.
.
.:.
It took Parvati five hours of sharing her home with Hermione to realize exactly how much trouble she was in.
In her defense, anyone would have been excited to welcome their best friend for an extended visit, and full of relief to have warded walls and obedient vipers between that friend and the abundance of people that wished her harm— but even that was an afterthought when she withdrew from Hermione's one-armed embrace and saw that the spark was back in her eyes. For the first time since that horrible night, her gaze was bright and focused, darting around as if every detail of her surroundings held a secret.
There was also the mild shock of their parents flouting the Statute.
In hindsight, Parvati supposed it was rather unfair to mandate that any relatives a muggleborn didn't live with full-time be kept in the dark— and those clauses of the Statute didn't exactly account for the safety of the families of the adoptive sisters of boys the local dark lord had it out for.
Besides, it would have been just plain disrespectful to offer shelter to the child and parents but not the matriarch— or her adopted sister.
"I must say," Parvati's father remarked, "that you are both taking this quite gracefully in stride."
"Such a polite young man you've caught yourself," the venerable Marion Granger told Parvati's mother— and then, to Prajnan: "Do you mean the magic, or being bustled off to a safer house on short notice?"
"Both, I suppose."
"I suppose we are taking it rather well, yes."
"There were stories, during the War." Maia's great-aunt Luludja slumped gratefully into an armchair. "Unlikely escapes, mysterious saviors… who can say what was miracle, and what was wizards who cared more about life than law?"
Several things about Hermione suddenly made a lot more sense.
"As for the bustling-off, well." Luludja smiled wearily. "Traveling by fireplace is—"
"Horrid," said Marion.
"—new, but the accommodations are more than worth it."
"The same is probably true of their attic, mind," Marion muttered in wry French.
Hermione cringed. "They can understand you, grand-mère."
Marion proceeded to test that by interrogating the twins about their schooling in French— and, even more nerve-wrackingly, about Hermione's experience at Hogwarts, which she'd discreetly claimed to have told her parents 'more or less everything' about— but how many of the more alarming details had reached her fragile, elderly grandparents was another question entirely.
Suffice to say Parv's jitters didn't fade until she, Padma, and Maia were well-ensconced in the library. Maia, of course, was too focused on her study plans to comment on what sort of impression they might've made on Marion and 'Tante Lulu' (though Luludja's invitation to call her that was somewhat reassuring), and Parvati was loathe to interrupt her scholastic fervor when it had only just resurfaced.
Then, Hermione asked for help researching ways to exploit the blood Riddle had stolen from Harry to curse the former but not the latter.
The Parvati of 1991 would have tried to tactfully explain the risks of openly discussing such a stigmatized topic without revealing her own disagreements with mainstream British opinion on the matter... and, in hindsight, probably would have come off rather condescending. The Parvati of 1995 merely glanced at the door before casting an extra privacy charm.
"What about..." Hermione trailed off, looking around in puzzlement.
"What?"
"...not sure how I only just noticed," she muttered. "Do you have any moving portraits in this house?"
Oh— the walls.
"Well," said Parvati, "you have been a bit preoccupied, during your visits."
"We don't," said Padma. "Less due to the moving than the talking."
Hermione peered at her for all of a second before concluding: "Surveillance?"
(Not for the first time, Parv wished she were a Legilimens, just so she could watch those quick connections happen— she imagined lightning, flashing through clouds…)
Padma nodded. "They're an imperial tradition, you know. British, French, Spanish, Russian…"
"Status symbols," said Hermione.
"Which colonial social-climbers were all too eager to hang in their parlors and offices. Many learned the hard way that what speaks can also listen."
"Is that a quote?"
"Probably." Padma looked back down at the research plan Hermione had passed her, hiding just how pleased she was to be the teacher instead of the student— "Our grandparents call them… 'flat gossips?' It loses something in translation. Disdain, mostly."
"Remind me to ask you for some history book recommendations," said Hermione.
"As if you'll need a reminder." Padma sat back and crossed her legs, not noticing how Maia's eyes followed the motion. Parvati did. "Anyway, blood-curses?"
"Right— I suspect the act of theft might've caused some magically significant distinction between Harry's blood and Riddle's that could open up that angle of attack, but if I was Riddle I'd already have looked into shielding myself from that— and the fact that he hasn't used it to curse Harry from afar does suggest it's not so simple. Then there's whatever it is Harry's mum did, which I doubt has been entirely circumvented by the blood-theft given that Death Eaters haven't kicked in his door yet, so…"
"Research," said Parvati.
"Extensive and thorough research."
That was, it seemed, an understatement.
All the blood-curses they could find in the books Hermione had liberated from House Black were intended for entire clans rather than individuals, and the twins didn't actually know where their parents kept the nasty stuff. One text did outline different methods of tracking blood-kin based on the precise degree of relation between source and target, but unfortunately lacked a chapter on sworn enemies that used your friend's stolen blood to cook up a snakey meat-suit. Hermione suspected the snakiness was actually the result of another source of genetic material in addition to the whole 'bones of the father' thing, which led them into a tangent on— well, how much they didn't know about necromancy, really. It seemed there were some subjects she'd avoided while raiding the House Black collection, after all.
Eventually even she slouched back to stare blearily at the texts arrayed before them. Her shoulder pressed against Parvati's, surprisingly warm even through her jumper, and the scent of cocoa butter and old books—
"Right." Parv launched herself up off the loveseat. "Time for a break, I think."
"Hm?" Hermione blinked up at her, irises like pools of honey in the chandelier-light. "No, that's alright— we can table the blood-curse question for now; those books on Maratha warding you mentioned—"
"Will still be here in an hour or two," said Parvati.
"And a break," said Padma, "is the price of us pointing them out."
Hermione hesitated. Gnawed her bottom lip (which was no longer chapped, but full and soft-looking again)—
"Just a brief respite," Parv added. "To move around a bit, refresh your mind…"
"Maybe even come back to it with new perspective…"
Hermione glanced between them and looked down at the books for a moment longer, brows squinched together in wistful frustration. "…can I see the dueling room?"
The twins exchanged the psychic equivalent of an exasperated glance.
Hermione's wand arm was free of the sling and cast —to 'preventing atrophy and retain flexibility', she'd said— but still wrapped bicep to fingertip in potion-infused bandages, clearly stiff, and curled close to her body so as not to bump it on anything. Fragile. That's how it looked.
"…that depends," said Parvati. "On whether or not you mean to fling curses wrong-handed with an ill-suited wand."
The frustration deepened— jaw clenched, shoulders stiff—
Then Hermione deployed the Madam Tonks Eyebrow Raise, complete with a cocky smirk she must have rehearsed just as much, and said:
"Why? Afraid you'll still be no match for me?"
On her own, Parvati might have been able to resist.
Apparently four years in Ravenclaw had only broadened Padma's half of their competitive streak— and really, they both knew Maia wouldn't drop the idea until it proved too risky.
They did at least manage to make her promise not to cast anything particularly complex or explosive— assuming, foolishly, that Hermione intended to practice her left-handed wandwork on unmoving targets.
Thus did Padma nearly catch a stinging jinx with her boob.
"Oi! What—"
"Death Eaters won't wait for us to be ready," said Hermione. "Now hex while I shield."
The twins hesitated.
"Please."
Their first impulse was to tell her she was safe. That the manor predated the Statute, and its magic had been eager enough for a new family to shelter that their wards, though young, were considerably stronger than one might expect, and that very few people even knew snake-speech ran in the family— much less just how many vipers were slithering about the grounds at any given moment.
But Hogwarts had thicker walls, and more powerful wards. Hogwarts had felt safe, right up until it didn't. And Hermione couldn't exactly stay cooped up inside the manor forever.
Who knew what could happen, between then and September? Who knew how far Riddle's influence might reach?
The twins drew their wands in unison. Hermione's was already moving, swirling out a circle of silvery light to catch their first few spells— and then popped like a bubble.
Again they hesitated.
"Well don't stop now."
"Maybe… you should practice on your own first?"
"I have," said Hermione, a frustrated crinkle between her brows. "But you know it's not the same for defensive magic— not without something to defend against."
The twins exchanged an actual, physical glance of worry.
"I can't get better without practice."
