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The Apprentice	By : Nerys Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 62961 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 8
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
- 31
- 32
- 33
With thanks to my Amazing Beta Serpent In Red.

xxx

The Apprentice

Chapter 32

A few rays of sunlight barely peeked through the giant mass of clouds on the horizon. It was as early a morning as ever when Rolanda Xiomara Hooch stretched out her arms and legs a couple of times and tilted her head left and right until there were two short cracks audible. With a flick of her wand, her front door closed behind her and she walked to her favourite broom resting comfortably against the stone wall. It was time for her daily early morning exercise routine.

Caressing the smooth, polished wood briefly, she mounted the broom and pushed. Away she went, not noticing the hooded person hiding behind the rosebushes of her cottage.

When she was nothing but a small dot in the distance, the masked figure strolled to her house and placed a broom identical to the one Madam Hooch had just mounted back against the stone wall. A flick of his wand and a card containing the Dark Mark attached itself to the broom: Madam Hooch’s real broom. The one she’d just flown away on would disintegrate any minute now.

A blood-curling, terrified scream sounded in the distance, and with a soft pop, the Death Eater disapparated.

Mission accomplished.

xxx

Alarmed, Minerva McGonagall ran to the window of her bedroom, adjusting her glasses on the way over. She’d heard something odd, something unnatural. She was sure of it. Yanking her tartan curtains aside and pushing her window open, she leaned over the rim. The Scottish mountains handed her a spectacular view as the storm clouds surrounded its peaks. Lightning flashed, illuminating the area. Her breath stuck in her throat when she saw five – no – six cloaked figures approach her house on the hill. Their attire was too familiar to leave any questions in her mind as to their motives for being here.

Swiftly, she transfigured into her catlike form and jumped from the window to the branch on the nearest oak tree. A few jumps later, she nestled quietly behind thick leaves. She had a fabulous view of her front porch from this birch.

The short, bulky one in the middle pointed with two fingers to his right, and then, two fingers to his left. His head nodded to his companion to the front porch. Minerva knew she didn’t have to worry about those two anymore – her porch was something altogether special. Smiling, she watched as the six Death Eaters split up, each approaching the house from a different angle.

That was just fine by her.

Silently, she dropped from the tree, landing on soft paws. With the stealthy qualities of all cats, she started to follow the two Death Eaters to her utmost right. The second they moved around the corner, McGonagall shifted back, hidden from view due to several thick-leaved bushes. Another lightning bolt scattered through the sky, showing her they were attempting to break into her kitchen window. She waited till thunder roared around them and flashed her wand in two fast, consecutive whips. When nature’s noise ceased, they were on the ground, unmoving.

BANG!

Noticing the unwelcome intruders on its deck, her sturdy wooden porch transfigured into a slick, long ramp. Two frightened yells accompanied their fast travels down the garden path to the inevitable pool of quicksand at the end of the slide. Cast spells of their wands were fruitless as they bounced off the ward that had risen around the death trap. Minerva waited for the two remaining Death Eaters and was not disappointed. Several seconds later, they came running around the corner to their mates’ rescue. She struck the first one down immediately with a well-aimed curse, but the other one rolled to the side and put up quite a fight. When he took cover behind a willow tree, however, his luck was up. Minerva smirked and swooshed her wand at it. The branches came to life and speared the fool from every direction possible.

The fight was officially over in all but five minutes.

Placing her wand at her temple, McGonagall pulled a silvery substance from her mind. Quickly, it shaped into a tabby cat and rushed away. Another clash of thunder and it started to pour. The rain streamed down on the environment relentlessly, while falling around McGonagall in an arc, as if she held onto an invisible umbrella. She tapped her nightgown with her wand twice. Swiftly, it transfigured into more suitable attire, right before she apparated away to check on her colleague.

Arriving at Filius’s house, Minerva’s fears were confirmed. Beams of spells swirled through the air from every direction, exiting and entering through the walls at different locations. Explosions followed suit. Running up the garden path with her wand drawn, she passed several black-robed corpses.

CRASH!

The windows blew. Glass smashed into her silvery shield. With a sideway flick, she diverted the debris to the side and moved along. Clashing into the wall next to the door with her back, she waited, listening intently. She could hear someone scuffle on the inside, close to her position. Raising her wand, she flung herself through the front door.

‘Minerva!’ Flitwick squeaked.

‘Filius!’ Minerva yelped simultaneously.

They’d each aimed directly at the other and were only just able to withhold their deadly curses.

‘I got all twelve of them,’ Flitwick said, lowering his wand in relaxation.

‘Twelve?’ Minerva asked, looking around and counting the bodies fast. ‘My, I feel completely undervalued now. He only sent six of his goons to my house.’

‘Six?’ Flitwick asked, puzzled. He shrugged. ‘We should warn Albus.’

‘I already sent him a message. We should check on the other teachers, just in case. Doesn’t Pomona live nearby you?’

‘Yes, seven miles down the road,’ Flitwick said, gesturing with his hand to his right.

Minerva held out her hand. ‘Lead the way then.’

Flitwick took her hand and disapparated them. They arrived in front of a house covered in thick, dark-green ivy with purplish flowers and blue berries. It curled and grew rapidly as they watched, beginning to cover the front door which stood slightly ajar. But their eyes drew to something much more sinister. Up in the sky, the Dark Mark roared victoriously.

‘No,’ Minerva mumbled, horrified.

She ran.

‘No, wait!’ Flitwick yelled.

His much shorter legs were unable to keep up with her as Minerva blasted the ivy away from the front door and entered.

‘Pomona! NOOOO!’

Her voice broke in desperation, and Filius knew the sight wouldn’t be pretty. But when he entered the house, too, he was still unprepared and froze in the doorway. On the ground lay the plump, little witch he knew so very well, her limbs spread-eagled. Several of the deep wounds on her body were exposed through her tattered yellow nightdress. It looked like he’d entered a slaughterhouse. Blood, there was blood everywhere and meat dripping from the walls. He didn’t want to consider from which part of her body that had come from, so he averted his gaze to avoid identifying it. Slowly, he stepped towards Minerva, who sat squatted beside the body and caressed Pomona’s normally fly-away hair out of her slashed face caringly. It struck him how lifeless it now seemed, how her grey hair stuck to her blood-soaked face without resistance or vigour, and how it made the cheerful, pink earmuffs she wore askew seem all the more out of place. Minerva closed the glassy, brown eyes of their colleague and friend silently and looked up at him, her beady eyes watering behind her square glasses.

‘This is not happening,’ she whispered. ‘This can’t be. Not Pomona.’

He placed his hand on her shoulder. ‘She went down fighting,’ he said gently, pointing to the empty pot in Pomona’s hand.

‘I hope whoever got hit by whatever plant was in there will die a slow and painful death,’ Minerva said through gritted teeth.

‘We need to warn the others,’ Filius said in the quiet voice that people reserve for use around the dead. ‘Septima and Aurora aren’t fighters. They’ll be easy pickings for them. Do you know where they live?’

‘No, but Pomona does,’ Minerva said, rising to her feet quickly and looking around. ‘Remember how she arranged that party for Beery five years ago on his anniversary? She has an address book with all the teachers’ details. It’s a red leather, about this big,’ she held her hands about ten centimetres apart. ‘We have to find it.’

Quickly, they both spread around. Flitwick swooshed his wand around, trying a Summoning Charm to no effect. More Locator Charms and other spells were used, but nothing. They turned the place upside down in a matter of minutes without finding it.

‘Where could it be?’ Filius asked, trying to jump in the air to see on top of a dresser futilely.

Minerva stared at the body. ‘She hid it,’ she whispered. ‘She must have hidden it from them.’

‘Or they found it,’ Flitwick squeaked, his face a sudden match to his ultra-white hair.

Minerva shook her head. ‘We’re missing something.’ It suddenly dawned on her. ‘Earmuffs! She’s wearing earmuffs.’

McGonagall swirled back to Pomona Sprout. Gently, she removed the pink earmuffs before pacing quickly to the windowsill, putting the earmuffs on and grabbing the largest pot in the sill.

‘Cover your ears, Filius!’ she warned in an overly loud voice.

Filius whipped his wand and was surrounded by a Sound-Deafening Charm when Minerva yanked the Mandrake from its pot and pulled the book out of its mouth. Screams echoed through the living room, until Minerva dumped it back in the soil. A stream of earth sprayed from her wand and covered the Mandrake fully. Flitwick had already joined her before she flipped the pages and halted at Aurora Sinistra’s address. Briefly, they looked at it.

Two simultaneous cracks later, they arrived just in a nick of time. McGonagall diverted the already cast Killing Curse with a well-aimed Slicing Hex and Flitwick blasted the Death Eater off his feet.

‘Aurora!’ Minerva said, lowering herself and lifting the witch’s upper body in her arms. ‘Speak, say something.’

‘Impeccable timing,’ the witch breathed out hoarsely. A coughing fit followed suit. She clutched to her chest.

‘Episkey!’ Flitwick cast.

‘Oooh… much better,’ Aurora said, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.

‘Got any more wounds?’

She shook her head and looked at them thankfully.

‘Do you have some place to hide?’ Minerva asked. ‘Some place safe?’

‘I’ll go to the Astronomy Post in Australia. It is hosting government run programs. High security levels. They’d be crazy to target me there,’ Sinistra said, scrambling to her feet with McGonagall’s help.

