A/N: Back at it again!
Some suggested listening to set a mood - Brisa del desierto by Los Natas. Later in the chapter you could also listen to Schubert's Ave Maria … I recommend Pavarotti's version from one of his three tenors concerts.
"How did I let you talk me into this?" she mutters, as she peers around him to look out of the doorway of the observatory.
He bites back a bitter 'Other than playing to your apparent death wish, you mean?' and tries for a more conciliatory response. "Because you have nothing better to do tonight." Tries being the operative word. They have both cooled off somewhat on the walk from the cave, in resentful, silent agreement to not talk about it.
The observatory is surprisingly small, and probably two to three hundred years old. The red brick building is only two stories high, built with a circular footprint and a metal dome roof with a sliding door, presumably for putting the telescope through. The interior is bare brickwork and, considering what Alastair told him about its premature abandonment, was probably intended to be much more ostentatious and weatherproof than its current form. The domed roof was thick with rust and if the door could be moved Harry would be very much surprised, never mind spin to allow for tracking the passage of the stars.
He is intent on watching the manor, which is lit up considerably by electric lighting. It appears someone has done extensive remodelling since it was first built, because while the seaward half of the house retains its old brick Victorian appearance and gardens, the inland side was significantly more modern. Walls of glass flooded the grounds with light from inside, the warm interior in considerable opposition to the inclement environs. He expected it to be tacky, but grudgingly admits whatever architect they paid did a good job.
"Seriously, this isn't a good idea. We're walking into a completely unknown situation. If what you told me about Dawlish is right, he clearly has reason to think there's something untoward going on." She was right, of course. This wasn't a good idea, but it was also their only idea. Can't leave, can't poke around at the body on the beach without getting on Tonk's bad side, can't sit here and do nothing, and therefore can't ignore Crouch's mysterious invitation for Dawlish.
"I don't see what else we can do. Besides, the thing about Dawlish is he's stubborn about rules. His procedure says to call it in and wait for back up. He'll sit around waiting forever for support that, at this point, is probably never going to arrive. In fact, I think that's exactly why he told me about this tip with Crouch, because while he can't deviate from his code he's wily enough to find ways around it. I think he was counting on me doing it for him."
"All the same, gate crashing an international, off the record, high level conference has got to be one of your worst ideas ever." As much as he'd like to argue, it's not really something that he can dispute.
"Look, I'm just saying, we get in, take a peek around, make contact with Crouch if we can, and then get back out. What could go wrong?"
"Apart from being caught by security, Crouch being our mystery pen pal, or you just randomly happening to run into someone else who wants to kill you? I assume you haven't stopped irritating people since we last met, so you must have inconvenienced at least a few people bad enough to want you dead." She puts her hands on her hips, and her brow furrows. It says quite a lot that he has relaxed in her presence that he isn't unnerved by her hostile stare, that he's moved on from being afraid of her physical prowess and instead is surprisingly endeared by her.
But then the cold grasp of suspicion settles on him again.
Is that really his feeling? Or is that just what the bites are making him think?
"Yes, apart from all that, what could go wrong?" He replies, sarcastically, feeling peculiar and prickly. Not knowing what is him and what is her compulsion makes him feel compromised, and he doesn't like it. He hates being manipulated, even if she doesn't mean to do it.
"I could lose control and start biting people," she carefully examines her nails, "or perhaps I do it willingly." His stomach flips as she looks him dead in the eye, "Maybe I'm getting a taste for it, and it'll all be your fault."
"Don't even joke about it," he says, pulling a face. The thought of her biting someone else calls up a spike of envy, of jealousy. He knows not to trust that feeling either. But he also doesn't completely ignore it.
The thought of her mouth against someone else's neck, in any capacity, has him itching to reach for his wand. More predicable Potter behaviour, as if he's following a flow chart. Is he kissing Hermione or working on a case? If no, proceed to next question. Can he feel sad or wallow in self-pity about it? If not, go straight to blowing things up. Alternatively, feel sad while blowing things up.
The voice the safeguards his thoughts is desperately trying to get him to realise that's messed up, the real problem there is not her biting someone that isn't him, but that she's biting anyone at all.
Forcing himself back on topic, "While I haven't exactly been making many friends, I don't think I've crossed anyone bad enough for them to orchestrate this. This is a lot of effort. If someone seriously wanted me harm they could just hex me in Diagon Alley."
She raises her eyebrow, "What about your cases? Can you think of anyone you put away who might hate you enough for this? What about Voldemort? Or the Death Eaters who never went to Azkaban?"
Unconsciously, his hand strays to his notebook, and the mental cage he keeps the worst memories in rattles. Only the saddest memories, the most horrible crime scenes go in there. Neatly tucked away, a little pandora's box of brutal and bloody events. The department encourages Auror's, once they have written up their reports, to have a professional Obliviator relieve them of the horrors they've seen. Not completely, but mute them enough, dial them back, until they don't keep you up at night.
Harry chooses not to. Instead, Harry stores them, compartmentalised, behind an Occlumency partition, ready for him to flick through when he needs them. He needs the memories sharp, for comparison. He doesn't like the Obliviator, or anyone, rummaging around in his head.
"I mean … sure, plenty. Anyone who's actually been a guest of the island is going to want to do me harm but they're all locked up. And there's no indication Voldemort's ghast, or shade, or echo, or whatever it was that was in Quirrell, or any of his old followers, have been active. None that I'm aware of anyway."
It is odd that Tonks and the department didn't get Dawlish's S.O.S, though. He's never heard of a failure to receive messages like that before. That supposes Dawlish is telling the truth and hasn't gone rogue out here on his own. Harry almost instantly dismisses the thought; Dawlish would be the last man to go loose cannon.
Of course, if he's putting Dawlish above suspicion, that suggests either someone managed to block his message or intercept it. Either here, at the source, or there, at the department …
Stowing that grim thought and looking at her, he gestures, "How do we know it's not you they're after? What about Leandra?"
Hermione chuckles, "Unlikely. Leandra wants to control me, but this is an odd way to go about it. Besides, she doesn't have any magic, she couldn't have done the ward. Apart from that I've led a blameless life since I left the UK."
His curiosity gets the better of him, even though he knows every little detail he learns about her will probably make their eventual parting all the harder, "What have you been doing?"
