A/N: Happy Femmeslash February, everyone! *blows kisses* I know I've already said this, but I do appreciate the reviews and follows-it's so nice to get feedback. :)
Dear Ms. Granger,
I'm very sorry that you won't be able to help me. I can't say I'm surprised; it is, after all, a grueling job, and I wouldn't dream of distracting you from your work.
I do have one more favor to ask you: I have recently acquired a sample of Klauss Brommer's handwriting. Several of my coworkers have raved about your abilities when it comes to Muggle forensics; I would appreciate some help in that regard.
If you wish to help, please meet me at Chase Odds and Ends at half past twelve on 23 August.
Best regards,
Ethnan Summersby.
"He is unbelievable."
Hermione shakes her head. "I know."
"So what'd you tell him?"
She pushes her hair out of her eyes. "Nothing. Not yet. I wanted to see what you thought first."
He rolls his eyes. "And you couldn't guess? I mean, if it was just any old Death Eater, I'd understand, but Bellatrix bloody Lestrange—"
"Keep it down," she hisses, cutting him off. "Look, I-I don't want to worry them—"
"Was that why you waited so long to tell me?" They pass a small throng of grimy salesmen, and he lowers his voice. "Hermione, they're adults. They can handle this."
She shakes her head. "As well as you did?"
"Oh, come on now. I wasn't that bad." They round another corner; and now Hermione can see the sign, swaying and creaking in the wind. "I was in shock, that's all."
"I'm not blaming you." They come to a stop in front of the store, Hermione's hand hovering above the doorknob. "I don't enjoy shocking people, Harry. And I'd like to keep the Weasleys as calm as possible."
Harry snorts. "They can handle a little chaos. They went through seven years of it." With that, he leans into the door, pushing his way in. After a moment of hesitation, Hermione follows.
This store, unlike their first meeting place, is fairly crowded. A handful of wrinkled, wizened witches crouch over a yellowed scrap of parchment in the darker shadows of the room. In a table by the window, a huge, hulking monstrosity of a man smokes a pipe, looking like something out of a Muggle detective novel. Behind the counter, a pimply young man polishes the wares 'till they shine.
As the pair of them cross the room, Hermione can't help but notice the subtle stirring amongst the patrons. One of the witches leans over to whisper in her friend's ear; the hulking wizard stares dumbly at the kids through a thick haze of smoke. When Harry approaches the counter, the young clerk gawks at the chosen one, mouth agape, like he's never seen anyone like it.
"We're here for Ethnan Summersby. Has he been through here?"
Though she's used to it by now, Hermione still feels a twinge of admiration in her stomach at the commanding tone in her friend's voice. No one would guess he's only nineteen.
"I—Yes, he's just behind—just back—I mean, I'll get him for you." The clerk, cheeks flushed a light pink, ducks into what Hermione can only assume is the storeroom.
"I'm sure it's nothing," she says, speaking to herself as much as Harry. "Maybe he's..shy?"
The young man snorts. "Ethan Summersby is not the shy sort."
She's just opening her mouth to respond-with what, she doesn't know-but right at that moment, the clerk steps through the swinging door, face even pinker than before. "He's—I'm very sorry, Sir—and, um, Ms.—but he's—he'd like to see you in there, if you don't mind."
Hermione glances at Harry. Though his face is impressively blank—no stranger would be able to guess what he's thinking—she notices a touch of worry in his eyes. "I—yes, of course that won't be a problem," she says, trying to signal to Harry without speaking that everything will be alright, that Summersby won't hurt them.
She can't tell if he gets her message, but he does follow her behind the counter and into the storeroom.
The first thing that registers with the place is how cramped it is. Crates are stacked haphazardly across the room, turning the space into some sort of bizarre maze. Thick books sit, three deep, atop every flat surface available. An old Nimbus-one-something rests on the far wall, its twigs bent and shaft cracked; a self-smoking pipe, sitting on a low table, puffs out tiny gray cloud after tiny gray cloud.
"Ms. Granger."
