Walpurgis Night

Walpurgis Night

Chapter the Second:

Men Seeking Women

Hermione stalked down Diagon Alley, her black robe draped loosely over her bony frame. She was hungry and her face stung cold with the whipping wind. Above she could see dark clouds gathering in the sky. She had an awful empty feeling inside her, as she walked down, looking around at the faces of people who vapidly strolled along without any apparent purpose or direction, ignorant of the war at hand. Without Voldemort to threaten them or Harry Potter to give them hope, they seemed to have assumed everything was back to normal. They went their ways, utterly ignorant. Hermione was disgusted by the cartoon-like expressions of happiness and contentment they displayed. Problems did not simply go away if you ignored them. She was fighting an underground war which had cost her the best years of her life. Without high-profile publicity, nobody in this conflict would get the recognition they deserved until the end, when the victors could emerge and announce it was over. People as stupid as this would give it little thought – they loved a show – and to not see a huge gory battle with press coverage and parades and Orders of Merlin being thrown left and right was downright anti-climactic. Of course, Hermione reminded herself, no one was doing this for the glory.

Again Hermione wondered if there was some way to lobotomize her self with perhaps a potion or spell. She couldn’t think of any offhand.

She stopped at Flourish and Blott’s, looking in the window. She caught her reflection in the window. A completely unrecognizable Hermione faced her. She had transfigured her hair to be straight and darker, almost black, and her eyebrows to have a different shape and placement. Her nose was shaped to be more protuberant and longer, and her lips to be thinner. Her scar was also gone, and her eyes had been charmed to have a different almond shape. It always startled her to see her self looking through a different face. It was utterly necessary not to be recognized, though.

She looked through the window at the books, and seeing something of interest, went inside. It was a relief from the loud voices and bustling crowds and cold wind outside. Hermione walked down the aisles at a leisurely pace and stopped at a section entitled “History.” She walked down the columns and browsed for a bit, then found something interesting on the third shelf up from the bottom. She knelt down, took out the book and began to browse.

Something in front of her caught her eye. Where she had removed the book, an empty gap was left. She could see through it to the other side of the aisle. What had caught her eye was something moving in front of the hole. She could see the front of a slim pelvis, undoubtedly belonging to a man. He was wearing trousers. Hermione could not prevent her eyes from fixating on the mystery crotch. She could not tear her eyes away. She found herself breathing heavily, her eyes following each slight movement of the hips, wondering about every detail of whatever was just beyond those pants. She was sweating under her arms and in her palms.

Then, the man on the other side apparently found a tome of interest on a top shelf. Going on tip-toe, then bringing his arms up strained his trousers tighter against his crotch.

Harry happened upon Hermione then. He interpreted her sideways-turned head and voracious expression as the look she might get when viewing an especially interesting book title.

The crotch was alive. Hermione would bet her life on it, if only people bet with her on those sorts of things.

“I thought I might find you here,” said Harry.

Hermione looked up at him, flushed and startled. She got to her feet quickly and faced Harry, still gripping her book. She recognized his disguise and was almost relieved to have been pulled out of the sweaty void she had just been enveloped in, but was also upset to leave wherever it she had visited. It was a new, fascinating place, a warm, alive place. The bookstore was sweltering.

“Oh…yes. I, er, was just putting this back,” she said as she shoved the book into the shelf without looking. “Oh, it’s raining,” she observed absently, looking outside the window.

“Didn’t you notice?” said Harry, a bemused look on his changed face as thunder sounded outside, along with the rushing sound of rainfall. He had transfigured his hair to dark red, charmed his nose to become smaller and rounder, and plumped his lips up a bit, creating a somewhat effeminate look. His scar was gone as well, and his skin was tinted slightly darker. He and Hermione put up their hoods as they exited Flourish and Blott’s, a wave of icy air and rain buffeting them as they opened the door and stepped out onto the cobblestones. Another tall cloaked figure was waiting for them – Ron. He joined them as they walked down Diagon Alley and turned left through a cramped, low arch connecting two buildings, down some crumbled stone steps into Knockturn Alley.

Few people were outside at this time, as there were only about one or two overhead awnings along the entire narrow, winding street. It felt very dark and claustrophobic, as all the buildings were close together as well as across from each other, and all very tall and stained with dripping black grit, blocking any last traces of sunlight. The tall, thin windows of the ground-level shops glowed with green and blue torches, casting their light onto the jagged stone walkway. A wooden sign creaked as it flapped in the rain-filled wind that barreled through the street; it depicted, in moving paint, a green cobra snake sinking its fangs into a bloody human heart. They had arrived at the Cobra’s Hood.

Once inside the smoky, sparsely-populated pub, the three took down their hoods and ordered a round of ales from the grubby, beard-faced barkeep. They looked around for a seat. The pub was a long, narrow, low-ceilinged room, with two green-flamed lanterns hanging from the roof that did not quite light every corner. The bar was at the very rear of the pub, protruding out in a semicircle from the back wall to the left wall. The left wall was lined with booths, inhabited here and there with wizards who were unrecognizable and talked in low whispers or kept their hoods up. The back wall was taken halfway up by the bar. The back of the right wall had a door stuck into the corner, leading to the bathrooms. Along the wall clung more booths, although they ended halfway to the front, instead switching to small tables and rickety tables, and one long seat running along the wall, its fabric stained with a range of disgusting colors and ripped here and there.

All three took seats at the booth closest to the bar, which was about halfway through the pub, so that between Hermione on one side of the table and Harry and Ron on the other, they could watch the entire room. They talked in low whispers like everyone else and mostly made small talk, although they did talk about the other patrons in veiled code, such as referring to the hooded person in the darkest, furthest corner of the bar as ‘the ten-ninety at the one o’clock.’

They sat for a few hours, watching people stop in for a drink, then leave, or hang around and have a laugh with mates who were obviously not Death Eaters. Hermione tuned out when Harry and Ron turned the conversation to the neutral subject of Quidditch. She was facing the rear of the bar. The only thing she had to look at was the barkeep, who simply looked as if he smelled badly, the green glowing lantern almost directly above her, or the person in the corner. Hermione had to wonder what kinds of lives the various hooded people of Knockturn alley had to hide. Perhaps they fought unknown, underground, epic struggles that recorded history would never know, or perhaps they were sordid people hiding from the law. Certainly though, anyone who wore their hoods up and sat alone, unless they invited you over, wanted to stay that way; a curse would maim one faster than the crack of a whip. Even if the ones under the hoods were in fact Death Eaters, it would surely cost lives to attempt to capture them, especially when a Killing Curse could blast through the table under which they always had their wand aimed at the nearest person. A sure sign was the presence of both their hands above the table; on was always definitely a fake. Besides, Death Eaters never dined alone and had to keep up appearances of being an obvious citizen; unless being relegated to some horrible secret task for an extended time, Death Eaters had to surface sometime.

