The Heiress

It took some doing to get Hermione into my flat without dragging her by the heels over the floor. I suppose I could've done it with a bit more finesse than I'd managed, but since I'd already sent my flat key to my landlord, I had to fiddle with the lock, and that took more hands than I had available at that moment.

Once we were inside, there was another problem: The place was as bare as the underside of an old cauldron, and still a bit dusty. There wasn't any handy place for me to put Hermione, so I compromised with a Levitating Charm and put my luggage underneath her floating body just in case my spellwork went wonky.

I wasn't sure how long she'd be out. I looked her over as best I could and didn't like what I saw even a little bit. A shadowy bruise stretched down the side of her face, and raw-looking scratches made a line from under her bottom lip to her chin. Parts of her cloak were ripped away, and underneath it, her blouse gapped open, with several buttons missing or hanging by a thread. I could see a good stretch of her beneath the torn material, but that's not where my eyes spent the most time.

Her head hung back limply, and I could see long, purple-red marks on the exposed skin right above her collar. After a second of wondering what had gone on there, I fanned my hand over her neck and gently pressed down in a sudden burst of awful inspiration. There was no mistaking the shape of those marks; they'd been made by fingers. Someone had grabbed her by the throat hard enough to leave welts and small nicks, too, probably from where fingernails had cut into the skin.

I snatched my hand away when Hermione began to groan and toss about.

"W-water ... please ..."

I ran into the kitchen, but I needn't have hurried. I had plenty of water, but nothing to put it in, since I'd rubbished all my goblets and dishes. I flung open empty cabinet after empty cabinet, going a good bit mad with each passing second. Somehow I stumbled on the refrigerator and found a bottle of Butterbeer I'd forgotten to toss. I brought it out to her, and as soon as the mouth of the bottle passed her nose, her eyes went huge and she struggled to sit up.

"What on earth is that smell?"

I took a sniff and immediately felt as if someone had set my nose hairs on fire. I reckoned that bottle of Butterbeer had been hanging about a little longer than I'd remembered.

I rushed back to the kitchen, dumped what was inside, cast a few strong cleansing charms, filled it with water and brought it back out. Hermione had a couple of long pulls and then asked to be put down, since she didn't fancy floating about the way she was. She didn't seem up to standing without a little help, so I kept hold of her waist.

"Where are we?"

"My flat; where else? Didn't you know it was my door you were standing outside of?"

"This is your flat?" She turned around, looking puzzled. "It's not at all like I remember it."

"You were only here for a week."

"Yes, but I do recall a few details - like the fact that there was furniture in here, for example." Her gaze dropped. She stared at my luggage for awhile, then looked back round at the bare living room, her nose crumpling as if I'd put that bottle of off Butterbeer back under it.

"Sorry I can't offer you a place to sit. My shoulder'll have to do for now unless you fancy the floor - again."

She looked around once more before shaking her head in the gentle way Harry used to do after one of Colin Creevey's bloody flashbulbs went off right in his eyes.

"Ron ... it ... Gregory -"

"Never mind him." I didn't give a toss about Whetwistle. If he really were dead, then he could wait. I smoothed her hair away from her face. "Who knocked you about like this?"

Hermione tilted her head toward the floor, her hair covering the injured side of her face like a curtain. She murmured something between breaths and then turned away, crossing her arms over her ripped blouse.

"Whetwistle did this to you? Why?"

"I wasn't being ... cooperative enough, in his words." She moved away from me, but her voice moved a good bit farther. "I warned him, but he wouldn't stop - and then I ..." Her voice started to shake. "It all happened so quickly -"

"But the ... you're not supposed to go to the Ministry until tomorrow afternoon."

I'd almost said 'wedding,' but that word stuck down around a place that you didn't mention in polite company. "What was he doing over at Harry's a day ahead?"

"He wasn't at Harry's," said Hermione dully. "I went to see him. At his shop."

Now that was a surprise. And not a good one, either.

"Alone? Why didn't Harry go with you?"

"Why would he have? He only would've told me again how silly I was being." She bit the words off and flung them at me. "He ... Harry and I had a row. Ginny tried to play peacemaker, but ... well, I thought it would be better if I left their flat and stayed elsewhere. Harry thought going ahead with the marriage was a foolish idea. He said he didn't trust Gregory and that I shouldn't either. Well, he was right, as it turned out. You both were."

I didn't say anything. Harry and Hermione having words wasn't exactly an impossible thing to believe, but with all that had happened lately, I couldn't imagine Harry doing or saying anything that might upset her, even if he was spot-on about what he thought.

Her lower lip trembled and she gnawed it. "I shouldn't have come here. But after I woke up and I found Gregory dead, I ... I panicked, I suppose, and I felt this overwhelming need to get away. This was the first place that popped into my mind."

I wasn't sure what to think of that. Her row with Harry couldn't have been anything close to the row we'd had, yet she'd come to me instead of taking the decent chance that Harry wasn't angry at all with her now. I was still getting comfortable with that idea when her wand flashed before my eyes. I grabbed her wrist while her wand was still slicing through the air.

"Where d'you think you're going?"

"To the police, of course. As I was examining the ... body, I heard someone come in and call out for Gregory. They must have found him by now, and it's likely they think his shop was broken into or something like that. I can't take the chance that someone saw me running off and will start to wonder. I must talk to the police and explain what happened," she said, rubbing a hand over her eyes. "The longer I stay away, the more it may look that I went to his shop with the intent to harm him. This way, the Muggle authorities will be able to look at my injuries and understand that I acted in self defense."

"Right. And the first thing they'll wonder is how the two of you knew each other. And then what do you do? Tell them you're a witch and you were a few hours away from marrying a dead bloke for charmed gold? They'll take you for a nutter!"

She was quiet for a second. "I'll figure out something to tell them that isn't quite so ... fantastical."

"Lie through your lips, in other words. If the Muggle police are as smart as Harry says some of them are, they'll see right through it. If they think you're lying about something as simple as how you knew him, then why should they believe anything else you say?"

