Two Aurors & A Bookworm

Chapter three, part II

The dungeons were extremely cramped and reminded the two men of their former Potions teacher's classroom and office, with its cold and dank decorum and bad lighting. There were no windows and no working lamps - it seemed they had been broken, or perhaps the electricity bills hadn't been paid in a long time, Harry thought, for spider webs abounded around them. There was also a very faint acrid smell that drifted to his nostrils.

"You take that chamber; I'll take the next one," Ron said before unholstering his wand - they'd asked their superiors to have special holsters that would be secured around their torsos, much like the ones Ginny had patented for the War so that their wands would be in easy reach - and moving to a chamber a little further along the corridor.

Harry held his wand aloft just in case something went out of his control, and slowly pushed the door open with his foot. Surprisingly it wasn't locked. Making certain that there would be no impromptu attack, Harry then carefully made his way into the chamber, noting the dusted furniture, but also the various objects that had been used recently: an envelope opener, a twig serving as a quill, a book opened to a page but facing the desk face-down, a framed painting recently dusted... Someone had lived or at the very least passed by for a short while, and that person very obviously had liked the freshness of the dungeons. Someone very likely on the run.

Ron came up behind Harry. "Looks like someone came in not long ago," he commented, stopping to collect a fingerprint on a vase that held dead flowers. "Sinister..." he added, jotting down some notes on the evidence parchment. He then pursed his lips and sent the prints and notes to Trace with a flourish of his wand. He paused before starting back toward Harry. "Other room wasn't very interesting. Looks like we've found where Carmerana stayed though."

Harry frowned, squinting his eyes to think, weighing every possible scenario from there on. "Problem is, we haven't found him yet. He couldn't know we were after him, that's near impossible."

Ron grimaced before picking up a bloody glove off the floor next to the neatly-made bed with the tip of his wand. "Well maybe he felt he had to flee after killing whoever this belongs to."

Harry rubbed his eyes wearily and then nodded resolutely. "Well, next logical step is searching the castle to find who this blood belongs to."

"Hang on, this could be Carmerana's blood."

Harry pursed his lips and cleaned his wand on his robes before picking up the glove with it. He brought the glove to his nose and pulled a face. "No. Vampire blood smells like garlic." He handed the cloth back to Ron. "This doesn't. Send this to Trace so they can run it in the database... maybe find out who the victim is before we do."

Ron nodded and pulled a plastic bag from his field bag, proceeding. He quickly jotted down the necessary information and sent it all to Trace with a fast flourish. In his hand was a knotted cloth from his field pouch, with which he'd picked up some blood off the floor.

Harry raked a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. He was still squinting in the dimmed light, trying to figure it all out. Finally Ron put his hand on his mate's shoulder, and Harry turned to him, seeing the cloth. "Well," he said, "next stop, I guess, is wherever the blood scrye leads us to."

Ron nodded and pronounced the Homing spell, tapping his wand on the blood-spotted cloth and then on the map Harry held out to him, speaking the incantation. Both men then gazed upon the map, and for a few seconds there was nothing, but then a glaring red "X" mark appeared next to a town named Vieux-Nice.

Ron didn't have to say a thing. Already Harry's body had dematerialised, and with a crack Ron, too, was gone.

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Hermione averted her eyes as she crossed to the Lever de Lune, keenly aware that it was well after dark and that she was unprotected save for her wand - but she'd be damned if someone so much as tried to impress on her that witches and wizards were invincible when their wands were involved... she could tell them a few stories where it hadn't ended as planned for a few people she'd known. Wearing her wand but being foolishly unprepared had also almost cost her her life. But she decided she'd be better off trying to blend in the already very suspicious crowd.

Even the desk attendant lady seemed suspicious as Hermione re-collected her key.

"No need to be, I'm just minding my own business here," Hermione muttered to herself, climbing the flights of stairs to her and Harry and Ron's small room.

Devastated.

Stacks of neatly piled parchments strewn all over the cracked vinyl floor, ruined furniture, broken quills, strewn clothes and a broken window.

Hermione, shocked still, paused in the doorway, and roamed the room from corner to fissure, unable to think anything else than I've been robbed I've been robbed oh my God. Finally she closed the door behind her, leaning back onto it, and slid down to the floor, nesting her head between her knees weakly.

"What do I do now?" she said to no one in particular.

It all seemed too unreal. Hermione remembered casting the numerous, safe locking charms, all designed to use complicated, ancient spells for passwords. Long, ancient spells. How could someone have broken in? It was simply impossible.

Pushing herself up, she reminded herself once more that this was probably nothing compared to everyday living in France. She would deal with much worse if she were French and worked for the Ministère de magie français.

Hermione slowly edged toward the broken window, cautiously stepping over the broken pieces, and lightly touched the sharp shards with the tip of her wand. "Reparo."

The pieces flew back into place as if nothing strange had happened. Hermione cast the Protective Shield around the cramped room once more, wishing that the boys could be here with her.

Hermione was not a damsel in distress, but catastrophes like this couldn't be looked upon without feeling weak and powerless in response.

"I wish you'd stop staring; it's disturbing."

He quickly averted his gaze and instead fiddled with his wand, rolling it between his fingers and weighing it distractedly. "Sorry." It was the beginning of the War and already Harry was itching to get his hands on the Dark Lord. He knew that tactics and careful planning would get him there, but he was... he was agitated.

Hermione sighed as she made the familiar circular motion with her own wand, that would cast a warm Healing charm to his broken knee. "It's all right, Harry, but you're making me nervous."

"What? With that?" he reeled sarcastically, referring to his wand.

Hermione shrugged, laying out a thick papyrus sheet over his knee. "Well, sometimes," she admitted hesitantly. She moved her gaze from his face to the task at hand. "Don't move; the papyrus will help accelerate the absorption of the charm."

Harry smiled, folding his arms over his chest admiringly and feeling content for the first time in a long time. "

You're a charm."

Hermione made a clucking noise in her throat as she proceeded to puff out the pillows behind him. "Don't be silly, Harry, I'm only doing my job."

He chortled, the lines in his face looking odd and contrasting, like he'd aged too fast in a too short period of time. "And a right good job of it, too."

Hermione shook her head and smiled, sitting back on her heels. "What's making you so happy, mister?"

Harry did not have time to answer, for a mediwitch came in, barking out orders for all nurses and operating mediwitches and magidoctors as three dozen casualties were levitated in. Hermione only had time to see Harry's face grow dark before she was hurried to the Head mediwitch's side, horrified at the mangled body laid out before her. "Where did this one come from?" she asked before a wave of bile rode up her throat.

"A John Doe. He was found in the Ministry after the explosion, cursed real bad. Now give me a hand, will you. Find his spinal cord, I think it was destroyed, we'll have to perform a..."

Thankfully they were far enough away from the front lines, in London in fact, where it was safer than out in the country, where the War was raging full-on after only a few months. Usually it was Harry's group that was there, but for the last few days they'd been branched out to do Ministry surveillance tasks. And today the Death Eaters had chosen to bomb it. This was nothing, though, compared to the front lines. What she saw sometimes bordered toward repulsive and she often had to excuse herself to the lavatory for a few minutes and come back in just as sick to the stomach.

This man did seem to have been hit badly, but he was an exception. He wasn't quite as revolting as one of her last patients. This man's body was covered with large third degree burns and boils, his lungs were badly damaged, and his spinal cord was mostly destroyed, but really it was an easy case... if they were careful and if he held out long enough. They'd seen worse. She'd seen worse.

Hermione inspected and felt the man's skin for further internal or external injuries, as the protocol required. Looking at the man's face, she cried out.

This was no nameless mangled body.

It was Ron's father.

Hermione could still remember the look on Harry's face when she told him. He had paled and she'd had to Petrify him so he wouldn't move.

But the worst had truly been telling Ron.

Ginny had cried all the tears in her body 'til there were none left, and even then she'd cried herself raw.

Ron had been quiet.

Too quiet.

"Ron," Hermione whispered as she pushed aside the curtain separating him from the chaotic world outside. She had tried to tell them they could sound-proof the tent, but he and Harry had just refused to listen... They said they wanted to hear everything that was going on, at all times. To be ever ready.

He was sitting in front of his wand and broomstick, and he had shed his robes and thick dragonhide gloves, staring at nothing, staring at an endless pool of nothing. It was fearsome, to say the least.

Hermione knelt in front of him. "Say something," she said quietly, threading her fingers through his shaggy hair. "It's been days."

Ron glanced at her, acknowledging her presence, and Hermione felt small and vulnerable at once under his stare. The depth in his eyes was alluring, stormy, angry. "There's nothing to say. Dad's dead."

Hermione's heart wrenched. She bit her lip. "We did everything we could. You know, Ron."

He stared at her, still a wall, but angrier. "He was bombed, Hermione. It was aimed at him and you know it. He was the Minister of Magic... of

course they killed him."

She bowed her head and all the recent events came rushing back to her. "It's so unfair. He was right. He was fit. He was... the best," she finished on a whisper.

Ron's eyes softened. "Hermione..." It was a gentle tone, one not meant to sound annoyed, and she was grateful for it. Ron held up a hand, stopping her as the tears came free from her eyes.

Finally he relented from his stiff posture and pulled her to his chest. "Oh Gods..." She knew he had finally capitulated, and probed her thoughts and seen what she had seen. She could feel it from the way his fingers curled tautly in her back, scared, desperate.

A small sense of triumph bloomed in Hermione's heart. As she sobbed, clutching Ron to her chest where all the pain could be penetrated and

felt, Hermione ground out, "You've got to feel something, Ron. You've got to let go." She sniffed again as he held her tight against him, and was elated: he was shaking. "He was your father, Ron, you can't feel nothing."

He felt it. He felt all the pain and the loss, and all night he desperately clung to her, holding her tight as though she'd disappear in the morning if he ever let her go. Hermione wept and fell asleep in Ron's arms, feeling at peace for the first time in so long; Ron would go on.

It was fear, she knew it. Recognised it by feel, even. Fear that made her realise that this was what she'd lived through during the dreadful years of 1998 to 2000. Two years of hell on a plate. Hell in spilt blood, hell in loved ones warring and in mangled bodies, hell moreso in the lifeless ones.

France was undergoing the same war they'd fought years ago. Only, it wasn't the same evil.

Hermione heard footsteps and ragged breaths and knew they'd already killed. Cursed herself for letting herself get lost in the memories...

The house was too quiet now, too dark.

She fumbled for her wand with shaking fingers and tripped over the bed and the rug at the foot of it. Cursed herself again.

When they blasted the door open, the room appeared empty. "Je l'ai entendue... elle était là y'a un instant!" (I heard her... she was here just now!)

The other thug tapped on his partner's shoulder and nodded his greasy head toward Hermione's hidden form behind the door. They both grinned voraciously.

"Alors, ma p'tite mam'zelle, on joue au chat et à la souris?" (So, missy, we're playing at cat and mouse?) the taller one snarled with a leer, and the smaller one broke out in fits of sniggers. "Tu sauras qu'ici, ça fait longtemps qu'on ne joue plus..." (You should know that here, we don't play anymore...)

They slowly advanced toward her and Hermione's eyes widened when she realised she was trapped. These were muggle thugs, she realised with a sharp sting at her heart; she wasn't allowed to use magic against them. But still they prowled toward her and Hermione struggled to find a way out. The little bit of DA training she'd got before the War was too far forgotten now, and she'd never been much of a good fighter anyway. The one thing she had excelled at, though, was agility and flexibility.

