A Different Kind of Darkness

Chapter Eleven: Shadows

Percy Weasley paced his private study, agitated. He checked the bronze clock on his mantelpiece again and frowned. It was just before eight o'clock and his owl post, usually delivered at a quarter to eight on the dot, had not yet arrived. He growled a sigh of exasperation, his glance darting out the window for the tenth time in as many minutes, weighing up if he would have to go to his breakfast meeting without reading his morning mail.

He stopped himself from fiddling with the crisp collar of his dark robes, instead folding his arms across his chest and glaring at the overcast sky. No; he was expecting an extremely important communiqué and couldn't take the risk of anyone else coming across it. He gritted his teeth in frustration. Breakfast would have to wait.

Crossing to his desk, he shuffled through some pieces of parchment regarding the meeting he was now going to be late for, a welcome distraction from his waiting. Mrs. June Morgan, the head of the prestigious and obscenely wealthy Morgan family, had requested a meeting with the Prime Minister in order to discuss her daughter, Sian. Percy had a distant connection with the family, having attended Hogwarts with Sian's older brother, Iago, an arrogant snot who was now running the family's quill manufacturing business.

Percy grimaced, knowing full well that the formidable old woman wanted her daughter to be given some sort of position within the Palace. The sole problem Percy saw with fulfilling the request was that Sian Morgan was so incredibly thick, she couldn't have picked the back end of a broom if she had a Firebolt and a copy of Which Broom?.

In fact, now that he really thought about it, Percy really didn't mind keeping Mrs. Morgan waiting at all. He hadn't been looking forward to this meeting in the first place and had already rescheduled it twice. His tardiness may well give June Morgan an appropriate reminder that Percy was indeed the Prime Minister, and thus had far more important things to take care of than the whims of a bored old lady and her idiot daughter, however rich they were.

Percy sighed again, reality intruding upon his wishful thinking. Regardless of his own heightened status, deliberate rudeness towards old Wizarding families was ultimately like turning your back on a Hippogriff - pretty bloody stupid with pretty bloody results. He had started to wonder how he could diplomatically explain to Mrs. Morgan that her daughter had been blessed with the intelligence and personality of a mossy boulder when a faint tapping at the window distracted him.

'About ruddy time,' he muttered to himself upon seeing the tawny owl, carrying a large number of letters, hovering just outside. He crossed the chamber immediately, quickly opening the window to admit the owl and a very cool breeze. The large owl brushed past Percy, winging its way directly towards large, meticulously arranged desk, where he set down with a faint thump, impatiently proffering his leg.

'Yes, yes, I'm coming. Keep your feathers on, Horatio,' Percy exclaimed as the bird hooted aggressively. Striding to his desk, he quickly untied the letters from Horatio's leg, hurriedly sorting through the various envelopes. Horatio hooted indignantly, having received neither food nor thanks of any sort. Percy shot him a stern look over yet another large envelope from P.R.A.T.S, thoroughly unimpressed with his owl's behaviour.

'You were late, you were rude, and now you want food?' he demanded shortly. 'Go and get something from the Owlery - I'm busy.'

Horatio hooted again, clearly not happy with his master. He continued to hoot loudly as he fluttered past Percy and out the window once more.

Percy paid no attention, except to shut the window against the growing wind that was fluttering the sea-green curtains. Turning back to his mail, he sifted through the pile once more, setting aside the numerous personal invitations to upper class social gatherings. He didn't generally bother going to those stuffy parties anymore - one matriarch or another always tried to set him up with their granddaughter or great-niece, and he inevitably ended up having to be polite to some trust-funded bore in pastel robes. Moreover, he was acutely aware that, although Lucy had left him almost three years beforehand, they were actually still married, and he had no interest in courting another companion.

