Deceiver's Web

"Careful with that!" Hermione's hands gripped her robes tightly in white-knuckled anxiety, a flush in her cheeks when she realized how shrill she must sound. Why must it be brains or brawn? If they drop it... It took an extreme force of will to stand aside while the two porters wrestled with the crystalline doorway; for all the world, it seemed as though the more she urged people to be careful, the more they sought to somehow prove that she was overreacting. I wish they had half the sense god gave a lemming. Fumbling around like bloody broom-riding lunatics in a Quidditch game, here of all places. The Department of Mysteries!

It was only when the portal was safely in place, and the workers safely departed, that she allowed herself to sink into her chair with a sigh of relief. The wartime budget cuts of nonessential projects had hit the Department hard, but there was nothing for it but to just draw the strings ever tighter and keep working. Yes, keep working, with half our staff gone already, and the rest dwindling away week by week. Her own section, the Sealed Chapter, was down to four members from nearly twelve.

Many of the artifacts now cluttering her usually neat office had belonged to various people no longer in the service of the Department of Mysteries; the arch now leaning against her far wall had been in the care of the last to go, in fact. A quiet, shriveled little man by the name of Renwick. Renwick? No, Fenwick. The man had apparently just walked out of the Ministry one day, and never come back. No notice, no tantrum, not so much as a word. He was simply gone. Leaving that much more work for the rest of us, the little squib.

Picking idly at a loose splinter of wood on her desk, her gaze traveled around the room until it rested on the doorway. It was just over six feet tall, and perhaps four feet wide, and more elliptical than rectangular in shape. The frame itself was transparent as glass, but much harder, and faceted almost like a diamond. Departmental policy stated that any such portals were to be placed flush with the wall, so as to make it less likely that someone would enter it by mistake. And while entry into an uncharted portal was, technically, forbidden by Departmental regulations, the value of the knowledge gained by such a trip was considered by many to outweigh the risk of punishment.

Even as she watched, the air inside the frame began to ripple. Like the waves of heat sent up from a sidewalk on a hot summer day. It made her hair stand on end, though she couldn't have said why. Maybe because Fenwick never left any notes on what it did or where it went. The rippling continued, and she watched, enthralled. It's eerie, but it certainly draws the eye.

She rose, and walked over to stand in front of it. Where does it go, I wonder? she thought, lifting a finger to brush the glassy surface of the frame. It was warm. Is it just a doorway that connects with some corresponding one on our world? Like a house whose rooms are separated by hundreds of miles? Or does it lead to another world entirely? Her mind and body tingled with anticipation. I remember now why I transferred to the Department of Mysteries in the first place.

But for the nonce, she had other work to do. And much as her curiosity was the driving force in her life, she was no fool, to be stepping boldly into a portal that led she-knew-not-where. With a heavy sigh, she grabbed a painter's tarpaulin that was folded onto a nearby chair and shook it out. If I sit here and stare at it all day, I'll never get any work done, she thought, and threw the expanse of canvas over the doorway so that it covered it to the floor. And let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding.

Abruptly, a throat cleared somewhere behind her, and she whirled. It was a tall man, unkempt and slightly stooped. "I'm here to see the Deputy Administrator."

"Harry!" Rushing over to him, it was as though she was half a girl again, wrapping her arms around her friend in a fierce embrace; as usual, he stood there stiff and awkward to receive it, like some sort of scarecrow. She stood on tiptoe to brush a kiss across his cheek, and promptly made a face. "When was the last time you shaved? You're prickly as a porcupine."

Harry grinned. "Next you'll be telling me I've an unsavory smell."

Wrinkling her nose mischievously, she leaned forward and took an experimental sniff. "Nope. Not yet anyway." Prodding his ribs thoughtfully, she added, "You do look like you could use something to eat. What have they been feeding you over there? Bread and water?" God, but he was thin. Thinner than when she had seen him last, some months before.

He tried to wave her away, futilely. "I eat just fine. Healthy as an ox." It sounded a bit weak, as he must have known.

"Mmm-hmmm," she grunted, unconvinced. He looked tired, but not from any physical exertion. Taking his head firmly in her hands, she tilted/forced it around to catch the light.

"Ow! Hermione..." There was exasperation in his voice, but beneath it... She could see the deep bruised circles underneath his eyes. He looks like he's been taking 'Constant Vigilance' a little too much to heart.

"How long has it been since you slept?" she asked, hands still pressed to his temples. When he did not answer, she shook her head. "This is ridiculous. Harry Potter, you may be an Auror, but you're also a man. And while I realize that makes you prey to many foolish notions, try to remember to get some rest once in a while. You're little use to anyone half-mad from exhaustion, and even less dead." She gave him a playful tap on the end of his nose with a fingernail to take some of the heat from her words, but he only smiled.

