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Ring A Ring O' Roses	By : Gallivant Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 16640 -:- 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
- 18
- 19
- 20
A fateful encounter with a familiar face from Argentina, a surprise meeting with an old friend, Hermione makes an enemy, and exactly what has happened to Draco? Hermione finds out...

19. The Woundless Air

There was no mistaking the tetchy tone of Narcissa Malfoy’s latest reply to Hermione’s persistent requests for news about Draco.

Dear Hermione Weasley,

Nothing has changed since yesterday. Draco is still away on business. While I understand that you have a very important Ministry matter to discuss with him, please trust that I will contact you the moment he returns home. I have considerable daily correspondence to keep up with, and can’t always rely on having an Owl at my convenience to dispatch to Devon.

May I suggest you try to send an Owl directly to Draco?

Best Regards,

Narcissa Malfoy

Hermione had already tried that. ‘Grumio,’ their owl, had got lost for three days, and had developed a nervous ‘bark’ since returning home. Ron had immediately banned her from trying again.

‘This is getting silly,’ he then groaned, as she tried for the umpteenth time to send Draco a message via her Patronus. For some reason, the damn spell wouldn’t work. It was driving her crazy. ‘Has it occurred to you?’ Ron continued, ‘that Draco’s probably having a right rollicking adventure, and doesn’t want to be disturbed.’

‘He’s ill, Ron! He needs a mediwizard.’

‘And you think he hasn’t worked that out for himself? He’s a big boy, Hermione. He doesn’t need you badgering him.’

‘He might be dead,’ Hermione argued, unable to extinguish the anguish in her voice.

‘Since when did you care?’ Ron said in cutting tones.

But she did care. And the longer he stayed in Argentina, the guiltier she felt, that she’d abandoned Draco to deal with the hopeless fiasco they’d found themselves in, alone.

Hermione decided to ask the Department of International Magic Cooperation, to alert the Argentine authorities to what had been going on. Maybe that would help smooth matters for Draco…

This meant venturing into the Ministry of Magic, much to Ron and his family’s surprise. The Weasleys assumed her low spirits were the result of her Ministry suspension, so out of sensitivity to ‘poor Hermione’, Arthur and Molly had forbidden any mention of the Ministry at The Burrow, which made for some surreally circuitous conversations.

Truth be told, Hermione hankered for a heated debate on the efficacy and motives behind Silas Witchell’s latest tranche of ‘New Broom’ policies, but there was zero conversation to be had during her seven-hour wait in an isolated waiting room, at the Department of International Magic Cooperation. Luckily, she’d brought an armful of books to keep her occupied.

She finally got to speak to a Second Assistant Liaison Officer for South America. She urged him to report the murders of Senor Canaro in Buenos Aires and Jonas Arbuthnot in Santa Maria, describing what she had seen. He point blank refused to hear about Miguel Culebra, as that was ‘Muggle business.’

An owl arrived some days later with a message from the Ministry. Apparently, there were no records of a Senor Canaro having ever existed in Buenos Aires. As for Jonas Arbuthnot, the Argentine Ministry of Magic had certified his official cause of death as food poisoning.

Hermione was outraged. Had the Ministry even bothered to properly investigate, or was this some kind of cover-up?

But what could she do?

Argentina felt so far away – not just geographically – but increasingly, as a ‘reality’. It was as though everything that had happened to her there, was melting away; a violent splash of colour receding into grey.

An ugly truth was dawning on her. Despite her love for Ron and her family, and the safe, happy life they’d built together, her few days with Draco in Argentina, had awakened something buried deep inside of her.

To her private shame, she often found herself reliving in her mind, in explicit detail, the fear and excitement of all she had experienced.

Even more disturbing, was how her feelings towards Draco had changed so dramatically. She simply couldn’t deny their powerful physical connection, and the gaping emotional void she now felt in his absence.

She was haunted by the memory of dancing with him at Villa Ofelia, on a sticky, summer’s night; the sensation of his hard, lean body pressed against her and the overwrought maelstrom of feeling he’d evoked in her. How she’d hated him!

Neither could she stop thinking about the time she’d kissed him… had it been curiosity or lust or just an overflow of feeling that had built up between them? She wasn’t sure. All that remained, was the persistent, throbbing memory of the heat of his mouth on hers, the harsh, guttural sound of his breathing, and the fierce white glow that had flared inside of her.

She wasn’t sure she’d ever felt that before.

All too often, she found herself lying sleepless in bed next to Ron, moaning in frustration into her pillow, worrying that she might never feel something like that again.

What if this was it? What if this was the sum of her life’s experiences? A long, slow crawl into ‘contented’ oblivion…

It didn’t help that Ron was so often away from home, at a time when she desperately needed to remember why she’d fallen in love with him in the first place. However, Ron’s investigations into corruption in Quidditch led him and his Auror-partner Tana McLaughlin, from Latvia to Turkey then to Germany.

He didn’t think he’d make it home until Christmas.

This meant Hermione had to attend the Christmas Nativity Play at St Botolph’s on her own, for the first time since Rose had started school. Molly had offered to come in Ron’s place, but was stuck at home making a huge vat of Pepperup Potion for George and his family; all of whom seemed to be suffering seasonal snivels and aches of one sort or another, while Roxanne had a suspected case of Mumblemumps.

Hermione was looking forward to the play. Rose was playing an angel, sporting a huge pair of gossamer wings, while Hugo had been proudly practising his Baa-s for days, in preparation for his role as a sheep.