With a small grunt, Percy finally unearthed what he had been so anxiously waiting for - his monthly subscription to Who's Cauldron?. Breathing a small sigh of relief, he tossed the rest of the mail to the side and opened the magazine, scanning the contents page for the regular article by Iolanthe Bailey, this one on the proper care of solid gold cauldrons. Spotting it within the listing, he flipped to the correct page and placed the open magazine flat on his desk. Pulling his wand from a pocket in his robes, he cast a hasty, unnecessary look around the room before tapping his wand to the parchment, muttering several incantations. As he chanted, the text of the page seemed to spring to life, rapidly rearranging itself so that as Percy finished speaking a few moments later, the page no longer contained advice on how to remove nasty scorch marks from a cauldron's golden bottom. In its place was a very short, unaddressed letter, which Percy read through quickly.

Latest operation was successful. Limited problems encountered.

Next effort will be during anniversary celebrations. You will obtain and send a complete itinerary immediately.

A progress report on your own mission is expected.

We wait for your sign.

The letter wasn't signed but Percy wasn't worried - they never were. They did, however, always end the same way, giving Percy an unnecessary reminder of his duty and his true loyalties.

Percy's forehead creased into a thoughtful frown as he re-read the letter. He had already heard various reports about the attack on Ment Alley, both the official intelligence and the vamped-up version of events circulated by the press. The final death count stood at twenty-eight, and the Daily Prophet had been circulating photographs of each victim, particularly of the nine eight-year-olds who had been killed in the blast, dedicating pages of every issue to snivelling parents and sob stories. Percy pursed his lips - the Wizarding population was so overly sentimental, devouring the stories with an interesting combination of indignant rancor and overeager sympathy.

Reading on, he distractedly adjusted his glasses, trying to remember what he had done with his copy of the final itinerary for the upcoming festivities. Although the anniversary was still almost two months away, the programme had already been carefully set out in immaculate detail due to the extensive planning required.

The Lightning Prince had decided to host a weeklong celebration to commemorate the fifth anniversary since the conclusion of the war against the Dark Lord. Guests had been invited from far and wide, promising to make these celebrations the largest the Wizarding world had seen in centuries.

Percy was personally of the opinion that the entire event would be a complete waste of time and resources, and was especially dreading the Masquerade Ball planned for the Saturday evening. He was resigned to the fact that he would be unable to avoid the event and its accompanying pink-frilled debutantes and jewel-encrusted dowagers.

Moving behind his desk, Percy sorted through a variety of papers before finding the programme. He skimmed through it, snorting as he read the final day's events. The anniversary week was to be concluded with a Quidditch match, played on the Prince's private Quidditch pitch on the Sunday afternoon - the one possible bright spot in the entire bleak fiasco. Percy hadn't been to a Quidditch match in quite a while. This would be followed by a lavish high tea, where the Prince's escort was supposed to propose a toast to the guests.

Percy shook his head at the thought of Hermione giving a speech to some of the most important individuals in the Wizarding world - that small detail would have to be changed. He scowled; Hermione Granger was far more trouble than she was worth, and had it been up to Percy, she would have been taken directly to the North Tower then disposed of.

However, his spy had reported that she didn't appear to have any sort of agenda of her own, and she was indeed serving a purpose in Percy's plans; since her unexpected arrival at the Palace, the Prince had been far more distracted than usual. This all made it far easier for Percy to go about his set mission, although it hadn't really led to much progress. He wondered how the news of his lack of success would be received in a few weeks when he would have to send in his latest report. He had been recruited by the group almost four years ago, and in that time, had made few in-roads into his assigned mission.

Still, overthrowing a government was not work to be taken lightly or hastily - one had to strike, undetected, from the shadows. In his next report, he would simply have to once again stress the delicate nature of his task and the need for patience.

Scanning the letter a final time, he committed its contents to memory before folding the copy of Who's Cauldron? into neat halves. Crossing to the fireplace with the magazine in hand, he threw it into the blazing fire, watching as it quickly caught alight and burned, crumbling into flaky ashes that floated lightly up the chimney.

Having ensured that all traces of the correspondence had been destroyed, he moved back to the desk and picked up his wand, hurrying out of the room to meet Mrs. Morgan.

