Rating:
PG-13
House:
Schnoogle
Characters:
Hermione Granger
Genres:
Romance Action
Era:
Multiple Eras
Spoilers:
Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire Order of the Phoenix Quidditch Through the Ages Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them
Stats:
Published: 03/20/2005
Updated: 11/04/2005
Words: 102,452
Chapters: 16
Hits: 32,773

Follow Through

Ann Margaret

Story Summary:
Three years after the fall of Voldemort, Hermione Granger is working as a reporter for the Daily Prophet while her longtime boyfriend Ron Weasley is off saving the world with fellow Auror Harry Potter. But when Hermione stumbles across a mystery of her very own, she starts discovering things she never knew about the war, the past, herself and more importantly, the people she thought she was closest to. Follows the Hermione Granger trilogy (Order of the Phoenix, Time of Troubles, and Beginning of the End) so please read those before diving in so you'll understand what's happened thus far!

Chapter 06

Chapter Summary:
Now that she knows what the Death Eaters were up to, Hermione prepares to rectify past wrong-doings. However, there are those nasty consequences Goyle warned her about...
Posted:
07/14/2005
Hits:
1,865


Caught in a trap of what we're taught to believe

When night overcomes day life's so hard to proceed

And the clock keeps on ticking through night-shattered skies

When the stars are all broken and so are the tides

But the one thing remaning is you

When I'm broken and bleeding you pull me right through

And I can't help but wonder what is you do

You help heal the pain and the thoughts of the truth

You're a question to the universe and to the world

And somehow when I'm with you

I never get burned

"Wonder" Megan McCauley

**

Argus Filch opened the door of his studio-sized suite in the faculty quarters at Hogwarts, blanching as he saw four people waiting expectantly outside. "Professor McGonagall," he said respectfully, focusing on the headmistress. Mrs. Norris rubbed her skinny head against her master's legs, yowling warningly, but Filch just gently pushed her to the side with his foot. "What can I do for you?"

"May we come in, Mr. Filch?" Professor McGonagall inquired briskly. Filch nodded nervously, scratching the back of his head as he stepped aside. He hastily hid the several strands of greasy hair that had fallen off his scalp while McGonagall, Neville Longbottom, Madame Pomfrey, and Hermione Granger entered the tiny studio. Hermione gave him a searching look as she stood by the door, letting McGonagall handle the situation. She felt a bit like she had when she had told McGonagall about Harry's Firebolt in third-year. Even if it was for the greater good, she always felt a bit guilty about reporting someone to a higher authority. Even as a prefect, when she had reported disobedient students several times and had always known she was doing the right thing, she never ever liked to get anyone in trouble, even when they deserved it--unless it was Malfoy and his gang, of course. However, she had always respected Mr. Filch. Yes, he was a cranky, irritable grouch who had relentlessly tried to get Harry and Ron in detention, but he was only doing his job. And to do his job well, he had thought that he needed magic. Now, Hermione was about to take that away.

"Mr. Filch," Professor McGonagall launched in without preamble, "we probably should have discussed this sooner, but it's been brought to our attention that the manner in which you received your new magical abilities may not be entirely ethical or legal." She fixed the caretaker with her infamous stare, one that had even broken Draco Malfoy on occasion. "Is that true, Mr. Filch?"

"I-I don' know what you're speaking about, Professor McGonagall," Filch denied edgily.

McGonagall arched her eyebrows sternly. "Oh, so you were blessed with these powers naturally? You didn't tell Miss Granger that a 'friend' helped you out?"

Filch stepped to the side so he could scowl openly at Hermione. "You," he spat resentfully.

"Mr. Filch!" McGonagall interjected sharply. She stepped between the caretaker and the reporter. "Did you or did you not receive your gifts naturally?"

Filch blew out a long, long breath, looking older than ever. "I did not receive 'em naturally," he admitted in a low voice.

McGonagall shot a glance over at the school nurse who edged closer to Filch, ready to jump into action to tend to her new patient. "Mr. Filch," McGonagall continued relentlessly, "did you receive your gifts from Draco Malfoy?"

"I can' say," Filch refused.

"Mr. Filch, I don't think you understand." Professor McGonagall looked over her shoulder at her former student to silently ask for permission to continue. Hermione nodded and McGonagall whirled back to Filch. "If the spell that was used on you is the spell we think it is, there can be severe physical repercussions. We need to know straightaway in order to restore you back to full health before it's too late. I believe everyone in this room knows that you haven't been feeling well, and I apologize." McGonagall paused to swallow her guilt. "Please, Mr. Filch, tell us what happened to you so that we can help you get well."

Filch's glassy eyes traveled warily from McGonagall, to Pomfrey, to Neville, and over to Hermione before finally resting steadily on the headmistress. "Yeah, you guessed it," Filch admitted wearily. "Master Malfoy helped me out."

"And why would Mr. Malfoy so considerately bestow upon you these rare gifts," McGonagall questioned sarcastically. Her lips were pressed in a thin, long line, indicating that she was very disappointed with her caretaker's poor judgment in allowing a Death Eater to perform magic on him.

"Well, I don' know," Filch confessed. "I didn' think about that."

"You didn't think, Mr. Filch?" McGonagall shot out disapprovingly. "That much is very clear, but the question I would like to ask now is why didn't you think Mr. Filch? You are aware that Mr. Malfoy is wanted for several crimes?"

"But he wasn' then!" Filch pointed out meekly. "Those charges weren't official until a few weeks ago!" Hermione made a mental note to write down later that Filch was obviously keeping tabs on the former Slytherin.

"But you are aware of Mr. Malfoy's former reputation as a student of this school, and of his role during the war, are you not?" McGonagall reminded him. "You are aware of how he taunted his fellow students?" She tilted her head toward Hermione. "How he hurt his fellow students?"

"Yeah," Filch replied sulkily. "But I don't care!" he abruptly proclaimed. "Master Malfoy got me what I wanted, so I took it! I don't care who he is or what he's done--he got me what I wanted!" He stopped to sniff once and blink his bloodshot eyes rapidly. Hermione took a cautious step forward, quite taken aback. She hadn't seen Filch on the verge of tears since the day that Mrs. Norris had been Petrified in second-year. She had always known that it was difficult for the caretaker to work in a school of witchcraft when he had caused his family the ultimate shame by being unable to perform any himself. She hadn't realized, however, just how painful it was for Filch to live the way he did.

