Follow Through

She said life's a lot to think about sometimes
When you're living in between the lines
And all the stars are sparkling, shine everyday

He said life's so hard to move in sometimes
When it feels like I'm in the line
And no one even cares to ask me why I feel this way

And I know you feel helpless now

And I know you feel alone
That's the same road

The same road that I'm on

"The Road I'm On" Three Doors Down

**

"Now this has to be a new record," Neville Longbottom commented with a shake of his head. "Three years after passing N.E.W.T.s with the highest scores ever and you can still find Hermione Granger in the Hogwarts library."

Hermione laughed appreciatively from her perch atop one of the rolling ladders, where she'd been perusing the volumes on the highest shelves of the Restricted Section. "How did you know I was here?"

"Minerva told me," Neville explained. He gestured to the chronicle Hermione was perusing while carefully balancing on one of the highest rungs. "Working again?"

"A writer's work never ceases," Hermione responded flippantly. She tucked the book under her arm and climbed down to greet Neville properly. He remained remarkably unchanged since their Hogwarts days: the boyish curling blonde hair, the heavier stature, and the round, earnest face. But there was a confidence there that had only been present in Neville Longbottom for a few years, and it was that newfound self-respect that made him seem like a completely different person. She hopped off the ladder to give him a hug and a fond smile. Neville had been her first friend at Hogwarts, and although she wasn't as close to him as she was to Ron, Harry, and Ginny, he would nevertheless always have a special place in her heart. He had been teaching Herbology for two years now; he had spent his first year after graduation assisting Madame Pomfrey before her retirement. "How's teaching?" she inquired.

"Fantastic," Neville said enthusiastically. "Minerva is trying to get us the funding to add a greenhouse devoted solely to medicinal plants--we're thinking about implementing a Healing program for interested sixth and seventh-years."

"I didn't know you were interested in Healing," Hermione remarked.

"Well, I learned a fair bit when Ginny took advanced studies in the field in her seventh year--Poppy and I would help her out," Neville explained.

Hermione fought a small bittersweet smile. It made sense that Neville had cultivated an interest in that topic because of Ginny. After spending masses of time trying to desperately discover what she wanted to do with her life, Ginny had finally realized that she, like her brother Charlie, had a passion for animals. Her natural talent for simple Healing charms and Herbology had led her to study independently in creature Healing, and she now worked in a clinic for injured and sick magical creatures. Hagrid had also assisted in Ginny's training, but Neville had been the primary one assisting her. Hermione had a suspicion that it could be because Neville harbored more-than-friendly feelings for the youngest Weasley, but he would never act on them out of his infinite respect for Harry.

"How is she?" Neville added casually.

"Fine," Hermione said gently. She set down the chronicle she had been paging through, giving Neville her undivided attention. "She's at a banquet for Mr. Weasley and is probably the belle of the ball, as usual."

Neville chuckled under his breath before giving Hermione a quizzical frown. "And why aren't you there? You and Ron aren't...?"

"Oh, goodness, no!" Hermione interjected, feeling a bit sick at the thought. "Ron's away on assignment, and I felt a bit odd about going without him. It seemed like a family affair, and I didn't want to intrude."

"And you aren't family?" Neville reminded her with arched eyebrows. Hermione just shrugged and glanced toward the window in the hope of spying something that might change the subject. The Weasleys accepted her wholeheartedly, yes, but it still wasn't official. Rules and structure had defined Hermione's life at one point, so it was natural that she was still inclined to follow tradition to the heel. She wouldn't feel completely like family until-- Hermione frowned and straightened up from the desk she was leaning against. She had finally caught sight of a very viable change of topic.

"Neville," she said slowly while walking toward the window to get a closer look. "What is Filch doing?"

Neville followed her curiously. Filch and Hagrid were out near the Forest, herding a mass of creepy winged horses back into the recesses of the woods. "He's just helping Hagrid out. The thestrals have been more of a nightmare than usual--for some reason, they want to trample on the grounds."

"No, that's not what I meant," Hermione clarified, gesturing toward the wand in Filch's hand. He was shooting sparks out to startle the horses back into the forest. "I thought Filch was a Squib."

"Oh, you didn't hear about that?" Hermione shook her head. Neville leaned toward her confidingly. "It's really unusual, but some wizards develop their powers late in life. Apparently, Filch got his about a year ago. You should see him--he still skips around here like he's won five million Galleons. Never seen the bloke happier."