"I've missed you, 'Mione." Finally, he brought an arm across her shoulders, pulling her to him in a tired hug. "God, how long has it been?"

"Six months, give or take a few days. Not since Ron came back from Hindustan to visit." That had been a happy day, for all of them. Ever since his duties as International Cooperative Liaison for the Ministry had taken him to Asia, their dear friend had been even more of a ghost to them than Harry and Hermione had become to each other.

Harry seemed to sense her thoughts. "Six months... It's too long. Too long. How did we ever let it become so long?"

That was a question ridiculous enough to make her smile. "In case you hadn't noticed, Mr. Auror of the Year," she offered, smiling sadly, "there's a war on. We've both been busy."

"Too busy," he said, stubbornly. "Maybe... Maybe we could get together once a week, or so."

It was a sweet pledge, but one she knew was doomed to failure. Just like every other time he had made it. "That would be nice," she said simply. The look on his face told her that he knew what was going through her mind, so she continued more gently. "I know you didn't just come here to say 'hello and how have I been.' What's wrong, Harry?"

To her vast relief, he didn't waste time with denial. "There have been... things... going on." He shook his head, apparently unsure of how to continue; Hermione didn't speak, merely waited. "I don't know where to begin."

"Begin with today, then," she suggested.

He crossed his arms for a moment before his face lit up. "I've got a better idea," he interjected, smiling. "Let's go somewhere decent and get a bite to eat. All right?"

Hermione groaned. I knew it. I bloody knew it. As soon as he walked in that door, I knew he was going to put his foot in something. She studied his pleading expression, tapping her foot. I'm pulling double and triple shifts, I've got three weeks' worth of reports piled on my desk, and I have to draw up the revised Chapter budget by tomorrow afternoon. "Harry," she began, "we're really pretty swamped right now, and I don't think-"

"Never mind all that. We've been swamped for years, and you know as well as I do that you never really get out from under. Just say yes." Typical. He just expects me to drop everything and go running off to- to....

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

An hour later, they had finally managed to secure a small table at the Thaumaturgical Gardens, and were sipping (or in Harry's case, practically swimming in) a glass or two of surprisingly fine white wine. "All right," Hermione said at length, "are you going to spill your guts now?" She took his shrug for assent and continued while he took another long draught. "You've had to take that same elevator in the Ministry Building a hundred times in the last month; what made you choose today to ride it to the Department of Mysteries?"

"First things first," Harry said, holding up a hand. "How's- your son?" He watched her over his wineglass.

She bristled at the implication of the pause in his question: either Harry was very uncomfortable on the subject, or he had simply forgotten her child's name. "Galen is staying with my parents," she said stiffly.

Harry held his hands up, half-pleading. "Sorry, sorry. It's been a long time." She snorted, but nodded gruffly, and he continued. "He must be what, two?"

Hermione nodded. "His birthday was three weeks ago." She looked away. "I tried to get an invitation to you, but Kingsley said you were... busy." At least it was likely true: I never pegged Kingsley as the type to play secretary and screen someone's calls. Why did it still sting?

He looked stricken. "I'm sorry, Hermione. It was all cloak-and-dagger, and I couldn't be reached." A shake of his head, and the lightning-bolt scar was suddenly visible through a part in the thicket of hair.

"We didn't come here to talk about my son, Harry," she said in a tone that unequivocally said that the subject was closed. "What made you come to me today, of all days?"

"You still won't tell me about him, will you?" Her eyes glittered dangerously, and he held up a hand. "All right, all right. I'll tell you why I came to see you; Jacob."

She blinked, confused. "Jacob...?"

"Jacob Nordenthal." Harry shook his head and downed the dregs in the bottom of his wineglass. "I doubt you know him. You might have met at a Ministry function or two, he used to work with the Nonmagical Creature Relations Committee."

"NCRC? Muggle relations, right?"

"Yeah, among other things..." he looked uncomfortable for a moment; had he only now caught himself referring to Muggles as 'nonmagical creatures'? "Anyway... He and I have been friends since I first entered the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. There were a couple of times we even had to work together, when we tried to alert the Muggles to the threat that Voldemort posed." His eyes were brooding, angry. "Three whole months we worked, around the clock, to open lines of communication with them. To extend our hand to them." He looked as though he wanted to spit. "What a fucking waste of time. It took a bloodbath to get them to open their bloody eyes."