"Mrs. Tonks—"
"Is too busy. She barely has time for apparation lessons."
For—? Wait just a—
"Parvati," she pleaded. "I need this."
…bollocks.
Hermione's next shield blocked seven hexes before popping.
"Again."
Six.
"Again."
Four.
"Again!"
"Maia—"
"What?"
"It— just seems like… your focus might be slipping? Maybe we should take a break."
"This is the break."
"Well yes, but—"
"Do you think Death Eaters will wait for me to refocus?" Hermione snapped— and Parvati couldn't help but flinch.
Regret softened Hermione's features— but she didn't rephrase. Didn't apologize. Just kept staring, flushed and frustrated, expecting them to… what, exactly?
Parv took a deep breath. Her parents had told stories about how their friends had reacted to injury and failure, during the war— had warned her that Hermione might behave in confusing ways, might lash out. Parvati felt for her. Wanted to soothe her, even. But she would not be talked down to.
"No," she said. "They won't. But they aren't here yet— and pushing yourself too hard, too quickly, won't help you prepare for them."
"I—"
She held up a finger. "Time turner."
Hermione scowled, straightening up indignantly, opened her mouth to argue, and… sort of drooped, a little.
"Fine," she huffed. "Just— give me a moment."
She then proceeded to pace, eyes closed, breathing very deeply (though particularly peacefully). After a moment she paused and began murmuring in Igbo— something mantra-like, rhythmic and repeating…
"Alright." Another deep breath. Her shoulders eased down. Her wand came up. "Alright."
Her shield endured eight hexes, this time— but Hermione was stiffer than usual behind it, and stumbled when it broke. Her glare forestalled any comments.
"Again," she said. "Please."
Things continued in this vein for some time. Hermione did not lack determination or (as she would put it) channeling capacity— merely practice. Dexterity with the hand she'd never planned to use for spellcasting and the Focus that had been no more than a trophy to her a few weeks prior. Her wand-work was stiff, jerky, and imprecise. Somehow she never actually botched a charm, but every shield was fainter than the last, like the ghost of a soap-bubble wavering in midair with each spell blocked— until one popped just in time for a hex to blur past and strike her bandaged arm.
A sharp cry pierced the air. Parv nearly dropped her wand as Hermione's clattered to the hardwood floor— and, in hindsight, had no idea how she'd crossed the room quickly enough to get an arm around the mad little swot's waist before her knees buckled. It might have been sort of dashing, if she'd actually had the core strength to hold Hermione up. Instead she joined her on the floor, half-beside and half-atop and decidedly curled around her with a faceful of soft, fruity-and-earthy-scented curls...
She might have done something foolish just then, had Hermione not let out a pained hiss and hunched into herself.
"Shite." Parv jerked back— only to still as strong fingers gripped the forearm she still had around Hermione's waist. "Shite I'm sorry— are you—?"
She just shook her head (and curls), held on tighter, and took several deep, shuddering breaths before she grit out: "S'fine."
"It's clearly—"
"My fault."
…what?
"Maia—"
It was less the forearm-squeeze that shut Parv up, this time, and more the act of Hermione tucking her face into the crook of her neck— nose to pulse-point, each shaky breath hot on bare skin—
Parvati felt as if she'd sat in front of a fireplace— just close enough to fill her with blissful discomfort, but not pain.
"Just— give me a moment," Hermione muttered.
Just the one? thought the twins, one somewhat more amused than the other.
"Of course," Parvati managed, and spent that (wonderfully, torturously long) moment staying very very still, acutely aware of her neck. And her hand. And her arm. And her thigh, where it pressed against the firm curve of—
"My wand—" Hermione gasped, lifting her head from Parv's neck… only to slump into her again at the sight of Padma kneeling beside them, said wand carefully in hand.
"Are you—" Parv swallowed, mouth horribly dry. "Let's get you somewhere more comfortable, hm?"
Hermione hesitated for a moment before giving a single stiff nod— and then, of course, proceeded to try and stand without any help. She might've managed it, too, had she not been entangled with Parvati. A few moments of tugging and stumbling ensued.
"Oh—"
"Shite, sorry—"
"No, just—"
"You're both hopeless," said Padma, steading Hermione from the other side— but it was Parvati that Hermione turned to, afterwards. It was Parvati's eyes she looked into from mere inches away, cheeks flushed with color as warm as her magic, full lips parted—
"Thank you."
Parv tore her gaze away, heart horrifically a-flutter. Her hand twitched with the urge to tuck her hair behind her ear.
"For what?" Oh Gods her voice was breathy— "Hexing you?"
"I did ask you to."
"Yes. Well." Parv used the arm she had around Maia's waist to urge her towards the nearest couch, resolutely not looking at her— "Here, come on…"
"Clearly," said Padma, "we should be a bit less indulgent of your whims."
Hermione ducked her head— and when she next spoke, spoke quietly. "I agree."
It was the urge to tuck back Hermione's hair that twitched through Parvati's hands, this time. To hold her close again.
This was hardly a new feeling, of course— but without any schoolwork to distract herself with or separate classes to put distance between, with Hermione in soft, neck-baring, thigh-hugging muggle clothes and no other girls around to watch and gossip and judge—
All summer long.
Circe's teats.
"Well," Padma said with the psychic equivalent of a reassuring hand-squeeze, "at least now we know how careful to be. And we have all summer to practice."
(And huddle up together in the library and braid each other's hair and accidentally brush fingers as they passed magical flames back-and-forth and try and fail not to stare—)
"By the time you head off to l'Académie, you'll be casting shield-charms in your sleep again."
Hermione halted several paces from the couch, staring at the floor. Her brows were pinched together, her shoulders hunched ever-so-slightly forward, her bottom lip pinned under her teeth…
"Maia? What's wrong?"
"I hope you're right," she said. "About the shield-charms, I mean. My... capability, that is. But I—"
Her throat bobbed. Her gaze flicked up to meet Parvati's, brimming with anxiety.
"I won't be attending Lys-des-cendres."
"…what?"
.
.
.:.
The first time Tonks was ambushed by the Scourge of Britannia involved neither curses and mind-games nor a demonstration of muggle weaponry. Granted, her ambusher was not yet known as the Scourge of Britannia (the only person to have spoken the moniker was a seer whose insights had been mistaken for mundane madness, and due to wizarding Britain's dearth of mental health services was ignored by all but a particularly apathetic barkeep), though the proverbial fuse had most certainly been lit.
What the ambush did involve was children. Four of them, to be precise— all incoming first-years, all accompanied by at least one muggle parent, and all very interested in meeting a Hogwarts alumna/wizard policewoman. They also, coincidentally, needed a Tonks to let them into the house and play hostess while its owners were at the office. Something about a nasty inheritance case. The youngest Tonks, knackered from an especially dreary desk-shift, went straight from her apparation point in the entry hall to the front door without bothering to check if anyone else was home. In her defense, the wards (which had been paid for with a heft chunk of Uncle Alphie's gold, woven by some mysterious foreigners, and bolstered by magic Andromeda refused to speak of) were undisturbed.
Halfway through her welcome ramble, Tonks led the way into the sitting room to find Hermione waiting therein— standing in the center of the room, in fact, with no books or notes in sight.
"Hello, Tonks," she said, surveying the future firsties with very little expression.
"Firebug!" Tonks half-turned to face the guests. "You lot are in luck! This is—"
"Hermione Granger. I just finished my fourth year at Hogwarts."
Had Tonks not spent quite so long at a desk that day, she might have heard the utter lack of inflection in that statement for the warning sign it was. Instead her mind skipped right on to introducing everyone— only for one of the sprogs to blurt out:
"What happened to you?"
He was looking at the bandages that wrapped Hermione's wand-arm. She stared at him for a moment, now entirely expressionless, and Tonk's heart took a swift dive into her belly—
"Sorry, I just—" The kid shifted nervously. "Can't magic mend broken bones overnight?"
"It can," said Hermione. "Charred muscles and nerves are a bit trickier, unfortunately. Especially when infected with the residue of a particularly vicious curse."
Shite.
Tonks opened her mouth to interject—
"Who cursed you?"
Shite—
"The Defense professor," said Hermione. "Well, the convicted terrorist masquerading as the Defense professor."
Mum, thought Tonks, is going to kill me.