It was a crisp, winter’s afternoon. Hermione relished the chill air flushing her cheeks as she set off for a bracing walk into the heart of St Ottery Catchpole. She spotted a gaggle of local mums, likely headed to the school play, clogging the path ahead, and slowed her pace a little. She’d learned from bitter experience to avoid too much interaction, and was sharply aware that the Weasleys were considered ‘nice’ but kind of ‘hokey’. There were even rumours they belonged to a religious sect.

One particular lady, some twenty feet or so ahead, seemed a little out of place, and was actually walking away from the school and towards Hermione instead. She was notably taller and more erect in stature than the huddle of Muggle mums she swept imperiously past. She had a glorious mane of golden hair, which seemed to irradiate her immediate environs.

Hermione froze. There could be only one reason for Sylvestra Golowitz to come visiting, and that was news about Draco. Probably bad news.

Hermione didn’t immediately notice the striking figure of Ephraim Golowitz extricate himself from the admiring glances of the pack of Mums, who had slowed when he passed. He fast approached, a broad smile etched on his bronzed face. Was that a glamour? Hermione wondered. Or simply a side effect of the robust health and dynamic energy that Ephraim seemed to emanate, cowing all around him.

‘Mrs Weasley!’ he hollered in jocular greeting. ‘Just the person we wanted to see!’ His deep, burnished American accent seemed to melt the cold, winter’s air between them.

‘Mr Golowitz…Sylvestra. What a nice surprise,’ Hermione said, hoping to conceal any trace of trepidation with a polite smile.

‘We’d like a little chat with you,’ Ephraim beamed.

‘A chat? Yes - yes, of course. Unfortunately, now’s not a good time. I’m actually on my way somewhere,’ Hermione gabbled, feeling oddly diminished and silly in their presence.

‘Ah, yes! To see young Rose and Hugo perform,’ Ephraim said, his eyes gleaming. Hermione cast him a swift, piercing look. How could he possibly know such a thing?

Ephraim burst into loud, raucous laughter. ‘Don’t fret Mrs Weasley. We’re not spying on you,’ he chortled. ‘Are we Sylvestra?’

‘We’ve been walking through the village. Such a pretty place! And we couldn’t avoid the gathering at the school gates,’ Sylvestra explained. ‘It was impossible not to know that today’s the school play.’

‘So don’t get yourself in a tizzy, Mrs Weasley. We won’t make you late, we promise.’

‘And don’t worry, this isn’t about Draco either,’ Sylvestra added brightly.

‘Oh, I wasn’t worried about that…’ Hermione asserted. ‘Just – just wanting to get to the school play on time, that’s all.’

Sylvestra smiled in response, her unblinking gaze fixed firmly on Hermione’s face. Hermione instantly tried to blank her mind, to focus on the rustle and creak of the trees being harried by a suddenly stiff winter breeze…on the minutiae of the walk from here, close to her house, to the school…icily aware that she was in the presence of a highly skilled Legilimens.

‘Well, let’s walk with you,’ Ephraim said, offering her his arm for support, as they strode towards the school.

‘We’d be relieved to hear from Draco, of course we would,’ Ephraim sighed, ‘but we trust he’s sensible enough to steer clear of trouble.’

‘You realise he planned to return to Patagonia?’ Hermione said.

‘Yes. Draco sent us some very interesting reports concerning your adventures there.’ He glanced at Hermione beside him. ‘Well, less adventures, more nightmares really, wouldn’t you agree Hermione?’

Hermione shivered involuntarily. The cerulean blue of Ephraim’s eyes seemed to fill her mind as he spoke.

‘I would even venture to say, Hermione, that what you and Draco witnessed, could be termed crimes against humanity.’

‘If this Dark Flux outbreak turns out to be a man-made attack, then yes, that could most certainly be seen as -’

‘I refer to the depraved murders committed by these Rojos; these followers of Jeroboam,’ Ephraim interrupted, in firm, deliberate tones. ‘Such crimes demand public exposure.’

‘The Argentinian authorities are denying that any murders have actually taken place, Mr Golowitz,’ Hermione snapped. ‘You should address your concerns to them!’

‘Ministry investigations are notoriously lazy,’ Ephraim said in an offhand manner. ‘What is needed, Hermione, is someone with a sharp legal mind and a fine reputation – someone like you - to openly accuse Saul Jeroboam in the British Wizengamot. After all, we both know the true extent of his murderous ambitions, don’t we?’

‘No, Mr Golowitz. I can’t honestly say we do,’ Hermione countered, noting in growing exasperation, that the crowd of parents who had been milling outside the school, were now streaming rapidly through the gates.

‘Are you sure about that?’ Ephraim slapped one large, warm hand on Hermione’s shoulder, tilting her chin upwards with the other, so that she was meeting his earnest, blue-eyed gaze.

‘Please Mr Golowitz!’ Hermione protested, trying to wriggle free from his grasp. ‘The Ministry won't take me seriously, unless I have compelling, clear-cut evidence.’

Ephraim shook his head regretfully, dropping his hand from Hermione’s chin. She noticed how the bold ruby ring on his left hand glinted in the pale winter sunshine.

‘But you have your mind, Hermione; your memories.’

‘A single person’s unverified ‘memory’ is no longer admissible as objective proof in a criminal prosecution. That was one of the major stipulations in Kingsley Shacklebolt’s Great Reform Bill, after the Second Wizarding War,’ Hermione said tartly.

‘But exceptions can be made…’

‘Not by me, Mr Golowitz. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not exactly the Ministry’s favourite person these days.’

