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Yuletide Blessing in Disguise	By : Gandalfs-Beard Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Harry/Hermione Views: 122975 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 9
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any related properties--all rights belong to Rowling. Nor do I make any money from the production of this work.

Chapter List
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The Informant

Kingsley Shacklebolt nodded his head in time with the throbbing rhythms of the earsplitting dance music. He chuckled when Dawlish massaged his temples, ordered up another fizzy water from the bartender, and tipped a vial of pain potion into it. Then Dawlish chugged it down in one swallow and let out a belch.
“You alright there, John?” Shacklebolt shouted to be heard over the music.
“No!” Dawlish snapped back. “I’m sick of staking out this bloody nightclub watching Gorhammer’s flunkies conduct ‘business’.”
“Gorhammer’s got to show up some time. Supposedly he drops in once a month to make sure operations are running smoothly.”
Dawlish snorted, and the two Aurors fell silent again, peering through the dancing throng of posh looking Goblins and wizards, all dressed to the nines. They kept watch while the “flunkies” took gold and wrote down names in ledgers and every so often handing gold out to winners or surreptitiously passing envelopes—ostensibly containing drugs—to their clients.
Shacklebolt spotted a heavyset Goblin in a tuxedo strolling around the edge of the dancefloor and surrounded by an entourage of giggling female Goblins in sparkling evening gowns. He nudged Dawlish when he saw the Goblin making a beeline for the table of unlicensed bookies and drugs-dealers.
“That could be him right there.”
“About bloody time!”
“Right then,” said Shacklebolt, rising from his barstool, “Try and keep your cool. We don’t want that lot doing a bunk.”
Dawlish clambered to his feet, grumbling about “looking like a penguin” as he tugged the tight collar and bow tie, and adjusted the cummerbund of his tuxedo.
The pair of Aurors casually sidled around the edge of the crowd and approached the table. Several of the Goblins narrowed their eyes, hands hovering near their waistcoats, no doubt ready to pull guns if necessary.
“And what can we do for you gentlemen tonight?” asked one of the Goblin money-takers, “A wager on next week’s quidditch match? …or something to make your evening a bit more enjoyable?”
“I was hoping for a meeting with Mr. Gorhammer,” said Shacklebolt smoothly.
“Mr. Gorhammer is a very busy man,” growled the Goblin. “What’s this all about?”
“Ludo Bagman.”
The Goblin glanced worriedly at his boss who gave him a slight nod in return.
“Very well, Mr. Gorhammer will see you now—wait for him in the private booth over there and he’ll be with you shortly.”
Dawlish and Shacklebolt made their way to the entrance of the booth, which was hidden behind a purple and gold velvet curtain. They both took seats on one side of a highly polished mahogany table and Dawlish tugged at his collar again. The sound of the music was muffled by the curtain, except for the thunderous boom of the pulsing beats.
Moments later the heavyset Goblin pushed the curtain aside and let it fall again before sitting on the other side of the table.
“So, you want to know about Ludo Bagman,” said the Goblin boss warily, “Discussing other clients is generally bad for business. Why should I make an exception for you?”
“Because the D.M.L.E. is conducting an investigation into Ludo Bagman and his possible ties to one of the syndicates,” Shacklebolt raised his eyebrows, “and we would hate to bring the National Inquiry Unit into this.”
Morag Gorhammer narrowed his eyes and studied Shacklebolt and Dawlish for a moment.
“Very well,” he said cagily, “What is it you want to know?”
“We already know that Bagman conducted business with you at the World Cup, and that some of your associates met with him in Hogsmeade a few months ago,” said Shacklebolt. “That alone is grounds for an arrest and a heavy fine—but we believe that he is also involved in fixing the Triwizard Tournament and the attempted murder of Harry Potter. We have proof that Goblins were involved in the assassination attempt, and we suspect they belonged to one of the larger syndicates—very likely the Kruella Syndicate or the Magmatok Gang—possibly even the Ragnagorok Clan.”
Shacklebolt noticed the twitch in the jaw of the Goblin boss when he mentioned the Kruella Syndicate. He could almost see the gears spinning in Morag Gorhammer’s mind…

~o0o~
The Dark Lord strode through the grounds of a manor belonging to muggles who were now dead—a grand, sprawling estate surrounding an 18th century manor house—with Wormtail by his side. A home currently occupied by wizards would have been ideal, but at least it wasn’t the decaying ruin of his muggle father’s estate; and it had once been in the hands of a wizard family line which had died out a hundred years ago—which counted for something, he supposed.
