Chapter 13

Obligatory mid-story disclaimer: All of my fanfic stories are parodies, and are not written for profit.

XIII.

Ron took one look at her when she entered the parlour late that evening, hair still damp from her shower and face still glowing from what she and Russel had done in that shower, and stomped out of the room. The freckled wizard slammed the door behind him, too, causing one of the few portraits not stuck to the walls with a Permanent Sticking Charm to fall to the floor, cracking the glass over the photograph of a young, sardonic-looking Sirius Black. Harry rose from his seat at the table where he'd been playing a game of chess with his friend, crossed to the fallen portrait, and picked it up.

His hand touched the undamaged portion of the glass for a moment. Hermione knew he was thinking of Sirius. She'd liked the man, herself, but not as much as Harry had. It wouldn't have been prudent to tell Harry why she hadn't liked Sirius as much; the man had been reckless and irresponsible, immature on several levels. She didn't hate him or anything, but Hermione had wished Sirius could've been a better influence on Harry, in the past. But that was the past, and there was nothing she could do to change his disappearance from the realm of the living.

Rising, she moved to stand next to her brother, and drew her wand. "Vitrium reparo."

The glazing in the frame repaired itself. "That's a good charm," Harry praised her quietly, re-hanging his godfather's portrait. "You're very good with them."

"--Good or not," Mrs. Figg's voice interjected from her chair by the fireplace, where she was crocheting something in a shade of blue close to the colour of Alastor Moody's eye, "both of you have been neglecting your chores. I realize this is your house, young Harry, and that Hermione as your sister is technically the lady of the house, since you don't have a wife, but I am the one stuck here, day in and day out, unable to leave. I am not going to do all of the chores by myself. Certainly not when I don't have the magic to speed things along. I am the de facto general of this house, by virtue of my being stuck here night and day."

Hermione and Harry exchanged glances, but didn't protest. They were in the land of adulthood, now. That meant shouldering even the littlest of responsibilities. Hermione answered for both of them. "What would you like us to do, Mrs. Figg?

"Harry, the floors down here need sweeping, and the kitchen floor in particular needs a good scrubbing. Hermione, you need to do the dishes. That Charms professor of yours should've taught you the necessary basic household cleaning spells...and if not, you both come from Muggle backgrounds. I'd appreciate it if you did your chores before bed," Arabella Figg added. "Whenever that might be."

Her tone wasn't quite exasperated to the point of chiding, but the two of them got the point: keeping odd hours was not a worthy enough excuse to get out of pulling their weight around here.

"I'll sweep and scrub the kitchen last," Harry told Hermione. She nodded and headed for the kitchen.

The pile of dishes waiting to be cleaned shocked her, until she realized there must've been a post-Order-meeting supper, the sort often planned by Molly Weasley. It wasn't like Molly to just leave the dishes. A closer look at the double sink showed one full of soapy, somewhat dirty water, the other with rinse-water. There were a couple dishes in each sink, and a damp drying towel lay on the counter. Hermione filled in the rest, mentally. Ron had come storming in here, upset with the fact that Hermione couldn't help looking satisfactorily shagged, to use crude terminology. His mother, seeing him upset, would've followed him, perhaps upstairs to his room, to have a talk with him.

Indeed, the back stairs creaked and Mrs. Weasley came back into view. She froze for a moment at the sight of Hermione, flushing, then headed for the sink. "I realize you can't help your circumstances, dearie," Molly told her in a weary voice. "And that you're just...just trying to take whatever small enjoyment you can out of them..."

"It's alright, Mrs. Weasley. I'll do the dishes," Hermione interjected, changing the subject. "You look like you've had a long day."

"The...the Pardgeters were attacked," Molly admitted, looking more weary than ever. She seemed lost for a moment, until Hermione took her gently by the elbow and led her to a chair at the kitchen table. "I was only a year behind Louisa. She was in Hufflepuff. A good Chaser. Five children. They're all grown and were out of the house, thankfully, but...how can I tell them that their mother is gone? And...in such a fashion?" Hazel eyes staring bleakly at the stacks of dishes, Molly shuddered. "All I could think was, that could've been me. That could've been you--that was almost you, what they did to her..."

Hermione realized with a twinge of discomfort what the older woman was talking about. Mrs. Pardgeter had been brutalized before being killed. Just like she'd nearly been. She wanted to go find Russel and demand why hadn't he known, why hadn't he told her, why hadn't he given her a chance to stop the attack...but she knew why. He'd been with her, for one. And...painful though it was to admit the necessity...even if he had known about the attacks in advance, a savvy spy didn't cast suspicion upon himself by trying to thwart every attack he overheard. Most likely, in fact, Russel was only passing along the information when there were one to three other wizards who also heard or overheard the same news, to spread the suspicion and blame.

It wasn't even Halloween, but Hermione wanted this whole masquerade of evil to be exposed and destroyed for good, as soon as possible. Because it could've been herself who had been brutalized, probably even raped as well as tortured, and in the end killed by a bunch of psychotic, asinine, bigoted megalomaniacs. Moving to the sink, Hermione drained the water from both basins and refilled them with fresh hot water, pouring dish soap into one, and a splash of vinegar into the other, the way her mother had taught her. The vinegar would help remove the last bits of grease, and disinfect the dishes. And right now, she wanted to scrub those dishes the non-magical way, to give her hands something to do.

Eventually, she heard Molly leave, no doubt in search of Arthur and the comfort of his arms. Pulling the plate she was working on out of the water, she started to wipe it with the tea-towel. It took her a moment to realize the pattern of the ring had altered. Russel was trying to contact her. Hastily setting down the plate she eyed the ring to see what the short message might be, but it was already turning back to scales.

"No...no, no, no," Hermione breathed, dismayed that she'd missed the message.

