Dundee and Dover

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter 4: Dundee and Dover

Aberforth poured himself another tot of cheap scotch and downed it in one. The burn was nice, but it did nothing to settle his restless nerves. She was late. If he knew her at all, this was not a good sign. It was a dangerous one today. They were all dangerous, but for this one they should have gone together. Or, even better, not at all.

At the other end of the table, Sybil was laying out a round of cards.

"The reversed Wheel again," she muttered, her huge spectacled eyes blinking blindly down in the low light. "Unexpected bad luck. The Hermit advises caution. This is not a happy set, not a happy set at all. The High Priestess brings duality and mystery. I fear it doesn't go well with our quest."

"Is that a fact?" said Aberforth, before he could stop himself. Luckily, she hadn't heard. She was squinting at the cards as they held the secrets of the universe, and weren't four sickles a pack at Flourish and Blotts. That was the thing about Seers – they always fooled themselves first.

Evidentially finished with this version of the future, she shuffled again, shaking her head so violently that the ends of her fly-away hair whipped past the oil lamp, for a moment in real danger of catching light. She didn't notice it, of course. Aberforth moved the lamp another inch forward.

Minerva had been the one to insist that Sybil come with them. He still thought it was mad, when Sybil could have stayed safe at home if they had let her alone. 'Safe' as Voldemort understood the word, of course. But it was still better off than being on the run with two of the most wanted heads in Britain. From what he had heard, most of the professors had been let off fairly easy for their part in the battle: no Azkaban time and discipline through the Headmaster instead of the travesty of the courts. Snape had been happy with a bit of light torture and a few ordinary, breakable vows of loyalty. Sybil could have stayed on in her smoky tower with her crystal and tea cups, and not be here on a sliver of a chance. Aberforth had never considered Minerva a gambling woman, until now. Perhaps she still wasn't one. A gambler understood risk and stakes, and lately Minerva seemed to have forgotten. All she could see was the prospect, glittering away in the distance, a shiny little bauble of hope. Never mind the risks for Sybil. Or the cost to them in bringing her along. Tunnel vision. She was a friend of Albus's alright.

Irritation mounted and hammered out the start of a headache. Sybil finished shuffling and began to lay out another round. Aberforth had lost count of how many times today. He didn't mind the waiting – had always been the patient one in the family – but it turned into hard work with her. Could he say that this didn't have something to do with why he resented Minerva bringing her, if he was honest? She annoyed him with the cards, the crystal gazing, the tea dregs, and the endless, endless prattle. That was all there was to it. After a year on the run, it was the small things that mattered more than the big, noble ideas.

He had come to realise why she did it. Sybil liked to keep up the mysterious, mystical act, but like most people, she was frightened of silence and her own company. When nerves ran high, she needed the cards just as much as Aberforth needed a strong drink. The trouble was that his mind strayed to escape her mutterings, and when his mind strayed, it went to places there was no real point going. Round and round, like a rat in a wheel, scuttling over the same old set of questions no one had an answer for anymore. There wasn't much difference between the two of them, thinking on it. Maybe he couldn't stand his own company either.

Clearly, his mind was wandering again.

He peered out of the little window. They were a few days off full moon and the park was lit up like Honeydukes on a Hogwarts weekend. He could make out the outline of every single tree for a hundred yards and the mirror gleam of a pond in the distance. There was not a breath of wind; the leafy summer branches stood perfectly still like a Muggle painting. It would have been a lovely evening, if they were doing anything else.

He thought of the Hog's Head, which was just about the least useless thing he could think about. On an evening like this, he would chase the last customer out and close up early. He might go for a walk up to the Screaming Shack, might have a look across at the castle from the hill or even venture into the edges of the forest. He would pick some of the little purple flowers there, for Ariana. She always loved a balmy summer's night. She would have a smile for him as he fell asleep on his favourite chair.

