Chapter Six

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize is not mine.

Tap tap.

"Eughhh?" It was a guttural sound, its volume undulating between mute and just audible. And even so, the moan was still a small achievement given Hermione's state. Finding herself paralyzed by the weight of her exhaustion, she gathered whatever determination she could muster and focused it on opening her heavy eyelids. After several seconds of seemingly ignored messages from her brain, Hermione's vision expanded from fathomless darkness to a sliver of her darkened hotel room. She wasn't hungover, exactly, though the dull headache nestled between her temples did indicate there were some repercussions from the night before. More so, it was the endless nights of tossing and turning which had finally caught up to her after her first night of fit-less sleep.

Tap tap.

The staccato raps on glass sounded as if they were coming from the room's expansive window, hidden behind tall ivory curtains and three feet too far from the center of her bed. Blindly grasping for her wand on the night stand, Hermione grumbled. Given how the week had gone so far, she could only imagine what could be awaiting her on the other side of the window. Perhaps, deciding her tenuous grip on her sanity was still too firm, her leaders had decided to ship her off to the Black Forest next, the cackling Erklings to be her final undoing. More likely, however, it was a hovering, buggy Rita Skeeter, Quick Quotes Quill gripped between her spiny front legs, her shiny black wings fluttering in glee.

Tap tap.

Well, no use delaying it. With a lazy lift of her arm and an inexact flutter of her wand, the curtains were drawn, sunlight flooding the room and increasing the throbbing behind her eyes. Shading her vision with her free hand, Hermione squinted towards the illuminated window, still unable to spot the culprit. With another flick, she could hear the city bus below exhale as the driver pressed the accelerator, a whiff of exhaust floating through the open window, along with a small, gliding owl. Landing confidently on an upturned pillow, the creature, its streaked plumage ruffled, presented Hermione with its leg. She couldn't help but blink at it, unsure what to make of the thin glass vial tied with twine to its appendage. Noting the owl's stare, matching her blink for blink, she scrambled to relieve it of its burden, the vial tumbling to the bed with one pull of the twine. Before she could offer it a treat for its trouble, the owl had taken flight again, gliding back out the open window.

Groggily running a hand through her chaotic tresses, Hermione reached for the vial with the other, curiosity clearing some of the clouds of alcohol and exhaustion. The liquid it contained ... transparent with a golden honey hue ... didn't look familiar. Glancing back to where the vial had rested, Hermione spotted a furled snippet of parchment. Drink it, it read tersely. Hermione silently added, you dunderhead, recognizing the spiky script. His version of a peace offering, no doubt.

Shaking away any lingering doubts, Hermione released the stopper, held the vial's aperture to her lips, and downed the liquid without a second thought. It took a minute or so, and then, relief. As her dull headache receded, Hermione suddenly felt more alert, her eyes widening as exhaustion left her muscles. But then, as quickly as her head had cleared, panic and embarrassment sunk in.

"Fuck."

It was a simple statement, one she had been inclined to think on certainly more than one occasion, but had somehow avoided uttering aloud on this trip up until this point. In previous times, it had signified less complex emotions, i.e. the ridiculously extreme pain of stubbing her toe on the kitchen table or the annoyance of forgetting an important file for work at home. This time, however, "fuck" encompassed so many things, so many more ways she had managed to "fuck up": drinking more than she should have while admitting to Severus Snape that she had been living a hollow existence because, among other things, she had failed to save his life; throwing herself all over him as he chivalrously escorted her to her room, where she had clutched his hand longingly in a manner she was sure he had found unpleasant. Wasn't it bad enough that she had outed him as alive, possibly shattering any sense of privacy he may have had?

Groaning, Hermione slid back under the sheets, feeling that headache returning as swiftly as it had departed. He hadn't seemed too put out by it all last night, just a bit bemused really, but maybe he was waiting, choosing a subtler course of action. Then it struck her: the potion. And she, the biggest idiot of them all, drinking it down without pause, assuming his intentions. Really, if this was how he was going to off her, she deserved it.

But one minute turned to two, ten to fifteen, and then twenty minutes had elapsed after the potion had been ingested. Finding herself yet to expire, Hermione got out of bed. Standing under the punishing pressure of the shower head, Hermione conceded that she was more likely to die of embarrassment than by Severus Snape's hand, and for all of their sakes, she would just have to suck it up and get on with things. After all, he owed her nothing.

