Chapter Four: Challenges & Spells
TW: Emotional infidelity, dissociation (not Hermione), interrogation, talk of torture (minor)
Hermione spends the next three days pouring over possible spells that could hide an entire room. She's seen it before with the Room of Requirement, but that was Hogwarts. The Room of Requirement is a quasi-sentient room, building and tearing itself down whenever it sees fit. While searching and flipping absently through A Guide To Dark Places: Hiding In Plain Sight, she ponders whether the Department of Mysteries operates in the same fashion.
She doesn't find any answers in Flourish and Blotts. Everything she finds is information she already knows, so she moves on to another bookstore. And another. And another. She spends hours in Diagon Alley, pacing the street—visiting store after store—and turning up with nothing.
For a split second, Hermione thinks about entering Knockturn Alley, perhaps the bookstore beside Borgin and Burkes holds something the others don't. She stands at the edge of the road, staring down the narrow street and willing her feet to move. The intense ache that grips the pit of her stomach makes her turn around.
Her mind wanders as she sits at her desk, eyes unfocusing on the paperwork scattered in front of her. What could possibly be holding those secrets at bay? Perhaps it's the Fidelius Charm, but if it was then she wouldn't have been able to see him in the first place. The room and all of its contents would have been untraceable. Imperceivable. Invisible.
Hermione has decided that the person in the Department of Mysteries could only be a man. His strong jaw and broad shoulders denoting them as such. Although the haughty demeanour and that crack of a smile as they looked at her could possibly belong to Pansy Parkinson, his sheer size made her question it.
Unless he was moved?
That would pose another problem, one that she isn't entirely sure she is prepared for. If he was moved, he could be anywhere in the Ministry, anywhere in the country. He could be in Azkaban. She lets out a low growl of frustration, the sound going unnoticed amongst the other employees in the office.
It has to be magic. Why go through all the trouble of having a kept prisoner and moving him?
She pushes her bangs back off her forehead, and rubs her temples, trying to remember what was in the room full of nothing. It was nothing but a dank, old room with stone walls and cobwebs clustered in the ceiling corners. No furniture and no art, but she remembers the high ceilings, the way she could hear her own breathing echoing in the emptiness.
But what if that's all they wanted me to see?
Opening her eyes, she peers through the doorway of her cubicle.
No one is looking, no one cares…no one will notice if I stand up, no one will notice if I slip out, no one will notice if—
The second she stands and sets a single toe out of her cubicle, Connor turns the corner and is waving at her. He looks at her with his warm brown eyes and she is pulled from her mission.
"Are you headed down to the atrium? Would you like to go with me and get a coffee?" Connor asks.
The blush rises, spreading over her cheeks and it probably looks bashful. She turns away to collect her change purse, clenching her hands for a moment and stifling a flustered sigh.
Fuck.
They head to the elevators and Connor chats idly about the recent smuggling case that has consumed the department.
"I can't believe how many dragon eggs we found in that old warehouse, all alone being incubated. Can you even begin to imagine what would have happened if they had hatched?" He snorts and looks at her from the corner of his eye, a half-smile playing on his lips. When he turns to her, his grin spreads like he isn't talking about an army of dragons being unleashed in a run-down estate on the outskirts of London.
Ginny seems to think that Connor has a crush on her. But Hermione always refutes those rumors and tells her otherwise, that he's just being nice and simply values her opinion. But right now, in the elevator, the way that he looks at her feels familiar; it's how Ron used to look at her.
They step off of the lift and into the packed-to-the-brim atrium. Apparently, everyone had a similar idea and there's already a long queue that sprawls through the open room. It almost reaches the fountain. Coworkers chat animatedly to one another as they wait, the sound rising into the high ceilings as interdepartmental planes whizz by.
Hermione watches, eyes scanning the crowd, concerned that the Auror from the Department of Mysteries is milling around the atrium. She looks for his slicked-back hair amongst the throng of Ministry employees.
Connor continues to prattle on for a moment before asking about what she's currently reading.
"I'm actually reading a Muggle book, well re-reading it really. It's a classic by Oscar Wilde called The Picture of Dorian Grey." His eyes bore into her, deep and dark and glinting in the light as he urges her to continue.
So, they talk about books. They chat about Muggle authors and he asks which ones she can recommend. Her heart starts to race a little as he continues to look at her, his smile never dwindling . His perfect white teeth are a shock against his warm brown skin.
Her eyes are drawn from his pristine teeth to the surrounding facial hair that is neatly trimmed; she catches herself lingering on his full lips as he tells her about a new book series. Mesmerised by the way his hands move when he talks, how he grabs the back of his neck when he gets a little nervous, looking over to her several times throughout the conversation to see if she's still listening.
Hermione glances at her shoes, his intense eye contact causing an overwhelming fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach. She can't help but appreciate his good looks and his choice in conversational topics. He's well read, intelligent and seems genuinely interested in what she has to say.
