Restoring Order

Phoenix Tears, Chapter Fourteen : Restoring Order

DISCLAIMER : The characters and many of the situations described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute. Dialogue marked with an asterisk is quoted from the original HP stories.

Once again my betas threw themselves into the breach for your sakes: thank you, LAxo and WriterMerrin, you're both wonderful!

Hermione was bothered by the fact that no-one but her, Snape and Vector seemed to know about Viktor Krum's involvement in the fight against Voldemort. In the greater scheme of things, it was one of the less important loose ends, yet as January drew to a close and she, Ron and Harry were no closer to any of their other goals, it weighed on her mind.

Her biggest worry, though, was Harry: the Boy-Who-Lived did little but mope around with a distant-yet-fanatical look in his eyes as he dwelt on the Deathly Hallows; to all intents and purposes, he'd given up on the Horcrux search. The new Harry was faintly disturbing, and Hermione couldn't help wondering how much of his interest in the Hallows was fuelled by his own personality and how much was driven by the bit of him that was actually a part of Voldemort. Her Harry wasn't the sort to ignore all of Dumbledore's advice.

Ron, on the other hand, was a champion. Without a piece of the Dark Lord hanging around his neck, Ronald Weasley was a new man. And fair enough, too, acknowledged Hermione, he has neither Harry's familiarity with Voldemort's soul nor my skill with Occlumency to protect him.

Since his return, Ron had been resolutely cheerful, untiringly working through a list of wizarding settlements around the country and visiting each in turn. They'd had no luck, and secretly, Hermione could admit that they weren't likely to. If the cave and the lake were anything to go by, Voldemort had hidden his Horcruxes well...three teenagers were not about to stumble on them. They weren't going to find the golden cup of Helga Hufflepuff mounted on a plinth somewhere, no matter how much they wanted to.

A further concern was the state of her Arithmancy calculations. Hermione had been cut off from the world outside her tent for so long that many of her equations refused to solve; she was lacking so much of the necessary information that the possibility predictions she could calculate were so vague as to be next to useless. Without them, she felt lost. She desperately wished she could visit Vector's office, drink a tiny cup of her bitter Greek coffee, and plot out the necessary steps in this interminable war.

Thinking of Vector, of course, got her back to thinking about Viktor, which circled back around to the fact that no-one in the Order seemed to know what the others were doing. Hermione wasn't convinced it was the best situation. Over and over again, she brooded on the scant handful of information that Ron had brought back with him.

Kingsley...with his teabags, his work at Downing Street, and his super-shiny modern kitchen...had been helping Muggle-borns. He was also the most understanding about Hermione's position. According to Ron, though, he was on the run . . . whatever that meant. Did she dare contact him? It was a question she pondered long and hard. Assuming that he, like them, was continually on the move, she couldn't send an owl. And even if she'd had the materials necessary to cast a Tracing Spell, that wouldn't work particularly well either...it would give her actions a dangerous predictability and possibly lead others to Kinsley along with herself. A Patronus, however, was a distinct possibility.

A Patronus could neither be fooled nor faked...plus he'd told her to send one if she ever needed his help. She just had to find a way of doing so without Harry or Ron noticing what she was up to; Harry, in his current, brooding state, would be less likely than ever to condone a connection to any of the older Order members.

"I'm going for a run," she announced to the tent at large, one rainy morning during the last days of January.

"Better you than me," replied Ron, looking doubtful as to her sanity. "It's bloody miserable out there."

Hermione zipped up her jacket with a sharp tug and made no reply. Scowling slightly to herself, she stepped outside.

It was, indeed, miserable: a persistent drizzle had turned the fields around their current location slippery, and Hermione picked her way across the nearest paddock to an ill-kept gravel path. She ran along it only far enough that the boys were unlikely to catch her up, then chose a particularly bushy piece of hedgerow for the small shelter it offered.

She'd kept her wand out while she ran, and once she had stopped, she put it to use: casting all of the protective wards she had learnt from Snape. With another wave of her wand, she deflected even more of the rain and dried out her running clothes for good measure.

Alright, Granger. Get it over with. Brandishing her wand, she exclaimed loudly, "Expecto Patronum!"

A tiny, insubstantial wisp of smoke drifted out of the tip of her wand and disappeared. Hermione bit her lower lip in frustration. Why is this so hard for me? she wondered. Think happy thoughts. Squeezing her eyes shut in concentration, she cast about for a happy memory.

Nothing came immediately to mind, and Hermione began to feel a little desperate. She heard Harry's voice resound inside her head, "It's the only spell she ever has trouble with . . . Bit unfortunate, really . . ."* Self pity threatened to overwhelm her.

But wait! I managed it then, I managed it in the Ministry even though I had the Horcrux in my pocket! What on earth did I think of? The answer came with a sudden rush: Snape. She'd thought about Snape.