"I'm a translator. I was already fluent in French and European runes, but I've learned Italian, Mandarin, Arabic and the major African runes since I left the UK. They call me up and send me documents or audio or whatever, and I send them back a translation."
"Do you like it?" That was a seriously impressive number of languages and rune systems. It almost certainly put her in the company of the top runic scholars in the UK, and that's not to mention three of the most widely spoken languages in the Muggle world.
"Sort of. It's not my first choice, but I can work from home, so it helps avoid temptation."
"And before that you were travelling with Leandra?" He's not entirely sure he wants to know the details of her relationship with Leandra but asks anyway. Or asks obliquely, as far as he's brave enough to.
She hesitates before speaking, "We weren't doing much really. We would travel, see museums, visit galleries, sometimes we would enrol at a university for a term or class, and then we would move on."
He doesn't press her, after a moment she bitterly says, "Leandra was like a friend and a mentor to me, at first. She took me in and helped explain everything that was so new and confusing. It was like finding out I was a witch again, only this time instead of opening up a wonderful hidden world there was just… blood. Everything always came back to blood."
"You didn't exactly seem on friendly terms the other day."
Hermione looks uncomfortable, "Originally, she travelled with me to teach me, and to observe … she knew I wanted to avoid human blood and she had her little experiment she was running. Within a few years it quickly became clear I wasn't the result she wanted, but we continued travelling together anyway. Everything was awful …but at least I had a friend."
She wrings her hands together, "The worst of it was I didn't even notice. It all came on so suddenly, from my perspective. She took me to the opera one evening, in Vienna, disappeared during the intermission, and then turned up against halfway through the second act to drag me out. When we got back to the apartment we were sharing she gave me the wand as a gift, but then she wanted … more from me than I could give her. We had a fight, a huge one, and when she couldn't accept it I walked away … I don't know if she could have stopped me. She was older, stronger, and quicker, but I had my magic."
He quietly absorbs it, the tightness that had been growing in his chest as she spoke about Leandra relieved.
"Maybe she could have … but that wouldn't be enough for her. I expect she thought if she let me go that I would eventually break down, unable to handle being the abstinent vampire, and come crawling back. And why shouldn't she? As a vampire she's got all the time in the world to wait for me to crack. To drive myself mad with the hunger and the loneliness. She doesn't just want to control me … she wants to control me and make me grateful for it."
He doesn't really know what to say to that, and more apologies for things that weren't really his fault would just ring hollow. "Have you ever been tempted to go back to her?"
She shakes her head furiously, "No. At the time I tried to let her down gently, because I thought she had been good to me and because the problem was with me, not her. But now I know what she's like, I won't let her control me or own me. Bit of a deal breaker, that." She smiles ruefully, "I don't want her the way she wants me to, I just … wanted a friend. Someone who understood."
She hesitates, hovering near him, as if she is considering saying more. Eventually she settles back on her heels, resting against the wall, and looks at her feet.
Sensing that pressing her is unlikely to help, he turns his attention back to the house. Guests have been making their way down the path, impeccably dressed though somewhat weather beaten, and entering through a pair of great old wooden doors. He has been scanning for security too, "I see four of them. Two on a standard patrol around the grounds, takes them about fifteen minutes to make a full circuit. The third is checking names and taking coats at the door. The fourth is making a circuit of the house. There's probably more inside or nearby."
Silently coming up behind him, her hands delicately hold his waist as she peers around him again and it only takes a second for her to say, "I can see at least six. One more on the roof, must have drawn the short straw given the weather, and the last one is in with the guests themselves."
Harry can barely make out individual guests at this distance, they are mostly indistinct blurs that swirl and occlude the party lights. His pulse quickens at her touch, and her hands move away quickly. She is more than close enough to perceive his heartbeat. He feels another flash of that constant anger, that she is so unfairly aware of his physical reaction to her.
On top of that he's embarrassed. Getting flutters like some kind of schoolboy who's never known a woman before. From how quickly she retreated, he can't imagine she misinterpreted him and that makes him feel rejected and shameful.
Turning back to her "If you dislike the plan so much," crossing his arms, "you're welcome to leave me to it." He says it absolutely not meaning it. He wants her by his side, wants to work together the way they used to. Understanding each other through a glance, through the haze of adrenaline brought on by danger. Wants to run, her hand in his, breathless. Like the two young, stupid teenagers they once were … addicted to mystery, to danger, to each other.
But those kids are gone. And he has a job to do. This is what he does now. So, if she doesn't want to follow him any more he won't try to make her. So far they have been studiously avoiding talking about what happens if they make it off the island, but already he understands that she won't let him follow her. His internal watchman is begging him to try and claw back at least a little of his dignity and stop obsessing.
What a mess she has turned him into. Again.
"Not a chance," she says quickly.
Looking up at the stormy night sky, he asks with genuine curiosity, "Why?"
She is startled by his question, and she recovers by wrapping her arms around her and looking away, "Because," she starts, looking unsure and biting her lip, before letting out a shaky sigh and turning her entire body away from him, "I have nothing better to do tonight."
In spite of himself, he laughs. "Liar, Hermione Granger can always make use of reading time."
She shakes her head sadly but smiles at him slightly. "Got any idea how we're going to get in?"
"I was thinking we ambush the next couple coming up in the dark, stash them here, disguise ourselves as them and just walk right in the front door."
Her eyes seem to flash in the darkness, "I think I can do you one better. Stay here." She strides off into the night, and Harry rolls his eyes. This must be what it's like working with him – only giving half explanations before launching into some plan half-cocked.
Fortunately, he doesn't have to wait long. She returns, confident, with two party goers in tow. They follow her silently, slightly dazed. They walk compliant as she smoothly issues instructions to them. He feels the familiar handle of compulsion on him and he strengthens his mental defences – it would be embarrassing to fall into lock-step with them. Her glamour is strong, and he must pinch the back of his hand more than once to try and stop himself falling under her spell, but he can't deny her method is effective. Much less risk, of both discovery and injury this way.
They aren't even inside the observatory for a minute before her wand is in her hand, the floor cushioned and their stunned bodies fall limp. A second incantation, this one more careful and delicate than the last, and she has removed their memories of the last five minutes.
Harry doesn't recognise them but judging by the coat of arms on the man's tie they probably belong to the French delegation. She pulls invitations from his jacket pocket, on thick, luxurious card stock. The animated golden text dances on the page, declaring them to be Nicole DuClare and Charles Dumier. Harry vaguely recognises them as being part of the French ambassador's office.
