Chapter Text
May 16, 2004
Hermione had just dropped her shopping bags on the kitchen counter in her London flat when the floo in her living room flashed green. She cast a quick tempus as she poked her head around the corner. It was nearly nine P.M., and she wasn’t expecting visitors.
She had planned to spend her Sunday evening the way she spent most Sunday evenings: with a mug of tea and a new book. It wasn’t raining, which was rare in London, so tonight she would crack a window to let in the crisp May air.
“HERMIONE!” Harry bellowed as he stumbled out of the floo, wild-eyed and covered in ash.
“I’m in here,” she called from the kitchen, opening the cabinet to retrieve a second mug. The kettle was nearly ready, and Harry wasn’t picky about his tea.
“We have to go!” Harry yelled, barreling through her living room and into the kitchen.
When his hand wrapped around Hermione’s arm, she tried to shake him off. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t have time to explain,” he huffed. “We have to get to the Ministry. Now!”
Hermione blinked in astonishment as Harry all but dragged her from the kitchen and back toward the fireplace.
“Do you have your wand?” He asked frantically as he scooped a handful of floo powder from the jar on her mantle.
“Yes, but what—”
“No time!” Harry yelled.
Hermione’s heart raced as Harry tried to wrestle her into the fireplace. “Harry, I—”
“Hermione, please,” Harry begged.
Hermione ducked under his arm, bending toward the basket she kept on the hearth. It was stocked with various essentials, an old habit from her days on the run with the very man now shoving her into her own floo with no explanation. Hermione’s hand latched onto her beaded bag right before the green flames consumed her.
She could hear the faint whistle of her kettle as she was whisked away.
“You do not—” whack “just kidnap—” whack “people from their own houses!” Whack, whack!
Hermione wiped soot from her eyes and tried to interpret the scene before her. She had arrived in a ministry office, and Ginny Weasley was currently berating (and beating) her brother. Hermione winced as Harry tumbled out of the floo after her, knocking them both to the floor.
Ron hurried across the room to help them up, and more importantly, to avoid further admonishment by his sister. Whatever the reason for Hermione’s abrupt removal from her home, it seemed that Ron had pulled the same maneuver on Ginny.
“I quite agree,” Hermione said, dusting herself off and planting her hands on her hips. “What has gotten into you two?”
Harry and Ron shared a glance, and then stared at their shoes.
“Harry Potter, if you do not tell me what is going on right. now.” Ginny said, glaring at her ex-boyfriend.
It had long ago stopped being awkward for the four of them. They’d given it a go, the two couples, but about a year after the war ended, they each found that what they’d mistaken for passion had actually been sheer angst and urgency prompted by the fear of death. Everything during the war had been clouded, adrenalized, and once they settled into their young adulthood, it all felt… well, a bit familial.
So, they’d called it all off, breaking up with hugs and promises to remain friends. And they did. Young love, a fickle thing. In the five years since then, they’d all dated other people, nothing lasting, and had managed to settle back into the friendship they had all shared during their Hogwarts days. They still spent each Christmas together at the Burrow, and Molly’s handwringing had grown increasingly frantic over the years as it became solidly clear that the couples would not reunite. Still, they were a chosen family. It was this closeness that allowed Ginny to fix Harry with a stare that would turn lesser men to stone.
“Kingsley will be here soon with the others,” Harry said.
“Others?” Hermione asked. “What oth—”
Just then, the floo roared back to life and out stepped Luna Lovegood.
“Hello, everyone,” she said in her dreamy voice. She smiled at nothing in particular and took a seat in one of the wingback chairs in a corner.
The four Gryffindors blinked at her arrival, momentarily stunned into silence. Luna was no less of an oddity in her adulthood than she had been in her youth. Last anyone had heard, she had been spending a great deal of time in Iceland, studying various astronomical events. Hermione couldn’t think of a better profession for Luna than a stargazer. Luna Lovegood seemed to be the Northern Lights personified.
“Luna,” Harry began, his voice laced with concern. “Where is Kingsley?”
“Oh, he’ll be along,” Luna said casually. “He said he had to get Neville.”
“You came alone?” Harry asked.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Luna peered up at Harry, confused. But of course she had. Luna would not have found it at all odd that the Minister for Magic had suddenly appeared at her home on a Sunday evening, demanding that she immediately report to the Ministry.
“Right,” Harry said, shooting a glance at Hermione that conveyed his thoughts very clearly: why did you have to be so difficult?
