29. The Last Battle

Hermione was in a bad way. She'd tried reasoning with the goblins, but two sentences into her explanation, they'd zapped her with their version of a full Body-Bind and carted her off to the Ministry. She was thrown into a basement holding cell just down the hall from the door that led to the Department of Mysteries and another labeled Courtrooms 1,2&3.

After what seemed hours, keys jangled in locks, doors creaked open, and two figures entered the cell with wands aglow. Chilled by the dank flooring and the near-darkness, Hermione was just able to sit up and rest her back against the cell wall across from a lumpy-looking cot though she still felt dizzy from the ordeal of capture and restraint.

As her eyes accustomed themselves to the Lumos Entire Charm one of her visitors cast on the ceiling, she made out the writing on their name tags: Worris Yaxley, Dept.Mag.Law and John Dawlish, Auror.

Yaxley, the older of the pair, was dressed in violet robes shot through with gold thread. Dawlish, in sober black, was very young despite a head of graying hair. He looked familiar, but Hermione couldn't quite place his face. He brought with him the Bag of Holding, which had been taken from her when she was processed, and a sheaf of papers. He placed the Bag carefully on the cot and sat next to it.

He riffled through the papers and looked at her but did not offer her a seat. "Your name is Hermione Jean Granger?" He had a slight brogue and trilled his Rs like a Scot.

She nodded.

"A student at Hogwarts. Going into seventh year, am I right?"

"Yes."

He glanced at a page. "And a Prefect." He pronounced the word with a faint sneer.

"Yes. Two years."

"Expect to make Head Girl?"

"I hope so."

That seemed a mistake for he tutted and looked at his partner before continuing. "Outstanding OWLS, I suppose."

"Ten actually and one Exceeds Expectations." It didn't hurt to be honest for the time being.

"Prefect, but not perfect." It was Yaxley making the weak pun. She looked up. The expensively dressed wizard had taken up a post by the cell door. He continued, "And I suppose that it will fall to a new Headmaster whether you make Head Girl or not." He laughed and looked at Dawlish, as if this was a private joke between them, but the Auror merely shrugged.

"Eleven classes," said John Dawlish. "That's a lot. Say, I remember you. You were the girl who was attacked by a troll in my seventh year."

Yes, that was it. He had been at Hogwarts Hermione's first year, a bright fellow, a Gryffindor, with prematurely gray hair, who she remembered receiving a scholarly award at the end of the year. But another "Yes" was all she gave him in reply. She still didn't know which of these men, if either, she could trust with the whole story or what Minister Scrimgeour would think of it.

"Just can't keep out of trouble," murmured Yaxley. He was staring out the cell door. He seemed the more easy-going of the pair.

Dawlish ignored him. "What did you think you were doing trying to break into a bank?"

"Erm... I... It was an accident."

"Really." This from Yaxley again, but the words were spoken idly, without venom.

"Come now," said Dawlish. "That's a difficult line to swallow, don't you think? How did you come to be inside those tunnels in the first place?"

"Have you ever heard of Subterranea Britannica?"

"Sounds like some kind of curse," muttered Yaxley. He was jangling the ring of keys in his hand.

"No," said Hermione, "it's a group of people dedicated to mapping the disused tunnels under London. There are miles of them."

"And you're a part of this group," prompted Dawlish.

She nodded. It wasn't an actual lie. The tour fee had included an honorary membership and free on-line newsletter.

"And you were just innocently exploring an old tunnel and accidentally broke through into Gringotts riding on a frozen ghost." His look was incredulous.

"Well," Hermione cast about for an explanation, "there are ghosts haunting the tunnels. One is a famous actress... named Bea Lamb--"

"Now that's enough of that, Miss." It was Yaxley again. He pulled Dawlish up beside him. "She's just stalling," he grated. "Ask her about the... you know." He went back to his post, but he no longer lounged, but stood stiffly upright, his back to them.

"This bag," said Yaxley, sitting again, "it has a rather elaborate curse on it."

"Oh... yes... " Hermione had to be careful here. The jar containing Scabbers/Peter was in the bag, and the spell, something she'd picked up in her reading on foreign hexes, had been a last minute safeguard.

"Just tell us what it is," Yaxley demanded from the doorway.

She wasn't sure she should let them discover the jar quite yet. It was one thing to march triumphantly into the Ministry with the guilty party in tow, quite another to be seen as the guilty party herself. She decided to wait a bit. "I... erm... it's proprietary, I think. The bag's not even mine." This was true; she had borrowed it from Aberforth.

"You're lying!"

"No, really." She smiled wanly, hoping to tweak their male chivalry.

But Yaxley wasn't buying it. "I don't have time for this." He walked to the center of the cell and stood between Hermione and her interrogator. He bent over to Dawlish and lowered his voice. "Look, let's do the--you know--the big C."

Dawlish was appalled. "What? Cruci--you're joking."

"Why not? Dolores uses it all the time."

"Undersecretary Umbridge?"