It's just a silly schoolgirl crush…it won't amount to anything, she knows that. Guilt courses through her; she has Ron after all. But she can't remember the last time she felt like this. It must have been in her sixth year when she first began noticing Ron as more than just a friend.
The feeling is murky, buried deep within something else…she tries to dig within the confines of her mind, tries to remember when exactly she began feeling this way towards Ron. Her search turns up with some hazy, half-cognizant memory that is foggy and soft around the edges.
Furrowing her brows, Hermione focuses once more on her conversation with Connor. She's about to say something, to argue his point about a recent opinion piece in The Prophet, when she hears her name being called.
Head snapping up in the direction of the voice, she can just make out Harry's shaggy black hair as he jogs over. He's pink in the face, and a little out of breath as he asks the person behind them if it's alright for him to cut in line.
"Harry! I didn't realise you were in today." Hermione forces a smile, not liking the way Harry is looking at her. Connor acknowledges his presence with a curt nod and Harry's green eyes are glued to hers.
Ginny told him about the Department of Mysteries…
"I'm working a double. Someone's called in sick, so I've been here since yesterday." Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Connor hide a grimace.
"Do you still want to have dinner tonight? We can reschedule if—?" But Harry's already shaking his head before she can even finish the question.
"No, no, I still want to have dinner. Besides, Ginny is back from Wales for the next few days before she heads off for another tournament."
Connor's eyes light up next to her. "I've heard she's made the Harpies!" he says with glee and Harry smiles. Ginny's been playing second string for the Harpies for the last few weeks. She's been keeping it hush-hush as it hasn't officially been announced yet.
"She did. In fact, Padma is running a story on it in this Sunday's edition of the Prophet," Harry says, puffing out his chest.
Connor tilts his head, humouring him in a sweet way. "You don't say!"
They chatter between themselves as the line inches forward and she catches an odd sight near the lifts. Morag MacDougal's head swivels like a lost owl taking in its surroundings.
She shouldn't be this confused…
Hermione sees Morag every morning as she heads to the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Usually when they cross paths, Morag always smiles, and sometimes they even have a chat in the lifts.
What is she doing?
Hermione continues to observe.
Her long brown hair is pulled into a French braid, and her robes fit her well, much better than they normally do. Morag looks put together, like she chose this outfit with intention. Hermione has never known Morag to be the kind of person to put this much care and attention into her appearance.
The conversation between Harry and Connor washes over her and fades into the background. Morag must notice Hermione's gaze on her because she meets her gaze, and for a split second, her eyes flash a distinct shade of violet-blue before she disappears into the elevators.
That night, at dinner in Grimmauld Place, Harry questions what Hermione saw in the Department of Mysteries. He uses what she and Ginny like to call his Auror voice. It's calm, level and phlegmatic. He maintains uninterrupted eye contact as he questions her, his face aloof.
Ron sent a message to Hermione this afternoon saying he wouldn't be coming tonight, stating 'work is killing me'. So it's just the three of them tonight, sitting in the grand dining room.
She always found it stuffy, sitting at the long table under the chandelier light, the paintings squinting at her as they all ate. But she never objected. It made Harry happy to have dinner at the table. Part of her thinks it's because this is the first space Harry has been able to call his own. The first table he has complete control over. A vast difference from the Dursley's. How different it must be, everything belonging to him, so many things to call his own after all his hardships.
The lights are dim, candles are lit and a record plays softly on a sideboard along the wall. The records in the sideboard are all from Sirius' bedroom, brought down and put on display for everyone to listen to.
Chet Baker, The Rolling Stones, King Crimson, David Bowie. Sirius had an affinity for Muggle music and Harry has continued the tradition, adding to the collection with his own tastes.
Tonight he has an old jazz record playing. It's a familiar tune she's heard many times over dinner—Time Out by The Dave Brubeck Quartet. Hermione recognises the cover as something her dad had owned.
The music has been playing for a while, the gentle cymbal and piano acting as a soundtrack for her interrogation.
"You said there was something specific about the Auror, his appearance. Can you describe what it is?" Harry's green eyes glint, his mouth pulling into a hard line as Ginny stays silent. Hermione grits her teeth and takes a deep, soothing breath. she can see right through what Harry is attempting. He's trying to cross-examine her memory, to see if her story changes if he poses the question differently.
Hermione's eyes drift to Ginny. Her fork is clenched tightly in her hand, shoulders hunched forward like she's trying to fold herself up as small as possible. She's crumbling, falling into her fear of Ministry corruption taking over once again.
Pressing her lips together, she raises her eyes to Harry's, casting a subtle glance back in Ginny's direction. "We've gone over this twice, let's just finish dinner."
Placing a reassuring hand on Ginny's shoulder, he shakes his head and snaps himself out of it.
"You're right, 'Mione, we can chat about this another time."
I don't think I want to bring this up another time, I don't think I want to force any of them to relive the war. The terror, the uncertainty.
The torture.
"Can you see if Luna will be your scorekeeper today? I want to go to Flourish and Blotts."
Once again, it's Saturday and Hermione is tired. Tired of researching magical rooms and coming up empty-handed.