The beauty of the gardens and lawns, the hedgerows and statuary, and the swan laden ponds abutted by evergreens and weeping willows, held little interest to him, but the opulence of the estate would no doubt impress any Death Eaters who returned to his side. Pink clouds drew across a purple sky and the cry of a peacock echoed across the grounds.
“Dusk approaches, Wormtail,” he said in a high, cold voice. “It is time—now we shall see who is brave enough to heed my call... and we shall see who is fool enough to ignore me…”
“Yes, Master,” Wormtail replied, pulling a sleeve of his robes up past his elbow and holding out his left arm; he grit his teeth, preparing himself for the pain. The Dark Lord pressed a long pale forefinger to the red, inflamed brand on his forearm and he groaned as the searing heat coursed through his veins. Wormtail’s Dark Mark turned black and another peacock cry seemed to echo his own need to let out a scream. Only the promise of a glorious future stayed his tongue.
“And now we wait!” the Dark Lord hissed, his red eyes gleaming in the darkening twilight.
Wormtail kept silent while his master paced, praying that the Death Eaters would soon appear lest his master take out his anger on him. He breathed a sigh of relief when the first pops and cracks of apparating wizards rang out.
The Dark Lord looked on as the hooded and masked Death Eaters took their places, warily encircling their master as if surprised and afraid. Good! Their fear was warranted, the Dark Lord mused. He narrowed his eyes when no one said a word, and finally one of the Death Eaters spoke, falling to his knees and prostrating himself.
“Master, you have returned…”
“Did you doubt that I would?” the Dark Lord hissed. “You did, didn’t you?” Then he looked up and eyed each one in turn, noting the gaps in the ranks of his Death Eaters with displeasure.
“Some among you thought me broken and defeated,” he said quietly, icily, “or you believed that I was dead and gone. You believed that a mere infant could vanquish me—the Dark Lord? … How you could believe that I—Lord Voldemort—the Master of Death—would not return, knowing that I had taken measures to guard against mortality, escapes me.
“You disappoint me. …”
Cries of, “Master, please…” and, “Forgive us, my Lord!” carried through the crisp evening air as more Death Eaters fell to their knees. One even groveled at his feet, kissing the hem of his robes. Only one had the fortitude to remain on his feet.
The Dark Lord regarded them with indifference, then spoke up once more.
“Alone among you, only Wormtail had the foresight and conviction to know that I would one day rise from the ashes—only he, the one whom I had mistakenly believed to be the least of my Death Eaters, had the courage and loyalty to seek me out and aid in my resurrection.
“Yes—he bided his time for twelve years, but it is clear now, that he was waiting for the hands of fate to move him when the time was right. Wormtail risked my wrath and came to me in the wilderness—bearing a gift, a human sacrifice, a woman to carry his seed long enough to at least give me a form to inhabit, weak as it was—and in her death she gave me life, as my own mother did, oh so many years ago. … And it was he who restored me to my true form—the form which stands before you now—with yet another human sacrifice.
“Alone among you—of those who did not sacrifice themselves to Azkaban for me—it was Wormtail who held onto his faith—and for that he shall be rewarded…”
The Dark Lord dangerously eyed the one who was still standing.
“And here is another with courage,” he said softly. “Why—I wonder—does he have the mettle to not throw himself at my feet, begging my forgiveness, as the rest of you wretches are so doing?”
“My lord,” the standing Death Eater replied, “I too, was waiting for the right moment. In these last thirteen years I have been watching those who would move against you upon your inevitable return. I ventured into our enemy’s encampment and convinced him that I had turned against you, and I eventually earned enough trust to become a valued asset in his inner-circle. I knew he had hidden the boy, and that the boy would eventually arrive at Hogwarts.
“The information I have gathered on Dumbledore and Potter since, will no doubt prove invaluable, but even more importantly, my current position will allow you access to their movements and most closely guarded secrets—”
“I see,” hissed the Dark Lord, “What then of Quirrell, Severus? Why did you not aid him in his quest to restore me?”
“I was mistaken, my Lord,” said Snape. “I did not know. I believed him to be seeking the Philosopher’s Stone for his own aggrandizement. Forgive me.”
“Ah, I see, Severus. Of course! Indeed, I took much caution to avoid raising Dumbledore’s suspicions until I could no longer hide my presence. If I had only known—you could have brought the boy to me in Crouch Junior’s stead. Very well, you will return to Hogwarts to keep your eye on Dumbledore and Potter. … Do not move against them until I give the command.”
