DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but this twisted so-called "plot".
Some of the dialogue here has been directly lifted (errrr, borrowed) from HBP.
The deserted passageway was a mesh of beguiling shadows; intrigue and conspiracy hung thick in the air like a rancid fog. The night was a quite one... the kind where all sorts of no good sinister creatures, great and small, came out to play.
Hermione Granger, P.I., pulled her dark cloak tightly around her (impeccably disillusioned) frame, and she peeped around the corner leading into the seventh-floor corridor. Her mark – tall, slender, and so very blond – had just stepped out of what had been a solid wall, and was surveying his surroundings with great caution. He had such a strong aura of ambiguity about him – his fair colouring somehow able to scorch and chill at the same time.
Beautiful, sure, but there ain't never been no pretty face that had managed to lead Hermione Granger, P.I., astray...
Okay, NO. Draco Malfoy could NOT be a femme fatale. Er, homme fatale. Absolutely not.
The sound of soft footsteps brought back her focus: Malfoy was walking down the corridor, away from her. She hastily made to follow, silencing her own footfalls.
She wasn't going to bother attempting to break into the room he had been using – she knew that it would be a completely pointless endeavour. To her grave disappointment, neither Crabbe nor Goyle were at hand, so she wouldn't be eavesdropping on any potentially edifying conversation as she had hoped.
But she continued to trail him, half sprinting to keep him in sight; he really walked quite fast.
There was a hypnotic quality to the way light bounced off his hair. He kept his spine absolutely straight, his arms swung just the right amount, and his chin remained self-importantly raised. From the back, none of his recently developed signs of weakness were evident.
He stopped suddenly, and Hermione got so involved in keeping herself from tripping over her own feet, that she didn't notice the presence of another person in their midst.
"Pansy," Malfoy stated, folding his arms across his chest and looking down his nose at the girl.
"Oh, Draco! Where have you been? Sprout said you were supposed to report to her for detention two hours ago, but nobody had any idea where you were... and oh, you're in so much trouble..."
"Fuck," Malfoy spat, "I completely forgot... that dumpy old bale of hay will probably double my punishment now."
"Where have you been, Draco?" Pansy asked miserably, "Where do you keep going...?"
Malfoy scowled. "None of your business. Now move; I've got talk to Snape and see if he'll get Sprout to drop this ridiculous detention business..."
"No, Draco, Wait!"
Pansy grabbed onto his arm desperately, and he glared at her in disbelief.
"Have you lost your mind, Pansy? Let. Go."
"No first you listen, I –"
"Let go NOW." He had a crazed, fearsome look in his eyes, and Hermione was quite impressed that Pansy stood her ground.
"NO!" she yelled, "No. First you tell me what you're doing. I've barely seen you in months! You don't eat, you're rarely in class... you don't even look at me! And you haven't... we haven't... in ages..."
Hermione always thought that if she ever saw Pansy Parkinson cry, she'd be rather... well, not gleeful... just perhaps filled with some well-deserved schadenfreude. But there was nothing enjoyable about watching her snivel while clinging onto Malfoy's arm as he sneered at her contemptuously.
"Oh poor little Pansy," he mocked, "Gagging, are we? Why don't you go ask Higgs? You know he's always up for it."
"Stop it!" she wailed, "Please! I miss you, Draco. And I'm worried about you! Are you... is it... it's him, isn't it? He's told you to do something, hasn't he?"
"As I've said before, it's none of your fucking business," Malfoy said menacingly, bearing down on her, "And I don't need you to worry about me. What I need is for you to let go of my arm, and leave... me... ALONE."
With that, he tore his arm out of her clutches and strode away. Left by herself, Pansy pressed her fist to her mouth to muffle her sobs, and after a minute or two, followed in Malfoy's still steaming wake.
Wretchedly ill at ease after that evening's bit of sleuthing, Hermione Granger, P.I., shuffled back to her headquarters, a lone figure with a long shadow, brooding intensely.
En route to the Transfiguration classroom for her next lesson, Hermione spotted a familiar cascade of red hair and realised there was one more person she'd been treating less than fairly of late. She increased her pace to a trot to catch up with her.
"Hi Ginny," she said guiltily.
