Chapter Five
Hermione Knows Everything
Convincing Teddy to let me talk to Hermione and Ron wasn't hard—he loves them, and he's just as impressed by Hermione's prodigious genius as I ever was. Convincing Andromeda is a different story.
"Harry, you can't be serious."
Uh, yeah, lady, I'm pretty serious. Luckily for me, I can keep my mouth shut when I'm thinking. Unluckily, I have decently expressive eyes. It's great for romance, not so much for holding back the snark.
"Harry, you obviously have not thought this through. Even leaving aside that we don't have a diagnosis of Teddy's illness to tell them . . . Do you realise what could happen if this becomes public knowledge? He is already persecuted for who his father was! What do you think would happen if anyone found out about this? He'd be facing public revilement, perhaps worse. And so would you and I," she adds with a raised eyebrow.
"Like I'd care about people's opinions of me," I mutter, but then I shake my head impatiently, not willing to get off track in this conversation. I have a point, and I'm sticking to it. "I'm not planning to paste up broadsheets, for Merlin's sake. I'm talking about Ron and Hermione, my best friends since the age of eleven."
"You are young people, and in my experience, young people have a tendency to ignore the consequences of their actions. Take my daughter. Or me," she adds more softly. "If I'd known what it would lead to, to run away with Ted . . ."
"You'd still have done it, wouldn't you?" I ask her. Hoping the answer is yes, obviously.
"Yes, of course. We loved each other very much. But this is . . . Do you truly trust your friends so much?" I take a deep breath. "Andromeda, do you know what I did, to defeat Voldemort?" You'd think it would be easier to talk about, after five years. It bloody well isn't. (And doctor, you can stuff it, unless you faced off against a murdering Dark Lord and want to compare notes.)
"Not exactly. But you've never spoken much of it."
"Does anyone know what I did, to the best of your knowledge?"
"No. You've never explained it."
"Ron and Hermione know. They know every detail. They know all the horrible stuff that Professor Dumbledore told me to keep secret. And they've never breathed a word of it. To anyone. We don't even talk to each other about it. If they can keep a secret that big, I think they can handle this. They are my best friends, and I don't think it's possible for me not to tell them. And you don't really know Hermione, no offense. She'll be able to help."
She opens her mouth, and closes it again.
Man, when I'm good, I'm good.
I swagger into Ron's cubicle and sit down in his desk chair, putting my feet up on his desk with a sharp clunk. He turns around from the tackboard he's standing in front of—appears to be a map with people's positions marked on it and lots of arrows pointing to where they should go—and gives me a wary look.
"I want some coffee, newbie."
"Of course, sir, but pardon me, sir, I seem to recall that you actually despise coffee. Sir, would you permit me, please, to fetch you a cup of tea instead? My most humble apologies for being so forward with my opinion, sir."
I grin at him. "I could get used to this. Do you promise to call me sir next time we go to the Leaky for a pint?"
He smacks the back of my head. "Feet off the desk, sir. You know the Trout is always on about how we don't take proper care with the office equipment."
"Well, we're Aurors, not fucking paper pushers," I declare cheerfully, thumping my feet back down on the floor. "Merlin, I always hated studying those maps."
"Well, they're dead useful for training us in strategy, aren't they? Showing us how successful operations have been carried out and all."
"Strategy was always your department," I shrug, fully aware of my shortcomings and not caring. That's why there's more than one Auror on most jobs, isn't it? "I'm more of a blow-stuff-up-and-run kind of guy."
"Must be why the Trout was saying you'll never get a promotion."
As a matter of fact, during our last little talk about etiquette for famous people, Kingsley mentioned that Head Auror Nguyen, also known as the Trout (for the cold, fishy stare he gives suspects) is going to start grooming me for bigger and better things as soon as I've been out of training long enough that it won't look like posturing. Something about "leadership potential" or some kind of bullshit like that. (Doctor, you seem to be saying I could really go places if I didn't underestimate myself—you don't have to say such ridiculous things just to get my attention!)
"What are you doing in here, anyway? Don't you have a suspect to question—excuse me, help question, since you're still too new to do it yourself?"