"I was trying to stop him from murdering my brother, you see, and he didn't like that very much."
Ten heads turned towards Tonks.
"She can tell you all about it, I'm sure. It was her mentor being impersonated, after all." Hermione tilted her head to the side. "How is Auror Moody, by the way?"
Tonks closed her eyes. "A bit twitchy."
"I'm sure. Solitary confinement can have such horrid effects— though I'm sure it's more tolerable without Dementors about. Much like Hogwarts."
"Hermione—"
"Have you told them about Dementors yet?"
Tonks resisted the urge to put her face in her hands. "No."
"Why not? It's a fairly significant detail of your job, wouldn't you say?"
Alright, that was enough. "Only a small fraction of convicts are ever sent to Azkaban."
Hermione smiled, just slightly. It did not reach her eyes.
"If only a conviction was the only way one might find themselves locked up there," she said.
Tonks had lost duels that didn't make her feel so outmaneuvered.
Hermione turned to the firsties— and their parents. "Azkaban is a maximum security prison, you see. Freezing temperatures, medieval cells, soul-sucking demons for prison guards, et cetera."
Tonks felt several of them watching her, probably hoping for denials…
"But it's the range of offenses punishable by time there that's truly interesting," Hermione went on, "in what they reveal about the priorities of British wizarding society. 'Conspiracy to Sabotage the Peace', for example, is what they stamp the conviction form with when someone's been inconveniently loud about the various injustices enabled and encouraged by the Statute of Secrecy."
How did she even know that?
"How," asked Mr. Pearce (father of Ava Pearce, aspiring Gryffindor), "would you advise us to proceed."
Hermione paused, blinking. She'd probably had another few minutes of monologue stored up.
Mr. Pearce crossed his arms. "You clearly don't want us sending the kids to Hogwarts. What would you advise we do instead? The magical education of… 'muggle-borns' is mandated by law. Is there another school you'd recommend?"
"It's less about the school," said Hermione, "and more about the country. Sending your children abroad is a half-measure."
No one had any immediate response to that.
"But I want to go to Hogwarts," said little Ava.
Hermione's lip twitched. Her eyes fixed on the little girl, bright with a gleam Tonks had never seen before— something intent and sad and angry all at once, and more besides—
"So did I," she said— at last with some feeling in her voice. Honesty, sharp as a ritual knife. "The novelty wears off around the third near-death experience. Not to mention all the rich, inbred bigots whose sense of self-worth is directly proportional to how much you feel like shite."
"Yes," said Mr. Pearce, admirably straight-faced. "Theodore did mention them."
"And Dora—" Mrs. Pearce began, "sorry, Tonks has told us about the more recent bullying—"
"Tonks is not a mudblood."
The sheer venom in Hermione's voice silenced the room as effectively as any charm. She breathed deeply, nostrils flaring, brows pinched together as she looked from face to face. Then:
"I can't tell you what to do," she said. "But the fact that McGonagall referred you to the Tonkses suggests you're approaching all this with a modicum of caution, so I'm sure —I hope— you'll endeavor to verify what I've said. First and foremost, verify this: Hogwarts is not a safe place. Its faculty are either disinclined or incapable of adequately protecting its students— and people that want you and your children dead or enslaved, some of whom have considerable influence, will start making changes long before any of you can learn to adequately defend yourselves."
You could have heard a feather fall.
It was only then that the weight of everyone's attention seemed to hit her— her head bowed, her shoulders hunched forward, and whatever fervor had made it so easy for her to look them each in the eye faded like a snuffed candle.
"Here." She cleared her throat, and with a wave of her unbandaged hand brought her book-bag floating across the room. "In case you do choose to attend. Tonks, would you mind…?"
She did not mind. Inside the book-bag was a plastic shopping bag, and inside that were at least a dozen canisters of—
"Hermione," said Tonks.
"Yes?"
"Bear spray?"
"Better too strong than too weak." The backpack dropped half a foot and then floated into Hermione's hands, leaving Tonks holding the shopping bag and its contents. "I'll be in the garage."
And with that she trudged out of the room, leaving the Auror to distribute weaponry and explain— fucking everything. She did her best, which happened to involve a lot of stalling.
When her parents finally got in, what felt like an entire bloody day later, Tonks was tempted to slink off and let them field all the hard, complex questions. She resisted that temptation. She'd become an Auror for a reason, dammit. She'd stayed an Auror for a reason, one of far too few honest, unbigoted red-coats devoted to doing as much good as the system would allow them and fixing the gordian knot of flaws that kept them from doing more. She owed to her Hermione, to her father, to every muggleborn she'd ever met, not to bloody run from a frank discussion of those flaws.
By the time she dragged herself to the garage, the sun was setting.
She pushed open the door just in time to see a dagger flash across the room and bury half its blade in one of the hex-targets mounted on the far wall.
Hermione let out a slow breath. She was cross-legged in one of the armchairs, with a book open in her lap— and both hands occupied holding it. Neither hand moved as the dagger jerked itself out of the bullseye. It'd stuck way off-center, but Tonks got the feeling that wasn't the point. Only once the dagger had floated back across the room and laid itself atop the book did Hermione look up— and when she did, there was defiance in her eyes.
Tonks huffed, trudged over, and flopped into the armchair beside her.
"M'not mad, 'bug." She let her head loll back, and her eyelids droop. "You had the right of it. Wish you'd given me some bloody warning, but I can't fault ya for the message."
"Oh," Hermione said quietly. "Well. Good."
"Mum might not agree, of course."
Tonks could practically feel Hermione stiffen. She smiled despite herself, and let the girl sweat for a bit. Then: "How's the arm?"
A huff. "Stiff. Clumsy. In the way."
"Painful?"
"Only if I bump it on something. Or forget to take the potions on time. Or sleep funny. Or move it too fast."
Tonks suppressed a grimace. What do you say to something like that? I'm sorry? Get well soon?
"Moody," she said instead, "wants to meet you."
"What?"
"To 'see what you're made of,' and maybe give you some pointers. His words. Not sure if it's guilt or gratitude. Or, y'know, both. Impossible to tell with that bloke."
"Of course," Hermione murmured. "All those scars."
Tonks chuckled. "Imma tell him you said that."
Hermione did not audibly react. Tonks opened one eye to find a thoughtful frown on her face.
"What is it?"
She gnawed her lip for a moment before meeting Tonk's gaze. "His— peg leg."
"What about it?"
"Was it… by choice? Surely people have used magic to create less… cumbersome prosthesis."
Tonks had honestly never given it much thought. "Oh, trust me— that thing is way less cumbersome than it looks. He plays it up sometimes to make people underestimate him, y'know. And knowing him, it's probably enchanted six ways to Sunday."
"I don't suppose he'd be willing to talk about those enchantments...?"
Tonks chuckled at the thought. "Not a chance, luv."
They sat in silence for a moment. Then:
"He really wants to meet me?"
"Is that so unbelievable?"
"I mean… doesn't he have Auror recruits to train? Death Eaters to thwart? I can't imagine he's sitting idle now that…"
"Well, no. But he is doing a lot more sitting than he'd like, courtesy of the whole…"
"Mercifully brief stint in solitary?"
…Right.
Sirius' case was much more of an outlier than Hermione seemed to think, but that conversation would be a whole endeavor nonetheless— and Tonks simply didn't have it in her at the moment.
"Yeah," she said. "Also, he's… sort of been barred from the DMLE?"
"…what?"
"I dunno the details— most he'll say about it is… mostly just insults. Word is he stormed into Fudge's office as soon as the healers got through with'im, there was shouting, and next thing y'know there's a Writ of Restriction on Bones' desk, cosigned by some shrink at St. Mungo's."
"You're saying Fudge had him declared mentally unsound to discredit his testimony about Crouch?"
"I'm saying it damn sure seems that way."
"Bloody hell."
Tonks gasped. "Have you brought your swear jar, young lady?"
"Shove off. Better yet, tell me the DMLE isn't completely going along with— whatever Fudge's narrative is."
"Of course not!"
Hermione arched an eyebrow. Tonks couldn't help but cringed, just a bit. As first impressions of the Office went, Proudfoot's ilk were about as unflattering as it got. Bones had been furious.