"I saw you two down at the bar last night. You and Snape, I mean." Thomas had, thankfully, swallowed the mouthful of eggs he had been chewing before beginning this statement.

Hermione, however, hadn't. Releasing a strangled cough as she felt a bit of egg travel down her windpipe, she bent her head to cough discreetly over her plate as tears ran down her cheeks.

"Sorry!" Thomas apologized, handing her a napkin.

Taking it from him gratefully, she disposed of the wandering egg and pushed her plate away, no longer hungry. She couldn't help thinking at this moment that they might be the most awkward people alive.

"I didn't stay or... or hear anything," Thomas added, sensing Hermione's unease.

"It was nothing," Hermione replied after gulping down half of her glass of orange juice. "We were just, er, catching up." Thomas raised an eyebrow and Hermione capitulated. "All right, we were... settling things. I think..." She paused to nibble on her lip slightly. "I think that we're all on the same page now."

Thomas nodded soberly in response, but then smirked slightly. "I'm forced to admit that I will miss the verbal sparring. You've got quite a sharp tongue, Inspector."

Hermione rolled her eyes and playfully slapped Thomas on his shoulder. This kid was becoming way too comfortable with her.

"So, why do you think he's so put off by this Wright bloke?" Thomas asked.

Hermione put down her glass and shrugged.

"I haven't the slightest. I don't even recognize the name. Perhaps he's an old school rival," Hermione replied nonchalantly, but then she leaned forward. "What I do wonder is why a wizard is working for a Muggle government agency? I suppose there's technically no rule against it, but is he living as a Muggle completely?"

The pair were given no time to ponder the question as a random flash of light disoriented them momentarily. Glancing in its direction, they found themselves the audience to quite a show.

Snape stood just outside of the pub in full view of its many street-facing windows. While most of the breakfast crowd was too consumed by their own business to take notice, a few had joined Hermione and Thomas in watching the ongoing confrontation.

If it had been anyone else, the word confrontation might have been a stretch. Snape wasn't gesticulating wildly or shouting himself hoarse. It was more of a controlled fury, one which had him advancing on the diminutive photographer in much the same way he had cornered Hermione only two days before. Though his volume couldn't possibly be higher than a whisper, judging by the sneer twisting his features, threats were being made. And then, without protest, the trembling photographer handed Snape his camera and backed away, hands held up in surrender. As if to show that a bit of the more violent Snape still existed, the small audience watched as, without ceremony, Snape simply dropped the camera. The crunch of plastic and glass cracking was just audible from within the pub.

Turning to face Thomas once more, Hermione found that he wore a look of uncertainty mirroring her own. However, before either could comment, they heard the door to the pub bang open.

"How is it he can billow in a pair of trousers and an overcoat?" Hermione muttered as she observed Snape's approach. When he arrived silently at their table, Thomas stood and pulled out a chair. Throwing Thomas a curious glance, Snape sat down.

"Thomas, go get the detective a cup of coffee," Hermione directed urgently, sensing Snape wouldn't want Thomas to be privy to the inevitable conversation. Her suspicions were confirmed as Snape didn't protest, sitting back with a huff of irritation.

Twisting her hands in her lap, Hermione remained reluctant to look him in the eye. He had lived despite her inaction, and yet, she had still managed to make his life a little worse.

"Did I mention that I was sorry last night? Because I am truly so..."

"You did," Snape interrupted succinctly.

Hermione let out a puff of breath and sank slightly in her chair.

"Thank you for the potion, by the way. It really helped this morning," she said, hoping that despite her miserable attempt at a smile, he could at least sense the range of gratitude she was trying to express.

"I've found it useful in the past," he drawled, though it was clear his focus was elsewhere.

Guessing where his thoughts lay, she asked, "Was the photographer waiting for you this morning, then?"

"Right outside my flat door." Snape paused and then added, "Or at least, as close as my wards would allow him. I did manage to shake the little bugger off until Capitol Street, but I suspect he already knew my destination." Hermione found herself on the other end of a very pointed look.

"Right," Hermione replied, looking down at her forgotten plate again. "Well, I suppose you've permanently rid yourself of him. Smashing his camera may have been a bit dramatic, though... "

"There will be more," Snape predicted ominously. He was right, of course. All they needed were the Portkeys to be secured back home, and there would be an invasion of British journalists.

Looking up from her plate, she found herself caught in Snape's stare. There was a weariness there she didn't recognize, one of a man who just couldn't seem to escape his past. His face seemed more lined, heavier.

