Past Present

"Who?" Dumbledore asked in a thin voice.

"Dolohov. An' Delacour. Think they got in the way o' their own crossfire. As it was, mos' o' the faculty, they met 'em by the time they got through the gate. Came runnin' in, yellin' abou' how Voldemort was back. He even made an appearance, egged 'em on, then disappeared. Ten o' the professors are willin' ter testify ter it, at least. Olympe were off on business. Board was seein' ter the school while she was gone. Board o' Gov'nors invited Delacour right in, invited her ter stay until she could get a new position, or an interview with the Headmistress," Hagrid spat. "Reportin' Delacour died in defense o' the school," he added, shaking his head.

"They let her stay?! Why?" Harry demanded.

"Sweet young thing, former student, shows up on their doorstep with a sob story about the madman who hired her and made her resign, of course they let her stay. Same madman who keeps saying Voldemort is back. Same madman whose story she disputes now. Same madman who can't even get support from his own Ministry," Dumbledore murmured.

"She let them in. She walked right to the front gate and let them in, didn't she? Set off the alarm Olympe set up, alerted the faculty, got herself killed, and now they're going to say she was just defending the school," Viktor said, as though simply thinking aloud. "She's the new Peter Pettigrew. Traitor hailed as hero."

"Well, we can put paid to that idea! I mean, they have to believe us now, right? After the Death Eaters at the World Cup, and this, I mean, they were telling everyone he's back, one of the escaped Death Eaters is dead, they've got a body. They saw him! Proof! When we go tell the press that she was really on Voldemort's side..." Hermione began indignantly, but Dumbledore held up a hand.

"And what good would it do? They already have ample proof of what we wanted to convince them about. That Voldemort is back. That he's reassembling his Death Eaters. That he's toying with us. What good would it do to disabuse her parents of the notion that she died a heroine?" he asked gently.

"But... but..." Hermione stammered.

"Actually, maybe they've done us a favor," Viktor said softly.

"I can see 'no harm', but 'done us a favor'? What good does it do us if Delacour isn't a rat, as far as everyone else knows?" Sirius said.

"No one knows we know the truth about Delacour. I assume there will be a memorial service?" Viktor asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I think what he's getting at is the fact that we'll be expected to pay our respects. And people talk at funerals," Remus said, looking around the room. "Speaking of 'talk', I think we've got a bit of it to do. And none of it too interesting. Molly will have all our hides if we keep the three of you up much longer, so let her put you three to bed, already," he pleaded. Harry was so tired, he didn't even bother to protest. The three of them trudged up the dark back stairs to the upstairs bedrooms with the murmur of voices still drifting out of the sitting room and a thin, dawn light just breaking through some of the windows.

Hermione woke after a few hours of sleep, tense and tired at the same time. Feeling headachy and sore, but tired of lying down, she rolled out of bed and pulled on her jeans and T-shirt once more. The clock on the mantle said it was well into the morning, and the sunlight was bright through the dingy curtains of the spare room. She crept past the kitchen door when she saw that the kitchen was deserted except for Mrs. Weasley. She continued down the hall, peeking in doors as she went, sometimes spotting abandoned plates and cloaks and other belongings, sometimes forms curled up and sleeping in chairs, on sofas, on the floors, wherever there was room. Some of them she recognized from the night before, others were completely new. The sight of Kingsley Shacklebolt, the wizard who had accompanied Umbridge to take Dumbledore into custody, sprawled in a chair and snoring loudly gave her pause for a moment. One room left. The front sitting room. It was so cluttered with shifted furniture that there was little room in it at all.

"May I come in, or is this a private stare out the window you're having?" she asked in a soft voice.

"I'm not very good company, right now," Viktor answered, not budging from the spot where he was standing, arms crossed, looking out between the almost completely threadbare curtains. The sunlight streaming through just highlighted how wan and pale and unrested he looked.

"Why not?" Hermione prodded, sidling up to him, looking out onto the street, where there really wasn't much of interest, save the occasional passing car.

"Tired," he said simply, turning to look at her, dark smudges under his eyes almost like bruises.

"Still going to treat Fleur like she went down with her ship?" Hermione asked, voice a little icy.

"Did, did she not? We are just assigning her to a different ship," Viktor said plainly.

"And you're going along with this?" Hermione said, plainly puzzled. "I thought you, of all people, would want people to know the truth..."

"What good does it serve?" Viktor asked, giving her a curious look.

"People should know the truth," Hermione said adamantly.