Hermione tuned back in to Ron and Harry’s conversation again. They were still talking about Quidditch. She took a moment to regard Ron disgustedly. He was never great at Transfigurations, and refused to let Hermione help him, thinking that she was trying to be condescending. She looked at the mess he had made of his own face. His nose sloped upward at an impossibly pixie-like angle, and his altered lip shape had come out asymmetrical. His eye had been charmed to be blue, but it failed to closely match the other glass eye that he had conjured, and the freckles on only one side of his face had come off. He had decently made his hair brown and curly, although some streaks in the back were more ginger than the hair around it. Fortunately for him, the spells wore off after seven hours or so. They had to be reapplied constantly for reconnaissance though, and excuses for absences of fifteen minutes had to look and sound natural.

Not all people knew about Transfigural disguise, or messed up too often to make a decent art of it. In any case, a hood was a useful tool.

Harry’s eyes became immobile, a signal that there was something in his peripheral vision that he was watching. Hermione knew from the reflection in his glasses, the sound of the door, and the gust of cold air that someone had entered the Cobra’s Hood. Ron’s eyes flickered to the man’s face and back again – he could afford to since he was closer to the wall, deeper in the shadow. The man passed their booth and Hermione took a quick look from under the veil of her hair. He had a general body type, and ordered a pint of some obscure brand of cider. His clothes were average as well. His gait held strength as well as wariness. Either he was average, or hiding something.

Yet, as the crusty bartender gave the man his pint and he turned to face her, she could not recognize his face. She shook her head imperceptibly to the two men sitting across from her. They understood. The man walked back past them and sat at the long bench across the wall, behind Hermione’s visual range.

“Three,” Harry addressed Hermione by codename in a low whisper, “the six-fifty is Whiskey Tango Sierra.”

W. T. S.

Watching The Street.

“Expecting a seven-twenty,” Hermione deduced. “Any time soon?”

“He’s looking at the Whiskey-Charlie,” mumbled Ron. ‘Wall-clock.’

“Keep your Echoes Whiskey Oscar,” she said. ‘Keep your eyes wide open.’

Hermione saw the barkeep trundle out from behind the bar.

“Bravo Kilo, six o’clock,” she muttered quickly before saying something animatedly about the wares at Borgin and Burkes. The Bar Keeper approached them. Hermione learned that in fact the man did smell as bad as he looked, as if stores of perishable foods were stuffed under his arms and under his ample, flabby breasts, left to rot and mingle with his awful body odor.

“’Scuse me, sirs and ma’am,” he interrupted unceremoniously, “But the gentleman at that far corner told me to give you this.” He dropped a small sealed scroll of parchment on their table and quickly waddled back behind the bar. Hermione looked to the hooded figure sitting in the booth in the shadows. Hermione noticed that the top of the opening of his hood had a unique pointed shape which drooped slightly, better hiding his face, which could have just as well been a void. He nodded to her.

Harry picked up the scroll. Hermione nodded her approval. He unsealed it, and unrolled the small piece of paper. They leaned over it, and silently read.

‘To Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, and Ms. Granger;
The man that has just entered this pub is Rabastan Lestrange. He will need to relieve himself soon. Accost him in the wash-closet and undo the Transfigural spells that alter his face. There is something important you must know about the location of Voldemort.’

The trio looked at each other. Harry beamed a smile at her. She could feel her two friends brimming with hope. They had finally gotten a clue, something to go on. Hermione had to think practically though.

“This could be a trap. You-Know-Who him self could be waiting in the bathroom for us.”

“Three,” argued Ron, “this is what we have been waiting for. Clearly the six-fifty is a Tango-faced Delta Echoer, disguised and Whiskeying for his friend. Delta Echoers never appear alone unless they’re ten-ninety, do they?”

“Exactly, Two,” she addressed Ron. “Your one o’clock ten-ninety could be a Delta Echoer.”

“But,” whispered Harry, “I don’t think a Delta Echoer would call Lima Victor by his given name. They always refer to him as the Delta Lima, never just Victor. Plus, not all ten-nineties are necessarily Delta Echoers. Plenty of ten-nineties are just civilians.”

“What would it take, Three,” asked Ron, “to convince you that this is safe and that there is no trap?”

She sighed. Nothing came to mind, except perhaps a brief memory of the crotch in the bookstore reminding her that she wanted this to be over.

“Well let’s think,” she whispered very softly so that the others had to lean forward to hear. “Who could the ten-ninety be? They have to have seen us before, either when we let something slip that cued them in to our true identities, or they recognized at least one of us without our disguises on yet and followed us here, probably from the forest. It can be someone we knew, or someone who heard of us. My strongest feelings are, if they truly intend to help us, that it is a reformed Delta Echoer, a vigilante Auror, or a former member of the Oscar of the Papa. If his information is credible.”

“Why would they be a ten-ninety if they were part of the Oscar? Why couldn’t they just come forward?” Harry asked.

“Not everyone can perfect a magical disguise, One. Plus, nobody down Knockturn Alley needs an identity, especially as a potentially known Oscar member.”

“How do we know for sure then?” Ron asked. Harry twitched his eyebrows at them to indicate he had something up his sleeve.

“Keep your Echoes Whiskey Oscar, number Two,” said Harry. Hermione sensed he was aiming his wand under the table. His eyes were right on Hermione, but peripherally, he was aiming for the six-fiftys’ left sleeve, the elbow of which was resting lower than his hand, as that rested on the windowsill. Subtly, as if gravity had provided the force rather than magic, Harry made the man’s sleeve creep gently back, until they could see the underside of it.

The Dark Mark was there. It was faded, but Ron could see the top half of it. He nodded just barely. Harry put his wand away and Rabastan looked down and self-consciously covered his arm back up, then checked the street again.

His friend was quite, quite late. He did not want to have to order another drink without getting his friend to get a round or two in, so he had drawn his pint out as much as possible. It did not help that he had just come from another pub to have a long lunch with another friend, and having drank a few pints before, found he rather urgently had to relieve himself.