‘Go then,’ Flitwick said. ‘We’ve got to check on Septima.’

‘She’s staying with her son and daughter-in-law this summer,’ Aurora said. Her face turned darker in concern as she added, ‘Her daughter-in-law, Melanie, is a Muggle.’

‘Do you know where they live?’

‘Some Muggle part of Brentford, at the top of a flat … er … Holland Gardens. I don’t know the number.’

‘We’ll find it,’ Minerva said certainly. ‘You go to Australia now.’

‘Be careful,’ Sinistra said softly, right before the two of them disapparated.

xxx

‘Would you say you are close to Mr. Potter, Miss Granger?’ Rufus Scrimgeour asked sternly.

Hermione frowned. ‘If this is about Harry, you should really talk to him,’ she said coolly.

Their conversation had started off on a bad note immediately when Minister Scrimgeour warded the room against others entering and kept on nagging about her relationship with Harry for a whole of fifteen bleeding minutes now. She had no idea why he was here, talking to her. And the demeaning way he was talking to her made her blood boil. Also, whenever Harry’s name popped up, she was reminded painfully about last year’s events when the Ministry had tried to expel Harry from Hogwarts and take his wand from him. If Scrimgeour thought he could get to Harry via her, he was in for a ride. She sure wasn’t going to accommodate people who associated with the likes of Dolores Umbridge.

‘I was just wondering, considering current affairs and your heritage. I remember reading in the Daily Prophet once that you’re a Mu-uggle-born?’

Nice save.

She crossed her arms in front of her chest. ‘And that merits a visit of the Minister for Magic, because …?’

‘You’re not denying the statement made by reporter Skeeter about your background?’

Sure you don’t want to add unfortunate or disgusting there?

‘I’d be inclined to deny many statements made by Rita Skeeter, but I think that was one of the rare occasions when she was actually right,’ Hermione replied coldly.

‘So, your parents are Muggles.’

One, two, three … Hermione smiled broadly. ‘Yes.’

‘I see,’ Scrimgeour muttered to himself, before raising his head and addressing her again. ‘That must worry you, doesn’t it, with you being this close to the Chosen One?’

Okay, counting to ten wasn’t going to cut it. She clearly felt her temper rise, not to mention that the pendant under her shirt had changed in temperature, too. If she desired any more proof that her darker magic was active, she’d probably be mopping up the Minister’s body parts.

Happy thoughts, Hermione, happy thoughts. Just ignore the bugger. He’s not worth it.

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ she replied blankly.

‘You’re denying Mr. Potter is the Chosen One?’

Scrimgeour’s mutilated, dead body is a wonderful, happy thought though.

‘Why don’t you ask him? He’s right outside,’ she said somewhat snappishly, trying to keep her cool but having a hard time at achieving it. Something inside of her was definitely stirring in hopes of getting out.

‘But you are his friend, are you not?’

‘Yes, which is why–’

‘And as such, your parents should be targets for You-Know-Who,’ Scrimgeour mused.

Should? Had he heard something, somehow, somewhere about my affiliation with Voldemort? For a moment, concern pushed away her aggravation.

‘We could be of assistance to you. Ministerial protection and all,’ he offered.

‘No thanks,’ Hermione blurted out rapidly. If I want to invite Death Eaters over, I’ll go straight to the horse’s mouth, thank you very much.

‘Oh,’ he said; his mouth screwed up in an ugly snarl. ‘I suppose Dumbledore took care of that, too.’

The way the Minister spoke Dumbledore’s name in disgust brought a small smile to Hermione’s face. It was nice to see Scrimgeour unsettled like that. Apparently not much had changed at the Ministry with Fudge’s departure. They still didn’t know how to take the appropriate actions and focus their attention on the real threat out there. Morons, the lot of them.

‘I asked you,’ Scrimgeour repeated with emphasis, ‘if Dumbledore took care of protecting your parents?’

Not really. The image of Lord Voldemort apparating effortlessly into her bedroom came to mind. Still, that doesn’t mean I want you incompetent lot near my parents.

‘Yes,’ she merely said, watching Scrimgeour fiddle with the cord of the standing lamp as if she weren’t even there.

‘And I suppose Dumbledore also knows everything about your Muggle parents.’

Okay, creepy mental image here to stay.

‘Why so obsessed over my family?’

‘Margoon seemed to be.’

‘Who?’

‘You don’t know Margoon?’

Well, are we finally getting to the point, Minister? Hermione shrugged. ‘Sorry, but the name doesn’t ring a bell. Should I?’

‘Probably not,’ Scrimgeour said, dropping the cord and pulling a parchment out his pocket. He unrolled it slowly. Looking at it, he stated, ‘Your parents are a Malcolm and Sharon Granger, both from Yorkshire?’

Wondering what this Margoon chap could possibly have to do with her parents and whether the answer might be on that scroll, Hermione rose on tiptoes, stretched out her body and lifted her head to try to see what was on it. Alas, she was unable to read it. Scrimgeour held the damn thing too high for her to peek upon. She quickly returned to a normal posture when Scrimgeour raised his head and eyed her questioningly.

‘Yes,’ Hermione replied tiresomely, ‘Both from Yorkshire …’ she paused as memories of her childhood ran through her mind.

Oh, the wonderful joys of Yorkshire.

A mischievous grin sneaked on her face, and she continued humorously, ‘In them days we was glad to have the price of a cup o’ tea. A cup o’ cold tea. Without milk or sugar. Or tea. In a cracked cup, an’ all. Oh, we never had a cup. We used to have to drink out of a rolled up newspaper.’

Seeing her theatrical display was completely wasted on the befuddled Minister, she giggled. Stupid pure-bloods. Please, be welcomed to the twentieth century and this thing called television. She didn’t even feel the need to explain herself, since not knowing everything Python related was considered a sacrilege in her family.

‘Yes, well … er … tea is nice,’ Scrimgeour commented, sending her another one of his phoney smiles.

I’ll hand you a piece of damp cloth to suck on.

‘I’m sure Mrs. Weasley will be more–’ Hermione started, seeing it as a perfect excuse to get him to lower his wards.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Rufus Scrimgeour interrupted, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. ‘So, Malcolm and Sharon Granger …’ he paused, watching her thoughtfully. ‘You are aware the Ministry keeps records on all those born with magical abilities?’

Frowning briefly, Hermione glanced at the parchment in his hand. Was that what that document was: her record? She crossed her arms in front of her chest and said coldly, ‘Yes, and I am certain you’re aware that those records aren’t allowed to be taken from the Registry in the Department of Mysteries for any other reason than a request by the Wizengamot and by no other person than the Genealogy Wizard, who shall at any and all time keep said document on his person.’

Surprised, Rufus Scrimgeour looked at her. ‘Are you striving for a career in law enforcement, Miss Granger?’

‘No, I plan to spend my future in a useful manner.’

His face contorted at her snark. ‘Any reason you can think of as to why the Genealogy Wizard would have your record on his person?’

Hermione shrugged. Her expression was as blank as she could muster, yet her mind flew over all the possibilities in a hurry.

‘When there was absolutely no reason for him to be busy with your record?’ Scrimgeour continued relentlessly.

‘Why don’t you ask him?’

The Minister for Magic stepped forward, holding out the parchment to her, not replying to her comment as to why he wasn’t asking the Genealogy Wizard himself. As Hermione accepted it and turned it around, he asked, ‘Do you see anything out of the ordinary with this document?’

‘Besides the blood smeared on it?’ Hermione deadpanned.

‘Yes, besides that,’ he snarled, his impatience showing.

She scratched her head. At the top right corner of the document was the Seal of Authenticity, next to a scrabbled signature and the date of her birth. Beneath that was a Ministerial Heading, and then, came her name with a little wand symbol, her birthplace, and time and date of birth followed by that of her parents (no wand symbol) and their personal details. She didn’t see anything wrong with it.

‘Would you say it’s normal for a child of Squibs to be calling herself a Muggle-born?’ Scrimgeour asked suspiciously.

Hermione looked up in wonder. Her parents weren’t Squibs. What was he getting at? ‘Sorry?’

‘Have you been posing as a Muggle-born to get near the Chosen One, to be beyond suspicion?’

‘Are you insane?’ she asked, aghast. ‘I’m not posing as anything. Don’t you have something better to do than nag about Harry and my blood status, like oh say … arrest Death Eaters or Lord Voldemort?’

The Minister winced briefly when she said the name. However, he recovered quickly and snarled, ‘You’re being awfully cavalier about your lies. Mind telling me where you were last night?’

‘What does–’

BANG!

Rufus’s ward shredded apart as the door smashed open and revealed the outline of a furious Albus Dumbledore. Behind him a concerned Arthur and Molly Weasley peeked around his tall figure. A couple of quick steps later, Albus Dumbledore halted in front of the Minister for Magic, his wand still in his hand. Hermione let out a relieved sigh. This was bound to be the end of the silly interrogation.

‘Albus,’ Rufus said coolly. ‘So kind of you to show.’

‘I wish I’d been invited, Rufus,’ Albus retorted equally cold, staring directly into the eyes of the Minister as if he were searching for something in particular. ‘Do you find it normal to ward off chambers of a house – not yours – that you were generously granted access to?’

‘I had something personal to discuss with Miss Granger.’

‘Personal?’

