A Different Kind of Darkness

Chapter Seven: Allies and Enemies

Hermione hugged her arms protectively around herself, unable to shake the slithering chill slowly making its way through her body as she stood in the entrance of the lavishly appointed chamber she had been delivered to. Similar to her own, it was even larger, and decorated in regal reds and golds.

Ever the little Gryffindor, she reflected dryly as she looked around. Her attention was drawn to an enormous painting hanging near the fireplace, or rather the fact it was covered by a dark sheet. An itching curiosity seeped through her anxiety, but she didn't dare approach to investigate the enigma beneath the veil. The memory of the portrait of Sirius' mother, which had shouted obscenities Hermione had never heard before, or since, was still quite clear in her mind. If the painting was covered, it was undoubtedly for a good reason, and with that, she turned away from it.

The problem now was how she should proceed, seeing as there was no one else in the room. Hermione started to fidget nervously with her hair, when another large painting caught her eye. She moved closer to examine it more closely.

It depicted a magnificent stone castle at dusk, its windows brightly illuminated by torchlight from within. The top of the frame bore a crest, one she easily recognised from years ago, but another lifetime. She watched silently as tiny people moved about near the lake, heading back to the castle for dinner. A sad smile graced her lips as bittersweet memories flooded back.

'We had some good times there.' A voice, sounding as though it had come from across the room, shattered Hermione's quiet reflections. She whirled around, almost guiltily.

Harry stood on the opposite side of the room near the fireplace, watching her with clear interest. His ceremonial robes had been replaced by a simple pair of brown trousers and a white shirt, his holly wand hanging prominently from a leather belt, like a sword without its scabbard. The usually wayward black hair was slicked back as if recently washed, displaying his trademark scar, and from where she stood, Hermione caught the scent of an expensive designer aftershave. He had appeared so quietly that Hermione suspected the entrance to a secret passage was somewhere near where he stood - Apparating and Disapparating within the Palace and its grounds was impossible. She had personally ensured that, along with a myriad of other precautions, when the plans for the Palace, originally intended to be the new Ministry of Magic, had been deliberated.

Not that any of that really mattered at the moment; what counted now was the fact he was here, and approaching her.

'Your Highness,' she acknowledged primly, sinking into a low curtsey. It was a bitter pill to swallow yet she hoped she was doing this right. Claudine, Joy and Diane had been explicit in their instructions, but there was so much to remember, and she'd had little time to study them properly, as was her nature.

Hermione felt Harry's shadow fall across her. She resisted the urge to flinch as his fingers caressed her jaw, tracing the outline before gently tilting her chin upwards. Even as he did, she cast her eyes downwards, fixing them on the plush beige carpet just in front of her. Taking his proffered hand, she rose, still demurely avoiding his gaze.

'Hermione,' he admonished, trying to catch her eye as he softly kissed her hand, 'is that really necessary?'

'I was instructed that it was, Highness,' she responded evenly, keeping her eyes on the floor, now purely out of stubbornness.

'Well, it's not,' he replied, his exasperation evident. 'Hermione, look at me.' His tone revealed he was firmly accustomed to his every whim being obeyed.

Hermione could recognise when she was beaten, and thus flicked her gaze to meet his, determined to betray none of her inner turmoil. Harry's expression was resolute.

'Those rules do not apply to you,' he intoned, releasing her hand and caressing her cheek lightly.

She bowed her head slightly in acceptance, not believing a word of it. However, she didn't disagree aloud because, whatever she might say or like to believe, she was afraid of him; afraid of what he had done, and what he was capable of doing. Displeasing him straightaway seemed foolish, especially seeing that it seemed she would be stuck here for a considerable amount of time. The realisation startled her as the reality of her situation finally started to sink in - forever was an exceedingly long time.

Harry stared at her for a moment longer, as if caught between being dumbstruck by her very presence and dumbfounded by her silent demeanor. At length, he cleared his throat to break an increasingly awkward silence.

'Would you care for some wine?' he offered, moving to a small mahogany table set with a light supper.

'Yes, please,' she replied calmly, pretending to examine several other portraits hung around the chamber. Frantically, she tried to quash an almost overwhelming urge to cry or scream, or in some way release the tempestuous feelings tearing inside her. Emotions would not help her survive this, she knew - she had to use her head, and always remember that her presence here meant Ron and the others were out of danger; she would do whatever was necessary to keep them safe.

