A/N: Thanks to all those who have reviewed, followed, and favorited this story. I'm glad that people have been enjoying it. And a special thanks to Bonnie and Mainsail for beta reading this and thus improving on the original. If you have questions or concerns about what's going on, feel free to include them in a review or a PM — I'll try to answer.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, JK Rowling does.
Recommendation: This chapter's recommended fic is "Muggle Summer, Wizard's Fall" by canoncansodoff. Shortly after Dumbledore's funeral, Harry begins a quest to harness "the power he knows not"... and it may turn out to be the muggle monarchy. Quite a few fics explore how the possible relationship between the monarchy and wizarding Britain might work, but this is one of the more fun and entertaining ones. Incomplete, unfortunately. H/Hr.
Italics: a person's thoughts.
Chapter 04 - One Step Closer to the Edge
Tuesday, July 13, 1995.
Jasmine Potter sighed and slammed her Transfiguration text shut, fed up with her complete inability to concentrate for very long on her summer homework. She'd get a little work done, then she'd think about Hermione having fun with her parents, the professors relaxing in the castle, other families enjoying themselves on vacations... and it was all she could do not to start screaming and breaking the furniture.
As she fumed, she stared at the wall in front of her and unconsciously started counting the dents which Dudley had once made with some toy back when it was still his second bedroom. One hundred forty-three, she thought. There were one hundred forty-three last summer, one hundred forty-three the summer before, and there will be one hundred forty-three next summer, too.
Unless I start putting some dents in the wall myself...
She looked around her room, bare of anything personal which would signal that someone actually lived there, and questioned whether the blood wards were really worth it. Giving up on homework as a lost cause for now, she prepared herself for her regular morning run and wondered why no one, especially Hermione, had written to her yet. Now I wish more than ever that I had asked her for her phone number, Jasmine thought. She had spent a few hours in the library yesterday trying to look it up in the phone books she thought were correct, but without any luck. It never occurred to me that their number might not be listed.
Being cooped up with the Dursleys was annoying even on the best of days, despite the fact that Vernon was continuing to keep his distance. The lack of any sort of contact from anyone was getting to be infuriating. Unfortunately, she had no one she could take any of her anger out on. If Vernon were to revert to form, she would probably have trouble holding back. Indeed, even one of his beady-eyed glares might have set her off by now if she didn't have running as an outlet — something she now did twice a day despite the oppressive heat, simply because she needed some sort of physical release.
I've got to get out of this place, she thought to herself as she headed outside once again.
Sitting on a beach in France, Hermione listened to Fleur and Gabrielle talk about some of the things they had been doing since they had left Hogwarts. Unfortunately she was having difficulty focusing on their words. Their presence calmed her and made her less agitated for some strange reason, but it didn't solve her primary problem, which was being separated from Jasmine.
Wednesday, July 14, 1995.
Neville Longbottom almost never whistled, but he did it on the way to the owlery to send a letter to Ginny Weasley — his third since coming back home, in fact, in a summer that was already turning out to be unusually busy. Typically he spent the summer hols first doing his homework, then spending as much time as he could in the family greenhouse, but this summer he found himself consumed by a serious research project in his family's library. Yet he found it easy to make time for Ginny's unexpected letters, and that surprised him.
He thought back to before the Yule Ball and Jasmine's comment that Ginny might be interested in him. He had dismissed it at the time, especially when she and Dean had hit it off so well, but in her first letter she told him that she and Dean had broken up. He still didn't understand witches very well, despite how deeply embroiled he'd more than once become in Jasmine and Hermione's personal dramas, but he strongly suspected that that bit of news had some hidden message behind it.
And if he was right, he wasn't at all averse to what he thought that message might be.
He wasn't going to make any assumptions, though. He was going to take it slow, express some interest subtly, and see what happened.
Just as he finished giving the letter to Ivar, the owl he'd been using to communicate with Ginny, Rollo half crashed into the owlery. Quickly sending Ivar on his way, Neville gently picked Rollo up and examined him, finding numerous missing and broken feathers.
And no letter, either his original or a response from Jasmine.
"I thought I told you not to put up much of a fight," he scolded the bird. Rollo just fixed him with an imperious stare, as if daring him to try to tell an owl its business.
Neville sighed and, cradling Rollo gently, went to talk to his gran. The relationship between the two of them was still a bit strained over his getting a new wand and no longer using his father's, but she couldn't argue with the dramatic rise in his grades, nor with his improved confidence and attitude. It was just going to take her some time to finally accept that she couldn't turn him into his father — that he was his own wizard who would do great things in his own way.