Hermione was lighting-fast. Before the littler one's hand could close around her throat, she'd already crouched low and whisked her foot sideways to unbalance the taller thug. But she lost her own balance in the process, and heard a sharp crack as she fell.

Something had cracked and it was on her. Looking back, Hermione saw that her wand had been snapped in half. Fear shook her hard and she realised miserably that she was really on her own now.

"Putain!" (Slut!) cried one of her opponents as she landed a punch and rolled out of harm's way. Picking up the remains of her wand in one quick scoop, she pocketed them and grabbed her trunk before slamming her way out of the bed and breakfast.

Harry and Ron will kill me...

she thought alarmingly as she halted in the middle of the street and stared up and down it, coming to the conclusion that she was lost and that no one could be trusted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry held the map before him, zooming in and out of Vieux-Nice then and again, and frowned. "Hang on." He stopped walking and pulled Ron to the side of the road they were trekking by the sleeve. "I can't see Hermione anymore," he whispered, keeping an eye trained on the numerous bystanders.

"What do you mean, you can't see her?" Ron snatched the map from his friend's slack grasp and roamed it frantically, not quite believing his eyes. "Surely she's somewhere in there. She was supposed to stay at the bed & breakfast..."

But already Harry's mind was reeling two hundred kilometres an hour. There were two options presenting themselves to him: either she had been kidnapped and taken somewhere that wasn't drawn on here, or her wand was broken and therefore there were no magical binds to the map.

"Hermione..." he whispered, then looked up, green eyes and straight jaw set in a face drawn in determination. "I'm going back to see what's up with this. You stay here and find Carmerana. If anything goes astray, Apparate to where I am," he said, waving the map in front of his friend's eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ron frayed amid the small crowd of men, women and children coming and strolling from all sides. He softly thumbed his wand through the wizarding robes he'd transfigured into a tattered muggle coat. To blend in, Harry had said. He didn't need blending in, Ron thought, he knew what it was like to be that close to the street side. It wasn't something you could forget very easily.

He stared at the parchment in his hand and then looked up, looking for landmarks of some sort. There were ruins close-by. The red dot - Carmerana's - was close to it, and Ron's dot was too far from it.

"Excusez-moi, parlez anglais?" (S'cuse me, speak English?) he asked to a grumpy-looking old man who reminded Ron of an angry ferret.

"Va te faire fouttre." (Go to hell.)

Ron didn't know what that meant but the tone of voice the man had used, and the fact that he was pushing away with loud grunts of impatience, was enough for Ron to understand that he wasn't going to co-operate at all.

"Connard." (Arsehole.)

"Va chier." (another vile thing that means Go to hell)

"Enculé." (another swear word)

"Ta gueule, morveux." (Shut up.)

"Yes."

Ron whirled back to the young woman. He hadn't been very hopeful, and therefore hadn't paid her much attention. "Thank God," he breathed, then grabbed her elbow and dragged her to the sidewalk, pocketing his map. "I'm lost. Do you know where the Saint-Gaetan Chapel is?"

The girl eyed him suspiciously, her thick eyebrows drawn together. "You are very lucky you found me. Country people don't speak English much," she said with a thick French accent, staring at him hard as though she thought he was quite out of place here in the middle of Old Nice. "What... Why do you go there?"

Ron raked a hand through his hair, believing this was taking far too long. "I'm from England... Roger Smith... I need to go to the Saint-Gaetan Chapel for business."

She eyed him suspiciously still, then nodded with difficulty. "Nathalie Sansoucis. Renovator artist at the Chapel. You're in luck. I was going to work now," she said, then turned south. "And it's that way."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry knew something was wrong the minute he appeared from behind bushes. The street was deserted, and a smell of soot reached his nostrils. Something was burning. Or had burned.

The bed and breakfast was intact, but a house further up the narrow street was ruined, to put it simply. When he entered the Lever de Lune, everything was silent and dark. Something's definitely wrong here, he concluded, drawing his wand cautiously. He bent over the front desk, where the lady would have been... and almost threw up right then and there. Her legs had been severed as well as her arms and her head.

Harry really wanted to believe that the map could somehow lie.

Slowly he climbed the stairs and saw that the door was slightly ajar. A sick feeling crawled up his throat and stayed rooted there as he pushed it open. He almost didn't even want to look, for fear that he might find something even more repulsive.

The room was a total mess of tangled and rolled bed sheets and scattered mirror shards from the vanity. Papers had flown everywhere, making the room resemble some sort of medical shrine.

Harry's wand hand dropped at his side, and his next words were lost somewhere in his throat. "Hermione... what have you done?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione made her way slowly through the crowded street and wished that her wand was intact. If she used it now and Apparated somewhere else, she feared she might splinch herself or, worse, die. She'd walked to a neighbouring town, hoping against all hope that the thugs had given up and wouldn't follow her. And that Harry and Ron would soon find her.

Stopping, she then looked up and then around, having no clue as to where she was. Great, you've lost yourself now. Brilliant.

"Excusez-moi, je... je suis perdue. Comment se... s'appelle cette ville?" (Excuse me, I... I am lost. What is this town?)

An old woman smiled a yellow-toothed smile at Hermione. "Ça dépend à qui vous demandez..." (Depends whom you're asking...) She eyed Hermione's wand holster wrapped around her ribcage, empty as she'd placed her broken wand in her coat pocket. "De quel côté êtes-vous?" (Which side are you on?)

"What?" The young witch recoiled at the woman's avid stare, backing away as she reached out for Hermione. "Je... je ne comprend pas." (I... I don't understand.)

The woman sneered, her face only inches away from Hermione's. "Quel camp?" (What side?) she said patiently. "Les bons ou les méchants?" (The good ones or the bad ones?)

Hermione felt something hard jab into her back; it was a flower pot, from one of the windows of the small townhouses. She slid a hand inside her pocket, grasping her shattered wand between her fingers. It wasn't of much use anymore, but it was a relief somehow. "Les bons, bien sûr." (The good ones, of course)

The woman whirled around without another word, her stringy grey hair greasy, and her clothes muddy and dirty. "Venez," (Come) she tossed over her shoulder.

Hermione had no other choice than to follow her to a dark alleyway where one singly street lamp flickered incessantly and seemed about to die. The pavement was wet and reflected the light from outside the alley, and there were garbage bags and cans in one corner, reeking of rotten cheese and all kinds of foetid and tangy smells. The woman muttered something to herself and then stood in the middle of a circle that seemed to have been carved into the cracked pavement. She pulled Hermione in it with her and then tapped the lamp post with the tip of her wand.

"Bienvenue à la Vallée des Lumières," (Welcome to the Valley of Light,) said a voice from nowhere.

Hermione stood amazed at the scene before her, but already the woman wordlessly dragged her from her spot.

It was just like Diagon Alley in London, but here there were fairies and other luminescent creatures soaring over their heads, as well as beautiful buildings made of reflecting glass looking like ice sculptures.

"Where are we going?" Hermione found herself asking before she could think to translate. The woman was dragging her to the top of a hill ways away from the little village, and Hermione saw nothing that could be of interest except a beautiful natural lake and gorgeous treetops.

"Shut up an' follow me."

Hermione startled. "You speak English?" she exclaimed incredulously.

The woman made an impatient and oddly familiar gesture with her hand. "Of course." And then Hermione saw her whip her wand down her body. A glamour.

"Fleur!"

The woman put her index finger to her mouth and pushed Hermione to a tree. "Look," she muttered as though scared someone might find them out, "I am taking you to somewhere good. Please trust me." She looked past the tree, wistful. "I know who you are. You know who I am. Now believe me."

Hermione hesitated, looking down the hill toward the lake. Could she trust Fleur? She could easily be drowned and no one would be the wisest.

Fleur's eyes implored her. "I 'ave followed you since you came 'ere; I recognised you, an' you can help us."

"Us?"

Fleur nodded. "We are good."

Hermione didn't know how she ended up in front of the lake but she wasn't afraid anymore. Fleur might have been a bit egocentric in the past but she seemed to genuinely want help ... whatever for, she didn't know. But it felt good to trust someone again.

"So... what are we waiting for?" she asked conversationally. The place seemed rather familiar, like she had been here before, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

Fleur smiled, and her beauty reflected in it. "It rises from the... depths, you say? It is beautiful..." she trailed off, gazing at the many ripples on the bed of water before them. "All you need is to believe."

Hermione frowned, confused. "Believe in what?"

The smile never wavered, and it was like Fleur worshipped the lake. "The castle... Beauxbâtons."

Hermione gasped and looked back at the lake and, slowly, as if in a dream, contours and lines became clearer. She had been here before. Soon a gorgeous white and crystal-clear castle was looming high over them, towers and towers expanding before them. Beautiful glasslike arcs appeared before Fleur and Hermione, a white bridge at their feet.

Fleur turned to Hermione and winked invitingly. "Do you believe?"

Hermione let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. "Goodness, yes... This is Beauxbâtons?"

"You stand before it, yes." She gestured to the bridge. "After you."

Scallops and vine designs adorned the walls, which seemed to be coming straight from fairy tale books. The huge circular garden in front of the great silver doors was accentuated by a water fountain in the centre of it - an intricate work of art consisting of twists of silver and crystal leaves that seemed to want to touch the skies - and made of colourful plants and flowers, giving life and joy to the essentially neutral and lifeless colours of the castle.

Hermione was amazed at everything she saw. "The books only ever said Beauxbâtons was eccentric."

"The founder was Jean-Christophe Émilion Barthélémy Beauxbâtons. He 'ad studied the arts of the moldus... er, muggles and built the castle in 1716, based on the Renaissance and Baroque artistry and the elven délicatesse."

Hermione whistled lowly. "A grandiose job he did." She turned to Fleur, eyebrows raised. "But I don't get it. What do you want me to help you with?"

Fleur motioned for Hermione to follow her again. They passed by a Great Hall, with three long tables of a white product, staircases that disappeared and reappeared at will; they appeared to be made of frozen dripping water and white leaves for banisters. They passed by numerous doors, and finally Fleur stopped before a door that looked just like the others. "Wait," she said. "You must understand that we are a secret group. You can't talk about us to anyone."

"But H-"

Fleur's eyes flashed. "No one."

Hermione swallowed hard and then nodded. "Okay."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"So what kind of business are you 'ere for? It doesn't seem you are donating money or buying pieces."

Ron laughed and then sat down on a small pillar near Nathalie's working space. She was perched on a stool with brushes and pots of some stinking mixture scattered around her as she spread out some bit of the mixture on parts of the painting she was working on.

"I'm not a buyer... don't have the money. But..." How insane would it sound if he told her an enemy of this country's other world, a vampire at that, was hiding precisely in this chapel? He cast one long look at her in her overalls and decided to go looking for his evil duke alone. "Look, thanks for taking me here and all, but I'll be fine on my own here."

He halted after his first step. The trouble was, where to look first?

Ron climbed on top of the altar and surveyed the surroundings. There were about three other artists around - another painter like Nathalie, someone working with plaster and ceramics, and someone bent over the praying benches, pouring something on the wood and working on making it all look better. He can't be out there in the open daylight... the sun's too strong. Ron jumped down and proceeded to go fetch one of the site maps that Nathalie had got from the chapel's entrance. Gah, stupid, they haven't got three dimensional vision in these things...

Grumbling to himself, Ron disappeared through a staircase leading to the basement. Only to be scared half to death by a small hand on his shoulder.

