It was obvious that Sirius and Molly had taken great pains to make Grimmauld Place as festive as possible.
The formerly-tarnished chandeliers had been buffed to gleaming, and their cobwebs replaced with streamers of gold and silver. The portraits on the walls had been straightened and wrapped in gold paper to cover up the shadowy figures inside. The carpet no longer sent up dust clouds, and the peeling wallpaper had been tacked over with garlands of holly.
Someone — probably Sirius — had even decorated the stuffed elf heads in the hall with Christmas hats and beards. Unfortunately, that made it all the harder for Hermione to keep her eyes forward and dart past without paying them any mind.
The first night they arrived at Grimmauld, a familiar, droopy-looking man smelling faintly of drink showed up dragging a huge Christmas tree into the drawing room. Hermione registered mild surprise that Mundungus Fletcher hadn't been sent packing after last summer's debacle with the dementors, though she supposed he looked pitiful enough to be kept, in any case. After an evening's worth of nervous dithering, he'd taken her and Harry aside to apologise.
"Blimey, 'ere you are," Mundungus said, fumbling with a filthy black pipe in his hands as he stood before them. He stuck it in his mouth and made as if to light it with his wand, then stopped and lowered it again, peering dolefully at Molly Weasley's back. "Er... yeah. S'pose I owe you a 'pology. Leavin' like I did... 'ad a business opportunity you see, very good deal, never would 'ave left elsewise... say, next time Figgy's around, tell her to lay orf me, will you? Bleedin' almost beat me to death, then, didn' she..."
Hermione wasn't even sure what she'd said in response — she'd been too desperate to get away from the stink of unwashed body and stale pipe smoke.
The biggest surprise at Grimmauld Place was the presence of two new doors off of the third-floor landing.
"Bedrooms," Sirius explained as Hermione, Harry, and Ron helped him decorate the Christmas tree in the drawing room. Crookshanks darted around under their feet, capturing little baubles that they spun for him as they worked. "With so many extra people coming in and out, we needed more space — Dumbledore stopped by and took care of it. Haven't had a chance to go through Regulus's old room and make sure there aren't any nasty surprises waiting—"
"Dumbledore's been by?" Harry interrupted, wand forgotten in mid-air as he looked at Sirius.
"Of course," Sirius said with a shrug. "He's in now and again."
Harry's brow furrowed. "What's he doing now that he's not running the school?"
"You mean when he's not on Order business? Can't say, but I expect it's still likely related to Order business. Dumbledore's not an idle man."
"Did you know he's been at Hogwarts?" Ron burst in, looking as if he'd been waiting to get that off of his chest.
Sirius frowned. "He visited the school?"
"Not exactly," Hermione chimed in, interest piquing for the fact that Sirius seemed to be in the dark about Dumbledore's whereabouts as well. "We saw him in the Head's office late at night. On the map."
Sirius looked to Harry. "The middle of the night, you say? Every night?"
Harry shook his head. "Not every night, we've only seen him there the once. We can't get in, though — nobody can — so we couldn't find out what he's up to."
"Umbridge would probably pop a wand if she knew," Ron said, smiling to himself at the thought.
"Yes, I expect she would," Sirius said slowly. "I can't pretend to always know what Dumbledore's about, but whatever it is, it's likely important. Probably best not to spread it around."
"We're not," Harry said, looking offended at the implication. Sirius shrugged.
Truth be told, Hermione was beginning to think that nobody at all knew what Dumbledore was actually doing except for Dumbledore himself. Though, Sirius was oddly insistent about trusting him anyway...
"Where's he staying now, you think?" Ron asked after a brief period of silence. "Probably lived at Hogwarts for the last — how long's he been Headmaster? — however many years. Can't imagine him living anywhere else, really..."
They amused themselves for a good while after that, picturing Dumbledore in varying and more ridiculous locations each time.
The need for additional bedrooms was immediately explained the second evening of their stay; Remus Lupin and Xenophilius Lovegood were also semi-permanent residents of Grimmauld Place.
"Harry, Ron, Hermione — good to see you all," Lupin said, smiling warmly as they descended the stairs to the kitchen. Lupin dusted his hands from helping Sirius prepare dinner and gestured for them all to sit. He looked even more tired than he had before, and had several new scars across his face and neck.
"Professor L— er, Remus?" Harry said, taking a seat and waiting for Lupin's kind nod. "How are you? Are you okay?"
"As well as can be expected, Harry," Lupin said wearily. "I take it you've noticed that my appearance has not improved much in the time since we last met?" He pulled at the tattered sleeve of his robes with a half-hearted chuckle.
"That's one way to put it," Ron said, eyeing him up and down. "Have you taken up troll fighting in your spare time?"
Lupin's eyes crinkled at the corners. "I don't believe so, though my memory's not what it used to be of late... no, I've begun to work my way back into the packs. Werewolves," he added at their looks of confusion.
"Werewolves?" Harry repeated, still appearing confused. "There are packs?"
Lupin nodded grimly. "Much like regular wolves, yes. You see, Harry, many of my kind shun wizarding society, choosing instead to live on the fringes. They often lie, cheat, and steal — and sometimes kill — to eat and live."
Harry tilted his head. "How come you're trying to live with them?"