"I don't mean to be ungrateful, Hermione, but this ruse won't last long if they expect me to speak French."
She pulls the bodies around in a comfortable position and covers them with a conjured blanket, "Then you'll have to let me do the talking." She smirks at him, "Come to think of it, that's probably for the best in general actually."
She looks at him, in his work suit and boots, and at her own casual clothing. "We'll need to smarten up a bit if we want to blend in once we're inside. We can snoop about in these clothes as much as we like, but we'll need to look the part if you want to approach Crouch. And I don't know about you, but I didn't think to bring a dress."
He pulls out his wand, pointing it towards her, but not directly at her "Then if you'll allow me?"
She rolls her eyes, "Go ahead, but I will be judging you. And remember I don't really care for heels, so keep them short."
A brief incantation and her casual jumper and overalls slowly turn into something more fitting for formal cocktail attire. The overalls morph into a black dress, sleeveless with a halter neck, and although he is pleased he restrained himself to a sensible knee length he should have been reigning in his impulse to make it figure hugging. It clings to her body like she was poured into it, which was not his conscious intent, and he stands in awkward appreciation for a moment.
Fortunately, he has the presence of mind to finish his spell work, turning the sweater into a comfortable shawl and her muggle trainers into some stylish short black heels. He refuses to listen to the red-blooded part of him that suggests she needs a wand holster that's more a garter than anything and instead transfigures a traditional thigh holster. It won't be especially …ladylike to retrieve, but it will be safe and hidden. Though she hardly needs protection against the cold, he conjures a red overcoat for her. Turning up without one in this weather would raise suspicion for sure.
Looking herself over she raises her eyebrow, presumably at how tight it was, and he blushes but remains silent. She pulls out her own wand and transfigures her bra into something more suitable for this dress, which he had not been brave (or foolish) enough to change himself. After her display in the cave earlier he might have been adventurous enough to try it, but then he went and ruined whatever small progress he had made with her.
In light of their delicate ceasefire, he wasn't quite sure what to make of her actions earlier. She said they couldn't be together but then seemingly gave him permission to look at her while she semi-undressed. He knew logically that the problems they faced were too great to overcome, and yet hers was the face he wanted to see after a difficult day. Hers was the voice he wanted to hear over dinner, hers was the hand he wanted to hold in the dead of night when the dark and difficult thoughts came for them.
"Not bad. Your turn then," she says, and his clothing begins to shift and change. It is a strange experience, feeling the fabric morph while he wears it. Weirdly intimate, or perhaps that was just her intense eye contact. And the absolutely killer dress certainly wasn't helping.
His clothing hardly needs the same alterations as hers, since his already well-fitting work suit is the perfect template for her to work from. The end result is a classier suit and shirt, with the big changes being that she's transfigured his boots into smart, formal shoes, and turned his tan Auror overcoat into a grey woollen coat. Also, the entire ensemble is no longer so creased from having been hastily stuffed into a backpack.
She looks him up and down appreciatively, before nodding. "Much nicer than dress robes. You always did wear a suit well. I'd say that hasn't changed, but honestly, I think you look better than ever." Her tone is part wistful, part something else he can't quite make out. He doesn't think himself anything special in the looks department, especially not with the tried bags beneath his eyes, but he does at least like to think he's lost some of that teenage awkwardness about his body. He remembers looking in the mirror as a young man and thinking his body felt like it wasn't quite the right size for him. It's been a long while since he felt like that, but on the other hand he does sometimes make a stupid 'oof' noise he's too young for when he pulls himself up out of a chair.
A few quick charms, and they both take on the appearance of their two victims. She, a dark-haired woman in her late twenties, and him a blonde man probably on the wrong side of thirty. Neither of them are particularly remarkable, which is hopefully good news. The less distinctive they are the easier it will be to get away with this.
He smiles back, uncertainly, before holding out his arm for her. "You look stunning Hermione. Shall we?"
She laughs, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes, their fight from earlier not forgotten even if they're pretending it didn't happen, "And a gentleman to boot. If I'd known becoming a vampire would improve you this much I'd have got myself bitten ages ago." She sees his weak smile, "Sorry. Not really that funny, is it?"
"No," he says softly, leading her out of the observatory and towards the grand house, "but I understand the effort. There's more than enough dark humour batted about the Auror office."
They don't speak again until they have crossed the windswept ground and stand in front of the beautiful wooden house doors. The whole way Harry couldn't shake the feeling of hidden eyes on him. He didn't want to draw attention to himself by twisting around looking for the source of the discomfort. Perhaps it was just the guard hidden on the roof?
They exchange 'readys', before he reaches out to knock on the door. Almost instantly a wizard is opening it and ushering them inside. He's dressed formally, looking more like a butler than security, but Harry recognises the shape of his spare wand holster distorting his jacket. The sound of classical music floated through the air gently from deeper inside the house.
The most striking thing about the house is the overwhelming heat. It radiates throughout the building, almost sweltering. Harry is instantly shrugging his coat off, suddenly jealous of Hermione's lighter attire. The doorman is clearly overwarmed too, as Harry spots the tell-tale signs of sweat beneath his arm pits despite the jacket he wears and the obvious cooling charm he has going. Crouch must be paying a considerable energy bill if he's heating the house in the muggle fashion. Harry can't imagine why he would want it to be close to 40degrees C in here, and yet he is already desperate to loosen his tie and undo a button.
The doorman politely, but very firmly, asks for their names and invitations, which Hermione dutifully provides in French. Harry resolutely keeps his mouth shut, doing his best to channel Draco Malfoy. Imperious, expectant and a little arrogant. The effect is probably not as impressive as he hopes. And, it occurs to him now that he is half way through his poor impression, rather presumptive. Dumier might be a perfectly nice guy.
If Harry had been running the operation, he'd have had a thing or two to recommend about their security, because after a cursory check of the guest list and their invitations, he is waving them through into the party. No wand check, not even the slightest indication of trying to search them, just takes his coat without a word and closes the doors.
He raises one eyebrow at her, silently trying to consider if the lackadaisical approach to security is telling him something, before gesturing with his arm towards the party. She looks more nervous than he had anticipated, but then he remembers her reaction to the crowded pub before. Perhaps her joke about biting people really was too close to home.