That wasn't quite right, of course. That was what he would have done before. More likely, he would send Ariana for Neville and give the kids a bit of food, listen to the latest act of foolish hero-play with a pot of Murtlap for the taleteller, and pass on the owls to the smaller ones' parents. He would tune into Potterwatch with them, while doing his best to hold his tongue.

Actually, that was before as well. Now he would have the fresh Scottish breeze blowing gently through his beard as he swung from the Hogsmeade gallows, with his bloated, purple-faced corpse magically preserved so that his neighbours could have the pleasure of gazing up at it for months. It wasn't a nice image, but had lost its potency long ago. Aberforth shrugged rather than shuddered. 'Would' was a big word. Empires rose and fell on 'would' and 'might' and 'if'.

He was about to pour himself another drink when he saw it: a small, nimble-footed creature weaving through the thicket in the distance. In the moonlight, it cast an unmistakeable shape.

"She's back," he said, setting down his glass. He pushed his stool back with a scrape and took his position by the door.

Beside him, Sybil made a sort of squeal and rattled as she stood as well, not quite knowing what to do.

"Just be ready to run," he said in answer to the silent question. "Remember the plan."

He set his wand at the ready and eased the door open just enough to peer out without being seen. He searched the distance, but the tabby cat was quite alone, which was not good. It raced up the slope without any sign of slowing and darted past his legs almost too quickly for his eyes to follow.

He turned around to find Minerva McGonagall out of breath and pink in the face. Strands of her greying hair had fallen out of her bun, and her robes appeared to be covered in dirt. It was beginning to look very bad indeed.

"What–" began Aberforth.

"McMaster won't," said Minerva, quite simply. Her lips were pressed very tightly together, making a thin, bloodless line. "What's more, the Death Eaters are on their way."

Sybil dropped the deck she had been scraping together and the cards exploded across the table, making them both jump. Minerva turned suddenly around as if she had forgotten there was a third person in the room.

"Now? Here?" whimpered Sybil, her eyes bulging beneath her spectacles.

"I don't think I was followed, so we should have a little time," she said. "I wiped his memory, but only just. He put up a good fight. They must've increased the reward recently."

She gave an offended sort of sniff. Minerva took things like this personally, even now. It wasn't a feeling that Aberforth shared. He wasn't disappointed or upset because he wasn't the least bit surprised. McMaster was the sort that would sell his own mother for a drop of water in Hell, as he had tried to tell Minerva earlier. It was useless to bring that row up again, of course.

"We need to get a move on," he said, instead.

They were well hidden, but it was safer to move out of town before the Death Eaters got serious. Their responses were good and getting better. A year ago, they could have expected a pair of Snatchers searching McMaster's street; now, there would be a dozen combing through the whole of north Dundee within the hour. Their magic was good, too. Unnaturally good, for the sort of fresh-faced, newly inked kids that always got sent for this. Voldemort's Youth, or whatever they were called, knew their business and had more than a few spells up their sleeves. How they managed that sort of magic was yet another answerless question.

He gathered up the bottle and empty glass, and pushed them back into the Mokeskin pouch around his neck.

"Quite right," said Minerva, who was beginning to catch her breath back. She had polished her glasses and was putting them delicately back. "I know a place in Perth. We can try the Magees there. Their Jessica was attacked for breaking curfew and Drostan has always been sympathetic, no matter what he might say now. Come on, Sybil."

"Oh, right," said a startled Sybil. She shoved the cards into her already bulging bag and took Minerva's proffered hand. Aberforth took the other, and the three of them Disapparated into the night.

The quest would continue. It was a goose chase in Aberforth's eyes. They could go up and down the country for another year, for the next decade even, knocking on a thousand more doors, but they were as close to reforging the Order as they were bringing the dead back to life. There was not a drop of resistance left in Britain, as far as he could see. But for now, there wasn't anything else to do.

-o-

"That's not him," said Ginny.

Luna tilted her head quizzically and leaned backwards on her chair to get a better look at the leather-clad blonde who was draping herself all over the bar. Her tits were in real danger of knocking over her companion's pint, but oddly enough, he didn't seem to mind.