"Finished," I say in a breezy voice, ignoring the jab with a very dramatic expression of offended dignity. "Took one look at my infamous self and caved. I thought Lucas would cry, he was so disappointed at how easy it was. Swear to you, getting answers out of that guy was easier than getting sex out of a cheap hooker with 50 Knuts."
"You'd know that, to compare, would you?" Ron asks me with a grin. "I'll be sure to mention that to Ginny when I see her next."
I roll my eyes at him. Like I'd dare to be unfaithful to Ginny, much less work up the nerve to actually approach a hooker, cheap or otherwise. "I'm in here because I need to see you and Hermione tonight. You guys have plans?"
Ron shakes his head. "Nah, Hermione has a big day with a court case that you couldn't pay me to understand. We were just going to have a quiet night in."
Ron informed me recently that while he marginally still lives at the Burrow, he spends near every night in Hermione's London flat, actually keeps clothes and toothbrush there and everything. I was honestly a little surprised by that, but it makes sense, I guess. They've never been all that great at talking about the way they feel about each other, but they make it pretty obvious. I wonder how Molly feels about it, but I assume I'd hear all about it if she didn't like it, what with her being anything but tight-lipped when she's upset. Maybe she's just glad she doesn't have to clean up after him anymore.
"Mind if I come by, then?"
"No, Hermione will love to see you. I know we all work in the same building, but we hardly ever see each other, these days."
"Hey, we're busy people. Adults with careers," I say, stressing the last word until it's nearly obscene. Ron and I have a bit of a laugh about that. Who'd have thought, right? I wasn't even expecting to make it to adulthood, much less be where I am now. And I think Ron is still surprised by himself pretty consistently, even with how much he grew up trying to take care of George.
"You and Hermione ever getting married, mate?" I ask, trying to sound casual about it, with my arms behind my head, staring at the ceiling.
"Maybe," he says, just as casually, his gaze on the strategy board again. "What about you and my sister?"
Thinking of the missing ring, my stomach clenches. I'm not about to tell Ron I'm delaying the proposal for no good reason. I just grin at him.
"Making an honest woman out of her? Then where would my reputation as a rogue go?"
He mock-growls and fakes a swing at me, but lets me catch his fist in my palm. I stand up.
"Got to write up my report on the interrogation. See you tonight. Maybe seven?"
"Send a note to Hermione, would you, mate? She'll be cross with me for not telling her, and you know I'll forget."
I go back to my desk and write the note immediately, since I'm liable to forget, myself. I fold it up into a proper paper airplane—not like most of these idiots who've never seen a plane, paper or otherwise, and basically just fold them in half and charm them—and send it to Hermione. She'll know it's from me just from the folding, so I didn't bother to sign it. If she didn't know it was from me, it would be quite ominous, come to think of it. I'm just warning you, I'm coming to your place tonight. Please don't be (cough) busy. See you around 7:00.
I chuckle, imagining her reaction if she didn't, for some reason, recognise my handwriting or my liberty with inviting myself over. She'd have some damn good wards up around the place by seven, that's for sure.
I step into the Floo at something like 6:45, because I'm that anxious to get some of this off my chest and be that much closer to solving Teddy's problem. When I arrive, Ron and Hermione are on the sofa. Together.
"Gah!" I fling myself toward the kitchen, putting my hands over my eyes. "Argh!" Hands are in shirts, and lips are sucking, and, and, and . . . I do not need to see that. "I'm sorry I'm early!" I say, then I run into the kitchen counter because my eyes are covered. "Motherfucker!" I shout, reeling back and gasping for breath, tears smarting in my eyes because it really sodding hurts to ram your hip and shin into things.
"You said you'd watch your language in my home!" Hermione calls from the sofa. I hear Ron cracking up laughing.
"This is not funny," I huff, sinking down on one of the stools lined up at the island that separates the kitchen from the living room. I roll up the leg of my pants to see that my shin is swelling rather rapidly, and turning an interesting purple-red colour. "I hate both of you," I say with complete conviction.
