The Silver Swan

Chapter 15

The morning of our departure found us oddly cheerful. The prospect of actually doing something, even if only exchanging one hiding place for another, forced us to concentrate on practical questions and helped put aside for the moment the darker matters all round us.

Hermione, needless to say, took charge of preparations for our incursion into the land of the Muggles. Our parents had seen to it that Parvati and I knew the basics, but a cross-country journey far exceeded my experience. As for Susan, her knowledge of Muggle transport was limited to the London Underground. Hermione just looked smug and told us to leave everything to her. It was her revenge for the broomstick ride.

As a first step, she set about transfiguring the clothes we had brought with us into something that, in her opinion, would be unremarkable in the outside world. While Hermione worked on our wardrobe, Susan and I busied ourselves with shrinking charms, reducing all of the things we thought we might need for an uncertain future to a size suitable for packing into one small satchel. As we came downstairs, wands in hand, I caught Susan looking appraisingly at Crookshanks, who was prowling about in extreme displeasure at this upheaval of his world. Unfortunately for her, Hermione saw it too.

"Don't even think of it, Miss Bones."

At that, Susan flourished her wand in a gesture as theatrical as it was meaningless.

"Susan, behave."

That earned me a look whose attempt at penitence was altogether ruined by sparkling eyes and an ill-concealed grin. Hermione gave us both an extremely undignified snort and scooped up her cat.

*

* *

We set off on foot over the rain-soaked moor. Hermione carried the wicker cage containing Crookshanks, who now seemed resigned to his fate. She had outfitted us in sturdy waterproof boots and long hooded cloaks, all in a severely utilitarian tan. I found myself longing for turquoise.

It was, according to the maps that Hermione had found, three miles to the nearest road. By the end of the first, even she was wishing that we could have flown. We had gone no more than two before our carefully made plans began to unravel.

We were skirting the edge of a bog when I was startled to hear a male voice calling out my name. Whirling round we saw running towards us two figures I knew well but whose appearance in this place was so incongruous that it took me a moment to realise who they were: Marietta Edgecombe and Michael Corner.

By the time this unlikely pair - they had never, for obvious reasons, been friends - reached us, I realised that their presence here together could have only one meaning. Once more, in the most unexpected of circumstances, my older was coming to my rescue. As they hastened to explain, it was evident that I had judged rightly. Marietta's mother, it seemed had overheard something on the Floo network.

"There are traitors in the Ministry, Padma. The Death Eaters know where you are now; where you're going. They know what you have. They'll never let you get to London. I had to do something. I had to let you know. I thought maybe Michael ..."

To me, at least, her meaning was clear. Michael spelled it out for the others.

"Cho made me swear, Padma. Before we went on that last attack she made me swear that if anything happened to her I would protect you, I wouldn't let them hurt you."

Tactfully, he didn't specify which "them" he had in mind. In the end, I suppose, it didn't really matter.

"She had a bad feeling about the raid. A lot of us did, actually. I know she and Ginny argued about it. Harry was so sure, though, so in the end we all went. Still, she didn't like it. That's why she made me promise, I think."

To me, this all made perfect sense. Only when I turned to look at my companions did I realise that Hermione, at least, wasn't believing a word of it. Her wand was in her hand, down at her side but clearly ready for use, and her gaze was fixed on Marietta's forehead where the traces of last year's curse still lingered.

"One reason, Marietta. Give me one reason why we should believe you."

Marietta's answer was a wail of impatience and grief.

"Damn you, Hermione! I knew you would say that! Padma, you know, you understand. Tell her!"

I did understand, or thought I did, but my faith in my own judgement was unequal to the task of persuading the others. Instinctively, Hermione and I turned to Susan, who had yet to say a word, to Susan Bones to whom it is impossible to lie and who, I now realised for the first time, was well aware of this gift.

Susan acknowledged our silent query.

"She's sincere. I have no idea if she's right."

As Marietta looked about in frustrated anger, Michael did his best to defuse the situation. Michael Corner may not have been my favourite person, but he was Ravenclaw through and through; wit and learning he had in plenitude and that, of course, was exactly the way to approach Hermione.

"All of you, just hold on, all right? Look, Hermione, I was dubious too, but it makes sense. After we came back from that raid, after Cho ... well you know about that. Anyway, Ginny went to the Minister and then he insisted on convening an emergency session of the Wizengamot - he's made himself Supreme Wizard now, so he can do that. Anyway, they all met and we were there too, that was part of Ginny's deal with him, I think. It's all out in the open, the Codex of Nimuë and everything. So put that together with what Marietta said. It's only logical, Hermione, I know we're all supposed to be working together now, but you know as well as I do that not everyone in the Ministry can really be trusted."