She's packing up her shoulder bag as Ron brushes his teeth in her bathroom.
Crookshanks is laying on the couch, his tail swishing in distrust and observing Ron as he leans into the sink. The water stops running and he emerges, wiping his face with a small towel. His scars are on display today, always visible in a tank top, the winding white marks barely noticeable on his pale skin.
Hermione watches him—taking him in—and observes the way his muscles flex when his head tilts towards her. His brows furrow together in concern, blue eyes focused on her. He's grown into his frame, filled out over the last two years and could be considered quite handsome.
Then why don't I feel anything…
She's noticed lately that Ron doesn't make her heart pound like it used to. He doesn't say things that make her blush, that make her laugh. Hermione finds herself wondering once again how long she's been feeling this way, how long she's been burying her own emotions. It feels like they have fallen back into a friendship, the little flicker of a flame that was once there has been snuffed out.
But was it ever there?
Had she mistaken his easy affection for something more? Perhaps it was nothing more than a trauma bond. Had she just accepted Ron? Decided that this is what she should do—how her story should end?
He throws the towel over his shoulder before his hands find her waist. Sometimes she forgets how much taller he is—how much broader—as his arms envelop her into an embrace.
The smell of Irish Spring and her own minty toothpaste engulfs her. She breathes in deeply, closing her eyes, relaxing against his touch and waiting for something—anything—to happen. But nothing.
I feel nothing.
His chin rests on the top of her head. "You're going to miss me whoop Ginny's ass again." His voice rumbles deep in his chest. The vibrations send a jolt through her body.
She snorts. "Doubtful, Ron, considering you're the keeper. You don't whoop anyone's ass."
"Come on, 'Mione. It'll be fun, do you really want to go to a bookstore? Today of all days?" She pulls away. His face is sincere, eyebrows knitting together, blue eyes looking hurt.
"I want to do my own thing for once, Ron," she says.
Hermione can feel the air change in the room, the disappointment rolling off him in waves. Ron finishes getting ready without a word, and kisses her cheek before leaving.
I didn't mean to be so cold and dismissive…
But the last thing she wants to do today is sit in a field and keep score while her friends play Quidditch.
Lately, Ron's expectations of her to move on and just be okay have been weighing heavily on her conscience. Like a stone in her shoe, his flippant attitude towards her mental health has been wearing on her, grating on her already frayed nerves. But she tries to brush it aside, to tell herself he just wants to spend time with her. She needs a moment, some time to herself to think about what she wants.
So, she goes into Diagon Alley and enjoys the blue skies. The sun glints, just peeking over the tops of the buildings. The street is nearly empty as she heads towards Flourish and Blotts. Saturday mornings are always a sleepy affair with most of the crowds turning up in the afternoon to complete their errands.
The sound of the chime on the front door announces her entrance and not a single person in the bookshop looks up. The smell of ink and paper surrounds her as she approaches the table featuring the new releases, looking for something Connor recommended yesterday.
Fingers grazing across the different covers and feeling the plethora of materials, she finds herself blocking out the noise. The idle chatter that fills her brain dwindles. Dates, names, work and anything related to her personal life all melt away into the background. Fading until she can no longer hear it.
For the first time since before she stumbled upon the person in the Department of Mysteries, she feels awash with calm. Hermione plucks a random book from the table and settles into a chair, ready to lose herself in the world of fiction. Soon, she's three chapters in and decides to buy the entire series.
Returning to the table, she thumbs through different volumes and reads a few pages of each before adding them to her ever-growing pile.
"Ms. Granger! I didn't see you come in. Have you already finished the stack you bought a few days ago?" The voice causes her to jump and drop the book she was holding. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to startle you, I can put these behind the counter if you'd like?" The clerk offers her an enthusiastic smile to which Hermione nods curtly.
She tries to fall back into her flowstate, to let the world around her continue on as she focuses all of her energy on what she's looking for. Before the war, she would spend hours in the library or a bookstore, letting everything around her become a distant memory. Since the war, her nerves have posed a challenge in public places. There's always a part of her that feels the need to be alert, a part of her that's on edge and waiting for something to happen. For the other shoe to drop. For someone to break through the wards. For the alarms to go off.
The fine hairs on the back of her neck begin to rise. Like a cold hand settling on her shoulder, the feeling of being watched engulfs Hermione. Discreetly, she checks over her shoulder before slipping down an aisle in an attempt to rid herself of the sensation. But it's still there, eyes on her skin, a damp chill running up her spine.
But she's in public, of course people will be looking at her in public. People constantly look at her in public.
This is different. Something's off.
A warning rises in the back of her mind—a feeling she has learned to listen to—and the little alarm bell is whispering to her, telling her that something—someone—is watching.
She pretends to look at a copy of Bathilda Bagshot's A History of Runes, inconspicuously glancing down the aisle from the corner of her eye.
That's when Hermione sees her.
Pansy Parkinson is standing at the end of the aisle—plain as day—thumbing through a book. Her violet-blue eyes peek over the top and she is smiling at Hermione.