"Shush, now. Do we know any other 'Dolores'? Look... come on. I've got a meeting with her in ten minutes. You may think poring over Wanted posters and old cases will get you somewhere, but I know better. Let's do it... now." He straightened up. "Or don't you know how?"

He had hit a nerve. Dawlish bridled. "Of course I know how. I also know it's still illegal except under extraordinary circumstances."

"For the time being, yes. But it's just you and me here... and this little... Mudblood. Who'll believe anything she says. It'll be our word against hers. C'mon. Just a jolt or two. You know. It might just shake something loose."

This was beginning to sound like a warped version of a good cop-bad cop routine, Hermione thought even as fear welled up inside her. Could Yaxley be a Death Eater? And how could he be so bold, openly suggesting the use of a Forbidden Curse to an Auror? "The Big C" had to be Cruciatus, judging from Dawlish's horrified response. Had things changed that much at the Ministry?

"How do you know she's Muggle-born?" asked Dawlish.

"Can't you smell it?" Yaxley sneered.

Oh, yes. Worris Yaxley was a Death Eater all right or a prime candidate at the very least. Did Dawlish realize it? He showed no sign that he did.

"All right... tell you what," the Auror said. You go on to your meeting, and I'll keep trying my way for a bit. If I don't get anything out of her by the time you get back, you can do what you want with her, and I'll keep watch."

Yaxley looked at Hermione. "All right," he said. "I'll tell the Minister we're working on it." He sounded merely business-like now. It could be that his mention of torture had been just a ploy to scare her, but there had been no mistaking the excitement in his voice when he'd suggested using the Cruciatus curse or the disgust when he uttered the word "Mudblood."

He opened the cell and tossed the keys to Dawlish. She could hear him whistling a tune as he strode up the corridor. It sounded like The Volga Boatman.

She studied the Auror as he stood in the doorway, looking after Yaxley. What else did she know about John Dawlish? She had seen him a lot in the library when they were students together. He had been tops in his class and seemed destined for greatness. Oh yes, and he came from a large, rather poor family. Ron mentioned it once, observing that they both wore hand-me-down robes. But there was something else about Dawlish, something just on the edge of her memory, something important....

He swung the cell door shut and took her back to the subject of the Bag and the curse on it. Hermione sensed that he took great pride in his spell work and scholarship. They were alike in that respect. It would please him to figure out how to neutralize those curses himself, she thought. Or should she just be honest? He might be insulted if he discovered that she was leading him.

She opted for honesty. "All right. You win. It's basically a Multi-Forked Body-Bind with a Shrinking Hex kicker.

"No, that can't be. I tried the reversals for those, as well as a Finite Incantato."

"Well, the cant in this case is a form of Ashanti. I can take care of it for you if you like."

"Oh, right," he said sarcastically. "I'll just lend you my wand, shall I?"

"Well, the pronunciation is rather twisty. It took me days to get it right. But the book said--"

"What book?"

"The Origins of Vodoun."

"Huh! I never saw that one in the Hogwarts library."

"It's not. I found it in Professor Dumbledore's office. But you know, I think a beefed-up Dis-Spell will work. The book said it would if the wizard is sufficiently powerful."

"I should be able to manage that."

Hermione arched an eyebrow. "All right. You have to say it nine times, starting low and slow and getting louder each time. And the rhythm has to be very even."

"You don't have to tell me. I did pretty well in OWLs myself... and NEWTs."

That was it, the missing memory. There had been an article in The Daily Prophet about John Dawlish the summer after her first year: ten Outstanding NEWTs, the best showing for Gryffindor in over a hundred years--since Dumbledore, in fact. She had found herself wanting to top him and, later, Percy. In fact, it had become one of the forces driving her to request a Time-Turner in third year. She had forgotten about that until now... now, when striving for grades and making Head Girl seemed less than nothing compared to her current goals.

But in spite of his superior skill and hard work, Dawlish had not made Head Boy. Why was that? She cast back to her first year. The Head Boy that year was another Gryffindor, a popular fellow. She couldn't remember his name, but his father was associated with The Prophet, the owner, she thought. Did Dumbledore pass over Dawlish in favor of a glad-handing, rich kid? And did Dawlish resent him for it?

The Auror completed the spell reversal expertly, as the Bag gave a yelp and the faint orange glow on its clasp dissipated. He opened it and reached inside, immediately drawing out the jar with Scabbers inside. He was a very hungry and desperate rat by now, Hermione was sure, although at the moment he seemed groggy, perhaps from lack of air.

"What's this?" Dawlish barked.

Now she had a decision to make. Should she tell him the whole truth or just part of it? The fact of Peter Pettigrew's being still alive had to be revealed as quickly as possible, and to officials who wouldn't just let him go, not to someone like Yaxley or Umbridge, or even, perhaps, the Minister himself. Whatever danger she put herself in now could be fixed later. (Well, she hoped it could.) However, just in case Dawlish might have a grudge against the Headmaster, she wouldn't mention the list and the Inferi. Yaxley had said Dawlish made a study of Wanted posters and old cases. Would he recognize Peter Pettigrew if he saw him? Surely he knew about the case. Even some Muggles did. She daren't be too obvious. She'd have feel her way carefully in giving out information and rely on Dawlish's intelligence to fill in the gaps, and his ambition to make sure the word got out.