"Well, hello! Long time no see, Herms of my heart," Ginny said pointedly.
Hermione replied with a clever "Um."
"Have you and Theo have made up yet?" Ginny demanded.
"We have..."
"Thank Merlin! I swear, if he had come up to me one more time to moan about you, I'd have hexed him... badly. He was driving me up the wall. Gah."
"Er, I'm sorry about that," Hermione mumbled.
"What the hell was it all about then? ...No, wait. Don't tell me. I don't want to hear another word about it. Between him and Dean I've absolutely had it with boys and their bloody whinging. Please tell me you're free later? Let's do something fun, Herms. Hermione. Please."
"Of course," Hermione agreed readily, "Come over to my dorm in the evening. You've got your OWL's coming up; I can help you brush up on Muggle Studies..."
"Hermioneeeee," Ginny whined in agony.
Hermione ignored her. "...I'm sure Seamus will let us borrow the gramophone. My dad's sent me a 'Best of the Seventies' record – I will teach you some killer Travolta disco moves."
Ginny's eyes twinkled, "I have no idea what any of that means, but I'm sure it's definitely something I need to learn."
The sky was clear and powder blue, the sun was warm and golden, and according to the Daily Prophet, six people had been killed in the last twenty-four hours: A group of three muggleborns slaughtered and laid out under a looming dark mark, one member of the Wizengamot known for taking a strong stance against convicted Death Eaters, one young shopboy running errands in Diagon Alley, and one... fuck... one five year old boy who'd been brutally and fatally ravaged by Fenrir Greyback.
Hermione folded the paper and shoved it into her bag, as if the act of putting it away would somehow erase all the tales of horror it was loaded with. But when she closed her eyes to collect herself, the back of her eyelids presented her with scenes of gore and blood-soaked damnation.
In a note entirely unlike the usual, her parents had written to her about the wave of terror that had gripped the nation – the kind that hadn't been seen since the 'Yorkshire Ripper' had been put away over a decade ago. There was a savage new serial killer on the loose, the Police claimed. "Don't trust strangers... keep your doors and windows locked at all times..."
The Death Eaters had declared open season on muggles, and apparently the Prophet didn't think that it deserved any coverage. Hermione ditched breakfast and went to the library, where she sat down to write a letter –
Dear Tonks,
It's been a while since I last heard from you. I hope you're doing well, and things are all under control. Harry mentioned seeing you in Hogwarts last week; I wish I had known you were visiting – it would have been nice to catch up.
However, the reason I'm writing to you now isn't to exchange pleasantries. There has been an alarming upsurge in reports of unsolved homicides in muggle newspapers. Muggles are being mysteriously murdered all across the country, with no discernable pattern, and no viable evidence left at the crime scenes. I think you know full well who's behind all this.
I need to know that the Auror department is taking this as seriously as it is the murders of witches and wizards. The Prophet hasn't said a word about it... but I suppose that is to be expected.
Hope to hear from you soon.
Love,
Hermione
Her hand was trembling by the time she got to the end. She would give Tonks two days – if she didn't get a satisfactory reply by then... well. She needed to formulate a game plan of her own, regardless.
In the summer before fifth year, Mad-Eye, Shacklebolt, and Tonks had placed a variety of protective enchantments on her parent's home; but after all her research, Hermione knew that that wasn't good enough by half. Her parents were essentially sitting ducks at this very moment.
The fidelius charm was out of the question... there was no way she could warn her mum and dad against giving out their address without them retaliating with a billion questions. And of course she could NOT tell them the truth without her dad rushing off to collect his ornamental kukri from the mantle, and her mum breaking into a rousing chant of "el pueblo unido, jamás será vencido".
...Even if she found a spell powerful enough to keep her parents fully and wholly safe, her absence would draw them out. If she just disappeared, they'd be devastated beyond anything, and they'd organise huge search parties... almost certainly rope in that patient of theirs who worked for the MI6...
In the midst of this acutely upsetting, paralysing, demoralising, terrorising dilemma, a face appeared in her mind's eye. It confused her at first; what the sodding hell was Gilderoy Lockhart popping up in her head for?
And then.
Oh, and then.
The quest for the perfect solution was absorbing enough to keep her from truly grasping the enormity of the consequences of that particular plan of action... The library contained over twenty-five books on advanced memory charms, after all.