‘Yes, that is very, very wrong, quite incomprehensible. Even so, Hermione, I feel certain that Minister Witchell would be extremely keen to learn the truth about Jeroboam. You should consider the potential rewards that might come your way if you were to speak out.’

‘You mean I might get my old job back?’ Hermione said in acerbic tones.

‘Don’t underestimate your own value,’ Ephraim said silkily. ‘You have a formidable reputation. People listen to you. I have absolutely no doubt you could mount a full-scale international prosecution against Jeroboam if you put your mind to it.’

Hermione desperately fought off the dark suspicions crowding her mind. Was it Ephraim’s fault that she’d been suspended from her job in the first place? After all, Ephraim was a powerful man, with friends in high places.

‘I’d rather wait for Draco to come back,’ she said, changing tack and smiling sweetly, suddenly aware of Sylvestra’s penetrating stare on her face. ‘I’ve no doubt, with his backing, the Wizengamot would take a case against Jeroboam much more seriously.’

Ephraim opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it.

He abruptly switched his attention to St Botolph’s.

‘What a charming little place that is, don’t you think Sylvestra? Such a delightful, old-fashioned architectural style.’

‘Sure is quaint,’ Sylvestra agreed. ‘Is it usual, in this country, to send young witches and wizards to Muggle School?’

‘Not very,’ Hermione said.

The school appeared ominously silent and still. Clearly the audience had taken their seats and were waiting for the performance to begin. Everyone but herself, Hermione thought bitterly.

‘I see. So you’re something of a radical!’ Ephraim proclaimed heartily. ‘So tell me, Hermione, in your estimation, how many children would normally attend a cute little village school like this? One hundred? One hundred and fifty?’

‘I really don’t know,’ Hermione said, exasperated.

‘All Muggles?’ Ephraim asked coolly. ‘Apart from Rose and Hugo of course.’

‘Yes. All Muggles. Look, I think the play’s started. I really need to get going.’

‘Of course,’ Ephraim said. He flashed her a brilliant smile and squeezed her shoulder with his hand. ‘Really good to see you again, Hermione. Keep in touch.’

‘Come and have tea sometime,’ Sylvestra said cheerily.

‘I’d love to,’ Hermione lied.

Two sharp cracks later and they had vanished from sight. Hermione instantly scanned the area for onlookers, but luckily there didn’t seem to be anybody around.

But of course not. Everybody else was indoors watching the damned play, she thought, head throbbing furiously. She marched purposefully into the school playground. How dare they? How dare she? Sneaking into her mind like that.

And Ephraim! What a pompous, blackmailing shitbag, trying to sucker her into his personal vendetta with Saul Jeroboam…

A rising sense of panic mingled with a stinging pang of betrayal bubbled up inside of her.

Had this always been Draco’s true motive for recruiting Ron and herself? Not to investigate what caused Dark Flux; but to set up Jeroboam?

A burst of shrill, tremulous voices breaking into song, roused her from her anguished reverie.

The play had started, without her.

XXX

Boxing Day was to be spent with The Pickles, much to Ron’s displeasure. He was hugely fond of Hermione’s parents, Bob and Jean, but was discomforted by too much Muggle company; most especially Hermione’s Uncle Derek and Aunt Rita.

Rita was large and outspoken with a loud, shrieking laugh. She was also intensely neurotic. Lately, she’d become convinced that quiet Mr Hamid at number 47, was a member of an Islamic extremist terrorist cell, (based on visits from his two young nephews), planning action, here, in their own particular neighbourhood. Hermione had strenuously argued that Borehamwood was a most unlikely terrorist target, adding that Mr Hamid had always been a model neighbour – pleasant, smiling, co-operative. Despite this, Rita continued to sully his name to anyone who would listen.

Uncle Derek was a different kettle of fish altogether. He was the elder brother of Hermione’s mum, but much more taciturn and remote. A man of awkward silences. Despite this, Hermione was fond of him. He was a constant family fixture, soft slippered in a beige cardigan and horn-rimmed spectacles, always with a kindly ‘Would you like some tea, love?’ so that he could slip off to the kitchen, rather than struggle to make conversation.

Today, Uncle Derek was even more subdued than usual. He was notably thin, frail and stooped, after a prolonged and intense bout of chemotherapy. He was being treated for bowel cancer.

Derek and Rita’s only child Gwen, and her seven year old son Alfred, had moved into their rather boxy semi-detached house to help out. This meant their pocket-handkerchief sized living room was awash with plastic robot toys and colourful chunks of Lego. Alfred had commandeered the TV. He was rooted to a spot on the taupe carpet some thirty centimetres or so from the screen, clutching a video game console. His latest obsession, Gwen explained wearily, was Space Force 7; a Shoot ‘Em Up game based on a popular TV show. Alfred was in total disbelief that Rose and Hugo had never seen it. Luckily, Alfred had received the latest DVD box set for Christmas, and insisted on Rose and Hugo watching it all before they went home.

‘That’ll keep them busy,’ Gwen said, sighing in relief.

Aunt Rita rolled her eyes dramatically. ‘Not that bloody awful space malarkey again! All this telly; it’ll rot their brains you know!’

‘Don’t be silly Mum,’ Gwen groused, clearly sick of their current living arrangements already.

‘There’s scientific proofs you know, that all this shooting and murder and whatnot, dangerously raises their cortisone levels!’

‘Cortisol,’ Hermione’s Dad interjected gently.

‘That’s what I said, Bob,’ Rita remonstrated. ‘Cortisone.’

Bob opened his mouth to correct her, but then thought better of it.