‘Yes, and I did not feel the need to be disturbed.’

‘I had no idea murder investigation was still in your job description, Rufus,’ Dumbledore commented, pocketing his wand with a sigh.

‘Murder?’ asked Hermione, confused.

Gravely, Dumbledore looked at Hermione and nodded his head. ‘Margoon, the Genealogy Wizard, was found murdered at the Ministry last night.’ He turned back to Rufus.

‘As always, you’re impeccably informed, Albus,’ Rufus snarled, clearly irritated.

Margoon – the Genealogy Wizard – murdered – blood on her file.

‘And as always, you’re jumping the gun by questioning Hermione. The wards set by the Ministry around the Burrow clearly indicate that she didn’t leave this house at all. Even better, we have multiple witnesses who saw her here during the time Margoon died, which includes me.’

‘Oh well, if you saw her …’

While the two of them argued, Hermione returned her attention to the bloody parchment in her hand. Her eyes flickered over the names more thoroughly again. It seemed all right, until she reached her grandparents – to be more precise, until she reached her grandparents on her father’s side. She blinked when she saw the names Elias Granger and Ellsinore Airmid Granger-Dagworth-Granger. She had no idea who these people were. Both her grandparents were long dead, but she recalled their names very clearly and these weren’t it.

Frowning, she rolled out the parchment further and checked out their family tree more carefully. It seemed Elias and Ellsinore were distantly related, and they’d been both Squibs since their respective parents had a wand symbol behind their names and they’d not. Hermione recognised the name of Ellsinore’s father, Hector Dagworth-Granger. He’d been the Founder of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers. She recalled reading about him for a History of Magic essay. This was just too weird. Genealogy documents were supposed to be impossible to forge. There was ancient magic involved in their creation.

How … what … why would anyone …?

She suddenly recalled the rather peculiar set face of a certain Dark Lord after she’d mentioned that she was a Mudblood. He’d seemed amused, like he’d found her remark funny. It had pissed her off back then because he was at the heart of all the bigotry and she felt he’d no right to pretend like he didn’t care – like she was somehow silly to bring that up. Yet, now, his whole reaction gained an entirely different meaning. Her eyes narrowed in irritation. Oh, this was so not happening. She opened her mouth to inform the Minister of the problem with her parchment when said Minister started screaming at Dumbledore.

‘Not everything is your business, Albus! You stick your overly-sized, crooked nose where it doesn’t belong, thinking you can get away with everything, just because you won one silly duel a long time ago! Well, Grindelwald is at large again and you may be the Headmaster of Hogwarts, but that doesn’t grant you the right to interfere in ministerial affairs!’

Stomping away, Scrimgeour snatched the parchment from Hermione’s hands. She was still gawking at him for his outburst, as he pushed against her with said parchment. ‘This is long from being over, Miss Granger. We will find out why you lied about your heritage.’

Then, he just stormed away, ordering Arthur to follow him and leaving her standing flabbergasted.

‘Why,’ Molly said, shaking her head. ‘Such rude behaviour. I’m never voting for that man again. Can I get you a cup of tea, Albus, Hermione?’

Hermione shook her head.

‘No thanks, Molly,’ Dumbledore replied. ‘Could I have a brief moment alone with Miss Granger?’

Worry flashed through Hermione. He didn’t know Voldemort had been here again, did he? Oh, she’d die of embarrassment if he knew what she’d done. Quickly, she searched her mind for an appropriate song but turned up empty. Sightly panicking, she forced herself to think of something. Every song she thought of, she only knew a line or two. That was a huge no-no when trying to occlude. You didn’t want to need to concentrate. What to do? She had to get something.

‘Of course,’ Molly said, still shaking her head about the Minister’s behaviour as she waved her wand at the door. It reattached itself to its hinges and flew shut next. ‘Harry! You can come down now! The Minister is gone!’

‘Hermione?’ Dumbledore asked tentatively. ‘Are you all right?’

She was out of time. Avoiding his gaze and counting numbers, it was. One, two, three …

‘Yes,’ she replied, scratching her head. ‘Why was he acting like this – shouting at you like that?’

Dumbledore shrugged. ‘Things are not looking good for Rufus lately. There’s been a lot of talk about his failure to gain help from the Aurors abroad. The death of Amelia Bones has also made his critics more vocal and that’s bound to resurface, now that another ministerial employee has been murdered right under the roof of the Ministry. I suppose he came here hoping to get something, so people wouldn’t focus on his failures. Support from Harry would definitely help him, and he probably thought he could get to Harry through you.’

Hermione bit her lip. ‘Professor?’

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t get a chance to tell him, but that parchment …’

Dumbledore watched her thoughtfully as he paused.

‘It was wrong.’ Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen …

Her headmaster rubbed his beard. ‘Wrong how?’

‘My father’s parents weren’t Elias Granger and Ellinore Granger-Dagworth-Granger. I’ve never even heard of them, but considering their parents were magical and they weren’t …’

‘It would make your grandparents Squibs,’ Dumbledore concluded.

‘They’re not my grandparents.’

‘Yes, I heard you. Mmm … this is an unexpected development. Dagworth-Granger: That’s a respected pure-blood name.’

‘Well, they’re not my family and I want my record corrected.’

‘I wouldn’t recommend such an action, Hermione.’

‘But, but …’ Twenty-five, ten, ten, ten …

‘Right now, Rufus is just nagging about minor issues that can easily be explained away. Margoon often cleaned up his files, so your file being there at the time of his death isn’t as odd as Rufus tried to make you believe. Furthermore, his accusation of you falsely calling yourself a Muggle-born … well, most Squibs live their lives away from their magical families. We don’t treat them particularly pleasantly most of the time, and they’re often ostracised. It would be pretty logical for your grandparents to have never mentioned the existence of magic to your father, henceforth your inability to know you have magical relatives. None of this will sound suspicious or odd to anyone. However, should you report to Rufus that your records have been falsified, you will give him a huge club to hit you with.’

‘I didn’t make that forgery.’

‘I know that and you know that. And it’s pretty clear who did. Which is why you’re stuck with it. You can’t possibly tell the Minister or anyone else for that matter that Lord Voldemort had your papers forged so you would become more “acceptable” to his followers.’

‘I don’t have to tell the Minister who forged it. Can’t I just say it’s incorrect and have them change the names back?’ she replied stubbornly.

Dumbledore shook his head. ‘Think about what you’re saying Hermione. We’re talking about heavily guarded, magical documents that are deemed impossible to forge.’ Dumbledore smiled when she rolled her eyes at the latter. ‘Once they know your records have been tampered with, it will become a huge investigation. Since those are your papers, that investigation will revolve around you, and you’ve been and will be in Voldemort’s care for some time to come. We can’t explain away your whereabouts for a significant period in time.’

A frustrated growl left her lips. ‘So, I just need to be okay with this?’

‘No, I didn’t say that, but you know who you are. Isn’t that the most important thing in the world?’

‘That is such a cop-out platitude thing to say.’

Dumbledore patted her on the shoulder comfortingly. ‘Perhaps … yet, true nevertheless.’ He walked out of the sitting room after that. ‘Molly! Is Alastor still around?’

‘I’m right here,’ Moody’s scruffy voice spoke from the kitchen. ‘Not going anywhere, Albus. I just had to stay out of Rufus’s sight.’

‘I can’t reach Kingsley now, since we don’t want to draw attention to him being in the Order, but I know he plans to come over for lunch. Could you tell him to investigate all high-ranking ministerial employees over Margoon’s murder?’

‘Death Eater?’

‘Definitely. Margoon was a hermit, but not a fool. For someone to get to him and have him … Well, they’d have to have considerable magical skills and the ability to go around the Department of Mysteries unnoticed.’

‘So whoever the murderer is will pose a significant threat to us if he or she is not found and continues to work at the Ministry. Wonderful,’ Moody grumbled. ‘Got anything concrete from Rufus for us to go on? Possible suspects?’

‘No, sorry, and …’ Dumbledore stopped talking when a silvery tabby cat circled his head and stopped next to his ear, whispering its message quickly. His eyes widened in alarm, and with a crack, he disapparated immediately.

xxx

‘Come on, Hermione. We’ve been here for hours already,’ Ron complained, staring at her basket filled with books.

She looked up, distracted. In her hands lay a thick, ancient volume, opened up at a random chapter. ‘Hours,’ she snorted, checking the time. ‘It’s not been twenty minutes yet.’

‘But the joke shop–’

‘It’s important to get your school supplies right, Ron,’ she replied admonishingly.

‘I already have my books and so does Harry.’ Ron gestured to the other impatient person behind him. ‘Come on, we’re waiting for you. Just get your books, and we can get out of here.’

‘I haven’t been in this store for more than a year, Ronald Weasley. And considering the circumstances, it’s unlikely I’ll get a chance to browse the shelves any time soon again.’

‘But Hermione …’

‘Why don’t you two go ahead with Hagrid? I’ll get there later.’

‘We were supposed to stay together. Hagrid has to watch out for all of us,’ Harry replied, pointing over the balustrade on the first floor to the half giant who pretty much blocked the entrance by his mere presence.

‘No,’ Hermione said. ‘I am pretty sure Professor Dumbledore asked Hagrid to keep an eye on you.’

‘Yeah, mate,’ Ron said, shrugging apologetically. ‘Hermione’s always been the responsible one. You’re the one who needs looking after.’