"Strangers are not supposed to go down alone during the renovations." The familiar voice was confirmed when a torch flared to life on its own - in the muggle world? Oh, he remembered his dad talking about batterkeys... - and Nathalie's face appeared from the dark. "What are you doing here?"

Ron groaned inwardly. "What are you doing here?" Now she wasn't going to leave him alone, he knew it, he knew it.

Nathalie crooked an eyebrow. "I happen to work 'ere... and I followed you. For a reason, I see. What are you looking for? There is plenty of things to look at up there."

Ron gave a loud, impatient cry. "I'm not looking to buy! Go away, I'll find my way."

Nathalie frowned angrily, then grabbed his wrist. The light flickered dangerously in the tunnel-like basement - Ron thought he remembered Nathalie telling him that the basement was huge and lacked eckeltricity since a recent pow-wow outage. "Visitors are not allowed down there during the renovations."

Ron shook her away and started down again. "Let's see... Visitor? Nope. Officer? Yep." He whirled back to face her. "I'd like to keep doing my job as I see fit, if you see what I mean..."

She snorted derisively. "Where's your badge?"

Ron muttered something that sounded like "Uncover."

"Ah, I see," she chuckled. "For a undercover police officer, you are doing a very poor job. Where's your flashlight?"

Ron reddened in the face, hoping she couldn't see it in the poor lighting. Damn, I'd make a very poor muggle. "Lost it," he supplied.

"I didn't see you take one."

Ron whirled on her once again, shaking and his face looking even more insane in the weak light. "I don't need one!"

Nathalie's eyes widened with something like fear. And then there was black. "Merde!"

"You call this a flashlight?" Ron grumbled more to himself and then hit a wall. "Yow!"

"Smooth, very smooth..." came Nathalie's teasing voice.

Ron was raging as he spat back, "Will you leave me alone? What the bloody hell do you want?" He felt for the wall with numb fingers and then veered right, where another passage seemed to go.

There was a long silence until Nathalie spoke again. "You know, usually, when a flashlight dies, we go back and get another one."

Ron seethed and felt in his coat pocket and produced his wand, lighting it in one go. When he realised what he'd done, it was already too late.

Nathalie keeled backward at the sudden source of light and cried out, then blinked stupidly, staring up at him, opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of water. "What - how - you - oh mon dieu!"

He knelt before her and grinned impishly, feeling in control again somehow. "I'm a wizard, Nathalie. And a thumping good one, at that."

Nathalie held out her hand, as though thinking before she would protest, and then she glanced at his wand tip, alight with a 'Lumos' he didn't even remember casting. "Wait a second, that's a trick wand. I've seen one of those... Last night... This man was carrying one just like that. I thought he was a madman, you don't see old men playing lycée games everyday..."

Ron's eyes widened. "What-what-what did you just say? You saw a man with a wand like mine?"

"Yes," she replied, frowning. "He seemed crazy, too. Said 'e was having a small reception in the Couvent de la Visitation-Saint-François. Crazy man..."

Ron grabbed her by the shoulders and shook, looking quite the hysterical man. "You should have told me this an hour ago! Where is this convent?"

Nathalie eyed him like he was crazy, too. "Umm, maybe I should take you... Is he a runaway prisoner?" she asked as he started up the staircase, his wand held out before him like a beacon.

"You could say that."

She frowned then, catching up to him. "Are you not a bit old for playing wizard?"

He chuckled, glancing sideways at her. "You're never too old."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry bit his lip, glancing every two seconds at the map as if, from the power of his will alone, he could make her dot pop back onto it. The truth was, he was scared shitless. Anything could have happened to Hermione. Anything. She could have been taken by kidnappers, she could have run away and broken her wand, just as well as she could have simply broken it and she'd be back very soon, because Hermione wasn't someone to do things impulsively like that... or the Hermione he used to know. Who knew how much she could have changed over the span of those years away...

We shouldn't have taken her

. He'd known it was taking too many risks, but he had simply told himself that she'd be invaluable help in the Ismaelah case. We shouldn't have taken her. Look where they all were now: Ron was alone trying to find their Evil Vampire Duke; Hermione was lost at the very least; he was in an empty bed and breakfast and its owner was dead and there were no other witnesses for there had been no other rented room at the time.

Harry still felt like shite when a muggle officer of peace and his (amazingly) bilingual assistant came to recognise the desk lady's death.

"Vous n'avez vu personne?" ... "You saw no one?"

"I wasn't there when it happened." ... "Il n'était pas là quand c'est arrivé."

"Où étiez-vous?" ... "Where were you?"

"I was in the Old Nice." ... "Il était dans le Vieux-Nice."

"Alors comment se fait-il que vous soyiez arrivé si tôt après le meurtre et le vol?" ... "How is it you arrived so quickly after the murder and robbery?"

"Robbery? There was none. The place was only ravaged!" ... "Il n'y a pas eu vol. La chambre était seulement ravagée."

The policeman stared Harry hard in the eyes, but Harry wasn't intimidated. "Répondez à la question." ... "Answer the question."

Harry sighed dejectively. "I knew something was wrong." ... "Il sentait que quelque chose n'allait pas."

The officer snorted. "Il sentait, hein?" He barked out laughing. "Qui est la personne qui était là au moment du vol?" ... "Who was there at the moment of the robbery?"

Harry looked back at the officer and stared him straight in the eyes. "Hermione Granger, my friend. We were here for business with another friend of ours and she was supposed to stay here until we came back." ... "Hermione Granger, son amie. Ils étaient ici avec un de leurs amis pour leur travail, elle devait rester ici jusqu'à ce qu'ils reviennent."

The policeman scribbled all of their conversation in a notebook, scratched the bridge of his nose with the tip of his ballpoint pen, and then nodded. "Bon. On va la retrouver. Soyez sans crainte." ... "They'll find her. Don't worry."

Harry muttered under his breath, "Yeah, and what if she's been kidnapped by two angry goblins? That's something to worry like fuck about."

The assistant turned to him at the door. "You will be okay?"

Harry smiled back sarcastically. "Sure." He pushed his way out and then roamed the streets aimlessly, feeling like a pea in a sea of carrots. Thankfully he wasn't out to do nothing about Hermione's disappearance. And, thankfully, he still had that wee muggle picture of her in his wallet. "Hi, speak English? Have you seen this woman?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"So... basically, we're looking for an old crackpot who believes he's the wizard of Oz?"

Ron coughed painfully as he pushed spider webs away. "Wizard of what?" They had found a tunnel opening in the yard, under the Couvent de la Visitation-Saint-François and were now attempting to find their way inside the maze that were the tunnels under the convent.

"Oh, come on... 'We're off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz, because, because, because, because, becauuuuuuuse...'" She trailed off, her giddy childish smile fading. "Your childhood must 'ave been dreadful," she finished.

Ron rolled his eyes (Muggles...), then rummaged in his pocket, producing the wizarding map of France. "Good." The 'Ron' dot was getting steadily closer to the red one.

"What's that?" But Ron hid the map before she could see. "Aw, you're awful."

Ron ignored that last one (Women...) and held his wand aloft before him.

Nathalie was not one to keep quiet for very long, it seemed. "Where did you get that? It's great. It must 'ave been really expensive to last this long. I 'aven't been in a joke shop since my first year of lycée, but you know those things... They're usually not good. Use it once and it is soon breaking."

Ron halted, quite irritated by now, and whirled on her. "Okay," he groaned. "Stop talking or I'll..." hex you into tomorrow? Petrify you? That wouldn't work. "...leave you here and enjoy the thought that you're lost in the dark, talking your head off 'til it falls."

Nathalie hmph'ed and retorted loftily, "I know my way back better than you will ever wish."

A thump resounded suddenly in the passage and they both froze. Ron was about to rejoinder with a mild curse but he sprang forth just as suddenly. As he ran he tossed over his shoulder in an exaggerated whisper, "Keep quiet or we're both meat."

He came to a halt in front of a brightly-lit doorframe with an old unhinged door and hid next to it, motioning for Nathalie to do the same, behind him.

"Where's your gun?" she mouthed around her fear, and Ron could scarcely believe that he'd allowed her into this. Her fear began coiling around him, but he paid more heed to his instincts.

Ron felt the tension he always felt before cornering someone. One mistake and you were thrown off the loop, he'd learned that pretty quick. He ignored Nathalie's silent question and then moved into view, though the figures hunched in the farthest corner of the room couldn't see him. An old man was kneeling before another whom Ron could not see the face of. They were unaware of his and Nathalie's presence, and it was when the tall man snarled something in French and closed his long fingers around the old man's throat that Ron sprang into action.

"Freeze! Unhand his throat this instant!" he yelled, enjoying this little bit of field work just a tad.

The tall man slowly looked sidelong at Ron, giving a little sneer as the crumpled man started crying a litany of pleadings. "S'il vous plaît, s'il vous plaît, je reviendrai au pouvoir! Je leur dirai que j'ai été sous l'emprise d'un Impero," (Please, please, I'll come back to power! I'll tell them I was under the Imperio) the kneeling man wailed tearfully. "Ils ne vous pourchasseront plus. S'il vous plaît, pitié... Pitié pour un vieil homme." (They won't be after you anymore. Please, have pity... Have pity for an old man.)

The tall dark man spoke in a heavily foreign accent. "Duboncourts, vous n'êtes qu'un lâche... une saleté... Vous m'avez volé, presque ruiné."

Ron glanced back at Nathalie during this exchange; she was shyly looking on, and he was lost... so lost... He should have listened to Hermione and learned French long ago. "What the bloody hell is going on here?"

The tall man smiled and Ron saw two long, pointed fangs. He didn't need explaining on that point. Now he understood clearly. He turned to Nathalie, pointing to the old man Carmerana had called Duboncourts - the French Minister for Magic. "Is he the man you saw last night?"

She looked terrified yet didn't know what was going on. Was this a very sick dream she was having? "Y-yes," she said with a shaky voice, staring straight at the duke's fangs. He would have wagered a lot of money on her thinking this was a really bad joke.

Jacques Duboncourts smiled very weakly. "I was drunk, monsieur."

Ron held the vampire at bay with his wand but did not move. "Why have you been missing?" he asked the old minister, who began whimpering and sniffling.

"He poison me, monsieur. I was kidnap by other vampires. Now he want to kill me."

"Nonsense," said the vampire with a surprisingly calm voice. "This man is thoroughly insane."

Ron squared his shoulders and regarded the vampire sullenly. "Duke Carmerana, you are under arrest as authorised by the French and English law enforcement order. You have the right to remain silent; everything you say can and will be used against you. If you try to escape, I can and will do everything in my power to restrain you. As a last resort I have the right to kill you."

Carmerana cackled vehemently. "I laugh before death."

"You won't when I make use of the section eight spells, designed just for your kind," Ron snarled abruptly.

The vampire's sickly skin seemed to pale further.

Ron suddenly whirled on Nathalie and Petrified her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At last Fleur spoke, "Ismaelah." The door disappeared into thin air and she immediately strode inside a dimly-lit room where dark, hooded figures sat huddled around a large, round table.

But Hermione hadn't followed. She stood with her mouth agape, and then stuttered, "H-how did you know about the Ismaelah?"

Fleur silently sat at an apparently designated seat and smiled warmly at Hermione before turning to the hooded figure that stood before the roaring fire in the grate. "Elle est là, maître... de son plein gré." (She is here, master... of her own free will.)

"Bien," answered the raspy voice of an old man. The figure turned and then he scrutinised Hermione, talking in a low voice to Fleur. "Sait-elle le motif?" (Does she know why?)

