At first light, Hermione heard the dull roar of her floo coming to life. She peeled her eyes open as she tracked the telltale clicking of stilettos making their way through the kitchen and up the stairs.
Pansy Parkinson burst into her room without knocking and fell gracefully onto her hip on Hermione's bed. She placed a hand over Hermione's prone form and set a to-go coffee cup on the bedside table.
"Morning, Granger," she sang, too loudly. Hermione rolled over and groaned. "When were you going to tell me about last night?" Pansy asked, tilting her head slightly so that her glossy black bob shifted like dark water over her fine-boned face.
"It only just happened, Pans." Hermione glanced at the clock. It was barely 6 in the morning. She had gotten home mere hours ago and fell into a fitful sleep. She kept seeing a blonde-haired ghost just at the corner of her vision in every dream she had.
She and Pansy had struck up an unlikely friendship when she moved to Paris. Pansy was studying fashion and design and their lines of work had crossover within the fine arts community. It surprised Hermione how close they had become so quickly. They were very much alike in their desire to start anew, to forget. And there was a deep understanding between them, as only two witches who had shared trauma can claim.
Pansy scoffed, taking a dainty sip. "It's in the papers this time," she said and snapped her fingers, producing the morning paper from La Balise, the Parisian equivalent to the Daily Prophet. There, in sharp focus, was a moving photo of Draco Malfoy hauling a very disorderly and very drunk Pierre Auclair out of the ruined bar from the night before. The looping clip showed Malfoy's calm stoicism in shocking contrast to Pierre's nearly feral attempts to dislodge his arm from Malfoy's grip. Pierre's hands are bound behind his back and Malfoy's free hand is coming up over and over again to push back the flashing cameras.
Paris' Prince, Pierre Auclair, detained by Britain's Most Eligible Bachelor, and Chief French Auror, Draco Malfoy. Hermione translated silently to herself.
"What happened, Hermione?" Pansy asked after a long beat of silence. Hermione sat up and rubbed her fists into her eyes so hard she started to see a colorful checkerboard of flashing lights behind her lids.
"Shit," she finally muttered, swiping the coffee off her bedside table. She took a sip and cleared her throat. Pansy had, blessedly, charmed the coffee to stay hot for her. "Pierre called me around eleven last night and asked me to come to La Ruche to pick him up," she said and watched as Pansy's expression darkened. The witch did not mince words when it came to her feelings on Pierre, and Hermione's engagement to him. "When I got there, it was in shambles. Pierre and his friends had turned the whole bar upside down, fighting with everyone who looked sideways at them. Malfoy was already there when I got there. They had already been subdued." She sighed. "Why didn't you tell me Malfoy worked for the French Aurors office?" She asked as Pansy sipped her drink.
"Don't change the subject," Pansy rolled her eyes. "Besides, you never liked him all that much, why would I provide updates on his professional career?" She challenged.
"Well…Because he's your friend." She answered quietly. Hermione didn't have much else to say to this. Pansy was right. She and Malfoy never got along. Quite the opposite actually - Malfoy bullied her relentlessly at school, had been on the other side of the war until the very end, and then, disappeared from memory. The last part, she couldn't really attest to all that much. She, also, had disappeared after the war. But she had no idea how he'd become 'Britain's Most Eligible Bachelor' in that time.
Pansy rolled her eyes again, but indulged her. "After the war, he and Lucius stood trial. His father went to Azkaban and Draco was acquitted. He spent years after that in Britain, working for the Ministry as an Auror while funding the Ministry's Reformation Program for ex-Death Eaters. The program was completely funded by Malfoy gold. Lucius was furious," Pansy snickered with delight. "Those that wouldn't be reformed were on Draco's list to capture and bring to justice. He made it his sole purpose. I think he spearheaded a special task force or something, I don't remember," she finished, quite flippantly for how deeply personal the story felt.
"And how did he end up in France?" Hermione asked after a moment.
"His mother lives in Switzerland for the most part. She can't stand the Manor. He transferred here earlier this year. No Swiss office." That explained why Hermione hadn't seen him around the Ministry.