...my assignments are restricted to guarding Hogsmeade, or the occasional high level ministry official. I'm not in touch with anybody from the muggle surveillance unit, but I'm sure adequate measures are being taken. Sorry I couldn't be of more help...
Hermione crumpled up Tonks' derisory response and chucked it into the common room fire.
"What was that?" Ron asked. Both he and Harry were watching her inquisitively.
"Nothing," Hermione muttered.
Ron frowned, but Harry just shrugged and went back to watching the Malfoy-dot on his Marauder's map, waiting for it to move towards the seventh floor corridor.
"Four muggles were murdered today," Hermione whispered after a few beats of silence.
Harry and Ron looked appropriately disturbed, but neither of them thought to ask her about her parents.
The shuffling of feet, grating of chairs, and a rapid intensification of chatter ensued the moment Flitwick dismissed the class. As students poured out of the room, Hermione turned to Harry and Ron and said, "You two go ahead; I want to get the first draft of my assignment looked over..."
They left, (Ron rolled his eyes dramatically) and soon, Hermione was alone in the room with the tiny charms professor.
"Is there something you need, Ms. Granger?" he asked curiously.
"Yes, professor. I came across a very interesting book on memory charms in the library the other day, and it mentioned this one spell... omitto... but it didn't quite say what it did..."
"Ah yes!" Flitwick beamed, "It's a rather nifty variant of the obliviate charm. It's reversible, for one... as long as you know the exact memories that have been omitted. It's also easier to target and replace memories with this spell. But absolute clarity is necessary – you have to cover every single detail of the memory being erased, as well as that of the memory you wish to plant. Extremely complicated stuff..." Flitwick paused to eye her for a moment, and then continued, "If you will accompany me to my office, I can give you a book that will explain it all clearly..."
"Oh, I'd really appreciate that, Professor!" Hermione gushed enthusiastically.
"Come along, then."
It was settled.
An outward facing arc – Fragmen omitto – and a sharp upward flick. That was the spell that would expunge her existence from the memories of the reasons for her existence.
It was settled, and she was so agonisingly unsettled.
One-thirty AM.
Hermione sat curled up on a window ledge a short distance from the door to the astronomy tower. Staring out into the night, she was sickened by her thoughts, and her plans, and herself. What kind of monster would tinker with such wonderful minds? What kind of reprehensible ingrate would obliterate her own parents' memories? What right did she have to shred and patch up something as fragile and personal as that?
"Hermione?"
She jumped, nearly tumbling onto the unforgiving floor.
"...Theo?! You gave me such a fright! What are you doing here?"
"What are you doing here?"
Hermione raised a brow at his sad attempt at deflection. "Thinking," she averred.
He stared at her searchingly; it was the type of disconcerting scrutiny that saw through any facade she might try to put forth. Damn it, he knew her far too well.
"What's wrong?" he asked, concern lacing his voice.
"Nothing."
"No. Something is wrong."
Hermione turned back to the blackness beyond the window and sighed. And then she told him everything. Saying it all out loud – putting the entire scheme in words and vocalising them – turned her stomach in the most grievous manner. She couldn't breathe properly.
"It's the right thing to do, Hermione."
Oh, how she had longed to hear that, exactly that, straightforward, direct, clear-cut...
"Is it?" she whimpered.
"Absolutely. I'd do exactly the same, if I had the option."
Hermione pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes, hoping to send back the tears that were threatening to make an appearance.
"Come with me," Theo murmured, pulling her hands down gently.
"Where to?" she rasped.
"Just come," he stated simply, "But first..." he pulled out his wand, aimed it at her (the fact that she didn't even flinch was a testament to how much she trusted him), and whispered a spell.
Feeling a trickle of magic shimmy down her body, Hermione asked, "You disillusioned me?"
"Yes. Now follow me."
Silently, he led her down to the fifth floor, all the way to the music room.
"Stay in the shadows, and don't make a sound," Theo whispered. Then he walked inside, leaving the door open just long enough for Hermione to slip in. She crouched in a darkened nook beside a large shelf, as Theo settled on a chaise longue way off at another end.