Rabastan got up and walked to the back of the Cobra’s Hood, past the ten-ninety at the booth, and into the back door, a flash of the red lights from the hall flooding momentarily into the pub.

Hermione, Ron and Harry exchanged more looks and more coded whispers. The barkeep was in the back room behind the bar, and the other patrons kept their mouths shut and their eyes to themselves.

All three arose and walked to the back. Harry and Ron went through the door. Hermione went to the ten-ninety’s booth and sat right across from him.

Even at this distance, his face could not be made out. Hermione assumed it was a man since it seemed to have no breasts, although his robe was voluminous and his shoulders were narrow. When he spoke though, she knew it was male.

“I like your disguise,” he said sardonically, a faint smoky smell coming from him. Hermione did not recognize the voice.

“Where did you receive your information about Rabastan?” Hermione whispered.

“As you know, he participated in the widely publicized attack on the Ministry five years ago. Identifying people is easy; finding people is the difficult part.”

“It must have been quite an accomplishment to find us. Will your master reward you for it?”

“Master…hmph. My associates and I found you because we all have the same goal, but you need our information, and we need you three.”

“What is our goal to you?”

“To vanquish Voldemort,” he whispered quietly.

Hermione was excited inside. It was mysterious. It was dangerous. This man had just shaken things up. Hermione switched her questioning. “Who is ‘we’?”

“A few people.”

“So,” mused Hermione, “will you be our self-appointed Deep Throat for this?”

“Your…what?” the man stammered.

“Deep Throat was the code name of a secret informant in an important piece of muggle history,” she summarized haphazardly.

“I suppose.”

“You don’t have a problem with muggles, do you?”

The man shrugged underneath his cloak. Outside the rain plummeted downward and the thunder continued to roar.

“Who are you?” Hermione asked.

“I cannot tell you that.”

“Then show me.”

“We must be able to trust you first. For that, you must know that we can provide you with reliable information that will lead you to complete your goal. You shall see then that our intentions are straightforward and why our identities must be protected. Only then may you know who we are.”

“What will you gain from all of this?” Hermione asked him. “Why keep your identity secret?”

“You will know when we decide the time is right.”

“We don’t have much time. Voldemort could be building armies right now, for all we know.”

“Perhaps, but our information tells us otherwise.”

“What does it tell you?”

“Patience,” he said, drawing out the sibilant sounds in the word that made Hermione’s neck hairs tingle. She had to know. She had to take action.

Hermione launched herself forward in a flash and tried to pull his hood off but her hand gripped nothing, instead sticking through his head. The man began to waver and dissipate. It said in a sibilant, low whisper “I shall see you again, Hermione Granger,” before Hermione realized that it was a smoke illusion and that whoever was projecting it was actually sitting at the front of the pub. Hermione got up and whirled around with her wand out just as the man with the long flowing cloak slipped through the door. She rushed forward down the length of the place but as she burst from the door, she looked down the street. He was there, but as she aimed her wand he Disapparated with a crack amid the roar of rain and the rumble of thunder.

She was left standing in the street, in the rain, her heart pounding, her eyes wide, despite the icy driving wind. She finally stepped back inside the Cobra’s Hood.

From the roof of the building across from the pub, Severus listened to her breathing, and then watched her step back inside, his waterproof cloak sheltering him from the storm. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly upward. He then Disapparated again, feeling better than he had in ages.

The damp Hermione stalked back through the pub, passing the spreading, disappearing wisps of black smoke still clinging to the seat and the untouched glass of Firewhiskey that their man had apparently ordered just for his smoke illusion. She burst through the door and turned left down into the tiny, crusty hallway, with just a red-flamed sconce at the far end. She passed the ladies’ room and went to the men’s door. She knocked on it, knowing that Ron and Harry had locked it.

“It’s occupied!” Ron shouted in a perfectly alarmed voice.

“It’s Three! Open up, number two!” Hermione hissed. The lock clicked and Hermione quickly came in and locked the door behind her. She looked at her two friends and Rabastan. “Oh my…”

Rabastan had been beaten to a bloody pulp in an attempt to get some answers. The Transfigural disguise was gone, an underneath the charred skin and blood, the face was definitely recognizable as Rabastan Lestrange, brother of Rodolphus Lestrange and notorious Death Eater from the inner circle. Hermione could barely look at him. The man was prostrate on the floor, spitting blood. He was leaning tipsily to the side, and Hermione could tell that Ron and Harry had been hitting him in the head. Hermione looked at her two friends.

“Harry!” she finally managed to shout in horror.

“Keep it down, Hermione!” he hissed urgently.

“There are other ways to interrogate people!”

Rabastan moaned in pain. He probably didn’t even know where he was.

“Did you even ask him anything or did you just rush in here and beat the life out of him?!” she whispered loudly.

“Why would we do that?” Ron asked unconvincingly. Rabastan finally fell over onto his side. Blood poured out of his nose.

“Ronald, you’re risking this whole mission! You can’t just leave a Death Eater of the inner circle beat up! He’ll tip off Death Eaters that something is up! It will be extremely difficult to Obliviate this kind of trauma from his memory, not to mention that you might have done permanent damage!”

“We can undo this, Hermione,” said Harry exasperatedly.

“That is not even the worst of it!” Her balled fists and tensed shoulders trembled. “How could you – what possessed you – why would you ever do something so awful!”

“He tortured the Longbottoms! Do not forget that!” Harry hissed.

“I never have, but this is wrong Harry! You have both gone too far!”

“Don’t be like this, Hermione!” said Ron. “He has information we need and you’re not going to stand in our way again!”

“Stand in your way?”

“You have always held us back from getting things done, and now that we finally get a break, you’re doing it again!”

“Here!” Hermione rifled through her robes, whipping out a vial containing a clear liquid. “Here,” she shoved it at them. “How’s that for ‘standing in your way?’ For fuck’s sake, just please do it the correct way!” Hermione found her self crying. “Don’t take out your vendettas yet,” she whimpered. “Remember what’s important right now, please!”

They shot her murderous glares. Harry took the potion from her as she wiped her face and bent over Rabastan and began to cast cleansing and healing spells on his clothes and body. Ron then cast a spell that wound ropes tight around Rabastan’s body. Harry then knelt down and opened Rabastan’s mumbling mouth, then put three drops of the Veritaserum in his mouth.

