Draco argued and pouted. He begged and he bartered. Tried to distract her with dirty tricks and nefarious Slytherin tactics. In the end, none of it worked. Hermione just made a sappy face, and told him with downcast eyes that she'd never been to the Paris Metro and she really, really wanted to go. So, please, could he find it in his Slytherin heart to–
It worked like a charm.
"Filthy, fucking muggles," he grumbled as they were jostled around in the rush hour crowd. He tried to do it quietly, but she heard him. It made her a little disheartened that his hatred for non-magical people burned just as strong as when they had been in school. Possibly, even more. She blamed the ministry. Forcing someone to work a minimum wage job in the foodservice industry was not a viable way to teach compassion.
The crowd grew thicker, threatening to separate them. Impulsively, she reached out for his hand, and felt his fingers curl around hers in a steady grip. He pulled her close, walking a little ahead to part the crowd like an icebreaker parts thick arctic sheets.
She also noticed that he stopped grumbling.
They disembarked at the Paris Saint-Lazare Station, switching over to the teal line, and took it all the way to its near end, hopping out at Basilique de Saint-Denis. The medieval abbey was just a short walk south of the station. Muggles had no idea that the imposing gothic cathedral in the middle of a Parisian suburb actually housed a portway to one of the city's magical enclaves. Researchers, alchemists, blacksmiths, wandmakers, broomkeepers and all sorts of magical craftsmen resided in the giant caverns below. There, they built quirky shops and laboratories – places where they could experiment trying to turn lead into gold or breed fluffy dragons. It was subsidized, in part, by the French Ministry, as the air in the caverns possessed some mysterious properties that made the area conductive to magical works.
It also made the area very tourist-heavy, and Hermione carefully checked that her disguise was in order. Hair, eyes, skin; check. Boobs, check. No glamour charms; magic could always be detected. Still, it was hard to imagine that a passerby would recognize her, as she hardly looked like the Hermione Granger from the papers now.
Even Draco had to look twice the first time he saw her looking like this. Recalling that moment, she had to stifle a small snicker, as images of the fleeing blond dashed through her mind. Boys and boobs. What could you do?
Still, thinking about him couldn't help but bring up the notion of how quickly this relationship was progressing. Not that she had any to compare it with.
That's just how her life turned out. Instead of going out on dates and giggling with girlfriends, deciding which boy was the cutest, she had to fight a war. Not that she really wanted to giggle or spend time ogling clothes in fashion mags, it's just that… the option to do that would have been nice.
C'est la vie, as they say.
Dwelling on this was a downer, and she was glad when they concluded their brisk walk at the gates of the cathedral.
Entering the medieval structure was like walking into a whole new world – the sounds of the street became hushed, and a centuries-old weight settled upon her shoulders. It was the burden of generations that had come before to ease their troubled minds from sin; to seek salvation in the face of darkness.
Tiny motes floated upon rays of scattered light that filtered in through the clerestory stained-glass windows. Above, a grand vaulted ceiling rested in shadow. Hermione walked slowly between the pews towards the chancel, reveling in the feeling of history surrounding her. What mysteries were concealed by these walls? What events did they witness? And what did the people buried here have to hide?
This wasn't just a church, after all: it was the familial necropolis for over a millennia of French royalty. More than 60 tombs were laid in the crypt below, hosting the bodies of kings and queens, princes and princesses, dukes and duchesses. Seeing this firsthand was like opening an old tome, dusty and forgotten, and delving into its sacred pages.
Behind her, Draco cleared his throat. She sighed and turned around. He was right: they didn't come to sightsee. Maybe later, when this case was over; when Dolohov, or whoever was spreading the virus, was dead.
Draco took the lead, walking towards the east end of the cathedral. There, in between two alcoves, was a concealed passageway. Narrow, it permitted only one person at a time to pass; a defensive strategy from the middle ages aimed at hindering the advance of any attacking forces. Its well-worn steps spiraled down into murky depths. Draco walked first; apprehensively, she followed.