In the middle of the room was a beautiful mahogany piano, behind which sat Draco Malfoy, giving Theo a look that was amused and exasperated in equal parts.
"You've followed me here as well? Merlin, Theo. Your persistence knows no bounds."
"I just wanted to hear you play, you arsehole," Theo replied superciliously, "It's been a while."
"You've been hanging around Gryffindor twats for too long. It's decimated your ability to lie convincingly."
"Just shut up and play, will you?"
With that,Theo closed his eyes and reclined against the arm of the chaise longue.
Malfoy smirked. And then he started to play.
It was one of Chopin's nocturnes, though Hermione couldn't say which one, exactly. From the very first note a sort of glorious resplendence usurped the atmosphere – the candlelit sepia tone of the room turned into enchanted golden dust. It was too forceful to be tranquillity... too powerful to be soothing... too overwhelming to be comforting. But it was a thing of beauty. It was fucking absolute beauty, and it suddenly, jarringly permeated through Hermione's constricting hopelessness.
Beauty.
Beauty, truth, and rarity.
Malfoy's eyes were intent on the keys. His hands danced over them elegantly, like his fingers were performing a perfectly synchronised dance. Hermione couldn't look away from them as they skittered mesmerizingly.
Grace in all simplicity.
Who could object to melancholy when it tasted so sweet? Every crisp note performed the gentlest twirl as it made way for the next... together they formed an effulgent wave of pathos... a molten swell of all-pervading melodious poignancy.
The impression of the final fragment of music lingered long after Malfoy had ceased playing. In those moments brimming with overpowering... somethingness, Hermione just breathed. She wasn't who she was. Malfoy wasn't Malfoy as he gazed expressively at the empty air in front of him. Theo wasn't Theo, lying back with his eyes close. They were all just objects once all their meretricious masks and projections had been leached away by corrosive tendrils of true, rare beauty.
Here enclos'd in cinders lie.
When the fugue had lifted, Theo and Malfoy dawdled towards the door with heavy steps.
"How's Pansy doing?" Malfoy asked hoarsely.
"What are you asking me for?" Theo asked, giving him an odd look, "I'm dead to her, remember?"
"Right. I just thought you might've seen her around..."
"Um, sure," Theo replied, still wearing a perplexed expression, "She was in the common room this evening, blabbering on about some new robes she'd ordered from Milan."
With a short, hollow laugh, Malfoy doused all the tapers in the room.
Hermione was left alone in the dark where she sat unmoving... still just breathing.
Three days later she was sobbing into her pillow after opening a package from home that included a collection of short stories by Kafka, a box full of tea cakes from her favourite bakery, 'The Stone Roses' on vinyl, and a two page comic hand drawn by her dad, titled, 'When Evelyn McCowan-Granger Cooks: A bleak tale of Trepidation and Despair'.
There was also a copy of The Telegraph; 'MYSETRIOUS STRING OF DEATHS CONTINUES... ANDERSON FAMILY FOUND DEAD IN THEIR DINING ROOM – CAUSE OF DEMISE UNCLEAR... SHOCKING: DECOMPOSED CORPSE FOUND FLOATING IN THE FOUNTAIN AT TRAFALGAR SQUARE...'
Hermione's discomposure was at its peak on Wednesday afternoon.
She stood in a line between Gregory Goyle and Daphne Greengrass, bouncing on the balls of her feet, studiously ignoring the hulking boy and the sneering girl that flanked her. She was minutes away from her Apparition test, and she'd never been good at dealing with pre-examination nerves.
On top of everything, Ron had developed a new infuriating habit – he'd taken to diving behind her the moment he thought he spotted anything remotely resembling a girl. Each time, Hermione had to assure him that it wasn't Lavender, and then he'd straighten up awkwardly. Was there anything more ludicrous than a tall, strapping lad cowering behind a scraggy girl, nearly a foot shorter? ...Oh yes there was: An overwrought half-giant expecting students to break curfew to honour the passing of a colossal, man-eating spider.
Students were being called, one by one, to the middle of the Great Hall, where Twycross and two other ministry officials stood waiting expectantly. One was a rather severe looking old woman with a clipboard in hand, and the other was a plump, shabbily dressed man with thinning ginger hair, who felt compelled to break into a round of applause whenever a student passed.
