1945
.
.
On the first day of the new term, the crossing point at Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters was put under blockade by Aurors.
Black-robed wizards and witches stood sentry at the Floo fireplaces, the emblem of the DMLE glinting from badges pinned to their chests. At the brick pillars marking the entrance from King's Cross Station, a pair of wizards crossed names off a list, turning away a steady stream of anxious parents, restless younger siblings, and unauthorised pets.
"What do you mean, I have to go back?" said one indignant witch, planting her feet at the threshold. The brim of her pointy hat flapped up and down as she harangued the guards. "We've always been let on the platform to see our children off to school! Rain and snow or cats and dogs!"
"Madam, please! Only students are to be allowed on the platform today. No, you don't need to help young Onslow with his luggage; we'll take it from here. Sorry, sir, but is that a parakeet in your cage? Do you have a note for it? I'm afraid that unauthorised pets without notes signed by your respective Heads of House will have to be sent back home. Yes, we are checking!"
"Onslow needs me!" snapped the witch. "He's a delicate child; he needs a delicate hand. You don't understand it, do you? Only someone who's carried a child for nine months understands how it feels to be separated from such a part of yourself. Let me tell you, sir, when your firstborn child struggles to catch the teat as he did, you'll be just as careful as I am in making sure he eats properly for every meal—"
"Madam," said one choking, red-faced Auror, "pardon me, but you're holding the queue!"
Tom pushed past the rather impassioned witch, chuckling to himself.
"Excuse me, sorry, my sincerest apologies," he said, sliding people out of the way with one hand, his other hand flicking his wand to Levitate their luggage off to the side. "Head Boy here, coming through. Make way for the Head Boy. Oh, and the Head Girl, too."
When he reached the front of the meandering queue, he was swiftly obstructed by an Auror who slid into his path, wand drawn. "Stop it there, young man. Name, year, and House?"
Tom cocked his head. "What's this in aid of? No one at the station bothered taking roll when we left for the holidays."
"That's not your concern," said the Auror, shooting an irritable look at his partner, who was very firmly escorting the hatted witch off the train platform and back to the Muggle side of King's Cross. "We're here on official orders, and that's all you need to know. Our duty requirements do not include making explanation to the general public. The matter's been approved by the Hogwarts Board of Governors, so direct your inquiries there, thank you very much."
"But I'm in charge here," Tom insisted. He tapped the pin on his chest. "Look, Head Boy. When there are no teachers or members of staff in attendance, the Head Boy and Girl are rated the highest in precedence."
The Auror gave him a blank look. "Don't mean nothing to me. I'll have your name, year, and House, please."
"'Tom Riddle, Seventh Year, Slytherin'," Hermione volunteered, pushing past Tom. "And 'Hermione Granger, Seventh Year, Ravenclaw'. Did the school Governors leave any standing instructions? Or will onboard and debarking procedure follow the same schedule as usual? It's a seven hour trip; any delays now will keep the dinnertime announcements running late and ruin tomorrow morning's early start."
"There'll be a patrol on the train. Any suspicious activities or articles should be confiscated and brought to us immediately," the Auror told her. "We're in the first carriage opposite the Heads', by the conductor. Be prepared to report anything untoward, and don't bother with standard disciplinary procedure if it's urgent or dangerous. Otherwise, everything's to go as usual."
"'Suspicious articles'?" Tom repeated. "Are you looking for anything in particular, sir?"
"Anything at all that poses a risk to the safety of Hogwarts' students," said the Auror, glancing over his shoulder. His partner had returned, and had resumed ticking names off the roll, pausing every now and then to herd a group of Hufflepuffs into some semblance of a queue. "That's all we can divulge about our duties here. Student safety is paramount."
"Well, if child-minding is the assignment, I don't see why you lot are here, then," Tom said, giving a rueful smile at the beleaguered Aurors swarmed by dozens of young students. "The Heads and Prefects are more than capable of doing that job. It's my third year with a badge, and I can say with certainty that, despite all efforts, no student has died under my watch. How long have you had your badge, sir?"
Tom turned his gaze to the DMLE badge on the Auror's uniformed chest, his expression contemplative.
Hermione dragged him away before he could get into it with the Auror, leading him up the steps to the train.
"Well, that was exceedingly helpful," Tom grumbled.
"You were rude to him, Tom! You can't expect him not to be curt with you."
"He just told us he was taking the confiscated goods for himself," groused Tom. "That's meant to be an official perk of the Heads."
"Perks?" said Hermione, who had never read any of this in the manual that last year's Head Girl, Lucretia Black, had given her the previous summer.
"Perks," Tom said. "I'm sure you've heard of them before. Waitstaff and housemaids get to take the table scraps home. Military quartermasters write off damaged supplies for private sales on the black market. Head Boys and Girls get first pick of the seized goods, then the Prefects. It's a tradition in Slytherin that spirits confiscated off the underage are forfeited to the highest ranked badge in the house."
"You're supposed to take points off for underage drinking," said Hermione, frowning. "And report it to the Head of House. That's what the rules say."
"Why would I take points from my own House?" Tom said with a scoff. "Sluggy knows how things are done; he leaves the day-to-day discipline for Prefects to manage as they see fit. He likes it when the Hogwarts House Cup stays in his office for so long that it's grown a dust ring in his display cabinet."
"You should take points off for poor conduct, no matter the House," said Hermione. "It's only fair, and consistent with the standards set by the other Houses. And because how else would you learn from your mistakes? Taking a bottle of whiskey doesn't teach people not to drink, it only teaches them to hide it better next time! Is that really the lesson you want to encourage?"
"Well, yes," replied Tom, not missing a beat. "What's the issue here?"
It became a subject of debate during their train journey. In Tom's compartment, Hermione posed the question of protocol to the Slytherin boys, who, as a man, showed complete indifference to Slytherin's unconventional observance of the Hogwarts rules.
"Lucretia never wrote a word of it in her guide!" insisted Hermione, digging through her bag for her well-loved copy of The Prefect's Handbook. "I'd have remembered reading it if she had."