She said that the rat was actually the mastermind of the bank robbery in Animagus disguise. Dawlish scoffed at this, but she could tell he was intrigued. So she plunged on. Having decided to rob Gringotts from underground, the would-be thief needed to know the best place to start digging. He had kidnapped her when he found her exploring the tunnels, as she had a map with her and seemed to know her way around. He told her only that his name was Peter and made her show him the best place to dig. After he broke through to the bank and the goblins closed in on them, he surprised her by changing into a rat leaving her to fend for herself. But she'd had the presence of mind to grab him by his tail at the last second and jam him into the jar.

"And I took his wand and put an Impervius on it," she said triumphantly.

"What about that ghost?"

Hermione thought quickly, frantically. "Oh, I think he's the famous... erm... 'Sleeping Stiff.' Subterranea Britannica has a pamphlet about him. He was... erm... a homeless person who was... ah... sleeping in the... erm... Strand Theatre on an extremely cold night... and froze to death. When they tore the Strand down, he started haunting the Tube. They say he lies dormant for years and years and only wakes up when the... erm... temperature gets unusually high. He must have been in the wall that Peter blasted through."

Dawlish thought this over and decided it made enough sense to take seriously. He turned his attention back to the jar. Scabbers was awake and shivering now. "So this rat is an Animagus."

"Yes, and the spell to change him back is--"

"I know what it is," he said curtly.

"You might want to Body-Bind him first," she offered humbly.

"And why should I do that?" He started to unscrew the jar, then thought better of it. "He looks harmless enough."

"His hand... it's unnaturally powerful. He used it to carve out the tunnel all by himself."

"Really? Is that why that one paw is sort of silvery?"

"Yes, that's the one." Hermione was glad Dawlish was a sharp fellow. Only Kingsley Shacklebolt would have been so observant.

Yet he did not take her advice at first. He opened the jar and grabbed Scabbers by the tail. The rodent writhed and squealed, and its metallic paw brushed against the Auror's finger, cutting it. "Ouch," cried Dawlish, but he tightened his grip and yelled "Petrificus Totalus!" Scabbers' body stiffened, and he placed it on the cot. He intoned the words of Transfiguration, and the rat once more took human form. The Auror looked him over carefully.

Now came the moment of truth. If Dawlish was a real student of crime, he would...

"Why, that's Peter Pettigrew!" he exclaimed.

Hermione played innocent while hugging herself mentally. "Really? Who's he?"

"He was killed... supposedly in a gas explosion. Don't you know your history? It happened about twenty years ago."

"I'm a Mudblood, remember? Besides, it was before my time."

"Greatrakes alive! If this really is him, I've got to tell Yaxley right away!"

Hermione thought fast. "Oh dear, I don't think that would be wise."

"Why not?"

"Mr. Yaxley seemed rather an ambitious type... and he is your superior, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"Well, my experience with such people is that when an important discovery is made, they tend to take all the glory themselves. And the person who did all the work gets left out."

"He wouldn't do that," Dawlish said brusquely. Without another word to her, he placed a Levicorpus on Pettigrew and directed the body out of the cell, locking the door on his way out. She heard him open another cell, far down at the end of the hall, presumably to house Pettigrew for the time being.

~*~

She spent the night on the lumpy cot, unfed and, at first, thinking about other things, trying not to worry about whether Dawlish had taken her advice. She had no idea what had happened to Kirlie though she was sure that under competent hands, he could be cured. She wondered where Sirius and James and Reg were. She imagined that she wouldn't be seeing her Marauder friends any time soon since Lord Death had been rather adamant when he'd crashed the cast party about their staying on their side of the Beyond from now on. And as for Reg, well, Bea Lamb had been rather importunate, and he hadn't seemed all that unhappy to go with her. Surely they had been more than mere deathbed acquaintances. Who knew if she'd ever see him again?

Around midnight, a house-elf brought her a drink--tepid water--and two stale croissants. She fell upon these ravenously. Moments later she drifted off to sleep, a deep, exhausted sleep in which jangling keys, flashing lights, and loud, excited voices figured heavily.

In the morning, she found herself covered head-to-toe in a thick blanket. Someone had been very solicitous, she thought as she stretched herself. Shortly thereafter a single silent wizard appeared, waved his wand and opened her cell door. He was tall and rather well-dressed for a gaoler with a fine mane of black hair combed back from his bulging forehead, and a full beard, shot through with gray streaks. She expected he would be escorting her to a courtroom where grave mages in purple robes would pass somber judgment on her.

But no, he gestured her to go up a flight of steps halfway along the corridor to the vast Atrium and then into a lift. She hoped to see a friendly face along the way--Tonks, perhaps, or Mr. Weasley, or even the grim-faced Kingsley Shacklebolt. But she recognized almost no one who entered or left the lift at each stop. One wizard did look familiar, a nervous fellow who reminded her of a young Cornelius Fudge. He was mumbling to himself and, at one point, dropped a file he was carrying. "Application for Employment" it said on the tab.