"Are you sure?" she asked airily. "He said he would be disguised."

Ginny gritted her teeth. She could feel a headache coming on, a bad one. She liked Luna, as she reminded herself more and more often these days, but it was sometimes difficult to deal with her. Sometimes she suspected that she said stupid things like this on purpose. Ginny wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, or even hex her with something not too nasty.

"He did say that," she said, taking a slow, calming breath, "but that is not him. Definitely not."

"I think we'd better order soon," whispered Neville who was leaning furtively across the table. He had that shifty expression that he always got when he was nervous. It was the same sort that Percy used to get and was, Ginny thought, glaringly, dangerously obvious. She wanted to tell him to relax, or at least try look it. She half thought it was his shiftiness that had given them away at the docks. But it wasn't the sort of thing you could say, not if you wanted to keep the peace.

For the hundredth time, Ginny wished that Hermione had picked someone else for this - someone with a little less temper and infinitely more patience. The last year had felt less like being on the run and more like being ten again, stuck at home with her mum all day while the others were at Hogwarts. "Burrow Fever" was what she and Ron used to call it, though she was the only one who had to endure a whole year of it alone. Waging war had proven not to be about duelling and battles, rather waiting, planning, and hiding. None of these were exactly Ginny's favourite.

She used to be so proud when people said that she was like Harry, but she was beginning to understand that this war no longer needed a Harry. Even if he had survived, she wasn't so sure that he could lead them through the endless meetings and negotiations. It was a horrible, hurtful thought that she couldn't quite push out of her mind. Was it alright to betray the dead in order to help the living?

Neville gave a pointed look at something past her shoulder. Ginny followed his gaze over to the Muggle barman, who was staring back at them across the room in with narrowed, flinty eyes. They had been sitting there for a good while, after all, sticking out like three sore thumbs amongst the boistrous, after-work crowd.

"I'll go, shall I?" offered Neville. He pulled a fistful of Muggle money out of his jacket and laid it on the table as inconspicuously as possible. This was rather difficult as it was a very large, motley pile.

"Hang on", he said, as he sorted out the Pounds from the Francs, Levs, Roubles and even a few leftover wizarding coins.

"How much have you got?" Ginny felt her own pocket for the few coins there.

"Nine pounds forty," replied Neville, looking a bit disappointed.

"I've still got about twenty," said Luna. "But that isn't very much, is it? It's a shame we can't visit the bank."

That had been their original plan, before their little run-in with the Snatchers. That was yet another thing that Ginny hadn't counted on, and which had proven to make up a large part of their 'war effort'. It turned out that you couldn't really skimp on the three meals or the roof over your head, even if you were Britain's last hope. She wondered how Hermione had done it without going spare. It still annoyed Ginny, the hours spent on useless, domestic stuff every day, but they were getting the hang of it at last. They were very good at 'borrowing' from Muggle banks and those money machines, but they couldn't risk it now. The area was bound to be crawling with Death Eaters on the lookout for any suspect activity. Then there were the rumours about new, nationwide magical detection systems that could trace everyone in Britain, even of-age wizards. Ginny had no idea how true this was. The Confrérie certainly didn't think it was possible, even for Voldemort, but since their encounter Ginny was less sure. They had been disguised, they hadn't mentioned anything taboo, and yet the Snatchers were on site almost as soon as she had pulled out her wand.

Their situation was desperate. It wasn't an exaggeration to say that Olivier was their last hope. The prospect of spending a night on the streets was not exactly warm and welcoming. Ginny was sure she would remember those days in Budapest for the rest of her life.

Neville got up from the table and began to make his way to the bar. Ginny cast her eyes around the room again, searching, as she had been for the last quarter of an hour. None of them looked likely.

"How about that one?" asked Luna for the nineteenth time, tilting her head towards the door.

Ginny had a retort ready, but was forced to bite it back.