Breathing in deeply and deliberately, she tried to clear her mind as she examined several silver-framed photos resting on the oak sideboard, including one of herself and Harry at their graduation, dressed in their Hogwarts robes and smiling broadly. She seemed to remember that Ron had been in that photo as well, as evidenced by a lone arm around her shoulder that had no visible body attached to it.

Standing next to that photo was one of the late Lily and James Potter. They smiled cheerfully, waving to her, happily oblivious to the monstrous transformation that had taken place in their son. Lily's emerald eyes sparkled happily, oddly reminiscent of the way Harry's used to, before shadows had smothered all light in them.

Hermione listened as Harry poured the wine and crossed the room again. Turning around, she accepted a crystal goblet filled with pale gold liquid and nodded her thanks. Harry smiled languidly, raising his glass.

'What shall we drink to?' he asked.

Hermione paused for a moment, her eyes flickering back to the painting of Hogwarts Castle. 'To the past,' she said finally, lifting her glass to touch his.

'To the past,' he repeated. 'And to the future - to new alliances,' he added. She raised an eyebrow slightly, but said nothing and sipped her wine; it was tart, dry and slightly fruity - obviously an excellent vintage.

Only the best for the Prince, she thought sardonically as Harry drained his goblet. He placed it carefully on the sideboard, beside the picture of his parents.

'Yes, we had some good times there. Some of my best memories are from our years at Hogwarts,' he said distractedly, running his eyes appreciatively over her. She turned away from his prying eyes, bristling slightly at the degrading violation and, walking away from him, returned to her examination of the Hogwarts painting. He followed her. 'It was a pity that it was destroyed,' he murmured, his voice growing louder as he sauntered closer.

'A pity,' she echoed softly, taking another swallow of wine. Oh, Ron, she implored silently, forgive me.

She felt his hands float scarcely above her bare shoulders, his fingers expertly tracing a pattern down her arms, sending unwanted shivers down her spine. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if this alone would dispel reality, and stifled a gasp as soft lips brushed her neck. Harry's hands returned to her shoulders, and she allowed herself to be spun towards him, the glass nimbly plucked from her frozen fingers and casually tossed aside. She barely noticed the smash of glass; she was focused on the frightening lust radiating from his eyes as he encircled her with strong arms.

'But we're not here to talk about the past,' he whispered predatorily. Hermione was half-hypnotised by the vivid green eyes which made his intentions crystal clear. Images of Ron flashed before her eyes. Swallowing hard, she tried to push down her escalating panic. She glanced fleetingly over his shoulder at the four-poster bed; the crisp sheets were already turned down.

'No,' she stated matter-of-factly, her gaze coming back to him as she braced herself inwardly, 'we're not.'

* * *

A pair of cold eyes watched, unobserved, from the shadows as that great troll Russell led Granger towards the Lightning Prince's chambers; their owner stood silent under an invisibility cloak as they passed by, not daring to breathe. As Granger crossed the threshold, the observer noted with interest that Russell did not accompany her into the apartments. Instead, he closed the door firmly after her and stood guard over it, lest anyone attempt to disturb the Prince's long awaited reunion with his favourite little revolutionary.

The unseen onlooker waited a moment before soundlessly withdrawing into the deeper shadows of the long hallway towards a secret passage hidden about half way back. A quietly muttered incantation and the passage door slid back noiselessly. Glancing about to ensure no one had witnessed the movement, the shadowy figure shot a final, calculating glance towards the Prince's chambers before entering, pulling the hidden door shut, and creeping along the cramped corridor. Light was unnecessary; the figure knew this passage well, and there was only one other exit, which led directly to the Prime Minister's private study.

Percy sat in a velvet armchair in front of the fireplace, staring into the hypnotic fluttering of the flames, deep in thought. He looked up as the large portrait of Marvin the Mute hanging behind his paper-laden desk swung forward, much to the surprise of Marvin, who looked extremely panicked and leapt aside to hide at the edge of his frame. Percy, on the other hand, watched impassively as his private informant materialised from under an invisibility cloak.

'Is she with him?' Percy asked, gesturing for his spy to sit.

The figure nodded wordlessly, sitting in the armchair opposite and automatically scanning the room, searching for eavesdroppers hiding in the darkness.

Percy frowned, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. 'This is an unexpected development,' he said slowly. 'The Prince has declared that Granger is to be shown the utmost respect, but there are ways around that,' he mused.

He looked up swiftly at his agent. 'I know I can count on you. Keep an eye on her - befriend her, even. Under the Prince's protection or not, we can't risk her interfering with our plans.'