"Listen," she said. "Moody personally trained almost half the senior Aurors, and plenty of us young'uns too. That bloody writ made us less likely to take Fudge's word on anything. Not that there's any paperwork that could stop us talking about a potential threat to the peace, even if it has to happen in the pub instead of the office. I can't give you hard numbers, but plenty of us believe Dumbledore about— you know."
"Riddle?"
"Wot?"
Hermione stared at her for a moment, then said: "Ask him. Dumbledore, I mean. You have been brought into the Order, haven't you?"
Bloody— was there anything Sirius hadn't told her?
"Not sure what you mean, 'bug." Tonks winked.
Hermione's eyes narrowed. "At least tell me you're doing something about all the muggleborn addresses the Ministry has."
…yet another thing Tonks hadn't given much thought to.
"I see where you're coming from," she replied. "I also know those records are one part of the Ministry that's not a sieve."
"Really," said Hermione, in a manner she'd definitely learned from Tonks' mum— "Forgive my ignorance, Miss Auror, but it seems to me there might be a slight distinction between 'not a sieve' and unquestionably secure."
…alright, fair.
"First off," said Tonks, "compartmentalization. I wouldn't be surprised to find out Dumbledore's already got someone working on that, and kept me out of the loop due to relative inexperience. But I can— no. I will bring it up at the next— as soon as I can."
Hermione peered at her a moment longer, then slouched back into her armchair with a weary sigh.
"Thank you."
She closed her eyes for a moment, and Tonks used that moment to really look at her for the first time that day. She'd gotten a lot of her color back since Pomfrey'd let her out, but still seemed oddly pale, as if the curse had leeched away the warm undertones from her skin and she was only just now getting them back. Then there were the bags under her eyes, worse than Tonks had ever seen them— even in the weeks after her de-petrification, when she'd been so ill-at-ease in her own skin.
It was, Tonks realized, the sort of weariness she'd only seen from fellow Aurors who'd been working on the same shitty, soul-crushing case for months on end.
She knew McGonagall didn't check in on her Gryffs like Sprout did her 'Puffs. Hardly had time for it, being Deputy Head and all. But still. After the year Hermione'd had, you'd think she'd welcome an ironclad excuse to loaf around a bit. Any other kid her age would've seized those doctors orders with both hands.
Any other kid her age wouldn't've gotten those orders in the first place.
Tonks sighed. Having messed around with a Ravenclaw or two and made herself a lovable nuisance to quite a few more, she knew that being told to relax was the opposite of helpful to kids who saw life as an ongoing exam. They couldn't simply take the chill pill. No— they had to be persuaded.
"Did you know," said Tonks, "that proper rest is even more important for magical healing than the mundane sort?"
Hermione opened her eyes to stare, for a moment, brows pinching together. Then a look of profound annoyance contorted her face.
"I suppose this is yet another thing the magic-raised think of as obvious, and thus don't think to mention to poor ignorant mud—"
"Yeah."
Hermione huffed, head lolling back, eyes fixed on the target she'd mauled. "I've not been very good at relaxing, recently."
"Can't fault you for that," said Tonks— and then, struck with impish inspiration: "But I can help."
"Oh?"
She hit the door with a locking charm, reached into her jacket pocket, and paused as as seven years of mischief and four years of Auror work had a slappy, scratchy cat-fight in her brain.
Ugh.
"Firebug," she said—
"Nymphadora."
"—how old are you now?"
Hermione— hesitated?
"Sixteen."
Tonks' eyes narrowed. "…hold on."
"What?" Hermione attempted to look innocent. She was not a particularly skilled actress on a good day.
"I saw that, little miss photographic memory."
"It's really not quite that—"
"You stopped to think," Tonks pressed. "You never stop to think about simple facts. Which begs the question—"
"Dora—"
"—what have you been up to t'make your age something other than a simple fact?"
Hermione stared for a moment, then slumped a little further into her armchair and averted her eyes. "I… may or may not have… somewhat overused a Time-Turner I was quite legally issued for scholastic purposes."
Tonks… took a minute to sort through the abundance of questions she suddenly had, and eventually settled on: "How much over-use are we talking about here?"
Hermione attempted to make herself look smaller. "…about six months?"
"Circe's teats."
"It gave me unlimited library access!"
"Maia."
"And I had to use it to get extra sleep as well, so—"
"Was no one supervising— nope, never mind. Course they bloody weren't."
"It is rather concerning, in hindsight…"
"Six months?"
"Approximately. Yes."
Bloody hell.
"Clearly," said Tonks, "I have vastly underestimated your pressing need to chill the fuck out."
"Language."
Tonks blew a raspberry.
"Fine," Hermione huffed. "How do you propose I chill, oh wise detective?"
To which the only proper answer, of course, was to reach into her jacket pocket and pull out a joint.
For a few seconds, Hermione stared blankly at it. Then her eyes widened, and she actually, physically recoiled.
"…what is that."
"Looks like you know what it is."
"I know what it looks like—"
"Do you now—"
"—but for all I know it could be full of— I don't know, pixie dust or something!"
Tonks wrinkled her nose, but chose to enlighten her on the folly of smoking pixie dust at a later date.
"Well, it's not. Just plain old devil's lettuce, I'm afraid."
"I'm not familiar with that—"
"Weed, Maia. Grass. Skunk. Mary Ja—"
"Yes, I understand, thank you." Hermione peered at the joint with narrowed eyes, as if trying to suss out its secrets by sheer force of curiosity. "Why does an Auror have marijuana—"
Oh, the prim way she said it was adorable—
"—in her pocket?"
"Why do you assume," Tonks countered, "that the MLE would care about a mundane herb? We've got nasty magical shite to keep off the streets."
"…hm."
"Hm?"
"What about your parents?"
"If my parents had the energy or inclination to check in on me when they got back from a full day of lawyering, the aftermath of your little ambush took care of that. They won't be bothering us anytime soon."
"Right, but—"
"Also," Tonks said pointedly, "dad introduced mum to the muggle world in the sixties. He'd probably be relieved t'see you stoned, honestly."
"…really."
"Really truly."
Hermione spent another moment staring at her, then said: "Alright."
"What, really?" She'd expected that to take way more convincing.
"The sort of person my parents think— weed turns you into—"
Wait, weren't they Bob Marley fans?
"—wouldn't get singled out for mentorship by a man like Alastor Moody— much less finish a mentorship with him."
"You sweet-talker, you."
Hermione frowned slightly, then say up straight, took a deep breath in, and breathed a puff of blue fire into her hand. It shrank to the size of a candle-flame, fluttering above her palm as she held it out across the gap between armchairs. "Here."
"Wicked," said Tonks.
Hermione's shy little smile was well worth a few hours of awkward conversation. Tonks realized, as she took her first slow drag, that she wasn't actually sure when she'd last seen that smile. Hermione watched her technique like it was unfamiliar wandwork— and as Tonks passed the joint, the smile faded into a look of intense focus.
"Any tips?"
"Uh…" She summoned a mug off the side-table, and condensed water out of the air with a complex swirl of her wand. "Breathe in deep, but slowly? And be ready to cough."
As Hermione was coughing, and subsequently sipping, Tonks slouched over to the record player. The kid's music taste was surprisingly groovy for such an exceptional swot, but it could certainly be broadened. The question was in which direction…
"Bloody hell," Hermione gasped, then coughed some more. "You do this for fun?"
"Wait for it," said Tonks, sliding a vinyl from its well-loved cover.
"How will I know it's…" She trailed off. "Oh."
"Oh?"
No response. Tonks glanced back, and barely stifled her giggles at the sight of Hermione staring off into thin air with a profoundly perplexed expression on her face. A moment later she blinked, startled, as the first chords of Tonks' favorite song rang through the garage— and didn't seem to notice as her hands and feet began to tap.
Tonks hopped and shimmied her way back across the floor. When the vocals came in, she sang along:
"Got your mother in a whirl
She's not sure if you're a boy or a girl
Hey babe, your hair's alright—"
She reached out and gently tugged on a loose curl, prompting an adorably disgruntled face—
"Hey babe, let's go out tonight~"
"This is—" Hermione blinked repeatedly, eyes wide. "How does it do this?"
Tonks flopped back into her armchair, grinning. "Research later! Listen now."
