Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or ideas which you recognise as being from JK Rowling's Harry Potter series, or any other published or televisual or in any way copyrighted work. The plot of this story is my own, but I have no intention of making any money from it.
Chapter 4
Hermione Granger surveyed herself critically in the mirror. She wore a sleeveless lavender dress, which hugged her curves to her hips before falling in a cascade down to the floor. Her black bolero and shoes provided some contrast, and her brown bob framed her face, dark hair emphasising the diamond earrings and necklace. Her brown eyes looked bigger than ever, highlighted by the dark eyeliner and soft pink eyeshadow.
She sighed, then reached to pick up her clutch. She had never been much of a beauty, but she made sure that Helena Andrews, MP, was always immaculate in make-up and high heels, particularly because Hermione Granger, Hogwarts student, would never have been caught dead in stilettos.
She had decided to indulge, for once, hiring a limousine to take her to the Malfoys' Hertfordshire mansion. It would not do for an MP to be seen arriving via public transport, after all. As she sat in the back of the car, Hermione tried not to think about the fact that she was voluntarily walking into the home of a man who wanted to kill her and her friends. The last time she had seen Lucius Malfoy up close was at the end of her sixth year at Hogwarts, when Death Eaters had used Lucius' position as Head of the Board of Governors to bypass the wards and apparate onto the grounds. She had always avoided him in the House of Commons as far as possible, even when speaking in support of his terrible policies, which, as a member of his party, she was bound to do, however much she hated him and disagreed with his ideas. Still, being a Malfoy Party MP had brought her closer, allowing her to gather more information, and hiding her in plain sight – who would have expected idealistic Hermione Granger to speak in favour of the death penalty? Closing her eyes in the back of the cab, Hermione allowed her thoughts to return to that fateful night ten years ago, when this had all begun...
Harry had just come back from his meeting with Dumbledore, where he was learning Occlumency, more successfully this time.
"It's no good," he said, as they sat on their favourite chairs in the common room, long after the rest of the house had gone to bed. "Dumbledore won't tell me his plan, he just keeps saying that I can use the power of love to defeat Voldemort. The only thing I can get out of him is that he's pretty sure that despite his claims, Voldemort's not actually immortal, just very, very strong."
"But that's good, isn't it?" Ron looked confused.
"Not really, Ronald." Hermione remembered herself using her teaching voice, and winced at the embarrassment of the memory. "At least if he'd taken steps to become immortal, simply reversing them would probably weaken him. Like, if he had used Horcruxes like we thought before, just destroying them would make his remaining soul weaker – it's almost a pity that Professor Sinistra managed to prove using Arithmancy that a partial soul would not have been able to survive the rebounded killing curse. And now Voldemort knows that his soul is already damaged from that, so trying to make a Horcrux would likely kill him."
"Oh," Ron looked confused. "So what do we do? You're saying we have no idea what he'll do and no idea how to defeat him?"
"Well, not quite," said Harry. "Dumbledore reckons that he won't attack until after my birthday in July – that way, I'll be of age so my mother's protection will be gone."
"I suppose that gives us some time." Hermione looked thoughtful. "It could be worse. At least this way we can train you up before the final battle comes in the summer."
Just as they were preparing to give up on the Potions homework and go to bed, a siren started ringing through the school.
Startled awake, students of all years began descending to the common room in a confused mass.
"What's going on?"
"No idea, what's going on?"
"What's the wailing?"
"Is this one of the Weasleys' practical jokes?"
"Not very funny if it is."
"Is it a fire alarm?"
"Don't be silly, Hogwarts can't catch fire."
"Why not?"
"It's a castle, you idiot!"
