5. THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX

woman is at once apple and serpent - h. heine


ccxxiv. new rules

The summer air crept humid and thick with the promise of rain through the boroughs of southern England.

It clung to the nape of Hermione's neck like a physical hand placed upon her, sticky palm hot and cloying where it adhered to her skin. She rolled one shoulder beneath her damp t-shirt and leaned her elbow on the cluttered table, rubbing her fingers over her temple. Having the window opened or shut made no difference, as there wasn't a breath of wind to be had.

Hermione didn't notice. She didn't notice when the door creaked open, either, only stirring when Elara tapped on her shoulder.

"Have you been to bed at all?" she asked, setting a cup of fresh tea at Hermione's elbow. Or, well, atop the books stacked at her elbow. "Breakfast is over, and you said you'd pop down and have something to eat. That was an hour ago."

"I'm not particularly hungry," Hermione replied as she reached for the next book—only for Elara's hand to gently land on top of it, holding it in place.

"Working yourself into exhaustion won't help anyone," she said.

"I'm not exhausted," Hermione lied, giving the book a feeble tug. "Stop it. It's been two days, and they won't even confirm where they're holding her—."

"After seventy-two hours, they have to bring her before her barrister and can no longer stall. The Flamels have hired her one, and he's waiting. I believe he and the Flamels have gotten as much sleep as you have."

"They'll postpone more when they can't produce her guardians," Hermione argued. "There—there must be something we can do, some law—."

"Hermione."

She took a breath, then another. The roaring in her ears didn't want to abate, hadn't dulled a wit since they took Harriet from the station—or from when she watched Professor Snape turn her boyfriend onto his back, and Terry's dead eyes stared into the sky—.

"There has to be something we can do."

"We can get food into you, and perhaps a nap."

"How does that help with anything?!" Hermione demanded. She drove her fingers through her hair, shaking with frustration. "How can you be so calm? The Ministry's arresting teenagers, allowing Dark Lords free reign, letting children die—and, what? I should take a nap and forget about it?"

"That is not what I said," Elara snapped. "Don't imply I'm not worried. I'm very worried, but I'm not stubborn enough to deny that waiting for them to play their hand might be best. Harriet doesn't need to come home to us worried sick." Elara visibly forced herself to calm down, though Hermione could see the tension lingering in her jaw and shoulders. "Come down to eat."

Sighing, Hermione forced herself to turn away from the book, to straighten her spine and feel the fatigue cling to her bones. "I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say…."

"I know. It's—we're all under a great deal of stress. And it's absolutely boiling in here. The Cooling Charms are not working." As if to demonstrate, Elara retrieved her wand and attempted to enact the spell, only for the house to reject it. "It's Kreacher. He's being a little monster."

Hermione picked up the tea and sipped at it, letting out a breath. Her chest felt tight, but the edges of the knot loosened ever so slightly, and Hermione realized Elara had a point. She had worked herself into a frenzy, and she could barely recall a word she'd read over the last few hours. It bled together in a messy tangle of legal jargon and antiquated nonsense. The whole of the Wizarding world seemed built upon loopholes, loopholes the pure-bloods could use to do whatever they wished, all in the guise of lawful behavior.

Lawful behavior had stolen Harriet from Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters and had denied Sirius the right to see her. Lawful behavior allowed the Daily Prophet to run an article claiming "Hogwarts student arrested under suspicion of murder." It didn't have Rita's salacious spin, but there was no shortage of people willing to bend to Gaunt's administration and write rubbish. It was enough that they gave Harriet's name.

Hermione's fingers tightened on the cup's handle.

Harriet had left her Atlas at home—which, all things considered, was probably for the best. They didn't know where she was, but the Atlas remained in Elara's keeping rather than the Ministry's, whom Hermione did not trust a wit with anything of Harriet's. They had thus far refused to answer what the charges were and where they held her—and didn't have to comply until seventy-two hours had passed. According to Sirius, who'd been in direct contact with the barrister, the DMLE would have no option other than to present Harriet or evidence to further her confinement at that time.

Hermione drank her tea, scalding her mouth with how quickly she swallowed it down. She hadn't realized how thirsty she was.

Had they been able to show her guardians, the Ministry would have been forced to present her earlier—but they couldn't very well bring the Dursleys in. As far as Hermione knew—and she flattered herself in thinking her research and knowledge extensive—the Wizarding world protected lineage and family records better than anything else, especially for a family like the Potters. She imagined it would be embarrassing for someone representing themselves as a pure-blood in politics to have their enemy drag out evidence of muddied family relations, so the Ministry stored the records in a department devoted to their keeping. Even the Minister couldn't simply waltz into the archives and demand they be pulled.

They'll delay more when Harriet's guardians don't come forward. They'll make it worse—.