"And by then it was too late..." Hermione finished, with a shiver. With so many of their own dead by the hands of wizards, the Muggles could never trust us. It had taken months for the Obliviators to pacify their governments; ironically, it would not have been possible had the governments in question not had such a policy of keeping such things secret from their populations in the first place. The public never learned the details; they just were left to bury their dead. Hermione felt sick. To cover it, she spoke quickly. "You were saying, about Jacob...?"

The wine bottle was hovering unsupported over Harry's glass, emptying what must have been the dregs into the fine crystal. "Right. Jacob." He took a drink, made a face. Definitely the dregs. "After that business with the Muggles, he and I stayed pretty good friends. Until today." The last two words sounded heavy, and Hermione was not surprised to see him signaling for another bottle when their salads finally arrived. If I thought it would do any good, I'd suggest that he slow it down a bit.

"Today? What happened today?" she asked between bites. The dressing was a fine vinaigrette, she noted, pleased.

"Malfoy happened." His voice was curt, bitter. His salad sat, untouched.

Her eyes widened. "Malfoy? Draco? Or Lucius?"

"Draco," he said impatiently. "You see, he and I..." He hesitated. "He and I have been in contact."

"In contact?" she echoed. Hermione cocked her head, confused. "What do you mean, contact? Whatever for?"

His eyes met hers unflinchingly. "To talk business."

She nearly choked on a bit of mushroom. "Business!?" she managed finally. Has he finally gone mad? Draco Malfoy?

"It's not exactly what you must think, Hermione," he said quickly.

"I don't think it would be a good idea for me to tell you what I think, Harry Potter," she said fervently. "Maybe you should explain yourself instead."

"Well, this could take a while..."

"I have no doubt."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some time later, the second bottle was empty, and Hermione's throat was dry. "You trade with that man? You trade people's lives?" She knew she sounded shrill, but she didn't care. God, what has happened to him? What happened to the boy I knew, the hero?

He looked up at her miserably. There's the boy. "It didn't start out that way, I told you. It just... The stakes went up." Green eyes bored into her own. "When Charlie died, the stakes went up."

"Charlie..." She shook her head sadly, remembering. "That was several years ago, Harry," she said at last. "Have you been meeting with Draco all this time?"

"Well, what was I supposed to do? The Death Eaters had snatched up half the bleeding continent while I was drinking myself blind over that- that bitch!" He spat the words. "They took the cities, and then they just sat. And waited. And dug in. We went for weeks without a single arrest, without so much as a hint of where Voldemort was or what he was doing. I thought we had lost." And so did I. Maybe we did.

Hermione studied his gaunt face. "And so you bargain with the devil."

"Yes." He stared back, hard. "I bargain with the devil. He came to me, remember? I didn't go to him."

That was exactly what bothered Hermione. "Yes, he came to you, Harry. What game is he playing? He was a malicious little bastard when we were in school, and I can't imagine he's changed."

Harry looked disgusted. "I know he's plotting like mad, and you know what? I don't care. He didn't like all the sitting and doing nothing any better than I did. We needed to fight. Besides, what was I going to tell Arthur and Molly? What was I going to say when they asked what the Ministry was doing to bring their son's killers to justice? 'Oh, I'm sorry, Arthur, I'm sorry, Molly, but we seem to be in a bit of a dry spell. Afraid we can't do a goddamned thing.'" His voice was ragged, and he took another long, long drink.

"That's just it, Harry," she said gently. "You can't do anything for their son. I loved Charlie as much as you did, but he's gone. Gone like every other good wizard in Romania, or Poland, or anywhere else in that part of Europe."

"And what about those wizards? Not just Charlie, but all the rest? Don't they deserve more than this waiting game, this stupid cat-and-mouse?"

"Now you're talking nonsense," she retorted, a shade more harshly than she had intended. "It doesn't do them any good to throw fuel on a fire that threatens us all. It doesn't do them any good for you to play Faust and Mephistopheles with Draco Malfoy. And it won't do them a lick of good for you to run off and get yourself killed."

Her best and oldest friend stared at her hard, and for a moment she saw such a rage in his eyes... She could have sworn he wanted to hit her. Then the moment was gone, and his lips curved in what could loosely be termed a smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Now I remember why I hadn't come to see you in so long. The truth... has a bit of a sting."

She returned his smile, but refused to be sidetracked. "Before we went on that merry little chase, you were about to tell me how Draco managed to ruin things with your friend."

"Ah. Yes." He didn't look particularly happy that she had remembered. "Well, to make a long story short..." She didn't rise to the bait. "Jacob's name was on that last list of Draco's. The one I got today."