Hermione felt herself nodding absently. She could understand Narcissa's distaste for the Manor. What she couldn't quite comprehend was Malfoy's complete character shift from hateful schoolboy to reformed and beloved heartthrob. Hermione believed in second chances as much as the next person, but to hear of Malfoy's seismic change was jarring. She thought back to their encounter last night. He did seem more patient, more reserved. Maybe not kinder, per se, but he had definitely rounded out some of his sharper edges, if only fractionally.
"This is going to be such a mess," Hermione moaned, dropping her face back into her pillow.
"I can't believe he actually put Pierre in jail," Pansy said, her tone almost giddy. "I would have paid good money to see those two going at it."
"Yes, well, I'm sure it's just another mess I'm going to have to help clean up," Hermione said, her tone already defeated. Pansy shifted on the bed to face her more directly.
"It doesn't have to be like this, Granger," she said seriously. They had had this conversation a thousand times before. It was beating a dead horse, as the muggles would say.
In the beginning, Pansy had actually liked Pierre - he had charmed her too. He was like that. He made time for her friends, made sure to understand why they were important to her. He had indulged her in weekly floo calls with Harry and Ginny, with Luna, Neville, Ron - anyone really. If it made her happy. He had wanted to get to know her friends, and that part of her. She had been proud of him, that he was hers. He was a good man.
But slowly, he began to back out of floo calls, made excuses that started out feasible, but quickly didn't make any sense. He spent more and more time out with his new friends, Luc and Ben among them. He pulled further and further away from the posh boy image that his mother and father had painted of him.
Perfect Pierre, Prince of Paris, they called him. Hermione found he was full of resentment. His coddled upbringing had left him desperate to shed any hint of perceived weakness in his adulthood. Eventually, Pierre turned to alcohol, then brawling, showing up at home black and blue, not even bothering to glamor the injuries. Brawling turned into destruction of property, which turned into felonies that were quietly swept under the rug. Hermione had a suspicion drugs were also involved, but she had never seen him partake with her own eyes so she couldn't be sure.
Throughout all of this, his rapid and baffling descent into debauchery, Hermione had remained steadfast. It had been eight long months of dealing with Pierre's new personality. At the start, she was sure he just needed a release, to push back against the confines of high society. To show his peers that he wasn't mummy's coddled little prince. But he kept pushing and pushing and pushing.
At the six month mark, Hermione had asked him what he really wanted out of their relationship, because whatever they were doing wasn't what she wanted anymore. She had even gone so far as to remove her ring and try to return it. But he had devolved into hysterics. He begged her to stay. He promised her he would change, that it was just a phase, that he was a good man.
That was two months ago. Two long, painful months and every day, Hermione questioned her sanity. She was the brightest witch of her age. What the fuck was she doing?
"Come on, get up. I'll walk with you to work." Pansy said and stood. "I'm going that way anyway."
Hermione frowned as she stared down at the ring on her finger, sparkling indignantly up at her under the dim lights of the gallery. Fridays were always slow, and she was usually grateful for the opportunity to get some more administrative tasks done in the spare time. She typically didn't even have any staff on Fridays either. But she had been distracted today, so much so that she hadn't heard the bell to her shop announce a patron.
"Bonjour," someone called from the gallery and Hermione snapped back into focus. She stood and smoothed her palms down the perfectly pressed material of her maroon pencil skirt. She touched a hand to her meticulously moussed and curled hair to check whether it had started to frizz as she made her way to the gallery.
"Bonjour, désolé pour ça," Hermione apologized, clasping her hands together in front of her and greeting the older couple at the door. This couple was magical - she could always tell straightaway if a patron was magical or mundane. "Avez-vous un rendez-vous?" She asked, knowing full well they did not have an appointment. She hadn't seen anyone on her booking all day, but she was nothing if not polite.
"No, forgive us. And please, may we use English?" the gentleman asked in a British accent. Hermione smiled congenially.
"Of course. And it's no problem. How may I assist you?" She asked and held out her arm, ushering them inside the gallery and toward the main room. Once they were inside, she turned to give them her attention as the older man found his words.
They were well dressed, older, but not necessarily elderly, and they stood very close to one another, nearly pressed up against each other for support. She noticed the man held tightly to the woman's hand and elbow, steadying her. Upon further inspection, the woman seemed sickly, her skin had an oddly grayish pallor, her eyes unfocused and wide, manic almost. She kept looking over Hermione's shoulder, her mouth opening, then closing as she looked away. Again and again she repeated this process. It unsettled Hermione enough that she had to force herself not to look over her own shoulder.
