Chapter 3: Misconceptions & Other Half-Truths

Chapter 3: Misconceptions & Other Half-Truths

A dreamless sleeping potion would have been the logical course to have taken. But logic was not her entire make-up, and sometimes emotion overruled intelligence.

She had gone to her bed exhausted. Yet as she had closed her eyes, Hermione's mind had desperately sought her previous night's dream. She wanted – no, needed – to see it again, to look for clues and hidden meanings, catch what on first visit she'd missed.

Her quest had proven elusive. Instead, snippets of her concerns and deeply repressed thoughts had resurfaced, intermingled, and whispered feverishly in her mind. Slumber had fled.

The constellations quivered now against their rich onyx velvet, silently instructing the Centaurs and astrologists of the night. Hermione could only gaze unseeingly, her mind replaying her conversation with Raj MacGregor hours before. "And Sirius never even had a chance at life... never had a chance... a chance..." Sirius. Of all the riddles and memories and speak of her day, it was her brief reference to Sirius that her mind could not let go.

Four years since his fate to the Veil, and she had had only passing thoughts of him, usually in relation to Harry, or perhaps to her middle years at Hogwarts, when his presence was involved in her daily life in some form or other. But as the years passed, Sirius Black became little more than a name of her past, a friendly acquaintance, and she never found herself dwelling upon him in the wee hours of the night. Like tonight.

A soft rustle outside her door broke her self-study. What legitimate business could anyone have outside her room at three in the morning? Nothing came to mind.

Hermione soundlessly slipped off the window seat, treading carefully to her nightstand where her wand lay. It didn't do to be caught defenseless, even with Voldemort's re-disappearance. He still had followers. And even without them, there were just too many people not to be trusted. Her fingers silently gripped the vine wood, gently pulling it off the stand. The familiar gnaw of fear gripped her insides, and she held her breath momentarily to ease the seizing pain.

The still of the night remained unbroken, but her senses keen drove her to settle the matter. It was maddeningly slow, her trek across the room, but her determination was one of self-preservation. The difference between life and death in battle was often marked by patience. Or the lack thereof.

Tunnel vision focused her eyes upon the nearing door, oblivious to all else. Her bare feet tread in sliding shifts of weight across the hardwood and Persian rug. Left, right. Left, right. No creaking boards – it's imperative. Controlled, steady breathing. Wouldn't do to pass out now.

All too soon, the paneled oak stood directly before her. Wand hand steady, a counter and offensive spell each formed upon her lips, she stretched out her hand to the brass door handle.

It was cold, like death. A shiver of premonition swept her body, and her breath stilled. Would they be cowardly hiding behind their masks?

Her grip tightened. The knob began to turn.

Would it be a single Avada Kedavra? Or a stream of curses under which she'd break apart, shattered like a Ming vase?

The latch released with a soft click.

It wouldn't be the pale, snakelike figure, if it was him at all. No, that figure was no longer.

The well-oiled hinges protested only mutely.

He wouldn't do her personally. Like Regulus, it'd be a toady, out to score points with him.

Faint oil-flame broke through the parting of woods. She shrunk further into the shadows as she widened the breach.

Would Sirius have cared any more for the details of her death than he had for his own brother's? Or would he have simply said she was a soft, stupid idiot, too?

A quick, deep breath shuddered into her lungs. It was time.

Why did it always have to come back to Sirius?

She threw open the door.

-o-o-o-

"Hurry on, mate!" His half-whisper was anxious as he repetitiously glanced back toward the door. Ron Weasley knew they had little time for poetic license and reminded his best friend of that very point. "Just write it like you said. Hermione's clever; she'll suss it out!"

Harry Potter squinted at the ragged parchment, desperately willing the untidy scrawl to form the perfect code. High chance of interception demanded his words be chosen carefully, but still he had to make the message clear. A flashing look up at their unlikely savoir confirmed their limit for time. They were coming.

Harry nodded curtly then returned to his missive. He quickly scratched another line then reached to the floor, scooping up a handful of sand and tossing it across the parchment. Rising, he shook off the granules and rolled it tight. Securing it to the stolen tawny, he wedged his hands through the rough-hewn opening in the stone wall and released the owl. He sent a silent prayer with it.

"All right, let's go!" Ron pleaded, his voice hoarse from misuse.

"Right," Harry responded, roughly stowing his quill and ink in his rucksack. It was a leap of faith, and one he'd never have believed himself taking. But desperate times...

Commotion from beyond the inner walls snapped him back to the task at hand. They were closer. Much closer.