She giggled.

‘Funny, Ron,’ Harry said. ‘But I am sure Professor Dumbledore wants all of us to be safe.’

Hermione and Ron shared an amused glance of understanding.

‘And why would I not be safe?’ she asked. ‘Really, Hagrid may be adequate protection against Death Eaters, but I don’t need to worry about them, do I?’ She pointed to her shirt where her necklace lay hidden.

‘Which is exactly why I don’t want to leave you alone,’ Harry reacted. ‘He can find you anywhere, according to Dumbledore.’

‘So … what does that mean, are you going to follow me around wherever I go from now on, Harry? Because I may need to shower or go to the loo or do other private things.’

‘I – I …’

‘And what if he does show up? I am not the one he’s trying to kill. You are. Do you really want to make him succeed at that because of me?’ She stepped towards Harry and pricked him in the chest repeatedly. ‘Because I promise you, if that happens, Harry James Potter, so help me Godric, I will find a way to haunt your dead body for all eternity.’

‘She’s scary enough to succeed at it,’ Ron muttered under his breath.

‘You’re damn right I am,’ Hermione said out loud, turning Ron’s ears red. ‘I don’t want to feel guilty over your death for the rest of my life, just because you have a hero-complex, Harry. I don’t need saving. And …’ Harry opened his mouth, but he shut it when Hermione raised her hand and said with more emphasis, ‘And I don’t want you or Hagrid anywhere near me if he does show up, Harry.’

‘Eh!’ Ron objected, holding out his hands in a “What about me?” gesture.

‘Look,’ she continued, ignoring Ron’s outburst when she noticed Harry was about to make another objection, ‘this shop is three buildings away from Gringotts. There are Aurors skulking in the shadows everywhere.’

‘Aurors?’ Ron said, confused. He turned his head to look out the window, searching the street for shadow-skulking Aurors. ‘Oh,’ he murmured when he’d found them, a bit put off that he hadn’t noticed this before.

‘Why would anyone, especially him, be stupid enough to show up here, so close to the wizarding bank?’ Hermione asked reasonably. ‘It’ll take mere seconds before the street will be filled with every Auror in the nation. If he plans to target me, it’ll be much easier to do that someplace less conspicuous. He’d be insane to show up here.’

Harry sighed. ‘I suppose … I – I just don’t know, Hermione. Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I am. Just go, and I’ll meet you at the joke shop later. I want to take my time here and you two are positively getting on my nerves, breathing down my neck while I am trying to find a good book.’

She turned back to the shelves as if it was the end of that. Ron nodded with his head to the door, looking at Harry questioningly. Harry, in turn, scratched the back of his head in doubt.

‘Okay, seriously, if you two keep standing there, I’ll hex you myself,’ Hermione added with her nose in a book, while making threatening waves with her wand over her shoulder.

‘Harry,’ Ron added, nodding to the door again.

‘Fine, okay, we’ll leave,’ Harry said, raising his hands in surrender. ‘How long do you think you need?’

Hermione turned her head thoughtfully. ‘An hour?’

‘An hour!’ Ron mouthed, now really desperate to go.

‘We’ll come back in an hour then,’ Harry decided. ‘It’s quite a walk to the joke shop and I don’t like you walking these deserted streets alone. Those Aurors are only interested in protecting the bank after all.’

‘Sure, whatever,’ Hermione muttered, distracted by the text she was reading.

That was the end of it. Ron quickly pulled Harry along with him before he could change his mind. Several minutes later, the door was no longer blocked by Hagrid’s huge form and Hermione let out a relieved sigh.

And no more need to pretend her muscles didn’t ache whenever she had to bend or reach for a book. Fortunately, the more she moved, the more her muscles loosened. Walking was already a lot less painful than when she woke. Now it was just an irritating ache, unless she put real pressure on her muscles with an unusual movement. She was most relieved about getting some peace and quietness though.

Their constant chatting to her as she was trying to read and make an important decision on whether or not to buy a book had been really disturbing her enjoyment. Now, she finally could relax and browse. Inhaling slowly through her nose, Hermione cherished the smell of all the books. She loved being in Flourish and Blotts. It made her feel at peace, happy, and at home. After another quick glance at her completely-unnecessary-since-already-memorised list, she proceeded to check if she indeed had the right Ancient Runes book in her hands. Spellman had written so many of them.

“Spellman Syllabary for Advanced Learners version MXIV”, check.

Quickly, she shuffled some books around in her already overflowing basket and was able to get the 796 pages thick volume in there as well. Now, all that was left was Arithmancy. Slowly, she walked back, her eyes falling on several desirable other reading materials on her way over to the Arithmancy section, which was also on the first floor but a few aisles further down the back.

Oh my … that can’t possibly be the real deal.

Her eye had landed on: “Mephistopheles’s Guide to Wizarding Nature, the Complete Text”, and she froze on the spot.

Complete, as in really complete?

Her eyes flickered around. The aisle wasn’t empty. A family with a little boy passed by at the end, an old man was browsing through the top shelves several feet away, and a witch with sparkling purple robes was skipping through a Lockhart book. Yet, nobody was in her immediate vicinity or paying attention to what she was doing. If she blocked the two’s line of sight with her body, they wouldn’t be able to witness her picking up a book from the wizard who’d invented almost all of the last century’s Dark Arts Magic. She would only flip through it and nobody would be the wiser. Curious, she reached out and took it from the shelf.

Checking the aisle one last time and deeming it safe enough, she opened the book. It turned out to be a new edition, re-establishing the full original text without the censorship in the editions printed at the turn of the nineteenth century and beyond.

Raising an eyebrow, Hermione noticed the foreword of the book was written by L.K.G.A. Volkova.

L for Ljudmila? Nah, couldn’t be … or could it?

Entranced, Hermione read some of the paragraphs.

Moral indignation and well-meant caution led to further and further censorship of Mephistopheles’s writings. At first, only the most dangerous magical creations were taken out. This could be seen as a sensible precaution, had Mephistopheles not trained many dark wizards and witches in his craft. They, in turn, spread his original text among their followers. A snowball effect took place, until in 1918 the amount of illegal copies of “Guide to Wizarding Nature” confiscated by ministries all over the world outnumbered the official editions greatly.

In 1922, Asterion Whiter, British Minister of Magic (1921-1922), declared that all practical knowledge should be blackened in order to prevent its readers from recreating any of his magical achievements, even those who could be turned to good use. His initiative met with global public approval and many politicians rolled over themselves to show they could be whiter than Whiter. References to Merlin and Le Fay were scratched since it was deemed sacrilege to their heritage to be ranked among the likes of Archimago and Lilith. Later, all words deemed inappropriate were deleted, until the entire text became completely incomprehensible. And still, the original text flourished in the underground of the Wizarding Society as a whole.

A brief revival of the official text occurred during the reign of Gellert Grindelwald who held a bonfire with the censored versions and announced Mephistopheles’s Guide as obligatory literature at all magical schools under his control.

Hermione sniggered; she could just envision the flamboyant wizard’s actions and snarky comments during this event in her mind’s eye. She skimmed through the rest of the text, looking for some clue to determine if this truly was the Volkova she knew.

As such is true, I fear that oppression of the text will merely prevent those in need of defending themselves against its dangers from gaining the knowledge and provide those planning to use it to its fullest extent a certain victory. Knowledge is power. And the use of power should never be underestimated. We can only fight that which we understand and know. Those too weak to acknowledge this will be inevitably defeated.

Hermione’s brow rose. Interesting way to put it.

Mephistopheles’s thorough understanding of Wizarding Nature gained him a legendary status among those needing his assistance to complete their paths fully.

Abruptly, Hermione forgot all about her search for the true identity of the author of the foreword upon seeing the word “paths”.

Paths, now that was a too familiar word.

Would Mephistopheles have been a Keeper, too? Maybe she could gain some clarity in all this ridiculously mysterious Keeper secrecy from this book? It wasn’t like you would become dark just by reading. She flipped to the index and practically jumped in the air in excitement as her eyes swept over the chapter titles.

“Introduction to Wizarding Nature, the Light versus Dark Paradox”, “The Magic Within”, “Choosing a Path, Conscious or Subconscious Decision?”, “Dark or Light: the Dilemma”, “Not Choosing a Path: the Fallacy of Generations Past, Present, and Future, or How Mediocrity Rules the Wizarding World”, “Embracing your Path, the Way to Self-Efficacy”, “Controlled Casting: Fact or Myth?”, “The Dark Arts: Common Misconceptions”, “The Right Guide with the Right Apprentice – Identical or Opposite Characters?”, “Guiding: the Importance of the Magical Nodes”, and so it went on and on and on.

Hermione was bursting with joy. It was obvious from the chapter titles that Mephistopheles had been a Keeper and hadn’t felt the need to be all mysterious about his knowledge. Finally, she would get some answers to this “Path Business”.

All right.

Making a victorious gesture with her fist and wincing from the move, she turned the book around and checked the price tag on its back. That was the end of any victorious ideas. She nearly had a heart attack right there.

Forty-nine Galleons! Was this book printed on gold parchment by any chance? Forty-nine, ridiculous.

Grumbling incoherently about the unfairness of it all, Hermione stared at her already full basket. Her budget – though considerable – wasn’t endless, and she knew she’d already stuffed too many additional volumes in there. She had to see what the total was with the Arithmancy textbooks. Reluctantly, she placed the overly expensive book back on the shelf.