Gloom displaced light before giving way to darkness. She felt its slimy touch glide over her skin, causing goosebumps to rise and fall in waxing waves. Her heart trembled, beating an erratic rhythm into her chest. She knew this was mostly the effects of layered enchantments that protected the magical domain from muggles, but, still, this place, this darkness – it made her uneasy. The stone walls were edging closer, threatening to suffocate her in an icy embrace; she felt like she was venturing into the gaping maw of some wild beast that would close it jaws around her, burying her from the world. Impulsively, she reached forward to touch Draco's shoulder. His skin was cold, but its mere presence was enough to warm her, chasing away any irrational fears. "Lumos," she heard him mutter, lighting the path ahead.
After what seemed an eternity the passageway broadened, gradually lightening as torch-holding scones appeared on the walls. The fire in them was smokeless, burning a vivid blue, reminding her of her own flames, and of a similar darkness she had banished so many years ago. A darkness she burned away with fire, rescuing her friends from the strangling vines of a devilish plant.
Finally, the steps evened out, leading them to a broad room, lit by a dozen torches. The way forward was blocked by a monolithic slab of stone, engraved with the fleur-de-lis. They approached it cautiously, wands at the ready. Hermione knew the incantation that would grant them access to the caverns within; it had been in one of the many books she read.
A whisper of a spell, and the stone slab shuddered; slowly, with the grating sounds of rock scraping against rock, it rose, disappearing into a recess in the wall above. Draco passed first through the yawning opening; Hermione was just a step behind. Her companion's tall form was blocking off her vision, but then he moved, and, gasping, she walked onto an edge of a landing jutting out into a sea of light and darkness.
They had exited onto part of a stone walkway that looped around the entire cavern. There were similar walkways both above and below them, covering the steep walls like rungs in a ladder. From the looks of it, they were somewhere in the middle: hundreds of feet off the ground, but not yet close to the ceiling. From this vantage point, Hermione was able to observe the entire span of the underground enclosure.
Several miles in diameter, it basked in the light of several giant sun-like lanterns, seconded by a soft luminescent glow from wall-hugging fungi that covered the bedrock formations around them like carvings on wood. Stalactites, sharp as jagged teeth, hung from above, sometimes meeting their floor-based cousins and forming grandiose columns. Over many years, they had been hollowed out, and now served as homes or workshops to all sorts of magical creatures. Miles of rope and wood were stretched between them – footpaths to those who were unable to fly.
For flight was a common method of travel here. A diverse assortment of transport clogged the aerial highways: brooms and magic carpets flitted between colorful hot air balloons and gondolas; hippogriffs beat their mighty wings ferrying riders to and from designated transit stations; a mighty ship, sails at half-mast, floated gracefully towards the far end of the cavern, where a huge magical portal shimmered with pearly light.
"The Cloud Princess," Draco informed her, gazing up at the ship. "It's rumored that the levitation spells imbued into her frame were cast by Archimedes himself. She circumnavigates the world every few months. The cost of even a single ticket is… well, it's not measured in galleons."
"Have you ever been aboard?" Hermione asked with envy. There were so many elements of this world – like a ship that floated on clouds – that she hadn't yet been able to experience. In times of weakness, she sometimes wished she had been born to a pair of magical parents. Her life would have been so much easier then. Such thoughts quickly passed, however, leaving shame in their wake. She hadn't won a war to be tormented by regrets, and she was proud of who she was. Besides, her friends were a direct result of her heritage, and she could not imagine a world where she, Harry and Ron would have passed in separate ways.
"No," Draco, unaware of her thoughts, answered almost whimsically. "You need more than money to book a cabin on that vessel. I suppose the Malfoy name had sufficient connections in the past, but my father was always too preoccupied with… other issues."
Like trying to kick muggleborns out of his precious magical world, Hermione thought to herself, but didn't say anything out loud. Lucius was dead, and there was no reason to stir the wounds of the past.
"And your mother?" she prompted, steering the conversation away from the dead Malfoy patriarch.