"That's very unusual," Hermione said quizzically. She turned away from the window and leaned against the sill, lost in thought. She had read about this, of course, but it usually occurred with Muggles, not Squibs. "How did it happen? Did he just wake up one day and--poof--he could do magic?"

"Pretty much," Neville affirmed. "It was really strange," he admitted when he saw that Hermione continued to appear perturbed.

Hermione could feel her finely tuned journalistic instincts poking her urgently, demanding that she ask more questions. She could feel in her bones that this wasn't just as simple and wonderful as a miserable Squib finally earning the powers he had thought he had earned by birthright. Something more was going on here--she was certain of it. Well, there was always something more going on at Hogwarts; Hermione couldn't remember a time when there wasn't a mystery pervading the corridors of her beloved school, whether it be the Philosopher's Stone, the Chamber of Secrets, Sirius Black, the Goblet of Fire, or the war itself. Mysteries always started this way--one odd occurrence, a single unusual event--a whispered disembodied voice threatening to tear you to pieces, a corridor normally opened to all suddenly being forbidden, or a troll randomly showing up in a girl's bathroom on Halloween. It only takes one peculiar thing to catapult you into the throes of an intriguing, complicated mystery, and this was definitely one of those moments. Hermione suddenly felt as though she was teetering on a thin and tenuous line, waving her arms desperately to keep her balance, but at the same time desperately wanting to fall into a downward, confusing spiral and lose herself in the glory of unweaving a complicated web and solving a mystery. The only problem was that she had never taken on one of these adventures alone. Ron and Harry had always been there to back her up every step of the way. Did she have it in her to take on this type of challenge on her own?

"Neville, I'll be right back," Hermione said briskly when she spotted Filch striding back toward the castle. Neville looked surprised at her sudden change in manner, and Hermione hurried out of the library to cut him off, reveling in the inner knowledge that she most certainly did have it in her to do this.

**

"Mr. Filch?" Hermione tucked some hair behind her ear as she waited for the caretaker to shuffle around and fix his beady eyes upon her. She gave him a warm smile as he stared blankly at her. "Do you remember me?"

"Yeah," he grunted, wiping some spittle from his face. "You were Potter's friend."

"Hermione," she supplied for him. He nodded in vague remembrance and ran the back of his hand under his chin again. He gave her a curt nod and tried to make a polite exit, but Hermione quickly blocked his path. "I just wanted to congratulate you." She pointed to the wand he had in his gnarled hand. "I heard about your good news."

"Oh. Thanks." Filch said flatly. He instinctively gripped his wand tighter, as if it was the most precious item on the planet and Hermione was somehow threatening to take it away from him. He made no move to try to get away from Hermione again, but mutely held his ground, wiggling his thinning eyebrows expectantly.

Hermione simply watched him for a moment, wondering just why Neville claimed that Filch was so much happier now. He looked more decrepit and aging than ever: his stringy gray hair was now almost completely gone, his skin was thick, weathered, and patched with various degrees of psoriasis, his eyes were bloodshot and yellowed around the lids, and his posture was more slumped and exhausted than usual. He appeared as though he was just wasting away, waiting for Death to come and remove him from his misery. Filch may have been thrilled on the inside, but on the exterior he appeared to be absolutely miserable.

"How did this happen, exactly?" Hermione inquired casually. "Did it just come to you one day, or did you have to do a spell of some sort...?" she trailed off expectantly, waiting for him to finish her sentence.

Filch shrugged, sucking his chapped lower lip against his rotting teeth. But then he abruptly did something that Hermione had never witnessed before: he smiled. "It was magic," he croaked gleefully.

"Magic?" Hermione repeated. "So did someone perform a spell on you to help you out?"

"Somethin' like that," Filch said vaguely. Hermione folded her arms and looked at him expectantly. He shifted his gaze uncomfortably; even someone as senile as Filch could see that this young woman was not going to budge until he gave her an answer she was satisfied with. "A friend helped me out," he conceded.

"What friend?" Hermione pressed inquisitively. As far as she knew, while she had been at Hogwarts, Filch's only friend had been Mrs. Norris.

