Nothing Else Matters Chapter 2: It's Goin' Down, a harry potter fanfic

DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns most of the characters and settings here—I own the rest.

NOTHING ELSE MATTERS

Chapter 2 - It's Goin' Down

Hermione Granger stood in her office, waving her wand to efficiently sort the mountains of paperwork that the trials had generated into neat piles, for eventual binding, shrinking, and storage. Seven years of dutiful Ministry work, and she was still shunted off to filing when her superiors didn't want to do it...which was every single time it was required, of course. It was a very tedious job, and she hadn't had nearly enough coffee to sustain alertness, so her mind was drifting hither and yon, and she didn't hear the series of quiet knocks on her office door.

So when the door swung slowly open, she was surprised and waved her wand wildly and sent a stack of papers hurtling toward Walden Macnair, who (having had his wand confiscated at the front desk) held his hands up to block them.

Fifteen minutes later, they'd both managed to pick most of the stray papers up off the floor and Hermione had sorted them back into their proper places; all the while, Macnair profusely apologized for causing the chaos and Hermione shrugged it off. "It's not as if they were in perfect order in the first bloody place, and likely nobody will ever want to read them again," she said. Most of them, in fact, were transcripts of the Malfoy family's testimony; Lucius had waxed poetically upon his grievous errors for so long that the rest of the Death Eater trials had been repeatedly postponed...which Hermione suspected was his true purpose, rather than public repentance, but she kept her opinion on that firmly to herself.

"Unless they run out of Sleepin' Draught," Macnair replied, with a very small smile that Hermione almost didn't notice, but she glanced up at him and their eyes met and all the frustrations of the past few years fell away and she didn't even care that she knew all the various offenses of the man in front of her, in great detail. She burst into helpless laughter, dropping the stack of papers she'd been clutching onto the floor.

"Bloody...sodding... hell," she managed to choke out, through her laughter, and Macnair started laughing too, then, although she noticed that he sounded a bit hoarse, as though he hadn't done so in a long time...which was probably true, she thought, having sat through most of his testimony.

"Let me get those for ye, lassie," he said, kneeling down and sweeping the errant parchment up into his large arms. "Here...quick, shrink 'em down before anything else happens."

"Yes, yes...thank you again. Sorry! Er...I probably should have asked you this when you came in, but, er, may I help you, Mr. Macnair?" At this last, she waved her wand and shrunk the stack to the approximate size of a matchbox.

"Aye...I wanted to tell ye...er, that is, I wanted to thank ye, for all the work ye did for me. I'll be goin' away for a while, not sure when I'll be back to Britain. They've just approved me Portkey," he added, looking down at the floor. Hermione knew the Portkey Office had likely kept him waiting for many unnecessary hours. He might be a parolee under conditional pardon; that didn't mean he was popular.

"But...where are you going?" she asked. She had assumed he would return to his parents' home in Scotland, where he'd been under house arrest, and live out the rest of his life there...and then she wondered oddly to herself why she even cared, but the extreme information dump of the last few years had changed her opinion, just a bit, on some of Voldemort's former henchmen.

"Australia, I need to go get me son," he said, still looking at the floor.

"Your son? I thought he was..." She let her voice drift off. The former Walden Macnair, Junior, had changed his name and then publicly denounced his father during the trials, but Hermione suspected that had a lot more to do with Macnair's divorce from his first wife than anything else.

He cleared his throat. "Me second son, Evan. I've just had an owl, me daughter sent it after she read in the Prophet that the trials had ended." He finally looked up at her then, a rather indescribable look in his eyes.

Hermione nodded. "Mr. Macnair, would you, er...would you care to go for a pint...maybe not to the Cauldron, you know, but..." They both knew that being seen together at the Cauldron would likely result in a front-page Prophet article, and Hermione didn't relish having to explain such a thing to Harry or Ginny. The words hung in the air for a moment between them, and she couldn't get them back, but it was long past 5 o'clock and she was tired, hungry and thirsty, and there wasn't anything or anybody waiting for her at home.

"I know a place ye might like," he said, by way of an answer.