* * *

Seamus Finnigan was utterly bored as he fiddled with a loose thread on the sleeve of his black robes. In actual fact, he had plenty of work to do, as his assistant Gail Ramsey had already pointed out several times today, with little to no effect. Gail, a droning old battleaxe with a helmet of meticulously permed grey hair, was watching him beadily from the doorway of his corner office before she turned and stormed back to her desk, muttering darkly. As a recycled secretary from the Ministry of Magic, she was unimpressed in the extreme with the cavalier attitude the Director had taken towards his work today - he had been distracted the entire morning, and it now appeared that this would continue into the afternoon as well.

Not having noticed Gail's brief appearance, Seamus tired of the distraction offered by his sleeve, and finally gave the thread a sharp yank, snapping it off. He smoothed his robe, staring blankly at the black fabric as his thoughts wandered once more to his conversation with Hermione. The news of Dean's death almost a year ago had shaken him more than he had ever thought possible, and had occupied his thoughts almost entirely for the past day.

He had barely slept the night before, having searched through old photos and letters, shaking his head sadly as he remembered the good times they'd had together, sobbing when he reflected on their bitter last encounter.

Seamus ran a hand through his hair. Since yesterday afternoon, he had been resisting an almost overwhelming call of his old friend, Ogden's Firewhisky. He had automatically stifled the urge, sternly instructing himself to remember what had happened last time, just after Dean had left. Each time, he had shuddered himself out of temptation, thinking about the months of his life he had lost because he had simply been too drunk to notice time passing. He'd been completely sober for a year now. Since Dean's death in the attack, he suddenly realised.

His resolve crumpled at the thought, the desperate need to blot out the pain in his life becoming overwhelmingly strong. Surely, one little drink couldn't hurt...

Peering out to double-check that there was no one near his office, he slowly opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out several folders overloaded with sheets of parchment. Hidden underneath the files were a tarnished hip flask and a wooden-framed photo with the glass missing, it having been broken when he had flung the frame against the wall in a fit of anger.

Setting the photo frame on the desk, he stared at the silent people moving within. Sighing, he shook his head before starting to loosen the lid of the flask with fumbling fingers.

Suddenly, he heard the distinctive noise of hard-heeled shoes from the hallway just outside and quickly slipped the flask into a pocket in his robe before sliding the photo face down. 'Go away, Joy,' he said heavily, leaning his elbow on the desk and not even bothering to look up.

Joy humphed, a hand planted on her hip. 'Well, that's nice', she remarked. 'How'd you know it was me, anyway?' she demanded.

Seamus snorted. 'Because you're the only person I know who moves with the grace and silence of a Centaur wearing tap shoes,' he responded, continuing before she could retort. 'How'd you get past Gail?'

Joy gave him a smug look. 'None of your business,' she said smartly.

He raised his eyebrows. 'All right then. What do you want?'

She smiled archly, walking around the desk and seating herself on the corner, right next to him. 'Oh, nothing, Seamus, darling,' she purred sweetly, touching a hand to his arm, 'I just came to say hello, ask how it's going, see if I could destroy a few vitally important documents - the usual.'

He groaned, shifting his chair back slightly to conceal the flask better but also so he could look at her face. 'Don't you have any hobbies besides bothering me?' he asked, cocking his head to the side.

Joy shrugged, crossing one leg over the other. 'Not really,' she replied coolly. 'Besides, you weren't very nice to me yesterday with Hermione, so I don't see any particular reason to be nice to you.' Seamus said nothing to defend his actions, still surreptitiously holding the flask through his robes and hoping the young witch would leave. 'But to tell the truth, this isn't a social visit, as such,' she added, eliciting a suspicious glance from Seamus.

She ignored him and went on, picking up and examining a glass cube containing a bright green shamrock as she spoke. 'You know that the Harem had a welcome dinner the other week for Carmen Viscontini - I was just thinking it would be nice to do the same for the your new friend working in the Anti-Terrorism department,' she finished, losing interest in the ornament and placing it back on the desk.

He snorted, managing to hide his disappointment at her continued presence with a familiar layer of scorn. 'I knew it,' he muttered, releasing the flask and leaning back in his chair. 'You know, rumour mongering is extremely unbecoming, Miss Wells.'