It frightened her terribly when Walden Macnair stepped into the lift. He didn't recognize her though he did nod at the wizard escorting her. "Pious," he muttered oddly, but perhaps she misunderstood. She was too cold and tired to wonder about it.

They reached their destination, Level One according to the lift's Auto-Announcer. The hallways (there were many of these radiating out from the lift entrance) were carpeted in a rich bluish-purple plush. They went down one that had polished mahogany doors every twenty feet or so, turned a corner, and soon came to a large, open office with many desks, each occupied by a very busy clerk. There was a door to the right and a much larger one straight ahead down another short, narrow corridor past the desks. It was for this door that they were headed. Behind it was a small waiting room... and the office of Minister for Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour.

~*~

"Miss Granger."

"Minister," she nodded as she took a seat across from him.

"That will be all, Thicknesse," he croaked to her escort, who lingered at her shoulder. "It wasn't necessary for you to bring her yourself, you know." He smiled at her, nastily, she thought. "Even though she is the smartest student at Hogwarts, she is only that: a student."

"I know, Minister, I just thought, since she was a friend of the number one--"

Scrimgeour rose, spluttering, "I told you, he's not--we're not using that term anymore."

"But the Undersecretary said--"

The Minister strode around his desk, caught Thicknesse's elbow, and steered him to the door. "I don't care what she said. Pot... he is not the enemy."

Hermione heard the door open and close. Rufus Scrimgeour, looking a trifle ruffled, took his seat and scowled at her from behind his pince-nez. Once she would have been afraid of him, but she had learned a lot over the past month, especially from James and Sirius, and she felt she had this old warlock's measure.

He said composedly enough, "You have been making trouble again, I see, Hermione Granger. Breaking into Gringotts, a very serious offense. I'm surprised the goblins gave you up to us. Usually they just lock thieves away in one of those timed vaults of theirs that only open once every five hundred years or so."

"I already told Auror Dawlish--"

"Yes, I have his report here." He tapped a sheaf of papers. "So Peter Pettigrew, whom everyone--Muggle and mage alike--thought was dead for almost twenty years, comes back to life, decides he'd like to celebrate his resurrection by burrowing into the most impregnable institution in the Magicosm, and kidnaps an eighteen-year-old Muggle-born witch to help him do it. Because she--and I quote--'likes to muck about the disused tunnels of the Underground.'"

"I... I'm something of a history buff," she said.

"And Pettigrew... somehow... knew this."

"Well... erm... I was carrying some maps... and I suppose he just put two and two together."

"Very convenient, I must say. Oh, I do thank you for catching him for us. Reporters are having a field day with the story."

Hermione felt a great happy glow starting in the region of her chest, but she kept her voice calm by main force. "You're not suppressing it?"

"Of course not! Dawlish did a bit of digging, and it became quickly clear that Pettigrew must have framed Sirius Black for the Potters' deaths, and was therefore in league with He Who Must Not Be Named since Day One. It was quite a feather in our cap to be able to announce this."

"Oh, that's good!" She wondered if Dawlish would get a promotion out of it. She hoped so.

"Well, not that good, I'm afraid. The Prophet is sure to blame the Ministry for having allowed an innocent wizard to be blamed."

"But Sirius is vindicated now. He'll like that--"

"He's dead, Miss Granger. Or hadn't you heard? However, there's already talk of giving him some kind of posthumous recognition. At the very least, a full pardon... and perhaps OM third class."

"That's wonderful."

"But it's not all good news. You see, Pettigrew escaped."

"What? How?"

"Somehow he wrenched the bars off his cell, without even a wand."

"Oh dear, it must have been his hand," Hermione muttered. In his excitement, Dawlish must have neglected to reflect on the possible consequences of its power. She didn't want to get him into trouble so she added, "I--I forgot to mention it."

"What about his hand?"

"It's made of metal. Voldemort gave it to him. He used it to dig that tunnel all by himself."

"An Adamantine Hand, I suppose. A very difficult magic to master. But I would expect it of our enemy. Yes, young lady, that was an unfortunate omission on your part. One might almost wonder if it was deliberate."

"How can you say that?"

"I'm not saying I believe that it was, but it has occurred to at least one Ministry official that you and Harry Potter might actually be setting yourselves up as rivals to the Dark Lord and that Pettigrew might have switched over to your side to atone for his part in Potter's parents' deaths."

"That's crazy! Wait a minute. Would this Ministry official be Dolores Umbridge by any chance?"

"Actually, no. It was the brain-child of the man who brought you in here, Pius Thicknesse. He's head of Magical Law Enforcement."

"And that's why he brought me here himself. He's afraid of my power?"

"More likely he wanted to see if he could stick around to hear the details of your confession. You see, Dawlish didn't report on Pettigrew to him but came straight to me. It worries Pius a good deal."