Hermione's ugly little laugh at hearing that last bit was painful to hear. I half expected the words 'don't be naïve' to cross her lips but that, at least, she spared us. Instead she shook her head.

"Right, so Lord Voldemort was in the picture before you all left the council room. Thanks so much ..."

Michael and Marietta both flinched visibly at hearing the Name - I had forgotten that not everyone was as used to it as we had become. Marietta rallied quickly, though.

"Don't blame me, Hermione. Not for this. I'm the one who's trying to warn you."

"So fine, you've warned us. Thank you. Now do you have anything constructive to suggest?"

It was Marietta's turn to look as if she couldn't believe that anyone could be so dense.

"Merlin's arse, Hermione! You're standing there holding the Codex of Nimuë and you ask me what I suggest? Get it out and start using it! Surely you've learned how by now. It's your only hope - and ours, I might add, now that we're out here with you."

So there it was again, the choice we had put off the previous day, thinking to be cautious, now before us once again in ever more desperate circumstances. Reluctantly, Hermione took the Codex out of her satchel and stared at it for a long moment. A last time she looked to Susan and me for approval. We glanced at each other, but taking counsel was of little avail when the stark truth was that we had no idea of what was best to do. There was, however, one more person she could ask. Sitting on a rock, she opened the Codex and quickly wrote in it with her own ordinary quill. Susan and I stood behind her to shelter her from the wind and, not incidentally, to see what response she would get. It wasn't long in coming.

Do whatever you bloody well have to, and God help us all.

Somehow, I think it was the incongruous notion of Millicent Bulstrode invoking the Deity that convinced Hermione. Even so, she was very careful not to catch our gaze as she carefully put away her eagle quill and took out the other. The decision and the responsibility, her gestures clearly said, would be hers alone.

No sooner had she put quill to page than we saw her recoil. She would have fallen had I not caught her. She was tossing her head violently to and fro, as if to clear it, but manifestly to no avail. Gently, Susan took the book and quill from her, but this seemed to make no difference, except that her hands, now free, moved to her ears, as if to block out a sound that only she could hear. Finally she looked up at us. She spoke in a harsh whisper, exasperation mixed with fear.

"They're all in there. Not just Millicent, all of them. I can hear them ...they're all yelling ... they're angry with me ... they want me to do things. I can't understand ... it's too much ... I can't make it stop!"

It was then, of course, that the Death Eaters struck.

There were five of them this time, four men and a woman, and they didn't bother with masks. They appeared a short distance from us, wands pointed. The wizards immediately spread out to surround us. Before we could react, one stood at each cardinal point, chanting a spell I recognised as a form of confinement. Whatever happened now, we were on our own. The witch came forward, a hideously incongruous smile distorting her gaunt face.

"So, girl, it seems the great Harry Potter isn't here to save you today."

Hermione said nothing in response, but her eyes seemed to clear somewhat, as if this new shock was bringing her back to herself. At the edge of my vision, I sensed more than saw Michael begin to move slowly to one side. Had the witch been alone, this would perhaps have been effective, but with four Death Eaters to back her up, she had no need even to take notice. Without warning or preamble, one of them snapped off a stunning spell, and Michael fell senseless to the ground. The witch smiled again, and spoke with a poisonous sweetness.

"You'd better tell your little friends to stay still, dear. Now you, come here!"

The last two words dropped all semblance of sweetness. Hermione's head snapped up at the command, but she did not move. The witch raised her wand and pointed it at the satchel still slung over Hermione's shoulder.

"Accio Codex"

It was then I remembered that Hermione didn't have the book, Susan did and she, at least, was clearly prepared for this; her protection charm was cast before the words were out of the witch's mouth. It was at best a temporary respite, though. Hermione, after all, was the only one of us they needed to take alive. Now the Death Eater's wand pointed directly at Hermione's head.

"Imperio"

Slowly, jerkily, Hermione took a step forward, and then suddenly everything happened at once.

"Hermione, no!"

From my left I heard the desperate yell, and saw Marietta physically launch herself at the witch, not even bothering to attempt a spell. She hadn't taken her third step before green bolts from two of the male Death Eaters cut her down. Instinctively, meanwhile, Susan and I had closed ranks around Hermione, ready to sell our lives dearly, since at last it had come to that. My chief memory of that moment, as clear today as if it had happened this morning, was the surprise I felt that, in this instant of ultimate danger, I was not afraid.