Walking away disappointed, her heart ached with every step she took. Without any pleasure or checking the contents, she added the obligatory Arithmancy volumes to her stack. A flick of her wand gave her the total. Another flick and the total with just the absolutely necessary books arrived in plain view.

It was still far too much.

Slowly, she strolled back to the place where the desired book was located and placed her basket on the ground thoughtfully.

Do I really need to have all my schoolbooks this year?

Considering that, she scratched her neck.

Oh crap, I still have to restock my Potions supplies, too. And why did I buy five new robes at Madam Malkin’s? Three would’ve been more than enough.

Groaning, Hermione leaned against the shelves behind her. This was so unfair.

Subconsciously, her hand slid to the pendant, caressing the stone absentmindedly. She needed that book, dammit. Perhaps …?

No!

She wasn’t nicking it. She wasn’t.

But she needed it.

No, no, no.

Letting go of the pendant, she quickly squatted down to lift her basket and get the hell away from temptation when the distinct crack of an Apparition reached her eardrums. The noise came from downstairs. Hermione froze, her basket in hand. Apparition was prohibited in Diagon Alley stores. When caught, you were invited to an all-expenses paid six months slumber party at Azkaban even if you hadn’t stolen anything. Not only that; the stores were sufficiently warded against the action as well. It took a truly accomplished witch or wizard to get around them. Her heart stopped when terrified screams filled the store.

Oh Merlin, no, not here, not now.

‘Get out,’ a familiar cold, high-pitched voice ordered quietly. ‘In precisely one minute, I will feel obliged to start killing whoever is still here.’

His sentence magically slithered across the store. Despite the overwhelming noise of panic, it reached every ear in all its indifferent, whispered detachment. The words almost tangibly surrounded those present, striking even more fear in their hearts.

‘Eh! Oww!’ Hermione cried out.

The purple robed witch, who was clearly in a hurry to vacate the area, bumped into her behind, making her smash into the bookcase. The entire stand swayed to and fro, threatening to collapse either on top of her or on the people in the other aisle. Several books tumbled down from the highest shelf. Panicky, she grabbed a hold of the nearest vertical bar when her footing slipped and she fell on her knees. Hermione groaned in pain when a cane got stomped in her back, as the elder man passed her, too, without taking her, the falling books, or the large, swaying stand into consideration for a moment.

If the bookcase fell down on her, she’d be crushed to death. She had to do something – had to make it stop moving. An Immobility Charm!

Quickly pulling her wand, Hermione cast said charm on the stand. It did the trick. Still, it didn’t stop the immense fear she was feeling. Hugging her arms around herself, Hermione frowned.

I’m scared. That makes no sense. Why am I …?

Oooh, some kind of Emotion-Altering Curse, most likely a Fright Curse.

Concentrating on the countermeasure, she pushed back against the magic surrounding her. When she gained a sufficient distance from it, her fear vanished like snow before the sun. It seemed like she was the only one who’d considered doing that. Terror was still overly present in the store and people were running around without thought or consideration. Calmly, Hermione rose to her feet, walked to the balustrade at the end of the aisle, and peeked over it.

In the centre of the ground floor, Lord Voldemort stood utterly still. Seemingly ignoring the stampede taking place in the direction of the front door, his bald head was downcast to his clasped hands, which held onto an old-fashioned, gold pocket-watch. His black robes contrasted as always with his extremely white skin, and without the visibility of his eyes, he could’ve been an ancient photograph, a stilled portrait in black-and-white.

Yet, a photograph would never get this kind of a fearful response. The customers in the shop gave him a wide berth, not daring to get too close to the immobile wizard in case he decided to move prematurely. After all, he wasn’t known for his stable personality. But their anxiety made them trample all over each other in the limited space they dared to walk in.

Horrified, Hermione took in the situation. Besides the rush to the only door out of the place, she could see three foolish individuals who had crawled into a foetal position at their respected places in the shop, not moving an inch in frozen terror. And if she could see them,he could, too. However, she’d never make it to the three of them on time. There couldn’t be more than half a minute left.

Suddenly, a crying noise reached her ears. It came from behind her, so she turned her head. A little boy stood all alone in the aisle next to the one she’d just vacated. Hermione recalled seeing him with his parents before. Her head swivelled around. She didn’t spot them in the aisles. She checked the crowd gathering at the top of the narrow revolving staircase. They almost tried to push each other down in their haste. But the boy’s parents were not in sight anywhere. Had they left without him?

Apparently.

Quickly, she paced to the crying child and picked him up. He stopped crying immediately and watched her intrigued as she rushed to the staircase and pushed him into the arms of a nearby big, broad-shouldered male, who seemed to be the least likely to get trampled upon.

‘Help him,’ she ordered, touching the man’s arm and pushing away the part of his fear that was irrational.

He blinked. Comprehension filled his face. Suddenly, he had a role to fulfill, a task at hand. A child needed saving. It raised his courage.

‘Can I help y –?’ he started asking.

‘Go!’ Hermione commanded, eyeing him firmly.

Letting out a relieved sigh, she watched him move down the stairs and out the front door before she rushed back to the balustrade. The boy was safe. Unlike the three individuals who’d found their inner baby. Where were those morons?

Whipping out her wand, her eyes found the brunette “hiding” between two large stands, her arms clutched over her head as if that would stop a well-placed Avada. Did that idiot really think she was safe there? She was five feet away from the door for crying out loud. Why was she not getting out?!

Frustrated, Hermione hung over the railing and yelled, ‘Leave!’

It had absolutely no effect whatsoever. Her voice got drowned in the residual noise.

Fine. If they aren’t leaving willingly on their volition, there are always other methods.

Ignoring that it was not that long ago that she’d told Lord Voldemort she wasn’t going to cast any Unforgivables, ever, she focused. He’d said it was exactly the same as the Volantius Curse. He’d better be right. Her jaw set, Hermione raised her wand, narrowing her eyes in concentration.

‘Imperio!’

Her Imperius Curse soared through the air, striking the silly witch dead on. Dropping her arms, the brunette rose – a vacant, goofy expression on her face. Triumphantly, Hermione willed her to move to the door. When she was out, Hermione quickly turned to the man lying behind the counter. She had no idea how much time she had left.

‘Imperio!’

If she’d have taken one second to look at the Dark Lord, she might have noticed that the watch had been replaced by a wand a while ago and that his previous impassive expression had gained a subtle smirk, while his crimson eyes were sparkling in pleasure – all very visibly, because his head was tilted upward.

Come on, come on … move faster, you have legs, her mind willed when the bloke was moving like a slug.

His pace quickened, and he rushed out as well. Hurriedly, Hermione turned her attention to other fellow underneath the staircase. She had to hang a considerable end over the railing and blast away a man-sized cardboard of Fifi LaFolle to get a clear shot at him. He was the absolute last one to leave the shop. Still hanging over the balustrade, Hermione dropped her head and let out a relieved sigh as the bell chimed and the store was left in complete silence.

Made it.

‘Still here, Granger?’

‘Eek!’

Her body jolted in shock. Her feet left the floor as her centre of gravity shifted forward. Panicking, she clutched her fingers around the nearby railing in order not to tumble over. Her wand plummeted down, making high clattering noises as it bounced on the stone floor beneath. Desperately, her legs flailed through the air to try to shift the balance and keep her body on the safe side of the railing. A toe touched the floor again, and she pushed her body up with her arms, causing her to land safely on her knees. With a ragged gasp, Hermione leaned her head against the vertical bars of the balustrade, while her hands clutched to them as if she was still in danger of falling down. Adrenaline pushed through her veins relentlessly, making her heart pound in her throat like crazy and her breaths could hardly keep up with her body’s demands. It took her some time, but slowly, she regained her composure and looked up.

Lord Voldemort tilted his head. ‘Planning to join a circus?’ he teased, summoning her wand with a flick of his wrist.

Hermione scowled and scrambled to her feet, supporting herself on the balustrade because her legs were still somewhat wobbly. Her face contorted briefly as the ending of the emergency pushed her muscle pain back to the forefront of her mind. Her grip on the railing tightened when the shouts outside became more pronounced. Through the huge window, she could see how more and more Aurors apparated into Diagon Alley in a hurry and how obvious wards were being risen around the store. Voldemort, in return, cast something at the walls that made them bellow and deform. The windows blurred and fused together with the stone walls. The door vanished. The only light in the shop was now provided by the oil lamps hanging on the ceiling and walls.

Oh crap, I am stuck here … with him.

Hermione glared at the source of her recent problem in what seemed to become an endless list of complications in her life. ‘What are you doing here?’

Raising a nonexistent eyebrow as if the answer to that was obvious, he gestured to the stands. ‘I need something to read.’

Her jaw dropped. He needed something to read. Okaaay.

‘That doesn’t make you look particularly intelligent, Granger.’

She snapped her jaws shut and glared at him. ‘Forgot how to use Glamour Charms to enter somewhere inconspicuously?’ she sneered.

‘Now where is the fun in that?’

She groaned.

‘Granger, Granger, Granger, surely you have to appreciate the high entertainment value of just popping in. The look on people’s faces alone is worth it.’ He snickered like a mischievous school boy.

She just stared at him in bemusement.