Shoulders slumped, Lupin went on to explain the need for someone — a spy, of sorts — who could live within the ranks of other werewolves, watching for general unrest and keeping tabs on their movements. While Voldemort's return was still only an uncertain rumour, it was a rumour that many in the pack whispered about with frenzied enthusiasm.
"So, when they do find out he's back... they would likely side with You-Know-Who again?" Ron asked.
At that moment, Sirius set down a platter of sausages and mashed potatoes, both covered in a thick sauce that was letting off the most delicious aroma. Ron's stomach grumbled loudly.
"We're hoping not all of them," Sirius said, wiping his hands on his apron, "but given what happened in the first war, history is not on our side. Remus here is trying to convince as many as he can, but it's hard to argue against someone like Greyback."
"Who's Greyback?" Hermione asked, though she quickly came to regret it. As Lupin told her about a savage man who took pleasure in biting and maiming as many people as he could, her stomach turned. Even Ron seemed a little put off — he certainly wasn't eyeing the gravy with as much interest as before.
Lupin paused, seeming to hesitate over his next words. His hands twitched where they lay folded on the table.
"It was Greyback who bit me."
A sudden crash caused them all to look around towards the stairwell. Blushing fiercely, Tonks stood at the bottom, the stand for the fire iron lying on its side at her feet. Somewhere overhead, the portrait of Sirius's mother began screaming obscenities.
Sirius patted her on the shoulder as he brushed past her for the stairs. "No harm done. I'll go shut the old bat up."
Tonks mumbled something in return, but it was lost as Mrs. Black's screeching increased in intensity.
"Tonks," Lupin said loudly, gesturing to the seat next to him. "Join us for dinner, will you? We're just about to tuck in."
She brightened immediately, nearly bouncing over to take the seat he offered. Ginny appeared at the bottom of the stairs next, her hands over her ears and her eyes screwed up in pain.
"Who ordered the foul old biddy?" she shouted, taking the seat next to Harry.
Tonks smiled apologetically across the table.
Hermione gave a start to realise that Fred was suddenly next to her, Mrs. Black's screams having covered up the sound of his and George's apparition into the kitchen.
To add to the madness, Luna and her father wandered in shortly after, both of them wearing fluffy, pink earmuffs that looked like they'd been plucked straight from Professor Sprout's supply closet. They smiled serenely around the room before seating themselves at the table.
Hermione studied Xenophilius as Mrs. Black's wailing finally cut off upstairs — she'd only caught a glimpse of him greeting Luna the first night they arrived. He wore robes of bright orange today and had a tasselled cap perched on top of his shoulder-length white hair. Like Luna, he had a slightly offbeat air about him, and he kept looking up to swat at invisible somethings. Also like his daughter, he seemed to have a fondness for unusual jewellery; some sort of triangle-like symbol dangled from a gold chain around his neck.
He and Luna spent the remainder of the meal with their earmuffs on. The only time he spoke was when Sirius passed him a platter and he loudly thanked someone called "Stubby" for the meal. Bewildered, Hermione watched as Sirius just rolled his eyes good-naturedly and returned to his plate.
The next several days passed in a haze of relaxation, festivities, and too-rich meals. In contrast to the generally light-hearted atmosphere, Harry seemed to be growing more nettled.
"No one will listen," he said, pacing around his and Ron's small bedroom on the second floor. "I've talked to Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Kingsley — even Mundungus. They all pretty much tell me to just mind my own business and let the Order handle it."
Hermione bit her lip, refraining from adding her opinion with great difficulty. It would only serve to anger him further. Yes, Harry had a direct connection to Voldemort (that he wasn't supposed to be using anyway), and yes, he had already faced Voldemort countless times and survived — but he was still just a kid. They all were. Why couldn't he just leave it in the Order's hands?
One morning, the day before Christmas, Hermione was about to toss aside the morning paper as usual when her gaze caught on a small headline near the bottom.
Hogwarts to Host Minister for Magic
By Rita Skeeter
On the twenty-ninth of December, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will play host to the Minister for Magic himself, Cornelius Fudge, as well as several other high-ranking Ministry officials in an extravagant, first-of-its-kind demonstration.
Current Hogwarts Headmistress Dolores Umbridge has had a huge undertaking in reforming the school after countless years of neglect and antiquated instruction methods (see pg. 24 for an exposé about the former situation at Hogwarts). Despite the initial obstacles she faced, Headmistress Umbridge has been an undisputed success—
Hermione promptly closed the paper with a groan.
"What's up?" Ron said, looking over from where he and Harry were having a game of wizard chess.
She tossed the paper to them. "Here. At the bottom."
They scanned the front page, and Hermione watched for their reactions.
Harry's nose wrinkled first. "Rita's writing for the Prophet again?"
"Seems so," Hermione said flatly. "Doesn't do things by halves, does she? Six months to the day. At least she still owes me..."
Hermione was struck by a sudden thought.
"Harry..." she started slowly, "you're still worried about that door at the Ministry and whatever's behind it, right?"
Harry's mood instantly soured. "Obviously."
"And you're sure it's going to be soon?"
"I'm positive," he growled.
"Well... what if I called in that favour with Rita? In her Animagus form, she could post-up near it virtually undetected. She could warn us if anyone goes through—"
Harry lit up, eyes growing wide. "Hermione, that's brilliant! We can write her now and send it off. I'll fetch some parchment—"
And he tore out of the room, leaving the door swinging open in his haste.