"Non, j'ai fait comme vous vouliez." (No, I did as you told me.)

"Bien, expliquez-lui, maintenant." (Good, tell her, now.)

Fleur nodded and stood, and with her a vivid light sprang to life, plunging the room and the hidden figures in a warm light. "This is the Terces Compound. We are graduates of Beauxbâtons who rejoined when we heard of the Ministry's corruption."

Still Hermione was astonished - and mystified. "But how did you know about the Ismaelah?"

Fleur bowed her head and folded her hands, speaking quickly like she'd been dying to tell her all along. "Many of us worked in the Ministry before Jacques Duboncourts released the Bill in 2007. When it 'appened, we seeked refuge at our old school. It is now closed before Madame Maxime died and there are no students to teach anymore... She was killed by Duc Carmerana's minions."

The news struck hard at Hermione, who sagged against the doorframe and rubbed her face with a trembling hand. "I'm sorry, she was-"

"No matter," Fleur interrupted. "We know how and why people are disappearing." She nodded to the hooded figure in front of her, who sighed and stood, removing his hood slowly, as though he really didn't want to.

Hermione gasped. "You!"

René Dumoucheron stood at the round table, looking pained and like he wished very hard to not be there. "We meet again," he said as sole mark of greeting. "I was very relieved when I 'eard the renowned Docteure Granger was coming to France with the Aurors who 'ad been assigned to the Ismaelah case months ago. It meant that they were going to really 'elp us this time. You see, I was 'oping you would work on it, that is why I came to see you at the ministère."

Confused, Hermione frowned. "I don't think I understand."

Dumoucheron breathed in heavily and came to stand before her, his forehead glistening with sweat. "Mademoiselle Granger, I see every invoice on my desk before the owls deliver them away," he said with a raise of his eyebrows to emphasise the meaning of what he was saying.

Hermione held her breath hard. This was all so much information at once: this held many implications. "Who created the bacterium?" she found herself blurting out.

René held her gaze, his eyes an intense brown. "A witch who goes by the name of P. Malfoy."

Hermione blinked many times - ran names in her head in quick succession - and then the puzzle came together at once. Malfoy got engaged to Pansy in 2006, it was all over the Prophet. She could have very well used Malfoy's name illegally before she even was really a Mrs. Malfoy. "How did she get her hands on the original copy?"

"The first time the bacterium was created," René said in a comforting, calm voice, "the magical authorities seized the recipe and keeped it locked in the Auror 'eadquarters in a vault where they keep the folders for closed cases until they are destroyed. I assume an Auror stole it and gave it to madame Malfoy, because no one is suppose to know the password than the ministre and the assigned Auror."

Hermione frowned, trying to calculate things in her head, but none of it made any sense. "Did it ever seem like the Minister was interested in what was inside the vault?"

A man stood and straightened his back. "Non, Madame, I never saw 'im." He nodded curtly at her surprised stare. "Normand Chavignol. À votre service."

Fleur spoke up then, explaining his role in the affair. "Normand is the Auror who was assigned to the vault's safety," she explained briefly.

Hermione nodded, silently thanking Fleur for being so efficient in this roomful of mostly non-bilingual men and women. "It's likely that the Minister sent someone instead."

Normand snorted. "I would 'ave saw 'im."

Hermione gazed back at Chavignol with a look she intended cold and scolding. "Someone who could have broken into the Ministry while it was closed at night," Hermione added for clarification, rubbing her face and pondering her idea as it developed all over her mind, sending her jolts of excitement like she hadn't had in the last few years. "The same happened during Voldemort's second rise to power," she explained as a shudder ran through the small group of twelve.

The old man Fleur had addressed earlier calmly rose from his throne-like seat, and the others grew silent and bowed their heads respectfully. "That is very possible," he said, then frowned. "What do you know about the Ismaelah?"

Hermione looked at the group with some uncertainty. Something about them was strange; disarming, even. "I know that seventeen wizards have disappeared since 2007. I know it only affects men in their twenties, and that it travels by means of water ways."

The man stared hard back at her. "Do you know what their métiers were?"

Their jobs?

Hermione swallowed hard. She'd known something was missing.

"Your silence speaks loud," the old wizard said serenely. "They were all against the Bill. They were Ministry employees. They also worked with us."

"With the Compound?" He nodded. Hermione finally stepped into the room and was barely aware of the door reappearing behind her, thus erasing her chances of being able to walk out on her own. The old man conjured a spare chair to the round table, and Hermione sat with them all.

"Augustin Paracelse," the old man introduced himself. "I met your headmaster at Wizengamot meetings." He smiled warmly, valiantly, and Hermione felt herself grow fond of him.

"He died during the War," she said flatly without reverence.

Paracelse bowed his head respectfully. "I am sorry to hear this. Dumbledore was a good man, an even greater wizard."

She smiled sadly and heaved a heavy breath, one that really hurt - old scars were hard to mend. "What am I to help you with?"

Fleur lifted her head silently. "Mrs. Malfoy is introuvable."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"What do you mean, Parkinson was - that filthy little bitch..." Harry groaned, pushing past Ron before Ron yanked him back and sat him on an infirmary bed.

"Whoa there," Ron said, running his hand over his face and then his hair with the air of someone exhausted after too many nights spent wide awake. Fuck, even after the end he felt like shite. "Hermione's fine. Parkinson was... she was, er, about to... about to curse Hermione, but I blasted her away just in time."

Harry grunted. "Yeah, and what if you hadn't been there, eh? She'd have been in a right nice place now, wouldn't she?"

"Harry," Ron scolded, then dropped his voice when a nurse passed by them. "Harry, the point is, I was." He raised his brows as if to express the sentiment held behind his eyes. There wasn't much he could do to tame Harry's reckless temper. The bastard had a hero complex the size of Scotland and felt guilty whenever someone suffered around him - blamed himself, even. "Hermione needs you to be calm... for her sake, mate. She can't see you in this state; you look like shite."

Harry snorted, a grin adorning his face at last. "You don't look too good yourself."

Ron burst out laughing. There was his friend, a burn mark on his cheek and his scar a vivid red against his snow white skin. His clothes were tattered and his pants were torn at the cuffs. His hair stood in all odd angles, and his glasses were cracked and stood askew on his bleeding nose. "Hey, I saved the life of a damsel in distress today."

A chuckle bubbled out of Harry's throat. "Ha,

I saved all of your sorry arses and killed my evil nemesis. How's that for saving lives?" he mocked Ron, who rolled his eyes and shook his head.

It wasn't a surprise to Ron that Harry finally came out with something to laugh about after all of this. In fact, Ron was glad that Harry was joking about it - he knew the bloke didn't have a great esteem of himself, so this was refreshing. "Come on," Ron said. "Let's go see Hermione."

When the flap moved sideways, Hermione jumped, startled, and then a smile split her fact at the sight of her visitors. "Harry! I heard about Voldemort. Oh, how

are you?" she cried immediately, springing forth to hug Harry, who laughed and flailed his arms to keep her at bay - unsuccessfully.

"Stop fussing over me, I'm fine," he laughed. "But you're strangling me."

Hermione bit her lip and blushed, jerking away instantly. "Sorry," she laughed. "Everyone's planning to throw a feast for you tonight. Luna's writing her 'last wartime article', as she said herself." She sighed happily. "I'm so proud of you, Harry." Then she turned to Ron and added, "And of you, too."

Harry's eyes hardened as she threw a grateful nod to Ron. "Speaking of him... what the hell happened in the forest?"

Hermione glanced once more at Ron, who only smiled meekly and shrugged. "Harry, I... Goodness, Harry, I'm okay!"

"She could have got you!" Harry cried, eyes bulging out.

Hermione glanced once again at Ron and replied quietly, unconvincingly, "She didn't."

Harry grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, "You should have stayed in the infirmary where you were supposed to be. What would have happened if Ron hadn't happened to pass by?" Harry cried back, face livid. "My God, Hermione, that was so irresponsible of you!"

Hermione's eyes widened defensively; she'd seen Harry mad before, but never at her. It was all directed at her, this time. She knew it was fear she was feeling, but by God she wasn't going to let him patronise her so. "Harry, we needed rosewood, you

know there was some in that forest. What did you want me to do? Let someone get entirely consumed by a stupid curse? That someone was - is one of your most devoted soldiers. I won't get patronised by you, Harry James Potter. A lot of you were approached and threatened by Death Eaters; why don't you go and patronise them all?" After this she panted, having lost her impulse, and from the corner of her eye she saw Ron fidget uncomfortably as though he was unsure what to do: comfort her or run away altogether?

Harry stared hard at her and then sighed lamely, considering. "You're right. I'm a prat for thinking you were the only one of our lot. It's just... you're Hermione, you know?" he finished with an uneasy grin and a small roll of the shoulders.

Hermione sighed, too, then pushed out of her tent toward the infirmary, horrible thoughts of Pansy and what she should have done still haunting her... but she would never tell a soul. She was tending to a sound sleeping patient with amputated legs when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"He's just feeling guilty," a warm voice drifted to her ears from the foyer.

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, turning to face him. Her mouth wasn't working; it was all slack. Finally she worked around it. "How do you know?"

Ron shrugged, smiling just that bit enough to console her. "I have a sort of hunch, if you will."

She giggled softly. "You shouldn't probe people's thoughts without their consent. You know it's considered violation of privacy."

He grinned impishly, then sobered. "I'm trying to learn but sometimes I'm just too curious." He winked, pausing. "Look, don't let it haunt you."

Her smile faltered and finally faded. "I should correct myself, then: you shouldn't probe people's thoughts, period."

He gently grabbed her arms, rubbing up and down soothingly, making her skin tingle and warm; she hadn't realised she was cold to the touch until now. "I didn't probe, I just know." Then he laced his fingers in her hair. "I know how it feels, Hermione, being unable to push something out of your mind. How do you I feel when I see someone die before my eyes? I have to struggle any way I can to not feel the curse coursing through me when it's aimed at them. And then I'm haunted until the next kill."

Hermione's heart had cracked open, she was sure of it by now, after his heartfelt revelation. "It's all in the past," she worked out. "You shouldn't speak like we're still at war."

He smiled indulgently. "You're right. Come on, let's take Harry to the feast."

She broke away from his loose embrace. "Just a minute," Hermione said. "I won't take long." And then she went to another occupied bed and gingerly sat beside the patient's sleeping form, taking his vitals and temperature, and noting them on the clipboard at the foot of his bed.

"Yes, I see woman you look for," offered a tall woman of a burly build. She pointed with a fat index finger to a back street and shrugged. "I see 'er go wit' old woman, but never come out."

Harry squinted toward the dark alleyway and thanked her briskly before stalking toward it, a young family exiting it as he arrived. Whoever would come back here of their own will? It's so desolate and... He interrupted his thoughts when he noticed a faint circle etched in the cracked cement.

"Strange," he whispered to himself. I've never seen perfect circles etched in cement. He turned his head sharply when the street lamp next to it flickered on and off.

An odd feeling washed over him at this sight, but he shook his head. "Must be the stress finally making into ye olde head," he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Where are you, Hermione?

Before he could blink, a young woman materialised before him and breezed away, muttering angrily to herself. Okay, this sort of thing only happens when the magical world is involved in some way.

"Miss! Madame!... Hey, you!" he called, sprinting up to her before she could drown herself in the swarm of people on the main street.

She stopped short, gave him the cold once-over, and raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, obviously very annoyed that a young bloke had halted her. "What?" she snarled in a thick accent.