'Oh, come on, Seamus,' she replied, her voice rising. 'I'm only trying to be friendly - she's been here for months, and hardly anyone's even seen her! You could at least let me meet her.'

Seamus shook his head, impatiently drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. 'She's not in the Harem, Joy,' he said warningly, 'so she's got nothing to do with you. Just drop it.'

Joy pounced on the statement immediately. 'So, she's British?' Seamus released an exasperated sigh but didn't otherwise respond, merely fixing Joy with a tired look. She pursed her lips, green eyes scanning his face for clues. 'You're a lousy gossip, Seamus,' she said finally.

'So you keep telling me,' Seamus replied sardonically. 'And I'm glad to hear it.'

Joy folded her arms and fixed him with an imperious stare. 'Seamus Finnigan, you know something about this woman! Now, share!'

'So you can tip off the grapevine?' he asked in a mocking tone. 'I don't think so.' Joy started to grumble again, but Seamus cut in. 'Joy, you don't want to push it this time,' he said, looking her in the eye. 'The only thing I can tell you is that I'm under strict instructions from the young lady in question, the Prime Minister, and the Prince not to discuss this with anyone. That would include you,' he added firmly, his mouth set in a grim line in such a way that he fervently hoped would close the matter. While he had had to resist the temptation to confide in Hermione on the matter, he felt no such inclination towards Joy. Especially not today.

'She's giving you orders?' she demanded. It was clearly absurd in her eyes that anyone other than the Prime Minister or the Prince himself could command Seamus to do anything.

He groaned at her response, certain she hadn't heard a word of what he had said after that small statement. 'You just never give up, do you?' he asked tiredly. A nagging feeling made him wonder if he had revealed too much.

'It's one of my more endearing traits,' Joy quipped back, smiling sweetly.

'Well, why don't you and your endearing trait go and bug somebody else for a little while?' Seamus suggested shortly. He would not normally have been rude but Joy's tenacity was now annoying. He just wanted to be left alone with his flask and its precious contents.

'Oh no, you're not kicking me out now! If you can't tell me who she is, at least tell me what she's like,' she said eagerly.

'Goodbye, Joy,' he said monotone, reaching for a handsome quill lying on the desk.

'Fine then - be like that,' Joy said brusquely, sliding off the desk and gliding around to the other side.

'Have a good afternoon, Joy,' Seamus replied, silently breathing a sigh of relief as he dipped the quill in a silver inkwell and focused on the parchment lying before him. He could see Joy's silhouette shadowing half of his desk but pretended to be absorbed in his writing, hoping she wouldn't notice that he had so far only written Merlin had a little lamb.

'You're such a stuck-in-the-mud,' she complained viciously.

'Go away, Joy,' he said in the same, flat tone. When there was no response, he chanced a glance, and was just in time to see the hems of her blue robes disappear as she flounced out of the room.

Seamus dropped the quill on the desk and leaned back in his leather chair, shaking his head in mild exasperation. He propped the photo up once more, staring at the sixteen-year-old faces of Dean and himself grinning and waving back at him. Drawing the silvery flask from his pocket, he unscrewed the lid and tipped it slightly towards the photo in a chagrinned toast.

Closing his eyes, he took a long pull of the Firewhisky, feeling the liquid burn its way down his throat, and willed the world away.

* * *

A merry chaos reigned throughout a packed Diagon Alley as the news of Voldemort's defeat and death swept down the street like a cleansing breeze.

Hermione darted in and out of the haphazard, impromptu celebrations, barely registering the felicitations that many of the revelers tossed in her direction. She looked around frantically, her gaze jolting to a halt at every glimpse of red or raven hair, then quickly moving on as she realised that it wasn't Ron or Harry. Long ago, they had promised to meet each other in front of Flourish and Blotts on the last day of the war, knowing that it was likely that they would be separated beforehand. They had each completely refused to concede even the possibility of any of them not surviving to see that day.

