Enchanted

Enchanted

Chapter 4: Disappearances, Snogs, and Owls, Oh My!

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Cinnamon orbs flickered open, slowly adjusting to the low lighting. Soggy vapor saturated the heavy air. Musky fabric ensnared Hermione's senses and she groggily shifted herself to a sitting position, the rickety bed creaking beneath her weight. Palms gathered the crinkly cloth of the thick sheet as she analyzed her surroundings; the area was definitely a bedroom, bare with the exception of a thin wooden chair that could have survived the Age of Merlin. An oil lamp sat on the bedside stand, the light it emitted practically non-existent, like the flame itself was struggling to escape a black hole. The walls were sparse (from what she could discern in the darkness) and lacking windows of any sort.

"Ow," Hermione winced as she brought her fingertips to her temple.

Where in the name of Merlin am I? She silently wondered, swinging around so that the pads of her feet touched the chilly wooden floor. The archaic bed groaned under her movement. She noted the absence of her shoes. I know I wore my Mary-Janes to work today... She hurriedly glanced down, squinting to see through the darkness and was relieved to find herself fully-clothed, in the light azure sweater and khaki pants she had worn to the Ministry.

Her robes, however, were missing.

And in the hidden pocket of her robes, she kept her wand.

Oh Merlin.

Hermione pushed herself off the mattress, determined to find her way out of this place. Wherever it was. She stumbled and fell back, the box spring giving way under her weight, releasing a long-winded squeak. After a second attempt, Hermione had managed to maneuver herself into a crawling position. She inched along blindly on all fours, knees dragging across the wooden floor, then heaved herself to her feet with aid from the rickety chair. The room was swirling in blackness. Hermione felt like she was trapped in a Portkey. She momentarily recalled the summer before her fourth year, traveling for the first time via the bizarre wizarding device to the Quidditch World Cup with Harry, Ron and the Weasleys. She smiled slightly, but quickly swiped the thoughts away.

Now is not the time to become nostalgic.

On the seat of the chair sat her robes, neatly folded, and her shoes, primly atop. Someone had taken extra care with her belongings. Perplexed at the small act of civility, Hermione realized the identity of her captor still remained anonymous. Who could possibly want to kidnap me? And why? she pondered, reaching for her wand concealed inside her robes. Before she could lay a finger on her robes, however, muffled voices sounded in low rumbles from outside the door.

Hermione froze, uncertainty rendering her motionless. Quickly as the panic had come, the feeling of ambiguity disappeared and Hermione switched into survival mode. She did not endure Voldemort's past plots against Harry by luck. With a prowess she was unaware that she possessed, Hermione slipped back underneath the covers (Miraculously the bed made no sound) just as she heard the click of the lock opening.

"In here, is this the one?" a hushed masculine voice inquired. Funny, Hermione thought, he sounds familiar...

"Yes, it's her," another responded.

"Well then, you're job is done. Go," the first ordered quietly.

Hermione heard the sound of one pair of retreating footsteps and braced herself. The doorknob creaked as it turned and she cringed slightly, her pulse quickening. Then, the click of the door shutting firmly behind her captor sounded and the soft clunking of his boots signaled that his distance away was rapidly declining. Hermione tensed as she felt his presence over her, and she fought the urge to open her eyes. She could not reveal she was awake. Not yet. She needed to learn more about the situation first.

A cool cloth pressed to her forehead, gently dabbing her warm brow in an affectionate gesture. Hermione, oddly enough, felt relaxed by the stranger's caring touch and the thumping of her heart seemed to slow from its frantic beats. A soft hand carefully smoothed stray tendrils away from her face, carefully placing tucking them behind her ears. Hermione's curiosity mounted and she struggled to keep her eyes shut.