What does that mean, I wonder? thought Hermione.

"I hired him you know."

"Mr. Thicknesse?"

"Heavens, no! John Dawlish. He's not the easiest person to like with his know-it-all airs but a damned good Auror all the same." The Minister said this with a curious look of affection, but then he scowled at her. "But the question now is: what do we do with you, Miss Know-It-All?"

"That's simple," said Hermione, trying to put in her voice a confidence she didn't feel. "Peter Pettigrew was the instigator of the robbery; I was an unwilling participant. That should be enough for the Wizengamot to acquit me."

"Yes, it should be, especially given your spotless record at school. But I have a problem here. The goblins badly want some heads to roll, and with Pettigrew unavailable--"

"But we didn't actually steal anything--"

"You ruined a very fine bas-relief of Fangfarkle Gringott, the founder of the bank. And goblins are very big on punishment as a discouragement to other would-be robbers. They believe a Knut of prevention is worth Galleons of cure... quite strongly, I'm afraid."

"Oh."

"But I can perhaps dissuade them from pushing for your prosecution... if..."

"If what?"

"If you tell me what you've been doing this past month and how it relates to Harry Potter's plans to defeat the Dark Lord."

"I... It doesn't."

"Oh, come now, Miss Granger. You don't expect me to believe that."

"Really, I'm telling you the truth."

"Then what have you been doing all this time?"

"Oh, relaxing, enjoying the holidays..."

"Relaxing, is it? Were you relaxing when my people found you in a rubbish heap outside those Muggle houses last month?"

"Well, no, I had this job doing surveys--"

"Don't tell me that! Magic had just been done inside one of those houses. Elementary magic that you would be more than capable of. Then we got a tip from an anonymous owl that those same houses were going to be raided by Death Eaters the very next night. And we came to find out from your Headmistress that all five of the children living in those houses are Muggle-borns and slated to get their letter from Hogwarts when they reach magical maturity."

"They are? Well, perhaps they were the ones who did the magic."

Minister Scrimgeour snorted. "Perhaps, but I think not. Next, a little girl--a Muggle-born--performed some prodigious magic in one of those Muggle hotels, and the first Auror on the scene saw a young woman who looks a great deal like you hurrying away from her room."

"Oh... well... I'm sure I'm not the only frizzy-haired teenager in Britain--"

"Then we get another owl with a list of persons to be assassinated addressed to a fellow named Mandrake McFustian from the Dark Lord himself! No explanation, just this damning bit of evidence against a wizard we've suspected for a long time but never been able to catch at anything dodgy."

"What has that got to do with me?"

"We found your marks on the letter."

"What? You mean my fingerprints?"

"That Muggle nonsense? No, we found traces of your emotional essence."

"I don't understand."

"Under certain circumstances, especially when the subject is in the throes of some deep duress or passion, a minute bit of his or her essence is exuded through the pores and leaves a discernible stain on parchment or other absorbent material, and its source can be identified by a suitable spell."

Hermione was stunned. "I never knew that."

"Didn't teach it at Hogwarts, I daresay. I wonder, what was the emotion that triggered the evidence, Miss Granger? Abhorrence of McFustian? I hear he's an ugly bugger."

"No, not that... I mean..." Hermione felt herself redden as she remembered her passion for Icky the troll. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"And then there was this story Healer Pye told..."

Hermione's expression became a studied blank. "Who is he?"

"Just a few days ago, Augustus Pye, a Healer of impeccable reputation, came to us claiming to have been drugged by Narcissa Malfoy to assassinate some of our own people."

"What has that got to do with me?"

"When we went to arrest her, a house-elf named Blobby swore up and down that one Hermione Granger--a Ministry agent no less--had promised him that his mistress would not be arrested, that he had given her proof that it was all Pye's doing."

"I--well--what can I say? I mean he's a house-elf. He'll say anything to protect his mistress."

"But how did he know your name?"

"I don't know... maybe Madam Malfoy mentioned it once. Her son Draco was in my class. Um... might I ask, did you catch Madam Malfoy?"

"No, we did not." Scrimgeour sighed. "You're good, Miss Granger. You're very good. All right, I'll let that pass for the moment. How do you explain the attack on one Dudley Dirtsey--"

"Durs--" She almost corrected him, but cleared her throat instead. "Does that name mean anything to me, Minister? I'm afraid not."

"You mean you don't know the name of the family your friend Harry has been living with all these years?"

"Oh, you mean Dursley. Well, I have heard of them. Erm... Dudley. Is that Harry's uncle?"

"No, his cousin. He was attacked and beaten to a pulp by a young wizard a couple of weeks ago. Broke his leg in two places. Without magic apparently."

Hermione could not control the flush of pleasure that rose in her remembering the night Ron fought for her. "How... how do you know it was a wizard who beat him up and not just another Muggle?"

"Young Dursley described the boy to a T. It could only have been a Weasley, and he said you and Potter were involved too...."