The entire lower floor seems to be given over to the party, consisting of a series of lounges, a dining room and the quiet entrance hall. Food was set out, which they both steadfastly ignored, though they accepted a glass of champagne from a house-elf. Hermione did so with reluctance, almost certainly battling against her righteous fury over house-elf oppression, but even she realised now was not a good time to promote SPEW.
The lounges were filled with high level dignitaries, important researchers, senior Ministry workers and a great deal of mid-ranking staff. Harry recognised some he knew personally, others by reputation, and Hermione knew of a great deal of the academic guests.
She leaned in to him, and whispered, "What kind of conference did you say this was, again?"
"International co-operation on security. About trying to prevent any more Dark Lords." His brow furrowed, "These are some of Europe's most committed muggle rights defenders and security insiders." You would be hard pressed to find more staunch defenders of equality, more progressive minds, or more dedicated defenders of liberty than were gathered in this room.
Under an anti-apparition ward.
Hermione was following his train of thought exactly, "And they're all trapped on this island." They shared a meaningful glance. Once upon a time Harry would have probably immediately jumped up onto a table and started shouting warnings to everyone, but…
Tonks was also right. His position in the department hung by a thread, delicately balanced between Director Bones and Chief Robards. If he caused a scene here and was wrong, and honestly probably even if he was proven right, he could almost certainly kiss his job goodbye.
Despite the long days, the awful sights, and the constant arguments and conflicts with his colleagues his job was the only thing left to him that he truly found any meaning in. Present company excepted, of course, but that did not seem like much of a long-term prospect. He didn't see his idle hobby's as being enough to coax him out of bed on his darkest days, not like the prospect of a good case to lose himself in.
They would need some solid evidence of wrongdoing before causing a scene.
"Let's take a look around, keep a low profile for a little while and then see if we can find Crouch." He nodded in agreement, again offering her his arm. She took it, and he felt a little warmth kindle inside him. He's not quite jaded enough to call it a weakness, but it is a vulnerability. He knows that, by not smothering it, he sets himself up for pain further down the line.
The guests all chatted quite freely, though many of them were clearly uncomfortable in the overwhelming heat. Those from Mediterranean countries seemed to be faring much better than the Nordic ones, but regardless no one looked particularly comfortable. Jackets had been removed, shawls discarded, and more than one person had loaded their drinks to the brim with ice.
He turned to remark on the temperature to his partner but dropped it immediately when he saw the look on her face. Everyone was struggling with the heat except for her, who instead appeared to be having a small panic attack. "Are you okay? Is it …?" He left it unspoken.
She nodded, "Yeah. I've got it though, I've got it. It's fine. This is just the most people I've been around in years. All those heartbeats, all that blood, I can …" she swallowed, sickly, "I can practically sense it all. Flowing."
Despite her protestations, her pupils were beginning to cycle. The tell of the Beast.
Alarmed, he said with a cool he did not feel, "Alright. It's okay. Humanity, right? Focus on that. Focus on what makes you you. You said music helps, right?" She nodded gratefully, looking like a woman who was about to be sick and her friend has offered to look after her, "Lets get closer to the music. Just focus on that, okay?"
Following the music they entered yet another lounge. This one had been cleared into a makeshift dance floor, with an old muggle style gramophone playing in one corner. The vinyls were floating in the air, hovering, ready to change over, and the turntable span without any apparent power. "Schubert," she muttered.
"Ave Maria?" He asked, not entirely sure.
"Yes," she said, smiling, reaching down to take his hand in hers. "I didn't think you'd recognise it."
He shrugged with one shoulder, unwilling to break her grip on his other hand, and gave a forced laugh, weirdly too embarrassed to tell her that he's more familiar with a great deal of muggle classical and choir music than he'd like to admit. After Vienna, he had rather taken a liking to operatic and chorial music and had ended up joining a choir of all things. It wasn't exactly what Ron and the other Weasley's had been meaning when they kept encouraging him to take up a hobby, but surprisingly he enjoyed it. Far more than when Petunia had dragged him to choir practices when he was a young boy.
"I've had at least a little time to grow in the last decade. Is this helping?"
She closed her eyes and leaned into him slightly. He was too concerned to pay much attention, really, to how short she was in comparison to him. Even with her heels, he was much taller. The wave of nostalgia and melancholy, which forcefully reminded him of a time when she was the taller of the pair, when she was so much younger and still so vital, was pushed away to focus on her predicament. Her hand waved gently in time with the music, as one piece ended and another began, a waltz he did not recognise.
The cycle of dilation has slowed, but he can still see it. She shakes her head, burying it in the crook of his arm. He's got one further thought, but she probably won't like it. His heart beats a little faster, and the little voice in the back of his mind screams that this is a bad idea. That he is just looking for an excuse. Any excuse, even one this paper thin.
"Dance with me?" He whispers.
"I don't," she chokes out, "…don't think that will help."
"It doesn't need to be. You keep concentrating on the music, keeping thinking about what it means to be more than an animal. What makes you different. And in the meantime, dancing will give you an excuse to be close to me. That way, if you do … you know, it's only me that gets it. And I've still got a blood replenisher in me."
He leads her by the arm, her seemingly too focused on the music to resist. Feeling very much like a schoolboy at his first dance, he carefully places his hands on her waist at a respectful height, her arms draping around his neck like she was made for this. For him.
They begin to move, and a minute or two later she had relaxed into him, with her eyes still closed. "This is nice, Harry," she muttered. "This is … is better."
"It's helping?"
She turns her head up to him, and even though she wears the visage of another, he can see her in the expression on her face. The smile looks odd on someone else, but it is all her. A genuine, almost untroubled smile, the smile he fell in love with, once upon a time ago. "Yes, actually, it is."
Her eyes are all her again.
He was lost in a tempest of contradictory emotions, in complete opposition to her seemingly newfound calm. He wanted to gather her up in his arms and hide her away, he wanted to show her to the world and declare her perfect, he wanted to kiss her gently on the tip of her nose, he wanted to rip the dress from her body, right here and now.
Most of all he ached for her to share the small, mundane moments of existence with him. Making an extra cup of tea for her when he boils the kettle or coming home to find the lights on and her smiling face waiting for him. That the unbearable bleakness of an unforgiving life in a cruel and indifferent universe could be made that little bit more bearable by her presence. That the existence of this insignificant lump of carbon and water, a mere flash in the span of the universe, might have some meaning if he could share that flash with her.