"Mother had no time for idleness, either. She was always busy with one thing or another. But the pinnacle of her efforts… Oh, Granger, the balls she hosted! Several times a year, all of high society would gather at the Manor to celebrate the festivities! I never appreciated any of it, of course; I just wanted to escape and fly on a broom with the other kids. But she… she truly had a talent. It wasn't just organizing or planning, she learned to do everything for her soirees: she could cook, knit, dance; she was fluent in seven languages as well as the customs of a dozen cultures. But the most impressive aspect was her charmwork. I imagine she could have taught the class at Hogwarts–"
Draco was still looking at the Princess, but Hermione had turned her gaze away, resting it instead on young man by her side. His eyes sparkled as he recounted his mother's achievements. It was this moment that, in all the time they had been together, he seemed the most human. This was just a boy missing his mum, because, as far as she knew, Narcissa did not reside at the Manor.
"Where is she?" Hermione asked, tugging Draco back to the present.
"She couldn't stay in our home," he replied bitterly. "Not after everything that had happened there, and not after father passed. She was ordered to remain, the ministry placed her on house arrest, but…" He shook his head. "She would have died there."
"So what did you do?"
Draco paused; it seemed that a battle of wills was occurring within his mind. Finally, one side relented, and he answered honestly, "We got her out of the country. Greased some wheels, paid the right people. She travels sometimes, but usually stays in a small property we own near the French-Italian border–"
A wave of warmth crested in Hermione's soul. The fact that he trusted her enough to disclose the location of his mother – the only other person who even remotely cared for him – spoke volumes. She had to swallow an unexpected lump in her throat, and then quickly tuned back to what Draco was saying.
"–and the Giardini Botanical Gardens are just a short stroll away… I tell you, Granger, Professor Sprout would have died of envy seeing the type of flora that local witches grow there! Mother writes me every week, sharing her own efforts with cultivating–"
"You don't see her?"
His face turned gray, and shoulders slumped. "No. Haven't in years. She can't return because of the threat of arrest, and I couldn't break my probation to go visit her."
"I'm sorry, Draco," Hermione said in small voice, and then impulsively reached out to hug him. She held him close, listening to his shuddering breaths.
"It's not too bad," he sniffed, pulling back after a bit. "If things ever got really tough, I could always run to her."
"How so?"
Draco grinned mischievously, the previous nostalgia of their conversation evaporating like morning dew under a summer sun. He reached for his throat and made a small gesture with his fingers. An intricately woven silver chain shimmered into existence around his neck. He pulled at one end, tugging it out until he could hold what it carried: a ring of black onyx with an emerald 'M' in the center.
"Portkey," he whispered conspiratorially. "My mother has one just like it. They're made of one stone, meaning that–"
"They're linked together," Hermione guessed in similarly hushed tones. "One takes you to the other."
"Exactly. It can only be used once, though."
"You've never thought of doing that? Running away to join her?"
"I have," he admitted with a shrug of his shoulders. "But the Manor… England... that is my home, and it will forever be so, even if I'm not wanted anymore. I will not be chased away."
She reached out to squeeze his hand and said, "I'm glad you stayed." They stood like that for a moment, lost in their thoughts, until a shrill cry from an ascending Pegasus tore them back to reality.
Hermione took one last glance at the Princess (the ship's bow was disappearing into the portal) before tugging Draco along the stone pathway. It was wide enough for several people (or goblins, gnomes, dwarfs, etc.) to pass side by side, but lacked any sort of railing. The reason behind such a baffling design was lost on Hermione, because who it their right mind enjoys walking on the edge of a cliff? The drop below looked to be at least several hundred feet deep.
Hermione had never been fond of heights, so she hugged the wall as closely as possible. Draco, realizing the reason behind her nervousness, put himself between her and the abyss; she gave him a grateful smile in return.
He had become so much more considerate since school. And polite. And handsome, although she'd call it pretty. His shoulders had broadened, and–
Hermione mentally slapped herself. Her appraisal could wait until after their mission was over.
They walked along the path in silence for some time, accompanied only by the sounds of gravel crunching under their feet. Signposts, hammered down into rock, pointed towards the nearest system of lifts.
The researcher Hermione wanted to see lived on the bottom level, and the lifts were the easiest way of descent. They were built into the bedrock of the cavern, placed about every half-mile or so. The closest one was just a little away.
