You Call This A Holiday?

    ‘Harry, we’ll have you away from there as soon as we can,’ Mrs Weasley     whispered, hugging him again.

    ‘We’ll see you soon, mate,’ said Ron anxiously, shaking Harry’s hand.

    ‘Really soon, Harry,’ said Hermione earnestly. ‘We promise.’

    Hermione waved goodbye to Harry as he walked away with the Dursleys. She knew she would miss him greatly until the time Dumbledore decides he can return to Headquarters with them, but for the moment all she cared about was seeing her parents, and maybe curling up with a good book. As she scanned the crowd in the station for her mother and father she wondered why she couldn’t see them. Usually Ron’s dad seeks them out to discuss muggle things like kitchen appliances, but this time they were nowhere to be seen.

    She felt a hand touch her shoulder, and she turned around to face Tonks, her hair short and wavy today, blowing slightly in the breeze. ‘Hermione,’ she began quietly, giving Hermione the impression of an older sister about to break some bad news, ‘we didn’t want to worry you, but there was some trouble last night...’

     Hermione cut her off with a sharp look. ‘Where are they? Are they okay?’

    ‘They’re fine. Trust me, but Dumbledore didn’t want your parents to come and meet the train. They’re at the Leaky Cauldron - that’s where we’re going now.’

    Hermione took a sharp intake of breath, her mind racing. What could have happened to her parents? Why would Dumbledore ask them to stay at the Leaky Cauldron?

    She caught Ron’s voice from a few paces away, ‘Isn’t Hermione coming with us?’ he asked his father and Moody simultaneously.

    ‘She’ll catch up with you in a few days,’ Moody responded gruffly. ‘Got some things to sort out, first.’ Ron’s face fell with disappointment. They were all going to have to start the holidays divided, again. Hermione shrugged in Ron’s direction with a slight look of concern on her face - it was nearly a grimace - as Tonks directed her to a black sedan idling nearby. Ron’s hand was raised in the air toward her when she took a last glance behind her before climbing into the car.

    Moody and Tonks accompanied her in the car, one sitting on either side of her in the back. When Hermione opened her mouth to ask what happened, Tonks caught her eye and slowly shook her head from side to side. ‘Not safe,’ grumbled Moody in a low voice, his imitation of a whisper. By the time the car arrived at the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione felt like she would explode with questions.

    Tom the bartender was waiting for them near the door, and as soon as it shut behind the three newcomers, Hermione saw her parents rush over to hug her.

    ‘We were so worried,’ ‘...missed you so much,’ ‘...just didn’t know...’ their words tumbled out in relief like a torrent of water through a punctured dam.

    ‘What happened?’ she exclaimed, although with considerably less panic in her voice now that she could see that her family was okay.

    ‘They attacked the house, sweetheart,’ her father replied grimly. ‘Dumbledore said it was Death Eaters. Luckily he already had the house protected - spells and such, I suppose - but we had to get out. He seemed to think that we were targeted...’ his voice trailed off as he realized what he was telling her. ‘Anyway, your headmaster seemed to think it was safer for us to be under proper magical protection, as an extra precaution, mind, so he arranged for us to stay here for a while. Sort of a little holiday,’ Mr Granger attempted a cheerful grin, but fell short.

    ‘We’re just thankful you weren’t home,’ Hermione’s mother started, but Moody held up his hand.

    ‘Your home was targeted, Miss Granger. Either because you’re a friend of Potter’s, or on your own merits for being such a clever witch, we don’t know. But somehow they were able to detect magical devices in what is classified as a ‘muggle home’, and they targeted it. Old quills or spellbooks?’ Moody raised his eyebrow questioningly towards the Grangers.

    ‘A dried up bottle of ink and some scraps of paper. Parchment, I mean,’ Mrs Granger answered. Hermione felt her face turn pale; doubtless it was the letters she had written to Viktor, but had never sent. Her mother noticed her look. ‘Dumbledore asked us to search your room for things like this. We didn’t read them, honey.’ Hermione allowed herself a sigh of relief.

    ‘Whoever was behind the attack,’ Tonks interjected, ‘knew you would understand what it means. Who it was, speaking in general. Luckily Hermione was still at Hogwarts; Dumbledore’s protection is strong, but it could have been weakened if there was another magical force nearby.’

    That means me, Hermione thought. Her mind whirled; if some old parchment and ink weakened the protection on the house, what would have happened if she had been home? She immediately decided that she didn’t want to know.

    She sunk into a chair at the table. ‘Sweetheart, would you like something to drink?’ her father asked. She only nodded in response.

    As her father walked towards the bar, Tonks clasped her hand. ‘I told you they were fine.’ Hermione’s eyes welled up with tears of relief as she threw her arms around her neck. They only broke apart when Mr Granger returned with drinks.