Harry suddenly realised he looked very foolish, about to ask her where she'd come from and how, so he opted for another option, digging in his muggle coat and extricating a muggle photograph of Hermione. "Have you seen this woman? She went missing today. Perhaps -"

"I 'ave not saw her. Now excusez-moi, I am very pressée."

Harry grabbed her wrist before she could flee, and pulled her back sharply. "Look, how do you get through that portal? She may have gone somewhere she feels safe."

The woman stared at Harry's face and then yelped comically. "I am sorry, monsieur Potter. I thinked you are not a magicien."

Harry waved his hand in a dismissive manner. "No matter. Where does it lead? How do you get through?" he asked excitedly.

The woman jutted out her chin toward the circle and lamppost at the end of the alleyway. "Stand in centre of circle an' touch the lampadaire. It leads to the Vallée des Lumières." And then she was gone. But Harry at least knew where he was to look next.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Perfect aim," snarled the dead soul.

Ron panted as he turned to face the timeless man. I shouldn't have looked at her, I haven't had practice in months. "Oh," he replied with equal snarkiness, "that was only practice for when I have to hit you, dear Dracula." He jerked his head toward the door, motioning for the men to follow him out of the dungeons. In a quick, swift motion, he bent and picked up Nathalie's immobile body and hoisted her over his shoulder. She'd kill him when she woke up, he was damn willing to take the bet.

"Where are we going?" asked the then-Minister.

Ron was too tempted to take the bait. "Scotland Yard." He rolled his eyes heavenward. "To the Aurors, what do you think? He'll be the star amongst them all, I can almost smell it."

"But... but what about me?" he whimpered suddenly.

"You'll be a star all right; you'll probably just have to get used to the hate mail in your cell." Ron pushed the man harshly forward and took out his wand. "Come on."

They quickly exited the shortest way out, and Ron was almost on the last step when Carmerana glowered backward and attempted to escape through the woods next to the convent. Ron cursed under his breath and did two things at once: he lowered Nathalie onto the steps and shot a Petrify at Duboncourts before running after his vampire friend. Why do they always attempt escape when the first door shows up? He really, really wished Harry was there. Oh well, this is practice. The bright orange spell fired out of his wand and the next thing Ron knew was that his Duke was falling flat on his nose, stiff as a stick. Oh well, that was mildly fun...

Ron dragged Carmerana's body next to the others and sighed wearily. Here goes nothing... He uttered three Levitation spells and regarded their floating bodies with a mildly bored expression.

As he finally trundled at the Ministry, there was at first nothing very different - the whole building seemed to be run by morons, nothing was right, Ron noted - but then Ministry officials recognised Ron's prisoner Jacques the corrupt culprit, and then realisation stirred and Ron's Russian prisoner was also noticed and ultimately recognised.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Bienvenue à la Vallée des Lumières."

Harry gazed upon the new development, seeing nothing but startling beauty around him. Great elves were carving their trademark leaves and beautiful designs on the frontal wall of a new shoppe in front of him. A witch in bright pink robes was charming her lace atelier while she sold her work to passers-by.

Harry walked through this mass that reminded him so much of either Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade - he couldn't choose. Maybe it was a little bit of both... It was obvious that this valley was not a strictly wizarding region - probably more of a parallel world like Diagon Alley, he thought.

He regarded the shoppes around him, but still the question of finding Hermione was too important to forget. He was sure that she was wandering around here somewhere, and if his theory of her broken wand revealed to be true after all, then she was probably buying a new one already. And all he'd have to do was find -

Ah, but there it was: "Devanne, baguettes magiques, depuis 1853." (Devanne, magic wands, established 1853.)

The creaking door dinged as Harry pushed it open... to find the shoppe nearly empty. There, at the desk, were two figures engaged in discussing something in hushed tones. As soon as they saw Harry, they interrupted themselves and eyed him warily.

"Puis-je vous être d'aide?" (Can I help you?) asked the man behind the desk as he collected scrolls of parchment and stored them hastily in his desk drawers.

"Er, désolé," Harry started in his shy French, "je ne parle pas français bien." (Er, sorry, I don't speak French well) He ran his hand in his hair in a quick, nervous scratch, and stepped further into the dimness of the small, dusty shoppe, remembering buying his first wand at Ollivander's and feeling something pretty akin to this awkwardness floating round him right now.

The shoppe owner nodded understandingly. "My English fails me sometime," the bearded man explained a bit foolishly. "Can I be of 'elp to you?"

Harry stepped next to the young man who'd been speaking to Devanne before he had come in - he was scrutinising Harry. Harry scratched the back of his head again. "Yes, I was hoping you could tell me if you saw a young woman with short, curly brown hair come in to buy a wand today."

Devanne seemed to turn over his memory and probe it for this description. "No. I remember my customer years after they buy the wand. I don't remember 'er." He seemed to study Harry's face then, and light flooded his wrinkly features when he realised who he was speaking to. He grabbed Harry's neighbour's sleeve, and tugged hard. "Armand, c'est Harry Potter!" A smile broke out on his long face, and he slapped his desk board heartily as one would upon seeing an old friend. "What bring you 'ere, monsieur Potter?"

Harry glanced at his neighbour, a thin and tall teenager with shaggy, mousy hair who still hadn't spoken, and reckoned it wasn't exactly top secret to talk about a friend's disappearance. "She's my friend - Hermione. She disappeared today; someone told me they had seen her last in the alleyway, and I suppose she's come here to find people she might know. She's lost her wand, too, or maybe it broke, so I thought she'd have come here to get a new one... Do you know of any place where she could have gone, anyone here who would have taken her somewhere?"

The bloke beside Harry snorted loudly. Harry turned to face him as he offered him a sarcastic laugh. "Do you know what go on out 'ere? She could be wit' anyone!"

Harry sighed impatiently. "I know that, believe me. We came here to help bring back the peace in your country; maybe she's been taken... Do you know of any place where she could be held or... or anything?"

The bloke named Armand shrugged and shook his head. "I don't know."

But Devanne was thoughtful as he ventured into an entirely different answer. "There is one place... I was told there was a bande of person contesting against the ministère. They had or still have 'eadquarters at Beauxbâtons."

Harry sighed. Why couldn't things ever be simple? "Okay, how do we get there and how long will it take?" he asked dully, certain that there was no hope at all of finding Hermione yet at the slow pace he was going.

Devanne gestured to Armand. "He will take you."

The young wizard jolted and eyed Devanne with an uncertain glance. Both men stared each other down, then Armand shrugged and stalked out of the store. Harry promptly followed him outside, then fell into step next to him as they made their way toward the mountains. "Who are you?" Harry finally asked, glancing sidelong. Who was this man and what had he been doing in Devanne's shoppe? He couldn't possibly have needed a new wand; already he was producing an old wand, battered and worn at the gripping end.

"Devanne," Armand started, rubbing his nose gingerly, "he is my uncle. I am starting to learn the art of wand-making. I am Armand Rochedor." He paused uneasily, as if not sure he wanted to go on. "What are you doing in France - helping us?"

Harry stared ahead as they climbed the heavily grassed mountain. "I'm here for Auror business..." Can I trust him? he asked himself as he glanced at the younger chap. He seemed harmless, really.

Armand grunted with feeling. "The Aurors don't do a lot these days," he remarked coolly, kicking at a rock heartlessly.

"I know," Harry said cautiously. "I'm not working with or for your Ministry on this one... at least, not tightly. You've probably heard of the disease called Ismaelah...?" At Armand's sharp nod, he continued. "We're trying to find the culprit... or rather, I was before my friend Hermione disappeared. I've left my partner Ron to do the job."

Armand's thick brows knitted together. "You 'ave plunged into the dark underworld, you know. A lot of country tried to 'elp, but no one stay long to find the miscréant." He shook his head sadly; sad for his country perhaps. It was hard to face the reality face to face sometimes, especially at a young age. "You really think you can find the dark one be'ind this?"

Harry's lips tinned into a flat line. "We know who created this mess."

Armand nodded dully, his eyes a flat sky blue. "Duc Carmerana, I know. 'e created this... this mess wit' the Ismaelah, and now 'e run away."

Harry eyed his companion with a new eye. "You know something," he said as it dawned on him. "You must,

Armand only shrugged, coming to a halt at the foot of the hill, in front of a shimmering lake. He stared at it, seeing the bottom and yet not quite able to figure out the ghost-like shadows apart from the vegetation. "I know what everyone know." He whirled on Harry expectantly. "But you seem to know enough."

"I left Ron when we were on Carmerana's trail."

Armand chewed on his cheek and turned to the ever calm lake, watching the water ripple and reflect the skies and them. "You should know something..."

"What?"

"I worked for Duboncourts a little when Beauxbâtons closed."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione gaped silently, then felt the wheels turn in her mind. If Pansy was nowhere to be found, then Malfoy probably knew something. And if he knew something, then he was bound to have disappeared as well. "Have you searched for Mal - Draco? He's her fiancé. He probably knows something."

Fleur shook her pretty head, her hair bouncing from left to right very quickly over her fatigued face. "He disappeared, too. Right in front of my eyes. Poof. I thought maybe he drank some infected water, too, but the fading process is slow in those cases."

Hermione pinched her eyes closed, feeling the beginnings of a headache slicing its way in her brain, and sighed. "Was there anyone besides you in the room you were in? Or was there anyone else in the house?"

Fleur seemed to think, but she soon shook her head again. "No. 'e was alone. But I did feel a presence when I was speaking to 'im. Very faintly. And sometimes he didn't even look at me. I was a bit disturbed."

Hermione slowly paced the length of the room, very faintly aware of twelve pairs of eyes on her back. Then she came to a sudden halt. Of course! "Draco was Pansy's Secret Keeper."

Fleur's eyes sent her a puzzled expression. "I don't think I understand. Draco wouldn't 'ave disappeared if -" Then her face lit. "Oh!"

Hermione nodded excitedly, smiling brightly. "Unless, you mean. Unless Pansy put a Fidelitas on him as well."

Fleur's words were tumbling out of her mouth as she said, "Then they both can't be found unless they 'ave told someone else."

Hermione nodded, considering the fair-haired witch's concept very slowly. "Friends, parents, anyone." Then she laughed privately, grimly. "Malfoy couldn't be invisible to everyone without feeling the urge for power eating at him. And he couldn't very well leave his parents in the dark." She turned to Fleur. "I take it you know where Malfoy Manor is?"

The blonde belle nodded but paled white as a parchment sheet. "Yes but -"

"Where is your old Potions Master's classroom?"

Fleur stood up, incredulous. "Er, whatever for?"

Hermione sneered in what she deemed was a very good rendition of Professor Snape. "We need to make some Veritaserum."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Est-ce que - non, ça ne peut pas être lui."

(Can it - no, it can't be him.)

"Mais si, mais si. C'est le ministre!"

(Yes, yes. It's the minister!)

"Mais qui c'est, ce type rouquin, là?"

(But who is that, the redhead type, there?)

"C'est l'Auror de l'Angleterre, tu te souviens? Lui et Harry Potter? Ils étaient là pour retrouver le vampire russe et Duboncourts."

(It's the British Auror, remember? Him and Harry Potter? They were here to find the Russian vampire and Duboncourts.)

"Tu crois qu'ils ont retrouvé Carmerana?"

(Think they found Carmerana?)

"Sais pas. Mais le type là-bas, ça pourrait bien être lui."

(Don't know. But that man there, that could be him.)

"Aucune idée. Y'a jamais eu de photos de lui publiées."