Someone had just come in. It was a man, which was already an improvement. He perfectly Muggle in his duffle coat and jeans and almost indescribably ordinary. Middle height, middle build, with a face that was instantly forgettable, like the fourth member of a boyband. Ginny knew the spell well. He was, however, holding a very eye-catching bouquet of flowers. They were orange blossoms, tied with a length of satin ribbon in a very particular shade of pale gold. They seemed to tremble even in the still pub air.

Their gazes met through the throng and locked for a long moment, mutually wondering. Ginny nodded almost imperceptibly at him as a test. All doubt was erased when he smiled a perfect, bland smile and made a beeline for them across the crowded room.

"Long time no see, Jennifer," he said, jovially and just a little too loudly to be credible. "Is this your Lovely friend?"

Ginny nodded, opened her mouth and then closed it again, not quite sure how to proceed. Her eyes darted around the room - they were hardly free to talk.

"I got you these," said Olivier to the room at large, as he handed Ginny the flowers.

Something in her chest lurched unexpectedly as her fingers made contact with the cool, dewy stems. They were like relics from a bygone age, even though it had been less than three years ago. The ribbon brushed against the back of her hand, and she remembered, suddenly, the piles and piles of them she had cut on the kitchen table as Hermione made them up into bows next to her. Every now and then, they would sneak each other sidelong glances, half-amused and half-terrified, as the muttering and clanging from the kitchen reached crescendo. Through the window, she could make out her dad, gesticulating wildly to the boys as they struggled to raise the tent. They were fighting a losing battle – the white fabric was billowing like a giant topsail in the morning breeze.

"Thanks," said Ginny, her throat feeling uncharacteristically tight, as he leaned in to kiss her on the cheek.

"Let's go somewhere more private," he whispered, just loudly enough that Luna might also hear. "There is so much to tell you. I have a safe place close by."

"Good." Ginny breathed a sigh of relief. It was only the prospect of moving again that made her realise how claustrophobic it felt in there.

Olivier pulled away and put on that slightly overacted voice again.

"Let me treat you all for dinner – I have a table at that nice Italian place. Where is Mr Short?"

Neville was just returning with their drinks. Wide-eyed, he looked between Ginny and Olivier. She shot him a meaningful look.

"Oh–" began Neville. He didn't quite know how to finish. Fortunately, Olivier proved a quick thinker.

"Long time no see," he said, clapping a startled Neville on the back. "Put those down – we're all set for dinner. Come on – we don't want to be late."

Ginny clambered to her feet, slung the backpack over her shoulder and followed as close as she could across the crowded pub. The balmy night air was on her face in no time, and with it came the old mixture of excitement and apprehension. Meeting a contact was dangerous on so many levels, but at least they were done with the waiting.

"Just follow me," said Olivier, as he wend his way through the dinner crowd who had almost completely blocked off the path in front of the neighbouring Chinese restaurant.

"Where are we really going?" whispered Neville, from over Ginny's right shoulder. He had missed a vital part of the conversation.

"Somewhere private," Ginny whispered back.

They had reached the end of the street and Olivier was leading them around the corner to a slightly quieter one. He was walking more quickly now, and the three of them were struggling to keep up.

"And you're sure..." said Neville, with consternation.

"...that it's him? Positive."

"You did the questions?" asked Neville, sharply.

"Didn't need to." A guilty, shameful feeling started to blossom all the same. She really ought to have done the questions anyway. It wouldn't have taken that long, and the pub would have offered better protection, just in case. She was sure he was safe, but all the same.

"What? Gin..."

"The flowers," said Luna, matter-of-factly. "They were from the wedding."

"I can hear you, you know," said Olivier. He stopped so suddenly that Ginny almost ran into his back. By force of habit, she reached for her wand.

"I think Mr Short is right," he continued, speaking over his shoulder in a hurried mutter that barely carried above the noises of the street. "But seeing that we are in the open and would very much like to get out of it soon, I think, let's do it quickly. My codename is Pax, my Patronus used to be a dormouse, and my codename is Pax. Does that do?"