McGonagall also took a step forward, laying a compassionate hand on the caretaker's forearm. "Argus, I know," she said soothingly. "But I also know that this is killing you. Your body can't handle it, and it will kill you unless you let Poppy and Neville take you upstairs, all right?"

Filch considered the headmistress' offer before fervently shaking his head. "No. No, I don' care. I don' care if it kills me, I'm not going with you. I'm not giving up my magic--I've waited my whole life for this, and I won't be losing it now!"

"Argus, don't be foolish--"

"NO!" Filch insisted frantically. "You can't take it away from me!" he screamed desperately, a raw, hysterical sound rasping in the back of his throat.

He looked as though he wanted to say loads more, but Poppy Pomfrey finally decided to speak up. "Argus, please," she coaxed in the calm, professional hospital voice she had used to soothe Hermione on the multiple occasions she had been hospitalized. "We don't have to do anything yet." She passed a soft hand over his face to check for a temperature, unflinchingly caressing the patches of psoriasis marring his weathered face. "Just let us take you upstairs so I can take a look. We're not going to take anything away, I promise." Filch watched her out of the corner of his eye. No one had ever touched him like that before. "Just let us take care of you," she implored earnestly.

"Fine," Filch conceded reluctantly. He allowed Madame Pomfrey to take his arm, and Neville came to the other side to help Filch out of his room. He leaned exhaustedly against his supporters. It appeared that he had given up for the day, or perhaps for the rest of his life.

But Hermione couldn't let him go without asking one final question. "Mr. Filch?" she called after him. Filch sighed in annoyance but he stopped, keeping his back to her. "Did Malfoy happen to mention if he had done this sort of spell before?" she inquired hastily, knowing she only had about five seconds before he lost his patience and left. "Perhaps to Muggles?"

McGonagall looked at Hermione sharply, but Filch didn't even flinch. "Sorry," he answered bitterly. "I didn't ask for his references when he made my greatest wish come true." He cocked his eyebrow. "Anythin' else?"

"No." She gave Filch a smile. "I hope you feel better soon," Hermione said sincerely. Filch didn't respond to her honest hope; he just grunted and shuffled out of the apartment, leaning against Madame Pomfrey. Neville shot a curious glance in Hermione's direction as they strode away.

"And just what was that about, Miss Granger?"

Hermione turned back to the headmistress, wondering how much she should divulge. Professor McGonagall had been in the Order; perhaps she had heard about Switching Spells before Hermione had showed up in her office today with the news about Filch's secret. Hermione swiftly explained to her favorite teacher everything she had learned over the last couple of days, and then asked a question of her own. "Professor, have you ever heard about Death Eaters doing to Muggles what Malfoy did to Filch? During the war, I mean?"

"No," McGonagall said after a moment of reflection. "Of course, I was assigned to the safety of Hogwarts and the students--I knew very little about what precisely the Death Eaters were doing unless it affected the school." She shook her head in horrified disbelief. "I had no idea that they were doing that to poor Muggles and Muggle-borns--did they really do that to them?"

"I don't know for certain," Hermione conceded. "All the evidence I have is circumstantial, and it could just be an odd set of coincidences. Do you have any idea who in the Order would know if this sort of torture actually happened?"

"Well, it was the Auror squad that was in charge of Death Eater patrol, and the Weasleys and Professor Lupin took care of the protection of Muggles--one of those groups would probably be your best source of information."

Hermione nodded. She pulled out the parchment she had been taking notes on to record that bit of information as well as the other tidbits she had picked up during the conversation. "Right. I should probably start there." She straightened up and brushed a stray hair out of her eyes. "Or, I could keep looking for Malfoy," she mused under her breath.

"Hermione," Professor McGonagall warned with a motherly concern. Hermione blinked in surprise; Professor McGonagall had never called her by her first name before. "Mr. Malfoy has been eluding the authorities for years, wanted under suspicion of several horrendous crimes, not to mention that you have never been one of his favorite people. Are you certain you want to actively seek him out?"

"Yes," Hermione said without hesitation. She honestly had no idea why everything kept driving her to find the slimy Slytherin, but there was no doubt she was being drawn in that direction. Every bit of information she discovered, every clue she unearthed led her toward Draco Malfoy. It seemed destined somehow that she and the bigoted pureblood were to meet again, and although Hermione knew very well that he probably still wanted to rip her into tiny, bloody shreds, something in her told her that she had to see him again. She had to face Malfoy one more time, not just to confront him about what he was doing to Filch, and possibly to Muggles, but also to settle something inside of her. Hermione didn't know what that something was, but she reckoned that once she saw that platinum-haired bastard again, she would know what the niggles in the back of her mind were trying to tell her.

McGonagall considered the determined woman, fondly remembering when she had first seen the bushy-haired, wide-eyed girl on the Front Steps, gaping in awe at the vaulted architecture and obvious magic soaking the hallowed halls of Hogwarts. It had been quite easy for Hermione Granger to gain her respect, but the girl had accomplished quite a feat by becoming one of her favorite students; typically, McGonagall wasn't the type of teacher who had apparent favorites. Hermione had grown up to be quite a remarkable woman, and McGonagall knew that once her former student made up her mind, there was no changing it. She was going to follow this through until the very end.

"All right, Miss Granger," McGonagall accepted. Hermione rolled up the parchment and stuck it back in her bag, indicating that her visit was coming to a close. "Well, thank you for informing me about Mr. Filch, and good luck with your story." She nodded toward the door Filch had just shuffled through. "Of course, now that he's confessed, it should almost be finished, shouldn't it?"

Hermione repositioned the satchel on her shoulder and shook her head with a mixture of anticipation and resigned determination. "I have a feeling it's just beginning, Professor."

**

Hermione yawned as she Apparated into the alley behind her apartment, safely hidden behind the dumpster. She knew she should really get straight to work, but it felt like she hadn't been home in ages; she had gone straight through from the multi-Apparation trip to Bulgaria to Hogwarts and now to home. She couldn't remember the last time she had Apparated so many times in a single day, and all she wanted to do was fall into bed and lose herself in the comforts of a deep sleep.