"Thanks for that," Ron said acerbically. "I was three moves away from checkmating his king. Now he can pretend it was a draw."
As soon as Harry returned, they spent the next hour hunched over the parchment, making sure to word it just right. Several discarded sheets littered the floor around them as crumpled little balls.
Hermione was putting on the finishing touches when two loud cracks caused them all to jump.
"What do you say, George?" Fred said, grinning widely. "Should we give them some tips?"
"I think we ought to, Fred, before they get themselves into more trouble than they already are," George responded, a wicked glint in his eye.
"What are you two on about?" Ron said grumpily. Hermione shifted to block their view of the parchment.
"Now, now, none of that," Fred said, winking at Hermione. "We know a thing or two about blackmail, we do, and you're doing it all wrong."
Hermione's mouth fell open in indignation. "We most certainly are not."
"How do you know what we're doing?" Harry asked, completely unabashed.
"Extendable Ears," George said simply. "We saw you run by and thought something interesting was happening with the Order — turns out it's just you three pretending to be amateur politicians."
"Like you could do it better," Ron scoffed, folding his arms over his chest.
Fred smiled humourlessly and pointed at the parchment. "Well, for starters, have you put an Untraceable Charm on that?"
Hermione frowned. "Well, no, but we're technically not supposed to use—"
"And have you cast an Obfuscation Hex so it can only be read by the intended recipient?" George added.
Hermione immediately caved, quickly waving the Weasley twins over to help.
"Where'd you learn all this anyway?" Ron asked, scratching his nose with the end of a quill.
Fred and George traded dark looks.
"Remember Ludo Bagman?" George said. "He scammed us out of some money at the Quidditch World Cup."
"Never got it back, though," Fred added wistfully. "He apparently owed a lot of gold to the goblins. Tried to win some back by betting on you to win the Triwizard Tournament, Harry, but seeing as it was cancelled... Anyway. Last we heard, he's still on the run."
Well, that explained Bagman's absence from the tournament proceedings at the end of last year.
With Fred and George's help, the letter to Rita was ready to go in short order. They waited until dark to send it, wanting to be as inconspicuous as possible. And as Hedwig was still off delivering a letter to Viktor, they'd have to make due with Pigwidgeon.
"This is important, now," Ron was saying sternly to the excitable little owl as he tied the letter to its leg. "There can't be any mistakes. And don't dawdle — as soon it's delivered, get out of there and come straight back."
Ron gently stroked the feathers on the tiny owl's head. Pigwidgeon hooted gleefully and nipped Ron's finger with affection before taking off into the night.
"Don't think she'd do anything to Pig, do you?" Ron said worriedly, watching the little owl disappear into the blackness outside of their window.
"No way," Harry reassured him. "Besides, if she does, we'll just send Pig back over while she's in her Animagus form to eat her."
Ron snorted, appearing to relax.
Before bed that night, Hermione performed her now-nightly ritual of holding the small blue sapphire in her hand and inspecting the tiny dragon inside with awe. This time, she was able to tuck the stone under her nightdress where it hung from a long, simple chain around her neck. She'd approached Luna after dinner and together, they had fashioned a pendant. In actuality, Luna's expertise had far surpassed her expectations — the stone almost appeared professionally set in its thin, silver backing.
Christmas was a mostly chipper affair. Everyone woke early, eager to assemble in the drawing room for presents. Someone had charmed the room to snow overnight, and a large, wooden wireless set played Christmas music softly in the background — Hermione thought it looked to be the very same one she'd seen before at the Burrow.
Molly and Arthur Weasley were already waiting inside, as was Sirius, who beamed at them from behind a steaming mug of cocoa. Despite her smile, Molly's eyes were red-rimmed, and the cause was immediately obvious; a dark green sweater with a large yellow P on it lay discarded over the arm of the sofa next to her. Ginny ended up stuffing it inside the writing desk when her mother wasn't looking.
Opening Ron's present first, Hermione was slightly confused at the humongous box of peppermint toads she held in her hands until Ron said, "You know, for your stomach?" while grinning at her hugely.
She thanked him, unsuccessfully attempting to suppress a rather hysterical little giggle.
"Er... Hermione? Thanks for the... diary?" Harry asked, looking up from where the wrapping paper lay torn off of the small book in his hands. He turned it over, inspecting the other side.
"It's a homework planner!" Hermione responded brightly. "Remember? Staying organised is step two of the plan — now you can keep track of everything!"
Ron eyed a similarly-wrapped package in front of him with something of a grimace.
Well, she could admit it wasn't the most exciting of presents, but they'd thank her later.
"Ha! Ron, Hermione — come here," Harry said suddenly. "Have a look at this."
In his hands, Harry held a painting of what appeared to be three house-elves wearing wigs.
"I think it's from Dobby," he explained.
"Yeah, but who are his friends?" Ron asked, tilting his head sideways to look at it from a new angle. "They aren't very good-looking, if you ask me."
Luna looked over, briefly appraising the portrait. "It's the three of you."
A glance at the writing on the back confirmed it. Ginny busted out laughing, promising to hang it up in Harry and Ron's room so that they could appreciate it all the better. Harry stuck his tongue out at her.
