Redemption

Chapter 1: Flight of the Phoenix

"Terry! You gave me a fright!"

"Sorry, I've been trying to catch you for the last hour." The flames in the fireplace licked around Terry Boot's head, taking on a dark green tinge from the floo powder he had used to link up their hearths. "It's about the potion."

"Did it work?" Hermione had stopped in the process of picking up the goblet which had spilled its contents onto the floor, and lurched forward on her hands and knees toward the fireplace.

"Well, yes and no. It's fair to say we've definitely reached a breakthrough - I think we're really on to something!"

"What happened, did you test it?"

"Just after you'd left. I don't think we can claim to have bottled Immortal Fame just yet, but we've certainly succeeded in trapping a five-minute wonder. It's amazing! Ron saw the potion and volunteered to play guinea pig -" Terry stopped halfway through his excited explanation when he caught sight of the worried look on Hermione's face. "Don't worry, I'd completed all the toxicity tests yesterday - but, it worked! It really worked! Its effects dragged even the Quidditch Department boys away from their... work. He had to run down the stairwell to escape from demented female fans -"

"- And then...?"

Terry laughed, "...then Katie Bell suddenly wondered why she had rugby tackled Ron to the ground and exactly why it had seemed so imperative two minutes ago to rip his shirt off."

Hermione sat up suddenly, as though something had just occurred to her.

"But I thought this project was Grade B - that we weren't supposed to be telling anyone about it - yet?"

"Which would explain why Malfoy was sniffing around my desk yesterday?"

Hermione coloured.

"We agreed we need more funding. I didn't exactly tell him what we were doing, just hinted at it."

"Likewise. I fobbed them off by telling them it was just a commercial project we were testing - a lust potion. Who are they to notice the difference?" Hermione thought it must have been a trick of the flames, but she swore she saw his face harden. Feeling guilty for her thoughtless indiscretion, she tried to pick the conversation up again from where they had left off.

"So it works... but not for long enough?"

"Yes, I wanted to pick your brains on that one. I think it might have something to do with the root seed we used." He suddenly reverted back to serious-Terry, Terry-the-colleague.

"The Phoenix feather?"

"I think that's what malfunctioned - it's simply not strong enough."

"But we took it from Fawkes?"

"I don't mean the feather in itself is ineffective, merely that the feather by itself is not enough. Remember, there are two halves to the equation of Immortal Fame; we trapped the essence of the former by using the Phoenix feather, so it stands to reason that we need an ingredient that encapsulates the latter."

"Fame... but what can we use for that? That's not a quality attributed to any mythical beast I know of... Werewolf fur procures strength, Centaur tail psychic power, Dragon claw ancient knowledge, Griffins - "

"- You're thinking too hard, not looking at what's right in front of you." Since Hermione's only answer to this statement was a puzzled stare, Terry continued. "Who do you know who graces the cover of every magazine from 'Witch Weekly' to 'New StatesWizard', who can barely walk down the street without being mobbed, who is the most recognisable figure in the wizarding world?"

"You're not seriously suggesting that I... Are you?"

"That's precisely what I'm suggesting."

* * *

So this was how Hermione found herself on Saturday morning not lying in a warm squashy bed, but strolling down Diagon Alley with a sour expression fixed firmly on her face. She could see people looking up as she walked past; Terry had insisted that she don tangerine coloured robes for the meeting he had set up: "It's his favourite colour according to Teen Witch. Details, details..." Her reply had involved an impressive string of expletives and the loss of a left-footed shoe somewhere in the floo network after Terry had expertly dodged the intended missile.

She was still so annoyed she nearly walked past the Leaky Cauldron without noticing, and had to double back slightly. She looked at her watch as she entered the revolving doors. Ten minutes early. At least she had time to order a nice stiff drink.

Bustling her way to the bar, she was suddenly struck by how extraordinarily busy the pub was for ten to eleven on a Saturday morning.

"I'll have a double of Ogden's Firewhisky please. With ice."

"You heard then did you?" The round-faced barmaid winked conspiratorially at a clueless Hermione.

"Heard what?"

"Honestly! 'Heard what?' I tells ya! Hermione Granger, not knowing who we've got staying with us? Ever such a nice bloke an' all, none of those arrogant airs and graces you get off some..."