Right after he left, a snowy owl arrived in the Longbottom owlery and settled in.
Thursday, July 15, 1995.
Hermione Granger bit her bottom lip in irritation as she finished her daily postcard to Jasmine. She had wanted to up the number to two or three per day, but her parents had jointly put their foot down at that, insisting that one was more than enough if she was getting them while more would be a waste if she wasn't. It never occurred to them that writing the postcards was as much for Hermione's sanity as anything else.
Because bit by bit, Hermione felt like she was going mad. She ran out of patience very quickly, even with her parents. When she got angry, she felt like a volcano that was ready to blow. It was difficult for her to concentrate on anything for very long, which made her glad that she'd completed her summer homework before leaving on holiday. She wasn't sleeping well, so there were dark circles under her eyes, and her hair was an unruly mess.
She didn't miss the worried looks her parents kept giving her, but there was nothing she could do about it. It was fortunate for all concerned that the veela remained so close — all of them helped calm her, especially Fleur and Gabrielle, even if the effect was limited. Only then did she not feel anger scratching at her insides or the beginnings of a headache behind her eyes.
I still haven't figured out why their presence makes me feel that way, Hermione thought, but right now I don't care — I'll take any comfort I can get. I just don't know how I'll cope once we go home.
Jasmine lay back on her bed and wondered what Hermione was doing today. Surely whatever she's doing, she's got to be having loads more fun than I am, she lamented.
Friday, July 16, 1995.
Apolline Delacour cursed under her breath as she helped yet another injured owl. "This is the fourth one," she fumed to Adrienne, who happened to be there visiting. "We've sent two from Fleur and two from Gabrielle, both from here and from Paris. All have come back injured and without letters."
"And muggle post?" Adrienne asked.
"We've sent a couple of letters that way as well," Apolline answered, "but there's been no response. I am not optimistic. Hermione gave us the phone number for Jasmine, and I've asked our people in several different cities to try calling, but all get the same result that Hermione did: loud static."
Adrienne sighed. "I'll ask others for suggestions, but short of going there in person, I'm not sure what else to do."
"I know," Apolline agreed, "and except as a last resort, we dare not go in person because we don't have a strong enough political or economic presence in Britain to protect us if anything goes wrong."
"If we had an agreement with the goblins, we could probably use them," Adrienne said, "but even as fast as the negotiations with them are progressing, I wouldn't expect anything to be finalized until early next month."
Apolline nodded. "I strongly suspect that Hermione will try going there again, and this time I expect that she will be more prepared for a confrontation."
"That would be unfortunate," Adrienne replied, "but I wouldn't want to be the one to try to dissuade her. Those two should not spend too long apart while the bond is still developing. It will eventually become dangerous for them."
"Perhaps we should set a deadline?" Apolline suggested. "A date after which we will resort to riskier measures, like going in person?"
Adrienne considered that, then said, "That's a reasonable idea. I will bring it up with the others, and recommend that if we do it, we wait until at least August 1st. A month of separation will be unpleasant for them, but not yet dangerous. Much more than a month, though, would not be advisable."
"What have your Amazzi said about the Grangers, by the way?" Apolline asked, changing the subject. "Fleur and Gabrielle are impressed by them."
"So are Areto and Phoebe," Adrienne answered. "Mr. Granger is able to resist the effects of the allure, though apparently it makes him... what is the English word? 'Frisky' is how Phoebe described it, judging by the sounds from their bedroom."
Apolline smiled. "I was told that Mr. Granger is very amusing when trying to avoid showing any obvious reaction to the veela who surround him, especially on the beaches.
Adrienne laughed and said, "Yes, I'd heard that, too. The poor man... and he still has more than a week to go!"
Hermione gave hugs to both Phoebe and Areto and congratulated them on their good news. She hadn't had any idea at the time that they were hoping to get pregnant at the Beltane ritual, and she was thrilled to learn that they had both succeeded. Of course, the fact that the celebration had lasted three days, giving them time for lots and lots of attempts, probably helped.
All too soon, however, her happiness at the news subsided, and she returned to her funk over being separated from Jasmine.
Saturday, July 17, 1995.
Vernon Dursley seethed as he drank his lager and watched the day's sports highlights. It had been two weeks since he'd brought the freak home from that freak school, and so far all she'd done was defy him. She was living under his roof and eating his food, but she refused to pull her weight by helping around the house like he'd always forced her to do from the time she could walk.