Hermione's insides writhed, but she would not give in, not yet. Why, oh, why hadn't they thought to erase Dudley's memory? She guessed Harry didn't know how to do an Obliviate, and she and Ron had been... well... otherwise occupied....

Scrimgeour was droning on. "...but, unfortunately, when we took their memories of that day and put them in the Pensieve--had to take it from that ne'er-do-well brother of Dumbledore's--there was no sign of a fight, not a trace. And we couldn't use Dursley's--"

"Whyever not?"

"It's dangerous to tamper with Muggle memories."

"Oh? That's too bad." Hermione's grimace had turned an uncontrollable grin

"Yes, isn't it? Then you were found in the Department of Mysteries under very compromising circumstances."

"I... erm... I just wanted to visit and see if... erm... the place had been fixed up... after... you know... after the battle with the Death Eaters."

"After you destroyed the Hall of Prophecy, you mean."

"Well, yes, but it did get Voldemort out into the open--"

"Where he's been ever since, persuading giants and veelas and werewolves to side with him!"

"But at least now you know--"

"Now I know what? I know nothing!" Rufus Srimgeour thundered. "You and Potter are hiding things from me, Miss Granger, facts of the utmost importance, just as Dumbledore did in his time, and I tell you I won't have it!" He stopped, breathing hard, his face red, his eyes watering. He took a deep breath and added with forced patience, "You must understand. I only want to... help..."

Hermione just shook her head. She had the upper hand now. He had no evidence that would stick. It made her feel a bit giddy.

Scrimgeour continued, "And then there was all that to-do at Saint Mungo's, which you were, once again, at the center of... "

"I'm interested in possibly becoming a Healer--"

"Oh, really! And were you perhaps trying out your Healing powers on the Rehabilitation Ward? They tell me it will never be the same."

Thank heavens, thought Hermione. Aloud, she said, "But I didn't do anything, and you can't prove I did."

"But you were there, as you have been in all these other fiascoes. I ask again, what is the purpose of all this?"

You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Hermione thought.

Scrimgeour went on relentlessly, "Then there are rumors that you visited the necromancer Erechthys in Knockturn Alley and conversed with the souls of the damned dead."

She felt curiously detached now, even a little fey. "Erm... I did do that."

"Why?"

"Curiosity. I wanted to see how the other half lived... and died."

"Very funny. And we tracked you to Grimmauld Place, where you immediately disappeared. If you're Apparating without a license, I warn you--"

"I have my license. It's in my bag."

"You were seen at the French Ministry."

"I was visiting a friend who was in trouble."

"What sort of trouble?"

"She was falsely accused of treason by some jealous schoolmates. She's free now."

"You were also seen in the town of Vratsa in Rumania."

"I have friends there too."

"Yes, one of whom is Victor Krum, who is known to be consorting with enemies of the Rumanian Ministry. Don't you know it's dangerous to be going abroad in these troubled times?"

"I travel with my parents every holiday. It's a tradition with us."

"But you went alone this time."

"Well, I'm of age now. I can do what I want."

"Not for long!" He crossed to an elaborate fireplace on the opposite wall, threw in some Floo powder, and shouted into it, "Yaxley, get in here."

Almost immediately, the wizard in the ornate robes, who was likely a Death Eater, came bustling in. Scrimgeour muttered, "Take Miss Granger back to her cell."

~*~

She spent the rest of the afternoon lying on the cot, kicking herself for being so flippant at the end. She had enraged the Minister beyond his control. The "Christmas Carol" skit had changed his attitude somewhat, but apparently not to the extent of removing his distrust of her and her friends. "Ron and Harry will just have to go on without me," she thought sadly.

Then, just when she thought she might have to beat on the bars to get a decent meal, Pius Thicknesse came and opened her cell door. "You may go" was all he said and handed her the Bag of Holding.

She thought it must be a trick, a trap, or something. All the clichés in all the suspense movies she had ever seen came back to her. She would be Avada Kedavra-ed in the back shortly for trying to escape, or the lights would go out and some unnamed monster would tear her to pieces.

But no, she walked down the corridor, up the steps and into the Atrium without so much as a Jelly-legs fired at her. Perhaps they were tailing her somehow or there was a bomb in the bag set to go off as soon as she got outside.

She got into line at the Floo fireplaces. To calm her nerves she looked about her. Only now did she notice that the Fountain of Magical Brethren was gone, and a great, black, oblong plinth sat in its place. She heard scratching noises and saw, on one side of the plinth, house-elves carving letters into the stone with what looked like a Scooping Spell. As they worked, two witches in denim robes Accioed small carved stone figures onto the plinth. Those she could see were naked and posed grotesquely, one on hands and knees, another bent over backwards, a third twisted so that its head faced completely opposite to the way its feet were going. The witches stopped to argue a moment about the figures' placement, and she looked at the elves again. So far they had spelled out MAGIC IS MIG. What could the next word be? MAGIC IS MIGRATORY? MAGIC IS MIGUEL? She hoped the elves weren't misspelling whatever MAGIC was meant to be although it seemed likely. Her friend Dobby's pronunciation had never been all that great, and she dreaded to think what kind of punishments the poor creatures might have to inflict upon themselves when the mistake was discovered.