Harry took a cursory glance about the oppressive chamber, verifying he'd missed nothing. If this didn't work, if it botched up completely... It didn't do to dwell on the what-ifs. They now had no choice. They were out of time.

A deep breath, his mouth set grim, he tipped his head to his companions. Tossing his rucksack to his shoulder, he pulled out his wand and turned to their guide. "As you will..."

-o-o-o-

Clang – cling... Clang – cling... Distant church bells echoed in her brain. Awareness returned to her slowly, a groggy aftertaste remaining in her head. She opened her eyes to mere slits, taking in the bright morning sun. Wider, they encased the sight of her room. Dear Lord...

Hermione groaned as she uncurled herself from the cushioned window seat, her muscles aptly bitching about every adjustment. Her wand dropped to the hardwood with a clank; she'd lost the battle with sleep with her defense in hand. Really bright there, Hermione, she chastised herself. One involuntary twitch and you could have awoken to iridescent flippers and a Karkaroff goatee.

She snorted at the thought, stretching the kinks out of her body. At least she hadn't his fate, she considered dryly. Karkaroff, while headmaster of a Balkan Wizarding school, was not the wizard he portrayed. He had lasted only a year before the Death Eaters had located and duly punished him for his cowardice. But the ever-cautious Gryffindor had not shared his lot last night; Death Eaters had not cornered and tortured her. She looked to the center of the rug. No, that was not her destiny of last evening.

A bouquet. A small bouquet of enchanted mixed flowers in a basket, complete with a half-dozen shimmering faeries circling about, nipping in between stalks and petals. That had been her war-faring rustle last night. Prepared for the battle of her life, she'd thrown open the door to find the corridor empty, the floral gift at her entryway. Leary of a trap, she'd spent the better part of two hours magically inspecting the arrangement from afar, only to decide its presence was, truly, innocent and sincere. The attached card had explained all:

My dear Ms. Granger,

Raj MacGregor

A quirk of a smile tugged at Hermione's lips; whatever or whoever Raj MacGregor was, he was a thoughtful gentleman. Ron could take lessons.

Placing the bouquet upon the mantel, she noticed the clock. Seven after nine. The first council meeting of the day was at ten, so she had just enough time to bathe, dress and grab a quick breakfast before meeting up with Bailey. Perhaps today she'd learn something new. Like how not to fall asleep on her feet.

-o-

The chipolatas too spicy, Hermione abandoned them for her prerequisite toast and jam, leveling her chin out over her plate to catch the crumbs of each nibble. The Daily Prophet stood just past said plate, balanced precariously with one hand upon its spine. Hermione alternately chewed her toast and her lower lip, neither quelling the increasing unease deep within her belly.

Dark Mark Returns

The symbol of our greatest fears has once again returned to Western European wizards. Last evening the long-defunct Mark of Terror was displayed over The Crow's Roost, a family-owned public house in the coastal town of Waterford, County Waterford, Ireland. Two confirmed dead, one missing.

Her breath simply ceased in mid-inhale. So she wasn't quite so out of line last night, now was she? A trickle of glacial serum washed through her veins. Waterford wasn't far. Not far a'tall.

Spasm of inhalation. Though her mind was in shock, her body demanded basic functions of life. Okay, calm down. Her ever-rational mind fought to quell her involuntary shudders of fear. They weren't here. They aren't after you, and even if they were (which they're not), they wouldn't know where you were. Or even if they did (which they don't), you're in a high-security location full of international key-figure wizards. And even if they could breach the security here (which they can't), you know how to defend yourself more than adequately. And if you can't (which you can), you can... er... you can –

"Confundus Charm?" The room-level voice broke through Hermione's aquarium mindset like a sledgehammer. She turned seated, blinking rapidly to clear her eyes. "Or malicious Skeeter gossip?" Raj nodded once toward the paper in Hermione's hand.

"W- what?" she stammered, momentarily disoriented.

Raj waved dismissively at the paper. "The Prophet. You were staring at it, or rather, toward it. I just wondered if it was that compelling a story or if you'd been befuddled." He took in her pallor and the hint of fear in her eyes. His demeanor changed instantly to concern.

"Are you all right, Hermione?" he asked softly, kneeling close to her and staring about her face.

"Er, yes. Yes, I'll be fine," she said, recovering her sensibilities. Her voice grew stronger as she spoke, though she chose to keep their conversation private. "I was just reading the headline. Death Eaters in Waterford last night. They set the Dark Mark above a pub; at least two are dead. It's starting again," she added in a forlorn whisper.