Uncle Derek levered himself up slowly from an armchair, tucked into the corner of the room, next to the Christmas tree.

‘Would anyone like a cup of tea?’ he asked. His hands trembled as he spoke.

‘Let me help you,’ Jean said, springing up from the sofa. She hooked her arm affectionately around her brother’s waist, to guide him into the kitchen.

Hermione followed.

XXX

Once Uncle Derek had taken a tray of teas back to the living room and they were finally alone, Hermione confessed to her Mum that she was having a few problems at work, and that she’d been temporarily suspended.

Jean looked shocked. ‘You? Suspended? Whatever for?’

‘Oh, it’s just some silly nonsense. Nothing I can’t handle,’ Hermione said in a tone of forced jollity, instantly regretting her moment of unguarded honesty.

‘Is someone bothering you, Hermione? Like – like one of those harassment cases you’re always hearing about,’ Jean said, tightly pursing her lips.

Hermione pondered a moment. In a way that was precisely what it was; just not the kind of harassment her mother was meaning.

‘No, Mum, nothing like that.’ She gave her mother a reassuring smile. ‘I’ll be fine. Promise.’

It didn’t work. Jean’s brow was puckered into an anxious frown, and her kindly hazel eyes were boring into her daughter’s face, searching for clues.

‘Everything’s okay with Ron, isn’t it?’ Jean asked, lowering her voice.

Hermione reddened. ‘But of course.’

‘You sure?’

‘Mummy,’ came Rose’s plaintive voice from the kitchen doorway. ‘When are we going home?’

‘Aren’t you enjoying your TV show?’

Rose vigorously shook her red hair so that it all but coated her face. ‘Boring,’ she mumbled peevishly.

‘Well, the boys are enjoying it dearie,’ Jean said kindly. And indeed they were. Alfred and Hugo were whooping wildly in the other room, firing at each other with toy ‘Galinkas’, the weapon of choice on Space Force 7.

‘Why don’t you ask Grandad to do a puzzle with you?’ Hermione said brightly.

Bob was only too happy to oblige, having found conversation with his son-in-law a little stilted after discussing today’s football fixtures. Little did he know that Ron had spent a good hour that same morning, practising the names of all the Premiership football teams by rote, so that he could have this conversation.

Bob and Rose quietly settled into a 1000-piece puzzle depicting an enchanted castle, which Hermione thought bore an uncanny resemblance to Hogwarts.

Hermione glanced at her uncle, who appeared to be snoozing in his armchair, oblivious. How he could sleep at all defied belief, as Gwen yelled at Alfred for thwacking poor Hugo on the head with his Galinka.

Hugo, however, was dead-set on revenge, and swung his Galinka into the elder boy’s face with as much force as his burly little body could muster. A spurt of crimson blood exploded from Alfred’s nose, splattering his chin.

The boy was so shocked, he forgot to cry, leaving that honour to Hugo, who collapsed into loud, ranting wails, horrified at what he had done. Hermione wrapped him tightly in her arms, while Gwen whisked Alfred to the bathroom.

‘What’s happened?’ Rita cried. ‘Has World War Three broken out?’

‘Not quite,’ Ron muttered under his breath, clearly wishing he was anywhere but here.

‘That was very, very naughty,’ Hermione hissed, spinning Hugo round to face her.

‘He was being attacked,’ Ron argued. He’d never liked Alfred.

‘That’s no excuse!’ Hermione foisted Hugo into Ron’s care, and went to check on Alfred, who was bawling in the bathroom.

‘Hold still,’ begged his mother, brandishing a tube of ‘Herb Healing’ ointment. ‘This will make you feel better. Like magic!’

Hermione smiled at the irony.

‘There’s a kids’ painkiller in the medical cabinet, Hermione. Do you mind grabbing it for me?’ Gwen asked, rubbing luminous green salve on Alfred’s nose, which was shiny red, but now clean of blood.

Yet another Herb Healing product, Hermione noted. In fact, there were lots of them, by the looks of it: a nasal spray for sinusitis, a children’s strawberry-flavoured toothpaste, a cleaning gel, and an aromatherapy oil to enhance ‘Wellbeing.’

She scanned the bottle containing a ‘natural, fast-acting remedy for aches and pains of all kinds,' featuring a picture on the front of a grinning blonde kid with a toothy smile. He reminded her of the studio portrait of Scorpius in Katya’s study.

‘Hand it over,’ Gwen said irritably.

There was an insistent buzzing in Hermione’s jeans pocket. It was Draco's mobile phone, which she’d managed to fire into life by charging up the battery, the moment she’d arrived.

‘I’ve got to take this,’ she said urgently.

It wasn’t Draco. It was a long line of text messages from Henrik Thyssen instead, dating from a week ago to that same morning – all downloading at once.

Henrik planned to be in town on the 26th. That was today. Could they meet at The Porcupine, on Charing Cross Road, at 4pm?

Just yards from Diagon Alley, Hermione thought.

Ron could meet him. In fact, Ron really should meet him, she thought.

XXX

‘Well, that was a pathetic excuse for getting out of the house. You do realize it’s Boxing Day, don’t you?’ Hermione said in acid tones. ‘The banks are closed.’

‘Muggle banks might be closed, but not Gringotts,’ Ron said crankily, grimacing at the rain. He patted his trouser pocket. ‘Anyway, I really do have business at the bank! I’ve got a bonus to pay into our vault.’

‘A bonus? That’s great Ron!’ Hermione smiled, although she couldn’t help but think that Ron’s pocket didn’t exactly look over-stuffed with galleons. Maybe he had an extendable money-pouch tucked in there?