    ‘David...’ Hermione’s mother started to admonish her husband as she spied the tray of small glasses filled with dark amber liquid. ‘Really, I don’t...’

    He smiled innocently at his wife, then turned to Hermione, explaining ‘We never had a chance to celebrate with you, Hermione, last year when you were made Prefect.’ He passed her one of the tiny glasses - Hermione thought it would be small even in professor Flitwick’s hand - and she warily accepted. Curious, she tentatively sniffed the drink; it smelled strong and spicy. ‘A toast,’ Mr Granger announced, ‘to our precious daughter, Hermione.’ Mrs Granger joined in the toast, all three glasses clinking, and took a requisite sip while her husband downed the whole shot in one gulp. Hermione lifted the glass to her lips and bravely took a swig. Her eyes widened in shock, it tasted like hot cinnamon and spice and burned going down.

    ‘Is that...?’ she gasped.

    ‘Ogden’s Old Firewhiskey,’ her father replied with an indulgent gleam in his eye. ‘That Rubeus Hagrid recommended it.’

    Looking at the half-empty shot glass, Hermione felt a little smug. She had never drank anything stronger than Butter in her life. Ron would be so jealous!

    ‘Now honey, you don’t have to finish it. Your father...’ Mrs Granger trailed off as she watched her daughter swallow the remaining amber liquid, and grin broadly.

    The Grangers were staying in a modified set of rooms on the top floor of the Leaky Caldron at the front of the building. Tom chose this room for their comfort, because it could be altered to have more of the ‘muggle comforts’ that Mr and Mrs Granger might prefer, and he had even bewitched a window overlooking muggle London that they could see out, but was invisible from the street. What had once been a spacious room had been magically renovated into two small bedrooms and a modest living area. Ever receptive of the needs of his customers, Tom managed to salvage an old television that had been left for the trash, and magically ‘repaired’ it to pick up muggle programs, but only in their room. Saying it was so they could keep up on the news, Tom knew despite his lack of expertise with ordinary technology that they would accept the device as a welcome distraction. The Grangers were grateful for the general thoughtfulness being shown to them. But through it all, they were all glad to have each other, safe and together. For several days they existed comfortably, generally glossing over the vague sense of danger they all felt, but avoided mentioning. It was filled every moment of their days - why else were they waking up every morning in a wizard’s pub/inn? Why else would they need a fully qualified Auror to accompany them while they shopped for new clothes in muggle London? True, Tonks posing as Hermione’s older sister was a lot less conspicuous than Moody in his hat, but nonetheless her presence was a constant reminder of the danger that could be lurking around any corner.

    The evening of their fourth night together, Hermione was in their room with her father, the bewitched television playing an old “James Bond” film. Her mother was downstairs in the pub with Tonks and Lupin having a snack. Hermione was enjoying the change of pace, and the chance to relax with her dad watching a movie, just like old times. She stretched out on a pile of cushions on the floor at the foot of her father’s chair. Not really paying much attention to Agent 007, they were both understandably preoccupied. Hermione loved spending time with her parents, but was becoming anxious with the lack of news from Ron and Harry. Closing her eyes and resting her chin on her arm, she heard her dad take a swig of butterbeer behind her, but never noticed the thin stream of tears spilling out from the corners of his eyes. By the time he took a deep calming breath and wiped his eyes, his daughter was already asleep on the floor, bathed in the cool television glow.

    The next morning Hermione found herself in bed in her tiny room at the Leaky Cauldron. Her father must have carried her to bed after she fell asleep, she surmised. Just like when she was a small child. Hermione was amazed with herself about the things she missed by being away from her parents for so long. As usual when she had thoughts like that, she felt a pang of sympathy for her friends who did not grow up with such wonderful, loving parents. She doubted Harry’s uncle Vernon had ever carried his nephew to bed after he fell asleep, and no doubt she was loving, Hermione doubted that Neville’s grandmother was in any shape to carry her grandson in her arms.

    She stirred under the heavy quilts as she heard a soft knock on her door. ‘Hermione, honey?’ It was her mother. ‘There’s some hot tea left, and there’s an owl here for you.’ As amusing as it was to hear her mother casually mentioning owl post, Hermione quickly wondered who the owl was from. Was it time to return to Headquarters already? Wouldn’t someone from the Order tell her personally? Curiosity properly piqued, she climbed out of bed and shuffled her slipper-clad feet into the other room.

    ‘Who sent the owl, Mom?’

    ‘I have no idea. Your father tried to take the message for you, but the owl wouldn’t let him.’

    ‘I guess it preferred to wait for you,’ Mr Granger said, entering the room. ‘Tea, sweetheart?’

    ‘Yes, please,’ Hermione smiled at her father and went to the window ledge where an unusual specimen of owl awaited. It looked more like a tabby cat with wings and a beak than an owl. The feathers were fuzzy, and its rear end looked so heavy Hermione marvelled that it had mastered aerodynamics and flight. The fluffy owl regarded her cooly for a moment before extending its leg for Hermione to remove the small roll of parchment.

