Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight: In which the Minister of Magic extends a favor, and Hermione Granger acquires a lively correspondent.

Monday morning found Harry and Hermione ensconced in Kingsley Shacklebolt's impressive office. When the Minister cancelled two of his standing meetings, rumors began to fly – quite literally.

When John Dawlish sauntered into his office at ten, Romilda Vane was waiting for him. Dawlish shot a fulminating glare at his secretary, but forced a smile for Percy Weasley's lackey. "To what do I owe the honor, Miss Vane?"

"What case are Potter and Granger working on?" she asked in her blunt Gryffindorian manner.

"Sorry?" he asked, completely wrong-footed.

"What case are Potter and Granger working?"

"None! I don't allow ... er ... I mean, Potter and Granger have different assignments within the department, as you well know. Why do you ask?"

"Because they've been in with the Minister of Magic since eight twenty-two this morning. Privately." As she spoke, her heavy, dark hair swung forward to frame her face like a living parenthetical.

The blood drained from Dawlish's face and he stormed behind his desk as if Fiendfyre was licking at his boot heels.

Ron Weasley's girlfriend smiled and bid the Head of Magical Law Enforcement good morning, excusing herself from his office. However, when she arrived at Percy's office for her daily ten-thirty report, she was informed by his assistant, Ernie Macmillan, that he was with the Minister. She drummed her fingers on Ernie's desk impatiently, then borrowed quill, ink and parchment to write a note to Ron, asking him if he could spare time for lunch.

By eleven, Harry and Hermione were in the lift rising to the second floor of the Ministry.

"You can't just cross her off the list because she's gay!" Harry exclaimed.

"We agreed the stalker was focused on him romantically, so that would preclude Vector."

"Hermione, you don't know she's gay."

"She turned down Kingsley," Hermione said as if that were sufficient explanation.

"That doesn't make her a lesbian." Harry rolled his eyes. "I think your bias is showing."

She pouted. "Maybe, but you're not a woman. No one turns down a date with Kingsley Shacklebolt, even if he weren't the Minister for Magic and four years happily married. He's charming and incredibly sexy."

Harry snorted. "Too much information, Hermione." Then he leaned one shoulder against the wall of the lift and asked more seriously, "Do you have any concrete reason to suspect that Vector really is gay?"

"No." She shook her head, a stray curl flipping into her eye. "There are notes in her file from the year Voldemort controlled the Ministry. All the teachers were under surveillance then, and she was noticeably and protractedly grief-stricken over Charity Burbage's disappearance and death. Apparently there had been rumors about them for years." Hermione huffed. "I know, I know. I can't cross her off the list because of rumors or the fact she didn't find Kingsley irresistible, even if they're true."

"It's more likely that Dawlish is trying to get Snape sacked, and he's put that niece of his up to it."

Hermione actually laughed. "That's certainly my preferred solution, although with Dawlish gone I might have to stay in MLE rather than teaching."

"I'm beginning to think you want that job."

"I'm beginning to think you're right."

When they reached their destination, "Level Two," the pleasant-voiced lift announced, "Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, and Wizengamot Administrative Offices," and they disembarked. They strolled past the reception desk and into the Commons.

With her iron-gray hair wrapped in a tight bun, Mrs. Corner sat primly at her desk outside Dawlish's office, along the wall farthest from, and in direct line-of-sight with, the lift. When she saw Hermione and Harry, she tilted her head and arched an eyebrow. Recognizing a noble summons when he saw one, Harry briefly exchanged a mirth-filled look with his best friend and, in perfect synchronicity, the two crossed the expansive room.

"Yes, Mrs. Corner?" Harry asked.

"Mr. Dawlish has asked to speak with you as soon as you returned from your unexpected meeting with the Minister." She might not have openly supported Harry or Hermione, but her dislike of her employer was evident as she divulged the entirety of her information to prepare them for what waited beyond the closed door.

Harry smiled at her; it was a surprisingly winsome smile, and the dour-faced woman was not unaffected. "That's why we're here," he said.

Mrs. Corner murmured her thanks when Hermione suggested quietly, "You might want to cancel his lunch if he has one," as she followed Harry.

Dawlish's sanctum sanctorum reminded Hermione of Percy at his most pompous, although the similarities saddened her a little. Both men were intelligent and eminently capable, but tended toward rigid officiousness. Fortunately, Percy had reconciled with his family, and Fred, soon enough to save him from further pomposity. Not so with John Dawlish.

The man in question glared at his Aurors from behind his massive desk. "Where have you been?"

"I'm afraid that's privileged information, sir," Harry said affably, but he didn't choose to take a seat, not having been invited to do so.

Hermione waited patiently at Harry's side.

"Whilst I'm your superior you have an obligation to report to me. You and Granger have not been assigned to a case together. I've given explicit orders not ..." He spluttered for a moment, his face florid with frustrated anger. "Well. That's neither here nor there. Going to the Minister to complain of your treatment is an outrage!"

"Is there a reason for us to complain, sir?" Hermione asked.

Harry said, bluntly "We've been put on Special Assignment."

"What?"

Harry explained as if to a particularly dimwitted trainee. "We have been reassigned to the Minister's staff temporarily, and as such, we report directly to him."

Hermione plucked a single curly strand of hair from the sleeve of her robes and wrapped it around her finger – it was a long-standing habit to prevent others from impersonating her with Polyjuice Potion. She didn't look at Dawlish. "I'm afraid we cannot discuss it with you."

"What about your current cases? You have ..."