What if it was another Louisa Pardgeter? She hadn't noticed the heating of the ring because her hands had been immersed in hot, soapy water, and now her negligence was going to cost some family their lives! If only there was some way to recall whatever he'd sent! Some sort of message-taking system...

Her right hand, still damp, cupped her forehead. The cut of the scales gleamed up at her. Blinking, Hermione clutched desperately at the only thing she could think of that might work. Holding up her left hand, she commanded, "Sigurd, you are summoned!"

The dragonette glittered into existence, wrapping himself around her arm; his golden eyes stared into her amber brown as he waited for her command.

"Sigurd...can you recall any of the messages Russel and I have exchanged through the rings?"

His horned, cat-like head bobbed. "Yessssss, Misssstressss."

"--You can?" Hermione blinked. "That's great! What was the message that he just sent?"

Sigurd craned his head and looked at his scaled back. The scales rippled and rearranged themselves into neat script.

Locket missing, owner furious, trio suspected of theft, wand destruction, do not leave Headquarters!

Leaving the sink, Hermione hurried up the back stairs. She knocked upon Harry and Ron's door, a flurry of blows that continued until Harry jerked open the door. Hermione was relieved to see Ron sitting on the edge of his bed, scowling in her direction, and not out wandering somewhere. Calming herself, she nodded at the room. "I just got a message. Can I come in?"

Harry opened the door, stepping back so she could enter. Closing it, he warded it against noise.

"Let me guess," Ron muttered angrily, glaring at the dragonette still curled on her shoulder. "Now he's written to tell you about the Pardgeters? It's a bit late for that."

"Don't be an arse, Ron," Hermione snapped. "We can't rescue everyone, no matter how much all of us might wish it! No, he just told me that Voldemort's spies came back. He knows that the locket is missing, and Russel says that he thinks we had something to do with the theft, and with the reported destruction of the Ravenclaw wand. He's onto us. Russel couldn't say much about his orders, but from the sounds of it, stepping outside tonight would be a very bad idea, for any of us--"

Sigurd vanished abruptly as the ring heated. Hermione lifted her hand, and read the letters scrawling themselves out of the scales on its surface. She gasped at what she saw.

The Grangers.

"Shite--Mum and Dad! Harry, help me!" Hermione shouted, and closed her eyes, concentrating through her panic. It was possible to Disapparate out of Headquarters, though it was very difficult to Apparate into Headquarters, thanks to all the protective spells on it, and the nature of the Fidelius Charm. But she could leave, in a hurry. A squeezing pop, and she appeared in the first-floor hall. She heard a pop a moment later from down the stairs, and then another one.

"--Hermione?"

Hermione didn't bother answering Harry's shout. Not when she had one of her own to make. It was roughly the Grangers' usual bedtime, but if they'd decided to catch a movie... "Mum! Dad!"

Her father opened his bedroom door, his shirt halfway unbuttoned. "Hermione? Harry? What are you shouting about?"

"Where's Mum?" Hermione asked, pushing past him. She heard two sets of footsteps charging up the stairs after her, but didn't stop to look back. Her mother appeared in the doorway of their private bath, her face smeared with make-up remover, her shoulders draped with a towel. She'd removed her blouse, but not her trousers. Glass crashed somewhere downstairs, making her parents flinch.

"What's going on?" Jeffrey Granger demanded as Harry and Ron burst into the bedroom.

"We're taking you to Headquarters," Harry asserted, wrapping his arm around the older male.

"--Harry, we can't!" Hermione hissed at him. She flung her wand-hand at the bedroom door, slamming it shut with an unspoken spell. "We're not the Secret Keeper!"

"Right." Pushing his new father close to his mother, Harry hissed at both of them, "The residence of the Weasleys is the Burrow, three miles east south-east of Ottery-St. Catchpole! Remember that!" A wrap of his arms around Jeffrey Granger, and both males vanished with a pop. Ron looked at Hermione, who nodded.

The door shuddered, making her mother squeak in fright. Hermione wrapped her arms around her mother and hissed, "Don't struggle!"

The door burst open in a shower of orange sparks even as they squeezed out of the room, and the last view Hermione had of her parents' home was the sight of a trio of Death Eaters invading her parents' sanctum, and Ron slashing his wand wordlessly through the air. A breathless moment later, they popped back into existence in the middle of the Weasley's yard. The night air was frosty, the start-strewn sky only partially covered in clouds, and her mother clutched at the towel draped over her brassiere, shivering. A scary two heartbeats after their arrival, Ron Apparated into view. Deeply relieved, Hermione hustled her mother into the ramshackle house that was the Burrow.

Bill was still a little wide-eyed at the sudden sight of them, but Fleur was showing her mettle once again, conjuring warm dressing gowns and fuzzy slippers, since the Grangers had already removed their shoes for the night. Hermione caught her father staring wide-eyed at the beautiful quarter-Veela, and elbowed him. "Dad, this is Bill Weasley's wife, Fleur Weasley, and of course Bill Weasley. He's Arthur and Molly's eldest son. Bill, Fleur, these are Jeffrey and Daphne Granger, my parents. Mine and Harry's, now."

"Right...right. Sorry for the imposition, but we, uh...seem to have been evicted from our home," Jeffrey finished lamely, as Daphne drew the edges of her borrowed dressing gown tight across her blouse-less chest. Hermione's father turned to face her, Harry and Ron. "What happened?"

"I'll go get Mum and Dad, and let the others know what's happened," Ron murmured, touching Harry's shoulder. Disapparating back to Headquarters with a crack, he left the six of them alone in the kitchen.

Harry explained. "Russel--the fellow with the rings--sent a message to Hermione, stating that you were about to be attacked by the Death Eaters. So we raced over there and snatched you out, just as they started their attack. They'll, erm, probably smash up the house a bit, since they couldn't get to you. And it'll be dangerous for you to go back for a while."