The damp fabric was lifted from her forehead, and instantaneously Hermione felt a peculiar sense of disappointment. Bed sheets were pulled tenderly up around her neck; then, the stranger's aura began to dim. The floorboards groaned and squeaked as her captor crept to the exit as if he were trying not to disturb her rest. Before the door shut completely, Hermione opened one eye, sneaking a peek at the mysterious man.

The inadequate lighting from the outside corridor barely illuminated the stranger; all she caught in the poor glow was a flash of blonde.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Mmmm"

Ron glanced down at his date, breaking the steamy kiss to fumble with the keys. He shakily inserted the key into the lock, missing the hole a few times, distracted by his date's soft lips brushing the skin of his neck. He finally opened the menacing lock, and the pair stumbled into the living room.

His date giggled, winding her arms around his neck, and pressing her mouth to his. Ron surrendered to the sweet taste of her lips, pulling her closer. The couple bumped their way through the living room, knocking over various objects (Ron cringed when he swore he heard Hermione's antique vase shatter on the floor), finally toppling over the armrest of the couch, Ron landing on top. His date released another squeal, and Ron dove onto her lips.

Lights shot on. The two sprang apart.

"Ron!" a familiar low voice called out.

Ron twisted around from his position on the sofa, finding the bemused face of his best friend, lip curled as he entered the humble abode of the trio.

"Harry? Mate, I'm kinda in the middle of something..." Ron gestured to his female companion.

"I can see that. Don't you have a room for that sort of thing?" Harry quipped, dumping his broom and red bag bursting at the seams with Quidditch gear on the floor.

"Shut up mate," Ron snapped.

Harry chuckled, scooping the latest edition of the Daily Prophet from the floor. Opening the paper, Harry pretended to be engrossed in the article on Page Two while crossing to the kitchen. Ron took the hint, sending prayers heavenward, and grabbed his lady friend, dashing for the staircase. Harry lowered the paper, shaking silently with laughter. It had not been the first time Harry had come home to find Ron and "company" engaged in friendly relations. Hermione had complained--rather boisterously--on numerous occasions about Ron's nocturnal habits.

Speaking of Hermione...

Harry noted the absence of the lovable know-it-all housemate, and walked over to her study. He rapped a few times, but no answer came; not even the sound of shuffling parchment or the scratching of quills, the characteristic racket of the ardent witch at work. He shrugged, thinking Hermione might still be at the Ministry logging in her habitual overtime. After a glance at the grandfather clock, he began to think otherwise.

"Half-past ten, Hermione's never been out this late without notice before," Harry muttered.

"Ron!" Harry called up the stairs.

No response.

"Ron!"

Nothing.

"RON! Come'on mate, don't make me come up there and barge in on...on...on whatever it is you're doing up there!"

A ruffled head of red appeared at the top of the staircase, brown eyes ablaze and a fiery expression illuminating his already bright red face, the left cheek smeared with red lipstick. One side of his collar was upturned, part of his shirt was un-tucked, pants were crumpled and he was missing both shoes and one sock. Harry pressed his lips together to keep from bursting into a fit of laughter.

"What? I already told you, I'm OCCUPIED," Ron growled.

"You heard from Hermione?" Harry asked quickly, evading the enraged Weasley's tirade.

"What?"

"Hermione. It's very late, and she hasn't owled or anything. I assumed she would have written by now."

Ron scratched his head.

"No, can't say I recall seeing any letter...Reckon she's working late."

"But it's half-past ten."

Ron squinted at the grandfather clock behind Harry.

"So it is."

"Well, don't you think it's peculiar?"

Ron sighed.

"You know Hermione. She loses track of time whenever she's researching."

"Still..."

"Alright, let's pop over to the ministry and have a look-around, shall we?"

Harry smiled, grabbing his discarded robes off the banister.

A blonde head appeared next to Ron's.

"Ron, what's going on?"

"Hermione's not home yet. Just going to do a quick check in her office."

The blonde nodded, reaching up to wipe the smudge of red off of Ron. He blushed, slapping her hand away. After straightening his appearance out (and finding another sock and a pair of shoes), Ron offered his arm to his date, and they followed Harry out the door.