"It's…it's my wife. She has been unwell," he answered her finally, and Hermione drew her eyes away from the woman. He was staring at his wife, his face twisted with concern as he spoke. "She has been unwell for weeks now. I've been racking my brain to try and figure out what happened, what changed. She was fine one morning, then when I returned from the market, she was, well, she was like this."
"I see," Hermione responded, then added delicately, "has she been to see a Healer?"
"Yes, she's been to Healers. They think she's cursed, but they can't identify the curse." His voice was growing frustrated. "The only thing that I can think of is a painting we recently bought had been delivered while I was at the market." He paused, shaking his head. "It seems crazy. But when I mentioned this to a Healer we were seeing back in London, she told me about you and your business dealing with cleansing dark magic from art pieces," he added hurriedly.
"Which Healer did you see?" Hermione asked.
"Healer Parvati Patil," he answered. Hermione nodded. Parvati was an excellent Healer and she had been hoping he'd say her name. She was, however, surprised Parvati hadn't at least owled her to tell her she would have incoming guests. She made a mental note to send her an owl of her own to see if she could get some additional information about the couple. Hermione was no Healer, and she certainly wasn't medically adept to handle any curse-related aspects of the dark magic she dealt with, so she'd need the full picture here before she could begin any cleansing or extraction.
"Healer Patil is very good. I'm glad she referred you to me," Hermione said and motioned for him to continue. "Please, what happened after the painting was delivered?"
"Hilda says that two men unboxed it, hung it up in the hallway and left. She spent some time looking at it, as one does with a new piece of art, then went about her day. She started feeling ill later in the afternoon, and by sundown, she was lethargic, not making any sense, refusing to eat…" The man's voice trailed off as he looked back down at his wife. "Every day she's gotten worse," he nearly choked in an effort to suppress a sob. Hermione ached to reach out and touch his hand in comfort, but his story did very much sound like a curse. And curses, especially dark ones, had the tendency to be chaotic, unpredictable. It wasn't clear yet whether she was dealing with something contagious. It was best to be cautious.
Instead she asked, "What's your name?"
"Peter Baker," he answered drearily.
"Peter," she repeated gently. "I'm going to help you, Peter. First, Let's get your wife under the short-term care of a Healer, to make sure she remains stable throughout this process. And for some peace of mind." Hermione started moving toward the floo and dipped her fingers into the pot of floo powder. She dropped some into the floo and called for her assistant, Henrietta.
"Good afternoon, Miss Granger," Henrietta's answering green head appeared in the floo almost immediately.
"Henrietta," Hermione greeted. "Please make arrangements at a short-term care facility for a patron of ours while we take on their project," she told Henrietta. "And please send Clyde over as soon as possible."
"Of course, Miss Granger, right away," Henrietta said. "I'll be over at once to tend to them," she added and her face disappeared from the floo. Hermione turned back to Peter and Hilda. Peter looked cautiously hopeful.
Hermione sought to further put him at ease. There was a process to dealing with cursed artifacts, one that she had developed and implemented herself many, many times. It's what made her services so successful and sought after. She was meticulous and careful; the strategy and logistics of handling cursed objects was the easy part, Hermione had always thought. It was the personal touch she and her team added that really brought the whole process together. They weren't just dealing with inanimate objects. Many times, they were dealing with couples, entire families, sometimes children. And Hermione needed to be gentle, easy to understand, trustworthy.
There was a lot about the process that was difficult, especially the healing journey after the curse had been identified and treatment had been administered. Once people realized their art was tainted, they didn't really care to save it, or keep it. But so often, the pieces were priceless wizarding artifacts or paintings or sculptures. Hermione couldn't bring herself to simply destroy them. She had once come across a cursed statue of the Lady of the Lake, Merlin's suspected murderer. The sculpture was so moving, so painstakingly crafted and lifelike that Hermione had a visceral reaction to it. It was the first magical sculpture she had successfully cleansed of dark magic, saving the muggle French President and his wife from a very nasty curse that kept most of their exposed skin covered in unexplainable boils. Well, unexplainable to them.