"I can make a lot of arguments against people knowing the truth. For one thing, if we don't let on that we knew, we can go to that memorial service and see what we can find out. If we tell them we knew, there will be no hope of finding out anything useful," Viktor said with a shake of his head.

"She was a traitor."

He bit his lower lip thoughtfully. "I would haff agreed with you, at first thought. Then, I thought about it a little while. And I pictured something."

"What?"

"Her parents. How do you think her parents would feel?"

"Her parents raised someone who supported Voldemort..." Hermione began, but she trailed off when he looked her in the eye.

"What good does it do to speak ill of the dead? Speak ill of the living. They still haff a chance to change, before it's too late. It's not worth it, Hermione. It might make us feel like we had gotten some petty revenge, telling, but it would not be worth it. It would blow the only chance we haff of finding out anything more. It would do no good to publicly insult their daughter if the Delacours did know. What would her family care, if the Delacours really were supporters of Voldemort?" Viktor said in a thin voice.

"Well, Fleur was a supporter..." Hermione reasoned, but Viktor shook his head.

"Doesn't mean her parents didn't raise her right. She was of age. Children make their own mistakes, sometimes. No matter how well you raise them. For all we know, the Delacours are as decent as the Potters were, or the Weasleys are. Guilt by association. If you subscribe to that theory, you're going to mark a lot of innocent people guilty."

"But..." Hermione protested, more uncertain this time.

"Dolohov. I sat three feet away from his nephew in Care of Magical Creatures all through school. Quiet. Liked to draw. Never said a nasty word. Big boy. A lot broader than I am. But he failed self defense because he could not quite bring himself to hurt someone else. Even if they happened to be prepared to steamroll him. He just... let them, rather than fight back. He was interested in becoming a mediwizard. He volunteered in the infirmary. Volunteered in the hospital during the summer. Sound like a vicious Death Eater in the making? His uncle was one. Doesn't make him one," Viktor whispered, picking at a nonexistent hangnail on his thumb. He heaved a deep sigh, then looked back out on the street at nothing at all. "Let Sirius tell you a little about the most ancient and noble house of Black. Introduce you to the portrait of his dear old mother... Lily Potter came from the same family that produced Petunia Dursley. Fleur made her own decision. Maybe her parents had nothing to do with it. Don't tar a whole family with the same brush."

"Why do you keep mentioning her parents?" Hermione asked, touching his elbow lightly.

"Because, I bet even Peter Pettigrew's mother cried when she buried what she thought was all that was left of her son, Hermione," Viktor replied, swallowing hard.

She slid her hand from the elbow to the top of his forearm, giving it a little squeeze. "What?"

"Would you haff the heart to do it? Look them in the eye and tell them that the daughter they're burying... is not the child they thought they knew? God knows burying a child is hard enough. I could no more do it than... It would do us no good," he amended, making a helpless looking gesture with his hands, leaning back against the arm of the squashy armchair behind him, slumping tiredly.

"So have you just stared out the window instead of sleeping, then?" Hermione asked, leaving her hand on his forearm.

"Couldn't sleep. Read the Prophet. Guess what? Suddenly, Fudge acknowledges that 'Lord Thing' just might be back, after all. Hard to buck the eyewitness accounts of ten reputable faculty members at another school who all haff the backing of their Ministry. Dumbledore has his job back, if he wants it, Wizengamot position and all. We go back to Hogwarts tonight. Memorial service tomorrow. Classes will be dismissed. Hogwarts will send an official contingent. Dumbledore, certainly. Some of the faculty. I'll go. Harry will go with me. Tournament Champions, it will be expected, since Harry is not in the infirmary, this time." Viktor pressed his lips together, turning them as pale as the rest of his face for a moment, before releasing them.

"So, we should at least be a bit happy, right?" Hermione said tentatively.

"A bit. Things could haff turned out worse. Umbridge gets the boot, Dumbledore gets his job back, someone else says Voldemort is back, maybe we can clear Black eventually, if we can prove to Fudge that Pettigrew is alive... I'm just tired of attending memorial services, already. One a year is one too many. And I'm worried this may be one in a long line of them," he said with a sigh. She stepped up to him without thinking and wrapped her arms around his neck. He enfolded her in a firm embrace, stroking her hair. They stood for a long while, saying nothing, just standing in the warm, bright sunlight filtering through the threadbare curtains, and only the soft whoosh of the occasional passing car and the muffled clatter of pans from the kitchen breaking the perfect silence.