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Bad Faith	By : angharad1143 Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 7649 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Hermione, Tonks, and Hestia Jones entered Romania through Balfaur Uşă, the Dragon’s Door,
shaking the ash from their clothes and coughing fiercely. It was a long way from England to Romania by
Floo.

The rest of her team, having arrived from many different places by many different methods, were
already there, and Charlie Weasley came forward to hug her, grinning, and taking the sheaf of letters from
her hands.

“We’ve set aside space for you down here,” He bellowed above the roar of dragons, who must have
been feeding. Surely they weren’t always that loud. Shouldering a light pack filled with clothing and a mind-bogglingly heavy suitcase filled with books, Hermione followed, dodging an almighty streamer of flame. The
tiny dragon on her back was going berserk. Not in heated summons, but apparently excited to be around other
dragons.

The rest followed along, Susan Bones shrieking as she put out her smouldering robes.

She was here, there was work to be done, and all Hermione wanted to do was go to sleep. It must be
catching. No amount of coffee had awakened her this morning, but she did have to pee rather desperately.
Most likely something to do with the coffee.

This was not the first time Hermione had travelled for her job, but it was the first time she had gone
somewhere quite so exotic. The Romanian Department of Dragon Care had their headquarters in a vast
network of caves, and dimly visible behind the enchanted ceiling and along the walls were stalactites and
stalagmites, water dripping slowly in the corners as it wore away stone, stretched rock, forming pools that
rippled as the dragons floundered about. The sun was well up in the enchanted ceiling, surely even brighter
than the sun outside.

“Rooms are through there!” shouted Charlie, hurrying down the corridor toward a Romanian
Longhorn that was dashing its namesake at the walls of its pen. Relieved, Hermione found the room and shut
the door behind all of them, instantly eliminating the din.

The rooms they had been given were spacious; a large meeting room with several long tables, and
four smaller rooms with two beds each. Here, at least, the cavern walls were covered over with wood and
plaster, and even windows that looked out on sunny meadows, trees visible in the distance. More like a
cottage than a cavern by far.

Having dropped her knapsack in the room she was sharing with Tonks, Hermione unloaded her books
onto one of the long tables in the common room, the others stretching out maps, unloading books of their
own–or, in the case of Seamus Finnegan, Tonks, and Hestia Jones, playing with their wands and looking
bored. On the wall, Hermione pinned pictures of the Death Eaters Draco had named, staring at Lucius Malfoy
for a long moment–the man his son so strongly resembled. Lucius’ hair was much longer, his face as finely
formed, if older, but there was a coldness to that face that was missing in Draco’s.

Still, it was grimly satisfying to look and know that picture was taken in Azkaban, even if he had
escaped.

And gone was the Hermione that would have been intimidated by all the eyes on her. Turning back
to the assembled Aurors, Hermione gestured to them to gather around the books and maps.

“Tonks and Seamus, I want you both to start hunting Death Eaters,” Hermione said. “If we’re lucky,
we can let them do the work and just take the Eye from them when they find it–or get to it ahead of them.
Seamus, have you decided who you’re going to be?”

“Mulciber,” he said, gesturing to the rack of Polyjuice Potion vials on a nearby table. “We got some
of his hairs.”

Sure he doesn’t have a cat? Hermione wanted to ask wryly, but decided she would be the only one
to get the joke.

“Hestia, Terry Boot got here a week ago; you’re supposed to meet him in the–” Hermione paused,
staring at her notes. “– Coffee Mill,” she translated roughly. “Just look for something that says ‘rasnita cafea’
with little squiggles all over it. And be careful,” she added severely.

Seamus saluted, having somewhat less cheerfully downed a vial of grey-green gelatinous sludge,
clicked his heels, and vanished.

“Wotcher, Hermione,” said the Metamorphmagus with a wink, turning herself into a pleasantly
plump grandmother before disappearing. Hestia, all business, had Apparated on the final syllable of
Hermione’s admonition.

“And I suppose the rest of us know what to do,” Hermione said with a sigh, drawing out a chair and
opening the first book.

The sound of the Researchers and Curse Breakers at work was ordinarily a sweet one to Hermione;
a sound she had dreamed of in the willy-nilly days in the Gryffindor Common Room: utter silence, except
for the occasional turn of the page, the scratch of quills. The sound of people hard at work. Once it would
have been her idea of heaven. Now the words danced on the page before her, a jumble of letters that made
no sense. Ruthlessly she drove all thoughts of Draco, all thoughts of Death Eaters, all thoughts of what might
be happening back home from her mind. It didn’t matter that almost everyone she loved was either in the
Order, or employed by the Ministry. She could help them best by doing her job here.

Hermione always gave herself very good advice; usually it was difficult to take it.

There was nothing in Pantheon: Rise and Fall of Greek Wizards (Andromeda Jasper); nothing in
Articles and Artifacts, an Overview of the Relics of Western Civilization; nothing, nothing, nothing. By the
sounds of the quills–or lack thereof–few of the others were having any better luck.

The oldest, moldiest, and most obscure tomes were on the bottom of the stacks, and Hermione dug
them out reluctantly. Usually, the more modern books would make sense of the Old English–or, God forbid,
the old Latin, Greek, or Sumerian–for them, but Hermione had the feeling that the Eye, for whatever reason,
had not merited mention in modern books.

One or two of the others sneezed as they opened their books, and Hermione bent low over hers, the
title of which translated–from ancient Macedonian–to The Conquering of the Peloponnesus, the Fall of the
Greeks, and What Was Found There. She didn’t bother to try to make out the author’s name.