But as she rounded the corner, her apartment building now in clear sight, Hermione realized that she was not going to be able to go to bed anytime soon.

"Oh, Hermione, dear, there you are!" Julia Reid, Hermione's landlady, scurried off the front stoop and fluttered her hand nervously toward her approaching tenant. "I wanted to catch you before you went up there and saw it; I know if I came home to this, I would be just a wreck."

"Came home to what?" Hermione inquired as she glanced up the four-story brownstone. Nothing appeared to be out of order. "Is everyone all right?"

"Oh, yes, dear, we're all fine. We were actually worried about you, dear--for all we knew you had been home when it happened and something awful had happened to you, although the police said there was no sign of violence--"

"Police? Violence?" Hermione repeated sharply. Mrs. Reid squeaked nervously at the young woman's obvious fury and averted her eyes, suddenly not wanting to be the messenger of such bad news. "What happened?"

Mrs. Reid patted Hermione sympathetically on the arm and took a deep, worried breath. "You were robbed, dear."

Hermione didn't waste time answering; she just brushed aside the concerned hand on her arm and hurtled up the front steps, Mrs. Reid following as fast as her plump little legs would allow. She made it up the three flights in record time and raced down the hall to the flat on the northeast corner of the complex. She grabbed both sides of the doorframe to stop herself from tripping over her door, which was lying flat on the floor; it had been magically ripped off its hinges. Directly behind it lay her coat rack, and she winced as she saw that her coat, jackets, scarves, and robes were all strewn on the floor, the pockets turned inside out and carelessly torn in the intruder's haste to check every possible hiding place. The sizable fern Hermione's parents had given her as a housewarming gift was uprooted and tossed to the side, and the bronze pot it normally sat in had been magically shattered into several pieces. The dark, rich soil had been spread across the entire foyer, documenting several pairs of footprints, undoubtedly left by the policemen who had wandered throughout her flat. It was a total, complete mess, and that was just the foyer. Hermione couldn't even imagine what the rest of her apartment must look like.

"Hello?" Hermione called out as she stepped over the door and coat rack. Before she could get to her living room, a dark-haired bobby several inches taller than her and roughly about Hermione's parent's age emerged, holding out a hand to stop her.

"You the tenant?" he inquired in a steady, calming voice.

"Yes, what happened? How bad is it?" Hermione tried to sidestep him, but he continued to block her.

"Now, let's just calm down, miss. Let's just take a breath, take a look, and then we'll have a little talk, all right?" Hermione nodded impatiently. He gestured toward the living room, and Hermione begrudgingly followed him, feeling a bit odd about being guided around her own home. "I'm sorry we couldn't clean this up for you, but we needed to document the extent of the damage," he apologized. Then he finally stepped aside to let her see it for herself.

Everything was destroyed. Absolutely everything that Hermione had placed in this room was utterly destroyed. The sofa had been magically sawed in half, shoved apart, and kicked over on its side. The rug had been flung in a heap in the corner to check for trap doors. The two armchairs were slashed open, the coffee table was flipped over, and her lovely rosewood desk had been smashed straight down the middle. The end table had been smashed in two and the lamp was lying on the ground in four pieces. Her bookshelf had been completely dismantled, the slabs of wood splintered so badly that it was beyond even magical repair. The pictures and framed photographs that had adorned the walls were dismounted and shattered. Every cushion and pillow had been ripped open, and feathers and fuzz still floated lazily in the heavy air. The adjoining closet had been emptied completely, the contents tossed carelessly about the floor. But what upset Hermione more than her ruined furniture was what was strewn about almost every inch of her floor: all of the carefully organized notes that had been filed in her desk, all of her books, every bit of literature she had ever owned and anything that Hermione had ever written now littered the floor in a thick useless layer of ripped paper. Everything had been destroyed.

She gripped her bag, inching her fingers down to feel the roll of parchment that the intruder had probably been searching for. Goyle had warned her that there would be retaliation for her investigation, but although she had survived a horrific war, she had never imagined the extent of the damage that had been inflicted upon her. They had caused hundreds of Galleons worth of damage, and that was just the financial side. As trite as it sounded, there was no sum that could measure the emotional damage the loss of so many personal items had caused. She blew out a long breath and tried to think of something positive to keep her from screaming in fury or bursting out into tears. Well, at least they hadn't gone after anyone else--

"Crookshanks!" Hermione abruptly yelled, clicking her tongue to call for her beloved cat. The bobby in the room jumped at the loud exclamation, obviously confused. "My cat," she explained anxiously. As protective as that cat was, Crookshanks would have put up quite a fight when he realized that there were unwanted guests in his home. He certainly wouldn't have hidden and quietly waited for the intruders to leave; he would have attacked. And if these people enjoyed tearing an apartment into shreds, they probably would have also enjoyed killing an innocent animal. "Crookshanks!"

"Miss? Is this him?" Hermione bounded over to the closet where the copper was standing, looking down at the lump of orange fur at his feet. Hermione's stomach sank as she dropped to her knees to retrieve her fallen cat. He hadn't moved a centimeter, and he didn't respond when she lovingly poked him in the stomach and called his name. His yellow eyes were shut, his muscles limp, and his usually expressive face was utterly slack and still. If his ribs hadn't been expanding and contracting ever so slightly, Hermione might have become hysterical.

"Could you get some water for him, please?" Hermione asked as she continued to poke her cat in a vain attempt to wake him up. She had a feeling she knew what had happened to Crookshanks, but she couldn't do anything about it just yet. The bobby didn't think that water was going to help an unconscious cat, but he didn't object. Although he had just met the woman, he could tell that she was not the sort of woman you crossed, especially while she was upset. He hastened to the kitchen to obey her request. She waited until she was certain no one else was in the room before whipping out her wand. "Ennervate!"

Crookshanks' eyes opened blearily and he yowled unhappily. He stiffened and squirmed at first when he realized he was being held, but after Hermione spoke to him in a soft voice, scratching him reassuringly behind the ears, he gradually relaxed into her arms, yelping softly. Hermione buried her face into his neck to comfort him, as well as to comfort herself. She had never seen Crookshanks so out of sorts. She couldn't imagine what they had done to the poor thing before finally Stunning it. They must have really scared him, and Crookshanks never got scared.