"Sorry, babe, but we have to cut our night short," Ron told his date.

"Don't worry about it. It's probably nothing; we can come back and pick up right where we left off," she smiled suggestively.

Ron arched an eyebrow, grinning.

"I like your thinking woman."

They reached the building in record time, and went down the hallway to the Department of Magical Ailment Researching and through the door to Hermione's office. The area was empty.

"Hermione?" Ron called out.

Harry surveyed the room, bending down to look underneath the wooden desk.

"No sign of a struggle," He breathed, somewhat relieved.

"But Hermione left her briefcase," Ron stated, holding the black leather object in plain view. "She never leaves without it."

The men exchanged glances, sensing something amiss.

"Elizabeth, did Hermione mention going anywhere after work?" Ron inquired.

The blonde witch--who had previously been engaged with Ron in "friendly relations"--shook her head, then turning, her peripheral vision detected a small difference in the workspace.

"Hey," Elizabeth called, motioning them over to the robe rack. A piece of parchment lay at her feet.

"This is interesting," she muttered, reaching for the paper.

"What?" Ron craned his neck over her head.

"It says: 'Dearest Hermione, I have not been in your lovely presence for quite some time, work being overly burdensome. There is no word to express how hard you've been slaving away, and I decided a nice little surprise was in order for you. Please meet me outside the Ministry building at eight o'clock. Thomas.' Aww, isn't that sweet? She's out with him," Elizabeth cooed.

"Aww, isn't that sweet?" Ron squealed, voice oozing with sarcasm. "Why is she still seeing that bloke?"

"Ron, shut up before I'm forced to find some creative use for this sheet of parchment as a means of restricting your vocal chords," Elizabeth threatened, dangling the paper threateningly in front of the red-head's nose.

"Geez, you're a violent woman."

She smiled sickeningly sweet in return.

"Alright you two, quit the lover's spat. Hermione's obviously out with Thomas, so we can go home," Harry called over his shoulder as he opened the door and headed out into the hallway.

Elizabeth dropped the note on Hermione's desk as she walked out of the office, dragging a sputtering Ron behind her.

"Fine, act superior with your effeminate bantering skills! But when we get home, your arse is mine!" Ron shouted.

Elizabeth giggled; up ahead, Harry rolled his eyes.

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Ascertaining her captor was out of hearing range, Hermione threw back the bed covers and crawled off the mattress, flinching when the bed released another squeak. She softly padded back to the chair, thrusting her arm into her pile of robes. She thrashed her hand around, anticipating the feel of a slender wooden stick to graze her fingers; no such luck. Hermione released a frustrated sigh, and plopped down on the cold wooden floor. She brought her legs up to her chest, and hugged them fiercely.

Wonderful, I have no wand. I've got to devise another way to get out of here...I wonder where exactly here is?

Hermione knew she would never solve that mystery sitting on her butt. Stretching out a hand, she ran her fingers over the nearby walls and floors, discovering her surroundings were entirely constructed out of wood. Taking a great whiff of the damp air, she smiled wryly.

A cabin, probably in the middle of God knows where. How quaint.

Feeling her way along in the darkness, she crawled blindly across the floor, until her fingertips bumped the lip of a doorjamb. Hermione stood up and felt along the wooden door, her fingers brushing a cold metal doorknob.

I wonder...she pondered, reaching out.

Hermione twisted the knob, and the door swung open. Light from the corridor spilled over her, and momentarily she felt blinded. Although it was still a small supply of light, it greatly differed from the diminutive glow in the bedroom. Rubbing her eyes, she took a tentative step into the hallway, pupils slowly adjusting to the brightness. To her right Hermione found a dead end, in which a portrait of a river and green fields hung. On her left, the corridor stretched a little ways, leading to what looked like...A living room? Cautiously, Hermione crept, her bare feet numb from the chilly floorboards. Small lamps lined the hallway, periodically interrupted by a small landscape or portrait. A rather nasty looking hunter, bearing his arms across his protruding chest, sneered at her as she passed. Upon reaching the doorway, she pressed herself against the wall. Inhaling sharply, Hermione peered around the corner.