Hermione comes over and kneels down and speaks an incantation. The swelling disappears and leaves behind only a little red that will probably become a bruise about as serious as a pixie fart.
"Love you, Hermione," I say sweetly.
She stands up, rolling her eyes, but smiling. "Good to see you, Harry," she says, leaning over to give me a peck on the cheek.
"Stop laughing, Ron!" I say with a scowl.
He grins at me over the back of the sofa. "But it's funny. We weren't really doing anything. We heard the Floo starting up, and we thought we'd give you a bit of a show."
"Do you want to know what me and Ginny did a few weeks ago? I've got that big old house all to myself, you know, all those rooms, and I told Kreacher to take a hike, so—"
"Harry, I apologise very sincerely for the joke I played on you," Ron says soberly. "I can see now that it was a mistake, not funny at all, and I will never, ever do something like that again."
When we're both laughing, Hermione just rolls her eyes again and steps past me into the kitchen, muttering, "Boys." She pulls a plate of cold cuts and sliced fruit from the fridge, which she carries back into the living area and sets on her coffee table. I follow her into the room (pretending not to notice the Imperturbable charm she casts on the carpet to ward off crumbs) and sit down in the armchair while she sits beside Ron on the couch. "If you're starving, Harry, I'll put together something more substantial."
"What about me?" Ron pouts.
"I already fed you dinner, so don't give me that look."
"I've eaten," I assure her. But we all fall on the plate quite happily.
"So, what's going on, Harry? I could tell it was something important, but the note didn't say, and Ron says you didn't tell him, either."
"That's because it's the Bug," I say, feeling my good humour beginning to evaporate. "I didn't want to risk anyone else overhearing."
Unconsciously, the two of them scoot closer together, linking their hands.
"It's something bad?" Ron ventures.
I shrug irritably. I hardly know what to call it. But I guess "bad" is accurate enough. "He's sick," I say, giving them a moment to go with that, then I explain the situation as I understand it. His illness is unique and new, and beginning to worsen. "Andromeda says he wasn't so unhealthy, before. She only started seeing the pattern with the moon a few months ago."
"Blimey, you're sure he's not a werewolf?" That's from Ron. Ever the deep thinker.
Hermione frowns, and I can see her flipping through her brain catalogue. "It does seem a bit like lycanthropy is trying to manifest itself, actually. Unsuccessfully. You said his hair was changing colour?"
I nod. "And now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure his nose was changing shape, as well."
She nods. "It sounds to me like his Metamorphmagus talent was working to keep the influence of the lycanthropy at bay."
I blink at her, stunned. It makes a lot of sense, and it's bloody obvious. No wonder I didn't see it before. I'm an idiot, after all.
"But how would that work?" I ask her, desperate to understand what is happening to my godson. Most people would probably be protesting that a Healer would have known this, but my faith is far more solidly on Hermione's intelligence than anyone else's.
"I have no idea," she says, and I immediately feel that little bit of hope that was swelling in my chest pop and start to deflate. "But I think I know where to go, to do a bit of research," she adds, giving me a little smile.
Well, hope springs eternal, and all that rot.
But I don't feel right about it, and I try to sort out why. It was one thing for me to leave Hermione to her research when it was my life on the line. I was fine with that. But this is Teddy's life. I shouldn't do it this way . . .
"I want to do it with you," I hear myself saying, and my face probably mirrors the gobsmacked expression Ron is wearing.
"You want to do research?" Hermione asks, probably just trying to confirm that she heard me correctly.
"Yeah," I say, forcing confidence into my answer. "Bug is my godson, and . . ." I shrug, like there's something between my shoulder blades. Got to get rid of that stupid vulnerability somehow. "Remus and Tonks trusted me to look after him, so I have to do it right." My voice is firm, and I am set on this.
Then Hermione, being a girl and well-versed in the male tendency toward bravado, reaches out to squeeze my hand. "Okay, Harry. Come over tomorrow night, okay? I have to get a few things before we can start."
I nod my head, because Hermione's comforting hand is making it sort of hard to speak. Stupid girls.
