Truth Is

"Truth Is"

Chapter 4

     (Three and a Half Weeks Later)

     "I need to see Miss Granger, immediately," Ian insisted as he stood at the desk of the Minister of Magic's secretary, looking quite the business man.

       Rodion sighed loudly, almost irritably, as he looked over the brunette head of Blaise's secretary, Lavender Brown, who had lost her patience long before he had decided to intervene. "Mr. Knight, I assure that it is quite impossible. Miss Granger has been shut in meetings with the Minister, and other diplomats, all morning."

       "Did she leave any orders for you not to interrupt her?" Ian asked, sending a quick glare to the silent woman.

       "Sir --" Rodion began, his thick accent lingering behind the words, but was interrupted by a deep, melodic, voice.

       "Rodion," Blaise interrupted as he entered the room with his hands in his pockets, "I'm sure Miss Granger wouldn't mind this visitor."

       "Thank you, Minister," Ian said, as he offered his hand in greeting, "Ian Knight."

       Blaise refused his hand with a curt nod, turning to his secretary, "Please Lavender, run and fetch her, I'm quite sure she needs a break."

       "Yes, sir," Lavender smiled as she sent a look at Rodion and proceeded down the hall to the packed conference room.

       "Rodion, send that Owl away, I have no reply to it," Blaise ordered as he fingered through the piles of letters and inquiries on the desk.

       "Are you sure, sir?" Rodion asked, before he began to prepare the owl for its journey, letter in tow.

       "Quite," Blaise replied with a smirk as he turned to Ian, "is there something that I could help you with?"

       "No, thank you," Ian answered, as he took a seat next to the window, "I just needed to see my fiancé, I haven't seen her for almost two weeks."

       "Oh, I see, the burden of separation," Blaise groaned sarcastically, grabbing a cup of Scotch off the mini-bar, "I understand, completely. Would you like a drink?"

       Ian wasn't able to answer for the soft, yet strong, voice that interrupted his words as his fiancé entered the room. "He doesn't drink."

       "Oh," Blaise chuckled, smiling at the determined flash in her eye, as he finished his own drink, "I see."

       "Liebe," Ian whispered, as he engulfed her in his arms, his heart was honestly elated to see her face again. Every date that they had planned for fourteen days straight had been canceled, she was too busy to answer any of his Owls, and he wasn't even sure if she was going home to sleep, that very morning he had decided that he had worried enough.

       "Ian," she began, softly, as she gently pushed away from his hug to look up into his handsome face, "I'm so sorry about the past couple of days."

       "It's fine," he replied as his hands traveled around her face and hair, caressing his fears away, "after we got wind of it at Mungo's I was just eager to see you."

       "Have you been very busy?" she asked as he leaned in to kiss her cheek softly, as he often did as they spoke in close proximity.

       "Extremely," Ian answered, pulling her to him again, "they've been sending their worst to us and you can imagine the carnage I've been seeing if countries are willing to send wizards thousands of miles for adequate treatment."

       "Oh, Ian, dear," Hermione cooed, ignoring the loud grunt that came from a third party, not two feet from them, "the hospitals over there can't handle all the magical ailments that are being inflicted on the people so they are sending them to any available place."

       "I know, I know, Liebe," he retorted with a nod and a small smile, then continued in the voice of a trained Mediwizard, "I don't want to talk about it any longer. You look tired, I see signs of fatigue, are you sleeping any?"

       Hermione sighed as she turned from him and grabbed a glass of water, ignoring the three extra in the party who were listening in. "With all that's going on my health is the least of my concern."

       "Then, Liebe, I think you need to sort out your priorities," Ian instructed, sternly, as she turned to him with an incredulous look.

       Hermione drank her water slowly and replied in a carefully controlled tone, her brown eyes flashing dangerously, "I think you need to change your tone, because I did not greet you so lovingly to be accosted with a lecture."

       "Hermione," Lavender interrupted, with encouragement from the Italian at her side, "the conference needs your attention, immediately."

       "I'll be right there," Hermione answered, before turning back to her fiance, "Ian, I will try my best to Owl you later."

       "Hermione," he began slowly, his countenance stoic, and his voice low and threatening, "I need your attention . . . we need your attention."

       "Ian," she sighed, her voice tired and her eyelids fluttering, "I do not need this conversation right now."

       "Is our relationship going to be another victim of this, Liebe?" Ian asked, in a painfully serious tone, as Hermione bit her lip in thought.

