiding Hermione away.
"Are you sure?" Kingsley asked speculatively.
Draco nodded. "Right, Granger?" His eyes were flat, utterly disconnected.
Whatever reason Draco had for keeping their relationship a secret in front of Kingsley, it must have been a good one. That's what she told herself as she nodded, sighing inwardly. She was feeling deflated. She had been so happy to be open and honest about her and Draco, but there was obviously something going on in Draco's mind that she wasn't aware of.
"I'll make us tea and we can talk about Harry together," Hermione said, turning and walking straight towards the kitchen.
"I'll help you," Draco said, following behind.
Once in the kitchen, Hermione arched an eyebrow at Draco, waiting for his explanation while she filled the kettle.
"Kingsley has been gaining some support from old friends, which is why he hasn't been to a lot of the more recent meetings," Draco said quietly, following right behind Hermione as she prepared the tea. He was comfortably close, his hand occasionally brushed her hip tenderly. "The Ministry in Africa is pretty airtight. It will be the Dark Lord and Snow's number one obstacle in their quest for world domination. But the reason why it is so impenetrable is because it is fiercely neutral in all world matters. They don't even have a member in the Confederacy to represent them. They are independent and very strict.
"Because of this, an alliance will be a hard sell. There will be many visits, meetings, deals, contracts, and favors if there is any hope they'll help. Which means they'll have to see the Order at its best."
"What does any of that have to do with us?" Hermione demanded, maybe too sharply, leaning on the counter. She felt disgruntled.
Behind her, Draco pressed his chest to her back and rested his chin on her shoulder, holding her like that while she stewed.
"As Shacklebot said, we're sort of a big deal in the Order," Draco said quietly, right into her ear. His breath was hot and ticklish. "Our accomplishments are his most important bargaining chips. He can bring the things we've done to the Africans and say 'look how gifted my people are, it'd be worth the alliance'. But if we were to be romantically involved, we would seem less professional as a unit. In political dealings like these, it's best to leave all mentions of romance and sex behind closed doors."
It made sense. It really did.
It still left Hermione feeling disappointed though.
"Shacklebot needs the peace of mind," Draco said, pushing a curl behind her ear. "He can't have anything botching this deal. It will take long enough to prove ourselves as it is to the Africans." He leaned in close to kiss her temple. "Just play nice for the rest of the meeting with Shacklebot and I'll make it worth it afterwards."
"I worry you're taking too much time out of your day to spend it with me," Hermione said while he continued to trail soft little kisses down the side of her face.
"I have my time perfectly managed," Draco said. "I know when I can be with you and when I can't."
Hermione sighed and finished setting the tray of tea things, feeling flushed from the gentle attention Draco was paying to her. She knew it was because he could see how sad she was, but it still felt nice. Any touch of his felt better than nice. She was tempted to drag him into the pantry and have her way with him right then and there.
But there was tea to be served. And a meeting to be had. And a charade to be played.
…~oOo~…
~ So Long And Thanks For All The Fish ~