The three waited for a few minutes. Rabastan still mumbled and moaned a little. Hermione averted her eyed from the angry faces of Harry and Ron. She looked instead at the walls, the horrible walls cast in awful green lantern light, its moldy peeling paint revealing dirty wooden walls, swollen from the moisture of the place. The most awful stains were splattered everywhere, encrusted through years of never washing the place. Chunks of god-knows-what were raised and dried, some peeled away as if they had been brushed against, although why anyone would dream of touching anything in this bathroom was unfathomable to Hermione. Ron turned to her.

“Tell us why you’re here again, Hermione. What happened to our ten-ninety?”

“He turned out to be a smoke illusion projected by another ten-ninety at the front of the bar. I spoke to him and tried to find out who he was, but he was extremely careful we didn’t find out, hence the illusion. We do know that he’s working with others though. I expect we’ll see more of him soon enough.” She told them the details of the conversation. “I couldn’t figure out anything other than he’s not very acquainted with muggle history.”

“Not even muggles are acquainted with muggle history, especially not with that,” Harry said.

“Look.” Ron pointed to Rabastan.

Rabastan had fallen silent and still, although he was breathing evenly. Harry nodded fiercely at Hermione. She pointed her wand at him.

“Ennervate.” Rabastan’s eyes opened, although he did not look at them.

“Rabastan,” Harry began, “where is Lord Voldemort?”

“I do not know,” the man said in a monotone.

“Which Death Eaters know where Voldemort is?”

“None. Nobody knows where the Dark Lord is except the Dark Lord.”

The trio looked at each other. What kind of important information was this?

“Rabastan, did you know the man sitting at the back corner of the bar, the one under the hood?”

“No.”

“Did you know anyone else in the bar?”

“I know the barkeep.”

“Well shit. How is this supposed to help us?” Harry asked Ron and Hermione.

After a few seconds, Hermione spoke up. “We know that Death Eaters don’t know where Voldemort is. Death Eaters and other people are the wrong place to look.”

“I suppose that makes sense. Voldemort doesn’t trust anyone, so of course if he went off somewhere, he wouldn’t even tell his closest Death Eaters,” Harry said. “Rabastan, did the Dark Lord tell you why he was leaving before he left?”

“No. He simply said he might be leaving soon. A few days later he simply disappeared and none of his followers could find him after that.”

“That means, if it is a Death Eater, they are definitely reformed,” Hermione concluded. “If this was an elaborate trap, the entire inner circle Death Eaters would be in on it.”

“Rabastan, why do you think Voldemort disappeared?” Harry asked him.

“The Dark Lord left after Harry Potter and his friends disappeared. Other Death Eaters have said that the Dark Lord believed Harry Potter had found out about the horcrux so he left.”

“That’s what we’ve been theorizing too,” sighed Ron. “Maybe we aren’t so far off.”

“Rabastan,” asked Harry, “have all of Voldemort’s possible locations been checked?”

“No. The Dark Lord could be any where in the world. All his known locations in Britain have been checked.”

“Is it probable that he is not in Britain?”

“It is almost certain.”

“What were Death Eaters ordered to do in his absence?”

“To find Harry Potter, keep tabs on his location through the network of Death Eaters, and know where he is at all times until the Dark Lord returns, on pain of torture and death.”

The three stared wide-eyed at each other. Perhaps this was a trap!

“Where is Harry Potter?”

“I do not know.”

“Have the Death Eaters found Harry Potter yet?” Harry asked.

“No.”

They all exhaled a heavy breath. There was no trap. Their informant was not setting them up.

Rabastan’s body began to wiggle a little bit. The potion was wearing off.

“I guess twenty questions is over,” Ron quipped. “What now? We can’t just leave him here.”

“We Obliviate the hell out of him,” Hermione said.

“You said it would be too traumatic for him to forget,” Harry said.

“Well yes, but what other option do we have?” Hermione asked. She saw Ron and Harry exchange a look.

“We can’t take any risks, Hermione. All the Death Eaters are looking for us – if there’s a chance he talks to someone about being questioned about Voldemort by three funny-looking twenty year-olds, they’ll know it’s us and they’ll be closer to tracking us down.”

“What are we supposed to do then? Kill him?”

They nodded. Hermione felt like the wind had been knocked out of her.

“You’re not serious…are you?”

“It’s the only way. People die, Hermione. People have to be sacrificed for a greater cause,” said Harry.

“Is that how you feel about Dumbledore?” Hermione asked him.

“Don’t you pull him into this!” Harry spat at her, his green eyes wild with rage. He pointed at Rabastan, who was still confused. “This is a criminal piece of Death Eater scum and you know it!”

“He might-” Hermione dropped her voice to a hiss again. “He might be, Harry, but you can’t go around murdering people! You will damage your very soul!

“I have to kill Voldemort! Why not get some practice in?” Harry aimed his wand at Rabastan. Hermione stepped between them.

“Think about it Harry! If he gets killed, there will be an investigation – whether by the Ministry or by Death Eaters – which will be traced right back to us!”

“I know how to make people disappear.” Harry’s face was lined with deep shadows and lit with pale green light. His red hair glowed around his face, contorted and etched with darkness and desperation.

“Harry! If you do this, you will be no better than Voldemort himself! If you kill Rabastan, I’m leaving! You won’t ever see me again!” Hermione snarled.

Ron stepped forward. His curly brown hair bobbed around as he spoke. “You can’t leave!”

“I will, I swear it! All the times I have looked out for you, all the times I have helped you – I won’t be here to do that anymore!”

“If you leave, we have to kill you too,” Harry said. Hermione looked at him in terror, her mouth trembling. “What’s it going to be, then?”

Hermione’s tears began to fall silently. Could she condemn Rabastan to a meaningless death and a body-less funeral, or could she condemn the free world to an immortal dictatorship under Voldemort if she died to defend a Death Eater?

Hermione finally stepped slowly to the side, allowing Harry a clear shot at Rabastan. She stared at the cold faces of the people she used to know as children, carved with the ugly struggles they had faced in the past. She watched the tip of Harry’s wand trembling, watched the gears churning in his head. Her eyes stung hot with tears.

“I can’t watch this,” she sobbed as she flung herself out the door and ran out of the Cobra’s Hood in a teary blur. She shoved her hood over her head and wrapped herself in its warm folds, and walked back through the street alone, back towards Diagon Alley.

Severus watched Hermione burst out of the pub from the inside of the apothecary across the street. He waited for a while, long enough for the other two to have come out, then put up his hood and followed her.