Hermione was too put out by the sad realisation that she was on first name terms with half the bar tenders in the wizarding world to take much notice of what Bridgette was blathering on about this time. Handing over two galleons for her drink, she tried to tune back in to the barmaids excited patter.

"...and he ain't no trouble neither. No trouble at all. Not like some I care to mention... We had your friends the Weasley twins in here the other day, only they didn't half make a mess of things when... ALL RIGHT ALREADY! I'M COMING FRANK! Honestly, you'd think I was slow the way he goes on. Anyway, best dash off before he goes into cardiac arrest. There's your change poppet."

This was not a good start to the day, although, judging by the contents of the glass in her hand, things were about to get at least slightly better. Bracing herself for the sharp wake-me-up, Hermione took a quick gulp of Scotch, holding on to the bar for support as something very much akin to Dragon fire whooshed down her throat and up her nostrils, clearing her head with a choking burn. Brrrrrr, she needed that. As she turned to leave the bar and make way for the next customer she felt a small but insistent tugging on the bottom of her robe sleeve.

"Please Miss Granger," piped a small voice at elbow level, "If you please, master says to come upstairs for your special meeting."

Drink still clutched firmly in hand, Hermione followed the dinky elf-goblin toward the back of the pub, weaving carefully in and out of the mid-morning throng.

"This way miss."

Hermione hardly needed prompting, she still remembered the pokey staircase from the time Harry had stayed in the Leaky Cauldron the summer before their third year at Hogwarts. However, she was fairly certain that the two burly security trolls stationed at the entranceway were a new edition to the decor. They growled menacingly at her before spotting the smartly dressed elf-goblin, and reluctantly moved back to allow her access to the stairwell - although not before confiscating her tumbler of Scotch.

"Are the security trolls really necessary?" Hermione hissed as soon as she felt they were out of earshot.

"Oh yes miss. Master has already had to move from the Grand Hotel. His fans can be somewhat... over-enthusiastic at times."

Hermione got the impression that the elf-goblin would have liked to say more, but he suddenly stopped himself, as though he had already said too much. She didn't have much experience of elf-goblins but knew that they operated in much the same way as their house-elf ancestors. Much to Hermione's dismay, the elf-goblin seemed to decide that the best way to compensate for his awkward silence was to speed up the pace.

After the third staircase the lag between the efficient elf-goblin and Hermione had grown considerably. "Great," she thought through her rising anger, "Now I'm not only going to arrive looking like an overgrown breakfast fruit, but a sweaty overgrown breakfast fruit to boot."

Just as she had given up all hope of arriving without the aid of oxygen, she suddenly found that the stairs had come to a stop, and they had reached the topmost floor. This level of the Leaky Cauldron was certainly not familiar from her previous visits, which probably explained the air it carried of a place seldom visited.

It was a dingy corridor; the maroon walls and moth-eaten carpet cast a rather creepy impression of a floor more used to housing darkness than the living. The doors along the narrow walkway were all shut, and covered beneath varying thicknesses of accumulated dust. The only decoration was a few rather limp cobwebs, and the odd weak ray of sunlight that had managed to fight through the spectacularly dirty sky-light window. In fact, it was becoming so gloomy, that the little elf-goblin took a lamp out from the folds of his immaculate jacket, which at least slowed his pace down. They had just turned a sharp corner, when the elf-goblin stopped in front of a spotless door. Hermione caught up just in time to watch as he took a plain doorknocker out of his pocket and attached it about halfway up, rapping out three short knocks.

"Wait here please Miss."

Before Hermione had a chance to ask how long that was likely to be, or even to thank her guide, he was gone, leaving Hermione all by herself in the gathering gloom.

"Enter!" A voice half-muffled through the thickness of the door, but none-the-less intelligible called out into the hallway. Without waiting for nerves to set in, Hermione grasped the door handle and pushed.

"Hermione!"

As her eyes struggled to adjust to the lighting, she could make out the shape of a thin man slouched in a square armchair. The only source of light she could see was an orange glow from the ferocious fire. As she crossed the room toward the shadowy figure she noted that the curtains were drawn.

"Neville?" She asked, uncertainly.

"Oh, I didn't expect you so soon. Here," He waved his wand absentmindedly around the room, its circular motion lighting the wall lamps, allowing Hermione a first true glimpse of his appearance. As usual, he looked immaculate in his designer robes, despite the grim surroundings. His dark hair hung carelessly across a boyish face, posters of which graced the walls of thousands of teenagers' rooms. But his eyes seemed strangely unfocused.