The spy reluctantly nodded in agreement, asking if Percy truly believed Granger would get in the way, mild unease infiltrating the quiet tone. Percy relaxed into his chair, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

'Perhaps not, but it's best not to take chances,' he said, his mouth set in a cruel line. 'We'll keep to the old political adage - "Keep your friend's close ..."'

'"... and your enemies even closer,"' the spy finished, hard eyes glittering darkly.

* * *

Ron Apparated near the edge of a darkened clearing lit only by the waning light of the half-moon. He immediately pulled back behind the dense tree line. While he doubted that Neville would betray him, he had no desire to face the Lightning Prince twice in one day, and quickly inspected the surrounding area. There was no one there.

Sighing, Ron leaned back against a giant oak, listening to the howling of the wind, from which the forest took its name. He was early, so he would wait.

Sliding to his haunches, he settled himself into a crevice between the tree's roots, ignoring the leaves that the swirling wind fluttered towards him. His right hand gripped his wand tightly, ready for any attack he might face despite his growing fatigue.

Some time later, the sound of a distant pop reached his ears and he pulled himself to his feet, wand still at the ready. A squat figure enveloped in a dark cloak appeared out of the shadows.

'Ron?' the figure asked hesitantly. The breeze whistled through the trees, and the figure looked about apprehensively, his wand brandished in front of him. 'Ron? Is that you?'

Ron walked slowly out of the cover of the trees, lowering his wand. 'Do you know anyone else who'd come to the middle of the Wailing Woods this late at night?' he asked, trying for a jovial tone and failing dismally.

Neville whirled to face the direction of Ron's voice, the hood of his cloak falling back to reveal features creased in concern and suspicion. His wand was aimed at Ron's chest. 'I want to make it perfectly clear that I wasn't going to come,' he said bluntly, lowering his wand hesitantly, 'but Michelle insisted I hear what you had to say.'

Ron nodded slowly, silently thanking Neville's strong-willed girlfriend. 'How is Michelle?' he asked, glad to have a less volatile subject to begin with.

Neville's frown deepened. 'She's fine,' he responded agitatedly. 'No offence, Ron, but what the hell do you want? I assume this isn't a class reunion.' It had been nearly two years since Ron had last seen his old classmate, and they had clearly been good for Neville. He was now the respected head of an entire section of the Auror Underground, responsible for the cultivation of all magical and non-magical plants required in everything from poisons to healing potions. Although he had not changed much physically since their days at Hogwarts together, Ron quickly recognised that this was not the same boy, and just as rapidly dismissed the idea of trying to bully him.

Ron took a deep breath. 'I want you to arrange for me to meet with Moody or Trafford. Preferably both.'

Neville snorted disdainfully. 'You're mad!' He turned away, shaking his head at Ron's outlandish request.

'No, I'm deadly serious.'

Neville spun back. Taking in the determined look on Ron's face, his eyes narrowed. 'Ron, I'm the head of the Herbology department - I don't get involved in the politics.'

It was Ron's turn to snort scornfully. 'Neville, I know for a fact that you have regular contact with Trafford, and even if you don't see Moody himself, you report to Tonks,' he said, arching an eyebrow. 'And as for politics, you're a member of the Auror Underground. That in itself is pretty much a political statement. Just ask His Highness,' Ron added dryly.

Neville nodded slowly, still regarding Ron carefully. 'True,' he conceded grudgingly. 'But even if I could, and was willing to help you, what would I tell them that you wanted to meet them for? Betrayal to the Prince?' he asked, smirking slightly.

Ron snorted again, mentally noting that Neville didn't seem to be aware of the events of that morning and determining not to enlighten him. The Underground would undoubtedly willfully misinterpret the fact that Hermione was now back with Potter. 'No offence Neville, but I think I rank more highly on Potter's "Locate and Dismember" list than even your glorious leaders.'

Neville ignored the obvious jibe and pressed his point. 'What do you want with them?' he repeated.

Ron breathed deeply again, realizing the monumental importance of his next statement. 'What else? I want to propose a coalition between the Underground and the Resistance.'

Neville gaped, but quickly recovered his composure. Ron privately noted that Neville must attend many more politically centred gatherings than he had let on if he could exercise such impressive personal control.

'What makes you think that they'll want you this time around?' Neville finally asked, running a gloved hand through his hair distractedly. 'They didn't want you to join three years ago.'

Ron clenched his jaw; the rejection three years ago was still a stinging insult to him. 'Three years ago was different,' he responded, trying to stay calm.