"But...our practice!" Daphne protested, touching her husband's arm. "I've got an eight o'clock root canal!"

Bill and Fleur blinked, unfamiliar with the Muggle terminology.

"Mum, Dad," Harry stated, stumbling only a little over the honorifics, "your lives are more important than your dentistry practice. We could put the Fidelius Charm on your house, and you'd be safe there, but only at home. We can't put it on your office. Not if you want your patients to find the place."

"Well, I'm not going to be chased out of my own home, and certainly not my own employment!" Daphne snapped, indignant. "Your father and I worked hard to put that practice together, and I'm not about to let a bunch of nasty arse-wipes scare me out of my livelihood!"

"--Daphne!" Jeffrey gasped, staring at his wife as if she'd grown a second creme-covered head.

"I'm not! I'm tired of living in fear! I'm tired of worry about our daughter--and now we have a son to fret over! When is this stupid war going to end?" she demanded, and burst into tears. Her hands came up to cover her face. They encountered the goop on her skin, dragging a disgusted, frustrated groan out of her. Yanking her towel free, Mrs. Granger scrubbed her face with it, letting the worn terrycloth muffle her sobs.

Her husband took her into his arms, giving what little comfort he could to her. Glancing up, Jeffrey spotted Harry and Hermione, and held out his hand to the two of them. Hermione pushed Harry forward when he hesitated, then circled around to her mother's other side, helping the two men wrap their arms around the woman in the middle.

A few moments later, Molly and Arthur Weasley hurried into their kitchen, Charlie and Ron at their heels, exclaiming and fussing over their shaken visitors. It didn't take long before they were all settled in the parlour with hot cups of tea, Hermione and Harry squeezed into the sofa on either side of their parents, and the resident clutch of Weasleys gathered in the chairs and loveseat grouped around them. But brainstorming a safe way for the Grangers to return to their home and their livelihood came up against the one stumbling block the whole Order suffered: a serious shortage of manpower.

Hermione wanted to guard her parents, but she had other things she had to do, more important things, hard as it was to admit even to herself. Sitting in her parent's office all day as they worked was a waste of her time, the same with Harry and Ron. There was just no one to spare to watch them, yet there was no telling how long the war would drag on; the Grangers might be professionals, and dentistry might be relatively lucrative, but their bank balances were finite. They had to work to support themselves. And if they were gone too long, they'd lose their roster of patients to other dentists; once the war was over, their practice would have to be rebuilt from practically nothing, if they went into hiding.

"...If only they could use magic," Ron muttered ruefully, dropping his head to his chest as he rubbed at the back of his neck. "A wand, a talisman, anything that could make them safe or get them out of there, if they're attacked..."

"A pity they can't use a Portkey," Harry muttered.

Arthur sat up in his arm chair. "Why can't they use a Portkey, Harry? They can't make a Portkey, but they could certainly use it!"

Hermione and Harry glanced up at him.

"Don't you remember? I told you this, when we went to the World Quidditch Cup," Mr. Weasley reminded them. "That's why we made all those Portkeys to look like an object too manky and nasty for the average Muggle to even think of picking up. Anyone touching a Portkey when it's activated will get transported. Doesn't matter if they're Muggle, Wizard or Squib, one touch at the wrong moment, and they're gone!"

"--Dad's right," Charlie offered, sitting up himself. "I've heard they can even be activated by a phrase, or an action. They don't have to be timed. If we can get our hands on the right spellbook, we could make the Grangers a couple of pendants that they could wear all the time, and if they're attacked, the amulets can be set to Port them here, where they'll be safe until the attack is over!"

"Ruddy brilliant!" Ron agreed, his exhaustion visibly easing as excitement took its place. "I know we can't save everyone this way, but there's a few key Muggles and Squibs we could make Portkey Amulets for, too!"

"What's a Squib?" Jeffrey asked the youngest redhead.

"Well, they're sort of like when you have a wizard or a witch born into a Muggle family," Arthur explained, "only it's the other way around. It's someone who can't do magic who's born into a wizarding family."

"No magic, at all?" Daphne asked. "How curious. And how awkward, if they can't see the things that Hermione says only wizards and witches can see."

"Well, that's not entirely true," Harry interjected. "Squibs can see magical creatures and things like that, like a wizard can, but they can't use magic, in the sense that a wizard can. No spell-casting, no potion-making, nothing like that. But they can see the things the Muggles can't see. Mrs. Figg saw the Dementors that attacked me, two summers ago, but she couldn't have wielded a wand to save her life, never mind my own."

"Mrs. Figg?" Daphne asked her adopted son.

"She's a Squib that used to live near my aunt and uncle's place," Harry explained. "She had to relocate because of the war, but she had already retired, so it wasn't as severe a problem to uproot herself as it would be for you. But I really think the Portkey amulets will work, and you'll be able to go back to your dentistry practice."

"How soon can you get them made?" Daphne asked him. "I don't want to put off that root-canal; it's a nasty one."

"We'll see what we can do," Hermione promised. "A Portkey's a tricky spell to cast to begin with, and modifying it so that it takes a vocal trigger rather than a temporal one... Can you do, it, Mr. Weasley?"

"Erm...no, unfortunately. I do have a minor talent for Artificing, but that's more in the line of a Charm. Charlie, Bill? Fleur?" All three of them shook their heads. Arthur sighed. "Alastor could do it, but he's off on an assignment, and won't be back for a while."

"Then I'll have to consult with Professor Flitwick," Hermione decided. "I can cast a Portkey, and I'm pretty sure I can make the necessary adjustments to the Charms--I'm really good at improvising Charms," she admitted with a little blush as her parents eyed her in wonder, "but I want to get this one right, and that means consulting with an expert. With luck, I should be able to get back to you before dawn with the amulets. Harry, I'll need your Cloak."