During breakfast, various Order members began arriving to join the festivities.
Kingsley, a huge wizard Hermione had only met a handful of times, showed up with an enormous basket of Christmas crackers, immediately winning over the entire household.
Moody dropped in around lunchtime, bearing a platter of mince pies that greatly resembled a pile of charred coal. He spent the first ten minutes stumping around, demanding that other Order members ask him personal questions to prove that he wasn't an imposter and then insisting that he do the same for them.
Dinner preparations were a joint effort between Sirius, Molly, and Winky. Hermione was pleased to see Winky looking well — her little blouse and skirt were neat and pressed and her hair washed and combed. It seemed she was thriving in her new life apart from the Crouch family.
Several other Order members arrived before dinner was served, but the person Hermione was most excited to see arrived with a crocheted hair net, a familiar new scarf, and four part-Kneazles in tow.
"Hermione, dear," Arabella said warmly, wrapping her in a tight hug. "Happy Christmas. It's so wonderful to see you again."
To Hermione's embarrassment, instead of responding, she promptly burst into tears. As much as she'd tried not to think about it, the keen reality of modifying her parents' memories caught up to her harshly on occasions such as this, and the unexpected presence of a maternal figure in her life was another stark reminder.
As everyone else quietly disappeared from the hall, she continued to cry freely into Arabella's shoulder. Arabella brought a hand up to pat her gently on the back until she finished. Hermione removed the silky white handkerchief from her pocket to dab at her eyes, careful to avoid the embroidered initials.
"Thanks," she said, her sniffles tapering off as she gave Arabella a watery smile. Hermione took a deep breath, feeling much lighter than before — she hadn't realised how heavily those emotions were weighing until she'd let them out.
Arabella returned her smile, gesturing for her to lead the way into the house. Meanwhile, Crookshanks made his own greetings to the other cats, touching noses with each and rubbing their heads together.
The grubby basement kitchen of number twelve, Grimmauld Place was packed to bursting. Everyone squeezed in around the long wooden table and helped themselves to a splendid dinner, offering many compliments to their hosts. The din of chatter and clanging utensils was so loud that Hermione could barely hear her own thoughts, let alone what anyone else was saying. Although, she was pretty sure at one point she'd overheard Arabella chiding Moody for plunking his magical eye into his water goblet mid-meal. Even more surprising was that Moody had actually seemed quite abashed afterwards.
In the end, though, it didn't matter that things were cramped and chaotic and that conversations were being held at indecent volumes — the house was full, their bellies were fuller, and their hearts were fullest.
If there was one person sorely missing from the whole affair, it was Hagrid; it had been ages since they'd seen him last. Hermione supposed that wherever he was now, he mustn't be able to leave so easily. She tried not to imagine him spending his Christmas all alone, lest the tears spring up again.
Late that night, after everyone who wasn't living at Grimmauld had gone, the remaining group spread out in the drawing room, nursing mugs of mulled wine or cider. Feeling pleasantly exhausted, Hermione lounged next to the crackling fire, listening to the conversation lull around her as the evening approached its end.
She'd excused herself for bed just in time — as she changed in the bathroom, the sounds of scratching on a nearby window alerted her to Pigwidgeon's return. Hermione ran up to Harry and Ron's room to find them already inside and the tiny owl hopping in through the window.
Pigwidgeon looked completely unharmed. Ron breathed a sigh of relief.
"S'pose we'll just have to wait for her to send her own owl with a reply," he said, stroking Pig's feathers happily. "Shouldn't take her long—"
"Er, guys?" Harry broke in, peering down outside of the window. "I think she's planning to give her reply in person."
"What?" Hermione shrieked, nearly climbing over Harry to see out the window. There, in the grungy little garden at the back of the row of houses, was a blonde woman wearing magenta robes and clutching a crocodile-skin handbag with bright red nails.
"What's she doing here?" Hermione hissed frantically. "We took every possible precaution — how did she find us?"
"I don't think she has found us, exactly," Harry pointed out. "She doesn't seem to know exactly where to go."
Harry was right. As she watched, the woman began to pace, studying the houses with a look of consternation.
"What do we do?" Ron said, looking alarmed.
After some quick discussion, it was decided that Hermione would go to meet Rita alone. After all, Rita didn't know anything other than Hermione had written her a letter and was presumably living at this location, and they couldn't risk having Rita find out anything more.
"We'll be right here watching over you in case she tries anything, okay?" Harry reassured Hermione as she cinched the dressing gown she'd fetched over her pyjamas. For emphasis, Harry and Ron each withdrew their wands and took up their positions by the window.
Hermione drew a shaky breath, then nodded solemnly. She left the room and crept through the near-silent house, fervently hoping that Kreacher was still hiding out in his den to avoid the festivities. She snuck past the drawing room, whereby the sounds of snoring seemed to indicate that the remaining occupants had fallen asleep, then down the stairs, through the hall, and out the small door leading off of the dining room.
Hermione took a moment to study Rita before announcing herself. Rita didn't have her wand out, but the way her fingers kept twitching towards her bag suggested the presence of nerves. She looked quite rumpled overall, but still significantly more put-together than she'd been the evening of the cancelled third task. Perhaps she'd stopped drinking, because she certainly hadn't stopped gossiping.