"Well, would you look at that--he woke up!" the bobby said with surprise. He set down the shallow bowl filled with water that he had found among the deep pile of dishes, silverware, and food strewn about the kitchen. Hermione twisted Crookshanks around so he could lap up the water. She knew from experience that when you wake up after being Stunned, your throat is always very parched. She thanked the policeman for the water, but he was frowning at a twisted, smashed birdcage he had just noticed in the corner. "Did you have a bird too, miss?" he asked worriedly.

"No," Hermione lied. "It died a while ago." Actually, Rowena was out delivering a letter, so she was safe for the moment. Hermione just didn't want to tell that to the oblivious Muggle. Fortunately, his partner emerged from her bedroom and beckoned to him, so she was soon left alone once again--the way she preferred it for the moment. She needed a moment to think.

She continued to possessively scratch her cat behind his ears. These bastards had practically destroyed her entire home and had almost killed her pet. What else had they done? Who else had they hurt? Hermione froze at the thought, recalling Goyle's words vividly. What if they had not only trashed her apartment, but had also decided to teach Hermione a double lesson by ruining her home and taking their anger at her out on someone she cared about?

Her heart lurching, Hermione frantically scurried away from Crookshanks to pick up the bag she had dropped. She started digging in her satchel, searching for her mobile, which she could never seem to find when she needed it. The Death Eaters had never gone after her parents during the war like she had feared, but what if they had now? She had to call them--but wait, Ginny. Ginny had been acting funny for days. It was clear that she had been distracted by something, so she would be less in tune to the prospect of danger that was lurking around the corner. If someone attacked Ginny and she was in the state Hermione had last seen her in, Hermione wasn't certain that even Ginny's infamous Bat-Bogey Curse wouldn't drive off the attacker. You never performed magic as well when you're preoccupied...

Or maybe they had been able to do what she hadn't. Maybe they had tracked down Ron and Harry, and...

Stop it, Hermione told herself sternly, placing a hand on her forehead as she tried to get a hold of herself. Morbid thoughts weren't going to help anything. She had to stay calm and fix this with a clear, level head. Or, she had to have Ron right here and now to keep her from going mad. No, the scolding voice spoke up again. You're stronger than this; Ron taught you to be stronger than this. Hermione dropped the hand from her face and held her head high. She had to fix this--she would fix this. She just had to get these nosy bobbies out first so she could pull out her wand and get to work.

"Miss?" Both of the coppers had returned from her bedroom. The one whom Hermione had first met gestured toward the bedroom, while his partner went to the foyer, perhaps to go out of the complex to radio for more help. "There's something in here that's been troubling us--perhaps you could explain it?"

Hermione nodded and silently waded her way through the flakes of crumbled parchment. She entered the room and bit her lip hard. Her nightstand had been upturned, her dresser had been emptied of clothes, drawers left open, and her bed was on its side, her mattress tossed into the adjoining bathroom. It looked just like the rest of the apartment, except for what had been seared into the wall over her bed in wide, block letters.

Mudblood.

As many times as Hermione had heard the word, there was something about seeing it burned into her wall in gigantic magical flames, thin wisps of smoke still curling up from the blackened letters, that made her flinch as though she had been hit with the curse Dolohov had used on her in fifth-year. She had hoped it had ended. She had prayed that the bigotry and hatred toward Muggles would have ended with the fall of Voldemort, but she should have known that it would never be over. You can eradicate the physical manifestations of prejudice, but you can never rid the world of prejudice itself. No matter what she did, there would always be someone somewhere who would never see her brains, her warmth, and everything that made her a perfectly lovely, unique individual; they would only see a filthy little Mudblood who should rot in hell.

"Miss?" Hermione dully felt someone shake her and she wondered just how long the bobby had been trying to catch her attention. She forced herself to focus on him and nodded to let him know that she was back to reality. He still kept his hand on her arm. "Are you going to be all right?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Hermione said distractedly, fervently wishing that this man would take his hands off of her, let her take care of her home, and just leave her alone. It was clear that a witch or a wizard had done this, so there was very little that the Muggle police department could do to help. "I actually don't think I need any of your help, although I do appreciate you coming," Hermione said with a forced smile. "I think I know how this happened, and I know I'm not going to want to press any charges, so you and your partner are free to go--I can take it from here."

Typically, Hermione was much better at inventing excuses, but the shock of the situation was making it difficult for her to think straight. The bobby was staring at her like she had sprouted a second head, so Hermione knew that her attempt to get these Muggles out of her home was not going to be very successful.

He didn't scold her for her for denying their help, as she had expected, however. All he did was look at her with keen interest. "What's your name, miss?" he inquired quietly.

"Hermione," she answered weakly. She looked distractedly around the room to see if there was some place she could sit down. However, the prowlers had left no surface unturned or unbroken.

"Hermione," he repeated. "Hermione, you look like a very smart girl, but I don't think you understand the severity of what's happened here." He pointed to the scorched wall. "Judging by your reaction, though, I do think you understand what that means. Now, I certainly don't know what Mudblood means, but from the look on your face, I believe it's quite serious, and regardless of what you're telling me, you do need some help in dealing with this mess."

I know, but I don't need your help--I need Ron and Harry's help, is what Hermione longed to shout in frustration at the ignorant officer, but she just bit her lip harder than ever to suppress that urge. She knew this kind man was just trying to help, but he was really just sticking his nose in where it didn't belong. Hermione fought an ironic laugh. Now she knew how people felt whenever she nagged them endlessly.

"Do you have any idea who could have done this?" he pressed. "Do you have any enemies or anyone who would wish harm on you?"

Do you have a three-foot roll of parchment? Because that's what you're going to need to take down all of the names I could give you, Hermione said sarcastically in her mind. She shook her head silently. She was not going to give a bit of information to the Muggles. Someone was obviously spying on her, and she didn't want anyone to think that she had confided in the nice police officer. She had a feeling that the person who had done this to her flat would have no qualms about ruthlessly interrogating an innocent Muggle.

The bobby let out an annoyed sigh. "Well, what does this Mudblood mean? Is it some sort of offensive slur?"

"Something like that," Hermione answered vaguely, wishing that this man would take the hint and leave her alone.