Perhaps I have the Inner Eye after all. As it turned out, we were not the ones in danger just then.

With a sudden jerk, Hermione seemed to come out of her daze; she pushed us aside, one with each hand, and stepped forward purposefully. Brusquely, almost mechanically, her hands sprang out in front of her, and from her mouth came a voice not her own, speaking words in a language none of us understood. As she said them, a sheet of flame shot from her outstretched fingers and in less time than it takes to write this, the witch was on fire.

Not just her robes or her hair. Her.

With a cry that still haunts my dreams, she fell to the ground and lay there writing in agony until one of her companions had the presence of mind to utter a quenching spell. By then, Hermione's hands were coming up again, pointing to one of the men this time, and she began to chant a different set of words. What the result would have been, we'll never know, because the Death Eaters did not stay to find out. They grabbed the injured witch then and apparated away, but not before we saw the charred remains of her face and hands and knew that, although she might yet live, this was more horrible than anything we had done at Malfoy Manor.

Susan found her voice first.

"Hermione ... what did you do ...?"

But Hermione was in no shape to answer. She stood trembling violently from head to toe, shaking her head as if to deny what we had all seen.

*

* *

We stood as if stunned, overcome by the suddenness of it all and without the least idea of what to do next. Susan, unsurprisingly, was the first to regain a sense of purpose. She revived Michael and went to look at Marietta. Even from where I stood, though, I could see that there was nothing to be done for Cho's erstwhile older. I found myself wishing that her death could at least have accomplished something.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a tiny shape hurtling down out of the sky toward us. Looking more closely, I realised that it was a bird, but one behaving very oddly. No sooner had I recognised it as a swift than it landed in front of us and began to swell in size and then transform into human form. I found myself looking at Penelope Clearwater.

In her career as a Hogwarts prefect and eldest of Astraï, Penny frequently had cause to stern and occasionally to be angry. Never before had I seen her in a towering rage.

"Fools! You were warned not to use magic. You were warned! Why didn't you just light a signal fire or send personal invitations? It wouldn't have been any worse than this!"

She turned on Michael, who crouched hesitantly by the motionless form of Marietta Edgecombe.

"And you! You're an embarrassment to Ravenclaw you are. Couldn't you tell you were being used? That those so-called overheard messages were sent hoping that someone would be stupid enough to do exactly what you did - to find them and frighten them into revealing themselves? We've been expecting something like this, and you just went right along with it."

Rounding on us again, she shook her head.

"And don't you think you've driven them off either. They'll be back. They'll ..."

From out of nowhere, or so it seemed, came a cold clear voice.

"Penelope, stop it."

Penny's tirade was cut off, literally in mid sentence, as we all looked around to see who had given this peremptory command. To my amazement, I realised that it was Susan. Susan, whose voice, for the first time in our acquaintance, matched her chilled steel eyes. Slowly, it dawned on us that, in her own way, she was even angrier than Penelope.

"You stand there and call us stupid! What about you? What about your wonderful wise friends? If you were expecting this, don't you think you might have warned us? Did it occur to all of you that maybe we would understand, that maybe we could be more helpful if you didn't keep us in the dark? Did it occur to you that you are behaving exactly the way Dumbledore did with Harry Potter - and we all know how wonderfully that turned out. How many more people have to die before you decide to let us in on your big secrets? How many, Penelope?"

She was silent, then, but it was obvious that her cold fury was far from spent.

Penelope flinched visibly under this attack, but rallied. She took a deep breath, obviously trying to regain her composure. Gradually she succeeded.

"Can we talk about this later? Right now, we have to move. They'll be on us again any moment."

She went to where Michael still knelt next to Marietta's lifeless body.

"I'm going to send you back, Michael, back where you came from. I'll send her along with you, but you have to take her hand. Can you do that?"

He nodded wordlessly, and did as he was told.

"Go, then. Talk to her family. Tell them ... tell them she died bravely."

Again he nodded and, as he did, my gaze fell on Marietta's forehead and I noticed that for the first time in nearly a year it was as smooth as the day she was born.

Penelope spoke the words of a spell I had never heard before, and the two of them vanished.

For a long moment, we stood silently on the moor. Susan and Penelope gazed at each other, locked in what seemed to be silent combat. Of one thing I was certain; I wanted no part of it. Instead I went to Hermione, who had sunk back into a daze and looked as if she might wander off if left on her own, I took her by the hand and made her sit beside me, which she did docilely enough. Together, we waited for the other two to sort themselves out.

It took less than a minute, although I remember it seeming endless at the time, for Penelope to back down.