"Lucretia understands how a message should be adapted for all Houses, not just her own. Everyone else reads the lines as they're written. Us? We're expected to read between the lines. Old boy Sluggy sees no sense in coddling an illiterate Prefect," said Orion Black, who wore a Prefect badge on his robes. He picked through a large sampler tin of wrapped chocolates. "Yuck, rum and cherries? Who in their right mind would ruin perfectly good rum by putting cherries in it?"
The boys in the compartment snickered; Lestrange mumbled through bulging cheeks, "Give 'em here, then."
Orion chucked a handful of red foil-wrapped chocolates in Lestrange's direction, and continued, "She wasn't ignorant of the tippling going on, obviously. Whether or not she agreed with it, she knew addressing it to be a separate matter altogether. She also knew that the tradition of the 'Rightful Tithe' was older than she was. The current Prefects do it because that's what their Prefects did when they were in First Year, and so on. If she'd tried to change things, it'd be an endeavour of... what's his name? Greek chap, sent to Hades, had to push a rock up a hill... Tantalus?"
"Sisyphus," said Nott helpfully.
"Ta, that's the ticket. An endeavour of Sisyphean proportions. Whatever one well-meaning Prefect or Head tried to do, it'd go right back to the usual as soon as he left for greener pastures." The foil wrappers rustled as Orion dug through them, somehow elbow-deep in a tin that was no more than six-inches tall. "Besides, just because we won't deduct House points in the usual fashion, doesn't mean that those who take advantage of Slytherin's understanding of nuance are altogether exempt from discipline."
"What does that mean?" asked Hermione. "Do you assign them to copying lines? If these last few years has taught me about the way Slytherin House does things, when someone says 'unusual' in a disciplinary sense, it's got to be more than taking dictations."
"It means," said Tom, "that even if we don't... interpret the rules to the exact letter, we do our best to uphold the spirit of what the rules intended: guided self-improvement. Someone who earns the infraction also earns their penitence. If that's not the very definition of justice, I don't know what is. And I'm quite dedicated to making sure of it."
Hermione noticed that no one elaborated on what Tom had said, which had been somewhat vague. Not just somewhat vague, but completely vague. Tom didn't elaborate on his explanation either, nor did anyone volunteer any specific details on what 'earning penitence' meant. The only sound in the compartment was Orion Black noisily opening a sweet, a chocolate truffle rolled in desiccated coconut, which sprayed white flakes all over his winter robes.
"It works," Quentin Travers said after a while, peeking up from the newspaper he'd hidden himself behind. "Can't say anyone appreciates... correction, but that's the nature of the process, isn't it? But we all agree that the arrangement works. It keeps order. It reinforces House unity. And we win the House Cup every year. How many years in a row has it been?"
"Thirteen," said Black helpfully. "And eight Quidditch Cups."
"There you go, then," said Travers, nodding in satisfaction.
"And everyone in Slytherin is fine with it?" asked Hermione.
A chorus of "Yeah", "I am", "Of course", and "'S'alright with me" filled the air.
Hermione glanced around the compartment. Tom looked very pleased with himself.
Their train journey continued in this fashion, mundane conversation that Hermione observed with a benign sense of curiosity. Though the Seventh Year Slytherins were adults of wizarding majority, and half of them adults by Muggle standards, it was hard for her to look at them and see a group of men. It was a group of overgrown boys... and one Tom Riddle. Hermione knew Tom counted himself as a man grown, and considering the way he'd behaved during the Christmas holidays, she wasn't sure she could call that innocent boyish exuberance. Tom, who had used the word "Adulteress" with far too much glee, would willingly concede that adult behaviour was indeed a recurring and intentional theme.
She was still pondering on its implications when the compartment door slid open. Two Aurors stood in the threshold, a long-haired wizard and a short-haired witch with cloaks thrown over quilted duelling robes. There was a second or two of silence as they regarded the sweet-wrapper-littered seats, then shared a look with one another.
The witch, from beneath her cloak, brought out a bundle wrapped in a red checkered cloth. She cleared her throat and said, "Mrs. Travers says you left your lunch on the kitchen table this morning. Your father instructed us to deliver it, with your mother's message. She says, and I quote..."
Her voice abruptly took on a flat, toneless quality, as if she were reciting from memory. "'Always eat the vegetables first before looking to dessert, and don't buy anything from the trolley, dear, you remember what that sort of food does to your constitution.'"
Travers glanced around the compartment, at the spectators whose expressions ranged from disbelief to suppressed amusement. Guiltily, he stuffed half a pumpkin pasty up his sleeve and wiped the crumbs off his chin.
Nott cleared his throat in the silence.
"Thank them and send them on their way, Travers," said Tom finally. "My goodness, man, do I have to do everything around here myself?"
Travers mumbled a few words and took the bundle from the Aurors, who gave him a brief pat on the shoulder, and murmured something along the lines of, "...Should remind you that the physical examinations are to be held next August..."
Then they shut the compartment door and Travers returned to his seat.
"Have some faith," said Tom in a consoling voice. "You'll be in the Auror Office this time next year, surely. The qualifications are easy enough to manage."
"Easy enough for you," said Travers. "You've never been marked below an Exceeds Expectations in your life."
"Because an Acceptable is a personal insult, and the markers know it," Tom answered. "I know it, you all know it, and so do the professors. But you, on the other hand. You're unconvinced of the existence of your own merits. How's this for a motivation, then: if you end up as the department chore boy instead of an Auror, you'll be of no use to anyone. When Old Sluggy finds out about it, he'll pretend he never taught you. You'll have an owl mail cubby shared with four colleagues. And if the letter delivery is mis-sorted and someone else tries to return your mail, the response in the office tea room would be 'Who's Quentin?'." Tom chuckled humourlessly. "To have set oneself up as a wizard of negligible consequence, to have proven nothing of worth, not even to yourself—it's a hard fate to be borne. But if you aren't dedicated to bettering yourself, let me assure you that there's no one else who would burden himself to the task."