“Of course, my Lord!” Snape gave a curt, little bow and was gone in a swirl of robes and a popping sound.
“Now, as to the rest of you,” said the Dark Lord, speaking to his prostrate followers, “get up and remove your masks, that I may see who has refused to return to my service.”
They all clambered back to their feet, relieved that the Dark Lord had not tortured them—and concerned that he still might. The Dark Lord moved among them as they took off their masks one by one.
“MacNair—Good,” the Dark Lord said, nodding, “you shall soon have better victims than that which the Ministry could provide. … Nott, Goyle, Crabbe—” He looked them over appraisingly. “You have children at Hogwarts, do you not?”
“Yes Master,” said Crabbe, bowing his head; the other two nodded.
“You will do better henceforth, lest I see fit to replace you with your sons.”
The three Death Eaters all gulped and gave each other fearful looks as the Dark Lord continued down the line.
“Avery—Mulciber—” He halted when he came to a man and a woman, and he smiled thinly, as if amused. “Ah, Alecto, Amycus, still posing as husband and wife, are we?”
The siblings flushed and several other Death Eaters allowed themselves a chuckle or a snort of derision. The Dark Lord carried on, and when he had finished inspecting the ranks the curtain of night had fallen, stars twinkling in the blackness; his eyes glowed red in the light of the silvery moon.
“Well, this is most disappointing,” he said, a strong hint of anger in his voice. “Karkaroff—I knew he would be too cowardly to return, but I had not expected that Lucius and Corban would defy me. … They shall pay dearly for ignoring my call, and when they do, let their punishment be a reminder to all who would betray me. In the meantime, see what rewards loyalty can bring you—Wormtail here shall be my second in command…”

~o0o~
When Harry came to, Madam Pomfrey, Hermione, Dora, and Fleur were all hovering above him looking very concerned, and his forehead was cold and clammy except for his still throbbing, burning scar.
“It happened again, didn’t it?” said Hermione. “Another vision.”
“Yeah,” Harry nodded and winced. He really had to stop doing that after a vision.
“Well, at least you aren’t throwing up this time,” said Madam Pomfrey.
“That’s because he wasn’t eating any hearts or drinking blood this time,” Harry muttered darkly.
Madam Pomfrey frowned, noticing that for the second night running he had barely touched his dinner which had been sent up to the hospital wing.
“Regardless,” she began gently, “you will have to eat something again sometime, Mr. Potter, and I cannot simply keep you in the hospital wing until you do.”
Madam Pomfrey handed him two vials.
“A calming draught—the strongest one available—and an appetite stimulant…”
Harry drained the two vials without question.
“Very good, Mr. Potter. … Miss Granger, I will be giving you a week’s worth of both—”
“I’ll make sure he takes them,” said Hermione earnestly.
“I know you will, dear. … Okay, Mr. Potter, now why don’t you try eating your dinner. Those potions should be working already.”
They were. Harry was already beginning to feel hungry, and a haze in his frontal lobes began to blot out the horrifying images and sensations which had plagued him since Saturday morning. But there was still a sense of urgency.
“Dumbledore—I need to talk to Dumbledore.”
“I expect so, Mr. Potter. But I would like to see you eat first.”
Harry sighed and nodded, wincing again. He picked up a fork and knife and began to eat his shepherd’s pie, wishing that everyone would quit staring at him. He soon got his wish when Madam Pomfrey seemed satisfied that he was actually going to finish his dinner and departed. Dora and Fleur had already returned to their own, leaving only Hermione to watch him.
When he was done, Hermione passed him some of the chocolate frogs that Luna and Ginny had brought for him earlier that afternoon. As he ate them, Harry felt better than he had thought he could feel after only two days.
“I really need to talk to Dumbledore,” Harry said quietly after eating four chocolate frogs.
“He’ll be here soon, Harry,” said Hermione, smiling at him sadly.
True to Hermione’s word, Dumbledore appeared five minutes later, a somber expression on his face. He sat down next to Harry’s hospital bed and peered at him intently with his piercing blue eyes.
“Voldemort—he has called his followers to his side.” It was a statement, not a question, and Harry couldn’t help feeling a surge of anger.
“Yeah! And Snape was there,” he growled.
“Professor Snape,” Dumbledore gently admonished him.