And he knows it's not enough to share it with just anyone. It has to be her. She is kind, principled, extraordinarily intelligent, patient, beautiful, and more besides. It could only have ever been her.
His resolve is broken, finally, and he needs to know, almost choking on the words, "Do you feel… do you still l-" but he is interrupted.
"Please don't," she whispers, sounding so small. So defeated. "Please don't ask me that, because I don't think I can lie to you." Her arms stay around him, holding him. There is none of the super strength to her right now, she is all softness. Willowy, almost pliant, in his arms.
He struggles to hold the question back even still, confused. "But … look at us. We're holding each other. I thought," his throat tightens, "I thought we could never do this again. But we are, and you're not having to fight your Beast. What if-"
"Stop, Harry, please. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that maybe you can make me feel human enough. That we can … be together after all. But it's not possible, I can't do it." Her voice is torn, her tone miserable and wretched. That luminous smile already gone.
"Yes, you can-" he insists.
"Damn it, Harry," she says in despair, her words harsh but the tone is tender. Raw. "Do you think I'm the only vampire who's ever been in love?" Her words twist in his heart, that even though they're the words he wants to hear from her the context is almost unbearable. "It's happened before, and it wasn't enough for them. It couldn't make them human again, nothing can. All it takes is one slip, and that's it. You're either dead or turned. Cursed. Just like me. No more life flowing through your veins, no more steady rhythm in your chest, no more brag of the heart." She says it like a reference, but if it is it goes completely over his head.
"We could make it work," he pleads.
"Merlin, but I wish that were true. And it even might be for a time, but imagine, if you even can, what it would feel like for me to wake up one morning, covered in your blood, having drained you in the night? Can you understand what that would do to me? How that would completely break me? You'd be dead and it would be my fault, and the Beast wouldn't even let me join you."
He holds her tighter, and she doesn't resist. Tears threaten, but it seems that he doesn't have any left to give. He feels empty and lost. Bereft.
She gently rests her head against his chest, her body cold to the touch. "I'm sorry, Harry. I'm so goddamn sorry."
He somehow finds his voice, croaky though it is. "You have nothing to be sorry about. It's Fairfax's fault, and even she was only a tool." The real responsibility lay with Umbridge, and it is the second biggest regret of his life that he's never been able to prove it. It was why he had joined the Auror's in the first place, but the last thing he wants to do is dwell on that night so he puts it from his mind, and focuses on having her in his arms.
He never expected to do this again, so he resolves to enjoy it. To remember it. He might have to make this dance last a lifetime.
They sway a little longer, her presumably trying to stay human and him trying to conjure up the will to keep going, now that even the smallest ray of hope was gone.
Eventually, with the ghost of a smile she disentangles herself from him. He can't bring himself to return it, but he makes sure not to scowl. The rejection hurts, but it's not her fault, she's clearly upset too.
She is suddenly focused on something behind him. "There's Crouch." He turns to see Bartemius Crouch through an open door, talking quietly to a group of guests. They all look very serious, and Harry suspects that most of them are dressed in clothing that costs more than his monthly salary. A tall, blonde woman stands several feet behind him, her back against the wall, scanning the room. It does not take much effort to identify her as private security. A bodyguard.
Although it's not uncommon for Ministers or Department heads to be accompanied by bodyguards at public appearances, it is perhaps a little bit odd to find one here in private. Or at least to find one so obviously present. Typically, personal security tries to be a little less obtrusive. Her hostile eyes sweep across all the guests, her hands crossed in front of her below the waist. She cuts an imposing figure, and although her robes are likely considerably less expensive than the party guests she is no less intimidating in her own way.
With little alternative, they begin to subtly make their way over to his group. They pretend to admire some of the artwork on the wall, despite it not being anything Harry or Hermione could identify as being anything special, waiting for a chance to join the small group in his orbit. He can't tell what they're talking about, but Hermione almost certainly can. She does not volunteer any information and so he assumes the conversation isn't relevant.
It does not take long for them to dissipate, and as the group breaks up to seek fresh drinks or new conversation, Crouch is left standing alone. He doesn't appear bothered by this, and the pair of them approach him quickly before another group can monopolise him.
Despite his pristine dress robes, Barty looked oddly haggard. His skin had a papery element, and his head seemed oddly gaunt, as if there was no excess fat to him and his head was all skull with covered by the barest veneer of flesh. Harry was taken aback at how thin he seemed, as though the robes were intended for a man holding much more weight than Crouch. There were great, dark shadows beneath his eyes, and there was something odd about his expression. Not quite vacant, but also not quite present.
As they step up to him, he seems to shake off his distraction and scrutinises them with his small, cold eyes. Apparently, he must not recognise the two French attendees, as he plasters on a false smile and greets them, "Good evening. I don't believe we've met."
"Good evening, Mr. Crouch. Thank you for hosting such a lovely party, we were hoping to have a quick word." Hermione smiles warmly at him, and he can feel the flash of her glamour as she turns it against him. She frowns, curious, when he appears unaffected by her attempted manipulation.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Crouch. Our mutual friend, , has told us a great deal about you." Harry tilts his head to one side, before stressing Dawlish's name. Something flickers in his expression as Crouch stiffens perceptibly at the mention of the older Auror.
"Dawlish? No, you must be mistaken. I don't believe I know a Mr. Dawlish." Crouch stares back, an air of quiet desperation about him, his eyes flittering between the two of them.
Taken aback and unsure of how else to proceed he tries to press the point, while sharing a stricken look with Hermione, "Are you certain Mr. Crouch? I understand he's an acquaintance of Dr. Moreau. Perhaps that jogs your memory?" He is sure he sounds equally desperate; he had ideas of breaking into the party and smoothly, suavely making contact and this is turning out nothing like he planned.
At the sign of Crouch's agitation, his bodyguard tenses and stands up straight. She is no longer scanning the room but is instead paying close attention to the three of them.
"No," he replies brusquely, his foot tapping in agitation, "It does not. Regardless, it has been good to meet you but regrettably I am needed elsewhere." Crouch holds out his hand, and Harry reluctantly accepts the handshake. Crouch's palms feels hot and sweaty, presumably suffering himself from the outrageous temperature, but it is the stiff crinkle of paper in his palm, passing from one hand the other, that Harry must conceal his reaction.