Tom had many years ago proclaimed himself a natural leader, and it was times like this that Hermione wondered about those whose natural course of action was to become Tom's follower. Had they no discernment, no independent thought of their own? She supposed that for some people, it didn't matter because Tom had taken the hard chores of discerning and thinking himself so that they wouldn't have to.
Somewhat heartened by Tom's motivating speech, Travers returned to picking at his packed lunch, and the discussion shifted from school marks to Quidditch rankings and Slytherin House's prospects for yet another Cup. Lestrange had the most seniority on the House team, having played since Second Year; he was this year's Captain. Captains, just like Head Boys and Girls, got their names engraved on a plaque in the Hogwarts Trophy Room. They also shared use of the special bathroom, though Hermione hadn't made much use of it since the days of searching for Slytherin's mysterious Chamber. The obsession with which Tom had for it had faded recently, as had Nott's.
Arriving at Hogwarts, Aurors escorted students to the carriages; Aurors mounted on broomsticks swept back and forth above the Hogsmeade station platform, wand tips glowing like signal flares in the black sky. Hermione and Tom shuffled the First Years along. They'd arrived via the boats back in September, but with the Lake frozen for winter, it was customary for all students to take the carriages, and these students had never ridden them.
Their group was the last to make it to the Entrance Hall, where fires burnt merrily in their sconces, and the scents of a roast dinner came wafting in from the Great Hall. All along the corridor were piles of trunks and hand luggage, floated in from the cargo car of the Express and nearly reaching up to the height of the portraits. Hermione felt a pang of unease passing one group of Aurors gathered around an opened trunk, whose contents had spilled out onto the floor. Pyjamas, a woollen cloak, a pillowcase stuffed with spare socks and pants, and a set of robes lined in Gryffindor red...
Hermione turned to look over her shoulder, but then Tom took her by the elbow and pulled her onwards, so she never saw what the Aurors had been passing from hand to hand, whispering to each other under a bubble of silence.
"What was that?" she asked Tom, who was occupied with straightening his collar and cuffs in preparation for making a fashionable entrance to dinner.
"A security concern," said Tom, sounding unconcerned. "'Suspicious articles', perhaps. Don't bother trying to beg an answer off the teachers; I can tell that it'll be out of their hands." He nodded in the direction of the High Table. "There's a new fellow next to Dippet. Auror badge and robes. How long do you think he'll stick around before the newspapers start calling it a waste of Ministry resources?"
There was a new face sitting among the staff. A man with sharp sideburns that merged into a neat bottlebrush moustache, wearing a robe with a high starched clergyman's collar. He looked at once very grave and very well turned-out, and sat in the centre section of the staff table. Not in the seat directly next to Headmaster Dippet, who had, as usual, taken his great carven monument of a chair in the middle of the long table. That space was reserved for the most senior of the staff members, Deputy Headmaster Dumbledore. But it was close enough for the wizard to address the Headmaster and Deputy both; they were speaking together now, as the final procession of students trickled into their seats.
Hermione didn't like it; annoyance rose within her, the same feeling she'd had that morning at the platform. This was another disruption to the natural order. In the Muggle world, there would have been questions. Inquiries, even. Parents whose children attended legacy boarding schools would be terribly interested to know why the police were calling on the school. It didn't look respectable, and she had learned from her holidays with the Riddles that the gentry class, lacking the formal titles of the Peers of the Realm, clung tightly to their respectability, being the fragile barrier of separation from common-ness.
The first half of the Headmaster's speech was the welcome, the second a brief schedule of Hogsmeade visits, Quidditch matches, and exam dates. At no point was the Auror presence around the school explained, and it gnawed away at Hermione's organised soul, which still expected the Magical government to run roughly congruent to the Muggle government. A Minister, a sprawling bureaucracy of ministerial departments, was there so much of a difference?
She recalled that at the beginning of the school year, last September, Headmaster Dippet had announced Aurors were to supervise Hogsmeade outings along with the teachers and Prefects. She'd been so distracted by the prospect of venturing into the Chamber of Secrets the evening of the Welcoming Feast that she hadn't considered the implications of Ministry-officiated security. When the Hogsmeade weekends of autumn and early winter had come and gone, she hadn't thought much of it then, either. She hadn't even gone most weeks, since the shops were always chaotic and packed full of noisy students; if she needed to buy anything from town, it was more convenient to owl order instead of queue for ages at the till. With other concerns more pressing and more visible at the forefront of her mind, the Auror supervision had not merited anything more than a passing thought.
But now?
This was no longer a brief interaction outside school grounds, and could not so easily be ignored. For that, undeniably, was what it was: the Ministry of Magic had decided that Hogwarts was unsafe. The government had taken it upon itself to intrude upon the daily routines of what was supposedly an independent entity. Certainly, the government administered examinations like the N.E.W.T.s and the Apparition licence, and it provided scholarship funds to be disbursed at the pleasure of the Board of Governors, but the Ministry of Magic did not involve itself in the internal workings of the school itself. It was an overreach, as Hogwarts was founded long before British wizards had cobbled together their national bureaucracy as an offshoot of the ancient Wizengamot.
It was unprecedented; she had looked it up in the library!
In the books of wizarding law she had browsed in First and Second Year, after hearing Tom's confession of an interest in mind-control magic, she'd looked into the state of the wizarding prison system. One book had informed her that should an inmate escape the high-security ward of Azkaban Prison and present a danger to public safety, the Ministry was granted emergency powers to install safeguarding measures for the protection of vital public institutions. Including Hogwarts.
As no inmate had ever escaped Azkaban, these emergency powers had never been used, and remained to this day an obscure by-law in a dusty and forgotten book.
She concluded that there must be a grave emergency for the Ministry to rouse itself into action in such a conspicuous way. Wizards cared quite a lot about proper precedent, with an especial emphasis on the proper. One of the very few things the Ministry cared more about than propriety was maintaining public confidence, otherwise wizards and witches might form the uncomfortable notion that it was perfectly possible to live as comfortable a life without a Ministry of Magic as they could with it.