       She kissed him softly on the cheek and whispered, "I love you, Ian, but I have a job to do. If our relationship dies it will not be murdered by my hands."

       Blaise interrupted Ian reply as he approached the couple and grabbed her arm, gently. "I think we need to get back to work, Miss Granger."

       Hermione jerked her arm from his grasp with an irritated frown yet said, "I think we need to, also."

       "I love you, Liebe," Ian called as she followed Blaise down the hall, his hands in his pockets, trying to cover his broken pride.

       "And I you, Ian," she answered with a sweet smile, not realizing that the first break had been made.

~*~

       "All I am suggesting is a moratorium," Hermione asserted, as she slipped the red jacket off her shoulders and onto the chair next to her.

       "I don't think it'll do much good, Miss Granger," said an American agent, with a loud sigh, "they are becoming increasingly barbaric. The first day a quarter of a million Wizards were murdered and those are the ones we have records on."

       Lucio Zabini nodded, chancing a glance at his son, who was deep in thought, before he replied, "Look, Lydia, a suggesting a moratorium is better than sitting here while they increase the refuge count by 75%."

       "So where does that leave the other 15%?" Lydia Harris retorted quickly, a frown distorting her petite face.

       "Probably dead if they aren't some wealthy Purebred," Frederick Bletchly interjected before Lydia's intended target could answer.

       "I'm not saying we should be doing nothing but I am suggesting that we weigh our actions carefully," Lydia replied as the temperature in the room continued to rise.

       "I'd rather be stamped as overtly proactive than be left with blood on my hands, it seems your country is only worried about policing the world rather than being a helpmeet to those who are honestly in need," the Minister of Defense, Carrick Blair, mumbled as he rose to grab a mug of coffee.

       "Wh--" began Lydia, indignantly, but she was cut off by the voice of the man who had been left to sort the whole situation out and wasn't being helped by the constant bickering.

       "Excuse me," Blaise announced loudly, coming to his feet quickly, "if this is going to turn into a daycare then you all can all remove yourselves, now!"

       All of the occupants found themselves ending their incessant mumbling and endless arguments as the angry face of the young man met their glance and the seriousness of his tone made its way to their ears. He waited for them to settle themselves before he continued, "I know that this is a stressful subject and none of the tasks that we have been assigned are easy but nothing can get done with all this mumbling and arguing. We aren't in school anymore, this compromise is life or death for someone and we can't afford to do anything hastily and under the influence of anger."

       Hermione felt tingle of a past emotion that Lucio Zabini was broadcasting openly, pride. Blaise had always had this presence and this indescribable way with people and hard situations, Hermione had found that out first hand during the war. "Now," he continued, his voice a little softer, "lets try to finish this without killing each other."

       "Minister," interrupted Julius Montague, with an exhausted look, "why don't we take a recess?"

       "Good idea, Montague," Blaise sighed, with a weary nod, "I'm giving all of you forty-five minutes to gather yourselves. When the allotted time is up please return promptly and prepared to work."

       Blaise returned to his seat as the group of dignitaries and other government officials made their way out. He watched them silently, out the corner of his eye, wondering how in the world could they all come up with a suitable plan of action. Some didn't want to get anymore involved in the mess than they already were, some wanted to run right over and allow the Aurors -- from any country who were an ally to Britain -- to fight the renegade killing, and the rest didn't know what to do, they were stuck in some kind of purgatory of indecision. Blaise found himself apart of the latter group, he wanted to help -- at times he felt he could have prevented it if he hadn't supported the new regime so openly -- but he wasn't quite sure if going over there would help more than it would hurt.

       Lucio Zabini stood by his son, with his hand on his shoulder, he knew how hard this was for his eldest son. He had been part of a few sticky situations during his time at the Italian International Federation but none would fall on his shoulders like this would fall on Blaise. "Figlio, do not worry, you will make the right decision."

       "Papa," Blaise began, as he pinched the bridge of his nose, "if I become anymore indecisive I'll become Hamlet."

       "Non abbastanza, figlio, non abbastanza," Lucio chuckled with a good-natured smile. "Why don't you take advantage of this recess and get away from for a moment?"

       "It might be my last moment of peace, Papa," Blaise groaned, as he stared into the green eyes of his father, "temo, come gli Americani dicono, che la merda sta circa per colpire il ventilatore."

~*~

       "Darling, I'm exhausted," Blaise replied to whatever Victoria had been going on and on about since she had arrived at the restaurant.