He rose from the chair swiftly as Hermione approached, taking her cold hands in his own.

"You're looking grand," he smiled as he bent forward to plant two gentle kisses on either cheek.

"You're not too bad yourself" Hermione smiled wider. It never ceased to amaze her that the stuttering catastrophe prone schoolboy who had sat next to her through five years of potions lessons had managed to grow into such an attractive man. Where there had once been puppy fat there was now muscle, with well-defined cheekbones creating a handsome yet amiable face.

"Here, take a seat. You look half frozen." Neville gestured at the remaining armchair as he lowered himself back into the other.

"Well I did get a drink from the bar to warm myself up, but I don't think your security patrol appreciated it very much."

"Yes, they do seem to over react about such things - don't seem to think I can be trusted." He smiled wanly, and a faraway look descended into his eyes. "Sorry, coffee's out too, but it seems I'm still allowed tea." He gave a flick of his wand, and a pot of tea appeared on a small table to his right. As Hermione watched him pour the tea into a delicate china cup she suddenly felt a great wave of sadness roll through her. She would have given anything to have him drop the teacup he was offering, just to show that there was some of the old Longbottom spirit left in him. But pop stars aren't allowed to trip on their shoelaces, or admit to inner doubt, and Neville excelled at playing pop stars. So she controlled that irrational part of her, which wanted to reach out and knock the teapot right out of those strong, manicured hands, and instead silently watched an old school friend making a cup of tea, pretending that that's all there was to it.

* * *

After triumphantly dispatching an owl to Terry with a shiny lock of Nevilles famous hair - 'Voted Best 'do by Witch Wurzel Shampoo!' - Hermione had proceeded to get mind-numbingly, blissfully drunk in Hogsmeade. It had not been her initial intention when she had got up that morning, but seeing Neville always depressed her. It was like visiting an old grandfather who had suddenly aged and become a wreck of the man you remembered laughing with as a child; frail and withered. Except that Neville was supposed to be in the prime of his youth, he was a success story, a fairy tale, a teen idol pin-up.

By the time she made a move back to Hogwarts however she had sobered up considerably, reaching that final stage of morose self-examination. As if sensing the probable volatility of a rain-drenched and only drink sodden resident, the door obligingly swung open after only the briefest period of haggling. Although, as per usual, the doorknocker managed to get the last word in, shouting out viciously as the door was closing behind Hermione that "...A DRUNKEN HOGWARTS TEACHER IS A DISGRACED HOGWART TEACHER! I COULD TELL YOU ABOUT PROFES-" However, thankfully the door had slammed shut by this point.

She crossed the room to the fireplace, noticing a parchment lying in the grate. Picking it up she slit open the seal and unrolled the crisp paper, to find a terse, but informative note from Terry, confirming that he had received the sample.

She wandered into her room with the intention of changing into a fresh set of robes, but was diverted upon spying a freshly drawn bath waiting for her to sink into. Yes, sometimes there were definite benefits about living at a school for magic...

* * *

Half an hour later Hermione was enjoying further benefits of her temporary teaching post as she tucked into a piping hot meal of steak pie and creamy mashed potato that instantly made her forget the inhospitable weather raging outside the solid stone walls.

She had just been telling Dumbledore a heavily edited version about her visit to Neville -

something that had amused him greatly.

"Who would have predicted this, perhaps not even the great inner eye of Sybil Trelawney," And here his eyes twinkled mischievously "Neville Longbottom, the bashful young man who was forever losing that toad of his, achieving such things. I only wish his parents could have lived to see what their son had made of himself... although perhaps such things are for the best."

Dumbledore looked pensively into the distance, before excusing himself from the high table. In the years since its disbandment he had taken the losses from the Order of the Phoenix to heart. Sometimes, when Hermione heard him talk of the past before Lord Voldemort was vanquished, she felt that the waver in his voice had less to do with his plea of old age, than a deep, throbbing well of regrets stored poisonously deep within.

Hermione had been observing Snape out of the corner of her eye throughout her conversation with Dumbledore and was gratified to find that he bore an expression that would have curdled milk from twenty paces. As soon as Dumbledore had vanished through the Great Doors he turned his entire body round to face Hermione, fixing black eyes full of hatred on her. She suddenly had the horrible feeling of being trapped, as though her chair legs were glued to the floor.