Hermione gives a little squeak and spins around on her heel. Standing behind the two of them is Summersby, looking mildly surprised. True to his word, he's got a crisp sheaf of parchment peaking out of his robes. "I wasn't expecting you to come."
"I-" She stands up a little straighter as he approaches. It's no good. He's still got her by a few inches.
"I didn't know you were planning on bringing friends." His voice, before so warm and gentle, now has a sharper edge to it.
"Do you remember your promise?" Yes, it's sharp, and with something else-hurt? Has she hurt him?
"What promise?" Harry looks from his friend to Summersby as though following a tennis match, and for the first time something like worry lights in his eyes. "What is he talking about?"
Summersby frowns. "Ms. Granger, either we talk alone or we don't talk at all."
Hermione swallows, a bit louder than she intended. "He wanted to come."
"What promise?" Harry repeats, eyes still on his friend.
"Mr. Summersby and I promised to...keep this between us." She squares her shoulders, gaze focused just below the ceiling. She knows if she looks around, both of the gazes in the room-light, dancing green and smoldering chocolate-will be locked on her.
"That was foolish, Hermione." His voice is low, and it makes her wince. She's not sure if it's the tone or the insult-she's not foolish, and he knows it. She never is.
"What's foolish about it?" The older man's voice has regained its mild manner, and when Hermione glances down briefly, he's moved a step closer. "Surely you don't find trust foolish, Mr. Potter?"
Harry's frown deepens. "Of course not. It's just that I find it difficult to trust someone who strikes deals with the woman who killed my godfather."
Hermione has never before believed a room could hold its breath, no matter how many times she read it in novel after novel. At least not until now. Because, as the two young men stare at each other with an impressive intensity, she swears every spare inch of air has been sucked from the space. A silence thicker than oil descends, and for a brief moment Hermione is convinced a fight will break out.
Then she opens her mouth, and the silence breaks. "Let's stay civil, Harry."
"I am being civil," Harry insists, at the same time Summersby says, "Sound advice."
The younger man shoots him a glare, but before he can fire back, Hermione interrupts again. "We're not here to bicker. We're here to-to discuss things."
"I will not discuss things with-" Summersby pauses, as though considering his options- "him here. With anyone else but you."
"Yes, you will." Who does this strong, clear voice belong to, and what is she doing inside Hermione's mouth? "You will discuss it here or not at all."
Summersby's eyes narrow, but he reaches into his robes and pulls out the note all the same. Even from her place, the young witch can make out the tidy scrawl on the yellowed parchment. "What's he doing here, anyways?"
Hermione takes a deep breath. "Just...he's just curious, that's all. He'd like to ask you a few questions."
"What kind of questions?" Though he still stands impressively still, the young witch can't help but note a small tremor in his left hand as he reaches up to flick his dark bangs aside. "You must understand I can't answer any questions without knowing the context."
"The Ministry's taught you well." Harry pauses a moment to consider his reply. "The Ministry tends to take notice when Death Eaters who are supposed to be dead show up perfectly alive."
Summersby meets the younger man's gaze, eyes darting sidelong only once.
"I'd like to know where she is." Harry's voice is low, but far from soft; Hermione almost winces.
"I'm afraid I can't tell you that."
There it is again; the silence.
For the second time, it is Hermione who breaks it. "Then I'm afraid we'll have to inform the Ministry, Mr. Summersby."
The man's face clouds-as much as Hermione hates that term, she must admit it's the most accurate way to describe what's happening in Summersby's eyes. "What a pity."
This time, Harry doesn't even bother hiding his eye roll. "The thing about laws, Ethnan-"
But they never do find out the thing about laws. Because right at that moment, Summersby turns on his heel, and with a flick of the robes and a loud crack, he's gone.
Ron is, as Harry predicted, livid when they tell him.
"Do you think you can't trust me?" The look in his eyes rather reminds Hermione of a puppy that's been kicked. It isn't doing anything for the knot in her stomach.
"Of course not, it's just-"
"Just what?" He glares at her across the table. "Hermione, I'm your bloody boyfriend. You should be able to trust me with anything."