Hermione rolled her eyes. Typical that ten years later, she remembered most of all her annoyance that she was clearly the only student ever to have read Hogwarts: A History, and the way she had to bite her tongue to prevent herself telling the second years in question that actually, the reason that this particular castle was clearly not burning down was the fireproof spells placed on each stone as it was laid over a thousand years ago. She sighed. Hermione hadn't touched that book in a decade, the memories of the castle she had once called home were too strong. At least, she supposed, she hadn't had to give up magical books completely. She kept abreast of current academic thought using second hand journals, acquired surreptitiously from Knockturn Alley once every three months. It was her one small pleasure: Ron had his Firewhiskey, Harry, his illegal use of his Firebolt in his cavernous home when no-one was around, and Hermione had her journals. She often marvelled how the academia of the wizarding world seemed to continue their former work without pause, regardless of the fact that they had a megalomaniac in charge. With that thought, she was pulled back into her memories.
Professor McGonagall came in through the portrait hole, wearing robes but with her hair around her shoulders. She looked almost panicked, but managed to maintain her authority.
"SILENCE."
The room went quiet.
"The school is under attack. Death Eaters are on the grounds. Prefects, please make sure that younger students remain in the tower – those of age who wish to help us fight may do so. Keep safe, whatever you do."
She ducked out of the portrait hole, and pandemonium erupted.
Harry, Ron and Hermione looked at each other.
"So much for waiting 'til you're of age," muttered Hermione.
"Well, of age or not, I'm not staying here." Harry looked determined.
"You don't think you're leaving us behind, do you?" Harry spun round to see Ginny, Seamus, Dean and Neville looking determined, though slightly ridiculous in their pyjamas.
"You can't all come, it's dangerous!"
"Isn't that what the DA was about?" Neville looked angry.
"Shut up Harry, you're not getting rid of us that easily. We had this discussion last year before the Ministry, we don't have time for it now. Let's go." Ginny's scowl was deepening by the minute.
Harry sighed. "All right, but you can't exactly go dressed like that. Hermione?"
She concentrated, and waved her wand in a complex spiral. "Cambiaritus Vestitium. Sorry, it's the first thing I thought of at short notice." All of them were now dressed in grey tracksuit bottoms and black, longsleeved T-shirts. "At least you'll be comfortable for moving."
"Fine, now let's go." Harry motioned impatiently to Ron, who was examining his tracksuit bottoms with all the curiosity his father usually reserved for rubber ducks.
"You'll have to show me how to do that later," he muttered to her as they ducked out of the portrait hole before the prefects saw them and stopped them for being underage. Hermione felt slightly guilty about abandoning her prefect duties like that to follow Harry, but this was more important. Besides, she was sure it would be another false alarm, and the others would be able to take care of it.
The rest of that evening was only flashes.
The flash of green when Dennis Creevy, who had crept out of the portrait hole with his brother to take photographic documentation of the battle "like a real journalist" was killed by a cackling Bellatrix Lestrange.
The flash of red light which was the slicing hex, taking down Ginny just as she managed to stupefy McNair.
The flashes of blue and yellow which were her own battle with a huge, brown haired Death Eater, whom she could not identify under the mask.
The flash of triumph in Voldemort's eyes when he saw the small, broken body of Albus Dumbledore fall from the Astronomy tower.
The blinding white light which was the Death Eaters portkeying away with the body, leaving a much depleted Hogwarts, bruised and broken beyond repair.
Later that night, when the Order of the Phoenix plus Harry, Ron and Hermione gathered at the Burrow, it was clear that they had lost. Dumbledore was dead, the simultaneous attack on the Ministry meant that there was no help from that quarter, and it was generally agreed that a strategic retreat was in order. Looking at the shellshocked faces of her teachers and elders, Hermione realised that there was no plan, that adults weren't all powerful, and that it would be up to the next generation, now.
So she stood up, ignoring the looks of surprise at the liberty she was taking, and outlined a new plan.
Once she had managed to get everyone to agree, the Order members said their goodbyes.
She apparated to the nearest village and bought a cheap mobile phone, which she used to book aereoplane tickets to Australia for the older members of the order. She phoned her parents, and asked them to take some holiday to go there too, to help arrange accommodation for the wizards and witches who were fleeing. They agreed once she explained what was at stake, but only on condition that they would come home after a two weeks. Telling the first of many lies, Hermione agreed. Within the month, she had flown out to Australia and modified her parents' memories so that they never remembered they had a daughter, and thought that the Order members were members of their book club, and family friends.