Guilt directed her own eyes back down towards the table, her stare following the length of his forearms settled on the tabletop, the two joined at the ends by clasped hands. A nagging desire to take his hands in hers gnawed at her, but she shoved it down. Perhaps that was why she found herself saying, "About last night..." She drifted off here, not exactly sure what she was getting at; whether she was apologizing again or trying to admit something she didn't completely understand at the moment. But she had caught his attention; his dark eyes firmly focused on her, his motionless hands suddenly clenching oddly.

Clunk.

Thomas had set a cream-colored ceramic mug in front of Severus, completely oblivious that he may have been interrupting... something.

Snape cleared his throat and gave Thomas a nod. "Thank you... Thomas."

Thomas looked positively gleeful, a smile spreading over his whole face. Noting this, Hermione couldn't help but smile a little herself, hoping that this time her appreciation was more evident.

"Hope I didn't interrupt anything," Thomas said as he took his seat again.

"Nothing too important," Hermione replied, silently grasping for a subject. "We were just discussing..."

"The Malfoys," Snape supplied before taking a sip of his coffee.

"Er, yes... them," Hermione agreed, puzzled. "What was it again that we were discussing, Detective?"

"I had inquired about Lucius' motives."

"Motives?" Hermione echoed, completely unsure where he was going with this conversation.

"Yes, motives!" He said the word more insistently this time, as if talking to the hearing impaired or possibly just someone particularly thick. "I understand that he's the boogeyman to your lot, but I think we're all forced to admit he's more sophisticated than that."

Hermione reddened slightly, an acknowledgement of how accurate his statement was, and replied with her second best guess. "Well, I just assumed it was for the reparation money."

It had been nearly five years since the Malfoys had been pardoned. Narcissa and Draco, however reluctantly, had played key roles in the Order's overall success, after all. Truly, no one had wanted to pardon Lucius Malfoy, possibly least of all Narcissa, but she had done her wifely duty and begged that he not be sent back to Azkaban. What she hadn't mentioned was that she would be skipping town immediately following their release, leaving the scheming bastard to his own devices.

"What was the final sum?" Snape probed. "All I saw in the papers was a vague enumeration of costs."

"I'm not sure anyone was privy to the total," Hermione answered thoughtfully. "At least part of it was to fund the castle clean-up as well as repairs due to other terrorism planned at Malfoy Manor. As I'm sure you can imagine, even the Malfoy fortune couldn't repay all of that." In truth, the whole thing left the Malfoys as the financial scapegoat for great chunks of the war.

"And I assume his investments have gone stale?" Snape inquired.

"Well, it's just like the elves, isn't it?" Thomas pointed out. "No one wants to go into business with a former Death Eater. And this time Lucius Malfoy's home was ground zero for all of the activity."

"Narcissa and Draco are gone, too," Hermione added. "She took what little of her Black inheritance was available and ran off to the French Riviera, a docile Draco in tow."

"He might have just waited to sell my story to the rags. I'm sure Rita Skeeter would have bankrolled an entire Pureblood revolution just to get her hands on such a juicy scoop," Snape deadpanned before swallowing the dregs of his coffee.

Hermione shared a look of amusement with Thomas but thought better of commenting aloud.

"Well," he continued after placing down his mug, "our appointment is in half an hour, and it seems Muggle public transportation is out of the question. We'll just have to Apparate together."

Without further comment, Snape left the table, leaving Hermione and Thomas scrambling to keep up. Upon reaching an empty hallway, he grimaced slightly before outstretching his hands on either side of his body. Hurrying to catch up, Hermione quickly grabbed his right hand before reddening again. Was he thinking about last night too? The thought made her feel awkwardly adolescent. Thankfully, she didn't have much time to ponder this, feeling the familiar squeeze of Apparition.

The grounds of the British Embassy were far more impressive than the claustrophobic corridors of the American Ministry of Magic. The ambassador's residence alone put the Ministry to shame. A pillared brick building with large sash windows and stone engravings, it sat at the center of the old chancery complex, separated from the modern embassy. A plainer, but much larger, building with great gaping windows carved into its clean brick walls, the main embassy building was set apart from its neighbors on Embassy Row by the Union Jack rippling in front. Their destination, the old chancery, belonged to the former era: a darkened brick building topped by several squat chimneys rising from the highest edge of its hipped roof.