"Just a friend," Filch repeated stubbornly. He used his wand to scratch a particularly itchy spot of his psoriasis and sniffed hard. "Now I gotta get back to Hagrid," he mumbled. Without another word, he made a sharp one-eighty and retreated in the direction he had come from. Since it was illogical that he would come inside for ten steps only to turn around and walk back onto the grounds, it was clear that Filch was avoiding her. She hooked her thumbs into the belt loops of her slacks thoughtfully. What friend would Filch have that would perform a complicated spell on his behalf? She didn't think that any of the professors at Hogwarts were that close to Filch. Who else could it be?

"You find anything?" Neville inquired as he quietly stepped beside Hermione.

She blinked slightly in surprise. She hadn't realized that her friend had followed her down to the first floor.

"No," she admitted pensively. She abruptly turned on Neville. "Neville, do you remember the day Filch got his abilities?" Neville nodded. "Do you remember anything else that happened that day? Anything unusual at all?"

"Uh, well, no," Neville answered meekly. He appeared to be genuinely sorry that he couldn't give Hermione anything useful. "Do you want to check the log in Flitwick's office?" he asked, sounding hopeful. "He's the deputy headmaster now and is in charge of it. It records that sort of thing--you know, visitors, odd occurrences, detentions, and Peeves' latest pranks. If anything peculiar happened, it would be in there."

"Great idea," Hermione agreed as she followed Neville down the hall to the Charms professor's office. Neville knocked on the door and called for his colleague. There was no answer, so Neville experimentally tried the knob. It opened easily, and after poking his head in, he gestured for Hermione to follow.

"I have clearance to be in here to check the register," Neville assured, knowing Hermione might be uncomfortable slipping into a professor's office, even though she had every right to examine the logbook. He gestured toward the massive book. It was resting on an antique podium, along with a magic quill poised in position--ready to take down anything it sensed or was told to enter.

Hermione went over to it and placed both hands on either side of the podium. She had used this logbook a few times as a prefect when she needed to find out if her students had done anything that required disciplinary action, so she knew precisely what to do. "Filch, Argus," she stated clearly. The book obediently flipped backward, hastily searching for the latest entry with the caretaker's name on it. It opened to a record of the man's latest hospital visit a few weeks ago. Hermione shook her head. "Previous records." The book flipped back through three more reports of the elderly man visiting the hospital before it finally reached the page that informed Hermione that on June 10^th of 2000, Argus Filch had been blessed with the resurgence of magical powers. Hermione ran her finger up the page, skimming the accounts of pranks and accidents, but then stopped short at the first entry.

"Find something?" Neville asked as he noticed that Hermione had frozen in place with a grim smile of triumph on her face. However, she was anything but elated by this turn of events.

"I should say so," Hermione said under her breath, her fingernail tracing under the carefully scripted sentence that stated that the day before Filch's miracle, Draco Malfoy had visited Hogwarts.

**

Whenever Hermione needed a good, long, uninterrupted think, she always had to go outdoors. Whether it was taking a walk around the lake, trying to fly a broomstick on the pitch, or just breathing in the night air on top of the Astronomy Tower, the Hogwarts grounds had become a fantastic place to find the solitude she needed to sort her thoughts. So Hermione had bid Neville good-bye, but she didn't leave straightaway. Instead, she slipped up the stairs to her and Ron's spot, placed her hands against the side of the roof, and stared onto the majesty of the grounds without really seeing any of it. There were so many memories in this place that Hermione didn't know which one to recall first. Some of them were particularly painful, and some of them were blissfully beautiful, but Hermione still smiled nostalgically on them all nevertheless. Her past made her who she was today, and despite the hell she had gone through, Hermione was quite happy with the long road she had traveled down in the last twenty-one years.

But now what of her future? What should she do about this tantalizing mystery that Neville had unintentionally dangled in front of her? Should she get mixed up with the likes of Draco Malfoy again? Hermione hugged her arms to her chest not because of the sharp wind that had just picked up, but at the memory of her time at the Malfoy Manor. As revolting as his dastardly plan had been to murder her, Hermione was most outraged that he had actually convinced the world that she was dead. Her parents had spent weeks crying over the death of their only daughter, Harry and Ginny had been heartbroken, and Hermione didn't even want to begin to imagine what Ron's reaction would have been if he hadn't been in that coma. In a world already filled with so much pain, Malfoy had inflicted even more upon everyone that Hermione cared about with his cruel actions. For that, Hermione could never forgive him. And that was before she thought about all that he had done to her personally.