"Of course, my apologies, have a good night."
Crouch turns to Hermione and leans in to hug her, and she visibly tenses. Something quickly flashes across her face, but it is too quick for Harry to read.
Without any further word, Crouch walks off to engage with another group and his bodyguard appears to settle back into her position against the wall.
Taking Hermione's arm again, he stuffs the paper into his jacket pocket and leads her away. They stop in front of some sort of twisted sculpture, some modern art that Harry can't even begin to interpret but suspects that Hermione could.
"Well, that was less than I was hoping for," he says in a low voice, "He passed me something, but I can't exactly take it out and read it here."
She keeps her head trained on the sculpture, and whispers back, "He whispered something to me, but I don't know if it was meaningful or if he was just being a bit weird. He told me to ask for Zinfandel."
Nonplussed, he replies, "Isn't that some kind of wine?"
He can almost hear the exasperated smile, "Yes Harry, it's a wine. But it's odd … it's not exactly one you'd recommend at a fancy party like this. It's the kind of thing you'd find in your corner shop, not something you'd have served at a conference for foreign dignitaries. I'm not saying it's bad, but it doesn't have a posh reputation."
She takes him by the hand and drags him past several servers, casting her considering eye across the glasses, eventually asking one of the house-elves if they have a Zinfandel. The poor little elf nervously informs her that she doesn't have any, but fortunately she doesn't seem to feel the need to punish herself for that otherwise Harry is pretty sure Hermione would be the one causing a scene.
Hermione considers for a moment, before slowly asking "Is there a wine cellar in the house?" When the elf confirms that there is, Hermione thanks her before dragging Harry back into a secluded corner again.
"We could sneak downstairs and have a look around. At the very least you can read your note down there in peace. I'm not sure what to make of him, honestly."
Harry shrugs, "There've been rumours going around that he's not quite what he used to be. I suppose it couldn't hurt to take a peek downstairs, if we can find it. Might as well leave no stone unturned."
They quietly slip out of the party, and into a corridor that leads deeper into the house, ensuring that Crouch's bodyguard can't see them go. His heart beats a little faster in his chest, the familiar rush of adrenaline. Almost the exact circumstance he had been pining for earlier that evening, the pair of them sneaking around, investigating together, in the shadow of danger. Harry lets Hermione take the lead, trusting in her superior senses to ensure that they don't get caught. She carefully listens to each door as they pass, before opening them to check for the cellar stairs. She skips one door, which she claims probably leads to the kitchen, until they eventually find a set of stairs leading down.
He expected it to be cooler down here, but there is barely a noticeable drop in temperature. There are miscellaneous crates of supplies neatly stored amongst the racks filled with wine that cover the walls, there must be thousands of bottles down here, most of them covered lightly in dust, obscuring the labels. The cellar is well kept, at least to Harry's perception, but Hermione wrinkles her nose. "Something smells down here," she says, "Sweat, mostly. But also…sharp. Like a poorly cleaned bathroom."
Harry sniffs the air, but he can't detect it. "I'll have to trust you. Seems normal to me." She starts to poke around the shelves, presumably looking for Crouch's mystery wine. He pulls out the little folded paper Crouch palmed him earlier. It has very little written on it, simply:
Dawlish, meet at the observatory tonight, 3am. Come alone.
"He wants to meet Dawlish. I don't know if he thought I was Dawlish in disguise, or if he wants us to pass the message along…" She makes a noncommittal noise, still looking over the bottles individually. He sweeps his eyes across the rack, and points to one of the bottles in a corner. "I think it's that one."
She straightens up, "Why so sure?"
"It's the only one with fingerprints in the dust."
She laughs, a tone so pure to hears it might well be crystal. "You realise you're going to look like an absolute tosser if it's not the right one?"
He joins her in the laughter, and she glides over to inspect it. It's immediately clear that it's different when she's unable to pick it up, "Alright, fine, you were right" she grins, delighting in her own teasing, "but you're still a tosser." Instead of pulling the bottle from the rack, she instead tilts it. There is a soft click, and an entire panel of the wine rack pops open.
She carefully opens the secret door further, and this time he can smell the rank odour she was describing before. She makes a small, disgusted noise, proving that enhanced sense aren't always better. The stench is clearly … organic.
The room beyond is completely unexpected. It's set up like some kind of study, with diagrams on the walls, strange equipment on benches, blackboards with scrawled, indecipherable (to Harry) notes. The room is largely dominated by a person sized bell jar, which is empty aside from what looks like some scraps of fabric on the bottom.
As they slip through the door a chill passes over him, slowly. It starts as a moderate relief from the baking temperature of the house but keeps going, until he is actively cold, and then further still, the heat leeching from him. Experimentally he passes back into the wine cellar, half expecting the temperature to shoot up again, but it doesn't. He mentally rules out some kind of temperature regulation charm at work in this study, though perhaps it was more appropriate to call it a laboratory.
Hermione, in defiance of expectation does not go straight to the rune diagrams and the strange equipment, which appeared to consist mostly of large bell jars connected together with thick electrical cables, but instead appears to be following her nose. On the far side of the room is an iron door, with sliding flaps at the bottom and at head height.
It looks very much like a prison door.
She slides the upper cover open, peers through for a moment and says, "This is where the smell is coming from. There was a man here, until recently."
He follows her, peering into the room. There is a small, uncomfortable looking cot loaded with stained blankets and a grim bucket in the opposite corner. The horribly organic smell certainly makes more sense now.
On the middle of the cot are several large bones, approximately the size of human femurs. He counts five of them, all apparently identical from this distance. His heart races a little faster. He has seen this before.
"I need to get those bones, can you have a look at the diagrams and notes? I can't make head nor tail of runes." He opens the door and carefully walks inside with his wand out, checking for any more nasty surprises like the ones from the ward cave. Thankfully un-assaulted, he carefully studies the bones and is dismayed to find himself correct.
This isn't the first time he has seen a body transfigured into a bone.
It is a common practice when concealing magical murders, to transfigure the body and dispose of it. A bone is close enough to a body that it is a simple transfiguration, is convenient to transport, and it prevents decay and many other signs that muggle forensics would reply on. Trying not to think too hard about it, he kneels down and as respectfully as possible shrinks them until they are the size of finger bones and secures them in his suit pocket.