Hermione asked Ron to also get some Muggle cash from Gringotts. They’d need it with Henrik.

‘Who’s this Henrik chap again?’

‘The Danish journalist we met in Patagonia. He’s useful, Ron. We should plug him for information.’

As soon as they were safely out of sight of the Pickles’ pebble-dashed semi, they Apparated.

XXX

After Gringotts, they headed to The Leaky Cauldron. The landlady, Hannah Abbott, an old acquaintance from Hogwarts, told them that Harry Potter had been in earlier.

‘He says he wants to see you. Urgent business apparently!’ she said to Hermione.

‘Damn,’ Ron grumbled. ‘Shame we missed him. Hmmm. I wonder if this urgent business was what kept him in Paris yesterday? Mum was so sad he couldn’t make it for dinner.’ He eyed Hermione curiously. ‘Wonder what he wants with you?’

‘I am his friend you know!’ Hermione retorted. ‘Anyway, we should go and meet… you know…’ she muttered, aware that Hannah was eavesdropping.

Ron was counting sickles for a butterbeer. ‘There’s no time for that,’ Hermione said irritably. Ron scowled, and instead dropped the coins into a gaudy china moneybox shaped like a Russian doll, which was sitting on top of the counter, beside a sign inviting donations to the Romanian Longhorn Preservation Fund.

‘Alright then,’ he grunted. ‘Hey, Hannah! If Harry comes back in, tell him to stay put, will you?’

XXX

Thankfully, in view of the persistent rain, The Porcupine was directly across the street from the inconspicuous entrance to The Leaky Cauldron.

Cars and taxis sloshed filthy brown puddle water onto them, as they waited on the pavement outside the pub, huddled under an umbrella which Hermione had surreptitiously transfigured from a pencil in her handbag.

The Porcupine consisted of one single curving bar and a noisy, flashing fruit machine.

‘We might as well go inside and grab a beer while we wait,’ Ron said huffily. ‘You got that Muggle money on you?’

Hermione fished a five-pound note out of her purse and offered it to Ron. He looked distinctly uncomfortable.

‘I’d rather you did it.’

‘Yes, I know you would, Ronald Weasley. But practice makes perfect.’

‘But when do I ever need to use Muggle money?’ he whined.

‘Let’s see. How about right now?’

Ron ducked indoors, out of the rain.

A demanding squawk to her left drew Hermione’s attention. She instantly jumped, heart pumping violently.

‘What the hell?’ she gasped, recoiling at the rush of dark, black wings, speeding into the sky and out of sight. Large black birds were pretty much the last thing she wanted to encounter after her experiences in Patagonia. Her eyes were drawn to a small blue ball of screwed up paper beside her on the pavement. She bent down, grabbing the paper with trembling fingers.

Please be from Draco, she silently pleaded as she opened the note, and then instantly felt guilty when she saw that it was from Harry instead. He confirmed what Hannah Abbott had already told her; that he would be at The Leaky Cauldron late that afternoon, once he’d wrapped up some work at the International Magical Office of Law at the Ministry.

‘Something very strange has happened. We need to talk.’

About what? Hermione wondered, an odd, curdling nervousness coiling deep inside of her.

She quickly scanned the streets for a sign of Henrik. Maybe he hadn’t come after all. She’d probably replied to his text too late. She checked her watch. Already half past four.

She was torn. Should she wait a little longer? Or head to The Leaky Cauldron, where it was warm, dry and welcoming, to hopefully see Harry?

Muggles in shiny, waterproof clothing, clutching umbrellas of varying shape and size, were dashing past. The driving rain was gaining strength and power.

‘Ron!’ she yelped, waving the note. Ron was waiting to be served.

Ron reluctantly joined her outside. He jostled for room under her umbrella, which she covertly expanded an inch or two, to encompass them more comfortably.

‘What about this Henrik guy?’

‘Forget him for now. We need to see Harry.’

XXX

Ron eagerly downed a Butterbeer, a slow smile of satisfaction spreading across his face.

‘Well, it can’t have been that important,’ Hermione said grumpily, ‘or he’d be here.’

‘He’s probably got held up. You know what it’s like at the Ministry. You pop in for two minutes for some tiny little errand, and wind up stuck there for two hours instead.’

Hermione frowned deeply.

Ron winced. ‘Oops. Sorry Hermione. Could have been a little more sensitive there.’

Hermione stood up with a heavy sigh, surprising Ron. ‘It’s no good,’ she breathed. ‘I can’t just sit around here waiting. I’ve got to do something,’

‘Why you so nervous?’

‘I don’t know.’ Except she did. She was filled with sickly dread. She had a feeling that this was about Draco.

‘Look Ron, there’s a little Muggle shop close by which sells comic books. I thought of getting a couple for the kids,’ she said.

‘Good idea,' Ron said, swigging his Butterbeer. ‘Hey! See if they’ve got anything on that Muggle outer space stuff that Hugo was watching on the tellybox.’

‘Television, Ron,’ she said fondly.

‘Yeah, that’s what I said.’

XXX

The rain had eased, but Hermione didn’t fancy dawdling. She jogged down Great Newport Street, heading away from Charing Cross Road, and then turned right towards St Martin’s Lane. Here, a large white van was reversing into a tight parking spot and was jutting out at an awkward angle, slap bang in the middle of the road. A long line of cars honked their disapproval in discordant clamorous tones.