"Nothing in my current caseload is critical," Hermione said sourly, finally looking up. Dawlish's face had turned purple.

Harry spoke up. "Bones doesn't need me; any junior Auror could take my place."

Dawlish rose to his feet, bracing himself on his hands spread wide on his desk, but as he was about to give voice to his mushrooming tirade, Hermione said sweetly, "The Minister would like to see you in his office."

"What?" Dawlish snapped.

"Didn't we mention it?" Harry asked. "Minister Shacklebolt would like to see you immediately."

Dawlish ground his teeth. "No, you didn't mention it." He rounded the corner of his desk and herded them from his office. "How long will this assignment take?"

As if a Disillusionment spell had been finite'd, Harry's seeming affability evaporated, and Dawlish recoiled slightly, but the younger man merely said, "Until we get results."

Dawlish strode toward the elevator.

Hermione crossed directly toward the hallway leading to her office, Harry so close on her heels she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. Once inside her office, she closed the door, warded and spelled it against eavesdroppers, and only then did she give in to her mirth. "Did you see his face?"

"Oh, bloody hell!" Harry laughed with the same abandon as his two-year old son. "I owe Snape for that."

"What do you think of Kingsley's proposal?" she asked-.

Harry sobered, and toyed with a miniature Sneakoscope on her desk. "I always thought it would be you."

"I'd be lying if I said I hadn't considered it, but you know what my reputation has become," she said, passing him on her way to the file cabinet, where she began to sort through a pile of reports and parchment notes on various cases.

"Thanks to Dawlish." He ground out the words between his teeth. "It shouldn't be like that. You would be an excellent department head."

"But it is like that, Harry. And while it's reparable, it would take years to change people's impressions. Eccentric is the nicest thing I've heard, but there are other things people say about me."

Harry sat in the single guest chair and continued to play with the Dark detector. "If I get a branch office and you don't take the job at Hogwarts, you will work for me, won't you?"

She twisted at the waist to look at him, and her eyes shone. "Naturally."

"Good. Excellent." He straightened in the guest chair and tapped a finger on her desk. "Let's get to work."

Hermione plucked several reports from the pile, pulled her wand and cleared her desktop. She laid the parchment in one corner, and while she retrieved the boar's tissue samples and the vial of love potion, Harry grabbed the bag Snape had conjured the Saturday before from the depths of her expandable bag.

"I wasn't able to accomplish anything this weekend," she lamented. "Bones was Senior Auror, and the Omega team was here."

Harry angled his head and grimaced as if he'd just eaten a bogey-flavored Bertie Bott's Bean. "How was Smith?"

"Condescending."

"What happened?"

"Nothing really." Hermione blew out a breath quickly, and a wily curl rose in the updraft. "He becomes less tolerable the longer I know him. I know he was in the D.A., but Harry, he's the same prat he always was. I left practically as soon as I arrived."

Harry stood then, and asked, "What do you still need to do and what do you need help with?"

"It'll take me several hours to prepare the samples and run the tests on the glass and the liquids." As she spoke, she finished sorting the things on her desk. "As we already know it's Muggle blood, you should probably talk to that liaison at Scotland Yard."

"There's not much to ask at this point. We don't even know if there's a dead body."

"True, but you could introduce yourself so that when we do need his cooperation, it'll speed up the process," she pointed out logically.

"All right." Harry crowded her when he rounded her desk to put the Sneakoscope atop her file cabinet. "Did you write the bloke's name down?"

"I didn't."

"But you remember it, yeah?"

"If you're going to run Magical Law Enforcement, Harry James Potter," she said tartly, then straightened to face him, "you're going to have to stop relying on me to pick up all the details."

"If you take the job at Hogwarts I'll have no other option." He handed her a small pile of Petri dishes, which she set next to the test tubes. "Otherwise, why would you think I'd ever let you leave my department."

"Harry," she growled. Her foot tapped in irritation, and it wasn't necessary for him to look at her to recognize it.

"All right, all right. It's Prewett," he said quickly to forestall her nagging. "The bloke's name is Bentley Prewett and he's a very distant cousin of Molly's."

She beamed at him. "I knew Kingsley made a wise choice."

Harry puffed out his chest and then snorted. "As I don't actually have an office," he said, referring to his shared cubicle in the Commons, "we should work from here ... or your flat. Which would you prefer?"

"My flat." And then, having made the decision, she placed her overused bag on the seat of her chair. When she heard her friend's chuckle as she removed a tin of beans from the bag she glared at him. However, her comment remained on point. "I don't really trust Dawlish."

"Join the club."

"It's not that he's Dark or evil, but as you pointed out, he's jealous, and I don't want to tempt that." She leaned across her desk and picked up two vials, Horace's potion and the Muggle blood. "It's been safe until now because we haven't aroused anyone's suspicions, but I can easily see him reassigning Smith to harass us."

"Yeah." He took the vials from her hand and placed them carefully in a pocket in the lining of her capacious bag. "Especially if he does have a hand in it."

"I don't really expect those results."

"Me either; more along the lines of wishful thinking," Harry said.

Hermione opened a drawer and pulled out a sealed metal box before handing it to Harry to add to the bag. "I'll sort everything out at my flat."

"Right. I'll be off to Scotland Yard and Bentley Prewett." He strode to the door of her office, but paused with his hand on the doorknob. "Do you want me to stop at Sainsbury's before I meet you later?"

Pausing in the midst of slipping the reports between two books, Hermione raised her head to look at him. The willful curl dangled across her forehead again. "Thanks, but no. I went only last week and I still have some of those crisps you like."