The nerve of her, he raged inwardly, expecting a normal boy like Dudders to do the sort of work that someone like her should be doing! No surprise, I guess, since her freak parents were good-for-nothing layabouts as well, but I thought we'd taught her better than that.
Taking another drink, he thought about how he'd originally intended to stamp the freakishness out of her, but Petunia had prevented him from getting too physical with a little girl. Always too soft, my Petunia is, he mused. Too much heart in her to do what's necessary sometimes. That's part of why I married her, that big heart of hers, but I should have overruled her back then. If I had, then maybe we wouldn't be dealing with the girl's unnatural defiance today.
He had been outraged that she'd presumed to threaten him with her freakish abilities, but the more he thought about it, the less cowed he felt.
He finished the beer he was working on and called Petunia for another. Sooner or later, he'd do what was necessary. As the man of the house, that was his job, wasn't it?
Jasmine remained up in her room all day; as soon as she saw Vernon starting to drink in the late morning, she decided that it would be safest if she stayed out of his sight.
She had a bit of saved food hidden in her room and hoped that it would suffice. As angry as she had been feeling lately, another shouting match between the two of them would lead to one or the other getting hurt.
Sunday, July 18, 1995.
Draco Malfoy hugged himself as he sat hunched on the edge of his bed. His homecoming had not been what he'd expected — not at all. Neither of his parents had showed up to greet him at the train station; instead he'd been met by a stranger who grabbed his shoulder and forced him into a gut-wrenching side-along apparition. Once home, he'd found his parents to be physical wrecks: his father horribly scarred by burns, and his mother hobbling around, unable to use all of her muscles properly because of repeated exposure to the Cruciatus curse.
Then it was his turn.
Draco had grown up with stories about how great and powerful the Dark Lord had been. He had been taught that the Dark Lord would reward his most devoted and faithful followers. Draco had endeavored to live his life in such a way that would make both his parents and the Dark Lord proud of him.
Instead, what he got was tortured nearly every day for his failure to provide adequate help in kidnapping Potter. Because of his injuries at school, it had been necessary for plans to be changed at the last minute, and the Dark Lord had become convinced that this had played a role in the problems at the dark ritual where he regained his body.
Everything is Potter's fault, Draco concluded bitterly. Potter burned my father. Potter made the Dark Lord mad enough to torture my mother. Potter messed things up at the ritual. Potter caused me to be injured, leading to me being tortured now. If I could just avenge myself and my family on Potter, then I would prove how devoted and faithful I am. Then everything would be better — I just know it.
Monday, July 19, 1995.
Sirius Black sat in the warded portrait room and listened to what the different portraits had to report. It still amazed him that he was actively working with so many bigots and blood purists whom he'd once hated. He still didn't like them, but as portraits they also couldn't do any real harm, so as long as they kept their opinions on blood purity to themselves, he found that working with them wasn't horrible.
Bizarre and confusing, perhaps, but not horrible.
So far, nothing of consequence had happened in the house with the Order, at least insofar as any of the Black family portraits had been able to tell. It was early days, though, and Dumbledore was still focused on recruiting reliable people. Unfortunately, until Voldemort made some sort of move, it would be difficult to convince anyone that he was back.
Only those who had a great deal of personal loyalty towards and trust in the Headmaster even considered his words — which Sirius found ironic, because he knew Dumbledore was right yet also he had very little trust in him anymore. He couldn't express that distrust directly, but it was becoming obvious as the arguments between them grew increasingly heated. He wanted his goddaughter here in Grimmauld Place while Dumbledore kept stalling, saying that she needed to be at Privet Drive, where it was safe.
Merlin, Sirius thought, even my mother is getting impatient with him. She hasn't chastised me at all for the last couple of shouting matches I've had with the old man, and that's saying something. To be fair, though, she has seemed rather distracted. Ever since she listened in on that conversation I had with Moony, she's been asking more and more questions about how Jasmine and Hermione behave around each other, about how strong their spells are, and then sits and thinks for long stretches of time.
Huh — maybe it's something I should be paying more attention to myself?
Shaking his head, he turned back to the discussion, which ended up being about another failure to learn anything new about possible horcruxes. Thus far, the only real information they'd gotten was from Phineas' observations of the Headmaster while dealing with the diary, and even that wasn't much because he'd said little out loud at the time. We need a new strategy or some new insight, otherwise we'll get nowhere, Sirius concluded. But first, I should come up with a way to convince my mother that it's worth the risk for me to go get Jasmine personally. I had hoped she'd be here after two or three weeks, but the way Dumbledore has blocked off all communication, I'm not sure he'll let her come here at all.