Hermione trotted rapidly past the logjam, then swung right into a quiet pedestrian alleyway, crammed with antiquarian bookshops. Instantly, the sounds of the street dissipated. Only the determined pit pat of raindrops and the slapping of her footsteps on shiny, wet flagstones remained. She paused to gaze at the comic books arranged in the lead-latticed windows of the ‘Comic Shop’ and smiled.

Sure enough, there it was on display. Space Force 7: The Original Comic Book Series. She’d planned to buy an old illustrated comic book of Scaramouche for Rose, having spotted one here before, sweeping her into nostalgic pining for her own childhood. It was only fair that Hugo had something to enjoy as well.

She gazed at the cover page for Space Force 7. The fierce-looking hero was armed with a Galinka; a squat, gun-like object, with topside buttons arranged close to the grip, for easy firing access.

Funny, she thought, it looked exactly like Jeroboam’s Dark Flux scanner. Maybe Jeroboam was a secret Space Force 7 fan and had actually modelled it on the Galinka? Unless… but no. That was too horrible to even contemplate.

She was so lost in thought she didn’t notice the flurry of fast approaching footfalls, and was jolted into reality by a hard object jabbing into her side. A strong, Macintoshed arm encircled her, pulling her close. It was a tall, stocky man - broader than Draco, she immediately thought with a pang of disappointment – and his stubbly chin was scratching her cheek.

‘Looks familiar, huh?’ Henrik said in grating tones. He prodded her with what she feared might be a gun.

‘Expelliarmus!’ she shrieked, flinging open her arms, forcing Henrik to stumble backwards and crash onto the sodden pavement. The gun slipped from his grasp and spun out of reach.

Hermione muttered an Accio, and snatched the gun.

It was lighter than she thought it should be, and plasticky. She turned it over and over in her hands, a puzzled expression on her face. But of course, it was the spitting image of the Galinka from Space Force 7.

And yes, it was also an exact replica of the scanner.

‘This is a toy,’ she spluttered.

Henrik was staring at her, eyes round in wonder. ‘How did you do that? That was amazing?’

Hermione bridled with irritation. Really, she’d done something very stupid, even if it was instinctive self-defence she thought sullenly. But there was no time to dwell on it. She had to behave like nothing out the ordinary had happened… Persuade Henrik he was suffering some kind of self-delusion, and then quietly obliviate him as fast as her wand would let her.

‘You threatened me with a toy gun!’ she spat furiously, sneering at the blonde Dane crumpled on the wet pavement before her.

‘You made the gun fly!’

‘You shouldn’t jump up on people like that!’

‘You talk to birds!’

‘I could have really hurt you!’

‘You walk through walls and magic fucking umbrellas from nowhere!’

‘I what?’ Hermione screeched. ‘What are you talking about?’

The guilty look on his face said it all.

‘You were watching me?’

Henrik grunted in reply, levering himself off the ground. ‘I didn’t know who the ginger guy was. You could be fucking CIA, for all I know.’

‘CIA?’ Hermione laughed.

Henrik nodded vigorously. ‘Yup. That or some freaky voodoo chick.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘I honestly don’t know what’s worse.’

Hermione pursed her lips tightly. ‘You’re deranged, Mr Thyssen.’

‘I’m weirded out, that’s all,’ Henrik argued, his thick blonde stubble bristling, blue eyes flashing. His rich warm tan appeared grey and pallid, in this cold, wintry light.

‘Look,’ Henrik continued. ‘Is there somewhere we can go? Get out of this goddammed shitty weather.’

‘I’ve got another appointment, so it’ll have to be quick,’ Hermione said haughtily. ‘We can talk in here,’ she said, gesturing towards the comic book shop.

XXX

‘I think you should know, Mr Thyssen, that our people couldn’t find anything about you; no by-lines, no personal data… it’s like you don’t exist,’ Hermione whispered. They were huddled behind a magazine rack by the shop window, hoping not to attract the shopkeeper’s attention. Hermione considered casting a covert Muffliato, but couldn’t risk performing magic in front of Henrik again.

‘I have numerous aliases, Hermione. I prefer to keep a low profile,’ Henrik grinned amiably. ‘You see, I’ve pissed off a lot of very powerful folks in my time; mainly drugs, gas, mining and chemical conglomerates.’

‘Accusing them of poisoning the population?’

Henrik shrugged. ‘Yeah… Pretty much that. So I take sensible precautions. Look. Listen up. I’ve done my research. You seem like a nice person. Are you sure you know what - or who you’re mixed up with?’

‘I take it you’re referring to Mr - I mean - Professor Malfoy?’

Henrik snorted with laughter. ‘Yeah, your Professor who has absolutely no connection whatsoever with Oxford University.’

Hermione grabbed a comic book off the magazine stand they were hiding behind, unwilling to meet Henrik’s eye.

‘Some girls might find a guy like that attractive. You know, fall for his lies. But you seem cannier than that.’

Hermione felt a rosy warmth of embarrassment suffuse her cheeks. She kept her face averted from Henrik’s searching gaze, blindly perusing the contents of her comic book.

Henrik stepped closer.

‘Your Draco Malfoy has zero academic credentials. He works for a world-renowned OTC pharmaceuticals manufacturer called Herb Healing. His company is now owned by Gilgad Inc, a multinational conglomerate specialising in manufacturing vaccines - amongst other things - with a reputation for some rather nasty scientific research.’

Hermione dared to look at Henrik now, and was struck by the seriousness of his expression. ‘There’s some scary shit attached to that company, believe me.’

‘Why should I take anything you say seriously? You’re just a paranoid conspiracy theorist,’ Hermione sniffed. ‘I’m sure everything looks suspicious to you.’

