A/N: Thanks goes to LiterallyLiterary for Beta-Reading. HP = JKR.
I'm trying hard but I fail miserably to update frequently. But thank you all so much for your reviews. I appreciate them. And also thank you for continuing reading BSaB.
Music: Grace Jones - I've Seen That Face Before (Libertango)
"Politics have no relation to morals." – Niccolo Machiavelli
11 State of Affairs
"It's a pity you're already leaving," Hermione said to Ginny, hugging her goodbye.
"You'll survive." Ginny nodded towards Horace Slughorn, who stood like a barrel amidst his flock of protégés. He nibbled at some amuse bouche, laughing and chatting cheerfully. "As long as Horace doesn't try to make you the centre of attention again," she added with a smirk. "Have a good night."
"You too."
Hermione exhaled as she waved Ginny off. She stared into her glass and wanted nothing more than to drown her massively pent up guilt in a sea of highly potent alcohol. This, however, was not the answer to her problems, therefore insisting on nothing stronger than water.
Ginny had not a clue of what ploy Hermione was concocting with Malfoy—after all, this was the wizard who'd slipped Tom Riddle's diary into her cauldron to discredit her father and have Dumbledore removed from his post.
"Sod it," Hermione murmured in frustration. It was neither the time nor place to sort out her feelings, which overwhelmed her. She was not attending Slughorn's party for fun. This evening was about fanning the Ministry's fear of losing Hermione to the private sector.
Slughorn's party took place in the stately home of Blaise Zabini. He had inherited the estate from Stepfather Number Four, whose mysterious death, only after nineteen months of marriage, had never been resolved.
After the war Zabini made well use of the mourning period by having the entire place refurbished. But not to its former glory, no, he added a touch of cosy understatement to the place: Parquet instead of marble, tapestries instead of paintings, and English furniture instead of French. As part of his reputational rehabilitation he offered a handful of societies his home as a location for their social gatherings. On top of that, Zabini also sheltered those orphaned pureblood children who did not have a place to stay during their school holidays.
His actions would have made Salazar Slytherin proud, Hermione thought sardonically as she explored the tropical winter garden. Unfortunately, it was already occupied by the handsome host who was staring into the darkness at nothing particular.
"Enjoying the view?" she asked as she stepped beside him and raised her empty glass. Zabini greeted her with a smirk and took a big gulp of his liquor.
"How's Draco?" he slurred after a silent moment, plucking a leaf from a plant.
"Ask him yourself. Aren't you his friend?" She gripped her glass so hard that her knuckles went white.
"I'm everybody's friend, Granger," he said derisively and downed his drink. "I want you to meet someone. Follow me."
Zabini did not await her response and strutted back into the drawing room, surprisingly steady for the amount of alcohol he had already consumed. Reluctantly, she followed him.
"May I introduce Derek Bobbin, the elder brother to Melinda," Zabini said with the charm of a perfect gentleman.
Hermione extended her hand to a tall wizard with short dark hair, bristly beard, prominent jawline, and deep-blue eyes. She remembered Melinda from the Slug Club back at Hogwarts but not her brother. She would have definitely remembered him if he had had attended Hogwarts during the same time as her.
Although they exchanged pleasantries with polite restraint, Hermione was quite fascinated by Bobbin. The reflection of the crystal chandeliers made his eyes look as if they sparkled.
"He took over his father's apothecary business last year," Zabini said while having his tumbler refilled to the brim.
"And yet I still sweat blood every morning I enter my office in fear of my old Sire's secretary," Bobbin said. Everyone around laughed, some more sincere than others. "I've heard that you're searching for a new challenge, Miss Granger."
She smiled suggestively, broader than intended. Bobbin cleared his throat and shot a glance of relief at Zabini. It was the same kind of glance she had seen earlier when another wizard tried to recruit her for his company. Hermione found it amazing how fast gossip spread; it only took one insincere remark about her discontent with the current work situation to a colleague. What followed was a flood of invitations to social events from people who wanted to woo her away from the government.
Glasses were refilled anew and after a toast Hermione promised Bobbin to get in touch with him. Zabini guided his attention towards another group of people, expecting Bobbin to follow. He hesitated for a moment and added, only for Hermione's ears to hear, that he would be happy if she would owl him anyway - even if she was not interested in working for him.
Feeling a bit lighter on her heels, Hermione decided that her duty was fulfilled, said goodbye to everyone and apparated to Whitehall.
Light was shining from under the door of Harry's new office, casting a faint glow on the floor.
"Harry?" she called out after entering, making her way through stacks of files and boxes, trying not to knock them down. It would have been a neat office with its dark-panelled walls and green rugs if it would not have had resembled a bureaucratic war zone.
Harry's chair was empty but a pair of feet peeked through a fortress of boxes in the corner. "Harry? Harry! Wake up!"
As if stung by a bee, he jerked up and stumbled over an open box and knocked down a stack. A hiss of disapproval emanated from the portrait behind his desk in which Barty Crouch Sr. crunched up his nose.
She waved her wand to tidy up the mess. "I can't understand why you chose his portrait for your office. Isn't it awful to feel the constant look of disapproval on your neck?"
