A Labyrinth of Dreams

Chapter Three ~ A Zephyr of Silence

The winter here's cold, and bitter,
It's chilled us to the bone.
We haven't seen the sun for weeks,
too long, too far from home.

So it's better this way, I said
having seen this place before.
Where everything we said and did
hurt us all the more.
                                    ~ Full of Grace by Sarah McLachlan

15^th December 2006

The house was empty. Echoes ran through the halls, up the stairs and conspired together with the shadows. The clouds pressed darkly against the windowpane, and the moon drifted about wearily. Somewhere over the hills, across the desert moors and through bare-limbed forests, came the sound of wolves serenading the full moon.

All the windows were closed. That was a house regulation set down by the Master himself. Inside every room, a glowing fire crackled to combat the deathly chill of the winter. In one particular room, large and open, with plush carpeting worn smooth in some places due to extensive pacing, and burnt grey and black in others from careless deposits of cigarette ash, sat Harry Potter. He had both his eyes half closed, his hands where folded in his lap lazily, and both legs were cocked upwards at an angle, resting on the ottoman in front of his chair.

There was a polite knock on the door and Hannah stepped in, a concerned expression on her face. “There’s someone to see you, Master,” she informed him.

Harry kept his eyes closed. “Yes, show him in,” he told her lazily and waved his hand in dismissal, before adding as an afterthought, “Oh, and bring us some of that tea.”

Hannah stepped out and opened the door wide. A couple of minutes later, a man walked in through the door, and closed it behind him. He had a quiet air about him, and a shock of grey ran through his sandy hair.

“Hello Harry,” he said softly, walking towards him and sitting down in a chair opposite.

Harry didn’t bother to sit up. “The moon’s full.”

“Yes. I did realise that,” the visitor replied, and placed his briefcase on the floor.

“Then it’s still working.”

“Yes, it is.” The visitor lent back in his chair. “Although I wouldn’t advise it being sold on the market. The side effects are rather…ghastly.”

“Really. You’re looking haggard these days, Professor,” Harry commented, reaching for his cigarette case and fumbling in the pocket of his robe for his lighter. “Perhaps you should learn to relax a bit more.”

The older gentleman sighed. Old frown lines were pressed deeply into the area around his mouth. To say that he was care-worn would be an understatement. His every movement showed a character bent weary with the weight of the world, and held upright only by a sense of duty. He glanced over the various accumulations in the room, his eyes resting on a large pile of newspapers that must have been hurriedly rifled through. ‘I see you’ve been keeping yourself submerged in the daily news,” he commented cryptically.

Harry too turned his attention onto them too now. ”Oh, I never read them. I like the crosswords,” he replied, pausing. “And the comics. One good comic strip can keep me laughing for days.” He turned back to the visitor and when no reaction was elicited, he threw down his cigarette carelessly onto the carpet and stood up, walking over to the mantelpiece. He then turned around to stare intently into the eyes of his visitor. “Why are you here tonight, Remus?”

Remus Lupin shook his head. And indeed it was he, although he had changed his robes for a tweed suit, with leather elbow patches, the authentic ‘uniform’ of all English librarians and professors.

Harry moved back towards the couch, his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark silk dressing robe, one of the cords winding around his wrist as though it were alive, causing Remus to focus on it, eyebrows arched. The cord slackened suddenly as Harry pulled his hands out of his pockets to reach for a decanter on his shelf. “The tea’s taking a bit to get here, so I might as well offer you my brand of hospitality,” he told Remus, taking the finely cut top off and holding it up to the light. “It’s pure. 1687 Ogden’s Firewhiskey. Perfect for a night like this.”

“Harry,” Remus warned, but Harry ignored him blithely. He sauntered over to the other side of the room and pulled two glasses out of a cupboard.

“It’s been a long time since it was just you and I, and a good glass of old Ogden’s Firewhiskey.” He poured it out, and dumped the decanter to one side. “We must have a good chat,” he told Remus, looking at him over the top of the drinks. “All about the good old times, before anything ever happened.”

“Harry,” Remus started again, but Harry stopped by shoving the glass into his hand roughly.

“Drink,” he ordered, ”for the memories of innocence and all that nonsense. I wish there was innocence, don’t you, Professor, even if it was with the Dursleys. Funny how things turn out, isn’t it?” He wheeled around the armchair he was leaning on and downed the alcohol. “I really goddamn wish there was. Just so I could think about it, sometimes. Think about how wrong it is.”

Remus stood up and glared at the back of Harry’s head. “Harry James Potter.” He said nothing more, but the words hovered about anxiously, prepared to fulfil some unknown duty. Harry stopped in mid-topple, tensed. The crackling of fire played out, over the heavy silence. Harry turned around slowly, soaking up the dangerous element in the air. He was about to speak, when a knock came at the door.

Everything dissolved then. Remus sank back into his chair and let the glass fall to the floor. The red of the drink spilled out, spreading towards Harry. Harry walked to the mantle again, and leaned himself against it. “Who is it?” he asked, annoyed.

The door opened and the grey-haired head of Hannah appeared, followed by the rest of her, carrying a tea tray. “Here’s the tea you asked me to bring in, Master,” she told him shortly, ignoring him almost, turning to Remus. “Would you like a cup of tea, Prof. Lupin, sir? It has been freshly brewed, and the milk’s fresh too.”

Remus nodded gratefully. “Yes, thank you. Black, though.”

Hannah nodded, and placed the tray on the table, chatting as she poured his tea. “Well, it’s been awhile since you last visited us, hasn’t it? I heard from Nellie that you’ve left Ashten. Her nephew Peter told her. I never thought that you would leave teaching behind, you always seemed like a man born to that job.” She paused to hand him the cup. “To tell you the truth, I’ve thought of retiring myself, too. Our generation of folk, well, we’re all getting a bit old. But when I think of leaving everything behind, I just can’t bear it. I’m so used to keeping busy, if I didn’t work, I wouldn’t know what to do with my spare time.” She finished on a questioning note.

“I keep myself busy,” Remus replied, taking a sip of the tea. “It’s very nice, thank you, Hannah.”

Hannah bent her head modestly, before turning to Harry. “Would you like a cup too, Master?”

Harry started. He had been lost in thought, playing with the cord of his dressing robe again. He blinked. “I’m sorry Hannah, what did you say?”

‘Would you like some tea?” She asked again, hands hovering over the teapot.

“No, no,” he shook his head. “Thank you Hannah, you’re dismissed for now.”

Hannah straightened up and wiped her hands on her apron. “You have a good night sir,” she told Remus, “the teapot’s there if you’d like to fill up again.” As she was leaving, her eyes caught sight of the wine stain on the carpet. She sent Harry a look of accusation mingled with trepidation. Remus noted the expression curiously, as she progressed to the door and closed it behind her.

Harry moved over to his armchair, dropping into it lightly. “So, you were saying, Professor,” he asked, walking his fingers along the arm of his chair, eyes fixed on the fire. “Before we were interrupted.”

“Harry James Potter,” Remus repeated, softly this time, but still forcing Harry’s eyes to drift upwards. “You can stop playing at this game.”

Harry stared at Remus, his body rigid and frozen in time and space, like a dark sculpture of ice and pain.

Remus looked at him, etched out against the warm firelight of the room. He sat there so still, and seemed to be part of another world, where the suffering and torment had never ended, where humanity had been ground against bare stone in a painful arc of destruction. When Remus next spoke, his voice was low and quiet, full of curiosity and concern. “Why Harry? Why all this pretense and deception?”

Harry continued to look at him, while the minute hand of the grandfather clock in the corner slowly ticked away the seconds, then suddenly leapt into action. He flung his dressing robes off, and beneath them he was dressed in a plain T-shirt and slacks. He grabbed the packet of cigarettes from the pocket, fished one out and lit it.

“Because everyone one acts. We play our parts and then we exit and hope that we didn’t make too many fucking mistakes. Life is just about dressing up in some pansy costumes and dancing around a fucking stage while everyone gawks at you. So I thought I’d fucking give them something to fucking gawk at.” He took another drag on his cigarette.

Smoking seemed to calm him down, and he turned, looking at Remus through half-closed eyes, taking another drag on the cigarette. “Because in the end, Professors, it doesn’t fucking matter what we want to do, we still play the roles that were chosen for us. We don’t get a fucking choice, and you know that as well as I do.”

Remus watched him turn, watched him let the cigarette from his fingers, smouldering as it joined its comrades as a pile of ash and debris burning away at the dark greenness. “We get a choice,” he replied, his voice strong and gleaming, like newly forged steel. “We get a choice of what we make of it, and how we live it. To say we don’t, defeats the very purpose of living.”