"I suppose you find it amusing that foolish boys with little talent or intelligence to recommend them, who are a danger to themselves and others, have such a prominent place in the world? Perhaps it makes you feel that there's hope after all?"

"No, I always looked to you as a role model when I needed that sort of affirmation." She could not forget all those years of misery he had piled on poor Neville. Maybe if he had received more support he... but no, she could fill the world ten times over with 'what ifs.'

"Tsk. And I always thought Potter had held the monopoly on arrogance in your defiant trio of stupidity. Perhaps when you are a respected scholar in your own right rather than a mere glorified librarian you can pass such judgements on your colleagues."

Hermione blushed. He seemed to have a gift for exposing raw nerves and stabbing them ruthlessly.

"And what have you been up to this week Severus? Marking third year essays, prowling the corridors for misbehaviour, or even babysitting detentees?" It was Snape's turn to stiffen. The girl knew nothing.

"I warn you Miss Granger not to question the value of my work. By doing so you merely underline your own ignorance and misplaced sense of superiority. You may think yourself very important carrying that Ministry of Magic file around with you like a battering ram, but I assure you, within certain circles there is nothing impressive about such a position. Do not delude yourself otherwise."

The rest of the diners blurred out of focus and significance, the only sound in the enclosed room Snape's words cutting through the heavy atmosphere. She knew what and who he was talking about, of course, and felt as though he had collapsed her house of cards with one swift blow. Perhaps she was still upset from her visit to Neville, or had participated in one too many of these petty mudslingings, but Hermione suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to slap Snape right here in the Great Hall in front of all the students. Instead, she let the uncensored words she had been dying to say since day-one roll off her tongue and escape.

"I suppose I've got that sort of enlightenment to look forward to haven't I? Only I need to qualify for that wisdom first, by becoming a turncoat to a dark wizard say, or a vindictive bully driven by a pathetic obsession with the past, or even a frustrated accademic constantly spurned from a coveted post for obvious reasons, or perhaps all three? Then I'll cast judgement on everyone else because my own life has been such a failure and I simply can't bear to watch others make something of themselves. I'll - I'll sneer down at everyone else to hide the fact that I've got nothing to show for my efforts."

To her surprise Snape leaned back in his chair and smiled. It was the first time he had ever smiled at Hermione Granger.

"Is that what you really think, that I'm... jealous of you?"

"I - you -I - of course not!" she snapped.

"How... interesting. You know, I find it quite remarkable the effect that a few wasted years spent studying obscure and useless branches of magic, can have on a personality. It often becomes the case that such people can delude themselves into believing that their meaningless research is worthwhile, and, by default, their very existence."

To her horror Hermione felt tears pricking beneath her eyes. Why did he always have to be so... so horrible? So pugnacious? She had to get out of the Hall - now.

"Excuse me." She pushed past him, hair whipping out behind her, across Snape's face.

He gave a grim smile of satisfaction. Some people were just so... predictable. It was all just a matter of finding the weak spots - the bruises - and exploiting them. It didn't matter whether or not his words were true, merely that she believed them. The amusing thing was that he actually found her work quite interesting. She'd written quite a few papers that had made their way into some of the journals he regularly read. But, if she would insist on provoking him and playing with fire then she would have to accept the burns.

Watching the last of the diners leave - a boisterous cluster of third year Gryffindors and a lone Slytherin girl - he rose from the High Table, his supervisory duty over.

As he swept along the dungeons towards his chambers he almost didn't notice the small figure, hunched up against the wall, wracked by silent sobs. Honestly, students weren't supposed to be down here.

"Ahem." Snape cleared his throat roughly.

"Oh!" Big round eyes looked around uncertainly, then widened with shock, in tandem with Snape's own surprise.

"Miss Granger. I am so glad my words of wisdom have had such an impact on your blustering ego." No, he hadn't expected this. She had always seemed so damned strong, not the type of girl given to the feminine trick of tears. He wondered what on earth she was doing down here.

Hermione wiped her tears away with the sleeve of her robe. She was unsure what to do. She had been caught out and her pride was injured. The one thing that she was sure of was her mounting anger.

"You just can't help yourself can you?"