Jasmine winced as she rubbed the place on her upper arm where Vernon had grabbed her and tried to shake her. She'd been expecting him to try something sooner or later, maybe even something physical. Physical abuse had been infrequent in the Dursley household — at least in her opinion — but it did happen occasionally, especially when Vernon got exceptionally frustrated and upset.
And that was exactly what had been happening recently, ever since she had refused to be victimized by him anymore. All his anger and resentment had apparently been building up, and he'd intended to vent it that evening when he grabbed her hard with one hand and drew back his other to hit her, a movement which gave her immediate flashbacks to her experiences in the graveyard.
Vernon would have connected, too, if he hadn't let go and jumped away from her, yelping as if he'd been burned. There was a lot more fear in his eyes than usual as he held his hand and backed away. What exactly was that, she wondered, and how did I do it? She kept looking out the window for any signs of an owl from the Ministry, but after an hour, she concluded that she wasn't going to get anything.
I guess it qualifies as accidental magic, unless... She was brought up short as the thought came to her: Is it because I didn't use a wand? Does that mean wandless magic isn't detectable by the Ministry? The only way to test it would be to perform deliberate wandless magic, though. She shook her head — way too risky. If what I did to Vernon only escaped notice because it was accidental, then the Ministry will send me a letter. I don't think Fudge will be as accommodating this time...
Tuesday, July 20, 1995.
Severus Snape stirred his potion and carefully added the diced acromantula liver — and hadn't it gotten expensive lately! He'd have to see about getting a new supplier, assuming he could ever find the time.
And he had rather more pressing concerns these days. As a spy he needed to be able to feed enough information to both sides to keep everyone happy and allay any suspicion against himself. Right now, though, both sides were so inactive that there was hardly anything of consequence to report — yet both sides doubted him when he reported this and insisted that he work harder to get usable intelligence.
He'd have laughed at the irony of peace and quiet being so dangerous if it weren't for the fact that he was the one in the most immediate danger.
If this continues, he thought as he made some notes and left the potion to simmer, the temptation to simply make things up may become too great, and that will only cause problems for me in the long run. Sooner or later, one of them will have to make the first move and do something. Anything. Hmm... he considered, now there's an idea. Maybe I can encourage one of them to take action, then I'll start having things to report. But what?
Snape sighed and ran his hand across his face, wishing for what seemed like the millionth time that there was some way for him to escape it all.
Wednesday, July 21, 1995.
Albus Dumbledore looked over various reports from the people he'd convinced to join the Order of the Phoenix and sighed in frustration. Aside from a few instances of possible recruitment into the ranks of the Death Eaters, there hadn't been a single incident all month that could definitely be attributed to Tom. Normally that was something he'd be happy about, but the silence from the Death Eaters and their master was maddening: not only did he not have any idea where Tom was aiming his plans, but the lack of movement was making it harder to convince people that they were in danger.
It's utterly bizarre to be lamenting a state of peace and quiet, he considered, but there you go.
Almost as maddening was the situation with Jasmine Potter. His magic and agents had intercepted a couple of dozen letters from various friends and schoolmates, far more than usual. Sometimes the owls carrying the letters resisted, recognizing that his agents weren't actually Jasmine Potter despite the powerful magic he used to conceal her while disguising another. Several owls had been injured, unfortunately, but there was nothing he could do about it. She had to be protected, whatever the cost.
He was also going to have to do something about Sirius, who was growing increasingly incensed at the absence of his goddaughter. Maybe some house guests would distract him? Dumbledore mused.
He frowned as he popped a sherbet lemon into his mouth, thinking back to what he'd read in the letter from Mr. Longbottom. I had no idea that the boy even knew such language, much less was willing to use it!
Shaking his head, he moved on to the next bit of depressing work: finding a Defense professor. If I don't hire someone soon, the Ministry will be able to insert their own person here, and that would be a disaster.
Thursday, July 22, 1995.
Dolores Umbridge smiled to herself as the last piece of the puzzle was put into place. She now had everything she needed to enact her plan to eliminate or discredit that Potter girl — either would do at this point. Ideally it would be Dumbledore that she'd go after, but he was too cagey and too well protected right now. Potter, though, was the next best thing, because Dumbledore was relying on her both for the scurrilous lies he was telling about Voldemort coming back and for future political support once he made his move against the legitimate Ministry officials.