"Not that dodgy pub down Knockturn?" she asked, as she waved her wand to gather her purse and cloak.

"Nay, me wife didna like the Claw, either, always said it was more full of dust and grease than anythin' else...anyway, old Viridian decided to go out of business right after Borgin and Burkes closed up," Macnair said. "Nae, this place is in Muggle London," and when Hermione looked surprised at that, he added, "They have good whiskey."

"Well, that's honestly what I prefer to a pint, anyway," she said, as she started to put on her cloak. He stepped behind her, then, and assisted her in putting it on, which would have surprised her ten years ago, but after listening to his testimony, she knew that he and several of the other Death Eaters considered themselves to be raised as gentlemen.

"That's settled then," he said, after he stepped decorously away from her. "Ye likely know this, but ye'll have to check me out at the desk so I can get me wand." She did know; she also knew that he'd bent the rules slightly by coming to her office unaccompanied, but there seemed no point in bringing that up. And his wand was a new, Ministry-issued, highly restricted model, which was monitored even more seriously than the Trace for underaged wizards.

Percy Weasley, who was, as always, working late, stared at them oddly in the lift after the requisite polite greetings had been exchanged, but Hermione really didn't care. She didn't see any of the Weasleys, other than Ginny, much anymore. Over the years, her relationship with Ron had dwindled away to the occasional uncomfortable lunch date once she'd started on at the Ministry and he'd decided to parlay his Golden Trio fame into dates with nearly every eligible British witch. Harry and Ginny had made attempts to help them reconcile, but as Hermione's heart wasn't in it, all had been failures.

Once the pair emerged from the phone box, Macnair glanced around quickly, then waved his wand over himself and transfigured his robes into a kilt and heavy woolen jumper. Hermione nodded, as she was in a rather Muggle-like business suit, already, and the cloak merely looked like a fashion statement. The air was brisk as they silently walked through the streets.

"It's nae that far," Macnair finally said, after they'd gone several blocks, and sure enough, around the next corner, a rather non-descript hotel loomed out of the darkness. As if he'd known what she was thinking, he added, "We're just goin' to the pub inside, Miss Granger."

"Oh! Er, yes, of course. Just never been here before, that's all," she stammered. She had to admit that she had been wondering about his choice of venue, considering that this was the first time in years that she'd been out alone with a wizard who wasn't Ron, Harry, or one of her co-workers...and it's not as if he's not good-looking, in fact, she'd thought that all those years ago when he came to the school for Buckbeak, in fact. He was tall and muscular and wore his kilt rather well, although the intervening years had added streaks of grey to his black hair and mustache, and more than a few lines around his eyes.

Those eyes looked a bit amused now, and...hadn't there been some story, once, about Neville poking one of them? That was all so long ago, and she would have never imagined that she'd be alone at night with any of the Death Eaters, much less this rather infamous one, but times had changed and there had been many, many extenuating circumstances.

"I doona force meself on lasses, I'm reformed, ye heard me say all that, aye?"

Hermione spluttered, because she'd actually been thinking just exactly that. "Yes...yes, I did...really, I wasn't, er...oh, sod it, let's just get inside and get that drink, shall we, it's bloody cold out here!" she said, looking up at him...good Lord, he was large...she thought. He chuckled and took her arm and led her inside, not looking the least bit concerned that he was heading into a Muggle establishment. So there's that, she thought, apropos of nothing.

Once they'd been seated at a quiet table in a dark corner of the hotel bar and started on their drinks (Macnair ordered an entire bottle), she decided to forge on ahead with what she'd wanted to say at the Ministry.

"The reason I asked you here is that I, er, I rather need to visit Australia myself, you see. And I know this might sound odd, but I know next to nothing about it, and probably because of that, I sent my parents there, to keep them safe." And why, oh why, did she need to tell this particular wizard that...she immediately thought, but it was out there, no do-overs, no take-backs, and a rather lame-sounding excuse for a drink it was.

"Aye, Miss Granger, it seems a rather popular place for that sort o'thing. Me daughter took me son there, after..." he looked down at the table. "After the Pretender killed me wife."