‘And nothing tastes quite as delicious as the sudden onset of mass terror,’ he added, smirking.

‘Well, congratulations then,’ she replied dryly. ‘Your presence alone seems to be enough to achieve that.’

A casual flip of his wand caused several books to vacate their respective shelves in the bookshop and fly into his hands. One soared right past her head. Hermione just noticed the strange triangular symbol on the cover. Lord Voldemort looked at the stack in his hands and moved his hands in an upward circular direction around them. The books vanished with a tiny crack, and he turned his attention back on her.

Oh goody.

‘The world is overflowing with wimps, Hermione Granger. Don’t tell me you expected someone to exhibit …’ he paused, swivelling his head around in a mock search, ‘Potter heroics?’ he taunted, lifting a lid of a dustbin as if he expected Harry to be in there. ‘Speaking of which, where is he? Did you give him the slip? You can’t tell me you came to Diagon Alley all by your lonesome self.’

His tone was still light, but she could tell by the subtle change in pitch and his stance that he no longer was just mocking her. Crap, he had her wand. She’d nothing to defend herself with. Maybe she could toss that heavy Spellman book at his head?

Hermione’s expression turned blank and she crossed her arms in front of her chest defensibly.

Abruptly, he was airborne. Staggering back in surprise, Hermione watched him fly over the railing and land right in front of her. Wide-eyed, she asked, ‘How did you do that?’

But she didn’t get an answer. Lord Voldemort grabbed a hold of her harshly and pulled her against him. ‘Where is Potter?’

Burying her face into his robes to avoid eye contact, she said through gritted teeth, ‘Not here.’

‘That much is obvious,’ he whispered against the top of her head.

He tightened the grip his arm had around her waist before lifting the other and delving his fingers into her hair. Next, her head got pulled back roughly. She had her eyes firmly shut before he could meet them.

‘Oh, is dear Harry that nearby?’ he taunted.

Hermione bit her lip. Again, no song came to mind, so she quickly started counting numbers in preparation for the moment he would force her eyes open to meet his.

‘Look at me, Hermione.’

His soft voice had a quality of its own. The need to comply with the order was overwhelming. Yet, she was capable of resisting the insane urge and shook her head in his grip, already clenching her teeth together in anticipation of the most likely painful curse that would follow.

‘I promise not to peek,’ he breathed against her lips seductively.

‘Liar.’

His chuckle wrapped around her body, erupting gooseflesh on her skin. ‘Now, now, I am the Legilimens here,’ he chided.

‘I thought you weren’t going to use me to get to Harry.’

She felt him shrug. ‘Maybe I changed my mind after your impertinent, blatant refusal last night?’ he suggested quietly.

His quietness was dangerous, deadly, making her heart stop and her breath hitch in her throat.

Shit, shit, shit.

‘Maybe I decided that if you weren’t going to join me, your destruction would be irrelevant to me?’ he continued oh so lightly, moving his mouth along her jaw as he spoke. She felt his lips brush her earlobe. ‘Maybe I will enjoy watching you suffer for your impudence …’ he paused, and then, hissed, ‘Mudblood.’

The venom in his voice made her tremble in his hold. She’d no idea why, but she’d never been this scared in her life. Little drops of perspiration formed on her forehead. She felt clammy all over. Cold sweat began dripping down her spine. And now her heart was racing so fast that it felt like it was going to jump out of her chest in any minute.

‘Would you like me to make you suffer, Hermione?’ he whispered as if in a promise.

Barely noticeably, she shook her head. Not at this moment, no. She was sure it wouldn’t be anything fun that came to his mind now.

‘Then, why do you keep on opposing me, my dear?’

Her nails dug into the palms of her hands, as she tensed up further, not knowing how to respond to that. Hadn’t she already explained this last night?

‘Open your eyes, Hermione,’ he ordered oh so gently.

She clenched them harder together.

A soft almost tiresome sigh left his lips. ‘Do you want me to force you, Hermione? You know I can. Why make this harder on yourself?’

She bit her lip, trying to stop her tears from forming. Her shoulders shook. All the tension from everything that had happened during the last couple of weeks surmounted, and she was unable to stop herself when he released the stronghold he had on her hair, and gently, placed her head against his chest. A sob left her mouth. And another when he caressed the side of her face. She didn’t understand how his hold could shift from feeling threatening to feeling infinitely safe and comforting in a blink of an eye.

But it did.

Her fingers grabbed a hold of his robes and she started crying relentlessly. Unstoppable.

Quietly and unmoving, Lord Voldemort held her. He didn’t speak, didn’t comment, didn’t push her away or curse her. He just waited, waited till she was done.

Hermione sniffed, letting out a last sob as she wiped her face with her hand. She felt empty, like she cried everything out in the last couple of minutes – all her emotions and feelings: gone. She sniffed up her nose again, staring at nothing in particular.

Lord Voldemort took a hold of her shoulders and stepped back slightly, tilting his head at her.

‘Why did you stay, Hermione?’

Confused, she looked at him.

‘Why didn’t you leave the store like everyone else?’

Hermione blinked. Well, I didn’t have time after that boy and those three morons and it’s not like you can actually kill me and …

‘Still lying to yourself?’

Voldemort interrupted her thinking. But his voice wasn’t harsh or cold; it actually sounded soft, kind, gentle and caring. That more than anything else made her stare at him in bafflement. A small, understanding smile slid on his face, and he rubbed her shoulders before stepping aside and waving his wand at her. The Healing Charm soothed her aching muscles completely. Every inch of her body that had felt sore now felt rejuvenated and her tiredness vanished as snow before the sun.

Amazing, she thought, loosening her shoulders without hurting.

Then, Voldemort cast in the direction of all the wards.

‘You must have noticed the Aurors outside. You must have known how much attention my arrival and that stampede would get. I wouldn’t be surprised if every Auror they could spare is out there right now. Yet … you’re in here with me.’

Hermione bit her lip and looked down, hugging her arms around her body.

‘You missed your one opportunity to get out of this shop without drawing attention to yourself from me, from the Aurors, from the Order and from your friends. One has to wonder: Why, Hermione?’

‘I … I …’ She fell silent, rubbing her hands over her arms for comfort.

Lord Voldemort stepped in front of her again. Carefully, he placed a single digit under her chin and lifted it slowly. She could easily step away or otherwise stop him, but her brown eyes met his in a somewhat confused and fearful anticipation.

‘Was my offer this stressful to you, Hermione? Would you prefer it if I forced your hand, so you could maintain a semblance of pretence for yourself?’ he asked seriously.

Realising what he was thinking, what he was offering, her eyes widened. No, no, that’s not it – that couldn’t be it.

‘Is that why you stayed?’

‘No, no, I – I …’ She halted and stepped away from him, right into the bookshelves. Taking a deep breath, Hermione said firmly, ‘No, to all of your questions.’

He merely stared at her, a small smile on his face.

Merlin, did he not understand the concept of a denial? Maybe I should fetch him a dictionary? There should be one around here somewhere.

‘I would’ve left if there’d been time. I just forgot to consider it. I wasn’t expecting you to show up here, not this close to the bank with all these Aurors here. I was taken by surprise. I didn’t have time to think. It’s got nothing to do with anything. You’re reading too much into this. Really, I –’ She stopped her ranting when he closed the distance between them and cupped her cheek.

‘Sometimes I forget how very young you still are,’ he said quietly before swirling away from her.

Hermione gawked. What was that supposed to mean? How dare he treat her this condescending? She was not a little child. ‘I’ll be of age in less than two months,’ she hissed to his back.

He snorted, amused. ‘I stand corrected then.’

A sideway flip of his wand and an endless stream of strange looking bats left its tip. The flock charged directly at the wall and just when Hermione thought they’d smash to their deaths, the bats passed the bellowing wall as if it wasn’t there. Loud screams erupted from the street, and Voldemort turned around with a satisfied smirk.

‘I wouldn’t want them to grow complacent with nothing to do. After all, we are paying their salaries. I want my money’s worth.’

‘Yeah, ’cause you pay taxes,’ Hermione mocked.

‘Excellent point. Malfoy’s money’s worth, it is.’ He held out his hand with her wand in it. ‘You’ll need this.’

Hermione’s lip had quirked slightly upward at his casual Malfoy comment, and she walked to him to accept her wand, not realising how he’d easily affected her mood and made her feel more at ease. When her hand took a hold of the smooth wood, his fingertips brushed hers, causing a jolt of magic to spark between them. She pulled her hand and wand away from his touch, but it – whatever it was – had already happened. A strange sensation travelled up her arm to her chest and head, making her gasp when it struck something deep inside of her. She swayed on her feet. Everything blurred and turned darker and brighter for a moment. Then, she felt his hand on her arm, steadying her, and she blinked, focusing on his face whose outline quickly became sharp again in the dizzying environment.

‘Are you all right?’ Voldemort asked, his eyes flashing over her, examining her.

‘I … I suppose,’ Hermione said doubtfully, shaking her head to get rid of the buzz in her mind. Unusual tingles swerved through her body, making her almost feel like she was on some kind of high. It was an odd feeling but not entirely unpleasant. She didn’t know how to qualify it to be honest. ‘What just happened?’

‘My magic jumped to you. It can be rather disconcerting when another’s magic hits your nodes, even if it is somewhat compatible,’ he explained, taking in her flushed state with a calm detachment.