"But—"
"Shhh! The chorus—!"
"Oh." Aww, she was getting blushy— "Sorry, I—"
"Rebel rebel, you've torn your dress!" Tonks lurched upright again, and took Hermione's uninjured hand. "Rebel rebel, your face is a mess!"
"Now hold on—" Hermione sputtered— but did not actually resist being pulled to her feet.
"Rebel rebel, how could they know?" Tonks belted out. "Hot tramp, I love you so!"
The look of offense on her face at that was just too bloody earnest. Tonks lost the fight against her giggles— and, a moment later, Hermione followed suit.
By the time the last verse rolled 'round, they were both shouting along.
"Rebel rebel, you've torn your dress
Rebel rebel, your face is a mess
Rebel rebel, how could they know?
Hot tramp, I love you so!"
.
.
.:.
Harry was huddled in a secluded corner of Little Whinging's bleak excuse for a park, just out of sight of any passing lummoxes, when he caught the faint sounds of a hushed argument. His first impulse was to shrink further into the shade— yet for some reason he found himself creeping forward, ears straining…
"—far more responsible than this."
Wait. He knew that voice—
"—not here for your approval."
—but not as well as he knew that one!
Harry leapt to his feet, and was on the verge of running out when a pang of caution ran through him.
"—oing to force me to leave, then—"
He peeked out from behind the tree just in time to see Professor Lupin —Remus— cross his arms and say: "I should."
"Or," said Hermione, practically radiating defiance, "let me provide the first friendly human interaction he's had this month?"
Remus had no good response to that, and looked rather frustrated about it. Hermione, of course, pressed her advantage.
"Were you sent here to protect him, or to isolate him?"
Remus ran a hand over his scarred, weary face. "The more people know where he is, the greater the risk of—"
"I've known where he lives since before you returned from your self-imposed exile, Professor."
He stiffened.
"If anything, he's safer the closer I am to whatever miracle-wards Dumbledore wants us to have blind faith in."
"Yes, well, his safety would most certainly not be helped by knowledge of those wards making the—"
"How well did isolation work for you after your friends died?"
Remus actually flinched at that, staring at Hermione in what Harry assumed was the same shock he was feeling— but none, it seemed, of the anger. He wasn't sure if he was angry at Hermione for poking that particular sore spot or at Remus for apparently lurking around this whole bloody time without so much as a hello— no, never mind, it was both. Definitely both.
That didn't make him want to see how much uglier this might get.
"Maia!" He called, jogging out of his hiding place.
Her grin was the brightest thing he'd seen in weeks. Even with one arm out of commission, she gave the best hugs.
(It wasn't just physical; there was a sense of warmth to them as well, magical or otherwise.)
But one arm was out of commission— not trapped in a cast and sling anymore, but all wrapped up in bandages and held stiffly at her side.
In that moment it didn't matter that neither Ginny nor Padma nor Hermione herself blamed him for what happened. If he'd just been a little bit smarter, a little bit faster, if he'd just kept his bloody head on straight…
Hermione squeezed his hand with the hand that could still squeeze. By the look in her eye, he suspected she knew what he was thinking— and disapproved.
"Harry." Remus's smile was strained. Tired. "It's good to see you."
Is it? Harry couldn't help but wonder.
"You too," he said— and it wasn't a lie. He was just feeling too odd a combination of things just then for his voice to not come out a little weird.
"Right, then." Remus stepped back, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I'll— watch the perimeter. Don't be too long."
"We won't," Hermione replied without sparing him another glance. All her focus was on Harry, sizing him up just like she had when Ginny dragged him to the Hospital Wing. Harry resisted the urge to fidget. She already had some idea of who shite his summer'd been thus far from their phone calls— but face-to-face, there was no way for him to hide. And he wasn't sure what to expect (it wasn't as if she'd told him she was coming), but it definitely wasn't:
"How did Crouch die?"
Harry stared at her for a moment, his usual list of denials about Durzkaban abruptly useless. "What?"
"Crouch Junior. The Imposter. How did he die?"
Oh.
It… wasn't exactly a difficult question. It wasn't like he'd forget that moment anytime soon. Especially not with it showing up in his dreams.
"He…" Harry swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. "Well, it wasn't like that… flame-thrower thing you did."
Hermione frowned— but it was thoughtful, not disapproving. "Go on."
"Well, first you started glowing."
"What?"
"Like, under your skin." Harry squinted at the ground, trying to be sure he wasn't forgetting anything. "Then the fire sort of… wafted up off you?"
"Wafted."
"Yeah. Kind of like steam? Until it went at'im, at least— then it was more, y'know. Fiery."
"'Went at him'?"
"Yeah?" Harry shrugged. "Flowed, I guess, and swallowed him up. Then he was just suddenly on fire. Really brightly, too— hurt to look at."
Hermione looked… he wasn't sure, actually. Confused? Guilty? Queasy?
"It happened really fast," Harry added. "He barely had time to scream."
Hermione wrinkled her nose. She said nothing, staring at nothing in particular.
"...Maia?"
She blinked, and seemed to come back to herself. "Hm?"
"Are you…" He faltered. What the hell were you supposed to say at a time like this? "How d'you feel? About that?"
She bit her lip. Glanced at him, and away again, in the direction Remus had slunk off. Let out a tired huff of a breath. "I don't know, Harry. It doesn't feel real to me, I suppose. Doesn't feel like something I did, at least."
"Right." That made sense. He barely remembered half of what'd happened in the Graveyard— whole stretches of it were just a blur. "S'not like you actually saw it happen, I guess."
"But," said Hermione, "I'm not exactly put out that he's dead."
…hm.
On the one hand, that sounded… wrong-ish.
On the other, he completely agreed.
With anyone else, he probably wouldn't have admitted it— but this wasn't anybody else. He could almost feel the line on his palm where the ritual knife had passed, and they'd squished their blood together.
He glanced around; Remus was nowhere in sight, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. He cleared his throat— and when he spoke, spoke softly:
"Neither am I. Sorry that he's... you know."
Finally, her expression shifted into something he recognized. Relief.
"Does that make us…" He trailed off.
"Make us what?" She asked watching him very closely.
"I dunno." He shifted his weight from foot to foot. Ducked his head. Shrugged. "Evil?"
It took her a moment to reply to that— a moment where his heart beat faster, his stomach churned, and his hands started to feel clammy—
"Was your mum evil?"
"…what?"
"For killing people," Hermione said, as easily as if they were talking about— bloody Transfiguration or something— "Sirius claims to have seen her do so on multiple occasions, during the War. Andromeda hasn't, but claims she was fully capable of it— and certainly inclined to be quite fierce in defense of her friends. She put a few junior Death Eaters in the Hospital Wing, you know."
He hadn't known.
Why had nobody told him that?
"Sirius has killed people as well."
"But…" he trailed off, at a loss. Dumbledore—
"Death Eaters, Harry. Fascists." Hermione gripped his arm, leaning closer, a fire in her eyes. "Murderers, torturers, and— worse. People the Ministry can't be trusted to imprison— or keep imprisoned. We've learned that firsthand."
Right. Crouch. Malfoy. Snape.
"Is it evil to stop people like that for good? Before they can hurt anyone else? To spare everyone they might've gone on to victimize?"
Well, when she put it like that…
"No," Harry murmured. "I guess not."
She stared into his eyes for a few seconds longer, then gave a single, sharp nod. "Good. I don't want to hear about you tossing stunners at Death Eaters, when the time comes."
And just like that, his heart sank into his belly.
Hear about, she'd said. Not see.
"When—" He swallowed. Cleared his throat. "When are you leaving?"
Again, she hesitated. Then: "August eleventh. Fleur's parents have referred me to some French healers who might have useful perspectives on my— condition. Without charging an arm and a leg, like St. Mungo's."
"Right," Harry managed. "Makes sense."
Which was nonsense, because he knew absolutely nothing about magical France, but—
"From there," said Hermione, "we'll be flying to Lagos."
"…where?"
"The capital of Nigeria." She was watching him nervously, which was making him nervous.
"Oh. Visiting family?"
"Briefly, yes. My paternal grandparents and cousins." Hermione hesitated again, throat bobbing— "And, after that, I'll take a portkey to the Rwenzori Mountains. Which run along the border between Uganda and the DPRC."