“More like Spy Snape!” Harry retorted. “The only reason he hasn’t done me in yet is because he knows Voldemort wants me for himself…”
“You are correct in one regard, Harry. Professor Snape returned to Lord Voldemort’s side—but only at my request. He is to spy on Voldemort for us—”
“But how can you trust him?” Harry argued. “How d’you really know he is on our side?”
Harry felt a bit disconcerted when he saw hesitation Dumbledore’s eyes. He desperately wanted Dumbledore to prove him wrong or prove him right, one way or the other.
“I trust this much,” Dumbledore began, so softly it was almost a whisper, “I trust that Professor Snape will not willingly act against me or you on behalf of Voldemort. As to why, I am afraid that is the one thing which I cannot reveal to you—now, do you have any more information to impart?”
Harry grit his teeth in frustration. If it weren’t for the calming draught, he thought he might explode. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes until the feeling passed, then began to tell Dumbledore everything he knew.
“…but I don’t have a clue where the manor is,” Harry concluded ruefully.
“No matter,” Dumbledore sighed. “Now that Voldemort is fully restored and has most of his inner-circle back, the advantage of knowing his location is minimal at best. More importantly, do you believe that he is still unaware of your presence in his mind?”
“Yeah—actually,” said Harry, surprised at himself. “Yeah! The Occlumency really seems to be working—he didn’t seem to notice me at all. … I’m not so sure about the Legilimency though—I still can’t really see a whole load in his mind—just a few bits and pieces—that’s why I couldn’t figure out where he was this time—he was just so sick of his father’s house before… Mostly I just get his feelings and see and hear whatever he sees and hears.”
“Which is more than enough,” said Dumbledore, beaming proudly at him. “You have done splendidly indeed, Harry! … If you wish, you may take some time off from classes—The horror you have endured this weekend is far beyond what most can imagine—”
“No,” Harry shook his head, “I just want to focus on schoolwork and try to forget about it.”
Hermione frowned, looking like she might object, but she kept quiet. Dumbledore peered at Harry for a moment, then sighed and nodded.
“Very well, Harry. But if you find yourself experiencing any distress, do not hesitate to inform Professor McGonagall or Madam Pomfrey. No one will think any less of you if you need some time off.”
“I’ll be okay—really!” said Harry firmly.
Once Dumbledore had said good night and departed the hospital wing, Hermione climbed onto Harry’s bed and lay down beside him, wrapping an arm around his middle and resting her bushy head on his shoulder. They lay like that for a while in silence. Between the extra-strength calming draught, a full stomach, and Hermione’s embrace, Harry felt much better.
Eventually Hermione spoke up
“I wonder what he meant,” she murmured, “when he said that Professor Snape wouldn’t willingly act against you and him on behalf of Voldemort. Dumbledore was very careful how he worded that.”
“Huh!” said Harry, feeling a bit puzzled. “Dunno really. I thought he just meant Snape was on our side.”
“He hesitated just before he said it,” said Hermione, “and he sounded like he didn’t trust Snape completely.”
“Yeah, I guess I did notice the hesitation, come to think about it—that did seem weird. He sounded pretty certain to me when he said it though.”
“It just made me think,” Hermione mused aloud, “It reminded me how Snape ‘just let it slip’that Professor Lupin was a werewolf last year. That was obviously acting against Dumbledore’s wishes.”
“So, are you saying that Snape might sort of let something slip to Voldemort then, even if he’s still working for Dumbledore?”
“Maybe—I suppose. That’s just what Dumbledore’s wording seemed to imply. We’ll just have to be very careful around him—just in case.”
“Well, we can both do Occlumency reasonably well now,” said Harry, “so even if Snape’s a Legilimens, he’d have to use a wand on us to get anything useful out of us. But I was just thinking—what if there’s another way to interpret what Dumbledore was saying? What if he meant that Snape might act against him and me on his own behalf? … I don’t necessarily mean directly against us—but maybe if Snape is sick of working as a spy, he’d just ditch Dumbledore too—not work for either side. Snape obviously hates me—he might not want to do anything which helps me.”
“Hmm…” Hermione frowned thoughtfully. “Well, neither idea is mutually exclusive. Snape could just opt out altogether I suppose—assuming he could avoid being killed by Voldemort—and let something slip too. … Or, maybe I was just overthinking everything to begin with, and we should just take what Dumbledore said at face value.”
“But you don’t really believe that, do you? I’ve never known you to over-think anything, Hermione—if you think something could be true, it usually means that it probably is true.”
Hermione turned a bit pink and beamed at Harry. The next thing Harry knew, he was on the receiving end of a heated kiss.
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Yuletide Blessing in Disguise