Over the next few days, school settled back into a pattern of lessons and practicals, partitioned by the hourly peal of the clocktower bells. Day by day, the deadlines accumulated, and the students of Hogwarts soon became accustomed to the pervasive company of the Aurors.
Hermione remained wary.
In class, while the rest of her classmates drooled at their desks or scribbled games of naughts-and-crosses on the margins of their textbooks, Hermione observed the comings and goings of Aurors, tiny black specks walking about the grounds, escorting students to flying lessons, Quidditch practice, Care of Magical Creatures, and Herbology, any activities conducted out of doors. No one remarked on it. Some of the younger students appreciated it, as the Aurors cast charms to block the rain, sweep the snow from the path, and warm chilly fingers.
For what reason would Aurors bother with Hogwarts? What danger was worth such a costly investment of resources? A year ago, she'd heard Slughorn lamenting that his dinner party invitations to Aurors had been roundly rejected; they had, unfortunately, had more important things to do than mingle with schoolchildren.
In the hallway after leaving Ancient Runes, passing the Auror standing watch at the corridor intersection, Hermione cornered Nott and pressed him for information.
"For someone who's always made a big noise about the wizarding world being run on 'patronage and connections'," Hermione began, ushering Nott behind a suit of armour and casting a silencing spell to muffle their conversation. "Surely your pureblood connections have supplied some inside information about what this is about. Aurors at Hogwarts? This is just not done. You know it and I know it. Yet the Board of Governors approved it anyway. This is different from last term, and you can't deny it."
"If you'd wanted me to get your underage magic charges expunged from the records, or ensure an application crosses the right desks, I could help you with that," Nott answered. "Pureblood connections, as you're so gauche as to call them, are about the soft touch. Shaking the right hands of the right people. Arranging the subtle feather that tips the scales. This type of matter is different, and I'm not denying it. But I'm afraid I can't tell you anything."
"Can you make an informed guess, at least?" Hermione insisted. "You're familiar with how the Ministry is run. You're aware of the current shape of the wizarding world outside the British Isles. Are we in danger here at Hogwarts?"
"No one is in danger who keeps his head down," Nott said, his voice low and careful. "That's just common sense."
Hermione posed another vital question: "Has this anything to do with Grindelwald?"
Nott stiffened. "Why would you think that?"
"The tides are turning for the Muggle war. Considering how Grindelwald took Denmark and Norway weeks after the German Muggles began their occupation, he must have been siphoning off their logistical lines. It's not that easy to launch a national takeover, even for wizards." Hermione recalled the headlines of Mr. Pacek's newspapers from the Leiden Free Press. "If the Muggle governments are throwing off the German yoke, then Grindelwald must also be feeling the pressure. Beneath the flimsy cover of his paper titles, Grindelwald is a Dark Lord. And even if Dark Lords aren't elected by the voting populace, they still rely on public regard to maintain their positions. You can't be a 'Lord' with no subjects... You'd just be a plain old Dark Wizard."
"Incisive analysis, as usual," Nott remarked. "Is there a central thesis in there that I'm missing? Or will its arrival be any day now? I shouldn't want to be late to my next appointment."
"Our next 'appointment' is lunch; you'll be fine," Hermione snapped. "Here's the gist: why aren't you worried? If the Aurors are worried about Grindelwald, then we should all be worried!"
"If it is him, then what am I to do about it?" Nott retorted. "Until the end of the term, I'm a schoolboy. You're a schoolgirl. We're nobodies, and that's a good thing. Leave the problems for those whose jobs it is to solve them."
Hermione hesitated. "You might have a point there."
"Of course I do. Mine is the voice of common sense that no one seems to pay any attention to."
"The appropriate strategy from the start should have been to get the information from the Aurors," said Hermione breathlessly. "It's obvious; why didn't I think of it?"
"Granger..."
"Thank you, Nott!"
"Granger!"
"And you can stop complaining that no one listens to you!" she told him, leaving him sputtering behind the armour.
During lunch that day, Hermione asked Tom what he thought about the Aurors, and Tom's response had been neutral.
"If they don't talk to me, or bother me in any way, then I shall do my best to overlook their existence," said Tom. "It's not as if I've done anything wrong, have I?"
"Why do you think they're here, then?" Hermione asked. "They took that Gryffindor's fireworks, and that was a fortnight ago."
Several boxes of premium enchanted fireworks were the 'suspicious articles' turned out of the trunk on the way to dinner that night. These fireworks weren't the simple pasteboard tubes sold in Diagon Alley, which lit with a tap of the wand on the fuse and sent a small burst of colourful light into the sky. These were dozens of charmed sparklers packed into small crates, bought by a student during his Christmas holiday in Malta. When lit, they took the form of pixies that nipped and bit as they darted across the ground. A novelty rarely seen in Britain, they would have made a profitable enterprise when sold by the individual stick in bathrooms and dusty alcoves.
Tom was silent in thought. "Why, would you like to give them a reason to keep skulking around the castle? Do you remember Hagrid's Boomslang? Do you suppose he still has it?"
"I warned him last year of the consequences for keeping it!" said Hermione. "I'm sure he took it as wise advice."
"But if you're not certain of it, it wouldn't hurt to make sure..." said Tom, trailing off ominously.
"I think it would be simpler to ask them why they're here and when they're leaving," said Hermione. She changed the subject. "Have you finished your Arithmancy homework? May I check my numbers against yours? Please tell me you've shown your workings; you know I hate it when you just write the answer at the bottom. You can't just say that you've done the calculations in your head!"
She spoke no more to Tom about the topic, sensing his annoyance with the Aurors' constant obstructions to his regular "wanderings" about the castle. But she kept a close watch on the Aurors. The next day, before her Herbology lesson, she caught an Auror outside the greenhouses, and his response was inconclusive.
"I'm here because that is my job. How long might that be, you ask? My relief arrives from headquarters at five o'clock. If you must lodge a non-urgent report—as I am on duty right now—you may find me in the teacher's staffroom, where I shall be writing the day's log. Have a fine day, Miss."
He tipped his hat to her and strolled away.