Before reaching it, however, they came upon a group of inebriated dwarfs. Reeking of ale, the bearded fellows had gathered on the edge, shouting slurs and obscenities to a group of goblins several levels below. The goblins were responding with high-pitched squeals, rude gestures, and empty bottles. Fortunately, their aim was as good their looks. Draco and Hermione ducked by, unwilling to interrupt the traditional flirting customs of the two races.
They had almost arrived at their lift when Draco suddenly asked, "You like ships, don't you, Granger?"
"I do," she admitted, glad for a conversation that would allow her mind to stray from issues like their exact elevation and how long it would take for a body to reach the ground. "How did you know?"
"Your house. The Turner paintings, some of the decorations. They're all marine-themed. You even have a pair of pearl-capped shell earclips in your jewelry box."
She almost stumbled. "And just how exactly would you know that?!"
He threw her a sly grin. "I took a little peek, while you were running around like a chicken with its head cut off packing all your things for our trip."
"You do know you're standing on the edge of a cliff," she growled, sending him her most menacing scowl.
The git was entirely unperturbed. "You wouldn't push me," he declared. "You like me too much."
"I do not!"
His retort was instant and triumphant, "That's not what you said this morning!"
She harrumphed, crossed her arms in a profound display of annoyance, and glared at this blond-haired prat that had the audacity to admit of going through her things but lacked the manners to act scared when she threatened him.
Ignoring the looks of death she was sending him, he started whistling some obnoxious tune and skipped away.
She was seriously considering whether or not he would survive the fall should she give him a little nudge, when the pathway broadened to a spacious landing. Three shafts were cut into the rock; two were empty, one had a cabin waiting.
The lifts were robust constructions of brass and other alloys, powered by pressurized pipes of blistering steam. By pulling a system of levers inside the cabin, a passenger could direct it to different levels. They chose the bottom one, and the lift plummeted with a "wumpth". Suppressing a girly yelp, Hermione grabbed onto to the man next to her, clutching his arms tightly. Thankfully, the rapid descent only lasted several seconds, and then the cabin slowed, gradually coming to a complete stop. A sharp 'ting' announced their arrival.
The ground floor of the cavern was split into evenly divided sectors – industrial, commercial, and residential. Hermione led the way, having memorized the route in advance. Avoiding a caravan of camels with goods and several street merchants peddling their wares, she turned onto a series of quiet streets, took two left turns and stopped in front of a giant, hollowed-out, two-story mushroom – the researcher's residence.
Three brightly-colored steps led onto a wide porch with a long linked chain hanging adjacent to the entrance. Pulling it made a pair of silver bells softly jingle from above. Hermione and Draco had to use it twice until a scurry of footsteps from behind the door announced the owner's approach.
"Un moment, s'il vous plait!" came through the door, and then it opened to reveal a small wiry man with wisps of gray hair and a pair of spectacles through which he peered at Hermione.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Lemmen," she began, "Je m'appelle–"
"Mademoiselle Granger!" he exclaimed with delight. "But of course! Pardon-moi, I did not recognize you at first!"
So she had been here before. She had been confident in that hypothesis, but now it had turned into fact. Still, Hermione felt a brief flash of irritation that her disguise had been pierced so quickly. She met Draco's eyes for a brief moment, and he returned a quick, tight nod. He knew what to do when they were finished here.
"I was so worried when I heard of your troubles," Lemmen said after an exchange of introductions between the two men. His english was much better than Fleur's. "I even contacted your Ministry and spoke to an auror–"
Hermione froze. Neither Harry nor Ron ever mentioned following her trail to France. The investigation into her disappearance had always been contained to England. But then that would mean...
She held that thought and focused on what Lemmen was saying.
"-but do come in!"
Lemmen led them to a cozy little sitting room and clapped his hands, calling out for a house-elf.
"Tea?" he inquired. They both nodded, and the squat little creature was sent away with meticulous instructions.
"You are here, I assume, for the data, Ms. Granger?" he asked, mentioning for them to have a seat.
"I am," she confirmed, taking an educated guess that what he was referring to was virus-related. "But, first, may I inquire as to why you contacted the Auror Department? Not that I'm not grateful – merely curious."