He tracked her down to about halfway down Diagon Alley. She was sheltered underneath the awning of some shop that had closed, and looked as if she were sobbing silently. He had not counted on the three friends to separate. He walked closer, and then ducked into an alley as a group of witches walked past him. Severus pulled out his two-sided mirror and spoke into it. By now his voice alteration charm had worn off.

“Draco Malfoy.” It took a minute, but soon the young, pointed face appeared.

“You want to maybe angle your mirror so I don’t have to look up your nose, Severus? Thanks,” said the young man. “So, how did it go?”

“It’s still going, somewhat. Your help is needed in this matter immediately.”

“Is this urgent?” he asked pointlessly.

“Of course it is, Draco,” snapped Severus. “I need you to clean up whatever mess they might have made of Rabastan.”

“Right, where is he?”

“Cobra’s Hood, in the men’s room. Be sure to make everything seem natural.”

“The walls in that place are unnatural, Severus,” Draco drawled. “All right, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Draco – Weasley and Potter may still be there. Be sure that they have left before you proceed.”

“Of course, of course.” Draco then abruptly signed off. Severus pocketed the mirror and checked Hermione. She was rifling through her purse – probably looking for money to eat with, as he had watched her all day and all she had eaten was oat meal. He saw her look around, and then fixate on the nearby pub, The Niffler and the Dragon. He quickly took out his wand and caused her to drop her coin purse, spilling coins everywhere. He then Disapparated into the bathroom of the Niffler and the Dragon. Immediately he came out to the bar and ordered a pint, then established himself in a poorly lit booth and took down his hood, carefully covering most of his face with his greasy black locks. He pulled out a book to cover the remainder of his face, and kept an eye on the door.

Seconds later, Hermione came in, looking disheveled, wet and red-eyed. Severus hated himself a little for having to pile on picking up a bunch of her money off the dirty wet ground on top of whatever had upset her about Rabastan. She went over to the bar and ordered a pint of Butterbeer and a lamb curry. Most of the witches and wizards in the Niffler were congregated around the bar and the wall that was opposite from the booth that Severus occupied. Hermione sat down with her pint nearer to the front of the pub, about five booths away, facing him. She checked around, probably looking for the hooded figure following her, but no one in the bar fit the description. Her eyes rested on Severus.

Hermione did not recognize the wizard. He had caught her eye, though. He reminded her of Viktor Krum – this stranger shared with Krum the same handsome aquiline visage and dark features she had admired in her first boyfriend. He was reading too, a thick book that Hermione yearned to at least know the title of. She couldn’t see his eyes or the details of his face, but she wanted to know those too. She might have approached him and struck up a conversation about his book if only she had not just allowed the murder of a fellow wizard and human being.

She took a huge swig of Butterbeer, her eyes filling with tears again. She utterly hated herself. Tears of anger dropped hotly on to the table top. Hermione felt like a coward for bending to Harry and Ron again. They were murderers now, because of her. Hermione felt like Harry and Ron had died before her eyes, consumed by fanatic, mechanical hatred. Things would never be the same again. She put her glass to her lips and drank deeply this time, until there was only a few centimeter’s worth left. The warmth of the drink did little to penetrate her cold limbs or fill her empty, small, starved body.

She wiped her eyes with her robe sleeves. Her hood was still up, as a signal to others not to approach, although the light still touched her face. Severus saw her run her finger along her nose surreptitiously to check if her disguise was still holding. She had looked at him for quite a while, with an almost appraising look, underneath all the sadness. The waitress soon brought over a steaming hot plate of fragrant curry, setting down silverware. She asked Hermione if she would like another pint, and Hermione nodded. Her head was down, trying not to let the waitress see her face. Sympathy was an unsafe amount of attention, as much as Hermione looked as though she needed some.

Severus watched her eat voraciously, passionately, getting the orange sauce on her face, leaving sticky little grains of rice down the front of her robes. Each time she opened her mouth he saw a flash of her moist, flesh-colored tongue. He remembered that morning with photographic clarity. Hermione Granger had blossomed into a beautiful, intelligent woman. Severus pictured her body underneath her robes. Unfortunately, the woman before him was busy fighting Harry Potter’s war, providing him and his idiot friend with an intellectual crutch as they doubtlessly blundered on, burdening her. She probably had no career either. It was a pity and a waste.

After finishing her dinner and her third pint, Hermione left. Severus left after her, putting up his pointed hood and leaving his pint half empty.

Hermione adjusted her hood before stepping into the rain. She felt fit to burst with food, but felt determined not to vomit when she had to face Harry and Ron in a few seconds.

Severus was right behind her, right behind the door. He watched her take in a long breath through the panes of warped glass of the door. She Disapparated with an insignificant cracking sound. Severus stepped out of the door. He then Disapparated as well.

Hermione Apparated a few feet from the red fire in the center of their camp in the Forbidden Forest. Thunder sounded above, temporarily interjecting the savage red-lit faces of Harry and Ron with a flash of ghostly white. They looked at her with some relief, but not the same amount of friendliness. She came to sit down across from the two of them, under the bubble of their rain membrane spell. She stared at the fire. It was minutes before anyone spoke.

“Hermione,” Harry started uneasily, “we’re sorry for what happened back there.”

“You don’t have to say anything…please don’t,” she said in a small voice.

“We decided not to kill Rabastan,” Harry said. Hermione looked up at him, with tired, relieved eyes. “Aren’t you happy, Hermione?”

“Yes, and thank you…I’m just a little drained, that’s all. And I…I let you go ahead, I practically approved it. It was despicable of me.”

“That’s crap Hermione,” Ron said. “You did okay. We thought it through and decided to Obliviate the hell out of him instead.”

“His memories should be so repressed, no one should be able to find them,” Harry assured her.

“Thanks.” She managed a weak smile. The silence stretched on. They listened to the fire, and the wind, and the rain, the rush of the trees bending under the storm.

“Have you thought of who our informant is yet?” Ron asked.

“It’s not that easy,” she said. “We need more clues to narrow it down first. Obviously they don’t want us to know their identity. But we know his information so far is solid, so I think it’s safe to say they’re on our side. Their identity may not even be important until later. Clearly they want something from this relationship we might not give them if we knew who it was. Or, they can’t risk being indirectly found through one of us. I hate to give up control in this, but if we play by their rules, we just might find what we’re looking for.”

“So who fits that description?”

