Chapter 12: Hermione Granger: A Chance Encounter

Hermione Granger

Brigadoon currently nestled in a long, shallow valley. A thick wall surrounded it, arching over a river that ran through the village. At the valley's edges, houses sat on a slant, like mushrooms stuck on a curving root. Chimney smoke spiraled above tiled and thatched rooftops.

In a clearing above Brigadoon, a brisk wind snapped at Hermione's face, and she tightened her scarf. Autumn had turned chilly. Patches of blue peeked through the leafy canopy, revealing a clear sky perfect for flying. Harry would've loved it.

They followed the river down, and soon sounds reached them — shouts and laughter, iron clanging on iron, and the practiced calls of vendors advertising their wares to passersby.

Thick wooden gates stood near the river, and willows and reeds on the riverbank swayed and rattled against the left gate. Up close, the solid wall revealed itself to be woven from thick branches. Hermione reached out to touch it, but it moved—branches tightening and erupting in thorns—and she withdrew her hand.

"They don't like to be touched by outsiders," Millicent informed her.

Hermione watched branches twist and fold over themselves. "Who's they?"

"Plants in the Garden." Millicent gestured at the wall. "It's what they call it. A specialized order in Brigadoon devotes themselves to Garden maintenance. Weaving in new branches, cutting away dead ones."

"Oh? What are they called?" She stopped, holding up an index finger before Millicent could reply. "Don't tell me. Gardeners."

Millicent patted her head. "I can see why you were top of your class." She nodded at a woman sitting in a booth just outside the gate. "Hello, Mordag."

Mordag looked as if she'd been sitting there since Merlin's time, her pure white hair floating around her weather-beaten face. A crow rested on a perch in a corner of the booth, its head sunk deep into his body and its dull feathers showing a few bare spots. It watched them with one eye while Mordag slept in her seat, her head lolling to one side as she breathed a half-grumble, half-snore.

Hermione glanced at Millicent and whispered, "should we wake her?"

Millicent didn't lower her voice in reply. "Nah. She's awake."

"That's a lie," Mordag said. One eye slitted open and watched them.

Millicent frowned. "We don't have time for your nonsense."

"Nonsense. Nonsense, she says. You'd best show respect, or you'll nae be seeing the village at all." She pulled a clay pipe from her pocket, sucking on the mouthpiece as she lit it. The match caught, and she sighed heartily as a sweet smoke rose from the bowl. "Fine day," she said, the pipe tugging at her lower lip. She wore only a simple cotton dress, sturdy boots, and a loosely woven shawl, but didn't shiver once as the wind whipped around her.

"It's great," Millicent replied. "How long before you leave?"

The woman pulled the pipe off her lip and pointed the mouthpiece at a thick stone dial standing on its edge by the gate. Inscribed Druidic symbols and Roman numerals covered the flat surface of the dial. A trail of flattened grass showed its progress along the wall.

Hermione fervently studied the symbols. For days, she'd quizzed Millicent and studied her meager collection of books referencing Brigadoon. The stone shifted slightly, pressing into fresh grass, and a new symbol rose to the top. "Five hours?"

Mordag nodded approvingly. "Five hours and twenty minutes."

"Plenty of time," Ron said.

"Mibbe sooner," Mordag said. "Wheel's moved faster of late. Might be trouble. Too many black robes visiting lately."

"Death Eaters?" Ron looked at her sharply. "You let Death Eaters in here?"

"They say they come to trade and we let them in. You say you come to trade and we let you in." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Lucky for you."

"Have they caused trouble?" Hermione asked. "Searching for anyone?"

"Someone like a resistance leader?" Mordag chuckled. "Yes, I know who you are. They've nae mentioned you, hen. Just transport and trade."

She stiffened, half hopeful, half dreading. "Prisoners?"

Mordag narrowed her gaze. "All trade is welcome here. Even kinds you dinnae like."

"Yes, but slavery," Hermione protested. Her mind raced as she talked, wondering if she'd see any friends or allies, and how well guarded they'd be. "It's not one hundred years ago." Mordag looked at her strangely and Hermione flushed, realizing her mistake.

"Don't mind her," Millicent said. "She's confusing you with a story about singing time-travelers."

Mordag grumbled something about dobbers and their bedtime stories, waving her pipe again. The gates swung open.