A blonde man (rather attractive looking from her standpoint) stood, back facing her, stirring his cup of coffee--the delightful odor wafted its way over to her, teasing her caffeine-deprived senses--leaning over the counter that adjoined the living room and kitchen. She stepped forward, and the floorboard released a long-winded squeak.

"I thought you'd be waking up shortly," the stranger called, the deep timber of his voice oddly familiar.

He pushed himself off the counter and turned around.

"I was going to ask if you were hung--" he broke off as Hermione released a shriek.

Draco Malfoy was standing before her, eyes wide in bewilderment.

"You!" she spat.

"You!" he cried, equally surprised (or so Hermione thought; it was rather difficult to tell while he wore his traditional No-Emotion-Malfoy-Mask.)

"Humph, should have known it was you the Dark Lord wanted," Draco muttered, taking a swig of his coffee. His blonde locks fell into his steel eyes, and Hermione felt that peculiar sensation bubbling in her stomach, but pushed it in the back of her mind.

Concentrating on what he had just said, Hermione found herself perplexed; he was not aware that she was his prisoner? I suppose it must have been too dark for him to see my face... she mentally deduced.

"So you are in league with him! Just when I thought you couldn't sink any lower; congratulations Malfoy, you've fallen from crazed-witch-stalker to Voldemort's kidnapping crony."

"How kind of you to notice; and so vociferously named. Want a cookie?"

"Why would I want a cookie from you? It's probably seeping with Evil Energy Juice, freshly squeezed from your over-inflated ego."

"Ouch. That wounded me Granger, right here," Draco grabbed at his chest.

"Can't wound what doesn't exist."

"Pretty brash for a hostage Granger. Better watch it, might turn you over to Twinkle-Toes-Voldie. I heard he needs a new partner for ballroom dancing."

Hermione stared at him blankly.

"What? Never heard sarcasm before? Damn, something the insufferable know-it-all hasn't read about in a book."

"Shut up before I make you. Besides, doesn't that vile tattoo on your arm sting when you've fouled the name of Voldemort?"

Draco narrowed his eyes.

"Who says I have the Mark? Anyways, how do you plan to shut me up? Yanking out globs of your bushy hair and stuffing them into my mouth doesn't sound too appealing. Or pain-free for you."

Hermione brought a hand up to her hair.

"It is NOT bushy! Besides, strangling you with my bare hands sounds more tempting."

"Geez, quite a violent streak you've got. Do Potter head and Weasel know they're living with a psychopath?"

"They do not think--Wait. How did you know I was rooming with Harry and Ron?"

"My incredible skills of observation amaze even me," he drawled, a flash of the snooty boy from fourth year entered Hermione's conscious. "Any idiot knows the Wonder Trio reside together in a big mansion with their faces plastered all over the place like wallpaper from their little adventures. And you think I have an ego," Draco smirked, steel orbs narrowing dangerously, irritation rising in his voice and cutting through the air like steel as the banter became more heated.

Hermione released a strangled scream of exasperation, balling her fists at her sides.

"Tsk-tsk, watch that temper Granger. Might end up like Lockhart and muttering mindlessly to the white walls of St. Mungo's."

Hermione resisted the strong urge to wring Draco's neck--although the more she considered it, the more alluring the thought became--and folded her arms across her chest in agitation.

"Listen up Malfoy, I don't know why I'm here and why you're guarding me, but you're going to be a nice wizard and give me back my wand. Now."

Draco set his cup down, and advanced on the witch with an odd gleam in his eyes, towering over her smaller frame.