As it turned out, Mr. Wright did not work for the United Kingdom's diplomatic mission directly, but for the British Council, an organization with the aim of increasing awareness about British creativity and culture, among other things. Thus, it would be quite easy for him to provide Lucius Malfoy with the proper paperwork to easily ship priceless artwork, or at least, Hermione had surmised as much as the three traversed the empty hallway.

Thomas shuffled quietly on the other side of Snape, taking in the various pieces of art decorating the walls, but Snape seemed to be more and more harassed with every step forward. Though she didn't dare to stare openly, she thought she might have seen his nostrils flare slightly and his lips rise minutely in a sneer-like fashion. It appeared that with every new thought, a prickle of irritation rankled Snape's generally cool demeanor.

"I suppose he's rather important," Hermione ventured, hoping to provoke him enough to confess his disagreement with the man. "Isn't that what they say about a corner office?"

"Hmph."

Better than no answer at all, Hermione supposed before trying again in a more straightforward manner. "Is there something you don't like about Mr. Wright, Detective?"

Snape didn't even turn his head. "The brightest witch of your age, indeed."

Finding herself feeling childishly impatient, Hermione huffed, "Will you at least tell us what it is before we meet the man?"

"You'll find out soon enough."

Julian Wright had a strangely welcoming attitude that Hermione didn't trust. It wasn't as if she didn't already have a list of reasons to find him unsavory, but there seemed to be a Slughorn-like calculation to his friendly greeting as well. He might have tried to be less obvious when he gave Hermione a once over, more so when he did the same to Thomas. And despite being several inches taller, he couldn't seem to quite meet Snape's gaze, though there were few who could.

"Ah, Severus, come in, come in!" he had demanded jovially when he threw open the door to his large corner office. The group was welcomed into a wood-paneled room, outfitted with a bursting bookcase, and burgundy leather armchairs. A large desk sat in front of a grand floor-to-ceiling window, Muggle pictures sitting atop it. It seemed that Wright had shaken hands with many great men and saw it fit to photograph each and every instance.

"Sit down, sit down," Wright directed his guest with a flourish towards the armchairs. He elected to take a seat in one as well, stupidly, in Hermione's opinion, abandoning the safety of his desk. Crossing one long leg over the other, he addressed Snape again. "Severus, it's been a dreadfully long time, hasn't it? In truth, if I were perfectly honest, I might have thought you to be..."

"Dead?" Severus suggested venomously.

"Hmm, yes, well," Wright stuttered delicately as he examined a faraway spot on the rug. "You can imagine, then, what a pleasant surprise this is. Please, please, introduce me to your colleagues."

"I'm Inspector Granger, Mr. Wright," Hermione piped up, preferring to avoid a Snape introduction. "I represent the International Council of Wizards. And this is my apprentice, Thomas."

Thomas smiled politely at the gentleman, but even he seemed to be wary.

"Lovely to meet you both," Wright replied with a smile, though his eyes continued to wander over to Snape. "Now, what kind of host would I be if I didn't offer you refreshment? Tea, anyone?"

"Perhaps it would be best to postpone the niceties in favor of resolving this visit quickly." Snape's hands were gripping the armchair with enough force to rip the upholstery.

"Of course, of course," Wright repeated with an edge apparent in his forced casual tone. "Who would have thought? Severus Snape, Head Auror. Quite a surprise indeed." His own hands were clasped together in his lap, his fingers braided.

"How is it that you know the detective, Mr. Wright?" Hermione asked, cognizant of her slight impertinence but unable to keep her curiosity at bay.

"Well, we were both in Slytherin as lads. In the same year, even," Wright recalled with a thoughtful tone.

"As well as Death Eaters," Snape added casually.

Hermione had to actively fight against the urge to gasp. Merlin, what was this place where former Death Eaters were Head Aurors and officials in Muggle organizations? Yes, she trusted Snape, but this man? He had conniving written all over him.

"You... You're a Death Eater?" Hermione questioned, her eyes drawn to his left sleeve.

"That was a very long time ago, my dear," Wright pointed out forcefully, though his eyes were now latched to Snape's. "And I certainly was out when I realized what it was all about."

"Or rather, when your efforts weren't paying off. Became a little too messy for you, didn't it, Julian? Not enough upward mobility?" In contrast to his flinching anger when they had arrived, Snape appeared to be as cool as a cucumber as Wright wriggled in his seat.

"Oh, Severus, didn't we both arrive here with hopes of a clean slate?"