He picked up on her irritation and fought to control his own. "Miss, we're just trying to help." Hermione looked stoically away, refusing to give an inch. The policeman paused as he tried to think of another approach. "Well, is there someone I can call for you? Do you have a roommate? Family member? Boyfriend?"

And once again, without trying, the hapless bobby had made this horrible situation even worse. Hermione laughed without smiling. "No, I live here alone, and my boyfriend is away on business. I don't know when he'll be back."

"Well, is there a number where we could reach him? I'm sure he'd want to see you when he hears--"

He abruptly broke off as a burst of green sparks blasted him in the side of the head, causing him go stock still, a faraway, glassy look in his eyes. Hermione's eyes widened to the size of a house-elf's as she finally extracted herself from the policeman's now tenuous grip on her arm. Her hand shot down to yank her wand out. Someone had just used a Memory Charm on the policeman, and Merlin only knew what spell they were going to use on her next. This was it--this was the plan: to annihilate her flat and then wait. The break-in would undoubtedly leave her disoriented and dazed, and then wham--a clean, efficient pounce on top of the helpless prey.

Even though she knew that someone with a wand was outside her door, she still screamed and ducked to the floor when she spotted a figure entering the room out of her peripheral vision. She hadn't been attacked outright like this in ages, and although she assumed it was like riding a broomstick, she wasn't certain if she had the cleverness and the instincts to get herself out of this. She was certain, however, that she would never allow herself to be the helpless prey without first putting up a good fight. Her wand shot up to Stun him, but he was five steps ahead of her, already kneeling in front of her, gently but firmly lowering the hand gripping her wand and keeping his fingers soothingly around her wrist.

"Hey, it's me," Ron Weasley soothed in the low, comforting voice that never ceased to placate her. "You know me, remember?" He cracked his trademark lopsided smile. "I haven't been gone that long, have I?"

Once again, Hermione didn't bother wasting precious time speaking. She knew he was probably only here because he knew that her flat had been robbed and had of course rushed to her side, but he would probably have to get back to work as soon as he made certain everything was all right. The time they could spend touching was undoubtedly severely limited, so she just wrapped her arms around him and buried her face into the side of his neck. She felt Ron sigh as he held her against him, and it caused her throat to catch tightly. She had never been so grateful in her life to feel him breathing again--for a few days, she had seriously been wondering if he was even breathing, or if the unthinkable had happened. But now he was here. He was back, even if it was just for a few minutes. A dull sense of something like déjà vu clutched her stomach, but Hermione ignored it, preferring to focus purely on him. Goodness, he even smelled so amazing to her at this moment; she had missed him that much.

His arms left her far too soon as Ron pulled away to look her up and down. His hand instinctively stroked her cheek, pushing her hair away from her face with the back of his hand while rememorizing the curve of her cheek with his palm. Hermione smiled wanly at the gesture; even though he had been in the glory of another adventure, perhaps Ron had missed her just as much as she missed him. "You're okay, right? You weren't here when it happened, were you? They didn't touch you, right?" Hermione nodded emphatically, and Ron visibly relaxed. "Thank Merlin," he breathed.

"You came," Hermione finally managed to say in a slightly hoarse, amazed voice.

Ron looked at her with honest surprise. "Of course I did." He rolled his eyes up to his mind. "You rang, didn't you?"

Hermione blinked. She hadn't realized that she had done that, but then again, she didn't fully grasp the extent of their connection. She wondered if she had unconsciously called out for Ron empathically before today. "Yes, but--" Hermione gave up trying to coherently explain her complicated thoughts in this state and just leaned against the fingers still exploring her skin.

Ron guided her face back toward him, and he looked directly at her. "I'm always going to come, you know. Whenever you need me, no matter what I'm doing, I'm always going to come. You hear me?"

Hermione nodded. She did know, she just really needed to hear it when he was gone for three weeks with no word, no owl, no anything.

"Ron?"

"Yeah!" Ron called over his shoulder to his partner. He stood up and held out his hand to help Hermione to her feet. "We're back here!"

"We? So Hermione's okay?" Harry asked worriedly as he nimbly picked his way through the mess in the living room to meet Hermione and Ron at the door to her bedroom.

"Hermione's just fine," Hermione answered for Ron with a small smile. "Hi, Harry."

Harry returned it wanly. "Hey, Hermione. Quite a mess you got here."

"Well, I always said that this one's sloppiness would rub off one day," Hermione joked feebly, nodding toward Ron.

"All right, let's leave the bad jokes to me," Ron ordered as he guided Hermione out of the doorway. He nodded toward the bedroom. "Harry, take a look." Harry obediently stuck his head in, while Ron looked around the trashed room. "Do you need to sit down? You still look a little pale."

"No, no, I'm fine," Hermione reassured. His hand in hers was all she really needed. She twisted her fingers deeper into his palm. Since he hadn't burst a blood vessel earlier in the bedroom, she had thought that he hadn't seen the slur scorched into her wall. But from the strained quality of his voice, Hermione knew that he had sent Harry in there to see her burned wall. That meant Ron had read the word Mudblood without losing his temper. It infuriated him, yes, but he controlled it. Hermione gave him a sideways, wondering glance. What else had he learned in training that she didn't know about?

Harry returned to the living room, guiding the still dazed bobby along with him. "Son of a bitch," Ron swore under his breath. He had completely forgotten about the copper he had Memory Charmed.

"I've got him," Harry reassured. "I'll take him out with the other one." He looked at Hermione. "Anyone else we need to take care of?"

"My landlady. I'm surprised she isn't hovering in the hall as it is." Hermione reluctantly began the horrendous process of extracting her fingers from Ron's. "I could take care of it."

"No, I got her, too," Harry reassured. Ron just gripped her fingers tighter to prevent her from leaving the room. "She was hovering in the hall when we got here." Harry looked over his shoulder to make sure there were no unconscious Muggles in the hallway. "I'll check on them in a bit," he promised. Memory Charms typically took a bit of time to kick in. According to the texts, the victim would be magically forced to remain utterly still, unable to function as the brunt of the spell obliterated their memory. When the erasing process was complete, the person would able to function again, and they would often be confusedly on their way, bewildered as to what had just happened. If something particularly traumatic or unforgettable was being erased, however, the process was much more complicated, so the victim sometimes would pass out and wake up with a clean memory. Unconscious coppers in the hallway could only lead to more drama in the apartment complex, so Hermione hoped to avoid that scenario if at all possible. It was going to be hard enough to explain the three dazed and incoherent people standing mutely in the hallway.