Getting Potter out of the way might not completely thwart Dumbledore's planned coup against the Ministry, but it would delay his plans at the very least, possibly long enough for her other schemes to come to fruition. Given enough time, she was sure that even someone as experienced as Dumbledore could be taken care of. No one was immortal, after all.
With a flourish of her wand, all of the relevant documents were sealed in a box which was in turn sealed in a hidden drawer in her desk. It wouldn't do for anyone to find any of that, now would it? In a week, once the deed is done, I can destroy it all and none will be the wiser.
Next, she thought, I need to take further steps towards undermining those investigations which Amelia is running. Once Cornelius is safe from the lies people are telling, it will be time to do something about Dumbledore.
Hermione was the happiest she'd been since she had arrived in France. It had nothing to do with the beach or even visiting with her French friends, but rather because she was shopping for a birthday gift for Jasmine. She had belatedly realized that Jasmine's birthday was fast approaching and she had nothing to give her, so she convinced her parents to let the French witches take her shopping in local muggle and magical areas in order to find the perfect gift.
Her parents went along, of course, and didn't miss the fact that all the time she spent focusing on doing something nice for Jasmine was time she wasn't agitated, frustrated, upset, or generally wallowing in the bad mood she'd been in for the past several weeks. They had no idea why, but they were thrilled to see their happy daughter again and made it a point to participate in her quest, simply to enjoy the time with her.
Friday, July 23, 1995.
Ginny Weasley reread yet another letter from Neville and sighed in happiness — it looked like her efforts might finally be bearing fruit. He hadn't come right out to say that he was interested, but it seemed like he might be. It's a shame that there's no one I can ask for advice, she thought. Certainly not any of my brothers, and I really don't want Mum to get involved. That means that I need to figure this out for myself, and right now that means being direct.
Everyone was packing up for an extended stay at Grimmauld Place, where it was safer — not that anyone could explain what exactly the danger was — and she didn't know if she'd be able to send or receive owls regularly, so she decided to treat this as her last chance to say anything at all before the fall term started. Gryffindors forward! she thought to herself as she took a huge chance and tried writing in relatively direct, clear language just what it was she was looking for from Neville.
In a corner of her mind, it occurred to her that her mother would be horrified at a young witch being so bold and forthright with a wizard — it was something "scarlet women" did. As much as the relationship between Jasmine and Hermione bothered her, though, it had at least taught her the value of directness and open communication.
Amelia Bones reread yet another directive from Fudge's office and slapped it down on her desk, thoroughly disgusted. Minister Fudge couldn't directly interfere with a criminal investigation, especially one that might bring some of his own decisions into question. He could, however, interfere with her department itself in a number of ways — ways that impacted all her investigations unless she prioritized some over others.
Whoever is writing these directives is creative, I'll give them that, she admitted reluctantly. Wanting a second opinion, she called in Moira O'Connor, Head of the Hit Wizards, and Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Department. Moira was a former Irish auror who'd had to fight a lot of prejudice against witches serving as Hit Wizards as she rose to the top of that department. Rufus was as much a politician as he was an auror, but he was also loyal, so Amelia never feared for her job around him.
When they arrived, she said, "I'm sure you've seen these directives already, but you probably read them at separate times. Right, I want you to read them all together and give your opinions."
Both of her most trusted advisors were silent for a while before Rufus looked up from his reading and said, "They don't sound like they threaten the integrity of DMLE investigations, especially on their own; but the budgetary revisions, personnel reassignments, and other changes all serve to render our actual ability to conduct investigations almost non-existent, except for one or two cases at a time."
Moira nodded in agreement. "I'd be willing to bet that any day now we'll be getting a major case from Cornelius Fudge or a political ally, something we cannot ignore — or that we'll be ordered not to ignore — and that will force us to put everything else on hold, including the investigations into what happened to Jasmine Potter, Sirius Black, and Peter Pettigrew."
"Those were my conclusions exactly," Amelia said. "And if Fudge wants to bury those investigations so badly, that's all the more reason to pursue them. Besides, I promised that girl that I'd do everything I could to see that justice was done." She paused to look back and forth at them. "I want the two of you to figure out how we can continue pursuing at least those two investigations under the constraints that are being imposed on us and without Fudge finding out. Even if it means people volunteering to work off the books, I do not want either case to start gathering dust. Am I understood?"
Both Moira and Rufus said they'd get right on it before leaving her alone to wonder what Fudge and his lackeys might try next.
Saturday, July 24, 1995.