She stared at the remnants of her tea, swirling the flecks of leaves.

Elara attempted another Cooling Charm, cursing house-elves, old houses, and her entire bloodline as it failed to take hold.

Gaunt was laughing at them. He'd been laughing at everyone since he'd become Minister in 1982. He reminded Hermione of a child who'd snuck behind a very old and very intricate tapestry, and he was plucking at the threads, ruining the integrity of the image on the other side with no one any the wiser. He ruined it because he could, not because he had to, or for another purpose. He just wanted to cut the lines and watch it all fall apart.

Hermione swallowed, her eyes heavy.

But he doesn't own the Ministry. No matter that he thinks it so, no matter how he severs the threads, the Dark Lord does not control everyone. He doesn't control it all. Maybe—.

Thoughts turned over in her head, half-formed but bright like sparks blooming in the belly of a new bonfire—.

"Scorched earth," her father said with a playful glint in his eyes as Hermione stood and watched the smoke rise from mummy's garden. He'd soaked the old tree of heaven's stump in kerosene and set it ablaze. "It's invasive," he'd explained. "It'll destroy the rest of mum's plants if left alone. But burning away the stump and roots will start the garden fresh—."

"Are you coming down to eat?" Elara asked.

"Yes," Hermione replied, collecting her empty cup and saucer. "Yes, let's head down."

She followed Elara from the room, and though the tea had given her a much-needed dash of energy, her head still swam as she stood on the landing and let her eyes adjust to the lamps. Elara continued to mutter imprecations under her breath about the abysmal weather.

They had just reached the first landing when they heard the front door open, and familiar voices flooded into the foyer.

"—that's right wicked. Look at that door knocker—."

"It's a Slytherin house, Nev—."

"But blimey, you'd think they'd brighten it up a bit—."

"Merlin, are those heads—?!"

Elara froze as if hit with a Full Body-Bind, looking down the stairs at the gaggle of red-heads who'd come stumbling through Grimmauld's front door. Most of the Weasley children were present aside from Percy and Charlie, and Neville was with them, along with his father, Frank.

They had luggage.

"What are you doing here?" Elara asked, and Hermione knew if Frank hadn't been with them, she would have spoken with much more venom. The lines of her back had gone stiff as iron rods.

Before anyone could answer, Sirius came out of the adjoined parlor. "There you are! All right, Frank?"

"Good morning, Sirius," the Auror replied, sharing an uncomfortable look between him and Elara. "Ah, we were expected, right?"

"Of course, of course. The kitchen is down in the basement if you lot want something to eat. Breakfast was left out. You can leave your trunks here. When's Molly and Arthur coming?"

"Later, after Arthur gets off work."

"Good to hear."

Hermione couldn't see Elara's face, but she could see how her head tipped, and she imagined her gaze was burning a hole through Sirius. The Weasleys and Longbottoms retreated to the basement, and no sooner had the door thumped closed than Elara flashed down the steps until she was in front of Sirius.

"Why are they in my house?" she hissed. He leaned back.

"Now, Elara. It's not your house—."

"Cygnus left it in my keeping while you were rotting in prison—so yes, my house!"

Hermione shut her eyes, repressing a sigh.

Sirius reigned in whatever retort brought the scowl to his face, biting the inside of his cheek. "They're here for the Order," he told her. "Molly, Frank, Arthur, and their oldest boys are part of it, and the least we can do is offer this rubbish tip as a place to have meetings and shelter their kids."

"What 'Order'? You didn't even mention this!"

"The Order of the Phoenix." Sirius scratched his cheek, frowning. "It's Dumbledore's group—has been since the beginning of the war. It's people who fight against You-Know-Who."

"And you thought it was a good idea to invite them here?" Elara snapped. "Harriet has been taken by the Ministry, and you've decided to open the house to what is essentially a terrorist cell? To open her home to a bunch of boarders?"

Sirius took exception to Elara's tone—though Hermione didn't completely disagree with Elara. Already, the fight to have Harriet returned to their custody would be difficult—impossible, whispered a horrid voice in Hermione's mind—so inviting who the Ministry would see as insurrectionists into Grimmauld wasn't a well-timed decision.

What does it matter? she thought. Criminals or not. What would they do that they hadn't already done?

"I opened the house to the people doing all they can to help Harriet!"

"Fat lot of good they've done her so far!"

Elara and Sirius began to argue, a situation not entirely uncommon in the house, and Hermione forgot all about food as she headed back upstairs, empty cup and saucer still in hand. She walked until she reached the floor she shared with Elara and Harriet, and she stopped outside the latter's door.

One more day. One more day, and the Ministry could stall no longer. But what would happen then, Hermione didn't know.

