Golden Haze, Act Three, Interlude Two

AN: Now this update was planned. MUHAHAHAHAHA. I like to keep track of my hits on chapters and hilariously, ever since I put up Act Two, the site's hit tracking system has been down. Welp, guess I can't now.

This chapter is intentionally short. Setting the scene for the finale.

Music of the Story: Yaz – Mr Blue

The darkness of her backyard swam into view as Hermione apparated into the area behind her mother's garden shed. She had nearly landed in the wheelbarrow (again) and carefully sidestepped around it as she gathered her wits about her. They were like a protection spell against what she was sure was coming. In all honestly, it was only stubbornness that brought her back to this place. She and Fleur had talked about her returning here on Christmas Eve to deliver the gifts that she had chosen for her parents and simply leaving them under the tree.

To Hermione, it seemed better than an inevitable confrontation.

The air was cold around her and she hugged her coat more tightly around her. It was overcast and there was no moon. The only light came from the motion-activated light that her neighbor had rigged up to deter burglars many years ago (much to her parent's chagrin). Hermione picked her way across the yard, wrinkling her nose as her toes sunk into the soggy grass in places.

It was so quiet, but the hour was not late. The silence made her nervous and she flexed her wrist reflexively, checking on the release point of her wand holster.

Drawing up to the kitchen door, Hermione rested her palm on it, cautious and feeling for the remnants of the wards that she had erected before she left. She wanted to know if anyone had magically forced their way into her parents' home. The threat of Voldemort was gone, but Hermione did not trust easily now. She wanted her parents to be safe and this was the best way. Carefully spelled-out wards and magical alerts if anything were to attempt to force its way inside had become something of a specialty of Hermione's during the war; she was glad that they could still be useful.

The door was cool against her fingers, and nothing had been disturbed and no one had forced entry. She exhaled softly and whispered the words to unlock the spells, and then bent and pulled the key out of the flower pot where her mother kept it. It clicked and the door swung open, Hermione slipping inside silently.

The house was quiet and dark, save for the Christmas tree's twinkling lights in the living room, visible through the open doorway across the room.

Everything looked so normal, here. Clean dishes lay in the dish drain, waiting to be put away in the morning, the coffee maker's timer was set, and her mother had set out what looked like waffle-batter to rise over night on the counter. Hermione felt a pang of homesickness so acute that she felt compelled to sit down and fall once again into the despair that the feeling of her mother and father telling her to leave had sent her into.

They had wanted more time to adjust to everything that she had had to say to them. She understood it on an intellectual level, but she wished that there was a way that she could find herself emotionally sound with her parents' decision. It hurt far more than the act of leaving them with no memories had done.

No, she shook her head. She knew what she had done was wrong. She had to deal with the consequences – it was now or never.

Forgiveness, she hoped, would come in time. Her parents understood of the differences between the wizarding and magical world, even if they did not fully comprehend them. She was a creature of two worlds now, and no matter how much Hermione felt at home in this house, it was not her place any more. She belonged elsewhere, doing things that did not involve things that her parents considered normal. She would never go to university, never take a job in the muggle world; she would grow old and live her life in a world so alien to them that they could hardly relate to it.

She crossed the kitchen in a few short steps and paused to glance up the stairs. The bathroom night-light was still on, a remnant from her childhood fear of the dark, but it was silent upstairs as well. Her parents had gone to bed, she would not see them.

It was for the best.

A few presents dotted the underside of the Christmas tree, and Hermione stooped to tuck the ones that she had brought under the tree as well, before turning to place the letter that she had written, apologizing once again and leaving contact information for when they were ready, on the coffee table.

"Ah, Ms. Granger, we've been waiting for you."

The letter fell forgotten to the floor. Her wand was in her hand in a second, illuminated and held at the ready. There was a man sitting on her mother's sofa. He was squinting in the suddenly light of her wand, but she could see one carefully extended between his long-nailed fingers – a counter, in prefect form.

A duelist? Hermione's mind was racing.

"Who are you?" She demanded, carefully taking in the man's leather jacket and the long scars running down his cheek. As soon as the words left her mouth, she recognized the scars from the pictures that Bill Weasley had sent Harry and McGonagall. Jones, she thought murderously. This was the man who had attacked Draco, who had killed that part-Banshee singer, her eyes narrowed, trying to think of the course of action.

He laughed, the sound warm and welcoming, not at all what Hermione was used to in a villain. High-pitched and cold sounding laughter echoed through her ears then, joined with a cackle of a woman she knew was dead. Why was she thinking of that time at a time like this, she couldn't lose focus, she was going to mess up and potentially get herself killed. "Come now, I believe you are very much aware of who I am, smart girl that you are."

Not lowering her wand, Hermione nodded slowly, "You're Jones." She could not get the memory of what had happened at Malfoy Manor out of her head. The pain of Bellatrix's knife was harsh and acute, the wound had long-since healed. Why was she reliving the moment now? She shook her head violently, concentrating on the scars on the man's face. "Why are you here?" she demanded, desperate for more time to collect herself and strategize. She couldn't use magic here, she'd destroy her childhood home and her parents would never forgive her, even if it was to save their lives.

"I am here to collect an asset," Jones said, his hands on his knees as he eased himself to his feet. Harsh black eyes flashed as he drew his wand back, pointing it upwards in the general direction of where her parents now slept. "You will come with me if you do not want your precious parents on the other end of one of my very strong – if I do say so myself – blasting curses."

Hermione gripped her wand, wondering if her shield spells were faster than his blasting curses. She doubted that she would be able to do much before one of the spells hit the foundation or the walls and actually did potentially hurt her parents. It seemed that she had no choice.

"If I come," she asked, her voice hard. It was her duty to protect her parents from the evils of the world she was now a part of. "You will spare them?"

Jones nodded, "I am a man of my word."

Hermione closed her eyes, concentrating very hard on Fleur, on the wonderful memory of how her face had lit up in that record shop. She had one chance to get this right, and her message was clear in her mind. Captured, help, Jones.

She lowered her wand, pointing it at an angle towards the floor behind her, "Then I surrender, for the time being."

He looked relieved, and raised his wand in a conjurer's stance. For rope, Hermione thought, letting the spell she'd been preparing go, pushing as much magical energy into it as she could – it had a long way to go to get to Shell Cottage. "Expecto Patronum," she said, just as Jones changed his stance to the aggressive and hit her squarely in the chest with a stunning spell.

As her consciousness faded, Hermione watched the slivery otter bound through the wall and off in the direction of help. Jones was standing over her, and she saw no more.