That seemed to take her off guard. I let go of her wrist. I could tell by her eyes that she wasn't so keen to leave anymore. She leaned into me again and I just stood as still as I could. I couldn't tell if she wanted me to hold her or not, and she didn't seem to want to issue any invitations.

"Do you understand what this means, Ron? Sarah is doomed, Daria has shown signs that she may be ill, Jania will be the last, if her sisters perish. I begged him to think of his children, but he ... he was beyond reasoning. He was beyond everything." Her voice dropped lower. "He was a monster. Beyond that, really. Suffice it to say he wasn't the same Gregory that I'd believed I'd known these past weeks. The grieving father, the loving husband? There was none of that this evening. None at all. Just a ravening beast ..."

After a long while standing together like that, I asked her, soft and gentle as I could, what exactly had happened. I got a shudder as my answer. That, along with her torn clothes cleared up a few things. I just barely held back from asking her if she was sure Whetwistle was toes-up, because if he weren't, I'd go back and make sure of it. But then she peeled herself away from me.

"I don't think I have the energy to tell the whole story, Ron. But if you like, I could show you what happened."

I must've looked more gobsmacked than I'd intended, because she managed a little smile.

"Do you have a Pensieve? I could put all of this evening there, if you like. And you'll know all you need to."

"Er, no. I don't keep one." I never thought about having a Pensieve, actually. None of the memories of recent years were ones worth saving, in my opinion. "My parents have one. And Harry does, of course. We could go over -."

"The Burrow is absolutely out of the question. I can't face your parents. Not now. And I can't see Harry. Not after the things I said to him." She dropped her head again. "I feel so ashamed. He was only trying to help, and I was so harsh. I wouldn't blame him if he never wanted to see me again."

"Harry couldn't have been too against it all." I thought Hermione might've been overplaying her row with Harry a little. I doubted that whatever words they'd had made her angry enough to stomp off wearing just a towel. "He helped out in the end. That story in The Prophet to draw out whoever poisoned Whetwistle's daughters."

She shook her head. "That was Mr Livesey's idea, not Harry's. He quite correctly pointed out that since Harry had been unable to decipher the redirect charms on the parchment that Gregory and I were sent, we had no way of contacting this ... person. He has connections at The Prophet and thought that we could use the newspaper to signal that we were giving in."

So, I'd been right about the meaning behind the article, but wrong about who'd been behind it all. The way Hermione was carrying on made it sound like Harry had washed his hands of her, and that couldn't've been true. He couldn't've really thought that all Hermione's problems would be solved if she married Whetwistle and got her hands on that gold. If anything, her getting that money would make her more of a target.

"Well, if not Harry and not my parents, then where are we going to get a Pensieve?"

Hermione's brow furrowed, and her whole face dropped. Even her curls seemed to go limp. "Well. It was just an idea. I suppose I-I could tell you what happened."

There was another option, but it really wasn't one I fancied taking. Still, this was pretty important, and it didn't seem that Hermione was up to breathing very hard, let alone talking.

"I know there's one at Gringotts we all used to use, especially when we were designing a new vault. I might be able to get hold of it for a bit. Do you feel well enough to Apparate? If not, we'll Floo."

She perked up almost immediately and told me Apparating would be fine, but asked me if I had a coat or jumper she could borrow to cover up with.

"I look a sight ... and I'd rather not wear this." Hermione pulled at her cloak in disgust. "I can still smell his cheap cologne all over it."

I went to my luggage and came up with something red, woolen and not as ugly as you'd expect of something that colour and texture. Hermione put it on and watched me as I fixed my baggage and sent it over to a corner.

"I would like to know what all this is about," she said, waving her hand around the emptiness.

I grunted, thinking about the ticket in my back pocket. "Early birthday present."

I could just picture the look on her face after that. But that's all I could do, because then we were off.

~*~

Warren was in the main corridor chatting up a woman when Hermione and I got to Gringotts. When the girl turned a little, I saw it was Wren, the Dragon-Keeper's assistant who I never did get around to having dinner with. She smirked when she saw me and tossed her head with a little "hmph" when she spotted Hermione on my arm. Warren came over to us all smiles, not too fussed, it looked like, to have a distraction. I reckoned we'd gotten to him before Wren was able to mention her multicoloured knickers.

When I told Warren what we needed, he looked thoughtful, but said he'd be able to help. We went back through the main corridor, past my old office. My throat tightened a little when I noticed had a sign on the latch that read "VACANT," but that passed quickly when I remembered how much unfinished bilge I'd left for the next bloke to handle.

Warren's office was a huge, cavernous space that was all stone and velvet-cushioned seats. Warren had shared the office with the departed Grubkinder. Grubkinder had been a descendant of one of Gringotts' founding goblins, so I expected the place to be a bit fancy, but the poshness surprised me a little. Goblins usually weren't big on comfort. Just give them a stool and a scale, and they were happy. This office looked like it could've been the sitting room of a nice hotel - even nicer than the Gainsevert. I silently congratulated Warren on making himself as comfortable as he was able under the circumstances.

There was a large portrait of Grubkinder over the desk, looking just about as disagreeable as I'd remembered him being. I couldn't look too long without remembering what had happened to him and Hermione in the vaults.

I helped Hermione over to a long, fluffy couch while Warren pawed through a set of cabinets.

"Ah, here it is." He drew out the shallow basin and put it on his desk. "Just cleared it out of all the Edinburgh rubbish and, uh, a little problem that we had the other day in the counting room. You should've been there for that, Weasley! Utter chaos! A few goblins had to be sacked to avoid a scandal. It's just getting to be one disaster after another here lately. You got out just in time, mate."

"Got out?" Hermione echoed faintly. I started to sweat. Warren, not noticing either of us, laughed loudly and nudged me with his shoulder.

"That's right. Lucky tosser - escaping the boredom of Gringotts. Merlin, I wish I could do it, too. Just pick up and leave ..."