"They change locations," Millicent said as they entered, speaking slowly, as if to someone with multiple concussions.

"Not times," Ron added, his tone only slightly better than Millicent's. But at least he was talking to her again.

"I know, I know." She loosened her scarf. Her face had gone from stinging-cold to uncomfortably warm. "I forgot for a moment. It's all still new to me."

"I can't believe you never brought her here," Millicent said to Ron. "Didn't your parents bring you Christmas shopping? We went every year."

"Mum didn't trust me not to wander off. She worried about some Brigadooner kidnapping me and whisking me away."

"I don't see why they'd bother with you."

"And it wouldn't work anyway," Hermione said. "Right? Only Brigadoon residents and property move. Everything else is left behind."

Millicent gave her a tired, long-suffering look. "Yes, Hermione. Very good."

Years of potions classes had made her immune to approval laced with sarcasm. She lifted the praise right out and enjoyed it. "And apparation isn't possible inside the village." She frowned as she tried to remember. "Something to do with multiple fields of transport."

"Like trying to use a portkey inside a floo," Ron said. "Or something like that. I never much understood magical transportation theory. But it's a good way to have parts of you sent in different directions."

Wattle and daub houses lined cobblestone streets. Vines thickly covering the walls tightened over windows as they passed. Millicent nodded at a figure behind the panes before vines twisted over the glass. "A Gardener."

At a crossroads, they encountered an oak sprouting through a hole in the center. "That grew in the valley before Brigadoon arrived," Ron said. "They try not to flatten everything. Lots of plants and wildlife pop through, but safe spots stay solid. There." They arrived at a town square, and Ron pointed to a circle carved into the cobblestones. "And plenty inside houses."

"We'll be fine, since we won't leave with Brigadoon. But villagers need them. Otherwise, they could be walking along during a transport and arrive with a juniper up their arse."

"Mum warned me about that, too." Ron squinted across the square. "She said she'd be here."

In the center of the square, a fountain adorned with stone dragons spouted thick jets of water. Shops, stalls, and traders lined the outskirts. Despite Brigadoon's archaic look, the townspeople and visitors appeared distinctly modern, wearing either jeans and hoodies or fashionable robes. It might have been any wizarding area, except that many walking by had their hoods pulled up. Others wore wooden handcrafted masks or ones woven with reeds and flowers. "It's difficult to tell who anyone is."

Millicent shrugged. "Lots of refugees and fugitives here. It's a way to settle down while never staying in the same place. But bounty hunters know that, too. Many of them don't walk about uncovered. For a while everyone grew fur on their faces."

"The furry men of Brigadoon! Mum used to tell me that story."

"Masks are the trend now. And this." She raised the hood of her robe, and Ron and Hermione did likewise.

They might walk past Molly and never realize. But Death Eaters wore masks, too, and Hermione had learnt other ways to recognize people. The way someone hunched their shoulders, or the stiffness of their stride. Knowing that Crabbe was slow to fire spells and Alecto Carrow favored the right were deciding factors in battle.

One masked figure in the town square walked in a familiar bustling gait. Her mask was knitted wool dyed a cheerful red, much like Ron's handmade Christmas pulls.

"There," she told Ron, pointing.

Ron looked where she gestured and brightened. He strode forwards and clasped the masked figure's arms. "Mum."

Molly Weasley pulled off her mask and wrapped her arms around him. "Ron. You've no idea how worried I've been."

Ron nodded, his movements jerky.

Hermione stepped away to a nearby basket vendor. She didn't want them to feel self-conscious on her account, and she felt so terribly conspicuous standing there while they embraced.

She'd embraced her father the last time she'd seen him. He'd looked exactly as she always pictured him, with neatly combed hair and warm eyes. She'd read somewhere that memory was closely tied to the sense of smell, and she'd breathed deeply, in that final moment. So that when she needed it, she could imagine being held in his arms, her nose buried in his button-down shirt, breathing in cedar oil, geraniums, and minty toothpaste.

Maybe, one day, she'd fly the thousands of miles to Australia and see them both. And maybe some scent distinctly marked her as their daughter, and long-forgotten memories would stir. Maybe there was magic all parents possessed—muggle or no—that canceled out years and miles and obliviation spells. She'd step into the circle of their arms and be their little girl again. Maybe. But for now, they were safer where they were, and she couldn't afford to indulge such thoughts.