He was presently engaged in one such bout after Hannah Abbot successfully went from point A to B.
Terry Boot passed. Mandy Brocklehurst passed. In fact, there were quite a few success stories... only Susan Bones and Justin Finch-Fletchley had failed so far...
Seamus whopped with delight on passing.
Twycoss tut-tutted dismally when Goyle bungled up his test. Hermione couldn't suppress a smirk of satisfaction when he lumbered away, looking sour.
"Granger," the stern woman called out.
Destination... Determination... Deliberation...
She didn't take more than a couple of seconds to brace herself – and then she was being squeezed through oblivion... and crack! Victory!
"Excellent as always, Ms. Granger," Twycross praised warmly.
The dumpy ginger man went berserk.
Hermione lingered by the edge of the hall, wanting to see how Theo and Ron fared. To her delight, Daphne Greengrass stumbled over her fine silk robes while attempting to spin.
"Oh come on! I tripped! Let me have another go!"
Her objections were duly ignored.
Theo disapparated flawlessly. When he reappeared, he was wearing a lovely, broad grin... aimed directly at her. She returned his gleeful expression in kind.
Finally, it was Ron's turn. Hermione bit her lip in anticipation, more nervous for him than she had been for herself. Ron took a deep breath... closed his eyes... and spun.
He did it. Seconds later, he was standing within the circle of the wooden hoop, blinking in disbelief at himself. Mister Enthusiasm brought his hands together, primed to clap-clap-clap, but he was interrupted by Madam Hostility.
"Hold on. What's this here?" she demanded while pointing at nothing. The two men peered closely at the tip of her finger.
"I believe," Twycross drawled drolly, "that that is half of Mr. Weasley's eyebrow."
"Fail!" the woman barked, "Okay, next; Zabini!"
Outrage, indignation, and displeasure fulminated on Ron's cherry-red face as he stormed out of the Great Hall. Hermione raced after him, catching him just as he was beginning to climb up the grand staircase.
"Ron...!"
"Half an eyebrow. Half a fucking eyebrow. Seriously? HALF AN EYEBROW?!"
"I'm so sorry..."
"Argh. I can't believe they failed me over half an eyebrow!" he groused feverishly.
Hermione attempted to temper his fury with consoling platitudes, and it worked to a certain extent – Ron's weakness for mollycoddling was dead useful sometimes.
They were intercepted by Dean and Ginny outside the Gryffindor portrait hole, and Hermione left Ron to grumble at them.
"Harry!" she cried the moment she entered the common room, "Harry, I passed!"
Harry smiled widely and said, "Well done! And Ron?"
"He –" Hermione faltered, "He just failed. It was really unlucky; a tiny thing. The examiner spotted that he'd left half an eyebrow behind." Harry grimaced sympathetically. "How did it go with Slughorn?" she asked, hoping he'd made some headway during the scantily populated potion's lesson that afternoon.
"No joy," Harry replied dully.
Ron slid in though the portrait hole then, and morosely plodded over and joined them.
"Bad luck, mate," Harry offered bracingly, "but you'll pass next time – we can take it together."
"Yeah, I s'pose. But half an eyebrow!" Ron exclaimed for the nth time, "Like that matters!"
"I know," Hermione consoled, "it does seem really harsh…"
Later that evening, Hermione, Harry, and Ron watchfully slinked up to the boy's dormitory, after making sure that Neville, Dean, and Seamus were all otherwise occupied. It had been a while since Hermione had been there – nothing different about it, though. 'Teenage boy clutter' was a fairly constant phenomenon.
Harry plunged into his trunk, burrowing his arm all the way up to the elbow, and extracted a minuscule bottle from within its depths. Felix Felicis. Hermione still couldn't believe that using it to finally gain the upper hand over Slughorn had been Ron's idea.
"Well, here goes."
Harry knocked back a careful gulp as Hermione looked on in awe, and he had only just lowered the bottle when she asked, "What does it feel like?"
He merely stared back at her for a few seconds, as if perturbed by how anticlimactic the moment had been… but then, slowly, a look of absolute, vivacious wonderment bloomed on his face. He positively beamed, hopped onto his feet spryly and spoke with uncharacteristic merriment, ""Excellent. Really excellent. Right … I'm going down to Hagrid's."