When Neville and Kingsley arrived, Harry and Ron finally appeared to relax. Hermione was not relaxed. An hour before she’d been in Diagon Alley, buying a few household potions, browsing at Flourish and Blotts, and preparing for a lovely evening in. Now she was gathered at the Ministry with some of her closest friends, once again caught in the middle of some ill-defined emergency.
“Minister, if I may,” Hermione started.
“Have a seat please, Ms. Granger. All of you, have a seat.”
Hermione blinked at the Minister’s formal tone. As a Ministry employee, she technically worked for him, but she had known him since she was a teenager. She took her seat, a sense of impending doom replacing her irritation over being denied information.
“As you all know, Death Eater sentiments did not die with the war,” Kingsley started.
Hermione frowned at this. Death Eater sentiments had faded significantly, but pureblood elitism certainly had not. Most of the Death Eaters had been rounded up and shipped to Azkaban in the months following the Battle of Hogwarts, but there were several pureblood elitists that had never been officially involved in Voldemort’s regime. Even some Death Eaters themselves had received light sentences or official pardons in exchange for testimony, information, and even bribes to Wizengamot members. It didn’t help that during Voldemort’s reign, a law had been passed stating that any heir of a sacred twenty-eight family could claim a seat on the Wizengamot and displace a member of lesser blood status. The law had never been overturned, largely due to the fact that so many of the sacred twenty-eight families had been wiped out during the war, or imprisoned during the trials. Still, Hermione thought it was a glaring oversight to leave the law in place. History was truly condemned to repeat itself.
“I have been closely monitoring several Death Eater cells for the past six years. There have been a number of schemes uncovered over the years, but this plotting has been mostly disorganized, and if I’m honest, lacked enthusiasm. However, with the recent release of Antonin Dolohov, that has changed. It seems he is quite capable of holding a grudge.”
“A grudge? He’s a blood purist,” Hermione said.
Kingsley nodded slowly. “He is. But it seems his primary focus at the moment is not the eradication of muggle-born witches and wizards, but instead exacting revenge. He is particularly aggrieved about the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. You all represent… well, the last survivors of the battle.”
Hermione glanced at Harry and then at Ron. They looked grey, but didn’t seem too surprised by this information. Both were aurors now and must have been aware of various Death Eater revenge plots for some time through the Ministry and other channels.
“It is…” Kingsley cleared his throat. “Rather fortunate, from a Ministry perspective, that he has decided to target this particular group of people. Potter and Weasley have been assigned to this case, in part because they are intimately familiar with the way that Dolohov thinks, and as two of the targets, can be instrumental in assisting their Department in stopping him. However, for the rest of you,” he paused for a moment, assessing Hermione, Ginny, Neville, and Luna in turn. “Precautions must be taken.”
“Precautions, sir?” Neville asked.
“It is not safe for you in England at the moment. There is a property in… well, in Europe. I cannot tell you where, because even I do not know its exact location. Security is paramount, and the security of this property is unmatched. It will serve as a safe house for the four of you while we work to bring Dolohov and his cohort to justice.”
“You want us to go to a safe house… somewhere in Europe?” Hermione asked, stunned.
“Indeed,” Kingsley confirmed. “I know this is not ideal, but I have been assured that the home is quite comfortable. The owner of the property is an ally of ours. He has been a part of my efforts over the past six years to round up the remaining Death Eaters. In fact, in alerting me to this plot, his role as my informant was revealed to Dolohov, and he is now a target of this plot himself. He will join you in the safe house.”
“The owner of the safe house… he’s a spy, you mean?” Neville asked.
“That’s correct, Mr. Longbottom.”
“A Death Eater spy?” Ginny asked dubiously.
“Yes.” Kingsley confirmed.
Hermione glanced at Harry, who had his head cradled in his hands. Ron looked rather green. Neither would look at her. A cold feeling was seeping out of her spine. Anxiety, foreboding, absolute dread.
“Kingsley...” Hermione started, already regretting the question she was about to ask. “Who is the spy?”
Kingsley looked weary, but he didn’t break eye contact as he answered her question. “Draco Malfoy.”
The room erupted immediately. Hermione and Ginny were the loudest, followed closely by Ron, who seemed to mostly be yelling at Harry, who was yelling at Hermione, who was yelling at everyone.
Only Luna was silent. She had pulled a small notebook from her pocket and appeared to be making a list. Hermione glanced at it in between her shouted objections.
“This is outrageous, I cannot believe you would—”
- Telescope
- Star charts
“—not safe, how could you even think—”
- Coordinates of property
“—safest place you could be!—”
“—youngest Death Eater in history!—”
- Perseids upcoming
- Cloud cover?