She rejoined Ron and Molly. "Why don't you spend some time catching up? Millicent and I must see to something."

They'd already discussed it, but Ron hesitated. "You're sure?"

"Of course. Girls' trip." She looped her arm around Millicent's.

Millicent's perpetual frown flattened into a thin line in a possible attempt at a smile. "We love shopping."

"We'll go with you," Mrs. Weasley immediately said.

"No, it's fine. We'll meet for lunch afterwards."

"The Blind Mouse," Millicent said. At their blank looks, she added, "it's a pub just past the square, next to the carpentry shop."

As Ron and his mum wandered away, she gripped Millicent's arm tighter. "This is your mission, but you haven't given me any details about how we're getting this pensieve and potion. You mentioned stealing them, but how? "

"It might not come to that. Don't worry. I've done this before." She led Hermione down a twisting street where they wove between a thicket of birch trees. Then a wider street dotted with shrubs. The foot traffic dwindled, and it was quiet until a large shrub rustled violently. They both stiffened and readied their wands.

The shrub uttered a plaintive bleat. A dappled goat poked its head out, eyeing them inquisitively.

Millicent blinked back at the goat. "Oh."

The goat trotted towards them and nudged Millicent's hand. The corners of her mouth tugged up, and she scratched it behind the ears.

Hermione looked down the street. Nothing but shops, and certainly no farms. "What's a goat doing here?"

"Must've escaped from the Rattle and Horn." Millicent nodded at the end of the street. "The cheese shop."

"I suppose we should return it before we continue." She reached out to pet the goat, but the goat glared and snapped its teeth at her. She drew back quickly and tucked her fingers safely in her pockets.

"That's where I was taking you." Millicent gave the fuzzy head another fond pat and headed that way. The goat followed.

"Cheese shop?" Hermione asked, still studying the goat. "Why would we—" She looked up too late to realize Millicent had stopped. She thudded into her back and squawked.

"Quiet." Millicent pointed down a side street.

At a distant crossroads, two masked Death Eaters pushed along hooded prisoners. A few of the prisoners wore muggle clothing, but most had bright yellow robes and black hoods for transport. One Death Eater turned towards the street, as if sensing them. She and Millicent split up, each slipping into alcoves of inset doorways. The goat watched the prisoners, then nosed a bit of nettle weed growing between cobblestones and tugged it free.

Mordag had warned her, but it was still a hard sight. The inability to apparate must make Brigadoon an appealing place to round up prisoners until they could cast anti-apparation charms on them.

The Death Eater turned back and shouted something, and the group stumbled towards the main square. Some might be headed for Azkaban. Some might be her friends. Unable to see, to defend themselves, to know what would happen to them. Molly was right—having information on prisoner records was terribly valuable. Perhaps it was worth giving up one person—a person she didn't know and couldn't remember. A person the others didn't trust.

They waited a moment, making sure no one remained at the other end of the street. Then they headed towards the cheese shop.

Inside, the Rattle and Horn was relatively bare. Rounds and blocks of cheese sat on shelves behind the counter, wrapped in brown paper. On a sunny windowsill near the door, a grey cat lolled, its tail tip curling up in a lazy beat. It blinked at them, neither interested nor disinterested, in the way of all sleepy cats. Hermione realized she hadn't seen Crookshanks for a few days and wondered where he'd gone.

The door behind the counter banged open, and an old man emerged and leaned against the wall, removing his muddy boots. He showed no surprise at their arrival, studying them both with a squint. His eyes were as blue as Dumbledore's, but had a flinty gleam. "Goats jittery today," he said. "Trouble's coming."

It took Hermione a moment to place him. She hadn't seen him in many years, but the portrait had talked of him once or twice. "Mr. Dumbledore. I didn't expect to see you. Do you live here?"

Sliding into a pair of soft leather shoes, he seated himself on a stool behind the counter. "Call me Aberforth. Some years now. Best way to stay out of the nonsense the wizarding world is going through."

Nonsense? Hermione, incensed, started to form a retort when Millicent stomped on her foot. "Ow!"

"Sorry," Millicent said, not looking even slightly contrite. She nodded at Aberforth in greeting. "We found your goat."