"We'll go with you," Ron stated.

Hermione shook her head. "Both of you need to get some sleep, and be well-rested. If the professor and I can't get the Portkeys made before morning, you might as well accompany Mum and Dad to their practice. It's a bit late to be canceling appointments now, unless we want some of their patients to be caught in the crossfire. And this way, only one of us loses sleep, tonight."

"My Cloak's in my room, back at Headquarters," Harry reminded her as she leaned in and kissed her mother on the cheek. "I'll stay here with them."

"Mum, Dad," Hermione murmured apologetically as she rose to her feet, "I'm really sorry this is happening. We're all doing what we can to stop it, but it's going to take time, and it's only going to get worse, before the end."

"How much worse?" her father asked quietly.

Helpless to explain just how much worse, Hermione looked at the Weasleys. She didn't want to have to tell her mother that she could end up like poor Mrs. Pardgeter. But it wasn't up to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley to explain the facts of war. Sighing roughly, she admitted, "Worse than what almost happened to me. These are not sane people, though they may justify to themselves what they're doing. We'll do what we can to protect you."

"It's an insane world, where it's the child that has to protect the parent," Jeffrey Granger muttered. "I know you're of-age--both of you--but I would rather be the one protecting you. And it's very frustrating, even frightening, to realize that your mother and I can't do that for you."

"I know, Dad. You protected and sheltered me for as long as you could. Now it's my turn to do the same for you, and hope that what you taught me, and what I learnt at the school, can help protect you. I'll see you as soon as I can," Hermione promised, stepping back so that she was clear of obstructions. A last, throat-tight look at her shaken, unhappy parents, and she Disapparated from the Weasley's living room.

Some parts of growing-up weren't very fun at all.

...

Taking a deep breath, Hermione clutched the envelope she had enchanted, and intoned, "Polka-dotted plaid!"

Her stomach lurched sideways. So did the rest of her body. Unsquinting her eyes, Hermione nervously checked her body to make sure nothing had been left behind. Not that she'd have far to go to reunite the two, since she'd only enchanted the Portkey envelope to take her across Filius Flitwick's sitting room, but it was a relief to see she'd gotten the spell correct.

"Mah--aaaah!--rvelous, Miss Granger!" Filius praised her, hastily covering his mouth with his hand. "Pardon me, but it is awfully late, you know..."

A glance at the clock on the mantel made her feel guilty for keeping him up, since it was now past two in the morning. "I really appreciate this, Professor. Do you think I've managed it?"

"Third successful Porting in a row? I'd say you have. Finite Incantatem," he added, flicking his wand at the envelope in her hands. "Now...let's discuss the subject of payment."

Hermione stiffened. She hadn't expected him to say that. "...Payment?"

"An exchange of information," the Head of Ravenclaw explained, gesturing for her to sit in the chair next to his, where he had first indicated she should sit after letting her into his quarters.

Setting the envelope on the table between them, Hermione did so, glad that the chair was broad enough for someone of her size, even if the legs had been cut short enough for someone of his own size. Picking up the teapot on the coffee table, she refreshed her cup.

The Head of Ravenclaw nodded. "...Good. After that fiasco at the exhibition, I began thinking about what happened, and wondering what was going on. And, despite the confusion, I noticed two very peculiar things."

Oh dear god, here it comes, Hermione thought, quelling the urge to flinch as she sipped her tea.

"You, Ron and Harry seemed to know what was going on...and you and Harry definitely knew what that tiny speck of light was," Filius told her, eyeing her shrewdly. "In fact, I'll hazard a guess that you already knew it would come out of my House-Founder's wand, in advance...which meant you knew the Dementor would pounce upon it, and devour it, which is why the two of you did what you did, coordinating your efforts. And the only thing a Dementor eats, aside from ambient joy and happiness...is a soul.

"Yet I find it impossible to believe that Rowena Ravenclaw, the smartest witch of her own and most other ages, would split her soul into the abomination of a Horcrux--do not look innocently at me, young lady," Filius ordered Hermione, who was trying to do that very thing. "You know what a Horcrux is, just as I do. I will not ask where you got this terrible information, but you knew it was a Horcrux! The question is," Professor Flitwick sighed unhappily, "the Horcrux of who?"

Horton Hears A Who. She couldn't help thinking of that, and choked on a snorted laugh. Covering her mouth with one hand, balancing her teacup on its saucer with the other, she blushed as the diminutive professor frowned. A wave of her hand staved off whatever chiding remark he might have made. "--Sorry, sorry. You just...um, said something that sounded like something else on a completely different topic, and it made me laugh. I know it's a very serious subject, but...I'll take any sort of laugh I can get, right now."

"With your parents' lives in danger, I'm not surprised," Filius stated, flicking his wand to tilt the teapot into his own cup, refilling it. "Let me put my Ravenclaw mind to work... Your parents lives were endangered shortly after the soul in the wand was destroyed. The wand exhibition was attacked by agents of the Dark Lord. May I presume that the unprintable sot is rather upset because that was the missing chunk of his own soul?"

Hermione lowered her teacup, swallowing. She stared into the amber depths contained in the delicate porcelain. She couldn't risk trusting him, even though she longed to do so.

"There's something more that you're not telling me," Filius squeaked. "Isn't there?"

She wished she could answer in the negative, that there wasn't anything else to the problem. But Hermione respected Professor Flitwick. If she'd had to pick a course of independent study, it would've been in either Charms or Transfiguration. Potions was just a matter of following the recipe and getting it right or not. Runes was assembling the right combination of symbology, and Arithmancy was calculating and predicting magical effects. Charms and Transfiguration, however, were much more fluid, and much more fascinating. She had a knack for transforming one object into another, and a knack for learning and moulding and improvising Charms. Lying to Professor Flitwick almost felt like she would be slapping him in the face, despite all that he'd taught her, all that he'd given her.