Taking one last look around the cell and trying hard not to breathe too deeply he notes several more details. The first of which is that someone has cleaned thoroughly in here, the surfaces have small directional, almost abrasive marks showing that someone has repeatedly cast scourgify in here, and likely in the bucket. The marks only start to appear after considerable effort, indicating hundreds of casts in a short period of time. Secondly, hidden inside one of the pillows is a half-eaten chocolate bar. Presumably, unless they have been very lucky, someone's interrupted last meal.
And finally, undeath the cot, hidden from the view of a casual observer there are several tally marks scratched into the wall and the words:
'Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.
I didn't want to, but they made me.'
He makes a quick count and deduces that whoever they held prisoner (and he thinks he can have a good guess at who) had been imprisoned here for 87 days.
Leaving the cell, he finds Hermione in her element. She has finished reading the haphazard notes from the boards and has moved on to inspecting the experimental equipment. Without much hope of contributing, he rubs his hands together in the cold, and idly peruses the runes. He is astonished when he recognises them.
Not that he understands them, but he's seen them before, carved on the great stone monoliths from the stone circle on the island.
"Hermione, I recognise these." He says, and she nods, not looking his way.
"Me too, from the stone circle. Curiously they seem to have been experimenting with changing their configuration. I don't know for sure from such a quick glance, but I think that it's some kind of transfer ritual. Considering the era the circle was built in, and these notes, I would assume the purpose was a transfer of life from the sacrifice to the surroundings. Probably related to seasonal change, like ending winter, ensuring the sun still keeps coming up every day, or to do with making the next harvest bountiful. Since there's no magic, on any scale, I know of that can change seasons or influence the motion of the sun, that makes harvest most likely."
Shaking his head at Hermione, he marvels at her brain. Three minutes of reading, and she's gleamed more from these runes than he could in a month, probably even with a competent translator to help him. He taps some of the runes with his finger, "These, I've seen these too." This time she abandons her interrogation of the equipment to ask him where.
"Also on the stone circle. They were carved into them, replacing these," he taps the runes that had been vandalised, "I thought it was just damage or kids, but this suggests it might have been purposeful."
She rubs her forehead as she concentrates, trying to read the maddeningly small writing and follow the esoteric flow of the notes. "Then …" she mutters slowly, "that would reverse the direction they're transferring the energy. But I can't see where it's supposed to go. It's not going back toward the sacrificial offerings, see these runes? It almost makes the sacrifice vestigial. It just, kicks off the ritual now and nothing else."
Concentrating on the boards, he fixes the notes in his mind, taking a snapshot of them with his Occumlency. A memory properly prepared with Occlumency can be stored and reviewed without experiencing degradation, and he suspects they will need to refer back to this more than once before their ordeal is over.
"Figured anything out with the equipment?" He asks.
"Sort of, it seems to be based on similar principles to the ritual, but it's not quite the same. Perhaps they developed these bell jars as some kind of prototype for whatever they want to do with the circle? Or they could be for someone else entirely?"
She walks over to the largest bell jar and continues to examine it, tracing the theoretical flow of energy from one jar to the next.
Surplus to requirements, he noses through the paperwork on the large desk. It mostly seems to be purchasing, of hired help, of components, of materials, of food, all flowing into the island. He's not a forensic accountant by any stretch of the imagination, but he suspects that close examination will reveal a web of shell companies and foreign accounts intended to disguise the destination of these purchases. He copies it all with a quick charm, gathers and secures them before also shrinking and stashing them in his pocket. Unlike the muggle authorities, no one in the Ministry will care that he is disturbing a crime scene – as much as he would rather have the scene processed properly that isn't a luxury open to him.
There is, however, one parchment that stands out. It is a list of names, with several of them scored out. Scanning the list, Hermione and his names appear around halfway down.
Talbott Winger
Nymphadora Tonks
Albert Cooper
Harry Potter
Hermione Granger
Dirk Cresswell
Miranda Goshawk
Then, at the very bottom, added in a different colour of ink;
John Dawlish ?
He looks up at Hermione, confused. He would assume it was some kind of hit list, except he has seen at least two of these people alive today, one of those is in the room with him right now. He's also sure that Hermione isn't some imposter. Plus, she literally drank his blood earlier tonight. Hard to fake those fangs.
There's also a set of interesting notes stuck to a paper spike. They seem to be one sided communications, so he copies and steals these too, intending to sort through them once they aren't skulking around this creepy prison / laboratory / basement / wine cellar.
He pulls open the drawers, one at a time. The top one is simply office and lab supplies, and of no interest to him. The second one is filled with more of the same bars of chocolate. Stacks and stacks of them. He had assumed the bar in the cell was hidden, contraband, but perhaps not if they had this much to hand … who would feed a prisoner a diet of chocolate?
The last drawer was the most interesting. It contained a book, thick, leather bound and secured shut with an iron padlock. He looks around for a key but whoever owns this book, because he doubts very much that it is Barty Crouch (and begins to think of the blonde woman in the suit upstairs as more chaperone than bodyguard), isn't stupid enough to keep it on the side here. The paper, between the covers, flashes a light blue every few seconds.
The copying charm fails this time, producing nothing but an empty book, so he removes it from the drawer, warns Hermione and incants, touching the tip of the wand to the lock. It shears the lock straight from the metal plate in a shower of sparks, the padlock impacting the floor with a thud. Opening the cover, words coalesce on the page in front of him.
You have not checked in recently. I trust that it was delivered successfully?
He looks at the book, and then back at the spike with the torn messages, before carefully closing the drawer, shrinking the book and stuffing yet another item into his jacket. He would have preferred to have copied the book, and left no trace of their visit, but he can't leave this behind. Denying these conspirators the means to communicate seems like an excellent plan, regardless of what he might be able to learn from it.
Walking back to Hermione, she says "Couple of things you'll want to see, I think. First, look inside the jar."
He tries to wipe away some of the dirt on the outside of the jar that obscures his vision, but it seems to be grease and dirt, and so all it achieves is a smearing on the surface. "Looks like some kind of fabric."
"Yes, but look harder." He does, and it takes him a second to realise what she's getting at. Like an optical illusion, it clicks into place as he stares.
"That's part of a dementor cloak," he says, and he can't tell if his resulting shiver is because of his experiences of them back in third year or because of the terrible cold that now permeates the laboratory. "They were keeping a dementor in this jar … and probably Moreau in the cell. At least that explains all of the chocolate. But what were they doing with it?"