Hermione crossed her arms over her dressing gown and stepped forward, trying to appear much more confident than she felt. "What are you doing here, Rita?"
She was pleased to see Rita jump at the sound of her voice.
Rita recovered quickly. "Well, if it isn't Little Miss Perfect herself," she said with an insincere smile. Then she began looking around with interest. "I should ask the same of you, I think. Muggleborn girl, aren't you? Curious that you should live in a place so heavily surrounded by enchantments."
Hermione gritted her teeth and repeated the question. "What are you doing here, Rita?"
The smile dropped off Rita's face. "I received your Christmas card — thank you ever so much for thinking of me. Thought you were so clever, didn't you? All those charms and hexes to keep me from finding you. And all it took was transforming and riding on the back of one miniscule owl—"
"I don't care that you've found me," Hermione lied, cutting off Rita's gloating. "It doesn't change anything."
Now she knew why Rita looked so rumpled — she'd probably fallen straight on her arse when Pig went through the Fidelius Charm. Hermione hoped she'd hit the ground hard.
Seeming to sense the direction of her thoughts, Rita straightened her bejewelled glasses and glared.
"In any case," Rita said coldly, pausing to suck on her lipstick-stained teeth, "before I do this little favour for you, I want some assurances." At that, her fingers found the clasp of her crocodile-skin handbag. Hermione's hand tightened around the wand in her pocket.
Rita withdrew a sheet of parchment and thrust it towards Hermione's face.
"We both sign this document. You will agree never to reveal my status as an unregistered Animagus, and I, in turn, will agree not to reveal the same about your friend. And as soon as this task is complete, I'd prefer it if we never spoke again."
Hermione scanned the page with deliberate slowness, unwilling to be duped. Rita stood with her hands on her hips, peering down at Hermione overtop her garish spectacles.
Everything appeared in order, though there seemed to be a very obvious loophole in that Malfoy (and, of course, Harry and Ron) also knew about Rita being an unregistered Animagus. But Hermione wasn't about to bring that up.
"I noticed there's nothing in here about you not writing nasty stories," Hermione said finally, handing the paper back. "That means you can still write about me."
Rita smiled viciously. "So I can."
Hermione stared at her for a moment, then ceded with a grimace. "Fine. You first."
Rita whipped out an acid-green quill. She gestured for Hermione to turn around with an ostentatious little wave of her finger. Hermione grumbled but complied as Rita used her back to sign the document with a flourish.
Hermione gingerly took the quill from Rita, poring over the document one last time to make sure Rita hadn't added anything else.
"Haven't got all night, Miss Priss," Rita called over her shoulder as Hermione hesitated over the document pressed to Rita's back.
With a shake of her head, Hermione scrawled her name next to Rita's and promptly shoved the quill back into Rita's hand, wiping her own hand down the front of her dressing gown.
Without warning, Hermione felt a familiar chill wash over her and her tongue curled backwards on itself, briefly sticking to the roof of her mouth. By the movements Rita's heavy jaw was making, she had just experienced the same.
"There," Rita said, tapping her wand on the paper. "Glad we could clear up that little headache. I'd say it's been a pleasure doing business with you, but I don't make lying a habit." Rita's smile widened such that Hermione counted at least three gold teeth.
Hermione scoffed with disgust and stuffed a copy of the document into her pocket while Rita added, "What's so important about this door, anyway?"
"None of your concern," Hermione retorted quickly, "and did you do as I asked with the Sickles?"
Rita looked like she'd swallowed a lemon. She fished in her handbag and drew out a silver coin that she then shoved into Hermione's hand.
"Don't spend it all in one place," Rita said acidly.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Just don't forget to activate yours if any of the people I mentioned go through."
"Fine. I'll be going now — it appears I need to get started wasting the next however many months of my life watching an apparently worthless door—"
Feeling edgy about the time, Hermione cut her off. "Goodnight Rita."
Rita scowled at her before turning on the spot and disappearing with a small pop.
Hermione let herself back into the house and tiptoed silently up to the second-floor bedroom to fill Harry and Ron in on everything that had transpired with Rita. They seemed relieved it had gone well — Harry especially so. By the time Hermione made it to bed that night, she was asleep within mere seconds of her head hitting the pillow.
They spent their last day at Grimmauld Place helping Sirius tidy up around the house. While Harry, Ron, and Ginny took care of the drawing room, Hermione and Luna nipped into the small bedroom off of the third-floor to feed Buckbeak. Hermione had been pleased to hear that arrangements were being made to restore Buckbeak back into his natural habitat at Hogwarts.
"As soon as Hagrid is back on the grounds," Sirius had explained, charming a dustpan to begin collecting Hippogriff-droppings.
"And is he well? Hagrid?" Hermione had asked.
Sirius nodded. "Last I heard. Don't you worry, Hermione. Hagrid knows how to take care of himself, he's probably having them 'round for tea every chance he gets—"
Hermione hadn't had the chance to ask Sirius what he'd meant before the portrait of his mum began screaming down below.
Sirius growled as he moved for the door. "Blasted thing. If I ever figure out how to remove a Permanent Sticking Charm, it will be my single, greatest achievement for the Order..."