(No idea. There weren't any photos published.)

Such was what Ron heard on his way to the Auror Headquarters as he Levitated his prisoners in front of him. Ministry workers were mostly lazing around out of their offices with fags in their mouths, or drinking dark coffee that smelled all through the hallways. Ron was starting to get really irritated at their attitudes. It's a wonder they even come to work at all. But maybe that's because their wives know nothing about the little thing with Duboncourts and Carmerana more than a year ago. They must be real wimp-men...

"Ah, monsieur Wayslé," cried the director of the Auror Headquarters, coming to shake Ron's hand. Then he noticed the floating bodies and his smile faltered considerably. "What is this?" he asked in a newly shaky voice.

"These are the people your stupid people couldn't get by themselves," Ron ground out between his teeth, thinking so many other things but keeping them to himself for the old man's sake. "Harry and I are morons when it comes to speaking French, but we pulled this off without whinging."

"Er, er."

Ron turned to a gaping Auror and seethed out, "Take them to two different cells and then Enervate them."

The old director reddened in the face at Ron's cheekiness. "I call the orders here, young boy! I'm the one who -"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Calm down, I'll be gone in a jiffy. I just want you to know that Harry and I are very grateful for your warm welcome. We couldn't have done this without your very kind help. Ah, and it's Weasley, sir. Sorry I've been an arse, but I don't think I deserve your anger. Goodbye." And he Disapparated, still holding Nathalie over his shoulder and winking to a very hot and bothered director.

When he reappeared outside, he slid the dark-haired muggle off his shoulder and Enervated her without preamble. Her eyes fluttered open and then she shrieked. "Roger!" She cast a very quick glance around them and then groaned, feeling for her head with both hands.

Ron knelt before her and immediately brushed her hand away, feeling her forehead for himself. He knew it must knock muggles out just the same as wizards, but they weren't used to being knocked out of the blue. "Are you okay?" he asked, feeling the guilt rise in him as well as the pain from her. He'd only protected her, he rationalised. He'd only ensured that she wouldn't ask questions later, but now he wasn't sure it had been a very swell idea; it had been pretty wishful thinking. "I'm sorry," he added as an afterthought.

She coughed, and her throat sounded hoarse - being out cold had a tendency to make one's mucus dry out. "I'm all right. Where are we?"

"Er," he said, reddening. "No clue."

She snorted abruptly. "You don't seem to know very much, do you?"

That shocked him, it did. He blinked at her, and then chuckled, rubbing his hair. "I really do hate when people say that."

"Really?" Nathalie cocked her head, frowning as some hair fell over her eye.

"Yeah. My friend Hermione used to remind me this oh so surreptitiously pretty much everyday until..." He trailed off, his eyes clouding over. "Listen, about before..."

She waved her hand. "It's okay."

"No, no!" His English seemed to fail him, he realised with frustration. "You need to know the truth, because I hate that I did what I did - it was a stupid wizard's reaction."

Nathalie stared at him with a concentrating expression, and then nodded solemnly, slowly. "Okay."

"Those two men... one was the French Minister for Magic, the other was a vampire duke from Russia who contributed to this huge corruption affair with the French Minister. With me so far?"

Nathalie blinked very slowly, then frowned. "I think I was right when I thought you are a serious mental case."

Ron shook his head with a frustrated growl and grabbed her arms, looking very nearly mad as he said, "My name's not Roger Smith, it's Ron Weasley. I'm an Auror from the British Ministry of Magic. My friend Harry Potter and I were sent here to investigate on the corruption case... Don't you ever wonder why there are so many cases of unexplainable accidents in your world? Fires, deaths, destroyed houses -"

"That happens everyday," Nathalie persisted frantically.

"Not unexplainable cases, they don't." He paused, gazing so intently at her that she had to wonder. "Please believe me. I'm not a liar, I just want you to know the truth and believe me, because you saw things today that not everyone ever gets to witness. I didn't want you to get involved but now you have to know."

"I'm not sure I -"

"Please."

She swallowed heavily and then picked herself up gingerly, watching as Ron stood up and looked imploringly at her as she stretched to her full height. "Take me home," she said, glancing around them as though she might see a dashing figure with a blast of ethereal light from his world, and then up at the darkening skies. "I know it's dark and dangerous." And Ron blew out a breath. And he was grateful.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Are you sure this is the place?"

"Yes, monsieur Malfoy Summoned me here when -"

"Draco? He couldn't be arsed to lend a helping hand to those in need."

The ugly woman beside Hermione - Fleur was hidden under the same guise that Hermione had met her in because she feared for her personal protection if Draco were to be in the house - snickered softly. "Except to a beautiful half-veela who's learned the subtle art of séduction." She surveyed their surroundings with keen, suspicious eyes. "'e contacted me when Dumoucheron organised a meeting for the old Bastille prison, where I'm a Curse Breaker. Months before I 'ad found a hidden door with extremely modern spells. Monsieur Malfoy was a donator for the renovation project, and I think 'e grew scared because the day after the meeting was set to discuss the gold he was giving for that particular task I found a laboratory behind that barred door. The parchment was mostly burned, but I found flasks with large amounts of Ismaelah."

Hermione actually jumped as the two women walked around a long, thick brick wall that spanned around the perimeter of an abandoned house, that bore decades and decades of washed-out and repainted graffiti - both offending and not. She turned to face Fleur finally. "What did you tell him?"

Fleur shrugged, a hidden grin tugging at her dry and peeling lips. "In my line of work, we need to be politically correct but, like someone we both know, I 'aven't quite reduced myself to being a complete conformist."

Hermione grinned knowingly. Bill Weasley. She stole a glance sideways at her older comrade. "What exactly happened between you two?"

Smiling with a faraway look, Fleur sighed. "Oh, you know... I went to London and lived with him for a while. Then I got my internship and was pushed here and there until I got my job at Tyrions Briseurs de charmes." Her smile faded a bit and she bit her lip, shaking her head sadly. "I wonder what 'e's become."

"Bill?" Hermione smiled almost apologetically. "I'm sorry, I don't know... I haven't seen him since Christmas three years ago." She came to a halt behind Fleur, who'd stopped short in front of a gate behind which the land looked like a dump. Fleur looked at the planks of wood stuck between the stakes and eyed them with an irritated eye.

She sighed. "This is it," she said with finality. Then she turned to Hermione and sadly she said, "Please, I can't think about Bill right now..."

Hermione nodded, understanding the other woman's reasoning perfectly. Bill and Fleur had had to overcome so much, and even though she didn't know the full story, Hermione knew that they'd broken off amiably after the Dark Lord had tortured and killed Fleur's veela grandmother.

Her story had made the rounds at the Great Weasley Table and, although she doubted the legitimacy of half of what she'd heard, she understood quite well Fleur's fear of getting him hurt because of who and what she was.

Being a veela just wasn't all swell and beauty and extravagance... it meant deception for all the men who dared set eyes upon it without knowing its real facet. And danger.

"Okay," Hermione said decisively. "Let's go in there."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The older woman sneered, revealing a set of perfectly pearly white teeth and screwing up a button-like nose. "I don't see what more I could tell you. It was disastrous for all of us. I never thought he'd actually die so young."

Hermione saw Fleur raise her eyebrows cryptically out of the corner of her eye. "We have reason to believe that he's not dead, Mrs Malfoy," Hermione said from her perch on a deep forest green loveseat made of expensive dragon hide.

Narcissa's eyes went wide as Galleons and she gasped, her small manicured hand going to her pulpous mouth. "Are you - are you sure?" she squeaked frantically, though a hint of uncertainty and slight cowering ghosted over her features. She seemed to be listening, her eyes bearing a faraway look, and then her eyes hardened and she jabbed a finger in the air in Hermione's general direction. "Who are you?" Her voice quivered slightly as she spoke, but Hermione was not about to lose her grip on this woman. She'd worked so hard to finally get answers, find the slightest bit of information on this case. It seemed foolish to let it all fall in the mud like that. "I remember seeing you somewhere." She stared hard at Hermione for a moment, and then her eyes suddenly lit up and she stood up in a huff, straightening her robes with a harsh flick of her bow-like wrists. "I am disgusted, miss Granger. I should have recognised your name the instant you introduced yourself to me..." Offering Hermione a sneer that would have made any sensitive person crumble in a great weeping mass, she carried on with her tirade. "A mudblood in my residence... you should be ashamed of yourself. I know what you want. I've heard of your work. Finding diseases and such." She stalked closer to Hermione, her eyes throwing lit daggers. "That one about the little mudblood boy who'd caught the Rockenfeller... All you wanted was to help your kind, when there were far more important cases awaiting your attention."

Hermione's lips were thin as she replied firmly, "People who were not on the brink of death."

The older lady snorted haughtily after a short stare-down between them both. It seemed they were both trying to be as polite as possible - Narcissa's was vehemently swallowed for fear that her kind would be appalled at her lack of hospitality. She breathed in deeply, her bosom dilating considerably as she composed herself. "You know something about my son's whereabouts, then. That is, if he's alive."

Hermione smiled a winner's smile. "Actually, I think I'm certain he's alive... I want to know where Draco is," she said emphatically as his mother protested the usage of her son's given name ("How dare you? How dare you call him by his name?") Hermione simply ignored the woman's protests and urged on. "Malfoy Manor? I can certainly see why he would have stayed home... plenty of rooms to hide in, even though we both know he doesn't really need to hide, now, does he?"

Narcissa's anger burst out of her without her even being able to restrain herself. "This is harassment!" she shrieked. "I will call the Hit Wizards!"

The young witch held her ground with a savage language on the tip of her lips, though she did not use it. "Not if I tell you I know everything about your family's involvement in the Second War, at the very least."

Narcissa scoffed loftily, pulling a long cigarette from her robe pocket and lighting it with the tip of her wand, pulling in a drag immediately. "My husband is still in prison serving his time, if I may very well remind you."

Hermione grinned the most wicked grin she could muster. "I was talking more about your side of the family... all the gold that your family invested in the Dark Lord's operat-"

The older woman's face had crumpled ever so slightly, and she grasped the back of the chair nearest her so hard that her knuckles turned white, as did her face, though very slightly. "What do you want?" she demanded through a whisper, like an old woman grasping for her last breath. Hermione realised she was completely scared below the façade.

Hermione turned to Fleur and nodded imperceptibly, then turned back to Narcissa and quickly motioned for the proud lady to sit. "Tell me what you know and I'll make sure that none of that ever leaves this room."

Narcissa bit her perfectly curved and red lower lip and brought her shaky hand to her forehead. "I know nothing at all, I told you."

Fleur brought a tray with two tiny English teacups and offered them to Hermione and Narcissa. Hermione sipped hers contentedly, then looked up to see that Narcissa was only cupping it in her hands as if she were suspicious of its contents. "Drink," Fleur said suggestively. "It helps to calm down."

Narcissa stared at Fleur warily, studying her features very thoroughly. "Do I know you? You seem familiar."

Fleur swallowed hard against the dry ball in her throat. "Maybe," she said slowly, articulating each syllable to draw out her accent so it wouldn't be quite so imprinted in her speech. "I see resemblance between the two of us.."

Perhaps it was the sole idea that they were related or that she simply didn't see any resemblance between them both, but Mrs Malfoy grimaced and brought the cup to her lips and drained the first quarter of it like a deer in headlights. "Now what?" she asked Hermione, who was sitting properly and waiting for the effect of the potion to wear in. It took a little less than five seconds, and then Narcissa's face slackened and she seemed woozy for an instant, her head floating from side to side as in a daze. And then her jaw settled into an expressionless pose.