‘Disconcerting, that’s one way of putting it,’ Hermione muttered, disturbed. She pocketed her wand and rubbed her arms, trying to rid it of the titillating sensations. It felt too good to be true. ‘What’d you mean compatible?’

‘Don’t you like the feeling?’ Voldemort asked, his eyes following her movements.

Hermione’s cheeks flushed as red as the ripest tomato. ‘I … I ...’

Oh shoot, talk about embarrassing. Now I can’t think of what to say either. Why does this shit always happen to me? He must think I am such a moron.

‘Need me to make it stop?’ he offered quietly.

‘Yes, please,’ she whispered, nodding her head quickly.

He closed the distance between them and cupped her cheek, lifting her head. When he bent down towards her lips, she stuttered, ‘Wh-what …?’

Then, he was kissing her, breathing her in, and her mind turned blank. She followed his lead, allowed his tongue to explore her mouth and just lived in that moment: that heightened exhilarating delicious moment when she suddenly felt on top of the world. His magic swirled through her body; she could feel it, taste it, and sense it in every inch of her being. Such a rush. She didn’t want it to end. She’d changed her mind. She wanted this to last forever. He took a deep breath, summoning his magic. And she felt it leave, swirling upward through her mouth back into him. A disappointed, soft moan escaped her, as his lips left hers and he stepped back.

‘Better?’ he asked with a small upward curl of his lip.

No, not particularly, she thought, somewhat disgruntled that he’d stopped kissing her and had taken away that wonderful sensation, even though she’d asked him to.

Something flickered in his normally unreadable red gaze, making her regain her composure in a flash.

‘Will you stop listening to my thoughts?’ she snapped, irritated.

‘I’m not using Legilimency on you, Hermione,’ he said, smirking broadly. ‘There is really no need when your expression is this transparent.’

‘Ah! You’re – you’re insufferable!’ she exclaimed, tossing her hands in the air in frustration.

‘It takes one to know one,’ he replied dryly. ‘Get your belongings. It’s time we left.’

‘Oh.’ Quickly, she pulled out her wallet and took one-hundred Galleons from it to pay for her books. It was a little bit more than she needed to pay, but since there was no cashier she supposed it had to do.

‘What are you doing?’ Voldemort asked, eyeing the money in her hand.

‘Paying for my books,’ she said, glaring at him. ‘I am not a thief,’ she added in a clearly reprimanding tone of voice.

His laughter filled the shop. At first, she was just plain annoyed that he laughed about her commenting on his book-nicking actions. But then, she recalled a certain volume he’d left on a dresser not so long ago and turned bright red.

‘I was only borrowing your book, not stealing it,’ she quickly said.

‘Put your money back, Granger.’

‘No, I am going to leave it on the counter.’

‘If you want to burn your money, be my guest, but–’

‘Burn?’ Hermione interrupted.

‘I am torching this place to the ground.’

She looked around in horror. ‘But, but … those are books,’ she said rather superfluously.

‘Hardly,’ Voldemort said, glancing condescendingly at the Lockhart volume on the floor that the purple robed witch had dropped in her hurry to leave.

‘You can’t burn books. That’s – that’s outrageous. All that knowledge …’ She stopped talking aghast, her arms out wide as if to protect the volumes behind her.

‘Granger, it’s hardly like those are rare “books”. It’s the kind of texts that can be found in any general magical bookshop all over the globe. Let’s take a random trial, shall we?’ He whipped his wand, and a book landed in his hand. ‘“My life as a Muggle”,’ he quoted the title mockingly. ‘Such interesting, must know literature, fascinating,’ he sneered, opening the book and reading out loud, ‘Fifteenth edition, seventy-nine prints … Oh yes, what a shame if this goes to waste. There won’t be another copy anywhere on the planet.’

He tossed it over his shoulder and summoned another random book. Hermione groaned when she recognised the textbook from Goshawk. That one was bound to have even more prints.

‘It doesn’t matter if these aren’t rare books. They’re still books,’ she objected feebly.

‘And they’ll be ashes soon,’ Voldemort said, tossing it away. ‘So feel free to burn your money along with them if you so desire. I personally don’t see the point.’

Hermione sighed. She knew a lost cause when she saw one. Uncomfortably, she put her money back in her wallet.

‘Book-Burner,’ she muttered, cursing him under her breath, as she walked to her basket to secure her schoolbooks. Her eyes drew to the diverse titles on the backs of the books on the shelves she passed. They’d all be gone soon. Ashes. What a shame. Such a waste. Maybe she could “save” some?

Quickly, she snatched several more books from the shelves that struck her fancy and dumped them in her basket, too.

Mephistopheles’s book!

Her heart skipped a beat in excitement. Well, she couldn’t let that one go to waste, could she?

‘Granger, are you done yet?’

‘I only need one more book for next school year,’ she replied hastily.

Carefully, she removed some of the books already in her basket, grabbed the Dark Arts book and placed it at the bottom. Quickly, she stuffed her other books on top of it. She so did not need him commenting on her choice in literature.

Oh, and she couldn’t let that book on Charms’ theory lay.

By the time she got back to Voldemort, her pile had reached astronomical heights.

‘Yes, I can see you don’t want to steal anything,’ he commented, amused.

‘This is not stealing. This is saving.’

‘Well, give me those and I will … “save” them to your house. You can’t carry such a mountain around. You need your hands free for what’s to come.’

Hermione gave him the stack and he performed the same spell as he’d done on the books he’d summoned himself on his arrival. Then, he held out his hand to her. Reluctantly, she took it and was surprised when he drew her in his arm.

‘I wasn’t aware this kind of proximity is needed for Side-Along Apparition,’ she jabbed.

‘We’re not apparating.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because that’s not what I came here to do, Hermione.’ He looked down at her seriously. ‘I need to keep these Aurors busy, so my Death Eaters can finish what I told them to do, undisturbed.’ He sniffed arrogantly. ‘Lord knows they need all the help they can get.’

‘But?’

‘Put your arms around my neck and hold on tight.’

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked, her voice breaking.

‘Cause a little mayhem here and there,’ he replied, looking down at her deviously. ‘Perhaps … I should visit the Weasley store?’

Hermione turned pale. She’d yet to comply with his order.

‘Now what?’ he snapped abruptly, glaring at his left arm in utter annoyance. ‘Morons. Do I have to do everything myself?’

His wand swooshed above their heads; he swirled it sideways and breathed against its tip. A plume of fire rose from his wand, shifting into an ever growing snake that uncoiled and slithered around the store.

Fiendfyre, Hermione deduced, following the snake’s moves with her eyes. She had to admit his control over it was astonishing. Fiendfyre was one of the hardest things to cast. Starting it wasn’t the biggest issue, but alighting only that which you needed to – making sure it didn’t torch you, too, that was a whole different Snitch game. And she could tell that his control was absolute by the way it kept its distance from them, by the way she couldn’t even feel the heat, by the way the flames rose in sync, and how the fire halted unnaturally in some areas while expanding rapidly in places it shouldn’t even be able to burn due to lacking oxygen.

Speaking of which… why could they still breathe normally?

She understood that he controlled the fire. But where did he get the additional, clean air from to supply them with? For as far as she could recall, that wasn’t a part of the Fiendfyre curse. It had to be an additional charm placed on top of the curse. She looked back at him, opening her mouth to ask. Yet, he seemed in some kind of a trance-like state. Her mouth shut abruptly.

She didn’t dare disturb him out of fear for what it would do to the fire around them. She could tell he was concentrating by the minute narrowing of his eyelids. His pupils were vertical stripes, seeming almost longer than their normal slit state. His wand wasn’t moving. However, when she focused, she felt his magic in the air around them. It was frighteningly powerful – even more than when he’d moved the dungeons around at Malfoy Manor.

Hermione suddenly realised that she didn’t have problems with keeping herself upright as she’d had then. Frowning, she wondered why that was. Maybe it was due to the elements of the spell being different?

Shaking her head slowly in reply to her own question, she dismissed that answer. Both spells were aimed at the environment. Both spells were considered dark. Both spells required a similar level of concentration. No, it wasn’t the elements.

Maybe he had …

He suddenly swirled them around; his wand made several intricate movements above their heads that she wouldn’t be able to copy if her life depended on it. Dark plumes of smoke gathered in the brightness of the flames, solidifying, turning into … – Hermione blinked, not believing her eyes. Yet, all around her, carbon copies of the man who held her in his arm appeared. She pressed her eyes together and shook her head.

It didn’t make the other Lord Voldemorts disappear.

No, they’d become more pronounced, more real. The only way she could tell the difference was by looking in their eyes, for all she saw there were red, burning flames without the black slit pupil within. They were made of Fiendfyre on the inside! But how did he make the outside seem solid, without it burning into flames as well?

‘This will be interesting,’ the original said, jabbing his wand twice in a diagonal, cross-like figure. ‘Time for them to go outside and visit our guests. Give them a nice big hug …’ He chuckled viciously.

That visual made her shiver. She didn’t have to imagine what would happen to the person who would get caught in the clutches of those Fiendfyre copies. They were bound to burn to their deaths.