"No, Granger, I don't do nice and will do nothing of the sort. I've played nice," he spit out the word like it was a nasty vomit flavored Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Bean, "Long enough. Now you'll do what I tell you to. You're staying here until I feel like doing something else with you," he grinned menacingly. "Now sit," he barked, gripping her right shoulder and shoving it downwards.

Quivering like a scared child, Hermione obediently sank into the armchair, fingers nervously toying with her necklace. She stared at him, cinnamon eyes wide with a mixture of fear and bewilderment; the kind she had experienced few times in her life. His steel eyes were ablaze with a queer fire, seemingly dancing with malevolent merriment and taunting her soul, daring her to attempt defiance. Suddenly, Harry's words--from her first night-rendezvous with Malfoy at Wandy's those few months ago--rang in her ears.

**** Harry put his hand to his chin. "If you mean he didn't appear like the spoiled little brat that used to cower behind Crabbe and Goyle, then I'd say you're rather accurate in that observation. But dangerous...It's a possibility. I'm not sure what he's capable of now, Herm. He seems to be...almost fearless."****

Hermione gulped. Harry was right: there was something vastly different about Malfoy, and in her current situation--wandless--it was best, she thought, not to test that theory. I suppose the great mystery of those strange meetings with Malfoy has been solved; he never really had an interest in me. I've been so stupid, she scolded herself mentally, her expression saddening.

His eyes softened, sensing her distress (What she was upset about, he had no clue or cared to know), the silver fire reverted back to a gentle kindling, and he removed his hand. Hermione precariously followed his movement with her eyes as he backed up a few spaces, and cleared his throat.

"There's some soup on the stove if you're hungry," he said, his gaze averted.

He has to be the strangest person I've met; one minute, he's firing retorts and remarks at me like an endless supply of ammo, next he's harsh and controlling, then he's almost...kind? He has more personalities than Lavendar Brown has dress robes, and that's saying something.

"Soup sounds lovely," she deadpanned, eyes downcast, tracing the gold trim of the floor rug. It frayed ever so slightly, worn from years of wear and tear. She felt as tattered as the mat, her mind splitting in different directions, and anxiety from recent events beginning to display its dreary presence. Malfoy handed her a lukewarm mug, returning to his place at the kitchen counter, forearms pressed against the top, his cup of coffee resting by his right hand. Hermione glanced sparingly at her own mug, the sad yellow of chicken broth. She took a few small sips, allowing the liquid to travel down her throat. She found she was far from ravenous (the lurching in her stomach was a dead give-away) and set the mug on the corner of the wooden coffee table.

Silence hung in the cabin like a thick cloak, smothering everything. Hermione strained her ears, attempting to pick up the sound of the kettle, the faint buzz of a fly; anything. It unnerved her how quiet it was, and Hermione hated silence, especially when she had no interesting text to read to fill the void. So, she did what she normally did when forced into a sickening silence:

"Malfoy, why am I here?"

Cut to the chase and open her mouth, the mouth Ron claimed never closed when there was a mystery about. Ron. Harry. Homesickness struck her with a wave of misery, and she clutched the chain she had been playing with--the one Harry had given her for Christmas. I wonder what's become of them? Have Harry and Ron been captured too? The thought had just struck her, and Hermione felt awful for not considering the possibility before. If there was one thing Hermione had learned well--and she had learned a lot of things during her scholarly career--was that wherever Voldemort was concerned, Harry was the object of desire.

Have I been captured to get to Harry? What if...

Hermione trailed off, remembering her question to Malfoy. She looked up, anticipating the capricious blonde to be irate over her jaunt to La-La Land, but instead found a fit and limber back, hunched slightly in its previous position. She sighed; he was ignoring her. But she had to know, know if Harry and Ron were in danger.

"Malfoy," she whispered, choking on her words.

This time, his head shot up and he twisted around, glancing at her from the corner of his eyes. Well, that's interesting. Malfoy has a reverse version of deafness. Guess whenever I want to say something to him, I should speak in undertones.