Hermione, catching the peal of the two o'clock bell, rushed to Herbology. Half-listening to Professor Beery, Hermione spent the lesson picking away at the Auror's answer and came to the conclusion that he had not given an answer at all, and that was entirely intentional.
.
.
After a week of deliberation, Hermione had found a new target for her inquiries: Quentin Travers.
She couldn't say she knew him well; he was one of Tom's "associates", the group of boys who were regular attendees to Tom's secret and exclusive Homework Club, which had somehow, over the past two-and-a-half years, become Tom and Hermione's Homework Club.
Quentin Travers was someone who drew no attention to himself, but not in Nott's contrived fashion of avoiding notice (that is, skulking around in corners and barging in on conversations without seeming too interested in the subject matter). Travers was a person whom Hermione could describe, after all these years, as... 'adequate'. He could be trusted with a fair contribution in a group project, or deliver a passable performance in a duel or class exercise. He wasn't as fixated on Ye Olde Wizarding Traditions as Lestrange and Black, which Hermione had not learned from talking to Travers directly, but from checking his homework. Unlike others, she'd never seen Travers use the long ſ.
('An Eſsay on the Principleſ of Affinative Tranſfiguration', my goodness! The novelty didn't last for long.)
Since she'd barely spoken to him, it wasn't quite fair of her to come to a conclusion about Travers' character until she'd made an effort to know him personally. And given that neither of them was the most personable of people, she found herself not taking the direct route of the friendly introduction. Instead, she watched him.
During class lessons (and this was difficult because she always sat in the front row, and he somewhere in the back), their extra-curricular activities, and most significantly, in the library. Because what books one borrowed and how long it took to return them was the best gauge of a person's character that Hermione could find.
Her research consisted of skulking behind the library bookshelves, occasionally poking a gap in the stacks through which to peek at Travers' table on the other side.
Travers was writing his essay, heavy books piled around him, a serious-looking young man with dark rings under his eyes no matter if it was a school day or a weekend. His mouth was thin and lipless, and deep lines had already set on his brow. It gave him a perpetually grim appearance; in high spirits, his face still looked sour, and when he was in a neutral mood, as he was now, he looked miserable.
"Good afternoon, Granger," said Travers. He didn't look up from his parchment.
Hermione peered around the edge of the bookshelf. "Aren't you going to ask what I'm doing?"
"We're in a library. There are only so many things one can do in a library. If you care about following the rules, at least." He spared her a short glance, eyeing the Head Girl badge gleaming on Hermione's lapel.
"O-oh. I see," Hermione stammered, not certain as to what Travers was insinuating. "Well, may I join you?"
Travers grunted, sweeping a heap of books into a pile on one side and making room at the table.
Hermione took that as an indication of assent, pulling out a chair and sitting primly down on it, smoothing her skirt and holding her bag on her lap.
"Did Riddle send you for something? A message?"
"Tom?" said Hermione. "Why would he?"
"He's a busy man these days. He doesn't wait for anyone's convenience; everyone else waits for his," said Travers. "What is it, then? He usually sends Black to deal with Prefect business. Or Lestrange, when the business is... personal."
Hermione couldn't quell her curiosity. "What's 'personal' business?"
"Private affairs, outside school duties. You know—settling grievances, collecting debts, favours owed, honour duels, and everything else in that vein."
"I didn't know that Tom participated in honour duels," Hermione began hesitantly. "He's never mentioned it to me."
"Technically, he doesn't participate. Because technically, they're against the school rules. But if Riddle sends a message that sounds like a duel challenge, anyone who has a public quarrel with Riddle soon retracts his dissent. No one's called Riddle to wands since Malfoy got enough of taking his lumps and called a truce," said Travers, wetting his quill in his inkpot and drawing out a fresh sheet of parchment. "That must've been... three years ago, I think. Now if you don't mind, some of us have homework to finish."
"Sorry," said Hermione. "That was thoughtless of me. I'll let you get on with it, then."
Without another word, Travers resumed writing his essay. Hermione wasn't as good as Tom with reading upside down and not getting caught doing it, but from the books arrayed around the table, she had a good idea of the subject of his essay: wizard-goblin diplomacy. She was certain that Travers had, in fact, caught her reading his parchment from across the table, but he seemed perfectly happy to let her do it. He continued in silence, with only the occasional glance at her, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to be writing a History of Magic essay with the Head Girl scrutinising every word as it left his quill.
Half an hour later, Travers wrote his last sentence and placed the last full-stop. Hermione, who had been stewing impatiently the whole time, could not keep her curiosity buttoned up any longer.
"What do you know about why the Aurors are here at Hogwarts?" she demanded.
Travers blinked. "Why are you asking me? They've been talking about it in the Prophet's editorials for weeks."
"The Daily Prophet doesn't have answers, it has propaganda," said Hermione. "I remember hearing that you worked at the Auror Office last summer. Wouldn't you have insight to the real answer? So, what is it? Why the Aurors? What's going on?"
"I worked at the Auror Dispatch Office. It's not real Auror work; they'd hardly assign Auror jobs to someone who hasn't even been accepted to Auror training. The job was answering Floo calls and writing memos," Travers said patiently. "If I have any special insight, then it's to how wizards and witches dress when they're not expecting company at home and don't care about looking presentable. You should trust me, Granger, in that it's not particularly special of an insight, and I wish I didn't have it."
"Can you at least tell me," Hermione said, "what the official reasoning is behind the Auror presence? We've been here seven years, and it's never been like this before. They searched and confiscated student contraband, but it's nothing the Prefects haven't seen. Are they looking for something? What could it be?"
Travers shrugged. "As far as I can see, the official line is: 'The Aurors are keeping the students safe at Hogwarts'. Considering that nothing remarkable has happened, it seems to be working."
"Yes," said Hermione, "but nothing remarkable happened last year. Or the year before. If that's the official line, then it's a distraction. A convenient obfuscation. People can't be that stupid as to take that 'Keeping Us Safe' excuse at face value. There must obviously be an unofficial line."