Hermione's hand flew to her mouth at that. "Ron, you - you don't work here anymore?"

I tried not to groan. Getting into my leaving Gringotts hadn't figured into my plans for this conversation.

"Resigned yesterday."

I could see her working that over. "You resigned ... and your flat was completely empty, and ... you had traveling bags ready -"

The tip of her nose coloured the way it always did when she'd figured out the answer to something, but instead of looking pleased and clever the way she did back in Hogwarts, she looked horrified.

"You were going away! You were going to go without ... without telling anyone? Without telling Harry and Ginny? Or me?"

"I figured you had enough on your mind. And I wrote to Harry and Ginny, and my parents and a bunch of others."

"Ron, how could you?" She stood up, steadying herself on the arm of the couch. "That's so ... so childish! And cowardly!"

I marched over to her, glaring her back down on the couch. "Coward? You've some bloody nerve to call me that, when you did the same thing to me, remember? It's my life, and I'm living it. If it doesn't include you, then whose fault is that?"

"Mine! Of course it's my fault!" she hissed out, making me back away a little. "Everything is my bloody fault! Is that what you want to hear? I ruined your life! I ruined your career! I was a selfish bitch, as you pointed out! Does that satisfy you Ronald? Does it? I deserve everything I've gotten - to be alone, friendless, loveless, poisoned, stabbed, beaten, nearly blown up and attacked! Yes, it's all my due because I was a selfish, horrible bitch that you were cursed with! EVERYTHING IS MY FAULT! I know that, Ron! I've known it and lived with it for years! YOU DON'T HAVE TO KEEP REMINDING ME!"

She collapsed back onto the couch and fell into shuddering sobs that sounded as if they were being ripped from her body. I stood by stunned and helpless, barely noticing when Warren rushed out of the room hurriedly mentioning that he had "something important to attend to."

I knew I couldn't just gape like a prat while she cried herself senseless, but I didn't quite know what else to do. I sat carefully next her and tried putting my hand on her shoulder.

"Hermione -"

I got a muffled sound that sounded suspiciously like "Piss off," but I couldn't really tell because there was a long snuffle at the end.

"Hermione, listen ..."

I couldn't really think of what to say. But it wasn't like back at Hogwarts when I'd say some shirty thing to set her off and not know what I did wrong or how to fix it. Like those bloody canaries sixth year. I still didn't know what I'd done to deserve that.

This was different. Reminding her of what happened all those years ago would always prod at something deep and wounded in her. I knew that. And the only way to fix it, it seemed to me, was not to tell her that I loved her, or that I forgave her, or that none of it mattered. Never mind that I did still love her, I did forgive her - well, mostly, and it didn't matter - well, not much. What she wanted me to say was that she'd been right. That all those years ago, she'd done the right thing, no matter what else had happened because of that. That's what she wanted to hear from me, and I couldn't tell her that. Not then and maybe not ever.

My eyes stung a little. I rubbed my free hand across them and tried to focus.

"Hermione, listen. I ... when I called you a - a ..."

"Selfis' bish ..." Came up in a teary mumble from the armrest.

"Er, right. That. I didn't, um, I don't think you understood it the way I'd meant it."

She lifted her head. "There can really be only one connotation of 'selfish,' and while 'bitch' does have more than one meaning, I'm fairly sure that you hadn't mistaken me for a Corgi during your rant at your flat when you said that and so many other awful things to me!"

I blinked. "Mistaken you for a what?"

"Never mind!" Hermione was puffy-faced and red-eyed, the bruises on her face standing out more starkly. "What did you mean, then?"

"Just that you were going to sacrifice yourself not knowing if it would do any good instead of waiting to see if something else could be done. You wanted to go it alone and not give Harry and me the chance to come up with something better."

"So I was selfish for wanting to take responsibility for my actions instead of continuing to burden you and Harry?" She shook my hand off. "Oh how thoughtless of me."

"They weren't your actions. Some mad git had a plan in mind and you got caught in the middle of it. You shouldn't blame yourself for what Old Whetwistle tried to pull. You never asked to play his game, remember?"

Hermione looked at me a minute longer, turning away to wipe away her tears. We sat in silence awhile both staring in opposite directions, though I reckoned our thoughts were in about the same place.

"I'm sorry for that outburst," she said softly, after awhile. "It's been a very ... upsetting day, and I'm just a bit ... well, I'm sorry. You're perfectly right. You're free to live your life as you wish and to have whatever opinion of me you like."

"I ... I'm sorry, too," I said, deciding to leave "opinion" out of it for the moment and focus on facts. "I didn't mean for you to find out about it the way you did. Me leaving the country, I mean."

That was true enough, though I wasn't sure if she'd have taken it any better hearing the news secondhand from Ginny, as I'd planned.

"And I'm sorry for ..." I chewed the inside of my cheek, not sure how to put this next part, under the circumstances. "I was angry, back at my flat when I said, um ... things. I knew Whetwistle fancied you and I shouldn't have said ... the things I did about you and him, well the two of you -"

" - Let's get on with this, please."

Her voice was all ice and I shivered. She wasn't going to be forgiving me about the rot I'd said about her and Whetwistle getting off together for awhile. As much as I could expect, I supposed, and probably more than I deserved.

Taking out her wand, she said in a steady voice, "Accio Pensieve!"

It flew to her hands in the blink of an eye. She stared into it for awhile, and then with a deep breath and tightly shut eyes, brought her wand to her head. A silvery strand dangled from the edge of her wand and curled into the bowl.

She placed the thing in my lap. "There. It's ready."

"Right." I looked into the bowl and my breath caught. My dad had told me once that particularly violent and frightening memories rippled and crested like ocean waves in Pensieves, and that's what Hermione's memory was doing now.

"Are you sure about this? I'm going to see ... everything, you know."

"I'm aware of that. It's what you wanted, isn't it? To know everything?" She looked at me sideways. "Where are you going?"