"Good, good. I'm going home first. I don't want to leave an easy trail."

Hermione raised her head. "You don't think .... Of course, he would."

"Wouldn't you?" Harry asked, his expression hard. In that moment, he looked exactly like what he was: a seasoned Dark wizard catcher.

She nodded. "Definitely."

"Then we should expect it. While Dawlish hates the Muggle world, there are more of us mixed-bloods than most realize, and it would be easy for him to send one or another Muggle-born to track me."

"Good point. If you wait five minutes, we can leave together."

"All right." He dropped his hand from the doorknob. "What else do you need to pack?"

She pointed. "Grab the microscope and centrifuge off that table. Can you conjure some bubble wrap?"

"Yeah," he said, suiting action to words. "Got it."

They worked rapidly. It took the full five minutes, but then Hermione delayed for another five to transfigure several ersatz pieces of scientific equipment to fool an uninvited and ignorant snoop.

As they walked through the Commons, they heard a furious spate of whispers and noticed one or two conversations stop entirely when they came within hearing distance. Along the far wall, Bones took a step out of Dawlish's office and watched their departure silently. The rumor mill had already ground the bare facts of their assignment into fine dust.

Once Hermione reached her flat she wasted no time in getting to work. Choosing to use her u-shaped kitchen, tiled in a spritely yellow, she sacrificed one entire worktop for her lab equipment, but there wasn't enough room. She eyed the available space, then plying her wand, she enlarged the worktop-height table she'd recently bought on a shopping spree with her parents, so that it extended the length of the work surface across the entire length of her small breakfast nook between the kitchen proper and the wall separating it from the lounge.

She left one of her tall chairs as it was, but with another swish and jab, the second chair transfigured into a short bookcase fitting snugly beneath the new worktop. Several minutes later, the new furniture matched the pale wood and glass-fronted cabinets in the rest of the kitchen, and they had absorbed several spells designed to resist all manner of damage, including Finite Incantatem. Once satisfied with her handiwork, Hermione retrieved her equipment and reference material, shelving things where appropriate, and allocating an entire shelf to sample storage in her magically modified refrigerator.

When she was finished, Hermione had a hybrid laboratory. A number seven cauldron had been placed on the hob, racks of test tubes nestled amongst vials of standard potions ingredients, and stirring rods of various magical enhancements lined the tiled worktop adjacent to glass slides for the microscope. Satisfied, she set to work, carefully and diligently, a Quick Notes Quill hovering at head height, jotting down her dictated remarks on a piece of parchment.

Over the next hour, preliminary tests showed a ninety-seven percent probability that the two vials left for Snape, although filled with different liquids, had been handled by magic and by the same person. She needed to confirm the results Arithmantically and by running a longer test, but allowing for a wide margin of error, Hermione was quite pleased. She had always believed they were dealing with the same person, but her results supported the theory.

She took a break to snack on an apple and some Stilton, and headed into the lounge, wondering what was taking Harry so long. Before she returned to work, she brushed her teeth and took off her shoes. As she returned to the kitchen, she thought she could get used to working from home.

Disposing of the apple core, Hermione washed her hands before tackling the next series of tests on the vial of blood. In this, she combined wizarding and Muggle methods of investigation. Using a pipette she removed one-fourth of the blood from its vial, dividing that into three test tubes for a standard battery of tests: blood type, presence of diseases, white blood cell count, magical aura, or presence of an anti-coagulant. Then she pulled her wand from where she'd woven it into her braid, and cast the first in a series of standard magical investigative spells, "Gender revelio!"

A pink mist formed around the vial of liquid life, settling into the median range of hue, and Hermione ended the spell. "Dictate," she said, and heard the sound of the charmed quill following directions as it scratched her words into the surface of the floating parchment. "The blood, type B positive, originated from a Muggle female, between the ages of thirty and fifty. According to the spell, she was within normal parameters for health and fitness."

Next, Hermione sucked a single drop from one of the test tubes and smeared it on a glass slide before pushing the slide into place on the bed of the microscope. She pressed her face to the eyepieces – which she had modified for comfort and better vision.

Steps sounded in her hall. "Hermione?"

"In here," she called without removing her face from the binocular microscope. "What took you so long?"

Rustling noises came from her lounge, and she had no trouble imagining Harry shedding his coat.

"You'll never guess."

"Just tell me then."

Thud ... thud .... The sound of his, no doubt, wet boots was loud as they hit the floor in the other room. Ginny had Harry well-trained, Hermione thought, and smirked.

"That Prewett bloke looks just like the twins, only older."

"No!" She sat up abruptly. "You're joking."

"Yes. No. I'm not joking." He entered the lab-cum-kitchen. His hair was damp from melted snow, and he took three steps to the sink, where a tea towel hung. As he rough-dried his hair, he continued his tale. "It was quite a shock. Scotland Yard, for all that it's Muggle, is practically as convoluted as the Ministry. I was wandering a hall wondering how the hell to get back to the receptionist when the spitting image of Fred Weasley approached me, asking if I was Potter." He shuddered.

"Oh, Harry, that must've been dreadful," she said, turning in her chair to listen to his unexpected encounter.

"I would've thought he was a ghost..." his voice was muffled as the towel fell in front of his face, "...except we know what they're like, and then I thought Polyjuice, but when I got close to him, it was obvious he was older. It was bloody unnerving."

"I can imagine."

"His branch of the family live in Leeds, and when he was at Hogwarts, he and Gideon Prewett used to pretend they were twins." He dropped the soiled towel on the worktop, its dark saffron color complimenting the paler tile beneath its messy heap.