Hermione tested the potion first. "Are you Draco's mother?"

"Yes," answered the droid-like woman before her.

Fleur settled in her armchair and took out a pad, poising a long feathered quill atop it and whispering a spell to record every word of the conversation.

"Do you have a healthy mother-son relationship with Draco?" Hermione demanded.

"Yes. When Lucius was taken away, Draco was very confused and became even closer with me. When he was young I sat with him and played magical castles with him until his father came back from the Ministry. Then I'd be ousted from the room and Lucius would teach Draco the Dark Arts."

"Did Lucius love Draco?" This was getting to be quite interesting. Hermione had never quite thought the Malfoy family to be a loving - or at least a little loving - one. They had always looked more cold and austere than anything else. Draco himself couldn't have been arsed to show sentiments of compassion in school, let alone of love.

"Lucius wasn't the one who said words of love, I was."

"When he wasn't there?"

"Yes."

Fleur tugged on Hermione's sleeve. "Hermione, time goes by..." she said a bit impatiently, glancing at her watch hastily.

Hermione nodded dutifully. "Right," she said, gathering her thoughts. "When was the last time you spoke to Draco?"

"Just now, before you came."

Hermione grinned and looked around the drawing room as if she could see where Draco or Pansy could be hiding. So many possibilities... They could be right in front of her. "Was Pansy Parkinson with him?"

"Yes."

Hermione felt her blood pump through her ears, the buzzing almost unbearable. Now, she thought to herself with some force.

She could feel their presence, she was so sure of it. The air was thick with something she couldn't quite describe. What was it? Anticipation? Fear? Loathing?

"Where are they now?" Hermione asked, and at once everything and nothing happened:

Narcissa's robotic voice calmly replied, "Right here," as she pointed somewhere in front of her. And suddenly Hermione saw with horror her body crumble to the floor in a heap just as two bodies slowly emerged out of thin air.

Draco's wand was tightly drawn - he was the one who'd Killed his mother - and his expression was completely masked. Pansy shrieked and hurled herself at Hermione, dark manes flying in all places. Fleur jumped in panic and punched Pansy square in the jaw in an access of fear.

Draco still stood there, staring at his mother's lifeless body like a puppet out of commission. Then he slowly turned to the women and regarded the female mess before him: silver-, black- and brown-haired witches screaming and grabbing for each other's throats and hair in an attempt to weaken one another.

He turned back and knelt at his mother's side, closed her lids over her wild eyes with impossible peacefulness, and held her hand, regarding the vestiges of a powerful, if dominated, woman in chilling silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry blinked with wide, disbelieving eyes. Had he heard right? "Come again?" burst out of his mouth as both men halted before an enormous lake.

Armand nodded once slowly, and Harry knew he was in for a revelation or two. "I was 'is assistant." Then he gestured toward the lake. "I know things you don't. Like this, this is not what it seem."

Harry shrugged carelessly. "It's a lake like any other."

"No," Armand said proudly, hissing in a breath. "This is Beauxbâtons."

And Harry saw the castle emerge from the water like a dream out of the autumn mist. The breath was powerfully knocked out of him, and he stood there gaping like a fish at what he strongly believed was the single most beautiful castle he had ever seen.

"Come," Armand coaxed him, and Harry dazedly followed him in.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry was pulled into a huge circular room where eleven shrouded figures already presided at the table, appearing to be in the middle of some sort of discussion.

The eldest man in the room - a man Harry recognised as Augustin Paracelse, one of the members of the Order of Merlin, which rounded up the world's greatest wizards. He turned to Armand just as the door returned to its brick-like quality.

Harry then turned back to face the other wizards and witches in the room and felt all eyes trained on him. "Er, where am I?"

Armand chuckled behind him, a friendly chuckle. "You are in the Terces Compound, Harry Potter."

Whispers erupted and then Augustin Paracelse spoke up again. "Welcome in the Compound, monsieur. We were just discussing the possibility of Summoning you here ourselves."

Harry furrowed his brows, confusion written all over his face. What was he doing here and why did Armand bring him to this obviously secret hideout or headquarters of some sort? "Er, whatever for?" he found himself asking.

Paracelse smiled an old man's twinkling smile. "Your friend, mademoiselle Granger, may need all the help she can get."

Harry gasped inwardly - finally! He'd found Hermione! - and regarded the wise wizard with a new eye. "Where is she? Is she all right? Is she alone? What's going on?" he fired at once, too excited to wait for either of them to answer.

Paracelse held up a hand to keep him from asking anymore questions. "She is at Malfoy Manor at the moment. She is fine; one of our members went with her... I think you are well-acquainted with mademoiselle Delacour...?" he said.

Harry couldn't help the laughing scoff from bursting out. "Yeah, we were both Champions at the TriWizard Tournament in 1996. I never expected to hear of her again," he finished, crooking an eyebrow. There was much he hadn't expected to happen, but then... they seemed to always do happen to him in the end.

Paracelse's eyes glimmered familiarly when he spoke next. "Armand, you will take monsieur Potter to mademoiselle Granger immediately."

Armand bowed respectfully to the wise man and walked out, the brick-like door disappearing like mist before him.

But Harry held back, obviously at a loss once more. "What is she doing at Malfoy Manor?"

Paracelse spoke gravely, almost as if he pitied him: "Helping solve a mystère."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry nodded and followed his guide all the way back outside of the castle, where they were connected even better with the surrounding nature than they were inside the vicinity of the castle.

Armand was walking very fast, and Harry was starting to become lost as he veered left to follow the French wizard along the lake and toward a small forest. "Whoa whoa whoa," Harry panted when he finally stopped to look back to Harry. "Where are we going like that?"

Armand whirled around and grabbed a firm hold of Harry. Harry only had the chance to catch his breath before feeling the familiar lurch start at the pit of his stomach. And then they were walking on solid ground again. Different, yes, but solid, nonetheless.

"Where have we ended up?" Harry continued.

Armand walked along the edge of a rusting gate, appearing to look for something that would allow them to get in. "Malfoy Manor," he explained quickly with a grunt.

"Funny," Harry snorted derisively. "I always thought Draco lived in a manor, not a trash dump," he mused to himself, surveying their smelly surroundings. "Malfoy always bragged about his... grand mansion."

Armand waved his hand impatiently, mumbling instructions to himself in a broken or slang-ish French - Harry couldn't figure out much of it in any case for it was spoken too fast - and then he gasped and his wand was in his hand, and apparently he'd just opened the gate and Harry was finally able to see beyond the illusion.

"Malfoy Manor," Armand repeated in a murmur as though the imposing structure, no longer a small abandoned cottage, had drawn the breath out of him.

And right then Harry knew at least one thing: Malfoy may always have been a right bastard, but he'd bragged about his mansion with good reason.

Armand was tugging at Harry's sleeve again, and Harry was jolted out of his awe. "Come," the French hissed, and Harry complied without a word.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ron was anything but someone who could take empty, awkward silences. All through his marriage he would hide away to avoid having to face Vi's love and have it thrown full force into his face without his being ready. Whenever he came out of his office or was back from an extra shift he would have taken willingly, he practically forced those silences upon the both of them. It's all for the better, he would keep telling himself. Such a lie, he saw it now.

Nathalie was sitting across from him, hidden under a patch of shadows, staring at her fingers to avoid having to look at him. He reasoned that it was probably like this for every muggle who suddenly came into contact with the magical world in one way or another. It was all so easy to hear it, but he reckoned that processing it may take more than a "yes" and an "I get it". He couldn't really understand what must be going through her mind at the moment, and the one person he knew that would be able to was nowhere to be found.

Gods, I hope Harry's found her

, he thought before raking a hand through his hair and letting his eyes roam over Nathalie's small apartment, boxes lying in one corner of the cramped drawing room with captions like "Cuisine", "Bibelots" and "Salle de bains".

"So, um," Nathalie finally mumbled, risking a glance. "That's a... real wand?"

Ron startled, and this caused the wand in question, hanging limply from his fingers, to drip with surprised orange sparkles. "Oh, uh, yeah. We, uh, wave it around and stuff." Oh Gods, he wanted to bash his head.

She was wearing a very peculiar expression, one of awe mixed with incredulity. It looked like it was hard to assimilate that there was another world co-existing alongside hers. "You're a wizard, then." It was less a question than a pure statement, uttered with a crease to her forehead.

"Yeah," Ron answered plainly. "I'm sort of a detective for our kind. Your muggle detectives couldn't solve our cases even if they tried their damnedest."

Nathalie blinked in confusion. "Muggle?" she asked.

Ron coughed. "Er, non-magical folk." She nodded, as if that explained everything, though it didn't, not really.

Another long silence ensued, during which Ron was pretty sure it was time to leave Nathalie now that she was safe and sound. But she spoke again when Ron started to get up to exit in proper muggle fashion - he'd already shaken her up by Apparating them both to her apartment, he was not going to freak her out further by exiting the same way. "Wait," she said, raising a hand to stop him. "You said something about a woman earlier..."

Ron frowned, sitting on a rocking chair and leaning forward to place his hands together in front of his face. "I told you about Harry, but not... oh yeah, I guess I did," he muttered, raking his hand through his hair again. "Er, I can't remember... what did I say about Hermione?" he asked tiredly.

Nathalie stood and went to sit by him on the armrest, resting her palm on his shoulder in a friendly manner. "You said she used to say you didn't know a lot about anything until... Until when?"

Ron felt the weight of her hand upon him and glanced sidelong at her to gauge her, just a very little bit... not enough that he'd be caught off-guard like hell like the last time he'd gauge a woman upon meeting her, but enough that he'd know what he'd be up against and be fully prepared. What he felt, though, was a perfectly comfortable caressing sliver of friendship, and he breathed deeply in relief.

Settling himself comfortably against the pillow thrown behind his back on the rocking chair, Ron rummaged through his memories and allowed himself to relive some of those wonderful and not-so-wonderful moments passed in Hermione's presence. "Hermione is a bossy know-it-all... or at least that is what I used to say every time she vexed me or seemed completely insane in my mind. It's really in sixth year at Hogwarts - that our magic school in Britain - that we both started to understand each other. We harried each other off every moment we could, or that's what it seemed, until I started having these giant headaches."

Nathalie squeezed his shoulder inadvertently. "Sorry. Is that normal, even for people like you? I mean, I started getting migraines in university because I worked and studied so much."

Ron pondered the question in earnest. "Well, I took every potion that exists that would have taken away the biggest migraine in history, but nothing worked for me because I was starting to become an Empath, and I wasn't embracing my powers, or at least I didn't want to feel anything."

"What is that?" the woman asked curiously, seemingly entranced with his story.

Ron paused, not really sure how to explain to her at this point. "Er, an Empath is someone whose sense of reading emotions is heightened by actually having the ability to feel and read people's emotions." He coughed, embarrassed, at her slightly frowning face. "You understand this?"

Nathalie nodded slowly. "Yes, I think..." Lifting her face, she glanced up at him. "So you are oversensitive, yes?"

"Hypersensitive, yes," Ron corrected, staring out the dirty window of her small drawing room. "Anyway, to make a long story short, Hermione found what was bugging me in the end, and in the meantime we both started to make each other's lives a bit easier," Ron finished with a small smile.

She caught him off-guard with her next question. "You like her?" she blurted out.

Ron burst out in sputters and coughs - he'd swallowed wrong. "Yes - no - well, yes - but... not really that way... Really," he added lamely, for emphasis.