“—it’s bloody Malfoy!—”
“ENOUGH!” Kingsley barked.
The room fell into a stunned silence and for a moment only the scratching of Luna’s quill could be heard.
“Now you listen to me. If you stay in London, I cannot guarantee your safety. Dolohov is coming for each of you, and he is coming now. I do not have time to focus on protecting the four of you when I have a perfectly safe place to house you while Potter, Weasley and I work this case. I have lost three spies in one day, and I only have one left in the field. My priority, in addition to tracking down Dolohov, is preserving the one spy I have left. You will be safe at the Malfoy property. It is second only to Gringotts in terms of security.”
“Then lock us in Gringotts!” Hermione yelled, stupidly.
Ginny shoved her knee into Hermione with a warning look. Ron looked hopefully up at Kingsley for a brief moment and then shook his head, clearly remembering that Gringotts was not a safe house, but in fact, a bank. A bank that Harry, Ron, and Hermione had broken into when they were seventeen.
Harry shook his head sadly and stood. “Listen, I know we all hate the bloke. But I’ve gone over and over this in my head and I think Malfoy’s plan is the best option. I think… well I expected that Dolohov would be a problem when he was released, but I thought we would have more time to prepare. Malfoy only just warned me last night. He’s already dispatched Blaise to the property—”
“Blaise Zabini?” Ginny asked.
“Zabini,” Harry confirmed. “He’s one of the other spies. He was never a Death Eater, but he moved in their circles. Him and Theodore Nott. The three of them have been keeping tabs on the Death Eater operation. They’ve been quite useful, if you can believe it.”
“We need to move you tonight,” Kingsley took over for Harry. “I have a portkey that will take you to France. It is a risk to use a portkey at all, but right now it is our best option. It is very unlikely that Dolohov will be able to trace a portkey, but if he does, and, if he puts it together that you are hidden at a Malfoy property, which I do not anticipate, he will assume that you are at one of the Malfoy properties in France. Apparently, there are several.”
Ginny snorted. “Yes, we’ve been told that. Many times, for many years.”
Kingsley gave her a stern look. “Ms. Weasley. I understand there is great animosity between the Malfoy and Weasley families, and there is good reason for that. But can you think of any family in our world with whom you would feel safer, if their mission was to protect you? Can you think of any family that has lived a more paranoid life, has hoarded more wealth, has manipulated more people?”
“No,” Ginny scoffed immediately.
“I know that you do not trust him, but I do. He put himself at great personal risk to save your lives. As did Zabini and Nott. I am not asking you to like this plan, I am asking you to agree to it.”
Ginny and Hermione shared a look. They would be together, at least. And they would have Neville and Luna as well. Neville watched the girls closely, clearly resigned to whatever decision they made. Hermione glanced over at Harry. His green eyes were sad, but not scared. He nodded at her, and Hermione sighed.
Fine. They would go.
“How long?” Hermione asked Kingsley.
There was a slight twitch in Kingsley’s eyebrow, and for the first time Hermione thought he looked apprehensive. “Dolohov does not know how much we know about his plan, only that he has been betrayed. He is, after six years in Azkaban, predictably manic. He will make mistakes if we let him continue down this path for a bit longer. It is not only Dolohov we are after. We hope to arrest and try as many of the remaining Death Eaters as possible before we bring you home.”
“How long?” Hermione repeated, an edge creeping into her voice.
Kingsley sighed. “We hope to have the operation concluded in about six months.”
It turned out the plan was actually quite simple, and absolutely fucking insane. At three in the morning they would take the portkey to France, where Zabini and Nott would be waiting to side-along apparate them however many jumps it would take to arrive at their final destination. And then, they would simply live, in total isolation, in a Malfoy property, for six months.
Half a bloody year.
Hermione was reeling. She had a job. She had a life. Well, her job was her life, though she wouldn’t admit it out loud, and anyway, that was beside the point. She could not just uproot her life and move away for six months. She was working on a report about the land rights of centaur herds that was likely to result in desperately needed legislation. If she simply disappeared, who would continue her work while she was away? None of her colleagues had the passion or work ethic she possessed. She was not prepared for such a long absence.
All seven of them sat in the Ministry office for another five hours, while Kingsley plied them with tea and biscuits and refused to answer any further questions. The four refugees were not allowed to return home to retrieve any belongings.
“Everything you need will be provided for you,” Kingsley said sternly.
Hermione wondered vaguely if the Ministry or the Malfoy vaults would be paying for that, and whether that had factored into Kingsley’s decision.