"Susan, I'm sorry. You were right. But can we please get going? We're all in terrible danger here."

At that Susan nodded and took a deep breath, and gradually I was able once more to recognise our gentle friend behind her aunt's fierce gunmetal eyes.

"Of course. You're just the messenger. I know that."

Two men, I suspect, would have shaken hands at that point. For myself, I was suddenly put in mind of my acquiescence to Ginny Weasley, sealed with a kiss. Sensibly, they did neither; Penny simply nodded and we all got on with the business at hand. She took a packet of crisps from an inner pocket of her cloak - salt and vinegar, my favourite. It wasn't for eating of course.

"We'll have to risk a Portkey."

To me, this seemed like the obvious solution to our problem, but Susan was clearly hesitant.

"Won't that make things even worse? The Ministry ... they're bound to be after us too. They'll spot it at once. I assume it's unauthorised."

"We don't have a choice, Susan. We can't stay here, and Muggle transport is no good now the Death Eaters have a fix on you."

Moments later, we four stood amidst fading wallpaper and old-fashioned furnishings, facing an extremely angry group of Crones.

*

* *

There were only three of them this time. Madam Marchbanks, the children's-book witch who had known my grandmother, and one other whom I did not remember from our first meeting. As far as I was concerned, though, three was quite sufficient just then. It was obvious that Penny's wrath when she had first found us was but a reflection of theirs. Susan's chastising of her, however, had done its work, and it was she who took it on herself to soothe her colleagues. When Madam Marchbanks finally turned her attention to us, she was brisk and businesslike, exactly as I remembered her from OWL's. Hermione, unsurprisingly, was their chief concern.

"We have to close off part of her mind, so that she doesn't hear the echoes. She must get used to them eventually, learn to control them, but this isn't the time."

The three witches together began chanting and making precise wand movements, while Susan and I held Hermione's hands and kept her in place. The spell took several minutes to cast and, when it was complete, we saw Hermione shake herself, as if waking from a dream. She looked around, clearly uncertain as to where she was.

Forestalling her questions, Madam Marchbanks explained. What they had done, she told us, was a highly selective bit of memory modification, effectively sequestering Hermione's memory of the past few hours. For Hermione, they had never happened.

"The memories will return in time, when you are better able to deal with them."

For the moment, Penny then proceeded to give Hermione a highly edited version of the events on the moor, one that included neither Marietta's death nor the horrible fate of the Death Eater witch. Hermione accepted all of this uncritically. More than anything, this convinced me that she was still far from fully herself.

The Crones, it seemed, shared Susan's views on domesticity. As soon as Hermione was set to rights, however precariously, they chivvied us into the kitchen where we proceeded to have lunch, for all the world as if we had come for no other purpose. Madam Marchbanks gave us bacon sandwiches and vegetable soup and we all ate while listening to Penny and Susan debating the prospects of the Quidditch League. Penny, like all of us who had fallen however distantly under the spell of Cho Chang, supported the Tornados. Susan appropriately enough, rather fancied the Harpies. Madam Marchbanks and her two colleagues inserted the occasional comment. Hermione sat quietly, absorbed in the simple business of eating. Crookshanks watched her intently for a time and then, apparently satisfied that all was well, went off through an open window to investigate the garden.

I was, so far as I could tell, the only one who thought this all very odd.

As Madam Marchbanks cleared away the dishes, Hermione looked up and spoke for the first time.

"My grandmother used to give me soup like that. When I was little, I would pick out all of the bits of onion."

It was the first time in years of friendship that I had ever heard Hermione mention her childhood. Susan and I exchanged a quizzical look, but neither of us said a word.

Sooner than I would have liked, the table was clean and it was time to consider our next move. Our original arrangement with Madam Bones had the virtue of simplicity. We were to meet her in a café 'round the corner from Victoria Coach Station, her view being that it would be easier and less dangerous for her to absent herself briefly and discreetly from the Ministry than for the three of us to go anywhere near Wizarding London. Susan had explained this when Penny was done with her story. Madam Marchbanks had her repeat the details, now but then shook her head. The plan was a shambles; that much was clear. She turned to the third witch, the one I didn't know, as if for confirmation.

"Hestia?"

"They'll know about this morning's fracas by now. Amelia's every move will be watched, now everyone knows Susan is involved. They don't dare arrest her yet, but she'll be practically a prisoner in the Ministry. Someone will have to go to her - one of you."

At this, Hermione looked up.

"You're Hestia Jones. Harry told me about you."

"Only ever met him once ... happier times."