Harry was silent for a moment. “Dumbledore said that to me too, once. ‘It is our choices that makes us who we are, far more than our abilities.’ And with those words came freedom and despair. Freedom to dream, and despair for the weight of responsibility that could crush you.” He turned around and looked out the window piercingly. “It has crushed me.”

Remus seized the chance. “If Dumbledore taught you that, then know the truth of it. Don’t let Voldemort take that away from you.”

“There was nothing for him to take. All he did was show me the truth.”

Remus blanched. “The Hallway of a Thousand Doors?”

Harry nodded. He was staring at his hands. “Do you know how many doors opened to the same fate? Everything was inevitable, and yet, he told me it could have been different, but I was the reason. The only reason it had to be.”

“Forget it then.” Remus got up and grabbed Harry’s wrists, which in the tricky light, seemed to be slashed by jagged purple wounds, and bleeding with the shadows of the night. “Forget it, all of it. You can’t change it now. But there’s the future…”

“The future is lost!” Harry cried, tearing his wrists from Remus. “The Muggles are tearing us apart, piece by piece.” His voice was cold now.

Remus sat back resigned. His shoulders were slightly more bent than before, his hair a little greyer for this encounter. “So you have heard of the news?”

“I have heard of the riots and muggings, the protests and attacks and the murder. I have been informed of the actions taken to rob Gringotts.” Harry voice became hard, a cold fire suffusing it. “The Muggles are out of hand. They are destroying everything we salvaged, everything I…everything we saved.”

“It’s not entirely their fault.”

“No,” Harry agreed dryly, “It’s ours as well, then.”

“They’re afraid of what they can’t control. That’s just basic human nature,” replied Remus, patiently, folding up the newspapers.

“So caging people is the instinctive, intelligent reaction? I have no faith in the human race anymore.”

“If only someone was willingly to take a stand, to make a point. If only they would listen to us.”

“Who would speak up? Our Minister’s an idiot, our bureaucracy a farce.” Harry sat into his chair and stared the fire, at the glimmering, spiralling flames. “We have no voice to speak with, and they have no ears to hear with.”

Remus took his glasses off slowly and cleaned them with a handkerchief he produced from his pocket. “There’s a way, Harry. We have a voice. I can show you, if you like.”

*         *            *          *          *

Hermione felt robbed as she took her seat on the bus. The meeting she had been submitted to yesterday in review seemed almost humiliating. She didn’t want to quit her job and weasel her path into Draco’s confidences. Then why didn’t you just say so? Her mind asked. It was a hard question to answer. Part of the reason lay in the surprise she had felt yesterday, and the other part of the reason lay in her heart, buried for the moment. Hermione placed her tote in her lap and reached inside, fishing out a muesli bar and unwrapping it. Ms. Knight’s secretary had rung her up after she arrived home the night before to inform her that she had to clear out her office at 8:30 sharp, because an appointment had been arranged for her at Draconis, at 9 am.

She took a bite of the muesli bar and turned it over. It was another grey day outside, the clouds, smog and hazy light filtering together. She watched the world glide past slowly through her windows, her eyes unseeing as she looked, and chewed thoughtfully. She watched as the bare-limbed trees stood there, dark limbs straining against the trepid sky. She watched little girls warmly wrapped in their brightly coloured jumpers, jackets and scarves rub their hands together and laugh at the jokes they shared. She continued to watch until she wasn’t aware of what she was seeing, losing herself to the numb peace of thought.

The bus pulled to a stop and she walked off, her heels clacking as they made contact with the concrete surface. Before her stood the building that housed the Bureau of Magical Intelligence. There was a time when she had been excited to work here, to be one of the B.o.M. agents. But that was also the time when she still believed in her dream to be the first female Minister of Magic, when that hope was nursed in her heart. It was an old building, built of sandstone and mortar, with long windows. Magic was ingrained within its walls.

Hermione walked up to the red front doors, and pushed them open. The lighting inside was pale and soft. There was no one around yet on the ground floor, except for Charlotte who worked the night shift and fielded the phones at the reception desk.

“Hi,” Hermione greeted her, her voice lukewarm.

“Hello dear!” Charlotte replied enthusiastically, putting her mug of coffee down.

“How are you? You’re here early, aren’t you?”

“I have an appointment with Ms Knight,” Hermione replied, by way of an explanation.

“Ms Knight?” Charlotte’s brow furrowed. “She won’t be coming in today, her P.A rang in just a while ago.”

Hermione felt her stomach tighten into a ball of steel wool. “There must be some mistake. I haven’t been informed at all about this change in plan.”

“Wait a minute,” Charlotte mused as she began to dig about in the messy piles of paper on her desk. “There were a couple of files sent in last night, I think one of them was for you from the Administrative Department.” She pawed around a bit, before whisking out a manila folder from below a couple of other files. “Ah ha! Here it is.” She handed it to Hermione. “I’m not quite sure if it’ll help, dear, but try your luck.”

Hermione thanked the cheerful blonde distractedly and walked off with the folder. She stepped into the elevator, stepped off on the seventh level and walked down the long corridor to her cubicle. It was sparsely furnished, with a stunted potted plant in one corner, her desk, computer and chair in the other and the shades were drawn across the window. She sat down at her desk and opened the folder.

Ms Granger,

           Arrangements have been made for you to meet with the Chief of Management at Draconis, which you have been informed of. You will no longer be considered an employee of the Bureau of Magical Investigations until the Draconis case is finished. The other papers present in this folder should be handed to Mr. Dylan Crown, as they will explain your discharge.

                        Aubrey Knight

                        Director of Operations

Hermione read it twice before throwing the letter into her paper bin. She walked outside to grab a cardboard box and took it back with her into her cubicle, before methodically throwing her belongings into it. She packed up everything she wanted to keep, and placed that on the desk-that-was-no-longer-hers. She had no way of carting the objects home, she would have to come later that day, when Cho was around to help her get them back to the apartment.

For now, Hermione had an appointment to keep, and a new job to seek.

*         *            *          *          *

Morning stole in quietly, cold and hazy. Draco stared up at the ceiling groggily, his eyes fixated by the cracks which ran through the paint, and the pattern which they made. The red satin sheets were strewn about everywhere in the room, but seemed to have missed his body. His golden hair was messy and embedded into the pillow, forming an accidental halo around him. Somewhere in the distance he could hear cars and trucks rumbling past, but no birds were singing, no breeze was blowing, and the stench coming from the window was not of flowers blooming in the meadows. This was hardly his apartment in Elisien, his own island of paradise. Sin was the word branded here, on the walls, in the air, on the body lying next to his, the fallacy of human sin, the permanent stain, the loss of Eden. He felt sick from it.

“Draco,” she murmured next to him, her arms moving lazily, voice muffled by sleep, but still sensual. “Why are we awake?”

He turned to watch her lying stretched out next to him and whispered into her ear, softly, hiding his voice in the languorous stretch of silence, “It’s morning.”

“It is not,” she insisted, reaching out for him. “Say it’s not. It’s still evening, and we’ve only just arrived, and you’re going to make love to me.”

Draco hopped out of the bed quickly and walked over to the corner where his clothing lay in a jumbled heap against the naked, golden statue of Venus. He found his socks draped amusingly over its’ head. “No, it’s very much morning, and although that suggestion sounds appealing,” he watched her, now burying herself in the sheets and wrapping them like a toga around her. “I have to leave. I have work.”

She pouted. “But you have work everyday. How often do you have me?”

“As much as I would like to stay,” he told her, grinning as he dressed himself quickly, “I really have to leave.” He grabbed his jacket and made for the door, but turned around at the last minute. “Tell you what, I’ll see you at dinner tonight.”

“What should I wear?” she asked innocently, twirling a golden lock around her finger.

“That sheet would be fine,” he replied cockily and reached for the door handle. “I’ll send my chauffeur around at six.”

“I’ll be waiting.” She blew a kiss at him as he dashed out of her bedroom, down the hallway and out of her apartment.

~

Draco stepped out of the elevator, into his Elisien Office Suite. Polly, dressed neatly in a navy skirt and blazer with her greying hair pulled back into a bun, greeted him with a warm morning smile and a mug of coffee.

“Has there been any calls for me?” he asked her, as he made his way to his office door.

“Not yet, Mr. Malfoy,” she replied, “but Dylan wants to see you.”

Draco nodded. “And I’ll take a wild guess that Ben isn’t here yet?”

Polly’s lips curved into a fond smile, “Actually he arrived early this morning, looking none the worse for his late night at the Gala.”

“Ah. Call him into my office, along with Crown. I’ll see them now.” He opened the door and walked in.

“Sir?” ventured Polly timidly.

“What is it?” he asked, reappearing again out of his office.

“Dylan asked if you could go down to his office. He says it’s very important, because he has to show you something.”