Silence, for perhaps the span of a dozen heartbeats. Hermione simply didn't know what to say, and a look had come into Harry's eyes that suggested that he was looking at her without really seeing her. No wonder he looks like death on a cracker. His friend... She shook her head. "He's your friend, Harry. Did you actually take Draco's word on the matter?" Incredulity nearly cracked her voice.

He shot her a look for her tone. "No. I didn't take his bloody word for it. I went to see Jacob myself."

The silence hung in the air until Hermione couldn't stand it. "...And?"

He blinked a couple of times, and reached into his robes. When he withdrew his hand, it was tightly wrapped around a pendant on a necklace he was wearing. Since when does he wear jewelry? "Do you know what this is?" Dangling from the bottom of his fist was a silver chain, upon which hung a small golden charm wrought in the shape of a phoenix, wings upswept.

She squinted, peering closely at it. If nothing else, it's a pretty piece of work. "No, I don't think so."

"I didn't think you did. They were a bit after your time." She let that one go. "These are the new detectors that Kingsley's been so excited about : they're sensitive to pretty much all the different kinds of Dark Magic. I mean, you can practically smell a Dark wizard with one of these, if you know what you're looking for." For the first time since he had walked into her office, Hermione thought she heard true enthusiasm in his voice. Naturally. Give him a new gadget, and he goes hog wild. It was almost sad.

"They finally got them to work?" She was at least mildly interested, she had to admit. For fairness' sake. "How did they isolate the thaumaturgical signatures of Dark magic?" Before he could answer, she mentally kicked herself and held up a hand. "No, never mind, it doesn't matter. What does that have to do with your friend?"

"Just this. By the time I reached his home, I had pretty well convinced myself of the ridiculousness of the entire affair. I mean, the more I thought about it, the sillier the whole idea became. I walked into that room ready to tell him everything, and just wanting to hear him dismiss the accusation. He was going to laugh and I was going to laugh, and all would have been forgotten. But when I stepped through the door, this little charm started humming. Just enough to make me itch, not like when someone's worked an Unforgivable. But...."

Hermione herself was starting to feel a bit shaken. "Go on."

"I just stopped, dead in my tracks. And I looked at him. He looked up from his desk, and smiled, and called out something. I think he was greeting me, I'm not sure. I do remember that I just looked at him. Without saying a word." He swallowed, hard. "Finally, I said 'Why?' He looked at me again, and something in my face must have told him what I meant, because the next thing I knew, his face just crumpled. He started crying." Harry sounded detached, numb. "I'd never seen him cry before. Tears were just streaming down his cheeks. And again, all I could manage to say was 'Why?' And he wouldn't answer me. All he would say was 'The poor children. The children.' Over and over again. The children." He blinked his green eyes again.

Tentatively at first, but then firmly, Hermione caught and squeezed his hand. He came to me for strength, I think. Not platitudes. "What happened then?" she coaxed.

He held on to her hand. "Nothing happened. I just turned around and walked out. Walked for an hour or two, I think. I don't remember much of it, to tell you the truth. It's dangerous for one of the Order to be out alone like I was, but I didn't care." He blew out a breath. "Maybe I was hoping someone would come and try to take me. I know I wanted to kill someone. Anyone."

Hermione wanted to wince at the words, coming as they were from her oldest friend. "But you didn't kill Jacob." It just managed to be a statement, rather than a question.

"No. I didn't kill Jacob." He let go of her hand and leaned back in his chair, and his next words grated harshly. "But I should have. I should have wrapped my fingers around his neck and squeezed until his face turned black. I should have torn that bastard's heart out and spat on his grave. But no, I didn't."

She looked away. Too many times she had seen men and women turn grief to bloodlust. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was full of them. It was terrible to watch them go about their lives, from desperate decision to desperate decision, almost as though they punished themselves for living. Their survival rate rarely topped three years. I'm not going to let that happen to you.

There was only one question she had left to ask. "What about Jacob?"

He looked blank for a long couple of moments, long enough that she wondered if he had even heard. At last, he spoke. "There's a guy at the Department. Auror. Name of Buchvold. He owes me a favor." Harry's voice was heavy, deadened.

She didn't remember any Auror named Buchvold from her days in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but undoubtedly many things had changed since those years. Anyway, the implication was plain. "An 'accident'?" She studied his face as he nodded. "Maybe... Maybe that's for the best. It'll save his family's name, and... He was your friend." And I hope to God you're never able to carry something like that out yourself.

Harry shrugged with one shoulder. "I've buried friends before. This won't be the last time."

There wasn't much Hermione could say to that. Will I be the one to bury you?