"And you've just found out that's where he was," she added, at the same time that he nodded at her.

"Aye," he said. "They didna tell me until now, to keep him safe."

"So he'd be...how old, now?" She fiddled with her drinks coaster, just to have something to do. The whisky was warming her all over, and the picture on the coaster was a stag, standing on a Highland mountainside, next to a loch, rather like the countryside around Hogwarts, in fact, which had always intimidated her.

"Ten," he said. "His birthday was last month, the fifteenth. Heather-me daughter-thinks he should go to Hogwarts, he's been down for it since he was born, o'course..."

"Yes!" Hermione said, "Of course he should go, they've finished the rebuilding a while back, I took a tour, it's grand, you'd never know anything was ever damaged, and Harry's children are excited, his first son will be going there soon enough..." and she drifted off, realizing just exactly how much of a dolt she sounded, spouting off all this to a Death Eater...well, former, of course. Reformed, according to him...and paroled, and conditionally pardoned. And she'd heard genuine remorse in his testimony, actually, which was why she had even considered sitting here with him in the first place.

"So I've read," Macnair said, a bit sharply.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Macnair. I do realize that all sounded a bit..." she let her voice drift off and took a healthy slug of whisky rather than finishing her sentence, and then picked up the bottle and poured herself another drink, without asking permission.

"Like a Gryffindor," he said. "Nae harm done. Sort of hoping that's where the Hat puts Evan, in fact. Even Hufflepuff would be all right, I guess, near the kitchens. Speaking o' that-I really need a spot of food, would ye like some? I'll pay," he said.

"You have Muggle money?" She'd sort of assumed they'd go Dutch treat, and she could exchange his Galleons later.

"Been comin' here a lot," and with those words, he looked down at his own drinks coaster. "It reminds me of when I was first together with me wife. Of course, we'd always get a room upstairs. But they still have the same good whisky," and with that, he poured himself a drink, finishing the bottle, and Hermione realized that she'd had at least half of it, and she raised her hand for the barman, to request menus...and more drinks.

"Doona need one, know what I want," he said, as he got up, walked over, took a menu off the bar, and set it in front of Hermione. He didn't sit down. "Be back in a minute."

She ordered shepherd's pie, because it sounded good and filling, and she didn't recall when she'd last had anything close to a large meal...possibly this past Easter at the Weasleys, which had been an altogether uncomfortable situation, because Ron had showed up late and actually brought along his witch-of-the-moment, so she'd just bolted down her ham and begged off, saying she had a lot of work to do. Ginny had run after her and tried to say something but she'd just Apparated directly to her office and cried for three straight hours rather than working. And that had been the last time she'd seen Ron, and it was getting up on Christmas. Sod him anyway, she thought.

"Are ye all right, Miss Granger?" Macnair's voice seemed to be coming from somewhere very far away, and she realized that she'd been sitting there, empty whisky glass in hand, staring off into space, while he'd come back and sat down...and the waitress was also there, bringing the food and another bottle of whisky. The waitress was very attractive and almost looked as if she could have been kin to the horrible, giggling witch who'd been clutching at Ron's arm, and also somehow, incredibly, flirting with George, too. Ginny had been furious and Harry hadn't spoken to him for months.

To Macnair's credit, he wasn't paying any attention to the waitress at all. After all, Hermione thought, she is a Muggle.

"Er, you ordered two steaks?" she blurted.

"Aye, it wasnae a mistake," he said, winking at her. "I havena had any lunch."

"Oh...of course, sorry. Er...can I have a water?" Hermione directed this last at the waitress, because she realized she was...well, she was tipsy, because most probably the last time she'd had anything to drink had been that horrible Easter evening, when she'd finally gone home and drowned her sorrows in a bottle exactly like the one sitting in front of her. "Er, I just noticed...very odd...we seem to drink the same brand of whisky, did you know?" and she gestured toward the dark green bottle of Laphroaig.

"Doona tell anyone, but I think the Muggles make better whisky than we do."

Hermione laughed. "This one's rather an acquired taste, though." Not that anyone would notice, she thought, given the way I'm tossing it back like it's watered-down pumpkin juice.