She knows they shouldn't, but those two little syllables-boyfriend-make her head hurt. "Please don't-"
"Don't what?" He leans across the table, one freckled hand planted firmly on the honey-colored wood. "What've I done, Hermione?"
"Don't-" She pushes her hands up through her hair, making it even more frizzy than usual. She doesn't care. "Ron, I didn't mean to-"
"What? Spit it out-"
"Merlin's-my god, lay off her already." Hermione starts at Ginny's voice; she hadn't noticed the younger girl in the shadows. The redhead folds the newspaper she'd been thumbing through and fixes her brother with a stare so sharp Hermione's half convinced the wall behind him will give way any second now. "It's past. It's done. Get over it."
"It's far from done," Ron protests, but Ginny's already gone back to her paper. Before he can start talking her ear off again, Hermione stands up, pushing the chair back with a scrape of the legs.
"I've really got work to go to," she says-again in that strangely confident voice, coming from God knows where-and Ron doesn't protest because, for once, he's got no reason to. He knows full well how much muscle the Ministry's putting into
Though really, the girl thinks as she climbs the stairs, Harry and Ron will bear the worst of it. She's only standing in as a witness; as aurors, their job will no doubt be much harder.
There's no one else on the top floor-save for the distant white noise of the rest of the family, it's dead quiet. This is such stark contrast to what Hermione's grown used to she almost feels like talking to herself just to fill the silence.
She opens the door to her room and steps inside, shutting the door with a click behind her. She hasn't even started yet, and already just one look at the desk-stacks of parchment spilling over the edges, quill at the ready-makes her shoulders sag.
Don't be so lazy, she chides herself as she crosses the room and sinks into the chair. She must admit she's partially grateful for the work as she dunks her quill in the inkwell. It gives her something to think about-something other than Ron, or Bellatrix, or Mrs. Weasley-
God, Mrs. Weasley. Though she recovered quicker than any of them-or at least made a good show of recovering quickly-that five-second glimpse of weariness in her eyes was enough to make Hermione feel very, very small.
Not now. She grabs a sheaf of parchment off the stack and begins her letter, hoping the scritching and scratching can drown out the memory.
Since the war ended and the tedious paperwork began, Hermione has been the Unofficial Letter-Writer of the Golden Trio. Churning out letter after letter shouldn't surprise her; but this pile of work would throw anyone. Dear Ms. Rachita Gupta, Mr. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Ms. Minerva Mcgonagall, Ms. Marlene Boyd and half a dozen others; anyone and everyone who could help. The letters are all virtually the same; Ex-auror and Death Eater, previously thought to be deceased; might be somewhere in London; would appreciate advice and help. Signed and rolled, then onto the next one.
By the fifth letter, her eyes are beginning to ache. Downstairs, she can hear the bubbling laugh of Ginny, the clattering of pots and pans as Mrs. Weasley and the boys start on dinner. All of it feels forced, a cheerful smile one pastes on for a family picture.
She scratches out one last Sincerely, Hermione J. Granger before setting the last letter aside. In a way that suggests she has done it quite a bit, she pulls out a string of twine, cuts it from the rest of the bundle and ties up the letters in one neat stack with a little bow on top. She hands it off to Arwen-the pygmy owl, chattering excitedly on the windowsill-then crosses to the window. "To London, understand?"
The tiny bird regards the girl with large amber eyes and let out a hoot. Hermione flicks open the shutters, and the little guy hops out into the night.
She watches him drift off into the wind, then shuts the window with a sigh. She can already imagine the storm that'll hit in the morning-they'll get pelted with owls, with letter after letter begging for more details, for personal meetings. She'd better get used to these late nights of letter-writing. And of course, she'll hardly see Harry, or Ron…
Well, nothing missed there, she thinks, and almost laughs before she catches herself. What is she thinking? She must be awfully sleepy…why, the thought of no Ron almost makes her chest feel oddly...light...
She sinks into bed, eyes fluttering closed the second her head hits the pillow.