A smirk played on the corners of his mouth. "I assure you that - "

"This is all people are to you isn't it? No more than a set of emotions to play around with, manipulate - never mind the consequences. You're no better than Voldemort was - just filth."

The dark mask that descended over his face warned Hermione that she had pushed him too far and she made to leave. But he was quicker than her, and before she could go he darted forward and clamped a hand tightly around her neck, slamming her against the wall.

"Don't you dare presume to - to compare me to - you mudblood bitch!" He spat his words at her, a dangerous flush creeping up his face. Hermione was scared, the only time she had ever seen Snape this angry was the night she'd helped Sirius Black escape from the Dementors. But another half of Hermione was exhilarated, the half that saw the effect her words could have.

"What's the matter, truth hurts? They say a leopard never changes its spots, Death-eater."

"What did you call me?" He pressed his face aggressively into hers, so close that she could feel his hot breath against her face. The stones in the wall behind were digging painfully into her back. She tried to push him away from her space. She splayed her fingers against his chest and stomach and met with a surprising amount of resistance as the hard muscles hidden beneath his robes tensed at her touch. She dropped her hands as though they had been burned. Snape laughed harshly then pressed himself firmly against the length of her body, blocking off any escape route. Hermione stiffened, she could feel his chest heaving erratically against hers, her heartbeat hammering madly against his ribcage. She shivered involuntarily.

"Not so cocky now are we, Miss know-it-all."

"Get your hands off me! Now!"

"No one can hear you down here. No Gryffindor lackeys to get you out of your self-created predicament." He released his grip on her throat - slightly - but she could feel his other hand snaking round to her sides. His long, scorching fingers gripped cruelly around her wrists, pinning them expertly behind her back, forestalling Hermione's attempt to reach her wand.

"Had some practice here have we? This how you get your kicks, Severus?"

"Believe me, a buck-toothed imbecile would be the last person I'd turn to for pleasure. No, I think Miss Granger merely needs reminding what I am -"

"- Oh don't think I'll ever forget what you are -"

"- needs reminding what I am capable of - should I wish it. Don't provoke me, Granger, you cannot hope to win. Consider this a friendly warning." Snape released his grip on her throat completely and withdrew his other hand from behind, but the crushing pressure of his body against hers was still conspicuous. Hermione shifted uncomfortably and, as if suddenly noticing his intimate physical presence, Snape looked down where their bodies joined and backed away hastily, leaving only a tingling imprint of his body heat.

Hermione looked at her old Potions Master with shock. All the caustic remarks and vindictive behaviour; she'd always thought it was just words. She was shaking. With fear, hurt, anger, she wasn't sure.

"Don't. Ever. Touch. Me. Again. Consider that a warning - an unfriendly one." She whipped her wand out and pointed it straight at Snape's pale face. "Because I swear to God, if you give me reason I will!"

"Stay out of my way, then." He swept past; a flutter of black robes as he retreated down the dungeon corridor.

* * *

And she had stayed out of his way. Or he had stayed out of hers. She couldn't tell, but either way the next week was conspicuously Snape-free. Dumbledore provided even more credence to Hermione's belief that he was omniscient within Hogwart's walls, when he re-located her table place so that she was seated next to the amiable Professor Flitwick.

Even so, Hermione was extremely glad when Sunday came and she was able to return to London, to her cosy and familiar flat. Although the initial enthusiasm faded somewhat when she saw the weeks worth of dirty dishes that had been left festering in the sink by Harry, Ron, and half a rugby squad if the sheer variety was anything to go by.

"Aw, but you're so much better at it than us." Ron had whined whilst Harry nodded sagely in the background.

"It's the potions brewer within isn't it? She can get the soap to water ratio just right."

"Look, this isn't the sodding 'Famous Five', you know, where you boys go off and climb trees while perfect little Anne obediently sweeps the floor and bakes scones back at the cottage"

"Of course it isn't. We don't like scones." Ron had paid for that last comment with a squirt of washing up liquid in the face. "Her-mi-o-nee! That went in my eye!" Which had resulted in a brief, but intense, water duel, and the unavoidable conclusion that Ron and Harry should wash their own dishes in the future.

It was nice being back home, Hermione reflected as she snuggled under her duvet at the end of the day. Even Ron's incessant bickering and Harry's smelly feet were strangely comforting. She smiled to herself. OK, maybe she didn't miss everything about living with her two best friends.