"Please be okay," she whispered, throat tight. The summer heat burned against her skin in the quiet dark of the corridor. "Please."

xXx

As the hour grew late, the many hands of the many clocks stashed in the offices and departments of the Ministry of Magic spun to the midnight hour and began to chime.

The resulting jumble of music spilled through the empty corridors and halls, echoing on the stone walls and through the solid earth. Those few sleepy witches and wizards who remained at their stations heard the sound and brushed it off, used to the noise. They returned to their tasks or naps, some flipping through an evening edition of the Daily Prophet. The main article blared the title Speculation Continues on Hogwarts Murder, and below the bold words flickered the image of a startled, black-haired girl taken well over a year before its posting.

The chimes died—one final, lingering gong coming from a clock just slightly out of tune. Just as the quiet returned, boot heels echoed in the passages of Level Eight, home to the Department of Magical Education—and the Pedantry, Publications, and Annals Archival.

Jeannette Juneberry heard the footsteps approaching her desk before the great, gilded gates, but she paid them no mind, engrossed in an article in her Witch Weekly. Whoever it was, she could hear the slight, high-pitched intonation of the wards registering their passage, registering them as a member of the Ministry. Though the hour was odd—or, really, downright bizarre—she imagined they were on their way to the Wizarding Examination Authority. Really, very few people ever visited the Archives.

With that thought in mind, Jeannette startled when the footsteps stopped before her desk. She nearly fell from her seat when she lifted her eyes and looked into the face of the Minister for Magic.

"M-Minister Gaunt!" she stuttered, jumping to her feet. Of course, she'd never met the wizard in person—she wasn't nearly important enough for that!—so he didn't know who she was. He smiled, though, that signature smile often featured in the Prophet and reduced many witches into giggling messes. He dressed so well—smelling of expensive cologne, his hair carefully coiffed. True, his red eyes could be a tad unnerving, but being the subject of his intense gaze was intense.

Jeannette nearly missed the presence of the second wizard. She didn't recognize him; he wasn't very tall, nor overly handsome. Silver threaded through his dark curls and short beard, and his robes were decidedly dated. Definitely not Witch Weekly material.

"What can I do for you, sir?" she asked with a breathless titter. "It's so late! I hope everything's all right?"

"Perfectly fine. We need a few records pulled tonight, Miss—?"

"Juneberry," Jeannette said, blushing.

"Miss Juneberry." Minister Gaunt nodded. "If you could…?"

Jeannette bustled around the desk, fishing out her special key. She unlocked the gate—and stumbled when the Minister and his guest brushed past her.

"Is there anything specific you need help with?" she asked, rushing after the pair as they crossed the aisle with a clear destination in mind. The Archives went on for quite some ways and contained all manner of information gathered from across the United Kingdom. There were dozens of gates Jeanette was responsible for, all matched to the many keys connected to her belt.

The Minister and his companion didn't reply, and Jeannette decided they must be in a hurry, searching for something important. She had never helped with something important before! No one ever needed anything necessary from the archives, and no one like the Minister himself ever came down here. Usually it was old duffers from the Wizengamot or the Department of International Magical Cooperation on the Fifth Level. One time, she had to assist a handsome French ambassador from Paris, and that had been the most exciting thing to happen to her all year.

A distant part of Jeannette, the part not starving for adventure and intrigue, realized this was all very irregular, and something was…peculiar about the Minister. She had been to a dozen of his public political rallies over the years and had seen him about the Ministry itself many times. He didn't seem to be carrying himself the same tonight. There was something different in his bearing, a slight hitch to his step that wasn't familiar. Of course, Jeannette ignored all this in favor of hurrying along the poorly lit aisle. They kept the candles and mage-lights to a minimum to spare the more light-sensitive records.

Her heart sank when she realized where they were headed.

"Oh—oh, Minister?" she spoke up, slightly out of breath. The Minister paused and turned his head to stare at her. "I—I'm afraid I can't open the Family Records. Not—not without a permit ratified by the W.A.S. and brought by a member of the DMLE."

"Not even for a moment? Just a quick peek?"

Jeannette wanted nothing more than to comply—really! Who was she to deny the Minister over some silly records?—but she'd be fired in a heartbeat if she violated the rules! Especially this rule. Even for Minister Gaunt.

He stared at her, the corner of his mouth hitching upward ever so slightly. He stepped closer, and in the low glow of candlelight, Jeanette thought the skin about his eyes was moving, and wasn't that curious? His hair was…shortening.

Unseen by Jeanette, a wand rose in his hand. "Imperio."

A pleasant haze overcame the witch, and the little doubts building in her thoughts suddenly disappeared.

"Open the gate."

Jeannette moved, her fingers easily sorting through the many keys at her waist to find the correct one, inserting it into the lock. The many gears and tumblers turned, the enchantments dispelled, and the wards protecting the entrance went down. The iron gate popped open.

