Thanks for the nice reviews and the follows! I hope you read on, I'm really excited about this fic…:)
"This," says Harry, "is not a good idea."
"I've told you, I can handle myself." She walks a little faster, and he picks up the pace. "All he wants to do is talk."
The young man snorts. "Sure he does. Hermione, I know Summersby. I've worked with him. It's never just talking. He'll want money, he'll want you to help him…"
"I'll be fine. You seem to forget saying no is one of my talents." The land starts to tilt-here's the hill-and the pair slows down. "Besides, it's been a year since you saw him. Maybe he's changed."
She knows how stupid it sounds the second it slips out of her mouth. They know better than anyone how long change takes. To his credit, Harry only shakes his head.
They reach the top of the slope, both short of breath. Harry leans on a nearby tree; Hermione fumbles with the fastenings on her cloak.
"Got your wand?"
She nods.
"Spare change?"
Another nod. "Muggle and wizarding."
"Stay safe, Hermione."
"Of course." She manages a nervous smile and, with a quick twist and a crack, apparates away.
She's never liked this method of travel; she'll never get used to it. She tumbles out of thin air, breathless and ready to hurl. Her stomach's a mess. She takes a few gulping breaths of blessedly cold air, steadying herself against the nearest wall. It takes a minute for her eyes to adjust after such a wild ride; but soon she can see the shops, leaning this way and that, their grimy windows stacked with unsold merchandise. The wanted posters, peeling at the corners, still snarling and leering though most of their occupants are long dead. Knockturn Alley.
She straightens her cloak-she's been wearing muggle clothes for so long, it's something of an adjustment-and sets off down the street, trainers scuffing the pavement. Most of the shops she passes appear empty; the few that are inhabited only have a customer or two. She takes a turn onto another street, reciting the number under her breath; "Nineteen, nineteen, nineteen…"
And there it is, address painted in crooked yellow lettering right above the awning, right above the sign that reads "Craw's Ice Cream Bar and Sweet Shoppe." The windows are grimy, and mostly boarded up; the black chalkboard up front is cracked, remaining messages smudged. She checks the name in the letter. This is the place. It may be a first. Though she's seen quite a bit, she's never come across an evil candy store.
She pushes open the door, and the tiny brass bell on the doorframe tinkles. At first glance the room appears empty; but then someone coughs, and suddenly she notices the tall, dark man standing just to the left in the shadows. She can't be blamed for missing him; he is the sort who would blend in around here. His hair is rumpled, his chocolate eyes hooded from lack of sleep. If it weren't for the telltale squared shoulders of a Gryffindor, she'd have him marked as one of the serpents.
"Granger." His voice is soft, almost gentle, like he's speaking in the midst of sleeping children. "Glad you could come. I had begun to worry."
"No need." She tucks her wand back into her pocket-she'd taken it out-before extending a hand. "Just got a bit caught up. Needed to apparate away from the muggles and all."
He nods, catching her own hand, still small and pink, in his own callused one. His handshake is firm and quick, and the young woman can't help but relax a bit. She likes authority, a leader. And there's no one more authoritative than Ethnan Summersby. "It's fine." He flicks his hair out of his eyes. In another time and place, that little gesture would make a girl swoon. "We've got bigger things to worry about. I'm assuming you got my letter?"
"Yeah-I mean, yes, yes I did." As if to prove it, she pulls the parchment from the folds of her robe. "Although-and you've got to understand I'm very honored, very honored indeed…" She chews at her lip, eyes darting to the side for the briefest of moments.
"But…?" he prompts.
She shakes her head. "I don't know why you asked me. Harry and Ron are the aurors. I work at Department for the Care of Magical Creatures. I won't be any help when it comes to catching old Death Eaters."
Summersby frowns. "Are you quite sure about that?" He rests one shoulder against the brick wall, looking at Hermione with something almost like surprise. "I think I know quite a few people who would disagree."
She flushes a light pink. "That's not...I mean, I've…"
"That's not what?" He leans in. "You're a war hero, Hermione. There's no one more qualified than you to take this on. Not Weasley. Not Potter. No one else can help me here. Not the way you can."
Something's not right. In the back of her head, she can hear Harry's voice again-"It's never just talking...he'll want money, he'll want you to help him…"
But she's the brightest witch of her age, for God's sake, and she can take care of herself.
"What kind of help will you need?"
"Ah. Yes." He reaches up and pushes his fingers through his hair, making it stand up in deep brown plumes. This is her first glimpse at the ragged white scar that marrs his otherwise perfect forehead. "The thing is...you've got to promise me. You've got to promise me you won't tell anyone."
That, the reasonable part of Hermione's brain says, should be sending up all sorts of red flags.
"Why?"