“Well, to name the many; an Auror with a Death Eater or publicity-monger for a superior that could expose or find us and threaten our informant as well; someone who is supposed to be dead; a widely known criminal; a former enemy; someone that we used to know; a reformed Death Eater; someone who works closely with or knows other Death Eaters well and needs to hide so we don’t go looking for him or recognize or denounce him prematurely; or someone who needs amnesty after Voldemort is defeated.” Hermione sighed. “Plus, those descriptions could overlap, and there is more than one person than just the one. Basically we have next to nothing.”

“How could he find us?” Ron said, scratching his hair, which was still brown and curly.

“He could have found us here, eavesdropped and followed us, or he could have realized it was us through something we said, in which case he would have had to know us from before we went underground. Of course, he could have known us and tracked us down here anyway.”

“Either way, I think it’s a bad idea to stay here in the forest much longer,” Harry said. “I think we’ve pretty much exhausted it as a headquarters.”

“A place with a hole in the ground for a toilet,” said Ron, “classifies as a ‘headquarters’?”

Harry and Ron laughed. Hermione put on a smile that she didn’t feel and looked at them, watched them laughing after what they did to Rabastan.

“Back to the old headquarters then?” Harry asked. The others nodded. They then extinguished the fire, put their hoods up and reversed the rain barrier spell. Then they Disapparated and were gone.

“Fuck,” said a low, silky voice from behind a nearby tree.

--------------------------

Rabastan awoke slumped against the outside of the Cobra’s Hood. Day had just broken, a misty sunrise awakening him from his soggy resting place. He was badly bruised, especially his knuckles, and his head ached with hangover.

He pulled himself upward and leaned against the wall. The night before came to him; he had been waiting, and had begun drinking. His friend was so late that he had gotten stinking pissed and started getting disorderly. He touched his hand to his eye. He had been in the bar fight of his life. As he swaggered off, he promised himself that after he slept off his hangover, he would ask Severus why he never showed up.

---------------------------

After a few restful nights at the Leaky Cauldron, where fortunately she had her own room, Hermione felt much better, although she did have to yell at Ron one night for scratching on her door for a shag, like a whining dog wanting to be let in. Having her own room also allowed her to relieve some of the unbearable sexual energy she had pent up. It served her for a bit, but she knew she had to get laid or she would end up murdering someone. She was twenty-one years old. She felt like she was going to waste, as ugly as she was.

She came down for breakfast one day, disguised as usual, and sat with Harry and Ron, who were in their camouflage reserved for all public appearances. Ron’s face alteration technique had improved somewhat, although his glass eye never properly followed his real one. As soon as Hedwig arrived with the small satchel of galleons that Harry regularly withdrew from his ample Gringotts’ account, whose records were also confidentially protected by the goblin employees, they could pay to get a decent breakfast. Hedwig also carried a bag of herbs from the local apothecary and the Daily prophet.

As they ate, they passed around the paper. Ron scanned the headlines and exclaimed something about Quidditch scores, and Harry frowned at an article that praised the Ministry efforts to investigate known and possible Death Eaters and their targets. It was bollocks of course – all commercial wizarding media was Ministry sanctioned.

The paper was handed to Hermione. She read a few articles then flipped through the classified advertisements, trying to see what the job market for witches with incomplete schooling would look like. She flipped a page too far and reached the dating section.

Hermione’s eyes flickered to Ron and Harry. They weren’t paying attention to her as usual. She resituated the paper so that they couldn’t see what she was looking at.

She looked to the section named ‘Men Seeking Women.’ She could stand to go out with a stranger as long as they seemed trustworthy and looked okay. As she read each ad though, it seemed as though many of the ads were for people that the men had seen and missed. One man had seen a woman from across the Knight Bus but was too afraid to approach. One man was looking for an older woman he had talked to in Flourish and Blotts\' and forgot to ask her name. Another was an Obliviator who had treated a woman at the scene of a crime a year ago, a crime that was cleared for top secret security; he insisted however that this woman wouldn’t remember meeting him. The next advert made Hermione almost drop her spoon.

“MAN SEEKS SADLY BEAUTIFUL LADY AT NIFFLER:

“I saw you at the Niffler and the Dragon on April 12th, three nights ago. You had a long black cloak, an elegant face and black hair, hazel eyes, and you were perhaps 5’3”. I was also the lone man, watching you from afar. I did not approach you, however, as you dined alone and seemed rather preoccupied and upset. Let me soothe your pains, as I would love to have the pleasure of meeting you. If you wish, please rendezvous with me at the Niffler. I will be waiting at the corner booth, with a red rose, a Butterbeer, and a friendly ear for you, for the next three nights.”

A flash of the dark man reading the book gleamed hopefully through her mind. She read the ad again and again. It had to be him. He had noticed her. Or her disguise…it bothered Hermione a little that the man had been attracted to her transfigured persona, but, she reminded herself, sex is sex.

She tried to eat her breakfast without feeling giddy but that was indeed difficult.

That night, Hermione set out to the Niffler on the pretense that she was going to Flourish and Blotts\' to read up on new potions theory. Harry and Ron were going to stay in at the Leaky Cauldron and practice some fighting techniques. They could do without Hermione quite safely, and they wouldn’t be caught dead reading for fun.

The night was chilly, with the occasional gust of wind. Above the roofs of the buildings that lined Diagon Alley, Hermione could see mostly dark silver clouds and some patches of deep blue sky with flecks of glowing stars. Spring was certainly on its way. Her boots made no sound on the crowded cobblestone lined street as she reached the Niffler. She stopped before entering and pulled back her hood. She straightened up her black hair and her eyebrows, and took out a small mirror to ensure that her makeup was acceptable. Then she opened the door and entered.

The inside was stuffy with smoke and warm with bodies. The tinkle of glasses and obnoxious, buzzed laughter of socializing witches and wizards floated through her ears. Her eyes immediately went to the corner seat where the dark man had sat. Nobody was there.

Upon walking closer, she saw a red rose on the table. There were two drinks – a full pint of Butterbeer and a smaller glass of something reddish. The dark man was probably in the wash-closet. Hermione sat down on the side with the Butterbeer and waited. From here she could see the entire bar. It was full of people, couples, friends, colleagues, even some faces Hermione remembered from school or from their travels.

“I hope you weren’t waiting long,” said a voice behind Hermione. She turned around, and the smile died on her face.

He was fat, short, blonde, and his face looked as though he had got it caught under one of the moving staircases at Hogwarts. There was no way that thing was going to get near her. He sat down across from her, smiling a near-toothless smile.

Think. Must politely extricate self. Must not spend too much time here. Think.

“No, not at all,” Hermione said. She didn’t even bother smiling. “Is this for me?” She pointed to the Butterbeer.