Hermione had always been quite perturbed that neither Draco nor Lucius had been captured after Voldemort's death. From what she had gathered from newspaper stories and the little information that Ron could tell her, the Aurors had tried to arrest all of the Death Eaters, but about six months after the war ended, efforts to find all of the people that Voldemort had under his control severely waned. Voldemort, as hideous as he had been, had quite a number of supporters, and there was no possible way that the Aurors were going to catch every single Death Eater. The primary effort had then been focused on helping the newly constructed Ministry retain order and stability and to institute precautions to ensure that nothing like this could ever happen again.

There was no doubt that the Malfoys deserved to be punished for the atrocities they had inflicted upon good, decent people. The only question was how to punish them. He had safely eluded the authorities for years. He wasn't just another slimy, arrogant bastard; he was a smart slimy arrogant bastard. Malfoy had been her main competition for top of their year--that was part of the reason why he had despised her so immensely. He couldn't stand the thought of a Muggle-born beating him in every subject. Not only was Malfoy a skilled wizard, he could also read people surprisingly well. He knew exactly what to say to a person to set them off. Any idiot would know that saying the M-word in front of Ron, especially if the slur were directed at her, would set him into a rage, but Malfoy also had picked up on some of the subtler aspects of their relationship, and of the relationships of others. Not many people realized how important Sirius was to Harry until the end of Sirius' life. It wasn't public knowledge that Sirius was legally Harry's guardian and godfather. Yet Malfoy had been making snide remarks about Harry's godfather for all of fifth-year and beyond, and he hadn't even met Sirius. He just knew that any link to Harry's parents would be a sensitive issue for him, and that level of perception was unusual for a sixteen-year-old wizard. Malfoy could quickly and accurately uncover a person's weakness and deceptively exploit that weakness to his advantage. It was why he had kidnapped her with such ease; he had known precisely what to do to take advantage of her for his own benefits.

A familiar rage began to boil up inside of her. It was the same fire that had ignited when she had seen Mr. Crouch abuse Winky the house-elf or when Lupin had matter-of-factly informed her of all the horrifying restrictions placed on his life just because he had the misfortune of stumbling upon a forest where a wild werewolf was running rampant. It was wrong. There was no other way to describe it. It was wrong that Malfoy was still out there when he could very possibly hurt someone else. And maybe he already had--what if he did have something to do with Filch's newfound magical ability? What if he had used Dark Magic to achieve that goal? Dark Magic had a nasty habit of backfiring, and perhaps that was why Filch had had so many hospital visits over the past year. Maybe Malfoy had hurt someone else. And even if he hadn't, something had to be done about the travesties he had already inflicted upon the world--Hermione didn't know why she hadn't seen it before--Malfoy had to be brought to justice, and she had to help make that possible. Witnessing Filch's use of magic had served as a painful reminder that even though Voldemort was dead and gone, dangerous people were still out there, and it was up to people like Hermione Granger to stop them.

Hermione whisked away from the amazing view of her school and resolutely headed back to Hogsmeade so she could Apparate home and begin working on this straightway. A new crusade would be good for her. Granted, she already had loads of other work to do, but it obviously wasn't enough if she was still pining away for Ron every waking hour. More work would help the time pass until he came home. And yes, she was definitely sticking her nose in where it didn't belong, but isn't that what journalists did? Isn't that what she, Harry, and Ron had done throughout their entire academic career at Hogwarts? She couldn't and wouldn't sit back and wait for the truth to just magically reveal itself to her: she always had to seek it out herself. She already had loads of other questions she was seeking the answers to: why Ron didn't want to marry her, what happened to her the night Voldemort fell, what on earth her best friends were doing while they were working, and so on. What was one more puzzle to solve, especially one as important as this? Malfoy had to be stopped.

**

The beginning of the process of achieving that goal, however, did not rest in a place that Hermione fancied returning to. She stood hesitatingly in front of the gates at the Malfoy Manor, eyes narrowed as she tried to determine if the manor was still inhabited. The front gate was slightly ajar, and remembering how fanatical the Malfoys had been about security, Hermione knew that this was quite unusual. But it could very well mean nothing--Malfoy could still be inside, and she had to be prepared for anything, even if it were the possibility that she would have to stare into Malfoy's cold eyes once again. Hermione shuddered involuntarily. She wasn't so certain she would handle that fateful meeting very well.