She laid her head down on the pillow, releasing a small murmur of satisfaction. But once she tried to sleep her mind refused to rest and kept replaying the confrontation with Snape over and over, until her brain began to feel like little more than a projector set. She remembered his harsh words. Then the feel of his surprisingly strong body pressed against hers. The horrible feeling of powerlessness. Maybe that was why she had reacted so strongly to Ron and Harry's mess before; she didn't want to be just another helpless female stereotype. She wondered if Snape was still thinking about their clash...then realised that that would require a conscience.

* * *

"What's the matter with you today Severus?" Septimus had just disarmed his fencing companion for the fifth time. "Do you want time out?"

Snape bristled, trying to calm his shallow breathing as he brushed a plastered strand of sweaty hair from his face.

"That will be quite unnecessary. En garde!" He whipped his fencing foil into the start position, waiting for his companion to follow suit.

"Well, your funeral. En garde!"

A quick clash of foils and Snape once again found his neck on the receiving end of a sharp metal point to the throat.

"Damn it, boy. When did you get so good?"

"When you got so bad! Seriously, whatever it is that's got your back up so much, spit it out! It certainly isn't doing your fencing any favours."

Snape sighed. He supposed Septimus was right about one thing - he couldn't concentrate properly on the subtle art of fencing when he could still feel anger and irritation coursing through his veins.

"Oh it's just work. I had a... run-in with one of my colleagues earlier this week."

Septimus rolled his eyes. The effect was to make him look even younger than his boyish jawline and rosy cheeks implied. No, Snape thought to himself, it was hard to believe that this was a man fast approaching thirty. Despite his broad build, he still managed to carry himself with the sort of childish enthusiasm usually vanquished by the time one reached ones mid-twenties.

"Who's the Head gone and appointed now? Another hated Hogwart's contemporary? A Vampire? A Ministry of Magic bigwig? The Pope?"

"Only the most annoying student ever to taint my classroom."

Septimus tried to conceal his amusement, his uncle had a hidden flair for the dramatic. It was as though for the rest of the world it was merely raining, but for Severus it was a force five typhoon, concentrated solely on him.

"What, Neville Longbottom's seen the light and decided to shun fame and riches in favour of the ascetic life? Rita Skeeter will be having a field day..."

"The other bane of my teaching life."

"Harry Potter? The Boy Who Lived becomes the Boy Who Teaches?"

"Well at least you're getting close." He snapped back. "It's that mindless crony of his, Hermione Granger. Why Dumbledore thought that -"

"What, Hermione Granger, Order-of-Merlin-Hermione-Granger?"

"Yes, I believe there was some unnecessary fuss a few years ago about some novel potion or other." Still, Snape was surprised that his nephew had heard about such an obscure piece of research, and his surprise must have shown in his face.

"I don't know what it is you think I do at Durmstrang, but it's not all Quidditch and hexes you know."

"Well, I just didn't think her work was that noteworthy," he replied defensively.

"Oh come, come Uncle Severus, I don't think her accademic ability has much to do with such schadenfreude."

Snape appeared to ponder this for a while.

"I thought you'd be happy working with someone close to your, ah, intellectual equal for once."

"Hermione Granger is nothing approaching my intellectual equal. She is merely a self-important book-worm, who has developed a habit of being in the right place at the right time, by riding on the coat tails of those who do have talent"

As Septimus turned to pack up their gear, a smile played on his face. He wondered...

* * *

As Snape was conceding defeat, Hermione was engaged in a fight of her own. The crowds on the London Underground were just awful, even with the anti-crush wards and touch-repellent hexes that she liberally doused herself with before leaving the house. It was not until she reached the ticket barrier, that she discovered one of the trains had suffered from a mechanical failure, throwing the whole station into pandemonium, as there was a mad dash for alternative transport.

After nearly an hour of struggling through central London on foot, Hermione gave up trying to be honourable, and sneakily cast just the smallest bit of magic, which resulted in a vacant taxi pulling up to the kerbside, against the horrendous flow of traffic. At various times in the journey, Hermione debated whether it would be quicker just to get out and walk until finally the taxi drew up next to the cleverly concealed entrance to the Ministry of Magic.

Hermione glanced in alarm at her wristwatch as she approached Terry's laboratory. Quarter to eleven. As Terry usually arrived an hour before Hermione, she reasoned that he would have missed the train disruption. She knocked on the door once to alert him of her arrival, before pushing the door open, and entering the large, orderly laboratory.