She just couldn't do it.

"Let us talk about the other odd thing that happened that weekend, shall we? Ronald Weasley, the Other Boy Who Lived," Filius stated, making her stomach twist. "I've seen the Killing Curse cast in the past, to my horror and regret. And, though I wasn't there and didn't see young Harry survive the curse that gave him his famous forehead scar...it seems to me that it would be highly unlikely that a second survival case would be so vastly different from the first.

"For one," he outlined in his squeaky voice, "Molly Weasley didn't sacrifice her life for her son's. Not because she wouldn't have, since I know she would've in a heartbeat for any of her children. She just wasn't there, and neither was Arthur. No one was there to sacrifice themselves, and invoke the ancient magic that Lily Potter infused into her son. For another, there was no backlash upon the caster, as there was in the infant Harry's case. And for a third curious thing, there was no scar. No injury, beyond a few bumps and bruises when Ronald fell. And yet the curse seemed to knock him over, without harming him."

Hermione sipped at her tea, silently trying to figure out a way to explain, or avoid explaining, any of this.

"And yet the only thing that could stop the curse is the Killing Curse actually terminating a life. Yes, I know about the silly rumors that the Curse hit a fly or something, but I'm not stupid. Even in Harry's case, the curse merely rebounded upon its caster, killing him...though now that I know of his Horcrux, I can finally understand how he could be brought back to life, as he apparently was just a few years ago," Filius reminded her. "So, Miss Granger...I am at a loss to understand how your other extraordinary young friend could've survived such a lethal attack without a proverbial scratch, unlike the Boy Who Lived."

She stayed carefully silent.

"Miss Granger...Hermione, I want to help," the miniature, aging wizard pleaded. "I foolishly thought that I was too old to fight, that I could remain safe behind these walls, until the end of last school year. But between what happened then, and what happened this last weekend, I realize I cannot let the excuse of my age retire me from the resumption of this war. And I may be too old to fight safely...Merlin knows my joints pain me terribly, even with Madam Pomfrey's potions...but I'm not too old to help someone else, to coach them in how to fight.

"It would be my honor to teach you, to help you prepare for whatever you must do. Even if it means staying up most of the night," he added dryly, glancing at the mantel clock again. "Hopefully not every night, but... My dueling days are numbered, but yours have just begun. Tell me what must be done, and I will help you. I pledge this to you."

Torn with indecision, Hermione bit her lower lip. To tell, or not to tell, that is the question...and the Bard, I think, would forgive me for mangling his poetry... Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to stay silent and struggle on alone, or to take up his assistance, and in doing so, perhaps finding the means to oppose our enemy...

She had to take the chance. Sipping at her cooling tea, Hermione cleared her throat. "The Dark Lord is...less...than half the man he should be."

"Eh?" Professor Flitwick asked her, puzzled by her comment.

"In fact, at one point, he was one eighth the man that he should've been. But he's lost some of what he should've been, since then."

Flitwick's eyes widened under his bushy white brows. "Oh--"

Her finger burned, making her hand twitch and rattle the teacup on its saucer. Glancing down at her left hand, Hermione saw the etched lines of the scales rearranging themselves into words. Lots of words. A conversation. Hastily setting down her tea, she scrabbled through her pockets, snatching out her ball-point pen and tablet. But it was too hard to read the words on her finger, as they wrapped all the way around. The conversation came to an end before she could make sense of more than half of what was being said, and scrawl out maybe a tenth of it. "Damnit--Sigurd, you are summoned!"

Flitwick gasped as golden sparks spilled into the shape of a dragonette across her lap. A dragonette whose scales formed the words of the conversation being relayed. Hermione ignored her former professor. Whatever this message was, Russel had gone to a great deal of trouble to relay it as it had happened, meaning it was of a very timely importance.

"Sigurd, replay."

Obediently, the scales along his flank rearranged themselves into lettering.

...May have had something to do with what happened at the exhibition, Master, but I am not yet ensconced deeply enough in her good graces to find out the truth. Not subtly, at any rate.

The scrawling words ended, and Sigurd's scales resumed their shape.

Orphanage--the orphanage where Tom Riddle grew up! And that description sounds like Helga Hufflepuff's cup! I've got to get to that orphanage first--but I daren't touch the cup--

"--Orran's Dilemma!" the white-whiskered wizard next to her exclaimed, making Hermione jump. She'd actually forgotten about Professor Flitwick. He turned to her with a gleam in his eyes. "I now have a million questions to ask you, young lady, but you haven't much time. Orran's Dilemma was about a wizard who was faced with a powerful piece of Dark Magic, a spell enchanted onto the item he needed to save himself, an item which he could not touch with his magical hands, but which a Muggle could not even see. His sister was a Squib, and so she could both see and yet still touch the object! She helped him when he cast the Displarum Charm by substituting a Transfigured copy of the original item into the physical location of the original, while he held the spell suspended in place, dimensionally--give me your pen and paper, girl!"

Bemused, Hermione handed them over. He scribbled something on the notepad, then shoved pen and tablet back to her. Glancing down, she saw a looping line, and a pair of words: Incanto Displaro.

"The wrist action is the mirror opposite of the Locomotor Charm," Filius instructed her, hopping off his chair and hurrying to the Floo. "I can't help you find a Squib to handle the cup--and I certainly wouldn't recommend Argus Filch; I don't trust the man one whit, given how much he hovered around Snape--but for whatever reason You-Know-Who wants that cup to be in that place, you can bet I don't want him to have it! Take my tea-cup; you're good enough to Transfigure it into a replacement, and I won't miss it. Here's the Floo-pot--and for Merlin's sake, don't get caught! Snape is a very dangerous wizard!"