She frowned, her heart speeding up and thumping loudly against her ribcage. She'd already heard astonishing tales of amazing feats accomplished by both of her friends, although she wasn't entirely sure where the truth ended and hyperbole began. However, despite the gossip, she had seen nothing of either Ron or Harry for almost four days, since the coalition against Voldemort had launched its final assault on the Dark Lord's forces.

'Hermione!'

She swivelled upon hearing the chorus of her name yelled from the other side of the street. She grinned - there stood Harry and Ron looking totally dishevelled but beamed happily as she rushed over through the crowds.

'You're alright!' she cried.

''Course we're alright!' Ron said cheerfully before she yanked both of them into a tight embrace. They, in turn, hugged her back, obviously relieved to have found her. The embrace lingered on, expressing their tangled emotions more eloquently than mere words ever could.

They finally pulled away, broad smiles still painted across their features.

'Good on you, Potter!' someone yelled from across the way. 'Well done, Weasley!' Harry blushed faintly, while Ron's ears burned red but they both waved back in the general direction of the well-wishers. Hermione giggled.

'Want to go somewhere a little more private?' she suggested.

'Yeah,' both boys muttered, as many of the crowd had now caught on that two of the war's heroes were in their midst and were turning towards them, mixtures of adoration, enthusiasm and curiosity evident on their faces.

'Let's go back to the shop,' Ron murmured, leading the way.

The trio quickly filed through the excited mob towards number 96, where the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes flashing sign promised equal parts of magic, mayhem and madness. Pushing the door open, they were greeted by a chorus of voices announcing 'We're closed for the day!' before the twins realised who it was and leapt up from their busy task at the front counter to welcome Hermione with thinly disguised relief.

The initial greetings over, the twins briefly showed them the preparations for the extravagant fireworks display they had planned for the evening, before the three friends headed for the large workshop in the back, seating themselves around the wooden table there.

There was a short pause, with only the background noise of the dull roar of the happy crowds in the Alley, as Harry, Ron and Hermione stopped moving long enough to realise just how tired they truly were. Hermione sighed loudly, leaning her elbows on the table. She glanced between her friends, still beaming in delight despite her exhaustion.

'We did it,' she said softly.

'Yeah,' Ron said, leaning back in his chair. 'It doesn't seem real. Not yet, anyway.'

Harry nodded in agreement, brushing his messed-up hair from his eyes. 'It will,' he replied confidently. 'We just need to get back to life as normal - then it'll be real.'

'Normal?' Ron asked, raising his eyebrows. 'What's that?'

Harry and Hermione joined in his laughter, the tension melting away from their exhausted bodies.

'Hey, I'm serious,' Harry said finally. 'We've got the chance to rebuild and get back to our lives.'

Hermione nodded, sitting up in her chair and regarding both her friends seriously. 'We've got a chance for a fresh start,' she said, inhaling deeply and closing her eyes as she let the breath out slowly.

Opening her eyes again, she glanced about, confused - Harry and Ron had disappeared and the workshop suddenly seemed much larger. Frowning, she climbed to her feet and turned around, the room seeming to stretch like a long tunnel. At the other end was Ron.

'Ron!' she called out. He didn't answer, or make any sign that he had heard her.

She tried to move towards him but some unseen force caught her in a clawing grip, wrenching her backwards. Panicking, she cried out, her breath catching in her throat as she saw a creeping, dark shadow fall across the room.

Frantically, she shrieked as she saw the shadow inching its way towards Ron, desperately trying to warn him. He still made no response but it was clear that he had seen the approaching darkness, as he started to scurry away without much success; the shadow was slowly but surely gaining on him. Hermione struggled again to break free, to reach Ron before the darkness engulfed him but she could only watch as he tried to escape the pursuing shadow.

'No!' she shouted, thrashing violently against her unseen captor. 'Don't! You can't! NO...'

Hermione lurched forward, crying out before she could stop herself, as the dream faded and gave way to wisps of moonlight falling across the bedchamber.

She shut her eyes, gasping for air, as she felt the figure beside her start suddenly, and then move away from her. 'Lumos,' she heard, and her already racing heart sped up as she saw Harry sitting up too. He turned towards her, wand in his right hand while he awkwardly tried to put on his glasses with his left. Hermione hunched her shoulders, turning away slightly as he finally succeeded with replacing them and regarded her, frowning.