“Of course,” he said, his voice gravelly like a smoker’s, and his breath smelling like one too. “This too,” he said, tossing her the rose, which she reflexively snatched out of midair. “So, what’s your name?”

“Gretchen.” Hermione sucked down a good quarter of her pint.

“Just Gretchen?”

“Yep.” Polite extrication had gone out the window. Hermione was in disguise – later on she couldn’t be blamed for nastiness.

“Well Gretchen, my name’s Vannevar Verone, and it’s a pleasure to meet you. So what do you do for a-”

“What do you want from me, Vannevar? I don’t have all night.”

“Well…a lady that cuts to the chase, that’s nice…” Vannevar rubbed his hands together and smiled lecherously at her. Hermione stared hard at him and took another deep swig of beer. “Well,” he began in low tones, leaning forward secretively, and as he went on, Hermione started to drink off the rest of her drink. “First I thought I’d take you out to dinner at the Streeler’s Trail, and then we’d go back to my house and have a lovely bottle of chardonnay. Then, I’ve got this outfit I want you to wear while you call me your fuck-slave and shove your whip up my -”

“Thanks for the pint, Vannevar, but I’m leaving now,” Hermione said as she finished it and slammed the glass down. She ignored the hurt look on Vannevar’s face and quickly got up, taking the red rose with her, her black cloak roiling behind her as she burst through the door of the Niffler.

A hooded figure appeared next to Vannevar. It put its long white hand on the pudgy man’s shoulder and said, “Excellent work, Draco.”

“You owe me Severus,” Draco said in his gravelly transfigured voice. Severus made for the door, his hood snugly over his head.

Hermione stalked along with a murderous expression contorting her face. She had no intention of going back to the Leaky Cauldron to be target practice for Harry and Ron, and would rather eat Hippogriff dung than spend another second with Vannevar. She had to be grateful that he had made it so incredibly easy to reject him. Someone on the street who passed her stared too long and she glared back nastily. She felt like spitting in his face, whoever it was. She was walking quickly and happened to walk a bit too close behind a man, and caught a whiff of his musk out of the back of the neck of her robes. Her eyes nearly rolled back in her head. This was fucking unbearable.

‘Sod it all,’ she thought, changing direction. She was off to another pub, and intended to go home with whoever was in her path.

Suddenly she felt a wand tip digging into her lower back, a hand grip her arm forcefully, and a masculine voice breathe in her ear.

“Do not turn around, do not alert anyone, and do not struggle. Just keep walking and this will turn out well for you.”

It was their informant. She barely registered what he said – the sweet smell and gentle puffs of his breath were tickling her ear and neck. She could feel the warmth of his skin radiating from his mouth, leaving a cold spot when he drew his head away. As he steered her to where he wanted to go, his leg would brush the side of her thigh. Her senses were heightened, but her libido was blending into her dealings with him fast. The light brush of his leg, the smell of him, the rough grip on her arm…

The crowds around them were far too idiotic to register the forced march. Hermione didn’t feel particularly threatened, simply insatiably curious.

She put her hand out behind her and touched his leg. Severus caught his breath.

“What are you doing?” he asked accusatorily.

“Making sure you’re real this time,” Hermione said, with no indication of her ulterior motives.

“Well don’t. Next time you can ask.”

Hermione snorted. “Fine, I trust you.” How could she not trust those firm skinny legs?

Finally they reached a suitably abandoned part of Diagon Alley, where he practically shoved her into a dark alley. He did not let her go. Instead, he turned her around to face the wall, and took her wrists and pinned them to the wall on each side of her with his hands. She dropped her red rose. He was close behind her, almost touching her bottom.

“What are you doing?” She panted huskily.

“Can I trust you not to go grabbing at my cloak like last time? Do you understand why my identity must be kept secret?”

She leaned back until her bottom brushed his crotch, as if accidental. “I’ll try to keep my hands to myself,” she said in a breathy whisper.

Severus cringed at the overpowering urge to flip up her robes and do this right in public, sending echoing moans into the windows of the nearby pub. If Hermione Granger was reciprocating – she surely wouldn’t when the time came to reveal his identity. He might as well have some fun with it right now.

He crushed the length of her body against the wall with his, producing a gasp from Hermione. Her cheek was pressed against the cold stone of the wall, and she panted heavily under the heat of his form.

“Keep everything else off me, Miss Granger, if you please.”

“Of course,” Hermione said, calmer now that the informant seemed utterly serious, and a little dangerous. The cold brick on her face cleared her head a little, and she realized what she was doing. Here was the slim body of some unknown stranger, who could be a criminal, or someone she knew and hated. She had to control herself.

The informant abruptly let her go and allowed her to regain her breath and dust herself off. Hermione turned around to face him, jutting her chin at him in a businesslike way. The alley was completely dark, save for the weak blue light from across the street, which just barely lit the side of his hood. They stared at each other for a moment.

“That was quite a clever trick with the Prophet and Vannevar,” Hermione dryly opined.

“I knew you would appreciate it. Of course, it took you a little while. Why were you not suspicious of the advertisement?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Curiosity.”

“I have a lot on my mind,” Hermione reluctantly said.

“Such as?”

“Can we please get back to business?”

Severus whipped out a red-colored vial filled with a misty-looking substance. He held it up.

“This,” he said, “should not be a confusing piece of information to decipher. I know you’ll make short work of it.”

“A memory,” said Hermione in an intrigued voice, as she took the vial from Severus’ hand. “We’ll need a pensieve for this.”

“Find one.” Severus turned to leave.

“Wait,” she said, and her informant paused. “Rabastan might not have been handled as careful-”

“We took precautions with him and provided the necessary mental blockages against intrusions of the most brutal kind, although Potter and Weasley seemed to have redefined the very concept of ‘brutal.’”

“Thank you,” she said, finally glad that they would be safe and that Rabastan would never know. She looked into the hood that faced her. The dull little glimmers that reflected from his eyes wavered a little.

“You’re welcome,” he managed.

“What if we need to contact you?” she asked.

“You cannot.”

“Well please don’t accost me like this anymore. You may send an owl, since you seem to know where we are at most times anyway.”

“Owls can be traced.”

“Send a relay. Those certainly can’t.”

“If it becomes necessary, then very well.” After a moment of hesitation, he said, “You dropped your flower,” and walked away quickly, melting into the shifting crowd.

Hermione picked up her red rose and Disapparated.