At this Susan nodded, and I remembered the name as well: Hestia Jones, Ministry Auror and member of the Order of the Phoenix - and, so it seemed, of the Council of Crones. I could see how she would be a useful person to know just now. She sat thinking for a moment, not meeting our eyes. Whatever plan she was concocting, she clearly wasn't happy with it. In the end, though, she sighed and looked up.

"One of you can go in the way I went out."

Madam Marchbanks and the children's-book witch nodded, and I heard Penny catch her breath. Hestia Jones explained. Her method, unlike Madam Bones', was definitely not simple. It involved a complicated itinerary through first Muggle and then Wizarding London, with several changes of identity along the way made possible by repeated doses of Polyjuice potion. I remembered this from OWLs; Hermione's shudder when she heard the name led me to suspect a more intimate acquaintance with the notoriously noxious brew.

"If all goes well, you enter the Ministry as me. You'll have to start soon; I'm due back in a little over an hour. Getting out again, that could be trickier ..."

Hestia Jones was looking at Susan as she said it, as if assuming she would be the one of us to go. Hermione, however, had other ideas, and without waiting for discussion she stood up.

"I'd best be going, then."

She looked us each in the eye, as if daring anyone to disagree. Susan clearly wanted to. In the end, no one did.

*

* *

It was the children's-book witch who thought of casting the 'out of mind' spell on Hermione before she set off.

"This house is sure to be watched. Anyone who leaves here will be followed. This way, with a bit of luck, their spotter will lose interest as soon as he loses sight of you the first time. One of you will have to do it, though. It's not a spell you can cast on yourself."

Hermione had taught us the spell, but there was an obvious problem.

"Won't it make all of us forget her?"

She looked searchingly at me, as if deciding how much to say.

"If we aren't present when it's cast, it won't affect us until the next time we see her. She can undo it before then. As for you ... just how well do the three of you know each other?"

I'll admit it; I took a wicked pleasure in seeing Hermione blush to the roots of her still-bushy hair. Susan spared her an answer, but the blue-grey eyes were sparkling with mirth for the first time since our departure from the cottage.

"Well enough to be getting on with. Why do you ask?"

"Right, then, there's no danger of your forgetting her. Gwenneth figured that one out years ago."

She was looking directly at me as she said this and, for a long moment, I couldn't work out why. Then it struck me. Gwenneth ....

"Gwenneth Morgan ... My grandmother..."

Hermione stared at me, incredulous, her momentary embarrassment forgotten.

"Gwenneth Morgan was your grandmother?!"

"She was. You've heard of her?"

"Padma, she's famous! She was Mistress of the Codex before Millicent's grandmother."

I had no idea. I doubt my father even knew. My confusion must have been obvious; the witch gave me what she probably meant to be a smile, followed by a stern glance at Hermione.

"She wouldn't have like to hear you say that. No one was to know, no one outside the Council."

"But it's in books ... I found her when I was researching the Codex."

"Can't be helped."

Her tone was final; the subject was closed.

In any case, it was time for Hermione to go. The Codex of Nimuë, she left in our care. She tried to give it to Madam Marchbanks but she refused to touch it, as did the other Crones. In the end, I took it. It seemed appropriate. Madam Marchbanks had her repeat in detail all the steps in the journey she was to take - bus, tube, Floo, and three changes of identity before entering the Ministry in the guise of Hestia Jones. Unsurprisingly, our friend was letter perfect. Hestia gave her the cloak she had been wearing and explained the charm that would enable it to match the successive transformations. To this, she added a small folded piece of parchment.

"Give this to Amelia. It explains what happened."

Finally, Madam Marchbanks handed her three vials of potion. To the first she added a hair; producing a fizzing noise and an unpleasant smell. She pointed to tiny envelopes attached to the outside of the other two vials.

"Add the hair just before you use each one. Now drink quickly."

With a grimace, Hermione swallowed the content of the vial. Her face went abruptly and dreadfully pale and she gripped the table for support, clenching her jaw against a strangled cough. She took a deep breath, and it seemed the worst was over, but then she winced in pain as she began to transform before our eyes. Moments later, a dumpy middle-aged woman with lanky grey-blonde hair stood before us. She spoke the word of command taught her by Hestia Jones, and the cloak took on the appearance of a housekeeper's smock.

"Right. I'll be off then."

I followed her into the hallway and, out of sight of the others, cast the spell that would allow her to pass unnoticed. I could only hope it worked; as predicted, it had no effect on me. She turned to go, but then turned back and took my hand.

"Don't worry, Padma, I'll be fine ... back before you know it."

But she only said it once, and I am not Susan Bones.