Crouch scowled but stayed silent. He was only permitted to speak to the Head of the Auror Office.
"No. He's my special advisor and I wouldn't have made it through the first days without him," Harry murmured and rubbed his bloodshot eyes under his spectacles. "How did it go?"
"If you're referring to Horace's party, well. I guess." She handed Harry a pepper-up potion from a small cabinet. "Are those the family registers?" she asked, pointing at the brown boxes near the door.
He nodded. "I still wonder why it would be of any help."
"I need to get a clear picture of the family relations of the past and present Wizengamot members," she explained while rummaging through the boxes. "Did you manage to make copies of the court records and the unsolved Death Eater cases?"
"They aren't unsolved," Harry corrected her and pushed a heavy black box into her arms.
"Sorry, yes, I didn't mean it like that."
"You owe me, Hermione."
"I know! I'm trying to make this right. Don't you want that too?" Her guilty conscience did not need another accuser. "I appreciate everything you're doing for me. I really do."
Her display of bad conscience seemed to soothe Harry. "It's hard to look Ginny in the eye. Not telling her, being secretive about work and whatnot."
"I feel bad too," she said, sounding lost.
Both sighed.
"When will you see him?"
"Tomorrow. And I hope to find at least something in those new files. I really have to."
"I'm sure you will. But please be careful with your inquiries if you do any. Although I'd love nothing more than to twist his neck, Malfoy is my most valuable asset. I need to have him cosy and content like a fattened duck, otherwise he'll act wilfully obstructive. I'm not going to have that now that I'm promoted and having everyone's breathing down my neck."
Harry had her full sympathies. She even forgave that he went spare when she told him all about her problems.
"How is it going with your new job, anyway?" she asked.
"I've spent the first week of my new appointment by getting rat-arsed with the other heads and making trade-offs concerning those unofficial arrangements they had with my predecessors. I'm the ruddy puffer between the other members of the Wizengamot, the High Court and my staff. They shove me in front of the journalists as if I'm a mascot, while during the Wizengamot meetings I'm being treated like room meat. And to make things even more irritating, the low-level wars in the sub-departments are escalating-" he paused and adjusted his spectacles. "Forget it. It's nothing."
Hermione refused to be fobbed off with half-truths. "Oh please, Harry. I've told you about my...my special arrangement with Lucius, so tell me what's going on while I'm in the field."
Harry offered her a moment's contemplation before resigning himself to indulge. "Well, Perkins handed in his letter of resignation this week, in strict confidence of course, so word got around within hours. Kingsley won't decide who will become Perkins successor until next month but you know how people are. Sometimes I think that the Ministry doesn't realise that there has been a change of government. They still use the same tactics like before. And I always assumed that restraint is an English trait..."
Hermione smiled at his last remark. Although Harry was a high-ranking mandarin, he still considered himself and the government to be separate quantities entirely.
"Your new appointment brings out the politician in you. Let the people play their silly games. I'm sure Kingsley won't appoint some Janus-faced brownnose for the post," she said in a carefree manner although it was troubling news. Perkin's resignation came earlier than expected.
"I'd be happy if he appointed you. If he ever asks for my opinion I would suggest you. Not because you're my friend but because you're able to run the department better than the rest," he said in earnest.
"Thank you," she replied, touched. "How about the inventory list of confiscated artefacts and the wills?"
"All in the brown box." Harry reached for the file on top of the pile at his desk. "I would be amazed if you would find proof that some of the suspects were involved in the illegal trading of magical artefacts with Muggles."
"Hm…" She fell quiet for a moment. "If I find enough proof to build up a real case, you will be able to prosecute them. Of course, if they voice the desire to plead in mitigation, all they have to do is to provide you with valuable information on Lucius' curse."
Harry nodded. "Yes, I think that most people would prefer a premature retirement at home instead of at Azkaban."
"Exactly."
Thoughts passed behind his eyes like shadows as he leaned back into the chair. "All I want to see is light at the end of the tunnel, you know?"
"Yes, I know you do, Harry, and so do I."
Hermione hugged him and rushed through the door.
"Am I handling this wrong?" Harry glanced at the portrait of Barty Crouch.
"You know enough to know that you aren't," Barty answered courtly.
Harry remembered the first day of his appointment vividly. He had received the key to the Auror office's vault, which contained all top-secret files that were considered too dangerous to be kept in the Ministry's archive.
Before he entered the vault Harry had been particularly motivated and determined to make incremental changes on how things were run in his office. But after reading through those files he realised that inefficient processes were the least of his problems.
"How did you made peace with yourself because of what you had to do at work? Fighting fire with fire? Allowing the use of Unforgivable Curses against suspects? Convictions without trials? Not telling your wife about what really happens?"
"What gave you the impression I did?" Crouch said testily. "Miss Granger understood that desperate times call for desperate measures. She, unlike others, understood that if one wants to succeed as a person of integrity, it is of utmost importance to always be aware of the consequences of one's own decisions."
Barty's portrait froze in position. This conversation was over.