Draco’s eyebrows soared upwards, and his mouth frowned. “However important this something might be, I still recall that I’m the CEO here. Whatever this is, he can bring it up here.”

“Apparently, sir, it can’t be brought to Elisien Offices without violating Draconis code, so Dylan specifically asked that you forgive him for this impertinence.” She was standing up now, her hands placed firmly on the reception desk and her tone was firm yet apologising for Dylan Crown at the same time. She had been working at Draconis almost as long as Dylan and Ben had, and Draco was so accustomed to her that he even remembered to send birthday gifts to her grandchildren.

Draco nodded curtly. He rarely got angry with Polly, not even on his moody days. “Send him a message. I’ll be there in about 10 minutes. He’d better make this worth my while.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, smiling again. “Oh, by the way, you have a luncheon appointment with some Belgian investors today at one. They’ve chosen to meet you at Ricochet Lounge. Ben’s been getting the proper papers and documents in order for that meeting.” Draco nodded in reply, and she continued to flip through the appointment book. “One more thing sir, when would you like to reschedule the meeting with some Japanese investors that you missed last month? Their office has just contacted me and they’ll be back in London in a week’s time.”

“Have it down for sometime next Monday.”

“Yes, sir.” She sat down and began typing something into the computer.

“Polly, could you make me a reservation for two at the Mural tonight?” Draco asked suddenly remembering his earlier promise.

“What time?” Polly asked, already picking up the phone.

“Make it around seven. And contact my chauffeur to pick up Myra from her apartment at six.”

It was Polly’s turn to raise her eyebrows. “Myra?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Just tell Allan that, he’ll know who and where I mean.” He turned on his heel just in time to miss Polly’s knowing grin as she dialed up the Mural restaurant.

Once inside his office, he walked to his large kidney bean shaped wooden desk and put down his coffee mug. The cleaner had already been in and the blinds were drawn back, allowing the Elisien sunshine to pour in. Elisien was his very own paradise island. It was a magical realm, one of last remaining magical realms owned privately in fact. He had bought it when Draconis had first taken off, and now the Headquarters were based there, as well as his apartments. Outside the window, the sky was a clear, happy blue and puffy white clouds soared across the horizon. It rarely rained in Elisien Isle, and the dominant season was spring. There were birds singing far off in the distance, but through the glass Draco couldn’t hear them. Everything here was bright, cheerful, perfect. It was the ideal place to escape too, to forget about everything in. It was also very, very secret. In fact, only a select few even knew of its existence.

Draco stared out the window blankly, trying to drink in some of that untarnished beauty. But the loveliness refused to impart itself to him. He quickly lowered his head and walked away, out of the room, shutting the door behind him and made his way to the elevator, bypassing Polly, and tossed her an instruction over his shoulder. “Tell Ben to meet me at Crown’s office.”

He directed the elevator to take him to the thirteenth floor, where Dylan Crown’s office was situated in the Draconis building. When the elevator doors opened, he stalked out, a hand tucked into one of his pockets and made his way down the hallway, haughtily ignoring all the glances being directed his way by his employees. He rarely conducted any business within Draconis and there were no doubt some of them who had never laid eyes on him in person before.

He was about a couple of feet away from the door, when he looked up from the marble floor and a figure caught his gaze. She was dressed in a black linen pantsuit and her brown hair was knotted at her neck with a turquoise blue scarf. There was something familiar in her stance, in the profile, in her movements, that Draco almost imagined he was seeing Hermione Granger in front of him. She disappeared quickly around the corner and he shrugged her image out of his mind, and it slid away, like oil off a seal’s back.           

He walked up to Crown’s office door and pushed it open. Dylan was seated at his desk, leaning back into his large swivel chair, staring at the ceiling dispassionately. It was a large office, and an entire wall was constructed of glass, just as in Draco’s Elisien office. Only here, the light was much harsher and fluorescent. The furnishings were done in the company’s royal blue and grey colours.

Draco stepped inside the office, closed the door behind him and leaned himself against the doorframe. He cleared his throat and Dylan started into position on his chair. Dylan was about twenty-five years of age, a squib born to a rather old, distinguished family. He had ash coloured hair that looked perfectly combed and a pleasant demeanor that didn’t hint at his ruthless tactics when it came down to business. Originally, Draco mused, his lack of magical ability must have shamed his family, but it had all worked out in his favour.

“Draco,” he said by way of greeting. “Sorry about asking you to come down here.”

“Save the small talk, Crown,” Draco took a seat and rested his elbows on the armrests. “What do you have to show me?”

“A new employee.”

“Damn it, Dylan,” Draco cursed, “How many times have I told you our quota’s topped? We’re a bloody company, not a charity organization and we’re working towards a bottom line here.”

“I know,” Dylan held up both hands in protest. “But this was for the position of Magi-Economics Manager.”

Draco looked interested. “I thought we decided I would do the interviewing for that position, considering the recent investigation opened by the B.o.M?”

“Well, a new prospective employee came knocking on the door today. You need to see her qualifications, Draco, she’s perfect for the job. I saw her resume, and was tempted to promote her already,” Dylan exclaimed excitedly.

“I take this to mean that you’ve hired her already.”

“Of course I did. We aren’t likely to find anyone better if we spent years searching all the top graduates of Ashten. I told her she’s starting tomorrow,” Dylan stood up and picked up a sheaf of documents, his lips suddenly curling in a secretive smile. “And she’s had experience in this field.”

“Really?”

“Indeed,” he leaned back against his desk, casually folding his arms across his chest. “She was formally employed at the Bureau of Magical Intelligence.”

Draco cursed out loud. So that would explain why Dylan was looking a cat that had just swallowed a canary. He wasn’t excited just because they had found someone perfect for a vacant position, but because he knew he had just caught a large fish swimming in the wrong pond. He held out his hand for the documents and Dylan handed them over, still grinning.

As Draco looked through them, his heart sank. The new Draconis employee was one Hermione Granger. So it had been her he had seen earlier in the hallway, leaving Crown’s office.

“I wanted you to quiz her yourself, but she left rather hurriedly,” Dylan explained as he watched Draco skim over the papers. “That’s why I asked you to come down here. It would violate about 76 codes if I took her with me to Elisien.”

Draco looked up and handed them back to Dylan. “Tomorrow’s not too late to have a little interrogation. I can’t believe the B.o.M are so idiotic to send the very agent originally assigned to our case.”

Dylan shrugged as he put the file away. “Maybe they never expected us to fall for the trick. I’m wondering if they’ve got something else up their sleeve?”

“Knowing them, that probability is limited, but it’s best not to underestimate them. You’ve stored away the files I asked you to?” Draco stood and walked towards the door.

Dylan nodded as Draco walked out and shut the door behind him. Draco walked slowly, in thought. So Hermione Granger was the pawn they had offered him. He wanted to laugh bitterly, no doubt the B.o.M weren’t stupid enough to use a ploy that was so easy to see through if they hadn’t know that they held his vulnerability in their hands. And they did. Indeed they did.

~

Ben hurried along, dodging people in his path as he wove his way to Dylan’s office. He was humming a Christmas carol under his breath and he was wearing a new pair of glasses with simple black frames. He had a manila folder tucked in under his arm, and both his hands where in the pockets of his hunter green suit. He had chosen the colour with the festive season in mind, and he was wearing the tie his nine-year-old niece had given him last year as a Christmas gift. It was red and green checked with a white snowflake motif.

He wondered why Draco wanted to see him, as he smiled at the new intern carting a trolley full of paper down the hall. The intern blushed and fumbled with the trolley handle. He had received a message from Polly about five minutes ago, and promptly dropped everything to meet Draco. One thing he had learnt by working six years with Draco, was that the boss didn’t like to be kept waiting.

Draco stepped out of Dylan’s office and Ben spotted him instantly. Considering the blonde he had seen Draco step out of the Gala with last night, Ben was surprised to see that Draco had found the time that morning to change his suit. Draco, unlike Ben, was dressed in another grey suit with an ice blue tie, completely unmoved by the Christmas-mania that was slowly spreading.

“Oi, Draco!” He called out across the hallway, catching the attention of all the other staff on the floor as they turned to stare at him. Draco however gave him a brief glance over his shoulder and continued to walk away. Ben rolled his eyes and jogged to catch up with his fair-haired employer.

“So, who was the gorgeous goddess I saw you sneak away with last night, and why haven’t you rung ol’ Auntie Ben to tell me everything yet?” He asked jokingly as he fell into step with Draco. Draco remained silent in reply as they turned the corner and made for the North elevator.

Ben made a face as they stepped inside. “Alright, what’s wrong and do you need a shoulder to cry on? Because this is one of my favourite suits.” He turned to direct his next comment at the microphones situated in the elevator walls. “Benjamin Darlington, Personal Assistant to CEO, management affairs.”

