A Dish Best Served Cold

A Dish Best Served Cold

Chapter 7- Hell Hath No Fury

Ocotber, 1998

In the wake of Narcissa's death the entire British Wizarding community had fallen in line and given the new Minister a great deal of support and sympathy. He diverted resources that were tracking down the last of the old Death Eaters and set them on the trail of his wife's killers. For a month France had been crawling with British Aurors. To avoid any possible entanglements, Hermione took up a residence in a small town in the Swiss Alps under yet another assumed name and again altered her appearance.

Under the name of Elizabeta Sagretté she divested herself of a broken heart by writing. It wasn't something she had ever given real consideration to, but there were so many things happening in her life that she had never even considered a remote possibility that at this point anything seemed possible. At fist she had considered writing course guides for young wizards, something she knew a great deal about. Then Ron's words had come back to her about doing good works; she began to map out a treatise calling for equal rights for non-human sentient magical creatures. However, her heart wasn't really in it. What she really wanted to do was tell the story of what had really happened to her. Obviously though, she couldn't write it under her own name or with too much detail. Three weeks after the attack on Narcissa, she had a short rough draft, which she began to edit.

Once a week she drove down the mountain to the only all wizarding community in Switzerland, a small town called Neumonberne. At the post office/book store she was able to set up a box where by she could receive both the Prophet and l'Oracle as well as the Swiss Paper, The Crier, which would translate itself into English, French, German, or Italian with a simple spell. Of the three, l'Oracle was her favorite. It was more like a community paper than a regular newspaper. The first few pages were given over to news and reports from other world newspapers. There was of course the obligatory Quidditch coverage and want ads. However, one thing this paper that no other did was a letters and stories section. It was full of letters to the editor, announcements about everything from Beauxbatons acceptance letters to obituaries, and of late it had been filled with rampant speculation about the killers of Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy.

Hermione was pleased to see that the French wizards and witches were filled with a healthy dose skepticism. Their speculations about why Narcissa was killed and who was responsible encompassed everybody from Death Eaters seeking revenge to the Pope himself. She was disappointed by the fact that no one considered the possibility that she, Ron, or Harry had lived though. She reasoned that seeing a funeral was enough for most people. It was then that she decided what she would do with her story. She raced back up the mountain to her rented cottage. Eighteen hours later she emerged, her story transformed into an account claiming to be pure fiction, cleaned and edited. A friend of hers at the library, who had published a few short stories of her own, gave the story a second read and pronounced it good. She made her second trip to Neumonberne in as many days.

"Elizabeta," the man behind the counter greeted her. "Think of another book you just can't live without?" He gave her a teasing smile as he ran his fingers through his long blonde hair.

"Ha-ha, very funny Johann." She liked Johann Volker, the shop's proprietor, well enough. He was a young man, just a couple of years older than herself, who had opened the place a year before. She had rebuffed his flirtations a couple of times, only to discover that was how he did business with all of his clients. As such, now she just ignored them. She was just a bit too wounded to be able to even remotely consider such a thing at this juncture. "I need to send a letter."

"Sure thing." He took the letter from her and pretended to stagger under its weight. "I thought you were sending a letter, not a book. This is going to take three, maybe four owls."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Johann. It's not even three thousand words."

He straightened up and smiled at her. "I know, but you're so cute when you're flustered, all black hair and pink cheeks." She blushed in spite of herself. "L'Oracle, huh? Sending the editors a letter about how lousy their Quidditch coverage is?"

"Quite," she responded in an absolutely deadpan tone. She waited until Johann realized she was joking. "No, actually I got this hair-brained idea about the British Minister's wife and her killers. I figured I'd write it out and send it in. It's not any more far-fetched than some of the other ideas their printing. I would have to say my favorite is that the son was struggling with an Oedipus complex and slew her in a fit of jealous rage." Johann laughed at this, as did she.

"No, the best one out there is that the Minister arranged it in an attempt to boost his popularity ratings. Doesn't he just look like the type?"

"You have no idea," Hermione replied, suddenly very sober. "No idea at all." Johann inquired further but she stone-walled, saying only that Draco was the coldest, most calculating person she'd ever met; and he was an exact copy of his father. She concluded her business and returned home again, exhausted in a way she could not begin to describe; but she didn't want to sleep, not yet anyway.

She reached up into a cabinet above her bed and took down the one thing she had that still reminded her of a life lost to her now. It was a picture she had taken with her uncle's blessing. It was a picture of her with her parents, her uncle, Harry and Draco. It was at a bar-b-cue during the summer after her fifth year. Ron was gone then too, she thought morosely. She stabbed her finger at Draco's smug look. She hadn't ever really thought of his expression as smug before. Knowing what she knew now though, he looked supremely smug.

"I'm going to get you Draco. I don't know how yet, but I will get you." She returned the picture to it's hiding place and closed the cabinet. It was with grim resolution that she fell asleep that night, but in the morning she decided grim resolution was better than a broken heart.