"I'll be careful," Hermione promised, dumping the tea out of the cup and scooping up the dragonette with one arm under his ribs with her other arm, as if he were Crookshanks. Scooping a cupful of Floo from the powder in the knee-high stand, Hermione cast some of it into the fireplace, mind racing. "Madam Pince's office!" Whirling through, she stumbled out of the broad hearth, oriented herself, and cast the rest of the powder from the teacup onto the coals. She couldn't have called out the Floo address she wanted while Flitwick was within hearing range, but this location would do for a waypoint. "Order of the Phoenix Headquarters!"

Another dizzying, bright green whirl, and she staggered free of the kitchen's large hearth, coughing from the soot. Dismissing Sigurd back into the ring, she hurried up the back stairs, drawing and swinging her wand, first to cleanse the teacup, then to practice. It wasn't easy, mirror-reversing the movements for the Locomotor Charm, but if she didn't practice, she wouldn't be able to get it right when she needed to cast the spell. Arabella Figg's room was the first door on the first floor. Banging on the aged oak panel, she flinched at the loudness of her knuckles, wondering how many people were sleeping at Headquarters tonight...but she had no choice. Mrs. Figg was the only Squib she knew she could call upon.

She banged harder, then flicked her wrist. "Accio Harry's Cloak!"

A door on the second floor banged open. A moment later, Mrs. Figg's door opened. So did a door down the hall, as Alastor Moody poked his head out into the hall. "What is going on, Granger?"

"I need Mrs. Figg! It's an emergency!" Catching the Invisibility Cloak as it soared down the back stairs, Hermione flung it over both her and the startled old woman. "Hold this around us, and make sure it covers all of us." Pointing her wand at the teacup, Hermione calmed her mind forcefully, focused on exactly where she wanted to go, and enchanted, "Portus!"

Cupping the porcelain, she pushed it against the older woman's hand, took a firm grip on Mrs. Figg's waist and the folds of the Cloak, and held on as the Portkey activated. Arabella shrieked in surprise, then cut the sound off as the world streaked around them. They landed with a bump and a ruffle of the Cloak, which Hermione hastily pulled around them, peering through its gossamer weave at their surroundings.

By the light of a tiny bulb plugged into the wall not far away, serving as a nightlight, she read lettering on one of the plaques in the trophy-case. Clover Hill Orphanage. This was the right place. Glancing rapidly through the shelves, Hermione looked for what they needed, praying it wasn't on a top shelf. A cup with two handles, small, golden, marked with the sigil of a badger--there! It was on the bottom shelf. Convenient.

"Mrs. Figg," Hermione whispered, pointing under the Cloak. "Do you see that gold cup there, with the two handles? The one with the badger on the front?"

"Yes, yes, I do--why are we here?" Arabella hissed back. "You know I'm not supposed to leave the house!"

Hermione tapped the teacup with her wand, focusing her magic. Three taps, and it Transfigured into as exact a replica as she could manage. Another tap, and she refocused the purpose of the Portkey spell still infusing it. Now it was a trap; once the cup was set inside the case and left alone for five minutes, the next Squib who touched it would find themselves Ported to Hogsmeade. It was a fairly safe location, in her estimation; if it was an enemy, they'd be in the midst of wizards and witches, and wouldn't be able to do anything harmful without repercussions; if they were a friend, they'd be in the midst of wizards and witches, and would be able to find protection and assistance.

"Take this cup," she instructed the older woman. "When I tell you to, replace that cup with this one, as carefully and exactly as you can, but be quick about it. There's a spell on that cup, and it's deadly to wizards, but not to Squibs, so I'm going to transfer that spell from that cup to this one, when you switch them in place. Do you understand?"

"Yes, but...no...but..."

"Mrs. Figg, we don't have much time!"

Nodding shakily, Mrs. Figg gripped the cup. Hermione reached up and tapped the lock on the case, silently casting the Unlocking Charm. Easing the door open, she shifted positions with the older woman, then angled her wand-arm into the case, hooking it around the aluminium frame. One practice swish, two...on three, she cast the spell.

"Incanto Displaro!"

Black sparkles, with a sickly greenish undertone to them, seeped out of the cup, covering it like a shifting chenille fuzz. It was hard to hold the spell suspended, requiring most of Hermione's concentration. A nod of her head, and Mrs. Figg held her breath and carefully switched the cups, flinching as she touched the one in the case through the uplifted spell. A little bit of nudging, and the grey-haired Squib had the replacement buried inside the blackness. Waiting until her partner withdrew her arms, Hermione ended the displacement spell with the mirror-opposite flick that she'd have used for the Locomotor Charm, and watched with relief as the black-and-green fuzziness seeped back into the cup, turning it innocuous again.

Something down the hall clicked. Withdrawing her arm hastily, Hermione shut the case and tapped it silently, enchanting it to relock itself. Drawing the Cloak over both of them, she poked it with her wand, focusing hard on silently turning the fabric into a Portkey that would whisk them out of there without a betraying bang like an Apparation would do. Arabella's breath caught. Glancing down the corridor, Hermione saw a pallid, long-nosed face and equally sallow hands easing into the corridor. The owner's dark hair and dark clothes blended with the shadows at that end of the hall.

Snape. Bastard traitor. A shiver raced down her spine at the sight of her former teacher, making her heart race. He moved toward them with that familiar, cat-like grace from the classroom, wand gripped in his hand, his stygian-black gaze silently perusing the contents of the display cases. Hermione had gone about it the smart way; she'd enchanted the Portkey teacup to take her to the exact case in which Helga Hufflepuff's cup resided, even if she herself didn't know where that was. But then, she'd had Filius Flitwick lecturing her on the variations of the Portus Charm. Smart as he was, she doubted Snape had ever consulted with his fellow professor on the subject of 'foolish wand-waving'. At least, not in recent years.