Draco gave him a look that asked him to shut up. “Draco Malfoy, CEO. Elisien Offices.”

“What did you want to see me about?” Ben pressed again, despite his recent loss of popularity with his favourite employer.

“We’ll talk in my office,” Draco answered, annoyed, and led the way out of the elevator, past Polly and into his enclave. He walked across the room, and sat down in his chair, promptly swivelling around to face out the glass wall overlooking Elisien Isle.

Ben took a seat himself on one of the leather chair across the desk from Draco and rested his right leg on his left knee, his folder balanced precariously on his right knee. “Well, here we are. What did you want to say?”

“Did you know that Dylan had hired someone to take the Magi-Economics Manager position today?” Draco asked him, looking out at the clouds stained by golden sunrays and pristine blue water that twinkled below of Lake Aeyr.

“No, I didn’t,” Ben shrugged, “but that’s good news, right?”

“He hired her on the spot this morning because she had the best qualifications.”

Ben blinked languorously, not quite sure how he should react to that news. “That’s lovely.”

Draco turned around slightly, and the light of Elisien poured over him in washes of brilliant gold. He seemed to have a halo for a moment, and the glinting brightness contrasted with the deep, dark shadow of the room. Ben thought he resembled an ethereal being, caught within a mortal shell. A wounded spirit trapped by earthly charms. “She’s a spy. The Bureau sent her, hoping we would employ her, and then she could leak our secrets to them.”

“Well, I take that back. That isn’t one half-inch lovely,” Ben replied, but his eyes were caught by the spun gold of Draco’s hair in the mystical light. “Who was the lovely Mata Hari sent by B.o.M?”

Draco closed his eyes. “Hermione Granger.”

Ben almost jumped. “Hermione Granger? The research assistant that was assigned to the Draconis case by the Bureau?” he couldn’t help exclaiming, but bit back the rest of the exclamation. The Hermione you wrote about in that love poem I found?

Draco nodded.

“Well, what are you planning to do about it?” Ben asked, impatient. He threw the folder off his knee onto the floor.

“Nothing right now,” Draco snapped back, turning around fully to look at Ben. “She’ll be starting tomorrow as planned. I want you to fill in for Crown tomorrow morning at nine sharp.”

Ben nodded slowly in understanding. “You’re going to, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” was the sharp reply.

“Are you sure that’s a good way to deal with this problem?” Ben asked, his jumping to various possible scenarios. Are you sure that’s the best way to deal with her? I know she may have been one of those who hurt you once, but does it make sense to hurt her back?

“I’m sure, Darlington,” Draco told him, his tone warning. “Have you drawn up the contract for the D.I.N Insurance takeover?” The abrupt change in subject signalled Draco’s shifting mood.

Ben sighed and reached down to the floor, for the manila folder he had tossed down. “Here it is, boss. All done up and ready for your conference on Wednesday.”

Draco held out his hand for it, and then shoved the documents into his top drawer. “You’re dismissed, Darlington.”

“Yes, Boss,” Darlington answered briefly, before walking out of the door, leaving Draco behind, to contemplate tomorrow, and tomorrow and a thousand tomorrows, with the soft, illuminating Elisien sunlight pouring in from behind him, bathing him in their pure rays, cleansing his wounds and washing away with tarnishes.

*          *          *          *          *

They sat together in the warm shadow of the large oak tree by the river, stretched out against the rocks and the moss. The pale light of winter reflected off the river’s surface, sending the pale milky sunrays to spread out in a prism of colours bright. She had Apparated them here so that they could talk and meet for lunch, and they had decided to take a walk around along the river, before she returned to work. In the frosty weather, they had walked side by side until reaching this little niche.

She turned to stare up at him, and the towering trees beyond him, the birds that sat there cooing softly and drank in the refreshing air. There was cold, brisk freedom in the air; she could sense it, hovering lightly. It dared her to walk beyond the boundaries that defined her life. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so alive. “Carl,” she said softly and he turned to meet her gaze, leaning in closer. “Carl,” she repeated this time to herself, louder and stronger, before laughing, soft notes splashing out against the fraught air.

He pretended to frown, but just sat back against the rocks instead, playing with a piece of her hair, as she sat perched slightly below him, a step down on the rock ladder. “What’s so funny about my name?” he asked, tugging on the black silk strands he held in his hand.

“Nothing. It’s just so wonderful. You’re just so wonderful,” she grinned at him.

“Please,” he retorted, “flattery doesn’t work on me. I for one will never put up with it.”

“Really?” She asked, eyebrow rising. “Why not? It’s a lovely feeling to have your ego stroked.”

He fixed her with a skeptical glance. “Out of the mouth of a self-confessed narcissist.”

 

She tried to swat him. “You don’t know that about me!”

“No, I don’t know much about you at all, but I’ve assigned myself enough creative license to make everything up,” he told her airily, and she grabbed the collar of his olive coloured woollen jumper and pulled him closer.

“Hey, that isn’t nice,” she protested half-heartedly. “You should make up sweet flatteries about me.”

He took her hand in his. “I know it’s not nice, but there are too many images of you that are too beautiful for me to withstand. I had to find something wrong with you.”

“Why?” She asked him teasingly.

He leaned in closer, and they both stared into each other’s eyes, brown eyes looking into brown, the colour of warmth and devotion. His reply was a soft breath on her cheek; warm enough to create frosted pictures on glass windows on Christmas morning. “Because I’ll fall in love with you.”

She whispered back, “Fall in love with me already,” her eyes large and plumbing the depths of his soul. He stared back, and they continued so for a minute, lost to the world beyond each other.

And they kissed. That day by the Hogwash River, under the leafless oak tree, they kissed and miniature snowflakes fell against their cheeks. They kissed once, and it was a sweet pledge of affection, like the first bloom of spring, among the winter snows and she felt as though something awoke within her, something that had remained dormant for an eternity was tumbling into existence and growing within her. They kissed twice, and that the pledge of passion. And they kissed three times, before breaking apart, blushing, and bashful, and happy, like two young kids that had discovered a secret in the snow.

It wasn’t until after he had left, when she finally remembered Oliver, that guilt gripped Cho with iron claws and held her tormented.

*          *          *          *          *

“I’m sorry you’re leaving, Hermione.”

“My God, you’re making an early escape from this madhouse, aren’t you, dear?”

“Slogging through this pile of slush won’t be the same without you.”

“Remember to send a Christmas pressie!”

Hermione nodded and smiled as she passed rows and rows of well-wishers walking to what was once her office at the Bureau. She was finding that smiling was a laborious task, and her face felt like cracking. She couldn’t take it anymore, the constant joking and little comments and white lies that he had to make, the tide of people bearing small gifts and cards swamping down on her. She knew she should feel grateful, and indeed she was, but it was all getting too much for her.

She made it into her little cubicle of space at last, feeling as though she might have died out of suffocation.

She sat down at her desk. The interview hadn’t gone all that badly at Draconis. Dylan Crown had seemed nice enough. She remembered his brother Deigan vaguely from old Hogwarts memories. Hermione now thought it might actually be welcoming change to leave the B.o.M behind and take her belongings with her to Draconis.

She pulled the box of her ‘stuff’ towards herself and opened it. Inside was an assortment of knickknacks she had amassed over the years. They were all ridiculous things to keep, mostly worthless except for their emotional value. Hermione couldn’t resist herself as she began pulling each object out.

There was her phoenix feather quill. Absurdly extravagant, it had been a gift from Harry after they had passed their O.W.L.S in fifth year. And the little photo she had taken back in seventh, before everything began to fall apart. In the photo, she and Ron were standing on either side of Harry, both of them trying to hold him still while the photo was being taken. There was a collection of Wizarding coins and monies, no longer recognized as a legit currency. She reached down and pulled out an old calendar she had kept, each day marked by a spell she had planned to master. Scrawled all over it were words like Bugger and Bloody Amazing in Ron’s handwriting, a memoir from her university days.

A quiet knock on her door and Hermione’s head snapped up. The person standing in her doorway caused her to drop the calendar abruptly into the box.

It was Ron.

“Hi,” he said softly, looking out of place and rather uncomfortable. “Can I come in?”

She wanted to shake herself, to get rid of the tension in her stomach, twisting and turning. She blinked, unable to come up with an answer, unable to think. When was the last time they had spoken? The night he left her? The day she yelled at him over the phone? Or when she last accused him of the truth, when she had discovered that their relationship was really over and he was seeing someone else?

“Come in,” she replied tonelessly, gesturing to a chair. He hurried in, but stopped a foot away from the desk and remained standing. She looked him over. He was as tall and lanky as she remembered, and his hair needed a haircut. He was pale, too pale, even for someone living in cloudy England. He shifted his weight to his left foot and remained standing.