She had no time to waste on such thoughts though. She didn't even question the reason for Scrimgeour's change of heart. She was free, and she had one last visit to make before going on to the Burrow to her friends at last.

Just as she was about to enter one of the Floo fireplaces ranged along the Atrium wall, a hand pulled her back. Oh, no, she thought, it is a trap. They're sending me to Azkaban. I know it.

But the hand belonged to Percy Weasley, and he was smiling.

"They let you go, I see," he said with no hint of his usual stuffiness.

"Yes. How did you know about it?" He led her to an out-of-the-way bench, and they sat. She caught a glint of amusement in Percy's eyes. It reminded her, just a hair, of Fred and George, which prompted her to make a shrewd guess. "Wait. You had something to do with this, didn't you?"

"Of course. I'm still the Junior assistant to the Minister, aren't I?"

"But how--"

"Well, for one thing, I can tell you there was one huge furor when everyone found out that you were arrested."

"You mean it was in the papers?"

"No, actually, they tried to keep it dark, but when we went down to question Pettigrew, I saw you in that cell and asked Dawlish, the Auror who caught him, about it. He told me you were involved in the attempted bank robbery and that it was really you who captured Peter, but the powers-that-be didn't want anyone to know that. Then the Minister arrived and told me to get something to cover you up with. He didn't want the reporters seeing you."

"So I have you to thank for the blanket."

"Yes. You never even stirred when I put it over you."

"I was that tired."

"No, Dawlish told me. They drugged you in some food they brought you. Didn't want to take a chance on your crying out when we brought the reporters through."

"That explains a lot."

"I told Dad about it, and he told those people you helped--Mortlake and Ovid Bragg and Madam Prod and Ded Diggle and their families. They all owled in Howlers of protest. Oh, and Orrin Orr from the Time lab--don't know what he had to do with it, but the Minister decided he couldn't risk them writing to the Prophet because then it would come out who had actually captured Peter, so he let you go. He really needs all the positive publicity he can get right now."

"But what about the goblins? I thought they wanted my blood."

Percy chuckled. "Actually, they like cold, hard cash a lot better."

Hermione looked at him quizzically, but then her stomach gave a loud grumble. She clutched her middle and asked in a low voice, "Erm... you couldn't Accio me a snack, could you? I'm about starved!"

"Certainly!" He waved his wand and Summoned her a ham and cheese sandwich and a bottle of gillywater.

He continued his explanation while she munched and gulped. "About the goblins: you see, there was a reward put up years ago by the families of the Muggles who were killed in that explosion for information about anyone who might have been in league with Sirius. They just couldn't believe it wasn't some kind of conspiracy."

"Muggles do tend to be like that," said Hermione fondly.

"Since Pettigrew turned out to be the culprit and it was the goblins who captured him, Gringotts got the reward."

"But I bet it was you who pointed it out to them."

"No, it was Dad actually; he keeps files of Mundane news stories. But since I'm the one who's in good with the higher-ups, Dad let me tell the MM about the reward. And, of course, Scrimgeour decided to share the information with the goblins."

"Oh, Percy, thank you, and thank your father for me." Hermione gave him a hug and kiss, which left a blot of mayonnaise on his cheek. He blushed to his ear-tips just the way Ron did. "So you made up with your family?" Hermione's smile was very wide now.

"Yes, but we've got to keep that dark for the time being. Dad thinks I can be more help to the Order if certain powers think we're still on the outs."

"I see."

"So we avoid each other, and I just slip him information at set times on the lift."

"Are things so very bad here?"

He nodded and lowered his voice. "They've brought in some very shady characters, Hermione. That fellow Yaxley--I'm sure he's a Death Eater. He's just been promoted high up in Law Enforcement. And Thicknesse, the head the department, has coveted the MM's job for a long time."

"And Dolores Umbridge?"

"I don't think she's in with You-Know-Who, but she's got her own axes to grind. Watch yourself, won't you?"

"I will, Percy. You too. Are you... Will you be at the wedding?"

"Only in spirit," he said ruefully.

~*~

Hermione Flooed to Hogsmeade and made immediately for the Hog's Head Tavern.

"Mr. Dumbledore... Aberforth, are you home?" she called when she got inside.

"Whoozat? Oh, it's you," the old man mumbled as he fought his way through the curtains. He looked as if he'd been sleeping.

"I'm back, and I'm pleased to say... well, at least, I'm fairly sure... that your brother is safe now."

"I know," he said simply. "I had a dream about it coupla nights ago. He just smiled at me and said, 'Goodbye, Abbie' and walked off. That was it."

"I've brought back your bag."

"Thanks. I may have a use for it, quite soon in fact."

Hermione wanted to ask what use, but his face took on a closed look, so instead she said, "I hear the Ministry borrowed your Pensieve."

"Borrowed it? Stole's more like." He leaned over the bar and whispered, "Warn your family and your friends. They're gonna use it to intergorate anybody that gets in their way."