…hold on, wasn't that where—
"I've transferred to Mjiwazamani," she blurted.
Harry… froze. His mind went blank.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner!" Hermione gripped his hand, gaze darting from his right eye to his left and back several times in a second. "It just didn't seem like the sort of thing you announce over the phone— not when I could tell you in person, but I had to convince my parents and the Patils to let me out of the manor— which really meant convincing Tonks to escort me here, she's around here somewhere—"
—Here she paused for breath—
"And then I looked at a map and realized how far away it really is, even with magic, and that caused some second thoughts, so I spent a few days trying to convince my parents to let me stay here— which obviously didn't work, they can't exactly take a vacation knowing I'm in a country with a terrorist problem—"
—Another breath—
"So they insisted. And it does sound like a wonderful school— a safe school, but…" Hermione seemed to forcibly halt the next part of her ramble; she closed her eyes, straightened up a bit, and when she looked at him again, did so with the same determination she'd had right after the Cup spat his name out, when she was so sure she could keep everyone safe if she just planned and prepared well enough—
"I am not abandoning you, Harry."
He sort of snapped back into himself, at that— and was suddenly, jarringly, aware of the bleak, hopeless sort of panic that must've been welling up in him all the while.
"You—" his voice cracked. "You're not?"
"No." She gripped his hand tighter, and started reached out with her bandaged one before thinking better of it. "Never, Harry. I swear. I just— I can't learn everything I need to learn, here. At Hogwarts and in Britain. People just won't— won't bloody let me be for long enough, won't let me study what I need to study..."
"But they will? At…"
"Mjiwazamani, yes. I have it on… very good authority. But I won't be there forever— and I will keep in touch. Think of it as… as me researching our problems in a different library."
And even as confused as he felt, Harry couldn't help but crack a smile at that. "Well, why didn't you say so?"
Hermione huffed in a mildly relieved sort of way. Then she gave his hand another squeeze, and let go to rummage through her backpack. Harry half-expected her to pull out some muggle self-defense contraption, like she'd mentioned giving to the Tonkses' other mentees— but what she handed him was a journal. A nice journal, too, bound with sturdy wine-colored leather.
"It's protean-charmed," she said. "Like I thought Riddle's diary was. Whatever you write in it will appear in a journal I have, and in the one I've given to the Patils. And vice versa, obviously. It's also spelled to display gibberish to everyone but its owner— who you won't technically, magically be until you've shed three drops of blood into it."
He wondered what it said about him, that his only thought was of which knife he'd sneak from the Dursley's kitchen.
"That's brilliant, Hermione."
She shrugged. "I just hope it works across intercontinental distances. There's the magical properties of seawater to consider, not to mention the curvature of the earth and the sheer quantity of ambient magic— but if I'm sure someone's come up with a workaround, if necessary."
"I'm sure you'll be able to find one," said Harry. "If necessary."
She seemed to relax a bit, upon hearing that, though she was still sort of searching his face for…
"You're not angry?" She asked.
Harry considered that for a moment. He wasn't the best at understanding his emotions, but you couldn't hang out with Padma Patil for very long without learning a bit about mindfulness.
"No," he concluded.
"…really?"
"Hard to be angry with someone for doing what I would, if I could."
Hermione paused, at that— and the shininess in her eyes spilled over as tears. "Oh, Harry."
Then he was being hugged again— with two arms, this time, though one was much weaker than the other, and trembling a little bit. Harry swallowed down the pang of guilt that threatened to choke him, and hugged back as hard as he could without making things even worse.
.
.
.:.
Tonks did not like Grimmauld place. The feeling, somehow, seemed to be mutual. Buildings developing some semblance of awareness was far from unheard of, but it was always the really big, ancient ones people talked about, like castles and manors (Moody had a horror story or two about having to fight Death Eaters and their houses at the same time.) But Grimmauld was a townhouse.
A very gloomy, claustrophobic, sinister townhouse, built and inhabited by generations of people who probably would've tried to kill her in the cradle.
(It was anyone's guess, whether her dad's heritage would've outweighed her metamorphism in the eyes of those last few generations— and now they were all too dead or incarcerated to pop over for tea about it.)
It didn't help that no one else seemed quite as affected. There was Sirius, of course, slouched impressively low in his chair between Lupin and Vance, but his general air of being one bad surprise from a furry freakout probably had more to do with his stint in Dementor-town than anything else. And maybe a little bit his proximity to Lupin— or was it Lupin's proximity to him? Either way, those two had some stuff to work through.
"On a lighter note," said Dumbledore, wrapping up his weekly report on Fudge's smear campaign, "it seems the timing of Voldemort's—"
—twitches all around—
"—return may have sabotaged the veil of falsehoods that would conceal his preparations."
With that he slid a newspaper onto the table— not the Prophet or Herald, but…
"Les Voix?" Read Moody. "Been keeping up with the communalists, Albus?"
"I've found it pays to be aware of events abroad," said Dumbledore. "For those of you who do not know, this particular publication is sold all across the Continent— which I suspect the instigator of this article is well aware of."
"Well, go on," Diggle croaked from down the table. "What's it say?"
Kingsley, whose ability to project was the envy of the Auror Corps, leaned forward to read aloud:
"Behind the Triwizard Travesty: Krum & Delacour Allege Deadly Negligence, Cover-Up by British MoM."
"In addition to their detailed accounts of the final task," said Dumbledore, "they've also relayed the testimonies of some anonymous friends they made while at Hogwarts— which do appear to poke holes in the underpinnings of Cornelius' narrative."
Sirius made a noise that was somewhere between a chuckle and a snicker.
"Something to add, my boy?"
"Oh no, don't mind me."
Dumbledore regarded him inscrutably for a beat before continuing: "Whether the revelations of this article will lead to meaningful aid from abroad remains to be seen."
"Delacour's got an uncle or two in the French Ministry, doesn't she?" Asked Moody. "Not to mention all the aspiring Gendarmes she's graduating with. Never underestimate a Veela with a cause."
"Or a clan of them with a grudge," said Dumbledore. "It is worth noting that the I.C.W. can be rather sluggish when it comes to taking action our Wizengamot doesn't favor. And far too many members of the Wizengamot are rather sympathetic to what they imagine Voldemort's—"
—more flinches—
"—goals to be."
The next few minutes were mostly disgruntled muttering about the current state of affairs, devoid of any actual planning. It might've gone on like that for quite a bit longer if there hadn't been a faint sort of shift in the ambient magic— like a change in air pressure, or a blare of music muffled through several walls. Across the table, Sirius lurched in his seat— and Dumbledore sat up noticeably enough that several people shut up to watch him. He exchanged a glance with Moody (unreadable as usual) before turning his twinkly eyes on Sirius, who was trying and failing to stifle a mischievous smirk.
Then every lamp in the room flared brighter— and some deep, vital part of Grimmauld's structure let out a deep, rumbling groan.
Every Auror present was on their feet in a heartbeat, including Tonks— who, for some reason, felt compelled to say: "Hold on—"
Moody hushed her, and thusly hushed, she heard it: quiet footsteps in the corridor, getting closer.
Given that none of the alarm-charms they'd cast on the entry hall had pinged, this was a bit alarming.
"The Fidelius," Kingsley said softly, "who else knows—"
"No one outside this room," said Dumbledore.
For a moment, no one moved. Then there was a great deal of very hurried shuffling, and a number of wands were aimed at the door.
Wrong, Tonks thought, and didn't know why, this is wrong make them stop make them stop
The footsteps came to a halt. The knob squeaked as it turned. Moody's stunner flashed towards the gap of the opening door— only to swerve into the knob, and fade harmlessly into the metal.
In the split second between that little surprise and the barrage of spells that followed, Tonks recognized the poofy hair of the figure in the doorway.
"Hold your fire!" She shouted— but it was too late.
Stunners and body-binds and shock-hexes strobed through the doorway, right into a shield of moonlight that barely even rippled under the onslaught. As everyone paused to strategize, Tonks heard the house groan again— and in the eerie light of Grimmauld's gas-lamps, she saw the exact instant that Hermione spotted Moody. She saw the girl's eyes widen, saw her wand slash through the air—
—a snarl of conjured ropes burst into flame inches from her legs, a chair gave way and sent Arthur toppling into Vance's legs which sent her into the wall—
—Hermione's curse bounced off Moody's shield and struck someone's mug, sending shards of ceramic in every direction—
Tonks vaulted the table just as Padfoot surged up from underneath it and became Sirius again, putting both cousins —and their shield-charms— between Auror and schoolgirl.