"Huh?"

"Where are you going?" she repeated. "Out of Britain or just out of London?"

"Oh." I paused. "Well, I don't really know yet. I was going to take a holiday in Amsterdam and try to get sorted from there."

"Amsterdam? It's very lovely there, I hear." She lay back on the couch and closed her eyes. "There are so many lovely museums and cultural landmarks there. I've always wanted to see it."

That last part came out soft, almost like a wish. When I looked over, her eyes were closed and her breathing deepened into nodding-off sounds.

I watched her go under and then turned my attention to the Pensieve. I faced the churning, swirling mist and tentatively put my wand to the surface. The silver strands rolled out and up around my wand like a tornado, almost, and at the center, I could see a cobbled street that was just beginning to get dashed with rain.

As I became immersed in Hermione's memory, I was able to see beyond the street. It looked like a stretch of Muggle London, though I didn't immediately recognise it. A line of shops stood across the cobblestones, and a Muggle or two walked by without glancing in any of the windows.

It looked like a pretty lonely and rundown part of town, and the rain wasn't making it look any more inviting. I was able to make out writing on some of the signs: There was a cheese-and-bread shop with broken shutters, a toy store with a bizarre puppet in the window, and a shop with a pair of pants on a shirtless dummy displayed in a cracked and dirty window. Chipped green paint right above the dummy spelled out WHETWISTLE'S WEARABLE WARES. Underneath in small print was G. Whetwistle, Proprietor.

So this was Whetwistle's shop. It was probably the shabbiest building there, with its peeling paint and dirty windows. Much like the man itself, it looked like it had probably seen better times, but had fallen into disrepair for lack of anyone giving a toss.

A tapping sound caught my attention and I turned and saw Hermione hurrying down the cobblestone streets. Her clothing was whole - so was her face, for that matter - and she was under a small umbrella. She stopped in front of Whetwistle's door, folded her umbrella and just stood staring for awhile. With the umbrella out of the way, I could see more of her face, and it made me go a little cold. She was scared. She was standing tall and trying to keep it together, but you spend years with a person, and you get to know her quirks; she was tapping one foot restlessly and twisting the handle of her umbrella in her hand.

I couldn't understand why she would have been afraid even before seeing Whetwistle, especially since she hadn't mentioned seeing him alone before. She was muttering something to herself, so low that I couldn't hear much except, "... this is silly. Just go on with it!" before she knocked hard on the door.

There wasn't a sound for several long seconds except the rain coming down. Something creaked nearby, but it wasn't Whetwistle's door. It seemed to come from the direction of the cheese shop. I focused my attention there and thought I saw the door open, but I didn't see anything except what looked like a squat shadow that fell over the cobblestones and then a quiet click, like a latch being turned. Hermione's sudden laughter startled me away from that shop.

"Merlin, what am I doing? These are business hours - the door must be open!"

She pushed, and in she - we - went. It was a little more cheerful inside. The walls were a painted a sky blue and there were mirrors all over the place the way Hermione told me that Muggles liked to do to make a place look bigger. Racks of clothes were everywhere, most of them trousers and jumpers, with the occasional overcoat or two. There was a counter with ties and a till on it in the middle of the shop.

"Hello? Is anyone here? Gregory?"

Watching Hermione look around the crowded room, I decided that she definitely had never been there before. She seemed disoriented and distracted and kept bumping into the racks. Her hip brushed a pile of jumpers and they spilled to the floor. She bent to pick them up as fast as she could. A sound made her stop, but a look around revealed nothing. Hermione had gotten all the things picked up and started to stand - and ran face-first into Gregory Whetwistle's smile.

"Hermione!"

"Oh!" She banged into another rack, and the jumpers went to the floor again. "Oh, Gregory, don't frighten me like that! You didn't hear me calling?"

"Yes, but I wanted to take a bit before answering. You have such a lovely voice, and you were calling out for me. I wanted to enjoy that."

His face shifted a little when he said that, like he'd been rehearsing that line for weeks and was just now realising how off it sounded. Hermione's cheeks pinkened, but she let it pass and started picking up the jumpers again.

"Oh, well. I thought ... I know that you're quite busy. I hope this isn't an inconvenient time."

"Not at all. It's always a bit slow on Thursday evenings."

He watched her on the floor, picking up the things and didn't seem interested in offering to help. In a minute, I could see why. His eyes were doing a good bit of traveling over her body - taking the scenic route, it looked like. It was about how he'd looked at her while we'd all been at Harry's after Marie had died, but this time he wasn't hiding his glances behind tears and blubbering.

Whetwistle was wearing a purple silk smoking jacket that hung on him like an overstretched housedress. It hung on a him a bit like a set of Wizarding robes would, and I wondered if that had been what he was going for. He'd fluffed and fanned his hair over his head to make it look like he had more of it, but it just made it seem as if he'd forgotten to shower that morning, and I could smell the cologne Hermione had mentioned. It was pretty awful; a bit like rotting hinkypunk with a dash of treacle pudding thrown in.

It was pretty clear to me that Whetwistle had dressed to impress and either hadn't realised how inept he'd been or didn't care. While Hermione got the jumpers back in their place, Whetwistle hurried to the front of the store and flipped the placard in the window to CLOSED, and dimmed the lights.

"Gregory, what are you doing?"

"I don't want us to be disturbed," he said, taking her arm and guiding her away from the clothes. "You said you had something very important to discuss with me. I, er, took the liberty of putting off my afternoon tea until you could join me."

Whetwistle was leading Hermione to a door at the far end of the wall, which he opened with a key he unearthed from his ridiculous-looking smoking jacket. The door led to a cosy sitting room with matching stuffed chairs and a low table with tea things on it. Behind one of the chairs was another low table with a pair of trousers, a spool of needle and thread, and a small log of firewood on it.

