5. Words of Warning

5. WORDS OF WARNING

Hermione woke the next morning in a fit of longing to be off on the quest to save Professor Dumbledore, but she still had to report in and see if the new Headmistress had any last minute chores for her to do. As she allowed the moving spiral staircase to propel her up to the office, she heard McGonagall's slightly nasal contralto, tinged with petulance. "You had only to ask. There was no need--"

A voice answered, "Once again, I apologize. My people overstepped their bounds a bit, I admit." But this voice did not sound in the least apologetic.

"A bit?" the Headmistress echoed sarcastically. "You should have seen what those ruffians did. This place was a shambles!"

The door was wide open. Hermione saw the back of the other speaker first. He was on the short side, and wearing a dark cloak. But it could not mute his powerful presence, the broad shoulders, thick neck, and massive, squarish head with a lion's mane of hair streaked yellow, white, and gray.

Minerva McGonagall, who was standing behind the desk, turned sharply at Hermione's entrance. "You're early, Miss Granger."

Hermione hesitated in the doorway. "I'm sorry, Professor. Shall I come back later?"

The man turned and gave her a careless glance. She thought she might have met him before. He made her think of wintertime for some reason. Was it his girth, the high color of his cheeks, the pince-nez, all trademarks of Father Christmas, the 'founder of the feast'? But the lines about the mouth and forehead spoke of a grim tenacity and a shrewdness alien to her image of a jolly old elf. And he was beardless.

"That's all right," said the man brusquely. "I was just leaving." He turned on his heel and limped to the door.

But the Headmistress, at least, remembered her manners. "Minister, this is Hermione Granger, one of our very best students. Miss Granger, the current head of the Ministry, Rufus Scrimgeour." Professor McGonagall emphasized the word current as if she hoped that his tenure would be a short one.

Hermione inclined her head. "Magus Scrimgeour, how nice to meet you."

Now she remembered. Scrimgeour had imprisoned a clueless young wizard named Stan Shunpike on the merest suspicion of Death Eater activity. He had also used Percy Weasley as an emotional wedge to gain access to Harry at the Weasleys' Christmas dinner last year. He had tried on more than one occasion to badger Harry into acting as a "poster child" for the Ministry, the last confrontation coming at Dumbledore's funeral, when Harry was at his most vulnerable. And now he had ordered the ransacking of this very office before its former occupant was cold in his grave.

How could she have thought he looked anything like Father Christmas? This man was a taker, not a giver. He weighed people's value by their political clout. Hermione smiled grimly. She could imagine Rufus Scrimgeour frowning over a list of children, deciding who was worthy of a toy and who would receive a lump of coal. But his decisions would not be based on justice or any lesson the gift might teach, but on the advantages to be gained.

"Hermione Granger, yes." The Minister had stopped in front of her and was staring at her with interest. Now he smiled too. "The pleasure is all mine." He made to take her hand, but she was busy trying to keep her composure to notice. "I've heard a great deal about you."

"Oh?"

"Indeed! The Ministry keeps a close watch on the... progress of students here at the school. You received a raft of Outstanding O.W.L.s, I believe."

"Ten," she replied automatically. "And one EE."

"Mmmm... yes. And captain of the Gobstones team too."

"Ah... no."

"I must be thinking of someone else. You play Quidditch, don't you?"

"Hardly."

"But you're a prefect?"

Hermione only nodded, blank-faced. She recognized this probing spiel. It was just like Professor Trelawney's fishing expeditions in Divination class. Go ahead, she thought cynically. Make lots of vague statements and watch for a reaction. You're bound to hit on an atom of truth sooner or later.

Scrimgeour was rambling on: "... Your parents did equally well at Hogwarts I'm sure...."

"No," she said, carefully keeping the note of triumph out of her voice. "I'm Muggle-born."

"Oh, I must be thinking of another Granger..."

Professor McGonagall interrupted impatiently. "Stop talking nonsense, Rufus. Have you anything further to say? Because if not, Miss Granger and I have work to do."

He turned to her and gave a perfunctory bow. "Once again, Minerva, I offer my apologies for the state of your office. I'll speak to the appropriate department about it. It needn't happen again."

"It would not be wise in any case. Not good for the image, do you think? Aurors on wild goose chases, tearing up school property--"

"Ah... please, let's not trouble Miss Granger with our petty quarrels. I wonder. Do you mind if she sees me to the gate?"

"That won't be necessary. I can remove the Floo Restrictor quite easily."

"No, really, I feel the need for a little exercise. Perhaps a walk to the Three Broomsticks and a small firewhisky. In my position... sitting behind a desk all day, signing papers, delegating work... one gets a bit stiff... I'm used to more action as you know."

"Yes, Rufus, I know. Well, if Miss Granger is willing, she can take some things over to Albus's brother as well. I was going to have the house-elves do it, but they're still a bit... unsettled."

"Afraid to leave the grounds, are they? You know, I could send one or two of my own."

"No, thank you, Minister. Miss Granger, come with me a moment."

Hermione followed the Headmistress into a storeroom. A satchel sat on the floor. The Bag of Holding. "It's very heavy with all those magigadgets," Professor McGonagall said, fumbling in the pocket of her robe. "I'll just put a Lightening Charm on it."

"I can do it, Professor," said Hermione.

"Oh?"

Hermione waved her wand in a complicated series of loops and said the spell, which was longer than most. When she hefted the satchel, it was light as air. She stifled the urge to say "Ta-dahhhh!"

"You are a wonder, child," murmured her teacher. "I can't tell you how many students have never come even close to mastering that one."

"Goodness," said Hermione. "I'd think everyone would want to practice it. It's so very handy."

"It seems to require a high level of dexterity and recall, not to say concentration. Most long-lasting spells do. I'd say only one wizard in ten manages it."

"I guess most are happy to stop at a simple Leviosa. It is so much easier. But of course Levitation only lasts a short time."

"Yes." Professor McGonagall looked at her for a long moment, then seemed to come to herself. "Ah... you know where you're going?"

"Hogsmeade you said, but--"

"The Hog's Head. It's a pub--"

"Oh, I know where it is."

Professor McGonagall raised her eyebrows. "You do?"

Hermione blushed. "Um, well it's a long story--"

"--which no doubt involves Messrs. Potter and Weasley. Collecting bezoars I suppose."

"Well... erm... no. You see--"

"Don't trouble me with the details. It's probably best that I not know what use the three of you had for that den of dust and devilment. Suffice it to say that Aberforth Dumbledore is the proprietor. He's there most days behind the bar, and he has his digs upstairs."

Hermione had trouble digesting this at first. The brother of the greatest headmaster of the greatest school of magic in the wizarding world was a bartender? And there was that other remark...

"Erm... professor, why did you think we'd be collecting bezoars at the Hog's Head?"

"Aberforth has a fondness for goats... er... for their milk I believe. He keeps a small herd of them out back of the pub."

As Hermione picked up the satchel, Professor McGonagall laid a hand on her arm. "Be careful what you say in front of the Minister, my dear. He has a number of hidden motivations."

"You mean about Harry?"

"Yes, among other people. He'd give anything to get a spy inside this place. You heard his offer to send some of his own servants over here to take up the slack."

"You think they'd act as spies for the Ministry?"

"Let's just say I wouldn't trust a gift from Rufus Scrimgeour any farther than I could throw a mountain troll."