In no time at all, the mad dash to collect their belongings before heading to King's Cross had begun. Hermione was thankful to be well out of it, having packed up her belongings the evening before and coaxed a reluctant Crookshanks into his basket during breakfast.
After the third and final time the group had started for the station only to remember another forgotten item (this time it was Ginny's favourite jumper), they made it to King's Cross, half-frozen and with only a few minutes to spare before the train was due to depart.
"Don't forget to write, mind!" Molly Weasley was shouting as they crammed themselves and their belongings onto the train. "And behave yourselves!"
The other stately looking witch next to Mrs. Weasley simply inclined her head. Emmeline Vance was a woman of few words.
They waved out the window as the train pulled away and King's Cross Station was lost from view. Fred and George split off soon after, and Hermione and the others invited themselves inside a compartment already occupied by an unusually sombre-looking Neville.
"Good Christmas, Neville?" Ginny asked as she settled beside him, careful to avoid the spotted plant at his hip.
"Good enough," he said, putting on a weak smile and shifting Trevor to his other hand. "And you?"
"Excellent," Ron put in, grinning and patting his belly. "I'd even say the best one yet — Ha! Remember when Fred and George slipped an extra dram of Firewhiskey into Sirius's eggnog with dinner? He spent the next hour slurring Christmas carols at the top of his lungs."
Everyone chuckled except for Neville, who only looked confused.
"Who's Sirius?" he asked, perking up slightly.
Ron's grin faltered. "Oh, uh... just a great-uncle on my dad's side."
They swapped stories for the rest of the journey, mostly recounting the ridiculous antics that had passed on the days leading up to Christmas. Although after Ron's small slip, they were more careful about what information they revealed in front of Neville — it was all too easy to forget that Neville wasn't yet privy to information about the Order.
Hermione got up twice for the loo, glancing into several compartments she passed as she drifted down the corridor, but she never caught sight of Malfoy. She'd see him soon enough, in any case.
The train pulled into Hogsmeade Station well after dark, grinding to a halt amidst a flurry of swirling snow. It was a short ride up to the Castle from there, where a delicious-looking spread awaited them in the Great Hall. Hermione frowned, thinking of the poor house-elves below her that probably had spent their entire Christmas slaving away in the kitchens for a pittance.
She didn't see Malfoy at dinner either, though it wasn't nearly as crowded as usual. Perhaps he hadn't been on the train at all and wasn't due to arrive until tomorrow; she'd once heard that in certain circumstances, students were able to travel home and back using the Floo Network.
Uniform fittings took place the next day. Hermione, Daphne, Hannah, Padma and the other sixth and seventh year girls' prefects led their respective charges down to the Great Hall first thing that morning. The boys would be treated to the same pleasure after lunch.
When the rest of the girls were finished and the prefects were finally called into the antechamber for their own fittings, it was with dawning horror that Hermione realised the cause of each and every grimace worn by the departing girls who had already been inside.
"What are those," Padma whispered out of the side of her mouth.
Hermione had no answer. She eyed the pale pink garments on the rack with distaste, trying to determine what exactly they were supposed to be — dress robes, obviously, but looking like some kind of extremely frilly crossover of traditional ballgown and high-necked frock.
Whatever they were, they were monstrosities.
"Name?" said a bored-looking witch with a long roll of parchment.
Hermione gave it and the witch gave her wand a little twirl, summoning a dress from the rack into her hand.
It could have been worse, Hermione supposed, inspecting herself in the mirror that had been erected inside the tiny partition serving as temporary changing rooms.
As it were, the floor-length fabric had several layers, many of them tulle and taffeta, giving the stiff garb a solid heft to it. There were far too many bowties — a large one on the bodice and several more down the skirts.
She pulled at one of the long sleeves and tried not to claw at the itchy lace crawling up her neck.
Somehow, possibly, it could have been worse.
Hermione left the changing area and locked eyes with Daphne across the room. Daphne shrugged as if to say she had expected no less.
Suddenly blocking her view was a harried-looking witch with a pin in her mouth. She looked Hermione up and down.
"Any problems?" asked the witch.
Hermione stopped scratching at her neck and looked down at herself, feeling slightly ill. She opened her mouth but the seamstress cut her off.
"With the fit, dear, any problems with the fit?"
"No," Hermione replied sulkily.
The witch gave a perfunctory nod and gestured back to the changing room. "Off with you, then."
Like those before her, Hermione was unwilling to be seen in the outfit before she absolutely had to. She returned to the changing cubicle and stuffed it inside the garment bag.
"So, how'd it go?" Ron asked when Hermione had returned to the common room with a cloth bundle over her arm.
"Awful," she whispered, making sure she was well out of earshot of the austere portrait. "They're horrible. Just wait — you'll see."
Hermione was furious to later discover that the boys' costumes weren't horrible at all.
"What are those?" she demanded, filled with outrage at the sight of Harry and Ron later that afternoon. She could see right away why they hadn't felt the need to change back immediately.
"What?" Harry said, holding up the sleeve of his perfectly-regular, if somewhat formal, midnight-blue dress robes.
"They're normal," she replied through gritted teeth.
"Well, not entirely," Ron said with a frown. He held up the edge of the cape slung over his shoulder, which was trimmed with a narrow strip of pale pink brocade. "See? Look at all these pink bits here. Dreadful, isn't it?"