"Why, because I thought I could help," Lemmen answered, looking a little perplexed. "The papers that heralded your disappearance said no one had seen you since spring, and since you visited me in early June, I thought I should share that information. I owled your Auror Department and later spoke with one of their representatives via floo."
Sitting up a little straighter, Draco asked, "Can you recall with whom you spoke?"
Lemmen shook his head. "I apologize. It was half a year ago… the name escapes me."
"But it wasn't Harry Potter or Ronald Weasley?" Hermione clarified.
"Non. That I would have remembered. No… the auror that contacted me had brown hair, blue eyes… eh... very round cheeks…"
Nostrils flaring, Hermione mentally flipped through a registry of the ministry's aurors and guessed, "Rawlings?"
Lemmen perked up. "Oui," he said. "Rawlings, his name was. I relayed to him that you had visited me, and he thanked me. That is all I know.
Hermione pursed her lips, feeling she had just grasped the thread that could unravel this whole conspiracy. Because either Rawlings was completely fucking incompetent or he had purposefully concealed information of her whereabouts. She needed to text this development to Harry as soon as possible. Sadly, it was impossible to do right away, as cell phones – and all kinds of muggle technology – behaved rather unpredictably in the presence of concentrated magic. After all, magic violated the very principles of physics upon which electronics were founded. She supposed that was why Arthur Weasley – or any other wizard – had never been able to master technological devices. They simply didn't work in magical areas and were prone to explosions.
Glancing curiously between his two guests, Lemmen asked, "I'm sorry, should I have not reached out to the authorities?
Hermione allayed his suspicions with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Oh, no, it's nothing it at all. Thank you for doing that on my behalf." Then, quickly changing the subject, she asked, "You mentioned you had data to share with me?"
"I do. The work has been fascinating, I must admit, if purely theoretical. Once again, let me tell you how glad I am that you chose to bring it to me."
"Your name is very well regarded, Monsieur," Hermione complimented, making the elderly man beam through his spectacles.
"Thank you," he answered modestly. "Allow me several minutes to retrieve it. I'll be back shortly." Lemmen rose and exited the room. Draco looked like he was about to ask Hermione what she thought about Rawlings, when the house-elf reappeared, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. It handed them out with a flourish, placing half a dozen lemon wedges on a plate in the middle. Hermione thanked the elf with a smile; it squeaked, coloring a deep burgundy, and stammered out something incomprehensible in French before disappearing with a pop.
Hermione sighed, mixing in some sugar into her tea. House-elves were conditioned into a life of servitude from their very births… by other house-elves. It was a vicious cycle, one she was afraid she would never break. Even the most open-minded members of the wizarding community – those that respected individual rights – treated the little elves as servants, at best.
Draco, guessing the direction her thoughts had taken, sent her a smirk over his own teacup. She was about to give him a piece of her mind, when Lemmen returned, carrying several rolls of parchment.
"I have been attempting to send you this information for quite some time now," he told the witch. "Sadly, none of my owls were able to locate you."
"A pity, monsieur," Hermione replied. "That would have greatly sped up the Auror Department's work."
Their host gave a polite laugh and placed the papers in his hands on the table, a careful ways away from the tea tray.
"As you requested in your summer visit, Ms. Granger," he said, popping a lemon wedge into his mouth, "I have focused my analysis on the second part of the spell."
"The second part of the virus?"
"Yes. As you know, the primary network of spells that occupies a victim's mind is incomplete – it requires an additional layer that would bridge the missing connections, allowing the curse to operate at its full capacity.
"And have you reached any conclusions?" Hermione asked impatiently.
"Many. Most are just hypotheses at this point, as all of the work is theoretical in nature. There isn't a wizard alive capable of such minute, intricate and powerful spellwork–" Draco rubbed a spot on his arm at these words "–Of one discovery, however, I am certain. The second part of the spell would have to be grown organically."
Hermione frowned. "It couldn't be cast by hand?"
"No. It would have to be tailored specifically to existing receptors in this host's mind as well as the original infection, making it infinitely more complex. Think of it as a pear in a bottle. You can't place a fully matured pear inside; you place it in when it is just a bud, and then let it grow. The same principle applies here."