Clearing her throat, she looked at him squarely.

"Harry and Ron are they--"

"They've nothing to do with this. No Granger, you personally pissed of Voldie, and I for one have only a fleeting clue as to what Muggle-born Granger could have done to get him royally hacked off," his voice was gruff, but she could feel the honesty weaved throughout. A small smile played on his lips. "However, I commend you for the accomplishment. A smack on the back and a thumbs-up to you."

Hermione felt her face pale, and gulped.

"What did I do? I only work--"

"For the Ministry, in a researching department, blah-blah-blah. Why don't you try thinking with that allegedly brilliant mind of yours," Draco turned to face her completely.

Hermione narrowed her eyes in concentration, shifting through the bins of knowledge in her mind, pausing at the large crate labeled Voldemort's Motives for Hexing Me Off the Earth. Sorting through the files, her face lit up when she paused at one in particular, then darkened, her hand flying to her mouth.

"On Merlin, he couldn't have possibly found out about that?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Beams of sunlight drifted through the blinds, landing on the slumbering face of Harry Potter. Lazily, he swiped at the light, flopping over on his stomach and dragging the pillow over his head. It was Saturday morning and he would be damned if he was rising before the hour of twelve. He may be the early bird every other day of the week, but Saturday had a cardinal rule, one every member of the household abided by. Sticking out a hand, his fingers roamed his nightstand until he found what he was rummaging for. Grasping and lifting the slender object, he pointed it in the direction of the window. Mumbling into the pillow, a soft beam shot out of the end of his wand, striking the blinds. Curtains closed over them, and then another layer of cloth, and then another. The wand dropped, rolling to the side of the bed.

"Hmm..." he muttered, dozing back into dreamland.

Tap-tap.

Harry ignored the sound, assuming it was the active room next door. Geez Ron, his mind grumbled, don't you ever give it a rest?

Tap-tap.

"Merlin!" Harry threw off the bed covers and slipped out, grabbing a discarded shirt and slipping it over his tousled ebony locks. Snatching his glasses off the stand, he trudged to his door, prepared to tell Ron off for disregarding the sacred rule. As he grabbed the knob, it came again.

Tap-tap.

Harry turned around, baffled, and gazed at his window. It was coming from there. Cautiously, he crept to the curtains, banishing them back to the plane from which they were conjured, and gripped the string of the blinds. Raising them up, outside the clear pane was Hedwig, white wings fluttering impatiently, claws clutching a rather heavy looking bundle of parchment and letters.

"Hedwig! Wasn't expecting you this early," Harry cried as he opened the window, the snowy owl swooping inside and dropping the load on the top of his desk, then perching on the back of Harry's chair. As Harry was about to close the window, a small black owl flew in, dropping a note next to the others, and leaving again in one big lap.

After offering Hedwig a little food and water, Harry set to work sorting through the mail: bills, a few letters to Ron from his relatives, a note from Sirius for Harry, and a letter for Hermione.

Hermione, wonder if she's home yet, Harry thought as he picked up her letter, it was rather peculiar. It was the normal shape of any normal letter, a tidy scrawl of Hermione's name written across the middle; but that was not what bewildered Harry. It was the sender's name in the upper left-hand corner: Thomas Shields.

Now why would he send her a letter when he just saw her last night? Harry scratched his head, flipping the envelope over.

No, I shouldn't. It would be wrong. I'd be violating Hermione's privacy.

Harry opened his bedroom door, and crept down the hall to Hermione's room. The door was wide open, and the bed was untouched, no robes lying on the end. That was just weird; Hermione never rose earlier than one o'clock on weekends. Harry glanced at her alarm clock. It read ten.

Harry decided that something was amiss, and that opening the letter might help to mend it. Carefully breaking the wax seal, Harry pulled out the letter, intoning under his breath that he had Hermione's interest in mind. What he read was even more curious. The letter said:

Dearest Hermione,

I was surprised when you didn't show last night. I thought you would have been delighted to get away from the office. Perhaps you were tired, or too caught up in working to stop. Please owl back, I really would like an explanation.