"Used to be?" Neville was beginning to sound very suspicious, and with good reason. It was routine to show Patronuses as identification.

"The Confrérie haven't recorded any change," said Ginny, who was beginning to share his feelings. She had spent hours looking over his file before they had left, and there had been nothing about a new Patronus. She berated herself for being so quick to trust him.

Olivier – assuming he was really Olivier – sighed and turned around. He was wearing an exasperated expression that didn't suit his open, unmarked features.

"That would be because it only happened a few days ago. Don't ask me why – I have no idea. I haven't had the opportunity to get word out yet. You know how difficult it can be. And now, with you three, they are bound to tighten the borders even more."

"Convenient for you," said Neville. Ginny felt him draw his wand subtly from his jacket. She did the same with hers. A Stunning Spell thrummed through her fingertips, straining to get out. They could take him out if it came to it, but getting away afterwards might be a bit more difficult. They would have to squeeze under the cloak again. They might have to disillusion him and float him along, although that would surely set off any magical detectors, assuming the rumours were true.

"Whoa," breathed Olivier, throwing up his empty hands in surrender. "Not here – they're still patrolling the streets. You want more proof – I understand that. I would want it as well. How about this: Fleur's tiara came from your great-aunt, the gift bags were sugared pistachios, Miss Lovegood here had come dressed as a sunflower, and you refused to dance with me, twice. Surely this will do? You weren't there, Neville, you will have to trust the ladies on this."

He looked rather imploring between Ginny and Luna, occasionally flickering his water blue eyes downwards to their half-drawn wands.

"I believed him from the start," pronounced Luna, lightly. "He was the cousin in the teal robes, even though he looks different now."

"So do I," said Ginny. It was only as the words came out of her mouth that she realised, with relief, that she actually believed them. The answers to the security questions might have been tortured out of him, and the bouquet intercepted, but these were details that the Death Eaters wouldn't have thought to ask about. They were far too trivial. She put her wand back.

"Neville?"

Neville stared unblinkingly into Olivier's face for a long moment, unblinking like a predator. Then his brow softened and a crooked smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Alright," he said, a little sheepishly. "Sorry about that- just trying to be sure, you know."

"I do," replied Olivier. "No hard feelings. We're almost there – follow me."

They followed him in silence down the street, which grew quieter and quieter until they found themselves in a narrow, dilapidated lane lined on both sides with grim, old apartment buildings. The streetlamps had all been extinguished. The only light came through the gaps in dingy shades.

"You're sure it's safe?" whispered Ginny, as Olivier busied himself with the Muggle security system of the most dilapidated-looking one.

"Perfectly." The heavy door gave with a click. "No wards, of course," he said, starting up the narrow, dirty stairwell. "Impossible with all the people that come through, but that also makes it undetectable."

They followed him up to the top floor, where there was a single door with peeling green paint and half a dozen different latches. He opened these by hand with an enormous ring of keys.

The door creaked open, and they piled into the brightly lit apartment. Ginny rounded on him as soon as it clicked shut behind them again.

"So, what's been happening on this end?" asked Ginny. There had not been any proper news for a few months. To say that they were eager was an understatement.

"Wait," said Olivier, looking a little harrassed.

"Sit down first – there is a lot to say. We could do it here, crowded in the doorway, or could make ourselves comfortable and have a civilised discussion."

He ushered them further in. Ginny had a good look around at the place. There were two windows that she could see that would make good escape routes as well as giving a view into the street below. They were on the fourth floor, which was just low enough to climb down, given enough incentive. They had certainly stayed in worse.

The three of them settled into the dusty leather sofa, leaving their bags and coats on the rug by their feet.

Olivier took the armchair opposite, sinking into its depths with a posture of total relaxedness, almost nonchalance. It was remarkable, considering their circumstances. It was slightly infuriating.

"Well?" prompted Ginny, who was not nearly as composed. Antipation was a dreadful thing. She felt her hands beginning to tremble and so folded them tightly in her lap, locking the fingers securely together.