Strange. It was so quiet. Normally there would be several experiments bubbling merrily away, perhaps the odd shatter of glass, and at least the sound of a few fierce flames licking away at pewter cauldrons.

"Terry?" He wasn't here. Neither was any of their apparatus. She flung open the store cupboard, panic replacing confusion. It was empty. Completely empty. She spun around, noting that the blackboard - usually crammed to the margins with complicated formulae - had been scrubbed efficiently clean. The fire proof cabinets where they kept all their workings out for safety; they had to be okay, they were heavily protected against unwelcome intruders. However, even as she neared the corner of the room, she could see the drawers were open on their runners and empty. And Terry. Where was Terry?

Hermione ran out of the room, full of unease as one horrifying scenario after another flashed through her brain.

A life ride and three flights of stairs later, Hermione, clearly flustered, was trying to negotiate her way past Cornelius Fudge's secretary.

"Please, I need to speak to Mr. Fudge urgently."

"Do you have an appointment?" Maeve Worthing was well used to over-excited Ministry of Magic employees misapplying the words 'urgent' and 'important' to fit their own definitions of such things.

"No I don't. That's the thing. Something's happened." Hermione was too breathless to enunciate properly.

"Perhaps if you come back this afternoon after lunch, I can find a small opening...?"

"No I need to see him now. It's not the sort of thing that can wait."

"Well, I can post a memo to him, if you want?"

Why wasn't she listening?

"Look, a laboratory has been broken into, and important documents stolen. I think it's sabotage."

The secretary snorted

"Someone's missing!" Hermione hissed urgently.

"Mr. Fudge asked not to be disturbed. Now I am respecting his wishes and suggest you respect mine by going away and dropping this cock and bull story right now. Really, you think it's that simple for someone to just walk into the Ministry of Magic and kidnap an employee?"

"Why are you being so obtuse?" Hermione shouted, clearly frustrated.

"What's all this noise?" Attracted by the raised voices, Cornelius Fudge had poked his head irritably around the door to his office. "I asked not to be disturbed."

"Mr. Fudge! Thank goodness, there's been an... incident I-"

"This young lady seems to think one of her colleagues has been 'kidnapped.'"

"What utter nonsense! People don't get kidnapped from the Ministry of Magic!"

"But Terry Boot, his laboratory has been ransacked, all our notes have been stolen, and I can't find him anywhere."

"It's more than likely that the young man has taken a well deserved rest from his work. In fact, I believe he was due for some holiday leave," said Fudge and Maeve nodded in agreement. "See, there you go, getting yourself all worked up over nothing. I only wish you'd taken a moment to think before bursting in here making demands on my secretary and my time."

"But Terry never takes holidays, and why would his laboratory be emptied?"

"I think you'll find you've answered your own question there." Fudge's waning patience was beginning to show through his brusque tone. "He obviously wanted to take some of his work away with him. Such a studious young man."

"No, Terry wouldn't do that. He wouldn't just up and leave without telling anyone in the middle of a project."

"I won't tell you again. I consider this matter closed. And unless you want to go the same way as your friend Harry Potter, who also used to enjoy spreading lies and panic, I suggest you return to your desk and stop this nonsense right here."

"Why don't you care? Terry has gone missing and a very important project has been stolen - doesn't that worry you? Don't you find it odd?"

"That's it! You leave me with no option. You can either follow Mr. Boot's lead and go home to use up the remainder of your paid holiday leave or," Fudge reached into a nearby filing cabinet and pulled out a small pink slip of paper, "I can fill in one of these and you can go home on full suspension. Either way, I want you out of this building until you have had a chance to calm down."

Hermione knew there was no choice for her either, a pink slip in her permanent record would dry up funding as effectively as a swastika tattoo to the forehead.

"I think a holiday is just what I need."

"Good girl, you can use my personal fireplace to travel. In the meantime, the Ministry of Magic will be enchanted in order to detect and refuse your entrance here until you return to full-time employment, which will be entirely dependent on your conduct in the next week."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

ACKOWLEDGEMENTS:

[a big thank you to beta Azazello for invaluable advice and general helpfulness ]

[and hugs to DMers (darkmark.com) who have put up with my incessant fic whinging]