"Oh, I hope not."

Aberforth shook his head. "Much good it'll do 'em. The real power is there, up at the school."

"What do you mean?"

"Students. Dumbledore's Army." He chuckled.

"Dumbledore's gone now," she reminded him.

"Not this Dumbledore," he said. "My brother thought he knew so much, but who's the survivor here, eh?"

She smiled, not knowing what else to do.

~*~

Hermione returned to Hogwarts to say goodbye to the Headmistress. When she arrived in the office, she heard the sweetest of sounds: Professor McGonagall arguing with her old boss.

"But why won't you tell me, Albus?"

"I simply do not know, Min.... "

Hermione thought to tiptoe out of the room and let them finish, but she just couldn't do it. She had to see that face once more. She had to know that the past month really had been worth all she and Sirius and James and Reg and Kirlie had been through.

"Professor Dumbledore," she cried, running the length of the room.

"Here I am, my dear Miss Granger," his portrait boomed, sounding wonderfully well and whole.

"Where have you been, Hermione?" asked Professor McGonagall, who looked just a trifle frazzled. "We were worried about you. I even heard a rumor that you were arrested...."

"I'm fine. I just had a little unfinished business. And you know Minister Scrimgeour. He still wants to be in control of everything, to know where everyone is every second of the day--especially Harry--but I just told him I haven't a clue. I did come back to say goodbye, but I'm so glad to see the professor's portrait awake and... and aware."

"You could not possibly be gladder than I am," said Dumbledore. "I understand that I have you to thank for..." he glanced at McGonagall, "a great many things."

"I would do anything for you, sir," she said softly. "So would Harry... and Ron."

"I know you all would. I am truly blessed in the loyalty and love of my friends. And I want to pass on a message from your... ahem... summertime acquaintances. Everyone is just fine--and I do mean EVERYONE."

At that word, Hermione thought she saw a ghostly figure with long hair and a guitar flitting about behind the Headmaster. She must be dreaming, but she had to ask, "Is that...?"

"Kirlie Duke? My, yes. All fixed up by our resident expert, Nurse Pomfrey."

Professor McGonagall added, rolling her eyes, "He wants to come back and haunt the site of so many of his escapades."

Hermione goggled at this, and Dumbledore chuckled. "A welcome counterpoint to Peeves, I think. So you need have no further worries as to his welfare, and you can get on with the business of enjoying Mr. Weasley and Miss Delacour's wedding... and whatever comes after."

"Including your schoolwork," said Minerva McGonagall tartly, "which reminds me, I put away some books on Arithmancy you said you'd like to borrow." She bustled over to the walk-in closet and disappeared inside it.

Hermione had one burning question to ask. "Professor, I've looked everywhere and I can't find a single book on Horcruxes. There must have been some here once. Did you destroy them all?"

"Not at all. I never met a book I did not like or at least see some value in. Are you sure you have explored all possible avenues of research?"

"I think so."

"I seem to remember a bit of advice given to Harry once when he was about to face a dragon. The person said, 'Use your strengths' or something like that."

She looked at him. His eyes were twnkling. She said, "And I taught him to use an Accio to bring his broom to him."

Dumbledore nodded. "Something like that, yes."

"Accio. Why didn't I think of that? But I've no wand."

"I believe there are several in the top right-hand drawer. Trophies of old duels, you see."

"Yours?"

"No, the Headmistress's."

Hermione opened the drawer and took out a thick faggot. "Accio books about Horcruxes," she murmured.

Books began to pile up on the desk, several from overhead; two came through the window, two more from the shelves Hermione had straightened, it seemed, an age ago.

Dumbledore explained, "Some of them are disguised as recipe collections, but I am sure you will be able to break the code."

"Oh, thank you, Professor," she said, putting the wand away and gathering the books into her arms.

Minerva McGonagall re-entered the room carrying several more, heavier tomes. She piled them on top of the ones Hermione was already cradling. She wished for a moment that she had kept the Bag of Holding and wondered once again what Aberforth Dumbledore would be using it for.

"Goodbye," she said simply.

"We'll see you in September," said Professor McGonagall.

"Oh, yes... of course." Hermione headed for the door. She heard them continuing their discussion.

"Now, Minerva, as I was saying, I have no idea where that old list went, but I am sure everything on it has been taken care of. Why not start another one? And the first item on it can be, 'Move picture of old fogey Dumbledore to the Great Hall, so he can observe the students at their most festive and frivolous'..."

Hermione turned back briefly to take in the homey picture: the Headmistress, arms akimbo and scowling, the Headmaster emeritus, making expansive gestures as he described yet another project he wanted her to consider, and the ghost of Kirlie Duke dancing from portrait to portrait, twanging his guitar and waking up the other old Heads. She had done what was asked of her. Nobody--well nobody in this dimension--knew more than bits and pieces of the real story. That was fine with her. She had new experience, knowledge, and confidence for the fight ahead. And she knew that a certain somebody cared her, even though he might not remember it just yet.

THE END