She glowered at him.
Harry snorted. "Still — far better than your dress robes last year, right?"
Ron shrugged indifferently while Hermione fought the urge to smack the both of them.
A rehearsal of sorts took place that evening. In the Great Hall, the House tables had already been cleared away, and much like the evening of the Yule Ball, many smaller tables were in their place. Hermione was dismayed to see that the seating arrangements were according to their partners from Conduct.
Umbridge prowled around as they ate dinner, correcting form. The room was dead silent except for the clink of silverware on plates and the occasional cough or titter.
Acutely uncomfortable between Goyle and a sixth-year Ravenclaw called Marcus Belby, Hermione drew in on herself, keeping her focus on her plate whilst trying not to draw Umbridge's attention.
Unfortunately, Belby turned out to be quite a nervous performer. Umbridge was forcing him to give her a repeat demonstration after he'd choked on a too-large bite when her eyes suddenly snapped to Hermione.
"Stem, Miss Granger." She rapped Hermione's knuckles twice with her wand, and Hermione barely managed to avoid slopping water over the side of her goblet. "If you do that tomorrow, I shall put you in detention."
Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. Something about being touched by that horrible woman's wand filled her with a fury unlike she'd ever known. Shaking slightly with the intensity of it, she set the golden goblet on the table and moved her hand from the bowl of the glass to the stem under Umbridge's watchful gaze.
Umbridge bestowed her with a patronising smile and an overly-sweet "much better" before drifting over to the next table.
In the seconds afterward, Hermione happened to look over and meet Malfoy's eyes opposite the room. Looking at her intently over Lavender's head, he drew an exaggerated breath and subtly brought a hand to his temple.
Taking his cue, Hermione continued to meet his gaze while drawing a deep breath of her own and sinking into her familiar Occlumency measures.
Her goblet, which had begun to steam faintly in her hand, suddenly cooled.
Malfoy, who had seemed rather drawn since she'd first laid eyes on him again after break, gave the barest hint of a smile in return.
In the hours after dinner, Umbridge had them all run through their routine from their joint Conduct class in turns, with the lowest years going first. If there was anything positive to take away from the evening, it was that Goyle had seemed much less frustrated with Hermione's dancing ever since Malfoy's impromptu lesson.
While getting ready for bed in her dormitory that evening, Hermione was caught off-guard at suddenly overhearing Malfoy's name.
"—rather stoic, now, isn't he?" Lavender giggled to Parvati as they slipped under the covers of their four-posters. "And a simply divine dancer. I'll say it, Parv — Malfoy is looking fit this year. He can put his hands on me any day." They both dissolved into fits of giggles.
Hermione turned her face away from them, desperately trying to reclaim the sense of calm she'd worked so hard for after Umbridge's intrusion. Despite that, her dreams may have turned slightly more violent than usual.
The day of the demonstration arrived. Hermione found herself in the common room amidst a sea of frothy pink and dark blue, staring at Harry and Ron with her hands on her hips.
"Er... you look... nice?" Harry tried sheepishly, while Ron simply stared around slack-jawed at all of the girls.
Hermione waved her hand carelessly. "Oh, don't bother. It's hideous. Let's just get this over with."
All things considered, the day did seem to be passing quickly. Hermione credited that partly to the sheer amount of activities, and partly to her ability to dissociate during them.
Their day began lined up in the courtyard at precisely nine o'clock in the morning to await the Minister's arrival. A bitter cold wind sliced through their garments, leaving them shivering and huddling in on themselves for warmth. The many-layered skirts only offered slightly more protection from the elements, but Hermione had foregone the Warming Charm this morning, correctly predicting that her outfit would become insufferably warm as the day wore on.
Umbridge, Percy, and their Heads of House waited up at the very front, seemingly unaffected by the cold at all.
Fudge's envoy arrived at the front gates via the horseless stagecoaches that usually pulled students to the castle. Hermione recognised several of the Ministry officials that disembarked with him from hers and Harry's hearing over the summer, including Amelia Bones, the current Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Several squads of Aurors were with her and among them, Kingsley Shacklebolt towered over the rest. He showed no signs of recognition towards McGonagall or Snape as he shadowed Fudge while they greeted a simpering Umbridge.
To Hermione's displeasure, Albert Runcorn, acting in his usual position as Junior Undersecretary to the Minister, was the next to alight from the coach. He greeted Umbridge fondly, but Hermione didn't miss the smirk on his face as soon as Umbridge turned her back. Standing over with the Aurors, Runcorn turned out to be nearly as large as Kingsley.
Umbridge led them briskly into the Great Hall, which had been lavishly decorated overnight with thousands of glittering icicles and festoons of holly. Two enormous, garish-looking organza bowties adorned the huge wooden doors, and the floating candles already twinkled above, today burning in shades of brilliant pink and blue.
While the Ministry officials settled up front between the staff table and the first few tables beside the dais (with Fudge being offered a high-backed chair directly next to Umbridge), the students filtered in mechanically to their assigned spots. Hermione nervously accepted the chair Goyle had drawn out, only wincing slightly when he pushed her back in a little too hard.