Fine, then.

Upset because he hadn't spoken with her, Hermione had been avoiding all thought of her sarcastic mentor. Now, however, frowning at her own stupidity, she thought about him as hard as she could. She thought about their lessons in his office and those in the Room of Requirement. She thought about the moment he'd taught her to cast wards, about his help modifying her parents' memories, about the apology he'd sworn to her after their awful fight. She thought about the Felix Felicis kiss.

Not all of them were happy memories, exactly. But they were . . . strong. Concentrating on them, she felt tough and fierce, protected and powerful. She leant into the feeling.

"Expecto patronum!" she shouted, and a huge silver force barrelled from her wand. Squinting at the brightness of it, it seemed at first as if her silver otter had been replaced by some grander animal. When her eyes adjusted, however, she realised it was just bigger and more luminous than it had ever been before. She reached out to touch it, and it rolled over in the air, displaying its long furry tummy.

An unexpected gurgle of laughter escaped her as she rubbed her Patronus.

"Can you take a message?" she asked.

The otter twisted back upright and circled her with a lazy somersault. It looked at her attentively.

"I need you to find Kingsley Shacklebolt and give him the following message: This is Hermione Granger. All three of us are fine. I have information that I think you could use. If you know of a better way to communicate or somewhere safe we can meet, let me know. Please reply within the next half an hour, otherwise wait for another message."

Her Patronus seemed to know she was finished. After one last loop, wrapping low around her ankles, it shot off into the distance. Hermione conjured herself a chair and sat down to wait.

She wasn't left hanging for long. Less than fifteen minutes later, a silver streak flew down from the grey clouds of the January, Devonshire sky and resolved itself into Kingsley's lynx.

It spoke to her in Kingsley's distinctive tones, "The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix can be found at twelve, Grimmauld Place."

Hermione was startled and opened her mouth to protest, but the Patronus wasn't finished.

"Before you panic, Hermione, let me reassure you that we have placed a new Fidelius Charm on the building with myself as Secret Keeper. The house is as safe as ever. Come any time...though I advise you to Apparate to the back door, as Death Eaters frequently stand watch in the square." As it finished speaking, the lynx faded away.

For several moments, Hermione sat motionless, her mouth still ajar from her earlier impulse to interrupt.

The Patronus was genuine, of that she was certain. Which meant, without question, that Kingsley had received her message and he himself had responded. So, really, that left only one issue: did she trust him enough to revisit Grimmauld Place?

Did she? Yes. Fired with certainty, she cast a second Patronus; this one was easier. "Tell Kingsley that I'll come tomorrow or the day after, at about this time."

Her otter performed a flashy back flip and zoomed off into the distance. Only slightly anxious, Hermione removed her wards and jogged back to the tent through the drizzling rain.

The next morning, Hermione took another "run." This time, she was careful to put a little more distance between herself and the tent before she stopped. She wanted to be absolutely sure that neither Ron nor Harry would overhear the telltale sound of her Apparation. After a short pause to catch her breath, Hermione turned into nothing, rematerialising on the back step of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

The dingy yard looked the same as it always had, and the back door opened...as per usual...at the touch of her wand. Steeling herself, she pushed it open and stepped into the kitchen. She hadn't ruled out the possibility this might be a trap.

Kingsley was there, as were half a dozen other people she didn't recognise. They were sitting at the kitchen table, and one young man was washing dishes at the sink, both hands submerged to his elbows in suds. At her arrival everyone looked up.

"Hermione!" exclaimed Kingsley with real warmth, rising to his feet.

Hermione had her wand trained upon him, however, and failed to respond in kind.

"Nobody move!" she instructed. "Quickly, Kingsley, what joke did you make before we rode together on the Thestral?"

Momentarily, Kingsley's brow furrowed in concentration, then the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. "If I remember correctly," he drawled, "I commented on my appreciation of your rather masculine physique."

Hermione relaxed slightly, but didn't lower her wand. "Cast a Patronus," she commanded.

Kingsley obliged, sending his graceful lynx careening around the room. "As a member of the Order, Hermione," he commented wryly, "I commend you on your thoroughness. As your friend, however, I think it's time you gave me a hug."

He held out his arms, and with a small grin at his unruffled good humour, Hermione walked across the room into his embrace.

A soft rumble of talk and laughter started up as those around them relaxed and began to talk.

"Everything alright?" he asked quietly, wrapping her tightly in his burly grip.

"I...yeah. Everything's fine." Hermione let out an enormous sigh.

"Hard year?"

"Yeah, you could say that." She laughed and stepped back, running her free hand through her hair.

"Okay, people," remarked Kingsley, gesturing at the other occupants of the room and then waving towards the door, "make yourselves scarce; Hermione and I have only limited time."