Now that she could watch him openly, it was difficult to miss the flare of Snape's nostrils. Hermione cleared her throat.

"Quite right, er, Mr. Wright. So why don't we refocus on the reason for our visit?" Hermione redirected carefully. "It is our understanding that you supplied Lucius Malfoy with several permits for the purpose of transporting artwork from his private collection."

Relaxing slightly, Wright replied, "Yes, valuable items indeed. Said they're twisting the screws back at home . The poor gent, he's only trying turn over a new leaf."

"Did he detail his plans for the artwork?" Hermione asked, her note quill poised.

"He mentioned that he would be selling the items to a young witch at the Smithsonian," Wright relayed. He then added quickly, "For her private collection, of course!"

Eyeing Wright with open hostility, Snape cut to the chase. "Were you aware, then, that he was also utilizing those permits in the transport of house-elves across state borders?"

Wright's own eyes widened visibly by the suggestion. "I... er... of course..."

"You are aware, Julian, that smuggling creatures for the purpose of illegal sale carries heavy penalties, aren't you?" The question was parsed word by word by Snape's unhurried speech.

Wright's hands were shaking slightly now, gripping each other in a white-knuckled fashion. "I never realized... I never knew..."

"And how much was he paying for the permits, Julian?" Snape interrogated before Hermione could even open her mouth.

Wright was significantly paler now, his face shining with perspiration. Judging by his flappable manner, it was clear why he was never cut out for the Death Eater lifestyle. "A favor for a friend, Severus. You must know that I would never knowingly..."

"Perhaps the least you could do at this moment is to provide us with a contact." The suggestion was thrown out less accusingly than Snape's previous questions, a life preserve thrown to a drowning man.

"A... a contact?" Wright sputtered.

"Don't worry; it's not Lucius' I'm after. After all, he wouldn't stick around long enough once you've tipped him off," Snape assured Wright, who seemed no more relaxed by the revelation. "The witch may be useful, though."

"Yes, of course," Wright finally muttered, standing from his armchair and distractedly striding towards his desk. After shuffling through a number of papers, he returned to the circle of armchairs with a single sheet in hand. As if trying to regain some of his dignity, he handed it to Hermione with a flourish.

Scanning the paper, Hermione read aloud, "Anna Stephens, Curator. The Smithsonian American Art Museum."

Severus stood abruptly, a gesture signifying it was time to leave. "Thank you for your cooperation, Julian. Always pleasant to catch up with old friends."

Wright looked less pleased regarding this get-together, but bowed slightly nonetheless. "Yes, pleasant meeting with you all."

And with that, the three were shown the door.

"Assuming Julian has some sense of self-preservation, he'll allow us a slight head start before notifying Lucius of our visit."

They were now walking towards the gates of the embassy, heads bent to avoid the searing glare of the midday sun. Snape seemed pleased with how the meeting had gone, but Hermione just couldn't shake her outrage that Wright was even allowed in that position to begin with.

"Doesn't it bother you at all that a former Death Eater is working within the walls of a Muggle institution?" Hermione asked, unable to keep her voice level. From the way Snape impatiently rolled his eyes, it was clear he wasn't.

"Julian Wright is a shameless, spineless, self-promoting civil servant. Though he's never admitted it outright, I'm quite positive the man only joined the Death Eaters for the social opportunities he thought it offered. As I said inside, the minute the business became a bit too bloody for his liking, he decided it wasn't for him and he 'did a bunk', as they say."

Hermione shook her head despite his explanation. "But, he has access to all of these diplomatic and political tools. Should he choose to act on the inklings of his youth..."

"Did you not see his shrine to his own achievements?" Snape asked exasperatedly. "This man seems to be very satisfied with his Muggle life. He probably couldn't Summon a feather, should he choose." Seeing that Hermione was prepared to protest further, Snape reminded her, "What is important now is that we see this Miss Stephens before Lucius has a chance to speak to her first."

The conversation closed, Snape's strides became longer, much to Hermione's irritation. Jogging slightly to catch up, Hermione watched as Thomas fell in step with Snape.

"Masterful interrogations skills, sir," Thomas complimented.

Perhaps sensing Hermione's annoyance, Snape smirked. "Why, thank you, Thomas."

"Brownnoser," Hermione muttered as she followed closely behind them.

A/N: Thank you to my hardworking beta, justine 34, and my equally hardworking Brit-picker, magicalpresence, for their corrections and suggestions.

Please review!