“I heard you’re leaving the Bureau,” he directed the questioning statement at the walls.

“Yes,” she nodded stiffly, “I am.” There was a pause after that, and Hermione felt it keenly. She opened her mouth, wanting to explain everything, wanting to explain herself, wanting to fill in the gaps. But instead she kept silent.

He brought a hand up to scratch his head, knocking his fringe into his eyes. It was a gesture so awkward, so Ron-like, the Ron from Hogwarts who had been funny, a bit clumsy and unsure of himself and endlessly endearing that she felt her heart wrench. “I heard about it this morning when I came into work. It won’t be the same without you.”

She could only shrug. “So everyone’s been telling me.”

He looked at her and met her gaze for a second before looking away again. “Yeah. We’ll all miss you.”

She wanted to laugh bitterly then, and the reply came slipping off her tongue before she could stop it. “I don’t how that’s possible for you, seeing as we’ve managed to avoid each other for the last two years.”

Ron flushed, and the pink colour made his freckles seem to glow. He shifted uncomfortably. “Look, Herm,” he continued although she flinched. “I know we haven’t really talked and our separation was a bit raw, but we’ve gotten on with our lives haven’t we?”

A tunnel opened and engulfed her. Was he so blind? She felt like screaming, crying, anything to express the pent up feeling within. He may have gotten on with his life, but she was still standing in the same place. But she forced to nod coldly, and look down. “I suppose we have.”

“It’s been two years, and I think it’s time we put some closure on the situation,” he paused, unsure of whether or not to continue. In the end he chose to go on. “I miss your friendship Herm.” He sighed. “We made it through so much together, I never thought that there would be a day when we couldn’t talk to each other or…” he trailed off.

Hermione closed her eyes. “Please, Ron, let’s not talk about all this. Not now.”

Ron shook his head forcefully. “No, we have to talk about this. This indecision, this rawness is hurting me, and I know it’s hurting you. You suffer, Hermione.” He said the last bit softly, almost afraid of the words and their sentiments.

“Ron,” she began and then stopped and looked him the eye. “Ron, do you remember this?” She held up the photo of them as seventh years.

He came closer, and stared at the three children as they laughed. They had never aged, never changed in that photo; the burden of years, the sufferings of the Great War hadn’t touched them. He replied, “Yes,” and there was a catch in his voice. “We were so young then.”

“I was looking at this photo just earlier, thinking how wonderful it would be if nothing at changed. If Harry was still…if we had never…if everything…” she trailed off, unable to finish those sentences. There was a hint of bitterness when she spoke next. “But you can’t make up for the past, you can only look to the future.”

Ron looked up from the photo. “I know. And that’s not what I’m proposing at all. We were both to blame back then, we were rash, stupid, wrong. I just want us to leave that behind us, and maybe rebuild our relationship.” Hermione opened her mouth and he cut her off. “I understand that it’s foolish to think things can be the way they were then,” he gestured at the photo. “But I just want to be friends again. Maybe share a drink every now and then; maybe we’ll talk sometimes. This emptiness where you and Harry used to be is killing me.”

Hermione lowered her head. He was so wrong, so mistaken, but the sincerity in his voice was pushing her to agree with him. It was forcing her to hope again, and she couldn’t bring herself to squash that hope. “Alright, let’s try,” she agreed, but she couldn’t smile encouragingly, and neither could he.

They stood for while, staring down at the floor, out the window and the silence stretched on, waiting to be broken. Finally Ron took a step back and spoke. “Do you think you’ll like it there?”

Hermione nodded, still looking at her shoes. “I suppose so.”

“I heard the pay is quite good, especially for the position you’ve been offered.”

She shrugged. “It’ll do.”

He shifted his weight. “That’s good.”

Hermione couldn’t stand it for another moment. It was smothering her. “Look, Ron. I’ve got to get ready to go soon. Let’s arrange to have lunch together sometime.”

“Alright. I’ll call you about it.” He turned around to go, and looked back at her over his shoulder, “Herm, thank you.”

The old nickname stung her, and she felt tears prickling her eyes. Hermione nodded. She understood what his words meant. Thank you for giving us another chance, thank you for forgiving me.

He walked out without stopping again and she dropped the picture back into the box and sank against the desk. She felt tired, like the air had been let out of her. She slumped down into her seat and tried to sort out the rampage of thoughts that were running through her mind. She needed some peace and quiet, to be left alone for an eternity. She wanted to run as far away from everything as she could, disappear off the face of the earth, and never have to worry about all things that demanded her attention, but her legs had no strength to carry her. She wished that she could just wither and die, and never need to see tomorrow’s sun.

A second knock came at her door.

“Look, I’m sorry that I’ll be leaving as well, and I’m very grieved that we couldn’t get to know each other better, ok?” She snapped before she realised words were coming out of her mouth.

“Gosh, you’ve been having one of those days, haven’t you?”

It was Cho standing in the door, looking at her appraisingly.

“Yes!” Hermione exclaimed to her roommate, someone she didn’t have to pretend and perform for. “I’m exhausted, wrung out emotionally like I’ve been tumble-dried, and for heaven’s sakes I just want to go to sleep and never wake up again.”

Cho leaned against the doorframe. “You poor thing, you sound like you need a good cry to get everything sorted out.”

“Cry? I need to clear out this office and get ready to move into Draconis tomorrow,” she snorted. “I don’t have time to cry.”

“Everyone has time to cry,” Cho told her. “I just saw Ron leave, and although I can’t guess at what he was here for, you’re going to tell me everything.”

Hermione stood up and sighed. “When would you like that? I’ll try to fit you in somewhere.”

Cho laughed and then looked repentant. “You’re not fitting me in anywhere, darling. I’m taking you out to dinner and we can both have a good sob over some French wine and caviar.”

“Why, have you run into any ex-boyfriends with whom you had a messy break-up with, and been kicked out of your job then squeezed in somewhere else, too?” Hermione asked trying to sound surprised.

It was Cho’s turn to sigh. “No, but I’ve got a treasure chest of confessions to unload onto some poor sod that just happens to be lying around.”

Hermione grabbed her jacket. “That would be me right?”

“Yes, now wait for me outside like a good girl,” she shooed Hermione out, “and I’ll deal with all these boxes and meet you in five minutes, then we’ll grab a taxi and squander a chunk of money on overcharged, undercooked food, with really crap service. How does that sound?”

“Wonderful,” Hermione replied dryly, walking out and passing Cho. “Thank you. You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

Cho smiled sadly. “Oh, I think I just might.”

~

Hermione waited outside patiently, letting the cold wind blow against her, clearing her mind. Standing underneath the grey sky, everything seemed to merge into perspective and she could see much better. She hadn’t seen it like that before, but the building behind her was old. It had served its purpose after the Great War, but it was out of place now in the new London, in the new World. Things were different. Cures had been discovered for every disease known to man of natural origins; technology had leapt forwards, as had magical science. This place was built by the collision of two worlds, and the B.o.M building belonged in the past, as a memory of the first catastrophic consequences of the Dark Gift.

“But it turned out to be exactly that, didn’t it? A gift,” she mused to herself quietly.

She took a deep breath. The B.o.M building represented the era after the Great War. For her personally it was when everything had gone wrong in her life. Ron, Harry, her career, all of it. “And now I’m leaving it behind. This is it, Hermione, a new start,” she told herself softly.

A new chance, it would be exactly what she needed. Draconis would be part of the future. It was already at the leading edge for the development of Magi-technology, something that would benefit people all across the globe. “And I’m going to be part of that,” she thought, “for awhile, anyway.” Finally she saw her new situation in a positive light, glimmering with kaleidoscopic possibilities.

Minutes ticked away, and the day grew dimmer. Golden fairy lights lit up, entwined among the tree branches as they were, like fireflies perched there, sending a bit of warmth and brightness into the people who walked below. A footstep fell behind her and Hermione turned around.

“I have to practice Apparating from precarious positions more,” Cho smiled at her, wobbling slightly in her heeled boots. Her calf length caramel suede skirt had gotten caught on a branch that was lying on the Bureau’s steps. Cho reached down gracefully and untangled it, before standing up and straightening her leather coat. “I’ve gotten all the boxes back home safely, I should think,” and she flourished her wand. It was eleven inches of willow with, strangely enough, a feather from a Winged Horse.

“Thanks from both me and my useless knickknacks,” Hermione told her wryly, and a brief melancholic look struck out from her eyes to the wand. Cho, as an Investigative Field Agent for the Bureau (a modern name for the age old Auror) was among the last witches and wizards permitted to use her wand without authorisation.