Bill Weasley, Remus Lupin and their families declined her help. Though understanding the wisdom of her plan, they decided to go instead to France and stay with Fleur's relatives. Tonks, looking at Lupin, declared that no way in hell was she going to stay behind. The other Aurors returned to the Ministry – by pretending to be loyal, they could become the Order's first spies under the new regime.
Fred and George also rejected her offer of relocation. They had a quiet conversation with Harry whilst she arranged the details for the others, then declared that they had their own plans, and not to worry about them. Since Harry nodded significantly at her, Hermione did not press the matter.
The only other problem was that of Muggleborn students at Hogwarts. Hermione felt that the best plan was to send them back to their parents for the time being, and destroy the records which held all their names. Nodding, McGonagall returned to Hogwarts to do so. It was not perfect, but the best protection that they could offer at short notice. As for the other DA members, whose families would become targets, Hermione gave them the option of going into hiding abroad with their parents, or staying to help.
There was not even time for Ginny and the other dead to have a proper funeral. That was one wrong that Hermione swore would be righted when all this was over. Though it was too dangerous for any of them to visit the grave on school grounds where the hasty ceremony had taken place, she decided as soon as they apparated away from Hogwarts for the last time that the first thing to happen after they defeated Voldemort would be a proper memorial.
So was born the Order of the Phoenix, Mark 2. Ten years they had fought, and now was the beginning of the end.
She became aware that they had arrived at Malfoy Manor when they entered a long gravel drive, surrounded by luscious gardens which were illuminated by an eerie floodlight which she supposed Muggles would consider of the electrical sort used at football matches, but which she knew to be magical. Peacocks strutted around and tinkling fountains abounded, although how they had got peacocks to strut in February she didn't like to think. They pulled up in front of the sweeping front doors, and the driver hastened to open the door so she could step out. She noted with amusement that Muggle paparazzi lined the red carped which draped the fifteen steps up to the double doorway where Lucius and Draco Malfoy waited to greet their guests. Ever the pragmatist, she thought. Malfoy's clearly trying to get as much publicity from this as he can.
Ignoring the flashes, she walked sedately up the steps. "Helena Andrews, MP for Flydale North." She smiled sweetly at the man she had been plotting to kill for years.
"How delightful," Lucius Malfoy drawled, openly admiring her figure. "It's absolutely wonderful to meet you in person, Ms. Andrews. I do so enjoy all your speeches in the house in support of my ideas."
"Certainly, Mr. Malfoy," she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him. "I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for doing such a superb job as leader of the opposition, and to wish you the best of luck in the forthcoming election."
"Many thanks indeed, Ms. Andrews. I hope that we shall have the opportunity to discuss this at some length later."
He smiled at her, and moved on to the next guest. Hermione held out her hand to his son. "Helena Andrews, absolutely delightful to meet you."
"The same," said Draco, grey eyes giving nothing away. "Do have a pleasant and successful evening, Ms. Andrews."
She entered the ballroom.
About half an hour later, she surveyed the room from behind a glass of champagne whilst pretending to listen to a dull, bald man talk about interest rates. It was easy to tell the Muggles from the Death Eaters – those with the disdainful scowls, not talking to anyone but each other, tended to be the latter, though she conceded that some of the government ministers fell into that category too. Worried at the flagrant display of wealth and opulence from the man who was, by all polls, going to beat them soundly at the election, she supposed.
Perhaps sensing her boredom, the bald man asked her to dance when a waltz came on. Having no option, she conceded.
He trod on her toes a lot. Hermione was extremely gratified when, as one waltz died away and another began, a smooth voice said from behind her, "May I cut in?"
She turned, smiling in agreement, and looked straight into the black eyes of Severus Snape.
Author's Notes:
Actually, I think that MPs should use public transport whenever possible. I just think that Malfoy is snobbish enough that he'd expect his guests (especially those from his own Party!) to arrive by limousine.
Ten points for anyone who can tell where the Flydale North reference is from?