It was worse than reading Sanskrit. There must have been a Preserving Charm put on this book to
keep it from falling apart.

Scanning as rapidly as she could translate, Hermione was three hundred and forty-five pages in
before she even found mention of the Eye, and that was disappointing.

The pearl of Diana, the Eye of the Moon, missing from inventory of the sack of Athens. Antious was
questioned most thoroughly, under fire and knife, with...

Ugh. Hermione skipped the rest of that paragraph, which was mostly a description of the fate Antious
suffered. The upshot of it was, she thought dryly, the Macedonians hadn’t got the Eye.

A few minutes later, Susan Bones squealed excitedly.

“Look,” she said, thrusting the book to Hermione. “A picture of the Eye.”

Hermione checked the cover as she took the book–Wanderings, A Gypsy’s Autobiography. Well,
more or less. Susan was already cataloguing the find: title, page number, description, and Hermione stared
at the picture, imprinting the image on her brain in case she tripped over it in the forest.

As with most objects of power, the Eye was absurdly small. Apparently, a type of rare gem, similar
to a diamond, that was created by a powerful ancient witch or wizard. Most likely a witch, given that it was
also called Diana’s pearl. There was, however, nothing pearl-like about it.

Hermione handed the book to Justin Finch-Fletchley, who was the best artist of the lot. They would
give Seamus, Tonks, and Hestia a copy of the drawing when they came back that evening.

In the meantime, however, it was a difficult choice; continue to plow through the old books, most
of which consisted of accounts of seeing the eye before Greece fell, or look through books from the Middle
Ages and see if the Eye had resurfaced anywhere. Well, in Romania, obviously, but Hermione was hoping
for something more specific than that.

Wordlessly, she finally picked up one of the newer books, muttering an oath. The wizards from the
fourteenth to eighteenth centuries had apparently been so excited by their mastery of writing that they wrote
everything down. Up to and including what they had had for breakfast that morning.

Accustomed to working together, Stewart picked up one of the newer books, leaving Susan and
Morag to go through the older ones. Susan was better with the languages, anyway. Morag would just have
to make do.

Research was long, tedious, and painstaking work and Hermione called a break after the requisite
three hours, absolutely longing for a cigarette. Muggle or wizard, there was only so long anyone could
concentrate on one thing. Breaks of at least an hour long were a necessity.

She was sorry to do it, however, for all the worries came flooding back, and she wondered if Mrs.
Weasley was still at Headquarters. Most likely not. All her children grown, Molly Weasley had become one
of the most active members of the Order, and was most likely off doing Circe knew what.

Draco, Draco.

She wished he wore a mark that would let her see through his eyes. Hermione had no idea how long
she would be in Romania, but she already missed him dreadfully.

~o~oOo~o~

Three days had passed. Despite a trip to the Romanian Ministry’s library, there had been nothing
concrete found, and Hermione was getting discouraged. The library–any library–had never failed her before,
and it was disillusioning. Their Dark Wizard Catchers–Seamus, Tonks, and Hestia–had stumbled on no one
more unpleasant than a vampire, and after they fixed Seamus’s nose, frustration quickly returned. There was
a sense of foreboding that Hermione couldn’t shake; a ceaseless whisper that said, too late, too late.

She had heard nothing from Draco, and it was both good and bad. If the Death Eaters had already
found the Eye, surely he would have called her. And the dragon on her back still wriggled, purred, clawed,
and almost set her robes on fire, so obviously Draco was still alive.

After three days with Charlie and his dragons, though, Hermione was starting to rethink her Muggle-enforced enchantment with the creatures. The memory of Norbert had dimmed with time, but came flying
back now under a constant battery of roars and flames. How Charlie had maintained his limbs and freckled
face this long, dealing with the beasts every day, Hermione had no idea.

They had everything, Hermione thought in frustration, scanning a book’s worth of notes. Multiple
descriptions of the Eye, legends about the witch–for it was a witch–that made it, endless frustration on the
part of the Macedonians...everything but where the bloody thing was now. Knowing that Vladimir Pytrovich
had possessed it, briefly, in 1503, was not much help.

Even Tonks’s new, improved noses failed to interest her. Dammit, she wanted something to happen.

Wishing was dangerous. She knew that. But as the days crept by, she wished more and more that the
Death Eaters would just find the damn thing, so she and the rest could go take it from them. The Research
team surely wasn’t getting anywhere with their books.

Predictably, her wish came true just as she and Susan were ecstatically taking notes about a gypsy
caravan that reputedly had the Eye. Gypsies were notorious for passing heirlooms along for stretches of
centuries, so it was likely that unless a caravan was wiped out, the Eye still remained in the family. They
were speculating and chattering excitedly when Seamus Finnegan Apparated into the room just long enough
to roar, “Follow me!”

Half a dozen small rocks landed on the table as he vanished, and Hermione screamed for Charlie,
sending the rest ahead after Seamus. Well, she’d wished for some excitement, hadn’t she?

Author’s Notes:

I don’t remember the name of the site I found for Romanian translation, and I don’t intend to use it ever
again. The Romanians apparently find plain letters dull, and embellish them with squiggles wherever
possible. No offense to any Romanians out there; I know slang makes English an interesting language to
learn, too. Standard disclaimers: not my characters, thank you to the Harry Potter Lexicon, and so forth.
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Bad Faith