       "Humph," she sneered, her dainty eyes throwing darts at him, "I'm sure you aren't too exhausted to be intimate with Hermione."

       "Hermione?" Blaise retorted, almost choking on his steak as her reply had not been expected. "What the hell?"

       "No need to feign surprise, darling," Victoria remarked, as she leisurely took a sip of her wine, "and stop using those vulgar words."

       "Let me remind you of the other definition of intimate," he growled as he gently sat his fork and knife on his plate. "I have been intimate with Hermione numerous times in the past couple of weeks by relaying information to her and receiving the like from her."

       "I'm sure," Victoria sneered, running her newly manicured fingers through her long golden hair.

       Blaise glared openly at her before returning to his lunch. "Yes, I'm sure you are."

       Suddenly Victoria cooed, sending him a look full of such adoration that it almost frightened Blaise. "Oh, darling, I don't want to fight!"

       "You sure fooled me," he answered sarcastically, sending her a weary look.

       "Darling," she cooed, with a tone more obnoxious than the first, "I just want to you to be comfortable and relaxed for a moment."

       Blaise dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin and turned from right to left, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes narrowed like a predator on the hunt. "Is the Daily Prophet here?"

       "Blaise!" she cried, aghast at his suggestion, her blue eyes wide as saucers, but Blaise never noticed the pair sitting across the restaurant that Victoria couldn't keep her eyes off of.

~*~

       "I'm so glad you weren't this cynical at Hogwarts, Hermione," Harry chuckled as the waiter returned with their lunch.

       "You are mistaking my realism for cynicism, Harry," she replied, stiffly, as she folded her napkin neatly in her lap.

       "Sure I am," he retorted, good-naturedly, with a mischievous smile.

       "You are, Harry," Hermione argued, picking up her glass and glancing down into the liquid, checking quickly for any misplaced thing like hair or paper or even dirt on the glass.

       "So," Harry began as he cut his chicken haphazardly, "do you think this whole European Conference is going to last long?"

       "No," she replied, finally taking a sip of her drink, "there are too many countries who refuse to be passive in this -- thank Merlin -- but I don't see what the Minister sees, so who knows how long this will last."

       "I just can't imagine telling the guys that we have to go to South America so soon after that disaster in Cambodia," he said plainly, as he gently sat his fork on his plate.

       "I know," Hermione answered, softly, her tone as gentle as cat's meow, "but things can only go one of two ways. You, Mr. Potter, have to hope for the best."

       "I suppose you are handing me that responsibility?" Harry asked, with a snort, as he picked up his fork again.

       "Of course I am," she answered, in a lofty yet serious tone, "you and Ron always did expect too much of me."

       Harry sent her the most endearing grin, one she could remember praying to see during those long years after Hogwarts. "Oh, Hermione, but look what you gave us! Everything we ever expected of you, you proved us correct, you never let us down, Hermione, ever!"

       "But you seem to forget that I'm no longer that little girl, Harry," Hermione sighed, almost sadly, her eyes devoid of the gleam that had comforted Harry on many nights, "and my search for perfection was replaced with the lonely road to greatness."

       "Hermione," he began softly, the gentlest smile playing on his lips, "my road to greatness wasn't all that lonely, I have the slightest notion that yours won't be either."

       "I feel like I'm in Berlin in 1940, Harry," she sighed, the exhaustion she felt ringing her tone, "I still can't forget all the things I learned while in Muggle schools."

       "You feel like you are attempting to fight Hitler's 'Final Solution'?" Harry recalled, slowly as if the thought had taken a longer route to invade his mind.

       "But it is worse, Harry! Wizards have so many other, more effective, ways of killing six million in a smaller time frame!" Hermione cried, pushing her plate back, the food becoming less inviting as the moments wore on.

       "Don't fret, Hermione, with Blaise you can't go wrong. He may be a snarky bastard but you two, together, can save the world without me," he replied honestly, while taking a bite of his chicken.

       "Don't be vulgar, Harry," she snapped at his reference to his nearest moment to death during the war, when she and Blaise did save the course of an important battle without him.

       Harry chuckled at her seriousness, retorting quickly, "Wouldn't it be lovely if we were old? That would mean we would have survived all this. And everything would be easy and uncomplicated, the way it was when we were young."

       "What delusional hell are you living in?" Hermione asked quickly, raising a sculpted eyebrow. "It was never uncomplicated, Harry."

       "Yes, but it was lovely wasn't it?" he asked, with a nostalgic smile.

       "Every waking moment."