"This used to be my workroom," said Whetwistle, pushing her down into the chair closest to the door. "Now I don't have time to do the alterations on the clothes I sell. I send them out to a shop in Dorset. But I was working on my outfit for tomorrow. I'm not quite happy with the trousers, however. A bit tight in the seat. I was just stretching it out a little with this."

He picked up the firewood and laughed. "A variation of an old haberdasher's trick for gloves, but it works well on any fabric that has a bit of give to it."

Whetwistle put the things down and plunked into the chair opposite her. "But I can't hope you came to discuss what's in my trousers, hmmm?" The smile he gave after that would've made a normal person want to shower for a week straight. "Now let's have a spot of tea and have our chat."

He poured for himself first and then her - some gentleman - and loaded up a plate with biscuits that he offered her almost as an afterthought. For a few minutes, they did nothing except drink tea and munch biscuits. Whetwistle leered at her over his cup at her, and Hermione sipped her drink slowly, holding tight to her handbag.

"It's exciting, isn't it? Tomorrow, we'll be man and wife!" He giggled stupidly and twirled his biscuit into his cup. "Once Sarah is safe and out of danger, I propose that we get away from it all, you and I. I daresay we deserve it! Someplace warm, and sunny, and roman-"

Hermione started coughing violently and took a long drink of tea to clear her throat. "Oh! Well, I ... don't think that's necces -"

"Of course it is!" Whetwistle poured himself another cup, splashing milk on himself. "How else are we going to get to, well, know each other? I can picture you on a beautiful beach, your hair flying free, in a lovely little swimsuit ..."

"Gregory," she interrupted before he could get any more of that picture painted. "I think now is a good time to have that, er ... very important discussion."

"Mmm. Yes, love? What is it you want to say?"

She avoided looking at him. I thought I understood what she was trying to do. She was ignoring his slick smiles and stupid smooth-voiced jokes and trying to be businesslike and brisk about things in the hope that he'd either do the same or at least realise that he was making her uncomfortable and belt up.

"Yes. Well. There were just a few things I thought we should be clear on before we go to the Ministry tomorrow -"

"I'll behave myself, if that's what you fear," said Whetwistle with a slightly nasty chuckle. "I promised Owen that I wouldn't make any off-colour remarks about wizards or anything like that."

"That would be wise." She didn't smile. "But I rather meant something else. I wanted to make sure that you understood what tomorrow will mean."

Whetwistle's oily smile went a bit dry. He gazed at Hermione for a moment, as if trying to decide whether she was taking the piss or not.

"Well, I may not be as clever as you, darling, but I'm fairly sure that what tomorrow will mean is that you and I will be husband and wife."

"Well ... technically, yes. And then hopefully this awful person who has made both our lives hell will contact you or Mr Livesey about where and when we can give him the money. I shall go to Gringotts, give the goblins the necessary documentation, and withdraw the vault. The money will be handed over - or, if Owen believes that this person might do something foolish that will allow us to discover his identity, we'll be able to find a way to subdue him and take him to the authorities."

Hermione hesitated a moment. "And then ... it is over, Gregory. Between us, I mean."

He gave her a flat, steady stare and didn't say a word. Hermione started twisting things in her hands again, but she forced some steel into her voice with her next words.

"To be quite frank, I've not been ... comfortable with our conversations this week. When I told you at back at Harry's that you could ring me anytime you needed to, I'd assumed that you would want to talk about your family ... Sarah's condition or dear Marie -"

"Marie is dead," he said bluntly. "She suffered horribly, and now she's at peace. It simply is too hurtful for me to discuss. She was just a child - I don't even want to think about her last days."

"I do understand that. But Sarah isn't dead, and yet you barely mention her. And Daria is showing signs of illness, too, and you haven't mentioned her!" Hermione stopped, taking a moment to drain off the anger in voice. "And then there's Katherine ..."

"Katherine?" He snorted. "What about her? She's not ill. Silly and posturing and dramatic, yes. Ill, no."

"You see? That's what I mean! I don't understand how you can make such disparaging comments about Katherine, who you say you love," said Hermione. "I'm sure she wouldn't fancy hearing the tart remarks you make about her, and the things you say about me. How you think of me constantly and ... how I am your every dream in the flesh, and ..."

"So you dislike men who tell you the truth?" Whetwistle asked. His smile was completely gone and he was crushing a biscuit into dust. "You are lovely and sexy and delightful ..."

Hermione might've been all those things, but right then, she was squirming. "Gregory this is ... extremely inappropriate."

"Inappropriate? We're going to be married, my dear! What is inappropriate about telling the woman I love that I want her? This is a banner day, my sweet Hermione. The day before our marriage!"

"It isn't a marriage! I mean, well, it is, technically, but it isn't. It's a business arrangement - possibly our last and only chance to save your family. You ... you seem to be losing sight of that."

"A business arrangement? Now you sound like my father." He wagged his head back and forth. "You are what I've longed for, Hermione. A partner with beauty, brains, spirit, and strength. I loved you the minute I saw you lying in that hospital bed. I wished to take you away then, but I ... couldn't. Yet, I knew you were meant for me."

Hermione took a long, deep breath. She was starting to fray around the edges, and I think it was starting to occur to her that getting Whetwistle to listen to reason would take some doing.

"I understand that you are going through a dreadful time right now, but I can't stress to you how important it is that both of us understand that this ... this ..."

Hermione trailed off and put a hand to her face, which was going bright red. She grimaced a little, but went on.

"This ... marriage is simply to fulfill a set of requirements. It's not anything more than that. If I felt that there was any other choice that would arrive at the same result, I would take it. You're ... you're a lovely man, Gregory, but I don't love you. And I'm sure you don't love me."

"But I do love you," he said, in a quiet voice that had a bit of jagged edge to it. "And if you don't love me now, you'll learn to. You'll have the rest of your life to learn to. Wizarding marriages are forever, are they not? There's no such thing as divorce in that world."