The three women and two men trouped out obediently. Several cast curious glances at Hermione, and the young man from the sink insisted on shaking her hand in an enthusiastic and very wet handshake.

"Miss Granger," he enthused, "I'm very, very proud to make your acquaintance!"

"Cup of tea?" asked Kingsley once the two of them were finally alone. "I'll make a pot."

"Thanks." Hermione sat herself at the table and took a look around. Apart from the unexpected company, the room was little changed from when she had seen it last, even down to the pile of papers that littered one end of the table. While she and the boys had used that space to keep their notes on the Ministry, however, it was now stacked with a variety of other documents.

"Who were those people?" she asked curiously as Kingsley pulled mugs out from a kitchen cupboard.

"Muggle-borns, mostly. Since we re-occupied Grimmauld Place and re-did the Fidelius Charm, we've been using this as our headquarters once again."

"What happened with the house?" she asked. "We left because Yaxley managed to hitch a ride through the protective charms by grabbing my arm as I Disapparated."

Kingsley chuckled. "Unfortunately for him," he replied, spooning tea leaves into the warmed pot, "Yaxley came directly inside rather than fetching his friends. Kreacher figured out rather quickly that he hadn't come as 'Master Harry's' invited guest. House-elves have rather impressive powers when it comes to defending their own homes: Kreacher Obliviated him and ejected him from the premises."

If only we'd known that! For a regretful moment, Hermione let herself dwell on the missed opportunity to stay in a house and eat real food. "Where's Kreacher now?" she asked.

"He's at Hogwarts. He comes by every couple of days or so, cleans the place up, makes some treacle tart. He'll be sorry to have missed you; he's always asking if I've news of the Master and his little friends." Kingsley filled the teapot with boiling water and levitated it to the table along with a couple of mugs. He settled himself in the seat opposite Hermione. "I've a question for you, actually," he stated. "The Prime Minister has his heart set on blowing up Voldemort. What do you think?"

Hermione stared at Kingsley for several seconds, her mouth agape. "He what?"

Kingsley ran one hand over his bald pate and pulled a face. "I guess you don't see it as a good suggestion, then?"

"I...no! Of course not." More calmly, she added, "If you tried to kill him now, he wouldn't actually die. It'd be like last time, and eventually he'd come back. We have to make sure that when we kill him, we kill him for good."

"You've convinced me, Hermione, and I'll make sure the PM's convinced, too." Kingsley held up a restraining hand. "I know that whatever you and Harry are doing, you're making sure that Voldemort dies for good. And you can rest assured that I'm not going to ask you for any details. Just let me know how I can help."

"I came to offer you some information, actually," replied Hermione. "Viktor Krum has been working for the Order."

"He...what?" This was clearly news to Kingsley.

"I organised it about this time last year, on Dumbledore's instructions." Hermione didn't think that bringing Snape into the story would prove fruitful. "The plan was to smuggle Muggle-borns out of the country using voice-activated Portkeys. I haven't been in contact with him since Harry, Ron and I went on the run, but from a brief conversation I had with Viktor at Bill and Fleur's wedding, I understand that the plan was in motion even then."

"Hermione! That's excellent news . . . there are so many unexplained disappearances. If even a small proportion of them turn out to be with Krum, then we've much to be thankful for! How can I..."

Hermione anticipated the question. "Just send an owl to Torvik Murk, Bulgaria," she instructed. Conjuring a sheet of paper, she wrote down the name. As an afterthought, she scribbled a note to Viktor:

Dear Viktor, you can trust Kingsley Shacklebolt...he works for the Order. xo Hermione.

Hermione's next task was to extract as much information from Kingsley as possible before heading back to the boys. That way, she could update her Arithmancy calculations and maybe work out what to do next. She took a deep breath, then paused, not sure where to start.

"Er, Kingsley?"

"Yes?"

"What's all this?" She gestured towards the pile of notes and documents that littered the end of the table.

Kingsley pulled a face. "No offence, Hermione, but just as I don't plan to inquire about the details of what you, Ron and Harry are up to, I think it best you not know what we're up to.

Hermione bit back the complaints and protestations that sprang to her lips. With her heart pounding and her mind whirring, she grasped with relief at the only solution she could think of that didn't involve arguing with Kingsley.

"Fine," she replied, looking up at him intently, " but there's something else: at one stage, Professor Vector was planning to escape to Europe with Viktor's help. I don't know how much you know about it, but she used to work for Dumbledore as the Order's Arithmancer. If you can get hold of her and convince her to help once again, it might make all the difference."

Kingsley nodded vigorously. He was fired with excitement by her information and drummed his fingers against the tabletop. "We thought she'd been killed. You trust her, right?"

"Absolutely," replied Hermione. "If you can find her, tell her everything. The more details she has, the more accurate her calculations will be." Hermione would just have to hope it worked, and then figure out how to contact Vector later and get hold of her updated matrix.