"Real Moody!" Tonks shouted. "Real Moody!"
Hermione paused half-way through what Tonks bloody well hoped wasn't the wind-up for a cleaving curse. The room was packed.
Her eyes jumped from Moody to Tonks, Tonks to Sirius, Sirius to Molly...
"Ah." She lowered her wand, looking for all the world like someone had just announced her crush in the Great Hall or something. "I apologize for the interruption. Excuse me for a moment."
Then she stepped back out into the hall.
For a moment, all was still again (save for Vance helping Arthur off the floor).
Then all eyes turned to Tonks and Sirius— who, with a shit-eating grin and fucking jazz-hands, crowed: "Surprise!"
Remus leaned forward to gently faceplant on the table.
"You," said Hermione, stepping back inside, "are an arsehole, Sirius Black."
She ignored his snickering to survey the room, ignoring the several wands still pointed at her— then suddenly winced, bandaged hand flying to her temple as she swayed and stumbled, face contorting in pained confusion. Tonks rushed to her side, but she'd already braced herself against the doorway.
"Sirius," said Dumbledore, calm as ever, "would you care to explain this to the class?"
Sirius snapped out of his half-stifled hysterics with eerie suddenness, and stared blankly at the Headmaster for a few seconds before blinking and looking at Hermione. "I don't…"
"She's been here before," said Tonks. "Hasn't she?"
"Oh, yeah!" Sirius grinned— and then frowned, perplexed. "But I didn't… she only knew I had guests, not that…"
Dumbledore peered over his glasses at Hermione for a moment, then said: "Miss Granger. The Order of the Phoenix meets at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place."
Her apparent migraine seemed to vanish in a heartbeat; she stumbled, startled by sudden lucidity, and took in the room as if seeing it anew.
"Oh," she murmured. "Oh, that's fascinating— partial remembrance despite…"
"Miss Granger."
Hermione straightened up like she'd been caught chatting in class. "Headmaster. Auror Moody. I apologize for mistaking you for your captor. And for allowing the house to influence me so strongly."
What?
"I'm not sure what you did to make it so displeased with you, and there's… probably nothing to be done about the hunger —at least not in the short term— but still." She cast a sweeping glance at the walls and ceiling. "I suggest you do something to… pay your respects. Try feeding it a goat or something."
"I will take that under advisement," said Dumbledore.
"Miss Granger, is it?" Kingsley straightened his robes. "Would you care to explain how exactly you waltzed in here?"
Hermione gave him a curious once-over before looking to Tonks, for some reason—
"She's a Black," Moody growled.
A hush fell over the room— half tense, half just bloody confused.
"What in Merlin's name are you on about?" Molly demanded. "Hermione, dear—"
"Deny it," said Moody, still glowering at the girl.
Hermione stared back for a few seconds— trying to spot differences between him and the impostor, maybe. Then her lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smirk, and she whispered: "Nox."
Every light in the room went out at once.
Several people yelped. Someone knocked over a mug. Sirius barked out a loud laugh before subsiding into raspy chuckles.
After a long, dark moment, the lamps flared back to life— each one full of blue flame.
"I feel I should advise you," Hermione spoke into the gloom, "to hold your meetings in a house that has less in common with an Acromantulae nest."
"Why thank you, dear girl." The Headmaster steepled his fingers. "Would you care to elaborate?"
"I don't know. Would you care to explain what you're doing to protect muggleborns?"
"Perhaps," said Dumbledore, "if I were more confident in your ability to keep secrets from unscrupulous individuals of potent motivation."
Hermione considered this, then asked: "Do you think they'll come after me in the next three weeks?"
The Headmaster paused briefly before replying: "I do not. But it would not be the first time I have been wrong concerning how such people think."
"If I did disappear," she mused, "would you use it to counter Fudge's narrative?"
Dumbledore didn't reply to that— just peered at her, inscrutable.
"I've been in the papers," said Hermione. "People know… well. They know of me, courtesy of Skeeter."
Tonks was not the only one who winced at that.
"If I were the enemy, I wouldn't gamble the grace period provided by public ignorance by going after a close friend of the Boy-Who-Lived. Not so soon, at least— and I'll be far beyond Riddle's reach, soon enough."
"Who?" Someone asked.
Hermione blinked several times, then leveled a very unimpressed look at Dumbledore. "Really?"
"Miss Granger—"
"Tom Marvolo Riddle?" She cast a glance at their audience. "Revenant terrorist cult leader? Half-blood pureblood supremacist? Fond of snakes and war crimes? I sincerely doubt he'll bother sending his servants all the way to central bloody Africa to find one crippled mudblood— much less launch the sort of assault required to breach Chez Patil in the next three weeks."
"Wait," said Sirius, "what?"
Hermione looked rather abashed, all of a sudden— but glanced at him only briefly before fixing her glare on Dumbledore again.
"Most muggleborns don't have the luxury of a standing invitation to well-warded manors. They live in wooden houses with no magical protections or floo access, and the Ministry has their addresses. Perhaps I'm simply uninformed. Perhaps my experience of the Ministry's diligence and integrity is a statistical outlier. Or perhaps those addresses are very close to finding themselves in the wrong hands."
"A compelling point," said Dumbledore, "which Auror Tonks has already brought to our attention."
"And?"
"And," Kingsley interjected, not unkindly, "Fudge's smear campaign has put the Headmaster and his known associates under far too much scrutiny to pull off the sort of heist you seem to be suggesting."
"Known associates," said Hermione. "Are you telling me that four Aurors and a man who's overseen the education of half the mages in Britain don't know anyone capable of a bit of subterfuge?"
"Miss Granger—"
"Tonks can look like literally anyone!"
"A talent of which the entire Department is well aware," Kingsley replied. "Including certain individuals who would be all too eager to see her sidelined or ousted."
"Right." Hermione scowled. "Pureblood shite. I suppose she's also under scrutiny for being Moody's latest protégé."
Moody shot Tonks a very Loose lips sink ships sort of glare.
"How much use," said Hermione, "is a highly scrutinized junior Auror to the Order's plans?"
"What?" Said Tonks. "Hit the brakes, firebug— what—"
"—are you getting at?" Moody growled.
Hermione crossed her arms (one more carefully than the other) and looked from one to the other.
"Espionage," she said. "Every Auror here has agreed to engage in espionage, potentially against Ministry protocols, for the sake of opposing blood purism. Correct?"
Silence.
"It seems to me that being watched for the slightest sign of any suspicious or dissident behavior rather defeats the purpose."
It wasn't anything Tonks hadn't thought herself— which just made it that much more irritating to have blurted out in front of everyone.
"They can't watch me twenty-four seven," she said. "And I didn't become an Auror with— all this in mind."
"Why did you?" Asked Hermione, suddenly very intent.
"To make the wizarding world a better place."
"And have you?"
Tonks crossed her arms and met that piercing stare head-on. "Bit by bit, yeah."
"And you've never done anything… counterproductive to that goal?"
"Excuse me?"
"When you're ordered to evict a werewolf from their home because they couldn't make rent," said Hermione, "what will you do?"
Tonks had never felt a stare quite as keenly as she felt Lupin's, just then.
"What happens when you're ordered to interrogate an innocent muggleborn for the crime of bruising the wrong pureblood's pride? Will you refuse, and risk your job? Risk all the information you could slip to the Order? What if—"
"I get it," said Tonks.
"I didn't ask if you got it. I asked if—"
"Miss Granger," said Dumbledore. "We appreciate your concerns. And while I certainly hope you are correct about the likelihood of you encountering the enemy prior to your departure, it remains a hope— not a certainty. Not something on which we can afford to risk the security of any plans we may or may not have."
She stared him down. It was no small thing, to stare down Albus Dumbledore. Almost distracted Tonks from the house groaning again.
"Are you going to Obliviate me, then?"
Dumbledore stared right back for a moment before replying: "I do not think that would be a good idea at the moment."