Olivier seemed to take his time, stretching his arms along the armrests and giving the three of them a level look.

"I think," he said, solemnly. "I should start with the bad news. Your mother..."

Ginny's heart skipped a beat, before it sunk heavily into a familiar place in her chest.

"I know about that already," she said. "Le Presige published it." Her lips were threatening to twitch so she pressed them tightly together too. A cool hand slipped into hers. She gave it a quick squeeze and vowed, not for the first time, to be nicer to Luna Lovegood.

"Ah." said Olivier looked like he was about to say that he was sorry. Ginny was grateful when he didn't. "And your brother Percy-"

"That too."

There was a long silence. She didn't fill it. These were two facts, that was all, and there was nothing left to be said about them.

"I take it you don't know who leaked it?" asked Neville. She could feel him pretending not to watch her.

It was a question that they'd discussed a hundred times before. Whispers of British news made it to the French papers every now and then, even though international communications had supposedly stopped. The Confrérie had finally convinced the editor to share his sources a few months ago, only to discover that he was getting it through one of his Muggle-born junior reporters, who received it in turn through anonymous letters addressed to her parents. It was unbelievably elaborate. Someone working in International Affairs had to be on their side. The trouble was, it wasn't one of their people.

"No, I'm afraid not," frowned Olivier. He stared thoughtfully into the middle distance. "I can't think of anyone who would risk it, or even be inclined to. There is no resistance in Britain anymore. They have all the troublemakers well-watched, if they're not in Azkaban or worse. But I will have to keep an eye out. Anyway, whoever they are, they're doing us a great service. Let's consider it a secret friend – which is infinitely better than a secret enemy. If the Prestige is publishing, then it must be going well at home?"

"It's been pretty good," replied Neville. "Paris hasn't stopped talking since the Battle. The anti-You-Know-Who feeling is pretty strong and growing. Only problem is, there have been quite a few... suggestions that it would be easier to go anti-Britain altogether."

"Hmm," mused Olivier. "I have been expecting something like that. Is L'ordre de l'hexagone winning the assembly? They have been trying to declare war on England for centuries."

"Actually," continued Neville, " it was La Mutuelle. They're the ones making the most noise. Fortunately, most people think they're a bunch of nutters. It's all real brimstone and fire stuff about how You-Know-Who will take over the world. They have a Seer on their side, but apparently there hasn't been a real Prophecy about it. It's all nonsense."

A dark look crossed over Oliver's soft features.

"So we hope," he said. "And what about the rest?"

"Not too badly," said Ginny. She went through the inventory of their work. It was hard to keep pride totally out of her voice; They had done well. "We saw Fleur in Switzerland last month, and you couldn't ask for better. There has been some talk of a contingency alliance against Britain, but it's hardly mainstream. The Swiss are mostly keeping their heads cool. Germany has been made aware, but no word yet on their plans. The murmur is the country is really splitting on the topic. There have some high level meetings in Greece, so they are taking it seriously at least. The Spaniards and Italians have gone for flat out denial, which is a bit disappointing. We're hoping they'll change their tune once the rest of the continent starts moving."

Oliver's frown relaxed slightly. "And further east?"

The three of them exchanged a glance. That had been a long, hard, fruitless few months. Ginny decided to break the news straight.

"No luck," she said. "We found Krum eventually, but he wasn't up for it. He said that the new headmaster at Durmstrang would join You-Know-Who in a blink, and he'd take the north with him easily. The Slavic Union is looking less than sympathetic, but they were always a long shot. Charlie and Bill have gone underground, but no results yet."

"That's not exactly what we need to hear," said Olivier, looking as deflated as they all felt.

"It wasn't all bad," said Luna, airily. "Victor said that he knew more than a few people who would never join You-Know-Who, which is something. And he said that he would hide Hermione if she needs to get away from Britain. Or any of us, if it comes to it."

"Ah... About Hermione Granger."

Ginny's stomach lurched. The look on Oliver's face was all too familiar to her. It was the face of someone about to deliver the worst news imaginable.