There would be no floo calls, no mail, no visitors at the Malfoy property. They would be cut off from the world. If a message needed to reach them, an ad would be printed in the Daily Prophet, or rather, whatever the local version of the Daily Prophet was, in whatever country they would be in. Malfoy, apparently, spoke the local language. Not that that fact narrowed down the options very much. Hermione knew he spoke French and could read Latin, but Harry told her he also spoke Russian, Italian, and inexplicably, Farsi. Also, rudimentary Spanish, rudimentary German, and curse words in every language. Well, that was the natural outcome of private tutors and a billionaire father.
“How are you planning to place ads in the local paper if you don’t even know where we’ll be staying?” Hermione asked, suddenly sure she’d found a flaw in the plan.
“We’ll place the ad in every paper.”
“What?”
Harry shrugged. “He’s obsessed with secrecy, Hermione. That’s kind of the whole reason we chose him.”
At three A.M., Hermione hugged Harry, and then Ron, and then she even hugged Kingsley. She was furious at him, and he knew it. But he was only trying to keep her safe, and she knew it.
When they had finished their goodbyes, Kingsley procured a handkerchief from his pocket and shook out the portkey onto the table. It was a rusted nail.
Well, that was apt, Hermione thought bitterly as she placed her finger on it. The nail in her fucking coffin.
Hermione had never liked portkey travel, though she knew this did not make her unique. It was not uncommon for portkey travelers to vomit during or after the trip. When Hermione landed on French soil, her nausea had nothing to do with the portkey.
They were a tangle of limbs, Neville extricating himself first and helping up Luna, then Hermione. Ginny popped up easily on her own. Fucking quidditch players. Ginny was a chaser for the Holyhead Harpies and she must have been devastated to miss a season of quidditch. Kingsley assured Hermione that her job in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures would be waiting for her when she got home, but Ginny would have to take care to stay in shape, lest she return to find that she had been cut from the team. Neville was now a botanist, to absolutely no one’s surprise. He sold ingredients to potioneers all over England and while his customers would surely find new sources in his absence, there was no doubt that they would immediately resume buying from Neville upon his return. No one knew plants quite like Neville did.
Luna seemed the least concerned about the interruption to her work. She was a researcher, and while Hermione was perplexed by Luna’s laissez-faire attitude about her hiatus, she assured them that it wasn’t unusual for people in her field to simply disappear for a little while, only to return with stunning findings to share with the community.
Presumably, the list that Luna had been making earlier was a list of tools she would need. Was she planning to ask Malfoy to provide her with those things? Luna and Malfoy had enjoyed a cordial relationship after the Battle of Hogwarts, with Luna being the first to volunteer to testify at Malfoy’s trial. Luna spoke of Malfoy sneaking her food and potions while she had been held in the Malfoy dungeons during their sixth year at Hogwarts. Harry had also testified for Malfoy. Ron and Hermione had refused.
He received no Azkaban sentence. One year of house arrest and significant reparations - significant to the recipients, but not to the Malfoys. The sum barely made a dent in their vault. Well, vaults. Plural.
Hermione had been surprised by the lenient sentence at the time. Some other young Death Eaters had received light sentences, but nearly all of them served time in Azkaban. Hermione thought the testimony of his Hogwarts classmates must have been particularly compelling, or more likely, that he had bribed someone. Or multiple someones. But it turned out it was Kingsley who had saved him from that gods-awful island. He had become an informant immediately before his sentencing.
She remembered how Malfoy had looked at his trial, all pinched and sallow, nearly grey from stress and lack of sleep, and of course, dark magic. His silver eyes had been sluggish as they moved across the court room. She had pitied him. The pity had not interfered with her disgust. And that was the last time she’d seen him. Nearly six years ago.
“I think that’s it,” Neville said. “The tree.”
They were to meet Zabini and Nott at a tree near the spot where the portkey had dropped them. That was all Kingsley had said, a tree. You’ll know the one, he promised.
Well, yes, this had to be the one. It was mangled and dead and enormous. It looked torn in half by lightning.
“And we just… go to it?” Ginny asked.
Luna had already set off for the tree, and the others followed, wands drawn at their sides. The moon was just a sliver of her true glory, low and dim in the night sky, offering no guidance. Hermione wanted to cast a lumos, but she knew it was unwise. She had no idea if they were in magical or muggle France, friendly or unfriendly territory.
As they drew closer to the tree, two shadowed figures emerged, seemingly from its hollowed out trunk, and began walking toward them.
“Oi,” one of the shadows called out. “Are you lot looking for an extended vacation?”