Voldemort slammed the latest book shut with a growl. He'd looked through every Dark Arts tome which the Malfoys had, and quite a few which he'd commanded his other servants to bring from their own private libraries. So far, though, he'd been unable to find a single scrap of information that would help him understand what had been happening to him — neither the pain, the nausea, or the weakened magic.
Just about the only good news was that he hadn't had to deal with the first two all month, which was the longest stretch of feeling healthy that he could remember since late last year. Still, there was no knowing how long it would last — he needed to find answers, otherwise he was sure that this would continue to plague him, threatening to make him look weak in front of his pureblood followers.
The other bit of good news was that someone had spotted the mudblood friend of Potter in Diagon Alley earlier in the month — and without any sort of guard, too. They'd lost her, which earned them a session under the Cruciatus curse, but Voldemort had immediately set up a rotating watch on the alley to specifically look for her, Potter, and a few other high-value targets. He doubted that any would show, though: Dumbledore was too smart to let that happen. Nevertheless, there was no way to plan for lucky breaks, so he set the watch and was waiting to see what would come of it.
Voldemort then pulled out a book that was for his next research project: prophecies.
Sunday, July 25, 1995. Night.
It was a very tired Granger family that finally walked back into their home after having been gone for two weeks. As relaxing as the trip had been overall — even for Lindsey, who had eventually learned how to comfortably lie on the beach without having to worry about his eyes wandering too much — travelling back home had been exhausting, and everyone just wanted to fall into bed and sleep.
Before going upstairs to unpack the bare necessities, Lindsey flipped through the collection of mail which a neighbor had been picking up while they were gone. It was pretty much what he'd expected... except for one thing. He debated not saying anything, then realized that if he didn't, he'd arguably be doing the same thing he and his wife had criticized their daughter for.
"Hermione," he called out.
"Yes, Dad?" she answered as she came out of the kitchen. Without a word, he handed over a stack of postcards — the same postcards she had diligently written to Jasmine every day while in France. Every single one had been marked "Addressee Unknown," and it was only because Hermione had thought to include their home address that they all had found their way to the Granger house.
His heart broke at the expression of distress on Hermione's face when she reached to take the stack of postcards from him. She didn't say anything, just pulled them to her chest and slowly walked upstairs to her room.
"Were those...?" Emma asked. She had come out of the kitchen, too, and was behind Hermione when she took the cards.
Lindsey nodded. "I didn't look closely since they weren't written to me, but it looked like not a single one made it through. There was also the letter she said she sent from here before we went away."
Emma sighed and said, "She looked devastated."
"For the moment," Lindsey agreed, "but if her recent mood swings continue, she'll switch over to angry soon enough."
"I guess we should be prepared for her to make another trip over there sooner or later," Emma said as she picked up some of the luggage.
"I'd bet on sooner," Lindsey responded as he grabbed the rest and followed his wife up to their bedroom.
Monday, July 26, 1995. Afternoon.
Once again, phone calls to Jasmine failed to get through. Not content with just trying to call from home, Hermione walked all over the local village that morning, trying every pay phone she could find. Every time, the result was the same: loud static. So after lunch, she headed immediately for the train station and once again began the journey to where Jasmine lived.
I may not have Jasmine's flair for sneaking around, Hermione admitted to herself, but I've learned a thing or two from being her friend over the past four years. Instead of charging in the front, I'll go around and sneak in the back. Lupin — or whoever's on guard — will never see me.
This time, rather than turning down Privet Drive, she kept right on walking and turned instead down the next street over. The numbering allowed her to guess how many houses she had to pass by. Then, after a quick look around, she trotted through someone's front yard, through their back yard, and finally climbed over their fence. Thank Merlin no one was home, she thought as she stopped to catch her breath.
Crouching down so as not to be easily seen, she slowly scanned the area and saw that there was no one around — no wizards or witches watching her. Quietly she stood up and started moving towards the back door, still wondering what sort of excuse she could give for showing up there instead of the front.
Then everything went black.
Monday, July 26, 1995. Evening.
When Hermione woke up, she once again found herself lying on the couch in her family's living room. Growling, she sat up and flicked her wrist to send her wand into her hand. As she looked around the room for her target, she saw her parents, both of whom had their hands in front of them, motioning for her to lower her wand.
"She's already gone," Lindsey said. "She brought you here, waited until we arrived, then said she'd be reporting this to Dumbledore and left."
"Who was it?" Hermione asked as she returned her wand to her wrist holster.