"Rubbish," Raj answered, his tone slightly annoyed. He stood again, offering his hand to Hermione.

"Rubbish?" she asked, irritated at his condescending dismissal. What did he know, anyway? He'd not seen what she had; he didn't know what the wizarding world would face again, perhaps very soon if the events of last evening were any indication.

She blatantly ignored his hand and stood up defiantly, her petite height no less demonstrative in its anger. "I'll have you know that I personally witnessed the events prior to his disappearance last time, and I can tell you he damn well isn't dead. You and all these others," she gestured encompassing to the room, "bury your heads in the sand, choosing to believe this time he's truly gone. Well, he isn't. He's only biding time until he's back to his power. And then we'll all have hell to pay." Her jaw was set, her eyes glaring, daring him to call her on it.

Raj stepped even closer to her, his scowling eyes only inches from hers. His words were gritted whispers.

"Rubbish, in that it is not starting again," he began. He held up his hand in the narrow gap between them, warding off her verbal protest. "For it never stopped."

A full moment passed before Hermione could regain her wits. What did he just say? she asked herself. Her lips parted but remained formless, wordless.

"Come on. Let's have a walk," he suggested slightly more graciously, grabbing her by the hand. Without waiting her reply, he led her purposefully from the room, thankfully unnoticed by the dozen or so still lingering over their kedgerees, kippers, and scones.

In only a few minutes' time, Hermione found herself retracing her steps of the previous evening, the garden path less despairing in the late morning light. She noticed as they walked along the pebbled course that Raj had yet to release her hand. It felt heated, strong, powerful. A flitting of warmth passed through her, one having nothing to do with the increasing summer sun. How long had it been since a man had held her hand? She hadn't seen Ron in months. And even then... No, she wouldn't belittle his gentle affections. Ron cared for her, she knew. He would defend her to those who would scoff at her, those who would demean her. And the fondness was entirely mutual. She had grown up caring for him, interested in him, befriending him. But this search, this expedition of his and Harry's had taken its toll on their relationship. She couldn't deny to herself any longer how lukewarm his messages to her had become, and how temperate their time spent together had grown since the boys – men, she corrected herself – had left nearly a year ago.

"Now you're contemplative." Raj's baritone broke into her thoughts, kindly reminding her she was not alone. She glanced about her, refusing to chance-meet his eyes. A slight blush crossed her cheeks; she had been contemplative, and it had started with his touch.

"There's much to contemplate," she parried, buying time as she frantically sought a topic. Well, one other than that which she actually was contemplating. Credible lying had never been her forte.

"Yes."

Well, that was conversational, she mentally quipped. This was ridiculous. It was forced chat at best, and she hadn't a clue as to why he had even brought her out here. They both had a meeting in fifteen minutes, and she hardly needed anything else to set her nerves tight, the Daily Prophet having already done a cracking job. Death Eaters back on the prowl, it all starting again –

That's it. That's what she wanted to know.

"Raj," she ventured amiably, "back in the dining hall, you said it had 'never stopped'. What exactly did you mean by that? I mean, most everyone thinks Voldemort's gone now, but you spoke so surely, like you know something I don't, that no one does."

He was silent for a long moment, and she chanced a sidelong glance. He was staring straight ahead, as though merely scouting his path across the garden foliage. His expression was passive, contemplative in itself. When he spoke, his tone was flat, non-committing.

"It's obvious. Just as Lady Bain stated at dinner last evening, the Ministry hasn't lapsed on intelligence and security measures. After your little tête-à-tête in the Ministry two years past, no official Ministry release was made. Their stance has simply been to continue investigation. No, if he was gone, Scrimgeour would have publicized it unceasingly for his own benefit.

"Lord Voldemort isn't finished; he doesn't simply give up and bow out. He has plans to fulfill first."

Hermione stopped dead, her hand pulling from Raj's as he stepped further. He turned, his face unreadable. She was staring at him in wonder, surprise, all washed in fear.

"Plans? What plans? And just how do you know that?"

A fleeting moment of indecision crossed his face, quickly replaced by a casual stance. His words were slow, careful, measured, as though it was imperative he remain merely a courier of public information.

"History repeats itself, Hermione, more often than not. Through the ages, evil seeks the immortality of power. Conviction of that nature does not simply fade away." He gazed at her steadily. "It only stands to reason that he has not ceased in his plans; his ultimate plan being to control the wizarding world." He sounded as though he would continue, but instead remained silent, waiting for her to speak.