Cho caught the look and tucked the wand away into her coat. “Right then,” she said cheerfully, “Ready to go?”

Hermione cast a look at the stone B.o.M building and nodded. “Most definitely, yes.”

~

The restaurant was only half full when they arrived, and they managed to get in without having made a prior reservation.

Cho leaned in towards Hermione as they were being escorted to their table. “I can’t believe we’re so lucky. I kind of forgot to plan, and this place is always busy.”

Hermione nodded, “But it’s a bit early for dinner, isn’t it? I mean, it’s only five.”

“It’s never too early to come and sit here, admiring the surroundings,” Cho shrugged. And she was right.

The Mural restaurant was unusual in the aspect that was it was open air. The entrances were two wrought iron gates, overgrown with ivy and honeysuckle. Inside it was a garden paradise, lit by swaying lanterns and millions of minute fairy lights, bedecking the walls, the pergolas and the trees. Flowering plants surrounded each table, endless arrays of gardenias and violets, irises and roses and more exotic numbers such as delicate orchids and lilies. Climbing roses spilled over the walls, like ladies with long, red hair, tossing and tumbling down the pergolas, overflowing like a fiery river of perfume into paradise. An enchantment cast over the garden kept the flowers blooming all year round, and the skies clear. The paved central courtyard where the tables where situated had little coloured pebbles, forming pictures and words on the ground. The tables were arranged around the central water feature, around which was a stage. Water trickled downwards, through a bed of reeds and clear, smooth rocks before splashing out into the pond with white floating water lilies. All the tables were only designated for two patrons or four patrons, adding to the romantic quality. The linen was clean and glistening white, the plates were edged with gold and the wine glasses were made of the finest Venetian glass. On each table was a tall glass vase, in which a bouquet of flowers were arranged, and small, vanilla scented candles were scattered everywhere through out the restaurant. The table Hermione and Cho were escorted to was set right before the stage, and the flowers on their table were long-stemmed irises, deeply blue and violet in colour, streaked golden in the heart and fragrant.

“This place is amazing,” Hermione breathed as she sat down, and thanked the waiter.

“I know, isn’t it just awe-inspiring?” asked Cho, “I feel like the Garden of Eden has been recreated here on earth. And the food’s great.”

“Good,” Hermione declared. “I haven’t had a bite to eat since this morning, and all I could find was an apricot muesli bar.”

“Oh sorry,” Cho laughed. “I forgot to tell you we were out of choc-chip.”

Hermione looked about slowly, trying to drink it all in at once. “It’s called the Mural, did you say?”

Cho nodded distractedly as she reached behind her to break the bloom of one of the roses and tuck it into her hair. It was red, the brightest, deepest red, except for on brief streak of white, and it matched her lipstick perfectly.

“Cho!” exclaimed Hermione, but Cho hushed her, grinning.

“It’s alright. The flower grows back. Everything here is under a spell, so it doesn’t really matter. To the rose bush, or to the owners.”

The waiter, in a white jacket with gold buttons and black slacks brought them a basket of bread before leaving. The bread was still warm, and crusty and fragrant, and Hermione picked up a slice.

She put it down on her plate. “I can’t remember ever hearing of this place. I never came here once, not even when I was making the social rounds with Ron,” she blanched briefly, “back in my university days. And I thought we went to every hip joint in town.” Her tone was wry, almost self-deprecating.

The waiter came back with two menus and Cho thanked him. She handed one to Hermione. “It’s only been open for about a year, and even you can’t deny that you’ve been a hermit.” Cho opened her menu and looked down at it, “I first came here with Oliver. Lovely and intimate place, he said.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Hermione agreed and looked up just in time to see a cloud pass over Cho’s face. “Is something wrong?”

Cho’s eyes flew up. “Oh, no. Not now, at any rate. I’ll tell you later, let’s order first.”

Hermione nodded agreement and they ordered their courses, then sat back to enjoy the surroundings. “So,” Hermione began, “how was your day?”

“It was fine,” Cho replied darkly. “I had a lovely time, but the aftertaste is like bitter wormwood.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “Exactly how does that work out?”

“Guilt,” Cho spat the word out, before looking pain stricken. “I feel guilty all over. Guilty and immoral, although I haven’t really done anything too horrible.”

“What did you do then?”

Cho crossed her arms and rested them on the table, letting her gaze drop, gloomily. “I fell in love.”

“What?” Hermione started. “With who?”

“Oh, not exactly in love, but I could be,” she confessed pertinently, as though begging Hermione not to punish her, like a naughty child trying to win sympathy for her act. “I think I might be, and the thought is as ecstatic as it is ridiculous.”

“Cho, you’re going to have to start from the start and not the middle. I can’t understand a thing,” Hermione told her, perplexed.

“I can’t start from the start because I can’t tell you about it all yet. I don’t even know that much about him. I can’t understand a thing, so I’m not surprised you’re not following and let’s not talk about this anymore!”

Hermione’s lips pursed and she surveyed Cho critically, and indeed there seemed to be something different about her. Her hair, still silky and shiny was tumbling out of the chignon. Her eyes seemed feverish and distressed. She decided to put aside the topic for the moment and ask about it later.

Two waiters appeared at their elbows at that moment, so even if Hermione had chosen to pursue the topic, she would have been unable. One of the waiters set down their entrées and the other place to bottles of Butterbeer on the table, and ignoring Cho and Hermione’s surprised expressions, proceeded to uncork them and pour the frothy golden concoction into their wine glasses.

Cho was the first to pick her jaw of the pristine tablecloth and speak. “I’m sorry, but we didn’t order those,” she told the waiter, eyeing the bottles as though to say, I had no idea anyone would.

The waiters straightened up and the one addressed by Cho nodded. “You didn’t madam. It was sent by the gentlemen over their in the corner, with this note.” And he brandished a piece of soft grey marbled paper and handed it to Hermione. “For you, madam.” And then the two waiters left.

Hermione turned in her seat in the direction the waiter had pointed and almost cried out loud. He was sitting there alone, under the rose pergola, and holding up his glass in a toast to her. She stared as recognition came flooding back, and with it came redness into her cheeks. She quickly turned away.

Cho was waiting for her eagerly. “Well, do you know him?”

“It would impossible not to know him,” Hermione declared fervently. “His name is Roman Scalli. We were in the same graduating class at Ashton.” A mischievous glance came into her eyes. “He’s Italian and the world’s greatest brat.”

“Sounds interesting,” Cho chorused, picking up her fork. “Any history?”

“No,” Hermione denied almost ruefully. “I was attached to Ron and he was very much in demand around campus.”

Cho eyebrows went up knowingly, “Oh, he’s that sort then.”

“Yes, that sort, indeed,” Hermione sighed. And he was. Impossibly handsome, charming, witty and intelligent, he had a way of listening that made any girl feel as though he lived for her next word. Hermione thought back to the buoyant college days, and the gaggle of girls who would giggle at the mere sight of him, him and his cocky smile, and self-assured arrogance. She had disliked him back then, regardless of his affection for her. After all, she reminded herself, he was nothing more than a useless pretty boy.

Cho chewed thoughtfully, watching Hermione lost in her reverie. “What does the note say?”

Hermione looked down at the piece of folded paper in her hand and opened it. Scrawled across it in his distinctive handwriting was the following message.

Dearest Hermione,

How fortuitous that we should see each other again. It has been three years since I last laid eyes on you, and you are more beautiful than ever. I sent bottles of the drink that is ‘most beloved of all Ashten students’, in hope that I can stir fond memories of the past.

You may expect that I will call on you soon, my dear Hermione.

Roman.

Hermione’s cheeks were seared with brilliant crimson when she put down the letter. “Well, you can’t call on me if I don’t tell you where I live,” she told the piece of paper.

“What does it say?” Cho asked innocently.

“Nothing much. Just lamenting that we lost contact,” Hermione told her, adding silently, ‘on purpose’.

“He’s very handsome isn’t he?” Cho commented, sneaking looks in that direction, and being caught by one of his winks.

Hermione rolled her eyes and grabbed her fork. “Let’s just eat, shall we?” Cho shrugged in agreement and they finished the meal in relative silence, interrupted occasionally by a waiter, each of them caught in a whirl of thoughts and problems. Cho chasing after what she believed was love and then being pursued by the relentless guilt, and Hermione stepping into what she saw as a new period of her life and having past memories awakened unexpectedly. Cho ate slowly, battling with the demons now at her side and Hermione flushed with every sip of Butterbeer she drank.

It was two hours later, and pitch dark when they finished, and the restaurant was full.