When I come over the next night, I bring a small roll of parchment to take notes, and I bring a list of everything I saw from Bug on that night. Hermione is pretty impressed with me.
Ron is there with her, already flipping through some kind of magazine article, and he looks up to give me his patented I-don't-get-it expression. "Magical medical speak is the most convoluted language I've ever heard."
"Convoluted, eh? Hermione, I think you've finally gotten him housebroken!"
Ron scowls at me, and tries to hide his rude hand gesture, but Hermione catches him and flicks his ear. Of course, then she ruffles her hand in his hair and drops a quick kiss on him.
"Go easy on him, Harry, he's had a hard afternoon."
"He has?"
"I've been going cross-eyed trying to read this stuff," Ron said, giving a small stack of publications a disgusted look. "And looking up words in the dictionary because Hermione wouldn't tell me what they meant."
"Why?" I ask, mystified.
"They're articles about research in lycanthropy and stuff," Ron says.
"Wait. You're looking at all of this . . . because of Teddy?"
I get a "duh" look. "Well, yeah."
"But you hate doing this stuff."
"Yeah, but," he shrugs, going red all the way to his ears, "you're my best mate, so, you know."
Yeah, I do know. And we don't need to say anything else. (Dunno, doctor, I thought it was pretty normal for blokes to pretend they don't have emotions.) I throw myself down beside him, hand my notes on Teddy's symptoms over to Hermione, and pick up one of the articles. "Get me up to speed," I say.
It takes a while.
It's later that night, when I am making some tea (got to pull my weight, if they're going to do all this for me) that I lean casually against the counter and confess my biggest problem with all this.
"Teddy doesn't want me to tell Ginny."
Ron frowns at that, and I am frowning right back at him.
"Why not?"
"I reckon that between the people who say nasty stuff to him in public, and the way his grandmother has been acting . . . He feels bad about this, or guilty or something. He's embarrassed, maybe. I'm trying to, you know, tell him it's okay, but . . ." I shrug with helplessness. "Maybe he'll believe me later. But I don't know what I can do about Ginny. I mean, she's going to notice that I'm doing all this research and getting so involved with him, especially if we can find a Healer who can help him. I'm not sure how long I could keep it a secret, you know? But I can't just go behind the Bug's back, can I?"
I'm begging for help, in my own way. (Yes, doctor, of course I would be able to ask for help if I really needed it!)
"Why don't you just tell her that?" Hermione says.
"Tell her what?"
"That something's up with Teddy but he doesn't want anyone to know, and you wish you could explain everything but you want to respect his wishes."
"Oh. I guess I could do that."
Hermione just smiles at me.
"Why would he want us to know, but not her?" Ron speaks up.
I look at Hermione. This is another one I'm not too clear on, but she knows everything.
"Maybe—" She makes an apologetic face at me, I'm not at all sure why. "Maybe he just doesn't know her that well. He's seen Ron and I a lot, but she lives so far and keeps so busy . . ."
That would make sense, and I find myself strangely uncomfortable with the whole thing. I mean, I know that Ginny and I don't see each other as often as I see these two, but saying it outright like that sounds bad.
I need to find that ring.
What we managed to find out from our research (which took not only that night, but three subsequent nights), was basically that Andromeda was correct. Teddy's case is unique. However, Hermione is the one who was brilliant enough to figure out that there was a medical centre in—of all the random places—Wrexham. It's really close to Anglesey, in case anyone was wondering. She found out about them, made sure they were decent, and we presented it to Andromeda. Andromeda went to the Wrexham Research Hospital for Witches, Wizards, and Sentient Creatures to scope them out. She discovered them to be discrete, efficient people.
So, Teddy's first appointment is going to be next week. They don't allow a Floo connexion in the hospital building, which means we have to Apparate into the town of Wrexham and enter the hospital by rather more traditional means (like walking through the front door). That's right, we. I wouldn't miss it. To make Side-Along as easy on the Bug as possible, we want to Floo to a place nearby and Apparate from there. We might even stay the night in the nearby location, because his appointment is early in the morning.
Gosh. May I suggest Holyhead?
A/N: Okay, so!
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