"So you're saying you know this simply by logical guesswork?" Her words held the slightest disbelieving edge.

"Yes."

Liar. His convictions on this matter told a different story, one that included some other source or reasoning, something much more definite than historical tendencies. But she couldn't very well call him on it, now could she? No, she had no proof or crumb of anything substantial. Just... a feeling.

Hermione mentally shook herself. A feeling? Miss Logic and Text Reference was having too many of those as of late, and worse, she was beginning to believe in them as well. Dreams, feelings, obsessive memories of dead men... it was all so foreign to her, so – so not Hermione. Oh, how she wished Dumbledore was here. He had never failed to offer an explanation, an understanding.

"We had best be returning. Council begins in eight minutes. Lord Chamberlain and Bailey will wonder where we've off to," Raj said, gently turning and prodding Hermione back along toward the gray stone manor, his hand resting on her shoulder blade. It remained there as they walked quickly, burning the skin beneath her navy robes. Her muscles still ached, and his touch only increased their tension.

"I forgot to thank you," she said, suddenly recalling the source of her soreness. "For the flowers, that is," she clarified. "They're quite beautiful."

"As are the lady to whom they were intended," he replied courteously, opening the mullion-paned garden door for her. She blushed, unprepared for his complimentary reply. She said nothing.

Through the flurry of activity, they made their way to the front of the manor, the meeting scheduled above floors. Rounding the bend in the curving staircase, they were forced to slow their steps to a stop in the midst of the gathering queue. Hermione steadfastly kept her gaze averted from her escort, peering instead over the railing at the entrance hall, the varied pages and staff scurrying to begin preparations for Elevenses and luncheon.

"Codswallop," an elderly wizard reprimanded. He was standing just before Hermione, his graying handlebar mustache and royal blue robes complimentary in the austere of the surrounding white marble. He was apparently speaking with two colleagues: one, a dark-haired witch who reminded Hermione greatly of Professor McGonagall, and Sir McCaine of Belfast. "The Muggle leaders didn't listen to Merlin, himself. What makes you think they'll lend an ear to Scrimgeour? The man has no tact."

"Indeed," McCaine said. "If Albus Dumbledore were still alive –"

"But he's not," the stern witch interrupted. She turned to the handlebar. "And Blair's not Pendragon, Kale –"

"No one's that stubborn," muttered Raj beside Hermione. She glanced sharply at him, but his eyes were focused on the trio before them.

"– he'll listen. He won't be happy, but he'll listen. A third party with Rufus wouldn't hurt, either. Someone to..."

But the rest was lost to the noise and shuffle as the council members moved hastily forward toward the open doors at the landing. Hermione felt Raj's hand return to her middle back, guiding her through the mass of subdued robes. He was close enough for her words to reach him within the din.

"Would you care to tell me what that was all about?"

"Ministry relations with the Muggle Prime Minister," Raj stated flatly. His pose was suddenly professional and aloof. Hermione bristled.

"No. I mean your little 'stubborn' remark," she hissed. For some reason she was irritated at his flashing change of mood.

His jaw was again set, belying the aggravation he attempted to hide in his voice. "Arthur Pendragon was the single most stubborn Muggle leader in all of Britain. He had the greatest sorcerer as chancellor, yet he chose to ignore what he didn't want to hear."

"I don't understand," she said, her irritation fading in lieu of genuine curiosity. "Why would Merlin interfere so with the Muggle world? Witchcraft was still feared and misunderstood back then. What did Merlin hope to accomplish?"

"Many things, Hermione. His vision for Britain, were it seen through..." He sighed, the hidden anger still below the surface. "Suffice it to say Arthur's penance for his obstinacy was paid dearly by both Muggle- and Wizard-kind. His closest companions could not reason with him."

"How do you know that? Nothing I've read has ever given such account, and I've researched Merlin well. Nowhere have I found such personal accounts of disagreements between Merlin and the king."

They crowded through the Council chamber doors and Raj followed Hermione to her requisite stool against the wall behind Bailey. He paused to answer her question, for the first time looking at her as he spoke.

"My multi-great grandfather knew Merlin. They were not close, but he was privy to arguments between Pendragon and Merlin. His journal passed down to me. And even Merlin could not control the evil of the world alone." He turned to leave, but of its own accord Hermione's hand caught his robe sleeve. He turned back, waiting.

"Who was your ancestor?" A tingling passed through her as she asked, a sense of expectancy hovering for his answer.

"No one. Just the bastard son of a witch."

The charcoal material pulled from her fingers as MacGregor withdrew without another word.