    Hermione,

    I didn’t want to be blunt, but my father doesn’t think I should even ask you, but what is going on between you and Viktor Krum? My dad gets international newspapers through work, and all the Bulgarian papers are running stories that your failing relationship is the cause of his poor quidditch abilities lately. We saw the Bulgaria vs Uganda last week, and he really was terrible.

    I don’t want to pry; I’m only asking because I don’t think it’s your fault. But do you know if there’s anything going on, either between the two of you, or could it be SOMETHING ELSE?

                                    Luna Lovegood

    Hermione gasped. How dare those foreign media-types spread rumours about Viktor and her when... Well, when there was nothing at all to write about. Luna was shaper than Hermione had previously given her credit for being. She was also noticing evidence of suspicious things happening internationally. But could those suspicions have any bearing on the situation at hand? Could there honestly be any reason for Voldemort to have influence over Viktor, and if there was, why? The more Hermione thought about it, however, the less preposterous it seemed. After all, Durmstrang Institute, Viktor’s old school, was widely suspected throughout the wizarding world for actually teaching the Dark Arts, not just defence against them, like Hogwarts teaches. Nor could she overlook the fact that the former Headmaster of the school, Karakoff, was also a former Death Eater. Despite these things, Hermione had a hard time believing Viktor would willingly participate in any plan connected with Voldemort. Unless he were an unwilling participant...

    Hermione hastened to compose a quick note to Luna on a scrap of parchment she had nearby, outlining her suspicions. She agreed it was far more likely that Krum was being affected by Voldemort than a broken heart, or anything else equally as ridiculous. She deliberately omitted the fact that she had not had any contact with Viktor in several months, however. She didn’t think the other girl really needed to know that fact. After a quick closing, Hermione added, “by the way, nice owl,” and affixed the parchment to the leg of the patiently waiting owl, and watched it fly off into the bright morning light.

    Later the same day, Lupin came by to let Hermione know that he, Kingsley Shaklebolt and Tonks were going to escort her to Grimmauld Place the next day. Dumbledore had secured a temporary home for her parents not far from where they held their dentistry practice. The house was well protected, far better than could have been done with the other house.

    ‘Dumbledore told me he regretted having to move you from your home again, but he assures that you will be quite safe,’ Lupin said, reassuring the family.

    In preparation for her move to Headquarters, Hermione asked if she could go into Diagon Alley to purchase some new books, and Lupin agreed to accompany her, while Mr and Mrs Granger gathered up their belongings.

    As soon as they were out of earshot from the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione asked Lupin if he had been following quidditch lately.

    ‘No, not really Hermione. I haven’t been paying much attention to it lately, with everything going on.’ She mentally kicked herself; of course he’d be preoccupied, his last remaining best friend was murdered by Death Eaters. What was she thinking, bringing this up with him?

    ‘Of course. I, uh... I mean, um...’ she flustered, her face red with embarrassment.

    ‘Oh Hermione!’ Lupin exclaimed, understanding her reaction. ‘That’s not exactly what I meant. Yes, Sirius’s death has been hard on all of us, but I didn’t mean that. Just with all the work with the Order and tracking Dark activities and... Keeping you lot out of trouble,’ he finished lamely. ‘Besides, I thought Harry and Ron were the quidditch fanatics.’

    Hermione then quietly recounted Luna’s letter and told him her own suspicions. She was noticeably less comfortable telling an adult male about her so-called relationship with Viktor than she had been about telling Luna, but she blundered through.

    ‘That’s quite a theory,’ he said finally. ‘But are you sure that’s what your friend meant when she said “something else”? Isn’t somebody Lovegood the editor of the Quibbler? Can you trust her?’

    Hermione replied that initially she did have misgivings against her, considering her eccentric-seeming nature, but she proved to be both clever and loyal during the Department of Mysteries debacle.

    ‘Oh, she’s a fellow DA member, then?’ Lupin queried with a smile. Hermione was only partially surprised he knew about their ‘defence association’. She figured Dumbledore had explained their presence at the Ministry of Magic to the rest of the Order. She knew then that Lupin would take her concerns seriously. They halted their conversation as they entered Flourish and Blotts, the bookstore swarming with summer shoppers. The two drifted apart, and as Hermione perused the hefty tomes, she stole a glance at Lupin several bookstacks away. He appeared to be deep in thought. After she made her purchases and they reemerged into the sunlit street, Lupin whispered, ‘Okay, I’ll mention it to Dumbledore; we’ll look into this. But I’m checking Lovegood’s credibility, too, just to be safe.’