"Hermione," Harry said with a deeply concerned and determined look on his face, "What the hell happened here?"

"I don't know," Hermione replied. "I just came home and--" She waved her hand futilely toward her disaster of a living room.

"So you weren't here? You didn't see anything?" Harry urged hopefully. Hermione shook her head with a weak, apologetic smile. Harry looked around at the wreckage. "It had to take some time to do all this, even with magic," he mused. "When's the last time you were here?"

"Um," Hermione pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead as she tried to remember when she had left that morning. That seemed like a lifetime ago. "Around 7:00 this morning, maybe?"

"And you never came back during the day? Just now was the first time you came home?"

"Yes, I was in Bulgaria most of the day, and then--"

"Bulgaria?" Ron finally spoke up, his fingers falling away from hers in surprise. "What the bloody hell were you doing in Bulgaria?"

"Why, having a secret affair with Viktor Krum, of course," Hermione said sarcastically, indignantly knowing that was where Ron's mind had gone first.

Harry blanched; he knew the signs of a Hermione-Ron row all too well. "Maybe I should go check on Ginny," he mumbled edgily.

"No, Harry, don't go," Hermione reassured. "We'll be good, I promise." She shot Ron an apologetic smile. She was rather on edge, and had unconsciously taken it out on him. He returned it, and returned his hand to hers. He knew how important his contact was to her right now. "I did see Viktor," she conceded. "But it was for my latest assignment for the Prophet. I needed to speak to someone who had studied the Dark Arts, and Durmstrang is the leading school in Europe in that particular field. And afterward, I had to go to Hogwarts."

"Why?" Ron asked curiously.

"It's a long story," Hermione said wearily. "I'll explain later, but suffice it to say, I was gone all day--anyone could have been here at any time. Well," she corrected when she saw the bushy tail of a wobbly cat slowly flick against the leg of a fallen armchair, "it couldn't have been too long ago. Crookshanks was still out, and Stunning spells wear off after an hour or two." She reluctantly left Ron's side to go and scoop up her cat. Crookshanks whined pathetically and burrowed himself deeper into Hermione's comforting grip. "They really must have frightened him," Hermione commented worriedly. She just hoped that the Stunning spell hadn't left any lingering side-effects; her pet had been traumatized enough.

Ron was no great fan of Crookshanks, but even he was moved enough to come over and scratch the ears of the weakened cat. Harry tapped his wand edgily against his leg, looking at Crookshanks, then Hermione, and then around the completely ruined apartment. "I'm so sorry, Hermione."

To the average person, that remark would have appeared to have been a heartfelt expression of condolence. But Hermione knew Harry Potter much, much better than most. She looked over at him sharply. Sure enough, there it was: the clenched jaw, the twitch of the cheek muscle, the guilty eyes. Once again, Harry Potter was blaming himself.

"Harry, this isn't your fault. Nor yours, for that matter," Hermione added as she glanced over at Ron, consciously realizing for the first time that he was exuding similar emotions. Once again, Goyle's words resounded in the back of her mind, and Hermione looked at her two best friends. "Do you think that this happened because of what you're working on? That this is an attempt to get to you through me? Because I have plenty of enemies myself, especially with what I'm working on right now." She shrugged. "I have a feeling that this was meant for me and me alone."

"What are you working on now?" Ron asked keenly.

Hermione bit her lip. She wasn't certain that either of them were going to fancy what she was willingly getting herself into. "I'm looking into the possibility of the Death Eaters during the war actually physically taking magical abilities out of Muggle-born witches and wizards and transplanting them into Muggles. Eventually, the Muggles' bodies would reject the magic and die, so the Death Eaters would accomplish two things at once: getting rid of Muggle-borns and Muggles at the same time."

Ron and Harry just gaped for a moment. They had read all of Hermione's work, so they had reckoned that this latest story would be yet another editorial. But she had never written anything like this. This assignment was just flat out dangerous. "Yeah, that could cause something like this, couldn't it?" Ron finally said brusquely, shooting a fast cryptic look at Harry. Hermione caught it anyway, but before she could ask him about it, Ron was already speaking. "But let's not focus on that yet--let's think about how someone could have done this." He jabbed a thumb at the ruined front door. "You still do all of those security spells?"

"Yes, of course," Hermione answered. She always locked her door, no matter how tired or distracted she was at the time, and it was a good, sturdy lock. She had just replaced the deadbolt less than a year ago, and just in case that wasn't enough, she had charmed the door so that when it closed, magical locking spells were automatically enacted. Only someone with a key or a wand could break that spell, and since Hermione and Ron possessed the only keys, there was only one possibility for how that door could have opened. And considering the strength of her spells, it had to be someone with a fairly high level of magical ability.

Harry had quietly walked over to inspect the door and check on the Memory Charmed Muggles. "They're gone," he reported while bending down to take a good close look at the deadbolt. He ran his fingers over the cold brass as Hermione and Ron joined him in the foyer. "Yeah, they used a spell all right--the keyhole warped when they stuck the wand in."

"I assumed as much," Hermione said with a sigh. She had thought that she had done everything she could to block the Alohomora spell from working on her door. Apparently, she had been mistaken.

Ron stepped over to take a look at the faint scorch marks on the lock. He straightened up to frown at Hermione. "How do they know you live here? It's a Muggle neighborhood. You keep your address out of public records. You flag your post so that all owls go to the Prophet, so they can't find it through mail. Do you think that it's someone who knows you--someone from the newspaper? Rita, maybe?"

"Rita hasn't bothered me in ages," Hermione refuted. "She's been annoying, yes, but not openly spiteful. Nothing that would have warranted something like this." She smoothed her hair away from her face, keeping her hands on her head as she thought long and hard for a moment. "Maybe someone came and asked at the Prophet--I could ask and see if anyone stopped by asking about me."

Harry shook his head. "No, they wouldn't ask flat out; it could be traced back to them. They had to have gotten it directly."

Directly. Hermione's stomach jumped and her eyes widened. "Oh."

"What?" Ron and Harry asked as one.

"I gave my address to someone in your office. They said they needed it if they needed to contact me in case of an emergency," Hermione relayed.