The second wizard wasted no time rushing inside.

Gaunt's features continued to change—but only minutely so, some small indicators of age regressing, his body losing bulk. He hummed with indifference as he used his wand to adjust his attire, changing his modern, professional coat into more elegant robes. His edges seemed to meld with the shadows themselves as he and Jeannette entered the restricted area.

"Well, well. Aren't we fortunate the wards recognized me as our dear Minister? That will give us more time."

"'e iz not my Minister," the second wizard said, not looking around at Not-Gaunt. The trio made their way quickly along the many, many rows that found home in the Family Records, Jeannette struggling to keep up in her heels and delirium. The bearded wizard led the way with his lit wand held aloft—until they came to the row devoted to 'Pl - Pr.'

Not-Gaunt watched on with indifference as the second wizard moved with speed, the movement of his hands frantic as he set his wand to float by his ear and pulled down a sheaf of documents. He was obviously searching for something specific. Usually, Jeannette would have helped, but she found herself quite content to watch, her mind floating like a leaf buoyed on a swirling tide.

"Do remember the price for my assistance, Flamel," Not-Gaunt said, and the wizard—Flamel—finally had a reaction, his head whipping about to fix Not-Gaunt with a furious, hateful glower. He didn't linger, however, instead reaching for a newer portfolio, studying the contents. Whatever was inside must have been what he sought, as he snatched it up and marched farther down the row to the nearest desk.

"You act as if you 'ave no benefit being here, Slytherin," Flamel said. Jeannette's attention, vacuous as it was at the moment, drifted over the open document. Harriet Dorea Pott—. "Or do you enjoy za one called Gaunt making a mockery of you?"

Not-Gaunt sneered as Flamel found a quill and ink. He plucked his wand from the air and vanished letters from the parchment before him, then began forging new information.

"I do wonder what dear old Albus would think of you willingly working with me. My, my. Wouldn't he be disappointed?"

"I am not Albus, boy." Flamel continued to write without pause. "You cannot blackmail me in this manner. Tell him all you wish."

"Just note the girl belongs to me after you finally relinquish this mortal coil."

Flamel's dark eyes shifted.

A candle was lit, wax melted, dribbling in a fine, crimson line onto the parchment. Flamel retrieved a familial seal from his waistcoat and pressed it into the little pool, using his wand to cool the wax. Slytherin snatched it from him, reading each line. His red eyes flickered from side to side like a snake's tail.

"Adequate," he pronounced, thrusting the parchment back into Flamel's hands. "The gold, now."

Without protest or much emotion, Flamel reached into his robes and retrieved a hefty purse. It disappeared into Not-Gaunt's pocket, and he smiled, smug, before flicking his wand at Jeannette again.

"Notarize it."

Jeannette stepped forward to do as told—but, in doing so, she had to step between the young but handsome Not-Gaunt and the desk, reaching for the quill. She blocked his line of sight with the document. In that intervening moment, Flamel's hand twitched.

Words wavered on the page. Jeannette's glazed-over eyes caught lines of 'GUARDIANSHIP—' and 'IN THE EVENT OF DEMISE—,' 'NICOLAS FLAMEL—,' 'TOM SLYTHERIN—.' But, when Flamel's hand twitched just below the table's level, 'TOM SLYTHERIN' dissolved into 'ALBUS DUMBLEDORE—.'

Of course, Jeannette said nothing and simply notarized the document. Flamel snapped it closed as soon as she finished, sealing it with a ribbon. A final swish of his wand returned the record back to its proper place, snug among the thousands of similar documents left to gather dust.

Footsteps in the outer hall turned their heads, and Flamel blew out the candle he'd used to melt the wax.

"Puissé-je ne plus jamais revoir ton visage," he said to Not-Gaunt—and, in the next breath—Disapparated. Slytherin cursed as the footsteps approached, their owner alerted by the resounding crack! of Flamel's departure. His wand flew up, and he pointed it at Jeannette's blank face.

"Obliviate!"

xXx

Auror Lonie Rabbot came through the open gate to Family Records with his wand ready, having hurried from Level Two after the wards indicated a problem. He heard the crack of Disapparition—followed by a second. Running, he raised the lights, and found the archivist standing in the middle of the aisle, staring into space.

"Miss Juneberry?" he called, searching for intruders. Lonie approached when she didn't reply. "Miss Juneberry?"

The witch turned, her wide, empty eyes blinking in the sharp luminance of Lonie's Lumos. He called her name again, and her mouth opened.

"Who?"


A/N:

Inb4 someone comments what a good/helpful guy Slytherin is.

He isn't. He's a bad, bad man.

Jeannette, looking at Flamel: "Definitely not Witch Weeklyquality."

Perenelle: "And I took offense to that."