'Hermione?' he asked hazily. 'Are you all right?' He unsuccessfully tried to stifle a yawn with his free hand.

She nodded without turning around, cursing the lack of self-control that had allowed her to cry out. The memory had been so vivid, the nightmare so real...

She hugged her knees to her chest, her breathing and heartbeat slowing to a steadier pace. She felt Harry move closer and place a tentative hand on her shoulder.

'Are you sure?' he asked, concern evident in his tone. 'Was it a bad dream?' His hand slid off her shoulder, gliding down the silky fabric of her nightgown as he caressed her back comfortingly. Surprisingly, she felt a soothing warmth chase away the biting cold residing in the pit of her stomach and had started to shift closer to him before she realised with a start what she was doing.

This was not her friend, Harry - this was the self-proclaimed Prince, her enemy and gaoler. The man who had tried to kill Ron.

She stiffened and pulled away further, muttering that she didn't want to talk about it. How could she have possibly enjoyed letting him touch her? She felt a vague sensation of self-disgust as she brushed a hand over her face, wiping off droplets of icy sweat.

Harry released an exasperated snort. 'Maybe I should send for Seamus,' he said, resentment dripping from his words. 'You don't seem to have the same inhibitions with him,' he added, almost accusingly.

Hermione's heart skipped a beat - had he really somehow monitored her conversation with Seamus? She glanced anxiously over her shoulder; his face was ghostly pale in the dim light of the wand but it didn't disguise the frustration in his eyes. He held her uneasy gaze for a moment before shaking his head.

'I'm sorry,' he said ruefully. 'That wasn't fair.' Hermione hid her surprise at his apology, nodding as she shifted to face him properly. She knew she couldn't simply turn away from Harry this time, not if he was angry with Seamus because of her.

She chose her words carefully, though her tense grip on the edge of the soft sheets hinted at her apprehension. 'Seamus didn't do or say anything wrong,' she said slowly. 'I'm the one who -' Harry cut her off smoothly.

'I wasn't spying on you, Hermione,' he said dispassionately. 'Do you really think I'd do that?' She dropped her gaze from his face to the cream-coloured blankets, afraid of betraying herself. 'News travels fast within the Palace - I heard about your meeting yesterday evening. And I'll say right now, if Seamus' company makes you happy, then I'm happy,' he said firmly. 'Go and see him as often as you like - you know I don't like you spending all your time in your room.'

He paused, licking his dry lips and running a hand through his mussed hair. Hermione watched him carefully through lowered lashes, relieved that Seamus wasn't in any sort of trouble but knowing what was coming.

'But?' she pre-empted him, tightly.

He stared straight at her, seemingly lost for words. 'You can talk to me, you know,' he said finally.

She looked into his face, and saw a kind of hesitant concern that was so reminiscent of the Harry Potter she had grown up with that she half-opened her mouth, ready to tell him all the things that were tormenting her; about her conversation with Seamus, and how he hadn't even known that his best friend had been dead for over a year; about her nightmares about the past, her uncertainty of the present and her fears for the future.

Before she could articulate any of her thoughts, the image of Ron fleeing before the great shadow fluttered across her mind once more and she hesitated. Harry watched her, hopefulness etched in his features.

Hermione chewed her lip slowly before opening her mouth once more.

'It's ... nothing,' she said unconvincingly. She slid back down to lie on the bed and faced outwards once again, pulling the covers around her waist a little tighter. Harry did not move for a long moment and Hermione tensed, hoping he would just let the incident pass, and that he would not notice she was shaking. Finally, he placed a light hand on her bare shoulder, his thumb softly rubbing tiny circles in a way that was oddly comforting. Hermione lay very still, crushing the impossible desire to turn to Harry and beg him to hold her until she was asleep.

Harry removed his hand from her shoulder and she shunted away from him further still. He sighed softly and muttered 'Nox' in a low voice.

The pale light of the wand vanished.

Hermione was still trembling.