Tonks could practically sense Moody putting his wand away.
"Probably not," Hermione agreed. "I'd be curious to see you try, though. Mind-magic versus family magic."
Dumbledore nodded. "It could be quite informative."
"It could."
She let her arms fall to her sides and looked around the room again, from face to face, pausing on Tonks, Sirius, Lupin, the Weasleys…
"I sincerely hope," she said, "that you spare more effort for other mudbloods than you did for this one."
Then she turned and left, footsteps quickly fading into the gloom of Grimmauld. The room felt eerily empty without her.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then everyone did at once.
They did manage to get the meeting back on track after a few fraught, frustrating minutes. They discussed everything they'd planned to discuss, and a few things they hadn't. But no one managed to speak with much conviction.
.
.
.:.
Parvati set down her book the instant she heard the front doors creak open— but forced herself to wait a moment before rising. To sit still, and let the familiar sound of Hermione's footsteps soothe her nerves. It wouldn't do to seem over-eager— not after how careless she'd been with her glances, of late. Not after stumbling over her words like some boorish boy at the mere sight of Maia in that bathrobe.
Twice.
(Padma's exasperation was palpable from three floors away.)
Only at the sound of muffled curse did she finally let herself stand and head for the entry hall. Hermione was hunched over, attempting to wrestle her coat off without jostling her wand-arm too much— but otherwise fine. Unharmed. Safe.
"You're back early." It wasn't easy to keep her voice casual despite the wave of relief washing over her, but Parv did it. Only afterwards did she realize it might've been visible in her aura. "Padfoot alright?"
Hermione shrugged, preoccupied with her coat. "Same as ever, I suppose. Maybe."
"Maybe?" Parv padded over to her side, and began carefully easing the right sleeve down her wand-arm.
"He had some… unexpected guests." Her voice was a bit hoarse. "I didn't stay long enough to tell if they were a comfort or an irritant to him."
An irritant? After twelve years with no company except Dementors and Death Eaters?
"What, did Dumbledore pop over for tea?"
Hermione didn't reply to that— seemed tense about it, in fact, which was an answer in and of itself. She glanced back with an apologetic sort of look. It wasn't hard to narrow down the list of other potential guests, given what Maia had relayed of Sirius' ramblings about the war.
With a final, gentle tug, the coat slipped off.
"Thank you," Hermione murmured, rolling her shoulders. When she relaxed, it was into a weary slouch. Several soft little corkscrew curls had escaped from her afro puff, wreathed in frizz that hadn't been there two hours prior. The sort of frizz, in fact, that so often seemed to accompany Hermione's passion boiling over into accidental magic. If she'd popped over to Sirius' expected an afternoon of calm research only to run into the man whose neglect had gotten her maimed…
Parv sort of wished she'd been there to see the fireworks. And to provide moral support. Obviously.
Hermione lowered herself into a nearby settee, carefully curling her bandaged arm out of the way as she bent forward to reach for her shoelaces one-handed.
"Oh, don't—" Parvati knelt without forethought, gently nudging that hand aside. "Let me."
"You don't have to…"
"No," she said "but neither do you."
Not while I'm around.
Hermione sat back and let her work without further comment. Whether it was an awkward silence or just an exhausted one, Parvati couldn't tell— and didn't particularly care. Maia had gotten marginally better at letting people look after her, but it was still very much a work in progress. Kneeling on hardwood was a negligible price to pay for more progress, in that regard.
Only as she slid the first boot off did she realize how it looked. A number of scenes from a number of romance novels flashed through her mind in quick and mortifying succession— which had the unfortunate effect of causing her to freeze, acutely aware of her closeness to Hermione's legs.
Her heartbeat seemed very loud, in the silence.
"Parv?"
Like the gormless, smitten fool that she was, Parvati looked up. While still very much kneeling at Hermione's feet, holding her boot like a glass slipper, and feeling very much the opposite of charming.
The princess in this scenario gazed down in all her tired, poofy-haired glory, eyes wide and worried and unhelpfully gorgeous— "Is something wrong?"
"What?" Parv quickly set the boot aside and ducked her head to attend to the next one. "N-no, of course not, I was— lost in thought, is all."
Shite.
"Care to share with the class, Miss Patil?"
Someday soon, Parvati was going to sit down somewhere very secluded and meditate on why Maia's Junior Professor Voice caused that horrible, wonderful little flutter in places she was not going to think about right now.
"I, ah." She began tugging the other boot off, carefully keeping her fingers from from Hermione's ankle— "It's nothing important, just— a book I'm reading."
She could practically feel Hermione perk up.
"A novel." She placed the second boot beside its mate, and stepped back as she stood. "N-not a particularly good one."
"Oh." Hermione frowned, that adorable little crinkle between her brows. "Why go on reading it, then?"
For a moment, Parv was very temped to tell the truth.
To distract myself from your absence, she would say, her gaze unwavering, beseeching— From thoughts of what could befall you out there.
If Hermione said something like that to her, after all, she wouldn't set foot outside the manor again unless forced to. But there was the rub— Maia wasn't popping out for social calls or walks in the park. Even now, set to spend at least the next few years a world away (which she clearly saw as a surrender, a failure, despite repeated assurances otherwise) she spent nearly every waking moment striving to mitigate the coming disaster.
Who was Parvati, to add to that burden? To guilt her for having the vision and resolve to keep trying to fix the country that had spurned her so cruelly? And for a pointless, silly crush?
No.
"I suppose I just needed a distraction," said Parv— and even that much felt like a gamble, a confession. Thankfully there was no shortage of things one might seek distraction from, of late.
"Ah." Hermione stood, and started up the stairs. "Was it… an effective distraction, this book?"
Parvati followed with a shrug.
"No," she said. "Not particularly."
Hermione didn't seem to know what to say to that— though judging by her curious glances, she might've just been preoccupied with whatever Parv's aura was doing.
Parv tried not to think about it too much. And failed abysmally, most of the time— but she did try. It was almost a relief when, at the top of the stairs, Hermione turned towards the guest rooms.
Assuming she meant to change into those curve-hugging joggers she often wore for study sessions, Parv asked: "I'll get things set up for you in the library, shall I?"
They'd spent the morning researching unobtrusive ward-schemes in hopes of figuring out what could possible provide such allegedly trustworthy protection for Harry without disturbing the muggles of Privet Drive, but—
"No need." Hermione paused to smile at her, all soft and weary. "I think I'll try to fit in a nap before dinner."
"Oh."
"Thank you, though." She turned to go, then hesitated, eyes downcast, biting her bottom lip… "For— everything, really. I know your parents didn't consult you about inviting us to stay, but—"
"But nothing," said Parv, wrestling down the urge to reach out and free that lip with her thumb— "If they hadn't, I would've. It was driving me mad, thinking you'd be out there unprotected."
Hermione frowned like she wanted to argue the point of exactly how unprotected she'd have been; Parv didn't let her.
"A-and you've been a lovely guest." She clasped her hands to stop them fidgeting.
"Really?" Hermione looked doubtful— and nervous. "You could've spent your holiday at leisure, instead of researching all day."
"You think I would do that?" Asked Parvati. "Loaf around all day while you work your arse off looking for solutions to— everything?"
Hermione didn't answer for a moment, peering at her with an unfamiliar expression— something uncertain and thoughtful that made Parv's heart skip a beat or two—
"No," she said softly. "I suppose not."
"Well." Parvati crossed her arms, averting her eyes. "Good."
Hermione hummed. Then she stepped closer, leaned in, and planted a quick, chaste kiss on Parvati's cheek.
"See you at dinner."
She'd made it halfway down the hall before Parvati managed a squeaky "See you then!"
Which was for the best, really. There would've been no explaining away the raging blush, the long moment it took her to do anything but stand there like an Obliviation victim, or her first act thereafter being to raise her fingers to where the warmth of those lips lingered.
The Grangers were French, originally. Parv had seen them kiss each other good morning, see-you-soon, and goodnight. Hermione could barely pass through the same room as Marion without receiving La Bise. It was clearly a familial gesture.
None of this quelled Parv's need to lie down for a bit.
Hermione didn't miraculously overcome her left-handed spellcasting problems - the Black family magic just tried to use her to do something about the unwelcome guests.