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It had been six months since she had sent the story to the French paper. Apparently she had timed it perfectly. The story had run in the paper with very few changes the last day before the British Aurors returned home. The effect was that several copies had made it back to England and gained a bit of circulation. Some days later she had received an inquiry from the editors requesting permission to sell the story to a paper in England. She earned five hundred francs, with a most ironic twist in the deal. The paper it had been sold to was a new rag paper specializing in tabloid stories, edited by none other than Rita Skeeter.

"Morning Elizabeta," Johann called to her as she entered Das Guter Buch. "One latte, double espresso, skim, sugar free, vanilla and hazelnut; just like you like it." Hermione accepted the mug from him gratefully and inhaled the aroma before blowing away enough foam to sip some of the steaming mixture.

She sighed in contentment. He was a gifted man, hers never came out this good at home. "Johann, you are a god, have I told you that?"

"Never when it counted." She looked at him archly and saw him grin.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to seduce me into coming down more often."

"I can think of worse things."

"I can't." She could have banged her head on the table for that one. She knew he was prying again, it was part of their regular routine. He would try to unlock the secrets of her past and she would artfully deflect him. However, in her half awake state she had blundered and said too much. He eyed her carefully.

"Come on Elizabeta, you're a witch. You should be living among witches and wizards, not among Muggles."

"No, Johann, I shouldn't. You don't understand, I can't." Johann set his own mug down on the counter.

"Then make me understand, 'cause I don't get it." She could tell he was trying to control his voice, but he wasn't doing a very good job of it. "Every Thursday you come down here and spend the whole day drinking coffee and reading and discussing this author and that and yet we never talk about you. What did he do? Did he beat you, lock you away, kill your family, take everything you had? What the hell could he have do to make you hide so far away from your home, wherever it is."

Hermione gawked at him. How could he know? He couldn't possibly know the truth. Her story hadn't told that much. He came around the counter and stood directly in front of her. "Elizabeta, I don't know what he did to you, but whatever it was you didn't deserve it. Guys like that don't deserve to live. Any guy who beats the woman he says he loves is fucked up." He put his hands on her shoulders and gave her the most serious look he had probably ever given anyone. "I'm in love with you Elizabeta," she never heard the rest of what he said. She was only semi-aware of the mug slipping from her fingers and shattering on the hardwood floor. The hot coffee splashed over her legs and set her in motion.

She ran from the shop and jumped into her SUV. The engine roared to life and she spun the vehicle on to the road and up the mountain at breakneck speeds. She knew it was too fast for conditions given the snow that had fallen the day before, but all she wanted was the security of her small cottage, the safe place that was her own. By the grace of God she made it home in one piece. At the door of the cottage she fumbled with her keys and dropped them in the snow. Frustrated and crying she simply pushed on the door with her mind and blew it open, rupturing the lock in the process. She ran to her room and threw herself on the bed, scared and weeping she finally fell asleep.

She was at the top of a flight of stairs leading down into an old building, some kind of subterranean dungeon. It was the feel of the building that told her it was old, rather than any one feature. It simply pulsed with an age-old power. "Hermione, help me. I need your help." The voice echoed through the halls and drifted up to her. She listened as it called to her again and she followed the sound of the voice down the stairs. The calls became more desperate, she sped through the halls of the building, fumbling in the dark. The air here was musty and dank and smelled of earth. There was a malevolence in the air that seemed to follow in her wake.

She turned a corner and saw a door flanked by burning torches. Cautiously she approached the room. Inside, on the wall opposite the open door, hung Ron. He was shackled ankle and wrist to the wall, and hung down as though he had not the strength to stand. He was gaunt and thin, a mere shadow of the man he had once been. "Hermione, help me. I´ve made a terrible mistake." Hermione tried to figure out where she was and why she would see Ron like this. She pinched herself and realized she was dreaming.

In the rational part of her mind that always seemed to be in high gear, she began to analyze the dream and what it might mean. She focused away from Ron, on the surroundings themselves. She was sure that the dungeon was symbolic. Perhaps it was symbolic of the life she was hiding. That would make sense. She hadn´t told anyone about Ron since leaving Germany more than six months ago. She examined his chains next. They were black and shadowed, she couldn´t really see what they were made of. Perhaps they weren´t really chains at all, but manifestations of his blind need for vengeance.

Suddenly the whole scene made sense to her, it wasn´t Ron she was seeing. It was what he had become. He was less than he had been before. He was bound by his hatred. She had fought long and hard to help him over come it once. He had fallen into the same trap again. This time though he had fallen into it walking away from her. Ron was on his knees now, holding his hands out to her in a beseeching gesture.

"I won´t help you this time, Ron. I helped you overcome your hatred once and look how you paid me back. You abandoned me." Her voice was surprisingly strong, but she supposed that was part of the dream, to be strong and stand on her own. "At the time when I needed you the most, you left me. I could never have done what you did in France, but I was still part of it. And when I couldn´t deal with what we had done, you abandoned me to seek vengeance for yourself." She walked forward to Ron´s crouching form. "I want vengeance as much as you do. We should have done this together. I can´t do the things you can do, and I can do things you can´t do. But you were too proud to say that. Well, I´m not. So I guess I´ll just have to find my own revenge against Malfoy."