"T-that's not true." Unease flashed on her face, but it skipped off just as quickly. "If both parties agree, the bond of marriage can be dissolved. It's done all the time. In fact, that's what I wished to talk to you about today."

She opened her purse, pausing to wipe away the beads of sweat on her forehead. "I went to the Ministry this afternoon and asked for a post-dated Writ of Dissolution."

Whetwistle cocked his head to the side. "You asked for a what?"

"A ... Writ of Dissolution." Hermione swabbed her forehead again and took out a tightly rolled scroll. She seemed to be in some discomfort, but it didn't look like it was because of Whetwistle. "It's the Wizarding world's equivalent of ... a divorce decree. It's post-dated, meaning that it won't take effect until a month from tomorrow. Hopefully in that time, we will have this business sorted and everyone involved will be out of danger. But in any event, our marriage bond will be dissolved on that date. I'll be going back to America. You'll be free to go back to Katherine ... or whatever you choose. All we have to do is sign -"

Whetwistle laughed loudly. "I'll never agree to sign anything of the sort! Why should I? I love you! My father wanted me to have you and his money, and I'm going to!"

"What are you talking about?"

I could tell Hermione had dropped trying to be calm. Her hands were starting to shake and I could see her right hand start to poke around in her cloak - going for her wand, it looked like.

"Exactly as it sounds. Father had a change of heart at the end. I never told anyone this; I never thought it would matter," Whetwistle said. "After I got that letter where he called me every name under the sun, Father came here to apologise."

He laughed again; it was a bitter, broken-off sound. "I never thought I'd see the day - Father apologising for treating me like filth! But he did. He was sitting right in the chair you're in now, my dear. He said he'd thought it over and had come to the conclusion that out of all his sons, I was the one who'd made the best of things, and I'd done it without his help. He said he still thought I was a waste of his blood, but I was blood, after all, and he was going to provide for me. He told me about you ..."

"He ... your father didn't know me -"

"He knew enough. He wasn't very happy about the fact that you had nonmagical parents, but he said you were perfect in every other way and that one day, I would see for myself. He said he couldn't explain it to me then, but that when I found his will, I'd understand. And then he died, and I went half-mad trying to find that bloody will. And as soon as I did, I understood. I understood all too well. I'd always known that in his own way, Father loved me best. He was jealous of me, I'm sure, and perhaps a little afraid, but he did love me best!"

He was starting to get loud, but Hermione wasn't paying much attention. She was looking closely at her hands. They were shaking madly, and so were her knees. I heard her gasp and there was the sound of shattering glass.

Hermione had dropped her teacup on the floor where it broke into pieces. She was flush against the back of the chair. Rivers of sweat snaked down her face, her whole body trembling.

"What ... what's ... what's happening -"

"Enjoy your tea, love? Had a nice extra kick to it, not unlike sherry, did you notice? Ah ... perhaps not."

His whole face plumped out as a slow, maniacal grin spread from ear to ear. Whetwistle stood and began to undo his jacket.

"Lovely little potion. Sort of a quick-and-dirty potion form of Imperio, but with a twist. The more you try to fight my commands, the more pain you'll feel."

"Impossible ..." From the way Hermione's mouth was pulling in, it looked like every word was causing her pain. "There's no ... potion ... form of ... Imperio-"

"Nothing's impossible in the magical world, love. The Dark Lord taught us that as soon as we were initiated to follow his will." Whetwistle's smile was like a sharpened knife. "But you'd know nothing about that, would you, Mudblood?"

Hermione's eyes were wide with terror as Whetwistle advanced on her.

"Who - who are you?"

"Why, what a daft question! I'm Gregory Whetwistle, of course," he said, sneering down at her. "Avowed Squib son of Edward Whetwistle Senior. Only, I'm not. Never was. Do you know how hard it is to deny your nature? To pretend to be something you're not? To live among these disgusting Muggles? To do business with them? Shake their hands? Allow your children to be educated side by side with them? Do you?"

Hermione's mouth fell open. "You're ... a ... a ... wizard ..."

"Of course. How lovely it is to hear it said aloud! All these years of pretending sometimes take its toll. At night, there are times that I sneak into the loo, look in the mirror and whisper, 'You are a wizard, you know. You are! You truly are!'"

Whetwistle's eyes narrowed. "All this Squib nonsense was my father's grand idea. He wouldn't hear of sending me to Hogwarts, teeming with Mudbloods as it was, and Durmstrang was too far off. He thought that if we were to serve His will, it might be best to put it about that one of his sons was a Squib, to avoid any suspicion. I went to live with a distant relative, and Father visited often and instructed me in the dark arts. Father was not only a very shrewd businessman, but he was absolute perfection at Dark Potions. He taught me everything I needed to know before I received the Mark."

Whetwistle pushed up his sleeve. Right above below his elbow was a small, black spot. From what we'd been able to tell after the war, that's what the Mark had become after Harry had settled Voldemort.

"When the Dark Lord ... was away, Father feared that I wasn't strong enough physically to serve Him directly." Whetwistle glowered. "He directed me to infiltrate the Muggle world. Learn their ways, learn their weaknesses, so that when He returned again, I could be useful. That's all Father believed I was good for - to be a spy! He simply wanted me out of the way so that Eddy, my older brother, could shine in our Lord's service. Oh, I knew Father's game. I knew it all along, but I obeyed. I went to school with Muggles, and then I started this shop. All Muggles wear clothes, so it seemed the best and easiest way to mix in with them without arousing suspicion."

"He ... your father ..." Hermione spasmed again, and could do nothing but pant shallowly for a moment. "... Death Eater ..."

"Father? No. He had the sentiment, but not the courage, to take the Mark. And he said I was weak? Pissing coward!" Whetwistle sniggered. "For all that, he was born to command, in his words, and he did so. I followed directions to be as 'Muggle' as I could stand being. Though he wanted me to learn their ways, Father wouldn't hear of me marrying one of t hem, so he found Katherine somewhere. Stupid, dull woman! She actually believed me when I told her I was a Squib. Her pathetic family was too poor to properly educate her, but they were purebloods, so that was good enough. Katherine was just the sort of boring, trusting wife Father supposed I needed. And since none of our children exhibited any magical traits, I was able to keep up the charade and do as I was told, serving as His eyes and ears in the Muggle world. And I did make myself useful. Those attacks during the war: In Kensington? In Brighton? In Oxford? I helped facilitate them all."