"Always thought it was like French kissin' a peat bog," he said, with a smile.

"Never thought of it that way, but you're right," she chuckled, and to her horror, she realized she'd turned bright red and she was glad it was dark in the bar, and she blamed the whisky, which was way too strong...it was the 15-year, she noted, not the 10-year that she normally purchased...and then there was the fact that she hadn't had lunch either, or tea, or probably breakfast, even, as far as she recalled. And there was a very large, virile and handsome wizard across the table from her, and she didn't give a damn what he'd done or who he'd served, because she bloody wanted to be a peat bog at that very moment.

And she hoped he didn't practice Legilimency.

Just in case, she glanced down, grabbed her fork and started stabbing away at her pie, still musing. Had that particular spell been mentioned in his testimony? She remembered him talking about doing the Imperius curse a number of times, and Polyjuice for deception, and actually using lots of brute force, rather than spells...and she remembered Harry telling her, when she'd mentioned that she was working on Macnair's trial, when she'd met him for a rather hurried lunch at the Cauldron, that he'd nearly strangled him at the Hall of Prophecy, and that was when Neville had poked his eye. She made the mistake of looking at his arms then, and despite the thick jumper he was wearing, she realized they were rather large and quite capable of strangling someone...or embracing them...or possibly even picking them up and carrying them upstairs.

Meanwhile, he was slicing up his steak with apparent gusto, not paying any attention to her at all, thank God. And even more thankfully, at some point when she'd been away on mental vacation, music had started playing rather loudly from the jukebox next to the bar.

"Ready let's roll onto something new

Takin' it's toll then I'm leaving without you

'Cause heaven ain't close in a place like this

I said heaven ain't close in a place like this..."

"So is that the Weird Sisters, then? Didna think the Muggles listened to them."

"Eh, what?" Hermione nearly jumped from her seat when he spoke to her. "Er...wait, let me listen..." She kept up with Muggle pop music as an antidote to the rest of her life.

"I said heaven ain't close in a place like this

Bring it back down, bring it back down tonight

Never thought I'd let a rumor ruin my moonlight..."

"No, that's the Killers, then," said Hermione. Of all the groups to be playing, she thought.

"Ah. Sounded a bit like the Sisters, that damn song about the hippogriff, never liked it."

"I suppose not," and she couldn't help herself, she smiled, recalling when she'd danced to that song with Viktor at the Yule Ball, and Ron had glared at her as if she was some sort of traitor, and then they'd had that huge fight, just one among many they'd had over the years. But of course, he'd have different memories of those times, wouldn't he...

"Quite," he said. "Ye know I never wanted to kill that one, they're magnificent creatures. Long story, though...maybe I'll tell ye sometime."

"I'd like to hear it," she said, and realized that sounded absurd, as if she was thinking of him as someone to see on a social basis, almost as if she were on a first date...rather than as she should be seeing him, as one of her assigned Ministry clients, a horrible person who'd done horrible things. She glared down at her shepherd's pie as if it had committed an offense and stuffed a forkful of food into her mouth before she could utter any further whisky-fueled stupidity.

"I canna get into it now, it's...ye know, I told me wife all about it here...well, not here..." he gestured around the pub, "but upstairs." He paused. "Sorry. Probably should have picked another place. Didna bring ye here to bore ye with me life story."

"Well, I've already heard quite a bit of that," she said. "So we can fast-forward."

"Er...sorry?"

"I'm sorry. That's a Muggle expression. We can skip some of that...er." Hermione did not often feel stupid or slow-witted or even awkward; nevertheless, tonight she was serving up a soupcon of all three. "So-your wife was American? How did she meet you?...Er..I'm sorry, I was out sick for that part of your testimony...that was when Percy had to take over for me." When she'd come back two days later, Percy had handed her a sheaf of papers with a note clipped to the top which read, "Macnair had American wife, she was friends with an American Auror, M Imperiused her, LV killed her, and be glad you bloody didn't have to sit through listening to him go on about it. I think he's genuinely repentant, though. Details in the notes." She'd never bothered to read the testimony because she was also trying to make sense of the Malfoy testimony and was horribly overworked, and Percy's summary had got her up to speed well enough.