"Ah, yes. Opal." He gave her a look far warmer than the one Hermione had received. "Can't hold that one back when she gets a mind to do something."

Hermione glanced at the open doorway he had come from. All she could see were dusty shelves. "You keep goats back there?"

"Cheese doesn't make itself," he said. "Don't like leaving the shop, but I'm short-handed." He eyed her. Got a nice aged one, here. Crumbles in the mouth."

"No thanks," Millicent said. "Just the pensieve."

Hermione spun, her mouth open. "That was your secret plan?"

Millicent shrugged. "You don't trust me."

"I trust you," Hermione insisted.

"And If I'd said, 'let's visit my friend alone. He'll give us the supplies we need,' you would've happily gone along?"

Hermione hesitated. "Well… "

"You would've thought it was a trap. It's fine. I mean, it isn't, but I'm used to it by now. I knew you'd believe me if I told you we were going to steal it."

"If you'd told me it was Aberforth…" It occurred to her that she didn't know Aberforth all that well. "Why did we need to do this alone?"

Aberforth had barely blinked at their discussion of stealing. He picked up a cheese wedge and sliced the rind away with his knife. "Don't like company. Especially the kind that gets involved in wars. But I owe Millicent a favor."

"More than one," Millicent grumbled. "Giving us the pensieve for this meeting hardly makes us even."

"You told him about the meeting? He could've told anyone!" She stopped, as it occurred to her that Aberforth might be the Phoenix. He was secretive, knowledgeable in a variety of spells, and most likely had many contacts in the wizarding world. After the headmaster had died, he'd disappeared, apparently setting up shop here. Neutral territory. He could be playing both sides in the war.

But Aberforth didn't seem overly interested in her meeting. "I don't hand over the pensieve to anyone. It's a family heirloom."

Hermione frowned. "A Dumbledore family heirloom? Like the one Professor Dumbledore kept in his office?"

"The very same."

"I thought that was stolen!"

"And you're against stealing pensieves, are you?" Aberforth sliced off a bit of cheese and chewed it slowly. "I took it before it got destroyed. Didn't know anyone was using it."

"I was." Although she couldn't talk about why she'd been using it. "But I suppose you're right. It does belong to you."

Aberforth harrumphed. "I should say so. You want to borrow something, you should ask."

"But we can, can't we?" Millicent asked. "Borrow it?" She frowned at his silence. "Remember all my work on decoding runes?"

Hermione stared at Millicent. "You're an expert on ancient runes?" She supposed it was true. When she'd asked about the runes used at Brigadoon, Millicent's answers had been short, but had all made sense.

"You're not the only person who's an expert at things," Millicent retorted.

"No, you're right. I'm sorry. It's just… I don't remember you taking the advanced runes classes."

Millicent shrugged. "I had a private tutor."

Of course. Most Slytherin students had taken up private tutoring when Hogwarts had closed.

Aberforth graced Millicent with a smile. "Suppose you did. Worked your way through piles of scrolls." He nodded at Hermione. "Once she sets her mind to a task, she doesn't let up."

"Lots of work," Millicent said. "Unpaid work."

"Fair enough. But you're not taking my pensieve with you. Come back after your meeting and you can use it. Under my supervision." He gave Hermione a baleful look. "Anything else?"

"The potion?" Millicent asked.

Aberforth turned the wedge of cheese back and forth. "No stock left."

Millicent frowned. "You had some the last time I was here."

Hermione studied Millicent, a strange feeling in her gut. "You've come here recently? When?"

"We go back a bit." Aberforth waved her concern away. "But this isn't about favors. A goat knocked into a shelf. Destroyed several potions. And my supplier has cut me off. Too many responsibilities. Or he can't be bothered." He shrugged. "I'm a fair enough hand that I can brew most of my own. But not that one."

"Can't you find someone else?"

Aberforth studied her. "When's this meeting of yours?"

Hermione's face heated. "I don't have an exact time. This afternoon." She already knew what he was going to say.

"I can't find another potioneer to brew a specialized potion by this afternoon." Aberforth cut into the wedge again and popped another morsel in his mouth. "Are you buying cheese or not?"

They left the shop. "Now what?" Millicent asked.

"It'll be all right," Hermione said. "I'll use my wand. Discreetly."