Henrik vehemently shook his head. ‘It is suspicious. Either that or the most damnable bloody coincidence, that most of the recent mass deaths resulting in blue bodies…’ he paused, lowering his tone to a barely audible hiss, ‘occurred close to a Gilgad research centre.’

‘There was no facility of any kind belonging to Gilgad or Herb Healing in Santa Maria, Mr Thyssen, I can assure you,’ Hermione replied in a strong, firm voice, although her hand holding the comic book was trembling. ‘And seeing as you’ve been there yourself, and saw the town for what it is, I’m surprised you could make such a suggestion.’

‘Okay, not exactly in Santa Maria, but close enough, close to El Calafate.’

El Calafate, where Senor Asusto lived…. ‘And how do you know this?’

Henrik cackled. ‘Like I said, my own investigations. None of this can be found on Gilgad's corporate website, that’s for sure.’ He paused, eyes twinkling. ‘After meeting yourself and Mr Malfoy, I decided to delay my little trip to Gabon. I made a few enquiries – which is when I found that Professor Malfoy was not quite who he said he was -’

‘- Which is why you texted me that same day.’

Henrik nodded. ‘The next morning I returned to El Calafate. I soon found that Herb Healing had a distribution office in town.’

‘That’s hardly surprising. It’s a major household brand.’

‘I quite agree. Though it’s perhaps a little bizarre, seeing as deepest, darkest Patagonia’s pretty damned remote from any real population centre, but we’ll let that one go… especially since I made a far more crucial discovery.’ Henrik paused, ensuring Hermione was suitably attentive. ‘I then discovered that Gilgad Inc had a top-secret research laboratory some forty-five kilometres from El Calafate, tucked away in a disused estancia close to Puerto Bandera, on the shores of Lago Argentina.’

‘You sure?’

‘Absolutely. I went there myself. And believe me, having such a high-tech, high security establishment like that, in such a desolate place, means you definitely have something to hide! Puerto Bandera’s little more than a stop-off point for tourists visiting the Uppsala Glacier.’

‘Did you manage to get in? Have a look around?’

Henrik snorted with loud laughter. ‘You’ve got to be kidding, right? The place is like fucking Fort Knox.’

Why didn’t Draco know about this? Hermione wondered solemnly.

‘So this got me delving deeper, Henrik continued. ‘I found out they’ve got labs or facilities of some kind in Vietnam, Egypt, New Zealand and Lvov, in The Ukraine, otherwise known as this Zametsky, that your colleague called it. And as you know, there have been mass death incidents in all of these places, over the past two years.’

Hermione prickled with nervous curiosity, accompanied by a sickly feeling.

‘There’s plenty more research facilities than that of course,’ Henrik said, reaching for a sheet of A4 paper scrunched into his coat’s inner breast pocket. He pulled it out with a loud crackling rustle, and presented it to Hermione. ‘See...’ he said, jabbing at a long list of place-names scrawled in thin, blue biro down the length of the page.

It was hardly scientific-looking, Hermione thought warily, but even so, she couldn’t help feeling that there was something honest about Henrik’s demeanour.

She quickly scanned the list. It was as Henrik said, but there were also facilities in Thailand, the USA, Spain, Israel and – even closer to home – England.

‘Reads like a hit list, doesn’t it?’ Henrik said in fatalistic tones.

‘That’s assuming Gilgad’s involved of course,’ Hermione said primly. ‘This doesn't count as hard evidence.’ However, even as she spoke, a cold sense of dismay churned through her. If Gilgad was indeed involved in propagating Dark Flux, then that probably meant Draco too.

After all, Draco liked and praised Ephraim Golowitz. His business, his house, his whole life was in hock to Ephraim… Surely this meant he would be up to his eyeballs, in any crazed, genocidal scheme his father-in-law might be hatching?

Henrik vehemently prodded the list with his finger. ‘I’ll admit, there’s no hard evidence YET. But it’s my guess that Gilgad is testing some kind of drug, or a new form of biological or chemical warfare!’

Their close conversation was interrupted by a loud ‘harrumph,’ as a diminutive man in a tweed suit cleared his throat, in an attempt to distract them.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said in wheedling tones, ‘but could you keep the noise down a little?’ He rolled his eyes in the direction of a couple of customers engrossed in comic books, standing nearby.

Hermione promptly returned the comic book she’d been holding to its appropriate spot on the magazine rack, and slipped Henrik’s list into her handbag.

‘Shall we go?’ she said, turning to Henrik.

XXX

The rain had stopped and a faint glint of white winter sunshine was finally peeking through the dark clouds. Hermione realised she couldn’t head straight back to The Leaky Cauldron with Henrik in tow.

‘I actually meant it when I said I have an appointment,’ she said apologetically.

‘Yeah, I've got to be someplace else too,’ Henrik said. ‘But I want to keep in touch on this. I think you can help me out… We can help each other out,’ he added a little more diplomatically.

‘Of course.’ There was an awkward pause. ‘The red-headed man you saw earlier.’ Henrik nodded. ‘That’s my husband.’

‘Mr Weasley.’

Hermione smiled. ‘That’s right. Oh, and I already know Draco’s not a professor.’

‘So why are you working with him? He has to be a company stooge of some sort. Seems a bit weird to be investigating his own company’s work and dragging you along too, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, yes it does,’ Hermione said pensively. ‘That’s if it is his company who’s responsible for these atrocities!’ she added hastily, in the spirit of fairness. ‘You never mentioned a Gilgad facility in Paris, did you?’