"Is that what took you so long?" When Harry nodded, Hermione ignored the floating quill and parchment at head-height and reached for a Self-Inking Quill and a parchment already inscribed with a list of names. "I wonder why we've never heard of him," she commented, as she jotted a note next to Prewett's name.

"He married a Muggle, you see, so they live there, in the Muggle world, and his working for Scotland Yard makes it easy for him to fit in."

"That's brilliant."

Harry leaned against the frontispiece of her sink and smiled widely. "He was quite helpful all round." Then he asked, "What have you found out?"

Hermione waved her hand toward her dictated notes, still hovering at head height. He stepped toward the parchment rather than summoning it. Even after living for almost a decade exclusively in the wizarding world, Harry still did some things the Muggle way. It was a distinction to be found at all levels of their culture.

"There's something odd about this blood." Hermione peered back in the microscope. "I don't know that I've ever looked at Muggle blood before, so I don't know if it's the Muggle-magical divide or this sample specifically. Harry, give me your hand."

"What?"

"Your hand, Harry; I need some of your blood." She summoned a point-five stirring rod and transfigured it into a sharp needle, and then pursed her mouth.

"Won't that taint my blood with magical residue?"

Hermione gave him an approving smile, as if he were a first-year student who'd answered a challenging question correctly. "It shouldn't. First of all, the spell I used is benign in nature, transfiguring one item from metal into another. It would be different if I'd transfigured glass to metal or wood to metal. Secondly, the spell's contained within the magical field holding the mutated object's integrity. Unless I damage the needle against your Quidditch calluses, there should be no cross-contamination."

He poked her. "I'll pretend I understood what you said, shall I?"

Hermione glared at him and jabbed his finger harder than necessary.

"Ow! Hermione, that hurt!" He tried to pull his hand back, but she held onto it tightly.

"Don't be a baby," she scolded, siphoning off his blood into an empty test tube and sealing it with a waxy cork designed for the purpose. "You have to stop doing that."

"Doing what? What'd I do?" He plucked a bottle of Essence of Dittany from among her small collection of potions ingredients and then crossed to the sink to wash his finger and tear off a sheet of paper toweling. He poured a small amount of the Dittany onto the paper towel and applied it to the pinprick.

"You have to stop pretending you're a half-wit if you want to run the department."

"I – I don't..."

"You do. I know why, but you're not just The Boy Who Lived Twice." She turned toward him; her brow furrowed in an expression those who knew her well meant she was in deadly earnest. "You're also Harry Potter, a devoted husband and father, a bloody good Auror, and my best friend. The amiable half-wit camouflage won't lead a department of Aurors nor earn their respect. It's part of why Dawlish is where he is. He's an officious, obnoxious git, but he's competent and people respect that."

Harry's face was a complex mix of emotions, and Hermione didn't wait for the anger or hurt to surface. "Just like remembering Bentley Prewett's name earlier. You remembered what Kingsley said as well as I do, but you pretended otherwise. And you did that with me!.

"Just be yourself. I told you once, and I'll say it again, you're a great wizard, Harry." She watched the lines on his face settle into embarrassed pleasure and returned to her task, giving him time to adjust to her lecture. When she smeared another slide with his blood and slipped it onto the microscope's bed, he said, "You've got better at that."

"This?" she asked as she bent to the microscope's eyepieces.

"Cutting me down to size and then building me back up."

"Oh, Harry!" She spun to face him, her sincere brown eyes meeting his. "I never meant to hurt your feelings."

"I know you didn't." He returned to his former place, leaning against her sink. "I know you, too, Hermione, and when you have a point to make you go for the jugular."

"I spew coal," she muttered, jabbing that wayward curl back into place with more force this time.

"What's that?"

"Coal. Severus Snape says I'm like that girl in the fairy tale. You know the one who has diamonds and pearls fall from her mouth when she speaks. Only my comments haven't been turned into diamonds yet ... they're still chunks of coal."

Harry snorted and then broke into side-aching laughter. Indulgently, Hermione smiled for a minute, but when he showed no sign of stopping, she tapped her foot in annoyance. "It's not that funny."

"No, no. It is." He howled with laughter, bending at the waist as if he couldn't catch his breath. "It's ... bloody ... brilliant! Wait ... till ... I tell ... Ron."

"Please don't." She sulked. "I wish I hadn't told you. It's sort of an inside joke."

Her comment worked as efficiently as a Charm; Harry stopped laughing immediately. "You and Snape have an inside joke?"

She looked anywhere but at him. "Sort of."

"Hermione?"

Shifting uncomfortably, she fingered the list with Bentley Prewett's name on it. "I told you he's been cordial. You've seen him."

"I have." Harry sounded abstracted, but the look he gave her was anything but. "He called you Hermione."

"He didn't."

"Yes. He did. On Saturday ... after you called him Severus."

"What?" She goggled at him. "I never!"

"You did," Harry smirked. "You called him Severus just after you realized he was an Animagus."

"My – my – Great Circe!" she exclaimed and slid off her chair. "I did."

Her reaction caused Harry to chuckle, but he said quietly enough, "You really did."

"I'm lucky he didn't hex me."

"He's not going to hex you." Harry shook his head. "He called you Hermione."

"I – I –" Her eyes were wide and curiously unguarded.

"Do you like him?"

She avoided his too-interested eyes by hitching herself back into the chair. "I certainly admire him, and he's not cruel like he used to be." Harry crossed his arms, but said nothing. The tactic worked. Hermione's resolve crumbled, and she blurted, "I don't know! Maybe."