Millicent cocked her head. "You'll discreetly pull strands of memories from your head?"

"I'll distract him, then. I only need one memory to learn his identity." She rifled through her bag, finding items deep inside the wizarding space. Rapid-growing devil's snare, and a few cylinders with metal tabs. "I've modified muggle smoke bombs. I could drop one, act as though it's an accident."

"Might sell your clumsiness better if you're falling-down drunk. Have a firewiskey at the Blind Mouse while you wait. Gargle it so it's on your breath."

"I'll take it under advisement," Hermione said wryly. "Shall we go?"

Millicent glanced back at the cheese shop. "I'm going back in. I want to catch up with Aberforth."

Her head filled with questions, but she suspected she wouldn't get honest answers if she asked now. "I didn't realize you two were such good mates."

Millicent shrugged. "We used to run in the same circles. See you." She was back inside the shop before Hermione could blink.

xx

The Death Eaters and their prisoners stood in the main square, waiting for transport orders. Hermione had seen it before. Like a dark sorting hat, the prisoners were judged for their qualities and sent to different destinations. They sent the most valuable prisoners to the Ministry dungeons, for interrogation or public execution. Resistance fighters and anyone deemed dangerous were taken to Azkaban to be broken. Unresisting purebloods were pressured to swear loyalty oaths and 'donate' to the war effort. The compliant ones with lesser bloodlines were often sold as slaves—or 'servants,' a more palatable euphemism. The assorted rest landed in prison camps.

She skirted the main square, staying out of their line of sight. Ron and Molly sat at a table in the Blind Mouse, deep in conversation, not looking up until she approached. At which point, Ron cut off whatever he'd been saying, leaving an awkward silence in his wake.

"Well," Hermione began, but couldn't find words to follow that. From Ron's inability to meet her eye, it was obvious what they'd been talking about. "I really am sorry—"

"So you've said." He stood. "I'll get us some drinks, yeah?" And without waiting for a reply, he headed towards the bar.

She gave Molly a weak smile. "I didn't mean to make anyone uncomfortable. I take it he told you?"

Molly returned a much stronger smile. "It's for the best, though. If you're sure it's over."

"I'm afraid so."

Molly nodded, unsurprised. "Then it's a good sign. It means he believes you."

She was right, but it was difficult. Ron now relaxed more around Millicent than her. "I feel like I've broken our friendship."

"My Ron's a sweet and loyal boy. Just a bit sensitive, is all. He'll tend his wounds and work his way through. Give him time."

Hermione nodded glumly. "I miss how we were before all this. We've been friends for so long."

"You will be again. I'm sure of it." Molly's eyes grew distant. "There was someone before Arthur, you know. We'd been friends for ages, and we just… fell into something else. When we broke up, it was terrible. The crying, the fights. We didn't speak for years afterwards. But now, it's like old times. We found our magic."

"Now?" Hermione asked.

Molly played with her fork. "You remember the old school chum I mentioned in my last message?"

"Oh." Hermione frowned. "I thought your chum was a she."

Molly smiled, her cheeks pinking up a bit. "Youthful curiosity."

"Goodness." Hermione didn't know what to say to that. She'd always seen Molly as traditional, down to her very bones. Although a pureblood marrying a man fascinated by muggles was perhaps not that traditional for the wizarding world.

"In the end, she wanted more from the relationship than I did. And I soon fell madly in love with Arthur."

She realized why Molly was telling her this and appreciated the confidence all the more. "I wish Ron and I wanted the same things."

"I know." Molly patted Hermione's hand. "It's been a difficult few years for you both." A shadow passed over her face, and she suddenly looked ten years older. "For me, too."

Hermione clasped her hand. "All the more reason to keep fighting."

She nodded, but her smile didn't return. "We don't have enough people to keep fighting."

"I know." She felt her failures all over again.

"Ron tells me you might have something that'll give us a chance with the prisoners."

"Maybe," she hedged. She imagined the despair of those trapped in Azkaban. Poor Sirius, who could barely stand to sleep within their base walls. All for fighting for what's right. How did she weigh that against one contact on the other side? "I need to think about it."

Molly squeezed her hand back and smiled. "No matter what happens—or happened—between you and Ron, there's always room for you in our family."