"Haha," said Travers. "Obviously, there must be."
"Good, you agree with me," Hermione said, beaming. "So, what is it, then?"
"Oh," Travers coughed. "Uh... I didn't think you were being serious."
To Hermione's dismay, Travers had been unconcerned about the Aurors at Hogwarts, and lacked the curiosity to make enquiries through the personal grapevine of gossip Hermione was certain that he possessed.
"Didn't you know there's a Dark Lord out there?" Hermione asked Travers, as he was putting away his reference books. "That must be the real explanation for the Aurors. They're supposed to be protecting us from him, I'm quite sure of it."
"Well, yes, of course I know about Grindelwald, if that's who you're referring to," said Travers. "But Grindelwald's hundreds of miles away, and anyway, he's got nothing to do with us. Grindelwald isn't interested in Britain. He's been frolicking around the Continent for decades like the living embodiment of Charlemagne, and he's never demonstrated interest in an invasion of Britain. There's no reasonable justification for your worries."
"And you're sure about that?" said Hermione doubtfully. "How would you have such deep knowledge of the mind and intentions of Grindelwald?"
"Yes, I am sure of it," said Travers. "I heard it from Father."
"I can't help being sceptical about things 'My father said'," Hermione replied. "As a Slytherin, I'm sure you've heard it more often than I have in your Common Room, and have learned to trust it less than I do."
Travers frowned. "Look, Granger, can I trust you to be discreet?"
Hermione nodded eagerly. "Loose lips sink ships, of course I can." At Travers' continued frown, she added, "I can respect your desire for privacy. I've even studied a bit of Occlumency, and I think I'm fairly decent at it. Not that I've put it to the test. But I did complete all the visualisation exercises in the book, and that ought to count for something."
Casting an apprehensive look around the quiet library, Travers ducked his head and spoke in a low voice, "Paranoia about an impending attack is just that: paranoia. There's something of a gentleman's agreement between Britain and the Continent. A sort of non-interference status quo where each side refrains from interfering in the domestic political affairs of the other. Father was department Head when it was worked out, so it must have been in the Twenties. Given that we still have our own Minister, and he speaks English, I don't suppose anything's happened to change that."
"Are there any books where I can read more about this?" asked Hermione. "I've never heard of such an agreement mentioned in the Daily Prophet. And I've never overheard anyone talking about it in my Common Room or at dinner."
She had heard of this agreement, this informal "understanding" of a peace pact before. It was a passing mention from Mr. Pacek on the evening of Tom Riddle's birthday celebration, and its existence had been unconfirmed by no one else. Until now. From Mr. Pacek, too, she had learned of the mysterious deaths of foreign agents, which put the aforementioned pact in a tenuous position.
Travers gave her a blank look. "It's a gentleman's agreement. A handshake deal. It's not written down for seals and signatures, that's the whole point." His brow furrowed in displeasure. "As it was, it was considered an unpopular compromise by the department, who are Dark Wizard catchers by profession, and Father was eventually persuaded to resign his post because of it. It was too dangerous a political position, smacked too much of appeasement to be palatable for the public. Father, however, judged that a compromise of mutual self-determination to be the best Britain could get to pull herself out of the cauldron. But the Aurors didn't like it. I'm not a Gryffindor, so I may only presume they thought it weak and cowardly."
"Have you asked your father about it?"
"Interrogated my father on the circumstances of his fall from grace, you mean?" said Travers. "I should prefer not to, thank you. He only talks about the glory days when he's had too much brandy. Well, rants, really. He saved Britain and they rewarded him for it by hushing it up and ushering him out the door. Minister Fawley told him there was nothing to be done about it. 'Oh, sorry, my old friend, it wasn't personal' whispered in private, but in public, no one wanted the stink of unpopularity clinging to their own cloaks. Bad for upcoming election campaigns. But the next Minister never rescinded the agreement Father had orchestrated with the Germans. It was simply too valuable to let go."
"Your father fell on his sword," Hermione mused. "Or fell on his wand, rather. What were the exact terms of the agreement, do you know?"
Travers shrugged. "This happened when I was a baby, Granger. The only reason I'm aware of it is from hearsay and eavesdropping. For all I know, there's more to the story; Father has consistently held to a traditionalist 'Rule By Precedent' platform, and for him to choose the unproven path, he must have placed strategic outcome first and principles second."
"If the Aurors won't talk about Grindelwald, and that's fair enough, it's a national security issue... What can they talk about?" Hermione trailed off, deep in thought. "What questions can I ask of them to find out what exactly they might do to address a threat, in a hypothetical sense, since they won't—or can't—answer directly? The Ministry must have chosen Aurors to guard us for a reason, instead of a monitoring mirror and an alarm bell. I had asked before, but he was on duty and not very receptive. What if we tried while they were off duty, and in a more receptive situation? Yes, perhaps that might work..."
"Pardon me, Granger," interrupted Travers, "but you said 'What if we'. What exactly is this 'We' you're talking about?"
"You'll help me, won't you?" Hermione asked. "If you're going to be all Slytherin-y about helping someone when it doesn't overtly serve to your advantage, I have a counteroffer: I shall do my best to help you gain entry to the Auror trainee program you were set on, if you do your best to help me in this."
"If I accept this mutual agreement," said Travers, "then I'd rather get it out of the way early and warn you that you're not going to enjoy it."
.
.
Travers was right.
Ingratiating herself with the Aurors required elbow-rubbing in the same manner of Slughorn's special evenings. She might observe properly the niceties of expected behaviour, according to the long list of rules of social etiquette she had read as a little girl, but Hermione did not think she would ever come to enjoy it. Travers didn't much enjoy the process of mingling himself, even though it was a vaunted talent of his House, so that was a consolation. And she didn't think Tom liked it either, though she suspected that it wasn't "ingratiation" as a concept with which Tom found fault. More like the fact that, due to his age and position, it was Tom who was expected to ingratiate himself to another person and feel grateful to be deemed worthy of their notice.
(If Hermione had not known Tom as well as she did, she supposed his lack of adherence to any consistent set of principles might have bothered her.