"No ..." Tears mixed in with the sweat collecting on Hermione's face. I knew that she was thinking about her parents, who'd barely survived a Death Eater attack in their Oxford neighborhood, and of the dozens of Muggles who hadn't been so lucky.

"Yes. It was lovely watching those Muggles burn in their homes, screaming uselessly for someone to save to save their worthless lives," said Whetwistle casually, snagging another biscuit. "But it was rather boring. I would much rather have served my Lord directly, the way my dim-witted older brother was able to. What a waste Eddy was! All brawn and no brains at all. He didn't distinguish himself in battle, and at the end of it, instead of hiding underground as Father directed him, he chose to take off with those other cowards in Wales, and even worse, accept that ridiculous amnesty. Dirtying our family name by pledging to embrace Mudbloods and half-bloods? Monstrous!

"Father was beside himself over it, but he would have done nothing to stop Eddy. Father set his cap at Eddy's success like the doddering fool he was. So I took care of it," he said. "I enlisted the help of someone close to me and I found my dear brother and his friends in their lovely little cave in Cardiff. And I sent a little anonymous tip to the Ministry. I never imagined that Aurors would hold their own court and pass sentence out on the cliffs there, but it was just as well. They did us all a favour, really. Eddy and the rest were too stupid to live. Somehow, Father found out that I tipped off the Ministry. He hated me intensely for it, but I think in a way, he was rather relieved. Why else would he decide to reward me handsomely? Or, should I say, so beautifully."

He leaned forward. "Now, my dear. Drop you wand."

"No!" Her face twisted in agony. "NO!"

"Drop it, Hermione. Drop the wand. Drop it. Drop it. DROP IT!"

She said no at each turn, but at the end, her voice rose to a scream and the wand fell from her grasp.

"Good girl." Whetwistle shed his jacket, swinging one leg over the chair so that he was straddling it.

"I've dreamed of this moment." His voice was husky. "Of your sweet lips embracing me, driving me to distraction. Katherine was so rubbishy at it. Father always said that Mudbloods, despite your other defiencies, were amazing in bed. Oh, I can't wait to see if he was right! Undo my zipper and take out my -"

"NO!" With an effort, Hermione pushed him away and he went sprawling back onto the table, with the tea things flying everywhere. Whetwistle groaned and pushed aside cups and saucers. Hermione struggled to get back to her wand, but Whetwistle was up and on her before she could do much more than reach out for it.

"None of your tricks! I was disarming wizards before your precious Boy-Who-Lived had even drawn breath."

Hermione screamed for help, but Whetwistle tried to shut her up with a brutal kiss. He got more than what he'd expected, because in the next minute, he was the one screaming in pain; Hermione had bitten him and blood was streaming down his torn lip, collecting under his chin before dripping to the floor.

"So you like to bite?" He latched his mouth on hers, and bit down on the area between her lower lip and chin. She writhed against him, trying to aim her elbows at his head, but her arms seemed to be working against her.

"Damn you, stop this! You'll kill yourself if you keeping resisting this way. The potion is potent - the more you resist, the more it will turn your body against you. I won't have you or this money slip through my fingers!"

He put his hands around Hermione's neck and pressed his weight down on her. Her face went sizzling red and the edge of her lips started to turn white.

"Stop fighting! I have friends, you know. I believe you met one on the riverbank outside the Boy-Who-Lived's home? He would be more than happy to pay another visit and cut the throat of Potter's bint while she's out taking a stroll. Or maybe he'd just slash her arm, as he did yours. But she wouldn't be as lucky as you; no one would find her until the Hemsbreed had eaten her innards away. Or maybe - maybe I'll send them to Gringotts to bash in the head of that redheaded git you seem to fancy so much. All I have to do is give the word, Hermione! One word, and they're both dead! I know where to find them, and I have the means. Now are you going to cooperate or do you wish to further test my patience?"

Hermione went limp under his tightening hands. Slowly, she nodded. Whetwistle relaxed and took his hands away after a second.

"Very wise choice, love. I'm very sorry if I seem ... out of sorts. I'm a gentleman, truly I am. I never meant you to know any of this. I desire you, Hermione Granger, but more than that, I rather ... respected you. Well, as much respect as I could have for a Mudblood. Yet you had to push me." He clucked his tongue in disapproval. "I thought you came to chat about pleasant things and discuss our future. But you annoyed me terribly with that Writ of Dissolution. I barely believe you had the cheek to obtain one even before we were even married! Father was right about you in another respect: You're quite clever, but a bit too clever for your own good."

Whetwistle went on his knees in front of her and started pulling open her blouse.

"Here is what is going to happen now. I am going to shag you. I am going to shag you any way I like for as long as I like. If you stop resisting, you may find that you love it. I'm quite good, you know. And then afterward, I'm going to Obliviate you, just as I did those silly doctors who treated my daughter, and just as I did that even sillier Obliviator that the Boy-Who-Lived sent along with Owen to the hospital. And you won't remember a thing of what occurred tonight. And tomorrow, you and I will be joined in matrimony, and you will serve me, as I wish, in any way I wish, for as long as I wish. Do you understand?"

"Why ..." Hermione croaked out. "Marie. Why ... kill her? She was ... innocent ..."

At that, Whetwistle's face lost a bit of its lunacy - just a bit, mind - and he actually looked ... sad.