A glance down showed they were covered on that side by the Cloak. Grateful, Hermione activated the Portkeyed cloth, letting it hurl them away from the scene of their hasty crime. Landing back in the hallway on the first floor of the house at Grimmauld Place, Hermione disenchanted the Portkey spell on the Cloak and pulled it from their bodies. Her hand hovered over the double-handled cup in Arabella's hands for a moment of indecision, then she touched it, trusting in her spell-casting abilities.

Nothing happened. She'd displaced the original spell correctly. Shoulders slumping in relief, Hermione took the cup, grateful it had worked. "Please do not speak to anyone on what we have just done, Mrs. Figg. Especially do not discuss what this thing is," she cautioned the older woman. "That goes for you, too, Alastor," Hermione added, turning to face the ex-Auror. "Not one word, not one hint, not one description of anything to anyone."

"Why?" the scarred wizard demanded, pinning her with his brown and magical blue eyes. "You put our Secret Keeper at risk, taking her elsewhere!"

"Because it's helping to defeat the Dark Lord, and if he finds out about this, then all that has gone on before will look like a child's tea party, for he will not stop until we are dead, and our quest to destroy him is shattered. Now, not one word out of either of you. I have to report to Harry."

Cloak bundled under her arm, Hermione turned and headed back down to the kitchen to use the Floo. While she was at the Burrow, she'd ask Mrs. Weasley for two objects she could Transfigure into amulets for her parents to wear, perhaps necklaces they could keep tucked under their clothes, against their skin. Mind busy with deciding what the trigger would be, a complex combination of an uncommon phrase if they could speak, or a situation, if they were bound or harmed by a spell cast by an enemy, she grabbed Floo powder from the pot and tossed it on the coals, making them flare with emerald light.

Tonight had been a very busy night.

...

The golden, double-handled cup of Helga Hufflepuff sat on the library table between the three of them. They hadn't needed the modified Protean Charm to try and triangulate on it, after all. But they did need the school library to try and figure out a way to extract the soul within and snuff it out.

Ron rested his cheek in his hand. Harry had his chin on his crossed forearms. Hermione sat with her forehead braced in her palms. She'd cast the necessary charm, verifying that a piece of Lord Voldemort's very ugly soul resided within the cup. They'd brainstormed, trying to think of ways to destroy the soul without destroying the cup.

For two weeks, they'd brainstormed ideas. Harry had even lost his temper last night and, to the horror of his two best friends, had attempted the Killing Curse on the thing. Not a single speck of green had shot from his wand, and when she'd tested it with the soul-scanning charm, the soul was still lodged firmly inside. Hermione had been relieved. It was like Professor Moody had said, back in their fourth year--even if he'd really been Barty Crouch Junior at the time. One had to have the necessary feeling, desire and need backing the curse, a true desire to kill someone, to make it work. Harry wasn't a killer, at heart. But it had been scary for both her and Ron to watch him try.

Now they were at an end. Other than smashing the thing, which they were reluctant to do, and which they had no proof would be effective, they had reached a dead end. So the cup sat on the Hogwarts library table between the three of them, mocking their efforts silently.

Ron frowned, shifting in his seat. Folding his arms, he braced them on the table. "Something's bothering me..."

Hermione and Harry both lifted their brows in silent enquiry.

"You said the cup had been enchanted to kill any wizard or witch who touched it. And yet, there's a bit of a wizard trapped inside. How did that bit-of-wizard survive the spell?"

"Because it was only a piece of a soul, and not an actual wizard?" Harry offered blankly.

Hermione lifted her head from her palms, her fingers sliding down her curls. Eyes wide, she stared at her blood-brother. "Hang on, I think you're on to something, there... What if that spell on the cup had been designed to...to sort of poison a body, and thereby kill it? Without a body, the soul is virtually invulnerable to that sort of thing."

"Then what we need is some sort of spell or something that will destroy a soul, but not necessarily a body," Ron decided. "It's not like we can conjure up a Killing-Curse-flinging Death Eater at will, or whistle a Dementor down out of the sky, assuming it could suck a soul out of an inanimate object."

"It might be nice if we could," Harry joked wearily. He glanced at the stacks and sighed. "Right. Another late night of searching through the Restricted Section...since I doubt the standard texts would discuss how to destroy a soul."

"I'm not sure it'll be found in this library at all," Hermione muttered. "That's Dark Magic, however you look at it."

"We don't exactly have a lot of options," Ron reminded her. "The Black family library was rather small, book-wise, and we've been through all of those texts."

"I'll bet Snape has a huge library of Dark texts," Harry muttered.

Hermione bit her lip, wanting to chastise him for his anger. He'd been mad at her for going off without him on her cup-stealing quest, but in truth, she hadn't had the time to fetch him, and she hadn't had the inclination. Knowing that they might encounter Snape, she hadn't wanted to bring him along anyway. She had explained it to Harry by reminding him that if he'd been along, his anger at their former instructor would've caused him to attack the man. This way, by exchanging the cups in stealth, Voldemort still though the cup was there, intact and untouched. Even Ron might've been tempted to hex the man, but Hermione's mind had been strictly on the job at hand.

Sometimes it paid to be a non-confrontational girl. Well, mostly non-confrontational... Mind back on your business, Hermione chided herself as she copied Harry's stance, dropping her chin to her folded arms. Figuring out a way to extract and destroy that thing...

Her ring burned. A glance at it showed the scales shifting shape.

Meet me at our room. Bring a healing text. Or three.

Alarm coursed through her, jolting her upright; the other two glanced at her in curiosity.