"All right. Let's get back to work, and after we solve this case, you can decide if you like him or not."

"Thanks." Deftly shunting any potential revelation aside, however, Hermione bent to her previous task.

Behind her, Harry returned to the lounge, but his voice carried easily. "My meeting with Prewett was quite good, and among other things, he gave me a print-out of the current unsolved murders within a one-hundred mile radius of Hogwarts. There are fewer than ten, although there's potentially twice that number if we include those that haven't been discovered or reported yet."

"That could be helpful." She frowned as she studied Harry's blood sample, and then switched slides, staring at the greatly magnified blood sample Snape had given her. "Although I don't think this blood was acquired as a result of an assault."

"Why's that?" he asked from a position next to her elbow.

"If the blood had been taken from a dead body – a crime scene, for example – I'd expect to find carpet or clothing fibers, or perhaps even pieces of skin from the wound site. If it was a wizarding wound, there would be magical residue, or, as in the case of the boar, traces of anti-coagulant. And yet, the Muggle sample I tested is entirely free of contaminants." While she worked she pointed her wand at the sample of Harry's blood and cast a wordless spell. Immediately, miniscule flecks of luminous purple appeared in the smear of blood proving that he was, indeed, a wizard.

He picked up the vial of Muggle blood Snape's unknown tormenter had left, rolling it between his fingers. "You'll have to check the entire vial."

"I know," she said, taking the vial from him and returning it to its place amongst the test tubes. "Although considering how much we've moved the sample, any contaminant should've been dislodged from settling at the bottom."

"Good point. What do you see in my blood?"

Her grin was infectious. "You're definitely a wizard."

He wiped his brow in mock relief. "Whew!"

"I thought you'd be pleased." Removing the slide from the bed of the microscope, she sealed it with a tap of her wand. "There's very little difference in structure and composition, but there's something irregular about the Muggle blood. I'm not a phlebotomist, but I think it's been treated in some way."

"Perhaps this will help." Harry placed a large folder on the corner of the butcher block table. "Prewett also gave me a list of hospitals, nursing facilities, and blood banks."

"That's it!" She sat up and hopped from her chair. "We have to see Mum."

"What's it and why? Not that I don't like your mum, but why?"

"She'll be able to confirm my guess."

Harry blocked her passage with his arms crossed. He looked quite intimidating. "If I have to stop pretending to be a dimwit, Hermione Jean Granger, then you have to stop treating me as if I'm so feeble-minded I can't follow your thought processes."

"I don't!"

"You do. I know you follow threads of research into places I've never considered, but it doesn't mean I don't have the ability if you'd tell me what's going on in that enormous brain of yours."

"I had no idea, Harry," she said contritely.

His mouth twitched and he relaxed. "It's probably the curse of being childhood friends. We tend to cling to our first impressions."

"What an awful thought. But if that's true, then why do I find Snape's company so bracing and enjoyable?"

Harry grimaced. "Enjoyable?"

Her chin tilted defensively. "Yes. Enjoyable. He's quite witty."

"If you say so, but that just fits in with what I've said. We've been friends since we were kids ... continuously. Sometimes when I look at you, I expect to see this little face peeking through a mountain of hair, but you're not that girl anymore. With Snape, it's been years since we've seen him, and he's changed, but more than that, we've changed. It's easier to see those changes from a distance."

Hermione's mouth gaped. "That was very insightful, Harry."

He smirked. "You told me to stop pretending."

She laughed. "I did, didn't I? It'll take a bit to adjust to this new you, but I think I like it."

"Good. Then explain why we need to see your mum."

"I suspect the blood's been subjected to a medical procedure, possibly for storage, but my mum will have more information because she always keeps a liter of a patient's blood type on hand when she does surgery. In case of an emergency."

"Is that standard procedure?"

She explained while retrieving her shoes, "No, but when she was at college, one of the volunteer patients had undiagnosed haemophilia and almost died before they could save her. He was just a little boy, and no one had known."

"I had no idea dentistry was so hazardous." He slid his feet into his now-dry boots before donning his coat.

"It isn't usually. Mum called it an enlightening experience. C'mon, let's go. She'll be at work, so we'll Apparate to the car park and walk from there." She hooked her arm around his waist and spun into Side-Along-Apparation. Regrettably, Hermione was wrong, and her mother wasn't at her dental surgery in Windsor. Mrs. Granger had taken a rare day off; fortunately, Hermione reached her by mobile phone while Harry paced in the parking lot.

The call was brief, and when Hermione hung up, she said to Harry, "It was frozen. After blood has been crystallized, there are residual indicators upon reconstitution."

"We'll probably need to use that second list Prewett gave me." He squinted into the darkening sky, ignoring the drizzle which had started while Hermione spoke with her mother. "Shall we call it a day? I'd like to get home to Ginny and James early for a change."

"All right. If you leave the list with me, I'll sort it by location." Her shoulders slumped, even after the day's tremendous successes, and she kicked the kerb with the toe of her shoe. "I don't think we're looking for a murderer."

"Perhaps not a murderer yet." Harry's tone was ominous. "I don't like the implicit threat in the public display."

"Me, either."

He pulled several sheets of folded Muggle paper from his coat pocket and handed it to her. "We'll decide who gets where in the morning."

"All right." Unfolding the paper, she gave it a cursory glance. "Give my love to Ginny and James."

"You're welcome to come for dinner."

She looked up from the list and smiled. "No, thanks. I know how rarely it's just the three of you. Soon it'll be four, so go home and enjoy your family. I'm going to have a bath."