She drained the last of her tea and rose to her feet. "I should be getting back before the boys get worried. Don't tell anyone that you've seen me."

Kingsley swore that his lips were sealed and made her promise to contact him if she needed something herself. Unfortunately the things I need help with, she thought ruefully, are beyond anyone's control. Yet as Hermione prepared to Apparate back to the boys, she felt more positive than she had in a long time.

As February passed and the days shaded into March, Hermione's situation remained unchanged: Harry continued to obsess over the Hallows, and she and Ron continued to look for the Horcruxes in ever-more-unlikely spots. On several occasions, Hermione was tempted to visit Kingsley again, but the thought of something happening to Harry when she wasn't there to save him kept her close to home. Taking the time to go for a run was hard enough with Dumbledore's words echoing in her brain: ". . . your mission is to keep Harry alive."

With March well under way, their deliberately unpredictable itinerary afforded the trio an occasional day of nicer weather. Taking advantage of a few hours of wan sunlight, Hermione allowed herself the luxury of running for almost an hour. Inscribing a long loop around the tent, she circled with the boys just within earshot. While she ran, she daydreamed of an opportunity to run without worrying, to strike off in a straight line somewhere without thinking of Death Eaters, or Voldemort, or of how to destroy a Horcrux without killing its human carrier. As always, the run helped, clearing her mind as she pushed her body; cheering herself up as she tired herself out.

When she returned to the tent, she found Ron seated at the table by himself.

"Where's Harry?" she asked automatically.

"Out for a walk."

"He's okay?" Anxiety blossomed immediately.

"Yeah, he's just moody. He only left about ten minutes ago; he won't go far."

"Okay." Hermione sunk down into the chair opposite Ron. He looked pretty moody himself. "You alright?" she asked.

"Yeah. Just thinking." Ron poked at a splinter in the table edge and frowned.

"No wonder you look so terrible; you want to start small and work your way up."

"Ha ha." It wasn't really funny, but Ron gave her a begrudging smile. "I was thinking about whoever it was who left us the sword."

This was one of Ron's favourite topics. "Seriously, Ron, you can't still think it might have been Hagrid! I told you last time that even if he got hold of a real wand and knew enough magic to cast the spell, I can't imagine his Patronus would be something with so few teeth!"

"Okay, okay. So not Hagrid. Did you ever wonder . . ." He trailed off and pulled a face before continuing. "This is going to sound really stupid."

"More stupid than Hagrid?" Hermione asked flippantly, but despite her tone, she was interested. Ron had considered almost every possibility except the truth; she'd played the role of shooting his suggestions down with scorn.

"Well . . . maybe." Ron took a deep breath. "Don't get me wrong, but there is someone who would have had access to the sword, someone who could definitely cast a Patronus, someone who we haven't really considered."

"Who?" Hermione was deadly serious now. She realised she was clutching at the rim of the table. "Ron, who?"

"Snape!" he exclaimed finally, throwing back his hands as he said so as if to distance himself from the very idea. "I mean, he's a git, always has been, but he sent Ginny for detention with Hagrid! He must have known that wouldn't be much of a punishment, and he could have sent her to Azkaban like they did with Luna. Plus, it's like he never told You-Know-Who about headquarters, either!"

Ron looked at Hermione expectantly. At his declaration, relief had rushed over her with such palpable, powerful force that she felt weak with the adrenalin. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Ron's shoulders dropped. "I told you it was stupid. Forget I said anything."

"No! I mean, I agree. I've wondered about Snape for a long time."

Ron's face brightened, and Hermione felt a sudden bright flare in her chest. If the table hadn't separated them, she would have hugged him. Instead, she reached out and grabbed his hand. "Things just don't add up, otherwise," she commented.

"Yeah." Ron nodded, looking thoughtful and taking a firm grip of her hand. "What about Dumbledore, though? Harry . . ." He trailed off once again.

"You know, Ron," replied Hermione, "I don't doubt what Harry saw on top of the Astronomy Tower, but I can't help thinking that Dumbledore wasn't exactly looking his best over the last months of his life. I'm not sure we know the full story."

Ron's eyes widened. "But . . . that would mean . . . you think they planned it?"

"I . . ." Hermione was suddenly panicked that she'd gone too far. "I don't know. I don't know what to think. I just don't think we know the whole story." Ron nodded as she spoke. "Don't tell Harry!" she added urgently.

"Nah, I can't see him taking that well."

Hermione relaxed and grinned at her friend. Gently, she pulled her hand out of his grip. "I'm going to take a shower," she remarked, running a hand up the back of her neck and pulling hair away from the places it was stuck down with sweat.

"'Bout time."

"Ha, ha."

It was about two weeks after that point that Ron finally managed to get Potterwatch on the wireless.