He felt chided. It was not right to keep Hermione's problems a secret from Ginny, or Ron for that matter, yet he had no other choice if he wanted to protect Hermione and the people who relied on them. Yes, Harry had duties and he should have reported the incident. But he also had responsibilities. And if he were forced to choose between one of them he would always pick responsibilities.
Hermione poured the last cup of espresso from the Bialetti can and continued studying the cluster of file photos and sticky notes that hung on the wall. The entire wall to her left served as top to bottom chalkboard filled with notes on meta-magical theories and alchemistic formulas, while overflowing bookshelves covered almost every inch of the opposite wall. A cauldron simmered in the old kitchen behind and filled the flat with the fresh smell of a forest after a summer rain. A few tomes lay open on a long, plain fir wood table, exposing encrypted texts and gruel copperplate engravings of human wounds and diseases caused by curses. Crookshanks, her orange Kneazel, snoozed on the old tiled stove, purring whenever the cauldron made an unexpected noise. Hermione liked to work at night in her modest Genevese attic flat, her private little realm that received scarcely any visitors due to the secretive nature of her work.
To draw insights on her research, Hermione often clustered her findings and thoughts on a wall. Whenever she found a new connection, she would add sticky notes. That physical representation helped her to achieve a certain level of order in the chaos of information like with her current research.
Astonishing how the Wizarding World manages to co-exist with former enemies, Hermione thought. Of course, communities that small had to learn how to get on with one another if they wanted to continue to survive. But the speed and extent at which war criminals were accepted back into society and welcomed within the halls of the Ministry while many people still awaited their conviction was absurd. It reminded her of those former Nazis and Nazi-supporters who had made a career in the government of the GDR after the demise of the Third Reich.
She furrowed her brows while studying a photo that depicted a small group of people in a small rose-garden, standing around a witch with a baby in her arms. The baby fumbled on the mother's necklace with its small plump hands. It was a fine piece of Goblin craftsmanship and possibly the most valuable heirloom of the pureblood family, Shatiq. Thirty years after the photo had been taken, one of Hermione's colleagues confiscated that same necklace from a Muggle gone insane upon wearing it. Wizengamot member Jim Shafiq voted for a lifetime imprisonment of Lucius although or maybe because his son - the baby on the photo - died at the battle of Hogwarts as a soldier of Voldemort's army. Was he the one behind Lucius' curse? And how did the necklace of his late wife fall into the hands of a Muggle? And why?
Hermione's eyes wandered to another picture of a possible suspect: Richard Brown, the uncle of late Lavender Brown, and father of Rugby player and squib Kelly Brown. Brown voted for a lifetime imprisonment of Lucius after his abortive proposal to punish him with the Dementor's Kiss. He made no secret of his hatred against the Malfoy patriarch. However, Brown was also known as an upright citizen with a clean slate. He loved to breed rabbits and hens in his free time and Hermione could not imagine him as a ruthless, cruel and backstabbing Wizard.
Besides, many people voted for a lifetime imprisonment, and revenge was the prevalent motive. But would it drive people so far as to commit a crime?
Hermione sipped on her espresso as her eyes wandered to another photo. There was Duncan Wright who had an ongoing ownership dispute with Lucius Malfoy about huge tracts of land. Lucius' premature death would settle their argument quite conveniently.
Wright's cousin twice removed, Rosie Fraser, aunt of Melinda and Derek Bobbin, was a co-owner of the apothecary business Derek ran. Having the Malfoys stepping out of that line of business would secure them the monopoly. Some people would do anything for money.
Other Wizengamot members caught Hermione's interests as well, despite them voting for Lucius' release. Those were the people aware that Lucius not only knew about the skeletons in their closets but also had striking evidence of proof, like in the case of Henry Spencer-Moon.
Wizengamot member Angela Fawley maintained a friends-with-benefits relationship with Ludo Bagman. Whereas Ludo's interests focused more on the financial aspect of it, Fawley was head over heels with him. She had sold some of her highly valued Dark Arts books during the war, intending to found a new life the Muggle world. But they never left. Now, Fawley's books were stored in the evidence room of the MLE. Hermione only found out about the ownership of those items because of an old will. Through unknown circumstances, these books fell into the hands of an influential Muggle who used to work in the music industry. He was the leader of a satanic sect which promised its disciples power, success, and enlightenment. Hermione would have liked to question him, but he died months ago from a drug overdose.
Half a dozen members of the Wizengamot were unsuspicious to Hermione and seemed to be just and proper citizens of the British Wizarding community: Griselda Marchbanks, Tiberius Odgen, Elphias Doge, Saul Croaker, and Colum Lufkin. Considering they were in a clear minority seemed suspicious on its own. But like Brown, she thought that neither of those had it in them to act so cruel and guileful.
Hermione yawned and stretched her limbs. She still had seven hours until the meeting with Lucius. Enough time to sleep and get ready. Her stomach contracted painfully, unsure if from the coffee or the idea that she had to bear his judgemental stare. Unfortunately, her research on his curse remained completely unsuccessful, which meant she had to break him the news that she needed to analyse his cursed body. Hermione shuddered. She would have rather spent Halloween with a troll in the bathroom.