"I'll have to tell Ron you're doing more of those girly things again."

Harry's grin was mischievous, and she shoved him playfully. "Prat!"

Laughing, he fended her off, and then, still chuckling, he said, "'Night, Hermione. See you in the morning." He spun on the ball of his foot, disappearing with nary a sound of displacement.

"Show off," she murmured before twirling into her own seamless Disapparation.

She never got that bath. Once she arrived at her flat, she preserved the slides with Harry's and the unknown Muggle's blood, and cleaned her work surfaces and equipment. Then she sat down to peruse the lengthy list of locations known to store blood. The size of the list was daunting, but also the only real lead they had to identify the person behind the Snape-baiting.

Thinking of Snape, she composed a message to tell him of their progress, and then recalled her happiest memory – finding her parents alive and well in Melbourne after the war – before casting her Patronus and sending it to Hogwarts. Finally, she settled on her sofa with a cup of tea, a healthy splash of milk to whiten it to her taste, and prepared to sort out the list of blood resources. There were hundreds of possibilities to consider. Prewett had been quite thorough. In addition to listing blood banks, hospitals, and nursing facilities, he had also included research laboratories, morgues, and six university medical facilities.

It was just going on midnight when she finished breaking down the list by city, county, and country. As she organized her notes into three piles, Prewett's original list, and one each for Harry and her, Snape's Patronus swept into her flat. As it had done the last time, it swooped into a circular landing, ultimately coming to rest on the table in front of her. It cocked its head, blinked its eyes and opened its beak. Snape's uniquely hypnotizing voice issued forth. After initial salutations, which left Hermione chuckling, Snape's voice said, "I find myself as much astonished as encouraged by yours and Potter's efforts on my behalf. There was another bouquet this morning, although it was on the podium in my classroom and not at the high table. There was no accompanying gift and the flowers were the same as Saturday."

The Patronus clacked its beak and faded slowly from existence, but its luminous eyes held her attention until they were the last things to disappear.

Tiredly, Hermione shuffled off to her bed, thinking they should begin their search in Scotland and then work their way south.

The next three weeks were lessons in patience and futility. It reminded Hermione of the endless months she, Harry and Ron had spent on the trail of Voldemort's Horcruxes. And no matter how experienced an investigator or how magically powerful they were, there was little Hermione or Harry could do to replace the tedious footwork of visiting every potential source of the Muggle blood concealed in Snape's bouquet.

Harry had initially suggested phoning the places on the list, but Hermione pointed out that they couldn't cast any sort of diagnostic spell that way, and in the end they spent twelve days popping in-and-out of Muggle Scotland and Northern England.

Their only consolations were that Harry made it home in time for dinner every night, and Hermione's rather spirited Patronus correspondence with Severus Snape was occurring on a daily basis.

Nightly, Hermione recalculated her data, Arithmantically looking for patterns in the slow but certain escalation of Snape's stalker. There were three notable plateaux initiating more visible expressions of the stalker's interest thereafter. But she could find no discernable significance to their dates. They didn't correspond to any misdeeds Snape might have performed as a Death Eater. Neither did they coincide with a full moon, or Snape's birthday on the ninth of January. She had sent him a belated birthday card, complete with crumbs and a note which read, I made you a cake and wish you'd been here to share it with me. It was delicious. His return message had been a Patronus of hearty laughter and nothing more. She had fallen asleep that night with a smile on her face.

On the twentieth night, she soaked in the bath for an hour before bed, contemplating Snape's earlier message. His D.A. galleon was gone. He believed it was the result of a real prank and not the work of the stalker. He had been demonstrating a basic avoidance technique, duck and run, to his youngest students when the school's alarm sounded for an impromptu evacuation. Since the disorganized exodus during the Battle for Hogwarts, there had been periodic, mandatory evacuation drills for all students and staff members. Regrettably, Snape had been in his shirtsleeves at the time; when several of his students panicked, he had ushered them to their pre-arranged safe zone without grabbing his outer robes.

"It was bloody cold in that courtyard," he had complained through his Patronus. "But it wasn't until we returned to the classroom that I discovered my teaching robes were missing. They were returned this morning, but my pockets were empty. There was nothing of material value other than the D.A. coin, and I doubt the thief knows what he or she has in their possession. It was careless of me."

Her reply had been short. "Don't be daft, Severus. You weren't careless, someone deliberately pinched your robes. I'm sure you'll hear rumors of the escapade soon enough – who could keep that to themselves? I would dearly love to be there when you discover the culprit."

The next day saw her moving on to Edinburgh from St. Andrews.

Ten days later, Hermione arrived home and dispiritedly kicked off her trainers – it had been years since she'd spent so much time in Muggle clothing – before slipping into her kitchen for a glass of wine. As she was so depressed she opened a good bottle, one her parents had brought back from a trip to Provence. Flicking her wand, she removed the cork from the Roger Lassarat Saint-Veran Prestige, and then twisted the magical vinewood to chill the wine.

That night she planned to adjust her equations to include her most recent idea: dates Snape had transformed into an Animagus during the past six months. He had sent a list by regular owl that morning. When the owl had arrived, Hermione had been shocked by how small it seemed. So used to the size of Snape's Patronus, whose wingspan was longer than she was tall, the smaller, real avian reminded her of Ron's owl, Pigwidgeon.

Cutting up a pear and some cheese, Hermione put it all on a plate with a couple of digestive biscuits. She levitated it to the lounge where her entire coffee table had been taken over by the investigation.