Hermione looked up. Roman Scalli had left a while ago and he dropped a bouquet of silver ferns and white lilies by her table. Her gaze wandered around the restaurant slowly, taking in the sights of Eden again, and focused on a couple just entering the restaurant. The woman was dressed in a gown of deep red velvet, cut low and revealing. Hermione felt dowdy in her work clothes by comparison. The man was dressed in a double-breasted black suit and his hair was shimmering in the candlelight.

Cho glanced up and smiled, “That was a lovely meal. Just what I needed.”

Hermione nodded in agreement and stood up too, her eye still caught by the couple. There was something hauntingly familiar about him. I’m having a déjà vu day, she joked to herself. He turned around and Hermione instantly knew exactly why he looked familiar. It was Draco Malfoy, and whoever the blonde woman was, she was his date.

Hermione picked up her purse. “I thought I recognised them,” she told Cho, “That’s Draco Malfoy.”

“It is?” Cho asked, interested. She twisted around in her seat, to catch a glance. “Herm, could you wait for me? I want to go speak to him for a minute.”

Hermione looked surprised. “What do you want to talk to him about?”

“I just want to finalise the conversation I started with him last night at the Gala,” she told Hermione smiling. “My cousin, Mercedes needs a scholarship to pay her way through Ashten, and Draconis runs a program which basically puts a dozen students through University every year, if they meet his criteria.”

“Ah,” Hermione smiled back, “so we’re just looking out for family here.”

Cho shrugged innocently. “She’s had a hard life, and if I can pull some strings, use some old Hogwarts connections, although I barely knew the brat, then I might as well.”

Hermione slipped her jacket back on, and walked towards the gates. “I’ll be outside.”

*          *          *          *          *

The sun was gone and the moon was out, hunted by a multitude of stars. Lonely strips of ghostly clouds moved across the sky and the trees shook their skeletal limbs in time to some unearthly rhythm.

Harry Potter stared out of the window dispassionately. He was inside state-of-the-art facilities, all chrome and metallic in their colour scheme. He watched the yellow-faced moon drift over the hills, and listened to incessant serenade of fingers tapping at keys, and the busy hum of computers. Over it all came the howling of wolves.

He turned around to face Remus Lupin, who was calmly sipping a medicinal broth. “The wolves are out tonight.”

Remus shrugged it off. “It is full moon,” he told him, “and this is a werewolf sanctuary.”

Harry walked away from the window and sat down in one of the stiff chairs set in front of a row of narrow tables. They were in the cafeteria. “This is what you meant when you told Hannah you keep yourself busy, isn’t it? You retired from Ashten to run all this.”

‘This’ was the M.R.I, the Magic Recovery Institution.

“Well yes. We’re all being hunted, and this is the only way we can fight back.”

Harry stared at the cold linoleum floor. “With stealth and secrecy?”

Remus’ gaze was piercing. “With diplomacy and protection. We don’t attack people, neither are we a terrorist organisation. All we do here is protect the innocent from persecution.”

“Who funds all this?”

Remus was caught off-guard for a second. “What?”

“Who gives you money to spend on all these operations? The technology employed here, the staff, the facilities, even the base itself. It’s not cheap, and you’re not a rich man.” Harry gave a Remus a look out of the corner of his eyes, and it was unreadable. “No offence.”

“We have several sponsors,” Remus replied, carefully, “but our major source of financial assistance is a secret.”

“Nothing too Black Market I hope.”

“Harry,” Remus admonished, “nothing here is against any morals. Our financial backer just doesn’t like being published. Everyone has their secrets.”

Harry shrugged. Secrets. That was it wasn’t it? The world had too many secrets. “I still don’t believe you.”

Remus looked at him, piercingly. “Don’t you believe that there’s a way to change things now, Harry? We’re a young organization, but we’re strong.”

“No, I can see with my eyes that you will make a difference, Professor,” he said bitterly. “The difference I couldn’t bring about. No, it’s something else I doubt.”

Remus was polite. “And that is?”

“Ginny. She’s dead. She’s been dead for over nine years.”

Remus finished the broth and walked over to the sink with it. When he came back, Harry was slouching in his seat, staring out the window again. “You know she’s not dead,” Remus told him quietly. “You of all people know that.”

Harry clenched his fists. “I had to believe that. Everyone had to believe that there was no more hope for the Travellers, that they were dead.”

“Yes,” Remus agreed gently, “it was better for everyone then. But things are different now. We have a chance to bring them back, to track them down in time, and find them when they appear back in this timeline. And we can keep them here now, we’ve got the technology.” His eyes burned with an enthusiastic fervour. “We can reverse the worst of the Dark Gift, Harry, we can bring everyone we lost back.”

“But you haven’t, have you?” Harry demanded. “There have been no previous successes.”

“Well, we’re a young organization, Harry. We haven’t had the time to develop this operation fully yet. But we’ve already been able to monitor their delta tracks for six months. We’re on the verge of a breakthrough, I can feel it.”

Harry felt like throwing something at the wall. “What’s the use of tracking? So you can tell their family and friends where and when they died and burned out, exactly? Oh, wait, everyone already thinks they’re dead, oops!”

Remus frowned at him. “Tracking is the first step to bringing them back. Everyone here understands the enormous task of re-introducing the idea that the Travellers may be alive after all, but it’s something we’ve got to do. We can’t turn our backs on these people, because we’re scared of public recrimination.”

“This scheme is hopeless.”

“Don’t you dare say that, Harry. You’re blaming us because you couldn’t protect her. You’re being a coward because you’re scared you’ll fail the second time around too. In the infamous words of someone wise, ‘Grow Up.’”

Harry whirled at him, glaring. Remus had hit a sore spot. Maybe those were his reasons, his disillusionment. Because he failed. Because everyone had trusted him and he couldn’t save them all. Because he had collapsed, because he couldn’t hold up the weight of the world. Because in the end, he was just Harry Potter, someone ordinary, someone useless.

He wanted to yell at Remus, to dig his wand out from the locked chest he kept it in and curse him. He wanted to stamp his foot and throw a tantrum, to resort to the luxury to bathing in rage and wounded pride. He wanted to do so many things, but in the end all he could manage was a half strangled, “I tried,” which seemed to cost him his very soul, turned on his heel and left the cafeteria, not sure where he was headed.

The R.M.I headquarters were based in an underground city, sealed off by enchantment and protected from outside infiltration by a large spherical dome. The city within the dome was known as the Lingering City, a casual reference to the struggle that all magi-folk now faced. The headquarters took up the main building, although all the buildings were connected together, like a series of catacombs. Harry knew that one of the buildings housed the Magical Beings Retreat, a part of which was the Werewolf Sanctuary. Most of the people who worked here either commuted via the underground railway system, or just simply moved in.

Harry left the cafeteria and flew down a passage of stairs, fingers occasionally grazing the wooden banisters, his shoes making loud echoing noises as they made contact with the steps. There was no one around, no one to see him run away.

Run. Keep running. Don’t turn around, ever again.

The lights flickered, and he realised how dim it was here. In the main arena, where most of computers were linked up, the lights were bright and glaring, and every glinted, hard and cold. But here, the lighting was dim, human, and fallible. His feet hit the landing and he slowed down. Where was he?

Don’t worry about that. Just keep going. You don’t have to turn back, this is your chance.

But where would he go?

He was on a long winding balcony. There were a series of these everywhere; they were wound along every building except the main one, on several levels. He didn’t know where they led, however. Probably nowhere, just connecting the apartments to the stairs. He stopped and looked over the banister. And that was when he realised how huge the Lingering City really was.

Floors and floors, he could see down, lights blaring from different windows, a bit of music floating out from someone’s bedroom, the smells of food coming from the floor below. And it still twisted downwards. It seemed to tunnel downwards into eternity, spiralling forever in a world of grey and metallic silver, and there, in the darkness Harry thought he could feel the sacred beat of the earth, the hum of the mother, from who’s womb was born the world. There in the warm, deep earth, he though he could feel a pulsation of the ancient rhythms, the hymns of rocks and molten lava, of the secret places of the earth. This was an underground city that seemed to have no end.

“Hi there, stranger,” a cheerful voice declared behind him.

He whirled around. It was woman, a girl really. She was slight, with ginger coloured hair cut short and spiky, and a smattering of freckles everywhere. She wore the blue and white suit the computer technicians wore; it consisted of a tight jacket, with a high-buttoned collar, and dark blue pants, snugly fit. She was grinning at him, and her deep green eyes were crinkled with laughter.

She walked towards him, her hand out stretched and he grasped it because there wasn’t anything else he could do. She shook his hand firmly. “I’m Sophia Campbell. You’re Harry Potter, right?”

He nodded and she kept going. “Professor Lupin asked me and Nataya to find you. He wants your audience in the Main arena. If you’d just follow me, sir.” She gestured for him to turn and walk slightly in front of her. Despite her youthful appearance and laughing eyes, she seemed to have a cool, professional manner.