Yours,

Thomas

Harry gasped and dashed down the stairs, searching everywhere for any indication of Hermione. He checked the kitchen, her study, even the bathrooms. No sign anywhere. Harry flew up the staircase, skidding to a halt in front of Ron's room and banged on the door. Ron's disheveled red mane poked out from a crack in the door, his sleepy gaze unfocused. Seeing Harry, his freckled face scrunched up in annoyance, and promptly slammed the door. Harry pounded on the door again. It flew open, and Ron narrowed his eyes.

"It's Saturday morning Harry, and I have bloody company! What in the name of Merlin do you want?" Ron whispered exasperatedly, attempting to avoid rousing the "company" asleep in his bedroom.

"It's Hermione!"

"What? She didn't have a good time with that bloke?"

"That's just it, she didn't."

"What are you going on about, mate?" Ron stepped out, perplexed.

"Look." Harry thrust the parchment in Ron's face. The sleepy Weasley grabbed the paper, quickly scanning the lines.

"Now that's bloody bizarre."

"Bizarre? Hermione's missing Ron!"

"Right. Meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes."

Harry nodded in affirmation, then made his way to his own room to change.

Harry, Ron and a rather distraught looking Elizabeth sat around the kitchen table, all eyes on the note. Ron gripped his mug of coffee tightly, grinding his teeth. Elizabeth held her forehead in her hands, her short blonde tresses falling over her face, like a small curtain to shield her from this new grim reality. Harry raked his hands through his wild mane, causing more locks of ebony hair to stick out.

"What should we do?" Elizabeth whispered, breaking the silence, her sky-blue eyes clouding, a storm of tears brewing.

"The only thing we can: go to the ministry," Ron muttered, swirling the brown liquid in his cup.

"There must be something else?" Harry wondered aloud, his emerald gaze on the wall.

"But we don't even know where to start," Elizabeth grumbled.

Suddenly, Harry shot out of his chair. Ron and Elizabeth exchanged glances. Ron stood, and came around the table to Harry's side.

"You alright mate?" he asked hesitantly.

"Don't you remember last night when we went to check the office?"

"Yeah. Hermione's things were still in her office, and she had gone, so we thought, out with Shields."

"Exactly."

"And there was no indication of a struggle."

"Exactly."

"And I'm wearing Snape's pink underwear with hearts on it."

"What?" Harry's eyebrows shot up, slightly backing away from Ron.

"Just checking to see if you're actually listening, because you're not making a bit of sense mate."

"Don't you see? Hermione was on her way to meet Thomas. Something must have happened outside the building," Harry said, as if it were the most obvious idea in the world.

"Right," Ron spoke slowly, "Off to the Ministry then."

The three grabbed their robes, and left the house.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Yes, that," Malfoy drawled, walking over to Hermione.

"He's been missing in the wizarding world for the past three years. How in the world could he have known about it?" Hermione inquired, nervously playing with the chain around her neck.

"Not much escapes that one," Malfoy muttered, sitting down across from the flustered witch. "You really didn't think he wouldn't notice someone who was close to discovering the counter-curse to his favorite spell, The Killing Curse?"

Hermione's head shot up, locking eyes with Malfoy, her lower lip trembling. It was a covert operation, no one, not even the minister of Magic himself knows about it. My God, now it's all over...

Malfoy smirked, placing his mug on the coffee table.

"What? Afraid you're going to fail now? You're going to let the wizarding world down?" he scoffed. "If I were you, I'd be more concerned with what the Dark Lord is planning on doing with you."

"What, what's he going to do?" Hermione whispered, trembling slightly as a chill crept up her spine.

"Well--" Malfoy was cut off as a loud knock came from the door.

"Oh look," Malfoy drawled, "You're fate's arrived."