Because she did know him very well, she also knew that Tom would claim that he indeed adhered to at least one consistent guiding principle: his own self-interest.)
"They'll be expecting certain formalities if one wishes to make a fair impression," Travers instructed her. "While the promotions at the DMLE come from connections, the barrier to entry is strictly N.E.W.T. marks, which makes it more egalitarian than the other departments. But the old guard Aurors my father personally trained put stock in proper appearances, to distinguish themselves from the new guard of wand-happy glory seekers modelling themselves off MACUSA's style of informality. Father says it's a dying breed, the civilized hand of civil service. Oh, and on that note, be sure not to come empty-handed."
After bearing a parcel of delicate pastries to the teachers' staffroom, Hermione was introduced to the witch and wizard who had appeared in their train compartment on the journey back to school. Mr. Wilkes and Madam Trombley were seasoned Aurors, former Slytherins mentored by Quentin Travers' father, and rather sad to have seen him go. They were personal friends of the Travers family, and as the particulars of Mr. Torquil Travers' departure from the DMLE were not disclosed to those without clearance—and not at all outside the department—the former head retained a remnant of his influence within the halls of the Ministry.
The two Aurors were impressed by Hermione's Head Girl badge and participation in Travers' "little homework study group", and disappointed when Hermione admitted that her favorite Hogwarts subject was Arithmancy.
"B-but I do very well in Defence," Hermione quickly added. "I've always been within the top five students by the rankings. I got an Outstanding mark for Defence in my O.W.L.s, one of ten, and I expect to get an O for my N.E.W.T.s as well. I've considered applying to the Ministry after finishing school, and I don't see my marks being below the minimum thresholds. Doesn't the DMLE require at least five Exceeds Expectations?"
She was twisting facts a bit, but it wasn't dishonesty by intention. She did want to work in the Ministry, and had discussed her career plans with Tom years ago. She hadn't, however, ever planned on joining the Auror force to become a wizard constable, of all occupations. But she wasn't going to mention her lack of interest, and it wasn't lying if she said she had very seriously considered an Auror job, and simply let any further impressions pass as a benign assumption.
"Ten Outstandings!" exclaimed Mr. Wilkes, a wizard whose long hair was tied up in a practical queue. "You must be at the top of your year, young lady."
"That would be Riddle," said a helpful Travers. "The current Head Boy, from Slytherin. He got eleven O.W.L.s., with the full set of O's."
"Hah, he must be the fresh one," Madam Trombley snorted, dancing sugarcubes over the lip over her mug and into her tea with a flick of her fingers. "Heard Probert had his robes in a twist after the Head Boy gave him some lip on the train. Marks like that could explain the arrogance. With eleven O.W.L.s, I'd say he deserves a bit of pomp and vanity! I myself got eight, more EE's than O's, and that was considered excellent."
"Top marks won't do favours for anyone who thinks it makes him exempt from minding his elders and betters," Mr. Wilkes grumbled. "With a name like 'Riddle', if he's a halfblood or lesser who wasn't taught proper manners, he may well be granted some leniency. But not forever, and not while working at the Ministry."
"Tom, I mean, Riddle, isn't going to work at the Ministry," said Hermione. "He's told me of his firm disinterest in such a career."
"Where else would he go, a Slytherin Head Boy with eleven O.W.L.s and no doubt bearing generous commendations from Horace Slughorn?" asked Madam Trombley, as if she couldn't comprehend that anyone with ambition could use it anywhere outside a Ministry office. "The Ministry of Magic diverts into its ranks the most academically-inclined students from each graduating cohort, because it's Britain's only employer with the kind of hierarchy that rewards the sufficiently motivated. Rising to the top is a competitive business, to be sure. But the competition winnows out the truly excellent, and really, nowhere else is better suited for those with the vision and talent to excel."
"Well," Hermione replied, "he has a handsome family inheritance waiting for him at home, so there's no urgency for him to choose an occupation, if he wants one at all. And on the subject of riddles, might I request some insight on a speculative scenario I've been contemplating over the past few days? I should much like to hear from the perspective of professionals trained in wizarding combat."
The question she really wanted to ask was this: "What exactly is this hazard that the Ministry of Magic does not see fit to inform anyone about, while simultaneously believing that the the Hogwarts staff and enchantments are incapable of defending against it?"
That would have been a Gryffindor's approach, straightforward and sincere. So flagrantly lacking in pretension it flipped right around to pretentiousness, in the manner of subtracting a negative number. But Hermione had decided that a more circumspect route was more appropriate. Did it truly matter if it was Grindelwald's hands who had originated the changes at Hogwarts, as she'd suspected? If it was something or someone else, it didn't change the fact that the Ministry had decided the threat worth the expense of a visible intervention. Or a visible deterrent.
Whatever it was, she should do her best to deduce the clearest picture of the problem, based on what the Ministry was using to solve it: Aurors, a group well-versed in subduing human wizards by force. The risk was judged not suitable for relying on an alarm system to alert the proper authorities if an "incident", whatever it was, had occurred. The Aurors were the proper authorities.
"I've read reports about real magical combat situations," Hermione continued, "which are different than exhibition duels where a wizard fights one-to-one on a platform, and receives points for style, technique, and efficiency. In real combat—or to be more accurate, warfare—fighting is about more than merely disarming your opponent. I've heard about the use of area effect spells, or the more durable alternative of fixed wards, to control the theatre of war. Forest defoliation, transmuting standing water into impenetrable fogbanks, pyres of everburning flames, and other manipulations of one's environment to deny or produce cover for combatants. Anti-Apparition jinxes and anchored enchantments to control battlefield mobility, though such a blade easily cuts both ways.
"I had been wondering, sir and madam, that in this type of a combat scenario, what would be the most optimum strategy? If I wanted to win, I suppose, or at least leave the field of battle in relative health? Is it better to concentrate on the environment or the other combatants? Should the most favourable approach to real combat be as a duellist, or as an enchanter?"