He sighs, blowing air out through his cheeks. "I was young when I made this deal...I don't regret it, but...there are certain mistakes one makes...I wouldn't want those mistakes to define my career...surely you understand."
"I don't want mistakes to define my career, either." The proper Hermione cringes. The skeptical one cheers her on.
Either way, Summersby doesn't seem offended by it. He just nods, thoughtful. "No, no...of course not. I understand." He tips his head back, contemplating the rafters, lost in his mind for a brief moment. When he speaks again, his voice has lost the passion of earlier. It is softer, gentler now. The Sleeping Nursery Summersby is back. "I would never ruin the career of another young one. I've lost too much myself. Hermione, I swear I'll do everything I can to keep your life intact. You'll make as few sacrifices as possible. This will be nothing compared to the war."
The younger woman looks into his eyes-dark, chocolate, and full to the brim with what can only be described as sincerity. "Fine. Tell me what you need help with."
Another nod. She's beginning to wonder if that's a tell of his, and if so, what does it mean? "Several years ago...two, if you want to get exact about it...two years ago, I was approached with a rather...unusual offer."
Hermione's eyebrows shoot up, and her stomach tightens some. Unusual is not a word she's fond of. "What kind of unusual?"
"You can probably guess. It was a Death Eater. One of You Know Who's closest. They wanted...they wanted a way out. He-the Dark Lord-was brutal, even to his own followers." He takes a deep breath. "They told me if I could help them-if I could find them a safe place, away from society-they'd help me find others. One in particular-one of You Know Who's worse-I'd been looking for him for a long, long time. She promised me she'd help me find him."
"She?" There go the internal alarms again. "Who was it? Would I know her?"
He meets her gaze, and for the first time she spots an intensity there that unnerves her. "Her name's Bellatrix. Bellatrix Lestrange."
Though it seems impossible, Hermione's mind goes blank. Really, honestly blank. It has been so, so long since she's heard that name. It takes surprisingly long for her to link it to that mess of dark curls and the hollowed face and that crooked wand.
But then she does, and soon her stomach is sinking. He's mad. Really, honestly bonkers. "Summersby," she says, as gently as she can, "Bellatrix Lestrange is dead. Mrs. Weasley killed her. I was there. I saw it."
He shakes his head. "That was another Death Eater. Lower in the ranks than she. We...well...we talked with him, and she took his polyjuice potion and he took hers, and they switched places."
"But that can't be true-I mean, why would she abandon Voldemort? He was everything to her." Hermione barely even met Bellatrix, but she knows this. She saw the crazed expression in her eyes, something like love, even, and she clings to that image with all her might. Because the memories are starting to creep back, and with them the terror, the blood, the pressure of the older woman's body on hers...and the pain…so much pain… "She can't be alive," Hermione repeats, and it's less of an argument than a reassurance. Monsters don't survive. They've played their parts. Harry's defeated Voldemort. There are no more wars left to fight.
He shakes his head again. "She is. I saw her, just the other day. I'm keeping her in a flat, in London…charmed, I promise," he adds, like he can sense the younger girl's growing unease. "Charmed shut. She wouldn't be able to escape even if she wanted to. Which she doesn't."
Hermione's body may be here, but in reality she is somewhere far, far away. In the distance, she hears her own voice answer him. "How could I help?"
"I need someone to help me-well, the first thing would be to take her somewhere else-you see, the flat's too close to the muggle world, and she's going stir crazy in there. Nearly got seen twice-all under control, of course, just want to be as careful as possible. And in the long term, we need help with this other Death Eater."
"What'd you say his name was?"
"I didn't." He is visibly relieved that Hermione is taking this so well. Inwardly, she lets out a dark chuckle. He doesn't know the half of it. Doesn't know how terrified she is. "Brommer. Klauss Brommer."
German. It's incredible she's able to detect something so mundane as a name's ethnicity when her whole world is being turned upside down.
"So is that a yes?" His voice brings her back to Earth, back to the tiny little haunted ice cream shop, and she regards him with weary eyes. Outside, she is still as a rock; inside, every nerve is exploding in full flight-or-fight mode. One of the worst Death Eaters is out and about, and she's expected to just take it in stride?
"I...I can't…" She hates the tremor that has crept into her voice.
"Of course." He acts like he can understand her babbling. "It's alright. You sleep on it. Just owl me with your answer by next week. That OK?"
He is so gentle, so soft, so kind with her…
Her nails bite into the palms of her hands-the only outward sign of all the crazy inside. She wants to scream no, to run out of there as fast as she can-
Yet some tiny, calm part of her speaks back. You haven't even had a chance to think about it. You've got to look at this rationally.
She takes a deep breath. "I'll...I'll think about it."