"She didn't identify herself," Emma said apologetically. "It didn't look like the Tonks woman who was here before, though."
Hermione jumped up off the couch and started pacing back and forth in the living room, trying to figure out what to do.
"Oh, and this arrived while you were asleep," Lindsey said, holding out a parchment envelope. "The owl didn't want to let us take the message, but we showed you to it and explained that we were your parents. It... seemed to understand, I guess, and let us take it."
Opening the envelope, she found that it was a letter from Neville. "This is from one of our friends at school. He says that he hasn't been able to get through to Jasmine either, and that he's keeping Hedwig safe for now."
Even angrier now, Hermione resumed her pacing while her parents simply looked at each other, wishing that they knew of a way to help.
Tuesday, July 27, 1995. Afternoon.
Albus Dumbledore looked over the notes he had made during the report about Miss Granger's attempt to sneak in to #4 Privet Drive. Given the way she had tried to get in, she was lucky that she had only been stunned, and that the guard hadn't immediately assumed that she was a polyjuiced Death Eater who was there for nefarious purposes.
Eyeing the decanter across the room, he wondered briefly if it was too early in the day for a spot of firewhiskey, then sighed regretfully and returned to the problem of Hermione Granger. In truth, I shouldn't be surprised that she tried something, he thought. Of course she wouldn't give up after trying to send a couple of letters by owl. She's a Gryffindor, after all, and not easily dissuaded from pursuing a goal she believes to be righteous. I had hoped that I'd convinced her that it was safer to leave Miss Potter isolated, but I guess I underestimated Miss Granger's loyalty and drive. Those qualities may come in very handy in the future, but right now they're rather inconvenient.
Abruptly leaning forward over his desk, he realized that rather than deterring her, this latest incident might actually spur her on to ever more dangerous attempts to get to Miss Potter, and that he'd therefore either have to increase the daily guard just to keep her away or create additional magical protections that would inhibit her. We really don't have the people to spare, he lamented, and more magical protections won't be easy. The protections I created to divert wizards and witches from contacting Miss Potter had been difficult enough. I probably should have realized that they would catch muggle means of communication as well, but it's too late to change that. Probably for the best anyway.
Maybe I should invite Miss Granger to move to Grimmauld Place for the rest of the summer? That would distract her, perhaps... but she might also find help for her schemes. Taking off his half-moon spectacles and rubbing the bridge of his nose in annoyance, he wondered yet again what it was about witches that caused him so many headaches.
Friday, July 30, 1995. Afternoon.
Once more, Hermione Granger found herself in the Owl Post Office in Diagon Alley. None of her previous letters had resulted in any helpful advice, so she had decided to expand the pool of potential help.
She had been reluctant to take this extra step because she didn't want to spread information about Jasmine's predicament too widely. Now she was getting desperate, however, and decided to finally contact the other witches and wizards of their study group, since they had already demonstrated a tremendous amount of loyalty and support in the last few months. If she couldn't trust them with this, then how could they be trusted with anything? So yesterday she wrote nearly identical letters to Daphne, Tracey, Blaise, Susan, Hannah, and Padma, asking them if they had any ideas.
After she had paid for six owls and personally sent them on their way, she stopped by Flourish & Blotts to browse the books for a little bit before taking the train back home.
Despite regularly checking behind and around her, she never noticed the people who were following her — one at first, then later three by the time she'd left the bookstore. She was moving too fast among crowds that were too heavy for the three figures following her to snatch her off the street, but with care and a judicious use of magic, they successfully kept track of her all the way home. One stayed to keep an eye on the house while the other two left to report.
Saturday, July 31, 1995. Afternoon.
Emma Granger held her daughter's hand tightly as the girl practically bounced up and down in her seat on the drive to Surrey. Like with the drive from King's Cross Station a little less than a month ago, she thought it would be best if she sat in the back seat next to her daughter because, regardless of how this went, she was sure that it would be emotionally draining and that Hermione would benefit from the comfort.
It had taken several days of pleading, negotiating, and guilt-tripping, but Hermione had finally convinced her parents to help her liberate Jasmine from her horrible relatives. The fact that it was Jasmine's birthday, a day on which she deserved to have a little fun and enjoyment, had played a big role in the guilt-tripping part. Emma and Lindsey were actually looking forward to spending a little time getting to know Jasmine, but they were concerned about running afoul of whatever magical protections might have been placed around her.
After a while, Hermione looked at her watch and asked, "Dad, shouldn't we be there by now?"