In that one second, Harry felt torn. He could turn and run now, there was nothing stopping him. He could choose to opt out of Remus’ great plan, and leave behind him any responsibility towards mankind. Or he could go back with her. Except in the end, he had to go back with her. There really was no choice, not for him.

He fell into step with Sophia.

They walked down the balcony, and then she led him down a new set of stairs, into another hallway. Neither of them spoke. She was silent because there was nothing for her to say, and she sensed his hesitation, and he was silent because he didn’t know how to phrase his questions.

“There you are!” a voice exclaimed from behind them, and figure leapt lightly off the steps and stepped into the hallway. They stopped.

Sophia smiled. “Nataya.”

Nataya looked like a mirror image of Sophia, except she had long dark hair pulled into a braid, no freckles and stood about half a head taller. She walked towards them slowly, and Harry could see that her uniform was different. The jacket was cut longer, falling to above her knees and a pale green, the colour of flannel-flowers. She wore black tights and a pair of black leather ankle boots.

“I’ve finally found you!” she wheezed, out of breath. “I ran through the west wing, and then I thought I felt you here.” She turned to Harry and extended her hand. Harry grasped it and decided to introduce himself first.

“Harry Potter,” he told her, and she smiled at him, a mild rebuke in her eyes.

“Of course you are.” She walked to Sophia and they both guided him down the passageway. “There’s been a call in the main arena,” she told Sophia quickly. “We think that the track has been picked up. It might even be here.”

“Excuse me, can you explain in plain English?” Harry asked, annoyed.

Sophia looked apologetic, but Nataya just grimaced. “Everything will explained in due time.”

Harry muttered to himself under his breath to the amusement of the two girls and they walk down another flight of stairs, through another adjoining passageway before entering the Main arena.

Light burst upon him like flames eternal. It was brilliant and blinding. He hated light. Within his own domain, the blinds were always drawn closed. Remus came towards him, standing out from the rest in his tweed suit. He looked serious.

He addressed those beside first though. “Nataya, get the clinic ready.”

She gasped. “Do you really believe that this might…”

He waved his hand in dismissal, “It doesn’t matter if it might, or not. Prepare the clinic and get the squadrons ready.”

She nodded, turned on her heel and departed, leaping for the stairs.

“Sophia, I want you at the main console. Find Darien and begin the tracing program. The trail has been picked up and it seems to be currently stagnant.”

Sophia nodded as well, and brushed past Harry as she headed for the centre of what Harry could only describe as a stadium, tiers and tiers of computers set up, all semi-circular and winding in towards a central control panel, facing a large screen.

The first thing he though of to say was, “I can’t believe this place doesn’t have elevators.”

Remus sighed and rubbed his temples with his hand, and waved at Harry to follow him. “Some of the Lingering City has been outfitted with state-of-the-art transportation systems, yes. But there’s a new model coming out and our backer has asked us to wait for a while and continue to utilize the stairs until he can arrange for the Inner Circle of building to be outfitted.” He turned to look at Harry. “But that’s not what you really want to know, is it?

“I also wanted to ask if those two were sisters.”

Remus found it hard to keep from rolling his eyes. “They were,” he told Harry in a tone that begged him to get to the point.

Harry nodded. “What’s going on?”

“There’s a reason I said Ginny was back, Harry.” Harry paled and Remus continued. “Because she is. I’ve told you about the delta tracks the Travelers leave, haven’t I?”

Harry nodded and followed Remus as he walked towards the nearest vacant computer. He leaned over it and tapped a couple of keys. A large screen, covered with a spectrum of colour ranging from red to indigo showed up, then disappeared. In its place was a black screen, across which crisscrossed what looked like a thousand lines, all of different colours.

“A couple of weeks ago,” Remus explained, “Sophia and Darien cracked the code to devise a tracing program, which can determine the date and area where the track forms a trail. A trail is the distinctive signature of a Traveller when they touch down in real time.” He stopped when he saw confusion spread across Harry’s face. “You know that for Travellers, there’s real time, and vortex time, don’t you?”

Harry shook his head.

Remus sighed. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten already how much information is withheld by us. Real time is time that can be experienced; it is what we deal with daily. You know, on earth, being alive with the sun setting and rising. Vortex time is different, and can only been experienced when crossing chasms to different worlds, or as applies to Travellers, to go from one period of real time, to another.”

Harry nodded in understanding. That would explain why when using the Time Turner, you didn’t loose precious seconds in between, or experience any time lapse. “That means Ginny hasn’t aged.”

“No, she has aged during her experience of real time. It’s a rather complex concept. The idea of being alive for certain period of time and cessation of time experience.”

“Alright. And this has what relevance?”

“Well,” Remus started again, turning back to the computer screen, “previous programs could alert us to the presence of a Traveller in real time, and approximate where they were, but unfortunately, they were unable to decipher where in time they were, leaving us unable to do anything. However with this new program, we can find out who’s where on the day we are experiencing, and hence find them.”

Harry clapped briefly, sarcastically. “And?”

“And,” Remus said slowly, “We just think we’ve found Ginny.”

*          *          *          *          *

It was cold. She shivered briefly. Her fingers and toes were frozen, and there was no feeling from her legs either. She wrapped her arms around herself tightly and tried to get further into the corner. It was almost dawn, but she hadn’t fallen asleep once during the night. The only thought that kept her awake was the knowledge that sleep was death. She would have frozen if she slipped from consciousness.

The sun was rising now, flushing the sky pink and amber over the steel blue waters of the ocean. The clouds weren’t menacing and dark any more, but pale pearl coloured and striped with golden rays of light. She thought it was the most beautiful sunrise she had ever seen. It signalled her survival, that she had braved out another night.

I’m only doing this for you. Because you asked me to stay alive, because you promised you would find me again.

The cliffs were being lit up with light. Glorious light. But the temperature hadn’t changed enough to warm her stiff limbs. She wasn’t dressed for this weather. She had been pulled out too quickly; she still wore the same clothes she put on three mornings ago. Long white Wizarding robes that had been scorched by fire, and dragon hide boots that had escaped the tragedy unscathed. She had lost her wand in the rush. If she could find her way back to civilisation that would be the first thing she would do. Get a new wand.

Never be without a wand, he had told her, never allow yourself to be crippled. Your wand is your only defence against the world. 

He had been right. If she had her wand here, she could have kept herself warm, and summoned something to eat, and maybe Apparate herself somewhere else that wasn’t just desolate cliffs, pounding waves and an empty house. She had been so angry that the house was empty. She struggled up from the rocks below, and crawled her way up to the lonely house, and knocked on the door. And then knocked again. She knocked until it became nothing more than continuous pounding, desperate that someone be there to help her. But there was no one, no one at all.

She tried to stretch. It was day now, and she had to stand up, to get some help. She looked down at the ceremonial robes she was wearing and wondered if she might tear a piece of fabric of to wrap around her bleeding knuckles. But the bleeding had ceased sometime in the night and she couldn’t bear to disfigure the robes. It’s all I have left now, she thought dispassionately.

As she tried to stand up, and allow the feeling to come back into her limbs with a stinging vengeance, she remembered the reed flute in her hand. She brought it up to the light slowly. It was small, and bamboo green in colour with streaks of deep russet. It only had three holes. She wondered what it would be like to make music with it. She struggled to her knees, ignoring the aches and protests her body was flinging at her. He taught her to ignore all those long ago. They would only hinder her. She had survived all these years, and stayed alive even when things became unpredictable and rough by remembering that she was the master, her body was the slave.

The sun seemed warm and lovely now, smiling in a friendly fashion down on the top of her head. She stumbled towards it. She was afraid to look down at her hands, in case they were still blue from the cold. There was warmth in the air now, a soft singing warmth that allowed her fingers to come back to life, tingling and painful, but no longer numb. A bird chirped in the nearby tree and she fell to her knees.

Tiredness was coming. Quiet exhaustion was setting in and her defences were lowered due to the passing of night, the most dangerous time in winter. She wanted to stand, but even her mind rebelled. It was growing warmer, and she was safe for now. Surely she should be able to sleep? She could worry about food and shelter later, after a brief rest.

She sank down, and her eyes fluttered closed. Her body was reasserting its right to attention, and she could feel her mind slowing. Her breaths became deep and peaceful. She was asleep. Asleep on the cliffs over looking the ocean, her hair dishevelled, her robes crumpled, and the sun rising high into the morning sky, over her limp form, her hand clasped firmly around a small reed flute. A gold locket tumbled out from among her robes, upon which was engraved two letters, G W.

Two birds perched in the tree chirped and they both flew away as a gentle wind began to blow. It was a zephyr of silence.