With that, the jukebox began blaring a rap tune that almost sounded familiar.

"She was with Snape," he said.

"It's going down
The logical progression on the time line
The separation narrowed down to a fine line
To blur the edges so they blend together properly
Take you on an audible odyssey
Now it's going down..."

The X-Ecutioners-really? It was almost unbelievable that this particular group should be rapping right now, she thought. Almost like magic...and she glanced around to see if there was anyone in the pub who might be responsible, but the bar was empty except for them, and she realized it was a Sunday evening, not exactly prime time.

"Professor Snape?" Hermione said, when she realized he was waiting for her to say something. "Er...are you sure? There wasn't another wizard named Snape, was there?"

"The very same, never understood what she saw in that greasy bastard, but aye. She left him for me. I think she said one of her friends knew one of the Weasleys and they introduced her," he said, pouring himself another glass of whisky. "Do ye want another, lass?" he asked.

"Mmm-hmm," she muttered. Of course he would know the Weasleys, most likely Charlie or possibly even Arthur, from working at the Ministry. She practically grabbed the drink from his hand and tossed it down. "But I don't want to talk about them," she added.

"O'course ye wouldn't...sorry, er, Miss Granger," he said.

Of course, he read the Prophet, just like everyone else...although thankfully he likely didn't read Witch Weekly, the truly lurid stories about her and Ron were in there, including a relationship timeline and An Exclusive Interview with the arsehole, Cormac McLaggen.

"Call me Hermione, would you?" she said, looking directly at him, as the X-Ecutioners kept rapping, and she pushed the glass across the table. "Fill it again."

The first thought that paraded rather slowly through Hermione's mind the next morning was that she was probably late for work.

Then she remembered that she had actually taken a week off now that the trials had ended-she'd been planning to make her initial enquiry at the Australian Wizarding Embassy about a Portkeys and visas and all that. She knew that further time might be required, and her supervisor was amenable. She was also planning to look into storage options for the belongings in her rather sparsely decorated flat. Slowly, she opened her eyes. It was very bright in the room.

Her flat, she recalled abruptly, did NOT have a flat-screen telly in the bedroom, but nevertheless there was one across the way from her coverlet-covered feet.

Further, her bed did not have a blue-flowered coverlet, nor did it normally have anyone in it but herself, but somehow wherever she was also had a rather large wizard sleeping next to her, the very same one who she'd been assigned to by the MLE to defend, who'd been charged on multiple counts, primarily that of being a Death Eater...but eventually, after a short stint in Azkaban, then house arrest with his parents, he'd been pardoned, contingent on his cessation of Dark activity.

Gingerly, she moved as far away from him on the bed as she could, and attempted to slide out from under the covers, before realizing too late that she was completely naked.

"Oh my God!" she said, just a little bit too loudly, jerking up on the covers to hide herself. All the movement woke Macnair up. He stirred and reached across the bed for her.

"Sorry, lass, didna mean to fall asleep on ye," he said. "Wanted another round, but I'm nae as young as I used to be."

"What the...what...round?" He pulled her into his arms and silenced her with a very deep kiss, which Hermione proceeded to enjoy until she realized, yet again, where she was and exactly what she was doing...and she pulled away and said..."I...er...I think I might have given you the wrong impression, Mr. Macnair, I'm...er...sorry."

"I'm not a bit sorry," he said, kissing her neck. "And weren't we on a first-name basis by the end of last night?"

"I suppose we were," she said. At this point, the memories were all flooding back to her, the third bottle of whisky drained, the pointless attempts she'd made to stem the tide of drunkenness by drinking several glasses of water, which just made a trip to the loo even more urgent. And when she'd come back, there he sat, annoying her by continuing to look so very large and muscular and virile...and that kilt...that damned kilt, she'd always liked them...and without thinking about it very much she'd reached across the table, taken his hand and baldly stated, like the lioness that she was, "Can you get us a room upstairs?" He looked at her and then kissed her hand. "I already have one, lass, I've been stayin' here all week."