Henrik’s face puckered a little. ‘Damn. Paris. Forgot that one. Still, there’s got to be some kind of connection. I’ll go sniffing, see what I can dig up.’ His face brightened and he grinned a wide, beaming smile. Hermione found herself involuntarily admiring his teeth, which had to be the cleanest, straightest, whitest set of teeth she’d ever clapped eyes on.

‘Oh... And if you ever fancy explaining to me exactly how you pulled off that flying trick with the toy gun earlier, then I’m all ears!’ Henrik added.

‘You imagined it,’ Hermione said, strangely reluctant to obliviate him, which she knew was what she was supposed to do in these circumstances.

‘Of course I did,’ Henrik smirked.

XXX

Hermione’s head was so full of the conversation she had just shared with Henrik, she barely noticed that it was Harry who was coming towards her, arms outstretched to embrace her. Ron was ordering a bottle of firewhiskey at the bar.

Harry immediately shook his head. ‘Sorry Ron. I’ve only got an hour to spare at best.’ He turned to Hermione. ‘I’m here on business, unfortunately.’

‘Well, a couple of drinks won’t hurt now, will it?’ Ron asserted, returning his attention to Hannah at the bar.

‘Shall we sit down?’ Harry said, a little formally Hermione thought.

XXX

‘Okay, Hermione,’ Harry said, taking a deep breath. He’s nervous, Hermione thought anxiously. ‘I hate to ask you this...but what’s your connection with Draco Malfoy?’

‘With Malfoy?’ Hermione spluttered in feigned outrage. 'You know me, Harry,’ she said, fixing him with a cool gaze. ‘I think he’s a snivelling little shit. Same as always.’

Harry momentarily flicked his eyes towards Ron, guffawing loudly with Hannah at the bar, then back to Hermione.

Hermione felt she was struggling to breath under Harry’s penetrating stare.

‘Well, he’s sick…very sick actually.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Where’s who?’ Ron asked, settling himself down at their table, his hands full of glasses and three packs of Chocoballs.

‘Malfoy,’ Hermione said.

‘We picked him up yesterday in Paris,’ Harry added.

‘Paris? What’s he doing there?’ Ron said.

‘Well, that’s what a particularly officious Muggle homicide detective wanted to know too,’ Harry said with a wry smile. ‘Because, as it stands, Draco Malfoy is their number one suspect in a murder case.’

‘MURDER?’

‘At least he was…until we made sure the Muggle gendarmerie conveniently forgot that it was Malfoy who’d been found holding a dying woman in his arms by the banks of the River Seine.’ Harry took a deep swig of his drink. ‘She’d been horribly tortured,’ he added, sounding a little choked.

Hermione felt sick. ‘You think he killed her?’

Harry shrugged. ‘Don’t know what I think to be honest, though I need to find out. Whoever did this was a bloody maniac! She’d been tortured by magic, but Malfoy didn’t have a wand, which in itself was mighty peculiar.’

'You're telling me,’ Ron muttered darkly.

‘And he was delirious…ranting over and over about his wife Katya, and…other things. Rubbish really.’

Harry’s eyes briefly passed over Hermione’s face and he shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. He’d mentioned her, she knew it.

‘So this corpse wasn’t his wife then?’ Ron asked.

‘No. It was an older woman. We’ve identified her as a Svetlana Kerpin. We think she lived at an unplottable address. Probably in Paris. Obviously there’s no chance of finding out exactly where any time soon. The bureaucracy’s going to drag a bit on this one.’

‘So the Muggles thought he was their man,’ Ron said.

‘The circumstantial evidence was overwhelming,’ Harry agreed.

‘So what’s happened?’

‘Well, Auror HQ wanted to move him to their own high security Medi-magic clinic somewhere in Belgium - it’s where the Azkaban lifers get treated if they’re ill - but I thought he was better-off staying at St. Gaspard’s. So he’s been bound over into my care until he recovers.’

‘Special privileges for Malfoy?’ Ron chuckled. ‘You’re getting sentimental, Harry.’

‘Not at all,’ Harry said flatly. ‘St. Gaspard’s is the finest hospital in Europe, and I need him to recover soon. Without his testimony, my investigation’s screwed. All I’ve got to work on so far are his mindless ramblings. And the freakiest thing about those, is how desperate he is to talk to Hermione.’

Hermione’s heart beat a little faster.

‘He means in a legal capacity, surely?’ Ron said, eyes narrowed.

‘God knows. Right now he’s in an extremely weakened state, and getting worse by the day. He’s pretty much comatose actually.’

‘Must be one helluva poison he got shot with,’ Ron said soberly.

Harry arched his eyebrows in surprise. ‘How do you know that?’

‘It was all over the news,’ Ron declared stoutly. ‘Wasn’t it, Hermione?’ he added, cramming a Chocoball into his mouth.

Harry gave Ron a long, shrewd look, then turned to Hermione, a grave expression on his face.

‘I’m really sorry to ask this of you, Hermione,’ he said hesitantly. ‘But in view of the circumstances – once Malfoy regains some form of consciousness - would you mind coming to Paris to help me talk to the guy? I think you might be our only hope of getting a modicum of sense out of him before it’s too late.’

‘Too late for what?’ Hermione asked. She could feel the colour draining from her face.

Harry eyed her quizzically. ‘Before he dies of course.’

***

CHAPTER TRACKS: “SOUTHERN SUN” by OAKENFOLD

&

“FADE TO GREY” by VISAGE

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing except my original characters.

Many thanks to my beta, Lou.
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