"Son of a bitch," Ron swore. "Who?"

"Drake Bond? Kingsley's assistant?" Hermione sensed the sharp twist of Ron's stomach before it showed on his face, and she let out a sigh, amazed at her own stupidity. "Kingsley doesn't have an assistant, does he?"

"No," Harry confirmed grimly. His wand was out again and frenetically tapping away against his leg. "We are being watched," he said quietly to Ron.

Ron didn't answer Harry. His eyes were still trained on Hermione. "What were you doing in our office?"

"Ginny and I came to ask Kingsley if you two were all right," Hermione explained unremorsefully. "He wasn't there, so we were waiting in your office, and he came in and--" Hermione broke off with a shrug. "He seemed to know you, and I've never met anyone you've worked with so I just assumed..."

"You assumed?" Ron cut in. "Hermione, I've told you that you can't be talking to anyone about what we do!"

Hermione stared at him in disbelief. He was not going to make her feel guilty for simply trying to find out if the one person she cared about more than anyone or anything in the entire world was safe. "No, you haven't," Hermione reminded him indignantly. "You never talk to me about your work. How am I supposed to know who I can trust and who I can't?"

"Try thinking," Ron snapped. "Try not poking around my office!" He laughed sarcastically. "Try not trusting someone who actually claims his name is something as stupid as Drake Bond."

Hermione didn't even bother denying that she and Ginny had poked around their offices. She could never lie to Ron. She folded her arms over her chest. "Well, what do you expect? We were worried. You two were gone for three weeks without a word to anyone. How were we supposed to know that you were okay? Do you honestly expect us just to sit here and wait when you two could very well be getting yourselves killed?"

"Hey, guys!" Harry interjected loudly. "I'm sure you two have missed this since we have been away for ages, but we need to stay on subject." He looked steadily at Hermione, trying to will her to control her temper. "What did this bloke look like?"

"He was tall, a little shorter than Ron, but taller than you, Harry," Hermione relayed tightly. "He had blonde hair cut really short, and really blue eyes. He had broader shoulders--broader than both of yours. There wasn't anything really unremarkable about his face or anything. Sorry I can't be more helpful."

"Well, maybe Ginny remembers something," Harry said hopefully. He glanced at his watch without seeing it. "I should probably go ask her about it." Hermione knew this was really a ruse to escape the awkwardness of watching his two best friends row, and also an excuse to see his girlfriend again. Harry's motives however became much more desperate as a sudden thought hit him. "Did Ginny give her address too?"

"She just told him that she lived with you," Hermione said. She bit her lip anxiously. "You don't think--because I really do think this has something to do with me, not you--"

"Then what was the amazing Drake Bond doing at our office?" Ron reminded her sharply.

"Because he could have been following Hermione," Harry pointed out as he twirled his wand expertly. "But I really should go check on her."

"Do you want me--"

"No," Harry cut in his partner's offer. "I think Hermione's right--if her story is what she said it is, I think this is all for her." He shot her a commiserating look. "But if there's a problem, I'll just use the--" He nodded subtly toward his pocket, and Ron nodded in total understanding. "Hermione, I'll come by later to help you clean up?"

It was now Ron's turn to cut off his partner's offer. "No, we'll get it. You just stay with Ginny. I'll see you in the morning."

Harry looked at Ron, and Hermione could almost feel the unspoken communication zinging back and forth between them. "Right." Harry turned to Hermione. "Let me know if you need anything--anything at all, ok?"

"I will," Hermione promised. "Thanks for coming, Harry."

Harry nodded a good-bye and started out in the hallway. Ron started to lead Hermione back into her living room, but Hermione remembered something else that Harry needed to know. "I'll be right back," she reassured. She followed Harry into the corridor.

"Harry?" Hermione hurried to catch up and lowered her voice. "Could-could you just keep an eye on Ginny?" Harry's eyes, already quite concerned, intensified at the mere suggestion that something might be wrong with his girlfriend. "I don't know if there's anything going on, but the last time I spoke to her, she-she really missed you. I think it affects her more than she lets on, and especially this time, since you were gone so long, it really took a toll and--" Hermione broke off, trying to make sense of her rambling. "I don't know, Harry, what it is, but I just have a bad feeling--"

"I got it," Harry interrupted swiftly, placing a placating hand on Hermione's arm. "I'll take care of her, I swear--I always do."

"I know," Hermione replied under her breath. Yes, Harry always looked after Ginny, kept her safe, protected her with everything he had in him. Harry was absolutely fantastic that way. But there were other ways that Ginny needed to be cared for that Harry might not exactly excel at. Despite being with Ginny for three years, Harry still had a lot to learn about women. That ignorance, coupled with Harry's own problems with intimacy and commitment, could possibly lead him to make a poor decision in this area. Hermione had all the faith in the world in her best friend, of course, and she was positive that Harry and Ginny's relationship was going to last for an eternity, but that didn't mean that mistakes wouldn't be made along the way. That didn't mean that Harry might not know what Ginny needed right now.

"Let me know if you need me," Harry repeated seriously. Hermione nodded and with a parting squeeze of her arm, Harry strode down the hall and disappeared down the stairwell.

Hermione folded her arms over her chest, warming herself from a hidden chill that seemed to permeate the air. She always became quite chilled whenever she was especially worked up or upset. Leaning against the wall for a moment, Hermione closed her eyes to the world and just took a long breath. The process of cleaning her apartment was going to be a nightmare, not to mention the row she was going to be walking straight back into with Ron. Their love for each other might conquer a vast multitude of things, but not their proclivity to argue.

She pushed herself up and returned to the devastated foyer, stepping over the fallen coat rack and other items, still hugging herself for dear life. Sensing Ron's anger, she had a feeling that it was about to become much colder in here.

"Ron--" she began while entering her living room, but as always, Ron was the only person in the world who could render her speechless. Usually, it was the seal of a toe-tingling, mind-stopping kiss, but this time it was the amazing sight of the dazzlingly clean living room that knocked Hermione flat. Some incoherent sound worked its way out of her gaping mouth as she looked around in shock. The furniture had been repaired, the curtains replaced, and the remains of the ruined books and other items had been swept clean away. Except for the notable absence of personal articles, it appeared as though Hermione had never been robbed. Once again, for the umpteenth time, Ron had proven himself to be the best bloke in the world.