And in that room they'd had one glorious go-round that had lasted for hours. He was incredible in bed-in every way as different from Ron as it was possible to be. He was extremely concerned with her pleasure above his, for one. They'd done things that she had only ever read about in books in the Restricted Section. He'd used his wand to cast some sort of spell that, she thought, would probably be illegal if the Ministry knew about it; he'd told her it was called Slytherin's special charm, and after that, she was surprised that she could even walk to the loo...he certainly hadn't needed any sizing assistance in the first place!

Just as she was musing about getting up and possibly visiting the loo yet again, a knock sounded on the door.

"That'll be breakfast," he said. "Just stay right here, I'll take care of it," and he got up and tossed on a robe with the name of the hotel embroidered on it, which for some reason she found rather amusing. The bellman pushed a cart into the room and Hermione saw Walden tip him. After the bellman departed, he flicked a wand over the bathrobe and threw her an identical one. "Here ye are, come on and have some food with me," he said. And although she couldn't imagine how she could even be hungry, she devoured everything on her plate, especially after Walden gave her an anti-hangover potion from his sporran.

"Thank you," she said, after a long draught of coffee. "I have some of those potions but I haven't used them in a while."

"Aye, I keep them on hand," he said, pouring himself another cup.

"Er, do you have any idea what time it is at all? I-er...probably should be getting back, and don't you...er, need to check out?"

"I asked them to let me leave the room late today; it's around noon, ye know."

"What? I...well, I suppose it's a good thing I took off work."

"I can get the room another night if ye would like. I know I would like..." he said, looking straight at her, and she'd noted through her interactions with him that he tended to be very, very direct. "...to fuck ye again, more than once."

"That...was once?" she said.

He chuckled. "Aye. It's been a verra long time for me."

"I'm...er, I'm not actually sure when the last time was for me, to be honest...oh, bloody hell...once with McLaggen after the Ministry Christmas Party, before he got married, thank you very much and not so much as a bye-your-leave...I can't believe he did that stupid interview, I wish someone would hit him with a sodding Bludger and put him out of our misery..." and she trailed off. "Mr...er...um, Walden. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that."

"I hope ye won't take this the wrong way, lass, but ye remind me of me wife, she was verra funny and smart like ye are."

"I have a feeling that's quite the compliment," Hermione said. "And I'm sorry about what happened to her."

He nodded. "I know." They were both silent for a while after that as they sipped their coffee and idly stared out of the window. The room was a fixed point in time which neither of them really wanted to leave or disturb. Finally, Walden broke the silence. "We can either stay here, or if ye like, we can go to me lodge. It's been closed up for a while, though, so you'll have to excuse the state o' things."

"I...er...I have to do some things this week, visit the Australian Embassy and such..." She noted that he hadn't suggested that they go to her place.

"I wanted to say...ye can share me Portkey. It's set to go next Monday." They'd even made him wait an extra, pointless week, she thought. It figured.

"I...er..." There didn't seem to be a reason to debate with him at this point; she'd made her decision last night. The uncomfortable thought that he might have manipulated or coerced her in some way crossed her mind. However, she knew that if he had done such a thing, she'd have more than enough evidence to put him in Azkaban for the rest of his life...not to mention which, his wand was incapable of casting any Dark spells (and wasn't all that great at casting any spells, to be honest). And further, of course, she'd been the one to suggest going to his room in the first place. He'd even asked her, several times, as they were walking toward the lift and even as they paused in the hallway outside the room, if this was really what she wanted, and that it was absolutely fine with him if they just went in and slept off the drinking...in fact, he'd offered to leave her there, get another room for himself, and come back and check on her in the morning.

In answer to that, she took the key-card from his hand (he'd been staring at it in puzzlement-how had he managed to gain entry before, she wondered), opened the door, beckoned him into the room, locked and warded the door with her wand, and then gone straight over and reached under his kilt.

He looked at her. "I doona want to go alone."

(Note: the songs playing in the pub are, in order: "Somebody Told Me," by the Killers and "It's Goin' Down" by the X-Ecutioners)