    The Grangers spent the following morning together in the pub awaiting their respective escorts and offering cautions for safety to each other. Although they knew they would be much safer away from the Leaky Cauldron, they were not eager to separate after less than a week together. After a tearful goodbye, Moody and Emmeline Vance left with Mr and Mrs Granger, accompanying them to their new home. Tom, who was washing their teacups behind the bar, commented to no one in particular ‘Nicest couple of muggles I’ve ever met, those two.’

    ‘Well it’s not like you get out much,’ a haggard old witch at the counter grumbled.

    Tom flashed her an angry look. ‘Are you tryin’ to insult me, or my customers?’

    The old witch had a manic sort of glint in her eye. ‘Oh I wouldn’t insult your customers. But why have those two in here at all? They are muggles, you said so yourself.’

    Looking flustered, Tom struggled for something to say. Indeed, it was nearly unheard of to have muggles in a wizard pub, but they were guests of Dumbledore’s. He couldn’t tell the old crone that without potentially betraying the Grangers.

    ‘It’s my business and my business alone who I serve in my pub!’ he exclaimed finally, his voice raised slightly.

    Standing nearby, Hermione turned toward the bar to assess the situation. A wave of panic swept over her. What if this old bat was a spy for Voldemort? She did a quick glance between Tom and the old witch, the tension charged and silent between them, until the witch reached out and clutched Hermione’s hand.

    ‘Wotcher, Hermione,’ she said with a wink. Suddenly, the old witch was Tonks, back to her almost-usual self, today featuring ink-black straight hair, corduroy jacket and denim jeans.

    Tom was exasperated. ‘Why did you put me through that? I didn’t know you were...’

    ‘I know, Tom. I had to make sure you were on your toes. Auror’s promise!’ she crossed two fingers on her right hand, attempting to make a mock-salute, but knocked over her half-empty cup of tea in the process.

    ‘Good to know it’s really you, then,’ he retorted smugly as Tonks shrugged and waved her wand to clean up the spill.

    ‘Ready to go?’ Tonks asked Hermione. ‘Remus and Kingsley are waiting outside.’

    Tonks led Hermione out onto the bust London street expecting to see the other two but they were nowhere in sight. Immediately fearing they had run into trouble, Tonks began ushering Hermione back through the door they had just come out of when Hermione nudged her, stating in a low voice that she saw them emerging from a muggle café down the street. Kingsley Shaklebolt was carrying a muggle newspaper, and Lupin had a white takeaway cup. They jogged lightly between the cars as they made their way across the street.

    ‘Sorry, Tonks, we had a feeling you might have taken longer,’ greeted Shaklebolt with a grin. ‘Figured you would have stayed for a drink; Remus figured we had time to kill.’

    ‘I did have a drink...’

    ‘And you spilled half of it!’ Hermione cut in, laughing.

    ‘Well, it’s not like that’s unexpected,’ Tonks defended herself in mock exasperation, rolling her eyes. ‘Wotcher, Remus. What have you got there?’

    Her eyes were on the takeaway cup in his hand. ‘Only about the best coffee in London, that’s what. I couldn’t shake the cobwebs out of my head this morning, and Kingsley recommended this place. It’s excellent.’ He sized up Hermione’s trunk as he took a sip of the steaming coffee. ‘That will cause us some problems on the Underground, I suspect. Hang on, I’ll fix that.’ Lupin had Kingsley stand in front of him facing the street, and mostly blocking the trunk from view. He then tapped it lightly with his wand and whispered so quietly, Hermione strained her ears but still could not hear the spell he used. Now instead of the clumsy steamer trunk, there was a light canvas knapsack on the sidewalk.

    ‘Thanks,’ said Hermione gratefully, ‘that should be a lot less conspicuous.’

    ‘No kidding,’ replied Tonks, as the four began the walk to the Underground station.    

    Hardly a word was spoken between the four of them on the tube. They rode in what would be silence if it were not for the crowd of muggles packed in around them. It seemed to Hermione that they rode for ages, as the car gradually emptied of passengers. When the speaker finally crackled that it was the end of the line, it was only themselves, plus a grizzled looking tramp asleep in his seat left in the car. They got out and carefully looked up and down the deserted platform as the tube left the station. Kingsley went up to a yellowed map of the Underground on the wall, the plastic covering coated in the grime of age and greasy fingerprints. Taking not of the YOU ARE HERE indicator, Hermione watched as he used his wand to tap the wall twice on a place just off the edge of the map. Suddenly an overhead light in the corner of the platform went out, and an opening where the two walls met could barely be made out in the darkness, with a staircase leading upwards.

    Motioning with his left hand, Shaklebolt whispered ‘This way,’ and they followed him up the stairs. It wasn’t much of a climb, but the stairs had obviously been directed by magic. When they emerged at the top, they found themselves climbing out the back of a large doghouse with no entrance to the Underground in sight. As it turned out, they were only half a block away from number twelve Grimmauld Place.