It was the most wonderful and absolute worst thing Molly could've said. It made her think of her parents again, and the life she'd given up among the Weasleys. She'd always be welcome, of course. But giving up Ron meant giving up on a certain kind of family. She'd have to muddle through a murky future, not knowing where it led.

She looked away from Molly, blinking her eyes, hoping her unshed tears weren't misunderstood. She appreciated Molly's kind words.

A dab of ginger appeared in the crowds in front of the pub, barely visible between fluttering robe hems. A fluffy tail-tip bobbed between legs—a familiar sight. "Is that Crookshanks?"

"Hmm?" Molly looked behind her. "I don't see anything."

A message from the Phoenix with the location details of their meeting? She excused herself and followed.

The tail disappeared into the swarm of people who filled the square. She went with the flow. The wizards and witches were a mix of residents and visitors — some in colorful robes, but many wearing dark brown and black garb that didn't attract attention. Small packages exchanged hands among furtive glances. Sellers and buyers communicated with each other by nods and taps on the arm.

She caught another glimpse of the tail and weaved through the crowd. There, a tufted ear, just above a crate on a side street. After another turn, ginger fur flashed between someone's feet. She was unwilling to call him and let her voice be heard by so many people. And something else stopped her. Crookshanks never needed to be called. He could always find her. She was being led. Or lured.

The tail disappeared around a corner onto a narrow street overshadowed by three-story buildings. Dark and isolated—a good place to catch her unawares. She doubled back, coming around from the other side. Crookshanks was nowhere to be seen, but a dark figure stood in a small space between two vacant shops, watching the corner where the cat would've emerged. Waiting for her to follow.

She crept up behind him and pointed her wand at his hooded head. There was something familiar about his stance and the way he held his wand.

The figure slowly straightened. "Miss Granger."

She knew the voice instantly. "Expelliarmus."

The wand jerked from his hand to clatter on the cobblestones. The figure didn't move towards it, instead pulling down his hood to reveal the sharp features of Severus Snape. He glanced back at the corner he'd been watching. "You've always been too clever for your own good."

She kept her wand trained on him. An active Death Eater and a minister. Difficult to crack, certainly, but the information he would have. She felt a thrill at the unexpected victory. He'd tried to bait her with an illusion of Crookshanks, but—wait. How many Death Eaters knew about the importance of her furry little messenger?

She hesitated. "Crookshanks. That was you?"

Snape nodded.

She glanced down the alley, but no other Death Eaters charged, no trap sprang. Only one person outside the rebellion knew Crookshanks was anything other than a pet. Something sank in her chest. The Phoenix had to be a Death Eater, or someone close to them. But she didn't want the Phoenix to be Snape.

Impatience tightened his face, much like when he'd asked a question in class and waited while a student struggled to connect the dots.

"I'll need something more than that," she said.

He nodded, as if expecting that. But what he said next was entirely unexpected. "The sixteenth of September in Kew Gardens."

What on earth? Then she remembered and blushed. She and Ron had apparated there to meet a potions supplier who'd never shown. They'd stayed all night. It had been dark. Very dark. "How do you know about that?"

He raised an eyebrow. "You've asked me to remind you of that particular date and location when necessary."

"I've asked? I never…" She stopped. Obliviation, of course. But she couldn't imagine ever telling him about Kew Gardens. Despite everything with Ron, it was a special memory. A private memory. No one outside her close circle of friends knew about it. But perhaps that was the point. Something innocuous she'd readily tell Snape wouldn't have convinced her.

This was the identity of the mysterious Phoenix. "Oh."

"I never tire of your look of utter disappointment at the start of these encounters." He held out his hand, and his wand whipped through the air, slapping into his palm. He used it to point to an alley branching off the street.

The cramped alley barely held enough room to stand shoulder to shoulder. It dead-ended into stone walls after a few meters. Dark ivy climbed a corner, but otherwise it was empty. She glanced at Snape. "Here?"

"Patience, Miss Granger." He pulled out a thick square of paper, unfolded it into a large sheet, and attached it to the wall behind him. It showed a large advert for perfumed soap etched in sepia tones, with a background of tree-lined shops.

He traced his finger along a roughened seam. The seam glowed faintly, and his hand slipped inside, as if into a pocket. A disembodied hand appeared on the poster, sketched in faded ink to match the image.

He held out his other hand in invitation. "Shall we?"