“Shut the fuck up,” the other one hissed.
Neville broke into a jog to catch up with Luna before her form was consumed by darkness. But just as he reached her, one of the shadows lunged forward, wrapping its arms around both Luna and Neville, and disapparated with a crack.
Hermione screamed. It was more out of shock than fear, but it didn’t matter. Anyone in the vicinity would have heard. Ginny clapped her hand over Hermione’s mouth and pulled her to the ground instinctively.
“Fucking Theo,” the second shadow cursed under his breath and then he started loping in the girls’ direction. “We have to get out of here. The faster we get away from that damn portkey, the better.”
He held out two arms, one for each of the girls, and they took them without question. Simple. Insane.
They reappeared in a field— or was it a vineyard? There were vines, just visible in the early morning light. It was lighter here than it had been at their last location, though only a few seconds had passed. It meant they were moving south, ever so slightly toward the equator. Only twenty minutes or so had passed since they were standing in a Ministry office, and now she was hundreds of miles away. Funny how quickly the world seemed to dump you into an entirely new universe. Or, into the same one you thought you’d left behind years ago.
Hermione reached out to touch the vine beside her, though she knew better.
“Don’t,” came the shadow’s voice. “Don’t touch anything. We aren’t staying here long. It’s two more jumps, I just need some time to build up my reserves.”
“Where are Neville and Luna?” Ginny whispered back.
“They’re with Theo. We’re taking different routes. He’ll make sure they’re safe. He’s quite a good duelist, when he’s taking it seriously.”
“Do they need a duelist?” Hermione asked, trying not to sound horrified at the prospect.
“No, but I thought it might make you feel better.”
“Okay,” Hermione said. “It doesn’t.”
She wasn’t sure why she added that last part. She was tired. Fatigue made her honest. Or reckless.
“I know,” the shadow said.
Blaise Zabini. That was the shadow’s name. Hermione knew very little about him. Not a Death Eater, but moved in their circles, Harry had said. Blaise had been in their year at Hogwarts, a Slytherin, and a close friend of Malfoy’s. Had he been in the Slug Club? Hermione thought so. What had Slughorn seen in him? Wealth, probably.
She thought she might have seen him around the ministry once or twice over the years, but had never given it any thought. He, like so many of her schoolmates, had faded into the recesses of her mind after they’d left Hogwarts. She had never thought she’d get to know him. She had never wanted to get to know him.
“Ready to go again?” Blaise asked. He held out his arms.
The next time they landed Hermione though she could smell water. What did water smell like? Perhaps it wasn’t the smell of water, but the feel of it in the air. They had sat in the vineyard for probably half an hour, and so she expected they would probably stay here for the same period of time, or a little longer. Side-along apparition was harder than apparating alone, and she knew they were traveling great distances on top of that. Some men didn’t know when to say when, they just pushed and pushed themselves to prove something to someone, and ended up splinched or dead or working for the Dark Lord, and Hermione was pleased to see that Blaise didn’t seem like that type of man. At least not when it came to apparition. She hoped that Theo had the same good sense that Blaise did in this respect.
She was also pleased that Blaise didn’t seem very talkative. Wherever they were, the stars were visible but fading. They were undoubtedly moving south. Luna might know, based on the stars, where they were heading. Hermione remembered so very little from Astronomy class; it had never been one of her favorite subjects. But the stars were nice, she thought, as she lay down on her back and looked up at them. She hoped Luna wouldn’t have to worry too much about cloud cover wherever they were going. It was always so cloudy in London. Had it rained in London tonight after all? Had Hermione’s kettle turned itself off after she left? If her flat burned down, would Harry send her a message about it? There were so many books there that she hadn’t yet read, it would be a shame if they were burnt to a crisp. She should make a list of everything she’d bought recently so that she could replace them if she needed to. Oh, and that report on centaurs she’d been working on. She’d brought a copy of it home to work on over the weekend. It was still sitting on her coffee table, covered in red ink. Would Harry know to retrieve it? He could bring it to the Ministry for her so that someone else could be assigned to work on that legislation while she was gone. It was important. She didn’t want her work to languish in her absence. She hadn’t mentioned it to Harry… But Kingsley knew… would he tell Harry?… would he…..
Ginny placed her hand over Hermione’s mouth before she shook her awake.
“It’s me,” Ginny whispered. “Time to go.”
“Was I asleep?” Hermione blinked rapidly, trying to clear her head.
“Just for a minute,” Ginny said.
Blaise held out his arm for the final time, and Hermione braced herself for whatever fresh hell would be waiting for her on the other side.