Emma, who was sitting opposite the driver's side, saw her husband frown when he answered, "Yes, I would have thought so, but the drive seems to be taking longer than I thought."
After another ten minutes, Lindsey pulled off at a petrol station and pulled out a map. He spent several minutes looking at it while Emma stroked the back of her anxious daughter's hand. Finally, Lindsey said, "I don't know, but this looks like the correct route. I guess I'm just driving more slowly than I realized."
Within moments they were back on the road. They kept going for another fifteen minutes before Hermione yelled, "Stop! Pull over!"
Lindsey quickly moved the car to the side of the road and asked, "What? What is it? What's wrong?"
Emma could see that Hermione looked both pale and furious. "Back there," her daughter said, "The petrol station we just passed. Isn't it the same one you stopped at to read the map?"
Emma frowned and Lindsey answered, "I hardly see how that's possible, pumpkin. I may not be the greatest driver in the world, but I can assure you that I haven't been driving us in circles!"
"Please, Dad," Hermione begged. "Just go back and look?"
Lindsey sighed and agreed. Once the traffic cleared, he turned the car around and pulled into the petrol station. "I will admit that it looks... awfully similar," he said slowly. "But that's not uncommon for big chains and franchises."
Hermione didn't look convinced, but said, "Alright, but let's keep our eyes open going forward, okay?"
Within a minute they were back on the road and heading in the direction they had been going originally. After fifteen minutes, Hermione pointed ahead and to the right, where an eerily familiar petrol station was located. This time, Lindsey pulled right in without being prompted.
"I remember that tire leaning against the wall," Hermione said in a low, dejected voice.
"Right," Lindsey said, "and I remember that faded sign in the window."
"Looks like we all had the same idea," Emma chimed in, "because I remember the number of the registration plate on that car parked on the side."
All three Grangers looked at each other in despair. None of them would be getting to Privet Drive that day.
"Happy birthday to me," Jasmine sang quietly to herself as she lay in her dilapidated old bed. "Happy birthday to me."
She wanted to cry. She also wanted to smash, rend, and destroy. She would have preferred the latter, but in the absence of any appropriate targets, she had to settle for the former.
Saturday, July 31, 1995. Night.
Voldemort smiled magnanimously as he listened to Lucius Malfoy's plan. When his servants came to him yesterday to report that they had found the home of Potter's mudblood friend, many had wanted to immediately apparate there and attack. He had forbidden it, however, and insisted that in order to teach mudbloods and blood traitors an appropriate lesson, this had to be handled correctly — which meant going in with a plan.
He then surprised almost everyone when he gave responsibility for planning and leading the mission to Lucius Malfoy. Everyone thought Malfoy was no longer a favored servant, so why honor him with such an important and high-profile mission? From Voldemort's perspective, though, the choice was obvious: Lucius had more motivation than most to do the job right, and if he succeeded, then he'd have earned his way back into his master's good graces.
And if he fails... well, We still have uses for Narcissa, at least.
Lucius' decision to include his son was amusing, though Voldemort doubted that Draco would be much of an asset. Nevertheless, he supposed that the whelp needed to get experience eventually, and this mission was already being used to train some of the newly marked Death Eaters, so why not? It only required a dark ritual to remove the trace so he could cast spells at will — a ritual that involved quite a lot of pain, too. If young Draco was willing to pay the price, then so be it.
After making a few suggestions, including making it clear that the mudblood and her family were all to be brought back alive and whole, he gave Lucius' plan his blessing and ordered him to have his raiding party ready to go by sundown the following day.
Magorian heard Bane approach from behind. The herd had been unsettled for the past few weeks despite the large number of positive changes that had occurred in the forest, and the herd's leaders were desperate for some answers.
"What news?" Bane finally asked.
Magorian sighed. "As you know, Mars has been gradually increasing in brightness this past month — fluctuating, but always getting just a little bit brighter." Bane nodded. "Tonight, however, Mars flared incredibly bright — more than I've seen in many a long year."
Bane's rear hooves kicked out nervously. "And Venus?" he asked with trepidation.
Magorian frowned and said, "Curiously, Venus remains as brilliant as ever — not as intense as Mars, unfortunately, but bright nonetheless."
"So there is hope?" Bane asked.
"Yes," Magorian said gravely. "There is hope. But there will also be bloodshed and violence. That much is certain now."
"But we don't know where, do we?" Bane asked. When Magorian shook his head, Bane continued, "Then I will set extra guards and patrols." With that, he left, and Magorian returned to his study of the night sky, looking in vain for further insight.