She was just adding the final dates to the equation when her nightly apparition glided into the room. She waved a greeting and hastily scribbled the last date on the paper.

"It's you, Coal." Snape's voice was deep and dark as it issued forth from his Patronus.

She stared blankly at the messenger, quill poised above the parchment, until the owl continued.

"You're the common denominator." The transparent Patronus cocked its head, its beak wide open. "Each of the more blatant expressions of interest has occurred after you visited the school ... openly." Suddenly lightheaded, Hermione felt the blood drain from her face even as his smooth baritone voice continued to relay his message. "Someone is indeed watching. From what Potter has said, there is the possibility of diverting attention to someone or something considered competition. I would be heartily displeased if that were to happen in this case."

As had become her custom, Hermione thanked the owl and watched as the entity blurred, losing its corporeal form and fading into a fog of glowing magical energy before it evaporated entirely. She stared blindly at a score of equations scrawled in variegated ink.

Too keyed up to conjure a happy thought to summon her own Patronus, Hermione bounced to her feet, plucking the empty plate and wine glass from the table and entered the kitchen. She filled her sink with hot soapy water and plunged her hands into the bubbles. While her hands were busy, her mind provided her with an image of her winter coat, befouled and shredded, hanging in the cloak room of Hogwarts castle. While she had assumed the damage was personally motivated, she hadn't considered it related to Snape, but that had become a reasonable possibility.

If the stalker perceived Hermione as a real threat, their focus might shift from Snape and it would be more difficult to discover their identity. Hermione and Harry couldn't afford to let that happen.

She scrubbed a smudge of cheese off the plate, remembering Snape's warning and thinking his protectiveness was endearing – especially as he hadn't spoiled it by suggesting she give up the investigation. Ideas flitted through her mind; using a disguise when visiting Hogwarts, avoiding Snape, or even using the information to manipulate the situation. There were both plausible and implausible scenarios.

After she'd dried and put her dishes away, she was composed enough to send a reply. Her otter oozed from the tip of her wand, gamboling about the room until it came to attention at her feet. "I have a message for Severus Snape." After she'd thanked Snape for his warning, she said, "I would be equally displeased if the stalker took matters into a more personal or public direction. Please be as careful as you would have me do in your stead." The silvery otter lollopped across the kitchen floor, onto the worktop, and slipped through the crack between window and sill over the sink.

With good conscience, Hermione returned to work, settling on the sofa and pulling the sheet of Arithmantic formulae closer. When she substituted the dates of her visits for the dates of Snape's Animagus transformations, the two sides of the equation balanced perfectly. Snape had been correct; she was the common factor.

Next, she took the variable for "x" and plugged it into a different set of Arithmantic projections. Instantly, the rune Hagalaz rose from the parchment to hover and spin mid-air. Hagalaz represented many things: destructive, uncontrolled forces, a crisis, a tempering, testing, or a trial. None of those gave her any comfort at all, even if she was unsurprised by the result.

By the time she crawled into bed three hours later, her head ached and she dreamed of blood.

Two days later, Harry found their lead.

Hermione practically splinched herself Apparating to Newcastle where Harry had found their source: the School of Applied Sciences at Northumbria University's City Campus.

"Harry?"

"Come with me," he said brusquely. The length of time it had taken them had grated on his nerves as much as it had hers.

She followed Harry up the stairs in the brick, metal and glass building, and then down a long, wide corridor. Her trainers made little noise on the linoleum floor while his boots resounded in the nearly empty hall. Few students were present, and those who were paid little attention to the two whose clothing was several years out of fashion.

Harry stopped at a door with a faceplate she hadn't time to read because he ushered her inside. A man rose upon their entry, extending his hand toward Hermione. "Miss Granger, it is an honor to meet you at last. I've read a great many things about you."

Entirely taken aback by the welcome, Hermione managed to retrieve her hand from his fervent greeting and stutter, "M-my pleasure, I'm sure."

"Hermione, meet Matthew Flint." Harry stepped forward, closing the door behind him, and with a subtle sweep of his hand, he cast an Imperturbable Charm on the door.

Flint was a middle-aged man of rugged good looks and abundant health. His shock of white hair set off the healthy ruddy tone of his skin and his teeth gleamed in his broad smile. He was surprisingly quite fit, unlike his younger cousin Marcus who many had accused of having troll blood in his family line. This Flint wore ubiquitous jeans and a pale green jersey, and his trainers were far newer than Hermione's.

"Mr. Flint, it's kind of you to help us," she said.

"Not at all," he replied, and offered her a seat in one of the room's industrial chairs. "While Mr. Potter waited for your arrival, I've pulled the file."

"File?" she asked while taking the proffered seat and crossing her legs. "I'm sorry?"

From his position leaning against the closed door, Harry said diplomatically, "Professor Dumbledore gave Mr. Flint his references, much the same way he found Mrs. Figg a position in Little Whinging."

"Ah," she said, mentally slotting disparate puzzle pieces into place. "Professor Dumbledore –"

"Dumbledore was a great man." Flint stepped behind his standard educator's desk: broad and cluttered. "His death was tragic – necessary I realize, but a great loss."

Hermione bit her tongue, but nodded politely.

"You see I'm a Squib, Miss Granger," Flint said as he sat in a surprisingly modern, orthopedic chair. "And Albus Dumbledore helped me find my way when my family disowned me."

"Professor Dumbledore helped a great many people over the years," she said, deliberately remembering what he had done for Hagrid rather than how the old wizard had abandoned a sulky, brilliant teenager to the predations of two pureblooded scions bearing wealth, charm, and beauty.