"What?" Ron and she spoke at the same time, in matching astounded tones.
"No, Harry," Hermione prompted, "You've got to go and see Slughorn, remember?"
Harry was the living, breathing, (raving) embodiment of self-assurance. "No. I'm going to Hagrid's; I've got a good feeling about going to Hagrid's."
"You've got a good feeling about burying a giant spider?" asked Ron, thoroughly appalled.
The Almighty Chosen One pulled his supreme invisibility cloak out of his bag. "Yeah," he expounded, "I feel like it's the place to be tonight, you know what I mean?"
"No." Ron and she once again spoke in harmony.
Hermione nervously examined the golden liquid glittering inside the tiny bottle Harry had drunk from. "This is Felix Felicis, I suppose?" she said fretfully, "You haven't got another little bottle full of – I don't know –"
"Essence of Insanity?" Ron offered.
Harry – well, Harry's disembodied head – laughed. "Trust me," he said as he walked towards the stairs while fixing his cloak and disappearing completely, "I know what I'm doing… or at least Felix does."
Hermione and Ron shared a brief distressed look, before hastening to follow him. The door was open – so presumably Harry had made it out; but before they could take another step, their path was cut off by Lavender Brown… Lavender Brown who at that moment could be called Scarlett Crimson.
"WHAT WERE YOU DOING UP THERE WITH HER?" she hollered.
"OH! Uh… Lavender… fuck, okay, look… this isn't… it wasn't… we weren't…"
Ladies and gents, if you ever require top quality inarticulate spluttering during unfortunately awkward situations, Ron Weasley is your man!
"YOU WEREN'T WHAT? GO ON TELL ME!"
"We weren't…. weren't… anything, alright?! It was nothing! Nothing!"
Hermione tried to intercede, "Lavender, Ron and I were just talking…"
"You shut the fuck up, you slag. You've been trying to steal my boyfriend from day one! You shameless hussy – you – you – ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?"
Well then. There were basically two ways to deal with this situation:
1. By responding in kind, i.e., screaming back righteously, raging at being called such vile names, having it out, unleashing a proper slanging match, et cetera.
2. By bowing out... Because fuck that; it so wasn't her scene.
Hermione raised her palms in surrender, and escaped out the door, careful to avoid brushing against Lavender. The door slammed shut behind her.
She breathed deeply.
Then she realised that there was another loud argument occurring in front of the portrait hole.
"I didn't fucking push you, Ginny! I haven't so much as touched you in weeks... not that you'd notice, of course..."
"Oh Merlin's rod. Don't start that again. Honestly, Dean... will you EVER stop complaining?!"
"Sure, when you stop nagging and biting my head off for no bloody reason..."
Good lord, Harry had left a trail of absolute destruction in his wake. Perhaps that was how Felix Felicis worked – it maximised its drinker's luck while drastically diminishing the luck of those around them to maintain the general balance of fortune.
Hermione didn't need to think twice before scampering out of the common room. The thought of passing the evening in the library made her soul sing, and the prospect of spending a good portion of that time in Theo's company warmed her heart.
As she was walking past the Transfiguration section, angry loud-whispers seeped out from between the bookshelves.
"Do you even know what you're saying?! That makes no sense – shit, you're such an idiot." That was definitely, undoubtedly Padma speaking.
A male voice retorted heatedly: "So I made one mistake! You don't have to be such a harping bitch about it!"
"How dare you?! I don't know what I ever saw in you..."
Shaking her head, Hermione quickened her pace. She was truly desperate to reach her oasis of serenity.
Half past midnight, and Hermione sat alone in the Gryffindor common room. Harry still hadn't returned from the Felicis-trip. She gnawed at her lip in worry... the potion had to have worn out hours ago. Where could he be?
She curled up on at sofa, determined to stay up till he got back. Not that going to her dorm was an option – the collective scorn of Lavender and Parvati had formed an impenetrable force field at the door...
The next thing she knew, Harry was shaking her awake.
"Harry... Where were you? What time is it?"
"Dunno. Late. I was in Dumbledore's office. I got the memory, Hermione! Fuck, I have so much to tell you... but... tomorrow, alright? I'm knackered."