The Lady of the Lake remained safely tucked away beneath the gallery, in Hermione's vault full of priceless pieces.
"Peter, I'll need to see the art, to examine it. We'll work with my team to package it up and get it here safely. We don't want whatever curse it holds to pass to anyone else. And I'll need the name of the delivery team, as well as the dealer you bought it through. Can you get that information to me?" Hermione asked, feeling herself confidently slip into the familiarity of her work.
"Yes, of course," Peter answered just as Clyde apparated beside Hermione with a soft pop.
"Miss Granger," Clyde said in greeting. He was pristine as always, dressed in a perfectly pressed tan suit. He had an ever-pleasant expression on his face that always put her clients at ease. She liked to use Clyde as her details man. He was hyper-focused, driven to perfection, highly intelligent. But he had a way with people that softened them; Hermione had never seen anything like it. A quick glance at Peter confirmed he was eyeing Clyde with quiet contentment.
"Peter, this is my colleague, Clyde. He will be spearheading the transportation of the painting to our gallery for further inspection," Hermione introduced.
Clyde pressed a hand to his chest and bowed slightly at the waist in greeting. He was smart enough to know they were dealing with a dark artifact and knew not to make physical contact, yet still connected with them in a meaningful way.
"Peter, it's my pleasure and honor. Please, follow me to my office. Let's have a seat and discuss the details," Clyde said and motioned for Peter and Hilda to follow him. They did so willingly and Hermione smiled reassuringly at them as they passed.
Hermione made her way back to her office, which had a private floo. She closed the door behind her and called for Parvati. It was lunchtime in London, and Hermione hoped Parvati would be in her office and not running around the hospital.
"Hermione Granger!" Parvati's smiling face greeted her, green flames dancing in delight.
"Parvati, good to hear your voice," Hermione said, offering Parvati a smile of her own.
"I have been meaning to call you to check in. Things have been busy around here, although we both know that's a shite excuse." Parvati said, her refreshing frankness making Hermione chuckle.
"I'm afraid I have the same excuse," Hermione said. Parvati hummed her agreement. "I do have a rather time sensitive question for you, Parvati, if you have a moment now," she asked hopefully.
"It is lunchtime, Hermione, and I think you know that," Parvati said with a raised brow and Hermione nodded.
"Guilty." She cleared her throat. "I've just had a couple come in here, Peter and Hilda Baker from London. They said you referred them after they saw you recently for a curse evaluation."
"Ah yes, I remember. That was quite recently if I remember." Parvati grew silent as she gathered her memories of the couple and Hermione waited patiently. "We couldn't identify the curse, but she was very obviously unwell. She presented with confusion, lethargy, weight loss, agitation - likely due to the confusion - and, and there was something about her gaze. It was like she couldn't focus, and when she did, she seemed petrified," Parvati said thoughtfully.
Hermione remembered the way the women kept looking over her shoulder, the look of distress on her face, her wide, manic eyes. "Yes, that all seems to be consistent with that I noticed today. But you said you couldn't identify the curse?" Hermione asked again.
"No, it didn't show up on any of our scans or diagnostics…" Parvati's voice trailed off, almost as if she was putting together a puzzle in her head, trying to make sense of something. "Come to think of it…Mrs. Baker was one of three other similar cases this month," she said finally. Hermione heard the pages of a notebook turning frantically and Parvati's head looked down, scanning. "Yes, here is a report of a similar symptom presentation from a young man. And then there was his mother, who he lived with, and his friend from school who had been visiting them for break. All with the same symptoms as Mrs. Baker - lethargy, confusion, rapid onset of symptoms."
Hermione's mind was spinning with this new information. That sounded a lot like a contagious curse, which was rare, but not impossible. And terrifying if not contained immediately and properly.
"Did they say anything about the circumstances that preceded these new symptoms?" Hermione asked. "Who brought them in?"
"The visiting young man's mother brought her son in first. She hadn't been to the house so she hadn't noticed anything worth telling, or that's what I'm assuming. The father brought in his wife and son. He had been away on business and when he returned, they were, and I quote, 'wandering around the manor, screaming at shadows,' end quote." Parvati said, reading from the notes on her desk.