"Here's a question for you." The loud voice startled Hermione to no end, and she whipped around, her hand jumping to her back where her wand was safely stowed. She had come here quite early in the morning--the early pink lights of dawn were still hovering over the gently rising sun--hoping to avoid getting caught. She had figured that if anyone was in the manor, they would still be asleep, and that no one else would be so far out of town this early in the morning. She had assumed that she would be safe.

But she hadn't counted on the early risers who enjoyed taking a brisk sunrise walk. An elderly tall, lean man who happened to enjoy those walks was now standing a few feet behind her, eying her curiously. "Just what is a pretty little thing like yourself doin' in a place like that?" He nodded toward the humongous mansion lurking far beyond the rusty gates they were standing before.

"I'm looking for the owner," Hermione explained briskly. "I'm with the press." The Muggle's eyes lit up as they went intriguingly to the satchel slung over Hermione's shoulder. Luckily, she had thought to bring along a notepad, quill, pen, and camera in order to validate her claim that she was doing a story for the paper--just in case she met a Muggle or wizard along the way. She nodded toward the sprawling mansion. "Do you know if they still live here?"

"Been deserted for a while now," the man offered freely. Hermione had found that most people would generously give information in the hope of seeing their name in the newspaper and having a nice clipping for their scrapbook. "Moved out around three years ago."

"And you haven't seen them since?" Hermione asked. She continued to keep one of her hands loosely around one of the bars of the gate, her eyes thoughtfully examining the unique architecture of the stunning structure beyond it for a sign of life.

"'Fraid not," the man replied cheerfully. "We don' miss them much 'round here, you know," he added with a knowing wink.

Hermione sighed. "I wouldn't think you would," she said absently.

"They kept to themselves mainly," the man continued on, obviously hoping to spark Hermione's interest so she would jot down his comments and ask for his name in order to properly quote him. "Only would be out and about a couple times a year, but whenever they did," he shook his head. "Bad things always happened."

The Muggle successfully accomplished his goal; Hermione dropped her hand from the gate and took a step closer. "What do you mean?" Hermione asked sharply.

He shrugged. "People get sick, shops get broken into, and cars get smashed." He sniffed and shrugged. "Folks round here think they were cursed."

"Maybe," Hermione said flatly as she wheeled around once again to look at the Malfoy Estate, her eyes raging with fury. The Malfoys weren't cursed--they were doing the cursing. They were tormenting innocent Muggles for pure entertainment. She could just imagine the sick smirk on Malfoy's face as he watched from a safe distance the horrified expression on a small-business owner's face when he found all of his hard work in complete shambles, or a mother worriedly feeling her child's burning hot forehead. It was sick. "Thank goodness they're gone," she commented before turning back to the curious neighbor. "And you've been all right since they left?"

"Oh, yeah, everything's been fantastic," the Muggle reassured, looking down the dusty road that led to Grantham. "Been right peaceful."

"That's great," Hermione said as she repositioned her jacket to ensure that her wand was safely stowed out of sight. She stuck her thumb toward the manor. "Actually, I'd like to make sure no one's at home. You don't think the Malfoys would mind, do you?"

"I don't give a damn," the man said dismissively. He gestured toward the gate. "I think it's unlocked--those lads didn't lock up when they left the other day."

Hermione's stomach tightened. Lads? "Oh, someone else wanted to see the Malfoys?" Hermione inquired casually. She feigned a nervous laugh. "I hope it's not those blokes from the Star who are trying to get this story before I do!"

"Oh, no," the man reassured her. "They just wanted to take a peak at the house. Said somethin' about makin' sure they were really gone. They didn' say anythin' about bein' reporters though."

"What did they look like?" Hermione asked curiously.

He shrugged. "One was real tall--he did most of the talkin'. Really red hair. Young like you. The other one didn' say much, and I didn't really see him, but he had dark hair, darker than yours and I think he had glasses, too. He kept his head down for some reason, like he was hidin' his face." Hermione could only stare for a long moment of realization. No bloody way. "You know them?" the Muggle added when he saw the look of recognition on Hermione's face.