"I didn't. I truly don't care if you don't believe me, but I didn't do it. She was my sweet girl, and I loved her dearly. I love all my daughters, though they are little better than Muggles. It was my plan all along to lure you here. I did send that owl to you about the money not being yours in hopes that you would try to get to the bottom of it all about the gold. But those other letters that I've gotten were real. Someone else does want this money and was willing to kill my little girls to get it. Well, whoever he is has quite a surprise in store. I've got a lovely and slowly painful death waiting as soon as I discover his identity - I believe I have it worked out as to who it is, but I'll know for certain tomorrow. I'll start with a nice Crucio, like my father used on my useless, Mudblood-loving mother. I can barely wait. But first - pleasure before more pleasure."

He licked a path over her the skin of her exposed shoulder. "Exquisite. You know, pureblood witches are so very ugly, many of them. Katherine is a prime example. I don't know what it is about you Mudbloods that is so irresistibly beautiful ..."

He moved lower, making disgusting little slurping sounds as he went. Hermione lay still, her eyes shut tight, shifting as much as she dared. She was moving her left arm little by little up and over the edge of the chair. Her fingers clawed at the air, but another move to the left and her hand closed around the wooden log Whetwistle had been using to stretch out his trousers.

"Oh, my Hermione," Whetwistle moaned. "I can almost taste your sweetness ..." His hand disappeared under her cloak. "Can almost feel your hot, moist -"

The log was a blur in the air as Hermione brought it down as hard as she could, square on the top of his head. A garbled yell bubbled from Whetwistle's lips, and then he went down in a crumpled heap on the floor. Breathing loudly, Hermione weakly kicked him away from her and tried to get up from the chair, but couldn't. She mewled in pain, her arm stiffened again and she dropped the log.

Her eyes widened briefly and then began to close, like a person trying to fight off sleep and having a poor go of it. Her body sagged, and her head rolled to the side, exposing the darkening finger marks on her neck.

The color was starting to drain from the scene - it was getting toward the end of her memory - but just as it seemed she had dropped off entirely, Whetwistle, groaning in pain, sat up. There was a gash on his forehead that was bleeding at a good clip. He touched his forehead, frowned and got slowly to his feet. He looked down at Hermione and swore until it seemed his tongue would catch fire.

"Uppity little Mudblood. Needs training, obviously."

And then there came a sound somewhere behind Hermione, close to the door to the main area of the shop - it sounded like a key turning. Whetwistle looked up as a squat shadow fell across the floor. It looked just like what I'd seen next door at the cheese shop. Whetwistle seemed confused to see whoever - or whatever - it was, but before I could get a look, everything faded completely away and I was staring at a swirling, grey mist.

~*~

"Ron!"

I jerked back, disoriented, and dropped the Pensieve on the floor. Luckily, it just bounced a little and rolled under Warren's desk. I looked around. Hermione's face was pale around the edges, and she was gripping my arm.

"What - I was just finishing -"

"Look!"

She pointed to an inkwell that was imbedded in the wall right above the portrait of Grubkinder. There was a panel of Warren's cupboard that was cracked, and several rolls of parchment were zinging about, knocking into walls and going the other way.

"What the bloody hell is going on?"

"You tell me!" Hermione shook my arm. "I was awoken by crashes and ripping sounds and saw all of this. The expression on your face was dreadful ... your skin was almost translucent and you were gripping the Pensieve as if your life depended on it, and then things just started flying about, crashing into walls and such! Ron ... does this sort of thing happen often? Unfocused, wandless magical expression is fascinating, but it can be extremely dangerous."

"It flares up when I'm angry. Really angry," I muttered, not able to shake the vision of her helpless and terrified with Whetwistle leering over her, about to feed. "I never managed to get it under control like you and Harry did. When I calm down, things'll settle back into their places."

"I see." She was quiet a minute. "So you saw ... everything. Gregory ... as he truly was."

"I can't believe we didn't realise it sooner. Bloody buggering hell!" I brought my fist down hard on the cushions. Not a good move. Hermione jumped up and seemed to want to make a run for it, and I had to talk her back down.

"Blimey, thinking about it now, it was obvious: A tosser like Mundungus Fletcher wouldn't sell a Portkey. He was all about nicking things that he could get rid of quick. He wouldn't hang about to try to get a Portus spell authorised, not even if Whetwistle had paid him a million Galleons. And all that talk about hating wizards and not knowing what wizards were all about should've made us wonder, especially since he married a witch!"

"He fooled us all. A magical person would ordinarily have no reason to want to pretend to be a Squib. And if he wasn't instructed in a magical institution, the Wizarding world likely would have no reason to keep track on him. His father was a respected member of the Wizarding community. There would be no reason, I suppose, not to take his word for it." Hermione rubbed her temples. "But that's neither here nor there, now. We still have a hideous problem. Sarah's last chance for survival bled out on that shop floor. His other daughters are all but doomed now."

"Maybe." I didn't want to think about those girls having no hope at all. There had to be something we could do. "But seeing all that, I know one thing. You didn't kill him."

She stared at me. "Ron, he was dead. At some point, I passed out from all the pain I was in, but when I came to, Gregory was lying on his face, cold as ice, stiff as a board. He had no pulse. There was blood everywhere. I even got some on my cloak. I do think I managed to hit him."

"While you were fading away, Whetwistle got back up. You whacked him good, but it just opened up a gash over his eye. He was able to stand, and it looked like he was going to make another go at you."

"Well ... maybe he just had enough strength to right himself and then he fell down again. Sometimes even a mortal blow takes a bit of time to register."

"Yeah, but -"

I started to tell her about the odd shadow I saw right at the end of her memory, when the door banged open, scaring both of us pissless.

It was Warren. He was looking rather pale and twitchy and was breathing like he'd been running for miles. He shut the door and locked it tight, throwing himself against it for good measure.

"Sorry to interrupt, but, er ... there's quite a commotion downstairs." He swallowed hard. "Ron, there are three Aurors down in the main corridor. They're asking the goblins a lot of questions. I couldn't make all of it out, but here's the main thing: They say they have an order signed by the Minister authorising Ms Granger's arrest."