The breakfast banquet was followed up by several long-winded speeches, all touting the success of Headmistress Umbridge and detailing her new curriculum at Hogwarts. Hermione stewed silently in her chair while Runcorn spoke about his and Umbridge's joint initiative to improve the assimilation of Muggleborn students into wizarding society (most especially the part where he espoused that Muggleborn students deserved to "know their place" in the world, whatever that was supposed to mean).
Even more drivel followed, all of it concocted in an obvious attempt to make Umbridge look like the most competent Headmistress that Hogwarts had ever seen. Many students were already dozing in their chairs despite the early hour, and Hermione could hardly blame them; the whole affair was rather stuffy, and they'd been sitting in the same spot for nearly three hours by the time lunch rolled around. Once, she even had to elbow Goyle to prevent him from snoring and drawing attention to their table.
On the dais, Fudge sat with his eyes glazed over, yet still remembered to clap politely along with everyone else when the speeches ended.
Lunch was another drawn out event. Umbridge had somehow found and commissioned a choir of wood nymphs to serenade them as they ate, and the courses were served one after another, each consisting of the tiniest portion sizes Hermione had ever seen.
Thankfully, they were released for a half-hour recess after lunch. Hermione made straight for the toilets — as did everyone else. She tried three separate floors before finding a loo without a queue down the corridor (barring the second-floor toilets, that is — she wasn't keen on another encounter with Myrtle).
"Can you believe all this?" Hannah Abbott was saying to Susan Bones in the fifth-floor bathroom as they scrubbed their hands beneath the tap. "I can't imagine any of those Ministry people even want to be here."
Susan nodded vigorously. "My Auntie Amelia said that the Minister had to give nearly everyone at the Ministry an extra day off today in order to convince anyone at all to come to it."
The next several hours were a blur of spellcasting demonstrations, presentations, and performances. At one point, Umbridge had the prefects line up behind the Inquisitorial Squad while she took a rather blank-looking Fudge through her new authority structure. Hermione caught Malfoy's eye once during it, as well as his subsequent smirk as he eyed her attire. She scrunched her nose in response — it wasn't fair of him to look so fit when she felt like a giant pink Puffskein.
Hermione sat fanning herself in the back corner next to Harry and Ron while Flitwick conducted the school frog choir. Chairs had been set up around the perimeter of the room, but many students, staff, and officials alike were milling about in the centre, helping themselves to hors d'oeuvres set up on dainty tables. Periodically, the tables in the middle of the room would magically refill with food and drink.
Hermione grumbled, thinking of Dobby and the other elves scurrying about below, trying to keep up with an entire day's worth of canapés and full-course meals. Not to mention the clean-up this would all entail. Perhaps she would nip down to the kitchens before bed to offer some assistance...
Unconsciously pulling at the neck of her dress, Hermione was eyeing a particularly tasty-looking vol-au-vent when Harry suddenly stiffened beside her.
She looked around just in time to see him fall.
Hermione dropped to her knees beside Harry, watching helplessly as he writhed on the floor in a sleep-like state and began to mutter under his breath. She placed a hand on his shoulder, but he pulled from her grasp without waking. Sweat sprouted on his brow and he lifted a hand to clutch at his scar, skewing his glasses in the process.
Ron suddenly appeared on the ground next to her, helping to shield Harry from view of the rest of the room.
"What do we do?" Hermione whispered frantically, looking around the Hall once. She met Ginny's eyes briefly where she and Luna stood near the dais, and Ginny immediately reached over and began tugging on Luna's hand. It didn't appear that anyone else had yet noticed anything amiss.
Ron shook Harry's arm. "Harry, wake up. You're having a dream," he said urgently in a low voice. Harry didn't respond.
Ron looked at her. "We need to move — help me pull him up. The bathroom's just around the corner—"
Harry's eyes flew open. For a split second, Hermione thought they burned red. She blinked and on second look, they were only his usual shade of emerald.
Harry vaulted abruptly to his feet, looking around wildly.
"It's happening," he said immediately, "I'm already there. No— I mean, he's already there. We have to go. Now."
Hermione grabbed his hand as he started for the Entrance Hall. "Harry, slow down. What do you mean?"
Harry made a noise of frustration, causing several other students in the vicinity to look at him sideways.
"He's there," Harry hissed, ripping his hand away. "Voldemort. He's in the Ministry somewhere. He's waiting on something — he's already got Death Eaters inside that door. They're going to get the weapon tonight."
Ron's face immediately paled.
Hermione shook her head. "Harry, that's impossible. The Order has guards posted round-the-clock, and Rita's there, too, remember? She'd signal if anyone had gone through. I haven't felt anything—"
"It doesn't matter," Harry growled, stalking for the exit. Hermione and Ron trailed behind him, trying to appear as if all was normal. They reached the doors and slipped through into the empty Entrance Hall. "He's there and I need to stop him—"
"Harry, just wait," Hermione pleaded, having to lift her skirts to catch up now. "Be reasonable. Let's contact Sirius first, okay? Tell him what you saw."
Harry didn't slow. "Fine," he called over his shoulder.
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief, checking her watch as she walked. "Good. If we're quick about it, we should be able to get up to Gryffindor Tower and back before anyone notices. We still have just under an hour until we're due for..."
She trailed off, an unexpected sensation against her left thigh.
The Sickle from Rita.
It was burning.