Ron was standing by her newly repaired desk, his wand in one hand and a pile of crumpled parchment in the other. He was looking so intently at the apparently fascinating parchment that Hermione wasn't certain he had realized she had returned. All thoughts of their previous row whisked clear of her mind, and Hermione began to cross over to him. "Ron--" she repeated gratefully, not certain that even someone as loquacious as herself could express her gratitude.

Lucky for her, she didn't have to. Ron immediately flared up, parchment held in the air accusingly. "What the hell is this?"

Hermione stopped short. All thoughts of their previous row had apparently not been whisked clear of his mind. "I don't know what you're looking at," she said as calmly as possible before realizing that she did have a right to be indignant. "And are you reading my private things?"

"All sorts of rubbish about you and Dolohov," Ron explained irritably, dangerously coming close to ripping the balled parchment as he waved his hand about. Hermione stifled a sigh: ah. The dream diary. "You're still trying to find him!"

"Yes," Hermione agreed before catching herself. "No. He's dead, Ron! If I remember correctly, you killed him--oh, wait, no I don't!"

"I don't mean actually find him," Ron corrected impatiently. "I meant find out about him--find out what he did to you." He pawed though the wad of paper, reading every word before pausing on the last page. "And what's with all of this rubbish about Hogwarts?" He laughed sarcastically. "I know you love Hogwarts: A History more than me, Hermione, but copying from it when you've already read it ten million times is a little much."

Hermione's throat constricted both from Ron's bitter sarcasm and the realization of what Ron was holding in his hand. She hadn't realized the great extent of her loss until just now. "I'm not copying from Hogwarts: A History; I'm rewriting it," she informed him.

Ron looked at her as though she were as mad as Barty Crouch. "What?"

"It's my second job--the one I mentioned to you once and you never cared to ask about again." Hermione reminded him tightly. That statement was more than a little harsh, considering she had mentioned to Ron that she had more than one job while he was feverishly studying for Auror exams, but Hermione didn't really care; she was too angry to care. He was acting ridiculous. "McGonagall asked me a while ago. They publish a new edition of Hogwarts: A History every century, and the next one is due in four years. She remembered how fond I was of that textbook, so she asked if I would be interested in revising the selections already in the latest volume, as well as adding some articles and chapters about more recent events--namely the war."

Ron was still staring at her like she was Barty Crouch, and it was really starting to irritate her. "You're rewriting Hogwarts: A History all by yourself?" he repeated incredulously.

"Yes," Hermione said defensively. "What of it?"

"Nothing." Ron shook his head, awed. He now was looking at her not like she was insane, but like she was the most invaluable, most incredible person in the world. "You're just amazing," he said earnestly.

Just like that, her heart melted. Logically, Hermione knew that she should be annoyed that someone could play with her emotions so easily, twisting and altering them with the mere statement of three words that weren't even the three big words that every girl longed to hear from the boy of her dreams. Reasonably, she should be bothered; she should be offended. But damn it, the fury that had been raging inside her a few seconds earlier had vanished. She couldn't muster it up if her life depended on it. A slight blush tickled her cheeks, and suddenly it was no longer necessary for her to hug herself for warmth. Just like that, she was a lovesick schoolgirl again.

"You should have told me," Ron scolded, but his tone was soft and hurt, rather than agitated and irate. Of course this just made Hermione feel guilty, instead of furious.

"The author of Hogwarts: A History has traditionally been a secret," Hermione explained. She knew, though, that Ron wasn't just referring to her side job. He was also speaking about the dream diary, her latest assignment, and the myriad of dizzying emotions she underwent whenever he disappeared for an extended period. "If you had asked, though, I would have told you," she couldn't help adding. "You can ask me anything."

Ron's eyes penetrated straight to her soul, causing Hermione's heart to lurch. She hadn't experienced the intensity of his stare firsthand in a good long while. "Well, I reckon we all know about secrecy," he said slowly.

"Yes. Yes, we do," Hermione agreed quietly. They may know all about secrecy, but Hermione loathed it with all of her being. Secrecy made her feel as though she didn't know her own boyfriend anymore. She looked around her freshly cleaned apartment, biting her lip. Ron had just performed a very, very complicated bit of magic in an extremely short period of time. Hermione, who had all the faith in him in the world, had had no idea he was capable of such a feat. She had always known that the prat could accomplish anything, but she would like to see him do it. Hermione always wanted to know everything she could about Ron, and his job prevented that from happening. Although she would never ever ask him to give it up--it just made her life really difficult at times.

Hermione couldn't repress a sigh any longer as she pressed a weary hand to her forehead once again. She really had to stop thinking so much at times.

As if she had said the words out loud, Ron came over and made her thoughts stop by lowering her hand from her face so that there were no barriers between their eyes. "Do you trust me?" he asked abruptly.

She blinked. Did he even have to ask? "Of course I trust you," she answered. "I trust you more than I trust myself."

Ron's eyes flickered oddly, but he didn't comment. "Then come on."

"What?" Hermione asked in confusion as he pulled almost excitedly on her hand, dragging her toward the door with a childlike enthusiasm. "Ron, where are we going--we can't--"

But they could, because at that moment, Ron turned around and finally gave her what she desperately needed. A faint moan escaped from the back of her throat as she sank into him, wrapping her arms around his neck so she could properly reciprocate. It was in these glorious moments when he freely gave himself to her like this that Hermione felt as though she could defy gravity, walk on water, and leap over mountains in a single bound, so why shouldn't she be able to go with him? Yes, they should stay behind and clean up this atrocious mess and sort out their troubles, but if she was with him and he was with her, Hermione had a feeling that their troubles would work out just fine. At the end of the day, they just wanted to be together. They both wanted the same things, and being the naturally stubborn people that they were, they would ultimately achieve what they so fervently longed for. Come what may, they would end up together. That's all there was to it.

So, Hermione just burrowed her fingers in Ron's and allowed him to lead her away to their undetermined destination, wondering curiously what he had planned for her now and knowing deep inside of her that whatever it was, it was going to be bloody brilliant.


Author notes: Thanks for reading! And less than a week until HBP! Yay!

Next up: We found out where Ron takes Hermione and a few more mysteries pop up...