"Parvati, we need to find out whether they acquired any new art pieces recently. I'll put you in touch with Clyde. He'll be in London this evening to collect the Baker's piece and transport it here. I'll have him come by the hospital to meet with you, if that's alright," Hermione said and Parvati was already nodding before she finished her sentence.
"Ok, I'll put his name on the guest list and keep an eye out for him," she said. "Thanks, Hermione."
"Thank you, Pavrati. I'll floo you later to check in, yeah?"
"Sounds great. Take care, Hermione."
Hermione was finishing up a letter to Clyde when she heard Henrietta's quick steps coming down the hall. "Miss Granger," Henrietta said quietly at her office door. Hermione looked up and smiled at the young witch.
"Yes, Henrietta," she said, putting her quill down and stretching her fingers.
"Hilda's short-term care facility has been secured. Clyde is on his way there with them now to get her settled. Afterwards, he'll be off to London to begin the process of transporting the painting," she updated quickly.
"That's great, thank you," Hermione thanked her and stood, handing Henrietta the letter for Clyde. "Will you please owl this over to Clyde? I need him to run another errand in London this evening. It's important this letter gets to him quickly. Use one of the more seasoned owls," Hermione said with a wink.
Henrietta nodded and took the letter, but when Hermione began to sit back down, she cleared her throat daintily. "Miss Granger, there are also two gentlemen here to see you from the Ministry. They said it was urgent," she said with a wince. Hermione froze, the memory of last night flooding back to her so suddenly she shifted her shoulders uncomfortably. She had been so engrossed in the mystery of this painting that she had completely forgotten about Pierre and his mess. "I can delay them further?" Henrietta offered, sensing Hermione's hesitance.
"No, no, that's alright," she said, standing. Hermione walked to the door and put a hand on Henrietta's arm. "I suspect I'll be held up at the Ministry for the rest of the day. Just make sure to follow up with Clyde and keep me informed," Hermione said and the young witch nodded dutifully. Hermione trusted her completely. Henrietta was young, but she was competent and resourceful. There was a reason she had called both Henrietta and Clyde to assist on this one. They were two of her best.
For the second time that morning, Hermione readied herself to walk into her gallery. This time, she took her wand with her, letting it hang casually from her fingers in a non-threatening way. When she turned the corner, she saw two vaguely familiar Aurors. Familiar only in the sense that they had been present once or twice to break up a bar fight or help to subdue Pierre.
"The Ministry's finest, what a pleasure. Looking for some investment pieces?" Hermione asked sarcastically. The younger one rolled his eyes. The older one huffed out a less than entertained grunt.
"Miss Granger, if you'll please come with us. The Minister is requesting your presence," the older one said. Unsurprising, Hermione thought. Quite frankly she was shocked it had taken them this long to send for her. Usually Gabriel and his wife sent for her immediately the morning after a particularly large incident. It was good for Pierre to be seen with her quickly after the events of the night before. She humanized him. She was a beautiful witch, successful and level-headed. Not quite a media darling, but polite enough that they never wrote badly about her.
Hermione almost refused. She had just taken on new clients and felt the heady rush of excitement that always came with unraveling a mystery, solving a problem. She didn't want to lose precious time and momentum getting stuck at the ministry dealing with Pierre's ineptitude. The thought had a surprising prickle of anger rushing up her neck. She couldn't keep putting her work on the back burner for Pierre. It wasn't fair, and furthermore, it wasn't who she was, to put herself second for a man.
"Miss Granger," the Auror said her name sternly. Hermione found she had balled her hands into fists at her sides.
"Are you asking me or telling me." Her tone was icy, her gaze, piercing.
They fumbled momentarily for words. She had never refused before. She could tell they were debating whether they had the clearance to force her to go to the ministry. She was debating whether this was how she wanted to end her two year relationship. In the end, she grudgingly decided Pierre at least deserved a little better than an ignored summons and an absentee fiancé.
"The - the Minister has requested —"
"Yes, I heard you," she snapped and lurched into motion. "I don't have all day," she said as she moved toward the doors, yanking them open and walking briskly to the apparation point.
"As other girls hoped for handsomeness in a lover, or for wealth, or for power, or for poetry, she had hoped fervently: let him be kind."
- Anaïs Nin, A Spy in the House of Love