But already Nathalie was laughing and poking at him, so to busy himself - and make him forget the blistering heat he sure felt all over his face - he rummaged through his pockets and pulled out the bit of parchment where the map of France was drawn. And noticed that Harry's dot had just disappeared before his eyes.

"Whoa, hang on..." Ron gasped out loud and quickly zoomed out until the continent appeared in its entirety before him. Harry's dot was now flashing somewhere over Switzerland. Ron didn't know what this mean - the flashing - but he knew one thing: he needed to find out what this meant right now.

"What?"

Ron lifted his nose from the parchment, eyes haggard. "Harry's... I don't..." He trailed off, pocketing the map and staring her down critically. "You'd best come with me. I don't know the first thing about speaking French."

Nathalie smirked like she was about to make a teasing remark, but when Ron grasped her hand and whipped his wand around them to produce a foggy substance that quickly dissolved her apartment and made her navel lift and let in quick succession - like a roller-coaster, she mentally remarked - she shut her mouth and then cried out as a heavy dizzy spell fell over her.

And then they were touching ground again.

Nathalie lifted her eyes and, instantly, she felt the bile rise heavily from her throat. Ron helped her to a kneeling position and pulled her hair away from her eyes, rubbing her back and locking his mind from the nauseating sensation by occupying it and looking at their bearings.

It looked to him like they were in the middle of a trash bin. But no, they were leaning on the broken wall of a mostly desolate and destroyed country house. Behind them stood an enormous gate and high fence.

"Bloody hell," he grunted. "Where are we?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just as in a bad dream, Draco suddenly lifted his eyes to Hermione's. she saw his irises harden and slowly, very slowly, he rose. Next to her, Pansy burst into gales of irritating laughter, twirling her long black hair around her wand with a gleam in her eye. Finally, Draco stood towering over Hermione and drew his wand again, animosity present in his otherwise placid grey orbs.

Every last hair on Hermione's skin crawled on end; behind her, Fleur was letting out a litany of French prayers that she hadn't the mind to translate for herself.

"So now you've found me," Draco was snarling, every word a deep bite around Hermione's gut. "What do you want?"

Hermione swallowed deeply as he advanced toward her. Pansy wouldn't cease her cackle. "I -" She swallowed dryly around her throat. "I'm only doing my job," she said for her defence just when Draco's wand came in cool contact with her neck.

His face came next, breathing raggedly. He whispered harshly: "Just give me one reason not to kill you right now."

Disgusted and terrified at once, Hermione pulled her head away. "The Aurors will have your head for it," she whispered with a troubled lilt. "What's your motive?"

His eyes became clear, hard glass and mordant ice. "You killed my mother."

"What?" Hermione cried shrilly, revolted. "You killed your own mother because she Revealed you." What kind of worthy son would do this?

Her captor smiled one of those smiles she'd seen so often in her school days. "That is just the beauty of it: who will know if there is no living witness?" He glanced up at Fleur and burst out laughing evilly, pointing his wand at the old woman she had become for their purpose. "Oh, and who did the mudblood bring? Her old muggle grandmother? Really, Granger, you make my life so much easier..."

He hadn't the chance to utter his curse: Fleur whipped out her wand and Petrified him. Pansy shrieked and ran to Draco's crumpled form on the floor, then threw a beastly glare over her shoulder. Hermione wasn't sure how it got to her hands, but her wand flew into it somehow. Her fingers were trembling terribly.

The inevitable then happened: in Pansy's rage, Fleur hadn't noticed her wand slashing the air. She wasn't fast enough, and the curse her adversary threw at her couldn't be repelled; it immediately took effect. Fleur doubled over in pain, a wide gash on her midsection, gushing and dribbling with blood and her own entrails. Hermione helplessly saw her skin shift back to its original polished and porcelain-like white, then to a sickly transparent dullness. She heard her agonising cries of pain mix with the gore that she was coughing out with incredible force.

Pansy advanced toward Hermione as she stood in frightened daze, incapable of moving though she rather willed herself to with all her might; the sight she was witnessing was just too close to home and, oh Gods, she really wished she could run over to the beautiful woman who was suffering a slow death right in front of her. A stench of rotting and burning flesh reached her nostrils, nauseating. Pansy laughed again, something Hermione rather craved to force back into her throat for good.

"She's rotting from inside," Pansy informed Hermione, who made no reply for she already knew. Besides, Pansy was taunting her. "Clever, don't you think?" the young woman of a once treacherous beauty snarled, swaying her hips as she reached Hermione in short strides. "Draco taught me the spell. It comes from the Libro de la Magia Negra... but you already knew that... No? Oh, pity." She stroked Hermione's jaw, a harsh finger tracing the outline of an old scar. "The Spanish were clever wizards. Created some of the most brilliant black magic spells when they were fighting the Arabs." She smirked, gazing Hermione down as she licked her lips. "Or maybe you knew that... Right little impostor you are... Bitch."

Hermione felt her fingers itching for a wand. She wanted to hex the other woman so much, but alas her wand was still irreparably shattered.

Pansy's eyes gleamed as she twirled her wand between her long fingers. "So we meet again, after all these years," she started in a sultry voice that reminded Hermione alarmingly of the last time they'd been alone, long ago. "I was wondering when we'd be able to pick up where we left off. Pity your lapdog showed up when we were about to have fun. You didn't change a bit - Did you miss me?"

Hermione shivered and recoiled from her snaking fingers, edging as far away as she could. Harry... Ron... someone... please... help! she thought frantically, though she knew it was no use at all anymore.

Pansy cocked her eyebrow, jeering a bit and looking everything like a hungry wolf. "Now, now, now... No need to run away... I always fancied you the one who asked for more in the end," she said, sitting down leisurely on the chair Narcissa had been sitting on and thrusting out her chest, giving Hermione a full view of Pansy's creamy breasts which were almost completely pushed out of her extremely tight bodice.

There was a shout and a crash and Hermione whipped her head round to see Harry scrambling to get to Hermione, a small robe-clad wizard hot on his heels. He collected Hermione into his arms and immediately let out a huge breath of relief while embracing her tightly. "Oh Gods, Hermione, are you okay? She was - I was - don't ever run away like that again."

Harry was nuzzling her hair, as if making sure he was really holding her. Finally he pulled back, tears in both their eyes, and she felt like she was about to crumble to the floor. "I'm so sorry," she repeated to him, a litany she didn't tire of saying over and over again, as long as it could somehow help make everything better.

He cupped her cheeks, his anxiety visible even as his hands shook on their trail to her face. "Are you okay? I mean -" He interrupted himself, and his eyes took in the bodies on the floor and the state of the room they were standing in. "What happened in here? Are they dead?" he asked genuinely astonished.

Hermione snorted back her tears and regarded the picture: Pansy, Draco, his mother and Fleur whose glamour had faded away completely. Wiping her tears, she pointed first to Fleur, her index finger shaking. "She's... she's rotting. From inside," she choked on the words. "I think she went into shock now. Let me -" She stumbled to the floor, sobbing as she took in the sight of Fleur slowly putrefying, a sheer sheen of sweat all over her pretty face and neck. She took in the woman's vitals, sobbing all over again. It's my fault if she dies. It's my fault, she thought frantically before Harry grabbed her by the waist and pulled her away.

Harry's face was piteous as he pulled her up to her feet. "I'll take her to St-Mungo's."

Hermione nodded, then her tears redoubled as he prepared himself to Disapparate. Fear dawned on her. "But I don't have a wand!" Harry froze and faced her again. "It's broken. I can't stay here; they'll both wake up soon."

There was dead silence during which Fleur, still unconscious, turned on her side and vomited, adding to the fetor yet.

But they both turned violently when they heard a female voice shout uncertainly to someone ways behind her in a slightly broken English: "Come 'ere, come 'ere!" Harry drew his wand to her.

And then a bright, fiery head popped into the drawing room behind her and when he saw Harry and Hermione, he broke out into a grin and strode out over to them in long strides that soon reached them. He embraced them both fast. "By all bloody gods out there... the map - and Hermione didn't show up anymore - and Harry's dot was flashing - I thought I'd gone barmy."

But Hermione wasn't smiling. She looked at Fleur as she started shivering to a cold only she seemed to be under, then nodded at Harry, who knelt and Disapparated with Fleur.

It was a while till someone spoke.

"What happened to her?" Ron asked quietly, prodding for safety. Then he frowned. "And where did she come from anyway?"

Hermione sighed wearily. "Got hit by a Penitus Morior Curse, thanks to Pansy right here, who's out cold thanks to Harry, who burst in on time thanks to Merlin knows what. She was going to help me with the Ismaelah case."

"Just like that?" Ron asked as though utterly unconvinced. "Drats."

Hermione smiled. "Yeah." Then she grinned and hugged him. "How are you?" She glanced to the woman standing behind him. "Who's that?"

Nathalie stepped out of the shadows and extended her hand to introduce herself. "I am Nathalie Sansoucis. I'm an anthropologist, I work at the Prison de Bastille for the moment." She smiled sidelong at Ron. "Ron 'as told me all about you."

Hermione laughed. "Hopefully none of the dirty bantering bits." She regarded the three remaining bodies on the floor, then looked up soberly at Ron. "Mrs. Malfoy is dead..."

It was entertaining and rather fascinating to see Ron's expression switch to his Auror mode, deeply concentrated. "The ultimate Unforgivable?" he asked academically.

"Yes. Junior here killed her when she Revealed them." She turned to Draco's oddly positioned body. "Draco was hit with Fleur's Stunner," she continued, relating the events, then turned to the two remaining bodies. "Fleur was hit with Pansy's Penitus Morior. Pansy was about to curse me silly too but Harry barged in, and there you go."

Ron Petrified Draco again when he stirred. "What were you doing here anyway?" he continued as if they were quietly sipping tea.

Hermione frowned. "Fleur told me she had come here once to query Draco about some things she had found at the old Bastille Prison."

Nathalie piped up: "À la Bastille!", she exclaimed excitedly, then winced when they did not respond.

Weasley and Granger both ignored her and resumed their conversation. "I'm sure it's a very long and not so interesting story, so please skip that part and you'd be lovely," Ron said with a little leer.

Hermione nodded and racked her brain for the important points. "Okay, so the thing is we knew Pansy at least had... er, she's waking up." The spells around the Manor must inhibit the non-inhabitants' magic, she thought suddenly as Ron re-Petrified Parkinson. "We know that she at least had some commercial link with the disease's re-formation. I'm not sure about Draco, though, so we came here to make Narcissa Reveal the Secret - because I am almost one hundred percent positive that Draco and Pansy were each other's Secret-Keepers... but Draco could never live in complete secrecy, so I was fairly sure that Narcissa was there when they performed the spells."

Ron nodded grimly. This all made complete sense. "Okay," he said decisively. "We'll take them both to Headquarters."

"At the French Ministry?" Hermione asked incredulously. He's barmy. The prospect of locking them up only to have them escape easily was impossible to digest. "Don't you think that's a bit... er, stupid, considering their history?"

Ron sighed, kneeling to drag Pansy next to Draco. "Yeah, I sure understand what you mean. Only... we can't take them to England. We don't have anything to hold them in for."

The young witch grimaced to herself and nodded grimly. "I'll stay here, then." She slipped her hands neatly round his waist and gently pressed her cheek to his chest. "Take care, Ron."

Ron smiled gratefully and then Disapparated with Draco and Pansy each under one armpit.

The bushy haired woman turned to her grinning muggle companion and wondered just what was so bloody funny.