"He did." Flint's zeal was boundless. "I've been quite happy here, but I see Mr. Potter is fidgeting. Shall I come right to the point?"

"Please."

"I came to work for the University in the mid-seventies, while Voldemort was in his first ascendancy. I had been living with my Uncle – on mother's side, you understand – and when he died, he left most of his estate to another nephew, another wizard who had been disowned." He smiled in reminiscent fondness.

While he elaborated, Hermione took a look around her. The walls of his office were painted industrial white, and the four certificates asserting his accomplishments were framed in cheap stainless frames. The industrial furniture was rounded out with a filing cabinet pushed against the wall beneath a double set of windows. There were no family pictures on the man's desk, but, incongruously, there was a potted aspidistra on the cabinet beneath the windows.

"It was his specialty, Uncle Alphard's," explained Flint, "supporting the family's outcasts. He left a small stipend for me, but I would have to find employment. You can imagine how difficult it was for me to find anything in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade. Albus Dumbledore found me sweeping floors at the Hogs Head in Hogsmeade. He helped me find this position, and on occasion, I was able to acquire certain plants for the toxicology department through his kind offices."

Harry shifted his position, moving behind Hermione's chair, and he cut to the chase. "There's a reciprocal agreement between the University and Hogwarts, Hermione. The University receives a number of rare and precious plants for study, and Hogwarts receives a bi-annual delivery of blood – frozen blood."

"This is enormously helpful information." She smiled at Flint winningly. "Could you tell us when the agreement went into effect, sir?"

Flint opened a slender file which was there for the purpose. "The first delivery to Hogwarts was in August 1980, and has continued for twenty-six years. During that time our Biomedical Science department has gained tremendous prestige in its field, and I've been honored to have been of some modest help."

Harry returned to his position by the door, and asked, "Can you tell us how the frozen blood is delivered?"

"I wish I could," Flint said apologetically, and nervously fingered one of the pages in the file. "Until the year of his death, Dumbledore came himself. He always stopped by for tea afterward, but since then ... well, things are different. A messenger, with proper Hogwarts' authorization, picks up the specially wrapped parcel."

"When is the next delivery scheduled?" Harry's and Hermione's eyes met above Flint's head as he bent his head to confirm the date.

"You've missed one by only a few weeks. The exchange was made during the second week of January, and there won't be another until August. Is there some trouble?"

"Not really," Harry deliberately met Flint's eyes, and Hermione knew he was using Legilimency. It had taken several years and a great deal of training, but Harry had become proficient at both Legilimency and Occlumency.

While Harry sorted through the Squib's mind, Hermione swallowed her distaste for the practice, and applied the principles of strategic misrepresentation. "The Department of Magical Law Enforcement is conducting an annual field test, Mr. Flint. It's similar to a road rally or a scavenger hunt. With the information you've provided, Harry and I stand a chance to be the first to complete our assignment. As I said before, you've been enormously helpful."

Harry broke the visual connection, and gave his head a barely perceptible, negative shake. Hermione rose to her feet.

"It's my pleasure, I'm sure." Flint, too, rose to his feet, then offered his hand. "Do you have time for tea? If not today then perhaps another time? Occasionally I get homesick."

"Another time perhaps," Hermione took his hand once more, but then she squirmed as he gave her a glance which held a hint of a leer, and this time, he bent in a courtly gesture and kissed the back of her hand rather than shaking it. Hermione maintained a straight face, and Harry's eyes twinkled like George Weasley's when developing a new wheeze.

Moments later, the two friends left the building, and Hermione poked Harry in the side.

"Ow! What was that for?" he whinged, rubbing his ribs.

"Enjoying his slobbering all over my hand." She made a face, and turned onto the bisecting path.

Harry's steps were drowned out by the noise of the Muggle city, but he matched her pace. "Yeah, but we've got the information we needed."

She sobered immediately. "I know. We need to talk about what it means. Have you eaten yet? I was in Carlisle and hadn't stopped for lunch when I got your message."

He looked both ways at the next street, but none of their surroundings were familiar. Two students passed them without giving them so much as a second glance even though they blocked their path. "I got a late start this morning so the University was my first stop."

"Everything all right?"

"Yeah, Ginny was having a bit of a lie-in. Morning sickness again, so I played with James until Molly arrived." He buttoned his jacket against the chill of the day.

Reminded of the temperature, Hermione pulled her gloves from her pocket and slipped her hands into their warmth. "The advantages of a mother-in-law who doesn't work," she said.

"Molly's great, but sometimes ...." He didn't finish his sentence, but shrugged.

"A little over-bearing?"

"Yeah."

"Let's not go to Grimmauld Place for lunch then." Hermione looked along the road they'd chosen, looking for some sign of a café, but the buildings mostly belonged to the university, and none of them appeared to house a place to eat, at least not from the outside.

Harry didn't reply, but showed his agreement by asking the nearest student if he could recommend a good Indian restaurant in town.

They were given an enthusiastic recommendation and explicit directions. The student waved and meandered upon his way.

Hermione laughed. "Why do we always eat Indian when we go Muggle?"

"I like Indian," Harry said defensively, then he turned about and started walking in the direction from which they'd come.

"Me, too," she said, matching his stride, "but it's funny how often we have it when we eat out."

"It's Ginny's favorite, but she can't stand it at the moment. All she wants is meat and potatoes ... for every meal."

Hermione snickered, and her breath fogged in the cold air. "You're probably having another boy, then."

Harry grinned. "Brilliant."

~o0o~