"Except, in this case, magic would replace the nutrients it needs to grow?" Hermione asked.
Lemmen nodded appreciatively at her quick deduction and answered, "Exactly. Just as a pear requires sunlight and water to flourish, this second part – the "key" that opens the "lock" if you will – would need to be placed in a magically-saturated environment to develop. It would then slowly siphon off magic, until it evolved into a form capable of uniting with the original curse."
"In what sort of container would this thing grow then?" Draco piped up.
"Well, Mr. Malfoy, it's difficult to answer that question, because we're really in uncharted waters here. Magic of this magnitude is leagues above anything that exists today. But, historically, spells have been housed in a variety of objects; crystals and precious stones being the most popular for the stability they provide. But many things may be used. Some wizards prefer family heirlooms, for example, and create artifacts out of them."
Hermione instantly thought of Voldemort and his horcruxes. Did he apply similar reasoning in this case?
"So," Draco said, trying to organize this new information, "this second part of the curse could be placed in almost anything near a magical field and it would grow by itself?"
"Provided it had access to magic, yes." Lemmen replied, taking a sip of his tea.
The conversation continued for some time after that, and Draco quickly discovered that he was unable to follow. Hermione and Lemmen spoke in technical lingo, using terms and jargon he simply did not know. They delved deep into the well of magical analysis, discussing obscure and complicated theorems that could explain the curse's behavior.
He just sat quietly, sipping tea that the elf would refresh, and watched Hermione speak, her eyes full of fire. She truly was brilliant – able to contend with this grizzled researcher. He felt another pang of guilt over how he had berated her in school and wondered what heights this girl could have reached had she been allowed to prosper?
After a little while, he extracted his wand and began practicing some minor spells. Magic coursed through his body, causing pleasant tingles to erupt all over. It was refreshingly sweet, making him feel like a real wizard again, something he had been denied for years.
So engrossed was he in this act, that Hermione had to stomp his foot three times to get his attention. This was the signal that she had concluded her conversation. They had nothing more to gain here.
"Oh, err," he jumped up awkwardly, still holding the wand in his hand. His body protested at the abrupt end to his spellcasting. It needed more. Suppressing that feeling with a grunt, Draco noticed that Hermione had picked the moment perfectly: both Lemmen and his house-elf were in the room.
"Excuse me, monsieur," he said, walking in a direction that would force the researcher to turn away from Hermione. "Could you point me in the direction of the loo–"
He didn't finish that sentence, because the second Lemmen lost sight of Hermione, she withdrew her own wand and stunned him. Draco's stupefy hit the house-elf not one moment later.
"Well," the witch by his side said, standing up, "nice of you to join me, Malfoy."
Draco flinched at the irritation in her tone. "Sorry," he offered, feeling guilty. "Distracted a little."
Hermione just sighed and approached the researcher, whose form was now slumped, eyes glazed over.
"Je suis tres desole," she whispered, leaning forward. "If it is any consolation, I am very proficient in memory charms. Obliviate!"
She repeated the process on the house-elf, and then they cleaned up the room, removing any trace of their presence.
When Monsieur Lemmen awoke, he was a little surprised he had taken a midday nap. Perhaps he was getting old, he thought, walking up to his study. Everything looked pristine, and he sat down to read over his notes. He wondered where the Granger girl was, and whether she had been found. The work she had shared with him was fascinating. Perhaps he should try sending her another owl…
I'm gonna take a little moment here and scribble down some of my thoughts. When I posted the first chapter of this story, I had only 5 thousand words written and only a vague idea of the events that would shape it. I knew the beginning, had some understanding of how everything would end, and almost nothing in-between. Many things came to me spur-of-the-moment, as I wrote this chapter by chapter.
Therefore, I'm very pleased to say that we're entering the final stretch. Not the end, no, there's still a way to go, but the progression of events that leads to the finale is now clear in my mind. I just have to write it out, heh.
Anyways, I just thought I'd share that exciting news and also thank my reviewers. You guys are amazing; reading your comments is always motivating and makes me feel all warm and giddy inside.
Merci beaucoup!