She shrugs, "Not sure. Moving energy, of some kind or another, around I guess, based on the equipment. Souls maybe?"
"Maybe … Moreau was supposed to be an expert on dementors." Harry squinted back at the board, with its runes and arithmancial equations, frustrated that he can't even begin to understand it, never mind make any conclusions from it.
"This is the last thing." She gestures to a peculiar crate in the corner, that reminds him of the sort of thing you see weapons dealers in muggle films use. All the other boxes in here are made from wooden slats. It's also not haphazardly stacked and has clearly been placed here with some care. She lifts the lid carefully, revealing a padded interior, cut for the specific shape of its contents.
It's a rock.
Or rather, a carved rock, shorter at the bottom than it is at the top, like a 3D wedge. The bottom, shorter, edge is slightly curved.
"What in Merlin's name have they got a rock for?" Something about its shape is interesting to him, he has seen something that it reminds him of recently, but he can't quite place where or why.
"Maybe it's something to do with their ritual?" She hazards, similarly contemplating it. "Whatever it is, they clearly want to protect it."
He nods in agreement. "Seems like a good enough reason to seize it to me."
She laughs, and tries to shrink it, but it stubbornly refuses to change size or shape or weight. He watches her work through increasingly esoteric spells, each one more complicated or specific than the last, before she finally admits defeat.
Tapping her chin, she casts one more very complicated spell and he is drawn to watching her perfect wand work, like a moth to a flame. She traces a line in the air with the tip of the wand that is precise, practiced – in fact, he would consider it near perfect. Her pronunciation exact, and her application of power was controlled and graceful. Every action was supremely balanced, even the slightest movement was filled with purpose. Her technique reminds him of a ballerina – an elegant, subtle, skilful performance that is the sum of thousands of hours of hard work and practice.
The stone disappears, and he looks at her in astonishment.
"It's still here," she says, "but since I can't seem to have any effect on it, I had to charm the light to bend around it, so it appears invisible." She conjures some invisible ropes, loops them around the invisible rock and fashions a sling to hold it against her body. "It's heavy, but nothing I can't handle. As long as I don't get close enough for anyone to touch it, I should be able to smuggle it out."
She lifts it and secures it as though it were nothing, and not the thirty to forty kilos of rock that it actually was. The invisible ropes pull slightly at her dress, but not badly enough to arouse suspicion on a casual glance.
Closing and securing the now empty crate they take one last look around, and although he can't be sure, he's convinced they did a good job of ransacking the place. He only hopes that whoever uses this room doesn't have an urgent need to check their weird book. It's a risk he thinks there's decent odds on, because if Moreau was here then there's a very good chance he's now one of the bones tucked away inside his suit pocket. And if they were happy enough to dispose of him, then they probably don't need the rest of this room anymore either.
The question was, who were the other four?
They sneak back through the secret door, making sure to close it behind them and climb the stairs. Harry had half expected it to get warmer again as they returned to the party, but instead it only got colder. There was once again a sound at the edge of hearing, and he held up a hand to stop his companion, whispering "Do you hear that?"
She tilts her head, listening, "I hear a lot of things, but nothing out of the ordinary." He scowls, as the noise builds slightly, still too quiet to make it out properly.
Ignoring it, he pushes on and returns to the party room, careful to make sure no one is watching when they slip back in. He had expected the party to swamp the annoying sound but it instead seemed to cut through it, inconsiderately, unreasonably, and plain inexplicably. A quiet whine that was somehow still louder than the assembled guests and music.
Though they made their way towards the exit quickly, they still tried to maintain inconspicuous. Unfortunately, it quickly became apparent they were unsuccessful; Hermione discreetly coughed and pointedly looked over towards Crouch's minder, with Crouch himself nowhere in sight. She was talking into the ear of Albert Cooper, the Ministry Obliviator. Harry quickened his pace towards the door, but Cooper and Blonde were onto them, walking briskly to intercept them.
She stayed one step behind him, in perfect sync, as Cooper put himself between them and the exit. "Good evening Mr. Dumier, Ms. DuClare." Hermione politely greeted him back in French, but Cooper was looking intently at him. The noise is even louder now, but worst of all clearly inside his head. Like holding a shell up to his ear, but instead of a gentle, ocean wave noise it was high pitched and awful.
He feels the slightest, tiniest pressure on his mental barrier. It was almost nothing, a whisper, and then it retreats. It was the most subtle legilimency attack he has ever experienced. Strengthening the shield, in case of further intrusion, he smiles thinly at Cooper, who is now offering out his hand to shake.
The noise droned, repeated, somehow got louder still and now he knew it was screaming. The same screaming he heard back on the beach. As if they were far away, or very small. A tiny pair of lungs, screaming their heart out and yet ...
Cooper didn't react. No one did. The party carried on around them, casually. The clink of glass, the low murmur of voices, a laugh, a fork against plate, the gentle sound of the gramophone ... and the constant, quiet scream.
The cold bit into him even worse than before, and he could tell it affected the others. Women pulled their shawls up around their shoulders, men had put their jackets back on, and though the heaters were still throwing out enough heat to make anyone sweat not a single person was struggling. It should be thirty, forty Celsius in here and yet Cooper's breath misted in the air.
Hermione's breath did not mist, but only because she didn't need to breathe. The cold didn't bite her because nothing ever did anymore. She did the biting after all, these days.
Albert Cooper wasn't struggling, he just stood there, with his hand outstretched, waiting. His stupid pipe in the other hand.
Begrudgingly, and still hoping to maintain their disguises, Harry reached out to take his hand. As his fingers clasped the older man's hand the screaming became painfully loud in his ears. The others didn't react, not even when it became so loud it felt as if it would pierce his ear drums. The scream of the anguished, the tortured, the suffered, the agonised.
The party carried on. The screaming carried on. At least he wasn't worried it meant he was going mad anymore.
Because, of course, he recognised it now.
He recognised it because they were his screams.
As his vision closed in, and he began to sink to his knees, all he could see was Albert Cooper's spinning, grinning face.
A/N: Sorry for another cliffhanger - I just can't seem to find a place to stop without them!
Want to give a massive thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far, it's greatly appreciated! Also to all the lovely, supportive people at the Harmony, Possum Hollow and The Alcove discords! All of you know who you are, and thank you.