"Oh," exclaimed Madam Trombley, looking rather pleased and giving a Mr. Wilkes a meaningful smile. "Oh, Travers, I see what this is. You've brought us a little tactician, haven't you? Miss Granger, you've defined the situation in general terms; it's not enough for a precise answer."
"Correct," Mr. Wilkes said. "Define the players. Is the principle actor yourself?"
"Yes," said Hermione. "But—"
"Skill level?"
"Well, being generous, N.E.W.T. Outstanding level for the core competencies. Extension credited for Runes and Arithmancy."
"No, your skill level," snapped Mr. Wilkes.
"He means wandwork skills," helpfully Travers put in. "Can you cast non-verbally? Can you abbreviate wand movements? What's your répertoire, how's your aim? You force the enemy into more effort-intensive shielding or physical cover if he can't counter your spells directly, from recognising the casting gesture and spell flash, or hearing the incantation. How about two spells at once? Can you cast on the same turn as Apparition or Disapparition?"
"Yes, non-verbal and abbreviated for standard charms and common spells, but not for technical work like advanced Transifiguration. I know all seven years of textbook spells, and the competition duelling legal spell list. I can hold a Shield Charm and cast, and I've never cast while also preparing for Apparition." Hermione added, a bit snippily, "But I've never tried it before, so I'm sure I can pick it up quickly."
"The players?" Mr. Wilkes pressed on. "Are you alone? How many on your side, how many of the enemy?"
"Even numbers for each, say five-on-five," said Hermione. "And N.E.W.T. graduate skills for my side, unknown skills for the opponent." She remembered a conversation from Mr. Pacek from years ago, during his first visit in the summer of 1940. "The opponent is assumed to consist of 'soldiers of fortune'."
"Dead. You died," said Mr. Wilkes bluntly. "In such a theoretical exercise, if your team had a jointly prepared goal to evade and escape, then not everyone dies. But the slowest and weakest? Gone. Dead."
By asking these questions, Hermione was starting to form an understanding of the Aurors' purpose. If the problem was one that required sufficiently advanced magical skill, there would be no need of Aurors. The Hogwarts teachers were some of the best spellcasters in Britain; Professors Dumbledore and Slughorn were celebrated academics within their respective fields. Aurors, on the other hand? They were better-than-proficient spellcasters, but their specialty was in practical magic. Martial magic. They were as close to a standing army as a population the size of Wizarding Britain could field.
And 'soldiers of fortune': these were magical mercenaries whose continued livelihood came from being better at combat magic than everyone else. A qualification of N.E.W.T. "Acceptable" was one which the vast majority of underage students—and even a good number of students past majority—could not achieve. The Aurors knew this, that the difference between amateurs and professionals was a gap too vast for a school lesson or textbook to bridge, and the only way to counter a professional was with another professional.
"Suppose my team had a plan then, to ensure survival for as many team members as possible, in a battlefield laid with wards to prevent Apparition, Floo, Portkeys, owl mail and other types of messages meant to gather reinforcements. How would you advise we go about it?"
Madam Trombley let out a delighted laugh. "You've just happened upon the greatest debate of the ages: team combat strategy. Should we confront the strongest opponent or target the weakest? Skulk in darkness and lure the enemy into hidden snares, or brawl with sword in one hand and wand in the other, following the example set by the legendary Godric Gryffindor? Ought we to fly like Valkyries into battle on armoured Granian steeds, and accept their noble deaths as the necessary cost of victory?"
"But the simplest team strategy that even students and dabblers of the combat arts can remember in the heat of action," Mr. Wilkes said, "is the defensive retreat. The strongest duellists protect the most vulnerable, be it the wardbreaker, enchanter, animator, Mediwizard, or conjurer, until the wards are broken, the enemy wardcaster is dead, or the last man is out. In the Auror Corps, we fight in pairs, and we trust that our partner has eyes on our backs, as we have our eyes on his—or her—" he nodded to Madam Trombley, "—back. Simple strategy. With one rigid requirement."
"What's that, sir?" asked Hermione.
"If young Travers was assigned as your partner in the Auror Corps, as he is surely angling for with this 'calling on old friends' hogwash, would you die for him?"
"Er..." Hermione stammered. "I, um—"
Mr. Wilkes spun to Travers and pinned him down with a hard stare. "Would you die for her, Travers?"
"Uh," Travers croaked.
"Students and dabblers, the two of you," pronounced Mr. Wilkes with a sneer. "Forget the N.E.W.T.s. Cast aside the spellbooks and diagrams. Take up your wands and feel the blaze and thunder of wizarding combat, in a mock battle if you have to. Vouchsafe your life to the skill and wit of another, and defend him, body and soul, with your own. Unless you know your own mind in such a state, then you cannot know your own reactions and judgement, let alone calculate what the 'optimum' is or isn't." His voice softened a little, and he continued, "Not everyone is suited for fighting; there's no shame in admitting it. But it is a damn shame when a talented wizard assumes his abilities in one discipline transfer to another, and discovers in hindsight that he's overestimated. There's no coming back from that."
When Hermione and Travers bade their farewells and left the staffroom, Travers expressed the urgent desire to duck into the nearest alcove and scream silently into his robe sleeve.
"Well, that was intense, wasn't it?" Hermione asked, trying not to comment on Travers' reaction. "Trombley was alright, but my goodness, Wilkes was... exciting. Very different to Professor Merrythought's style of lecturing. Is he always like that?"
"I'm not sure if I want to be an Auror anymore, Granger. I don't want anyone's life in my hands. And how do you know that you can trust someone with yours?" Travers spoke in a quiet voice, straightening up and adjusting his necktie with trembling fingers, as if he had not been witnessed doing anything out of the usual. And even more quietly, so that Hermione could barely catch his words, he said, "You can't know. It's impossible."
"I promised I'd help you," Hermione reminded him. She patted his back consolingly. "I can't help you or keep my promise if you give up now. Nor would I let you give up, just like that. Come on." She tugged at his sleeve. "I think it's time to call another meeting of the Homework Club."
.
.
A/N: When you die, but your horcrux brings you back...