Three years beforehand, Hermione, Ron and their closest friends had been refused membership to the Auror Underground. The leaders, primarily Moody and Trafford, had declared that they were obviously tired of Harry's absolute rule and were trying to make their own bid for power. The controversy and bad blood created by the incident had resulted in far-reaching consequences, none more important than McGonagall's leaving the Underground to help Hermione, Ron and their handful of supporters to found the Phoenix Resistance. However, for all the successes of the Resistance, Ron was still especially hurt that Moody, the comrade from the Order of the Phoenix, family friend, and a personal hero, had believed him capable of such an act.

'What makes it different?' Neville shot back. 'Rumour has it the Resistance is just your private army. What makes it so different from, say, the Pureblood Alliance?

Ron glowered at him. 'How can you even compare us to them?' he demanded. 'They're scum! Didn't you see the reports on Ment Alley?' He cut himself off, staring fleetingly at the star-studded sky as he reigned himself in. 'Is that what you believe, Neville?' he asked in a softer tone, swallowing hard. 'That Hermione and I are just in it for the power and glory?'

Neville hesitated a moment before responding. 'No,' he said eventually; Ron nodded tersely. 'But it doesn't matter what I think,' he added quickly. 'Despite what you may have heard, I'm not that highly ranked. If Trafford and Moody didn't listen to McGonagall three years ago, what makes you think they'll listen to me? They're just going to make the same ridiculous accusations as before.'

'And I'll give the same responses,' Ron responded stubbornly. 'You know we didn't know what was going on.'

Few people had believed Ron and Hermione when they had claimed they hadn't tried to join the Underground earlier than they had simply because they hadn't know what was really happening. Living in bubbles, created and maintained by Harry, they had been far too busy - Hermione with negotiations of various descriptions and Ron with keeping the military together - to really notice what was going on until it was too late.

'But you caught on eventually,' Neville stated a little sarcastically.

'Better late then never, right, Nev?' Ron responded wryly, frowning. 'You called the accusation ridiculous a second ago - surely you're not against us.'

Neville folded his arms over his chest. 'I'm a member of the Underground, Ron - I'm for them. But that doesn't mean I believe that you and Hermione are out for personal gain. I just don't know what you are out for.' Ron bit back an acidic response, too tired to argue a pointless debate. 'And coming back to the point of this meeting,' Neville said, blatantly changing the subject. 'I can't see how this is any different from the last time, so I don't see -'

Ron cut him off. 'This isn't like three years ago,' he hissed, nearly at the end of his tether. 'Then, it was two individuals wanting to join an established organisation which, as it turned out, didn't want them. Now, I'm proposing the union of two organisations. There's an obvious difference.' He stopped, once again wrestling with his frustration.

There was a strained silence. 'There's no need to patronise me, Ron,' Neville responded in a quiet voice.

Ron sighed softly. 'I'm sorry, Neville, but I think I'm going to have a big enough battle trying to convince your superiors - do I really need to convince you as well?' He continued without waiting for a response. 'We have the same goals. What's more, the Resistance is bigger than the Underground. People are more willing to join the famous Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger than a couple of ex-Aurors, even if they are Mad-Eye Moody and Isis Trafford.'

'Which just goes to show they have a point about the potential for private gain, as well as turning a political conflict into a personal vendetta,' Neville pointed out.

'Well, it's a good thing you're taking advice from a wizard who regards Puffskeins as a major threat, and a witch who feels the need to cast runes before she can choose something for breakfast!' Ron thought waspishly, unable to stem the despair welling within him.

If he couldn't forge an alliance with the Underground, this civil war would drag on even longer; more people would suffer and die for a fading cause, and he would never get Hermione back. Gloom began to tinge the brightness of the future he had envisioned while back at the safe house.

'Ron?' Neville's voice pierced his dark thoughts. Ron turned back, determined to accept Neville's choice calmly. 'I can't promise you anything, but I'll see what I can do,' he said in a subdued tone, looking Ron in the eye before turning away. 'You still use the room at the Siren's Song?'

'Yeah.'

'I'll leave a message there as soon as I can.'

With that, Neville pulled his hood up against the persistent wind, moving away.

Ron felt a burning sensation in his chest, belatedly realising he had been holding his breath. Releasing it, he choked slightly before calling after his old schoolmate.

'Give Michelle my regards,' he said, pulling his own cloak tighter around himself. 'And thanks,' he added in a relieved undertone, Disapparating back to Campbell Avenue.