"Oh, no..." she whispered, not willing to believe it.

She looked around. The others were wearing the same look of despair. They had been doing their best abroad, but all of it was sideline in comparison with Hermione. The real war depended on her. There was no plan, no hope, no anything without her. Only questions without answers.

Olivier steepled his fingers together and gazed at the ceiling for a moment.

"The truth is I am not sure what has happened to her. She was caught six days ago by Severus Snape."

Ginny opened her mouth and, finding that she had nothing ready to say, closed it again.

"Then... that's it," whispered Neville beside her, his voice coming out thick.

Olivier shook his head. An odd, almost-smile twisted his top lip.

"Not quite. Not necessarily. You see, Snape took her straight to the Dark Lord, and since then, there has been no official announcement. Six days is a long time. Usually the corpse – that is, the death notice – comes within two or three days at most. We have not had anything yet, not even the announcement for her capture."

"Wait," said Ginny, who had finally found her voice. "If there's been no announcement for her capture, how can you be sure that she was caught?"

"Oh, I am sure. I was there," said Olivier. His clear eyes seemed to flash with an unreadable expression. "Snape had her in this alley off Charing Cross Road. It was so close to the Leaky that the barkeep called in the Peacekeepers for the disturbance. I was only there by chance, doing the inner London patrol. By the time we got there, he had more or less finished with her. It was incredible – the whole alley was blown apart, but there wasn't a scratch on her. She must've put up an amazing fight."

Ginny felt a jolt of pride and a glance at Luna and Neville told her that they felt the same. It didn't take away the uncertainty but, dead or alive, it was a tiny and important consolation that Hermione had given as good as she got.

"It was all very strange," continued Olivier. "Snape is officially in charge of finding the Undesirables, but it's supposed to be in name only. In reality, our department does the work, and he passes the big news to the Dark Lord. I have been keeping an ear open for the smallest thing on her for months and months, but there has been nothing. Absolutely nothing – even less than on Aberforth Dumbledore or Minerva McGonagall. I double-checked the file last night just to be sure, and it was completely empty. So unless it was a coincidence and he just happened to meet her outside the Leaky Cauldron, then, well, he must have been tailing her himself. And if had been tailing her himself, we have to begin to wonder: just how big really is this thing that she wouldn't tell you? And, more importantly, must we assume now that the Dark Lord knows it?"

The silence that followed was terrible. Olivier had said something that all of them had thought of – had feared – at one time or another. Ginny wrestled with it in her mind, but a happy solution seemed impossible. Everything they had done had assumed one thing: that Hermione would find them again, that she would have the answer, that she would lead the attack. They had put all their eggs into this one basket. This news had taken all the wind from under their wings and left them stuck.

It was Luna who spoke first. "So... we don't know if she's dead or alive?"

"I'm afraid not. I'm sorry," replied Olivier.

"Can you find out?" asked Ginny. They had to be sure one way or the other, regardless. She forced her mind to work, to take them out of this dead as best she could.

Olivier seemed to consider this very seriously for a moment.

"I will try, of course, but it may be very hard. She was taken to the Dark Lord. I'm not sure that even Snape knows her fate anymore."

"Please try."

"And what about you three? What will you do now?"

Ginny thought hard.

"Nothing," she said, at last. "We did have plans, but we can't do anything until we know for certain. We'll stay here and wait for news. And if the worse happens, well, plans do change."

Olivier smiled that strangely empty smile again.

"Good," he said, getting up. "I have to go now, I'm afraid. I have a night patrol in London again. I'll come back next week - earlier if I can make it. I think it's best if you don't leave this place at all in the meantime. I've stocked up the kitchen, so you shouldn't need anything. It's best not to try and contact me at all, just in case."

"Thank you," said Ginny. For a moment gratitude rose above the malestrom of other, much less pleasant feelings.

"Wait," said Luna, quite suddenly, in an uncharacteristically urgent voice. "We're not quite helpless without Hermione. There's one thing you could do for us."

-o-