----------------------------

“Ready?” asked Harry, his face lit with milky white light emanating from the pensieve below in the dark office of Headmistress McGonagal, formerly that of Albus Dumbledore. Harry, Ron and Hermione all stood around the large stone basin, the empty red vial beside them on the desk. The invisibility cloak was draped over all of them, and the office was quiet save for the soft snoring of various Headmaster portraits, and the scared breathing of the trio. Ron and Hermione nodded and they slowly dipped their heads down into the pensieve.

Harry, Ron and Hermione appeared in a high-ceilinged, dilapidated cathedral, made of crumbling walls, broken stained-glass and dead brown vines creeping everywhere. The pews were broken, carried off or burned, and the entire place was heavily spray-painted with graffiti, although the paint looked old. The trio looked toward the front of the church, where three figures stood on the aisle before a tall, cloaked figure with a snake winding around him, standing atop the carpeted platform of steps. Dead vines on the far wall behind the tall figure clung to a broken crucifix. The trio walked closer to the people, closer to the low, red light glowing around them from the hundreds of small red candles placed around the platform.

Hermione recognized the three people standing before Lord Voldemort. Peter Pettigrew, Bellatrix Lestrange, and Severus Snape. Harry hissed at all of them, intense hatred searing his brow. Ron watched the scene with a curled lip. Nagini slithered out from underneath Voldemort’s robes and went off in search of rats. Voldemort watched her fondly, almost smiling. He then looked at his servants.

“You are privileged tonight with a grand responsibility.” Voldemort grinned at them, his red eyes glowing at them. “Our plans for capturing the prophecy should not fail. However, a few past experiences have taught me that accurate information should accompany precautions for any mishaps that may occur.”

Voldemort turned to look at a slashed and tagged portrait of the Virgin Mary and her son. “As all my servants know, I took precautions to ensure that I would eventually return after the little incident with Potter. Most of you knew that I implied the use of a Horcrux. As in simply one.” Voldemort chuckled coldly. “My children, there are many, many more.”

Bella’s eyes flew wide open in sadistic admiration. Peter was trembling a little. Severus cringed.

“Of course, no one other than you three shall know such a thing. You are my most loyal and unwavering servants, and should something unfortunate occur at the Ministry, you must know one Horcrux in order to birth me once more.”

The three Death Eaters were not breathing. They were watching Voldemort fervently with upturned eyes, tense with the amount of power they were being given. Voldemort extended a long, white, clawed finger, and pointed at Nagini.

“She is one of the many. For security reasons the others must never be known to you. Nagini will bear me through another rebirth if necessary, provided with your assistance, whether one or all three of you. Pettigrew will fill you in on the finer details of the process.”

Voldemort was finished talking. Immediately the three Death Eaters put on a disgusting display of groveling, profuse thanks and feet-kissing. Harry, Ron and Hermione looked at each other, sickened.

“You are quite welcome,” Voldemort said, signaling that they were beginning to irritate him. They bowed and turned to leave. “Snape,” Voldemort hissed. “Come here.”

Severus quickly turned back and bowed to Voldemort. He then awaited his orders.

“Make me a Cosmo before you leave, Snape. I haven’t had a drink in ages.”

Just then the memory began to fade. They felt as if their faces were being suctioned as they reeled backward into the present. Suddenly they were staring at each other again in the darkened head office of Hogwarts, back with the snoring portraits and glowing pensieve.

“A Cosmo?” Ron whispered. “The almighty Dark Lord drinks cosmopolitans?”

Harry was collecting the memory back from the pensieve and bottling it. He was silent and unsmiling. Hermione’s brow was furrowed, trying to decipher the meaning of this new clue. A snort rang out in the room. The three froze. The threat passed.

Harry capped the vial and tapped his friends to signify that he was going to move the pensieve back into the cupboard and that they should move with him. As they closed the cupboard, a snore stopped.

“Is someone there?” asked a familiar voice. The trio turned to see a painting of their old headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, high above them on a wall, a blur moving around that must have been his snow-white beard. Hermione saw the look on Harry’s face as he looked up to Dumbledore, his body frozen, lips trembling. She touched his arm. He looked at her. “We have to go,” she mouthed silently.

Harry looked back up, and then walked away with them, leaving the portrait of Albus to ask the empty room if a student was perhaps lost, in his twinkling, humorous way.

--------------------------------

Harry couldn’t be talked to about anything for two days. At the end of that period, which was a tense dinner consisting mostly of alcohol, Harry finally broke the silence.

“I get what our informant was trying to say with the memory.” Harry looked up at Ron and Hermione, who set down their drinks to listen. “He wants to clarify that Voldemort’s last Horcrux is Nagini, and that only three Death Eaters know this. It’s why Rabastan only talked about one Horcrux. I understand how we’re supposed to know now that all we have to do is track down Voldemort and we’ll get Nagini.”

Harry took a swig of his Firewhiskey. “What I want to know is who in that church the memory came from. One of those people is working with our informant. I want to know who.”

“One,” Hermione said, “the memory could have been taken from one of those people, rather than given. Or as in Professor Snape’s case, it could have been given to Dumbledore when he was concerned about the Horcruxes and passed to one of our informants.”

“Snape killed Dumbledore,” said Harry slowly. “What will it take to convince you that he’s on Voldemort’s side?!” hissed Harry a little too loudly, turning some heads in the pub.

“I can’t rule it out, you’re right. Some things just don’t add up though.” Hermione stopped though. She didn’t have the energy to convince Harry, who was glaring at her in vitriolic, almost religious anger.

“Three, why can’t you agree with us for once? What is it with you?” Ron asked.

“We have to cross-check our information to make sure we’re dealing with the right people,” Harry whispered fiercely. “We’re going to hunt those three down and we’ll see what’s in their heads.”

Hermione looked down at her cold dinner, then at her cold pint. She drank in silence, waiting for Harry and Ron to finish their drinks, without any further discussion.

-----------------------------------

A/N: I love long chapters dammit.

I wish this didn’t come off as angst but hey, you would complain a lot too if you had to quest against the forces of evil and all that crap.

I dare you to flame this. Punish me.

Slight Edit: I forgot to mention from before, but the mystery crotch scene is loosely based on an experience of mine involving my sixteen year old self and the pictures on the packages in the men\'s underwear isle. I literally stood there drooling in a trance-like state for almost five minutes before my mom came and told me to get the underwear for my brother and quit fooling around. So if there are any questions about whether Hermione\'s judgement could be affected by her libido, well it certainly is possible.