His wand flashed like a whip. The copies suddenly moved, feeding on the energy of the flames to go their respective, independent ways. The Fiendfyre had already reached so high around them that she couldn’t see anything anymore but its licking tongues. Crackling noises filled the air, followed by occasional bursts of explosions when something volatile was set alight. Yet, nothing struck them. Nothing came within reach. She could still breathe normally. And despite the heat no longer being held at bay and becoming somewhat overwhelming, it should’ve been much worse – it should’ve been unbearable. They should’ve been grilled to a crisp now.

‘I told you to take a hold of me,’ Voldemort hissed, looking down at her.

She stopped examining the fire and turned her attention to him.

‘Put your arms around my neck and hold tight,’ he ordered. ‘I won’t repeat myself again, Granger.’

‘What is going to happen?’ she asked nervously, circling her arms around his neck.

He smirked down at her silently, making her even more on edge. His hands gripped her sides and he lifted her up till she was at eye level with him. ‘Legs, too,’ he ordered coldly.

Confused, she complied and pulled herself flushed against his body, looking over his shoulder. One of his arms looped around her waist and gripped her tightly. His wandarm, on the other hand, let go of her. She felt his arm sweep like he cracked a whip.

BANG!

The whole store blasted away from them. Hermione let out a terrified shriek when they were airborne next. Afraid to fall, she clutched even tighter to him and buried her head in the nape of his shoulder. She hated heights and flying, and he bloody well knew that.

Shouts reached her ears, and she looked up to see different colour jets charge them. Voldemort evaded them with relative ease by swaying to the side or flicking his wrist and casting a spell. Aurors on brooms attempted to stop them. One was being chased by a Fiendfyre Voldemort, the edge of his broom already leaving a smoking trail behind. It suddenly combusted into flames and the Auror plummeted down with a scream. Horrified, Hermione followed his trip down, but his colleague nosedived after him and caught his arm before he struck the ground.

‘Pity,’ Voldemort commented, taking down another attacker with a well-placed Avada.

Down in Diagon Alley, Hermione noticed, the panic was complete with all the Voldemort copies causing havoc everywhere. Worried, she tried to make out the location of Weasley Wizarding Wheezes, but Diagon Alley was quickly disappearing from her view to be replaced by other landmarks. Their flight speed was increasing so quickly that several of their pursuers were turning smaller in her vision.

Abruptly, Voldemort stopped, like he’d hit the brakes. Her body’s momentum wanted to continue forward and she’d a hard time keeping her hold. She turned her head to see why he’d stopped and watched him duel a group of twelve in mid-air. Her head swivelled around. Those pursuers they’d been losing were gaining distance quickly. She looked at the ground, which was so far away she could barely make out what was what. A gong-like sound vibrated around her as an Auror’s curse struck Voldemort’s shield. The duel had turned fiercer. She looked behind her to see there were still nine opponents left now, and they were very good on their brooms, evading his deadly green bolts with acrobatic moves.

Shit, shit, shit.

Those three pursuers were almost within striking reach. She could already see the bloke on the left raise his wand above his head. Shaking slightly, she let go of Voldemort’s neck with one arm and reached for her wand in her pocket. She really didn’t want to repeat her nightmare for real. No, definitely not.

Different colour jets flew past her, coming from behind, and she heard someone scream as he’d undoubtedly been struck by one of Voldemort’s curses. But the Dark Lord seemed too occupied to focus on what came speeding towards them.

Feeling the security of the smooth wood between her fingers, Hermione raised her arm, aimed, and then, hesitated. If she stunned them, they’d plummet to their deaths. They could have a wife, husband, children, a family, someone dear to them. She couldn’t just –

The first one was in striking distance and fired a red jet at them.

‘Propagare!’ Hermione cast, scattering the spell apart. She flashed her wand sideways. ‘Ventus Momentum!’

A powerful windshear struck the flyer, blowing him so far away she’d lost sight of him. A jet of green flashed past her. The second Auror had swerved past her weather anomaly. His arm was extended above his head, and she realised which curse would follow. She couldn’t let it come to completion since there was no defence against it.

‘Expelliarmus!’ Hermione yelled.

Satisfied, she saw a stick of wood fly through the sky and fall down, followed fast by its owner, diving after it on his broom. She focused on her last opponent – a girl by the looks of all that long red hair. Then, her world spun as Voldemort twirled around and flashed his wand at what seemed to be the very last opponent indeed because there was no one left on the other side. A terrified scream left the Auror’s mouth as she got blasted off her broom, plummeting to her death.

Lord Voldemort didn’t waste time to check how it ended. He launched them forward again. It happened so fast that Hermione almost let her wand slip from her fingers. Almost.

Quickly, she looped her wandarm around his neck again, holding her wand tightly in her fist. They were going so fast, it made her terribly uncomfortable. Clouds sped by. The wind was so cold and harsh; it blew straight through her jacket. She was freezing up here. She’d no idea how fast they were going and how high they were up or where they were or where they were going, and she didn’t dare to look at the ground to get some kind of indication.

This was worse than that time she’d sat on that invisible Thestral, and that had been terrifying. This was mortifying.

She shivered, her teeth clattering briefly.

A flash. Hot air flew around her, warming her body.

‘Thanks,’ she whispered gratefully, feeling a lot more comfortable. Though, she still wasn’t looking down, especially not since she was pretty sure they’d just overtaken a Muggle airplane on their left.

‘Expelliarmus,’ Voldemort sneered after a long silence. ‘You’ve been spending too much time with Potter.’

‘Well, it worked,’ she said resentfully. Eh, she’d not been expecting a thank you, but the least he could do was not criticise her assistance. She wasn’t particularly pleased she had to aim at people who’d normally defend her. ‘And,’ she added with emphasis, ‘nobody had to die for it.’

‘Which only means your enemies can attack you again at a later date. I prefer final solutions.’

‘They’re not my enemies,’ she hissed.

‘Keep fooling yourself of that, darling. They would’ve happily watched you fall to your death today.’

‘Well, that’s because they thought I was with you, so AAAH!’

Her scream echoed around them, and she clamped desperately at his body when more than a dozen Dementors swerved around them.

‘Granger. Granger!’ he repeated. ‘Relax.’

Panicking, she didn’t hear him; she was freaking out. There were too many of them. She couldn’t do a Patronus Charm with the same power as Harry. One of them was bound to break through. They’d eat her alive. The pendant burned against her chest; green light burst around her. A Dementor bounced off the shield around Hermione. Suddenly, she felt like she could breathe again and looked up.

‘Stop acting like food,’ Voldemort hissed. ‘They won’t touch you. They can’t. But if you keep sending out all these delicious vibes to them, they will keep trying.’

Another Dementor broke ranks and spurted to Hermione. Voldemort flashed his wand, and it shredded to pieces with an agonising howl. The others maintained an appropriate distance after that.

‘Control your emotions, Hermione.’

Her stomach suddenly rose in her throat. They were descending! Thank Merlin.

She let out a relieved sigh and calmed down, making her less desirable for the Dementors. Then, the cloud deck cleared and she gasped. In the distance, a tiny island lay, showing her the familiar building of the wizarding prison: Azkaban. Its top was blasted off. Several more holes were visible all around the thick stone walls, and she could see people – prisoners – walking outside everywhere. Death Eaters on brooms were circling the island, casting in rapid succession, trying to build some kind of ward that wouldn’t sustain itself.

‘Morons,’ Voldemort hissed, right before his feet hit the rocky ground and he pulled Hermione off him.

Staggering, she caught her balance and looked around. It wasn’t a comforting sight as she found herself quickly surrounded by a small contingency of Death Eaters. Voldemort swooped forward.

‘Where’s Aloysia?’ he barked to the nearest individual she’d never seen before.

Shocked that the Dark Lord addressed him, the unknown Death Eater was already grovelling on the ground and pointing in the direction of the former entrance doors, which hang askew on the only remaining hinge. ‘Inside at the warden’s station, my Lord.’

The Dark Lord paced past three masked Death Eaters holding onto a Nimbus 2001 before he halted at an unmasked male in a prisoner’s outfit. A very familiar, unmasked, burly male. She’d recognise that long, twisted face underneath its dark messy curls anywhere. Hermione gritted her teeth when Voldemort smoothly hissed, ‘Antonin.’

Dolohov, ugh. He owes me one cracked chest. Hermione suddenly felt her wand itch in her hand.

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘Do you have a wand?’

‘Aloysia’s been able to open the vault, so I have my own back,’ Dolohov replied, showing it to Lord Voldemort.

‘Good. Miss Granger is my … guest. Make sure she remains right here and is not harmed.’

Dolohov glanced in Hermione’s direction with a smirk. ‘It’ll be my pleasure, Master.’

‘Very well, the rest of you carry on with whatever you were doing.’

With that last order, the Dark Lord swept away, his robes billowing behind him as he glided through the dislodged doors. It was utterly silent in the tiny group around Hermione. Several hostile glares were sent her way when Dolohov spoke up, ‘Well, are you all deaf? You heard the man. Move along.’

Several of them mounted their broomsticks and flew away, while others continued to scatter over the island. Yet, Hermione focused her attention on the man who’d been ordered to keep her safe. She’d kept her wand in her hand, hidden behind her fingers and arm. Call it a hunch, but somehow, she just didn’t feel very comfortable or protected as she took in how Antonin’s grey eyes glinted viciously and how he rolled his wand between his fingers in anticipation of using it.

‘How’s the chest, Mudblood?’ he sneered.

The hostilities had been formally opened.

xxx
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The Apprentice