"I'll be right back," was all Hermione could say as she opened the creaky gate and slipped through. Her heart was turning somersaults in her throat as she began the trek up the path, slightly shaking with disbelief. Ron and Harry had been here. They were looking for Malfoy, too. Why? Her heart hammered wildly in her chest at the mere thought of Ron facing off with Malfoy. There was a lot of unresolved animosity between the two, and Hermione knew that Ron would not even attempt to keep his temper under control when he finally tracked the Slytherin down. She just had to hope that Harry could still manage to remain levelheaded despite his own enmity toward the would-be Death Eater.

And it did make sense that those two would be assigned to Malfoy. Since they personally knew Malfoy and went to school with him, they would be the ideal candidates to accurately predict what he would be up to. But, at the same time, it was just so personal. Malfoy had made their lives hell with years of schoolboy bullying that had evolved into a spiteful, frightening vendetta, which had climaxed with his decision to join the Death Eaters and kidnap Hermione. But there had to be something that set off this recent search. Her instincts had been correct--something very bad was happening here.

Even someone as nosy as Hermione didn't care about that at the moment, however. All she cared about was that those two had been gone for nearly two weeks now; it was the longest assignment yet, and even Ginny was starting to get edgy. And if Ron and Harry had been here, maybe that was the reason they had been gone for so long. Maybe something had happened to them.

By the time she reached the front circle, her pace had increased to a full out run, her heavy bag whacking her uncomfortably in the thigh as she sprinted along. She hadn't had this feeling for a long time--the intense rush that overwhelmed you when you were willing to run straight into mortal peril. Her blood was pumping a mile a minute, her heart was wildly thudding, and her mind was spinning--yet it was never as sharp and as focused as it was at this moment. It was a horrible feeling; it was an intense surge of fear, fury, dread, and a million other adrenalin-producing, awful emotions. But yet, her years as Ron and Harry's best friend had altered her significantly so that as she ran, deftly stooping over to pick up a handful of gravel as she went, a delicious thrill clutched her stomach as well. It was a horrible feeling, yes, but it was a marvelous one as well. Not many emotions could top the anticipation of adventure for a true Gryffindor like herself.

Before trying the front door, Hermione cautiously tossed one of the bits of gravel she had grabbed. She swore under her breath when the small rock was promptly incinerated into fine, chalky dust the moment it came into contact with the door. The security charms were still in place. She didn't think knocking on the door and announcing her presence would be very wise, so she quickly sought out another point of entry. Still keeping the pointy stones secure in her palm, Hermione jogged over to the servants' quarters where, many months ago, she had kneeled down with Ginny Weasley and snuck through a small window hidden behind an overgrown bush. It had been the only point of entry three years ago. Hopefully, that hadn't changed.

Just in case, Hermione pitched more gravel toward the window, and to her great chagrin and surprise, it, too, exploded into a thousand crumbling pieces. She sucked in a long breath. They had found her secret window. She remained on her knees, not caring that mud was seeping into her khakis, while she stared thoughtfully at the charmed window. It made sense that they would charm this window after she had escaped through it. She should have expected it.

But still...Hermione got to her feet and continued to stare in thoughtful contemplation. If the Malfoys moved out three years ago, that would have been right after the fall of Voldemort--the night she escaped. When would they have found the time to recharm the window? And why would you place a fresh security charm on a tiny window that was barely visible if you planned on abandoning the manor? She glanced down the row of high windows several feet above her. All charms didn't last forever--security charms often had to be revived on an annual basis at the minimum. If the house had been deserted for three years, as the Muggle claimed, wouldn't have the charms have faded?

Experimentally, she chucked yet another piece of gravel toward the window. It shattered instantly. Hermione let the other loose pieces of gravel slide from her fingers. Those security charms were as strong as ever. And even if the magic had lasted that long, as some really powerful spellwork often did, Hermione didn't think the Malfoys would take that chance. They wouldn't risk the charm wearing off; they would have taken the precaution of renewing the spell if they wanted to ensure that no one entered their fortress. And from what she could see with the tossed stones, these spells were as strong as they would be if they'd been cast five seconds ago. It was clear that someone had taken extra care to ensure that the manor was impenetrable to outside intruders. It was clear that someone had renewed these spells.