"Russel's in trouble," Hermione related, standing and stuffing her research materials into her bookbag. "I've got to go."

"What kind of trouble?" Harry asked her.

"He's injured. I don't know anything more than that," she admitted. "But I have to go. He's not the sort to ask for help, unless he really needs it."

Ron wrinkled his nose, but offered, "...Do you need help?"

Hermione paused to look at him before putting her ink jar into her bag. He looked sincere. Smiling, she demurred, "I should be fine. I've considered a career in mediwitchery, you know. But thank you for offering; it means a lot to me."

The redhead shrugged. "Nothing I can do will change it, so why should I whinge?"

Hermione felt she could live with that philosophy, if it kept him from snapping at her and her circumstances.

"Be careful," Harry cautioned her. "Hey--take my Cloak, and go nick a few things from Madam Pomfrey's stores. We'll make it up to her, somehow."

"Thanks, Harry." Stealing from the school nurse made her a little uncomfortable, but Hermione didn't exactly have access to a potions lab anymore. But she held off on going to the Infirmary. Her first job was to assess the patient. Hurrying into Madam Pince's office, she cast Floo powder onto the embers and spun through to Headquarters.

From there, it was just a matter of concentrating carefully enough to Apparate to the hotel room in question. It was a debate as to whether being yanked along by a Portkey, being spun dizzily around by Floo powder, or being squeezed through the blackness of Apparation was the worst means of travel, but if Hermione had to pick a fourth choice, she'd take any of those three over broom-travel. Orienting herself as soon as she popped through to normality, she looked for Russel.

He lay on the bed, naked but for the black, ribbon-strung amulet wrapping around his throat. Naked, but for the blood and dirt crusting his hide. Shocked, Hermione choked back a cry behind her hand, hurrying to his side. The damage was even worse, up close. Cuts streaked his hide from scalp to soles, sparing nothing, not even his groin. Most of them were chillingly uniform, as if someone had deliberately cut him in three-inch slashes.

Bruises mottled his skin, and his wand-arm didn't quite sit at a natural angle, up at the shoulder. White-knuckled fingers clutched his wand in one hand, and a small object in the other. A series of scrapes along his left shoulder, forearm and hip suggested he'd been thrown across a rough surface, perhaps paving concrete...and there were more injuries on his back, from the blood staining the bedding.

Worst of all, he was awake, panting shallowly from what looked like an incredible amount of pain.

Stepping back, holding her breath to keep from being ill at the sight of such brutality, Hermione concentrated carefully. Disapparating from the hotel room, she returned to Headquarters, cast Floo into the kitchen hearth, and stepped out in Madam Pince's office. That, and Headmistress McGonagall's office, were the only two Floo connections linked to Headquarters. But the school librarian's office was connected to the school nurse's office, and it took her only a moment to cast more Floo into the fire and whirl into the mediwitch's sanctum. Facing the door that led to the supply room, Hermione focused through her dizziness, working to take down the protective wards on the door.

The other door opened and Madam Pomfrey stepped through, a tray of supplies levitating in her wake. She turned, spotted Hermione, and gasped, "--Miss Granger! What are you doing in here?"

Hermione stopped trying to unravel the other woman's locking spells. "I have an injured patient who cannot go to St. Mungo's, and who cannot come onto the school grounds. I'm here to get supplies for him. He has scores of still-bleeding lacerations, contusions, abrasions, I think a dislocated shoulder, possible broken bones, and is losing a lot of blood, the longer we stand here chatting about it."

Her terse recital prodded the other witch into action. A flick of her wand set the tray on her desk, and another flick lowered the wards on the doors. "Any signs of magical injuries?" Poppy Pomfrey asked her, stepping into the next room. "Curses, hexes, jinxes?"

"Not that I could tell; I'm a bit more concerned about blood-loss at the moment."

"Here, Transfigure this blanket into a basket," Poppy ordered, thrusting folds of wool in her direction. Hermione hastily complied. "You'll need Blood Replenisher, Skin Salve, Bruise Balm, a pain-reliever--here's a pamphlet with a list of common diagnostic charms. Do bring that back," she admonished the younger witch, tossing things into the basket. "Oh, that's where I put my pamphlet on how to do that Muggle CPR thing; I was wondering where that had got to, this last summer... Bandages for the deeper injuries, Stitching Solution in case any of the lacerations are too deep to stay closed on their own--there's a brush stuck through the cork of the bottle, just paint each wound with it and hold the edges together for a count of five--this is a bottle of Boneset for broken bones, but the label scrolls off into an instruction sheet--see?--and it does have a section on diagnosing and resetting dislocated joints towards the end.

"Watch for signs of a fever, too; depending upon the combinations of these medicines, that could be a side-effect. Give small doses, even if you think you know how much is needed; better to be short of a goal than to overdose a patient. That will also limit the possibility of a high fever. If he does pick up one, you'll need to bathe the patient with a cool, damp cloth, and watch him to make sure he doesn't develop a chill after it breaks, as it's best to just let the fever burn itself out, but mostly you don't want his body temperature to get too hot."

"I'll be careful. You're being very helpful," Hermione returned. "And I'm very grateful for it."

The other woman treated her statement like a question, and answered it. "Minerva said that you and your two friends might show up one day, in need of medical aid. She instructed that I should give you whatever aid I could. I'd go with you myself," Madam Pomfrey sighed, "but there was an accident in the Potions lab yesterday, and I cannot leave my own patients for very long. But contact me if there's anything you're hesitant about. You've a good head on your shoulders, young lady; you'd make an excellent mediwitch, nurse or Healer."

"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey," Hermione breathed, clutching the handle of the basket to her chest.

"This war's a cursed business for us all," the mediwitch muttered, motioning for her to hurry on her way.