She slapped Ron across the face and backed away from him. When she was back in the hall she took hold of the door. "Good-bye, Ron. I hope you kill him one day, for both of us." She slammed the door and turned and ran down the hall. Ahead she could see a light in the distance. She ran toward the light, up a long flight of stairs as hands reached from the darkness to grab at her. At the top of the stairs she dove into the light and turned to look back the building but it was gone now.

"Good girl," a young man´s voice echoed across the empty expanse of her dreamscape. "Very good girl." The voice died away in a mocking laughter that faded with the light.

Hermione opened her eyes, it was dark. She looked at her bedside clock. It was four in the morning. She needed someone to talk to, but she didn´t know anybody well enough to talk to like that. With painful realization, she decided she did. She had four hours until the shop opened, perhaps she could come up with a suitable apology by then.

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"Ron, you are a fool." Cosimo struck Ron hard across the face. "I told you not to seek her out. Did you think I would not know you were using my own arts to subvert me?" He hauled Ron to his feet, the chains clinking as he moved. He yanked Ron´s head to the side and bit hard into his neck and drank deeply. Ron began to feel lightheaded and soon he collapsed. In the vaults of his mind he could still hear his master´s voice. "One more drop Ron, one more drop is all I need to kill you."

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April, 1999

Gingerly, Hermione opened the letter. It was written with an ornate, flowing hand. The script was more like art than handwriting. She struggled some with the letter as it was written entirely in Latin. However, when she was done with it, she set it down in shock. Whoever the author was, he was damn near omniscient in her opinion.

Miss Sagretté

I am writing to you, in part, because I was most impressed by your story in L'Oracle some months back. It was absolutely brilliant. Truly, you are gifted in your ability to bring a story to life. The characterization was so real it was almost as though you had lived it yourself. The other reason I am writing to you is because I believe that you are in a unique position to help me with something.

My family has a long running feud with the Malfoy family, however in recent years we have fallen on hard times and much has been lost to us. Among the things that were lost were our records of the Malfoy family. I was wondering if you would be willing to help me reassemble the history of the Malfoy family. In particular I am looking for current information on them including finances, alliances, group affiliations, and enemies. If you help me, I will reward you in ways you cannot begin to comprehend, but I am sure you will find pleasing.

If you are interested, please respond to this letter. If not, it does not matter. I only ask that you say nothing. It would not do for the princess to warn the Trojans of their impending doom.

CM

Hermione was breathing very rapidly, the idea intrigued her. If she could find the information this anonymous benefactor sought, she could turn it to her own use as well. She could destroy the Malfoy family if she could find the right information. There was money in the envelope as well, Italian Lyra enough to convert to about a thousand British Pounds. Attached was a note stating only, "To get you started."

"Elizabeta, are you okay?" Johann closed the shop door and put the `out to lunch´ sign up, even though it was only nine in the morning. "Sweetie, what is it?" Hermione looked at Johann. It was unfair, he deserved better than this, he really did. It wasn´t like she owed him anything though. Sure they had slept together a time or two in the month since she had gone racing out of his shop, but she hadn´t committed to anything.

"I have to leave," she said simply.

"Will I see you tomorrow?" he asked earnestly. She sighed inwardly, he was so honest and his love for her was so simple. She placed a hand on his face and drew him in, kissing him deeply, trying to imprint his memory deep in her mind.

"No, I don´t know when I´ll be back." He was shocked, she knew he would be. "I have to go away, and I don´t know how it will turn out." She reached into her purse and pulled out an extra house key, which she placed in his hand. "If I don´t come back before Christmas, could you pack up all my stuff and store it for me? The lease is up the end of December, its already been paid." He nodded dumbly as she put the key in his hand and walked out the door. Back at her place she packed a few things she would need and a few things she didn´t want found, then headed back down the mountain.

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Hermione thought it was nice to be back in London as she pulled into Uncle Marcus´s driveway. It would be nice to be seen by someone who knew her, when she wouldn´t have to be so much on her guard. The house was quiet as she entered through the back door. Marcus had left it unlocked for her. She dragged herself up the stairs to the guest bedroom. She wasn´t a big fan of driving, and she had driven the entire way from Neumonbern to London in three days. She set her suitcase down on the Hogwarts trunk at the foot of the bed and stretched out.

Suddenly, she sat up. Hogwarts trunk. She scrambled down to the end of the bed and shoved her suitcase off onto the floor. With a snap, the trunk opened. Inside was everything that had been on her bookshelves, in her drawers, even on the bedside table she had left a lifetime ago. The clothes had been folded pristinely, the books in the bottom had been covered with her Gryffindor duvet, there was even a spare bag of cat treats tucked in a back corner. Everything was here save Crookshanks and her wand; even the picture of her and Ron and Harry that had been taken by Colin at Platform 9 ¾ on the first day back in fifth year.

Cradling the picture to her chest, she crawled back into bed and sank into oblivion under her Gryffindor duvet, dreaming of times past when life was better, and her heart was whole.